Chapter Text
“So, this Yennefer,” Stiles said, studying Geralt’s face. “She's a witch?”
“Yes!” Jaskier said brightly, at the same time Geralt smacked a hand against his arm and rolled his eyes.
“No, she’s a sorceress.”
“She’s the devil, that’s what she is,” Jaskier muttered. Stiles blinked at the bard and Geralt’s expression tightened with a note of exasperation. As if he was used to this kind of dislike coming from the bard in regards to the sorceress and had given up arguing at this point.
Stiles just didn’t know Jaskier had a negative bone in him.
“But she can help,” Derek said flatly. He didn’t look very excited about much of the idea and Stiles didn’t miss Jaskier’s grin when the bard noticed Derek’s lack of enthusiasm as well. But Geralt only nodded.
“She can help.”
Derek glanced sideways and after a moment, Stiles realized they were all waiting on him for an answer. He blinked a few times before nodding; much to Jaskier’s disappointed look. “If she can help get us home, then I say we give her a go. I mean… as long as none of this involves going into any more towns that will attempt murder again.”
Geralt winced at that. Jaskier only huffed.
“That was bollocks,” he said. “They’d turn against a witcher if he sneezed wrong. I knew we never should have offered our aid in the first place.”
“Bard,” Geralt said. “Shut up.”
“Go take a nap. You know it’s true.”
Geralt only rolled his eyes. “First we’ll head to the site where the bard and I were taken, though. My horse is there.”
“Oh yeah,” Stiles said, remembering Jaskier’s rambling. “The one named after a bug?”
Jaskier burst out into laughter but Geralt’s jaw ticked and his face tightened dangerously. Stiles realized his mistake too late, shying away into Derek’s steadfast form. The werewolf growled lowly but Geralt ignored him, turning away with a grunt.
“I like you, mage,” Jaskier said, wiping at his eyes. “I’ve told you that before, right?”
“More than once,” Stiles muttered. “And I cherish it.”
Jaskier chuckled again and turned after the witcher, calling him some names that Stiles decided were not appropriate for the PG-13 tag. He sighed and glanced over at Derek, raising a brow.
“So, we’re going to meet a witch?”
“Your father is never going to let you leave the house again,” Derek said, although there was a small smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Stiles rolled his eyes and started after the other two, stuffing his hands into his pockets.
It rained that day.
Stiles thought that was exactly what they needed; rain. Within the hour he was soaked and shivering, pressing against Derek’s side as the werewolf radiated heat. Up ahead, Jaskier was trudging next to Geralt too, and the witcher was uncharacteristically quiet. His white hair was soaked and his shoulders were hunched, and Jaskier looked downright miserable. He wasn’t even trying to strum songs on his lute anymore, which Stiles could be a tiny bit grateful for.
It was clear the bard had a favorite. And Stiles knew all the words to ‘Toss a Coin’ at this point. It was something he never knew he’d find himself memorizing.
At one point, Derek stripped off his leather jacket and pulled it around Stiles’s shoulders, despite Stiles’s protests. The man only gave him an eyebrow-glare and the proceeded to stick to his side, and Stiles stopped trying to argue. Instead, he huddled into the warmth gratefully and proceeded to trudge along.
His shoes were splattered in mud by the time the rain slowed to a dull drizzle. And his jeans were soaked through. He was decidedly not dressed for this kind of adventure.
“You’re still shivering,” Derek muttered and Stiles glanced over. The werewolf’s brows were drawn together and he looked a little constipated and Stiles couldn’t help chuckling. Leaning sideways, he bumped against the man’s shoulder.
“Only a little.”
“We should stop. This isn’t the right weather to be walking around the woods in.”
Stiles didn't miss how Geralt glanced back at that, the witcher's sharp golden eyes going between them. Quickly, Stiles shook his head. “I’m not dying, Sourwolf, we should keep going. The faster we get the horse, the faster we find the witch, the faster we both get home and eat a lot of curly fries.”
Derek’s face softened at that. “Curly fries?”
“Oh, I’m going to eat so many, you don't even know. It’s only been two days and I could eat a whole restaurant right now.”
“So being sucked into one of your fantasy worlds isn’t very exciting, then?”
“Eh,” Stiles said, shrugging. “I say I’d like to be in the Lord of the Rings, but would I really? I wouldn’t make it five days, Sourwolf. And not just because I’d probably get eaten alive by a tree or have my skull bashed in by an orc. But do you know how terrible it would be to live without Netflix? I’d yeet myself into Mount Doom.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Derek said, looking amused. Stiles grinned.
“I know.”
Geralt was still watching them but he looked sharply forward when Derek followed Stiles’s gaze forward. Stiles watched Jaskier murmur something quiet to him, the bard’s hair plastered to his forehead from the water, and Geralt rumbled a soft laugh. The bard’s clothes were much less flaunty when they were sticking to his frame. And he was huddled against Geralt’s side like the witcher would somehow block the rain.
Suddenly, Geralt came to a stop. Jaskier stumbled to a stop too, nearly falling face-first into the mud, and beside Stiles, Derek stiffened. Stiles glanced over, arching a brow.
“Sourwolf?”
Red flickered through Derek’s eyes. Geralt glanced back and the two exchanged a look before the witcher drew his sword, the metal making a quiet wet noise. Jaskier looked alarmed.
“Geralt, what is it? What’s going on now?”
“Beyond the trees,” Geralt said, looking at Derek. Stiles looked at the werewolf in confusion but Derek only nodded, face shifting and his claws coming out. The two started forward and Jaskier stumbled back to Stiles's side, blue eyes sparkling with both excitement and slight concern.
“What the hell,” Stiles said. “Is happening?”
“Geralt’s going all witchery,” Jaskier said. “Trouble is afoot.”
“Trouble is a— what? Derek!”
“Hush, mage,” Jaskier said, clapping a hand over his mouth. Stiles made a noise of protest but Jaskier ignored him, grinning from ear to ear as he watched Geralt and Derek move into the trees. Stiles squirmed to move after them but how was the bard so strong?
Stiles heard what sounded like a crack and then a sharp scream. He startled and yanked out of Jaskier’s grip, stumbling through the trees. He ignored the bard’s shout at his back.
Beyond the trees was a small camp. There were a few tents set up and a giant fire that was barely flickering in the rain that still fell. There were a few horses tied off to the side and— the nighttime was alive with chaos. Stiles stumbled back as he spotted Geralt engaged with a man with a two-sided axe and saw Derek only a few feet away, dodging a man with a long silver blade.
Stiles opened his mouth, but Derek’s name died in his throat as he locked eyes with another man across the clearing. His eyes rounded and he stumbled back as the man moved forward, drawing a jagged knife from a sheath at his side.
“Oh shit,” Stiles said, stumbling backward. His foot caught on a branch and he went tumbling to the ground, slipping through the mud as he tried to scramble backward.
The moon caught on the knife as the man swung. But then there was a crack.
Stiles stared in shock as Jaskier hit the man across the back with his lute. The bard’s eyes were gleaming in the faint light and his expression couldn’t be described as anything other than feral. The man dropped to the ground like a rock and Stiles gaped. Slowly, cautiously, he pushed himself up.
"Dude."
Jaskier just grinned. “Now see that’s now you—”
“Bard!”
Jaskier made a startled noise and spun around, right as a burly trunk of a man leaped toward him. Stiles acted before he thought, shoving Jaskier aside and driving his shoulder into the man’s stomach. It sent him flying back instead of their attacker, but the man still grunted in surprise and stumbled a few steps in the other direction.
Before Stiles could even blink, Geralt was there and driving the man’s skull against the nearest tree. He winced back at the cracking noise and tried to calm his suddenly flipping stomach.
“Dammit, Stiles,” Derek said, stalking over. The clearing was littered with bodies now and Stiles rose unsteadily to his feet, trying to wipe off his pants. But he only succeeded in spreading the mud and gave up with a sigh, shooting the werewolf a raised brow.
“What the hell was that, Sourwolf?”
“Bandits,” Geralt said, his voice a growl. His sword was stained with red and Stiles grimaced at that, looking sharply away. As if he caught the expression, Geralt’s face did something weird and he quickly sheathed the blade. Jaskier sighed dramatically.
“Well, now that’s over. Roach!”
Stiles blinked in confusion as the bard started across the clearing. Geralt grunted and started after him and Jaskier untied one of the horses; a giant brown steed laden with packs.
“Guess that’s the horse we came for,” Derek said, stepping to Stiles’s side. Then he frowned. “He thought Camaro was a horse.”
Stiles barked out a startled, jittery laugh, unable to help himself. Derek gave him a sideways glance with furrowed eyebrows, but there was a small smile picking at the sides of his lips. Stiles bumped against the man’s side and started forward.
“Come on, Sourwolf, let’s go get introduced to a horse. And you’re not allowed to run off next time, you understand that? No bandit ambushes without telling me first.”
“I… don’t want you to get hurt,” Derek said quietly. Stiles raised a brow and the man’s ears turned red. “Your father would kill me.”
“I don’t plan on getting hurt.”
“You also didn’t plan to bring us here,” Derek said. Stiles flinched and the man looked constipated. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“I know, Sourwolf.”
“It’s just,” Derek paused and glanced around. Stiles was trying not to do that. He felt like he could be sick. Because yeah, they’d faced a lot of things in Beacon, but never anything like this. There was a new monster every other week. But these… these were men.
Dead men, now.
“It just different here,” Derek said quietly. “This isn’t Beacon Hills.”
Stiles didn’t need to be told twice. He kind of wanted to turn in the other direction and not stop walking until the clearing was far behind them. And he also wanted to bury his face into Derek’s shoulder and not look around again.
That was stupid, he thought. But he couldn’t help it.
“I know,” Stiles murmured. “I know.”
“Back at the loft, I told you it was my job as the Alpha— as your Alpha— to make sure you don’t die,” Derek said. “And you said you’d let me. That goes for this place too, Stiles. If I can’t keep you safe then there’s no point.”
Stiles swallowed hard. “Am I allowed to make sure you don’t die too?”
For a moment, Derek looked like he might argue. Stiles half-expected him to say something stupid like ‘I'm a werewolf’ or 'I don't need any help’ but instead, Derek nodded. Stiles smiled a little and caught the man’s hand, giving it a soft squeeze.
“My dad can’t kill you if we both make it back alive.”
“He also can’t kill me if I’m dead.”
“Shut up, Sourwolf, that’s not funny," Stiles said. "You’re not allowed to have a sense of humor if it's going to give me anxiety.”
Derek chuckled weakly and his fingers threaded through Stiles’s own. Stiles thought if he concentrated on that, if he concentrated on the man in front of him, then maybe he could block everything else out. Where they were— what had happened. The things that might be yet to come.
He could do his best to block that out. Because this was no PG-13 video game. And Stiles would never forgive himself if Derek died.
If he could've seen in the werewolf’s mind, he would’ve realized Derek was thinking the same thing.