Archive of Our Own

What he remembers most about Vickie’s death isn’t the actual event, or the moments preceding it, but the silence afterwards. After he’d finished crying, after he was done screaming, after the reality had set in. It was like the world had stepped in real close to look down, spectate, then slid back a foot. He doesn’t remember falling to the ground under her weight. He remembers how light the knife had been. He remembers her body spasming this last clench of life, then nothing until he’s sitting on the floor with her body on his legs, quiet.

He remembers his face being tacky with half-dried tears and how bright her blood had looked on his hands in the moonlight. He remembers the clock, ticking single-mindedly, an inexorable way to quantify how long she’s been gone.

He remembers listening to it and trying to figure out what it meant; what all of this meant.

Reality became out of joint for him then because what he remembers next is her calling out to him, telling him she can’t do it on her own, then him picking up the phone, calling an ambulance which will provide no assistance aside from transporting her body from their home to the morgue.

He didn’t think at the time, “She’s dead,” but he thought of Allison wearing one of Vickie’s sweaters. He remembers this. He remembers thinking, “I’m so sorry,” as he held Allison in the hospital hallway. He thought, “This isn’t something you deserve.”

He thought then as he let his little girl cry into his chest, her fists as tiny and useless as the day she was born, of one of his and Vickie’s last few dates before she proposed to him. He thought of how Vickie had turned to him and smiled that sharp grin of hers that could cut a werewolf in two from twenty paces away, pressed her hands low to his belly, and said, “I’d be the one to leave you.” 

At the time he’d thought this impossible. There would be no Chris without Victoria; no Christopher without a Vickie. She had kissed him then, a sweet press of teeth, looped her fingers into his belt, and pulled him into her bedroom. 

He remembers how three weeks after her death, he had snuck out late at night. He hadn’t decided to, he’d just done it.

The whole thing was completely out of character for him—Vickie always being the one to act on impulse. He’d driven three hours, cruised around for another hour until he spotted what he was looking for.

He remembers the woman asking what his type was and her smile when he’d said, “Leggy. And aggressive,” but not what she looked like.

It had been worth the money to close his eyes and pretend it was Vickie on top of him one last time.

Most of that—of what he remembers—is out of focus, a haze like inebriation coating it all. The only thing clear, the only thing not covered with a skein of emotional pain, is that clock ticking from somewhere in the room as he held her slowly cooling body; this quiet metronome he couldn’t figure out.

Chris is sure that the clock he hears now won’t be what he remembers most clearly about this night.

Stiles shifts in his arms, body tensing. Chris smoothes his hand down Stiles’ stomach and the young man sighs, pushing back against Chris, settling farther into sleep. Chris doesn’t feel tired--though he should. He’d had only an hour, maybe two, of sleep before Stiles showed up. From the knock on his door to now has been surreal, something out of the purple back books he likes to read. Vickie used to tease him about that, telling him that romance novels were for the softer sex. He’d smile, set the book to the side, and kiss her when she’d say things like that, telling her that he was the weaker sex.

Stiles takes in a deep breath, sighs. Chris kisses the back of his head, tries not to think on how good it feels to have Stiles pressed against him, arms around him, that flat, tight stomach under his hand.

Chris inhales deeply, burying his face into the dense soft hair in front of him, trying hard not to think about the feel of Stiles’ thick lips against his, those large hands on his ass. It had felt so good, so very lovely, to have Stiles push him against the wall outside his apartment and take. The things he’d said alone had driven Chris wild, made him burn with want. The young man in his arms is hot like fire and Chris is ready and willing to be consumed by him.

Stiles grunts, mumbles in his sleep, and rolls over. He shoves his face into Chris neck, sliding a leg over him, frowning. Chris carefully repositions himself onto his back. Stiles moves, shifting further in his sleep until he’s got his head on Chris’ chest. He looks so tired, Chris thinks.

Tired and sad. Chris should’ve known. It’s not like Stiles hides it. He’s pretty sure Stiles doesn’t have a disingenuous bone in his body. Which, Chris considers as Stiles’ arm moves across his torso, rucking his shirt up, is all the more reason this is a bad idea. He should leave.

He should leave now while he’s still in the right state of mind to do so. Chris should go home and work on hanging a no trespassing sign across Stiles from the neck down. He can’t do this to Stiles. He won’t take advantage of his tenuous state of mind.

“Rrrrs. So good,” Stiles mumbles in his sleep.

Chris’ heart pangs so hard it hurts when Stiles presses closer, pushing his groin against Chris’ hip. His mouth is open, breathing hot air onto Chris, the hand not squished between them curling into the fabric of Chris’ shirt.

Stiles is hard and hot against him and Chris wants.

What he wouldn’t give to take Stiles in hand, in mouth… in. What he would give just to stay here, like this, for the rest of forever.

“Hnnnmm, yeah. Like that,” Stiles says, rutting against Chris in slow, sleepy, thrusts.

He should have expected this. He should have known Stiles would be a talker in his sleep. When he’d been younger, back when… back then, Stiles had talked constantly. Those words had to come out someway. All those things Stiles keeps to himself, all those words he eats have to have some place to go.

Chris gathers Stiles close, closer, buries his head into that long hair again and closes his eyes. He daydreams.

He daydreams that this is normal, that he spends many nights this way; in Stiles’ home, his room, his bed, with this body so close to him, this brilliant man letting him touch and love and hold. He imagines kissing Stiles’ forehead, his cheek, his nose, those wonderful lips softly. Gently rousing Stiles from his slumber.

He pretends Stiles would smile at him, touch him with sleep-slow hands until Chris is a burning ball of desire. Stiles might kiss him slowly, passionately, and Chris would come undone with stars in his eyes. They’d move together. They’d make love in the dark, in the still and quiet, in the privacy of Stiles’ sheets. They’d fall together after, brushing kisses and touches across soft human skin until they fell back asleep.

Chris is shoved back into reality by Stiles fidgeting. 

“Please… I’m sorry.”

Chris smoothes Stiles’ hair back, careful not to wake him. Stiles’ body is tense. Chris can feel his jaw clenching and unclenching against his chest.

“Forgive me. I’m—Please,” Stiles moans in his sleep. There’s a wetness seeping into his shirt, and Chris doesn’t have to look to know what that is. “Chris—”

“Shhhhh,” Chris says softly, heart already too broken to break again for this. “It’s OK. I never blamed you. No one blamed you. Never.”

Stiles sobs out this tiny little noise, this small thing, and hiccoughs. It sounds like something fragile breaking, like the snapping of tiny wings.

“Chrisss….”

Chris hugs Stiles as close as he can, feathers his hair with light kisses.

“It’s OK. I forgive you. If that’s what you need. I forgive you.”

Stiles moans then relaxes so quickly that it scares Chris. He tenses, holding his breath. Somewhere on the other side of the door, little bodies rattle their cage as if they’re trying to get out, as if they’re trying to reach Stiles. 

One of Stiles’ rats squeak, loud, scared. Chris is right there with them.

Stiles takes in a big breath and lets it out slowly.

Chris’ heart hammers in his chest and the noise dies out. It’s silent again. Stiles breathes. Chris listens with attentive, eager ears for every single one.

Eventually his lack of sleep catches up to him. Eventually he tires. Eventually he closes his eyes. Eventually, the slow, even, breathes of the body in his arms lulls him to sleep.

He dreams of Vickie, of Allison. He dreams of them smiling. He dreams of Allison, laughing, reaching out, taking Stiles’ hand and telling him that everything will be fine. He dreams of Vickie holding him, kissing his forehead and telling him that she loves him, that it’s passed time.

He dreams that she kisses his knuckles, a light grazing of teeth, as she calls him her perfect soldier, her most favored, as she removes his wedding ring.

“No,” he tells her, something hollowing out in his chest at the sight of his empty ring finger. She shakes her head.

“It’s time,” she says, runs her sharp silver nails lightly over his arm. He shivers, remembering all too quickly how that affects him. “My handsome soldier.”

She kisses him and he closes his eyes, hurts in places he no longer has.

Opens them, standing in a clearing, in a forest that’s both familiar and strange.

Kate is standing on a stump large enough to lie down on. She’s smiling at him, hands on her hips like she used to do when they were young.

“Come on, soldier boy. You’ve got work to do,” she tells him, her hair whipping around her in a breeze he doesn’t feel.

“Kate,” he says like he’s twenty again and trying to warn her away from trouble. She was always a risk-taker.

“Hurry, bro. I can’t do it for you. Being dead and all.”

His feet move on their own, taking him over the distance between them. He steps onto the stump and she’s gone.

Wind whips fast and sharp around him, warm like it’s fueled by a wild fire, hot but somehow not suffocating like it should be. He looks down to protect his eyes on instinct and—Stiles.

The stump’s top is see-through. Stiles is curled up in the fetal position under its surface. He looks strong, healthy, like he’s glowing with life.

It’s white and bright in there but not as bright as Stiles who shines like amber in the sun.

“Stiles!” Chris screams, drops to his knees. He beats on the surface of the stump so hard it jars his bones. “STILES!”

“You can’t get him out.”

Chris turns, falls onto his ass.

“But—"

“Only he can do that,” Allison explains, her hands covered by red leather gloves. “He will… You can help.”

She smiles at him, tucks her hair behind her ear. She’s as beautiful and perfect as ever.

“How?” Chris asks, getting back onto his knees. “How?”

“Protect him. You gotta keep him safe,” she orders. Chris nods, frowns.

“Keep him safe from what?” 

Allison’s smile turns sad, strong, sharp, just like her mother’s. They were so much alike.

“From the world. From them.”

Chris crawls to the edge of the stump. Allison grows dimmer and brighter at the same time.

“From who? Who are they?”

She says something but he can’t hear it over the wind.

“What?”

Allison fades from view, her body glowing darkly.

“From who!”

She doesn’t answer, or, if she does, he can’t hear her.

“Allison!”

Nothing.

Just him and the woods and the light from Stiles below him.

Through the cacophony of the wind, Chris picks out the howl of wolves, dark shapes that move fast beyond where Stiles’ light reaches. Chris scrabbles to his feet. He stands, turning, trying to follow the movement.

There’s a knife in his hands he doesn’t remember picking up; as if it had been there his whole life and he’s just now realizing it. Chris grips it tight, clenches his jaw.

The howling continues, grows louder. With every voice that joins, Stiles’ light grows dimmer, loses power; with every howl, Chris’ resolve gets stronger.

He won’t let them get Stiles.

He’d rather die.

One of them lunges out of the shadows, snapping at the wind. Chris raises the blade, ready to plunge it into the beast’s head when its paw touches a root of the once-was tree.

It bursts into light, howls in agony, brown fur becoming streaked with gray.

Chris swings the knife right at its head, aiming for that sweet spot under its ear and—

Wakes up gasping, wind ruffling his hair. He’s alone in bed. His hand is clenched so tight it hurts.

Chris opens it, flinching at how hot it feels, and could swear he hears the thump of a blade onto the mattress.

He shakes his head then looks around. Stiles isn’t next to him but standing in the middle of the room, facing what Chris assumes is east. For some reason the room isn’t dark even though Chris never turned on any lights in here.

“Stiles?” Chris calls, shakily climbing out of the bed.

Stiles sways in place, his hair shifting around him almost like there’s a wind that Chris can’t feel blowing it.

“Stiles,” he breaths out softly, quietly, afraid.

Stiles sways again, turns to face him. Chris sucks in air between his teeth, hissing at the sight before him. Stiles’ eyes are white as if they’re rolled back into his head, as if there is no color to them at all. 

“What…” Chris stops, voice breaking.

Stiles shudders, body going slack. Chris catches him, lowers him gently to the floor. He could swear that for a moment the blood vessels in Stiles’ eyes had burst, turned them a glowing orange.

“Jesus, you’re burning up!” Chris exclaims. Stiles opens his mouth, eyes now white again and sightless, pants like a fish plucked from water, body shaking.

Chris holds him through it all. He pets down Stiles’ arms and chest, smoothes his hair back. Rocks with Stiles in his lap until Stiles keens this quiet, high-pitched noise. Until his eyes close. Until his body relaxes, becoming limp. Until the only noise to be heard is Chris’ harsh breaths in the dark room and Stiles’ rats chittering excitedly and running around their cage in the other room. Until Chris’ own hands stop shaking.

Then he stands, picking Stiles up, and carries him to bed. 

He takes off Stiles’ shoes, somehow wet and muddy, and sets them in the crate by the door with the rest. He pulls the covers over Stiles’ sleeping body. When he’s finished, Chris walks into the bathroom attached to Stiles’ room and promptly vomits into the toilet.

He continues to vomit until there’s nothing left inside him, until he’s retching up bile and his head hurts. Mechanically, Chris flushes the toilet, washes his hands, rinses out his mouth, and leaves the bathroom.

In the time that Chris was gone, Stiles has curled up, hands clenched into loose fists against his chest, body turning in on itself.

Chris shivers and exits the room, sits on the couch, hangs his head. He stays there, like that, until he hears movement from the bedroom, the sun having risen hours before.

Without knowing why and as quickly as he can, Chris picks up the first book he finds, opens it at random, and waits.

The chance had come to give full play to the passions of a lifetime. But a man who has been brought up under the code of a restraining civilization cannot easily nerve himself to shoot down his neighbour in cold blood without word spoken, except in offence against his hearth and hanour. And before the moment of hesitation had given way to action a deed of Nature’s own violence—

Chris closes the book, heart racing, and sets it to the side.

Stiles shuffles the last few feet to the couch, eyes wonderfully and thankfully brown, and falls onto it like a sack of flour, sighing mightily.

“Sleep well?” Chris asks, hoping he doesn’t sound nervous, that he doesn’t give away his anxiety to Stiles. There’s some loud voice in his mind telling him that this, this whole night, is something Stiles can’t be aware of, know of.

Stiles shrugs, rubbing his face into the couch.

“Not a morning person, I take it,” Chris says and is relieved when Stiles grunts.

“Medsgetmeallfuckedup.”

The relief is overwhelming but not as much as Chris’ worry. He realizes, with sudden and sharp clarity, that Stiles has no idea.

“You didn’t take any last night,” he says softly, like a warning he expects Stiles to see even as Chris tries his damnedest to not show what he’s feeling, what he’s thinking.

“Doesn’t matter. Hate ‘v’rything.”

Chris grins, a nervous tick, absolutely terrified. He has no idea. Stiles doesn’t know. Chris wipes at his nose, hoping to cover any faltering in his smile.

“Would coffee make it any better?”

Stiles nods.

“Upstairs. By fridge. Cupboard.”

Chris pats Stiles’ leg. The poor boy. This poor, wretched, boy. He stands, walking quickly away from Stiles, afraid he’ll give himself away if he stays any longer. He waits until he’s upstairs and the coffee is brewing to breath shakily, cover his mouth, now nauseated, terrified.

“He has no idea,” Chris chants in his head, watching the Mr. Coffee drip. “He has no idea what—what he is.”

Chris straightens, smoothing a hand down his shirt, the metal band of his wedding ring cold and heavy on his finger. It clinks against the ceramic of the mug as he prepares Stiles’ coffee.

“He can’t know,” a voice in the back of his head says. “Not yet.”

“He needs to find out on his own,” another chimes in.

“In his own time,” a third cuts in. 

They sound eerily familiar. They sound all too real. They sound like a wife, a sister, a daughter.

Clotho. Atropos. Lachesis.

Chris nods to himself, decided. He’ll keep this to himself. When the time is right, he’ll be there.

He won’t let them down.

He won’t let Stiles down.

He can’t.

Not with what’s at stake.