Title: Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)
Author: ANTchan
Fandom: Teen Wolf
Rating/Genre: E/Romance/Mystery
Pairings: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Summary: Deputy Stiles Stilinski is fascinated with Beacon Hills' serial killer cold case of 2011, to the point of obsession. He's going to solve it if it kills him. It's that last bit that lands him on mandatory health leave. It's his own bad decision-making that puts him in the middle of the woods at night. Going off the path to help a wolf caught in a hunter's snare? That one he's not sure about.

An AU where Scott was never bitten, Derek never followed Laura to Beacon Hills, and Peter was never caught.

Warning this chapter for discussion of Kate and Derek's relationship, and all the things that entails.

Anything you say can and will be held against you (so only say my name)

Chapter 9: Letting people down is my thing, baby (this town ain't big enough for two of us)

-1-

Derek Hale is brought in in handcuffs. Stiles leaps to his feet the moment Derek appears in the doorway, flanked by Deputy Haigh and a weary looking Deputy Parrish. (Stiles absolutely does not notice so quickly because he's been watching the door since the deputies left. Not at all.) "What are you doing?" he hisses at them as they near. "This is a voluntary interview!"

"He assaulted me," Haigh says with a nasty smile. Stiles ire ramps up just looking at it. He'd always known Haigh was a grade-A asshole, but his desire to punch the smile right off his face goes past that today. Why, he doesn't want to think about.

Parrish's frown at the declaration tells Stiles everything he needs to know. The resigned, guarded look in Derek's eyes is only a bonus - and not a happy one. Stupid, rule-bending, bad cop posturing bullshit. "Get the handcuffs off him," he orders.

"Last I checked, you weren't above me on the chain of command, rookie."

"No, but I am, Deputy Haigh." All of them flinch as the Sheriff materializes behind them, his face stern. "Handcuffs off him, Haigh. I'll speak with you later."

Haigh at least has the grace to keep his scowling subtle as he steps behind Derek. But Stiles isn't imagining the unnecessary tug Haigh gives Derek's arms as he unlocks the cuffs. Stiles clenches his fists, eyes narrowing, glaring at the man until he finally makes the retreat back towards his desk. "Sorry, man," Stiles says as soon as the deputy is out of earshot. "It was supposed to be voluntary-"

"Let's get this over with," Derek interrupts. But he's not speaking to Stiles. He's not even looking at Stiles. He's looking straight past him at Sheriff Stilinski instead. He shoulders his way past without even the slightest acknowledgment. Stiles' jaw clicks shut, stung by the cold reception.

"You okay?" Parrish asks him quietly, glancing from Stiles to Derek's retreating back.

"Y-Yeah. Yeah it's… no, it's fine," he stammers. But his reassurances sound flat even to his ears. The expression of sympathy that Parrish shoots him only brings a sour taste to his mouth.

Parrish pats his shoulder. "Come on. We can go watch."

"Parrish," Stiles manages to gasp with dramatic flair. "That is downright sneaky of you. You, our golden boy deputy!"

"It's not sneaky when we're on the case," Parrish argues. He ushers Stiles towards the interrogation room (a glorified conference room that they sectioned off into two rooms and stuck a viewing window in), not that he has to convince Stiles.

They slip into the observation booth just as Derek and the Sheriff are getting past the pleasantries. Stiles tunes out the reading of his rights during questioning and the official apologies for Haigh's behavior. Instead he watches Derek. Stiles can actually see the man closing off. He's starting to get a sense of his body language now (which has nothing to do with his less than advisable fascination with the man - nope). Stiles has learned to gauge just how defensive Derek is in the tense line of his jaw, in the severe downward slash of his mouth.

"So uh," Parrish begins, "what as that out there with Hale?"

For a moment, Stiles debates whether he should tell Parrish anything. But, in the end, he knows his fellow deputy is a good guy. Kind of unfailingly optimistic and loyal in a way that too few people are. It makes even Stiles' cynicism waver. "Surprised my dad hasn't told you."

"Ah, I'm not the lead on this case or anything. If it's not pertinent, I don't see why he would."

"It's… pertinent," Stiles admits. He runs a hand through his hair. "I might have slept with the guy. And… then realize he could be involved after."

Beside him, Parrish's eyes go wide. "Like… like right after? So, what'd you do?"

Stiles winces. "Uh, well..."

"Did you… just run off?"

They share the next grimace. Because Stiles can't even deny that he ran off like a complete coward. Under any normal circumstance it'd be definite grounds for Derek's cold treatment of him. And then the next time they meet is when the man is being brought in for questioning? Under Stiles' request?

Yeah, Stiles is an asshole. Even if it's more complicated than just him sneaking away after sex, he's still an asshole.

"That's rough, buddy," Parrish says helpfully.

He sighs. "Thanks."

His father's voice drifts through the speakers, forcing them into silence. "Why don't you tell me why you came back to town, Mister Hale."

"I came back to clean up the estate. Too many of our family properties are struggling. Or defaulting altogether." Derek's word are perfectly civil. And yet his expression gives off all the impression of a cornered animal - poised but dangerous, looking for an opening.

"They've been failing for a while," the Sheriff remarks. "Why now?"

He shrugs. "Ever since the fire, we let investors take care of them. We were hands off. I didn't look at any of the reports until this year." Derek doesn't avert his eyes. He doesn't even fidget. The only outward sign of anything is the way his jaw clenches.

It's so perfectly controlled that it can be nothing other than suspicious.

'Get him, Dad,' Stiles silently urges.

Inside the next room, his father leans his elbows onto the table. "Look, son, I won't lie to you." There's no missing the way Derek bristles at the familiarity. "The fact that we couldn't reach you for more than a month after your sister's death, only when the killings had stopped, and the fact that you show up in town just as they're starting again… it's suspicious. I need to know your whereabouts during the murders. Both six years ago and now."

Where anyone else might be indignant about being implicated in a serial murder spree, Derek Hale barely even flinches. If anything, he only seems exasperated. "Six years ago, I was in New York," he deadpans.

"Humor me, son. We need hard evidence of your whereabouts."

"You can check the attendance records from Columbia. I had a volunteer job through them too, so they'll have records of my time."

"We'll be sure to look into that," Stilinski says. "And the recent murders? Specifically…" He glances through the paperwork in front of him. "The hours between 3 and 5 AM the night of the 29th, 6 and 9 PM the night of the 5th, and midnight and 2 AM on the 11th."

Derek's frown deepens. "I would've been in my building by then."

"And can anyone corroborate this?"

"The building's tenants, I guess."

"But no one specifically."

"If I'm not meeting with contractors or meeting the needs of my tenants, Sheriff, I keep to myself," Derek stresses, sounding outright annoyed now.

Unperturbed, the Sheriff hums thoughtfully. "We'll mark that down as 'no concrete alibi' then. You've been recently seen going into the Preserve, or into places you really shouldn't be wandering at night. Care to tell me why?"

Derek's eyes flick towards the window, as if he somehow senses that Stiles is there watching. Stiles fights the urge to duck out of sight, even though he knows there's no way for Derek to see him. "Last I checked, walking at night wasn't a crime."

"It's not," Sheriff Stilinski replies. "But it is questionable when we have a serial murderer on the loose." When Derek says nothing, he grabs up a pile of photos from the file instead. Each of them are laid out one-by-one on the table between them. "Laura Hale," he says, gesturing to her picture. "Garrison Myers. Jeremy Holmes. Marcus Reddick. Paul Unger. Edward Cunningham. Adrian Harris. Jennifer Kisler. Peter Hale. Three members of Argent's security team. And Kate Argent."

And this time Derek does flinch. Parrish takes a step closer to the window. It feels like the entire room holds its breath, waiting. Sheriff Stilinski pauses, and Stiles can see the gears turning in his head, the detective in him going to work.

"Just looking at them, they all seem random. No common physicality, nothing obvious that links them. Except…" He pushes the photos of Peter, Laura, and Jennifer forward. "Two of the three survivors of the Hale fire and a caretaker of one of them." Next he pushes the photos of Myers and Cunningham. "The insurance investigator who ruled it an accident. The retired contractor who worked on your family's home prior to the fire." Harris, Holmes, Reddick, and Unger are next. "Three convicted arsonists and a chemistry teacher who we know Kate Argent approached." And last, he taps the pictures of Argent and her bodyguards. "And… an Argent and her entourage. You see the connections we're making?"

Derek has gone pale now, his eyes trained on the photos spread across the table. And Stiles isn't the only one who notices his gaze lingering on one in particular.

His dad picks up Kate Argent's picture, brandishing it pointedly. "It seems like there's no love lost between you and the Argents. You want to explain to me how you knew Miss Argent?"

"I didn't," Derek hisses, but the waver in his voice makes it less than believable.

"Really? You seem to recognize her." Stilinski sets the glossy photo back on the table and pushes it towards Derek. There's no hiding the way the man's hands curl into fists, physically shrinking away from it. "We know that she was living in Beacon Hills before the fire, and considering she approached Harris we figure she's either the orchestrator of the fire or one of the main accomplices. You can imagine why we'd want to know her movements while she was in town. Who she talked to. Who she knew-"

"I didn't know her," the other man insists, weaker this time. And that is when Stiles knows something has gone wrong. Because the look on Derek's face is not the look of a man caught in a lie. No, Stiles has seen that look on him, has seen the cold panic of his mind working its way through one lie and into another. No, this is the same broken, hollow expression that Stiles had seen on him just days ago, back in his loft. It's terror and knowing.

"I think we both know that's a lie, son. Now why don't you tell me, before I have to start asking around and find out from someone who saw you with her all those years ago." It's a longshot, really. A connection from twelve years ago is hard to prove, but if anyone can do it anywhere, it's his dad in a small town like Beacon Hills.

Stiles just wishes he didn't have such a bad feeling about it.

It seems like Derek is going to refute the accusations for a moment. The room is filled with tense, oppressing silence as he gazes hollowly at Kate Argent's photo captured face. And then he gently, as though the item might come alive and bite him, pushes it back across the desk.

"We were in a relationship, before," Derek confesses.

The Sheriff immediately leans forward. "Before she was killed."

Derek heaves a sigh, like his next words physically pain him. It's not until after they leave his mouth that Stiles realizes that might be true. "No, I mean… before the fire."

The gravity of the admission dawns on Stiles about the exact same moment it does on his father. "Son, you would have been…"

"Just turned sixteen," Derek finishes for him.

"That would have made her approximately twenty-five, correct?"

"I guess. She never told me."

"And what was the nature of your relationship?"

Derek's expression twists. "Sexual."

There's a moment where none of them dares to speak. The look of horror that spreads across Parrish's face is exactly how Stiles feels in that moment. Inside the interrogation room, his dad leans his elbows on the table. His frown has taken on a different edge now.

"When did Kate Argent first approach you, Mister Hale?"

"I didn't know her as Kate Argent, then," Derek answers quietly. "She told me her name was Kate Mitchell. She came to one of my games, said she was impressed. She said… a lot of things. And I-" he cuts off, something hollow and terrible in his eyes. "I was so fucking stupid."

"And why do you say that, son?" The Sheriff prods, his tone more gentle this time.

"I thought I loved her." Derek's voice has gone quiet and small. "So when she was interested in my family, I told her. When she asked about the house, I told her. I'm the reason she knew when everyone would be home. And how to get into the house to rig the fire."

The Sheriff folds his hands on the table. "Did she force you to let her in the house?"

Derek's frown only deepens, grows more self-loathing. "If she had, I could at least say I tried to stop her. No, she only asked questions. She only seemed interested. She always made it clear what would happen if she lost interest. By then, I- I answered every question. Like an idiot child. It's my fault," he says. And now he drops his gaze to his hands. "I never… told Laura. I never told anyone. Maybe if I had, Laura would have known it was my fault, and never came back."

Stiles turns on heel and exits the booth, ignoring the hollow, sick feeling growing in his stomach. He doesn't need to hear anymore to know they aren't arresting Derek Hale today. Stiles returns to his desk to wait out the rest of the interview.

His hands shake as he sorts through the pile of reports on his desk, and he has to stop and take a steadying breath.

The interview answered a lot of questions, sure. It proves that the Alpha killings are intrinsically linked with the Hale fire, either for revenge or to cover up the crime itself. It proves that Kate Argent had been the likely mastermind behind the fire, even though they're lacking in hard evidence at the moment. It explains why Derek and the Argents don't like each other.

It also makes Stiles want to drag Kate Argent from her grave and set her on fire, but no one needs to know that.

Stiles can't say he can see Derek, a man who seems to have internalized what happened to him and his family, turning that grief into a bloody revenge. Not anymore. Not after this. However, nothing in Derek's statement absolves him of suspicion. A gut feeling doesn't trump hard evidence.

Not that they have any of that either. And no grounds to request a warrant with all their speculation and circumstantial evidence.

Still, Stiles can't help but feel a teeny, miniscule, little bit terrible about how he's handled this whole thing. In the past week Stiles has slept with the man, left him almost immediately after, discovered a - shaky at best - connection to the Alpha, stalked him (let's be honest), had him dragged into the station for questioning, and forced him to relive what was clearly an awful, manipulative relationship that resulted in the death of his family.

Stiles quietly lowers his head to the desk, and groans.

"You're an awful person, Stiles," he mutters.

By the time Derek and his father come out of the interrogation room, Stiles knows what he has to do. He keeps his eyes averted as his father wraps up the interview and points Derek towards the door. With every step he approaches, Stiles heart races faster, until Derek is within feet of him.

"Derek," he calls, as gently as he can. The man comes to a stop near his desk, but doesn't look at him. It's an opening, though, and one that Stiles will take. "I-I…" he licks his lips, fingers jittering against the desk. "I saw your tattoo, you know, when… well, after. Both of them. You know, they're, uh, significant to the case. I had to follow that line of investigation." The explanation comes out of his mouth easier than expected. But it's only after he says it that realizes it isn't an apology.

Shit. "I mean-"

"You could have asked," Derek replies, in a voice so cold that Stiles actually flinches.

"What, and have you lie again? Seriously, Derek? All you've done when I've asked questions is lie."

"Maybe because it's none of your business, did you consider that?"

Stiles levers himself to his feet, the chair colliding with the filing cabinet behind his desk with a metallic crash. "I'm an investigator in this case, Derek. It's my job to make this my business. I'm trying to find out who killed your sister!" No, no, no, this is not how he wanted this conversation to go! And yet the words fly from his mouth before he can call them back, his apology buried by his agitation.

"And accusing me of doing it!"

"You won't be accused of anything without hard evidence," Stiles hisses, leaning in close. "But you know something - you're up to something - and you're terrible fucking liar about it."

"What I'm doing has nothing to do with your case," Derek growls, proving Stiles' point about how awful a liar he is by getting far too defensive. Stiles is entirely ready to call him on it, but the words fail him as soon as Derek cuts him off: "Stop following me, Stiles."

So he had known Stiles was following him the whole time. He tries to come up with a defense for that, and can find none.

"Stay away from me," Derek says, his voice pitching lower. "If you keep it up, I can't promise you won't get hurt."

"I-Is that a threat?" he manages to sputter. He is, he's being threatened right here in the Sheriff's station.

"Just leave me alone, Stiles," the man snaps. He makes no effort to mitigate his subtle threat. Instead letting it hang in the air as he makes his exit. Stiles is left standing there watching Derek leave in his cloud of angst, mouth hanging open as he frantically casts about for something withering to shout at Derek. When nothing comes, he lets a wordless, utterly frustrated snarl instead.

"He's quite the character." His father steps up beside him, jolting him from his internal tirade. "And too suspicious for his own good. Does he realize he stalks around like some kind of predator?"

Stiles chokes back a mean laugh. "Thought you said we don't judge crime on someone's appearance."

"Oh, we don't. And if that weak alibi of his actually checks out, then we'll have to look elsewhere." The Sheriff crosses his arms, his frown stormy. "You were right, though. He's hiding something."

"He's a terrible liar. Did you see how awful he is at it?"

"Oh, I saw it," his dad agrees. His eyes are still trained on the door, as if he can still see Derek Hale and somehow puzzle out what he's hiding just from looking.

Stiles lowers his voice. "Do you think he did it?"

It takes his dad a second to answer. "Do I think that Derek Hale ripped seventeen people to bloody shreds - including his sister and probably his uncle? No." He clicks his tongue, seemingly at his own thoughts. "But I won't rule him out until we get evidence in."

"I don't believe he could murder his family in cold blood," Stiles declares. "You saw him in there. He blames himself for the fire that took out most of them."

"Whether or not you believe it, son, the evidence will tell us eventually. Murder is a strange, disgusting business. People surprise you with how inhuman they are. What lengths they'll go to. Or how twisted up their logic becomes - especially people in situations like he was in at sixteen. We'll just have to wait out the investigation and see." The Sheriff turns his gaze to Stiles, with a frown on his face that makes Stiles' insides shrivel. "You sure you're going to be alright on this case?"

"What?" Stiles stands a little straighter, squaring up for another fight. "Of course! I told you I was."

"I know what you told me, son," his father soothes, somehow managing to be both gentle and stern at that same time. "I know we had an agreement about your health. But this thing… this hang-up you have with Derek Hale, it's not healthy." He claps a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "It's a dangerous line, Stiles. Even if he is innocent."

"You're right," Stiles rushes to say, if only to stop the lecture before it can continue. "You know, you're totally right, Dad. It was stupid. I mean, I knew that after it happened, uh, even before I saw his tattoos and made the connection."

"Right."

"Right, so it's not gonna happen again. No worries, right?"

"If it turns out he's innocent, yes. But if he's not…" The look Sheriff Stilinski gives Stiles then is everything he dreads, even as an adult. "We'll be having a Talk about professionalism. Okay?"

Stiles winces, but relents, "Sure thing. I promise."

-2-

Another failure. Another human's last gurgling breath, this time choking on black blood.

Too weak. Too wrong. And still alone.

He's still so alone.

He hates being so alone. He needs his Pack. The last Beta stolen by an intruder. Hiding in his territory, stealing his Pack, leaving him only to these weak, unsuitable humans.

He hunts.

Finding His Beta is easy. The scent is all over the territory. In the Preserve. In the town. His Beta has been looking for him.

Yes, yes, they're Pack. He should be.

But there's something else in his Beta's scent. It's the scent of another.

Of an Alpha.

His triumphant howl breaks through the night.

-3-

Stiles might be ready to admit… that his obsession with Derek Hale has reached a point where it's become a problem. He might admit that it's reached the point where he can't even go to a bar after work with some of the deputies without thinking about goddamned Derek Hale.

It's an obsession, and not an infatuation. Infatuation has a certain affection to it that Stiles doesn't want to consider. So no, it's not an infatuation, but a professional obsession with an extremely attractive and suspicious man. And Stiles has - or his dick has, at least - tricked himself into translating that into something sexual.

And that professional obsession is exactly why Stiles can't stop thinking about Derek Hale's questioning earlier that day and why remembering the haunted gleam in his eyes makes Stiles lose all appetite for greasy bar food and weak, acceptable after-work alcohol. That completely professional obsession is why Stiles bows out with barely even a buzz and finds himself standing out on the dark street, wondering why the hell he does this to himself.

He breathes an aggravated sigh into the night air. Stupid. This is stupid. Derek's attractive, yes. Attractive and fascinating and broken and Stiles wants to shake him as much as he wants to help him. (Not that the infuriating man would let him. He'd just lie through his teeth and incriminate himself even more in the process.)

But attractive or not, Stiles shouldn't be letting himself get hung up like this. He should be solving this case - not chasing Derek Hale's every suspicious movement. And he definitely shouldn't be letting himself agonize over a single ill-advised (but fantastic) hook up.

Jungle is only a few blocks away. Stiles has half a mind to go drown out his circling thoughts with stronger alcohol and a firm body writhing against his - to music or to the sounds of their own gasps and moans. Anything to get him to stop - stop thinking about broken, dark-haired men and the fact that Stiles feels wrong, and has felt that way for weeks. Ever since that night in the woods, Stiles has felt like something has gone off the rails, and if he stops and lets himself think about it long enough, his mind wanders to black dogs and hulking, red-eyed beasts in the shadows - vivid dreams that might not actually be dreams and wolves in his bed and other things that make Stiles' heart pound.

Yeah, he definitely needs to go somewhere and drown out his thoughts.

The night is cool and clear, and he hopes the walk to Jungle will give him time to work out his nervous energy. Stiles shoves his hands in his pockets and sets off, telling himself that while the day has been shit, it's going to end with at least a good buzz and maybe even a handie in a club's back hallway.

Stiles makes it most of the way to the club. Close enough that the silence of the deserted street gives way to the faintest hint of a pounding bass. Jungle's in one of those strange, almost haunted little pockets of Beacon Hills that got left behind during the last recession. A warehouse district where business dried up long ago, and storage units, junkyards, and places like Jungle rose up to take their place. Like greenery growing up to devour the the industrial bones of Beacon Hills.

And that's when the growling starts.

Stiles freezes. At first his mind tries to rationalize that it's the rumbling of a car coming up behind him, because it's too loud and too big to be anything else.

But it doesn't sound like any car Stiles has ever heard.

Cold dread settles in his belly, the feeling of wrongwrongwrong welling up inside him all over again. And when he peers over his shoulder he finds that it's not a car behind him at all. It's…

It's the thing from the forest, creeping out of the alley like a thing straight from his nightmares - the animal that he had almost managed to convince himself was a bear. But it's not a bear. It's not a bear because Stiles isn't looking at it from across a dark valley anymore. He's looking at it from fifteen feet away as it comes out of an alleyway onto a Beacon Hills road. It slinks out onto the street on all fours, but the shape of its body is wrong for a four-legged animal. It's huge and covered in thick dark fur that gleams red and brown under the streetlights. The animal shakes its massive head, broad snout tipping up and its black lips curling back to reveal wicked looking teeth.

Stiles is motionless, rooted in place as he stares in horror at the creature. It doesn't feel real. As if his eyes and his mind have different ideas of what is in front of him.

And then the animal catches sight of him, eyes burning bloody red, and it lets out a deep, gut-wrenching snarl. The thick muscles lining its body bunches, preparing to spring.

And Stiles knows he has to run. Or else he's going to be mauled right there in the street.

His hand flies to his belt as he turns to run, searching for the service weapon that isn't there - that he left in his Jeep, damnit! The sound of claws scraping the pavement sends his heart hammering against his ribs, the only warning he has before there's a thundering of breath and the heavy rush of paws behind him. He might scream, but the fear and the blood rushing in his ears drowns the sound out if he does. The only thing rising from the animal haze that's overtaken him is the thought that he has to find people. He has to make it to Jungle, where there are people that can help him.

But the creature is quick, far, far too quick for his measly human speed to outrun. It overtakes him easily, rounding him off in the street, claws gouging marks into the concrete as it skids around him. Stiles barely stops himself from tripping face-first into the pavement in his effort to backpedal away. The creature, now within five feet of him, is massive, with jaws that could wrap around Stiles' whole side and crack his ribs open without even trying, its fangs as long as Stiles' palm. And yet it doesn't lunge for the easy target. It only paces closer, ears flicked forward and mouth open in a wolfish snarl as Stiles scurries back from it.

Stiles does the only thing he can, and ducks down the nearest alley, knocking down a pile of trash and scraps in his path in a vain hope of slowing the creature down. His mind is whirling into overdrive now, reeling even as the fear commands his legs to run as fast as they can carry him. This can't be happening. Not here. Not again.

"Fuck!" he wheezes, tearing into the backstreet and down another alley. He thinks he can hear people - just out of reach, but there. But whatever hope he has is squashed within seconds as the creature leaps clear over him into his path, landing with a bone-rattling thump in front of him. The terror is a cold rush through his veins. He's so close! Jungle is only another block from here. Safety is so close-

It's herding him away from people, his brain supplies, a little hysterically. It's trying to isolate him from "the pack." To corner him like prey.

So Stiles turns and runs in the opposite direction into the maze of dark, deserted backstreets away from the safety of other people. The beast stalks him, but doesn't lunge, waiting to see what he'll do. A fire escape catches his eye, and he clambers up the ladder. Outrunning it has proven useless so far. Once onto the grate, Stiles pulls the ladder up after him, and peers over the railing.

The creature is a dark shape below him, a black mass of shadow and fur in the alley that snarls and skitters below the fire escape, peering up at him with eyes the glow like red embers in the darkness. Stiles' hands tighten around the railing. His lungs ache to draw breath. His knees feel weak now that the he has a second to do more than attempt to run for his life.

"What the fuck," he gasps incredulously.

The beast gazes up at him.

"No, fuck you! You stay down there." It doesn't seem to want to listen. Because suddenly the creature's eyes are getting closer as it slowly stands on two legs, reaching up towards the fire escape Stiles is perched on.

It has hands, Stiles realizes numbly.

Not paws. Hands.

His mind whirls. 'Not an animal,' it whispers. 'Monster. Beast.'

Those hands wrap around the bottom of the ladder, claws glinting in the darkness. And then the beast starts to pull. The metal creaks and groans. The bolts on the ladder start to pop. Stiles has a vain hope that the ladder will be the only casualty here, but then the animal - the creature - grasps the platform supports and proceeds to rip it from the building. The entire thing tips; Stiles clutches the railing in a white-knuckled grip, leaning away to keep from being flung from it. The whole thing is going to come down in a matter of seconds.

Time seems to crawl - the creature gets closer as the fire escape slowly topples. Stiles is held, mesmerized by its burning eyes and glinting fangs. It's pulling him down, black lips curling into a hungry, monstrous grin.

And then Stiles leaps, plants his feet on the railing and jumps as far as his legs can manage. He doesn't think of anything past the beast's powerful maw. The only flicker of regret comes in the mere instant before he hits the ground.

He lands wrong, stumbling over the scrap and the trash, the force of the landing rattling his bones. His knees scrape the pavement, but the burst of pain is nothing to his racing, terrorized heart. The fire escape crashes to the ground a moment later with an ear-splitting shriek of metal. And under it, the deep yelp of the beast as it fails to dodge out of the way. Stiles braves looking back, only to see the glint of metal and the thrashing shape beneath the fallen fire escape.

It's the only chance he's going to get, and so he bolts off down the alley, ignoring the shooting pains in his right leg.

The alley opens up onto a barren backlot dotted with cars - an abandoned space used for parking nowadays. There is, in line with Stiles' colossal lack of luck, not a single person in sight. But there's a streetlight overhead and there - there! Just meters from him is his Jeep.

He's never been so happy to see his baby.

There's a vicious snarl and a squeal of metal as Stiles dashes across the lot. He doesn't even bother with slowing to a stop, merely stumbling right into the Jeep's door with a deafening thud. The mere seconds it takes to unlock the door seem like an eternity, stretching ever closer to his impending death. "Come on, come on, start the car," Stiles hisses fervently to himself as he climbs inside. His hands shake as he fumbles with the keys, almost dropping them in his attempt to shove it into the ignition.

He never makes it. Something slams into the side of the Jeep with enough force to throw Stiles sideways. The gearshift digs into his ribs, choking off the panicked scream as the entire vehicle rocks. The keys are lost somewhere on the floor in the dark, and Stiles scrambles blindly for them. And when he looks up-

Red eyes are peering at him through the window.

Stiles' heart goes careening to a halt, his body frozen in terror. The beast gazes back at him.

And then it rears back, and slams into his Jeep once more. His body jolts across the bench seat, shoulder slamming into the passenger door. He's not given a chance to recover before another collision actually makes the Jeep rock onto two wheels. His keys are forgotten, the burn in his shoulder ignored, as his focus turns onto the service pistol under the seat.

Stiles gropes frantically for the lockbox, voice lodged in his throat. His breath sounds thunderous to his own ears, his movements feel just seconds too sluggish. It's either get his gun and shoot the creature or let it tip his whole Jeep over - or let it wrench the door off and drag him out.

His fingers stumble over the passcode, but his hands are steady as he grasps the pistol inside and levels the weapon at the window. The beast is rearing back, winding up for the next charge. Stiles aims for the head, hopefully an eye. He breathes fast and sharp, and then he takes one deep gulp of air. Exhales. And begins to squeeze the trigger.

A Howl rends the air - deep and booming, like it's right in Stiles' ear and yes, definitely a Howl rather than a benign howl. His entire body down to his bones seems to jolt with the sound, his grip on the gun faltering.

A dark shape comes flying into view, smashing into the creature's flank. It lets out a shocked, vicious roar, massive head turning to bite at the smaller form attacking it. There's a struggle outside Stiles' Jeep, the two silhouettes thrashing and snarling. The newcomer is smaller and faster, and… more human-shaped. Stiles watches as the vague shape in the fogged up window leaps onto the beast's back, slashing at what Stiles assumes is its throat. Until the beast shakes them off, tossing them to the pavement with a low whine. And then it moves out of Stiles' sight, and all goes quiet.

Stiles sits up straighter, eyes frantically casting about for a sign of the creature. His body feels numb and hypersensitive all at once, the adrenaline coursing through his veins.

The silhouette stepping up to the driver's side makes him nearly leap out of his skin, his heart hammering painfully in his chest. He raises his gun a few inches in warning.

But the thing - the person on the other side of the glass only lifts their hand and taps gently. "It's gone," they announce. And Stiles recognizes that voice.

"Derek?" he pants.

"Open the door, Stiles."

Stiles doesn't move right away, and keeps his gun level with Derek's chest. But once his racing heartbeat stops drowning out his own thoughts, he scoots close enough to unlock the door.

It opens slowly, as if Derek is acutely aware that sudden moves might get him shot. Other than the slightest glisten of sweat on his face, Derek looks remarkably unaffected by the nightmare that's just occurred. He barely seems to be out of breath after wrestling with that…

Stiles' mind forms the word, but it gets lodged in his throat. No. Absolutely not possible.

"This is why I said not to follow me," Derek drawls.

Stiles has the sudden, nearly undeniable urge to pistol whip him. "You-!" he seethes. "You can't- 'Stay away from me or you'll get hurt' is a threat, Derek, not a warning! That's a 'stay away or I'll make you regret it!' It does not cover being chased through the streets and nearly getting mauled to death by whatever the fuck that thing was!"

Derek arches his brows, not even bothered by his tirade. Damn him. "Go home, Stiles."

"Oh, don't you dare pull that shit right now," Stiles spits. He goes to flail his hands, nearly forgetting his pistol which glints under the orange streetlamp. Derek flinches, nearly imperceptibly. He doesn't call attention to it, but the way his eyes track the weapon has Stiles making a show of clicking the safety back on and setting it on the driver's seat anyway. "This is not the time for you to be all 'this isn't your concern, Stiles,'" he pitches his voice lower, squaring his shoulders and puffing out his chest. A poor mockery of Derek's gruff, macho act. Derek isn't impressed, which is no surprise. "That thing almost killed me! You don't get to brush me off. What the hell was it? And why did it come after me?"

"Stiles-" Derek begins with a strained grimace.

"I swear to god, if the next thing you say isn't an explanation…"

"I can't tell you that. No," he insists when Stiles growls at him for it. "I can't, Stiles. Don't ask me that. You need to go home." His eyes drift towards the alleyway nearest them. The hair on the back of Stiles' neck stands on end. "I have to go after them. Go home."

"I…" A touch to his arm has Stiles flinching. His knees are shaking, he realizes abruptly.

"Did you hear me?" Derek asks, eyes intent as they bore into his own. "Go. Home." He doesn't wait for Stiles' answer this time. He leaves Stiles there, dashing off down the alley in search of... it.

And then Stiles is alone. Derek's pounding footsteps fade into the distance, until the only sound is the electric buzz of the streetlight above him.

He collapses again his Jeep as the adrenaline finally drains out of him.

He's not sure how he finds the strength to drive home.

END CHAPTER 9.