AN: I'm sorry for the long wait!

Pairing: Derek/Stiles

The Web of Wyrd

Chapter 6

To an outsider, Stiles probably looked like he was living in chaos. There were books scattered all over his room, open to different pages and with markings and sticky notes strewn across the spreads. Some things were underlined, some highlighted. There was no consistent method to his madness of notation technique. The bed was a mess, the sheets half off the mattress, and Stiles sat in the middle of it all, cross-legged on the floor. His hair stuck up in all different directions, his clothes were rumpled, and he was missing a sock, lost in the depths beneath the bed in a moment of frustration. Around his neck hung several trinkets and talismans, all woven together with different colours of string. The decorative beads fell down his torso fancifully, only occasionally catching on the fabric of his shirt. He sported several designs across his skin, painted on with ink, and partially smudged from an evening of rolling around on the carpet.

Stiles clicked away at his laptop, completely engrossed in a random article. He scanned through the text quickly despite the increasing headache developing behind his eyes. He was so preoccupied he didn't notice the werewolf slipping through his window, only turning towards the shadowy form when feet thudded beside him on the floor. Stiles jolted slightly and blinked owlishly up at the tall figure, though he was back to his research in no time, paying the brooding man little attention.

"Hey Derek," Stiles muttered passively, and the werewolf frowned at the teen and took in the strange sight before him.

"What are you wearing?" Derek asked, his nose wrinkling as several papers stuck to the bottom of his shoe. He lifted a foot and shook it slightly, grimacing when the action did little more than crinkle the page at the edges.

"Oh this? Just some stuff to help," Stiles said, flicking at the beads hanging around his neck idly.

"Help with what?" Derek wondered, and he peered over Stiles's shoulder at the laptop screen. It looked as though the teen was deeply invested in the mating habits of giraffes. What that possibly had to do with his attire, or apparent exhaustion, was a complete mystery.

"Communing with the moon, and nature," Stiles uttered, waving his hand towards the tiny potted plant nestled beneath his desk flippantly like it was the most obvious thing in the world. Derek stared at him for a moment, and then he sniffed the air as he looked around the room in what might have been disgust.

"You smell different today," the werewolf mentioned, and Stiles turned his head away from the screen, looking at Derek curiously as the older man slumped in his empty computer chair stiffly. The werewolf lifted one leg over the other and yanked the dangling page away from his sole before flicking it to the ground. He sniffed again, taking a few moments to really breathe in, and his eyes roamed Stiles's form suspiciously.

"Like rain, and…salt," Derek drawled, his face pinched. Hazel eyes met amber, and Stiles froze under the scrutiny. He swallowed nervously and blinked a few times before really focusing on the comment. And shit could it have been any more obvious what he'd been up half the night doing? Stiles's eyes flicked towards his pillow where tear stains still lingered visibly on the fabric. He cleared his throat and shifted his legs, clicking his mouse a bit too aggressively. The cursor flew across the screen and he managed to close the web browser instead of going to the next page.

"What do I normally smell like?" Stiles asked as he reopened his browser and cursed himself for setting up the history to auto clear. There had been nearly fifty tabs open, now lost forever in the dark and wondrous realm of his computer data. It had taken hours to find those particular sections of the internet. But he supposed it was worth it in the rare possibility that he ever found himself incriminated and the feds searched his hard drives. He really didn't want an article published about his unique interests and the very specific keywords he used on porn sites. And the less his dad knew about that the better, for both their sanity levels.

"Sunflowers, cinnamon, and autumn leaves," Derek mumbled and Stiles nearly forgot how to breathe. The teen paused and blinked up at the werewolf with bloodshot eyes, his mouth gaping slightly in surprise. He was stunned at the decisiveness behind that answer. Almost like those scents were so ingrained in the other man's memory that it was second nature to list them off. It was oddly poetic. Derek continued to stare at him for a moment before lowering his chin and turning his head to the side.

"Really? Huh," Stiles said, and he licked his lips before redirecting his gaze to his lap. That needed to be looked into. Definitely. There had to be some deeper meaning to the scents of certain people. Stiles was beyond intrigued. Did certain smells attach themselves based on personality? Or was it environment alone? It wasn't as though Stiles went frolicking through leaf piles every day, though he did spend a fair amount of time in the preserve. He bent over slightly, starting to type away at his computer, already pulling up pages of information for his brain to digest, his previous research forgotten. The teen's foot wiggled away as he tapped his fingers against the side of the screen, once again ignoring his surroundings. It felt like just a few seconds had passed when Derek reached out and grabbed his hand to stop it from fidgeting, but a glance at the clock showed it had been nearly an hour.

"Are you okay?" Derek asked, his voice soft and husky. His brow was lowered in a strange way, like he was concerned, but that couldn't be right.

"Huh?" Stiles breathed, caught by the expression on the werewolf's face. Derek frowned and eyed the teen's jerking knee, the way it bounced up and down against the carpet, and Stiles widened his eyes and lowered his elbow against it to stop the rapid movement. Holding it down was harder than it should have been, and Stiles became suddenly aware of just how jittery he was. His skin was crawling, and he felt ready to burst, while his eyes struggled to focus on any one feature on Derek's face. Stiles sucked his lower lip in, feeling the flush begin to rise up his neck. He tugged his hand away from the other man's grip, surprised at how the skin tingled from the sudden lack of warmth. He was acting like a blushing virgin. He…was a blushing virgin. Oh god.

"Oh, y-yeah…just haven't medicated in a while, y-you know," Stiles stuttered, and he rubbed at the back of his head and offered up an uneasy grin. "I've been up all night reading, about everything."

"Everything?" Derek questioned, his eyebrow raised in doubt. Stiles just nodded and slapped his hands against his knees.

"Wolves, packs, sugar in cereal, chlorine levels in our drinking water, the elements. You know, everything," Stiles explained. He sat still for all of five seconds before spreading his arms out at his sides excitedly.

"Hey did you know some werewolves can actually shift into wolves. I mean…well you know what I mean, like actual wolves! That's soooo badass," Stiles rambled. Derek's features softened, his eyelids lowering as his mouth rose ever so slightly at the corners. It wasn't really a smile, if anything it was bittersweet.

"I know, my sister could," he whispered. Stiles gaped at him, his arms still held out wide, though he slumped at the hint of sadness on Derek's face. A part of him was overjoyed, because they were at a place where Derek actually felt comfortable confiding such a thing in front of him. Just a few months prior he would have received little more than a heated glare at a comment that clearly struck the man on such a deeply personal level. Still, regret bloomed in the teen's gut, and he swallowed around the sudden lump forming in his throat as his brain worked in double time. He needed to say something, anything to get rid of that darkness that so often plagued the alpha.

"You'll totally do it too, I know you will," Stiles blurted. "You've got this intense look when you shift already…I wonder what you'd look like as a wolf."

Derek shifted uneasily, betraying his lack of confidence, and Stiles clasped his hands together and rocked back and forwards. The silence between them was uncomfortable, and Stiles hated it. He needed to fill the empty space, and he had just the thing. He'd been planning on waiting for the right moment, a time to really showcase his newfound accomplishment, perhaps during the next pack meeting when everyone was there to see. But Derek was the alpha after all. Perhaps he deserved the honour of being the very first witness.

"Hey! I almost forgot….look what I can do!" Stiles voiced, his eyebrows moving up and down as he flashed a broad grin towards the other man. The teen rubbed his hands together with a smirk, licking his lips like he was preparing some sort of devious plot. He held out his hands in front of his body, waving them in a complex movement for show, and then let his left palm turn upwards as a flame burst forth from between his fingertips.

Derek jerked back in his seat, eyes widening as he stared at the flame in disbelief. His hazel eyes sparkled as they flittered back and forth over the dancing fire in Stiles's palm, and then his shocked expression morphed slightly, revealing a tiny quirk of his lips on one side. It was still a borderline grimace, and Stiles wasn't sure what to make of it.

Stiles made sure the flame remained small, his muscles straining slightly at the energy it took to keep the fire under control. The last thing he wanted to do was let it go wild. Derek was likely still wary of unrestrained fire, for good reason. Stiles gripped his wrist tightly as it began to ache, his hand shaking in place. He had spent a good portion of the night working towards this, and it was finally beginning to take its toll, but it was there, and he was controlling it. There had been a lot of begging and pleading with the moon for help, a lot of tears, shouting, and flipping through pages searching madly for a solution. But if there was one thing that ought to be feared in the world, it was Stiles Stilinski without a wink of sleep or his daily dose of Aderall. The teen grimaced as he let the flame fizzle out, his eye twitching as he slumped in place. He felt out of breath and weary.

"Cool right?" Stiles gasped, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Not just some useless human anymore!"

He was grinning like a fool, but couldn't hide the yawn that forced its way out. The sun had begun to creep into his room, lighting up his face and highlighting the sharp angles of his cheek bones while emphasizing the dark circles beneath his eyes. Derek hadn't said a word, and Stiles was afraid to look at him. What if the werewolf thought it was stupid, or was disappointed? It was after all just a tiny flame, and it had taken him ages to learn what seemed like such a simple thing. If he'd only been better at focusing, at utilizing the knowledge Deaton gave him. But no, it had taken weeks, and for what? Little more than a party trick.

When Stiles finally met Derek's gaze he was faced with a new expression, one he didn't recognize. The werewolf was studying him carefully, hands clasped tightly around the armrests of the chair, and there were tiny scratch marks in the plastic left behind from sharp claws.

"You were never useless," Derek said, his jaw tensing as the words left his mouth. He leaned forward and grabbed the teen's hand again, this time turning it over to inspect the burns running along the skin of Stiles's palm. There had been a few mishaps in the learning process, but it was nothing compared to the first time, which had left him covered in blisters for weeks.

"Heh," Stiles sighed as rough fingers trailed along his skin gently. He was feeling a bit dizzy, and couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from Derek's jawline.

"Did you finish the assignment?" The werewolf asked suddenly, and Stiles looked at him blankly, distracted by the circular motion against his hand.

"Huh? What assignment?"

"The economics assignment. You left to finish it last night," Derek reminded him, and Stiles blinked a few times before it hit.

Shit.

"Oh! Oh yeah! Yeah it's done," Stiles hurried to reassure him. It was a half-truth at best. It was done, but he hadn't worked on it overnight. There'd been a printed, fully edited copy lodged inside his binder for nearly a week. Derek's eyes narrowed, and Stiles twisted away from him, pretending that his interest had returned to his research and not controlling his thundering heartbeat that was likely giving him away.

"Oh hey did you know that a male giraffe finds out if a female is ready to mate by letting her urinate in his mouth? Completely fascinating stuff, might come in handy," Stiles rambled, because talking was the best sort of misdirection.

"I mean it's definitely not something I'd be interested in on a…personal level you know, but still, intriguing. Animals are totally bizarre. And it got me thinking about wolves too, like how you're part wolf, in a way, and how many of their mating rituals cross over into-," Stiles faltered in the middle of his sentence, and the gooseflesh rose along his spine as Derek pressed a hand against the back of his neck. Strong fingers curled around his nape, Derek's thumb falling to rest just behind his ear. The werewolf rubbed at the sensitive skin, easing Stiles's head to the side so they could lock eyes.

The teen opened and closed his mouth several times, leaning into the touch unconsciously. He was shocked. It was a pack thing, something Derek did to calm his betas when they were feeling particularly unsettled. He'd always wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of such a gesture. It was soothing, warm, and made him feel…safe.

"Stiles," Derek whispered, his name little more than a breath of air escaping the other man's lips.

"Uh huh?" Stiles uttered, blinking languidly. All at once the tension eased from his shoulders, the over taut muscles in his body relaxing. He hadn't even realized how strained everything felt until that moment, and by the gods, was that ever addictive.

"Oh…uh….that feels nice," Stiles mumbled. He was hit with a sudden bout of exhaustion. His eyelids were heavy, his arms and legs wobbly, and his temples throbbed along with the beat of his heart. Stiles was near certain that without the steady grip against his neck he would have found it difficult to hold his own head up.

"Take your pills, go to bed," Derek ordered, and Stiles stumbled over a few unintelligible words, glancing at his laptop sullenly. There were so many things left to learn, so much work left to do. Derek must have seen the indecision in his gaze, because the werewolf reached out and closed the screen of Stiles's laptop, his grip tightening slightly on the teen's neck.

"You've done enough for one day, get some rest," Derek insisted, but Stiles wasn't one to give in so easily. He pouted and frowned at the werewolf, opening his mouth to argue.

"But…the day's just starting and I still haven't figured out -,"

"I mean it, bed. Now," Derek interrupted, his voice deeper and far more commanding than before. His eyes flashed red, and Stiles's breath caught in his throat. Was that…Derek's alpha voice? It was strange the way Stiles felt compelled to obey. It shouldn't have worked on him. He wasn't a wolf. He wasn't even pack. But a part of him wanted to listen, and he knew deep down that it wasn't wise to overdo it anyway.

"Yeah….yeah okay, bed," Stiles murmured, and he pushed himself to unsteady feet and hobbled over to his mattress. Derek helped him take off the necklace hanging around his shoulders, and then Stiles practically fell into the sheets, his face becoming one with his pillow. He pushed his cheek into the soft fabric, and let his eyes close as Derek tucked him in, pulling the blankets up over his shoulders. Stiles sighed happily as he began drifting off into a much needed rest, letting out a contented sound as fingers dragged through his hair, brushing back a few of the longer strands.

"You've done well."

Stiles felt the words against his skin like they were spoken by the wind and he was fast asleep before the other man had even snuck back out the window.

He was standing again in darkness, the moon just barely visible between the branches of the tree. It was silent, strangely so, but there was a buzzing inside his fingertips, an energy waiting eagerly for release. For the first time one of the creatures at the base of the tree was clearly formed. A stag paused in its gnawing and looked up at him, eyes blazing red, body engulfed in flame. It was stronger, returned to its former glory, and the three remaining creatures appeared mournful and lost by comparison, still cloaked in the shadows of the forest.

The tree shifted slightly, standing straighter, branches reaching farther than before. But it wasn't enough. Not just yet.

Angry sounds came from the TV as a character died on screen. Stiles tapped his fingers frantically against the buttons on his controller, shooting at everything in sight. He moved around the level carefully, glancing from the radar and back rapidly until another target was in sight. A moment later and Scott was groaning in disappointment, his character falling to the ground on the other side of the screen. Stiles whooped and let out a laugh, already beginning the search for more enemies.

"So what's up with the smelling thing, do all werewolves do that?" Stiles asked, his eyes glancing around the screen for signs of life. Scott tilted his head slightly but didn't turn to look at him.

"Oh yeah, I guess so. It's like…a familiarity thing. You know," his friend said with a shrug.

"Everyone has a scent, but it changes a bit, depending on where you've been in a day, who you've been around, what you've been doing," Scott explained, his teeth gritting and shoulders rising as he narrowly avoided impending death. Stiles hummed loudly as his mind worked out all the possibilities. He wondered if he'd have to start taking showers before pack meetings to hide the evidence of his teenage self-exploratory endeavours.

"Do you smell Allison?" Stiles probed, and even out of the corner of his eyes he could see the red tinge on his friend's face.

"I dunno, maybe? Sometimes, yes," Scott muttered.

"She smells good," he quickly added on. Stiles rolled his eyes and shot someone in the head.

"Do I smell good?" he asked, and that time Scott did turn to look at him, one eyebrow raised incredulously.

"What? Is my stench that off putting?" Stiles cried, the game suddenly far less important to him as he sniffed at his armpits.

"No, it's not that. I just don't go around thinking about your scent all the time," Scott said with a shrug.

"Oh, just Allison's of course. Sorry we can't all smell like roses and pomegranate or whatever perfect potpourri she's got going on," Stiles blurted, and not a moment later a dopey grin found its way onto Scott's face as he stared off into space.

"Dude, really? Wakey wakey," Stiles drawled, waving his controller in front of the other teen's face. Scott broke free of his daydream with an apologetic smile, ducking his head between his shoulders.

"Sorry," he whispered. Stiles didn't believe it for a second.

"Just…humour me and tell me what I smell like to you? It's valuable information and I'm conducting a survey," Stiles pleaded, his controller settled in his lap. Scott visibly sighed, but turned towards him anyway and Stiles grinned and sat up straight, holding his head high like it would help his scent waft better throughout the room.

"You smell like…," Scott started, and he leaned in and sniffed carefully, almost hesitantly, before pulling away and settling back into place.

"Familiar, you smell familiar," Scott finished, his eyes back on the TV.

"Come on...," Stiles groaned, and he poked the other teen in the side until he gave in.

"Okay okay, geez," Scott whined, and he batted Stiles hands away before closing his eyes and breathing in.

"A mix of things, nature, pancakes, wet leaves, and…Derek," Scott said carefully. Stiles faltered, his eyes widening as he eyed Scott in surprise.

"Derek? I smell like Derek?" he spat. Scott shrugged his shoulders and picked up his controller, attention back on the game.

"Yeah," he voiced, like it was obvious, like it was no big deal, like he'd known it all along. Stiles gaped at his friend, fingers tightening as they gripped the fabric over his knees, controller forgotten in his lap. He smelled like Derek. The big bad alpha werewolf, with his spicy yet somehow still fresh aftershave that murdered women's hearts by the second. Derek who spent his days surrounded by woods, and nature, and leather, and wolves, and highly expensive cars. Derek who exuded the very essence of rugged man, and everything Stiles was suddenly one hundred and twenty percent attracted to and what even was his sexuality anymore?

He smelled…like Derek.

Stiles heart was beating a mile a minute, and his vision blurred slightly as he stared at nothing while trying not to overheat. His face flushed slightly and he couldn't help but wonder. If he smelled like Derek…then did that mean that Derek smelled like…him?

Stiles broke free from his dream state when Scott's laughter rang out beside him, and he noticed as the all too familiar death screen popped up on his side of the television.

"Crap! Dude no fair, I was distracted," Stiles snapped, picking up his controller again as he refocused on the game. Scott smirked at him knowingly and without a hint of regret.

It turned out his party trick went over with flying colours. The pack loved it, all of them equally impressed by his ability to draw out a flame from seemingly nowhere. Jackson in particular was mesmerized by the moving flame, even taking to lingering around Stiles awkwardly until he conjured it up and made the fire dance. Stiles caught him staring on more than one occasion, so it came as no surprise to find Jackson lingering in the shadows one night outside on the deck. Stiles was leaning over the railing, letting the cooler night time air settle his nerves. He could smell whatever the pack was cooking up for dinner inside and he breathed in deeply and let out a happy sigh. It was Erica's turn to cook, which usually meant disaster, but Boyd was helping this time, and Isaac liked to keep a watchful eye whenever possible, so it would probably be passable for once.

Stiles turned his head when the wooden boards creaked, and he spotted Jackson's eyes, just barely picking up the light that leaked out from inside the pack house. The other teen was still, but watchful, like he was waiting for something, and Stiles smiled and brought forth his flame. He put on a little show, making the fire grow in size between his palms as he twisted it around in the air. Jackson's eyes followed the movement avidly, his interest pushing Stiles to test his limits as he spread his hands further apart, still managing to contain the flame. His control was already getting much better.

He kept at it for a few moments, but had to stop as he became exhausted from the strain of working the fire in a more complex way. But it was worth it to see Jackson so mesmerized. The werewolf looked ready to say something, perhaps ask for a repeat performance, but Derek stepped outside and put a heavy hand down on his shoulder.

"Jackson, go help set the table," the alpha spoke easily, and Jackson surprisingly didn't complain, instead leaving the other two standing alone on the deck. Stiles glanced towards the door, avoiding Derek's gaze, because lately the sight of those hazel eyes turned him into little more than a stuttering mess.

"I can help too," Stiles offered, but as he moved away from the railing his vision blackened, and for a moment Stiles thought he might pass out. Derek took hold of his arm, keeping him upright as his balance wavered and he fought off the unexpected bout of vertigo. After a few seconds he was stable enough to stand on his own, but he still felt a bit lightheaded.

"You okay?" Derek asked, his hands hovering at the teen's elbows in wait. Stiles breathed in deeply, but nodded and smiled at the werewolf reassuringly.

"It just…takes a lot out of me, it'll get easier with practise," Stiles voiced.

Derek eyed him closely and Stiles ducked his head and eased around his form, making his way back inside. He felt the flush filling his ears as the werewolf's gaze settled on his back. Soon enough he was enveloped by the scent of food wafting from the dining table and Stiles hurried towards the room, eyes widening as he took in everything spread out in front of him. He grinned at the sight, his stomach grumbling eagerly in reaction.

The other wolves were setting down platters and laughing excitedly as they prepared to dig in and Stiles watched as they filled their plates and bickered playfully amongst one another. His heart skipped a little, and Stiles swallowed nervously when he felt the familiar burn behind his eyes, his smile quickly falling away. It was…just like family. He hadn't had a dinner like this since his mother died. He didn't blame his father, he knew they'd both been affected terribly by her death, and each of them struggled to show weakness, even to each other. He just wished, more than anything, that they could share this moment together, with her too.

Erica looked proud as heck when the wolves began stuffing their faces, basking in the praise coming from everyone around her. Jackson appeared content for once, and Allison was laughing at Scott, who was trying to talk around the food in his mouth while Isaac watched him in wonder. Stiles stifled the noise that came out of his throat, something caught between a laugh and a whimper. He was pretty sure it was too loud in the room for anyone to notice, but Lydia's eyes strayed towards him then to Derek at his side and back again, and Stiles knew she'd heard it despite her lack of wolf level hearing.

He looked down, avoiding the redhead's gaze. The last thing he needed was to work himself up so much he had another panic attack. He could handle this. It was just a dinner. After a deep breath he felt a gentle pressure against his lower back, and then Derek leaned in close, urging him forward with his hand.

"Sit," Derek spoke lowly, and the faded flush flared right up again, spreading from his ears and right across Stiles's face. Just a single word and he was practically flailing around like a lovesick puppy. Stiles hurried into his seat, the chair scratching against the hardwood as he pulled it in towards the table. When Derek took the space beside him Stiles wanted nothing more than to melt into a puddle. The next time he met Lydia's gaze she was smirking at him knowingly and Stiles shot a glare right back at her.

"Eat," Derek ordered, but Stiles was still caught up in his staring contest so his plate remained empty. The werewolf growled slightly and started slapping mashed potatoes onto the plate in front of Stiles, drawing the teen's attention towards the growing mountain of food. Stiles sputtered indignantly and shoved at the wolf's arm in response. It didn't budge.

"Okay already, I can feed myself, jeez,'' Stiles blurted. Derek stared at him with a raised eyebrow before spooning even more food onto his plate, and Stiles gaped at the alpha in return. Boyd took that opportunity to plop a dinner roll atop the pile of potatoes, and the table laughed as Stiles slouched and crossed his arms. When the gravy was offered Stiles snatched it with a huff because gravy was like liquid gold, and if the pack didn't think he was capable of eating four servings of potatoes then they were in for a surprise. He was a bottomless pit.

He managed to pout through three whole bites before giving up and digging in along with everyone else. Before long Stiles was laughing and chatting with the rest of them, his eyes gleaming happily. And the satisfied, half-visible grin on Derek's face was enough to make his smile stick around for the rest of the night.

"You're getting quite good with fire," Deaton mentioned, watching Stiles pass a fairly large flame from hand to hand in his study area in the corner of the room. He was sitting cross legged on the floor, books and research spread out around him like always. Stiles could make any space look like a disaster zone if he spent enough time in it.

"You should start working on the other elements. See if you can get a response from them at all," Deaton urged. Stiles split the flame into two, holding one above each palm as he swirled them into different shapes.

"Fire's the coolest though don't you think?" Stiles said, before he let the flames fizzle out and wiped the sweat from his brow. He relaxed slightly, taking a few steadying breaths. He didn't feel nearly as worn out anymore. Practicing really did help. Deaton eyed him for a moment before turning back to his cupboard, relabeling several vials with blurred text.

"Many first assume that fire is the strongest of the elements, but this is not so," the vet mentioned. "Fire is quite destructive, but it can be extinguished, stifled, and in many cases controlled by external forces. Consider this. If you were to say, remove the air from within a room, what can be done to return it?"

Stiles stared at Deaton, his brain working as he tried to envision that particular scenario. Even the thought of someone suffocating like that had him scratching at his arm nervously. Deaton was right. That was a lot of power to hold. A part of him wasn't sure he would be able to. What if he made a mistake and accidentally killed one of his friends, had to watch them suffer as they grasped at their neck in a desperate search for air. What if…he did it to himself?

Stiles shivered and took a shaky breath. He couldn't think like that. After all, it would be a valuable talent to have. He'd be able to cripple almost any enemy they went up against, if he mastered it that is. Everyone needed air, even a good portion of the supernatural.

"You really think I could control the others?" Stiles asked. Honestly, it hadn't come to his mind at all. He'd been so focused on learning how to use fire. He stood and started gathering his books while Deaton turned towards him.

"Perhaps, one day," the vet said.

"Seems…dangerous," Stiles muttered as he zipped up his backpack and slipped it on his shoulders.

"Isn't there a saying that you like to use. With great power…," Deaton trailed off, and Stiles glanced towards him with a broad grin.

"Start with water, it is perhaps the most forgiving, and…if you ever set something aflame, you will be able to easily douse it," Deaton suggested. Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes.

"Oh, no faith in my control I see," Stiles said, his hands on his hips. Deaton offered him little more than a pointed look. Okay so maybe he'd had a few mishaps in his eagerness to increase his power, leaving singe marks on some of the cupboards, and a lingering smell of burnt toast throughout Deaton's office. But it totally could have been worse, right?

Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital was one of his least favourite places in the world. Stiles grimaced as he followed his dad inside, the smell of chemicals already invading his nostrils. Everything about the building made him feel uncomfortable. The disturbing lighting, the blandness of the walls, the sterile nature of his surroundings, and of course, the lingering reminder of impending death. He would have avoided it if at all possible, but the days Stiles and his dad were actually able to spend together had been few and far between lately. So even if his dad was working a case at the hospital, Stiles was determined to tag along, especially since he knew his dad hated it just as much as he did.

The sheriff's shoulders stiffened as they walked through the lobby, and he directed Stiles towards the waiting area with a terse nod.

"Stay here," his dad whispered, and then he was off towards the reception desk, leaving Stiles to drop down in one of the uncomfortable chairs alone. The teen twiddled his thumbs for a solid minute before he got bored and swiped one of the germ infested magazines off a nearby table. It took him a while to prop it up in a good position, and the woman across the way was eyeing him suspiciously, probably coming to a horrifying conclusion about what he was trying to hide. Stiles smiled at her widely and she huffed and turned her attention to the biker bleeding from his arm three seats over.

Stiles refocused on his hands, bringing out the flame easier than he ever thought he'd be able to. It was one of the few things that could entertain him for extended periods of time. It was actually difficult to stop practicing sometimes, and he'd had one particular close call in a public place that nearly outed his abilities to an entire preschool class. He was pretty sure only one person had actually seen him bend the flame to his will, and it was just a kid, hardly five years old. Not really a problem right? Kids thought they saw crazy stuff all the time. Hell, Stiles had rambled on about unicorns and dragons and all kinds of unbelievable crap when he was little, and he'd turned out okay. Never mind that most of the fantastical stuff turned out to be real.

Quick footsteps sounded in the hall nearby and Stiles hurriedly whisked the flame away, tugging the magazine unnaturally close to his face. He practically pressed his nose into the centre binding when hushed voices echoed into the waiting area.

"This is the sixth one this week," a woman's voice sounded, and Stiles pushed his back against the chair and leaned towards the edge of the wall, his elbow hanging off the end of the armrest.

"It's the same…ninth month of pregnancy, no sign of illness or complication. Except this time they couldn't save the mother either," the same voice mentioned, and Stiles narrowed his eyes and stretched across his chair so much he was nearly out of the seat.

"Poor guy, lost everything in a matter of minutes, so suddenly," another voice murmured. Stiles hovered over the arm rest, his mouth open wide, and he nearly dropped the magazine as the two figures approached, passing the corner and heading across the waiting area. The teen fumbled the flimsy pages and sat up straight, crossing his legs in an entirely natural way. He held his breath long after the nurses disappeared from sight.

It sounded far too suspicious. His dad was currently investigating a case at the hospital, just after several mysterious deaths that seemed connected? Clearly something was going on, and it was likely related to the supernatural. Nothing in Beacon Hills was ever not related to the supernatural. The teen couldn't resist inching his head around the corner, peering towards the maternity ward. There were a few people walking far in the distance, but only one other person was visible, a man seated alone, head in his hands. His posture spoke volumes, and Stiles swallowed, ignoring the lump forming in his throat.

Stiles crunched the magazine between his fingers and took a cautionary glance beyond the receptionist. His dad was nowhere in sight. His eyes shifted around the room, landing briefly on the older woman who was blatantly ignoring him, before he scrambled to his feet and started walking casually down the hallway. It didn't take long to reach the man, and Stiles paused at his side eyes straying to the room across the way against his will. The bed inside was empty, the sheets newly changed and stark white to match the walls. His throat tightened further.

It was disturbing how quickly they cleared the rooms after a death. Leaving no sight of the person who previously resided there. His mother's room had gone from being crammed full of flowers and cards, and those cute little stuffed animals from the gift shop, to barren in what seemed like minutes. Stiles remembered walking back towards the room long after he'd been escorted from it, refusing to acknowledge that his mom was gone. But to his surprise someone else had already been there, in the bed, with their own cards and flowers arranged around them. He'd wanted to scream. To shout at the person for invading his mother's space, but instead he ran into the nearest closet and choked on air until it almost killed him too. Stiles shuddered and turned away from the sight, sitting gingerly in the chair beside the man.

"Hey," Stiles spoke. There was no response, but he hadn't expected one. Talking was probably the last thing the man wanted to do after experiencing such a great loss. Too bad talking was the only thing Stiles was good at.

"Uh…want to talk?" Stiles asked, grasping his left arm in his hand. The man wiped at his face and turned to look at him, eyes glazed over as he relived his loss.

"She was…perfectly healthy," the man whispered. "They said…they don't know why."

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it quickly. There was nothing he could say that would get rid of that pain. Nothing that he could do to bring this man's wife and child back from the dead. Watery green eyes pleaded with him to provide answers, some kind of explanation for what had happened, but all he could do was offer his sympathy.

"I-I'm sorry. I know…what it's like to lose someone," Stiles admitted. He turned away, unable to face that gaze for a moment longer, and clasped his hands together in his lap.

"She didn't mention anything? Pain or…concerns…before…," Stiles asked. A part of him felt guilty for prying. It was cruel to bring up such nightmares, but it was also the best time to get the truth, while everything was fresh in the mind. The man stiffened, his legs shifting, feet moving across the bland floor.

"She…saw something, a ghost, an old woman whispering about a heart," he muttered, and Stiles jerked his head to the side. His eyes widened as he recalled the last time he heard of something like that.

It couldn't be…

"Cloaked? Ghoulish features?" Stiles practically hissed. His heart was speeding up, and he was losing control of his breathing just thinking about it. The man lifted his head, pinned him with a haunted gaze.

"It sounds crazy doesn't it, but…," he breathed, his jaw shaking as he recalled something particularly horrific.

"The doctors say it's the grief talking, but I heard her. She was scared. Maybe they were giving her too much medication, making her hallucinate," he insisted. The man's eyes flashed darkly and then lowered. Stiles sat stiffly in the hospital chair, his shoulders tense as his lips trembled slightly. He couldn't face something like that again. He just couldn't. Maybe it was nothing, a false alarm. Maybe the man was right and it had something to do with an incorrect dosage.

"I should have done something, I…," the man stuttered, and then his head was back in his hands as he sobbed. Stiles sat beside him awkwardly, hands clasped together in an attempt to keep them from reaching out hesitantly. The sight of another person experiencing such grief had his heart clenching tightly in his chest. He remembered what it was like so well, to lose someone. He remembered those hours after his mother's passing, the way he could hardly see, hardly think. It was like someone had taken everything inside of him away, leaving little more than an empty shell incapable of free thought. Stiles couldn't imagine what it would be like if he lost his dad too.

The mere though made his eyes burn.

Stiles turned away, peering down the hallway as his thoughts returned to his father and the case he was investigating. The nurses had mentioned it being the sixth victim in the span of a week. Was it too much to hope for a simple serial killer for once?

His shoulders hunched up and Stiles glanced down between his feet, eyeing the tiled floor below. He might have missed it had his foot not shifted, catching the thread beneath his sole and flicking between his shoes. It was long and irregularly shaped, just sticky enough that it clung to him until he scraped it away, and Stiles froze.

Oh god…oh god.

His heart thudded in his chest. The thumping so loud it was like there was a stampede of elephants inside his head. He told himself not to panic just yet. Maybe it was just a thread, a regular old piece of a mop or something. But the texture was so unique, so familiar, and Stiles felt his blood freezing in his veins as he leaned forward and picked it up between his thumb and forefinger.

Stiles scrambled to reach inside his pocket, tugging his phone out and fumbling it in his hands. He brought up Deaton's cell number, typing off a quick message.

Heart status?

The wait felt like hours, though it was less than a minute later he received a text back.

Beating

The response was short and sweet, to the point, exactly what he expected from the vet. There was nothing amiss. But still Stiles felt wary. It was too coincidental, both the description of a ghostly figure and the thread sitting there on the floor. The clues were staring him right in the face.

The man next to him was long lost in his woes, so Stiles got up, walking back towards the waiting area to search for his dad. He was at the reception desk, clearly just finishing up. There were circles under his eyes, a pinched expression on his face. The case was clearly wearing on him, stirring up emotions carefully hidden away. Stiles clenched his fist tightly around the string, not even grimacing as the sticky residue coated his palm. He was going to figure out what was going on, and he was going to kill whatever it was that was doing it.