beckers



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    “Well,” Stiles says, “if they’re going to hunt werewolves, I’m going to hunt them.”

    It’s a ridiculous statement from a ten-year-old, but he’s obviously one hundred percent sincere. For the first time since the fire, Peter feels life stir inside him, feels purpose. It’s kismet, clearly. He’ll never meet the child he would have had with Olivia. Instead he’s met this boy, this brilliant, determined, cynical child with a world of potential.

    Peter kneels down in front of him so they’re at eye level. “How do you feel about doing that together?”

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    “Dude, you should totally come with me.”

    “What? Like on the road trip?"

    “No, come with me. To Austin. Get out of Beacon Hills.”

    Derek paused. “What?” he asked again.

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    Derek lets his eyes drift down, slowly but only for a moment. He tells himself that it's to get a proper look of him and hopefully place why this guy looks so familiar, but he can't fool himself. It's partially a lie.

    The man is obviously in shape, strong build underneath the well fitting button up he's wearing. There's a badge hanging from a chain around his neck and–

    Oh. Oh no.

    “Derek Hale?” the man asks, breaking the silence.

    “Yeah,” Derek answers, slowly and cautiously.

    “Special agent Stiles Stilinski with the FBI,” the man, whose name is apparently Stiles, says and lifts his badge briefly. “You got a minute?”

    OR; For the past twelve years, Derek Hale has lived in constant fear and without a sliver of hope, drowning in guilt and grief that he hasn't been allowed to properly deal with. Then one day, an old friend shows up on his doorstep with news that only adds to the pain. But things, as they say, get worse before they get better.

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    He wonders for a moment if he might've dreamed her up, too, but she's there in front of him, hand raised like she was just about to knock, blinking at him in a too big coat and a scarf wrapped around her nymph-like ears. It's 75 degrees outside, he opens his mouth to say, but she shushes him, honest to god shushes him. He's so shocked that it doesn't seem odd that nobody speaks for roughly fifteen seconds or so until he hears it, the ding dong, ding dong of the clock striking midnight.

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    There’s something acid twisting in Stiles’ scent as he keeps staring at Derek, awkward silence surrounding them. Derek can practically see the gears turning inside Stiles’ head as he comes to his conclusions.

    ‘’Not a faulty wiring then, huh. Hunters?’’

    Derek gives one sharp nod.

    ‘’The ones after you now?’’

    Another sharp nod.

    ‘’Well, shit,’’ Stiles says, and Derek sees his face widening into a feral grin. ‘’If they ever cross me and mine,’’ he says with dark glee, ‘’they’ll be so fucking sorry for all of their life choices. I can promise you that.’’

    --

    Happy Halloween!

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