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Season of the Witch

Summary:

“I just want to feel whole again.” Stiles said weakly, turning his head to look searchingly to Derek. “I’ve got all this…guilt…this pain…and it feels like it’s a part of who I am now. This…constant ache. I just wish there was a way to get rid of it.”

Stiles watched as something flickered to life in Derek’s eyes, and suddenly he was off like a rocket.

*

After the Nogitsune's been killed, Stiles still finds himself haunted by what it had done with his body. Try as they might, The Pack can't seem to console their friend... That is until Stiles mentions something that jogs Derek's memory and he takes off to find a friend from the past who he thinks can salvage Stiles's mind. After all, she'd done it for him.

And if she happens to become a part of the pack while she's at it, well, no one's really complaining.

Notes:

(See the end of the work for notes.)

Chapter 1: Someone Who Can Help

Chapter Text

It was always quiet, now. It was always deafeningly quiet and so cold despite the fact that they were well into summer.

School had let out not long after the Nogitsune was killed, but Stiles didn't feel the freedom everyone else did. If anything, he felt worse. At least at school he could focus on worksheets and reading instead of the constant, dull buzz that he couldn't push out of his head.

School had temporarily filled the void.

But now it was back, and it swallowed him whole randomly during the day. He’d wake up and immediately scramble to his desk to pick up the first book he could find – some ancient tome Derek had let him borrow – and read the first two paragraphs. His heart would continue to rabbit in his chest until he’d finished almost an entire chapter on the reproductive habits of ghouls which…ew.

He’d set the book down with shaking hands and head for the shower, but once he was in there and closed his eyes under the spray, he was suddenly chilled to the bone and soaking wet, driving one of Kira’s blades through Scott’s abdomen, twisting and twisting and – twisting the fossett until the water stopped falling and he was alone and cold leaning up against the shower wall trying to catch his breath.

After slipping on whatever clothes caught his eye first, he’d amble downstairs. His father would be at work already, but there’d be a note with some sort of comforting message, not that Stiles really read them anymore. He didn't think he deserved the pity he was being shown, everyone should be furious at him, they should be livid, unforgiving…

Or maybe that was just the remnants of the Nogitsune talking.

Stiles would try to eat, but no matter what he made the second it was in his mouth he was retching, imagining yards upon yards of bandages spilling from his throat, never ending, leaving him gagging and crying and gasping for air at the dinner table like he was choking.

Scott would come by every day. Stiles would hear the roar of his motorbike coming down the street, and he’d barely shift his eyes from the television when he entered the room. He knew Scott didn’t hate him for what happened, but he should.

He’d just have to hate himself enough for the both of them.

Scott would ask him simple questions, like ‘When’s the last time you showered?’ or ‘When’s the last time you had a full meal?’, and Stiles would lie and say it was that day, whatever day it was, and he’d try to ignore the disbelieving stare that his best friend would give him. Not that he could find it within him to care whether or not Scott believed him, but it would have been nice for his best buddy to at least pretend to believe him for once.

Every once and a while, Scott would call in the big guns, and Lydia would show up and demand the Stiles pick his sorry ass up and take care of himself. Stiles would stare at her blankly while she stood before him, arms crossed and defiant in the face of Stiles’s apathy. Eventually Stiles would concede, figuring that he could allow Lydia this one small happiness. After all, he’d only just killed her best friend.

Allison.

It was a name he woke up screaming nearly every night. It was her face that floated behind his eyelids every time he shut them for more than a moment. It was her laugh like music that he’d sometimes think he’d hear, but when he’d turned to look, it was gone. If she was haunting him, he deserved it, and in all honesty he didn’t mind. He’d take anything he could get, if it meant seeing Allison one last time. He needed to apologize, he needed to let her know that with every bone in his hallow, numb body he was sorry. He was so, so, so sorry.

The pack tended to keep a closer eye on him at night, for obvious reasons. Stiles didn't mind, he preferred it, actually, and found himself uneasy and skittish during the five minutes it took for one member of the pack to leave the room only to be replaced by another. They worked in four hour shifts every night, so the two members watching Stiles on any given night could at least bank on half the recommended amount of sleep.

Sometimes he’d wake up thrashing wildly, and he’d look up to see Erica with her waterfalls of golden hair holding his wrists down, yelling for Stiles to wake up, because it was just a dream. It was just another horrible, vivid dream of porcelain skin being pierced by a steel blade.

Other times he’d scream himself hoarse while he slept, and Isaac would gently rock his shoulder until he shuddered awake. Isaac’s eyes would be brimming with sadness and he’d commiserate with Stiles over the loss of the archer. Sometimes it made Stiles feel better and sometimes it didn't. The times that he felt better were usually when Isaac offered him his scarf after one of their crying sessions, and he’d watch with muted horror as Stiles would blow his nose all over the fabric. Stiles would hand it back with a small smile and a laugh, and Isaac would smile, too. But mostly, when they were done talking about her, Stiles would watch the way the shadows of his room would cast eerily across Isaac’s strong features, and it seemed to only enhance his sadness. This would keep Stiles awake until Boyd stalked into the room, and Isaac left with a nod of his head, gingerly taking his snotty scarf with him.

The nights he got the best sleep was when Derek was there.

Derek would pull a chair up right next to Stiles’s bed and pick up Stiles’s assigned summer reading book and begin reading it. Stiles would watch him as his eyes darted back and forth across the pages. Stiles wondered if he’d ever read his summer reading books when he was in school. It made him smile to think of a young Derek Hale Sparknoting the plot of Wuthering Heights days before school was set to begin. Derek would remain quiet, not trying to soothe Stiles’s restless mind, or offer him his condolences, or try to give him advice on something he knew nothing about. Stiles liked that. He preferred to just watch the steady rise and fall of Derek’s chest, to bask in the fact that Derek was alive, Scott was alive, that there were still people who remained unharmed by Stiles and the Nogitsune. Derek never pried into the problem, and so the problem was temporarily at bay.

Derek usually stayed all night, a fact that Stiles didn’t learn until he’d found Derek asleep in the chair with Wuthering Heights resting precariously against his chest, Kira hovering in the doorway.

“He told me to go home, but I just stayed in the living room. He said he could handle it.” She’s explained, and then she turned and left, so Stiles had gently rocked Derek awake.

Derek had the good sense to be embarrassed about being busted, and was still dawning a slight flush when he slipped through Stiles’s window, even though at this point he knew he was more than welcome to use the door.

Stiles looked forward to Derek’s visits the most. He’d even say he was excited for them, if Stiles was capable of feeling anything remotely close to excitement. It was during one of Derek’s nights that Stiles finally broke the silence between them.

“My dad says you wouldn't stop looking for me.” He’d said softly, and if Derek wasn’t a werewolf, he may not have heard it.

But he did, Stiles could tell as much by the way his shoulders tensed slightly, but he kept on reading, only saying, “He’s right.”

“Why?”

“Why do you think?”

“I’m coming up blank, that’s why I’m asking.”

Derek huffed and tore his eyes from the book to look Stiles in the eyes, “You saved my life, and I was gonna do whatever it took to save yours.”

Stiles was reeling for two reasons: One because, woah, Derek Hale just strung together more than ten words and Two because, woah, Derek Hale just expressed some sort of loyalty toward him. In an attempt to cover up his spinning mind, Stiles croaked out a weak, “You didn’t have to do that.”

Derek scoffed and told him to get some sleep.

Stiles tried, but he felt words bubbling in his chest, and he knew that if he was ever gonna tell someone about what he was feeling, it would be Derek.

“I’m so empty, Der.” He said softly, his voice on the verge of cracking.

Derek turned his head and for the first time, he actually looked concerned. “What do you mean?”

“It’s how I feel…I can’t seem to get warm, I can’t seem to feel full…I’m open inside, I feel completely gutted, I…I…” Stiles reached above him as if he could pull the right words out of thin air, but finally gave up and dropped them at his sides.

Derek set the book aside and sat up in his chair, elbows resting on his knees as he leant toward Stiles’s bed. “Keep going.”

Stiles shook his head weakly. “I’ve got nothing left.”

“That’s bullshit and you know it. You’ve got the pack; you’ve got your dad. C’mon Stiles, this isn’t you.” Derek said.

“It is now!” Stiles shrieked, and suddenly he was sitting in front of Melissa, duct tape still burning his face and his wrists bound before him, the same phrase seeping tauntingly from his lips as Melissa looked at him with heartache and betrayal. He was snapped back to the present by strong hands on his face, thumbs dragging across his cheeks to catch his falling tears.

Derek was shushing him gently, leaning over Stiles’s bed but being careful not to touch it. He was the only one who seemed to respect Stiles’s personal space like that, and Stiles always found that so ironic because Derek was the one he wished would invade it most. He let go of Stiles’s face and moved slowly back into his chair, convincing Stiles that this was reality, and that he was safe.

“I just want to feel whole again.” Stiles said weakly, turning his head to look searchingly to Derek. “I’ve got all this…guilt…this pain…and it feels like it’s a part of who I am now. This…constant ache. I just wish there was a way to get rid of it.”

Stiles watched as something flickered to life in Derek’s eyes, and suddenly he was off like a rocket. Stiles heard him pounding down the stairs, barking at who he assumed was Scott to get his ass to Stiles’s to watch over him.

Stiles stumbled out of bed to follow after him, shouting his name over and over, begging him to stay. He felt weak, but Derek had become so secure. Derek came on Thursdays. Derek read Wuthering Heights. Derek sat in the same chair. Derek always slept over. He was screwing with Stiles’s favorite routine, didn't he get that?

But Derek didn't stop, and Stiles was left standing stupidly in his front door, watching the headlights of the Camaro tear ass down his suburban street.

Scott was there a few minutes later, having run on foot to save time, and he asked Stiles why Derek would call him at two in the morning sounding like he’d just solved the mystery of the universe.

After reviewing everything he’d said to Derek over the course of the night, Stiles still had no idea.

Scott stayed over until the end of what was usually Derek’s shift.

Stiles didn't sleep at all.

***

No one heard from Derek for another day and a half. The first Stiles saw of him since he fled his house like his ass was on fire was when he was vaulting through his window during Scott’s usual night shift. He looked like he’d barely been sleeping, and was clutching a piece of paper in his hand. He barely spared Stiles and Scott a formal greeting before grabbing Scott by the elbow and telling him to call in Isaac, because they had to go.

“Go?” Stiles and Scott both asked in unison. Scott clearly didn't understand where the hell he was going, and Stiles was petrified at the prospect of his favorite watch dogs up and leaving.

“I know someone who can help.” Derek said cryptically, his body already halfway out Stiles’s window once again. He was shaking the paper in his hand in front of Scott’s face, and allowed the boy to take it from him.

Scott’s eye bulged and he looked incredulously at Derek. “Louisiana? Derek, you’ve got to be kidding.”

“It’s just over a day’s drive to get there, and with my driving, we’ll be there and back in two.” Derek explained, gesturing to the car idling in Stiles’s driveway. “Come on!”

“Wait, wait, wait: Who is this ‘someone who can help’, where do you know them from, and why the hell are they all the way out in Louisiana?” Stiles asked, becoming more flustered with every question.

Derek rolled his eyes, “An old friend. Now are you coming or not?” He asked Scott, ignoring Stiles’s cry of “You don’t have friends!”

Scott looked torn, “Derek, are you sure about this? You’re not always the greatest judge of character…”

Derek actually looked affronted, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“Need we look at your dating history?” Stiles supplied cockily, but was immediately put back in place by Derek’s warning glare. “I’m just saying…”

“Look, I knew her back in high school from before the fire; she was practically part of the family. She can help, I know she can. She did it for me, and she can do it again.” Derek said gravely, and that made Stiles pause and look to Scott, who now looked thoroughly convinced that this was someone it definitely wouldn't hurt to look into as an option.

“She did what for you?” Stiles asked when he finally broke eye contact with Scott.

“She took away the void.” Derek said simply.

Scott turned to Stiles, “I’m going. I’ll have Isaac here within ten. You gonna be good until then?”

Stiles thought about protesting, but then he saw the determined look on Derek’s face that told him if he kept Scott here a moment longer, he wouldn't hesitate to drag the boy through the window by force and stuff him in the trunk. So Stiles gave in, nodding, and watched as Scott and Derek both disappeared beyond the view of his window.

“Bring me back a souvenir!” He called out as an afterthought. He thought he heard someone laughing, but then again, he did that a lot these days.

***

Scott studied the name and address written in sloppy scrawl on the crumpled paper. “Elizabeth Till? Big Easy’s Big and Greasy, Louisiana? You knew this girl?”

Derek was hurdling down the highway at an impressive 105 miles per hour, and if they were passing any state troopers, they seemed to think better of giving chase to anyone who was willing to disrespect the law that blatantly. “I did, yeah. We lost touch after the fire, but she’s the only one I’d trust with Stiles.”

Scott nodded, but his eyes were still narrowed in confusion, “Only one of what? What is she?”

Derek looked torn for a moment before answering, “She’s a witch.”

“A witch?” Scott cried. “Those are real?”

“Says the werewolf…”

“Okay, yeah, but dude, a witch?”

Derek only nodded.

“How’s she gonna help him? How did she help you? Are you sure you can even still trust her?”

Derek seemed to choose to ignore the first two questions and only answered the last, “I guess we’re going to find out, aren't we?”