Derek's been hiding away for months now. Not just days, or even weeks. Months.
He's moved way past healing whatever wounds he thinks validates deserting the pack, and is now heading straight into hermit territory.
Stiles won't let that happen. Not while he's still alive and kicking.
The pack however, have. Given up, that is. Although they did try valiantly initially.
They began by sending Derek worried texts –to which no response was offered, eventually progressing to actually using their blessid werewolf senses to track him deep into the forest, to his little cabin carefully tucked away in the preserve. They tried to break in twice, failing miserably both times. Of course Derek lost it when he found them mangling his door (the one he'd just replaced) in another attempt to break in. And well, after he shooed them away with more force than necessary they just stopped trying as hard, resolving to keep him as healthy as they could, by dropping small bundles of food on his porch.
But this is the longest period of time Derek's ever spent away from the pack, and Stiles beginning to worry for Derek's mental health.
Stiles tried to follow Scott's advice. To stop thinking about Derek, how horrible it must feel to be alone in those old woods for days at a time. Scott tries to tell Stiles that eventually, Derek'll get himself out of his funk. He tries to tell Stiles (repeatedly) that there's nothing they can do for him anymore - besides dropping in with food every other day. But Stiles just can't get Derek out of his head. There's just something about the way he's isolated himself that has Stiles' instincts telling him to findhurtfriend and makebetter. Plus, Stiles has never been good at following orders.
So, when Stiles went to Deaton for help, the man only smiled at Stiles softly and nodded with an odd gleam in his eye. He seemed to understand Stiles' insistent need to protect his friends. Deaton silently walked around the room, preparing a spell intended to bring the hermit out of his shell and back to the pack. Stiles watches as Deaton ambles around the clinic for what seems like forever, eventually returning to Stiles with an old piece of paper and a sack of what looks like glitter. Stiles, unable to stop himself, promptly dips his fingers into the glitter, waving them before his face, watching as the small pieces reflect the fluorescent lights of the clinic. Deaton waits until Stiles notices his staring, dropping his hands to his sides like a scolded child and promptly gets up to leave. Deaton stops Stiles with a stern hand on his shoulder, telling Stiles that if he were to perform the ritual, to should do it alone and understand that the magic takes its time to work. He levels Stiles with a stern look until Stiles nods his head slowly, trying to solve Deaton's cryptic hidden meaning.
Hopefully, that explains why Stiles is here now. Why he's standing stark naked in the middle of the preserve with nothing more than an incantation held gingerly between his fingers and some glittery dust fisted in his palm.
Once he's steeled himself against the elements, he begins to read the ancient Latin aloud, eyes glowing white as his spark responds to his request for the power to save his friend. The words burn as he reads, a flame sweeping across the page, eating words already spoken. He throws the dust in the air as he punctuates the last word heavily, believing that he has enough power to save Derek from himself. The dust circles around him, turning to sparks that burst against his skin lightly, before sticking to him, morphing into a fire that grows with each new breath he takes.
The fire envelopes him as he screams, his oxygen supply cutting off abruptly as the fire consumes everything around him. He struggles for breath, crumbling to the ground in a heap as his world fades from flames, to nothing.
He wakes some time later, dust tickling his nose. He's face down in the dirt, which is so not helping the dust situation. His guesses his arms are folded beneath him, but he can't actually see the rest of his body. That damn glitter got everywhere.
He moves to get up, wincing as a sharp pain blossoms in his head. He must've hit his head pretty hard when he fell. He blows some of the glitter away, watching it fall from his body in small puffs, leaving tall strands of hair -no- fur in its wake. The fuck?
His eyes widen as he watches bright red fur erupt form where his beautiful, pale skin should be. 'This can't be happening' he thinks as he goes to run a shaky hand through the fur, but can't. His limbs are much too short.
He looks down and can't help the scream/yip that rips through him. 'Where the fuck did my feet go, and who do these belong to?' There are two black paws right where his feet should be. He rubs them together and gasps at the sensation. It feels friggin amazing. He turns in a tight circle and sees, only for a second, a fluffy red tail tipped with white. His eyes narrow as he mentally clicks the pieces into place.
Deaton. Spell. Magic. Blackout. Fox.
Deaton's spell wasn't intended for Derek, it was intended for him. For some reason unknown to Stiles, Deaton wanted to turn him into a fluffy, small, red fox.
A thought strikes him. 'Maybe Deaton wanted to get me out of the way. That's why the man actually cracked a smile for once.' God, Stiles was so stupid. He'd just waltzed right into the veterinarian's office, asked for a spell and wham! He'd fallen right into Deaton's evil clutches.
He huffs, wondering what to do next. He can’t talk like this. If he went to the pack, they'd take him straight to Deaton, which is probably exactly what the druid wants. But, if he doesn't go to anyone, how the fuck is he supposed to change back. Plus, it's unsafe in the preserve. Not to mention that this new perspective is really fucking disorientating. From this height, he can’t see any of the landmarks he once used to navigate the preserve. In short, he's fucked.
But he just sit here doing nothing. So, Stiles makes a mental plan. Find the nearest place and hide out until he can think of a better plan.
The plan could, admittedly, use some work.
He begins his trek through the preserve, watching as his paws automatically navigate through the forest litter, finding a safe path to wander. He's fascinated by the way the dust clouds out beneath his paws as he steps. He stops, placing his paw in the dust carefully, leaving a perfect paw print behind, marvelling at how the dust falls away easily from the pad of his paw. In fact, he finds it so fascinating, he stays for quite a few minutes, just lowering and raising his paw in the dust. Eventually, a snapping twig in the distance reminds him of his task, and he continues along his path
This one is a little different. GOSH DANG! its been so long since I've written Fox Stiles!, so give me a little while to get used to writing this, yeah?
Anyway, I know you probably see this all the time, but I'm currently accepting prompts of all shapes and sizes, so send me a message here to have yours written.
I promise I'm not that weird. I'm just excited.
As per usual, If you liked my writing make sure to leave a kudos, or a comment if you REALLY liked it.
HAPPY NEW YEAR PEEPS
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(love you all)