Chapter 1
Stiles
All the blood, sweat and tears I have bled for Beacon Hill. Now abandoning it. Passing the leaving smashed Beacon Hill sign, drove into it during werewolf chase and my classic clumsiness got involved. I have to leave for my sanity. Scott on his high horse, shouting from the rooftops Stiles is evil and corrupt campaign. Shouting through out Beacon Hill's that I'm a murder, a snake, I will kill again. The neighbourhood turning on me. A home is meant to be safe. A dad is meant to believe their son, not someone else's. Glass bottle hurdled towards me, ducking. The world is in slow mode, frozen and fast at the same time. Did his dad do that on purpose? Again.
His dad's furious face cemented the answer. “Brat, who did you kill this time?” Dad unsteady on his feet. Jack Daniels on his breath. Dad’s drinking again.
I can’t complain. Drinking away my worries at the look-out-point, forth times this week. For those few seconds of peaceful, muddled brain wasted heaven. The world crashes upon me, reality knockinging down my door, hungover latching on tight.
I have to leave Beacon Hills to survive.
Leaving my demons in the past, driving fast as the speed limit can take me. I’m the king of the open road.
Not taking the FBI apprenticeship. That's the first place dad will go to look for me after Scott’s kool aid has worn off. I’m no longer the punching bag. Dad can F-himself if he wants his lamb back. Someone to undermine, to clean the house, to cook without a thank you. When the day comes Scott needs his human shield and researcher, I will longer be there, vanished without a trace.
The army better watch out, Stile is coming into town.
The training is repetitive, challenging and boring. Being away from Beacon Hill didn’t flush my demons down the toilet. The stars high in the sky, little diamonds above. Dad’s favourite in hand. One bottle doesn't hurt anybody.
The first tour in Iraq went terrifying, that’s nothing new. Instead of claws, there were guns. Dusty dirt mist blowing into every crevice and crack, not caring about sensitive body parts. The co-workers are team player trying to get to know me, I’m not here to make friends. Ostraizing myself from the group. Using the sarcasm defence.
The one person there for me is the commander. The man took me under his wing. Somehow, he knew what I was doing.
The second tour is kinda like the first. The drunken nights getting out of control. I know what I’m doing. The self-doubt doubting every decision, guilt eating at me. Roaring wolves tormenting my dreams. Alcohol calms down the jitters and the crushing guilt. The numbing sensation doesn't last long, just enough to numb my rollercoaster emotions. Occasionally playing chess with the commander late into the evening to early dawn.
The third tour shatters my new reality. Raiding the enemy’s base to rescue hostages. This takes flash from the past to a whole new level. Feral omega werewolves in Iraq. Disobeying orders to stay put, disobeying is a speciality of mine.
The past forces me to keep mountain ash supply on me at all times. Opening the sachet, maniacally wishing and praying. Ignoring my spark for the last few years, abandoning it like I did with anything else Beacon Hills related. The tiny spark inside me jumps for joy. Butterflies fluttering in my chest. The mountain ash supply multiplies in quantity. Sneaking around the property outskirts, trailing ash in my wake. Making a perfect joint circle. Hopefully, it won’t be the same outcome as the rave attack.
The werewolves are manic and hyper; stabbing their claws into the sandy ground, hands bleeding, roaring, crawling skin-kissing boiling sands, blisters swarming, mountain ash circle caging them in. Loading the gun Argent bullets inside, bang, one shot to the head, releasing the omega from its misery. Bang. Bang. Bang. Bullets to the brain. Yellow sand dripped blood red.
The other officers' bullets were useless. It wasn’t hard for the army to find out who killed the mutant wolves.
Handcuffed to the table, questioned and read my rights. Listening to the long winded betrayed your country's spiel. “God damn it, boy. Tell us the information we need on those wretched creatures. Help the nation and the army.”
The Hulk is a well-known story in history. The army chased him into hiding and captured him once. Went at it Hannibal Lecter style. What would they do to the supernatural community?
Mouth zipped close. Stiles Stilinski is not the one who is going to blow the supernatural lid. Especially not to the army.
Spending a week behind bars for saving his ungrateful teammates’ life isn’t a friendly way to say thank you. Trembling bones, blasting sun heat, sweat drenched clothes.
His old commander walks into the tent, isn’t he meant to be in the States? “I would hug you but I’m tied up at the moment”.
“How does joining my team in the States sound to you?”
Three years ago the States was a nightmare to me, now it’s heaven. Tied up and ready to be prostituted for treason anywhere sounds heavenly but here.
“Yes, yes, and yes. What organisation do you work for?”
Section 7 is an organisation under an organisation. Its primary aim is keeping the lid on the supernatural secrets. Protectors, prosecutors and the red tapes to the supernatural community. His old commander is not an agent of Section 7 but the Director.
Running away from his past is second nature to me after all these years. Working at Section 7 is chasing toward the past. Not liking that one bit.
“What are you doing here?” Why is he here? He can’t be here.
“Well, hello Stiles.” The smart snazzy suit framing Peter’s asset, not noticing the firm muscle at all. “I’m the lawyer for Section 7, Agent Stilinski.”
The Hales left Beacon Hill before he did. The family reunion leaving together. To his knowledge, Peter kind of tagged along. Cora wanted her uncle to be with them. Derek reluctantly agreed.
“You being a lawyer doesn't surprise me at all. What is the family bunch up to these days?”
“Cora is a therapist for Sector 7, Derek owns a bakery in midtown.”
Laughing my head off. Peter’s face was serious. “You were being serious. Derek is a baker. If Cora gave me therapy, I would need therapy to get over it.”
“Derek makes the best carrot cake. He would probably poison your slice. Cora is the best in the business.”
What happened in the last three years? Peter is defending the fam. Three years ago I had a family and Peter didn’t. How the tables have turned.
Section 7 is now my home.
Being an agent for Section 7 is like any job. Some days are good, some days are bad and some days are explosively bad. Literally blow in your face. The bomb has explosive mountain ash, silver, ivy. Most of the toy box and kitchen sink. supernatural allergic death shit in its bowels.
In a clock tower bomb in its face, laying under the bomb. Click. Click. Click. Ten. Nine. Eight. Seven. Six. Five. No time for bomb squad backup.
Choosing between the red and blue wire is an impossible choice. The wrong colour cut its game over. Red or blue, red or blue. At least guilt can’t follow you to the grave. Killing the supernatural population. Friends, bye-bye.
Blue. Come on, it has to be blue. Four. Three. Two. Scissor teeth cut the wire. No big bang. No missing limbs. “Is everyone alive,” I said over the comms.
“Yes, Agent Red.” Director Michaels cool as a cucumber voice settles my nerves.
Sitting alone in my apartment. Drink already poured. Knock. One firm knock on the door.
Swaying to the door, Peter in the doorway. “Well done, not killing everyone. Congratulations on a successful mission.”
The pit at the bottom of my stomach sinks. At what could have happened. What nearly happened.
Peter letting himself in. The clothes he is wearing are divine. Chisel jaw, the legs that can go for miles. Jack Daniels numbing my brain sooner than expected. The overthinker has left the building. Peter’s cherry red lips begging for a kiss.
Gulping down another whiskey mouthful. Closing the gap between them, going in for a kiss. Peter slightly pushes away.
“You're drunk. Sober up, we will talk in the morning.”
The hellish hangover drills off the tipsy happy times. The heavy guilt, life pressures waves back into consciousness.
Walking side to side, the kitchen is spotless. Glasses and bottles are nowhere to be found. The party for one evidence down the drain. Glasses washed to perfection, no watermark, so I definitely didn’t wash them up.
Peter sitting on the couch watching a quiz program. His suit jacket hung on a white kitchen stool. Shoe placed neatly by the door. Peter's legs stretched out relaxed on the lounge wooden table.
“Hello party boy. In the fridge is an energising smoothie I made you.”
The bright sun shines between the gaps in the blinds. Too bright. I definitely need to invest in some blackout blinds. Is it stupid to wear sunglasses indoors?
“What are you doing in my apartment?”
Taking his legs off the table, “You got totally smashed last night, you don’t even remember my dashing face. Last night I invited myself to your party for one. You kissed my face off. Don’t worry, nothing graphic happened. PG kiss. I paused it before it went too far. I'm a total gentleman.”
Oh my god, my lips met Peter’s. Mind blank. Being plastered isn’t at all romantic. Flushed and sweaty palms. The heat in the room turned by one hundred. Or is it just me?
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to get that drunk.”
Peter stood up. “I don’t know if the drink influenced you to kiss me. Stile, would you like to go on a date with me? If I remember correctly, your dad had a drinking problem. Are you following the Sheriff foot steps?”
The room spun round me. “Yes, a date sounds nice. Last night was a one off. Stressed out from the mission. “
Jumping for joy, well in my head.
Last night was a one off, right?
Peter the jazzy snob takes me on a date. I never thought of him as an old heart romantic. Derek’s bakery is empty, Peter and I all alone. A single tall straight candle sitting on a lone table. The candle light shunning away the darkness. Hot chocolate sitting on the counter still warm, floating fluffy marshmallows clouds. Cake eaten. The conversation is inquisitive, layered romantic undertones underneath.
The second date goes swimming as well. This time hiking in the forest.
Third, fourth, fifth, sixth follow along smoothly.
Section 7 employs supernatural creatures and some mutants. When the Avengers mess up, mutants get hunted and abused. This is when my eureka moment happened. To create a supernatural safe haven. To live, work and socialise without having to hide who they are.
“Director Michaels, I want to make a haven for the supernatural. Henry, everyone deserves a safe place to call home. A place to be themselves. Supernatural witch hunts are on the rise. Werewolf hunters are making their own training camps. McCall is going to blow the lid on the supernatural any second now.”
Henry's unreadable face gives nothing away.
“I need to crush numbers. A haven for the supernatural is a brilliant idea. An isolated town. Fields and foresters surrounding the properties. We can get a magic force field to send unauthorised humans away. Humans vs powers war is brewing, Anyone wanting harmony to stay safely out of the unnecessary fight. Section 7 is changing. The job used to be catching feral omegas, prostituting rogue mermaids. The supernatural now is the one needing saving. We need to build a town.”
I never thought my idea would become a reality. We built the town with werewolf super strength. Elves growing the lush forest surrounding the town. Many magic users enforce the protective barrier around the town. Fairy dust creating the new supernatural creature school. Vampires working through the night.
An entire town built in a month.
Creatures from every continent are seeking Haven. Different werewolf packs living in the fields. Pixies expand the space they have. The small village turns into a small, invisible city. The protective barrier keeps them safe.
Nestled in Peter’s embrace, not wanting to leave the bed, my ear to his chest listening to the calming heartbeat.
“You came home late last night. Where were you?”
Drinking, but I can’t say that. There’s a reason I use the werewolf blocking mist after drinking.
“Um. I was-”
“Hold your breath. I know where you've been and most nights this week. During the day as well.”
Peter drags him out of the bed. Clutching my arm in his grasp. A bitter chill hitting my bare chest and legs. The only thing hiding my dignity is the boxer pants. My nearest and dearest in the lounge. Seeing my nether regions.
Derek leaning against the wall. Cora sitting on the couch, a book in her hands. The title shouting ‘how to help an addict’. Henry staring straight into my soul. Concern glossed over his features.
I'm not an addict. Yes, I drink, but not an addict. I could stop drinking if I wanted to. Drinking dull the crippling heart busting guilt. Blood temporarily vanishes from the bloodbath on my hands. Allison death. The bomb I planted exploded, exploding Sheriff Deputies. Dead in seconds. Me being me led dad to drink. Disappointing every person I touch, including all the people in his lounge.
“You lied to me all those months ago. It wasn’t a one off. Darling, I want to help you. You are an alcoholic.”
Is this an intervention? They have got this all wrong. I’m a deer in headlights. Not knowing where to look, what to say. Silence is better than saying the wrong thing. Peter dragging me in front of our friends nearly buck naked, doesn’t their relationship mean anything to him?
“We are all here for you, Stiles. This can’t carry one. Your job carries high pressure. Stiles, you could come to us instead of drinking yourself to the grave.” said Henry.
What is Henry talking about? Drinking myself to the grave. Back when I cared about dad worried sick about his drinking habits. I don’t drink like Dad. Do I?
Peter gently cups my chin with his hands. “I love you. You need help. Sneaking about hiding bottles. Applying sensory mist blocker. You must know you have a problem. Just don’t want to admit to yourself.”
Have I been hiding it? The blocking mist bottle in the sock draw proves Peter’s point.
“I can’t stop drinking. Dulls the world around me. It’s not job stress, ok. Well, partly job guilt. Mostly heavy weight I carry from Beacon Hills. The nogitsune. All the shit after that. It’s everything. I just want everything to stop.”
Teardrops run down my cheeks. Peter hugs me, my face buried in the nook of his neck. Silent tears, turn to quiet cries, turn to sobbing. The water-logged dam breaks open. Tidal waves crashing over rocks, leaving destruction in its wake. Tearing down the walls around my heart. The tight lid on the bottled up emotions from years of pain and anguish. Overdue grieved tears finally freed.
“It's ok. Let it all out.”
“Stiles, we are all here for you. We will get you help,” said Cora.
Hugging Peter tighter, knuckles white. “I think I'm an alcoholic.”