Danse Macabre

This is not a story of honour. Despite their honourable characters and their good alignment, this is not a story of honour. There is no justice, no rewards and no salvation for those who were wronged, as is common with most things in this corrupt world.

All there is to this is learning that fact in the most agonizing, rigorous and tragic way.  

This is a path of twisting fate with a deathly tantalizing partner. 

This is the danse macabre. 

***

In the dead of night, barely standing leaning against a wall covered in year old peeling band posters in a dimly lit alley way, was a man. His eyes spoke of horrors and blood coated him in like a second skin. Tears hung on his long eyelashes, while the raindrops cling to the edge of his upturned nose. Moles scattered around a deathly pale face, ones that must’ve been beautiful in the daylight—but the darkness and the blood made them seem like fractures on his being.

With one look, it was easy to mistake him as a scorned demon. Maybe he was.

Gripping his torso to stop a gushing wound, he dragged himself forward. Because all he can do is move forwards. Even in pain, even drenched in the rain, even with no clear destination in mind—he wouldn’t stop moving, no, couldn’t stop.

Because he promised he would. 

And because if he stopped, he didn’t know if he would ever start moving again. 

If he did, the crushing and haunting sorrow that was biting at every inch of his nerves would devour him whole. 

So he bit the insides of his cheeks until he tasted the tangy-iron warmth of his blood. With a will that he thought he’d lost, he managed to stifle his cries from wrecking the entirety of his body.

He refused to close his eyes, because everytime he did, the images of his misery were burned into the back of his eyelids. 

His mind was a mess. The only thing keeping him going is his instincts, honed through years of experience. Nevertheless, his mind was a bloody mess. It was a storm of never-ending questions, those with answers he’ll probably never know. 

How the hell did this happen? Why did this happen? Why to them? Why to him? Why?

It was more than curiosity, it was desperation—for answers that will not come easy. Answers that might not even be the ones he was looking for. He could feel it in his bones, that his was going to be the longest road he would ever walk upon. That it was also going to be the hardest, and the most painful. 

But hell if that will stop him. He will walk down the dark treacherous path that he was thrown into. And he will reach the end. 

Or he’ll die trying. 

***

[ 13 hours earlier ]

***

His descent into hell started on a thursday afternoon. Nothing good ever happens on a thursday. Stiles’ mom died on a thursday, his father got killed on duty on a thursday, and now he too was going to lose everything on a thursday. But he didn’t know that. All he knew at that moment in time was that nothing good ever happens on a thursday. 

“Stiles.” A sweet voice disturbed him from his game, while long elegant fingers grappled the Switch from his hands. 

Stiles’ first reaction was to moan pathetically at the captivity of his game console, but as soon as he saw the stack of paperwork dropped on the table in front of him, he switched to a look of horror and denial. “No.” 

“Yes.” Lydia sat down opposite him with a coffee in one hand and a tablet tucked into her elbow. “Despite your unorthodox ways, you’re still required to fulfill at least document duties as your position as Team Leader.” 

Not many women knew how to control him, but she was always an exception to everything. Lydia Martin. A goddess to most, but a devil to those who knew her. After having known her for most of his life, he knew her better than anyone and could testify to the trauma he’s compiled solely because of her.

Groaning, Stiles smacked his head against the papers before turning side-ways onto his cheek and looking up at Lydia with puppy-eyes. “Why do we need to fill these out anyways—almost all our ops are off the books.” 

“Yes but there’s a reason why they’re ‘off the books’ and yet still receive massive amounts of resources—that’s by creating a fake op to fill into the books.” The woman set her tablet down and glared her leader into submission. “I don’t need to explain this to you, just do it and I’ll take care of the logistics.” 

He was tempted to argue the defeated purpose for naming such officially unsanctioned ops as ‘off the books’, but sighed as he was once again swayed into doing exactly what Lydia wants.

She’s got him wrapped around her pinky and she knows it. 

Evil. That woman is evil. Why he cares so deeply for the evil incarnate is beyond him. 

“Where’s Scott and Ally?” Stiles changed his tone into a more amicable one, stealing Lydia’s coffee as a childish revenge. 

Lydia rolled her eyes, scrolling through her StarkPad that monitored world news and statistics from the business and stock industry—truly, the woman was a force of nature. “Where else do you think? Probably somewhere frolicking, humping like rabbits in a backroom closet.” 

“God, Lyds, I didn’t need to know that much.” Stiles acted like he was repulsed, which he technically was but this was normal behaviour for the two lovebirds he’s gotten quite immune to hearing sickeningly cheesy and explicitly rated updates on the married couple. “Still, I can’t believe those two haven’t changed since they met in University—disgustingly in love with each other, stuck like glue even after their marriage. Doesn’t marriage normally diffuse the raging hormonal tendency of wanting to be with each other 24/7? Hence, the alarmingly high rate of divorce.”

The redhead pinned him with an accusatory look, narrowing her eyes whilst pointing her perfectly manicured finger at him. “You’re one to talk. You and Derek are no better than those two.” 

Stiles placed his hand on his heart, offended. “Excuse me, Derek and I know boundaries and we are professionals, we don’t frolic in the workplace.” 

Lydia scoffed, redirecting her attention to her StarkPad as she continues to entertain Stiles’ ridiculous assertion. “Need I remind you the multiple times I have walked into our locker-room and having my eyes burn at the sight of your bodies conjoined at the--” 

“Lydia Martin, we are in public , mind your volume!” Stiles cut her off before he loses his pride in the very public and very open common area of their base, silently looking at the snickering agents around them. 

“Funny you should say that, I’d have thought that you didn’t know what ‘public’ manners imply what with all your exhibitionism kink and voyeur adventures--”

“Jesus, Lydia.” Stiles buried his face in his hands, the tips of his ears blushing a furious shade of red. The increasing laughter and cat-calls from the agents around them was also decidedly not helping. “I’m sorry, okay? I don’t know what I did to deserve this but I’m sorry, so please just stop.” 

The genius smirked, winning their banter effortlessly like she always does. She looked at her watch with a passing gaze and then towards the elevators before pinning Stiles with an incomprehensibly smug look. 

Before he could ask, he was lifted off of his seat with two muscled arms before the perpetrator dropped him back down, but this time in the cradle of the man’s thick thighs. Instantly he felt a kiss press onto the side of his temple. 

“Hey. You’re awfully red today.” Derek hummed in amusement, enjoying the sight of his partner blushing like a virgin bridge. 

Lydia looked at him and the last 5 seconds with a pointed look, as if to prove she was right. Stiles sighed, surrendering to his embarrassing fate as he snuggled a hug into Derek’s chest. 

“You’re not helping,” He quietly whined to his lover, to which Derek gave a fond laugh at. 

Before Lydia could tease his head into popping like a cherry tomato, his saviour comes in the form of a fellow agent shouting his name. “Stiles! Fury sent for you!” 

“Duty calls.” 

***

Meetings with the Director was always a secret delight that Stiles enjoyed. Although he would kill himself before he would openly admit it to the overwhelmingly powerful man. None of them would admit it, but they were close—and not only in a boss-subordinate relationship, they just barely qualified into the realms of, dare he say it, friends. 

Which explains (or at least half, because the other half was Stiles’ utter shameless tendencies and disregard for polite niceties) his behaviour, as he waltzed into Nick Fury’s office with no knock, no announcement and no greetings, nothing. Stiles continually hummed a happy tune as he skipped around the office for a while. 

Shameless, yes, that was established already. 

“Stilinski.” Fury pinned him with an unimpressed blank stare, a quiet demand for him to get his ass on a chair left unsaid but still heard. 

“What have you got for us today, old man?” Stiles sat in a chair opposite the Director, kicking his feet up to rest on the desk. 

Seeing his normal antics, Fury simply knocked his foot off his pristine desktop with a file folder. “How many more times do I have to remind you not to sully my desk with your foot before I cut it off completely.” 

The man had a special talent for phrasing questions as threats—never a please or question mark in sight for this one-eyed man, no sir. 

“As many times as it takes for you to realize: that is never happening.” Stiles cheekily smiled without a care for his personal safety, because don’t get him wrong—Fury will cut his leg off, his threats are never just for show. It’s just that he knows he’s indispensable to the agency, thus why the old bastard would never decapitate his limb unless he can find a replacement better than Stiles.

Which—and not to be tooting his own horn—would be damn near impossible to do. Toot -that fucking -Toot.

Fury slid the inconspicuous brown file folder across the table with his hand still pressing against one side of it. 

Stiles made a move to grab the folder, only to find that it’s not budging under the weight of the Director’s hand. He raised an eyebrow at the man, only to find him staring straight at him with an unreadable expression. 

“Uh, sir?” He tried tapping his fingers on the folder to signal for the other man to let it go. “Sir, I kind of need to see the briefing folder in order for this to be a briefing.” 

Still holding back on his words, Fury closed his eyes and let the file go causing Stiles to slightly jerk back from the loss of tension.

That was the first red flag.

When he opened the file, he knew why Fury was reluctant to hand it to him. “What the hell is this?” 

With no emotion in his voice, or any sort of inclination, Fury replied. “Your next mission.”

“No, this is a blank page.” Stiles flipped through it before slapping the three-page document back on the table.

“It’s not blank.” The Director glared at the paper rudely slammed in front of him, obviously pointing out that indeed the paper wasn’t blank—it was quite the opposite, really: the paper was riddled with huge black redacted rectangular lines almost across entire pages.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles tilted his eyes judgmentally. “Everything’s censored, except for the location, time, description and a sad excuse of a context.” Seeing that Fury wasn’t going to respond, Stiles dropped all formalities—not like he had much in the first place. “Sir, that’s a blind mission.”

“It’s your next mission.” Even with one eye, Fury’s glare held the strength of a thousand. “You’ll be taking this mission in partnership with two level 6 agents and 4 agents of the CIA.” 

Stiles scoffed so hard he thought his lungs was going to come out with it. “First, no one would be stupid enough to take this mission, certainly not me. And second, I refuse to work alongside solo agents, let alone black-tied stiflers with sticks up their asses.” Stiles crossed his arms. “I’m not taking it.” 

“You are, and that’s final.” The man closed his eyes like Stiles was physically giving him a headache—which he technically always does—and deadpanned him with a stronger resolve. “That’s an order.” 

This was getting ridiculous. If Fury thought there was a chance in hell he was taking this mission, he’s gonna poke out his other eyeball, see if he’s all intimidating then. “Since when have I cared for your orders?” 

To be fair, he was right and Fury knows it. Stiles is a part of the rarest group of people who has the capability and nerve of ignoring Fury’s commands and doing whatever he wants, of course within reason. And oh, boy , does Fury know it. “I’m your Director, orders are what I give you.”

Stiles saw right through his bluff, giving him a disappointed eyebrow tilt at that sad attempt of a threat. He saw no end of this discussion because the two of them were as stubborn as they come. So he tried a different approach.

“I don’t get it.” Stiles fixed his posture and lost all of his playful quirk, his eyebrows settling into a focused frown. “You hate being in the blind, even more than I do. You’re so meticulous you have backup plans of your backup plans and entire documents of supplementary info on top of more unnecessary details that you memorize back to front.” 

Stiles felt shivers down his spine from the traumatic experience of reading three huge binders worth of airplane security, signal, code and regulations for a one-hour in-and-out mission—how entirely unnecessary and an absolute waste of time that had been. He shook his head and bore into Fury’s gaze with a concerned look. “You wouldn’t in your right mind take this mission let alone give it to anyone.” 

“Which is why I need you to take it.” Fury gritted those words out as if it pained him. Which, again, weird.

As a matter of fact, this whole exchange was weird. And not at all enjoyable, contrary to his previous sentiment.

When the Director saw that he wasn’t about to reply, he dropped his unfazed cold wall of solidarity that is his default expression and let a little bit of vulnerability slip through. “Stiles, you’re the only one who can do this.”

“Really?” Stiles rolled his eyes, even though his change in behaviour shook him right through his core. “I can think of three other STRIKE teams that are better suited to do this off the top of my head.”

Even though this technically counted as Fury begging—and he never begs, ever—there was still no way in hell he would take this mission. He wasn’t a solo agent, he was a team leader. He has the responsibility of four lives on his shoulders. They may be the famous DELTA STRIKE team, the most formidable and effective STRIKE team with the highest success rate—but they were still human, susceptible to death of any kind. 

So, no, Fury can get down on his knees and offer him a million riches and he still wouldn’t take this mission. Nothing can break that—

“But you’re the only one I trust.”

—resolve. Well, fuck . That wasn’t fair. 

Fury was never one to show any sort of emotions. Not only was all of this extremely freaky, weird and unprecedented—Stiles couldn’t deny the warmth spreading over the pit of his stomach, ticklish and radiant. 

Someday he’s going to stop listening and bending to this sneaky man’s will, but that day is unfortunately not today. 

Sighing, Stiles took the file back from the desk, flipping it shut and standing up from his seat. “I don’t like this.” He grumbled before leaving. 

Before he could shut the door on his way back, Fury called his name so suddenly, almost as if it slipped after a great force of holding it back.

“Stiles.”

He turned back with a confused frown, looking at the ever so blank furious wall of a man. 

“Good Luck.”

Considering he never said that before, Stiles’ stomach backflipped. How reassuring. 

***

From the beginning, everything was odd. You would think that given what they do they would be used to odd situations, but that wasn’t the case. They were a special STRIKE team in the way that they could handle all kinds of situations thrown at them, but they would never go into a mission blind. That’s just idiotic. Stiles would’ve never taken a mission like that, and until recently he thought Fury wouldn’t have given him a mission like that either. 

But life’s a bitch like that—you never really know anything, do you. 

That night as he geared up he had the unmistakable feeling of dread pooling in his guts. There were only three occasions where he had felt dread like that before and each time had nearly cost him his life. Each time he had an inkling of what was causing his stomach to drop, but this time he’s completely in the dark.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Stiles felt a pair of huge warm hands grounding him, massaging the kinks in his neck as they slowly slithered down his back and across his waist to hold him tight.

He tilted his head back to drown in the pools of green and brown swirling in Derek’s eyes, smiling softly as he felt it calming him down. “Nothing. Nothing, I’m probably just overthinking it.” 

“And?” Derek prodded further as he helped Stiles fasten his under-arm holster, simultaneously trapping him in his close embrace. 

Derek had always thought that Stiles’ ‘overthinking’ was a necessary thought process, it wasn’t something that was unneeded and something to be shrugged off so casually. To him, Stiles’ paranoid-like tendencies was a valued asset.

That’s just one of the many reasons why he’s madly in love with the brunette. 

“I honestly don’t know. Something’s wrong, Derek. I can feel it.” He snuggled his face further into his lover’s neck, breathing that comforting scent in. “I don’t know how I know but, it scares me.“

Derek hummed, rubbing Stiles’ arms in a comforting gesture whilst peppering his forehead with kisses. “We’ll be fine, like we always are.”

Derek had the special talent of calming down the constant buzzing behind Stiles’ mind, drowning it out into a soft hum, reassuring every one of his fears with a steady disposition of his presence. But this time, his words had no effect. 

That was how he knew something was terribly wrong. 

“Mom, Dad, what did we talk about touching in the locker-room.” Scott rolled his eyes, his tone exaggeratedly mocking them. “We don’t need another sibling.” 

Allison’s laugh rang like a sweet melody, dispersing Stiles’ sour brooding mood. “As much as I’d love a little brother, you have to wait, Stiles.” 

Scott shared a small kid-like giggle with the love of his life, as if they were kept in a secret world of their own. 

Lydia looked at them with fond exasperation, berating them. “There are faster ways to kill me if that’s what you’re trying to do from all this cheesy ridiculousness. Get your ass off each other and let’s go already, we have to meet up with the twigs from CIA.”

“Don’t remind me.” Scott grumbled, reaching for Allison and hugging her for comfort. “The last time I had to deal with those butt-faces I got stuck in a Libyan prison for a week.”

Stiles winced, remembering their chaotic jail-break to rescue Scott (ironic how breaking people out of jail, who was there for breaking the law, needed a lot more law breaking than what had initially put them into jail). “To be fair, that was partially your fault.”

“How was I supposed to know they can’t work a standard revolver and shotgun? That’s a prerequisite for being a field agent!” Groaning, he held his wife a little tighter, half out of frustration and the other half because he loved the way she felt in his hands. 

“Here, in SHIELD, yes.” Stiles laughed at Scott’s writhing, behind him Derek was rolling his eyes at his mischief. “Not sure what they do in other agencies—maybe an IQ test or an open-call audition, hell if I know.”

Lydia smacked all of them behind their heads with her tablet, walking out regally like the Queen she was. “Knock it off. I’ll meet you down in 5.” 

Stiles faked a pained cry at her actions, immediately looking at Derek with a teary expression. The older man huffed in fond exasperation and held his lover’s dramatic face in his hands before pulling him close and kissing him on his head, like a soft prayer or medicine. 

Whatever this feeling was, whatever it was warning him of—it doesn’t matter. He’ll protect his family. No matter what.

***

The mission that brought about the downfall of his future wasn’t a particularly dangerous one—it was quite a deceptively simple extraction. Someone had stolen something and they were tasked to retrieve it safely and discreetly. They had no real idea what they were supposed to take back—the only description they’ve got is a case. A highly equipped case. 

Encasing what? Fuck knows. 

The child’s rendition of a report they had as a mission file said barely anything about the object they had to retrieve or the case. Just that the case was password locked and biometric scan restricted, and that the object was a document of some sort that could never be released into public. National security at stake or some bullshit reason like that.

Stiles was sure as hell curious and wary of it. He looked to his right, the four CIA agents accompanying them chatting to each other in hushed voices. To his left was Agent Ward and Ryder, the level 6 agents joining them on this mission. It didn’t really help that he hated Ward’s guts with an infinite passion. Something about that guy just creeps him out.

I don’t like this. Not a single bit. Stiles bit his lips as he turned his comms on. “Lyds, can you hear me?”

They were staked out at a warehouse—an intel told them an exchange of the stolen item would be made in about an hour and they’re scouting the place in advance. 

“Loud and clear. Where are you?”  

Stiles looked around and sighed in a whisper. “Stuck with two dumbs and four dumbers.” Scott snickered behind him. “We’re stationing ourselves behind a few crates and storage boxes. You?”

“Opposite building, 3rd floor, we’ve got a clear view into the warehouse’s wall windows.” There was clicking sounds over the earpiece, indicating the woman was setting her sniper into place. 

“Is that Martin?” 

Stiles snapped his head up to the sound of Agent Grant Ward’s voice. “Yeah, she found a location.” 

“Argent’s with her right? Tell her to come here, I’ll take her post.” The slick man drew his gun and left to do as he announced. This was exactly why he hated the man—he was overly commanding with no regards of anyone else’s respect, and with no right to. 

But somehow he always seemed to get everything he wanted. Allison came to them with an annoyed tick at her eyebrow, which was promptly soothed by her husband. 

That feeling gnawing at his nerves stewed and grew by the second as he watched his team split up even further. Derek and Allison were now stationed on the back side of the warehouse with three CIA agents, whilst he and Scott were joined by one CIA operative and Agent Ryder at the forefront. 

Everytime he looked down at his watch, it was as if his stomach was going to explode. Like a voice was telling him, at the back of his mind, that it was any second now. Any second now—and what? He didn’t know what it was counting down to.

“Movement spotted, a truck pulling in with one driver, front entry, your side Stiles.” Lydia reported into his ear. “Another car at 6’oclock, near Derek, three men.” 

“Copy that.” 

He was ready for the ball to drop—for an accident to happen or for all hell to break loose. But surprisingly, it didn’t. Well, that would be a generous statement, given that now he was in the midst of a shoot-out to secure the case. They had waited until both parties got out of their vehicles and Stiles wanted to wait even further to listen in on the deal, to get any clue whatsoever. But hot-headed Ward gave an attack command, and by then the shoot-out had already begun. 

Stiles doesn’t like the guy, sure, but he wasn’t about to leave him without back-up in a gunfight. He didn’t want an agent to die under his watch, even if it was the slimy Grant Ward. 

Maybe his instincts were wrong? It doesn’t seem like they would fail—given that they outnumbered their enemies. 

Shaking his head, Stiles hopped onto the semi-trailer attached to the truck. When he saw the case, he closed the door behind him. He blinked a few times, feeling as if he was in a prank. 

The object of their mission was placed on a pedestal-like structure.

Stiles grabbed the suitcase with extreme caution. It was absurd. Half of him was expecting some Indiana-Jones like sequence to roll, but nothing happened other than the ring of gunshots outside of the semi-trailer. 

This was too easy, wasn’t it? 

With the suitcase safely in his hands, he glanced over his shoulder to hear that everyone was preoccupied with fighting off the guards. Stiles chewed his lips, knowing what he was about to do was breaking about 100 protocols and then some—but his instincts told him to do it anyways. 

And if there’s something Stiles trusts unconditionally in this world, other than his team, it’s his instincts. 

Plus, it’s not like he was such a stickler for rules, ever. 

So this was more of an expected behaviour. Look, if they didn’t want Stiles to find out about whatever this mysterious document he was supposed to receive was, they shouldn’t have put him on the case. 

Doing what he does, and having to listen to Lydia rant about her extensive knowledge on technology—Stiles has a general idea about what something does just by the outlook and built of the item, more than your average person. 

This case. Well, this case was a bit of an overkill, is what it is. On top of the code and bio-scan security, this case was equipped to handle shock-waves and bio- and radio-contamination by the built of it. If it’s only protecting a measly document, no matter how important it may be, it was still just a paper document. Then, why the extra measures?

Unless, it’s not a document.

Making up his mind, he pulled out a gadget designed by Lydia to override code and bio-scan security tech. He’d brought it just as a precaution. And a damn good precaution it was, because as soon as Stiles unlocked the case, he was right about everything. 

Inside was no document, but something more troubling lay in its place. 

His gut churned. He hates being right. 

Stiles made a split second decision—and that, surprisingly, ended up being his only saving grace.

***

The shoot-out was long over and done when Stiles got out of the semi-trailer, waving the case to his team. “Got it.”

He made a move to join his team, when one of the CIA agents blocked his way with his hand outstretched. “Good work. We’ll take it from here.” 

Stiles raised his eyebrows as the agent gestured for the case. “No, I think I got it. Thanks for the concern.” 

Everyone could feel the tension rising, without knowing why, as the agent stood his ground and openly glared. “Give me the case, Agent Stilinski.”

“You may be assigned to it, but this is still my op.” Stiles put his foot down on authority, shielding the case. “The case stays with me—if you’ve got an objection, then feel free to try and take it.”

He wasn’t expecting the man to actually try—well, he did just goad him—but he was fast to dodge. Derek pinned the agent down, as Scott and Allison raised their weapons at the remaining CIA operatives. 

So this was what his gut feeling was warning him about , Stiles sighed in relief. They were assigned a team of moles. This wasn’t as bad of a predicament he thought it’d be, now that he’s got the case and everything was—

A gunshot rang through his thoughts and a pained shout followed straight after. His mind snapped to the source of the shout, Scott. He was clutching his right shoulder, blood staining his uniform. Then he looked to the source of the attack. 

Agent Ryder. 

They weren’t working alone . Shit. 

Allison was about to kill the agent for hurting her husband but stopped at the warning of another bullet shot into the ceiling. 

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” Agent Ward walked in with Lydia in his capture. The woman had a head wound and ropes binding her hands, her face was a picture of fury. He scoffed at her attempts, head signalling at the CIA agents on the ground. “Let them go.”

“Lydia!” Derek shouted, his gun aimed at their new enemy. “Let her go, Ward.” 

The agent replied to the hostility by pressing his own gun against Lydia’s head. “Sure, after Stilinski hands over the case.” 

Lydia snarled at her captor, unflinching against the threat on her life. “Stiles, I swear, if you give him the case I will castrate you.”

Everyone stood still on their team, shocked at the unprecedented trouble. Stiles cursed every god he could think of. 

“I always knew you were a slimy bastard. Especially with that hair, how could you not be?” Running out of ideas, one without risking Lydia’s life and prolonging Scott’s treatment, Stiles bit his lips but begrudgingly handed the case over. 

Ward pushed Lydia from his grasps into Stiles’ empty arms, the woman slapping him as hard as she can. Well, that was as affectionate of a ‘thankyou’ he’s going to get from her. 

“You idiot.” She murmured into his arms. 

Granted, they’ve got Lydia back, but they weren’t out of the woods just yet. On the contrary, they were in more danger than before. Because before, they had leverage. And now, they had nothing. 

No amount of poker faces could hide that fact, and their anxiety. 

Agent Ward chuckled. “Oh, wow. You all look so pathetic right now, I can’t. Let’s get this over with.” 

Once again they were met at gunpoint, all 6 of them had a target—Stiles having Ward’s and Ryder’s pointed at his head. It was an honour, really.

Still, he wasn’t convinced they had met their fate, since he knew they wouldn’t pull the trigger. For one very simple reason: they wouldn’t dare to. 

“Well, tough luck, jackass, you got partnered with the wrong team. Don’t you know who we are?” Stiles forced a show of unwavering ying confidence, a very natural and cocky one. “We’re infamous in this world. If we were taken out, no one in their right mind would believe it was an accident.” 

The smirk that split the senior agent’s smile was one that Stiles wasn’t expecting. Even less, he didn’t expect Ward—that crazy bastard—would turn his gun to the CIA Agents and shoot all four of them point blank.

Stiles noted that those agents were as shocked as he was, as their eyes widened minutely in fear and surprise before they fell in a heap of blood.

“What—the fuck.” Scott grunted, slowly feeling the impact of blood loss as he kneeled on the ground. 

Weren’t they working together? What the hell was going on?! Stiles’ mind spun, and he could see Derek itching to get closer to him without setting of a trigger-happy reaction from the sick maniac.

Ryder rolled his eyes and huffed a loud breath. “God, they’re so stuck up, it was painful watching them think they have the upper hand.”

“Do you seriously think you can hide this from HQ?” Stiles shouted in outrage. “They won’t stop until they hunt you down.” 

Ward laughed at his antics, making a cooing noise. “Oh no. He’s so confused.” He clicked his tongue. “But what to do? I think they’d be far too busy hunting you down.” 

Stiles was about to spit a backfiring question until he took a second look at the gun in Ward’s hand. It was his gun. Not his usual gun because he had that one in his hands, but it was his back-up SHIELD issued gun that he rarely used. His brain was reeling because that shouldn’t be possible—his back-up gun had always been stored securely inside the weapons facility inside of SHIELD. 

—And that’s when everything started falling into place. 

These guys weren’t worried about the repercussions at all. Because they had someone on the inside. They planned it all out. They were painting this as a betrayal. Not from them, but from Stiles. 

That’s not even the worst part. The realization dawned on him like a final calling, the dread that was slowly boiling in the pit of his stomach erupted in an overwhelming force. 

These people are actually going to kill them. All of them. 

As soon as everything became crystal clear, Stiles made a move to aim his gun and shout a retreating order to his team but it was all too late. 

The first gunshot fired right into Scott’s chest, taking advantage of the fact that he’s immobilized on the ground. The horrid scream of pain and anguish that followed shortly after ripped itself from Allison’s lips—a noise that Stiles would never be able to erase from his memory. 

He retaliated with a flurry of bullets of his own, providing cover as he saw Derek try and wrench Allison’s protective stance over Scott’s lifeless body. Somewhere beside him, he could hear Lydia’s tattle-tale rounds of her revolver bullets fly with rage and aimed precision. 

Stiles knew that his team was the best of the best when it comes to abilities and success-rate. He trusts his team with his life. They’ve managed to escape the impossible, danced an ultimate tango with Death and played pranks knocking on his door, but each time they would come out unscathed. Yet still, that gut-quenching fear and dread kept sending chills down his spine. 

Eventually, like most things, luck runs out and everything must come to an end. 

Even with Derek holding her back, Allison still managed to slip away and rush back to Scott’s body, holding him in her arms as rivers stained her cheeks. She was saying something, something illegible to his ears, to Scott. And she was smiling through her pain. 

Scott and Allison were the kind of couple that just made sense. They had a kind of love that movies were written for and songs were serenading of. Watching them was like watching true love unfold right before your eyes. It wasn’t perfect—but it was as close as it can get. 

They were inseparable. They couldn’t live without each other. 

So it wasn’t a surprise to anyone when Allison sat there, in the middle of the crossfire, holding Scott tightly as she accepted her fate and took a bullet to her skull. 

Everything happened so fast. Lightning fast, as muzzle flashes blinded him one after another, bullets whizzing through so close he could hear it, grazing his cheek with a straight cut.

A bullet struck him on his midriff, choking a gasp out of him. Stiles’ eyes burned with the explosion of his tear ducts—in pain, in sadness, in anger, everything blended into one. 

Derek gathered the man into his arms and started dragging him away to safety. They’ve managed to kill all four of the CIA agents and heavily injured Ryder. 

Lydia shouted at him, her face a mess of tears and angry lines. “Derek, take Stiles and go!” 

“No! Lydia!” Stiles struggled in Derek’s arms, seeing Ward run behind her and stabbed her straight through her stomach. 

He heard Derek whimper behind bim but it didn’t take away from his strength in pulling the younger man away.

“Derek! Let me go!” Stiles ignored the pain in his midriff as he thrashed around whilst being bodily dragged out of the warehouse. He saw the woman fighting with her last breath, managing to shoot two bullets into Ward’s right leg. “Lydia!”

The sight of Lydia shouting his name to go whilst crumpled on the floor in a pool of her blood was the last thing he saw before Derek hauled him out completely. 

***

Stiles could hear his heart beating, loudly, clearly. Despite all the gunshots and rifle rounds firing behind him, hitting the pavement, clashing againsts lampposts, shattering bulbs—the loudest and clearest thing he heard was his own heartbeat. 

There was another team stationed outside as Stiles and Derek made their escape on a stolen motorbike. They prepared a back-up cavalry, just in case the two teams inside failed. 

They must really want all of them dead. 

Tears were streaming down his face, mixing in with the blood and sweat. He could feel it sting on the cut against his cheek and his split lip. He felt the pain of his ruptured muscles and insides as it moved against the bullet embedded deep in one of his pecs. 

But all he could focus on was the flashes of screams and blood-splattered images of Scott, Lydia, Allison, Scott, Lydia, Allison, SCOTT, LYDIA, ALLI—

“Stiles!” Derek shouted behind him, eyes caught in the headlights of the oncoming vehicle. Relying on his instincts, Stiles braked as he slammed his foot on the ground, ignoring the drag of pavement on his boots and forced his bike to a 180 rapid turn with his foot as a pivot before driving full speed at a splitting road. 

Derek kept his hold on Stiles’ waist as his body was inclined backwards, gun in one hand, firing back at the men chasing them down.

What more could the world take from him? Not only was the rug was pulled under him, he was also sinking into the ground in an unforgiving manner. 

“Stiles, promise me. You’ll keep going. Survive, for me, please.” Derek begged, his voice unnaturally scared in its wavering. “You have to.” 

He was confused, but he felt the desperation in his begging and thus found it hard to do anything but exactly what he asked of him. “On my soul, I swear I won’t let their deaths be unanswered.” Stiles revved the bike faster, taking a hard right turn on the intersection. “We’ll find whoever did this, and I will kill them.” 

Maybe it was just his imagination, but Derek was getting heavier on his back.

“Yeah.” Came the content reply, so glaringly soft and hushed. “I’m so glad it’s you. Thank God, it’s you.” 

For what felt like ages, which in reality was just a few seconds, Derek kept murmuring those words. Mouthing it behind his ears, pressing his face into the crook of his neck, kissing his nape. In contrast to the chaos following behind them, the reckless style of his driving and dodging the rain of bullets, the act was soft and gentle and precarious. Fragile. 

And so, so heartbreaking. 

But fate willed his heart had not break enough, just yet.

“I’m sorry.” 

Stiles bit the inside of his cheeks as he swerved to avoid a near hit on the tire, his hands revving the motorcycle to go even faster under the weight of two people.

“Don’t say that, Der.” Stiles gurgled as he tried to choke back a cry, adrenaline rushing in his veins. 

It was then that his mind realized that Derek had stopped shooting at their chaser. They were out of bullets. 

Fuck .

But that wasn’t all.

“I’m so sorry you have to do it alone.” Derek cried against his neck.

Stiles blinked. “What?”

With the most tender kiss, and the softest of hug, Derek murmured into his ear, three words he’s said a million times before but not with the weight that this one held—not with the scar it left deep within Stiles’ heart.

He felt the grip across his stomach weaken. He felt as the hands slid away across his sides, the fingers betraying the action as they tried to hold on to little cusps of fabric. 

Before Stiles could process what was going on, he looked down and saw blood prints on his uniform, not from his own blood but from Derek’s. 

His brain crashed, his heart lurched and his back felt free from the warmth—as Derek slipped away from the bike. 

“DEREK!” 

Stiles couldn’t even see his body crash against the harsh gravel pavement, his eyes only momentarily registering the movement before he had to turn his head back to the road when a loud blaring truck honk jostled him.

He swerved, barely avoiding the truck speeding down the lane, and with a broken heart and an overwhelming strength, he drove on and kept going.

He promised. 

He promised. 

Because he promised he would.