home is where the heart is
___
THE HALLS WERE EERILY QUIET as Paxton made her way through them. The silence bounced from the walls to the metal lockers lining them, ringing with a noise similar to waves crashing from a distance. Though she'd love to bask in the tranquility of it, her endless stream of thoughts have other plans.
Stiles waits for her further inside, but even his stretched comfort doesn't help her. She still feels secluded and alone. There's not a soul in sight. It brought a chill to her skin; the idea that if anyone had followed her—anyone like her mother—that she might die alone in the quiet and still air of the school.
She stretches her neck to alleviate the soreness of constantly keeping her chin pressed to her collarbone. Her soft skin rubs against the fragile bruise surfaced around her throat. It reminded her why she had been staring at her feet for so long, and why her spine aches because of it. It was done with the purpose of ignoring her reflection. Afraid of what she might see staring back at her. Even now, comforted with the unnerving silence suffocating the halls, she keeps her wandering eyes away from any glass that might reflect the horror of her appearance.
The music room is buried deep within the building, hidden in the furthest corner away from the entrance, and tucked behind the locker rooms and coaches offices. A place only band members go, or the students who simply needed an art credit. Some consider it 'No Man's Land' as most students refuse to venture that far—or that close to the entrance of the basement. Some say the basement is haunted, that a creature or demon call the foggy underbelly of the school its home. The story came about after the attack that occurred months ago, and though it's just an innocent rumor, Paxton always mumbled a string of angered incoherent words for those who talked of the subject near her. The students' silly story might've been just that; a story, but Paxton still wears an irreversible scar on her leg to prove that it rings with an unspoken truth.
The lights were off throughout the school, adding to the fright of the stories spread about the lonely music hall. The only light to seep into the darkness comes from a faraway exit behind Paxton. A dim orange light of the setting sun flares through the panel of glass cut into the door, reluctantly guiding Paxton to the place Stiles said she'd find him in.
He left little to no details in his texts, just a simple, 'come quick,' and, 'found massive discovery.' There was a long pause after his last text before he sent, 'hope you're safe and the reason you're not responding isn't because derek killed you.'
How sweet.
Her wary gaze examines the hall he said he'd be in. When he's nowhere to be seen, she calls for him with a careful whisper. He doesn't respond—and passes up the chance to jump out and surprise her with a heart attack—so she lets out a muffled sigh to cover up her slight worry, and disregarded frustration, before walking further toward the music room's door.
"Can I get a copy of this?" a voice said, shocking her from behind the door. But not just any voice, it belonged to Deaton—a man she had never seen stray from the front desk of the vet clinic.
It caught her by surprise, not because she's never seen him out and about, but because the concern she had suddenly became more apparent as it tangles around the 'massive discovery' Stiles had texted her about. The discovery must be connected to the sacrifices and that meant whatever it is, is frightening enough to warrant Deaton following Stiles to the school.
"Hey, Doc? Any help would be, uh, you know, helpful," Stiles said, lifting his head up from the drawers his focused eyes had been searching.
Frantically, his hands dig through a mess of papers belonging to Mr. Felch—the music teacher who's desk Stiles had been rummaging through without care—a man who had suddenly disappeared before his last period class and hadn't been seen since.
When Stiles and Paxton had parted ways, he had gone to Deaton for help with the things they couldn't understand, and when Deaton shared his wisdom, Stiles could only hope Paxton had been as lucky as he were.
If only she had luck by her side, maybe she wouldn't have witnessed her mother betray her—not that there was much relationship to betray—or maybe, she wouldn't be covered head-to-toe in blood belonging to man who did what he thought would help, leaving her to witness his near-death experience.
At least Stiles had gotten lucky, or he was until he received a call from Lydia. Her voice had been shaking so badly that he couldn't understand much of what she had breathlessly rambled out. He could only piece together a spill of words, 'Paxton didn't answer... I don't know what to do,' which was enough to send him flying out of the vet clinic and to the school where Lydia said she was right before he hung up.
He made the strenuous trek to the other side of town quick with his impatient driving to bend time. He drove in the quietness of the Jeep, his desperate thoughts seeking Paxton despite the trouble that had fallen onto his lap the moment Lydia called. Perhaps it was their CD playing quietly that reminded him of her, or maybe it's how Lydia said, 'Paxton didn't answer.'
The sentence replayed in his head like a broken record. Scratching the surface of his aching mind. He wondered if she were hurt, if he should call her. He wanted to tell her of all his findings, to be excited about discovering something and share that feeling with her. But how could he when all he can think about is if she's hurt?
He didn't want to be clingy either, though the life they've led validates checking in on each other, but after their conversation earlier that day—where he had panicked about the sacrifices and the meaning of their relationship—he's afraid to push her away. To scare her into the corner she uses for protection when things become too real. They're complicated, never giving themselves enough credit when they have nothing to worry about. Even after that conversation hours ago, and the many things that happened between then, they're all the other could think about.
It's a strange stretch of time; when they're apart. It feels like an eternity had been spent, that the planet's axis spins more slowly when they're not together. And it complicated things, emotions mainly.
In spite of the complications, they could always feel a pull on their body's when the other is nearby, as if an invisible rope had been connected between them, pulling like a magnet when in proximity.
Stiles groaned, giving up on his search for clues. He shuts the metal drawer of the desk with force as he falls to the floor. There his mind went back to comfort. He glanced up to the clock above Deaton and Lydia as the two converse in whispers about the missing teacher. "Paxton," he mumbled under his breath before jumping to his feet.
Hearing the faint rasp of his sarcastic tone as Stiles asked Deaton for help, Paxton caught herself smiling. She lowers her blushed face, concealing her rosy cheeks despite a door blocking anyone's view of her. Her eyes fall to her hand hovering above the door's handle.
Like her eyes, her smile falls as well, a frown weighing it down. Derek's blood had dried into every minuscule line and crack of her hand. She examines it, frightened by it, remembering the reason she had dared not to look at her reflection on her way here. She must look insane. Her shaking hand turns over, revealing an even more stained palm. Traces of rust is glued down by the crimson blood.
She closes her eyes, composing herself as best she could before wiping her hands against the harsh denim of her jeans. The quick drag against the material throbs against her raw skin, but she fights the pain until the blood couldn't be traced. Feeling as controlled as she could, she finally reaches for the door handle.
But it opens before she could touch the cold metal of the handle.
Stiles swings open the door, stopping it abruptly with his hand pressed to the wood before it could hit the wall beside them. His puzzled brows furrow down on the girl who's hand still lingers where the handle would be. Her drying mouth parts, hanging open as her wide gaze slowly travels up his chest, and to his enchanting eyes.
There was a pause of movement, of breathing, of time, and suddenly they were the only two in the room.
His fingers glide up her cheek, brushing the stray hairs away from her puffed eyes. A stab in his heart once he understood she had been crying. His nose flared slightly as if he might cry too just at the sight of her. His hand rests against her cheek, thumb brushing her skin.
She melted into his hold, closing her eyes for the first time in what feels like forever. Her neck crooked into his hand, giving him a view of her damaged skin. She could feel it, his worrisome stare as he cautiously glances down her body. Her eyes flicker open, a clean hand finding his, she pushes out of his hold while ignoring the way his mouth parts into a perfect circle, or how his forehead wrinkled with the weight of worry.
It was coming together, his own personal theory of her. She didn't answer Lydia's calls, nor his texts, and here she was, drenched in caky blood and eyes puffed like fresh dough.
His concentration never leaves her neck as she looks past him, glancing across the room. "Lydia?" she said breathlessly, like she had been punched in the gut. Her eyes move to Deaton, questioning his reason for being in the room as well.
She wondered if Lydia had discovered another body like last time, and maybe that's why Deaton followed Stiles.
"Paxton," Lydia smiled, though the expression only lasts a second before souring. Her concern is carefully hidden behind a false smile as her uncomfortably widened eyes trails to the parts of Paxton that she could notice behind Stiles' frame. Paxton's bloodied shoelaces, the matted hair over her shoulder that's dipped in a dried maroon substance, similar to her shoelaces.
Stiles stares down to the girl in front of him who seems to be unaware of what she looks like. It's as if she were tied to a string and plunged into a vat of red wax like a candle would be. He stood frozen, lost in her face, or more, her throat.
"Your— your neck," he mumbled out, sharing her same breathlessness. His hand pulls from her face, a crooked finger pointing softly to the red markings along her neck that seems to outline what looks to be a hand, or what will be in a few hours once the bruise settles.
Her brows pull together, twitching with a wave of sadness and pain. She reaches the tips of her fingers out for the raw skin, where a necklace would lay against her collarbone, brushing so delicately that bumps prick her arms with a chill. Out of control of herself, her body squirms with the memory of being choked by someone she could never be stronger than.
Suddenly she and Stiles were no longer the only ones in the room, and the dreamy bubble spread its opaqueness around the others. Everyone's attention falls onto her like a spotlight, blinding her with its beaming light. Studying her reddening neck, and the blood staining her clothes. Staring at what she had refused to see for herself. It felt judgmental, but she knows it's not that way. It's concern and wonder, but most of all, terror.
The walls were closing in around her, she began to feel small in the rather large room. Her mouth parts, needing to change the subject, but nothing comes out. Her eyes fall to the floor while her mind struggles with its blankness. She almost dared to find a way to look at herself, sneak a peak at a nearby mirror or the glass of a picture frame, just so she could see herself the way they did. But she couldn't bring herself to do it, she didn't want to see what she had been so afraid to find on others. She wonders if it were a sign, an omen of sorts.
Stiles' perfect nose points over his shoulder, his eyes turning to Lydia and Deaton behind him, saying everything his dry mouth couldn't. While he silently excuses himself and Paxton from the room, Paxton meticulously tries to cover her eyesore of a bruise by tugging on the neckline of her shirt.
His hand slips from it's careful placement against her cheek, falling to her arm. His other finding the small of her back to spin her around and guide her into the hall she had still been standing on the brim of, and as he shuts the door behind them, she pushes out his hold completely.
"Stiles, I'm fine," she protested, despite there not being much of a fight to argue against. He hasn't said anything, but she knows what his thoughts are spewing.
He laughed wryly, dry and monotonous, much like the sentence that spills from his mouth next. "You are literally covered in blood."
He didn't feed into the lie she told herself, that she could ignore the obvious pain she endured and pretend it doesn't exist.
His eyes full of worry, they lower to spot she had hidden under the cotton collar of her shirt, the shirt she borrowed from him. It was her realization of the fact that made his expression ease.
"How did that happen? Were you hurt?" he asked, eyes pointing to her neck.
"No, I fell," she stated plainly, her eyes rolling before staring up to him through her stiffened brows. "I'm not hurt," she added quickly.
There was a pause, a moment of serenity as time slowed around them. And then she smiled. Slow and steady before her lips pulled slightly, and her nose scrunched to reveal her teeth.
Her eyes light up with a quick idea. She jumped up and down, spun around, then lightly punched herself in the arm. "See? I'm not hurt."
He couldn't share her enthusiasm, couldn't even feel sick with the contagious smile she wore. He sighed her name, "Paxton," though, it sounded more like a plea.
His brows push together while he tries to find a tell in her expression. One that might say that she needed to talk about it.
Her eyes are puffed, lips swollen as well. The mark on her neck slows into a purple color, mixing with the fleshy red. And it's hard to ignore the pour of blood that soaked into her clothes. It hardens into her jeans, stopping at her lap. Into her sleeves, but not past her elbows. Even the laces of her worn-out Converses are stained. Telling him the story she couldn't say aloud, that she had sat on her knees in a puddle of blood, struggling with someone who had bled out.
"Was it another sacrifice?" she asked, glancing to the door behind them.
His lips pull into a sad line as his eyes sink away from her and to the floor.
"Did you find anything about Kyle? Did you ask Deaton about it?" she persisted on changing the subject.
He rubs a hand over his face, pulling against his skin until the hand brushes through his hair. He had a choice; ignore her persistence and push her into talking, or tend to her discomfort—while ignoring his own—and move onto the next subject.
Maybe it's the optimistic part of him that believes she'll eventually let him pick her brain like he craved every time she clammed up, but he knows what path he had to choose to keep her. After all, they've never been great at talking about their feelings.
The hand in his hair quickly drops to his side just as his head begins to slowly nod. "Yeah— yeah," he sighed. "He was in the JROTC. Military family, military club. Uh, Boyd knew him."
"Boyd?" her eyes flickered up to him for the first time in what feels like forever. "Do you think he knows anything about Kyle's death?"
"Uh, no," his voice slowed into a whisper. "They weren't close."
"Did he say that?"
"Yeah, uh, yeah he did. After he said he had to watch the only person he was close with die in front of him."
Her gaze falls back to the floor. "Oh."
A spell of silence fell over them with the memory of Erica. A sore loss even if they weren't close with her.
"Yeah," he frowned. "But, uh, we might be onto something with the sacrifices. You know, three people, each a different group."
"It's always things in three's," she tried to make light of the conversation, but her hushed tone comes out more sad than intended.
"Right," he acknowledged her quickly, just so she could know she was heard. "Uh, each group of three would have its own purpose, virgins was one group. Then something else; healers, philosophers, warriors."
"Warrior? Like a soldier?"
He nodded slowly. "Like Kyle."
They stare at each other for a moment, eyes wide and wild. The cogs behind them turning slowly until they both come up with different ideas or theories.
"Okay, w-warrior— warriors," she rambled her thoughts aloud, beginning to pace around the hall. He watches her curiously. "What about the police? Is that a— could that be—"
"Guys! You might wanna come in here!" Lydia yelled from the music room, interrupting Paxton's train of thought.
A welcomed disruption considering neither Paxton, nor Stiles could carry the burden of knowledge that the police department could soon come into contact with a serial killer—more than they already have. It would threaten not only Stiles' father, but Charlie, who still volunteers at the station.
Stiles hurried to the door, pushing it open to reveal Lydia and Deaton beside the teacher's desk. Lydia turns around, a picture frame in hand. She raises it so Paxton and Stiles could see from the doorframe they crowd.
A photo of the music teacher, dressed in a camouflaged uniform with badges of honor pinned to his chest. The frame is wooden, decorated with weaved cutouts and a smaller picture stuck to the glass. One of the teachers young daughter.
"I don't— I don't get it," Paxton said, shaking her head as she turns to Stiles. Lost within the missing context of her late arrival, she hadn't been told that Mr. Felch had disappeared yet.
"He's missing," Deaton answered. "And he won't be the last if we don't find the next connection. If we are correct, there should still be another warrior waiting to be attacked."
Lydia stares at a piano placed in the middle of the room, her eyes full of tears. Deaton's face is full of distress as he looks to Paxton for a hopeful direction. He, Stiles, and Lydia had already ran out of conspiracies.
But she already had enough on her mind. Her thoughts are blank, even more so as Stiles rubs a comforting hand on her arm.
"Okay, so we're looking for a warrior," she broke the silence before shrugging out of Stiles' hold. "What defines a warrior?"
"I'm not sure we should focus on defining characteristics, but more a general target. This teacher was in the military, Kyle in JROTC, maybe it's as simple as that."
She scoffed quietly, not meaning harm towards Deaton, but because nothing could ever be so simple. After a moment of quiet, her eyes light up with an idea. "What teacher supervises the JROTC program?"
Her question lands on Lydia and Stiles, but neither knew the answer. Then the silence came back, thoughtful yet full of impending doom. So quiet that the clock behind them could be heard ticking. Time began to feel wasted the more they sit without a lead.
"Mr. Harris," she mumbled, her thoughtful gaze pointed to the floor. She looks up quickly, to Stiles, half of a smile pulling against her cheek. "It has to be him, he has all of those plaques on his desk."
"The bulletin board outside of his classroom has the JROTC sign-up sheet on it," Lydia chimed in, though her voice sounded distant as she continues to watch the piano like she's having a more intriguing conversation with it. Her wild glare pulls away from its shiny surface, and to the others standing behind her. "It's him," she nodded.
"He wouldn't be here anymore, he probably left hours ago like everyone else," Stiles said his doubts aloud.
"No— no," Paxton shook her head. "Isaac just got out of detention," she told the group before her attention falls back to Stiles. "We both know which teacher loves torturing students with detention."
Their minds stray to a place only they would know; the few detentions spent together in Mr. Harris' classroom. Being secluded with the cruel man brought the pair closer in some ways, as odd as it may be.
They hurry out of the classroom with the hope that Mr. Harris would still be sitting behind his desk, healthy and unscathed. It's a race against time now, them versus the unknown creature inflicting havoc.
Deaton had his theories. The wise man knew this would come up, and had for much longer than anyone else. He had lied for years now, living with the denial ever since he realized the problem would show itself again someday. It wasn't until the alpha pack had arrived that his concern became apparent, no longer pushed away and hidden under a bed of lies.
With the help of Stiles bombarding him with a million questions in his clinic, Deaton had the choice of remaining silent or confronting the past.
"I see you've talked to your mother," Deaton said to Paxton. The two had fallen behind Stiles and Lydia, neither could fight the exhaustion of running around endless halls and never-ending staircases.
Her quickened pace comes to a halt. She eyes the man in her peripheral, confused of how he'd come to that conclusion. She straightens up her posture, and fixes the wrinkles of her clothing. "How did you—"
"This town knows more of Emily than you might think," he smiled slightly, but the stress weighing on his eyebrows portrays anything but a fond expression.
Stiles and Lydia's stomping feet could no longer be heard down the hall. They stand in front of the open door of Mr. Harris' class, impatiently waiting for Paxton and Deaton to catch up.
Paxton's head tilts curiously, her mouth falling open. As far as she knew, Emily had never made friends in Beacon Hills, much less a big enough impact for people to remember her by. But her mind goes to Talia Hale and what the possibilities of that relationship could mean. The image she created of her mother after all those years abandoned is slowly deteriorating. Burned at the edges, memories replay endlessly until another perspective comes about.
She felt insane for a moment, staring at Deaton as if he had hammered the final nail into the wall she had created around her mother, causing it to tumble down. She wondered if the memories replayed in her head were broken, if she had created a lie about her mother for all of these years so she could have a reason to hate the woman she never knew.
"What was she like?"
It was stupid to ask, Paxton knew that even before she said it. But she needed a new image of her mother to cling onto, and not the one who left those years ago, or the one who had held her captive in Derek's loft while he bled out.
She felt stupid for being curious, wondering why she would ever want to see the woman differently. Emily is cold and unrepentant—or, so Paxton believed. But Emily couldn't be heartless, otherwise she would've been much worse to her daughter while her pack watched. She wouldn't have broken her cold exterior when the subject of Talia Hale came up, her breathing wouldn't have faltered and the grip around Paxton wouldn't have eased.
"Hey, uh, any day now would be nice!" Stiles' impatient voice echoed down the hall.
Paxton's wonder faded quickly, killed by a guilt. She hurries down the hall, Deaton following a beat behind.
Mr. Harris' classroom is the same as its always been. Lab tables frame the room on two sides, sinks resting atop the surface. Two rows of tall tables fill the middle, all carrying sets of beakers to prepare for the next day's assignment. Even the chalkboard behind his desk has tomorrow's plans written on it.
His usually organized desk is a mess of papers scattered about. A red marker sits on a small stack of unbothered tests, the cap missing. Beside his desk, a briefcase full of his things, but he's nowhere to claim them.
Lydia snoops around while Paxton and Stiles wait for Deaton. She opens a filing cabinet full of dust, which she quickly closes before she turns around in a sneezing fit. Lydia finds her way back just as Paxton lifts up a small plaque. It's wooden, the color of a red wine, it's plated with gold letters that read, 'A cadet will not lie, cheat, steal, or tolerate those who do.'
Paxton hums gently as she shows the plaque to the others. "Makes sense why he's such a tight-ass."
Stiles stifles a laugh while Lydia rolls her eyes. "You shouldn't say that, we don't know if he's dead or not," she scolded.
"And he'll be so missed," Paxton's voice was strongly coated with displease and sarcasm. She places the small plaque down before turning around to the judgmental stares pointed at her. "What? He wasn't even a good teacher," she shrugged, then turned to Stiles and added, "and he was mean to you! He gave you detention just because he didn't like your dad."
Stiles hides his agreement by staring off to the floor, and peaking his shy smile up to her slowly.
"He's still a person, good or not," Lydia argued, glancing between the two as if they were evil.
They weren't evil, their morals had just changed and creeped into a grey area.
Deaton joins the group standing around the desk, his eyes falling to the disordered papers across it. A brow of his raises before he reaches for one of them. A giant red 'A' marks the grade of the exam, and nothing seems out of the ordinary.
"This is just one of many possibilities," the man said, his voice light with hope that Mr. Harris is not the next victim. "He could have simply left for the day."
"Yeah?" Stiles said, picking up the briefcase beside him. "He would leave without this?"
Unbothered by his sarcasm, Paxton scans the desk for any signs of struggle. She notices another exam that had been hiding under the one Deaton held onto. She jumps to it, fingers quickly slipping under the thin sheet. Holding onto the top, her thumb presses just under the grade. Circled in bold red is the letter 'H'.
"What?" Stiles asked her, noticing the peculiar stare hardening on her face.
She turns the paper for him to see, the light shining against the opaque white. "It's graded with an 'H'," she said slowly, unsure if she were really reading it correctly.
Deaton moves to her side while Lydia picks up another poorly graded test. "This one's an 'R'," she tells them, holding it up for Deaton to see.
He takes the papers from the girls, arranging them sporadically across the desk before gathering up the other graded papers. His hands rush to spell out a word that the teens couldn't understand.
"Stiles, you remember I told you 'druid' is the Gaelic word for 'wise oak'?"
"Yeah?"
Paxton stares at him, remembering bits of the conversation she had with him earlier that morning. It was before the question of their relationship had risen, and less important compared to it. She couldn't remember the details but could remember him saying something about druids.
"If a druid went down the wrong path, the wise oak was sometimes said to have become a dark oak. There's a Gaelic word for that as well," Deaton said, eyes glued to words spelled out in red marker, scattered across the desk before him. "Darach."
"What if Deaton's the one sacrificing people?" Paxton hurried out, jumping from her seat in the passenger side of the Jeep with a sudden burst of energy. Stiles laughs at her, dragging his eyes away from the road to see her wildly concerned expression. "Hear me out—"
"—Anytime someone says 'hear me out', they usually follow-up with something ridiculous," he noted through breaks of his breathy laughter.
"No, really, he knows all of this stuff. He knows every supernatural being in town—"
"—We already accused him of being a werewolf last year, we can't keep accusing people of things we have no proof of. We have to be logical."
This time she breaks out into a fit of laughter. "You, Stiles, are trying to think logically?" she joked, her wide eyes beaming over to him.
"What?" his mouth parts as he catches her gaze. His feigned offense breaks within seconds with a grin rising to replace it.
She couldn't speak over her laughter, but when she finally catches a break, she musters out, "you wanted to kill Jackson a few months ago because you thought he was the kanima!"
She waved her arms around, still giggling at him despite finding him absurd.
"And I thought right!" his smile remained against his sharpened tone, a dimple imprinting into his cheek. He couldn't argue with her even if he tried.
"But we didn't have proof of him being the kanima!" she fought back, but like him, with a smile.
"You're just jealous that I have an incredible sense of intuition," he shrugged, turning his entranced gaze back to the road just as the streetlight illuminating the hood turns green.
"Yeah," she laughed, throwing her head back. "I'm so jealous."
"Can I get that in writing?"
She pauses for a moment to glare at him, and when she's ready to leave the bickering to settle, she straightens back up in her seat and faces the road.
They had been driving through endless loops of slow neighborhood streets. The lights lulled above the sidewalk, humming quietly as they flicker on one by one as the sky turns a muted purple. The route was different than their usual.
Neither had spoken the idea to take a longer way to her house, but she never complained when Stiles had turned down a stray road. The spontaneous decision gave them what they both desired; more time together. Because when apart, the minutes moved slower than normal, and it drove them both insane.
"Deaton's not a bad guy," Stiles assured her, breaking the silence with a rough rasp of his voice. He glances over to her, watching as she stares down to her lap. "I think he's just as afraid as we are, you know? But he definitely knows something we don't. I wish you would've came with me to the clinic and talked to him for me. You're so much better at talking than I am."
Her face scrunched. "Am I?" she half-jokingly asked.
Her hands meticulously play with the white strings of the sweatshirt she wears. One she had borrowed from him—another item of clothing she would steal by accident. He had made a big deal about her dirtying up his Jeep, laughing despite finding the topic of his precious vehicle to be serious. He had gone into great detail about how hard blood is to clean out of the cracks and crevices of the tan leathered seats.
"I wish I went, too," she mumbled out as she unravels the white string from her red, swollen finger.
Her words fell distant under the silence crowding around them. The quiet found them in mysterious ways, sometimes it's comforting, others full of tension. Like now. The waves of throbbing nothingness tortures not only their ears, but their entire being. They wondered what to say that could release the elephant in the room—or, in this case, the large elephant in the tiny backseat. They both feel the need to talk about something besides the never-ending thread of theories, like maybe why Paxton had to borrow his sweatshirt because hers was crinkled with dried blood.
At least they have the humming of the radio to distract them, but even that becomes unbearable.
Breaking under the weight of the heavy silence, Stiles sighs out his held breath. "Why do you do that?" he asked calmly, not upset nor judgmental but genuinely curious. "You never talk to me about the things I don't see."
An observation he's had on numerous occasions, yet she had never noticed. Though, she's well-aware of how she's not the best at putting her issues out there—having been told countless times by her brother—she had never realized it had been an issue that burdened him. Maybe she falls at fault for that, for never noticing the way he looked at her when he studied her every microexpression just to find a glimpse of how she truly feels.
"I do too!" she argued harshly, biting back at the invisible finger pointing blame onto her. A way of guarding herself against what felt like an attack.
But it's him, the boy she loves, the boy she kissed, the boy she hadn't completely and totally accepted her feelings for.
She knows better than to think he'd purposely point out a flaw of hers just because he could.
Her words replayed in the back of her mind, her voice growing meaner with each repeat of the three words until suddenly she became a puppet controlled by a terrifying version of herself. The dark cloud overtook her thoughts rapidly.
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut for a moment of peace. Instantly, her nose crinkled and her mouth parted with a harmonious laugh.
She couldn't take herself seriously. "Okay," she sighed out the last wheeze of laughter before turning to him. Her legs shift in her seat, knees pointing toward him, nudging where his hand rests on the clutch. "I'm sorry," she apologized sincerely, a fading smile calming against her cheeks. "Maybe, just maybe, I might avoid talking about myself."
He rolled his neck, and eyes, over to her direction. He wanted to say, 'you think?' but his mocking expression said it for him.
She held a finger up, her body leaning toward him like a magnet. She kept herself up with her elbows resting on the armrest. "Maybe," she repeated, brows raised, her hand flattens out in the air like a flag of surrendering to him.
His lips tugged as he turned away from her distracting face. "Are you saying I'm right?" he smirked.
"I'm saying; maybe," she paused, pretending to be in deep thought with a finger tapping her chin. Her eyes narrow on him before adding, "so, no."
"Paxton, if you can kiss me, I think you can talk a little bit about the things you're going through."
Her eyes widen for a moment. Bashfully, she lowers her head while her cheeks fill with a rosy stain. She couldn't fight her smile even if she had the strength to.
It was odd, to have her stomach sway with the fluttering wings of a thousand butterflies while her mind sputters out endless spouts of self-deprecating reminders of herself.
It makes her sick to be so consumed with the spell of dizziness that stems from a mixture of conflicting thoughts and emotions. It's like opposing temperatures stirring together in a pot of dry air, mixing until a tornado forms.
She couldn't blame him, she knows it's the path splitting before her that fuels the discomfort. Their conversation could go two ways; end the relentless miscommunication they've always been cursed with, or finally be vulnerable to the point of no return.
Of course, she always thought she had been vulnerable with him. She could always depend on being able to tell him anything, but never acted on it. Not truly. She could be comforted with knowing she had someone to tell her secrets to, but it was always base-level.
It made her wonder if she even truly loved him.
She knew she loved him, she couldn't remember a time where she hadn't—even if she wouldn't admit it to herself—and she can't believe that she could ever stop.
There's a fine line between loving someone, and being in love with someone. A person can love their friends, but not necessarily be in love with them—though it does seem to happen that way sometimes.
It's the difference between being able to tell a friend your secrets without being judged, and being able to tell the person you're in love with your deepest feelings while hanging onto the fear that maybe, just maybe, they might judge you.
It's during this blissful—yet excruciating—silence where Paxton could have a piece of clarity.
"I think you're right, Stiles," she sighed, peacefully staring off to the rows of houses that pass her window. "If I'm going to be in love with you, I'll have to get over myself."
She watches as the bright headlights steer off into the sidewalk lining the road. He hadn't noticed his near-collision, too busy with his awe-struck gaze glued to her and not the road.
He swerved away from the curb while she quietly giggled beside him, finding his distracted attention to be humorous. Steadying the Jeep into a careful line, he narrows his eyes on the road.
His startled eyes calm as he clears his throat. "That could be a start," he says with a hint of nervousness.
Like a reflex every time he wished to see her reaction, he turned to her and searched her face for an emotional fault line.
Her sheepish smile was kept low, until she felt the vehicle sway out of line again. She reached across their seats, and for the steering wheel. "You're so easily distracted," she laughed.
His hands tighten around the wheel, knuckles whitening. He sighed before saying, "how can I not be?"
Flustered, she shut her mouth that had fallen open, and stopped batting her eyelashes. The butterflies crashed around inside her, fluttering to escape.
"So, where should I start?" she changed the subject back before the fluttering could overwhelm her. "With the car crash? Or, is this strictly after the kiss? AK, if you will."
He listened to her rambling with an unsure expression, his eyes crinkled and his brows stressed a line against his forehead. "AK?" he questioned, raising a thick eyebrow.
She huffed a sigh to add to the dramatic effect of it all. "Are you still distracted, Stilinski? Catch up. 'After the Kiss', duh."
He let out a short laugh. "Duh," he mimicked the way her voice hit a higher pitch.
"We won't stick to AK, I owe you some answers."
"You don't owe me—"
"I owe it to you," she said sternly, not giving him the chance to argue. "I went to the Hale house before the party at Lydia's."
"You what?"
"I know—it was stupid—but I needed to talk to Derek," she said, smiling at the memory of him gifting her a card for her birthday. "When I left, I took the backroad, you know the one? Off the preserve?"
"Yeah, the one where.." his voice trailed off, afraid to speak of her father's death.
"Right. Well, I guess our family should just never drive on that road ever again, because one minute I'm driving, the next I'm slamming down on the breaks and crashing into the ditch."
"Well, you're not the best driver."
"Hey!" she laughed as she nudged his shoulder with her hand. "I'm a great driver—"
"You just got your license."
"It's not about how long I've had a license, it's about how much experience I have."
"And you have a lot of experience by sitting in the passenger seat of my Jeep?"
She rolled her eyes. "Do you want me to tell you what happened, or not?"
"Yes," he laughed at how quick her voice changed to annoyance. "Yes, I do, I'll stop."
"So anyways, I'm driving and the road starts to fog over. And you know Charlie's car doesn't have the best lights, so I take my eyes off the road for, literally, a second, and BAM!" she smacks her hand against the glovebox. "There's a giant shadow-creature-thing standing in the middle of the road. It was so dark out, and then the fog—I couldn't see anything and all I could think was that I was about hit an animal."
His eyes widened as he mumbled out, "jeez."
"But when I swerved off the road, I knew it wasn't an animal, it was something else. It was so dark, and it looked like it had a cloak on, or something. I just—I just couldn't see a face. I hit my head on the steering wheel so it was hard to keep my eyes open, but I watched as it kept moving closer to me. The radio was playing some song you told me to listen to, and it was all I could hear. It made me think of you."
"You were thinking of me while this 'giant shadow-creature-thing' was about to kill you?" he teased her.
"Yes, it was so romantic," she dryly replied. "So, this thing is standing beside me, opens the door, and it just stops. Like, completely stops. I looked up at it, but the moon was above it so it was hard to see, and my head was bleeding so—I'm rambling. Look, this thing just stared off into the woods for a while, then left."
"It just left?"
"There was something in the woods. I don't know. I couldn't see anything, much less the tree line, but I could feel it, you know?"
"Okay, sure," he tried to nod along, but even his voice gave away that he didn't understand.
"It was so odd. I don't even remember much of it anymore. I should've just told you about it sooner but then the sacrifices happened, and the alpha pack. I just remember being terrified, like I knew I was about to die."
"Do you think it was a person?"
She pauses for a moment to gather her thoughts. "I thought it was my mom. I mean, that was before I knew that she was—I'll get to that later."
"Your mom? She's mean, but I don't think she's 'kill your daughter a few miles away from where your ex-husband died' mean."
"Yeah, well, I thought that too, until.."
"What about in the woods? You think that was Derek?"
"It wasn't Derek, but—"
"But?"
"I saw a glimpse of eyes, like, red glowing eyes. It was only for a second but—"
"So, it was a wolf?"
"Oh, my god," her mouth fell open. She jumps up in her seat, shifting her body towards him. "Do you remember when we were kids, and we went trick-or-treating—"
"The year we dressed up as Mario characters, or—"
"Superheroes," she answered abruptly, and before he could correct her on which specific superheroes, she continued on. "So you remember it? We went to the rich part of town, sat on the sidewalk waiting for Melissa to pick us up?" her voice lulled, hoping it would jog his memory.
She hadn't put much thought into the distant night until now—with the pieces of a puzzle finding their place.
They were young, much younger than they are now. Stiles still had swooping hair down to his chin, Scott still needed his inhaler, and Paxton had still been curious of the unknown.
Their parents worked in intervals around them. Daniel would drop them off at the nicer neighborhood of their town before his shift at the station, Melissa would pick them up under the last streetlight of the busy road, and when Noah clocked out, he picked Stiles and Paxton from the McCall's house.
When the kids' pillowcases were fully of sugary goodies, they sat on the cracked cement of the sidewalk. Their legs stretched into the road where cars couldn't reach while they traded candy amongst themselves. Scott would take the sour treats and Stiles would give Paxton any Reese's cups he had.
"I remember it," Stiles laughed. "We had to carry Scott away while he had an asthma attack."
She cut her eyes to him, not finding their friend's lungs nearly collapsing to be funny. Though, to think of that happening now, might be humorous. Scott would never need his inhaler again, would never feel the burning sensation in his throat when he overexerted himself.
"But do you remember that house?"
An old road stared at them from their spot on the sidewalk. A road that had been there longer than the nice neighborhood behind them. It had one streetlight that you could only see by squinting your eyes into the distance. It flickered hauntingly and hummed low, warning them not to wander too close.
They took the warning as a dare.
It was either Paxton or Stiles that pointed out the lone house glowing under the subtle light. It had its front porch light on—a sign that maybe they'd have candy. It's green panels were covered in a buildup of mold and moss, the house looked terrifying. Scott pointed that out after saying he wouldn't cross the street to investigate.
He was forced to follow Paxton and Stiles into the dark tunnel of trees that lined the street and home. The two that were less afraid kept daring the other to knock on the door of the house. It led to a never-ending game of rock, paper, scissors, until Stiles eventually beat Paxton with a winning rock over her scissors.
The mailbox by the road was as tall as her, and overgrown with vines. She turned over her shoulder as she stepped up to the cobblestone path that trailed up to the house, spotting Stiles and Scott as they either laughed or wheezed with horror.
Her shoes caked with mud as she wandered up to the house, her heart pounding with the fear she invited in. The wooden-paneled floor of the front porch creaked, some even moving out from under their loose nails. She paused again, turning over her shoulder to the boys behind her. Suddenly the fun was over and none them found their adventure to be funny. Only something they all knew they were never supposed to do.
"Do you remember the dog that chased us?" Paxton asked her next question before Stiles could answer the first.
He nodded. "Yeah, but I don't get what this has to do with whatever you saw when you crashed your car."
Before the little girl could knock on the towering door in front of her, a dog growled nearby. The frightening, unearthly noise caused her to jump back from the door with her eyes narrowing into the forest beside her. The boys called for her, telling her it was time to leave, but she didn't hear them. She was too busy staring off into the woods.
Stiles went after her, his costume giving him a bolt of bravery only a superhero could have. He rushed down the cobble path, not caring that his only pair of shoes would be ruined, and crashed into her on the porch. He tugged on her arm, repeating that they had to leave. The growling grew louder, closer. It was a matter of seconds before a giant dog chased them down the street.
"I saw the same eyes that night," Paxton told him, her face lighting up with an amazed smile. "Glowing, red eyes! In the tree line beside that house! I saw the same ones!"
The floor of the forest was covered with a cloud of fog, and behind broken limbs and dead branches, she could see a shadow illuminated with a fluorescent red that carried into the darkness. Bright and powerful as the pair of eyes studied the little kids.
She couldn't question the peculiar lights for long. Stiles pulled her with him just as a dog rounded a corner of the house, barking and foaming at the mouth. It scared Scott more than anyone.
He wheezed and wheezed as Stiles caught up with him. In one hand, Stiles gripped onto his pillowcase full of candy and the back of Scott's shirt. The other, he held onto Paxton's arm tightly, afraid to let her go. They screamed with horror as the dog followed behind them, biting at the air between them and itself. Scott couldn't keep himself running so while he slowed down the group, Paxton searched his pockets for his inhaler. Candy fell to the road beneath them, the film wrappers reflecting the light above them. It distracted the dog long enough for them to break onto the main road and find Scott's inhaler without the whiplash of searching while running. The red eyes in the woods became a distant thought while their safety grew more important.
"What do you think it means?" Stiles asked as they came to a stop at a light. He turned to her, full of thought. "You think—"
"I think it was my mom," she said, though it comes out more like a question. Her brows puzzled as she thinks it over, eyes fixated on her lap. The image she had built of her mother over the years had completely crumbled down before her in the matter of hours.
"But your mom.." his voice trailed off.
"Is a werewolf," the reveal fell from her mouth with a scoff. Annoyed and confused, she couldn't understand what it meant and if it even correlated with that Halloween night, or her car crash. She glances over to him, blinking slowly out of irritation before throwing her head back against the headrest. "God, this complicates everything!" she cried out with a built-up sigh.
"What— what the hell do you mean she's a werewolf?" he gaped, again steering them away from the road. He quickly readjusts the Jeep before turning back to her with his hung mouth.
"I didn't get the chance to ask Derek about the sacrifices," she shook her head as she paused. "I met the alpha pack instead. They came in—one by one—Kali, Ennis, Deucalion. Then, my mother. She came in with her head held high—she didn't even acknowledge me," her gaze lowered to her lap again, she took a moment to control her emotions by focusing on the silence around them. "She's one of them."
"Well, yeah, that definitely complicates some things," he scoffed, angered by her mother for her. "She didn't even talk to you?"
"Not once," she mumbled. "I don't know—I don't think anyone knew I was her daughter, just Derek."
"Derek?"
She nodded as she slowly inhaled. "His mom knew her, before she left town. Apparently I used to go over to his house before it—well, you know."
"Does he know how she got involved with them?" She answered his question by shaking her head, which led him to ask, "is she the reason you're covered in blood?
"No," she laughed dully. "This was my own doing—well, technically Deucalion's, but."
"But?"
"He had Derek pinned to the floor, bleeding out everywhere. The one who doesn't wear shoes, she kept twisting this pipe in his stomach. They were gonna kill him, I had to do something. I lunged for him but— but Emily held me back. I think she was afraid Kali might hurt me, again."
"Again?"
"Well, not hurt me, but choke me out again."
He laughed sarcastically, with a pitch higher than his usual. "Oh, because being choked feels so much better."
She shrugged, smiling at his humor. "I could've been stabbed with a giant pipe." She turned to him, sharing her grin. "I didn't get covered in blood until they left, I was the only one there, I had to help pull that thing out of Derek."
"You pulled a pipe out of him? You?"
She ignored his teasing by reaching her arm out beside her. Her muscles flexed under his sweatshirt. "Hey, I'm stronger than I look."
"I know you are," he said quietly under a laugh that overpowered his sentiment. "Was it like a PVC pipe, or?"
"It was for gas, or something, I don't know. It was big, it was rusty, and it fucking sucked." She looks down to the sweatshirt, where her bloodied clothes would be. "Hence, the blood."
They both go quiet, inviting in a comforting silence to blanket them. One that's not painfully loud. It gave her peace as she replayed their conversation in her head. She didn't feel judged, nor ashamed. Just sad that she didn't tell him some things sooner.
She's getting over herself and slowly accepting her love for him for what it is. She's in love with him. It's a gradual battle, not one that she'd fully accept while her fears beat against her. But she could recognize it.
It's in the way he looks at her, the way her problems seem minuscule compared to the happiness his presence exuded around her. It's the way time slows when they're apart, and quickens when they're together. It's her urge to protect him, to get to know the things she would normally overlook, to accept his flaws like he would her.
"I think," she hesitated. Turning away from him, she glances out of her window with her head pressed to its cold glass. "I think being in love with you scares me more than anything my mom does."
He felt it too; the fear of being vulnerable. But she ignites so many other great things in him to combat that. He had been head over heels in love with her for years now, and nothing could deteriorate that. Even when he might be mad at her, or when he's at a lost with her. He'd always find his way back to loving her.
"Is that a bad thing?" he wondered, his lips pulling into a slight smirk.
"I don't know yet."
Her answer was as honest as it could be. She didn't know, she has nothing to compare it to. She loves her bed, but she's in love with Stiles. Loves her friends, but it's different with him.
"When did you realize it?" he asked, his voice quiet.
"Realize what? That I'm in love with you?" her eyebrows puzzled as she turned to him. His mouth parted in the shape of a perfectly pouted circle. She wanted to collapse under his gaze. If she were standing, her legs would probably feel like gelatin. It's odd, to say she loves him so openly and honestly. "I think— I think a few minutes ago, actually."
His mouth dried up, forcing him to close it. His lips pull into a rigid line. "Oh. A few minutes ago?" he questioned, pretending as if he weren't stabbed in the chest.
"Well," she shrugged. "I think I've always had a feeling that we were destined for each other, you know, with our dads always joking about it, or how I always gravitated to you more than Scott. You were my first friend in this town, now you're my first love."
The knife in his chest disintegrated, replaced with a fire burning underneath. He began to feel less insane for thinking his crush on her had been one-sided all this time.
"But, yeah, probably just now," she continued on, innocently ignoring his internal struggle beside her. He groaned softly as he rolled his eyes, the knife was back. "Well, when did you realize it?" she repeated his question back to him.
"Oh, you know, a few minutes ago, too," he shrugged as if it were no big deal, as if he didn't feel hollow.
She knew better than his false nonchalance. "Stiles," she laughed, nudging his shoulder with her hand.
"Okay, fine," he huffed with a smile he couldn't resist. "I've always loved you, always. Ever since I first saw you."
"But when did you realize you were in love?"
He glanced over to her, his brows beginning to crease as he thought her question over. "At the winter formal, before we went inside the gym. We were sitting in here," he pointed a finger up from the steering wheel. "And I told you to close your eyes because I had a gift for you. I just sat there for a moment while your eyes were closed, thinking you were the most beautiful girl I've ever seen, and I wanted it to last forever. But I realized I didn't want to be in a loop of that moment, I just wanted to be by your side forever. Your eyes lit up when you saw that corsage—I had spent so long picking it out, wondering what you would like or what would match."
Her smile fades, her body warming with embarrassment. "Stiles, that was months ago. We've lived an entire life since then."
"I know," he shrugged under her intense gaze.
"You knew you were in love with me for that long? Why didn't you say anything?"
"I didn't think you would feel the same," he said sincerely, his voice distant despite being right beside her. "And then everything went down, we got split up. Peter, and Kate, tried to kill you. I don't know, it just didn't feel like the right time."
"Is it ever the right time?" she laughed softly.
They pull onto her road, with the stars shining above them. The street she had grown up on had always been quiet, sleepy even. Most houses look the same, all with small yards and even smaller driveways. Stiles rounds the cul-de-sac, putting his Jeep in park in front of her mailbox.
The driveway is empty and the lights are off inside her house. Normally, she would be comforted with the lack of people inside, it would mean less trouble when she packed her bags. But now that everything had changed in her life, she couldn't find it comforting. Her mother could be anywhere in town wreaking havoc with the people she surrounds herself with. Who knows where Charlie could be.
"Will you wait for here for me?" she asked Stiles as she unbuckled her seatbelt.
"You're not staying here?"
She put a pause on her hurry to head inside by glaring over her shoulder to him. "Werewolf mother in a gang of other dangerous wolves? Yeah, no."
"Right," his lips tightened into a line. "That still doesn't feel real for me."
"It doesn't for me, either."
"Hey," he reached for her as she opened the door and nearly jumped out. His touch on her shoulder stopped her. "Are you staying with me, again?"
She smiled, leaning into his touch in her shoulder. She closed her eyes so she could remember this moment. "I don't know if that's a good idea," she opened her eyes to his delicate gaze. A finger brushes against her cheek causing her breath to hitch in her throat. "I really don't think it's a good idea."
"Yeah, my dad might start getting concerned on why I make two bowls of cereal in the mornings," he joked.
She laughed softly at the image of Noah being outrageously worried. "No one needs that much fiber."
She turned back to her home, admiring it and all the memories it held. With guilt looming over her, she thought of her brother. What would he think of her disappearing? He'd see her at school, but still, she would be just as bad as their mother to leave him.
But it's not the first time her presence neglect the home. She had spent a few nights at Stiles', and Charlie survived.
Maybe it's for the best, now Charlie and their mother could be without her, and maybe they'd prefer it that way. Atleast Paxton wouldn't have to go about her day with Charlie shoving his opinion of Emily down her throat.
"Will you come with me?" she asked, glancing over her shoulder that felt cold without Stiles' touch. "I don't wanna go alone."
Without hesitating, he answered her by turning the ignition off and unbuckling his seatbelt.
Her house was silent and unbothered, as if no one had been inside it all day. It made Paxton wonder what Emily's schedule is now that she knows what company the woman keeps.
They slid their shoes off beside the front door, and headed for the stairs. Stiles wished he knew what to say to her, something comforting. Though she had spent nights at his house, it was never something permanent. It was the casual sleepover caused by accident slips into exhaustion, needing a change of scenery, or simply not wanting to part with each other. This time felt permanent, at least for the time being.
He wants to ask where she'd go, but he has a feeling what the answer would be. Whether he understood why she'd stay with Derek or not, he knew she'd be safe there. Even if Peter made an appearance.
But another thought strained him, one believing she would be safer with him in the comfort of his bedroom, in their own safe world.
"I'm just gonna take a quick shower," she told him while gathering whatever clothes she could find from her dresser. She does her best to ignore the face staring back at her in the mirror, a reflection she wouldn't be able to recognize at all anymore.
"What, uh," he started as he glanced around her room. "What do I do?"
Her shoulders shrugged, eyes narrowing in deep thought. "You could look for my suitcase," she offered warily. "I think it's in my closet, but," she glanced to the bulging doors of her closet, one wrong move and piles upon piles of clothes would fall out. She turned back to him with a smile. Taking a step toward him, she plops her hands on his shoulders and pushes him down onto her bed. "How about you just sit here an' look pretty?"
"Yes, because sitting still is something I'm good at," he frowned.
Her head tilted as she mimicked his humorously annoyed expression. "You poor baby," she said with a pouted lip.
He found himself staring up to her speckled ceiling, lying on his back, melting into her comforter. His thumbs fiddled on his lap while the sound of water running a room over filled his ears.
She turned the heat on all the way, not worrying much about it being scorching hot. Her paled skin didn't look much like herself anyways.
Steam suffocated the air in the small bathroom, misting over the mirror as drops of dew dotted every surface. She stared at her feet for a while, watching as the water washes away the blood. A funnel forms above the drain, colored like a peppermint as the blood swirls alongside the water. She scrubs her fingernails until her pruned skin became unbearably raw, and any trace of blood faded into the patches of her reddened skin.
She had scrubbed long past cleaning, and close to breaking her skin to bleeding. But she felt as if it wouldn't come off, so as she moves the rag to her arms and legs, she repeats the process of scrubbing until her skin burns worse than the water.
Her hair drives her just as mad. She runs her hands through her hair, feeling the exact spots where silk strands knot up. If she didn't have a sense of mind, she'd rip her hair out completely. Instead, she keeps a knot in the palm of her hand and rakes her conditioner-coated fingers through like a brush, repeating with each lump. But even that results in the loss of hair.
Like the air in the bathroom, she felt suffocated, like she'd never escape the blood. Really, she knows it's just some cruel metaphor that something worse is bound to come, and that rubbing her skin raw was just a lesson for it. To test her strength like the whole day had taught her.
She walked back to her room, her neck tilt with a towel drying her hair. She kept his grey sweatshirt on. Either for safe keeping, or so she didn't have to reveal her glistening red arms. She blinked her burning eyes as she entered, hoping to relieve the dryness. It made her realize how focused on cleaning the blood she had been.
It takes her a moment to adjust to the yellow, flickering string of lights above her headboard. Much different than the blinding white inside the bathroom. But once she did, she found Stiles sitting on the shagged rug beneath her bed.
"Look what I found," he smiled up to her before tapping a hand on the shiny, pink suitcase beside him. "It wasn't in your closet—not that I would even try to look in there," he glanced to the menacing closet before adding, "it was under your bed."
"Right," she said, amazed that she had forgotten. "I kept it there for emergencies."
Like mother, like daughter.
She started for her dresser, digging out a week's worth of clothes, then moved to her nightstand. She grabbed her phone charger, a framed photo, and a wad of cash she stored in an old book. It's hard to tell how long she'd be staying elsewhere, so she gathers whatever sentiments she could.
It was the drive through downtown that confirmed Stiles' suspicions. While Paxton kept her tired gaze pressed against the window, he kept track of how far they were going into the industrial district. They were headed for Derek's, and it leaves him nervous.
The daunting building she would soon call home casts a shadow over the large parking lot, and if it weren't barren with the lack of cars, it might be easy to believe something lingers in the shadows. Even Derek's safe haven can't protect Paxton from her paranoia.
Cautiously, she glances around the lot while Stiles grabs her suitcase for her. The only thing comforting her is Isaac's beaten pickup truck parked closer to the building.
The wheels thud against the pavement. "Well," Stiles said under his breath.
He stares up to the grey, concrete building. More specifically, to the large, dirt-covered window that oversees the parking lot from the highest apartment, hidden in the shadows of the walls beside it. The complex is U-shaped, with the entrance at the center.
"Well," Paxton repeated his words back to him, sounding more airy and full of hope. Covering her own nervousness. She follows his gaze to the building, then back to him. "This is where we part ways, I guess."
"I can walk you up there. Carry your stuff?" he offered, just to give himself a peace of mind.
She looks to her lonesome suitcase with a raised brow, knowing it wouldn't be any trouble for her to take it alone. "It's okay, I can grab it," she tells him as she starts for the handle. "It's probably something I should do alone anyways."
"I can keep you company?"
She laughed softly at him as she shook her head. "I'm gonna be okay."
Her facade of confidence in the form of a smile relieves his worries for a moment, but they both know it's terrifying. The risk of the alpha pack coming back is high, but no matter where Paxton stays, she might never be completely safe.
"I know, but," he sighed as he kicked a foot against the pavement.
An arm reaches for his, she plays with the material of his jacket between her fingers. She glances up to his worried eyes, and melts his heart with her smile. Rising up onto her tiptoes, their noses nearly touching. She moves to the side, placing a kiss on his freckled cheek.
"I'm gonna be okay," she repeated. Her hands hold his face, fingers parted around his ears. She smiles once more before saying, "I'll see you soon."
He waits in the parking lot, watching her as she rolls her suitcase to the entrance. She glances back to Jeep once last time before pushing open the double-glass doors that enter the complex.
The narrow hall is filled with a pungent smell of asbestos and dust. It leads to an elevator where Paxton pulls her suitcase, and watches the digits above the doors rise to the highest level, one by one, clicking with each number.
The sound of the wheels spinning against wood is the only noise around, other than her loud thoughts telling her this is exactly what she needed to do. She comes to a stop outside of Derek's door and swallows down her fear.
Derek walks away from the table under the large window, and to a kitchenette lodged between two industrial columns, on the right side of the loft. While Derek brings food from the kitchen, Isaac decorates the table with three plates, each with a set of silverware. Cora, Derek's sister, pours water from a glass pitcher into three glasses.
The table's space fills up quickly. Steam pillows from the variety of mismatched dishes, and the three find their seats around the table.
But before they can dig into the food Derek prepared, a knock at the door stops them.
Derek glances up to Isaac through his brows, signaling him to be ready for another attack. Beside Derek, Cora's hand reaches for the butter knife next to her plate. She waits for her brother's word impatiently.
Slowly, the doors hinges squeak as it rolls open.
"Does no one know how to open a door?" Paxton grumbled out as she, and her suitcase, wobble down the few stairs entering the loft.
Derek's face softens, but his body remains frozen at the table. His sister glances to him, gripping her knife still, wondering who the girl with a mess of hair and frazzled clothing is.
Isaac jumps out of his seat, smiling already. He hurries across the room, and to her side. As if a lost puppy wandered into his lap. He glances from her suitcase to Derek's struck stare.
Isaac's smile fades quickly. "I'm not sharing my bed," he declared defensively before anyone could even begin to understand what's happening.
Paxton cuts her eyes to couch where Isaac sleeps, and almost says some sarcastic remark in return. She decides against it. Instead she turns back to Derek with a small, terrified smile. "Do you guys have room for one more?"
Derek's cold exterior cracks under her helpless gaze. His head lowers, hiding his growing smile. He looks up to his sister, flashing a look of relief. "I'll grab another plate."
As he stands up, Cora does, too. "I'll get a glass," she added before following him to the kitchen.
Paxton spent the night eating the first home-cooked meal she's had in a while. She didn't have to sit in her quiet house wishing for a time where it had been more lively, and though everyone at the table had a common interest, she didn't find herself thinking of the supernatural things that lurk in the shadows either. The talk of werewolves never arises.
Instead, Isaac talks about his detention and how boring it was for most of their dinner. Somewhere between shoving his face with mashed potatoes and rambling about how slow it went by, he mentioned that Mr. Harris seemed on edge.
Once they were done eating, Paxton and Isaac clears the table and washes the dishes while Derek and Cora disappear upstairs.
"So, how long are you staying?" Isaac asked her as he dries the last dish.
She takes it from his hand and places it in the cupboard above her head. "I don't know," she shrugged. "Until I figure stuff out at home, I guess."
"And, Charlie?"
"I haven't talked to him since I saw him at school," she told him while staring off to the floor.
He tilts his head, deep in thought over her situation. It seems so unlike her to leave Charlie. A finger of his drums against the countertop between them. "He doesn't know about your mom?"
Her shoulders tense into a shrug. "Nope," she sighed out before pausing. "He thinks she's the best thing to come into our lives. I don't even know if he'd believe me if I told him."
"It wouldn't hurt to try," he said, causing her to break her stare on the floor. She looks over to him as he adds, "what if she does something to him? Or, Deucalion makes her—"
"Don't," she warned. The breath she had built in her throat wavers out while her eyes close for a moment to gather her thoughts.
"His safety is all I think about, it's all I've ever thought about since I found out about this stuff. Actually, it's been the only thing on my mind ever since our dad died. I just— I just know if I sit and dwell on it now when I'm finally putting myself first, I'll never be able to do anything for myself again. Do you think that makes me selfish?"
Her question is disingenuous, a projection of her own insecurities. The guilt of leaving her brother eats at her, overflowing her mind with the idea that she might've stabbed Charlie in the back.
Isaac hums quietly to himself as he thinks it over. "I don't think it makes you selfish. It's okay to do what's best for you, especially when you never do. It doesn't mean you care for him any less, you're just finally protecting yourself."
She finds herself smiling at his words, not necessarily because they struck a chord within her, but because his sincerity is refreshing.
"What?" he asked, noticing her curious stare.
"Nothing," her smile grows. "Just never heard you sound so honest before."
His cheeks turn a slight shade of red, but none of them notice. They're too busy watching Derek mess with the futon couch across the room.
He pulls the cushions off, throwing them to the floor beside it before moving to the coffee table. The wood drags against the concrete floor as he pulls it away. Isaac and Paxton giggle like children as he huffs out his annoyance. Derek unfolds the couch into a bed that stretches over where the table had been.
It takes him awhile to prepare everything, and wears his patience thin, but once's everything is in place, he calls the two—still laughing at him across the room—over.
"She'll take the couch," he tells them, pointing a finger to Paxton, and before Isaac could argue, Derek shoves a stack of blankets into him and adds, "you'll sleep on the floor."
"But—" Isaac tried to defend his bed, but Derek's glare stops him from saying anything else.
"It's just for now."
"I don't mind sleeping on the floor," Paxton offered, but like Isaac, Derek looks at her with a piercing glare. She holds up her hands to vow her innocence, and plops down on mattress's fresh sheets.
"I'm going to bed. If you two are loud, I'm kicking both of you out into the hall," Derek grumbled out his way of telling them good night.
As he walked away, Paxton called out a quick thanks. He responds with a mumbled response, pretending to be annoyed despite not being bothered at all with her staying. He had offered his home to her with reason, a thoughtful gesture to thank her for saving his life earlier.
She could recognize his reluctance as his way of protecting himself from getting to accustomed to her being around for a while.
"So, you really don't mind sleeping on the floor?" Isaac asked, his pleading eyes glancing between his bed and the blankets he's supposed to sleep on.
___
begging for forgiveness for taking so long to post this chapter
let me know your thoughts, these last few chapters have just been setting up what's to come so i'd love to know what direction you think it's heading
staxton confirmed love <3
i love them so much
also, i feel like derek is/will be giving luke from gilmore girls vibes
like this one, the next chapter will not be following any of the episodes.
since it took me so long to get this out, i'll give you a look into the next..
paxton, lydia, allison, and isaac will be taking a hike in the woods and learning self defense without anyone else knowing like their own personal fight club.
fun! can't see how wrong that could possibly go!
after that we're back on track with the episodes, so motel california is coming.. and i don't think anyone's prepared
thank you all for reading, and for being patient with me. i wouldn't continue to do this without your support so it means the world to me, thank you again.
word count: 12,778
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