Beyond The Bite • Chapter 12
(Word Count: 1,660)
I could've seen the workout as punishment for last night or a distraction, but there was no room for complaints. Derek's defined muscles flexed through his shirt as he pushed back against Scott's feeble attempts at overpowering him. Despite Scott ending up on his ass yet again, there was a slight improvement.
"You're next, Stiles," Derek beckoned, not even breaking a sweat.
Peeling myself off the curb, where I had been more than just an innocent spectator, I noticed Derek was still as cool as ever.
While Scott dusted himself off and took my spot on the curb, Derek signaled me to approach with a classic fighter's pose.
"Let's see what you've got," he challenged, fists at the ready.
With a sigh, I mirrored his stance, my gloves creaking as I clenched my hands.
"Go, Stiles!" Malia cheered from among the echoes of the desolate underpass we'd chosen for privacy and safety.
Fortunately,, my dad imparted some wisdom after a fight with a school bully during my second year in junior high. I suppressed the burgeoning sorrow at the thought of him. Images tried to surge forth: his still form on the cold, sterile table, his features bearing an all-too-familiar mark mirroring mine.
"Stiles!"
The urgency in the call snapped my attention into sharp focus as a fist loomed mere inches from my face. With an agile duck and a nimble twist of my body, I rolled off the ground and repositioned myself to square off against Derek, fists ready once more.
Derek wheeled around, his defensive stance loosening.
"You're not here with me. I need you present and focused."
"I dodged the punch. Isn't that enough?" I retorted, my arms falling to my sides in defiance.
A steely rigidity claimed my spine as Derek closed the distance between us, his voice lowered to a hushed intensity, "Listen, if you're not up to this—"
"I'm good," I cut in, stripping my voice of any telltale emotion.
He looked like he wanted to say more but let it slide with a nod, signaling me to try again.
The spar with Derek extended for a grueling half-hour, both of us left heaving for breath, our skin sheened with sweat. I felt a thrill churn in my belly when Derek stripped off his shirt, exposing the sculpted muscles beneath. I noticed a brief, knowing smirk cross his face as he caught me looking, but it vanished as soon as he redirected his attention to Scott and Malia.
"Let's switch to tag team," Derek commanded, jabbing a thumb in my direction.
Scott balked, "Seriously?"
Malia was already on her feet, eager. "Scared to get knocked on your ass, McCall?" she jabbed playfully.
Scott started to protest, but I interjected with a dry humor, "Think of it as karma for that dog bowl incident."
Unable to suppress his amusement, Scott simply shook his head, positioning himself adjacent to Malia. A silent communication passed between them before launching an assault. Braced and vigilant, I assumed a defensive stance, ready to counter their calculated moves.
The industrial lights above hummed their dull symphony, casting an artificial glow as Scott and Malia circled me, movements predatory, sharp. Here, in the underpass where the concrete walls bounced the muted roar of traffic above, it felt like we were in some gladiatorial pit reserved just for us.
Malia's eyes shimmered, a wild light dancing in them as she poised herself to strike. Scott's grin was light, deceptive, masking the imminent force I knew he could unleash. Both formidable werewolves, and here I was, Stiles Stilinski, the guy who fancied himself the brains of the operation, now squarely in the middle. Adrenaline laced my veins as I shifted weight, my eyes darting between my two friends-now-opponents.
Then, with a sudden charge, Scott was a blur headed straight for me. My feet reacted before my mind, pivoting out of Scott's path. But Malia—clever Malia—she saw the opening and went for it. Yet, somehow, I was ahead of her. I ducked and twisted, using Malia's own motion to send her tumbling.
Derek observed, ever the silent, broody enigma, from a niche shrouded in shadow. Even from a distance, I could see that crease in his forehead—one part confusion, one part curiosity—as he watched me.
My breath quickened as Scott pounced again, a guttural growl throbbing in the enclosed space. Malia was back on her feet, ready to tag-team. But the Stiles they thought they knew wasn't here. Instead, I moved with a swiftness that shocked even myself, grabbing Scott's wrist and twisting until I heard the smack of his body against the concrete. The underpass carried the sound, a testament to the force behind it.
Malia came at me, all raw power and speed. But I countered, a pivot and a kick that sent her reeling back. Derek's eyebrows rocketed upwards; I'd surprised the guy who rarely shows any shock.
This...this was all new.
A silver glow flickered in my own reflection in a puddle—an odd light shining from the mark. It was reacting, alive with power that felt both alien and a part of me.
"What the hell, Stiles?" Scott's voice broke through, mingled with pain and disbelief as he lifted himself from the ground.
Malia, fierce and unphased by the turn of events, squared her shoulders. "Since when can you take us both down like a pack of omegas?" she challenged.
I stared at my hands, my own surprise mirroring theirs. I was just Stiles, the human of the group—well, until recently. This surge of strength, this wasn't just about being a werewolf; it was something ancient, something potentially more dangerous.
"I...I don't know," I managed to say, the rush of my newfound abilities subsiding, leaving me shaking and utterly bewildered.
Scott pointed at the mark now pulsating on me with otherworldly energy. "Maybe it has something to do with that?"
And there was Derek, emerging from his corner of cool reserve, his voice betraying his concern. "We need to figure out what that mark is doing to you, Stiles. Peter mentioned Enochian's mark has powers, but that was something else."
The tightness in my throat made it difficult to respond as I simply nodded, staring at the luminous mark. The mystery of its origin had been one thing, but the depth of its secret power was something we were just beginning to uncover.
•
Derek's question lingered in the air as he watched Deaton prepare the ice bath, his anxiety palpable. He spoke up, tension evident in his tone, "You sure this is safe?"
Deaton responded with only a glance, the silent reassurance speaking volumes of his previous affirmations.
Stripping off my shirt, I sighed and approached Derek, coaxing him out to the hallway to give Deaton space.
"Remember when we did this for Isaac? For his memory lapse about the vault?" My voice was calm, and I reached out to gently squeeze his bicep in comfort. "I'll be okay, Derek. After all, wasn't it you who insisted it's crucial for us to learn about more about the mark?"
Derek hesitated, his conflicted gaze shifting from the daunting bath to meet mine. It felt like I was glimpsing a softer layer of Derek that he rarely let show—the armor of brooding and strength momentarily cast aside. He was my Sour Wolf, his tough exterior concealing a tender heart. The realization tightened my own chest.
My hand glided down to interlock our fingers, seeking connection.
After a moment, Derek's voice broke through his internal struggle, "I know." He looked down at our entwined hands, his thumb tracing comforting circles on my skin. "But the thought of what digging around in the memories of some strange primordial werewolf might do to you... the pain they could bring... I don't want that for you."
Words failed to convey everything I wanted to say, so I leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. The embrace was brief but intense, Derek's arms pulling me closer, before I reluctantly stepped back at Deaton's signal that the bath was ready.
"I'll be fine, Der. You'll be by my side, as always, right?" I murmured, cradling his cheek.
Derek closed his eyes, soaking in the moment. "Always," he murmured, his thumbs drawing soothing lines along my sides.
(AI wouldn't allow Stiles to be shirtless but ugh look at how he's looking at Derek🥹)
With a reluctant resolve, I walked towards the waiting bath, Derek close behind. Lydia's quizzical look didn't miss the blush on my cheeks as I approached the icy bath, herbs floating atop the water.
"Ready, Stiles?" Scott cut through the silence with an encouraging slap on the back.
"Let's do this," I replied, tensing at his firm pat.
I nodded to Deaton and gripped the edges of the tub, steeling myself before stepping in. I gasped as the chill enveloped me, water creeping up my skin. My teeth chattered while I settled in, Scott and Derek readying beside me, with Malia and Isaac poised to hold my legs.
"Timer's set for ten," Lydia announced from a corner.
"Remember, Stiles, unlike Isaac's search for lost memories, you're delving into your connection with Enochian," Deaton explained. "Tread carefully."
I nodded, my body shivering with cold and anticipation.
"Begin," Lydia instructed.
With that, Derek and Scott submerged me. I fought my instinct to surface, holding my breath, seeking tranquility amidst my urge to break free. Minutes soon passed, a fight brewed within me as I fought to surface. I felt them struggle to keep me submerged as the mark's power pulsed within me.
"It's not taking. We have to get him up," Scott's voice came muffled.
"Wait," Deaton commanded.
I kicked and thrashed but Derek's voice grounded me: "I'm here. Relax. Remember your anchor."
His words soothed me, and gradually my struggles ceased. The darkness at the edges of my vision bloomed, enveloping me, and I was cast into the familiar room of endless void from my dreams.
AN: This one is a bit shorter than the others but I wanted to meet my dead line. I got a bit stuck on how I wanted this chapter to go. But I hope y'all enjoyed it.