#and maybe medication to manage whatever the hell is killing my ability to commit to task to the point I get anxious about it...

[mwolf0epsilon]

Me: Man I should really finish all 13 of these artwork WIPS, get to writing that Spencer origins fic I've been wanting to share, edit that one silly Henry dream retelling into a proper fic, and maybe work on some proper refs for my TTTE OCs... Brain: You need to draw Mimic Scotsman like that one post about dogs when their eye-whites show... Me: Brain: You gotta.

[adhduck]

Chapter 3 of But I Can Hope How This Will End is now up, besties, and yes I have chosen violence 😌

AO3

CWs: canon-typical blue veins/disease content; accusation of ‘death wish’ implying suicidal ideation; canon-typical discussions/descriptions of injury, pain, death; several descriptions of blood; slight emetophobia; mentions of past trauma for Zolf; slightly in-depth descriptions of temporary first aid

With Wounds We Can Heal

Wilde almost never goes on missions; even before the curse blocked access to most of his combat skills, he wasn’t built to be an in-field agent. He’s a diplomat at heart, not a fighter, so there’s no need to risk getting him infected when the others can bring information safely back to him.

So when Wilde announces at breakfast one morning he’s going to a meeting, not just in-person but with someone they haven’t verified yet, Zolf is understandably upset.

“Since when do you have a bleeding death wish?” he demands, pushing his plate to the side.

Wilde remains perfectly, infuriatingly calm. “I will admit the risks are higher than usual, but if Mr. Douglas’ information is true, it will be both crucial and time-sensitive. We don’t have a week.”

“Well, isn’t that bloody convenient,” Zolf mutters.

“Does seem like a trap,” Carter agrees. “I mean, he just happens to have exactly what we need, and exactly the right urgency to not go through safety protocols? That’s classic untrustworthy stuff.”

“Which is why I’ve already put in safety measures myself. We will both come alone and unarmed. I made sure the meeting spot was neutral ground, something we couldn’t hide traps or snipers in. Nothing physical will be changing hands, so there won’t be a need for close contact. And just as with his initial report, any information I bring back will be verified before we commit to a next course of action.”

Barnes leans forward, drawing everyone’s attention in that subtle way of his. “What’s your plan if you get into combat? I know you said you’ll both come alone and without weapons, but that doesn’t mean he’ll actually follow that.”

“He knows I’m a talented magic user, and doesn’t know about the shackles, so that should intimidate him into not attacking. And if he does catch my bluff, and my excellent running shoes don’t do the trick—” Wilde shrugs, and Zolf’s hands curl into fists atop the table. “Well, I know I’m none of you, but I can hold my own just fine, I think.”

“Unless you show up and he shoots you right off the bat,” Zolf argues, trying very hard not to picture it. “Or he has a group with, like, invisibility spells or potions or somethin’, and they attack you all at once. Or—bloody hell, Wilde, or anything! There’s no reason to think this man is anything but a danger until he’s gone through quarantine, and even then, he could still be a- a regular ole dick who wants to kill you! You certainly made enough enemies before all this started.”

“Our job,” Wilde says coolly, though Zolf can see just a touch of tension forming in the corner of his jaw, “is to figure out how this blue vein scourge works and stop it. We are saving the world here. There’s no way to do that without a bit of risk.”

“Risk is one thing, but this is just plain stupid,” Zolf snaps back. “If you need the information, fine, whatever, let’s get it. But at least bring one of us with you.”

“That’s not the deal I made with Bo- Mr. Douglas.”

“And? Who says he won’t just break the deal and betray you first chance he gets?”

That, for some reason, brings down Wilde’s façade, but just for a moment—he’s covered it up almost as quickly as Zolf notices. “As I said before, I’ve already done some research on him and the information he presented as evidence of our meeting’s importance. If he’s still himself, not honoring the terms of our agreement will make him back out immediately. And if he’s infected, bringing someone else will almost certainly ensure a fight, and we cannot risk half of our group getting taken out in one go.”

Zolf is going to actually, truly strangle this man. “But we can risk you getting taken out?”

Wilde’s jaw tenses, releases. “We’ve all risked our lives for the cause. This is no different.”

“Yes, it is, because you’re relying on- on bloody trust when the world’s like this—”

The harsh scrape of Wilde’s chair being pushed back cuts Zolf off. Standing over them, Wilde looks every bit the rich, uncaring aristocrat Zolf thought he was all those months ago– save for that same tension in the corner of his jaw. “I’m trusting myself—my research, my insights, my diplomatic abilities.” He sweeps his eyes across the table, lands a few inches above Zolf’s head. “You can trust in me or not, I don’t care. I’m going either way.”

Zolf feels unmoored, suddenly. Like he missed something important, something he’s supposed to say or know. “Wilde—”

“Thank you for breakfast, Zolf,” Wilde says, and it almost hurts more that he sounds sincere. “I’ll be in my office if any of you need me.”

He turns and walks off, and all Zolf can think, a little nonsensically, is I do.

 Wilde leaves for his meeting the next morning, unarmored and alone, and Zolf is absolutely fine about it. Sure, he’s making more bread when he just made some yesterday; and sure, he rearranged the cell five times in some shitty wooden prosthetics because he couldn’t decide whether to put Wilde’s favorite blanket in there. And sure, when he tried to decide on a Campbell to read, he ended up with the only one he can’t read—a Gaelic translation of When Passions Collide Wilde once brought him. But it’s not- he’s just- it’s fine. He’s used to the people he cares about being in danger, and no matter how much he disagrees with Wilde, he does trust him.

So instead of going with Wilde, Zolf bakes bread.

The fussing gets him through the first day of Wilde’s three-day journey with only minimal stress-pacing. He cleans the inn on the second, doing an inventory of their supplies as he goes, and realizes they’re drastically lower on mundane medical supplies than they should be. To be fair, they rarely use them, as all the field agents can be healed magically, but it’s no excuse for this lack of upkeep, especially when Wilde could sustain any number of illnesses or injuries on his mission.

He brings it up to Barnes and Carter, and they agree it’s worth Barnes – who has both social skills and a sword – taking a trip to the village. Zolf gets a firm clap on the shoulder as a goodbye, which he returns with an awkward pat since their height difference doesn’t allow for much else. And for Carter, Barnes curls a hand around his neck and leans their foreheads together; not long enough to make Carter stay still, but long enough to loosen tension Zolf hadn’t noticed from his shoulders.

(Something in Zolf aches.)

Barnes is gone for maybe an hour before Carter gets too antsy to be around the inn and takes off for a run. Since there are no other visitors at the moment, that leaves Zolf alone in the inn besides the owner, who’s manning the bar, so he takes the opportunity to sit by the fire and flip through his Gaelic Campbell, trying to guess which scene is which. He’s doing pretty well, too, and then he spots Wilde’s favorite blanket hanging on the chair opposite him – he’d taken it out of the cell again this morning – and starts to feel the weight of the quiet. How it settles heavy on his heart and lungs, makes the space around him simultaneously cavernous and too small to move in. The deafening loneliness of it.

Zolf’s been around the block enough times to know when he’s starting to spiral, so he heads to the kitchen to make lunch. While he’s at it, he figures he can start prepping soup for tomorrow, which will be easiest on Wilde’s anxious stomach and convenient for leftovers. (Bread, too, but he’s already made far too much of that.)

He’s halfway through getting out the ingredients for miso when he hears the backdoor of the inn open, the muffled sound of his name being called, and his heart does a distinct, worryingly earnest oh.

It only takes thirty seconds to make it to the backdoor; just long enough for Zolf to concoct five or six ways to greet Wilde sans-touch, all of them horrible. Just say hello, you bloody idiot, he tells himself as he rounds the last corner, sees Wilde—

Oh.

There’s this feeling Zolf’s gotten a handful of times in his life, always right before disaster strikes—or after, sometimes, but just before he’s realized. When he kicked the tunnel’s support beam and heard a crack. A breath before he hit the water, already littered with debris and bodies from the ship that used to be his home. Waking in an unfamiliar lab with no legs and Sasha’s organs floating above her chest like some sort of horrible biology experiment. It’s a sort of…grounding feeling, but not in a settled way. Like the last moment before the earth crumbles beneath you, when you’re still on solid ground but somehow you know, you know, you’re about to fall.

Zolf sees Wilde, and he’s falling.

There’s blood—not deathly amounts of it, bleeding out wise, but he can’t tell where it’s from because Wilde’s currently facedown on the ground, weakly trying to pull himself onto his elbows. His clothes are torn, his bag of holding nowhere to be seen. A blood-soaked knife – the only weapon Zolf could convince him to bring – is clutched in one hand.

“Wilde,” Zolf says, and he’s underground again, he’s underwater again, he’s falling.

He starts forward, and Wilde flinches backwards with an alarming burst of energy. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

Zolf freezes, forces himself to take a breath. Of course. Wilde was out, he could be infected, they can’t touch. But that doesn’t mean Zolf is gonna let him bleed out. “What happened? Are you injured?”

Finally, Wilde manages to pull himself to his elbows, but hesitates there; he’s leaning all his weight to one side, so probably a broken leg.

“Meeting wasn’t a big hit,” Wilde chokes out, head hanging low; his voice sounds wrong, and not just from the obvious pain and exhaustion. It’s gargled, and sort of twisted up, like he’s got something lodged in the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah, I fuckin’ noticed, Wilde,” Zolf says. He’s not going to panic. Wilde’s going to be fine, because Zolf’s going to make sure he’s fine, because Zolf is absolutely not going to panic. “Can you walk?”

Wilde lifts his head to look Zolf in the eye, which reveals where a lot of the blood is coming from: there’s a deep wound across his cheek, cutting from below his eye to his chin and ripping through his mouth on the way. He spits some blood, heaves a breath that seems to hurt the whole way in and out. “I could until about thirty seconds ago, yes,” he manages. His arms are shaking; Zolf’s hand twitches.

“Put pressure on that cut, if you can,” he says, trying to sound calmly firm but mostly just sounding impatient. Wilde winces when presses a hand to the wound, but keeps it there. “Good. Now, we’re low on medical supplies, but we should at least have stuff to clean it and sew it back up.”

Wilde nods. “Once I’m in the cell.”

In a show of good bedside manner, Zolf doesn’t outwardly roll his eyes. “Bloody hell, Wilde, I can’t doctor you through the bars. It needs to be before.”

“Absolutely not.”

“I won’t be stupid about it. We’ve got gloves, I won’t touch you at all—”

“No,” Wilde growls, that fierceness rising up again. He breathes in and out, hard, and the anger settles, or at least contains itself. “We get me into the cell, and you work me through how to treat it myself. If I pass quarantine, we’ll do further medical procedures, and if not- well, it won’t matter, because you’ll have killed me.”

Zolf can’t help it; he flinches. “Fuck, Wilde, don’t—look, that cut is bad, okay? You might lose some facial functioning if it’s not treated properly. And if your leg’s broken, which I’m pretty sure it is, you could end up with a limp, or not being able to walk at all.” He winces. “Not- not that not being able to walk is wrong or somethin’, it’s just- I mean, we don’t exactly have the resources—”

He trails off, too panicked to keep track of his words, and realizes that Wilde is…smiling? It’s more of a grimace, but Zolf is almost sure that’s an attempt at a smile. What the fuck, Wilde. He doesn’t answer for a second, either, so Zolf adds, “Wilde? You with me?”

Wilde blinks, then schools his expression into something more formal, nodding seriously. “Your concerns are noted.”

“And?”

Wilde does a rather pitiful attempt at a shrug. “That’s it; I’ve noted them.” And then the absolute bastard starts trying to crawl.

“Poseidon’s soggy arse, Wilde, you’re not making it to the cell like that,” Zolf hisses, looking around for an alternate solution. Gods, why did Barnes and Carter have to leave at the worst possible time?

Spitting some more blood, Wilde bites back, “Well, I have to make it somehow, don’t I?”

“Yeah, but not like—oh, wait, I might have an idea. Stay- stay here.”

(Wilde gives him a particularly withering look at that, which, fair.)

After half a second of hesitation at the idea of leaving Wilde alone and bleeding, Zolf runs for the living area. Wilde’s blanket is still there, and Zolf starts to reach for it, then imagines it stained to ruin with blood, burned to ash as a precaution. He grabs the big quilt instead.

“Here,” Zolf says when he returns, a little out of breath as he presents the quilt. “I can just wrap you up and carry you downstairs.”

Wilde, who is currently trying to work himself into a half-sitting position, eyes the blanket like it’s a vial of bubbling green liquid. “I’m over twenty inches taller than you, Zolf.”

“And yet you weigh about as much as my glaive,” Zolf replies. Wilde still seems unsure, so he adds, “It’s either this or waiting for Carter to get back, and then we can risk two people getting you down there instead of one.”

A muscle ticks in Wilde’s jaw. “Fine. But you don’t touch any part of the quilt that has touched me.”

Zolf lays the quilt out for Wilde to push himself onto—a slow, painful process that has Zolf cursing the world for giving weight to Wilde’s stubborn paranoia. Once he’s settled, Zolf wraps the quilt around him much the way he imagines one would do for a child, focusing his tension into the curl of his fists so the rest of him can be gentle.

He recalls the first night he helped carry Wilde to bed, tucking him in (shoulders, waist, thighs) so he couldn’t wiggle free in the night. This isn’t what I meant, you idiot, he thinks, and pulls Wilde’s half-limp form into his arms.

It’s difficult going, mostly because of the aforementioned two dozen extra inches Zolf has to manage, which also makes it slow. A few times, when Zolf stumbles or is forced to shift his grip, Wilde winces and starts to curl against Zolf’s chest; he always catches himself, though, muffling the noise against the quilt instead. Still, Zolf can feel the ghost of Wilde’s labored breathing on his collarbone, his matted hair against the curve of Zolf’s shoulder. He wants to look at Wilde; he can’t bear to.

They make it to the cell and, miraculously, down the steps, at which point Zolf remembers his legs are, in fact, magical. “Ah, shit.”

Wilde stirs a little from where he’s been drifting in and out of consciousness. (Zolf aches.) “What- oh. Your legs.”

Zolf tightens his grip (shoulders, hips) and does as a small a shrug as he can manage. “Only a problem inside the cell itself. I’ll just go on my knees.”

He manages to grab the keys hanging by the stairs with two fingers, leans Wilde more onto his chest as he unlocks the door and pulls it open. When he drops slowly to his knees, Wilde’s heels and then calves touch the ground; this makes Wilde chuckle, which then makes him curl up in pain. His forehead brushes Zolf’s shirt before he manages to turn away.

“Almost there,” Zolf says, trying his damnedest to not sound shaky. He shuffles into the cell’s interior, suppressing a grimace at the sensation of his legs going dead, and gently lays Wilde down. Their eyes meet for a moment, then he shuffles back out and locks the door.

“All right, now keep up pressure on your face, and since we can’t elevate your leg yet, just try not to move it, all right? I need to grab supplies, so just- just don’t go anywhere, or somethin’.” Wilde manages a full glare, which is almost relieving. “Okay, yeah, I know, I just meant- just don’t- you know. Yeah.”

Wilde sighs, nods his head. “As long as you bring me some wine, too.”

“I’ll bring alcohol,” Zolf promises, “but it’s for the wound, not for drinking.”

This earns him a heavy, dramatic sigh, and Zolf lets himself a smile a bit before he heads back into the inn proper. A bard to the last, that one.

He’s pulling out the last of the supplies he needs – which is everything they have – when Carter gets back. He comes in the front door at least, thank gods; Zolf doesn’t want to have this discussion standing over a pool of Wilde’s blood. He intercepts Carter as he enters the seating area, ready to explain, but it’s not hard to guess: bundle of supplies in one arm, alcohol and pillow in the other, what’s sure to be a harrowing look on his face. (Not hard for Carter, anyway, who’s already too perceptive for his own good.)

“What happened?”

Zolf huffs out a steadying breath. “Meeting went wrong, Wilde came back early, he’s not doing well. Got ‘im to the cell, but.” He lifts his full arms awkwardly.

“Shit. Did they betray him?”

“Didn’t ask.”

He nods, frowning. “Yeah, fair enough. Should I—actually, you know what, you should have that covered right now, so I’ll take watch. Make sure nobody followed him.”

Zolf hadn’t thought of that, and he kicks himself for not being more careful. “Good plan. Thanks, Carter.”

“Yeah, of course,” he says; brushes his hand over Zolf’s shoulder, a half-pat, then he’s off again.

When Zolf makes it back to Wilde, he’s in almost the exact same position he was left in: wrapped in the blanket, barely conscious, keeping up a low hum of pain. “Hey,” he says gently, and Wilde stirs a little. “Time to patch you up, yeah?”

“Sorry,” Wilde replies, unfolding the blanket and easing himself into a sort of lounging position. There are clear streaks of tears down his face; his jaw is completely clenched.

“Ain’t gotta be,” Zolf says firmly, sliding the supplies through. “Let’s get the blood cleaned up, see what we’re working with.”

Wilde raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he takes the damp cloth and gets to work. A lot of the blood has dried already, coming off in flaky clumps as he wipes away the worst of the mess on his cheek. He’s incredibly delicate around the wound itself, but there’s a sharpness to each careful swipe across his jaw and chin that tells Zolf he’d be harsher if he had the energy to be.

His mouth is what Wilde gets to last, resoaking the rag for the third time to squeeze out the blood, and as he swipes the corner delicately over where his lips have been torn open, Zolf—gods, it’s horrible, it’s unforgivable, he shouldn’t even be acknowledging it. But in that moment, with Wilde hurt and half-conscious and maybe just days away from not even being Wilde anymore, Zolf thinks for the very first time: I think I want to kiss him.

“So?” Wilde says; Zolf startles, which at least gets a fond little exhale. “What’re we working with, oh mighty healer?”

“Um.” Zolf absolutely cannot look at Wilde right now, but he also has to. He compromises by squinting a little, blurring out everything that isn’t the problem at hand. “Yeah, uh, it’s—you’re definitely gonna need stitches, though I don’t know if you can handle that at the moment.”

Wilde glances down at his shaking hands; the movement briefly unbalances him. “You’re probably right—as much as it wounds me to say it.”

It’s unclear whether that was intended as a pun, and Zolf’s not in the mood to find it funny either way, so he just nods. “We’ll just have to temporarily close it, then.”

Thinking of a way to do this takes several minutes, during which Wilde cleans the wound with an alcohol-soaked rag and a worrying lack of complaints. Finally, what Zolf figures out is to take a piece of surgical tape that’s slightly too small and stretch it across the cut so it’ll pull the sides together, trimming the middle part so it doesn’t stick to the wounded skin. He has to guide Wilde through some complex extra wrapping to stop it from peeling off without covering up his eyes, mouth, or nose; it ends up looking rather ugly and pins Wilde’s snarled hair to his head, but it seems to help.

They clean up a couple other scrapes and gashes Wilde didn’t mention earlier – there’s one on the side of his ribcage, shallow but terrifying with its intent – and then get to his leg. With Zolf unable to examine the injury properly, he can’t confirm what the exact issue is, but it’s not grisly, so Zolf walks Wilde through a basic wrapping and tells him to elevate it on the overstuffed pillow he brought. “We’ll need to do more when you’re out, of course,” he adds. “But right now your job is just to sleep.”

It says a lot about Wilde’s current state that his only response to that is curling up on the blood-soiled blanket, perching his leg awkwardly on the pillow, and falling asleep within seconds. Even with the accompanying ease of tension, he looks awful: clothes ripped and dirty, left trouser leg sheared off from the thigh down for the cast, a mummy-like arrangement of surgical tape crisscrossing his overly pale and pink-stained face.

But he’s also alive, and Zolf allows himself a shaky exhale at the knowledge. Puts his face in his hands when that breath threatens to quicken, focuses on the divine warmth in his chest until the panic fades. He looks back at Wilde, his hand resting delicately beside his face, a few locks of hair obscuring his cheek, and there it is again, that feeling—that terrifying, horribly-timed feeling that prickles at the tips of his fingers and in the pit of his stomach, that stretches languidly in his chest like a stray cat who’s decided to stick around. That makes him hope for something he doesn’t even have a name for.

Fuck.

[scars-of-the-hart]

Tempest on the Shore: Shakarian angst on the Citadel

Her legs had finally stopped trembling. Shit. Shepard tried to hold onto the last tendrils of the woozy, tingling, mind-wiping high.  But it was like trying to hold water in cupped hands, it slipped away through the cracks no matter how tightly she tried to hold it, leaving emptiness behind. And the emptiness was loud. She let out a frustrated sigh and rolled over shifting to the edge of the bed, remembering exactly where she had dropped her pants and tank top. She hadn’t bothered with underwear for this in ages. 

“Um...excuse me?” Demanded the salarian in the bed pressing himself up onto his elbows.

Shepard gave him a puzzled frown.

The salarian (he had a name but she’d intentionally failed to commit it to memory) imperiously raised a scaled brow at her. “What the hell was that?”

“What?”

“That noise you made.”

“What noise?”

“You sighed.”

“Oh...um did I?”

The salarian scowled at her. “Yes, you did. Look honey, I don’t know what your problem is but two hours with me will not result in the most quad-rung overstimulated krogan feeling dissatisfied so you better get that little viscous crack looked at.” He narrowed his eyes at her, and cast a disgusted look between her legs. “Because it is the problem. Not. Me.”

Shepard just stared at him. She was tempted to pay him double because she was close to laughing, which was more of a service than anything he’d done in this bed. But the spark went out as quickly as it had come. 

She shook her head as she tucked a hand between her legs. Not too wet. Manageable for the walk back to the Normandy. That was the handy thing about salarians. The females created enough moisture of their own that the blokes were pretty dry in the bed. As she pulled her pants on she gave the salarain a hard look. “I appreciate that you take so much pride in your work, but you're worrying your giant head over nothing. You were great. Thanks.” He still looked pissed as hell. She vaguely tried to care, but just couldn’t.  “Keep to working with people's bodies, you’ve got no natural ability with their heads.”  She pulled her tank on, bound her tangled mane of red hair in a messy bun on top of her head, crossed to the door and waved her omnitool across the payment console. It registered her transfer of credits and the door clicked as it unlocked and hissed open. She gave the salarian a mocking salute as she left.

“See you in two weeks, freak.” He called after her, his voice full of venom.

She tried to ignore it. She wouldn't be back, she lied to herself as she made her way along the wards. The streets were wet from the rain that had been falling before she started her session with the salarian. The layer of moisture almost made this part of the Citadel beautiful. There was something about the extended blur of the neon lights that made them romantic, instead of just... seedy.  

 A human who passed her made the mistake of eyeing the motion of her breasts under her tank and she gave him a look that told him exactly what kind of retribution that attention merited. He turned instantly pale and hastily turned down a different street. She should care-about the way he had looked, or his reaction or...or anything.  She pushed away that thought as she tried to push away every other, shifting her focus to the way walking made her recently stimulated vagina feel. She shifted her stride, trying to stir any lingering feelings of pleasure, to tease out a last rush of dopamine, but it wasn’t working. Between the bitchy salarian, and the oggloing tool...or maybe it was just her. Just the empty, broken, piece of shit she was.   She glanced at the time on her omnitool. She had half an hour before the end of their shore leave. Fuck. She could be fast but that wasn’t going to give her enough time for a session with anything if she wanted to avoid judgmental looks from Miranda and the Cerberus goons for coming back late when she was the one who had threatened to depart without any stragglers. 

You know what, fuck it. I didn’t ask to come back from the dead. 

She pulled up the booking page that had become the top listing for her “frequently used” extranet sites, and started typing in her preferences. Doesn’t matter if I pay for a full session and only use a few minutes. What am I gonna do with credits when the Reapers get here? Try to pay them off?  She filled out the request sheet as she walked: either gender, cunnelingus.  There literally wasn’t time to fuck around with penetration. Species. The form asked. Shepard grunted impatiently, didn’t really matter, she just needed something waiting for her when she got to the back rooms of Chora’s Den.  She selected turian by accident, and then physically collided with one. 

Shepard rubbed her forehead where it had collided with the offending turian’s armor as pain lanced through her head. Ok, any lingering effects of the salarian generated dopamine were definitely gone now. She glowered up at the mandabled idiot she had run into, preparing a curt, ufelt apology, and fell silent as she caught sight of the glow of a blue visor. 

SHIT

“Commander…” Garrus’ browplates furrowed as he stared at her in surprise. Shepherd’s mind went completely blank as she just stared at him. His crystalline eyes widened in concern and more than a little shock. A steadying hand went to her arm and his rough tipped fingers round her brow, testing gently.  “Are you...I’m sorry I should have-”

Shepherd’s gut clenched and she quickly brushed away his hands. “Been watching where the fuck you were going. Yeah. Work on that.” His head cocked ever so slightly at her harsh tone, his eyes narrowing a fraction.  

“I’m sorry, Shepard.” His mandibles flared in irritation. “I was endeavoring to make it back to the Normandy as you-”

“-yeah, well if you're that careless while carrying out an order you're not gonna last two minutes against the Collectors.” She snapped.  His eyes narrowed further, every calculating thought clear in those eyes. Fucker. Shepard though. Her stomach clenched. She didn’t have time for this. She didn’t have the energy or the...anything, for this. “ I’ll have to put what’s left of your cold ass carapace in a box.”

And then she saw his chin set: slightly raised, head tilted ever so slightly to the right. His pissed off defensive posture. She was too tired and empty and furious and stressed and scared and- 

Shepard turned on her heel and started stomping towards the nearest tram station that would lead her to the Citadel docks.

“Yeah,” Garrus called after her, “if you can still afford a box and you haven’t spent every last Cerberus credit at Chora’s.”

Ice shot down her spine. She stopped, turned slowly and stared at the turian.  “Excuse me, Vakarian?”

His chin was still set. “I’m sorry, is there something inaccurate in my assessment?” He drawled.

She hadn’t ever been followed...not that she cared if she had, you just didn’t survive the shit she did and remain capable of not checking for tails and hostels and whatever.  She didn’t care. She shouldn’t care. Why would she care if he knew? Especially if it was Garrus. Garrus who had gotten his whole crew killed. Garrus who’s medical chart after taking a rocket to the face had shown just what crap the turian had been pouring into his body (well...Moria wasn’t going to point fingers there..unless certain taloned fingers were already pointing at her), but that wasn’t the point why should she care? Except he shouldn’t know.

She gritted her teeth. “I would say there is as I have no idea what you are talking about.”

His eyes were cold as they narrowed. He casually lifted the hand that had, only minutes ago, brushed tenderly against her forehead, and sniffed it. His nostrils flared. “Salarian. Human sweat, yours, by the way, we’ve spared enough for me to recognize it. “

“Oh, fuck you, Vakarian.” She spat. “I probably smell like you, dipshit, after running into you. Who the fuck do you think you are throwing accuzations at your commanding officer?”

“You do smell like me.” Garrus snarled, “but it's different, and there's also a little krogan, asari and batarian-” she opened her mouth to snarl at him but he spoke over her “-not that those are from today, or you, not quite in the same way as the salarian. My guess is those scents are left over from whoever else was in the room before you.”

Rage washed through ther. “If you want to get back on my ship you’ll shut that pincushion of a mouth right now.”

Garrus’ nostrils flared, and she didn't think it had anything to do with him smelling her this time. “You asked me to come aboard!”

“Yeah,” Shepard snarled, “and I remember someone saying that he couldn’t exactly doubt my judgement.”

“That was before you were fucking everything and anything on the wards.”

It was like the world bottomed out around her. Nothing existed but his eyes and those words. She saw fear flash through them for a second, before being replaced by that same rage as before. 

“And what the hell makes you think what I fuck is any of your goddamn business?”

There was some hurt in the rage. “Because I’m your friend Shepard.”

“Yeah. Friend. And crew. Neither of which has anything to do with the personal choices I make.”

“Look,” he said, “taking on the Collectors, everything with the Council, coming back from the dead I get that its a lot to deal with-”

Heat rushed through her cheeks. “And I'm dealing with it so back the hell off.” 

“You’re being reckless there’s-”

Why was this happening? Why was she having this conversation? Why did it matter- she shoved the thoughts a way and glared at him. “Don’t talk to me about “being reckless” Archangel.”

It was a direct hit. Garrus blinked, a different type of pain in his expression. Shepherd’s gut twisted. It was a low blow. A fucking dirty low blow. 

He looked away from her, staring out at the skycars soaring past the walkway, then gave her a long look out of the corner of his eye.  “You are reckless in the field. You are tense on the ship. Its behavior I recognize. I was there recently, as you have so kindly reminded me.”

She wanted to say something. But she didn’t. She just held his gaze.

He slowly closed the difference between them, staring down at her. She refused to give ground: she didn’t move her chin an inch, and continued to glare up at him. He tilted his head so that he could meet her gaze and said slowly. “I don’t care who you fuck.” They were inches apart. “I care why you make bad calls when you know there are better ones.” She couldn’t breathe. His long slow breaths tickled her nose. “You asked for my help.” The challenge in his eyes made her blood sing. “So I’m going to call you on your bullshit, Shepard.” 

He’d been the one to support her after Eden Prime. Someone who had seen through Saren’s lies on his own. The one she wanted on her side on every mission. The only one who hadn’t questioned her using Cerberus…An feelings the salarian had left in her body were gone, the vague numb bliss replaced with the electric currents those eyes sent racing through her. She was rooted to the spot and ready to rush him all at once. She wanted her hands on him, to tear, to push against that immovable impossible weight and solidness of him. That was what she wanted. She wanted something real, something strong, something constant, something she could unleash herself against without fear. Her lips parted as a breath escaped them, crashing against his like a wave. 

But something broke the spell between them and Garrus pulled back. “No one on that ship is in their right mind.” He said quietly. “I have a feeling we’re all going to have to grapple with spirits that haunt us if we want a shot at taking the fight to the Collectors and coming back in one piece.”  He gave her a last long slow look. “But I think you need to figure out what the hell you're actually fighting for.” And with that he turned away, walking towards the docs without so much of a backwards glance. His crest cast a long shadow on the ground in the slowly dimming lights of the Citadel promenade, and Shepard felt herself fall into darkness as it slipped away.

[peonybane]

Agape And Pragma: Prologue

Pairings: OT7 (BTS) x Reader

Word Count: 1.9 k (damn this is short)

Genre: Hybrid AU, Fluff, Angst, Sci-Fi, Smut (maybe)

Summary: Your entire world had be torn asunder by just one lab test. Time heals all wounds, but does it really? What will it take to feel whole again?

Warning: Mentions of cheating, loss of fertility and it’s psychological consequences.

Hybrid Types: Golden Retriever Hoseok, Great Dane Taehyung, and French Lop Eared Rabbit Jungkook... with more to come.

a/n: So, I wrote roughly 10,000 words of this whole thing in one day. This was not suppose to be my first published series, but here we are. The prologue is VERY angsty, but I do think it’s important enough to read as it gives context for everything else.

It was about 60 years ago, the U.N. approved of the Genetic Freedom Initiative. The GFI was meant to set the standard in morality in human genetic research worldwide, allowing researchers to explore every lead… no matter where it took them. But the opposite was achieved— it destroyed the any shed of scientific ethics left in that field. 

At first, it was thought that the initiative would open the doorway to the genetic advancement of the human species for the better. Imagine, genetic diseases just gone. Cystic Fibrosis? Wiped out. Hemophilia? A thing only read about in text books. Tay-Sachs disease? Never heard of it. Even things like Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, while not necessarily life threatening, became a distant memory. 

Then came the genetic modifications to ‘improve’ the individual. You want your child to be a musical progeny? Here’s a genetic mutation that will increase their ability to differentiate tone and increase hand eye coordination. Want your child to be an Olympic swimmer? Here’s the genetic cocktail for a long wing span and an increase in lung capacity.

Initially, the world thought that genetic modification would not gain much traction as how costly it was. But all that changed when a team of scientists in Japan created not only a new, cheaper alternative to testing for certain genes, with a 97% positive identification rate, but also a method of implementing the genetic modifications with 95% success rate. Sweden was the first country to take this new method and basically gave the tests out for free to expecting couples to see if their child would be born with a life threatening condition. Sweden then heavily subsidized the procedure to alter the baby’s DNA if the parent or parents wished for it. This quickly made it affordable, not just the modification to prevent diseases, but also the ‘improvements.’

The rest of the world soon followed.

It’s funny. Every genocide in history is birth from two things: good intentions and arrogance.

Humanity thought that because it could take control of its destiny— of nature…. We were arrogant. We believed we could play God and throw the rules that were put into place, the rules that were put into place to protect us, back in Mother Nature’s face. Oh how devastating were the consequences. 

After the ‘improvements,’ came the perverting of genetic modification. ‘Enhancements,’ they were called. The modifications were to improve us, and at first they truly were. Better eyesight borrowed from falcons. Sense of balance from cats. Scientists dabbled in bats’ sense of hearing.

Because of the new Genetic Alteration Boom, no one loud enough took a moment to stop and ask, “Is this right? Should we slow down?”

If they had… the genocide could’ve been prevented.

When the first, ‘enhanced’ babies were born, there was an unintended consequence: their appearance was slightly altered to resemble whatever animal their DNA was spliced with (these features having not been noticed on ultrasounds as they were either still underdeveloped or were written off as shadows). Even as scientists tried to keep the results under wraps, knowing that things would not end well, it was already too late. The world was taken by ‘Hybrid Fever.’

Everyone wanted their children to have cute rabbit ears. Or the graceful legs of a gazelle. Or have the wings of an owl. Or the gils of a shark. It didn’t matter. Ethics had died.

Almost 20 years after the first Hybrid was born, Humanity finally discovered the consequences of playing God: a fourth of the world’s population was infertile, all of them Hybrids. 

Generations had been lost. Capable, loving people were robbed of a joy. All because of Humanity’s desire to play God.

When the news came out that Hybrids were infertile, the genetics industry practically committed suicide. The only remnants left appear to be only… government experiments and black market dealings. What are they doing in th—

You stopped reading. Why the hell did Liam think this would be something you’d be interested in reading? Sure you were interested in his field of work but come on. This was depressing as hell and honestly, you knew most of this from your parents.

There was a knock on the door. “Come in.”

In stepped the doctor and you put your phone away, still seething a little at the article your best friend had sent you.

“Hello, how you today, ma’am? Good to see you again.”

“You too, Dr. Yoon. I’m fine, though I was a bit surprised to receive your office’s call to come in. I thought you usually did consultations on the phone?”

The smile on Dr. Yoon’s face died. She became stiff and the air became heavy. She took a moment and pursed her lips. “I’m sorry.”

Dr. Yoon handed you a paper. It had your lab results as well as your pap smear results. You looked at the numbers and the write-ins. No… this couldn’t be right. It couldn’t be! “W-What is this? This isn’t what… I think it is? Is it?”

“Your fallopian tubes have been severely damaged. I don’t think we can fix it.”

“W-Why— What caused this?”

“In your case we think it’s pelvic inflammatory disease… your general practitioner misdiagnosed it was an UTI… but it wasn’t. You only exhibited symptoms similar to UTI. And your GP took your word that you and your partner are exclusive. I think you had chlamydia. But the antibiotics killed it, but not before it reached your fallopian tubes.”

“B-But h-how could… how could’ve I gotten it? My boyfriend and I have been together for two years. And we were clean when started having sex. We went to the same clinic together to get tested!”

But deep down you knew… you knew Taka had been lying to you. Been lying about the business trips. About the late nights at work… all those weekends spent at the office. You just accepted it because… because you just wanted him to be happy. Besides, you were used to being alone. Why would this be any different?

You wanted to be angry, you really did, but all you could do is mourn the loss of your children… children that would never be. The children that you’d been looking forward to almost forever. You had always believed that love and life were the greatest things in the world… how could you not want children… but that dream… that dream now laid dead. 

Dr. Yoon placed her hand on your shoulder. “Is there anyone you want me to call? I don’t want you to be alone right now.”

You shook your head. “No… no I have someone I can call.”

“Alright, dear. Let me know if there’s anything else I can do.”

She nodded her as she stepped out of the room. Immediately, you pulled out your phone, dialing the one number you could think of. You waited a few moments before you heard the familiar voice, “Hey, Shortstack, you miss me?”

“Li—“ you paused taking a deep breath. “Liam? Can you come pick me up?”

The usual playful tone was gone. “Shortstack? What’s wrong?”

“I’m at the OB/GYN. Could you please just come get me.”

You heard the jingle of keys in the background. “What’s wrong? Where’s Taka? Why isn’t he with you?”

All too quickly and sharply, you replied, “Fuck Taka!”

There was a pause. “I’ll be there in 15. Hang tight.”

You hummed a sound on confirmation. Liam cut the call and you left the examination room. After paying for your visit, she sat waiting for Liam, your results clutched in your hand, the other unconsciously rubbing the spot on your stomach where life should’ve been created. You were like a seesaw, swinging between anguish and numbness. Your mind granting you spells of blankness, no thoughts in your head. Nothing to bury yourself even further. 

When Liam picked you up, he managed to pry the results from your hand, the look on your face making it evident that you were in no mood to talk about what was wrong. Looking over the results (being medically trained had its advantaged), Liam cursed, scaring the bejesus out of a pair of old ladies. “I’m going to fucking kill him.”

Before Liam could do anything else, you latched onto his jacket. He looked down at you and into your hollow eyes. “C-Can I stay at your place, just for tonight?”

“Shortstack, you can stay as long as you want. Let’s go.”

You nodded, letting Liam guide you to his car. Once in the car, you let you head rest on the doorframe, closing your eyes as the world around you both whizzed by. 

Once you were at Liam’s place, he guided you into the house. Nothing could shake you out of you stupor, not even the excited sounds of one of Liam’s roommates, Hoseok. He shouted your name in glee, having not seen you in what felt like ages. Before Liam could protest, Hoseok pulled you into a hug, his fluffy tail wagging at a million miles per hour as it smacked against the verdana in the entry way. 

When you didn’t hug back like you normally did, Hoseok pulled away from you, looking down at your face in concern, his tail drooping down and his ears folding back against his head.

“Hobi, why don’t you take her to the couch and start a movie? I think it’s a movie and puppy pile night tonight.”

Hoseok was about to open his mouth to inquire, especially since Taka didn’t like it when they did puppy pile night, so they stopped doing it. Liam shook his head, telling him no silently— that he’d explain later. Liam headed towards the kitchen, getting a tub of ice cream ready.

As Hoseok guided you to living room, he had you sit down. He helped you remove your shoes and wrapped you in a blanket. You were in too much shock to be much of any help. After settling down next to you and pulling you into cuddle (where you proceeded to finally relax), the front door opened and two voices could be heard entering, both wondering where that salty acidic smell was coming from. Liam intercepted them and told them to go join the puppy pile. A few moments later (after removing their shoes and jackets), the other two Hybrids entered the room. The sight before them ensuring that there was to be no questions at the moment.

Jungkook walked over and joined you on your other side from Hoseok, letting his long floppy ears cushion his head against your shoulder as he wrapped his arm around your waist, little cotton tail twitching as he finds a comfortable position to be in. Taehyung join the fold, sitting down on the ground in front of the couch, resting his cheek against your lap, whimpering lowly as he stroked your knee. You slowly brought your hand to his floppy ears, rubbing them. He let out a content sigh, his tail lightly thrumming against the floor. 

The tension in the room began to dull… and the tears started to fall silently. The boys just sat there, surrounding you in their love and comfort, not knowing what was causing you this grief. 

Liam stood in the doorway, leaning against it, watching you all. His heart was breaking for you. There were two things that you wanted nothing more in the world: to be someone’s one and only, and to have children. Both of those dreams were cruelly taken from you.

As always, reviews, comments, asks, and tags are always loved! ~Peony

Next (Chapter 1) --->

Agape and Pragma Masterlist

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All rights reserved. © Copyrighted 2019.

[graciebirdie]

The Sun, The Moon, And The Stars Part 3

Oh my god you guys this section/chapter/whatever really kicked my ass. It turned into a crime procedural? Just fyi all the legal stuff is from tv so...

Part one here / part two here

Peter had to admit, he was mildly impressed with Derek’s other two betas. They, at least, had the ability to think on their feet and the common sense not to bring up werewolves when dealing with humans.

He had actually laughed out loud when he realized they were carefully painting Gerard as racist.

The best part was that he could hear their heartbeats and they weren’t even lying. Apparently, Gerard had been less than subtle in the way he interacted with them. Good. That meant that there would be witnesses that would be able to corroborate their stories.

Nobody liked a racist. Especially one that was so blatant he would abduct an underage interracial couple. If this went to trial the jury would definitely side with the kids who were charismatic, believable and, so far, smart liars. The perfect combination as far as Peter was concerned.

Peter waited through Stiles being checked by the paramedics and listened to his heartbeat skitter around like a terrified animal. Stiles was lying through his teeth about his injuries.

Peter was quite confused by Stiles’ behavior. Why didn’t he let them check him completely? Was he afraid of being seen as weak by his father?

No, that couldn’t be it because he was whining loudly about his nose hurting.

Maybe he disliked hospitals? That might be it. Peter could definitely understand, he hated hospitals.

Maybe he was just worried about the cost of going to the hospital. Peter could remember the exorbitant fees when his… He pushed that thought away.

There was something wrong while Stiles. Not just physically. There was something mentally wrong, some reason why he needed to put others before himself.

It sounded to Peter like Stiles was the type to put his only family member above himself and refuse medical attention if it meant he wouldn’t stress out his father.

This new insight into Stiles just reinforced how much Peter wanted him on his side and gave him a better idea of how to do that. If Peter could show Stiles that he could both take care of Stiles and the people Stiles cared about then he would start to trust Peter.

But Stiles’ trust was hard won and he would probably only have one real chance to gain it. If he messed up, Stiles would never trust him and might even kill him, if Stiles thought it would be for the benefit of the pack.

Now Peter just had to figure out how to convince someone who didn’t easily trust that Peter was dependable. And it wouldn’t be easy, Peter had already attacked Stiles and two of the people he cared about.

Peter had a lot of work ahead of him…

***

Once Stiles and his father had driven off without incident Peter felt confident that the Kanima problem had been properly taken care of. He just had to find his nephew to confirm it.

Peter mildly regretted crushing his phone but it had been the best move at the time. He decided a howl would work well enough to find them. He made his way into the woods before throwing his head back and calling for his nephew who was not his alpha. Derek might have done the noble thing, killing Peter to stop him, but Peter would never be able to submit to someone who had killed him.

A shaky and weak howl answered his. Definitely not Derek or Scott. It must have been Derek’s vicious twiggy beta.

He followed it out to the old house.

There was he found a very grumpy looking Derek, an incredibly pleased Scott, a bored looking stick, a crying Lydia, and a very naked Jackson.

He eyed Lydia and Jackson in interest. Blood was smeared across Jackson’s back and Lydia was clinging to his front.

“So, I take it everything went well?” he asked, very interested to see if he had been right about how to defeat the Kanima.

Derek ignored him completely while Scott just glared.

It was Derek’s little bean poll that answered. “Derek and I killed him but he got back up and was all wolfed out.” He shrugged. It didn’t seem like he found the situation very interesting.

“Did Lydia say something to him before hand?” Peter asked, intrigued.

The boy shrugged again. “I guess.”

Well, that was good enough for Peter. He supposed all in all it hadn’t been the worst day. Nobody had died, which was a little unfortunate, but Peter decided it was a very good start to his dedication to turn over a new leaf.

“Well, if anyone’s interested Gerard was arrested.” That certainly got everybody’s attention. At lease there was a lot of exclamations of disbelief.

Derek growled and grabbed the front of Peter’s shirt. “What the hell did you do?”

Peter shoved him away and straightened his shirt. “Just my civic duty, nephew.”

Scott was doing a great impression of a flailing Stiles while Isaac, Lydia, and Jackson looked annoyed.

Derek growled some more. “What did. You do?”

Peter sighed and rolled his eyes. “I found Stiles and called the police.”

Scott squawked in indignation. “You called Stiles’ dad? Stiles is going to kill you!”

“No, I called the police. And they found Stiles and Derek’s two other little betas in Gerard’s basement so the police did their job and arrested him.” Peter was surrounded by idiots.

Isaac looked shocked. “Boyd and Erica? Are they alright?”

“Yes, they’re fine.” Unlike Stiles, but nobody had asked about him yet.

Derek was still growling. It was really starting to get old. “Where are they? How did Gerard even get them in the first place?”

“Oh, I don’t know Derek. Gerard’s a hunter, how does he get anyone?” Scott was still seething. “I can’t believe you called Stiles’ dad! Why didn’t you tell us where they were?”

Peter wondered if Stiles would get mad if he killed Scott. Probably best not to risk it. “Because Stiles is human and his father is the sheriff. It was the best possible way to distract Gerard while the Kanima was being taken care of. And it had the added bonus of making Gerard not our probable anymore.”

Scott still wasn’t getting it. “But you involved Stiles’ dad with this stuff! You can’t do that!”

The temptation to kill Scott was getting harder to resist. Peter was going to have to leave soon. “Scott, Gerard is a human who made to the mistake of kidnapping the sheriff’s son. He was practically begging to be arrested. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go before I kill all of you.”

He turned and stomped off, towards the person who would hopefully understand his motives.

Peter couldn’t believe these people.

Derek was supposed to be an alpha. He should have cared, at least a little bit about a pack-adjacent human.

And Scott. Stiles’ best friend. His only concern was Stiles’ father. Of course, the sheriff was Stiles concern, too. It must have rubbed off onto Scott. But that just made Peter even angrier. Scott should have been able to see what Stiles was doing and taken care of him.

Neither one had asked about Stiles and they had seemed incredibly angry that Peter had managed a peaceful solution to one (or two depending how it was counted) of their problems.

As for Lydia, Jackson, and Isaac, they were nonentities as far as Peter was concerned. He could not care less about them.

Lydia had done her part in bring Peter back from the dead so he had no more use of her. And Stiles would more assuredly get mad if Peter bothered her again, anyway.

Jackson was so used to be in charge he was going to make a terribly uncooperative beta werewolf. Peter didn’t even have any sympathy for Derek. The boy deserved it for acting rashly. He should have learned from Peter’s mistakes with Scott.

Jackson and Stiles despised each other while Lydia pretended Stiles didn’t exist. Until she wanted something from him, that is. Peter knew the way Lydia’s mind worked. If she got her hands Stiles she would chew him up and spit back out someone completely different. Someone that wouldn’t even be Stiles anymore.

And Isaac had managed to both helpful and unhelpful at the same time, a juxtaposition Peter would normally find interesting but he’d gotten the sense that Stiles and Isaac were indifferent to each other so until Stiles told Peter to worry about Isaac Peter was going to ignore him.

Peter didn’t care about Derek and his little pack anymore. He was done with them. They weren’t his pack and he didn’t want them to be.

Actually, Peter was done with packs altogether. His first pack, his family, had been afraid of him because he didn’t mind getting his hands dirty, if it meant keeping them safe.

But they hadn’t been able to understand him or his motives and had always been worried he’d snap and kill them all. Or, at least, that’s what Talia had been afraid of.

His second pack had just been a complete disaster. One accidental beta that hated him and wanted to kill him and his nephew who hated him and had actually killed him.

Yes, Peter was done with packs. He needed to find a way to stop himself becoming an omega without them. Stiles on his own might be enough, once Stiles accepted Peter, but the idea didn’t sit quite right. Peter was very weak still and having no pack would just make him weaker. He needed to be strong if he was going to prove to Stiles that he could take care of him.

Peter needed to be an alpha again. But he didn’t want to kill his nephew even if

Peter wanted nothing to do with him. Committing parricide four times was probably excessive. Plus, he was trying to convince Stiles he was trustworthy. Killing Derek to become an alpha would only make Stiles distrust him more.

He needed some way to become an alpha without killing anyone.

He thought of the sharp boy-wolf-earth-magic smell of Stiles. He thought of a ritual he’d once read. If he could find the book with the ritual and convince Stiles it was a good idea maybe, just maybe he’d be able to become an alpha again and bind Stiles to him at the same time. It was at the very least, worth a try.

*** Peter went to the sheriff’s station first. It was late but the sheriff was probably still working and he would almost definitely be keeping Stiles close by.

Peter settled outside the view of the security cameras and listened.

He heard people moving around and talking about paperwork. He heard people crying. And someone excessively coughing.

He heard the sheriff speaking. “Let me see if I understand this correctly. You want me to not arrest Chris and Allison Argent for the assault and abduction of minors? You do realize I have over whelming evidence and very reliable witness statements, right? Why would I just ignore all of that?”

A man’s voice that Peter didn’t recognize spoke next. “Because Sheriff, my client will be willing to plead guilty to all charges. As long as his son and granddaughter are not charged and Mr. Argent is placed in a medical institution. The man has stage four lung cancer. He wouldn’t live long enough to stand trial.”

Well, wasn’t that an interesting development. Gerard was dying. That would probably explain some of his rasher decisions. Like trying to destroy the sheriff’s station and then killing someone right outside of it. Gerard was going off the rails because he was afraid of his own mortality.

Peter snorted. And then he laughed so hard he doubled over and had to hold his stomach when it started to ache from the laughter.

He tried to get himself back under control because the sheriff was talking again and Peter wanted to hear what he had to say. “I don’t need your client to plead guilty. Like I already told you we have a rock-solid case against him.”

The other man, assumedly Gerard’s lawyer huffed. “By witness do you mean your delinquent son? He would hold up on the stand.”

Peter could tell the sheriff was trying to sound calm when he spoke again. “I personally found your client in his basement with my son’s blood on his fists and two sixteen-year-olds tied up to a machine that was electrocuting them. I have more than enough evidence. I’m not taking a deal.”

The lawyer sighed. “Well, we’ll just have to see what the DA has to say about you having such an obvious personal connection to this that’s clouding your judgment.”

The sheriff actually growled at that. It was even a little impress, for a human. “I guess we will.”

Peter heard a chair scrap across the floor and then a door opening and closing.

There were a few minutes of normal late-night office noises before Peter heard the sheriff speaking again.

“Sorry to be the one to tell you this Jason but your boss just cut a deal. He’s got cancer and he’s throwing you under the bus so he can go to a nice cushy hospital and get free treatment.”

“What?! No, Mr. Argent wouldn’t do that! He doesn’t have cancer! You’re lying!” Presumably Jason was one of the seven heartbeats Peter had heard at the Argent’s house.

“It’s true. You haven’t noticed the way he’s been coughing lately?”

“But he’s just…got a cold?” Peter had to assume this man was a complete idiot.

“How long has he this cold, Jason?” And apparently the sheriff agreed with Peter.

“Look man, Mr. Argent’s been good to me. He wouldn’t just sell me out. He’s loyal.” Peter snorted. An Argent was only loyal to themselves.

The sheriff sighed. “You’re right. You caught me Jason. Gerard didn’t cut a deal-”

“Ah-ha! I knew it!” Jason crowed, interrupting the sheriff.

“You didn’t let me finish. He didn’t make a deal for you. He made a deal to save his son and granddaughter. He told me that this was all your idea. The one that decided to abduct Vernon Boyd and Erica Reyes. And my son.” There was a long moment of silence before the sheriff spoke again. “Now why do you think he’d say that, Jason?”

Jason didn’t say anything so the sheriff kept going.

“You do realize that you’re going to jail for abducting three minors, don’t you?”

Jason suddenly started yelling. “Those three pieces of shit?! How can you care about them when they’re not even human?!”

Peter made a mental note to congratulate the two betas on a job well done. The sheriff didn’t suspect werewolves and the hunters were just talking themselves into a hate crime. It was pretty perfect. Peter could very easily picture the sheriff leaning back in his chair with his arms crossed over his chest and satisfied look on his face. “So he’s telling the truth? It was your idea?”

“NO! I wanted to just kill them but Mr. Argent said that it would be better if we used them as-” Jason cut himself off, no doubt starting to realize he’d made a mistake.

“So, you wanted to kill three teenagers but Gerard Argent wanted to use them for something? What did he want to use them for?”

Jason didn’t reply so the sheriff kept talking.

“Jason you have to help yourself here. If you don’t tell me exactly what happened the Argents’ are going to get away with this and you and your friend Todd are going to be left taking all of the blame. Gerard is dying, Allison is seventeen and just lost her mother, and Chris just lost his wife and sister. A jury would find them very sympathetic.”

“Okay…” Jason said slowly. “I’ll tell you what happened.”

“Now Jason, that’s what I like to hear.” The sheriff sounded pleased as punch.

Peter would have happily listened in to a hunter’s censored version of the events but he found himself distracted by the stations front door opening.

Stiles stepped outside, tripped over the door jam, and flailed for a moment. Peter let himself smile a little bit at the sight. Here was his chance to have a privet conversation with Stiles.

*** Peter knew he was grinning. He couldn’t stop himself. The conversation he’d had with Stiles had gone perfectly.

Sure, Stiles had yelled but he’d been surprised to see Peter and understandably so.

Stiles had almost instantly accepted that Peter was alive again and he had been visibly relieved that the Kanima was no longer a threat.

He’d taken Peter’s reassures about the Kanima without demanding corroboration too. Of course, he was probably going to call Scott to get his side of the story but Peter expected nothing less.

He’d even causally touched Peter, something no one else had done since before… Actually, Peter couldn’t remember the last time someone had been so calm around him. Sure, the touches hadn’t been the friendliest but they hadn’t been the least bit painful. And not just because Stiles was human. Stiles had shoved at Peter in mild frustration but it had felt more like Stiles silently telling Peter to just get on with it rather than trying to hurt him.

And Stiles had punched him but it had been so light Peter was tempted to call it a love tap. He knew Stiles had been trying not to hurt his hand on Peter’s face but the touch hadn’t even stung. It had been more playful than threatening.

Peter decided that their conversation had gone perfectly.

Now Peter just had to continue to prove his trustworthiness to Stiles. And he just happened to have the perfect way to start: the sheriff had only arrested five hunters. There was at least a dozen more running around Beacon Hills. None of them were going to be pleased that their bosses had been arrested and none of them had any respect for authority.

The sheriff had a target on his back and he didn’t even know it. But Peter knew and he was going to do everything he could to keep him safe. Because that would bring Peter one step closer to fulfilling his master plan.

Part Four Here