Plots, Chaos, and Justice

XXXXXXXXXX

"So, you killed her."

"I don't know! I just woke up. I was sweating like crazy and I couldn't breathe. I've never had a dream where I woke up like that before."

"Really? I have, usually it ends a little differently."

I choke on a sip of coffee, and duck my head into Scotty's shoulder blades to hide my face and cackles. We're all too damn close, our boundaries dipped out years ago.

I offer Stiles a sip, which he takes, and then Scott, who declines my offer of yummy caramel goodness. I stop dead when an impression drifts through my mind, like a cloud across the sky. Someone has been hurt.

I've been learning pretty quickly how to distinguish my own thoughts from my new ability. It usually comes with a soft hum and tingling feeling. I somewhat have to focus on it to register it, but it's getting easier. I feel my blood run cold.

Stiles and Scot walk back the few steps to me when they realize I stopped walking. I grimace, and grab their sleeves, whispering, "Someone was hurt nearby, badly."

"Where?" Stiles murmurs, not doubting me for a second. The hum gets louder and my fingers tingle. My hands entwine in the end of my long hair, nervously fiddling. Then I feel a zing at the flick of one of my hands.

I recoil, as a fucking orb of light begins to hover in front of me. Ah, man, what the fuck. Wait, what? I look around frantically, but no one seems to see it but me.

"Layla?"

"Can y'all see that?"

"See what?" Time to experiment. I reach out and grab their hand. I want them to see. I feel both the boys twitch, and Scott lets out a quiet, protective growl. Stiles starts to ramble nervously under his breath about magic orbs, pulling out his notebook (from his goddamn gamer inventory, where the fuck does he keep getting that thing), but I shake my head and focus on our current task. I give Scotty a smack to make him stop and turn his glow stick peepers off.

Ok, Stiles triggered this with his question. So, where? Lead me, floaty ball of magical bullshit! I flick my hand again, and then when the ball starts to float away, I grab the boys and drag them along. We bolt through the hall after an invisible ball of light and through some doors before it suddenly turns into mist and dissipates.

"What-," I mutter, and then I see the busted, bloody bus. The one from Scotty's fantasy-turned-nightmare. The one he dreamed about murdering Alison in. Oh, dear. "Call Grumpywolf."

XXXXXXXXXX

"She's not answering my texts!" Scott says, frantically looking through the hallway.

"She's fine." I say, calmly. He ignores me pulling ahead. I huff, and grab him by the scruff, and shove him into a somewhat secluded locker, and Stiles helps me pin him there, "I said, she's fine. You didn't hurt her."

Understanding flickers through his eyes as my words breach his thick skull. I roll my eyes before letting them fall closed. Reaching out, I sort of tug on the blue pack bond radiating out ahead of me, trying to push my urgency into it. If Derek won't answer the damn phone, he's gonna answer this.

Almost immediately, my phone rings. Confusion, alarm, annoyance, Derek. "What." comes over the line.

"You have no inflection when you speak," Stiles says, I smack him, and we both ignore Derek's growl, "Scott dreamed about killing Allison on a bus, and the bus looks like a murder scene, but Layla thinks she is fine."

Derek's silent for a moment, then says slowly, "Miss Magic hasn't been wrong yet, so it's probably true Allison's fine," I giggle at the nickname, and push my happiness into the bond, and I can feel Derek hesitantly send his own amusement back. Nicknames=friendship! "If I had to guess,… the alpha is influencing you through the bond."

"What bond?!" Scott hisses, "I thought I was only bonded to you guys!"

"He bit you, you and Layla are automatically bonded to him as pack. If he is feral like we think, it will be distorted, and might be harder to feel. Or… he could be hiding from you, deliberately muting the connection, which is bad. Very bad."

"If he is deliberately hiding," Stiles says slowly, dread thruming in his own pack bomd, " it means he is intelligently trying to manipulate you. He wants something."

A grim silence falls over us. Without bothering to look, or understanding why, I lift my hand and point down the hall, just as Allison comes into sight for the boys. Scott chokes on his breath of relief, and runs off to her, while Stiles updates Derek and I on my finger pointing miracle.

"I think," Stiles states, grasping my hand, which is still in a fist with the pointer pointing out, and gently pulling it up to his face for inspection, like it is some fascinating magic artifact and not a bloody finger, " our Moonshine here might be psychic."

"Boop," I say, tapping my finger on his nose and making Stiles squawk and sputter hilariously. I'm trying to conceal my anxiety at that very apt conclusion, and shove it under my usual unfazed demeanor until I can properly compartmentalize it. Now, this would normally work, except… we haven't mastered how to dim the bonds so that we aren't broadcasting everything we feel to each other. Stiles is staring at me. "What?"

"I'm starting to wonder if our friendship isn't just you helping with our emotional bullshit, and burying yours where the sun doesn't shine." Ouch. Fuck if that wasn't a bit too accurate.

I wince, and shrug. "I don't like dealing with my emotional bullshit." Stiles's face is full of judgment, before he sighs and tucks me underneath his arm, tugging on my hair gently.

"Yeah, no. You'd tear us a new one if we hid our feelings like that, so no more of it. I honestly feel like a shitty friend for not noticing before," he ignores my protests and denials, and sets his cheek against the crown on my head, "but we are gonna get through this. Don't forget, we're pack now."

My body relaxes a little, and I let out a shaky breath, leaning on my best friend for a moment. It's enough for now.

XXXXXXXXXX

I walk into art with a bit of relief. Art is relaxing, and I'm actually quite good at it despite having less than 40% of the vision sighted people do. It brings me peace and joy to make beautiful things. Usually.

But, today has decided to be a test on both my sanity and composure. That hum goes from soft background noise to a blazing alarm, and instead of a tingle, I feel an uncomfortable, almost burning sensation in my veins, slapping me right into urgency.

PAIN, GREIF, SELF LOATHING, LONELINESS, BROKEN. He won't last much longer if the world keeps hurting him. He'll either die or kill himself. I almost crumple and vomit under the weight of the impression that slams into me, and I pinch my burning eyes shut and bury my fingernails in my palms, trying not to sob and remember how to breathe. The weight of someone's life has fallen into my lap. Ok, ok, I understand.

My power seems to settle immediately under my acknowledgment, and I let out a shaky breath and look up. Isaac Lahey sits hunched in the back of the class, hands trembling as he holds a pencil. I take another breath, and reach out for the bonds that connect me to my pack. I can feel the panic and concern raining off them, so I reach and gently push reassurance through them, before texting that I'm handling an impression and that it will be fine, into our new group chat. It's only been like 30 seconds since I got drop kicked by my own abilities, and there's already like 10 new messages on my phone. Whoops, guess I scared them. The concern makes me smile, though, and gives me the strength and courage to do what I do next.

Straightening my shoulders, I power walk over to Isaac and plop my bag on the table, hefting myself onto the stool next to him. Speaking softly, I call out in as soothing a voice as I can manage around the lump in my throat, "Isaac. "

He flinches anyway, and turns to me. I'm close enough to see the defeated expression and the tear tracks from agonized blue eyes, and my heart hurts. He doesn't even have the ability to hide it, too overwhelmed and exhausted.

I reach for his wrist even though I don't know what I'll find, and he flinches again, pulling it away. Instead of holding it, I slide off the stool and move my hand with him, maintaining contact, but not exerting any force. We stare at each other, him terrified, and me trying to keep my face as gentle as possible despite the burning rage I'm feeling against whoever did this to him. He slumps and looks down, and I take the opportunity to gently coax his hand into mine, and his sleeve up.

There are dark bruises painting pale skin in the shape of a large, male handprint, dark enough that even I can distinguish them perfectly. The wrist joint is swollen, and painful looking. I keep my face blank and breath steady, but internally howl with absolute wrath. Gripping his elbow, I place his forearm on the table top before grabbing a bandage from my bag, usually reserved for my partners in crime. I wrap it gently, but swiftly, before rolling his sleeve back down, placing his hand in mine. Then, I scoot the stool closer, sit, and rest both our hands on my thigh.

I look up. He is staring at me, utterly bewildered, but I can tell I shocked some of the pain out of him. Reaching out slowly, I dab my sleeve across his wet cheeks. I'm thankful no one has arrived yet, and that I'm so utterly chaotic that he hasn't had the wherewithal to put his mask up, (and oh, he has one, I just got very lucky that I caught him when he was so vulnerable). And that just makes me feel sick, because I'm going to have to take advantage of that to help him. No one noticed. How could no one have noticed.

"Please… p-please don't tell anyone," he stutters out, barely making audible noise.

I study him for a second, before cocking my head to the side, "Why?"

"I can't go into the system, I'm almost 18, less than 2 years, please, please…just don't tell."

"A lot can happen in 2 years," you might not make it that long, "Let's say… I can get you somewhere safe, but keep you out of the system, but still in Beacon Hills. Would that be acceptable?"

His eyes widen, but he gives a hesitant nod, before jerking his head up again, and then down to stare at the table, "He… he wasn't always like this. He was a good dad before… before. H-he d-doesn't deserve jail." Abuse victims often protect the perpetrator.

"Maybe not," I lie easily through my teeth, and even just saying it makes me want to vomit, " But, I know that you don't deserve this." I gently gesture to his wrist in my lap, and he hunches again. A hum in my ears tells me what to say next.

"Here is what we're gonna do. I'm gonna look for a way to get you somewhere safe, still in town, but not in the system. For now, I'm adopting you. You're mine now. If you're hurt, come to me. If you're sick, come to me. If you're angry, lonely, sad, or even hungry, come see me. We are friends now, and I take very good care of my friends." I say this without an ounce of shame, and a complete awareness of my lack of boundaries.

"You can't just barge in, and do whatever the hell you want, this is my life!" He suddenly hisses, his mask popping into place, hiding any sign of the earlier vulnerability. I'm not the slightest bit surprised by Isaac lashing out, I was expecting it, really. I want to be a lawyer when I'm older, and I studied abuse extensively in my free time, so I dig my fingers back into my palm, ignoring what is probably blood and don't bat a fucking eye. One misstep in this dance, and this boy could die.

I give him a wide, toothy grin that could easily be mistaken for a snarl. "Tough shit, mate. I've already decided. I'm going to take care of you, deal with it."

"Where did you even come from?" He said, looking mildly alarmed by the expression on my face. I shrug.

"Dad from India, mom from North Africa, but I was born here. I do occasionally get people telling me it was heaven or hell respectively, though." I deadpan this with a completely serious voice.

Isaac seems to finally crack under the force of my insanity, and he starts to laugh a bit hysterically. Got him. "You aren't gonna give me a choice, are you?"

"Ooh, you're quick. I like you. We'll get along just fine, Honey." I say, releasing my slightly violent energy, and give him as gentle a smile as I can while internally frantically vibe checking him to see if he's out of danger. He blinks dazedly, but gives me a tiny, shy smile, and it's like the sun breaking through after a week of rain. My soul trembles under the force of my relief, and my nails dig deeper, one last time.

"Okay, now, show me your art! The teacher is always raving about it, but I'm never close enough to see it. Pretty please?" I beg with my best puppy dog eyes and pretend the tears in them are just for effect. He timidly does, and I do my best to overwhelm him with praise at every opportunity while also being honest in my thoughts. It's easy because he is seriously talented, and overall a sweetheart to be around.

Throughout class, I focus on his vibe. As we talk and he relaxes, and dare I say it, enjoys himself a bit. I get the image of a blurry, monochrome painting of the ocean, slowly gaining a few drops of color. Just at the edges. But it's enough to give me hope. Safe, for now.

Feeling better, but raw all over, I reach out to the one pack bond I know won't do anything hasty. I wrap ice blue around my soul and tuck myself into a tiny ball at the center. For a second, there is annoyance, then surprise, but it quickly turns into concerned confusion. Then, comes a gentle feeling. Rain on dessert burned skin. Pitter patter drops of comfort. I use the constant dripping sensation to ground myself, but keep myself cocooned in the feeling for the next several hours, like it's the only thing keeping me from unraveling. And it might just be true.

XXXXXXXXXX

We're sitting at lunch when Jackson's clique decides to invade our table. I'm sitting between Boyd and Isaac, and quietly fending off their loneliness and awkwardness by subtlety helping conversation flow between them. I'm rather drained at this point, so I'm not as active as I normally would be, but it seems to be going just fine.

Stiles and Scott didn't question me when I brought over Boyd last week, nor today with Isaac, but instead welcomed them with open arms and friendly words. We don't actually have that many friends, so it wasn't like we didn't have room for them. It's just that we aren't all that out going, but everyone seems to be clicking really well. I know Stiles and Boyd see the bandage on Isaac, but both are sharp enough to notice my look telling them to leave it.

"Because I don't stare at his girlfriend's coin slot," I snort at Danny's comeback. I'd largely been ignoring the bullshit going on in front of me until then, but take a moment to toast Danny with my apple juice. He shoots me a grin, and toasts me back. I like Danny.

"Move." I blink, and look up to a scowling Jock 3 that Jackson just displaced. I raise my brows as the table goes silent, and tension runs through my friends, new and old.

"You talking to me?" I ask, pointing.

"You can't see? Oh wait…," he trails off snickering, clearly unable to read the room. Even Jackson looks uncomfortable with that, and Lydia and Danny are actually kinda mad. My friends are pissed, though, and as sweet as that is, I'm getting a migraine from all the vibe checking I did today.

I see Scotty and Stiles getting ready to throw hands to defend my honor, but I just let go of the stranglehold I had on Softywolf's bond all day, and let the positively wicked glee leak through to them. They immediately start to match the fucking feral smirk on my face, and they literally grab snacks and lean back to watch the show. It's been a while since I verbally incinerated anyone. Excellent stress relief, and this bitch picked the wrong day to roll up.

"Are you fucking trying to come off as a bully from the 90's? God, I forgot people this pathetic existed. Look at you desperately clinging to Jackson's coattails to the pinnacle of success, high school popularity, ooooh. And you have to tear everyone else around you down to do it, overcompensating for you're decidedly small…", I stare at his lower waist pointedly, "significance. Shoo, your ugly personality is killing off the last of my eyesight."

I flick my hand impatiently, as Telladummy turns red and stomps away. Stiles and Scott lose it, and up on the ground, and so does half the fucking lunchroom. The other half is gaping in something like shock and awe. I think my usual quiet boardom gives people the wrong impression about me, hmm.

"Why aren't we friends?" Jackson blurts out, sounding genuinely confused.

"I don't kiss ass?" I wonder, tiredly leaning against Boyd, who is silently wheezing next to me, and shut my eyes. I zone out after that until I hear my name.

"What." I state, peaking my eyes open and channeling my favorite Sourwolf.

"I was wondering if you wanted to join our double date. Jackson and I, Allison and Scott, Stiles and you," Lydia says imperiously, flipping pretty red hair over her shoulder. Damn, I wanna touch.

"Not dating Stiles, though." I say, shutting my eyes again. Hmm, Boyd is an excellent pillow, my gift is finding all the best people.

"Oh. Boyd then."

"Not dating him either," and before she can, "nor Isaac."

"But you are-," I gently interrupt Allison.

"Very secure in my platonic relationships and comfortable giving affection to my precious people." Letting out a sigh to how utterly burdensome this convo is on my fucking soul right now, I pop to my feet, and make grabby hands at Scott and Stiles.

Both automatically lean forward, and I give each an obnoxious, smacking kiss on the cheek, before flopping back on Boyd. With a small vibe check to see if it's ok, I give Isaac a few tugs and happily tuck him into my free side. Can't take for granted how useful this power is. It's helping me safely identify when people are ok to touch, or not, or when I should be sly, or bold. I honestly got really damn lucky, especially considering the anger management problems Scotty has to deal with, instead. Surprisingly, both Isaac and Boyd are quite pleased with cuddles, and seem to bask in it. Then, I realize that they are both touch starved, and that makes me sad, again, but I'm quickly distracted. Oh? Is that jealousy I sense from you, Jackson, Lydia? That's what happens when you surround yourself with fake ass people. I'd rather be a loser anyway.

"Well, maybe you want to take one of them as friends, and come along anyway," Lydia tries.

"Can't. Gotta brush my cat."

"Layla, you don't have a cat," Scott says, exasperated, and a little concerned. I'm probably still giving off a lot of emotional pain and exhaustion. No power comes free, and there is always a price.

I hum, thoughtfully. "Gonna buy one, and then brush it."

I decide this is pretty insane, even for me, and that I need a nap, and almost immediately, I'm out. I'm awake just long enough to hear Boyd mention that I might have a fever.

XXXXXXXXXX

I pull through the rest of the day by the skin of my teeth, and I honestly have no recollection of what happened in class. Stiles takes me home, and Derek meets us there, and it would be creepy if I couldn't feel the concern.

"What the hell happened to you?" He demands sharply, and ordinarily someone talking like that to me would piss me off, but it seems like Derek only has one mode: emotional constipation. I grunt, and faceplant on the couch, deciding to make Stiles explain.

"She has a migraine, and a bit of a fever. The migraine is making it harder to see." I bury my face in blessed darkness, feeling the ache ease a bit. "I'm going to check on Sunny Girl and find some food."

I feel Derek crouch next to my head. There is the slightest hint of uncertainty when he asks, "Why did you do it?"

"Because I needed something to ground me, and those two would have done something stupid," I admit freely, "I was falling apart. I'm sorry, I know messing with bonds like that is pretty invasive, but I didn't know what else to do."

Derek is still for a moment, and then bloody disappears and comes back with Stiles. Then I'm being tugged on, with much protesting on my part, and sat up right. I blink at Derek, who is sitting on the table in front of me again. Then he is taking my hands and staring at my palms. I look, too, and then wince.

There is dried blood flaking around deep fingernail gouges, and streaks of blood on my sleeves. It's a lot worse than I thought, and I'd honestly forgotten about it. I can hear a sharp intake of breath from Stiles, and then there's alarm and concern, but Derek just raises an eyebrow, and in a very Derek move, demands, "Don't do it again."

I snort, "I'll try not to. I just got taken by surprise today. I promise. I won't make a habit of it." I say it seriously to both of them, and while Derek just gives me a stern nod, and begins cleaning and bandaging my hands with a first aid kit, (oh, that's where he went), Stiles just settles close next to me.

Stiles's silence is utterly unnatural, and more than a little unsettling, so I decide a subject change is in order. "So, what's the plan for today."

"When Scott gets off of work, we'll go back to the scene of the crime. If he uses his senses, they should be able to help him remember what happened. You stay here." Derek says with a hint of glare.

"Fine. But only because I'm a walking corpse. Only this time," I say, giving in just this once. "Let me know if you find a cat for me to brush."

XXXXXXXXXX

The boys' expedition confirms Scott's lack of murdering midnight adventures, but confirms the alpha has a bond with us and can use it, so good and bad news all around.

The next night, Scotty goes off on his date with his Disney Princess, and it almost comes to blows between Derek and him, but I manage to keep the peace, and shoo him off, leaving Stiles, Derek, and I in my basement, or as I've started to call it, the Pack Den.

As soon as Scott leaves, Derek whirls on me. "Why the fuck did you let him leave to date a fucking Argent?" He snarls in my face.

"Hey!" snaps Stiles, which is sweet even though Derek could hand him his ass with two, maybe three fingers tops, "Watch it."

"He's going to expose us, and then we're all gonna die because only one of his heads work!"

I ignore their arguing, (or flirting), and step onto the coffee table again. I wait for him to be off balance, and then yank him towards me by his leather jacket. Oh, this feels expensive, I want one, too. I nearly fell off the table, (fucking heavy wolves), but I get the desired effect of being able to look him in the eye with only about 3 inches separating our noses. It seems to be the only effective way of communicating with him.

"Do you think I would let him do something so stupid, just so he can get a girl?" I keep my voice quiet and gentle, resting my hands on his shoulders firmly. He pauses, but shakes his head no slowly. "We don't know anything about Allison except that she's from a hunter family, and Scott hears angels when she walks by. We need more than that if we want to be ready for a threat. Does she know about her legacy? Is she apart of it? And if not,… can we get to her first. " Layla's tip number 1 about communication; it's fucking hard to yell and argue with someone who is calm, quiet, and logical. It makes you look stupid and childish to rage at someone who isn't giving that same energy back. It's also a very quick and easy way to deescalate a situation.

I watch understanding flick through pretty, light eyes. " You're taking advantage of the situation to keep an eye on the hunters," he breathes out, and I preen at the awe coming from him, echoed in his bond, "That's fucking ruthless."

"Thank you," I say smugly, a wickedly gleeful smile pulling at my lips, "We can't stop him, but this doesn't have to be all negative."

"Holy shit, Layla! That's the biggest slytherin move you've ever pulled. I think I'm a little in love," Stiles flails a little.

"Only now?" I sniff imperiously, before flipping my hair like Lydia, grabbing for Derek when I almost knock myself off the table, again.

"You won't get an insider Argent, though." Derek says, though he sounds uncertain.

I cackle as my spidey sense tingles, "So quick to doubt me, Dearwolf."

Derek gapes, as Stiles actually dances over, before he looks down and away, and I'm not sure if Derek is conscious of barring his neck to me or not. "Yeah, I'm gonna stop doing that. You might actually be the scariest thing I've ever met, hunters and werewolves included."

"Ooh, that's fucking adorable. His ears turned pink, Layla!" Stiles coos. We ignore the little growl from Derek.

I wrap an arm around each of my packmates, and tug them close. Stiles and I beam at each other. Really, it isn't a surprise that Stiles is supportive of my scheming. He knows I do it with only the best intentions, and is usually right there helping me. He never doubts I'm a good person, not even when I doubt myself. We turn our unholy glee on poor Derek, and it must be epic because his horror is pretty obvious.

"Now you owe me snacks. To the gas station, minion!"

XXXXXXXXXX

Stiles and I are getting munchies inside the station when hunters pull up. I feel a tingle just as a hunter smashes in the window of Derek's very pretty car. Opportunity.

"What the hell is going on here?" I yell, waving my chips like a weapon, "What are you assholes doing?"

"It's none of your business. Scram brats," Goon 1 sneers.

"The hell it isn't. That's our fucking ride," I point wildly, drawing as much attention as humanly possible. "Derek was nice enough to take us to get snacks, and you lot are pulling this bullshit? Who's gonna pay for this?"

"You shouldn't be hanging out with his kind," Oh. Dear Lord, Goon 2 just gave me the key to these fools' demise. How stupid can you be?

"This is a race thing?! You're racists? " I shriek, looking to Derek to play along, and I feel horror spark in the hunters as they realize they've completely lost control of this situation.

"The Hales have always had prominent Native roots." I can't even, this is too perfect.

"Alison's dad is racist," I say in apparent horror.

"Is Alison racist?" Stiles, I could kiss you!

"Whoa, hey! Hold on now,-'' Chris Argent seems like a man who knows when to quit. And he loves Allison very much, based on that panic. Too bad the goons aren't that smart.

"Listen here, you little bitch, go- "

I gasp, and it's almost too theatrical to be believable, but now they've really pissed my best friend off, so Stiles pounces, and interrupts the douche, practically snarling. "What, go back to her country, is that it, dickhead? This is Beacon Hills, and we don't tolerate that bullshit!"

Derek puts his hand on the back of my neck, as though to comfort me, and the hunters take it like a threat. All of their hands move to their waists, and Derek tackles us behind the Camaro as Stiles shrieks, "They have guns!"

The gas station clerk, who I didn't even know came out, runs back inside, yelling that he is calling the cops. Argent swears, grabs his thugs, and bolts. For a second, my pack just stares at each other, but then I tug them close and hiss, "Cameras!"

We curl up together as though comforting each other as we cry and shake, but actually, Stiles and I are trying to muffle our maniacal laughter, and Derek is trying to help, but has to bury his face in my hair himself. Oh, it's beautiful. Light shining through a forest canopy, a cloak of pain worn close like his leather jacket lifting, just a bit. That's the first real smile I've seen him give-oh, fuck, he has bunny teeeth. I can't.

The glee at my finest masterpiece of chaos yet, combined with the high of our combined emotional states, and Derek's absolutely precious smile, sends me over the edge. I go right into hysterics. Stiles, like the best friend he is, falls with me, and we sob loudly as Derek lightly pets us in amusement.

XXXXXXXX

I'm still sobbing a bit when Sheriff Papa comes in with his crew, guns out, and roaring for hands to go up, looking for an armed threat we already sent packing.

"Dad, over here!" Stiles calls, waving his hand over the side of the Camero where we are sitting on the ground. He runs over with Deputy Tara, who always has candy for us when we visit, and stares, before demanding to know what the hell happened.

We probably look wrecked, with puffy eyes and tear streaked faces. I know I'm at least a little snotty, and we are practically collapsed against Derek from our fit. He helps us both up, before grabbing napkins for us, as Stiles explains the sitch.

Here's the thing. My nickname of Papa Sheriff is only kinda a joke. My parents are out of the country so much that Stiles's dad actually has legal permission to act on Sunya and I's behalf in emergencies. He has a literal form of custody on us. Add to that that he and Mama Mel helped raise us along with Stiles and Scott,… well, we pretty much have 2 extra parents. And you can't mess with the sheriff's kids.

Fury is spreading from Papa Sherif to all his deputies, and it's glorious. Stiles is painting a lovely, but still true picture and I can feel the bloody hammer of justice coming down on the hunters. Sorry, Allison, but also, not really. They might not have been racist, but specieist- (is that thing?)- is close enough, and this is still a hate crime.

"Go get the camera footage, Tara! And also, why the hell aren't you guys at home? Did you not understand we have a curfew out right now?" he says, fuming a bit.

"My fault," Derek speaks up for the first time, "They wanted snacks, and I thought a quick trip would be fine since I'm 21."

The Sheriff softens, and sighs before pulling Stiles and I into a hug, "Fine, fine. Go home, it's late. We will talk more later. And Derek?"

We stop, and look at him from our spots next to the Camaro. "Yes?" Derek asks, quietly.

"Thanks for protecting my kids, you're a good man, and I won't forget it." I'm not sure what Derek's face does, but he hurries us into the Camaro and peels out. I can feel his embarrassment, though, and it makes Stiles cackle.

XXXXXXXXXX