S͟T͟E͟R͟E͟K͟ I͟M͟A͟G͟I͟N͟E͟S͟

Stiles Stilinski, Emissary

They're hiding in the bushes on a hill overlooking a small group of women who are chanting in what Stiles assumes is Latin. The moon overhead is bright enough to see pretty clearly, even without the light from the small fire around which the women are gathered. He's got a tight grip on his little bag of mountain ash (because you never know when that stuff's gonna come in handy), and a loose grip on the sleeve of Derek's dark green Henley. It only took five years of near-death experiences together for the older man to stop slamming him into hard surfaces and/or glaring at him every time Stiles touches him. He's kind of stupidly pleased that Derek trusts him that much.

"This is never going to work."

Okay, but he does trust him.

Really.

                      

Derek's face is its usual mask of near-perfect stoicism, but Stiles has known him for several years now, and he's very aware of Derek's tells. Like the way his left eyebrow is slightly quirked, and his nostrils are flaring. The former alpha is afraid. It's a rare enough occurrence that Stiles feels the need to reassure him.

"You don't know that," he says, as gently as he can without sounding condescending. Derek is still Derek, after all. Plus, they're sort of bros, and Stiles cares about Derek's feelings. "This could totally work. It will work."

At Derek's unimpressed snort, Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Stop your huffing and puffing," he snarks, ignoring the indignant growl that escapes Derek at the taunt. Stiles is not above Three Little Pigs and Little Red Riding Hood jokes. "It's magic, dude. Half of it is belief, and I know this is going to work. Like a charm, even."

"Stiles. There are three of them, and one of you."

Of course. To Derek, the fact that they're outnumbered by magic-wielding baddies is troubling. To Stiles, it's practice. He tries not to smirk and fails miserably.

"I know," Stiles drawls, eyes roaming from one chanting figure to the next, "but we've got something they don't have."

"Yeah?" Derek asks. If it's possible, he sounds even less impressed. "What's that?"

"Me."

Now it's Derek's turn to roll his eyes. Stiles will give him that. He hasn't had the chance to see him in action yet. No one really has, except Deaton, and he'd also been less than impressed by Stiles' abilities, though not for the same reasons. Stiles prefers to think he's jealous rather than genuinely concerned for his safety. He is perfectly aware of the dangers inherent in mixing magical practices, but so far, everything has been coming up roses. Sometimes literally. As in, one time he brought a dead rose bush back to stunning, vividly-blossomed life. It was awesome. It also briefly put him into a catatonic state, and Deaton had actually yelled at him after he'd come to. Deaton. Had yelled. Stiles used it as a learning experience and, rather than stopping as the former emissary had suggested, figured out new ways to generate energy for the more taxing of his incantations.

That's how he'd realized what had come over the town, and how he knew he was the only one who could stop it. Okay, so maybe he was here with Derek instead of Scott because Scott was in Fiji on his honeymoon with Allison, but. He'd still been the one to figure out that the entire population of Beacon Hills wasn't going through some kind of mass depression, with its accompanying lethargy. He was the one to suggest witches. To find them, even. Stiles was the one who'd learned the women planned to use the town's collective energy to not only reactivate the beacon of Beacon Hills, but to rip open a sort of Hellmouth as well. Because his life wasn't already enough like an episode of Buffy, apparently. Anyway, he was the one who'd come up with the plan to stop them, and he's going to be the one to single-handedly execute that plan, no matter how many times Derek tells him it's a Bad Idea. Because seriously? Derek is the King of Bad Ideas. Stiles has totally got this.