S͟T͟E͟R͟E͟K͟ I͟M͟A͟G͟I͟N͟E͟S͟

White Elephant

Stiles knows going into the preserve alone is kind of stupid, okay? He knows. Even if he is armed with a 9-inch KA-BAR—ostensibly bought for herb gathering and field work, but seriously, how was Stiles supposed to resist a knife called the 'Zombro' (made especially for the zombie apocalypse, of course) with a neon green handle and serrated top?—he is still just 165 pounds of soft, vulnerable human flesh. That's right. 165 pounds. Stiles doesn't like to brag, but he's been working out. Okay, no, he loves to brag, but the fact remains that even the additional 15 pounds of muscle he's put on recently isn't going to deter, say, a desperate, hungry, wild animal. Like the skinny, mangy wolf staring him down from across the creek bed right now.

Wolves are still relatively rare in California, but there's been a resurgence in the population over the last few years, thanks to the efforts of some very dedicated conservationists. Stiles has only seen one or two on the preserve. Most of them tend to skirt the area, he supposes, attempting to avoid another wolf's territory. Derek's territory. But not this one. This one looks like it's going to make a meal of Stiles' innards, or die trying. In fact, it looks like it probably will die if it doesn't eat him. It's been a long, unusually cold winter; the pickings have obviously been slim for any predators that didn't hibernate or move farther south during the season. He can see the wolf's ribs and knobby joints protruding through its thin, grey fur. He feels one fleeting moment of pity before the thing pulls its lips back from a set of wickedly sharp teeth, flattens its ears to its head, and growls.

Just like that, any and all pity is replaced by a bone-deep terror. Stiles is at least a mile from his Jeep with a knife he's only ever used for sawing through cellulose and a plastic grocery bag half full of ingredients for an anesthetic poultice to defend himself. He spares a thought for the baggie of mountain ash in his pocket, but dismisses it just as quickly. The snarling, slavering creature in front of him is 100% wolf, of the non-were variety.

The irony of wishing it were otherwise is not lost on Stiles.

"Whoa there, big guy," he says, hands held out, palms displayed, trying to keep his voice even. He gives up the pretence of fearlessness when the wolf growls again, a thick stream of drool pouring from its open mouth. "Or girl, sorry. You could definitely be a lady wolf. I'm not getting close enough to check."

There have only been a few moments in Stiles' life that he's really, truly regretted moving back to Beacon Hills after college. The first came on the heels of his housewarming party in the form of gremlins. Not cute, furry, Gizmo type Mogwai. Not even post-midnight snack Stripe gremlins. These were giant, naked mole rat looking gremlins, and they quite literally ate the faces off of several unfortunate residents of Beacon County. The second was the day he realized his dad's new girlfriend was not, in fact, a vivacious 42 year old divorcee with an incredibly high sex drive—the recounting of which is the third reason he regrets moving home. Sharon was a succubus with a particular taste for men in uniform, and it wasn't until Deaton had helped him banish her to whatever Hell she'd escaped that the color came back to his dad's face, and the light to his eyes.

And now he is staring down a feral, possibly rabid animal that obviously hasn't eaten in recent memory, and Stiles is regretting all the decisions that lead him here. Deaton had offered to keep him company today, but Stiles had waved him off. Derek had warned him about bear sightings in the area just last week, but did Stiles listen? Hell no. And sure, maybe this isn't a bear he's dealing with, but a can of bear mace would come in really handy right now.

"Nice wolf," he murmurs, bringing his right hand down to the holster of his knife as quickly as he dares. Stiles slides the blade from its sheathe, eyes never leaving the wolf's watery, golden ones. "I know we got off on the wrong foot, what with me looking like a tasty meal and all, but I'm going to slowly back away now, and you're not going to eat me. Okay?"