the wolves all cry

Derek wakes up feeling… off.

His head is throbbing like he took a punch to the temple that hasn’t quite healed yet, his stomach is rolling and his throat is tight, like he’s trying not to vomit. He feels clammy, hot and cold at the same time, and when he sits up too fast the whole room spins around him.

Huh. That’s odd.

He chalks it up to a fluke and takes a shower before heading out to run some errands. He’s returning some library books when he gets dizzy and has to throw his hand out against the wall for balance. Sweat is beaded at his temples and the back of his neck, and his feet feel like they’re made of lead whenever he takes a step.

What does having the flu feel like, he texts Stiles. I don’t feel right

Derek has never been sick a day in his life. He has a supernatural immunity against illnesses. He’s never even had the sniffles, for fuck’s sake.

It’s unsettling, and he decides to cut through the park and just head home to try and figure this out. He trudges past that weird circus that’s been set up and feels even worse, having to stop and take a few deep breaths before continuing on. He passes a business with mirrored doors and does a bit of a double take. He looks like hell.

His skin is pale and sallow, clammy with cooling sweat, and there are deep purple smudges under his eyes. His fingers are shaking and he feels like he has something stuck in his throat. The only thing he’s ever experienced that’s come close to this is aconite poisoning, but he doesn’t have the intense burn of wolfsbane in his blood that’d he’d have if he were poisoned.

He makes it to the park, but the sun is too bright and he’s unsteady on his feet. He stumbles towards a tree and drops to his knees in the shade, falling forward and bracing himself on his palms. His whole body rolls violently and he throws up, just like he did with the wolfsbane poisoning, but this time it isn’t the sticky black discharge of a wolf trying to heal itself. This blood is bright red and he reaches up to wipe his mouth, staring down in confusion at the streaks of blood on his fingers. He coughs up a little more and rolls onto his side with a groan, curling up at the base of the tree.

He has a text message in his drafts folder in case of emergencies, for times when he can’t howl or has to be quiet. It’s ready to be sent to his pack and those in the city he trusts enough to ask for help. He opens it up and types out a quick message with trembling, blood-specked fingers. He manages to hit send before he goes limp, barely conscious as he lies there in the grass.

911 in the park need help



[Circus plot! Derek has contracted the mysterious illness affecting some people in the city. Come help the poor wolf! The list of people Derek would have sent that text to isn’t very long, as he doesn’t like to appear vulnerable. If your pup knows Derek but isn’t close enough to him to be on his emergency text list (ie: pretty much anyone outside of pack and a few close friends, if you’re not sure feel free to ask me), they can happen upon him in the park. Don’t slip in the blood! This will be open forever and posted at the culmination of the circus plot to count for July reqs.]

Derek was bored.

At first, he relished in the unfamiliar feeling. He hadn’t been bored in years, and he took hearty advantage of it. He explored the city at his leisure and caught up on his reading. He went grocery shopping and jogged along the beach. It was a normal, boring life and at first he truly enjoyed it.

But a normal, boring life is not what Derek was meant for, or what he was born into. Derek was used to his heart pounding, to his senses staying heightened and sharp, constantly prepared for a fight. There was an itch growing under his skin, a craving for the bone-deep adrenaline that he’s so far gone weeks without. He’s constantly waiting for the other shoe to drop because life here is just too good. No one is trying to kill him. No one is dying at his hands or because of his mistakes. There’s no way it can last. He’s uneasy, and he wishes something, anything, would happen just so he can shake the uneasiness in his bones.

Well, be careful what you wish for, and all that.

Derek follows Stiles into the coffee shop near their building and looks around out of habit. Whenever he walks into a room, the occupants are made note of and exit routes are planned. This isn’t something he can shake, no matter how bored he gets. Dean is off to the side with his hands in his pockets, obviously waiting for his order, and Derek walks up to him as Stiles darts off for the counter.

“Dean, hey.” They give each other a casual nod and seem content to occupy the same space together without saying much else. He likes that about Dean. Stiles puts in their normal order and comes over, eyes narrowed at Dean. Stiles never really got over the whole vampire attack thing, which he blames Dean for, and that brief moment of contact has been all the two have had.

Derek rolls his eyes in fond exasperation and claps a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, partly touched by his loyalty. “Down, boy.”

Dean just looks a bit unimpressed and amused all at the same time, and the three of them have a bit of a standoff while they wait for their drinks. Dean lingers to continue making small talk with Derek until he and Stiles get their orders as well, and they all head for the door. There’s a group of teenagers clogging the main entrance so Derek leads them towards a single door at the side of the shop.

He has a hand on Stiles’ back as he pulls it open and ushers Dean out first. Stiles follows and Derek feels something like a vacuum, like the air is being sucked from his lungs while he’s tugged forward by a string at his belly. Everything goes white and he’s dizzy for a moment as he stumbles through the door.

The air outside is cool and a little muggy and the air smells dirty, nothing like Darrow. He shakes his head to clear the stars from his eyes and when he opens them, they are not standing outside of The Bean Counter. In fact, they aren’t even in Darrow at all.

Red floods his irises as he reaches out to reach for Stiles. He sighs in relief when he grabs his arm and then turns to face him and Dean. “Holy shit. Why are you a newsie?”

Stiles’ clothes are entirely different. He’s in a white linen shirt with suspenders over brown tweed knee pants and stockings, with a newsboy cap jammed on his head. Dean looks like something out of a mobster movie, dressed in a dark three-piece wool suit and a fedora on his head. Dean and Stiles are gaping at each other while Derek turns to take in their surroundings. The air smells all wrong, and soon he realizes why. They’re a long way from home.

Derek is standing next to a classic 20’s Cadillac on a cobblestone street lined with plenty like it. There are no modern cars anywhere. There’s nothing modern at all. His heart pounds as he turns to look in a different direction, eyes widening as he takes in a familiar landmark. The Flatiron building looms over them, tall and proud, and Derek’s heart leaps up into his throat.

“This is New York,” he informs them, and Dean and Stiles look over at him. Derek spent years here, and if he breathes in deep enough he can catch familiar scents on the air. “So, we know where we are.”

Derek slides his hands down his own heavy suit, taking in the black, pinstriped three-piece monstrosity and blood red tie. His vision is momentarily obscured by his own fedora, and he reaches up to pluck it off of his head. There’s a weight at his side and he finds that it’s a revolver in a side holster, tucked neatly under his suit jacket. Below that is a hip flask clipped to a black leather belt. He looks up at Stiles’ slack mouth and Dean’s green eyes, letting the red fade out of his own as the panic subsides. “When are we, is the better question.”