Fic: Hell to Raise (Teen Wolf, Derek/Stiles), part 2/2
This is the second part of a two-part fic. Headers are in part 1.
3.
"I did what you wanted," Stiles told the backyard sky. He hadn't heard a peep from either Weles or Derek in a couple of days, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd freaked both of them out. He felt crazy, shouting alone outside in his robe and helm.
And you had a wonderful time, Weles's voice boomed in his head. I was wondering how long it would take before you'd call on me again. You know I couldn't return until you summoned me.
"It's that easy to get rid of you?"
A pause, like a sigh. I have a deal with your father.
"Yeah," Stiles said. "About that."
He chose to dismiss me. I'm bound to respect his wishes.
It was strange that a god could have so many limitations and rules binding him. But not strange: Weles and Lydia had both talked about domains and areas of influence. An infinitely powerful god was too dangerous. "What did you do to piss him off?"
I gave him a number of small tasks, and he resented those duties. I pestered him when he didn't fulfill them. He grew overwhelmed and irritated, and he told me to get out of his head. I understood: he was young then, younger than you are now. I assumed he'd call on me again when he was ready, which he has not, or that he'd continue the priestly line and have a more receptive son, which remains to be seen.
Stiles shrugged off the slight and asked the more important question. "So my mom...?"
He chose not to call upon me, Weles said. If he had, I might have been able to help him keep her in the mortal world. As it stands, I only had the power to make sure she entered my realm after she died, which I have done.
"So she's okay?"
Of course not, Weles said. She's dead. But it's peaceful here.
When Stiles tried to inquire more, his mind filled with painful static. Weles wasn't allowed to tell him more about the afterlife, and the information was being cosmically censored. Stiles tried to stop thinking about his mom, but when he got stuck on her memory, it was impossible to focus on anything else. He ended up sitting on the lawn, crying for her and for the pain in his head.
An incoming text on his phone snapped him out of it. When his mom had died, he'd learned how to suck in his grief and pretend he was fine. He'd had so much practice at that, it was automatic now.
The text was from Lydia. "I found out something important about banishing Cernunnos. Come over. Bring lunch."
He took the robe and helm up to his room, but Weles urged him to bring the bone staff along. He stopped for sandwiches - at the good deli that took forever and cost more, but he knew the look he'd get from Lydia if he showed up with Subway - and marveled at his own calm. Lydia Martin was inviting him over to her house, and he wasn't afraid of tripping over his words or his feet. He couldn't tell if Weles was directly suppressing his awkwardness, or if hooking up with Derek really had given him the confidence Weles had promised.
Lydia led him up to her enormous bedroom. The bed was covered in books, the pages marked with pink Post-It tabs, some of them held open with hair clips. None of them were in English. One of them displayed a creepy metal carving of a horned god holding a stag and a serpent. Her computer screen was full of tiled web browser windows. In spite of this abundant enthusiasm, she'd apparently dragged herself away long enough to style her hair, put on makeup, and match her shoes to her dress.
She started on her sandwich without exactly thanking him. "Oh my God, I'm so hungry. I skipped breakfast." She opened up the bread and picked the turkey and vegetables out with her fingers. "I found a medieval verse chronicle of the Gaulish gods. It's really thorough. Eleventh-century nuns had a lot of time on their hands."
Stiles sat on the floor and chomped his sandwich, glad to have something to keep his mouth and hands busy.
"It says minor gods sometimes get trapped in the human realm," Lydia explained. "They're called here, and then the caller abandons them or mistreats them and they have no way to get back on their own. She - the nun who wrote it, who the metadata says is anonymous but I think her name was Clementia - she says spells to banish gods are mere superstition, and they only work when the god thinks the spell is so foolish that the people casting it aren't worth the effort. The only way to send a god home is to call another god, powerful enough to subdue Cernunnos and carry him back to wherever it is Celtic gods go when they're not turning people into giant homicidal lizards."
"So it's that simple? We ask the Czernibóg to drag the jerk back to wherever he came from?"
Weles interrupted, I don't have access to his realm, at the same time Lydia said, "No, I don't think a Slavic god can enter the Celtic otherworld."
"Well, at least the two of you agree on that," Stiles said.
Lydia blinked at him for a moment. "Oh. Right. Say hi."
"He can hear you."
"Yeah. That's weird. Anyway. There are at least five different gods powerful enough to retrieve Cernunnos," Lydia said. "Clementia doesn't give specific instructions for calling them, because that's witchcraft, which she's not allowed to practice. But there's more in other sources. Basically, you make an offering and call the god, and if they're interested, they show up."
"If they're interested?" Stiles repeated.
"You can't summon a god, only invite it," Lydia said. "The small gods come pretty readily, but the major ones don't bother unless you're special to them for some reason or they know the cause is important. Since we haven't been worshiping Celtic gods all our lives, we're probably at a disadvantage."
She tried last night, Weles said. I can smell it.
"Of course she did," Stiles said. "I mean - of course you tried. Before you brought me here. Because like you said, you're in charge of this, you're just letting me help, so you'd only let me help if you'd tried to do it yourself and failed."
Lydia glared at him open-mouthed, momentarily speechless. It was fun to get her to that state. "I tried to call Belisama," she said. "She's a goddess of wisdom. But nothing."
"I'm not going to get anything either," Stiles said. "I'm too connected to Weles."
"I... I don't really have anyone else to ask," Lydia said.
"Then go make some other friends. I can't help."
"I have a specific god in mind," Lydia went on as if he hadn't just blown her off cruelly. "Sucellus."
Stiles felt a dart of recognition in his chest, like the name had sparked something in Weles. Or like Weles was angry with him for not showing any sympathy for Lydia. Weles was so busy hiding information from him that he couldn't be sure. "Go on," Stiles said.
"He's a forest god. He carries a hammer, which he uses to make trees grow, and the head of the hammer doubles as or transforms into a barrel for brewing, so he can give wine to the dead and calm them on their journey to the afterlife."
Stiles did not need to say out loud that this sounded a lot like Weles, because it felt like Weles was trying to tickle-torture Stiles from the inside. "Stop!" Stiles yelped. He wrapped his arms around himself and squirmed as if he could shake Weles off. To Lydia, he managed to say, "Hang on. We're close to something." Inside his head, he told Weles, "You can help or you can leave."
You can't summon Sucellus, Weles said, although his voice had changed: it was deeper and somehow fatter. I'm already here.
Stiles received the explanation all at once, as if Weles, or Sucellus, or whatever its real name was, had dumped a bucket of information into his brain. Weles and Sucellus were aspects of the same entity, the same eternal source of power. Separated by geography and time, they'd become distinct from each other - and from other versions in other parts of the world - but still connected to the basic power source and its domains: the forest, the afterlife, and chaos. Weles didn't like relinquishing control to the other aspects of himself, but he knew he had to now.
Lydia was kneeling over Stiles, shaking him. "Are you okay?"
"The Good Striker and the Czernibóg are linked," Stiles said. "I have the Good Striker on the line now. It's a nickname for - don't use his real name."
"But you're okay."
"Yeah," Stiles said. "I think."
She stepped back from him and went right back into research mode. "I thought you were tied to just the one god."
"I am," Stiles said. "They're the same god. They're just not the same person."
Surprisingly, that seemed to make sense to her. She must have been reading even stranger stories. "So will he do it? Banish Cernunnos?"
I'll retrieve the Black Stag for you, Sucellus said, but I want something in return.
"Shocking," Stiles muttered.
I don't get this close to the mortal world much anymore, Sucellus said. I miss the pleasures of my domain. I ask two things of you: first, that you drink wine in my name. Second, that you enjoy the body of your wolf lover in my presence, with his permission.
"Oh, come on," Stiles said.
"What's going on?" Lydia jumped in. "He won't do it?"
"Oh, he'll do it," Stiles said. "For a price."
"What price?"
"Sex and alcohol," Stiles said.
"We have to get you laid?" Lydia said. "We're doomed."
Stuttering and blushing, he explained the Derek situation. Lydia seemed to brim with questions, but all she said was, "Lucky you."
They raided her dad's wine cellar. The bottle Sucellus chose was older than Stiles, and Stiles didn't want to know how much it was worth. Lydia assured him that her dad wouldn't realize it was gone.
"I guess I should go do this," Stiles said, cradling the wine bottle.
"Call me if you fuck it up," Lydia said as she showed him out.
Stiles was all set to drive directly to Derek's house, but Sucellus urged him to go home and collect himself first. This should be an act of joy, not of obligation, Sucellus said, making Stiles feel all the more obligated.
Weles' staff still lay across the passenger seat of the Jeep. When Stiles picked it up to carry it back into the house, he felt a pleasant rush of energy from his hand to his brain. Thanks, Weles's high and wiry voice filled his head. I'm back where I belong. Don't let that happen again, all right? He doesn't belong here.
Stiles grabbed the bottle of wine from the back seat. "I'm going to have to, aren't I? I'll have to summon him again to banish Cernunnos."
If you fulfill his requests, he'll find a way to be present, Weles said. The Good Striker keeps his word.
Stiles tried to sneak into his house without attracting his dad's attention, but he banged the staff against the doorframe accidentally. Dad snatched the wine bottle out of his hands. He skipped the lecture on bringing alcohol into the house and went straight to, "Did you steal this?"
"Lydia gave it to me. She said her father wouldn't miss it."
Dad raised an eyebrow, and Stiles knew he wasn't getting away with shit. He explained the situation with Cernunnos and Sucellus's demands. He forgot to leave out the part where he also had to have sex, although he caught himself before the "with Derek" clause.
Calmly, Dad took away the bottle of wine and set it on the kitchen table. He got two wine glasses down from the top shelf of the cabinet and wiped the dust off their rims with a towel. Then, appearing to maintain his calm, he went into the bathroom and returned with a box of condoms. "Use protection, don't do anything you don't want to do just to be cool, make sure whoever you're with wants to do whatever you're doing, be honest, and have fun. That's your sex talk. Don't make me give you another one."
Sufficiently shamed, Stiles accepted the condoms. In his head, Weles assured him that Sucellus would not object to their use. Only fertility gods care about that.
"Sorry about the wine," Stiles said, largely because it changed the subject on both of them.
"You'll still get to drink it," Dad said. "You made an agreement, after all." He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. "But I'd be failing you as a parent if I let you waste a 1990 Haut-Brion on your friends."
Stiles grinned. Dad just wanted the wine.
Dad rambled about needing to decant old reds and let them breathe, and he poured the contents of the bottle into an old lemonade pitcher. In the light, the wine was thick and red as blood. The analogy is already tired, Weles sneered.
After several long minutes of not talking, Dad poured wine from the pitcher into each glass. Weles helped Stiles perform the small ritual correctly. He raised his glass and said, "We drink in the name of Sucellus, the Good Striker." Stiles felt a tickling surge of fat power as he drank, but Sucellus didn't try to take over. He'd learned his place.
Weles told Stiles he didn't have much time before the ritual expired. Stiles ran upstairs to get his helm and robe: he probably wouldn't need everything, but extra protection was never a bad plan. As an extension of the same thought, he brought the condoms, too. "What if Derek's not home?" he asked Weles in the car.
Don't worry about that, Weles assured him.
Stiles showed up at Derek's door like a dork with all of Weles' sigils: robe draped over one shoulder, helm under his arm, staff in hand. At least the condoms weren't visible, rolled up in the robe. Derek let him in, although he stared dubiously. Sweat ran down Derek's arms, and an obstacle course of free weights littered the living room. "Sorry," Stiles said. "Finish. Whatever. Never mind."
"I was wondering if you were going to show up again," Derek said. "I thought I'd scared you away." Stiles could hear that surprising loneliness in his voice again, that resignation to being abandoned.
"You're pretty much the least scary thing in this town," Stiles said. "Which is strange, since you can turn into a giant wolf and also bench press your own body weight."
"That pile of magic stuff you're carrying is much scarier," Derek said.
Stiles put it all down in a heap on the kitchen counter. The condom box rolled out of the robe and onto the floor. Stiles felt the color drain from his face. "I might have... made a deal I can't back out of? And accidentally included you in it?"
"With your Polish cattle god." Derek was judging him; he deserved it.
"No, with another god. Did you know there were other gods? There are so many gods, you wouldn't believe, and all any of them seem to want is to get me in bed with you."
"So you're hooking up with me on another dare from another god." Derek folded his arms.
"More like - the god that made Jackson turn into a kanima instead of a werewolf is still running loose around town, and the Celtic god of wine and good times said he'd drag that god back to wherever gods go, but only if I got drunk and laid in his honor."
"Well, that sounds reasonable," Derek said.
"Really?"
"No."
"I'm sorry I didn't ask you first," Stiles said. "It all happened pretty fast, and you should really get a cellphone."
Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles. He looked like he wanted to be kissed, and people didn't look at Stiles that way often. "If we do this," Derek said, "we'll eliminate the possibility of the alpha pack raising another kanima?"
"Maybe. Probably. We'll have two powerful gods on our side, at least."
"Fine," Derek said. "But next time - next time and every time after that, it's just you and me. No deals, no magic."
"That's all I want," Stiles said. "Especially the part where there are lots of next times."
Derek kissed him forcefully. You have to summon him, Weles interrupted. I, on the other hand, will shut my eyes and ears until you're done, but I'll be around if there's trouble.
"Okay, Sucellus, we're doing it," Stiles said out loud. There was a pop of energy, and a tipsy, lascivious presence filled the air.
Derek made a face. "Your powerful new god smells like a wino."
"I think he's their patron saint," Stiles said. He tried to concentrate on kissing, but Sucellus's heavy presence made him feel dirty.
Fittingly, they did it on the sofa, which was beige and lumpy and looked like it had been rescued from someone's front lawn. Stiles felt intensely and profoundly unready. He remembered the ground rules his dad had just given him for sex, and he realized he was breaking most of them. "Stop," he said. "Wait."
Derek stopped and waited.
Mentally, Stiles called on Weles. Sit tight, Weles said. Let me strike a bargain.
Stiles leaned into Derek and held him; Derek rested his head on Stiles's shoulder. Despite the weights scattered on the floor and the fact that Derek could crush Stiles with a single bicep, Stiles felt like the strong one.
Weles didn't report back directly. It was Derek who received the answer: "Did you just hear a creepy old guy say we can do what we want as long as we're naked and pretty?"
Weles' only explanation was, Wolves are the Good Striker's domain. He has a natural connection to your friend. He might be hoping to leap into Derek and gain a conduit to the human world. Since you drank the wine with your father and not with Derek, you've already put a wrench in his plans. I can hold him off, but I might be more present than you'd like.
"Keep your head together," Stiles whispered to Derek. "Don't get too lost in it."
"Don't worry," Derek said. "I feel like a circus animal."
"I'm sorry I got you into this."
Derek kissed him. "It's another kind of fight. Another thing to get through. You didn't make the world the way it is." It was reassuring that Derek saw the big picture in this, but also heartbreaking, that he saw his life as a series of terrible situations. Stiles wanted to protect him from that. Derek had suffered more than his share of misery. Stiles had begun to see the person beneath Derek's emotional scar tissue, and he didn't want that person to disappear for good.
"We don't have to do this," Stiles said. "We'll find another way to banish Cernunnos."
Derek held Stiles's face in both of his hands. His eyes flashed lupine gold. "You're saving lives," he said. "And you will not back down just because things got awkward."
"I wanted this - us - to be separate from... everything. All the bad stuff in the world. Although that was probably a stupid thing to want, since we only got together because the Czernibóg wouldn't stop badgering me."
"Nothing's ever separate," Derek said. "Once you're in the fight, you're all in." He kissed Stiles again, pressing his lips hard and long against Stiles's as if trying to shove strength into his mouth. "You're starting to convince me that doesn't always have to be tragic."
Stiles closed his eyes to shut out the world, to feel only Derek's arms and lips. Even under these ridiculous circumstances, being kissed - being desired - excited him. He'd built up the ideas of sex and romance into impossible and self-defeating goals, and now he had to kick them off their pedestal. Sucellus hadn't just made a deal; he'd demanded a sacrifice. Stiles didn't need Weles to remind him that some sacrifices were necessary, not tragic.
Stiles shifted out of Derek's embrace and took off his shirt. "He said 'naked and pretty,' right? Well, I can give him naked."
Derek followed Stiles's lead and took off his clothes. Stiles looked him over and smiled with relief: naked bodies were goofy, and hooking up wasn't serious. They didn't go any farther than they'd gone before. Kissing, grinding, hands everywhere. Stiles still had some virginity left, and he intended to save that for a private moment. He stuck to what he knew and what felt good, so good he almost forgot he was being scrutinized by a higher power. It took a while to get off because of that scrutiny, but that just meant Sucellus was getting his money's worth.
After a long moment in Derek's arms, Stiles got up to clean himself off, but Weles stopped him. Sucellus is trying to get into your wolf's head. Stay close. Physical contact is best.
Stiles took Derek by the hand and tugged him along. "Don't let go of me." He hadn't realized his own voice could sound so serious and urgent.
"You'll explain later?" Derek said.
"I'll explain about half of it now." Stiles kept his voice low, as if volume were an issue with gods. "The Czernibóg is dropping hints that the Black Stag is possessing someone. Not like my situation, where it's a two-way conversation, but slowly taking someone over. I think we need to bring the Good Striker to whoever that person is."
"Scott," Derek said without hesitation.
"You think?"
"When, in your entire life, has he cut you out?" Derek said. "It would take a supernatural force to keep him from spilling secrets to you."
A shiver of terror ran through Stiles. "We need to go now," he said. "Don't let go."
Washing up and getting dressed reminded Stiles of a three-legged race. They kept tripping over each other. In the Jeep, Derek's fingers wrapped around Stiles's wrist as Stiles shifted into gear, they found a moment to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Especially since, without thinking, Stiles had dressed himself in full priestly attire: helm and robe, staff in the back leaning against the driver's seat. The sigils drew Weles' protection around them. He'd have to show up at Scott's door like this, but Scott's mom had seen weirder from him.
By the time they got to Scott's house, Stiles had a plausible cover story. He told Scott's mom, "Renaissance Faire. We're taking Scott with us. He has no choice."
She allowed them upstairs, not commenting on Derek's presence, much less the fact that he and Stiles were holding hands like an actual couple.
Stiles knocked on Scott's bedroom door, knowing there would be no answer. The door was locked, but Derek forced it open. Scott was sulking in bed, reading a comic book. He looked pale, like the life was being drawn out of him. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles. "There's a cold wind in here," he whispered, almost kissing Stiles's ear.
"Okay, Sucellus, do your thing," Stiles said.
The room remained cruelly still. Scott, lost in his own world, barely acknowledged them.
"Seriously?" Stiles continued. "I did what you asked me to do. You can't go back on your word just because you didn't get everything you wanted."
The whole world seemed to sigh. A warm wind, smelling of rainfall and wine, blew in from all directions, rattling the window open. Scott gasped and dropped his comic book. He opened his mouth as if to ask what was going on, but the crash of a hammer drowned him out. The sweet and heavy wind sucked itself out of the room, slamming the window behind it.
Scott stretched and yawned as if he'd been asleep for weeks. Then, he took one look at Stiles and cracked up. "What are you wearing?"
"I told your mom we were going to the Renaissance Faire," Stiles said.
"And she believed you?"
"Probably not," Stiles said. "But she let us in anyway. She knew something was wrong with you, and I'm guessing she knew it wasn't human."
"What did happen?" Scott said.
Stiles was all ready to launch into the epic tale of his summer so far, but Derek cut him off with a succinct, "You were possessed by a rogue god. The one that produced the kanima."
Scott furrowed his brow like he'd been called to the board to solve a math problem. "That makes sense, I guess," he said. "It was like - every time I tried to get up, there was this voice in my head telling me, Stay, don't do anything. So I couldn't do anything. For a month."
"Only a month?" Derek said. "Because the kanima showed up a long time before that."
"I bet it was in someone else before." As Stiles said it, Weles confirmed his hunch. "Probably Matt."
"No," Scott said with certainty. "Allison's mom. She - I felt something happen, but I didn't know what it was."
"Well, it's fixed now," Stiles said. "The Czernibóg says -"
"The what?" Scott interrupted.
"Yeah," Derek said. "You missed some stuff."
"Let's go to the backyard," Stiles said. Weles was making him itch for fresh air again, and he didn't feel like fighting it. "We'll catch you up."
On the way downstairs, Derek was still holding his hand. Scott hadn't mentioned it, although he'd almost definitely noticed. "You can let go," Stiles said.
"I don't really want to," Derek replied.
Stiles could feel Weles in his head, proud of him. Congratulations on outwitting two gods at once.
Stiles didn't think he deserved the praise. He hadn't planned on giving the wine to his dad, and Derek had done most of the work of holding on to him when he was in danger. The demand that Sucellus keep his promise had seemed like common sense. He thought heroism should be bigger than that, more dramatic.
First of all, learn to take a compliment, Weles said. Second of all, you're never going to be the kind of hero who slays evil with a mighty sword. I'm not that kind of god, and you're not that kind of person.
They were in Scott's backyard. Derek was telling Scott the story of Sucellus and Cernunnos in his usual terse and uncommunicative fashion. "You can jump in anytime," he said to Stiles.
"Sorry, I'm in my head," Stiles said. "It's crowded in there."
"Does the Polish cattle god have something to add?" Derek asked. He must have gotten to that point in the story with Scott, because Scott didn't flinch.
"Not really," Stiles said.
Surprisingly, Weles didn't mind that Stiles shut him out of the conversation. This was a private pep talk. Look what you bring out in them, and be proud of yourself, was all he added. He made it ring in Stiles's mind like it was supposed to mean something.
As with Weles' other cryptic refrains, Stiles shoved it as far back into his mind as he could and put his energy into pulling Scott back into the world. He seemed fine, as if the damage was all temporary, but Stiles didn't trust Sucellus. Derek and Scott talked about preparing for the alpha pack. They were sharing a wolf moment, and Stiles didn't want to disturb them. Instead, he kept watch over them, hushing their words so enemies couldn't overhear them. He realized, after a few minutes, that he was casting a spell.
Look what you bring out in them. Well, Derek certainly wasn't what Stiles had expected: he was a whole different person when he let his emotions slip through. Power-geek Lydia was pretty amazing. And Scott - Scott was alive, not a zombie locked in his room, and a semi-competent werewolf on most days. Maybe Stiles he did need to take credit for who they were when they were around him. Maybe it was heroic to be a really good sidekick.
Sidekick? Weles was incredulous. You're completely in charge here.
Stiles cleared his throat, taking that as a divine command. He tugged the arm that Derek still had draped around his waist. "Come on," he said. "I left something at your house."
Derek took him literally. "What did you leave?"
"You know," Stiles said. "Stuff."
Derek shot to his feet. "We should go get that. Right now." He ran at werewolf speed to the Jeep, leaving Stiles panting to catch up.
As they made out in the front seat, Weles struck up another chorus of "Fuck a Werewolf." Stiles ignored it. He was getting used to the noise.
3.
"I did what you wanted," Stiles told the backyard sky. He hadn't heard a peep from either Weles or Derek in a couple of days, and he was beginning to wonder if he'd freaked both of them out. He felt crazy, shouting alone outside in his robe and helm.
And you had a wonderful time, Weles's voice boomed in his head. I was wondering how long it would take before you'd call on me again. You know I couldn't return until you summoned me.
"It's that easy to get rid of you?"
A pause, like a sigh. I have a deal with your father.
"Yeah," Stiles said. "About that."
He chose to dismiss me. I'm bound to respect his wishes.
It was strange that a god could have so many limitations and rules binding him. But not strange: Weles and Lydia had both talked about domains and areas of influence. An infinitely powerful god was too dangerous. "What did you do to piss him off?"
I gave him a number of small tasks, and he resented those duties. I pestered him when he didn't fulfill them. He grew overwhelmed and irritated, and he told me to get out of his head. I understood: he was young then, younger than you are now. I assumed he'd call on me again when he was ready, which he has not, or that he'd continue the priestly line and have a more receptive son, which remains to be seen.
Stiles shrugged off the slight and asked the more important question. "So my mom...?"
He chose not to call upon me, Weles said. If he had, I might have been able to help him keep her in the mortal world. As it stands, I only had the power to make sure she entered my realm after she died, which I have done.
"So she's okay?"
Of course not, Weles said. She's dead. But it's peaceful here.
When Stiles tried to inquire more, his mind filled with painful static. Weles wasn't allowed to tell him more about the afterlife, and the information was being cosmically censored. Stiles tried to stop thinking about his mom, but when he got stuck on her memory, it was impossible to focus on anything else. He ended up sitting on the lawn, crying for her and for the pain in his head.
An incoming text on his phone snapped him out of it. When his mom had died, he'd learned how to suck in his grief and pretend he was fine. He'd had so much practice at that, it was automatic now.
The text was from Lydia. "I found out something important about banishing Cernunnos. Come over. Bring lunch."
He took the robe and helm up to his room, but Weles urged him to bring the bone staff along. He stopped for sandwiches - at the good deli that took forever and cost more, but he knew the look he'd get from Lydia if he showed up with Subway - and marveled at his own calm. Lydia Martin was inviting him over to her house, and he wasn't afraid of tripping over his words or his feet. He couldn't tell if Weles was directly suppressing his awkwardness, or if hooking up with Derek really had given him the confidence Weles had promised.
Lydia led him up to her enormous bedroom. The bed was covered in books, the pages marked with pink Post-It tabs, some of them held open with hair clips. None of them were in English. One of them displayed a creepy metal carving of a horned god holding a stag and a serpent. Her computer screen was full of tiled web browser windows. In spite of this abundant enthusiasm, she'd apparently dragged herself away long enough to style her hair, put on makeup, and match her shoes to her dress.
She started on her sandwich without exactly thanking him. "Oh my God, I'm so hungry. I skipped breakfast." She opened up the bread and picked the turkey and vegetables out with her fingers. "I found a medieval verse chronicle of the Gaulish gods. It's really thorough. Eleventh-century nuns had a lot of time on their hands."
Stiles sat on the floor and chomped his sandwich, glad to have something to keep his mouth and hands busy.
"It says minor gods sometimes get trapped in the human realm," Lydia explained. "They're called here, and then the caller abandons them or mistreats them and they have no way to get back on their own. She - the nun who wrote it, who the metadata says is anonymous but I think her name was Clementia - she says spells to banish gods are mere superstition, and they only work when the god thinks the spell is so foolish that the people casting it aren't worth the effort. The only way to send a god home is to call another god, powerful enough to subdue Cernunnos and carry him back to wherever it is Celtic gods go when they're not turning people into giant homicidal lizards."
"So it's that simple? We ask the Czernibóg to drag the jerk back to wherever he came from?"
Weles interrupted, I don't have access to his realm, at the same time Lydia said, "No, I don't think a Slavic god can enter the Celtic otherworld."
"Well, at least the two of you agree on that," Stiles said.
Lydia blinked at him for a moment. "Oh. Right. Say hi."
"He can hear you."
"Yeah. That's weird. Anyway. There are at least five different gods powerful enough to retrieve Cernunnos," Lydia said. "Clementia doesn't give specific instructions for calling them, because that's witchcraft, which she's not allowed to practice. But there's more in other sources. Basically, you make an offering and call the god, and if they're interested, they show up."
"If they're interested?" Stiles repeated.
"You can't summon a god, only invite it," Lydia said. "The small gods come pretty readily, but the major ones don't bother unless you're special to them for some reason or they know the cause is important. Since we haven't been worshiping Celtic gods all our lives, we're probably at a disadvantage."
She tried last night, Weles said. I can smell it.
"Of course she did," Stiles said. "I mean - of course you tried. Before you brought me here. Because like you said, you're in charge of this, you're just letting me help, so you'd only let me help if you'd tried to do it yourself and failed."
Lydia glared at him open-mouthed, momentarily speechless. It was fun to get her to that state. "I tried to call Belisama," she said. "She's a goddess of wisdom. But nothing."
"I'm not going to get anything either," Stiles said. "I'm too connected to Weles."
"I... I don't really have anyone else to ask," Lydia said.
"Then go make some other friends. I can't help."
"I have a specific god in mind," Lydia went on as if he hadn't just blown her off cruelly. "Sucellus."
Stiles felt a dart of recognition in his chest, like the name had sparked something in Weles. Or like Weles was angry with him for not showing any sympathy for Lydia. Weles was so busy hiding information from him that he couldn't be sure. "Go on," Stiles said.
"He's a forest god. He carries a hammer, which he uses to make trees grow, and the head of the hammer doubles as or transforms into a barrel for brewing, so he can give wine to the dead and calm them on their journey to the afterlife."
Stiles did not need to say out loud that this sounded a lot like Weles, because it felt like Weles was trying to tickle-torture Stiles from the inside. "Stop!" Stiles yelped. He wrapped his arms around himself and squirmed as if he could shake Weles off. To Lydia, he managed to say, "Hang on. We're close to something." Inside his head, he told Weles, "You can help or you can leave."
You can't summon Sucellus, Weles said, although his voice had changed: it was deeper and somehow fatter. I'm already here.
Stiles received the explanation all at once, as if Weles, or Sucellus, or whatever its real name was, had dumped a bucket of information into his brain. Weles and Sucellus were aspects of the same entity, the same eternal source of power. Separated by geography and time, they'd become distinct from each other - and from other versions in other parts of the world - but still connected to the basic power source and its domains: the forest, the afterlife, and chaos. Weles didn't like relinquishing control to the other aspects of himself, but he knew he had to now.
Lydia was kneeling over Stiles, shaking him. "Are you okay?"
"The Good Striker and the Czernibóg are linked," Stiles said. "I have the Good Striker on the line now. It's a nickname for - don't use his real name."
"But you're okay."
"Yeah," Stiles said. "I think."
She stepped back from him and went right back into research mode. "I thought you were tied to just the one god."
"I am," Stiles said. "They're the same god. They're just not the same person."
Surprisingly, that seemed to make sense to her. She must have been reading even stranger stories. "So will he do it? Banish Cernunnos?"
I'll retrieve the Black Stag for you, Sucellus said, but I want something in return.
"Shocking," Stiles muttered.
I don't get this close to the mortal world much anymore, Sucellus said. I miss the pleasures of my domain. I ask two things of you: first, that you drink wine in my name. Second, that you enjoy the body of your wolf lover in my presence, with his permission.
"Oh, come on," Stiles said.
"What's going on?" Lydia jumped in. "He won't do it?"
"Oh, he'll do it," Stiles said. "For a price."
"What price?"
"Sex and alcohol," Stiles said.
"We have to get you laid?" Lydia said. "We're doomed."
Stuttering and blushing, he explained the Derek situation. Lydia seemed to brim with questions, but all she said was, "Lucky you."
They raided her dad's wine cellar. The bottle Sucellus chose was older than Stiles, and Stiles didn't want to know how much it was worth. Lydia assured him that her dad wouldn't realize it was gone.
"I guess I should go do this," Stiles said, cradling the wine bottle.
"Call me if you fuck it up," Lydia said as she showed him out.
Stiles was all set to drive directly to Derek's house, but Sucellus urged him to go home and collect himself first. This should be an act of joy, not of obligation, Sucellus said, making Stiles feel all the more obligated.
Weles' staff still lay across the passenger seat of the Jeep. When Stiles picked it up to carry it back into the house, he felt a pleasant rush of energy from his hand to his brain. Thanks, Weles's high and wiry voice filled his head. I'm back where I belong. Don't let that happen again, all right? He doesn't belong here.
Stiles grabbed the bottle of wine from the back seat. "I'm going to have to, aren't I? I'll have to summon him again to banish Cernunnos."
If you fulfill his requests, he'll find a way to be present, Weles said. The Good Striker keeps his word.
Stiles tried to sneak into his house without attracting his dad's attention, but he banged the staff against the doorframe accidentally. Dad snatched the wine bottle out of his hands. He skipped the lecture on bringing alcohol into the house and went straight to, "Did you steal this?"
"Lydia gave it to me. She said her father wouldn't miss it."
Dad raised an eyebrow, and Stiles knew he wasn't getting away with shit. He explained the situation with Cernunnos and Sucellus's demands. He forgot to leave out the part where he also had to have sex, although he caught himself before the "with Derek" clause.
Calmly, Dad took away the bottle of wine and set it on the kitchen table. He got two wine glasses down from the top shelf of the cabinet and wiped the dust off their rims with a towel. Then, appearing to maintain his calm, he went into the bathroom and returned with a box of condoms. "Use protection, don't do anything you don't want to do just to be cool, make sure whoever you're with wants to do whatever you're doing, be honest, and have fun. That's your sex talk. Don't make me give you another one."
Sufficiently shamed, Stiles accepted the condoms. In his head, Weles assured him that Sucellus would not object to their use. Only fertility gods care about that.
"Sorry about the wine," Stiles said, largely because it changed the subject on both of them.
"You'll still get to drink it," Dad said. "You made an agreement, after all." He pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. "But I'd be failing you as a parent if I let you waste a 1990 Haut-Brion on your friends."
Stiles grinned. Dad just wanted the wine.
Dad rambled about needing to decant old reds and let them breathe, and he poured the contents of the bottle into an old lemonade pitcher. In the light, the wine was thick and red as blood. The analogy is already tired, Weles sneered.
After several long minutes of not talking, Dad poured wine from the pitcher into each glass. Weles helped Stiles perform the small ritual correctly. He raised his glass and said, "We drink in the name of Sucellus, the Good Striker." Stiles felt a tickling surge of fat power as he drank, but Sucellus didn't try to take over. He'd learned his place.
Weles told Stiles he didn't have much time before the ritual expired. Stiles ran upstairs to get his helm and robe: he probably wouldn't need everything, but extra protection was never a bad plan. As an extension of the same thought, he brought the condoms, too. "What if Derek's not home?" he asked Weles in the car.
Don't worry about that, Weles assured him.
Stiles showed up at Derek's door like a dork with all of Weles' sigils: robe draped over one shoulder, helm under his arm, staff in hand. At least the condoms weren't visible, rolled up in the robe. Derek let him in, although he stared dubiously. Sweat ran down Derek's arms, and an obstacle course of free weights littered the living room. "Sorry," Stiles said. "Finish. Whatever. Never mind."
"I was wondering if you were going to show up again," Derek said. "I thought I'd scared you away." Stiles could hear that surprising loneliness in his voice again, that resignation to being abandoned.
"You're pretty much the least scary thing in this town," Stiles said. "Which is strange, since you can turn into a giant wolf and also bench press your own body weight."
"That pile of magic stuff you're carrying is much scarier," Derek said.
Stiles put it all down in a heap on the kitchen counter. The condom box rolled out of the robe and onto the floor. Stiles felt the color drain from his face. "I might have... made a deal I can't back out of? And accidentally included you in it?"
"With your Polish cattle god." Derek was judging him; he deserved it.
"No, with another god. Did you know there were other gods? There are so many gods, you wouldn't believe, and all any of them seem to want is to get me in bed with you."
"So you're hooking up with me on another dare from another god." Derek folded his arms.
"More like - the god that made Jackson turn into a kanima instead of a werewolf is still running loose around town, and the Celtic god of wine and good times said he'd drag that god back to wherever gods go, but only if I got drunk and laid in his honor."
"Well, that sounds reasonable," Derek said.
"Really?"
"No."
"I'm sorry I didn't ask you first," Stiles said. "It all happened pretty fast, and you should really get a cellphone."
Derek narrowed his eyes at Stiles. He looked like he wanted to be kissed, and people didn't look at Stiles that way often. "If we do this," Derek said, "we'll eliminate the possibility of the alpha pack raising another kanima?"
"Maybe. Probably. We'll have two powerful gods on our side, at least."
"Fine," Derek said. "But next time - next time and every time after that, it's just you and me. No deals, no magic."
"That's all I want," Stiles said. "Especially the part where there are lots of next times."
Derek kissed him forcefully. You have to summon him, Weles interrupted. I, on the other hand, will shut my eyes and ears until you're done, but I'll be around if there's trouble.
"Okay, Sucellus, we're doing it," Stiles said out loud. There was a pop of energy, and a tipsy, lascivious presence filled the air.
Derek made a face. "Your powerful new god smells like a wino."
"I think he's their patron saint," Stiles said. He tried to concentrate on kissing, but Sucellus's heavy presence made him feel dirty.
Fittingly, they did it on the sofa, which was beige and lumpy and looked like it had been rescued from someone's front lawn. Stiles felt intensely and profoundly unready. He remembered the ground rules his dad had just given him for sex, and he realized he was breaking most of them. "Stop," he said. "Wait."
Derek stopped and waited.
Mentally, Stiles called on Weles. Sit tight, Weles said. Let me strike a bargain.
Stiles leaned into Derek and held him; Derek rested his head on Stiles's shoulder. Despite the weights scattered on the floor and the fact that Derek could crush Stiles with a single bicep, Stiles felt like the strong one.
Weles didn't report back directly. It was Derek who received the answer: "Did you just hear a creepy old guy say we can do what we want as long as we're naked and pretty?"
Weles' only explanation was, Wolves are the Good Striker's domain. He has a natural connection to your friend. He might be hoping to leap into Derek and gain a conduit to the human world. Since you drank the wine with your father and not with Derek, you've already put a wrench in his plans. I can hold him off, but I might be more present than you'd like.
"Keep your head together," Stiles whispered to Derek. "Don't get too lost in it."
"Don't worry," Derek said. "I feel like a circus animal."
"I'm sorry I got you into this."
Derek kissed him. "It's another kind of fight. Another thing to get through. You didn't make the world the way it is." It was reassuring that Derek saw the big picture in this, but also heartbreaking, that he saw his life as a series of terrible situations. Stiles wanted to protect him from that. Derek had suffered more than his share of misery. Stiles had begun to see the person beneath Derek's emotional scar tissue, and he didn't want that person to disappear for good.
"We don't have to do this," Stiles said. "We'll find another way to banish Cernunnos."
Derek held Stiles's face in both of his hands. His eyes flashed lupine gold. "You're saving lives," he said. "And you will not back down just because things got awkward."
"I wanted this - us - to be separate from... everything. All the bad stuff in the world. Although that was probably a stupid thing to want, since we only got together because the Czernibóg wouldn't stop badgering me."
"Nothing's ever separate," Derek said. "Once you're in the fight, you're all in." He kissed Stiles again, pressing his lips hard and long against Stiles's as if trying to shove strength into his mouth. "You're starting to convince me that doesn't always have to be tragic."
Stiles closed his eyes to shut out the world, to feel only Derek's arms and lips. Even under these ridiculous circumstances, being kissed - being desired - excited him. He'd built up the ideas of sex and romance into impossible and self-defeating goals, and now he had to kick them off their pedestal. Sucellus hadn't just made a deal; he'd demanded a sacrifice. Stiles didn't need Weles to remind him that some sacrifices were necessary, not tragic.
Stiles shifted out of Derek's embrace and took off his shirt. "He said 'naked and pretty,' right? Well, I can give him naked."
Derek followed Stiles's lead and took off his clothes. Stiles looked him over and smiled with relief: naked bodies were goofy, and hooking up wasn't serious. They didn't go any farther than they'd gone before. Kissing, grinding, hands everywhere. Stiles still had some virginity left, and he intended to save that for a private moment. He stuck to what he knew and what felt good, so good he almost forgot he was being scrutinized by a higher power. It took a while to get off because of that scrutiny, but that just meant Sucellus was getting his money's worth.
After a long moment in Derek's arms, Stiles got up to clean himself off, but Weles stopped him. Sucellus is trying to get into your wolf's head. Stay close. Physical contact is best.
Stiles took Derek by the hand and tugged him along. "Don't let go of me." He hadn't realized his own voice could sound so serious and urgent.
"You'll explain later?" Derek said.
"I'll explain about half of it now." Stiles kept his voice low, as if volume were an issue with gods. "The Czernibóg is dropping hints that the Black Stag is possessing someone. Not like my situation, where it's a two-way conversation, but slowly taking someone over. I think we need to bring the Good Striker to whoever that person is."
"Scott," Derek said without hesitation.
"You think?"
"When, in your entire life, has he cut you out?" Derek said. "It would take a supernatural force to keep him from spilling secrets to you."
A shiver of terror ran through Stiles. "We need to go now," he said. "Don't let go."
Washing up and getting dressed reminded Stiles of a three-legged race. They kept tripping over each other. In the Jeep, Derek's fingers wrapped around Stiles's wrist as Stiles shifted into gear, they found a moment to laugh at the ridiculousness of it. Especially since, without thinking, Stiles had dressed himself in full priestly attire: helm and robe, staff in the back leaning against the driver's seat. The sigils drew Weles' protection around them. He'd have to show up at Scott's door like this, but Scott's mom had seen weirder from him.
By the time they got to Scott's house, Stiles had a plausible cover story. He told Scott's mom, "Renaissance Faire. We're taking Scott with us. He has no choice."
She allowed them upstairs, not commenting on Derek's presence, much less the fact that he and Stiles were holding hands like an actual couple.
Stiles knocked on Scott's bedroom door, knowing there would be no answer. The door was locked, but Derek forced it open. Scott was sulking in bed, reading a comic book. He looked pale, like the life was being drawn out of him. Derek tightened his grip on Stiles. "There's a cold wind in here," he whispered, almost kissing Stiles's ear.
"Okay, Sucellus, do your thing," Stiles said.
The room remained cruelly still. Scott, lost in his own world, barely acknowledged them.
"Seriously?" Stiles continued. "I did what you asked me to do. You can't go back on your word just because you didn't get everything you wanted."
The whole world seemed to sigh. A warm wind, smelling of rainfall and wine, blew in from all directions, rattling the window open. Scott gasped and dropped his comic book. He opened his mouth as if to ask what was going on, but the crash of a hammer drowned him out. The sweet and heavy wind sucked itself out of the room, slamming the window behind it.
Scott stretched and yawned as if he'd been asleep for weeks. Then, he took one look at Stiles and cracked up. "What are you wearing?"
"I told your mom we were going to the Renaissance Faire," Stiles said.
"And she believed you?"
"Probably not," Stiles said. "But she let us in anyway. She knew something was wrong with you, and I'm guessing she knew it wasn't human."
"What did happen?" Scott said.
Stiles was all ready to launch into the epic tale of his summer so far, but Derek cut him off with a succinct, "You were possessed by a rogue god. The one that produced the kanima."
Scott furrowed his brow like he'd been called to the board to solve a math problem. "That makes sense, I guess," he said. "It was like - every time I tried to get up, there was this voice in my head telling me, Stay, don't do anything. So I couldn't do anything. For a month."
"Only a month?" Derek said. "Because the kanima showed up a long time before that."
"I bet it was in someone else before." As Stiles said it, Weles confirmed his hunch. "Probably Matt."
"No," Scott said with certainty. "Allison's mom. She - I felt something happen, but I didn't know what it was."
"Well, it's fixed now," Stiles said. "The Czernibóg says -"
"The what?" Scott interrupted.
"Yeah," Derek said. "You missed some stuff."
"Let's go to the backyard," Stiles said. Weles was making him itch for fresh air again, and he didn't feel like fighting it. "We'll catch you up."
On the way downstairs, Derek was still holding his hand. Scott hadn't mentioned it, although he'd almost definitely noticed. "You can let go," Stiles said.
"I don't really want to," Derek replied.
Stiles could feel Weles in his head, proud of him. Congratulations on outwitting two gods at once.
Stiles didn't think he deserved the praise. He hadn't planned on giving the wine to his dad, and Derek had done most of the work of holding on to him when he was in danger. The demand that Sucellus keep his promise had seemed like common sense. He thought heroism should be bigger than that, more dramatic.
First of all, learn to take a compliment, Weles said. Second of all, you're never going to be the kind of hero who slays evil with a mighty sword. I'm not that kind of god, and you're not that kind of person.
They were in Scott's backyard. Derek was telling Scott the story of Sucellus and Cernunnos in his usual terse and uncommunicative fashion. "You can jump in anytime," he said to Stiles.
"Sorry, I'm in my head," Stiles said. "It's crowded in there."
"Does the Polish cattle god have something to add?" Derek asked. He must have gotten to that point in the story with Scott, because Scott didn't flinch.
"Not really," Stiles said.
Surprisingly, Weles didn't mind that Stiles shut him out of the conversation. This was a private pep talk. Look what you bring out in them, and be proud of yourself, was all he added. He made it ring in Stiles's mind like it was supposed to mean something.
As with Weles' other cryptic refrains, Stiles shoved it as far back into his mind as he could and put his energy into pulling Scott back into the world. He seemed fine, as if the damage was all temporary, but Stiles didn't trust Sucellus. Derek and Scott talked about preparing for the alpha pack. They were sharing a wolf moment, and Stiles didn't want to disturb them. Instead, he kept watch over them, hushing their words so enemies couldn't overhear them. He realized, after a few minutes, that he was casting a spell.
Look what you bring out in them. Well, Derek certainly wasn't what Stiles had expected: he was a whole different person when he let his emotions slip through. Power-geek Lydia was pretty amazing. And Scott - Scott was alive, not a zombie locked in his room, and a semi-competent werewolf on most days. Maybe Stiles he did need to take credit for who they were when they were around him. Maybe it was heroic to be a really good sidekick.
Sidekick? Weles was incredulous. You're completely in charge here.
Stiles cleared his throat, taking that as a divine command. He tugged the arm that Derek still had draped around his waist. "Come on," he said. "I left something at your house."
Derek took him literally. "What did you leave?"
"You know," Stiles said. "Stuff."
Derek shot to his feet. "We should go get that. Right now." He ran at werewolf speed to the Jeep, leaving Stiles panting to catch up.
As they made out in the front seat, Weles struck up another chorus of "Fuck a Werewolf." Stiles ignored it. He was getting used to the noise.