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“I don’t talk about you to my therapist.” Jackson breathed against Derek’s throat rather than saying anything as boring as ‘good morning’.
Morning sunlight spilled through the open window pale and watery highlighting the two shapes in the bed. It was going to be another foggy day the sun was barely up and it was already shaping up to be cold and damp. The older corners of the Hale family mansion creaked and groaned and were better than any barometer when it came to measuring the change in pressure as summer turned to fall.
Derek hummed to acknowledge that Jackson was speaking without being bothered to actually respond. One of his hands was tracing down the naked curve of Jackson’s back, sweeping lower and lower. Jackson shifted so he could spread his legs a little. He was still store from last night (Derek holding him spread as far as his hips would let him go with large hands on the inside of his thighs; fucking into him slowly as Jackson writhed and whined for more while Derek did little but watch his dick sink into Jackson’s ass) but he wanted it again and again. As many times as he could get.
“He says it’s because I can’t open up to you.” Jackson’s voice hitched when Derek’s fingers teased against his hole.
The way he was sprawled meant that he couldn’t push into it, but he tried anyways, wiggling his hips and moaning softly just the way he knew Derek liked.
“Really?” Derek said and his voice rumbled through his chest making Jackson’s skin tingle.
“Couldn’t be more wrong.” Jackson breathed hotly pressing his smirk against Derek’s shoulder ‘it wasn’t becoming to be so cocky’.
Derek didn’t say anything, just pushed his fingers in deeper until Jackson was whining low in his throat, he pushed his knees under him so he could roll his hips back against it. Derek slipped another finger inside of him Jackson whimpered. He was already slick and open from last night, just enough so it wasn’t a completely dry stretch but the burn sizzled through him almost too hot.
“Sore?” Derek asked, rubbing his thumb hard across where Jackson was already spread by his fingers. Jackson made a wordless sound, meant to say ‘yes’ but it got lost somewhere between his chest and his mouth and came out all garbled instead. He hung his head down so he was breathing against Derek’s mouth. He licked at Derek’s lips while Derek shoved a third finger up inside of him.
Jackson licked at Derek’s lips desperately sucking the bottom on into his mouth and letting it go with a pop when Derek fucked him hard with his fingers, counting on Jackson’s shaky legs to keep him spread wide over Derek’s thighs.
Too much, too fast. But Jackson had learned from his first time with Derek (brutal, pinning him down and biting his shoulder as he fucked him too hard for a virgin) to enjoy the sharp sting of pain. Somewhere between the spicy scent of Derek’s aftershave and the pressure of his chest pressing Jackson into the sheets this had become perfect—everything he wanted. He groaned low in his chest and held on tight, desperately trying to just ride that edge of too much.
If Derek fucked him now he would be able to feel it the entire ride to school. Squirming on the seat next to Deaton every bump reminding him just how thick Derek’s cock was how deep it could fuck into him until Jackson couldn’t focus on anything else. It would last him the long weeks at boarding school where his own fingers were just not enough and he wasn’t about to lower himself to letting anyone else fuck him.
Jackson was on top one moment and the next Derek had done something, hooked a leg around him so that Jackson was flat on his stomach in a move that left him dizzy and confused for a moment face suddenly mashed into the bedding. He spread his thighs as best he could with Derek already on top of him.
“You’re always so eager for it.” Derek growled against his ear. “Every time.”
Jackson flushed, hiding his face in the pillows and arching his hips up. Derek slammed into him sudden and burning and Jackson arched mouth working soundlessly as he fought to adjust. “Derek.” He groaned, clutching the sheets.
“Just a little more.” Derek growled against his neck. Jackson nodded and tried to relax breathing high and tight through his mouth. Derek wasn’t going to give him long. With every breath he felt stretched and brittle like Derek could just break him if he wasn’t careful.
Jackson melted into the sheets panting as Derek fucked him into the bed. Jackson was hard and rutting against the sheets with each shove moaning like some sort of whore. Derek got a hand around his throat and was forcing his chest off the bed, Jackson’s hips came up to complete the arch and he choked on a small sound.
Breathing was hard. Jackson gasped and fought for each desperate lung-full. He didn’t even know if he wanted to breathe. Not if it meant he lost a single moment of this the arch pushing Derek deeper into him and lighting him up from the inside out. Jackson writhed and pressed back, he could feel it building in him, pressure in his balls and a tingle in his toes.
“Are you going to come for me? Like this?” Derek snarled against his shoulder. If he was a really good boy he could come from just being fucked.
“Yeah.” Jackson wheezed. “Just a bit more. Derek please.”
“There’s a good boy.”
That was all it took, Jackson came with a wail. One blinding moment of clarity, of the whole world blurring around the edges as it spiked through him in waves. He came all over himself and sheets. Jackson couldn’t contain the sobs, air punched out of his lungs with every hard trust while he was still so sensitive. He tried but he couldn’t hold himself up after that collapsed like a puppet against the bed.
All Jackson could do was cling to the sheets and let Derek ride him like a train.
Derek came with a low groan that stuttered. “Jacks.” The word pressed against his shoulder, light and airy, as he pressed as deep as he could go filling Jackson.
Derek lay panting on top of Jackson, skin hot and slick where they rubbed together. Jackson could have easily gone back to sleep after that all mellow and strung out from his orgasm and oddly comforted by Derek’s weight on top of him. “You’re going to be late.” Derek said, the low rumble of his voice an actual physical sensation against Jackson’s back.
“That’s okay.” Jackson said. He was warm and safe. He closed his eyes.
“You need to go.” Derek began to push up off of him and Jackson panicked, rolling with the motion and grabbing Derek around the neck, clinging.
“I don’t want to.” Jackson said, and tried to hide the moment of panic by kissing Derek. He kissed him until Derek responded. Jackson could only hope that he couldn’t feel the terrified flutter of his heart from this close. “Can’t I switch to a closer school?” He’d be humiliated by this later.
“It’s the most prestigious school in America Jackson.”
Derek tried to get up but Jackson played limp so Derek was forced to either lie back down with him or pick him up. Derek lifted him with hands under his ass so that Jackson had his legs wrapped around his waist.
“You used to carry me to bed like this.” Jackson pressed his face against Derek’s neck.
“Don’t.” Derek said tightly. He hated being reminded that he was technically Jackson’s legal guardian, lover and patriarch all in one. Jackson wasn’t in the least bit bothered by that --everything else, but not that.
For once Jackson did what he was told.
--
Jackson met Lydia when they were both 14, too old to be properly relegated to the children’s table but too young to really care about what the adults had to say. He was home for the holidays which meant endless enduring of social Christmas parties. He couldn’t figure out why they had to go to so many of them, Derek just glared at people and sipped his champagne looking upset about even being there. He may have hated it even more Jackson did and he was often bored to the point of tears. Even this party which was being held in the Hale mansion was being run ruthlessly by Deaton while Derek scowled at people who came up and initiated conversation. It was a few more years before Jackson would feel comfortable enough to slide up next to Derek and begin telling him (slightly embellished versions) about his school and sport awards to entertain him.
Now, Jackson was still a little afraid of Derek, he still spent most his time at boarding school getting into fights with people who thought they were better than him just because they had been born into millions and learning what people just wanted his money. All the while dealing with the sudden and traumatic loss of his entire world. So he was hiding in a corner. Lydia was the mayor’s daughter (even if she was just a councillor at this point in her career) and had bright red hair and wore a green dress that made her eyes glow.
“You look bored.” Jackson said.
“This is the fourth party this week.” She said, adjusted her dress and tossed her hair behind her shoulder.
“Fifth.” Jackson countered. “Would you like a tour of the house? Jackson Hale.” He held out a hand and she put her dainty fingers in his.
“Lydia Martin.”
“A pleasure, Jackson Whittmore. I live here.”
The Hale house is massive, and Jackson didn’t actually go into most of it. There were a few awkward moments when he’d first arrived that he’d explored, felt like a jungle explorer and made a mental note to tell Mom something before reality crashed down on him again. These weren’t the places he showed Lydia, the small dark corners where he had curled up and tried not to cry.
“Is it always so dark?” Lydia walked bravely ahead like the dark didn’t scare her at all while it made Jackson’s heart pound and his palms to sweat.
“In the parts we don’t use yeah, it’s an energy conservation thing I think.”
Lydia hummed, bored again.
When Deaton found them they had both ruined their fancy outfits, skin pink from the cold and between them a perfectly formed snow man. It looked more like the cover of a Christmas card than something cobbled together by two children in dress shoes. What could he say, he was an over achiever and Lydia had directed the whole thing with a sharp tongue and an eye for angles.
“I was wondering where you two went.” Deaton stood on the snow-covered terrace, “smile.” It was their first photo together, soaked through and cold and so proud of their snow man. “Now, let’s get you inside and warmed up. Councillor Martin would like to know where you’ve gone.”
“Mom is going to be so mad about the dress.” Lydia said forlornly.
Jackson just grinned, manic.
He’d could have fallen in love with her had he not already been in love with someone else even at 14.
--
Lydia met Stiles at a teddy-bear picnic. She wore a teddy bear printed shirt and denim over-alls. Grubby little children ran all around them, runny noses and shrieking with laughter.
Lydia took it all in with an air of elegant indifference.
She glowed in the soft sunlight.
Stiles was completely and totally in love. When she looked down her nose at him when he’d tripped over an actual child and landed in a tangled mess with the child who kicked him in the shins as it squirmed away, getting up to continue running in random circles.
“Hey.” Stiles tried to save the situation and be cool. His father was newly minted the commissioner and his mother wouldn’t be assassinated for a few months yet so he was happy to be just young and besotted. He wasn’t used to all this classy society.
“Hello.” Lydia replied, watching as he pulled himself to his feet.
“What’s a girl like you doing in a place like this?” Smooth Stiles, real smooth.
--
“Do you think about that night often?” Lear asked him, Jackson pursed his lips and shrugged with one shoulder.
He didn’t talk about it.
Because if he didn’t talk about it then he didn’t have to think about it. Didn’t have to remember how cold it was that night, how his jacket had been on the seat next to him and was never seen again. He’d been getting too big for it anyways ‘shooting up like a weed’ his father said. Standing there in a t-shirt and no shoes because he’d kicked them off to sleep curled in the back while his parents talked about grown-up things in the front. Lately they had been arguing more than before and Jackson had though the worst thing he had to worry about was them getting a divorce.
His memory shut down after that. Protecting his sanity from the reality of what happened.
“Nope, don’t let the past get you down.” Jackson smirked at him, “let’s talk about something more interesting?”
“Your grades are looking up again.” Lear changed the subject smoothly, giving Jackson an encouraging smile over his thin glasses and note pad. He looked like the stereotype of every shrink from every film ever made. That was a little why Jackson liked him and hadn’t demanded a new therapist in over a year. That and he never pushed the issue, just let Jackson ramble about school and Lydia.
He didn’t talk about Derek (Deaton was a safe topic because Deaton doted on him like a favourite uncle). He spoke of Lydia. Of her razor sharp wit and painfully dry sarcasm. In fact Jackson spoke on length of Lydia, and after Stiles came into their lives of Stiles’ painfully one sided crush on her. (If he meat that he wanted Stiles to stay the fuck away from Derek, because Derek was powerful and independent and everything that Jackson wanted-- and wanted to be. Well Lear was his therapist, not his friend and didn’t need to know about that.)
“Of course they are.” Jackson tipped his head and smirked. He had done well this semester. “I’m going to see if I can intern soon.”
“You’re young yet, you should focus on other things. Take Lydia to a dance, isn’t that what kids do these days?”
Jackson snorted. “Cocaine and yachting if my classmates are anything to go by.”
“But you’re better than that?” Lear gave him a sceptical look. Jackson tipped his head looking at him through his lashes and gave him a cocky smile.
“I’m better than everyone.”
--
Dr. Lear Estiff flipped through his noted on Jackson Hale-Whittmore. Jackson pretended like this didn’t bother him, crossing his ankles in the ridiculous couch-like chair and simply watching him. Lear knew that Jackson was painfully self conscious and that this silent not-judging was pushing him out of a comfortable mental state.
“I want to try something different this time Jackson.” (‘Can I call you Jacks?’ ’No.’.)
“What?” Jackson was perfectly comfortable with Derek paying thousands of dollars for his therapy bills when he didn’t really say anything at all.
“Just a little relaxation therapy, it’s all the rage with the hippies and homeopaths this year. I just light some incense let you doze for a little bit, you can talk to me if you’re comfortable.” Like Jackson would ever do that.
“Sure, sounds like fun.”
“Excellent.”
It smelled funny for a bit. Jackson felt all loose and dopey. He grinned at Lear feeling warm and safe.
“Go to sleep Jackson, when you wake up everything will be better.”
--
Jackson didn’t remember his dreams from the sessions just that he woke up with a cold feeling of dread in his stomach that made him want to be sick. Lear would run his hands through his hair and talk to him until he felt right again, giving him a glass of juice that left him feeling pleasantly warm and light.
Week after week Jackson came back.
Jackson gasped, clutching the pillow and jammed so far under the desk his knees were drawn up to his chin. He had his eyes pressed closed as if he couldn’t open them. Periodically he would whimper. “It’s dark.” He mumbled against the fabric of his designer jeans.
Lear sat back in his chair and watched the pretty young debutant quiver and shake trying to pull himself into a smaller ball.
“Tell me Jacks, what makes you scared?” Lear reached for him and pulled on some of the fine blond hair hard enough that Jackson swayed forward with the motion.
“It’s so dark.” He whispered. “Don’t leave me.”
“Just a little more, endure a little more. You’re only more attractive when you’re about to piss yourself.” He said lowly, allowing himself a predatory smile.
Jackson whined.
He rolled his neck, he was sore. Maybe because Derek has forced him to ride him until his thighs shook and burned and he’d already covered himself in his own come gasping and getting hard again too fast.
“You look sick.” Deaton frowned and Jackson shrugged. Deaton didn’t know that he crawled out of his huge bed and padded through the estate in the middle of the night homing on Derek’s room because he couldn’t keep away. It wasn’t that he was bothered about what Deaton might think about him (Derek was the only thing he had where image wasn’t everything) it was more Jackson knew it was technically illegal and so he kept his mouth shut so he couldn’t lose everything again.
“Tired.”
“When the weather turns cold it’s easy to get sick, take care of yourself Jackson.”
“Will do.” He smiled.
He grabbed his jacket and a sweater on his way out he should try and stay warm. He had a lunch date with Lydia. They had decided to eat at one of those high end restaurants new and glitzy and capable of attracting the rich like flies. Lydia just wanted to try it on Jackson’s dime and Jackson couldn’t see why not.
“Mom wants me to follow her into politics.” Lydia waved her fork, delicately speared salad on the end and a pout on her too-red lips. They had talked about this before, Lydia wanted to go into math or science but her mother was set on her taking up the feminist mantle. Ripping through the political world like a ginger maelstrom.
Lydia wasn’t a good enough liar to be a politician— although she did have the conviction in spades.
“Would it be so bad?” Jackson chewed slowly. He was eating a scallop dish and it was okay, they were paying more to be seen there than for the food. All around them the crowd was the young and rich all silently judging each other’s outfits and dates. Jackson knew he was with the prettiest girl.
He’d never lost his commoner love of tinned pasta shapes in tomato sauce not for all the times Deaton would make it for him when he was feeling particularly upset when he’d been younger.
“I wonder.” Lydia bit her salad viciously.
That was when the shooting started. Bullets flying overhead and shattering the chandelier into a million raining daggers. Lydia screamed throwing her arms over her head, at least Jackson was wearing a jacket, he could feel the rain of glass. Jackson tipped himself off of his chair, hitting the ground just at the yelling started.
Lydia kept to his side, bleeding from dozens of tiny cuts on her arms eyes wide with shock.
--
“Head’s up.” Stiles said softly. The meeting had been particularly boring. A lot of it involved liquid assets and stocks and Stiles hated that he had to pretend to know about this shit for his cover. Pretend, he did know it now, could see the trends in numbers easily while the old man prattled on and on around the point. Couldn’t his cover be as Derek’s coffee boy? Pet dog? Anything but his assistant it meant he had to handle all the boring stuff. “There’s a situation downtown. First Gotham Bank, oh wait and the Millennium Tower restaurant? Simultaneous call outs.”
Stiles didn’t think he’d ever seen Derek go pale quite so fast. If he hadn’t seen him fighting with a bullet wound and a concussion he’d worry about him swooning like some historical drama maiden on the spot.
“Millennium restaurant?” He said between clenched teeth. By this point Jenkins from accounting wasn’t even registering. Stiles turned to stare at Derek. There was a knot of nerves in his stomach, Derek saw escaped mutated tigers from the zoo and super villains with freeze guns the same way he saw hang nails, mildly irritating but overall no big deal. Something was well wrong.
“Yeah.” Stiles frowned at the police All-Points-Bulletin on his phone, the name was scrolling over and over faintly mocking.
“Shut up.” Derek said loud and sharp, standing so fast that his chair teetered wildly before it tipped to the floor with a crash. He looked so great and terrible in that moment that Jenkins whom had been about to work up a righteous fury failed, staring at Derek with wide eyes.
Derek used his notepad to pull up a news site on the projector while dialling a number with his phone with the other hand, red and blue lights on the police cars overlaying the stock data like all of Stiles day dreams come true (he loved his night job). ’--the bank robbers are holding this, the Millennium Tower hostage forcing the police to split their resources between the two locations--’
“Pick up your phone Jacks.” Derek muttered quietly as he listened to the phone ring. Stiles swore he could hear the plastic scream under the pressure of Derek’s grip. “Pick up.” He begged softly and no one in the board room breathed.
As one, the board flinched when Derek’s phone slammed into the wall breaking into pieces that shattered and spread across the floor the circuit board showing like an exposed carcass. “Fuck. Give me your phone.” Derek held his hand out.
“No.” Stiles frowned, he was not having Derek destroy his phone.
“Give me your phone Stiles.” Derek snarled and Stiles dug it out of his pocket slapping it into Derek’s hand with a scowl.
“Fine.”
Eerily calm Derek dialled a number. So far none of the board had moved, acting like so many startled rabbits in the presence of a wolf. Stiles didn’t know why they were surprised, violence had always simmered just under the exterior with Derek. He didn’t even really bother to try and hide it.
“Hello Deaton. Is Jackson at home?” He paused. “When did he leave? Would you prepare the car, I’m going to the police station.” Derek said low and angry. Stiles feared for his phone. He had the highest Angry Birds score ever on that. Seriously. “I’m going.” Derek said simply when he hung up.
Without bothering to wait for a response he turned on his heel and left pausing only to drop Stiles’ phone in the water jug on the table. Stiles followed him, making a despairing noise as he fished the phone out of the jar, running to catch the elevator before Derek left him behind.
“When we get to the car I want you to access the file on my tablet called pigeon5, it will ask you for a code, type JWH. It will activate the GPS on Jackson’s phone, his car, Lydia’s phone and the tracker on Jackson himself.”
“Paranoid much? Wait, Lydia’s there too?” If they hurt her Stiles was going to kick some serious ass.
Derek just glared at him, folding his arms across his chest and chin jutting out. Everyone knew thar Jackson had been taken once, and Derek had sworn when he adopted him that he wasn’t going to let anyone hurt him again. Derek took these kinds of things very seriously. Some skulls were going to be stomped a small part of Stiles looked forward to the violence—Derek was magnificent when he was at his worst.
“Hey.” Stiles frowned. “You hacked the GPS in Lydia’s phone too? Does mine have a GPS?”
“Not anymore.” The elevators opened with a muted ding and Derek strode out.
“Not anymore.” Stiles mouthed to himself with a roll of his eyes. “Who the fuck does he think he is? Batman?” Well duh, but still.
Derek didn’t so much as drive as he flew, barely dodging obstacles. ‘Wouldn’t it be funny if we got into another crash and made another Jackson?’ Stiles managed not to say it out loud, given the way that Derek was gripping the steering wheel it might have ended with Stile’s head bouncing off the dash. It must have been a sign of maturity that he realized in advance that it was a bit not good. At least he liked to think it was.
They swerved around a dark blue minivan and Stiles let out a hysterical giggle. Derek ignored him, putting his foot to the floor and riding the accelerator hard. They made it back to the mansion in record time, seriously had never made it back so fast in the Batmobile and that carried traffic-light scrambling technology.
“Deaton.” Derek barked as he made straight for the secret entrance to the Batcave. “Have you called the police department?”
“Yes, socially acceptable paternal duties filled.” Deaton answered with that sharp snide tone of his that Stiles seriously loved. “Time to fill some of your non-socially acceptable paternal duties sir.”
Derek glared hard at him while Stiles got the impression there was something here that was going right over his head but fuck if he knew what it was. They took the stone-hewn stairs down into the lair. All the GPS on Jackson had shown him exactly where they didn’t want him and where he inevitably wound up – right in the middle of the mess. Derek stripped as he walked, thousands of dollars worth of custom suit hitting the floor in a wrinkled pile as he moved across the floor pulling out fragments of Batman as he went.
“Route all information through to the Batmobile, I need you keeping on top of surveillance Deaton.”
“The police are in a panic, in addition to Jackson, the Mayor Martin’s daughter but several other elite and well-known children happen to be caught at the scene.”
“A lot of young money.” Derek frowned. Stiles wondered if it could be a coincidence, also meant there would be a lot of pressure on the police to resolve this. He’d have to pick up something nice for his father on the way home because he would have had nothing to eat but cigarettes and coffee all day and Stiles wasn’t losing his Dad too. Not if he could help it.
He fastened the cape to the armour pulling the whole thing together, it had less pieces than Derek’s but he was still behind as Derek was dressed and making serious intent towards the Batmobile like he was ready to just leave Stiles behind. Stiles fumbled the last of the crossing belts as he tried to fasten the hitch and walk at the same time. The buckle was stupid-complicated and Stiles was convinced that one day it was going to get caught on something and he was going to die because he couldn’t hit the release catch—it happened in the films all the time; and films don’t lie.
“So how are we going to tackle this? I can go to the restaurant and handle the situation there.” Stiles asked hopefully, hopping over the car door and sliding into the passenger seat.
“No.”
“No?”
“You’re not ready yet.”
What he really meant was ‘Jackson is too important.’ Because Derek was freaky when it came to Jackson, Stiles sulked. “When will I be ready?” Robin was a superhero too in his own right. If Derek couldn’t see that then Derek was just being a massive prick, which again—duh.
“If you’re acting like that not yet.” Derek snapped back, “we’ll go to the restaurant and let the police deal with the robbers, once they have no more hostages—it should be straight forward. Even the police couldn’t mess it up.”
“I get to act however I want, also, you ruined my phone. You prick.” Stiles snapped back.
Derek ignored him. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest and tried to act like he wasn’t sulking.
The plan was that Stiles would go in from the top and Derek would draw fire from inside once it was secured. Find the hostages and secure them, kick ass. Plan. Go. It was just good that he’d been good as climbing before, using the grappling hooks to pull himself to the top fast enough to make his eyes water.
Stiles broke the lock on the door letting him into the stair well.
Three floors down he found Jackson. He was shoved into a dark corner with his knees up to his chin and his hands over his head like he was hiding from something. A bit of an overreaction seeing as he was all alone.
“Mr. Hale?” Stiles tried in his best ‘I’m not Stiles’ voice. Jackson just whimpered, pushing himself further into the corner. It was physically impossible for him to curl into a smaller ball he had to have hips and a spine somewhere in that compact shape. “Come on Jackson, get up—I’m going to get you out of here.”
“It’s dark.” He said, voice cracking across the words. If Stiles didn’t know better he’d think he was terrified.
“Open your eyes.” Stiles snapped back.
“It’s so dark.” Jackson sobbed, expensive shoes squeaking on the floor as he twitched trying to pull tighter but unable.
“Dumbass. Open your eyes.” Jackson couldn’t hear him at all.
Stiles tried to shake him but Jackson just started sobbing and Stiles jumped back (like Derek was going to come out of nowhere and beat him for upsetting Jackson.) “Jeez dude, what is wrong with you?”
Something crashed in the office across from them. “Stay here.” Stiles said without any real hope that Jackson was going to listen to him, but it didn’t look like he was going to move anyways. Stiles held his breath as he leaned around to peek around the corner.
The man wore a fairly standard ski mask and seemed to be looking for something. Unless someone else was wandering around in a ski mask during a hostage situation it was fairly reasonable to assume that Stiles had found one of the bad guys. As one of the good guys it was his righteous duty to kick his ass. A duty Stiles kept near and dear to his heart.
“Hey asshole.” Stiles called as he stepped into the open. “I don’t think this is what these people ordered for lunch.”
He pulled a gun but Stiles had finally learned to stop flinching and let the armour absorb the shot. Most thugs go for a body shot anyways more likely to hit. It pinged off the chest armour and Stiles descended on him like a bird, grabbing for his neck and slamming his face into one of Stiles’ knees. He went down with a groan and Stiles cuffed his hands together with zip ties to keep him down.
He didn’t make it to his feet again when he was hit hard in the side and sent flying.
Stiles brought his hands up to protect his face as finger nails dug into exposed flesh where they could. He brought one hand up hard, flinging whatever was on him off and it crashed into some chair groaning weakly.
“Shit, Lydia?” Stiles pulled himself to his feet, crawling over to where she was sprawled across the floor blood under her nails and bruises blooming on her face. Stiles’ stomach twisted, he’d hit her. She had been attacking him, but that wasn’t an excuse to hurt her.
Stiles crawled over to her but when he got close enough she groaned, rolled onto her side. “Lydia, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.”
When he reached for her she went for his eyes. “Spiders.” She sobbed, launching herself on top of him again and clawing at the slick material of his suit. “Everywhere, I can’t make them go away.” She was hissing and sobbing and trying to maul him. Stiles was trying really hard not to hurt her but she was a lot stronger than she looked. “They won’t get off.” Lydia shrieked.
It was actually Jackson who saved him, landing awkwardly on top of Lydia so that the two of them went down in a sprawl next to him. Jackson’s eyes were still pressed tight his face scrunched up unattractively and cheeks wet with tears and snot. Lydia’s hair was all over them sticking to their skin as Lydia sobbed and shook and Jackson made small incoherent noises.
Stiles got them both shoved back under a table where Jackson seemed slightly more calm and Lydia kept slapping at her arms and legs leaving bruises on top of the bruises already forming.
He hated to leave them (Lydia’s make up was streaming down her face and her dress looked like it was splattered in wine and blood and Jackson was just a mess), but there were more hostages and Stiles desperately wanted to be the type of superhero who played favourites who was the one who held Lydia while she sobbed and tried to kill spiders no one else could see.
“I’ll be back. I promise. Batman will fix this.”
He flew down the flight of stairs, jumping a few in his haste. The next floor held a small blond girl thin as a rail and shaking and vomiting all over the floor. There wasn’t anything he could do for her and so stepping carefully around her pile of sick. “Batman.” Stiles whispered over the line. She was making weak crying sounds that made him want to be sick in sympathetic response.
“Have you found them yet?”
“No, but I found Jackson and Lydia.”
“Are they okay?” He could just imagine that intense-squinty look that Derek gave things that required more thinking than punching.
“Yes. I think. There is something wrong but physically they are both fine.”
“One of the hostages flew out of the sixth floor window, you might want to try there.” Derek bit back and the line went dead.
Stiles was on the seventh floor.
One floor down was a mad house. The door was locked but the proper application of force had it flying backwards and banging loudly off the wall in no time. He was hit by the smell of urine, vomit and blood first and the sounds of screaming and hysterical crying second.
The hostages were here. “I have most of the hostages on floor six, there doesn’t seem to be anyone guarding them, but there is something seriously wrong here.”
Some were like Jackson blubbering and hiding under tables.
There was a boy like Lydia who rushed a lady and they fell to the ground screaming at each other but not hearing a word. The woman seemed to think the boy was an alien and the boy that she was a clown. It was like everyone’s phobias were playing out only for them to see, but in violent Technicolor.
Stiles took a deep breath, tried not to gag, reminded himself to try and be sensitive.
The explosives went off, lighting up the noon as Batman crashed through the large bay windows of the restaurant on the ground floor ready to beat justice into their bones. Stiles felt the concussive blast of the Bat-charges in the air and stood by the main stair-well ready in case the bad guys of the week decided to execute plan B and put the hostages to use.
There was a long pause, and Stiles ignored the sobbing to listen for the tell-tale pop of automatic gun-fire, slowly petering out as Batman cut a path through the resistance. Then it stopped completely.
Two men ran up the stairs, wide eyed and panicked behind their ski-masks, like all the demons of hell were chasing them, or one demon specifically.
Stiles took the first one down before they even saw him. Didn’t think the other would get up as fast as he did, but one of the shadows pulled away from the wall and slammed the thug head against it hard enough for it to crack loudly. The limp body rolled to the bottom of the stairs where it landed in an unnatural sprawl.
“Where is Jackson?” Derek growled. And was he always so stupid when it came to Jackson, all it would really take was one bad guy with a set of ears to make the connection between Batman’s single-minded ferocity and Mr. Hale the crazy squirrely-eyed nutcase who lived with his bad-ass butler and jail-bait charge in their big scary house.
“Two floors up, under a table.” Stiles mumbled.
Stiles should stay with the others, he really should, but Lydia was upstairs. He tagged on Derek’s heels all the way upstairs dogging on him hard. Jackson was right where he left him only now he was covered in red welts where Lydia had attacked him but they were still clinging together.
“What’s wrong, Jackson?”
Derek crouched near the table. Lydia came flying out like a scalded cat her bloody fingers extended. Stiles saw it happen in slow motion, Lydia’s tear-streaked face and Derek’s instinctive reaction to being attacked, arms coming up to subdue her.
“No, Derek!” Stiles shouted, flinging himself into the mess with them so Derek couldn’t hurt Lydia. Derek grabbed him and smacked his head against the floor hard enough to stun him while Lydia crawled into the opposite corner slapping at the floor leaving smeared fingerprints behind as if nothing had happened. She glared at Derek but said nothing.
“Jacks, come out from under there.” Derek said softly.
Jackson didn’t seem to even register them all. Stiles pulled Lydia into his arms so she would just stop trying to hurt herself. He hadn’t realized just how small she was physically because she normally took up enough of his attention to fill the whole world.
“Jackson, come on open your eyes.”
Maybe something was wearing off because he did open his eyes a little, looking at them from under his wet lashes. “Batman.” He whispered. That was when the sobbing started, Jackson trying to get as far away from them as possible complete wordless panic.
“Fuck.” Derek swore, spinning with a swish of his cape and he was gone, the door slamming behind them. Stiles didn’t follow, Lydia was finally beginning to calm down and he didn’t want to let her go until someone else was there to take care of her.
“Shh Lydia, it’s okay.” He pressed his face against her hair. “I hope you remember this and fall madly in love with me. Then you can be torn between your love of Stiles and Robin and it will be all very cliché but lovely.”
They stayed that way as the sounds of police yelling and shouting got closer.
“Lear.” Jackson croaked from the dark, sniffling softly. “Tell him. Lear.”
“What?” Stiles peered at the dark shape of Jackson mostly hidden from view.
The door burst open and a handful of police spilled onto the floor. “About time you got here.” Stiles said, slowly letting Lydia down, she pushed herself up against the wall at stared at him with vacant eyes. “These two need help, that’s Miss Martin, the mayor’s daughter and this is Mister Hale, congratulations officers—you found them that’s got to be worth a promotion.”
Before they could say anything else Stiles made for a blown out window and crawled up to the roof as casually as he could. Derek was standing there waiting for him.
“They are safe with the police.” Stiles said, around them Gotham was strangely quiet with the surrounding blocks closed down to deal with the situation. This far into town should be teeming with life. “That’s good right? Win for the good guys. Would it kill you to smile?”
“The group at the bank escaped with the money.” Derek growled at him. Stiles didn’t have anything to say to that so he didn’t. “I need to go,” Derek paused mouth tightening in anger, “look after Jackson.”
“Of course.”
--
Jackson felt like hell. He felt like he’d been on the worst bender imaginable. He’d kicked up a holy-fuss until Deaton agreed that he would be better suited resting at home rather than in a hospital and signed the release forms. After all of that he’d no broken bones just a lot of surface damage and whatever was still in his system.
The memory of the whole thing was blurry, he’d come too literally strapped to the bed and throat scraped raw from screaming white-wash walls and a pretty nurse with a severe bob-cut standing over him.
Jackson curled up in his own bed. He felt too awful to even get up and go crawl into Derek’s room; tonight he wouldn’t be able to keep up with the way that Derek liked to fuck him. Jackson rolled over on to a side that hurt a little less. Every time he closed his eyes his heart would begin to pound, adrenaline flooding his system for no reason he could discern. It was keeping him from going to sleep.
The door creaked when it opened and the fear response kicked in hard until Jackson was breathing soft and high and every muscle hurt from being tensed. He stared wide-eyed at the far wall trying to control himself.
“Jacks?” Derek said, voice low and familiar comforting; like childhood nightmares, hot cups of cocoa and being held by Deaton because he was scared of both remembering and forgetting his mother’s face.
“I think this is the first time you’ve crawled into my bed.” Jackson said, trying to sound normal and only maybe hitting it. He was too sore for sex but he didn’t want to say no either. Instead he shifted until he could watch Derek move soundlessly across his room. Derek was quiet as a ghost soundlessly walking right up to the edge of the bed.
“I’m sorry I couldn’t see you at the hospital—are you okay?”
“I don’t remember most of it.” Careful neutral answer. He didn’t really remember any details; just as if he was waking up like from a nightmare the impression that something bad had happened and no idead what left his heart pounding and the stale stink of fear in his nose. Jackson sort of remembered the thick fuzzy taste in his mouth, and sneaking away when no one was looking with Lydia and then nothing else after that.
“Oh?”
Derek stood there, outlined in the moonlight in a thin sleeveless shirt and cotton pants all wide shoulders and trim waist like some sort of teen-aged wet dream come to life. Jackson swallowed thickly, his head hurt too much to deal with this right now. Couldn’t think of a way to ask Derek to just hold him.
They stared at each other for a long time as if locked in some sort of emotionally-closed off Mexican standoff.
Derek slid into the bed with him and Jackson didn’t breath for several long heart beats. He expected the feeling of fingers digging into his hips, moving him until he was exactly where Derek wanted. Instead Derek slid across the bed until they were tangled together. Jackson hadn’t even been aware that Derek knew how to touch him softly. His cheek pressed against the material of Derek’s shirt and he let himself go limp in Derek’s hold just breathing slowly until he felt safe and warm and it didn’t make sense but everything didn’t quite hurt as much any more.
“I said I was fine.” Jackson said, missing sarcastic by a wide margin.
“Shut up and sleep.” Derek growled and Jackson didn’t smile (barely), but he did close his eyes.
--
Derek sat back in his chair and looked at the array of information, everything the police could find in the remnants of the bank (they had blown the place on the way out) and from the restaurant, plus everything he could find out for himself.
Someone was behind this-- a new big fish in the Gotham pond; or maybe a shark.
He needed to find out who was behind this. They were due one fist in the face and Derek didn’t like outstanding debts.
One thing did bother him about that day. Why had he expected anything more than the way that Jackson started to cry when he saw him? The Batman had never brought anything but fear into Jackson’s life and no matter what he did he could never make it up again. He couldn’t be Jackson’s family—look how well that turned out.
Derek resisted the urge to hit the computer; it wouldn’t help anything. Chemical analysis on all the victims blood showed a neurological agent with hallucinogenic properties. It wasn’t in any database and from what they could tell as the victims came too most of them didn’t remember much. The only thing they all had in common was the terror, the hospital wing had been full of screams and the stale smell of abject panic, most had to be heavily sedated until they calmed. Jackson was one of the few non-violent ones.
“Still working on that?”Stiles was sweaty from the obstacle course that Derek had made him run. He wouldn’t admit it but the kid was getting better, he was smart and had the potential to go far if he would just focus for more than a few minutes at a time.
“The police haven’t been able to trace the money.”
“It’s not their fault.” Stiles snapped. Always so touchy when his father was involved. What did Derek know about that? His own father was long dead and he wasn’t a model ‘parent’ by a long shot.
“Whoever was behind this is smart.” Derek said graciously. Too smart. Another high roller, Gotham wasn’t so much of a pond as a scum encrusted puddle. Still it was Derek’s puddle and he was going to clean it if it killed him. One of these days it just might.
Stiles smelled like fresh young sweat as he pushed brazenly into Derek’s personal space. So much like Jackson in that respect. Young and way too full of hormones for his own good.
“Jackson said something to me.” Stiles said quietly. “I forgot about it, he said something about ‘Leer? Lear?’ he was hysterical, it might not be anything. Does that mean anything to him?”
“No.” Derek grunted.
He stared at all of the data slowly getting more irate with himself for not being able to find it; there was a string in there somewhere, a connection that he just wasn’t seeing.
Lear?
Leer?
Lear. Derek’s fingers flew over the keyboard as he pulled up Jackson’s file. If Stiles thought that it was odd that Derek had such a detailed file on Jackson he didn’t say anything (the results from his last physical, grades, notes from teachers, statistics on his car, GPS movement patterns).
There, his psychologist, Dr. Lear Estiff. He hacked into Lydia’s mother’s accounts; there she shared a psychologist with Jackson. Searches of the other socialites showed that over 80% of them had gone to the same psychologist. There was the connection.
“It all makes sense.” Stiles said, sounding slightly awed. “Of course he would know what their worst fears were—Lydia and the spiders.”
Derek hacked into Dr. Estiff’s personal files. His firewalls were flimsy and predictable. In retrospect he should have realized that was a trap, for someone so smart he never would have left such an obvious door into his system unless he’d wanted someone to walk through it. And walk right on through it Derek did.
Derek’s screen went black, whining like a dying animal as it flicked off, then it turned back on showing nothing but white. Bold block letters read: There is nothing to fear but Lear Estiff the letters shifted slowly, swapping around until it read:
There is nothing to fear but FEAR ITSELF
Derek swore loudly and punched the wall beside the computer while Stiles could only stare at the message.