ephemeral || stiles and the originals

chapter eleven

supernatural; season four, episode six, 18:26

saturday, february 19
new orleans, louisiana
third person pov

Stiles always expected for there to be shock, anger, even contempt when his guise crumbled and his secret was revealed. Personally he expected tears, flickering eyes, and angry words flung at him. What he wasn't prepared for, however, was the silence.

It was so quiet as he sat there, elbows braced on his knees, the empty stares of his friends, his pack, fell on him and the slump of his guilt-ridden shoulders.

The overbearing noise of hearing nothing at all, something welled inside him, something so strange, so foreign it took several nonexistent heartbeats for him to place it. Pain. He was feeling pain.

The type of pain that he had never know, one that was so internally magnified that it physically ached. Stabbing at his insides and twisting his features.

He opened his mouth to break said silence, tongue darting out to wet his lips with the apology that he was preparing to let slip. But Stiles was too late and the slow, heavy sound of applause filled his ears.

"Well, that was quite the turn of events!" Stiles glared at Marcel who raised his hands in mock innocence, a grin spreading over his face, "Now, Mieczyslaw, don't look at me like that. I was doing you a favor."

"Marcellus," The vampire flinched at the use of his full name, looking partially like a scolded child at Stiles' scalding tone, "You've done quite enough, now go sit in your room before I remind you your place."

Regaining his posture, the guise of power slid over Marcel's features, "Hmm," he laughed, "No I don't think you can order me about," his arms spread wide, head tilting cockily, "after all, this is my city. Not yours."

Stiles was pretty sure if he still had blood, it would be boiling. "Whatever," he snapped, voice thin, "We'll be leaving now. You got what you want."

The smile just grew, the hairs on the back of Stiles' neck prickled, rising, "I think you missed the grasp of my hatred for you, Mieczyslaw. What I want is to send a dagger through your chest so you can rot, but considering I'm a little short on Original debilitating weapons, I've decided to settle."

"You settled for this," Stiles' gesture sweeper the whole building as if he could implicate New Orleans as the root of every single hardship and toil he had faced.

"I want them to know the monster," Marcel spit, eyes narrowed angrily, "I want them to hate you."

Stiles threw his hands up in the air, "And you did so. Do you not see the way they look at me? My hands have always been stained red and they're only now beginning to see it. They practically reek of fear, you've done your part. They see the monster and you will let us leave."

"Now I can't let you do that," Marcel's charming smile was back as he snapped his fingers and then chains were being slapped around Stiles' wrists. He snarled, flexing to break free but then Marcel was in front of him, tutting softly, "Be careful, baby Original, wouldn't want your friends to get hurt."

"Stiles!"

His head whipped around to find his pack restrained by vampire lackeys with sinister, blank eyes. His struggles ceased, eyes going wide as his voice turned into something softer, "Marcel, let them go. I'll dagger myself, just let. them. go."