cosipotente: artist: natalie shau (woman)
cosipotente ([personal profile] cosipotente) wrote2013-12-02 04:52 am

stay golden / night veil

PG; Scott/Allison/Isaac & Derek/Stiles
summary: two teen wolf requests.
AU









teen wolf au, isaac/allison/scott own and run a bar together? :D

"He hates my guts." Stiles slurs against the bar top. He has been sitting in the same stool for three hours, slowly nursing beer after beer, an occasional boilermaker, and a few fruity cocktails he was too drunk to notice Scott and Isaac slipping him. Between glasses, Stiles would bemoan his long time unrequited crush on Derek Hale.

It’s been Stiles’ routine since Derek, a deputy from the neighboring town of Desert Bluffs, was transferred to Beacon Hills two months ago.

Allison gives him a soft, sympathetic smile. "He doesn’t hate you," she says, trying to be reassuring while surreptitiously removing the glass of beer from his hand. "He probably just isn’t used to you yet. You’re…unique."

"And obnoxious!" Isaac pipes up from the other end of the bar. Allison takes a few peanuts from the bowl at Stiles’ elbow and throws them at Isaac; he’s already cleaning up anyway.

Stiles, for his part, doesn’t let the quip bother him. Allison doesn’t know if it’s because he’s drunk, or if he just doesn’t care. He continues to mumble drunkenly into the bar top.

"He’s probably sitting at my house with my dad, doing police work and hating me."

Scott comes out of the backroom, giving Allison a rueful before he walks around the bar to sit next to Stiles. They have all been friends since high school, Scott, Allison, and Stiles even attend the same college.

"Scott, buddy," Stiles whines, picking himself up off the bar and leaning against Scott. "Why is Derek Hale perfect?"

A pinched look falls across Scott’s face and Allison laughs. Scott’s been holding a grudge against Derek since he cited him for a busted tail light.

"Let me stay heeeeeere tonight."

"No way," Isaac answers before Scott. "Drunks aren’t allowed in our apartment.”

Stiles gives Isaac on of his saucy grins, or tries to, it looks more creepy than saucy with him being so tanked. “I’m not drunk, you are.”

"That just proves you are."

Allison rolls her eyes, leaving them to their argument. She has a bar to run.

Allison rings up the few remaining customers and once they are out the door, she sets about closing up. She, Scott, and Isaac own Ally A’s, a little hole in the wall bar tucked into the corner of Main Street. The three of them had talked about opening a business together since high school, anything as long as the three of them were running it. Somehow, it all worked out.

Isaac purchased the abandon property, and the apartment above it, with the inheritance he’d received from his dad’s death. He presented the deed to Allison, and Scott, on her 22nd birthday. Allison smiles as she wipes down a table, the memory still so fresh she gets a twinge of excitement up her spine.

After that, everything had managed to fall into place relatively easy. They all attended the same bar tending classes, begged a few local banks for loans until they were finally granted one. Allison is majoring in Business Management and Scott’s minor is Entrepreneurship. Although Isaac is forgoing college, he oversees the bar when they can’t. Their lives have changed, for the better, the more they put into their bar. Despite the three of them dating for four years, running a business seems to have drawn them closer together.

Hands slide around her waist and Scott’s voice sounds in her ear. "I called Stiles’ dad, he’s sending Derek over to pick him up." The amount of mischief in his voice makes Allison laugh.

"This will be fun." She responds, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. He wiggles his eyebrows before sauntering off to clean another table.

Allison turns, leaning against a booth, and watches as Isaac struggles to keep a swaying Stiles in his chair. He deserves it, she decides, giving him a saccharine grin before getting back to wiping down tables.

The jukebox plays as she works and the small arguments Isaac and Stiles get into provide a charming background din, and Allison realizes, she has never been more happy in her entire life. The feeling sweeps over her in a rush and she sits down from how dizzy it makes her. She has had a good life, but moving to Beacon Hills has made her life better, richer

And the look of pure panic and embarrassment on Stiles’ face when Scott lets Derek into the bar adds the icing on her proverbial cake. He sputters as Derek tries to remove him bodily from the bar stool; there are few slurred threats of filing police brutality complaints but Stiles eventually slumps against Derek in defeat.

"You’re all traitors." He accuses, glaring at them as he’s lead out of the bar. "The whole lot of you. Traitors."

"He’ll thank us after he drunkenly confesses to Derek." Isaac says, nodding to himself like he’s just solved all the world’s problems. Allison can’t help but kiss him.

"Ally A’s saves the day!" Scott cheers. They all laugh together and Allison’s life feels a little more perfect for it.




Teen Wolf; Stiles and Derek find themselves in Night Vale: is it just a psychedelic dream or is it real?


"Jackson Whittemore—you know, the former Desert Bluff’s resident no one particularly likes—accused Scott McCall—our town’s adorable mascot—of doing drugs yesterday. I think it’s because Jackson was upset when his hometown lacrosse team suffered at the hands of ours. Jackson asked Scott where he got his juice from, and our champion Scott’s innocuous and witty comeback of, "my mom does all the shopping," has now been made into a bumper sticker. Stand outside your front door and yell McCall for your very own bumper stickers."

Cecil waits for the background music track to click over. An instrumental piece plays softly in the brief silence. Cecil takes a breath and continues with the broadcast.

"A man arrived in Night Vale early this morning. He came out of the predawn darkness with red eyes and a sour expression. According to reports, he appeared just as the ominous howling from last week reached a crescendo and faded out like a scream in the night. It also seems the Secret Police have taken this mysterious man into custody; he is a werewolf. Welcome to Night Vale, Sourwolf.

"Speaking of dogs, the City Council issued a public service announcement reminding everyone to stay out of the dog park. I will not be going near it. Will you? You better not. Hold your loved ones close tonight to keep them from obeying any strange compulsion to go into the dog park or to approach the hooded figures.

"Goodnight, Night Vale. Goodnight."

Taking the headset off his ears, Cecil pushes away from the desk and watches the ON AIR sign click off. The recording booth is silent and he can hear in perfect clarity the way envelopes are slid under the door. A soft ‘shrrrr’ sound that makes dread settle in the pit of his stomach like lead.

Please don’t let it be station management. Please don’t let it be station management.

Cecil picks an envelope up, sighing with relief. It’s neither station management nor is it HR; it’s a request asking to him to be present for a town meeting. Cecil relaxes, re-reading the invitation without a cloud of fear hovering over him. It’s not odd for him to be asked—forced, if it is compulsory—to attend various meetings. What is odd though, is the person who is calling the meeting. Derek Hale. Cecil can’t recall anyone in Night Vale with that name, and he knows everyone in Night Vale.

But Derek Hale’s name floats around in his head on the cusp of being familiar. He brushes it off, chalking it up to the general strangeness of his perfect, and strange, town. Leaving the recording booth, Cecil heads toward the men’s bathroom. He gives perfunctory nods to the faceless interns who rush by, and they all take great lengths to avoid looking at office in which Management dwells behind.

Cecil pushes open the bathroom door. Khoshekh lifts his head in greeting before settling it back on his paws. As per his pre-homebound routine, Cecil checks the food dish, it’s empty, and turns the tap back on. Despite the notice on the mirror to leave it running, some, by habit, still turn the sink off.

The cat food sits on the towel dispenser and Cecil takes one down, peeling back the top. He empties the contents of the plastic container into the dish. Khoshekh uncurls himself the slightest bit and floats to the edge of the sink to eat.

Cecil scratches lightly against the back of Khoshekh’s ear, feeling the vibrations of his purr.

"Big things afoot, Khoshekh." Cecil finds himself saying, though he doesn’t particularly know why. It might have something to do with the vague feeling of things to come, things not yet known, that creeps up his spine.



"Look out into the vast sand wastes. All that sand. All that waste. All that emptiness. Do you feel a sharp pang of relatablity? Welcome to Night Vale."

The intro track clicks on and Cecil gathers his prompts, and his thoughts. This morning’s meeting weighs heavily on his mind, so much so, he almost misses his cue to begin the broadcast.

"In tonight’s Scott Update—the segment of the show where I present you with a tidbit of Scott McCall’s life—it has been brought to my attention from several eyewitnesses, that Scott sniffed Danny Mahealani and told him he smelled nice. There you have it dear listeners, straight from Scott’s olfactory senses to you: Danny smells nice.

"This morning’s town meeting was held outside in the parking lot of Arby’s. It was attended by two people; yours truly, and the mysterious werewolf who I can now tell you is named Derek Hale. Why our town? Why only invite me? Why is Derek Hale the living embodiment of physical perfection? Well folks, I can only answer the first two."

Cecil pauses. There is a faint sound of commotion from outside the recording booth, but he can’t really make anything out of it. It dies down after a moment.

"Derek has come to Night Vale—for me. He says I do not belong here any more than he does. That I am not Cecil; I am Stiles. He tried to tell me more, but by then Secret Police’s helicopter was circling overhead. Derek sprinted off in a transformed state. It seems, dear listeners, I am from another time, another place, at least, according to Derek.

"I—"

The door to the booth flies open, wood splinter off in all directions. Derek Hale looms in the spot it once occupied. Red eyes land on Cecil, but he doesn’t flinch. He isn’t afraid of Derek; Derek won’t hurt him.

"Stiles," he says in a familiar, exasperated way that makes Cecil feel warm. "Wake up."

Cecil’s head goes fuzzy, painfully so. Blood rushes in his ears and his heart beat pounds in his temples. He can barely make out Derek’s voice through the pain.

"Stiles," Derek says again, moving closer to Cecil. He presses his lips against Stiles’ forehead—he knows he is no longer Cecil. "Get up."

Station Management stirs to life behind the frosted window at Derek’s back.

Stiles jerks awake, heart in his throat, just before ghostly tendrils over take him. Blearily, he blinks at Derek who is silently judging him from his spot on the right side of their bed. There is no recording booth. No Station Management.

It was a dream.

"God," Stiles groans, throwing an arm over his eyes. "I am never drinking anything Scott and Isaac concoct again."

Derek snorts, Stiles knows he is still judging him, but he curls against Derek anyway. He dozes off not long after, missing the smooth voice coming through the static on the radio that sits on the bedside table. The voice warns of entering the dog park.