Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

So maybe it was stupid. No, definitely it was stupid. But Erica and Boyd were still missing, and sex was great stress relief according to the internet, and Derek really needed some stress relief. As did Stiles, for that matter. So when she knew everyone else would be far away, she walked into Derek's apartment, looked him square in the eye, and pulled off her shirt.

"Stiles, what are you doing," he ground out.

"Stripping," she readily answered, peeling out of her jeans. She didn't try anything fancy, knew she would just humiliate herself and probably break something if she tried to be "sexy". But she had bought a cute matching bra and panties set just for the occasion and they actually looked pretty good on her, the red lace a pretty nice contrast against her pale complexion. It gave her a boost of confidence, that knowledge that she looked good, as tremulous a knowledge a that was.

After everything that had happened, after all the shit that had gone down and was still going down, it was surprisingly easy to throw all her worries out the window and stroll past Derek in her lacy underwear.

"I'm going to climb into your bed naked and touch myself. Feel free to join me," she told him with a level of bravery that shocked even her. She didn't even make it up the stairs before Derek was on her, hands on her hips and teeth against her shoulder. They had sex on the floor, then against a wall, and finally made it to the bed where they fucked until they were both finally exhausted. Afterwards, they didn't cuddle so much as pass out in the general vicinity of one another, limbs vaguely tangled together and sweat mingling everywhere.

She had no idea how the morning might have gone, but she knew how it did go; her cell blaring at five AM and her dad yelling because apparently they'd found the body of some girl who looked an awful lot like her. Which, wow, poor girl, cursed to look like Stiles and then die horribly. And then Scott was banging on the door to the loft and Derek was dragging on pants, heading down to meet him. She put her underwear back on and wrapped herself in the sheet before following him down, grimacing over her desperate need for a shower. Really, really desperate need. Scott squawked and she tuned him out while she collected her clothes. She tried really hard to hear whatever Scott was snarling very softly to Derek, though, to no avail. Fucking werewolves. Then they left the loft and she told Scott it was all just stress relief, fuck off, Scott, and it wasn't even a lie. She did lie to her dad though, told him she'd parked her jeep somewhere and fallen asleep. It was a fucking terrible lie, but he was too glad she was safe, too tired of all the lying, to call her on it. They hugged, and then she showered and resolved to not think about that night ever again. She failed that, on a regular basis, but she had the intention at least.

Scott only brought it up once, a week later, just a soft exchange of words without the anger he had directed towards the night previously, without even the anger he always had for Derek. She reassured him, told him not everyone needed their first time to be special, gave him the virginity is just a word spiel and then they never talked about it again, not even when she took to hiding from even glimpses of leather around the corner.

The way bros do. They were good bros.

And then, as bros do, she and Scott figured it out. "Hey at least I'm not a target," she joked, snickering, because hey, no more virginity. She thought the whole thing was bullshit of course, see previously-mentioned spiel, but apparently magic was pretty ensconced in archaic beliefs and didn't care about her spiels. Scott rolled his eyes at her, still not a fan of her hookup but not as directly disapproving either. It had been nearly a month, plenty of time for him to get over it. She'd gotten over it.

Oh yeah. Totally over it. Definitely no moping, fretting, or otherwise obsessing here.

"You go tell Deaton, I'll tell Derek," she 'suggested', better known as commanded. Scott snorted, but ultimately accepted it. Probably thinking she and Derek needed to talk, considering they, ya'know, hadn't. In almost a month. She wasn't avoiding him any more, and she was pretty sure he wasn't avoiding her, they just...hadn't talked. Or seen each other. So they weren't avoiding each other, they just weren't actively seeking each other out, which was perfectly normal, okay. And she so didn't care. Really, she didn't. She had been busy, learning things from Deaton, doing schoolwork, figuring out not only that their killer was a darach but who it was because Stiles had lots of free time and definitely wasn't avoiding anything by hyper-focusing--See? She totally didn't care. Totally.

Which was why she sped all the way to Derek's and practically flew to his door, armed with plausible reasons for being there and deniability of all sorts. She was biting back a grin, right up until the door opened and shirtless Derek's judgy eyebrows judged her, and Ms. Blake gazed innocently over his shoulder in a state of not-quite-undress. Stiles could actually feel her smile turn brittle and sharp, develop edges. Derek wasn't exactly a virgin, or defenseless, she could definitely have left him to handle himself for a few minutes, all the time necessary to get Scott and other forms of back-up. She could definitely have done that.

Her eyes zeroed in on Ms. Blake's blouse. The buttons were done up wrong.

Stiles looked at Derek again. "You have absolutely the worst fucking taste," she told him, because it was true. "Like wow, I'm concerned that I'm now on your list, because Worst Taste." Which was mean. Cruel, even. She knew it was; she never brought up Kate Argent and the secrets Gerard had let her in on while he beat the shit out of her. That was sort of a sore topic and she had made it an unspoken rule. But come on, the man's dick was like a monster-in-a-pretty-mask detector. Good thing she'd been the one to seek him out or else she'd be really worried.

Actually, considering the current buzz under her skin, maybe she should be worried. Maybe Derek's dick was actually a monster-creator, or guaranteer, because wow she could actually feel her own rising tide of violence. She was about to hurt someone, and that didn't bother her in the least. Later she would insist it was because this woman was a murderer, a monster, but privately she would always remember how she looked at Ms. Blake's smeared lipstick, at the disarray of her and Derek's clothing, at the matching stain of red on Derek's lips and neck and--yeah, she would never really know if the fact Ms. Blake was the darach actually had any influence on her rage.

At least she knew the darach part was definitely on her mind, since if she was just getting jealous over some human woman then she definitely wouldn't have reached for one of the pouches she was starting to carry around at all times. This one had just been added that morning, actually. And she took far more pleasure than she should have been comfortable with in throwing a handful of powdered mistletoe into the darach's face, smiled way too honestly as Ms. Blake screamed and melted away. She didn't notice Derek jerking away from the woman or him moving so he was partially in front of Stiles; she was too busy stalking past him and after the retreating darach.

"I have a whole arsenal in my pockets, Ms. Blake," she told the hideous creature staring at her in silent fury and something akin to fear. "Literally and figuratively. And I'm not sure what all of them will do to a darach, but I am more than willing to find out." She prepared to hurl another handful of mistletoe, but the darach let out a horrifyingly human screech before flinging herself out of the fucking window because why the fuck not. Stiles rushed after her, realizing belatedly that hey, they should probably not let their killer run off. But no can do; the freaky scarred nightmare that used to be Ms. Blake disappeared around the corner of the building faster than she had any right to be able to manage, possibly even faster than one of the wolves could manage. Stiles scowled, silently cursing magic, then turned to Derek. She lifted her brows, judging him. Judgmentally. Her eyebrows may not be as impressive as his, but she was pretty sure her judgment was broadcast loud and clear.

"I'm not saying you make terrible life choices, but I'm heavily implying it," she told him. Just so there were no doubts. It seemed like the sort of thing she should tell him. Then, because her priorities were figuring out the correct order again, she called up Scott and told him about the whole Ms. Blake-was-with-Derek-and-Stiles-attacked-but-she-escaped thing, minus the oh-and-Blake-and-Derek-probably-had-sex part because Stiles wasn't quite ready to face that yet.

They all gathered at Deaton's, Isaac, Peter and Lydia included, and made some shiny(see: shitty) plans that Lydia and Stiles didn't approve of but they were outvoted(of course) so off to kill the darach they went. Skipping merrily along, no doubt, armed with a fuckton of mistletoe and whatever else Deaton felt like loading them up with. Apparently he wasn't a big fan of darachs either. Anyway, they went to confront her. They found Ms. Blake in an abandoned warehouse, leaning over a sobbing boy, a knife to his throat. Everything kind of went to hell after that, for a little bit. There were two other bodies, both young, one of them familiar enough that Stiles had to look away quickly, and Ms. Blake put her powers to good, or rather, evil use. Everyone was fighting, throwing everything they had at her, and in the back of her mind, Stiles just kept thinking, This person used to be good, and somehow that made it so much worse. Somehow that made her feel like crying.

And then Derek was dead and Stiles spent the night crying after all. She bawled into Scott's shoulder while Allison and Lydia tried to watch chickflicks and mostly they all just ate ice cream. At least Blake was officially dead, if Peter's word could be trusted. It couldn't actually, but the blood on his hands and the grin on his mouth could so yeah, dead darach.

And dead Derek. No one really knew how it happened. Except they did, Stiles did. It happened because he was stupid, because he threw himself into danger without any care for his own well-being. Because he was so determined to punish himself, that he couldn't even see the people he was hurting along the way. And god did it hurt. So much.

When Scott and Allison were asleep, curled up together on the couch like sad little puppies, Lydia and Stiles sat together and just talked. A lot. Lydia got the whole Derek story out of her, even the things Stiles hadn't told Scott. There on the couch with Lydia, she found that words like love didn't seem so scary, not in the middle of the night, not after a day like they'd had. Then Lydia dragged Stiles out to a convenience store, handling all the hard work while Stiles stood aside hugging herself and watching with huge, frightened eyes. Stiles peed on a stick or six in Lydia's bathroom and then they both cried some more. Lydia pet her hair and was uncomfortably nice while they went through a whole box of tissues and didn't say much at all. And then Stiles went home and got ready for school. She looked up what medications she could take while pregnant, followed up by deciding none sounded best, so no adderall that day. Always fun except for how it absolutely wasn't, at all.

Derek was finally going to have a bigger family, even if only by one little pup, and he went and died before he even knew about it.

She went to Derek's loft three days after they killed the darach, pulling out an actual lockpicking set(fuck hairpins) to jimmy it open so she could slip inside. At which point she proceeded to stare at Derek, who was casually sprawled on the piece-of-shit couch she had made Scott drag up shortly after Derek started renting. She had never really figured out why Derek didn't just throw it out, and never asked for fear of sparking a change.

"Derek," she tried, and wasn't all that surprised when it came out all high and squeaky and broken and sort of awful actually. He looked at her, seeming tired. Well wasn't that just awful for him. He was tired. Poor dear. "You're alive?" she asked and if anyone told you later it was actually more along the lines of a shrill screech than words--well she wouldn't argue it. She had thought he was dead. She had watched him die. She was totally allowed to screech.

"Stiles," Derek started, rolling to his feet. She grabbed one of the tiny balls of compressed wolf's bane in her ever-growing bag of magic tricks and threw it in his face.

"You ass!" she shouted, hands curled into fists as she resisted the urge to hurl more wolf's bane at the howling werewolf. She grabbed his wrist and stomped into the kitchen, dragging him along, probably purely because it was unexpected. Turning the tap on, she shoved his face under it, yelling at him all the while for being such an incredibly massive dick. There wasn't even anything sensible in her yelling, just increasingly creative insults thrown at increasing volume at Derek's now wet head while he scrubbed off his face and probably drowned out all of her insults with the sound of running water. Thus the increasing volume. He was a bastard and deserved to hear all of her insults, dammit.

Finally she had to stop and gasp for breath, which was coincidentally when Derek apparently decided he'd gotten most of the wolf's bane off. How convenient for him. Stiles glared mutinously. He straightened up, grabbing a hand towel(actually, it was one of those cheap-o wash cloths Home Depot sold in packs of like twenty for five bucks, but at least it wasn't paper) to wipe his face off. Relatively dry, face-wise at least, he dropped the towel on the counter and leveled a stare at her, both unamused and unrepentant. Stiles, not for the first or even tenth time in less than a week, gave serious thought to homicide of the first degree. She was pretty sure she could hide all evidence with magic and, Hell, everyone who cared already thought he was dead.

"Go home, Stiles," he said, just like that. Like she didn't even matter. Like she hadn't just screamed at him for ten minutes. Like he hadn't let her think he was dead for three days. Like he didn't even have anything to apologize for.

And why should he when clearly, to him, she didn't matter. Stiles picked up a plate, one of those sturdy stonewear ones that just seemed smart of werewolves to have honestly, and chucked it at him. Since it didn't shatter on impact, either against his shoulder(she'd been aiming for his face, for the record) or the floor, maybe it wasn't such a great idea for werewolves to have them after all. Huh. Learn something new every day.

"You're a great big bag of dicks," she informed him matter-of-factually as he stared at her, words punctuated by an ominous roll of thunder. Because obviously they now needed some rain. With a patently unfriendly smile, she spun on her heel and strode out of his stupid creepy loft. She didn't go home though, only partially because fuck literally anything that Derek Hale wanted her to do. Instead she drove through the rain and straight to the clinic, where she knocked on the back door and waited with one foot tapping impatiently away until Deaton opened the door with a confused frown.

"I want to learn how to use magic," she told him through the rain running down her face, soaking her through. Previously, she had been learning about magic things, things like the wolf's bane and mistletoe--ingredients, basically. She hadn't really wanted to get involved in something as complicated as magic, not yet at least. They were kind of busy and Deaton said magic took crazy amounts of concentration, not exactly something she was great at, not without liberal application of adderall at least. Suddenly though, that really didn't seem like a big deal. Actually, it didn't sound like it would be a problem at all. Huh. Imagine that.

Deaton, in perhaps the wisest move she had witnessed from him yet, didn't argue. He just lead the way into his clinic, gave her a towel and some books, and went back to doing his actual job.

Conveniently, a spell for disguising scents was in the very first book she started pouring over. She didn't have all the ingredients in her pockets, but a quick perusal of Deaton's shelves provided the few she was missing. Too angry to be shy, she used Deaton's equipment without hesitation, growling out the spell as she forced herself to be careful. It was her first potion, after all. She left it to boil, as instructed, and went back to reading spells in that section of the book. If those spells happened to be specifically geared towards fighting werewolves, well, she was just working through the book in order, she could hardly be held accountable for the things she memorized.

Deaton walked in with eyebrows up, looking prepared for questions, either asked or answered. She gestured to the brew with a flippant hand wave.

"Scent scrubber," she declared, indicating the book in her hands as well, as close to an explanation as she felt like giving. Deaton let out a distressed sound and hurried over to the potion. He didn't say anything for a few minutes after that, just poked at the poultice, which smelled an awful lot like pumpkin pie for something that had no pumpkin-pie related ingredients besides nutmeg, and let her read. And probably thought deep thoughts, since it was Deaton, but she wasn't privy to them so she didn't really care.

Stiles should maybe not be allowed near weapons for a while. Too late though, since Deaton had handed over several books full of them.

"You have never made a potion before?" Deaton asked. She nodded without looking away from the book; she was trying to learn a spell that would temporarily take away a werewolf's alpha powers. "This is...remarkable, for a first potion." It sounded like an understatement. She finally looked up, just to give him a nice, solid, judgmental look.

"It's not exactly a hard spell," she informed him. "It's not even Latin."

"It is Greek," he pointed out. Stiles shrugged.

"I had a lot of free time in middle school."

Deaton nodded slowly. "It's effective," he told her, apparently deciding to leave her after-school reading habits for another time. That information finally made her perk up though; the spell and ingredients were easy enough, but she hadn't been sure she had the right amount or type of magic for it, not to mention she hadn't actually followed the instructions exactly. Namely the part where it said to focus on hiding the smell of magic from werewolf noses, instead focusing on hiding the smell of baby.

She hopped up with a grin, ignoring how feral it must have looked, especially considering the way Deaton actually drew slightly back from her. "Awesome. Mind helping me bottle it up? Oh, and can I take this book home with me?" She waved the book in question around a bit as she made her way over to Deaton and the potion.

The vet stared at her for a few minutes, until she gave in and arched a questioning brow. Eventually she got another nod out of him, even slower than the last. "I would advise, if I may, focusing on defensive spells. Your particular...type of magic seems to be inclined more towards defense than offense."

Stiles smiled brightly. "Sure thing, Deaton," she lied without breaking eye contact, and then they bottled up her potion and she drove home. She took a sip, all the book said was necessary, while stopped at a red light.

Scott was waiting for her in the living room when she got home. He looked up, frowning and sniffing intently. "You smell like pumpkin pie," he told her, accusingly, and Stiles grinned.

"Get used to it," she instructed and jogged up the stairs. Setting the book on her desk, she carefully covered it with a delicate mess of random other papers, schoolwork mostly, then put her bag in the closet. She changed into pajamas and washed her face in the bathroom, relishing the smell of pumpkin clinging to her skin. Not too strong, not even by Scott's standards, but enough that when she stuck her nose against the pulsepoint at her wrist, she started wondering if they had any canned pumpkin in the cabinets.

Resisting the urge to check, Stiles threw herself into the couch beside Scott, saying cheerfully, "I went by Derek's. He's alive. What are we watching?" Scott stared at her. She plucked the remote from his fingers and pressed info. Apparently, they were watching Psych. Cool. With her legs drawn up to her chest, Stiles settled in for happy fun times. After a moment, Scott wrapped his arm around her, pulling her flush against his side. She burrowed willingly into him, and they were bros, so neither of them said a word when she laughed and tears came out. Scott just held her close and let her cry and laugh through four episodes of Psych. She fell asleep on his shoulder, his nose in her hair and the faint smell of freshly baked pumpkin pie wrapped cozily around them.

Derek called a pack meeting the next day, and she didn't answer any of the werewolves' questions about why she smelled like pumpkin pie. They were quickly distracted by discussions of the alpha pack anyway, since Derek apparently had new information. Oooh, aaah. Stiles was maybe a little extra sarcastic for the meeting.

They had fairly regular meetings for the next month and a half, with Stiles going to Deaton's every afternoon for lessons in magic. She swapped out her borrowed spellbook every week or so, secretly scanning every one onto her computer, and Deaton occasionally praised her defense-work, which was pretty much the Deaton-equivalent of glowing, prideful commentary.

In her free time, Stiles looked up information on pregnancy, and with only a little pressure from Lydia she saw an actual doctor and got a schedule of regular appointments. The doctor said he wouldn't force her to tell her dad, which she was grateful for, although at the same time she kind of wished someone would force her to. Just take the decision out of her hands, rip the conversation off like a band-aid.

Stiles was always someone who picked at a band-aid for hours to get it off, even though she knew that just made it hurt more in the long run.

And then the alpha pack swept into town and something like pregnancy just seemed so tiny and unimportant--while at the same time giving her a rather...unique perspective. She stared at a blind alpha from behind Scott, and thought about how stupid it all was. She thought about how they had had so much bullshit thrown at them since day-fucking-one, about how despite everything they just kept coming out on top, pulling through by the fucking skin of their teeth(or however that saying went). After all that, after the kanima and the hunters and fucking Peter, after everything they survived, this fucking pack of bullies thought they were in a position to judge them? To pass judgment upon them?

Stiles thought about how much that pissed her off.

She glanced behind the alphas. Boyd and Erica were strung up in horrific mimicry of Jesus on the cross, which was never an image she was a fan of in the first place and was now officially nightmare fuel. The were more bloody than not, their clothes and skin equally tattered. Stiles couldn't tell if they were breathing, although the wolves seemed fairly confident they were alive.

Scott shifted to stand firmly in front of her, blocking her from view as much as blocking her view of them. She shifted her attention to him with a disapproving frown. Ever so slightly, he canted towards her, holding his cell out behind him where the alphas couldn't see. Her gaze flickered down to the screen.

GT RDY 2 RUN

Uh. How about no?

Stiles stuck her hand in her pocket, fingers seeking silky soft powder that responded eagerly to her touch. Wrapping her hand around as much of it as she could get, she carefully pulled it from her pocket and let it slip from her fingers. As the powder slid slowly down, she rotated in place, breathing low and deep. Calm. Centered. The mountain ash settled in its circle around her, sending a shiver up her spine that she had come to learn was the feel of magic. She dusted off her hands.

"What do you say, Derek? Sounds fair, doesn't it?" Deucalion crooned. Derek snarled. Stiles held up a finger, visible over Scott's shoulder, the tip still faintly stained gray.

"That's a no, I'm pretty sure," Stiles clarified helpfully. Scott glared at her over his shoulder. What? She was helping. Besides, she couldn't exactly outrun a pack of alpha. It just wasn't happening. She was under no illusions here.

Deucalion's head tilted, and she could actually feel his attention shifting to her. His attention felt slimey. Even slimier than Peter's or Gerard's, actually, which was...seriously slimey.

"And who's this? Are you actually trying to disguise your scent from me, little druid?" Deucalion drawled. No, purred. Stiles felt like gagging.

"Nope," she answered truthfully, downright chipper after the initial gag reflex(heh). She turned one foot and stepped forward, stomping the other foot down outside the circle of ash with her arms tense and braced at chest-level. It was a motion stolen straight from earth-benders, but hey, magic was all about intent and belief. At least, her kind of magic was. She wasn't a fan of what she had seen so far of spells that were all precision and whatnot. So not her style. That was Lydia's area, the science-y side of magic. Stiles was solid earth and flowing water, a perfect symmetry to Lydia's brittle ice and passionate flame. She actually kind of couldn't wait for Lydia to finally lose patience and decide to learn magic too. Lydia's magic would be beautiful, a sight to behold. But for now, they had Stiles' magic, and that wasn't so bad to watch either.

The ash rose with her stomp, hovering an inch above the ground as the very air held still, like the world was holding its breath waiting for her next move. She twisted her feet again, stepping fully outside the circle, and her arms rose. She pushed, and Deucalion jerked. The spell was designed to send humans flying with nothing but pure magical stubbornness, which she had in abundance. It was disappointing that it was little more than a superpowered shove at Deucalion, but she grinned anyway. Because hey, she got a reaction. She backpedaled into the circle as the ash dropped back into place. Allison fired off an arrow from the rafters, hitting Kali in the shoulder, and Lydia lobbed a molotov into Kali's chest while the alpha was distracted. Kali burst into flames and as she screamed the battle raged. Deucalion threw Derek across the building as Scott and Isaac wrestled the twins, and Stiles watched the "demon alpha" stride towards her. He hit the wall of mountain ash, and he pushed back.

Stiles felt her shield begin to crumble immediately. It was incredible, and impossible. Alpha-alpha he might have been, but he was still a werewolf, and he had no right to be able to actually fight mountain ash. It was wrong, and Stiles immediately and intensely hated it.

Greek fell from her lips as her hands scrambled for her pockets. The ash scattered as Deucalion lunged, only to jerk back as a handful of wolf's bane pellets exploded against his face and chest. She dug frantically for more ingredients, pulling out little plastic and cloth bags alike and hurling them forward as elegant words continued to spill off her tongue. She dropped a bag of pellets in a frantic dance to avoid Deucalion's claws. The skin on his face and hands was burning, tears streaming from beneath his glasses, but he was so intent on killing her he barely seemed to notice what should have been pure agony. Stiles understood fear. A ball of mixed herbs smashed into his shoulder in time with the last syllable, and the backlash knocked her onto her ass and ran off with her hearing. Staring up, she finally saw Deucalion scream. His back arched, fingers curled into claws, as he let out a roar she could feel in her bones even though she couldn't hear it.

"ALLISON!" she screamed, voice all weird and wobbly over the blood rushing through her ears. Actually, that might be a literal description; her neck felt suspiciously, uncomfortably wet and sticky. She wasn't even sure if she'd actually yelled, but apparently the archer got the message either way, since an arrow shattered one of the dark lenses in its haste to bury itself in Deucalion's eye. As blood coursed down the werewolf's face, he dropped to his knees, the smell of burning flesh and wolf's bane sharp in Stiles' nose. Deucalion was still reaching for her though, even as Death dragged him down. Claws dug into her ankles. She jerked, trying to pull away, and shouted nonverbal protests at him. And like a damsel in distress, when desperate tears gathered in her eyes and he dragged her closer, Stiles screamed, "DEREK!"

Not that she stopped fighting, of course. She wasn't actually a damsel in distress. Despite the fact that she was quite distressed and qualified, theoretically, as a damsel. Clawing at the ground in a desperate bid to keep herself from the wolf, she dug into her pockets but found no ammunition waiting at her fingertips.

She licked her lips then breathed deep, felt the air rush through her, and centered. One long-fingered hand lifted, displaying the lines of her palm to Deucalion. Her fingers trembled.

"Stop," she breathed, and whined as the power ripped out of her, barely eliciting a grunt of recognition from the blind wolf. Tears streaked down her cheeks freely as she tried to pull free, still to no avail. The demon alpha would die, she had made sure of that, but he was going to take her with him. Derek was going to lose his pup. At least he wouldn't know to mourn it, she thought, a hysterical laugh bubbling in her throat and emerging more like a sob. Oh God. Then Deucalion's throat was torn open and his blood splattered over her. She turned over as Derek yanked Deucalion's claws out of her ankle and as he dragged the werewolf away, she retched onto the cold concrete.

Before she could get a good look at the contents of her stomach and probably wind up throwing up more, she turned away from it, swallowing back further bile hastily. She found, when she looked, three dead alphas, including Deucalion and Kali, and the twins admitting defeat. Perfect. That was great because, honestly, she could really use a nap.

"Then get up, I'm not carrying you to the car." Stiles looked up at the sound of Lydia's voice, blinking at the realization she had been speaking her thoughts. "Yes, you were. And still are." Was Lydia a mind-reader--Oh. "Yes, oh. Come on, Stiles. Focus. Stand up. You can do it." Stiles really didn't want to, but as Lydia crooned encouragements and hissed a few insults, she did anyway. 'No' just wasn't in Lydia's vocabulary. "You're damn right it's not. Did he hurt you?" Stiles' teeth clicked together as she looked down. There was blood all over her. Her ankles both hurt, although one significantly more than the other, and she was pretty sure she had cracked her tailbone when she fell. Gingerly, she touched her belly, splaying her fingers over the flat plane, then shook her head. No. She was fine. "No you're not. Your ears are bleeding. Come on, we should get you to Deaton."

"Erica and Boyd?" Stiles whimpered pitifully. Lydia smiled at her, terrifyingly gentle. It was always sort of terrifying when Lydia deigned to be nice.

"Derek and Scott have them. They'll meet us at the clinic. Come on, Stiles. We need to go. Someone called the police, we can't be here." Lydia urged her towards the door, Allison appearing shortly to assist in the herding-of-the-Stiles.

"My dad?" Stiles whined.

"He'll only find bodies. Everyone's dead, except the twins, and they're leaving. Isaac's escorting them to make sure." That was Allison, who followed up by taking hold of Stiles' arm. Lydia claimed her other wrist and together they steered her out of the warehouse, maneuvering her into the back seat of the Camaro. She looked over to see Scott lifting an unconscious Erica into the back of her Jeep, which made sense. He had her keys though, a familiar gleam in his hand. She wondered when that had happened.

"I got them off the ground. You threw them at Deucalion. The Jeep's better for them to ride in," Allison supplied. Stiles nodded, no longer bothered by the fact that her internal monologue was now external. She was really tired.

"Stiles! Stiles, stay awake, I don't know if you hit your head." Lydia twisted around in the passenger's seat, reaching back to bat at Stiles' knee.

Really, really tired.

"No, no, nonono," Lydia chanted, leaning between the seats. Delicate fingers tipped in deceptively soft-looking pink nails gripped either side of Stiles' face, digging in. Stiles' lids fluttered. Lydia's mouth was still moving, her eyes wide and face frantic. There were three Lydias, which was too many Lydias, very scary amount of Lydias. Stiles closed her eyes to block it out. Having her eyes closed felt nice. Something struck her cheek, which hurt quite a bit but only for a moment. Her eyes wouldn't open, expressing a clear preference for staying closed.

Well, they had probably earned it, Stiles figured. Her eyes had seen a lot of shit today. Very psychologically damaging shit, for which she could probably not get therapy because even if there were supernatural-friendly therapists, she probably couldn't afford one. Assuming she could even find one. Deaton might know one.

With a thoughtful hum that buzzed through her sore throat, Stiles took a nap.

 

Blinking open her eyes, Stiles stared at a plain white ceiling. The sliver of wall she could see without turning her head was the dark gray of Deaton's office, already a deeply familiar place to her. Inhaling carefully, she could even smell the spices stashed away in his cupboards, only half a dozen paces away. She was on Deaton's couch then. That was nice. A lot better than waking up on a metal table at least.

She stirred, wincing as the faint movement set her head to throbbing. Despite her body's protests, Stiles sat up, swinging her feet over the edge and planting them firmly on the floor. While her head spun away, she held on to her knees and tried to focus on her toes. They were bare, as were her legs. Someone had pulled off her clothes and replaced them with a pair of boxers and a shirt, neither of which she recognized. Pulling the shirt up to her nose, she found it smelled like Isaac. Which was vastly preferable to Derek or, eugh, Deaton. Her arms were clean, as was her hair, when she reached up to touch it.

Someone had bathed her.

Hopefully Lydia or Allison. Or--okay really just, anyone other than Deaton. Derek or Isaac might even be acceptable. Honestly though, she would probably just rather not think about it. Which meant she would probably hyperfocus on it until she found out who had scrubbed her clean, because her brain was the enemy.

The door creaked open. Head lifting, she blinked at Deaton. Upon seeing her, the vet immediately smiled.

"You're awake. Good. I treated what I could, but I have a potion for you to drink. It will speed up the process of your body restoring its magic, and in doing so assist with the headache, dizziness and some of the overall soreness you are likely experiencing." Stiles blinked some more, long and slow, contemplative. Deaton didn't seem to mind, just started to putter about while she sluggishly worked through what he had just told her.

She was prepared to ask something(she couldn't really say what, later, but it was probably something along the lines of "who saw me naked"), when Deaton appeared in front of her, holding out a coffee mug that smelled absolutely horrifying.

"Your healing always feels kind of like punishment," she commented, but accepted the mug. Pinching her nose shut, she downed the concoction, trying to get as much of it down as she could without tasting it. It was thick, like a melted smoothie, and gritty. Actually, she was pretty sure she felt bits of leaves scrape against her throat on the way down, which was all kinds of nasty. The taste was just starting to register when the mug ran out. She choked, dropping the mug and clamping her hands over her mouth as she forced the rest of the liquid down. There was no description for the taste. Nothing, just, awful. Completely fucking awful, enough so that tears burned in her eyes and she just sat there breathing for a while, thinking about nice, pretty things that had nothing to do with throwing up. Or eating, for that matter.

Deaton calmly carried the mug he had caught away, padding out the door. She heard a sink turn on and the sounds of someone washing dishes a few rooms over.

Scott slunk in just as she was regaining control over her faculties. He looked clean and healthy, and her immediate response was a grin, especially since her headache was already fading, taking the nausea with it.

"Scotty boy," she greeted happily. He promptly perked up, practically bounding over to drop onto the couch beside her and pull her into a hug. Her head spun again, just a little, but she was too busy hugging the shit out of him to care.

"Oh man, you are such an asshole," Scott growled into her hair, squeezing her just tight enough to hurt for a moment before he gentled his hold. "You scared the shit out of me. Lydia was fucking freaking out when you guys pulled up. She was pissed that you fell asleep even though she told you not to, but Deaton said you were just drained and sleep was the best answer and I think she made up a new curse word just for him. It was very colorful."

"I'm sorry I missed it," she mumbled into his shoulder, a sincere apology in her voice. Scott heard it and accepted it with a kiss to her hair.

"Lydia insisted she and Allison wash you. She even made Isaac get shampoo and conditioner and like, body wash and stuff. I think you're the cleanest you've ever been. And while he was out, Isaac brought back clothes for you and Erica and Boyd. Who are fine, don't start freaking out, holy shit do you want Lydia to lose her mind?" Stiles, who had not been freaking out Scott was a drama queen, settled back down with a snuffly giggle, only to jerk upright as she heard him sniffing at her.

"My potion," she blurted out, which clearly made no sense to Scott. Right. "I've got a jar of some orange-red stuff in my jeep. Could you bring it to me?" Her eyes got real big, sad and hopeful at the same time. She needed that jar. There was no way she was letting the alphas interfere any more than they already had, fuck no.

And there was Derek in the doorway, nostrils flaring, eyes blazing red.

"Stiles."

Did the man know how to use punctuation? Seriously, she was going to have to buy him an English textbook or something, it was getting out of hand.

"Derek," she replied, punctuation equally non-existent but in a sarcastic way. The sarcasm was not aided by huge, deer-in-the-headlights eyes or a frantic heartbeat. Not that it mattered, evidently, since Derek immediately turned and walked off. "Okay." She blinked dry eyes, forcing her attention back to Scott, who was looking sort of adorably confused. "Scott. Potion. Jeep. Bag. Front seat. Bring it to me. Please." Rapid-fire orders were something she was surprisingly good at, and something Scott was less-surprisingly good at translating.

Scott nodded, always weak in the face of anyone's pain, and hopped up to do as bid. He returned before anyone else wandered in, and she barely stopped herself from actually snatching the jar out of his hands. She unscrewed the cap, took a sip, then replaced the cap and set the jar between her legs. Scott made himself at home beside her, hugging her tight. His nose returned to its spot in her hair, and they relaxed together until, after barely a few minutes, he was making a face.

"You smell like pumpkin pie again," he grumbled, sounding petulant. "You were finally starting to smell normal." Stiles snorted, rearranging herself and the jar so she could turn over and snuggle into Scott.

"Get used to it," she retorted, or repeated, rather, and he chuffed unhappily into her hair but didn't argue.

Curled up together like a pair of puppies, Scott and Stiles dozed, until a soft knock at the open door roused them. They blinked with identical expressions of sleepy confusion at Isaac, rousing a smile from the curly-haired angel-face.

"Erica and Boyd are up."

Stiles was on her feet immediately, which left Scott to catch her because wow she should not do that again. He set her jar on the couch, and she let him scoop her up with only a few mild complaints. She actually cooperated, still too dizzy to genuinely think walking was a good idea. And besides, she really wanted to see Erica and Boyd sometime within the next hour, preferably sooner.

Erica and Boyd were indeed up, if your definition of "up" was really loose and also very generous. They were kind of just propped against each other on the very same metal table Stiles had been glad not to wake up on herself.

They looked at her, and Stiles reached out both hands with a whining noise. Scott obligingly transferred her to the table, where she wrapped her arms around both werewolves' necks and hugged them fiercely. They returned the hug with one arm each, pulling her into a mini puppy-pile. Lydia and Allison eventually showed up, and then Deaton came in to suggest "everyone go home and get some rest." Which sounded like a brilliant plan. Except for the part where Stiles would be alone. And Boyd and Erica would be sleeping in some form of abandoned building, or Derek's creepy loft(she still wasn't actually sure about who all stayed at the loft) which was also not okay.

She made sure to grab her potion on the way out. Or rather, she made sure Scott grabbed it, because he was carrying her again.

"So, sleepover at Casa de Stilinski?" she drawled, and everyone piled into the jeep and Lydia's car, and, well, they had a sleepover at Casa de Stilinski. They all crashed in the living room, not a single one of them staying awake for more than the opening credits of the movie they put in. Erica complained a lot about Stiles smelling like pumpkin pie, until Scott and Stiles said in stereo, "Get used to it."

Stiles stirred only when her dad came in, blinking sleepily up at his bewildered expression.

"It's not an orgy," she slurred helpfully.

"Okay," the sheriff nodded, then he went to dress down and eat something; Stiles fell asleep to the sound of him messing around in the kitchen, still too exhausted for anything else.

 

When she woke again, it was to her dad...getting home. Again. The pack had all cleared out, and morning light filtered in through the blind. Which--she actually had no idea how long she had slept for. A really, possibly unhealthily long time. But she wasn't dizzy, so that was cool.

She did feel an immediate need to throw up though, which was less cool.

At least she made it to the toilet before emptying the contents of her stomach, which wasn't actually all that much but she made a valiant effort to bring up more for a while. Especially after her traitor of a brain decided to start bringing up the alpha pack, specifically, Deucalion, and wow she really loved the toilet right then.

"Oh great porcelain god," she groaned into the bowl.

A cold compress was pressed to the back of her neck and she moaned shameless relief. Her dad brushed the hair from her face and she could feel him crouch down beside her. She could also feel awkward questions coming, so it seemed like a good idea to just get all the awkward out of the way by way of barreling directly through it.

"What are your feelings on grandchildren?" she asked the toilet with her eyes closed, because her level of not caring wasn't quite at the point of actually facing her dad while asking that.

Her dad was a sheriff. She was not exactly being subtle here. There were still a few minutes of quiet after the question though, him lightly stroking her hair as she considered whether or not she was going to throw up/dry heave some more. It didn't seem like it. Sitting up dislodged her dad's hand, but not the cold compress. She dropped the seat(the top one; she did not want to watch that) and flushed before standing on wobbly legs. Turning to the sink, she washed out her mouth and scrubbed her face thoroughly. There was no tooth paste or mouthwash in the downstairs bathroom, but a thorough application of just water still improved matters considerably.

"I didn't expect it to be something I needed to have feelings on for a long time," her dad said very, very carefully. She turned around, hopping up to perch on the edge of the counter. She smiled at her dad as he eyed her, wondering if she was even half as pale as him. A quick glance over her shoulder confirmed that she was, in fact, significantly paler. Right.

"Accidents," she sighed as she stared down at her feet. Still bare. "Stupidity. That sort of thing."

"Were you safe?" John asked. His hand settled on her knee, bringing a part of him into view forcibly. Gently though. Her dad was good like that.

Stiles scrunched up her face, thinking about it. "Yeah. But we were--it was very...stress relief." Talking to her dad, Stiles suddenly felt like a little girl. Actually, she felt her own age. For the first time since Peter bit Scott she felt like a teenager. It was awful. She buried her face in her hands, hunching over to brace her elbows on her thighs, careful not to disturb his hand. She appreciated it being there, grounding her. "It was exactly as stupid and irresponsible as it sounds, but we did use a condom. Condoms." Oh god way too much sharing. With her dad. This was mortifying, why couldn't she just go back to fighting werewolves? "And I know he was--safe, like, STD-wise. But condoms are--"

"Only 99-percent effective," the sheriff finished for her on a sigh. "How long have you known?" Stiles groaned.

"Uhm. Maybe...a month? Ish?" she hedged, and actually felt her dad roll his eyes.

"During which I've barely seen you," he huffed. Stiles snorted, peering up at him through her fingers.

"I started working with Deaton," she admitted, and was delighted that it wasn't a lie at all. Hey, all this not-lying felt pretty nice. Maybe she should go a step further. She dropped her hands, sitting up some and making herself face him. She had faced down Deucalion, she could talk to her dad. About...werewolves. "How was work yesterday?" she asked because holy god no. Unexpectedly though, the sheriff's face fell, expression twisting. She mimicked the expression, though lighter, in sympathy. "That bad, huh?" Hers had probably been worse. Maybe they could have a bad-day off. Haha, how about she shot herself in the foot instead.

"Three murders," he sighed. "Animal attacks again. It was," he cut off, frowned and verbally waved it off with, "Never mind, you don't need to worry about it." Shit. Was it too late to Google 'how to not look like you murdered someone recently'? Yes. Yes it was, particularly since her dad was giving her a look. One of his patented sheriff looks where she had no idea what her face was doing exactly but she knew it was being a traitor. "Stiles," the sheriff began, in his most dangerous tone. Stiles swallowed, drawing back, and into herself a bit, if she was honest. Her dad's sigh had her gaze flickering up to his face again. "Don't you think we've had enough lies, kiddo?" He sounded tired.

Stiles leaned back to stare intently at the ceiling, considering this prospect. The truth would make things so much easier.

"The truth is dangerous," she said outloud, sadly. John's grip on her knee tightened.

"I'm the sheriff Stiles," he growled, almost as impressively as a werewolf. Stiles snorted anyway, if humorlessly.

"And I'm your totally badass daughter and look where that's gotten me," she retorted, but ultimately she knew it was useless to argue after admitting that she was doing something dangerous. Dropping her head, she could see in her dad's eyes that he wouldn't let her out of the house until she spilled the beans. Problem was, once she told him, he might be even more determined to lock her up. "We're not moving," she told him firmly before slithering down off the counter to her feet. "Also if I'm telling you this whole stupid story, we're doing it somewhere comfortable. Into the living room. Stop making the sheriff face, Dad, I'm about to be all sorts of honest. You're going to hate it." Hopefully he wouldn't hate her. Making the saddest of faces, she waited until he sat down in his chair to take a spot on the couch as far from him as possible. And then she got up and started to pace because there was really no other way to tell this tale.

"So, okay, remember when I went looking for a body in sophomore year? Yeah, Scott got bit by a werewolf. It gets crazier, and I have proof, and if you interrupt I may forget stuff so try not to okay? Cool. So, werewolves."

The sheriff interrupted quite a few times, but at least he didn't directly accuse her of sanity. That was something.

Her proof was a fortunately flashy-as-hell defensive spell that made symbols glow in the air around her. The sheriff was suitably impressed. He also poured himself some whiskey and Stiles called Melissa to come over and help him process. She left them in the kitchen to their alcohol and headed up to bed, thankful for the weekend. Small favors.

Surprisingly little changed after that, except she and her dad were suddenly a lot more honest with each other. With insider information on the three "victims," the sheriff managed to steer the town's attention away from any damning evidence, and with a convenient string of robberies(literally; they just happened to pop up) it wasn't too hard to make the town forget all about the gruesome murders, aided by how little information the media had been given in the first place.

After a surprisingly small amount of arguments, her dad agreed it was probably for the best that she continue training under Deaton. Which was great.

What was not great was that he refused to go along with her "let's hide things from Derek(and pretty much everyone else)" plans. He presented horrifyingly sensible arguments in a reasonable manner, and she conceded the point after only about a week of basically just being a difficult, stubborn little shit. The scent scrubber would do nothing when she started to actually show, not to mention that the wolves would probably hear the tiny little secondary heartbeat. Also, telling Derek was the only way to stop her dad from arresting him for statutory rape, "only five years, and really I'm a lot more mature than my age group" be damned. He would probably still have pursued it, actually, except Stiles would definitely not have cooperated and she played the sympathy card on Derek's behalf really hard.

But when it all came down to it, a pack meeting was called, and Stiles had to tell them about her dad's enlightenment so she figured, ah, fuck it.

And then she was standing outside the loft, picking at the metaphorical band-aid. For the first time since she made it, she hadn't taken the scent scrubber today. As far as her nose was concerned, she smelled nothing like pumpkin pie anymore. The effects of the potion were twenty four hours, officially, and her last dose was thirty two hours ago. It was unexpectedly uncomfortable to be without it. Not quite like being naked, but close. She felt vulnerable, exposed. Not-fun.

Her phone chirped. She pulled it out to make faces at the text message.

Brotp 5ever
Received 6:43 PM
dereks getting pissy u coming in????

She huffed and shoved the phone back into its pocket, starting up the stairs by way of response. The door was unlocked, so she shoved it open and strolled on in. The whole pack was in the living room, Derek standing there looking his usual scowly self. He turned as she entered, looking ready to chew her out, but his nostrils flared and he froze.

With an internal appreciative whistle for how remarkably dramatic Derek could be, she strolled over to sit down on the couch.

"I told Dad about werewolves and stuff. He'll make sure people stop looking in to the bodies," she told the room at large, and tuned out the burst of noise. Too many questions. Too loud. Her head tilted back onto the couch, eyes closing. Mm. Much less noise. Until a cool fingertip prodded her cheek at least.

"Stiles?" Lydia murmured, and Stiles reluctantly cracked one eye open to peer at her. "You alright?"

"Deaton taught me a new spell yesterday. I also told my dad he's going to be a granddad. It's been a long week." Lydia nodded her understanding.

"What." Hey look, Derek had some (punctuation-less) input. Stiles rolled her head to give him a look that was initially intended to be impressed but it was generally the opposite.

Scott and Isaac squawked at the same time, and Stiles was prepared for that--what she was not prepared for was Boyd getting shoved off the couch and Allison and Erica claiming a seat on either side of her. They both tucked an arm around her and Stiles realized something very important.

"Girls are incredibly creepy." Lydia swatted her in the back of the head, then sat down between her and Erica, forcing the blonde to scoot over. Stiles stared at her, leaning towards Allison who was definitely the least scary of the girls. "Really creepy. Like seriously, how have I gone so long without realizing this? How have we convinced the world that boys are the weird ones?"

"Boobs, sweetie," Erica said, leaning forward to smirk at her around Lydia.

"Stiles? What do you mean he's going to be a granddad?" Scott stared at her with big, wounded eyes.

Stiles made jazz hands. "Surprise, baby. Literally. Surprise. There's a baby in here. Well, sort of. I mean, at what point does it qualify as a baby? But yes. It's there. You can touch it." She leaned back, stretching out her legs in front of her as Scott managed to wedge his hip in between her and Allison, setting his hand on her belly happily, exactly as she had expected him to. At least she could still predict some people. "You're an adorable brother, bro."

Scott grinned, looking like he wanted to wag his tail. She wondered if she needed to remind him that he didn't have a tail. "Derek's?" he asked, because Scott loved barreling directly through things like social rules or awkwardness or really just anything that stood in his way. Oh, bro. Wherever would Stiles be without you? Probably really lonely and, dead, actually. Scott was definitely the survival-instinct-having one in their bromance.

"Who else?" she drawled, dropping her head back to stare at the ceiling again. Time to pretend she was home alone. She embraced it for as long as possible, which was only about five seconds. At that point, the room clogged with raised voices, everyone demanding answers at once and no one giving her the chance to actually answer.

"OUT." Derek's shout rose about everyone else, and silence descended. Stiles' head popped up to stare at him. Scott shivered against her with what she recognized as the beginnings of a growl. She grabbed his wrist, pushing his hand gently away.

"It's fine. Derek and I should talk," Stiles sighed, admitting defeat once and for all. She made shooing motions. "I'm good, really. Have some faith, bro." Scott did not look like he had faith. At least his doubts seemed to be directed towards Derek rather than Stiles though. Although Scott's lingering hate for Derek wasn't really a positive thing, honestly. She rubbed uncomfortably at an itchy spot on her arm, watching the pack file out, a few of them shooting looks to either she or Derek that she didn't feel like interpreting just then.

She heard the door shut, although her gaze was focused on the ceiling. They remained in silence until various cars started up and pulled away, and then Stiles waited for Derek to break the silence.

And waited.

"I've only had about six hours of sleep in the past three days, so if you want to have an actual conversation instead of just stare at me while I nap, I advise speaking up." Stiles sighed heavily to punctuate her words, mentally taking note of a faint smoke stain on the ceiling. She wondered if Derek had noticed, if it bothered him.

"Six--Stiles!" The indignant tone of his snarl made her snicker and lift her head just so he could see clearly when she rolled her eyes at him.

"Yes Derek?" she asked sweetly.

"You--I can't--" Derek's face was twisted into a snarl as he scrambled for words, looking a bit like he wanted to kill something. Probably with his teeth. Stiles sat there watching him, enjoying the show for a few minutes as he grew increasingly frustrated. Yeah, she supposed. Probably not the easiest topic to broach.

With another eyeroll, she swirled a hand at him, chasing his failed attempts away impatiently. "You'd be surprised how much someone can change in a couple months," she told him in a dry tone, lips twitching in a threat to smile. It probably wouldn't be a very nice smile though. "You never asked what I did to Deucalion." That made his expression change, from frustrated and angry to that but also confused. "Go ahead. Ask." She wanted to hear the words.

Derek brooded at her while she waited, her brows slightly arched while his frowned more and more severely. Poor smooshy puppy. Stiles out-waited him. She really wanted to make him say the words.

"How did you--what did you do to Deucalion, Stiles?" he carefully forced out between his teeth. Ah, that was satisfying. She had no idea why, it just was. Getting him to use an actual question mark was especially nice.

Stiles grinned at him. "Magic," she declared and did a bit of jazz hands for good measure. Just to get the point across. Dropping the grin, she leaned back on her elbows against the back of the couch and stretched her legs out even further. "You see, Derek, you sort of upset me. I mean first there was the darach. Ms. Blake. In your loft. Yeah, that sort of...bothered me. I was not a fan of that. But I guess I could have gotten over it. I mean, we weren't exactly in a relationship, although I'd like to think one was at least implied. And it's not like you knew she was evil, so as much as I'd like to I can't actually hold that against you. But then you not only made me watch you die--" Okay that was harsh and untrue, but Stiles was not feeling her most generous--"you didn't actually die. And then you just...let me think you were dead. For three days. And would probably have let me think so longer, except I had, I don't know, a fit of sentimentality and broke in. So, secret out. I feel the need to point out that I still gave you opportunity even then. And you told me to leave. So I did--and then I went to Deaton."

Her grin returned, feral and unpleasant overall. Derek was staring at her. If she had to guess, she would call his expression horrified and guilty, although there were a few emotions there she couldn't even guess at.

"Conveniently, one of the first books he handed me had a whole section dedicated to werewolves. I was...inspired to learn them very, very thoroughly. And make a scent scrubber for my first potion, so the pack wouldn't sniff out the baby before I felt like sharing the info." She sighed heavily and abruptly, exhaling her growing anger as she came to a rather sudden realization; Stiles wasn't really angry. Well, she was, but not furious. She didn't really want to yell at Derek. What she wanted, if she was perfectly honest, was to shove him to the floor and make out with him--after she heard him say the words that had been pounding through her stupid heart for months. She didn't want to be casual. She didn't want to not matter. And dammit, she didn't want to just be pack either. Stiles was selfish. She wanted the whole package or none at all. But maybe she also just wanted him to be happy. For once in his goddamn life, she wanted Derek to have a good thing, even if that good thing wasn't her.

"Dad knows," she told him, even though he already knew that. "He's not going to pursue any legal things; he might shoot you, I don't know, I expect you to sort that out yourself. But I'm going to have this baby, and Derek--you fucked up. I mean, we both did, but. You totally fucked up, so this, this is your last chance. I don't know how you're going to fix this. But I'm going to let you try. Don't fuck it up. Please." Her stare was a little too honest, a little too desperate. It ached, deep down in her heart, and a little in her eyebrows which weren't really made to twist that way.

Before she could do something stupid, like cry, she hopped to her feet, shoving her hands into her pockets and trying not to hunch her shoulders in a dejected fashion. Despite everything, despite all the aging she had done in so short a time, some part of her still felt like just a teenage girl with a crush. A pregnant teenage girl. Stiles rubbed the back of her neck. "And for fuck's sake, fix up your living arrangements." She glared at him, although these actually felt like the nicest words she had said to him in a long time. "This may be the first baby born to the pack, but it won't be the last. You're hardly on your own anymore, Derek. It's time to stop acting like you are."

For a moment, she stood there bouncing on her heels, staring at Derek. And then it became clear that he really had no idea what to say. She may have broken him actually. Stiles looked away.

"Right. I'm just gonna--" she jabbed a thumb towards the door--"Go now. See you later, I guess. You, uh...You know where to find me." Her eyes landed on him for half a moment, not even enough time to evaluate his expression, and then she more-or-less bolted.

As she slipped out the door, she thought for sure she heard a low, mournful whine, but the door slammed shut and she all but sprinted towards her jeep. With a groan, she dropped her head onto the steering wheel and questioned her life choices.

The passenger door opening had her jerking upright, twisting around in preparation for--what? More yelling? Crying maybe? But it was just Scott, sliding into the passenger seat without a word. After a moment, he silently took her hand. She squeezed his fingers as tight as she could the whole way home.

Once home, Stiles indulged in a good ole Dad-hug(the best sort of hug), hugging him back as tight as she could, like she never intended to let go. Her dad didn't seem any more inclined to either, so they just stood there hugging in the hallway for a while, Scott puttering around the kitchen making popcorn, until Stiles finally felt like she could survive outside the circle of safeness that, even now, still managed to exist within her dad's arms. Even knowing it was just an illusion left over from childhood didn't detract from the magic of a dad-hug.

She smiled gratefully up at him, then waved around in a way that was somehow indicative of Scott. "Scott and I are gonna have a game-a-thon until I kick him out," she told him, and they shared a grin at the old, familiar sentence. It was something she had said a lot of times. It was also the precursor to a lot of sleepovers. John reached out to grip her shoulder, giving it a firm, affectionate squeeze, then they finally broke apart.

"I'm going to hit the hay," he stated, and she laughed when he yawned, eliciting a sulky expression from him. He made a face at her, then flapped a hand in her direction, grumbling something sleepy and unintelligible.

"Yeah, yeah. Good night to you too. Love you, Dad." She'd been telling him that a lot lately, because lately she'd remembered just how great her dad kinda was. On that note, she ducked in for another hug, this one short but no less tight. And then she hurried into the kitchen to make sure Scott didn't burn the house down.

With bowls of popcorn, chex mix, trail mix, chips, and a pizza in the oven, they threw themselves into the living room for a proper game-a-thon. Stiles royally kicked ass while snuggled so close Scott had to twist himself awkwardly around her. It was incredibly comfortable, and when he drily remarked fifteen minutes in that, "You know Mom and your dad and everyone pretty much is going to make you change your diet completely starting like, tomorrow," it just made her groan.

"Ugh, don't remind me," she grumbled, shoveled a handful of cheetos in her mouth, and jump-kicked Scott's character into oblivion. She laughed at his whine and they went back to their gaming. The baby wasn't forgotten, merely...put aside, just for a little while. It was hours later when Scott finally brought it up again, in a somewhat roundabout way.

"I could kill him, you know," he remarked, and it would have been completely out of the blue but, try as she might, it was actually pretty hard to forget that she had a little life growing inside her. She laughed, light and dry.

"Thanks," she answered, acerbic but sincere. "But it's gonna be hard enough explaining all the shit that lead up to their existence to this kid without adding 'and Uncle Scott killed your dad because he was a prick.'"

Scott snickered. The game was paused, the pizza demolished and bowls set aside. Sliding down on the couch a bit, he leaned in to her, tucking his chin over her head and an arm around her shoulders. "I could still beat the snot out of him at least," he sighed into her hair. Nestling against him, something that had recently become infinitely more familiar than ever before, she echoed his sigh.

"For what, Scott? He didn't mean for this to happen and did his best to prevent it. I'm the one that threw myself at him anyway. He could have turned me away but--we were both consenting adults--" thank fuck for peers who wouldn't argue with that; if she could kill people, fight daily for her own life and her friends' lives, not to mention all the other fucking bullshit, she was pretty sure she qualified as an adult, more so than most legal adults, in fact--"and there was no...there were no expectations. No obligations. I mean, sure, he was a dick but..." Her voice trailed off. Scott hugged her tighter, nuzzling her head. Scent-marking her.

"Don't be stupid, Stiles," he muttered, and that made her look up, incredulous. He smiled, and his voice was whisper soft as he clarified, "I'd beat him up for breaking your heart." And then the tears started and he picked up the remote to switch from gaming to cartoons and held her even as her stifled weeping turned into shuddering sobs, as she clutched at his shirt and just...cried. Cried because her heart was broken, because her life was changed completely(it wasn't over; the idea of pregnancy, teenage or otherwise, making anyone's life "over" was just stupid, but definitely changed) and the love she'd tried so hard to ignore had been so carelessly kicked aside. She sobbed because she had no idea what to do with a baby, and because finally, in her brother's warm embrace, she could finally let herself.

When the tears stopped, he passed her a tissue and she blew her nose, then hopped up to wash her face with cold water in the kitchen. She took a few minutes to compose herself, then she went out and kicked Scott's ass at video games some more. Six-or-so hours into their game-a-thon, her shortage of sleep lately caught up and Stiles yawned, slumping over against Scott as she stole the remote, turning the Xbox off and turning back to cartoons. Of the adult variety this time, since it was the middle of the night.

Scott wuffled her hair without even trying to be subtle. In his defense, Stiles didn't really try to protest that sort of thing anymore. The wolves liked smelling their packmates; she could accept that.

They spent a few more hours watching Archer and Futurama and similar, before Scott shifted from his cheek on her hair to his chin on her shoulder. "Are you ready to talk to Derek or should I tell him to go home?" he murmured. She jolted, looked towards the door, then stared at him. Scott grinned, all puppy-sheepish. "He's in your room."

Stiles blinked. That was--well, it wasn't really surprising, honestly. But something in Scott's expression...She narrowed her eyes at him. "How long has he been in there?" Scott looked up, scratching at his cheek in a blatant avoidance technique. She punched him in the arm before he could even start trying to lie. "Scott!" she hissed. He jumped a little, then gave her a goofy, "don't be mad" grin.

"He got here about five minutes after we did. I think he ran," Scott admitted. Stiles let out an indignant squeak before hitting him again, slapping his shoulder this time.

"Scott!" she tried to hiss again and instead got a squeaky, girly noise that just did not suit her. Scott's grin was apologetic but kinda shameless too. She and the pack were terrible influences on him.

"What? He totally deserved to wait. And be forced to sit and behave himself for a while. Let him think about what he's done, that sort of thing, right?"

Stiles sat back, gave her oldest friend a suspicious and knowing glare. "You're being all big-brother, aren't you?" she accused, and Scott's huge, dorky grin was all the answer she needed. She groaned at him. "Fuck. Fine, yes. I will go talk to him. Get out, you jerk. No sleepover for you. I have a baby daddy to deal with and you're not invited." She kissed his cheek, then scrambled to her feet before he could start whining or protesting.

"Good luck, asshat!" he called.

"Fuck off, chickenshit!" she responded, already halfway up the stairs. She paused, bounced back down a few steps to lean around the wall and grin at him. "I love you, you stupid mutt."

Scott grinned at her, puppies and rainbows and sunshine and shit. "I love you too. You're going to have the grossest cravings." Her eyes widened in alarm, and he was still laughing as he fled.

Stiles stood there a while, contemplating what sort of horrible things she would probably start demanding sooner rather than later. Then she shrugged, gave her flat tummy a look, and headed up the stairs. She slipped into her room, quietly shutting the door behind her before she faced the wolf in her bed.

"I feel like there's a pamphlet warning me about this. Multiple pamphlets, actually," she remarked. Leaning back against the door, she crossed her arms under her breasts and stared down the father of her unborn child. Derek was sitting on her bed, boot-clad feet on the floor, eyes fixed somewhere around her midsection. She wasn't sure if he was trying to stare intently enough to see the fetus, or merely avoiding her gaze.

He didn't say anything for a while, and Stiles was never really a patient sort. Heaving a sigh over him, she strode over to take a seat in front of her computer, turning the chair to put her back to him. She woke up the screen and clicked over onto Reddit. After browsing on there for a while, she switched to Tumblr, immediately immersed in the ever-familiar internet. Over the past few weeks she had taken to following a handful of parenting blogs, which posted the good, the bad, and the ugly of child-rearing. She already had a decent-sized folder in her bookmarks of things that seemed like they'd be helpful, before and after the baby was born. Which honestly seemed just so terribly teenager of her that she had flinched when bookmarking the first dozen or so. It was smart though, honestly. The age of technology was wonderful.

She was reading a surprisingly informative horror story involving bloody poop and projectile vomit(if she had to write a report on her research on babies, she would probably just write "Babies are fucking horrifying" over and over again) when Derek cleared his throat. It immediately caught her attention because, holy shit, that was practically polite. Swiveling the chair around quickly, she stared at him, eyes maybe a little mockingly wide.

"Holy fuck, are you going to start, like, being nice to me now that I'm carrying your kid? Cause I'm not gonna lie; that'd be pretty awesome," she said, because she was an asshole. She liked being an asshole. Asshole was a good look for her. Okay it probably wasn't but it was the only look she could manage because, again, she was an asshole. At the core. And now that she had said it, she realized that was a lie--not the asshole bit, that was the absolute truth, but what she said to Derek. She didn't want Derek to be nice to her because she was pregnant, with his kid or anyone else's. Hell, she didn't even necessarily want him to be nice to her; she liked him as he was. Well, she wouldn't mind some change, but they were both assholes. They worked. Which, woah, back up, was she acknowledging her feelings now?

Stiles looked deep into impossible green-hazel eyes and determined that, nope, her emotional growth was still gonna stick with "stunted" for the time being. See? She and Derek totally matched.

They were a match made in Hell. Ha. God, Stiles was so funny. People really should appreciate her more.

Derek glared at her, either because of her words or because she was laughing at him in her head and it probably showed on her face. Both were pretty equally likely. In fact, it might have been both. Together. So she threw in a shit-eating grin just to complete the package. Derek growled. There was her stupid alpha. Well, not her alpha. Because Stiles was not a wolf and no, not even Scott was her alpha. The only one who passed for alpha in her life was her dad, and even that was only a temporary and sometimes kind of thing.

Peter hadn't been mistaken when he said she was lying, back when he offered to bite her(so fucking long ago now, or so it felt at least). She had wanted to be a werewolf. Still did, maybe, at least a little. But she didn't want the conditions that came with being one. Like alphas. Stiles was just not going to roll over, but she didn't much want to be an alpha either. She was possessive enough already without some magical mojo bullshit going on. Plus, ugh, responsibility. Whatever, she was a teenager so sue her.

"I'm not--" Derek started, let out a frustrated growl and tried again. "I don't have any family left." Stiles blinked. This was not where she expected him to go. After a moment, she settled her hands in her lap and turned her chair the rest of the way needed to face him fully, leaning forward and doing her best to look serious. It wasn't an expression she had practiced often before Scott got bit, but she was getting a lot better at it lately. "I mean, there's Peter. But he's not exactly..."

"Not exactly the uncle you knew, before the fire," Stiles finished for him softly. He nodded curtly.

"He's better now, than he was when he was the alpha. Obviously." Otherwise Derek would have put him back in the grave, if Stiles and Lydia didn't do it themselves. They might even have let Scott help, shared grudges and all that. "But he's just Peter--my Uncle Peter is gone. He died in that fire, and maybe a part of him came back, but he's still not all there, and he never will be. I used to have a huge family. There were always kids underfoot, at our house. I hated it as much as I loved it, even when I was a brat teenager. And I--I don't know what I wouldn't do for a family, Stiles." His voice sounded so raw, so fucking honest, that it broke her damn heart a little with every hoarse word. "So yes, I will absolutely be nice to you. I will do--anything. For--"

"Derek," she interrupted, unable to take anymore. The rough, teary whisper of her own voice caught her off-guard, enough to allow a few tears to leak free. Fucking emotions and shit. She cleared her throat, forcing the urge to cry as far back as she could get it, and tried again. "Derek, you don't have to--nothing you do will change anything. I mean, no stop with the running away face, you dumbass." The word felt fond, as it hadn't since--fuck, since they slept together. She stood, a little shaky, and half-stumbled the few feet to him. She dropped to her knees when her legs just refused to cooperate any more, took his hands in hers, and smiled up at him. "You were a fucking dick. But we both messed up. And I'm totally gonna yell at you some more later, especially when my hormones start doing the tango, but nothing, absolutely nothing will make me deny you your--our baby, Derek. I mean, unless you're abusive or--I mean, obvious, extenuating circumstances." Despite how fucked up Derek was though, she wasn't worried about that, not really. He would never hurt his family. He was far too scared to. Actually, she would probably have to interfere so he didn't spoil their kid rotten. "But even if I ever yell anything like that at you in the next seven months, which I can't promise I won't; pregnancy hormones are sometimes serious bastards, okay? But just--I want you to have a family, Derek. You may be a bit of a fuck-up, but you deserve at least a chance to try. This kid is ours. And we'll have to keep a little on the down-low until I'm eighteen, but still. Our kid, Derek. You don't have to be fake. I want nothing to do with a fake-you. You fucking moron."

Derek stared at her, until she smiled big and wide, and he finally slumped forward, like a puppet with its strings cut. His face dropped to her shoulder where he dragged in a lungful of her scent. Of their baby's scent, actually, she imagined. "Thank you," he whispered. His fingers tightened around hers, and he lifted one hand to press a kiss to her knuckles. "Thank you, Stiles. And I'm--I'm sorry. So fucking sorry."

Stiles let her head fall against his with a little sigh. "You're damn right you are," she murmured, having no energy to demand anything more than that. Her legs slid, leaving her sitting in a more comfortable position, and there they awkwardly huddled together, him hunched over and her sitting on the damn floor with her head right about belly-button level, and it was...good. Strangely, comfortably, good.

Maybe not quite right. Certainly not perfect. But considering their life, she figured good was, well, pretty damn good.

Chapter Text

So the baby was out of the bag. Or the magical scent-scrubber potion, as it were. That was--that was done and there was nothing she could do about it. Somehow she did not anticipate at least one of the results. And that result was Deaton.

More accurately, she didn't anticipate being metaphorically dragged to Deaton's office by way of Scott saying, "Deaton needs your help," and then pulling out the puppy dog eyes. Damn her wavering immunity. She was getting soft. Stiles blatantly blamed the hormones. They got her to Deaton's though, and apparently someone(Stiles hoped it was Derek, because fuck him) had given him at least a good chunk of the story since his immediate response to her appearance was to smile, ominously snap a glove into place, and say, "So I hear you're eating for two, now."

Which, ugh, was just such a--such a weird was of putting it. Stiles gave him a look that she really hoped conveyed her level of seriously!? and wtf properly, but Deaton just smiled. Serenely. Because Deaton.

"Oh, no," Stiles started, because she caught on pretty damn quick. "No. I have a doctor. A real, medical professional, fucking doctor to get all up in my junk and check on the baby or whatever."

"I am a medical professional," Deaton pointed out patiently.

"You're a vet!" she cried, outraged. Deaton was completely fucking unflappable. Seriously, one of these days she was going to set his fucking shoes on fire just to get an actual reaction out of the bastard.

"Who treats werewolves," the vet said patiently.

"I am human," Stiles hissed, not to be placated. Deaton arched one brow and just looked at her, like he didn't even need to say it. Which, in all fairness, he really didn't. Stiles held up her glaring for only a few moments, then slumped, pouting. Scott wasn't exactly privy to all relevant information though and stirred worriedly beside her, starting up a question.

"The baby might not be," she told him before he got beyond "wh-". It was the truth--well, mostly. The baby wasn't human; the last full moon had seen her eating the rarest steak in her life, and she was very much not dumb. But it was a misleading truth, because even if the baby took after her rather than Derek...Well, humans, humans like she and Deaton were talking anyway, humans couldn't do the things she did. Not like her, anyway. Scott whined anyway, so it was probably for the best that she hadn't spilled the beans.

"Fine, fine, doc. Whatever. But I'm just establishing now that I am suffering this under protest; do what you have to but anything my regular doctor can handle, leave it the hell up to him," she bit out, then groaned, sighing her defeat simultaneously. Now that she was thinking about it, she really should have thought of it a lot sooner and on her own. But, well, she had had other things on her mind. Her ankles still screamed with every step and they weren't even swelling yet fuck, and she had all manner of lingering bruises and cuts--not to mention the nightmares. The nightmares might actually be the worst. Stiles had developed a very "healthy" appreciation for being awake.

"Scott, out," she ordered, shooing him with a flap of her hand.

Scott puppy-dog eyed her, but she knew the gist of what was coming, and was not to be swayed. She stared him into submission, a skill not recently acquired but certainly honed. "I'll be right out front," he promised. "Just, like, shout if you need anything, okay?"

Stiles smiled as he gripped her hand tight, but careful. Scott got better at taking care with his supernatural strength every day, and he'd turned into the biggest most adorable fluffmuffin the second he found out she was pregnant. Seriously she hadn't even known it was possible for him to get any more adorable but there it was. In all its floppy-haired puppy-dog glory.

"It's okay," she murmured, holding his hand back as tight as she could. "If I get unhappy, you'll hear the explosion." Before he could wonder whether or not she was joking(she wasn't sure herself, actually), she leaned in, kissed his cheek, and shoved him on his way. With one backwards glance, he disappeared out the door. Both of them waited to hear the front door clang shut before turning their attention to one another.

Deaton smiled in a gentle, reassuring way; it was only slightly creepy, so she gave him points for trying at least. "I promise none of the exams I intend to do will be invasive," he assured her.

Head tilted in what she refused to acknowledge was a dog-like fashion possibly picked up from certain acquaintances(when in doubt, blame Derek), Stiles examined him. She considered his body language, facial expression, words, and tone with great care. Finally she jerked her head in a curt nod and headed for the stupid metal table. At least someone had laid down a thick, folded up blanket and a decent pillow so the discomfort wasn't unbearable. She took a seat, swinging her legs absently, and eyed him askance.

"Need me to lose any clothes?" she asked bluntly, only to have Deaton immediately shake his head, much to her very, very pleasant surprise.

"No, I'll only need to push your shirt up for access to your stomach, nothing more," he soothed, and she accepted it as the truth since he didn't have any reason to lie about it when she had already agreed. Not that she couldn't back out at any time, but still. Stiles wriggled all the way up onto the table, then very carefully and deliberately stretched herself out, snorting faintly at how most of her calves dangled off the end.

True to his word, the exam was actually casual and easy, although also slow and long. It would have bored her to tears, except Deaton let her fill the air with an endless stream of questions, some of which he even deigned to answer. The feel of magic gathering in the air made her nauseous for a moment, but then it was thrumming around her, singing through her blood, and she relaxed under warm fingers against the gentle swell of her belly. The poultice smelled like mint tea and jasmine, and as Deaton's fingers worked it in to her skin, her eyes drifted closed. The scent was blissful, comforting. It was peace in a bottle. It shivered up her arms, curled around her heart, and flowed with a beat and pulse and life all its own. Or--no, wait. That wasn't the poultice, that was...

Stiles gasped, deep and awed, as her eyes flashed open. Unbidden, tears gathered and began to roll hot and heavy over her cheeks.

"Stiles?" Deaton paused in whatever he was doing, although that thrum carried on, to peer at her in concern; she couldn't see his face, she just knew that tone.

"I'm alright," she said, although it came out sort of croaky. "I'm just--I'm perfect. I can feel it." Because it hadn't settled on a gender yet. That was alright. Nothing wrong with being an it for now, or as long as it liked really. "How is it--?" Because she knew this was--this was too much. This was more life than a currently very minimally developed fetus should produce.

"It has very unique blood," Deaton murmured, the smile audible in his voice. She wondered if it would be visible on his face if she looked. "Yours and Derek's--it's a very unique child you're growing inside you, Stiles." That got a laugh out of her, even if it was dry and a little rasping.

"Unique," she parroted sarcastically, but she was grinning. "Yeah. Yeah, I guess you could say that." Deaton chuckled and went back to his work.

Eventually he wiped her stomach clean, the thrum of her growing fetus's life fading away, and she wiped at her damp face as he methodically turned away and went about his business, allowing her a moment of privacy to sit up, reset her shirt, and scrub away as many signs of her tears as she could.

When he turned back, Deaton was smiling again, holding up a little jar full of...what looked like random junk, from a non-magical perspective. Even from a magical perspective it was sort of bizarre; feathers, a couple claws or teeth, a strip of lacy cream cloth, some leaves, a marble, some beads...A random assortment of stuff, odds and ends and who-knows-what, in a glass jar with a giant cork for a lid.

"Its a werewolf," Deaton stated first, indicating her belly with the jar. Stiles nodded; she had kinda figured. Fullmoon and all that. "And this," he gave the jar a little shake, apparently unconcerned with whether or not the contents got a bit jumbled, "is a traditional werewolf...you could translate it into something like 'prayer jar.' A good luck charm, of sorts, for unborn and young werewolves. Most of them wind up not having any actual magic, but are generally considered of sentimental value. Some werewolves make the contents into necklaces or other keepsake items, even leaving the jar as-is in many cases, purely for sentimental value. Like a baby blanket, of sorts. Sometimes it gets lost, which is fine; there's no bad omen there or the like. It is made out of pure love and kindness, and cannot be corrupted." That sounded like a quote. Way too schmoopy for Deaton. "With age, the contents can grow to have particular magical value, in some cases. But none of that matters." That sentence was said very firmly, with established eye contact, and Stiles found herself taking it to heart with surprising ease. "This is a gift, for you and your child. A well-wishing, a good-tiding, and a welcoming. May all the best come to be, for not only the two of you, but for all of those you consider family, and pack; pack, and family."

Deaton pressed the jar into her hands, and as a sudden breath of magic, like a trembling tune from a reed flute, danced straight to her heart, she curled her hands around it and held it close. She felt a little like crying again, and shoved it away in favor of a wobbly smile. Fucking hormones. She cried at fiction and funerals, not sappy moments, dammit!

"Thank you, Deaton," she murmured. He nodded at her. They sat/stood in companionable silence for a while after that, smiling at each other, him almost indulgent, her almost honored. Finally she swallowed and managed one of her cheeky grins. "Hey, could I get some of that minty poultice stuff? That was cool as hell. And like, whatever spell went with it? Not like the whole shebang, but it was neat as fuck to like...feel it, all...alive and stuff. Growing. Inside me. Freaky, dude, but neat."

Deaton, Deaton, actually snorted. But he was rolling his eyes, turning away with a vague "Yeah, yeah," sort of noise and she grinned, resisting the urge to squeal by channeling her glee into hugging the fuck out of the jar instead.

"Think positive thoughts," he instructed firmly, putting a mason jar with a brown-paper-and-twine "lid" and a folded tag she assumed were detailed instructions hanging off it, in her hands along with the other jar. Neither were particularly large, so they were fortunately easy enough to hold simultaneously. They shared another slightly secretive smile before Deaton stepped back, turning away again and raising his voice for, "Scott!"

Summoned, Scott all but fell into the room, and grinned all lopsided and dopey at her, happy as a puppy could be. She grinned right back at him.

"It's official," she declared, hopping down from the table. "We're getting a puppy." And her bro was totally awesome, so he whooped, swept her up in a hug in which he neatly stole the jars, threw a "seeya Dr. D," at Deaton, and then they were strolling out of there, his arm around her and huge matching grins on their faces.

//***\\
\\***//

Deucalion sneered down at her, and his eyes were a piercing red, almost as piercing as the claws digging straight down to the bones of her ankles. He opened a mouth full of shark teeth and grinned, heavy slobber pushing free of the gaps in his fangs. Drool dripped onto her, and it burned where it touched. She was sobbing, but she wasn't going to scream. Stiles never could deny pride as one of her greatest sins.

No matter where she reached, she had nothing, no magic, no charms, no ingredients. She felt drained, empty, right down to her soul, like even mountain ash would defy her will, and all around her, in the darkness beyond her and Deucalion, there were the sounds of flesh tearing and people dying. People screaming in voices she recognized and desperately didn't want to. But Stiles was always too proud, in so many ways, and as tears burned tracks down her cheeks she sneered at Deucalion, bared her blunt human teeth in a snarl. He laughed, mocking, and she spat in his face. He paused, reached up to wipe the smear away, stared at the wetness on his hand. For a moment, indignation and fury swept across his features, and she was going to die. He was going to rip out her throat and it was all going to be over.

And then he looked down at her, and he grinned, cocky and sure. He looked down further, and her gaze followed his almost against her will. Her belly was swollen and clean and beautiful, healthy and round with the life beating within. One heavy hand landed on it, pushed down. His claws dug in again, and Stiles threw back her head and screamed.

The door burst open, flooding her room with light. Stiles clutched at her only-not-quite-flat belly and screamed and screamed, although she wasn't really sure how much noise was actually escaping her. Her throat felt hoarse and raw, and she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. A hesitant touch fluttered against her shoulder, a beacon of warmth she seemed to recognize more and more easily the more she practiced magic, and that familiarity was all she needed.

"Daddy!" she sobbed and flung herself into his arms. They went immediately around her, and as her father crooned over her head, as he held her close and safe, Stiles buried her face in his shoulder and wept unabashadly. She thought she might have heard the window open, felt a flicker of recognition, thought she felt her dad make some sort of motion, but she didn't care. She just huddled closer and cried until the phantom pain in her stomach finally faded away, along with the far less important pain in her ankles, down to the steady throb that would probably continue for weeks yet, if not months. Her heart still beat too hard, too fast, but she could finally breathe again. "Sorry," she mumbled, stuffy-nosed and miserable. The sheriff shushed her immediately.

"Nothing to be sorry for, angel," he breathed, using that long-ago pet name. She shuddered around another quiet sob. John stroked her hair and waited for it to pass. "Nothing to be sorry for," he whispered again, urgent, firm, but soothing still. "Never apologize for that, angel. I will never begrudge you your nightmares. God knows you have more than enough reason for them, most of which you still won't tell me."

Stiles laughed wetly, which may or may not have been his intention, then hugged him a little tighter. "I love you, Daddy," she whispered.

"I love you, too, angel," he murmured, pressing a kiss to her hair. "Do you think you can get back to sleep?" She nodded mutely and pulled away. "Okay. Go wash your face off then try to get some more sleep. I'll be right down the hall." Then he kissed her forehead and padded away. She suspected he wanted to stick around for the rest of the night, maybe the week. Really, as long as he could get away with it. So she wasn't surprised when the window slid open and Derek slipped in. He gave her a questioning look, and Stiles debated the merits of crawling under the covers and never coming out because Derek had heard all of that.

It was pretty tempting, in all honestly. Instead, though, she bit her lip, then supplied a simple, "Deucalion."

That was enough, apparently. Derek nodded. And then he sat down cross-legged under the window like he fully intended to stay there. Stiles...Stiles wasn't touching that with a ten-foot pole. She got up and padded to the bathroom to splash some cold water on her face, blew her nose, took the opportunity to pee, rubbed at some more icky tear stickiness in random places, then headed back to her bedroom. Derek hadn't moved. She stopped, stood in the doorway, and stared at him. Derek stared back. They spent a few minutes just staring, neither one budging or breaking eye contact, until she was suddenly assaulted with a huge, jaw-cracking yawn

Stiles turned away, announcing a firm if drowsy, "I don't even care," as she crawled into bed, burrowed under the covers, and tried to think sleep-friendly thoughts. Which was pretty easy with an alpha werewolf playing watchdog under her window, honestly.

It was the best sleep she'd had in months, and she would take that information to the grave.

//***\\
\\***//

Despite everything, the fact of the matter was that, by law, her and Derek's night of stress relief was illegal. Which, in all fairness, she could understand; there were a lot of sixteen year olds who could be taken advantage of, especially by someone older and attractive. But a lot of sixteen year olds were far more naive than Stiles had been in a long time. Had ever been, really; she'd been creepily mature even as a child, and losing her mom had spiked her maturity so far she'd wound up acting immature just to try and fit in. And then there was the ADHD and...Anyway. Derek, for example, had been a naive puppy of a teenager. Stiles didn't need to be present at the time to realize that, to know Kate had taken advantage of him no matter how vehemently he might have said yes. But Stiles wasn't Derek, and Derek wasn't Kate, and she hadn't really been a kid in a long time. She was too damn young to be a mother, that she knew, but even that would work out. Stiles would make sure of it. Besides, she would have plenty of help. It took a village, and they had a goddamn village. Well, a pack, but a very efficient pack at least on level with a village. Definitely. Well like a really small emotionally stunted village but still. And despite returning to their parents, Boyd and Erica were managing to spend more time with the pack than at home, so lots of hands available at all times at least, although also way too many hands itching to touch Stiles' stomach frankly. They would probably need a bit more help since at least Erica's parents were probably not the best role models for child rearing, not to mention who knew how many of them could actually even change a diaper(Stiles was supposed to start learning in her birthing class with Lydia, joy-oh-joy). Boyd would do fine; he had three younger siblings and when she had vocalized her concerns he had informed her that they were in fact letting him help Erica, since he had gone the route of "Erica went so I went with her." Boyd's parents and his nana(especially his nana) were actually pretty awesome. And Isaac was self-explanatory, but so far seemed pretty into this whole kid thing. Scott was raised by Melissa, who would also be around, and her dad was sort of hilariously awkward sometimes but he was just adorable with babies and would make a totally awesome grandpa. And--okay, yeah, Stiles had very little to worry about, a lot less than most expectant mothers in fact, teenage, single, or otherwise. Discounting the supernatural aspects of her life, that is. Specifically the monsters and the hunters.

But back on topic: according to the law, she and Derek had been all kinds of illegal, and while she fully intended to put his name on the birth certificate, she would rather not take any unnecessary risks. So it was Lydia who accompanied her to her doctor's visits, and Lydia did a damn fine job being absolutely terrifying. Stiles thought even Derek would have approved of how efficiently she terrified the doctor. He still would prefer it was him there, but he would just have to deal with it. Pregnant lady said so, and pregnant lady's word was law. So Stiles declared at about three months when she got her first bout of morning sickness.

Which was awful, in case anyone wasn't sure. But Isaac popped out of the fucking woodwork with some sort of ginseng candy thing--she didn't know what it was exactly or where it came from, and she didn't care, so long as Isaac kept her in constant supply. For once, she didn't even question it, just sort of draped herself over him and mumbled appreciation before flat-out passing out on him. Which, she had learned pretty much immediately after she stopped hiding her scent, not a single one of the werewolves minded. Actually, everyone in the pack--including Lydia, Melissa, Allison, and even Danny and the sheriff, their most recent additions, the sheriff for obvious reasons and Danny because Stiles may or may not have literally sneezed magic at him in a fortunately harmless but eventful incident after school--seemed pretty happy whenever they were picked for Stiles-snuggles. The only time anyone ever woke her up was for school, which meant she did a hell of a lot of sleeping on the weekends. Well, during the day. She was still up to her usual low-sleep habits, but her regular checkups were only ever positive, so while she knew the pack wouldn't like it, Stiles wasn't worried. What the pack didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Well, in this case, at least. What the pack-with-the-exception-of-Stiles didn't know wouldn't hurt them. Yeah.

Pack nights at the Stilinski household had increased a suspicious amount over the past few weeks, something the sheriff adjusted to with a resigned sort of ease after the initial shock of seeing so many teenagers(plus Derek and Peter) piled into his living room. Speaking of Peter, he did a complete 180. That would have been genuinely suspicious, but somehow the thought that Peter couldn't really be creepy at a teenage girl pregnant with his nephew's baby was pretty easy to believe. Especially when she caught him looking all starry-eyed at her, or smiling fondly as he watched Derek watch her starry-eyed. No one really seemed to think she could tell when they got the baby fever(Stiles' official term for it), because apparently her entire pack thought she was blind. Seriously, she had actually made direct eye contact with Isaac and he'd acted like he hadn't just been all glassy eyed and...baby fever'd.

Honestly, and Stiles maybe wouldn't admit this for at least a few years, it was sort of the best time in her life, those few weeks of peace after the alpha pack, after she stopped hiding her scent, those weeks of watching her pack love her and the baby growing inside her.

And then, most of the way through her third month, she stared at a newspaper heading and ground her teeth.

"8 YEAR OLD MAULED IN BEACON PARK"

Just that, because whoever was in charge of naming the articles of the Beacon Times had no tact whatsoever. She skimmed the article, just enough to recognize the hush-hush supernatural nature and confirm--with intense relief--that the boy had lived and a fast recovery was anticipated, then threw the paper on the ground with a short snarl. There hadn't been less than three pack members with her at all times since they found out she was pregnant, but a week ago they had gotten a bit...fanatical. At the time she had barely noticed; Isaac's candy was a miracle worker but she still spent a downright unfair amount of time hugging the toilet, and she wasn't exactly running on all four cylinders. But apparently, those fuckers had been keeping her out of the loop. Grossly out of the loop, considering that newspaper was three days old. They had even gotten her dad in on it, and the other four pack humans, who could usually be counted upon to not be so stupid. She had expected better from Lydia at the very least, not to mention Melissa who had largely been against attempting to baby the pregnant lady(whilst babying the pregnant lady; it was like a mostly-hilarious compulsion. Come to think of it, maybe she should have expected this. Yeah, probably.)

Pressing a hand to her substantially-less-little-than-a-few-weeks-ago-seriously-what-the-fuck bump, she bent to pick up the paper again, stared hard at the vague picture of the park with crime scene tape and sheriff's department vehicles all around, then went storming off into the living room. She threw the newspaper directly into Derek's face, took a moment to watch it slide down into his hands and stood with her arms crossed, foot tapping, watching him impatiently. Horrified realization struck him visibly, and she spoke before he could, because she didn't want to have to punch Derek in the face today. She might need both hands for strangling him.

"Tell me what you know so I can fill you in on what you don't," she commanded in a no-nonsense tone. Stiles was their best researcher, even with Lydia and Danny on their side, and they damn well knew it. No one else was as dogged as Stiles, and no one else had a personal bestiary on their computer. Or actually, Lydia did but it wasn't nearly as comprehensive as Stiles'. Mostly because Stiles' was largely theoretical, intended for things like figuring out the unknown. She was actually going to hit someone at this rate, because her pack was full of idiots. Overprotective, kinda adorable idiots, but idiots nonetheless.

"Stiles," Derek began in a slow tone she knew all too well, so she interrupted before he could hurt himself.

"If you tell me to 'calm down,' I cannot guarantee your survival this week, Hale," she told him in a level tone full of do-not-fuck-with-me. Her dad coughed behind her, and she swiveled around to narrow her eyes at him where he was ensconced in his chair. The sheriff held up his hands in an immediate admission of defeat, which wasn't all that surprising; he had been there for both Melissa and Claudia's pregnancies, and they had both been infamously terrifying pregnant women. There was video proof and everything. She transferred her glare to Isaac, who looked like a deer in the headlights and immediately busied himself with an upside down book. Good enough. Stiles returned to glaring at Derek. Glaring daggers. She wondered if that was something she could actually do, then delegated it to the back of her mind for future consideration.

The alpha scowled, then huffed out one of his my-life-is-so-hard sighs. "We were going to tell you after two weeks. Lydia says it's a vampire, and Deaton said you could handle that, so we were planning on telling you--and then the boy got attacked, and..." He trailed off, making a face.

"Hold up. You took a child getting mauled as a reason to not bring me in?" Stiles stared at him, incredulous. Then she closed her eyes, put two fingers to her forehead, and concentrated on a dramatic lack of explosions. In a low, calm tone, she informed him, "If this happens again, I will skin your alpha form and wear the pelt." Ew that sounded disgusting, actually. Stiles moved on before her imagination got too graphic. She dropped her hand and fixed him with another glare, hand going almost automatically to her hip while the other gestured expressively along with her words. "I get that you're overprotective, but seriously; I can actually blow up a vampire. If that's what it is. No offense to Lydia, but I am sort of the Research Queen. Now, tell me what you know." Legs braced, her arms crossed tight across her chest, and she stared him into eventually just giving in and doing as he was told. Good boy. She remained standing throughout the grudging explanation, just because she knew how much Derek hated it, doing her best to continue looking intimidating rather than the awkward baby deer/giraffe impression she generally gave off. Since Derek gave her what sounded like the full details, she considered the endeavor a success, silently congratulating herself on a job well done as she turned about and went jogging up the stairs.

According to Derek, their perp was probably nocturnal, possessed sharp fangs, and had a tendency to nip. Things, people, animals; it just liked to sink its fangs into things. That was how they noticed it--bitemarks on, of all things, trees. The scent was masculine enough to tentatively assign it a male pronoun, but not enough to rule out to possibility of it being female altogether. The wolves were reasonably certain there was only the one, although their super sniffers were evidently not all that reliable in this case considering they couldn't even track the damn thing. Its scent dispersed too widely and rapidly, apparently, leaving them with a thousand leads and just as many deadends. Through indeterminate methods, it could blend in with society at large, as proven by a woman who apparently started bleeding in the middle of a crowded party from a bite on her wrist. Although, it should be noted, the party was in the middle of the park. Why anyone in Beacon Hills went anywhere near even remotely wooded areas was a serious mystery. For that matter, why anyone even lived in Beacon Hills anymore just--it would never cease to amaze, really. Willful ignorance was the only logical explanation, for a broad definition of the term "logical."

Stiles flicked through files on her computer as she mentally ran down the list of new data. When it started jumbling together, she pulled up Notepad and typed out the pertinent information in shorthand then returned to sorting through her bestiary.

"Not a vampire," she declared, pausing on the page. Which was actually titled "Nosferatu" because Stiles couldn't help herself. "Contrary to popular belief, vampires don't blend very well. Not actually in the creepy Nosferatu way, or in the sparkly-sparkles way, or...whatever other ways. They set off people's instincts though, like basic survival instincts. People recognize vampires as dangerous, usually described as something along the lines of 'a serial kill vibe', so they notice them. A lot. Enough that you'd definitely hear people talking about it. More importantly, really, that kid got mauled. No way a vamp wastes all that blood. The scent thing kind of matches, but they more have no personal scent than a disappearing one. If you believe in 'em, it's something to do with souls and whatnot, but I'm sorta of the opinion it's just another evolutionary mechanism. But at this point, all I have is 'not a vampire' so, take a seat, Sourwolf; this isn't going to be a quick pitstop. Don't like, literally pull up a chair though, I so don't need you leering over my shoulder right now." Stiles stuck a capped pen in her mouth and nibbled away as she abandoned the Nosferatu page and went info-diving.

Derek took a seat on her bed and picked up a book.

Three hours later, timed perfectly to a spike in her pulse, Stiles' phone rang, blasting out the goosebump-raising song assigned to Lydia(a classic symphony Stiles could remember neither name nor composer of, because, well, "classic," but it was pretty damn creepy, if in a very...pretty way). She snatched it up and answered by crying out, "It's a baby!"

Silence reigned temporarily, and then Lydia dryly remarked, "Yes, Stiles. We've determined that you are, in fact, not having an actual puppy."

Stiles rolled her eyes, flapping her hand at a moment that had admittedly not been one of her finest. "Yeah, yeah, shush. I'm not talking about my baby, I'm talking about the thing. The monster of the week thing. It's a baby thing! That's why it doesn't make sense. Because babies don't make sense."

Another pause, this one shorter than the last, and then, "I thought it was a vampire."

"I ruled that out and no you didn't, maybe you don't have the blending and the scent thing but the kid getting mauled definitely made you suspicious, don't front."

"Well," Lydia snorted. "I had to get you involved somehow. None of these damn wolfboys would listen to reason."

"You know Danny and my dad aren't actually wolves, right?"

"That remains to be seen." Stiles could actually hear the cold smirk, and winced in sympathy for her packmates. Lydia held grudges better than Stiles, and Stiles had recently stabbed Scott in the leg with a fork for that time he ditched her to flirt with some other kid. They were in kindergarten at the time. The lesson here is Scott has always secretly had romance-oriented priorities, and Stiles is a record-holding grudgeholder. And that Lydia was way worse. Or better, depending on how you looked at it.

"Were Erica and Allison for keeping me in the dark?" Stiles inquired, because priorities. Lydia huffed.

"Erica's being dictated by her wolfy bullshit, and Allison's apparently got a creepy protective streak, so yes. Yes they were. Melissa wasn't, but she's been too busy to assist in bossing the pack around."

"We'll get our vengeance later. When they least expect it," Stiles promised and saw Derek grimace out of the corner of her eye.

"Of course," Lydia immediately scoffed, then switched gears, narrowing her focus with predatory intent onto Stiles. "Now, you said it's a baby--a baby what, exactly?"

Stiles grinned.

//***\\
\\***//

Stiles did not agree to stay home. They decided to leave her there, which is why Derek was getting gnawed on when Stiles pulled up. Stiles parked the jeep and sighed over the injustice of her life. She gave her little belly an affectionate pat, possibly as a preemptive apology for when their kid inherited this bullshit.

Picking up her bag, which she had fortunately put together before she realized Derek had left her out again(which was stupid of him considering she put the plan together and no one took her jeep, since everyone had at least some sense of self-preservation and no one touched Roscoe), she hopped out, leaving the door hanging open and the keys in the ignition in case she needed a speedy getaway.

"I don't know why I'm saving you, as far as I'm concerned you completely deserve that," Stiles remarked, pointing to the bushy bundle of red fur attached at the mouth to Derek's arm. Derek didn't look particularly pained. Mostly, he just looked really frustrated, confused, and generally aggravated, since the lithe body evaded his every attempt to grab it. Which, really, was lucky for Derek since tearing the little beasty off would result in him losing a chunk of flesh, and then losing said beasty because it would probably just sprint off into the woods, considering there were no other members of the pack around to help corral it. Which in turn was why she knew where their little monster was; when they lost both it and their alpha, Scott gave her a ring and wisely requested her assistance in tracking his ass. Fortunately Derek had his phone on him, and fortunately Stiles had taken up tracking it by GPS weeks ago in a fit of pique. She had never actively used it, but as luck would have it, she hadn't succumbed to the guilt until after she'd managed to access the GPS. Score one for Team Human. Here's hoping Derek never thinks to ask how she found him, though.

She dug around in her bag, withdrawing a jaw of blueish brown powder and promptly dumping a good portion into her hand. Rather than trying to fumble the cap back on one-handed, she knelt to set it down on the grass, then stood and proceeded to draw a nice neat circle around the snarling werewolf and his hanger-on. As the satisfying shutter of magic coming together ran through her, she took a step back and smiled docilely at Derek.

"Step out," she instructed with a little flurry of her hands. Derek stepped carefully over the line, expression distinctly distrustful until his foot made it over without incident, drawing his arm out last. The little furball dropped off of him with a disgruntled trill as it landed in a graceless heap. Stiles snorted, instantly charmed by triangular ears too young to stand up properly, sticking out not quite straight from fur with a little bit of curl to it. It hastily scrambled to its feet, and they finally got a good look at the creature who had been terrorizing their town.

It was adorable and Stiles maybe squealed a little. It bore a passing resemblance to a baby deer, especially in the head, although its fur was fox-red and alpaca-fluffy around the neck and the top of its angular head. Two tiny little antlers nestled between and just in front of its ears, and when it opened its mouth for an aggressive bleat it revealed a set of tiny, razor-sharp fangs, although the majority of its tiny teeth were fairly flat. An omnivore, she hypothesized. Its tail was longer than its body and whipcord thin, ending in a lash of white hair. Broad white scales ran over its throat and belly, with faint little mint green scales mostly hidden under its fur over what appeared to be most of its body. Stiles was instantly fascinated by it, but figured investigations could wait. Damn.

"Sorry," Derek interrupted her examination, and the one word sounded so genuine that she turned to peer at him. He looked downtrodden, like a guilty dog who was a little grumpy about being guilty. Which was hilarious enough that, combined with how insanely cute their monster-of-the-week was, it actually went a long way towards soothing her rage.

"I'll get you back later," she promised cheerfully, adding it on to her mental list of future vengeance, then turned to watch the little one, who came up to about knee-height when he stood up straight. It pranced in place on tiny cloven hooves under her watchful eye, gaze darting about nervously. It snorted, then suddenly blurred as it shot impossibly fast around the edge of the circle it was trapped it.

"This is--?" Derek began as they watched it have its fits. Stiles nodded.

"A kirin," she confirmed, then wriggled her hands for accuracy's sake. "Baby kirin. Sort of. I mean, like, a kirin candidate I guess. It doesn't match any actual mythos directly, but its pretty close. And supposedly even the babies are fluent in like nine thousand languages or something so..." She shrugged off further rambling.

Dusting her hands off, Stiles knelt, took a deep breath, and aimed a gust of breath directly into the still-running baby's face. As half-expected, it jerked to a halt, blinked shocked eyes at her. So she blew in his face again. He bleated, pranced back a few steps, and shook out its head. It made a sulky little trilling noise, ears pointed back as it glared at the ground.

"Hey, little buddy," Stiles cooed, trying desperately to resist the urge to just squeal and collapse in a pile of cute overdose. The little kirin perked up though, ears swiveling forward. She smiled at him, without showing teeth. He snorted at her, shook his head again, then let out a little whuffle and began to creep forwards. She held out a hand, ignoring Derek's hiss as she casually stuck her appendage into the circle, and held still as he came forward to sniff her fingers. It wasn't really a surprise when it nipped her fingertips, although she would really have liked to be pleasantly surprised instead of bitten, dammit. Derek snarled and she immediately put her other hand over his face, not moving the rest of her even though the kirin had already bounced as far as it could get at the sound of Derek's snarl. "Shut your mouth, Sharptooth," she whispered, keeping her expression and tone soft and pleasant. "He's just a baby, doing what babies do." Her voice rose to croon, "Isn't that right, sweetheart? Come here, it's alright. You're safe now."

After a few more minutes of quiet coaxing, the kirin crept forward again and lapped the blood from her fingers. It purred. On nothing but reflex, Stiles leaned forward over the circle and scooped him up into her arms. He was a lot lighter than he looked, possibly hollow-boned, or maybe it was just a baby thing. He was tall but not muscular, and she could see his ribs clearly enough to suspect malnourishment, although nothing major if it was the case and wasn't just because his fur was thin over his ribs. He crooned happy little trilling noises as he buried his head in her neck and seemed more than happy to let her carry him to the jeep while she maybe freaked out just a little internally because sentient baby alpaca!!! The fact she didn't spend the next hours squealing girlishly and writhing around due to cuteness was an accomplishment she was frankly quite proud of. She had to stand by while Derek got the door to the backseat open, and then there was a bit of a process to climbing into the backseat with such an ungainly burden in her arms, and then Derek had to get the seatbelt over her without jostling the baby, who got all huffy and hid its face whenever Derek was near.

"We're not keeping it," Derek growled. Stiles gave him a Grade A bitchface and didn't reply because if this was an orphan baby kirin they were goddamn well keeping it and anyone who thought otherwise was going to have to fucking fight her. Derek resorted to muttering under his breath as he went to collect her abandoned bag and jar, recapping it before returning it to its proper place in the bag. He was still grumbling when he climbed into the driver's seat and texted the pack with a brief summary and instructions to meet them at the Stilinski house.

The kirin was a perfect little cuddly angel who didn't even get carsick on the way home and Stiles officially liked it better than most of the pack. Although admittedly his literal baby deer eyes were probably doing some crazy mojo to her hormones. On that note, scratch the "probably." The kirin was totally blowing her hormones completely out of control.

Derek came around and opened the door for her. She tucked her chin over the baby's head as she stepped out, humming over his distressed noise at seeing Derek again. Stiles shot the alpha a quelling look when he started to growl, probably feeling possessive or something.

"He's scared of you," she growled right back at him, justifiably offended by this. Okay it was ridiculous but she didn't care, Derek had scared a baby kirin--which was practically a unicorn, just slightly farther East in mythological origins--and that was just wrong. She cuddled the kirin closer, which it seemed happy about, and strode off to wait imperiously for Derek to open the front door. She didn't have to wait long, just a few moments of expectant staring and the door was open. Ta da. Oh yes, Stiles was milking this whole pregnancy thing for all she could get. Right up until she started hating everyone completely. So far her hatred for the delicate-flower treatment was only at about a thirty. Well, actually that day's events had shot it up to somewhere in the nineties, but that did not stop her from enjoying being a queen for once. Stiles didn't really want to be a queen, technically, most of the time; she was more than happy to leave that job to Lydia and Erica, and Allison when the mood struck. Still, being, well, basically the fucking alpha was nice.

She promptly curled up on the couch, all wrapped up around her new little kirin buddy, and closed her eyes to better listen to Derek puttering about the living room, and then imagine how offended he would be if he knew she described his creeping as 'puttering.' Scott and Isaac tumbled in together about ten minutes later. The kirin squealed, scrambling frantically for a moment, but was easily soothed by soft touches and whispered reassurances. It didn't resettle until its face was securely hidden in Stiles' hair however, where it could no longer see any of the werewolves. Lydia arrived next with Danny on her heels, although she didn't come in until after Stiles felt the thrum of a circle around the house being closed. Fortunately, the kirin didn't seem able to feel it, considering its non-reaction. It whimpered when the door swung open again, admitting Lydia and Danny, and then almost immediately, Jackson, and Allison, who all paused to first stare at Isaac and Scott still frozen in the hallway, then at Stiles and her kirin/magical baby alpaca. Lydia, probably the only one of them who had any real idea what to expect from a kirin in the first place, broke the stand off on her part fairly quick. With a lofty hair-flick, she strode over to casually sit down beside Stiles.

The kirin finally pulled his head from out of hiding to peer at Lydia, with none of the trepidation or terror he apparently reserved for the werewolves. He blinked at her like a drowsy kitten, and Stiles had the privilege of watching their resident queen crumple in the face of that much cuteness.

"I take it it's not dangerous?" Lydia asked dryly, but her tone didn't detract from the warm and fuzzy feeling of watching the redhead offer her fingers to the little one.

"It bites," Stiles warned hastily, and was left smiling apologetically as Lydia yelped at having her fingers nipped. She scowled at Stiles but let the kirin lick her fingers clean. Stiles lifted her hand, prepared to compare their bite marks, and blinked at the flawless pale skin of her fingers. "It doesn't last. Apparently." She showed her hand off for evidence, and maturely ignored Derek's growling. "They're peaceful, so far as I know. And, I mean, everything basically agrees on them being a force for good, so I doubt he's secretly poisonous or something."

"It mauled a kid," Jackson snapped, sounding affronted. Probably because his girlfriend was bleeding. Although, not really, now that Stiles was looking; the wound wasn't healing werewolf-fast, but it was healing. And, actually, it was healing faster than werewolf fast, apparently, considering Derek was grimacing and holding a wad of paper towels to the bite on his arm.

"It's a baby unicorn, Jackson," Stiles retorted, which shut him up pretty quick.

Scott crept around the couch, making his adorable confused-puppy face. "I thought you said it was a--a kirin?"

"Kirins are sort of like, the Japanese and sometimes-Chinese equivalent of a unicorn," Lydia supplied loftily, even though her eyes were all big and adoring because the kirin was licking her fingers again, apparently just enjoying the taste.

Scott still looked confused, so Stiles generously elaborated as Melissa, Peter and her dad made their way into the house. "You know how there's different dragons?" she offered, stroking a hand down the kirin's side. It didn't seem as scared of Scott anymore, more interested in a giggling Lydia. Actually, Stiles was pretty interested in that too, but she was prioritizing. For now. "It's kind of a similar concept. Kirins overlap with unicorn mythos a lot, but they have their own set too, like they look a lot less like horses and sometimes they have wings and they may or may not be able to shift forms. Sort of a toss-up there. A lot of Eastern mythology creatures can shapeshift, like the kitsune and even their dragons, sometimes. They really like their shapeshifters."

"Honestly, shapeshifters are pretty common in most mythology," Lydia spoke up primly. Stiles shrugged affably. She and Lydia both had their own theories and ideas, which was part of the reason they had separate bestiaries. Lydia didn't want all of Stiles' random research. Although, after this kirin incident, Stiles was pretty sure the redhead would demand the file. Lydia's was clearly lacking. They would do a trade-off; Stiles wasn't stupid or arrogant enough to think Lydia wouldn't have information she lacked.

"Anyway," Stiles picked up. "Kirin are right up there with the dragon and the phoenix, as an immortal, highly intelligent type. An adult could probably walk up and have a conversation with us, but we really don't know anything about baby kirin. Actually, no one knows anything about baby kirin; there's so little information that there's some mythos that hypothesize there's only the one kirin in the entire world. Which this one might be it, reincarnation and all that, pheonix-style I guess. Or maybe it just got separated from his parents." Stiles shrugged with a 'what can you do' expression, slightly distracted by the fluffy little thing still sprawled in her lap.

Scott's eyes looked a little glazed. That was how Scott processed though; Stiles knew people though Scott was an idiot, but he wasn't. He just processed things a little differently. Probably why they made such fast friends. Stiles thought faster on her feet, but they both contributed to each other's plans, nudging each other in directions they might not otherwise have gone. Sure, sometimes they were a bad influence on one another, Stiles generally more so than Scott, but such was the way of friends.

She left him to process, sweeping her gaze over the rest of the room. Isaac was squinting suspiciously at the kirin, probably trying not to be charmed by the way it had switched from investigating Lydia's fingers to snuffling Stiles' hair. Jackson was looking slightly less homicidal now that its attention was off his girlfriend. Erica, who had arrived during the explanation with Boyd, had her eyebrows twisted in opposite directions, head cocked as she puzzled over the fuzzy-wuzzy magical baby alpaca(the description was totally apt). Boyd had his arms crossed defensively, but they were low enough that it was more of an automatic gesture than particular defensiveness. Peter was doing his creepy leering-out-of-the-shadows thing, seemingly trying to hide the keen interest she spied in his eyes. Stiles spent a lot of time watching Peter, almost entirely for self-preservation purposes, and was pretty good at deciphering which sort of creepy he was being today. Her dad was leaning in the kitchen doorway, looking vaguely pained, which seemed fair enough honestly, and Melissa looked like she was considering attacking Derek with medical care. Allison was standing near Jackson still, while Scott seemed to be debating whether or not to attempt to creep onto the couch with them.

As for their esteemed alpha--oh yeah, she was not a fan of that look. She drew the kirin in a little closer and glared at the scowling Hale, picking out the I-do-not-like-this eyebrows and the murder-maybe crinkle of his nose and the slight flash of fang that was a little extra homicidal. He wasn't wolf'd out yet, but he was considering it. He also wasn't looking at her, instead intent on staring the kirin into submission, or maybe working under the assumption that if he stared hard enough he would develop some sort of x-ray vision(he wouldn't, Stiles should know), but he noticed when her arms shifted. Red-tinged eyes met hers and she tried to convey this-is-my-baby-alpaca-don't-you-fucking-touch-it with just her eyebrows. Derek's recognition was not nearly fast enough, so she verbalized it.

"We're going to protect it," she announced, perhaps slightly louder than necessary. Without looking at him, she heard the sheriff sigh and knew from the soft sound of his shoes on tile that he'd gone to get a drink. Probably non-alcoholic, since being inebriated when dealing with a new supernatural thing was never a particularly good game plan. Considering she had essentially just declared she was keeping the kirin-slash-magical-baby-alpaca though, she couldn't really blame him if he had a bit. Just to take the edge off. They were, admittedly, probably not equipped to play daycare for a baby kirin.

"How are we supposed to protect it when it hates us?" Jackson asked plaintively. Stiles casually shifted the kirin, lifting one of its legs and bending it as she turned it over slightly. It squealed a protest and she let it resettle, rubbing the disgruntled expression away by simple expedient of preening the soft, velvety ears between her fingers. It bleated, baby-goat style, and she gave it her fingers, which it proceeded to suck on with surprising delicacy, considering its mouthful of teeth.

"'It' is officially a 'he,'" Stiles announced, pleased with herself. "As for the not liking you thing--I'm pretty sure he just thinks you're scary. If we introduce you calmly, one-at-a-time, it should be fine. Starting with the ones who actually seem nice. Which means Scott goes first." No one argued; he was pretty much the nicest person, werewolf or otherwise, there and everyone knew it. "So, Scotty, come sit down and let's see if we can get you two acquainted. And for the love of all your stupid furry bullshit, do not wolf out, I will crush you like a fucking grape."

"My grandchild's first word is going to be a curseword," John bemoaned into his glass of soda and was generally ignored on account of it being a frequently voiced sentiment. Stiles had the mouth of a sailor. Everyone was aware. And Stiles had found an article that supported her idea that trying to hide "bad words" from kids was stupid and since several others in the pack agreed, well, there was just no arguing it. No arguing and winning, at least. Stiles could probably out-stubborn a literal brick wall.

"I will not wolf out or growl at the baby alpaca, Stiles," Scott solemnly swore, and she snorted. It was totally a baby alpaca.

"For your own sake, little guy, I hope you get a little more majestic with age," she murmured to the kirin, stroking his fluffy 'mane' as he made a noise rather like a purr. Scott moved very slowly, posture distinctly nonthreatening, closer, stopping about two feet from the couch when the kirin suddenly whipped around to let out a defensive noise. "Offer him your hand," Stiles suggested. "I think he learns things through blood." Which was so not mentioned in any of the kirin myths she could find and was frankly kinda creepy, but at least he didn't seem inclined towards anything more than relatively-harmless nips.

Scott nodded, then crept a hand forward, palm up and fingers outstretched. The kirin stared at him, ears pinned back as it vibrated in Stiles' arms. After a moment she realized it was trying to growl and it took a fairly massive amount of self-control to not lose it right then and there. Where did a kirin even learn how to growl? Derek, that's where. Stiles held her breath, because this was a Serious Situation and she was not going to laugh dammit.

And then Jackson asked, "What's that noise?" and she fucking lost it. Stuffing a knuckle in her mouth to stifle her howls, she threw back her head and gave a little kick of her feet as she wheezed and squeaked around her finger. Everyone was staring, she could tell, but she didn't care. The kirin was trying to growl and she just--she couldn't.

"You taught it to growl!" she cried out, jaw cracking with the effort of holding in her laughter(poorly). She flailed the hand previously in her mouth in Derek's direction, wheezing, "You taught a baby kirin to growl, what even are you!?" The kirin was on her legs, preventing her from literally slapping her knee, so she smacked the couch a few times before she just clapped the hand over her face and giggled helplessly into her palm. A growling kirin. That was just--what was her life?

Only when Scott yelped did Stiles, or seemingly anyone really, realize the kirin had been slowly leaning forward as Stiles laughed. Everyone froze, but fortunately Scott forced himself to go relaxed and nonthreatening before the kirin could try to draw away. It licked at the blood on his fingertips delicately, then let out a distinctly pleased(how?) bleat before settling back into Stiles' lap, looking far more alert and happy. And, sure enough, as they watched, the bite mark on Scott's fingers faded away into nothing, even faster than Stiles's and Lydia's had. Derek's, meanwhile, was actually still bleeding. Stiles sent him a sympathetic, only slightly mocking half-smile(it was pretty much his own fault).

"You should probably convince him to like you," Stiles said, as the kirin looked curiously around at the other inhabitants of the room. Scott moved to sit in front of the couch, planting his feet between Stiles' so he could gaze adoringly up at the kirin. Fluffy alpaca baby. Kind of hard not to stare at. The kirin chirped at him in acknowledgement, before looking around some more. It fixed its sight on John and suddenly its ears were pinned forward, interest visibly set on the sheriff. After a beat or two, the sheriff thunked his head against the wall, then headed over, setting his drink down along the way. He held out a hand and was immediately nipped, and then the blood gleefully lapped away. The kirin was outright wriggling in delight, and braced little cloven hooves on the armrest so it could lean up and lick at the sheriff's face as well, happy as a clam. It trilled in pure glee, then plopped down in Stiles' lap with a satisfied yawn.

"I feel used," John remarked, but still reached out to affectionately scritch the kirin's ears. Stiles glanced around the room, wondering who would approach next, when there was a knock at the door. They all perked up, the werewolves varying levels of shocked, and Stiles gathered none of them had heard the approach. The pack exchanged a wary glance, and Stiles started to tighten her arms around the kirin, ready to protect fim from siege if necessary. And then the decision was more-or-less taken out of their hands when the kirin leaped out of Stiles' arms, letting out a happy trilling-bellow-thing as he bolted out of the room and down the hall. They all heard his hooves pattering against the door, and everyone raced after him, Stiles darting in as his established favorite to scoop him up. He had already left gouges in the door, and began to immediately writhe in Stiles' arms. Derek yanked the door open, nostrils flaring, and everyone tensed, readying for whatever was coming--but no one was ready for two twenty-something-year-olds standing on the doorstep with a toddler in the man's arms.

The man was tall and sun-tanned, of no particular ethnicity, although his hair was sun-bleached and his posture screamed military. The woman was only a few inches shorter, with porcelain pale skin and ink black hair styled in intricate, looping braids leading to a bun on the back of her head. They were both gorgeous, if oddly matched in every way, the man in army camouflage while the woman wore a neat teal and brown skirt-suit set under a scarlet lab coat. The toddler in the man's arms was clearly theirs, marked by the woman's dark hair and fair skin, but with a facial shape and light blue eyes resembling the man's. The woman's eyes were dark blue, for the record, which was rather unusual in her otherwise Asian-compliant appearance.

Nostrils flared all around and out of the corners of her eyes Stiles saw yellow and red flash, and then the man flashed them gold eyes and she tightened her grip on the kirin again, who had fortunately gone still as soon as the door was opened. The man nodded politely though, looking like he would have gone farther in the gesture if he weren't holding a clingy little toddler who was craning around to stare at them all with huge eyes.

It was the woman who spoke, drawing their attention with a flutter of elegant hands and a soft smile that Stiles almost believed; she believed the hint of fang more, especially since she saw it only with magic in her eyes. "Hello," the woman said, voice an appealing croon. "My name is Ai; this is my husband, Bryce, and our daughter, Luna. We really are sorry for intruding on your territory--we wouldn't normally be so rude. But, well, that," she gestured elegantly to the kirin, "is our son. Tyreon, if you're interested. We do apologize for the trouble he's cause. I saw to all injuries personally as soon as I heard about them; the child he harmed will have not so much as an ill memory. I'm afraid Ty was rather spooked and he's too young to expect proper control from yet. Really, he shouldn't even be shifting at this age, but children rarely have much interest in the 'should be's of adults."

"Wait," Stiles cut her off, holding up a hand. "This is--this is your son? He's a..."

"Kirin," Ai supplied with a nod. "Yes. We have a somewhat complicated family line. So far as I can tell, you have done very well by him; if any of you are injured, I will see to your healing personally." She glanced right at Derek when she said it, so it was only phrased as an 'if' out of politeness, Stiles gathered. "But he is our son, so I will warn you that if you try to keep him from us--well, you won't win." Stiles narrowed her eyes at that statement, delivered with an almost apologetic smile, straightening her stance and drawing the kirin closer, although the sad little croon he let out nearly broke her heart.

"I wouldn't be so sure about that," Stiles growled. "What kind of parents let their kid run amuck like he's been?" Bryce was glaring daggers at Derek as she spoke, while still somehow broadcasting friendliness, and Stiles decided to chalk it up to 'werewolves are freaks' and ignore him for the moment.

Ai smiled kindly at her, then slid a foot forward and carelessly scuffed away the ring that Stiles had set to keep the kirin contained. "The kind of parents who are very busy," she said, sounding genuinely chagrined. "We were on a camping trip. He and his sister are rather...adventurous. He is usually better about staying where told, so I'm afraid we were caught up in trying to catch his sister when he decided to run off and investigate your town. You must know how interesting you smell--and we should really have known better to take a trip so near you." She shot her husband a look that clearly said he should have known better, then smiled at them again. She held out her hands. "I assure you, our children are healthy and very nearly spoiled. Completely spoiled, truth be told, when the rest of the family is around. This is not a common occurrence. Now, I am trying my hardest to be patient, but, if you don't hand over my son immediately, I will tear this town apart." The woman's eyes darkened as her words deepened and slowed with threat, and Stiles could swear she saw oceans roil in their depths. She gasped as magic crashed over her in a tidal wave that threatened to sweep her feet out from under her, like nothing she had ever felt before. Her arms loosened on reflex, and the kirin immediately leaped free, into his mother's arms--and into human form. Buck-naked, he cuddle into Ai's arms and the magic promptly subsided, leaving the air warm and crisp and happy once more, happier, even, as Ai and Bryce lit up, beaming at the little boy in her arms. He looked nearly identical to the girl, though his eyes were a few shades darker. The toddlers reached out to bat at each other until they managed to link fingers, then they leaned between their parents and, scrunch-faced, rubbed their faces together like happy little cubs. Ai and Bryce planted kissed on both of their children, woman and man both emitting happy little noises to match the kids'.

"Well," the sheriff remarked to Stiles' left. "I certainly feel better about this." She nodded dumb agreement, somewhat blown away by the perfect happy little picture the strange family made. Ai suddenly looked up, and she smiled at them, and it felt genuine and non-threatening for the first time.

"Here," she murmured, stepping over their threshold as she shifted the human-shaped kirin to her hip. "Let me get that." She laid a hand over the bite on Derek's arm. Stiles could swear she smelled a swamp for a moment, and then the hand dropped away, leaving behind a wound that healed its usual werewolf-fast. "Tyreon has a unique sort of...venom. It's virtually harmless, but it would have made that heal human-slow, which I doubt you would have enjoyed," Ai explained, and Stiles warmed at the reminder that the had a name to call the kirin by now. Ai's head tilted, and her gaze went briefly distant before she turned to beam at Stiles. "No wonder he took such a liking to you. Here, a gift for you and your pup." She reached out, slow enough to not startle, and a cool hand curled against Stiles' cheek. Derek growled as magic flowed through the air, but Stiles held up a hand to ward off his interference. The magic drifting into her felt...good. It felt cool and gentle and right like nothing else she had ever felt before. It slid through her veins, pooled in the pit between heart and belly where she felt her magic, swayed through Stiles' mind on a gentle tide. And then Ai drew her hand back and a charm slid from between where her palm and Stiles' cheek had been. Stiles looked down and gaped at it, knowing the power required to create an object from thin air. It was a Celtic knot coiled over a wolf and a horse standing together, on a wooden medallion strung on simple twine.

Ai smiled at Stiles when she looked away from the mesmerizing, palm-sized medallion at last. "Hang it wherever you like--you can even wear it, if you're inclined. It's a bit like a good luck charm. You'll figure it out on your own from there." Stiles lifted her hands and carefully accepted the gift as it was deposited into her outstretched palms. "We cannot thank you enough for looking after our Tyreon, and again, we apologize for the damage he has caused and for our intrusion upon your territory. Here, my card," she passed a little white, tidy business card to the sheriff, who accepted it automatically, "If you or any of your pack are ever in need of assistance, don't hesitate to call." She nodded at them, and then she and Bryce hoisted their children and turned and walked off, leaving the pack silent and gobsmacked even as they climbed into an old but gorgeously restored truck and drove away.

They all stared down the road after them for a while, before Lydia finally broke the silence with, "Anyone else feel like we just met some ancient gods or something?"

"That was weird," Scott agreed loudly.

"It really was," Stiles said with an emphatic nod. "Let's go watch Doctor Who or something." They all turned and headed back towards the living room, shutting the door on their latest weird experience on the way. The sheriff carefully tucked the business card behind his wedding photo though, and Stiles pocketed the medallion, to be hung up later. They all watched Doctor Who and ate healthy-ish snackfood and pretended to be normal for a while. Their collective favorite kind of therapy.

Later on, telling Deaton what happened, he nodded and told them wisely to, "Hold on to that business card." He also nodded downright agreeably when Lydia's comment was mentioned, and Stiles decided not to touch that with a ten foot pole. She hung the medallion in the window of the kitchen and set the "prayer jar" on the sill beneath it. They looked nice, and her life was weird.

Chapter Text

    Stiles is six months pregnant when she realizes how much she hates fighting with Derek. Oh she loves a good argument now and then, and they just wouldn't be right without bickering, them both being two sarcastic assholes and all. But they aren't *bickering.*  Every comment becomes a screaming match that both of them hate.  Their last fight was about *pizza,*  for fuck's sake, and that was just wrong. Pizza was sacred.

    It had to stop. The fighting, not the pizza.

    She had this revelation sitting on the battered leather couch in the Hale house dining room, which was now the pack's (theoretically temporary) living room. She had the tv on, one of the only decent pieces of furniture in the room, turned to Brooklyn 99 because it was that or Serious Cop DramaTM and she'd rather not, thanks. Derek had the whole tv package, thousands of channels and a DVR at their disposal, plus Netflix because the betas were demanding, but somehow the only thing worth watching on was Brooklyn 99. Well, that or House Hunters but the current couple was really fucking annoying.

    Stiles shoved another cheese-smothered microwaved nacho in her mouth, enjoying the burn of the sweet peppers she'd added on a whim. The baby liked spicy food, even more than meat, which Stiles had decided was funny, and awesome. Like the baby was more Stiles than werewolf, even if Stiles knew she was a werewolf, because it was obvious.

    Last night had been pizza night, after another chill appointment with Stiles's baby doctor (she refused to use the proper terminology when the phrase "baby doctor" was available to her). Everything had been pretty normal. Stiles's doctor was still really positive and happy about Stiles's awesome easy pregnancy, everyone wanted something weird on their pizza, she and Derek had a screaming fight in the hallway that left them both breathless and shiny eyed without any fucking clue what had just happened. The usual.

    It really wasn't a good thing that it was now normal that she and Derek had fights that left them both confused and miserable. It was impossible to even really say what the contents of the fights were, just that they were petty, stupid, and mean. No matter what the fight was about, by the end of it there were no rules, no holding back, just saying terrible things to make each other hurt. Honestly, if they were married, Stiles would have divorced Derek and moved back home.

    As it was, she and Derek weren't even dating, she still lived with her dad, and for some reason she couldn't just leave this relationship for good. Which meant they had to stop fighting. Which meant, ugh, Stiles had to apologize. Because Derek had the emotional range of a pie tin, but he obviously didn't like the fighting any more than she did. So they were going to make up, but Stiles would have to make the first move. As usual. Hard to believe that, with anyone else, *she*  was the immature pie tin of awkwardness.

    Although, to be fair, she was still immature with Derek, just with random moments of maturity that manifested in ridiculous ways, like taking her top off and making a declaration. That had been a lot easier than this was destined to be. And, ugh, she knew just where she needed to start; she needed to apologize for wolfsbaning Derek in the face. That had been Bad when she did it, no matter how much she still kind of felt like he had deserved it, after all the times he'd been a dick to her and like, the whole Ms. Blake thing and not-dead and all that.

    That felt like a good line in the sand to draw; We Do Not Wolfsbane Our Friends in the Face (even if they were being total dicks).

    She could do this.

    Derek came stomping down the stairs, Isaac walking into the room at the same time, magically summoned by alpha mojo or something. Derek glared at her right off the bat. Stiles stood, fully prepared to blurt out her apology like a mature adult and get this fucking ball rolling, just word vomit apologies all over Derek, let's do this.

    "We need to patrol. You stay here," Derek snarled, glaring at Stiles and Stiles somehow simultaneously thought *yeah I should,*  and snapped, "Fuck you, I'm coming."

    Okay. So. She was off to a great start. Really just, fantastic.

    ...

    Tonight, she thought determinedly. Tonight she would apologize. When no one else was around, hint-hint, *Isaac.*  Apologizing was hard enough without an audience, she reasoned. And she was too grumpy about tromping through the damn woods to sound sincere anyway right then. So, tonight.

    She could apologize while declaring she wasn't going on patrol again until the baby was born, because this was awful. She was a disaster in the woods normally, and sore ankles and an ungainly belly only made it worse.

    Isaac and Derek both kept having to reach out and steady her, when her toe got caught on a root or a rock rolled under foot or fucking gravity shifted or something. Fortunately, no one made any comments beyond a few muttered complaints, because Stiles was just ripe for a fight, resolution or not.

    The only up side was that the trek gave her the opportunity to lay some more wards, dropping spellwork into the network of old roots and clay, far beneath the gentle top-soil. With any luck, she could make patrols unnecessary, or at least redundant. Of course, she could have done that by driving around their territory, but when opportunity knocks, or whatever. This worked. It sucked, but it worked.

    "Careful," Derek grunted, snagging her by the wrist and giving her a gentle tug. It was the gentleness that made her curb her tongue, letting him guide her around some poison sumac that she'd overlooked, distracted by spells. The gentleness and her new resolution.

    Also she was too tired for fighting; Stiles was *so*  not a fan of athletics.

    The sumac Derek steered her around was a deceptively docile looking plant, a sprawling green vine with lush foliage that disguised its fishhook thorns. It seemed like a metaphor but she couldn't handle metaphors right then so it was just a plant. Metaphors could damn well wait.

    "We're almost at the edge," Derek said. It was unnecessary; she could sense it, and presumably Isaac could smell it, but breathing was more important than sarcasm just then so she sufficed with a grunt. The sound wasn't exactly biting, but it was sufficiently grumpy.

    The border spiked, just a dozen or so yards away. Stiles was focusing on watching the ground, so when Isaac and Derek stopped, she kept walking for a couple steps, until she bumped into Derek's arm across her shoulders.

    "What—?" she started, and looked up.

    Just on the other side of the invisible border, a group stood. They didn't look like much, not really. Or, they weren't particularly intimidating, at least.

    They were all physically fit and basically attractive, but mostly they were wearing normal, nonthreatening clothes, like t-shirts and jeans, even some khakis, plaid, a hipster scarf or two, some really colorful sneakers. One girl had a whole punk rocker vibe going, but not overtly, just tats and piercings and normal, non-thematic clothes. None of the stuff she saw on hunters, no pseudo-camo or Neo-Nazi crap, although some of them were rocking the jarhead look. Sometimes hunters and soldiers overlapped, but not often enough to make the latter seem threatening.

    The only one who did seem threatening was the guy in the front; he was one of the probably-military ones, but even amongst them he kind of stood out. At least six and a half feet tall, he was relatively broad, though not as broad as Boyd, a solid sort of guy, like a leveled up Derek or something. And he looked like a fucking male model, or maybe a stripper, with a really fantastic amount of muscles and excellent bone structure. Except that every visible inch of skin was scarred.

    Not that Stiles had anything against scars, but this guy had enough that he probably wasn't doing any modeling. No huge scars were on display, and weirdly his face was almost unmarred, but there were untold numbers of little burns and cuts and whatnots that were only significant because of sheer quantity.

    Even with all that, and him backed by twenty odd people, he wouldn't have seemed like much, unarmed and not overtly menacing. Except Stiles was actively using magic, and it only took one look to realize one very important fact: All of those people? Were werewolves.

    Since when did werewolves have scars? This was a serious question, okay, first the blind 'demon' wolf, and now this guy? It was really fucking up her "things I know about werewolves" list. And actually, first Peter fucking Hale the crispy coma patient. Did she really know anything about werewolves? Evidently not. Her life was a lie. She was going to quit and move to Canada, she expected her information to be reliable, dammit, she spent way too much time researching for anything less than absolute accuracy.

    Derek stepped in front of her, immediately wolfing out in an unusually aggressive fashion. Not that Derek wasn't basically aggressive constantly, but with the ember red eyes and cranked up claws, it was a little more than normal.

    "This is Hale land," he snarled. "You're trespassing." It was really, genuinely threatening. Like, surprisingly so. The private property warning was much more impressive with the fangs apparently, plus the fact that Derek seemed genuinely pissed as fuck, instead of just his usual mid-level annoyed. Huh.

    "I am alpha-mate Jack Sanchez of the Pearl Pack. These are some of our betas," said the bescarred guy, not seeming in the least bit daunted by Derek, which was a little disappointing. He had instead perked up a little, actually, which was kinda creepy. "We heard the Hale pack died and the territory was empty." There were no apologies or questions, but the guy managed to seem simultaneously inquiring, sympathetic, and likeable. It was a really awesome talent that Stiles desperately wished she had. At the very least she hoped Scott grew into it. Scott could pull that off. She had faith.

    Some part of her mind spun off on a tangent, sparked by the words "Pearl pack." She knew that one.

    "I am Alpha Derek Hale," Derek said. He seemed less actively hostile now, which was promising. Hopefully it meant that some of what the guy said meant stuff to him. Like, insightful stuff, not just the basic stuff Stiles could figure out, and that Pearl pack twinge. "Most of my family died, but the territory is mine."

    Jack scrutinized him. His already light, almost gold eyes shifted to an eerie yellow. Not the glowing yellow of the betas, but something more earthy, and Stiles desperately wanted to ask: *what the fuck.*  He stared at Derek with those weird eyes, until they shifted back to normal and he just—*beamed*. Like this huge, open grin just spread over his face without a trace of reluctance or dignity.

    "Derek!" Jack exclaimed like he really wanted to just hug the fuck out of Derek, right then and there. His posture relaxed, and the change in his pack was immediate and obvious. They went from lurking ominously to sort of casually mingling, relaxing and turning their attention off Derek, Isaac and Stiles. They even started to chat.

    Jack grinned, seemingly ignoring his pack, and continued, "I met you, when you were, oh." He bent, vaguely gesturing to around knee height. "Tiny. You were adorable, and Talia had to practically drag you out from behind her. I don't know if you remember that." He sobered abruptly, and even Stiles could see the flash of sorrow in his eyes. "I'm sorry, for your great loss, and I apologize on behalf of my mate and our pack. If we had known you lived, we would have sought you out, and we would never encroach on your land. It is good though," and suddenly he was smiling again, "that not all the Hales are lost. And to see another coming! I am honored, alpha-mate of Hale Pack."

    Jack turned to Stiles, which was impressive since she was still partially behind Derek, and then bowed. It was weird. Stiles was really weirded out. And just a tiny, smidgen charmed. The guy pulled off his weirdness well.

    "Alpha-mate of Pearl Pack," Stiles managed, nodding to him; pregnant bowing was so not happening. "It's a pleasure."

    Wait. Back up. Alpha-mate? As in Derek's mate? As in heavily implied werewolf married?

    Fuck. Stiles very pointedly did not look at Derek. This was happening, there was no stopping it, Jack was still talking and she was just frozen, staring, like a jackass.

    "My pack and I came seeking land, but my mate would lock me out if I didn't change plans, obviously," Jack carried on, blissfully unaware. Stiles was jealous. She missed being blissfully unaware of things. Nowadays she was either woefully ignorant or uncomfortably hyperaware, no in between. "I'll send my betas home," the punk girl shot him a look only to roll her eyes with prime teenage flair, "but please, allow me to stay with you and renew our pacts. Our families have always shared treaties, and I could never apologize enough to your mother if I left without making ourselves your official ally."

    How the Hell did you say no to that? Stiles subtly crossed her fingers, hoping Derek knew how. It seemed possible. Likely even!

    "Of course." Or not! "My mate and I welcome you. This is one of our betas, Isaac."

    Shit. "Sorry, I'm Stiles," she said, over loud, hoping her smile wasn't as awkward looking as it felt. She reached out, hooking her fingers in Derek's shirt without thinking. "Stiles Stilinski. We're not married. Uhm, yet." Because she was underage jailbait. Haha. Ha. So amusing, hardy har har.

    "I'm surprised," Jack said, beaming, "that he wouldn't have dragged you off to the court house months ago."

    "Ha ha," Stiles said, brain helplessly scrambling. Derek was tense. Like, really super tense, but he hadn't argued, had called her his mate, so she was rolling with it. "We, uh. We were just patrolling." Subject change, don't fail her now!

    Jack frowned, very obviously at her belly. "I would think you would want to stay home," he said slowly. Dammit subject change. How could it betray her when she needed it most? Stiles had trusted it. She forced a smile, aiming for sheepish and possibly looking homicidal instead. It was hard to gauge these things. She really hoped it wasn't homicidal though. That would be inconvenient.

    "Cabin fever," she said. "I forgot how much walking in the woods is involved in patrols."

    Jack brightened, nodding along, so she assumed she had succeeded, smile wise. Go her! "My Tabs, she goes off the handle if she's cooped up for a few hours. She's pregnant too, and going mad--that's why I came instead of her. Let me just send my pack home, then I'll follow you home and we can talk, alright?" At Derek's nod, he turned around, beckoning his wolves to him to start conferring in low voices. The punk girl and a particularly lean man seemed annoyed with Jack, but Stiles dismissed the whole lot of them in favour of exchanging meaningful looks with Isaac and Derek. They, at least, seemed equally alarmed.

    "We have to play along," Derek said, right in her ear, but so quiet she could still barely hear it. "From what I remember, Jack is easy-going, but I don't know much about his mate's pack or how traditional they are."

    "I want an alliance," Stiles said fiercely, trying to be even quieter. Her eyes were bright with determined fire. If they were doing this, they were fucking *doing*  this. "Congrats on our werewolf marriage." Jack probably wasn't evil, and Stiles had seen pack alliances mentioned in books. They sounded amazing, and she wanted one. At *least*  one. If this worked out she was raising the fuck out of that number.

    "I'm texting the pack," Isaac declared, pulling out his phone.

    "Good idea," Derek said, surprise and pride just glinting in his eyes. "They should know there's going to be a strange wolf in our territory." Isaac, still furiously henpecking his phone, got an odd look about him.

    "Yes," he said, not looking up. "But they also need to know they can officially use all those mom and dad jokes. Finally."

    Derek and Stiles stared at him.

    "I've changed my mind," Derek said. "You are my least favorite."

    Stiles didn't know what he was referencing, but promptly agreed, "Same. You're our worst child."

    Derek sighed like everything was just the worst, but Stiles knew it wasn't; she knew what he sounded like when things actually were the worst. She wasn't sure what that sigh had actually meant, but she knew it wasn't that. Maybe Derek was a little dramatic? Ha. 'Maybe.' Forget sourwolf, freaking *dramawolf,*  more like it.

    "We need to finish the patrol," he said, shelving the whole topic of jokes and favourites in a much better subject change than the one Stiles had tried on Jack. Unfair.

    "Dude," Stiles said sternly. "We are not taking our guest on patrol. That's just rude."

    Derek glared at her. "The border needs to be patrolled," he growled.

    "I am awesome, come on! Clearly I can handle this, just, like, stand back and bask in my glory," Stiles demanded, making shooing motions, even though she was trying to cut back on talking like an arrogant little shit. To be fair, it was intended to be subtext. Stiles was just really bad at subtext.

    She stepped away from them, reluctantly letting go of Derek's shirt, since they weren't taking her shooing seriously. They shot the Pearl pack suspicious looks, but didn't argue, possibly because they'd have to raise their voices for her to hear. Yay human hearing! Supporting her stupid plans since werewolves.

    Stiles rubbed her belly. The little one didn't really do much still, but petting it was becoming a soothing habit. She took a breath, drawing in calm. Magic worked well on any emotion, but it was most predictable on calm. When it came to magic, predictable was good.

    She set her hands on her "tool belt." After everything, she had taken to carrying around a lot of stuff on a repurposed Craftsman tool belt that fit nicely under her belly. The various pouches, pockets, loops, and etcetera were loaded with everything from ingredients to herb "bombs" to pre-prepared spells. It jingled a little, randomly, but she was already used to its comforting presence. Working magic without it made her grumpy and volatile. Things went boom when Stiles didn't have some sort of focus object, and the more she had, the less boom happened. Less unintentional boom, at least.

    Letting the magic guide her fingers, she pulled out odds and ends from the belt. She wound up with a wolfsbane bomb, a dried chip of wood from a mountain ash tree, a penny spelled with camouflage, a spool of red thread, and a very pretty but worthless synthetic opal. Feeling unsatisfied, she wavered over the items, then yanked out a few strands of her own hair. There. That felt right.

    It also felt very unwise. She knew what she was doing though. In theory. She had a relatively clear goal, ingredients for focus, and a fair chunk of magic to donate to the cause. This would probably not go horribly wrong.

    Sometimes she wondered if Derek had ever read much about magic. She was guessing 'no' since, even at his most annoyed, and even before the pregnancy, Derek didn't like letting her do dangerous things, and he never really fought over her using magic. Although, really, she was so much safer with magic than without, considering the whole 'constantly surrounded by werewolves and monsters.' But also probably more of a danger to herself and others. It was a trade off.

    Stiles curled her fingers around the strange assortment, clutching them to her chest and focusing on being calm, on thinking of nothing but the spell she intended to work. In the relative peace and quiet of the forest, she attempted a sort of abbreviated meditation, putting herself into the best mind for magic, especially protective magic. In her mind, she stood in a glade. A thin brook ran beneath her feet, and wisteria bloomed in an arch overhead. Nothing bad could come into her glade.

    "Guard," she whispered, English rather than the traditional Latin, lessening her chances of screwing it up with a minor pronunciation error or something stupid like that. "Pack. Mine." Three made the magic perk up, but it wasn't enough. The wisteria stirred restlessly, waiting for more. "Swift, silent, strong." The magic shuddered, stretching and twisting, like invisible taffy she could feel. The brook babbled a little louder, as the wisteria shed delicate violet petals to dance on the water. What else, what else, it felt like there should be more, what else, "Loving. Guiding...Cunning."

    The last word stole past her lips without permission and the magic snapped as the wisteria bloomed improbably more vibrant and the brook just about sang—all of which was either really bad, or really good. Welp, only one way to find out which.

    She dropped the ingredients. They touched the dirt and grass, and light spilled out, more liquid than light should be by non-magic rules. (Magic only played nice with physics when it felt like it.)

    The light was a soft, peaceful blue touched by wisteria purple, spreading out from the ingredients and vanishing them inside its glow. It grew and stretched and shifted, like the taffy she had imagined, forming four powerful legs and a curved back, a long muzzle full of sharp white teeth, intent white-blue eyes burning within the blue, and lightly rounded ears already twitching. It flowed around her, twining around her legs like a cat, before settling into its shape.

    Stiles laughed, even though she shouldn't have been surprised; of course her construct had taken the shape of a wolf. It was her own fault, really; she *had*  said pack.

    "Patrol," she requested, and the fake magical wolf ghosted off into the bushes. Not a single leaf was stirred by its passage, all traces of it gone the moment it was out of sight.

    "It'll finish the patrol for us," she told Derek, surprised by how confident she sounded, almost like she didn't just make nearly all of that up on the fly. Not like that was anything new, really. Stiles tended towards creativity with magic, in a way that worried Deaton. It felt too natural for her to stop though, to go back to the books and by-the-letter. This felt dangerous, but *right*. She just had to hope she wasn't unwittingly going dark side. If she turned evil, she was cutting off Derek's dick; it was clearly some sort of magical WMD in disguise.

    Derek looked at where the wolf had disappeared for a few moments. Expression suggesting he had come to a decision about something, he nodded at her. He looked reluctant, but his face said he would let her wolf finish the job. Hella. She really hoped the wolf didn't find anything though; she didn't actually know how it would alert her if it did.

    Hopefully not with like, magic fireworks. That'd be really not incognito. Even though she wasn't entirely sold on keeping the supernatural secret from humans, she wasn't ready to go totally rogue and start calling up reporters or something.

    "Wow," Jack's soft exhale brought their attention to him. He was looking at Stiles with something new in his expression, something that looked like some heavy duty respect, which was weird. "A magi. Never thought I'd meet another one."

    Stiles stared at him. What? A what? She opened her mouth, one finger up with an 'excuse you?' on the tip of her tongue, to hell with diplomacy, but his punky packmate caught his attention with a short sound that might have been another language, or might have been a wolfy grunt of some kind. She walked over to rub her cheek against Jack's, gave the Hale pack a nod, then strode off. The rest of the Pearl wolves followed suit, each of them touching Jack and acknowledging the three of them in some small but respectful way. That done, they all left as one, melting away into the trees. Werewolves: the ultimate uber creeps.

    "Right then," Stiles coughed awkwardly, thwarted once again from her pursuit of knowledge, not to mention personally ruining all her own good plans. Not to worry; she had plenty of time to rectify matters. Dear universe: that was a joke. Stiles really hoped not to mess this up because she was too curious for her own good. "Back to the house?"

    Her mind suddenly clicked, supplying her with the necessary tidbit she'd been missing: the Pearl pack. There was only a pretty small pamphlet thing on packs, but among its listings was the Pearl pack, in surprising detail, considering it was an old, glorified scrap of paper someone had hastily laminated long after it had already seen some shit.

    The Pearl pack was Seattle based, but older than the USA. It originated in Spain under a different name, kicked around in southern North America, Central America, and northern South America for a while, somewhere between being in Spain and the colonies becoming states. The original name was either forgotten or unrecorded, but The Pearl was well known.

    No surprise because the Pearl Pack? Yeah it was named for the “Screaming Bloody Pearl,” a pirate ship that roamed the sea through most of the seventeenth century and was supposedly captained by a banshee, even in the human legends, and crewed mostly by werewolves according to the not-pamphlet. The Screaming Bloody Pearl was eventually either retired or destroyed, but the crew lived on. As a pack.

    The Pearl Pack as in one of the most powerful packs in the Americas, primarily made up of mercenaries and, supposedly, scholars. The duality was why she remembered them, why the name had "pinged." Also, pirates, obviously.

    The Pearl pack as in *holy shit.*

    Stiles squeaked a little, thrilled and terrified as one. Mostly thrilled though. Because Jack walked over the boundary to them, wearing a warm grin, and none of her shiny new evil-detecting wards even *twitched.*  She would have to dig up something for lying that was more reliable than listening to someone's heartbeat, but it seemed possible that they were really about to form an alliance with *the Pearl pack.*

    Internally, Stiles was dancing.

    "Hi," he said, holding out a hand to Derek first according to tradition, but making sure to smile at all three of them in a way that somehow suggested he thought tradition was stupid. "Just call me Jack. I took my mate's name when we married, and I'm still confused by it."

    Stiles sort of grabbed onto Derek and shook him. Just a little, trying to telepathically tell Derek not to fuck this up, wishing the magic had *actually*  given her telepathy. If anyone was going to fuck this up, it was going to be her, dammit! No, wait. Correction: no one was going to fuck this up. Unless Jack was secretly an evil jerk, in which case, fuck him. Stiles was going to be in a severely foul mood if they had to fight the Pearl pack though.

    Derek largely ignored her, but he shook hands with Jack and sounded pleasant when he said, "We're honoured to have you, Jack." Go Derek, talking like a real boy! Stiles was so proud. Then of course he turned around and conveyed "we're going back to the house" and "come on" through gestures and facial expressions. Stiles was still counting it as progress. More of his face than his eyebrows moved! Huzzah!

    Jack talked as they walked, telling stories to fill the silence, though he left enough quiet to not be annoying.

    Apparently he was a former Navy SEAL, although how he got "werewolf" past everyone Stiles didn't know, and he didn't share. From the sound of it, he was a born wolf—unsurprising—and the current Pearl Alpha had rescued him. From the way he talked about the alpha, she shit rainbows and sunshine, but despite his devotion, he didn't try to paint her as a nice person. A good person, certainly, but in his stories he was open about how ruthless his alpha could be, and her pack followed her example

    The stories were interesting though. Like ridiculous adventure movies, to the point that some of them were pretty hard to believe, especially since he left some pretty big gaps now and then to protect identities or maybe credibility. They were fun anyway, and funny. He was a pretty good story teller, and frequently told tales in such a way that he came off as the butt of the joke, no matter how heroic he might have been.

    He had Stiles laughing, and Isaac shyly chuckling, and even Derek cracked a smile-ish thing once. Overall, the walk back was a lot better than the walk there. And if it had anything to do with Derek never being more than a foot from her, it was only because he made sure she didn't trip at all. Either way, with him so close, it was easy to both listen to Jack, and think about her resolution from before they left the house.

    ...

    By the time they made it back to the Hale house, Stiles had begun to develop an Apologising Plan. An atonement strategy. A covert "sorry about all that stuff" operation.

    Step one: make Jack and the Pearl pack into a stalwart ally. Admittedly, step one was sort of a detour, but ultimately, having the Pearl pack on their side would be fucking amazing. And it was for the pack, so it kind of counted. Right? Close enough.

    There wasn't really a step two, so much as a bunch of things to do with relative spontaneity, and also some things *not*  to do. Which meant less fighting, and more active effort to be nice. And, bringing Derek food, maybe, that seemed like a good idea. Strategically leaving her scent all over? Uh, contributing to the house design more? There was a lot of parts to this plan. Really. She was going to do all the things.

    Stiles wanted to at least be friends with her baby daddy, dammit. Stiles had a goal. Stiles would not fail. Stiles needed to stop thinking in the third person, it was getting weird.

    Jack whistled appreciatively as they walked into the house.

    "You're doing a good job of restoring this place," he praised, without a hint of the stoicism she had started to think was werewolf-common before he showed up. Even Scott was starting to have serious moments, and he was a crooked-jawed puppy. But Jack was all good cheer and casual wolfness, peppering their trip home with jokes and anecdotes about the crazy adventures he had survived, sharing freely and listening with open interest when someone else (mostly Stiles) shared back.

    Stiles beamed.

    "Derek's work, mostly," she said, proudly, because she was proud. Derek had been steadily putting the house together, and she knew how hard it was for him, working on his family home. She had suggested he just move, maybe sell the place, which had been one of their bigger fights because Derek immediately went on the offensive and they both got their feelings hurt a lot, but despite what Derek probably thought, Stiles got it. She couldn't imagine selling her family home. But *her*  family home wasn't a burnt out shell of its former glory.

    Anyway, the restoration was going well. The wolves had all helped out with what they could, while the squishy humans sat around and provided moral support mostly. Erica had fallen through the ceiling at one point, all the betas got to smash a lot of stuff, a good time was had by all. Except Derek, who was allergic to fun, and also probably the horrible burnt out shell of his family home.

    They managed to clear out the place enough to bring in contractors, who got the place up to code a lot faster than they would have themselves. The hardest part was just making the house not a death trap. Stiles was pretty sure she was the one to suggest the contractors, or at least the most vocal one, and somehow they got into another fight because she couldn't resist being smug.

    Thinking about some of their fights made her feel incredibly guilty. She needed some memories of them being really nice to each other, just to balance it out.

    There was really only cosmetic stuff left to do. Most of the house still didn't look like much, since all their hard work got covered up by spackling and whatnot, and they hadn't managed to get a lot done, at least not on the main floor, since the contractors finished.

    Everything was a little awkward since they had to work around Derek and the frightful trio, who had moved in as soon as the contractors cleared out. More, Derek wasn't buying any nice furniture until everything was painted and/or wallpapered, so most of the current stuff was salvaged from GoodWill or thrift stores or CraigsList, and a lot of the house's bare bones were still a little too close to visible.

    So people usually didn't have positive things to say about the house; even the pack forgot sometimes, how far they'd come, considering the inauspicious beginnings of *burnt out shell of horror and misery and significant justifiable manpain.*

    So yeah, it meant a lot that Jack noticed, and it wasn't hard to act proud of "her mate" when, god, there was so much about Derek for her to feel pride over. The house—tearing parts down, rebuilding it, everything—had been really hard for him. Even at her most angry, Stiles was impressed with Derek.

    Jack grinned at her, looking amused and kind of charmed. Even though Stiles had meant to be playing the proud wifey image, she felt her face going a little red at that knowing grin.

    "Did you ever come by and see it?" Isaac asked, saving Stiles from embarrassing herself further. He still didn't seem to be sure whether he wanted to idolize Jack, or be suspicious of his every movement, which seemed fair. Jack seemed awesome, but you never know in Beacon Hills: Possible Hellmouth.

    "No," Jack said, shaking his head. "We let omegas drift through our territory though, and we heard some of it from them, over the years."

    Which meant he wasn't *fully*  appreciating the awesome transformation. Stiles fetched her phone and pulled up some of the photos of the house from before the reno had started. She passed him the phone with a grin that was only a little smug. His brows shot up, and he swiped through a few pictures, but only after she gave him a nod in permission, which was polite of him. He let out another low whistle.

    "Wow. This is—" he looked around again with new eyes, handing her phone back. "Wow. My Tabs and I, we're stubborn as rocks, but even we would probably have just bulldozed the place, started over from scratch. This is pretty damn amazing. I assume you've already got it all stable, with your mate wandering around and all." He grinned teasingly and wiggled his eyebrows at Derek, whose face was doing a confusing thing that Stiles didn't know how to interpret, which was tragic because it was probably something really interesting. Stiles could just sense herself missing something great.

    "Thanks," he managed the words again—and Stiles was going to have to alter her entire Derek-related thought process if she wanted to mend their crazy relationship thing. And she wanted, she very much wanted. She was going to miss some of the sarcasm, that was all. "I had—contractors in, to make sure it's safe. Rewire everything." Well. At least he was trying.

    Dammit. She was really bad at this.

    "He basically stalked them," Stiles shared cheerfully, encouraged by how well this was going, even if Derek was being his usual recalcitrant self and her brain was pretty slow on the uptake. "Kept making little changes. He even brought in a new architect when the other one didn't 'share his vision.'" Stiles snickered to herself, making air quotes around the actual phrase Derek had used. That had been fun.

    Derek gave no shits about offending people. He wanted his house to be exactly right and no one could stop him. It turned out amazing too, with a partial open floor plan and all these cool little architectural details that Stiles loved.

    And yeah, Derek could have gotten more bang for his buck, maybe, starting over from scratch or moving to a less decrepit house, but it made it more special, like this. Stiles hadn't really, honestly, thought she could ever be comfortable in a place where over a dozen people were murdered horribly, and then she assisted in some shady ass shit outfront, and some awful stuff happened in the general area, but Derek and the betas had made the Hale house feel downright homey.

    She liked it.

    She was also mildly alarmed by how much money Derek apparently had. But then she thought about how the Hale family had always been well off, and about the multiple life insurance payments, and how Laura and Derek had been too busy running to even have one funeral, let alone all the funerals. So Stiles tactfully didn't mention the money thing. Ever.

    Jack chuckled at Stiles describing Derek's helicopter ways with the contractors, but it was a nice laugh. She was glad he seemed likeable, since she wanted a proper alliance. Even if he had been a dick, she would have tried her best, but it didn't seem like it was going to be a chore. He'd probably even be helpful.

    Fingers crossed that he wasn't secretly evil. She figured as long as Derek didn't fuck him, they were safe, and Jack was married to a powerful, distinctly female Alpha so hopefully there was no chance of that happening. Not to erase bisexuality, but a girl could fucking dream.

    "We've only got one guest room completed," Derek said, apparently deciding to make an effort at being a good host. Ooh, aaah. Dammit brain, enough Derek related sarcasm. "It's right next to—" he cut off, glancing as Stiles, and grimaced a little. Stiles made a face back at him, because seriously, she didn't do anything, what the hell. Unless you counted her inner monologue, but Derek wasn't privy to that, she'd checked.

    "I'll show it to you," Derek finished. "Stiles still isn't allowed upstairs until the stairs are done."

    Stiles groaned. She hated that rule. It didn't even make sense; the stairs were perfectly safe, everyone else went up them all the time, and even pregnant, Stiles didn't weigh more than Derek, who was ridiculously muscular even for a creature of the night. Hell, especially for a creature of the night; Derek was supernaturally strong and fit, his crazy gym routine was just gratuitous.

    Not that she was complaining. Stiles was a little bit shallow, as evidenced by Lydia and Derek. Although, in fairness, Lydia was a genuine genius goddess queen, and she was pretty sure everyone was at least a little shallow about Derek. Dude was hot.

    Derek scowled at her, so she waved him off, unwilling to argue in front of Jack, and also having lost her train of thought.

    Oh. The stairs and their stupid rules. Right. Stupid stairs rules.

    "Fine, show him the guest bedroom that I haven't even seen. I'll order pizza. With your card." She didn't ask for the card; she had the information on her phone. Derek either hadn't realized this and hoped to thwart her, or knew and didn't want to argue in front of Jack either.

    Jack looked between them, picking up on who even knew what. Stiles was trying, dammit. She couldn't do anything about her scent that wasn't super obvious though. She did not want to go back to the pumpkin spice life. Even she had been making hipster jokes, and even if she wore so much plaid, that was just, no. No thank you.

    Jack didn't comment though, just followed Derek up the stairs, which didn't even *creak,*  seriously. Her righteous indignation had so totally returned. Stiles turned to glare at Isaac like the stairs rules were his fault, which, all points to him, he just sort of took in stride. Like, she glared and he just vaguely shrugged and didn't fight her on it.

    "I want banana peppers," was all he said. Grumbling, Stiles went to grab her laptop and order some damn pizza. She got a pepperoni because it seemed safe, everyone liked pepperoni, probably including Jack, then got their regular orders. And some bread sticks. And cinnamon sticks. And some wings.

    Hm. Maybe the hungry, pregnant-with-a-werebaby person ordering was not the best plan. Whatever, someone would eat anything she couldn't. There was never leftovers with the pack. There was barely crumbs.

    She put the order through with a ridiculous tip to get them to deliver all the way out to bum-fuck-Hale-house, cheating around the site to even get the order through, because if she called instead, she would forget something, it was a fact.

    That settled, she made herself at home on the couch, pulling up Netflix.

    "I'm watching Daredevil," she announced, just loud enough to know all the in-house wolves would hear. Isaac immediately popped up to join her, still on his phone. Derek and Jack joined them about a minute into the episode, at which point Isaac reported that the pack would be there in twenty minutes.

    "Did you tell them I ordered pizza?" Stiles asked, eyes glued to Matt kicking ass on screen.

    "Yes," Isaac drawled, eyeing her in a way that made her feel like he was the grouchy teenager to her mature mom, but she was pretty sure that was Isaac's fault. For a grumpy little shit, he was adorable. "That's why it's twenty minutes and not forty."

    Stiles conceded the point. The pack was bad at punctual if lives were not actively on the line. Even then, it was iffy. Isaac had obviously relayed that Jack was not currently a threat, so they might not even get everyone to show up.

    "Tell them the first person here gets to pick the next thing we watch," she requested, waving a Snickers bar at him. He eyed it dubiously as she took a bite, trying to figure out where it came from. Silly pup. Obviously it came from the couch. Where she had stashed it. Because that was a thing that she did now, hiding food all around. And then hiding it from werewolf senses with magic.

    Using her powers for good in a way that was not insane at all.

    "Kay," he finally said, going back to his texting, wisely deciding the candy wasn't worth questioning.

    Stiles managed some useless small talk with Jack, but fortunately he got absorbed in the show pretty quickly, and they all were watching in companionable silence within minutes.

    The pack arrived en masse about ten minutes later, marked by all the wolves looking towards the door, and Derek grunting before sharing, "Pack cars," which settled Jack immediately. Stiles paused the show and started counting down from twenty. At five, she shouted, "I'm not restarting the episode!" and Scott came in, already whining.

    "Introductions!" Stiles yelled as the room suddenly filled with werewolves. It didn't bring about any real semblance of order, but the chatter died down enough for said introductions.

    "Pack, this is Alpha Mate Jack Sanchez of the Pearl pack," Derek said, loud enough to make sure Lydia and Allison could hear. He was getting good at not leaving the humans out, and for once Stiles wasn't sure she could take credit. He hadn't taken prompting, just started being inclusive. Maybe it was a pack thing?

    Derek continued, "He's visiting and acting as a liaison while we draw up official treaties with his pack. Jack, this is Vernon Boyd, and Erica Reyes. They and Isaac live here."

    "The two other humans are Allison Argent, hunter extraordinaire, and Lydia Martin, unparalleled goddess of all," Stiles chimed in.

    "Beside Lydia is Jackson Whittemore, and with Allison is Scott McCall," Derek picked up.

    "Creeper Peter is around somewhere," Stiles said, scrunching her nose in annoyance. She knew someone would be missing.

    "He'll make an entrance at some point," Derek said and Stiles wryly agreed, "With a flair."

    "Hi," Lydia was the first to speak, managing to swing superiority and sort-of friendly. Her version of friendly, which was still a little haughty, but her smile made up for it. She had the prettiest smile, when she tried. Stiles might have been biased though. "I've heard about your pack. Is it true your alpha is a banshee?" And by 'heard about' she meant, she had demanded Stiles send her any books that could potentially be relevant, and Stiles had wisely obeyed. Only fools with a death wish got between Lydia and pertinent information. Or just interesting information. Or anything she wanted at all ever. Lydia for Queen of the World, forever.

    If Jack was deterred by the question, it didn't show. He smiled ruefully. "In a way," he said, without really hedging. "She's called a banshee, but, as you've probably discovered, the myths don't always match the legends. She's something that matches some of the banshee lore, so by that reckoning, she is a banshee."

    "But?" Lydia prompted, everyone else too interested to interrupt.

    "But she's also an alpha werewolf, and she outright refutes a lot of the lore," Jack finished.

    Stiles gasped, loading it full of melodrama and making a few heads snap towards her. "You're a nerd!" she cried, trying for aghast. She definitely just sounded excited. Nerds! Werewolf nerds! They could nerd together!

    Jack made his face look comically woeful, a perfect match to her gasp.

    "I know. It's a real tragedy. My wife always tells me she should have held out for someone who was at least stupid," he said, even more melodramatic than Stiles. "My abs fooled her. Now we have a library in our house. It's a good thing I settled in for such a long con." There was a strange little noise then, and as Jack grinned, Stiles had to look over to realize Boyd was muffling laughter.

    Everyone settled in after that, and Stiles pressed play, trying cautious optimism on for size. It felt like a good fit.

    ...

    Stiles meant to let it wait until morning, but somehow she wound up sitting in the kitchen with Jack and Derek that evening, starting to work out a treaty. Jack called his wife to ask her to email him the old Hale-Pearl treaty, then wandered outback while she yelled at him over the phone, looking bizarrely pleased.

    "Jack seems..." Stiles searched, settling on, "weird."

    Derek frowned at a book he had borrowed from Deaton. From what she remembered when she had read/hastily skimmed it without permission, he was probably trying to figure out if one of the many weird scribbles were actually relevant, or just scholarly doodles. Stiles had no insight for him; she hadn't taken the time to figure that out herself. Yet.

    "He used to be a nomad," Derek shared absently. Stiles hummed. That was unexpected. From what she had gleaned, most nomadic wolves were omegas, but calling him a ‘nomad’ implied more choice in the matter, and possibly a social arrangement. Since Jack was a born wolf, there was definitely a story there, and it wasn't just that he joined the Navy; there were already measures in place for werewolves in the military, even if she had assumed all of them were for before modern things like DNA testing and cameras. Jack returned before they could say anything else about him, looking refreshed from...being yelled at. Okay.

    Stiles realized later that, short as it was, that was the most polite exchange she and Derek had managed since she started using words like "debacle" to describe everything between them.

    (She didn't count their synchronized introductions from earlier. That was just delegation and playing for the crowd. Obviously.)

    ...

    The talks carried on well into morning, interrupted by a few breaks for food, bathroom, and tv, and Stiles napped after they moved into the living room. The recliner, despite being some random reclaim off CraigsList, was sinfully comfortable. Derek practically herded her into it too, despite her intention to share the couch with him, so he had no one to blame but himself.

    When she woke up, the sun was just a faint glow through the curtains. Derek and Jack were talking quietly, amicably discussing plants, for some reason. Either they were on another break, or they had finished the treaty without her. She felt like the latter option should have bothered her, but it—didn't. She had been pretty heavily involved with the whole process, up until her nap.

    Plus, when she started to shift, she heard the rustle of paper, and realized there was some on her chest.

    "That's the final draft," Derek said, still quiet, like the morning shush was a spell cast gently through the living room.

    Stiles hummed, too just-woke-up for words. Taking the papers in hand, she sat up slowly, adjusting carefully to accommodate her little parasite. Comfortably snuggled in while still upright, she set about reading the treaty, tuning out the conversation around her for the most part. The treaty's contents were basically what they had drawn up the night before, with a few minor changes here and there that she agreed with, mostly just fixing wordings to avoid loopholes, and it looked like Derek had actually managed to sneak a loophole in to the Hale pack's benefit. Ha, nice.

    The treaty *had* changed though, in that it had been turned from literal scraps of paper, to a beautifully transcribed formal document. Not in digital format, either; someone had handwritten the whole thing in artful calligraphy, as perfectly uniform as any old book she'd clawed her way through; more, actually, probably by way of ruler. It wasn't on regular printer paper either, but what felt like some sort of proper parchment or something. It was easily legible, every word neatly displayed, even with the unnecessary curls and dots.

    At the end, there were four spots for signatures, marked only by four empty lines. But she actually knew this one, after her recent crash course in pack treaties. One line for each alpha, or their acting representative, along with the official symbol of their pack for future reference.

    The symbol practice used to be more relevant before last names. In fact, the earliest treaties were signed only with the pack symbols, until that inevitably caused some issues, either due to the passage of time or the commonality of symbols. Now, ironically, including the symbol was mostly just for tradition, and a little bit for magic, because magic was a big fan of symbols.

    The remaining empty lines were for emissaries. Which brought up a question she hadn't been expecting; who was their emissary? Deaton was, frankly, a sketchy asshole. He also wasn't, officially, Derek's emissary; he didn't just get grandfathered in because he'd been the Hale emissary before. Properly, there was supposed to be a succession ceremony in which beta became alpha, and the emissary swore themselves to the new alpha. And as far as Stiles knew, that hadn't happened.

    That wasn't a big deal, really. An emissary could swear themselves to an alpha pretty easily, even outside the succession ceremony. She was even pretty sure Deaton would do it. But did they *want*  him? Not in general; Deaton was pretty awesome, and helpful sometimes, and he was her teacher. She valued Deaton. But as an emissary? She wasn't sure.

    Deaton was—Deaton was a good teacher. She was willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and say he had been a good emissary, for Derek's mother. But Derek wasn't his mother, and Deaton wasn't the man he used to be. He was the emissary of a dead pack, the acting emissary of that same pack reborn. And so far, he'd done fairly well by them. He had a healthy respect/fear of Stiles when she was in a mood, and he genuinely liked Derek and the betas, she was pretty sure. He definitely liked Scott, which always got people points in her book.

    But he was also kind of shady as fuck. Not like he was going to betray them, she didn't think. More like, he maybe wouldn't feel that bad if he got them all killed because he was too busy being mysterious to just tell them things. If his mysterious act got even one of the betas so much as bruised, Stiles was going to remind him why he was wary of her. Why he let her all but kidnap books from him, and run herd on his back room, and occasional terrorize his patients.

    (Hint: It was because, even mostly self-taught and not even fully at that, Stiles was not to be fucked with. She was still figuring out what all went with that, but Deaton had let his shock and fear show enough times in guided lessons for her to get the gist.)

    On top of all that, did Deaton really want to be Derek's emissary? Logically, Derek couldn't be faulted for Kate using him, and Stiles would fight anyone who do much as thought otherwise. But that didn't mean Deaton didn't blame him, deep in his heart, at least a little. And Deaton had loved his pack, Stiles knew that. Even if he had no objections to Derek as his alpha, Deaton was older than any of the pack, except maybe creeper Peter, and he had lost a pack. Stiles couldn't blame the guy if he just wanted to retire.

    In fact, thinking about it, she wouldn't be surprised if he had been grooming her, so to speak, as his protege. It made sense, even taking the baby into account, as well as her and Derek's new (false) relationship. She was pretty sure there weren't actually rules about emissaries being inside the pack, even deeply inside it. In the books she'd read, emissaries seemed to find it disagreeable, like sleeping with a coworker, but there wasn't a *rule.*  Just the reading-between-the-lines fact that emissaries happened to usually be mysterious, vaguely snobbish assholes, to some degree, and some packs might find it weird.

    Could Stiles be an emissary? What did it even entail? Was it just magic stuff? Adviser? Researcher, even? Was she already the emissary, in all but name? Holy shit.

    "Stiles." Derek's rough voice jerked her out of her own head. When she looked up, it was to see him standing over her, with a coffee mug that smelled suspiciously like tea, and a plate of waffles liberally doused in syrup. "Do you approve the treaty?"

    She blinked up at him, feeling lost. It felt like a trick question, except nothing in Derek's face suggested it was. Actually, his face suggested just the opposite. Stiles didn't know what to do with that, unless—unless Derek was treating her like his emissary? She wasn't sworn to him, or fully trained, but she was already more powerful than Deaton, and more than knowledgeable enough to be valuable. She could be sworn to him tonight, if needed. They didn't even need witnesses. There was no requirement; not even the words were set in stone. Magic loved words and shit, but it loved honesty more, and a pledge from the heart was more powerful than anything off the page.

    If she thought of Derek's treatment of her as him treating her as his unofficial emissary, it made sense. The world fell back into order around her and she relaxed.

    "It's good," she said, smiling with renewed drowsiness, after that brief spark of adrenaline. "All clear, and very pretty, really. Who wrote it up, anyway? I don't think even my computer can write so pretty."

    Derek shoved the plate and the mug into her hands, moving back to the couch as soon as she had hold of them. He somehow appropriated the treaty in the process. Not that Stiles minded, even if the mug was, as suspected, full of tea. She immediately dug in, realizing how ravenous she was and immensely grateful Derek knew her well enough to have made four waffles, and sweeten the hell out of the tea.

    "Me, actually," Jack said, waving from his spot on the love seat. He looked comically large on it, like maybe the love seat was a normal sized couch and Jack was just that big. Or maybe the love seat had secretly been a chair all along. Some sort of bizarre real life optical illusion.

    Stiles eyed him, brows up. "Oh?" she mused. Then, slyly grinning, she teased, "You're a regular *Jack*  of trades, huh?" She shoved half a waffle in her mouth. Before it could escape.

    "Yes, and you're a *beacon*  of *style,"*  he immediately teased back. "Thank you though, for the compliment. It's a habit more than a skill, I must confess. My parents raised me writing in a calligraphic style. I'm not sure I could write differently if I tried at this point."

    "Never try," Stiles instructed. "Everyone writes like a demented chicken nowadays. We're reverting to hieroglyphics."

    "Anyway," Derek snapped them back to the point, the proverbial spell of morning already fading. "You found no faults then?"

    "Nope, it's perfect. Just needs the signatures. Will you be doing the honors for your alpha, Jack?" Stiles managed to get the words out before filling her mouth with the last of the waffles, chasing it all down with tea only barely cool enough to drink.

    "Actually," Jack began, glancing at Derek in a way she didn't know him well enough to read. Questioning, maybe. "I talked to Tabs about that. She wants to come come down and meet you, all of you, but we received word this morning that a start-up pack are making a ruckus on our land. Normally we would just chase them off, but politically, there are...problems.

    "To be safe, Tabs and I agreed it wise to delegate a week to negotiations with the start-up pack and their sponsors, and then she can come down here with our emissary to sign herself. That is, if you would be willing to put me up for a week?"

    He looked at her without pressure, except for his puppy dog eyes, which she was almost certain weren't actually on purpose. Stiles looked expectantly to Derek, only to find he was looking at her as well, much as he had looked at her concerning the treaty. Like not only did she have a say in the matter, but like he wanted her to.

    Was it a fakemate thing? she wondered, clutching the empty mug. She suddenly wished she hadn't finished it off so quickly. Nervously, she licked her lips, eyes casting about for anything, some sort or a clue to what the hell was going on. There was nothing forthcoming though, just the strange, mishmash furniture, and two powerful werewolves watching her expectantly.

    "I don't—I don't mind," she guessed, remembering belatedly that she was supposed to be confident. Despite burning cheeks, she made herself look at Jack and smile. "I mean," she tried again. "It would be a pleasure to have you here, Jack." Judging by Jack's smile, she got it right. Glancing at Derek, she was startled to find he looked--pleased? She wasn't used to the expression on him, but she was pretty sure that's what it was. So maybe she had done right after all.

    It wasn't as surprising as it maybe should have been, to realize she wanted to see Derek looking pleased more often. Maybe even happy. Dream big, Stiles.

    "Then I'll stay," Jack said, as openly happy as Derek tended to be openly grumpy. Stiles still thought Jack was hot, but all his smile did was make her want to see Derek smile. Hormones, for sure. And a curiosity for those bunny teeth. They all three sat a moment in silence, until Jack stood, shaking himself free of the quiet as he pulled out his phone once again. "I'll just go call Tabs then, shall I?" he said, and wandered off to do just that, heading out back, as seemed to be his habit already.

    Stiles glanced at Derek again in a sudden influx of nerves. "I was right, right?" she asked, feather soft. "You don't mind him staying?"

    Derek's look went odd again. Not pleased like before, but not anything she really knew. Not angry certainly. Kind of scrunchy and constipated, but emotionally.

    "That was right," he confirmed. "Jack will be a helpful guest. He's very knowledgeable, and he expressed an interest in training with the pack. He apparently teaches young betas quite a bit."

    "He's smart," Stiles said, nodding along. It made sense. "If there's others like him in the Pearl pack, I can understand their reputation. He looks like a gym teacher, but I could see him as a professor. Right?" Amused by the image, she flashed a grin at Derek. She didn't see his response though, looking towards the stairs at the sound of a either werewolves or a herd of buffalo.

    The betas could all be as silent as a cat when they tried. Unlike Derek however, they very rarely tried. The three of them, Erica, Isaac, and Boyd, came all but tumbling into the room, all sleep-rumpled and cuddly, like freshly woken puppies. Stiles restrained an *aaw.*

    "I smell syrup," Erica growled, wobbling dangerously towards Stiles. Stiles shoved the plate at her, trying not to laugh.

    "Here, Catwoman," she said, waving the plate under the blonde's nose. "You can reuse my plate. Promise I didn't slobber on it." Erica eyeballed her with deep, sleepy suspicion. Then she slumped down, resting her cheek on Stiles's hair.

    "Thanks, Batgirl," Erica switched to a purr, as she awkwardly cuddled Stiles, clearly too sleepy for higher brain functions. Food lured her away though, when the toaster dinged in the kitchen. She took Stiles's plate with her, along with her mug.

    Stiles gave herself a few minutes to snicker. After that she stood up though, doing her best to stretch a bit. The recliner was comfy, but it was still a glorified chair and footrest.

    "You alright?" Derek asked when something cracked in her spine and she groaned in relief. Before she could answer, he touched a hand to her hip, where apparently her shirt had ridden up a bit because Stiles was just, *so*  not a fan of maternity clothes. His veins turned barely gray, but her face turned way more than vaguely red.

    "I'm fine!" she squeaked, jumping away from him and yanking her misbehaving shirt down. "I just—I need! To go, uh, Deaton! I need to talk to him. About, about a thing? I'm fine, totally, definitely, thank you, fine. I will, I'll see you later, okay? Okay, great, yep, bye!" She grabbed her laptop bag, which fortunately had one of her overshirts on it, and bolted, as much as a pregnant person could bolt.

    She dragged on the overshirt, delicately settled her laptop bag into the passenger seat, securing it with the seatbelt, and all but screeched out of there. She vaguely recalled shouting things at the betas and Jack that she was pretty sure had been friendly, but mostly she remembered obeying a sudden, overwhelming urge to get the fuck out of there.

    It wasn't like Derek was actually being different, that was what threw her. He was just being Derek, for the most part. But she didn't have her usual glaze of irritation to watch him through, and without it? Derek was, was...she didn't know what Derek was, but it wasn't what she had *thought*  he was.

    Derek was someone who wanted her to have an opinion, someone Stiles wanted to see smile. Derek was...

    Stiles really wanted, no, *needed*  coffee. Instead she went to Deaton's, where she broke in (with the key he had given her) and made some more tea on his stove.

    Even though she made awesome tea, it didn't taste as good as the cheap, fake-sweetener-filled tea Derek had made her. Fuck.

    She grabbed some books and aggressively sat down to read them until Deaton came in to share his stupid, mystical wisdom. She definitely needed to be calm before he got all soothsayer or whatever on her; lighting Deaton on fire would make lessons so awkward.

    ...

    Jack's stay was fun. He got along with everyone, he was consistently chill and knowledgeable, as well as reasonably playful. He made Peter nervous at first, which was enjoyable. Even Uncle Creeper couldn't help but like Jack though, apparently, and by the third day they were discussing old literature and history.

    Jack still made Peter nervous, even if they chatted amicably. Stiles hadn't figured out why yet; despite the scars suggesting a violent past, and being built like a brick shithouse, Jack mostly struck her as a mellow nerd who happened to be a werewolf. Sure he apparently married some sort of terrifying uber-wolf, but she wasn't a tyrannical monster or anything. Even mercenary-werewolves could fall in love, theoretically.

    They incorporated him into the daily training sessions, which he managed to suggest numerous changes to without once challenging anyone. His greatest flaw was that he called and texted his wife an absolutely unhealthy amount.

    The pack loved him, the adjacent humans he met loved him, Stiles kind of loved him, and she spent the least time with him, after the first day.

    In retrospect, it was obvious he was too good to be true. Although, maybe that was unfair. It wasn't like he was lying to them, it was just—well. Nothing was ever that easy in Beacon Hills, Supernatural Edition.

    The fourth day rolled around, and for once Stiles had enough time in her busy schedule to hang out with the pack and their guest. As it turned out, it was exclusively their guest she was hanging out with; everyone else had things to do. Even Derek was working on some mystery project upstairs.

    So she and Jack decided to sit outback, where she'd been practicing delicate magic by coaxing the plants to grow. It was hard work; not to grow the plants, but to not *over* grow them.

    She was trying to get a fluffy, vibrant green moss to flourish on some decorative rocks when she found out what exactly her sentry wolf from the other day did when it found something.

    Apparently, it grabbed hold of her mind, and *shoved* information at her, like dropping files from a USB onto a computer. That was all well and good, except her sentry apparently had some issues; in the deluge of info, she knew there was A Problem, but it wouldn't *get to the fucking point.*

    She felt someone pick her up, but she couldn't have reacted if she wanted to, and she didn't want to because she didn't actual *realize* that was what she was feeling until much later. It was just one more piece of data.

    From the eyes of a wolf constructed of magic, she saw what felt like every inch of the forest. Not just saw. She felt and heard and *smelled*  the forest, even *tasted*  it. She felt broken glass on immaterial pawpads, smelled wild roses, nibbled on wild herbs, watched a hiking family, listened to an out of season song bird, on and on. The sentry's parameters had encompassed their entire territory, and it had done its job. *Thoroughly.*

    And she had to let it all just *flow* over and through her, let it envelope her before it could consume her. It was hard, hard not to fight every inch, not to struggle free. The fact that it was her own magic helped, supplying the instinctive comfort of familiarity. If it had been foreign magic, she might have been trapped forever, thrashing within her own mind.

    It still took a long time, before there was any sort of order to anything, but it could have been worse.

    Once everything had filtered in, she could start filtering some of it back out. She put it in order first, grateful when the information seemed to catch on to her goal and started ordering itself. Then she had to drive away the inconsequential shit individually; she couldn't just skip to the important stuff. Of course not.

    When she finally, *finally* got rid of all the information about flora and fauna, and a few hikers, a gaggle of camping children, and minutiae like pebbles and shiny things, it still wasn't right. The information didn't *matter*  to her. It was just data, only barely more important than the unusually bright red squirrel.

    It had been hard to stop fighting the data. It was just as hard to start again, to remember herself. In a twist, it was the sentry that helped, because *it*  remembered her. Not only that, it considered her important. When she started to just drift aimlessly through the data, like a semi-sentient computer virus, a nebulous something nudged her. It made her react, poking and prodding until she became bothered, then irritated, then annoyed.

    Annoyance was a victory. She snarled at the thing bothering her, and suddenly she was something, *someone* again. She was more than an observer of data, she was a living being capable of anger. Anger was her gateway drug, swinging wildly into fear, then abrupt adulation. It arbitrarily flounced about, jumping from feeling to feeling with no real rhyme or reason.

    After a while (maybe after she went through every emotion, she wasn't sure) she was calm. Not the numb-nothingness of before, just calm. There was still a disconnect, but she was Stiles again, enough to understand she needed to remember things, to relay to someone. She couldn't remember who or why, but she was pretty sure she would, at some point.

    She breathed in the calm, and when she exhaled, it helped some more, like she was becoming more her.

    So she breathed, and slowly she began to feel things. She felt the rise and fall of her chest, the steady woosh of her lungs and thump of her heart. She felt the life in her belly, restlessly turning, like her time "away" had upset it. There was clothing on her skin, rough denim and soft cotton and the slight pinch from her bra sitting funny. Under her fingers there was the butter leather of the couch in the Hale house living/dining room. It wasn't her preferred furniture piece, but it was recognizable.

    There was a cut on her hand that hurt, another on her cheek, some bruising on her upper arm. Something luxuriously soft was laying over her, lightweight but warm.

    She opened her eyes, half-expecting to be overwhelmed by colors. Instead, sight settled her. With the view of the ceiling, the back of the couch inching into her vision, she regained her other senses all at once. It was a lot, for a bare instant. Then it was just her, human plus magic. Business as usual.

    Stiles looked around, knowing there would be someone nearby. She had passed out for unknown reasons, they probably panicked, so of course they were hovering nearby, ready to swoop in and demand explanation.

    Only, they weren't. The room was empty, the house silent. That was when she remembered, and the unimportant thing was definitely *Important* then.

    She rolled out of the couch, using the momentum to get to her feet rather than crash to the floor, though she couldn't do anything for the fluffy blanket as it pooled on the floor. To her relief, whoever had moved her to the couch hadn't taken anything but her toolbelt, which was draped across the armrest, easily found. Her phone was still in her jeans pocket. She dialed Scott, pinning the phone between ear and shoulder while she got the belt back on.

    Scott didn't answer.

    No big deal, Scott was bad at phones. He left them on silent or forgot to charge them or forgot them altogether. Even Allison had mentioned it, though she found it a lot cuter than Stiles did. Stiles hung up. She called Derek. Derek didn't answer either, but that made sense; she could hear his phone ringing in the other room. Not usual, but not unheard of. Derek may be a werewolf, but he was still only human. Sometimes he forgot his phone, it was fine.

    Her heart was trying to make a mad dash out of her throat when she called Isaac, pressing the screen too hard and not caring.

    Ever since Derek got him one, Isaac never went anywhere without his fancy ass phone. Mostly because he was addicted to his games, but also because he liked to be in contact with the pack. She closed her eyes, chanting near-silently to old gods in younger languages, too distracted to match them up.

    "Stiles?" Isaac gasped.

    "Isaac!" Stiles shouted. "Isaac, holy fuck, I'm so glad—never mind, I need to tell you, there's hunters!" She looked out the window. Not for any reason, not really. Habit at most.

    It was morning. Early morning. It had been almost noon when she and Jack sat down outback.

    "We know," Isaac wheezed, which was when she realized he was running, and running hard. More, he had *been*  running hard for a while. A werewolf could hit their running speed quickly, and hold it for a good half hour to an hour before they even started to sweat. (Stiles liked to research okay, don't judge.)

    Isaac sounded *winded,*  panting harshly into the phone, like she couldn't ever remember. Almost like Scott, pre-werewolf, when his asthma was flaring.

    Someone growled on the other end of the line, and she heard the indistinct noises of the phone being jostled. There was an echo, as she heard a huge, terrible sound from both the phone and outside. Someone in the woods was howling. None of the pack though; none of them howled like that, which was less a howl than a primordial roar. It wasn't near, to her or Isaac, which was a relief. It made her shudder anyway.

    "Stiles," Derek's familiar growl was a balm. She could have kissed him just then, for soothing her with a growl, for not being dead. He didn't sound as tired as Isaac, but she could hear the running wearing on him just the same. "Stay in the house. We'll take care of the hunters. You'll just get in—"

    "Do not!" she snapped before he could say something he couldn't take back. It wasn't just *don't say it.*  It was *don't set back the progress we've made*  and *don't insult me*  and *let me care, please.*  She didn't think he heard any of that though, and it hurt. It hurt like she hadn't let it hurt, when all she had for him was anger. Now she was letting him be something though, and more, she *couldn't* be angry just then, not when she was so relieved and scared.

    She lifted her hand, annoyed as she flicked away tears of anger and heartache from her lashes. "Listen. I was—asleep—" asleep sounded better than 'trapped in a coma caused by a magical data dump'—"because the sentry I set out was updating me. I need to tweak it obviously, but I saw the hunters. There's a lot of them, Derek. And some of them have magic." Magic is my specialty, she didn't say.

    The silence was long. Derek panted as he ran, quiet and controlled like an experienced athlete. Normally she couldn't even hear that though, and it made her throat constrict further.

    "Jack isn't a regular werewolf," Derek said between breaths. Stiles frowned in confusion at the non-segue. "He's—I don't know what. Maybe Peter does, but we got separated. I don't think he'll hurt you, but—avoid him, if you can. Don't get caught. Some hunters are worse about—about *pups.* And sympathizers."

    Of course they were. Because hunters.

    "I won't get caught," she promised, even though what she really wanted was to ask if anyone was hurt, and what the hell he meant about Jack, and a thousand other things. "Where are you running to?"

    "Away," Derek grunted. Gun fire burst on his end, he cussed, someone yelped, and the line went dead.

    Stiles pulled the phone away to stare at it. Derek had hung up, which seemed fair. Guns were distracting. He hadn't really given her much information though, just that the pack was separated, and being hunted. As she let the trickle of angry-scared tears run their course, she considered her options.

    She called Deaton.

    "Stiles, how can I help you?" he answered, cool as a cucumber. Calm while her pack was *running* and scared and maybe *dying.* She was glad she had called instead of driving over, because she definitely would have reacted poorly in person. As it was, she singed the couch a little, turning part of the warm brown dark and dull. Anger was really good for fire magic. Or bad. Depending on how you looked at it.

    "There are hunters in the woods," she said, mentally adding *again.* She liked Allison and her dad well enough now, but she was pretty firmly against all other hunters. Especially the ones she had seen through the sentry, the ones with magic pulsing in their veins, ones that smelled of hate and gunpowder and burnt things and determination (the sentry had translated the scents for her, which was weird but useful).

    "Do you know what family?" Deaton jumped straight into game mode, which saved the couch further damage; if Deaton had stayed calm, all bets were off. Someone was trying to hurt her pack; no one was allowed to be calm.

    "I haven't even started studying hunters yet so no," she growled into the phone. It had made sense, to focus on werewolves and magic, but now she really wished she had gone right to the hunters, logic be damned. "I think there's different groups though, and—some of them have magic?" She wasn't uncertain about that, she just wasn't sure it was helpful.

    Deaton was silent for a while, flipping through pages as he thought. Stiles paced, mentally going through the contents of her toolbelt. She had been steadily stocking it, and she had been feeling pretty good about it, but now it didn't seem like nearly enough.

    "Might be the Avaro family," he said finally. "Or...there's the Witchhunters and the Salques. They're all known to take in magicless witch children. Usually even the magicless kin can get witch allies, even to work with hunters. Witches are peculiar about family."

    Translation: like practically every other magic thing, witches got a little cray about anyone they considered theirs. Great. Did that help her? It didn't feel helpful.

    She resisted the urge to thank him in a pointedly sarcastic fashion for giving her the opportunity to greet them by name before they shot her. Deaton was terrible at sarcasm and would probably take her seriously. Ironically, he was pretty great at sass, but she couldn't think of anything sassy just then.

    "If it's the Avaro, they won't hurt another witch, and you might be able to talk them into leaving," Deaton continued after a too-long pause. "The Witchhunters will put you on trial. I don't have enough information about the Salques to predict them."

    Still not very helpful. At least he tried.

    "Okay, great, thank you," for very little. She rubbed her face, scowling hard. "Call if you find anything else. Please." Sometimes, with Deaton, it was the little things that got the most.

    "I'll be prepared for patients," Deaton replied, amiable. "Good luck, Stiles." She smothered a hysterical laugh and hung up the phone.

    Something roared again, and she tried not to think about the suspicion that the howl-roaring monster might be Jack. One thing at a time, right? First, she needed helpful information. Information like what "scholars" might have? Or maybe just some mercenaries. She wouldn't mind backup.

    She wasted a few minutes trying to find Jack's phone, finding instead an energy bar and two pennies. So much for that plan. Despite a knotted stomach, she ate the bar, forcing herself to stand still and focus on eating it. The bar was dry as sand and kind of tasted like cardboard. She poured a full glass of Isaac's weird not-milk, which tasted like coconut and was kind of addictive and made the bar tolerable.

    The food and drink helped immensely. Her mind cleared up a little, from the former jumble of thoughts into a slightly less disjointed jumble of thoughts. Which meant she could think with semi-clarity: no backup, and no useful information.

    Storm the castle?

    First, location, location, location. Dammit, *really*  not the time.

    She gave herself a shake, getting some measure of control over her nerves and the misfiring of her slightly wonky brain.

    She sat back down on the couch. Over the past few months, she had walked over a lot of the forest, and it had taught her that wandering aimlessly through the forest was always a last resort, particularly if you were a squishy little human with normal human senses. Unfortunately, it had been her only option whenever the werewolves were away. Now, though, she figured—maybe she had a few options. She was pretty sure no one in the pack was going to die if she took five more minutes, so long as those five minutes meant less time wandering around, getting lost.

    She reached for the sentry first, annoyed to find it was still running a circuit of the territory. She tried asking it if there were any werewolves nearby. When that didn't work, she dumped some magic on it and tried to force the information from it, earning herself a veritable slap in the face as the sentry threw some useless information at her (apparently there was a whole colony of red squirrels living in that part of the forest, and two perfect circles of mushrooms, and a really shiny old thing that might have been a car; it was too buried to say for sure.)

    Releasing the sentry, she shook out her head, clearing away metaphorical cotton in the form of useless scenic imagery. For a moment, she was convinced it had been hours again, that her useless attempt had gotten her friends killed while she was sitting on a couch, wrangling her own magic. But according to her phone, it had barely been two minutes. She had allotted five to her attempts with magic, so she settled back down.

    The sentry was a bust, but that wasn't a surprise. It was a new magic, made up on the fly. She shoved some more magic at it with a vague idea of making it more useful, thoughts too jumbled to be specific, and turned her attention elsewhere. There were other things, things from the books. Thanks to those books, she had a cosmetic mirror in her toolbelt, although she didn't have the requisite other objects. Just a mirror would do in a pinch, at short range.

    She had to fiddle some, but she managed to find some hair off the couch, a long blond strand. Erica was the best.

    *You'll just get in the way.*

    Derek's unfinished sentence rang through her head, sudden and loud. The mirror shattered.

    She knew where the pack was.

    She stood up, put her phone back away, and walked out.

    ...

    It is very difficult to run while pregnant. One might even say it was goddamn impossible.

    Stiles was so fucking glad that her doctor said she was having basically the easiest pregnancy possible, save for a couple dietary and medicinal restrictions which were really just standard procedure. Her life style would very much not support some of the pregnancy horror stories she'd heard.

    The doctor told her she was healthy as a horse though, and while not taking her adderall sucked (a lot) having enforced bed rest or something would be significantly worse. Especially since, well, baby or not, she just wouldn't have been able to stay in bed; if she did, the world would probably end in a fiery and/or zombie fashion.

    Thus, running. Or, okay. Running was a pretty generous description. Stiles wasn't quite big enough to waddle yet, even if she felt like a beached whale sometimes, but it really wasn't much more than a very quick walk. Almost a trot, but less bouncy. Bouncing was not her friend.

    Also, one very important fact: she officially hated the woods. Let it be known, she was so beyond tired of tripping through leaves and over sticks and stepping on rocks and all the other woodsy crap. Honestly, if she had been any less angry, she would have fallen flat on her face and, low-risk pregnancy or not, that probably wouldn't be good. But the power of her fury meant that every time she tripped, she just powered through, rolling with the proverbial punches, almost as good as when Derek was there to catch her.

    The roaring cut off at one point, which was worrisome. Or, if it wasn't Jack, awesome. But it was probably Jack, and probably sucked. She was pretty sure that, if Jack died while treating with them, his pack was going to kill them. If they survived the hunters, that is.

    Although, in all fairness, "killed by mercenary-scholar werewolves" was a pretty cool tombstome. She would rather not die though. If anyone cared about her preference at this point. Which they probably didn't.

    Since she was following her brand spanking new internal beacon towards the pack, she was glad the biggest obstacle she ran into was a couple fallen trees, which she just skirted around and carried on. It would have been confusing to have to go around something larger than a log while some weird magic part of her was pointing in one direction. Not to mention time consuming.

    Then it wasn't just her internal pack compass pointing the way, because suddenly she didn't really need it; she could hear them. *Screaming.*

    Stiles was a planner. She plotted and schemed and generally tried to be a clever, sneaky person when approaching problems.

    But her pack was screaming and all bets were off.

    When she scrambled out of the trees, heralded by all manner of twigs and leaves and whatnot snapping and crackling, she probably didn't look very impressive. They saw her coming too, since she put no effort into hiding and the forest was pretty thin there. The hunters and their magical cohorts started to laugh. Scott shouted her name, and Derek started snarling at her to run, you idiot, but Stiles just powered forward, eyes glued to the treacherous ground. It would be a very annoying time to trip.

    The whole pack was yelling, shouting at her and their captors when she heard, faintly, the twang of a crossbow. She finally stopped her forward momentum and looked up. The crossbow bolt hung in midair, faintly vibrating, like it had struck a solid surface with just enough give in it for it to catch.

    Just because all bets were off didn't mean Stiles threw planning out the window *entirely.*

    No one made a sound.

    Stiles looked at the one with the crossbow, a broad, muscular, middle-aged woman with short gray-blond hair and hard eyes. Stiles looked at the crossbow and suddenly she just *knew.*

    She was flooded with insight that she had no understanding for, and if she'd tried to think about it, she would have been overwhelmed. Like with the sentry, except there was nothing inherently *her*  about the bow to guide her back. But she didn't think.

    In that moment, she knew the crossbow was Allison's, a sturdy, powerful little weapon that had been with Allison for years and loved her. And she knew it would never again fire for anyone other than Allison. Allison wasn't strung up with the wolves, but now that she thought about it, she could sense more of the pack nearby, clustered together and unhappy. She made a note.

    Stiles nodded to the determined crossbow; she had to respect that sort of conviction. Then she pointed at one of the witches, the one that reeked of power, and made a sound that was a word but wasn't. She didn't know what the not-word was, but she knew what it meant: **Stop** .

    Every last one of the witches stopped. They stopped all the way, too, right down to the breath in their lungs and the beat of their hearts. They dropped, the only movement they could manage, and Stiles lowered her hand. The witches gasped as they were allowed to start again, one of them sobbing outright in relief at the release.

    Confident they wouldn't be a problem for a little while (being briefly dead was a rather distracting experience) Stiles turned to the hunters. Most of them were human, but two of them were something closer to magic. Witch children, probably, touched by magic but not the ability to use it. So, Deaton had probably been right. She swiped her hand at the witchkin, and the trees eagerly jumped to defend what was theirs.

    The trees couldn't throw up their roots or suddenly develop muscles in their branches like in her favorite movies and books, but one of the trees had been struck by lightning a long time ago, killing one of its huge limbs, and another tree was being drained by mistletoe.

    The branch snapped, and the mistletoe tree gave in early to the cycle, and the witchkin didn't react fast enough to get out of the way.

    They didn't die, even though the one struck by the whole tree screamed a lot, but they weren't getting up anytime soon. Left with only humans to defeat, the otherness retreated, leaving Stiles to her work.

    At which point she would have loved to run forward and grab some guns, spare herself using even more magic, but, well. Pregnant. Running; still so not happening.

    So instead she pulled, magic leaping eagerly to do her bidding. She drew a quick symbol in the air with her fingers, an old symbol for protection, and the sentry burst from the trees. No one heard or saw it coming; after all, it didn't exist out of sight, not really. It was just a magic construct instructed to patrol.

    The wolf was beautiful, and terrifying. It looked less like the lithe, pretty creature she had sent off days ago, and more like a wolf-monster, even if it was a rather beautiful monster. It opened its mouth, and its teeth were huge and sharp, and it was a lot bigger than when she made it, though it hadn't been bigger when it appeared. It hadn't seemed to grow, so much as just *be*  bigger.

    It went to the tree-felled two first at the jerk of Stiles's head, snatching up their guns and swallowing them whole. Even though Stiles could still see the trees though the former sentry, the guns disappeared when it closed its mouth. Magic.

    All of that had taken, at most, a minute. The hunters started shouting before her wolf showed up, and they were shooting wildly in their panic. Most shot at her, but the bullets were frozen in the air with the still quivering bolt. One of the stray bullets hit Jack, who grinned even though he was tied to a post and there was a bullet in him, and two others skimmed Erica's shoulder and Scott's thigh, but there was nothing she could do for them except what she was already doing.

    The hunters' lookouts tried to come at her from behind and above, as the wolf attacked the others, having disabled the witchkin. The hunters turned their guns on the wolf as it charged them.

    Stiles turned her attention to the stragglers. There were three, which was more than she'd expected but not more than she could handle, which was not something she would have confidently said just hours ago. But here she was, and, well, if she was hemorrhaging magic anyway.

    Fuck but she was going to have to drink so many health shakes, and sleep for like, two days. Maybe three.

    Her shield caught their arrows and bullets, and one of them was stupid enough to get close enough for her to just reach out and snatch his gun. Idiot. She followed up by throwing one of her prepared spells at him, pulling out one of the random junk items she'd been spelling in her spare time from her toolbelt. The items she would be using much more heavily in the future. The items that were *supposed* to keep her out of range, dammit.

    This particular hunter got taken down by a bottle cap doused in a tranquilizer spell. He dropped like a rock. Yay, the pre-spelling had worked! It would've sucked if it hadn't. She hadn't even had time to test her pre-spells and she'd been banking pretty fucking hard on them not failing. Thank fuck she was really good at this magic stuff.

    She dug around a little, grabbing one of a handful of marbles, all spelled with tranqs, to lob at the second one, who also dropped. The third one launched himself at her shield on some ill conceived assumption that the shield only stopped projectiles. Surprise, it did not. That would be weird.

    He collapsed at her feet and she stared at him, kind of baffled. What had his train of thought been? Who would make a spell that specific? She almost felt bad for him, spells were clearly not his forte. On the other hand, evil hunter bastard. Good riddance to bad people.

    She nudged him with her toe cautiously, just in case. He didn't move (he'd hit her shield really hard) so she left him there rather than waste a spell on him. She would have to spell a lot more random junk before the next siege, since those were apparently a thing that happened in her life now. Stiles was going to start packing with an army in mind, that was it.

    She dropped the hovering bullets and bolts as she moved forward, rather than waste magic keeping them up or dissolving them; she was already feeling her edge approaching, which didn't happen often. Stiles had a lot of magic, and she was only just starting to realize that her wellspring of magic was a little more than even Deaton suspected.

    With the shield and the witch spell, not to mention the trees and the crossbow, and all the sentry-related stuff, including the changes she'd made to it and dealing with its stupid data dump earlier, she was already pretty drained.

    On the other hand, she didn't have the time for that to matter just then.

    The pack had stopped yelling at her way back when she caught the first bolt, so she looked over at them to make sure they were alright. All of them were pretty distinctly alive, if a little worse for wear. They were bloody and maybe a little singed, but not in immediate peril, now that no one was shooting anymore. Stiles turned to the hunters. One thing at a time.

    "Make sure the witches stay down," she instructed the sentry, who had eaten the hunters' weapons and appeared to have gnawed on a few of the hunters too. It gave her a wolfy, happy grin, like it hadn't just mauled a few people and eaten their guns. Later, Stiles was going to have to think about her sentry and all its quirks. Much later, preferably. She could already sense the headache in the making.

    She got out the rest of the marbles, checking just in case to make sure they really were tranquilizers, then walked around just unceremoniously dropping them on the hunters, who didn't put up much of a fight. The sentry scared them pretty bad, apparently, which seemed understandable. Giant glowing wolf monster who eats guns was kind of alarming even when it wasn't specifically targeting you.

    A few of them tried to scramble away, or grab her, but throwing marbles a few really feet wasn't very hard, no matter how pregnant she was. Hell, it was easier than running.

    She went to the witches next, absently jostling her remaining marbles just to hear that marble clunk-chink noise. The wolf had one, the leader again, by the throat, but none of the others seemed to be putting up much fuss. One of them was actually unconscious, apparently a fainter, and the crying one had their face in the grass, just basking in the "not dead."

    "Do you think we should kill her?" Stiles asked the sentry. The wolf? Did it have a noun preference? Yeah, headache, definitely. She started to kneel, then grunted in irritation and stayed standing. Pregnancy sucked. Theoretically, she *could*  kneel but she wasn't so sure about standing back up.

    Also, why was she asking the weird sentry turned not-wolf she'd made about whether or not to kill someone? It felt right, but it sure sounded stupid.

    The wolf (it sounded better than sentry, Stiles decided) dropped the witch, grinning at her again. It didn't look like much of a monster anymore, back down to a proper wolf size with much less scary teeth. Stiles took that as a no, and eyed her remaining spells.

    She only had two tranq marbles left, but she also had two buttons which were spelled with paralysis. Paralysis wasn't pleasant, she honestly wasn't sure why she'd made paralysis spells instead of just more tranqs, presumably just to prove she could, but it would do in a pinch. She tossed a button at the unconscious witch, since he was out anyway, then walked over to the strongest which, who had a hand to her throat where the wolf's teeth had nicked her. She looked surprisingly aware that she was lucky she'd gotten off with only a knick so, point to her.

    "Hi, I'm going to knock you out, and we'll have a nice chat when you're awake and secure," Stiles said politely. What? It worked on Deaton. Plus, the woman was powerful, and even if she'd hurt Stiles's pack, she had been protecting her own pretty fiercely. Stiles could respect that. At least, now that her pack was basically safe.

    The woman's eyes went wide. "You're not going to kill us?" she asked, sounding a lot younger than Stiles expected. Stiles took another look at the witch. She was young and pretty, sure, but Stiles had just assumed it was magic keeping her healthy or whatever.

    On the other hand.

    She didn't look like a kid or anything, and she was definitely older than Stiles, but she was maybe not the evil sorceress Stiles had been sort of thinking of her as.

    Dammit. Stiles really hoped she could work something out with these witches, because she'd feel bad if they had to do something terrible and permanent to them. She glanced at her pack. Well, not *that*  bad, but a little bad for sure.

    Eh, maybe.

    "You didn't kill my pack," Stiles said, resisting the urge to glance at them again. It would just make her more angry, and she was too tired to handle rage well. She would much rather just be done with all this so she could go home and sleep. "I'm pretty pissed off, don't get me wrong. But I don't actually like killing, plus I'm pregnant and hormones make me extra gooey, so no. I'm not going to kill you. I'm going to have to paralyze one of you though, I didn't pack enough tranqs. Any suggestions for who would handle that best?"

    The witch looked shifty, like maybe she was thinking of attacking after all, but she kept glancing over at the wolf, who was sniffing around the other two conscious witches, surprisingly careful with its big paws, and then at Stiles's belly, and Stiles could see her deciding against attacking over and over again. Yay, witch with a conscious. Always nice. Maybe being polite actually was magic. Stranger things had happened.

    "Me," one of them groaned. Stiles looked over to see an older woman sprawled across the ground, the oldest of the witches by at least a few decades, judging by appearance, which Stiles still didn't have a lot of confidence in. She lifted her head and managed a smile that was a little wobbly, but warmer than Stiles would have expected from a witch who helped hunters torture her pack. Not a ringing endorsement, that. "I've been paralyzed before, *petit magi*, I don't mind a repeat."

    "Alrighty then," Stiles decided, sounding confident even though she was really confused and really looking forward to borrowing books from Jack. He'd promised and she was holding him to it. "Off to sleep with you then." She dropped the marble on the head witch, (hedge witch? Hedwig? There was a joke there somewhere) tossed the paralytic at the older witch, and the last tranq at the fourth witch. That done, she hurried over to her pack at last, the wolf at her side.

    "Holy shit," Scott rasped. He was probably the least damaged one, even if the amount of blood on his face suggested he'd been punched a few times, though he'd already healed. It looked like everyone was already healing actually, which meant no wolfsbane, which was excellent news. "When did you become so badass?"

    "I have always been a badass," Stiles said firmly.

    "She wolfsbaned Derek after the darach thing," Erica chimed in, being a helpful person. Stiles hadn't known anyone other than she and Derek knew that, actually. Huh.

    "She's a magi," Jack said, looking way too amused considering he was definitely the worst off of the wolves, and also he'd been revealed as...whatever he was. Someone would tell her later. He was the only one worse looking than Derek, and Derek looked pretty fucking battered. Jack looked like he went through a paper shredder though, which Stiles decided was proof that he was so bescarred because he got the shit beat out of him a lot. Possibly also something to do with whatever he was, she was holding off on judging that though. From what she'd seen and heard of his personality, he'd probably taunted the damn hunters, all while smiling charmingly. Fucking werewolves.

    "Dude, that still means nothing to us," Isaac said. He and the rest of the betas didn't look too bad off, actually. A little bloody, but nothing left for her to see where the blood came from.

    "It means that she is a badass," Jack said cheerfully. He definitely got hit too much. No one should be this cheerful when they still had electric clamps hooked onto them. Speaking of. He and, of course, Derek, because the universe hated Derek, were both hooked up to a noisily grumbling generator. Fortunately the clamps had to be manually activated, instead of just being a glorified live wire, since Stiles hadn't had the chance until now to unhook them, which she did immediately because all the no.

    Derek got electrocuted way too often. And Stiles kept having to see it. Kept seeing her wolves hurt and burning and screaming, and she could smell it, smell flesh charring, over and over, werewolf healing not even allowing the nerves to deaden.

    "Jack has an insanely high pain tolerance," Isaac announced for some reason. She barely registered the words as she tugged uselessly at the chains on Derek.

    "Stiles," Derek said, low and soft, and she finally looked at his face. He was covered in blood, probably his own, self sacrificing dickhead, and there were at least three deep stab wounds still healing on him, and she wanted to cry. Or maybe go kick the hunters in their stupid thick heads. Or maybe kick the hunters and cry. "Stiles. We're okay. Calm down."

    God damn her hormones, because as soon as he said okay, tears started to well up in her eyes. Scott let out a whine, which the other betas and Jack echoed, which was so not helpful.

    "I thought I was going to be too late," Stiles choked out. She clutched at Derek's arm with one hand, trying to blink away the tears so she could get the damn chains off. "I heard you screaming and I thought you were dead and I couldn't fucking run and I—" She pressed her hand over her mouth, not even noticing Derek's blood on it. Why couldn't the adrenaline have lasted a little longer, dammit?

    Something touched her leg and she jumped, jerking away. The warm touch followed her though, and she looked down to find the sentry leaning against her.

    The wolf rubbed against her hip, then padded silently forward. It took the chain gingerly in its mouth, careful of Derek's bloody skin, and bit down. The chain groaned as her wolf chewed on it, steadily crunching through it as it fell away from Derek, who dropped down into a crouch, avoiding Stiles when she automatically tried to catch him.

    "The, uh," she roughly rubbed away stupid tears, exhaustion creeping steadily in. "The others are that way. They're fine." She pointed, too tired to justify how she knew they were fine. They just were, dammit.

    "Stiles, wait here," Derek said, still talking in that soft way that Stiles didn't know what to do with. She nodded and, for once, did as asked. Her eyelids were drooping slightly. She was really tired.

    Derek and her wolf set the others free, getting their chains off and taking the clamps she'd missed off Derek and Jack. Not necessarily in that order, but Stiles wasn't really paying enough attention to say for sure. Boyd and Scott immediately left to go get the others.

    Once they were free, the wolf went and killed the generator in a very thorough fashion. Which is to say, it ate the generator. Stiles didn't know what made it tastier than the chains, which it hadn't eaten, but she didn't mind seeing the generator become very dead. It finished in short order, and loped back to Stiles, grinning a big, dumb puppy grin. Like Scott, actually, but fluffier.

    Stiles sniffed down at the wolf, who wagged its tail. "I'm gonna call you Fluffy," she decided, and scratched its ears. And, apparently it was corporeal now? Yay? Fuck it, yay.

    Derek, having established the pack was fine, returned to her as well. She started when he put his arm around her, leaning in to kiss the top of her head. Stiles sort of froze. This was the most affection he had showed her since—she didn't actually know. She was pretty sure he had been nice to her occasionally, over the past few months, when they weren't screaming or ignoring each other. It was hard to say though because her mind had just sort of...blanked.

    "Thanks for coming," he said, quiet and sincere, an apology hidden in the words for the phone call. He didn't need to say it for her to get it.

    It was completely ridiculous, but she started crying again, biting her lip and trying really hard to not cry. And failing. Today was just going to be a crying day. Derek picked her up, overly careful, not quite cradling her but not *not* cradling her either. She sort of squeak-yelped, grabbing at him instinctively.

    "Derek!" she protested, even though she was clutching his shoulder tight and leaning into his warmth. He was comfy, surprisingly soft considering the gratuitous muscles. No one could resist that, especially not Stiles.

    "Sorry, you'll have to shower when we get home," he said, and she hadn't even thought about the blood, come on, now she couldn't stop thinking about it.

    "Derek!" she said again, louder. "It's not that you're getting blood on me—" it was a little that he was getting blood on her, now that he'd gone and *mentioned* it, ew—"it's that it's *your* blood. I may be pregnant but I wasn't recently tortured! Put me down, you asshole, you are still actively bleeding!"

    He did not put her down. Instead he smiled at her, just this tiny little quirk of warmth, and she was stunned silent. Holy fuck. That smile could literally be weaponized. What.

    "He's getting it easy, Stiles," Jack told her, still inexplicably cheerful. "The rest of us are carrying back the prisoners." He slung one of the big hunters over his shoulder like—not even a sack of potatoes. Like a pillow. A pillow that made uncomfortable, squishy thumping noises when encountering Jack's back.

    "I don't think Jack is a real person," Stiles confided to Derek, too flabbergasted by everything to really think about it. Jack turned away to hide his laughter.

    Boyd and Scott returned just then with the humans of the pack, who were, in fact, fine, if also annoyed. Stiles waved at them, and got a little smile from Allison. Precious, terrifying Disney princess. With a newly very dedicated bow. Stiles should tell her about that. At some point. Some later kind of point.

    Her head slumped onto Derek's shoulder, and her eyes were starting to droop, even though she'd had every intention of walking home. Crying had somehow made her more tired than the magic overuse. Or maybe it was just the combo of magic overuse, adrenaline rush and fade, and the crying. Either way, no matter what Stiles's brain said, her body was done, and if someone was going to carry her to somewhere more comfortable to sleep, all the better.

    Actually, that was a compelling argument; Stiles would rather suffer being treated like an invalid than sleep on grass and twigs and rocks and bugs. Stiles wasn't scared of bugs or anything, but sleeping with them really did not appeal.

    "Can you handle them?" Derek asked, and nodded firmly as the wolves all called out or gestured in the affirmative. Except Jack, who just grinned like that was the funniest question and slung another person over his shoulder. The same shoulder.

    "I'm taking Stiles home then," Derek declared, entirely too okay with Jack's crazy. He had seemed so normal, he was a giant nerd, *what the fuck.*

    He started walking away, everyone waving them off as they gerry-rigged sleds and such to carry the hunters and witches, since they were slightly outnumbered and not everyone was Jack. Allison and Lydia were apparently staying behind too, one for helping out and giving moral support, and the other probably hoping to get a few stealth kicks in. Or maybe they were both staying for the latter. One of them had taken Allison's bow. Stiles just gave in and leaned into Derek more heavily. Fuck it. She was tired.

    "The tranq spells should all last about three hours on the hunters. Probably less on the witches," she called as they walked off. "Oh, the guy witch is paralyzed? And so's the uh, older one? That shouldn't last more than an hour. Also I'm pretty sure Fluffy ate all their guns." Important info imparted, she buried her face in Derek's shoulder and kept talking, but no one paid any more attention, not even Stiles.

    The walk was slow, though Stiles couldn't say she minded. After the baby was born, she should have Derek carry her all the time. He was comfy. She patted his shoulder, wondering why he'd just made that noise and what it meant.

    "Go to sleep, Stiles," he said, a little gruff, but she thought it was warm too. She glanced over to see that her wolf was padding along beside them, keeping pace even when there was something in the way. She saw it walk right through a tree. She blinked, and smooshed her face back into Derek.

    "Kay," she mumbled. She was really tired, and she trusted him to get her home safe. She was just thinking of telling him to call her dad when she fell asleep.

    ...

    Derek peered down at his strange, quiet armful. She looked soft when she slept. He had noticed it before, but usually he was dreading her waking up and being angry at him again. Right then, he just wanted to pet her hair and not worry about later.

    That was a great thing to think about *later,* he decided. He looked down at the wolf. It looked back at him, ears pricked curiously.

    "Welcome to the pack, Fluffy," he said, as seriously as he could, which was pretty serious actually; Fluffy protected Stiles well. Fluffy grinned at him, and walked through another tree. Feeling a little queasy, he looked ahead. Maybe Stiles could convince Fluffy to seem a little more normal, if it was going to be sticking around. It kind of stood out, what with the blueness and the faint glowing and being transparent. Subtle.

    Although, really, why would he expect anything less from Stiles? Safely away from everyone else, Stiles deep in sleep, only her new canine companion there to see, Derek nosed Stiles's cheek in a not-quite-kiss.

    Who was going to tell?

    ...he really hoped the thing couldn't talk. Probably should have thought of that first.

    ...

    The wolf followed its master. It knew who its master loved. It knew its master didn't like endings.

    It knew it was never meant to become what it had become.

    It knew who its master wanted to hurt, even when its master hadn't realized yet. That was why it hurt the ones who had hurt the pack, the ones who smelled like hate and blood and ozone. Its master didn't want to *end*  though. Its master was kind. Its master hadn't meant to let it think, but its master had not taken the thinking away. Its master had instead given it a *name.* That was why it knew its master was kind. It was young, but some things it knew without learning.

    So it followed its master. The master's pack had accepted it, but it would wait for its master, to tell it if it was pack. As well to tell it if the pack could be trusted.

    It watched the pack leader lay its master down, waiting until the master was settled before it launched itself up onto the bed. It circled, bared its teeth to the pack leader in warning. The pack leader took a step back, hands up but posture otherwise non-threatening. Satisfied, it settled down, chin on its master's hip, to wait and guard.

    ...

    Stiles woke up to a pair of glowing, blue-white eyes peering curiously at her. She squeaked, jerking back, and banged her head on the wall. The eyes turned out to belong to Fluffy, who started to nose at her worriedly while she muttered insults to herself, Fluffy, and headboards in general. She rubbed her poor head.

    "You definitely need to look less magical if you're planning on sticking around. Someone will totally notice you in town, and you're mine, no way I'm leaving you out here or in the woods," Stiles muttered, thinking aloud. She was awake now, time to start trying to think of some sort of solution for her new magical wolf friend. Her neighbors were pretty remarkably oblivious for the most part, but even old, legally blind Mrs. Holland would notice a glowing, blue, translucent wolf with a habit of walking through solid objects.

    Maybe if she made it smaller? Like, chihuahua sized? Or hamster, more like. She could carry it in her pocket.

    Yeah. That would be great, not ridiculous at all. And it was now capable of thought, or at least that was the vibe she was getting. She didn't really want to subject a thinking being to her pocket for an extended period of time, and she didn't even know if she *could*  shrink it. Just because it got bigger for fighting didn't mean it could be smaller for convenience.

    So, what, camouflage? Put a fucking sheet on it? Or—her train of thought derailed, stuttering as she watched the wolf.

    Fluffy stretched, a long, luxurious sort of stretch, and started to fade.

    She jerked upright (ow, fuck, she was not going to be able to do that shit pretty soon,) fear darting through her. She would rather keep it out in the woods than have it leave. It was just a magical structure but it was *her*  magical structure!

    Then she actually looked at it, and her mouth formed a soundless 'oh.' Only the glow was fading, not the wolf. In fact, the wolf seemed to be doing exactly the opposite.

    As she watched, the wolf changed into a regular looking wolf, and then changed some more until it was just a big, weird dog. The transformation wasn't anything like the ones she was used to, just a gradual shift that was more like watching someone put on makeup than the sometimes frankly gross transformations she had witnessed from the supernatural community.

    The wolf-no-longer gave her a doggy smile, sitting comfortably against her, leaning in so it was touching her from hip to shoulder. Stiles knew enough about dogs to think it looked a little like a German shepherd around the face, and a little like a lab or something, friendly and sweet with those big brown eyes, but its mouth definitely wasn't soft like a retriever. One ear was a perfect pointed half-cone, while the other looked like it was trying valiantly not to flop over and failing. There was some wolf to it still, with its huge paws and general size, and the teeth she glimpsed seemed a little bigger than the average Labrador or shepherd or any other dog she'd ever seen. But no one was going to naysay her if she just called it a mix of unknown origin, even if it started growling. Well. Hopefully.

    "I always wanted a dog," Stiles said, not for the first time, although usually she was just being offensive at Scott, or occasionally one of the other betas, or at her stomach to piss off Derek. Fluffy rolled onto its back and she rubbed its white belly while realizing it was definitely a he.

    "You don't have to eat now, do you?" Fluffy didn't answer, although he did wriggle very excitedly when she started scratching under his chin. She sort of nudged him with her magic, relieved to find he hadn't turned into an *actual*  dog. He was still just a construct of her magic, but he felt like more now. Definitely thinking. Sentient, as it were.

    "Sure, okay," she said, deciding not to deal with it just then. She was already making one sentient creature, she wasn't up to dealing with accidentally making another. Although, okay, she accidentally made the other one too. She had help with that one though. "Let's go get breakfast."

    It was only when she climbed out of Derek's bed that she realized she was in Derek's room.

    Upstairs.

    She immediately headed for the door, doing her best to dart out into the hall, which felt pretty ridiculous and was more of a stifled-grumbling, shuffling, sort of brisk walk. She was pregnant, and sore from her hasty rescue shenanigans; fast she was not.

    There were five doors other than Derek's on this side of the floor, because this house was stupidly huge. Two of them were open, showing off partially finished bedrooms that she was pretty sure were Erica's and one of the guest rooms, probably Jack's.

    She hurried to peek into the other rooms, finding Boyd's and Isaac's, the latter marked by a lacrosse set. She found a bathroom last and headed for the other side. She peeked into the first door, and froze.

    The room was painted a warm yellow on three walls, with the third wallpapered with an indistinct forest. There was a huge picture window with real plants hanging in front of delicate sheer curtains with lace trim. There were trailing vines and lush ferns all just barely low enough to reach the pot for watering, if she stretched. The furniture was all soft looking wood that looked handmade in the best way, and there was a rocking chair in the corner, and a crib against the forest wall. It was the perfect nursery, like someone had taken a poll of exactly what Stiles would want in a nursery, the dream nursery she hadn't even imagined.

    Stiles backed out, closing the door silently, whispering a spell to erase her scent from it (binge-researching werewolves had its uses). Let them have their surprise. She went back to the bathroom she'd found, smiling conspiratorially down at Fluffy. He grinned back.

    "You're not watching me pee," she told him, loudly, adding in a yawn for effect, which felt way too real considering she was pretty sure she'd slept more than eight hours. After sleeping for at least twelve. He planted his butt obediently. She left him in the hallway while she did in fact pee, and when she came back out he was eyeing Scott suspiciously. Scott grinned at her.

    "Derek said I have to carry you down the stairs," he said cheerfully. Stiles rolled her eyes. "Also, what the Hell?" He pointed at Fluffy, who woofed helpfully. Apparently he made noise now. Cool.

    "That's Fluffy," she said casually, ignoring the actual question in revenge for the upcoming carrying. "Do you have to carry him down too?"

    "Nah," he shrugged off, not even bothering to make excuses. She rolled her eyes some more, grumbling, but let him carry her down the stairs. She could smell bacon, it was important, more important than dignity. Fluffy trotted down ahead of them, running into the kitchen. Isaac shouted girlishly, either at something Fluffy did or just at Fluffy's general existence. Stiles hoped for the latter. It pleased her.

    Scott put her down at the base of the stairs. He stayed there with her while she caught her balance, taking the opportunity to touch her belly, which was allowed because Scott was her brother from another mother and all that. She punched his arm though. For posterity's sake.

    "Stiles!" Isaac shrieked. In fairness, it was more of a perfectly respectable shout, but it was a shriek in spirit. Erica was giggling maniacally, and Jack chimed in with one of his good natured laughs.

    "What?" she asked, widening her eyes in over exaggerated innocence as she and Scott joined them in the kitchen. The leather trio were seated around the kitchen table with breakfast in front of them. Normally they sat close together, but Isaac had scooted back from the table until he was almost against the wall, leaving a gap in their group.

    Boyd stoically drank his usual morning glass of orange juice (usual as in it was literally the exact same amount every morning, Stiles had measured it), expertly hiding his amusement. Erica was bent over Fluffy, scrubbing his ears and generally delighting over his existence, while still managing to mock Isaac without actually mocking him and yet outright laughing at him. It was a truly admirable skill.

    "What is that?" Isaac demanded, pointing at Fluffy.

    Derek, wearing only jeans because he was Derek, flipped a mildly burnt pancake onto a plate with three others. It made her heart do acrobatics, watching him being domestic like that. It made it too easy to imagine him being domestic all the time, standing in their kitchen, making pancakes in his boxers and laughing in the early morning light. It really didn't help when he walked over to her, holding out the pancake plate. Her heart was feeling the Cirque de Solei.

    "Here," he said, jiggling the plate just a little until she took it. "Eat some bacon and eggs too. There's syrup on the table." He went back to the stove. It wasn't a mind blowing interaction. It wasn't even the first time he'd made her breakfast. They were still putting on a show for Jack! No argument could make her heart stop doing silly things. So she went and joined the betas at the table, feeling absolutely twitterpated, and not minding it nearly as much as she should.

    Jack, leaning against the wall, eating his breakfast standing up, gave her a friendly nod and grin. "Morning, Stiles," he said. She smiled back at him, deciding that if she ignored her pink cheeks and fluttering heart long enough they would fuck off. Her life was complicated enough without a crush on her baby daddy, dammit.

    "Morning, Jack. Thank you for your help yesterday," she said, electing to further the "make the Pearl pack an ally" objective rather than answer Isaac. Besides, once she was seated, Fluffy pulled away from Erica and trotted over to stick his face in her lap, loyal as any lap dog.

    "My help?" Jack asked. He was already laughing again. He had probably laughed while being electrocuted. Guy kinda freaked her out. "I'll accept your thanks if I must, but only if you accept my gratitude. You really saved our bacon yesterday." Ironically, he demolished a piece of bacon to finish the sentence.

    "Seriously Stiles, that was awesome," Erica enthused.

    "You were so cool!" Scott added as he threw himself into a chair to start eating.

    "What the Hell is that," Isaac demanded.

    "How did you do all of that?" Derek asked, dumping some more pancakes on the plate on the table. For werewolves, all meals were best served buffet style. "You've gotten better."

    "Damn right I have," Stiles declared because damn right she had. "Fluffy is part of that. We can trade stories, but after breakfast. Bacon is sacred."

    "Its name is Fluffy," Isaac said in a horrified whisper. Stiles couldn't decide if it was a question or a statement, but there was bacon so she decided to assume it was a statement.

    She gave Fluffy a piece of bacon, confirming that he at least *could*  eat even if he didn't need to. He seemed to enjoy it too, so she gave him a little bit of everything. Syrup drenched scrambled eggs turned out to be his favorite, which, Stiles wasn't judging her magical wolf friend, except for how, yeah, she totally was.

    Derek eventually decided there was enough food and joined them at the table, while Jack continued to eat standing up, for reasons she did not want to know. For once, Stiles had enough information, at least for a couple hours. They ate in relative silence, out of respect for the bacon, save for the usual innocuous eating things, and a few anecdotes without much substance.

    All the dishes got left where they were for the time being while everyone migrated to the living room, sprawling and snuggling, perching, lounging, and leaning at their discretion.

    Stiles insisted, so the six of them told their story first. Apparently, Lydia and Allison got ambushed by hunters, but managed to get off an emergency text, and even though Stiles was unconscious, they all went out to find them, which Stiles approved of. They got ambushed though, and wound up on the run.

    Jack helpfully shared, with far too much cheer, than he was a more German werewolf, and he went into what he called a "rend" when "sufficiently upset." Werewolf Hulk. Cool.

    They still managed to catch them though, although apparently Jack did some damage, and they spent some time under the usual tender care of hunters until Stiles showed up.

    In return, Stiles told them about finding them, backtracking to tell them about learning the shield spell (bastardized from a spell in one of Deaton's books), summarizing the weird experience with Allison's bow, the witches, and the witch related. She backtracked again to explain spelling the marbles and junk, then backtracked some more to explain Fluffy, previously the wolf, and ended with Fluffy's change earlier.

    "Ah!" Jack exclaimed, beaming at them. Stiles was past *starting*  to find his constant good cheer a little creepy. He was charming, but there was still blood on him, he should not be that happy. Also he'd had plenty of time to wash off the blood and actually seemed to have forgotten about it completely, and Stiles was pretty fucking sure he wasn't just a nerdy werewolf with a terrifying mate. Werewolf Hulk.

    "I think you accidentally made him your familiar," he said, looking ecstatic.

    Stiles stared at him. As did everyone else, for that matter.

    "Books," Stiles declared. "I really need to read those books." Jack laughed. Stiles very maturely didn't throw a pillow at his stupid, happy face, suddenly extra annoyed by the fact that he was beautiful and happy and perfect and he didn't even make her heart thump. No, she had to go getting all aflutter exclusively over *Sourwolf.*  She clearly had questionable taste.

    "Any word on their motives?" Stiles asked, then remembered some of them weren't your average, every day hunters, and added, "How are we holding the witches?" but either no one heard that part or just didn't feel like answering.

    "They haven't said anything useful," Derek growled, red flickering in his eyes. "Just the usual insults."H

    "We haven't questioned the witches though," Scott chimed in, offering Fluffy his hand to sniff.

    "He's not actually a dog, Scott," Stiles sighed, surprisingly defensive over her sentient wolf. "Fluffy, this is Scott, he's basically my brother. Scott, Fluffy. Apparently he's my familiar. Play nice."

    Fluffy licked Scott's face, and some part of Stiles just knew he'd been feeling cautious, and was now feeling relieved. Because that wasn't weird.

    Except actually, it kind of wasn't. It hasn't occurred to her before, but now that she was sensing a bit of Fluffy, it seemed weirder that she wouldn't be. Magic.

    "We figured we should wait for you," Lydia said, apparently deciding to ignore the wolf in the room. "Since you're kind of our resident magic expert."

    "Jack could probably have managed," Stiles said instead of, thank fuck, because questioning the witches felt like her responsibility. Lydia shrugged and didn't deign to answer.

    "Well, no time like the present, right?" Stiles asked rhetorically after a moment's thought. She sort of hop-slid out of the chair, Fluffy immediately abandoning Scott to glue himself to her hip again. Apparently that was going to be a thing. Stiles...didn't really mind.

    Derek sighed. Jack grinned. Erica perked up, while Boyd drained the rest of his orange juice. Which was when Stiles realized some people were missing. She was used to breakfast just being her and Derek and the leather trio though, the only ones to frequent the house so much.

    "Ally's down guarding them with Jackson," Scott shared helpfully. "The witches are all kind of...stuffed…into one...cell? Jack carved some symbols on it, and they haven't used any magic so far, but we figured a guard was a good plan." Oh hey, an answer! Best bro.

    Stiles gave them a thumbs up. "Good job, gang. Scoobie Snacks for everyone," she said encouragingly. She was genuinely pretty impressed though. And definitely going to get so many books from Jack. So many. Like, 'all of the books were belong to Stiles,' many.

    "Come on Fluffy, let's go scare some witches. Witches and bitches," she said, sliding out of the chair and heading for the stairs to the basement, Fluffy on her heels, along with Derek, Jack, and Scott; the rest of the pack followed only slightly less closely. She just ignored when Derek growled at her. She had a lot of practice with that.

    Fluffy was chest-high instead of hip-high when they walked into the basement, which was admittedly an odd place. They'd had the contractors install plumbing and finish all the basics, but they'd had to do the sketchy stuff themselves, like starting on what was going to be three cells to hold moon-crazed or omega werewolves. They were each about the size of a small, perfectly square bedroom, and featured a floor toilet they'd had to order special (harder to rip out) and nothing else. There was only one finished, because they could only order so many iron bars at one time without being potentially suspicious, and Stiles had no idea who had actually built it or when.

    Convenient that they had it though.

    The regular hunters, including the witchkin, were all chained to the walls in a somewhat haphazard but undeniably effective way. And, as Scott had said, all the ones with magic were stuffed into the cell, which was emphatically not big enough for them. Stiles felt a little bad that they'd probably had to negotiate using the toilet at least once, but on the other hand, they were hunters, in her territory, and they'd fucked with her pack.

    She had decided not to kill them and she didn't actually want to hurt them either, but she was still a wee bit ticked the fuck off.

    "First question, and I'm really not feeling patient so I expect all my questions to be answered fucking fast, and remember; we can tell if you lie. What family are you?" She focused on the witches, since they were all conveniently squished together for glaring at en masse.

    The witches exchanged glances. Then the leader separated herself as best she could from the others, moving closer to the bars. She bowed to Stiles. Not deeply, but still, bowing. Weird.

    "I am Cecilia Willow. This is my coven. We are a mix of families, but I believe it is not our families you are interested in," she said. She sounded more mature, in control, than when Stiles had her by the (semi-literal) throat in the woods.

    "I might want to know both, actually, but let's start with the hunter families," Stiles said, and Fluffy bared his teeth. They were very nice teeth. His eyes, she noticed absently, were back to that white-blue of his incorporeal form, though at least they still had pupils. He looked more like a wolf again too. Apparently Fluffy was going to be her bad cop.

    Not that Stiles was being very good cop, honestly.

    "I speak for the Salques family," one of the hunters spoke up. Stiles looked over to find the woman who had tried to shoot her with Allison's bow, looking grimly determined. One of the witchkin, the one who took a tree to his everything, was passed out with his head in her lap.

    "And the rest?" Stiles pressed on a hunch. The Salques woman's lips tightened. She answered anyway.

    "Allies who wanted to follow the rumors of Beacon Hills being out of control," she said. "The Dahl and the Valencia families both sanctioned their assisting us."

    Only Salques meant anything to her, and that only thanks to her call to Deaton.

    "Alright. Why did you all come to Beacon Hills? This is Hale territory, under the eye of the Argent matriarch," Stiles asked. Because sure, she didn't like hunters, but they had rules, even if they were remarkably bad at following them.

    The interrogation continued in that fashion. By silent agreement, the pack ceded most of it to her (and Fluffy) with occasional growls from Derek, and significant looming from everyone except Lydia--and oddly, Jack, who managed to look affable and relaxed while exuding an air of menace. Stiles honestly just never wanted to know.

    What it boiled down to was: the hunters heard there was an abnormally strong young pack in Beacon Hills. This struck them as inherently suspicious. Upon seeing the magic Stiles had laid in the woods, they decided that was bad and meant the pack was up to some shady shit. And instead of asking about it, they figured better safe than sorry and went about with the whole torturing and interrogating with intention to murder thing.

    They defended themselves with protests of Derek and the betas being "uncooperative" and Jack being what amounted to weird and scary. Stiles wasn't exactly impressed by the attempt.

    Also she had a headache.

    "Hey Ally," she said, turning to look at the only pack approved hunter. Allison turned to look at her as well, with the expression of someone who knew what was coming and wasn't thrilled by it.

    "Hunters," Stiles said. Allison sighed.

    "My problem," she agreed. Stiles beamed. Awesome. She officially loved making shit someone else's problem.

    "Cool. While you guys deal with that, I'm gonna go play frisbee with Fluffy."

   ...

    Jack left early the next morning with promises to return soon, after a call from his wife that involved a lot of shouting in Spanish and Jack looking far too happy about it. The pack saw him off at the treeline, then broke up to go about their usual lives. Stiles stopped Derek though, determination a buzz under her skin.

    "Derek wait," she said, careful not to sound commanding or mad. "Can we talk?" Derek looked at her, so tense he was almost vibrating. He looked away, and she knew he was about to make an excuse, so she took a step towards him, letting out a soft, "Please."

    Derek stared away for a long moment that left her feeling small and sad. But in the end he turned and gave her his full attention, and she smiled a little, grateful. The smile fell away. She took a deep breath.

    "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm sorry I threw aconite at you. I know Jennifer wasn't really your fault. And I'm sorry I've been--awful. I'm sorry I've said so many shitty things. You didn't deserve them." Derek looked cornered. His fingers twitched, and for a second she thought he was just going to run away. Then he nodded, once, and met her gaze head on again.

    "I'm sorry too, Stiles," he said. Happiness flooded her like a tsunami of warmth. She beamed at him, and when he smiled back, just a little, her grin got even brighter. Stiles stuck out her hand.

    "Hi," she said. "I really like you. Friends?" Derek took her hand and shook it, but didn't let go right away, just held it, his hand big and warm around hers.

    "Friends," he agreed.