Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It's strange, sometimes, Peter thinks, the way that things work out.

He's standing in the parking lot, holding his breath as he watches Derek and Cora drive off for a second time. His stomach twists gently as he sees brake lights, but it's only Derek switching lanes before taking a side street toward the freeway. They don't come back like he fears, to stop him before he's even really started. Returning heroes triumphant as they catch the villain in the third act. Not that he's a villain. He prefers to think of himself as more of a Byronic Hero.

Jennifer doesn't seem at all shocked to see him, which swells Peter's ego a little. Not that he needs the stroke, but it's always nice to be appreciated. Validated. To know that the people who matter (well, mattered) still view you as a threat. As someone to be counted. He kills her not because he's afraid of her, but because he doesn't really want the competition. He kills her for her power. His claws dig into her spine as she lay dying, gasping scorn at him in her last breaths. He takes everything she knows; the secret names and spells, the summonings and the art. The dark rituals and paths to true power. These things always comes with a price, but it's a price Peter is more than willing to pay.

He kills her for Derek, because despite what anyone else thinks, Peter loves his family more than anything else.

They say that fire cleanses, and in a way it does. It destroys everything, eradicating the past and obliterating responsibility. Fire is sympathetic and fire is sad, secret looks. Fire is whispers when they think he can't hear, and fire is righteous indignation. Fire is all the excuse Peter needs, because fire is what took everything from him. His family, his home, his world, his sanity. Fire destroys, but fire can also create.

The flickering flames of candles shine in his blue-glass eyes. While Derek has always shied away from the heat, ever since that day, Peter finds he can't get enough of it. He was cold for too long. Cold and dead and crawling with insects, encased in filth. Maybe he still is. Maybe the worms got to his brain, but if they ate any holes it was nothing he needed. He still feels sharp and bright, deadly; like the flames.

But enough allegory and metaphor.

It's been several days since Derek and Cora left and no one has really bothered with Peter. Isaac comes sniffing around twice, and sleeps on the couch both nights. Peter doesn't stay the second night, when Isaac stretches out on the blue, threadbare couch and sleeps his fitful sleep. He doesn't want to sit awake, listening to the boy's nightmares. Isaac is a strange young man, full of rage and loathing and the desire to be a better person than his father. But Isaac doesn't fit into Scott's mold, and one day he'll realize that. He has too much fury inside of him and it'll find its way to the surface eventually.

Scott and Stiles arrive together on the fourth day. Scott looks hangdog and a little guilty, but there isn't much else there. Scott wears everything on his face and is a terrible liar, and to say that he and Derek often butted heads is a tremendous understatement. No doubt a part of Scott is relieved that the former alpha's gone, and maybe he hopes things will go back to normal.

Scott is too idealistic for his own good and nothing will ever be normal for him again. He's a true alpha now, and he's been touched by death, magic, and the temptation for dangerous power and the kill. There's a darkness inside Scott now that will change him irrevocably, and Peter is interested in seeing how that plays out.

He holds a very small pocket of pride in his chest for Scott. He doesn't touch it often, but when he does he smiles a little, and it's genuine. I made that, he thinks, and no one will ever be able to convince him otherwise.

Stiles is a different animal altogether.

Where Scott is a wolf, proud and puffed-up and and full of himself, Stiles is a coyote, lean and cunning and cautious. He follows behind the pack and bites at the ankles of the weak, taking the scraps offered to him with a by your leave. He never tries to take what isn't his because he fears the punishing bite. He fears being cast out. But when Stiles snaps, he bites back sharp and goes immediately for the hurt. It's kind of pretty to watch, Peter thinks.

Peter wonders what will happen when Scott finally comprehends the true meaning of pack and gives him the inevitable ultimatum; take the bite or take it on the heel. Knowing Stiles like Peter likes to think he does, the kid will remain stubbornly human as long as possible, if only out of spite.

Peter is perched at the top of the stairs, watching as the boys wander aimlessly through the vast loft space. The walls of concrete and brick seem miles apart, deepened by contrasting shadows. It's funny, but without Derek's intense gravity and near palpable brooding, even Peter has to admit that this box feels cold. Scott and Stiles try to ignore Peter, but he pays them no similar respect. His eyes tag along on the tops of their heads, their shoulders, their lips as they speak. The boys move apart and come together a few times, whispering in hushed tones like they think he can't hear them.

“We need to do something about him,” Scott says, his shoulders a little tense with that do-gooding hunch. Peter's pretty sure if Scott could get away with standing up straight with his arms akimbo like Superman, he would. One of them smells like artificial grapes, and he wants to say it's Scott because he's pretty certain that's what Melissa's hairspray smelled like. Stiles smells like Cool Ranch Doritos, chemical sweat, and the way breath smells after an orgasm.

“Why?” Stiles counters, spreading his hands as he speaks a bit louder than Scott. “Peter's a grown-up. An adult. An older man of sarcastically unspecified age and very indeterminate scruples. It's not like he needs to be taken care of.” Peter smiles slyly at the kid's balls. Always challenging when he was certain he could get away with it.

“Your concern for me is heartening, Scott,” Peter says sardonically, reaching up to grasp the metal railings on either side as he pulls himself to his feet. “But Stiles is right, I don't need a handler. All I actually need,” he continues as he takes the stairs one by one, in no hurry to get anywhere in particular. “Is just your permission to stay, if you'll let me.”

When he reaches the ground floor he stops, clasping his hands behind his back and tilting his head slightly. His gaze grabs Scott's and holds it. Scott is only sixteen, and despite his brand new status shift and his new-found sense of duty and honor, he's no match for a man with as many years behind him as Peter. His subtle intimidation works perfectly, because Scott nods and gives Peter an almost sympathetic look, promising to come by and visit when he can because Peter had helped them out so much, and without him... blah blah blah.

Peter tunes Scott out. He's distracted by Stiles rolling his eyes and huffing softly, slender arms folding over his slowly broadening chest. Stiles doesn't want him in Beacon Hills because Stiles doesn't really want any of them here, because werewolves are what turned his world upside down. Sometimes Stiles doesn't even want Scott here. But it's not Scott's fault he is what he is, it's Peter's. Everyone needs a scapegoat.

By the time they leave, Peter's certain he has to do it tonight. He's tried of waiting, tired of maneuvering, and tired of being tired. He craves what he can only barely recall in the muddles of his memories, because being dead really does a number on the mind. But he remembers that he was once strong and fast; completely tapped into something that Derek will never let himself touch and Scott couldn't comprehend in his wildest dreams.

Peter doesn't want Scott's alpha anymore, and if Derek hadn't given his up, Peter wouldn't want his, either. Now Peter wants Deucalion's. He wants the demon wolf, because fuck poetry; he wants the song.

But in order to achieve this, he's going to need a little help.

Imagine what it would feel like to always have someone standing right behind you. Close enough to feel their electricity, maybe even the heat of their body. Close enough to feel the occasional strand of hair tickling your arm or the back of your neck. But no matter where you move or how fast you turn, you can't ever grab them. You'll catch a random glimpse of something out of the corner of your eye, but nothing more than a shadow, like some fucked up Peter Pan.

You feel that presence all the time. It's usually so faint you can ignore it, or maybe it's even a little comforting. But sometimes it's so overwhelming that it drowns you like a hot, wet blanket. Like what it must feel like to have someone breathing over your mouth and nose while you struggle, and all your screams get swallowed up by that maw.

That's what it feels like to get possessed by a demon, and that's what happens to Stiles in the dirty, dark parking lot outside of the loft. Amidst the few long-abandoned cars and the streetlight that flickers on and off whenever it feels like it, Stiles ceases to be Stiles and becomes something a little more. Or maybe a little less. Or maybe now he's just right.

Stiles – he'll call himself that for the sake of convenience – kicks at a few chunks of uprooted asphalt with the toe of his Converse before turning a grin upwards, staring at the huge warehouse windows above. The light is dim, but he can hear the hissing-pop of candle flames from here. He can taste the faint metallic of pewter and blood in the back of his throat. He can smell the non-scent of the pure beeswax, and the sharp tang of herbs and what's probably semen. Basic ritual crap. He's temped to turn and walk away because the bubbling urge to go and cause trouble is near distracting, but he has to follow the rules.

Most people think demons just sow chaos, but that isn’t true. Monsters are chaotic. It's just that sometimes demons like to truck with monsters. They're fun to watch. Fun to spin up tight and elbow into groups of unsuspecting sheep. But demons like order and laws more than anyone else, because if you give a man enough words, he'll eventually choke on them. The demon is eager to hear Peter's words. Peter is a monster with manners, a monster with intelligence. A monster who dipped a toe into hell and decided it was a little too hot for him.

Stiles almost takes the stairs. He wants to stretch these legs and give them a run, but he doesn't want to rouse suspicions. So he'll take the elevator, which is fine, because the thing is old and has a heavy gate, and creaks and groans like a death trap. The demon smiles, because it's the little things, really.

He lifts a hand and watches his long, knobbly-knuckled fingers curl into a loose fist, before knocking on the door three times. He tries to force himself to stop smiling, because this kid definitely wouldn't be smiling if he had to come back here again tonight. Let's see, why was he back? Does he need to talk about something? What's a good excuse? Oh, right, he forgot his backpack, which explains why he came back after dropping off Scott.

But in all honesty, who fucking cares. It's just a formality, anyway. The demon knows that Peter knows that he's there.

“It's me, Peter,” Stiles calls out, trying to adopt an annoyed tone. “I forgot my backpack.”

The door slides open and the demon tries not to burst into laughter at Peter's suspicious face. He should have known the werewolf would sniff him out. He hops down the steps and strides around the space, feet eating up floor as he walks around, eyes quick and darting like he's never been here before. He maps it in his mind, matching up the physical with everything he's minding from Stiles's mind. He so distracted, in fact, that he walks right over the huge throw rug that wasn't there earlier in the evening.

“Whoa,” Stiles says, immediately coming to a stop at the edge of the rug. He and Peter exchange confused looks before realization hits the demon. “Oh, because–” Stiles gestures at Peter and chuckles. “Because you brought me here. So, naturally...” Stiles gestures to the rug beneath his feet, or more appropriately at the large summoning and binding circle hidden beneath it. Peter's eyebrows lift and he takes a step back, putting his hands on his hips with a heavy sigh as the demon keeps talking.

"Wow, I feel like such a dumbass for walking right into that trap,” the demon says, smacking himself dramatically on the forehead. “I didn't even see your disgusting altar, all covered in guts and smelly plants and...” He pauses, narrowing his eyes and peering. “Hey, did you jack off into that cup?" He presses his hands to his heart and sighs, feigning a swoon. "Aww, baby, it's like you know exactly what I like."

“Shit,” Peter sighs, shoulders sagging as his arms fall to hang heavy at his sides. “You've got to be kidding me. What the hell did I do wrong?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says as he walks the edge of the rug, each foot stepping precisely in front of the other like he's on a tightrope. “You got me here. Isn't that what you wanted? Nice choice with the kid, by the way. Good age, he's smart, and he's got a lot of bad shit going on upstairs. I like that.” He smiles. “He's all limbs, too. Skinny, but not weak. I don't like 'em too big. I'm not really the smash and grab type, you know? I prefer full infiltration; sneaky business and thievery. If this was a D&D game, I would totally be the rogue-”

“You were supposed to be for me,” Peter cuts him off flatly. His eyes are sharp with annoyance and hindrance, and from the way his hands keep flexing the claws away, the demon can tell that this is a monster who isn't used to making mistakes. Not mistakes he can't immediately turn to his advantage, in any case.

“Sorry, bro,” he says. He comes to a stop on the rug nearest Peter, hands slipping inside the pockets of his jeans as he adopts a casual stance. He tilts his head back just slightly so he can peer down his nose at the werewolf. “I don't generally ride monsters. At least not in the way you're thinking,” he quirks a lip as Peter's eyebrows lift. Not used to hearing shit like that coming out from between these lips, apparently. “But hey, I'm still here, so maybe we can work something out? I obviously have something you want, or you wouldn't have dialed me up. So let's hear the pitch. I'm completely open to negotiation.” He grins.

“No doubt,” Peter grits his teeth and rolls his eyes slightly before walking back over to his laptop, which is set up a few feet away from the altar. Oh, well, that's probably where he went wrong. As much as these idealistic modern practitioners liked to preach, magic is not just science that hasn't been proven yet, and science is not just magic that humans have harnessed. The two borrow from each other quite extensively, but really, it's like peanut butter and chocolate. Two great tastes that taste great together, but they're obviously not the same thing.

“Next time, maybe lower yourself to cracking open an old, dusty tome.” The demon smirks, dropping down into a comfortable crouch as he watches Peter. “I mean, there's a reason it's an archetype and not just a stereotype.” He admires the strength of Peter's build, the bulk, and likes the fact that he's not too tall. Really tall people unnerve him, plus they're more likely to get cancer, so what's the point? Always have friends who are shorter than you, because then at least you'll have someone to go to your funeral.

Peter shuts his laptop with a resounding click. “Seriously?” Peter asks, looking like he's about to throw the computer. It occurs to the demon that Peter had likely struggled with the decision of laptop over book, which is kind of fucking funny, now. The irony. “This got screwed up because of perceptive reality?”

The demon shrugs and gives Peter a fake sympathetic smile. “Sometimes it's not all about you, buddy. Other people have been summoning demons a lot longer than you've been around. There are rules and forms, so maybe less laptops next time. How about a little veneration for the old ways? If you're going to scream my name while yanking your dick, the least you can do is respect me in the morning.” Peter laughs, but the sound is anything but amused. It's a humorless laugh, a little bitter, and maybe even a little dramatic, but the demon can't fault anyone for indulging in a little bit of drama every now and then. The world is merely a stage, right? At least according to Shakespeare.

"Hey, don't despair, man," the demon says with a wink. "Just listen to my idea."

"Oh, no doubt this will be brilliant," Peter retorts. "Demons are always so quick to be generous and helpful." He turns to straddle his chair, arms folded over the back as he gives the demon his full attention. The jut of his scruffy chin is obstinate, almost childish. It's kind of fucking cute on this full-grown monster.

"What the hell did you think was going to happen here, man?" the demon asks, giving Peter a blank, flat look. In the moment between blinks of those long-lashed eyelids, Stiles's sclera cloud and fill with inky blackness, before it cannibalizes the amber of his irises. If Peter had even the slightest doubt before, there's really just no faking this. “Tiger can't change its stripes, demons can't not make deals and contracts, and Peter Hale can't not be a megalomaniacal, power-hungry control freak,” the demon continues, spreading his hand and giving a little shrug. “I got what you want, so let's talk terms. First things first; you let me out of this circle and I'll tell you everything you want to know about Deucalion's wolf.”

That catches Peter's interest, as evidenced by the tilt of his head, the narrowing of his eyes, and way his fingers drum on the chair-back. “And then?” Peter asks.

Stiles leans against the invisible barrier keeping him caged, hands jammed into his pockets. “And then we negotiate for the long term.” The demon smiles again, only this time there's nothing sweet or innocent about it. His cheeks seem to angle and hollow, and there's the most off-putting hint of sharpness to his perfectly white teeth.

Peter is still for a few breaths as they both listen to the steady beating of each others' hearts. Calm breathing and slow pulses are the win of the day, and much to Peter's chagrin it looks like the demon is going to win round one. But that's okay, because if Peter plays nice and strikes a bargain, then the demon will make sure everyone wins in the end. Well, everyone on their side, anyway.

When Peter crouches down next to the rug and lifts the edge, he glances up just long enough to make eye contact with the demon as he extends a finger, pushing out a hard, sharp claw. At the sight of that, a rather humiliating, yet sickly-hot chill goes through the meat's body. The demon lowers himself to a crouch, as well. His smile is sweet like things that are rotten as he watches Peter scratch the paint of the circle broken with a claw, releasing the magic and the demon inside.

“How much do you actually know about your origin story?” the demon wearing Stiles's face asks. He takes a very pointed step over the broken paint line, his foot landing outside of the circle that had previously kept Peter safe. But fuck safe, Peter thinks. Playing things careful never got anyone anywhere.

“Everything there is to know,” Peter says as he folds his arms, the purse to his lips pure arrogance.

“I'm not talking about all of that stupid Greek crap,” the demon says flippantly as he wanders over to Peter's makeshift altar and starts touching things. “I'm talking about the magic.” He trails a finger along the black athame, picks up the incense holder and smells it, and then moves to one of the beeswax candles, snuffing the flame out between two tapered fingers. “The wolf spirits. The deals and pacts that were struck to keep this bloodline potent for generations to come, because Lycan turned his curse into what he believed to be a blessing.”

The demon turns to lean against the table, arms folding and eyes pinning Peter where he sits. “When a baby in your bloodline is conceived, the soul of that baby is weighed, and if it's judged to be worthy, a wolf spirit is attached to it. If not, then it remains human. When you offer someone the bite, the wolf spirit is listening and judging the human's soul, and whether the bite turns them or kills them depends on whether the wolf spirit accepts them or not.” The demon shrugs. “Simple shit, but not generally known.”

Peter takes hold of the chair-back and leans away from it, stretching out his arms and cracking his spine as he heaves a long, deep sigh. That was definitely something he didn't know, but he also didn't know if he could trust the demon.

“Oh, for fuck's sake, will you stop agonizing?” the demon complains, rolling his eyes as he dips a finger into the pewter bowl that holds the self-sacrifice of blood and semen. He pulls it out, coated in red and pearl, before absentmindedly sticking it in his mouth. Peter makes a face before he can stop himself and pushes up to his feet, pacing over toward the stairs. He rubs his hands briefly over his face, trying to center himself or ground himself, or whatever stupid yoga crap he heard on T.V. the other day was, before turning back to face the demon, only to see him idly rubbing a hand over the crotch of his jeans.

Peter blinks and arches an eyebrow.

“What?” the demon asks, looking genuinely confused before following Peter's pointed glance down. “Oh.” He laughs and looks back up, not bothering to stop running the heel of his hand over his own dick “Did I forget to tell you? This kid has a really strange boner for you. He feels crazy ashamed and grossed-out by it, but hey, I say good for him. Nothing wrong with being a slave to your Id, right Peter?” he cajoles.

Peter rolls his eyes and tightens his jaw. He suddenly wonders if Stiles has always been attractive in that vaguely obnoxious, deer-like way, or if it's just the demon's words coming out of his mouth. Because it's a pretty mouth and dirty words, and that combination is always just barely on the bad side of enticing.

“Story time,” Peter says, his voice gruff and hard, like he's trying to be the boss, but he knows that's probably a laughable assumption.

“Give me a hand-job,” the demon demands just as plainly and simply as asking for a glass of water.

“What?” Peter scoffs. “No.” He looks at the demon like he's lost his mind, which is maybe redundant. It would be presumptuous to assume that all demons are insane, he supposes. But a hand-job? Seriously?

“Yes.” The word comes out of Stiles's mouth with an almost sensual twist of his lips. “Stick your hand in my jeans and jerk me off.” Peter doesn't think he's ever seen such an oddly arousing dichotomy in his life as those words coupled with that face. “You get me off and I'll tell you everything you want to know about Deucalion.” The demon smirks as Peter's eyes narrow.

“Or, how about this alternative,” Peter says as he steps up to match the demon's game of chicken. “I pick you up, throw you back on the rug, re-seal the circle, and then send you right back to hell. Or you can tell me everything you know about Deucalion.”

The demon grins darkly. “Or,” he drawls, closing the distance between them until the zipper of his hoodie's brushing the buttons of Peter's henley. “I let you pick me up, you throw me on the rug, but then instead of a handy, you fuck me. Then I'll tell you most of what I know about Deucalion.” The demon reaches up suddenly and prods his index finger at Peter's lips, pushing the slim digit into his mouth before Peter has a chance to react. The demon swipes the pad of his finger quickly over Peter's tongue before pulling his finger out and sticking it right into his own mouth, sucking on it with innocent eyes widening gamely at the older man.

Peter is both annoyed and aroused, and annoyed that he is aroused.

“Most of what you know?” Peter repeats flatly. He reaches up and absently wipes at his own lower lip with a knuckle, his eyes glinting harder than they feel as he stares at Stiles's softly-smirking face. “Not fifteen seconds ago it was everything for a hand-job, now it's just some for a fuck? So you're negotiating up while offering me less,” he states, realizing quickly that doesn't exactly have any real leverage here.

The demon continues to smile and it's becoming infuriating. It's all Peter can do not to growl when he starts humming the theme song to Jeopardy.

“The clock is ticking,” the demon sing-songs. He leans in and presses his chest against Peter's as his hands slip down between them, slowly unbuttoning his own jeans. In the looming silence of the loft Peter hears the stretch of a denim buttonhole and the pop-through of a metal button, and then the slow slide of zipper teeth. Each sound seems magnified, because while Peter is a little fucked in the head, this situation is even more fucked. It then occurs to Peter that he hasn't even thought to ask if Stiles is okay in there.

Suddenly there's a hand fisting the front of his shirt and a mouth on his. Sharp teeth bite at his lower lip as a hot, slippery tongue snakes in, and it's all Peter can do not to groan. His hands move to the demon's – the kid's – Stiles's body and grab at it, palming his waist, one on his hip, before taking advantage of the demon's distraction. With a soft growl low in his throat in his throat, Peter's picks up the demon and throws him back onto the rug. He lands with a shocked, offended look, and the fact that the kid's jeans are already halfway down his ass would just make things comical if it wasn't so fucking dirty-hot.

Peter isn't attracted to Stiles. Never actually has been. He's seventeen years old and Peter is... quite a bit older. Old enough to be his father. Not to say that Stiles isn't attractive in a purely objective and aesthetic way, especially since he let his hair grow and he started filling out more. But no. Just no. He never looked at Stiles that way.

Not until now.

Because this demon is all temptation and dark desires and fucking sex and power. The way he drops his eyelids and looks up at Peter with Stiles's amber eyes burning from the inside. The way he doesn't even bother sitting up, just arches his body as he unzips his hoodie, knowing exactly how to work that long, lean body just right.

Peter draws in a slow, steadying breath. The demon holds Peter's gaze, almost aggressively daring him to look away as he sheds the outer garment, his pretty, girlish lips parting with a moist breath. He yanks off the flannel beneath, hips lifting from the floor just enough for Peter to see Stiles's erection tenting the front of his boxers, pushing through the unzipped fly of his jeans. He can tell that the demon is having a difficult time keeping his head above water, drowning in the sea of hormones that Stiles seems to keep under control with a strict regiment of frequent jerking off and Adderall.

Stiles licks his lips and reaches down to brush the hem of his shirt up – a charming little number that reads Hopeless Romantic Seeks Filthy Whore – before tugging it off and throwing it at Peter. He toes off his shoes and kicks his jeans down, and Peter notes with absent amusement that he's wearing Stewie Griffith boxers that say 'I'm a Bad Boy', but Peter doesn't believe in coincidences. Peter watches with his hard-on growing, brain nearly shorting out as he tries to sort through what he needs and what he wants, even as Stiles's boxers are also thrown at him, leaving the boy bare as the day he was born.

Okay. There's only so much a guy can take.

Peter finds himself standing right on the edge of the rug, his skin hot and tight. He's trying to ignore the fact that he's half-hard and can't take his eyes off of Stiles's slender hand, stroking slowly over his leanly-muscled chest, waist that's just this side of still-too-thin, and hipbones that jut like a girl's. Pale skin with the kiss of a tan from the summer, and a smattering of tiny moles and dark freckles immediately transform him from porcelain and precious to wanton and deliciously sullied. Peter doesn't know how to feel, so he just feels, because while it might be Stiles's body, this isn't really Stiles inside. It isn't. Because he can't–

“Does this help?” the demon purrs salaciously, his eyes immediately filling with black, changing the look of Stiles's face as much as any mask. Peter's jaw clenches and hands ball into fists as he admits to himself that yes, that's good enough. He takes a step onto the rug and enters the circle, and as his fingers move to unbuckle his belt, the demon smiles.

Seducing Peter is a little more difficult than the demon had anticipated, but it's for a completely amazing reason; Peter actually seems to give a shit about this kid. A little part of him cares, at least enough to hesitate before just taking what he wants. Enough so that the demon has to make a few concessions, which isn't something he usually does. But he feels this union will be quite profitable for both of them, especially given the fact that there's some weird attachment between these two already. Something that the demon can't wait to scratch at, to finger moist, to coax right to the edge... to hold that sort of control.

It doesn't take much persuading to get the monster on his back. He wants it, he likes this; wants to stain this pretty milk-pale skin with finger-bruises and teeth marks. Wants to suck bloody welts with his mouth. Wants to shove his cock so hard and deep into this boy that the demon chokes on it. Wants to roll him over onto his stomach and hold his face against the floor, riding his ass until he's smothering in his own breath and breaking fingernails on the concrete floor. But there's time for all of that romance and fun later.

Presently, Peter and the demon have some negotiations to make. A deal to seal.

“You know Deucalion's story,” he drawls as he drags a slender thigh along Peter's hip and leans back, one hand grabbing at the older man's thigh as he straddles his hips. “Good guy gone bad. But that's not the whole story.” He grips tight and rocks down, teeth catching his lower lip as he grinds his ass against Peter's thick cock. His own equipment is more slender, and had obviously seen a lot less road time due to only really optioning to travel alone until now.

“How do you know all this?” Peter asks, lips parting around heady breath. His eyes slit as he watches with a vested interest, Stiles's sinewy body slowly writhing atop his. A hand slides up one of the boy's thighs, hesitates briefly, before moving to palm over his balls and curl around the base of the blushed shaft nested in sparse, thick hair.

The demon whines and hums deep in his throat, head dropping back as he shamelessly bucks his hips, trying to push himself through Peter's hand. He can't help the way his mouth works around the open air as he trembles. To feel the way this body wants and craves, constantly awash in juices, hormones, pheromones, firing synapses. and chemicals; it's incredible. He thinks he might stick with teenagers for the foreseeable, because this passion is addicting.

“Because–” the demon gasps. “Deucalion made a deal with one of us and I know the demon that holds his contract.” He hunches over Peter and grabs at his shoulder, his other hand dropping to curl around Peter's, forcing him to move that rough palm along his pulsing cock. “Why do you think I came when you called?” He grins lewdly, eyes still as black and shiny as the carapace of beetle. “You wolves are on the radar.”

“Fuck,” Peter breathes, tongue darting over his lips. His eyes dropped to watch their hands moving jointly over Stiles's cock, gazing hungrily as the dark-flushed head disappears against his palm with each upstroke.

“Don't mind if we do,” the demon says, smirking “But first, terms.” Without so much as a half-interested glance and a pulse of energy from the demon, there's the sound of a mirror shattering as the medicine cabinet in the bathroom swings open. A tube of lube flies towards them and smacks into Stiles's outstretched hand. He smirks and waggles his eyebrows at Peter, who just rolls his eyes and grabs it.

“Get the fuck on with it,” Peter growls.

“I go to Deucalion,” the demon says, his breath hot as he drops down on an elbow, their mouths intimately close. He whimpers softly, his cock twitching and aching at the sight of Peter squirting lube into his hand. “I...” he licks his lips and rolls his eyes, getting himself under control a bit. “Fuck- goddamnit...” He swallows hard at the dryness in his throat. “I wait for the the demon that holds his contract. I negotiate with him.”

“And what do you get?” Peter asks as he drops the lube onto onto his chest for ease of access.

“Your soul,” the demon says with absolutely no irony, eyes flashing shine over the black slick. His lips curve into a smug smile.

Peter narrows his eyes. He grabs the demon by the hip with his dry hand, two slick fingers finding the boy's puckered, virgin hole and prodding at it. He teases his fingers over the sensitive flesh, rubbing firmly before slipping just the tip of a finger inside. The demon whines and drops his forehead against Peter's shoulder, because he hasn't been inside a virgin body in so fucking long, and this both fucking sucks and is goddamn incredible.

The demon parts his lips and digs his teeth into Peter's shoulder just as the wolf twists and thrusts two thick fingers up inside of Stiles's tense, trembling body, pulling an indecent moan from that skinny little throat. He rocks back sinuously, screwing himself down against the invading digits.

“It's not a big deal,” the demon drawls as he noses into Peter's neck, licking and nipping like a fucking puppy as Peter obediently bares his throat to the attention. “When was the last time you actually used your soul? It just seems to get in your way more often than not.”

Peter huffs and wraps his free arm around Stiles's hips, pinning him firmly. His hold is strong as he plunges and scissors his fingers, eagerness written in every tense line of their lean, hungry bodies.

“How long?” Peter asks, his voice thick with restrained desire.

“Ten years,” the demon gasps and clings to Peter's shoulders, digging fingernails into muscle. “You have ten years to be the biggest, baddest wolf, and then I come and get you.” His hips jerk and buck each time Peter finds his prostate, brushing purposefully and cruelly against it with the pad of his fingers. His cock is caught fast between their two bodies, the air trapped there as hot as a furnace. He can feel himself leaking into Peter's bellybutton, which fills him with sick, twisted glee.

The demon can feel protest in Peter's body. The way his deliciously thrusting fingers stutter and his head drops back onto the rug, chest lifting with a deep inhale of breath. Fuck hesitation, fuck not taking this deal; this is a good deal. Stiles's lips and tongue attack Peter's throat, collarbone, and shoulder. He writhes on top of Peter's sweaty body, giggling when he accidentally presses a little too firmly and squirts some of the cool lube out onto Peter's chest. Long fingers bat the tube away and the demon revels in the slick heat between them, one hand slipping down through the mess to wrap around Peter's cock, coating his cock even harder before practically humping against the fingers in his ass.

“Hnn, fuck me,” the demon whines, lips flush against Peter's jaw before lifting to brush wetly over his mouth. “Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me...” he shivers in sharp satisfaction as Peter growl-groans and leans up to claim his mouth in a fierce kiss, fingers slipping unceremoniously out of his stretched hole. Peter reaches for his own dick, but the demon beats him to it, canting his hips back up before pressing the head of Peter's cock against his own slick entrance.

“Mm, say yes,” the demon mumbles into Peter's mouth as he lewdly rubs the head of Peter's cock against his hole. Tempting Peter, trying to overwhelm him, bullying him with sex. “Say yes and make the fucking deal, Peter.”

“Yes,” Peter growls as his hands grab at Stiles's hips, as he tries to move the boy's body, but finds he can't. He can't do a damn thing but take what he gets because the demon is twice as strong as him, and for all the whimpering and whining and writhing, the demon is still running this show. “Just fucking- yes, okay? Fuck...”

“Good boy,” the demon states in that softly distorted tone, and Peter feels a gentle quake down deep in his core. He doesn't have any time to dwell on it, though, because the base, toe-curling pleasure of Stiles's tight, hot body clenching almost painfully around his cock overwhelms him as the boy sinks down, pulling rough, throaty groans from both of them. Twin spidery hands settle on Peter's chest as the demon steadies himself, his lips parted and wet, his cheeks and chest bloomed pink. His upper lip lifts in a slight baring of his teeth, and the demon wastes no time, because he's beyond done giving time to anything that isn't fucking the werewolf beneath him.

Because it's like he said; there's only one way he'll ride a monster.

The acoustics are pretty much terrible in the loft, but the looming silence catches the sounds of their slick, sweaty bodies coming together. The hollow slapping of flesh echoes with each drive up of Peter's hips and plunge down of Stiles's. For a long time there are no words, just the animal sounds of rutting and carnal communication. The intimate knowledge that transfers from one body to another as they cycle their electricity on an endless loop, from the ensouled to the soulless.

Sweat, heat, and power connect them. Their ears fill with sounds meant for no one holy as they seal their pact with come and a kiss. The demon fucks Peter hard and without mercy, taking liberties with the fact that neither of them will exactly bruise as he tears his body a little with each desperate grind of the head of Peter's cock against his prostate. Stiles's body won't stop trembling, and it's fucking perfect and delicious.

Peter's hips jerk and buck beneath Stiles, claws digging into soft skin and lacing the air with the scent of blood. He throws his head back and tenses hard as Stiles's lean body pulls his orgasm from him, and he can't help a long, heady groan as that tight coil in his groin unfolds and sends heat zinging along his spine in that perfect moment of clarity.

The demon refuses to stop fucking himself on that hard, throbbing meat until Peter grabs him around the waist and stills him with a warning growl. His slick hand grabs Stiles's cock and begins jerking him hard and fast. With a near-sob of relief the demon leans back to grab Peter's thighs, bracing on his hands as he stretches himself out and drops his head back to loll on his shoulders, practically putting himself on display. His thighs tense and quake, his ass still tight around Peter's spent cock, and it's only seconds before he comes with a shout, hips rolling with a gorgeously vulgar lack of self-restraint. Hot come splashes onto Peter's stomach and the air is fucking ripe with the smell of them, and for a moment Peter almost forgets what it is that's on top of him, until the boy's eyes flutter back open–

Flutter open to that deep, soulful amber that catches you and drags you into all the warmth that Stiles has to give. There's no trace of the demon anywhere. Just Peter and Stiles and their bodies between them. Those pretty eyes widen, and Stiles's heart starts hammering as his consciousness swims back to the surface as the demon recedes, with a cruel little zing of pleasure.

It's 5:00am when Stiles wakes up in his own bed, face-down and half-suffocating in his pillow. He's on top of his sheets, legs tangled like he'd been tossing and turning all night, and the only thing he's wearing are his Batman boxers. Which strikes him as odd on some weird, profound level, because he could swear he'd been in a Family Guy mood yesterday.

His hair is wet. Oh. Must have taken a shower and then changed clothes. Makes sense. But why so late? What the hell happened last night? His memory is foggy, which shoots a cold spike of wariness through his stomach. He shifts his arms and pushes himself up to peer blearily around his room, but the movement triggers all of the pains that sleep had soothed. His knees hurt like they're bruised, his jaw and thighs ache, and his ass...

That chill lances through him again and coils tight in his stomach. Despite the pain and soreness, Stiles clumsily sits up and lurches for his phone. Gangly legs slide over the side of the bed and ground him, feet on the floor, and for some reason the contact of his bare feet on the carpet startles him. His toes twitch and his feet clench, startling him because it tickles. He stares in confusion at his own feet. Slender, a little bony and sinewy; long with long toes. Typical feet for someone who's probably going to grow another one or two inches before he's done.

Stiles is ticklish in a lot of places, but none of those places has ever been his feet.

“What the hell?” he mumbles to himself. His voice is thick with sleep, or really the reluctant wakefulness of someone struggling with the lack of sleep. It's weird, sure, but not really weird enough to devote what little brain power he's currently operating on to pondering ticklish feet. He fumbles his phone around and lights the screen, frowning slightly at his text notifications. Two from Scott last night, one asking if he's going to be at track practice today after school, and one sent thirty-seven minutes after the first, asking if Stiles was okay and why didn't he text back?

The last thing Stiles remembers is dropping Scott off at home after leaving the loft. He doesn't like that that's the last thing he remembers. He drops his phone on his bed and scrubs his hands over his face, digging the heels of his palms into his eyes. Once he sees spots he begins to feel a little more awake, but man do his eyes hurt. Like a scratchy, swollen allergy sort of pain.

His dad won't be home for another hour, and while school doesn't start for another two-and-a-half, Stiles is suddenly struck with the bone-deep need to not be around his dad today. Another shower, and then maybe go sit at the Coffee Bean until school starts. He can't help thinking he might have missed some homework, but a slightly louder voice is pretty much damning his homework and urging him into that shower. Because all of a sudden, no man on earth has ever needed to jerk off as much as Stiles does right now.

Stiles doesn't think of Lydia that much anymore when he's in the shower. He can't bring himself to defile her in his mind when they've become so close. He's pretty sure she'll never be good wank-bank material again, unless in some alternate reality they actually do end up getting groiny with each other, in which case he'll be stocked up until the turn of the century. The thought of actually getting to fuck her is definitely what gets him hard, but what gets him off is the same thing that's been getting him off for a few weeks, now; Derek. Derek randomly crawling into bed with him and Lydia, Lydia and Stiles saving Derek and then some raunchy threesome happening, Lydia actually just tagging Derek in and leaving them to it. But eventually Lydia just stops being there as much. Then she just stops being there, period.

The first time he thinks about Derek while fucking his own hand, he almost can't come because his brain suddenly floods with distracting questions. Weird emotions. Things that no boy likes to think about when he's trying to paint the tiles white. So he pushes them all down and grits his teeth and started punishing Derek in his thoughts. Punishing him in all the best ways.

These are the thoughts the demon sifts through as Stiles leans head-first against the shower wall, hand tugging furiously at his dick as the water beats down hard on his sore back. His lips are parted around some truly obscene sounds, because there's no one home to hear him. In his mind, he forces Derek to take his cock, to fucking love it. Has him on his back, his hands and knees, every which way. But the thought that finally makes him cream his hand is the way Peter silently ghosts in from behind him and invades Stiles's hole, pinning him inside of Derek, and all three howl together.

Stiles gasps against tiles, hips jerking and legs tense and shaky as he spurts hot into his own fingers. He turns to lean back against the tiles, squinting at the bathroom lights as his garbled morning brain struggles to make sense of what just happened. While rationally he can't understand why the fucking fuck he would ever have a sexual fantasy about Peter Hale, it doesn't exactly fill him with revulsion like he thinks it should. A little confusion, yes, and some definite wondering if maybe he's losing his mind, but when the demon stirs deep inside his meat and smiles and flexes his claws, Stiles re-considers Peter, and he suddenly doesn't seem so bad.

“You look like crap,” Scott says with the same level of cheerfulness he reserves for 'good morning' or 'man, I love Captain Crunch' or 'dude, do you want to make corn dogs and watch the Science Channel?' Stiles starts and turns, glaring balefully at his best friend. Well, he glares as much as he can from behind the mirrored sunglasses he stole from his dad's dresser, because the sun is fucking killing his eyes today. Scott cocks his head and leans in, sniffing him.

“You okay? Are you hungover?” he asks. “You don't smell like it...” he trails off, frowning lightly.

“Knock it off,” Stiles says grumpily, leaning away from Scott with an annoyed look as he curls his hands around the straps of his backpack. “Just didn't get a lot of sleep and my Adderall isn't kicking in.” Stiles makes a mental note to call his doctor when he gets home; maybe he's building up a tolerance. “I dunno.” He shrugs as they walk into the school building proper. Everyone and everything around him is kind of slightly annoying today. “Maybe I need to try out something new. I'm getting really, really tired of the insomnia.”

Scott snickers and shoulders Stiles playfully, which only earns Scott a flat glare. He doesn't think his chemical dependence, ADD, or lack of sleep is anything to laugh at. He's also in an awful mood today, which isn't exactly typical for him.

“Wow, man,” Scott says as he reaches over to give Stiles a consoling pat and squeeze on the shoulder. “You must be out of it. You just missed the opportunity for a horrible pun, and you didn't even notice that you said it. Maybe you should just skip out today. You can go to my place and catch some sleep? Mom's on a double so she won't be home until late...”

Stiles shakes his head. “Nah, I'll be cool,” he says with a deep breath in and a deep breath out. “I probably shouldn't have chugged down two ice-blended mochas on an empty stomach.” He chuckles weakly. “Do you have any food on you?”

“Uuuhhh,” Scott utters, swinging his bag around to dig inside of it, and while his attention is diverted, Stiles's eyes fuzz black behind his mirror shades. The demon ponders how much fun it would be to grab Scott's backpack and jerk it up over his head, twisting the strap around his neck and choking him until he dies. Well, until he passes out. He knows that choking Scott out won't kill him, but thinking about it is pretty fun, in any case.

The demon settles back in for the ride and quirks Stiles's lips against a smile. He folds his arms, trying to wait patiently as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other. Excited butterflies tickle around in his stomach, and he suddenly feels a lot better now. More awake and less grumpy. Well, that's good he supposes.

“I have two Quest Bars?” Scott says, tugging them out and offering them to Stiles with a friendly smile. With a grin to match, Stiles grabs the chocolate peanut butter one and leaves the apple pie bar for Scott. Because he's just as sweet as, right?

“Thanks, bro,” the demon says as he tears open the wrapper and takes a big bite, not hesitating to throw his arm around Scott's shoulders as they walk. A friendly gesture. Physical touch because they're close. Act natural and never give them a reason to suspect. “And you're right. I can't believe I let a pun pass me by. Puns are the oldest and most revered form of humor,” he says with a dramatic sigh.

Scott tears open his own Quest Bar and offers it up to Stiles, as if in salute. “Here, here,” he says with a laugh, as Stiles taps his half-eaten breakfast bar against Scott's in a toast.

“Puns, dick jokes, and fart jokes,” the demon continues with a near solemn nod. “Did you know there are dick jokes recorded back to the Roman empire?

Scott rolls his eyes and laughs a bit as they approach their respective lockers. “How do you always know this stuff?” he asks, leaning against the bank as Stiles twists and turns the combination lock on his own locker and opens it up.

“I watched Spartacus,” the demon says with a shrug as he exchanges one book for another, as if that explains everything. “On STARZ.”

“But that's, like, fiction... right?” Scott asks, brow knitting as he looks to Stiles for confirmation. “I mean, I know it's based off of actual events, but they had to change it for TV. Did they actually really talk like that?” He laughs.

“Google Carmen 16 by Catallus,” the demon says with a snort. The demon had to reach back pretty far for that one, but remembering the poem now makes him snicker. “Pedicabo ego vos et irrumabo,” he recites proudly, before shifting his eyes away from Scott and shoving the rest of the Quest Bar into his mouth, chewing around a smile. Everything's so much funnier in Latin.

It's after lunch and a few minutes until fifth period when Lydia finally gives into the gut-feeling she's been having about Stiles all day.

He's been acting off. The weird little smiles he's been giving people he'd never even deign to make eye contact with before. The comments out of the side of his mouth. Back-talking their new chemistry teacher without even a hint of his usual self-deprecating, sarcastic defense mechanisms. The fact that he made absolutely zero attempts to steal food off of anyone's plate during lunch. He just sat backwards on the bench seat, elbows on the table behind him, and watched people. He kept his long legs stretched out into the aisle, not moving them when people walked by. Ignoring the glares, ignoring the insults. Just smiling, looking weirdly content. Kind of acting like a jerk, but definitely seeming in a good mood.

She doesn't blame Scott, Allison, or Isaac for not noticing. Stiles is being subtle, and the other three are having some weird soap opera drama going on right now. Lydia will pay attention when Allison brings it to her, but until then, she has her own problems to worry about.

Aiden doesn't notice that anything's wrong with Stiles because he doesn't care. But Lydia does.

Something's going on with him, she's sure of it. Lydia Martin makes it her business to know absolutely everyone elses' business, and if there's anyone at this school that she knows, it's Stiles. You don't ignore someone who's been in love with you since the third grade. Someone who's risked his life for you too many times to count. Someone who's put up with constant stone-walling, threats, ice queen treatment, and mean girl barbs for years, happy with the meager scraps she feeds him.

No way. Stiles is a major part of her life now (it's funny how things work out), and if there's anyone who can see that there's something wrong here, it's Lydia Martin.

“Aiden,” Lydia says, reaching up to smack the backs of her knuckles against his chest as he slinks an arm around her to walk her to class. It's not like she can actually physically stop him from moving, it's just one of Lydia's little power plays. “Does Stiles seem off to you? A little... strange today?”

“He's always strange,” Aiden deadpans, rolling his eyes slightly. He looks over at Stiles, across the hall and several lockers down.

Lydia knows she's right, because she usually is. There's definitely something in the air today. It feels charged. She frowns at the way Stiles's lips are twitching and his eyes keep darting around. It's like he's trying to hide a million secrets at once and thinks everyone around him is a fool for not realizing it.

“Can you go and sniff him?” Lydia asks bluntly. She turns to glance up at Aiden, giving him those big hazel eyes she knows he can't say no to. Aiden sighs and grunts in the affirmative. Lydia watches him cross the corridor, which is thinning out of students all rushing to their respective classrooms. He steps up to Stiles, and Lydia sighs, cursing the fact that this banshee thing doesn't come with super-hearing.

Aiden's smile is douchey as he greets Stiles, and Lydia's suspicions just escalate when Stiles doesn't immediately throw out a sarcastic smile and some snarky comment. He actually straightens up, standing tall and looking a lot more together than she's seen him look in awhile. It looks good on him.

Their conversation doesn't last long, and Lydia can tell that there's a lot more exchanged than just words. The way Stiles suddenly leans in and smirks while he speaks, and the way Aiden actually shifts back. She's never seen Aiden back down from Stiles before, and it ticks all of her warning bells. She sucks in an unsteady breath as Stiles produces a pen from his locker and holds it tight, and there's a tickle in her brain; like a warning. Like something telling her that Stiles is about five seconds away from stabbing Aiden in the eye.

What the hell is going on?

Suddenly Stiles does a 180 and sags a bit, his shoulders pitching forward and his posture relaxing. He hands the pen over with a dart of his eyes Lydia's way. She offers a small smile, but he doesn't return it. As Aiden walks back over, pen in hand, she watches Stiles rub his eyes tiredly before hunching his shoulders and turning to walk down the hall. He trudges like he's moving through water, but he definitely doesn't have the same cocky air about him that he had before.

“Yeah, I'd say something's definitely going on,” Aiden says as he leans against the locker next to Lydia. He brings the pen up and gives it an absent sniff, rolling his eyes slightly as Lydia looks at him inquiringly. “It smells like Stiles,” he says with a shrug. “Same as always. Like he just jerked off in the shower and put way too much milk on his cereal this morning. But there's something else.” he sniffs it again, frowning. “I can't figure it out.”

Lydia grabs the pen and brings it up to her nose, sniffing hard. “What is that?” she says, giving him an imploring look. “You smell that, right? Like, matches?”

“Yeah,” Aiden says with a frown. He takes her carefully by the arm and walks them both over to Stiles's locker. He waits until the hall is empty before he sniffs at the air, at the lock on the locker. At the pen again. “It's like matches and... well, the way Stiles usually smells, but worse. More intense. Uh... it kind of smells like the carpet at a strip club.”

She wrinkles her nose and leans against Stiles's locker, rubbing her thumb along the pen as she thinks. She makes sure to look anywhere except at Aiden, because Aiden makes her think about everything except thinking, and that's not what she wants right now. “What happened to his eyes?” she asks, as if suddenly remembering something.

“I'm not sure,” Aiden shrugs, glancing off in the direction Stiles had walked. He shifts his weight, looking slightly uncomfortable. “There was something, but I'm pretty sure I imagined it. It was like they were black for a split second, but it happened so fast I can't even be sure it really happened.”

“Black eyes,” she murmurs to herself, her hand clenching tight around the pen. “A scent like matches... sulfur. Dramatic mood swings...” Her stomach churns suddenly as memories of things she's read bloom in her mind. She always makes a point to thumb through the bestiary whenever she's at Allison's, just hoping that her eidetic memory will commit the pages. Thankfully, in this instance, it seems to have paid off.

“I have to go,” she says. She jerks her chin up and gives Aiden a defiant look, as if daring him to say anything other than 'okay, baby, see you later'. He narrows his eyes briefly and hesitates, but in the end he says just that. Lydia walks away, the staccato click-clack of her heels echoing down the hall as she pulls up Peter Hale's number on her phone.

‹I need to look at a few of your books. I'm coming over.›, she sends to him. She doesn't wait for a reply before marching straight into the nurse's office, declaring that she's suffering debilitating cramps and bleeding like she's been stabbed through the uterus, and needs to go home. The young male nurse's assistant pales and quickly calls Lydia's mother, and with Mrs. Martin's flippant and disinterested permission, Lydia escapes school for the day and heads to the loft.

If Stiles is possessed by a demon then Peter will be able to help her prove it, and if Stiles is possessed by a demon then Peter will be able to help her figure out how to use it.

It's not until track practice after school that day that Scott really starts to notice that something's going on. It all starts with Danny making an off-hand comment under his breath about how Stiles is running like someone who took two rounds to the ass without prep. It takes Scott a minute, because it's not like he often sits around pondering the logistics of anal sex, but he gets there quick enough. Normally Stiles isn't the most graceful creature on the planet, but if there's one thing he's good at, it's running. He's fast and has pretty decent stamina, but today he seems to be straining, like he's uncomfortable. Like he's sore or in pain.

“Dude, what's up?” Scott asks during their next break, know he probably has mom-concern on his face, but he can't help it. Stiles sighs and glances off before reaching up to rub at his eyes. “You still off from this morning?” Scott continues. “Because you didn't tell me something happened to you last night. I feel like a jerk for not noticing; Danny had to point it out.”

“Danny,” Stiles repeats flatly before eyes to where the dark-haired goalie is standing, half-chatting with teammates and half-watching Stiles. “Well, maybe Danny just can't stop staring at my ass long enough to notice that I'm just tired,” Stiles says in an attempt to joke it off, but Scott frowns at the mean edge to Stiles's voice.

“Dude, you know you can talk to me about anything, right?” Scott says, trying to sound encouraging without coming off too forceful. But he really wants to know what the hell is going on. “Anything.”

Stiles spaces out. Scott lifts his eyebrows and nudges him with a shoulder, looking back and forth between Stiles and Danny, because Stiles is still staring at Danny, which is kind of weird and confusing. Scott hears Stiles's teeth grind and sees his jaw clench, his eyes narrowing a bit like he's suddenly angry. ”Stiles!” Scott calls out, waving his hands in front of Stiles's face, trying to get his attention back “Dude, anyone home in there?”

Stiles blinks and finally looks back at Scott. His expression is closed and unreadable, which immediately shoots off warning bells in Scott's mind. Oh, shit, he thinks as he regards Stiles. Is this it? Is this going to be the moment where Stiles admits that he's into guys? Is he ready for this? Of course he is. Who cares? That doesn't matter. None of it matters. Well, okay, of course it matters, but only because Stiles is his best friend – his brother – and Scott will always be there for him, no matter what.

“Dude, I'm just gonna ask...” Scott begins, steeling himself with a deep breath. Because Danny is sort of confirming all sorts of stray thoughts he's had for a long time. The way he looks at Derek, and the way he kind of smells like Peter today. The little jokes Stiles throws out, asking if gay guys think he's hot, asking if Scott wants to make out, telling his dad that he could be gay if he wanted. All jokes, sure, but they say that 50% of what you say in jest is actually the truth.

“I know you're always here for me, man,” Stiles says, cutting Scott off with a fond smile. He claps Scott on the shoulder and leans in, maybe a little too close. “I love you, you know that, right?” He winks and then jumps up, suddenly bounding off toward the track. “Break's over!” he calls over his shoulder, laughing.

“Oh, come on, dude!” Scott calls out, feeling for a split second like his world is crumbling. No time to dwell, though, as Coach's whistle sounds shrill in the air, calling their break officially over. Running now, talking later. Maybe much later. Maybe never.

Twenty minutes later there's an ambulance on the field and Danny was being taken away on a stretcher. Scott overhears one of the EMTs saying it's just a dislocated shoulder, but that they need to take him to the hospital for insurance reasons. It's really awful that it happened, and if it had just been an accident then Scott wouldn't be thinking anything of it. But it hadn't been.

Scott saw the whole thing happen. The way Stiles overtook Danny on the track and more or less ran him down. The way he made sure to land on Danny as they fell. The grim set to Stiles's lips and the flash in his eyes as Danny howled in pain, clutching at his shoulder as he lay prone on the hard-packed dirt.

Stiles had apologized profusely and had done an outstanding job of selling it. Danny believed him, and they parted on seemingly okay terms. But Scott knows Stiles was lying. His skin crawls with the gut-wrenching fact that he can't smell a drop of remorse on his best friend. That Stiles's heartbeat remained steady as a drum the entire time. He wasn't upset. He wasn't worried.

Stiles had aimed for Danny because Stiles had wanted to hurt their friend, and as he watches Stiles walk away towards his duffel, he swears there's a spring in Stiles's step. It's like he feels accomplished and proud of himself.

Scott feels slightly nauseated and waves off the offer of a ride home from Stiles, claiming he needs to do some equipment inventory for the next lacrosse season. Stiles informs him that if he changes his mind, he'll be at the Coffee Bean until late, which is another lie. Stiles isn't going to be getting coffee. Scott doesn't know where he's going or what's going on, but there's absolutely nothing okay happening right now.

He's itching with the desire to grab Stiles, to shake him and scream at him, to demand to know what's going on, but he knows that won't get him what he wants. He knows he has to play things close to the vest right now. Stiles is smart, clever, and he knows Scott better than anyone else. He'll see any trick coming, so it can't be Scott that goes after Stiles.

He's worried might have to call in the reserves.

There are two things Peter knows for certain right now. The first is that the demon possessing Stiles is a crossroads demon. A demon that will give you anything you ask for in exchange for your life and your soul. Pretty typical. He also knows that the demon inside of Stiles isn't just a standard, low-level contract negotiator; he's upper management.

I know the demon that holds Deucalion's contract, Stiles had said last night, which gave a little bit away. According to all the research Peter and Lydia could dig up, the two come to the conclusion that your typical crossroads demon is just a lackey, a pencil-pusher. They do the grunt work for their bosses and they're never privy to the knowledge of which boss holds which contract. That's privileged. But if Stiles's demon knows, then Stiles's demon must be one of the a contract-holders, and therefore one of the bosses.

That makes him very powerful, and in turn also makes him much more dangerous.

“Either I stole a lot more power out of Jennifer than I thought and summoned up something I really shouldn't have,” Peter murmurs to himself as he leans, hunched over the large table in the center of the room. “Or this demon came voluntarily because it wants something from me, or us.” He waves a hand in frustrated distraction at the screen of his laptop before slouching back in his chair with a sigh. “Either way, it's here for a reason and it's staying for a reason. I just can't believe that my soul is sufficiently juicy enough.”

“No arguments here,” Lydia shoots back with a sweet smile, though she doesn't lift her eyes from the book she's currently invested in.

Peter's smile is just as sarcastically sweet. "He was pretty workman about it, regardless. He'll get me what I want, and then in ten years I let him drag me down to hell," he chuckles hollowly. "Then he seduced me." He picks up a book and tosses it to the other side of the table so he can prop his feet up. "Then he regressed so Stiles woke up during the entire fiasco. I had to knock Stiles out, get him dressed, drive his piece of shit Jeep back to his house without anyone seeing me, and then get his deadweight up to his bedroom. Thankfully the sheriff wasn't home.” He rolls his eyes.

When he glances over, Lydia is staring at him with an unreadable look on her face. He stares right back, and after a few seconds she makes a vaguely disgusted face and looks away, shaking her head. He's still not sure how to process what Lydia told him, what she wants to attempt, because it's so dicey. There are no guarantees. He told her as much, but she still wants to discuss it with Stiles.

Well, no; with the demon.

Lydia is smart, Peter will grant her that, but she can't out-smart this thing. She can't out-maneuver it, she can't out-wit it, and she can't out-deal it. He can smell the desperation on her, the fear. He knows she's willing to make sacrifices to reclaim herself, and she won't listen to Peter, even though Peter is the one who's smarter here.

“Did you ever stop to think that by exposing himself to Aiden, you would be smart enough to figure out what he was?” Peter offers. He extends a hand graciously in her direction, which earns him the lift of her eyes, at least. “That he wanted you to go to him? That gaining the souls of both a werewolf and a banshee in one trip might just be worth his time?”

Lydia's lips thin and her eyes narrow. Peter can tell she's struggling with her decision, which is exactly what he wants her to do.

“He told me we're on the radar now,” Peter says as he gently shuts his laptop and offers Lydia his full attention. She looks wilted. Sure, she's made up beautifully right now; hair, make-up, dress, all impeccable. Her packaging is pristine, but what's inside is anything but. She's tired and sad and getting desperate. The desperation is making her angry and obstinate, because she's willing to do nearly anything to stop feeling this way. Peter knows the look in her eyes all too well. She reminds him a little of Derek right now.

“I can't do this anymore,” Lydia says quietly. Her eyes dart from Peter's collar to his shoulder, the wall behind him. Anywhere but his eyes. “I can't be this close to death anymore and try to pretend like I'm really living.”

“Well, you're useful,” Peter offers, knowing it sounds cold and callous, but they're not friends. He doesn't have to be kind or emotionally supportive, he just has to be honest. “And you could be even more useful if you'd just let yourself. Just embrace what you are, learn to control it more–”

“No,” Lydia says firmly. Her throat is tight as her small hand slams down on the edge of the table and curls around it, gripping it as she drags in a deep, steadying breath through her nose. “I just want it gone. If it's not my soul then he can take it. He can have it. I just want it out.”

Peter's eyes drop to scan the book Lydia has been pouring over for the past twenty minutes.

A changeling child is not actually a child, but a being that disguises itself as a child to enter a human family and cause havoc. Changelings are usually born to fairies, trolls, or elves, and are left in place of a human child which is kidnapped by these beings, only to be stolen back by the fae when it comes of age. If the human child is returned, it will often suffer from amnesia and be regarded as strange. A changeling can also be defined as a fairy that secrets away inside of a human body, attaching itself to a human soul. This passive possession is seen as an opportunity for the fae to keep abreast of what is happening in the human world that their dreaming world wraps around.

Banshee. Bean Sidhe. Woman of the hills.

A spirit or fairy who fortells a death by wailing.

Fairy.

Fae.

Peter frowns, knowing that this could all go terribly wrong for her, but he supposes it's not necessarily his place to try and save her. He isn't the hero in this story, is he? He's fond of her, yes. He always has been, which is why he chose her. But whether Peter chose Lydia because she was already so closely connected to death, or whether death chose Lydia because of what Peter did to her, no one knows. Peter still finds her fascinating, and he knows he'd miss her if she was gone, but he'd had enough of trying to control Lydia. He has bigger quarry in his sights.

“If it will help us get Stiles back, then I'm willing to try anything,” Lydia says softly, calling Peter back from his thoughts.

He knows it's true. These teenagers, these kids; they're not even young adults yet. They're all so caught up in each other, swimming in hormones. He's constantly surprised they don't randomly twitch and stall out from the amount of misfiring synapses in their brains as their bodies still struggle to develop and grow. They're all insane, which could be a good thing for him. Insane people love throwing themselves on bombs for other people.

“Huh–” Peter says suddenly, brow furrowing as an idea spikes his mind. One of his hands lifts to signal to her that he's about to say something gloriously brilliant and profound, but then an index finger lifts to ward her off of interrupting him, in case she disrupts his thought process. Lydia rolls her eyes but waits patiently, having made that hand gesture more than enough times to realize its significance.

Peter has a plan.

“You're too intelligent to be this supremely stupid, Lydia,” Peter says. She gives him a slightly offended, pallid glare, but says nothing because she knows he's right. “I have an idea, and hear me out before you protest that all of my ideas tend to include you being really unhappy, because this one isn't going to be any different.” He smiles thinly as she sags. “Look at it this way, my dear; in this game of chess that is our lives, you are certainly my favorite queen.”

Lydia gives him a flat glare. “What a lovely backhanded compliment,” she says through a sigh.

“I need you to do two things,” Peter says as he gets to his feet and walks over toward the door off of the main loft space. “I need you to hold a ladder for me, and I need you to make your deal as planned.”

“What's the catch?” Lydia asks skeptically as she pushes to her feet, considerably shorter than when she'd walked in as she's since discarded her heels on the floor next to her. He can hear her heart-rate jumping a bit in nervous anticipation.

“The catch is that he will be caught,” Peter says as he walks out of the storage space, a bucket of red paint in one hand and a retractable ladder in the other. He drags the ladder out and positions it on the floor, right in the dead center of the circle he'd painted there just yesterday, fully intending to re-create the same trap on the ceiling. Regardless of where it's painted, it'll still encompass the space from floor to ceiling.

“We trap him in another circle,” Peter says. “He gets frustrated, desperate to get out. We throw him on his back foot and maybe he makes a mistake. We rattle him a bit, dangle something he wants, dance around words, and you can throw out a bunch of shit about how amazing Stiles is–”

Lydia glares, a hand reaching up to toy with her red curls.

“Try to get Stiles to pay attention to you,” Peter says with a smile as he steps onto the ladder and motions her over to hold it for him. “It'll make it harder for the demon to stay in control, which will make him quicker to accept any deal we offer him. Now, he's going to try and make you seal your deal with him carnally–”

Lydia blinks and widens her eyes as she watches Peter scale the ladder. “Is that what you meant by seduced?” she asks, trying not to sound as shocked as she looks. He says nothing, just glances back down at her over his shoulder before setting the bucket of paint on the top step. “Peter, oh my god,” she chastises. Her mouth is partially agape as she looks away, obviously all too aware of the fact that her cheeks are heating and coloring. “That's Stiles.”

“I'm no saint, sweetheart,” he says with a light chuckle as he begins to paint the symbols necessary to contain a demon on the ceiling. “Besides, he's gotten pretty good-looking, you have to admit.” Lydia's silence is almost ferociously palpable. Peter shares a knowing smile with the ceiling.

“Anyway,” he continues. “If you have sex with him, you're screwed. In more ways than one.” He chuckles, like he's the funniest person on the planet. “That's how a demon of his caliber has to validate a contract deal. Through actual sexual intercourse with the contractee. It's the energy exchange. A kiss is enough for the lackeys, the low-level deal-makers, because all that needs to be exchanged is the promise. The words. But for a demon like him, he needs more. He is the one who writes and holds the contracts, and he needs to touch your soul to do it. Sex is the one and only time two bodies are open to one another enough for energy to loop between them. His promise sealed to you, and yours to him. The deal is unbreakable. If you can trick him into sealing the deal with a kiss, like the lower-level demons do, then you should be good to go. It will be an exploitable loophole we can take advantage of when the time is right.”

Peter doesn't blame Lydia for her skepticism, but he leaves it at that. He says no more as he continues to paint, letting her soak it all in. She's a smart girl; she'll be able to get it done.

Not even twenty minutes later, there's a knock on the loft door. Peter can hear Lydia's heart-rate leap to almost double as her breath catches. He stands slowly and narrows his eyes, staring so hard at the door he might as well be looking through it. No one is that quiet, and no one would have been able to sneak up those stairs without Peter hearing them. No one except–

“Honey, I'm home,” Stiles calls out in that obnoxious sing-song tone the demon seems to favor. Peter tenses slightly, because after depositing Stiles in his bed this morning, things had been quiet. He hadn't heard from Stiles all day.

“Peter, are you cheating on me?” the demon calls before finally sliding open. “I can smell Lydia in there with you.” It's not until then that Peter realizes that Lydia's standing half-behind him, her hand curled around one of his wrists. An odd sort of affection warms in his chest, but there's no time for that now.

Stiles walks in, all cheery smiles and bright eyes. He drops his backpack in an unceremonious heap next to the door before crossing the large, cold expanse of concrete, long legs striding toward Peter and Lydia. Until he's not. The circle on the ceiling actually works and now the demon is trapped again, in the broken and scuffed-out remnants of the first summoning circle. Peter thinks it's funny that no one ever thinks to look up.

“Seriously?” the demon growls as he tips his head back, teeth grinding. His entire demeanor shifts, and there's no mistaking who they're dealing with now. His eyes blacken over briefly while he stares at the paint on the ceiling, a little red bleeding into the center like a star. Peter knows the paint job is sloppy as hell, all dripping lines and crude workmanship, but pretty or not it still works. “Again with the fucking trap. I thought we had something special between us, Peter.”

“Don't bring me into this,” Peter drawls, stepping away from Lydia and the edge of the old circle with his arms folded, dealing himself out as they'd planned. “This is between you and Miss Martin.” Peter doesn't go far, and he's certainly paying attention.

“Oh, Miss Martin,” the demon scoffs, turning his inky gaze on Lydia as she steps slowly toward the scratched paint on the floor. Her bare feet make next to no sound on the cold concrete. “That was a cute trick today, siccing your little guard dog on me,” he says, his smile empty. “You're lucky I like you, or they would have been finding parts of him in every locker in that fucking school for the rest of the year.”

“He didn't do anything wrong,” Lydia says through clenched teeth. He hates that she's afraid of him; that she's afraid of Stiles's face. “I just needed to know–”

“I'm thinking when I'm done with this,” the demon says, waving his hand vaguely in Peter's direction. “I'll slit Aiden's throat, gut him, and then hang him upside down like a buck so all the blood drains out and doesn't spoil the meat. Then I'll do the same to you, and your little dog, too.” He smirks at his joke and casually strolls around the perimeter of the circle.

“I'll strangle him with his own leash,” the demon continues. “Pull out his intestines with my hands, and then skin him. Then I'll shove him inside you, shove you inside Aiden, and then cook you all up like some huge turducken.” He grins like a kid on Christmas. “Maybe feed you to your loved ones like a real-life Titus Andronicus. Did you see the Taymor adaptation? Anthony Hopkins was such a badass.”

“God,” Lydia breathes, her face pale but as reserved as she can muster under the circumstances. “You just go straight for the shock value, don't you?”

“Well, yeah.” The demon blinks and smirks lightly. “Basically.”

“Look, I'm not here to mess around. I want to make a deal,” Lydia says, her voice wavering slightly around the words. But she pulls in like a champ, keeping her barely-trembling chin up. “But not for my soul.” The demon leers slightly and Peter frowns. “I want to make a deal for Stiles.”

“You're in no position to negotiate for him,” the demon sneers, folding his arms over his flannel-clad chest and watching Lydia intently.

“I think I might be,” she offers, darting her eyes sidelong at Peter, who's watching her cautiously. He shrugs minutely because she didn't exactly discuss or clear this with him, so she's basically running her own show, here.

“Look, Scott isn't stupid,” Lydia says as she looks back at the thing wearing Stiles's face. “He's not exactly quick, but he's not stupid. Once he realizes something's up, he's going to figure it out. And once he figures it out, he's going to put together a plan. And if there's one thing Scott's good at, it's plans.”

The demon narrows his eyes and blinks them back to amber. He rolls them up toward the ceiling them with a twist of his head and a huff, conceding. “True,” he mutters, sifting through all of Stiles's memories that back Lydia up.

“Once Scott realizes Peter is involved,” Lydia continues, glancing at Peter again, who has since walked over to lean against the table. “He'll call Derek. And while Derek might not be an alpha anymore, Peter isn't yet either, and right now I'd put them on pretty equal-footing, strength-wise. But with Scott, Derek could take Peter out easily. And if Scott and Derek kill Peter, then you don't fulfill your bargain, and that won't be good for you, will it?”

Peter frowns and parts his lips, protest written all over his face.

“No,” the demon says, cutting Peter off without even a glance, his eyes still locked on Lydia. “She's not completely wrong. She's also not absolutely right, either. You forgot to add a variable, little miss math genius.”

“And what variable is that?” Lydia asks.

“Me.” The demon smirks. “Now, let's hear what you want, and then I'll consider whether an unconventional contract might be worth my time.”

Lydia hesitates a bit, pink tongue darting out over her lips as she takes a deep breath. Peter can hear her pulse beating like a hummingbird's wings, and he can smell the sweat that's broken out on her forehead. This is a make it or break it moment. If she does this then her life will be forever changed, and she'll either get what she came for, or she'll be left broken and crying, with only ten years of her life left.

“I don't want to be a banshee anymore,” Lydia states, trying to sound strong. “I'll go with you two to find Deucalion and I'll help you in whatever way I can. But when it's done, I want you to take the fae soul out, leaving just mine behind. You can have the banshee, it's all yours, but in exchange I want you to take care of Stiles's body for however long you're in it. He has to be able to be him again once you leave.”

The demon snorts and shakes his head. The smile he gives Lydia is fierce and wild as Stiles's amber eyes burning coldly bright. “He'll never be him again, Lydia,” the demon states plainly. “This darkness that's squeezing his heart, that taste of death and blood and magic; that's what made it so easy to take him. A little part of him will always want to touch it, now. To scratch, to poke and prod, to nose into things he'd be better off leaving alone.”

He rolls his shoulders in an almost-shrug before canting his head, eyes flicking between Lydia and Peter. When they settle on Peter he lets his tongue trail out over his lower lip, and his hand slip beneath the hem of his shirt to stroke at the soft, warm skin of Stiles's stomach.

“Fine,” the demon says succinctly, quickly tilting his head back in Lydia's direction. “Your fairy for this meat suit. Can't promise the brain will be of any use, but that's not what you asked for. You want the brain in perfect working order, it's gonna take more than a fucking squatter fairy that you don't even want anymore.”

“More?” Lydia asks, her voice hitching a bit because she knows what he's going to ask for.

“Yeah, more.” The demon rolls his eyes, his hand slipping down out of his shirt to rub over the front of his pants. He smiles lewdly at her discomfort at his growing erection. “The fairy and your soul for this kid's body and soul intact. He'll be whole and complete and in perfect working order. Hell, I'll even sprinkle in a little amnesia so he doesn't have to remember any of the nasty little things I did. Sound good?”

Lydia doesn't know what to say, but she nods anyway, because if she and Peter can pull off this plan, it won't matter much what she pretends to deal away.

“Okay,” the demon says with a cute little smile as his fingers move to unfasten his belt. “Now get in here and fuck me.”

Lydia's eyebrows dart up, her hair swishing impressively as she snaps her head between Peter and the demon. Her lips part in a breath as a bit of a blush crawls her cheeks. She catches Peter's self-effacing eye roll and knowing nod out of the corner of her eyes before she looking back to Stiles, eyes suddenly narrowing in a defiant glare.

“No way,” Lydia states. She folds her arms over her perfect, ample breasts, which only draws the demon's attention. His head cocks like an interested dog staring at a particularly tantalizing treat.

“You want this deal?” He stares intensely at Lydia as he presses against the invisible barrier that holds him captive. “Then get your pretty little pussy over here and on my cock now.”

Lydia's mouth drops open agape as she takes a step back, looking more than a little insulted. Peter scoffs impatiently as he steps up behind Lydia, resting a hand on her lower back in what's meant to be a comforting gesture.

“Well, that was absolutely vile,” Peter quips.

“Demon,” Stiles gestures at himself. “And an impatient one, at that.” He begins pacing like a caged predator, his eyes flashing as he stares at them both. “There is only one way, Lydia, and that's my way. No negotiations, no exceptions. One time offer and the clock is ticking. You want what I can give you?” He steps back into the middle of the circle and leans his head back, his smile going lightly smug as he peers at Lydia through narrowed eyes. “Then you walk that sweet little ass of yours in here and give me what I want. But don't worry, baby,” he says with a sticky-sweet smile that bares his teeth. “This kid has years of filthy jerk-off fantasies about you stored up. I'm sure one of them will get you off eventually. We'll work it out.” He sighs and cracks his knuckles, seeming to relax as he steps back, gesturing casually at Peter.

As Peter shoves Lydia into the circle, he really hopes she knows what she's doing. She went off script awhile ago and now he's just following her lead.

Lydia finds herself in the arms of the demon. If she thought her first kiss with Stiles was awkward and inappropriate, she's certainly in for a surprise with the second, because it's not awkward and it's not clumsy. It's searing and hot and practically perfect, the way his tongue parts her lips and slides over her's with just the right amount of possessiveness. The way his hand cups her jaw, thumb sliding along her cheekbone and back over a soft earlobe. His lips are soft and pliant, with just enough give, but firm enough to lead this dance, and she can practically feel her resolve about to give before she breaks it off with a gasp and pulls back.

She practically stumbles back out of the trap and lands against Peter's chest. Her cheeks burn and her cunt throbs as she lifts a well-manicured hand to cover her mouth. The demon twists his lips in a smug little smile as he comes after her, stopping just short of the barrier. Getting as close as he can get.

“You really should know the things he thinks about you,” the demon purrs, licking Stiles's lips as he lifts a long-fingered hand to trace the outline of Lydia's body in the air between them. “Dirty, naughty things, Lydia. You think he's so sweet and naive; this little lovesick puppy who will follow you around for the rest of his life.” He laughs, and it's an ugly sound. “Trust me when I tell you, you should probably turn the hose on him. Stop feeding him. Maybe run him over with your car. This kid has some pretty sick fantasies–”

The demon's words choke out in the quiet room as Lydia's hand flies through the air and connects solidly with his cheek, the sound of the slap cracking in the silence of the room. It jerks Stiles's face nearly over his shoulder, eyes clouding black. She's shaking when her hand drops, her face pale with splotches of pink on her cheeks and lips. Peter is suddenly behind her, hovering not too close, but close enough to pull her back if he needs to.

“Stiles is a good person,” Lydia says, hating the weakness in her voice, but she's terrified and trying so hard not to cry. “He's decent and honest and smart. He's brave... he's the bravest person I know.” She inhales a deep, shaky breath and lifts her chin, defiant to the bone when it comes to defending her friends. “I know he loves me, and it's not unfounded. Not anymore. Things are different, now. He respects me and I respect him. What we have now is better than anything shallow we might have had before, and there's nothing you can say that will ever twist that.”

Lydia takes a step back and turns her head to glance at Peter. He gives her an unreadable look and takes a step aside for her. “So,” she continues, looking back at the demon and folding her arms. “Is that it? Deal done?”

The demon reaches up to rub his jaw a bit, lips still curved into what could possibly pass for a sincere smile on a creature with no soul. He nods slowly as his eyes clear up, back to that pretty reddish-brown.

“It's a deal,” the demon says plainly.

At that, Lydia releases the breath she's been holding. Because shockingly, it worked.

Scott isn't creeping. He's just looking for clues. Because he's concerned. But he isn't snooping because that would be wrong.

It takes him a good twelve minutes of both metaphorical and literal sniffing around before he finds something, and what he finds immediately makes him think of Danny. Not in that way, but in the way that maybe Danny had been onto something with Stiles. That something makes Scott's chest twist a little with sadness and resentment, but he pushes it away because there has to be an explanation for this, right? It's not like Stiles really ever kept his ambiguously gay curiosity a secret, right? He's always been pretty open about it, right?

Scott totally pays attention to his best friend's life, right?

Right?

But this is a little weird, because it's not so much the 'who', right? It's the 'why'. Why hadn't Stiles told him? Why did Stiles feel the need to go behind their backs? Is he ashamed? What was going on?

Scott's fingers are stiff as he thumbs through his phone and selects the number just recently programmed into his phone a little over a week ago. Despite being a kid of the modern age, Scott's always preferred to dial numbers straight. Knowing them by memory makes him feel sharp. But he hasn't had the chance to memorize this one yet.

"Scott," says the voice that picks up on the other line.

“Yeah, hey, man,” Scott says. Despite being the alpha now, he still has a hard time not getting a little tongue-tripped whenever he speaks to Derek about anything important. The guy's just intense. “Uh, sorry to bug you guys, but I needed to ask you something. It's about Peter.”

"Peter's still there?" There's some rustling on Derek's end and Scott can make out muffled voices, but nothing clear. He assumes Derek's talking to Cora. Scott licks his lips and tries not to clench his jaw, but he's already in the middle of worried and speeding very quickly toward really fucking concerned. He paces Stiles's bedroom, eyes on the Family Guy boxers that had been tossed carelessly toward the laundry basket. As weird as it is to accept the fact that he's standing in his best friend's bedroom and staring at his boxers, and is about to discuss those boxers with Derek Hale, Scott can't help thinking that he doesn't really know what else to do.

"Okay, Scott? Go ahead."

“Yeah, okay, um,” Scott fumbles, Derek's voice bringing him back as he reaches up and rubs his eyes with a sigh. “Well, two things? Basically, number one, I think Peter and Stiles, uh...” Scott's voice catches in his throat like a literal lump. He finds himself standing still in the middle of Stiles's room, holding a dramatic hand out toward the laundry basket like he's reciting Hamlet, but the only thing Derek hears are the soft little sounds of Scott's throat working as he breathes.

"Peter and Stiles what?" Derek prompts. "What did Peter do?" Scott feels the strangest sense of relief at the sound of Derek's phone creaking a bit as his grip tightened around it.

“Dude, I'm not sure, okay?” Scott hisses, hunching over his phone as he resumes pacing, scrutinizing the laundry like it's a snake about to strike. “I don't want to make any assumptions, but this is really putting me off.” He exhales heavily, and before Derek can speak again, he just blurts it out. “I'm in Stiles's bedroom and a pair of his boxers smell like Peter. And... his room smells weird, like the air is burnt. Like, like... ozone. Like sparks. Like–”

"Demon," Derek growls.

“What?!” Scott yells, before slapping a hand over his mouth at his outburst. His heart jumps into his throat and he can hear it pounding in his temples, and he'd be shocked if Derek couldn't hear it, too. “Wait, what? Are you serious? Are you sure? There are demons? I just thought Stiles was gay–” He thought Stiles and Peter might have been... no, it was too weird to even consider. Scott thinks he'd rather Stiles was possessed by a demon than fucking Peter Hale.

"I knew we should have taken Peter with us." He can hear Derek's annoyance as he interrupts tightly. "I'll be back tomorrow. Don't do anything. Don't tell anyone. Just... keep him safe."

Derek hangs up, leaving Scott staring at his phone. He's very nearly inclined to call back and ask who Derek means, Peter or Stiles, but in that little part of his brain that he usually ignores because it makes him blush uncomfortably and say dumb things out loud, he's pretty sure he knows who Derek meant.

Scott sits down on the edge of Stiles's bed and stares at the floor, eyes moving slowly around as he breathes in the smells of the bedroom. He tries to differentiate the familiar from the unfamiliar like Derek had taught him back after he'd first turned. Nothing too weird, nothing really that strange, nothing except–

“What the hell is that?” he mutters to himself. His eyes narrow, lips parting around a breath as he stands and walks to the window, leaning in close to peer at the sill. He practically has to kneel down, fingers tracking over what smells like fresh wood carving, just barely big enough for Scott to see.

It's a bible verse. Corinthians 11:14–15. Scott doesn't know it, but he's sure Google does.

As his thumbs move over the on-board keyboard he can't help the sinking, desperate feeling in his stomach. Does Stiles know what's going on? Is this his way of trying to save himself? Would that demon inside of him even let him read the Bible, let alone carve a verse into his window sill?

Is this actually happening?

¹⁴ And no wonder, for even Satan disguises himself as an angel of light. ¹⁵ So it is no surprise if his servants, also, disguise themselves as servants of righteousness. Their end will correspond to their deeds.

Scott's heart is thudding, his pulse hammering in his throat. He tears his eyes away from the window and glances behind him at the bedroom door. He can see more carvings. Tiny sigils that he doesn't understand. Both the window sill and the door jamb are covered in small, carved symbols and Bible verses and Scott has no idea what any of this means.

He sits back down on Stiles's bed and wonders if Stiles will come home tonight. Wonders if his friend is even his friend anymore. He contemplates waiting here for him, confronting him. But if Derek's right then what good would it do? Now is the time to pretend, to lie, to deceive. Time to try and con the ultimate con man.

Scott sends Stiles a text because he knows he won't be able to cover up his scent, and he has no idea if demons have better noses than humans. ‹Came by to see if you wanted to play some Xbox but you weren't here. Call if you want to hang.›

He leaves out the window and heads out of the suburbs, running the road less traveled into downtown. He heads toward the loft. It's time to talk to Peter.

The central-eastern stretch of Northern California is incredibly uninspiring to drive through. One would think it would be the opposite; lush forests and nature preserves, small, quaint towns with pretty facades and fancy signs meant to attract tourists. But unless you're from the city, then being deep in the trees is just that; being deep in the trees. There's nothing too remarkable or spiritual or calming about it. Eventually you just want to see something that isn't the wall of green that borders either side of the highway, or the long, gray stretch of road that's empty as far as you can see.

Both Derek and Lydia share the same thought as much as they pass each other at dusk, two nondescript dark vehicles going in opposite directions on state route 70, about 15 miles outside of Beacon Hills. Driving during that magical moment when day becomes night and your eyes play tricks on you, there's no way in hell anyone would be able to recognize anyone else on the road. Especially not anyone driving the way Derek's driving.

He's coming in fast and frantic, fingers drumming on the steering wheel as he forces himself to refrain from doubling the speed limit. He can't stop grinding his teeth. A few nights ago Cora suggested a mouth-guard because he's keeping her awake at night, but he chews through it the first night, so they don't bother wasting money on a second.

They aren't too far away when Scott calls, only about four-hundred miles south in Bishop, visiting with family friends. Seeking answers to questions Derek doesn't know he has until he sits at their table and listens to the old stories.

A lot of the native tribes have legends about the wolf, but Talia had known a family of Shoshone who lived with the Bishop Paiute. Their families had been friendly before the fire, but Derek's avoided all contact since. Anything that reminds him of the life he'd lost is generally just too painful. Much easier to avoid altogether. He's learned to ignore a lot of things in the past several years, and while the man that's left standing is a little hollow around the eyes and not very significant to regard, at least he doesn't hurt as much anymore.

Derek needs guidance and Cora needs reassurance, but by the time they make it through the Plumas National Forest and to the border of Nevada, Cora says that they also need some fun. She demands they stop in Reno, and at Derek's predictable protest she says at least she's not making him take her to Vegas. She says she's always wanted to play a slot machine, and her fake I.D. is burning a hole in her wallet. They eat off the Strip, cheap but incredibly good steak, and when Cora wins $2.00 off of a quarter slot, Derek shakes his head and smiles. It really is stupid little things like this that he's missed. She hugs him because she knows it'll make them both smile, and if anyone needs to smile it's the Hales.

They're nearly there when Derek stops at Mono Lake for the night. No real reason other than he hasn’t seen a large body of water in a long time, and while the ocean is preferable for brooding and nighttime reflecting, a lake will suffice in a pinch. Cora swims naked like a selkie and doesn’t even once try to get Derek to join her, knowing her brother well enough. He needs time to internalize.

Cora silently mourns him as she floats on her back in the cold water. Her dark eyes stick to Derek, who remains perched on the dock while the moon slowly walks through the sky. For a wolf not to trust his instincts anymore; that's a path none of their kind should ever have to walk.

Kimana is a few years older than Talia would have been, had she lived, and she takes great pride in reminding Derek and Cora of the story of Wolf and Coyote. That Wolf is a noble caretaker and creator, and Coyote is a trickster, often jealous of Wolf but always eager for his attention. Wolf is patient as Coyote toils, always looking for a new way to one-up Wolf. To make himself something to be counted. But despite their struggles, Wolf and Coyote always walk side by side as brothers, and though Coyote always tries to drag Wolf into trouble, Wolf will always save Coyote from anything; especially from himself. Always and forever.

Derek's only problem is trying to figure out who his coyote is; Peter or Stiles. It's one of them, or maybe even both considering Derek's luck, but it's for them that Derek leaves Cora behind, breaking most of the traffic laws to get back to Beacon Hills as quickly as possible.

Derek meets Scott at the McCall's house, thanking Melissa for the offer of coffee and spaghetti and meatballs leftover from dinner. He smiles awkwardly as Melissa ushers him inside, giving him a smile that only a mom can give. Isaac greets him with a firm handshake, wearing confidence borne from indulging in sex and violence; from finally feeling safe, accepted, comfortable, and loved. Derek feels a familiar stirring of guilt in his stomach but stamps it down.

He can smell both Allison and Scott on Isaac, but he also smells tomato sauce, garlic, and ground beef, and his stomach growls before he can really dwell on it. Isaac laughs and tells him not to get his hopes up because Scott's the one who cooked, but Scott smiles at Derek and clasps him on the shoulder. Derek knows with that simple gesture that Scott's home is his, and that regardless of eye color, codes of conduct, or which way the arrow on their respective moral compass points, that they're still brothers.

They're all family now, and they need to get Stiles back.

Just as Derek speeds in, Lydia, Peter, and Stiles drive out. Taking state route 70 through Sacramento, then interstate 5 all the way down to Los Angeles, is the fastest way to get where they're going. To get to Deucalion.

The last few hours sees Lydia home to pack a change of clothes and some toiletries, and to leave a note for her mother. 'Group project for English; staying with Allison for a few days. I'll call. Love you.' It's not that Lydia's mother is absentee, it's just that she's grown up so quickly and so solidly beyond her years that she forgets that her daughter is still just a teenage girl. Sometimes Lydia cries about it late at night, but most of the time it just makes her stronger. Her mind is sharp and her core is steel.

It takes a few hours for the demon to locate Deucalion. A few hours, some blood, lots of words in languages that probably don't exist outside of Hell, and the most eerie seemingly one-sided conversation either Lydia or Peter have ever witnessed (not that they've a lot to compare to, but Peter stresses that he was in long-term care with a few proper nutjobs for years).

The demon stands in the center of the summoning circle, re-painted by him this time, with different symbols and a different edgy vibe of power emanating from it. Something darker, more primal, that digs cold claws into Lydia's gut and makes her eyes hot and itchy. She stays back, because when she gets too close her cunt throbs and grows slick with her own wetness. It wouldn't have been embarrassing if Peter's nostrils hadn't flared, and though he doesn't say anything, she glares at him anyway.

The demon stands with his arms hanging limp at his sides, and the angle at which he's leaning nearly defies gravity. He's shirtless and his chest is smeared in dried blood, but the wound the demon carved into her friend's skin is still fresh. His eyes are lidded, half-closed, but she can see his eyeballs moving underneath like he's dreaming. His lips keep moving in hisses and whispered words that seem to touch her like unwanted hands on a train. Like the eyes of dirty old men.

It's sick and surreal and Lydia keeps looking away; at her bag on the table, at her shoes, at the wall that has nothing on it. She looks anywhere but at the distortion that's wearing her friend's face. Peter is seated at the table, facing away from Stiles, one hand balled loosely in front of him. He's staring at his fingers as they move, thumb rubbing idly against his index and middle fingers, seemingly deep in thought, but Lydia knows he's listening. Listening to Stiles, to the traffic outside, to her breath as she fights to keep it under control. To her heart, which is beating hard, but steady.

“What are we doing?” she whispers to him, her eyes wide and intense, lips parting slightly around a soft intake of breath. Without a glance his fingers flex out and reach to curl around her wrist, his thumb brushing over her pulse-point.

“What we have to,” Peter says, but where Lydia feels desperate and helpless, Peter sounds determined. Resolute in the way that only a man with nothing left to lose can sound.

“Time to go, kittens,” comes Stiles voice from behind them both. Lydia flinches away, tugging her arm out of Peter's grasp so violently she actually feel guilty when he glances up at her, his expression clouding. “Save the flirting for the road. I don't want to get bored,” the demon says with a chuckle, and Lydia hates the sound. She doesn't know if she'll ever be able to listen to Stiles laugh again without feeling sick in her throat.

“Where is he?” Peter asks, setting his jaw as he stands, walking to gather his own bag of whatever things Peter deemed important enough to pack. “You did find him, right?” There's a careful edge to his voice, like he's trying to reassert some sort of blasé control over the situation.

“Of course I found him,” the demon sneers. “He's in L.A.” He's suddenly behind Lydia, wrapping long, slender arms around her middle and hugging her from behind. It takes all of her will and strength not to elbow him away. To scream and kick at him. To sink to the floor, curl up in a ball and sob.

“Of course he is,” Peter replies flatly. Lydia squeezes her eyes shut, her hands balling against her stomach. She feels Stiles's chin dig into her shoulder, and when she opens her eyes she sees Peter looking over her shoulder, staring hard at the demon. There's something hard and steely in Peter's eyes.

Challenge.

“The city of angels,” the demon croons. “He's got a flight out tomorrow night, so we better hit the road. I'll need to gas up the Jeep before we go.” Peter bristles as the demon releases her, but not before blatantly smelling her hair, her neck.

“We're not taking the Jeep,” Peter said dismissively. “If that twenty-year-old relic of a death trap can even make it to San Francisco and back without breaking down at least twice, I will literally eat my own hand.” As the demon moves away to gather his own things, Peter catches Lydia's eye. She swallows visibly, a little shaky but still standing straight, which is all he can ask of her.

“Good enough reason for me,” the demon calls cheerfully over his shoulder. “Fine, Lydia's car, then?” He stands and slings Stiles's backpack over his shoulder, though all of his schoolwork and supplies lay discarded in disarray on the floor. He smiles as both of them glare at him for trying so hard to imitate the human he's wearing.

“Yeah,” Lydia says, dragging in a deep, shaky breath. She holds it like a bucket of cold water to refresh her. “My car has actually been serviced this decade, and I have a full tank, so... that's fine.”

“I call shotgun,” Peter says, earning him a grateful look from Lydia. Better the devil you know. He ushers them out of the loft and locks the door behind him. Lydia wonders if they'll ever make it back, but she supposes there are a lot of things on that table that shouldn't be lost even if they don't.

Lydia announces that she's taking the stairs because she doesn't trust the elevator here. In typical male fashion, both Peter and Stiles crowd in ahead of her, both leaping and jumping to see who can get to the bottom first. It's what she's hoping for, and they don't disappoint, because Lydia only has one tiny window of time to get a text off to Scott. ‹w/ Stiles & Peter. Route 70W/S. I-5S. L.A. Find a way to follow us. Seriously fucking important.›

By the time her phone buzzes in her purse, she's already pulling onto the highway. Peter's hand beats her's to it, his eyes keen as they briefly sweep the screen before handing it off to her. ‹waiting on D. we know whats up. will follow asap. he's on his way. b careful!›

“Who was that?” the demon asks from the back, where he's stretched out over both of the seats. One of his bent knees casually and sporadically bumps against the back of Peter's seat, like that four-year-old everyone hates on every airline flight ever. He's got Peter's iPad in his hands and is playing some obnoxious game. The beeps and swooshing sounds are giving her a migraine.

“Just my mom,” Lydia replies. Her heart doesn't speed because it's sort of true with Scott. “Can I turn on the radio?” she asks. With two affirmative grunts from the ever eloquent males in the car, she does just that, ensuring it's loud enough to distract her from the sound of blood rushing through her own head.

It's not until Derek has eaten that Scott pulls him aside and shows him Lydia's text.

“They're only about an hour out,” he says quietly. “As much as I wanted to be right on their tail, I didn't think it was a good idea.” They ignore the fact that Isaac isn’t engaged enough to listen in, because Melissa's offered ice cream. Scott's already asked him and Allison to stay behind, because Beacon Hills needs to be looked after. Derek huffs at how Scott tries not to roll his eyes at how quickly they agree, though with sentiment, concern, and well-wishes galore.

“You're probably right,” Derek mutters. He digs his phone out and shoots off a quick text to Peter. ‹How's coyote?› He uses their old code words, hoping Peter will know that Derek's referring to Stiles. It's too dangerous to use proper names right now, because who knows who has whose phone? He resists the urge to tap his foot as he waits for a response, instead lifting his eyes back to Scott. “Do the others know?”

Scott nods. “I couldn't not tell them,” he admits, looking a little guilty. Derek knows the feeling. It's a lot of responsibility, what Scott carries on his shoulders now. Derek would be lying to himself if he tries to pretend that giving up the alpha isn't a little bit of a relief.

“They should know,” Derek agrees with a shrug, and despite anticipating it, he's still a little startled when his phone buzzes. ‹Pranking the world. Lydia and I have it potentially under control, but black wolf is sniffing around.› “Shit,” Derek mutters, and there go his teeth grinding again. “Peter did something stupid. Big surprise.”

“What?” Scott asks, brow furrowing as he watches Derek shove his phone into his pocket and dart his eyes toward the front door.

“We have code words–” Derek says, distracted. “Me and Peter. Since I was a kid.” He looks around himself, coming off disconcerted, the same way he always does when he all of a sudden has a half a dozen things running through his mind all at once. Because if there's one things he's terrible at, it's multi-tasking. “We have to go.”

“Right, definitely,” Scott says with a nod. He pats Derek on the shoulder and goes to say goodbye to Melissa and Isaac. Within minutes they're on the road. Scott's driving because Derek can't stand the idea of being back in the driver's seat again after so many hours. Besides, he needs to be able to keep in contact with Peter.

Thirty minutes pass in silence between them. Derek has no doubt that both of their minds are stuffed full to the brim with too many worries and plans and ideas and concerns to waste time in idle chatter.

“You're calm,” Derek says. Scott's heartbeat has remained steady, his scent not laced with the acrid, sour smell of fear or apprehension. Derek doesn't exactly ask why, because he hates prying, but he is curious.

“I'm confident,” Scott returns with a hasty smile and a shrug of one shoulder. He glances at Derek for a moment before looking back at the road. “I know we'll find him and I know he'll be okay. We're gonna fix this, because we've always won before.” He nods to himself, like he's the one that needs the pep talk. “We have to. It's Stiles.”

As Scott lightly drums his fingers against the steering wheel, Derek sighs soundlessly and slouches down a bit into the passenger seat. He folds his arms to keep his insides in and the outside out as his eyes latch onto the dark, quick-moving scenery outside.

He hates the roil in his gut, the hollow worry in his chest. He wishes he could be as certain as Scott, but Scott hasn't known much true loss or sorrow in his life. Scott only knows what it feels like to swell up after dropping low; to rise above when your enemies would drag you down. Derek has wallowed in the dark for nearly a third of his entire life, so to be near someone like Scott is both a humbling and a frustrating experience.

Scott's anger comes from a pure and righteous place, when he's filled from top to toe with the need to protect and save and love. Derek's anger doesn't burn nearly as bright; it smolders. It doesn't sear, it obliterates. If he could have torn the world apart, handful by handful, he would have, but these kids saved him. They don't know it, and he can never tell them, but they're the ones who gave him a reason to keep going.

Derek sleeps and eats and breathes again, just like a normal person, but right now he wants to tear up the earth because those that belong to him are threatened. His wolf stirs dangerously, and he wants to throw himself out of the car and just run and run, but he has to keep control. He has to. Because he has no idea which wolf he's feeding the most right now, the white one or the black one.

“So, what do you know about demons?” Scott asks, his head bobbing subtly in time with the soft music. “I mean, how do we do this? Do we know what we're doing?”

Derek frowns tightly, ignoring his own reflection in the window. “Peter will know.”

Lydia's car flies under the green freeway overpass sign that says Fresno, and according to Peter's phone that means another 200 miles, or so, until they get to Los Angeles. Lydia gave up on driving about a hundred miles outside of Beacon Hills. She complains that she doesn't have werewolf stamina and just wants to sleep, and who can blame her? She's had a long night, nearly selling her soul to a demon.

Both Lydia and Stiles are napping now. Peter turned off the heater about an hour ago, preferring the breeze from the open window because the heater makes him sneeze. The air out here feels much different than it does up north. It's drier and feels less weighty. It makes him feel energized instead of sluggish, and the desert just feels bigger, despite the crowd of people and houses, and the very real lack of green. It feels like it would be easy to get lost out here. He thinks maybe he might spend some time down here after this is all over, because he's pretty certain Beacon Hills won't be a very welcoming place for him anymore.

Not that it has been for quite some time.

It's near 11:00pm when Peter pulls off of the I-5 and stops at an AM/PM in a small city called Coalinga. He needs to take a piss in the worst way, and has an almost pregnant-woman-level craving for liquid nacho cheese. He's not quiet or gentle when he pulls into the parking lot. He brakes the car quickly, and bangs around while pulling out the keys and unbuckling his seat-belt. He wants Lydia and Stiles to wake up, but he doesn't want to have to take responsibility for being the one who actually wakes them up.

Lydia's soft little whine of protest at her rude awakening is awkwardly arousing. As if doling out some sort of punishment at her, Peter frowns with the smallest amount of scorn he can muster before slipping out of the car, leaving her to wrestle with her hair and to straighten her clothes.

“Aaaaawkward,” Stiles's voice sing-songs as the demon practically slithers up beside Peter as he walks toward the glass doors.

“No one asked for your opinion,” Peter deadpans with a little glare. “Really, no one ever asks for any of your opinions.” He pockets the car keys and glances back at the car to check on Lydia, as if it hasn't only been about three-and-a-half seconds since he was with her.

“I know,” the demon says with an exaggerated sigh. “That's what makes forcing them on people so much fun.” He scurries ahead of Peter and grabs the door, tugging it open and gesturing the older man inside in a fit of exaggerated politeness.

“Hey, wait! Rude!” Lydia yells. They both turn at the slamming of a car door and the rushed click-clack of angry heels. She marches toward them, not looking as entirely polished as she typically likes to look, but it's a reasonable facsimile. “Why didn't you wait for me?”

Peter rolls his eyes slightly and pauses at the door so she can walk in first, because contrary to popular belief he isn't a complete heathen. “Because you would have lectured me about treating you like a little girl, when you're more than capable of taking care of yourself,” he states, getting a nice nose-full of her shampoo as he walks inside.

“Yes,” Lydia says, smiling sharply as Peter and Stiles walk in after her. “And as a gentleman, you should have given me that option.” Peter frowns blandly as the demon smirks. He's glancing between the two of them, looking exactly like the kid who always encourages the fights in the quad after school.

“Well, now, that's just a trap,” Peter complains good-naturedly as he scans all the pre-packaged items that barely skirt the legal definition of the word 'food'. He makes a mental note of all of the junk he wants before hitting up the bathroom.

Peter isn't gone more than a moment before the demon is next to Lydia again, fingers tugging at one of the cuffs of the lightweight flannel shirt he's pulled on over his tee-shirt. The demon could care less really, but apparently Stiles is self-conscious about his skinny arms, and keeping up appearances is important. It's all about the charade.

“So, did you ever fuck that creepy younger Peter mind hallucination when you were all crazy a few months ago?” the demon asks with a curious smile. Lydia flinches a bit, because hearing Stiles saying those words sort of makes her want to burst into tears or stab the heel of her stiletto through the top of his foot. Or maybe both.

“Shut up,” Lydia says quietly, suddenly feeling weary and not at all up to the level of banter she knows would be demanded of her if she engages. She turns and walks toward the wall of refrigerated drinks, her arms wrapping around her. Up front, behind the counter, the lone clerk trains his eyes on the demon as he trails behind Lydia.

“Oh, come on,” the demon persists, leaning on his shoulder against one of the cold doors as she reaches in to grab a bottle of lemonade. “He's a pretty dreamy guy. Nice eyes, great smile. Big, strong hands,” he grins. “And do I even have to get into what he's packing in those jeans?”

“Shut up,” Lydia hisses. “Seriously, what is wrong with you?” She gives him a look, like he just asked her to run out into traffic naked, just for the hell of it.

The level of incredulous disbelief on his face would have actually been funny if Lydia was allowing herself to find any of this less than awful. “Demon,” he announces, like Lydia's grown a second head. “Still a demon.”

“Yes, as you take great delight in reminding us,” Peter drawls as he walks back up. He eyes the aisle of chips and grabs two bags of Fritos, before holding his hand out to Lydia and taking her lemonade. She hands it over with a small, strange smile, which only earns her a snicker from the demon. “Get something to eat,” Peter says to the demon, because even if it doesn't need to eat, Stiles still does.

Five minutes later, Peter and Lydia are waiting out by the car, watching as Stiles continues to move about the inside of the convenience store. He's wandering aimlessly and touching pretty much everything, which is earning him death glares from the clerk. Peter knows he's wasting time just to be a brat, but getting a break from him for just a few minutes is sort of nice, anyway.

“Why are you really doing this?” Lydia asks out of nowhere, her voice small and reluctantly curious. She eyes him from where she's standing near driver's side door, Peter only about a foot away from her, leaning against the wheel well.

He almost plays coy. He almost feigns ignorance. But Lydia is sharp and smart, and he knows she won't play this game with him. Not now. So, honesty. Peter is far beyond hiding his intentions, now.

“Why shouldn't I?” he offers, turning to glance at her profile. He's convinced himself that he has nothing to apologize for, and his posture shows it. Easy and relaxed, though his shoulders hold a bit of tension due to their third wheel inside the AM/PM.

“Don't you have any sort of self-preservation?” she continues, glancing down at a smudge of asphalt on the toe of her shoe. “Ten years isn't exactly a long time, and you know that as soon as Derek finds out, he's going to–”

“What? Derek will what?” Peter interrupts. He's suddenly filled with righteous indignation at the fact that everyone is so quick to believe that Derek can beat Peter every time. If he hadn't been convinced that this is the path he's supposed to walk by now, this is certainly helping to push him in that direction. “What could he possibly do to me, when I am what I will be and he's still just a beta? Still willing to sacrifice everything he is at the drop of a hat for anyone who so much as stubs their damn toe?”

Lydia glances up, her expression careful now, because this is territory she probably doesn't want to be treading into. But she needs to know. “That's not fair,” she says softly. “She's his family.”

“Cora is my family, too, as is Derek,” Peter says with a measured amount of annoyance as he turns to set the plastic bag with their purchases on the roof of the car. “I know how easy it is to paint me with the villain brush, because I took instead of sacrificed, but never forget that Derek, Cora, and I share the same blood, the same past, and the same trauma. They were just luckier than I was.”

“I haven't forgotten what happened to you,” Lydia says pointedly. She turns to take in the expanse of dim parking lot and the near insidious shadows spot-lit by a few random streetlights. It feels vast and lonely, holding only her car and the car that she assumes belongs to the clerk inside. It's not helping that she knows she's walking a line with Peter.

“It's horrible,” she continues quietly. “And I can't imagine what it must have been like for you.” She draws in a shaky breath before looking back at him, both of their expressions now guarded. “But you had a choice, Peter, and you chose to kill people–”

“I didn't kill anyone,” Peter spits the words softly, hands pressing against the smooth slope of the roof of her car as he avoids looking at her. “I avenged my family by hastening the inevitable demise of those responsible for destroying everything and every one I'd ever known and loved.”

“But, Laura– ” Lydia says without thinking, cold sinking in her stomach the moment she says it. “You killed your own niece.” Peter's eyes flash blue as he turns a sharp glare at her. She takes a step back.

“My one regret,” Peter says, his lips tight around his words. “I wasn't in my right mind. You of all people should know that.” He turns slowly to face Lydia, his wolf simmering instinctively close to the surface in response to the soft, vulnerable fear in her eyes.

“You tried to kill me!” Lydia hisses, her voice hitching up higher than usual as she finally pushes out the words that have been knotting in her stomach for months. “You used me and, and... you just left me to die.”

“I never tried to kill you,” Peter says defensively, looking genuinely taken aback by the accusation. “How could you possibly think that?”

“The bite either turns you or kills you,” Lydia quotes, reaching up to angrily brush her hair out of her face as a strange warm wind picks up in the parking lot. It skitters a few stray pieces of trash and roots the fear of the unfamiliar in Lydia's stomach, causing her voice to break. “You knew I couldn't be turned–”

“I had no idea what you were,” Peter scoffs as he steps away from the car, folding his arms. “How could I possibly have known? No one knew. I just knew that I wanted you.” He sets his jaw and forces her to lock eyes with him, taking grim satisfaction from the look of shock he sees. “No human is immune; it doesn't happen. It never happens. I chose you for the same reasons I chose Scott. It could have just as easily been Stiles that night, but I sensed something in Scott that I knew could be great. I sensed the same thing in you. I still do.” He steps toward Lydia, and with no warning the streetlight closest to them sputters and cracks out, plunging them into darkness.

“You just wanted power,” Lydia continues to protest, her voice decidedly weaker as Peter approaches. “You just wanted a pack so you could be stronger, for your revenge.” But even as she says the words, she doesn't really believe them. They sound rote. Rehearsed.

“I wanted a pack because a wolf needs a pack,” Peter says, his words and eyes intense, and she can't help but believe him. “The same reason Derek made his pack; because we need other wolves. You know what happens to omegas.”

“Then why are you doing this?” she reaches out with the intent to shove at his shoulder, to push him away, but the look in his eyes as he advances stops her. She curls her fingers into his shirt instead. “Scott's an alpha now; you made him... why can't he be good enough for you?”

Lydia's heartbeat skips as Peter lets out a soft growl, and he can smell something happening here. The wrong smell of sweet rot. The hot breeze that's carrying no scent. But he's too caught up in the pull of Lydia as she says the words like they're scripted. As they move like marionettes. The words ring true, because what they're saying are all the things they've been secretly wanting to say, but these touches? These would never have seen the light of day without influence.

“Because I deserve this.” He reaches up to cup either side of her face, fingertips brushing over her earlobes, his soft touches in stark contrast to the venom in their words. This is wrong, but Peter and Lydia are too caught up to focus. Too caught up in this sudden magnetic attraction to one another.

“I lost too much and did too many terrible things to resign myself to living out the rest of my days under the heel of a teenage boy,” he says with a quiet intensity. One hand slips down to fold around the side of her throat, and the soft sound of encouragement she makes goes through him like liquid heat. Her free hand reaches up to grip at his forearm as her hips push out, her body fitting against his. “I don't expect you to understand. You could never,” his voice drops to a whisper as he leans in to nose along her throat, behind her ear, pulling goosebumps up along her skin. “None of you could ever understand what I've been through.”

It's like a movie. It's a cliché straight out of a film. They both know it, but they can't stop.

“Is it really worth your soul?” Lydia whispers. Her eyes fall shut as a soft sigh passes her perfectly-parted lips, moist and ready to be kissed.

“It would be worth everything I can sell and more,” Peter confesses as he brushes his lips over her's. “To feel that power again for ten minutes, let alone ten years.” The spark between them is electric and her lips feel like warm satin.

There's a soft crunching sound in the distance, but it's muffled like they're under water. As he closes the small distance between them in a hot, hungry kiss, Peter relishes in the feel of her heart jack-hammering against his chest. The smell of her excitement and arousal and want is near-intoxicating.

He's also aware of, though quite detached from, the fact that the demon is crouched outside of the AM/PM, leaning against the front wall next to the glass door. With a soft sound of annoyance at his distraction from Lydia's soft, writhing body, he turns his attention back to the small girl in his arms and the heady taste of her mouth.

“It's beautiful, isn't it?” the demon says to the clerk next to him. “All they really needed was a push.” The body is slumped against the wall, bloody and dead, and there's an opened bag of pre-popped popcorn spilling out onto his lap where it had been unceremoniously tossed.

“Gotta love UST,” he says. “It's the best kind of T.” The demon has a bag of his own and is happily munching away, fully indulging in the romance movie drama he'd only had to summon up a little bit of power to initiate. Peter and Lydia had done the rest on their own.

“Think they'll fuck up against the car?” He cocks his head as he watches Peter's leg shove between Lydia's thighs, listens to the hungry sounds they make as they rub and rut against each other. Hands and mouths move in a sloppy dance, desperate to touch and taste just like the animals they are. The demon smirks and indulges in a little bit of a shiver, letting his human body grow warm and flush with arousal.

He elbows the corpse of the clerk like they're old buddies before climbing to his feet, a distorted grin on his face as his eyes cloud over black, burning red in the center. “Think they'll let me join?”

It only takes about forty-five minutes for Derek to get too uncomfortable with the idea of anyone else driving his car, so he makes Scott pull over and switch. Scott laughs it off, making a joke about Derek being a really out-of-control control freak. Derek glowers but says nothing, because Scott's right. Ironically it just gets worse the more out of control things spiral, and right now Derek feels so tightly wound that he's afraid he'll explode if Scott so much as jostles him.

Scott doesn't tease him. Scott would never. He's too good of a person and he understands. He knows what it feels like to have the ground yanked out from underneath you.

The speedometer has been at a steady 85-90mph ever since they got onto the I-5. Despite the long stretch being one of the only to travel the entire length of California, it's not often patrolled. Most people prefer to drive the Pacific Coast Highway as it's more scenic, but Derek's in this for the efficiency not the pretty fucking coastline.

He half-expected Scott to sleep most of the trip, falling victim to the typical teenage trapping of a short attention span, or the inability to focus of anything that isn't visually stimulating with intense graphics, but Scott surprised him. He's still awake, eyes keeping steady on the windshield, and he hasn't said a word in quite awhile. Not until now.

“There were Bible verses carved into his window sill,” Scott says, pulling Derek's attention sharply. “And in the doorjamb in his bedroom.” He looks at Derek, eyebrows lifting at Derek’s blank expression. Scott sighs. “Stiles. In his bedroom. Bible verses?”

Oh. Right.

Derek turns his eyes back to the road and nods, giving Scott half of his attention as he stares at the long, black ribbon of road stretching endlessly out before them. “The demon never would have done that,” he murmurs, thumb rubbing absently at the textured steering wheel. “And I doubt Stiles would have been able to get any sort of control.”

“I thought maybe it was Peter, so I went to go talk to him after I hung up with you,” Scott says, reaching up to scrub a hand over his eyes and through his hair. “I couldn't get into the loft. The door wouldn't open and it sounded empty inside, but I know they didn't leave until a few hours later because that's when Lydia texted me.”

“The demon was probably just keeping you out,” Derek says, half-distracted by mutinous thoughts about what could have possibly been going on behind that closed door. He's read speculations about demon deals, and he hasn't been able to forget what Scott said about Stiles's boxers smelling like Peter. “Do you know why Lydia is with them?” he asks, throwing Scott a confused look, which is returned in kind.

“No,” Scott admits, looking guilty. “I was so worried about Stiles that I didn't even think to ask.”

“Shit,” Derek huffs, looking back out the windshield as numerous scenarios flood his mind. Fear and annoyance crop up at the thought of having to possibly deal with two possessions instead of just one. “Text Peter. Ask him what color Lydia's wolf is.”

“What does that mean?” Scott asks, looking at Derek like he was speaking in tongues, but he texts while he stares. “Like what Peter said in his text to you?”

Derek hums in the affirmative. “It's just an old Native American story,” he explains, cocking his head slightly in that way people do when they're about to tell a tale and they don't want to screw it up. “When I was a kid, my mother took all of us to visit a Shoshone friend of her's, Kimana, for the first time. We spent a week with her family, and she told us a lot of stories. The story of the two wolves is one of the most well-known, and it resonated with me and Peter.” He sighs softly, mentally beating back the memories that threaten to flood.

“Do you know it?” Derek asks. Scott shakes his head. “She told us that inside every person there are two wolves, one white and one black,” Derek continues, “The black wolf is evil and destructive and the white wolf is good and pure, and every day the wolves fight and fight until one wins.”

Scott frowns softly, because the story tugs at something deep inside of him, too. “How do you know which one wins?” he asks, moving a hand to press over his stomach, which is suddenly a little hollow.

Derek frowns and tightens his grip briefly on the steering wheel. “The wolf that wins is the one you feed the most,” he murmurs. He still feels ashamed, knowing that because he let his black wolf win for so many years, the white one is still weak. But he won't give up until it's strong again.

“Well, if it makes you feel any better, my spaghetti and meatballs only feeds white wolves,” Scott teases gently. He reaches over to knock his fist twice against the Derek's thigh before scooting down into his seat with a tired sigh

Derek actually ducks his head a bit because he can feel that Scott is proud of him. For how hard he's trying and will continue to try. With a soft exhale, his eyes search the night for the tell-tale neon of a Denny's or any sort of convenience store. “I need caffeine,” he mutters. “You?”

“Sounds good to me,” Scott replies.

A scream suddenly cuts through the otherwise quiet night.

Both of them jerk their heads in the direction of the off-ramp, and Derek is impressed with himself for not veering right into the divider. The sign says Jayne St. exit, the city is Coalinga, and within a few miles of Derek’s screeching tires are Stiles, Lydia, and Peter.

They'd recognize that scream anywhere. It's not the gut-wrenching, mournful wailing of the banshee, It's just Lydia. She's hurt, scared, and calling for help, and it cuts through Scott and Derek more sharply than any death omen.

To say that Peter is a bit miffed at himself for expelling all of the power he stole from Jennifer in order to summon the demon that is currently trying to defile Lydia, would be a tragic understatement.

He's definitely self-aware enough to realize that he both feels, and probably looks, like an absolutely slavering idiot. He's all sharp fangs and flashing blue eyes and snarling drool as the he struggles, the demon having pinned him against the car well within touching distance. That's probably the cruelest part; that Peter is only about a foot away. He can smell the way Lydia's body had responded to him, and was now unwillingly responding to the demon, and he can't tell if it's her fear or the demon's hunger that's more of a turn-on.

Talia always told Peter to be careful. That he was built differently than others. His fight would be more difficult, and the temptation to cash out and give in would always be there. He passively listened, but never let her help him, because she was both his alpha and his older sister, and the two always clashed against Peter's pride. He loved her and doesn't want to sully her memory, but he knows that one day Derek will find out that the ease with which he killed Laura was just transference, having been carefully cultivated over the months before Talia died. Peter wouldn't say that he'd planned to kill his sister, but he'd be lying to himself if he didn't admit that he'd at least prepared for the possibility.

Peter takes no issue and holds no guilt, killing for the ones he loves. It comes as naturally to him as breathing. That's the only difference between himself and Derek. The instincts are all the same; it's just that pesky humanity that shoves them along different paths. Peter isn't devoid, of course, and while his moral compass is certainly askew, that doesn't stop the gut-twisting, skin crawling, bone-twisting need to protect what is his.

Both Stiles and Lydia are his, as much as they are Derek's and as much as they are Scott's, and Peter is unwilling to let this go without at least trying to fight. The metal creaks as he strains and pulls against the magic, and for a moment he's so angry and afraid that he thinks he might pull the car apart.

“Stop, you fucking– Stiles!” Lydia cries out. The demon has her on her back in the passenger seat, one knee wedged up between her legs as his other foot slides against the asphalt. “Stiles, don't let him do this!” Peter knows her trick, saying Stiles's name as much as she can in the hopes that it will wake him up inside. But he has a bad feeling it isn't going to work. “Stiles, make him stop!”

“No, you stop,” the demon growls petulantly. He finally gets a hand around the top of the bodice of her dress and yanks, the material giving a satisfying rips, revealing a modest but pretty dusty pink bra and smooth, creamy white skin.

“Do you have any idea how much of a boner-killer it is to have a girl yelling 'Stop! Stop!' in a guy's ear when he's trying to fuck her?” He mimics the high pitch of her voice while mocking her, because he's obviously frustrated by his inability to get up under her skirt. “Have a little consideration for me,” the demon bites out, as Lydia shoves at him with her knees and scratches at his face. Peter can't help silently cheering her on.

Lydia's heart is racing, and her hearing is either super-keen or completely muffled, she can't tell. She's hyper-aware of what's happening to her, but feels detached because it's a demon, and this is what demons do. They corrupt and destroy good things. They manipulate and lie. They hurt and bite with words, and shatter innocence.

It's a demon inside Stiles. She has to detach because Stiles would never do this to her. He'd never do this to anyone.

“Get the hell off me, you piece of shit,” Lydia snarls, trying to take advantage of the demon's apparent distraction with Peter. Her legs jerk as she wrenches fiercely away from him, but only succeeds in jamming her shoulder into the shifter and the seat-belt into the back of her neck. He growls and grabs her by the dress that's bunched around her waist and tugs her back, dragging her hips so they're hanging over the side of the passenger seat. Her legs hang open and parted, scenting the air with the smell of her. She whimpers hard and feels bile in her throat as both the demon and Peter groan.

No help from Peter then. That's okay, Lydia is used to standing on her own. Lydia's mind is still sharp and her core is still steel. She can handle this.

She clacks her teeth together a disgusted scream as three of Stiles's long, tapered fingers finally succeed in invading her. A vile, sick shiver of pleasure bolts through her as the demon pushes them inside, curling and rubbing them inside of her unwelcoming body, and she can feel herself getting wet for him. She can feel herself beginning to want it, which she knows has to be a trick. She knows he's using magic on her, so she feels completely justified in throwing a pathetic punch at his face.

The demon doesn't keep her hands away. She can tell how much he's enjoying her hitting at him, shoving him, trying to stop him. Her resolve cracks a little bit more with every passing second, as she realizes she'll never be strong enough to stop him from taking what he wants.

The demon thrusts his fingers unkindly into her heat, sinking his fingers in up to the big, bulbous knuckles on the back of his hand. The demon wants to make her bleed with blunt fingernails, hoping she'll ache tomorrow because of him. He drops his head and mouths at her breasts through her bra. Her body tenses and jerks in gross protest against the pleasure that aches in her as he tongues at the wet satin that covers one of her stiff nipples.

His blunt thumb slicks up through her folds to press and rub against her clit, and as she mewls and hisses her breaths, her cunt clamps down around his fingers. His dick throbs against her thigh, super-sensitive and chafing against the denim of his jeans.

“You hard, Petey?” the demon asks roughly. He grins against Lydia's collarbone as the strain in her thighs finally bests her and she digs her heels into his back, lifting her hips to him with a hateful sound.

“Maybe,” he growls tightly. Truth is, Peter is hard as fucking nails, but he's too humiliated to for his brain to catch up, so he's surprisingly sharp and clear-headed. His hands ball into fists, because it's the only movement he's allowed.

He entertains three simultaneous fantasies; pulling Stiles off of Lydia and sinking into her wet heat himself, shoving Stiles onto Lydia and pushing into that tight ass again, or just running off into the night and pretending like none of this ever happened. Hell, if he had his way he'd indulge in all three. He doesn't, though; Peter doesn't have much of anything right now. Well, nothing except the sinking sensation in his stomach as he hears the screech of tires heading their way, but whether that stomach-pit feeling is one of defeat or triumph, it's too soon to tell.

The only thing that eclipses the sound of tires is the sound of the demon unzipping Stiles's jeans. Lydia keens coldly and whimpers curses and slings slurs. Peter pants softly because he can practically feel the demon bringing her up against her will, and a part of him wishes he was the one doing it.

Their entire world has become this tiny, dark corner of the AM/PM parking lot. For a surreal moment Peter thinks they might never leave. That thought is cut short, however, when the demon is suddenly jerked away from Lydia like a puppet on a string.

The demon grunts as his back hits the stucco wall of the convenience store, but the impact won't be enough to knock him out. Peter squeezes his eyes shut and inhales sharply, suddenly realizing he'd been holding his breath for so long he hadn't even smelled Scott and Derek. He pushes his eyes open and his vision is fuzzy, but he can see Derek and Scott grabbing Stiles by the arms, by the shoulders; wherever they can get their hands on him.

He watches them muscle Stiles back against the wall again, and Derek raises his fist to strike

They're both wearing rage and exhaustion plainly on their faces, and Peter wonders for a moment if they actually know what they're doing.

“Stop,” Peter wheezes out. He suddenly feels his chest ache and his throat constrict, and he knows the demon is trying to shut him up. Peter fights through it. No one has ever been able to get him to stop talking, and that's not going to change today. “Don't hit him, you idiots! You'll hurt Stiles...”

There's no preamble. No villainous monologue. No cackling laughter or diabolical cat-petting. As soon as Scott pulls back and looks at Peter, distracted, Stiles's body seems to waver and shift like a heat distortion. It looks like water when he separates itself from Stiles, and it's not as big as its attitude would suggest. But it also doesn't stick around long enough for scrutiny. Peter doubles over and lets out a few racking coughs as the demon shoots off into the shadows it created, fleeing for now.

But just for now. It'll be back, Peter knows. Their deal still isn't done.

Peter falls to his knees, then drops onto his hands, hacking and coughing up phlegm as parking lot grit digs into the heels of his palms. His claws pop almost reflexively and scrape at the asphalt as he smells Derek. His nephew is quite angry, and while Peter can't blame him, he's also not looking forward to what he knows is about to happen.

“I never should have trusted you,” Derek says, anger held in check behind the wall of his clenched teeth. Peter looks up, and while there's a little regret in his eyes, it's obviously not enough for Derek. “I can't believe I didn't know better.” Before Peter can even utter a word, Derek's boot catches him hard under the chin, clacking Peter's jaw shut and knocking him soundly out.

Derek might not be able kill Peter, but that doesn't mean he has to listen to him talk.

Lydia, meanwhile, is dealing with Scott who's hovering over her, half-hanging in through the car door. He's completely oblivious to her embarrassment, and he's already moved past the personal implications of what nearly happened to her and just wants to save her already. Derek is about to grab him by collar and yank him out when Lydia speaks.

“Just.... give me a minute, okay?” she says. Her voice is tight and small as she pushes at Scott's shoulder before slamming the car door shut.

Lydia turns from the window and curls in on herself, feeling wretched as she shoves a hand down the front of her panties. She knows that the demon must have done something to her because she can't think, she can't function; she can't do anything until she relieves this pressure.

The crotch of her panties is sticky-cold against the back of her hand as she works her fingers in a firm, furious dance over her own swollen flesh. Her cheeks heat and color with both shame and agonizing relief as pleasure coils down low inside of her. Her toes clench so hard they ache, and her lips part in a near-silent gasp as she shudders to orgasm with as much dignity as she can.

As soon as he realizes what's happening, Derek immediately turns away to herd Scott over to his car. Thirty seconds later and Scott's paradigm has been expanded. They're both trying not to eavesdrop on Lydia, but they are both young men, despite anything. Scott gives Derek a mournful look, because alpha or not, what does Scott know about fixing a problem like this? Derek's had sisters, both younger and older, so he just nods and steps out of the car.

Lydia knows Derek and Scott can hear her, she knows they can smell her, but fuck it. She feels raw and torn open, but her core is steel, steel, steel. Her body is her own and she'll be the one who controls it, but that doesn't stop her from crying when she comes. She just cries and cries, huge, wracking sobs, because it's all too much. Lydia isn't weak, but she's not exactly dead inside, so when the car door opens and Derek takes her up in his arms, she lets him let her feel safe for now. She wraps herself around his front and clutches at his shoulder, pressing her tear-stained face into the side of his throat.

Derek is sure that this is the first time they've touched since she used him to resurrect Peter. But in the wake of all of this, all of that past resent just seems... petty. Pointless. She lifts her eyes to his, mossy and shiny, but so sharply focused he almost feels compelled to glance away.

“I'm sorry,” she whispers, as if reading his mind. Derek's face softens, makes him look so much younger than he feels, and his hands tighten where they hold her. He says nothing, because he's terrible at words, but gives her a small smile with lips pressed firmly together. He carries her to his car and settles her into the passenger seat, helping her with the seat-belt without a word of protest from her. Peter gets laid out in the backseat before Derek tosses his car keys to Scott, leaving him looking confused.

“I'll drive Stiles,” Derek says. Something unreadable passes over Derek's face and then between the two, but Scott nods. There's trust there. Lydia is too tired to protest, and just asks for her purse which he obediently brings to her after extracting her car keys. After wiping her eyes with a tissue and slathering her hands in anti-bacterial hand gel, she tells them them everything that happened. From the moment Peter summoned the demon, to the moment Scott and Derek drove into the parking lot.

“We need to take them back home,” Derek says, leaning on his hands against the passenger-side window with his eyes on Scott. “No one's going to L.A. Not until we get everything Peter knows out of him and figure out where that demon went. If what Lydia says is true, then this is far from over.”

“I agree,” Scott says, and with a shared look they part ways.

Stiles comes to about twenty minutes into the drive. His head is throbbing like he'd just gone three rounds with a werewolf because, oh wait, he sort of had.

“Sweet angry Santa,” he groans, rubbing his hands against his eyes until he sees star-bursts to try and clear the sore grit away. “What the hell happened?” His headache is unmerciful, there's a sore, tender cut on his left pec over his nipple, and the skin on his back feels achy and torn. “Did I get road-hauled, or something?”

“You don't remember?” says a man's voice. Stiles is suddenly acutely aware of the fact that he's in a car, Lydia's car, and that Derek Hale is driving. Derek. In Lydia's car. At night. With him.

“Uh,” Stiles utters with eloquence and profound articulation. He turns gingerly to peer into the backseat, a little surprised to find it empty. “Is this a dream?” he murmurs to himself as he turns back to look at Derek.

Derek snorts softly. “Do you dream about me driving you around in Lydia's car a lot?” he asks, and Stiles give a slight shrug before sagging into the passenger seat.

“Sometimes,” Stiles murmurs. He bends his knees and pulls them up, hooking his heels on the edge of the seat and chews on his thumbnail, looking about half his age and scolded. He's still unconvinced that he's actually awake, because he can't remember where he is or how he got here. The last thing he does remember is meeting up with Scott out in front of the school.

“But I'm usually in the backseat with Lydia,” he mumbles distractedly, eyes darting out the window. “And you have a sexy little cabbie hat on...”

“What?” Derek says a little too fast, his posture straightening up a bit, like some completely random panic response.

“What?” Stiles echoes, staring in a slight panic at Derek's profile.

Stiles's eyes suddenly go wide as the reality of the situation comes crashing down on him. Everything is in stark detail, and he smells blood and dirt and tar, gas fumes from the freeway outside. And Derek looks confused, cautious, and guarded. Derek never really looks like the real Derek in Stiles's dreams. He's always this suave, naughty, confident guy, all seductive and growly and dominant, and that's definitely not the guy he's staring at right now.

“Fuck...” Stiles gasps. “What the fuck, what the fuck,” he babbles, mouth falling open like he's about to start yelling. “What the fuck is happening?!”

“Stiles–” Derek starts, shooting him a slightly pained look. His brows furrow in that feigning-concern way of Derek's as he reaches out a hand that's probably meant to be comforting. Stiles bats his hand away awkwardly before waving a hand in front of his face, his stomach churning.

“Pull over,” Stiles says tightly, and Derek complies without protest. Within seconds Stiles is on his hands and knees, retching into some dry shrub-grass on the side of the I-5 at nearly 12:30a.m. His heart is racing and he feels dizzy, and he's pretty sure the ache in his groin is blue balls. Blue balls what the fuck?

“Stiles,” Derek says hesitantly, but Stiles flinches away from the sound of his name on Derek's lips. His shoulders tighten as he folds in on himself, and honestly considers just curling up into a ball and living here in the shrub-grass. He'll make a nice little home with the bugs and the field mice, because the memories are starting to creep back into his brain and he doesn't think he can handle this.

Peter. Peter and... the loft. Peter and him and fuck. The demon wearing him like a bad suit. Track practice. Danny. Oh god, Danny. Lydia...

Lydia.

“Oh my god,” Stiles whispers. He reaches up to angrily swipe at the tears leaking from his eyes, and he can smell her on his fingers. He can smell her and there's blood under his fingernails. With a strangled sound he pitches forward and heaves again, but nothing comes out. There's no satisfaction of vomit or blood or his soul or gray matter. Nope, it all stays inside and taunts him and he has to live with everything.

“Listen to me,” Derek says, his voice coming from some place far away, despite standing only a few feet behind Stiles. “Stiles, nothing that happened is your fault. You can't blame yourself for any of this. You didn't do any of this–”

“Pot, kettle,” Stiles whispers, barking a humorless laugh. He recalls how many times they've all thought the same thing about Derek over the past several months. He pushes back and lands on his ass in the dirt, idly glancing at the ancient-looking sneaker and the shred of tire half-buried in the dirt by the side of the road as the southern California desert works to reclaim them. “I can't–” he shakes his head, unconsciously shoving his hands into his hair, which only helps to spread the smell of Lydia and dirt over himself even more. “Oh my god.”

Derek's hand is suddenly on his shoulder as he crouches next to Stiles, his gravity intense. He reaches with his free hand to grab Stiles's chin, forcing him to meet his eyes as he stares down with the weight of too much grief and remorse and regret in those green eyes. “We will fix this,” Derek promises around the gravel in his voice. “Lydia will be safe, you will be safe, and Peter will answer for what he did. Do you understand me?”

Stiles wants to jerk his chin out of Derek's hand because that touch is too fatherly to be comfortable. He wants to shoves at Derek and hit him, to scream at the stars and break down and cry. To hurt himself and bleed himself for what he did to Lydia, to Danny. For what happened to himself. He wants to cover his skin in dirt and let the sun bake him dry because he can't forget how fucking good it felt when Peter fucked him. How much he loved it. He can't forget any of it, and he doesn't know if he should. If he should be allowed to.

He nods anyway, though. It's a little wooden, but Derek can't read his mind and will just think he's in a shock. It'll satisfy him because Derek can't bring himself to connect with anyone on too deep of a level, so advantage Stiles. He can lie his way through this car ride and work things out on his own when he gets home.

Stiles will talk to Lydia, talk to Peter, and then maybe beat himself over the head with a baseball bat until he can't remember anything anymore. Definitely sounds like a sane, rational plan.

He doesn't put up a fight when Derek pulls him to his feet. He stands limply and stares impassively as Derek brushes the dirt off of him; off of his legs and gently from his fingers and palms. He doesn't even crack a joke or smile when those broad hands quickly swipe over the ass of his jeans.

Both of them are definitely too caught up in what's happening here, between them, to notice the old biker in worn leathers, and a helmet that's seen better days, speed past them going north.

It's no matter. It's not like they could have seen the inky black eyes behind the visor. They have no way of knowing what will be waiting for them when they get home, because their journey there is the only thing they can think about. Somewhere out in the desert a few coyotes yip and bark, and while Stiles ignores them and settles in for the long ride, Derek stares off toward the sound, feeling something strange quickly crawl over his skin.

Chapter Text

It's all days of static and banal platitudes in their ears since Scott, Lydia, and Stiles returned to Beacon Hills, but none of them are fooled. They live on barely any sleep, food that doesn't taste like much, and every sound and shadow has them skirting the edges.

Derek and Peter disappear to the loft, and a few days go by with barely any contact. No one is surprised, but everyone is waiting for news; for the proverbial other shoe to drop.

"There's really nothing I can say that will make you understand, Derek," Peter sighs. He has one leg hitched up over the corner of the table he's perched on, arms folded over his chest much in the same fashion as Derek's.

"Well, try." Derek scowls, pausing in his pacing to glare at Peter. The light shining behind his pale eyes somehow makes him look even more threatening than if his eyes were dark. "Let me run you through it again: You summoned a demon, it possessed Stiles, you sold your soul, you raped him, and then you dragged Lydia into it."

"No, no, no," Peter says, waving his index finger as he tuts. "There was no rape, and Lydia came to me. I tried to talk her out of it, but that girl is a force of nature when she's determined."

"Right," Derek says through his teeth, glowering. "I'm sure you tried really hard."

"Well," Peter smiles airily, feeling like he has nothing to apologize for. "I probably could have tried harder, but I was thinking about Stiles. It was for his own good that Lydia made her deal." His demeanor is dangerously careless, acting as if Derek doesn't look like he's about to go for his throat.

"Explain." Derek finally stops pacing a rut into the floor and gives Peter his full attention. It's now only about 85% antagonistic sarcasm, with the other 15% genuine curiosity. It seems he actually wants to give Peter an umpteenth chance to prove that he can be salvaged.

Peter explains. He explains the plan to trick the demon into making a fake deal with Lydia so that Stiles's body would be spared. He explains that, despite the unfortunate path they had to walk to get there, the demon did in fact vacate Stiles's body. After days of nothing, it seems like the demon is gone for good.

Peter doesn't necessarily believe the story he's selling, but he's an excellent liar and Derek has always been gullible when the lie is good enough. Derek wants to believe him, wants to believe that they're safe and that it's all over, and Peter can't help taking advantage of that. He needs Derek on his side right now.

None of them would believe him if he told them that he was doing this for them, to protect them all. That as brave, noble, and adorable as Scott is, he'd be no match alone for any real danger. But given his less than stellar track record, no one would believe Peter would protect them all, either. That he could, but he's just not strong enough yet.

But he will be.

Two days after they get home, Lydia breaks up with Aiden over text message. Two days after that, Scott finds himself on the phone, listening to Allison half-crying, half-yelling about her now former best friend, Lydia, and her now ex-boyfriend, Isaac, and how they both betrayed her.

Scott watches Lydia throughout the entire phone call. She's watching The Bachelor from under one of Scott's grandmother's old quilts as Scott makes what he hopes are attentive sounds when needed. When Allison hangs up it leaves him feeling confused and tired, and he doesn't understand how girls can do that all the time. Talk like that.

Lydia likes the McCall's house. It smells like a mom lives here; like a family's house should smell. The way the light from the T.V. flickers over their faces in the dark room doesn't make her feel lonely like it does when she's home. After the one night in Isaac's bed, she's spent the last two nights right here on this couch, because when she's in bed alone she has nightmares.

“You slept with Isaac,” Scott says after a re-run of Letterman. There's no question in his voice; he's just looking for confirmation.

“Mhm,” Lydia hums.

"Why'd you do it?" Unsurprisingly there's no judgment in his voice, only worry and the need to understand.

She doesn't answer immediately, because her fingers have found a fraying edge of the quilt and she's been rubbing it idly over her lips for comfort. "Because I was scared," she finally says softly, honestly, from behind the bunching of blanket covering half of her face. "And nothing made sense. So I just... made myself a normal problem that I knew I could solve."

Scott gets it. He's too good of a guy to ever do anything like it, and Lydia's secretly too nice to tell anyone about the furtive little smile she sees when it finally sinks in that Allison called him and told him that she was single again, but he gets it. They both do. So maybe they'll hang out on the couch for a little while longer because at least it's warm and comfortable and it makes sense, and maybe Lydia is thinking of ways she can help save Scott, because he helped save her.

Stiles keeps to himself for those first two days. He fakes sick and avoids school. He refuses phone calls, answers texts in as few words as possible, and when Scott finally rings the front door bell, he hears Stiles's voice quietly from his open bedroom window.

"I'll be okay, dude," Stiles says. "I just need some time." Scott backpedals into the front law so quickly he almost trips over his own feet, anxious for a glance of his friend's face. He gets none, just a glimpse of fingers tugging the window pane down and shutting out the fresh air. Shutting himself in. Scott remembers the Bible verses, and thinks maybe Stiles will be okay, at least in that respect. They can work on the rest later.

Scott and Derek both take turns keeping an eye on the house, knowing the Sheriff works odd shifts and that someone should be there just in case. Isaac is reluctant to patrol at Stiles's house when Scott is there because he feels guilty, but Derek confirms that he's shown up twice now, both in the early mornings. Isaac isn't much of a sleeper. He still gets nightmares and feels guilty about a lot of things, so Scott assumes this is probably just Isaac's way of looking for a little bit of absolution. Just enough penance to replace the melatonin he'd been shoplifting from the pharmacy, and to try and apologize for what he did with Allison and Lydia.

Allison ignores everyone at school, which propels Lydia back to her old queen bee ways. Bright red lipstick war paint, couture battle armor, and words as sharp as swords. Aiden and Ethan linger for a few more days, but on Tuesday when Scott walks into the locker room to get changed for track, he finds Danny kicking his locker door, his cheeks splotchy and eyes rimmed pink. No one knows where they went, but Scott has a feeling they're never going to hear from the twins again. Scott's not surprised that they left. They need a pack, and he doesn't think he could ever take them in.

When Stiles finally returns it's with forced smiles, and there's a dull luster in his eyes. Scott tries not to baby him and tries not to overcompensate for the lack of Allison, Isaac, and Lydia at their lunch table, but he knows he's hovering. Stiles is patient, and by the end of the day Scott finally gets a real laugh out of him, which warms him inside. The warmth soothes the stiffness from Scott's limbs and he moves more easily, even making time to catch Allison's eye, giving her a few genuine smiles through the day. She even smiles back once.

The little things are encouraging, but the bigger picture is still a mess of smears and virtually unrecognizable. It's shocking to think how much damage was done in those thirty-six hours, but after a week later they're all still aching in their bones and reeling.

No one talks about what happened. No one even looks each other in the eye that much. It's breaking Scott's heart to see his friends fractured. His pack.

"He's actually really funny when he doesn't think anyone's paying attention," Stiles comments with his eyes trained on Derek. Scott hides his face and smiles because that look holds weight. No one knows what happened between Derek and Stiles on their way back from Coalinga, and despite them insisting it was nothing, it was obviously something. It was something because Derek dropped everything to drive seven hundred miles in one day to save a boy who wasn't pack. Who was apparently just a fair-weather friend, at best.

It was something because after a week, the first time Scott really notices Stiles's shoulders relax is right now, standing in Derek's loft.

They're watching as Derek tries to glare a newly-purchased coffee maker into working properly. Because after that week of silence, Derek finally texted Stiles to see how he was doing, which isn't something he'd ever done before. Maybe it's because Derek saved him, or maybe it's something else, but whatever it is has Scott grateful. While Stiles isn't as easily smiling and joking again just yet, at least his eyes aren't so sad anymore.

"Dude, did you read the directions?" Scott asks. All he gets in response is a grunt from Derek, which probably means no. "Can you help him?" Scott nudges Stiles with an elbow, remembering how Stiles magically got the ancient machine at the police station working again one late night, after bringing his dad dinner.

Stiles snorts softly and stands from where he's been sitting on the ratty blue couch. "Hey, brainiac," he calls out, "The English instructions are in the back of the book." He reaches up and rubs at the side of his neck before shoving his hands into the pockets of his hoodie and walking over to Derek.

Derek turns a perplexed glare on Stiles as he approaches, eyes linger a little longer than they maybe should. Stiles grabs the barely thumbed-through user's manual and flutters the pages to the end, skipping past the French, Spanish, Korean, Japanese, and Chinese instructions. And sure enough, there they are, the English instructions. Derek huffs.

"It's a French machine, man," Stiles says as he stabs a finger at the front page, pointing out the machine's country of origin. "The French hate Americans, so we're always in the back." He chuckles. He is teasing about the reason, but that doesn't change logistics.

"That's not true," Derek counters.

"It's totally true," Stiles states, his hands fidgeting slightly inside his pockets as he smiles carefully.

"Totally true," Scott echoes from the couch where he's absently staring at the screen of his phone, probably checking to see if Allison's texted.

"What's true?" Peter asks as he descends the stairs with a very slight amount of trepidation, like a grounded teenager sneaking out to steal a snack from the kitchen while his parents are watching T.V.

"That the French hate us," Stiles says.

"Mm," Peter nods, stopping at the foot of the stairs to take in the rather domestic scene before him. "Absolutely true."

"Shut up," Derek says. He's still looking at Peter when he smacks Stiles lightly upside the back of the head, because it's a return to normalcy and that's what they do.

“Oww,” Stiles whines more out of reflex than actual pain, because it doesn't hurt. But he still kicks Derek in the shin, regardless. “Dude, you're always so violent. You know it causes stress, right? And stress... stress can make you constipated,” Stiles nods solemnly as Scott tries not to snicker at Derek's flat stare and tight mouth. “I mean, it's really no wonder your face always looks like that, all fussy and in need of fiber. You're probably backed up to the bottom of your throat.”

That's when Stiles loses all use of his right arm for the next seven minutes. Derek grabs him by the collar of his shirt and hauls him in close, all flailing limbs and childish protests, and punches him in the upper arm three times until it's charley-horsed and useless.

“This is how you show emotion, isn't it?” Stiles yelps. He jerks himself away from Derek's big, heavy fist, but Derek holds him fast, smirking. “You're emoting! Your fists are your tears!”

“Yeah, and I'm going to sob all over you in a minute if you don't hold still,” Derek says with a snort.

Things have been weird today, but Stiles can't imagine they'll be any other way for awhile. Every time Peter gets within touching distance of him, Derek sub-vocalizes a growl. It's slightly annoying because it keeps hitting Stiles in the pride, but it's also kind of touching. Scott doesn't say anything, and Stiles assumes it's because the Hales aren't his wolves. Stiles pretends to remain oblivious because it's easier than calling it out.

In reality Stiles knows there's something going on between the three of them, because there can't not be. Two former alphas, both born wolves and both older in years than the new alpha, who is a teenage boy bitten by one of the former alphas? Yeah, that's drama. Get a film crew and put it on late night and Stiles is pretty sure Lydia would watch it. Stiles wouldn't. He doesn't like drama. If he's being honest with himself, what he wants is to be back in the car with Derek. Just the two of them, the radio on low, and hundreds of miles of desert highway stretched out on either side.

Despite everything that's happened, that time was the calmest Stiles had been in awhile. It had been simple, in its way. No distractions and no demands. No familiarity out the windows. No trees and no recognizable smells except for Derek. As much as they butt heads, exchange threats, and throw barbs, Derek always smells like safety. So there's that.

Peter's makeshift altar had been taken out into the parking lot and burned as soon as they got back, but all of the books are still on the table, right where Peter and Lydia left them. Stiles wants to take a look at those books. He's still nervous, his stomach is still fluttery, and he feels woefully unprepared for the future. Even if the demon never comes back, he knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that Peter's deal will go through, because demons of that caliber never break their deals. Stiles also knows that there has to be something in these books that can help them.

He runs his fingers over the old pages, a little fascinated with just how enduring books can be. He knows that Peter's preferred platform is technology, but some things just require traditional ritual. Respect for the old ways. Stiles knows all of these things, now, like they're memories. Like little hidden pockets of knowledge the demon left behind. Some things he wishes he could forget, but some things might be really useful if, well... anything happens. In the future.

Stiles stares at the words and appreciates them for what they are; power, in a way. He doesn't really understand anything he's reading because he doesn't know the language, but it's interesting to mouth over the way the letters are put together. It's almost as if comprehension isn't as necessary as the simple act of saying them. For the desire for something to happen.

When Stiles lifts his eyes everyone is looking at him, and he suddenly feels like a cornered lab rat. He yanks his hand away from the book like it's on fire and curls his fingers against his palm, holding it against his stomach. "What?" he asks, giving Scott a perplexed look.

"Uh," Scott begins and then hesitates, glancing at Derek whose gaze is wary and intense, maybe even a little more than usual. "Did Lydia teach you that?"

"Did Lydia teach me what?”

"Defende nos in proelio; contra nequitiam et insidias diaboli esto praesidium," Peter recites. He's perched on the arm of the couch, hands clasped in his lap. "A prayer to Michael the Archangel." Peter smiles softly and tilts his head, eyes narrowing curiously at Stiles. "It's typically recited right before an exorcism, especially if it's recited in the Latin. Which is what you just did."

"But I don't know Latin," Stiles says, deflecting. Or, at least, he never has before. But maybe he does, now. Maybe there are a lot of things he can do now, thanks to all of the new information swimming around in his brain. It's all just waiting to be tapped, he guesses. It's like Demon Google: he just needs to think of some keywords to brings up the right results.

There's magic in his head now, of this he's certain. Not power, but the possibility of it. Spells and names to summon by, and important dates and times and places of power. It's like a recipe book, he just needs to learn how to cook.

Stiles darts his eyes back over to Scott and Derek. He frowns slightly when he notices how they've drifted closer and are sharing infuriatingly meaningful looks, murmuring under their breath to each other. Probably talking about him.

"Hey, peanut gallery; some opinions on my impending head-spinning would be nice," Stiles says, if only to get their attention away from each other. For some weird reason their bonding ticks Stiles's jealousy card in two separate categories. Scott and Derek turn to stare at him, both looking a little confused.

“Head-spinning?” Scott asks, looking worried.

"Wow, seriously?" Stiles asks, throwing up his hands in disbelief. "Pea soup? Crucifix masturbation?" Derek arches an eyebrow and Scott makes a slightly disapproving face, but there's no recognition in their eyes. "'Your mother sucks cocks in hell'?" Stiles turns, quoting to Peter with an imploring look on his face.

"Hey," Peter growls, frowning as he folds his arms.

"Not your mother. Oh my god, have none of you have seen The Exorcist?" Stiles groans dramatically and sinks down into one of the table chairs. "It's a classic. What is this world that I live in? My best friend has never seen Star Wars–"

"I said I would watch it when we had time," Scott protests.

"You've never seen The Exorcist, which is shocking to me," Stiles continues, gesturing to Peter.

"The spinning robot head looked lame." Peter shrugs.

"And you," Stiles says, looking at Derek with disapproval. "You've probably never even seen an actual television set or stepped foot inside a movie theater. They're called movies, by the way, because they're a collection of photographs where people move," Derek rolls his eyes. "Oh, sorry, uh... a photograph is like a a daguerreotype or a wood carving–"

"Shut up, Stiles,” Derek says.

"We're watching it tonight," Stiles says as he sits back in the chair and folds his arms. "As the resident demon condom, I get to decide the amount of ironic levity to subject myself to, and you all have to support me... or I might just jump off the side of the building and hang myself, screaming about how I did it all for you."

"Dude, that's not funny," Scott whines.

"Well, okay, it would have been funnier if one of you was named Damien," Stiles counters, his humor having gone straight up the gallows over the past week.

They do end up watching The Exorcist that night, all four of them crushing together on Derek's old couch. The Hales bookend Scott and Stiles, with the latter in-between Derek and Scott. Stiles is distracted from most of the movie because he can't stop thinking about how warm and solid Derek is. How it's unfair that Derek's arm is slung over the back of the couch, behind Stiles's head, because it's almost like he's mocking the situation. Like he's teasing Stiles about what he unintentionally admitted in the car about Sexy Derek the Chauffeur.

Stiles chews on his fingernails, hyper-aware of Derek's body because it's all he can do not to turn and press his cheek against Derek's chest. He wants to feel his heartbeat against his cheek and he wants to be held, because Stiles is still scared. He still feels sick every time he thinks about what happened , and the simple fact that Derek came with Scott to save him twists in his chest in a weird way.

He always just assumed Derek would forever exist as this idealized version of himself in Stiles's wank bank. As some growly, manly, mysterious accessory to his and Lydia's pretend whirlwind romance. But now, when Stiles closes his eyes, Lydia isn't there anymore. She can't be, not after what happened. But Derek's still there, and Stiles really doesn't know what that means.

The loft is dark at Stiles's insistence because it's a horror movie, you babies, and the shadows in the corners are deep and murky. The wolves and their human are all too caught up in the glowing screen of the laptop, or deep in thought about themselves or each other, to notice the movement in the deepest, darkest corner of the room.

And why should they? There's nothing really there. No sound, no smell, no solid to grab onto and tear apart. Just patient intent and malicious thoughts.

It's just barely after 6:00am when Peter hears the sound of glass breaking downstairs. No, that's not glass, he thinks. More like ceramic. A coffee mug? He takes a few of the steps down, the metal cold on his bare feet, only to see Derek crouched on the floor next to the counter. The dim morning light diffuses through the dirty windows and glares off of Derek's back, the triskele like a brand on his pale skin.

"Did you break something?" Peter asks, realizing how foreign it sounds to say those words. Peter and Derek don't just drop things. Their reflexes are, well, supernatural. His hand curls around the rail as he leans against the opposite one, throat clearing softly.

"Yeah, sorry," Derek says over his shoulder, mouth curving up into a brief smile. "You know me. Always breaking things."

Peter cants his head and narrows his eyes, lips parting in preparation for the same, tired old lecture about self-worth and how the past is the past, but he stops himself. Not only is it barely sunrise, but there's just something off about Derek. Something Peter just doesn't want to deal with when he's still warm from bed, and his pajama pants are riding too low on his hips for him to be any sort of an effective authority figure.

He brushes it off and climbs back up the stairs, already half-asleep by the time his head hits the pillow. He tries to remember to address this later, because he literally can't remember a single time in his life when Derek was clumsy. As a general rule, werewolves just aren't.

Derek's eyes trail after Peter as he ascends the stairs, but it's not until he hears the steady breathing of sleep that he bends down to clean up the shattered coffee mug. He laughs silently to himself and sits back on his heels, one corner of his mouth tugging up into a slightly cocky grin.

He grabs one of the bigger shards of white ceramic and slashes it across his pale forearm, watching with absolute delight as the skin splits nearly down to the bone. Blood pours out onto the floor as the skin tugs the wound open like elastic. A thin layer of fat blooms out and he can feel his fingers go numb, but just like magic, just like in movies, the wound slowly starts to stitch itself together again.

First the muscle, tiny little red lines reattaching themselves like perfect needlework, and then the fatty layer, slipping itself back together like a little line of glue deep inside. The skin pulls and stretches and it itches like crazy, but in less than a minute, the wound on his arm is closed. It's sealed up tight, and if not for the mess of blood all over the floor and smeared down his arm, it's like it never happened.

Truth be told, the demon hadn't dropped the mug, he'd accidentally crushed it. He'd never possessed a body that wasn't human before, and the werewolf is fucking strong. The demon is used to his own strength, which only comes with bursts of will and magic, but Derek is this strong all the time. It's no wonder he prefers to keep his hands to himself. He could easily crush any of his little teenage human friends without a thought.

“I think I might be the smash and grab type, after all,” he murmurs. He reaches up to run a hand over his facial hair, eyes darting around and taking in all of the amazing details he'd never seen through human eyes before. The smells and the sounds of the world. Fuck, how can anyone concentrate with this much stimulation?

It's going to take some getting used to, but he's adaptable. One has to be in this line of work.

Four days pass and no one notices that Derek's lips keep quirking, like he's trying not to smile. It's something someone really should notice considering his general stonefaceness and lack of any real discernible sense of humor. No one really mentions that his sarcasm has morphed from self-effacing and biting to witty and humorous, and that Scott laughs with him more. It's a bonding experience that forms over just a few days, and nobody comments on how quickly they seem to become genuinely friendly. Everyone is just so grateful that something good came out of all of this.

Peter doesn't trust it and thinks they're all fucking idiots, and takes great delight in reminding them that they're all fucking idiots. He doesn't trust anything or anyone right now, and rightfully so. Peter made a deal with a demon and still hasn't gotten paid, and he has no idea what that means. So when Derek announces that he's leaving again for the weekend, heading off to Bishop to pick up Cora, Peter is almost too distracted to get suspicious when he invites Stiles along.

There's pack and there's obligation. There's family, and then there are useful people. Stiles has always just been a useful person, but he's never been pack. He probably never will be. He'll always feel torn between Scott and Derek; between his father and the wolves. He'll always be the boy with a foot in both worlds, and while that can sometimes be an admirable place to stand, it can just as often be unbalancing and make it easier to topple you.

Peter watches Derek carefully, watches his body language, and is suddenly struck by the simple fact that Derek seems to be flirting with Stiles. It's no wonder he hadn't noticed it right away, because the last time Peter saw Derek flirt with anyone, it was Paige. Kate had seduced Derek, there had been no dance there.

This thing with Stiles is subtle. It's practically insidious. Derek's cunning flirtation is so perfect that Peter could have written a book by it, and it's almost insulting the way Stiles falls for it so predictably. The way his smiles become easier around Derek and his hands flutter in friendly touches. The way their sarcastic barbs become a playful banter.

The extent to which Peter is not falling for this shit is so much so that Derek finds him sitting in the backseat of the Toyota on Saturday morning. Peter's arms are crossed and chin stubbornly jutting, like a child refusing to do his homework until he gets a cookie. Derek's eyes flash with irritation as he recognizes the pigheaded set to his uncle's jaw, and Peter is beset with the mental image of Derek attempting to strangle him to death with the seat-belt.

"You're not going to Bishop with us," Derek says as he shoulders a small duffel bag into the backseat, half-dumping it into Peter's lap. He doesn't feel bad because Peter isn't supposed to be there in the first place.

"Of course I am," Peter says, glancing out the window where Stiles is hugging Scott goodbye with both arms. He idly wonders how tolerant Scott is of Stiles's newly burgeoning bi-sexuality, because the kid really likes to hug with his entire body, doesn't he?

"I'd like to visit with Kimana, and I'm not leaving you alone with Stiles or my nephew," Peter says casually as he looks back at Derek. "You're my responsibility." With a fierce swell of smug pride, he catches the black that briefly rims Derek's eyes before it retreats, slipping back to clear the whites like tears in reverse.

"Oh, please,” the demon says Derek's voice, low enough that Scott won't hear. “Don't pretend that you're worried about that kid. I know why you're coming. Don't worry, Petey. I don't welsh on deals." It's almost startling to hear so much inflection in so few words, having become so used to the even, succinct way Derek likes to deliver his statements. Like it's a chore for him to even speak most days.

“Peter?” Stiles says from the other side of the car. His tone a mix of surprise, bland acceptance, and vague amusement. He lifts his eyebrows a bit before glancing back at Scott, but Scott just shrugs. The nonchalant lift of his shoulders remind Stiles that the Hales aren't his pack. He doesn't have any control over where they go.

“I was just telling him to get out,” Derek says with a sigh, and Peter has to fight himself not to roll his eyes at the ease with which the demon slips perfectly back into Derek's cadence.

“Honestly, I don't care if he comes,” Stiles says as he slides into the passenger seat. He trains his eyes on Derek, and Derek stares back at him with a nebulous suspicion.

“Even after–”

Stiles cuts him off with a sharp shake to his head and a sigh. “It's fine, seriously,” he says with a dismissive shrug. “I mean, would I have preferred different circumstances for the loss of my most sacred treasure? Yes.” he chuckles softly. “Lydia, ringed in curly fries and presented to me on a silver platter? Naked except for two Xbox controllers over her boobs, and in-between glorious sex we'd play Call of Duty all night? That would have been my number one way to lose it.”

Peter laughs silently because he can easily remember being Stiles's age. Priorities are priorities, after all.

“But, whatever, you know? You give a thing power if you don't make it your own, right?” Stiles continues, his voice a little edgy as he lifts his eyes and looks out the closed window at Scott. “So, I'm gonna make that mine. I'm going to laugh about it in the future, because if I can't laugh about it, I should just book myself a six month vacation at Casa de Loony Bin. I can indulge in luxury activities like eating crayons with my fellow wack-jobs, tonguing my meds in preparation for my inevitable suicide attempt, and having my pee-breaks both scheduled and monitored. So, jokes, because they're mine and it's, you know...” he waves a dismissive hand and glances sidelong at Derek.

“It's control,” Stiles says to him. “I mean, technically Peter was raped by that demon just as much as I was, and he seems to be doing okay, so...” he trails off, avoiding both the rear-view and side mirrors and glancing down at his hands, not looking at Peter.

“Good attitude,” Peter says, dropping his head back against the seat.

“No one asked for your opinion,” Derek says as he starts the car, shooting a glare at Peter through the rear-view.

“Dude, don't be a dick..." Stiles sighs as they drive away.

Peter can't help wondering why Stiles is defending him. Why he's shouldering the responsibility that's rightfully Peter's. He's wearing guilt that doesn't belong to him because he's human, and humans are cursed with the propensity to over-think everything way too damn much. It's almost as if Stiles is protective of Peter now; as if he understands why the older man acts the way he acts. Why he can't just sit still and take what life throws at him.

Probably because Stiles now truly understands the addictive nature of power.

Lydia shows up at the cross country meet on Saturday morning because she knows she needs to start being seen again if she's going to be able to reclaim her crown. Fresh starts are really difficult in high school because the social strata is so precise and so quick to evolve, but she's sat atop that mountain before. That throne is still her's and she's going to get it back no matter what.

She has to be on top again; it's the only vantage point where she can see everything coming. It's the only place she feels safe.

Word spread about Aiden the day after she broke things off, and with him and Ethan leaving town it's easy to twist things just the way she wants; to make up a story that suits her plan. She invites Danny to spend time with her and they both play the grieving widows. Soon enough the whispers and behind-locker-door glances are those of sympathy and admiration, rather than whispers of how the twin hunks had loved them, left them, and then bailed out of town.

Rumors about her and Scott also fly around school, but Lydia and Scott are careful not to perpetuate them. Scott treats her like a sister, which is exactly what Lydia wants, and they're both careful not to sit too close to each other at lunch. She flirts with an excessive amount of boys and Scott only has eyes for Allison, and after awhile the flames of gossip simmer down to coals and eventually die out.

When Stiles comes back, Lydia doesn't show up at lunch for a few days, but she eventually breezes back in and sits opposite them at the table, keeping her eyes on her phone most of the time. She's cool and detached to Stiles, and hopes he can understand why she needs to be. He doesn't push, and she's pretty confident she'll be able to care about him again one day.

Between the two stragglers, Isaac is the first to come back. He's all folded arms and lower-lip-nibbling and saying as few words as possible. Despite all of the werewolf bravado he's cultivated over the past several months, he's still a shy, quiet kid deep inside. He makes up with Scott quickly because Scott wants him back too badly to have any genuine hard feelings, and Lydia can't help resenting the hell out of Scott for as much as she admires him.

She often wonders what it would feel like to be such a good person.

For awhile she stayed in touch with Jackson. It was every other day over the summer, but that slowed to about once a week when school started back up. She called him two days after Coalinga just to hear his voice. Listening to him complain about not having his Porsche, how disgusting chavs are, and how annoying it is that he can't understand half of the people that try to talk to him, is exactly what she needs to hone that sharp edge she'd let get dull when she started loving Stiles. They shit-talk a lot and it feels good to be immature and bratty for a little while. It feels good to not have to hold back or pretend she's not angry. Jackson doesn't once ask her if she's okay, and while she's grateful for that, she thinks this will be the last time she calls him.

Things are changing and it's time to move on.

Every time she feels Allison looking at her she wants to cry, but she keeps a strong chin. She has to stick to the plan, because Lydia Martin might falter, but she'll never fall. She worries sometimes that her attitude might earn Scott an arrow in the shoulder on the next moon, but she hopes Allison has matured past all of that.

This is exactly the sort of problem Lydia was hoping it would blossom into. Something delightfully normal. Something she can easily solve given time and the proper social maneuvering. Something she can dig her very human claws into.

The perfect distraction.

Stiles believes that he's dreaming.

It's ragged and disjointed, but he knows he sees Deucalion's face. He's here to negotiate with the demon that holds Deucalion's contract. He can't hear anything, but he can feel, and what he feels is righteous and just, so the angry pleas that come from the formerly blind alpha fall on deaf ears.

He knows that the demon he's watching gave Deucalion a few extra weeks because it suited him, so he shouldn't be so damn ungrateful. A deal is a deal, the contract is binding, and the demon is here to collect what he's owed.

Nothing physical breaks on Deucalion when the collecting demon shoves a bony, black-clawed hand into his chest. His fingers stir up the demon wolf's spirit and, just like a good dog, it comes running when he whistles. The demon calls his due, ten years spent, and Deucalion drops dead right at his feet.

He watches the wolf get sent back to hell for a little playtime. Right on its heels is the demon, carrying a very important package; Deucalion's soul.

It's less than an hour before someone finds the dead body in the delivery alley next to the Starbucks on the corner of Hollywood Blvd. and Highland Ave. They say he died of a heart attack. Such an auspicious street-corner for such an ignoble end.

Stiles can't read the words on the glowy piece of paper that he signs because you can't read in dreams. But he knows what it is; an exchange clause. Three of his for the demon wolf, because it's worth more than an even trade. The deal is done and sealed with a signature. It's all bureaucracy with demons.

When he blinks, he swears he sees Derek's face briefly reflecting in the Starbuck's window.

Stiles wakes up in the parking lot of an AM/PM. He sucks in a breath shoves himself against the seat-back so violently he's almost positive he can defy physics and actually meld through it if he tries hard enough. His heart starts pounding so loudly he can actually hear it with his ears, and the air inside the car is suddenly choking him. He thinks that it's odd to have such an intense reaction to the sight of a convenience store, until he remembers why he now dislikes them all.

“Oh, calm down,” Peter says from the backseat, like he's telling a small child to stop eating glue for the seventeenth time. The strangled sound Stiles makes as he shifts and twists himself to his knees to look behind him is intensely embarrassing. He can safely say he's never been glad to see Peter before, but right now? He pretty much is.

“Why the hell are we here?” Stiles demands. He wraps his arms around the back of the front seat and presses his cheek against the cool leather, as he peers into the back seat. Peter has a newspaper unfolded, half on the seat beside him and half in his hands. It smells fresh out of the machine in that awful-yet-comforting newsprint way that always reminds Stiles of his dad, which is sort of a gross thing to compare Peter to, all things considered.

“Derek's getting sandwiches,” Peter says, gracing Stiles with only a passive flick of his eyes before they return to running over the printed words. Stiles's mouth hangs halfway open and his eyes narrow to dark slits, not out of anger but out of what Scott likes to call 'passionately spastic shock'. It's usually accompanied by flailing and sputtering, but unfortunately the car doesn't allow for that, so Stiles just shakes the seat-back and attempts a pathetic human growl before slumping back into his seat with an annoyed sound.

“Bad memories getting you down?” Peter asks from behind him. Stiles can hear the smirk. He kind of wants to rip Peter's face off and feed it to him, but he instead opts for sarcasm, which is his only real defense against someone who could probably actually survive eating his own face.

“Hey, here's an idea, how about a diner?” Stiles quips darkly. His eyes pierce Derek through the large-pane windows of the front of the AM/PM, watching the leather-clad werewolf stalk around the pre-packaged food section with an armful of wrapped sandwiches. “Or maybe a freakin' McDonald's? What the hell compelled you two assholes to take me back to the one place I've experienced the most recent trauma in my still very comparatively short life? And I say 'recent' because I have experienced many traumas thanks to you two dicks.”

“Haven't you ever heard the saying 'face your fears'?” Peter asks. He folds the newspaper before opening the back door and letting the fresh air in. Stiles thinks it feels different here, wherever they are. The air is a little moist but it still smells like trees. Not the desert, but they're obviously quite a ways out of Beacon Hills.

“Where are we?” Stiles asks moodily as he opens the passenger-side door and follows Peter out. He's uncomfortable with the idea of being alone in the car, as if Derek and Peter might run off on him.

“A little ways outside of Tahoe,” Peter says. Being near the lake explains the way the air smells. Stiles mentally calculates that he must have been asleep for about four hours, then.

“So,” Stiles says, watching as Peter walks over to deposit the newspaper into the recycling bin. It strikes Stiles as odd and funny because he always pegged the Hales as the types to shirk things like 'being green', just to prove that they were above such petty concerns as, well, the earth. It just seems like such a human thing to care about. “It's been two weeks...”

“It has,” Peter says as he walks back, arms folding over his chest as he positions himself between Stiles and the AM/PM. His eyes scan the empty parking lot with a slightly conflicted look.

“You think maybe he's not going to go through with it?” Stiles asks, finally airing the question everyone's been thinking but no one has been saying. From behind Peter, he sees Derek finally making his way out of the AM/PM. There's a bit of a lightness to his step and a plastic bag swinging from one hand.

“Oh, he'll go through with it,” Peter says a little derisively. “Maybe he's just taking his time. Maybe he wants to surprise me.” His smile grinds a bit, like there's an invisible gun to his head.

“Because everyone loves surprises, right?” Derek calls out. “Think fast, Stiles.” Before Stiles can react there's a plastic bag full of sandwiches flying at his face, which he naturally manages to not catch. He grumpily crouches down to grab at the scattered sandwiches, eyes rolling as the black cloud shadowing his attitude starts to thunder a bit. But a rough, broken scream pulls his attention back, and shoves his heart so far up into his throat he's certain he's going to choke on it.

Sustenance and nutritional value suddenly seem much less important than the fact that Derek has grabbed Peter by the face from behind. That Derek's fingers are digging into Peter's eyeholes?! Peter's body is jerking against Derek's, and Derek is holding him by the face and licking the side of his neck, holy shit. And, oh, there's evil light flashing from Peter's eyes and out of his screaming mouth, and what the holy fuck.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes. His eyes grow as wide as saucers as he scrambles back on his hands, before twisting and stumbling up to his feet. “Shit, shit, shit.” He gasps the word like a mantra as he runs away from the parking lot and toward the street. Toward people. Toward anywhere but here.

Because fuck, the demon is in Derek and he just did something to Peter, and Stiles has no fucking idea what to do. All he knows is that he doesn't just dislike all convenience stores, he now officially despises them.

Stiles is almost to the streetlight when Derek grabs him by the back of the belt and jerks him off his feet. He grunts and gapes in pain as the air gets knocked out of him, and there's a jarring thud as his head kisses sidewalk. The last thing he sees before everything fades to black is Derek grinning down at him, all white teeth like bleached tombstones and eyes like oil slicks.

Scott doesn't remember what it feels like to be human.

For as much as he used to complain about being a werewolf, becoming an alpha changed so much about him that he can't ever imagine going back. It's not the strength or the speed and it's not the enhanced senses or the agility. It's certainly not the confidence that comes with being on top of the food chain now, because Scott still shuffles a little awkwardly around the status quo.

It's the new sense of purpose that fills his every day. The need to defend and protect and the desire for togetherness. The want for something that hasn't existed in Beacon Hills since before the Hale fire all those years ago. Scott wants a strong, secure pack. A family.

He knows it's hypocritical considering how hard he fought Derek, how childish he was with his obstinate refusal to join the former alpha. But it is what it is, and Scott supposes maybe he just needed to feel it for himself. Derek, Isaac, and to an odd extent even Peter; they're all his wolves, now. The Hales won't follow him yet, but that doesn't make Scott feel any less responsible for them, and he refuses to let them go omega. Lydia, Stiles, his mom, the sheriff, Allison... they're pack, too, whether they know it or not. Scott understands real responsibility now. He has a sense of purpose he's never felt before.

Maybe that's why he's about two seconds away from leaping into the stands and tearing the arms off of the testosterone-leaking asshat that won't quit pawing at Lydia, despite her several-times exclaimed displeasure at his handsiness.

Scott doesn't recognize the douchebag and thinks he might be someone from the away school, which just makes him want to tear into the guy even more. Who the hell does this guy think he is, coming into Scott's territory and–

Oh, shit.

He hears Lydia's heart-rate accelerate. Hears her breath hitch up and wheeze in her chest. Then he hears the slap of her hand across the guy's face and the sound of people protesting as she shoves herself away from him. Without thinking, Scott propels himself up the steps and toward her, ignoring Coach's very vocal protests.

“Unless you want to go a round with me next,” Scott growls as he grabs the guy by the shoulder and yanks him back, half-throwing him into the aisle. “You'll get up and walk away.”

The guy is big, broad, and Scott can't fault him for his momentary lapse in sanity as he pushes to his feet and almost fronts on Scott. But a predator is a predator and Scott is apex now. He mentally praises the guy for not being a total moron as he quickly backs down, walking away with a sneer. He spits some meaningless words that might have hurt Lydia's currently fragile ego if she hadn't been on the cusp of a panic attack.

“McCall, what the hell?!” Finstock bellows from down on the field. Scott sighs heavily as he reaches for Lydia who is hunching in on herself, seemingly only half-aware of what's happening. Scott knows, though; he had to help Stiles through his fair share of panic attacks in the years after his mom died. He's careful when he takes her by the arms and helps her to her feet, making sure to speak in a low tone, so she knows it's him and that he's going to get her out of here.

“What happened?” Allison asks from behind Scott. He turns to see her standing on the step above them, her expression shifting between guilt and concern. She looks just as pretty as always, like her estrangement from everyone hasn't really affected her, but Scott chooses to not let himself dwell on that right now. Lydia is half-burrowing into his shoulder, a trembling hand gripping at the front of his track tank top. There are more important things.

"I think she's having a panic attack,” Scott says softly as he loops an arm around Lydia's shoulders, looking between Allison and Finstock. Coach nurses an expression that's both annoyed and concerned, and with a visible huff he points almost violently at his watch before holding up a big paw of five fingers, indicating how many minutes Scott has before he starts blowing that damn whistle.

“Here,” Allison says, her tone gentle and caring, as if the last two weeks hadn't happened at all. “I'll take her, okay? I, um... I've been wanting to talk to her anyway.” Scott feels sick about his momentary flash of suspicion.

“Sure,” he says, giving Lydia a squeeze and looking down at her. “Are you okay with Allison taking care of you for a few?”

“It's fine,” Lydia sighs. She reaches out and grabs one of Allison's hands, threading their fingers together and squeezing. “As long as she doesn't shoot me with any arrows, I think we can manage. Just get me to my car." Allison looks a little surprised but doesn't pull away.

Scott and Allison exchange an amused look as she walks Lydia down. “Don't worry,” Allison says over her shoulder, a bit of a sparkle in her eyes. “I don't carry my bow around with me, that would be silly. I'm obviously just strapped with half a dozen knives.”

Scott snorts a laugh because he knows it's true.

“Heaven help any man who ever tries to treat you like that asshole just treated me,” Lydia says as soon as they're near to the parking lot, the dull cheering from the track field far behind them now.

“I don't think anyone would try,” Allison admits with a bit of a duck to her brunette head, a slightly proud dancing over her lips. “I'm pretty sure I actually have a reputation now. For awhile I sort of forgot to be completely discreet.” She laughs softly.

“Secrets suck,” Lydia says succinctly. She slips her hand out of Allison's, as if suddenly remembering that they're not exactly friends right now. She doesn't want to presume too quickly because she hasn't even gotten the chance to fix anything.

Lydia slows her steps and Allison doesn't blink an eye, used to Lydia's constant complaining about how the school discriminates against the vertically challenged by making it a pain in the ass to wear heels on campus.

“Stiles tried to rape me,” Lydia blurts out, her voice surprisingly casual for such an awful topic. “Two weeks ago... when we were all gone for that day. That's why I freaked out over that guy,” she gestures vaguely back behind her. “That's why I broke up with Aiden and slept with Isaac.”

Allison blinks as her face slacks. Bless her for always having such an easily readable face, Lydia thinks. Her eyes widen, but her mouth tightens, giving her that shocked yet determined look that had gotten them through so many horrors over the past several months.

“I'll castrate him,” Allison states. Lydia sees her fingers twitch as one hand move unconsciously toward the inside of her coat.

“Okay, calm down lady Rambo,” Lydia says hastily. She reaches out and grabs Allison's wrists with gentle, cold hands. “It wasn't actually him, you know. It was the thing inside of him...” Her face falls slightly. “But I still can't even be near him without my skin crawling and feeling like I'm going to cry. It's terrible.”

“I didn't know,” Allison says softly, carefully, because she genuinely doesn't know if Lydia's trauma should excuse her behavior. She doesn't know if she should just blanketly and tacitly forgive past transgressions. “I'm sorry... no one told me.”

“I told them not to.” Lydia's hands are a little shaky as they reach her car, which she unlocks quickly. “The last thing I wanted was attention. You know, that kind of attention. The pity. And I don't want anyone villainizing Stiles.”

They both slide into Lydia's car which she immediately starts. She needs the radio on, and the heater. The silence is awkward in the way that only silence between insecure people can be, and surprisingly Allison is the first one to speak.

“I forgive you,” she says quietly, but not with any of the self-deprecation that usually comes with that sort of near-arrogance. “For Isaac. I guess I get it, now.”

Lydia's lips purse. She stops herself from arguing just for the sake of arguing. “Just like that?” she asks, wondering if there's a catch. “You don't want to know why?” She flips the windshield visor down and checks her face in the mirror, both out of a compulsive need to check her makeup and also out of a desire to appear nonchalant.

“Would you tell me the truth?” Allison asks with a gesture, giving Lydia a weirdly defeated look.

Lydia closes the mirror and sits back in her seat, making certain to turn a bit to face Allison as she does. Her eyes settle on her friend's face, studying it for a few moments. Allison is such an interesting dichotomy, she thinks. Strong like a lion in so many ways, but in others she's as weak as a kitten and just as whiny. Where Lydia's core is steel and her skin all softness and perfume, Allison's outside is armored to protect her vulnerable insides. They’re so different, yet complement each other so well. Of course Lydia will tell her the truth.

“You don't belong with Isaac,” Lydia says plainly. She's not going to sugarcoat it. “At least not with only Isaac, and you know it. Scott is the one. He's your perfect match. You guys just kept missing your moments because you were both going through a lot of huge changes in your lives.”

“Lydia,” Allison begins, and Lydia's perfectly-arched eyebrows lift because she knows that tone. She knows what it means when Allison ducks her head and pushes hair back behind her ear. “Look, I appreciate your thoughts on the subject, but honestly–”

“Honestly, if you're going to argue with me then you're a stubborn cow who doesn't deserve someone like Scott McCall,” Lydia jibes. “And if you're not going to go after him, maybe I will, and we'll finally just make all the rumors true.”

“Wait, you mean they weren't?” Allison asks, looking simultaneously relieved and embarrassed.

“No, oh my god,” Lydia jokes with a fond laugh. “Haven't you ever heard of baiting? You are seriously the worst at playing games. Why do I even bother with you?”

“I don't understand...” Allison says with a helpless laugh. Lydia takes her hands with a knowing smile.

“I was trying to maneuver you and Scott back together,” Lydia admits with a shrug. “But I forgot that you're both so infuriatingly earnest and precious, that I should have just locked you both in a closet and forced you to kiss and make up, because that probably would have yielded quicker results.”

“But what about Isaac?” Allison asks, because she always needs to fix the world. No stone left unturned and no one left un-helped.

“Isaac just needs to admit his feelings for Scott,” Lydia states with a triumphant smile. “The three of you can work something out together, I'm sure.” She nurses that little burn of superiority she gets every time she figures something out before everyone else.

Allison's cheeks are blazing, nearly the same color as the setting sun. When Lydia finally giggles and leans over to give her a hug, Allison laughs helplessly and fills her in on everything she's missed.

It's dark when Stiles wakes up. For a few seconds he panics because he's not sure where he is. He's in a car, and it's moving, but he's in the backseat so he can't see where he's going or who's driving. His head hurts, god it hurts, and he's pretty sure he tastes blood. With a soft groan he shifts on the backseat, feeling disoriented and slightly nauseated. “Ow,” he grunts, now feeling annoyed as well as the female end of the seat-belt buckle digs into his ribs.

“Good morning, sunshine,” the driver says. Stiles's face scrunches up almost comically when he realizes that it sounds just like Derek, but why the hell would Derek ever say any combination of those three words ever? Especially to Stiles? For that matter, why is Stiles in Derek’s car?

“What the fu–” Stiles starts, just as it all starts to flood back. “...ohhhh.... fuck.” He groans and presses his hands over his face, fingernails digging into the skin of his forehead as memories blossom. The AM/PM, the sandwich fake-out, the hellish light shooting out of Peter's face, Stiles denting the pavement with the back of his head. And Derek... the demon is in Derek.

“Pull over,” Stiles demands groggily as he pushes himself upright. He vaguely remembers something about head wounds inducing vomiting as he lurches forward to grab the steering wheel. He jerks it to the right and forces them off of the road. Derek hastily brake as the car shudders and grinds to a halt. And there they are, right in the middle of the forest. All alone. Great.

“You, idiot,” Derek growls, eyes flashing red as he glares at Stiles in the rear-view mirror. Stiles feels a bubble of hysterical laughter well up in his stomach because Derek's eyes don't flash red anymore, do they? Nope. Except when he's possessed by a demon. Stiles yanks at the door handle, half-pushing and half-kicking the door open. He needs to get out of this car now because he can't breathe. He's going to puke and he can't breathe.

It feels like his own mind and body are being over-dramatic, if something like that can even happen. His head is spinning and his eyes are pricking hot with tears of frustration, anger, and fear. He scrubs his hands hard over his face and rubs at his eyes until everything is blurry. It doesn't help him think anymore clearly, but it's sort of a distraction, like slapping yourself in the face when you stub your toe.

“I thought you didn't like being in monsters?” It's the only thing Stiles can think to say as he steps away from Derek. He feels helpless and terrified, but he also just wants to sit down and laugh. “What's- I mean-... what the hell...” he drops his hands with a heavy, defeated sound.

The demon grants Stiles an impassive smile, which naturally doesn't reach his eyes. “I generally don't,” he says, shrugging Derek's massive shoulders. Stiles half-expects to hear the creak of joints that need to be oiled, because it's not like Derek utilizes more than three facial expressions, ever. “But I think I like werewolves, now. I think I was just hopping into the wrong monsters before. Did you know that if I wanted, without using any magic, I could probably flip the car onto its side and then we'd be stuck out here?” He grins meanly.

“How about no,” Stiles swallows, looking pale.

“Well, you'd be stuck,” the demon continues. “I'd just run. Great endurance, too, if you know what I mean.” He winks lasciviously. Stiles's face contorts into this mask of disbelief. Despite a demon possession or not, he honestly didn't think Derek's facial muscles could do that.

“I don't know, though,” the demon continues. “I mean, don't get me wrong, this body is great.” He walks slowly around Stiles, hands lifting as he squeezes them into fists, his arms flexing and bunching muscle beneath the skin. “It's strong, fast, and I'm really fucking loving all of the rage he's got going on inside. It's enough to make a demon feel right at home. But truth be told, I can't wait to get back inside of you.”

The insinuation hangs heavy in the air between them, and all Stiles can hear is the wet, thick sound of his own saliva as he swallows hard. Watching Derek move like this – no, not move; prowl – is doing something to him. He's been around wolves for quite awhile now, but before this, Peter is the only one who's ever really instilled this sort of primal fear into him. He imagines this must be what a rabbit feels like when it's frozen in front of something that wants to eat it really, really badly.

“Why?” Stiles whispers. “Why me?” He keeps himself as still as possible, eyes clinging to Derek's form as he moves.

“Why not?” the demon replies with a cock to his head. “I like you, Stiles. I like your mind, your body. I want it back.”

Stiles feels small and tense as his muscles lock, his breath rattling shallowly in his chest. He almost doesn't want to breath. He thinks that if he stops, if he can slow his heartbeat and make himself as still as possible, that maybe the predator won't see him. Maybe the demon will pass him by. But it's too late for that, and they both know it. He's already in the cross-hairs.

“When I take your body back, me and Petey are going to get out of here, and I'm going to do some damage to your pretty little skin,” the demon drawls in Derek's voice. That's the worst part, really, hearing all of these words in Derek's voice. Stiles can't help but wonder if Derek used to say cruel things like this to people back before the fire. His expressions come so easily and his mouth seems to work the words like they're old friends.

“Really, the only sad part will be not being able to see your daddy's face when he opens the newspaper and sees the headline.” The demon lifts a hand and rakes it through the air, like he's outlining the words with his fingers. “Beacon Hills sheriff's son found raped and mutilated in an alley in Los Angeles, the victim of repeated sexual assault and a really fucking horrible and disgusting murder.” He chuckles.

“Stop it,” Stiles chokes out in a breath. “Just– ...just fucking shut up.” Just the thought of his father's face hits him like a fist in the gut.

“Maybe I'll hunt down some really huge gang members,” the demon says with a delighted little grin. He absently lifts a hand and glances at it, slowly pushing claws out through his fingertips before retracting them again. “You know, the legit kind that really hate pretty little white boys. Don't worry, I'll make sure they use all your holes so you don't feel ugly.” He smirks. “Maybe they'll even shoot you full of a few new ones.”

Stiles half-turns and folds his arms over his middle. He tastes sour in the back of his throat and hates himself for it, mentally berating himself for feeling helpless. Derek needs him right now, needs his help, and all Stiles can fixate on is his own stupid, pathetic, self-pitying fear.

“You know, you do have options, kiddo,” the demon says as he steps closer, boots casually crunching on the hard-packed dirt. “I don't discriminate; I'll make a deal with anyone, and you're so special to me I might even throw in an extra year just for the hell of it.” They're surrounded by deep woods and empty road and Stiles knows that no one will hear him if he screams. How fucking cliché.

“Fuck you.” Stiles turns and glares, his eyes narrowing and his words spitting pure venom at the saccharine slime over Derek's voice. “No way. Never. Not gonna happen.”

“Oh, drop the tough guy act. I know you, Stiles,” the demon says. The way he takes up space, standing in the middle of the road with his legs spread, arms hanging at his sides; he looks more comfortable in Derek's skin than Derek ever has.

“I've been inside your meat,” he says, eyes glinting. “I know how to work you right. I know every desire, everything you want. I could write out a list of your fears and mail a copy to every single kid that ever picked on you, from preschool all the way up to Jackson. I know all their names because you never forgot them. I know what gets you hard... I know who.” The demon smirks and gestures fingers back at himself with a cool sort of detachment that makes Stiles's groin twist. “I've rubbed all over your gray matter. I've licked my finger and stuck it in the last piece of your pizza.” He chuckles. “You're mine. Might as well get something out of it, right? I promise hell isn't so bad. Scout's honor?” he taunts as he smiles and holds up three fingers in the traditional Boy Scout salute.

"You don't scare me," Stiles says, trying his best to put on a brave face and to keep his voice steady. He mostly succeeds, though the tremor in his hands as he balls his fists gives him away. "And you're not getting me. Not any fucking part of me. I'm not afraid of hell, because if there's a heaven, I know I'm headed there."

"Heaven, huh?" The demon cocks his head. "Well, that's quite a climb. Very ambitious. You know, we love ambitious guys like you downstairs, and trust me when I say that our benefits package is a lot more fun than theirs." He straightens his index finger to point up toward the sky.

“Pretty much safe to assume I don't want anything to do with your package,” Stiles grits out through his teeth. The demon grins and eyes Stiles like he knows all of his secrets. Because he does.

“Well, we both know that's just not true,” the demon says as he advances, his movements fast and jerky like a film edit. Stiles's stomach lurches as his paradigm gets kicked in the nuts, because nothing natural can move like that. Before he can shake it off, he's already pressed back against the hood of the Toyota. The front of Derek's body covers his own, hard and perfect and hot.

“Get the hell off me,” Stiles hisses. He squirms and shoves, and trying to kick the demon off of him, which they both know is a laughably pointless endeavor. “You can't do anything that will hurt me. You made a deal with Lydia.”

“You mean that joke of a con she and Peter tried to pull over on me?” The demon scoffs. “Yeah, that didn't work.” His huge hands grab Stiles's slender wrists with an almost insulting lack of effort before pinning them on the car's hood behind him. “This isn't fucking amateur hour and I don't seal anything with a kiss. But speaking of fucking...” The demon trails off, eyes flashing with something akin to desire and Stiles's stomach lurches. His brain squeals and brakes as the demon leans in and presses his nose to the juncture of Stiles's neck and shoulder, inhaling long and greedy. “You smell incredible.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles says through grinding teeth. His fists clench painfully as his fingernails dig half-moons into his palm. Don't get a hard-on, don't get a hard-on, don't get a hard-on he mentally chants, but he knows it doesn't matter. He's kind of turned on and he can't help it, because it's still Derek's body and Stiles is still sixteen, and sooner or later this is going to turn into a sick, slasher flick, like one of those horror porn movies.

The demon doesn't know how to use Derek's body right. He doesn't know its strength or how to control the wolf inside. He's going to rip Stiles apart, and Stiles really doesn't want to be the gory, pathetic headline his dad reads over his morning cup of coffee next week.

“Derek,” he whispers, Adam's apple bobbing against a hard swallow. Neither the demon or the man inside reply because a flat, wet tongue is too busy dragging a hot brand over the front of Stiles's throat. “Derek- fuck,” Stiles gasps softly. He doesn't expect the almost reverent gesture, and he has no idea how to react when the demon noses up under his jaw. Hunger sounds in his throat as he licks and nips at Stiles's skin, and it's then that Stiles realizes the demon is being overridden by Derek's wolf.

“Derek, come on... I know you're in there,” Stiles whispers, punctuating with a soft whimper as Derek's hips grind against his. He can feel the steel of Derek's length digging against his pelvis, hard and perverse. Stiles's hands jerk against the demon's hold as pleasure coils in his own groin, his body responding quickly and completely without his consent. His cock twitches in interest, earning a throaty growl of approval from either the demon or the wolf. Probably both.

“Derek,” Stiles yells sharply with intent, thrashing and bucking against the heavy slab of muscle that Derek calls a body. All he gets for his troubles is a hand in his hair, fingers gripping painfully at the locks and jerking his head back. He stills and squeezes his eyes shut as icy fear trickles down his spine. It's an understatement to say Stiles is surprised when he feels soft lips and hot breath brushing his ear, instead.

“Stop fighting me,” says a calming voice; calming because it's Derek's. It's actually Derek, without the cruel resonance of the demon. Stiles squeezes his eyes shut and sucks in a deep, shuddering breath before releasing it. Calm. He can be calm.

“This is... helping me,” Derek continues, his voice straining. He releases Stiles's other hand but keeps him pinned against the hood of the car with the press of his body. His eyes are hooded and his hips keep moving. “My instincts are overriding the demon for now, but if you break me out of it...” Derek trails off, warning. Stiles nods shallowly, lips parted as he pants softly. His hand hovers in the air near Derek's shoulder, fingers curling in against his sore palm as he fights the urge to grab Derek by the shirt. The hair. Something.

“Fuck,” Stiles breathes, eyes suddenly widening when it finally sinks in. Derek's instincts, Derek's wolf, Derek... wants this. Wants him. “Derek...” He wants Stiles bad enough that he can fight the demon down, but only as long as they give the demon what it wants. Jesus, this is like something out of a cheesy romance novel, or the plot of some ridiculous porno.

“I'm sorry,” Derek says roughly. Stiles can hear the whisper of regret clinging to the hunger-edge of his words. He wants to laugh in that desperate way that people who are terrified laugh, because this just adds a whole new level of fucked up to everything, doesn't it?

Stiles shakes his head and crushes their mouths together, teeth biting hard at Derek's lips as his tongue prods for entrance. Long hands drop to tug and yank at the front of Derek's jeans, unbuckling his belt and unfastening his fly. If this is going to happen again, if the demon is going to fuck Stiles again (in more ways than one), then the least Stiles can do is make this one his own, too. In his base core Stiles wants this; he's wanted Derek for too long to allow this to be taken away from him.

“It's okay,” Stiles gasps in permission against Derek's mouth because he knows it needs to be said. Derek exhales against Stiles's throat, and Stiles feels a ripple of warmth over his skin as he's nuzzled gratefully. Hands shove under Stiles's shirt, spanning and gripping almost painfully at his waist. “I want this... I want you,” Stiles whispers. He curls a hand around the back of Derek's neck and holds firmly, with all the strength he can muster.

Derek sounds low in his throat and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, Stiles can see the black edging along the bloodshot sclera, which bottoms his stomach out and tenses all of his muscles. “Idiot,” Derek growls, and though he has no idea if it's Derek talking or the demon, he kisses him again anyway. Kisses him to distract him, to arouse him, to distract himself; he doesn't know. But he does know that Derek's right. He is an idiot. They both are.

Derek's teeth clack against his as he takes the kiss deep, as if searching for that edge of pain to divert them both. Stiles digs blunt nails hard into the back of Derek's neck as he sucks on his tongue, his free hand grabbing for Derek's belt and yanking at his jeans. He fumbles a bit, trying to tug the fitted denim down just as Derek pulls something out of his pocket.

They break the kiss with a hot breath between them and both glance down as Derek opens his hand, revealing a small plastic sample of lube. It's just like the kind they give you at sex shops when you're not sure which flavor will taste the best.

“Cherry.” Stiles laughs breathlessly and drops his forehead to rest against Derek's collarbone. At least the demon has a sense of humor. “Well, too late for that,” he quips darkly, and almost pouts as Derek pulls back suddenly, his expression darkening. Derek shakes his head hard, growling like he's cornered by a threat. Visions of Peter dance through Stiles's head, but he doesn't have any time to wonder.

“Stiles,” Derek warns through clenched teeth. Under his drawn eyebrows, his eyes darken, pupils dilating. “I need–”

“Don't worry, big guy.” Stiles doesn't even make Derek finish that sentence as his hands fly to unfasten his own pants. “One sacrificial just-recently-virgin at your service.” His cheeks bloom hot as he pushes his jeans and boxers down with unsteady hands.

There's no embarrassment or prudence because they can't afford it. Stiles is reluctant to admit that the desperation is actually doing wonders for his libido and confidence. He grabs Derek's hand and curls it clumsily around his hard cock, groaning shamelessly as his hips buck and and his skin tightens, hot pleasure lacing through him. He grabs a handful of Derek's shirt with his other hand as he leans heavily against Derek with a low sound.

“Backseat,” Stiles breathes, before mouthing over Derek's collarbone. Derek rumbles low in his chest, a possessive and primal sound that reverberates through Stiles and has him throbbing against Derek's palm as he indulges in a few slow, firm strokes along Stiles's hard flesh. Stiles shivers lightly and doesn't protest when Derek pulls his hand away, because he suddenly finds himself up and over the Derek's shoulder in a fireman carry.

Derek isn't too kind when he deposits Stiles on his back. He winces as he once again feels the dig of that damn seat-belt cradle in his ribs, and the aching reminder of the fact that his head got really well-acquainted with a sidewalk not two hours ago. His eyes latch onto the ceiling as Derek grabs him by the hips, stroking a thumb over his hipbone before forcing him over onto his stomach.

There's not much time to be annoyed because as soon as he's on his chest, Derek drags him over the edge of the seat so his legs are hanging, toes scrabbling against the dirt road for purchase. Blunt fingers dig into the meat of his ass, spreading his cheeks and opening him up as lewdly as possible to the chilly air. Stiles shivers and whines softly in protest, but the cold spike that suddenly crawls his spine is from the throaty chuckle behind him just as Stiles feel the prick of claws.

“Derek–” Stiles says through gritting teeth as his hands move to grab the edge of the seat. He jerks and hisses in pain as a sharp, weighty smack comes down on one of his ass-cheeks. Stiles shudders, knowing that Derek's no longer the one in charge. “Oh, fuck...” Stiles gasps, fear lacing his voice.

“That's the plan,” comes that rotten-sweet cadence, sing-songing in Derek's voice. With a whine Stiles squirms hard, as if he even has a chance in hell of doing anything to prevent what's about to happen. “Did you really think I was going to let him have all the fun?” the demon continues, a smirk in his voice. Stiles hears the sound of denim rustling as Derek's jeans get shoved fully down his hips. “No fucking way. I've been waiting all day to get back inside of you.”

No amount of cursing and spitting hatred slows the demon, and within seconds Stiles feels two cold, slick fingers pressing against his tight hole. He clenches his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut, knowing all too well that this is going to hurt.

“Don't worry,” the demon says, his voice husky. “I'm letting him feel every inch of you.” He folds over Stiles's back, mouthing and sucking gently at the skin at the top of Stiles's spine. Stiles whines softly as Derek's blunt fingers move slowly inside him, feeling the aching, uncomfortable burn as they forcefully stretch his sensitive skin. He hates himself just a little for liking the pain, for liking the sweet ache of arousal at the way Derek's voice sounds, rough with want. Just the knowledge that in some way Derek's feeling this.

“Please,” Stiles keens tightly. Not you... please, not you. His thighs tense, toes digging at the ground as thick fingers fingers push in knuckle-deep and rub at the sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside. Stiles grunts and groans ugly as he struggles to push his hips back, but can't quite get the leverage he needs with his legs and cock hanging heavy over the side of the backseat.

“Please what?” the demon murmurs, leaving tiny explosions of sensation all over Stiles's back with each painful nip of teeth and hard suck. Stiles's knows he's going to have to keep a shirt on around his dad for the next few days. If he ever makes it back to his dad, that is.

“Please, just...” A light sweat breaks out on Stiles's hairline from the heat of blood rushing under his skin as his body betrays him. “Just either give me Derek back or get this the fuck over with,” he hisses, tongue darting over his lips. Another shuddering moan is dragged out of him as the demon adds a third finger, none-too-gently plunging them inside of his slender body.

“You know what I like so much about you, Stiles?” the demon asks, annoyance lacing his voice. “Your smart fucking mouth. Shame there isn't enough time for me to get more well-acquainted with it.” Stiles tenses as Derek's fingers vacate his body, leaving him feeling vulnerable, fluttery, and nervous as fuck.

In the near silence Stiles can hear the slick sound of the demon spreading the last of the lube over Derek's cock, and in that moment he makes a decision. He doesn't let himself think as he pulls himself forward and scrabbles for the door handle. He actually manages to get the door open before a dry, heavy hand bears down on his lower back, pinning him against the seat edge and nearly expelling the breath from his lungs.

“Stay,” the demon growls, the sound sending a pure shiver of fear through Stiles. “We were just about to have some fun.” He doesn't even give Stiles a chance to catch his breath before pressing the blunt, slick head of his cock against Stiles's hole and pushing in. A guttural cry of pain forces its way out of Stiles as Derek's cock splits him, his sensitive rim stretching around the widest part of his girth... and then he stops. The demon stops moving right there, forcing Stiles to endure it.

The combination of pain, pleasure, and intense discomfort has Stiles's head spinning and his hands trembling as they grip white-knuckled around the edge of the seat. His wide eyes stare out of the half-open door like it's a cruel joke now, and he hates that he can't stop gasping and choking and whimpering. His legs are trembling and he can't stop his muscles from tensing, but he knows if he could just relax it wouldn't feel so bad...

“Do you want more? Huh?” the demon asks. Stiles chokes another soft cry as a slicked thumb prods at his agonizingly stretched rim, threatening to join the cock inside. “Do you want me to fuck you so it stops hurting?” The demon bends over him and bites his shoulder hard before growling low, threatening. “Do you want me, you ungrateful little shit?”

“Yes,” Stiles gasps. His voice is thick and catching on the saliva welling up in his throat, stringing between his lips. “Yes, fuck.. yes, please, just fuck me, god...” he pleads as his gut stirs hot with a sick arousal

Stiles body shakes with relief as the demon finally thrusts cruelly into him after holding him on the edge of too much too much too much. He presses his face into the leather to mask the sound of him sniffling as hot moisture leaks from the corner of his eye. He has no idea if it's pain, relief, or just grief that has him tearing up, but he feels too much shame and want to lend it any brain power.

He's subjected to too many minutes of cruel, relentless pounding which is just a little too hard to feel perfectly good. The driving dig of Derek's hipbones is going to leave his ass bruised, but each thrust bumps Derek's cockhead against his prostate and leaves him moaning like he loves it... and maybe a little part of him does, when he stops thinking about what it is that's actually fucking him.

His dick is heavy and slaps against his thigh with each thrust. He can feel the cold wetness as he leaks on his own skin, precum smearing; a lewd reminder of just how fucked up this is. He tries to squirm but can't, he has no leverage, and the moment the demon's lube-slicked hand grabs around the base of his cock he knows this isn't going to be over any time soon.

“Poor thing, do you want to come?” the demon sneers, Derek's voice rough and low against his ear. Stiles can't do anything but whimper and nod weakly, feeling his length throbbing against that large, rough palm. “I know you do. I can smell it. I can taste it on your skin.” He licks a long, hot stripe over the back of Stiles's shoulder. “You taste amazing.” Stiles twists sharply beneath Derek's solid body when he feels a mouth pressing over one of the bite marks he'd left. He jerks his shoulder out of reflex, but not before realizing he'd just felt the sharpness of fangs.

Fangs... fuck yes fangs. That means Derek's wolf has to be near to the surface. Stiles has never been so happy to be near Derek's sharp, slobbery teeth in his life.

“Derek, fuck... Derek,” Stiles gasps, fluttery adrenaline re-stocking his will. He drags up all of his sapped strength and reaches a hand back, clamping it around the back of Derek's neck. “Damnit, Derek, come on,” he pleads, digging his nails as hard as he can into the straining muscle.

Derek's hand jerks over Stiles's cock before squeezing almost too hard, and Stiles lets out a yelp and bucks his hips. With a half-whimpered groan Derek's thrusts stop as he sinks himself fully inside of Stiles. The swollen head of his cock nestles so poisonously-sweet against Stiles's prostate he thinks he might cry for want of relief.

“Stiles,” Derek says roughly, after too many breathes. He's not moving and his heavy weight is pushing against Stiles's lungs, but he lets out a weak laugh anyway because it's Derek. He doesn't know how long they have, but he got Derek back and that's all that matters.

“Oh, god... Stiles... fuck,” Derek gasps, and then starts to pull out. He's all clumsy, heavy limbs, and uncoordinated movements, and with a desperate sound Stiles slides his hand up into Derek's hair and grips it hard.

“Don't,” Stiles grits out between clenched teeth. He rocks his hips and pushes his ass back, pulling a hot, wet gasp from Derek that smears over the throbbing bite-bruise on his shoulder. “No, fuck you... don't you dare stop.”

“But–” Derek drops his forehead to press between Stiles's shoulder-blades. He can feel the surge of guilt emanating off of Derek in waves.

“I told you I wanted you,” Stiles groans hoarsely, squirming as his cock twitches in Derek's hand. “I meant it. I still do.” Derek makes a helpless sound and slides his hand firmly along Stiles's hot flesh, pulling a deep, pleasured moan from Stiles, sweating beneath him. “Make it good...” Stiles breathes. “I want you to finish this.”

Derek nods weakly and licks his lips before dropping them to press over the bruise marks on Stiles's back. He whimpers hard as Derek suddenly shifts his hips back, slowly and gently pulling himself out with a wet sound, leaving Stiles feeling cold and empty and annoyed.

“What–” he starts, but his words cut off as Derek grabs at him with careful hands. He's quickly tugged up and turned back over so they can look at each other. Derek's face is raw and open, his eyes clear and green.

With a desperate kick of his foot, Stiles knocks off one of his sneakers and tugs his leg free of his jeans. He wraps his legs around Derek's torso and digs his heels into his sides, before reaching up and grabbing Derek down by the shoulders. He pulls him into a fierce, hot kiss that tastes like a small victory.

With a deep groan Derek falls back into him, his heavy cock pushing inside with ease because this time Stiles wants it, wants him, and it's only seconds before the air is filled with the sound of deep, heavy thrusts. Derek cradles the back of Stiles's head as he licks the near-desperate cries off of his tongue. Each jerk of his wrist moves in time with the steady drive of his cock, coaxing Stiles to finally come. That it's okay to come.

“Oh god, oh my god,” Stiles babbles as he tenses and bucks his hips, Derek's name on his lips. The hot spurt of release coats Derek's palm and puddles on Stiles's stomach, and Derek fucks him hard through his orgasm, chasing his own mounting pleasure. Stiles clenches tight around him, clinging with arms and legs, until Derek's hips finally stutter-jerk. With a helpless groan he buries his face in Stiles's neck as he comes, throbbing thick spurts into Stiles's willing body.

After a few moments of panting afterglow, Stiles makes a gruff sound and loosens his legs, kicking gently at Derek's hip to indicate that it's time to get out of him. Derek huffs and nuzzles behind Stiles's ear, dragging in a greedy smell of him before finally straightening and gently pulling out. He smirks lightly and drops his eyes, giving Stiles what little privacy he can afford the splayed and well-fucked younger man. He wipes at the smear of come on his hip, before quickly tugging his underwear and jeans back up over his hips.

They don't even have the chance to speak before a shadowy blur of black and tan speeds out of the treeline at inhuman speed, barreling straight into Derek and tearing him away from Stiles.

Shocked still like a deer in headlights, Stiles watches Derek hit the ground as the creature scrabbles on top of him. In a blur of motion, a powder is thrown at his face and Derek slumps down to the ground, going completely slack. Stiles smells dust, incense, wood smoke, and ozone all waft back to him on the breeze as the hair on his forearms and the back of his neck stick up.

The air is charged with static because it's magic. Real magic.

“What the actual fuck?!” Stiles stupidly yells before he can stop himself. He yanks his jeans and boxers up and dives for the car door, slamming it shut and concealing him in the backseat. He doesn't really feel like tussling with something that can take out a demon-possessed werewolf. “Shit, shit, shit,” he hisses to himself as his shaking hands dig into his pocket for his phone.

“Stiles!” shouts a voice, a female voice. A familiar voice? “Get your ass out here and help me.” Stiles freezes and drops his phone under the seat like an idiot as he looks up through the window, his eyes huge. Because, oh, right, that's Cora. Cora's here. Naturally it's Cora.

Stiles slowly opens the car door and steps back out onto the road, taking time to breathe as his heartbeat drops back down to an acceptable human rate. He glances over his shoulder and into the woods as he stuffs his foot back into his discarded sneaker, just on the off chance he's about to get run down by a herd of yet more people. Or if Cora is evil and he has to run from Cora. He's not really discounting anything right now.

“Nice freaking timing,” he grumbles quietly to himself as he grabs his phone, trying not to look as sore as he feels.

“I heard that,” she says, her nose wrinkling slightly. “And I am so not commenting on it.” She drops to a knee beside Derek's prone and unconscious body and slips a small backpack off of her shoulders. When it hits the ground Stiles hears the metallic clang of heavy chains.

“You, uh... kinda just did,” he says with a forced cheerfulness as he walks over, warily eyeing Derek. “Is he–?”

“He's out,” she replies succinctly. “We only have a few minutes to get these on him.” She breaks the zipper as she yanks the backpack open, before dragging out two sets of what look like really old manacles. Dust and rust and all.

“Wow, bondage fun,” Stiles says and drops to a crouch, peering at Cora. “Those aren't going to hold him, especially not with the demon in there. He's got this crazy magic car-flipping strength going on, now.” He swallows down about a thousand questions about where the hell she just came from and how the hell she managed to take Derek out.

“Well, I have some crazy magic, too,” Cora counters with a small smirk. She picks up one of the cuffs and shows Stiles the inside. “These will keep the demon bound for long enough for us to get him back to Kimana's.” Carved – no, more like burnt – along the inside of each cuff are what look like runes or symbols of some kind. Stiles isn't Lydia, so he can't even make a guess at the language, but if Cora seems confident, he supposes he doesn't have enough reason to argue.

“How did you know?” he asks, grabbing one set of manacles and tethering Derek's hands behind his back while Cora gets his ankles. “Where we were? About the demon? Any of it?”

“Peter,” Cora states with a soft sigh as she sits back on her heels and reaches for the chain between Derek's wrists. She pulls it to meet the one between his ankles and clasps them together, effectively hog-tying her brother.

“Peter,” Stiles repeats. His face a mask of intense, brimming curiosity as he stares at her, allowing only a few seconds to pass before finally babbling out all the questions he has. “Where did you see Peter? Where is he now? What did he say?” He stands and gestures wildly, the words rushing out in a single breath. “How are you impossibly strong and fast and like a character straight out of Twilight? Where the hell did you get magic handcuffs? And can you answer me in more than five words, please?”

“You've seen Twilight?” She wrinkles her nose.

“Beside the point!”

She rolls her eyes in typical Hale fashion as she stands, pointing to Derek. “Help me,” she orders before grabbing Derek under the shoulders, ignoring his head as it lolls forward against her stomach. “Peter showed up in Bishop about an hour ago.” They carry Derek's dead weight to the car, and Stiles silently curses Cora's name to all deities above and below for her super strength. She's acting like Derek's made of cotton balls and sunshine, and he's struggling and panting carrying only half of Derek's ponderous mass.

“Peter told us everything,” Cora says as she fishes the car keys out of Derek's pocket and tosses them to Stiles. “About the demon, about Deucalion, and about you guys.” She gestures vaguely in the direction of Derek and Stiles. He freezes and lifts his eyebrows, intensely curious about what Peter had said exactly, but he doesn't ask.

“He told us that the demon was in Derek right now,” she continues. “Kimana gave me this so I could come and get him.” She reaches down the collar of her shirt and pulls out a small bag on a leather thong. It's worn and looks soft, and the contents inside bulge it out nearly round. Stiles sniffs the air and realizes that half of the incense-y smell had to have been coming from that bag.

“What's in it?” he asks as he turns on the car and carefully pulls back onto the road. He sneaks a peek into the rear-view mirror at Derek who is still soundly unconscious.

“It's a skinwalker bag.” She drops it back down into her cleavage. “The contents of this bag and the spell that binds it is a near exact replica of the contract and agreement each werewolf has with the wolf spirit that's bound to their soul,” she recites, as if relaying the information she was given about it by rote. “Kimana's family uses them to shift, sometimes. When one of us wears a skinwalker bag, it's like everything doubles. We're twice as strong, twice as fast, and we have the favor of the spirit bound to the bag, which gives us a little magic if we need it.” She gives Stiles a small smile. “He's actually not unconscious... he's just asleep.”

“Asleep,” Stiles echoes, glancing at Derek in the rear-view again. Now that Stiles really looks at him, he can see it. Derek looks... peaceful. Stiles smiles slightly, happy that at least one of them gets to have a few hours of escape from all of this shit.

Cora pushes her seat back as far as it will go, reclining it back practically over Derek. “The wolf spirit gave me the power to subdue my prey.” She shoots Stiles a coy little smile. That's when he remembers that she's technically around his age, so little things like getting one over on her big brother probably feels pretty good.

Cora programs directions to Bishop into the onboard GPS, so for over an hour there's no real reason for either of them to say anything, but it's only so long until Stiles is practically squirming in his seat. He's teeming with the need to know the answer to one simple question.

“What?” she finally asks with a sigh, shooting him an exasperated glare. He pouts at her because he's been really accommodating. He let her pick the radio station, let her have the last bag of chips, and has been otherwise perfectly silent most of the entire drive. So he doesn't feel in the least bit guilty about pestering her.

“Did you see us?” he blurts out. His palms are suddenly sweating against the steering wheel, and he can practically feel her eyes roll as he looks back out the windshield.

“No,” she admits as she leans her head on her hand, elbow wedged against the window sill. “But I heard you... and, uh...” She frowns and her nose wrinkles again, before she slumping down in her reclined seat with a sigh.

“And?” Stiles prompts. Despite being about a hundred percent certain of what she's going to say, he masochistically needs to hear her say it so he can take all the humiliation in and make it his bitch.

“Come on, Stiles,” she groans, covering her face with a hand. “Don't make me say it. You know what I'm going to say. You know how we track...” She turns to face the window and makes a face, and the fact that she's embarrassed actually makes it a little easier for him to handle. “I had to wait for you two... to finish.”

Stiles can't help it. His lips twist and he feels laughter welling up inside. He doesn't even try to hold it back because fuck if he doesn't deserve to laugh after the day he's had. After the last few weeks he's had. He laughs loudly and genuinely and shakes his head, and when he glances over he can see Cora trying to hide a smirk behind her hand, her shoulders shaking as she laughs softly along with him.

“Man, this is all so messed up,” Stiles says as they finally turn onto the narrow dirt road that leads to Kimana's house. “You know, I actually do like him... Derek.” Cora shifts and regards him with a weighty breath. “And now I'm now envisioning us telling our great-grandkids how we got together for the first time.” He snorts and laughs again, because sarcasm and levity is Stiles's favorite armor.

“Ugh,” Cora groans, but there's no venom in it. He thinks it's kind of nice to have her possible, sort-of reluctant approval.

He pulls up and parks alongside a few other cars. Not too close to the house out of respect, but not so far that they'll have to carry Derek for too long. He drums his fingers on his thigh before looking at Cora, his brow knitting slightly.

"Hey, did Peter–"

"Yeah," she interrupts with a nod, as if she's been waiting for him to finally ask. "He just showed up at Kimana's about an hour ago. He's an alpha again. The demon wolf took."

Stiles ponders the reasons why desert highways are always metaphors for a journey. They're wide and open and seemingly endless. All you can see is the horizon, and no matter how fast or how far you go, you never seem to reach it. He expects it would be a liberating feeling. The forest roads are so oppressive, like the trees are closing in on you. It feels like there's no escape, nowhere to run. Nowhere to go but forward or back.

No freedom.

As he and Cora carry Derek into Kimana's house, Stiles finds himself missing the desert. The sounds of the coyotes. The warmth and the smell of sun-baked dirt. The vast openness of the sky and the expansive desert sand like an ocean beneath his feet. The way the touch of a certain person pulled him back from the brink instead of pushing him over. He wonders why Derek and Peter and Cora stay in Beacon Hills. Why they jail themselves there instead of running straight into the open air of freedom like the wild creatures they are.

Stiles wonders, if their roles were reversed, what would he do?

A really tall Native guy named J.J. leaves Stiles sitting on what he can only assume to be Kimana's couch, watching Kimana's T.V., and holding a bottle of Kimana's beer. He gives a half-assed protest that he's not old enough to drink, but J.J. just mutters something about stupid white kids not knowing where they are before walking back outside.

Stiles doesn't like beer. He doesn't know anyone his age who honestly does. It tastes terrible, but you drink it to catch a buzz. You drink it because it's easier to steal a beer from your dad than it is to explain why half of the bottle of vodka is now water. The sheriff gave Stiles his first taste of beer when he was twelve. At the face he made, his dad told him that beer was an acquired taste. Even now it's one he's yet to acquire.

Stiles doesn't like beer, but he'll drink this one, because he's hoping and praying for even the slightest buzz. For anything to take his mind off of what might be happening in the back house where they have Derek. It's where Cora and Peter are, too, along with Kimana and several members of her family.

That's where they're trying to get the demon out for good, and Stiles isn't allowed in.

“They're private people, Stiles,” Cora tries to explain, but she's just placating him. “It's not a show, you know? This is real. Any influence that doesn't vibe right could throw everything off.”

“I get it.” He shrugs and tries not to look disappointed, worried, and sick. Because Stiles does understand, but that doesn't make it any easier to be the only one who has to wait.

His phone rings and scares the crap out of him. Only a little bit of beer spills when he drops the bottle onto the rug. He's so high-strung right now that he'd probably shoot at a butterfly if he had a gun in his hands.

“Hey, man, is everything okay?” Scott asks. “You guys in Bishop yet?” Stiles can hear the confused worry in his tone, because Scott's still not used to being able to sense when one of his own is in trouble.

“Uh, yeah, yeah,” Stiles says, careful to hold the phone a little away from his mouth because that makes it more difficult for Scott to hear if he's lying. Which he only kind of is. “We're here, Cora's good... um, I think we're gonna stay overnight. Maybe for another day or so?” Because honestly, Stiles has absolutely no idea how long any of this is going to take. “Could you let my dad know?”

Scott answers in the affirmative. He starts talking about something else, saying words that Stiles can't quite make out, because out the window he sees the door to the back-house open. Smoke and steam seep out into the cool air of the yard, the differently-weighted elements contrasting like a high-definition photograph. It's almost like the smoke has a life of its own.

He hears Cora yell his name.

“Dude, I have to go,” he mutters to Scott, thumb brushing the 'end call' button before Scott even has the chance to protest. Stiles runs out through the screen door and down the covered back porch, denim-clad legs carrying him quickly toward the small building.

They try traditional magic first.

Kimana attempts contact with the enemy spirit and tries to force it out. When that doesn't work, she tries to plead with it, to reason with it, but it only mocks them. It's too strong and old for such flaccid human notions. They'll need strength, force, and real power to rip it out of Derek. Not the power of magic, spirits, or ancestors. Not even the power of gods or religion. They'll need something stronger.

Peter makes a joke about the movie The Prophecy that everyone in the room gets, but no one dignifies with a response. He cheerfully edges on racism until Kimana threatens to bind his wolf down and have her very large sons kick his ass all the way back to Beacon Hills. But she grudgingly allows him to remain, because they need both Peter and Cora to hold Derek down.

After ten minutes of the demon spitting bile and venom in the form of words, Kimana gags it with a thick piece of girth from an old saddle bound over his mouth. Just a few seconds after that, Peter goes ashen and doubles over, like he's about to vomit.

“Peter!” Cora hisses, annoyed as Peter releases Derek's arms.

Peter digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, snarling in pain as he rocks back in a crouch. He can feel the demon’s eyes on his face, and the demands he's stabbing into Peter's brain. Just because they won't let it talk out loud doesn't mean it's not going to be heard.

“Take the damn gag off him,” Peter growls as he grabs at Derek's wrists again. “Take it off, or he's going to chew off my nephew’s tongue and choke him to death on it.” He lifts his eyes to Cora and the whites are streaked with red, broken blood-vessels. His temples are throbbing and his eyes feel like they're on fire from the intensity of having the demon in his head.

There's a moment's hesitation as Kimana's family slow their dancing and lower the drone of their chanting. Cora looks up sharply, first at Peter then at Kimana, and a low chuckle comes from Derek's throat. He writhes his body on the dirt floor, displacing the colored stones and bones out of spite, but Cora holds his legs fast so he can't kick out at the wolf totem resting nearby.

“Kimana!” Cora says, urgency breaking her voice as he stares imploringly at the older woman.

Kimana grits her teeth and glares at Peter, enough to communicate in her loud silence that risking Derek's life might just be worth it in order to get this abomination well and truly gone. Everyone who knows anything in this room knows that if the body dies with the demon inside, it will be trapped until someone summons it. Trapped inside dead meat along with Derek's soul.

Peter narrows his eyes and growls again. All eyes turn to him and suddenly the air is filled with tigers. His nostrils flare as the sharp, acrid smell of fear and frenzy starts to cloy up the air, and it's all he can do to tear his eyes away from the humans that surround him. He drops them back down to Derek's face; to the cold, icy-green eyes that stare up at him.

“They will kill him,” Peter says to the demon, darting his eyes to the side as J.J. cautiously steps toward the door and Kimana slowly fingers the dagger in her boot. “They'll kill him and you'll be stuck in there, so you do what you need to do to get out.”

He grabs the leather girth and tugs it down so it hangs loosely at Derek's neck. Peter's rewarded with a grin, Derek's lips pale and bleeding from where Peter's thumbnail caught skin. “You won't let them kill me,” the demon drawls confidently from between Derek's gritting teeth, which are speckled with blood-pink spit. The raw truth in that statement sets Peter's lip curling.

The demon suddenly begins incanting. The words are quick and worms strangely into Peter's ears, and he's pretty sure there's no human living today who can make out the language. It's mostly hissing and biting consonants, but the words carry a strange weight. A rhythm and a static charge. It's obviously a spell of some sort, but there's suddenly a loud sound and bright light, and everyone is too distracted to stop the demon.

It's only then that Peter realizes J.J. had kicked the door to the back-house open, letting the fresh, cold air from the outside in. It seems to have the desired effect of cuing everyone into action, but in the confusion, Derek's body spasms.

The fire flares up so high it scorches the ceiling, and the smoke is pungent enough to choke on. In the distraction it doesn't take much for the demon to get Derek's body moving again, especially when the adrenaline spikes. Derek hates fire.

Kimana and her family slowly sink down and clump together on the floor, bodies leaning in against one another as they all pass out at roughly the same time, their breathing shallow and even. The smoke from the now smoldering fire isn't thinning out; it seems to be getting thicker as the demon pushes Derek's body to its' feet. It's a nice spell; simple and effective. A fog of disorientation and sleep. The humans will be out for a bit, just long enough for the demon to get what he came for.

With a rather violent crack to his neck, the demon steps past Cora who is curled up in a little ball, rubbing furiously at her eyes and hacking up things that would probably serve her better inside her lungs. He moves up to Peter, who's crouched and coiled low, glaring up at the demon through dull red eyes. Peter tenses as he strains against the command the demon gives him. Gives his wolf.

Sit. Stay. Good boy.

The demon slips Derek's fingers through Peter's hair, making absolutely no move to hide the fact that the petting is patronizing. The moment Peter starts to relax, the demon curls those same fingers beneath Peter's chin and jerks his face up, forcing him to look Derek straight in the eye.

“See you soon, Petey,” the demon murmurs. He strokes his thumb along Peter's lower lip slow and sensuously, obviously trying to drive home the point. That yes, the hot, tight arousal coiling in Peter's groin is for his nephew, and that yes, the demon can force all of that, and more. That it's really for the best to just give the demon his way, and that it's also for the best to stay the hell out of his way.

Stiles is shocked and scared, and is more slack-jawed as usual when he comes face to face with the demon, who's just stepped out of the back house and cocked his head at the sight of him. But Stiles's fists are balled and his shoulders squared, and he can see that the demon is a little impressed that Stiles seems to be stepping up.

“You know what I love the most about the modern age?” the demon says without missing a beat. “You can get anything delivered.” He brushes his hands absently at his shirt and shoulders to remove the dirt and ash that cling, though his eyes never leave Stiles's.

“What–?” Stiles asks in confusion. He clenches his hands at his sides and digs his toes into the bottoms of his shoes, as if trying to anchor himself to the spot he stood.

“Everything comes right to you,” the demon says in a murmur. “Right when you want it.” He snaps his fingers lazily and Stiles stumbles forward, lurching toward Derek. His toes dig into the dirt and grass as he struggles to stop himself, but his movements aren't his own. The entire spectacle is over in seconds, and is one of the more humiliating things to happen to Stiles lately (which is saying a lot). But it does accomplish the one thing Stiles needed to do without rousing any suspicions from the demon: It gets him within touching-distance of Derek's body.

“You still don't scare me,” Stiles says, repeating what he'd said when the two of them had been alone on the road. Only this time he actually means it. With the knowledge and magic the demon left behind in his head, he realizes he doesn't have any reason to be afraid. Not when he can do this.

His hands fly up to cover Derek's eyes with the heels of his palms. He pushes firmly against them as he squeezes his own eyes shut, fingernails digging into the skin of Derek's face as he starts muttering.

“Exorcizo te, omnis spiritus immunde,” he begins, the words falling from his lips in a rushed mumble. He trips over the Latin, but he just instinctively knows it's more about the intent than the words themselves. That words are only important as long as there's a real will, a force behind them, and right now Stiles is a mighty fucking force unto himself.

Stiles doesn't have true power inside of him; not that raw spark of magic that a lot of supernatural creatures have. All he has are the words and the will to get this done. He knows it's enough, he knows; but he's so terrified that he's not going to be able to do it right. That he's going to fuck this up and they're going to lose Derek forever.

It's nothing so cheesy or ridiculous as the power of true love, because Derek and Stiles aren't in love. It's the power of trust, of need; of that pure way that people can believe in each other. The way a mother can move a car to save her child, or a man can swim with sharks and be in awe and not afraid.

The power of faith and the determination to do what's right and just. If the world fights you on it, you fight it right back. You fight harder.

You win.

“Accipe lampadem ardentem,” Stiles whispers quickly. He's grateful that this seems to be working and that Derek has slumped to his knees and isn't fighting. He knows that with the werewolf strength, the demon could twist him into a pretzel in about three seconds flat.

Stiles sees the tense set of Derek's jaw and hears the grind of teeth as he shoves his hands hard against Derek's chest, he can see the wetness clumping Derek's eyelashes together, his eyes still squeezed shut. Derek is fighting this thing just as much as Stiles is. Derek is the one holding himself still. Derek is the one whose body is shaking under the strain of locking muscles and his incredible determination and fighting a fucking demon.

Something fierce and warm swells in Stiles's chest as he swings a leg over Derek's lap and shoves him down onto his back. He leans over to press one hand against the hollow of Derek's abdomen, right underneath the ribcage; the soft part, where it's easiest to dig through to the heart. His other hand covers over Derek's forehead and covers it firmly.

“Et irreprehensibilis custodi Baptismum tuum,” Stiles says, cleansing and absolving Derek of the demon's sins and making his body an inhospitable place. He doesn't stop when Derek starts to shake or when he starts to whine through clenched teeth. When his hands fist so tightly Stiles can smell blood, and the squeak of grinding molars sends a repulsed shudder through him.

Stiles breathes heavily, feeling a surge of gut-twisting protectiveness and righteousness pour out through his carefully-steady words. “Vade in pace,” he says through his teeth. A rust-colored light starts to shimmer on the surface of Derek's skin, and the air around them steams and catches the scent of sulfur and old charcoal. “Et Dominus sit tecum, you fucking piece of shit. Now get the hell out of him!”

Derek's body twists and jerks in protest, before his throat bulges out obscenely, like a rapid-growing tumor. “This isn't over,” hisses a voice that isn't quite Derek's. “You don't have the authority to dismiss me and I'm not fucking done here.”

Derek's body snaps straight again and his back arches beneath Stiles, almost knocking him over. Stiles's heart is beating at a sickening pace, and he can't even register the fact that there are other people around them. His entire world is Derek and the sound of delicate bones snapping as the demon struggles and clings futility to his host body. But the power of Stiles's will is forcing it out slowly but surely.

“Get out,” Stiles pleads. “Get out of him.” He slumps over and presses his forehead to Derek's, his skin cool and clammy. “Dimittite eum...”

Kimana and her family make their way slowly and groggily out of the back house and are watching from a distance, with Peter and Cora standing between them and Derek like a buffer. All eyes are on Stiles and Derek, and it seems like they're destined to be locked in this struggle forever before the demon is finally expelled. The rust-colored light pulses for a moment before a twisted, skinny, vaguely person-shaped force separates itself from Derek and shoves away, moving through Stiles before being caught in mid-air by an unseen force.

The demon makes no sound because it has no corporeal body, but the psychic resonance of rage and revenge hits Stiles loud and clear. The demon's resistance reverberates through all of them like an air-raid siren, or the way a baby crying in pain stabs right into your brain and heart and gut. It doesn't just disappear, but burns up like paper. Bits of it break off and float away on the breeze before disappearing, while other parts glow and smolder, before crumbling to ash and sprinkling to the ground.

It's suddenly gone like it was never there. Kimana's sons are already grumbling amongst themselves as they usher the children and elderly inside, while Kimana and her mother gather what they need to make this space sacred again. To take back what has been profaned.

Stiles's world suddenly snaps back into focus as the reality of the situation hits him. He just exorcised a demon. Good thing they watched The Exorcist the other day, he thinks, trying to keep a laugh at bay. At least he got the dramatics right. He feels lighter than he has in weeks, like he wants to jump to his feet and go play with the kids. Like a weight's been lifted and he's been touched by something clean.

“Derek?” Stiles says softly as he draws back. He's still hovering, one hand pushed against the wet ground, fingers digging into the soft earth. His other is on Derek's chest which suddenly swells with a deep, shuddering inhalation, like he's been holding his breath under water for much too long. As Derek pants and gasps back to the surface, his hands scrabble at his sides for purchase. Grass comes up by the roots and dirt embeds under his nails, which flex out into claws before slowly receding back into his fingers.

Derek's breathing finally calms, slows, and steadies as he pushes his eyes open, the whites streaked with burst blood vessels. Before Stiles can say a word, Derek reaches up and takes Stiles by the hips, sucking in a heavy breath before pushing Stiles off of his lap and into the grass and stumbling ungracefully to his feet.

“Derek,” Stiles says again, keeping himself prone on the grass. “You okay? Are you... you?”

Derek's eyes are a little wide as he stares down at Stiles, and his entire posture screams defensive, but Stiles can see the exact moment Derek's walls snap back up to shield him.

“Yeah,” Derek says, his voice rough like he hasn't used it in awhile. He looks down at his hands and curls his fingers in against his palms, before darting his eyes back down to Stiles. “Yeah, I think–” He sucks in a deep breath and takes a step back, and then another, and Stiles can see him getting angry. “I think I need to go.”

Derek's shoulders hunch up and square as he walks away, his hands balling into tight fists. His gait is stiff, like he can't unclench the muscles in his thighs, and Stiles is pretty sure that if Derek could breathe fire right now, he would. He can't imagine how Derek must feel; the world's most guarded control freak having his body used against him and his most private thoughts violated. Stiles remembers how he felt after coming back to himself, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone.

“He's such a drama queen,” Peter says from right above Stiles. A hand drops down into his line of sight, and Stiles takes it without hesitation. Peter pulls him to his feet with a huff, and they both watch Derek's feet eat up ground as they carry him toward his car.

“Yeah, I wonder where he learned it from,” Stiles mutters as he snatches his hand back and runs both through his hair with a hard, heavy sigh. “It's not gone. The demon. That was just a banishment from Derek's body. It can't actually be killed–”

“I know,” Peter draws in a slow, measured breath before pushing it out. “That's tomorrow's problem.”

“Is he gonna leave?” Stiles asks, a little bit of panic creeping into his voice. He points at Derek, whose feet are eating up hard-packed dirt as he sprints away from Kimana's house and back up the road they drove down. Running toward the woods.

“No,” Peter says with knowing confidence. “He would never leave you here with me.”

“How did you even get here, anyway?” he asks, turning back to Peter to distract himself from that train of thought. “Didn't we leave you in Lake Tahoe?”

“I turned into a giant wolf and ran here,” Peter deadpans. He crosses his arms and stares at Stiles, a carefully cultivated neutral mask on his face.

“No, seriously,” Stiles asks. The look he gets in return has him nodding and holding a hand up defensively. “Okay, giant wolf it is. Got it.”

“I wouldn't have gone through all of the trouble to get this particular wolf spirit if it didn't come with considerable perks,” Peter drawls as he grabs Stiles by the arm and shuffles him back into the house. Before Stiles can protest, there's a cold, fresh bottle of beer in his hand.

“Why is Derek like that?” Stiles asks out of the blue. He's ignoring the fact that he's halfway through his fourth beer, and the fact that he just performed an exorcism with his bare hands and a bunch of a words he can only barely comprehend. Just ignoring everything that's been making him crazy lately is probably the best course of action right now

“Have a seat,” Peter says. Stiles sighs and feels like the idiot in the movie who's about to get the shitty news.

“That bad?” Stiles mumbles before taking another drink. He notes that the beer tastes a lot better now that he's had so much, and he's kind of thankful for it now.

"Maybe not exactly in the way you think," Peter says, making himself comfortable in the chair opposite Stiles. As if feeling the gravity of words that haven't even been spoken yet, Stiles seats himself as well, right back in the same spot he'd been occupying earlier today.

"Derek is a very proud man," Peter begins, sitting back and crossing his legs. "But he's also very naive, especially in the ways of family. He and I grew up in a pack, with strong blood and an old line. We were wolves and humans living together. Some were born and some bitten, but all of us knew how to be pack. Derek was sheltered from a lot of the issues that normal teenagers face every day.” Peter smiles lightly.

“There was no one serious until Paige, and that story you know..." Peter trails off, as if there's something he's reluctant to say. Because of course there is. There are plenty of things. "But, see; none of those girls really mattered because they were just human. He could never fully relate to them, and so they were just a bit of fun until he moved on."

The 'just human' comment hits Stiles in the gut and he shrinks down a bit in the couch, annoyed with himself for letting his eyes flick out the window and along the road Derek ran off on. He hates that it bothers him. He hates that he thinks he wants to be the exception. He hates how stupid this all makes him feel, because of how insignificant it should be amidst all of this demon stuff.

“Pure human emotion was always a mystery to him," Peter continues as he steals back Stiles's gaze and holds it. "To most of us who are born wolves, it's not something we can ever truly comprehend. So when moments like this occur, he isn't trying to lash out or hurt anyone; he simply can't relate. He's frustrated for the same reason you are; ignorance of the others' standing point and an inability to feel that you're being taken seriously on an emotional level.”

Stiles is silent for a few beats as he stares at Peter. “You should have a talk show,” he deadpans before flattening a frown between his lips, annoyed as always with the older man for being so creepily insightful.

“I've considered it,” Peter quips, and for a moment Stiles thinks that maybe he isn't joking.

“So, what do we do about it?” Stiles asks as he lifts the bottle to his lips and drinks down the slowly warming brew.

"He isn't angry at you, he's angry at himself,” Peter sighs. “He's frustrated and fighting his pride. He's terrified because it feels like he keeps making mistakes. He's constantly comparing himself to his mother, to his sister, and all he sees are their successes and his failures. They made it look effortless because, of course, Derek was never privy to their failures. He was kept in the dark, like any other beta, because to show weakness as an alpha is just inviting an ambitious beta to go for your throat.”

“Why is he still letting all of that stuff get to him?” Stiles asks, both digging for more information about the Hales' past, as well as trying to grasp onto any morsel of anything that might help him understand what vague random thing might be going on between him and Derek. “He's not an alpha anymore. He seems to be okay with Scott taking the lead back home...”

“Regardless of who the alpha is, Derek will always consider all of you his in some way, because his instincts demand it,” Peter lets his legs fall apart as he leans forward, elbows resting on his thighs. “He gets angry when he can't protect you. He counts it as a failure, and in a way it is. But it's not his failure as a wolf, it's his failure for not seeing that you don't need protecting. You're the reason Derek keeps checking himself.”

“So, all of this,” Stiles waves a hand vaguely. “What I keep feeling between you, Derek, and Scotty, is all just alpha wolf stuff that I'll never understand because I'm human?”

“Yes,” Peter says with a shrug, seeing no reason to lie to Stiles when he'd got it in one. “And it will only get worse once we return to Beacon Hills, considering the current situation of what I am now. So I probably won't be staying.” Because I made a mess but I don't want to clean it up.

Stiles frowns, as if annoyed with Peter for reminding him that they can't just have an oddly pleasant conversation, because Peter is a fucking manipulative dick and a selfish bastard, and basically all of this is absolutely his fault. That the first time Stiles had sex, it was because Peter's dick was inside of him. That Peter had no excuses, only reasons.

“Probably for the best,” Stiles says, his tone a little harder, maybe a littler louder than he'd intended, because he doesn't weigh enough yet for four beers to not be a big deal. “Pretty sure we've reached our psycho limit for the next decade, all in the past two weeks.” He makes a small cheering sound and waves one fist weakly in the air.

Peter rolls his eyes. “For the last time, I am not a psycho,” he says, his voice tense and weary as he pushes himself to his feet. “If I were, trust me, I would have murdered all of you by now, in very exciting and creative ways.” He steps past Stiles before pausing, a hand reaching out to brush lightly over the back of Stiles's head, like he's stroking a cherished pet. “Well, exciting for me.”

Stiles's heart lurches up as his stomach drops down, because his base, gut reactions to Peter have never changed. He blinks and taps his middle finger a few times against the warming glass of his beer bottle as his eyes lift to Peter's face, the older man now standing next to where he was sitting on the couch.

“Fair enough,” Stiles mutters, unconsciously licking his lips and not saying anything else, because he doesn't know what to say. He's having a hard time thinking over the heavy thud of his heart, anyway.

“I'm excited to see what kind of wolf you'll make.” Peter smiles softly, as if the decision is already made and inarguable.

“I told you, I don't want the bite,” Stiles says roughly as he lifts his eyes to the older man, to the once-again alpha. “It's not gonna happen.”

“You don't want it from me,” Peter corrects gently. “But you'll take it from Scott, eventually. One way or another, it is going to happen.” He lets the weight of his words sink in as he opens the front door. “Goodbye, Stiles. Have a nice trip home.”

He walks out. Not a second later Stiles gets to his feet, stumbling around the couch in his haste to run after Peter.

“Peter, wait,” Stiles calls out, coming to a stop at the edge of the porch. Peter stops and turns to look at him, already halfway through the yard. “Be careful.” He speaks quietly, not wanting to shout across the yard. He knows Peter can hear him. “The demon...” He fusses a bit with the edge of his flannel. “It, um... has plans for you. And me.” Peter cocks his head slightly and lifts an eyebrow. It's nothing skeevy because he's definitely taking this seriously. “It's gonna be really pissed about what happened here. It's not going to be–”

Stiles's words die on his lips as Peter raises a hand and gives a nod. In a single look he communicates that Stiles shouldn't worry because he'll take care of it, and Stiles doesn't know why, but he kind of trusts it. He trusts Peter.

Chapter Text

“How can you drink those all the time and not, you know–” Allison gestures to her own slender midsection, giving Lydia a curious look.

“Swell up like a mall Santa?” Lydia offers, before wrapping pink lips around the straw of her double-mocha-caramel-latte-extra-whip-chocolate-sprinkles-whatever and takes a healthy swig.

“Yes,” Allison laughs, long fingers curled around her own chai tea, which had been cut with just a little bit of milk. “What is your dirty secret?”

“Stress,” Lydia replies with a little shrug and a smile at Allison's grin. “And everything in this is non-fat and sugar-free.”

Beacon Hills' Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf does a pretty bustling business, despite the city's small town feel. The mom and pop shops have their regulars and their hipsters, but anyone who craves a variety of flavored syrups, breakfast sandwiches, and canned pop music comes here, because Beacon Hills is still snobby enough to avoid Starbucks. The two of them are at a table outside, despite it being chilly, because Lydia wants privacy. She asked Allison to meet her here for a reason, after all.

“How are things going with the situation?” Allison asks after a few moments of companionable silence, and Lydia can hear the guilt in her friend's voice. She knows how much Allison wants to help, but she's lost without a monster to slay. Her father didn't exactly train her for demons. None of them were prepared for this.

“Stiles thinks it's gone.” Lydia sighs and brings her thumb up to brush unconsciously at her lower lip. “But I guess we won't know for sure until the boys get back.”

The boys. Calling them that with such a casual air brings a little smile to Lydia's face. Of course she's referring to Stiles and Derek, because Peter could never be one of her boys. But in a weird way she's worried about him, too. She hopes that giving herself the ability to begin to forgive him for what he did to her means she's on her way to becoming a better person.

She can understand fear and desperation, and no matter what airs Peter Hale likes to try and wrap around himself, at one point he was the most desperate of them all. Maybe he still is.

“Have you heard from them yet?” Allison asks in-between sips of her steaming tea.

Lydia shakes her head and checks her phone, like maybe a text or a missed call came through without her noticing, but there's nothing. “I'm not worried,” she says with feigned confidence. “It's only been a day.”

“Are you and Stiles okay?”

“I don't know,” Lydia nibbles on her lower lip before taking another sip of her drink to stall. She's figured out a few things in the time since Coalinga, and one of them is pretty paradigm-shattering. She's avoiding thinking about it in the hopes that it will go away, or turn out to be just a weird, passing thing. Like some sort of Stockholm Syndrome. At one time in her life, Lydia was pretty sure she knew what love felt like, and it's nothing like what she feels right now. What she had with Jackson ticked all of the boxes, but now looking back on it she knows it wasn't really real. It was just perfectly orchestrated, packaged, and presented to look and feel as real as possible.

Lydia's pretty sure that what she feels for Stiles is real because it makes her stomach drop, and whenever she thinks about him she wants to cry. Not in a bad way, but not in a good way, either. She just feels a little overwhelmed.

It's weird because it's Stiles, and he's been in love with her since they were so young. Lydia always thought he'd get over it, because they were just kids, but he never did. Only a heartless, soulless person could exist in the circle of such a pure thing without being affected by it. Ironically, it wasn't until he seemed perfectly okay and happy with them just being friends that she started feeling it back.

“How did you know–” Lydia begins, her lips parting in a soft breath as she turns her full attention to Allison, who's looking at her with light concern lining her brow. “When you first met Scott, you two were just disgustingly all over each other pretty much immediately.” Allison ducks her head and shakes it against a grin, her cheeks coloring from more than just the cold. “How did you know?” Lydia asks.

“That I wanted to be with him?”

“No...” Lydia bites her lower lip and taps a finger against the side of her drink, nervousness tingling her skin. “How did you know that it was special? Right away? How did you know when you loved him?”

Allison's expression changes a few times. It ushers seamlessly between attentive, confused, contemplative, and finally ending on dawning realization. Her lips part and her jaw drops slightly, before she leans in to whisper conspiratorially, despite them being practically alone out here on the patio.

“Is this about Stiles?”

Lydia whines softly and pinches up her face, bringing a pale hand up to cover her forehead. “I... don't know,” she groans, sagging slightly in a most un-Lydia-like way. “I think... maybe.”

“Wow,” Allison says, her eyes wide. “I mean... wow.”

“Stop being so verbose, Allison,” Lydia grumbles sardonically, shooting a playful glare at her friend. “I can't even get a word in edgewise.”

“Sorry, I just–” Allison laughs suddenly, the sound more wonderstruck than amused or cruel. “Me and Scott have played the 'what if?' game about you two so many times, but we never thought it would ever actually happen.”

“That makes most likely four of us.”

“What absolutely horrible timing.”

“I know!” Lydia exclaims. She chews on her straw with perfect front teeth before finishing off her drink with a loud, obnoxious slurp as the straw catches air bubbles at the bottom of her now empty drink cup. Allison laughs softly in delight at just how much Stiles has rubbed off on Lydia in the past near-year. How much more casual she's become, despite her race for the crown again. When they're alone, when they're just with friends, Lydia lets her walls down and it's great.

Allison opens her mouth to speak when Lydia's phone chimes, and both girls laugh as the sound diffuses the situation. “I have to go,” Lydia says after reading the text. “My mom is going out with friends tonight. I need to go home and take Prada out before she annihilates the goose-down pillows and decides that my mother's new Miu Mius are her personal toilet.”

“Ew,” Allison with a cute wrinkle to her nose. “Okay, well, call me later on if you want me to come over or anything.”

“Sure,” Lydia says. With a wave and a toss of perfumed hair, she click-clacks to her car on her own pair of Miu Mius. Absentee parents really are the best gift-givers.

It's less than a five minute drive until she pulls into her driveway and gets out of her car, keys jangling from her fingers. She's too busy picking her house key out of the jumble of cute keychains to notice the air-distorting shimmer that detaches from the shadows thrown on her porch, the front light flickering and buzzing with an electric sound.

The demon collides with Lydia and shoves itself into her. There's nothing otherworldly or impressive about it; one second she's walking along the pavers and the next she's stumbling a bit, arms folding around her midsection as she drops to her knees on the steps that lead up to the porch.

“Fuck,” she grunts. Her voice is gravelly and distorted as her lips pull away from her teeth, baring them at nothing. “Goddamn fucking banshee.”

A frustrated growl sounds wetly as the pale skin of her throat ripples and bulges. The demon breaks two of Lydia's manicured fingernails as one of her hands scrabbles for purchase on the brick-inlaid wall. It's all she can do to grab her hair and shove it out of the way before the double-mocha-caramel-latte-extra-whip-chocolate-sprinkles-whatever she'd just had with Allison comes right back up, heaving out of her stomach and into the perfectly-landscaped hedges next to her front porch.

She spits sour sick into the plants, annoyance written plainly on her face. “Don't make me ram a nail file through this bitch's head,” the demon snarls. She pushes herself back up to her feet with a grunt, wavering briefly and grabbing at the wall to steady herself. Her knees and one shin are a mess of bloody scrapes and bruises from her fall, but the Miu Mius are fine.

Lydia smacks herself in the face and blinks hard a few times, her eyes squeezing shut before pushing open comically wide. Tiny pinpricks of light flash and swim around in her hazel irises as she sags against the brick wall and squeezes her keys tight, gritting her teeth as the pain shocks her muddled thoughts back to sharp again. The banshee is fighting the interloper, but the weak fae spirit is no match for such a powerful demon.

Within seconds, inky black bleeds over the whites of Lydia's eyes and extinguishes those pretty little lights one by one.

“Fuck, finally,” the demon huffs, smoothing down the front of her dress and straightening her coat. “You'd think you'd be less protective of someone who doesn't even want you around.” She tuts softly as she unlocks the front door, only to be faced with a tiny papillon. Prada doesn't waste a second before lowering himself in an offensive crouch, growling, snarling, and baring his tiny teeth.

“Oh, shut the fuck up, Prada,” the demon sneers, before shutting the front door on the sharp yelp of a dog being kicked.

Stiles is drunk and planted in front of the T.V. set with Cora and J.J., only half-listening to Kimana as she lectures Derek about sulking out in the woods. About how he needs to eat something to get his strength back up, and how he needs to learn to stop pushing people away because his mother would never have approved of this sort of behavior.

Stiles remains silent through it all because he doesn't have a damn thing to say that would be anything anyone would want to hear. He just silently cheers Kimana on.

He and Cora shared the bed. She curls up with her back to him after a half-playful, half-serious warning about staying on his side, but Stiles isn't worried about rolling around in his sleep. He'd need to be able to achieve it in the first place for that to be an issue.

When sleep finally comes, it's in intermittent bursts all night, because his skin crawls with nervous energy every time he thinks back to what happened out on the lawn. Every time Stiles closes his eyes he hears the demon, sees it, feels it. He can't stop rooting through all of the information in his head, everything the demon left behind. Everything that's his now. He has no idea what to do with any of it.

But the sun still rises in the morning, just like he knew it would, because at least some things can be counted on to be consistent. Predictable. Safe. Kimana feeds them before shooing the three of them out toward the Toyota with a strained smile on her lined face, trying with every ounce of motherly training she has not to let her concern and worry show through too much.

No one is surprised that Peter's nowhere to be found. Neither Derek or Cora can predict where he'll go now, but they both have a feeling he'll end up back in Beacon Hills before making a permanent move anywhere.

“Safe journey,” J.J. says as he smacks his hand on the roof of the Toyota twice before stepping back, his dark eyes looking pointedly at both Derek and Stiles. “Don't do stupid shit anymore, yeah?” he says with authority, as if words of wisdom drew their inspiration from him. Stiles shrinks a bit in the passenger seat, and Derek glowers and grunts something about J.J. thanking his mom for him. J.J., however, is nothing but sweet smiles as he looks at Cora in the backseat.

“You better call me, girl,” J.J. says as he leans in through the window and drops a kiss on her cheek. Before she responds, he quickly turns and jogs away, shouldering right into one of his brothers as they tease him with good-natured jibes.

Derek frowns and turns to give Cora a pointed look. She glares in return, gesturing with a sharply-spinning finger that Derek should turn the hell back around and get this car on the road.

“He's only twenty,” she prematurely admonishes as Derek pulls out onto the road proper. “Besides, you don't even get to say a word.” Stiles can feel his cheeks reddening and can hear the creak as Derek's hands tighten around the steering wheel. “Not after how I found the two of you–”

Stiles's hand shoots out and grabs the volume knob of the radio and cranks it up, music suddenly filling the car at ear-splitting volume. Derek's lips press together tightly against a smirk he's trying to not let out, and Cora just rolls her eyes and heaves a heavy sigh.

“Stop the car,” she says loudly as she stretches between them to turn the volume back down.

“What? Why?” Derek asks, looking over at her before reluctantly pulling off to the side of the long dirt road.

“I gave myself five seconds to think about it,” she says as she grabs her overnight bag and tugs it onto her shoulder. “And I decided I really don't want to have to be in this car with you two for the next six hours, so I'm going to head back and stay with Kimana for another few days. She promised to teach me how to make fry bread, and you two smell like you'd rather jump out of the car to your deaths than be alone, and I really don't want to have to witness that.”

Derek rolls his eyes slightly, but surprises both of his passengers by not pulling back onto the road and insisting she stay. He instead lets the car idle while Cora plants a kiss on his cheek.

She turns to Stiles. “Remember,” she says, leaning in to drop a kiss on his cheek, too. “You don't always have to settle for what people give you. You're in charge of your own life.” Then she's gone, out the door and jogging back down the narrow road, much to the surprise of the small group of native boys who are still gathered in Kimana's front yard. J.J. embraces her with one arm, and Stiles feels the corner of his mouth tug up as he watches her arm slip around his waist.

Derek's eyes linger on his sister until he feels Stiles's gaze on his profile. They make eye contact only for a moment before Derek looks back at the road. Derek hasn't said a word about anything yet, and because Stiles is honestly worried that he'll get left on the side of the road if he so much as clears his throat in an offensive way, neither has Stiles. He just turns the radio back up until it's loud enough to give both of them the excuse not to talk before settling back against the seat, arms folded as he watches the landscape blur by.

Thirty-six minutes later, Stiles turns the music down and breaks the silence. “It's weird, isn't it?”

Derek just grunts in response, but Stiles interprets the grunt as questioning.

“The possession thing,” Stiles continues, shifting slightly in his seat and wedging his back into the corner formed by the edge of his seat and the car door. He ignores the fact that the seatbelt cradle is digging into the back of his head because looking at Derek is more important. “Are you okay?”

“You don't need to worry about me, Stiles.”

“Maybe I'm not,” Stiles says with an almost juvenile defiance, despite the irony in his very prickly and adult reasons. “Maybe I just, I don't know... wanted to feel like I had someone to talk to about this. It's not like anyone else can relate to what happened to us.”

Derek is silent for a quarter mile, a half a mile, and finally for so long that Stiles is positive he isn't going to say anything. He sighs softly, a little disappointed by the silence. He straightens himself back out again to stare out the windshield as they eat up featureless road on their way back toward Beacon Hills.

“It was like looking into a funhouse mirror,” Derek finally offers after a few more minutes, nearly startling Stiles who glances back at him. “The demon didn't say anything I haven't thought before. It just said it in the most fucked-up and hurtful way possible.”

“Like a really distorted version of yourself,” Stiles murmurs, glancing down at his lap with a nod as he picks at a tiny hole in the hem of his hoodie. “Yeah, I guess I felt the same. And then there's all the stuff it left behind,” he gestures vaguely at his head with a dry, soft chuckle.

Derek frowns and furrows his brow, shooting Stiles a curious look.

“Wait, you mean I'm the only one with Demon Google over here?” Stiles asks, taking Derek's deepening frown as a 'yes'. “Lucky me,” he snorts softly. “This is the bestest day of all my days.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It info-dumped in my brain,” Stiles explains with a little shrug. “When you and Scott showed up at the AM/PM and threatened it, it didn't have time to grab all the demon files out of my head before it bailed.”

“Huh,” Derek says. Stiles lifts his eyebrows and nods, lips pressing together in a tight grimace. “Are you okay? Is it..?” Derek pulls a hand away from the steering wheel and makes a vague gesture in the air, as if trying to stir up some sort of mind-reading between them since he doesn't know exactly how to articulate what he wants to say.

“It's a lot to process, yeah,” Stiles says with a weak smile. Derek nods because that's exactly what he was wondering. “But it's all in there like I've always known it. Like it was always supposed to be there. Guess it's the little things, right?”

Five more songs pass on the radio. Current popular music; top 40 stuff. Stiles pays negligible attention, though he does catch Derek watching him out of the corner of his eye as he sings along under his breath with some vocalist crooning about heartbreak. They make eye contact, and though it's very brief before Derek slides his eyes back onto the road, Stiles can feel the weight.

“Why did you come back for me?” Stiles asks, a bit guarded.

“Because Scott asked me to,” Derek returns immediately, the words as rote as the predictable way he draws his eyebrows together when he has to lie. Maybe even rehearsed, like he's been expecting Stiles to ask eventually.

“Sure, okay,” Stiles says slowly, silently admonishing himself for jumping into play without a game plan. “But why did you really come back?”

Derek hesitates. “To stop Peter,” he says, both of his answers as honest as they are evasive.

“Derek, come on–”

“You know what?” Derek interrupts, his tone already frustrated, acting as if they've already been arguing for ten minutes. “Just... don't. Picking at a scab just leaves a scar.”

Stiles's teeth clack as he snaps his jaw shut, and he feels something hot swell in his chest. At first he thinks it might be a weird sort of grief or regret, but only then does he recognize it as defiance. Some good old-fashioned, righteous, self-indulgent defiance.

“Well, that's very profound, and all,” Stiles snaps. “But despite your newly poetical tongue, I want to talk about the sex.”

“Well, I don't,” Derek says tightly, and the sound of plastic creaking in protest sounds between them as Derek's grip tightens on the steering wheel.

“Too fucking bad, because I'm not taking back what I said to you,” Stiles states with an obstinate jut of his chin. “I wanted you...”

“I can choose to ignore it,” Derek says through his teeth just as stubbornly. “Every day. For the rest of my life.”

“Why?” Stiles demands, feeling this strange pull between them. Like he wants to launch himself at Derek and either kiss him or kill him, the moving vehicle be damned. “What's the point of that? Avoiding everything that gives you feelings or emotions? Something that might actually even make you happy for, like, five fucking minutes?”

“You think you could make me happy?” Derek scoffs.

Stiles goes quiet, but Derek can smell his wounded anger boiling just beneath the surface. He can hear Stiles's heartbeat slow from the jackrabbit of trepidation and anxiety to the ponderous, heavy thud of resent. The kind you can taste like metal in the back of your throat, when you have to swallow your heart and stomach back down.

“Wow, do you really hate me that much?” Stiles asks quietly. His voice is faraway; cold and murky, like the water at the bottom of a well.

“I don't hate you, damnit,” Derek says, his voice a bit more neutral this time. “You wouldn't understand.”

“You don't know me well enough to make that assumption,” Stiles mutters. “And that's just something people say when they're too scared and ashamed to admit anything.” Derek's almost sad to hear his voice flatten out, the passion gone.

“That wasn't supposed to happen, Stiles,” Derek says tightly. “I feel like I took advantage of you, even though I know I didn't.” His features darken even more, as if that were even possible with his perpetual raincloud always casting shadows.

Stiles frowns and glances away to cover up his involuntary flinch, because despite everything that they know they know, the things that they feel are scarier than anything else. For Derek to say that, to actually acknowledge that he knew that they wanted each other in that moment, is a little painful considering Stiles knows exactly how this song and dance is going to end.

“I know you're not a child,” Derek continues. “I know you're not stupid, and I know you were being sincere... with the things you said. But you know that I wasn't exactly the one completely in charge during that situation.”

“Yeah,” Stiles scrubs a hand over his eyes, which are prickly and dry and feel like sand. “But how do you feel about it now? What does it mean?”

“I don't know. It's confusing the shit out of me, so I don't want to think about it.” Derek's laugh is short and harsh. “There were things I thought– thoughts that I shouldn't have entertained. I don't like the idea of anything like this changing me. I don't know what it means, so I'd just rather it didn't exist, okay?”

“I don't know what it means either.” Stiles hunches his shoulders and throws out his hands in frustration. “But I have to acknowledge the fact that we're obviously into something, here.” He gestures between them with a sigh.

“I'm not gay, Stiles,” Derek protests, frustration edging as he drops his last, desperate truth bomb in the hopes of just ending this.

“Pretty sure I'm not, either,” Stiles retorts, more than a little confused by his own calm right now. He doesn't know why he's not freaking out more. Maybe it's because he can tell that Derek is about to.

“Then this conversation can be over.”

“Pretty sure I'm also still talking.”

“Pretty sure you're going to be talking to yourself in a minute,” Derek growls, the steering wheel protesting under his grip again. “I'm fine walking back if you don't shut up about this.”

Stiles's slumps into the passenger seat with a hard sigh, his eyes simmering darkly with unspoken accusations, emotions, and so many words as he stares at Derek's tight profile. He mentally stabs them into Derek's brain, teeth gritting so hard he can feel a headache edging at his temples. He doesn't know why he's pushing this, because Derek's broken. He's no good for anyone and everyone knows that. Stiles doesn't even know what he'd do with Derek if he got him. So maybe he's just trying to win.

After a few minutes he unfastens his seatbelt.

“What the hell are you doing?” Derek begins, eyes flicking at Stiles as he shifts and pushes himself to his knees.

“Just leave it,” Stiles grumbles before elbowing past Derek and practically spilling himself into the backseat. He folds up behind the driver's side and settles in with a heavy sigh, arms folding over his achy chest as he stares out the window at nothing in particular.

Half an hour later, when Derek pulls off the road and into an empty parking lot, Stiles is almost anticipating it. Not that he thinks he knows Derek that well, or that he thinks he's someone delicious enough to make this sort of rash decision for, but because it seems their fates are weirdly intertwined. It's what Stiles would have done, anyway.

He's numbly unsurprised when Derek crawls into the backseat with him and latches onto his mouth with such a desperate hunger, it's like he's trying to suck the air out of Stiles's lungs. It's not until Derek's hands brand over his skin that Stiles fully understands that nothing will ever be the same again.

He doesn't even realize that he's still stretched and sore from yesterday until Derek's thick, blunt cock is rutting against the cleft of his ass. They haven't said a word to each other yet, so Stiles doesn't say no. He doesn't say yes either, but he doesn't have to. This might not be what either of them especially wants right now, but it's what they need.

It's inelegant and clumsy. It's quick and angry. It's kind of painful being contorted in the backseat like this. But in some ways it's the purest thing that's ever happened between them. No misconceptions, no bullshit, no second-guessing or stupid, confusing emotions. Just the hot, white sear of a good, hard fuck. A purge of emotions and no lies.

Stiles's feels tears prick his eyes when he comes, but he doesn't cry. He slams his elbow into Derek's face as hard as he can, because now he feels. Now it means something even more. He curses at Derek through his teeth, through the thick emotion that wells up and catches in his throat, through spittle and the come cooling on their bodies. He throws more elbows and the heels of his hands, and even a clumsy fist or two, but they're too close and he's still on Derek's cock, and it's all too fucking much. Too raw.

Derek plants a shaking hand in Stiles's hair and grips tight at the soft strands, holding him until he's calm. They both need to shower; Derek can smell them ripe in the air. The sweetness of sex and fear, the acrid burn of anger, and the sour sharpness of stress. The salty-clean smell of desire and grief. Derek never noticed how similar those two smelled until now. The air is heavy and charged with things unsaid between them, and he hates himself a little because he knows they'll go unsaid for a long as he can manage it.

There's too much at stake to risk anything. These days, Derek takes safety when he can find it.

They make the rest of the drive in silence, and somehow that's even worse than the bitter words that lay heavy on their tongues.

Peter considers himself an educated man. Intelligent, learned, and completely imbued with a good amount of canniness and common sense. So when he actually considers running from Bishop to Beacon Hills to be a viable option, he has to blame the new alpha soul inside of him. The lupus ad ignem that wants to roam free, eating the world bite after greedy bite.

Instead, he leaves Kimana's in the middle of the night and steals a car.

He ditches the car a mile outside of town before sniffing the demon out. It's here, just like he knew it would be. He needs to find it. He needs to know why the hell it's still creeping around, because Peter can't fully function with the constant, low-grade nagging feeling that he's being watched. Like the feeling you get when you're thirteen and you're trying to jack off in the shower, but you just know that your mom knows why you're taking so long, and it ruins everything.

No one has been paying much attention to Peter since the demon put the new wolf spirit inside of him. He's a little confused as to why, considering what he'd done and what he is now, but he isn't going to complain. The unintentional obfuscation gives him the ability to do creepy things, like sitting outside on the curb across the street from Lydia's house all night.

He watches her bedroom window. Watching the light that never goes off, and the shadow of her form as she moves around in her room from time to time. Scenting the sour-sweet-spit smell of vomit from her front porch and the charred-bone smell of the demon lingering.

Peter knows that the demon is here, but he doesn't know if it's in Lydia or her mother. So he waits. He'll wait until he knows.

It's half-past four in the morning when Lydia comes walking out through her front door. She's dressed to kill in a lovely little blue number, black tights, and even higher heels than she usually wears. Her makeup is impeccable, as always, and for a moment he doesn't see any evidence of a possession because she doesn't seem to notice him where he's still sitting. On the curb across the street from her house. In the same place he's been for a few hours, now.

If Peter Hale is anything, he's patient.

It's around 4:35am when he knows for certain that she is possessed, because it's around that time that she throws her car into reverse and aims directly for him, tires squealing in the quiet pre-dawn. As a born wolf, Peter has always relied more heavily on his instincts than a human ever would, and this is definitely one of those moments where he's grateful for his quick reflexes and ingrained survival instinct. It's not until the car's back wheels are up on the curb and he's crouched on the roof of Lydia's car, claws digging into the roof like some idiot monster in an action movie, that it occurs to him that Lydia just tried to run him over with her car.

It also occurs to him that if this was any other day, he wouldn't be especially surprised if non-possessed Lydia did the same.

With an annoyed growl he pushes himself to his feet, not taking care to not tromp on her roof with his boots before dropping back down into the street. “Charming,” he sneers at her, side-eyeing her through the driver's side window which she's just politely rolled down. “Good morning.”

“Oh, don't be so fussy, Petey,” the demon coos in Lydia's voice, and it would be almost cute if not for the black edging the whites of her pretty hazel eyes. “I just wanted to say hi.”

“Hello to you, too,” he responds flatly. It's then that he catches the scent of blood. It's faint and smells a few hours old, and it's definitely not human, but he still finds himself asking. “Prada?”

The demon simpers softly and lifts a slender shoulder in a bit of a nonchalant shrug. “He wouldn't stop barking at me,” she explains before pressing one of the buttons on the door, unlocking the car. “It was annoying. Get in.”

“Why are you still here?” Peter asks through his teeth, folding his arms and ignoring her demand.

“Get in the fucking car and I'll tell you,” the demon says. With an exaggerated roll of his eyes, Peter obeys.

Early morning always feels so different than late night, despite the similar sounds, coloring, and smells. The air is different in this hour when it switches over, when the sun just barely begins to crest around the edge of the world. Peter can smell the sunrise, he can hear the birds waking up and the night insects making way for the ones that prefer the day. He looks at Lydia and wonders why the demon has her out and about so early. He wonders if she slept, or if it even needs to.

He wonders why the hell he's wondering.

“Did you call me here?” he asks suddenly, nose wrinkling like he's smelled something bad. He shoots a glare at her, head cocking.

“Yes,” she replies impatiently, like Peter should just know these things; who his master is. “We're going to the loft. I'm going to call Scott and tell him you're there, holding me hostage. You're going to kill Scott, re-claim your hold on your idiot nephew and niece, and I'm going to get Stiles back.” Her hands tighten around the steering wheel as she draws in a slow, measured breath. “He fit way too nice to let go of. Besides, I dropped all my luggage in his brain and I can't just leave it there.”

“And Lydia?” Peter asks evenly, carefully.

“You can have her when I'm done,” the demon shrugs. “If you want her. If not, kill her. I don't care. But she's too damn smart to be left alone to plot.”

“I want her,” Peter murmurs quickly, his eyes scanning the slowly brightening neighborhood as they drive out of the suburbs and get on the highway that will take them into downtown. He keeps his tone neutral because he doesn't want the demon to think he cares about Lydia, but he knows she could come in very handy very soon, and Peter hates the idea of throwing assets to the wind for no reason.

“She has very interesting opinions on you.” Her head tilts, and Peter's eyes catch the way the cold morning sun catches like a blaze in her hair.

“You don't have to tell me how much she hates me,” Peter chuckles. “Trust me, I'm aware.”

“You don't know nearly as much as you think you do, Petey,” she smirks. “She hates you because she's not allowed to be your friend. She resents you, not only because of what you did to her, but because of what it prevented.”

“Which is?” Peter asks suspiciously, eyes narrowing slightly.

“A very profitable working relationship.” The demon gives a lazy shrug as they pull into the loft's debris-strewn parking lot. “She's angry at you because you're the smartest person she knows, next to her, and she can't work with you for more than five minutes without wanting to either stab you in the throat or tear off all your clothes.” she smirks. “I, on the other hand, don't have any qualms about doing either of those things to you, so get your tight little ass out of the car and upstairs, pronto, before I get nasty all over the inside of this nice car.”

Peter arches an eyebrow and curves his lips into a pointed smirk.

“By nasty,” the demon clarifies with a point of her finger. “I mean I'll bash her head against the windshield until there's blood and skull and brain goo all over–”

“Right,” Peter breezes, giving her a charming smile before getting out of the car. He politely opens the driver's side for her, holding a hand out to help her to her feet, because that's what a gentleman does. “Well then, shall we?”

“We shall,” the demon purrs, her eyes flashing with excitement as they head toward the building. Peter has to wonder what exactly she's the most excited about, the stabbing or the fucking.

They're barely down the loft's concrete stairs before her hands move to his belt. The sound of metal snicking against leather is loud in the ominous quiet, and Peter shakes off confusion at the moment's hesitation he feels. His hands drop, grabbing her wrists.

“You were serious–”

“As a heart attack,” she says, eyes sparking with arousal as she curls small fingers around his belt and tugs it out of his beltloops. “If Scott doesn't smell you on me, he'll never lose his temper, and if Scott doesn't lose his temper, you'll never be able to kill him.”

Peter glances down at Lydia's feet as the demon steps forward. Her hands press against his chest and stomach as she walks him backwards. He's strangely fascinated with the way she just walks right out of her shoes, at the height she loses because of it. He doesn't know why, but it makes him feel warm. Her bare feet give her a vulnerability, and he suddenly remembers when they were dirty, when she was in the forest, when they were crawling with worms.

“You know that a true alpha is his most powerful when he's in complete control of himself,” the demon says, nonchalantly pushing him back onto Derek's bed. She slips her hands up under her skirt and tugs her panties down slow, and that's when Peter sees the lacy tops of her stockings. He thought they were tights; he was wrong. So very wrong about so many things.

“Lydia,” Peter says through his teeth, not really knowing where he means to go with this, but it doesn't matter. She ignores him anyway in favor of nudging and dragging a milky white thigh between his legs, reminding him that it never takes much for her to get him hard.

“You have to get him to lose control and then he'll get sloppy,” she murmurs. “Then you can sink your teeth in.”

The air is charged with lust, greed, devious acts, and the burnt-air smell of magic, and Peter's head is fuzzy and spinning with it all. He knows he's being manipulated, played like a particularly vicious hand of poker, but he doesn't care. All he wants to do is get between those pretty, pale, legs that are wrapped in stockings like a gift.

“I want you to sink your teeth in,” she whispers against Peter's ear, her voice moist and heavy with the weight of promise. Peter can't help remembering the night with Stiles here on the rug, in the circle where he made the biggest mistake of his life, but all he can do now is groan. His hips rock up against nothing but air, his cock stirring and thickening at the smell of Lydia's musky slick heat as it flavors the air. He's not sure when he rolls her over onto her back, because his entire world narrows down to the cleft between her thighs.

That first taste is like heaven, because she's hot and sinful as hell.

As Peter slides his tongue through her hot, slick folds he thinks he mutters an apology against her skin, leaving a smear of her own wetness against her inner thigh as his lips form the word. She's caught in his stubble; he knows he'll smell her for days. His body covers hers like a dark storm cloud, his cock aching hard as she spreads willingly, wantonly for him. A rough laugh catches in her throat as he thrusts his hard length into her slick heat, and she cards broken-nailed fingers through his hair and hard over his scalp.

“'Sorry' is just a word that exists between us now," she whispers. "It doesn't really have any true meaning anymore." He has no idea if Lydia is speaking to him now, or if it's just the demon playing with him..

They fuck hard and fast and brutal. The sounds they make sear into the porous concrete walls to be ghosts for another time, and as her fingernails bead up blood on his back, he spills himself hot and resentful, deep inside of her. The smell of them is thick in the air, and Scott will have absolutely no second thoughts when he walks into the loft.

He only hopes that Scott's nose isn't refined enough yet to differentiate between the cloying tang of masochistic fear and sadistically cruel pleasure.

Peter stares out one of the large, dirty windows as the demon sends her text to Scott. He has no real desire to kill the young alpha. It's not out of any perceived connection between them because of Peter's bite, because that connection was severed when Peter was killed. He just hates the idea of wiping the only real good thing he's ever done out of existence.

The buzz of Lydia's phone pulls him out of his reverie, and with a carefully weary look he glances over his shoulder. She meets his eyes with a tight, red-lipped slash that the demon is trying to contort into a genuine smile.

“He's coming,” she sing-songs, head canting and hip jutting slightly as she gives Peter a measured look. “You're not bitching out on me, are you? I don't have to make you do this, right?”

“I'll take care of it,” he replies in his vague way. Best not to commit to anything, really. Promises are nothing but trouble in the end.

She doesn't reply, but orders him to punch her hard, right across the mouth. Can't fake an assault without a little collateral damage, right? And she wants finger bruises on her thighs. Those are always lovely, like snails in a rose garden.

The afternoon sun is bright in the cold winter sky. Derek and Stiles are just three miles outside of Beacon Hills when Derek gets a text from Scott.

‹loft black dog peter HURRY!›

“Fuck,” Derek groans before tossing his phone into Stiles's lap. The Toyota lurches with the groan of metal, as he floors the gas and heads toward downtown as fast as he can, Stiles's questioning protests going unanswered.

Scott is alone.

Scott has Isaac and Allison, but technically Scott is alone. This is a decision he has to make on his own. He can accept advice, opinions, hypotheticals, but at the end of the day, this is going to be Scott's first real, big decision as an alpha. The decision whether or not to completely annihilate Peter Hale.

But to be fair, he really should look into the truth behind this text from Lydia. He's grateful for Isaac, because Isaac is literally the only thing holding Scott back right now. Well, Isaac's hands and Allison's methodical loading of a very large firearm that, if Scott weren't an alpha werewolf, would be making him feel really insecure about his manhood right now.

“There's no way Lydia would send that text if it wasn't true,” Allison says in clipped words, that tone usually reserved for when her head is completely in the game. “She'd never start that kind of trouble without a reason.” Scott can tell that, despite Allison's anger, she's grimly pleased with this turn of events. Demons she can't handle, but killing a werewolf? That's what she's made for.

“But Lydia hates Peter... right?” Isaac asks, hesitant. Strangely, he's been the reserved voice of reason through this entire mess. “Maybe she's just been waiting for the right time to make some kind of move against him. This could all just be some kind of set-up. Remember, she's like, Dexter-smart.”

Both Scott and Allison blink and turn to look at Isaac, the same confused expression shared on their faces.

“The cartoon scientist or the serial killer?” Scott asks, perplexed.

There are a few moments of silence in the room before all three of them answer in tandem. “Both.”

“Okay, so we go to the loft and I'll make a decision when I see what's actually going on,” Scott says with a heavy sigh. He reaches up to squeeze Isaac gratefully on the shoulder as he finally starts to calm down, his eyes softening from a blazing red back to brown.

Scott sits on one of the chairs in Chris Argent's office and pulls out his phone, his thumb skimming over his contacts' list before instinctively pulling up Stiles's information. He hesitates, eyes darting up to watch Isaac as he watches Allison. Then to Allison as she sets out a few more weapons on her dad's desk. Two knives and a tranq gun. Maybe overkill, maybe not. No one knows what they're going to be walking into.

He sets his jaw and draws in a steadying breath before dismissing Stiles's number, instead pulling up Derek's. He shoots a quick text to Derek before sending one to Lydia, telling her that he's coming to get her. Of course he's coming.

It's almost comedic timing how they all converge in the parking lot at the same time.

Scott, Allison, and Isaac are are huddled around the trunk of Allison's car, silently unloading weaponry like grim mercenaries on their way to a job, when squealing tires snap all three of their heads toward the street. Derek's car speeds into the lot, shooting gravel every which way as it skids the last foot or so on braked tires before coming to a halt with the groaning protest of metal.

“What the hell is going on?!” Stiles's panicked voice cuts sharply through the crisp afternoon air as he practically falls out of the passenger side door. “Is she okay? Damnit, I warned him.” He kicks the Toyota's tire hard, ignoring Derek's baleful glare. “I warned him that something like this might happen. You know what, I'm going to fucking kill him.” He surges around the car toward Scott on gracefully ungangly legs, both his eyes and mouth wide with fear, worry, and that lingering love for Lydia that will always be present.

He skids to a stop when his eyes land on Allison's weapon. “Or, okay, maybe you're going to kill him,” he mutters, conceding.

“No one's killing anyone,” Scott said firmly, authority both tightening his voice and lending it a weight it's never really carried before. “Not unless we have to. Not until we know the whole story. The truth.” He looks at Derek, canting his head slightly at the beta who's standing silently apart from the rest of them.

Derek's jaw clenches as he holds Scott's gaze for a few seconds. “No, I'm pretty sure I'm just going to kill him,” Derek says glibly, his expression darkening as he glances up toward the expansive bank of windows. “I have no idea what's going on with him right now, but that wolf inside of him is trouble. And with everything he's done over the past few weeks, I really don't like him enough to care about excuses or promises anymore.”

“Look, no offense to all of you,” Allison says as she steps up, fingers white-knuckled around her weapon of choice. “But I care more about Lydia in this situation than Peter. I don't want her getting hurt anymore than she already is. We need a plan.”

“No time,” Derek says with a shake of his head, his eyes darting between Stiles, who's glowering and looking a little sick to his stomach, and Scott. “He already knows we're here.”

“So we go up there and talk ,” Scott says insistently. “If he has her, if he tries to hurt her, then we'll make the choices we have to make. But we can't rush into this.”

“Oh, I've got some choice things to say,” Stiles snarks, shoving his arms folded over his chest as he shifts on his feet, fighting. “Can we go? Please? Now ?”

Scott sighs, heavy. “Let's go.”

“Well, we're fucked,” Peter says cheerfully as he glances over his shoulder at the demon. She has Lydia's compact out and is fixing her hair in the small mirror, smiling prettily at herself. The smear of blood on her lips and the blossoming purple bruise on her jaw is in perfect complement with her skin tone.

“Don't be so dramatic,” she says, snapping the compact shut to punctuate.

“I'm really not a big fan of large caliber rifles or missile launchers, or whatever that piece of hardware is that mademoiselle hunter is carrying around,” Peter complains as he paces the room. “Your plan doesn't work if I have a hole in my chest.”

“I'll take care of Allison,” she says. “And everyone else. Your job is Scott.”

Peter grunts, giving her a skeptical look.

“Don't you trust me?”

“No,” Peter replies, looking at her like her question is the most ludicrous thing he's ever heard in his entire life.

“Well,” she sniffs, before moving to the bed and crawling onto it, positioning herself in a perfect disarray of disheveled limbs and fetal-positioned patheticness. “You have about three seconds to learn to.”

Just then, the heavy sound of grinding metal fills the air as the loft door is shoved open by an angry force that Peter correctly determines to be Derek. He sucks in a long, deep breath through his nose and steels himself, his eyes narrowing as the usual suspects pour in after his nephew. They're all accounted for, of course, and it's all Peter can do not to roll his eyes. So he doesn't even bother trying to hide it. Time to put his game face on.

“Well, the gang's all here,” he says, simmering in sarcasm to cover his apprehension. “It's a shame I didn't know you all were coming. I would have set out crudités.” He moves to put himself between all of them and the demon, who's laying out on the bed and doing her best impression of a victim of sexual abuse.

“What's that?” Isaac whispers out of the side of his mouth to Allison. “Some kind of a trap?”

“A vegetable plate.” Allison's expression is a cross between patient and irritated. “It's like hors d'oeuvres.”

“Oh,” Isaac says, straightening back up and glaring at Peter, all the while trying to act like he hadn't just asked that. Peter rolls his eyes.

“You gonna to explain this?” Scott asks as he gestures toward Lydia. His voice is firm but yielding, sort of like a teacher or a parent. Because really, those are the only two real sources of authority Scott has to draw from. Peter's eyes narrow slightly as he watches Stiles walk straight over to the bed. He's gentle as he brushes a hand over Lydia's forehead, but the look he shoots Peter is scathing. Betrayed. Disappointed.

Something inside Peter wants to respond to that, to defend himself. But he can't. He has to be the bad guy.

“Do I have to?” Peter responds boredly, making his posture as casual and unrepentant as possible. “You all knew this day was going to come. That she'd eventually try and enact some dramatic, storybook revenge.” His breathing comes easier when Scott responds exactly the way Peter anticipates; by bristling protectively, nursing confusion and suspicion, yet still hesitating because of his nobility.

Derek, however, is a different story.

Peter exhales in relief as Derek comes at him, already half-shifted and growling. Blue eyes blaze with a very personal anger as he launches himself off of the bottom step, and the only thing Peter does to defend himself is to roll with the tackling blow. He lets Derek take him down. He wants Derek to do it.

Peter grunts as his back meets the concrete floor with a hard crunch, and he briefly thinks how nice it is to be an alpha again. Not too long ago, that probably would have really hurt. Now it's just inconvenient. While Derek is, admittedly, the more skilled fighter of the two, Peter is once again much stronger. But he lets Derek grab a handful of his shirt and swing a meaty fist into his face once or twice, putting on a good show for the kids. He even laughs through bloodied fangs and flashes his eyes a deep, dark red.

“This is all your fault,” Derek snarls, his eyes hard as ice chips as all of the rage and grief he's bottled up over the past year pours out of him. “ Everything is always your fault.” He directs it all at Peter, and something small and curled up inside of Peter knows he deserves it. But it doesn't matter now.

“Oh, shut up,” Peter bites off loudly. Theatrics. “You've always been such a whiner.” He grabs Derek's wrist to stall out his next hit before turning his head to spit out a mouthful of blood. He reaches to grab Derek around the back of his neck with his other hand, yanking him down, bringing his mouth to Derek's ear. “Lydia is possessed,” he hisses.

The headbutt is only mostly for the demon's benefit. To keep up the act. But a little bit of it is for Peter. He's been wanting to headbutt Derek for a really long time, and who can really blame him? It looks great in a fight, though, and Peter knows it'll stun Derek long enough for him to get this fight under control. To play it exactly the way he needs to.

He's not exactly counting on the demon to be paying such close attention.

Just as Peter plants a foot in the middle of Derek's chest and sends him flying across the room, Lydia's eyes snap open. A sneer twists her pretty, pink lips as the whites of her eyes cloud black. Before Stiles can even suck in a breath or jerk his hand back, she has his forearm in a bruising grip.

“Hey, cutie,” the demon croons in that sick, distorted voice. “Miss me?”

“What the hell–” Stiles chokes on his words, shocked. He knew the banishing he did on Derek wouldn't kill the demon, but he certainly hadn't expected to see it again any time soon. But hindsight is 20/20.

“I couldn't leave without seeing my favorite meat-sack one more time.” The demon smirks and darts her eyes over Stiles's shoulder, suddenly moving quickly to the side. She rolls off the bed and jerks Stiles in front of her, letting Isaac crash right into him as she dances back away. “Good try, puppy, but not good enough,” she chides, flipping her hair and scoffing at Isaac. She spins on her heel, only to come face to face with Scott's glowing red eyes.

“I might be able to do a little bit better,” he growls, working the words around a maw of sharp teeth. Protective rage comes off of Scott in waves, and it's all the demon can do not to bounce and clap. She should have known. It's not Lydia that's going to get the sort of reaction she needs out of Scott, it's Stiles . It's always Stiles.

“Mmm, the big dog himself,” the demon drawls. She scrapes her teeth over her lower lip before catching it between the pearly whites. “What are you going to do, Scotty? Hm?” she asks, tilting her head with a pretty smile as she takes a few slow steps back away from Scott. Baiting him. “Hug me to death? Everyone knows you won't hurt me.”

It's suddenly quiet around them and she can feel everyone watching: Peter and Derek on the floor, Stiles and Isaac on the bed, and Allison who's still standing pale and shocked on the bottom step, hands shaking as she holds her weapon like a shield.

“Let Lydia go,” Scott demands, his hands unfolding at his sides as claws extend.

“Scott–” Peter says quietly from off to the side as he pushes himself quickly to his feet. He can suddenly see very clearly where this is going. “Scott, you need to calm down.”

“Oh, but he can't calm down,” the demon says with a fake little gasp. “Not when his favorite little puppy just flew out the window.”

The demon lifts a hand and points two fingers vaguely in Isaac's direction. She holds Scott's eyes as she flicks her fingers back toward one of the huge loft windows, sending Isaac flying through the air and crashing right through the heavy glass and out onto the large balcony. He lands bonelessly, rolls against the wall, and stops. Still. The scent of blood slowly drifts in on the cool breeze, and every werewolf in the room stiffens.

“Isaac!” Allison cries, and Peter can feel the atmosphere in the room change. He watches Derek scramble to his feet, eyes a cold, burning blue as he glares at Lydia, struggling with the urge to rip the demon out of her strip by bloody strip. He watches Scott run past Lydia and vault himself over the table, glass breaking off on his jacket as he skids to a stop outside next to his unconscious beta.

Peter's eyes linger on Stiles, who's own eyes are darting nervously around the room, his heart pounding fiercely. He can see the wheels turning in Stiles's mind as he watches him lick his lips, fingers twitching. Stiles looks up to the ceiling, down to the floor, and his lips part around a heavy breath as a plan seems to formulate behind his eyes.

But everyone's attention is suddenly captured by Allison, whose voice is strained and on the edge of breaking. “Get the hell out of Lydia, now !” she yells, shocking everyone by pointing her incredibly huge firearm straight at her best friend's body.

Everyone stops moving. Even the air seems to still. Peter can smell the desperate fear and impotent rage coming off of Allison in waves. The frustration from Scott. The confusion from Derek. But once again it's Stiles who draws his eye, because Stiles doesn't smell like any of those things. Stiles is standing still, attentive, and his eyes are narrowed to dark little slits as he watches Lydia carefully. Gauging.

That's when Peter sees Stiles's fingers curl in against his palms, sees the white-knuckled squeeze as he balls his fists tight. That's when he smells the blood and magic.

“Or what?” the demon asks, her voice gritty and rough as she challenges Allison. She doesn't look in the least bit afraid. If anything, she looks delighted . “You're gonna blow me away? Kill your best friend? Kill a human ?” She rolls her eyes and scoffs as Allison's hands shake. Allison lowers the weapon with a frustrated sound of despair and turns half-away, eyes squeezing shut against what Peter assumes are tears.

“What do you want?” Derek asks as he steps forward, heroically putting himself between Allison and the demon. “Why are you still here?”

“Honestly?” the demon drawls, only sparing Derek a glance and a smug, knowing smile. “I forgot a few things. I need to pick them up before I go. If I decide to go.” She snaps her head around and gestures back at Scott, flicking her fingers and yanking him away from Isaac. He flies through the air like a puppet being jerked around by the strings and slams against the wall closest to Peter. Derek growls and wastes no time running at Lydia, but the demon is ready.

“Not so fast, sweetie,” the demon says with a smirk, gesturing casually with her free hand at the heavy table. The wooden legs groan under the weight as it skids across the concrete floor, colliding right with Derek's pelvis. He flies over it and rolls off to the side with a groan as his head smacks against the floor with an unhealthy, meaty sound.

“Peter, come on,” the demon huffs, turning to look at Peter like he's a six-year-old refusing to leave the candy aisle. “He's practically on a silver fucking platter. What are you waiting for?”

Peter's eyes flick back to Stiles. They can both feel it. The demon's magic is waning as she throws it around, just as Stiles charges his own. Now is as good a time as any.

“Uh, I'm pretty sure he's waiting for me,” Stiles says. His voice is raw, like his throat is shredded.

The demon turns her head and regards Stiles curiously, almost as if she'd forgotten he was there. For her troubles, she's greeted with a full-body tackle from the tall, lanky teen. The moment Stiles collides, Scott falls from the wall, as if suddenly unstuck. Derek rushes to his aid, but Peter's eyes are fixed on Stiles and Lydia. He watches as they land half on the old rug covering the broken and scratched up remains of the original summoning circle. He can see the regret on Stiles's face as he shoves at Lydia's body, pushing and rolling the demon more fully onto the rug. He doesn't want to hurt Lydia, but he has to make choices, now.

Peter sees the flash of blood in Stiles's palm and understands now. Blood for a sacrifice; a sacrifice necessary for vulgar magic.

Peter sets his jaw and moves to help, to step in and pin Lydia down if he has to. Stiles is quick and determined, and has more courage and balls than most anyone else in this room. He ignores the fact that the demon is scrambling to her feet, yowling like an angry cat, and throws himself at the edge of the rug. He yanks it back and slams his bloody palm down on one of the faint paint marks still left, yelling out a few words in a language Peter's sure only the demon still knows.

The flash of light is blinding, and the air is suddenly so dry Peter can't do anything but cough. Everyone is floored, flying off their feet and onto their backs, and the air smells like burnt hair and old pennies. When he finally gets his eyes open, it takes Peter a few seconds to blink away the spots, but when he does he's greeted with an amazing sight.

Magic. Pure, awesome, and powerful magic .

The seal on the floor is glowing from underneath the rug, and the one on the ceiling is glowing in kind. All of the bits of leftover paint have re-made themselves, scorching two new circles into the concrete. The light emanating from both circles is beaming between the two, creating what looks like a circular cage. A thin wall of shimmering light encircles the demon, who's actually staring at Stiles with bewildered confusion, shock, and maybe even a little fear.

“That's mine ,” the demon hisses, her hair a wild halo around her hard, pale face as she slowly tries to get to her feet. “That's my magic–” The action is ignobly interrupted by a soft snap as the heel on one of her shoes breaks, and she falls back down on her ass with a grunt. “Goddamnit! These are $300 dollar shoes!” She yanks the broken heel off and throws it hard at Stiles's head, but it's intercepted by Derek who's been cautiously inching toward Stiles with Scott in tow.

“What the hell did you do?” Scott breathes, staring at the shimmering light with awe on his face.

“I have no idea,” Stiles whispers, staring down at his bloody hand.

Allison rushes by the circle and steps outside, helping Isaac to his feet. In all of the mess and confusion he finally came to, and she seems less inclined to try and figure out what just happened inside. She'll stick to what she knows; helping the innocents she can help.

“Remember what you did at Kimana's, Stiles?” Peter says, ignoring the demon's sneer as she whips her head around to glare at him. If a demon could actually look betrayed, that would be the look. “The demon told me it left some, how did you put it?” he glances at Lydia, scratching his chin. “Some luggage behind. Because it plans on moving in.”

“In?” Stiles asks. “In to... in to me ?”

Peter nods.

“That's not going to happen,” both Scott and Derek say at the same time. They look at each other and then look away, Derek off at nothing with a huff and Scott at Stiles, both of them sharing a snort. Levity, though. It's a good thing.

Peter steps to the edge of the rug, arms folded over his chest as he watches the demon kick off her other shoe and get to her feet with an annoyed sigh. “Why didn't Lydia's deal go through?” he asks quietly. He's not under any sort of pretense that the others can't hear him, but this is a slightly personal matter. He's not about to make a spectacle about it.

“Because that deal was bullshit,” the demon, irritated. She drops her hands on her hips and fronts on Peter, like she's anticipating more arguing. Anticipating or instigating.

“What?” Peter narrows his eyes.

"I'm sorry, did you really think I was going to fall for your pathetic little attempt to hoodwink me?” she says with a snort. “How many times do I have to tell you; I do not seal with a kiss.” Her eyes narrow and she glares at the room. “You disrespectful little insects, do you have any idea how old I am?"

“You said 'deal'.” Peter edges closer. “You accepted.”

“I'm the queen of America,” she interrupts with a challenging smirk. “All hail me, the queen of America. Bow, peasants.”

The room suddenly goes silent again. Everyone except Lydia exchanges confused looks.

“Uh...” Stiles is the one to finally break it. “You're not the queen–”

“Exactly,” the demon says, turning to smile sharply at Stiles. “Words don't mean shit . Every idiot hedge wizard or book club kitchen witch out there is going to tell you that words have power, but they don't. Not by themselves. You know that, now. ”

There's a soft shuffle and the clink of glass as Allison and Isaac move back inside cautiously. Scott and Stiles exchange glances before Scott moves over to help Allison, and despite Derek's warning sound, Stiles steps closer to Peter. Closer to the demon.

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks slowly, cautiously.

“Break the circle,” the demon says, eyes glittering as she watches Stiles. “Let me out and I'll tell you everything you need to know about all the shit I left laying around in your head. I'll even tell you some secret tricks about how to use it more effectively.”

“No way.”

“Okay, fine.” She smiles sweetly. “I can play hardball. Break the circle,” she continues, lifting a hand and slowly pushing long, razor-sharp claws out through the tips of Lydia's fingers. “Or I tear out this bitch's throat.” She curls a hand around her own throat and gives a gentle squeeze, but the red that beads up from the prick of needle claws is nothing even close to signifying gentle.

The room suddenly erupts into noise. Threats from Derek and Allison and pacifications from Scott and Stiles. The only ones who remain silent are Peter and Isaac, and at their exchange of looks, Isaac rushes over to Allison and Scott to try and quiet them. To calm them down. Scott turns to help Isaac with Allison, who appears more or less inconsolable, but in typical Argent fashion is keeping as stony a face as possible through shedding tears.

Peter grabs Derek by the shoulder to stop him from just barreling through the protection ward, knowing all too well his nephew's personal feelings toward the demon. The violation he still feels at having his body used the way it was. The things he was forced to do; problems it's led to. Peter is all for revenge, but not at the wasteful expense of Derek's life.

The only person left standing alone is Stiles, and Peter isn't surprised when he steels his features and takes that last step forward. Stiles reaches a hand out and brushes it through the shimmer of magic, causing it to break and cascade down around the demon just like the loft window did when Isaac flew through it.

“Don't hurt her,” Stiles says quietly, but the threat in his voice rings true and clear. I caged you once and I can do it again.

The demon taps her fingers thoughtfully against Lydia's throat a few times, and Stiles's hands clench at his sides as he watches a new cut well up blood. All the anger, fear, and protectiveness he feels inside start to coil hot again, and as if the demon can sense it, she drops her hand. The claws snick back in and the tiny little cuts on Lydia's throat close up, leaving nothing but a few smears of red on her pale skin.

“Well, while I am a demon of my word,” she says with a wan smile as she points at Allison. “That one needs to leave before I keep it. I don't like the way she's looking at me. She might go crazy and shoot up this fantastic body with that huge metaphor of hers. By the way, honey,” she leans toward Allison and cups a hand around her mouth and stage-whispers, like she's sharing a secret. “Freud was right about penis envy. Look into it.”

“Go to hell!” Allison shouts, jerking away from Scott and surging toward the demon, stopped short only by Isaac grabbing her arms and hauling her back.

“Scotty, could you–” Stiles begins, giving Scott an apologetic look.

“I got her,” Isaac says, shooting Scott a plaintive look as Allison curls in against his chest, her body racking with sobs that she no doubt hates herself for. “I got you. It's gonna be okay,” he whispers, pressing his mouth against Allison's hair.

No one can blame her. No one think she's weak. Next to Stiles, no one loves Lydia as much as Allison does.

As soon as Isaac and Allison are gone, and Scott and Derek have been ushered over to help Peter with the table and window situation, Stiles turns back to the demon, who is now perched on the arm of the sofa. He absently notices that Lydia's pedicure is chipped, and as much as it would never make up for this in any universe ever, he resolves to pay for her next one after all this mess is done.

“Okay, so...” Stiles says, gesturing at the demon.

“Right,” she says, biting the T off like it's punctuation. “Like I was saying. Words by themselves don't mean shit. Now, words said with intent, or words as part of a ritual or a spell, sure. Couple words and some stinky herbs and arterial spray, and you've got yourself a party.” She cocks her head and peers up at Stiles from beneath long, dark lashes. “I know you felt it inside of you. Curling up all nice and hot in your belly. All shivery and sexy, giving you a half-stock and gettin' your balls all nice and tight.” She grins and it's feral. “And it's mine. ”

Stiles's Adam's apple bobs as he works to swallow.

“You got me, kiddo,” the demon continues blithely, slipping off the couch and getting to her feet. There's sudden silence where the sound of scraping glass once was, and over Lydia's shoulder Stiles sees Peter, Derek and Scott all standing stock still, watching them. Waiting.

“No fucking joke, fellas,” she says with a shrug. “I'm weak. Throwing you guys around really took it out of me. I mean, I figured this for endgame. Petey was gonna kill Scott, make Derek submit, and I was gonna crawl back into your meat. Then the three of us would ride off into the sunset.” She half-glances over her shoulder and smirks acidly. “I never thought he'd be such a spineless fucking bitch traitor!”

“What can I say?” Peter says tightly, chancing a glance at Derek who's leaning tiredly against the wall. He looks thoroughly done with all of this. “I did it for my family,” he continues with an ironic chuckle. “Family has always come first for me.”

“You have a really twisted way of showing it,” Scott barks. “First the murder spree, then everything you did to Lydia, and now this? I kind of have to agree with Derek; everything pretty much is always your fault!” Stiles looks at him, surprised, because Scott is typically always the calm one. Well, he usually doesn't yell. But Stiles supposes tonight has everyone's nerves pretty frayed.

“Granted, I might have handled my revenge a little more delicately,” Peter acquiesced. “As for Lydia, she and I have already made our peace. But this–” he gestures toward the demon. “–was not my fault. I didn't do anything wrong, here.”

“You're the one that summoned the demon into Stiles in the first place!” Scott snaps.

“It was supposed to be summoned into me ,” Peter says defensively. “If making mistakes is evil, then Derek must be Hitler.”

“Not funny,” Derek growls.

Before the argument can escalate any further, the sound of a feminine throat clearing and Stiles sighing heavily shuts the three of them up.

“Well,” the demon says as she steps away from Stiles and toward the edge of the room, bare feet just barely skimming the edge of the rug. “This has all been super fun, but I'm going to get out of here.” She points a slender finger at Stiles. “You have exactly twenty minutes to come find me and hand your body over, or I'm going to kill your dad.” She turns her hand and waggles her fingers at all four of them, her smile sunny. “Ta-ta, boys.”

And just like that, with one last surge of power and the smell of burnt air, she's gone. Disappearing in a blinding light, like she was never even there.

“Breathe, dude,” Scott says, gripping Stiles firmly by the shoulders and trying as hard as he can to hold his eyes. “Just breathe. How many?”

Stiles isn't thinking about counting fingers right now because he isn't having a panic attack. He's grateful to Scott for being on the ball, but it's starting to get kind of patronizing. It's only been about two minutes since the demon disappeared, and yeah, Stiles is a little light-headed and really fucking upset, but he's not out of the game just yet.

“I'm fine,” he whispers roughly, reaching up to bat Scott's hand away. He exhales a heavy breath and shoots Derek a pleading look. He doesn't have any idea what he's pleading for, but for some reason it's Derek he turns to. Derek, however, is focused on Peter, and Peter is focused on filling a black glass bowl with water.

“Right, let's do more magic,” Derek says, sarcasm dripping. “Because that was such a great idea the first time you did it.” He's angry and frustrated, of course he is. They all are. But for some reason it warms Stiles knowing that Derek gives a shit, even if it is just for his own personal revenge.

“Either make yourself useful, Derek, or shut the hell up,” Peter says. His voice calm, but there's an edginess to it that he typically doesn't show. It's very rare that Peter loses his cool these days.

“Derek,” Stiles croaks, huffing a sigh and reaching up to scrub at his face with shaking hands. “Can you and Scott please–” His voice falters, so he just gestures broadly at the door.

“Yeah,” Scott says, reaching out to grab Stiles in a quick, awkward hug. “Yeah, yeah, we'll go check on your dad. We won't let anything happen to him. I promise.” He leaves with a strong pat and a squeeze to Stiles's shoulder, Derek in tow. Stiles watches them leave, and that warmth cools a bit when Derek doesn't look back, but the rigidness in his shoulders speaks volumes to Stiles.

Stiles isn't the only one who's been violated by this demon. He's not the only one who's in danger right now. He's not the only one who might lose people over this. Derek has no reason to offer him comfort when he's struggling so hard to keep himself in check.

“Stiles, a little help, here?” Peter's voice brings him back, and Stiles whips his head around. The look Peter gives him is one of impatience and haste. He gestures toward the bed. “Check the pillow. See if any of Lydia's hairs are on it.”

Consciously, Stiles doesn't recognize anything like a scrying or locator spell when he sees one. But the part of his brain the demon lit up can recite lists of spell components like well-loved recipes, and can give you four alternate outcomes for any and all substitutions. As he walks back to Peter, unconsciously winding one of Lydia's hairs around his index finger, he wonders why he's not angry at Peter. He wonders why he hasn't really been once, this entire time.

It's not that he doesn't blame Peter for this, and it's certainly not that he doesn't hold him responsible. He just feels strangely numb toward Peter's involvement. Or maybe he just blames himself, instead. Stiles has gone over that night countless times. If only he hadn't come back for his backpack, if only he hadn't been weak and human, if only he hadn't died that one time and come back. If only he didn't have this dark vice around his soul.

Stiles knows it's not Peter's fault that he's weak. But it's definitely Stiles's fault for not doing anything about it.

“When this is all over,” Stiles mutters as he hands the hair over. “I want you to teach me.”

Peter's fingers pause as he delicately takes the strand, blue eyes darting sideways to look at Stiles. “Is that so?” he asks, curiosity lacing his voice.

“I have all this stuff in my head now,” Stiles says, nervous fingers wiggling in the direction of his temple. “I need to do something with it. I need to stop, you know... being useless.”

Peter narrows his eyes slightly, and Stiles can tell he has something to say. There are a few beats of loaded silence before Peter turns back to the bowl, looping Lydia's hair as he picks up a match. “We'll see what happens,” he says, ending the conversation.

Peter brings the loop of hair up to his mouth and licks it, shining it with his spit before murmuring a few words in a language that Stiles's brain scrambles to identify. Before he can, there's a bright flare and the smell of sulfur as Peter strikes the match. Then the smell of burning hair as he lights the strand, rubbing it between his fingers. He sprinkles the negligible amount of ash onto the black surface of the water before dipping his fingers in and swirling them.

It only takes a second, and Stiles's eyes force themselves momentarily unfocused as he stares at the bowl. The ash seems to spread over the surface in a fine film, quickly swirling and reorienting itself before it forms a picture. Street signs; cross streets. Stiles's cross streets.

“That's my street corner,” Stiles says in a rushed voice. “Is that where she is?”

“That is where the owner of this hair is,” Peter says, obviously not confirming that that's where the demon is. They have no way of knowing if the demon ditched Lydia's body or not, but it's at least a start.

“Scott and Derek should be there by now,” Stiles gasps, rushing around the table and running for the door. He skids to a halt at the entrance and grabs the doorjamb, before swinging himself around, breathlessly. “Thanks.”

“Good hunting,” Peter says sincerely. His ears follow the sound of Stiles's frantic footsteps as he takes the stairs, understandably too impatient to wait for the elevator.

Roscoe might not be the sleekest, fastest car on the road, but he's reliable as hell and takes corners like he's got something to prove. It's pretty much the worst possible time of day for the Jeep's tires to be squealing to a halt out in front of his own house; it's dinner time. Most people will be home by now. He winces and cringes as the sharp sound echoes around the otherwise quiet, empty street. Well, quiet and empty if you don't count the demon and two werewolves practically brawling it out on Stiles's front lawn.

Stiles is suddenly struck with inspiration so profound he thinks he understands the true meaning of the word 'epiphany'. He knows how to fix this. He really knows how to fix this. God, he hopes he knows what he's doing.

“Hold her down!” he yells as he runs toward the tangled trio, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he's surprised he can hear anything else. “Get her arms and legs!”

There's no hesitation. Scott and Derek do as instructed, and Stiles can feel the pathetic surges of magic crackling along Lydia's skin. The demon is running on fumes, which is exactly what Stiles is counting on. It's weak now, and if there's anything Lydia has always been, it's strong-willed, smart, and stubborn as hell.

Stiles stumbles in the lawn as he reaches down to grab her discarded purse, unzipping it as he drops to his knees on the wet grass, straddling Lydia's lap.

“Lydia Martin,” he gasps, digging a hand around in her purse as he makes eye contact with her, ignoring the sick chill that crawls his spine as twin pools of shiny black stare back at him. “This is not you.” He quickly dumps her purse out in the lawn, momentarily dumbfounded by the waterfall of miscellaneous girl stuff that piles on the lawn.

“ This is you.” He grabs her favorite tube of lipstick and holds it up so she can see it. He flicks off the lid and twists the red out, before pressing it to her skin, right above the swell of her left breast and drawing a crappy heart.

“This is you.” He grabs a bottle of perfume and sprays some onto his thumb, pressing it against her forehead and making the sign of the cross. Lydia bares her teeth and snarls at him, surging up against Scott and Derek's hold on her.

“Dude,” Scott hisses, giving both of them a nervous look. “Is this actually gonna work?!”

Stiles just laughs, the sounds edging on hysterical, and runs his hands through his hair.

“Stiles, just do it,” Derek says, his voice calm. Grounding. “You can do it.”

This isn't a real spell. It's certainly not a real exorcism. But there's something inside Stiles that keeps telling him that this is real magic; honest, raw, grabbing at your guts magic . The ability to change the world. That stupid power of love crap that people write dumb songs about. That thing he thinks he might have felt when he got the demon out of Derek. The thing he knows he's feeling right now with Lydia.

His eyes suddenly fill with tears, but he's not ashamed to cry right now.

“This is you,” Stiles continues, grabbing a well-thumbed book of Sudoku puzzles and holding it up, ignoring the demon's scoffing as he shoves it under Lydia's head like a pillow. “This is you.” He holds up a fake plastic rape whistle on one of those coiled, plastic wristbands, and a fake can of mace. When he squirts the mace, a bunch of silly string comes out and litters her hair. Bubbles fly out of the whistle when he sticks it in his mouth and blows. He drops them to the ground.

“These are you because you're not afraid. You'd kill a guy with your shoe before you'd let anyone touch you any way you didn't want them to.” Stiles heaves a shuddering breath. “I should know. You told me all about it in excruciating detail.”

Lydia stops struggling.

“These are you,” Stiles laughs weakly grabs the handful of rolled up gum wrappers, probably a month's worth, and sprinkles them on her chest like rain. “You chew gum like a cow when you're studying.”

“Shut up, Stiles,” the demon hisses through grinding teeth, her back arching violently as she tries to buck him off. Scott and Derek grab her by the shoulders and pin her back down, just as Stiles takes her face in his shaking hands.

“This is you, Lydia,” he says softly, his voice trembling as a tear slips from his cheek and hits her on the corner of the mouth. “The guy I am, the smart guy, the trying-really-hard-to-be-confident guy... that's you.” He brushes the wetness of his tear away with his thumb before leaning down and giving her a soft, chaste kiss. “I need you, Lydia,” he whispers.

Her body jerks again. She shakes and convulses, and for a moment Stiles is terrified she might be having a seizure. Her throat tightens and clenches against a high-pitched keening sound, and it's not until her throat bulges into a low, rumbling growl that Stiles realizes no, it's just the demon struggling to keep hold.

“Make me a deal,” says that ugly, distorted voice through Lydia's lips. “You for her.”

Stiles presses his forehead against Lydia's, his thumb stroking softly along her cheek before fingering affectionately at one of her earring. “No,” he says, seemingly calm and succinct despite being terrified.

“I will fucking kill her,” the demon threatens, red starbursts bleeding through the blacks of her eyes. Stiles shudders and squeezes his eyes shut, shaking his head like he's trying to get rid of a bad taste.

“No you won't,” Stiles gasps, blinking hard as new information stabs him in the brain. “You won't because... you can't. You can't kill unconditionally because of your position.”

Lydia goes still again. Stiffens. Tenses.

“You're management,” Stiles pulls back, hands trailing over Lydia's shoulders as he straightens up, sitting back on her thighs. “You're the system. If you go anarchist then the entire system gets fucked, and no one will ever make a deal again.” His voice softens in a bit of awe, like things are finally starting to come together. Like the information dump is finally starting to make sense. “None of you can kill unless you're collecting a contract.”

“You're not supposed to know that,” the demon growls. Stiles's breath catches in his throat and he glances at both Derek and Scott. Neither of them is moving; even the air seems to have stilled. The demon suddenly thrashes again, yanking her arm free from Derek's hold. She reaches up and grabs Stiles by the throat, squeezing with a snarl, eyes practically sparking with anger and fear.

“You're dismissed,” Stiles chokes out, bringing both hands up to scrabble at her hold. He grabs her wrist, pries at her fingers, and only barely registers Scott and Derek struggling to pin her down again. “Your services are no longer required!”

The words sound stupid, so stupid. Formal and cheesey considering the seemingly life or death situation they're in. But he knows they're the right words. A formal dismissal. The forms have to be obeyed. It's all bureaucracy.

“You've made your deal,” Stiles continues, hissing in a breath and wincing as Lydia's nails dig into the straining, tender skin of his throat. “You've sealed your contract with Peter. You're dismissed until the time comes to collect.”

The demon yowls like a cat who's been kicked as Derek and Scott finally manage to pry her hand away and pin her back into the grass. She thrashes and grinds her teeth, and Stiles can see her skin bulging as oaths start to force the demon out of her body.

“I've denied you more than once,” Stiles gasps, falling forward and digging a hand into the wet grass next to her head. “You can only tempt and coerce, you can't harass. You have no reason to stay.” He licks his dry lips and holds the demon's eyes. “There's nothing more for you here. You are dismissed from this place for ten years. Not get out !”

It's a little underwhelming, really. Stiles expected some sort of light show, or a howling demon spirit crumbling to ash in mid-air like what had happened when he'd forced it out of Derek. But nothing really happens. Nothing they can see, anyway. But Stiles feels it. He feels the demon falling down out of Lydia's body and into the earth below. He feels it in his stomach, like the drop right before you loop on a roller-coaster. Like the vertigo of standing too close to the edge of a cliff.

The hairs all over his body stand on end and he shivers violently as goosebumps rise. He can see both Scott and Derek shaking themselves too, their eyes darting around like they're hearing something Stiles can't hear. There's a bad smell in the air, and his mouth and eyes are suddenly painfully dry. But his concern for Lydia trumps all of those things. She's pale as a sheet and her breathing is ragged, but her heart is beating steady and strong.

Stiles grabs Derek by the shirt and tugs at him. “Smell her,” he whispers, pushing weakly at Derek's shoulder, silently pleading. Hoping. “Just... tell me she smells like just Lydia please .”

Without a word Derek's hand cover's Stiles's, fingers curling firmly against his palm and squeezing. He leans in and sniffs at Lydia's throat, at the spot behind her ear. At her lips. Wither another squeeze to Stiles's hand he straightens back up and looks at both Stiles and Scott, giving them a slow nod.

“I don't smell anything but Lydia,” Derek says, his voice a little rough.

Stiles sags and slumps against her thighs, a low groan of relief in his throat. But his relief is short-lived. A harsh light floods on above the garage door, and the sound of muted footsteps make their way from the front porch and down the walk. The figure is silhouetted and back-lit by the light, but it can only be one person.

The sheriff.

“Stiles, what the hell are the three of you doing out here?!” the sheriff asks, frowning deeply, his forehead etched with confusion and concern. “Who is that– Is that Lydia Martin? What are you–” He cuts himself off with a heavy sigh and reaches up to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Is that girl unconscious on my front lawn at dinner time ?”

“Uh...” Scott utters, looking at Stiles, who's suddenly scrambling to grab all of Lydia's stuff and shoving it back into her purse. Derek's no help. He just shrugs slightly and gets to his knees, gently taking Lydia up in his arms before climbing to his feet.

“Just some wacky werewolf shenanigans, dad,” Stiles attempts to joke off, but the tremor in his voice is unmistakable.

The sheriff isn't buying it for a second, and the bland glare he gives the three of them is nothing short of insulted. “Well, get your shenanigans into the house now , or I swear I'm going to lock all three of you up for the rest of your damn lives, if only to save me from an early heart attack.”

“Oh, no, Sheriff, it's okay. We–” Scott starts, but the look on Stiles's dad's face stops him mid-word.

“I know what shock looks like, boys,” he says, snapping his fingers and pointing at the front door, still standing open. “Get her inside, now. Don't make me call an ambulance.”

Scott and Stiles mutter to themselves before shuffling toward the door, leaving just the sheriff, Derek, and Lydia standing on the lawn.

“Son?” the sheriff says to Derek, lifting his eyebrows questioningly. “Either get her inside or hand her over.”

Derek hesitates, his eyes darting between the sheriff, the sidewalk, and the front door that stands wide open. Inside it looks warm and inviting, and Stiles is standing in the foyer staring at him. Derek frowns softly, his brow furrowing with apology.

“She'll be okay,” Derek says quietly as he steps forward, handing Lydia off to the sheriff.

A silent understanding passes between the two men as the sheriff gets his arms under Lydia and hoists her up into his own. The sheriff nods, hesitates for a moment like he wants to say something, but then thinks better of it. Stiles passes his dad on his way out, just as the sheriff steps inside.

“Derek,” Stiles says, holding his hands out slightly at his sides in one of those gestures that everyone knows means 'what the hell?' “You are allowed to come inside, you know. You can't tell me you're not intrigued by the front door,” he jokes lightly, turning to gesture grandly at it, like he's one of the showcase ladies on The Price is Right. “I know you're really familiar with windows, but maybe–”

“I need to go check on Peter,” Derek interrupts, folding his arms before glancing down at the grass. At the patch of dead, yellow, matted grass that's about the same height and width as Lydia. “Huh.”

“Yeeeaah,” Stiles drawls, reaching up to rub at the back of his neck. “I should probably talk to my dad about getting a fountain or some garden gnomes, or something,” he says, chuckling. “Nothing's ever going to grow there again.”

Derek huffs softly and nods a few times. His eyes are glued to the patch of dead grass like he's grateful for it, because it means he doesn't have to look at Stiles. “You did good,” he says finally, pulling his eyes up and settling them on Stiles's face. “ Really good.”

Stiles feels the back of his neck grow a bit hot under his hand. He rubs at it again with a duck of his head, biting back the embarrassed smile that twists his lips up a bit. He knows he should be one-hundred-and-ten percent focused on Lydia right now, and he will be... but how many times in a person's life are they going to get a sincere compliment from Derek Hale?

“Thanks,” Stiles says with a tired sigh. He's smiling, but it's weak, as the weight of the day is finally catching up with him. The weight of the past several weeks.

“Hey, are you sure you don't want to–” Stiles gestures behind him, toward the house again. Derek just shakes his head.

“I really do need to check on Peter,” he says. “He's going to need to leave town.”

“Wha...” Stiles starts, trailing off with a frown. His conversation with Peter replays through his head; needing to learn. Needing to be taught. “Why?”

Derek tilts his head slightly. He gives Stiles a slightly sharp look. “Can't have two alphas in one territory, for one,” he says. “Not without constant conflict, anyway. And secondly, he's a fucking menace. He's not going to get any better, especially not now. Not with that thing inside of him.” He wrinkles his nose a bit, like he smells something bad. “Peter won't be happy until he has everything his way.”

“He can't leave,” Stiles says suddenly. At the look Derek shoots him, he suddenly very much wishes he'd thought this through before saying anything. “I mean, it would be stupid to let him leave, right? Wouldn't he just go terrorize some other town?” Crappy save, he knows, but sometimes Derek is just the right amount of oblivious–

“What aren't you telling me, Stiles?” Derek asks, his voice doing that thing it always does when Derek gets defensive and throws his walls back up. Clipped and a little loud, like he's just waiting for an excuse to yell.

“What? Nothing!” he lies, knowing it's stupid to try and hide now that Derek's looking for it.

“I can tell when you're bullshitting me, Stiles.”

“But, I mean, I bullshit everyone so often,” Stiles says with a bit of a cheeky smile. “Doesn't it just sort of start to bleed into my normal, everyday–”

“ Stiles. ”

“Okay, god,” Stiles sighs dramatically. “Fine. I mean, it's not like I asked for this, right? This, whatever is going on in here.” He gestures erratically at his head. “All of a sudden I can do things? Magic things? What if that, you know... what if it doesn't go away?”

Derek frowns and takes a step toward Stiles, but then stops. Holds himself back. “And you think Peter can help you,” he says flatly. No question.

“Well, if not him, then who?”

“Deaton,” Derek offers.

Stiles snorts and rolls his eyes, reaching up to rub at his nose, to touch his mouth; all nervous gestures. “Yeah, right,” he scoffs. “The guy's about as helpful and forthcoming as a CIA agent. Plus, this isn't exactly happy, fluffy, frolicking with bunnies druid stuff. This is demon stuff.”

“Yeah, demon stuff.” Derek lowers his voice and finally closes the distance between them, glowering darkly as he speaks. “So you shouldn't exactly be encouraging it. Who the hell knows what could happen to you if you start using it?”

Stiles purses his lips and turns his head with a sniff, defiance written plainly on his face. “Yeah, well, what do you care?”

“Hey,” Derek snaps quietly. He reaches out and grabs Stiles's arm, turning him back to face him. “ Don't . You're better than that.”

Stiles scoffs and yanks his arm away, shoving his hands into his pockets

“Grow up,” Derek sighs, stepping back. “This isn't about us .”

“What do you mean, 'us'?” Stiles raises his voice a bit. “There is no 'us', right? Trust me, I get it.”

“Stiles–”

“Hey, Stiles,” Scott says, his step light as he walks out onto the porch. “Lydia's awake.” Both Stiles and Derek deflate a bit as they look at Scott, his presence having taken the urgency out of their argument as quickly as Stiles had put it in.

“Right,” Stiles sighs, reaching up to run a hand over his hair before shooting one last glance at Derek. It says nothing, really, but it also says too many things. Stiles doesn't say goodbye before walking inside, and Scott's eyes trail after him before moving to Derek's face.

“Is this something I need to worry about?” Scott asks with a concerned look. Derek knows what he means. This has nothing to do with Scott's pack status and everything to do with Stiles's being his best friend. His brother.

“I'll take care of it,” Derek says.

“Are you two–?”

“No, it's nothing.” Derek looks away. Looks down, briefly.

“Well, even if it wasn't...”

“It's nothing ,” Derek says again, his voice taking on the push of a sullen child who feels like they're being lectured. “I'm not staying.”

Scott frowns softly, but recovers quickly. He turns his frown upside down as he steps in, extending a hand to Derek. “Whatever happens, you know... whatever you decide.” He squeezes Derek's hand and gives it a shake. “I trust you. I owe you. You're always welcome here.”

This is your home .

“This is my home,” Peter snaps. “I've been here longer than any of you. If anyone has the right to this territory, it's me.”

“Beacon Hills chose Scott, not you.”

Peter rubs at his mouth and chin angrily, his eyes narrowing as he glares at Derek. The loft feels bigger than it ever has with both men standing, one on each side of the rug, arguing with each other. Fighting. Because that's all they ever do.

“I'm not leaving,” Peter spreads his hands and gives Derek a sweet smile. “Stiles wants me to stay. He needs a teacher. There's no one else.” As if that's the end of that.

“Stiles doesn't know what he wants,” Derek says gruffly, immediately regretting it.

Peter lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, no?” he says archly. “I'm pretty sure he knows exactly what he wants. Though I guess there's no accounting for taste. Even Hitler had a wife.”

“You're really pushing it–”

“No, you're pushing it,” Peter growls. His eyes flash red as he crosses the distance between them, walking right over the rug. “I know that for a long time everyone's favorite game was kick uncle Peter while he's down. Well, guess who's not down anymore?” His eyes bleed back to their normal icy blue, but he doesn't move. He stays right in Derek's personal space.

“I'm going to stay in Beacon Hills for as long as it takes to teach Stiles everything he needs to know,” Peter continues. “Why? Because it benefits me to do so. It benefits me to have him in my debt, because one day I might need to utilize him. When I'm done, and only when I'm ready, will I leave. And when I leave, you're coming with me. We'll collect your sister and we'll start a new pack.”

“I'm not going with you,” Derek says. There's no room for arguing in his tone.

“Please don't make me make you,” Peter says with a firm set to his jaw, as if he honestly believes he would have no choice. “You need to try and understand everything I have scarified for this family. For you . I have ten years left on this earth, and I did that for you .”

Derek wants to argue. He wants to lash out. But Peter's pulse is strong and steady, and his eyes are clear. He's being honest. He's being completely and utterly honest. Derek can't figure out which is worse; the horrible, unforgivable things Peter's done to get where he is, or the fact that he honestly believes his intentions have always been nothing but pure.

“Once upon a time, the Hale pack was revered,” Peter continues, stepping in and placing a hand on Derek's shoulder. “We were huge, strong. We were loved. Now it's just the three of us. We could all part ways, scatter ourselves to the winds, and never lay eyes on each other again, or we can try and salvage what's left of our dignity and at least stand strong together. As a family.” He lifts his other hand and places it on Derek's other shoulder, effectively boxing him in. “Why would you follow a teenage boy when you could follow me?” he asks, imploringly.

“Because I trust him,” Derek says quietly, and without hesitation. He never takes his eyes off of Peter's.

“He's a bitten wolf,” Peter snaps, yanking his hands off of Derek and pacing away a few steps. “He has no idea what's it's like to be us. He'll never be able to understand you, and I have done everything for you!” He sighs heavily, frustration written over his face, in the way he holds himself, and in the cadence of his words.

Derek frowns and shakes his head. “No, this has all been for you ,” he says through his teeth. “You never once asked me what I wanted. Never once. ” With a discouraged sound Derek walks over to stare at the broken window. It's been patched as best as they could patch it, with cardboard and tape. He'll get someone in here soon enough, if any of them decide to stay.

“Look at what you did,” Derek says as he turns back to face Peter, gesturing vaguely at the window, and at the summoning circles burnt into both the floor and ceiling now. “The choices you made. Everything you did, you did for power. For control. You made a deal with a demon, Peter.” Derek huffs heavily and shoves his hands onto his hips, looking like he'd really like to throw Peter out this window. But he chokes it down.

“You didn't do that for me or for Cora,” he continues, his voice tight. “Everything you say, it's just manipulations and lies. Lies you tell yourself under the hopes that everyone else will eat them up. Well, I hope you enjoy your power, because now it's all you have.”

“Derek–” Peter

“ No ,” Derek barks, his face going hard. “You don't get to have us.”

Peter tips his head back and sucks in a long, slow breath through his nose. Derek knows he's trying to keep his temper, to hold himself in check. “Fine, have it your way,” Peter says, clipped. “I will stay and I will teach Stiles everything I can. Then I'll go.”

He steps in and holds up a finger, his eyebrows lifting with intent. “But I want you to remember one thing: You might think you're punishing me by sending me away, but I can be happy wherever I go because I will let myself. You will always be unhappy because you don't think you deserve anything different.” Peter shakes his head with a soft sigh, conflict in his eyes. “You're going to be stuck here, with that boy who's over the moon for you, and you're never going to let him close again. So who's really losing in the end?”

Derek doesn't dignify that with a response. Despite leaving Peter with the last word, he stuffs a duffel bag full of his clothes and silently leaves. He doesn't have anything else; nothing that matters. He leaves the loft to Peter. He'll sleep in his car if he has to.

Anything to never have to return to that crime scene. Anything to get away from everything that makes him feel so intensely that he has no idea how to keep it all inside anymore.

Derek moves into the McCall house after a week of sleeping in his car. It's not at Scott's insistence, though the alpha did offer once. It's Melissa. She catches him reading in the backseat of his car one day after dropping Scott off at the clinic. She pulls a Swiss Army knife out of her purse and threatens to slash his tires. He laughs and encourages her; wants to see her try and cut through the thick rubber with a utility penknife.

But the message is clear, and after fifteen minutes of cajoling Derek shuffles into her house. Isaac greets him with a silent smirk.

“One word and I'll bury you head-first in the flower bed,” Derek mutters, but there's no malice in it.

“Hey, you'll get in trouble with Melissa, not me,” Isaac says with a knowing snicker.

Melissa jokes about opening a halfway house for wayward omega werewolves. Scott and Isaac go to school and Derek helps more than he needs to around the house. He never completely settles in and Scott knows it's because he's still not pack. He's not letting himself get too comfortable.

Things get a little complicated when finally Cora comes back two weeks later, but she insists it's not a problem.

“I'm going to stay with Peter,” she says with a shrug.

“Why?”

“Someone needs to keep an eye on him.”

“Stiles is there all the time,” Derek sighs. Which is twice as much reason for him to avoid the place.

“Stiles isn't family.”Cora gives him a pointed look.

Derek huffs and looks away.

“Look, I get it,” she says. “You and Peter have bad blood. Fine, whatever. But good or bad, blood is blood.” She reaches out and presses a hand on his chest, giving him a playful shove back. He smiles a bit. “Yeah, he's a selfish dick, but he's always been a selfish dick. Maybe having one of us there will make sure he keeps his shit together.”

Derek has his reservations, but he shuts up about it. Because he knows he always has reservations about everything. A week later he moves back into the loft. He tells himself it's just to look after Cora, but the truth is, he's lonely.

Christmas and the New Year come and go.

By the end of January, Derek and Stiles are on good terms. Stiles can also light fires with his mind, just by concentrating hard enough on manipulating air molecules. But the best part is that he can stop a werewolf from coming at him, dead in his tracks.

“It's just kinetic energy,” Stiles says with a grin as Scott pushes his feet into the ground, digging furrows into the dirt with a laugh. His hands are up, pressing against an invisible wall, and Stiles's hand is up about six inches away, holding the wall steady. “Lydia almost had an aneurysm when I told her I can basically make the laws of physics not matter anymore. I think she's reevaluating her entire purpose on this earth.”

“So, have you asked her out yet?” Scott asks.

“I might have very casually texted her to see if she had Valentine's Day plans.”

“And?”

“And she said she did.” Stiles laughs slightly.

“Aw, dude, that sucks.” Scott stops pushing and sags a bit, giving Stiles a sympathetic look..

“Oh, no, no, no,” Stiles says with a weak grin as he drops his hand and dismisses the energy field. “See, she said she had plans and that they were with me , because she'd decided they would be at that very moment. And then ten minutes later she sent me an itinerary.”

Scott laughs. “Wow.”

“Yeah.” Stiles smiles. “Good thing I'm a far superior bowler to you.”

It's Valentine's Day and Stiles is sweating, which is completely ridiculous because it's both cold outside and he's with Lydia. He doesn't think he has any reason to be nervous, but apparently his body has other ideas. His mouth is also rebelling against him. As they make their way through the parking lot of the bowling alley, because Lydia insisted on something low-key and stress-free, his mouth starts saying things without his permission.

“So, have you actually been able to enjoy getting off since that whole thing happened?” He gestures vaguely behind them, his face screwed up a bit. “Because I haven't–” He pauses and lifts his eyes to the sky, shaking his head. “Oh my god, why am I saying words?” He stops right in the middle of the parking lot and sags a bit, looking both ways as if praying for a car to come and end his life. Because he hadn't meant to say that. In fact, he made a secret pact with himself to never talk about any of that stuff ever again.

His only saving grace is the fact that Lydia's laughing. Well, silently laughing. That kind of laugh girls do when they want to laugh really loudly and rudely, but they're too well-mannered to do it. Lydia's only secretly rude and wicked, which is one of the things Stiles likes so much about her. He likes knowing the real her.

“Stiles,” she says with a patient sigh, slipping her arm around his and giving it a squeeze. “You can say anything you want to me. It's not like you have any secrets from me anymore, remember?”

“How could I forget,” Stiles says through his teeth with a bland cheerfulness. He squeezes her arm close to his body as they continue on toward the beckoning neon glow of the bowling alley.

“It's a good thing,” Lydia says plainly, shrugging one of her shoulders. “Look at it this way; I know everything about you and Derek now, and I'm still here.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, his brow furrowing slightly as if in sudden consternation. “Yeah, you are. Which is suddenly striking me as really weird? Or, at least, it should be weird? Is it weird?” He gives her a confused look. “Am I just making it weird? I'm making it weird...” He nods.

“You can't help it,” Lydia says as they step up onto the sidewalk in front of the bowling alley, the muffled sound of dance music coming from inside. It's Cosmic bowling night. “You're just weird.” She turns to face him and reaches up to fuss with his jacket and shirt a bit, straightening the collar and smoothing his shoulders. “But so am I, so it works.”

“I'm sorry,” Stiles whispers suddenly, his mind going off on a completely separate path. “I'm sorry that it went after you because of me.” He reaches up and grabs her hands, holding them gently in front of him. “I'm sorry you had to go through all of that, and I'm sorry I never really apologized for...” He frowns slightly and ducks his head. “For what happened at the AMPM.”

Stiles grunts softly as Lydia grabs his hands and makes fists, shoving them both against his chest. “Ow,” he says, giving her a cautious look.

“Stop,” she says, chastising him. “You need to stop feeling guilty about the things you had no control over. I know you feel bad, but the only apology you need to accept now is your own. You know I forgive you, or else I wouldn't be here. I've made my peace with everything that happened, and you need to make yours. None of it was your fault.”

Stiles nods and smiles weakly, grateful for Lydia's level head just as much as he ever has been before. “You're so good to me,” he says with a soft laugh. “And I repay you with Cosmic bowling.”

“I like Cosmic bowling,” Lydia says, smiling as she tucks her arm back around his. “It makes my teeth look really white.” And as if on cue, he opens the door for her and they walk in, immediately washed in black light, neon, and revolving, spiraling laser-light madness. She cocks her head and grins up at him, and he laughs at her pearly whites, which glow practically blue under the black light.

Stiles laughs and leans down, dropping a quick kiss to her grinning mouth. She darts her tongue out over her lower lip and reaches to curl her fingers into the front of his shirt, before smoothing her hand along his waist and giving him a gentle push toward the counter to collect their bowling shoes.

“Oh,” she says, pinching him lightly on the side as they walk. “And to answer your question.” She flips her hair casually over her shoulder and leans against the shoe rental counter, watching Stiles as he eyes her warily. “No, I haven't really been able to enjoy getting off lately. It kind of feels like a chore.”

Stiles's eyes widen and he feels his cheeks go hot. His eyes dart between Lydia and the guy behind the counter, whose lips are pressed together in an obvious attempt not to laugh as he gets their shoes.

“Uh, yeah,” Stiles says, nodding. He slaps some cash on the counter and does not make eye contact with the guy as the rentals are handed over. “Yeah, me too.” He clears his throat, trying not to make a fuss because he knows Lydia's being a brat on purpose. No one smirks like that unless they're trying to elicit a rise out of someone.

“So, I was thinking,” Lydia says, stepping up to take her shoes off of the counter. “Maybe we could work on that together.” Her other hand slips beneath Stiles's shirt, scratching fingernails lightly along the soft trail of hair that disappears beneath the waistband of his jeans.

Stiles's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows hard, and he knows he looks like an idiot with the way his eyebrows jump up his forehead and his mouth drops open like a fish. He nods at her, but he can't presently speak for fear of his voice cracking like he's thirteen again, because her fingers won't stop grazing over his stomach.

“Good,” she says, lips curving up in some evil-feline-wicked-smile thing that Stiles is convinced is Lydia's holdover from the demon. He got magic, and she learned the ways of seducing innocent men. No, wait; she could always do that. “Now, let's bowl.”

“Wow, okay,” Stiles manages to say, grabbing for his shoes as Lydia takes hold of the waistband of his jeans and tugs him toward their lane.

“Happy Valentine's Day, kid,” the guy behind the counter says, laughing as Stiles flails in response.

“I... have no idea what's going on,” Stiles says with a groan, picking at the grass in Scott's backyard. He and Scott have been sitting out there for about half an hour, because for them, taking a five minute break from training is more like taking an hour.

“She's weird about things,” Stiles continues. “She wants to be close, but then she gets distant. And then she talks about Derek sometimes.” He sighs. “I mean, I have to assume she knows everything. I know Derek knew everything about me once the demon got into him. So she has to know everything, everything.”

“Have you talked to him yet?” Scott asks, squinting a bit at the sun as he looks at Stiles.

“Nah,” Stiles says, picking up a twig and breaking it into tiny pieces. “I mean, we're friendly again, but he won't talk about any of that. I've tried and it's like... pointless. I mean, he's not actively avoiding me like I have the leper plague anymore, but it's mainly just shallow stuff with us now, you know?”

Scott sighs and leans a shoulder against Stiles's. He loops his arm around and gives his best friend a half-hug. “Love sucks, dude,” he says with all the wisdom and authority of someone who knows just that.

“Yeah it does,” Stiles says with a weak laugh. “It really does. But it's also kind of great.”

It's the beginning of March, and both Stiles and Peter are soaking wet. Derek thinks they're idiots for sitting outside in the rain, but he knows why Peter's forcing the issue. When the Hales teach, they don't exactly take a gentle, leading hand.

“Can we just skip water?” Stiles groans from where he's seated out on the balcony, sagging in his chair. “I can be a one trick pony. I am totally okay with that.”

“Okay,” Peter says from where he's reclined back in his lawn chair, arms folded over his chest. “Sure, you can quit. But you'll probably regret that decision when you accidentally set Lydia on fire the next time the two of you get naked together.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, blowing water off the tip of his nose with a wet, pathetic protesting breath. “Our love is a slow, smoldering blaze. I would never set her on fire.”

“Maybe not intentionally,” Peter says, shrugging. He's soaked through to the skin, too, but doesn't seem to mind. “But remember where the emotional push for fire comes from. Anger and lust. Are you really confident enough with both your new talents, and in your ability to keep a cool, level head when she's taking your pants off, to be sure that you won't?”

From where he's sitting inside, Derek frowns lightly. He feels a little stupid watching them through the large window, but he can't help himself. Not only is it interesting as hell watching someone learn how to use magic, Derek still gets a little uncomfortable leaving Stiles alone with Peter.

But now they're talking about Stiles and Lydia, and Derek's propriety is warring with his jealous curiosity. Derek knows Lydia and Stiles have only slept together a small handful of times, but it still bothers him. But what bothers Derek even more is that it bothers him. The last thing he wants is to want the sort of settled-down normal life that's reserved for normal people, because he doesn't think he could ever do it justice. He's terrified to even consider it a possibility, let alone try and offer it to anyone else.

Derek sighs and rubs his hands over his eyes, tired of having this argument with himself. So damn tired of it.

“If fire is the conclusion, then water is the journey,” Peter continues to explain, once Derek lets himself re-focus on what they're saying. “You can't push with water, you have to guide. Coerce.” He smirks knowingly and winks at Stiles. “Titillate.”

“Never say that word around me again,” Stiles says flatly.

“You know what I mean, now focus,” Peter says with a snort. “I need something from inside, and when I come back, I expect to see that bucket full.” He stands and gestures to the bone-dry bucket that's pushed back against the window, under the eave.

Ah, Derek gets it, now. Peter's trying to teach Stiles to move the water puddling on their balcony into the dry bucket. He lifts his eyebrows a bit as he watches Stiles concentrate, watches his hands fist and his face screw up, and he already knows that it's not going to work. Not if Peter's right. Stiles is trying too hard.

Derek's pretending to read when Peter closes the door behind him, not even bothering to mind the water trailing behind him as he walks over to the couch and stares down at Derek. “Why can't you just give that kid what he wants?” Peter asks, hands lifting to rest on his hips.

Derek lifts his eyes and takes in Peter, whose clothes are sodden and molded to his body. Water is dripping from his soaked hair and running down his face and neck, and Derek just sighs, because he knows he's the one who's going to end up mopping it all up.

“I told you why not,” Derek says with a heavy sigh. He shuts his book with a punctuating sound before setting it aside and standing, pulling a face at Peter. “Do you have to–?” he asks, gesturing to the growing puddle at Peter's feet.

“Come join us on the balcony and I'll stop making a mess inside,” Peter says with a smile, and Derek's pretty sure that's blackmail.

“No,” Derek says with a stern set to his lips.

“You're being childish.”

“Takes one to know one.”

“You don't have to leave again,” Peter says, rolling his head and cracking his neck. “Running away never did you any good in the past. Besides, Scott will need your help once I'm gone.”

“I can't,” Derek says quietly, before darting his eyes out the window and landing them on Stiles. “There's just something about all of it that feels too final. Like if I gave in to Stiles, then that would be it for me. I don't think I'd want anyone else.”

“At least you'd be happy.”

“Would I?” Derek counters with a shrug. He looks back at Peter as emotions conflict softly on his face. “With a human? Could I really be happy for that long?”

Peter snorts softly and clasps Derek on the shoulder, rolling his eyes before shoving Derek toward the door that leads outside. “He is just a person, my idiot nephew. You are also just a person. You enjoy rubbing your intimate parts against his.” Derek snorts, and Peter continues because Derek hasn't denied anything yet. “And no one said it had to be forever.”

Derek huffs and looks at Peter, surly. “He's just a kid,” Derek says, his protest weak.

“He's a man ,” Peter says, shaking his head. “And if you keep this up, he'll be more of a man than you.”

Derek glares.

“You two have chemistry,” Peter says, dropping his hand on the doorknob, but pausing before opening it as he finishes speaking to Derek. “Whether things work out or not has nothing to do with attraction. Things will work out only if you want them to, because you already know how he feels about you.”

“I don't–”

“Yes, you do.” Peter opens the door and pushes Derek out onto the balcony ahead of him, where they're both greeted with Stiles's satisfied grin.

"I did it!” he exclaims, gesturing to the formerly empty bucket which is now brimming with rain water.

“Good job, Stiles,” Derek says as he walks out, keeping under the eaves so he doesn't get wet.

“Yes,” Peter says, walking right back out into the rain to pat Stiles on the shoulder before he sits back down in his lawn chain. “Well done. Now, empty it.”

“What?” Stiles says, looking at Peter and sagging. “Why? No. No way. That was hard. I'm keeping this bucket of water forever. I'm gonna have it framed.”

“Do you think it's going to get any easier if you don't practice? How many candles did you have to light before you could set a real blaze?”

“About fifty billion,” Stiles replies dryly.

“Well, you're going to have to fill and empty about fifty billion buckets before you can do a swimming pool, so...” Peter gestures to the bucket, looking a bit impatient. “Just concentrate and tap the emotions that correspond with water. You know what they are, and all you have to do is pull them out–”

Before Peter even finishes his statement, a sheet of water hits Derek in the face so hard it sends him back a step, spluttering and couching. He stands stock-still, hands out at his sides and shocked as water sluices down his body, creeping into every dry crease and crevice, until Derek is left just as soaking wet as Peter and Stiles.

“Oops.”

Though Derek can't see Stiles's face through the water he's blinking out of his eyes, he can hear the smirk. Derek sighs heavily and shakes his head hard back and forth, knowing he's just setting himself for some obnoxious dog joke as water droplets fly every which way. But none come, which forces his eyes open in surprise.

Peter is staring at Stiles with a look of smug satisfaction on his face, and Stiles is glaring back at Peter, already looking like he's finished with whatever completely unspoken conversation the two of them just had.

“Good lesson today,” Peter says, smiling. “So, let's review. For fire you need to call on..?”

“Anger, passion, or lust,” Stiles says, his tone a little suspicious. Derek frowns lightly as he wipes at his face, before pushing his fingers back through his hair and wicking the water out. He glances between the two of them, and now he's sure that he's missing something.

“And for water?” Peter asks, keeping his tone casual despite the little cant of his head speaking volumes. He's goading Stiles, and Stiles's glare suggests that he's absolutely aware of that fact. “Just say it, for god's sake. Say it and get it out there.”

“Sadness and love,” Stiles says, nearly interrupting Peter in his haste to spit out the words.

“Well, there you go,” Peter says, before both of them turn to look at Derek. Peter is smiling softly and Stiles looks like he's about to jump off the balcony. Derek thinks that if he does, he might just follow suit. He suddenly feels trapped because that's what this was; a trap. He leans back against the window and stares at Stiles, hating that there's all of this weight between them. Hating that he's the reason both grief and love occupy the same space in Stiles's mind. Hating himself because he knows, if he wasn't such a coward, this wouldn't be so hard.

“You know, wolves don't actually mate for life,” Peter drawls. “That's just a misconception.”

“Stay out of it, Peter,” Derek growls, before spinning on his heel and stomping back inside, squishing out a trail of water from his squelchy boots. He hears a heavy splash behind him, and Peter spluttering, as Stiles accuses him of being a dick. He smiles, and it's bittersweet, as Stiles follows him inside.

“So I go inside after Derek,” Stiles says, his voice low as he leans against Scott's locker, narrowed eyes darting around at various students as they move down the hallway. “And we argue for, like, five minutes about how it's a bad idea. I accuse him of being a scared little bunny with teeth to match, and he grabs me and eats my face.”

“What?!” Scott exclaims, slamming his locker shut and looking at Stiles in shock. It's everything Stiles can do not to lose it when Scott peers in closer, actually looking for teeth marks on his face.

“Not like–” Stiles starts, waving his hands over his face, before curling his fingers into the mimic of claws and baring his teeth, pretend-growling. “Not like that, dumbass. Because obviously–” He gestures pointedly at his still very intact face.

“Right,” Scott says, frowning lightly as his eyebrows come together. “Because... yeah. You're not faceless.”

“Yeah, so,” Stiles huffs and pushes out a breath through slightly puffed cheeks. “So, he–”

“He... really?” Scott cants his head and looks at Stiles in confusion. “But he told me–”

“Yeah, me too.” Stiles snorts. “He doesn't know what the hell he wants. But the kissing thing...” Stiles looks away from Scott and licks his lips, feeling himself blush a little against his will. “I don't know. It keeps happening.”

“So you're juggling Lydia and Derek,” Scott says, sounding both skeptical and in awe.

“No?” Stiles squints and looks back at Scott. “Yes? I have no idea? Paging the Jerry Springer show?”

“Dude, this is your life.” Scott laughs and slings an arm around Stiles's shoulders before tugging him down the hall toward their class. Stiles drops his head back and sighs dramatically, but they both know that this is one of those problems that's like having way too much pizza; it's not really that much of a problem.

“Have you ever looked around a room and thought, wow, I have had sex with every single person here?” Stiles asks, peering around at the three faces that turn toward him.

Lydia looks up from where she's seated at the far end of the table, working through equations with an almost offensive speed. This is extra credit, too, she explains. She's been finished with her homework and class work for a week. Derek is a few feet away on the couch, pretending to read a book, and Stiles and Peter are at the opposite end of the table, working on getting Stiles up to speed with the element of air.

Peter glances at Derek, who pulls a face at him before looking at Lydia. She smiles at Derek him in return, not even bothering to hide her interest as her eyes flick over his body and back up to his face. Derek has the good grace to look slightly surprised before tearing his eyes away and locking them back onto Stiles.

“No,” Derek says, clearing his throat softly.

“Mm-mm.” Lydia shakes her head through a coy smile.

“Once upon a time,” Peter adds, earning him eye-rolls from everyone in the room. “What? He asked.”

“Good,” Stiles mumbles. “Not just me, then.” He looks back down at the old book Peter has him reading out of today.

“Slut,” Lydia says, sing-songing playfully.

“Never in a million years did I ever think that word would be in the same paragraph with my name, let alone synonymous,” Stiles says with a self-effacing laugh.

“I wouldn't pin the scarlet letter on yourself just yet,” Peter says. “Hurry up and finish this and then we'll head out to the balcony.” He reaches over and taps a passage in the book with his index finger, indicating Stiles should concentrate there. There are feathers and little scraps of paper, and other various float-able things on the table, and Stiles has managed to get them all air-born at least once, but today Peter wants to work outside.

It's time to work with the natural elements; to see if Stiles can go bigger.

Half an hour later, Peter and Stiles are out on the balcony. Stiles is making tiny dust devils on the concrete floor while watching Derek and Lydia through the window out of the corner of his eye. He's trying to be subtle, but if there's one thing Stiles isn't, it's subtle. He's obviously trying to hear what Derek and Lydia are talking about, and Peter is smirking at him. Because he's always smirking.

“What's she saying to him?” Stiles mutters as softly as he can, hoping only Peter's ears will catch it.

“She's flirting with him,” Peter replies, lips tugging up into a strange little smile.

“What?!” Stiles hisses. “With Derek?” He spins toward Peter and knocks the old lore book off of the half-wall, barely even registering the quick movement as Peter lunges to grab it mid-fall before it crashes to the asphalt below.

“Yes, with Derek,” Peter says with a sigh, closing the book and setting it aside.

“I didn't think she was serious about being into him.” Stiles groans softly and drops to sit in his folding chair, mouth hanging open as he stares at Lydia and Derek through the window. “What's she saying?”

Peter rolls his eyes slightly and leans against the wall, elbows moving back to rest on it. “She's inviting him to her birthday party,” he says, before lifting his eyebrows and and smiling fondly. “Which, if you think about it, is now technically kind of my birthday, too.”

Stiles looks over at Peter and squints, his nose wrinkling up slightly. “Oh my god, it's only been a year since you zombied your way back?” he asks. “It feels like literally forever.”

“I've been told I can have a lasting effect on people.” Peter smiles brightly.

Stiles snorts and looks back at the pair inside, eyes narrowing again as he watches Lydia's mouth move. He watches the way she leans forward toward Derek, but keeps her shoulders back because she knows it shows off her 'assets'. The way she touches her hair with her fingertips, and makes sure to nibble her lower lip when he's talking to draw attention. Her legs are crossed toward him. Yeah, yeah, definite flirting going on.

“What the hell?” Stiles groans softly.

“Really?” Peter asks, blandly.

“What?”

The look Peter shoots him very clearly reads and you wanted to be a detective when you got older . “Lydia wants Derek,” Peter says as he sits in his own folding chair next to Stiles, leaning in to whisper conspiratorially. “Because you want Derek, and she will forever have that residual feeling inside of her from the transference. Derek wants Lydia for the same reason, but he's so used to fighting himself on every instinct that he's too shocked at his desires to respond to her like any grown man would. Which is positively.”

Stiles face-palms.

“Exactly,” Peter says, amused. “So, they want each other and aren't sure what to do about it, but Lydia's confidence is winning the day. So she's just going with it because flirting is fun, and Derek's trying to rationalize his attraction to two teenagers and failing miserably.” He chuckles.

“They want to bang each other because I want to bang them both,” Stiles says, bluntly. “And it's all stupid and confusing as hell.”

“Essentially.”

“Beacon Hills: The Reality Show,” Stiles says with a sigh, as he leans back and scrubs over his suddenly tired eyes with the heels of his hands.

Back inside, Lydia is conspiring and Derek is trying not to bemoan his existence.

“What are they saying?” Lydia whispers from where she and Derek are sitting inside. She leans forward toward Derek with a mischievous little grin on her face.

Derek cocks his head away from the window and rolls his eyes. “He's telling Stiles that you're flirting with me,” he says, trying hard not to sigh the words. “But he knows you're not.”

“If I thought it would actually get me anywhere, I would,” Lydia says. She leans back with a pointed look and a suggestive twist to her lips.

“He's just causing trouble.”

“Is it really trouble?”

“I just don't understand how this isn't weird for you,” Derek says, folding his arms and giving her a slightly challenging look. “It's weird as hell for me.”

“I never said it wasn't weird for me.” Lydia shrugs. “But we both know who's cooler under pressure, here.” She gestures vaguely between them with freshly-manicured fingers. “Besides, just think about it...” She lets her words trail off into what she hopes will be suggestive territory for Derek as she turns to peer out the window, giving Stiles a cute smile and a wave of her fingers. “Think about how fun it would be to be with him together.”

Derek pointedly swallows and looks anywhere except at Stiles.

“Fuck my life,” Stiles says through a smile that's all forced cheer as he returns Lydia's wave from where he's sitting out on the balcony.

“I say enjoy it while it lasts,” Peter says, nearly knocking Stiles half out of his chair with a heavy clasp to his shoulder. “There's nothing wrong with indulging. But that's for later, for now–”

“Yeah, yeah, I know,” Stiles cracks his knuckles and sucks in a deep breath, turning away from the window and setting his sights on a crumpled McDonald's bag, a half-crushed Pepsi can, and a single tennis shoe (it's always just one shoe) down in the parking lot. “I'm the last air-bender, or whatever.”

Stiles smiles when the bag, can, and shoe start to slowly move, all three of them forming a loose, slow circle before lifting off of the asphalt and swirling up into the small, weak whirlwind he makes. They're only up for a few seconds before flinging off into separate parts of the parking lot, but it's a good start.

Inside, Lydia smiles proudly as she watches Stiles, and doesn't need to turn to Derek to know the look on his face when she reaches over and plays her fingers over his. They twitch beneath her own, and she feels a fierce satisfaction well up inside when his fingers tangle with hers and squeeze.

Every bloody nose, migraine, and night of restless sleep is just another reminder of how much Stiles has left to learn. Every time he passes out, only to wake up some place he doesn't remember going to is another reminder of the control he has yet to cultivate. Every success is celebrated and every failure is dissected. Between school and learning the magic, Stiles is constantly exhausted. But it's the good kind of tired. It's satisfying.

By the time Peter leaves in April, Stiles is a master of two elements. He's still working on air and earth, but those will come with practice. Peter says he's ready. He's good enough to continue on his own.

“Fire and water are your bitch, young padawan,” Peter jokes as he packs up the car he'd purchased a month back. Everyone needs a car in L.A., he'd said. “Air and earth will take a bit more discipline, but I know you won't disappoint.” Stiles finds himself feeling strangely sentimental. He's actually going to miss Peter.

“Thanks, Peter,” Stiles says with a lopsided smile. He holds out his hand and Peter takes it, giving it a firm, respectful squeeze.

“My pleasure,” Peter says, giving Stiles a politely old-fashioned nod. “It's nice to know I'm leaving at least one legacy behind.” He glances pointedly up toward the concrete balcony where both Derek and Cora are standing, watching them. Cora looks a little sad, but Derek is stonewalling as usual.

“They'll come around.” Stiles shrugs. He doesn't know for sure, of course, but he's learned to be a little more idealistic these days.

“Allow me to impart to you some words of wisdom before I leave,” Peter says, glancing back to Stiles. "To quote the great philosopher, Stevie Wonder, 'When you believe in things that you don't understand, then you suffer'." He clasps Stiles on the shoulder and gives him a wink and a smile. “Don't hold back, Stiles. And don't let anyone else hold you back, either.”

It starts to rain a few minutes after Peter drives off. Stiles waits until enough water has collected in one of the potholes before swirling it up into a tiny, little water tornado and chucking it up at Derek's face. He's halfway to his Jeep, running and laughing, by the time Derek jumps down from the balcony and tackles him against the side of his car.

This is one of those romance movie moments, and Stiles couldn't have planned it any better if he'd had six months and a coffee shop to write in. Derek's hands are on his waist, curled into his wet hoodie and holding him pinned against the side of Roscoe. Stiles's hands are on Derek's arms, gripping firmly, as if he can't decide whether he wants to shove him away or pull him closer.

Derek shifts minutely closer, his eyes narrowing a bit as he peers at Stiles with amused suspicion. Stiles darts his tongue out over his own lower lip before smirking lightly. He scrunches his face a bit as rainwater drips into his eyes, but revels in the surge of warmth as Derek pushes Stiles's wet, matted hair back off of his forehead.

“Come on, kiss me in the rain,” Stiles says with a soft laugh. “It'll be all romantical. Lydia can film it and watch it seventeen times a day while sobbing into a pint of Ben and Jerry's.” He leans in and flicks his tongue out, catching a drop of water threatening on the tip of Derek's nose.

Derek grunts and presses his lips against Stiles's temple, his chest filling as he draws in his scent. Arms loop around respective waists, and the Jeep is now warm against Stiles's back. There's no kissing, but there's this, and this is definitely more than they had a month ago. It's progress.

“The smell of the sidewalk when it rains is one of my favorite things,” Stiles murmurs, his eyes falling shut. One of his fingers curls around Derek's beltloop and holds him, like he's worried Derek will walk away.

“Mine, too,” Derek murmurs into Stiles's hair, the corner of his mouth lifting in soft smile.

It's the end of May and school is over for the year.

There are new students at Beacon Hills high. A were-coyote and a kitsune. A few new werewolves who heard about the new alpha. Derek and Cora are still omega, but Scott never treats them like it. He's always patient and gracious with them, and they've softened as people. They've actually become people.

But people are fickle, Derek especially. His relationship with Stiles runs hot, hot, hot, then cool, then warm, and then cool again, but at least it's always consistently present. No one ever anticipated Derek being traditional, but no one expected him to bail, either. Least of all Stiles. So when Stiles starts talking about summer plans that include Derek, and Derek starts making excuses, that's when it all blows up. That's when the last two months of their tenuous relationship starts cracking around them. Stiles wants, but the more he wants, the more Derek pulls back.

Lydia sees it all because she's around for it all. She and Derek don't have an actual relationship between them, but neither one of them is ignorant of their mutual places in Stiles's life. She knows she holds the best friend with benefits card, and that Derek holds the hot and heavy, yet volatile lover card, but Lydia can't help wondering if what they're doing is unhealthy. Especially for Stiles.

But Lydia keeps quiet because it's all just surface stuff. None of it is really that important as long as nothing gets too serious. But then the day comes when Derek does the stupidest thing he can possibly do: he tells Stiles he's leaving. Again. That's when everything becomes incredibly important.

“Is this because of me?” Stiles yells, his voice echoing through the loft. It's definitely a lot more furnished than it was six months ago, but nothing will ever soften the vast, empty space. “Are you seriously running away from this again?”

“No,” Derek says with a heavy sigh. “Cora wants to go see Peter.”

“So go see Peter,” Stiles says, gesturing emphatically at Derek. “Take a week, two, whatever. But come back.”

Derek's face steels a bit, and Lydia wants nothing more than to walk over and slap him. She knows that expression. It's fear. It's weakness and fear. It doesn't suit him anymore and he wears it badly now.

“Stiles, this is– there's nothing–” Derek begins, but Stiles cuts him off.

“If you say there's nothing keeping you here, so help me I will set you on fire,” he spits. Derek actually has the good grace to take a step back, and Lydia smirks lightly.

“Stiles, we need to spend time with him,” Derek said firmly. “We need to reestablish ties. I know you want us to join Scott's pack, but it's not that simple.”

“Just give it a shot! How can you know if it's right for you or not when you won't even try?”

“I just know, okay?” Derek snaps. “It's not right for us. For me.”

Lydia sighs softly and lets her eyes fall shut. Her heart aches for Stiles; for both of them, because it's obvious that they're not really talking about the pack.

Stiles balls his hands into fists and shoves them under his armpits, angrily crossing his arms and glaring at Derek. Derek stares back, but he's at least not stupid enough to bait Stiles.

“Just tell me you don't want me and I will never bring it up again,” Stiles finally says, his voice a breaking whisper. “You don't have to leave. I'll stop.”

“It's not about that–”

“Just tell me the fucking truth!” he demands. “Stop being a selfish, cowardly dick and just say what you mean.”

Derek is quiet for a moment, and nothing he does can hide the emotions warring on his face. “Fine,” he says, resigned. “I don't want you.”

Stiles makes a frustrated sound. “You're such a bad liar.”

“Okay,” Derek says roughly. “I don't want this . I don't want to have to care about you. I don't want to have to worry about you more than anything or anyone else. I don't want to have to try , okay? It's just too much right now. I never should have–” He sucks in a sharp breath through his nostrils and paces away, and Lydia can tell he's trying really hard not to apologize. Not to take it all back.

They both go silent. Lydia watches them breathe, their chests rising and falling heavily, like they've both just run a marathon. She expects it must be difficult work, being a boy. Keeping so much inside. Keeping your words so careful. Maybe it just comes easier to her.

“Wow,” Stiles finally says tightly, his eyes latching to the floor next to Derek's feet. “Okay, I guess I did ask for the truth.”

“Go with Lydia,” Derek says quietly. “Be with her. You'll be happy.”

“Yeah, I know,” Stiles says curtly. When he raises his eyes there's a bit of a mean edge to them, to the set of his jaw and the lift of his chin. “I know we'll be happy. But you won't.”

“That's not your problem.”

Stiles scoffs and curls his lips, eyes narrowing. “You're such a fucking idiot, Derek.” He turns on his heel and stomps toward the door. “I'll be in the car, Lyds,” he calls over his shoulder, not sparing Derek a glance as he leaves.

“Well, then,” Lydia says lightly as she slowly gets to her feet. “That was all a bit dramatic.” Her expression isn't exactly apologetic, because she neither can nor will apologize for Stiles. But it's definitely sympathetic.

Derek grunts and pins her with a baleful glare.

“He's right, you know,” she says breezily, brushing her hair back over her shoulder with a pale hand. “You are a fucking idiot.”

“So I've been told.”

“Well, let me really drive the point home.” Lydia steps up, heels clipping on the floor before she stops less than a foot away from the glowering werewolf. “I know you're just scared.”

“And that's not a valid thing?”

“It's valid,” she says with a sigh. “But if you don't start trying to conquer the things that scare you, you're never going to learn how to live.”

“You don't know me well enough to–”

“Of course I do.” She says, patiently. “I know that the person you want us to see can be a real cold bastard.” She lifts a hand and presses it against his chest, over the warm skin that covers his beating heart. “Too bad your heart and your actions will always betray you.”

Derek deflates a bit, shoulders dropping slightly. He reaches up and grabs her by the wrist, and she's certain he's going to pull her hand away from his chest, but he doesn't. He just runs his hand over the back of hers and curls his fingers against her palm, giving it a brief squeeze. And then he pulls her hand away. Drops it away from him, like he doesn't deserve the touch.

“You suffer more than anyone I have ever known, and that's love,” Lydia says softly, in a tone she reserves only for the people she actually cares about. “You carry everything so deep inside of you, not because you're afraid that other people will see it, but because you're terrified that if you let it out, you'll lose it.”

Derek starts at that, giving Lydia a sharp look. “What do you mean?"

“You're afraid that if you share it, it'll go away,” she explains, telling him everything he already knows but is just afraid to admit. “You're afraid you'll lose your family, your childhood... the life you were promised but never got to have. You're scared you'll forget if you let yourself move on, but you won't. You have to live, Derek. You're not honoring the people you've lost by losing yourself.”

Derek says nothing. He moves and drops down onto the couch with a heavy exhale of breath, elbows resting on his knees as he squeezes his hands together. She knows she's right. He knows it. She doesn't have to crow or be smug or rub anything in; that's not what this is about. This is about shared experiences, shared knowledge. It's about Derek finally hearing the things he needs to hear.

“I'm not going to speak for Stiles,” Lydia continues, changing topics now that she's gotten her point across. “I'm just as selfish as you are, and I want him, too. But the difference between you and me is that I'm not scared anymore. You helped me to be brave, and you also showed me what it looks like to be too scared to live.”

“I can't give him what he wants,” Derek murmurs, staring at his hands. “Everyone I care about gets hurt and I can't do that to him. He just wants the idea of me.” He looks tired, broken. Lydia wants to go to him, but she can't. He has to be in pieces for a little while longer.

“You can't lie to me, Derek,” she says, her voice gentle but firm. “We both know that you can give him exactly what he wants. You just don't want to try.” She drives that final point home.

Silence.

She steps over and stands next to the arm of the couch, giving him at least that little barrier between them. He hasn't yelled at her yet or shut her out. He hasn't devolved into sarcasm or told her to leave. He hasn't threatened her. She knows all of his tells, and he hasn't used a single one. Maybe she's getting through. The thought makes her smile. It's actually a little exciting.

“It's okay to care about him,” she says, reaching to rest a hand on his shoulder, her thumb caressing over the skin peeking out from his collar. “You care about all of us. If you didn't, you never would've come back.” She slips her fingers up slightly into his hair and isn't surprised when he turns to look up at her.

“I can't,” he says, quietly. “Lydia–”

“Not now, I know,” she concedes, curling her fingers out of his hair. “But you will one day, and I'm giving you permission to come to us when you're ready.” He shoots her a narrowed-eyed look, and she can tell this is ruffling his pride, but she doesn't let it stop her. “But I also want you to know that I'm going to take care of him until then, and while you have my blessing, the longer you wait, the less likely his will hold out.” She walks over to the table and picks up her purse, holding it demurely in front of her in both hands.

He stands and walks over to her, and she crooks a finger up at him as her eyes lift to his face. Bend down. Derek complies because he's weak right now and Lydia is strong, and it sends an inappropriately-timed thrill through her, so she kisses him. She acts on impulse and kisses him warm and soft and chaste on the lips, and she's shocked when it's returned.

His fingers catch at her soft curls the moment she starts to pull back, twisting them loosely as his mouth chases hers for another kiss. She's surprised by the action, but not surprised that he wants it. Because of Stiles, they've been dancing around each other for awhile, now. Maybe it's a little narcissistic, but Lydia's been waiting for Derek to give in.

“You know you'd never have anything to worry about with us,” Lydia says, her voice soft against his lips. “Nobody knows you better than I do, now. I could never hurt you.” She lifts a hand and presses it against his chest, curling her fingers lightly into his shirt when she feels his breath push out warm against her lips. She can feel his heart beating a bit quicker.

“I know,” he says, his voice rough. He moves his face to her hair and nuzzles a bit, before dropping to brush his nose and lips along her neck. She shivers out a breath at the feel of him inhaling deeply, taking in the smell of her. He's never done that to her before, and she thinks – she hopes – it means something.

“I know all the things that make you happy,” she continues, whispering gently as she lifts a hand and scratches lightly through the short hair at the back of his neck. “I know everything you're afraid of. Being with him, with us... it would be just as easy as breathing.”

He lifts his head and looks at her, and her lips part in a soft inhale as her heart starts to beat a little faster. She knows he can hear it. She hopes he can. The space between them suddenly seems vast, and feels cold and lonely as she holds his gaze, but then his eyes darken a bit. It's not out of pain or anger, though; it's not because of anything other than exactly what she wants him to feel.

Promise. Intimacy. Hope for something beautiful to come of all of this ugliness.

“Call him back,” Derek says.

Lydia smiles.

When Stiles walks back in he doesn't look happy. Lydia can't blame him, but she'd be lying to herself if Stiles, so passionately fuming, isn't one of the sexiest things she's ever seen.

“What?” Stiles asks in a flat tone as he looks between Lydia and Derek.

Derek turns slowly to regard him, just as Lydia walks to the base of the steps and holds a hand up to Stiles. “Can you come in here for a minute?” she asks as he takes her hand. “Derek has something he wants to tell you.” Stiles steps down slowly, his eyes narrowing a bit at Derek. He doesn't let go of Lydia's hand.

“Well?” Stiles asks, trying to keep the sullen out of his voice. It doesn't work.

Derek wipes his hands on his thighs before folding his arms over his chest. Lydia tilts her head and cocks an eyebrow. He frowns and drops his arms, his hands unconsciously slipping into the pockets of his jeans. She tuts softly, and he rolls his eyes because body language is apparently important to her. He pulls his hands out and drops them to his sides with a resigned sigh.

Stiles furrows his eyebrows and looks between the two of them. “What is this?” he asks, gesturing. “Awkward werewolf charades?”

“Nothing,” Derek huffs, crossing the distance between them and stepping up to Stiles. “I'm sorry, okay?”

Stiles's eyes widen for a split second. He glances at Lydia before looking back to Derek, eyes narrowing again. “For what?” he asks, a bit of a challenge in his tone.

Derek leans back slightly, also glancing briefly at Lydia. She snorts a soft laugh at them both. “What do you mean, for what?” Derek asks, looking back at Stiles. “For all of this. For... everything.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and sighs. “You have no idea why I'm angry, do you? You just know that I am, and Lydia lectured you for it and made you apologize. This is bullshit. I'm not twelve.” He glares lightly at Lydia. “I don't need you to make him say he's sorry.”

“Stiles, stop being an ass,” Lydia snaps. “Derek, just tell him what you told me. You're not going to get struck by lightning by being honest about your emotions for once in your life. God, men are such babies.”

“Wait, you talked to her?” Stiles asks, his expression one of shocked offense. “You talked to her but you can't talk to me?”

“I didn't tell her anything she didn't already know.” Derek glowers.

“How the hell does she–” He cuts himself off and turns to Lydia, wearing way too many emotions on his face. “How the hell do you know things? What kind of things? Is this because of the demon?”

“Stiles, calm down or you're going to give yourself a nosebleed,” Lydia says. “Or explode all of the light-bulbs.” She grabs him by the wrist and tugs him over to sit on the couch, before looking at Derek and pointing to the spot right next to Stiles.

“I don't want to sit,” Derek says, smiling blandly.

“Why not?” Lydia asks as Stiles glares at him, sagging back against the cushions. “Because I told you to or because it's next to Stiles?”

Derek doesn't reply. He just tilts his head and scowls.

“Sit,” she says again. “You're the one that asked me to call him back.”

“You did?” Stiles asks Derek, scrunching his forehead up a bit.

Derek finally sits, reluctantly. “Yeah,” he admits with a sigh. “Look, I'm sorry for being harsh, and I'm sorry for lying.” The hope that lights Stiles's features is almost too much for Derek. He has to bite his tongue not to squash it down. “But that doesn't change anything,” he says hastily. “I still can't–”

“You mean 'won't',” Lydia correctly gently. They both turn to look at her as she seats herself primly on the arm of the couch, right next to Stiles. “Two completely different words that mean vastly different things.”

“Are you scared?” Stiles asks, doubt and confusion coloring his voice.

The look Derek shoots Stiles is suspicious at best. Lydia lifts her eyebrows and leans back a bit, as if waiting for the blow out. The silence lingers on for just a little longer than comfortable, and it's not until Stiles glances away and squirms a bit that Derek speaks.

“Aren't you?” he says quietly.

“I'm scared of a lot of things,” Stiles says. He turns back to Derek, his expression neutral, which is the best he can do to keep his composure. “But you know me well enough to know that being scared has never held me back.” He laughs weakly. “I have a really bad habit of mocking and laughing in the face of danger. Self-preservation through defiant sarcasm.”

“Yeah,” Derek murmurs. He licks his lips and threads his fingers together, keeping his hands still as his eyes drop to Stiles's lips.

“If Lydia's right, which she usually is,” Stiles says with a little smile and a glance at Lydia, before turning back to Derek. “Then you know exactly how I feel. You know everything. So why are you scared?”

“Because I know how you feel,” Derek finally admits, his voice a little gruff as he looks down at his hands. “And I know how you'd feel if this got all fucked up, which is what's likely to happen with me involved.” He frowns softly.

“Kate used you,” Lydia says with an edge of impatience. “And what happened with Paige was a terrible accident. Neither of those was your fault. You have to stop using them as an excuse, Derek.”

“And the stuff that happened because of the demon wasn't anyone's fault,” Stiles says. He sucks in a deep breath and pushes it out through puffed-out cheeks. “Besides, how many times do I have to tell you that it wasn't as bad as you want to make it out to be?” he laughs nervously.

Derek winces softly and scrunches up his face before grabbing Stiles's hand. With a soft, frustrated sound he curls his hand around it and brings it to his mouth, resting his lips against it. Not quite a kiss, but something. An apology, maybe. Another one.

“I know I act idealistic,” Stiles admits, honestly. “But, I mean...” he sighs and reaches up, hesitating a bit before resting his hand on the back of Derek's neck, rubbing his thumb over the soft hair at his nape. “Realistically, I know you and Cora have to go for awhile. So, can we just have, you know, right now?”

“You really want this?” Derek murmurs against Stiles's hand, his forehead creasing. “Even though–”

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, his cheeks coloring a bit. “Yeah , I mean. I do. You know I do...” He tries and fails to hide a silly grin.

“Even though I'm leaving?”

“I'd rather have orgasm memories than memories of me electrocuting you and throwing you out the window you just got fixed,” Stiles says with a forced chuckle. Derek snorts.

“You're an idiot,” Derek mutters through a little smile, shaking his head.

“Takes one to know one,” Stiles says. He smirks triumphantly.

“You're both morons,” Lydia says with a satisfied sigh. “Now just kiss already.” She stands and reaches up to smooth her hair, trying to act nonchalant, but the sparkle in her eyes gives her away.

Derek tugs at Stiles's hand and pulls him in closer, the side of his mouth quirking up as Stiles's hand curls tight around the back of his neck. Derek's hand moves up to palm around the side of Stiles's neck, before playfully pinching his earlobe. Stiles laughs softly and grins against Derek's mouth, before parting his lips and pressing the kiss deeper.

Stiles is eager and greedy, and Derek's confidence is climbing back quickly. Watching the two of them makes Lydia's insides flutter and her skin heat, and she's not sure if it's merely lust or maybe a little jealousy. It's okay; she stokes the fires of both. She glances away feeling a little flushed and kind of guilty, but a hand clasping firmly around her wrist brings her back. She looks down in surprise, and then to the owner of the hand. Derek.

“You, too,” he murmurs, peering up at her from under thick, dark eyebrows.

Lydia's own eyebrows lift as silent communication passes between her and Derek, and she turns to address the other occupant of the couch. “Stiles?” she says, her voice cautiously optimistic as she looks at him. She doesn't want to spook him.

Stiles is trying not to look as shocked as he most likely feels, though both his eyes and mouth are wide open. She can feel her heart thudding faster at the possibility of this happening, and the stroke of Derek's thumb over her pulse-point isn't doing anything to help her keep her cool.

“Uhhh,” Stiles utters, his eyes dropping to blatantly travel the length of her body from toes to head. He's greeted with a perfectly-manicured hand smacking him on the forehead for his troubles. “Ow, Jesus, Lydia...” he complains, rubbing at the spot she smacked.

“Don't turn into a pig on me now, Stilinski,” she says fondly. “It's nothing you haven't seen before.” Derek snorts and gently tugs her in. He gets up from the couch and hauls Stiles up by the arm, effectively shaking him out of his brief Lydia-induced reverie.

“Oh my god,” Stiles says weakly. “Is this real life?”

Lydia and Derek exchange amused looks.

“Sorry, I just... I used to have fantasies that started out just like this,” Stiles continues, even as Derek moves behind him and urges his arms up so he can tug off Stiles's shirt.

“We know, sweetie,” Lydia says with a little grin. “Trust me, we know it all.” Derek hums in confirmation as he nuzzles into the back of Stiles's neck, lips dragging over the skin as he breathes in Stiles's scent.

“That's very alarming,” Stiles says distractedly, his lips parting in a soft exhale as Lydia goes for his belt. “Um... I'm sorry for objectifying you guys in my dark and dirty mind place?”

“Not really offended,” Derek murmurs, and Lydia just shakes her head with a little hum in agreement. Derek slips a hand up to curl lightly around the front of Stiles's throat just as Lydia takes Stiles's jeans down. He tips Stiles's head back and gives his throat a bit of a squeeze, and Lydia shivers a bit in excitement at the sound Stiles makes when Derek's lips press an open kiss to the skin behind his ear.

“We should move this some place more horizontal before he falls over,” Lydia says as she leans in against Stiles, her hands running over his naked torso. He groans, grabbing at her waist as he sags back against Derek, and Lydia laughs in delight. Stiles has no willpower at all when it comes to sex, and she finds it absolutely charming.

“Couch or bed?” Derek asks, his voice muffled because he refuses to pull his mouth away from Stiles's throat. The blissful look on Stiles's face tells Lydia that he's not really going to be complaining any time soon.

“Bed,” Lydia replies, delighted with the sharp intake of breath she pulls from Stiles just by covering the front of his tenting boxers with her small hand. “But I have caveat before we start this little encounter.”

Stiles groans playfully as he reaches down to cover her hand with his, squeezing her grip tighter so she can feel him hardening beneath her hand. “Lyds, don't use big words while we're getting sexy,” he jokingly complains. “You know I get embarrassing grammar boners.”

She leans in and presses a kiss to his chin, peering up at him with mischievous eyes. “I know,” she whispers.

Derek huffs a laugh and peers down at her over Stiles's shoulder, his hand finally releasing its grip on his throat. “What's your caveat?” he asks, his voice a little rough with arousal.

“You have to be the meat,” Lydia states, lifting her eyes to stare directly at Derek.

Derek blinks and tips his head back a bit, peering down at Lydia, as if trying to determine whether or not she's joking. Stiles sucks in a breath and holds it, chancing a glance behind him at Derek. They meet each others' eyes and Lydia can't help a delighted giggle, because she knows exactly what that look means.

Never in a million years did either one of them think that Stiles would be the one fucking Derek. It's a good thing they have her there to fix all of their problems, Lydia thinks.

If anyone had asked Stiles this morning what he'd be doing tonight, he's about five-thousand percent sure his answer would never in his wildest dreams have been having a threesome with Lydia and Derek. And yet here he is, doing just that.

He never thought he'd be okay with the idea of Derek fucking Lydia. Not in real life, anyway. He never thought he'd see Derek's hands wrapping around her pretty, pale thighs and pushing them apart. His fingers indenting her skin as he holds her spread open. Stiles's skin flushes as he watches Lydia's hands sink into Derek's hair, the heel of one of her feet trailing up along his incredibly well-muscled back, before he grabs her leg and pushes it up and back.

Stiles is standing by the foot of the bed when Derek gets his mouth on Lydia for the first time. He's got a bottle of lube clutched limply in one hand, and his mouth is slack. He's pretty sure his eyes glaze over as he watches the mind-numbingly hot tableau before him. Derek licks along the crease between Lydia's thigh and pelvis, before latching his mouth to the skin and sucking at it, worrying it with lips and teeth.

Stiles can barely hear the drag of her nails over his scalp as she tugs at his hair and squirms beneath him, trying to get him to move his mouth just an inch to her cunt. She's wet and slick, and the impatient whines catching in her throat are sounds Stiles's knows pretty well. He certainly isn't well enough acquainted enough with them that they don't shoot straight to his dick, leaving him breathing heavy and palming over his own cock.

And then there it is. The high keen of her pleasure as she throws her head back against the pillow and tries to buck her hips against his mouth. He holds her fast, and it's so fucking hot watching Derek command over Lydia the way he is. He moves powerfully, deliberately; like he knows exactly what he wants, and how best to make it exactly what she wants.

Stiles catches a glimpse of his lips as he pulls away from her briefly, tonguing over his lower lip before pushing his mouth back against her. His fingers catch her slick folds and hold her apart, thumb circling and teasing at her clit as he tongues deep inside of her. She practically howls when he finally drags his tongue up along the length of her cunt, covering over the erect bundle of nerves and sucking firmly.

Stiles burns with a brief, sharp possessive jealousy. It tugs the corner of his mouth up into a quick smile. He doesn't know why he likes it, but it makes his dick rock hard. Like he has something to prove now, and he fucking plans to.

It's then that Stiles fully registers the fact that Derek's been on his knees this entire time, perfect ass up in the air. He tilts his head and goes slightly slack-jawed as his eyes land on it, trailing down over firm thighs, tight sac, and nicely thick, hard cock. It's blushed a deep, dusty pink, in nice contrast with Derek's perpetual pallor. He feels a hot twist in his gut as it occurs to him just how much he wants to suck Derek's dick.

Stiles exhales a softly shuddering breath and forces himself to get his hand off his own dick. Because there are other people here, right now, who want to touch his dick. And that's incredibly awesome.

He tosses the bottle of lube onto the bed and gets a knee on, feeling the mattress sink beneath his weight just as Lydia comes a second time. He drops a hand to rest on Derek's lower back, letting out a soft groan as he watches her tremble and whimper beneath Derek's mouth. Feeling the bed shaking slightly.

The smell of her is thick in the air and it's making Stiles want.

He crawls up to where Derek and Lydia are joined and curls a hand around the back of Derek's neck, coaxing his head up so he can get his mouth on Derek's. He's desperate for the taste of both of them, and this seems like the best way to get it. Stiles groans at the heady taste of Lydia on Derek's tongue, at the way she sticks stubbornly to his lips. He laps at Derek's tongue and feels their teeth nearly clack as Derek suddenly pushes the kiss deeper with a hungry sound.

Stiles can feel Lydia squirming lightly, still too blissed-out by her orgasms to be annoyed by their neglect of her. But Stiles wants more, so with a reluctant sound he breaks the kiss. He knows his eyes are bright and dark, pupils blown and lips swollen as he looks down at her. She looks fucking gorgeous like this; skin flushed and sheening, her hair a tangled spill of red on Derek's dark sheets. Her breasts look incredibly soft and inviting, and he can't help himself as he moves to nuzzle at one of them, catching a pert nipple between his lips. He works over it with the tip of his tongue, and the sound of her mewling has his dick aching.

“Stiles,” she gasps softly. “Can you do that thing..?” She reaches a hand up to thread fingers through his hair, sending warm, shivery chills over his skin. With a playful whine he pulls his mouth away from her moist skin, reluctantly leaving her nipple with one last drag of his tongue.

He reaches down and lays a slender hand on her stomach, smiling as she covers it with her own. Her skin begins to glow faintly, and with a shiver she glances down, her eyes widening a bit. She gasps and grabs handfuls of the sheets beneath her as she leans up, staring with wide eyes. “God, that never stops feeling so weird,” she admits in a rush of words, before falling back down with a weak giggle.

As soon as the glow fades Stiles lets his hand fall away, moving it back to rest on her thigh, stroking softly over her warm, smooth skin.

Derek frowns softly and gives them both a confused look. “Magic birth-control,” Stiles murmurs with a lazy smile. “No babies, yay.” Derek hums in understanding, his eyes lidding as he leans in to mouth hot over Stiles's throat and down along his shoulder.

“Yay,” Lydia echoes with a grin, and they both sound drunk. Drunk on sex, drunk on each other, drunk on Derek. “I need a few, you two,” she says before dramatically dropping her head back on the pillow and lifting both of her small feet, planting one on each of them and playfully kicking them away from her. “Go play with each other so I can watch,” she laughs.

Derek's smile is practically feral as he turns predatory eyes on Stiles. “I think we can manage that,” he murmurs, not wasting any time in reaching for him, but Stiles has other plans.

“I don't think so, big guy,” he says with a smirk. “There's something I've been wanting to do for a really long time.” With a sudden tug Derek is sprawled out on his back. Stiles is on his knees between muscular legs, smirking, with both of Derek's ankles in his hands.

“You think I don't know that?” Derek teases, his eyes sparking playfully. Derek's eyes are locked onto Stiles's, but instead of embarrassing him like he assumes that sort of look would have done in the past, it just encourages him now.

“You're an ass,” Stiles says with a perfectly pleasant smile before dropping his mouth and licking a slow, hot stripe along the underside of Derek's cock. Derek hisses and bends one leg at the knee, digging his heel into the bed. Stiles supposes that he needs to at least have the threat of bucking Stiles off of him to feel comfortable. It all just makes him grin, anyway.

Stiles palms over Derek's cock before wrapping a hand around it, taking a moment to appreciate the way it fits in his hand. The way the hot, taut skin slides against his palm and blood pulses just beneath. He strokes slowly along the shaft, watching the blushed head disappear and reappear under Derek's foreskin. He didn't even realize Derek was uncircumcised until now. There hadn't really been time for leisurely exploration in the past.

His mind goes back to a confused and foggy place where he remembers Peter's dick, but he shakes that off quickly. Bad place, bad time.

“Stiles.” Derek's voice is rough and tight with need, and it snaps him out of his reverie. “Come on.” He blinks, suddenly quite aware of his face full of dick. He pushes up to one elbow and notices that he's laying on his stomach, stretched out between Derek's legs, and basically jerking him off so slowly he's surprised Derek hasn't punched him yet.

“Sorry,” Stiles says with a breathy laugh as he settles his hand around the base with a firm squeeze. “Got lost in the moment.” Before Derek can make some smartass retort, Stiles fits his mouth around the swollen head and sucks gently, pressing his tongue against the sensitive ridge just beneath. A triumphant heat twists in his chest as Derek drops his head back with a grunt. He can feel Derek's muscles tighten as he forcibly restrains himself from bucking his hips up.

This is the first time Stiles has ever sucked a dick, and he has to admit that he likes it a lot more than he thought he would. He's very well-acquainted with his own equipment, and he's even tasted his own come before out of curiosity, but that was downright unpleasant compared to this experience. Derek smells so deliciously male and tastes like musk on his tongue. The heat and hard thickness of his cock just begs to be licked, sucked, and fucking worshiped.

Stiles lifts his eyes along the length of Derek's body as he slowly slides his mouth along the shaft, cheeks hollowing and lips tight to keep suction. A hot shiver crawls his skin as he watches Derek's hands fisting the sheets, and the stutter of his breath with each tense and release of his stomach. The way his throat works as he tries to swallow the soft, growly sounds in his throat has Stiles's dick aching in response.

He sinks his mouth down as far as he can on Derek's cock, choking softly as he gets used to the feel of having something filling his mouth this wide; something brushing the back of his throat. He shuffles up to his knees, desperate to get a hand on himself, but the moment he lifts his hips off the bed someone else beats him to it.

The sound he makes around Derek's cock would probably be indecent even in a porno, and it elicits a similar response in Derek, who groans almost pleadingly. Stiles is almost too distracted by Lydia's hand squeezing around his dick to feel the way Derek's balls tighten up against his chin.

“Stiles,” Lydia murmurs, her other hand moving to scratch up into his hair, gently urging him up. “He's close. You need to get off of him.” She grins softly. With a pouty sound, Stiles slowly pulls his mouth off, sucking firmly along Derek's length as if sullenly punishing Derek for Lydia's actions.

“Fucking... christ...” Derek gasps hotly as soon as he's free of Stiles's mouth. “You've got to be fucking kidding me.” His eyes are blown and his body is tense and flushed, and the way he stares wildly between his own spit-slicked cock and Stiles's equally shiny, swollen mouth is almost more than Stiles can take. His own predatory instinct is kicking in and Lydia has about ten seconds to do something before Stiles crawls back on Derek.

“You,” Lydia says, reaching out to lightly smack Derek on the thigh. “Need to fuck me, like, yesterday . And you,” she says, shoving playfully at Stiles's hip to get his attention. “Need to fuck him about a thousand years ago.”

“True fucking words,” Stiles breathes, nodding slowly as he holds out a hand to Derek, helping him up to sit. He leans in to kiss Derek full on the mouth, tongue snaking between his lips, making sure Derek can taste himself before Stiles pulls back. “Back or knees?” he whispers, deliberately brushing his lips against Derek's as he speaks. It always looks so fucking sexy when people do it in movies, and as Stiles comes to find out, that's because it is.

Derek wraps an arm around Stiles's waist and drags him in close, giving a quick nip to his slender neck before darting his eyes to Lydia who's crawling over. “Your call,” he says to her, curling her up in his other arm and grinning softly as she gifts him with a delicate peck on the lips.

“Back,” she states without hesitation. “Stiles knows I like to be on top.” She glances down between them and curls her hands around both of their cocks, giving them both a squeeze before slowly stroking her small hands along both of their shafts. Her lips curve up with smug satisfaction as she's rewarded with simultaneous groans. Derek presses his face into her hair and stutters his hips a bit, pushing through her hand, but Stiles reaches down to cover her hand with his, forcing her to stop with a feeble sound.

“Lyds, you're a fucking awful person,” he whispers fondly, leaning in to steal a kiss form her full, pouting lips.

“Love you, too,” she says with a laugh before kindly releasing them both.

Stiles smiles as he shifts, helping Derek to his back and Lydia on top of him. But he can't stop thinking about the word 'love', and how maybe, just maybe, that could be a thing, here.

Derek can safely say that under no circumstances before this one has he ever wanted to be fucked in the ass. He can safely say that right now he's still filled with a little bit of doubt about being fucked in the ass. He didn't lie to Stiles six months ago when he said he wasn't gay. He's not. But there's obviously something here between him and Stiles, and Derek wants to give this to him. To them both.

Having Lydia on top of him is certainly a good distraction. She's gorgeous, sexy, and a little dirty. He likes that. She's firm in the right places and soft where she's supposed to be. She's hot and tastes amazing and responds like she was built for this. Every single one of his instincts is honed in on claiming them both, but for now he'll gladly take Lydia while Stiles lets his instincts out to play.

“I know what you're thinking,” Lydia coos. “And I really like it.” She grinds her wet cunt down against his aching cock, pulling a hissing breath from him as he grabs at her hips.

“You have the advantage, here,” he admits, glancing past her at Stiles who's just finished arranging the pillow beneath his hips and his legs around Stiles's waist. He digs his knees into Stiles's ribs and smirks as it earns him a playful glare.

“Mm,” Lydia hums, scraping her teeth along her lower lip. “I like the sound of that.” She leans down, her body prone as she presses her front fully against his, plush heavy breasts and rock hard nipples rubbing against his chest.

“Guys, I am so ready to do this,” Stiles murmurs from behind Lydia, one hand smoothing along Derek's thigh as he steps in close. Derek tenses slightly as he feels a warm, slick finger slide along the cleft of his ass. He sucks in a breath and holds it for a moment, feeling a bit of anxiety creep in, but the faint taste of Lydia's lip gloss chases it away as she presses her lips to his to distract.

Stiles pushes two fingers carefully inside of him, and he groans softly as the feeling of being filled goes straight to his head, making him heady. His hands run firmly up along the length of Lydia's back before curling around her shoulders and pushing her down firmly on his cock again. She gasps softly as his cock nudges up between her slick folds, squirming happily as she rocks down again, grinding her clit against his hardness.

“I loved making you come,” he murmurs lowly against her lips, before dropping his face to nose along her throat, drawing in her scent.

“I can't wait to return the favor,” Lydia breathes, her eyes nearly shut as she rocks slowly on top of him, all dripping and perfect. He can feel how much she wants him inside of her; how hot and wet she is for him. His instincts flare up again and he swallows down a growl, landing his hands back on her hips and squeezing firmly.

His toes curl in tight as Stiles works fingers inside of him a few times, amazed with how quickly his body responds. With Lydia on top of him he relaxes quickly, and in no time Stiles presses in a third, earning a tight groan from Derek.

“You like that?” Stiles murmurs, his voice thick and smooth. Derek can only imagine how hard Stiles must be right now; how heavy his dick is. He can smell how hungry Stiles is for him, and it's all he can do not to tell Stiles to just say fuck foreplay. It's not like Derek needs it, anyway.

So, fuck it. He does.

“I want more,” he growls softly, teeth clenching as he struggles to hold his composure. “Now, Stiles. I don't need fingers.”

He digs his heels into Stiles's back and pulls him in, while at the same time gently shifting Lydia back until she slides easily onto his cock. She's so wet and swollen that she takes him easily, and it's been so long for him that he actually has to squeeze his eyes shut against the intense wave of pleasure that practically slaps him across the face.

“Oh, god ,” Lydia gasps as she rocks on top of him, trying to make him comfortable inside of her. Her hands push at his chest as she supports her weight, knees digging into the mattress on either side of his hips as he rocks shallowly up into her, gasping softly as Stiles's fingers drag out of him. He can hear Stiles's breathing; it's ragged and his heart is pounding and it's fucking perfect.

He doesn't know if it's timing or just a coincidence, but it's not until Lydia's slowly fucking down on him that Stiles presses the blunt head of his cock against his hole. He tenses a bit and clenches his jaw, vaguely worried that he might be bruising Lydia's hips with all the squeezing, but he needs her to stop for just a moment. He wants to feel this. He doesn't want distraction.

“Come here,” he whispers, slipping a hand up along Lydia's side and cupping a breast. He thumbs over her nipple and she whines softly, but doesn't hesitate to drape herself over him. Her hands comb through his hair and lips drop kisses on his throat. He lifts his head just enough to make eye contact with Stiles, mentally giving him the go ahead just as he feels the hot sear of being stretched.

It's not nearly as bad as he thought it was going to be, and whether that's because he's a werewolf or because he's so fucking riled up right now, he supposes it doesn't matter. All that matters is the feel of Stiles pushing slowly inside of him, and Lydia clenching around him as she tries not to squirm.

“Oh fucking fuck ,” Stiles gasps, gripping at Derek's thighs like they're a lifeline. “Fucking... what the fuck are you that you feel so good?” Lydia giggles softly and Derek grins weakly as he watches Stiles's eyes practically roll back into his head. It's a feeling Derek knows all too well, sinking into that tight heat. It's definitely very different from the one that's currently wrapped around his aching cock.

There's a soft smack and Lydia starts slightly, lifting her head and glancing back with a grin. “Did you just smack my ass?” she asks Stiles.

“Not intentionally,” Stiles says through his teeth. “Just sort of trying to keep from falling over.” He doesn't move his hand though, just squeezes a handful of Lydia's pert little ass, before giving it another weak, playful smack. “There. You bad, bad girl,” he jokes.

Derek snorts softly at the two of them and shifts beneath her, trying to make himself more comfortable as Stiles finally pushes himself in fully. He tries to force his ragged breathing more steady so he can relax, but his heart is pounding like crazy and his skin is pricking with sweat and his entire world is focused on his lower half right now. Because fuck.

Lydia hums and wriggles her ass a bit, which in turn has Derek just about done with life. His own eyes roll back against his volition, and the sound that comes out of him is embarrassingly throaty. His ass is filled and his cock is wet, and he thinks he might die or explode into a rage if someone doesn't start moving, soon.

“You two are going to kill me,” he whispers harshly. A tight, needy sound wells up in his throat as he shifts beneath them, more or less at their mercy.

“No way,” Stiles groans, running his other hand heavily along Derek's thigh and and over the sharp edge of his hipbone. “If you die then we can't do this again.” He leans over and rubs his cheek along Lydia's spine, pulling a coy giggle out of her when he playfully licks.

“Agreed,” Lydia murmurs. “No one gets to die today.” She leaves Derek's neck cool with her saliva as she slowly pushes herself back up, turning to catch Stiles's lips in a kiss as she sinks back down on Derek's cock.

The first time Stiles rocks his hips and thrusts in fully, Derek lets out an alarmingly loud groan. Lydia grins ferally and takes that as a sign to starting fucking down on him, sending his body and head to places he didn't even know existed. The next few minutes are a mess of sensation. Of bodies rutting against each other, mindlessly seeking pleasure. Smells and sounds Derek's never been privy to. It's a perfect fucking storm.

Lydia's teeth digging into his lower lip is the only thing that keeps Derek from coming first. He's tense and shaking a bit, sucking in breath after shuddering breath. Each time Stiles thrusts into him he feels a shivery spark of intense pleasure as the head of Stiles's cock drags along his prostate.

Lydia's riding him to get herself off, hissing in shallow breaths through bared teeth. Her hair drapes in scraggles of red over her breasts, which are practically hypnotic as they bounce against her small frame. She grabs his hand and presses it against her hot core, whining with need as his fingers slip between her folds.

He throws his concentration into making her come again. He thumbs over her clit, pressing and rubbing circles over the small, hard nubbin, thrilled to the bones as she starts shaking on top of him. He can hear Stiles's breath laboring, feel the tenseness in his frame as he digs his fingers into Derek's hip and thigh. Stiles's thrusts are erratic, heavy, and hard, and Derek can smell his orgasm cresting.

He can barely manage the words, but he needs to fucking say them. He needs to be in control of something right now.

“Stiles, I want you to fucking come for me,” he growls, darting his eyes between both of their faces as he pants heavy breaths. His hips bucks as much as they can, being pinned from both sides. He pushes against Stiles, takes his cock hard, and thrusts up into Lydia, feeling her getting even wetter, slicker, around him. “Lydia, now . I need you to come now.”

Stiles is the first to surrender. With a few jerky thrusts he finally slams balls-deep into Derek, uttering a sound like he's about to collapse. He reaches out to grab a handful of Lydia's hip before keeling over forward and dropping his head against her back. His cock throbs inside of Derek, and he can feel himself being filled with Stiles's come, and fuck. Just fuck.

Lydia shudders and trembles, tensing around Derek's cock and grinding against his thumb like getting off is literally the only thing that matters to her in the entire world right now. Good. That's exactly what he wants. He can't imagine anything better than that. She cries out when she comes, practically throwing his hand away from her sensitive parts. He reaches up and grabs one of her shoulders, easing her down against his chest as he continues to thrust hard up into her well-used body.

One, two, three more thrusts and Derek's coming hard. Harder than he ever has before. The smell of his release mixing with Lydia's, and the smell of Stiles leaking out of his ass as he pulls out is almost too much for Derek. His head spins and he's exhausted. Satisfied and content like he's never been before. Bone fucking tired and so, so glad for it.

They pile in the bed next to each other with Lydia in the middle, hands touching and arms out-stretched. There's probably sleep on and off, or maybe they're all just too dazed and sex-drunk to realize that they're just zoning out, but regardless. It's good. A break from life for a few hours.

He strips the bed some time during the night but doesn't let either of them shower. He likes the smell of them all mixed together too much to scrub it clean just yet.

It's not until Cora comes home around ten in the morning, complaining that it smells like the docks at low tide, that the three of them finally untangle and reluctantly start putting themselves back together again.

Two days later Derek and Cora finally decide to leave.

Stiles hangs back as they pack up the Toyota, because he doesn't want anyone to see how upset he is. He doesn't understand why this is happening. The hot and cold. He doesn't understand how people can be so okay with just drifting away. Rushing out into the unknown. He doesn't think he'll ever understand why someone can be so adamantly against being loved.

He thinks maybe it's for the best. Maybe Derek should leave, because maybe Stiles shouldn't be with someone he'll never be able to truly understand.

“You gonna say goodbye?” Scott says softly, his shadow spilling over Stiles. Stiles is crouched on the curb, dropping dry, dead leaves into the gutter and watching them sail off on adventures without him.

“Nope,” Stiles mutters as he drops down to sit properly on his ass, long legs sprawling out into the street. “I don't want him to have the satisfaction of closure.”

“Stiles, come on,” Lydia sighs, stepping up on his other side. She smells safe, and for some reason that just makes him even more upset.

“No,” Stiles snaps a little more bitterly than he'd intended. “If he leaves feeling guilty... then maybe he'll come back.”

Lydia exchanges glances with Scott, who sighs and crouches down next to Stiles. “You know they can hear you, man,” he says quietly.

“Yep,” Stiles confirms tersely. He says no more than that, just lifts his foot and crushes one of the little leaf boats with the heel of his black Converse One-Star.

Scott frowns and lifts a hand to rub at Stiles's back, between his shoulder-blades, but neither him or Lydia press the issue any more.

“You're making a mistake, dumbass,” Cora chides as she pushes at Derek's duffel, trying to keep it from falling out of the back of the car just long enough for Derek to close the hatch. She's a little confused as to when he got so much stuff, but thinks maybe being around cute people you want to sleep with might make anyone more fashion-conscious.

Derek grunts and doesn't even try to hide the fact that his gaze keeps lingering on Stiles and Lydia. He sighs heavily and pushes down the heavy door, their timing perfect as Cora snatches her hands away. Nothing falls out.

“I can go to L.A. on my own,” she says, looking at him pointedly.

“I want to go.”

“You mean you want to bail on them,” Cora smugly corrects. “Because you're a giant, scared baby-man.”

He shoots her a glare but doesn't argue.

“We're stopping by Bishop on the way down,” Cora continues lightly. “We're going to stay at Kimana's for a few days. I'm going to have a lot of sex with J.J.”

“Cora–” he protests, shooting her the patented older brother please-don't-make-me-murder-your-boyfriend look.

“What?” she shrugs. “I figure one of us should at least be being honest with the other.” She gets in the driver's side, shaking her head lightly as Derek gets into the passenger side right in after her. He doesn't even pretend to want to go over to Stiles, to try and smooth things over before he leaves, even though every single person here knows that's all either of them wants to do.

“You're a lot of things, Derek,” Cora says as she turns on the car. “But you're not stupid.”

“Just shut up and drive.”

It's not until they hit the highway out of town, that same highway Derek and Stiles spent so much time on over the past half a year, that Derek's stomach twists with regret. With sadness and loss. It's not until the bright green spring leaves rain down into the road and over the car that Derek knows Stiles is sad, too. That's he's finally saying goodbye, in his own way.

It's mid-summer when Stiles gets the first text.

The entire pack makes the four hour car ride out to the ocean, and Stiles's skin is a dangerous shade of pink. They've been here a few hours, and while the sun is big and warm, the air is still cool. The sand is uncomfortable and he keeps crunching it between his teeth every time he eats something, but it's so worth it to see Lydia in that bikini.

He doesn't even check to see who it's from when his phone chimes, but the moment his eyes scan over the words, his mouth dries out. ‹ It's /because/ you saved me and I couldn't ruin that. I needed it and I was selfish. I don't expect you to understand or forgive me . ›

His stomach drops a bit, like he's ascending the first loop of a roller coaster. With a soft frown he texts back, ‹ Derek? › He's not surprised when there's no response. He doesn't tell anyone about the text. He selfishly guards it because he's afraid if he says it out loud then he won't get another one. Stiles has become a huge believer in superstition and karma over the past several months.

Four days later, another one comes from that same number. On the off chance Derek might call or text again, Stiles has it programmed into his phone as Shithead D. Because he's charming like that and it's no less than what Derek deserves.

He reads the first one. ‹ I wouldn't be able to forgive myself if I let my stupid bullshit ruin anything good that could have come out of everything that happened. › Then a second comes. ‹ Not martyring, just being honest. ›

A small flurry of butterflies swarm in Stiles's stomach as he replies. ‹ I get it. I forgive you. ›

He's beyond shocked when he gets a response almost immediately. ‹ One day I'd like to see all of you again. Might be awhile. That okay? ›

Stiles considers. He actually takes an entire day to consider. He doesn't feel bad leaving Derek on the hook. Derek kept him on the hook for the better part of a year, so he thinks Derek deserves a taste of his own medicine.

Now that their air has been cleared, Stiles thinks maybe he would be okay saying goodbye to Derek Hale if he absolutely has to. If he wants to make a clean break, this is the moment. If he wants to live a nice, simple, happy life, then he should tell Derek no.

But since when has Stiles ever wanted nice or simple?

He texts Derek back the next day, with a small, weird smile on his lips. ‹ Any time . Take care, big guy. ›

‹ Thanks. You too, Stiles. ›

“Who was that?” Scott asks, glancing over at Stiles from the passenger seat of the Jeep. When Stiles comes back to the present, he's in the parking lot of the movie theater and he remembers he's here to catch a matinee with his best friend.

“Oh, uh, no one,” Stiles lies, giving Scott a smile that silently begs him not to ask. Just to let it go. “Just someone I used to know.”

Chapter Text

Ten years later.

"You are a smooth-talking, duplicitous butt-kisser.” Scott's voice is wrapped in a laugh as it comes through the tiny Bluetooth attached to Stiles's ear. “How did you get us that contract?”

“Because I'm good, and I have awesome ideas,” Stiles says with playful smugness. He pushes up out of the office chair and paces around his tiny home office. “And I'm a smooth-talking, duplicitous butt-kisser.” They share a laugh. “Oh! Speaking of awesome, I've been thinking of some names for the Bat King.”

He comes to a stop in front of their work wall, which looks a lot like his detective murder wall used to look back in the day. Except this is all video game ideas and absolutely no murder or real monsters. All fake monsters. He hopes.

“I figured we could call it something really hardcore, like Blood Wing or Death From Above or, like... Fuck Your Face, Motherfucker,” he makes this pathetic growling sound and grabs the back of his chair, shaking it and baring his teeth like he's assaulting prey.

“You know, man, I have a feeling they're not going to let us get away with naming a huge animated video game bat Fuck Your Face, Motherfucker,” Scott laughs into his ear.

“They will if it's rated M for Mature,” Stiles huffs, pulling a face at his empty office like Scott's right there with him, but no. Stiles and Lydia live in San Francisco and Scott still lives in Beacon Hills, and he typically only makes it out on the weekends that Allison and Isaac take the kids. Stiles is currently hunkered down in the small office just off of his living room, with the door shut tight and the blinds closed. He claims he works better when he can forget that he's still living in suburbia.

Manic Slick Entertainment is the name of the indie video game company Stiles and Scott started their junior year of college. It's a sort of anagram of their last names, and they always meant to change it if anything ever came of it, but it's too late now. Not that they're big developers or anything, but their first release already did well enough with the PC-only crowd that changing their brand now would only set them back.

Their first game was called Alpha Moon. Predictably, it's a dark, urban werewolf RPG. In a world with so many fantasy games, it actually sold like crazy with the people looking for something new and gritty. They're currently developing a sequel with a lot of sewer crawls and vampires added to the mix. Stiles tells everyone that it's like Grand Theft Auto meets Underworld. Except you don't actually steal cars.

“You coming out this weekend?” Stiles asks, bringing his thumbnail up to give it a good chew as his eyes dart around their work board. They do a lot of work over the phone and Skype, but most of their ideas solidify during long weekends filled with coffee, junk food, and 'other'-supplemented thirty-six-hour testing benders. Scott's stamina is just as amazing and werewolfy as it's ever been, and Stiles just uses magic to keep himself awake.

Lydia hates it. She's certain both of them are just going to drop dead one day. She also lectures them on being bad influences on Dee. Stiles often has to gently remind her that Dee is only four and has no idea what daddy and uncle Scott are doing in daddy's grown-up office that she's not allowed to go in.

“I'm packing right now,” Scott says, and Stiles can hear him shuffling around. Probably just shoving random clothes into a bag, which is their equivalent of packing. “Ally and Isaac have the kids this week, and Kira's going to visit with her parents, so it's no problem to get away.”

“Cool, man.” Stiles grabs his jacket and messenger bag, because while he's twenty-seven years old, no one will ever be able to accuse Stiles Stilinski of being a boring, briefcase-owning grown-up. “Okay, I'm taking off. I need to go pick Dee up from school. They have a half day today.”

Scott groans. “Those are the worst.”

“Right?” Stiles agrees, walking out the door. “So, I'll bring her home, make her lunch, and then call the sitter. Give me a ring when you're on your way. I'll meet you at the train station.”

“You got it, man.”

For the first few years after Derek and Cora left, Stiles has nightmares. They bring his insomnia back in full force. They try holistic treatments, pharmaceuticals, sleep studies, meditation, and eventually magic. Lydia knows it's just stress and guilt. The loss of love. That pit in his chest where darkness lies.

It's not until Dee is born that Stiles is really, truly happy again. They name her Claudia Heather, in honor of two of Stiles's favorite women. They call her Dee because she knows it's hard for Stiles to say his mom's name.

Lydia's life is nothing like she expected it would be. But suffice to say, it's absolutely everything she could have asked for.

They don't talk about Derek anymore. They lost communication with him several years ago, but Scott says he's pretty sure the Hales are doing alright. The Northern California packs get together every other year to discuss territories and boundary lines, and sometimes news of the Hales floats through.

Lydia's recently started teaching theoretical physics to advanced high schoolers, and once she finishes her doctorate, she plans on securing a professorship at a university. She won't accept anything less. Her daughter is four years old and beautiful. Smart as hell, too, just like she knew any child she and Stiles had would be. She wants their family to be exceptional, because they're all exceptional people.

Stiles and Lydia aren't married yet. They're not in any rush. He doesn't want to tie them up together financially until his career is more stable, and she respects and appreciates that. They're both independent people and this is 2021. They're happy, and Dee is perfectly well taken care of, and that's all that matters.

This life was hard for Stiles at first, but Lydia knows he's happy now. She made sure they would be. Lydia Martin refuses to be anyone's consolation prize. So it's really an understatement to say that she's shocked at the phone call she receives one chilly October afternoon.

“Physics department,” she chirps into the receiver of her desk phone. She doesn't bother checking the line because it's a work phone. She rarely recognizes the numbers. “This is–”

“Lydia,” comes a voice she swears she recognizes, but she just can't place it.

“Yes?” she says, frowning softly. “Who is this?”

“It's Derek.”

Lydia's stomach lurches. Her heart starts pounding so hard she's sure Derek can hear it over the phone.

“Lydia, where's Stiles?” he asks quickly. No greetings, nothing. Nothing after ten years but a frantic edge to his voice. It immediately has Lydia nervous and scared, because that's what Derek Hale always brings to the table; nervous and scared.

“What do you mean, 'where's Stiles's?” she asks, turning in her desk chair just enough to glance outside her window, to see the traffic moving outside. Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall, to her desk calendar, to the silly plastic plant Stiles had gotten her when she'd gotten the job. “He's at home with our daughter. Derek, what are you–”

“He's not here,” he cuts her off. Lydia's head is spinning. “I got your address from Scott. I stopped by,” he sighs heavily. She can picture him closing his eyes and shaking his head, the way he does when he feels he's make a mistake. “Your open-door policy. I was going to see...” she hears him stop, sigh, and imagines he's either rubbing the bridge of his nose or rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “But he's not here. The air felt weird and something smelled off. I tried the door and it wasn't locked. I found your daughter alone in her room, asleep.”

“If this is a joke, it is not funny, Derek Hale,” Lydia hisses into the phone. She hates the quaver in her voice and the way the cheap plastic receiver creaks in protest at her grip. She hates that the first time she hears from Derek in decade, it's this. She hates that she has no idea what's going on, and that her head is pounding and she feels like she's going to throw up.

“I would never joke about something like this, Lydia,” Derek says, his voice low. Eerily calm.

She presses a hand to her mouth to muffle the panicked sound. Her heart is clogging her throat and making her breathing shallow, stilted. She starts to pace. She doesn't know what to do.

“I don't smell anyone else,” Derek says. “There's no stress, no fear, nothing. I know he wasn't taken. He must of left of his own volition.” She nods, eyes squeezed shut, treating his voice like an anchor.

The sudden chime on her cell phone surprises her so much it has her nearly crawling out of her own skin. Her home screen lights up to reveal a text from Scott. ‹At train station. Stiles no show. Texted him for 10mins but nothing. Taking cab to your place. Everything okay? See u soon.›

“He didn't pick up Scott,” she whispers. “He's not answering Scott's texts.”

“Lydia...” Derek says. Her attention is immediately his again, because the trepidation in his voice hits her right in the maternal instincts. “Your daughter won't wake up.”

“What?”

“I can't get her to wake up. She's breathing steady, pulse is fine, and nothing smells off, but she's just not waking up.”

“Is she–” Lydia starts, quickly turning off her work station and grabbing her purse. “Damnit. Check her manipura. Tell me if there's anything there.”

“Her what?”

“Her bellybutton,” she says in a rush as she shoulders on her coat. “Is there anything drawn there?”

“Yeah. Just one straight line.”

“Vertical or horizontal?”

“Vertical.”

“Isa,” Lydia sighs heavily. “The rune for cessation. He blocked her manipura. He put a fucking sleep spell on her.”

“Why would he–”

“Just stay there,” Lydia says in a rush of breath. “I'm on my way. So is Scott. If he gets there first, fill him in.”

She hangs up without waiting for a reply, red hair flying out behind her as she runs for the main office to clock out.

Derek, Cora, and Peter settled in Los Angeles permanently several years ago. Peter bolsters their ranks to a good dozen strong, but he never makes a new wolf without getting the approval of his family. It's rocky at first, because trust is always an issue between the three of them, but after a good three years, Derek finally relaxes.

Derek lets people in again, Cora laughs with her whole being, and Peter smiles sincerely and it shows in his eyes. They're a family again. They seem to heal.

No one ever talks about the demon stuff or about the nature of Peter's alpha. It's a bad, dark topic, just like the fire. Like Kate. Like all of the terrible things that had happened to them in Beacon Hills. For a long time none of them even talk about Beacon Hills at all. Derek forces all thoughts of the kids who'd saved him out of his head. He wants to be able to live again, and clinging to all of the things he's lost isn't the way that's was going to happen. That was one thing they taught him that he can hold on to.

It's not until about six weeks ago that Peter starts talking about them again. He encourages Derek to go back. To seek them out. Reestablish ties. He encourages Cora to visit J.J. and Kimana more often. To finish college.

If it hadn't been for Peter physically shoving Derek into his car, and then calling him every half an hour to make sure he's still driving, Derek would never have come back. He never would have made such a huge gesture. He never would have put himself out so far on the block, pretty much expecting to get his head chopped off.

Ten years is a long time. It's a lot of life to live in-between. He knows his chances are slim, but he still has to try. He doesn't have anything to lose, now.

Finding himself in the middle of a supernatural drama isn't exactly what he'd anticipated coming up here, but Derek can't help shaking his head at the irony. When all of them are together, it's like it sets off some ridiculous cosmic chain reaction and shit just starts happening.

He hears Lydia running up the walk, heels clacking and keys jangling. He saves her the trouble and opens the front door for her, and is rewarded with an armful of soft woman. A wave of nostalgia hits him like a truck. The way she feels, looks, but especially the way she smells. He's suddenly back in Beacon Hills ten years ago, and she's smiling her secret smile while moving her pieces into play.

The smell of her hair, the way her arms loop tight around his neck, and the feel of her heart pounding against his chest; it's like no time has passed at all. Only this time it's out of fear and not pleasure, which is the only reason he lets her go.

“Derek...” she gasps, her eyes red and watery as she blinks up at him. Her hands grab hold of his forearms and keep him close. He can see all of the questions behind her eyes, and her struggle with priorities. “Derek, the calendar...”

“What?”

“In Stiles's office,” she pushes past him and rushes through the house toward a small room off of the living room. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that he does, he can smell Stiles saturated in it. By the time Derek ghosts the doorway, Lydia's already bent over a desk calendar, her index finger pressed over today's date. It's circled in red.

“I was right,” she whispers, lifting wide eyes to Derek. “It's today.”

“Shit,” he breathes, taking a step back like he's been shoved. “How the hell could I forget?”

“Oh god, do you think it's too late?”

“I don't–”

“Knock, knock!” Scott's cheery voice cuts through the tension in the air as he walks inside. “Lyds, your door was wide open.” Derek's whips around and finds himself face to face with Scott. No, actually face to face. They both blink at each other, and Derek notes that Scott's gotten taller, broader. Probably a late growth spurt. His father is really tall, so it all makes sense.

“Derek,” Scott says, shock on his face. “Holy shit, man.” He grins and holds out his hand, grasping Derek's in a firm handshake. “It's been forever. How are you?”

“I've had better days,” Derek sighs, giving Scott's hand a squeeze before releasing it. The look in his eyes is apologetic, and Scott catches on quickly.

“Okay, what am I missing?” Scott asks, tensing a bit, going on alert. He glances inside Stiles's office at Lydia. She says nothing, just tears the large calender page off and holds it up, letting Scott see the red circle around today's date.

Scott inhales sharply and stiffens. Derek can feel the sudden protective anxiety rolling off of the alpha. Out of pure instinct he lifts a hand to Scott's shoulder, squeezing it.

“Alright,” Scott says, turning to look at Derek. “Where's Peter?”

“Cora,” Derek says into his phone as he steps outside. “Put Peter on.”

“I'm not home,” she replies, her phone connection staticy. “Why don't just call him?”

“He's not picking up,” Derek says tersely. “Where are you?”

“I'm in Vegas,” she laughs. As soon as she says that Derek swears he can hear the sounds of slot machines in the distance. “Peter shoved me on a flight like an hour after you left. Said J.J. called and wanted to do a long weekend thing. Personally, I just think he wanted us out of the house so he could have some skeevy old guy sex party, but whatever. Why? What's wrong?”

“Cora, it's today,” Derek says bluntly. He sits down on the top-most porch step, bringing a hand up to rub at his face.

“Huh? What's today?”

“Cora,” he snaps, balling his free hand into a fist and pounding it against his thigh. The brief surge of dull, aching pain is enough to distract him from destroying all of Lydia's nicely potted plants and flowers. For now.

“Jesus, Derek, what–” he hears her sudden sharp inhalation and lets his eyes fall shut, his lips pressing in a thin line. There are a few strange sounds on Cora's end, and Derek has to assume it's her checking the calendar on her phone. “Oh my god,” she whispers as she comes back on the line. Derek's heart aches. “That fucking bastard.”

“Stiles is already missing,” he says wearily.

“You think it got back into him?”

“Poetry," Derek growls. "Revenge”

“That's fucking – Fuck. I can't get back!” she practically yells. “My return flight isn't until Monday and I can't afford a new ticket!”

The click-clack of Lydia's shoes move past him. He glances up to see her standing out on the walk, having changed her clothes and packed a small bag. The sitter showed up about fifteen minutes ago, and is being paid generously for overnight.

“We're already on our way down,” Derek says as he pushes to his feet. “It's going to take hours.” He glances over his shoulder as Scott joins them on the porch.

“Fuck, fuck...” Her voice is weak and thin on the phone. “Derek, why would he send us away?” Derek turns away from Lydia and Scott, hating the thought of them seeing the pain on his face.

Derek is silent for a few beats as Scott's hand lands on his shoulder, silently guiding him down the steps and toward the car. He can feel a bit of a cold shiver around his heart, in his gut. He knows exactly why Peter did it. For the same reason Derek would have.

“He didn't want us to have to see it,” Derek says quietly, standing next to Lydia's car as she puts her things in the back. “He didn't want us to have to suffer with him. Because when fucking wolves know they're going to die, they separate from their packs,” he finishes through clenched teeth. “He did it so we weren't at risk.”

“What should I do?” she whispers.

“Try to change your flight if you can,” he says, frowning and spitefully stepping on a tiny yellow flower growing out from one of the cracks in the sidewalk. “If you can't, just cash in the ticket and get a bus to Beacon Hills as soon as possible.”

“Okay. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

Less than a minute later the three of them are on their way toward the freeway, breaking as many traffic laws as they dare.

There's traffic getting out of San Francisco, but once they get on the I-5 it's clear all the way to Los Angeles. It's 3:00am by the time they get to the Hale's home, but it's too late. Derek felt Peter die five hours ago.

The only thing they can do now is try and save Stiles.

Scott takes over driving shortly after Peter dies so Lydia can climb into the back with Derek. Funny how tragedy can erase all the years and all the wrongs. She curls up next to him and holds his hand tightly, her arm wrapped around his. She uses his shoulder as a pillow, but Derek hasn't looked away from the window once yet. He doesn't want anyone to see him cry for the loss of yet one more Hale. You'd think he'd be used to this by now.

The house is a modest three-bedroom split-level in Silverlake. They got it for a good price at an estate sale. There's gravel in the yard and a few palm trees. It's quintessential Southern California, even down to the little swimming pool in the back yard. The picture of ironic normalcy. It's not a pack house, it's just the Hale's house, but all pack is welcome any time they want.

When they pull up in the driveway and get out of the car, Derek is genuinely surprised that the house isn't swarming with confused, distraught betas. But one whiff of the air fills him with that kind of low, base dread one only gets when stepping into a graveyard late at night.

He shoots a look at Scott just as Lydia bursts into tears.

“Oh my god,” she gasps, a hand grasping at her stomach as she leans against Derek's shoulder. “This place feels like so much death. Like a slaughterhouse.”

The door is ajar as they walk inside. Scott leads the way, and Derek keeps an arm around Lydia's shoulders, supporting her. Giving her what little comfort he can provide as they walk into the massacre. Bodies of werewolves litter the floor, the furniture; every surface. Some have their throats torn out, some are missing their hearts, and some have just had their necks cleanly snapped. Derek chokes on his own bile, his eyes watering both at the stench and with rage as he counts the corpses. Twelve. A dozen. Their entire pack minus himself, Peter, and Cora.

It feels like a slaughterhouse because it is.

Lydia breaks down into choking, racking sobs and shoves at Derek. Shoves away from him, shaking her head, crying that she has to get out. She spins to run back toward the front door and runs right into Stiles.

“Took you long enough,” he drawls.

Lydia gasps and stumbles back into Derek's arms. He immediately shuffles her behind him and growls low as he watches Stiles's eyes fill and gloss over black.

“In case my subtle entendre was lost on you,” the demon continues, smiling as he gestures to the three assembled. “I meant that in both ways. It's nice to see you again, Derek.”

“Can't say the same,” Derek says lowly.

“We know why you're here,” Scott says, taking a step forward and putting himself slightly ahead of the other two, between the demon and Derek and Lydia. “Peter knew you were coming. You could have taken him and left before any of these betas showed up.”

“Well, yeah.” The demon lifts a hand and waves it noncommittally. “But reaping a demon wolf is thirsty business. I decided to treat myself.” He smiles and gestures to the empty beer bottle sitting on the table next to Peter's favorite armchair.

“Why did you kill them all?” Scott asks through his teeth, hands clenching into fists at his side.

“You know how stubborn werewolves can be,” the demon scoffs. “I tried explaining myself. It doesn't matter if you're justified, they just don't want to hear it. I had the right to defend myself. It's all perfectly valid, contract-wise.” He grins.

“You baited them,” Derek snarls, held back from attacking only by Lydia's hands clutching at his arm. “You got them to attack you so you'd have an excuse. You killed them because you wanted to.”

The demon's smile is sharp and slick. “Let's call it a little retroactive retribution,” he says dangerously. “You hurt my feelings. I was feeling a little vindictive.”

“You got what you came for,” Lydia says shakily, moving to stand beside Derek. “Why are you still here?”

“I got mostly everything I came for. There's just one more thing I really wanted.” He pulls a switchblade out of his back pocket. Derek recognizes it as belonging one of their youngest beta's. “My biggest gift to myself is going to be watching all of your faces when I do this.”

With a grin that's more a baring of teeth, the demon flicks open the blade and plunges it straight into Stiles's stomach. He wriggles it around for good measure before letting it fall to the floor, bloody. “Toodles,” he grunts, still grinning even as blood pushes out through Stiles's teeth and drips down over his chin.

“No!” Lydia screams, shoving off of Derek and stumbling toward Stiles. He drops to his knees and clutches his stomach, eyes widening with realization as he chokes on his own blood.

Time seems to slow for Derek. The sounds around him muffle, like he's under water. He sees the space next to Stiles shimmer as the demon pulls out of him, and he watches helplessly as the thing just disappears. The air in the room seems to thin and takes on a burnt smell, and Derek shakes his head as his ears pop.

Seconds pass before he's back, and both Lydia and Scott are yelling at Stiles to hold on.

Derek drops to his knees next to them and bats the phone out of Lydia's shaking hand. “No cops,” he snarls. “It's too late. He's going to die.”

The sound Lydia makes is heart-breaking. He has to forcibly tear his eyes away as she takes Stiles's pale face in her hands and leans over him, pressing her lips to his forehead and pleading with him not to die.

Derek grabs Scott by the shoulder and shakes him. “Give him the bite,” he growls, his eyes flashing a desperate, burning blue.

“I can't,” Scott gasps, his own eyes wide with shock. “I promised. Not unless he asks.”

“Lydia, move,” Derek barks, shoving her aside. Apologies can come later. They're running out of time. “Stiles!” Derek shouts, moving one hand to press over Stiles's hands, ignoring the hot, wet squelch of blood that pools up between his fingers. “I need you to focus on my voice.”

“D-Derek?” Stiles gasps, his body seizing up as another gurgle of blood surges out of his mouth. “Wow, hey...”

“Stiles,” Derek says through his teeth, gritting them as he blinks away the threatening tears. “Listen to me. You've been stabbed. You're going to bleed out. If you want to live, you have to take the bite from Scott.”

Stiles shakes his head weakly, his eyes unfocused and staring wildly. “No,” he chokes. “No, I can't. I'll lose my magic–” There's fear there, confusion, doubt. There's love. But most of all, there's still Stiles.

“You have to, do you hear me?” Derek says through his teeth. “You will die.”

“Stiles, think of Dee,” Lydia cries, reaching with trembling hands to smooth his hair back. “Think of your dad. Me and Scott. Please listen to Derek.”

“Stiles,” Scott whispers. “Man, come on. Don't give up, okay? Trust me.”

Stiles's eyes refocus and land on Scott's face. They linger as he labors to breath, before slowly sliding to Derek's. “You came back,” he gasps. “You're back.”

“Yeah,” Derek says shakily. “I came back for you. So you can't leave yet. I haven't even had the chance to tell you–”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a weak, rough chuckle. “Damn straight you love me, shithead.”

Derek laughs in a heaved out breath. He reaches out to grab Lydia's hand, and she squeezes his in return.

Stiles swallows thickly before letting out a harsh cough. He blinks several times, and Derek knows they're at the point of no return. “Okay,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck all of you, but okay. Do it, Scotty. I trust you.”

It's strange, sometimes, Stiles thinks, the way that things work out.

He gasps and heaves a few labored breaths as he feels  Scott's fangs dig into the soft flesh of his side, right above his hip. As the transformation takes hold of his body and begins to rip his humanity and magic away. He can feel Scott's hand on his stomach, pressing over the wound even as it begins to slowly knit itself back together. The pain is bright and keen and astounding, and Stiles is pretty shocked that he hasn't passed out yet.

He doesn't see Derek, but he can smell Lydia's perfume next to him. He can feel her hands in his hair, trying to soothe him. Comfort him. He's grateful because he loves her, but he can't help the little seed of resent that he knows he's going to be nursing for a long, long time.

They'll never understand what this means to him. His humanity is the most important thing in the world to him. It fuels his passion, his drive, and his love. It fuels his magic. It gave him a perfect little girl and it keeps his father close. His humanity is the only thing that keeps Stiles from collapsing in on himself. From giving into the twisting black hole in his soul; the one that powers his magic and never lets him forget how the demon felt inside of him.

Coyotes are tricksters and deceivers. Coyotes are jealous and mean and want to rule the world. Stiles should have known; he should have stopped Scott. He should have blasted them all away from him and let himself die. He can feel the demon wolf crawling into his skin and sinking fangs and claws into his soul. He can hear the demon's chuckle echoing around in his head as it gets the last laugh. As it shoves that nasty predator spirit into his body.

Stiles doesn't know how long he'll have as a wolf before he has to go omega and run. Run long and run far. He hopes he gets enough time to make his little girl understand why daddy just won't be around anymore one day.

Because coyotes can't ever be wolves, and Stiles will never be anything close to resembling human again.

Derek finds Peter in his bedroom, laying face-down on the floor. There's no blood and no mortal wounds. There's no sign of a fight or even a struggle. It's completely unceremonious, and just about the most undignified and disrespectful way an alpha of Peter's caliber could die. His heart just stopped. Dead, just like that.

Derek huffs out a hard, steadying breath and picks his uncle up off the floor. On the desk is a letter, half-written. It's only hours old, Derek can smell the ink. His stomach twists and his chest clenches, because he knows it's for him and Cora. He knows it's going to be filled with apologies for deeds long since buried, and with praise for them and the way they turned out. Knowing Peter, there will be a little self-back-patting in it, too. He'll say that he loves them. He'll say that he's sorry. He'll say that he's proud.

Derek leaves the room without reading it. He chooses to remember the Peter he knew, not the Peter his uncle wanted him to know, because the man Peter eventually became was the best man he could be.

They comb over the house and pick it clean, removing any and all evidence that werewolves exist. Lydia draws a rune of preservation on Peter's head in eyeliner, and everyone respectfully ignores the way Stiles walks away when the buzz of magic fills the air. Derek wraps his uncle in a tarp and stores his body in the trunk of Lydia's car. As they leave Southern California in the rear-view mirror, she jokes darkly that Derek's paying to have her car cleaned.

Stiles, Lydia, and Dee leave their life in San Francisco behind and move back to Beacon Hills. Stiles struggles with the demon wolf every day, keeping things as quiet as he can. He uses the little cantrips he can still cast to keep his eyes from glowing red when he shifts. No one can know about his wolf. No one can know how it eats at him, how hard it is for him to resist the pull. The urges, the instincts; to take and claim and consume.

Stiles makes it an impressive two years.

A few weeks after Dee's sixth birthday, Scott stops by the house. It's Sunday morning, and he and Stiles usually go out for breakfast. They claim it's work-related, but everyone knows it's just an excuse for them to get some time to screw off by themselves. To play mini-golf or see a movie or just hide out at their shared office and play video games.

The house is dark when Scott approaches, and Stiles's car is nowhere to be seen. He sniffs the air and doesn't smell gasoline or exhaust. He doesn't smell his friend's scent fresh on the driveway. It's obviously been quite awhile since he left. He gives a soft knock, and when he steps inside, the air is as still as a tomb. He can smell the others upstairs, but still no Stiles.

As he moves toward the stairs he sees Stiles's phone on the small table in the foyer. A spike of panic shoots through him, but before he can run up the stairs he hears Derek come down. Scott hasn't seen Derek cry since Peter, and when Derek hands him the half-folded note, Scott can already feel grief welling up in his own eyes.

I love you all more than life itself. You're the only reason I was able to hold on as long as I did. I can't tell you how sorry I am for deceiving you, but I didn't know what else to do. I was too scared to do anything else. Please try and forgive me when you can, for lying and for this.

My wolf is the demon wolf and the black dog is winning. I'd never be able to forgive myself if I hurt any of you. I hope you never stop loving each other, and I hope you might be able to save a little of that in your hearts for me. I need you all to know that I don't blame any of you for this. Not even Peter. This is all me, and I'm going to fix it if I can. I know where to go and I think I know a few coyotes that can help me. If I beat it, I'll be back.

If I can't, please don't try to find me.

The desert's memory is long and vast. The desert is unforgiving. It's open and wide and free, and under the blanket of stars, a man can feel tiny and insignificant. A man's problems can seem so small in comparison to the ages of the earth. To the stories she knows and the spirits she holds.

Large, gnarled claws dig into the hard-baked dirt, ripping up furrows as the huge black beast makes its way across the sea of wasteland. He lets out a howl so loud it echoes off the jagged rocks around him. The coyotes are fearless as they follow him, nipping at his heels and yipping and snarling. Running him down to exhaustion. Running him into the ground.

They can smell their own, trapped inside that demon meat, and they'll get him out soon enough. Back to himself. Back to where he belongs. Back to his pack.