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Chapter Text

Mieczyslaw Stilinski had always known he was… more than normal.

He was six years old and bright-eyed sitting on the twin bed in his room; His parents sleeping soundly in their room down the hall. It was late at night and the Rubix cube in his hands had begun to grow increasingly upsetting. He’d been at this for hours, and he only had, like, two more squares to fix until it was finished; but it just… wouldn’t… budge…

With a frustrated groan Mieczyslaw threw the offending cube across the room and looking to the ceiling in a dissatisfied six year old melodrama.

Mieczysław had nearly drifted off completely, mind a swirling sea of taunting colors and geometric shapes, when he’d felt something nudging against his ankle insistently. He thought nothing of it, letting his breathe even out and his eyes give into the heaviness… until he came upon a startling realization.

They didn’t have a dog. They didn’t have any pets. Mom was allergic. And his door had been closed… so what…?

Mieczysław sat up straight and looked down at the spot where the nudging had still persisted. He rubbed at his eyes aggressively. He couldn't actually be seeing- no, he was right.

Oh my god.

The Rubix Cube was at his ankle, floating, the red squares on the white wide standing out like two plastic-y fire truck eyes.

“Wha…?” muttered Mieczyslaw, frowning, but utterly fascinated.

The cube floated further towards him.  Settling in the air just in front of his face. He touched it and it jerked, it’s squares re-aligning themselves. Repositioning until every side was a perfect, solid color.

“Whaaaa…?” He said again, more eloquently this time, of course. Am I dreaming?

He pinched his arm. And ow. So, okay that was ruled out.

He regarded the cube still hovering in front of him,” Are you magic? I’m sorry for throwing you, if you are.” The cube gave no indication of sentience.

Mieczysław narrowed his eyes,” Am I magic?” The cube continued its valiant job of doing nothing but float. “Fall.” Said the boy, instructing the object before him. Nothing. He pouted.

“Well, I’m not dreaming. And you’re not magic so…” He cupped his hands underneath the Rubix Cube and focused. He Imagined it falling. Imagined it’s blunt, hard edges falling into his hands. “Fall.” He instructed again.

It fell.

OH MY GOD

He looked to the books on his bookshelf and focused. They left their shelves and went to levitate in the center of his room neatly, shifting their positions and pages until a hardcover castle formed. He looked to his toys and they obediently went over to join the books.

AHHHHHHHH. OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

“Mom!!!!! Dad!!!!"

Mieczyslaw may not have had much experience with this sorta thing, but he’s pretty sure this this was something his parents should definitely know about. From what he’d seen in movies and stuff, the main problems people in these kinds of situations had was communication. But, of course he’d tell his parents. His parents are the best.

John and Claudia Stilinski rushed into the room frantically, mere moments later. Their eyes bleary, but concerned.  “ Mischief , what’s wrong? Are you hurt, are you o...kay?” His parents’ jumbled questions came to a halt as they took in and registered the series of floating objects in their child’s bedroom.

Claudia, particularly, reached out towards the toys and books, a look of shock and wonder on her face. “John, he’s like me.” She said, numbly.

Scott was gonna be so jealous.

☾☾☾

When Stiles’ was 11 years old (and yes, dad. Stiles. My name is way too hard to pronounce- yesterday my teacher-) he found his way to the Nemeton.

It was past midnight and Siles was sat on his bed, double checking his homework. He had so much energy. Too much energy, Mrs. Chaya always said in homeroom.  So right now he couldn’t sleep and his body was tired but his mind was so awake and then he felt something. It’s… kinda like a pulling sensation in his chest, but there’s nothing tangible there and before he knew it he’s up, putting shoes on but not bothering to change out of his pajamas. He opened the back door as quietly as he could manage and slipped out into the night.

Stiles knows he was awake the whole time, but he didn’t remember walking the 5 miles to the center of the forest. Didn’t even feel the cool late autumn air as it whipped against his pale, chubby cheeks. Or he did. But it was a distant feeling, something easy to ignore. Stiles continued walking till he came to the center of the forest. There was…  a tree- taller and thicker then he’d ever seen in his entire life.

Nemeton , his brain supplied. And huh, that’s weird, Stiles didn’t know trees could have names. He touched his forehead to the trunk of it and something settles deep and good in his chest. He felt full. Complete. Like coming home. Like-

A branch snapped somewhere behind him and Stiles whirred his head around so fast he was almost dizzy. He rubbed at his temples and then saw it. Some sort of creature. Demon , he felt his mind supply and wow- okay, it has got to stop doing that. So okay, a demon. But its movements were janky and its weak, hungry self was trying to regain some semblance of strength by sucking the life from the trees and the other living things in the forest. Grabbing at them until the were ashen and withered.

If it saw Stiles, the creature paid him no mind.

He waits a moment, quiet as he can be; observes its movements and then, when it was far away enough to not attack him so easily, he stepped on a branch as loud as he could. The demon turned around and fixed its terrible gaze upon him. Shaped like a man but with too many teeth and a nightmare where it’s face should’ve been. It must’ve felt the energy coming off of him because it moved quick, quick though still in staggering motions. Hunger imbedded deep in the spot where its eyes should’ve been.

Stiles knew he should’ve been fearful, but instead of rising panic and a chorus of internal screaming , he felt a heavy calm settle over him in a supportive wave. His breath was even, as he felt the same pull of the Nemeton guiding him. He keeps his eyes focused on the Demon as his hands moved of their own accord. He felt the restless energy within himself settle for once and fall into something that stung his bones, something powerful that motioned his fingers into positions unlearned, but familiar to him nevertheless. He took another step towards the creature. Than another until he was eerily close. The demon’s limbs froze.. Held firmly in a binding.

He demon’s skin and bones shifted; It’s color changed from charred blue to something lighter. Tan. It took the face of Scott and pleaded- cried and looked as scared as it could. It took the face of his father next, then his mom and Stiles felt a lump in his throat, but he did not yield. Surety in his movements as he contorted his arms into a banishing pose and his voice is young but the power in it is not.

He inhaled deep and spoke ,” You’re going to go away and never come back. Not to Beacon Hills, not to California, not even to the country. Not to any country,” with a power as old as the earth itself and a voice not quite his own, he continued,” Be it land or water, Air or Atmosphere, I banish you from every realm the Earth resides and intersects. Until i'm dead and until you’re dead and than forever after that. This is my will, So mote it be.” His arms moves with finality and the young witch looked on as a gateway opened up and the demon seemed to be sucked out of existence, screeching and bloody. And Everything was loud and bright and vibrating…. until it wasn’t. Everything was silent and by the end, it was like the thing wasn’t even there. Gone in the blink of an eye.

The trees, flowers, and small, fuzzy corpses that had suffered at the mercy of the demon’s hunger stopped twitching and writhing in slow death. However the energy the creature had taken was replaced by the Nemeton with more power and vibrance than before. Stiles watched on as each cadaver filled with new life and  pulsed with power.

The boy hugged the Sacred Thing and felt its warmth from it encompassing him. He closed his eyes and when he opened them, he was  on the front lawn of his house, and could very much feel the cold. Stiles rushed inside, quiet as a mouse ‘cause his ninja skills are amazing and was pleased to note his father was still asleep.

He’s sick the next day, his body having felt drained, but his magic felt stronger then ever- so he was home when Dr. Deaton visits.

☾☾☾

Derek Hale was 15 years old and shaking.

He was 15 years old and Kate … jesus .

He was 15 years old and the flames are reaching high, the air is tight and thick with smoke, the flames are licking higher and higher whats happening, what’s happening oh my god mom! Mom, No! Please god, oh my god what's happening what-

“Hey.”

Derek Hale was hyperventilating, staring into space while picking at the burnt, charred skin of his trembling hands. It took him a takes a few moments to fully register that the carefully low-pitched voice he heard was Directed at him . He looked to his right, blanky.

The kid sitting to his side was small, skinny as a twig but not frail or sickly. He was younger by a few  years, obviously, but his eyes look- not tired just… mature. He was frowning deeply.

He looked concerned, Derek realized distantly. Which was stupid, cause why the hell would anyone be worried about him.  He was fine. He was always fine it should be- it should be his family people were worrying about. And oh god, kevin, mom, dad, the fire it was so hot so hotsohotsohot, he couldn't get to them, why couldn't he-

“Hey.” Said the kid again, twisting in one of the many uncomfortable wooden chairs of the Sheriff's Station. Derek tried to meet his eyes.

“Square breathes, okay?”

Derk felt his face twist in confusion.

The kid kept talking,“ Look at my hands, okay?” He held his finger up and slowly drew an invisible horizontal line,” Inhale.“ his finger traced downward,“ Exhale.” another horizontal line,” Inhale.” Traced upward,”Exhale.”

Each movement was precise. Every word, held purpose. Every breath, deliberate.

By the end of what must have been at least ten minutes at least, Derek was no longer breathing so heavy and ragged- the air leaving him in even, measured motions.

The kid looked at him with his too old eyes,” Better?”

It took Derek a moment, but he gave a sharp, jerky nod.

” Stiles.” Derek turned his head towards the Sheriff, who was looking tired as ever as he stood in his office doorway, Laura Hale still seated in the chair near his desk," Deaton’s outside waiting to take you home.”

The younger boy turned as well. ” Coming.” he called.

Stiles, which was the kid’s name apparently, turned back to him and nodded towards derek’s hands- which he’d stopped picking at, and were now healing. Slower than usual, but still faster than any human would. “ You should put your hands in your pockets before someone sees. “

“Stiles.”

“One sec, Dad.” He said without bothering to turn around. Stiles looked at him for a long moment before saying,” Square breathes, okay?”

“Okay.” Derek said, numbly, his voice hoarse.

The kid- Stiles left with a small, smile and a wave over his shoulder.

Derek put his hands in his pockets.

☾☾☾

The lessons, tedious as they could sometimes be, came naturally to him.

Even with the more complex stuff that most 12 year olds - witches or not- wouldn't even think to look at. Stiles didn’t feel like he’d been learning anything new is the thing. It was more like he was finding the language and history behind things he’d already known on some level.

He’s at Deaton’s when he asks why he could do so many things the druid couldn't.

“I've mentioned this before but never went into depth because I didn’t want to alarm you. Stiles… It’s been a very long time since someone of your particular… potential has been seen- or documented, at least. There have been witches and mages of great power, of course. But you’re… something unique. You don’t just converse with the Earth and its magic. The way you cast- it’s apart of you. Like a limb. You control magic as much as you control the blood pumping inside you. I’ve never seen anything like this.”

“So, what I‘m like, like Harry Potter or something?”

Deaton laughed,” You make that entire school look like a nest of pixies, Stiles. And I don’t say that lightly.”

Two years later Stiles had gone through Deaton’s entire library.

☾☾☾

It’s the anniversary of his mother’s death and Stiles is very much not in the mood.  

He’s at the library trying to distract himself with South Asian Theology and Mesopotamian Lore, when he feels his magic tugging at him again.

He’s inclined to ignore it at first, but then figures, hey, maybe destroying a creature of pure evil to engaging in a battle or life and death or whatever might do him good. Might help take his mind off of the bottomless pit in his core. Or the lump in his throat. Or the way his eyes pricked wetly whenever his he took his eyes off a page for too long.

So Stiles got up and allowed himself to be led to Goddess-knows-where. His magic had never led him astray before, so he’d barely been paying attention when he bumps into somebody. He apologizes without looking up, his face still all but smushed into against the two-hundred-and-seventh page of “ The Story of Kali (and Other Goddess Lore) ”. He stepped to the side and tried to find the feel of the pull again, but it’s gone.

Huh, well that was anticlimactic.

He tried to take a step forward, but his feet stayed planted. Before his frown could deepen, he heard a low voice from right behind him. “You’re Stiles, right?”

Stiles turned and recognized the library assistant instantly. “Yeah,” He said,” yeah, I’m Stiles.”

Now that he wasn’t pale faced, burnt, and hyperventilating, Stiles was able to fully take in the kid in front of him. His cheekbones, the dimple on his cheek, the air of melancholy about the older boy. The way his eyes weren't quite average. Not just their color- but his aura, when it wasn’t enveloped with the black clawing stain of grief and panic, was too powerful to be mundane. Even as he stood awkwardly before him.

Derek shuffled from foot to foot, his tired face made a pinched expression. As though, despite being the first one to speak, he was incredibly uncomfortable with the entire ordeal,” I’m not sure if you remember me, I-”

“I remember you. Of course I remember. You’re Derek Hale, right?” Stiles paused,” I’m sorry for your loss.”

Derek nodded before clenching his jaw,” I hate it when people say that.” As soon as he’d said it, he looked as though he’d wanted to snatch the impromptu confession back.

Stiles understood completely,” Yeah, me too.” Derek's head tilted to the side, the way a puppy’s would, but he didn’t question Stiles’ all-too-empathetic response. Stiles went on,” But it’s not like I can just say ‘Yikes’ or whatever. So it sucks, yeah, but it's the lesser evil, ya know?”

Derek looked like he wanted to grin, but resisted the urge. Than he furrowed his eyebrows,” At the sheriff’s station… you um… my hands. You didn’t… why…?

Stiles put him out of his misery,” Why didn’t I freak out about your healing factor?” Derek’s jaw snapped shut and he nodded. Stiles pursed his lips and focused, expanding the magical force-field around himself until derek was encompassed as well. As soon as he felt the brunt of the young witch’s energy, his eyes flashed. An electric, aquamarine blue and his features seemed to shift of their own accord.

“Lower your head before you give one of the librarians a heart attack.” Stiles snorted.

Derek obliged and stuck his eyes hands in his pockets for good measure, whispering a quiet, but furious,” What the hell? You smell like-”

“Wet earth and winter air and burnt sugar? Magic? Old magic? Yeah, I know.”

Derek’s human features slowly came back to him after the initial sensory shock.” I’ve been around witches before,” He countered, dubious,” you’re-”

Stiles shrugged,” I’m like twice your daily dose of Vitamin Witch. Or something. It’s… overpowering to other magical creatures, so I have personal wards up.”

Derek seemed to relax at that. Stiles went on,” So yeah, your healing hands and furry face aren’t exactly news for me.”

“You talk too much.” Derek said, changing the subject.

“Yeah, I like to think I make up for it with my rugged good looks.” He paused,” It also helps when i'm talking to broody, frowny, sourwolves who can barely string together two sentences in a row.”

Derek bared his teeth and Stiles just grinned in response.

By the time he left the library, his shoulders felt considerably less heavy.

☾☾☾

They ran into each other almost constantly after that first (second) time. It was almost always at the library and Stiles almost always went out of his way, it seemed, to be unbearably… endearingly obnoxious. Derek took to him instantly. In his mind, he saw Stiles as the only person who didn't look at him with pity, belittle him, or avoid him all together. Besides his Uncle Peter, whose vicious streak had revealed itself, and treated Derek as wasted potential.

Stiles, though. He understood in a way that Derek care much to dwell on. For now he was just grateful to have someone who didn’t treat him either like glass, too delicate- or like, well, fire. Having someone, who’d not only seen him at his most vulnerable, but had gone out of their way to help him- meant more to him than he thought he’d ever have the words to say aloud. So he stuck to his monosyllables and glaring. He’d never be the same, charismatic wolf, he’d been earlier that year. But with Stiles it didn't seem to matter.

One day though, after a particularly unnerving nightmare; one that left his breath shallow and his hands shaking, they met each other as they usually did and Stiles was the same as usual, but this time all the younger boy’s endearing idiosyncrasies were just a bit too loud. The heartbeat in his friends chest, was too fast. It was too much. everything was too much.

He felt too exposed, like a open nerve.

Derek shifted before he could think better of it. He flicked his hands out and nearly clawed out Stiles’ eyes. Stiles had incredible reflexes, for someone 12 years old, magic or not. And although, he was out of the way before the tips of Derek’s elongated fingernails make contact at all, Derek saw the shocked look on the pale witch’s face and fuck.

He came back to himself in small increments- Square breathes and all that. Embarrassment and guilt came off of him in palpable waves. Apologies snowballing out of his mouth, every word grew more troubled and frantic. He hadn't meant.. He’d never … shit.

Stiles, after the initial shock of it fell from his expression, simply held up a finger to shut him up. He closed his mouth, heart a caged animal in his chest, beating against his ribcage with fervor.

Stiles reached into his messenger bag, his hands coming up with three small, jagged stones, and some horrid smelling roots. He closed his eyes and tightened the objects in the palm of his hands and whispered something foreign that had the air around them crackling with power. Stiles reached into his messenger bag and took out a small, black, velvet pouch. Handing it to Derek, he said,” Keep this under your pillow and buy a dreamcatcher.”

Derek took the offered pocket and opened his mouth to say- he didn’t know what but he figured anything was better than his silence. Stiles cut him off before he got past the first syllable. “Dude, it happens to the best of us.” he shrugged, a small, understanding smile on his mouth.

Derek said nothing for a long time. Holding onto Stiles charm and just looking at them.

“You okay?”

And Derek looked at him. Probably for longer then was socially acceptable, thinking of a million things to say but his voice felt suddenly gone. Stiles frowned, concerned then and Derek, words still escaping him, surged up and hugged his friend as tight as he could, hoping to translate everything left unsaid. They stayed that way for well over twenty minutes, embracing until they were an evenly breathing mass of emotion. Each time one of them moved to pull away, the other just held tighter. When they did eventually pull away, Stiles’ eyes were just as wet as Derek’s.

They didn't talk about his family. And they didn't talk about Stiles’ mom. But something solid and heavy and magical and just… right settled between them.

Something that felt like a warm, tingling wave of magic.

Some bond that was just as tangible as it was intangible.

Something new but… familiar.

☾☾☾

Stiles was 15 when Danny Mahealani caught him levitating in front of the Nemeton.

It was Midsummer and the forest was pulsing with life and energy. Stiles had taken to meditating at the focal point of the town’s magic as a means of better grounding himself and attempting to tame the energy that seemed to perpetually be buzzing just below his skin.

His eyes were closed and it wasn’t exactly quiet in the forest- what with the birds and various woodland creatures scampering about- but even so, Stiles was in touch enough with his surroundings that he could feel more so than hear the approaching footsteps . He could also feel more so then see that it was a creature of significant magic. Not Deaton though, he noted. Curious, he cloaked himself, enhancing his personal wards enough that they hid not only his power, but also hid him visually.

Who he saw had his wards slipping enough that the person before him jumped a foot in the air i surprise.

“Stiles?!”

“Danny?!”

Because let’s face it, the last person Stiles had expected to be drawn to the Nemeton was beautiful, popular, way-too-smart-for-his-own-good Danny (Stiles didn’t have a crush, he just had eyes, okay? ). Stiles, for all his great and fearsome power said,” Uh…. Um… Shit, uh… These are not the droids you are looking for,” before flailing wildly and falling to the lush grass with a dull thud.

Danny huffed a laugh,” Did you just try to Jedi Mind Trick me?”

“Um… no?”

“Whatever I’m not even mad,” He waved it off, fixing the pale boy with a assessing stare,” Listen, I got this weird feeling, like this… pushing sensation? Calling me over here? So I get here and there you are, floating like some kinda fuckin’... i don’t know. I’m guessing the powers that be want us to speak. And before you say anything, Brujeria runs in my family. I can see that you’re powerful, but magic in general isn’t exactly news to me.”

Stiles worked his jaw for all of fifteen seconds before breaking out into a wide, unbelieving grin,” What even is my life?” he muttered then said,” Are you an initiate yet?”

Danny shook his head,” My abuela- the head witch of my family, passed before I was born. There hasn’t been someone of her strength or prowess in many years.” He shrugged,” You can’t initiate someone without a high priestess, so.”

“Danny Mahealani, would you allow me the honor of training under me?”

Danny considered him ,” Just like that?”

Stiles grin didn’t even waver,” How about a trial period?”

Danny started training traditionally under Stiles one month later.

And when Lydia Martin, strawberry blonde Crusher of Hopes and apparent Death Magic Extraordinaire found out about their little get togethers, then immediately uncovered that she’d had similar abilities?

Well, she’d never been one to miss out.

☾☾☾

“We need to talk about this.”

Stiles was… fuck.

He wasn’t avoiding the subject per se.

He’d known what was coming. He’d always known it was something inevitable that would leave his heart feeling hollowed and his chest too tight.

He tried to ignore it but he felt empty and so utterly, painstakingly alone.  He couldn't take it. He ached. He-

Stiles shrugged, his grin wide and bravado false. His teeth all but grinding together as he faked his way through ease and nonchalance,” I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

He knew Derek could hear the lie, sense the stutter in his heartbeat just as sure as if it had been his own, but he didn’t care. They didn’t need to talk about things, okay?

So much of their relationship had been an escape. Escape from taunts and weary glances and filthy, mean-spirited rumors about the hyperactive spaz and the criminally-inclined orphan.  

And while the entirety of their connection wasn’t rooted in trauma bonding and escapism, it was a relevant enough factor in both of their coping mechanisms- Why should that have to change now?  

“Stiles.” Derek said insistently.

“Derek.” Stiles parroted. He was being difficult, he knew. And trying to imitate the kind of unconcerned, mono-syllabic approach that Derek had perfected three years ago might have worked on anyone else, but not Derek. “Seriously, it’s cool.”

This had been proving harder then Stiles had anticipated. It was taking everything he had in himself to not explode in a flurry of pleading. But he had enough pride not to drop to his knees begging for his friend to stay, to not leave him. To never leave him, please don't go please don’t go, please don’t leave me. I need you. I need you please. So he settled, instead, for blunt language and avoided eye contact.

There were just. Ugh, Gods . So many unspoken things between the two of them. So much Stiles had no idea how to even begin talking about. Over the last three years, the pair of them had grown close. Impossibly close. Always in each other's pocket, scent marking and sharing books and sarcastic quips that would’ve been cruel coming from anyone else but each other. And sure, they didn't finish each other’s sentences the way he and Scott did, but they still grounded each other. Anchored each other. They were still rooted together in mutual understanding and fucked up experiences and subjects that Scott wasn’t interested in and that anyone else would’ve been overly suspicious of.

The occurrence they’d come to call The Bond, was something so incredibly real. Something that even Deaton had admitted was nurtured by tangible, rare, strong magic. Not just a mundane link between two people. A tether, a true and genuine tie linking them.

And it was about to be all but split. Gone.

Stiles felt sick.

“Hey,” Derek said gently,” square breathes, okay?”

Stiles snorted,” You can’t steal my thing.”

“I thought it was our thing.”

Stiles deflated and, ugh, fuck him. “Fuck you,” He said, venomless. Just because he could.

They said nothing for a moment. Before Derek sighed,” I don’t want to leave on a bad note. Or no note at all.”

Stiles folded like paper mache in a hurricane,” Fuck, just- I don't want you to leave.”

Derek sighed,” I know, but… it’s not forever, you know that right? It’s not even for an entire year. Just a semester. A few months and that’s it.”

“ But it’s so far away.”

“What?” Derek scoffed,” It’s not like it’s on the other side of the country or anything.”

Stiles laughed, despite himself,” I’m going to visit you every chance I get.”

“That’s a lot of money on planes. You gonna rob a bank?” Derek said,” Without me? I’m offended.”

“I’ve been reading up on portals,” Stiles said,” I think I’ll be able to cook one up.”

“I’ll send you my class schedule.” a beat, then. ” We’ll be okay.”

And it wasn’t enough, of course,  But it was okay for a bit.

He made the portal a week later.

☾☾☾

Stiles was sixteen and a half.

He’d been studying with Deaton for 5 years, honing his skills, fine-tuning everything and learning the roots of magic and technically completed his apprenticeship a year ago. (Which was unheard of, stiles, unheard of. )

He’d known werewolves existed for years but holy shit Scott’s one now .  Bitten by a feral Alpha who’d lost his anchor to cancer . Literally everything was going to shit and Deaton, what the fuck is he supposed to do with a teaspoon of mountain ash what the hell .

He’s freaking out, panicking but determined in a way that was becoming more and more common when he felt it. A familiar pull, but not towards anything physical. Stiles felt his magic flow to the surface and his back straightened. He evened out his breathing and opened his eyes and the mountain ash in his levitates impossibly. He reached for it with his magic, with his mind. Instructing it to expand, to protect, and separate and grow , grow , grow and then there’s a circle of mountain ash around the building. It’s beautiful and stiles isn’t surprised it worked, but he’s elated nonetheless.  

The world admittedly went to shit a lil bit. There'd been an influx of werewolves and kanimas coming to challenge the pack and an influx of magicians, darachs and warlocks coming to challenge him. And all the madness more or less dies down when most hostile forces seemed to realize that no one who attacks the pack leaves alive.

☾☾☾

Stiles was 17 in the back of Deaton’s clinic with Scott and Isaac when Deaton walked in with his sister.

Scott and Isaac (who'd been welcomed into Laura's pack with open arms at Stiles’ insistence) exchanged a puzzled glance and said simultaneously,” Ms. Morell?”.

But as great as she was at hiding her magic from wolves, Stiles had known since freshman year what she was. He didn't bother acting surprised.

“ I assume you two require no introduction.” Deaton said

“Of course not,” Stiles replied,” I’m confused, though, as why exactly she's here. What’s up?”

“ Stiles,” Deaton went on to say,” As you know, you've grown far beyond the skillset and prowess of even the oldest, most studied magical academics and practitioners. It has been an honor to have you as my apprentice and a privilege to have a hand in honing the skills of the most promising witch I’ve seen in my lifetime.

However, while I will continue to work with you, you’ve simply grown beyond my ability to teach. And, while I am quite skilled, I’m what some may refer to as an old dog,” Morell did a terrible job of hiding snicker behind her hand,” More of a librarian these days,” He paused,” Mrs. Morrell's experience is admittedly, a bit more recent than my own. And, despite her day job, she still manages to travel and network frequently. I thought it wise to further your knowledge with a fresh perspective.”

Morrell took a step forward and nodded to him,” I greatly look forward to our time together, Stiles.”

Deaton made his way to the back of his office and says, over his shoulder,” I trust you’ll find her a knowledgeable scholar and formidable duelist.

Stiles stayed frozen in a state of OHMYGODYES.

“Stop smiling like that, man,” said Scott,” you like like the guy from American Psycho.”

☾☾☾

They train for 3 months, 3 amazing months and it’s great until one day-

“Woah, what the hell?”

They’re in the forest training. Stiles tried to do something that, admittedly had taken up more magic than he usually disposed at leisure, cause he didn’t want easy, seriously, try and kick my ass and his magic just kind of… bugged out.

He tried again, with infinitely more focus, channeling his power in a way he rarely had to. It spazzed again, but somehow this was worse . So much worse. Sobadsobadithurtsobad .

The sky grew grey and thunderous above their heads and the wind seemed to still. The birds ceased their chirping. Everything seemed to hold its breath and it felt as though the Earth tilted towards him. He shuddered then screamed in a way that truly rivaled Lydia.

It felt wrong. Like too much everything all over. And it hurt terribly . The energy Stiles had sent out, never left him, but instead, seemed  to turn itself inward. And that power, seemingly angry at it’s unexpected, confinement and with nowhere to go burned itself up and up and up the pale witch’s arms, then unto his shoulders, his shoulder blades, and all over his back.

Stiles fell to his knees in comprehensive agony. The brunt of the burning- which had not only hurt his body, but the core of his magic as well- had stopped at this point, but the residual sting still had him feeling as though he’d been sliced apart.

Morrell stood still across from him, with a heavy and pained expression, made a few aborted gestures before taking three large steps forward. “Stiles…” she started, frown prominent.

“I’m fine.” He said,” I’m fine. I just… just lemme-” Stiles opened his eyes- having squeezed them shut during the first wave of pain and fixed morrell with a look he hoped was reassuring in some way… only to realize she hadn’t been looking at him. Well, she was looking at Stiles, just not his face. No… she was looking at his hands- his arms. Stiles looked down ad released the most theatrical gasp he ever had.

Stiles had anticipated, expected even, bruises or burns or scars. The kind of magical distress he’d been in had, in no way, been modest by any stretch. But what he hadn’t  expected was the ink. He swaying, writhing, moving black in making its way up his wrists and disappearing at the elbow into the cloth of his rolled plaid sleeves.

Whatthefuck

When they’d gotten back to Deaton’s, some two hours later (shock was an interesting sort of paralysis ) He had told them what some part of Stiles’ brain had already known. Somehow.

“It’s not ink.” Said the vet, pinching the bridge of his nose between two fingers,” It’s registering by all accounts both magical and scientific, as organic. Ash and soil. But under a traditional microscope it looks like water.”

“ Get to the point, please.” Said the sheriff, restless with concern. Scott had sent him a quick text moments after Morrell burst through the back door, a stumbling and barely coherent Stiles in tow. Stiles, for all the melodrama and eventfulness had been uncharacteristically silent. Submitting himself to all manner of odd tests Deaton could think to perform. He’d taken to staring diligently at crack in the clinic’s tile floor and  clenching his first whenever the aftershock of pain grew too much.

Laura, from where she stood to the right of the sheriff, made an impatient noise of agreement. She’d rushed in with the Sheriff, not an expert in magic the way Deaton and Morell were, sure, but she was still Stiles' Alpha. And thus felt the need to check in.

Deaton spared a moment to raise an eyebrow,” It’s-”

“It’s magic, Dad.” Stiles piped up. His voice hoarse and his eyes distance, their usual vibrancy flattened,” My magic. Glamouring itself as something mundane.”

Deaton nodded than went on,” The energy you attempted to expel… well, it didn’t refuse per se. There’s something not permitting you to summon more excessive energy-“

“ Is his magic gone?” asked Morrell somberly. She'd been uncomfortably withdrawn from the situation after bringing Stiles in. It was a switch from her usual preference of taking the reigns and charging full steam ahead.

Stiles made conflicting noise in the back of his throat and summoned a simple ball of fire in his palm. Not being completely present to the situation, but knowing without a doubt that his magic still lived wildly within him.

Deaton gave a pointed look before he said,” From what I can tell, the power simply had nowhere to go. But could not stray far from its source. It’s fixed itself to a point that was neither outside, nor inside the body.

“Skin.” Stiles states, fading the fire in his palm and twisting his arms to peer at the branches swaying there.

“What’s the pattern anyway?” Said Laura.

Stiles who’d taken his shirt off a half hour before she had walked through the door, turned so she could see the extent of the ink. The marked skin of his back itched under the heavy scrutiny. “That’s… the Tree of Life, isn’t it?” She asked, referring to the unsettlingly realistic trunk and roots spanning across the length of the young witch’s torso.

Deaton frowned, “Not quite.”

Stiles mind nudged a word into the forefront of his consciousness.

“Nemeton.”

Morrell was gone the next day and absolutely no attempt to contact her was successful.

Stiles would have been freaking out (well, he was freaking out regardless, but he would've really flipped out) if not for Deaton.

The man had been vague and tight lipped, but would have informed them if his sister had left under dubious circumstances.

He was hurt though. which was an interesting expression to see in the usually unflappable doctor. Merely meeting every question on the matter with a frowning,” She’s gone.”

☾☾☾

“ How are classes going?”

Derek, from his spot curled up on the comfy grey sectional of his pretentious midtown apartment, released an agitated huff.

Stiles, who’d walked through Derek’s front door via portal half an hour ago and promptly raided the wolf’s fridge, snorts from his place on the kitchen counter. No, he didn’t see why sitting on chairs was necessary. No, he wasn’t moving, Derek, fuck off) “Well, someone’s feeling talkative today.” Derek barked softly and somehow managed the fully-wolfed out version of The Eyebrow(™).

The older boy had mastered the full shift the same day he’d nearly clawed Stiles’ eye out. The day he’d voluntarily touched  anyone for the first time since the fire. The day after whatever bond he and Stiles had had solidified.

New York was incredible. Diverse and exciting and sometimes dynamic in too many ways. Too loud, too many smells, the lights in the city’s hot spots, too bright. Being in his fur… it relaxed him. Especially with Stiles there with him.

Although, Stiles had been quiet for too long. Which was never a good sign. Derek cracked an eye open and makes an inquisitive noise. Stiles’ shoulders dropped and quietly said,” Shift back real quick, I wanna talk to you.”

Derek let out a put upon sigh but obliged nonetheless, fur melting away fluidly. His bones cracking and popping audibly. Stiles winced. Watching a shift was captivating- entrancing even, but gods did it look painful.

And it was. On some level at least, Stiles knew for certain. After their bond set in place he could… feel certain things where Derek was concerned. Sometimes other wolves as well, if he was close to them. But it was always particularly sensitive with the Derek.  It wasn’t as though they shared emotions or anything of the sort, but simply, an acknowledgement. A general sense of pain, feelings, aura, and Stiles- whether he was in California or not- always felt when Derek fully shifted. It would never be as sure as enhanced senses. He’d ever be able to hear Derek’s heartbeat or smell his emotions, but it levelled the playing field a bit.

Now, Derek shifted and Stiles didn’t bother to suppress a shudder. As soon as the older boy lost his fur, Stiles felt a nagging in the back of his mind and, despite his face being less than expressive Stiles recognized the particular feeling as concern.

“Tell me what’s bothering you.” He demanded bluntly, while pulling on a nearby pair of sweats. What a way with words.

“Why?” Stiles snarked.” Are you gonna punch it?”

“ Probably.”

Stiles’ grin was cut short as he was reminded by the tingling of his skin, of his tattoo. It had only been six days since the Nemeton had shadowed itself onto him and he still had no clue what any of it meant. Or why his magic had backfired. Or why Morrell had vanished without so much as a text. So, understandably, he was in a less than optimal mood. Derek, shifted or not, centered Stiles in a way he’d been desperate for.

Anchor , his magic told him him, from somewhere deep within himself. And he’d known for a while, that he was keeping Derek sane and human, just as much as Derek did so for him. That being together was like coming home.

But there was more to the bond that just grounding. Something neither had the language for.  

Stiles felt the magic on his skin start to burn in a dull, distant kind of way and clenched his fist.

It would have been amazing to look Derek in the eyes and scent mark and revel in the easy, knowing banter and comfortable silence that was each other’s company but he couldn’t. He felt off. Restless, as though his ADHD had tripled its potency. And it left him a jittery, unrelaxed mess. That’d been part of why, at the first chance he had, he’d come to Derek’s apartment. But he-

“ Hey. You haven’t said anything.”

Stiles snapped out of his pensive stupor ,” Derek I need to show you something.”

Derek raised an eyebrow but nodded slowly,” ...Okay.”

Stiles hopped off the counter and stepped forward, stopping right in front of the wolf and started unzipping his hoodie. Derek felt his other eyebrow raise and a frown fix itself unto his mouth. But, sensing nothing remotely aroused or hesitant, said nothing.

Stiles, who’d intentionally left sleeves unrolled and his his hoodie on, hesitated for a moment, as though steeling himself. He dropped his hoodie to the floor in a fleece puddle, then his shirt.

And there it was. In all of it’s swaying, scrawling, ink-like otherworldliness. Announcing itself onto the back of Derek’s witch. In shocking contrast to Stiles’ skin.

Derek inhaled deeply, trying to drag all the air he could into- and with it, answers.

This was new. This was… Derek didn’t even know what to make of it. Or what to make of the buzzing he suddenly felt in the air, in his very core. His wolf was reacting to this, for some reason. And reacting strongly at that- he felt a pulling  in a way he never had. The air was suddenly earthy and metallic and spiced. Like the scent of Stiles’ magic had inflated infinitely.

He exhaled and suddenly something distant inside himself told him exactly what he was looking at. “Why is the Nemeton tattooed on your… god, you back, your arms? Jesus, Stiles.”  

Stiles paused, momentarily shocked that Derek could recognize it as the nemeton instead of mistaking it for the Tree of Life, the way Laura had done. He collected himself, than told Derek everything. Stiles sat down on the other end of the couch, his back still facing Derek and recounted his magic backfiring for the first time. The pain of it. The burning, Deaton’s tests, The way Morrell had been silent and brash before she hadn’t even been there at all. And if Stiles was shaking and his eyes were wet by the end of it, well then nobody had to know.

Derek absorbed the information with a deepening frown and noises of sympathy. He reached out to lay a hand on Stiles’ shoulder but paused, unsure of how the younger witch would react.

“Can I…?”  he muttered

“Please just. Please.” and Derek laid a hand on him, intent to comfort, but that… didn’t quite happen. As soon as his hand made contact with Stiles’ skin-and therefore the Nemeton plastered to it, he felt a powerful shock crash through his body. Crawling up his arm and burning so terribly. He hissed sharply in pain and pulled back.

Stiles turned, his entire body feeling electric with … something . His magic surging and wild.  “What the hell? Are you okay?”

Derek shook himself and said,” I think so. I just… “he ran a check, flexing the muscles in arms. “ Yeah I’m fine.”

Stiles breathed an audible sigh of relief, but the crease didn’t leave his eyebrows,”  I’m so sorry.”

Derek waved a hand in what he hoped was a ‘it’s fine’ gesture.’ He snorted, ” You didn’t mention the magical feedback.”

Stiles didn’t return the lightheartedness. The energy the tattoo had pushed into Derek had left him more concerned than anything else. The ink was still incredibly unpredictable. And if it was capable of hurting Stiles, than who knew what it could do to other people. Despite his strength, Derek was not invincible. If he got hurt because of something Stiles couldn't control… he had no idea how he’d react. So much had happened in the last week, he wanted to keep his wolf as far removed from pain as he possibly could.

He searched the older boy’s face for any sign of discomfort but found nothing. He took in the arch of his raised brows, his hazel eyes, his jaw and it’s ever present five o’clock shadow, his downturned mouth which was saying

“ Stiles? Has that happened with anyone else?”

“No,” he said,” It just you.” but he was distracted. His heartbeat no doubt still rattling against his ribcage like an erratic bird. Everything building up in the last week overwhelmed him. “It’s just you…” he said and he’d meant to surge up and hold the older boy close, to hold on for as long as he could but-

Somehow their lips met.

And it was perfect. The warmth of Derek’s mouth. The softer-than-imagined scratch of stubble.

Derek met him with movements tentative, but eager. It was a hurried kiss but not a messy one. Just the harsh, repeated press of mouths. Not looking to further anything but content to perpetuate the moment. To revel in it.

Then Derek pulled back, a look of pure shock dawning, his face constructed into something stricken and Stiles sobered automatically. A cold feeling rising in his throat. Panic.

Derek didn’t look angry- thank Gods. He’d kissed back with vigor but he said nothing and looked at Stiles as though he didn’t know what to do with him.

When a minute passed, then two minutes passed and Derek hadn’t moved or tried to say anything, Stiles swallowed the morbidity and nodded, ” Okay, then.” He smiled but he knew it was a bitter thing.

He summoned the portal to take him back to California. Derek's faint, “wait” barely registering before stiles had stepped into his own room and cried for the second time that week.      

This was a mistake. I should go I need to go.

It had taken two weeks for Stiles to convince himself to go back.

To apologize or- shit, anything to stop the ache in his chest. Or the way his magic seemed to fritz even more. Deaton had hinted it was caused by a state of unease. Stiles couldn’t relax so neither could the power within him. It made sense but that clarity didn’t make it any easier to resolve the issue.

So Stiles had been a mess of hurt and anxiety until he’d tried to work the Keurig metaphysically during a pack meeting and Lydia’s new sweater had ended up sprayed with hot chocolate. Apprenticeship or not, she’d snapped at him. In no less colorful or blunt words she'd told him to get his shit together. And so he, thinking it would be for the best, had waited until the following Friday morning, an hour or so before Derek would need to leave for his classes.

Which explained how he’d gotten there… but not what he was seeing. It didn’t add up, and…  it left Stiles with a sinking, painful feeling in his chest. His heartbeat must have been flipping out because one moment, Derek was sleeping soundly, snoring in that way he sometimes did, his face smushed into his pillow and someone else’s arm draped tightly around his torso (someone naked and beautiful and-) and the next minute he was awake. A look of mortification contorting his features in a way that was too reminiscent of the last time he’d been there and This was a mistake. I should go I need to go.

Of course Derek had a partner. No wonder he’d freaked out so much when they’d kissed. But he hadn’t mentioned anyone or said anything and they pretty much told each other everything so why had he failed to mention that particular piece of information. But look at him. Of course he had someone. God, he was gorgeous and smart and talented and Stiles was just some stupid witch. Stiles had never doubted their relationship until that moment right then. He was out the front door and back in his room before Derek could untangle his limbs and get out of bed to say whatever he’d been planning to.

That was the last time he’d gone to New York.

He got texts occasionally.

Little updates. Remnants of inside jokes. Invitations. Questions. Apologies. Drunken confessions.

But never an explanation.

He didn't bother answering any of them. Derek never stopped texting. But he didn’t come home at the end of semesters.

And he never came back after graduation.

☾☾☾

The basement was humid and fairly well lit. There were a collage of pictures framing the mint green walls; family portraits, vacations photos, graduation and wedding pictures. All displaying the happy faces of a family currently hanging on their last rope. The Goodman’s were a respectable family of 4 very talented psychics. There was Mrs. Goodman, a woman of extraordinary beauty and even more extraordinary wit, Mx. Goodman, an accomplished gender studies professor and remarkable baker. And then there were their two children. Sam, a sickly 18 year old with a promising psychic abilities and Hope, the endearing but smart-mouthed 12 year old whom was currently strapped securely to a chair, hyperventilating.

“Mommy, please let me go. I’ll be good. I promise, just please let me go,” Pleaded the thing possessing his body.

Mrs. Goodman held her pentacle in a tight, sure fist and pushed her tear-streaked face into her spouse’s shirt. She did little but chant a perpetual stream of,” that’s not my son that’s not my son that’s not my son that’s not my son that’s not-”

The thing inside Hope’s body slumped his shoulders and blinked owlishly,” Well,” it said,” it was worth a shot. Is there a reason I’m strapped to a chair? I’d be concerned but, honestly, none of you are worth half a crucifying damn. I’m too strong for any of you to exorcise, so If we could skip this and, i don't know, unchain me? I’d appreciate it.”

“Yeah, not gonna happen,” spat Sam.

“Well, you’re not going to do anything. So-”

“But I am.” Chimed in a voice that had only been observing until that moment. Stiles Stilinski stepped out the shadows and uncast the cloaking spell he’d knit around himself and Deaton before stepping foot on the property. Stiles hadn’t done in exorcism yet and so, when the Goodman family had contacted Deaton in hopes of help, Stiles all but jumped at the opportunity.

So that’s how he’d ended up 21 years old in a basement on the outskirts of beacon hills. The sleeves of his signature plaid button-up rolled up to the elbows, not as pale as usual on account of his recent visit to Barcelona for some magical research. He’d packed on more muscle since high school-  though, physically, he admitted he was a far cry from intimidating.

So he knew, when the thing inside the Goodman kid stilled and looked at him wide-eyed. It wasn’t because of anything physical.

Metaphysical, though? That was a different story all together.

Stiles tooks a step forward and it backed up as far as it could. Twisting Hope’s features very much into that of an animal trapped in a corner. Scared.

Stiles grinned and apparently it was the last straw. The thing left Hope’s body in a dense, red cloud with an ear-splitting screech. Stiles lets it leave his body but not the circle of ash, salt, and bone he’d instructed the Goodman's to encompass their kid in.  Hope’s body fell limp and Stiles reached for him with his magic, sending it in a wave to check on him without touching the terrible thing that’d been inside.

It was smoke and vapor before forming itself into something more solid. “ I let the child alone. Release me, witch.” It demanded with its terrible voice.

Stiles shook off the rattle its voice made in his bones and shrugged,” Listen, I’m not trying to be rude or anything but you’re…. kind of an abomination? Like, talk about a toxic relationship, man. Anyway, before I send you anywhere, I’m gonna have to,” he made a vague gesture with his hands and took another step forward. Then another and another until he was stepping over the circle’s line and the chanting something that made the thing scream and thrash, trying and failing to escape the circle. Stiles felt his voice go loud and thunderous.

“Let me out!” It screamed with too many voices.

He didn't. Instead, he reached out, grabbing its throat and unleashed a fraction of the energy within himself.  He closed his eyes, struggling against the creatures frantic movements, and searched for all the fractures in the beast that were so thin you’d think it was all one thing. The moment he found it-the smallest knot of twisted death magic, the spot where all the spirits were intertwined and bled into one another, Stiles slipped his magic in and, one by one, uncoiled the swarm of souls from one another, cleansing each, then moving on to the next.

By the time he was done there were twelve misaligned metaphysical puzzle pieces in the circle before him.  Stiles stepped back out over the line, dragging his clenched fist with him, and unstuck the negativity from the spirits, crushing it in his palm, and shoves the residual powder in the small jar Deaton handed him. Stiles sent each soul away in peace and blessed the house for good measure.

The family thanked him loudly and teary eyed. There were hugs and more gratitude then Stiles really knew what do do with. And then he’s tired in his jeep, three Gratitude Pies in his arms and Deaton driving by his side as Stiles slumped in his seat.

It’d been ten years since Deaton had shown up on the Stilinski doorway offering to teach, to guide and to mentor. His talent and quickly grown in leaps and bounds. His magic- a perpetual buzzing under his skin buzzing under his skin, in his marrow- restless as leaves in a harsh breeze had become something he could call to action and harness rather than an occasional impossible series of events. The Nemeton tattoo imprinted on his back and arms looked as vibrant and swaying as the day it burned itself unto him and still held parts of his magic locked.

Stiles’ official apprenticeship had actually only taken 4 years for him to complete- leaving him the only fully respected, incredibly powerful 16 year old on the continent- maybe on multiple continents. And he’d gotten good, like really good. Even Deaton for all his seemingly infinite experience and patience, had trouble keeping up Stiles had always been hungry for knowledge on all-things-magic in a way that would rival Lydia Martin. Deaton was an amazing instructor, and honestly, the druid even seemed excited at times to have another magical being of the non-wolf variety to share his knowledge with; So on the day that Stiles had finished both his formal and informal magical studies and was known as a force to be reckoned with, he’d sat down on a makeshift chair he’d conjured from the forest’s minerals and stones, his leg bouncing wildly with pent up energy and said, ” I wouldn't ever leave Beacon Hills. Of course, but don't you think it’d be incredible to travel? Like, go across the country and just- take in all that magic, make some allies, kill some monsters.”

Deaton raised an eyebrow, but Stiles was not so easily deterred. He continued” Like, hear me out, okay? Okay so like, this town is an incredible source of power and magic and that’s incredible, but there’s also an entire magical world out there and I’m like, super talented, right? I would,” he sighed,” I’d love to see it.”

Deaton was pensive for a moment then said,” Under usual circumstances, someone with your… prowess would have been sent to one of this country’s many magical institution. However, due to a few, particular circumstances, it was decided that your best path would be here with me, studying locally. Something you agreed to. Now that your apprenticeship is completed you’d usually have the chance to explore the rest of the magical world. However, people you age are ordinarily barely half at the stage and finesse that you are. And so because of your age and the fact that we’ve chosen to keep you in mundane public school as well means that you’ll need to wait to years until even thinking about leaving. And then there’s the matter of pack-”

“Okay, I get it. Jeez, Alan.” Stiles’ hesitated before saying,” What about universities? I know there’s a few in the U.S…”

Deaton sighed,” That’s another thing. You’re gifted Stiles- incredibly so. The way you use magic… There’s no one school that’d be able to teach you everything. You use energy the way a mage does, you manipulate it the way a warlock does, you’re in tune with the essence of it like a sorcerer. Stiles you are a seamless patchwork of all the most powerful elements of magic. You’d need to study at every single school in order to perfect every aspect of your abilities.”

“So I’ll just do that, then.”

“Excuse me-”

“I’ll study part time at every school. I’ll take it three schools at a time.”

“How are you planning on travelling, exactly?”

“Oh, there’s already a portal in my closet so-”

“... there’s a what?”

“Did i forget to mention that? Oops.”

“ Please, tell me it's self-made, warded, and exclusively yours?”

“Duh.”

“Where does it go?”

“Wherever I need it to.”

“ Stiles . Mr. Stilinski.”

Stiles’ jolted awake and nearly sent the Gratitude Pies flying.  

“You’re home.”

Stiles stretched and yawned and thanked the good doctor for driving him home. Deaton gave a signature nod of acknowledgement and disapperated back to his own apartment.

Stiles took the elevator up into his shared apartment and hugged Scott tightly. He placed the pies in the fridge and promptly collapsed onto the couch.

☾☾☾

Stiles was home with Lydia going over some Metaphysical Ethics and A Methodology of West African Deity Worship when every phone they have on them go off at the same time- They’d all been kidnapped enough over the years to learn basic contingency plans.

Stiles didn't hear what's happening on Lydia's end, but when he picked up it was Boyd’s voice on the other end. There’s noise in the background, too much noise to make out all the words, but Stiles caught enough,” magic bullshit *static* monster *static* get your asses over here.”

The line went dead before Stiles could ask where they were.

Lydia took the ever-present malachite pendulum from around her neck and pulled Stiles’ map of Beacon Hills off from the wall. By the time she'd completed the Locator spell her eyes were wide and her voice was tight as she looked up and said,” Stiles, they’re at the Nemeton.”

Stiles, who’d gotten to his feet as soon as he’d answered the phone, made for his closet.

Lydia looked at him like he’d grown a second head,” I don’t think we have time to grab our jackets! Just... where are your keys?”

“Just follow me okay, Lyds?”

“Into your closet ? Stiles, this isn’t the time for sexuality puns.”

But Stiles just turned around and continued on, Lydia collected herself, albeit still frowning and followed closely.

☾☾☾

They stepped through Stiles’ portal of seemingly infinite light and emerged into the crisp air of the forest’s center.

The first thing in Stiles’ line of sight was a very injured, very bloody Erica Reyes. Her left arm was twisted out of its socket, her leg looked as though it had imploded, her throat looked severely fucked. Torn and burned in a way that Stiles, for all his experience- may have nightmares about.

The worst thing though, was her eyes. It was the way that Erica’s usually vibrant  honey-brown eyes were pale; ashen and clouded over that had Stiles shivering and his tattoo burning. If not for the fact that she was still moving, coughing and reaching to fix her arms. Stiles would’ve thrown up. He still might.

He gathered his wits with a shake and did a quick intake of the area. To his dismay, the wolves were in a similar state and, all in varying states of intense gore and injury.  Save Allison, Scott, Jackson who were all fighting to the best of their ability out of Stiles’ immediate line of sight, and Danny, who was off kneeling over Isaac and Laura trying to speed up the healing process as best he could, hands only minutely shaking.

Stiles looked to his left and Lydia, Gods bless her, had already rushed towards the frantic, shaking bruja demanding information and ways to help. Which, okay then, left Stiles to go join the other three… but… wait, that couldn’t be right.

Because there was another wolf fighting alongside Scott. Someone with broad shoulders and dark hair and

Holy shit

“... Derek?”

Derek whipped his head around wildly and when his eyes landed on Stiles he froze, “ Stiles ?!”

He looked pale, panicked. The red of his eyes flickering for a moment and what the fuck? Questions raced through Stiles’ mind with shocking rapidity. Everything else went flying out his mind and Stiles was left gutted and hollow from the sheer shock of it.

It only lasts five seconds- their moment of inaction. But apparently that was all it took.

The creature, which Stiles found vaguely familiar, sidestepped Scott and dodged Jackson's blows, completely unfazed by the collection of arrows and knives Allison had embedded in its torso. It came up behind Derek and grabbed him. The moment its hands touched Derek’s skin, the werewolf released a scream unlike anything they’d ever heard. Derek fell to the ground, twitching and limp. He’s not dead, Stiles could still feel the bond between them, strong and sure. But nevertheless.

Something in Stiles just… snapped.

He felt his magic surge and reach out like a whip. Entrapping the thing in its impenetrable grip. The demon- which Stiles now recognized as a near mirror of the one he’d banished ten years prior- screeched with its mouth of too many sharp teeth and writhed, trying to get free. But Stiles didn’t let up.

Nostrils flaring, he spoke to it,” You just fucked up.” He stepped forward,” really…”another step,” really bad.”

He surged forward with his magic again and and with a violent shout, in the blink of an eye… it was gone. The forest grew quiet and still.

He realized, distantly, that his fingernails were bloody.

Chapter Text

Where had years ago once been an unstable mass of peeling paint and wavering plywood now stood the renovated Hale House, proud and healthy. The cursed stain that had  was now a more blessed place. The melancholy often felt by Lydia or sent out in waves through Laura’s pack bond was acknowledged, but grief did not overwhelm them. If felt as though the land had began to breathe again. And with it, the Hale Pack as well.

Laura had rebuilt the house four years ago. Instead of leaving it to be condemned, she’d opted an attempt at refilling it with life- to let the joy and vibrant beacon it had once been fill its halls again. It’d finally become the home it once was. A place each one of them could go whether they were in need of comfort or a quick laugh, whether they were excited or getting over a breakup-

Or in various stages of bloody, hellish, gorey healing.

Now, the beacon Hills pack all but busted down the front door with generally tattered clothes and solemn, blood-covered faces, but really no worse for wear. Stiles trailing behind the rest.

Only one of the wolves was still unconscious. And if it just so happened that it was the one person Stiles refused to go anywhere near, well then- who cared anyway.

They settled, for the most part, in the living room. It was the only room in the house that could fit all twelve of them. Everyone collapsed in a fit of exhaustion with the exception of Laura- who made a beeline for the laundry room to either sterilize, burn, or bleach the pile of clothes in her arms- and Stiles, who at that point in time, would have gone completely out of his mind had he sat still for anything but death. Instead, the witch took to alternating between pacing the perimeter of the first floor and literally jumping up and down every so often. He felt too much. Raw and… not excited but his power buzzed under his skin and was practically thrashing and demanding to be released in a way that Stiles hadn’t felt for years. Too many years. It was…

What had happened in the woods had been an anomaly; and it was just one of the millions of things running through his mind. A subject he was actively thinking about to maybe avoid thinking of you-know-who. But the problem was- and stiles loathed to admit this- was that it felt connected to the wolf.   

It was like the moment, the very millisecond Stiles had laid his eyes on the wolf, that his magic had surged up and reached out and filled him like it hadn’t since before the Nemeton had branded him.

In the years since Stiles had last set foot in New York, the bond he’d once felt as solid as his own pulse had been a fraying thing. After a while he hadn’t been able to get impressions and after that year, the only thing he could sense was the pseudo-painful bristle of the wolf’s full-shift. Nothing more, nothing less.

But seeing him had had their bond locking back into place as secure as it had ever been. And something unclenched in Stiles’ chest that he hadn’t even realized had been tightening. He felt light and full of positivity. Relief, as though his magic had pointed it’s metaphorical finger at him and said, ‘This is the way it should be. Don’t do that again’.  

And wow. What the fuck? What the fuck? Sure, it had been five, nearly six years that they’d gone without seeing each other. And sure, Stiles hadn’t necessarily coped in the best ways but that was not his fault. No one told Derek to kiss him back and then pull away looking like he’d just witnessed a murder. No one told Derek not to tell Stiles about his apparent relationship. No one told Derek to be a complete freakin’ moron.

So yeah. No. Fuck that. Fuck the happy, settled feeling in his chest. Fuck their bond. Fuck Derek Hale and fuck Stiles’ magic for making him want to do nothing but stay by the wolf’s bedside until he woke up.

Stiles had been so engrossed in thought, he hadn't even realized that he’d stopped pacing altogether and had simply been standing in the far end of the room, chest heaving and fists clenched so tight his fingernails pricked at the meat of his palms- until he heard a weary, ”Stiles?” Scott, no doubt choking on the scent of rage and hurt that was probably emmiteing off the witch in thick waves 

He couldn’t be there. Not right then. So he let out an”I’m fine.” before storming off and out of the house. He wanted to scream. Wanted to break things but he settled instead for a walk through the preserve.

He was out maybe twenty minutes, having forgone simply strolling for conjuring illusions to train with, letting off as much steam as he could. So he was sweating and his energy only barely diminished as he landed strike after strike, blow after blow, lightning blast after lightning blast, when Scott found him. Shirtless and borrowed, too tight sweats adorning his not yet cleaned up body.

 “Stiles.” He started, shifting from foot to foot. Hesitant. As though he was bracing himself for whatever his best friend would say or do next. When Stiles ignored him in favour of slitting a hologram’s throat with a dagger made of light, Scott persisted in that persistent way of his. “ Stiles .”

 “I’m fine, Scotty.” said Stiles, straddling the hips and strangling the life out of another illusion with his bare hands. “Never-” squeeze. “-fucking-” squeeze.”-better.” He squeezed again and the apparition popped into a glittering rain of blue and silver dust. Stiles grimaced and wiped the residue off of his hands, surveying the immediate surroundings for the remaining two mirages- whom had gone to hide somewhere.   

Scott huffed,”Yeah, call me crazy but this doesn’t look like ‘perfectly fine’ to me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes though his back was still facing Scott. One of the illusions apparated behind him and he spun on pointe, stuck his hand through the holographic chest, and tore out its still beating holo-heart. He crushed it in his fist.   

“Stiles.” Scott said, once again persisting persistently. 

Stiles bristled and turn to him,” What the fuck , Scott? What? What do you want me to say? Do you want me to talk about how I loved him and he just… fuck it. Fuck this. We’ve got other shit to deal with. Bigger problems. Real problems and those very real problems do not involve Derek. Fucking. Hale. The time for ice cream and gross sobbing ended fucking years ago-”

“Stiles.”

“Fucking what, Scotty?”

Scott nodded to the last hologram, which was running straight towards him. Stiles let out a relative burst of energy and the grass around the illusion grew to impossible heights. Reaching trip up and strangle it. The figure popped into magical dust and the grass retreated. 

“Stiles-”

“Why is he here, Scott?! Why?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“He finished school fucking three years ago! He has territory on the east coast. So why. Is he. Here?! Everything is more or less safe. The pack is fine. We’re all fine. We’re fine. I… “

“You’re fine?” Scott supplied.

“Yes!” Stiles exploded, before deflating like a small firework. “No.”

“Do you need a hug?”

“No.”

“Do you want a hug?”

“Yes, please.”

Scott walked over and pulled his best friend into a tight, comforting embrace. And Stiles was overcome with gratitude that Scott had been the one to follow him out. Anyone else would’ve tried to prompt him to talk about everything all at once and just- nah. Scott, though? He knew by now to let Stiles work off his upset in whatever way he needed and give him just the right amount of space to talk things out at his own pace. To be there with open ears and hugs and whatever else the pale boy needed when he’d cooled off.

He felt any remaining fight leave him the moment Scott held him. “Why is he back, Scotty?”

Scott held him still, shrugging as he said, ”I don’t know. He showed up with Laura when that thing attacked us.”

“Gods. I, um, I can’t go back in the house.”

“Yeah you can. Come on.” Scott said, “He’s still not awake yet, I don’t think. We can go back, get changed, we can head back to our place and you can a shower. Okay?

“Okay.” Stiles nodded and scrubbed his eyes a bit.

They make it back to the house in one piece. Everyone else showered. Redressed, completely healed, and vigorously avoiding any mention of Derek, who was upstairs recovering in the room which had been his before the fire or Stiles, who was maybe not handling it in the most graceful of fashions.

Instead, the conversation ranged from what food they’d be eating to what exactly happened in the forest. 

“What was it?” Asked Kira from her spot on the bean bag chair.

Cora’s eyes glowed as she recreated the signature Hale Glower™,” Who cares what it was? It it dead?”

Stiles shook his head, ”Not permanently. 

“If I ever get my hands on that thing again, I’m gonna tear the life out of it.” Jackson said with a disturbing level of calm.

“Yeah,” said Erica with mock enthusiasm, she was sprawled out on the fluffy black ikea rug and thankfully in one piece. ”Cause it’s not like everything that makes skin contact with this thing get splinched.”

Malia growled from her spot on the couch, ”Then we’ll wear g loves.”

“Call me crazy, but i don’t think that’d work.” Said Scott.

“More like: Mc-Call, you crazy,” said Cora, ”We need to take this thing head on. We can’t just wait for it to suck the life out of half our territory. We-”

“Okay, hold your horses, Corey.” Laura walked emerged from the other room with tired but amused eyes. Alpha Laura Hale was a tan skinned, dark haired badass knockout in her late twenties. Her tee-shirt literally had ‘I’d rather die than talk to you’ sprawled loudly across the chest and her hair, still wet from her recent shower, was pulled into a messy braid.

It had taken Stiles the better part of a year to get back on good terms with her after the Derek Debacle™. Stiles had known she’d had nothing to do with he and Derek’s falling out.

He knew they were two very separate entities, but sometimes… sometimes he’d notice the challenging fashion of crossing arms over chest or the loud, rare laugh or the arch of an eyebrow and he’d feel his heart sink all over again. But with time they’d grown good friends and dependable allies, with Laura aiding and advising Stiles on coven matters and Stiles doing the same.  

Later, when he’d taken over as the official pack emmisairy, that friendship between the two had only solidified. Stiles having done so admirable an impression of ‘moving on’ he’d convinced himself. Laura had kept in frequent contact with Derek over the years, but thankfully never attempted to bring him up.

Now, Alpha Hale slipped her phone into the back pocket of her black shorts and regarded her pack with strength, ”What we need to do is nothing.” At the anticipated sounds of protest and confusion she held up a hand and said, “I just got off the phone with Deaton. Guys, this is not a pack issue, it’s a coven issue. Which means,” her eyes landed on the bean bag chair across from Cora Stiles had been sinking into,” Stiles is taking the lead on this one. We’ll refer to the Emissary for all strategy and execution on the matter.”

When every pair of eyes turn on Stiles, the witch nodded once, stepping into the role easily,” Okay then. What we’re dealing with is a demon. Not the kind that possesses and manipulates, but low ranking creature of hell that thrives off the life force of others. It’s a supernatural anomaly that is admittedly rare so it doesn’t have a name, not really. I read a bit about them like a decade ago, so I’ll need to brush up bit but guys, this thing is dangerous. Like, mass mayhem, bloody chaos, apocalypse dangerous. It consumes everything in its path and then everything else. No one approach it, seek it out or travel alone. Danny and I can amp up the wards around the town, someone please escort Lydia into the forest, I need you to collect three animal cadavers and about thirty ounces of the soil it disturbed. Everyone else… listen guys this things not gone forever. Stay on guard and patrol in threes. If you spot it, text me and call Danny or Lydia asap. Got it?”

There were nods and confirmations all around, Stiles looked to the alpha and said, ”Laura, grab your jacket and,” he paused, grimacing,” and get your brother. Text deaton and tell him we’ll be at the library within the hour.”

“Wait, where are you going?” she asked, already grabbing her jacket and halfway up the staircase.    

“I’ll meet you there, I’ve got something to take care of.”

☾☾☾

Stiles did not, as a matter of fact, have anything to take care of. Ut he’d be damned if he was driving in the same car as Derek. Unconscious or not, he wasn’t ready.

Instead he opted to apparate to his beloved jeep and drive alone. A lot had happened and while he didn’t exactly want to be alone with his thoughts for too long, he needed a moment to breathe.

Stiles walked into the clinical but warm atmosphere that was the back of the animal hospital. It had been ten years since he’d first stepped into the place and though it was medicinal and Stiles loathed hospitals with every fibre of his being, it had never felt anything but welcoming.

Stiles walked back and back and back. Past the operating rooms and through the rooms of animal cages until he came to the brickwall at the back-most of the  building. He closed his eyes and knelt down, pressed his thumb to the red brick closest to the floor and felt his own spark rush up to meet the druid’s concealment charms.

When he opened his eyes again, a familiar black tourmaline doorknob had become visible. The brick before him faded away and he was left with an imposing  door of cherry wood, mountain ash wood, and mahogany. Stiles twisted the knob and stepped into one of the many sections of the animal clinic that wouldn’t have shown up on anyone’s blueprints. He took the steps of the carved stone staircase two at a time.

Alan Deaton had been a resident of Beacon Hills for twenty-six years. Like many, he’d been drawn to the Nemeton’s pulsing mass of power and then stayed to take on a more permanent position as Talia Hale’s emissary.

The land he’s chosen to build his business on had once been the site of a temple and sanctuary from colonizers and the prejudices of mundae men. It had fallen away more than once. The first instance being a flood, later it caught fire and turned to ruin before finally falling as the unforgiving passage of time crushed it to rubble and it was forgotten.

As he’d told it, the vet had walked about the etown one day and had become overdrawn with urge to consecrate and rebuild. To pay respects and lay to rest. Deaton had performed a ritual and blessed the land not soon after; then purchased it to ensure, if only for a few decades, that no more harm would befall it. He’d built the clinic a year later.

Stiles would never cease to marvel at the building and all its twists, nooks, and mysteries. While to the average eye and all non-magical, the animal clinic was quite a plain and straight forward box of brick and spackle, the honest truth was that the place was built like a freakin’ maze. Hidden doors, passage ways, portals and magic freakin’ archways in every crawl space and on every wall. The place was built like a geode: something unspectacular on the surface, but a glittering hub of wonder when cracked open.

The library itself was also literally a geode, being inside of a massive, smooth, mismatched crystal composition of smoky quartz, sapphire, chalcedony, and jasper. Every bookshelf reached the high, high ceiling. There was a triangular table of obsidian and petrified wood within the center. The room, though it wasn’t the size of a football field, was large enough and roughly the size of a city block. Stiles loved it here. 

“Ah, Mr. Stilinski!” said Deaton from where he stood at one edge of the table, “How nice of you to join us.”

“Hey, Deato!” Stiles replied, recognizing that of all the nicknames he’d graced the doctor with over the years ‘Deato’ was the most grating.

“Laura, tells me you’ve had quite the eventful afternoon. I’m nearly done checking over Derek, but I’ll be happy to listen to your recount of events.”

And that was all the invitation the young witch needed. While he hadn’t been in the forest while the pack had first engaged he had been the one to defeat it. Except it had only been a temporary solution. “I don’t know how exactly but… I can feel in my bones that it wasn’t gone. It’s not dead. Or even permanently banished like the one I banished when I was eleven.” 

Deaton frowned,” You think this is the same kind of creature?” His tone did absolutely nothing to subdue the mild panic that had been growing in Stiles’ gut. By the looks of it, Laura felt the same way and Derek- who’d woken up, stayed silent and who Stiles was ignoring- had a similar look of unease on his face.

Still, Stiles replied. “One-hundred percent. Without a singular doubt in my mind. It… it felt the same, Alan. The same kind of hunger as the other one. The way it looked. It was fighting when I showed up, but I’ll bet you a thousand god-loving bucks it was sucking the life outta the forest.”

Deaton took the glowing copper orb from Derek’s (whom Stiles was ignoring) mouth and held it up to the light with rapt scrutiny. “Cash gambles won’t be necessary, Stiles. You’re right, I’m afraid. The signatures of energy depletion are identical to those of the living but drained creatures I studied some time ago. “

“So what does that mean ?” asked Laura from the other edge of the table.

“It means that if not for your emissary and his talented coven, we’d all have been dead hours ago.”

Laura nodded, glancing from Stiles to Derek to Deaton. “What exactly is it?”

Deaton sighed, ”A demon. The true soul of a psionic vampire. Psionic vampires are quite similar to kanimas in that they are not a planned change. However, unlike the kanima, who seeks resolution and closure in order to become what what it should have been, these demons have no knowable method of transformation for the better. They were originally mundane men of pure, unshakeable evil and cruelty, who were bitten or turned by an average vampire, then died in a particularly gruesome, but ritualistic way. Their souls, by this point are such a twisted thing that it becomes a demon by default and wanders Hell and all the realms eternally. In search of hunger and power. Never to be satiated.”

“Holy shit.” said Laura, “...okay. So what does Stiles have to do with this?”

“Well for one thing,” continued the vet,” he faced one when he was a child and permanently banished it off the face of the earth and every other realm, so the story goes. And for another thing, Stiles is connected to magic in a truly remarkable way. He's capable of holding an excessive amount of energy. An infinite amount more than it would take to banish this thing. Although,” he frowned, turning to Stiles,” since the nemeton laid claim to your skin, you’ve been unable to access the mass of your magical supply.”

“Are you saying his magic has been muted this whole time? Like tampered down?”

Stiles shook his head,” No, L. It’s um. Think of it like this. Imagine you’re filling a cup of water in the sink, right? And the water is the magic and the glass is the physical ability to handle and hold it. What happens when the cup gets full but you keep it under the tap?”

“It overflows.”

“Exactly. Think of overflowing as a witch or mage being overwhelmed and torn apart by magic. Now what would happen if the cup was able to spread and grow and deepen to fit the water? Forget the sink, it’s just one reservoir to another. That’s what my magic was like.”

“Was? Well, what's it like now?”

Deaton sighed,” It’s just the cup, still larger than average but no longer expanding. It never overflows, but the glass can’t grow right now.”

Stiles furrowed his brow and recalled something that he’d felt earlier,” Until… until earlier. I’ve had this weird cap on my powers for,” he cleared his throat,” for five years. I haven’t gotten past the cap until today.”

“Elaborate if you would.” said Deaton. Which from him was code for   SPIT IT OUT, for the love of god.

“I don’t know exactly! I was distracted. I- I’d just noticed the… other wolf and the thing came towards me and he screamed and I freaked out. When everyone was on the floor but Alli, Scott, and Jackson. I just felt this power come back to me. It wasn’t enough to banish it forever, but it was good enough to buy us some time.”

Deaton looked thoughtful for a moment before saying,” This was directly after Derek collapsed, I take it?”

Stiles huffed a quiet, “Yeah.” and Deaton nodded. His next words were in no way at all what Stiles wanted to hear.

“It’s likely that due to  the bond between you, Derek’s energy fell to you, instead of being consumed. Because of that he was drained yes, but did not die. The magic that binds you two is old, unbreakable, rare, but mostly mysterious. In all these years I’ve come across nothing to describe it- but it is ultimately rooted in protection and collaboration. I have no doubt that, had anyone else been standing where Mr. Hale had stood. We’d have been planning funeral arrangements.”

Stiles clenched his jaw, crossing his arms  and pointedly looking anywhere but the man in question.

“There’s something else,” piped up Derek. He sat up unsteadily, his face pale and his voice hoarse. He looked like he’d been run over by a truck and shot full of wolfsbane. Though to his credit, he sensed Stiles’ avoidance and directed his gaze to Deaton and Laura,” His eyes, they…. Before I fell I saw them. They were red. Alpha red.”

“Well, that’s alarming.” Laura said.

Deaton’s eyebrows shot up ,”Alarming indeed. It may be from the energy transfer, still-” he turned to Stiles.”-has that ever happened before, Stiles?”

Stiles shook his head vigorously, ”No , it’s just-” and Stiles heart must have become a jackrabbit within his ribcage. He’d almost… What he’d said five years ago. Before… before. And wow. Ouch. absolutely not. We are not repeating anything of the sort, Just-”No.” he amended, ”Never.” and then,” I’m gonna go get some air. 

He stepped out, pointedly ignoring the reluctance and grief in his bond.

☾☾☾

He’s up the staircase and leaned against the building’s wall facing the parking lot when Laura finds him. She says nothing, genuinely at a loss as to what to say to him. It didn't take a wolf to read her 

“You didn’t tell me he was coming.” It’s said as a statement. Blank, accusatory.

The alpha winced anyway,” I didn’t know- well, I did but I didn’t know it’d be so soon. He showed up this morning and let me know where he was staying I.. I thought I’d have more time to talk to you.
Stiles was unfazed. He was feeling too much and thus, shoved it away and forced his nonchalance into submission. “Why is he here?”

Because she was the alpha. She knew. She’d known . Even if all she said was, ”Stiles…”

The pale witch shook his head and walked off.

That night, Stiles Stilinski did a quick attraction spell, walked into a bar called the Wicked Fly and fucked the first pretty person that walked up to him with hunger in their eyes.

☾☾☾

After Stiles woke up in a stranger's bed feeling like an (admittedly satisfied) ass, he gathered his things with a surprisingly unawkward farewell to the actual sex god who was still lounging in bed, an abundance of offers for the future tumbling from their perfect mouth. He made his way from one side of the Beacon Hills to the other. Coming to a halt in front of the pretentious-looking-though-affordable box of condos.

He spent the next fourteen hours ignoring anything but his books.

At the alpha’s request, Stiles texted Laura to keep her in the loop every few hours or so, not that it was ever anything beyond a curt nothing yet. Get back to you soon . Like he’d told Scott the day before, they really did have bigger things to worry about. Stiles had no idea how much time they had before the demon came back. No idea how to locate it. No idea how to access his powers and, lastly, No idea how to banish it without borrowing goddamn energy from goddamn Derek Goddamn Hale (which was his legal name as far as Stiles was concerned.

The pack grew more restless with each passing day. As did the coven. Stiles, until he could pinpoint the location and its signature thrum of magic, couldn't pinpoint its buildup and figure out how long they had until it reappeared. Lydia, with all her abilities, seemed distant- distracted. Though she never screamed and the pack took that as a win.

The true problem, he’d explained too many times already, was that he was trying to create a spell that would locate a magical creature with no ties to the realm. And while Stiles was remarkably well rounded what the fuck . He had no idea how to even begin going about that. The thing left no magical prints, no traces, nothing .

Yet another bite to the ass was that finals were fast approaching for everyone in the pack save for Parrish and Laura, who’d completed school years prior. They’d all taken to studying together at the house and no one’s school was more than an hour half away (save for Stiles, but portals were handy that way). Even though they’d all been fine going to and from classes, it was difficult to focus with impending doom hovering over heads and breathing down the necks of everyone in beacon Hills.

Stiles modified the wards in the town so that he and Laura would be made aware of every soul in the town. The creature was a corrupted soul, but a soul nonetheless ad so, until Stiles could locate it, he researched and took as many precautions as possible.

The increase in testing also meant that Stiles had to increase the use of his personal portal. Something he hadn’t hesitated to do in a long time. It was stupid, he thought but… having Derek back, having their bond resolidified and feeling his energy more potently that he had in over five years. It hurt. Every time he stepped through it everything he’d pushed down and convinced himself he’d gotten over came surging back up and it fucking hurt.

☾☾☾

The semester finally came to a close after a season of manic, crippling anticipation and eternal hardship (shut up, Scott, that’s what it felt like.)

Stiles had, unsurprisingly to all, gone above and beyond in every single class, from all three schools. Getting A’s in every course he’d taken and a few he hadn’t.

The pack had been irritable and antsy as whole, most uncomfortable with the prospect of defence instead of an aggressive, territorial offence. The wolves had been running more often than not. Always coming back calm, but only for a short time until they went stir crazy. Danny ‘spontaneously’ began setting fire to the left shoe of anyone who was particularly grating (mainly Jackson). Allison was sniping more often than usual with Erica, Kira brought four-too-many packmates dangerously close to dismemberment during training. Lydia snapped more so than usual. Jackson was… well, he was Jackson , and Stiles more often than not conjured random objects to for the sole purpose  of kicking them harshly. Suffice it to sat, the break from school stress had been a breath of fresh air for everyone. It allowed time for strategy and refocus. So it was good.

But also kinda of not really? It was kind of terrible. 

If stepping through the portal was bad, having no school library to escape to was worse.

Stiles loved his territory with all his heart but he couldn’t help it. There was this… this feeling of wholeness- of things setting in place and it made him, despite the magic’s intention, feel trapped .

Because suddenly, every time he left his apartment (and one memorable occasion when he hadn't- Derek was there. At the supermarket, at Deaton’s, the gas station for the love of god. He’d always show up out of nowhere. Drifting unknowingly towards that pull, towards their bond- looking incredibly confused at the sudden urge to walk through the preserve or pick up some milk and butter or literally borrow sugar for cookies. Cookies? Like come on .

Pack meetings were unsmooth and stilted in a way they hadn’t been since high school. What with everyone’s pointed obliviousness to the pair. All conversations conveniently straying from anything remotely related to New York, any event from beyond a two years ago, and anything remotely romantic. Which was proving difficult, seeing as half the pack was dating the other and they all had a habit of cuddle-piling each other. Kira and Malia more often than not settling near the pile of limbs that was IsaacScottAllison , Erica and Boyd fucking straddling each other, even Lydia holding close to Parrish whenever he stepped in.

It had never bothered Stiles before, and honestly it didn’t even bother him now. But, with the exception of Scott- who was perfect and who Stiles would totally platonically marry if he didn’t have three partners, seriously how do you- But they were all trying to be so delicate about everything, All of them stepping around landmines and it made things remarkably uncomfortable.

The worst thing. Oh my god the worst thing though, was that Derek himself never tried to talk to Stiles.

Derek never tried to reach out or corner Stiles or talk or offer to drive him home when her left his car somewhere or anything . He stood in corners and Glowered & Growled TM and made the occasional sarcastic remark or offered a bit of insight. He never pressed for anything and when he did talk about Stiles and the coven, it as nothing but clipped formal tones.

All in all, he seemed content to just let Stiles come to him- if ever at all- on his own terms. To let things be resolved when the witch wasn’t overcome by anger and hurt and that was such a stupid thing, right? Because only people who were genuinely close with Stiles ever even thought to do that. To let him sort things out on his own and proceed when he was ready. It was just more proof of how close they'd been. How close they still were, try as Stiles may to deny it. Derek could glower and barely say a word and try his best to suppress his feelings, but Stiles still felt everything the wolf felt.  

Even the Nemeton couldn’t center him. Mediating at the focal point connected the witch  to all of the creatures and power in Beacon Hills and even further, if he needed. And Derek was always there. Burning bright and pulling him closer.  

And each time Stiles saw him, something clenched tighter and tighter in his chest.

☾☾☾

If Stiles found himself at The Wicked Fly more nights than usual, well, so what? Any and all distractions were welcomed.

He didn't really have a routine, per so, but he found himself drifting into the grey bricked walls often enough. Whenever the itch of his tattoo became too much and he needed to calm his energy.

The Wicked fly had been around for three years or so and while it wasn’t exactly the pack's cup of tea, Stiles and his coven took to it like ducks to water. Tonight, and most nights lately, he was alone. The only company he sought were those who’d take him into their beds.

Sometimes it was the familiarity of someone he’d known and trusted for years and sometimes it was others. Beacon Hills was, afterall, a hub of all things supernatural and in being so, had quite a few crossing paths with him. Sometimes it was other witches. Or a banshee, a clique of fairies all at once. And sometimes, when he was too restless, when he would crawl out of his skin and bounce off the walls otherwise, an incubus.

Sex demons were his worst habit, but they were physically draining in a way he needed sometimes and because of his wards, the energy they took was purely sexual, so he knew his magic was safe.

He found himself in enough beds to recreate the map he memorized of Beacon Hills solely by the apartments he’d spent the night in. He was always safe and never picky but…

But never shifters. And never wolves.

It was the first time in over five months he’d been taken home by a human, ironically enough, that something decidedly non-mundane came to light.

Stiles was stripped to all but his boxers, bent over the desk of a fantasy illustrator (someone who was aware of the paranormal of course. It was difficult to explain why furniture starting levitating while in the haze of post-coital bliss. He'd learnt that the hard way.) when he’d heard na appreciate noise from the person hovering so closely above him.

To his credit, the individual he’d been with was incredibly vocal and so it took Stiles a moment to really that this sound was different. Not in a bad way, just separate from the enthusiastically guttural, sex-drunk moans and groans of the envering. When he did catch on though, the artist had already paused above him.

Stiles frowned and turned to face his tanned, red-haired and bright eyed companion.

“Everything okay?”

The person- Jay, stiles recalled vaguely, said,”Yeah, just…. your tattoo-”

“Is moving? Yeah it does that. Could ya-" 

“No, it’s… I’m just admiring, the colors. They’re so vibrant. So realistic.”

Stiles stilled and steadied himself slowly, ”Colours?”

Because the Nemeton on his back was many things, but it was and had always been completely jet black.

“Yeah. The browns and blues and oranges and- how’d you get the grey on there? it’s amazing.”

Stiles considered this. There was no telling how long the tattoo had been coloured in. If he’d been hooking up more days then not and none of his flings had noticed or said anything, then there was a good chance it was something only non-magical folks could see. But even knowing that he had no idea what that meant. And he’d had the earth’s mark for a while, why was it changing now? Was it the Demon? The bond? His energy? De-

Woop. nope. Not going there. Not going there.

Maybe Deaton would have some insight? Sure, he’d finished training years ago, but Deaton had decades of experience. 

“Why do I get the feeling I’m missing something?” Jay pouted.

Stiles snapped back to himself, ”Nah, you’re good. I just… dammit. I feel like an ass. I should probably… go check something. But I- fuck I don’t want you to feel bad and I- I definitely want you to feel good. Like so good. I wanna make you feel so good but I-” He knew he was rambling but he did that sometimes. 

“Is everything okay?”

Stiles took a breath and shrugged. Colours or not, he felt about average. No pain, no magical bullshit. Just the constant thrum of restless energy. “Most likely.”

Jay looked at Stiles through their long lashes, an eyebrow raised,” In that case… could it wait until after I have you in my mouth? And then get myself inside of you?”

Stiles raised both eyebrows and gaped. A very manly expression. His eyes dared a glance down to the artists’ hard leaking cock and his mouth watered on reflex. He was a simple guy, okay? 

“Uh… yeah!” He said with a composed, very manly squeak, ”That sounds doable.”

They fuck each other senseless and it’s amazing. By the end of it though, his tattoo still trickles with too much power and he can’t stay asleep on the designer mattress.

☾☾☾

Stiles actually does go to Deaton’s the next day. Too many question yearning to spill off his tongue. The doctor was grinding a variety of sweet smelling herbs for an enchantment and the clinic was silent save for the methodic lull of the mortar and pestle.  

“I appreciate you coming to me, Stiles.”He comments, the sleeves of his soft sweater rolled up to the elbows and sweat beading from his forehead- grinding herbs by hand was much harder than it looked. “Unfortunately, this is the first I’ve had to deal with a mark such as yours and thus, its behaviour is as new to me as it is to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

Stiles shrugged. “It’s fine. I knew it was a long shot, anyway.”

“However,” Deaton said because there's always an asterisk with him,” If I had to guess, I would say that perhaps the partial colouritaton was due to your use of power upon Derek’s arrival.” and Alan, thankfully had the tact to say it straightforward without a hint of awkwardness. “I’ve been looking into your tattoo and I think I may have found something we’ve overlooked previously-”

Stiles’ eyes widened, his jaw working in shock before he said, “ What?! Why didn’t you say anything? ” They hadn’t eve given up per se, but after eighteen month sof researching and coming up black, the search slowed considerably. There was of course, hundreds of books and papers written on magical tattoos but the more they looked, the more they realized that Stiles’ mark was something truly extraordinary. New information was rare and Atiles was also hungry for it.  

“Well, you’ve been quite evasive. ”Replied the vet with a pointed look, “It can wait though. If what I’m looking at is in fact what happened to you… We’ll need every ounce of knowledge  and certainty we can grasp.” He seemed to lose himself in thought for a long moment before he changed the subject, “How’s your location spell coming along?”

“Ugh. Not really coming at all.” Stiles groaned with the exhaustion of a thousand millennials.

“What’s blocking you?” 

The witch shrugged, “Well, usually when I do these kinda spells, I connect to the earth to find the energy signature of a particular being. All the things I’ve looked for have had ties to the earth's energy. This one though…”

Deaton pursed his lips, ”You’re associated most strongly with elemental magic, yes? Yet you’re only using one element for this? Consider all the powers at your disposal.”

Stiles eyes widened, ”Wait, If I… OhMyGods , if I tap into the Air instead! Ugh, duh ! If I access the Air then I can find what disrupts it! What doesn’t belong!” He deflated as he realized,” I have never done that though. I’m flying blind.”

The vet looked to his. “I’m acquainted with a coven that specializes in this sort of work.

They will help but they are most definitely not a local source.”

Stiles frowned,” Well, how far is ‘not local’, exactly?”

Deaton raised an eyebrow,” In this case? Nevada.”

“Guess I’m going on a road trip.”

☾☾☾

“Why does it feel like you’re running away?”

Lydia had stopped by the condo to judge Stiles and all his life choices under the guise of bidding him farewell. Meanwhile, he packed ten days worth of clothes. Obviously he’d been planning on using his portal to travel as usual, though Deaton shut down that idea down before he’d finished his sentence.

The coven was powerful and fiercely protective of their territory, having cloaked the entire state from any form of magical detection, transportation, and all magical users.

“That’s cause he is running away.” Scott called from the kitchen, mouth full of cereal but even more full of betrayal .

Stiles folded his shirt with a bit more force than necessary. “Look nobody’s running anywhere, alright-”

“Nobody but you-”

 “I just- Lydia, could ya just. Not? Jeez. I’m only going cause I literally need to so we can get these spells over with so we all don’t freakin’ die, okay? It’s my responsibility as High Witch and Emissary! Okay? You remember what responsibility means?”

“Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

All the air left him, ”Would it… I mean would it be so bad to get a way for a bit? Ya know? If I just… had some days to myself? While also being productive got the good of the pack. I.” Stiles scrubbed at his eyes,” I feel like I can’t even breathe here right now." 

Lydia gave him a signature pitying look, her voice soft but firm as she said,” Stiles… you're not going to solve anything by trying to oragasm all your problems away and ignoring your feelings.”

Stiles avoided the Banshee’s gaze and clenched his jaw, ”There’s nothing to avoid. I’m over it."

Chapter Text

The woods bled together and manifested a long exhale of repetitive beauty for a small eternity. The world as it existed- beyond the hum of an engine and the technicolor hues of a slow-changing sky- faded away. Then, after seven hours or so, the woods gave way to spacious highways. The trees thinned to make room for the scarcity of open plains. Not as familiar, but calming nonetheless.  

Stiles was snoring loudly. His neck twisted in an uncomfortable angel on the stiff, over stuffed plush seat of the Greyhound bus the next morning. The journey from Northern California to Nevada was anticipated to take up the better part of a day, so he’d gathered his suitcase and stepped onto the mobile joyride at the ungodly time of 12:23am.

He rarely chose to travel the old fashioned way- much preferring the the speed and low-risk of his portal- but the smooth glide of the tires beneath him and the elongated pavement, the quiet, it was hypnotic. For once, there was no rush. It was a long forgotten form of meditation.

Beacon Hills was his home, his territory. But that town held so many bad memories. Try as he may have to ignore it, there’d been a gnawing feeling in his chest long before Derek (with his stupid face) showed up again. So R&R (and by R&R he meant: some uncomplicated time with allies of the magical variety- a solo venture) was exactly what he needed.

Despite what he’d told Lydia- a bold face lie she hadn't needed a wolf’s hearing to detect- Stiles knew she was right. On some level at least. What had happened with Derek hadn’t amplified anything… it just brought things back up to the surface- although if he was being honest with himself, those feelings had never strayed that far away. This whole thing was a mess. Stiles was a mess- despite his various methods of escapism.

 He knew he couldn’t keep on the way he’d been going, putting bandaids on bullet holes but… he didn't know what else to do.

Derek had been back in town for months now. Whenever (if ever, Stiles’ mind piped in) he was planning on leaving… it wouldn't be anytime soon. The Emissary was aware he couldn’t avoid things forever and he didn’t want to, not really. But what had happened, talking about it- about all of it, would be like opening up a can of giant, poisonous flesh eating worms. Could you blame him if he wasn’t ready for that yet? If he needed some time to collect himself?

You’ve had five years, man. How much more time could you need?

As much time as he could get, he decided. This wasn’t something that needed to be rushed.

 In the meantime… desert witches.

☾☾☾

The Greyhound- for all its luxury (onboard bathroom and free wi-fi) broke down not some two hours out from the destination. Something about tires or engines or something. Stiles was no expert. He knew duct tape and duct tape alone as the hero in his auto-troubled journey.

In any case, Stiles was grateful for an excuse to stretch his totally muscular legs. The last pit stop had been over three hours ago and the dented space in the cushion that’d been brought to life courtesy of Stiles’ ass had now swiftly bypassed the ah, this is perfect stage to the ah, this is uncomfortable. Make it stop stage.

Stiles hopped, skipped and jumped out into the dusty front of a pseudo pitstop, kicking up clouds of dehydrated earth with every dawdling drag of his red chuck taylors. The air here was still, but… charged somehow and the witch wondered idly what the cross of ley lines looked like; How many were right below him.

Stiles reached for his phone before realizing he’d left it back on the bus charging (three straight hours of Angry Birds could do that). He swore, squinted into the distance and, for lack of any exciting alternative, he wandered.

The longer Stiles puttered about the unknown intersection of currents and stale air, the more intense the cloying taste of magic became. The great witch felt the sting of the Nemeton’s brand. It didn’t just buzz, it almost… hurt. He followed the pull on his magic until-

A bobcat. Black and grey, though its eyes were red. The Nemeton Witch knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that the being stood before him was no shifter. Stiles had been around wolves and all manner of the like long enough to recognize their magical signature.

Whatever She was though, She was old. Her power was strong and ferocious. Stiles held Her gaze. Respectful but unwavering.

“Gorgeous animal, isn’t She?” Said a voice to his immediate side and Stiles nearly jumped out of his skin. He spared a glance to the left.

It was a young woman beside him. Shimmering fawn skin, five foot five inches and such otherworldly beauty it was almost magical. She had a kind smile, perfect dark eyebrows and soft eyes that held a hint of mischief. Her hair, shoulder length strands the color of spilled blood, poked out from a wide brimmed black straw hat.

Usually, Stiles opted to be distant- polite but minimal when discussing things with strangers, lest they be enemies in waiting. But… something was different about the girl who stood beside him, peering with her brown eyes. Stiles sensed no magic from her but thought her captivating all the same.

She smiled softly and held his inquisitive gaze with an unflinching, somehow searching stare of her own. She raised an eyebrow at his elongated silence.

Stiles regarded her carefully, ”Yeah, She’s uh… really something.” He replied, ”Enchanting even.”

The woman nodded, ”Bobcats aren’t usually so common around here. I wonder what She’s trying to tell you.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow of his own, ”What do you mean?”

She shrugged, ”Oh, nothing. It’s just. Why would She come all this way to you without reason?”

Stiles paused, mulling over the blood red woman’s words. He said carefully, ”What makes you think She’s here for me?” He turned back to the creature, who hadn’t moved.

The woman looked at him with a hint of amusement, ”Who else? Of course She’s here for you. We both are.”

Stiles turned to face her again, but only saw the dust and sand. She was gone. He turned back to the bobcat- but she too, was gone.

In the distance the driver called the passengers back.

☾☾☾

Night had cast its dark wave and overtaken the sky. The sun had set two hours ago and although it was barely seven, the dark blanket of cloudless starlight and its black backdrop could have just as surely been belonged to Midnight.

Stiles Stilinski followed the delicate, coffee spotted map Dr. Deaton had graced him with mere hours before he’d left.

The private park before him was beautiful… from what he could see of it. It was enveloped securely by the kind of wrought iron gate usually found embracing cemeteries- though instead of a name, there was an upright pentacle intertwined on it’s side by a knotted celtic crescent moon. The Nemeton Witch stepped up to the doors and regarded the small iron box protruding, level to his chest. It could’ve been a mailbox with the way it looked, but it wasn’t.

As instructed by a solemn-eyed Deaton, he took the small blade he kept on his person and reached back, cutting a not-insignificant lock of hair from the back of his head. He placed it in the box. He followed that gesture by taking the black to the back of his wrist and sliding it deep enough to draw, but not deep enough to let his blood flow freely. Stiles placed three, fat drops- no more, no less- into the iron and closed the lid. Waiting.

There was a pregnant moment of nothing and then-

With a subtle shriek the gates gave way.

The interior (if you could say an outdoor park really had an ‘interior’) was even more ethereal than its gates had implied. It was silent, but for the chirping of cicadas and the hoots of hunting birds. Stiles walked along the impossible lights until he reached a fork in the cobblestone pathway. This part wasn’t noted on the map but somehow it didn’t matter 

The Nemeton Witch let his power lead him until he found himself upon a  gazebo, quite beautiful, but plain in comparison to the allure of its surroundings. A fist was raised to the closest pillar and a three-pronged knock resounded.

The next part was very fantastical and magical and all that but honestly, who has time to describe a shifting gazebo, british gnomes, a closed-until-monday occult shop and a separate secret room with three doors and another, more hidden door (and also a rogue banana peel someone left just on the top of the staircase but, listen, if anyone asked, that never happened.)

The overdone magical labyrinth was not the point. The point was what laid at the end- A magical labyrinth in a more… metaphorical sense.

Stiles made his way down the spiral staircase, chandeliers floating about the space. The witches’ house- or well, mansion was immaculate. It was a well-coordinated collection of marble, obsidian, white wood and so, so many plants. It could’ve been considered a sort of magic in and of itself, that it felt welcoming and lived in, instead of pompous and grand. The moment Stiles reached the bottom he froze at the sound of footsteps.  And finally- finally after what could have undoubtedly equalled three pages worth of travel (and admittedly excessive magical passageways and tribulations that may or may not have taken up to three or four month's to sort through and edit) Stiles came face to face with the Witches of The Hallowed Guide.

The Nemeton Witch strode to meet the three. His hands in his pockets as he sharply peered at the witches whose faces were blurry and uncatchable. A blending spell, Stiles guessed. There was a moment of silence and then

Their voices broke through the room. A united choir. Perfectly synchronized. 

“Gorgeous animal, isn’t she?”

Their voices were distinct. A practically visible magic connecting their conjoined consciousness. Eerily in sync with each other, comfortable with the magic that bound them. Union Magic, natural and powerful.

 And the words they spoke….

Stiles felt a faint chill run up his spine- even as he straightened it, ”She’s really something… isn’t she?” He replied, recalling his response.

                                                    “Bobcats aren’t too common-”

                                                                                               “-in this area. I wonder-”

                                                                                                                                    “-what she’s trying to tell you.”

“What do you mean?” He asked, an echo of his prior curiosity.

                                                    “Oh-”

                                                         “-nothing-”

                                                                         “It’s just”

“Why would she come all this way to you without reason?”

“What makes you think she’s here for me?” Stiles narrowed his eyes. The double entendre not lost on him.

                                                    “Who else would she-”

                                                                                     “-be here for? Of course-”

                                                                                                                          “-she’s here for you.”

“We all are.”

Like a flip being switched, the spell of the far-away old magic trinity was broken. Stiles was left staring at three clear, beautiful, ecstatic faces. Witches. 

And somehow, Stiles knew their names instantly.

“Stilinski! I’m happy you’re here in one piece!” Greeted the witch who was neither the tallest nor the shortest with a wry grin and a firm, stinging clap on the back. Amaruq- please-call-me-Ama was a curvy gem; fluid in gender and quick in wit, they had dark, gingerbread skin and some complicated, admirable combination of braids and a twist-out done up in shades of deep green, black and silver. Full lips. Rainbow nose ring. And an unnervingly assessing gaze.

Stiles raised an eyebrow and felt an answering smile across his mouth. “Glad to be here. I've heard a lot about you from Deaton.” He replied, still wincing as the clap on his shoulder throbbed. “Thank you so much for agreeing to have me.”

“No problem,” said Tameiki. A petite, orange-headed vixen with a curved, sharp nose and intrigue in her stare. ”Your kind are rare, Great Witch. And even rarer still is the High Emissary with such heart. And so deeply connected to those compelled by the forces. And also keeping watch of the North American Nemeton. Whatever you need won’t just benefit you and your coven- but all of us.”

Stiles regarded her soberly, ”Yeah well. Anything I can do to help, ya know?”

Ki smiled warmly and the third witch, Khleo, slipped past the rest of them and into the kitchen. 

“The, uh, the cryptic magical labyrinth was a bit overkill, don’t you think?” Stiles caught her recognizable gaze.

To her credit, the blood red woman didn’t so much as pause, ”We have our reasons.” 

“And the hair and the blood key?” He asked.

                                                    “That’s more so-”

                                                                           “-a matter of-”

                                                                                              “-collateral. Insurance.”

Ama shrugged, “Magical or not, there’s a long history of people misusing information. The things they leave with us ensure that, should they disregard our disagreements,-”

“-and use our resources for anything other then balanced, benevolent, conflict resolution-”

“-there will be consequences.”

Stiles nodded. He understood- too well, even. People had agendas. And gone unchecked, those agendas could fuck up lives and ruin communities. It was a smart system.

He looked to the three- no trace of their previous magical daze, yet still finishing each other’s sentences, “You guys do that a lot, huh?”

“Do what?”

He paused, ”… Nothing.”

Ki grinned before snapping her fingers. Stiles’ bags shuffled merrily across the floor and up a second staircase towards the back of the room. ”You can follow those guys up to the guest room and snoop around your floor all ya want, chill for a bit.”

“We’re gonna make dinner.” Said Khleo. “Go get settled.”

Hours later- sitting on various surfaces not intended for sitting, uproarious laughter and spontaneous objects being yeeted this way and that, Stiles found himself genuinely at ease for the first time in a long time. While this wasn’t his home it felt, quite thoroughly, like a home. Something began to loosen in his chest.

Needless to say, dinner was great. 

☾☾☾

The light of the moon was bright and familiar.

A howl was heard sounding in the distance and a shiver ran up his spine. He felt the dirt beneath his feet- the soil loose and fertile, the rustling of trees and all their motion. The collective voice of the forest. Claiming him. Telling him what needed to be done. Exactly what needed to be done.  

So he ran.

The wind did not resist him. The branches did not bite his skin. The soil did not dirty him.

His limbs pounded the earth and his heart pounded just as fierce. He felt the elements in all their synchronicity. He felt his blood singing with the Nemeton’s Call. He felt alive he felt alive he felt alive he felt alive he felt at home he felt home. He was home.  He was finally home.

He howled.

☾☾☾

Consciousness overtook him in waves but once it had him

Stiles awoke with a feeling of sincere, overwashing calm. His breathing was even and steady. The core of his magic was grounded. He didn’t feel strained. He felt… good. Really good actually. A weight off his chest somehow. Completely himself.

It wasn’t just the location… the witches themselves were amazing.too. In one night they’d gone from strangers to extended family. A natural and easy dynamic developing between them all. And, though a small (read: moderate to large) part of him wanted to stay and soak up the company. He hadn’t been lying to Lydia when she’d gone to see him off.

He knew exactly what he was doing there. And he was aware self-aware enough to stay on firmly on-task. Unexpected solace be damned. Fun be damned, his pack needed him.

And goddess. That... that dream. That nest of comfort and surety he’d tasted. He’d never felt anything like that. Some heartbeat other than his own. That warmth. He’d felt… complete… Had that been… could that have maybe been the bon-

The thought fell away before he’d had the chance to finish it and honesty? He was equal parts frustrated and relieved.

“Get-eth thyne Keister down-eth the stairs! A feast is spread and we are all ready to c how the fuck-eth down! ” Ki’s laughing voice yelled from the bottom of the steps.

He went.

☾☾☾

Sunlight.

The rose-gold glow of a crisp, early morning.

The balcony table was overflowing with fresh baked pastries, sweet breads, fruits and juices.

The late autumn was remarkably warm, almost the perfect temperature for outdoor dining.

Breakfast was an easy, relatable exchange of magical mythos, light-hearted memories of odd and overly whimsical ventures, evaded, tight-lipped mine-fields of less whimsical, more trauma-inducing events, and a general understanding of how condescending older members of the magical community could be. Ki, Ama, and Khleo were younger then even Stiles would have supposed. Though there was a mild shock at hearing their ages, overall there was relief that Beacon Hills wasn't the only place that had called out to teenagers with magic and mayhem and churned them into a cloudy-eyed assembly of too-mature 20-somethings barely old enough to drink.

Sure, it was a fucked up thought to find validation in, but it was reassuring nonetheless. It wasn’t just the pack. They weren’t alone.

And more than that: the witches weren’t just basic allies. Stiles felt like he’d known them for years. Their sharp humor, the wisdom and all their power and experience. He knew he hadn’t come to Nevada for networking but nonetheless, it would be foolish as an Emissary to ignore that kind of connection. Given enough time they could grow into a solid alliance.

☾☾☾

Ama, Khleo, and Ki were, as it so happened, extremely big fans of the Beacon Hills Coven.

Well, less fans of Stiles per se, and more respectful and agreeable in terms of what they’d heard of his work and his coven’s hand in preventing multiple crises.

“Deaton may be a sneaky fucker,” said Ki as they lead the pale witch to a room that served as a guest office of sorts,“but he’s a damn good judge of character.”

Stiles couldn’t help but laugh.

The thing about The Witches Three, Stiles had observed, was that despite the cryptic, hushed, feared, and revered whispers regarding them amongst magical community… they were fucking nerds. They were the biggest, goofiest nerds with their warm eyes and their secret lasagna recipes and at least three Star Trek references per hour. He’d found his particular niche of people and this was amazing for many reasons, but the most relevant and possibly most important was that he was allowed to be unapologetically fucking stoked when Ki and Ama told him

“Here’s the key to the library, man. Go wild.”

Location-bound by love just as much as duty and wealth of knowledge admittedly stilted by his quick advancement through training and apprenticeship, Stiles hadn’t had access to knowledge like this since… well, since Morrell had up and evaporated. So yes. He was very much down for this.

Ama raised a brow, “Ugh, god. You look like you just came in your pants, man. Calm down.

☾☾☾

Their library, while not a literal valley of knowledge in the heart of a crystal of pure metaphysical energy, was absolutely a valley of knowledge in an albeit-more-figurative magical crystal.

Where Deaton’s was a jagged mass of obsidian and dark, jutting stone that demanded focus and silence, the witches’ room was tardis-like; It compelled wonder. The old, white bookshelves contrasting with the dark rosewood of the floor, the wall to wall marble. There must have been hundreds of thousands of books here. Each one, an overflowing vat of power and history. Modern and ancient. Old and new. Theory to law. It was all there.

To top all that off, Khleo and the others had called an intuitive informational system into being. Whomever possessed the witches’ good graces, whichever books were best suited to their goal literally flew into their hands like what- ahem. It was quite useful.

Still, kid in a candy shop or not, it took Stiles five entire days to collect enough information on the form of elemental magic needed to locate and banish the demon. The library’s system kept literally throwing ‘ The Encyclopedia of Magical Tethers, Ties, and Bindings. Benevolent, Cross-Species Addition. Volume XII’ at the back of his head, so he’d opted to sort through the books manually.

Know thy enemy and all that, so Stiles read, paper cuts trying in vain to tear down the calluses of his fingers. As suspected and confirmed by Deaton, the Demon was, indeed, the very same kind that had lusted for the Nemeton all those years ago. Deaton hadn’t been lying when he’d said the things were rare. In the entirety of supernatural historical documentation- the entire thing? Yeah- there had only been three. Stiles had killed one of them while he’d still been short and snot nosed and way too full of rage and untapped magic. It… kinda put things into perspective.

☾☾☾

Earth was stubborn, Water was wild, Fire was passionate but Air… it embodied all that and so much more. More so than the others, it made a habit of not just slipping through your fingers, but surrounding you. Ordering you and trying to guide and take over. Trying itself to coax you . By the time the Nemeton Witch had familiarized himself enough with the element and it’s particular brand of energy manipulation… another three days had passed.

☾☾☾

When he’d finally got through it though? That moment- eight days since his arrival in Nevada and four in the morning- Stiles collapsed in a rush of relief. The ten day internal countdown had frayed both nerve and excitement. In its place, rough edges and razor focus and too-much-energy-not-enough-motion. Not enough knowledge.

Ama, Ki, and Khleo, bless them, had done  little but leave him to his own devices. Small meals and their accompanying perpetual warming charms apparating on occasion beside him. When Stiles finally suggested the air just so …

Stiles cried a hoarse but triumphant WHOOP WHOOP and a fist bump. After a prompt text to Laura declaring he’d ‘found it!’ The great High Emissary of Beacon Hills wedged his head in the empty space between books and passed out.

☾☾☾

Stiles woke nine hours later with stiff shoulders and heavy eyes- between the bus ride out and his sleep, this trip had been a montage of uncomfortable sleeping positions and the absence of a grossly familiar tightness that had been coiling itself taught in his core thank-fucking-goodness.

Stiles took his time to return every books (so many books) to their respective nooks and crannies before departing from the guest office. He might’ve been excited but he still had manners.

“I got it holy shit I- well, I'm, I actually got it like, ten hours ago, but I kinda, ya know, passed out due to rampant exhaustion and delirium and mind strain but that’s not important! What’s important is that I can do it- it’s hardcore cooperative magic so I need you amazing enchanting beings but holy shit. Holy shit I can do it. We can do it. We can find it. We should-”

“Slow down, Speed Racer.” Said Ama, toes out and nail polish still wet on their toes. “First off, we’re pleased as hell to hear that. But it’s literally not even nightfall-”

Ki continued, “-and cooperative magic requires, like, five million levels of chill so-”

“So go take a shower. Gather yourself… somehow and eat something.”

“We made spinach puffs.”

Stiles didn’t pout. He didn’t . He was a grown ass man who did not pout, ”Wha- but- the spell -”

Khleo raised an eyebrow. “-will work better under the full moon than right now… when you’ve still got sleep crust in your eyes. Unless you’re gonna scrape that shit into a mason jar and invoke Morpheus, you better go get zen.”

“But-" 

“ Now .”

Stiles not-pouted at the tile floor and shoved his hands into his pockets, ”You guys are worse than Lydia.”

☾☾☾

The spell was done with the Witches Four bathed in the silver glow of the full moon at the windiest crossroads known to man and beast.

                                      Ki, The Witch of The Eternal Thread.

                                                                                               Amaruq, The Witch of The Forest Eclipse.

                                                                                                                                                              Khleo, The Witch of The Unseen Oak.

Mieczysław, The Pale Witch of The Nemeton.

They gathered at the mouth of each road, cast the circle, called the corners and coaxed the Air.

Complications aside, by the end of it Stiles knew with every essence of his magic exactly where that gruesome son of a bitch was lurking.

Part of the ritual also meant that Stiles not only knew its location, but also knew when it would attack Beacon Hills next and thank gods they had over a month before that debacle.

This was good. It would give the pack something to work towards. A place to focus their expanding, explosive energy of his pack and coven. His text to Laura was short, to the point, and full of too many exclamation points.

☾☾☾

The dark, ethereal glow of Dusk’s beautiful, invading tendrils submerged the Witches’ House in it’s ember hive. The remainder of the previous night and most of the following day had been spent replenishing the energy spent and exchanged during the group’s cooperative rite…

Which was a fancy way of saying they all, eye bags abound had donned onesies (how they'd had Stiles’ exact size- or why they even had guest onesies to begin with remained to be seen) and had a pseudo spa day. Exoctic Cut Fruits and Netflix origianls included. It was past six now and they’d just finished Russian Doll.

Stiles stood from the couch and stretched his vertebrae this way and that. Joints popping obnoxiously as he yawned and said, ”What an amazing piece of art." 

“Agreed.” Said Ki, ”Scarily accurate, too. 

Opting to leave what was no doubt a chilling can of worms alone, Stiles turned to head towards the kitchen, bowls of rejected snacks in tow before-

“Mieczysław. Nemeton Witch.”

Stiles felt a chill run down his spine. You’d think he’d’ve grown used to this by then.

The High Emissary turned to the Witches Three. Observing the glint of metaphysical Daze in their eyes, he nodded his head once in acknowledgment, ”I am listening. What say you, Trinity Wives?” 

“You are Adrift. Ground yourself, Great Witch, and you will ground your magic.”

Stiles’ breath caught at their words, the bowl in his hand fell to the floor. “Come again?” He croaked.

”Willful ignorance does not suit you. It has been the downfall of many. Do not allow the heart to reject what the spirit already knows. Find your anchor, Old One.”

And Stiles, for once, stayed silent. In fact, save for the wince at the mention of his anchor, he didn’t react.

Ki, Ama, and Khleo all exhaled and their Daze shattered. The glassy twinkle of their eyes deflating into each individual's usual brand of liveliness. The witches, he noted, looked noticeably more tired then they had before.

There was a pause as breathes were gathered. Ama was the first to speak again, ”What did we say?”

Ki pursed her lips, ”It wasn’t, like, a life-or-death thing, right? I hate immediate shit. My anxiety’s bad enough.”

Khleo stayed silent.

Stiles shook his head as he replied, ”Nah, it was… more like advice? I guess? Ya know, the way that magicians can be sometimes, extremely vague yet unnervingly specific all at once.”

“Advice?” Ki paled, ”Shit .”

Ama swallowed, ”I second that.”

Khleo kept her eyes fixed on Stiles. “Maybe it didn't make sense, but you’re avoiding something.” She said. Well, less said and more stated. Her eyes. That ever-present knowing glint. It was like she already knew… everything. Everything that’d happened. Everything that’d drove Stiles-

He held her gaze, ”Yeah.” He said, ”Maybe that too. A little bit.” A frown molded itself onto his face as he recalled Ki and Ama’s words. He turned to face them, ”Wait, what’s wrong with advice? You guys spoke to me with your cool Ghost Triplets thing before.”

Ki’s head made a gesture that was like a nod trying to be a shake. “Yeah. No. Well, yes. We have but it’s been normal, formal non-personal cryptic shit, right?”

Stiles nodded- though Ki didn’t seem to have even taken a breath, ”And that's fine it’s common-”

                                                                                                                      “-though it’s been happening way more since you showed up.”

“Yeah, but dude, more personal stuff? Things that take more insight, more depth, more getting involved - it means it’s more urgent . Maybe it wasn’t a step-by-step how-to guide but it’s probably some immediate life-or-death shit, which- as I stated before- I fucking hate- ”

Ama cut in smoothly, “-What Ki’s saying is that the rarity which direct advice is given is… significant. So… whatever it was you heard, maybe-"                                                                                                                                                                                                                       “- definitely- “                                                                                                                                                                                                                        “- listen. And do it. Possibly for the sake of everyone you hold dear. 

Stiles raised an eyebrow and looked to Khleo, who was less worked up then Ki but still, by her standards, distressed. She said, ”I wish that was an exaggeration but… it’s not.”

The pale witch sat down on the coffee table and absorbed the given information. He wasn’t foolish enough to ask half the questions that crossed his mind but… he thought back to every moment he’d heard their voice in unison. After a moment, and… what the hell, right? What better time to ask. “And who, exactly, would I be listening to?” He hadn’t meant to sound as… ticked off as he did, but these were the kinds of things that could grate someone’s patience.

The witches all looked to him in shock, ”What do you mean?”

“I haven’t asked till now but- that voice? That overtakes you? Who, or what , is it?”

They all seemed to brace themselves before words spilled out their mouths.

                                                   “We’re-”

                                                            “-heavily associated with-”

                                                                                                  “-intertwined with-”

                                                                                                                             “-elemental magic. So… “

“So, what, the voice is an actual element ?” Stiles asked ann eyebrow raised and the tendrils of curiosity, disbelief and annoyance flared slightly.

                                                    “Well- “

                                                           “ -yes and no- “

                                                                                “-the voice is a culmination-”

“It’s… it’s Center.”

Stiles reared. Center… holy shit. The Center, also called the spirit, was the- well, it was everything. Spirituality, Time, Space, Nature, Destiny, Heaven, Earth, Limbo, you name it. It was basically-

“You guys have the voice of magic itself?”

A shrug, a shake of the head and a raised eyebrow. Different intonations but that same, simple statement.

“The magic has us.”

☾☾☾

The circle was cast. The corners were called.

The feel to it was heavy in the air. The taste of magic. Power. Pure elemental strength culminated and surging together. Pulsing with purpose. 

Stiles felt his energy sing as it intertwined with the magic of this new, welcoming coven. As it came together to coax the Air. To guide their search. To find. To find…

The Moon. A dream. A forest. A howl. The memory of Completion wound its way to the forefront of Stiles’ mind and the pale witch felt a surge inside of himself at the unfamiliar connection. A magical yearning that asked to be stretched and find its genuine bond.

Stiles gasped as the Witches Three faltered momentarily in their power raising. Ancient phrases stumbling in their mouths as they, too, felt the core of the pale witches magic switch the intent of the spell. Change the direction and reach for the familiar bond of one compelled by the moon.

And while the trip had allowed Stiles to come to terms with many aspects of his relationship with Derek. This was absolutely not the time.

☾☾☾

“Stiles.” Came a hushed voice from beside him several hours after the voice of magic had given the Emissary dating advice.

He turned his head and regarded the one beside him. ”Hey,” He grinned, ”what’s up?”

Ama had a crease between their eyebrows. They were silent, but opened and closed their mouth as through wrestling with how exactly to articulate their thoughts. When they finally did speak every word was deliberate. “I know it wasn’t…. I know it wasn’t a usual thing for you, but. Before? At the crossroads? When we were searching for your demon… It sort of felt like you magic wanted to… to find something else.”

Stiles knew what they meant. They’d all felt that redirecting. A bond trying to put itself back together. Stiles picked at the skin of his cuticle, “Yeah.”

“Well, it’s just… dealing with elements, especially Air. You need to be grounded. I don’t know, I guess… I guess you just felt sort of. Adrift.”

Stiles took a breath.

Ama continued, ”If there’s anything we can do to help… at all. In any way. Let us know. You’re… just… yeah.

Ama apparated without waiting for a reply.

And just… fuck.

☾☾☾

Twas the last night of secret lasagna for the foreseeable a future and Stiles Stilinski was making his way up the winding staircase to shower quickly before building a pillow fort- ya know, as one does. He'd spent the day gardening with Ama and having various misadventures in magic with Khleo and he was sweaty beyond belief…

But he also felt incredible light. He was smiling for Gods’ sake. His face actually hurt from it. What a life.

Anyways.

Stiles released his feet from their Chuck Taylor prisons and went to plop on the bed. Ya know… the way people plopped when plopping needed to be done and there was a comfortable surface in the general vicinity. He felt himself fall backwards in calm anticipation of pillowy bliss when- 

“Fuck. Ow. Ooooooooooowwwwwwww what… why is there pain? Why is there PAIN .”

The jagged texture of a large, leather rectangle digging into the soft squishy spaces atop Stiles’ spine. He turned to glare at the aggressive shape that should not have been there in the first place but felt the air rush out of him instead.

There was a book on his bed. Old and stiff, thick as concrete slab. The colored of mummified flesh (and ew it was on his bed but) It called to him. The same way the moon The same way the forest did. Presenting itself. Offering solace to the mind. Offering answers he’d avoided seeking. Solutions to questions he hadn’t much had the courage to ask and… well, maybe i was time he start.

It was utterly familiar in a literal sense. If only for the way it had been vehemently lunging itself in Stiles’ general direction over the last week and a half.

‘The Encyclopedia of Magical Tethers, Ties, and Bindings. Benevolent, Cross-Species Addition. Volume XII’ sat heavily on the grey wool comforter. Its thick dusty front a glaring reminder of everything he’d tried for so long to move on from.

Had the title not been obvious enough, a quick look through its table of contents gave Stiles enough of an idea to its subject matter.

The coven, the pack- hell, even Deaton, had thought he’d been running when he’d all but evaporated from Beacon Hills and made for Nevada. They were wrong. They were all wrong.

Stiles hadn’t been running or hiding or even completely avoiding. He knew himself better than they did and, while he loved his chosen family, a lot of them didn’t really understand how he operated.

His anxiety had always been a terrible beast. His emotions too volatile in a way that made his early days of magic a patience wearing whirlwind of headaches and long nights. The people who’d known him long enough. His dad, Scott… Derek. They got him. They knew he needed to have time to himself to collect his thoughts. Look at things objectively before taking action. He could think on his feet when he had to, but personally he worked best when he was allowed time to process. He didn’t run. He collected himself.

He’d known he’d been… adrift, to quote the witches for years if he was being honest. Maybe that was the reason the book had kept painfully presenting itself. It could sense that from the moment Stiles had woken up his first full day in Nevada, in the back of his mind all he could think about was heading back to his town and sorting things out. Repairing things.

☾☾☾

“Take it.” said Ama. 

In the last moments before he left and unsurprisingly, the Witches Three had come to bid him farewell. There was a definitive pull there between the four of them. And though Stiles knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that this would not be the last time they crossed paths, it was still a bittersweet finale.

Stiles felt himself gape unattractively. Ama in particular was fiercely protective of the books in their library. “Wait, like for real?” 

                                                    “We like you.”

                                                                         “More than that, we trust you.”

                                                                                                                         “We know you’ll take good care of it.”

“Besides. It seems a bit attached to you.”

Stiles looked to the book question and, yeah, It was floating right above his biggest bag.

He beamed, “I promise I’ll return it!”

Ki reached up to run a sharp-nailed hand through Stiles’ hair- more a reminder than anything intimate. “You better.”

☾☾☾

Later, halfway back to California, Stiles would run a hand through his hair and find the section he’d cut off ten days ago completely regrown.

☾☾☾

The journey to his and Scott’s place verified that, thankfully, everything in both his town and his apartment was still standing.

Stiles tried, he truly did, to unpack and be productive but honestly, the last week and a half caught up to him all at once.

He was past his bedroom door, and barely put his books back onto his desk before a wave of exhaustion hit him. Magical jet lag or… something. Stiles was collapsed face-first onto his bed before he noticed the wolf in his armchair. He may have squealed. She may have snorted. It was all very dignified.

“ Erica Motherfucking Reyes .” He said into his pillow, “Why do you insist on tormenting me?”

Erica Motherfucking Reyes grinned in that gorgeous, intimidating way of hers, ”Hi, Batman.” She said, ”How ya been?”

“Tired.” Stiles replied, “Now if you’ll excuse me, Morpheus and me got plans.”

She raised an eyebrow, head cocked to the side in sudden intrigue, “Wait, really?” Because an actual date with an actual dream deity would be so incredibly on brand. 

He huffed, “No. Not really. But I am an incredibly sleepy bitch so…” He flailed in the general direction of the door. “I love you, Catwoman, but mama needs her beauty sleep.” 

“I’m sorry, love,” She said sounding extremely unapologetic, ”Laura wants you for a debrief.”

“Tell her I’m dead.”

“ Stiles.”

“Fine! Jeez!” What was with all the beautiful AFABs in his life trying to tell him what to do?  

“It’s cause we love you.”

Of course  he’d said that out loud.

They were barely halfway out the door before he felt it. A sharp, insistent tug in his core. A pull. The pull but… off. Somehow. Not completely as it should’ve been.

Stiles stopped in his tracks. “Something’s wrong.”

Erica’s attention snapped to him. Her focus sharp and unwavering, ”What? What do you mean? What wrong?”

“I have to go.”

“Stiles, wait!”

He’d already apparated to the forest. 

Stiles walked aimlessly albeit with some veiled purpose about the trees and lush greenery. And yes, of course the pull would bring him here.

The Nemeton. In… most of its glory?

☾☾☾

Being back among his chosen family was like having a warm wave washing over him. The trip to Nevada had done him good. He felt calmer, more centered. Where some aspects of his life in Beacon Hills had begun to reintroduce him to the stunning world of Sensory Overload™, his time away had undone that and allowed him to feel settled again He felt calmer and more confident then he had in a long time.

Currently, the pack was more or less fusing into a pile atop a very tired but very fluffy fur rug on the floor of the Hale’s library. Because apparently he smelled weird. Scent-marking abound and cuddles plentiful and found himself at the bottom of a very nuzzly hill of bodies. Still, serious business was serious and all that.

“What about the demon?” Parrish piped up from his designated place as Lydia’s handsome pillow. “It’ll be back next month, right? Do you have a way to kill it yet? Like the last one?”

“I-” Stiles started-

“Stiles didn’t kill the other one though.” Scott reminded, ”He just banished it. Like to the Shadow Realm or whatever.”

“Okay. So whatever.” Isaac piped up from his designated spot as Scott and Allison’s handsome pillow. “Can you do that again?” 

“Sure.” Stiles shrugged. ”But not in a month. I’ll need at least three to recreate the spell from before. Until then we just need to do our best to keep everyone safe. He took a deep “There’s another thing… “

“Isn’t there always?” Erica commented dryly.

Stiles had texted her after he’d discovered Thing Two but she still (reasonably) seemed pissed about his houdini act. The Emissary continued, ”I found like a, uh, a stain.” 

“Gross, Stilinski.” said Jackson, “TMI.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, ”On the Nemeton .”

And ya know, everybody thinks they know what a collective gasp sounds like but boy, oh boy . It’s different to actually be in the middle of one.

“What exactly do you mean a stain?!”  

“Obviously, Danny, he means a stain.” Lydia said, testily. an impatient eyebrow raised.

“Okay but… how does that happen? Is this an attack? What are the consequences -”

“Listen, you guys.” Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “I know as much as any of you. I don’t know how it got there or why it's there, alright. So until the coven can sort this out I need everybody to be vigilant-”

“We’re already vigilant,” Cora seethed.

“ Hyper-vigilant , then, and this, uh, this should go without saying but, no one and I do mean no one should go anywhere near the Nemeton… not even close. Got it?’

After a chorus of affirmations he said, “The Stain or… whatever it is. It’s stuck the the Nemeton’s aura. Expanding and contracting in equal measure.“

“Like dark matter?” Lydia questioned, very clearly troubled by the idea.

Stiles nodded as much as he could, “Yeah. I tried fuesing my energy with the Nemeton, like a vessel to cleanse it but, well… nothing. We’ll just need to table genuine action until we know more. The last thing we wanna do is make this worse.”

☾☾☾

“You okay, man?”  

Scott had been palpably silent the entire drive home and while Stiles wasn’t usually the mother hen of the two, he was not above checking in on his bro. Mopey Scott was not okay.

“Huh?” Scott said, seeming to come back to the present. “Oh yeah… I just…”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, ”You just…? Come on, man. What's Up?

“It’s just… did you figure out why your eyes turned red yet?” Scott winced.

Stiles blinked. Admittedly, he hadn’t thought about that since, Deaton’s library right after the first demon attack (technically second, but semantics). “No,” the witch said. And how the hell could he have forgotten to look into that ? Jesus christ. “No, I haven't yet. Why?”

”I mean, do you think you’re turning into a wolf or something?”

Stiles couldn’t help it, he giggled. Of all the places he’d expected this conversation to go that… hadn’t even been on the list. And the list had been long. “What, like a wolf by proxy? Second-hand shifting?” He joked, even as he felt his mind drifting back to the dream he’d had in Nevada. The dream of running. The moon. The howl . Completion. He stuck a grin onto his mouth and said, ”Scotty, c ’mon. I’ve never even heard of that -”

“But your magic-” 

“Scott. There’s a more likely chance of a giant, bleeding fully shifted wolf falling from my ceiling than me turning into a shifter.”

“You sure?” Scott asked, earnest. His brow furrowed and his crooked jaw extra sincere.

“Of course, I’m sure. ” Stiles reassured, booping his friend’s nose. ”I’m magic, but I’m not that kind of magic.

☾☾☾

The witch and the wolf stayed up talking until all the pizza rolls in the house were gone. And there had been so many . As though functioning adults didn’t need proper sleep.

As though Stiles didn’t have six major magical problems to sort out.

The Nemeton Witch made no effort to flip the light switch as he made his way into his bedroom, making to plunge, exhausted onto his bed when a very small, very pained sound was heard from the floor. He ignored the sound. It must be, like, a mouse or something , but then. Oh no. they don’t have mice and

So Derek. Suddenly somehow on the floor. Stiles’ floor. Blood everywhere. Like a big goof. A big bleeding goof. With Blood. Everywhere. Everywhere.

What the fuck.

Chapter Text

“You know, for a big bad alpha you sure seem to get your ass kicked a lot.”

“…It’s just been this time.” 

“Yeah, while you’ve been here.” 

“Stiles…”

“I gotta say, I wasn’t planning on having this conversation so soon.” 

“We don’t have to… I mean, not yet if you—”

“Nah, we—we should talk, right? We gotta talk?”

Silence.

“How are you here?”

☾☾☾

New York was overwhelming. 

Not all the time. Not every moment of every day just… just when you had enough of a break to take in your environment and really notice what was happening around you. 

The trick of The City was to keep you so busy—with work, with people, with surviving —that you didn’t realize you were caught up in the current to begin with. You didn’t realize how much it was. 

At least, not unless something pulled you out of it. Something, or somebody . 

Somebody had pulled Derek out of it. 

Somebody had kept the jaded fringe of ego so upfront that Derek had had a hard time losing that self-awareness to begin with. Which was usually amazing; being able to keep up with the hectic drag and ragged pace of New York. Usually. 

The difference between ‘usually’ and ‘right now’ was that Derek wanted to lose himself. He wanted to be swept up. He wanted to be overwhelmed. He wanted just this once to forget the gutted look and the nervous heartbeat. The jaded laugh. The warm, heavy settled feeling that had come right before the exit. The way he’d fucked up so bad his heartbeat was a violent presence within him any time the memory dwelled. 

He'd never wanted to forget Stiles before. 

So, he needed a distraction. Desperately. 

And it wasn’t the best of ideas, but he was only human. 

☾☾☾

He would wait, Derek decided.

He would wait for Stiles to reach out. He… Derek knew the witch well enough to know that was what he needed. 

☾☾☾

The Forest Floor was not the kind of place you went to if you were feeling good about yourself. It was a nesting ground of attractive creatures, top shelf liquor and regrets waiting to happen. Derek only knew about the place because he’d needed to drag one or more dejected friends off their asses. Or off the asses of others. 

Not even ten minutes had passed when a dark eyed mage saddled up to him. He was curvaceous, his tight coiled hair falling wildly around him like a living thing. White ink on dark skin, taunting mouth, soft jaw—he was beautiful. And more importantly, he was beautiful in a way that was utterly unlike Stiles. 

Derek downed the rest of his drink. 

Perfect. 

☾☾☾

Stiles didn’t need to be pushed.

He would wait. 

☾☾☾

So. What do you do when you come to hate everything about the way you distract yourself, except for the way it makes you feel?

You do it again and again and again and—

In retrospect, he should’ve fucking known better. He had known better. But he’d been scared. Of so many things. 

☾☾☾

It was the umpteenth night of hedonistic self-flagellation, and it was nothing remarkable. 

Eye contact. 

Pretty people. 

Pleasure so tainted with the stench of coping it was pain. 

Pain so enveloped in the fugue of lust it was coping.

☾☾☾

☾☾☾

What was he waiting for exactly? 

He knew the answer before the next ounce of rum hit the back of his throat. Derek Hale wanted a second chance. 

He wanted… anything, really. Anything at all. He’d take what he could get. 

And, well, if he was never forgiven, then what was left for him but The Forest Floor? What was the point of doing anything except drinking himself stupid and embracing oblivion? 

He didn’t care about school. He didn’t care about his deadlines. He’d disconnected from damn near every friend he’d made.

The thing was, for all Derek had earned a reputation as a lone wolf back home, he’d had Laura. Then he’d had Stiles and then after, his friends from school. He’d never actually been alone. Not until now. 

A familiar scent dragged Derek kicking and screaming out his stupor. Apparently, he wasn’t fucked up enough to dull his omnipotent sense of smell. He’d need to fix that. 

Blood wasn’t necessarily a bad smell. Honestly, it was…familiar. Even soothing in some situations. It was the associations—the smell of fear, of pain, of lunacy—that tainted it. 

At the moment, its companion scent was rage, and a familiar rage at that. 

“Open the door, Hale.” 

Derek sighed, weary and melodramatic. If he ignored him maybe… 

“I will kick down your door, Derek. I swear to the Gods, you know I will.”

Derek hopped down from his spot on the kitchen counter (Stiles liked sitting on counters) and sauntered over to the front door.  

“Isaiah…” He croaked out, then winced. His voice sounded… not the best. “What are you doing here?”

Five feet and nine inches of agitated spitfire glared in his general direction. Isaiah clutched an unfamiliar smelling  denim jacket closer to the center in his torso. “Fucking bleeding. What does it look like?”

“…Right. Um.” 

Derek looked from his bloody hand to his face to…the back of him as Isaiah sauntered past Derek into his apartment. He then leaned heavily on the pillar over on the left side of the living room. They’d met in Derek’s Preternatural Anthropology II course during his first year in the city. Isaiah was a charismatic alchemical genius with a simmering rage, infinite wit and infinitesimal patience. They worked well together. 

“Well? You gonna patch me up, big guy?” His friend eyed the many, many, many bottles littering the coffee table, a pointed look on his face. “You’ve got more than enough to sterilize the wound.” 

“Um…”

“ Jesus Henrietta Christainson ,” Isaiah cursed under his breath. “Listen, Hale. I know you’re in your feelings right now and we’ve been trying our best to give you your space, but I am literally bleeding on your hardwood floors right now, k ? Now, I get that you’ve been doing your lone-wolf-mountain-man schtick but I’m gonna need you to pull your head outta your ass and use your big boy words, capeesh ?” 

He ran a bloody hand over his close-shaved hair and huffed expectantly in Derek’s direction. His jaw stubborn-set and barring no arguments. After an incident in Kolkata involving a catholic priest, a tub of yogurt and several pissed off Sidhe (he never did get the full story), Isaiah’s nerve endings had suffered, whereas his research had prospered. He couldn’t feel pain or fatigue, which explained the how of him being able to whip Derek into shape even with a near-gaping hole in his gut. 

In his aconite persuaded state, it took Derek an admittedly longer-than-usual amount of time to get his head on straight. But he did. Sometime between sterilizing his friend’s wound (not with vodka; he was occasionally a functioning adult) and letting aforementioned friend rummage through his apartment for enough thyme, quartz, malachite, amber, and witch hazel essence to both expel the negative remnants trying desperately to infuse themselves into his bone marrow and also manufacture an organic albeit foreign hunk of flesh to replace the loss, Derek piped up, “That looks… bad.” 

“Yeah, no shit.” Isaiah grunted. 

The wolf frowned. Derek did his best to tidy the area of bloody clothes and their corresponding empty bottles. 

“So if all you need is some herbs and a couple rocks, why come here? You’ve obviously been walking for a while and you smell like the subway—” 

Isaiah opened his mouth to quip, though he deflated before the first word. “Listen man, I… I was just collateral damage. And yeah, I gotta anti-hero complex as wide as my ass, but even I’m not enough of an impulsive fuck to get involved in wolf business, ya know?” Isaiah ground his teeth as the thyme sizzled and the crystals and metals half melted, half latched onto his wound. Spreading over the viscera and exposed bone and replacing what had been lost. He may not have been able to feel pain, but damn if he couldn't feel discomfort. “You’re werewolf royalty. You deal with it.”

Derek took the brunt of his friend’s weight as he herded him towards the bathroom. “That’s not really how it works…but sure,” he said, handing Isaiah a new shirt and a spare pair of sweats. The alchemist closed the door behind him. “Who did this to you? Since I’m getting involved apparently.”

After a long enough silence to make Derek start to worry,  Isaiah opened the door. While he was free of blood and tattered fabric, the corners of his deep brown eyes were lined with uncomfortable solemnity. 

“Cannibal Wichita.”

Derek paled. “Fuck.” 

☾☾☾

Stiles was losing his mind here. It was the fifth time Derek had shown up unannounced, unconscious and maimed. This was getting ridiculous. 

Stiles dabbed at the wounded wolf with witch hazel, thyme and too many questions. Derek groaned, twitching and flinching away like some painful instinctive reaction to being alive. The bleeding and cold sweat made for an uncomfortable concoction in his now matted fur, which had caused it to stick out at odd angles. 

He didn’t even know how he was feeling. There wasn’t much to say,  except that he was relieved. He was concerned, obviously, but more than that and somehow so much less of what he was expecting. There was no anger, no stabbing hurt, no pit of dejection or lack of self worth. It was just…uncertainty. And comfort. 

☾☾☾

The thing about Cannibal Wichita was that, well, if you didn’t know him you didn’t really take him seriously. Sure, he was six feet seven inches of pure, farm-grown, Grade A bat-shit crazy. Sure, he was a demon wolf with a set of fangs so goddamn big you could play double dutch with ‘em. Sure, he slaughtered every breathing thing within a hundred mile radius on a mellow day, and half the members of his pack were so gaddmned feral they needed fucking shock collars. Sure. All that was true. 

But with a name like Cannibal fuckin’ Wichita? Well. It was hard to do much more than giggle. Unfortunately, the hysterics didn’t last too long. He wasn’t called ‘cannibal’ for no reason. 

☾☾☾

Isaiah wasn’t the only one who came to him after that. 

Tessie and Dominique Losco were thirteen years old and deeply shaken in an uncomfortably familiar way. The fraternal twins were bitten-not-born student athletes. They'd watched helplessly as their grandmother had been torn open by the very same wolf that had bitten them. 

They all arrived pale, with tremors in their hands…And silent, too. 

Pleading in a hesitant sort of way. 

They’d escaped before Wichita had torn through their guardian. Anywhere else on foot they would have met a similar fate, but New York City had a subway station on every other block. They’d booked it; getting over the bridge and miles from Brooklyn within minutes. Their scents had mixed with the hubbub and stench of the F train, making them effectively impossible to track. 

Five weeks later it was Mikayla; Attacked on the way home from her job’s seasonal potluck. 

Two weeks after that, it was Rachel. One month later it was Evan. Then it was Blue, then Tobias.

Until seven months had passed and seven survivors had stumbled into his apartment, terrified and changed. Derek helped everyone as best he could. Talked them through the process, held their hands during early stages. Set them all up in a hotel not three blocks away. 

It wasn’t until Blue that Derek had been clear-headed enough to consider how exactly they’d known where he lived. 

☾☾☾

It didn’t make any sense. 

An alpha bit because the need for a pack was so strong. It was a driving, primal, often maternal desire for companionship. But these turnings… And Isaiah had said he’d only been collateral damage. 

See, this was the issue with Wichita. He was just as unhinged as he was calculated. He only had a motive, rhyme, or reason half the time. And the other half he carried out so unpredictably you didn’t realize it wasn’t senseless until it was too late. Trying to figure him out was like trying to solve a chinese puzzle box that undid every move and sprayed acid when looked at. 

The new wolves had no discernable similarities. Different age groups, different backgrounds, they were all relatively working class sure, but no one from New York could actually afford to live there, so it wasn’t a valid connection. If not for the coat of hyper-vigilance and understable paranoia that Derek wore at every waking moment, he’d have been more willing to write these off.  They’d all seemed like casualties in unhinged acts of violence, but it couldn’t be that simple. 

Could it?

☾☾☾

A knock sounded gentle and hesitant on the witch’s window, and he got up from his desk, cracking his back. Walking over, he pushed the glass aside and said, “Hey, Big Bad.”

Glowing scarlet eyes faded into a calm hazel. Derek hesitated a moment before climbing in. “Hey.”

Derek hadn’t stopped by unless wounded yet, and with a quick glance down Stiles could tell that wasn’t the case. This was…not unwelcome. Just unexpected. 

After an admittedly awkward beat, Stiles asked, “Do you wanna watch Deadpool?”

Derek tilted his head and shrugged. “I haven’t seen it yet.”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Lame. Let’s fix that.” 

☾☾☾

Derek panted over the alpha’s husk, squelching viscera pooling at his feet. The corpse twitched with aftershocks of the recently deceased, and the new alpha took a reflective step back. 

So. Cannibal Wichita.  Cannibal ‘The Animal’ Wichita.  The Bitchita Wichita. The Ol’ C. W.  

Derek had been right and wrong. There had been a connection. Some pseudo-metascience about blood type and survivability rate. 

Those actually turned hadn’t been the intended targets. Their loved ones had. The family and friends who'd been in close proximity during the attacks.  Sure, a whopping seven had not only survived but also turned, but…The deaths corresponding with Wichita’s failings made Derek’s chest ache. 

It should never have gotten this bad. He should’ve done something. He’d been in New York. He was powerful, even as a beta. He may not have been werewolf royalty but the Hale name still held sway. Instead, he’d spent all that time drinking himself stupid. People fucking died. Too many people.  

C.W. had been alone when he’d attacked, which was strange considering his pack was notorious for carnage. And it wasn’t as though Derek had been particularly stealthy about his attack. Isaiah had been at his side, pissed as per usual but doubly so for the literal pound of flesh gone rogue. 

He felt it hit him in increments. The power that came was anticipated but not overwhelming. He felt…full. Well, more full then he had in a long time, anyway.

Once Wichita’s pack felt the absence of their Alpha and these new unstable bonds took place, Derek had braced for an onslaught. He’d been expecting pure R-rated havoc. He'd heard stories, tended to survivors; Derek knew what they were capable of and what they were willing to do.  

Instead there was nothing. 

Over the next year he’d made a makeshift pack of those he’d supported. They’d grown together, and he did his best to be kind and attentive. To teach them all he knew, and to call Laura with questions when he felt out of his depth. 

“Do you…do you want me to tell him?” She’d asked after his pack’s second anniversary. “This is a huge deal, Der.”

Derek paused, considering his next words. “He…He’ll reach out when he’s ready. But thank you.” They said their goodbyes. 

What was he waiting for?

Completion. 

No matter how long. No matter how far off. He couldn’t truly have a pack without his witch. 

☾☾☾

Another year went by without so much as a rumor. Another year of soothing the twins. Another year of Blue, Mikayla, and Evan getting back on their feet. Another year of Tobias going to Derek’s therapist, working his way through what happened. 

The pack bonds to Wichita’s old running mates would not let up. They were thin as hell, but steadfast. Derek had never even met any of them; it was all residual. 

Then, two years later, right after graduation, word spread the way it always did. 

The Pack Formerly Known As Wichita was moving. Slowly but surely. And they were heading towards the mountains. The California mountains. 

☾☾☾

Of course he followed. 

☾☾☾

That wasn’t the last time Derek visited. But it was the last time it was so awkward. 

Sometimes they read together, sometimes they napped together.  Sometimes they watched movies or cried in each other’s arms, read to each other , recounted stories of their own individual heroics but sometimes… Sometimes Stiles would answer the door with puffy eyes and a bitten, downturned mouth and say no, not tonight. I can’t do this tonight .

And sometimes he wouldn’t answer at all. 

☾☾☾

The moon, for all that it could be compared to—it’s past lives and phases—was not pale. It hung swollen like a pregnant belly in the blanket of night. Massive. The color of dusky autumn leaves. Honey. Pumpkins. 

It wasn’t necessarily what any human being would consider a ‘quiet night in’, but considering the state of affairs, it was as close as they got generally speaking. 

The new old new… the connection was in a delicate state, to put it slightly. Things felt too raw to be infantile but too tentative to be seasoned. Even after having talked about the hows and the whys. Five years of miscommunication didn’t just up and vanish into thin air. 

But even so, there was laughter. So much familiar banter, joy even, if you didn’t look at it too hard.  There weren't any touches though, something stopping both parties from reaching and solidifying the friendship. Still, every glance felt weighted. Every inside joke, every small unintentional brush of shoulders was bittersweet. 

Derek had known from a young age, an age where his family’s house sat bustling and unburnt, his parents slow dancing in the library, that love was about many things. And forgiveness was just as prominent a factor as any. You could find compatibility. You could find communication. Attraction. Devotion.

But forgiveness. 

It was different. 

He and Stiles had forgiven each other for many things, and that too was familiar yet uncharted waters. 

But he’d waited this long. What was a bit longer?

☾☾☾

Derek pulled himself back to the present when Stiles stirred. From his place on the old blue desk chair, Stiles had crawled halfway onto his desk and, like a feral secretary, he was glueing pages together using spit as an adhesive.

Derek rolled his eyes before closing the distance and gingerly peeling pages from various parts of the witch’s exposed skin. Stiles snored deeply, but besides shuffling closer to the contact, didn’t startle. Derek made a move to lift the smaller man against him but paused, black ink absorbing his attention. The air stilled in his lungs as he looked on. 

He hadn’t forgotten about the tattoo; one of his most significant memories was tied to it. He couldn't have forgotten it if he tried (and he had tried ). But memory seldom paid revisitation its dues. 

Stiles’ grey tee had ridden half way up his back. From this angle, Derek could see the roots cascading down the loosely dotted skin, swinging around vertebrae and smooth, angled plains. Breathtaking and alive. Constantly in motion just like its bearer. 

And there was the pull, sharp as ever. Not for the first time that night and certainly not for the first time since their tentative reacquaintance, Derek felt a hole in his chest. 

A hollow ache was an ache nonetheless, but he had nothing up his sleeve. No ulterior motive, no flash mob planned. Obviously Derek wanted to…to hold him. To keep him and never let him go. Obviously, he wanted to promise that he’d never hurt him again. Never hesitate again. Never make him question himself or his place in Derek’s life. He wanted to make the kind of promises that take a lifetime to fulfill. He wanted to tell Stiles that he missed him. And that he loved him. But.

There was, again, this distance between them. This distance that a few days or weeks of hesitant reconciliation could not surpass. And with that distance: the ease and assuredness of emotional assertion Derek had built  up over the course of their friendship all but evaporated. He couldn’t…

He couldn't. 

It was miracle of miracles enough that Stiles was poking at something platonic. Derek would wait. And no way in hell was he going to push. He would take what he could get.  

Derek braced himself before wrapping his arms around Stiles’ too thin waist. He felt his eyes and claws react of their own accord against the anticipated slew of magic. It was just as powerful as he remembered, and Derek did his best not to linger as he settled Stiles’ limbs into a hopefully comfortable position on the bed. 

He was pulling back to leave—it was later than he’d prefer—when Stiles made a noise, low and uncomfortable. 

His eyes were shut and he was still asleep. He didn’t smell of distress or discomfort, so there wasn’t a nightmare or panic to worry about. But his grip was steadfast. His breathing, which had been deep and even, became erratic and shallow. Yet still no distress could be scented.

Then Derek saw his eyes moving rapidly beneath their lids like coy in a pond. Derek shook the witch’s shoulder, trying to rouse him of his feverish unrest. 

“Stiles,” he whispered. “Stiles, wake up.” 

But instead, his grip on the alpha was a vice. His fingernails embedded themselves into Derek ‘s forearm with insistence and surprising strength. It was shocking what followed. 

Derek watched in morbid fascination as black, wriggling branches crawled from the witch’s arms. Spreading and growing. Crawling their way down

                                                                                                                                                                                                 and down 

                                                                                                                                                                                                                            and down

And seeping over; Spilling eagerly and merging onto Derek’s arm. The sight was eerily reminiscent of wolfsbane poisoning, like black veins. There was no pain though. Only warmth and energy. The branches climbed further up his arm, caressing the bicep and— Derek shook Stiles in earnest. 

“Stiles, wake— ohmygod. ”Panic settled deep when his attention was brought to Stiles’ eyes, opened wide and unseeing and… red. Glowing. An alpha’s eyes.  

Derek gasped and snatched his limb back, taking a passive note of the thick streaks of blood pooling on his arms where the mage’s nails had dug deep. He stumbled, he’d be the first to admit it; and toppled over, loud enough evidently to finally startle Stiles into waking. 

“Wah…” he said, disoriented. “Derek? You…How long was I out?”

When the alpha didn't respond  from his place on the floor Stiles frowned, immediately alert. He glanced down. 

“What happened to your arm?”

Derek, for all that his pulse was racing, looked down to the limb only to be further distressed by the virgin skin. Not unbloodied, but uninked. Not a black branch to be seen. 

“Derek?”

“Stiles,” he said. “Stiles, your eyes were red.”

☾☾☾

They went to the loft.

They didn’t call Laura or Deaton. Or anyone else.

Stiles had released a heavy fuck and admitted tersely that he knew what was going on and the exposition would take up the rest of the chapter (whatever that meant), so caffeine was in order.

Derek had nodded and moved to get his bike. Stiles blinked rapidly, trying to compute the image of Derek on a motorcycle. He failed. Derek may have shrugged, sauntering away. His hands in his pockets and his mouth curling up at the end. 

☾☾☾

Once or twice, a one night stand had lured him back to the area and wow he’d never so hastily offered his space up to a stranger. Though he had kept aware enough of the area to avoid it completely, the entirety of the pack had visited. Except Scott. ’Cuz Scott was a bro.  

He took the freight elevator alone. Derek had tossed him the apartment keys, saying he needed to walk the bike further into the garage. Stiles was perceptive enough to know he wanted a buffer between the ride and having Stiles around his space. Hanging out at him and Scott’s place was one thing, and it was occasionally an overwhelming sensory experience for the wolf, but it’d been a month since the first time he’d shown up bloody on his carpet. They were more or less used it, having someone new (or familiar but…not familiar? Shit was weird) in your own territory must’ve been…difficult to process. 

He stepped inside, the air was thick with cinnamon and lemongrass. It was wonderful and grounding. Faerie lights swirled tastefully about the expanse of the living room, outlining the bookcases and pillars. Further in and to his left, the open-spaced kitchen was done in tasteful steel and dark blue brick, the floor was a deep cherry wood panelling that spanned the space. Piles of books were splayed on every viewable surface each subject wildly differing from the last: pack dynamics to healing trauma in minors to Moroccan cuisine and about a million more. The grey shag rug in the middle of the space was riddled with thick, black fur and the couches were faring far worse. It was beautiful, comfortable, and more than that it looked lived in . In a way that Derek’s old space in New York never had. It felt like a home. 

Derek brushed past him silently and made a beeline for the kitchen. A moment later a sharp, grinding sound pulled Stiles from his observations.  An open bag of amaretto coffee beans sat on the counter in front of him while he ground a cup or so with an honest to god mortar and pestle. The scent was sharp but cloying, and for all that this was his space Derek’s shoulders were tense. With great effort, the witch kept his hands to himself. 

“Are you okay?” Stiles asked.

Derek had taken his jacket off and the thick dark lines of dried red on his arms were visible, though the scratches had long since healed over. Stiles frowned. Derek nodded, the grind of the amaretto beans was the only sound until he turned to face Stiles, a small downturned tug on his lips. 

“It was just a scratch,” Derek said. “Are you?”

Stiles tilted his head and assessed himself. Physically he was fine, albeit exhausted. Emotionally he was, well, he was with Derek. And as conflicting as his feelings could be in these circumstances, he just felt… safe at the moment. The soft, warm lighting cast an almost ethereal glow, highlighting furrowed brows and luminescent hazel eyes. Stiles had to stop himself before he said as much aloud. 

“I’m okay.” 

“What were you dreaming about?”

Stiles endeavored to be honest with people he cared about, so he said, “The preserve. The moon.” 

Derek hummed. Stiles’ leg bounced while the silence persisted. 

“So when’s the coffee gonna be done? Not that I’m not digging this whole farm-to-table-too-old-school-for-a-food-processor vibe, but I woulda settled for a keurig cup.”

Derek looked more offended than Stiles could remember ever seeing, and Stiles counted it as a win when the tension in his shoulders eased minutely.  

“It tastes better this way,” the wolf said, his eyes narrowed. “You should go rest. It's two in the morning—”

“Almost 3.”

“—Almost 3. Which only solidifies my point. Anyway, if your information could wait for a drive across town, it can wait another half hour for you to sleep somewhere without ink stains.” He paused. “Also, you get bitchy when you’re sleep deprived. I wouldn't even wish that on the demon, let alone myself.” 

Wow, okay. Valid. Stiles grinned, but shrugged amiably. “Okay sassy wolf, where's my blankets? I’m saying ‘my blankets’ because once I claim them, you’ll need to pry them from my cold, dead hands.” Stiles froze, regarding the couch with distrust. “Also the lint roller? The amount of fur on your couches isn’t legal in this part of California.”

Derek rolled his eyes, shoulders loosening completely. He fought a grin. “Just take the bed.”  

Stiles was halfway through an ‘okay’ when his mind caught up with him. And for all Stiles could have fought him on it, turned him down or commented awkwardly, he didn’t. Instead, he sucked it up like a Very Adult Man™ and made his way up the winding brass staircase to the very back of the floor. Once he reached the top, Derek called out with a soft, “I’ll wake you up in thirty minutes,” and then Stiles was more or less alone. 

There was no door to the bedroom. Just a dark wooden arch leading into the tidy, warm space, but Derek was downstairs so there was some semblance of privacy. Stiles stared at the bed like it was possibly hallucinogenic water in an endless desert—wanting but hesitant. He plopped down on the olive green duvet and nearly moaned for all it was the kind of glorious comfort he’d needed in his life. He wanted this mattress to have his babies. 

Stiles wiggled the rest of his way onto the bed, not bothering to get under the comforter, knowing he’d succumb to   tender sweetness of the blanketed void. Instead, he snatched a thick blanket from its resting place atop the dresser and only succumbed a tiny bit. 

As he wiggled deeper into the mattress, Stiles’ mind casually went over every decision he’d made in his life leading him here, as one does. This was weird. Mainly because of how not weird it was. He felt less conflicted in this moment than he had for the majority of the last five years. The house was warm, the bed smelled like cedar and palo santo and Derek. And yes, they had sososo much to talk about, but Stiles felt like… Like he was actually ready to do that? If Nevada had taught him anything, it was to confront what he needed to confront. Whether that be an outside force or his own inability to acknowledge his fear that when he’d ran away half a decade ago, he’d fucked up a chance of genuine reconciliation— he was determined now. Hanging on a precipice wasn’t any way to live. Shout out to character growth, am I right?

Stiles snuggled impossibly deeper into the mattress, his eyelids beginning to flutter when he paused. Something small but uncomfortably lumpy was underneath the pillow and—fuck. His heart clenched, uncomfortable and solid in his chest. 

The tiny velvet pouch sat unassuming. It’s stark black was older and lighter now, a small void against olive sheets. And what a small striking thing to hold such significance. 

Because of course Derek still had this. Of course, after over a decade, he’d kept the dream-blessing charm that Stiles had made for him forever ago. Fucking— of course he had. 

Something deep in Stiles’ chest broke and mended in tandem. He fell asleep a moment later, and downstairs in the kitchen something in Derek’s chest loosened. 

He had no idea why. 

☾☾☾

Stiles woke an hour later to a soft voice calling out to him, though it faded before he was fully coherent. He met Derek downstairs not five minutes later, the remaining vestiges of groggy sleep fading as he made his way over to the kitchen. He snatched the somehow perfectly-temped coffee from its space on the counter and downed the entire sixteen ounce mug in ten seconds flat. He nodded in satisfaction and turned to Derek. 

“Okay, big guy. I’m coherent.”

Derek, who was processing the rapid consumption of sixteen ounces of straight amaretto caffeine, frowned for lack of an alternative. Life lesson: if you don’t know how to react, frown. Ol’ reliable will never letcha down. 

After a long history of massive issues being tied to his own failings, shortcoming, mistakes, fuck ups — slow down with the depreciation there, Der— anytime information was handed to him, dread weighed in the pit of his stomach. And with him and Stiles still being on uneven footing, there was yet another anxiety, the added stress of an uncertain guilt. Despite his dread however, Stiles was as reliable as ever. And while what was happening wasn’t his fault, apparently, it was very much tied to him and his witch.  

As soon as Scott had expressed concern, Stiles had dug as deep as he could have into what exactly was going on with him. Though he’d been admittedly scatter-brained regarding his research, there had been a week or so when his ADHD had granted him the gift of hyperfocusing on exactly what he’d needed. 

Derek steeled himself. “So about the red eyes.”

Stiles nodded before fluidly hopping onto the marble surface of the kitchen island. He opened his mouth to speak but paused, brow furrowed at his wolf who had sucked in a sudden breath. He shrugged and went on to explain. Though word had spread over the last decade or so—not only about the Beacon Hills coven but also the witch at its helm who was so tied to the Nemeton he could tap into its power directly—no one was really sure how deep that connection went.

“Even Deaton doesn’t know, I don't think. I know he must have his suspicions, I mean, duh, it’s Deaton. But he doesn’t really know .”

Derek took a sip of his iced matcha, which Stiles eyed with extreme prejudice. “Okay, but what…what is it?”

Stiles paused, his eyes blinking and jaw working rapidly as he thought of how best to phrase this. “Uuuhhhhhhh— I’m not just, like, associated with the Nemeton. I—fuck, this sounds so weird when I say it out loud? ‘Cause it’s just an instinctive thing, ya know? An abstract connection that's like—there. And like—You just feel it's there and you feel it so heavy so you know it's real. It's just so hard to explain and conceptualize, ya know? Uh—”

“Stiles.” 

Derek looked like he’d rather lay a comforting hand on the witch then speak his name softly, but he did what he did and it had the same effect. Stiles shoulders dropped where they’d been climbing. His hands instantly lost all animating gestures. He stopped, looking skyward, and breathed deep before proceeding. 

“The word ‘Nemeton’ was originally a term that meant ‘sacred space’. It has Celtic roots and usually referred to a sacred grove or tree, right? So over time it evolved—the term, I mean— so now it's used as a title for any sacred space that also doubles as an epicenter of ley lines. Effectively making it a—uh. Well, a beacon of preternatural energies and creatures. Every continent has one major intersection; only one Nemeton each. …Well, except for Africa for some reason? Which has like three? That place is huge .” 

Stiles’ brain short circuited for a solid fifteen seconds while he mentally made his way back to his original point. “So… so the nature of everything is to fluctuate, right? And originally the Nemetons energies did move and pulse and shift through the world more freely, but ! They’re all static now. They stay where they are. Like, forever . Unless under extreme duress.”

Derek frowned, cradling his glass against his chest. “What kind of duress?”

A shadowed look crossed the witch’s face. “Like what happened to New York’s Nemeton.”

Derek blinked. “New York doesn’t have a nemeton. I’ve never—”

“—Never felt anything like in Beacon Hills, right? Yeah! That makes sense considering what happened.” Stiles was full steam ahead now. “So back in the industrial revolution, there was this absolute fuck, Julian Ford—”

“What does this have to do with—“

“—Shhh, you gotta let me finish Derek, I’m on a roll.” Derek’s jaw clicked shut. “Anyways, so, Scott pulled me to the side a few weeks ago, right before the first time you showed up bloody to my place and you know how he is , with his big eyes and his sincere vibes. So he was kinda worried I was like, turning into a wolf by proxy or some shit—don’t make that face Red Eye, that doesn't even make any sense . Anyway, I looked into it and kept coming up empty until I found this dusty-ass alchemical journal from like, the fifties okay, this thing is old as shit . Anyway, there was this absolute dumbass Julian Ford, right? He was a sorcerer at the peak of the industrial age. He placed like, like this uh, this magical suppressant on the North Eastern Nemeton. Or as we call it today: The Hudson River.”

“...Holy shit .”

“Right?! Buckle your ass up, cause shit’s about to get real weird, okay? So! I’m not just an emissary: I’m a High Emissary. Which is where most of my epic ballads get a bit fuzzy. Every time a Nemeton is incarnated there's a…uh…Kind of like a counterpart born shortly after it. A sort of evolutionary safeguard, right? A physical presence, from which its power is stored and flows to and from.” Stiles paused, gauging Derek carefully before he next spoke. “There isn’t ever just one high emissary born.”

Derek placed his empty cup to the side with caution. “What?”

“Th-There are always two counterparts. Um, we’re called Telluric Familiars. A two sides of the same coin kind of deal. Both born with magic; one a magical creature and one pure magic. The most famous pair was Merlin and King Arthur.”

“Arthur was a magical creature?”

“Actually yes. He wasn’t a shifter or anything, but he was born from a magical conception so, I guess, maybe he was a conduit? I dunno, that was like forever ago.”

“O-kay…” Derek said with a drawl. A sense of clarity loomed and his perpetual state of dread unwaned. 

Stiles sighed. His fidgeting, eager hands raked through his hair. The manic babble calmed as he looked directly in his friend’s hazel eyes. “You know how we’ve had a connection, like, even before our pack bonds?”

Derek nodded.

“So our… power isn’t individualistic in nature. It shares even more than pack does. My magic and yours, we flow through each other. Not just our feelings but our abilities too. That’s why we transfer empathy and why we’re so hyper-aware of each other in a way that goes so far beyond pack bonds.” Stiles paused, coughing. Rogue colouring his cheeks momentarily. “It’s a destiny thing, but not a soul mate thing, feel me? That would be… haha. So stuuupid. Anyway, I can’t shift into a wolf but I can borrow your senses, your strength. On your side, you can’t set things on fire with your mind— thank god for small mercies —but you can use my power to, I guess, enhance your own. And you have a better shot at energetic transferring, like healing other wolves and shit.”

Derek’s mouth was a firm line while he tried to process the new information. And it probably should've been odd. It should have been unthinkable but…it just made so much. goddamn. sense. 

Okay then. Fuck it. 

Stiles squinted after a bated breath. “You… you’re taking this so well. How are you taking this so well.” 

Derek shrugged and ever the slut for brevity, said, “Makes sense.”

Stiles didn’t look convinced. 

The wolf pressed on. “What about the red eyes? That was alpha red.”

Stiles raised an unimpressed eyebrow. “Alright first off? Wolves don’t have a monopoly on glowing red eyes, okay? So get over yourself. Second,” he deflated, “You’re actually right. It was alpha red. I think a part of it is an energy transference when you get injured? Or when there’s physical contact? Also beyond that our, um, bond isn’t solidified yet. And until that happens we’re both gonna have red eyes goin’ for us. Realistically, if we ever get our shit together enough— whatever that would look like—the red should change to…Uh, actually, I don’t know. For Merlin and Arthur it was gold, but…there hasn't been a Nemeton Witch with a Shifter familiar in about five hundred years. And there hasn’t been a Nemeton Witch with a werewolf familiar in two thousand years. I found something vague about gaining the ‘Lunar Eye’, whatever that means, but that's all I got. 

Derek looked askance. “Aren’t familiars like magical pets?”

Stiles' voice donned a more gentle tone. “No. That’s all…the pet association is just Hollywood bullshit. Familiar is just a term for an archaic partnership between two or more magical creatures that enhance one another’s already there capabilities.” He rattled off like he’d memorized a textbook passage. “The majority of magical creatures do take the form of animals—sometimes domesticated, sometimes not—but they aren’t just mundane witch pets. They’re spirits, ghouls, etc.” 

The wolf nodded, absorbing. A thought occurred to him. After a beat, he asked, “What about the tattoo?” 

“Oh wow, are we just getting all the exposition out in this chapter?”

“What?”

“Nevermind.” He waved a hand dismissively. “What do you mean?”

“What do you mean ‘ what do you mean?’ When I touched your arm earlier it tried to climb on my skin .”

“Yeeeeaaah,” Stiles blew a raspberry. “I have no explanation for that.”

Derek gaped.

“Look, okay, the tattoo isn't an actual tattoo, ya know? It's just a visible manifestation of my magic. So it…makes sense, I guess, that it would feel safe enough with you to crawl over? That adds up . What doesn’t make sense is the coloring.”

Derek’s eyes darted down to Stiles’ arms, as though to double check before squinting. “Was that a dog joke? It’s black and white.”

Stiles shakes his head. “So, during a recent sex-scapade of mine with a very bendy illustrator, um, June? Jay! Jay, who doesn’t have an ounce of magic in them, lemme tell ya, I would know, I was like—in there—uh, anyway! They brought up the nemeton tat. Jay’s in the know about general supernatural shit so I didn’t think much of it at first, but then they said something about the coloring.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Well, Jay was wrong. Obviously.”

“That’s the thing! This is a literal unprecedented blockade on me—a Nemeton Witch, which hasn’t been a thing in almost a hundred years. So nothing’s really obvious about any of this. I went over to the tattoo parlour on 6th for a consultation, just to see what was up and yeah. Every human I’ve come in contact with sees it in full color.” Stiles shrugged, the scent of his rekindled agitation rolling off him in waves. “I don’t know when exactly it started but I musta been within the last year. I did go for an actual consultation at a different mundane shop last May and yeah, it was black and white. Which means—”

“—Which means nothing concrete. You don't know when this happened?”

Stiles shook his head. “No.”

A jaw tightened. “Okay. Well, what happens if we don’t figure this out?”

A pinch to the nose bridge. “I don’t know.”

Clenched teeth. “What happens when it gets worse?”

Stiles hopped off  the counter and paced the space like a caged animal. “I don't know! Listen, what do you want from me? If I knew, I would've said something by now.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “Right. The same way you said something about our Telluric Familiar Situation and you literally being the Nemeton and—”

Stiles rounded on him, eyes narrowed. Who the fuck. “Listen tough guy, that is not fair in any way! I can’t advertise I’m a counterpart to everybody, or anybody for that matter. Also, Aw! I’m sorry if I didn’t have time to sit your little ass down and hold your little hand and talk you through a connection we’ve had since we fucking met. It’s not like the knowledge changes anything about our situation, and anyway I’ve been in Nevada—”

“—And before that?”

“Before tha—Derek, I’ve been trying to get a fucking demon back to the pits of hell ! And, sure. In between Nevada and researching myself into an early fucking grave I was sleeping around—and no, you didn’t need to mention it. I’m not blind , I saw your face when I mentioned Jay—And listen, you are not one to talk about sleeping around.”

“Stiles, we have identical coping mechanisms. I’m not,” Derek took a steadying breath. “I’m not slut shaming you.”

“But you are jealous.”

Derek took a step back instinctively, like his body could shield him from the elephant in the room. His voice was even and quiet. “…That’s not fair.” 

Stiles took a step forward, crowding the wolf and itching to fight. He wanted to kick and gut something and pull his hair out and he wanted to hurt Derek so bad but… 

No, he didn’t. 

The fight in him left and he just felt…he’d hurt Derek enough already. And this old, unproductive rage simmering in him was a flicker now at best. Whatever wounds he’d been carrying from the last five years were well on their way to healing over. Hurting each other, provoking his friend , wasn’t going to fix all his turmoil. 

“I shouldn’t have brought it up like that. It wasn’t fair to either of us, and honestly, we’ve gotten—”

“—Yeah, so far from the conversation.” 

Stiles grinned, sharp and quick. “Look at us, using our big boy words.”

Derek looked to the heavens for strength, though his shoulders had relaxed and he didn’t look ready to run anymore. “Yeah, real mature, all those cheap shots we just took at each other.”

They were closer now than they’d been before, having moved during the heat of the confrontation.  

Stiles’ frowned. “Hey, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That thing where you blame yourself for everyth—” He cut himself off abruptly. His face paling as a distant, dawning expression overtook him. “ Shit .”  

Guilt, sickly and morose, hit Derek’s nostrils for a heavy roiling moment. But it was gone just as fast as it came. Derek tried to steer the conversation back. 

“I know interrogating you isn’t really… productive…I’m worried about you.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow, coming back to himself.

And they’re close. Close enough that he can see the details of Derek's irises. Close enough that they're breathing the same breath, until neither of them remember to breathe at all. Close enough that if either leaned in, it’d be another wonderful grounding moment. 

Or another catastrophe…and this thing between them was… so fragile now.

It happened on the precipice of decision; that moment when you aren’t sure if you’ll pull back or push forward. 

Stiles collapsed. 

Derek caught him before he hit the ground. 

And somewhere across town… A banshee cried.