Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles is panting heavily. Breath rushing in and out and in again far too quickly. The trees around him are a blur as he pushes himself further. He doesn’t know how long he can run for, but he must keep going. Blood is running down his bare back, chest, and arm, further staining the waistband of his already-ruined jeans. Stiles is certain that he looks more feral than any of the wolves he runs with.

He’s running through the preserve, tripping over the occasional root, but for the most part, he’s surprisingly graceful. He knows these woods. He’s spent long enough running to or from one threat or another to know his way. That’s his only asset now. He’s not running for a specific spot, just dodging and weaving around trees and the underbrush in a frantic bid to escape.

Eventually, his clumsiness gets the better of him, a large root tripping him up. He crashes to the ground, barely having enough time to cover his head with his arms in a poor attempt to prevent further injuries. He falls onto his bad side, the cut across his hip screaming at him; rolling to his back to alleviate the pain is worse, the cuts there also protesting. But it’s as though the whole night has caught up with him; as his body trembles with pain, he finds he cannot move, as though all the adrenaline has been sucked from him.

Stiles is still panting, trying to catch his breath, looking up at the canopy. He closes his eyes; he doesn’t know where the hunters are but can’t hear them nearby. Stiles thinks maybe he can rest, yet sprawled on the ground as he is, he does not believe he will get back up. He lets his arms fall to his side, fingers pushed into the dirt, his body giving up any fight and relaxing. If he doesn’t get up now, he won’t get up ever again. He knows his injuries are bad. Knows that falling asleep is a very bad idea. But he just can’t keep going. There’s nothing left in him.

His breathing slows, and he hears a voice whisper, “Up.”

Stiles’ eyes fly open, looking around as much as he can without moving his body too much, turning his head slowly from side to side. There’s no one here.

“Up.” The voice whispers again. It sounds old, ancient even, and stern.

Stiles opens his mouth to explain that he literally can’t, and can’t the stupid voice let him die in peace, but no words come out.

“Up. Up. Up.” The voice demands, getting louder and louder.

Stiles decides that if he could move, he would get up so he could find a different part of the preserve to die in, one without a demanding disembodied voice.

“Get up. Get up. Get up.”

Stiles groans and slurs out “No,” in protest, sounding for the most part like a petulant child who’s been told to go to bed, which is precisely what he’s trying to do right now, sleep. His fingertips dig into the ground in frustration.

“Get up!” This time the voice is demanding, shouting at him almost, and he thinks the leaves above him shake with it, but he’s too out of it to be sure.

“I can’t.” Stiles shouts at it. Finding his voice, he breaks off in a sob, “I can’t.”

The voice is silent for a while. Stiles thinks maybe it is letting him win this and granting him some peace while he bleeds out.

“I will help.” It whispers finally.

“What?” Stiles slurs out, eyes closing again. He is so, so tired.

“I will help. I will help.”

Suddenly he feels something pushing against his fingers, something old, strong. Energy travels up his arms and across his chest before bursting outwards and traveling through his body. Stiles jolts up to a sitting position, suddenly not feeling so tired. In fact, he feels downright energetic. He looks down. The wounds on his hip and arm have started to clot, the wound on his chest is still bleeding sluggishly but not at the same rate, and he doesn’t feel any more blood running down his back. The wounds aren’t magically knitting together like with the wolves, but he is not losing as much blood as he was.

Stiles stumbles to his feet, remembering why he was running in the first place, feeling shame that he basically lied down to die.

“What? What did you do?” Stiles asks the voice, looking around at the trees, unsure if the voice had been a hallucination or not. But, on the other hand, the energy coursing through his body feels pretty real.

Surprisingly the voice answers him, “I awoke what was already there. Go.”

“Go where?” Stiles asks dumbly. He cannot tell where the voice is coming from. It feels all-encompassing, coming from every direction.

“Go.” It repeats, “Goodbye.”

“What the fuck?” Stiles whispers to himself, looking down at his shaking hands, a crash from behind him brings him back to the moment. It sounds like people are approaching. Right hunters. Time to go.

And he is running again, jumping over tree roots and stray logs as though he hadn’t just had a conversation with some unknown voice. He can hear the hunters closing in behind him. Whatever lead he had on them was lost when he laid down. So he just keeps running straight into a clearing.

He realises his mistake when he hears the cock of a gun behind him, a mix of instinct and fear causing him to stagger to a stop.

“Don’t move.” One of the hunters grunts at him. He recognises his voice from earlier, in the basement, and thinks the others had called him Harrison. No. Hudson maybe. “Turn around, put your hands up.”

Kinda hard to turn around and not move, Stiles thinks to himself but bites his tongue. It won’t get him anywhere here. He turns slowly, raising his hands as he does so.

Maybe Hudson is the one pointing the gun at him. He is who Stiles sizes up first. Hudson is thin but not weak; his arms are all lean muscle, and Stiles knows from earlier that his fists pack quite the punch. Stiles couldn’t take him in a fight unless he could grab the gun himself. Maybe Hudson is pale, tall, and blond. But he is young, not much older than himself if Stiles must guess, and he wasn’t as enthusiastic as others in Stiles’ torture. Perhaps he can be reasoned with. The dark grin and hungry look in his eyes say otherwise, though.

Behind Maybe Hudson stands two others. To his right, a female. Short but athletic frame, dark hair, dark skin, mean eyes. She hadn’t been involved with Stiles’ torture, but she had come in during it a couple of times. Her name starts with a T…Tara? Teri. Yes, Teri. Her gun is still holstered. To Maybe Hudson’s left stands Dave. Tall, light-skinned, and muscular. Stiles knows Dave. He had taken too much of a liking to Stiles, enjoying his torment far more than any sane person should. Though Stiles supposes they all must be fucked if they are chasing a sixteen-year-old through the woods. Dave’s gun is also holstered, but unlike with Teri, it does not put Stiles at ease.

Stiles tries desperately to recall the lectures his dad had given him as a kid. His dad had always stressed the importance of gun safety for as long as he could remember. Even taking him to the range and teaching him how to shoot since he was ten, knowing Stiles would go looking for his guns and figure it out himself otherwise. But now, staring down the barrel of one, he can’t remember what his dad had said to do when ones pointed at you, fear coursing through him like a living thing that wanted out of his body, one way or another. 

Don’t panic. That had to be a thing, right? Stiles’s hands are shaking, and he is finding it harder to breathe. Don’t panic. Thinking clearly and panicking do not work well together. And he needs to think clearly to get himself out of this. He is definitely panicking.

“Shoot him already,” Teri grunts, grinning manically. Then, she glances up and sighs, “Besides, it is about to rain.”

Stiles chances a glance at the sky too, seeing big dark clouds rolling in.

“Just wait a second,” Dave says, turning his head slightly to address her. “No need to rush, kids not going anywhere, may as well have some fun. Besides, a little rain never hurt anyone.”

Stiles doesn’t want to discover Dave’s definition of fun, but he can hazard a guess from all the straying hands earlier. His brain screams at him to move, hands shaking even more than they already were, but he tries to calm his breathing some. In for five beats and out for five, in and out, in and out. He needs to think, and the longer they talk, the more time he gets to do so. He can’t waste that.

Teri rolls her eyes and huffs, more agitated than disgusted. Stiles thinks she needs to get her priorities sorted, “we don’t have time for your kind of fun. It took too long to track the little bastard down. Let’s just shoot him and dump his body at the sheriff’s doorstep like the boss wanted.”

It starts to rain.

“Exactly, we spent so long running after him, we shoot him now all that’s wasted. The boss said I could do whatever I wanted to the kid, and I draw the line at fucking corpses.” Dave argues back to her, raising his voice as the rain pelts down heavier.

It starts to pour.

Lovely, they might be down to kidnap, torture, and rape a child, but at least they were gonna leave the corpse fucking to someone truly despicable. Stiles is going to throw up, or at least have the panic attack he’s trying to starve off. The memory of Dave’s wandering hands and touches filling his head far too quickly. No. No. He needs to focus on this moment and how to escape this situation. Then, he can process everything later on. Think. Think. Think. The sudden storm is making it harder to piece his thoughts together. Where is that stupid voice when he needs its help now?

Thunder rumbles overhead.

Maybe Hudson huffs a laugh, gun, and eyes still trained on Stiles, “Don’t you guys get it?” He calls back to them, “The chase was the fun, hunting him down like the dogs he runs with, and now we have him cornered, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide. And we get to put him down. Leave him on their doorstep so they know exactly how much they have failed; the guilt will eat them alive. And then we will get to kill the rest of them, one by one, as they scream and beg for death.” Definitely no reasoning with maybe Hudson then.

It hits Stiles suddenly that this is where he will die. In these woods, carried back and left on his front porch for his dad to find, left wondering what had happened to his son, never understanding. And Scott, Scott who right now is probably out somewhere looking for him, would feel so guilty, wondering what would have happened if he had found Stiles before it was too late. Anger courses through him, hot and fiery, more anger than he’s ever felt at one time before. His family would suffer because of him because he was too weak to fight, too weak to get away, and too weak that he got taken in the first place.

Lightning flashes and the clearing is illuminated by it briefly. The shadowed faces of the three hunters make Stiles angrier.

Stiles resents the voice. He could have died peacefully, looking up at the trees. But, instead, thanks to it and whatever it had done to him, this would be how he dies. A gunshot to the chest, three maniacs grinning at him, bleeding out as it thunders around him.

The fight leaves his body, and his hands stop shaking, panicking stopping altogether. No plan could get him out of this. He couldn’t throw up now, even if he wants to. His feet are rooted to the forest floor. All he has is anger and no way to use it up. He balls his fists and waits.

Hudson fires the gun. There are no more arguments or snide remarks, he is grinning at Stiles, and then he just pulls the trigger. All Stiles wants is for it to stop. He feels like the world is in slow motion. He wonders if his life will flash before his eyes when the bullet hits him and wonders if it will hurt. It will kill his dad. To come home and find Stiles’ body on the front steps. He doesn’t want him to go through that. He doesn’t want his dad to live with that guilt and grief. He just wants it to stop.

And it does.

Stiles doesn’t move or throw his hands out in a lame defence. Instead, he stands completely still as the gun goes off, glaring at Hudson as he pulls the trigger.

And yet the bullet stops mid-air about a foot from its intended target.

Stiles has just enough time to whisper, “What the fuck?” Before the bullet drops to the ground, completely and utterly harmless.

Stiles looks at the hunters.

They look at him.

“Well,” Teri finally breaks the silence. She tries and fails to hide her shock behind a glare, “This just got a lot more interesting.”

Dave grins psychotically, licking his lips in a downright creepy gesture as he replies, “I’ll say. I don’t think we should kill him now. Gerard might want him back.”

Hudson looks murderous. Stiles doesn’t have to guess; he knows Hudson’s pissed. Furious about the power being taken away from him. “You little fucking shit,” he growls, moving forward, gun raised, looking more animal than anything supernatural Stiles has encountered before. Dave and Teri move with him, guns both drawn, determined looks in their eyes. Stiles isn’t sure if they will kill or try to take him back. Hudson certainly looks as though he is out for Stiles’ blood.

Stiles staggers a step back, and this time as Hudson takes aim, Stiles raises his hand, hoping for something, anything to intervene.

Lightning fills the clearing, striking the ground.

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut against the light.

He can feel the electricity buzzing around him, but he doesn’t get hit. The hunters do though. Blood-curdling screams fill the space, along with the smell of burnt flesh. But they don’t last long; the screams die out within seconds.

When the light fades, Stiles cracks open his eyes. The three hunters charred remains lie on the ground before him, barely recognisable. The whole clearing is burnt, the grass dead, and the earth scorched in a perfect circle around Stiles, the grass beneath his feet the only green patch.

Stiles’ arm is still outstretched.

It stops raining.

He can feel it now, the energy the voice said it had awakened. He feels it swirling in his gut, a well he doesn’t know the depth off. Feels it brushing against his bones, thumping under his skin as though it is trying to comfort him.

Stiles staggers backward out of the clearing and into the tree cover, eyes still on the charred remains of his tormentors. He braces himself against a tree and throws up, bile rising up his throat, spilling on the tree’s base. Once finished, he dry heaves, resting his forehead against the trunk, trying to regain his breath.

Stiles just killed three people.

He somehow has magic lightning powers, and he just killed three people.

He takes another breath. In and out. Inhale exhale. In and out.

He could process this later. Much, much later, when he isn’t in the middle of the woods at night. Preferably when he has his laptop and can research the crap out of it. Right now, he needs to get somewhere safe and treat his wounds. Those three weren’t the only hunters sent after him. He is still in danger. He still needs to run.

He straightens, stepping back from the tree. He glances at the clearing again and sees something shining in the grass. Walking back there, he bends and picks up the bullet Hudson had fired. The one that stopped mid-air. The one Stiles had supposedly made stop mid-air. He pockets it.

Stiles feels as though, come morning, he will need the reminder that this wasn’t all some crazy nightmare.

He walks forward. Out of the clearing and keeps running.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles’ hands are shaking as he opens the door to the boy’s locker room. The energy that the voice…and his magic?...had given him finally wearing off. He is tired. So, so tired. But he can’t stop now. Picking the lock had been difficult when his hands wouldn’t cooperate, but Stiles has broken into the school so often that it’s almost second nature now. He stumbles through the rows of lockers trying not to get blood everywhere. If the custodian found random blood in the locker room, it would, without a doubt, be tested, and Stiles would not be able to explain this to his dad without bringing up the supernatural and his own torture. Or without lying his ass off, which he really doesn’t want to do.

He reaches his own locker, relying entirely on muscle memory for the combination, and pulls out a first aid kit and a change of clothes. Setting the supplies on one of the benches before moving to the showers. He turns the water on, waiting for it to heat a little before stepping under the spray, still dressed in only his jeans and boxes that he had left the Argent’s basement in. 

Stiles braces his forearms against the wall and tilts his head down, letting the water rush over him, whimpering in pain and shaking slightly, it hurts like hell, but it is the fastest and most efficient means of cleaning the wounds that he has on hand. He starts to cry as he watches the water turn red with his blood, seeing it swirl down the drain, but the water doesn’t get any clearer, so much blood coated on Stiles. He heaves, only just missing his feet as he throws up for the second time tonight, watching as that too, is rinsed down the drain. It’s too much. Too much. He can’t stop for a moment less he thinks about what happened. He doesn’t want to think about it, just keep going and forget. He rinses his mouth out and shuts the water off. 

Running with wolves in his spare time, and having Melissa McCall as a mother figure, has taught him the importance of carrying medical supplies. Stiles shuffles over to the bench he left his stuff on and unpacks the first aid kit, drying himself off as best he can without agitating his wounds further. The kit isn’t as stacked as he would like, but it has the basics, bandages, painkillers, antiseptic cream, and most importantly, a suture kit. Technically, it is only intended for medical students to practice their suturing. He got it off some medical supply website, but Stiles has practiced on bananas and pig’s feet before to get an idea of it. He is nothing if not prepared. How different could it really be?

The answer apparently is very different, incredibly different. Stiles first attempts to stitch the wound across his chest, knowing it to be the deepest. He sits on the bench, wiping it over with an alcohol swab that stings like a motherfucker, before attempting the first stitch. 

Stiles almost passes out. It’s not so much the pain; he has dealt with so much pain tonight, but the pull, the resistance as he pieces his own skin and attempts to knot the suture. He feels like he is going to be sick again. The sound it makes isn’t pleasant either; seeing skin pull together at each sweep of his needle is gross, but he can’t exactly look away and stitch blindly.

Eventually, he gets through it. Sitting on the bench panting, his hands shaking so badly he doesn’t think he can stitch anything else. He knows the wounds on his back he will have to leave; he can’t reach them or see what he’s doing. But the wound on his hip is deep enough for stitches, at least. He thinks he can get away with leaving the injury on his arm and those circling his wrists from where the cuffs had dug into him. But not the one on his hip. 

Stiles takes a deep breath, in and then out again, before he attempts stitching again. He thanks whatever God that the medical needles come pre-thread; he doesn’t think he’d manage to do it himself because his hands are shaking so much. He tears open a new sterile needle and suture kit and begins. 

It is not any easier the second time around. Stiles pushes his bare feet flat against the cold tiles beneath him in a lame attempt to ground himself as he knots the first suture. At least it is a quicker process this time, the wound smaller in size; he times the knotting of the thread to his breathing, trying to keep himself as still as possible while he works. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the wound is stitched closed.

Stiles fishes some skin glue out of his kit, whipping an alcohol swab over the wound of his arm and biting his lip against the sting. With the adhesive in hand, he applies it to the edges of the cut on his arm before holding them together, waiting a few minutes for it to set before applying butterfly bandages over them. The wounds on his hands only get an alcohol swab and butterfly bandage treatment. He wraps bandages around his torso, ensuring they are tight enough to apply pressure but not impact his breathing, pleased that the wounds on his back have clotted and have not reopened. 

After a moment of thought, he wraps his wrists as well, if only so he doesn’t have to look down and see the wounds through the small butterfly bandages. He downs three painkillers and a whole bottle of water he leaves for emergencies.

Finally, Stiles takes a moment to breathe, just sitting on the bench, head in his hands, wondering just when his life became so fucked up. When did he become an expert at patching himself up, this may have been the first night he needed stitches, but he has done the rest of this before. He keeps a med kit in his locker, for fucks sake, and it’s not the only one he has either. There’s another under the sink in his bathroom and a smaller one in the back of his car for if he’s really in a pinch. 

And now he apparently is a murderer with magical powers, which means he’s never ever going to be able to leave Beacon Hills, or at least never leave the supernatural world, fuck going to college, fuck getting a real job. He is well and truly stuck now, more than he was before.

Ok, stop.

One thing at a time. Stiles couldn’t wait around here for the rest of the night. He had to get home, hopefully, before his dad, so he could try and hide his injuries a bit better. He’s standing up and pulling on his change of clothes without a second thought. A long-sleeved shirt, clean, dry jeans, and his red hoodie thanking again a God he doesn’t believe in that he keeps a spare pair of socks in his locker. 

Dressed, he begins to clean up his mess, packing his med kit back up in his locker and gathering his trash and ruined jeans in a spare duffle bag to dispose of later. Finally, he collects his bag and keys from his locker where he’d left them before the game, what felt like a lifetime ago. 

His Jeep is parked exactly where he left it, looking eerie all alone in the parking lot. Stepping inside and locking the door, Stiles feel some form of safe for the first time in hours. He chucks the duffle in the back, a problem for another day, before running his hand over Roscoe’s steering wheel and turning the key. She starts without a fuss for once, and Stiles loves her even more for it. 

The drive to his house is a blur. Stiles doesn’t know if it’s the sleep deprivation, the adrenaline finally leaving his body, or perhaps some kind of physical tax for magic use – God, what was his life – but the world around him feels fuzzy and unfocused. He wouldn’t be surprised to discover he had run some stop signs. 

To his dismay, his dad’s cruiser is parked in the drive when he gets home. Stiles sighs, resting his head against the steering wheel as he shuts the car off. He knew this might be a possibility. His dad was at the game; there’s no way he wouldn’t be looking for Stiles. Stiles already had his excuse prepared, time for the performance of a lifetime. He grabs his phone from where he left it in the glove box earlier and his lacrosse bag before leaving the car. He slowly steps up to the house as his body still aches. He can hear his dad on the phone as he pushes the door open, fighting with it to give him back his keys. 

He hears his dad sigh and mutter, “Where are you, Stiles?” as Stiles pads into the kitchen, silent thanks to his lack of shoes. He’s suddenly filled with nothing but guilt. How many people had been looking for him? Scott must be going crazy wondering where he is, and Stiles had left Erica and Boyd behind in the basement. He had to figure out how to get to them. Meanwhile, Stiles had decided to lie down in the woods and die. Again, he feels nothing but shame. 

“I’m right here Dad,” he says quietly, shuffling forward, dropping his bag, phone, and keys on the kitchen table as he does so. Mentally preparing himself for the ensuing argument. 

His dad whips around to look at him, marching forward and pulling him into a hug without a second thought. And God, it feels good; Stiles melts into it, clinging to his dad like he hasn’t since he was a little kid, winding his arms around the man and burying his face in the familiar uniform. He doesn’t want to ever let go, finally feeling safe, properly safe, in his father’s arms. He bites the inside of his cheek to hold back his tears.

“Where the hell have you been? I have been so worried. You just disappeared. I’ve had people looking out at the station, I called the emergency room. I was losing my Goddamned mi-“The sheriff cuts off as he pulls back and looks over Stiles, “Stiles.” His dad says, voice switching from concerned father to stern sheriff, “What happened to your face?”

Stiles reluctantly pulls out of his father’s embrace, lifting a hand to rub anxiously at his neck; even as the movement pulls at the wounds on his back, he holds back his flinch. He knew his dad would clock the split lip and bruise blooming on his cheek. He had just prepared for such inevitability in the car, but now faced with his father’s worry, he feels the excuse slipping away. He really doesn’t want to lie anymore. But he must to protect his dad from the supernatural; he doesn’t want his dad involved in any of this. 

“Ah well…” Stiles trails off, excuse, excuse, what was his excuse again? Think. Think. Think. “You know some of the guys from the other team grabbed me after the game, weren’t too happy about me scoring that goal.” 

“Kids did this?” Noah asks sceptically, now an arm’s length away, studying Stiles up and down as though he could suss out any other injuries through intuition alone. “Kids from the other team? What were their names? And where are your shoes?”

“Ah, they took my shoes, and well, you know, dad, I didn’t really stop to ask their names,” Stiles says, averting his gaze from his fathers, realising all too late that would make his dad even more suspicious.

“Stiles.” His dad is using his interrogation voice; when Stiles meets his eyes, the man continues, “What happened? If you don’t know their names, then what did they look like?”

“I...I look, Dad, they were just a bunch of kids. It is really not important I me-“

“Stiles!” His dad’s voice is louder now, sterner; Stiles snaps his mouth shut. “I spent hours worrying about you. I’ve been looking all over the place, worried sick. Do not lie to me. What happened?”

“I dad…the other team…it was…uh…” Stiles is fumbling; he knows that, usually, this, lying comes almost naturally to him. But right now, it’s too much, he has been lying about it all for so long, and his dad looks broken, and Stiles is so, so tired. “I just…”

“Stiles…please, son, just tell me, “His dad sounds broken now, too, hesitantly lifting his arms and placing them on Stiles’ shoulders.

Stiles breaks.

“I can’t. Dad, I can’t tell you because you won’t believe me, and Scott’s not here to back me up on it, and I don’t want you involved with this. It’s too dangerous. I just can’t.” Stiles’ breathing is coming quicker now, and he feels like his on the verge of a panic attack, but his dad has to understand that he just can’t do this right now.

The sheriff’s arms fall from Stiles’ shoulders again, and he takes a step back, shaking his head. “Too dangerous? Stiles, I’m your father, I am the adult, I am the one supposed to be protecting you. What’s going on? Are you involved in something? Is Scott? What is it? Gangs? Drugs?” His dad’s voice is pitching louder and louder with every word.

“No, it’s not drugs, it’s not gangs…I-“

“Did Scott get you involved in this? I know he’s been acting differently lately; I’ve been trying to talk to Melissa about it. If he’s in some kind of trouble, he’s not dragging you down with him.” He is glaring at Stiles now, face going red, getting more and more worked up. 

“What? No! Scott’s not done anything. In fact, I probably am the one dragging him into it, look it’s complicated, and I can’t just-“

“Hale then? I’ve seen him with the Lahey kid! And with Scott and those other two! If he’s got you all doing something, then you need to tell me!”

“Derek?” Stiles splutters, his dad’s eyebrows raising at the use of Derek’s name. Stiles knows he has made a mistake as soon as he says it. He says Derek’s name with far too much familiarity. He continues regardless, “Doing something? What? No! Dad, nothing like that! Jesus…I...he just….” Stiles isn’t making this any easier; in fact, he is just digger himself a deeper grave and possibly digging Scott and Derek one beside him. 

“Then what Stiles? What am I supposed to think?” his dad is furious, still not quite shouting, but there’s a vein bulging on his temple, and Stiles is genuinely worried his dad’s about to have a heart attack. 

“I...I...I don’t know, I can’t….” Stiles looks at his father helplessly; what was he supposed to say here, “I just-“

“Stiles!” His father’s tone is cold and stern, and Stiles knows the man is seconds away from shouting now, “Tell me what is going on right now! No lying!”

“I can’t!” Stiles shouts at him, throwing his arms out; the anger feels good, so, so good. “I can’t tell you any of it! And I can’t tell you what happened tonight without lying to you!” 

“Stiles enough!” Now his dad is shouting, banging his fist against the table with each sentence, “I am your father! I am the sheriff! Whatever is happening, I can sure as hell deal with it! Tell me!”

“No!” Stiles shouts back at him, “What part of I can’t tell you don’t you get! I. Can’t. Tell. You. I won’t!” He is left panting after his outburst, watching as his dad’s anger hardens into something else.

“Who even are you anymore?” His father asks him, shaking his head, “I can’t…I don’t….” The sheriff cuts himself off, but the damage is done, Stiles knows what he was about to say. 

“Don’t what Dad? Don’t what?” Stiles pushes because now he’s just hurt, the anger leaving as quickly as it came. 

The house is silent for a minute or two as both Stilinski men breathe, recovering from their outburst. The room is charged, and Stiles can feel the tension in the air. 

Finally, Noah breaks it, “I need to go to work,” his voice is lower now but not quite soft. He looks directly at Stiles, and his gaze holds so much disappointment that Stiles wants to cry again. “We will be talking in the morning.” It’s a demand, not a request, “stay here. Do not leave this house.” And with that, his dad is out of the room, picking his own keys up off the console table in the hall and shutting the door behind him. He doesn’t slam it, but the sound of it echoes in the quiet nonetheless. Stiles doesn’t move until he hears his father’s cruiser reverse out of the driveway and take off down the street. 

I don’t even recognise you. That was what his dad was going to say. That he doesn’t even know who Stiles is anymore.

Stiles collapses into one of the kitchen chairs, leaning down and banging his head slightly against the table as if that will help him figure out what to do now. He is barely sitting there, head resting on the table, trying to fight back the tears, for five minutes before his doorbell rings.

With a sigh, Stiles stands. Moving out of the kitchen into the hall and pausing in front of the door. He hesitates for another couple of seconds, wondering who would be here at this hour, but well fuck if they wanted to kill him, they wouldn’t exactly be ringing the doorbell. He pulls the door open. 

Lydia stands there. She’s clearly been crying; mascara is running down her face, but otherwise, she looks as perfect as ever, with red hair falling beautifully, dressed impeccably purse clutched to her chest as she stares back at him. And he feels…absolutely nothing asides from slight concern. A year ago, hell six months ago, having Lydia Martin show up at his door would have been a dream come true.

“What are you doing here Lydia?”

“They won’t let me see Jackson.” She sniffles, her head is held high, but it is clear she’s about to break down. “No one will tell me what the fuck is going on, and they won’t let me see Jackson.”

Stiles sighs again, opening the door wider and stepping aside so she can move past him, “You better come inside.”

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles is behind the wheel of the Jeep, racing towards a warehouse while Lydia shouts directions at him from the passenger seat; he is hurriedly explaining the supernatural to her. Stiles is fuming.

 After he invited Lydia in, they had a tense discussion about no one telling her anything, which then led to a heated argument in which Stiles admits he may have been a bit of a dick and was taking his frustration from the day out on her. He was halfway through an explanation of everything that had been going on right from the beginning when his phone started buzzing with multiple notifications. He hadn’t checked it since before the game. 

Checking his text messages is what caused his current anger to arise. 

Scott had sent one text. 

Just the one. 

Telling Stiles his dad was looking for him and scolding him for running off after the game before demanding to know where he was. After that, nothing, no texts, no missed calls, nothing at all. Until hours later, when he had started demanding Stiles to answer him because he needed his help with something.

Now Scott’s texting him almost every minute, saying that Jackson is apparently not dead but rather evolving like a fucking Pokémon and that it is Stiles’ job to get Lydia and take her to the warehouse where something is apparently going down. Scott hasn’t been giving the full details, so Stiles has fuck all clue about what’s happening beyond that, nor how Lydia is supposed to help the situation.

Fuck all clue besides the fact that Scott hadn’t been looking for him. Hadn’t even realised something had been wrong and that Stiles hadn’t run off but instead had been kidnapped. Hadn’t even bothered to look for him beyond a single text. 

Even Isaac had done better than Scott. Isaac Lahey, who Stiles barely spoke to, had texted Stiles thrice, twice asking where he was and once hoping that Stiles was ok and nothing bad was happening. Isaac fucking Lahey had more regard for Stiles than Scott. Scott, who is supposed to be his best friend, his brother in all but blood.

“So that it?” Lydia asks once Stiles finishes the explanation he started in his kitchen, “werewolves, hunters, Kanima’s? You and Scott went looking for a- take a right here,” she cuts herself off, pointing out the turn, Stiles barely slows the Jeep, tires squealing as he rounds the corner, “for a dead body? What is wrong with you?”

Stiles isn’t offended by the last question; he actually feels pretty ashamed of his own actions now that he looks at it retrospectively. Laura Hale had been a person who had been brutally murdered, and not only had he dragged Scott out to find her remains, he accused Derek of murdering his own sister. Stiles is a horrible person; God, he should apologise to Derek. “I’ve been asking myself the same thing for years, Lydia,” he mutters as he puts more pressure on the gas.

They have reached the industrial district now. It is nearly one in the morning, so no other cars are on the road to slow them down. Stiles can only hope that his dad or one of his deputies aren’t patrolling around this area. If his dad finds out Stiles left the house when he was explicitly told not to, he would be grounded for the rest of his life, especially after that argument. Plus, if they were caught, then Lydia wouldn’t get to Jackson, which is apparently very important to Scott’s plan. Not that Stiles would know that plan because all Scott seems to do these days is leave Stiles out.

Lydia looks up from his phone that she has been using to read Scott’s texts and figure out exactly where they are going, to gaze intensely at him. Stiles resists the urge to look back at her, keeping his eyes on the road ahead as he breaks so many traffic laws. 

“So what am I?” She asks. Her voice isn’t small, not necessarily, Stiles does not believe Lydia Martin could be meek even if she wanted to, but she sounds vulnerable nonetheless. 

Stiles risks a glance at her before refocusing as he takes another turn. She doesn’t look as upset anymore; finding out Jackson is alive probably helps with that. The mascara tracks are the only evidence of her crying, but her shoulders are hunched ever so slightly, and she almost looks…afraid.

“I don’t know,” he admits gently, “but you are definitely something.”

They round the last corner, and the warehouse comes into view.

“That the one?” He asks Lydia; it looks like the one described. He steps down on the gas as he prepares to go straight over the curb and into the lot.

“I think so,” is her reply. She glances over at him as they get closer, “you are not slowing down!” she cries, alarmed. 

“Nope,” Stiles says, popping the p, as the warehouse gets closer and closer. He gets a second in which he sends a silent prayer out to anyone that will listen that his baby survives this before he says, “Hold on!”

And he crashes right through the warehouse wall. 

And right into a very scaley but very alive Jackson Whittemore. Who goes flying. He slams the brakes on, so he doesn’t run over anyone else, the Jeep half in, half out of the warehouse. Lydia is scrambling out of the car before he can stop her, and the next thing he knows, he’s jumping out after her. 

Jackson is up a second later, apparently undeterred by being hit by a car. He stalks forward and slashes the bonnet of the Jeep with his claws. 

“Hey!” Stiles shouts at him because come on man that’s his baby, but before he can do anything, Lydia rushes right up to Jackson like she’s got a death wish. 

“Lydia!” He hisses, moving forward, but then Scott’s there holding Stiles back with an arm across his chest. “What the fuck man?” Stiles says to him but gets no reply. Scott’s too busy looking at Lydia and Jackson.

Stiles is oddly fascinated as he watches Lydia fish out a house key and start professing her undying love to Jackson. Weirdly enough, it works; Jackson ditches the scaley hide and becomes a real boy. 

Scott drops his arm from Stiles’ chest, and it brings him back to his surroundings. He looks around, the warehouse is dimly lit and sparse, but it’s evident that Stiles missed quite the confrontation. There are broken boxes and shattered glass, and blood so much blood. 

Isaac is towards the back, multiple arrows sticking out of him and what looks like some knife wounds slowly healing across his chest. Chris and Allison are here, which is surprising to Stiles, but they are not attacking, so Stiles doesn’t know what to make of them. Derek is in the middle of the room, his face a complicated mix of anger and hurt; Stiles is about to step forward and ask him what’s wrong when the older man moves first. 

Derek and Peter Hale move forward. Peter comes seemingly out of nowhere, having been hiding in the shadows, and how the fuck was Peter even alive? They move towards Jackson, who is facing away from them, having just let go of Lydia, and with their claws extended, both Derek and Peter skew Jackson with them. 

“Woah! What the fuck!” Stiles says, moving forward a few steps; Lydia backs up into him, hands held over her mouth as she looks on horrified. When she collides with Stiles’ chest she turns into him, clutching his shirt and hiding her face in his neck. Stiles takes deep breaths attempting not to freak out because of her proximity, wanting to at least offer this small comfort since it’s clear that, for some stupid reason, she trusts him. He wraps one arm protectively around her waist as Derek and Peter let Jackson go, and his body drops to the floor.

Stiles stares, mouth open in shock, eyes flickering between Derek, Peter, and Jackson on the floor as Lydia starts crying into his hoodie. Finally, after a tense minute, Jackson bolts into a sitting position with a howl, eyes a beta blue, apparently now a werewolf. When Lydia notices Jackson is fine and hasn’t just been murdered, she pulls away from Stiles and returns to Jackson’s side. Stiles isn’t offended by her pulling away from him, just incredibly confused about what’s happening. Did he hit his head in that basement? Is this all some complex fever dream?

For a moment, no one moves. Then Lydia is helping Jackson to his feet, Peter retreats to the shadows again, Isaac groans loudly, and Allison is apologising profusely for shooting him. At the same time, Chris scolds Allision for taking things too far. Stiles isn’t even angry anymore, just thoroughly confused by it all, looking around helplessly, hoping someone will take pity on him and explain. Scott decides that’s a good moment to leave Stile’s side and head over to Allison without even asking where Stiles has been or if he is ok. 

Stiles is so busy watching Scott walk away that he doesn’t realise Derek is approaching him until the older man has a fist in the material of Stiles’ hoodie and slams him back against the side of the Jeep. 

Stiles lets out an involuntary gasp of pain, and oh yep, the wounds on his back have reopened. He can feel the blood soaking his bandages. 

“Dude-“Stiles exclaims, but Derek cuts him off, 

“I thought I could trust you!” Derek snarls, eyes flickering between Alpha red and his human green, and Stiles thinks the wolf looks downright murderous. 

“Derek, what are you talking about?” Stiles asks, confused; he looks over Derek’s shoulder in Scott’s direction for help, but the guy is too busy talking to Allison to have even noticed his predicament. 

“Oh, come on Stiles, you know,” Derek growls at him, “what Scott pulled tonight, with Gerard, there’s no way Scott could come up with that on his own. You’re the guy with the plan.” And oh, Stiles can see it now; Derek’s not angry, not really. He is just hiding behind it; there’s hurt there, betrayal. What the fuck did Scotty do?

“I…Derek, I swear I didn’t do anything-“Stiles starts. His mind is racing. Scott and Gerard? When was Gerard here? Where did he go? Did he know Stiles was still alive? Was he planning on coming back to finish him off? And what exactly had Scott done for Derek to clearly be so hurt and feel so betrayed that he is barely trying to hide his emotions like he usually does?

“Save it,” Derek bites, pushing Stiles further against the car; Stiles barely contains a whimper as his injuries dig into the Jeep’s side, “I know you two, at least I thought I did. You do just about everything together, and when Scott is in trouble, you are the one who comes up with the plan to bail him out. You would do anything for Scott, including apparently fucking me over.”

Derek is not entirely wrong. Stiles is constantly bailing Scott out of trouble. But they don’t do everything together and haven’t for a while. And yea, Stiles would do a lot for Scott, but not if it hurt Derek. He and Derek have an understanding; they are always saving each other’s asses. Stiles would almost call them friends at this point. They were pack, after all. 

“Derek, I have no idea what Scott has done,” he tells the man earnestly, looking him directly in the eyes, “I swear I wouldn’t hurt you, not intentionally, dude. Whatever he’s done tonight, I had no part in it. We are friends, kind of. We are pack.”

That is apparently the wrong thing to say because Derek growls, eyes flashing red again and fangs lowering. He pushes right up into Stiles’ face so that their noses are almost touching. “Do. Not. Lie. To. Me.” Derek growls.

Stiles takes a deep breath, willing himself not to freak out, “Dude,” he says calmly, “I’m not lying. Listen to my heartbeat. I’m not-“

“Stop,” Derek whispers and the look on his face is so openly hurt that it breaks Stiles’ heart a little. Sometimes Stiles forgets that Derek is only twenty years old and has been dealt the worse cards in life. “Please just stop. I…I trusted you.” 

“You still can trust me,” Stiles whispers back. He’s scared if he speaks any louder, he’ll break the moment, and Derek will revert back to anger, “Derek, I swear to you-“

“Stop,” Derek growls a little louder now. He moves back, still pushing Stiles into the Jeep, but not right up in Stiles’ face anymore. His expression closes off, eyebrows furrowing as he glares, and all Stiles can read in his eyes is anger. Stiles’ shoulders slump at the sight. “You’re not pack Stiles, and neither is Scott. I never should have trusted you.”

Oh, and that hurts more than anything else had tonight. Stiles gapes at him. First, Derek wouldn’t listen to him, listen to his heartbeat, see he’s not lying for once. Now he’s claiming he isn’t pack, after everything he’s done for him, after everything they have been through. He knows they didn’t always see eye to eye, that Derek and Scott didn’t like or trust each other. But Stiles thought that he and Derek had an understanding. He genuinely believed that Derek considered him part of the pack or at least pack adjacent. Stiles definitely thought of Derek as his Alpha. 

Hell, he’d be tortured for information in Gerard’s basement about Derek’s pack. He was tortured because he refused to give anything up, to betray Derek because he trusted the man and thought that pack included him.

Stiles’ anger resurfaces. He clenches his jaw and glares at Derek. After all, Stiles has done for this asshole, all the times he’s saved Derek’s ass, now he’s telling him he’s not pack. Stiles opens his mouth to retort but shifts against the car door and cannot contain the flinch in response to pain. 

Derek stills. He flicks his gaze over Stiles’ face as if just now properly seeing him for the first time, and some anger in Derek’s eyes fades. “What happen to your face?” He asks Stiles cautiously, letting go of Stiles’ hoodie and stepping back slightly so that he’s not pushing Stiles into the car. Stiles sighs in relief but doesn’t reply, knowing Derek will hear his lie. Knowing that now Derek is bothering to listen to his heartbeat when he wouldn’t before.

Derek’s nostrils flare as he sniffs at the air, “why do you smell like blood and pain?” He asks, and again Stiles does not reply.

Slowly, hesitantly Derek brings his hand up to Stiles’ neck, cupping the back of it. Stiles blames the pain for why he doesn’t immediately push Derek away. Instead, Derek starts draining Stiles’ pain, actually flinching when he starts to. Stiles holds the sigh back this time as the pain leaches out of him.

The anger and betrayal are gone entirely now. Derek only looks at Stiles in growing horror and concern, “Stiles.” He says, “What happened?”

And suddenly, Stiles remembers that he’s angry at Derek now. After everything they have been through, he wants to throw Stiles aside. Well, he doesn’t get to change his mind just because he has discovered how weak Stiles is. Doesn’t get to act like he cares now that he feels bad.  

Stiles pushes Derek back and away from him, and the man lets him. The pain returns as Derek’s hand falls, but Stiles finds he doesn’t care. He was handling it before, and he can take it again now. “Why does it matter?” Stiles hisses at him, “I’m not pack remember.”

Derek takes another step back. He looks like he is warring with himself, his expression torn between concern and anger. Finally, he turns around and stalks off, going to help Isaac with his arrow wounds. 

Stiles turns to the side, finding Jackson and Lydia watching him, the only two who were paying enough attention to witness the incident, apparently.

“What?” Stiles grunt at them, pushing himself off the Jeep. 

“What happened to you tonight? Before I came to your house?” Lydia asks him, eyeing him up and down, assessing. 

“It’s not important,” Stiles sighs, running a hand down the front of his hoodie, trying to smooth out the creases. A glance to the other side of the warehouse tells Stiles that Scott is still talking to Allison. He looks back at Lydia and Jackson, “So….. you’re a werewolf now?” He tries conversationally. 

Lydia pouts at him, unimpressed by his evasion. Jackson looks between them before focusing on Stiles; shrugging, he says, “Yeah, I guess.”

“Sorry about uh hitting you with my car,” Stiles mutters, pulling at the sleeves of his hoodie, careful not to reveal the bandages around his wrists.

Jackson huffs a small laugh, and it hits Stiles that this is the most he has spoken to Jackson without either of them snarking at each other. “Guess that’s why you not allowed within fifty feet of me,” Jackson says. 

Stiles pauses. “Was that…Was that a joke?” He asks.

Jackson nods his head slightly. Lydia is looking between the two of them in disbelief, and he can’t blame her. This is the most civil conversation that he and Jackson have ever had.

 
“Wow.” Stiles mutters, “I think this is the most you have ever spoken to me without trying to punch me.”

“Yea, well...” Jackson starts, “It’s been a rough night. So give me a break today. I’ll go back to being an asshole tomorrow.”

Stiles nods. It has been a rough night. He is so, so tired. “You guys want a ride home?” He asks them both.

Jackson looks to the other side of the warehouse before turning back to him, “I think…I feel like I need to go with Derek, talk things out. Is that ok?”

“Is that ok…Why the fuck you asking me, dude? You can do whatever you want.” Stiles asks him incredulously. Lydia is also looking at Jackson like he’s grown a second head.

“I don’t know.” Jackson admits, “It just feels right. Like I should be asking you, you know?”

“Uh-huh.” Stiles nods, not understanding at all, “Well, yeah, be my guest. It’s probably a good idea for you two to talk things out.”

Jackson nods, moving to leave, grabbing Lydia’s hand to take her with him, but she doesn’t move to join him. 

“Lyds?” Jackson asks.

She ignores him, studying Stiles instead. “Are you ok to drive? Something has happened. I know it has. Derek said he could smell blood.” Her eyes narrow as she looks over his bruised face again.

Knowing that Jackson could pick up on the lie, he doesn’t give her the excuse he gave his dad. “It’s ok Lydia.” He reassures her, but she doesn’t look even slightly convinced. “You better go with Jackson. He’d be lost without you. Don’t want him kicked out for being too much of an asshole and not knowing how to find his way home afterward.” 

It’s a lame attempt. Stiles knows it, Lydia knows it, and Jackson knows it. Jackson still huffs a laugh anyways, muttering, “You’re an ass.” He tugs at Lydia’s hand again, and this time she reluctantly follows him away from Stiles and over to Derek. 

Stiles watches them go. Derek has finished pulling arrows out of Isaac, and they are talking quietly. Chris has disappeared, but Stiles doesn’t think he’s left, most likely waiting outside. Peter is also gone, but Stiles doesn’t really care about him. Scott is still talking to Allison.

Fuck it. Scott clearly has no intention of talking to Stiles tonight, and Stiles has places to be. He gets in Roscoe, starts her up, puts her in reverse, and leaves the warehouse without a backward glance. 

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles knows he should go back home before his dad gets off shift, but he can’t. His mind is nagging at him. He needs to find Erica and Boyd. In hindsight, he should have stayed at the warehouse and asked Chris or Allison if they were still in the basement. He isn’t sure of Chris’s involvement in it all, but Erica had said that Allison was the one who shot her and Boyd. Yet his gut tells him they aren’t there.

Something is wiggling at the back of his head, telling him they got out of the basement.

He pulls up to the preserve, parking in one of the small car parks by the start of some hiking trails. It’s still dark, only two. He sits in the car for a few minutes. There’s still a chance that hunters are out in the woods. Hudson, Teri, and Dave weren’t the only hunters sent after Stiles; he feels sick just thinking about them. The others might still be out there, and Stiles is risking a lot if he goes out into the preserve.

But he must. He doesn’t know how. Maybe it’s like with the voice, his maybe magic guiding him. He knows they are out here somewhere, in these woods. He just has to find them.

He gets his bat and flashlight out of the back of the Jeep and ventures out into the woods.

***

Stiles has been stumbling through the woods for close to four hours now. It is now six in the morning, and the sun had started rising about fifteen minutes ago. His flashlight is shoved in his back pocket now that there’s enough light to see without it, but he is still defensively holding his baseball bat in front of him.

He hasn’t found any sign of Erica or Boyd, and he feels he has covered a decent amount of ground in his search. On the plus side, he hasn’t run into any hunters either, so either they left hours ago, or Stiles is extremely lucky. Probably the former considering the rest of Stiles’ luck these past ten or so hours.

Stiles takes a second to breathe. The adrenaline wore off a while ago, he has been running on sheer force of will for the past hour and a half, but he needs a break. He sits on a nearby fallen tree, resting his bat next to him as he reties his shoelaces. Thankfully he had the foresight the shove a pair of shoes on before leaving to take Lydia to the warehouse. It’s been a very long night. The lacrosse game feels like it happened years ago rather than just yesterday. So much has changed since.

Stiles hasn’t received any more texts from Scott since the warehouse, which is pissing him off. Scott is supposed to be his best friend in the whole ass world, and he cares more about his girlfriend, his hunter girlfriend than Stiles.

Stiles had received two texts from two others. One from Lydia telling him to be careful, he didn’t know if she knew he wasn’t planning on going home or if she just meant in general, but her intuition freaked him out a little. The second text was from Isaac asking if he was ok. Which is weird because he and Isaac are not friends. Both texts came in over two hours ago, both he had left unanswered.

His dad should be off work at seven and heading home shortly after, but Stiles doesn’t think he can leave yet, and even if he does leave the woods, he can’t go home in this state. He has bled through the bandages on his back, and he is ninety percent sure he has torn his makeshift stitch job across his chest. He pulls his red hoodie off to double-check, and yep, those are blood stains on his shirt. He turns the hoodie over and finds it stained with blood too, patches of the hoodie a darker red and damp.

“Fuck,” he mutters to himself. He is not exactly bleeding out like he was the last time he was in these woods, but he is gonna have to patch himself up soon before he loses too much blood.

A rustling from the woods ahead of him draws his attention. It sounds like something is approaching. Someone running towards him, not at full speed but fast enough to make Stiles anxious. He drops his hoodie and grabs his bat, raising it high, ready to strike as someone rounds the corner of the trail he’s currently on.

“Oh shit!” The person exclaims, staggering backward. Stiles aborts his swing at the last second so the bat doesn’t collide with its intended target. Instead, flinging it off into the bushes beside him, his hands freezing in the air as the bat flies off.

“Fuck.” Stiles mutters as he takes the guy in. The person, or rather Danny Mahealani, is dressed in running joggers and a sweat-stained shirt, a sweatband across his forehead, and looking at Stiles as though he is insane. “Danny?” Stiles asks as he lowers his hands again.

“Stiles? What the fuck? Why are you out here?” Danny asks him, heavily panting, one hand over his heart like it’s about to give out, “What the hell are you doing? Were you about to assault me?”

“Why am I out here? Why are you?” Stiles asks, his voice pitching upwards. He ignores Danny’s questions, partially because, yes, he was about to assault him but only because Stiles thought he was someone else, like, say, a hunter.

“I’m out for a run,” Danny answers like it’s obvious. Of course, in hindsight, it is considering the attire and the fact that they are on a popular hiking trail and the early hour, but still.

“In the woods?” Stiles asks him, because honestly, does he have a death wish, “Do you know how many animal attacks there’s been the past year? There’s like mountain lions out here! How would you even protect yourself from something like that!”

“You are one to talk! What the hell are you doing here?” Danny asks again, outraged, “You gonna bludgeon a mountain lion to death with a baseball bat?” As he says that, Danny looks him up and down before focusing on the blood stains on Stiles’ shirt, he pales, “Are you bleeding?”

“S’not important.” Stiles mutters before saying, “You really shouldn’t be out here. It’s not safe.”

Danny apparently decides it is important because he moves forward to grab Stiles’ shoulder, eyes narrowed on the steadily growing bloodstain on Stiles’ chest. Stiles flinches at the contact as Danny’s fingers brush against one of the wounds on his back. Danny’s gaze shoots up to Stiles’ face, brows furrowing. Gently he turns Stiles around so that his back is facing Danny.

“Holy fuck.” Danny whispers. Stiles imagines his back is stained with blood, it has felt wet and sticky, but he hasn’t really noticed it until now. Everything that wasn’t useful in finding Erica or Boyd had been pushed to the back of his mind. In fact, he barely remembers stumbling around the woods for hours beyond his need to find them. “Ok. Ok. This is fine. You are going to be fine.” Danny reassures them. He turns Stiles back around, steadying him slightly as he sways.

Stiles hadn’t felt that dizzy before, but now it looked like the ground is moving a little more than it should be.

“Ok.” Danny says again, looking Stiles in the eyes, “We are going back to your car now.” Danny tells him, “Your Jeep is in the car park, right? By the start of this trail? I thought I saw it on the way in.”

“Yea.” Stiles mutters, “left her there a few hours ago.”

“Hours…” Danny trails off, “ok. Let’s go back there, ok.” He starts to lead Stiles back along the trail.

“Wait,” Stiles tells him. He wishes his vision would stop swimming. He was fine only half an hour ago. “My bat.” Stiles points over to the bushes he threw it in.

Danny doesn’t even glance that way, too busy focusing on Stiles and ensuring he doesn’t trip over his feet. Muttering, “I’ll buy you a new one,” as they continue along.

Stiles can still walk; he’s not that out of it. But he’s clumsier than usual, and with no imminent threat chasing him, there’s no adrenaline to keep him going. At some point, Danny throws Stiles’ arm over his shoulder, mumbling a soft apology at Stile’s gasp of pain, carefully wrapping his arm around Stiles’ waist to keep him moving forward. They are almost back to the car park when Stiles realises he also left his bloodstained hoodie behind, but he can’t bring himself to care.

“Where are your keys?” Danny asks him as they clear the last few trees.

“What?” Stiles asks him as Danny leans him against the passenger’s side of the Jeep and steps back to look at Stiles.

“Your keys. Where are they? I am going to need them to drive.” Danny repeats, looking Stiles over, “Did you also hit your head? How are you feeling?”

Stiles shakes his head, “I’m fine. No one drives Roscoe. Only me.”

“Come on, Stiles,” Danny says imploringly, “You need to go to the hospital, and there’s no way you can drive yourself there.”

“No hospital.” Stiles blurts, “Absolutely no hospital of any kind.” Danny looks like he is about to protest, so Stiles keeps going, “And no one drives my Jeep. You might damage her. I’m the only one I trust to keep her safe.”

Danny looks at the front of the Jeep before looking back to Stiles, “Are you the one who drove It through a wall? And into a ‘mountain lion,’” He asks dubiously, eyeing the claw marks on the bonnet and the plaster dust all over the front of the vehicle.

Stiles opens his mouth to defend himself but pauses, squinting at Danny. He had emphasised the words ‘Mountain’ and ‘Lion’. Stiles might be fuzzy in the head, but he’s not so out of it as to not pick up on that. Stiles reaches into his front pocket for the keys to the Jeep and throws them Danny’s way. “Not a single scratch.” He warns, pointing a finger at Danny. Danny nods, moving to help Stiles into the passenger seat. “And no hospital,” Stiles adds, “take me to the animal clinic.”

“The…” Danny looks at Stiles in shock, “You want me to take you to receive medical care from a vet?”

“Yes.” Stiles insists, settling himself into the seat and buckling his seatbelt.

Danny closes the door and rounds the Jeep to get in the driver’s side. “Fine.” He mutters as he starts Roscoe up and puts her in reverse, “but if I’m doing that, you are explaining everything. Everything that is going on with Jackson and McCall and werewolves. Especially how the hell Jackson is alive and texting me this morning.”

“Werewolves?” Stiles splutters, “You know?”

“Of course, I know.” Danny scolds, taking a turn as he heads towards the clinic, “Do you know how loud McCall is? You are a bit more subtle, but not by much. Plus, Jackson had been acting super weird lately. I’m surprised I’m the only one who’s figured it out.”

Stiles thinks about it for a minute, and yea, it makes sense. He tried, he really did, to be subtle and talk quietly with Scott about it, but Scott wouldn’t even know the definition of the word subtle. So Stiles sighs, “ok, ok, fine.”

By the time he has finished explaining everything, they are almost at the clinic. “So Jackson is a werewolf now?” Danny asks.

“Apparently. I don’t know how they figured that part out. I wasn’t there for any of the discoveries. Scott just texted me about helping Jackson and him not being dead and then needing Lydia.”

“And you?” Danny asks, turning to face him.

“Me?” Stiles questions.

“What happened to you tonight? You didn’t explain where you were before Lydia came to you, why you weren’t with the others trying to help Jackson, why you were out in the woods, or why you’re all….” Danny trails, gesturing vaguely.

“Bloody and looking like I lost a fight?” Stiles supplies.

“Yeah.” Danny mumbles.

They pull up to the clinic, “Maybe I’ll explain later.” Stiles tells him as he goes to open his door. Danny huffs but gets out and comes around to help Stiles.

Stiles is sure the clinic isn’t supposed to be open for another hour. Still, the door is unlocked, so they make their way inside, the bell rings out as the door closes again, and Alan Deaton calls from the back, “I am sorry, we are not quite open yet,” a few moments later he walks through the open door to the appointment room and out to the waiting area.

Deaton pauses for a moment. Eyeing Stiles. Then Danny. And then the way Danny is holding Stiles up, taking his weight, before returning to Stiles again.

“Mr. Stilinski.” Deaton greets eyeing him up and down, “Mr. Mahealani. What brings you both here at this hour.” His eyes are fixed on Stiles, and even as he greets Danny, they do not move.

“Umm…Stiles said to take him here, not a hospital.” Danny tells the man gesturing with the hand not holding Stiles upright to the bloodstains on his shirt.

“Hmmm.” Deaton hums, still looking at Stiles intently. “I’m afraid I cannot help you.”

“What?” Danny asks, outraged, “He will bleed out sooner or later if someone doesn’t patch him up. You haven’t even looked at him.”

“While I understand that, Mr. Mahealani, I am afraid I cannot help you.”

Stiles huffs, irritated, “I’ve seen you do all kinds of shit for the wolves before. What’s so different here?”

“You are not a wolf.” Deaton answers simply.

Stiles gapes at him, “So what? Because I’m just a human, I’m not worth your time?”

Deaton’s gaze hardens. He has not taken his eyes off Stiles since he first addressed them, “You are not a wolf, but you, Mr. Stilinski, are not just a human.”

Stiles pauses, squinting at Deaton as things fall into place. “I used magic last night?” He asks Deaton, even though he already knows the answer.

Danny whips his head to the side to look at Stiles, “what?” He asks, shocked, but Stiles ignores him, eyes on Deaton.

Deaton huffs a laugh, but there’s no humour to it, just bitterness, “You didn’t simply use magic, Mr. Stilinski. Instead, you awoke your own power. A power so old and strong that every magic user in the state probably felt it.” Stiles shakes his head, but before he can deny it, Deaton continues, “Magic so raw and uncontained is rarely a blessing, Mr. Stilinski. If you cannot control it, it will consume you, and every supernatural creature who can feel the power shift will now be hunting you down to take that power for themselves.”

That is so not what Stiles wanted to hear. He was hoping for a complete denial, that he had no magic at all, that blood loss had simply caused him to hallucinate. But he knew deep down that wasn’t the case. He was expecting to be told that he had some magic, that it had acted on instinct, that it wasn’t his fault, and that he would be unlikely to ever do anything so powerful in ordinary circumstances. Not that he had some ancient all-consuming, powerful magic. Stiles is starting to freak, his hands shaking.

“I don’t understand,” Stiles admits, “you said I had a spark. You taught me what to do with the mountain ash. Didn’t you know this would happen?”

Deaton sighs, eyes still never leaving Stiles, and it occurs to him that Deaton is scared of him. At least he feels threatened; he doesn’t want to be taken by surprise should Stiles try something and doesn’t want to be left exposed. “It appears I underestimated you. Many humans have the ability to do base-level magic, work with mountain ash, and use ruins or protective charms. Magic is tied to nature. Because of it, those who are closer to the environment around them, more attuned to the supernatural world, are capable of small magics. You, however, appear to have been a time bomb. You had power inside of you. It was just waiting for the opportunity to arise in which it was needed. You are not a spark, Mr. Stilinski. You are the spark. Very few times in history has there been a person born with such power, and fewer times has the world deemed that person worthy enough for that power to awaken. I wouldn’t even be able to fathom what you could do with your magic.”

That is…worrying.

“So it’s not that you can’t help me… it’s that you won’t. Why? Aren’t you supposed to be our emissary or something?” Stiles asks him, even though it stings now, knowing that Derek doesn’t consider him pack. Deaton doesn’t need to know that.

“I won’t help you because I do not feel like putting a target on my back and because I am a druid. So I keep the balance. Your presence here in Beacon Hills is enough to unbalance everything.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. Stupid druids and their need for balance never actually doing anything useful and just standing off to the side, letting the bad things happen.

“So you’re just going to let him die?” Danny asks incredulously. Stiles thinks that’s a bit dramatic. Sure, the ground is swaying, and if he blinks too many times, he starts seeing double, but if he is really in a pinch, he thinks he could fix himself up again. Or at least see Melissa and get her to do it. Though he would rather avoid that outcome at all costs considering the questions that would arise from it and that Melissa would insist on telling his dad.

Deaton pauses and narrows his eyes at Stiles as if searching for something. “No.” He decides after a moment, “That won’t help the balance either. But I’m not helping you. I know someone who might. Let me get her address.”

The druid backs into the other room, refusing to take his eyes off Stiles until he closes the door. “Jesus.” Danny mutters, “Dramatic much.” Stiles snorts a laugh.

Deaton returns a moment later, walking forward to hand Danny the address on a piece of paper, still not taking his eyes off Stiles. “There.” Deaton says, “You can go now.”

Stiles sighs at the dismissal. His head is starting to feel like it’s full of cotton wool, “you’re a dick dude.”

Deaton ignores the dig, simply saying, “I will not tell the pack of you…current circumstances, or of your magic. I will have no more part in this, though, do not come back here.”

Danny rolls his eyes, pocketing the slip of paper and turning to help Stiles out the door, “yeah, yeah, we’ll fuck off now.” As they make that way outside, he mutters, “That guy sucks.” He tells Stiles, helping him back into the Jeep.

Stiles laughs, “I know, right.”

As they make their way to the address Deaton had given them, Stiles starts to zone in and out of the constant rambling Danny is doing. Vaguely Stiles thinks it odd because usually, he is the one rambling. He rests his head against the window, eyes fluttering. He didn’t feel that he had lost that much blood. He stitched himself up, he took care of the wounds, and he was fine. Why had they reopened? They weren’t supposed to reopen. Why is he feeling so tired?

“Stiles. Stiles.” Danny is saying, and as Stiles swings his head towards him, his vision swims. “Hey.” Danny says when he realises, he has Stiles’ attention, “You need to stay awake, man.”

“Yeah.” Stiles mumbles, shaking his head, trying to clear it, “Yeah, I know. Stay awake. Got to.”

Danny looks at him, concerned, “Ok. Why don’t we talk about something then? To keep you awake till we get there. This address is on the other side of town.”

Stiles nods his consent. Yeah, that is probably a good idea. Danny’s smart.

“Ok. ok. Why don’t you tell me what happened last night, yeah? And this morning. You said something about magic to Deaton.” Danny says to him, glancing at him before looking back at the road.

“Last night. Yeah, I guess I should explain.” Stiles mumbles, blinking himself awake. “I don’t want to go through everything, though.”

“That’s ok.” Danny comforts; the concern is now a permanent fixture on his face. “Maybe just start from the beginning? You can skip over anything you don’t want to talk about.”

Danny is a good guy. Stiles should have befriended him sooner. Are they friends now? Is saving someone from near death a good start to a friendship? Apparently not because Derek didn’t think they were friends. Then again, technically, he accused Derek of murder before that. So maybe he deserved that. No. Don’t think of Derek. Danny is expecting an answer.

“Umm. So like, you know how I told you about the Argents and hunters?” Stiles asks him.

Danny nods, looking a little confused.

“So, like, after the game. When all the lights were out. They grabbed me, like…um…Gerard Argent…” Stiles shudders at the name, “And I don’t know, man. I don’t really want to talk about that.”

Danny’s now looking at him in abject horror, glancing between Stiles and the road ahead. “Stiles. Stiles, look at me.” Stiles obliges, turning his head fully so he is not just watching Danny from his peripheral. “Those injuries, are they from hunters?”

Stiles sighs, knocking his head against the window. He really didn’t want to relive this, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Ok. Ok, that’s fine, you don’t have to explain it to me. I only need to know if you were kidnapped and…and hurt…by hunters.” Danny gently reassures, as if trying to calm a startled animal.

“Yeah.” Stiles mutters, “It was hunters.”

“Fuck.” Danny whispers, “I thought…I was thinking that it was like some kind of supernatural creature in the woods. Not that you were outrunning hunters this morning.”

“Not this morning.” Stiles corrects him.

“What?” Danny asks, brows furrowing in confusion again.

Wow, Stiles thinks vaguely. Danny is really expressive. How had they not become friends sooner?

“I was outrunning them last night. Then I patched myself up and went home, took Lydia to the warehouse, and went back in the woods.” Stiles elaborates, rubbing at his head, the world is still fuzzy around the edges, and his head is starting to pound, but he’s not feeling as sleepy, the conversation helping to ground him in reality a little.

“Why did you go back into the woods?” Danny asks, shaking his head.

“Because they also took Erica and Boyd. And I don’t know, I felt they were out there.” Stiles admits.

“Wait. Ok, just start from the start. No, sorry, not the start. From after you got away from the Hunters. If that’s ok with you.”

Stiles sighs again. He’s been doing that a lot recently. He doesn’t want to talk about any of it and wants to leave it behind in the past, but also…it would be nice for someone to know. He couldn’t tell his dad and Danny is helping him out majorly right now.

Maybe it’s the blood loss or his pounding headache that makes him let down his guard, but it wouldn’t be the worst to let someone in, especially since the cat was already out of the bag about his magic.

He starts to explain. From being in the woods the first time. To the voice, the sudden energy, and how it helped close his wounds. To the hunters catching up to him and how…his magic manifested to protect him, apparently, he doesn’t go into much detail, feeling ashamed of himself. To going to the school and fixing himself up. To fighting with his dad and Lydia showing up. To the warehouse, and Derek telling him he’s not pack all because of something Scott did. To finally going back to the woods, somehow knowing that’s where Erica and Boyd would be.

Once he starts, he can’t stop. It all comes rushing out of him. While he can’t talk about Gerard, what he had done, what he had wanted to do. He can share this, and it feels good to not bottle it up and pretend he’s ok. Not pretending to be ok like he’s been doing for everyone else lately.

“Shit.” Danny mutters, “That’s…fuck, man. Derek kicked you out of the pack?”

“Yeah…” Stiles mumbles, eyes feeling heavy. He blinks, trying to focus on the turns the Jeep is taking.

“And Erica and Boyd are missing?” Danny asks.

“Yeah. Unless they’ve gone back to Derek. I haven’t seen them since leaving the Argents.” Stiles’ words start to slur, and it is getting harder to keep his eyes open.

“Dude, you had a gun pointed at you tonight? Are you ok? Fuck, of course, you’re not, dude. You need to see a therapist. Like that’s some intense shit.” Danny’s rambling, and Stiles is beginning to learn that means he’s freaking out.

“I’m fine, dude.” Stiles reassures, “Like I’m a murderer now, which sucks, but I’m ok. I’ll get over it.”

“Stiles.” Danny says sternly, “You are not a murderer. You were doing what you had to do to protect yourself.”

“But-“

“No buts.” Danny interrupts, “You did what you had to. And you didn’t mean to. It was your magic reacting instinctively to a threat. You did nothing wrong. Ok?” Danny insists, taking his eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at Stiles intently. When Stiles doesn’t answer, he repeats, “Ok?”

“Ok. Yeah, yeah, ok.” Stiles whispers, this time when he closes his eyes; he doesn’t have the strength to open them again, head slumping against the window.

“Stiles, I need you to stay awake buddy. We are almost there. Only a few more turns.” When Stiles does nothing but hum, Danny reaches out, a hand on his shoulder shaking him gently, “Come on man, wake up.”

The next few minutes are a blur to Stiles. He knows Danny is still talking to him but he only catches every other word. The hand on his shoulder becomes more insistent. And Stiles tries, really tries to open his eyes back up, but he can’t. He is so, so tired. He can’t remember the last time he slept. Can’t remember why he is supposed to be fighting to stay awake.

Stiles is vaguely aware of the engine stopping. Of cold air hitting his face. Of hands under his arms, pulling him out into the cold and dragging him. There’s a ring of a bell as he’s pulled back out of the cold. A smell hits him, earthy and aromatic, waking him up enough to hear the conversation around him.

“What are you doing? Why did you bring him here?” A woman asks harshly, “You can’t be here. You need to leave.”

“Please.”

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

“Please. I don’t know how to help him.”

“How did you find me?” A woman asks.

There’s a tense silence while she waits for a reply. Stiles tries desperately to wake up a little, see where he is, who’s holding him upright, who the woman is. But his eyes refuse to open.

“Deaton sent us; he refused to help. Stiles… I think… he’s getting worse, I didn’t think it was this bad, but he has lost a lot of blood. He said he already patched himself up once but pulled stitches.” A guy…wait, that’s Danny…Is Danny with him? Oh, right, Danny is with him.

“Why would he send you to me? I stay out of this business; I keep to myself. If I am seen interacting with him, it puts a target on my back.” The woman continues.

“Please,” Danny repeats; he sounds desperate.

The woman sighs. “Fine. But only because he’s a child. I didn’t think he would be so young when I felt that magic wake. Help him into the back room this way.”

Stiles is pulled forward again, he manages to open his eyes for a moment, but the world spins; all he can make out is rows and rows of books. He shuts his eyes again. Danny half carries him; there is the sound of a door opening, then a turn, then another door, before finally, he is laid down on a hard surface. He can hear who he assumes is the woman working around him, things moving and clinking together as she does. He summons all his strength and tries to open his eyes again; they flutter, but he’s too weak to do much else. He can’t even feel the pain from his injuries anymore.

“Why has he gotten so bad so quickly? Is he losing that much blood? Is he going to die?” Danny asks, his voice moving around the room, following the woman’s footsteps and the clinking noises, “what is all this stuff you are gathering for?”

Every second Stiles lies there, he can feel the aroma of the room sinking into him, waking him up slowly, slowly.

“Stop following me around.” The woman snaps, “It’s distracting. Sit. Over there.” Danny’s footsteps move again, coming to a stop by Stiles’ side. Stiles feels the woman come to stand at his other side, feels the cool metal of scissors as his shirt is cut away. Hears Danny’s gasp.

The woman settles warm hands on his shoulder and hip, pushing him onto his side with surprising strength. She hums a displeased sound as Danny gasps again before she rolls Stiles back.

“My best guess,” the woman answers, “is that he used some of his magic to help clot those wounds earlier, instinctively, that is. Now he’s accidentally focused that magic on something else, something big. It’s drained the magic that was helping to heal him, and it’s drained whatever energy his magic was instinctively giving him. To use that much magic at once without meaning to, and by the looks of it, he didn’t mean to, is dangerous. It is all instinctual at first; this kind of power will mold to the will of the wielder; if that person isn’t careful, any wish or whim will have magic directed in it. In this case, it’s drained him of his energy, but it will kill him if he is careless.”

The woman begins shuffling things on the table next to him. This time when Stiles wills his eyes to open, they do, only slightly but open nonetheless. A soft light surrounds the room, but he can’t tell the source.

“Good, you are awake.” The woman says, moving so that she looks directly down at him. The world is still blurry, but he can’t pick out a few features. Dark skin. Winkles. Laugh lines. Yet the thing that stands out most to Stiles is the vivid blue eyes. “This might hurt a little.” She warns.

“Is that a tattoo gun?” Danny asks, outraged, from beside him.

“Yes.” The woman replies simply.

Stiles makes a noise of protest. He doesn’t want a tattoo; his dad will kill him.

A warm hand lays on his chest, and the fight seeps out of him, “I’m sorry.” The woman tells him earnestly, “It is all I can do. Your magic needs focusing. A rune will do that. It’s more powerful if it’s permanent. You need a few runes to help. Trust me, this will help. I’m not trying to harm you.”

Stiles closes his eyes again, resigned to his fate. He hears the wiring of a tattoo gun, and the woman pulls the waistband of his jeans down slightly and sweeps something cold over the skin by his uninjured hip. Then, without another word, she starts; the needle scratches as she moves the gun back and forth in an intricate design over his hip bone. It stings a little, but it is nothing compared to the pain of his wounds.

Stiles relaxes into it. He is near certain he will regret this in a few hours. Regret not putting up more of a fight. But for now, he doesn’t care. The woman said it would help, and something in him is saying he can trust her.

“What’s it do?” Danny asks, voice quiet as if he is worried he’ll break the calm if he speaks too loudly.

“This one is for healing.” The woman explains to them, equally as quietly, “he has lost a lot of blood tonight, and while he has done a decent job at fixing himself up, this will help the healing process and make sure he doesn’t get an infection.”

“You didn’t use a stencil,” Danny notes.

It isn’t really a question, but she answers anyways, “I don’t need to. I am a witch. I have studied runes for decades; a stencil would just waste time.”

Stiles fades in and out of awareness as she works, only half listening to the conversation between Danny and the witch. His mind is still in the preserve, wondering where Erica and Boyd are.

“Even as he lays here, his magic is going elsewhere,” the witch says to Danny as she pulls the needle away; this time, it does not return; she wipes the tattoo over and moves to his chest, “he is draining his magic without even meaning to.”

She wipes over his chest, over his left pec, avoiding the wound that cuts across the middle of his chest and his right pectoral.

“It works better the closer I get to your heart.” The witch explains, “This rune is for focus, to help hone your magic so you don’t go pushing it into every belief you have.”

This tattoo doesn’t take as long as the one on his hip did. The witch is silent as she works; Stiles can hear Danny fidgeting beside him.

“You know you can tell me what happened, right?” Danny says.

Stiles opens his eyes a crack to look at him quizzically.

“Like you don’t have to if it’s too much; I don’t want to pressure you into talking about something you don’t want to. And I get we weren’t really close or friends before today. But…whatever happened with the Argents, you can tell me. Those injuries. Stiles, that’s torture. They didn’t just beat you up. They tortured you.” Danny’s face is so open and earnest as he talks to Stiles that he worries Danny is about to cry. Stiles feels awful for putting this all on him; they didn’t even speak to each other regularly beforehand; now, Stiles has dumped his life story on the guy and made him feel obligated to help him.

Before Stiles can reply, the witch interrupts, stilling her movements with the tattoo gun.

“The Argents? Hunters did this.” Her voice is carefully controlled as if she’s holding back her true feelings on the matter; when Stiles slides his gaze over to her, her face is all hard lines.

“Yeah,” Stiles mutters, his eyes slipping closed again.

The witch resumes her movement of his chest, and the sting of the needle returns. “After your powers came to you?” She questions carefully.

“No. Before. They uh…grabbed me after my lacrosse game last night, wanted information about the local werewolf pack. My magic came afterward when I ran from them in the preserve.” He explains to her.

Her hands still again, and carefully, she asks, “They tortured you when you were only human? Just a normal human? No magic?”

“Yes.”

She laughs a bitter laugh, resuming her motions once more, “Hunters.” She finally bites out, “Are supposed to have a code. Only to harm those who harm others. Not many of them follow it; they let their own twisted beliefs get in their way. That they would harm a human, a  child,  for information is despicable.”

“I don’t think it is the first time they have hurt a minor for information,” Stiles tells her darkly, but he does not elaborate.

The witch finishes the tattoo on his chest, wiping it over; she moves slightly higher and further left, wiping down an area just up from the other tattoo under his collarbone. “One more,” She promises him softly as the gun starts up again. “That’s how you got away from them?” She asks, “With your magic.”

Stiles hesitates, unsure of how much he wants to share before deciding he may as well get it off his chest. “Not the first time.” He admits, “They uh blindfolded me, led me out the basement and into a van. Drove to a random part of the preserve, removed the blindfold and cuffs, and let me go. They said they’d give me a five-minute head start before hunting me down.”

“What?” Danny asks furiously; Stiles opens his eyes to look at him, “They wanted to hunt you down like a sport?”

Stiles nods his head slightly. When he chances a glance at the witch, her brow is furrowed, and her mouth is in a hard line. “They, um, were going to kill me; Gerard told them to have some fun with it…he only said that once I was dead, they were to leave me on my front porch for my dad to find.”

Danny’s face contorts; he looks more furious than Stiles has ever seen him, jaw clenched and eyes hard.

“Hey.” Stiles says softly so that Danny looks at him, “I’m ok now.”

“Ok isn’t exactly the word I’d use.” Danny retorts sternly, but his face softens.

“No.” The witch agrees, “But you are safe here,” she reassures, “you both are.”

She finishes the final tattoo, wiping it over like she had done with the others. “This one will help you keep that magic hidden, magic users will still be able to tell you are powerful, but your aura won’t shine so brightly; other non-magic-using supernaturals shouldn’t be able to tell the difference between you and a human.”

Stiles nods, his eyes getting heavy again.

“I’m going to patch your back up now.” She tells him, turning him on his side again, “And then I’ll stitch your chest closed again. The wounds will take time to heal, but with the rune, they’ll heal faster; they will still leave scars, though; nothing I can do about that.”

Stiles nods sleepily.

“You can rest, Stiles.” She tells him gently, sweeping a hand through his hair reassuringly, “Sleep. We will look after you.”

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

When Stiles wakes next, his mouth is dry. He’s laid face up on a table, a pillow underneath his head, and a blanket thrown over him. He gives himself a minute to breathe. Looking up at the ceiling, trying to recall what had happened. The yellowed paint is chipping in places, and small lamps hang from one side of the room, casting it in a gentle warm light.

He breathes in for five beats. Holds it for two. Breathes out for five. And repeats. Breathing in and out as he pushes his fingertips into the rough wood of the table beneath him. Letting himself come back to his body.

He remembers Danny taking him to Deaton’s and how he felt like he had been slipping further and further away every second he was there like he was getting weaker and weaker. Remembers the drive to…wherever this is. And blue eyes, and warm hands, and muddled explanations of magic. Remembers Danny saying Stiles could tell him what had happened.

He can feel plasters on his back, covering the wounds there. He stretches his shoulders out as much as he can while lying down and feels the pull of stitches. The witch must have patched Stiles up like she said she would.

He lifts himself up onto his elbows and surveys the room around him. It’s small. The table he’s on is in the center of the room; one wall is lined with shelves and shelves of books. The opposite wall is lined with a long workbench, different herbs sprawled out on it, and a discarded tattoo gun. Some kind of backroom to a store? He remembers being pulled through what looked like an old bookstore. There’s a small window lining just the very top of the wall with the workbench. When Stiles squints, it looks like it’s dark outside.

How long has he been out? His dad is probably going mad with worry, thinking Stiles has gone missing again. His dad is going to kill him.

Wait. Tattoo gun. Stiles’ eyes go wide as he sits up fully, the blanket falling away to reveal his bare chest and the three new tattoos there.

Oh, his dad is so going to kill him.

Stiles vaguely remembers the witch explaining how they were magic, runes she had said. He runs a hand over the one on his hip; it doesn’t sting. In fact, it looks like it’s been there for years. The skin around the tattoos isn’t red or raised, the black lines solid, they look like they are fully healed. Magic is  weird .

The door opposite Stiles opens, and Danny walks in, pausing when he sees Stiles awake. “Hey, how you doing, buddy?” Danny asks, sitting in a chair beside Stiles that he hadn’t noticed earlier.

“I’m ok, I think.” Stiles croaks. He shifts slightly, uneasy with his half-nakedness. All he has on are his jeans, shoes, and socks. Eerily familiar to the events of last night when he had run, when he left the Argents basement. At least he kept his shoes this time. At this point, he is running out of clothes to lose.

Danny pulls a plastic bottle of water from a pocket in his joggers, handing it to him with a smile, “thought you might need this when you woke up. I’m uhh….” Danny trails off, looking at Stiles sympathetically, “Sorry about your shirt. She cut it off. And it was so stained I don’t think you would want to wear it anyways. There’s nothing around here that will fit you, though.”

Stiles nods, taking the water with a muttered thank you, and downs the whole thing at once. He takes a second to breathe before asking, “What time is it? How long was I asleep?”

Danny looks away guiltily, but before Stiles can press him, Danny answers, “It’s ah nine pm. You were asleep for like twelve hours or something.”

“Oh shit.” Stiles exclaims, moving forward to get off the table, dangling his legs off the edge, and preparing to stand, “My dad is going to kill me; he probably thinks I’ve gone missing again or something worse.”

“Woah, woah, woah.” Danny exclaims, lightly touching Stiles’ shoulder and pushing him back into a sitting position, “Just slow down; you are recovering. Your dad isn’t worried you have gone missing; he is pissed, though. I called him once you passed out and told him you didn’t want to spend the night alone at your house and you were staying at mine for a bit; I told him you were sleeping because you had been exhausted after being up all night. So he’s mad but not worried. I may have really exaggerated our previous friendship, but he hasn’t got you out as a missing person, so I think that’s a win, yeah?” He explains, nervously rubbing at his neck.

Stiles allows himself to breathe, “Yeah, that’s good. Good thinking. Thanks, Danny.”

“No problem, buddy.”

Stiles opens his mouth to ask Danny what they should do now when he is interrupted by the door opening again. A woman, whom Stiles assumes is the witch based on her vaguely recognizable features, enters quietly. She looks Stiles over as she comes closer, studying him, and Stiles uses the time to study her in turn.

The witch is small, a lot shorter than both Stiles and Danny. She has dark skin and a slim frame. She’s not elderly, but she is older, maybe a few years older than Stiles’ old man; she has wrinkles and laugh lines on her face. She’s wearing a bright multicolored, long, and loose-fitting jumpsuit, and Stiles feels like he’s being a bit stereotypical by assuming she would wear black, being a witch and all. Instead, she dons beaded bracelets and necklaces, and when Stiles looks closer, they simmer slightly as if they, too, process magic. Her hair is shoulder-length and braided. And her eyes are an incredibly vivid blue.

“You are feeling better?” She asks Stiles as she moves closer, her tone is warm and smooth like honey, and her face lights up as she smiles at Stiles kindly.

“Yes, thank you…uh who are you?” Stiles asks her awkwardly; he’s been known to put his foot in it when his curious. This morning he may have been too out of it to question how only Deaton knew a witch was living in town, but now he wants to know. Danny looks curiously at her as well; clearly, in the hours Stiles has been asleep, she hasn’t been answering any questions.

Thankfully she doesn’t seem to take offense, which is good because she is a witch and could probably like turn him into a toad or something. She laughs lightly before replying, “My name is Linda. I’m the witch who saved your life this morning if that part wasn’t obvious.”

Again, Stiles thinks maybe he’s focusing too much on stereotypes, he has never met a witch before, but he didn’t think one would be called Linda. Sybil, Agnes, or Celeste, maybe, but not Linda. Linda is just a little too… ordinary.

“Right, Linda.” Stiles repeats, “And ah, thanks for the lifesaving. Um, no offense,” Stiles internally cringes; no inoffensive question starts with ‘no offense.’ “But…um…how exactly are you here? Like without the pack knowing, I mean? Like being a witch and all, don’t you have to like…” he gestures vaguely, “declare yourself?”

Linda raises an eyebrow, “No. I am not a wolf. I am not a were. I have no obligation to present myself to the resident Alpha. Perhaps witches like myself once did out of respect for Talia Hale, but I am no threat to them; I keep to myself, so no one needs to know I am here. I don’t even know how Alan Deaton knows my address. I assume he could sense my magic, like calls to like, and that’s how he knew a witch had moved to town, but he shouldn’t even be able to find me here. Besides, I have already been here for five years. There were no Hale’s here then. I am not leaving now just because Hale has become the Alpha again.” She says so sternly, mouth in a hard line. Yeah, Stiles has definitely offended her this time.

“Right.” He says, “Sorry, I didn’t know.”

Linda’s face softens, and she nods in understanding, “I assume you don’t have much knowledge of supernatural politics.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “politics never has been all that interesting to me.”

“Don’t witches have like covens?” Danny asks; both Stiles and Linda turn to him in surprise. “What?” He asks, looking between them, “Just because I’m human doesn’t mean I don’t know anything. I have watched movies. Wolves have packs. Witches have covens. Right?” He looks at Linda, and Stiles looks at him.

She sighs, eyes turning misty, “I did once. Before I moved here. Hunters had been after us for a few years. My husband had already passed. Cancer. One night they ambushed us. I was the only survivor. My daughters. They were killed in front of me, still so young, full of life.” Linda’s gaze is unfocused. She looks like she is a million miles away, recalling the incident or perhaps remembering happier times when she wasn’t alone. She blinks and is back, locking eyes with Stiles and Danny in turn. “I tried to save them. But I have never been a potent witch, unlike them, and none of my begging and pleading did anything to help. In the end, the hunters left me alive to send a message, they said, about what happens when we refuse to help them. I have been alone since. I lost them long ago; I am confident they think I gave up and died. They haven’t bothered me since I moved here, and I’ve taken great precautions to ensure no one would find me. It’s why I decided to help you,” Linda says, looking intently at Stiles, some of the warmth returning to her features, “You are too young for such pain. Too young to be hunted down and slaughtered, like my girls were.”

Stiles and Danny are silent for a few moments. Processing. Linda smiles faintly at them, but the room feels heavy with her sorrow. “I’m sorry.” Stiles tells her earnestly, “Truly.”

“Me too.” Danny says from beside him, eyes open and honest, begging her forgiveness, “I shouldn’t have asked. I am sorry. I didn’t want to cause you to relive that pain.”

Linda nods back at them but doesn’t comment further on the matter. Straightening her posture and looking at Stiles, changing the subject. “What do you remember of this morning?” She asks him.

“Uh…I remember being in the woods.” Stiles tells her he can take a hint, leaving the heavy conversation behind as he continues, “And almost hitting Danny with my bat, aw man, I left behind my bat. And, uh, going to Deaton’s and him refusing to help because of the  balance  or some bullshit. The drive over here, uh, vaguely.” Stiles throws a glance in Danny’s direction before refocusing on Linda, “And ah, kind of remember the whole tattoo thing?”

Linda nods, seemingly satisfied.

“Were the tattoos really necessary?” Stiles asks her; he looks down at them.

“Yes.” Linda insists, “My magic isn’t healing based; I can do basic healing spells but little more. I rely mostly on herbs and salves for bigger things and regular old first aid.” She waves a hand to the workbench and the herbs scattered across it, “Anything more serious requires a rune; they will draw off the user’s magic. They are embedded with my magic, so they take, but that will fade. On your skin, they are yours; they will draw on your magic, as much of a part of you as the magic itself is.”

Stiles nods, trying to take it all in; he looks down at his chest again. “What do they do?” He asks her, vaguely remembering her explaining it before but not the specifics.

She points to the one on his hip, her hand close to but not touching his skin, and Stiles is grateful that she’s picked up on his discomfort and is respecting the boundary. The rune is a small knot, about the size of his fist, of intricate weaving lines all joining together with no clear beginning or end, “This one is for healing. With magic as raw and powerful as yours, it needs some focusing; when you get hurt, it might try to heal you too quickly or not quickly enough; this will help focus it. Your wounds won’t stitch together in minutes like with many supernatural creatures, but they will heal faster, in a few days for smaller things, a few weeks for something like this. And the rune will ward off infection, so unless you go rolling around in the dirt, you shouldn’t catch anything. A paper cut might take only five minutes or so before healing. The rune doesn’t stop scars, though, unfortunately.”

Stiles nods in understanding, and Linda moves on.

“This one,” she says, moving her hand to the tattoo on his left pec beside the stitched wound on his chest, close to his heart. This rune is circular, around the same size as the one on his hip, but where that one is interwoven curling lines, this one is sharper lines and edges, with little symbols ringing the outside of the circle. “Is for focus. Your magic is strong, based on belief; in short, anything you want, should it be possible by the laws of nature, will be done. When waking magic like that, it’s not uncommon to push it into every thought and whim. I’m guessing it is what you did this morning, focusing too hard on whatever brought you out into the woods, it drained the magic helping you heal, and it drained your energy; had you not been brought here, you would have likely died. This rune will help you channel your magic and give yourself more control so you don’t push it into everything. It will still react instinctually to threats and such, but you will have more control over it; you won’t pass out from an overload of magic every time you are startled.”

Again Stiles nods his understanding, and again Linda moves on.

“This last one,” Linda tells him, moving to the small one, barely the size of a coin, underneath his collarbone. This one is all small lines; it kind of looks like a diamond with a long straight line through it and small semi-circles on either side. “Is for protection. It will help conceal your magic. Every person has an aura; some magic users can see them, witches included. Yours shines brightly with your power; this helps dull it. Others can feel magic on people, and humans can feel it too to a degree; it sort of rolls off someone like waves, to my understanding. This helps that too; other strong magic users will be able to tell you’re something…something powerful, but they won’t know what. Other supernatural creatures, like werewolves,” She gives Stiles a knowing look, “shouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Although your scent might be slightly different, I wouldn’t know how. It would be almost unnoticeable, though, so not even a wolf should pick up on it unless they were paying  very  close attention.”

Stiles nods again, looking down at the tattoos. He had never considered getting tattoos before, mainly because his dad would not be fond of them, but he admits they look pretty cool, and the added bonus of them being magic is pretty badass.

“So, uh, can you tell us anything about Stiles’ magic?” Danny asks Linda, standing beside Stiles.

“Hmm, perhaps. Not here, though. Are you well enough to walk?” Linda addresses the last part to Stiles. He looks at Danny uncertainly, but when the other boy merely shrugs, Stiles nods back to Linda. She turns on her heels and leaves the room, beckoning them to follow.

Danny helps Stiles off the table, and they venture out into the hall together. They follow the witch down the small, unassuming hallway passing one room that looks like a small bathroom and another which looks like it leads out to the storefront. Stiles vaguely remembers Danny dragging him through earlier in the day. Finally, the hallway opens to a small living room and kitchenette; Stiles suddenly realizes that Linda wasn’t just helping him out in the back room of her store but opening up her house to them; he feels like he’s intruding. The room is full of plants and vibrant colors. Like the ones, Linda wears as jewelry, more beaded charms hang around the room.

Linda leads them to the small sitting area, gracefully sitting herself in an old armchair and gesturing to the bright green couch opposite her. The couch is in front of three huge bookshelves stacked to the brim. There’s a coffee table between them littered with more books and herbs and an old-looking teapot on a tray with chipped mismatched mugs. Danny sits with no hesitation, which leads Stiles to believe this is where the other boy had been while Stiles was sleeping off his magic-induced exhaustion, as well as the regular old I was tortured and then had to get up and help save everyone else’s arses exhaustion.

Once they are settled, Linda mutters something under her breath, and her eyes change, rimming with silver. The teapot on the coffee table begins to steam. “Tea?” She asks them.

Stiles nods dumbly, while Danny nods enthusiastically. Clearly, he’s already been through this before when Stiles was out. After she pours them both a cup, she settles back with a cup of her own; she takes a sip, sighs, and refocuses on them.

“So, your magic. What did Deaton tell you?” Linda asks Stiles.

Stiles takes a sip of the tea, and God, that’s good. He feels like all his insides are warming up happily; maybe it’s magic tea, is magical tea a thing? He’ll have to ask. “Umm, not much. He’s not often very forthcoming with things, though I think last night was the most I’d ever heard him speak. He uh said something about me awakening a power that was very old and strong? Something about it rarely being a blessing, and many people would be after me. That I was a time bomb, and this power was just waiting for the right time to burst out? Something about being deemed worthy for it?” He tells her, struggling to remember all the information Deaton had dumped on him. Stiles takes another sip of the tea while he thinks and hums happily, “Is this magic tea? Is magic tea a thing?” He asks, echoing his earlier thoughts, unable to keep them to himself.

Linda smiles softly at him, eyes twinkling with amusement, “No. It’s not magic, just a special herb blend my grandmother taught me.”

Stiles nods in understanding; family recipes were always better, in his opinion; his mum’s pierogi had always been better than anyone else’s he tried. He continued, “He said that I wasn’t a spark; I was the spark. Honestly, he just said a lot of confusing shit and refused to take his eyes off me; like dude backed out of the room, like if he stopped looking at me, I was gonna burn the practice down. Which is annoying because I am honestly not that bad; I’ve never burnt down anything; well, there was that one time, but no chargers were pressed!” He insists.

Danny looks at him, face contorted in a mix of curiosity and outrage. “You burnt something down?” He asks Stiles in a horrified whisper.

“Yeah, old man Jennings shed. It honestly wasn’t even my fault, though, I was just playing around with some firecrackers, and one sort of just went inside. And, well, boom, it kinda caught on some old newspaper clippings and burnt the whole thing down in like ten minutes. But he got out in time, and I was a kid.” Stiles explains, his voice pitching higher as he defends himself.

Danny has that face on again, the one that means he thinks Stiles is crazy. Danny was in his chemistry class this year, and Stiles is very familiar with that particular look. “Scott helped.” Stiles defends himself.

“Ok,” Linda says, bringing both Danny’s and Stiles’ attention back to her, “That uh aside…I think Deaton got a few things right, a bit melodramatically, but close enough. Most users know they have magic from a young age; it’s a part of you, living and breathing, and you’re always aware of it. But there are others whose magic is locked away, hidden if you will; it awaits a trigger. It’s not very common, though the statistics are skewed, it may well be common, but not enough people have been in situations where the magic is triggered, so we’ll never know. Regardless that kind of magic is rare; few people have had their power triggered, and no one really knows the how and why of it. Druids, because they are so very cryptic, believe it’s a sign from nature, the universe, or something of the like. Deaton seems to think it unbalances the land, though I would argue otherwise, but that’s not the point. I personally believe it just manifests when people truly need it; you probably have some level of magic in your bloodline, magic likes bloodlines, and when you were in need, your magic reared up from where it was hiding. Think of it like wolves, if that helps. You have born wolves who always are and always will be a wolf, like me as a witch or Deaton as a druid; we are as we were made. You have humans capable of becoming wolves and accepting the bite and it taking; like you, you always had the potential for magic. It was just hidden. And then when those humans are bitten, the bite takes, and they become a werewolf, your magic has been triggered, and now you have this power. Does that make sense?”

“Kinda,” Stiles says, nodding. It sounds like…a lot. But it doesn’t freak him out like Deaton’s explanation did. Stiles takes another sip before asking, “So what actually am I? I’m not a witch, not a druid. Am I like a warlock or something?”

“No, not a warlock. Magic users like Warlocks, witches, or wizards need spells to perform most magics, we study, and we learn, and our skill grows. Some of us are stronger than others; for example, as I mentioned earlier, healing magic is beyond my skill level, and I will most likely never have enough magic to use most of those spells.” Linda explains, gesturing to the books on the table as she does and the vastly stocked bookshelves behind the couch, “Warlocks are more powerful than witches or wizards, but they still require spell work. Druids are elemental. They are limited in the magic they can perform, but it’s all based in nature, it’s why they tend to be so hung up on balance, and they still use some spells. Your magic resembles more that of a sorcerer; their magic is raw and can be shaped to their will, but you’re not one of them either; sorcerer’s magic is with them, unlocked since they are born. You are too powerful to be a mage; their magic abilities appear later in life, usually because they are too weak to come up in childhood. I don’t know if there is a name for you, but I would call you a Magnus, raw, powerful unbridled magic to shape however you wish.”

“Magnus?” Stiles repeats, “Like the Elder Scrolls God?”

“I am unfamiliar with an…Elder Scroll?” Linda questions hesitantly, looking to Danny for help.

“It’s a video game franchise.” Danny explains he’s now apparently the Stiles interpreter, “They have another installment coming out later this year in November.”

“Ah, well, I wouldn’t know about that. Magnus is usually just another word used to describe magic; it means great, people associate it with those of great power or magical ability, but I’ve heard it used for magic users similar to yourself before and consider it an apt description.”

“So people will be after my power. That’s what Deaton said, what you said, why you gave me this.” Stiles gestures to the protection tattoo, trying not to dwell too hard on Linda’s own story of hunters or on the overload of information. He can freak out about all the information later he decides; for now, he will just gather as much as he can and then go on one of his famous research binges. He wonders if he should mention the voice to Linda; he’s pretty sure it had a hand in unlocking his power, helped it along, if not unlocked it outright. But…something makes him feel like he should keep it to himself. He already told Danny the fewer people that knew, the better.

Linda turns somber, “Yes, unfortunately. Magic users of any kind are well coveted by hunters; we are useful to them and more human than most supernatural creatures. Some hunters pay for our skills, others enslave us for them, others…well, others ask for our help and don’t take refusal very well.” Her eyes turn sorrowful momentarily, grief clouding her features, and the earlier conversation returns to Stiles. Still, after a minute, she brushes it aside, physically shaking her head as though that will dispel the memories, and continues, “Like I mentioned, your power can be felt by others, any supernatural who felt your magic awaken, who is power hungry and knows how to harness that power for themselves will want you. There are spells to steal power from others, and those who believe killing you will transfer the power to them, I’m unsure if that actually works, but that doubt won’t stop them; in their eyes, they are either gaining your power or eliminating a threat, it is a win-win.”

“Right.” Stiles nods, again slightly overwhelmed by all the information he receives, “So how do I like practice then? Like clearly, it’s not going away. Do I study spells like you do? How do I actually use it?”

“I have some books that might help, journals and the like. You can use spells, I think, it won’t do any harm, but you won’t necessarily need them. As I said, your magic is raw; in short, anything you want, you just have to will it. It’s not quite as easy as that, of course; magic comes with a tax, as you have learned; it will drain your energy and your life force if you are not careful. And you will need to practice calling on it, focusing your magic on the right things; the tattoo will help. It should react instinctively to threats, though; magic is a living thing. It lives through you, because of you. Most magic is very protective of its user because if you die, so too does it.” Linda explains patiently, refilling both Danny and Stiles’ cups when she notices they are empty, “What you should do is leave town, find someone with a power similar to yours, a sorcerer perhaps, who can train you.”

“You can’t teach me?” Stiles asks.

Linda shakes her head and takes another sip before answering, “No. I’m not nearly as strong as you, and most of the things I can teach you are useless, considering all my magic is spell based. Not to mention I have already put a target on my back for helping you; I’m too old to be sent on the run again; I have established a life here, one where I’m just an old woman with a small herb and book shop, the occasional crystal or potion for the right buyers. I don’t want hunters on my tail again. You need someone who can actually help you.” She says it sternly but not unkindly. And Stiles understands, even having only briefly been running from hunters, he knows how exhausting it is.

Stiles nods, looks at Danny, who is already looking right at him, and considers it momentarily. “I can’t leave,” He decides, “I couldn’t do that to my dad. I can’t leave Erica or Boyd out there; I need to find them and help them. And I can’t do that to the…to the pack, even if they don’t want me.” Stiles mutters sadly.

Linda nods compassionately, her eyes sad. She looks curious about his reasoning but doesn’t ask for further clarification on what she already knows. “In that case,” She says, “you shouldn’t tell anyone about this development, about your magic. The fewer people who know, the better it is, for you, for them. You can’t trust anyone now, even those you are close to.”

“Except Danny.” Stiles retorts.

The witch slides her eyes from Stiles over to Danny. She squints at the other boy, consideringly for a moment before nodding. “His aura is good.”

“Great!” Danny exclaims, seemingly not upset by the judging of his character. Everyone loves Danny. “I won’t tell anyone,” Danny assures Stiles, a smile on his face.

Stiles smiles back, nodding gratefully.

Linda stands shuffling behind the couch and collecting books; she waves them off when Danny and Stiles stand to help. Then, finally, she hands Danny a large stack of books, sitting down again to write on a scrap of paper. “You can keep those,” she assures them. “I’m writing down my number for emergencies only, life or death emergencies, and the name of a few shops in the next town over if you need more books.”

“We can’t just come here?” Danny asks, confused.

“No,” Linda tells them, standing again and holding out the paper. “I have this place warded; only those who do not wish me harm can enter. I will add wards so you two can’t find it at all.”

“We have your address.” Danny points out.

“It shouldn’t matter. If you come back, you will not be able to find the entrance.”

“Ahh..” Danny says, looking at Stiles; Stiles shrugs in response.

Linda sighs, “I am not trying to be rude.” She explains to them, “You could probably break the wards anyways,” She gestures to Stiles, “I am asking you don’t though. I am not as powerful as you; I cannot protect myself as well.” She tells Stiles before addressing them both again, “And I am old; I want peace. I stay out of conflict; it is the only way to survive.” She thrusts the hand with the paper out again, and this time, Stiles takes it, “And I am giving you my number in case you truly need me; I am hoping you don’t, though.”

“I understand,” Stiles tells her, tucking the paper into the pocket of his jeans, reminding himself to take it out before he puts them in the wash. “Thank you for all your help.” He tells her earnestly.

She nods, smiling softly at him, “Good luck.”

And without further discussion, she leads them back out into a packed shop full of books, herbs, and that strong aromatic smell Stiles remembers from earlier. They exit, and Stiles hears the deadbolt slide into place once she’s closed the door.

“So…” Stiles draws out, looking at Danny and then the jeep.

“So…” Danny says back, eyes on Stiles.

Stiles shivers; he’s still shirtless, standing in only his jeans and shoes, and he wraps his arms around his chest in a vain attempt to retain some heat.

“Come on,” Danny says, grabbing Stiles’ arm and dragging him towards Roscoe, “You can drop me off at my place, and I’ll give you a hoodie. My parents are out of town anyways.”

Stiles lets himself be pulled along. He gets in the driver’s side, putting the heater on as soon as he starts her up. Danny gives directions to his house, but otherwise, they stay silent. Stiles processes everything that he’s heard.

When they get to Danny’s, the older boy gets out, returning shortly with a grey hoodie that Stiles quickly pulls on. Danny sits back in the passenger’s seat, closing the door.

“What are you doing?” Stiles asks him, confused, “We are here?”

“I know it’s just….” Danny grimaces, looking straight ahead, “Do you remember telling me last night? Telling me what happened?”

“Yeah…Yeah, I remember, in the car to Linda’s, and I know you saw…the uh…I know you saw my back and stuff before it was cleaned up a bit.” Stiles replies, scratching awkwardly at his neck. Danny still doesn’t look at him, and Stiles wonders where this leaves them now; he’s just dragged Danny into a supernatural mess he could have avoided, could have lived without knowing, but then again, he’d already figured some of it out on his own, so maybe it is better Stiles told him everything before he went looking for answers himself and ended up hurt.

Danny nods, “Ok yeah, that’s good, that you remember, I mean. I uh…” He turns to look at Stiles then. Danny’s face is open; his eyes are full of…grief or…something like that. He’s biting his lip as though trying to hold himself back from saying something. “I…look, Stiles,” Danny continues, “you can tell me anything, ok? I meant what I said earlier; you can tell me if you want, and I will listen. And look, I am going to help you figure this out, ok?”

“Linda said anyone who knows is in danger. I can’t ask you to help me with this, Danny.” Stiles tells him earnestly, shoulders slumping.

“I don’t care.” Danny tells him adamantly, “In case you somehow haven’t figured it out yet, we are friends now. We are in this together.”

Stiles nods, still reluctant, but he knows there’s no changing Danny’s mind about this, “Yeah, ok, sure.”

“Go home.” Danny tells him, stepping out of the jeep, “Go home and rest, and call me as soon as your up tomorrow.”

Danny shuts the door, moving away from the vehicle, but he doesn’t head inside, instead waiting for Stiles to reverse out the driveway. Danny lifts a hand, waving goodbye as Stiles drives off.

Stiles sighs. Time to go home and face the music. 

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles is surprised to see his dad’s cruiser parked on the curb as he pulls into his driveway. Last Stiles checked, his dad is supposed to be on the night shift for at least another week, so he thought he would at least have until the morning to prepare for the inevitable argument. Yet here he is, eleven o’clock at night, and his dad is still home.

May as well get it over with then.

Stiles steps out of the jeep and slams the door shut behind him. It’s a fight with his keys to unlock the front door again, but when he gets inside, the house is dark, with only a soft light coming from the kitchen.

His dad sits at the kitchen table, glasses on, scotch in hand, and police case files are strewn around him. He looks up when Stiles enters, and instead of the classic disappointed father look Stiles is used to, he gets a sad smile.

“Hey, kiddo.” His dad says, setting the scotch down and rising.

Stiles stays where he is, at the entrance to the kitchen, as his dad approaches him. When Noah is directly in front of him, he looks Stiles up and down. Like he’s trying to figure out if Stiles got any more beat up since he last saw him.

“I thought you were still on night shift?” Stiles asks him, shuffling his feet, pulling at the sleeves of his borrowed hoodie.

“I swapped it out. Perk of being the sheriff.” His dad smiles wryly, but it doesn’t quite reach his eyes; for a moment, he hesitates before saying, “Come here, kid.” And pulls Stiles into a hug.

Just like earlier, Stiles melts into it, wrapping his arms around his dad and holding tightly. Feeling safe in his father’s arms. They were never big huggers, but now Stiles wishes they were, if only so he could have the ease and peace that came so effortlessly from his father’s arms more often.

“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for fighting with you.” His dad mumbles into Stiles’ hair, squeezing tighter, “I was just so worried. You are all I have, kid; you scared me half to death; I thought something awful had happened, something I couldn’t protect you from.” He pulls back slightly to look into Stiles’ eyes, “I still think that’s happened.”

Stiles sighs but refuses to fully let his dad go yet, “I am sorry for worrying you,” Stiles whispers truthfully; he never wanted to hurt his dad.

“Oh, kid,” Noah mumbles, pulling Stiles back in, “you’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?”

“No,” Stiles tells him, burying his face in his father’s chest.

“Ok.” His dad says.

Stiles pulls back fully to look at him, “Ok?” He asks.

“Look.” His dad says, stepping back and looking Stiles over again, “You’re my son; I know you. You’re stubborn; if you think that me knowing is a bad thing and it puts me in danger, which I still think is stupid by the way I am your father, then you have already made your mind up. You won’t be telling me anytime soon. I hate all the lying and sneaking around, though.”

“Yeah, me too,” Stiles agrees, “but I have to. You have to trust me.”

His dad nods, “I trust you believe that. I trust…I trust your judgment; you are a good kid; I still think you should tell me because I know it’s dangerous, but I know you won’t. I will be looking to figure it out, though,” He warns Stiles, “just because I have given up getting answers from you doesn’t mean I won’t look for them elsewhere.”

Stiles expected that. His dad was the sheriff, after all.

“Just…” Noah continues, “Just please tell me if anything truly horrible happens, yeah? Tell me if you get hurt?” It’s a plea, which makes Stiles feel so much worse knowing he must lie.

“I will.” Stiles tells him, and his dad nods, but he doesn’t look like he really believes him, “Please, though, Dad, don’t go looking for answers; just stay out of it. Just let it be, yeah?”

His dad sighs, “Yeah, ok, Stiles.”

But they both know that he’s lying. Touché.

“Come on, have you eaten yet?” His dad asks; when Stiles shakes his head, his dad continues, “Me neither, let’s make dinner.”

They make dinner together, discussing everything but the last couple of days and their argument. Stiles asks his dad about work; his dad asks Stiles about his summer readings. They eat dinner on the couch, watching an old comedy on one of the TV stations, laughing along when the characters do something foolish.

It’s the first time in a long while they actually just spend time together.

It is nice. Stiles just wishes he didn’t have to keep lying.

***

Stiles wakes to his alarm blaring. He fumbles for his phone, cursing at his decision to set such an intrusive alarm sound.

When he finally shuts it off, he sees it is ten in the morning, meaning he has already snoozed his alarm twice without realising it. In addition, he has three unread messages.

Lydia Martin 8:15 am

Are you ok?

Lydia Martin 8:47 am

Stiles, please. Are you ok?

Lydia Martin 9:15 am

Stiles, if you don’t text me back within the hour, I swear I am driving to your house myself to check on you.

Shit, that is the last thing he needs. Her rushing over here.

Outgoing To Lydia Martin 10:23 am

Chill was just asleep

Pls don’t come rushing over here

I’m fine

Sighing, he gets up, dressed in only his flannel pyjama bottoms and an old long-sleeve shirt, which he thinks once belonged to his dad.

He stumbles down the stairs as he calls out, “Dad?”

No reply.

He walks to the living room and peers out the curtains to see the curb side vacant, meaning his dad has left for work. Time to enact his plan then.

He calls Danny.

“Hey, Stiles, how are you going, man?” Danny asks as he picks up after the second ring. It stalls Stiles’ brain for a moment; whenever he tries to call Scott lately, he doesn’t even pick up the first three calls.

“Hey. I’m…the same, I guess. You are not doing anything today, right?” Stiles asks,

“Nope.” Danny replies, “My day is completely free. Why? You want to hang out?”

“Kinda. I’ll explain when you get here; there’s something we need to do.”

“Cool,” Danny says excitedly, “We doing some like Scooby doo shit? Like investigating where Erica and Boyd have gone.” There’s rustling on the other line, which leads Stiles to believe Danny has him on speakerphone while he gets ready.

“Well…Yeah, actually, I guess we are doing that.” Stiles laughs, “If I had known you were such a nerd earlier, we would have already been friends for years.”

“What can I say,” Danny laughs back, “you have really been missing out.”

“Yeah.” Stiles whispers earnestly, “I think I have. As soon as you’re here, I’ll tell you the plan.” He rushes on, not wanting things to get awkward.

“Cool, dude, I’ll just finish getting ready, and I’ll be there as soon as I can. See you soon.”

“Bye, Danny, see you soon.” Stiles replies as he hangs up.

He heads back upstairs to get dressed. He pulls on a pair of jeans and reaches for one of his shirt and plaid overshirt usuals when he pauses, hand still outstretched towards the hanger.

Blood. There’s too much blood. There’s the buzz of electricity and an iron taste in his mouth, and his throat is dry and raw from screaming. His hair is slick with sweat, and his eyes are puffy from tears. His plaid overshirt and the t-shirt underneath hang off him, having been cut open but not removed; they are so stained that they are entirely damp in some places, the original colours undisguisable from underneath all the blood. Blood. So much blood. His blood.

Stiles jerks back, tripping over his own feet and crashing into the group. He shuffles backward, hands behind him, as he pulls away from his closet. He slams into the side of his bed and can’t move back any further. His breaths come in gasps, gulping at the air, struggling to actually get any oxygen in. He puts a hand against his bare chest and feels his heart racing.

Panic attack. This is a panic attack. He used to get them badly after his mother died, but after a few years, they calmed; he has had them on and off since, but not this severe since just after. Not this bad since he’d seen the child psychologist for two years straight after his mother’s death. It’s been a while since he’s had to regulate one on his own.

Stiles whines as he struggles to breathe, tears streaming openly down his face. How did he use to deal with these on his own?

“One hundred. Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.” On and on, he counts backward from a hundred, planting his bare feet firm to the floor, pushing them down, grounding himself. He pushes the hand on his chest firmly against his heart and tries to calm its racing. He doesn’t know how long it takes, but eventually, his breathing comes easier; he’s left sprawled on the floor facing the closet.

It’s stupid. So, so stupid. It’s just a plaid shirt. He’s worn one almost every day for years, yet one small encounter with a basement, and suddenly he freaks out just looking at his own clothes. He pulled his jeans on just fine. Went running through the woods with no problem yesterday. But a bit of plaid is his downfall.

He sighs, getting up and slamming the door to his closet shut; he ventures over to his dad’s room and steals one of his t-shirts; it’s a little long on Stiles, but otherwise fits just fine. Back in his own room, he pulls on Danny’s borrowed hoodie and some sneakers before heading downstairs to get started on some breakfast.

Just as he has finished wrapping up two bacon sandwiches, there is a knock at the door.

“That was quick.” Stiles mutters to himself; he grabs the sandwiches and heads to the door, setting them on the console table before he opens the door, greeting already on his lips when he pauses.

It is not Danny at the door.

“Uh, hi…” Jackson says awkwardly, shuffling his feet and scratching the back of his neck, standing on Stile’s front porch.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” Stiles asks, still shaky from his panic attack; he’s more shocked than angry; having Jackson appear on his doorstep wasn’t something he ever thought would happen. Stiles makes no move to let Jackson inside, blocking the doorway with his body one arm leaning on the doorframe. Just because he’s a wolf now and wasn’t a total asshole yesterday doesn’t mean Stiles trusts him.

Jackson’s eyes widen, and he drops his arm, shocked by Stiles’ obvious suspicion. “Uh…Lydia sent me; she was worried?” It comes out more as a question than anything, his eyes shifting between Stiles and the floor.

“Right…” Stiles drawls. Lydia did text him saying she would check on him within the hour, and he hadn’t replied within that hour. But she would have come herself if only to shout at him for not answering her sooner, and Jackson is far too nervous for this to be a favour for his girlfriend. “You know…just because I’m not a wolf doesn’t mean I can’t tell when you’re lying.”

Jackson sighs, playing with his fingers, but he looks Stiles in the eyes, “Yeah, that’s fair. But she is worried, and so am I, for the record.”

“Huh, that’s kinda nice… I’m fine, though. You don’t need to worry.” Stiles lies to him.

Jackson raises an eyebrow, looking at Stiles incredulously. “Come on, man. Wolf,” he gestures at himself, “I’m new to this, but I can still hear your heartbeat; I can tell when you’re lying too.”

“Yeah, but it’s rude to call me on it.” Stiles comments, usually he is better at this whole lying-to-wolves thing. He’s not entirely sure why he’s lying, but if Jackson did manage to get into Derek’s pack, doesn’t that make Stiles the enemy? Derek did kick Stiles out. Or rather, say he was never in, to begin with.

“That’s hypocritical,” Jackson mutters.

“Yep,” Stiles replies, popping the P. He’s wary of Jackson, wary of all the wolves after what happened with Derek. Especially after the shit show that was yesterday, he doesn’t know who he can trust anymore; Linda was very adamant about no one else knowing. “So…” Stiles trails off, looking around, trying to figure out where this conversation is supposed to be going, “How are things?”

“Yeah…good,” Jackson tells him. This conversation is already painful Stiles almost wishes they could go back to snide comments and fights, at least with those Stiles knew what to expect. Is Jackson being nice? Is Jackson checking up on him? He has no idea what to do with that. “I’m in Derek’s pack now; we are working things out.” Jackson continues, unbeknownst to Stiles’ internal turmoil. So that does make Stiles the enemy?

“Good. That’s good, man….” Stiles feels a little like a kicked puppy - haha, kicked puppy, oh the irony - Derek is out here inviting Jackson into his pack. Jackson, who blackmailed Derek into biting him. Jackson, who just a week ago Derek had been adamant about killing. Yet Derek kicked Stiles for something he didn’t even do without explaining what he supposedly had done. Maybe the man had just been looking for an excuse to kick Stiles for a while. “Really, that’s great. Probably shouldn’t talk to me about it though,” he says a little self-deprecatingly, “he’s…not happy with me.” Understatement of the fucking century.

“Yeah…about that,” Jackson says, he’s shuffling his feet, clearly nervous, “He’s, umm, kinda worried too.” Stiles raises his eyebrows; Jackson continues dropping his gaze to the floor, “Yeah, he’s been asking about you, telling Isaac to check up on you.” That explains why Isaac won’t stop texting Stiles even though he’s stopped replying by now, “I mentioned I was thinking about checking up on you, and he sort of insisted I go straight away.” Jackson finishes, eyes flicking back up to Stiles’ own.

That explains why Jackson is here too; Derek told him to come, and being the alpha, he couldn’t be refused. Coward should come to speak to Stiles himself. Stiles feels his anger building again. He curls his hands into fists but takes a few deep breaths. Centering himself before he does something stupid like punching a werewolf.

Stiles grits his teeth, trying to rein his anger in before he says, “Why? He made it pretty clear that I am not pack,” there’s a hollow in his chest, and it aches as he says the words aloud to Jackson, but Stiles refuses to look away from the other boy, refuses to break his gaze, “so why does he care what I am doing or how I am?”

Jackson breaks first, eyes dropping back to the ground to avoid Stiles’ scrutiny, and the wolf whines, actually audibly whines. “I uh…well, I don’t know if I should say… there’s…umm,” Jackson tries with little success, wringing his hands and shuffling awkwardly, his whole body in some kind of motion.

It dawns on Stiles that Jackson is nervous. Nervous. It’s never a word he would have associated with the other boy before, but clearly, now he is. Stiles has never heard Jackson sound so unconfident in his life. Stiles feels off-centered like the world has been titled or the roles have been reversed. Stiles himself is standing completely still for once, and Jackson, of all people, is the one fidgeting awkwardly.

Stiles opens his mouth - though whether it is to put Jackson out of his misery or to demand an answer he doesn’t know – but he’s cut off when Jackson straightens, head snapping down the street as a blue Toyota Yaris rounds the corner, Danny behind the wheel.

They stand silently, staring as Danny pulls up to the curb in front of Stiles’ house and hops out. He offers Stiles a wave and a grin but only turns to glare at Jackson as he approaches.

“Why’s Danny here?” Jackson asks Stiles, turning back to him as Danny walks up the steps to his porch.

“Because I called him.” Stiles answers. Danny stands just behind Jackson, a little to the side so he can see Stiles clearly. Danny eyes the distance between Jackson and Stiles before focusing on Jackson, looking him up and down. Stiles has the dizzying realisation that Danny is sizing Jackson up, getting protective of Stiles, and preparing to jump in front of him should Danny think it necessary. It warms Stiles’ heart a little.

Jackson looks between them in disbelief, apparently having noted what Stiles just had, he eventually turns to Danny, offering his fist out for a fist bump, but Danny makes no move to return the gesture. Jackson drops his hand, eyebrows furrowing, and says, “What the hell, man?”

Danny ignores him, turning his full attention to Stiles, smiling widely, and asking, “You ready to go?”

Stiles blinks at him. Danny’s smile is genuine like he is actually happy to see Stiles; it’s…strange. Stiles has gotten used to being a bit of an inconvenience to others. “Yeah,” he answers after a moment, trying to match Danny’s enthusiasm, “I just gotta grab my stuff and lock up.”

Stiles ducks inside, avoiding Jackson’s beseeching looks. He gathers his phone, wallet, and keys, pocketing them in his borrowed hoodie; he takes one of the wrapped bacon sandwiches in each hand and joins Danny and Jackson back on the porch. They are locked in some kind of staring standoff, glaring at each other but otherwise unmoving. Jackson breaks first when he notices Stiles’ return, turning to look at him. 

Stiles hands off one of the sandwiches to Danny, “breakfast,” he mumbles in explanation, “or an early lunch, I guess.” He gets a winning smile in return as he turns back to the door, pulls it closed, and takes his keys out to lock it, fighting with the key again.

“So…” Jackson starts, “What’s going on? I didn’t know you two were friends.” When Stiles turns back to face them, Jackson squints at him. Jackson tilts his head up slightly and not so discreetly sniffs at the air, fucking werewolves, “Didn’t know you guys swapped clothes either.” He continues bluntly, looking between them.

That is so not a rumor Stiles needs spreading.

“Why do you care?” Danny asks him, saving Stiles from answering himself, “I like Stiles; he is a good friend. Anyone would be lucky to call him one,” Danny’s voice is hard as steel; Stiles has never heard him sound so cutting, especially not towards Jackson. “Besides, honesty goes a long way in a friendship.”

Jackson’s face does what Stiles can only describe as a gymnastic routine, flirting between emotions so fast that they are hard to catch. There’s anger defiantly and something perhaps like a loss, but Stiles doesn’t understand it. Eventually, Jackson settles on shock. Jaw-dropping so far that it looks like he is trying to catch flies; it would almost be comical were it not for the current circumstances.

On the other hand, Danny keeps his face entirely blank, turning to Stiles before saying, “Hey, we better get going; I don’t want to be late.” And marching back to his car without waiting for a reply, Stiles has to admit that Danny is the ultimate yes man; he doesn’t even know the plan yet and is entirely on board.

Stiles turns back to Jackson, surprised to find the wolf already looking at him, “Look, man, thanks for checking up on me, but I’m…I will be fine.” Stiles tells him, and this time he’s not lying. Stiles has Danny, they will work this out together, and Stiles will be ok; he truly believes that.

Stiles moves to leave, but Jackson grabs his arm, stopping him. “You were bleeding; Derek smelt blood. And your face is bruised as hell.”

Damn, Jackson’s really not wanting to let this go. “I’m not bleeding anymore,” Stiles tells him, which is true, but only because of magic runes and Linda’s patch job.

Jackson looks him over, searching for the lie. Eventually, he lets Stiles go. “Just don’t be a stranger, man. I know we don’t get on…but we are all worried. Derek too. He’s hurt but not really mad; I know he’s not. He wants to know you’re ok.”

Stiles doesn’t believe it. Derek’s always angry. Especially when Stiles is around. He thinks maybe he had been looking into his relationship with Derek too much, that maybe there wasn’t an understanding between them. Maybe he only tolerated Stiles because he and Scott were a packaged deal, and now that Derek’s clearly furious with Scott, he has no reason for Stiles to hang around. That maybe it had all been one-sided. It’s something he doesn’t have the energy to dissect now. He has more important things to worry about. Namely Erica and Boyd.

“I’ll see you around, Jackson,” Stiles says, and without another word, Stiles stumbles down the steps and walks over to Danny’s car, sliding easily into the passenger’s seat as though he’s done it a hundred times before. As they pull away from the curb, Stiles can see Jackson standing on his front porch, staring after them, dumbfounded.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

“What did Jackson want?” Danny asks as Stiles clips his seatbelt in, driving down the road as if he knows where they are going. Jackson’s watching them in shock from Stiles’ front porch. Danny has already unwrapped the sandwich and begins to eat it as he drives.

“You know he can still hear you, right?” Stiles asks Danny.

“Yep.” He replies, taking another bite, “I don’t care.”  

Stiles has no doubt that Jackson can still hear them, but he answers the question nonetheless, “He was checking in on me. Derek is apparently worried.” Stiles scoffs.

Danny laughs a bitter laugh around a mouthful of bacon, “Man fuck that guy.”

Stiles laughs but nods in agreement. He unravels his own bacon sandwich and begins to basically inhale it. They eat in silence for a few moments. Danny finishes off his sandwich, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, and grins at Stiles widely.

“So, what’s the plan?” Danny asks excitedly when they are more than far enough away that Jackson won’t be able to hear him with his freaky werewolf senses. He’s got one hand on the wheel, looking at the road ahead, but Stiles feels he has got Danny’s undivided attention.

“Ok, don’t freak out,” Stiles warns, watching the houses as they drive by, glancing at Danny occasionally.

Danny’s excitement fades entirely, mouth pulling into a frown. “Oh no. That’s not a good sign,” He mutters. He turns to look at Stiles, only to find him with his mouth half full of sandwich, the frown fades slightly as amusement, and a vague sense of disgust take over.

“Yeah…” Stiles mumbles around bacon, “We are going to the Argents,” Stiles rushes out.

“What!” Danny exclaims, turning to look at Stiles and pulling on the steering wheel as he does so, causing the car to swerve.

“Fuck!” Stiles exclaims, sacrificing his sandwich to reach across Danny and straighten the wheel, “Watch out, man!”

“Sorry, sorry.” Danny cries out, fixing his grip on the wheel and refocusing on the road ahead. “I was just surprised. Fuck Stiles, are you sure this is a good idea?”

“I have to make sure Erica and Boyd aren’t still there,” Stiles tells him seriously, eyeing his sandwich where it fell to the car floor; he probably shouldn’t pick that up and keep eating it, right? “That’s your fault!” He tells Danny, pointing at it before attempting to clean up the mess. He continues, “I was so stupid not to go there first the other night, I was so sure they were in the woods, but I should have checked the basement first. I don’t know how they could have gotten out. Chris and Allison didn’t seem to be fighting the others; at least, they weren’t when I left. I don’t think they were in on Gerard’s plans, at least not entirely. Boyd mentioned something about Allison shooting them, and she shot Isaac a bunch in the warehouse from the looks of it. Still, she was pretty apologetic about the whole thing. I think she had a change of heart.”

“Those are some pretty big assumptions to base this on; you think they have had two teenagers in their basement and just haven’t noticed they are still there?” Danny reasons as he listens to Stiles’ directions and turns down the right streets to lead to the Argent’s house, “They literally kidnapped you.”

“I mean, they aren’t going to do anything in broad daylight, especially not when you are with me,” Stiles replies as he points out another turn.

Danny sighs, glancing at Stiles before looking back to the road resigned. “Fine. But you were right; I don’t like it.”

They arrive without further argument. Danny pulls up to the curb, putting the car in park before turning to Stiles, “You sure you want to do this?” He asks Stiles looking at him and then up at the house.

“Not really. But we have to do it anyway.” Stiles declares, opening the door and stalking up to the house before he can lose his nerve. Danny scrambles to rush after him.

“Dude, I really don’t like this idea. What if they try to, like, I don’t know, drag you back in there?” Danny complains from behind him.

“They would have to be so incredibly stupid to try that.” He tells Danny, attempting to reassure him as Stiles raises his fist and knocks.

“Yeah, because kidnapping the sheriff’s son in the first place isn’t incredibly stupid,” Danny mutters.

The other boy doesn’t get any more time to complain because the door swings open before him, revealing a slightly shocked Allison. Stiles’s heart kicks into overdrive. He expected her to be here, counted on it actually, and he believed what he said to Danny. Stiles doesn’t think Chris nor Allison knew Gerard had been torturing him. And yet… he’s suddenly nervous. His hands are shaking.

Stiles takes a moment to assess her. She’s standing in leggings and an oversized long-sleeved t-shirt that looks like it once belonged to her dad. Her hair is down, loose curls framing her face. She hasn’t got any makeup on, dark shadows colouring under her eyes just like Stiles’ own, but her eyes are red-rimmed as though she’s been crying.

Allison looks him over in turn, leaning against the open door. “Stiles?” Allison asks, her eyebrows creasing in confusion, “What are you doing here?” She sighs, faces morphing from confusion to resignation; before he can reply, she continues, “You’re here to convince me to talk to Scott, aren’t you? Look, I told him that I needed space.”

“What?” Stiles asks her, his own forehead creasing. That was not the reaction he expected. “No. God, no, some of us have bigger priorities. I haven’t seen Scott since the warehouse.”

“Oh?” Allison says she pauses, looking Stiles up and down, accessing, “What happened to your face?” She asks.

“You don’t know?” He asks her in turn, her eyebrows drawn together again, and she shakes her head. So Stiles was right; she didn’t know about Gerard’s plans. Unless she’s lying. “It doesn’t matter. I’m here for Erica and Boyd. Are they still here?”

Allison’s eyes widen, mouth opening in shock, “How did you know they were here?” She asks him.

He doesn’t have time for this. “Chris!” He calls out, moving to the side, attempting to see past Allison and into the house beyond. Quick footsteps are coming down the hall before Chris appears behind Allison, pulling the door wider to see past her. He squints at Stiles, brows furrowing.

“Stiles.” Chris carefully looks him up and down, “What can I do for you?”

“Erica and Boyd.” Stiles says, not bothering with pleasantries and getting straight to the point, “Your daughter helped catch them, are they still here?”

Somehow Chris managers to look more confused, looking at Allison questioningly before turning back to him, “We let them go,” Chris assures, tone steady, hands outstretched as if to calm a wild animal. Stiles thinks it unnecessary; he’s not behaving erratically; he is doing an excellent job keeping his rising panic at bay. He hasn’t had a panic attack yet, at least. Chris continues, unaware or uncaring of Stiles’ irritation, “They did nothing wrong, so we let them go. My father broke the code going after them; he took advantage of Allison’s grief. We don’t want trouble with the pack; we mean you no harm. We are returning to France for the summer to sort everything out; Allison will be seeing a therapist to deal with things healthily.” He places a hand on his daughter’s shoulder at the end, squeezing lightly. Allison looks at Stiles pleadingly, begging for forgiveness that’s not his place to give.

They have this wrong. They think Stiles is here on behalf of the pack. To protect the pack. Because he’s human, and hunters wouldn’t dare touch him. They are wrong on so many accounts. Stiles isn’t even part of the fucking pack. And Gerard clearly had no reservations about his humanity. Heat rushes through him like wildfire, and he balls his hands at his side. Why is he only ever considered an errand boy? The one who researches. Scott’s sidekick. Why is it that he’s never seen as his own force? Even when he’s been saving everyone else’s arses for months. Why is he only ever an extension of them?

Panic ebbs as rage takes its place. Stiles has to grit his teeth to keep his cool.

“Good for you,” Stiles directs at Allison harshly, barely refraining from spitting the words at her, “I didn’t ask.” Allison deflates instantaneously, head bowing to look at the floor. Stiles looks back to Chris, who has his mouth in a hard line, “Imma need to see your basement.” He tells the older man, hands shaking with the effort to keep his anger at bay.

Danny reaches out from behind Stiles, settling his hand on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles finds room in his lungs to breathe. Looking back briefly to give Danny a small, grateful smile. Chris and Allison’s eyes go wide as if they have only just noticed Danny. Stiles is offended on his behalf.

“Danny?” Allison asks, reaching out a hand before abandoning the gesture and letting it fall to her side, “How…Do you….”

It seems Danny takes pity on her, answering her question before she fumbles any further. “I know,” he tells them, “Scott’s not subtle.”

Chris and Allison nod in confused agreement.

“So…” Stiles prompts, clapping his hands together. Desperately trying to cling to his usual playfulness and bury the rage before either of them question him on it. He doesn’t need everyone to know Derek kicked him to the curb. Doesn’t need pity for the pathetic human. “Basement?”

Chris looks back at him, squinting slightly as he looks Stiles over, “What happened to your face?”

God, Stiles is so sick of that question. He grits his teeth, lips pulled tight in a pained smile, “Not important, that basement is, though,” He reiterates. He came here for one thing and one thing alone. To check that basement. Not to answer the same stupid questions over and over again.

“They didn’t return to the pack?” Chris questions.

Stiles raises an eyebrow because obviously they didn’t if Stiles was here asking for them. Truthfully, he is not entirely sure they haven’t returned to Derek; he didn’t ask the man. They may have while he was running through the woods bleeding out. But if that were the case, Stiles knows for sure they would have turned up on his front porch before they went to Derek after everything…that had happened. There’s no way they wouldn’t be checking on him. That coupled with the missing persons call he overheard on the police scanner last night before he went to bed and the feeling in his stomach slinking beneath his ribs. Something happened to them; he knows it.

“Obviously not if I’m here.” Stiles snarks, looking at Chris with disappointment. He kinda thought the guy was smarter than this.

“But how did you know they were here at all if they haven’t returned and told you?” Chris asks suspiciously.

“Ask your father.” Stiles bites back, over the whole routine, “Can we check out your basement or not?”

Chris’s eyes blow wide, mouth opening. Allison glances between Stiles and Chris, opening her mouth as if to ask him more bloody questions. And honestly, Stiles would rather shoot himself at this point than do that, but Chris interrupts before she can, “Sure, go ahead, Allison, you can show them the way, can’t you?” He moves, opening the door further to let them inside, nodding back towards where Stiles knows the basement door is.

Allison nods, looking unsure but turns on her heels and beckons with her hand for them to follow. Stiles and Danny follow dutifully, Stiles trying to act like he doesn’t know exactly where he is going. Chris disappears down the hall and back to whatever he’d been doing before Stiles called for him. Allison opens the door for them, entering the basement first, ahead of him. But Stiles pauses at the first step.

Stiles’ heart rate picks up again. He can’t do this. This was a bad idea. Bad idea. Bad Idea. Bad idea. Blood, there’s blood everywhere. And he can’t breathe. His chest stutters, and his ribs feel constrictive, like they are closing in, squeezing tight, trying to steal the air from him. Why is he doing this? This has got to be his worst idea yet.

Allison is at the bottom of the stairs now, looking up at Stiles in question, eyes concerned. But he just can’t move. And then Danny is behind him, placing a warm, comforting hand on his back, gently rubbing it back and forth.

He whispers so quietly that only Stiles can hear, “It’s ok, you’ve got this. I’m right here. Nothing’s going to happen. Just breathe, ok?” Stiles obediently sucks in a breath, “good,” Danny praises, “Again.”

And Stiles listens, breathing in and out as Danny rubs at his shoulders and back comfortingly, nudging him down the stairs one at a time until they are both at the bottom, standing in the basement. Allison doesn’t comment on his freak out, but he’s not entirely sure she knows he was seconds from a panic attack. Nevertheless, he is grateful for her silence. It makes him feel less weak.

The basement looks the same as it had that night. Dark and cold. Yet it’s empty, with no Erica or Boyd in sight. The ties are still attached to the electric fence where they had been, cut as though Allison or Chris had let them go, and haven’t been back down here since. His theory is confirmed when he spots blood marks on the floor, his blood, and his breath hitches at the sight. Danny follows his gaze.

“You just let them be tortured down here?” Danny asks, his tone harsh, but he sounds horrified, hand balling into a fist as it rests on Stiles’ shoulder.

Stiles looks further, and holy shit, that’s his ruined flannel and shirt combo he’d been forced into when the hunters who took him frog-marched him from the field and into the locker room to change out his lacrosse uniform. It’s ripped and bloodied, beyond recognisable to any but Stiles’ eyes. And only because he’d been here as the thing was cut off him. Knives on a nearby benchtop are still coated in his blood. Rather stupidly, no one has attempted to clean the evidence away.

Allison is looking at Danny guiltily, eyes teary as she looks around. No doubt, seeing what they are, just without knowing that it’s Stiles’ human blood that had been spilled, not the fast-healing wolves. Her gaze settles on the dried blood across the floor. Stiles’ dried blood.

“Let’s get out of here,” Stiles chokes out, “they clearly aren’t here.” He is struggling to breathe again. Blood. Blood. Blood. So much of his blood.

Allison nods. Stiles turns on his heels, ascends the stairs, and gets the hell out. He’s spent enough time in the bloody basement; the walls feel like they are moving closer, trying to swallow him whole. Danny follows behind him, one hand still resting on his shoulder. It’s the only thing keeping Stiles from full-blown panic. And Allison follows behind them both.

As Stiles turns to follow the hall to the front door, Allison steps in front of him. His breath hitches, and he thinks this is it. She was in on the whole thing, and now she will drag him back down there with Danny and start torturing them both.

But instead, all she does is answer Danny’s earlier question. “I wasn’t home for most of it. I was supposed to help hunt the pack down more before I heard everything Gerard was saying in the warehouse and realised how wrong I was,” She confesses, looking down, ashamed, “I didn’t…like hear anything. I don’t know… I’d like to think if I was home if I heard them, I would have tried to stop it. But…I don’t know. It’s easier to say that with hindsight.” She sighs, eyes teary, and she looks around at the family photos hung on the walls, “I haven’t been down there since we let them go. They were pretty out of it, but they were able to stand. I thought they could make it back to Derek, at least. I just…Even though I know they were all healed up…I couldn’t look at the blood. I should probably clean it up. But every time I think about it, I feel sick.”

Stiles feels pity for her. If this is how she reacts to her involvement when she thinks it is the wolves who were tortured, how would she react if she found out instead it was breakable, human Stiles. She would be horrified. Or maybe she’d just see him as weak.

She looks up at them again, her eyes shining with unshed tears, “I’m sorry,” her voice cracks; she swallows and starts again, sounding slightly steady as she does, “I’m sorry. I just…Derek killed my mum. And Gerard was so persuasive. Saying they were monsters and all they do is hurt people. And I…I fell for it…like a stupid little girl. It’s not an excuse; I know it’s not. I just…” She looks directly at Stiles, tears spilling over, and she wipes them furiously with a sleeve-covered hand, “She was my mum.” Her voice breaks again; Stiles has never heard her so vulnerable before; more tears spill as she looks at him, waiting for a reaction.

Stiles wants to be angry. He is, to some degree; it’s just buried beneath all his concern and empathy and a good deal of his own grief. Stiles wants the all-consuming rage back; it’s easier that way. But life is complicated, and he has always been too forgiving for his own good. And Stiles understands Allison’s pain too much to really be angry at her.

Stiles remembers that anger stage of grief. Remembers when it was raw like an open wound. Remembers when his dad was drowning his sorrows with alcohol, looking for peace at the bottom of a bottle. Remembers when he’d start fights in school, just wanting to feel…something. Remembers bruised and bloody knuckles and one memorable moment of breaking Jackson’s nose when he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut when Stiles told him to. Of a time when Scott was the only person Stiles wouldn’t fight with, wouldn’t shout at. Remembers wanting to watch the world burn because his was falling apart. And he finds it’s not as easy to be mad at Allison like he would like to be.

Allison is still crying; Danny is rubbing a comforting hand up and down her arm, even as he keeps his other pressed against Stiles’ shoulder blades. Stiles sighs, watching as Allison turns hopeful eyes on him, “look,” he says gently, “it’s not really my place to forgive you. But…I get it. Really I do.”

She nods back in understanding, “I want to try to make it up to them. To the pack. To make up for what I’ve done.” She says softly, as though he will scold her for saying such a thing.

He nods, wetting his lips before answering, “Erica and Boyd are officially missing. I heard it on the police scanner last night.”

“You have my number,” She tells him, fiddling with the sleeves of her shirt. “Dad wants to go to France and get away for a bit. And to sell the house, get something less…less smothering with memories. But I’ll help as much as I can, Dad too.”

Stiles nods, saying, “Thank you.” But he doesn’t know if he will take her up on the offer.

She walks them out to the door.

As Stiles turns to bid her goodbye, she surprises him by enveloping him in a hug. He stiffens, his heart racing, and it’s hard to breathe momentarily. But then she drops her head to rest on his shoulder, and he remembers that this is Allison.

Allison. Who sat behind him in English, always leaning forward to make witty remarks. Allison. Who always gave him a winning smile even when he was just a bench warmer on the lacrosse field. Allison. Who he’d run back and forth to, with messages to and from Scott, thanking him with a smile and warm hand on his arm and with the promise of curly fries. Which she would actually deliver on, unlike some people.

Stiles relaxes into the hug. Winding his arms around her tightly and resting his chin on top of her head. Strangely it feels nice. Not forced.

He pulls back after a moment, “Have fun in France.” He tells her, somewhat awkwardly.

Allison smiles back at him, “Call me if you need me,” she tells him earnestly, waving as Danny and Stiles walk back to the car.  

As they pull away from the curb, Danny looks over at him, forehead creasing in concern. This time, he has both hands on the wheel but keeps glancing over at Stiles. Eventually, as they round the corner at the end of the street, he asks, “You ok?”

Stiles sighs. Is he ok? He doesn’t know. The pressure in his chest has lessened, and he doesn’t feel like his lungs are trying to fight their way out of his body anymore. He doesn’t think Allison was involved in his torture or kidnapping or that Chris was involved. Both are good things. He doesn’t know if he could handle it if Allison was aware of the whole thing and didn’t do anything.

“I…I don’t know.” Stiles admits.

“Hey, that’s ok, man,” Danny comforts, offering up a smile. “We will figure it out.

“I’m sorry.” Stiles blurts out, surprising even himself with the words.

Danny pauses, hands tightening on the wheel, throwing Stiles a confused glance before returning his eyes to the road, “ok…what are you apologising for?”

“For getting you involved? For having you deal with my mess. Fuck I would have had a full-blown panic attack in there without you. You don’t need to have that on you. You don’t need my damage. I dragged you into all this supernatural shit, and now I’m dragging you into all my issues.” Stiles rants, hands moving wildly around him as he talks.

“Stiles.” Danny says firmly, silencing Stiles, “I asked you to tell me everything. You are the only person who has been honest with me. Do you know how many times I asked Jackson what was going on with him? I gave him countless opportunities to tell me what was up, and he didn’t.”

“Still,” Stiles says, looking out the window, refusing to meet Danny’s gaze, “Just because you wanted to know doesn’t mean you wanted to get mixed up in it. You don’t have to help me if you would rather just go back to being a normal teenager.”

“What? I want to help you, man!” Danny exclaims, outraged; Stiles still refuses to look at him, “unless…you don’t want me to.”

Now Stiles snaps his head to Danny, eyes wide, “What? No! I like you, man. I’m happy for your help. I just…I don’t want to drag you along as an unwilling participant. I think half the pack couldn’t stand me before; I don’t want you to think I’m like your…responsibility or something, like that you are obligated to help.”

Danny pulls the car over, stopping on the side of a suburban street. He pulls the park break up, turns the car off, and twists in his seat to look Stiles dead in the eye. A hand reaching out to grab onto Stiles’ shoulder. “The pack…McCall…Derek. They suck, ok?” He says, eyes boring into Stile’s own, “You are not an obligation, a responsibility, or a nuisance. I am one hundred percent down and happy to help you because you are my friend now, whether you like it or not. I meant what I said last night. And I’ll say it again and again until you believe me, we are friends, and we are in this together. I got your back, ok? Don’t question it.”

Danny waits, watching him intensely until Stiles nods and says, “ok.”

Danny smiles softly, but it doesn’t reach his eyes, “Scott really fucked you up, didn’t he?”

“Yeah…” Stiles admits slowly, “I think maybe he did. Not intentionally, but he kinda just forgot about me, you know?”

Danny nods knowingly, “Yeah, I know.”

“Jackson really fucked you up, too, huh?” Stiles asks him; he’s not so emotional or self-absorbed to have failed to pick up on that.

Danny huffs out a laugh, hand squeezing Stiles’ shoulder slightly, “Yeah, he did.”

Maybe it wasn’t just Stiles who was forgotten. Left behind. Maybe as much as it used to be ScottandStiles, it was also JacksonandDanny. Maybe both of them had been left behind when the others became faster, stronger, and more. Maybe Jackson pushed Danny away as much as Scott pushed Stiles away.

“Fuck them.” Stiles says, his own hand coming up to grab onto Danny’s shoulder; he looks back at the other teen just as intensely, “Fuck Scott. Fuck Jackson. Fuck the pack. We don’t need them. We will make our own pack. Starting with us. We can be like the…the…the wonder duo or something.” Stiles rants passionately.

“Wonder duo?” Danny asks with an incredulous raise of his eyebrows, but he can’t quite keep the smile off his face; Stiles grins back at him.

“We will work on the name.” Stiles promises.

Danny laughs again, but this time it’s genuine; he squeezes Stiles’ shoulder once more before turning out of his grip and starting the car again, “Ok.” He tells Stiles as he pulls away from the curb and continues driving, “We will work on the name.”

“Great.” Stiles grins, clapping his hands together, “Now let’s get back to mine. I need your help burning every little bit of plaid I own.”

“What?” Danny asks, confused again.

“I’ll explain when we get there.” Stiles promises, “But you heard me. Bonfire time.”

“It’s California in the summer.” Danny tells him, looking at Stiles concerned, “There is a total fire ban.”

Stiles’ grin grows wider and slightly manic, “Never stopped me before.”

“Oh god, we are gonna burn down your house.” Danny laments, but he still turns down the next road to Stiles’ house anyways.

Chapter Text

Derek P.O.V.

He has really fucked it this time. Erica and Boyd are gone. Running. From him. Derek has been such a bad alpha that he has actively driven two of his betas away. Three if he counts Scott, which he doesn’t really. And Stiles…He lost Stiles too. Maybe he shouldn’t have yelled.

Derek’s pacing back and forth. His footsteps echo in the near-empty loft. He acquired it a week ago, but today is the first time he’s set foot inside. He intended to make it into a base of operations. A pack den if he was being optimistic. That was before he had driven away over half his Pack. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

“Can you please stop pacing?” Isaac asks quietly from the ratty sofa Derek has dragged in. It is the only piece of furniture in the whole place asides from the amenities that came attached. “You are giving me a headache,” the boy continues; sure enough, when Derek turns to him, Isaac has his head in his hands and is rubbing circles against his temples despite his werewolf healing.

Derek slows his pacing to a stop, staring at Isaac. The boy arrived two hours ago, only an hour after Derek. Isaac merely stated that he had sniffed his Alpha out before claiming the couch; he hadn’t said a word since until now.

“Are…” Derek trails off; he isn’t good at this. Not good at the comforting or offering of advice. Not like Laura had been. Not like his mum had been. “Are you…ok?” Derek tries again; he sounds awkward, unsure, but at least he’s not growling.

Isaac looks up, meeting his gaze. The teen does not look ok. His eyes are teary, and his fingers grip tightly to the roots of his curly brown hair; dark bruises underneath his eyes tell Derek the teen hasn’t been sleeping much.

“No.” Isaac breathes out, “No, I’m not ok.” He says louder; he drops his hands from his head and stands glaring at Derek, his voice getting louder and louder as he does until he’s shouting at him, “I’m not ok, Derek. My dad is dead. I’m stuck with shitty foster parents who don’t give a crap about me, nor care where I am as long as they get a cheque. I have no friends. Erica and Boyd have run off. Scott’s being Scott, and I thought I could trust him until he pulled that shit wat the warehouse. They have left me here with you. All you do is order me around. We are being hunted because we are werewolves. Everything has blown to shit so spectacularly in the last couple of days. And I have no idea what I’m doing.” He whispers the last part, slumping back onto the sofa, his breath whooshing out of him.

For a moment, Derek just stares at him. Bad Alpha. Bad Alpha. Bad Alpha. He doesn’t know what to do. His mum would know what to do. Cautiously he steps forward. When Isaac doesn’t react, he strides towards the teen and sits on the sofa, angling his body so he can look right at Isaac but not touch him.

“You can, um….” Derek starts but pauses. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. He can do this. He’s not Laura. He’s not his mum. But he is the only Alpha Isaac has got. He can do this. “You can stay here. If you want. There are four bedrooms upstairs,” he nods towards the back of the room where a spiral staircase ascends, “they are small, but you are welcome to have your pick. Your foster family might not care, and I might not have been really good at showing it in the past, but, um…I do. Care, I mean.”

Isaac looks at him dumbfounded for a moment. After a few minutes, he slowly nods his head. “Yeah,” Isaac mumbles, “yeah, I’d like that.”

Derek nods his head back awkwardly at him. Eventually, he’ll have to do something about Isaacs’s arrangement, maybe apply for legal guardianship or for Isaac to be emancipated if he is up for either. But for now, if Isaacs’s foster parents don’t care where he is, at least Derek can make sure his safe here, at least as safe as he can be with an Alpha pack running around. That’s what Laura would have done. What a good Alpha is supposed to do.

“There’s um….” Derek continues, “There are no beds yet. Or, uh, much of anything, but there are two bathrooms, and they work.”

Isaac nods at him again, still looking shocked by Derek’s offer.

Derek hasn’t had the time to really consider furnishing the place, but the bare bones are here for now. The kitchen counter behind them is made of white marble and is still shiny and new; there’s an oven, a sink, and cupboards to make up the kitchen, but no refrigerator yet or stools for the counter. Both the downstairs and upstairs bathrooms’ plumbing works, and the bathroom fixtures are brand new, but the towel rails are empty, and there’s no soap. He could fix that, though. If Isaac is staying, he could fix that. Provide. Like an alpha should. And the loft door locks. He should get a keypad with a code to enter the warehouse below. So that Isaac feels safe. So that Derek feels safe.

Isaac does nothing except stare dumbly at Derek, and it makes his thoughts spiral again. Bad Alpha. Bad Alpha. He nods back to the teen before standing. Unable to stop himself from pacing again. Back and forth. Back and forth. Alpha pack. Hunters. Scott. Stiles.

He doesn’t know what to do about any of them. He needs to get his shit together. Start acting the Alpha. Erica and Boyd might be gone, but Isaac is still here. Jackson has joined too, maybe Lydia with him. He needs to help them, train them, and protect them. And bond with them; he hadn’t done that before, too worried about getting them killed. But the Pack is family. They haven’t had any of the benefits of the Pack yet. And Scott will still need help; he can’t be left an omega, even if it pains Derek to admit it. Eventually, he will have to talk to the boy. But not now, not when things are so raw. Stiles. Stiles he should talk to. Something isn’t right there, and his wolf curls up and whines at the thought. But for now…For now, Isaac and Jackson and keeping them safe from the Alpha Pack.

“What has got you so stressed that you are pacing?” Isaac asks him, his voice isn’t as small anymore, and when Derek turns to look at him again, he’s not got his head in his hands.

Derek hesitates. Should he tell him? Were good Alphas honest? Keeping it from them hadn’t worked. “There’s a rival pack coming. They are probably already here. A Pack of Alphas. No betas. They have been on the way for a while. It’s why I was so strict about training you all.” He admits.

Again, Isaac looks shocked, eyes wide as he stares at Derek. As though he was expecting Derek to lie or avoid answering. That’s a fair assumption. “You should have told us,” Isaac tells him. His voice is stern, but he doesn’t look upset.

“Yeah,” Derek admits. He should explain. He’s not good…with words. He looks away, breaking eye contact to look at the wall, bringing a hand up to rub at the back of his neck. “Look, Isaac. I um…I wasn’t meant to be the Alpha. Never was. My sister Laura was the one who was trained. I wasn’t even meant to be second. Maybe once my mother passed her Alpha spark to Laura, I would have been trained as a just in case, should something happen. But my family thought we had…time. I was just a kid. I was only fourteen. We thought we had time. I’m not good…at any of this. I don’t know how to be responsible for others. I am used to being on my own. There is only so far Alpha instincts can take you. I thought by not telling you guys, you wouldn’t have to worry and could focus on adjusting.” Derek’s eyes flick back to Isaac to gauge his reaction, and he continues hesitatingly, “And… I’m not so good at the trusting people thing.”

Isaac somehow manages to look even more shocked than he was, eyebrows rising to his hairline, mouth opening. He blinks once. Twice. Before he closes his mouth, swallows, and nods. “I…why tell me?” Isaac asks.

Derek huffs a laugh, but there’s no humour in it. “Because I need to get my shit together. I drove Erica and Boyd away. They have completely left town. This wasn’t how my mum did things. She was…she was good. Laura was untested, but she tried and did well, too, even though it was just us. I need to start acting like the Alpha.”

Finally, Isaac gives him something beyond shock; he nods, looking at Derek with understanding, “You have been a shit Alpha.” He says bluntly; Derek flinches, “But... You’re trying now. That matters. I don’t know how things will go, but I want to try. Have a pack, an actual pack. It sounds…nice.” He looks at Derek and smiles; it’s a small hesitant thing, but a smile nonetheless. Derek feels like he’s done well. “Plus,” Isaac adds, “we should probably furnish this place. Make it into an actual pack den.”

Derek smiles too at that, slight but there. “Yeah, we should.”

Before either of them says anything else, Derek’s phone chirps in his back pocket. He pulls it out. It’s a text from Jackson, the contact newly programmed into his phone.

Jackson Whittemore 12:04 pm

Saw Stiles. Where are you?

Derek texts him back the address for the loft and gets an immediate reply.

Jackson Whittemore 12:05 pm

On the way. I’m bringing Lydia.

Derek puts his phone back in his pocket, claiming a seat beside Isaac, saying, “Jacksons on the way. Lydia too.”

It takes fifteen minutes for Jackson to arrive. Isaac and Derek spend the time talking about furniture and how they should decorate the loft. Isaac is pretty insistent on a TV and extensive entertainment system; Derek thinks it’s overkill but doesn’t want to deny the teen when he’s clearly excited.

Jackson slams the loft door open when he arrives. Storming in. He smells angry and worried. Lydia trails him, her heels clicking against the concrete, her hair is perfectly styled, and she’s dressed immaculately, not a single thing out of place. But she smells nervous, wary.

Jackson pauses when he looks up at Derek and Isaac, eyes flicking to the bare kitchen behind them. “You live here.” He says to Derek.

It’s more of a statement than a question, but Derek replies, “Yeah.”

Jackson blinks, and some of the anger fades from his scent, “Jesus, dude. Thank fuck you have an actual place. I thought you were homeless.”

Isaac snorts from his place beside Derek on the sofa. Derek ignores him, hoping he won’t mention the abandoned train depo he’d previously been squatting in. “What?” He asks Jackson; he can feel his eyebrows furrowing and knows he is probably wearing what Stiles liked to describe as murderous expression number two. He pushes the thought away.

“I mean, can you blame me?” Jackson asks him, “We talked the whole werewolf pack thing out in the shell of your burnt-down family home. Even I know that’s not great.”

Derek feels his cheeks heating. Time to change the subject. “How did things go with Stiles?” He asks instead. Lydia also turns to Jackson expectantly at the question; he hasn’t told her yet then.

Jackson had been adamant about wanting to check on the teen. Lydia had agreed with him. Derek did secretly – though perhaps not so secretly - too; something wasn’t right. But he was still hurt, still felt betrayed. He thought that he and Stiles had an…understanding of sorts. But when Jackson mentioned last night that he wanted to check on the teen soon, Derek agreed and told him to do it first thing in the morning. Jackson had agreed without any prompting, partially due to his own concerns. But also likely because Derek wasn’t doing an excellent job of being subtle with his worry.

Jackson’s shoulders bunch up at the question, and he visibly sours; Derek doesn’t even need to smell the teen’s emotions to know it hadn’t gone well.

“I would also like to know.” Lydia states, moving forward, her face not showing a single ounce of the discomfort she smells of as she claims a seat on the floor in front of the sofa; she looks around, nose and eyebrows scrunching before she tosses Derek a glance saying, “You need an interior decorator.”

“Noted,” Derek replies before turning his head to look at Jackson again expectantly.

Jackson claims a seat beside Lydia on the floor, sighs and begins, “Horribly. It went horribly. He was guarded and angry. Asked why any of us cared because he wasn’t Pack,” Jackson glances at Derek at the last part.

Derek winces but pushes on, needing to know, “But physically? Was he fine? Not hurt?” Blood and pain that’s what Stiles had smelt of at the warehouse after Derek had calmed his blind rage enough to notice. And when Derek went to drain the pain…it was more pain than he thought Stiles could ever take, more pain than he thought a human could take; Stiles should have been delirious from it, not standing and talking, having just driven his Jeep through the wall of a warehouse to save the day. More pain than a bruised face and split lip warranted, at least. Derek should have run after the boy to help. Should have demanded Stiles tell him what was wrong when he noticed something was. Should have noticed in the first place instead of yelling and growling and kicking him out of the Pack. But Derek was-is just so hurt. So stupidly hurt and betrayed.

“I mean, yeah, I think so; the facial bruising is like still there, but he doesn’t…smell bad anymore, really; I don’t know. His scent was hard to grasp. He looked ok, but when I asked, he was for sure lying, but he walked around fine and was talking and stuff, didn’t seem…much of anything, really. Tired, sure, but other than that, fine; if I couldn’t hear his heartbeat, I wouldn’t even know he hadn’t been telling the truth. He was just wary and distant. I thought he was ok with me the other night at the warehouse, but it’s like he’s got all his walls up and didn’t give anything away. And that was before Danny showed up.” Jackson finishes, playing with his fingers as he talks.

“Danny?” Derek asks; he knows of the kid; he is Jackson’s best friend, a goalie on the lacrosse team.

“Yeah. He and Stiles are apparently best buds now. And Danny knows about werewolves.” Jackson says bitterly, “And he’s not happy with us either when Stiles told him that I came to check on him and that you were worried,” he nods at Derek, “Danny replied with ‘fuck that guy’.”

Derek grimaces. That’s not good.

“Really?” Isaac asks, surprised, “Are you sure? Stiles told Danny?”

Jackson nods tensely. It surprises Derek that Stiles would tell someone else so easily, drag them into the know; last Derek had checked, Stiles hadn’t even told his father.

“No.” Lydia interrupts, “Danny probably already knew. Or at least I had an idea like I did. He probably confronted Stiles, so Stiles told him, that’s what happened with me.”

“You think?” Jackson asks her, looking uncertain, playing with his fingers in his lap still.

“Come on, Jackson. You know Danny. I have some AP classes with him. He’s smart. He probably figured something out. You know Scott’s not subtle.” Lydia says.

Isn’t that the understatement of the century?

“No.” Jackson says adamantly, “Why wouldn’t he just come and ask me about it? He was downright cold to me, barely said anything.”

Lydia reaches out to touch Jackson’s arm gently, “Maybe he’s just upset you didn’t tell him. If you talk to him, I’m sure you could sort things out.”

“Maybe.” Jackson admits before huffing an irritated laugh, “That’s not even the best part. Stiles was wearing Danny’s clothes.”

Everyone stops talking. The air feels stiff, and Derek finds it hard to breathe. His wolf claws and howls inside him, wanting to be let out, but Derek ignores it.

“Stiles and Danny?” Isaac asks head tilted to one side like a puppy, as though he’s trying to figure it out.

“Yeah, I think so,” Jackson continues, “I mean, Danny was picking him up for something, Stiles had made them breakfast, Danny wouldn’t stop smiling like an idiot, and when I brought the clothes thing up, Stiles looked embarrassed, and Danny jumped to his defence. I didn’t even think they were friends before. Clearly somethings up.”

Derek is still finding it hard to breathe, staring in shock, feeling as though he’s let…something slip through his fingers.

“Huh.” Isaac says, “That’s weird.” He turns to Derek, but he’s still staring at Jackson in shock, “That’s weird right?”

Derek coughs and schools his face into neutrality. “Kinda weird,” He agrees, trying to sound nonchalant. Judging by the judging look on Lydia’s face and the confusion on Isaac’s, Derek’s failed.

“Right.” Lydia says, unconvinced; she looks at each of them in turn, her body tensing as she does so, “Why do you think it’s weird?”

Silence again as they all look at each other. When no one answers, Lydia raises an eyebrow, “Well?” she prompts.

“Uh…” Isaac starts, looking at Jackson, then Derek; when he receives nothing from either of them, he continues, “It’s just weird.”

Derek wants to facepalm; how eloquent. Jackson pulls a face.

“I think what Isaac means,” Derek inputs, “Is that Stiles never implied he…liked…men.” He grinds his teeth. At least he didn’t imply it to Derek. Never told Derek. Maybe they weren’t close enough for that, or maybe he hadn’t wanted Derek to know. It shouldn’t bother him, but for some reason, it does.

Lydia looks at the other two, who nod vigorously. “And?” She asks, again she receives no reply. She purses her lips before saying, “Do any of you have a problem? With Stiles liking men.”

“God, no.” Derek blurts out far too quickly, and all heads snap to him. He coughs, schooling his expression again, “No. Uh, no problem.”

Jackson and Isaac squint at Derek in suspicion. Derek ignores them; he doesn’t need to look into his reaction; it means nothing. He almost believes it.

“Nope, no problem,” Isaac confirms, nodding.

Lydia looks at Jackson. “I don’t have a problem with it, obviously,” Jackson says, offended, playing with his fingers again, and Derek comes to the realisation that it’s something Jackson does when he’s nervous. “I have a problem with Danny not telling me. I don’t give a shit if Stiles is gay.”

“Great. Glad we cleared that up.” Lydia replies, the tension easing from her shoulders.

“Why do you care?” Isaac asks.

Lydia glares at him, “Excuse me?” She asks dangerously. Lydia’s not a wolf, but if she was, Derek has no doubt she would be flashing beta gold eyes.

Isaac falters momentarily, eye sliding down to the floor, but he repeats, “I said, why do you care? About Stiles.”

Lydia somehow managed to glare harder, face twisting into a scowl that would make even Derek flinch if it were directed at him. Jackson and Derek lock eyes and grimace at each other. This is not going to end well.

“Why do I care? Why do you care?” She shoots back, jumping to her feet and pointing accusatorily at Isaac.

Isaac stands, too, taking a step forward, growling before saying, “I care.”

Jackson and Derek also stand. Jackson inches towards Lydia, growling at Isaac. Children. Actual children.

“Really? You are doing a shit job of expressing that! You weren’t the one going to ask him how he was!” She snaps back, stepping closer to Isaac as she does so. Jackson steps between them, growling, but Derek doesn’t know if it’s to protect Lydia from the werewolf or Isaac from Lydia’s rage.

“You didn’t ask either! Jackson did! You didn’t even know he existed a year ago.” Isaac growls at her, eyes flashing gold.

Lydia launches forward, but Jackson turns to grab her around the waist, holding her back as she thrashes against him. Isaacs’s fangs and claws come out as he growls back.

“Enough.” Derek roars, flashing Alpha red eyes at them all. Everyone stops what they are doing. Lydia stops fighting against Jackson, and he drops his arms from around her. Isaacs’s fangs and claws recede, eyes fading back to their human blue. They all look down to the ground, heads bowed, even Lydia. “That’s enough,” He repeats quieter, “No one’s questioning who cares. We all care. Ok?” They all nod. “Ok.”

Everyone relaxes. Lydia goes to sit back on the ground, but Derek stops her, gesturing to the sofa instead. Jackson and Isaac also sit, the sofa isn’t really designed for three, but they make it work, squeezing in next to each other. Jackson wisely sits in the middle, separating Lydia and Isaac.

They all look up at Derek as he begins to pace again, their heads following him back and forth. They have a whispered argument about one of them saying something which Derek pretends not to hear. Jackson must lose because as Derek turns to start another lap of the loft, Jackson speaks up, “Why don’t you just go see him, man?”

It’s enough for Derek to stop his pacing; he looks back to the sofa. Isaac and Jackson are looking at him eagerly, awaiting his answer. Lydia is checking her nails, pretending not to care, but Derek knows better.

Derek sighs, “He mad at me. I know he has a reason to be; I acted out of anger; I shouldn’t have been so…final about my decision. And I’m still…hurt. About the plan. With Gerard. I just thought…I don’t know what I thought, just that he wouldn’t do that kind of thing.” It’s a fine line he’s playing; Lydia, Jackson, and Isaac don’t know his…history with Kate. And he doesn’t want them to know, but it’s hard to understand the total betrayal without that knowledge. Scott hadn’t known either, granted. But Stiles…Derek is pretty sure Stiles figured it out. Sometimes he would do or say something, and Derek would just know Stiles somehow knew. It’s why it hurt so much. Because Stiles knew the plan would fuck Derek up, that it would hurt, and he didn’t try to stop it.

“How do you know he was involved? In the plan, I mean, Stiles seemed pretty frustrated with Scott from where I was standing.” Lydia says, finally looking up from her manicured hand, dropping the facade of being uninterested.

“It’s Scott.” Derek deadpans.

“Good point.” Jackson and Isaac say in unison. They look at each other and grin. Derek’s just glad they are getting along for now.

“They aren’t joined at the hip, you know?” Lydia says instead, unconvinced, “Maybe as kids, but this year, they have definitely separated a bit. Scott usually can’t keep a secret for the life of him, but I know Stiles is better than that; there are plenty of things he hasn’t mentioned to Scott, I’m sure. And this wouldn’t be the first time Scott’s left Stiles out of the loop.” She reasons, eyes boring into Derek’s.

Derek elects to ignore it. There’s no way Scott came up with that plan on his own. It’s Scott. Stiles had to have helped him. “Look,” Derek says to them, locking eyes with each of the teens in turn, “It’s a non-issue for now. We will give it some time to settle, and I’ll talk to him eventually,” When it’s not so raw. “I’ll have to talk to Scott at some point anyways; if he becomes feral, it’s just more problems for the rest of us.”

They nod. But Lydia still looks unconvinced. Derek continues to ignore it. It’s Jackson, surprisingly, who offers the change in subject, “So,” He says, “Are you planning on living off this couch?”

Lydia, it seems, can’t help herself. She jumps from her seat and immediately begins walking around the loft, pointing out spaces for bookshelves and a dining table. Isaac butts in to talk about where they could put the TV and entertainment system and how they should get an Xbox console.

Half the day passes like this. It’s well into the afternoon when Derek is leaning against the kitchen counter, watching Jackson, Lydia, and Isaac fight over his laptop. Lydia has his credit card in hand and is clicking add to cart for a ridiculous number of items, some of which Derek doesn’t even know what to do with.

“I’m setting it all up to be delivered directly to your door,” Lydia tells him over her shoulder as she fills in the shipping address, “all you have to do is sign for it when it gets here.”

“You think I’m just going to be home at all hours to wait for all this stuff?” He asks her, arms crossed against his chest; he feels he will regret this.

All three teens turn to look at him.

“I mean, what else are you gonna do all day?” Jackson asks him.

Derek furrows his brows. He is an adult. He does do things. He’s halfway through a degree. Goddammit.

“Don’t worry,” Isaac assures him smiling brightly, “If you’re not here, I’ll be.”

It warms something in Derek’s chest. “Hey,” he calls them before they lose interest and return to the laptop or before Derek loses his nerve “Friday nights are Pack night. Does that work?”

They all look at him in shock for a moment before nodding.

“What’s pack night entail? Like going over supernatural threats?” Lydia asks, eyebrows drawing together.

“No, no.” Derek assures, “more like…bonding. Movies, games, food, that kind of thing.” He lifts an arm to scratch at the back of his neck, eyes sliding to the wall behind them, “Pack is supposed to be family. It’s just about cementing those ties.”

No one responds, so Derek is forced to glance back at them to gauge their reaction. They look shocked, but before Derek can take back the offer, all three of them break into grins.

“That sounds awesome, man.” Jackson blurts, still grinning widely, “I knew there were perks to this whole werewolf thing.”

“Hell yeah.” Isaac agrees; there’s something in his eyes, almost as though his proud of Derek for…trying. He shouldn’t be. This is what Derek should have been doing all along. What an Alpha is meant to be.

Even Lydia struggles to keep herself contained, the usually restrained girl grinning brightly and nudging Jackson gently with her hand.

Isaac turns to look at Lydia, still grinning as he says, “This is why we need an Xbox.”

Derek watches in amusement as the teens refocus on the laptop. Lydia clicks onto another site for ‘finishing details’, and she exclaims that, yes, Isaac can have his Xbox as if it’s not Derek’s money she’s spending.

He smiles softly to himself. He should have been doing this from the beginning. But better late than never, and this…this feels like a good start. He picks up his phone to order pizza, feeling they will all be here for a while.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

“Ok. Ok. What if we try something else.” Danny suggests, turning the book his reading around so Stiles can see, “What about boiling water?”

“I have a kettle for that.” Stiles grumbles, looking over the page and skimming the spell’s instructions. The book is old, with handwritten scribbles, the previous owner making notes and adjustments. Stiles wants to add his own notes about how magic is stupid and never works.

He’s exhausted. It’s been almost a week since they went to the Argents. He still doesn’t know how to feel about the whole situation. On the one hand, Allison and Chris don’t appear to have anything to do with Stiles’ kidnapping. On the other Stiles now has no new leads to search for Erica and Boyd. 

Danny has mostly kept him company by watching movies or playing video games. But today, Danny decided they had waited long enough for Stiles’ magic to recuperate and that they should test some things out from the books Linda had provided.

That resulted in them going to the nearby nursery. Where Stiles bought a bunch of young plants with a portion of the money he had saved from tutoring last semester. Or rather wasted a portion of the money. Because the plan had been to try a few spells to get the plants to grow quicker. Instead, they had withered and died. Now his living room is covered with dead plants and books.

“Oh, come on. Just try it.” Danny urgers. He’s sitting on the floor across from Stiles, the coffee table between them. He nudges the book closer so Stiles can see. 

Stiles sighs but agrees, and Danny rises to fetch a mug of water from the kitchen. He returns, settling the mug in front of Stiles and retaking his seat. He shuffles closer to the table and looks at Stiles expectantly.

At least one of them is having fun.

Stiles sighs again. Cups his hands around the mug and whispers the words from the page. Nothing happens.

Stiles groans. Leaning back to rest on the couch behind him and covering his face with his hands. “I told you. It’s useless. I’m useless. Magic sucks. You should just leave. We aren’t getting anywhere.”

“Don’t say that. No one said magic would be easy,” Danny scolds, “it’s my job to help you. I’m like your Yoda.”

That prompts Stiles to drop his hands and lean forward with a small smile, “You like Star Wars?”

“Yeah, man,” Danny grins, “now come on. Maybe we are doing it wrong. Linda said you could use spells, but you didn’t have to. That you just needed to will it. Maybe try like…believing it will work?” Danny suggests.

Stiles sits up straighter, pulling on the sleeves of a shirt he pilfered from his dad, “Believe…like with the mountain ash.”

“Uh…” Danny starts, head tilting, looking at Stiles in confusion. He has the sleeves of his hoodie bunched up at his elbows and is running his hands along his jean-covered thighs. “Wanna explain, buddy?”

“So, you know how I said I surrounded the warehouse in mountain ash?” Stiles asks; when Danny nods, he continues, “Well, I had like fifty feet left to cover and only a handful of ash left. But Deaton had said for it to work, I needed to believe, and I did and covered the whole fifty feet with just a handful.”

“Woah.” Danny exclaims, grinning again, “And that was before your magic really manifested, so maybe you just need to try that again,” he pushes the books away, “ok. Ok. Grab the mug. Close your eyes. And just like…believe the water is boiling. Imagine it.”

Stiles smiles slightly at Danny’s enthusiasm but does as instructed. He grips the mug. Eyes closed. And visualises it. Imagines the mug heating and the water boiling inside. It takes a few moments, but the mug between his hands begins to heat up.

“Holy fuck.” Danny exclaims, and Stiles opens his eyes.

The water is boiling. Actually boiling. Bubbles forming, and the mug is hot between Stiles’ hands. He lets go, and the water settles.

“Holy shit.” Stiles jumps to his feet, pointing at the mug, “Holy shit. Did you see that?”

Danny jumps to his feet too. “Fuck yeah, I did. That was awesome.” They are both grinning like idiots. Stiles is practically jumping up and down.

“Wait. Wait. Try with the plants.” Danny encourages, pointing to a withering, dead pot of basil, “Forget the spell. Just like imagine it’s growing and thriving.”

Stiles does. He extends a hand over the pot of basil. He doesn’t close his eyes this time but imagines the leaves unfurling and returning to their bright green colour. Pictures in his mind the stems growing up and taller, the leaves growing bigger and rounded. The feeling that Stiles is beginning to associate with his magic stirs, swirling in his gut, and the plant does exactly what he imagined it would. Growing to twice the size it had been when they first purchased it that morning. The small vines that are yet to grow leaves reaching out for Stiles and curling around his fingers as though trying to get as close to Stiles and his magic as possible.

His grin grows impossibly wide, gently uncurling the vines from his fingers without breaking them. When free, he turns to look at Danny and finds a matching grin on the other teen’s face.

“Woah,” Danny exclaims, smile falling into shock before Stiles can ask what’s wrong. Danny is cupping his face with his hands, moving his head from side to side and staring at him intently.

“Uh…Wanna explain what’s going on?” Stiles asks as he lets himself be manhandled by the other teen.

“Your eyes change colour when you do that,” Danny tells him, dropping his hands.

“Change colour?” Stiles questions, bringing a hand up to his face before aborting the movement and letting it fall.

“Yeah,” Danny nods enthusiastically, gesturing at his own eyes, “they like went all gold and kind of like glowed.”

“Huh,” Stiles replies, unsure what to do with that knowledge, wondering if his eyes looked different to those that beta werewolves have or if it is the same kind of gold.

“This is so awesome.” Danny gushes, moving on from his shock. He slings an arm around Stiles’ shoulder and grins again as he looks down at the plant, “It’s like twice the size now. This is insane. Think of all the stuff you can do with this. Holy shit, I should take you around to my grandma’s house and get you to fix her rose garden. She’s been depressed about it for months.”

Stiles laughs, “hell yeah. I could grow a weed farm. We could sell it at school for extra money.”

Danny turns to him, half amused, half horrified.

“I’m joking,” Stiles assures him, smile still wide. “I mean…unless you want to. Because I am so down if you are down. Weed sells well; just think of all the stuff we could afford. And I mean, really, when you think about it, it’s an abuse of my magic to not follow through on this idea, letting that potential go to waste.”

Danny laughs, pushing Stiles away, opening his mouth to retort, but he’s cut off by the doorbell ringing. They pause, looking at each other apprehensively.

“Are you expecting someone?” Danny asks.

Stiles shakes his head, “No.”

Stiles has no idea who it could be. One of the wolves doing Derek’s bidding now that Stiles has stopped replying to their messages, most likely. Or is Lydia getting fed up with the short replies Stiles has been giving her? He has only been doing that because he knows she’ll knock down his door if he doesn’t reply at all. Or maybe…maybe it’s Gerard or one of his men. Having figured out that he got away, how he got away. Maybe they are coming back to take Stiles again and, this time, keep him because his magic makes him useful now. Now he has some value in being alive.

Suddenly it’s hard to breathe. All Stiles can see is a dark basement and blood. So much blood.

“Hey. Hey. It’s ok,” Danny soothes, moving in close again, reaching out to rub up and down Stiles’ arm, avoiding his still raw and tender back, “we don’t have to answer it. They will go away eventually.”

Stiles nods, trying to move past the tightness in his chest. Biting his lip, hoping the pain will ground him in reality.

“You’re ok,” Danny affirms, “I’m right here. Nothing’s going to happen, ok? I got your back. Just breathe with me, Stiles, ok? Just breathe with me.” Danny starts making exaggerated breaths, and Stiles copies to the best of his ability.

Slowly his breathing comes back to him. His panic slowing, it’s not a full attack, thanks to Danny, but it’s a near thing. He breathes in shakily, “Thanks Danny.”

“Anytime man,” Danny smiles back at him, but his eyes hold a wealth of concern.

Stiles smiles shakily back. God, he feels pathetic. It’s just the doorbell. If someone was coming to kill or kidnap him, they wouldn’t exactly give him a warning first.

The doorbell rings again, but they make no move to answer it.

“We’ll just ignore it. It’s probably not important,” Danny tells him.

Then whoever it is starts pounding on the door.

“Not important, huh?” Stiles asks, moving towards the door; almost panic attack or not, this person clearly isn’t leaving anytime soon.

Stiles has just entered the hall when the person resorts to shouting.

“Stiles! It’s Scott.” Scott calls, “Open up man. I know you are home. The Jeeps out the front.”

Stiles sighs. Just Scott.

“See, told you,” Danny says, grinning, “not important.”

Stiles huffs a laugh but moves to open the door.

Scott stands in worn jeans and a T-shirt, one hand in his pocket, one raised as if to bang on the door again. When he sees Stiles, he lowers his hand. “Hey man,” Scott greets.

“Hey,” Stiles replies, leaning against the door frame. Danny stands behind him, watching from the hall. Stiles doesn’t move to let Scott inside, but Scott doesn’t seem to notice, “What are you doing here?”

Scott sighs, shoulders slumping, whole body drooping as though the world’s weight has settled on his shoulders. “Allison left. She’s gone to France for the summer.”

Seriously? This is why Scott’s pounding on his door. Because his not girlfriend left for the summer. “Yeah, man, I know,” Stiles tells him, frustrated, “she told me.”

Scott’s head snaps up, and he steps forward, looking desperate. “You have spoken to her?”

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms, unmoving, “I went to see her. Wanted to know if she had anything to do with Erica and Boyd going missing.”

Scott’s eyebrows furrow. It only makes Scott look adorably confused like a puppy; Stiles would laugh if he wasn’t still so upset. Still so angry at Scott for not even realising he had been kidnapped in the first place.

“What are you talking about?” Scott asks.

“Erica and Boyd,” Stiles repeats, “you know they are missing, right? Gerard kidnapped them. Allison helped her psycho Grandpa catch them.” His voice gets sharper with each word.

Scott shakes his head, “Allison wouldn’t do that,” He says adamantly.

Stiles’ mouth falls open, and he stares at Scott dumbfounded, “She literally admitted it man.”

“No, she wouldn’t have done that; she’s not like that,” Scott insists.

“Fucking hell, you’re dense,” Danny says from behind Stiles.

Scott whips his head up, looking past Stiles to Danny behind him, “Danny?” He asks, confused, before looking back to Stiles, scolding, “You told him? What the hell, man! You can’t just tell anyone this stuff.”

For the second time, Stiles is surprised by how others can overlook Danny. First, Chris and Allison the other day, and now Scott. Although, at least with Chris and Allison, they had been preoccupied and human. Scott should have been able to sniff Danny out the moment he arrived. 

Danny pushes forward, opening the door wider to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with Stiles, “Hey,” he says defensively, “I figured it out. You are always talking so loudly and openly it’s a wonder the whole ass school doesn’t know.” Scott looks indignant; Danny continues before he can be interrupted, “Not to mention you are the worst wolf in history if you didn’t already know I was here based on enhanced senses alone.”

Something warm stirs in Stiles’ chest as he watches Danny defend him. Scott seems to be at a loss for words, opening and closing his mouth as he stares at Danny. Stiles decides it is time to ask the question that has been buzzing in his head for days, “What did you do to Derek Scott?”

Scott snaps his eyes to meet Stiles’ “What?” He asks.

“At the warehouse,” Stiles elaborates, “What was the plan for Gerard? Derek was so angry at me because he thought I was involved, but I have no idea what was going on other than you needing Lydia there; I’ve never seen him like that. I haven’t seen him since.”

“Why do you care?” Scott asks him, eyebrows pulling together and head tilting again. Stiles only finds the gesture annoying now, even though it was once endearing. “Derek’s a dick. You have said so yourself a hundred times. He’s a horrible Alpha, and so much of this crap we are in is because of him.”

Stiles’ mouth falls open. It hits him suddenly that this is what he has wanted. All those months ago. For Scott to listen to him when he said Derek was bad news. But Scott hadn’t. Scott had continued to trust Derek when Stiles didn’t. And now…now Stiles trusts Derek, but Scott refuses to.

Because the stupid thing is Stiles still trusts Derek. Sure, he is absolutely furious at him for kicking him out of the pack. Thoroughly convinced that the man only tolerated Stiles for Scott. So hurt and upset that Derek didn’t notice Stiles had been kidnapped or bleeding out and in pain straight away. That, yeah, maybe the understanding Stiles thought they had was one-sided on Stiles’ part. But if it came down to it and Stiles’ life was in the older man’s hands, Stiles knows Derek would do everything he could to save him. Sure, he might not choose Stiles over his pack or even Stiles over Scott. But Stiles knows with a hundred per cent certainty that Derek would not let Stiles die if he could do something about it.

Stiles wonders when exactly it changed. When he went from begging Scott to let the older man die to trusting him with his life. Sometime between Derek protecting him from Peter and Stiles holding Derek up in a swimming pool for three hours, perhaps.

Scott is still staring at him dumbfounded when Stiles gets his bearing, pulling away from his thoughts, “He has saved our lives. Saved your life. More than once.” Stiles says sternly, voice raising, “Since when are you the one who doesn’t care? You were the one always saying we needed his help.” Stiles pauses to take a breath, and something occurs to him that he paid little attention to the other day at the Argents because he was too focused on his own panic. Allison had said Derek killed her mum, not bit, but killed. She didn’t know. “And did you not tell Allison what happened with her mum? How Derek bit her saving your wolfy ass. Because when I spoke to her, it seemed like she had no idea.”

“No, of course, I didn’t tell her.” Scott snaps back, ignoring everything Stiles said, “She deserves to remember her mother as she was. Not as someone who tried to kill me.”

“Are you kidding me?” Stiles asks him incredulously, “If you had just told her the truth - which is what she deserves to hear, by the way – then she probably wouldn’t have gone after Erica and Boyd or shot Isaac full of arrows. Not to mention Derek saved your ass; he already has enough guilt for biting Victoria; he doesn’t deserve to be considered a murderer again. You are the one who kept saying we should trust him. What happened to that?” Stiles throws at him, angry that Scott isn’t even listening to half of what Stiles says.

“Since when did you have such a boner for the guy?” Scott throws back, voice also rising; Stiles flushes angrily at the insinuation, “Clearly, I was wrong about him. The guy has a talent for getting us all into shitty situations; we are better off without him. This is exactly why I didn’t tell you the plan; you have more loyalty for him than me these days.” Scott accuses.

“We?” Stiles shouts at him, laughing bitterly. Danny watches the exchange with an uncomfortable look on his face, head looking back and forth between Scott and Stiles as he follows the conversation. “There hasn’t been a ‘we’ for months. And it has nothing to do with Derek Hale and my loyalty. And everything to do with your newfound popularity and girlfriend and forgetting about me, your best friend, because you’re so self-absorbed. And whatever this grand plan was that you couldn’t possibly share with me, it must have been stupid because Derek looked utterly betrayed by it, Scott. And I think you knew it was stupid, and that’s why you didn’t tell me, not some bullshit about loyalty but because I would have told you how bad an idea it was because your plans always suck.” Stiles bursts out angrily. He takes a deep breath, letting Danny rub comforting circles on his arm and lowers his voice before his neighbours come out to see what the fuss is about, and tries to reason with his supposed best friend, “He was really hurt, man. He was trying to act angry, but he was really hurt. He was showing actual emotion and shit. Derek never does that. He just gives murder eyebrows. Whatever your plan was, it hurt him, and now he’s upset with me for it.”

“He will get over it,” Scott huffs petulantly.

Stiles feels the rage resurface and surprisingly feels his magic swirl in his stomach in response; he balls his hands into fists at his side. “Leave.” He demands.

Scott’s mouth drops open as his eyes widen, and he takes a step back at the venom in Stiles’ words. “W...what?” He stutters out, looking at Stiles in shock.

“You need to get your head out of your ass and start looking at what is happening around you rather than just focusing on Allison,” Stiles tells him sternly, the words pouring out before he can truly consider them. Still, it feels like the frustration has been building for a long while and that the basement and Scott’s apparent disregard for Derek are just the straw that broke the camel’s back. “The hunters are the enemy here. Gerard is the enemy. Not Derek.” He continues, voice like steel, and he’s ridiculously proud of himself that he doesn’t shake or stutter one bit, “And you are going to need Derek if you don’t want to be running around all feral omega and killing people because I am sure as hell not going to be the one person holding you back after all this shit that I have been dealing with. I have saved your ass so many times, and you don’t even recognise it. Me. I am the skinny, defenceless human who doesn’t have claws and super strength to protect myself. Derek’s tried to help you. I know he has. Maybe you should be a bit more appreciative of that. Talk to me when you have grown up and can think about others and not just yourself.” Before Scott can find the words to reply, Stiles pulls Danny away from the door and slams it in Scott’s face.

Stiles stands staring at the closed door, one hand squeezing Danny’s bicep, breathing heavily until he hears Scott turn around and leave. He drops Danny’s arm and walks to the kitchen window, watching  Scott walk back down the drive and toward his own house.

“You ok?” Danny asks, having followed him into the kitchen, “You aren’t going to tell him what happened with the agents?” He asks hesitantly.

Stiles shakes his head, “he doesn’t deserve to know. Not until he can look outside himself.”

Danny nods understandingly and swiftly changes the subject. “You want to go back to practising your magic?”

Stiles nods. This is one of the many reasons Stiles loves Danny. His focus shifts to his Jeep in the driveway and the claw marks still on the bonnet. His dad had seen the damage a few days ago and looked at Stiles suspiciously but has yet to mention it. An idea pops into his head. He looks at Danny, shaking the tension from the argument out of his shoulders and grinning.

“Do you think I can magic those claw marks out my car if I wish hard enough for it?” He asks, wiggling his fingers in Danny’s face.

Danny smiles, “Maybe…but I think you should try to do the rest of the plants first. Maybe we can try the Jeep out tomorrow?”

“Sounds perfect.” Stiles agrees, returning to the living room and the dead plants, “wanna watch Star Wars while I…” He gestures vaguely to the withering plants.

Danny grins, pulling out his phone. “I’ll order pizza.”

Stiles grins back, moving his hand to a very sad-looking rosemary bush. Fight with Scott, all but forgotten for the time being.

They spend the rest of the day watching Star Wars as Stiles grows the rest of the plants. Stopping occasionally to eat and rest. When his dad gets home, he questions why their kitchen is suddenly a greenhouse for herbs. Stiles just smiles and proclaims he wants to start up his mother’s garden again. He can’t even bring himself to feel guilty about the half-truth between his own joy at his success and his dad’s small but genuine smile.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Three weeks pass without incident, and Stiles is surprised by the peace.

Stiles and Danny mostly spend them at Stiles’ house, practising magic, checking on his injuries, and unsuccessfully looking for Erica and Boyd. They haven’t found anything new, and it’s starting to dishearten them a little, but Stiles will keep trying until he finds the wolves. His injuries are doing better; they have mostly healed now. The magic runes help the process. Danny had to help Stiles remove the stitches, and judging by the look Danny had on his face, the experience wasn’t pleasant, but Stiles likes to think it made them closer.

Now as Stiles stands in front of his bathroom mirror, water still clinging to him after his shower, he can see the scars and the smattering of bruises on his hips. The wound across his hip has healed to an ugly red scar, jagged and raised. The same goes for the one on his chest, red and ugly next to the sleek black lines of his tattoos. The one on his arm is slightly better and less offensive to look at, the scar a dull pink and almost fully healed. The scars on his wrists are just that, scars, slightly pink but otherwise looking as though they have been there for years. He doesn’t even bother looking at his back, knowing all he will find is a mess of flesh, ugly raised scars and dark bruises that refuse to fade. Stiles knows the scars won’t completely fade, but as long as they heal, he can’t bring himself to care. The runes have already made them far easier to look at than they would have been otherwise; the healing process definitely accelerated. It’s not like he ever changed in front of anyone anyways, and he’d have to hide the tattoos now too, so it’s not like he’ll be taking his shirt off for anyone soon.

This is a shame all on its own because, without Stiles’ notice, he has changed in the past year. All the running for his life has made him fitter and leaner. His shoulders have broadened, and his face has lost the roundness of childhood, all sharp edges and high cheekbones like his mother had been. He hasn’t got a magical six-pack like the wolves, but his mole-covered stomach and chest are toned. Sure, he knew that he’d grown taller and shaped up during the school year, but he was used to slouching and hiding behind layers of flannel, so it was easy to forget just how much he had changed. Not that he’ll be letting anyone see any of that now. 

Stiles sighs, drying himself before pulling on a pair of mostly clean jeans and shrugging on another pilfered shirt from his dad’s wardrobe. He will need to go shopping before the start of the school year; he can’t keep borrowing his dad’s shirts to make up for his lack of plaid. But for now, Stiles doesn’t care; there are weeks of summer holidays left, and he’s in no rush. 

His phone chirps on the nightstand, and he reaches for it, a text from Allison waiting for him. That is something else that has changed in the last three weeks. Stiles has spoken to Allison more since she’s been in France than he ever did when she was back home. And Scott hasn’t been mentioned once. She’s been sticking to her promise, trying to help Stiles find Erica and Boyd, however unsuccessfully. 

Allison Argent 9:07 am 

Dad’s talked with the other hunters. If they went after Erica and Boyd after we let them out, they aren’t telling us. They say they all left town after Gerard did; hard to tell where their loyalties lie, though. They seem the kind to go anywhere for the paycheck and not care about the code.

Outgoing To Allison Argent 9:08 am 

Fuck

That means no new leads

Idk where else to look

Allison Argent 9:09 am

Dad’s putting together a list of warehouses Gerard had his men scope out. It’s possible they might be keeping them there, but who knows. At least it’s something. I’ll send it through when he’s done.

How are you feeling?

Stiles pauses. How is he feeling? She has been asking that a lot lately. Even though he can get away with lying to her about what has happened because she can’t hear his heartbeat, she doesn’t seem convinced by the story Sties has fed her of being beaten up by some of the members of the other team for being too much of a loudmouth.

Outgoing To Allison Argent 9:12 am 

I’m just peachy; I haven’t even got bruises anymore. 

That’s a blatant lie, but she doesn’t need to know that.

Outgoing To Allison Argent 9:15 am

But thanks

You know, for asking

Allison Argent 9:15 am

Anytime Stiles x

I’ll get you that list as soon as I can

Stiles types out his thanks and slips his phone back into his pocket, heading downstairs to make breakfast. He only feels mildly guilty about not telling Allison about her mum and the whole story, he was really hoping Scott would have, but Stiles won’t be holding his breath waiting for Scott to take accountability. It’s not that Stiles doesn’t want to tell her. He knows she needs to know the full story no matter how much it will hurt. It’s more that he doesn’t want to be insensitive about it. It feels more like an in-person kind of conversation or at least a Skype call. He doesn’t want to just text her the details and leave her with the fallout. Especially when she’s only got her dad around to comfort her, and considering Stiles is pretty sure Chris was at least partially involved in Victoria’s death, he doesn’t think it’s the best idea to drop that bomb on Allison now. When she comes back home, Stiles promises he’ll tell her.

The house is blissfully empty as he walks to the kitchen. His dad is back on day shifts, which saves Stiles from explaining why he has become a little agoraphobic. He waves a hand, willing the coffee pot to start, and it does. He grins widely; of all the magic he’s been practising, that by far is the most useful and most abused thing he has learnt.

The more he uses his magic, the more he is ok with using it, and the more it seems ok with him. At first, anything bigger than growing plants and boiling water made him pass out; now, he can do many of the simple things the books mentioned. Mostly useless little things, like getting his pens to fly over to him from across the room or switching the lights on and off with a thought. Once he summoned a ball of flame before promptly passing out and setting his couch on fire momentarily, Danny has since forbidden any kind of fire magic indoors, and his dad has yet to notice. So far, one of the more valuable things has been creating balls of light just to float in the room and light it up. 

Deaton, it turns out, had been shockingly helpful, not intentionally, because the man still is and always will be a cryptic piece of shit, but the original advice he had given Stiles about belief has stuck. Mostly he just has to will hard enough, and things work out if he can picture it vividly and doesn’t lose focus.

Stiles hasn’t been able to do anything like he did that first night, no lightning - unless the sparks that fly from his fingertips after a rough nightmare count -  and he has been actively trying to bury and forget the whole experience; it’s been working for the most part. But the more magic he does, the more it…grows isn’t the right word; more like it reveals itself to him. Like a never-ending well inside of him, Stiles has no idea where it begins or ends, it curls in his gut, tucked between his bones, and he has no idea how he lived without the feeling before. 

It is as though he was breathing with a piece of fabric covering his mouth, and now someone has removed it, and he can breathe freely for the first time. Like he was seeing the world through a pane of foggy glass, and it’s been shattered, he can finally see clearly. Everything feels brighter, sharper, and more…alive. He hasn’t got heightened senses or super strength like the wolves. Doesn’t feel like he’s suddenly…more. He just feels as though he is comfortable in his own skin for the first time…ever. It’s a surreal sensation. 

The coffee pot is done, so Stiles moves forward to grab himself a mug while he puts some bread in the toaster. Once he’s poured two cups of coffee, he frowns down at the pot. For while he can start the pot with a wave of his hand, he hasn’t quite figured out the clean-up part yet. He closes his eyes, waving a hand, picturing the filter clean. He opens an eye to check, and…nothing. Sighing, he does it manually. 

“Stupid magic,” Stiles mutters to himself as he butters the toast. 

He is just sitting down, a slice of toast half hanging out his mouth, when the doorbell rings. He rolls his eyes and stands to answer it. His anxiety over answering the door has lessened each day with a lot of help from Danny. 

Stiles isn’t surprised to find Danny at his door, waving the other boy in as he continues munching his toast. Danny sits across from him as Stiles settles back at the kitchen table. Danny’s own plate of toast and coffee sitting there waiting for him.

“So,” Stiles says as he pauses eating to gulp down some caffeine, “I thought we didn’t have anything planned for today?”

Danny grins, raising an eyebrow as he drinks from his own mug, “No, we didn’t. But you were expecting me anyway.”

“Duh,” Stiles jokes, so at ease with the other teen now that the banter comes naturally, “you are kinda clingy. I don’t think I could get rid of you if I tried, half expecting you to move in any minute.”

“Please,” Danny jests, rolling his eyes. “I am definitely not the clingy one here; you probably already have the spare room made up for me.”

Stiles feels his ears warming. Because, ok, yes, maybe he had his dad move the piles of boxes out of there and changed the sheets in case Danny wanted to stay the night. Because Danny said his house got dark and lonely when his parents aren’t home, which Stiles has learnt is far too often.

Danny grins, and this time, when he rolls his eyes, it’s done so fondly, “You are such a dork,” He tells Stiles as he finishes his toast, rising to put his dishes in the sink. 

Stiles finishes his coffee before protesting, “Hey, at least I don’t cry over movies!” He cries indignantly, rising with his own dishes. 

Danny turns, pointing a finger at him, “The Notebook is a sad movie, ok? I am more concerned that you didn’t cry, you monster.”

Stiles laughs at him, “Ok. Ok. Seriously though, what are we doing today?”

Danny grins, moving to start washing up, but Stiles waves him off, filling up the sink before picturing the dishes washing, then drying and floating themselves back into the cupboard. It works for the most part; he gets the two mugs and one of the plates clean, dried, and put away before the other plate falls to the floor and smashes. 

Stiles and Danny look at each other, cringing at the noise before Stiles shrugs and waves a hand, and the shattered pieces disappear entirely. Stiles has had a lot of practice with that particular move. 

“Where’s it go when you do that?” Danny asks him, looking at the floor where the smashed plate had been. 

“Eh, outside into the trash. If I put it in the kitchen bin, Dad would question why I’ve become clumsier than usual.” Stiles tells him. 

Danny nods in understanding, and Stiles notices for the first time that Danny isn’t in his usual Jeans and T-shirt attire but instead in workout gear; at Stiles’ raised eyebrow, Danny grins. “That’s what we are doing today,” He tells Stiles, but it clears up exactly nothing; when Danny sees his confusion, he continues, “We are going to Lacrosse practice.”

“What?” Stiles asks him, confused, tilting his head to the side.

Danny’s grin widens, “ok, so in the off-season, some of the guys get together to practice. Just like to prepare for the lacrosse year and tryouts, some of them aren’t even on the team; they just want to practice for tryouts.”

“Huh,” Stiles says, only growing more confused, “How long has this been happening? I’ve never heard of it.”

Danny’s grin turns sympathetic, “Yeah, it happens every year; I just don’t think anyone told you or Scott about it because…well…”

“We were losers?” Stiles supplies, raising his eyebrows.

Danny blushes, “Uh yeah…because of that. But hey, plus side is Scott doesn’t need to go now anyway because, you know, slave to the moon and all. And Jackson never shows anyway because he’s too good for everyone. So, you are coming…with me. Plus, you won us the match last semester, so the guys definitely want to hang with you.”

“Right,” Stiles says, nodding as he makes his way upstairs to change. Danny follows after him. “Who goes to these things anyways?”

“Well, Nathan, Lucas, Mark and Brian will be there,” Danny tells him, and Stiles nods, recognising the names of his teammates from last year, “Then a few other guys who wanna try out that heard about it from one of them. And then me and you.”

“No Greenburg?” Stiles asks, pulling his dad’s shirt over his head and discarding it on the floor; Danny has seen his bare chest so often in the past few weeks that Stiles can’t bring himself to feel subconscious. 

“Nah,” Danny replies as Stiles tugs off his jeans, leaving him in only his underwear. “He’s never invited because of…well, the same reason you and Scott never are.”

“Wow, rude.” Stiles says as he struggles into a pair of gym shorts, stumbling over his own feet; he turns to look at Danny, “I am nowhere near as bad as Greenburg. I’m funny, I’m smart, I’m cool.”

Danny rolls his eyes, “Yeah, you look so cool right now.”

“Shut up,” Stiles replies, pulling a plaid-less shirt that had survived his fiery rage over his head. 

Danny snickers, “Where’s your lacrosse gear?”

“Still in the back of the Jeep,” Stiles tells him, pulling on some running shoes, “I haven’t touched any of it since…well…you know.”

“Are you going to be ok to do this?” Danny asks, his attention suddenly entirely on Stiles, “I didn’t even think about…all that; I just thought it would be fun for us to do some normal teenage shit for a while; you seemed like you were getting stressed.”

It’s so thoughtful that Stiles’ heart breaks a little. Because yeah, he has been stressed. Not knowing where Erica or Boyd could be but knowing it can’t be anywhere good has been eating him up. And as much as he tries to put the night of the basement behind him, he can’t. He hasn’t slept properly in weeks. He wakes up screaming most nights, and there are dark bruises under his eyes. He tries to forget, wants to forget, and does a decent job of it during the day, but at night? At night it all comes back to him. One day. One day to feel like a normal teenager again, hanging out with some classmates and playing a game he loves? Yeah, he wants that.

He smiles at Danny and reaches out to grab the other teen’s arm, squeezing slightly, “Thanks, man,” he tells him, “really, thanks. I’ll be good. It sounds fun.”

Danny’s grin is blinding, and Stiles wonders for the hundredth time how he and Danny were not friends sooner. 

***

Stiles throws the ball to Danny. Sidesteps an approaching Mark, turning until he is behind the other teen. Danny outmanoeuvres Lucas and throws the ball back to Stiles. Stiles catches it deftly, spinning around Anthony and sending the ball sailing towards the goals, where Brian fails to catch it. Stiles scores. 

Danny cheers, dropping his lacrosse stick to run over to Stiles for a fist pump, which is eagerly returned. Nathan and Sebastian join them, shaking Stiles’ shoulders as they cheer. He flinches a little at the contact but manages to pull away subtly.

“That’s five to three,” Nathan boasts to the others, “we win.”

They are on the lacrosse pitch at school, abandoned for the summer, but the field is free for use, and they are playing a mock game. They have set up goals and have all got their equipment out, Brain somehow bribing Coach into letting them use everything they needed from the locker room for the summer. Stiles himself hadn’t set foot in the locker room, far too soon to be facing that but seeing as Danny and Stiles had shown up late and geared up, he hadn’t needed to, which Stiles thinks had been Danny’s plan all along. It is Mark, Lucas, Anthony, and Brian versus Nathan, Sebastian, Danny and Stiles. The first to five goals wins. And Stiles’ team has won both rounds so far.

“Yeah, yeah,” Brian mutters, hands on his knees while he catches his breath.

They have been at it for hours and are all sweaty and slightly exhausted. They had first warmed up before practising shooting, then defence and finally, two mock games. Stiles feels beat. He wants nothing more than to go home, shower and nap. But Danny was right; it has been fun. And the guys are all super friendly and enthusiastic to hang with Stiles, joking and laughing with him during warm-up and helping him out with his defence. On top of Nathan, Lucas, Mark, and Brian are some sophomores, Anthony and Sebastian, and they are pretty cool and half-decent at the game, hoping to make the team after the summer. Stiles finds that without Scott holding him back, without werewolf superpowers on the field, and with Danny’s help and pointers, he is actually good at the game. And he is loving it. 

“Ok, ok, I’m done,” Mark announces, falling backwards to lie on the ground, “I’m exhausted.”

“Tired of losing already?” Stiles snarks, even as he leans heavily on Danny, the other teen sensing his fatigue. 

Mark shoots him a grin from beneath his helmet even as he lies sprawled out on the grass; he huffs, “Yeah, next time I’m on your team Stiles.”

Stiles grins back.

“Come on,” Lucas says, reaching a hand down to pull Mark to his feet, “let’s call it a day and head to the diner. We can get burgers and thick shakes and try not to think about all the drills Coach will put us through when the school year starts.”

They all groan at the reminder but begin to pack up. When the other guys start to make their way over to their cars, Danny and Stiles hang back. Mark turns.

“You guys aren’t coming?” He asks, tilting his head back to where the others are piling into their vehicles, preparing to head to the diner. 

Danny takes one look at Stiles and says, “Nah, we have some stuff to take care of.”

Stiles shoots Danny a grateful smile because he doesn’t know how much longer he can stand. He is so bone-deep tired. Magic runes or not, he is still healing. 

Mark nods understandingly, “ok, cool, but next time yeah?”

Stiles and Danny nod in return.

“Practice same time next week?” Mark confirms, and this time he is looking right at Stiles. And oh…he is looking right at Stiles. Confirming with Stiles. Making sure that Stiles understands that he is not only welcomed but wanted. Not as Danny’s plus one. Not to fill out numbers. But wanted as Stiles.

Stiles grins, “Yeah, man. Same time next week.”

Mark grins back before waving them off and hopping into a car with Brian. 

When the guys have driven down the road and out of sight, Danny turns to him, grinning. “Good idea?” He asks Stiles, shaking his shoulder a little. Danny’s touch never unsettles him.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, grin still in place, “really good idea.”

“You know,” Danny says conversationally as they pick up their gear and head to the Jeep, “you are really fast.”

Stiles huffs a laugh because, yeah, that’s true, “running for your life just about every week will do that to a guy.”

“Stiles,” Danny says seriously, holding his hand out to stop Stiles before he can move to the driver’s side, “I’m serious. You are really good at this. With practice, you could definitely make a first line, and you could play on the field. Why haven’t you before?”

Stiles is guessing Danny doesn’t count the fluke that was last season and Stiles’ accidental making of the first line. Stiles shrugs, “I don’t know, man. I mean, I’m not entirely joking; the running has definitely helped my stamina, and the whole werewolf thing has improved my reflexes. But…well, before everything, I didn’t really see the point in trying hard for the first line because Scott was on the bench, so why would I want to play without him, you know? And then Scott got all furry, and I sort of didn’t have the time to try, even if I wanted to be on the field. I just never trained outside of practice before,” He answers truthfully. 

Danny shakes his head, mouth pressing to a thin line, but he talks before Stiles can ask what’s wrong, “That changes now, man. You clearly like the game, yeah?” Stiles nods. Danny continues, “You are good, but you are going to be great. We will practice all summer, and you will make first line, not as a bench warmer but as an actual, regular player, yeah?”

Stiles is grinning again, and really he has to stop doing that. His cheeks are starting to hurt, but he nods, saying, “hell yeah, man. I can’t wait.”

Danny drops his arm, smiling back at him, and they both keep moving forward, scrambling into the Jeep and throwing their stuff into the back. They are halfway to Stiles’ house when Danny speaks up again, “We should go for runs too, help keep our stamina up.”

Stiles looks at him suspiciously, “In the woods? I thought you stopped doing that?”

“I have,” Danny reassures him, moving over to knock their shoulders together, “but with you by my side, nothing bad will happen; I trust you, man,” he says confidently, and Stiles has that warm feeling in his chest again. “Besides, if we run through the preserve, it will give us a chance to check things out and see if anything shady is going on.”

Stiles tilts his head to the side, humming in agreement because it does make sense.

“Your magic thought Erica and Boyd were out there, right? Maybe we should be listening to that.” Danny adds.

And again, Stiles hums, “You have a point,” he says.

Danny grins again, and Stiles wonders if his cheeks hurt from it too, “I always do.”

Just as Stiles pulls up at an intersection, his phone buzzes. He picks it up, ignoring the disapproving look from Danny - the Jeep is stationary anyways - and sees a new text from Allison with a list of warehouses. He grins.

“What’s that?” Danny asks, squinting at Stiles in confusion.

“This Danny boy is a list of new leads,” Stiles replies, moving into the intersection. 

Chapter Text

Derek P.O.V.

The loft is full. Five and a half weeks and Lydia had managed to furnish the place almost effortlessly; Derek didn’t even try to argue with her when she brought in bags of fluffy bamboo towels and overpriced soap for the bathrooms or when she came back from a shopping trip with cast-iron cookware and fancy tea towels Derek thought were way too flashy.

Lydia brought beds for each bedroom, overpriced luxuriously comfortable mattresses, sleek dresses, and bedside tables. It was almost overwhelming, but after the first week, Derek felt…safe. He hasn’t felt safe since New York and Laura, in their two-bedroom flat and with him halfway through an architecture degree and feeling not happy but almost content. He never likes using the wealth of money he inherited from his family or the insurance money from the fire, but if it benefitted the Pack, and helped them feel safe like Derek is beginning to feel, then he doesn’t mind so much.

The kitchen has been decked out with appliances Derek will certainly never use, and there’s a sleek black fridge now filled with food and comfortable kitchen stools for the breakfast bar. At one end of the loft is a large dining table with more comfortable chairs, all sleek and monochromatic because the one thing Derek had insisted on was no bright colours. Towards the back by the large windows is a large desk and office chair for – “Whatever it is you do all day.” And the windows now had large, grey curtains.

The old sofa had been thrown out and replaced with two four-seater navy blue velvet sofas arranged in an L-shape, one facing the loft door and the other facing the TV. Derek wants to hate them, but they are ridiculously plush and comfortable, and the teens love them, which makes hating them hard. The rest of the living area has been furnished with black bookshelves, filled with the remains of the Hale library and all the new tomes his uncle has acquired. There is a matching black coffee table, a fluffy grey rug and a ridiculously large entertainment system with a far too big TV and too many gaming consoles. He has no idea how Isaac persuaded Lydia to get an Xbox, a Wii and a PlayStation.

That is where the three teens are now. Isaac, Jackson, and Lydia are seated on one of the sofas playing Mario Kart. He pretends he has no clue what the game is and refuses to participate. But Derek is lying; if he did play, they would see a different side of him, and it wouldn’t be very Alpha-like. Instead, he leans against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and scowling because old habits die hard.

That is something else that has changed in the past five and a half weeks. Isaac has moved in, and Jackson and Lydia have been at the loft at least five times a week. The teens seem just as desperate for a proper pack as Derek is. And he’s been trying. God, Derek’s been trying. They meet on Fridays for movie night, and even Peter reluctantly joins in sulking on the stairwell. Derek has been keeping them informed on what little news he has of the Alpha pack. He’s been taking them to the old Hale house twice weekly to train the wolves and teach Lydia self-defence. He doesn’t take his uncle to those. Lydia is still uncomfortable around him, which Derek completely understands because he feels it too. But even Peter has been trying to be less of a creep. Derek doesn’t know if the crazy died with him, and he certainly doesn’t trust the man, but it’s almost as if Peter wants to see Derek succeed at this whole Pack thing.

The teens bicker as they play, making Derek feel warm inside, but the loft is still missing something…someone. Derek wants to pretend that he doesn’t know, but he knows exactly who is missing; the same person has been running through his mind far too often in the past weeks.

“Hey!” Jackson cries indignant, reaching over to try and elbow Isaac, who is on the other side of Lydia; Lydia huffs, moving to the edge of her seat to avoid them. “Do you just blue-shell me?” Jackson asks, head looking at the screen to Isaac and then back to the screen. 

Isaac moves away, eyes still locked on the screen, “That’s what you deserve, don’t act like you don’t play dirty.”

“That’s not fair!” Jackson splutters.

“This is how the game works, Jackson; it’s a race for a reason,” 

Isaac replies eyes focused intently on the screen.

Derek’s eyes move from the teens to the TV to find Jackson has fallen from first to fifth place, and Isaac has overtaken into first. Lydia is in third, but she has a red shell, and Derek doesn’t think Isaac will be in first for long because Lydia is ruthless.

Derek is proven right when Lydia fires her red shell hitting Isaac. She speeds past him and second place and then into first and across the line, effectively winning the race.

“Woo!” She cheers, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear but looking as immaculate as ever, “Sorry boys, I win again.”

Jackson and Isaac grumble, and Derek wonders how long it will take them to figure out that Lydia relies on them to fight each other while playing for her to come out on top.

Isaac gets up to switch the game off and queue up a movie, so Derek takes his chance to ask, “Have any of you heard from Stiles?”

All three teens groan; even Lydia and Derek would be offended if he hadn’t been asking the same question for weeks and long ago lost the ability to be subtle about it.

“I’ve told you a hundred times, man,” Jackson complains, dropping the controller on the coffee table and leaning back into the sofa, “He stopped replying to me.”

“Me too.” Isaac pipes up, “Whose turn is it to pick the movie?”

“Lydia’s.” Derek replies, and the girl stands, clapping her hands together before going to pick a movie; Derek turns back to Jackson, “Are you sure he wasn’t hurt?”

Jackson sighs, turning to look at Derek over the back of the sofa, “Again, he smelt ok, no blood.”

Derek’s shoulders slump as he tries to believe Jackson’s words.

“You should really just go talk to him, man,” Jackson tells him.

Derek glares at him.

Jackson sighs again, turning back to look at the screen, “Oh, come on, Lydia.” He cries.

Lydia turns back to him with an innocent smile, “What?” She asks sweetly.

“The Notebook, really? You know that movie makes me cry.” Jackson says before pouting.

“Tough.” Lydia replies, walking back and sitting down daintily, “It is my turn to choose, and The Notebook is my favourite.” She looks at Derek, “Stiles has been replying to me, but very vaguely. Jackson’s right; you should go talk to him yourself.” She tells him.

Derek sighs because, really, what has his life become. He is looking to a bunch of teenagers for advice to handle another teenager; well, he’s not really looking for their advice. They are giving it almost unsolicited, but still, it’s just as bad.

“Why is he answering you and not me?” Jackson asks her, pouting again.

“Maybe because I’m not an asshole to him,” Lydia tells Jackson, looking back at him.

Isaac snorts as he falls back onto the sofa; at Lydia’s raised eyebrow, he holds his hands up in surrender and stays silent. She turns back to Jackson, who looks at her incredulously.

“You can’t be serious?” Jackson asks her, and Derek pushes off the counter to round the sofa the teens are on and sits on the arm of the other unoccupied sofa.

“Yes, I am,” Lydia replies.

“You ignored him for years,” Jackson cries, throwing his hands in the air.

“And you guys hate each other,” Lydia snaps back, “I haven’t been cruel to him.”

Isaac scoffs again, but when Lydia’s head snaps to him, he coughs to cover it. She turns back to Jackson.

“I don’t hate him now,” Jackson protests; Derek is watching the exchange with furrowed eyebrows, “Like yeah, he is kinda annoying,” Derek resists the urge to growl at his beta, “but he’s helped me out, or at least tried to, and he’s helped you out,” he says nodding to Lydia, “he’s not like…a bad guy, and it’s weird without him.”

Lydia squints at Jackson suspiciously before bluntly saying, “You bullied the crap out of him in middle school, and you still did in high school, too, up until like two months ago.”

This time Derek doesn’t hold back his growl, flashing his eyes at Jackson. The beta ducks his head in submission, and his ears start turning red from embarrassment. Isaac is glaring at Jackson too.

“Chill,” Jackson says, holding his hands up defensively, “I’m not going to do it anymore; I’m aware I was a dick. Recent events have taught me a lot. Aren’t I entitled to some character development?” Derek stops growling, satisfied that Jackson’s heart doesn’t stutter; he’s telling the truth, “Plus, he gave as good as he got most times; I only used to snark at him in middle school until he broke my nose that time; after that, he kinda just pissed me off.”

“What?” Isaac and Derek say in unison. Derek’s utterly shocked at the information.

“He’s telling the truth,” Lydia says without looking away from Jackson, “Stiles broke his nose once, but it was totally Jackson’s fault.”

“Never said it wasn’t,” Jackson sighs, “But it doesn’t matter,” he looks at Derek, “He’s Pack, right? You kicked him out, but not really. He’s still Pack. He feels like Pack.”

Derek sighs. He doesn’t want to think about what it means that the beta has picked up on that. But Jackson is right. Derek was angry, had said many things he probably shouldn’t have, and still feels so incredibly betrayed and hurt by Stiles. But the teen does still feel like Pack. And Derek hates it.

Because Stiles had betrayed him. He had devised a risky plan involving Derek’s body being used against his consent to give the bite that Stiles knows is considered sacred, considered a gift, knowing that Derek’s body has previously been used like that and he has issues with consent. He knew Derek’s history and went through with it anyway. Derek has trusted yet another person who only saw him as a means to an end and ended up screwing him over; at least this time, no one had died, except for hopefully Gerard.

And it’s so stupid. So stupid because Derek still trusts Stiles. After all that, he still trusts the teen. Sure, he is so angry at him that thinking about the situation fills him with rage. He was so hurt and angry with the teen that he would go through with the plan knowing Derek’s history. He is utterly convinced that everyone except for his father comes second to Scott in Stiles’ mind. Positive that he will screw Derek over again in a heartbeat if it means Scott will come out unscathed. That maybe their understanding was one-sided, only something Derek had believed in. But if it came down to it and Derek’s life was in the teen’s hands, Derek knows that Stiles would do everything he could to save him. Sure, he might not choose Derek over Scott or his father. But Derek knows with a hundred per cent certainty that Stiles would not let Derek die if he could do something about it. And that makes Stiles a thousand times better than Kate and the situation all the more painful.

Derek wonders when everything changed. When he went from finding the teen a nuisance and hoping Scott would just leave him behind to trusting him with his life. Maybe it was when Stiles missed his first game to go with Derek to see Peter. Or when Stiles went with him to bail Isaac out of jail. Or when Stiles held Derek up in a pool of water for three hours, the teen being the only thing between him and drowning. Or maybe an acclamation of all those things and more. Stiles has repeatedly proven himself to Derek, so despite the betrayal, he still trusts the teen and considers him Pack even though he has effectively thrown him away. Stiles might not be able to feel Pack bonds being human, but Derek could, and the one connecting him to Stiles is still there, pulled tight with tension but not snapped, unlike the ones with Erica and Boyd.

So Derek answers Jackson with a sigh, “Yeah, he’s still Pack.”

“So why did you kick him out then?” Lydia asks, arms crossed over her chest and eyes narrowed. And Derek knows she’s an asset to the Pack; she is incredibly smart, has a will of steel, and is a little terrifying, not to mention definitely something. But he could do without her psychoanalysing him.

Again, Derek sighs and wonders when he became like this; he is so tired of it all, “Gerard’s plan. Remember? We discussed all of this after.”

“Yeah, in your burnt-down family mansion,” Jackson mutters but shuts up when Derek levels him with a glare.

“You didn’t kick Scott out.” Lydia points out.

Technically he did. “Do you see Scott here?” Derek snarks back.

“No. But you didn’t confront him.”

“I told Stiles he wasn’t welcome,” Derek says, gritting his teeth. It’s mostly because he didn’t want to go anywhere near Scott. Could still feel Scott’s hand on the back of his neck, pushing him towards Gerard and forcing him to bite down.

“Yes, but you didn’t say shit to him. You just left. With Stiles, you blew up. With Stiles, you said a lot.” She pushes, and Derek really wishes she would drop it because he is already beating himself up enough about how he handled the whole situation. And she’s been pushing this argument for weeks; as much as she is a part of his Pack, she is incredibly adamant that Stiles has done nothing wrong and had no part in Scott’s plan.

Derek ducks his head, his ears burning like Jackson had been. All three teens’ eyes are trained on him, the movie completely forgotten, sitting frozen on the title screen.

“Yes,” Derek admits because he really has been trying to be a better Alpha these past weeks, and that means explaining himself to the teens, being honest, and admitting when he has fucked up, and this is one of those times, “I regret how I handled the situation. Like I’ve said before, I shouldn’t have been so final about the decision, and I shouldn’t have acted out of anger, and I shouldn’t have said about ninety per cent of the things I said, and I really should have noticed something was wrong, and he was hurt before I even said a word. But...I was just…angry. He betrayed…me, us...and that hurt. Still does. With Scott, he never truly felt like Pack, maybe he could have been, but there was always a level of disconnect there. But Stiles was Pack, is Pack, I don’t know. I thought Stiles and I had an understanding,” he says, stumbling over his words and probably saying more than strictly necessary.

“Wow,” Jackson says, looking torn between surprised and shocked, “you really are trying to be better at this whole Alpha thing,” Derek feels his cheeks heating, “that’s like the most words I think I have ever heard you say,” Jackson tells him, head tilting to the side.

Lydia doesn’t look satisfied with his reply, “There’s more to it than that,” she tells him, adamant, “Scott’s plan was stupid and risky. He should have told you what he was planning; it wasn’t right for him to spring it on you or paralyse you like that. But you are way too emotionally torn up about this for that to be it.”

Derek hesitates. He can’t tell them about Kate. About being fourteen and hurting over Paige and being fooled by this older, attractive, dangerous woman who acted like she loved him. Who made him do things he wasn’t comfortable with, who pulled information about his family out of him and then set his house alight with them inside. He hasn’t told anyone about it. As far as he is aware, Stiles is the only one who knows. He settles for a half-truth. Something that adds to his hurt over the situation but isn’t the main reason for it.

“The bite is a gift,” Derek explains to them, “it is considered sacred to us. Not many Alphas bite new betas without necessity. At least not the level-headed Alphas who aren’t power hungry, and when they do, they search for the right pick for their Packs, search for people who won’t abuse it and want it for reasons other than just to be more powerful, stronger,  more . It is supposed to be consensual on both sides, Alpha and possibly beta. If my family were still alive, my mother wouldn’t have bitten new betas at all. Our Pack would grow through my siblings, their partners and possible children through our cousins. Human children born to wolves can’t be given the bite from the same Alpha in their bloodline; it wouldn’t take, any human partners would be offered the bite but not required to take it, but that would be the extent of it. The bite shouldn’t be given without the consent of either party.”

Lydia’s eyes widen in understanding, and Jackson and Isaac’s mouths fall open to form an O shape.

“You bit Erica, Boyd, and me,” Isaac starts, “because we would gain things from the bite, not because we wanted power.”

Derek nods, “And I consulted you all first. I was a little manipulative, I knew teenagers would be more receptive to the idea, and normally teenagers take to the bite better than adults, but I also saw you guys. You were lonely, and you could use the bite. If it wasn’t for the Alpha Pack on its way, I probably would have spent longer going over my decision, talking to you all more, making sure you all got along and going over the risks better and such. But I was a little desperate; a lone Alpha without a Pack is no better than an Omega.”

“Oh,” Jackson says, eyes wide; he smells distressed, “I blackmailed you for it,” he snaps his head up, playing with his hands in his lap. The smell of distress flares before becoming something fouler, self-hatred Derek thinks. Jackson shakes his head back and forth, eyes wide and pleading, “I’m so sorry. I am a dick. I shouldn’t have done that. I…I didn’t know…I-”

Derek nods and cuts him off, “It’s ok, it worked out in the end,” he shrugs his shoulders, “It was part of the reason I was ok with killing you when you were the Kanima.” He admits softly, a little ashamed, “So let’s just count us as even.”

Jackson and Isaac nod. “Make sense,” Jackson says; he doesn’t sound offended by it, but he still smells distressed and guilty.

“It doesn’t matter now anyways,” Derek reassures him, “It’s ok, really.”

Jackson nods.

“I didn’t consent to the bite, and I am still alive,” Lydia says, changing the subject slightly, eyebrows scrunched together.

“But you’re not a wolf either,” Derek tells her. He elaborates, “You can be turned without consent. Scott was too. But the bite is supposed to be gifted; not many go against that rule. The only reason Peter did is that he was insane; I don’t know if that’s changed now that he’s back. It’s more likely to take if both parties consent to it,” Derek explains, thinking of Paige and her blood on his hands, of her begging him to kill her because the pain was too much to bear.

Lydia is still squinting at him, looking him up and down in a way that Derek has come to learn means she doesn’t believe him, not fully at least. “That’s not all of it, though,” She says, apparently deciding she will call him out, “that’s not the only reason you’re so angry.”

“I had to bite the head of a family of hunters who murdered my family without my consent,” Derek points out, voice gruff “That reason enough to be angry.”

“Yes, it is,” Lydia agrees easily, “and now I understand the whole picture, I agree you have a right to be angry and hurt. Scott is an idiot, and I’m sorry it happened. I thought he was wrong before. Now I know why you felt so betrayed by him. I’m assuming Scott knew?” she says sincerely, eyebrows lifted in question.

“I told him at the beginning, yes, explained a few times actually, but I don’t think he was ever really listening,” Derek admits.

Lydia nods and continues, “But there’s also more to it than that, and I still don’t think Stiles was involved in the plan. You should just go talk to him.”

Derek sighs, tired of having this argument; he opens his mouth to start it back up again but pauses. Because, in the end, they are right. Derek knows they are right; he should just talk to Stiles. But it’s too soon, the wound is too raw, and he can’t face that conversation yet, can’t face Stiles confirming all of Derek’s fears, can’t face hearing that Derek isn’t as important to Stiles as Stiles is as important to him. It would hurt too much. And he can’t reveal to the Pack why yet, why it hurts so much. Not now, maybe not ever. He can’t stand to reveal the truth, see the distrust in their eyes, and see how they look at him differently.

The thing is, they also haven’t seen Stiles. They have been here almost daily, but Derek knows they haven’t seen the other teen. Derek hasn’t forbidden them from it and hasn’t Alpha ordered them to stay away far from it. Yet the teens haven’t seen Stiles, not since Jackson first went weeks ago.

So instead of having another circular argument with Lydia, he turns the conversation a different way, “Why haven’t you guys gone to see him?” He’s curious but also knows the change will derail Lydia’s attempts to get the truth out of him.

Lydia narrows her eyes at him, “this isn’t about us; it’s about you,” she tries.

“I’m curious; humour me,” Derek retorts, “I haven’t told you all to stay away, so why have you?”

Jackson looks to the floor, and Isaac looks away to the windows, both avoiding his gaze.

Jackson answers first, “he’s ignoring us, man; like I said, he doesn’t even reply to my texts. I don’t think he wants to see us, especially not me, after everything. We were civil the last few times I saw him, sure, but as Lydia so lovingly pointed out, I was an asshole to him for years. I thought I’d just wait till you sorted your shit out with each other or give him some space until school starts, you know.”

Derek nods.

Isaac speaks next, eyes still on the windows, watching the trees of the preserve sway in the breeze. “I don’t know, honestly. The same sort of thing as with Jackson, I guess. He doesn’t seem to want to hear from us. I thought I’d give him some space. He has Danny, apparently and Scott. I figured if he wanted to talk about it, he would, but pestering him doesn’t seem the way to go. And… I’m really pissed with Scott about what he did to you, that he didn’t tell any of us the plan; I thought…we were closer than that, better friends, but he didn’t say anything about it. Scott and Stiles are a packaged deal, and yeah, I like Stiles and want him around, but I don’t think I could handle Scott right now. And if Stiles really did come up with that plan…I don’t know if it’s complicated…It doesn’t feel right.” Isaac sighs, finally looking at Derek. The teen seems torn and tired. 

Derek understands that. Jackson reaches out, throwing his arm across the back of the sofa and squeezing Isaac’s shoulder, the other teen relaxes under the contact, and it causes Derek to smile slightly. Seeing the wolves embrace their tactile nature tentatively has been nice, especially when Isaac, who used to flinch away from all contact, embraces it. It reminds Derek of his family. They never had any personal space. All hugs, casual touches, and reminders of Pack and family, constantly around each other. Derek’s Pack aren’t there yet, but one day Derek truly believes they will be. Seeing the betas rely on each other for physical reassurance and comfort, not just Derek… it’s proving to Derek that he can do this, he can lead, he can be a better Alpha.

He looks at Lydia, sitting between the others, and she’s staring right back at Derek. He raises an eyebrow.

She huffs, “You are changing the subject because you don’t want to answer my question. That’s unfair. I am the only one he’s texting back.”

“But you haven’t gone to see him either. Don’t you think it’s hypocritical to say I should?”

“No,” Lydia protests, rolling her eyes, “because you have things to talk out, to  apologise  for.”

“Come on, Lydia, what do you want from me here?” Derek asks, frustrated, “I can’t talk to him about it, just…not yet; I don’t want to see Scott either at the moment.”

“So just go see him then. You act as if they are joined at the hip; I can assure you they are not; contrary to popular belief, they spend time apart.”

“You first. Go see him, and maybe I will,” Derek counters, he’s being petty, but it’s starting to get frustrating again; they have been over this. Why can’t she just let it go?

“No.” Lydia snaps back, glaring at him; the boys on either side of her flinch at the tone, but Derek doesn’t back down.

“Why?”

“Because I can’t,” Lydia blurts, knocking Jackson’s arm away from her and glaring at the three of them in turn, “I’m scared. I’m scared, ok? Happy?”

Derek pauses; he sniffs at the air and smells the frustration, fear, and sadness rolling off her. He didn’t intend to upset her; he had only wanted her to drop the subject. He opens his mouth to apologise but can’t get the words out; he looks to Jackson, but the teen looks just as confused as Derek feels.

“Lydia,” Jackson starts, reaching out for her hand, but Lydia bats in away, standing and beginning to pace; Derek and the two boys watch her, stunned into silence.

They wait, not saying a word, listening to her heels clicking against the concrete.

After a few minutes, she starts to talk, still pacing, running her hands up and down her thighs anxiously, “I’m scared, ok. I was awful to him, and I only ever went to him when I could gain something for it, even though I knew he was always looking out for me. So maybe I’m worried he’ll be mad at me and refuse to talk, and maybe that’s why I didn’t go instead of Jackson all those weeks ago. He doesn’t answer you two,” she flings an arm out to gesture at Isaac and Jackson, “barely answers my texts; I can’t stand him not answering at all; I need those stupid, vague replies; I can’t handle radio silence. And I knew he was hurt; I saw him in the car and in the warehouse, and I asked him, and he just brushed me off. I didn’t even try to argue with him. God, did you see his face? It looked like he had the crap beaten out of him, and I should have pushed. I should have refused to leave with you guys and made sure he was ok. But I was selfish; I still am being selfish. I was worried about Jackson and wanted to know how I fit into all of this. Now we have a Pack, and I finally feel like I can be myself around people, and I don’t want to lose that. And I don’t want to lose the illusion that Stiles might be a part of that soon. And I stand to lose that if I go and see him, and he throws me out. I can’t handle that.” She looks up at him, tears in her eyes.

Derek opens his mouth to apologise, to tell her he understands because he feels the same, that if he has to talk it all out with Stiles, he might lose him entirely. But before he can, he hears footsteps echoing up the stairs. 

Derek tilts his head listening, scenting the air, and catching Peter’s scent. Not unusual as his uncle has moved into the small apartment below the loft because Derek wants to keep as close an eye on the man as possible to make sure he isn’t still deranged. But the pace at which Peter is acceding the stairs is alarming. And from the sounds of it, he isn’t heading for his studio apartment on the floor below but rather for Derek’s loft.

Derek rises, looking at the door in front of him. Moments later, Peter throws it open, and he looks panicked. Derek sniffs the air again, and he can smell the preserve on Peter, which makes sense because the man said he was going for a run a few hours ago. But he can also smell blood. Stiles’ blood.

Derek is on Peter in seconds, pushing him against the wall, fangs coming out and eyes flashing, but he hasn’t fully shifted yet. Jackson and Isaac are also growling behind him; Derek doesn’t know if it’s just because Derek is or because they have also picked up on the blood being Stiles’. Maybe a mix of both.

“What did you do?” Derek growls in Peters’s face, gripping the man’s shoulders tightly.

Peter ducks his head in submission to Derek’s eyes but answers him, and his heartbeat doesn’t skip with a lie, “I didn’t do anything, but I found this in the preserve.” He holds up some buddled fabric that Derek hadn’t noticed before.

Derek releases him to grab at the fabric. It’s covered in blood. Stiles’ blood. And it has been torn to shreds, and other scents are intertwined with it.

“What’s going on?” Lydia questions from behind him as Derek tries to understand what he’s looking at.

“It smells like Stiles’ blood,” Jackson mutters to her; the words are slurred as if said around fangs, but Derek doesn’t turn to check.

Derek’s eyes widen; it was hard at first to tell what the fabric was originally. It has been so thoroughly shredded by claws, but it’s Stiles’ hoodie, his red hoodie that he once joked with Derek made him look like Little Red amongst the Big Bad wolves.

His eyes flash red again as he identifies the other scents. Alpha’s. More than one.

He turns back to Peter, panic squeezing at his heart, urgently asking, “Do the Alpha’s have Stiles?”

Peter shakes his head, eyes wide, and shutters out, “I don’t know.”

And that freaks Derek out more than anything. Because his uncle looks shaken, and he never looks shaken. Derek feels his wolf whining inside him, but he doesn’t know what to do. Does he go out looking for the teen? He wouldn’t even know where to start. Alphas can hide their scent even from another Alpha. He might find it here on the hoodie because they deliberately wanted to taunt him, but he wouldn’t be able to track them if they didn’t want him to.

Behind him, Jackson and Isaac start to whine as if sensing his distress, and Derek snaps back to himself. It’s not just him anymore. He has a Pack and needs to act like the Alpha for their sake and for Stiles’.

“Ok,” Derek breathes, and it comes out shaky. He tries again, firmer, “Ok. We are going to sit down, and you will explain exactly what happened.” He looks to Peter, flashing his eyes so the older wolf understands that this is an order, not a request.

Peter bows his head in submission and walks over to the sofas. Derek closes the loft door before turning to look at his betas. Isaac and Jackson are fully wolfed out, standing protectively in front of Lydia, who has her hands clenched together and eyes wide and teary. All three of them smell distressed. Derek closes his eyes and takes a deep breath forcing his heart to settle and teeth to recede.

He flashes Alpha red eyes at the betas when he opens them again. “Calm down. Sit down.” He orders them.

They do. Claws and teeth receding, eyes turning back to their human colours. They sit back on the sofa, pulling Lydia with them. Jackson and Isaac sit on either side of her, squashing her between them even though the sofa has plenty of room to spread out. They watch Peter warily as he sits on the other sofa. Derek remains standing opposite Peter, keeping the teens in sight should he need to jump to defend them from the man.

“Explain,” Derek growls, crossing his arms across his chest, still clutching the hoodie. He tries to keep his heart rate calm, to keep breathing and thinking clearly. To not let his mind run away from him because of  Stiles. Stiles. Stiles.

Peter sighs, ducking his head to look at his clasped hands in his lap, “I went for a run. I wanted to clear my head. About an hour in, I thought I smelt the boy, and I thought it probably wasn’t a good idea for him to be running around the woods. But when I got closer, all I could smell was blood and then the Alpha’s. I tried to follow their scent, but it led me in circles, and then I found that” Peter looked up, nodding towards the scraps of the hoodie; he locked his eyes with Derek, “I swear I didn’t touch him. I don’t want to hurt him.” Peter says sincerely, again his heart doesn’t skip, “I think maybe the Alpha’s picked up the scent of Pack on him. They might see a human Pack member as an easy target,” Peter theorises. “But smell it. Properly. The blood is weeks old. If they have him, it’s been for a while.”

Derek inhales again, sniffing at the hoodie. Peter’s right. Once he’s over the panic of Stiles and blood, he can smell that it’s old. The hoodie isn’t even damp. Mostly just stained and crusted with old blood. Derek calms slightly. The Alphas can’t have Stiles because the blood is weeks old. Unless…Unless Derek has been avoiding the teen, not going to check on him like he should have. Unless Stiles had been taken by the Alpha’s and Derek didn’t even notice.

He turns to his Betas and Lydia. “You said he stopped replying to you,” he says to Jackson and Isaac, “when did he do that?”

“Umm,” Jackson ducks his head, brows scrunching as he thinks. Eventually, he looks up, horrified. “Weeks ago,” He admits. Isaac nods along shakily.

Fuck. Derek looks to Lydia, “But he’s been replying to you?”

Lydia shakes her head slightly, tears in her eyes that she’s refusing to let fall, but she looks and smells terrified. “Very vaguely, maybe one- or two-word answers, easily faked.”

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“The Sheriff would notice if he was missing,” Jackson insists, “he would have the whole force out looking for Stiles.”

Isaac nods along frantically, “Yeah, he would have state police out even.”

Derek believes them, but he is not taking chances with the evidence of Stiles’ blood-covered hoodie in his hands.

Derek pulls out his phone, refusing to drop the hoodie from his other hand. He rings Stiles’ number, but it is immediately disconnected.

“Fuck,” He curses aloud. He looks up at the terrified teens and then to Peter, who’s still shaken. Maybe his uncle isn’t lying, but he still doesn’t want him around his beta’s or Lydia. His uncle hasn’t earned the title of Pack yet; he’s barely Pack adjacent, even if Derek allows him to live in the same building. “Go to your apartment,” he orders the older wolf, flashing his eyes at him, satisfied when Peter bares his neck in submission. “Do not leave unless hunters or alphas are literally at your door, do you understand?”

Peter nods before he stands and leaves the loft; Derek hears him close the door behind himself. It doesn’t comfort Derek. Usually, his uncle would snark at him about not trusting him, maybe a sarcastic response about how worried Derek is and how unsubtle he’s being. Peter’s easy compliance does nothing but fill Derek with concern.

Derek turns to the three teens; they are all looking at him with wide eyes. He moves forward, reaching out to cup the back of Jackson’s neck in one hand and Isaac’s in the other, squeezing gently and scent-marking them briefly before he drops his hands and reaches for his phone again. The boys relax from his touch, squeezing closer to Lydia in between them and taking comfort in each other and the scent of Pack.

He calls Scott.

The first call rings out. As does the second. Derek runs a hand through his hair in frustration and redials.

“Hello?” Scott says, finally answering.

“Is Stiles with you?” Derek rushes out, forgoing a greeting.

“Derek?” Scott replies, sounding confused. Derek doesn’t have time for this.

“Is Stiles with you?” Derek repeats more forcefully.

“No?” Scott says, voice laced with sleep and confusion.

“When was the last time you saw him?” Derek forces out, trying to convey the urgency of the matter through his tone.

“Uh….” Scott trails off, still sounding half asleep, and it takes all of Derek’s willpower to not crush the phone out of frustration, “Is this about the warehouse? Because I spoke to Stiles, and he said I should apologise, and I think he’s overreacting, but I am sorry if I upset you man. I mean, the plan worked, but I didn’t intend-“

“Scott,” Derek grits out, interrupting the boy, frustration building from the half-arsed apology and the teen’s lack of urgency. “Where is Stiles?”

“I don’t know. I’m not his keeper,” the boy retorts, sounding irritated, “at home?”

Derek sees Lydia roll her eyes on the sofa. Isaac and Jackson both scowling at the phone.

Derek growls, “When was the last time you saw him.” Not even bothering to phrase his sentence as a question anymore.

“Uh…” Scott says again, entirely unaware of the situation at hand and unconcerned about Derek’s urgency, “Like four weeks ago, maybe? Four and a half?”

“What” Derek growls, eyes flashing as he struggles with his wolf for control.

Lydia’s head snaps up, looking at Derek with wide worried eyes. Jackson shoots to his feet, growling at the phone and presumably the boy on the other side. Isaac shakes his head repeatedly, hands clenched tightly in his lap.

“Yeah,” Scott continues unaffected, “He’s not talking to me at the moment because-“

Derek hangs up, cutting the teen off, barely hearing his reply.

Shoving his phone into his back pocket, he looks at the teens before him. “Don’t leave. Lock the door behind me. Don’t let Peter in. Call me if you need me.”

“Where are you going?” Jackson asks, still standing as Derek rushes towards the door, “Why aren’t we coming with you?”

“To Stiles’ house,” Derek answers, pulling on his leather jacket. “If he’s not there, we look for the Alpha’s. But stay here for now. I don’t want to raise suspicion if they are watching his house.”

And with that, Derek’s out the door, running down the steps two at any time, bloodied hoodie still clutched in one hand, hoping that the teen is fine and has just forgotten to charge his phone.

Chapter Text

Derek P.O.V.

Climbing through Stiles’ window is easy. Derek’s done it far too many times. Knows precisely what footholds to use to get up to the first-story roof and how to open the window so it doesn’t squeak or make a sound.

He hears the familiar beat of Stiles’ heart before his feet even touch the ground. He could hear it outside, which was the only reason Derek didn’t rush in fully shifted. Derek thinks he could pick up Stiles’ heartbeat in any crowd; he is so attuned to it.

He pulls himself through the window, and then Derek’s standing in the bedroom, inhaling the familiar scent whilst looking around frantically for the figure of the teen, only the light of the bedside lamp to go by, not that a lack of light would deter him with werewolf senses. Derek’s eyes first go to the bed, expecting the teen to be asleep considering the early hour, but the bed is made and doesn’t look slept in.

Derek finds him. Stiles slumped over on his desk in front of his laptop, pen still in hand and drooling over notes. There are papers strewn around the whole room. When Derek glances, some of them aren’t even written in English. Stiles is wearing a grey hoodie and flannel pyjama pants, face smooshed against the paper. He looks so peaceful, so at ease, that Derek’s heart stutters a little.

Some tension eases off Derek’s frame, and he takes a deep breath. He is fine. Stiles is fine. Derek makes to move further into the room when Stiles jerks awake, the swivel chair spinning slightly as his arms flail, sending the pen flying towards Derek and hitting him square in the chest. The teen takes in his messy notes and laptop, dark from inactivity, before he turns, presumably for the pen, before finding Derek by the window instead.

“Holy fuck!” Stiles cries, heart rate skyrocketing, arms flailing again as he recoils from shock, almost knocking the chair over before he manages to catch himself on the edge of his desk, “How the hell are you here?”

Derek looks pointedly at the window.

Stiles scoffs, “of course.”

Derek moves forward, sitting on Stiles’ bed so he can face the teen, bunching the ruined fabric of the hoodie between his hands. Stiles follows him with his eyes, lips pressed together in a hard line, shoulders tense.

“No, please, let yourself right in. Take a seat. Get nice and comfy. Nice to see you; how have you been? Seen any good movies lately?” Stiles snarks, levelling Derek with a glare that has the older man wincing.

Derek suddenly finds words difficult. It’s something that often happens around Stiles, but it’s okay because Stiles, as usual, has enough words for them both.

“What, wolf got your tongue?” Stiles asks scathingly.

Derek opens his mouth but closes it again without saying anything. He can’t think of anything beyond that Stiles is here, safe, not being tortured by the Alpha Pack. Derek tries to remember that he is mad at Stiles and shouldn’t trust him…but can’t manage it. It’s a lame excuse, holding onto his anger so he doesn’t have to address why it hurts so much. And there’s still the matter of Stiles having apparently run around the preserve bleeding everywhere to address. But more than that, after not seeing Stiles for weeks, Derek wants to revel in the comfort seeing the teen brings him. It’s as though Derek didn’t realise how reassuring he found Stiles’ presence until he wasn’t around anymore.

Yet while seeing Stiles has a calming effect on Derek, his body getting looser and heart rate slowing with each passing second, his wolf calming down from its earlier panic, Derek’s presence seems to have the opposite effect on Stiles. The teen sits stiffly, wound tightly like a coil. Derek remembers he’s not the only one hurting, not the only one who’s upset.

“You’re not here to tell me you have some Edward Cullen thing going on where you like to watch me sleep, are you?” Stiles asks, sounding only half joking, breaking Derek out of his thoughts.

Derek shakes his head, arching an unimpressed eyebrow but silently amused all the same. He is still struggling to believe that Stiles is safe. It takes a concentrated effort for Derek to keep his hands tangled in the red hoodie and not reach out for the teen; his hands shake with the amount of restraint. Worried that Derek will look away at any moment and Stiles will disappear. Stiles is here, and Stiles is safe, and Stiles smells…different.

“Why are you here, Derek?” Stiles sighs before Derek can question it further before Derek can muster the words to say anything at all.

“Found this,” Derek grunts, holding the ruined hoodie up. He’s here to find out what happened and why Peter found Stiles’ blood-soaked hoodie. His feelings don’t matter here.

Stiles looks at it for a second, eyes narrowed in the dim light of the room, “You found some rags and thought you needed my opinion on them? Well, they are very nice, the colour suits you, will that be all?” Stiles finishes looking at Derek expectantly.

Derek grinds his teeth together, quickly becoming frustrated with Stiles’ lack of cooperation. “It’s yours,” he grunts, “your hoodie. The red one.”

Stiles’ eyes widen, mouth dropping open slightly, “Oh.”

“Yeah, oh,” Derek replies, levelling Stiles with a glare. Not for the first time, Derek marvels at how easily Stiles frustrates him. This teen who never seems to take anything seriously, yet would die for those he cares about in a heartbeat. Who had somehow managed to worm his way under Derek’s defences until Derek couldn’t not trust him, a feat no one had accomplished before, not so easily. Derek has trusted people in the past, trusted when he shouldn’t and paid the price for it, but trusting Stiles wasn’t even a conscious choice anymore. He still trusts the teen despite everything, still wants to trust him. And Stiles sits there completely unaware of how Derek’s emotions pull him in two, as if the teen doesn’t understand his importance in Derek’s life, in the Pack’s lives. He wants to shake the teen and shout and demand an explanation from him, but he also wants to embrace him and bury his head in Stiles’ neck and make him smell like Pack.

Stiles blinks at him but makes no attempt to explain. The teen is still sitting stiffly. One hand clutching the desk from when he had reached out to save himself from falling, the other forming a fist against his thigh, knuckles slowly turning white. Derek looks away before the urge to reach out to Stiles gets any stronger.  

“Do you want to explain to me why Peter found your hoodie torn to shreds and covered in blood out in the preserve?” Derek asks, trying to hold back a growl; he only barely manages.

Stiles scoffs, relaxing slightly, turning his chair to fully face Derek and running his hands down the length of his thighs. “It’s not covered in blood,” Stiles protests, “I barely got any blood on it.”

This time, Derek does growl, holding the tattered hoodie up to showcase the large bloodstains, “It’s covered in stains. And it reeks of your blood.”

Stiles looks it over momentarily before muttering so low that Derek wouldn’t hear him if it were not for werewolf hearing. “I honestly don’t remember bleeding that much,” he sounds unbothered as if it isn’t enough blood to suggest major injuries. As if Derek hadn’t been freaking out thinking Stiles had been kidnapped or even killed.

“Why were you bleeding in the preserve,” Derek growls at him.

“You really have to work on that whole question mark at the end of your questions thing, dude; phrasing is important,” is Stiles’ only reply.

“Stiles,” Derek grinds his teeth again, frustration building and patience rapidly dwindling if it was even there to begin with, “tell me.”

“I don’t have to tell you shit.” Stiles bites out, eyebrows drawing together in anger as he glares back at Derek, “You are not my Alpha. Remember?”

It stings, but Derek only has himself to blame. And really, he should have expected this. There is no way Stiles would be letting that go without a fight. When did Stiles ever let anything go without a fight? Derek can’t really hold it against the teen, either. He sighs, dropping the ruined hoodie on the bed beside him and looking down at his hands. “I’m sorry,” he tells the teen sincerely, “I acted out of anger and hurt. I felt betrayed and took it out on you when I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry for shouting and getting physical. I shouldn’t have been so harsh or violent, and I shouldn’t have kicked you out of the Pack. You are Pack Stiles. It just…hurts. I thought we…” thought we had an understanding…thought we were closer than that, “Yeah,” he finishes lamely, unable to voice those thoughts. He refuses to meet Stiles’ eyes. It feels like it’s the first time he’s ever apologised, even if that’s not factual; maybe it is the only apology that matters.

After a moment of silence, Derek looks up from his hands, searching for Stiles’ reply. Stiles looks shocked, clearly not used to Derek apologising, but then his face hardens. “Why bother apologising if you don’t even mean it?”

Derek blinks, confused, but then replies, tone carefully even, “Stiles…I do mean it.”

“No, you don’t,” Stiles protests, “You have never wanted me in your Pack. You always complain that I’m around, tell Scott to leave me behind, push me up against walls,” Stiles stands gesturing around with his arms and glaring down at Derek, “You only ever come here if you need me to research something or figure out the new big bad or you need someone to talk sense into Scott, which isn’t the easiest thing in the world by the way. So why pretend you want me in the Pack at all when everything you have ever done proves otherwise? It just took you kicking me out for me to realise. I’m not Pack. I never was.”

Derek’s face falls, and he looks up at Stiles. He’s really fucked this up. He knew he would have to apologise to Stiles, expected it to happen at some point, hoped they could talk the whole thing out, and Stiles could explain why he did what he did and went through with the plan. Derek could explain why he reacted so badly, and they’d hopefully call it even. Hoped they could try to work things out. Because Derek might feel hurt and might have been betrayed, but he would never be able to walk away from Stiles, never would he be able to leave without at least trying to fix it, even if he had to brood for a while, he would always come back, he can’t help himself. He knew Stiles would call him out for being the world’s worst Alpha but would appreciate that he was trying to improve. He never once expected Stiles to think he was never Pack to begin with because that is just…wrong. It completely derails Derek’s expectations for the conversation.

“Stiles…” Derek starts, watching the teen carefully. “That’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” Stiles asks him, eyebrows quirking and tone mocking.

Derek stands, anger flaring, “You know it’s not,” he growls at the teen because Stiles knows he has to know. “Maybe in the beginning, sure, but you didn’t give a shit then either. You literally had me arrested for murder.”

“Yeah, but I changed,” Stiles spits at him, stepping forward into Derek’s space, “I helped you guys out, a lot actually, and I’m just the soft, squishy human who doesn’t heal instantaneously from things, so you know it was kind of a big deal. I helped. I cared. I actually gave a shit about what happened to the Pack. What did you do?”

The past tense of Stiles’ words hits Derek almost like a physical blow. Derek stares at Stiles in shock for a few moments…and oh, this close, he can see that Stiles is nearly the same height as Derek now…when did that happen?

“Stiles…I care…you are Pack…I do care,” Derek tells him, slowly watching for any signs that Stiles might understand.

“Really?” Stiles asks sarcastically, “You have a poor way of showing it.”

Derek probably deserves that. He should take a deep breath, back down and try to talk this out rationally with the teen. Explain his side of things until they are both on the same page. That is what an Alpha would do. A good Alpha. Like Laura or his mother. But…well, there was a reason Derek’s anchor was anger for all those years.

“You know it’s not true, Stiles,” Derek breathes. They are standing inches from each other, and Derek finds himself searching Stiles’ eyes for something other than anger; he doesn’t find anything. He glares at the younger man, his voice getting rougher. “You know that’s not true. You don’t get to play this shit with me. I cared, for fucks sake. Yeah, I shouldn’t have yelled, I shouldn’t have kicked you out, but you don’t get to stand there and pretend you were never Pack to begin with when you know damn well that isn’t true.” Derek’s shouting now, heat flaring through his body. He’s so angry his hands are shaking, claws threatening to break through.

“Expect I don’t know, Derek,” Stiles shouts back, never one to back away from a fight even when the opponent is an Alpha werewolf, “When did you ever indicate that I was Pack, huh? Tell me I misinterpreted all the glaring and scowling and growling. The threats of violence? The pushing against walls and hard surfaces?”

And what does Derek even say to that? That he’s socially awkward? That he has trouble letting others in? That Goddammit Stiles, he glares and scowls and growls at everyone, so it really shouldn’t be used to measure his care for other people? That asking for help make him uncomfortable? That the only reason he came to the teen asking things of him so often was because he trusted him? That around Stiles, his wolf comes out and wants to play in a way it hasn’t done with anyone in years, and that often ends up with him manhandling the teen because he is so out of practice with those things? That he wants to be close to Stiles, physically to reach out to him and assure himself Stiles is there and won’t leave like the rest of his Pack had left him?

“Oh, come on,” Derek scoffs instead because none of that can be said aloud. “We had each other’s backs; it’s not on me that you turned around and decided to stab a knife through mine.”

Stile’s eyes go wide, and his mouth drops open; Derek clenches his jaw in response, realising he’s not helping his case, and he may as well not have bothered apologising if he was only going to shout afterwards.

“You are fucking kidding me,” Stiles exclaims, shoving at one of Derek’s shoulders; he sways slightly but doesn’t move back. “What, you can barely grunt two words that aren’t threats before, and now you are spouting poetry about being betrayed? Because news flash, buddy, you are just proving my point; you don’t believe me when I say I had nothing to do with the fucking plan, and that’s part of the problem. You don’t trust me. You don’t listen to a single word I say. That doesn’t sound like Pack to me.”

Derek pauses, still inches from Stiles. The teen’s heart didn’t skip, just like it didn’t skip that day in the warehouse when Stiles said he didn’t help with the plan. But…

“How did Scott come up with that plan without you, Stiles?” He asks, and it’s in a broken whisper that makes Derek sound pathetic, but he can’t bring himself to care. He wants…no, needs a good explanation, needs Stiles to tell him exactly how Scott could have possibly done it without him because there’s no way the boy could have done it alone. He needs Stiles to outline exactly how he didn’t betray him and where exactly he would have been if he wasn’t out helping Scott. Why he wasn’t there to help Derek if he wasn’t helping Scott.

“I don’t know,” Stiles whispers back, the anger gone now, dissipating so quickly that Derek’s head spins a little. Stiles’ eyes are pleading, begging Derek to believe him, “I don’t even know what the stupid plan was. I wasn’t even there.”

“Then where were you?” Derek pleads now, uncaring about how it sounds. He wants to believe Stiles; he does. And Derek trusts Stiles. He truly does. He perhaps stupidly trusts the teen with his life. But he just can’t bring himself to believe it. He trusted people before, and it never got him anywhere good. And maybe he is self-sabotaging like Laura always said he did when anything good came into his life. But…he needs more than an I don’t know. Even if the teen’s heart doesn’t skip, Derek knows all too well that Stiles knows how to lie to werewolves. Even if Stiles still smells like Pack…still feels like Pack…He needs more than that.

Stiles shakes his head, looking sad like he knows what he is about to say will cement Derek’s opinion, “I can’t tell you that.”

“Then I don’t believe you…” Derek breathes out, shaking his head, trying to clear his mess of thoughts. He feels like his heart is trying to beat its way out of his chest, and it hurts, god, it hurts.

Stiles deflates, frowning at Derek, his scent tinging with bitterness, “Of course you don’t,” Stiles mutters darkly, “Why would you?” The Pack bond in his chest connecting Derek to Stiles strains, and for a moment, Derek fears it might snap, but it doesn’t; it just pulls tightly enough to take Derek’s breath away momentarily.

Derek breathes in deeply when he can, taking a step back, remembering why he came here, “Why was your bloodied hoodie in the preserve, Stiles?” He asks with a sigh. He will fix this, with time, sit Scott and Stiles down, get the whole story, and hopefully begin to understand the why of it all. He refuses to believe this is unsalvageable, but for now, he just can’t; wounds take time to scab over, and if they continue arguing, Derek worries that the bond will snap and the damage will be irreversible.

“I was out running,” Stiles answers simply, looking back at Derek challengingly. Stiles isn’t done with the argument either; Derek can tell. But for now, that is the least of his worries.

Derek knows exactly what Stiles is doing. It had taken him a while to figure it out, and sometimes Stiles will still get it past him, but Stiles does this thing where he lies by omission, leaving out any of the actually important details to get away with the lie. Derek has no idea how long Stiles had been lying before he started picking up on it. Stiles isn’t even trying to be subtle about the tactic right now. Which is more worrying because that means it’s something bad enough that Stiles won’t even allude to it, won’t even let some of the details through to trick Derek. It means Stiles is adamant about keeping his secret.

“Why were you bleeding?” Derek clarifies.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him, “must have been cut by something,”

“Stiles,” Derek growls out in frustration.

“What?” Stiles asks, feigning innocence.

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not.”

Derek sighs, “Fine, then you are purposely withholding information.”

“I have a right to privacy, you know. I am not in your Pack. You are not entitled to the details.”

“I am when you are hurt,” Derek protests; he scans Stiles’ frame, searching for an injury, a reason he would be bleeding so heavily, but Stiles gives nothing away.

“I’m not hurt,” Stiles replies, sighing. Derek listens for the lie, but there’s no difference in Stiles’ baseline. Stiles must see the confusion on Derek’s face because he clarifies, “Not anymore, and nothing happened in the preserve,” his heartbeat skips, rising slightly, and Derek glares, opening his mouth to argue, but Stiles clarifies before he gets the chance, “I mean that I didn’t get those injuries in the preserve, I was already hurt when I got to the warehouse that night.”

Derek’s eyes widen, “You smelt of blood and pain…When I went to drain it…” All that blood. Not from Alpha’s but from an injury Derek already knew had occurred. An injury Derek knew hurt. An injury Derek failed to check in on because he was too busy yelling at Stiles. But Jackson said Stiles was okay when he checked on him only a day later, that there was no blood…how?

Stiles quirks an eyebrow, his features turning harsh; sarcastically, he says, “Oh, you remember that, do you? Glad to see you were so very concerned.”

Guilt sits heavy in Derek’s gut. It’s not as if Derek forgot about it; he knew something had happened to cause that amount of pain, to smell blood. It is why he’s been driving the other three teens crazy, asking them about Stiles; he knew something was wrong. But Stiles had been walking, talking, hell, he drove the Jeep through a wall. The blood on the hoodie was a severe injury, but Stiles in the warehouse didn’t act like it was. Derek just trusted that Jackson would have been able to tell when he went to check on him. Because Derek was too much of a coward to have come and done it himself. He should have checked on Stiles himself. Should have come to see him weeks ago instead of leaving it to the betas and Lydia to check up on him. Jackson clearly can’t rely on his senses yet. Derek should have come himself. Derek has acted so selfishly, too absorbed in his own pain and betrayal. He is such a bad Alpha.

Derek opens his mouth to reply but doesn’t know what to ask; after a moment, he settles on, “What happened?”

Stiles sighs, laughing slightly, but it lacks sincerity. “It’s not important, dude,”

Derek growls again, “I’d argue that it is, actually.”

Stiles moves away from him, beginning to pace, “It really isn’t. So, if that’s all, you can leave; I’m fine,” lie, “There’s no need to be worried; feel free to let yourself out, the front door is also an option,”

Derek watches Stiles pace the length of his room for a moment but doesn’t leave. It’s clear the teen has no intention of telling Derek anything or even speaking to him any longer. But Derek isn’t going to leave without finding out what happened. He needs to do something to get Stiles to look at him properly.

As Stiles turns to walk another lap of the room, Derek moves forward. He gently but firmly takes hold of one of the teen’s shoulders with one hand, the other moving to Stiles’ hip and walking them backwards until Stiles is pressed against his bedroom door.

Stiles, it seems, is too surprised to react, gaping at Derek from now inches apart. Derek’s eyes flicker downward, and he forgets himself for a moment. The teen’s full, pink lips open wide, and Derek thinks he might be losing his mind because he wants to eliminate the space between them and lick his way into the other’s mouth. It wouldn’t take much; all Derek would have to do is merely duck his head a little and take a small step forward. The teen’s tongue pokes out to trace along the bottom lip, and Derek trails it with his eyes, forgetting entirely why he came to Stiles’ house. Before losing his mind altogether and giving in to the urge, Stiles shut his mouth and clears his throat. It breaks Derek out of his spell enough to realise he has been staring at the teen.

The teen looks at him intently when Derek meets his eyes, searching the man’s face for something, but Derek doesn’t know what. He feels his ears starting to burn, turning red from the embarrassment of being caught, and guilt and shame begin to swirl in his gut. What the hell was Derek thinking? Stiles is seventeen; he can’t be feeling like this. Yet it’s an effort to hold Stiles’ gaze and not dart his eyes back to the boy’s mouth. He still has his hands on Stiles, pressed into the teen’s space, but Stiles’ body is relaxed, and he isn’t protesting, so Derek can’t bring himself to let go. He finds immense comfort in the teen being alive and here, needs the physical connection to settle himself and believe Stiles isn’t in danger. He can feel the thump of Stiles’ pulse when his thumb brushes the teen’s collarbone.

“Why do you care?” Stiles asks him eventually, voice raspy, and it does something to Derek’s insides. Derek shoves the feeling down and refuses to acknowledge it. His mind scrambles to remember why they are in this position; what was so important that Derek had pushed into the younger space like this?

“Stiles,” Derek sighs, ducking his head to look at the ground between them, unable to meet the teen’s eyes, “we are going in circles here.” Because they are, Derek can’t believe Stiles, and Stiles can’t believe Derek. That’s their problem.

Stiles’ hand comes up to grasp Derek’s jaw, and Derek’s breath hitches at the contact, but Stiles only uses it to angle Derek’s face back up so he can look into his eyes before he breaks the contact again. Derek suddenly feels cold.

“Yeah, we are,” Stiles agrees, “and that’s mostly because you refuse to listen to me and also apparently don’t understand basic privacy. But what I mean is that I’m not bleeding anymore; I’m basically all healed up, so why does it matter what happened?”

“You could be lying to me,” Derek protests, “and because I’m the Alpha. Your Alpha. You might not think you are a part of my Pack, but if there’s something out there hurting people, then I need to know.”

“I’m going to ignore the whole Pack thing because clearly, we disagree there,” Stiles sighs, and Derek growls but doesn’t argue the point; for now, Stiles is relatively calm, apparently realising Derek won’t be leaving without some answers; either that or he is so tired with Derek’s bullshit that he can’t be bothered protesting. “And it’s not something that will be after your Pack, at least not anymore. I’m pretty sure it’s been dealt with, or I definitely would have heard something by now,” Derek raises an eyebrow because that is cryptic as hell, a little concerning and barely an answer at all, but Stiles doesn’t seem to be in the mood to elaborate. “As for the lying thing, wouldn’t your super sniffer alert you to that? The blood, I mean,” Stiles asks sarcastically.

And Derek doesn’t know. Because Stiles doesn’t smell like blood or pain anymore, but since Derek entered the room, Stiles has smelt different. Not too notably. The other wolves probably wouldn’t even notice. But Derek has always been kind of obsessed with Stiles’ scent. And right now, it’s…off ever so slightly.

So, Derek does the only logical thing. He steps forward slightly and buries his face in Stiles’ neck. Immediately, the teen’s heart rate picks up, and Derek breathes in deeply to try and distinguish the difference.

“Woah…” Stiles says, breath shaky, “Not exactly what I meant, big guy,” his hand comes up to grasp Derek’s hair, slotting his fingers between the strands and pulling slightly to try and pry Derek away. It is ineffective, but Derek moves back after a second anyway, not wanting to make the teen uncomfortable.

Stiles searches his eyes when Derek moves back and then sighs, “Fine…go for it, get the weird werewolf instincts out,” he leans back, head resting against the door and baring his throat for Derek. Derek’s head spins from the change of pace, arguments left behind now as they stand in this little bubble where the outside world doesn’t matter.

The wolf inside Derek whines, but he ignores it and moves back to the teen’s neck. His nose sliding along the pale flesh of Stiles’ throat, the teen’s breath stuttering at the contact, his hand coming back up to twist in Derek’s hair, not pulling him back but sitting comfortably. For a moment, Derek has the insane urge to bite and mark Stiles’ throat with his human teeth, but he refrains, breathing deeply, searching for the change in Stiles’ scent. There is still no pain or blood, but there is something different. It takes a few minutes before Derek can pinpoint what’s changed; it is such a subtle shift. Underneath the scent of Stiles’ body wash and shampoo, the teen has always smelt of honey and cinnamon and something fresh and earthy like the preserve. Entwined with all of that had been the smell of petrichor. It was subtle, weaving between the other scents, so slight that Derek had previously blocked the scent out because the honey and cinnamon were always so overpowering. Now, though, the smell of petrichor is near too much. It shifts and moves and evades his senses, making it hard to grasp, but now that he has a hold of it, it is overwhelming.  

Derek staggers back as the full scent hits him, taking him by surprise. His grasp on Stiles falls away, and Stiles’ hand falls from his hair. Stiles looks at him quizzically, lowering his head again and eyeing the sudden space between with confusion.

“You smell different,” Derek explains.

He doesn’t expect the sudden uptick of Stiles’ heart or the way his eyes go wide; suddenly, he only smells of anxiety and stress.

Derek steps forward again, “Stiles?”

As quickly as it had started, it all stops; the teen’s heart rate evens out, the scent fades entirely, and Derek is only left more confused at the near-calculating look on the teen’s face. For a moment, Derek swears the teen’s eyes had flickered gold, but when he looks again, Stiles’ eyes are their usual intoxicating whiskey colour. Derek decides that he is undoubtedly losing his mind.

“Yeah, I’ve been trying out a new body wash. Do you like it?” Stiles asks sarcastically, breaking Derek from his thoughts. It’s not a lie; at least his heart rate doesn’t change, but Derek knows that’s not it. Sure, Stiles smells faintly of something new, almost like Armani cologne, but that’s not the change he is interested in.

He shakes his head, “That’s not it,” he tells the teen, and damn it all to hell, he wants to sit the teen down and just talk. Go through the events of the night of the warehouse one by one so there’s no question of what happened. Derek is prepared for rejection and prepared to be proven wrong if Stiles would just tell him. Because clearly, the teen is lying, clearly something is up, but Stiles refuses to let anything slip. And Derek doesn’t understand. If he was working with Scott, why was he hurt? Why isn’t he talking to the other teen, his best friend? Why is he suddenly keeping secrets? Derek thought maybe they were getting somewhere, but he had to go and ruin it by searching for that smell.

Before Derek can press the subject or ask one of the hundreds of Stiles-related questions running through his mind, Stiles changes it. “Why was my hoodie all torn up anyway?” Stiles asks, “Peter get a little too excited with the prospect of me being dead?”

That’s not right. In fact, Peter had looked more worried than Derek had seen him in years, but he doesn’t mention that. “No, he found it like that,” Derek tells the teen.

Stiles looks confused, “It was definitely in one piece when I lost it.”

Derek supposes it is his time for an explanation again; he is trying to stick to the whole honesty thing about potential threats in Beacon Hills. “There’s an Alpha Pack,” he explains, “they arrived at the beginning of summer, but they have been on their way for a while. We don’t know what they want. So far, all we have gotten is vague threats. They must have found your hoodie before Peter did because it was covered in their scent, but he couldn’t track it.”

“Hence, you came running over here. You thought they’d kidnapped me or something?” Stiles nods. He pauses for a moment before his eyes light up like they do when something new has occurred to him; when he has discovered the next piece of vital information in a mystery, he looks right at Derek, “Hey, is that who took Erica and Boyd?”

Derek’s confusion returns. He scrunches his eyebrows and slowly breaks the news to Stiles, news he thought the teen already knew, “Stiles…Erica and Boyd left weeks ago. They didn’t think I was a good Alpha; they left to join another Pack.”

Stiles’ expression turns thunderous so quickly it gives Derek whiplash, something Derek had not expected. “Are you fucking kidding me? You haven’t even been looking for them?” Stiles stalks forward, away from the wall and glares Derek down.

Derek shakes his head dumbly, thoroughly confused. “Stiles…they left. I don’t want to drag them back if they don’t want to be here.”

“You are an idiot,” The teen rages, and Derek’s starting to get a headache from the sudden changes in Stiles’ mood, “They didn’t leave. They tried to, but they were taken by hunters. By Gerard and his men.”

Derek’s eyes widen again; he looks Stiles over, the teen basically shaking with barely contained rage; he smells of righteous fury. “What?” Derek asks because that’s all he can say.

Stiles shakes his head, still glaring. “They were taken by hunters, tortured for hours, and something happened to them when they were finally let go. I have been looking for them for weeks. They were way too injured to leave town like they planned. And there have been searches for them for weeks.”

Again, Derek shakes his head, “How do you know this? How did you know they were missing?”

Stiles raises an eyebrow, looking at him incredulously and fuming. “You mean aside from the fact that it’s been all over town and they didn’t say goodbye to their families or friends, no notes or anything, so they aren’t considered runaways? I have the police scanner in my Jeep; finding them is a top priority. As for them being taken by hunters, I went to Chris Argent, and he explained how he and Allison let them go; I even checked out their basement. There was a whole lot of blood and torture devices, but not a single wolf in sight.”

Something is missing. Stiles isn’t telling Derek the whole story, and Derek thinks it might have something to do with why Stiles was hurt in the first place. Maybe he went and tried to rescue Erica and Boyd from the hunters? Maybe they were a part of Scott’s plan somehow? Scott had been working with Gerard, but he wouldn’t throw the betas to the hunter, would he? Stiles certainly wouldn’t; he might betray Derek, but he wouldn’t let the two wolves be tortured and killed. Maybe that’s why Scott and Stiles aren’t talking right now? Derek doesn’t know, but with Stiles as mad as he is, he doesn’t think he will get any more answers from the teen.

“What, nothing to say?” Stiles bites, “what have you even been doing the past few weeks?”

Derek opens his mouth, but nothing comes out. The past few weeks, he’s been bonding with the Pack. Decorating the loft, playing video games, and watching movies. He was completely unaware that two Pack members didn’t leave him but had been taken. Twice. Once by hunters. And then again, when they were weak and vulnerable, probably by the Alpha Pack. Both times, Derek should have been keeping them safe. Being a good Alpha.

“I…I didn’t know,” Derek tells Stiles, ashamed.

The teen somehow manages to glare even harder, “God, you are such a shit Alpha,” Stiles mutters, “Get the fuck out,” he says louder, pointing towards the window. Stiles’ anger is so intense Derek can feel it rolling off him in waves.

This time, Derek doesn’t argue. He staggers backwards and moves to the window. With one last look at Stiles and his angry expression, he jumps out.

He needs to get back to the loft and the Pack. Explain what happened. That Stiles is…alive, if not okay. And then start planning how to find Erica and Boyd and get them back. Their bonds had broken from him. Derek had thought it was because they had left. Now he just hopes it’s because the Alpha’s are hiding them and not because they are lying dead somewhere. A message just waiting for Derek to discover.

Only when he is running through the preserve, halfway to the loft, does he realise Stiles had effectively evaded all his questions or successfully distracted Derek from asking them again. He still doesn’t know why Stiles was bleeding and hurt or why Stiles smells different now. And to top it all off, Stiles is more pissed off at him now than before.

“Fuck,” Derek cries out, pushing his legs to go faster. He has really fucked up.

Chapter Text

Derek P.O.V

Derek spends five minutes panting in the tree line before approaching his building. Trying to calm his wolf enough to shift back and convince himself not to run back to Stiles. His claws dig into the flesh of his palms as he tries to settle himself. Eventually, when all that remains of his shift are the red eyes, he moves forward, punching in the code for the door before storming through the entrance and making his way up, taking the stairs two at a time.

“Peter!” He shouts, as he ascends, struggling to keep his fangs away, “Come out! Meet me in the loft!”

As he rounds the stairwell, his uncle bursts out his door. It’s such a quick reaction that Derek suspects the older man has spent the whole time since Derek ordered him away standing by the door to the apartment waiting for Derek to return.

His uncle joins him in his race up the stairs.

“Well,” Peter prompts as they run “is he…?”

“He’s alive. At home. No Alpha’s.” Derek grunts out, they round the next bend, and then they are in front of the loft door. Peter sags, sighing in what suspiciously sounds like relief. Derek has no idea why Peter cares so much.

Before Derek can so much as knock, there’s a lock turning and an anxious Jackson staring back at him as he pulls the door open. Lydia and Isaac hovering behind him.

“We heard you,” Jackson says, moving aside to let them in, “Is Stiles alright?”

“Everyone sit down,” Derek orders, running a hand through his hair, leaving it dishevelled.

They do as they are told. Isaac, Jackson, and Lydia claim one sofa, Lydia protectively placed between them and Peter claiming the other. Derek remains standing.

“He’s…alive.” Derek starts, looking over his Pack.

“That’s not what Jackson asked. They already heard that part.” Lydia points out, “Is he ok?”

Derek pauses, unsure how to answer, “No, not really.”

“What’s that mean?” Isaac asks, puppy eyes turned on Derek.

Derek opens his mouth but doesn’t know where to start.

“Fuck sake,” Lydia mutters, rolling her eyes, “you must have been a theatre kid with all these dramatics. Spit it out already.”

Derek tries unsuccessfully to glare her into submission at the insult before he sighs again and explains what Stiles mentioned about his injuries. How he already had them, how Derek hadn’t noticed, how they had healed now because he couldn’t smell blood or pain, but Stiles gave absolutely no details on how he got them in the first place or how he lost that much blood and was still functioning or how they had healed at all.

“So basically, you know nothing?” Lydia asks incredulously, perfect eyebrows rising. “How could you go there and come back with more questions than answers?”

“He is very evasive when he wants to be,” Derek defends, subconsciously rubbing at the back of his neck.

“You are a werewolf.” Lydia points out, unimpressed. “You can literally hear when people lie.”

“But I couldn’t smell anything. Not any blood, not any pain, not when I went to see him, and that was right after?” Jackson cuts in before Derek can reply, “I should have smelt something if he was still hurt, right? All he had was that bruise on his face and a split lip.”

Derek sighs, “You might not be in tune enough with your senses. I should have gone myself to see-“

“No!” Jackson cuts him off, “I know what I smelt. There was Stiles and Danny, and Stiles smelt like Danny. Like Danny and like irritation and like panic? But not panic, like it lingered as if he was panicked but got over it?” He looks around, eyes wide and frustrated, willing the others to understand.

Derek shakes his head in confusion, trying to settle the wolf inside of him at the mention of Stiles smelling like Danny. At the memory it surfaces of Derek’s face against Stiles’ throat, the teen’s hand in his hair, and the near unbearable urge to nip at the pale, mole-covered flesh.

It’s Lydia who answers Jackson, dragging Derek out of his own head, “Like he had a panic attack?” She sounds concerned, eyebrows furrowed, and lips pressed tight in worry.

Jackson looks to her and nods slightly, “I…guess?”

“Stiles has panic attacks?” Isaac asks, sounding equal parts curious and worried.

All eyes on Lydia, she explains, “Yes, he gets them, has for a while, I think.”

“How do you know?” Peter asks her, speaking for the first time since entering the loft.

Lydia glares him down, not at all comfortable with the man. Still, after a moment, she answers anyway, “I overheard him once when he was having one. Scott was there with him. I am more observant than you lot,” she throws a glance to Jackson and Isaac in turn, “based on how they were talking I figured it wasn’t the first time, they both seemed well versed on how to deal with one.”

The room is silent for a moment, taking in the new information. Derek wonders what sort of things trigger Stiles’ panic attacks and his anxiety. Having been with Stiles for so many stressful situations, he hasn’t seen Stiles react like that. Typically, Stiles is the plan maker. Sure, he freaks out a little, but he figures it out and pushes through. Maybe it’s after the fact that the adrenaline starts wearing off he freaks out. Maybe Derek should have checked to ensure Stiles was ok after everything went down. Maybe he should have checked up on him instead of leaving right away.

Before he can ponder his failings more, Jackson starts talking, “Well, whatever, panic attack or not, he didn’t smell like blood, and when I asked, he said he wasn’t bleeding, his heartbeat didn’t change, he wasn’t lying. He was lying about being ok, yeah, but not the blood part, and he was walking around and stuff just fine.”

There’s a pause, “maybe Mrs McCall patched him up? She is a nurse.” Isaac adds.

Lydia shakes her head, “But she would tell Stiles’ dad for sure, and Stiles wouldn’t want that.”

“Maybe he just lied to you?” Peter offers, looking around at them.

Lydia narrows her eyes, “Again, werewolves, you can hear when we lie. Jackson said his heartbeat didn’t change.”

“You can still lie to werewolves. Stiles seems to have become a master at it,” His uncle tells her. Lydia shakes her head, looking confused, so Peter continues, “There are many ways you can lie to werewolves; we only really pick up on outright lies. We know they are lying because their heart rate changes. If, say, someone has an irregular heartbeat, it’s harder to tell. Alternatively, if you are careful about what you say and how you spin it, it doesn’t register as a lie; you just need to be calm. If the person believes what they’re saying? Not a lie. Then, of course, there’s obfuscation; they purposely leave information out so what they say is technically true, or if their heart rate is going fast enough, you won’t be able to tell the difference. Stiles uses a combination of them. The number of times I’ve heard him get away with it is quite impressive really. If he really did have a panic attack, maybe his heart rate was already elevated, and you didn’t pick out the lie.”

Jackson opens his mouth, looking frustrated to retort, but Derek beats him to it.

“Wait, what?” Derek asks, looking at his uncle in shock. He knew, of course, all the ways werewolves could be lied to and experienced some of them first-hand, but he wasn’t aware Stiles knew them. “I thought he just…left things out. Not…all the other stuff. Are you telling me you knew? That he was doing this?”

“Of course, I mean, I couldn’t tell based on his heartbeat, but I know the tactics,” Peter confirms.

Derek shakes his head. The more he hears about Stiles, the more confused he becomes.

“That doesn’t change the fact that he didn’t smell like blood. I know what I smelt.” Jackson reiterates adamantly, looking around at them all.

“Well, then Danny must have helped him, or maybe even Deaton?” Lydia suggests, “I mean, it’s not like he could survive that amount of blood loss without some kind of treatment, and we know he didn’t go to the hospital, or we all would have heard about it, so someone must have patched him up.”

There’s a murmur of agreement around the room. Derek disagrees, but Peter shakes his head before he can say anything. “Of course, someone must have helped him, tended to his…injuries,” Peter starts, “but usually you can still smell something, a residue if you will, to go from injured to smelling relatively normal is…unusual to say the most. Pain and blood don’t fade unless...” Peter shakes his head, trailing off. 

The teens look confused. Derek runs a hand over his face in frustration. 

“It doesn’t explain what happened, though, and it doesn’t explain how he could lose so much blood and be up and walking like he was that night”, Derek huffs out, becoming frustrated again, “I just don’t understand. It’s just another question we don’t have the answer to.”

No one says anything momentarily. Eventually, Lydia regains her voice. Looking at Derek, she asks, “Did you two at least talk things out? The whole Scott warehouse thing?”

Derek grimaces. Apparently, she doesn’t care enough about the new information Peter has offered to forget interrogating Derek any longer. He rubs at the back of his neck again, “Not exactly…” He admits slowly, Lydia glares, “we uh…argued.”

“Oh, come on, man,” Jackson grumbles, putting his face in his hands. Isaac groans. Lydia glares harder. Even Peter looks unimpressed.

“Why?” Lydia asks him, eyebrows rising further and further towards her hairline. She looks murderous.

“Because…” he trails off, remembering the interaction, how they argued, how Derek reacted. He swears he can feel the phantom tug of Stiles’ hand in his hair…Derek wills his face to cool, “the details aren’t important,” he tells them instead.

“Oh bullshit,” Jackson cries.

Lydia opens her mouth, no doubt to press further, but Derek interrupts her, “Look, we talked, we argued, and I did find something out.”

The wolves and Lydia look at him expectantly. He hesitates. How does Derek explain Erica and Boyd to them? How does he explain his newest failing in a long and shitty list of bad Alpha decisions? Is this the moment they realise Derek really isn’t cut out for this and leave him? Will he lose a second Pack?

“Erica and Boyd didn’t leave,” He tells them, because despite his fears and anxiety, he had promised to do better, to tell them things and not leave them in the dark, and this is one of those times he needs to be honest.

“What?” Isaac asks, voice small, eyes wide.

“They didn’t leave. They were kidnapped by hunters by Gerard. Allison and Chris let them go after everything, but they have been missing since. Stiles told me he’s been looking for them,” Derek explains. The teens all open their mouths to question it, but Derek pushes forward before they get the chance, “I don’t know how he knows. He wouldn’t tell me, and he was pretty pissed off I didn’t know they were missing, but I trust he’s right about this. He thought maybe the Alpha Pack have them when I mentioned it. I think maybe he’s right.”

Again, the loft plunges into silence.

Peter’s the first one to break it, “So we can’t just wait for the Alpha’s to make their move now,” he sighs, “they have members of our Pack. We need to find the Alpha’s and bring them back.”

The teens and Derek look at Peter in shock.

“What?” The older wolf asks, looking at each of them as though they are the mad ones. He sighs, “I may have taken a quick trip to crazy-“

“Still pretty batshit, actually,” Jackson grumbles, interrupting.

“And it really sounds like it was more of a prolonged stay at insane,” Isaac agrees.

Lydia crosses her arms, raising dainty eyebrows at the older wolf, “You murdered people. Multiple. Premeditated. Murders.”

“But,” Peter says, raising his voice above theirs, glaring at the teens, “I already have lost one Pack…” he looks directly at Derek, “I won’t lose another.”

The conviction in his uncle’s voice warms something in Derek. His mind flashes back to his childhood, where his uncle was the first to volunteer to babysit Derek and his siblings, of days spent laughing and playing out in the preserve. His uncle helping Derek and his older brother with their homework. His uncle teasing Laura about boys. His uncle taking Cora out for ice cream when the kids in school were mean to her. His uncle looking after his littlest sister and younger brother and teaching them all the bad words his mother would scold them all for later. His uncle who was always so excited to start his own family. His uncle who lost all of that and his own autonomy in one singular night.

“We need a plan,” Derek nods, pulling himself out of his head, away from all the memories he had carefully boxed up before he thinks too heavily on why they don’t have that family anymore.

“Maybe we should talk to Stiles about it?” Lydia suggests, “If he’s already been looking for them, then he can help us.”

Derek hesitates again, remembering the pure rage on Stiles’ face, the fury rolling off him in waves, how he sounded more forceful than Derek has ever heard him sound when he ordered Derek to leave. “I think perhaps we should give him time to cool off,” He tells them.

“But-“Isaac starts.

“Trust me,” Derek interrupts, “you didn’t see him. I think he needs some space for now.”

“No offence or anything,” Jackson starts, in a tone that Derek knows means he does actually mean to offend. “But so far, leaving Stiles out of things and not talking to him hasn’t worked…well, it hasn’t worked at all.”

“Look,” Derek starts, sighing again, “he has made it clear he doesn’t trust us, me particularly. He doesn’t think he is Pack,” Derek rushes on as he sees the teens open their mouths to butt in, “which I know is my fault. But I think the best thing is to start looking and involve him slowly. We need to get him to trust us again. And I do mean us I’m not the only one who’s fucked up here,” he throws a pointed look a Peter. Still, he knows the teens haven’t exactly been on team Stiles in the past either, “So we start looking, then we get Stiles back in, ok?”

They all nod, looking resigned.

“What if...” Lydia starts before trailing off. Derek raises his eyebrows at her. “What if he doesn’t want anything to do with us, with the supernatural anymore? What if he just wants to find Erica and Boyd and then never talk to any of us ever again?”

Derek frowns as his wolf inside him howls and claws at the idea. He takes a deep breath before saying, “Then we let him go.”

***

Derek watches the sunrise slowly, standing on the balcony to get some air. After an hour of planning, the teens were too physically and emotionally exhausted to continue. He had sent them to bed, refusing to let Jackson drive while so tired. The teens hadn’t argued much and had slipped upstairs to sleep in a pile on Isaac’s bed, no doubt craving the physical connection after such an emotional night. If he listens, he can hear them snoring softly and their even heartbeats, all three in a deep sleep.

The door opens behind him, but Derek doesn’t turn to look as his uncle joins him at the railing, staring out into the preserve.

“Will find them,” his uncle says softly.

Derek nods, “I hope so. Even if we do. They might not stay.”

“They’ll stay,” his uncle says firmly, reaching out a hand to grasp Derek’s shoulder.

Derek turns to look at the older wolf in surprise. His uncle looks uncomfortable and refuses to meet his eyes. After a moment, his hand slips away, and he stares out at the preserve intently. Derek waits, feeling his uncle is about to say something important.

“You’re not a bad Alpha,” Peter tells him softly. Derek goes to refute him, but Peter stops him, “don’t,” he says firmly, still avoiding eye contact, “I know it might not seem like it, but you were never trained for this, and it’s my fault you’re here, after Laura,” his voice cracks and Derek struggles to remember Peter ever looking so vulnerable, “I’m sorry. For Laura, I…I didn’t want to do that, wouldn’t have if I was thinking clearly…I…” he stops takes a deep breath, “it’s my fault and I understand if you don’t forgive me for it, I don’t forgive me for it, but I am sorry. And you’re not a bad Alpha. You are doing the best you can right now, given the circumstances.”

Finally, he looks at Derek with unshed tears in his eyes, and Derek suddenly finds it hard to breathe.

“Peter I…” He stutters. Derek doesn’t know what to say. Because he can’t really blame his uncle, not after what Derek did with the fire. Not when Derek is the reason they lost all their family, and his uncle lost his mind in the first place. Derek has been the root cause of all his family’s deaths, for Paige and even for Laura. If it wasn’t for Derek, then Peter would have never lost his mind to revenge and killed her in the first place. “You don’t understand,” Derek tries again because now that he is faced with it, he can’t not tell Peter the truth, even if the older wolf tries to kill him for it.

“Understand what?” Peter asks, eyebrows drawn, confusion evident.

Derek takes a deep breath, feeling like he’s a small child again. Shaking, he says, “it’s my fault. The fire. It’s my fault.”

Understanding dawns on Peter’s face. The older wolf shakes his head, “Derek, no, it’s not your fault. It’s no one’s fault but-“

“No.” Derek cuts him off sternly, his breath stutters and he tries to swallow but finds himself unable, “I…you don’t understand. The fire…Kate…it was me. I…it was me.”

“Derek, no, it wasn’t,” Peter tries to reassure him, but it only frustrates Derek because his uncle doesn’t understand, and he doesn’t want to say the words aloud and lose his last remaining family member.

Derek hasn’t had a panic attack before, not even after the fire. He just shut down. Now he feels close to one, his breathing stutters, and he finds it increasingly difficult to draw air into his lungs. There is a knot in his stomach, and it grows tighter and tighter as he tries to explain. Desperately trying to stutter out the words as he heaves for air, “No…I…you.” The wolf inside him paces anxiously, wanting to be let out, and Derek feels himself losing control as the world around him narrows. He hasn’t had such little control of his shift since he was a teenager; his claws lengthen, and he feels his eyes flickering from their human colour to Alpha red. Unlike with the usual shift where he would feel more powerful, he instead feels a sense of panic at the lack of control, worrying that the wolf will take over entirely and he won’t be able to stop himself.

Peter’s there, a hand on his shoulder, saying something, but Derek can’t hear him. Distantly, Derek wonders if Stiles feels this when he gets panic attacks. It’s awful. Peter moves his hands to either side of Derek’s face as Derek feels his tears pool and spill over. His uncle looks panicked now, too. His mouth moves faster, but Derek still can’t hear him around the rushing of blood in his ears.

He shakes his head, unable to understand the words, but Peter continues to repeat them. Focusing on how his uncle’s mouth forms the letters takes a few minutes, but Derek slowly understands.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

The mantra his family used for years to train the pups to control their shift. The symbolism for their family crest. The triskelion he had tattooed on his back.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

Alpha. Beta. Omega.

He closes his eyes and repeats it over and over internally, unable to grasp the air to say it aloud. Slowly, his wolf calms enough to just pace anxiously inside him. The claws recede, but Derek doesn’t find breathing any easier. The panic still gripping him, the knot in his stomach still growing tight. He opens his mouth, gasping, but can’t get a word out.

Finally, Peter flashes unnatural blue eyes at him, Derek flashes red eyes back on instinct, and he can feel the Pack bonds surrounding him, connecting him to his uncle and the sleeping teens upstairs. It’s enough that the world calms, allowing him to draw in a breath to hear what the older wolf is saying now. “Breathe. Hey, just breathe. That’s it, just follow me, breathe. In and out. One after the other.”

For a few minutes, Derek forgets as he listens to his uncle’s instructions. Forgets why he is panicked. Forgets he is the Alpha. Forgets he is showing his weakness to a former enemy. For a few minutes, they are just uncle and nephew. The outside world doesn’t exist.

Eventually, Derek gets his breathing under control. The anxiety sits uncomfortably in his stomach, but he doesn’t feel like it’ll eat him alive anymore. Peter looks at him with thinly veiled concern, and Derek realises he still needs to tell him, that he still hasn’t been able to get the words out.

“Peter I…” Derek starts again, fresh tears rolling down his face, still held in his uncle’s hands.

“I know,” Peter tells him instead, moving his hands to Derek’s shoulders and squeezing them. The action would be comforting if Derek wasn’t so confused by Peter’s words.

“What?” Derek asks slowly. Never in his life has he felt so out of the loop.

“I know what happened. I know what Kate did. I found out afterwards, while I was planning…everything.” Peter tells him.

“You…know…” Derek repeats. He searches the older wolf’s eyes for any anger or resentment but finds only concern.

“It’s not your fault. I know you two were…” Peter pauses, face scrunching in disgust, and Derek waits for the blow, but it doesn’t come, “involved, but she used you.” Derek realises the disgust on his uncle’s face is aimed at Kate and not at him. “It’s not your fault. She tricked you. And you were fourteen, Derek. You were fourteen, and she was a substitute teacher for fucks sake. She was a predator, and you couldn’t have known. In no way is it your fault.”

“But-“

Peter cuts him off, voice stern, eyebrows drawn together as if daring Derek to challenge him on this, “No buts. If anything, it’s still my fault. If I hadn’t insisted that Paige be bitten, none of this would have happened. You were fourteen and grieving and vulnerable. She took advantage of you.”

Derek shakes his head back and forth in denial, unable to form the words, and Peter’s gaze softens. Derek is again reminded of that uncle from his childhood who would do anything for them.

“It’s not your fault,” Peter repeats softly, “It was never your fault. It’s hers. What she did, Derek. That’s illegal and wrong. You wouldn’t be blamed even in a court of law for what happened. No one could blame you for what happened, and they wouldn’t. Not Talia. Not your father. Not the kids. No one. I just…” Peter sighs, “I wish we would have seen what was happening. I wish we could have helped you. If I could go back and change anything, it would be that. I wish I could kill her all over again and make it slow. You didn’t deserve that, Derek, what she did to you, and you don’t deserve to carry this guilt around with you either.”

Peter doesn’t blame him. Peter thinks it’s not his fault. Derek wants to argue but doesn’t have the strength to because his uncle knows. His uncle knows, and he isn’t turning away from him in disgust but rather being angry on his behalf. Derek does something he hasn’t done in years and pulls his uncle into a hug.

They wrap their arms around each other and hold tightly. The last remaining members of their family. Too scared to let each other go. Breathing each other in like they used to when Derek was small and had no worries or responsibilities, and Peter was sane with no regrets. Derek lets the tears roll down his face freely. 

The pack bond between them has never felt so secure.

Chapter Text

Stiles' P.O.V.

Stiles stands by the window. Watching Derek’s figure retreat into the tree line. His anger is bubbling inside of him, his body flushing warm with the intensity of it, and he feels his magic rise up to the surface in response. Moving under his skin, suddenly desperate to be set free.

He holds his breath, waiting until he’s sure the wolf is out of hearing range before he reaches out. Slamming the window shut with shaking hands and latching the lock. The frame rattles from the impact.

Stiles stumbles back, breath coming quickly, and his hands start to spark. Golden flares of electricity sparking off his fingertips, flickering out before they can reach the floor.

“No. No. No. No. No.” Stiles mutters, flapping his hands to try to stop the sparks. It doesn’t work. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Stiles staggers out of his room. Blindly navigating the hallway to his bathroom in the dark. Glad his dad is on the night shift again. He doesn’t bother with the lights. Just moves forward and crawls into the bathtub. Sinking to the bottom until he is lying down, cheek pressing into the tub floor, his knees pressed up against his chest, curled into the foetal position. Stiles presses his palms into the side of the tub as they continue to spark and flare, causing dark shadows to flicker as the bathroom lights up and dims again.

He is so angry. And he really needs to get a grip on it.

“Breathe, breathe,” He mutters to himself breathlessly. Maybe he should call Danny? But he knows he won’t be able to use the phone with the electricity running off him in waves. And he’s had this happen before. When he wakes up from particularly bad nightmares, his magic responds to his panic. He just needs to breathe through it and let it pass. Before he becomes an actual fire hazard.

Lightning sparks and twists up his arms before bursting outwards. It burns, but it’s more of a sensation than a pain. Every time this has happened, he has never harmed himself. It’s not painful, the magic bursting out of him, as though it recognises that he is a part of it and it a part of him. Like one cannot harm the other. But he doesn’t doubt he could hurt anyone nearby. Like he did that night in the preserve.

“Breathe. Breathe. Stop thinking.” He instructs himself. It doesn’t help. His breath comes quicker, and his ribs feel constrictive, as though they are pushing into him. He can’t expand his lungs enough to get sufficient air. “Ninety-nine. Ninety-eight. Ninety-seven.” He counts backwards, focusing on what number comes next and keeping his breathing in time with his counting. Pushing his cheek harder against the porcelain of the tub to ground himself. Breathing in the lingering smell of Armani cologne from Danny’s hoodie. He doesn’t think of anything besides the press of his body into the tub, the rise and fall of his chest and the numbers he counts aloud.

Slowly, breathing becomes easier, and somewhere around number twenty-seven, the sparks flying from his hands calm to fizzles from his fingertips and eventually fade away altogether, bathing the room in darkness once again. He doesn’t know how long he lies in the dark. Minutes. Hours. But eventually, he pulls himself up into a sitting position. With a shaky hand outstretched, he closes his eyes and imagines a ball of light hovering in front of him. Light flickers behind his eyelids, and when he opens them, a floating ball of light hovers there, swirling and tinged blue. Stiles scoots back until he hits the back of the tub and stretches his neck back, looking at the ceiling bathed in pale light while he continues to breathe.

In the last few weeks, he has discovered his magic is not only tuned to his belief but also his emotions. It tries to lash out when he is scared or angry to protect him. Like it did that night in the preserve. Like it does when Stiles has nightmares, he often wakes up to papers strewn around his room, things knocked over, as though his magic had blown through the room while he was asleep. When panic sets in, his hands spark with electricity.

He sits up a little, looking down at his hands, turning them over to inspect them. They, as per usual, have no marks, no trace of the magic sparking through them.

“God, I’m a fucking fire hazard,” Stiles whimpers, voice raw. He reaches up to wipe at his face, surprised to find the tears there. He hadn’t even realised he’d been crying. He rests his head on his knees and breathes again, slowly rocking back and forth.

Sometimes, he worries his emotions will get the better of him. That his magic will take over, and he won’t be able to do anything about it. That he’ll burn the world down around him without even realising. Deaton’s words still hang in the back of his mind that it will consume him if he can’t control his magic. Even though Linda had been far more upfront and helpful with what she told Stiles, she still claimed that he is powerful and hadn’t denied that his magic was raw and vast.

But he is angry. So goddamn angry. At Scott for being a shitty friend. At Derek for refusing to listen to him. At Gerard and his hunters for taking Erica and Boyd. At himself for dragging Scott out into the woods to look for a dead body and starting all this. At the world for fucking with him so much. Everything is so confusing and too much, and he doesn’t understand any of it, and all he wants to do is lay down and sleep for thirty years.

Stiles heaves a deep breath in an attempt to stop himself from getting so worked up again, digging his fingernails into his legs to ground himself.

He was doing fine. Ok, maybe he has only been getting a few hours of sleep each night. And having more frequent panic attacks than he has been having in years. And most nights, he sits at his desk pouring over the books Linda had given him and then the ones he and Danny had gone and got from the next town over a week ago and only sleeps when he is so exhausted he slumps over his desk. And he still can’t look at plaid without his breath hitching, at least. He finished his summer readings in a week with his insomnia. And if his mind is idle for too long, he starts thinking about the blood he now has on his hands and how he will never be able to leave this life and town behind after everything. But he had been dealing.

Stiles was dealing. He has Danny, and they plan to go to lacrosse practice twice a week now. He has been talking to Allison and looking for Erica and Boyd. He and Danny had checked all the warehouses from Allison’s list and have been looking into different magical ways to find the two missing teens. Stiles was getting along fine without the Pack’s involvement, only having to placate Lydia occasionally so she didn’t come knocking down his door. So why did Derek have to barge in with all his contradictions and make everything more complicated and confusing?

Because he is angry with Derek. So goddamn angry and frustrated, but seeing Derek was comforting too. It’s been over a month since he last saw the Alpha in the warehouse, the longest he has gone without seeing Derek since the whole howling at the moon thing started. And seeing him was nice, except that Derek hasn’t changed. All this time Stiles has spent looking for Erica and Boyd, and Derek didn’t even know they were missing. Stiles has been busting his ass, ringing Allison daily for new information, searching through all his magic books for tracking spells or possible concealment spells placed on the wolves. And Derek just knew there was an Alpha Pack on the loose? What the hell even is an Alpha Pack? How does that even work? Derek, as per usual, is leaving people in the dark instead of actually sharing useful information. It makes Stiles want to bash his head against the wall.

Because Derek confuses him. Derek, who kicked him out of the Pack. Then apologised for it. Then refused to believe Stiles honestly had no idea about Scott’s plan. Derek who is dragging him in so many emotional directions it’s hard to keep track. One minute, he’s worried about Stiles; the next, he’s yelling about being betrayed, and then he suddenly has his face in Stiles’ neck.

Stiles hadn’t even tried to stop him. Derek had pulled away, respected the boundary, and Stiles had welcomed him back. The moment had been so charged. Like nothing existed outside of Stiles and Derek. And for a moment, Stiles truly forgot why he was angry with the older man standing so close to him. He hadn’t even panicked under Derek’s touch, entirely at ease despite how badly their last interaction had gone.

Which only leads him to the next confusing thing. Derek said Stiles smelt different and looked so shocked that he stumbled away. Linda told him that werewolves shouldn’t notice a difference and that his scent might change, but a wolf would only notice if they were paying very close attention. Was she wrong? Or is Derek so entuned with Stiles’ scent that he can pick the difference out? And that look on Derek’s face when they had been standing only inches apart, what the hell did that mean?

“Agh, I have to stop thinking about this,” Stiles groans, tipping his head back to look at the ceiling again, the magic ball still casting the room in a soft blue light. He will drive himself mad if he tries to think up Derek’s motivations for doing things. Half the time, Stiles is sure Derek doesn’t even know why he is doing what he does. This is the same guy who expected Stiles to just nonchalantly chop off his arm.

Slowly, he gathers himself on unsteady feet and climbs out of the bathtub, waving a hand to dispel the ball of light and stumbling back to his room. It looks exactly as it had when he left it. He casts a longing look at his bed and the rumbled sheets, knowing no matter how hard he tries, he won’t be able to fall asleep now; his mind is too awake. Instead, he returns to his desk, where his magic books are spread out around his computer, sheets of information printed in either English or Polish, with the occasional Latin rumbled nearby and the scribbled notes outlining the tracking spell he wants to try tomorrow, or was it today? Sinking into his desk chair, he checks his phone but finds it dead. Sighing, he goes to plug it in on his bedside table, checking his clock as he does so. It’s four in the morning.

“Fucking hell Derek,” Stiles mumbles to himself. He had been so exhausted if Derek had just waited till a reasonable time, Stiles may have even slept till daybreak. He understands the older man’s worry, though. An Alpha Pack.

If what Derek said about them is true, they might have Erica and Boyd. Alphas can hide their scent, even from other Alphas, so if they were keeping Erica and Boyd close, the wolves probably wouldn’t be able to sniff them out.

Stiles flicks through the books, searching for anything that may conceal other supernatural creatures. There are wards like the ones Linda has on her shop, but they only work on set places or things, not people, meaning the Alpha Pack wouldn’t be able to move them around constantly. That would rule out most of the downtown industrial district. Danny and Stiles searched it thoroughly when going through Allison’s list of warehouses. Several simple spells can deter the less powerful tracking spells, but they require constant upkeep, meaning the Pack would have to have a witch on their payroll or possibly an emissary, which would make things…interesting.

Stiles groans at the lack of concrete information, starting his computer up to search for Alpha Packs and how their hierarchy would function and dragging over a new pile of books to search through. He jots down any helpful information in his notebook, but it’s not much. The internet supplies a whole lot of bullshit, claims that are impossible to verify as accurate and a shocking amount of Twilight fanfiction. The books aren’t much more use.

Stiles grimaces as he turns to a new page in the old volume he is searching through. It details human sacrifices and three-fold deaths, with some rather graphic drawings. Sacrificing different groups of people to achieve powerful magic.

“That’s fucking sick,” Stiles whispers as he looks over one drawing, a woman with a slit throat and garrotte around her neck. Her dead eyes wide, and mouth open in a cutoff scream. The perspective of the drawing only shows her front on, but the description details that a blow to the head is the third method of death.

The ritual is usually done in threes, each making up a different category of sacrifices. Warriors for strength. Healers for healing abilities. Philosophers for intelligence. Guardians for protection. Virgins for seduction.  

Stiles pulls a face, “damn, someone needs to have sex with me like right now.” A shocking amount of spells and rituals require virgins, Stiles has learnt.

Alternatively, the sacrifice could be a single person if they embodied all the characteristics to qualify them for each category. Arguably, that is the more ethical way to go about it. One life as opposed to fifteen, but Stiles supposes if someone is stooping so low as to perform human sacrifices, they probably don’t give a damn about ethics.

“Ok, that’s enough of that for today,” Stiles closes the book and rubs at his eyes. He looks up to see sunlight streaming in through the window and realises he has been at it for hours. His dad will be home from his shift soon, so Stiles should start on breakfast.

He doesn’t bother changing out of his pyjamas as he pads down the stairs. Starting on a breakfast that won’t clog his dad’s arteries. He is just plating up some scrambled eggs when the sheriff gets home.

“Hey, Dad,” Stiles greets as the man enters the kitchen, pouring a cup of coffee for himself and a glass of orange juice for his dad.

“Hey, Kiddo,” the sheriff sighs, slumping into his seat at the table, picking up a fork and poking at the avocado on his plate.

“Stop that,” Stiles scolds as he takes the seat across from him, “you are going to eat it. It’s good for your heart.”

His dad frowns but doesn’t argue. They eat in silence for a few minutes.

“So,” Stiles starts, sipping his coffee, “anything interesting happen last night?”

His dad looks up from where he is shovelling eggs into his mouth, squinting at Stiles suspiciously, “Why do you want to know?” He asks, in that ‘I’m the Sherriff, and you’re my son who’s definitely up to no good’ tone the older man has perfected.

“Just curious,” Stiles replies, doing his best to look nonchalant as he eats his own eggs.

His dad looks at him for a second more before returning to his meal, “nothing that will interest you,” he tells Stiles, “it’s nothing human.”

Stiles’ brain stalls momentarily, a forkful of eggs lifted to his mouth but forgotten, “Wha…What?”

His dad repeats himself, unaware of Stiles’ panic, still looking at his plate, reluctantly eating the avocado. “Like I said, nothing human.”

Nothing human. Did his dad know? No, that’s stupid. Impossible. But nothing human? Had there been another attack? Another body? Another ‘mountain lion’? What if his dad did know? What if he knows and is keeping it from Stiles? Or has he figured it out? He said he would look into it and knows Stiles has been lying. What if he knows, and this was his way of laying it at Stiles and waiting for honesty? Is it a test?

“Ah, Dad, I….” he stumbles over the words, unsure of what to say. Suddenly, breathing is difficult again. His dad can’t know. He can’t.

The sheriff looks up, brows drawing together in concern, when he looks at Stiles, “You ok, kiddo? You look pale.” It’s asked softly, tone worried, and he sets his knife and fork down to give Stiles his full attention.

Suddenly, Stiles’ brain goes blank. He is being paranoid. His dad doesn’t know anything. He clears his throat and plasters on a smile, “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he fakes a cough, “eggs just went down the wrong way.”

His dad looks him over, brows still drawn, but after a moment, he nods, “you need to eat slower,” he scolds, going back to his own plate, “you are going to get indigestion.”

Stiles snorts at the hypocrisy but covers it with another cough when his dad looks up again, “So, not human? What’s that supposed to mean? Another mountain lion?”

His dad shakes his head, mouth full of toast. He speaks around the food, “No, thank God. It’s just weird animal behaviour. Swarms of birds flying into windows, killing themselves. Deer running out into traffic, head-on, not like crossing the road. There is not much we can do about it, and no one we can call in the middle of the night about it either, but people are spooked, had all sorts of calls reporting weird things. Maybe it’s the full moon.” His dad jokes.

“The full moon isn’t for another week, Dad,” Stiles says, unimpressed, taking a final bite of his food, “but that is weird.” And it is. He’s never heard of that kind of thing before. Mass animal suicide? It has to be something supernatural. Anything strange in Beacon Hills has to be supernatural.

Stiles rises with his dishes, walking to the sink to clean them, mulling it over. He will have to do more research and add it to the list of things he needs to figure out. His dad watches him, rising from the table with his own dishes.

“So…” His dad starts, and Stiles turns to him with raised brows. That tone is never a good thing, “haven’t seen Scott around lately.”

Stiles turns back to the sink, submerging his plate and hands into the soapy water, hoping his dad can’t read his expression with the change of angle, “Yeah, he hasn’t been around.”

“I noticed that,” the Sherriff replies, sounding unimpressed, “I was more wondering why?”

The kitchen is silent save for the clinking of dishes as Stiles thinks up an appropriate answer, “We had a uh falling out.”

“I see,” his dad replies, setting his dishes beside Stiles and moving to dry the clean ones, “want to talk about it?”

“Not really,” Stiles says, “it’s just the same old thing. Scott thinks he is too good for me now, too focused on lacrosse and Allison.”

“Hmmm,” his dad replies, putting away the utensils he’s been drying, “he tell you that?”

“Not in so many words.”

“Mmhmm. This the same Allison you have been calling?”

Stiles looks up in surprise.

“What?” His dad asks, “I live here, you know, and I am the sheriff. I notice more than you think I do. You two do call every day.”

“She’s in France for the summer,” Stiles says, resuming scrubbing at the frying pan, “she’s been helping me out with something. A lot less insufferable than Scott at the moment.”

“So, you are upset with Scott for ignoring you in favour of Allison, and now you are ignoring Scott and instead talking to Allison?” His dad asks. It’s not said judgmentally, just in confusion.

Stiles sighs, “No, Allison is actually pretty chill. Had a brief…lapse into crazy…but usually, she’s ok. She is trying to make it up to me, hence helping out with this…thing.”

“Do I want to know what this ‘thing’ is?”

Stiles huffs a laugh, passing the pan to his dad to dry, “Whatever you are thinking, it’s not that you weirdo.”

“Ok. And Scott, he’s ok being ignored?”

“I… don’t know, actually. I haven’t heard from him since he showed up here, and I shouted and kicked him out.”

“Oh.” His dad looks surprised, “that’s…unlike you.”

“Yeah…” Stiles sighs, turning to look at his dad properly. There is no judgement in his father’s face, “Scott…screwed up. Big time. He did something - don’t ask what I don’t even know – but now I’m getting blamed for it, and Scott refuses to tell me what he did or admit that maybe he’s in the wrong even though he clearly is because I don’t think anyone is talking to him.”

“Hmm,” his dad replies, “and how does Hale fit into this?”

Stiles’ heart starts beating faster, eyes going wide; there is no way his dad knew Derek was here this morning. Right?

“Derek? Why do you think he’s involved?” Stiles asks, trying for nonchalant.

His dad again gives him the unimpressed look, “because he is a part of everything. And also, because you call him Derek.”

“That’s his name?” Stiles says, confused. Though he knows where his dad is going with this, he’d been surprised before when Stiles called Derek by his first name. It implies familiarity. Stiles just doesn’t know why his dad thinks that’s strange all of a sudden. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s inserted himself in someone else’s business.

“How many twenty-year-olds are you on a first-name basis with?” His father asks.

“Uhhh…” Stiles starts, that’s a good question, actually, “Simon from the grocery store. And uhh…Derek. So that two, not that weird, honestly.”

“Simon from the grocery store who sells pot?” His dad asked, eyebrows drawn.

“Yeah, that one,” Stiles replies, returning to the dishes again. He washes a plate and hands it to his dad before realising what he’s said. He turns back to the man, eyes wide, flinging bubbles at the man as he flails. “I don’t know him because of the weed thing, though. Like, yeah, I know he sells it. Everyone knows he sells it. I just know him because he is always on shift when I do the grocery shopping. Scouts honour.” He holds his hand up beside him, flinging more soapy bubbles to the floor.

“Yeah…you are far too hyperactive to be doing weed,” his father relents, “Also, you weren’t a Boy Scout.”

Stiles huffs a relieved laugh, going back to the dishes.

“But Hale?” His dad prompts.

“Derek, uhh…look, Dad, it’s nothing weird, ok,” he starts, knowing his dad’s previous assumptions of the man. “He and Scott just have a…similar interest…not drugs… Derek’s helping Scott…work out. Notice how Derek is all buff and stuff and Scott’s notable improvement in the athletic department. I promised Scott I wouldn’t say anything…but yeah. Anyways he pissed Derek off somehow, and Derek thinks it was my idea, and now he is pissed at me.”

“Uh huh,” his dad doesn’t sound convinced, not even a little, but he plays along, “so if Derek is Scott’s buddy, then why do you care? You’re not talking to Scott. Who cares if Derek is mad at you.”

“It’s…complicated,” Stiles explains, “Derek and I…we had an understanding. He’s mad because he thinks I screwed him over. I’m mad because he won’t listen to a single thing I say. There are just a lot of…factors involved.”

“You weren’t dating him, were you?” His dad asks sincerely, looking incredibly concerned.

Stiles chokes on his own spit, leaning over the sink to cough. His dad pats him solidly on the back a few times to help. “What on earth gave you that idea?” Stiles asks when he’s regained his ability to speak, still hunched over the sink.

“You said it’s complicated, seems like the kind of thing that makes it complicated, and you seem too emotionally invested for it to just be another friend,” his dad doesn’t look mad or judgemental.

“So…” Stiles tries, “If we were…dating…that wouldn’t be an issue?”

His dad pushes his lips together, “It would,” Stiles’ heart sinks, “because he is twenty and you are seventeen. Not to mention, he was a suspect in his own sister’s murder and just generally gives off major creeper vibes. And his uncle is off; I’m not supposed to just accuse people of things based on looks, but there is definitely something not right with that man... Wouldn’t be surprised if he has some literal skeletons in his closet.”  

Rant about Peter aside, one that Stiles wholeheartedly agrees with, that sounds promising. “But not because he’s a…guy.”

His dad looks at Stiles, searching his eyes, “Son, I don’t care who you date, men, women, someone in between, as long as they treat you right and you are happy,” his dad says sincerely.

“But at the club you said-”

“At the club, you were lying to me. I know you were there for another reason.” His dad says sternly, giving him the patented Sheriff look, “But I’m sorry for what I said. I didn’t mean it like that; I was just…frustrated. And you had been in love with Lydia for so long I didn’t really ever consider it.”

Stiles nods, “Thank you, I umm…. I’m Bi. I like men and women.”

His dad nods, smiling at him. “Ok. That’s ok, Stiles. Thank you for telling me.”

“Yeah,” Stiles sniffs, suddenly emotional.

His dad pulls him into a hug. Stiles sinks into it. “I’m proud of you son. Your mother would be, too.”

After a moment, they pull away, both wiping at their eyes.

“So…Derek?” His dad asks, “You two are or not or…?”

“We aren’t dating,” Stiles says, “never were to be clear. It’s ahh…not like that.”

His dad nods, “Danny?”

Stiles looks at his dad, confused, “what about him?”

“You two aren’t dating? You have been spending a lot of time together. I’m pretty sure that his hoodie.”

Stiles looks down. Oh yeah, he is still wearing it, “we are just friends. Friends share clothes. I used to steal Scott’s shirts all the time.” He unplugs the sink, watching as the water rushes down the drain.

“Lydia?”

Stiles pauses, looking up from the sink to his dad, “You think I’m dating Lydia Martin?” He asks incredulously, sweeping a hand over what he’s wearing again. They might only be pyjamas, but Lydia would never date someone so lacking in style.

“Well…no…maybe. She seems to know you exist now?” His dad says, but it comes out more a question than anything else like he’s trying not to offend Stiles in the process.

Stiles huffs a laugh, “Glad you think so highly of me, pops, but no, I’m not dating Lydia. That ship has sailed; she’s desperately in love with Jackson, and I don’t know, I haven’t really felt that way about her for a bit. Guess I was just holding on to it.”

“Oh, thank God,” his dad sighs. Stiles looks at him questioningly, “Well, it’s just that I was starting to worry you were a tad…obsessed. Don’t need another restraining order against you,” he laughs.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, joining in on the laughter.

“Speaking of,” his father starts, drying the last of the dishes and changing the subject away from Stiles’ lack of dating life, thankfully, “that’s been dropped.”

“What?” Stiles asks him, confused.

“The Whittemore’s dismissed it. Apparently, Jackson was suddenly racked with guilt and confessed to his parents that he was in on the plan. He told them he staged the whole kidnapping thing afterwards because he didn’t want to get in trouble and blamed it all on you and Scott. His parents are furious, of course, but they dismissed the order given the circumstances.”

“Huh,” Stiles says as he prepares to leave the kitchen, “that was…uncharacteristically nice of him.”

His dad nods, putting away the last plate, “Hey, do you know what happened to our plates? I swear we used to have more.”

Stiles pauses. Halfway out of the kitchen, he turns back to see his dad looking in the cupboard confused, “Nope,” Stiles lies effortlessly, “that’s so strange, I have no idea.”

His dad looks at Stiles suspiciously before shaking his head and looking back at the cupboard, brows scrunched together. “That’s weird.”

“Yep,” Stiles agrees, “So weird. Have a nice sleep, Dad. Danny and I are going out today, so don’t worry if I’m not here when you get up.”

“No worries, kiddo,” his dad calls out to him, “love you.”

“Love you too,” Stiles calls back as he climbs the stairs.

He unplugs his phone and checks his messages.

Danny 8:16 am

Hey man, heading over, see you in 15 :)

Stiles smiles, looking over his notes on the tracking spell; this will work. He can feel it.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

The spell does not work.

“Fuck!” Stiles cries out in frustration, kicking up some dirt as he does.

“Hey, it’s ok, we just have to try something else,” Danny reassures him.

Stiles is standing in the middle of a clearing in the preserve, hands outstretched. He has attempted the tracking spell five times already, gone through it step by step just as he outlined in his notes and thrown all his belief into finding the wolves, yet nothing has happened.

“What if we don’t have time to try something else out,” Stiles sighs, sinking to the ground and drawing his legs to his chest. He rests his head atop his knees and glares at the grass in front of him.

Danny sighs from somewhere behind him, having stayed by the trees with their things so as not to interfere with the spell. Now, Stiles hears him move forward, his shoes crunching the grass beneath his feet as he does. Danny flops onto the ground beside him, throwing Stiles’ backpack to the side as he lays down, hands behind his head, and stares at the sky, legs bent.

He knocks a knee against Stiles’. “Ok,” Danny starts, “talk to me. You have been acting weird all morning, barely said a word on the way here, and that’s really worrying considering it’s you. What’s up?”

Stiles sighs again and falls backwards so he is sprawled out beside the other boy, “is it that obvious?”

“To me it is,” Danny confirms, watching the clouds above them, “I know you aren’t getting a lot of sleep, but somethings up, so spill.”

“Derek came to see me this morning,” Stiles confesses. He doesn’t bother trying to lie or beat around the bush, not with Danny.

Danny snaps his head to the side to look at Stiles, but Stiles keeps his eyes on the clouds, “came to see you? When?”

“I don’t know, like at two or something?” Stiles replies, “I had a panic attack.”

“Shit Stiles. When Derek was there…Why didn’t you call me?” The other boy asks, sitting up now to look down at Stiles.

“No after he left…and I couldn’t I…” He gestures vaguely with his hands, “Plus, my phone was dead.”

“Oh,” Danny says, and he has that little frowny look on his face he gets when he hears something sad. Stiles grabs at the sleeve of Danny’s shirt and uses it to pull the teen back down so they are lying side by side again.

“What did he say? Did he upset you?” Danny asks casually, returning to looking up at the clouds. He points upward, “That one looks like a duck.”

Stiles smiles as he looks at the vaguely duck-shaped cloud, chuckling slightly. “Yeah, it kind of does,” he agrees, watching as it moves and deforms and becomes something else entirely “and kinda, not really. He made me fucking angry. He didn’t even know Erica and Boyd were missing,” Stiles fumes.

“You’re fucking kidding me.”

“Hah, that’s what I said, but yeah. More than that, though, he just confuses me. Like, he was worried because Peter found my hoodie, the one we left behind when you came and found me,” Danny nods his understanding, and Stiles continues, “but he refused to believe me when I said I wasn’t in on Scott’s thing. But he also apologised for yelling and kicking me out of the Pack. Kept saying I am part of the Pack, but it doesn’t feel like it. But he also yelled a bunch about feeling betrayed and me knowing he cared. I don’t know man, I don’t think he was even aware of how contradictory he was being.”

“Jesus, that guys a mess,” Danny huffs.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, but it sounds unconvincing even to him, “that’s not even the weirdest part.”

“Oh?”

“He pushed me up against a wall and buried his face in my neck.” Stiles confesses in a rush, refusing to meet Danny’s eyes.

“What?” Danny cries out, sitting up again.

Stiles huffs himself and pulls Danny back down again. “Yeah, and he…” he looked like he was checking Stiles out, like he was contemplating kissing him…nope, Stiles is absolutely projecting there. No way in hell is Derek Hale interested in him, never in a million years, “he said I smell different,” Stiles says instead.

“I thought Linda said the wolves wouldn’t be able to pick up on the scent change?” Danny asks, he sounds concerned.

“She did.”

“Unless they were paying close attention?”

“Yep.”

“Do you think…Does Derek pay close enough attention?” Danny asks, looking over at Stiles and for the first time, Stiles turns his head to look back.

“I don’t know,” he sighs. Maybe…Maybe Derek does pay attention. Back in his room, it sure seemed like Derek cared….He was concerned at the least. Derek said they had each other’s backs before; maybe this understanding between them wasn’t so one-sided; maybe Derek did pay attention.

“Is that normal for Derek to…you know…get all up close and personal?” Danny asks again, full of questions today, eyebrows drawn together.

“I mean…kinda?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” The confusion melts into suspicion, and Stiles turns his head away, feeling his cheeks flush.

“Like he was always pushing me against walls and stuff, did it pretty frequently actually,” Stiles answers. And now that Stiles thinks about it, it isn’t even the first time Derek has looked at Stiles like that. That time when Derek broke in to enlist Stiles’ help when he was a fugitive, there were a lot of darting eyes involved. From both parties. But in Stiles’ defence, he is bisexual. You can’t throw the Greek God that is Derek Hale at someone who is attracted to men and expect them not to peek. Derek looking at him on the other hand...No. No, that is not something for him to agonise over now. Perhaps later. When he is home. Alone. In his shower. With a hand wrapped around his... “I think it’s a wolf thing, like when he is frustrated, he did it more often, and I think I frustrate him pretty easily.”

“Hmm,” is Danny’s reply, and when Stiles turns to look at him, Danny is looking at him curiously.

“What?”

Danny just shakes his head, “Nothing, just thinking it over,”

Stiles rolls his eyes at the vague reply but continues, “The whole scent thing though. That he doesn’t normally do. Like Scott’s done it a few times when he was stressed and needing reassurance, or when I switched my shampoo once, he basically pounced on me, trying to figure out why I smelt different. But Derek’s never done it. I think it’s just a wolf instinct. I didn’t think he would pick up on the change though.”

“Did he question it?”

“Yeah, he did…I uh…kinda did a thing…” Stiles looks back to the sky, knowing Danny will disapprove.

“A thing?” Danny asks, tone suspicious.

“I maybe sort of did some magic and uh…covered it up…my scent and like heart rate and stuff.”

“Stiles!” Danny scolds, sitting up again.

Stiles sighs, grabbing Danny’s wrist this time and pulling him down again, “Dude, chill, it’s fine. I don’t think he noticed.”

Danny slumps back down again, sighing, “Fine, but just…be careful, man. You know what Linda said.”

“Yeah, man, I will. Anyways, then he mentioned that there’s an Alpha Pack.”

“A what?” Danny shoots back up again, and Stiles pulls him down,

“Dude, seriously, stay still; you are worse than I am right now. But yeah, a Pack of Alpha’s or something. Don’t ask how it works. I have no clue, but I think maybe they are the ones who took Erica and Boyd, and when I told Derek that he had no clue they were gone, and then I sort of just kicked him out. Then I had a panic attack with the sparking and everything.”

Danny nods, reaching out to grab Stiles’ shoulder and squeeze it slightly despite the awkward angle, “You ok with that? You wanna talk it out or?”

“No, no, I’m ok. I just used some of those strategies I used to when mum…yeah,” Stiles had told Danny about his mother and her illness and everything that had happened afterwards. Danny, in turn, had shared about his parent’s disappointment in him with his sexuality and the year he had spent living with his Grandmother afterwards because he couldn’t stand the passive-aggressive comments. Now they’re both out of town, so often for work, Danny barely sees them anyway.

“But that’s why you worried about how much time we have, yeah? The Alpha Pack?” Danny asks him.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. He searches the sky, smiling when he finds a shape he likes. “That one looks like a whale tail,” he says, pointing upwards.

“Yeah,” Danny grins, “It does. So, should we like be out in the woods right now? If the Alpha’s are around.”

“I think we are fine. Derek hasn’t really seen them, by the sounds of it. If they were running out in the preserve every day, I think we would know about it,” Stiles shrugs.

“Should I be putting mountain ash around my house?”

“Have you got mountain ash?” Stiles asks incredulously.

“No,” Danny admits, “but I can get some surely, like how hard could it be? The internet is invaluable.”

Stiles laughs, “Ok, buddy. I don’t know how helpful it would be, honestly, like any human can break a mountain ash line just by dragging your foot through it. And they can still throw things over the line; inanimate objects are unaffected, so it’s all well and good till a werewolf picks up a knife…or gun, I suppose.”

“Do I want to know how you know that?”

“Probably not, honestly.” Stiles answers, searching the clouds for more shapes but only finding blobs.

“What about like a car?” Danny asks.

“What do you mean?” Stiles turns to look at him, forehead creasing.

“Like if a car full of werewolves went over a mountain ash line. Would the car keep going? Would it fling the wolves out? What would happen?” Danny looks back at him, eyebrows raised, and Stiles has to pause and think momentarily.

“I don’t know,” he admits slowly, “like I guess the car would keep going, and the werewolves would be stopped and pushed back through the car, and the car would end up a wreck with werewolf-sized holes in it? Or I suppose the wheels would drag through the line beforehand, thus breaking the ash, so it wouldn’t be a problem? I mean, as far as I know, unless there is someone actively there using magic or a spark or whatever Deaton calls it to maintain the line, it could be broken pretty easily.”

“Can werewolves break a line without like touching it? Like, if a werewolf had a baseball bat, could they use it to break a line?”

“Jesus, you are full of questions today. I don’t know…maybe…Like, I don’t see why not. If Scott or Derek ever get their heads out of their respective asses, I will force them to test this theory for you, deal?”

Danny laughs, “I wouldn’t hold my breath if I were you, but sure, deal.”

They sit there for a while, a comfortable silence between them, before Stiles sighs, “Come on, we should probably get going; hanging out in the preserve all day seems like asking for trouble.”

He rises slowly and reaches out a hand to help Danny up. Stiles gathers his notes and shoulders his backpack when Danny hands it to him. They are approaching the tree line heading toward the Jeep, and there is a companionable silence between them again when Danny suddenly stops.

Stiles turns to him in confusion, but Danny is looking back across the clearing, eyebrows drawn together, lips pressed thin. “Dude? You ok?” Stiles asks him, reaching out to grasp Danny’s shoulder.

“Do you hear that?” Danny asks him, squinting at the other end of the clearing.

“Hear what?” Stiles asks, but he doesn’t need Danny to answer because he can hear it now.

Something is crashing through the underbrush towards them, something big and moving quickly. Stiles has faced enough threats in these woods that he’s not naïve enough to think it’s simply a deer or two. He fears briefly that it’s the Alpha Pack, or at least one of the Alpha’s, that maybe Stiles’ assumption about them laying low had been wrong.

“Uh….” Danny starts, grabbing at Stiles’ hand still on his shoulder, “That sounds like it’s coming straight for us.”

Stiles pulls Danny behind him, pushing him further towards the cover of the trees and dropping the backpack, and just in time as something bursts out the other side of the clearing with a shriek.

Stiles’ eyes go wide. It’s not an alpha. Or rather, she’s not an Alpha. He’s not exactly sure what she is. She looks half bird, half woman. The creature has large, feathered wings, black as void, stretching up around her. They are bloody and torn in places, leaves and twigs tangled within them. Her skin is unnaturally pale, and halfway down her arms the skin changes to feathers again, talons where her hands should be. It’s the same with her thighs, pale white giving way to black feathers, and talons for feet. Her face is angular, with high, sharp cheekbones, beady black eyes, a sharp nose, and thin lips. She’s looking around the clearing, almost squawking, the noise unpleasant and grating to Stiles’ ears. Oh, and she’s completely naked, her chest and…parts entirely on display.

“What the actual fuck is that!” Danny whispers frantically, clutching at Stiles.

The creature - woman? – snaps its head towards them.

“I uh think she heard you,” Stiles whispers back.

She sets her eyes on Stiles and launches herself at him. Stiles has just enough time to push Danny out of the way before she’s upon him. Stiles and the beast tumble to the floor. The wind in the clearing picks up unnaturally, cold currents of air swilling around them as they roll.

She ends up on top, screaming unnaturally high, a taloned hand coming down to tear across Stiles’ throat, but he frantically shoves her to the side before the blow can connect. He pushes her again, reaching up blindly and frantically to grab a handful of her feathers and tugs, taking a handful of them as he goes, black blood gushing out onto him. Just as he hoped, she starts screaming and rolls to the side completely off him. The feathers are apparently very sensitive.

Stiles scrambles to his feet, shooting back away from her. He searches the tree line for Danny to make sure the other teen is ok and finds the boy edging around the trees, attempting to get as close to Stiles as possible without crossing the beast’s path. She’s still rolling around on the ground in pain, trying to get her bearings.

Danny reaches Stiles, reaching out to pat down his chest as if checking Stiles for injuries, “what the fuck are we going to do?” Danny asks him.

“I don’t know,” Stiles admits, but before they can devise a plan, the wind picks up again, swirling viciously around them, and the creature staggers to her…feet?

She launches herself forward again when she spots Stiles, completely ignoring Danny, and Stiles dodges. Backing up, ducking left and right and then right again as she swipes with her talons.

“What the fuck do we do, Stiles?” Danny shouts from behind them.

“I don’t know!” Stiles shouts back again, focusing all his attention on not getting his throat ripped out, dodging and weaving as they make circles around the clearing, the creature determined to kill him and him determined to survive. “Why didn’t we replace the bat yet? A bat would be very helpful right now!”

“You have magic!” Danny shouts back at him.

“Oh fuck! Yeah, I do!” Stiles cries, dodging another swipe of her claws. He tries to think of what to do and what to believe, but he has no idea what she is or what will harm her. He also hasn’t been practising much defensive magic; perhaps stupidly, he didn’t really think to. He has been practising the basics. Linda had warned him things would come, but he thought he would have more time.

She swipes again, missing Stiles’ throat but hooking a claw in his shirt, tugging him forward towards her. “Fuck! Fuck! Fuck!” Stiles shouts, pushing a forearm up to her throat and trying to shove her backward unsuccessfully. He reaches his other hand out to grasp at her free talon, pushing it as far from his throat as he can. She is unbothered, simply ducking her head to snap at his throat. She misses but snaps again, tugging him closer and closer as he tries to push her further away. This close, he can see she has long, sharp teeth, and it doesn’t exactly leave him feeling warm and fuzzy. He honestly doesn’t understand the supernatural’s obsession with wanting to tear his throat out via their teeth.

She jerks back suddenly, squawking, and Stiles uses the opportunity to lift a leg up and push her backwards with his knee, shoving his hands out to help; his shirt tears, and she goes back, but at least it’s not his skin. He looks up to see what distracted her and finds Danny, hands full of rocks and pelting them at her wings. She glares at Danny, shrieking, and Stiles worries she will rush the other teen. He moves forward to cover Danny, but he need not worry because the beast’s eyes snap back to him almost immediately. Clearly only caring about Stiles.

She barrels forward, taking him by surprise, and grabs his shoulders, talons sinking into him. The flesh being sliced open. The blood running down his arms. He cries out in pain but doesn’t have the time to focus on it because she sinks the claws in deep and starts to beat her wings. The next thing he knows, his feet are leaving the ground.

He is so shocked that he forgets to react for a moment. She beats her wings, and they rise higher and higher towards the tree tops. Her claws sink deeper into his shoulders, and he can feel the blood pouring down his arms and dripping off his fingertips once it has nowhere else to go. Stiles is completely limp with the shock and the pain, burning sensations rising up his neck from the wounds, but unlike in the morning, these shockwaves are incredibly painful.

“Stiles!” Danny shouts from somewhere below, “Magic! Use the magic!”

Right magic, he needs to do something. But what? He can’t use the lightning or sparks, hasn’t been able to do it intentionally yet, and everything else has mostly been stupid little things. Except for the fire.

He reaches his hands out underneath hers. Forcing his arms to comply even though they burn. Aiming his open palms for her wings, she carries them higher and higher. Fire. He pictures fire. Bursting from his hands. Believes in it. But nothing happens. He tries again and again. But nothing works. She flies upwards slowly, fatigued from the fight perhaps or from the weight of hauling him with her, but they are almost to the treetops now. Any further, and Stiles won’t survive the fall. 

His vision sways. He knows from previous experience that it probably means he is losing too much blood. That or the unexpected flight is making him nauseated.

“Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.” Stiles curses and tries again, picturing the flame, how it flickers, pictures it burning her wings. But nothing happens.

Stiles thinks Danny is shouting at him, but he can’t make out the words. The thing is almost grinning at him now, as if she understands she has won. He’s going to die. She’s going to drop him or carry him off to God knows where to eat him, and he is going to die. He is going to die a teenager. A virgin at that. A closeted virgin. He is going to die a teenaged, closeted virgin in a gruesome supernatural death that will leave his best friend traumatised and his dad alone.

They reach the top of the trees, and Stiles realises he is crying. The creature starts making a horrible hacking sound, and Stiles thinks it’s supposed to be a laugh.

“Stiles!” Danny hollers from the ground, and Stiles can hear it now. The boy sounds terrified, and it snaps at something inside him. Stiles closes his eyes and reaches out again and imagines the flame licking up the creature’s wings, imagines her screams as she burns, imagines the flames moving and covering her whole body and believes it’s really happening.

A deafening scream sounds in his ear, and suddenly, he feels as though he is falling. He snaps open his eyes, watching the creature above him shrieking, flames encompassing her, and growing further and further away as Stiles falls.

He believes the ground will be soft, won’t hurt him and will be gentle on his fragile bones. When he hits the forest floor, it’s as soft as falling into his mattress. He lays there for a moment, staring upwards, mouth open in shock as the creature screams and shrieks, twisting and turning as the flames burn her. 

The flames must be hotter than any natural fire, or perhaps this is just how flesh burns because the skin starts to slide off her body as she falls. Screaming. It’s not quite melting, but it doesn’t burn away to dust either, but God Stiles wishes it would because it would be far more pleasant to look at. She is still beating her wings as the feathers burn and char; it’s ineffective in rising her any further into the air, but it slows her fall. 

A smell like nothing Stiles has ever smelt before invades his senses. It’s sickly sweet and immediately makes him feel nauseous. It’s so heavy he can almost taste it. He gags as the thing continues to scream, realising it’s the smell of her burning flesh. 

Her hair burns away at the scalp and falls to the ground in singed chunks. Her skin peels off and hits the ground in blobs, and Stiles scrambles backwards as he looks up, trying to avoid being hit by it. The blood boils before it can hit the ground, and Stiles watches in fascinated horror as sinew and charred chunks of...something fall too. Some of it hits his legs, staining his pants, and he shakes them frantically to get the bits off of him.

She keeps screaming. Somehow still alive during the process. Before, eventually, all that is left of her is charred bone. All that can be heard is the resounding thud as the bones fall, one after the other, then a deathly silence only broken by Stiles’ harsh inhales. 

It only takes a few minutes for the whole ordeal, but Stiles feels like it lasted forever, the images playing repeatedly in his mind. He will never sleep again.

He gives it a minute before he peers forward to look at the skeletal remains, reaching out a finger to poke one of them morbidly. As he does so, they all turn to dust, as if by magic but not of his own making. The wind that had been circling the clearing dies off suddenly. And there’s nothing left of the thing, whatever she was, aside from the stains on Stiles’ jeans, the dark blood coating him and the smell of burning flesh sitting heavily in his nostrils.

He turns to the side and immediately vomits up his breakfast before rolling over and lying back down to look up at the sky. Breathing heavily and trying to starve off the panic attack he can feel building.

If this is what Peter Hale experienced in the fire...Watching his family burn like that. Having his flesh peel away. The heavy, sweet, meaty smell. Well then...Stiles really can’t blame him for going insane. 

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V.

Stiles lies there panting until Danny approaches him, looking down at him, face full of concern.

“Are you ok?” Danny asks hesitantly, face pale; his eyes scan Stiles’ frame before locking on the wounds at his shoulders.

No, he is decidedly not ok. He just watched some weird creature that tried to kill him die a horrible, fiery death of his own creation. He almost died. Again. It was kill or be killed. Again. At this rate, he won’t be making it to his twenties. There is so much he hasn’t done with his life…

“I’m gay!” Stiles cries out, looking up at Danny with wide eyes, barely processing the pain from his injuries as he struggles to sit up.

Danny blinks at him, eyebrows pulling together in confusion. “Uh…did you hit your head?”

Stiles scrambles to his feet, stumbling as his vision blurs and grabs at Danny’s shoulders, in part to keep himself upright but also so he can look into the other teen’s eyes, “I am gay, well Bisexual, half gay, I like dudes and girls.”

Danny nods, looking incredibly freaked out but as though he’s trying to be supportive, “ok man, good for you, no judgment here.”

Stiles barely hears him, “I’m gay. And you are my best friend. And holy shit, that was awful. She just like melted and the bits,” he flails an arm, gesturing around the clearing before returning it to Danny’s shoulder, “And I almost died…I think I need to sit down again.” Stiles drops his arms from Danny and falls to the floor ungracefully. Twisting his fingers through the blades of grass and uprooting them, happy to be back on solid ground. The movement sends sharp pains through his arms, but Stiles refuses to look at his shoulders for fear he might throw up.

Stiles digs the heels of his hands into his eyes, pressing hard enough until he sees shapes. Belatedly realising he’s probably stained his face with blood when he feels a sticky wetness. He focuses on his breathing and the feel of the ground beneath him. As far as near-death experiences, it’s definitely not his first. Not the first time he thought he might die, and it’s nowhere near as traumatising as the start of the summer. But something about being pulled into the air, knowing no one could reach or help him… it’s freaky. Not to mention, that is probably the most gruesome death he has ever witnessed. The smell of burning flesh still lingers in his nostrils. The raining blood, skin and innards. The screams. That will be haunting his nightmares for years to come.

Danny crouches before him and gently pulls Stiles’ hands away from his face, “You ok?”

Stiles nods numbly, trying to focus on Danny but failing when he spots the blood again, staining his own fingertips. How many more times will he have blood on his hands? Sure, this blood might be his own, but he had killed that…thing. Killed her. Just like he had killed those hunters. Yes, it had been self-defence, but does that justify it truly? He burnt her away to nothing. She had suffered. He has black blood stains on his jeans from her falling viscera. And those hunters he had zapped beyond recognition. He can still hear their screams in his dreams at night. Doesn’t that make him the monster?

“Stiles? Stiles?” Danny asks. He squeezes Stiles' hands hard until Stiles looks up at him, “I think you are going into shock; we need to get out of here and fix your shoulders up.”

“No hospital,” Stiles manages, surprised when his voice comes out even.

“Yeah, buddy, I know. No hospital. Come on, I’ll call Linda, and we can go to hers.” Danny says, standing and helping Stiles to his feet.

“She doesn’t want to be involved,” Stiles says as Danny helps move him out of the clearing, bending briefly to pick up the backpack before continuing through the trees towards the Jeep. Stiles runs through the symptoms of shock in his head, another perk of having Melissa McCall as a mother figure. His head feels clear, and he doesn’t feel cold. He feels a little nauseous and dizzy, but that’s probably just the blood loss. The remaining anxiety slipping away now that they have a plan to get the fuck out of here. He carefully avoids looking at his bloodstained fingers. “Not shock,” he confirms to Danny, “just...I don’t know, panicked for a second.”

Danny turns his head to look Stiles over even as they move forward, “you sure?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, breathing comes easier the further they move away from the clearing. If this becomes a trend, there will be less and less of the preserve he can stand to be in without having a panic attack. “Yeah, just needed to get away from there,” the pain in his arms is back, but he still refuses to look at the wounds.

“Let’s get you to Linda and get those fixed up then dude, and maybe she can tell us what the hell that thing was,” Danny says, allowing the subject to be dropped.

“She still doesn’t want to be involved,” Stiles reiterates. Tripping over a tree root, Danny catches him before he falls flat on his face.

“She also gave us her number if we needed help. This is needing help. As soon as we get reception, I’ll call her. Worse comes to worst, I have a first aid kit at home; I could probably figure it out,” The other teen shrugs.

“It is worrying how desensitised you are becoming to all of this,” Stiles mutters.

“You’re one to talk,” Danny snorts, “come on, there’s the Jeep.”

They walk out of the preserve and towards where Stiles parked earlier. Stiles doesn’t even bother trying to argue with Danny about driving, just letting himself be situated in the passenger side while Danny grabs the first aid kit out the back. When the teen returns, he’s already on the phone.

“Hi Linda, yeah, it’s Danny. I know you said you didn’t want to be involved, but we ran into…something in the preserve and Stiles’ is hurt and…I don’t know. I thought you might be able to help.” Danny pauses, cradling the phone with his shoulder while he talks into it, his hands occupied by cutting off Stiles’ shirt and looking over the wounds.

Danny pulls out a bottle of antiseptic, and none too gently pours half the bottle over Stiles’ shoulders. Stiles yelps, winching, and exclaims, “What the fuck Danny!”

Danny shushes him, supposedly listening to what Linda says on the other end of the phone, “ok, great. Thank you so, so much. We’ll head over now.” With that, Danny hangs up the call.

He looks back at Stiles' wounds and pulls a face.

“You have never done first aid training, have you?” Stiles asks him.

“Nope,” Danny confirms, apologetic smile in place. “Basically, my only experience with wound care was checking on your ones and pulling out the stitches.”

“Great,” Stiles sighs, pulling the bandages out of Danny’s hands, “first lesson: don’t pour a whole bottle of antiseptic on a wound. It fucking hurts, and it’s not any more effective.”

“Oh,” Danny says, a slight blush across his face, “sorry?”

Stiles huffs a laugh, “It’s chill, you drive, I’ll patch myself up. I assume Linda is gonna help?”

“Yeah, she said she’ll give you some stitches if you need and help clean them up. She’s taken the wards down that kept us away so we can find the place,” the teen replies as he rounds the Jeep and gets in the driver’s side.

Stiles reaches out, swinging his legs into the car and pulling the door closed on his side. He forgoes a seatbelt in favour of bandaging his shoulders, trying his best to spare his baby from blood stains. Stiles trusts Danny not to crash the car. He just hopes none of his dad’s deputies are around.

“We should call Allison,” Stiles suggests once they are moving. His arms are still covered in blood, but he doesn’t allow himself to think too heavily on it, winding the bandage around his shoulders one at a time, the pain flaring in his arms at each movement, but it helps keep him focused.

“Oh?” Danny asks, keeping his eyes on the road as he drives.

“She might know what that thing was,” Stiles explains as he ties the knot of the last bandage. Satisfied when no more blood bleeds through the layers, he grabs his phone to find Allison’s number. “She has access to her family’s bestiary. I stupidly forgot to keep a copy for myself when she downloaded it for Scott and Derek. We need a copy of it regardless.”

Danny nods his understanding while Stiles makes the call. It’s early afternoon in Beacon Hills, which means it’s around ten at night there. He hopes he’s not waking her up.

She answers after three rings. “Stiles?” She asks through a yawn, she sounds confused.

Stiles frowns, feeling bad for interrupting her sleep. He knows from their texts and calls that she hasn’t been getting much of it lately. “Hey, Allison, sorry I woke you.”

“No, no,” She assures; Stiles can hear her smile through the phone, “I wasn’t asleep yet, just getting ready for bed. What can I do for you?”

“Well, Danny and I were just out in the preserve and came across this…thing. I was wondering-“

“Thing?” She cuts him off, sounding worried and now wide awake. “Are you guys ok? Was it just you two? Where were the Pack?”

Stiles winces. He hasn’t told her that Derek kicked him out of the Pack or that he and Scott aren’t talking. She only knows that Danny is in the know and has been helping Stiles. “Ah yeah…it was just us. It seemed pretty hell-bent on killing us, so…we killed it?” It comes out as more of a question. He hears Danny huff a laugh next to him, but Stiles’ eyes are focused on the phone.

“You…killed it? Just you two?” Allison asks. Stiles would be offended, but it doesn’t sound like she’s doubting their abilities; it sounds more like she’s concerned.

“Yep,” Stiles replies, “it was like some weird half-bird half-woman thing. I was hoping I could get a copy of the bestiary and see if there’s anything in there about it.”

There is a pause. Stiles holds himself back from asking if she thinks he’s a horrible person now. That he's a killer and a monster.

“I gave the Pack a copy of the bestiary,” Allison says slowly.

“Yeah, but I forgot to download a copy, so I don’t have one,” Stiles replies, hoping that she just won’t question him on it and relieved that's what she's concerned about, not the blood on his hands.

“Why don’t you ask them for a copy?” She asks instead, she sounds worried, and he knows that means she won’t let it go.

Stiles sighs. He should have known it was only a matter of time before he’d have to explain himself. Allison is not dumb by any definition of the word. “Yeah, about that, I’m not… I’m not really talking to the Pack at the moment, so…”

“Why aren’t you talking to them?” She’s worried, either for his safety or that something has gone down without her knowledge, or possibly both.

“It’s not really important,” Stiles deflects, “but I really do need a copy, so if you could send it through, that would be great.”

 “Just like your bruised face wasn’t important?” She asks, refusing to let the subject be dropped.

“I told you the other team-“

“And I don’t believe you,” She cuts him off, but then her tone softens, and he can picture her sad eyes and forehead creased in worry even though he can’t see it, “please, Stiles, I just want to help you.”

He sighs again, “you can help,” he assures her, “by sending through the bestiary.”

There’s another pause as if she is debating arguing the point further, but eventually, she sighs, “ok. I’ll send it through. Call me if anything else happens, yeah? And please be careful…both of you.”

“Yeah, we will, thanks Allison.”

They say their goodbyes and hang up just as Danny pulls into the parking lot of Linda’s place. The wards are down as promised, and they can see the entrance.

“You ready?” Danny asks, unbuckling his seatbelt.

“Yeah,” Stiles nods, pulling himself out of the car, still shirtless.

The door is unlocked when they reach it. Stiles opens it and is hit with the same aromatic smell he remembers from last time. It calms him. He’s glad to have such a strong smell surrounding him, replacing the smell of the woman bird's burning flesh. The shop is dark, but the door back to Linda’s house is open, and light is pouring through.

When Danny enters and the door closes behind him, Linda hurries out into the shop, “Good you’re here,” She glances over Stiles’ chest and the makeshift bandages there before usering him through to the back, “Come on quick, quick.”

She’s wearing tan pants and a colourful green top today, her braids tied back into a bun, but there are bags under her eyes as though she hasn’t been sleeping much. She gently nudges Stiles down the hall to the same room she treated him in the last time he saw her. He can smell something cooking from the kitchen and briefly worries he has ruined her plans for the day, but then again, his plans had been ruined by a half-bird, half-woman thing, so…he isn’t really to blame.

“I’m sorry for bothering you. It’s really not a life-or-death emergency,” Stiles says anyway. He knows how badly she wants to be left out of the supernatural world, “we don’t really have a good enough reason to be here.”

“Nonsense,” Linda says gently, “you're bleeding. That is reason enough.” She guides him with a warm hand on his back, carefully avoiding his injuries, despite him knowing the way. It is such a motherly gesture that it makes Stiles ache, remembering his own mum helping him whenever he would scrape his knee or stub his toe.

The backroom is almost exactly as he remembers it, but more herbs and books are strewn on the countertop and the wooden table. Linda pushes some of it to the side and gestures for him to sit. Stiles sits, letting his legs swing as she walks back and forth, gathering herbs and crushing them together in a mortar with a pestle to make a paste. Danny hovers by Stiles’ side. Stiles can basically feel the anxiety rolling off him.

“Chill,” Stiles reassures him quietly, “I’m fine, barely even dizzy anymore.”

Danny looks at him sceptically, “You lost a shit ton of blood and almost fell over more than once.”

“It’s the tattoos,” Linda tells them as she comes to stand before Stiles and starts removing the bandages. She’s so short that even sitting Stiles has to look down, “well, this one,” she points to his hip.

“Right,” Stiles remembers, “for healing, right? And to ward off infection?”

Linda smiles, “yes, it’s why they have clotted so easily,” she observes when the wrappings are removed. She walks away again for a bowl of water and a cloth she sets beside Stiles. “Help wipe the blood off,” she instructs Danny, and he nods.

She moves away to look at something in one of the multiple books, and Danny takes her place, dunking the cloth and wiping at the blood on Stiles’ chest. Stiles refuses to look down, keeping his eyes on Danny as the teen ducks his head to focus on the task at hand. He works in slow, thorough swipes. The water is cold, but Stiles doesn’t care as long as it does the job. He’s going to be in the shower for hours tonight. 

“You ok?” Danny whispers, peaking up at him. He’s asking that a lot today.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes, “just don’t wanna see…” he trails off, but Danny nods in understanding nonetheless and gets back to work, being as quick as possible. Stiles will have to throw out these jeans too. He’s never going to be able to get the stains out of them. Danny also cleans up his hands, taking extra care whilst Stiles looks to the ceiling to avoid accidentally catching a glimpse. The other teen dunks the cloth again before gently running it over Stiles’ face.

“Sorry,” Danny apologises as he dunks the cloth and wipes again, “you have some on your-“

“It’s fine,” Stiles cuts him off, “thank you.”

Danny smiles that sad smile at him again but doesn’t stop.

When Danny’s done, Linda walks back over, looking over the wounds, “you won’t need stitches,” she informs him as she slathers the paste she’s made over his shoulders, “the magics done most the work, and these are nowhere near as bad as the others were last time, but this will help.”

Stiles nods his understanding; really, he feels fine. His head is clear again, and now he’s mostly clean he’s not freaking out too much.

“What was it?” Linda asks as she moves away again, cleaning up the workstation.

“Some like half-bird, half-woman thing,” Stiles explains.

She hums and nods, “Stay there. Let that sit for five minutes,” she instructs sternly as she walks to the door, “I think I have a book that might help.”

The door closes behind her, leaving Danny and Stiles alone.

Danny moves a chair from the corner to sit in front of Stiles, “so…”

Stiles raises an eyebrow.

“You uh said some stuff…back in the clearing,” Danny prompts, looking back intently.

Stiles’ eyes go wide, “Oh fuck. I…I didn’t mean…I wasn’t like coming onto you…I just…I almost died and was thinking it would kinda suck if no one knew, and ah…”

Danny laughs, “dude, I’m gay, I get it. I didn’t think you were like trying to get with me or something. I was more worried you said it without thinking about it, like if you’re not ready and don’t want to talk about it… that’s cool. I can pretend I didn’t even hear you.”

Stiles smiles at the offer, “No, no, it's fine; I was going to tell you anyway. And I uh meant the other thing too. You are my best friend man.”

Danny beams back at him, “Yeah, man, you’re my best friend too.”

There’s a pause. Stiles doesn’t do well with sincerity, “So, like, do we start swapping friendship bracelets now? Or?”

Danny huffs a laugh, rolling his eyes, but he looks at Stiles fondly, “Have you told anyone else?”

Stiles nods, “Yeah, a few people. I uh told Dad this morning actually, he took it well.”

Danny smiles, reaching out a hand to carefully nudge at his chest, making sure to avoid his paste-covered shoulders, “I’m glad dude.”

Stiles smiles back, opening his mouth to say something before the door opens again, and Linda enters, book open in her hands.

“Is this what you saw?” She asks, turning the book around to show the teens. On one of the pages is a hand-drawn picture similar to what they saw in the preserve. They both nod. “Was she messing with the wind around you two?” She follows up, turning the book around to flick through the pages.

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees, “the wind in the clearing was going crazy, but it stopped suddenly when she…died.”

Linda nods back, and he’s grateful for her lack of judgment, “it was a harpy, I think,” she tells them, handing the book over to Stiles to read. He flicks through the pages on harpies, half-human, half-bird creatures who personify storm winds. “What exactly happened?” She asks.

Danny looks to Stiles, and he sighs before explaining everything, from the moment the harpy entered the clearing until he…killed her.

“Ok, we can wipe that off now,” Linda tells him gently as she moves forward again, pointing to the paste as she grabs for the cloth again. She wipes it away with careful hands before bandaging his shoulders with fresh dressings, “keep an eye on them,” she instructs, “and change the bandages morning and night.”

Stiles nods.

Linda pauses as she finishes up, squinting as she looks at the tattoo on his collarbone. “That harpy shouldn’t have been so focused on you; maybe you need stronger concealment tattoos. I knew things would come for you. That explosion of power would have been felt, but to find you so easily…” She trails off with a frown.

Danny looks pointedly at Stiles, and he sighs again. “Yeah, about that,” he starts, “Derek…the Hale Alpha,” he clarifies, “he could smell a…change? Is that because of the tattoos too?”

Linda studies Stiles carefully, “I don’t know, perhaps. Did he smell it straight away?”

Stiles pauses, thinking back, fighting the blush he can feel blooming on his cheeks; his attempts are unsuccessful if Danny’s shit-eating grin is anything to go off. “I don’t know,” Stiles finally answers, firmly pushing the memory of Derek’s face against his neck, his nose sliding along the sensitive flesh in a box in his mind and stuffing it to the back of the metaphorical closet…heh closet. “Not until he scented me, at least,” Stiles admits.

Linda raises her eyebrows before she answers, “It sounds like the rune isn’t working as it should. Maybe your magic didn't take to it, or maybe I didn't embed enough of mine in there to get it started. I was admittedly more worried about the healing rune taking hold.”

Stiles nods, looking down to watch his feet swing back and forth. He’s oddly…dejected…disappointed…a mix of both. So that’s why Derek was being weird. He hadn’t noticed because he cared but rather, he was sensing something on Stiles he had never smelled before because the tattoo wasn't working like it should. For a moment there Stiles actually thought the wolf paid attention, that he was something other than the stupid human tagalong, that maybe Derek hadn’t been lying when he said Stiles is Pack.

“I don’t think that’s it,” Danny cuts in, “maybe the runes need updating sure, but I don’t think Derek would react like that if he wasn’t at least partially concerned. He said you smelt different, right? As in he knew what you smelt like before?” He asks Stiles, and Stiles nods hesitantly, “then I think he cares, his reaction… it’s too much just for noticing a power shift.”

Linda raises an eyebrow but refrains from saying anything. Stiles looks at Danny sceptically; clearly his friend is just trying to make him feel better. “You don’t even know him. How do you know this?” Stiles points out with a rueful smile.

“Just a hunch,” Danny tells him.

“Well, when your shoulders are healed properly, you should come back and we’ll do some more tattoos, stronger ones for protection,” Linda says, leaving the topic behind.

“Woah,” Stiles says, head snapping back up to her, eyes wide, starting to panic, “my dad is already going to kill me just for having these if he ever finds out, and you want to give me more? What was it a secret dream of yours to be a tattoo artist? There’s a shop down the road you can use for practice, not me.”

Danny snorts and tries unsuccessfully to hide it with a cough. Stiles glares at him.

Linda smiles a little, not taking offence to his words. “If that harpy was able to track you down, zero in on you that easily, even when Danny was trying to attack it too, then the protection rune isn’t enough. It’s working on magic users; if I didn’t know what you were already I wouldn’t be able to tell. Your aura is dulled compared to before. You could be a witch, but beyond that, I wouldn't know. But it clearly isn’t working on other supernaturals. With the harpy and potentially the Hale Alpha. This could be dangerous. I told you your magic awakening will attach others. You need some form of protection or a way to see them coming; otherwise, they will keep jumping you in the woods. More protection or concealment tattoos would be a start just until we figure out a way to stop creatures coming because believe me, this will be the first of many,” she reasons, sighing with a small smile, “I don’t have a lot of magic, I can’t hide it for you like someone more powerful could, and since you insist on staying in this town instead of looking for someone to train you then the tattoos are the only way I can help,” she doesn’t say it with any judgement, just sympathy, “its up to you of course, but it’s for the best. If you decide not to, that’s fine; it’s still semi-effective, and the main thing is that the healing and focus tattoos work.” She’s smiling softly again, far less stressed than his previous time here.

Stiles nods, “Yeah, you’re right…” he trails off, going back over what she said, “Wait. You said come back…I thought you wanted to stay out of all…this.” He waves a hand vaguely over himself.

She sighs, looking down at her hands before explaining, eyes sad, “I did,” she admits, “but I’m only kidding myself. I’m a witch. I’m never not going to be involved in the supernatural. Deaton already knows my address, and I don’t trust that man as far as I could throw him. But not only that, I couldn’t leave you two on your own. You’re still children,” Stiles makes a face, but she continues before he can argue, “Children to me. It wouldn’t feel right to leave you alone in this, not when it’s too dangerous to tell others. If something happened to either of you… I’d feel responsible, and I’m not ok with that.” She looks back to Stiles and Danny, “So no arguments, I will help as much as I can. There are some more books I could lend you, and I’ll patch you up whenever you need. The tattoos are always an option. And any wisdom I have is yours, as long as you don’t tell anyone I’m here, ok?” She looks back and forth between them.

“Ok.” Danny and Stiles say in unison.

Linda smiles softly at them, “I’ll remove the wards so you can come past whenever. Just those keeping you two from finding the place, not the protection wards. You will be safe whenever you’re here,”

“Wards!” Danny exclaims suddenly before Stiles has the chance to thank Linda.

Both Linda and Stiles look at him in confusion.

Danny’s worry and anxiousness are gone, now replaced with excitement, “why don’t we use wards?” He says to Stiles.

“Ahh…what?” Stiles replies, utterly confused.

“Well, the harpy today came right at you, yeah? And Linda said we need a way to stop the creatures from coming and know where they are so they won’t jump us. So, wards,” Danny finishes with a grin.

Stiles’ jaw drops, “Jesus, Danny I’ve had this magic like what? A little over a month? And you think I could make wards powerful enough to hide the whole town from the supernatural?”

Danny shakes his head, rolling his eyes like he’s frustrated that Stiles isn’t understanding, “Not hide the town, just like set up a perimeter around it, like an…early warning system, just to let you know when something passes through. That’s doable, right?” Danny asks Linda.

She briefly considers it before nodding, “Yes, it is. It wouldn’t stop anything from entering town but at least you would know when something came through, and how many did, and which direction, and eventually, as time passes, I think it’ll die down. With the right amount of magic, you could even get a sense of what's coming through, what kind of creature. For now, you have had one incident. I’d brace for more. It might even deter less powerful creatures or magic users if they can feel the power emanating from them. I can show you how to make wards, we could practice, and you could set them around town. It’s worth a shot.”

Danny’s grinning again, proud of his idea, and Stiles chuckles softly. That could work, an early warning system of anything entering the territory or of anything leaving. He'd be able to know if the Alpha Pack leaves and if they take Erica and Boyd with them.

“Ok,” he agrees, looking to Linda “wards.”

***

It’s late by the time he’s done in the shower. Stiles stayed under the spray for hours, using up all the hot water and racking up the water bill. He still doesn’t feel fully clean. Like the blood and viscera cling to him, even though it had mostly been his own blood and most of it had been wiped away earlier by Danny.

Walking into his bedroom, he has already decided not to sleep tonight. At least not till he falls asleep from exhaustion. He’s not exactly keen to revisit the harpy’s fiery demise in his sleep. Passing by his window, he pauses, a strange feeling creeping up his spine and his magic warming in his stomach. Almost as though something is watching him.

Slowly, Stiles opens his window and leans forward slightly to look outside, scanning the tree line for anything out of place, but he sees nothing. If something is out there, it’s making sure to stay hidden. He leans back, a little unnerved by the feeling, but his magic flares stronger inside him, and he settles. Whatever is watching isn’t going to hurt him; his magic knows that somehow, and he’s learnt to trust the strange intuition that comes with it.

He closes the window again and tries to put the idea out of his mind as he settles at his desk with more books from Linda. Some are in English, some Polish because he mentioned he could read it, some in French and thank whatever God will listen that Stiles took French in middle school and is halfway decent at it.

He settles in for a long night of researching wards. Trying to ignore the feeling of eyes watching nearby.

Chapter Text

Stiles P.O.V

It's two weeks of hell for Stiles. He spends his days studying and practicing defensive magic at Linda's, lacrosse practice with the guys, and hanging out with Danny. He spends his nights doing anything but sleeping until exhaustion finally takes him. Too scared of what he'll see in his dreams, his nightmares have been bad enough before he burst a harpy into flames. He doesn't need the added trauma. And with all his time spent practising magic and studying, he has barely had time to search for Erica and Boyd. His few attempts at tracking spells had gone badly, and that's putting it lightly, considering he accidentally set his couch on fire trying one. That had been a long and painful conversation with his dad, who definitely didn't believe his explanation and has been searching the house suspiciously since like he's going to find a secret meth lab in the linen cupboard.

The only plus side in the two weeks is that he figures out the wards, and it's almost entirely by accident. Linda has been getting him to push his magic into runes, embedding them with beliefs of safety and protection. Mostly, that means looking at runes he'd drawn out on paper and wishing. It's incredibly dull and, at first, extremely ineffective.

It's during one of these times that he haphazardly wishes the ward would just work already so he can go home and sleep, and the magic bursts to life. So, he had tried again. And again. And again. By the tenth time, pushing his magic into runes on paper, he got the feel of it. How to twist the magic to his intent, how to make sure it lingered in the rune, how to activate the protection or safety or warning charm there. From then, he had moved to runes carved in wood, then stone, then to linking them in a small circle before gradually getting bigger and bigger until he helped stabilise Linda's own wards on her house and shop. By then, Linda had given them the green light to go out to the preserve and line the town.

Which is what he and Danny are doing now. Walking around the town's perimeter, which is mostly just the woods, burying stones caved with protection runes and embedding them with magic so they all link together nice and pretty.

"What if a squirrel digs them up?" Danny asks, leaning over Stiles' shoulder to see the rune glow brightly with magic before fading.

Danny hadn't been allowed to watch Stiles practice the wards, as his frustration got the best of him, and Linda was worried his magic might lass out. Instead, Linda has spent weeks showing Danny how to brew her amazing tea and also teaching him how to do wound care. On the plus side, Stiles gets good tea and avoids being doused in antiseptic again. The downside is that Danny has so many questions. Though Stiles secretly thinks it's kind of great, he gets to explain it all and share it with Danny, but he won't tell the other teen that.

"They can't," Stiles explains as he piles the dirt back into the hole he made, "Linda showed me how to fix them to the earth. They can't be removed unless the magic breaks. I'm only burying them so they won't be so obvious. This way no hiker is going to come out and be all 'ooh pretty rock'."

"I mean, you aren't burying them that deep, though," Danny muses, looking down at the bag of rune-caved stones in his hands.

"Because if something goes wrong, I want to be able to dig them back up in a hurry without needing a shovel," Stiles explains as he stands.

They are almost done. This is their second day out in the preserve trying to get the wards up, only breaking for lunch and to go home for a fitful sleep. The runes need to be placed every sixty feet, and with the trees so dense, they can't drive, meaning it's been two long days of walking. Stiles is filthy, with jeans covered in mud from constantly kneeling and twigs in his hair from running into bushes when he isn't paying attention. Danny looks far more put together in that his clothes are at least clean, but he looks exhausted.

"Do you think this will help?" Danny asks him as they start walking again, Danny leading the way with the map Linda and Stiles had drawn out the path on, a red Sharpie indicating where each rune should be placed.

"I hope so. At least then we will know roughly when the things are coming for us, maybe even be able to seek them out before they find us," Stiles sighs, running a dirt-covered hand through his hair before grimacing at his mistake. He's for sure going to need a shower after this, "it's pure luck nothings tried to kill me when we are out in public."

And really, it is extremely lucky. Because in two weeks, six supernatural creatures have tried to jump Stiles for his power. Stiles tried to reason with them all, but they had all been too far gone, feral with the idea of possessing his power. In the end, he had to kill them, but he never used the fire again. The smell of burning flesh will not be something he will be forgetting easily, nor the sight of the harpy burning away to nothing but ash.

He won't be forgetting any of them for a long while. Two Omega werewolves, both on separate occasions; he has claw marks marring his left leg and his right side from them. A goblin, which was not as small as certain video games, led him to believe and really had a thing for biting. Luckily, its teeth were rather blunt, and he only bears one scar from the incident by his left elbow. A griffin which pounced on him while he and Danny were doing their morning jog through the preserve; it was a bitch to clean its blood out of his running joggers. Some kind of leprechaun, gnome thing that kept trying to bite at his ankles and wouldn't stop raving about drinking children's blood. And a werecoyote who was mad and yelling about needing his power to go and kill her daughter had scratched him up something chronic, and when she lay dying at his feet, he asked who her daughter was, but she refused to tell him.

"Ok, this should be the next one," Danny says, stopping and pointing to the ground by their feet; he offers Stiles one of the rune-carved stones, and Stiles gets to work, digging a small hole before placing it inside.

He calls his magic forward and guides it into the stone. The rune inscribed there is one of warning, just like all the others have been. Linda said his magic is yet to be powerful enough to cloak the whole town in protection with the runes. The word 'yet' freaks Stiles out because that means she expects his magic to one day be strong enough to do just that. Instead, the runes were set up to warn other supernaturals so they could feel the power rolling off them and turn the other way. There was a little protection magic in them to make sure they couldn't be removed, but mostly, they just linked up to one another; Linda had described it as a giant trip-wire. If a supernatural creature or magic user crossed the line, he could feel it and which rune they were closest to when they crossed. The idea was to confront the threat head-on and avoid it making its way into town.

The light fades from the rune as the magic takes and Stiles buries it before standing again. The magic isn't all that taxing, but he sways slightly as he stands, exhausted from all the walking.

"Only two more left," Danny encourages, "then my car is sitting on the road nearby waiting for us, and we can drive back to where we parked your Jeep this morning,"

Stiles sighs, "I can't wait to get home," he confesses, smiling at Danny, who is still way too energised for having walked through the woods all day, "I just want to sleep for eighteen hours."

Danny laughs as they trudge along.

Just before they reach the next marker, Stiles pauses.

Danny turns to him, eyebrows furrowed for a second before turning to look around them, searching for the threat. When he doesn't find one, he turns back to Stiles, "What's wrong? Is something coming? I can't see anything."

Stiles shakes his head, not meeting Danny's eyes as he stares off into the trees, "No, that's not it…I just feel something, like my magic is recoiling from something. Something from that direction," he lifts an arm to point out at the group of trees he's looking at.

"Well, we are almost done; we should just finish the next couple of ruins and get the hell out…" Danny trails off as Stiles starts walking in the direction of whatever it is making his magic feel weird, "Or we can walk straight towards the thing that's for sure to be dangerous. I mean, what harm could that be? Definitely not any death at the end of this path where even your magic is not wanting to be near." Danny mutters sarcastically under his breath, and Stiles ignores him.

Stiles' magic comes alive within him, rushing up to the surface of his skin as if instinctively trying to protect him; he feels it in the air, rolling around him but pushing against his bones as if trying to ward him away from whatever is further in the trees. Whatever is out there feels like rot, some kind of foreign, sick magic rolling over the land, sticking close to the ground. It feels like a spreading sickness.

"Are we sure this is a good idea?" Danny asks from behind him in a whisper.

"Well, we can't just not check it out," Stiles reasons, matching his volume, "why are we whispering exactly?"

"I don't know," Danny returns, "it just feels right, it's quiet out here."

Stiles furrows his brows; it is quiet, almost silent, save from the crunch of leaves and soil beneath their feet. The birds aren't singing here; in fact, it sounds like there is no wildlife around at all; even the trees seem still and silent, barely moving in the wind.

After a few minutes of walking, the trees thin, and they come to the edge of a small, dark clearing.

"Uh, what the fuck," Danny whispers; Stiles shares the sentiment.

The trees around the clearing are dead, leaves black and trunks dark, as if the colour and life have been sapped out of them, thick black lines spiderwebbing across the bark and disappearing down into the soil.

Danny goes to step forward, but Stiles stops him with an arm across his chest; the clearing is ringed in mushrooms and fungi, and Stiles doesn't know if it's safe to cross. Danny must notice it too as he asks in a hushed tone, "Faeries?"

Stiles shakes his head, "No, the circle isn't perfect, see," he points out patches across the clearing where the circle is broken, not a perfect ring, "It's like it's grown here because everything is decaying, but I don't know if there's some kind of curse, I don't think we should walk any further." Stiles' magic recoils inside of him, echoing to leave, but Stiles ignores it for now, clenching his fists to stop any magic from flying from his fingertips.

Stiles is crouching to look more closely at the fungi by his feet when Danny speaks, "Uh…Stiles?"

"Hmm," he says, straightening up, but Danny isn't looking at him; rather, he's looking around the clearing at the trees and up at the branches above them. "What's up?"

"What the fuck are those?" Danny says, pointing above their heads.

Stiles looks up, and sure enough, something is hanging off the bare, sickly-looking branches, small enough that he missed them at first glance, but looking around, he sees them scattered all over the trees by the clearing. They look like some kind of twisted decoration, bundles of sticks tied and knotted together by twine and what looks like…

"Is that hair!" Danny exclaims, jumping back away from them.

"Ok, what the fuck!" Stiles moves back with him because, yes, that indeed looks like human hair of varying colours. There are at least fifty of the things around the clearing, and as Stiles focuses, they are giving off their own small burst of magic, almost like their wards of their own. "Ok, let's just finish the wards and get the fuck out of here; then we can call Allison and see if she knows anything."

They stumble back to their makeshift path; Stiles looks over his shoulder every few feet; he makes quick work of the remaining two ward stones, suddenly no longer exhausted from all the walking.

When he feels the magic rush up under his skin as all the wards link together in a circle around the town, he relaxes slightly, tension falling off his shoulders, but still grabs Danny by the arm and basically drags him back to where they left the car. Neither of them says a word until they are inside with the doors locked and driving further away from the clearing.

"What the fuck." Danny says quietly, eyes on the road as he drives.

"What the fuck." Stiles parrots before taking a deep breath and pulling out his phone.

Allison answers in two rings, "Stiles? Is everything ok?"

"Nope, it's very much not. Listen have you or your dad ever seen these like weird talisman things in the preserve, like a bunch of sticks bound with human hair?" Stiles rushes, not even bothering with a greeting; Danny's insistent look makes him pull the phone away and put it on speaker.

Allison, to her credit, doesn't seem to take it personally, "No? I've never heard of anything like that." Her voice switches, becoming more serious; he hears her stand, then the rustling of paper; she's in research mode, "How many were there? Where did you find them? Were they hanging or buried?"

"Like fifty at least. Northwest in the preserve, they were surrounding a clearing, hanging in the branches, and the trees and ground look sick like they were being drained of life or something,"

"Hmm," She replies, more rustling and then, "I'm asking Dad, this sounds serious." He hears her move around, Chris's gruff voice, and then Allison repeats what Stiles told her.

There's a pause, then suddenly Chris is on the phone, "Stiles, I need you to be honest with me. Did you touch them?" Chris sounds more serious than he usually does, which worries Stiles because he didn't think the guy could sound any more serious; the dude has like no personality.

"No." Stiles replies, confused, "We got the hell out of there as soon as we saw them," it's only partially a lie; they finished the wards as quickly as they could and then left.

"What exactly did the clearing look like?" Chris asks.

Stiles describes it to him, the mushrooms, the decay, the weird hair things. He leaves out the feeling it gave his magic for obvious reasons but tells him it felt creepy nonetheless. When he's done, Chris sighs.

"Ok, don't go back there, do not touch them, and don't even go out in the preserve until I am there," Chris instructs.

"What?" Stiles starts, but Chris cuts him off.

"We'll be back as soon as we can, three days tops," His voice muffles like he is turning away from the phone, "Allison, pack your stuff. We need to go to the airport." Then back to Stiles, "Be careful; don't follow any weird people into the woods. We will see you soon."

Then Chris hangs up.

Stiles stares at his phone in shock for a second.

"Uh, the fuck was that?" Danny asks, sounding concerned; they are almost to where Stiles parked the Jeep this morning.

"Ah, I don't know. I guess it's a good thing we didn't touch them?" Stiles replies. Chris cancelling the 'Family Bonding' holiday for a few twigs and bound hair is alarming. Stiles doesn't even want to know what kind of attention he's attracted to the town now.

"Fucking hell, why can't we catch a break." Danny sighs.

"Yeah…" Stiles agrees, staring at the road ahead of them.

Why can't they catch a break?