Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Seattle was gorgeous.

They took their time on the road trip, stopping at roadside attractions at Isaac's insistence. State parks, as well. They stopped at the coast several times, simply because Isaac wanted to see the ocean from different points of view. Peter drove them through the forests of northern California, where they met a large pack that had been long time family friends of the Hales. Isaac was surprised to find that they were well-received as guests of the pack, an alpha Hale and his beta, passing through on their way to Washington for business.

The expected duration of their stay there? Indefinite.

They looked at apartments online at rest stops and when they stopped for meals, so they had one already picked out and had an appointment scheduled with the leasing office by the time they got to Washington. After staying the night a “proper hotel” as Peter had called in, instead of one of the many roadside motels they had stayed in on the drive, they did a walk-through of the loft. Peter signed the lease. Then came furniture shopping, grocery shopping, clothes shopping. Isaac found a record store within walking distance of the loft, and they became well acquainted with the owners. Once they were sufficiently settled, Peter cooked them an amazing meal. They celebrated by breaking in their new bed.

Isaac finished school a few months after they got settled, and considered getting a part-time job just to have something to do during the day. It wasn't like they needed the money, Peter's inheritance was, as Isaac had found out, kind of huge. He didn't know how much exactly, but when Peter told him that they could live comfortably, anywhere they wanted, for the rest of their lives...Isaac believed him.

He checked his email after a few months and found a flood of messages from Erica. Each one broke his heart a little more than the last, until she started sending him real messages, at least. The pack updates were good, they helped ease some of the guilt that had been twisting in Isaac since they left. Not that he could have stayed, not if he wanted to be with Peter, and he wanted that more than anything.

He sent her a video for her birthday. The others, he saved to a folder called “Sunshine Twin” to look at when he misses home. He never responded to any of them, though, didn't want to encourage her to search him out.

Peter waited a full year before he started sniffing around for pack members. Isaac was actually rather surprised by the amount of self-control he showed in making that decision. It made sense, of course. Peter had explained it to him – better for them to settle in, get comfortable, and learn the boundaries of any existing packs in the area before they started recruiting.

Within six months, Peter had two new betas, a woman named Emily who went by 'Em', and a man named Jackson, of all things. Peter called him Dodger, once, a jab at the man's overconfidence and self-assumed charm. Isaac laughed for ten solid minutes when he realized that Peter referenced a Disney movie, and the nickname stuck.

Isaac and Peter trained together, and they trained the betas together, taught them to control the shift. Another surprise – Isaac was in almost every way Peter's equal within the pack. 'Their de facto leader,' Peter had called him once, joking and yet not. Peter held all of the alpha powers, but he gave Isaac authority within the pack, and the other two betas, although both a few years older than Isaac, respected that authority. Respected him. It was something he had always sort of felt was missing, with Derek, and the pack he had tried to build. They were supposed to trust each other, be a family for each other, but they were all still so young and bitter.

It took some time for Isaac to accept that it never would have worked out.

Six months after Em and Dodger joined their ranks, the twins showed up.

Isaac expected a fight, but they were in poor shape. They asked to see the alpha, and Isaac reluctantly brought them to Peter. It turned out they had the same general idea when they fled the Argents and Beacon Hills, coming north. They laid low for a while, healed, started a pack of their own; everything had been going fine until they encroached on the territory belonging to a coven of witches, further in the south. There was a fight, most of their pack was decimated, and the coven leader stripped them of their alpha powers.

Omegas never survived long without a pack, so they came looking for one to join. Rumors had spread about a new Hale pack based out of Seattle, and they decided to take the chance. Isaac wanted to kill them outright, revenge for coming after them in Beacon Hills, but Peter talked him down. They made the decision together, and welcomed Ethan and Aiden into the pack. The twins warned Peter that the coven may come looking for them, but he was unconcerned.

Life continued on as normal.

Isaac didn't fully trust the twins at first, but they seemed happy to take orders from Peter, and they respected Isaac's authority in the same way that Em and Dodger did. They trained hard and worked hard, and taught the pack things they had learned from living with the alpha pack. They helped Peter assemble a new, more complete bestiary, using their knowledge and his.

Everything was going great.

And while it hurt to admit it, Isaac found he was missing Beacon Hills less and less every day. He kept checking his email, but after two years, the daily updates from Erica had dwindled down to once every few weeks, and then once a month. Eventually, they stopped completely. Isaac still never wrote her back, and the lack of incoming emails from her worried him, at first. It made him sad, of course, but he hoped she was happy and healthy and safe. He thought about calling, once or twice, but could never work himself up to it.

In the spring, they received a letter from the pack they had stayed with in the redwood forests, inviting them to come visit. Peter wrote back, thanking them for the invitation and accepting it. In his letter, he told the alpha when to expect them. A week later, the pack loaded up their cars and headed south.

When they got there, however, it wasn't the wolf pack waiting for them.

Chapter Text

There's a throbbing behind Isaac's eyes. It feels like his blood is on fire in his veins. His mouth is dry and tastes like metal and ozone. The inside of his skull feels like the crackle in the air during a lightning storm, every muscle in his body aches, and his vision has gone white from the pain so many times he's lost count.

And through it all, the only thought he can complete is, 'I fucking hate magic.'

It turns out that the coven that Ethan and Aiden pissed off were still, in fact, pissed. Apparently, they had bitten two members of the coven just before the leader took their alpha powers. The witches, unable to take the bite, had died. So the coven had been tracking the twins since their arrival in Seattle, waiting for the right opportunity to strike. When they heard about their plans to meet with the pack in California, the witches planned carefully.

The coven got there the day before them and wiped out the pack. There was nothing left of them by the time Peter, Isaac, and their pack arrived.

They were ambushed.

The pack fought hard. Isaac was proud of them, impressed by how well they worked together, but it was short lived. There was little they could do in close-quarters combat against magic. Bruised and beaten, Peter ordered a retreat.

Isaac rolls over, spits a mouthful of blood into the dirt and leaves. His memory is hazy, and he tries to fight through the pain to remember.

He remembers Ethan and Aiden leading Em and Dodger away from the fight, and Peter heading off the coven leader when she tried to give chase. He remembers Peter's angry roar when one of the witches threw Isaac into a tree with a blast of energy, remembers the way his ribs cracked, the way it felt like he was being crushed when he tried to suck in a breath.

The pain is slowly ebbing away, he thinks, or he's becoming more used to it, Isaac isn't actually sure which. He rolls onto his back and sucks in a labored breath, lets it out in a sigh of relief when he feels that his ribs have mostly mended, but that makes him wonder how long he had been lying there on the forest floor. It takes some effort, but he pries his eyes open, groaning when the sunlight filtering through the trees sends a sharp pain through his head. He barely hears his own voice over the ringing in his ears, muffling most of the sounds of the forest around him. Isaac brings a hand to his head and feels sticky wetness at his temple, blood that's been there long enough to cool but not long enough to dry completely.

He lies there for longer than he should, sucking in shallow breaths, taking stock of himself. The ringing in his ears subsides as the crackling of what he assumes is residual magic in his body fades. He's sore all over, but he's alive. His ribs are tender, healing slowly, and the throbbing in his head is persistent, but otherwise, he seems to be uninjured, which he's pretty sure is some kind of miracle.

There's a rustle of leaves somewhere to Isaac's left, and a whine that sounds more animal than human. He tries to sit up too fast and has to close his eyes, a wave of nausea rolling through him at the pain that the sudden motion causes. Isaac makes it to his hands and knees before he retches, nothing more than blood and stomach acid making its way out of him as his body shakes. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand when he's finished and sits back on his heels, fingers digging into the dirt and leaves and tangle of tree roots under him to keep himself steady. There's another whine beside him and he turns slowly, so as not to upset his stomach again.

Six feet away, laying on its side in the dirt and leaves, is a gray wolf. It's facing away from him, and Isaac feels a pit of dread start to form in his stomach.

He glances around the area, but the coven is long since gone, and Peter is nowhere to be seen. The knot of dread twists his stomach, and coupled with the lingering pain, causes a cold sweat to break out over Isaac's brow, stinging the wound on his temple that hasn't quite healed yet. His limbs are still shaking, so he doesn't try to stand, instead crawling slowly and carefully over the uneven ground towards the animal. It's awake enough to hear his approach and it tries to move, but it can't seem to lift itself up and lets out another pitiful whine instead. Isaac can see it's body tense as he moves slowly around it, but it relaxes when he moves into it's line of sight.

The wolf lets out another low whine and rolls onto its belly, but its limbs are trembling the same way Isaac's are, so it settles its chin on its front paws and stares at him as he stares back.

His stomach twists again and Isaac sits heavily in the dirt, lifting a shaking hand toward the wolf. It watches him woefully, and its eyes slide shut when Isaac tangles his fingers into the thick fur at the scruff of it's neck.

“Peter?” Isaac's voice shakes, and the wolf whines again, nuzzling its snout against his knee. He laughs, high pitched and hysterical. It's involuntary, but he can't stop it, he just laughs and laughs and shakes and cries. The wolf – Peter, god, it's Peter – opens its eyes and looks at him, and Isaac thinks he might throw up again when they flash blue instead of red.

“Fuck,” he breathes, removing his hand from Peter's fur to wipe the tears from his face, smearing dirt and blood over his cheeks in the process. He's still shaking as he wipes his hands on his jeans, and then they're back in Peter's fur, stroking over him, checking for injuries. Peter bares his teeth and snarls when Isaac runs a hand over one of his front legs, and Isaac lets out another hysterical laugh. It's hard to tell, and he doesn't know a lot about canine anatomy, but he thinks it's broken.

“Are you,” Isaac swallows when Peter looks at him, attentive as he talks, “Can you heal, like this?”

Maybe it's stupid, talking to him like he can answer, but Peter seems to at least understand what he's saying, and huffs a breath in response. Isaac doesn't know what that means. They're in the middle of a forest, their pack is nowhere to be seen, his boyfriend is a fucking wolf, and if the flash of blue in his eyes is any indication, the witches took Peter's alpha powers, on top of it all.

Isaac wants to cry.

Instead, he forces himself to stand, and wills some steadiness back to his limbs. The magic attacks left him weak, and his head is spinning, but he manages to stay upright. Peter copies him and struggles to his feet. He falls once, on his injured leg, and the yelp of pain that comes from him makes Isaac cringe. It takes a few tries, but he finds balance on three legs instead of four and looks at Isaac, waiting.

“Okay,” Isaac says, more to himself than to Peter, and he looks around the forest, tries to get a handle on where the hell they are. “Okay. Let's...try to find the car, if it's even still here.”

They walk together through the trees in silence for what feels like ages. His sense of time is skewed from the fight and being knocked out, and the whole area smells like residual magic. A few trees are scorched, although from lightning or fire, he can't tell. There's also a disconcerting amount of blood on everything, but Isaac tries not to think of where it came from. The last thing he needs right now is his imagination getting away from him. What he needs is to find the car, get his phone, and call the pack. Find out if they made it away safely, or if the coven caught up with them. He needs to figure out what to do next.

The car is surprisingly intact when they finally reach it, and Isaac opens the back door for Peter, who climbs in carefully and immediately lays across the seats, huffing an exhausted-sounding breath. Isaac laughs breathlessly, so overwhelmed by the situation that laughter seems to be the only thing he has left. He fishes the keys out of his pocket and sits in the drivers seat. The engine starts without a hitch, which is also a surprise; he half expected the coven to have fried the system or turned it into some kind of eldritch horror in their absence.

Peter's phone is sitting in the cup holder where he left it, and Isaac isn't nearly as surprised to see that it's dead. He plugs it into the charger and breathes a sigh of relief when it turns on. He lets it finish loading, and sees several missed calls from Aiden, but no voicemail. Hand shaking, he dials Aiden and puts the phone on speaker, turning sideways in the seat to watch Peter as the phone rings, and rings.

It clicks when Aiden picks up, and before Isaac can say anything, the other beta is talking.

“Peter, where the hell are you?” Isaac laughs again, hysterical and relieved and about a dozen other things that he can't name.

“It's Isaac,” he says, then swallows, “Are you okay? Did you make it out?”

“We're fine, Em's got a concussion and Dodger's got a broken leg, but we're okay,” Aiden explains, and Isaac hears Ethan in the background, but can't make out what he's saying. He breathes another, longer, sigh of relief, and watches Peter do the same. “Are you okay? Where's Peter?”

“He's here,” Isaac says, but Peter can't offer him any help here, and he doesn't know how much he should divulge to the other beta. “We're okay, I think. Something happened, but I'm going to fix it.”

There's silence on the line for longer than Isaac is comfortable with, and finally Aiden asks, “What did they do to him?”

Isaac looks at Peter searchingly, but Peter just rolls his eyes and huffs a breath.

“I'm not sure,” Isaac says honestly, scrubbing a hand through his hair. His head is still throbbing, but it's not as bad now. “He's...a wolf. I don't think he can change back.”

Aiden is quiet for a beat, and then he says, “And what did they do to you?”

Isaac's head seems to throb extra hard in answer, so he closes his eyes and leans his head against the seat. He can sense Peter looking at him from the backseat, but he doesn't want to look back, to see an expression he can't decipher on a canine face. His stomach turns.

“Nothing? I don't know,” he tells Aiden after too long, blowing out a sigh at the end. He looks at the clock on the dash. It's 7:48 in the morning; they must have been lying out in the forest all night. Isaac catches a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror, sees the blood dried on his face and in his hair, the dirt smeared over his cheeks. There's a leaf in his hair, and he reaches up to pull it out, then rolls down the car window and tosses it out. His head is pounding and he's not sure if it's something that can be fixed by triggering the shift, or if he needs to wait it out. Some food and water probably wouldn't hurt either, he knows, but first he needs a game plan.

“Where are you?” He asks, when Aiden doesn't say anything else, and Isaac tries to focus on the pack, on organizing. He really is the de facto leader now, what with Peter being a wolf, but also apparently no longer an alpha. Isaac doesn't want to deal with this; he wants a fourteen hour nap and a pizza. He hears a shuffle over the phone and then Em is speaking into it.

“We're at my cousin's house in Portland,” she says, and Isaac is relieved to hear her voice, sounding slightly pained but otherwise no worse for wear. That also tells him where the other car went, and he's infinitely more glad to know they still have reliable transportation. “We're trying to regroup, but we were worried about you and Peter. Is he...”

“We're fine,” Isaac insists when she trails off, sounding unsure. “Lay low there until you're all travel fit. There's a credit card in the glove box, use it for gas and head back to Seattle as soon as you can.”

“Are you sure? The coven could be waiting for us there,” Em argues, and Isaac curses softly, dragging a hand over his face.

“They left me and Peter alive, and if they're chasing you, they would have caught up already,” he tries to sound sure, but he's really not. What if the coven is waiting for them in Seattle? What if he's sending his pack to their deaths? “Whatever they wanted, they must have gotten it. Maybe turning Peter into a wolf was all the payback they needed.”

“What are you going to do?” Aiden again. Isaac realizes they must have him on speaker. He chews his lip and looks at Peter, who stares back and sighs through his nose. Isaac sighs as well.

“I have to find a way to change him back,” Isaac says, and it's the only thing he's sure of. The alpha powers are a whole other concern, but they can't deal with that until Peter is in his proper form again. He doesn't even know if that's possible; he had heard of witches, but until yesterday, he had never actually seen one, or what their powers could do. This needs to be handled carefully, he knows, but concentrating is hard.

Isaac closes his eyes and focuses on the shift, and there's a warm, almost tingling pull under his skin that's new. It's not bad, but it startles his eyes open, and he catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror again.

His eyes flash red before returning to their normal, human color.

Bile rises in his throat.

“I have to go,” he says, doesn't realize that Em and Aiden have been talking to him until they fall silent.

“Is everything okay?” Aiden asks immediately, but Isaac is staring at himself in the mirror. He sees Peter watching him, but Isaac can't tell what he's thinking. His heart is pounding so hard in his ears he almost doesn't hear the question.

“Yeah, I,” he pauses and swallows, tries to shake some sense into himself. He makes a flash decision, straightens out in the seat, and buckles himself in. “We have some friends in southern Cali, I need to take Peter to them and see if they can help. Head to Seattle. Keep me updated on where you are. If you run into trouble, do not try to fight. Run, and hide. Can you do that?”

Aiden and Em both make noises that aren't words, but Isaac needs an affirmative. He growls softly and repeats himself, “Can you do that?”

“Yeah, we can do that,” Aiden says, and Emily tacks on, “Be safe, Isaac.”

He hangs up the call and drops the phone into the cup holder to let it charge. Peter gives a soft whine from the back seat, an inquisitive sound, and Isaac meets his gaze in the mirror.

“Well,” he says, smiling grimly, “Ready to go back to Beacon Hills?”

Chapter Text

It's more than a fifteen hour trip south to Beacon Hills. Isaac stops as few times as possible, splitting a piece of gas station pizza with Peter here or there, occasionally catching a half-hour of sleep when it feels like he can't keep his eyes open any longer. He's still exhausted from the encounter with the coven, and he's trying to keep himself convinced that it's normal, maybe he just needs rest. Being away from the pack doesn't help, he figures.

Having his boyfriend's alpha powers thrust on him after said boyfriend is turned into an actual wolf probably doesn't help, either.

Beacon Hills is not the same as it was when they left, that much is obvious immediately. Driving through the town gives Isaac some painful nostalgia, too many places remaining unchanged that remind him of his childhood. Time changes everything, however, and although Isaac was sure that Beacon Hills would remain forever unchanged until the end of time, he was wrong.

Three years means a lot of little things are different, things that Isaac thinks he probably wouldn't have noticed if he wasn't a werewolf. Trees that have grown bigger, paint on buildings that has worn down and started to chip, others that have had recent fresh coats of paint. There are new storefronts in place of old ones that Isaac had grown up knowing, people he doesn't recognize coming and going from old and new bars and restaurants.

It's nearly midnight by the time they pull up outside of the loft. Isaac parks the car and kills the engine, leaning back in the seat and staring at the building searchingly for several minutes before Peter makes a noise behind him, startling him out of his thoughts. Isaac unbuckles his seat belt and twists in his seat, looking into the back of the car. Peter is laying across the seats in the same position he held through most of the drive, head resting on his front paws and looking at Isaac with the same unreadable expression.

“What,” Isaac says, rather than asks, and Peter tilts his head slightly, points his nose out the window toward the building. Isaac sighs and runs a hand through his hair, which is desperate need of a wash. Really, he needs a shower, but he managed to at least clean up the blood and dirt from his face and hands at the first stop outside of the forest.

“Look,” he starts, glancing at the building himself. He can see lights on in the loft, knows that someone is home, at least. “It's been three years. What if he doesn't even live here anymore? What if he hates me for leaving?”

Peter rolls his eyes and huffs a breath, then sits up and presses his cold, wet nose against Isaac's. Isaac closes his eyes and sighs again, reaching up to run his fingers through the fur at Peter's neck. After a moment, he opens his eyes and pulls away, grabbing the keys from the ignition and Peter's phone from the cup holder, pocketing both before getting out of the car. Peter doesn't wait for him to open the back door, just climbs over the front seat and exits behind Isaac.

They walk up to the building in silence. Isaac considers calling Derek, hand in his pocket, hefting the weight of Peter's phone. He knows the number is saved, but would Derek answer? They hadn't seen him in three years, hadn't been in contact at all. All Isaac had left him with was a note, and Erica a card and an email. Suddenly, he's regretting coming here at all.

He swallows his pride and gets on the elevator with Peter, knowing that they have no other choice. They're already here, and where else could they go? The only other pack they were even semi-acquainted with had been slaughtered by the coven.

Ultimately, he decides against calling ahead. He regrets this decision, too, when they're standing in front of the door to Derek's loft. Isaac and Peter share a look, and then Isaac raises and hand and knocks solidly, three times. The sound echoes off of the large metal door and the blank walls of the hallway and eventually dies, and for several long minutes, he thinks no one is going to come to the door. The light is on inside, and he's pretty sure he heard at least one voice somewhere upstairs, but now there's no sound coming from inside at all.

“Maybe we should have called,” he mumbles, glancing at Peter, who is standing with his head cocked slightly to the side, eyes fixed on the door of the loft, listening. Isaac raises an eyebrow and tries to listen again, and suddenly the door is being rolled open.

It takes him a second to recognize the person standing in the doorway. He catalogs the slightly longer, messy hair, the filled in muscles in his shoulders and arms, the way everything about him seems just a little bit different. His shirt and jeans are old and worn, but he looks like he's finally grown into them. There's even a little bit of stubble on his jaw.

“Holy shit,” Stiles says, and Isaac is relieved to hear that his voice isn't any different than he remembers. Stiles' gaze flickers from Isaac, to Peter, then back.

“Holy shit,” he says again, and then he turns his head over his shoulder and yells into the loft, “Derek! Get your ass down here!”

Stiles' gaze is back on him seconds later, and he's looking at Isaac like he's making a mental checklist of everything about him that's different, but his expression of concentration and the scrutiny slowly melt into something else after a second. Stiles moves and then he's hugging Isaac, arms wrapped around him in what's almost a bear hug. He squeezes him once, tightly, and then Stiles holds him at arm's length, looking him over closely.

“What happened to you?” Stiles asks, gaze honing in on the dirt and grass stains on his jeans and the little spot of blood near the collar of his t-shirt that he couldn't get out. Isaac's eyebrows knit together in confusion, and he's about to open his mouth to respond when he sees Derek appear over Stiles' shoulder. He doesn't look any different, except maybe a little happier. Isaac is surprised to see the amount of laugh lines that have appeared, making the worry lines that crease his forehead look less severe.

He only gets to enjoy a happy-looking Derek for a moment, before the man's mouth is set in a hard line and he's approaching Isaac fast, practically shouldering Stiles out of the way. Isaac feels boneless as Derek pulls him into a hug even bigger than Stiles', unable to move or hug back, simply standing there in mild shock. He can feel Peter looking at him, and he knows the asshole is probably laughing in there.

“Where the hell have you been?” Derek asks, but he's still hugging Isaac, so the sound is somewhat muffled in his shoulder. He relaxes his grip and steps back a moment later, looking slightly alarmed at his own actions. Isaac is still processing both questions, and the unexpected presence of Stiles, and he's trying to work out an easy answer to both questions when he sees Derek look at Peter, eyes narrowing.

“Where's Peter?” It's Stiles that voices the question that Isaac is pretty sure was rolling through Derek's mind. Stiles is looking at Isaac, however, and this time they're both quiet, like they might actually let him answer a question.

“Um,” Isaac says. Derek looks at him, eyebrows furrowed. “Actually--”

“Oh,” says Stiles, and now he's looking at Peter like he's seeing him for the first time. He says it again, “Oh.”

“Get inside,” Derek nods towards the loft, then turns and walks in, glancing between them both over his shoulder. He brushes shoulders with Stiles as he walks past, and Isaac sees for the first time the angry red mark on the side of Stiles' neck. Stiles seems to notice him looking and covers it with a palm, face red as he gestures after Derek.

Isaac can't help the grin that splits his face, and he follows Derek into the apartment, Peter following at his side. He hears Stiles follow them in and shut the door, but Isaac is momentarily distracted by the new set up. Nothing is particularly different, and yet everything is – the furniture has been updated, and reconfigured to fit the room better. There's also things everywhere that practically scream Stiles' name; a red hoodie draped over the back of a chair, a single sneaker by the door in a size that's too small to be Derek's, two beers on the coffee table, a set of keys on a table next to the door that have, among several charms and keys, a small howling wolf charm and a key to a Jeep.

Despite the situation that had brought them here, Isaac finds himself relaxing quickly, the familiar presence of his friends calming him. There was nothing that the old pack couldn't achieve when they worked together in the past, and Isaac still holds hope that they will be able to help now, that he and Peter will come out of this okay in the end.

Stiles comes into Isaac's line of sight and startles him out of his thoughts, which makes Stiles raise an eyebrow as Derek settles in on the couch and waves them over.

“Sorry,” Isaac says, following Stiles and taking a seat on the new couch across from Derek. Stiles finds his seat directly next to Derek, nearly in his lap, and Isaac can't help but notice the way they seem to really fit together now that they're both a bit older. He tries to explain, “It's just, everything's so different.”

Derek looks like he's going to say something, but he stops and glares when Peter gets on the couch next to Isaac, seemingly affronted that an animal – even one that is actually his uncle – would dare get on his upholstery. Peter lies down and rests his chin on Isaac's knee, looking at Derek as Derek looks back balefully.

“I like it,” Isaac tacks on, before the situation escalates. Then he adds, to try to change the subject, “You two look happy.”

His tactic works, apparently, because at the words 'you two', Derek and Stiles both freeze up a little. Derek looks only mildly embarrassed, but Stiles' cheeks are bright red. Still, they don't pull away from each other or try to cover it up like they would have a few years ago. It's refreshing to see. Isaac moves one of his hands to the scruff of Peter's neck, burying his fingers in the fur there, something that he's found to be a comfort to both of them over the past fifteen hours.

Stiles looks at Peter, then his gaze follows Isaac's arm up until he's looking him in the eye, and this time when he speaks, it's with a surprising amount of authority.

“What happened to you?” Stiles had always been harsh and demanding as a teenager, but maturity of a few years had added a confidence to his tone that had been missing before. Isaac takes a breath and lets it out slowly, glancing between Derek and Stiles as he tries to decide how much he wants to divulge.

“We were on our way to a meeting with another pack,” he says, ignoring the way they both seem to tense up at his words. He has to break it to them somehow that he and Peter have a pack of their own, now, and this seems like the best option available. “Two of our-- of Peter's betas pissed off this coven of witches, and they ambushed us. They completely wiped out the other pack, ours barely got away, and we...”

He trails off, looking at Peter, who sighs deeply under his hand. Stiles is looking at him studiously, like he's trying to solve a puzzle, and Derek is looking at Peter, possibly in shock.

“Peter was like this when we woke up,” Isaac finishes, unsure if he should mention his own curse, or whatever it was that the witches had done. It certainly felt like a curse, not being able to communicate with Peter past using expressions and guessing, most of the time. The alpha powers hadn't had any negative effects on him, but he was exhausted, and he had no pack except for Peter near, so it was hard to tell what had changed.

Stiles seems to see that Isaac isn't telling the whole of it, his scrutinizing stare only lasting a few seconds longer than necessary, but he doesn't say anything about it. Instead, he gets up from his seat and wanders away to the table, grabs for his phone.

“What are you doing?” Derek asks first, turning his stare from Peter to Stiles as he fiddles with the device. Stiles doesn't look up from what he's doing, keeping his focus on the phone.

“Calling Deaton,” he answers, getting the number pulled up and hitting the call button.

“Wait,” Isaac says, and Derek looks at him like he's crazy. Stiles is still holding the phone to his ear, but he's listening. “Can it wait until morning? Please. I just drove fifteen hours, my pack is even further away, I'm exhausted, Peter's a wolf--”

Stiles hangs up the call and puts the phone down, coming back over when Isaac starts to suck in hysteric breaths. He's been keeping himself going all this time on the thought that he just needed to get to Beacon Hills and they would figure out what to do then, but the last fifteen hours are starting to catch up with him. He's thankful for Peter's fur, which hides the shake of his hands, both of them clutching at it now. Peter whines softly, and Stiles and Derek share a look, both of them startled and unsure and so concerned.

It's good to be home, Isaac thinks, and he feels a pang of guilt. He misses Washington, but Stiles and Derek are his people, his first pack, and he knows they're going to do what they can to help.

“Okay,” Stiles says in an effort to calm him, but Isaac knows he's crying, he can't help it. They almost died. He's an alpha. “But I'm calling him first thing in the morning. We need to find out exactly what they did to you, and hope there are no side effects we're not seeing yet.”

“Side effects?” Isaac lifts a shaking hand to angrily wipe the wetness from his cheeks, sniffling. He hates crying, especially in front of people, and crying in front of Stiles and Derek right after getting here is not giving them a great impression of how much Isaac has changed in the last three years.

“All magic has side effects,” Stiles says, and Isaac is surprised at how knowledgeable he sounds about it. “Some of them affect the caster, some of them effect the person under the spell. Just because Peter's stuck as a wolf doesn't mean that's the end of it; we have to make sure there's nothing going on beneath the surface.”

“Like what?” Derek asks, and his participation startles Isaac to look at him. The concern etched in the lines of Derek's face is beyond touching, and Isaac feels that sensation of being home again.

“Let's just call Deaton in the morning,” Stiles says, instead of answering Derek's question, and really that's an answer in it's own way. Derek sighs and stands, nods toward the stairs.

“You need to get some sleep.” It's Derek's way of saying he cares, Isaac knows, and he smiles and nods in agreement. Stiles yawns a huge yawn, arms stretching over his head, and Derek watches him. Isaac feels bad for intruding on their space without warning, for bringing his problems to them again, for always asking for so much. It must show on his face, because Derek says, “Hey. You're pack. You're family. You're always welcome here.”

It loosens the knot forming in Isaac's chest slightly, and he nods and swallows.

“Thank you, Derek,” he says, and he's proud of himself for keeping his voice steady as he speaks. Stiles flashes them a tired smile and jerks his thumb towards the stairs.

“I'm going to bed,” Stile announces, perhaps unnecessarily, but Isaac can tell it's supposed to hold a hidden message for Derek from the way he straightens up as Stiles turns and heads for the stairs with an added, “And Isaac? It's good to have you back. G'night.”

Derek watches him until he's out of sight, then turns his gaze back to Isaac and Peter. Peter huffs another sigh and looks at Derek. They stare each other down for a long minute before Derek laughs, really laughs, and shakes his head.

“I wish Talia could see you like this,” Derek says, and Peter's eyes flash as he bares his teeth. There's no real menace in the gesture, and it would make Isaac laugh, if the color of Peter's eyes hadn't made Derek's smile falter. His gaze flickers to Isaac, and it's inquisitive and piercing all at once. “I thought he was an alpha. You said he had betas.”

Isaac swallows thickly and nods, glancing at Peter, trying to decide if he wants to confide in Derek just yet. He knows he'll have to tell them eventually in order for them to help, but he's away from his pack and he's feeling vulnerable despite the warm hospitality of his friends, and his instincts – the alpha instincts – are telling him to be cautious with everyone.

“Yeah,” Isaac says after a moment, scratching Peter between his ears. Another trick that relaxes them both. “That was the other part of the spell. They took his alpha powers, and...”

He trails off and looks at Derek, eyes flashing red for a moment. Derek's own eyes widen sharply, and he looks between the two of them in surprise.

“They took his power and gave it to you? Why?” Derek asks, and Isaac shrugs.

“Probably because they knew I didn't want it,” he says bitterly, and Derek seems to understand, nodding. They're quiet for a few minutes, enjoying the companionable silence, before Derek speaks up again.

“C'mon, your old room is still a bedroom,” he stands and heads toward the stairs, and Isaac shoos Peter from his lap and they stand together. Isaac follows after Derek, and Peter brings up the rear. When they reach the top of the stairs, Derek waves goodnight and disappears into his room. Isaac catches a glimpse of Stiles passed out in the middle of the bed before Derek closes the door. Isaac and Peter share a look, and Isaac laughs before ducking into the room across the hall. The room has been updated, too, but he's surprised to see much of what he left is still here. The records and turn table that Peter had bought him are sitting in the corner, the bed has a frame, and the desk has been replaced with a smaller one that takes up less space.

It's a simple enough guest room, and Isaac realizes with undue surprise that this has really become a home since he's been gone.

Stiles and Derek's home. The thought is weird, and he's still turning it over in his head as he strips down to his boxers and climbs into the bed. He needs a shower, but his clothes are filthy, and he doesn't want to sleep in the same clothes he's been wearing for over twenty-four hours by this point. Isaac gets settled under the covers, and Peter hops onto the bed a few seconds later, settling in at Isaac's side immediately.

It's the first bed Isaac's seen in days, and he rolls onto his side to drape an arm over Peter, burying his face in the fur at the back of his neck.

“I promise I'm going to fix this,” Isaac whispers, and Peter whines softly and nuzzles Isaac's hand.

They fall asleep almost immediately.

Chapter Text

When Isaac wakes in the morning, the throbbing behind his eyes is gone, and his chest doesn't ache when he takes a deep breath. He'd almost think everything had returned to normal, except his arm is still curled around fur instead of human skin. Peter is awake and nosing at his hand, which draws Isaac out of his thoughts a little, and he listens to the loft around them, trying to get a feel for where Stiles and Derek are. He hears them downstairs after a minute, talking in low voices, probably trying not to wake him. Something smells like food. There's a third voice next to theirs, a female, which startles Isaac fully awake.

He throws the covers off and slips out of bed, moving across the room to the dresser, the only piece of furniture in the room that hadn't changed. Still, he's surprised to find most of his old clothes are still folded neatly inside, and he pulls on a clean pair of jeans and a t-shirt before rushing out of the room, waving to Peter to follow. Peter does follow, but Isaac isn't paying attention as he barrels down the spiral stairs. He's barely off of the stairs when the flash of golden hair catches him tightly around the middle, and he wraps his arms around Erica in the tightest hug he can manage.

“You asshole!” She yells into his shoulder, and he can hear in her voice that she's been crying, which only makes him squeeze her tighter, tears springing to his own eyes in response. Her arms are wrapped tightly around his back, but she lifts a hand long enough to hit him, her fist thumping into his shoulder. It hurts, and it startles a laugh out of him, and before he knows it he's laughing and crying, face buried in blonde curls. She hits him again in the same spot, but doesn't relinquish her grip. “You absolute dickhead! I hate you.”

“I missed you, too,” Isaac laughs, releasing her reluctantly when she pulls away to dab carefully at her eyes, blotting away wetness with the edge of her sleeve.

“Fuck off,” she snaps, but she's laughing, and she looks good. Healthy, happy, even more of a bombshell than she had been in high school. Age and maturity are going to look good on her, are already starting to. Isaac swipes his hands over his face, wiping away the tears that had spilled, but he's grinning widely at Erica as he does. She sniffs and gives him a glare with no heat behind it. Isaac hears Peter reach the bottom of the stairs behind him, and Erica's gaze drops from Isaac to Peter. She laughs again in surprise and Peter growls once.

“You poor bastard,” she says, red-painted lips curling into a smirk. “Let's be honest, you probably deserved it.”

Even Isaac can't help but laugh at that. The whole situation is mildly ridiculous if he lets himself think about it. Terrifying, yes, but also laughable.

Isaac glances around the room and finds Stiles and Derek sitting at the table over plates of food, talking quietly between themselves to give Isaac and Erica some privacy for their tearful reunion. Erica follows his gaze and he sees her smile out of the corner of his eye.

“How long have they...?” Isaac asks, not bothering to finish the question. Erica knows what he means, because she answers right away.

“As soon as Stiles turned eighteen,” she explains, grin widening as she looks back at him and Peter. “At least Derek had the decency to wait.”

Isaac's ears turn red from embarrassment, but Peter looks, if possible, smug. Erica seems to interpret the expression the same way, because she scoffs and reaches over to give Peter's ears a gentle scratch. He narrows his eyes at her but doesn't pull away.

“Yeah, I know, you're a regular werewolf Romeo,” she teases, and when Peter snaps playfully at her fingers, she flicks his nose. This startles a laugh out of Isaac, but Erica just struts away, returns to the table and her own plate of breakfast, which looks previously untouched. Either she had been waiting for him, or her nerves had turned her stomach off to the idea of food, but she picks at it heartily now. Isaac sits beside her and looks down when Stiles pushes a plate of scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast under his nose. It's simple, but it's fresh and homemade, and it smells amazing.

“Sleep well?” Stiles asks around a mouthful of eggs, and Isaac nods and dangles a piece of bacon over the edge of the table for Peter. Derek watches with barely contained amusement and points his fork at a fifth plate, sitting in the center of the table.

“We made him a plate,” he says, eyes sparkling, and Isaac is pretty sure Derek just wants to see Peter eat off the floor. His theory is proven when he gets up momentarily and brings the plate to the coffee table, the perfect elevation for Peter to eat from in his current state. Peter looks at the food for several long minutes and sighs deeply, then seems to swallow his pride and begins eating as delicately as he can in his current state. Derek's face falls slightly at this, and he goes back to stabbing at his eggs, but doesn't say anything else.

Erica is already halfway through her plate and seems to be inhaling more than she's tasting, but she pauses after a minute and puts her fork down before turning to face Isaac fully.

“Where the hell have you been?” Her voice is severe, and Isaac swallows a bite of toast and glances at both Stiles and Derek before answering.

“Washington,” he says softly after considering the answer for a moment. Erica seems to accept this answer, because she nods and taps her fingernails on the table. She jerks her chin at Peter.

“He's an alpha?” She asks, and Isaac shrugs at that.

“He's supposed to be,” is what he settles with, unsure of what Derek may have told her or Stiles. Isaac glances over his shoulder at Peter and can't help but sigh, feeling suddenly exhausted all over again, despite finally getting a full night's rest. Erica seems to accept this answer, as well, because she doesn't say anything else. She just pats Isaac's hand, a comforting gesture, before returning to devouring her food.

“I talked to Deaton,” Stiles says, bringing Isaac's attention back to the table. He takes another bite of his toast while Stiles takes another drink of his coffee. “He says he has to look into some things, but he'll call me back later today when he knows more. Is there anything else you can tell us about the coven that attacked you? Did you get any of their names?”

Isaac shakes his head, feeling unprepared, but also slightly alarmed at Stiles' readiness to take initiative on helping them. It's not something Isaac ever would have expected from Stiles a few years ago, and he thinks of it as further evidence that they've all grown up a little bit since he left. There's a lot of information missing that he desperately wants to be filled in on, but if Stiles is right about the magic used against them, they could have a time limit.

“No, nothing,” he sighs, shrugging weakly. Erica rubs a hand over his back in soothing circles, which actually helps calm him a little. “I think they're based out of Oregon, but that's really just a guess. It was northern California where they caught up with us.”

Stiles hums at this, considering something, then pulls out his phone and begins typing. “I'll cross-reference our list of known magicals on the coast to see if any are currently living in that area while I wait for Deaton to get back to me about the spells they used.”

Isaac must look confused or startled, or some combination of the two, because Derek sets his fork down and folds his hands on the table.

“Stiles has been working with Deaton for the last two years, training to be an emissary,” Derek explains, but it only answers about a third of Isaac's questions. He watches Stiles, deep in thought as he focuses on whatever he's got on his phone.

“An emissary?” Isaac asks, and Stiles looks up this time, attention drawn away from his phone.

“Yeah, you know all the druid-y shit that saved our asses so many times? Apparently I have a natural talent for it, or something. A few months before I turned eighteen, Deaton brought me some stuff to read about it, said he'd teach me if I wanted to learn,” Stiles shrugs, pushing his plate towards Derek, who has started to gather the other dishes. Everyone is done eating except for Isaac, so he makes quick work of the last of his food while Stiles continues, “He thinks my mom might have been something, and that's why I'm so good at the magical part of it.”

“So you're the emissary for Derek's pack?” Isaac asks, glancing at Erica. The three of them look awkward suddenly, all wearing varying degrees of embarrassed expressions, and Derek finishes gathering the plates in silence and heads to the kitchen. Isaac looks down when he feels Peter return to his side where he sits and leans heavily against Isaac's leg, and Isaac digs his finger into the thick fur at the back of his neck when Peter rests his chin on Isaac's knee.

“Derek...doesn't really have a pack, anymore,” Erica tells Isaac, not bothering to lower her tone. Derek would hear them, regardless. Isaac hears the water turn on in the kitchen and the clatter of dishes in the sink, and Stiles winces at the noise and sips his coffee, body tense.

“What? But you and Boyd--” Isaac starts, more than a little confused.

“Boyd and I joined Scott's pack,” Erica cuts him off, and she looks ashamed. Isaac finds it ironic, considering he had been the first to leave, and he hadn't really felt that bad about it. “After you left, everything kind of just...fell apart, here.”

Isaac's face must fall, because Erica looks even more guilty and waves a manicured hand at him.

“Not because of you,” she adds quickly, and Isaac can tell she means it. Erica presses on, “Mostly, we just kind of drifted apart. Boyd and I saw everyone at school more often than we got to really see Derek, because of our families and everything. Derek was distracted, anyway. He kept talking about making new betas, but he never did. We just...wanted to finish school, and have lives.”

Isaac understands, in a way. Derek was never the alpha he had hoped for, either. He had the right intentions, most of the time, but he had little patience and none of the necessary experience. Maybe he was never cut out for it, and he finally realized that himself. Scott wasn't necessarily a better leader, he lacked Derek's age and maturity – not that Derek was that far ahead of them – but he was fair and understanding where Derek wasn't.

“Scott's offered him a place in the pack,” Stiles says over the rim of his coffee mug. He looks torn, like he wants to talk about it but doesn't, probably because he doesn't want to upset Derek. “But he won't take it. Too damn prideful.”

Stiles adds the jab at the end in a mutter before sipping his coffee, expression bitter, and Isaac is surprised by how much of the Sheriff he can hear in that exclamation, see in that expression. It's just another indication that all of his friends have grown up while he was away. Isaac wonders in what subtle ways has he changed in the time he had been away? He knows it's irrational, but he fears that he has somehow stayed the same while all of his friends had grown without him, forever the same cowardly teenager that had run away for a man twice his age.

“Where is Scott?” Isaac asks, startled out of his thoughts when Peter touches his cold nose to his hand, looking up at him with that unreadable gaze. Peter can probably sense the tension rolling off of him – he's pretty sure Erica can, too, because she's looking at him with her head tilted just so – and Isaac shows his appreciation for the distraction with a series of gentle scratches behind the wolf's ears.

“College,” Stiles answers, setting down his now-empty mug. “About an hour away. Lydia is in Connecticut, Allison is in France for a study abroad program, and Danny's in London with Jackson.”

Isaac feels...he isn't sure how he feels. Stiles' deadpan delivery doesn't help, but Isaac can tell he's kind of bitter about the fact that his friends are scattered across the globe at the moment. He wants to say something, to offer him some comfort, but Isaac left, too.

He decides it's not his place.

Instead, he turns to Erica and asks, “Where's Boyd?”

She shrugs and polishes her nails on her leggings, flashing him a grin. “At work. I haven't told him you're back yet, I wanted to see you first.”

There's the Erica he remembers, and the familiarity is so strong that it startles a laugh out of him, and he keeps laughing for a minute, despite Erica and Stiles staring at him like he's lost his mind.

“Sorry,” he says when he manages to calm himself, still chuckling here and there between breaths. “I just...I really missed you guys.”

“Yeah, and who's fault is that?” Erica says with a sniff, but Isaac can see the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she turns her head away.

The water in the kitchen stops running and their conversation drops into a comfortable silence, in which Stiles returns to studying his phone and Erica kind of idly stares at Peter, face shifting through different micro expressions, none of which Isaac can interpret. Derek reemerges from the kitchen a few minutes later, and Isaac swears the creases in his forehead have gotten deeper in the time he's been gone, but he looks no worse for wear otherwise. He brings a fresh pot of coffee and extra cups, refilling Stiles' mug before pouring one for Erica and Isaac, each.

“Thanks, Der,” she says with a little wink, wrapping her fingers around the mug. She doesn't lift it to her lips, just cradles it in her hand and licks her lips at Derek. His scowl deepens, but Isaac sees a tinge of red creeping up Derek's neck before he turns on his heel with the pot and practically stalks back to the kitchen. She laughs at his retreating form and takes a careful sip of her coffee.

“Quit teasing him,” Stiles says without looking up, but he's smirking as he says it. Isaac opens his mouth to ask about the exchange, but he can't think of how to phrase the question, so he doesn't. Derek comes back right then, anyway, and he takes his seat next to Stiles, tension in his posture. Something is clearly going on here, but Isaac can't put his finger on what it is, and despite being an old friend, he feels like he's not entitled to pry into their business, no matter how curious he is.

He'll just ask Erica about it later.

Stiles elbows Derek in the ribs to get his attention, thrusting his phone into the alpha's face. Derek reads for a moment, nodding in agreement to a question or a statement that was never spoken aloud. It's apparently enough, because Stiles turns his phone around to show Isaac this time.

“Think this could be your coven?” He asks, and Isaac isn't actually sure what he's looking at, at first. There's a drawing of a symbol on the small screen, and several lines of what he thinks are Latin beneath it, and beneath that are several lines of English that appear to be some kind of footnote or annotation.

“'The Jones Coven - derived from the name of Margaret Jones, Puritan midwife executed for witchcraft in the Massachusetts Bay Colony in 1648 – is a coven traditionally comprised of fifteen members, thirteen women and two men,'” Isaac reads aloud, then looks up at Stiles and shrugs. “I didn't see how many there were.”

“Unhelpful,” Stiles sighs. He takes the phone back and continues reading where Isaac left off, “'In recent years, the coven has since relocated from it's long-time home of Windsor, Connecticut – home of Alse Young, also executed for witchcraft in 1647, just a year before Jones – to the opposite coast. The Jones Coven currently resides in Salem, Oregon. Many past and current members of the Jones Coven have claimed to be descendants of Sarah Good, Ann Pudeator, Alse Young, and Margaret Jones, all of whom were hanged during the Salem Witch Trials for their supposed crimes.'”

Erica snorts and tosses her hair, gold curls bouncing against her back in a way that's almost mesmerizing.

“Yeah, because that's not in poor taste or anything,” she laughs, quirking an eyebrow at the phone in Stiles' hand. “Wasn't Salem, Oregon named for Salem, Massachusetts? Why go somewhere named after where your ancestors were killed?”

“It is a little odd,” Derek agrees over the rim of his coffee mug, shrugging one shoulder as he takes a sip. “But there's probably no connection.”

“Maybe they needed a change of scenery,” Isaac says, although something about the information doesn't strike him as being quite right. He can't put his finger on it, though, and the more he thinks about it, the more it escapes him as to just what about it is bothering him. It's like trying to hold smoke, so he lets it go, figuring it isn't worth the mental strain.

“Maybe,” Stiles agrees, but the line of his mouth and the set of his brows as he considers his phone screen tells Isaac that his friend is having a hard time connecting the dots, as well. “We have nothing else to go on for now, but I'll send this to Deaton and keep looking. In the meantime--”

He stops as his phone begins to vibrate in his hand, a soft yet persistent jingle alerting everyone to the call coming through.

“Is that Deaton?” Isaac asks, eager for answers, for solutions, for some sense of normality. Peter lays his head on Isaac's knee, and he strokes the fur between the wolf's ears, drawing some minor comfort from it.

“No,” Stiles says, voice odd, but then he's holding the phone up to his ear and speaking into it, “Hey, Lydia.”

Isaac watches as Erica's eyebrows nearly shoot into her hairline, but her expression smooths into one of cool indifference a moment later, gaze wandering back to Peter.

A moment later Stiles says, “Sure, hold on a second.”

He pulls the phone away from his ear and hits a button, putting the call on speaker, then sets it in the center of the table.

“Okay,” he says to the gentle crackle of static from the other end, “Go ahead, Lyds.”

“Isaac?” Lydia asks, voice ever unchanged, and Isaac looks at the phone, slightly alarmed.

“Hey,” he says, officially lost for words, and then looking at Stiles, “How did you know I was here?”

Stiles holds his hands up in a defensive gesture and shakes his head, eyebrows high as he mouths the words, 'Not me,' across the table. Isaac turns his gaze on Derek, who simply shrugs again and shakes his head, busying himself with another sip of his coffee.

“I'll explain later,” Lydia says, sounding perpetually impatient in the way only Lydia can. It's something that Isaac used to find annoying, but after years apart, it's almost endearing. “Is Peter there, too?”

Isaac looks down at his lap, where Peter looks...bored? Tired? Intrigued? He can't tell, and it's starting to drive him a little crazy.

“Uh,” is all he can manage. Lydia sighs, and Isaac thinks it's a little sad that he even missed the sound of her exasperation.

“I know he's there, but is he there right now? Can he hear me?” She's beginning to sound more urgent, like she's pressed for time, and Isaac's head is reeling.

“Yeah,” he says, and then again, “Yeah, he's here. Lydia, what's going on?”

She's quiet for a long time. Just when Isaac begins to think that the call has dropped, or that she's changed her mind about whatever it is she called for in the first place, she speaks up again.

“Look, I don't have a lot of time right now, I have to get to class,” she definitely sounds distracted, and Isaac isn't sure that school fully accounts for it, but if she's rushed he doesn't want to press her. “Just...keep an eye on him. I can't explain it, but I think something bad is going to happen. I'll call again tonight.”

And then the line has gone dead. They all stare at the phone for a while before Isaac laughs, a singular bark of semi-hysterical laughter. He drags a hand over his face, grimacing, but not before he sees the worried look Erica shoots him.

“Well,” Stiles says after he's collected his phone, and Isaac drops his hand to look across the table at his friend, suddenly feeling exhausted. “Can't wait to hear what that was all about. Anyway, like I was saying before, I'm going to forward this info on the coven to Deaton and see what he thinks. In the meantime, you two should probably stay here.”

“I agree,” Derek says immediately, setting his mug down and looking at Peter with renewed suspicion, something that Isaac definitely didn't miss. Erica reaches over and gives Isaac's knee – the one Peter isn't resting his chin on – a small squeeze of reassurance.

“I can stay here today,” she offers, looking at Stiles and Derek when she says it. It gives Isaac the impression of being under house arrest, but he guesses he can't really complain; he did come to them for help, after all. “I know you guys have to get to work.”

“Thanks,” Derek nods, and he looks grim, like the word pains him to say. Or, more likely, that leaving his ex-beta and previously deranged, murderous uncle – currently a wolf – alone in his apartment for several hours isn't ideal. Isaac can't even hold that one against him, if he really thinks about it, and he's grateful for the offer of company that he can actually communicate with.

Erica, Isaac, and Peter eventually migrate to the couch while Derek and Stiles finish preparing for the day, and by the time they're gone, Peter has fallen asleep with his head fully cradled in Isaac's lap.

“So,” Erica says, face twisting into an almost disturbingly gleeful expression as soon as the door slides shut behind Stiles, who is the last to leave. “Tell me about Washington. And I swear to god, Lahey, if you leave anything out, I'll skin you and make you into a handbag.”

Chapter Text

Connecticut, Wednesday

The dream starts out the same way every night – she's walking in the woods somewhere unfamiliar, leaves crunching beneath her feet, black dirt working it's way up between her bare toes. It's dark, so dark it's almost impossible to see anything around her, and the light of the full moon filtering through the canopy of trees overhead is too scarce to provide any real illumination.

A twig snaps behind her and she turns quickly, squinting into the shadows, but it's impossible to see who – or what – is there. She thinks she sees something move off to the right, a glint of eyes shining in the darkness, red and blue, and then they're gone. Carefully and slowly, she moves toward them, one hand outstretched. The bark of a tree scrapes her palm, cuts her deep, and when she lifts her hand into a beam of moonlight, it's covered in blood.

Something breathes hot, wet breath on the back of her neck, and she turns again, skin pebbled in gooseflesh, but just as before, there's nothing there.

An animal growls behind her, and she closes her eyes.

When she opens them, the moonlight is brighter, enough to illuminate the forest floor littered with bodies, dozens of dead eyes all fixed on her. She stumbles backward, heels connecting with something soft, and she trips, scrambling against the leaves and the dirt to distance herself from the body she's just fallen over.

This one she recognizes, and then all of the previously unfamiliar faces change, morphing into the faces of her friends.

They look at her, staring blankly, some covered in blood and others twisted into unnatural shapes.

She hears a rattling breath and looks down at her feet, at the body she fell over. It – Peter – lifts a hand toward her.

“Help,” he rasps.

Lydia screams--

--and wakes with a gasp, sitting bolt upright, cold sweat pasting her hair to her face and the back of her neck, hands shaking.

A glance around the room tells her that she's safe, still in her apartment in New Haven; the clock reads 2:47AM. She lets out a breath and drops her hands to her lap – there's no scrape on her palms, no blood there, just the clammy sweat that's a result of the reoccurring dream. It's been the same thing every night for the last two weeks, her friends lying dead on the forest floor, the feeling of being watched from the shadows by some faceless, nameless thing.

With a sigh, she throws back the covers and swings her legs over the side of the bed, standing on shaking legs. To say that the dream unsettles her would be an understatement, the reoccurring nature of it has created a pit of cold anxiety in her chest that she can't shake even upon waking. She's losing more and more sleep because of it, and she's long-since lost her appetite. The only thing she hasn't let slide so far has been her school work, but she can feel herself starting to lose her grip on her studies, too.

The wood floor is cool beneath her feet, and the sensation helps wake her as she pads softly into the kitchen. She focuses on the transition from wood to tile, reminding herself again that she's safe, not in the forest. Lydia curls her toes around the edge of a tile as she fills the lavender enamel tea kettle that Allison bought her for her last birthday and sets it on the stove. She turns the knob for the burner and listens to the igniter click for a few seconds before the flame comes to life. The clock in the center of the oven control panel tells her that it's now 2:50 AM, and she finds herself grateful that her classes today don't start until after noon. Homework will have to wait until she's had a very long nap, but for now she needs something – anything – to take her mind off of the dream.

Lydia returns to her room while she waits for the kettle, taking her phone off the charger on her bedside table and checking for any messages that may have come in after she fell asleep. There's only one - from Danny, who had been out late partying – so she doesn't bother with a reply. Instead she opens Skype on her way back to the kitchen and calls the first person on her contact list. There's no reply the first time, which is fine because the tea kettle begins to whistle while the call rings, so she hangs up and deals with that instead. She picks a tea – lavender and chamomile – and makes a cup, then picks her phone up and tries again.

This time there's an answer, and she hears fumbling before the video loads. Allison's hair is pulled back into a tight ponytail, a few loose strands plastered to her face with sweat, and the warm morning sunlight of Paris would make her look radiant if her eyebrows weren't already knitted together in concern. It looks like Lydia's caught her in the middle of a run, so she's about to apologize and hang up when Allison starts talking.

“Lyds? It's almost three in the morning, what are you doing up?”

If she weren't so tired, the worry in the woman's tone might have made Lydia feel better, but the question draws a weary sigh out of her.

“I had the dream again,” she explains, and Allison's concerned expression takes on a hint of sympathy.

“Was it the same?” Allison asks. Lydia had called her the first time she had it, and a few more times since, but she couldn't bring herself to call every night. Even though Allison had assured her it was more than fine, that Lydia could call her whenever she needed to, she still felt bad for interrupting her friend's schedule with unplanned phone calls first thing in the morning.

“Yeah,” Lydia sighs, fingers toying with the hem of her over-sized sleep shirt. She knows she probably looks terrible, dark circles under her eyes and hair a tangled mess, and her voice shakes when she says, “I'm so tired, Allie.”

“I know. I'm so sorry, Lydia,” she says, because they both know there's nothing she can do to help. And then, in an effort Lydia knows is meant to distract her, Allison asks, “Did you get the stuff I sent you?”

By 'stuff,' she means carefully constructed care package, including some delicious French pastries, a variety of cosmetics, haircare, and skincare products, and a book on quantum physics – in French – all along with a copy of her family's updated bestiary and notes from several of the Argent's family friends about banshees.

“Yes,” Lydia's startled, because she realizes just then that she never told Allison when the package arrived. She'd only eaten one of the pastries. “On Tuesday. I'm sorry, I forgot to thank you.”

“No, it's okay! You've had a lot on your mind,” Allison smiles, and Lydia misses her so much in that moment that she almost wants to cry. Lydia had been the first to leave for college, and she hadn't been gone a week before she had started to miss her best friend terribly. They keep in regular contact, but the almost-daily talks somehow make it worse. “I'm glad you called. You know you can call me any time you need to, right?”

Lydia tips her head back and rolls it onto one shoulder, sighing at her friend. “Yeah, I know. I just feel bad for bothering you with this.”

“Well, don't. You're my friend, that's what friends are for.”

“I should go back to bed,” Lydia says, feeling somewhat uncomfortable. It's not that Allison is overbearing, but without her around Lydia doesn't get that kind of unconditional support from anyone else, and it's jarring to hear it from her even while she's halfway across the globe. “Have a good day, tell your dad hi for me.”

Allison smiles again, and Lydia manages a small smile back. “I will. And, hey.”

Lydia makes a soft questioning noise.

“I love you, Lyds. I'm sorry I can't help,” and she really does look sorry. Allison licks her lips and drags the back of her hand over her forehead, wiping away the sweat that's gathered there, and Lydia wants to hug her.

“It's fine. I love you too, Allie,” Lydia's smile is a little more genuine now. “Have a good day.”

She ends the call without waiting for Allison to say anything else, then takes her tea and a pastry to her living room. Her laptop is sitting on the coffee table, a small pile of textbooks beside it, and on the very top are the notes and bestiary from Allison. Lydia sits down and picks them up, flipping through the bestiary first, not really looking for anything in particular. Her powers – a banshee, they had told her, like that was a perfectly normal thing, or like werewolves or kanima were normal things – had just started to manifest before she left Beacon Hills, so she had started researching. It was slow-going at first, working by herself with little to go off of. Peter had taught her some while he had been recovering from his near-death at the hands of the alpha pack, but after he and Isaac ran away together, he had stopped appearing in her dreams.

Until this new dream started, that is.

Nothing in the bestiary catches her eye, although she isn't sure quite what she expected, so she begins to read the notes on banshees from the collective network of hunters and experts the Argents maintain. There's several pages a piece from at least twelve different people, although from what she can tell from skimming, much of the information is repeated in every person's notes.

She sips her tea, eats her pastry, and reads.

Several pages in, she lays her head back against the couch and allows herself to close her eyes, breathing deeply for what was only supposed to be a few moments. She must have fallen asleep, because when she opens her eyes again there's light filtering in through the windows. Lydia is curled up in a ball on the couch with the throw blanket she usually drapes over the back of the couch pulled down over her, and one arm curled under her head as a make-shift pillow. It takes her a moment to uncurl, limbs stiff from sleeping in such an awkward position – her neck protests heavy, as well as her shoulder, elbow, and hip – and to find her phone, which is under the cushion. The time reads 8:03AM, which means she got just under five hours of sleep, and the realization makes her want to crawl into bed and sleep for another three-and-a-half.

If she dreamed about anything, she doesn't remember it now, which is a relief. She stretches out over the cushions of the couch, leaning her head back against the armrest, and calls Allison again. There's no answer, but it's the middle of the day in Paris, so she doesn't try again. Allison is probably in class or at work, and either way, Lydia feels bad enough bothering her in the mornings much less bothering her while she's trying to be a productive member of Parisian society. She sends her friend a text instead, opening their conversation thread and typing out a quick message.

Thanks again for the reading material. Very interesting, especially the notes about the Salem witch trials. Not sure what the connection is to banshees? but still good.

Lydia hit send and closes the app, then sits up and swings her legs off of the couch. Her body is sore and tired, and her mind is foggy, and she just wants to go back to sleep, but she makes herself stand and shuffles stiffly into the kitchen, bringing her half-finished tea from earlier that morning. She dumps the cold tea into the sink and tosses the teabag, then rinses and cleans the cup and sets it aside. The coffee maker is already set to brew – something she's started doing at night since she started college, so she has less to do in the morning – so she hits the button and leaves the kitchen.

She grabs a towel from the hall closet and gets in the shower, hurrying through everything. She cuts herself three times while she's shaving, and the blood trickling down her legs and onto the shower floor reminds her of the dream, so she hurries faster. Once she's out, wrapped in a towel and using another to blot her hair dry one-handed, she checks her phone again to find a reply from Allison.

In class, sorry. Also, what? There's a page or two in the bestiary about witches, but there was nothing about the Salem witch trials in the notes.

Lydia frowns; she distinctly remembers reading several pages of notes on the subject before she fell asleep, but suddenly everything feels slightly off. She leaves the bathroom and walks down the hall to the living room, to do what, she isn't sure. Send Allison a picture of the pages she means, maybe, or prove to herself that they were real, more likely. The pile of notes is lying on the floor where she dropped it when she fell asleep, and she picks them up and flips through each page, skimming it thoroughly for any mention of the Salem witch trials, or of witches, or of Salem.

Allison is right. There's nothing.

Lydia sits on the couch, puts the papers on the coffee table, and keeps drying her hair. She must have dreamed it, which is obviously not outside the realm of possibilities, but...

Something still feels wrong.

She returns to her room and dresses, then pours herself a cup of coffee and takes a seat on the couch, opening her laptop and looking at her textbooks. Her homework can wait for another hour, probably. What she really needs to do is write down what she remembers of the notes from her dream, before she forgets.

She opens a new word document and begins to type.

Chapter Text

London, Wednesday

Danny feels like he got hit by a truck.

The feeling is not wholly unfamiliar, if he's being honest with himself. Last night was not the first - nor will it be the last - time he's had a bit too much to drink. It seems to be happening a lot more than usual lately, too. Although that could have something to do with him crashing on Jackson's couch in London for the last six months, and his decreasing desire to go back home, and the spiral of alcohol and late nights clubbing that this has led him into.

Maybe it's a little too early for that much honesty.

He shoves the thought aside, with very little intention of coming back to it. Without opening his eyes, he takes a mental survey of his body. Arms, hands, and fingers? Check. Legs, feet, and toes? Check. Dry mouth that tastes like stale vodka and throbbing hangover migraine? Check and check. He's on the couch, if the cushions beside and beneath him are any indication, which is better than the bathtub where he woke up the last time he stayed out too late.

His eyelashes stick to his cheeks briefly when he opens his eyes - okay, gross - and finds that thankfully, blessedly, the blackout curtains in the living room have been tugged closed. Dull, gray sunlight is still trying to slip in around the edges, but it only hurts when he looks directly at it, so he squints to shield his corneas from the offending rays. Rolling onto his side makes the room lurch unnaturally, so he closes his eyes tightly and fights the wave of nausea down until the world around him stops moving again. When he opens his eyes again his vision is blurred, and the first thing that comes into focus is a glass of water and a pair of aspirin on the coffee table in front of him. Without moving his head, he glances down and sees the small trash can from the bathroom sitting beneath the edge of the table, lined with several plastic shopping bags. Danny throws an arm out and catches the edge of the can with his fingertips, unconcerned when it tips over and nothing spills out.

At least he hadn't vomited, then.

He doesn't see his phone anywhere though, and since sitting up is out of the question, he lazily thrusts a hand under his body and searches the cushions inch by slow, uncoordinated inch. After what feels like a solid minute, his fingers brush the corner of the device, wedged between the seat cushions and under his left hip. He manages to extract it by pinching it between his thumb and forefinger and lifting his hip slightly, and is surprised to see that it somehow still has a small amount of battery life, the display at the top reading 10% with only a small sliver of red. Beside it, the time reads 2:34 PM, and Danny groans slightly at the clock.

He twists onto his back, keeping his eyes closed as he does to prevent the nausea from returning, then holds his phone against his chest and tucks his chin down, squinting as his post-drunk fingers fumble against the screen. With some difficulty, he opens his conversation with Lydia, where he had used the last ounces of his coherent thought the night before.

I'm alive , he types, and then after some thought he adds, unfortunately , and hits send.

Bits and pieces of the night before come back to him as he lays there, checking for any missed messages. There aren't any, which is a slight relief, seeing as he's still having a hard time focusing on his screen when Lydia’s reply comes through.

Congratulations on your continued survival. Do anything crazy last night?

He considers this question for longer than necessary, trying to put the order of last night's events right in his head. ‘Crazy’ isn't exactly the adjective he'd use, when he really starts to remember. ‘Stupid,’ maybe, or ‘humiliating.’ He had dragged Jackson out with him to a couple of clubs, and despite his half-hearted protests and heavy class schedule, Jackson had stayed with him the whole night until they'd stumbled in well after three in the morning.

Danny’s memory of the worst part of last night is still, unfortunately, in tact.

I think I kissed Jackson , he types with feigned uncertainty.

He knows he kissed Jackson, which isn't the biggest deal when he knows he had more than enough vodka to hide behind, but he can't seem to recall how Jackson had reacted to the advance. What's worse is that it's not the first time he's gotten a little too drunk and tried to make a move on his best friend, although Jackson has always been a good sport about it. That is if ‘being a good sport’ means Jackson not talking about it at all and avoiding eye contact with Danny for half a day afterward.

His phone buzzes in his hand and the screen lights up with Lydia’s response, You mean you know you did. You've got to quit doing this to yourself.

It's not the first time he's told Lydia about this particular drunken antic, either. He's told her every time it's happened since the first, just a month after he'd first come to London. Danny had finished his degree a year early, and instead of going for a second immediately after like he had planned, he decided to take a year off. Jackson had moved out of his parents’ place in London and into an upscale flat of his own - still paid for by his family but a play at real independence while he’s taking a full course load at university - and extended the invitation to Danny to stay with him for a month. One month turned into two, into three...and now on month six, he's starting to weigh the pros and cons of waiting out the rest of his year off sleeping on Jackson's couch.

Pro: Spending time with his childhood best friend.

Con: Spending time with his childhood best friend, whom he's definitely been feeling more than friendly towards in the past few months.

Lydia is the only person he can talk to about it, and she's probably the leading expert on all things Jackson, even now. She and Jackson stayed in contact when he left Beacon Hills, and with Lydia’s intimate knowledge of werewolves and the supernatural - as well as her once powerful but now static mental connection to Peter - she's been helpful to him more than once with various things regarding the change from Kanima to real wolf. Between Danny, Lydia, and Jackson, the three have had hundreds of in-depth discussions about the supernatural happenings of Beacon Hills and their new locales, never exhausting their thirst for knowledge about this unique aspect of their daily lives. Lydia has mentioned to Danny in the past how much Jackson has changed since he moved away, but Danny’s still pretty sure his best friend isn't into him. Guys, maybe -  because Danny’s seen the way Jackson looks at some of the dudes in the clubs they go to - but ones that aren't Danny . Guys he didn't grow up with, ones that are sexy, and European. They haven't talked about it, mostly because Danny isn't quite sure there's anything to talk about, and he figures it's up to Jackson to start that conversation anyway.

Lydia interrupts his train of thought and his half-finished reply with another text of her own. Maybe it's time to call it quits on London, come back stateside. You can crash my couch for a couple months, we'll go shopping in NYC when I'm done with finals.

He wants to, really he does, but the thought of leaving Jackson makes his stomach do flips, a sure sign that it's time to make a break for it. Spending some time with Lydia wouldn't be a terrible idea either, if her daily recollections of her nightly terrors are anywhere near accurate. He knows she hasn't been sleeping well, at any rate, and with finals quickly approaching and her strange recurring dreams, she could use the support.

How did you sleep? He asks, already fairly certain he knows the answer won't be ‘well.’

A distant clap of thunder rolls outside and Danny considers going back to sleep until his head is clear enough to have this discussion. The sound of gentle rain patter starts against the window panes, the thunder growing louder and rattling them in their frames and making his eyelids droop. He must drift for a while - a few minutes at least - because when he wakes again the living room is significantly darker from the late afternoon storm overhead. A key in the lock of the front door signals Jackson's return from class a split second before the door opens and the man sweeps into the apartment, water dripping from his hair and clothes.

“It's raining,” Danny tells him, just to be an ass, and he's not surprised to hear his voice is hoarse from last night's heavy drinking. Jackson laughs once quietly as he kicks off his shoes and then reaches up to peel his shirt off, unintentionally giving his friend a show as the wet material clings to his chest and back. Danny tries not to look too interested by fumbling with his phone when Jackson looks his way again. “What happened to your umbrella?”

“Gave it to a girl on the train this morning,” Jackson explains, taking his wet shirt down the hall and into the bath. He emerges a moment later, scrubbing water from his hair, face, and neck with a fluffy red towel.

“Did you get her number in exchange?” Danny teases, but the thought makes his stomach flip. Jackson can get girls’ numbers on the train, as many as he wants. He's entitled to that. It's none of Danny’s business. Danny silently repeats this mantra to himself over and over, but it does nothing to quell his nausea. Jackson snorts derisively and casts a sideways glance at Danny as he enters the kitchen, but he gives no other reply until he's out of sight.

“No, but she tried to get mine. Said she wanted to ‘return my kindness.’ I told her I'd just buy a new one. Hey, have you eaten anything yet?”

Danny looks at the aspirin sitting next to the glass of water on the coffee table and pushes himself into something that closer resembles a proper sitting position. His legs stretched across the cushions and head hanging backward over the arm of the couch, he feels no less dizzy than before. His vision swims as his stomach turns, and he closes his eyes against the sensation.

“No,” Danny answers weakly, and then because he's not ready to drop it he asks, “Wait, a girl hit on you and you turned her down? What, was she not your type?”

The only sounds from the kitchen for a few moments after are the drip of the coffee maker and the quiet sizzle of butter in a hot pan. When Jackson speaks again, he sounds troubled, like the thought had been weighing on his mind the whole way home, “No...I don't know. She seemed familiar. Like I saw her in a dream, or something.”

“You must have seen her before. She probably takes that train a lot. You know you can't dream of a face you've never seen before?” Danny says. He's talked with Lydia extensively on this subject, and they've reached the shared conclusion that this doesn't necessarily apply to people with superhuman abilities, like her and Jackson, and their friends back home in California.

“Maybe,” Jackson says, but he doesn't sound convinced. He also doesn't say anything else on the subject, so Danny takes the opportunity that his friend’s silence provides to pluck the aspirin tablets from the table and swallow them, chasing the pills with a few large gulps of water. The addition of water and medicine to his stomach makes the churning lessen, which is a huge relief because whatever Jackson is cooking smells amazing.

Danny glances at his phone - 5% battery , it tells him at the top, please connect to charger - and sees that Lydia dodged the sleep question, or she's busy with something else, because there's no reply.

The speaker panel in the wall beside the door buzzes, someone requesting that Jackson let them into the building. Jackson leans out of the kitchen and looks between Danny and the door, brows furrowed.

“Who the hell is that?”

“Maybe one of your neighbors forgot their keys again?” Danny suggests. He heaves himself up from the couch, sways in place for a moment, then meets Jackson at the door. They stare at the small screen which shows a black and white video feed of the front steps and the girl standing there, partially obscured by a black umbrella. Danny feels Jackson take a deep breath beside him and turns to look at his friend.

“Is that the girl from the train?” Danny asks, and Jackson nods, still staring. “I guess she followed you home.”

“I guess,” Jackson parrots, but he sounds less than pleased by the idea.

“It's kind of weird,” Danny says.

“Yeah,” Jackson squints in suspicion at the screen for a moment longer before peeling himself away and moving back toward the kitchen. The speaker buzzes again.

“Are you going to let her in?” Danny’s phone vibrates in his hand.

“No way, something isn't right about her.”

Danny’s phone vibrates again, in sync with the buzzing of the door bell. Lydia is calling him - his phone flashes a warning: shutting down soon, please plug in or find another power source - so he lifts the phone to his ear, the thumb of his other hand hovering over the button to unlock the door.

“Hey Lyds, can I call you back? My phone’s about to die and there's this girl outside--”

Lydia says something but he doesn't quite catch it. The girl is staring into the camera like she's looking at Danny, watching him watch her.

“Leave it alone, Danny. Maybe she'll get bored and leave,” Jackson says from the kitchen, but he sounds further away than he is.

“I could just go down and meet her,” Danny hears himself say. He touches the button to unlock the door with his thumb but doesn't press it.

“Danny,” Lydia says through the phone. “Do not open that door.”

Jackson's hand wraps around Danny’s and pulls it away from the panel, and Danny feels a hand on his jaw, turning his gaze away from the screen and the girl. He stares at Jackson who stares back with eyebrows furrowed, mouth pressed into a thin line.

“What…” Danny tries to look at the screen again, but Jackson's grip on his chin keeps him still. “What was that?”

Jackson's phone rings before he can reply, and he breaks his hold - but not his gaze - on Danny’s face to pull the phone from his pocket.

“Lydia,” Jackson says as he puts the call on speaker, and Danny realizes his own phone is dead. He slowly lowers it from his ear and drops his hand to his side. He's vaguely aware of Jackson still holding his other hand.

“Danny?” Lydia sounds worried.

“Yeah, I'm here. I'm good,” he reassures his friends and himself. He asks again, “What was that?”

“I'm not sure,” Lydia says. “Jackson, is she still out there?”

Danny and Jackson turn to look at the screen in tandem. The girl is gone, leaving no evidence that she was ever there.

“No, she's gone,” Jackson replies. “What the hell did she want?”

“Nothing good,” Lydia sounds tired now, the crackle of static making her sigh sound harsh.

“Um,” Danny interrupts, “Sorry, but did she just mind-control me?”

Jackson looks at him again and Danny looks back in silence, wondering with a sinking feeling what would have happened if he had let the woman with the umbrella inside.

“Yeah,” Jackson says finally. His hand is warm around Danny’s still, grip gentle, and Jackson seems to realize because he lets go suddenly and tucks his hand into the pocket of his jeans.

“You two be careful,” Lydia warns, “Keep an eye on each other. I'll call you later.”

The call ends.

Jackson looks away from Danny, first at the phone in his hand and then at the screen on the wall, deliberately avoiding his friend's gaze. Danny swallows once and thinks of the girl on the steps.

“Jax,” Danny whispers, feeling his heart jump into his throat. Jackson's head whips round and he looks at Danny with concern. “What if she comes back?”

“Hey,” Jackson shifts awkwardly, lifts a hand to touch Danny’s shoulder but rethinks it and drops his arm. “She's just some freak. Don't worry about it.”

Jackson returns to the kitchen and Danny walks to the couch on numb legs. He fumbles with the phone charger on the floor for a minute before getting his phone plugged in. Deep breath in, deep breath out.

The memory of the black umbrella and the girl’s face fills his mind and makes his stomach turn. He grabs the trash can from the floor and empties his stomach into it, heaving until there's nothing left.

Chapter Text

With no pack and no looming threat of danger, Derek got a job to fill his free time.

Around the time that Deaton approached Stiles with the offer to teach him, he also offered Derek a position at the animal clinic. When Scott left for college, Deaton was left short-handed, he said, and so he hired Derek.

Derek had been surprised to find that the work was easy and that he actually enjoyed it. Working with animals was calming, but being able to use his powers to help ease their pain was what really mattered to him. In a way, it helped him too. After everything - the fire that took his family; Peter, who took Laura; Laura, who had been his best friend; his pack, too broken to become the family he had wanted so badly - Derek had a lot bottled up. Working with Deaton, helping those animals, and being with Stiles all helped loosen the cork.

Things were actually getting better. It didn't hurt as much.

Now his uncle - who is number one on the list of people who have hurt Derek too many times to be trusted - is a wolf and is back in Beacon Hills, and Isaac is with him. Not that Derek isn't willing to help, because he is - he wants to help, if only to get them out of his loft - but it isn't exactly making his life easier. Things had calmed down in Beacon Hills, but this situation is sure to stir some shit.

Frankly, Derek is tired and he wants a break.

He stayed late at work today, told Deaton he could finish up feeding the animals so the doctor could go home. Deaton said he has some things to check on for Stiles, then dinner with someone who might be able to help, and that he’ll drop by the loft after to check on Peter and Isaac personally. Derek thanked him for his willingness to help, because he's getting better at this people stuff.

All of the animals like him, now. The cats were the real struggle at first, but they got used to him and at the very least they tolerate him. A few of the cats really do like him, though, and one in particular is his favorite. Deaton had been boarding her for a couple that left the country, but instead of coming home they settled in and moved, leaving their cat behind. Now Deaton has to find someone to adopt her, but she's so sweet and docile that he's been reluctant to advertise her. The name on her papers is ‘Petunia,’ which Derek finds deplorable, and she's white with a golden brown patch which starts at her nose, covers her ears and the top of her head, and reaches all the way down to the end of her tail. The tips of her paws look like they were dipped in the same golden brown that runs down the back of her, lending to the effect that she's been gently toasted. Derek calls her Marshmallow.

He's feeding Marshmallow currently, wasting time so he doesn't have to go home yet. Marshmallow always eats last so Derek can spend some time with her before he goes home. Every day, she licks his fingers before she eats dinner, like she's saying thank you. Derek really isn't a cat person, but he loves this cat. He reaches down to scratch between her ears as she eats out of a little bowl on the table in front of him. Maybe he'll stay a little longer, sweep and mop tonight so he doesn't have to do it in the morning. Stiles won't be home for a few more hours yet, either; he almost always works late.

Stiles’ dad couldn't afford to send him to college, and Stiles didn't work through high school. After graduation, he picked up as many part-time jobs as he could juggle and put himself through school at the local community college. He doubled up on classes, blew through the coursework like it was nothing, and had his degree in two years, a major in psychology and a minor in criminal justice. After that, his dad helped him get a job as an emergency dispatcher for the Beacon Hills PD. Stiles loves it, being in the thick of things, knowing what's happening and where. Derek is just glad that Stiles enjoys it so much.

Marshmallow finishes her food and rubs her face on Derek’s palm. His phone vibrates and he checks it with his free hand, continuing to pet the cat. A new text from Erica reads, Hey, I just wanted to let you know that I went home for the night. The prisoner is unguarded.

Derek chuckles softly and replies, What are the chances of him staying in?

The response is fast: Slim to none.

He sighs and pockets his phone, then turns his attention back to Marshmallow. She looks at him with her baby blue eyes and meows plaintively. Derek scratches under her chin.

“Sorry,” he tells her, “I guess I have to go babysit.”

Marshmallow is good, and she goes into her cage without any issues a few minutes later. Derek gives her a toy - a fabric pickle, filled with catnip - and double checks all of the animals before he locks up the clinic and heads out.

Isaac won't be at the loft. Derek knows this, but he doesn't know where Isaac will be,and that's a problem. He doesn't want to waste a lot of time looking, not when Isaac may or may not be in danger. Stiles said the witches may be able to track Isaac and Peter depending on the spells they used, so they're ultimately safer staying put. He doesn't even know if Peter is with Isaac right now, but it seems unlikely that Isaac would go anywhere without him.

If he were Isaac, where would he go to be alone?

Not many places come to mind immediately, but the first one that does, Derek figures it makes sense and is worth checking out - Isaac's childhood home. It's not Isaac's favorite location by any means, but it's familiar, and that's probably what he needs more than anything else right now.

It's about a fifteen minute drive from the business district where Deaton’s clinic is located to the residential community where Isaac and his father used to live. It's almost seven in the evening and the sun hangs low in the sky, but at the tail end of May, it'll be another hour before the sun sets completely. The windows of neighboring houses are illuminated through curtains and blinds, others without covering and some open to let in the warm air. Derek parks across the street from the only darkened house on the block, the curtains still half-drawn, their white lace construction serving as a reminder of when a family once lived here, happy and whole. On the other side of him is Jackson's old house, a larger and slightly newer building, but the Whittemore's sold their property soon after their move to London, and it's been occupied since. Through a gap in the curtains he can see the family living there is sitting down to dinner, two parents and two children, oblivious to the outside world. He lingers for a minute, idly missing the feeling of home and family, and how they translate to safety and comfort.

He doesn't look for long, a feeling of shame creeping over him for peering into something so private and personal. Derek’s neck heats up, reddened by his embarrassment with himself, and he tears himself away from the scene. Derek gets out of the car, and he can tell that Isaac isn't here now, but he had been here only about thirty minutes ago. His scent is still strong, on the street and up the walk; he paused at the front door, then went around to the back--

Derek follows the scent to the back door, opens it, follows Isaac's scent through the house, a beeline through the kitchen, up the stairs to his bedroom, his brother's, his father's - all left in a state that implies their residents will return any minute, with varying layers of dust. Some things in Isaac’s room have been disturbed, piles of clothing have been dug through, kicking up scents old and new. Streaks of dust indicate where things on the desk were shuffled around, although it's impossible to tell if anything was taken without prior knowledge of what the room had contained before. Many of the clothes here wouldn't even fit Isaac anymore, Derek thinks, although it seems almost impossible that three years could make such a difference.

On his way back down the stairs, Derek notes the way small clouds of dust puff out from beneath his shoes with every step, how the wood creaks under his weight. Derek follows Isaac's scent to the basement door, where he hesitates - Isaac didn't hesitate, he rushed, his scent faint here, how he barely touched the doorknob like it burned him, and maybe it did - before covering the scent with his own, gripping the knob firmly and turning--

The door is locked. Isaac's scent doesn't stop here, but he must have locked the door behind himself and crawled out through a window in the basement. But why? To keep possible intruders out, to protect something in the space from prying eyes? Or to keep something in, like the nightmarish memories that the room contained?

Derek leaves the house through the back door and walks around to the side where he knows the unlocked window is. He drops to a crouch and pushes the window inward, the slips through head first, falling awkwardly from the small ledge. He lands on his arm, twisting it, but the pain of the sprain is already receding by the time he's on his feet again. The dust is in thicker layers here, more things having gone untouched for extended periods of time. In the same place that he remembers it is the freezer which Isaac's father had used to torment his son. Isaac didn't touch it or approach it, he probably didn't even look at it as he hurried past toward the row of shelves covering the far wall. Boxes line one shelf, a few are less dusty than the others but one has been opened fully, a flap hanging out over the edge of the shelf catching his attention. Derek pulls the box out enough to peek inside and finds piles of photographs, some in frames stacked on top of full albums. The framed photos have been wiped clear of dust, and Derek notices that all of them feature either the same woman, or the same young man. They must be Isaac's mother and brother, he knows, and he suspects that this box is no longer as full as it had once been.

From here Isaac's scent trails to the window Derek came in through, so he follows it back out of the house, hauling himself up through the short but wide frame. He makes sure to pull the pane shut before he leaves, crossing the street and getting back into his car. If he hadn't brought the vehicle he could follow Isaac's scent on foot, but tracking him this way is harder. Even without his heightened senses, Derek is pretty sure he knows where Isaac had headed from here, so he starts his car and heads toward the end of the street and the intersection that will take him out of this neighborhood.

It's another fifteen minutes to the cemetery, and the gates are already closed for the night when he gets there. He parks outside and easily climbs the fence, heading for the crest of the hill that divides the new graves at the back from the old ones at the front. Derek spots Isaac as soon as he reaches the top of the hill, the only person in sight, standing slightly hunched in front of graves that Derek can't read from that distance. He moves closer with short strides, taking his time, letting Isaac know he's there. Isaac says nothing as he approaches, even as Derek comes to rest beside him, the names on the graves now clear - Camden, April, and Theodore Lahey, son, mother, and father - and they stand in silence until it's too much, and Derek feels like he has to say something, do something.

“You're here by yourself,” Derek says it like it's an observation and not the question that it's meant to be.

“I left Peter at the loft. Turns out he's pretty useless without opposable thumbs.” It's a joke, or at least Derek thinks it's meant to be, but Isaac's tone is so flat he can't really tell. Isaac glances at Derek from the corner of his eye. “I needed some time alone.”

Derek’s eyebrows raise before he can stop them. “Should I go?”

“No,” the word is rushed, like Isaac can't get it out fast enough. “No, I think I'm done being alone for now.”

Derek nods, but doesn't say anything else. They stand in silence for several minutes, Derek waiting for Isaac to speak, Isaac nervously chewing the inside of his cheek. Derek puts his hands in his pockets. Isaac shifts his weight from his right foot to his left, then back to his right.

“How did you know I was here?” Isaac asks after a while, fingers curling and uncurling around the hem of his sweatshirt. The movement draws Derek’s attention, and he notices the gray shirt is emblazoned with the Beacon Hills lacrosse team's logo. It's only a bit small, the ends of the sleeves resting just above Isaac's wrists.

“I'm dating the sheriff's son, I have eyes everywhere,” Derek delivers with the most seriousness he can muster before he stops to consider whether Isaac will catch the joke. Isaac's head swivels and he stares owlishly at Derek for a long second before he laughs. It sounds startled at first, but warms up quickly, and Derek quirks the corner of his mouth in a half smile.

“So Derek Hale has finally grown a sense of humor,” Isaac says when he's calmed down again, and Derek isn't even mad about it because it's kind of true.

“Must have,” Derek agrees amiably. The silence stretches between them, Derek aware of Isaac staring at his brother's and father's graves in contemplation. The sun has pitched below the treeline, the last purples and pinks of dusk settling into a deep, inky indigo.

“I guess we should head back,” Isaac says after a while, doing nothing to hide the fact that he obviously wants nothing less. Derek considers this; there aren't a lot of places in Beacon Hills that either of them want to go to, and the cemetery is at least quiet.

“You want to go back?”

“Not really,” Isaac admits, rolling his shoulders and casting his gaze up into the night sky. Derek watches him for a long moment, unsure of how to help yet feeling obligated to do so. “I used to come here a lot. Less, after...”

Isaac trails off, and Derek knows what's being left unspoken. Losing his father had obviously been hard on Isaac, the way he acted out after, the anger that he had buried so deep had bubbled to the surface and exposed the pain that he'd held so close for so long.

“Do you miss him?” Derek asks after a few beats of silence.

“No,” Isaac says bitterly, but then he amends, “I mean...yeah, of course I do. Most people don't understand it, you know, they see it in black and white - ‘he was abusive, so I should hate him’ - but it's not that simple. He was still my dad.”

Derek nods, surprised at how much he's able to empathize. He may have grown up without a father, but his uncle's still recent history of violence against Derek and others is something he's been having a difficult time reconciling with.

Derek breaks the brief, contemplative silence.

“Come on, I want to show you something,” he jerks his head toward the hill, and Isaac gives his brother's grave a lingering look before he turns to follow. Derek leads them up the slope and down a short path, toward a large tree near the fence at the front corner of the cemetery. Spread out beneath the branches of the tree - and probably entwined in its roots - are dozens of graves; the Hale family burial site. A large monument marks their surname, while smaller markers indicate each individual. Derek hears Isaac let out a puff of breath behind him.

“Right after the fire,” Derek starts, and he feels Isaac tense at the mention of it, but he presses on, “I spent a lot of time here, talking to them. Mostly my mom; I missed her guidance more than anything. I thought that building a new pack would fill the void, that I would somehow understand how to be an alpha, like it's an instinct I would just suddenly gain. Obviously, that didn't happen.”

“Derek, no one blames you for how the pack turned out.” Isaac sounds uncertain, like he isn't sure if this is the correct response for the situation.

“I know,” Derek says, and he does know. He still feels an immense amount of guilt over it, but he recognizes that he's been forgiven. Whether or not he deserves it, well, he's still working on that one. “I just meant, you've got a pretty good advantage, all things considered.”

Isaac chuckles, and Derek can't help but feel pleased to see Isaac in even slightly better spirits. Silence falls over them again, and while Derek’s eyes scan the headstones automatically, he knows Isaac is reading each one. The newest, to the far right of the front row, is where they both linger.

“When did…?” Isaac begins the question but never finishes it, looking at Derek with a half-dozen more unasked questions on his face.

“After the police closed the case,” Derek sighs, ignoring the way his heart squeezes in his chest. “There are generations of Hale’s here. Unless someone specifically designates another burial site in their will, they get added to the family plot. Laura always said she wanted to be buried with mom and dad.”

Derek’s throat is tight. He swallows twice, clears it once, blinks back the wet haze that's clouding his vision. If Isaac notices he doesn't say anything, which Derek is silently grateful for.

“And Peter?” Isaac asks softly, and Derek finds the question jarring. “Where will he be buried?”

Derek furrows his eyebrows, growing more troubled by the thought the longer he allows it to linger. “Here, unless he specifies otherwise.”

Isaac purses his lips. Derek can't help but wonder what he's thinking, but he has a feeling Isaac would dodge the question.

“So,” Isaac says carefully when he has apparently deemed it safe to speak again, “You and Peter really are the only ones left.”

Derek shakes his head, and Isaac looks like he wants to ask but is struggling to restrain himself.

“I have a younger sister, about your age,” Derek explains. Isaac's expression of shock is almost worth having to tell the story. “She was in Argentina with our mother's cousins when the fire happened. She’s been there ever since.”

“And she doesn't want to come back? Or for you to visit her?” Isaac is confounded, as if he can't imagine not wanting to see a close relative.

“No,” Derek rolls his neck to one side, then the other. “I haven't told her. About Laura, or Peter, or anything. She probably doesn't even know I'm alive.”

The silence stretches. Derek avoids looking at Isaac, knows that what he'll see there - alarm, pity, more questions - he won't want to deal with. He knows he opened this door, started this by bringing Isaac here, but it's out of Isaac's bad memories and it's out of his temporary prison that is the loft. He knows they both need this.

“Does…” Isaac sounds like he's trying to ask four questions as once. He chews his bottom lip, then tries again. “Do you think that's...what she wants?”

A question Derek has asked himself countless times in the past several years.

“I don't know. But I think it's what's best for her.”

Isaac runs his tongue over his teeth. “Does Peter know?”

Derek looks at him.

Isaac back pedals. “I won't tell him--”

“No, he doesn't know.”

Isaac picks one foot up and delicately rolls an acorn back and forth across the grass with the toe of his shoe, deep in thought.

“That's probably for the best,” Isaac says after about five minutes, acorn long abandoned. Derek nods in agreement, finding that there's little left for him to say.

Except something has been eating away at the back of his mind all day and Derek thinks now might be the best time to bring it up.

“Tell me about your pack?” He asks softly, and Isaac looks slightly startled at the request.

“What do you want to know?” Isaac sounds confused, but his expression is guarded and it makes Derek almost feel guilty for asking, like he's intruding on Isaac’s idyllic life so that he can be jealous of it.

Derek shakes his head. “I don't know.”

He sees and feels Isaac breathe in the darkness beside him.

“There's Em,” Isaac starts, chewing the inside of his cheek as he thinks. “Emily. She watches out for all of us. Dodger, he's the smart one - well, other than Peter. You remember Ethan and Aiden?”

Derek jaw clenches. “The twins that ran with Deucalion?”

Isaac nods. “Yeah, they're ours now, too.”

“They're the ones who originally upset the coven,” Derek says. It's not a question because he doesn't need to ask, it seems obvious, maybe even makes sense. They fled California and went north, ran into the witches, then ran to the nearest pack for protection. “Weren't they alphas?”

“The coven took their powers,” Isaac frowns, a thought seeming to occur to him. “This...isn't going to just fix itself.”

“Hey,” Derek feels responsible for this, and in a way he sort of is, so he tries to be reassuring. “We're going to make this right.”

Isaac looks at Derek, and Derek can see the fear, the hope, and the trust all tangled together in his eyes, and he know he shouldn't but he adds, “I promise.”

Isaac nods, turning away from the rows of graves. “Let's head back.”

They walk to Derek’s car in silence, the light from the half-moon simultaneously  casting shadows and lighting their path. Derek waits until they're in the car and headed away from the cemetery before he speaks again, glancing sideways at Isaac in the dark.

“Deaton is going to drop by and check things out tonight,” Derek sees the dash clock change from 7:59 to 8:00 at the edge of his vision. “Actually, he might already be there.”

“Alone with Peter?” Isaac huffs a quiet laugh. “Poor Deaton.”

Derek can't help but chuckle.

They get back to the loft at 8:16, and Deaton is indeed already there. Peter is up on the table when they walk in, looking disinterested as Deaton checks his ears, eyes, and teeth. Derek watches Isaac make a beeline for him without saying a word.

“I hope you don't mind that I let myself in,” Deaton says absently, setting down his pen light. “I figured I could save some time, and save Peter some of his dignity.”

“He doesn't have any,” Derek responds immediately. He tosses his keys into the bowl next to the door. Peter sits back on his haunches as Isaac combs long fingers through his fur.

“It's good to see you, Isaac,” Deaton smiles, ignoring Derek’s comment with ease.

Derek can't help but wonder if this is an indication that they've worked together for too long, or if it's simply another reflection of Deaton’s indefatigable patience. More than once over the years Derek has stood in awe of Deaton, his calm demeanor and endless wisdom serving as constant reminders of his mother. This was the man Talia had chosen to advise her, to mediate for her; in a way, Derek wishes he had been more involved in pack matters as a child, so that he could have known Deaton sooner.

“You too,” Isaac's response brings Derek out of his thoughts, and he's empathetic of the weary tone in Isaac's voice. Deaton embraces Isaac briefly, grasping his shoulders when he pulls back with the same calm smile. The gesture reminds Derek of how a father would embrace his son, and it makes him long for his family and his pack.

“Did you find anything?” Derek asks, concern for Peter having little to do with the inquiry. Deaton turns halfway to face him.

“You aren't going to like the answer,” Deaton starts, looking between Isaac and Derek in turn, his smile now gone. “But, no, not exactly.”

“‘Not exactly’?” Isaac says what Derek’s thinking.

“Aside from the obvious, there doesn't seem to be anything physically wrong with him,” Deaton explains. “When Stiles initially told me about Peter’s condition, I had some concerns about the retention of his mental faculties, but that's clearly not an issue.”

“So he's not in any pain?” Isaac's gaze is intense, but Deaton is unfaltering.

“I didn't say that. There may be nothing wrong with his physical body as a wolf, but he's still under some strain. Typically, only a few alphas are able to achieve a full shift, and many won't hold it for long - it's exhausting, and painful. The longer he stays like this, the more painful it will get.”

Derek is surprised, although he has a feeling he shouldn't be. He knows his mother had been capable of a shift like this, but never once had she told him that it hurt.

Isaac clutches Peter’s fur tightly, his grief evident on his face.

“How do we change him back?” Isaac's voice is strong despite how downtrodden he looks, his resolve apparently unwavering.

Deaton’s eyebrows raise. “That's the real dilemma. Very few alphas can complete a full shift like this, and as far as I know Peter isn't one of them. The shift was forced by the spell, but it's difficult to tell if it's still active.”

“Meaning what?” Derek asks.

“Meaning, it could be that the spell is keeping him this way, or that he can't shift back because he doesn't know how.”

Isaac and Derek look at each other over Deaton’s head, more than a little bit of concern etched into Isaac’s features.

“Can you figure it out?” Isaac still sounds so resolute. Derek really has to give him credit for how strong he's been through all of this.

“Given some time, yes,” Deaton collects the instruments of his trade and places them neatly into a leather briefcase. “You were also attacked, weren't you Isaac?”

“Yeah,” he's hesitant now, but he pushes onward, “When they took Peter’s alpha powers, they gave them to me.”

Deaton presses his lips into a thin line, his brow furrowed as he regards Isaac carefully. “Are you experiencing any pain?”

“No,” Isaac admits, glancing at Peter guiltily.

“Anything out of the ordinary?”

“No,” Isaac shakes his head. “Do you know how to fix it?”

“Honestly?” Deaton sounds as baffled as he looks. “I have no idea. I'll look into it, though. For now, the best advice I can give you is to just sit tight and call me if anything changes.”

“Thank you for all of your help,” Isaac says as Deaton closes his briefcase and heads for the door.

Deaton smiles kindly at Isaac over his shoulder. “It's what I'm here for. Goodnight, Derek.”

“See you tomorrow,” Derek says as amiably as he can, then makes sure the door is secure once Deaton is out.

Peter leans heavily on Isaac, while Isaac idly pets behind Peter’s ears. Derek watches for a moment before he decides he probably shouldn't, and instead he makes for the kitchen.

There's a few dishes left out from breakfast that he should clean up, and he knows he should probably have another meal before bed, but he just can't bring himself to care. He stands in the center of the kitchen, staring between the refrigerator, the stove, and the dishes, tormented by his own indecision. Finally, he hears the clatter of claws as Peter jumps down from the table and climbs the stairs; Isaac calls out a goodnight to Derek and follows suit.

Derek leaves the kitchen without making making a decision. He sits on the couch, staring at the flat black of the TV, mulling over the events of the last few hours until he hears the familiar groan of the Jeep’s engine in the parking lot below and a few minutes later Stiles is coming through the door.

“Hey,” Stiles sounds surprised to see Derek still awake, concern creeping into his tone. He tosses his keys and kicks off his shoes, shedding pieces of his uniform as he makes his way across the loft.

“Hey yourself,” Derek smiles when Stiles arrives in front of him, divested of all clothes save his boxers, socks, and undershirt. Stiles moves and then he's sprawled across Derek’s lap, one arm hooked around his neck and one knee slung over the arm of the couch. Derek wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, and Stiles relaxes against him. “How was work?”

“Fine,” Stiles dismisses the topic quickly and without consideration. “Did Deaton come by?”

“Yeah,” is all Derek supplies.

Stiles waits a few seconds for him to continue. When he doesn't, “Well?”

Derek shakes his head. Stiles groans and throws his body down into Derek’s grip, exaggerating the motion of falling limp. The gesture succeeds in conveying his exasperation with the situation.

“He said he's looking into it,” Derek shrugs weakly. Stiles snaps back to life, leaning his head against Derek’s shoulder.

“I hate waiting for things,” Stiles grumbles. Derek pats Stiles’ knee with his free hand, their shared impatience almost tangible. They sit in silence for a long time, until Stiles heaves a sigh and the warmth of his breath tickles the side of Derek’s neck.

“Hey,” Derek smooths a hand over Stiles’ leg, and Stiles lifts his head to meet Derek’s gaze. “Thank you. For putting up with this.”

Stiles sighs again, longer. “Isaac is pack, and as much as I kind of hate him sometimes, he's kind of my friend,” he pauses, frowns. “I'm not thrilled about Peter being here, though.”

“I'm not happy about it either,” Derek assures him. He leans in to press a kiss to the side of Stiles’ head, but Stiles turns at the last second and catches Derek’s lips with his own.

“Give Deaton another day or two,” Stiles says when they part, bumping his forehead against Derek’s. “He'll find a solution, and then everything will go back to normal. Whatever ‘normal’ is.”

“Yeah,” Derek says. He's unconvinced - nothing is ever that easy - but he doesn't say so. Maybe Stiles is right. Maybe, for once, things will go their way.

Chapter Text

Isaac dreams that Peter is slowly dying.

No longer a wolf, the power - the life - is being drained out of him. Isaac can see it, can feel how weak Peter is becoming, can smell death in the air around him. But Isaac is growing stronger. He expands the pack, his power increasing with every added beta.

He's getting stronger as Peter decays.

It’s dark, the familiar walls of a dilapidated house around him. Peter is frail, backed into a corner and watching helplessly as Isaac lifts a hand and brings it down, his claws meeting Peter’s throat--

The sound of an alarm across the hall startles Isaac awake. A jingling, merry tune that seems uncharacteristic of both men occupying the room opposite. 

He lies there in the dark and stares at the ceiling, listening to the quiet rustling and shuffling. Light, unsteady footsteps tell him that it's Stiles waking first, and the sound carries to the bathroom where the shower begins to run. Derek stirs not long after, skipping the shower and dressing quietly in the darkness, he heads downstairs first and the scent of coffee soon finds its way into every corner of the loft.

Isaac has missed mornings here. He wouldn't have truly realized if they had never come back. Although the circumstances are obviously not ideal, he's sort of grateful. The brand of coffee Derek buys has such a strong, rich, smoky scent, and it reminds Isaac of breakfasts with his pack - his first pack - on the weekends. The loft’s other scents are just as nostalgic - the wood of the floorboards in the upstairs room, the metallic tang of the iron stairs, the leather of the couch, Derek and Stiles’ scents everywhere.

Stiles dresses after his shower, then follows Derek downstairs. Listening to them dance around each other as they prepare their meals reminds Isaac of Peter, and of how seamlessly he and Isaac work together when in the kitchen and with their pack. Isaac gropes the bed beside him, feeling for Peter, but finds only empty sheets. He lifts his head to find Peter at the edge of the bed, perched as if on guard, and Isaac reaches farther to touch him. Peter’s focus doesn't change, but he leans into the touch and the contact soon puts Isaac back to sleep.

When he wakes again, it's to the sound of the loft’s heavy steel door sliding open, then shut. The footsteps that follow are too heavy to be Stiles or Derek, and Isaac sits up quickly. Peter is at his feet, ears twitching as he listens, a low, rumbling growl starting in his throat a moment later. The sound gives Isaac goosebumps, raises the hair on the back of his neck. He can feel the familiar pressure of claws beneath his nails, fangs under his gums; his rising panic almost causes him to shift as the footsteps near the bottom of the stairs.

The urge to shift is amplified, and Isaac takes a breath to steady himself but finds that it focuses his buzzing, electrified senses and suddenly he's acutely aware of the person at the bottom of the stairs. He can heartastesmell - breath, heartbeat, blood rushing, fabric on fabric, sweat, hospital cleaner, grass, musk, hand cream, wolf --

“Isaac?”

The familiarity of the voice startles Isaac and breaks his focus, leaving him reeling for a moment while his human brain struggles to process all of the information his wolf brain has gathered. Peter stops growling in an instant, ears flicking forward. He sits up, abandoning his hunched position as the footsteps resume. The ringing of the metal echoes in Isaac's ears and makes his head throb, and he drops it into his hands.

“Boyd,” Isaac finds his voice despite the ache, and the footsteps mercifully pause again. Peter notices Isaac's discomfort and closes the distance between them, nosing gently at his covered head. The pain subsides and Isaac lifts his head, looking at Peter in surprise. Isaac clears his throat. “Hey, um, give me a minute and I'll come down. What time is it?”

Silence stretches for a moment and Isaac can still hear everything - his heart pumping, lungs expanding - but it's quieter now.

“Eleven twenty-three,” Boyd says after a moment. There's a cautious edge to his voice, but Isaac can also hear the small smile on his friend's face. “Hurry up.”

Boyd lingers for a moment, then descends the stairs and heads into the kitchen. Isaac leans over and presses a kiss to the side of Peter’s face before swinging his legs over the edge of the bed. He rakes a hand through his hair and breathes deep, taking a moment to collect himself. Bits and pieces of his dream from earlier still linger at the forefront of his mind, but he pushes them back and forces himself to stand and dress.

He finds Boyd slightly hunched and rifling through the refrigerator, a small stack of takeout boxes on the counter beside him. Boyd straightens and closes the fridge, surveying Isaac and the wolf at his side for several seconds before his stoic expression splits into a smile. Isaac feels his own face mirror the expression as he takes in the obvious and more subtle changes that his friend has gone through. He's taller, broader, and he holds himself differently - more relaxed, less insecure. There's a hint of larger muscles beneath his blue scrubs, Isaac notices, and a Beacon Hills Hospital ID clipped to his shirt.

Isaac closes the distance between them and wraps his arms around Boyd in a tight hug, which he's pleased to feel is returned immediately. Boyd is covered in scents both familiar and unknown, and Isaac instinctively breathes them all in. A puff of air tickles his ear and he realizes that Boyd is laughing.

Isaac can't tell what about until he pulls back from the embrace and sees Boyd watching Peter. 

“Oh man,” Boyd says, still chuckling. “Sorry, I just can't believe that's Peter.”

Peter flattens his ears to his head, bares his teeth, and growls, but Boyd just laughs harder.

“Erica told you?” Isaac asks when they've both settled down. Peter’s ears are still turned back in irritation, only now he refuses to look at or acknowledge Boyd.

“Stiles, actually,” Boyd opens a drawer, pulls out two forks, and hands one to Isaac. He gestures to the containers on the counter. “Beef and broccoli, or orange chicken?”

“Chicken,” Isaac accepts the paper box and pops the top open, only realizing how hungry he is when he sees the food. He spears a piece of chicken and offers it to Peter, watching Boyd devour an ill-gotten broccoli floret. Peter sniffs the chicken delicately, then quickly snatches it off the fork. “So, nursing, huh?”

Boyd shrugs, but Isaac can see a hint of a smile on his lips as he chews and swallows a piece of beef. “Yeah, Scott’s mom talked me into it, if you can believe that.”

Isaac can count the number of brief encounters he's had with Melissa on one hand, having been surprised by her tenacity and subtle air of authority each time; he has absolutely no trouble believing that she orchestrated this.

“I seem to remember her being pretty persuasive,” Isaac says in between bites. “Do you like it?”

“You know, I really do.” After a pause Boyd says, “So, Seattle, huh?”

Isaac groans, although the noise isn’t entirely voluntary. Boyd’s eyebrows raise.

“Not good?” He guesses. Isaac shakes his head, resting his fork inside the carton of chicken for a moment so he can sweep some of the curls back from his forehead.

“It’s not that,” he says, taking up his fork once more, spearing another piece of chicken. He shoves it into his mouth and continues to talk around it. “I’ve just talked about it so much the last few days…”

He allows the sentence to trail off as he devours another piece of chicken, hoping that Boyd will catch his meaning, which he seems to. The other wolf shakes his head a little, waving his fork in Isaac’s direction as he swallows a mouthful of food.

“Say no more,” the tines of his fork scrape against the paper carton as he scoops the last of the meat and vegetables out. They disappear in short order, and Boyd dumps the carton into the trash. He sets his fork in the sink, which he leans back against. Isaac claims one last piece of chicken before setting the container on the floor in front of Peter, allowing him to finish off the remains.

“How about you? What’s new and different in the life of Vernon Boyd?” Isaac prompts once he’s discarded his trash. Boyd shrugs, and it looks as though he’s going to try to leave it at that one simple gesture, but Isaac isn’t having it. “I’m serious! How have you been?”

Boyd smiles, looking a little helpless at Isaac’s ruthless interrogation.

“I’ve been fine,” he says, and for a second Isaac thinks he’s going to shrug the question off again, but then he continues. “Working, mostly. Erica and I got an apartment together, but I almost never see it.”

Isaac feels his eyebrows shoot up in surprise. “So you and Erica are still…?”

“No way,” Boyd laughs, sounding a little surprised at the question. “No, that was...never going to work out. I’m not interested in a relationship, and she’s already got most of her wedding planned. We work better this way.”

It’s a little bit a of a shock to Isaac, if only because when they were back in high school, Boyd and Erica seemed like they were perfect for each other. A lot of things had changed since then, though.

“What about Erica? Surely she’s got a boyfriend.” Isaac encourages. It’s not like he’s dying to pry information out of Boyd, but Isaac has missed his friends, and this might be their only chance to catch up. Boyd shakes his head. 

“Why, you interested?” He teases. Isaac rolls his eyes, and Boyd continues. “No. Not right now, anyway. She’s dated a couple of guys, but none of them last very long. I think they want more attention than she’s willing to give them, maybe.”

Isaac thinks about this for a moment, nodding. Then, “So what about Derek and Stiles?”

Boyd snorts. “What about them? They’re glued together at the hip.”

With a shrug, Isaac gestures at the kitchen around them. “I noticed. It’s weird to see Derek be so…”

Boyd nods, seeming to pick up what Isaac is putting down.

“Happy? I know, it’s been an adjustment. I’m still not really used to it.”

“At least he’s finally kind of normal,” Isaac says. “I mean, he seems a lot more relaxed.”

“He does,” Boyd agrees while he rinses his fork clean and sets it in the drip basket.

 They’re both quiet for a beat as Isaac debates whether to ask the question that’s been on his mind since yesterday morning. He doesn’t know how to phrase it right, so he just blurts, “What’s up with them and Erica?”

Boyd laughs, a real hearty laugh that warms Isaac’s bones a little.

“A while back, Erica suggested that if they ever wanted to add a third, she would be first in line. I don’t think there’s really anything there, but she’s been having the time of her life teasing Derek about it,” Boyd explains, shaking his head. “Derek’s always had that thing about not really wanting to let people love him, you know?”

Isaac exhales, rolling his eyes to the side. “Don’t we all?”

Boyd hums. “Yeah, maybe.” He glances at Isaac, then down at Peter, sitting patiently at Isaac’s side. “Seemed to work out pretty well for you, didn’t it?”

Isaac stares at Boyd owlishly, face hot.

“Current circumstances not withstanding,” Boyd amends quickly with a small huff of a laugh. Isaac clears his throat, taking his time finding a glass in a nearby cabinet and filling it from the tap. When he looks back at Boyd, his friend is looking between him and Peter, eyes narrowed into a more serious expression.

“You are…happy, right?” Boyd asks, and it tugs on Isaac's heartstrings. After the way he and Peter had left Beacon Hills, it surprises him that his friends genuinely care about him. About his happiness. Boyd continues. “I mean, he treats you right. Right? Because if he doesn't, now might be the best time to get rid of him. You know, permanently..”

Isaac spits a mouthful of water in shock, startled laughter bubbling out of him. Peter growls softly as Boyd grumbles, “Aw man, really?” Isaac barks an almost hysterical laugh at the sight of Boyd, water dripping from his face and darkening the blue of his scrubs. Peter huffs and shakes his coat, returning the spray to Isaac and splattering Boyd even more. Isaac only laughs harder, leaning against the counter as he tries to catch his breath. He misses Boyd and Peter sharing a look of concern.

“I'm fine,” Isaac finally says, releasing a large breath, smile slowly fading. “Honestly, things were great until…well.”

He looks at Peter apologetically as he says this. Peter sighs heavily and lies down, resting his chin on his paws. Boyd nods, looking relieved, and Isaac sees some of the tension leave his friend's shoulders.

“I missed you, though,” Isaac says a moment later, voice soft. “All of you. It…it's not the same, being a part of a pack without you.”

Boyd grabs a towel from the counter and wipes the bits of water still on his face, giving Isaac a soft smile.

“We missed you, too, Isaac.” Boyd says, and Isaac believes him.

It’s nice, Isaac thinks as he brews a fresh pot of coffee, chatting idly with his friend. It’s nice to be around the old pack again, in a way that makes his heart ache and his stomach twist. He knows that he and Peter have a responsibility to care for the new pack, the one they started together, but it feels right to be back with the Beacon Hills pack.

It feels like home.

He’s still sitting with that feeling after Boyd heads back to his own home, leaving Isaac on Stiles and Derek’s leather couch with a half-full cup of coffee. A wet nose nuzzles his hand, startling Isaac out of his thoughts to look down at the lupine form of his boyfriend, Peter’s fuzzy head laid in Isaac’s lap. Isaac sighs, giving him a gentle scratch behind his ears. Peter shifts, sitting up and softly licking Isaac’s fingers in response. Peter has always been hard to read, in Isaac’s experience, but this is ridiculous.

“I hate that you can’t tell me what you’re thinking right now,” Isaac mutters, dragging a hand through his curls. “I don’t know what I’ll do if we can’t…if…”

He trails off, throat tight as tears threaten to well up. There’s no way he can finish the thought. Peter nuzzles his hand again, then nips it sharply, causing Isaac to yelp.

“Hey!” He shoves gently at Peter’s snout, but finds himself laughing despite the fear. Isaac breathes deeply, wrapping his arms around Peter’s neck and burying his face into the thick fur. “Sorry. You’re right. You’re always right. We’ll figure it out.”

We always do, he thinks.

They stay there for a while, Isaac leaning back into the plush couch, arms wrapped around Peter who stays leaning bodily against him. He doesn’t really mean to fall asleep, but he does eventually doze off, drifting in and out of unconsciousness until the sound of the loft door sliding open startles him awake. Isaac rubs his face, mentally cursing himself for not hearing or scenting the person, for being caught off guard. Peter seems unconcerned, though, and when Stiles walks in, Isaac relaxes a little.

“I didn’t hear you coming,” Isaac mumbles, sitting up and dislodging Peter in the process. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on your couch.”

Stiles huffs a quiet, disdainful laugh out of his nose, rolling his eyes. “Yeah, yeah. Must be nice to take a nap while I’m out there trying to find a cure for your lap dog.”

Peter growls a brief warning, ears flattening back as he gives Stiles a lethal look, which Stiles ignores with practiced ease. Isaac feels his cheeks heat up, and he stands, shrugging off the last bites of sleep. 

“We wouldn’t be here if we had another option,” Isaac snaps, feeling the prickling urge to unleash his claws and teeth. He shoves the feeling away, taking an unsteady breath. Quieter, but no less tense, he adds, “We’ll be out of here as soon as I can get Peter back to normal.”

Stiles scowls, opening his mouth to retort, but he stops. Isaac watches as he takes a slow breath and turns away, marching into the kitchen instead of responding. A few heartbeats later, Stiles reappears in the doorway. “What happened to my beef and broccoli?”

Isaac fights a smile. “Boyd stopped by.”

“God damn it,” Stiles pulls out his phone and begins typing furiously. When he’s finished writing up what Isaac imagines to be a text containing a scathing review of Boyd’s character to Boyd himself, Stiles shoves his phone in his pocket and looks at Isaac sharply.

“Lydia called again. Your weirdness might be spreading.”

Isaac scoffs, but his curiosity quickly overrides any offense he may have taken. “What does that mean?”

Stiles sits on the ottoman, resting his elbows on his knees. Isaac sits again and watches him idly fidget with a coin off the table as he takes a breath to explain.

“Lydia says she’s been having weird dreams. Well, nightmares. About us, you, and…” He looks at Peter, then clears his throat and continues. “She mentioned something about some research she’s been doing on witches, which is probably not a coincidence, and that something weird happened with Jackson.”

Isaac starts at this. “Wait. Isn’t Jackson still in London? What happened?” His chest tightens as Stiles nods.

“Yeah. Lyds says they’re both pretty close to finals at school, so they’re going to fly out here when they’re done and see how they can help. She didn’t want to get into specifics over the phone, I guess.”

There’s a pit in Isaac’s stomach, and a voice in the back of head telling him that he doesn’t deserve friends like this. He hasn’t done anything to earn the level of loyalty any of them have shown him. Or maybe…maybe that isn’t it, he thinks. More likely, it’s a favor to Stiles and Derek. The more people who can help them search for answers, the faster they can get Peter and Isaac out of the flat and have their idyllic life back.

Isaac nods, feeling somewhere between numb and being sick.

“Thanks. And…I’m sorry. For making this your problem now, too,” Isaac says, gesturing for Peter to join him as he heads for the stairs. Stiles doesn’t respond, but Isaac can feel his gaze on him as he ascends the steps. When they reach his room, Isaac closes the door behind them with a quiet click and sinks onto the mattress with a heavy sigh. He curls up with the blanket there, lifting it to make room for Peter, who obliges the silent request. Isaac wraps his arms around him, fingers twisting in his fur, eyelids drooping. In the quiet of his bedroom, Isaac can almost feel the oppressive weight of his new alpha powers, a heaviness that seems to pull him down, down, down. That weight combined with his anxieties soon lulls Isaac into another fitful slumber, shadows creeping along the edges of his unconscious mind.

Chapter Text

It was almost impossible for Scott to focus on finals after the call he had gotten from Stiles the week before. 

Really, he understands why Stiles had been reluctant to tell him about the situation with Isaac, Peter, and the Seattle pack. Stiles knows him well enough to know that Scott would have dropped everything, finals be damned, to go help his friends. Stiles had called, hanging up after the first ring and following up with a text: All good. Talk later. After two decades of being best friends, Scott had easily recognized this as a red flag, and immediately returned the call, demanding to know if everyone was okay and why Stiles was being weird. Of course, Stiles was somehow able to convince Scott that, no, things were not so bad that he should throw away his entire semester. So Scott reluctantly stayed and finished his last week, worried the entire seven days.

He hasn’t been able to get it out of his head since, if he’s being honest with himself. Even just an hour ago when he was taking his final exam for the semester, Scott’s mind had been preoccupied by the low thrumming anxiety that comes from knowing about a problem that can’t be fixed immediately. As soon as he had handed in his finished exam, he was out the door, heading back to his dorm to grab the bag he had packed the night before in preparation. It was only an hour drive, but Scott had no idea how long he might need to stay in Beacon Hills. He had only packed what he could easily fit on his motorcycle, but at least he still had some clothes and essentials at his mom’s house.

Now fifteen minutes into the drive, Scott realizes as his gas meter ticks lower and lower that, in his worry for Isaac and the others, he had forgotten to refuel before getting on the highway.

The anxiety has him on edge as he pulls off at the next available gas station, but he counts his lucky stars that he’s able to find an open pump amidst the midday traffic. As he pulls up alongside the pump, he notices another motorcycle parked on the opposite side, its rider nowhere to be seen. It’s a newer model of Scott’s own, which brings a small smile to his face as he parks and dismounts. A few minutes later, he’s exiting the gas station with a crisp, cool bottle of water. He downs half of it in one go, not having realized how thirsty he had been - hungry, too, but he figures that can wait - and begins pumping his gas.

“Nice bike.”

The slightly muffled voice from the other side of the pump startles him out of his thoughts, and Scott turns to look, but finds the speaker is obscured by the pump. He finishes pumping and hangs the handle back in its spot, leaning around the structure to see the person addressing him.

It’s the other biker, he sees. Her helmet is already on, explaining the muffled voice, and the visor is lifted so only her stormy blue eyes are visible. Scott can see part of a long, blonde braid peeking out from the base of the helmet which disappears into the collar of her jacket.

“Hey, thanks. You too.” Scott says cheerfully. “I saw yours when I pulled up. I didn’t realize the newer models looked so nice.”

He glances at his motorcycle, the one he purchased used with money from his first job all the way back in high school, and offers her a slightly sheepish smile. He watches as she gently pats the side of her bike, nodding.

“It was a good investment,” she says agreeably. “Good day for riding. Where are you headed?”

“Beacon Hills. I’m going to meet up with some friends I haven’t seen in a while,” Scott says, nodding toward her bike. “You?”

“Opposite direction,” she says, making some adjustments before starting her bike. “Be safe on the road. Nice weather tends to bring out the weirdos.”

“I guess I’ve never heard that,” Scott admits, chuckling nervously. “Have a good ride.”

He watches as she flips her visor down and revs her engine once, then shoots off out of the lot and onto the road, heading back the way Scott had come.

“Maybe she was one of the weirdos,” he mumbles to himself as he gets on his bike, brows furrowed as he secures his helmet. He does his best to shake off the odd interaction as he gets back on route, looking forward to being home.

It is a nice day, though, he thinks a while later. He had intended to race straight to the loft, to see Isaac and talk to Stiles about the situation, but now Scott can’t help but want to enjoy his ride a little. He’s been so wrapped up in preparing for finals, and now this, that he hasn’t stopped much to really appreciate spring blooming around him.

There’s an alternate route coming up, he knows, and Scott makes the split-second decision to take it. It’s a more scenic and less-used highway that won’t add more than ten minutes to his drive, so he figures it will be the perfect opportunity to just enjoy being on the road.

Honestly, it’s even better than he hoped. Everything on his right is in vibrant, fresh shades of green, colorful blooms dotting the grasses and tree limbs. To the left, a steep cliff edge threatens to spill anyone who dares to get too close into a deep, rocky ravine, but the view of the trees and cliffs below is still breathtaking. Scott feels some of the tension that lingered from his morning’s exams leave him, and lets his mind wander.

His reverie is interrupted by chiming, and he realizes that his phone must have automatically connected to the Bluetooth in his helmet, because he could never remember to switch it off. He uses the voice command to answer the call, hoping the volume isn’t too high.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” Stiles greets loudly, making Scott wince just a little as his voice is funneled directly into his sensitive wolf ears. “You said you were going to text me after finals this morning, what happened?”

Shit. He had completely forgotten. His mind had been so occupied with everything else. 

“Sorry, man. I was thinking about everything and just got on the road as soon as I was done. I’ll be there in,” Scott carefully shifts his arm, the sleeve of his jacket riding up just enough that he can see his watch. “Thirty minutes, or so.”

He hears Stiles moving around, then two other voices in the background before Stiles speaks again.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry. See, I knew it would distract you if I told you before you were done with everything,” Stiles says, sounding frustrated.

“No, it’s cool. Really. I want to help. Is everyone still doing okay?” He can’t help but worry. 

Stiles hadn’t given him a lot of details. Just the basics: Isaac had shown up with a fully-transformed Peter, who can’t change back, and that Stiles was pretty sure there were witches involved. Honestly, the idea of witches hadn’t really occurred to Scott. Even now, he’s pretty sure he’ll never stop being surprised at the vastness of the supernatural world.

“For the most part,” Stiles says. “I guess.”

There’s movement again, and what Scott recognizes is the door of the loft, then the whirring and rattling of the old building lift.

“I don’t know. Everyone is restless. Isaac is eating all of my food, sleeping all the time, and arguing with me about everything. Deaton said Peter might be experiencing ‘significant strain’ from being stuck like this, but we can’t figure out how to talk to a god damn wolf.” Stiles says all at once, and Scott can tell it’s a release of sorts, that Stiles hasn’t felt like he can say this to anyone else. Scott feels a swell of pride at the knowledge that even with the distance and both of them having their own lives, they’re still best friends.

“It sounds like a lot,” Scott says, affirming Stiles. “We’re going to figure it out, Stiles. I promise. I’ll talk to Isaac and see if there’s another way we can try to communicate with Peter. You said something about witches, though. How does this relate?”

The loft lift clunks and rattles through his helmet speakers, and Scott assumes this signals Stiles has reached the ground floor of the building.

“Yeah, so a couple of Peter’s pack - you remember Ethan and Aiden? - got too close to some witch coven’s territory or something, now the witches are pissed.” There’s a clunk, and Scott hears the whir of the lift start back up. “Apparently they wiped out another wolf pack up north. Peter and his pack had gone to meet up with them when both packs were attacked.”

Scott’s stomach drops. A whole pack, killed by this coven? They needed to get this figured out, and fast. Who knows what could happen to Isaac and Peter.

“What happened to the rest of Isaac’s pack?” Scott asks. He picks up a sound coming from outside of the call, and recognizes it as the distant engine of an approaching vehicle. He glances in his mirrors, but sees no one behind him. They must be around that last curve, he thinks.

“Back in Seattle. We all think it would be way too dangerous for them to try to get here.” Stiles almost sounds disappointed about this. Maybe he thinks that having the rest of Peter and Isaac’s pack there would help them solve this faster.

“Definitely,” Scott agrees. The approaching engine has grown louder, and he checks his mirrors again. Scott’s stomach drops at the sight that greets him.

It’s the woman from the gas station. She’s rapidly approaching on the same bike he had seen her take in the other direction, the way she had told him she was traveling.

“Stiles,” he says, voice dropping as his heart begins to beat faster and he feels the instincttive urge to shift. “I think I have a problem.”

“What?” Stiles asks nervously,, lift still whirring and clicking in the background. “Scott, what’s going on?”

Scott tenses as the woman pulls up on his right, matching his speed. 

“Stiles, I need you to hang up. I’ll call you back.”

She turns her head to look at Scott, but he can’t see her eyes through the dark visor of her helmet.

“What are you–”

She nods once, and then without any hesitation, swerves her bike toward Scott’s in an attempt to ram into him.

“Shit!” He swerves to the left instinctively, trying to avoid her. He remembers the drop-off at the last second and lets go of the throttle, slowing enough to correct back toward the cliff wall on the right. This lands him just behind the other bike, which breaks suddenly, clearly trying to get Scott to collide with her. Instead, he swerves off to the right, accelerating and squeezing between her and the cliff face. 

“Scott! What’s going on? Are you okay?” Stiles’s voice is still filtering through the tinny speakers of Scott’s helmet, and he growls at his best friend as the woman begins to approach him again, this time on his left.

“Motorcycle fight” Scott manages, just as the other biker approaches again, trying to drive him into the rock wall on the right.

“What?” Stiles yells. 

Scott reaches up to hit the ‘end call’ button on his helmet as he once again slows, breaking just enough to get behind the other motorcycle, veering left and speeding up. Reaching across, he steers with his left hand while carefully tugging off his right glove with his thumb and forefinger. When he thinks he’s close enough, he extends his claws, slashing at the rear tire of the other bike.

His strike doesn’t connect, but the mysterious driver sees how close he got and veers away, glancing back at him as she reaches toward him with her left hand. For a split second, Scott is confused. Then, he sees the odd wavering, almost iridescent, shimmering something forming in the palm of her hand. With a sharp intake of breath, Scott swerves sharply to the left just as the swirling energy leaves her hand, barely missing his shoulder. He corrects, but it’s too close to the drop-off, and he can’t help but glance down to see just how far the drop is. If he could survive it, should he have to. When he turns back, he sees the other driver getting her bearings just in time to meet his gaze. She had almost run herself off the road in her attempt to hit him with that…was it a spell? He can’t think about that right now.

They both see Scott’s disadvantage at the same time, and as the rogue driver begins to veer sharply in his direction, he begins to move toward her as well, readying his claws.

He swipes at her tire again, missing it but still grazing part of her bike, sparks rising where his claws gouge the metal. She jerks her bike away, which unbalances her, and her bike begins to wobble back and forth. Scott can see her fight to control it, and she does, managing to pull her bike straight and evening out her course by slowing down a considerable amount. Scott stays ahead of her, but stays close. His mind goes to what Stiles had said about witches, but Scott doesn’t know anything about witches. More than that, he doesn’t know why one would be attacking him, if that’s what she is.

She speeds up, and as he glances back, he can see her outstretched hand again, that same strange energy swirling in her palm. Scott swerves hard to the right as she fires, the iridescent crackling energy glancing off of Scott’s helmet as he dodges. Again, this seems to throw her off for just a moment, and Scott takes the opportunity to drop back, swerving behind and around to her left side once more. He speeds up, carefully closing the distance between them, their bikes becoming dangerously close, and he strikes. Scott’s claws slice through the rubber of her rear tire like soft butter.

Immediately, he swerves away to the left and speeds past just as she loses control of her bike.

Scott glances back as he hears the crash, looking away just as quickly. The adrenaline quickly leaves his body, and he slows to a reasonable speed once he’s positive there is no one on his tail. After a few deep breaths, he swallows the bile rising in his throat and uses the Bluetooth voice command to ‘call Stiles.’

Stiles picks up on the first ring, near frantic. “Are you okay? What the hell happened?”

“I’ll be there in five minutes,” he says, taking another deep breath before he adds, “I think I just killed one of the witches.”

___________

Nothing had happened in the week since Issac and Peter came to the loft, seeking sanctuary and help. Since the initial exam by Deaton, there hadn’t really been any updates. Stiles had found a little bit more on the history of covens in the area, but other than a couple of off-hand mentions, there wasn’t any more about the Jones coven.

This pisses Isaac off. He feels it under his skin, a heavy, blistering heat that makes him itch somewhere deep beneath his skin, that urges him to shift. It’s been getting worse, too. Every little thing has been setting him off. He’s snapped at everyone, even Erica and Boyd. When he’s not so tired that he can hardly keep his eyes open, that is. He’s been trying not to sleep, though. The nightmares have been…he can’t stomach it. Not sleeping makes him even more irritable, though. He can’t stop picking fights, but the worst part is that he feels like he’s watching himself doing it. Like he’s outside of his body, watching him ruin every last shred of his relationships with these people that he loves. A part of him feels distantly remorseful for this, but he doesn’t relate to that part of himself right now. Right now he’s fighting his sharpened teeth and lethal claws, the red flash in his eyes.

Part of it is the restlessness. He knows it’s not safe to go out, but if he could only go for a run, maybe he could get some of this pent up energy and anger out. He tried to sneak out once, after the first time, but found that Stiles had installed sensors on every possible exit in the place. None of them will admit that he’s basically on house arrest, which he’s told them multiple times. Even Peter is going stir crazy, having begun chewing some of Derek’s personal items. Shoes, pillows, jackets - he favors leather, Isaac has noticed - have all fallen victim to Peter’s ire. All of Stiles’s things have gone untouched, but Isaac has a feeling this has less to do with any sort of favoritism and more to do with the fact that Peter likely believes Stiles would shoot Peter himself if he chewed anything belonging to Stiles.

Isaac paces in his small bedroom within the loft, feeling every bit of the space he doesn’t have here. The furniture, though minimal, takes up too much space. Several times, Isaac has wanted to break the furniture. Claw it and shred it, shatter it to bits. It would feel so good to do. Still, he restrains himself and that urge to shift and destroy.

Peter watches him from the bed, lying in what Isaac has guessed to be his new favorite position - on his belly with his chin resting on his front paws. When he looks up at anyone from that angle, he radiates innocence and sweetness. Or, he would, if he weren’t Peter. As such, it’s only worked to get him more treats from Erica over the course of the week, and not much else.

Isaac takes another deep breath and then turns to face Peter, sighing.

“Okay, I think I feel better. Let’s go back down.” Peter obediently hops down from the bed, joining Isaac as he opens the door to his room and leads the way downstairs.

He had been watching TV with Derek. They hadn’t even really been talking, but something Derek had done - Isaac can’t even remember now, is the worst part - had set him off so badly, that he had to excuse himself to his room to calm down. Something about the alpha powers, he thinks, has really been messing with his emotions. It’s been getting harder to manage, and Isaac fears the worst; that he may eventually snap on one of his friends.

Derek glances at him as he approaches the couch, nodding to him. Isaac nods back.

It’s not like everyone has been reacting kindly toward Isaac’s outbursts, either. Not that they should, Isaac thinks. They don’t owe me that.

For instance, Isaac is pretty sure that Stiles hates his guts. He’s already on edge enough about Peter, but Isaac still has the gift - or in this case, curse - of speech, and so he can’t stop saying things that rile Stiles up into an argument. The few times he snapped at Erica, she told him he was “being a fucking dickhead,” and stormed out of the room. He can’t blame her. He has no right to talk to her the way he is, but it’s like the beast inside of him is rotten. He can’t stop the vile words from coming out of his own mouth.

And he’s afraid of what that means. If being an alpha turns him into this, what does that make him? No better than any of the other monsters that Scott has beaten in the past.

No better than his father.

This thought bores into Isaac as he stares blankly at the TV, neither watching or really even seeing what’s on the screen. Peter climbs onto the couch next to him and nuzzles firmly into his side. Isaac almost recoils, but he stops himself, not sure why he would react that way. When he looks at Peter, though, something in him feels…uneasy.

As he’s thinking this, Stiles bursts through the door to the loft, phone in one hand, the other keeping a firm grasp on someone’s arm, dragging them into the loft.

“Scott,” Isaac says, nearly tossing Peter onto the floor as he jumps up. Scott drops his bag and his motorcycle helmet, grabbing Isaac in a tight hug. Isaac takes in a quick breath, returning the hug after a moment, too surprised to say anything else. He had known that Scott was only an hour away at school, and Stiles had said he would be home some time after he finished his finals, which had been coming up.

Isaac is so grateful to see his friend that for a moment he feels a wave of calm wash over him. Scott has always been an incredible leader to them all, even when they were just high schoolers. He really is an incredible alpha, the shining example of what should be, a true alpha. Isaac is surprised to realize in that moment that he isn’t even envious of his friend, he’s just in awe of the kind of person that Scott is.

Scott releases him from the hug, holding him at arm's length for a second to get a good look at him, then gives him a tired but genuine smile. He claps Isaac on the shoulder gently before dropping his arms back to his sides. He shoots Derek the same excited yet weary smile.

“One of the witches just tried to run Scott off the road,” Stiles announces. “They must know you’re in Beacon Hills.”

Isaac’s vision goes red as that blanket of calm is ripped away from him. Then his vision goes black.

Chapter Text

Isaac erupts.

It’s so sudden that there’s a split second where everyone is frozen, unable to do anything but stare as Isaac’s teeth lengthen into fangs, eyes flashing red as he howls. When he levels his gaze at them, it’s purely feral - the rage and fear of a cornered animal reflected back at them, with no recognition.

“Isaac,” Scott starts, eyebrows knit together as he takes a step forward, hand outstretched. Isaac’s eyes snap to him and that hand, and he bares his teeth with a low growl. Scott, undeterred, keeps talking. Voice carefully calm, he says, “Are you okay? We’re going to help.”

Without warning, Isaac lunges, swiping with his claws at Scott, who barely manages to dodge away. Derek shifts then, putting himself between Isaac and Scott, seeing the glazed lack of familiarity filling Isaac’s eyes.

“He doesn’t recognize us,” Derek says, eyes narrowing. Isaac lunges again, this time at Derek. The tips of his claws catch the fabric of Derek’s shirt, tearing through it with ease, grazing skin and drawing blood.

“Isaac, stop!” Scott says, eyes flashing.

He doesn’t. With a flurry of movement, Isaac launches himself at Derek, delivering a slashing one-two with both sets of claws. Derek manages to get an arm up in defense just in time for those claws to shred it and not his face, blood splattering onto the floor and surrounding furniture. He roars, swinging, and knocks Isaac back. Isaac stumbles, but stays upright.

“Hold him!” Stiles yells, accompanied by a clattering behind them. Scott glances back to see Stiles upending a large leather bag, vials and bottles tinkling and clattering across the dining table, and nearly misses Isaac leaping toward him.

“Scott!” Derek warns, drawing Scott’s attention back just in time for Scott to side-step, avoiding being tackled and eviscerated by mere inches. Isaac lands in a heap, but quickly tries to recover, limbs scrambling to push himself upright. A loud growl comes from Scott’s left, and he sees a streak of gray fur before the massive wolf is on Isaac, towering over him growling and snapping…but not harming, Scott realizes. 

Isaac flinches away, trying to crawl backwards, but when this doesn’t work, he switches tactics and begins slashing wildly at the chest and neck of the larger animal. Peter whines as patches of his fur grow wet and dark with blood, but keeps Isaac pinned beneath him nonetheless.

“Hurry up, Stiles!” Derek yells, and Scott glances over again to see Stiles filling a syringe from a vial with surprisingly steady hands. As soon as he’s satisfied with the amount of fluid he’s drawn up, Stiles drops the vial to the table with a clack and turns toward where Peter has Isaac pinned. 

For a second, Stiles looks sick at the blood that is now trickling down Isaac’s arms and dripping onto his face. Then, he closes the distance, rushing over and jabbing Isaac in the shoulder with the needle. Stiles presses the plunger, watching Isaac slow, hands dropping to his sides before his eyelids droop and his head lolls to one side as he falls unconscious.

The room is silent save for the wolves’ panting breath. Peter moves slowly, taking a careful step and then another, until he’s no longer standing over Isaac. He lies down next to him, whimpering softly as the sticky red of his fur touches the floor, and looks at Stiles with an unreadable gaze. Stiles stares back, falling backwards from his crouch to sit on the loft floor, hands shaking. Scott comes over, slowly, and presses a firm hand to his shoulder. Stiles releases a breath.

“What was that?” Scott asks cautiously. “I mean, what happened? It was like he didn’t know who we were.”

“He didn’t.” Derek creeps closer, stooping to press two fingers to Isaac’s wrist - checking for a pulse.

“It’s a fast-acting tranquilizer,” Stiles says numbly, still looking at Peter. “He should be fine, but we need to call Deaton. Peter’s losing blood.”

Scott squeezes his shoulder, then removes his hand, reaching to his pocket for his phone. He steps away as he hits a quick-dial number, lifting the phone to his ear. 

Stiles watches him, feeling outside of himself, until Derek’s hand takes the place of Scott’s on his shoulder. Stiles relaxes a little, glancing up at him.

“Are you okay?” Derek looks down at him in concern, and Stiles swallows, looking at the holes in Derek’s shirt, the scratches beaded with blood.

“Yeah,” Stiles lies. He doesn’t know if he’s okay, but he can’t stand for Derek to look at him like that after he almost got mauled, like Stiles had been the one in harm’s way. Derek offers Stiles his hand, which he takes, and pulls him up from the floor.

“I’m sorry I snapped at you,” Derek mutters, looking away. Stiles rolls his eyes, punching Derek lightly on the arm, making the wolf turn to stare at him.

“Now we’re even,” Stiles says.

Across the room, Scott stops pacing and pockets his phone. He returns to where they’re standing, still looking unnerved as he rakes a hand through his hair, the other stuffed tightly into the pocket of his jeans.

“Deaton is on his way,” he says, glancing down. Stiles follows his gaze, seeing the way Peter has curled into Isaac’s side, head resting on his chest. His breathing is slightly labored, wet fur smearing a red stain across Isaac’s skin and clothes. Stiles looks away before the sight makes him queasy.

_____

It’s not the worst he’s ever experienced, but the stinging ache of the slashes - gouges, really - keeps Peter awake while they wait.

He huffs a labored breath, having to work harder to bring the air in and push it back out with the way his chest and throat throb. Isaac lay still, chest rising and falling steadily beneath Peter’s muzzle, oblivious to the expressions of quiet, stricken horror that had settled on his friends’ faces. 

None of them had said much in the aftermath, holding their thoughts and questions for Deaton’s arrival. Derek had helped Stiles up and out of the smears and splatters of blood - Derek’s and Peter’s, both - that he had unknowingly settled in after injecting Isaac with…whatever it was.

The faintest hints of aconite still cling to Isaac’s skin where the needle had punctured him. It must be a highly diluted form, Peter apraises. Hopefully Deaton will have more information. And at least Peter’s bleeding has slowed, although the sticky coolness of the congealed mess is almost as uncomfortable as the wounds themselves.

Although, neither of those compare to the burn. The heat that feels like it’s emanating from his very bones, a spark lit within him when the witches forced his wolf body into a shape he was never meant to take. It’s grown, day by day, into a conflagration coursing through his veins. It feels as though he could combust at any moment. He’s done his best to keep the pain from showing, trying to move as if the very action of standing doesn’t set his insides ablaze, the fire licking at the base of his skull. Peter attributes his slow reaction time during Isaac’s outburst to the searing heat distracting him. 

And that was another thing, wasn’t it? Something was going on with Isaac. It would be a lie to say that Peter would have ever thought of Isaac as an alpha - he’s always been more of a follower than a leader, which has suited Peter just fine until this mess began. There’s zero chance that Isaac would have control over those alpha powers, and who knows the effects of that?

Well. Peter, in a way, does know. He wasn’t a natural born alpha, either, much to his chagrin. The power that he had stolen from Laura had only served to further madden him, twisting his mental scars from the fire into something horrible. Something horrible which he still hasn’t been able to shake, not completely.

Maybe that power - Peter’s power - is doing the same thing to Isaac.

He forces his eyes open - when had they closed? - and forces a breath much shallower than he would prefer. How long have they been here? And where is Deaton?

Peter doesn’t lift his head from Isaac’s supine form, but looks toward the couches where Stiles, Derek, and Scott sit quietly. He’s been feeling eyes on him from that direction for some time, and is unsurprised to find Stiles staring back at him now, gnawing his lower lip. Peter isn’t quite sure if Stiles is looking at him or through him as he thinks, but he can sense some disturbance rattling around in Stiles’s head.

Their staring contest draws Scott’s attention, who joins on Stiles’s side, looking at Peter like he has a million questions that he’s just barely keeping contained.

Of course they had called Scott. Why not make it a family affair, after all? Involve the entire extended pack in Peter and Isaac’s mess.

Peter had expected more gloating. It makes his stomach churn in an unfamiliar feeling to realize that everyone’s primary mode had instead been concern. Concern for Isaac, he could understand. But they had shown concern for Peter, too - in admittedly varying amounts.

He had originally wanted to castigate Isaac for running back to Beacon Hills with his metaphorical tail between his legs. However, he has to admit now - begrudgingly, and only to himself - that Isaac was right to bring them here. At least with the rest of their old pack, they stand the best chance of figuring this mess out.

If only Deaton would hurry up.

_____

In reality, it doesn’t take very long at all for Deaton to arrive at the loft, but the way the minutes stretch on and on in pained, uncomfortable silence makes it feel like hours.

Derek had done a meager job of cleaning up some of the blood, but the layers that have caked onto Isaac’s skin and clothes, as well as Peter’s fur, and the floor beneath them would have to wait.

As soon as he can hear Deaton’s car pull into the lot below, Derek is on his feet. He opens the door to the residence and stands in the open space, framed by concrete and steel as he listens to the elevator approaching.

Poor Deaton barely crosses the threshold before the three wolves are talking, all at once attempting to recount to him the details. For his part, Deaton listens dutifully as Scott and Stiles eventually give up, letting Derek give the bullet points as the doctor kneels on the floor beside Isaac and Peter, surveying the scene.

“There was no recognition at all?” Deaton asks as he gently nudges Peter this way and that, examining the deep lacerations.

Derek’s frustration is almost palpable as he says, “No, none.”

Deaton hums thoughtfully but doesn’t respond for some time, working in silence as he begins trimming away the blood-matted fur, rinsing the wounds with a clear solution and gently dabbing at them with gauze.

“Is, uh,” Stiles starts, then stops. He clears his throat and tries again. “I used the new tranquilizer on Isaac. Is he going to…”

“Wake up?” Deaton finishes, glancing back at Stiles with a wry smile. It vanishes a moment later as he turns a calculating look onto Isaac, who still lay unmoving save for his steady breathing. “Yes, I think he’ll be fine in that regard. I am concerned about what led to this, though.”

Deaton pulls out a needle and a vial of liquid, drawing some up into the syringe. As he angles it toward Peter, the wolf growls weakly. Deaton turns the label toward Peter, letting him read it. “It’s just anesthetic.”

He works quietly again for a while, stitching Peter up with precision, before he asks, “Can you think of anything that may have triggered a strong emotion in Isaac?”

Derek, Stiles, and Scott exchange looks behind him.

“It was right after Stiles told him that one of the witches attacked me,” Scott says after a thought. “It was like a switch flipped, he looked mad and then…just went wild.”

Deaton nods. “Anger. Do you remember that it was a trigger for your shifts during the full moon in your first few months after the bite, Scott?”

“That makes sense,” Stiles interrupts, looking at Scott. “When your werewolf powers were new, you would get pissed off at every little thing and practically go feral.”

“Hey!” Scott scowls.

“But he’s not new to this,” Derek counters, brow furrowed as he looks at Isaac, considering.

“No, but he’s new to the alpha powers,” says Stiles. “It’s like they’re overloading his system, so to speak. He literally just…raged out.”

Once he’s finished patching Peter up, Deaton checks Isaac’s vitals. Assured that the tranquilizer had its desired effect and that Isaac would indeed be fine, Deaton packs his supplies neatly back into his bag and rises from the floor.

“I think that’s exactly what happened, Stiles. I would recommend avoiding anything that may cause a repeat of this. Any high emotions - but especially anger - could lead to a similar incident.” Deaton looks weary, and it’s unsettling to all of them, not used to seeing him shaken. When he continues, it’s directed at Stiles. “Have you gotten any farther with your research on the coven?”

Stiles shakes his head, the corners of his mouth ticking down.

“No. I kind of hit a dead end on it. Honestly, I was kind of hoping we could wait it out until Lydia gets back into town. She has a way of finding things that I can’t.”

Deaton nods once, expression tight. “I’ll do some more digging of my own, in the meantime. Call me if you need anything else.”

They’re all quiet as Deaton sees himself out, Derek sliding the door shut behind him.

It’s like the room itself breathes a sigh of relief, and suddenly everyone feels the exhaustion of the afternoon’s events.

Stiles and Scott meet each other’s gaze as Derek ambles into the kitchen, the sounds of coffee being prepared drifting through the space.

“Well,” Stiles sighs, dropping his gaze to Isaac. “Let’s get him cleaned up, before he wakes up covered in Peter’s blood and freaks out.”

Scott agrees.