Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The night Scott got bit was busy.

+++

“Scott, come on!” Stiles exclaimed. They were already out in the middle of the woods so it didn’t matter how loud he was. Despite Scott willingly coming with Stiles to find the dead body, he seemed less than thrilled to actually be out there in the dead of night—no pun intended—canvassing through the grass for signs of decay.

“Stiles—”

“The body’s already dead,” Stiles said for the millionth time. “And obviously we’re not going to desecrate it or anything gross. Just a quick look and then we’re gone.”

“It’s a dead body,” Scott said, also for the millionth time. “We should just leave it alone and let your dad find it.”

“Well, he already found it, genius ,” Stiles teased. “Half of it, anyway. Where’s your curiosity?!”

“Shut up!” Scott hissed. “Your dad and a hundred other cops are out here looking for the other half too! Do you want to get caught?”

Stiles mimed zipping his lips before unzipping them to say, “Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

“I’ve seen enough dead things in my life.”

“Chill out, MCR. Try to retain your childlike wonder here for a second.”

Scott scowled at him, tripping briefly over a tree root and groaning to himself.

“This is not how I wanted to spend my summer,” Scott grumbled after tripping over something else too miniscule to breach the tall grass.

Stiles reached out to steady him. “I promise we’re just gonna take a quick peek. I’ll even get you home safely before your mom notices you're gone.”

“I’m more concerned someone is going to see your Jeep and recognize it.”

“That’s why we parked near the entrance on the left and that’s why we’re hiking. They shouldn’t be over here at all; everyone will be out back by the legs looking over there.”

“So where will we be?”

“Well, the scanner said they found a pair of legs dressed in hiker clothes near Dead Man’s Rock, which is ironic, I know. But it just said legs, which means there’s got to be a torso. And Dead Man’s Rock is near the bottom of the summit, so I’m thinking the torso is somewhere on the trail. Problem is that my dad has probably thought of the same thing and he has a head start.”

“So what’s even the point? I don’t want to see half a body.”

Stiles clasped his hands on Scott’s shoulder. He had recently grown a whole inch taller than Scott and he spent most of the school year lording it over his head.

“Adventure is the point! Mystery, intrigue, literally morbid curiosity! That’s the point!” Stiles said, shaking Scott’s shoulders with every sentence.

“Ugh,” Scott groaned, shrugging Stiles off.

They reached the bottom of the summit just far enough away that they could see the flashlights of the officers standing by the bottom half of the body. Stiles couldn’t actually see the body, but there was a forgotten shoe a few inches away from one of the officers’ own boots. One of them mumbled something about the CSIs taking their damn time, but they were otherwise oblivious to anything around them.

Stiles pulled on Scott’s sleeve, tilting his head in the direction of the trail. Scott nodded and followed Stiles up the steep bank, ducking behind the large oak trees with trunks big enough to hide the both of them at the right angle. Thankfully, the summer grass was a lot softer and therefore quieter than if they were to do this in fallen leaves or snow. As it was, they climbed up the slope and started up the trail to the summit, sticking as close to the small mountain as possible to avoid being spotted from below. The trail was wide enough that they were able to ascend with relative ease, winding slowly upward and looking for any sign that they were on the right path. Nearly all around them, they could hear officers moving about, but nobody had spotted them yet so they continued pressing up the hill.

It was hard to see in the dark, even with the full moon above them, and they—read: Scott—were too nervous to pull out their phone flashlights to light their way, so they had to move very slowly to ensure they didn’t trip on anything or make noise. Luckily, the moon was a fairly good light source in and of itself, and they were able to use most of its luminescence to continue up the path.

Halfway to the top, Stiles stopped and began to look around. Nothing made sense. If the body had been torn in half and fallen, the other half should be around here somewhere, but they still hadn’t seen a trace of it. There were officers below and above them and Stiles couldn’t even try to make out his own father’s voice over the din from the copious amount of walkie-talkies and radio static. Stiles felt annoyed and a little foolish for even coming out there in the first place, especially because they were now in a tricky spot where they needed to make a skillful and swift exit. The officers around them were too close for comfort and closing in on them, so Stiles shoved Scott down toward the slope in front of them, figuring they could cut through the trees and the underbrush and make it to the other side away from the cops. 

They made their way down the steep hill and through the tall, soft grass that tickled the exposed skin beneath their pant legs as they descended. If the police couldn’t find the body, there was no chance they’d be able to, Stiles was just realizing. He didn’t want to give Scott the benefit of being right so he kept his mouth closed, leading Scott deeper and deeper into the woods that they would eventually need to extricate themselves from. But there was still time before his dad got home clearly and Melissa had been working the past twenty-four hours in a row and was still sleeping that off, so no way was she gonna wake up before Scott got home. Plus it was summer and it wasn’t like they had school or anything else to worry about by being home late an extra thirty minutes or whatever it would take to find their way from where they were back to the parking lot that Stiles’ Jeep was temporarily residing in.

As Scott brushed past an overgrown oak, there was a lone howl in the woods. Stiles stopped in surprise, but Scott kept walking.

“Do you think—” Scott started.

“Shh, shut up,” Stiles hissed. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear what?” Scott asked, looking around confused. 

“That—” Another howl echoed through the woods. “That! That howling!”

“Yeah, sounds like Mrs. Arborman’s dog got loose again,” Scott laughed. 

“Shut! Up!” Stiles said again, another howling echoing and then another, far too close together to be from one animal. Another howl came from somewhere behind them, the complete opposite direction from the other howls.

“Lots of dogs?” Scott said. “Wolves?”

“There are no wolves in California,” Stiles said.

“Okay, let’s just get home. Quickly .”

Scott grabbed Stiles’ sleeve and began to pull him along but Stiles was too curious about the howling. It was getting closer and he could tell, even from a distance, that the other police officers were finding it weirder and weirder because they probably knew, like he, that wolves didn’t exist in California, even as north as they were. Not wild ones anyway, and these wolves—they had to be wolves—were clearly wild. Scott tugged harder on his sleeve, demanding him to turn and move, but Stiles was rooted to the spot, trying to figure out if the sound was actually getting closer or if it was some kind of Doppler effect.

“Stiles,” Scott said sharply, “come on!”

“Alright, alright,” Stiles said, finally allowing Scott to start pulling him away. He began to follow Scott back north again and through the trees, their steps a little quicker and less careful than they had been when they were approaching the summit. If any officers heard them, none followed, and they raced alone in the dark back toward the parking lot.

They were nearly halfway there when there was a cacophony of sound—a combination of something growling animalistically behind them and Scott crying out as he was ripped away from Stiles’ sleeve, which he was still holding onto. Stiles jolted at the feeling of something pulling Scott away, turning sharply on his heel to watch a large wolf unhinge its jaws and bite into Scott’s lower back, Scott twisting and writhing in pain as he cried out again. Stiles hated to admit it, but for a second he completely froze, just watching as the wolf—hardly a wolf at all—unclamped its bloody maw from Scott’s skin to look up at Stiles, a growl starting somewhere deep in the back of its throat. Stiles didn’t move but he could smell something sharp and acrid in the air, like ozone that was intense enough to make his hair stand on end. For a couple of seconds, all he could process was those ruby red eyes fixed on him now and that horrible almost burning smell slowly filling his nostrils.

Scott was still writhing on the ground so he was alive but now the thing was staring at Stiles like it wanted him next. After a brief moment of hesitation, Stiles took a single step back, shifting his weight ever so slightly, and the thing launched over Scott toward him, making it halfway through midair and leaving Stiles just enough room to raise his arm up to defend himself, when simultaneously it was struck backward like it hit a wall and then careened off to the side as another wolf, smaller and with pitch black fur, tackled the other wolf midair and sent them both flying off to Stiles’ left before the wolf-hybrid-thing could even touch him.

Stiles didn’t even glance at the two wolves, instead then regaining his courage and diving for Scott, pulling him up to his feet and forcing him to keep in line with Stiles as he pulled them both along and back toward the parking lot.

“Gogogogogo,” Stiles muttered altogether, his grip on Scott as tight as he could manage without hurting either of them. 

Scott kept up, though he groaned and winced with every step and slight movement. Stiles could feel the blood from Scott’s wound leaking into his side where they were pressed together, turning his hoodie and jeans wet with every step. He couldn’t think about how Scott’s blood was wetting his clothes, he couldn’t think about the fact that Scott was currently bleeding because he was just bit by some kind of monster wolf that shouldn’t even exist in California. He wondered in passing if someone’s pet or wolf in rehabilitation or something got loose. If so, Stiles was totally going to call Talia Hale and beg her to use her lawyer skills to sue their ass.

They didn’t make it to the car before they were stopped by a familiar face. Cora Hale broke through the trees to hold her hands up in front of them and scare them both half to death. 

“Jesus!” Stiles exclaimed. 

“Just me,” Cora quipped. “Come on, you two look like hell.”

Stiles didn’t ask her to explain herself, too desperate to get Scott to somewhere safe and ensure that he could get help, and Scott didn’t ask either, too much in pain to do anything, so they veered off to the left towards the thick line of trees and followed her away from the parking lot and in the direction of wherever she wanted to lead them.

They moved through the trees silently, the distant howling fading as they traversed further and further into the thicket of trees, all full for the summer and dampening the noise of the clearing they came from. Cora walked barefoot in front of them, dressed in a tank top and cutoffs, and looked completely normal and casual despite the circumstances. She never looked back and never spoke, like she knew they would choose to follow her regardless. 

They followed her to a house that Stiles quickly realized to be her house. The Hales have lived out in the Preserve before Beacon Hills was even founded, but Stiles had never actually seen the house before, much less from the back. It was large with bricks and white trim, resembling the houses in Lydia Martin’s neighborhood rather closely, which made sense because her house was so close to the Preserve and her neighborhood was probably built to resemble the Hales’ house. Stiles didn’t think that the house always looked like this though, and there were some modern touches that he could spot immediately, like the giant hole in the backyard that looked like it was in progress to be a swimming pool and an entirely glass solarium that didn’t match the brick exterior. He knew the Hales had old money, but seeing a product of that in the towering house that Cora was then guiding them toward, well, it was a little surreal in the way the rest of the night had been surreal.

“Cora?” Stiles asked, stopping and effectively halting Scott beside him. Cora didn’t turn for a moment, before sighing deeply and glancing over her shoulder.

“Yes?” she asked, tone stultified.

“What’s going on?” Stiles demanded, finding his voice. “What the hell was that? And why are you unfazed?”

“Come on, Stilinski,” Cora said, turning back around and continuing toward the back door. “She’ll tell you inside.”

“She who?” Scott asked, the first thing he had said since being bit. Stiles was relieved to hear his voice, even if he didn’t have an answer and was just as confused as Scott was.

“Come on,” Stiles said, tightening his grip on Scott’s arm. “Let’s find out. I mean, how much weirder can the night possibly get?”

+++

The night could get a lot weirder.

After calming down from the hysterics of it all, and logically and frantically working his way through how all this may be possible, Stiles settled on the couch in Talia’s office, watching in fascination as Scott’s wound on his lower back slowly began to heal, the skin recovering the muscle slowly as the teeth marks faded until he was left behind with only a few stray and drying drops of blood that Talia wiped at delicately with a white rag that looked well-used, practically not white anymore, probably from situations similar to this.

It was quiet in the house now. Everyone was recovering and settling down and after handling the threat and ensuring that Scott was going to survive the bite, everybody seemed very keen on returning to their sleep. Stiles couldn’t blame them; a few hours ago he had been ramped up with energy about finding a dead body in the woods and now he watched as Talia Hale cleaned blood off his best friend, who got bit by whatever that thing was out there in the woods. Talia had already given them a brief summary—an alpha werewolf, yeah right; what were they in, some occult fantasy novel?—but nothing really made sense to him yet. He’d have to do his own research and come to his own conclusions before he felt confident about the answer. It wasn’t like he didn’t believe Talia; she was Talia Hale, after all, a paragon of the town and somewhat close friends with his dad through work. He just believed he had a mind built for research and the possibilities were too endless for the simple answer she gave. He had to narrow things down and get to a conclusion on his own.

Talia sat down in the armchair next to the couch, sighing as she sunk into the buttery leather. Stiles looked around and could imagine her picking this furniture out just for how comfortable it was. The office was beautifully and professionally designed, but Stiles imagined Talia was a comfort-over-design sort of person, just from the spare things he did know about her. She was really into nature and spent all her free time in the Preserve surrounding her house, even heading the preservation mission to keep the forest in Beacon Hills clean and protected. Stiles guessed now that that was because of her and her family’s secret, but it was admirable all the same. Even though she was a stuffy lawyer, she didn’t exactly fit that image if you saw her outside of office hours. She always wore shorts and hiking boots and looked nothing like the image she portrayed when she met Stiles’ dad about some work issue.

She sat across from them in the chair now in bloodstained pajamas, but she didn’t seem to mind. Stiles, usually a fainter at the sight of needles and blood, wasn’t nearly as nauseous anymore, growing used to seeing all the blood the last few hours, which he thought was decidedly morbid. No one should be used to that much blood.

He wondered if she was going to tell his dad or if his dad already knew. He might, considering the dead body was thought to be a lost hiker and torn in half. Stiles was pretty sure not even wild animals would tear their prey in half like that, at least not any cougars around Beacon Hills. Talia knew the alpha werewolf existed and didn’t seem at all surprised that Stiles and Scott stumbled into it, though she did seem impressed by them surviving, which Stiles also thought was morbid though he didn’t call her on it. 

“So, any questions?” Talia asked. She looked pointedly at Stiles with a little smirk on her face. “Any more questions, I mean.”

Stiles was feeling tired by now and he could see on Scott’s face that he was getting tired as well. Stiles shook his head, glancing back at Talia.

“We should probably get home. I’m genuinely surprised that my dad hasn’t called me yet.”

“I’m sure he was distracted by the fire,” Talia said off-handedly.

“What fire?” Stiles asked. “In the Preserve?”

“Curious thing,” Talia said. “It just started out of nowhere.”

The look she gave Stiles implied that she was hinting at something, but Stiles didn’t understand and his brain was working way slower than normal now that the idea of sleep had been brought up. 

“Is everything okay?” Scott asked, glancing up from where he’d been staring at the floor, practically sinking into his side of the couch from pure exhaustion.

“It didn’t spread very far,” Talia told them. “I think the police were able to stamp it out quick enough, but I’m sure your father has been busy trying to find the source of it.”

She glanced again at Stiles, something certain in her eyes. That look scared Stiles, but he didn’t know why.

“Alright,” he said. “Well, we should get back before he gets home anyway.”

“I’ll have Derek drive you back,” Talia said, standing and helping Scott to his feet.

Stiles had assumed everyone was asleep, but after a couple of moments, the door to the office opened and Derek Hale stepped in, dressed in a leather jacket and tight black jeans, like it wasn’t well past midnight at this time. He looked older than the last time Stiles saw him, which was years ago at this point, but not as old as Stiles thought he would look when he had pictured him. Not that he pictured Derek Hale, obviously, that would be weird. Just that Derek Hale, like all the Hales, was infamous in his own way, and walking up to this house left Stiles curious in more ways than one.

Stiles glanced from Derek to Talia. He guessed the look on his face said it all because she smiled fondly and said, “Supernatural hearing, dear.”

“All the better to hear you with, my dear,” Stiles muttered to himself, then felt immediately embarrassed because now he knew Talia, and subsequently Derek, could hear him.

Talia laughed.

Derek scowled.

“Go on, then. And we’ll see you back in the afternoon, right?”

“Yes, Mrs. Hale,” Scott said.

Stiles took Scott’s arm and dragged him forward a little, just enough to be able to help him move. He was fine now, but the exhaustion was definitely kicking in. Stiles could also feel it, his limbs moving slower now like through molasses. He wondered where that saying came from and if anyone had ever actually gotten stuck in molasses. He was going to research that later too.

Stiles helped Scott past Derek and out of the office. They walked down the hall and to the front door, and somewhere along the way, Derek fell in step behind them, almost completely silent if not for the nearly imperceptible creaking of his leather jacket. Stiles could remember him acting practically the same all of their lives; he was always hiding in the shadows or lurking behind corners, even with the numerous scandals of him dating older women and teachers. Stiles wasn’t one to believe the rumors he heard growing up, but Derek was a few years older than him and even when he was Stiles’ age then he seemed to have everybody—girls, boys, teachers alike—all fawning after him. Stiles thought it was utterly ridiculous that people fell for his stupid and overplayed bad boy attitude, even if Stiles couldn’t help but be a little curious himself.

Derek followed them out to his Camaro, which Stiles and Scott waited at and Stiles only knew which car was his because it was as infamous as Derek himself. Derek unlocked the doors and Stiles opened up the passenger door, sliding the seat forward and deciding to take one for the team and crawl in the back, sliding the seat back for Scott once he was in his seat. 

“Hey, thanks, man,” Stiles said, leaning forward to put a hand on Derek’s shoulder once he sat down in the car. “We appreciate you driving us home.”

Derek didn’t say anything but turned slowly to look at Stiles’ hand before looking back at Stiles. His brow was furrowed and his mouth was set in a deep line. Stiles furrowed his own brow, wondering why Derek was mad at him or what he did to piss him off.

“What, did someone piss in your Cheerios?” Stiles asked. 

Derek growled—a real, animalistic growl—and Scott jumped to the rescue.

“He’s joking! Can we just please get home in one piece?” Scott asked.

Derek turned back around and Stiles retracted his hand, glaring at the back of Derek’s head. It pissed him off to know firsthand that Derek was just as surly and rude in person as he was in rumors. It made him believe all the rest of the rumors were true, and he sank back in his seat, glaring out the window and biting his tongue for Scott’s sake.

When they got back to Stiles’ Jeep, Derek didn’t even say a word as they piled out of the car. Stiles made extra sure to slam the passenger door a little too hard on his way out. Derek didn’t do anything to stop him, nor did he get out of the car or roll down the window, but he did pull away sharply and aggressively before they were even to the Jeep, speeding off down the gravel road.

“Asshole,” Stiles muttered. Scott sighed.

“Just leave it. C’mon, let’s go home,” Scott said.

Stiles helped Scott into the car and got in the driver’s side of the Jeep. The drive home was silent with not even the radio to keep them company, but neither of them minded. It was a busy night and it was nice to sit in the silence and pretend that they were just driving home and that nothing strange had happened. Scott totally wasn’t a werewolf and none of the Hales were werewolves and they weren’t going over to the Hales tomorrow so Scott could learn how to be a werewolf. They were just driving home and nothing was strange, and everything could wait until tomorrow. 

+++

Stiles decided he hated Derek.

He felt totally justified in that belief too because every time Derek was in his vicinity, they were arguing. Usually, it was Derek’s fault. Well, that’s a lie; usually, it was Stiles’ fault but Derek was just as vocal and vicious as Stiles when it came to throwing out insults. Stiles couldn’t even tell anyone why they were fighting to begin with, just that he wasn’t going to back down any time soon.

It’d made the rest of summer hard as a lot of his time was spent at the Hales’ and around Derek. But Scott’s boss Deaton, who apparently was wrapped up in all this mess, took a shine to Stiles after Talia told him about Scott’s attack. Stiles didn’t know what was significant about it pertaining to him since he really didn’t do anything except stand there in shock, but whatever Talia told Deaton had him pulling Stiles aside on most days and showing him magickal herbs and other stuff that Stiles didn’t understand.

One night, when it was just cooling down from one of the hottest days of the year so the air was still sticky with humidity and the sun hadn’t quite yet died behind the tree line, Deaton took Stiles out into the forest, far enough away from the Hales’ house or any kind of civilization that if no one knew where they went, Stiles would be convinced that Deaton was going to kill him. But Talia had seemed happy to ship them out, patting Stiles on the back encouragingly before he went, so he guessed he was safe enough.

They walked for what simultaneously felt like a long time and no time at all. Halfway through the walk, Stiles’ feet started to know where to go, turning and striding through the tall grass before Deaton could point him in the right direction. He couldn’t explain the knowledge, nor could he guess what they were walking to, but it felt like going home and knowing exactly which way to walk and which way would be quickest.

Then the feeling died and Stiles paused, suddenly clueless of where to turn. Deaton, ahead of him, stopped as well, turning to look back at Stiles.

“It likes to play games,” Deaton told him. “Focus on the feeling and keep walking. You’ll find your way.”

Stiles didn’t know what he meant exactly, but he felt himself closing his eyes all the same and trying to find whatever “feeling” Deaton was talking about. Still, somehow he could feel something , but he didn’t know the feeling intimately. He could faintly remember a sensation like this from somewhere else in his life though he couldn’t say where, a tugging in the center of his chest to the right of his heart. It was a weak tug, but it caused his feet to move again of their own volition, stepping forward and moving past Deaton to continue wherever his body was leading him.

They broke through the trees into a clearing, large and circular with the biggest stump Stiles had ever seen right in the center. He couldn’t even think of what kind of tree grew that wide and he wondered briefly what the tree looked like before it was cut down, however long ago that was.

“It’s called a Nemeton,” Deaton said, approaching the tree slowly. “One day, I will teach you how to make offerings to it. Today is merely for introductions.”

“Introductions? Offerings?” Stiles asked. “You make it sound like the tree is alive.”

“It’s not a tree,” Deaton said. “It only looks like one. It’s a Nemeton.”

“Okay, fine, Nemeton. What does that mean?”

“The Nemeta are life forces and sources of old magick. There are a few all over the world and the Hales, as well as their packmates, allies, and Emissary, are all sworn to protect this Nemeton and subsequently Beacon Hills. You and Scott now fall under that umbrella, so to speak. You will protect this pack, Nemeton, and town.”

“I will?”

“Of course, Stiles,” Deaton said. “It is your moral obligation to ensure this Nemeton remains unharmed, not only for your own wellbeing but also for the group of people who now depend on you. This all aligns with your duties as a spark and future Emissary to the Hale pack.”

“Yeah, you keep saying that, but I still don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

“You will. You have one of the brightest sparks I have ever seen and we’ve only just begun to discover what you’re capable of. I imagine we have a long journey ahead of us. Walk with me and let’s return to the house for tonight.”

“Alright,” Stiles said, turning away from the Nemeton. He started to move but his shirt snagged on the bark of the stump and he had to turn back around to free it.

He managed to unhook his shirt but the bark bit at his skin, a small blood drop forming in almost an instant. Stiles winced and began to bring his finger up to his mouth so he could lick the blood away, but the droplet rolled off the side of his finger and dripped onto the bark.

“Stiles?” Deaton asked, already back into the trees.

“Coming!” Stiles said, rubbing his wound on his jeans before jogging to follow Deaton back to the Hales’.

Chapter Text

Stiles downs his shot and exhales roughly, the acidic liquor burning down the back of his throat as he throws his head back. Lydia giggles into his neck and leans heavily against him. He tilts his head back down to peck at her forehead, which is somehow miraculously not sweaty despite the intense heat of the living room as they swim between the throngs of the partygoers who sway with the music and influence of alcohol, a thick and cloying smell of marijuana floating in from the patio that Lydia’s gonna have a cow over later when she’s a little bit more sober.

For now, though, she nestles into Stiles’ side until he puts his arm around her. Usually, the party won’t peter out for another couple of hours, which will involve Lydia being sober enough to clean, and enlisting the help of the stragglers, such as Stiles, Scott, and Allison, and, occasionally, Jackson and Danny. 

Since Lydia and Jackson broke up, Jackson came out, and Stiles and Lydia started dating, Stiles’ whole life has changed. 

It’s the night of graduation and Stiles and Scott have spent the last three years becoming something important in life, starting with lacrosse with Scott as co-captain and Stiles becoming somewhat important as they finally made their way off the bench. On top of that, his hair’s grown out while Scott finally chopped his mop and both of them grew a few inches taller, Stiles still holding onto that inch above Scott by the slimmest of margins, though he lords the distance over him like it’s bigger than it actually is. They’re attractive, Stiles gladly recognizes, and they’ve both gained a newfound confidence in themselves that have really helped cement the idea that they are finally older and wiser and better than they used to be. 

Lydia saw that, his years of hard work finally paying off as she turned her attention on Stiles, falling into his arms and letting him pick up the pieces, which he did with ease and gratitude. Now, nearly a year and a half later, they’re a power couple, Stiles taking the place of Jackson, but showcasing his own abilities: the salutatorian to Lydia’s valedictorian, a rising lacrosse star that’s actually made real goals and won games, a true underdog, playing the long game.

Now he’s never been happier.

Stiles kisses her forehead again as she nestles into his arm. Scott pours them another shot, which will probably be the last for Stiles if he wants to stay sober enough to help, which, obviously, he doesn’t want to, but Lydia will have his hide if he doesn’t.

The four of them take another shot together, and Lydia starts getting a little too giggly, so Stiles leaves her with Allison and goes to get some water, because he knows by now that Lydia doesn’t like to be not sober around a large group of people, not in control. He heads into the kitchen with a head nod to Scott to watch both of the girls, who lean together and chat loudly, giving him an easier time to just survey them.

Stiles makes his way out to the garage with the drink fridge, one of the only rooms that’s off limits for partygoers. It’s not enforced by a lock or anything, but Lydia’s reputation prevents anyone from willingly incurring her wrath. Stiles grabs four water bottles out of the fridge and heads back inside the house, pushing past the groups of people and moving back through the house.

Someone calls his name and he glances back to give a head nod in their direction. When he goes to turn back around, he bumps into someone, nearly dropping the waters.

“Hey,” he says, scowling. He glances up and sees Derek Hale looking at him. “Uh…”

Derek Hale just graduated from college this year and Stiles knows that Derek still comes to Lydia’s parties to watch over Cora. What he does at these parties, clad in a leather jacket and a scowl and considering that Cora ditches him most of the time, Stiles doesn’t know, but it’s not really important anyway.

And his relationship with Derek Hale?

Still sworn enemies to the public, so he pretends he couldn’t care less about what Derek Hale gets up to these days.

“Sorry,” Stiles says, deciding that backing out of the situation is the best course of action, not wanting to ruin his good mood. Both he and Derek know that he doesn’t mean that sorry anyway. “Excuse me.”

Stiles shimmies past Derek, who doesn’t say anything, making his way into the living room and toward his friends. He passes two waters to Scott, who doles one out to Allison, making sure she drinks it. Stiles shoves one in his pocket, opening the other and handing it to Lydia, who stops dancing for a moment to take a long sip. 

“Thanks, Stiles,” Lydia says, sighing as she leans against him again. At this rate, it’s probably best to take her to her room so she can sober up, and that way Stiles and Scott can enjoy the rest of the party before the inevitable clean up, plus Lydia can enjoy being intoxicated in peace, most likely with Allison.

By the time they get the two of them upstairs and away from the party, another hour has passed. Stiles shuts the door and raises his eyebrows at Scott, who nods, and they go back downstairs together to take another shot.

Stiles and Scott stay mingling with the party guests while Allison and Lydia stay in Lydia’s room for the next thirty minutes. When the girls come back down, Allison is still all loose-limbed and leaning against Scott, while Lydia has recollected herself, mingling with guests again and donning the perfect image of a proper host once again. 

It kind of annoys Stiles sometimes, the mask she wears. Even now, even after how much she’s changed, she still has it rooted in her basic personality to be a people pleaser, no matter how much she denies that she is. She’s valedictorian tonight and gave a speech and everything, along with early acceptance to MIT, and still she reapplies her lip gloss with a smile as she bats her eyes when people praise her. It’s probably one of Stiles’ least favorite things about her, though he refuses to admit it.

Most everyone is still dressed in their maroon graduation robes, the occasional mortar board hanging loosely off someone’s head, having to be held in place when heads knock back to take shots. It’s almost crazy to think about how much everything has changed in four years. Stiles, when he first started high school, was a miserable kid still reeling from the death of his mother a few years prior and a prime target for bullies along with Scott, both total losers through and through. That lasted for about a year or two, when, after the summer between freshman year and sophomore year, Stiles’ life changed, but it’s just a bad memory now. The only good thing that came of the summer was his and Scott’s transformation, which lead them to where they are now, graduated and hanging out in Lydia’s living room with an arm around their girlfriends and in the company of people that actually give a shit about them, high school royalty, at least for one more night.

By the time the party starts to die, Allison and Scott are already cleaning up as Lydia sees people out, making sure everyone has a DD before they go. Stiles does the check upstairs, making sure nothing is damaged or messy before heading back downstairs and sweeping the backyard, where Jackson and Danny are still cleaning, thankfully staying to help out, considering how much of a rager the night has proven to be.

“Oh, good,” Stiles says, watching Danny hold open a garbage bag and Jackson dumps only the plastic cups in to be recycled later per Lydia’s request. “I’m glad no one blew chunks in the pool.”

Jackson and Danny wrinkle their noses in tandem.

“How she likes you, Stilinski, I’ll never know,” Jackson mutters, which is basically the nicest thing he’s ever said to Stiles.

“You’re still bitter,” Stiles points out and Jackson rolls his eyes.

Despite Jackson coming out and everything, he still very much cares who plays with his discarded toys which is exactly how he treats Lydia to everyone but Lydia herself. At least Jackson doesn’t say anything like “sloppy seconds,” which Stiles would obviously have to intervene at that point, as most of the time he just shrugs off the bullshit that Jackson spews. Even though now they’ve started being friends now that they’re both in happy relationships, Jackson still thinks of Lydia as his, a fact that everybody knows, but nobody does anything about, primarily because Jackson is all talk, well, for the most part, anyway. But Stiles isn’t defenseless either, though, for obvious reasons, nobody knows that.

Jackson, instead of saying anything, probably because anything he wants to say would degrade Lydia and he’s decent enough to not do that, just rolls his eyes and continues cleaning up the backyard to help Lydia, shoving variously full bottles of liquor across the patio table at Stiles, who gathers them up in his arms to bring inside.

It takes another hour of tidying until Lydia is satisfied. At this point, it’s nearly 4 and off in the distance, Stiles can see a moon that’s just about to turn full. Less than twenty-four hours and it would be time. He turns away from the window and wraps an arm around Lydia, throwing a wary glance at Scott, who still seems fine, if not a little twitchy.

“We gotta get some sleep,” Stiles tells Lydia, tilting her chin up so he can peck her on the lips. She melts into his touch and it makes him feel so desired. “But I’ll see you soon?”

“Later today?” Lydia asks and Stiles’ heart melts as he tucks a strand of her loose hair behind her ear. It’s so easy to love her sometimes that it makes him feel guilty that he doesn't do it the way she deserves.

“Not today,” he says, caressing her cheek, “but the day after?”

“Obviously,” she says with a smirk. “Fine, go. I’ll see you on Saturday.”

“I love you,” Stiles offers. She grins.

“I love you too,” she says, and kisses him squarely on the mouth before sending him out the door. 

That night, he passes out quickly and sleeps most of the day.

+++

When he wakes up at 6, he tells his dad he’s going to the woods and walks out the back door and through the trees to his destination.

When he comes to the Nemeton, he says hi to Deaton, who waits on the outskirts of the trees.

“Stiles,” he says in lieu of greeting, going through his journal already. 

Stiles glances up at the sky. The moon’s just about rising. In a few minutes, they’ll hear Scott and the others start howling.

“Lovely moon rise,” Stiles comments, setting his hands down on either side of the offering mat atop the Nemeton. Deaton doesn’t respond, which isn’t a surprise, so Stiles cracks his knuckles and clears his throat.

“O Mighty Moon Goddess,” he chants, as he does every month, doing what Deaton asks, but still poking his own fun at it, “we bring this offering to you to keep our wolves safe and guide them to safe harbor. Don’t let them get distracted by squirrels or rabbits. Keep them on their path.”

“Stiles,” Deaton warns.

“May the Mother Moon protect all those wary strays and wanderers, protect them with the strength of the pack,” Stiles corrects, lighting the candles atop the offering mat as he speaks, “lest they stray too far. Like Jackson.”

“Stiles.”

“And may she grant strength to those in need of it. Like Scott.”

“Stiles.”

“All’s safe in the Mother Moon. Amen.”

“Stiles,” Deaton says exasperatedly. Stiles lets go of the wheel on the lighter so that the flame diminishes. 

“What?”

“You’re getting off track,” Deaton admonishes. “Where’s the script I gave you?”

“Eh. Somewhere.”

Deaton sighs. “Just stick to the script next time. I don’t know why we need to have this conversation every full moon.”

Stiles laughs, finding the humor in it all.

“Hey, I thought this was all subjective anyway,” Stiles says, setting down the jar of herbs in the circle of candles. “I mean, it’s all about the power of belief anyway. Like how you believe it and I don’t.”

“How you were ever chosen as the Emissary of the Hale pack, I will never know,” Deaton says not entirely under his breath. Stiles holds an affronted hand to his chest.

“I’m wounded, Alan. I really thought we had something.”

“Just complete the ceremony, Stiles, so we can all go home.”

“Right,” Stiles says, but delays it for another few minutes by (surprisingly not on purpose) forgetting which herbs go which, even though he’s performed this ritual every full moon for the last three years since Scott got bitten.

He mixes the herbs on the center of the mat and ignites them, wrinkling his nose at the smell the smoke brings. They do this every moon and still Stiles will never be used to the smell.

“Blah blah blah protect us Mother Moon and save our souls, amen.”

“Stiles—”

“Mother Moon, grant us guidance and safe passenger for another moon, for we are ever under your eternal guidance—”

“Stiles—”

“And please look after our families and our loved ones, who bask in your eternal greatness, O Holy Mother.”

Deaton sighs and chooses to watch the herbs burn instead of saying anything further. Stiles rejoices at the silence as the ceremony finishes.

When the herbs burn out, Stiles says, “Well, productive moon as always,” and has a solid two seconds of blowing the candles out in peace before a rustling comes from behind them. Stiles and Deaton turn at the same time, surveying the woods. 

“Did you—?” Stiles asks, before something darts out of the brush and tackles him onto the Nemeton, swiping at his arms and causing him to knock over the smoldering candles as he yelps and jumps back into the Nemeton, falling over it in utter surprise.

“Jesus—!” Stiles yelps as Deaton says something in Latin and causes the whatever-it-is to stumble back and fall into a heap of limbs.

Stiles examines his arm as his blood spills out onto the offering mat before he can stop it, rivulets racing down the slope of the mat toward the bark.

“Shit!” He yelps, realizing that he’s bleeding from three long swipes on his arm and that he’s bled all over the Nemeton before he could even realize what’s going on. The heap of limbs on the ground contains a rogue omega, who has been subdued by Deaton, though he growls and snarls as Stiles rights himself, surveying the damage of the wound.

“Uh, Deaton—”

“It’s fine!” Deaton calls, although it’s clear that he doesn’t believe that. “It’s fine, just get off the Nemeton!”

Stiles pulls away from the tree, watching in horror as his blood seeps into the grooves of the tree.

“Seriously?” Stiles asks, holding his still bleeding arm.

“Call Talia,” Deaton instructs, surveying the young rogue. Stiles glares and pulls out the controversial whistle, which almost everyone said was disrespectful, but Stiles argued for its use for contacting the pack when they were shifted and don’t have their cell phones on them.

He blows the whistle with his free yet bloody hand before dropping it on the offering mat, turning his attention back to his still bleeding arm.

“Motherfucker,” he swears, taking off his flannel and wrapping it tightly around his arm, the warm wetness spreading across his forearm as he traps it with the jacket. 

They don’t have to wait for long. By the time Stiles finishes wrapping his arm up, a large black wolf and half-shifted Hales all come bounding up to him, the first one reaching him being Scott. He grabs Stiles’ arm and pulls it up to inspect it and Stiles lets him, too annoyed that he got hurt in the first place that he doesn’t shrug him off, trying to hold his arm out so it doesn’t bleed through his flannel onto his shoes.

“Talia,” Deaton says to the largest wolf, black with red eyes. She shifts in front of them and though she’s naked, after three years, Stiles is used to it, and meets her eyes coolly, trying not to show how much his arm is burning and how he’s kinda sorta freaking out about the fact that his blood went into the freaking Nemeton, because based off Deaton’s reaction, that’s probably gonna cause some sort of issue.

“Let me see it,” she tells Stiles, who takes his now ruined flannel off his arm, exposing it to the air and wincing as the breeze presses against his skin. 

“It will heal,” she says, though Stiles already knew that. “I don’t think it will scar, but we should get you back to the house to clean it up. Derek can guide you there.”

Which is unsurprising.

Ever since Stiles and Derek’s first interaction three years ago, everybody has been valiantly trying to repair their relationship so that when they walk into a room with each other, it isn’t fight on sight. And what relationship are they even trying to repair? All of this drama is Derek’s fault and Stiles has only ever reacted to what he’s been given. Okay, that’s a lie, but it did start as Derek’s fault and Stiles refuses to let go of his grudge until Derek apologizes, which he probably wouldn’t even do with his dying breath. 

Stiles sighs and balls up his flannel again, pressing it to his arm and glancing back at Deaton, who nods at him. No doubt he’ll tell Talia about the blood-in-tree thing. What they’ll do about it, Stiles doesn’t know, but that’s a problem for after he gets bandaged.

He starts walking in the vague direction of the house, which he doesn’t get far as Derek, half dressed and very hairy, turns and heads more north, which Stiles guesses makes sense considering where the Nemeton is, though that, of course, changes on a daily basis and on whether or not the Nemeton feels like being located. He remembers when he and Deaton first found the Nemeton and how he could find it “innately” or whatever, but that trick hasn’t worked since the first time so he’s usually metaphorically and literally stumbling in the dark.

The walk isn’t very long. It’s not a short distance, but it’s closer than Stiles thought. By the time they get to the house, his wound is all itchy from the dried blood and he’s nearly convinced that his flannel is ruined, unless Talia can figure out how to get all the blood out of it, which he’s sure she has some skill in at this point. 

He drops the bloodied flannel in the laundry room and walks over to the sink, rinsing the wound off in the empty kitchen sink and staying mindful of the rough and sensitive edges.

When he’s finished cleaning the wound, Derek grabs the big first aid kit from the laundry room, setting it up on the island as Stiles wipes down his arm with paper towels, careful of the torn skin. Derek drops the first aid kit next to him but doesn’t offer to help further.

Stiles’ wound isn’t too horrible. It bled a lot, but once it’s clean and the bleeding has subsided, Stiles can see what Talia was talking about. It’ll heal quickly and though there may be a few thin lines of healing tissue on his arms for a few weeks, it probably won’t linger beyond that. At least his dad’s in on the whole werewolf secret that Stiles doesn’t have to lie to him about how he got it. Lydia on the other hand, he’ll have to be creative and think of an excuse before seeing her in a little over twelve hours.

“Just tell her that you cut your arm working on your death trap,” Derek tells him. Stiles glares, because it’s annoying that Derek knows exactly what he’s thinking about and annoying that he still calls the Jeep a death trap, which is so unfair. She’s an antique.

“That’s a little unbelievable,” Stiles bites out as he starts wrapping gauze around the wound, which is a little excessive, but Stiles will just take it off when he gets home.

The front door opens and a handful of Hales come striding in, they and Deaton gathering in the kitchen. 

“So,” Stiles says, “what’s the damage?”

“The omega’s been dealt with,” Talia starts with, word choice deliberate, which usually means something unpleasant that Stiles doesn’t like to think about. “As for the Nemeton…”

“You and I will have to do some research, Mr. Stilinski,” Deaton says, looking completely unperturbed, which is his usual expression and makes it hard to gauge the severity of the situation. But judging by the discomfort on Talia’s face, it’s bad news.

“Great. Cool,” Stiles bites out. “Let’s go then.”

Stiles starts walking toward the library, which is where they always do their research. He pats a semi-dressed Scott on the shoulder as he walks past him. He hears Deaton follow him not shortly after, and doesn’t want to know the expression that Derek and Talia exchange as he turns his back to them.

+++

The next handful of hours, until nearly sunrise, Stiles and Deaton spend their time pouring over the oldest tomes and journals in the library, looking for anything containing Nemeton and, once they find the right text, search for anything containing, essentially, the contamination of the Nemeton.

When Scott got bit three summers ago by a rogue alpha, Stiles had been there, hurrying him toward the car when Talia and Cora had found them. Talia and Laura dealt with the alpha while Cora had helped Scott and Stiles back to the house to treat them. As Scott turned and learned how to handle his own wolf, Stiles was taken under the wing of Deaton, who apparently “always kept an eye on him” and helped him realize that he has his own spark, that, once he was taught how to use it, actually proved to be really powerful, powerful enough that Deaton quickly began training Stiles how to be the new Emissary of the Hale pack, taking his place. 

But now, Stiles’ blood, which Deaton claims holds some of the most powerful spark he’s ever seen, has been mixed with the sleeping Nemeton and all of Stiles and Deaton’s monthly effort to help keep the Nemeton asleep, have now been thwarted by a rogue omega. It’s so anticlimactic that it just pisses Stiles off.

When the sun starts to come up, Stiles calls it, knowing he’ll need a few hours to sleep before he has to see Lydia, who no doubt will start calling him at 10-ish and probably has a whole day planned for them, like usual. Stiles says bye to Deaton, glancing around the downstairs briefly for Scott before deciding he probably went home hours ago, and runs into Derek on his way out.

“Here,” Derek grumbles, handing him a nondescript tube of something. “Deaton gave it to some of my human cousins to heal quicker. My mom told me to give it to you.”

Stiles takes the offered tube and looks it over. It sounds like something Deaton would do, telling the kids that no injury is too great to heal from or something equally philosophical. Stiles taps the end of the tube against the palm of his hand.

“Thanks,” he tells Derek begrudgingly. “I gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

Derek doesn’t say anything thankfully, and Stiles comes outside the house to see his Jeep has been moved to the driveway, hopefully by Scott, and probably too, considering Derek is practically scared of the Jeep, although he refuses to say so.

Stiles climbs in the Jeep and heads home to find his dad asleep. He assumes Talia probably called him and explained the situation, but still he finds a notepad from the desk in the office and scrawls a message on it saying that he’s safe and home and that they’ll talk about it in the morning, leaving the message on his dad’s nightstand so he doesn’t have to wake up and immediately get worried.

He heads to his room and strips before collapsing in bed, unraveling the gauze before applying the tube of cream onto the wound liberally and redressing it, hoping it will dry over the next few hours so he can unravel it again in the morning and not have to go see Lydia with his forearm wrapped in gauze.

He falls asleep to the light shining into his room from the window.

Chapter Text

“Tell me again,” Lydia says, glancing at his arm over their two cups of overpriced coffee.

“I was doing some work on Roscoe, you know, the Jeep? My arm got stuck and I tore the skin on some metal. No biggie.”

He glances down at his arm, sans the gauze. Even with a little bit of the cream, it’s already healing much faster than it would’ve without it, so he guesses he has Deaton to thank for that.

“Okay,” Lydia says slowly and with pursed lips. She obviously knows that he’s lying to her but does not know why. Without anything to pin him on, she narrows her eyes at him, examining him for a moment before shrugging and letting it go. Of course, they both know she hasn’t, but she’s pretending to for the time being.

“So, we’re supposed to meet with my mom at the country club at 1. She booked a tennis game with her co-workers.” Lydia rolls her eyes. “I know you don’t like tennis. You can sit on the sidelines and watch if you really need to.”

“Oh, great, sounds like fun,” Stiles says, trying to drum up enthusiasm. Lydia narrows her eyes, but doesn’t call him out on the fact that he’d rather do anything else but that.

It’s not that Stiles doesn’t like doing these things with Lydia, it’s just that she has some very rich hobbies that Stiles just doesn’t understand and feels like he’s less than for participating in them and not understanding them. Of course, Lydia and Mrs. Martin never make him feel like that, but the people they’re with usually do. Lydia always apologizes for them after the fact and shuts them down when they look Stiles over like he’s dirt under their shoe, but it still doesn’t make him want to go. But he does for Lydia. He does a lot for Lydia, actually, that he normally wouldn’t do, but that’s just part of being in a relationship.

“It won’t be long,” Lydia tells him. She smirks. “Plus, as always, I’ll make it worth your while.”

Stiles sighs but nods, knowing that he doesn’t really have another choice anyway.

“Okay,” he agrees, reaching across the cafe table to grab her hand and play with one of the rings around her middle finger.

Lydia lets him for a moment before pulling her hand away to pick up her cup and take a sip. She glances toward the register and her face shifts, setting down her cup as she watches. Stiles follows her gaze and sees Derek and Cora standing by the register near the door. They probably just walked in, but knowing Derek, he’s already clocked that Stiles and Lydia are in here. Lydia doesn’t know about anything between them, other than the fact that Stiles usually avoids Derek like the plague despite openly liking the rest of the Hales. He wonders if she assumes it’s like a Jackson situation; either way, she’s never questioned it.

“Do you want to go?” Lydia asks, turning back to Stiles.

“He’ll leave,” Stiles returns, taking a sip of his own cup and knowing that Derek’s listening.

But, for whatever reason, a second after he says that, Cora walks over and crosses her arms over her chest, waiting for him to look at her.

He sighs and turns his attention to her.

“Yes, Cora?”

“Mom wants you to come over tonight. Everyone’s getting together and she says it’s mandatory.”

Cora glances at Lydia who meets her gaze, before they both turn to look at Stiles and it really is a testament to how much he’s grown that he doesn’t flinch under either of their gazes.

“Cora,” Stiles warns, because she’s already said too much. Cora rolls her eyes.

“Whatever,” she mutters and stomps away, going back to stand by Derek. Stiles watches her for a moment before looking back at Lydia, who’s still watching him carefully.

“Explain,” Lydia says.

“Lydia—”

“Stiles.”

Stiles sighs.

It’s a point of contention in their relationship that he doesn’t talk about his relationship with the Hale family, never elaborating further than the fact that they’re close family friends. He knows that Lydia’s not insecure enough to think it’s a threat to their relationship, but her not knowing what’s really going on kills her.

“You know if I could, I would,” Stiles tells her.

She frowns. “Which only makes me more curious.”

“Lydia, please? Drop it?”

Lydia fumes and leans back in her chair, dropping the conversation but at the cost of the peace between them, as it usually goes. Stiles adds it to the list of things that annoy him about Lydia, but that he can never put a name to because he has to remind himself that he’s fortunate enough in the first place to be in a relationship with her. He guesses he has no room to talk though; he knows it makes her mad that he refuses to tell her, even though he’s told her virtually everything else about himself.

Stiles doesn’t know when Derek and Cora leave, but when he and Lydia leave in awkward silence ten minutes later, they’re not in the building and the Camaro isn’t anywhere outside.

+++

Around 4, still dressed in the stupid polo that Lydia insists he should wear when they go to the country club, Stiles parks in the driveway of the Hale house and jogs up the front steps, entering the door without knocking because they’re beyond that at this point.

He runs into Cora first, who outright laughs at the polo. He flips her off and makes his way to the living room, already in a sour mood and knowing he’s about to get continuously made fun of, specifically by Laura, Cora, and Scott, the other two whom he runs into the living room, who immediately start laughing as well.

“Fuck off,” Stiles growls, cursing himself for not having any spare clothes in the car. Scott at least unzips his jacket and throws it at Stiles so he can put it over the dumb thing. Doesn’t help the fact he’s wearing short tennis shorts, though, but there really is nothing that can be done about that.

Stiles collapses on the couch in between Laura and Scott. Laura puts a hand on his knee and begins to run her fingers up his bare thigh just to make him squirm, and though he does squirm and yelp, he also is secretly grateful that despite everything Laura and Cora still treat him like family, because he’s always thought of the two of them as sisters.

“If only you could magick yourself some longer pants,” Cora says as she enters the room, taking note of Scott’s jacket covering Stiles’ polo. Scott and Laura start laughing again and Stiles rolls his eyes, reaching across Laura to grab the nearest blanket and throw it over his legs to stop all the comments.

“Where is everyone?” Stiles asks, surprised that only the four of them are in the room.

“Out by the Nemeton. They should be on their way back,” Laura tells him.

“What, am I banned from it now?”

“They probably just think you’re a liability,” Cora tells him helpfully, sitting down on the ottoman and picking at a little snack tray that Laura probably brought out. She’s usually on snack duty, developing the same love for cooking that her mom has. Cora doesn’t have the same passion, but she usually likes to be Laura’s sous chef, if only to eat the scraps as they go.

“Man, you contaminate a Nemeton one time…” Stiles jokes, although his stomach sours. It’s not fair because it wasn’t his fault. He pretends to not like everything that goes with being an Emissary, but he secretly does, especially because it means helping to protect his friends and people that he’s come to think of as family to some degree.

Even though he’s excited to go to college and live in the dorms and get away from all the drama of Beacon Hills, he truthfully is sad to be away from it all, trapped in a brick dorm, which is miles away from the nearest forest, and miles away from his forest. He’s grown to lean into the idea of being an Emissary, the idea of succumbing to the wild, and slowly becoming wild himself, a difference that he’s noticed he’s getting closer to over the last two years. Sometimes he finds himself walking through the woods barefoot and he doesn’t cut the soles of his feet on rocks or twigs or anything else, always finding a soft path through the dirt and leaves and moss.

Once, Deaton had called him a green witch offhandedly. He doesn’t know how true that definition is, but upon his own research, he finds that that is probably what fits his style of magick best: forestry, flora and fauna, and rituals deep in the woods in the dead of night, in the morning mist, and sometimes just after school, just checking his protection wards, checking over the territory, seeing if anything’s changed.

Even with everything being the way it is, even if he comes home every weekend or so like he plans, it still feels like he would be leaving a piece of himself behind, something that he only has a few months to figure out.

Scott laughs a little at his joke and the girls both roll their eyes with varying smiles on their faces. Before anyone else can say anything, Scott, Laura, and Cora turn their heads toward the northern wall and Stiles, without having to look over and before he can hear, knows that the pack is approaching from that side and will come through the front door in a few minutes.

When they do come in, Talia walks into the living room with Deaton at her side.

“So,” Stiles asks, “what’s the verdict?”

“It’s only a matter of time,” Talia tells them with a sigh. Peter and Derek wander into the room a moment later, and other footsteps can be heard disappearing further into the house. “Whatever happened may have undone all your work over the last two years.”

“Meaning something’s coming?” Stiles asks, immediately running a mental catalog of his wards. Strange that he never felt that rogue omega coming, but something worse, something larger, may make itself known.

“Everything I’ve been preparing for you may happen,” Deaton warns.

“Great,” Stiles says sarcastically. “Threatening and ominous.”

Stiles sighs and stands up. Before anyone can comment on the shorts, he says, “Don’t say a goddamn word,” and stomps off to the library.

He crosses the room to his usual window seat, collecting the stack of books that he had left on the table yesterday. He sits down in the circular window seat, tucking the books in between his leg and the pane of glass as he kicks off his shoes and puts his sock-covered feet on the red cushion, stretching out as he pulls out one of the tomes and starts flipping through it, which is his usual pastime when at the Hale house, just spending his free time reading through their immense library, not to mention the bunker that they have that Stiles has been to a few times that holds another large house of ancient journals and tomes.

The door to the library opens and Stiles doesn’t have to look over to know it’s Derek. Usually, it’s Derek finding him, both before and now. And like before, Derek comes over, grabbing a chair from the nearby table and setting it in front of the window facing Stiles. Stiles now glances up from his book, watching Derek start at his bare thighs for a moment before meeting his eyes.

Stiles sighs and shuts the book, turning slightly so he can face Derek.

“What is it?” Stiles asks, knowing Derek well enough to know that he has something to say.

“It’s not your fault,” Derek says, looking up at him. “The omega. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

And here it is. The occasional lapses where he and Derek act like normal and have an easy conversation, no sharp edges. It’s usually about things pertaining to the supernatural, and there’s only been a handful of conversations like this. Like after that harpy nearly attacked his dad last fall break, or two years ago when Scott got caught in the kelpie nest. It’s like he’s reassuring Stiles that everything will be okay. They have this small breakthrough in conversation and then the next time they talk, they’re back to hating each other. Honestly, sometimes it makes Stiles’ head spin.

“I know that.” And Stiles does, but it is still nice to hear. “But now we have to deal with the consequences of my blood getting in the Nemeton. Fuck, I mean, I basically sacrificed my own blood, which is powerful enough to do… I don’t know but I guess we’re about to find out.”

Stiles sighs and traces the carved leather cover of the book in his hands. It’s one of his favorites, one of the first ones that Deaton gave to him to read. It outlines the meaning of magick in a pack and what a magickal being can do for other people, the ways to help and protect. Stiles knows it cover to cover by now; it’s like a comfort read at this point. It’s what helped him come to terms with his magick and understand that he has the ability to help not only his pack, but other people as well, as evidenced over the past two years, just little deeds of good magick to help others and make their lives easier.

Stiles has always tried to use his magick for good, and now, after a simple accident that he couldn’t have prevented, something is going to happen that his pack will need to protect the town from, that he’ll need to protect the town from, and though he knows it’s not his fault, he also knows that technically it is, even if he couldn’t have really done anything to prevent it.

(But then he scolds himself because he should’ve heard that something was coming, should’ve sensed it. After all this time, he’s trained himself to be better than that and still he was caught off guard and attacked, and had it not been for Deaton, it could’ve been worse, as Stiles was surprised by the attack and it might’ve taken him another minute to get his bearings in order before he could go on the offense. It’s hard to feel like it’s not his fault in that case, even if he knows better, even if people tell him otherwise. 

He chokes on his guilt, but it won’t absolve him regardless.)

“You’re overthinking,” Derek tells him. 

Stiles looks up from his book. It astounds him how well Derek can read him, and even though they usually pretend to hate each other, Derek still knows him better than most people. Stiles wonders if Derek feels the same about him, or if he’s just delusional. 

“Of course I am, that’s what I do best,” Stiles quips. 

Derek levels him with a look that makes Stiles look away, sighing, unable to meet his eyes. 

“Tennis?” Derek asks after both of them are silent for a few minutes. Stiles glances over at him and Derek gestures at his outfit.

Stiles shrugs sheepishly. “Lydia and her mom go to a country club, and she insists on dragging me along, even though she knows I’m completely uncoordinated and I always make a fool out of myself, especially in front of other rich people who think poor people flailing around is funny.”

“Why go?”

“Lydia wants me to. Plus she doesn’t really give me an option.”

Derek frowns deeply and before he can say anything, Stiles says, “It’s fine. I’m branching out, you know. Broadening my horizons. Seeing what I like.”

“And you like getting made fun of by snobby rich people?”

“No,” Stiles says slowly. “But I like being adventurous. You know, going out and doing things.”

It’s a slight dig at Derek’s expense, who’s infamous for never going out or doing anything, other than supervising Cora and lurking around town like a cryptid. 

Derek doesn’t say anything, closing off a bit and Stiles feels foolishly bad for saying anything at all. They were even having a nice conversation, but one of them always seems to say something wrong. 

He doesn’t apologize though, even though the apology sits thickly on his tongue, pressed against the back of his teeth and threatening to spill out. Instead, he says nothing, and looks to his right out the obscured glass pane, only able to faintly make out the green trees and grass and hardly anything else. 

After another long moment of tense silence, Derek gets up and puts the chair back before walking out of the library and leaving Stiles alone.

+++

The first one comes at midnight.

Stiles is at home asleep, but he wakes up to a jolting feeling and immediately starts putting clothes on, knowing what the feeling is right away. He makes it to the Hales in ten minutes, careful of the speed traps along the way. When he gets there, he parks in the driveway and starts jogging south, running along the wall of the house on the outside and into the backyard. He starts through the trees and hears footsteps behind him, but he doesn’t turn and he doesn’t slow down, because he knows who it is anyway and he knows he’ll keep up.

“Did you hear it?” Stiles asks.

Derek makes a noise of confirmation as he matches Stiles’ pace, already partially shifted. Stiles doesn’t have the type of senses that Derek does, but he can feel the disruptions in the wards and can sort of sense where things are in the forest, though not with any great accuracy.

Derek guides him right and Stiles realizes that this is in the direction of the Nemeton. Though the Nemeton likes to shift perception and make it seem like it springs up in different locations, Stiles has figured out by now different tricks on how to find it, mostly through magick, like a tight string connecting him to it. The feeling is stronger now, which Stiles guesses is probably because of the contamination now. 

They find the Nemeton quickly enough, but there’s nothing around. Stiles examines the Nemeton while Derek looks around the grove of trees. Suddenly, Derek makes a noise of pain and Stiles whips around, barely catching what happened as Derek is tackled by something that has long, gray limbs and snarls in an inhuman sort of way.

“Derek—!” Stiles calls out, starting toward him before he gets knocked back by something that he can’t see in the darkness of the night.

As he gets rolled onto his back, he sees that the thing looks similar to the one that attacked Derek, long rakish limbs that scratch as claw at him, digging into his stomach and making a scooping motion that has him screaming out in agony before he finally gets his bearings enough to shove the thing off of him with an exertion of his magick. He throws a similar force to the one attacking Derek and rolls to his feet, starting to run back toward the house and knowing that Derek will follow close behind now that he’s free to.

Stiles runs with a hand held over his bleeding stomach. He can heal it, he thinks, or at least stitch it up a little, speed up the process. Using it on his arm was obsolete, but as blood pours out in between his fingers, he thinks this might just be the type of life-or-death situation the spell requires.

The issue is just getting back to the house, where all the books are. He remembers a vague chant in the back of his mind, but it’s nothing powerful enough to heal a wound like this. Distantly, he can hear wolves howling and he knows that someone hears or smells them and is on their way.

Stiles, after realizing they have a slight advantage on the creatures, throws a spell toward the nearest tree and it ignites a barrier in between him and Derek and whatever is chasing them. Neither he nor Derek look back, but they both hear them running into the barrier and letting out screeching howls as they do. Of course, the barrier isn’t a ward so it’s not a complete circle, but Stiles hopes that he and Derek can get far enough ahead and create a bigger advantage before the creatures realize that they just have to walk five feet in either direction in order to get around the temporary barrier.

Stiles manages to get further ahead, but only after a few minutes, the two creatures get around the barrier and Derek stops, obviously making a means to restrain them for a minute so Stiles can get further. Stiles stops himself, but between one blink and the next, three wolves break through the treeline and help Derek, so Stiles continues on to the house, desperate to get to the book.

He stumbles into the kitchen from the back porch, tripping over one of the wooden chairs and knocking it down, but he doesn’t let it trip him as he continues to the library, leaving a blood trail in his wake.

He bursts into the library and stumbles over to the shelf he knows where the book is. He pulls it out with his free, non-bloodied hand and sets it on the floor, dropping to his knees in front of it. He flips to the page he’s thinking of and recites the passage in between heavy breathing.

“O Mother Moon and Goddess of the Night, please grant us this life and let us be healed from these dark times,” Stiles translates as he reads the text and runes before him. What he can’t read, he supplies with words that he thinks would be worthy as he holds his bleeding abdomen. “Hear my prayer, O Mother Moon, as I bleed out, please heal me, your high holiness.”

Stiles focuses his magick on his right hand, holding over the wound in his stomach and willing it to heal. He repeats the chant as he focuses, over and over so that the moon can hear him. He moves back and pushes the book away as the blood begins to soak a pool around him and he doesn’t want the book to get ruined.

Distantly, but close enough that he can hear it, he hears the wolves howling. He wonders how they are faring and looks down at his own wound, which doesn’t seem to be healing.

“Dirige me,” Stiles prays in Latin, growing more and more worried as the blood continues to soak through his hands and he moves further and further back. “Salvum me, Mater. Sana me.”

As he continues to grow weaker, he curses and rises to his feet shakily, barreling back through the hallway and into the living room. He collapses again in the kitchen, in between the kitchen table and the island chairs, right on the rug. The whole time, he’s still repeating the prayer in English, with intermittent commands in Latin interspersed in between. 

When he feels his skin begin to knit together, is when Derek comes in through the back door and Stiles begins to feel faint. He keeps repeating the words, which come slower and slower to him as Derek collapses in front of Stiles, taking his left hand, which has become bloody since Stiles left the library, and he used it to help heal himself. He feels it working as Derek holds his hand and his veins turn black, pulling the pain that has been keeping Stiles upright. As the pain starts to disappear, he feels himself slumping more and more before finally he collapses against Derek and passes out.

+++

When he wakes up, his first thought is Ow, and his second is Well, that was dramatic. Stiles has his own room at the house for situations like this and he’s alone in there by himself. At least he’s comfortable, other than the pulling pain in his side. He assesses the wound, which is bandaged, but he peels the bandages away to reveal pink and scabbed skin, probably a combination of healing from his spellwork and also that cream that Derek had given him when the omega attacked him, which Stiles has no doubt the Hale family or Deaton have extra supplies of it for moments exactly like these.

He pushes himself out of bed and thinks for a moment that he smells Derek’s scent on his sheets, before deciding it’s a trick of the mind.

He leaves the room and ventures downstairs, where he can faintly hear voices talking. He finds a crowd of people in Talia’s office, which faces the backyard and the woods. When he enters the room, everyone quiets a little, looking him over. Derek is the first to react.

“Stiles, are you feeling okay?”

“Drained,” Stiles answers honestly. Not just fatigue, but he also literally feels drained, like his magick. He’ll need to recharge, which may take a while to do, especially because the rest of him isn’t feeling well. “What were those things?”

“We don’t know,” Talia admits, handing Stiles her cell phone. He glances down at it and sees a picture that Talia must’ve taken of the creatures.

The picture honestly looks like something they would find on a cryptid hunting documentary, complete with the flash and slight blur that obscure a clear view of the creatures. From what Stiles can make out, they look like a combination between ash and trees, long gangly limbs with bark patterns carved into their bodies and leaves growing from their heads where hair might be. They could be a dryad-like creature, or something more evil and cursed. Whatever they are and wherever they came from are two questions that seem to have to remain unanswered for the time being. Stiles wonders what Talia did with the bodies, as maybe Stiles, once he gets his strength back, could try to run some kind of tests, and, if they are magickal or cursed of any kind, figure out where they came from and if there are any further threats of that caliber.

“What happened to the bodies?” Stiles asks, handing the phone back to Talia.

“They’re in the basement. I figured you and Deaton would want to look them over. He’s down there now.”

“Alright, then,” Stiles says, and turns on his heel to head down to the basement.

Chapter Text

The basement is made up of cement with windows near the top of the walls that, on the outside, are on the foundation but covered enough with foliage so when it’s sunny, only fragmented light comes through. It’s the early morning though, so the light that does come in is still inky and smoky gray, filtering in as the sun gets closer to rising.

There are multiple rooms, one of which being that which holds whoever is having trouble transforming or keeping control, something that Stiles knows doesn’t happen often. The other important one is the morgue-like doctor’s clinic that Deaton keeps close to the Hales for emergencies, or situations like these. Whenever magickal creatures come across the borders, Talia and the pack deal with them before bringing them to the clinic below, where Stiles and Deaton can extract necessary things, like ingredients that can be useful for their altars or spells, such as nails and hair, or, in this case, bark.

One body lays on the metal examination table, while the other is presumably what’s in the long black bag on the floor. Stiles realizes that it looks like a human cadaver bag and wonders where Deaton got that from.

Leaning over the body, Deaton pokes at the bark-like skin and flakes it off into a petri dish, like this is real science or something. Stiles walks over to the corner where his combo desk and apothecary cabinet is, which is where they store the ingredients for everything, the bodily ones and the herbs and flowers and such. This room is usually left alone by the werewolves because of the way it smells, which they often complain about. 

He pulls open the cabinets that he has memorized by now, putting down a mug and filling the electric kettle in the nearby sink first before he returns to pull the herbs out and places them in the mug. When the water boils, he pours the water on top of the echinacea leaves and adds ashwagandha powder and honey. It’s what Deaton insists he uses to recover his magick and it, for whatever reason, works, especially since the reason he usually gets drained is because of attacks and the herbs Deaton has chosen specifically help heal him.

Stiles sips his herbal tea from a mug that reads “Witch’s Brew” that Scott got for him as a joke for his last birthday and he thought it too funny and ironic, especially when used for herbal teas, to throw away, as he leans over the carcass of the creature.

It looks more grotesque up close, especially the way the bark flicks off like ash, which leaves Stiles to wonder about the anatomy of the creature, and though he knows Deaton and he will get to that fun part later, he’s not sure he wants to know.

“How’s it looking, Doc?” Stiles asks, pulling back and taking a long sip of his tea and scalding his tongue in the process. “Shit!”

Deaton gives him a cursory glance before returning to his careful picking.

“It’s looking like these creatures are of magickal origin,” Deaton says slowly as he carefully peels more skin off the creature, if it can even be called skin. “As to what the origin is, I’m still unsure. Perhaps when you finish that tea, you can start searching.”

“Sure,” Stiles says, not knowing what the means, but deciding that he’ll figure that out when he finishes the tea. He takes slower sips. Even still, he can feel a steady thrum coming back underneath his skin, faint, but it grows slowly, not full enough to be of any use.

He takes a seat in the chair at his desk as he sips, staring blankly at the body on the floor and trying to pretend like this is all completely normal, like he does every time this happens. Well, okay, this has never happened, but still. Stiles sips his tea and watches the creature carefully. The spindly fingers of the creature, which look like thin twigs, extend from where the bag is slightly unzipped, crawling across the black thick plastic and appear almost to be reaching out, clawing for something. But the body doesn’t move and neither do the hands, and they both remain still as Stiles finishes his tea.

He sets the empty mug on the desk behind him and stands up, examining the table where Deaton has managed to work the other carcass into a cadaver bag to mitigate the amount of clean up they’ll have to do later.

“Feeling recharged?” Deaton asks, glancing back at Stiles. 

He nods, standing. “What do you need me to do?”

“Place your hand over the chest,” Deaton instructs, waiting until Stiles has done so to continue. “They are creatures of magick, so therefore you will be able to sense the magick within them, even if it is no longer a fire, even if it is just embers. Hold your hand firm over its chest and try to pull the magick from within it. Then tell me what you feel.”

Stiles obeys, closing his eyes to better focus as he tries to find the natural thrum of magick laying cold and nearly still beneath the hard bark of the creature’s sternum. The magick pulses against his fingers like a steady drum and he takes a deep breath as he tries to push into the magick, trying to feel the perimeters of it, figure out where it’s coming from. And like a melody in a cavern, it feels like the magick moves all around and he finds it difficult to locate the source of it.

“I can’t feel anything,” Stiles says, pulling his hand away as he gives up. “There’s nothing there.”

“You feel nothing?” Deaton asks.

Stiles doesn’t know how to describe the feeling. It’s not nothing, but it’s nothing that he knows what to do with.

“It’s… I don’t...”

He puts his hand back on the sternum, compelled, but still he feels nothing but a million different sparks, all leading to nowhere. He pulls his hand away again.

“I don’t know. I don't know what I’m looking for,” Stiles admits, trying to concentrate harder and ultimately finding nothing.

“You would know it, if it was there,” Deaton tells him. “You can step back now.”

Stiles removes his hand and steps back, staring at the corpse like it might give him some answers.

It doesn’t.

“Whatever’s in there has been forgotten,” Deaton tells him. “We cannot find it anymore.”

Stiles sighs and goes to wash his hands in the sink, thinking that that’s probably the best next step of action. As he washes his hand, he hears Deaton behind him zipping up both of the bags, so that the creatures will at least be out of sight the next time that Stiles turns around. And they are, when he does, wiping his hands on the paper towels that Deaton keeps next to the sink.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles tells him, because he feels like he’s failed in some way.

“Don’t be. The information that you didn’t get may tell us something.”

“Like what?”

“Like whatever sent those things doesn’t want to be found. That’s useful information.”

“Is it?”

“More useful than no information.”

Stiles sighs as Deaton washes his hands in the sink. Stiles doesn’t know what they’ll do with the bodies. Maybe nothing, for now, and that’s what it seems as Deaton goes to exit the room.

“Are you coming?”

Stiles sighs again and follows him without looking behind him.

+++

“So you just went missing for a whole night and you’re telling me not to worry?” Lydia asks, giving him an incredulous look from the other side of the room.

He sighs and half-hazardly folds his flannel before ultimately giving up and tossing it onto the chair next to where Lydia stands with her arms crossed over her chest, a frown etched uncannily into the lines of her face. It looks so out of place on her, the way it sours her whole expression, not that her body language is helping.

Stiles sighs and shifts his weight as his side starts to act up with phantom pain that he shouldn’t be feeling.

“I told you, I was at the Hales’,” he repeats. Her eyebrows draw together.

“Right. Because you’re such good friends with them.”

“It’s—”

“Complicated,” she finishes. “I know. You always say that.”

Stiles sighs. “I’m sorry, Lydia, but it’s kind of out of my control. You know I would tell you if I could. I tell you everything.”

“I know,” she says, defeated. She uncrosses her arms and runs a hand through her hair, one of her nervous or uncomfortable ticks that rarely shows up unless she’s really stressed. “I know. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be a jealous girlfriend.”

“Hey.” Stiles walks over and grabs both her hands so that she’ll look him in his eyes. “You’re not, okay? We both know that. I’m sorry for making you upset.”

He pulls her into a hug and she melts into his arms, letting him support her as she rests her forehead against his chest. The guilt tastes like bile in the back of his throat and he pulls away to kiss her gently, a soft reassurance that means absolutely nothing. She also melts into the kiss and Stiles laments how easily she trusts him when he’s been lying to her for their entire relationship. He pulls away and kisses her forehead before stepping back completely.

“So,” he says, trying to break the awkward tension, “you still wanna help me clean out my drawers?”

Lydia smiles fondly. “If it means finally downsizing your flannel collection.”

“You don’t like my flannels?”

“You know I don’t.”

Stiles grins at her as her typical personality comes back.

“I’ll let you get rid of three after you vet them with me.”

“Five.”

“Four, and only after intense debate.”

“Fine.” She laughs and joins him by the dresser.

+++

Stiles reshelves the books in his hands slowly as he sifts through them, trying to sort them out alphabetically in his head. Picking up the summer job at the library to make some extra cash was his dad’s idea, but Stiles doesn’t mind having something to occupy his time. Plus all the ladies in the library either know him through his dad or mom, so they’re all pretty fond of him, even Mr. Henford, who's usually only there on Tuesdays and hates everyone, gives Stiles a little nod every time he sees him. 

Stiles has always been fond of reading and knowledge anyway, so he sort of lucked out with this job, especially considering he can just sit and read in his off time until he’s needed again. It’s nice too because sometimes Lydia comes in and sits and reads next to the front desk where Stiles has to sit, and though she hardly talks to him while she’s there, Stiles appreciates her coming in and just being there.

Today, she doesn’t come in, but Peter does. Peter, who Stiles has a complicated relationship with because he does nothing but cause trouble for everyone in or around the Hale family and constantly is on the edge of blurting out the family secret, just to stress or scare people. Not to mention the fact that he’s never been kind to Derek, though Derek used to be so heavily under his sway for a period of time. It all leaves a sour taste in his mouth that causes him to not want to trust or like Peter.

“Stiles,” Peter purrs as he runs his fingers along the Formica countertop of the front desk. Stiles glances up from his book, holding one of the bookmarks that the library gives out for free in between his fingers, slipping it into the book when he realizes who it is.

“Peter,” he returns, preparing himself for the conversation. “What brings you in?”

“Nasty business with the Nemeton,” Peter says, not mindful of his tone. It’s early morning on a Monday, so Stiles glances around, but it’s pretty slow while parents are at work and kids are sleeping. There’s no one close enough to them anyway. Peter continues. “You must feel horrible after what you did.”

“What happened was an accident,” Stiles says, trying to remind himself as he speaks. “It wasn’t my fault.”

“Yes, but your precious blood seeped into the Nemeton because of your negligence.”

“I was attacked,” Stiles says slowly, though he knows that Peter already knows all of this and he knows Peter is just trying to get under his skin, like he always does and with everyone.

“Sure,” Peter muses, smiling wolfishly at him. 

Very few Hale family members have that same sort of smile, but rather than it looking attractive on him like it does on them, he makes it look creepy and unnerving, like he’s a few seconds away from unhinging his jaws and swallowing Stiles whole.

“And yet,” Peter continues, “you’ve managed to make trouble for us all because of your “attack.” Did you ever stop to consider that?”

Stiles already feels guilty about the whole thing, but he doesn’t need Peter to help him realize that feeling. Instead, he glares at Peter and sets his book down, standing up and leaning across the desk so that he’s level with Peter.

“Who do you think is handling the fallout? While you slink around in the shadows, Deaton and I are dealing with the consequences. I wouldn’t expect you to understand what it means to be a part of the pack anyway, and spend your life dedicated to protecting them.”

Peter’s grin sours, but doesn’t fall. He also leans in and while Stiles wants to lean back, he doesn’t.

“Careful,” Peter tells him, “don’t start thinking that you actually matter in that pack. When you go off to college in a few months, we’ll still be here. I’ll still be here. And they will replace you and find someone better, especially my nephew.”

Stiles narrows his eyes. He doesn’t care. He doesn’t care to figure out what Peter means or what “finding someone better” for Derek would even look like. Everyone knows they despise each other, and that’s all it’s ever been.  

But the pack moving on? The pack forgetting about him and finding another Emissary, it’s possible. Deaton was their Emissary for how long before they traded him out for Stiles, why wouldn’t this be any different? Even if Stiles plans to come home every weekend, what will happen during the five days he’s not there? Would Deaton step back in? Would they find someone else? How long would it take?

But Stiles doesn’t let his concern show on his face, because he knows that’s exactly what Peter wants. Instead, he says calmly, “If you need help checking out a book, you know where I’m at,” and pulls back, sitting down in his chair and pulling his book up. It’s almost as bad as admitting defeat, but Peter takes it for what it is, smirks, and disappears back out the front door.

The rest of the shift passes by without any other disruptions.

+++

Tuesday night, Lydia throws a party. There’s not much to do during the summer in a relatively small town, especially at night, so Lydia happily provides a distraction for everybody. It’s not exclusive to those who just graduated, but it is a majority of their classmates that show up first and with their own extra booze.

Stiles lets himself get drunk too, as Lydia takes the role of the “more sober” one. She still drinks, but not enough to get her swaying lightly on her feet the way Stiles does as he laughs with Scott and Isaac in the living room. Allison leans in between Isaac and Scott, facing the other direction and talking to Erica who’s leaning against Boyd beside her and Malia and Kira, who are sharing a cup as Kira laughs into Malia’s neck.

Lydia flits around the party, putting out fires and making sure all of her guests are happy before finally, halfway through the night, Stiles grabs her around the waist as she passes and pulls her into their friends’ circle, kissing her forehead.

“Relax,” he tells her as smoothly as he can. “Everyone’s fine, everything’s fine, just talk to us for a few minutes.”

Lydia sighs, clearly stressed, but lets herself lean against Stiles, making a comment at Erica’s story, and everyone turns to include her in the conversation. A few minutes into this, Stiles’ phone starts ringing and he pulls it out to show Deaton’s name. Lydia gives it a cursory glance, before the name catches her eye and she frowns at his phone.

“Deaton? Like Scott’s boss? Why would he be calling you?”

It’s a valid question, but Stiles flounders trying to find an excuse. She stares up at him, waiting for an answer, and he sees Scott glance over, but he must’ve not heard what she’s asking, because he doesn’t offer any help.

“I’m thinking about getting another job at the clinic with Scott,” Stiles lies.

“And he’s calling you at 11 pm?” Lydia asks incredulously.

“I—” The phone stops ringing. It almost immediately starts ringing again. “I really gotta take this, Lyds. Just give me a minute.”

Stiles pulls away from her and disappears upstairs and into her room, knowing it’ll be the quietest place, though the thumping from the bass from downstairs may be picked up over the phone.

“Deaton,” he says when he answers the phone, sitting on Lydia’s bed. “Where’s the fire?”

“Mr. Stilinski, while I can hear that you’re busy, I’m afraid I’ll need your help as soon as you can.”

“What happened?” Stiles asks, the sentence sobering him up as he stands and starts assessing how he’s going to get to wherever Deaton needs him to get to while he most definitely can’t drive a car.

“Nothing crucial,” Deaton clarifies. “I just believe it’s necessary, after what’s happened, to start making altars and offerings on a regular basis, maybe weekly to start. I think tonight would be a good time to start, after everything that’s happened recently, as soon as you’re available.”

“Jesus,” Stiles breathes. “You had me worried there, Doc. I can start heading your way. I’ll see you soon.”

They hang up and Stiles heads out of Lydia’s room, and promptly bumps into her on the stairs.

“Hey,” he says, “I gotta go. I’ll see you tomorrow and come early if you still need help with cleaning.”

“Go? So Scott’s boss calls you and you leave at the drop of a hat? Does this fall into the category of things you can’t tell me?”

“Yes—”

“And the vet is involved?”

“It’s complicated, Lydia,” Stiles sighs. She does too and steps out of his way.

“Go, then. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“I love you,” Stiles says and kisses the side of Lydia’s head as he descends the stairs.

Her response is lost in the music and growing distance between them.

+++

Stiles gets halfway there on foot before his phone starts ringing again. He thinks it may be Scott, considering that he sort of left with a “Hey, gotta go” and a wink that left Scott staring at him like he sorta understood but had a lot of questions probably pertaining to whether or not he was required as well. Stiles had driven to Lydia’s, as usual, but since he usually spent the night at her house and then left the next morning, no longer under the influence, finding a way to Deaton’s proved to be difficult and ultimately resulted in him deciding just to walk, which probably wasn’t the safest idea considering his only form of protecting himself—his magick—sort of didn’t work too well when he was too tipsy to concentrate properly.

He answers the phone.

“Deaton?” he asks, after glancing at the caller ID. “Hey, I’m on my way. Maybe thirty minutes out still, but I’m trying to avoid walking in the woods this late at night.”

“You’re walking? I had a feeling you may need a ride. I sent Derek to come pick you up.”

“No, ah, that’s not necessary, really,” Stiles says. “You can tell him not to come. I’ll just start jogging, really.”

“He’s already on his way. Just stay put, he’ll find you. Call me when he has.”

Deaton hangs up.

Stiles sighs deeply and calls Derek.

“Hey,” Derek says as he answers. He sounds far away, and Stiles is sure that his phone is sitting on his passenger seat like it always is and on speaker. He remembers a few times in the beginning Derek used to drive him around places at the behest of his mother, and he gets such bad déjà vu that he has to close his eyes and try to clear his head. “Stiles?”

“Hey, sorry, um, you don’t have to come get me. I’ll be there soon anyway and I’m fine—”

“You don’t sound fine.”

Stiles can hear it in his own voice a little. He’s not slurring his words, but he doesn’t sound as neutral as he might if he hadn’t been drinking at all.

“Derek, please, can we not argue? I’m not a little kid that needs to be babysat, okay? Don’t come pick me up,” he says as the Camaro slides up next to him. Stiles glances at it, hangs up, and sighs deeply.

Derek rolls down the window.

“Come on, Stiles,” he says, and Stiles throws an internal temper tantrum for two seconds before giving up and getting in the car.

When he slides into the passenger seat, mindful to move Derek’s phone into his lap, Derek presents him with a water bottle. Stiles takes it gingerly and takes a long sip, not unconscious of the fact that Derek watches him for a long moment before letting his foot off the brake and resuming driving again.

Stiles expects the drive to be awkward, but he thinks he may be the only person making it that way. Derek doesn’t seem to care what he’s feeling in the passenger seat, too busy focusing on the road and the quiet radio to give any attention to Stiles, which is no surprise when Derek’s whole personality is just a wall of indifference.

Stiles drinks the water until it’s empty to avoid having to say anything, and even still there’s a whole ten minutes ahead of them and so he crinkles the empty water bottle in his lap as the desperate part of him tries to find a way to fill the gap in conversation that he deems awkward while the rest of him pleads for him not to open his mouth.

In the end, the desperation wins, and he says, “So…” and promptly ends the sentence there.

“So?” Derek asks. When Stiles doesn’t continue, Derek says, “Was that the entire sentence?”

“Technically “so” doesn’t qualify as a sentence. A full sentence has to contain a noun and a verb at the minimum. You know the shortest sentence in the English language is simply “I am.” All other fluff is technically unnecessary.”

Derek blinks and glances over at Stiles.

“Okay…?” he says slowly. He’s used to Stiles’ ramblings by now, so he’s probably not surprised that it happened, but rather because he doesn’t know what for. He confirms this by asking, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” 

Stiles sighs, crinkling the water bottle more. Derek reaches over, grabs it out of his hand, and throws it in the backseat. Stiles, like a petulant child, crosses his arms over his chest and slumps down in his seat, unsure what to do with his hands now as a nervous energy takes hold of him.

“Stiles,” Derek prompts as he makes a left turn.

“I just…. Stuff with Lydia. Lying to everybody. I guess I’m still struggling with it after all this time.” 

It’s a tired topic now. At least to him anyway, and he thinks that Lydia is starting to get tired of the lies too. She’s smart enough to know something’s wrong and that he’s outright lying to her, but she’s too good of a girlfriend to straight up call him on it.

“You’re doing the right thing, Stiles,” Derek says.

“Really? Because I’ve been with Lydia for a year and a half now and I haven’t told her anything about me.”

“Everyone goes through it,” Derek says, telling him to suck it up without actually saying the words. Stiles glares at the side of Derek’s head.

“Yeah, well, maybe if it wasn’t for the stupid rogue alpha that bit Scott, I could have a chance at a real life with a pretty girl that actually likes me. Maybe then I wouldn’t be involved in this supernatural bullshit.”

This is a point of contention between him and Derek. In whatever relationship they have, Stiles talks freely about wishing to be out of the supernatural lifestyle and live his own life. For Derek, this is all he’s ever known and he gets rightfully upset and angry every time Stiles makes a comment. Stiles expects him to say something, but he doesn’t. Rather, Derek stops the car abruptly and Stiles glances outside to realize that they’re at the Hales’, which is as close as Derek can take him. Stiles glances back, expecting to see Derek angry, but instead his face is a cool mask of indifference, which Stiles knows is just for show.

When Derek doesn’t say anything, Stiles sighs and unbuckles his seatbelt, putting a hand on the door before stopping and addressing Derek.

He opens his mouth to say something, anything. Maybe he should relieve the tension. Maybe he should tell Derek that he’s grateful in some ways for his life but hates the secrets. Unfortunately, also given their relationship, Derek probably knows exactly what his hesitation means.

So he keeps his mouth shut, opens the door, and gets out of the car.

+++

An hour later finds him in the woods with a mouse skull in his hands as he places it on top of the cairn that Deaton has created as a mini altar. Deaton sets down a rowan bowl and ignites the sage within it, wafting it over the altar and mumbling some words in Latin that, while Stiles knows by heart now, can barely make out because of Deaton’s hushed tone.

“Why’d you ask Derek to pick me up?” Stiles asks, still concentrating on his wards, but curious nonetheless.

“He offered,” Deaton answers honestly after his prayer is done, leaving the smoldering bowl of herbs at the base of the rocks. “Why?”

“No reason,” Stiles says. He nibbles on his bottom lip, trying to turn his concentration on his wards.

When they finish up, they head back through the woods to the Hales’, Stiles strengthening his wards along the way, making sure to hit the ones nearby first, as they’re more likely to be attacked. Stiles will find another time to go around the Beacon Hills city limits and strengthen the rest of the wards, which he’s surprised that Deaton hasn’t already arranged for them to meet up tomorrow, but maybe he needs to get back to his day job and expects Stiles to do it on his own, which he will regardless.

Stiles lets himself in through the back door, leaving it open for Deaton as he juggles the excess bowls and herbs that he’s been carrying this entire time and has dropped every couple of minutes. He fumbles them again in the kitchen and swears under his breath before scooping them all up again and jogging down the basement steps to return everything to its rightful spot, mindful of the two body bags that are still sitting ominously in the morgue-like room, though thankfully they’re zipped up so Stiles doesn’t have to look at them.

When he comes back up the stairs, he hears a familiar laugh from the living room and his blood runs cold.

He enters the room and stares incredulously at Scott, Lydia, Laura, and Cora laugh in a group at 2 in the morning on a Wednesday while he still has sage smudges on his hand.

“Lydia,” Stiles says slowly, “what are you doing here?”

She smiles innocently. “I thought maybe I’d start hanging out with you guys over here. Since everyone is always here without me anyway.”

Stiles glances at Scott, who, out of Lydia’s eyesight, makes a face that Stiles comes to interpret as Lydia not having found out about the supernatural thing, but that everyone, meaning their entire friend group minus Lydia, knows about the supernatural thing and therefore is at the Hales frequently. Who mentioned this to her, Stiles doesn’t know. It’s not that he wants to exclude her from any of this, but Lydia is too smart for her own good and it’s always been for the best if she wasn’t excluded in the stuff that takes place at the Hales.

He lies to himself and pretends it was just to keep her safe.

But looking at her and her piqued eyebrow and her slight frown, he realizes just how badly that he’s fucked up.

“So, is there anything else you want to tell me?” Lydia asks with a saccharine tone.

Stiles glances at Cora and Laura who have similar unreadable expressions and Scott, who mostly looks apologetic.

“Well, um, I guess—”

And that’s the moment that window explodes.

Chapter Text

Stiles dives for Lydia first, which he’ll commend himself for later. Laura, Cora, and Scott shift in quick succession, diving for the creature that’s come in through the window as the house erupts around them at the sound of the intruder. Stiles pulls Lydia up and out of the room as she screams, startled by the thing that reaches toward them with long limbs, and Stiles has a split second to realize that it’s more of what attacked them in the woods, which were easier to put down with a werewolf’s claws than it was for Stiles’ magick, so Stiles pulls Lydia past the streamline of werewolves and pushes her into the kitchen, and a few moments later, the screaming dies down.

Lydia, unscathed, stares at him with wide eyes and he says, “I can really explain all of this.” She glances over her shoulder toward the hallway leading to the living room and Stiles grabs her chin to turn her worried gaze back to him.

“Lydia, it’s okay, just focus on me.”

“Stiles,” she says slowly. “What’s happening?”

“I’m going to go back in there and check, you stay here. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Lydia nods, the fear slipping off her face and being replaced with a steady assurance that she can handle whatever’s about to come. Stiles leans in and kisses her forehead before leaving her in the kitchen and returning to the living room.

What he finds is most of the adult werewolves, including Laura, Derek, Cora, and Scott, standing around a dead creature and broken glass, Deaton kneeling by the body. When most of these people got here, Stiles doesn’t know, but he walks up and slaps Scott around the back of the head, who rightfully shrinks in on himself.

“You shouldn’t have brought her here,” Stiles scolds.

“I didn’t know this would happen!” Scott defends.

“I know. It was still stupid though.”

“I’m sorry.”

Stiles sighs and kneels next to Deaton.

“Another one?”

“Did you feel it?” Deaton asks in return for the obvious question. Stiles sighs.

“Nope.”

“So they didn’t come from behind the house, although they are coming for the house. Probably for you. It would be wise to strengthen the rest of them tomorrow.”

“Already planning on, Doc,” Stiles says, standing up. “You got the cleanup?”

“Go, Stiles. I’m sure she needs a comforting face right now.”

Like all things, Stiles doesn’t know how Deaton knows about Lydia, but, also like usual, he doesn’t question it, instead heading back into the kitchen where Lydia is patiently waiting and dragging her upstairs to the room that he claimed two years ago, but still hardly uses.

Yet, there is no dust on anything and the room smells fresh, like someone’s taken the time to clean it, which Stiles appreciates. He sits Lydia on the bed before taking the spot next to her.

“So,” she says slowly, “explain.”

Stiles blows out a breath and leans back on his hands.

“Okay,” he says. “Well, I guess it all started two years ago.”

Stiles goes into detail about how Scott got bit by a rogue alpha one day while he and Stiles were out, which is what led them to become close with the Hales in the first place. From there, Stiles learned about his power and began working with Deaton almost every day to help protect and sanctify Beacon Hills, starting with the Nemeton, which proved to be hard once he started dating Lydia and became popular with expectations surrounding him and preventing him from slipping away and going about his business as easily as he used to before. But he’s managed to make it over the three years, and after a quick demonstration to Lydia with a ball of light in his palm, showing her that he’s not making any of it up, she lets out a breath and tears her eyes away from his palm, looking almost queasy as she focuses on an empty shelf across the room.

“So you’re… magick and Scott’s a werewolf and all our friends are some kind of supernatural creature—”

“Allison’s not,” Stiles interrupts. “She’s a Hunter.”

“She knows about everything too?”

“Yeah, Scott told her when they started dating.”

“But you didn’t tell me when we started dating.”

“Yeah, but…”

Stiles flounders. He honestly never really thought to ask anyone if he could tell her. Scott got permission from Talia but Allison would’ve found out anyway from her dad. Stiles definitely hid the truth from Lydia, but he’s never thought anyone would approve of telling her and maybe he also thought in the back of his mind that he was trying to protect the secret and that he didn’t want Lydia wrapped up in this kind of nonsense anyway, though, admittedly, he always sort of figured that Lydia is smart enough that she should’ve figured it out on her own. However any logical person, like Lydia, probably wouldn’t jump to the conclusion of magick and werewolves in their first five guesses.

Distantly, like a runaway thought, he thinks that maybe he never thought to tell her because of impermanence, but the thought is gone before he can ponder it further.

He doesn’t say any of this, though, because he doesn’t want to make her upset. What he comes up with is, “I didn’t think you’d believe me,” which isn’t false either, but a good view of his magick or Scott’s shifted face would have convinced her, so the excuse doesn’t really hold up too well and the annoyed look on her face confirms that.

She says, “Right,” and runs a hand through her hair, fingers tangling in the loose curls as she continues staring at the shelf across the room. “I guess this explains a lot.”

Stiles stays silent as she does, letting her think it over and work it all through in her head. It’s one of her patented ways of engineering a problem, growing quiet and staring off in the distance as she works it out in her head before coming to a solution.

When she’s reached whatever conclusion, she looks over at Stiles.

“Okay,” she says gently. “What was that thing in the living room?”

“We don’t have a name for it. Two attacked me and Derek a few days ago after… well, long story short, the Nemeton I told you about? Every full moon, Deaton and I perform rituals in order to help protect Beacon Hills. Well, a rogue omega got past the wards and attacked me, spilling my blood on the Nemeton, which was basically like a sacrifice to it and now things are coming to town and trying to kill me in particular. The thing in the living room is the third creature like that to attack me. The first two very nearly killed me. The third was probably trying to do the same.”

“So there’s more of them? And they’re coming to attack you?” Fear slips into Lydia’s tone. Stiles takes her hand and squeezes it gently, reassuringly. She squeezes back.

“Yes, but we’re working on it. I understand if you don’t want to be around me for the time being.”

“Stiles, you’re my best friend,” Lydia says, which is the strongest way they say I love you. She squeezes his hand firmer. “I’ll go wherever you go. Just tell me what you need from me.”

Stiles lets out a deep breath, relief flooding him at her support.

“I love you,” Stiles tells her earnestly, because that’s what’s flooding his brain right now.

She hesitates for the slightest of moments, just barely long enough for Stiles to wonder why it takes her so long to repeat the sentiment, but then she smiles softly and says, “I love you too,” and he leans in to kiss her, forgetting about the hesitation completely. 

+++

Stiles drives Lydia home and makes sure she’s safe in bed, giving her a vial of mountain ash after creating a barrier with it and showing her how to use it. If the creatures are made of magick, they’ll be unable to cross the barrier, keeping her at least safe for the night.

Stiles returns to the Hales to find Talia and Deaton sweeping up the glass in the living room, so he helps find the littlest of pieces while Laura and Scott tape up a tarp over the broken window to prevent any dirt or anything like that from getting in, knowing that it’s not going to do much as a new line defense for anything else.

4 am finds him sitting on the back porch, pouring over a bestiary with another three stacked onto the table next to him as he tries to figure out any information at all about these creatures. The exterior light next to the back door provides him his only source of light, though the waning moon makes a notable effort. Stiles’ thumb slides along the ancient paper, his barely competent Latin skills making out bits and pieces here and there, strengths and weaknesses floating over the page. A steaming cup is set down on the table beside him, next to the bestiaries. Stiles looks up.

Derek stands there, holding his own steaming cup, and sits down in the Adirondack chair on the other side of the table, taking a sip of his mug and surveying the quiet woods. Stiles knows by the smell of it that the cup Derek has set next to him is his favorite type of coffee, a fact that he’s honestly surprised Derek knows because he never thought he was the type to pay attention to the little things. He picks up the mug—one of his favorites, a ceramic C3PO head that he got at a thrift store and looks poorly made but is so endearing to him—and blows on it before taking a curious sip of the liquid, which still scalds his tongue, but that’s how he likes it anyway.

“Thanks,” he tells Derek, because it’s a properly neutral response. Derek doesn’t say anything in return and Stiles is thankful for the peace of mind it grants him, after the long day.

Stiles sets his mug back down on the table and returns to the bestiary in front of him.

By the time the sun has come up, Stiles’ mug is empty and he’s on the third bestiary. Derek, who’s sat next to him the entire time, finally reaches over and takes the book out of Stiles’ hand.

“Come on,” he says, tucking the books under his arm and leaving the mugs on the table as he guides Stiles up and out of the chair. Stiles obeys because he hasn’t slept for just under twenty-four hours at this point and he knows that he’s tired enough to pass out the second he lays down, which no amount of coffee will help.

Stiles lets Derek guide him inside. Derek deposits the bestiaries on the island to be put away later, leading Stiles up to the room reserved for him. At this point, after the countless late nights which his father has now come to understand are a necessary part of being a part of the pack, especially in his role, the room has become filled with spare clothes; books ranging from magickal journals to old textbooks he forgot to return to school and honestly forgot they were in here and wonders if the school would take them now and refund him the money he had to shell out for them; and a few sparse decorations that are mostly hand-me-downs from other members of the Hale family that were specifically given to him to decorate the room. It, in a few years, had undergone the process from an extra guest bedroom with barely anything in it, to a functional room, with bedding that Talia bought for Stiles and curtains to match, helping to make it a home and make it more comfortable during the long stays he occasionally has at the house, during intense research binges or necessary pack bonding.

Derek leaves him in his room, not saying anything, just sort of shoving him inside and closing the door behind him. Stiles doesn’t argue either way, stripping out of his shoes and jeans before collapsing in the bed and falling asleep only seconds later.

+++

Stiles’ dad comes for lunch at the request of Talia when Stiles wakes up. For the most part, he stays out of the supernatural nonsense, as he calls it, only really stepping in when it becomes necessary for his job and the safety of the town. Now, it’s become obvious that what has happened may need his assistance, especially as Talia tells them the next morning that she has to leave town and will have to leave Laura in charge.

“There may be a source to this,” she tells them all over the table. “A few of us will go to investigate, including myself. Laura, as my second, you will be in charge and everyone knows to listen to you. Peter will stay behind as well, to help if necessary, either with you, Laura, or to watch the kids.”

Peter makes a face at this, but doesn’t protest, probably because Talia has already talked to him about everything. Peter’s difficult as is, especially regarding any aspect involving the mentioning of Laura as second and not Peter, which is an immensely sore subject for him. Leaving him behind is probably a punishment for something that isn’t on Stiles’ radar, and he’s sure Peter’s pissed about it, which means he’s going to be an absolute delight for everyone he comes in contact with, especially Stiles, who he’s said is his favorite verbal sparring partner.

“Stiles,” Talia tells him privately near the end of the meal, “I need you and Deaton to stay here and strengthen the wards around town, make sure, with the help of your father, that no civilians get caught in the crossfire, like Lydia. She should be brought in with the rest of your friends and pack for her safety. We won’t be gone long, but I’m not sure how long exactly. We’ll keep you all updated where we can.”

“Are you sure leaving is the best solution?” Stiles asks.

“My cousin Marco believes he can help us find some information. Right now, it’s the best lead we have, and hopefully, we’ll be quick. I trust you and Laura to keep everything afloat while we’re gone.”

Stiles wants to tell her it’s too much responsibility and pressure, but he believes Talia when she says there’s no other choice with the limited knowledge they have. He nods.

“Please keep us updated as well,” Talia says, reaching over and squeezing his upper arm, “and stay safe.”

After lunch, Talia, her husband, and a few of their siblings all leave with goodbyes to their family. While the town will be less protected without its alpha, Laura is a good second and will do a good job protecting what she can, especially with the help of Stiles and Deaton who remain. And the job of handling the children and helping protect the town falls on the remaining non-Hale pack members, which mainly includes Stiles and Scott’s friend group, most of whom have nothing going on other than the occasional part-time job for the next few months.

Stiles’ dad pulls Deaton aside and probably begins talking about something relating to Stiles’ safety in all of this, which is usually his worry when big stuff like this happens. Of course, nothing like this has ever happened before, but that doesn’t mean the patented overactive imagination his dad has isn’t working overtime imagining all the scenarios where Stiles is potentially in danger, which, in this case, is basically at every turn.

Scott works on assembling everybody as Stiles helps Cora clean up the remaining dishes. Derek hands him a stack of syrupy plates that he distributes into the soapy water for Cora to scrub at. Once they’ve finished cleaning the dishes, drying them off, and putting them away, Stiles decides that he should go out and start taking care of the wards.

He passes his dad and Deaton on the way out.

“Hey, I’m gonna go work on the other wards,” he tells them.

“Take Derek with you,” his dad commands, who, though knows their past and is a lot less into pushing them together than the Hales are, still thinks that Derek is going to save Stiles, which has only happened a handful of times before Stiles became strong enough to save himself.

“Dad—”

The word is barely out of his mouth before his dad interrupts, first with a look and then with, “Stiles,” and it says everything his dad wants to say without saying hardly anything at all. Stiles sighs petulantly and then relents.

“Fine,” he says and then says under his breath to Derek, who’s probably listening to him anyway, “Derek, let’s go.”

He doesn’t wait for Derek to come, but by the time he reaches the Camaro, Derek is already unlocking the car and a few steps away from climbing into the driver’s seat. His Jeep is still at Lydia’s, but it’ll be safe there for the time being and he can have Derek drop him off at it after they’re done.

Derek drives them to the first ward clockwise. All the wards in town are in the woods, encircling the town in invisible protection. The easiest way to get to the wards, without going into the woods which are unsafe at this time, is by driving to their closest points. The nearest one to them is accessible through a neighborhood, so they park at the end of a cul-de-sac and cut into the woods and it’s another forty-five minute walk from there to the ward, which will be most of the day, spent driving to a location, walking for nearly an hour on foot, strengthening the ward, then walking all the way back to the car, and driving to the next point.

They start the long walk through the soft grass, treading through the field with the grass that hits their knees that slowly starts to populate with trees and turns into the Preserve as the trees grow around them, the area growing coarser and coarser as they walk until they start dodging through trees in order to get to the border.

Stiles finds the tree imbued with the ward and places his hands against the bark, concentrating his magick on the invisible ward.

There’s not much fanfare, though it does take some time to figure out what to do and how to do it exactly, as this sort of thing was never covered in detail in his lessons with Deaton. He’s never had to strengthen them before, so he hopes he’s doing it right.

He feels the ward strengthen, and the best way to describe it is if there were levels to it. The way it normally feels is one level, one that helps guard the town but doesn’t do much to prevent things from getting into it, a passive side that warns of new visitors, which it hasn’t been doing the greatest job in that department anyway. The second level is a lot more of an aggressive level. It runs offense and defense and helps keep unwanted creatures out of the town, or at least as best as it can, most likely only slowing them down or (hopefully) giving Stiles some semblance of warning before an attack. 

On the walk back, Derek asks, “Can you feel a difference?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He and Derek never really talked about it before. Not that they talked about really anything. “It feels like a sixth sense, I guess. I don’t know how to describe it. Different than how it normally feels, but still hard to explain.”

It’s like his magick. He can always feel it there, like an extra presence within himself. Over the years, he’s trained that feeling, becoming in tune with it so that he can understand and gauge where it's at. It’s like its own energy thrumming underneath his skin and he can feel when his reserve is full and when it’s drained. To date, he’s never had a sort of life-or-death situation where his magick was being emptied on a regular basis. In fact, his magick has only ever been emptied a few times before, less than a handful.

Feeling the wards is like his magick, except they don’t exist within him. They’re like their own entity as well, and while he’s never felt them in this second level, he wonders how it’ll compare and differ from the first, from the distant sense of knowing that something is coming. Though, again, it hasn’t really been working in the first place, so maybe all of this is for nothing.

Derek doesn’t respond for the rest of the time that they walk. It’s peaceful, still early in the afternoon and the sun is high in the sky, not too hot yet, but it’s only a matter of weeks now. They make it back through the thicket, into the copse, and back to the field, and into the cul-de-sac in that same silence. It’s not heavy, and Stiles is beginning to realize that things really aren’t like that with Derek anymore.

He spent days and weeks and months worrying about the next time he would see Derek again and all his thoughts were clouded by his anger and anxiety, anxiety that came from a want to see Derek again, but also never wanting to see him again. For a long time, he was caught in a loop of thoughts, all of which would be renewed or strengthened with every pack event, with every full moon, with every normal breakfast, lunch, or dinner he and his dad or Deaton attended. 

At the beginning, he and Derek couldn’t stand each other. Every interaction was a bad interaction and every time they spoke it turned into a fight. How they met obviously played a big part in that, Derek’s rude attitude and Stiles’ indignation fueling their relationship for the last three years. But somewhere along the way, Stiles started paying attention. He watched Derek and learned the smallest of details about him, the way he would react to certain situations, how he’s a total momma’s boy and lets his sisters bully him because it brings them all closer. And somewhere along the way, Stiles noticed Derek watching him too. When they weren’t fighting, they were watching and learning. Now, Stiles thinks Derek is the only person who really understands him, but their long-standing hatred for each other pushes all the other feelings on the back burner. Sometimes he wonders how he would feel if they met differently. He never dwells on the thought for long.

But Derek sometimes seems genuine and different and maybe Stiles owes it to him to be nicer and try to turn the ruins of their relationship into a friendship of sorts.

That’s another thought he tries not to dwell on.

On the car ride over, he tries to make conversation, taking a page out of Derek’s book.

“So, do anything interesting lately?” Stiles asks awkwardly. He starts to backtrack and repeat himself not as awkwardly, but then stops when Derek glances over at him.

“What is this?” Derek asks, and there’s that teasing smile on his face that Stiles only rarely sees. It makes his stomach twist uncomfortably. He looks away.

“Conversation,” he offers, glancing out the passenger window at the houses flying by. “If you want it.”

“I’m working on my master’s application.”

Stiles looks back at him. The smile’s gone thankfully.

“Already? You graduated like a couple of weeks ago.”

“Deadline’s in a month. I don’t think I want to wait.”

“What’d you major in again?”

“English.”

“And what would your master’s be in? Just the proficiency of the language or do you still want to write?”

It was a conversation from years ago, one late night that floats on the edges of memory, late enough that it was just them. Derek was sweet and uncharacteristically open, and Stiles didn’t think he would remember the conversation in the morning. It didn’t seem like he did the next day, but now he looks over at Derek and a look of recognition passes over Derek’s face, like maybe he thought that Stiles didn’t remember either.

“I want to write,” he says after a long silence. “I want to help preserve our knowledge, tell stories of my family, which would all be censored, obviously. Laura tells me there’s no point in writing it if we cut out the werewolf stuff, but—”

“But there's still a story there. You have a good family and a lot to say, even if you don’t say most of it out loud,” Stiles says with a playful elbow into Derek’s arm.

Derek’s smile comes back and Stiles has to look away again.

“Yeah,” Derek says, and Stiles can feel his eyes on him even though he’s not looking. “There’s something there.”

“Well, I’d say you were good if you ever shared your writing,” Stiles says, trying to remain as neutral as possible.

It was a popular topic, how everyone knew that Derek wrote, but that he never shared anything he wrote. Over the years, Derek still hadn’t shared anything with anyone, and certainly not with Stiles. Stiles doesn’t think he’s a bad writer at all, just by knowing Derek and his vernacular and his intelligence, Stiles has absolutely no doubt that Derek is skilled at writing. And if he’s more vocal on paper than he is in person, all the better for his writing.

But Derek takes the levity of the situation and turns a much less threatening smile on Stiles.

“Would you read anything I wrote?”

“Of course, I would. What kind of question is that?”

Derek gives Stiles a sidelong glance but doesn’t respond for a moment. Instead, he pulls into a parking lot and waits for them to get out and get behind the strip mall before he says anything.

“I don’t know,” he says, picking up a twig and rolling it between his hands. “I’ve never shown my writing to anyone. It’s probably not worth all the hype.”

Stiles stops. Derek stops too after a moment.

“Derek Hale, I’ve never even read your writing and I can already tell you that it’s going to be brilliant. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you always have been. If your writing is anything like you, then I’m sure it’s brilliant.”

Derek stares at him in what looks like surprise and Stiles realizes that maybe he shouldn’t have just blurted that out. He doesn’t know where those words came from and the fact that they flowed off his tongue so effortlessly genuinely makes him think there must be something seriously wrong with him. 

“Or whatever,” Stiles says, feeling awkward under the scrutiny. He starts walking again and Derek follows, resuming twirling the stick.

They reach the ward back in silence and this time goes a lot smoother as Stiles places his hands on the bark and pulls on the magick within him to strengthen the barrier. On their walk back, Stiles babbles uncomfortably about college, nothing more than his dorm situation and worries about who he’s gonna be rooming with since Scott is going to UC Davis for his pre-veterinary program and Stiles is going to Stanford and therefore Stiles’ go-to roommate won’t even be at the same college at him. It’s just nonsense talking and he doesn’t expect Derek to respond, but Stiles gets so distracted by his line of thinking that he nearly faceplants over a rock and stumbles, expecting to land on the stray branches and rocks, but Derek reaches out and catches him before he gets even a quarter of the way there, fast enough that Stiles damn near gets whiplash at the sudden impact.

Stiles lets out a groan and realizes quickly that his head is pressed into Derek’s meaty bicep. He pulls away quickly and clears his throat, righting himself and taking a large, deliberate step over the conglomeration of rocks at his feet.

“Thanks,” he throws out over his shoulder.

Derek doesn’t respond, but follows him the rest of the way to the car.

+++

The rest of the day passes much of the same. Stiles doesn’t embarrass himself further, but as they go around the town strengthening the wards into the late night, they talk a little bit about Derek’s graduation. Stiles wasn't there for the actual graduation, but he was there for the graduation party. Still, he hadn’t gotten the opportunity to talk to Derek about how the last three years of his degree went. Derek hadn’t really talked about any of his time at college around Stiles, so all Stiles knew came from secondary or tertiary sources.

Derek talks briefly about his classes, which were his favorite and which teachers he hated, but mostly they spend the time in silence, which remains amicable and tension-free. By the time it’s late night, but not so late that it’s early, they make their way to Lydia’s house so that Stiles can get his Jeep.

Stiles puts a hand on the door handle and looks over at Derek.

“Well, thanks,” he says, struggling to keep his eyes open. The smart thing to do would be to go and replenish his magick tonight at the Hales before he goes to sleep, but he’s tired and he’s been in the same clothes for two days in a row now, and he has a couple of herbs he can use at his house along with a hot shower that should be just fine for the night. “I’m gonna get going.”

“Are you alright?” Derek asks. Stiles’ eyebrows draw together because he doesn’t think that he’s giving off signals that he’s not alright, other than the obvious fact that he’s tired. They’re both tired, anyway, and neither of them have even eaten dinner yet.

“What do you mean?”

“Your magick. Aren’t you drained?”

Stiles tries to hide his surprise. It’s just that he didn’t think that Derek would even think about that.

“Oh, I’m fine. I’m gonna make some tea at home, shower, and then pass out. The sucky thing is that I work tomorrow at 8. Or rather—” Stiles checks his phone. “—today at 8. Six hours of sleep is doable, right?”

He sighs and puts his phone away, opening the door.

“Actually, the suckiest thing is that I haven’t eaten anything since lunch and that was over twelve hours ago by now. But I think I’m too tired to eat anyway.” Stiles sighs again and throws a restrained smile at Derek, hardly a smile as it is as it’s morphed into a monster yawn. “I’ll probably see you tomorrow.”

Stiles gets out before Derek can say anything, desperate to go home at this point, and gets in the Jeep. He glances at the house, thinking maybe he should check on Lydia, but her bedroom window is dark, so he turns over the ignition and pulls away from the curb, leaving Derek and Lydia behind.

When he gets home, he makes the tea while the shower is heating up and downs it all before hopping in. He takes his time in the shower, mostly because the intense heat and the warm tea in his empty stomach make him sleepy, and he drifts off while standing up in the shower enough times that he eventually just turns the shower off and dries off, throwing on boxers and heading out of the bathroom and back to his bedroom.

What gets him first is the smell and the way that it immediately makes his stomach rumble. He looks around, trying to locate it, noting that his window is open and that on his desk, there's a bag of greasy food from his favorite twenty-four hour diner. He approaches the bag carefully and confirms that it’s a double cheeseburger and curly fries and grabs his phone from his bed, typing in Derek’s number from memory to find their buried text conversation.

The last message was sent over a year ago and it was essentially Derek telling Stiles a message from Talia, which Stiles never even responded to. Stiles stares at it for a minute before typing out a simple Thank you , and throwing his phone back on his bed. He shuts the window and returns to the food, devouring it before finally collapsing into bed and promptly passing out.

His phone doesn’t make a sound the whole time.

Chapter Text

Thursday passes normally. It's the first day without Talia the town has seen in a long time, but Laura fills the gap well, taking on her responsibility and treating the situation as a learning experience, on the job training and all that. She does it without Stiles there, because, at her request, he spends the day resting after all the excitement. And after the previous two days and then working for eight hours, getting home Wednesday afternoon instead of going to the Hales is a relief to him and his dad.

“How are you feeling?” his dad asks over their chicken and green beans. 

Stiles grabs a roll that his dad picked up fresh from the bakery today. It’s been a good day and he relishes in these small moments he has before he leaves for school, especially dinners with his dad. It’s not like he’ll be so far from home that he can’t come back or anything, and especially with his position in the pack, coming back is mandatory on a fairly regular schedule, and it’s not like he wouldn’t not make time for his dad. Still, it’s different, living with someone for your whole life and suddenly moving hours away from them, not having them nearby in case you need them for anything or miss them. He’s sure everyone’s felt this way about someone in their life, especially with going to college or moving out of state from family or loved ones or even countries. He can’t imagine being that far away from his dad ever. He’s never been convinced he would spend his whole life in Beacon Hills, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to live somewhere far away from his dad and Scott’s mom and the Hales, even, not to mention his friends and whatever path they may take.

Stiles pauses with butter on his knife, thinking that maybe one day all of his friends will move away too.

“Stiles?” his dad prompts.

Stiles swallows and butters the roll. He puts the knife back and takes a bite.

“Fine,” he says around the bread. He swallows at the look his dad gives him, an obvious Don’t talk with your mouth full sort of look. “Just tired.”

“Too tired to watch the game with me?” His dad asks, his voice hopeful.

Stiles thinks of his dad sitting alone in his recliner, eating a TV dinner and going to bed without conversation, and himself, hundreds of miles away.

“Never,” Stiles insists and they smile at each other over their raised forks, like they’re both savoring the moment.

+++

On Friday, Stiles goes to the Hales after his shift. Nobody really bothered him yesterday, not even Lydia, and Stiles guesses that’s at Laura’s request. Lydia had come to the library this morning and sat in her usual spot, exchanging a normal conversation with Stiles like she wasn’t burning with questions. Maybe Laura and the pack had answered them in Stiles’ absence, maybe Lydia was waiting to be alone with Stiles to ask him personally, he didn’t know. She left before he did and told him she’d see him at the Hales, so Stiles guesses that she must be getting acquainted with the way everything works now, which makes Stiles glad, because he’s sure she’s been terrified by this whole thing, even with the base information that Stiles had given her Tuesday night.

He drives over to the Hales after sending a quick text to his dad where he’s going. It’s usually assumed that Stiles is either with the Hales or with Lydia or Scott or at work. Those are really the only four places he goes, but he still tries to update his dad when he can, especially now considering he didn’t for like two days and his dad probably ran on information that Talia was feeding him at the time. Stiles feels guilty for not having thought of his dad during that time, but he can forgive himself at least partially considering the fact that it was sort of a life-or-death situation where things were trying to attack and kill him and that he had to strengthen the wards around town to make sure that nothing else got through without their knowledge.

His magick is back to full now and he hasn’t felt any disturbances with the wards since he strengthened them, so he guesses that whatever he did worked, or they’re just lucky. Still, would he feel if something hit them or tried to cross the border? That’s probably a question for Deaton today, so Stiles makes a mental note to ask him if he sees him.

He parks in his usual spot next to the Camaro, like he used to do back in the day and, like a lot of habits he has regarding Derek, it never completely broke. He notices that a lot of his friends' vehicles are in the driveway, so he’s sure they’re here somewhere. He jogs up the front steps and lets himself in because the front door is never locked and they can almost all hear him coming anyway. 

As usual, the house is bustling with energy, the kids all moving around the house with the frantic energy of children whose parents are out of town for the weekend and are being watched by their fun aunt, Laura, and their fun but usually creepy uncle, Peter. Derek’s firmer than both of them combined in most regards, but when it comes to his cousins, he’s a complete and total pushover. And Cora’s just like Laura, especially when it comes to encouraging the kids’ natural chaos. Deaton will probably be the one actually watching over the kids, Stiles just has a feeling about that.

Stiles tries the kitchen first, because usually an adult of some kind is in there. Talia calls it the heart of the house and the way that most of the family congregates there throughout the day really adds to that title. Today is no different and he finds a few of the kids having an afternoon snack at the small kitchen table on one side of the room with Laura washing dishes in the sink on the other side.

She glances up when he enters. “Stiles, wasn’t expecting you so early today.”

“It was slow, so my boss let me leave a couple hours early,” Stiles tells her, leaning across the expansive island. She smiles at him from over her shoulder.

“Well, your friends are all upstairs and I think Deaton is in the basement. As for Derek—”

“Stop,” Stiles scolds, and she does with a frown, like she knew he would stop him but wanted to get it in there anyway. “Thanks, Laura.”

Laura hums a reply and Stiles walks away, ruffling Lottie’s hair on the way out. She’s Talia’s sister’s kid and Stiles likes that she’s observant. She seems far smarter than her short years and always seems to know what’s going on, even though she’s only a human.

Stiles goes to the basement first, where Deaton is working with some wolfsbane. He glances up from his desk to look over at Stiles before resuming his work. Stiles glances at the three body bags on the other side of the room and continues staring at them until he realizes Deaton’s talking to him.

“Stiles? Are you feeling better?”

“Oh, yeah, much better. Is everything okay here? I mean, with the wards.”

“Have you felt anything?”

“Well, no, but I wasn’t sure I did it right in the first place.”

“If you didn’t do it right, you would know.”

“Oh.”

Deaton turns to face him.

“Stiles, don’t doubt your abilities. Focus on your spark and let it guide you. There’s no need to fear the magick you possess.”

“Right,” Stiles says slowly. “Thanks, Deaton.”

“Your pack is upstairs,” Deaton tells him, turning back around. “I’m sure they’d like to see you.”

“Right,” Stiles says again. “Well, I’ll let you get back to work then.” 

Stiles leaves Deaton in the basement, making sure to close the door to their office tight behind him because of the wolfsbane and shuts the basement door the same for good measure. He makes his way up the stairs of the main floor and heads to the game room where the pack usually hangs out.

As he rounds the corner to head down the hall, he bumps into Derek. Well, they don’t actually hit each other as Derek is stopped, probably after having heard him coming, and Stiles stops abruptly in front of him, surprised though he really shouldn’t be because the house always has people moving within it and running into someone is commonplace here.

“Oh, sorry,” Stiles says and steps to the side. He glances at Derek’s face, which looks different for some reason. Stiles doesn’t know what expression he wears, only that it looks out of place on his face. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” Derek says, but he doesn’t even sound right. Stiles is a self-appointed expert on all things Derek, and he doesn’t look like himself and he doesn’t sound like himself, but this feeling that he’s displaying is something that Stiles hasn’t yet put a name to, so he looks him over, but he has no catalog to mentally sort through of what this is supposed to be.

“No, you’re not,” Stiles presses. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Derek insists. “Nothing’s wrong, Stiles. Just drop it.”

“Is it school?” Stiles asks, taking a step closer to Derek. “Is it your mom being gone? Is it—?”

“Stiles,” Derek warns, “I know it’s physically impossible for you to not pry, but I asked you to stop.”

Stiles draws back a little in surprise. It seems like he’s striking a nerve without even trying.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, properly chastised. He wants to ask again if Derek’s okay, but he’s sure that’s exactly what Derek’s talking about when he says drop it. “I’ll let you be.”

Stiles steps around Derek and continues down the hall to the game room. When he reaches the door and glances back, Derek is gone. It leaves a weird feeling in his stomach, but he opens the door and enters the room.

Everyone’s heads turn toward him as he comes in.

“Stiles, hey,” Scott says first and pats him on the shoulder as he passes. Lydia stands in between Allison and Erica, but she walks over and lets Stiles wrap his arms around her as she gets close.

“Hey,” he says into her hair. She pulls back to tilt her head up at him, looking just as perfect as always. “How are you doing?”

“Better. Allison and Scott have been really helpful. How are you?”

“Also better,” he says, pulling away from her. She lets him, but doesn’t go far. “I think things may calm down for a bit.”

“Don’t jinx everything,” Lydia says with a smile. “I’m sure the Hales don’t want any more property damage.”

“Yeah,” Stiles winces. “I’ll figure out a way to pay them back for that. Guess it was kinda my fault anyway.”

“Not really,” Lydia says, rubbing Stiles’ arm affectionately. She glances behind them. Everyone is giving them space and talking amongst themselves. “Scott calls this “pack bonding,” but it just feels like we’re hanging out.”

“That’s basically all it is,” he admits. “Welcome to the pack.”

He does little jazz hands and she smiles fondly at him.

“You guys wanna watch a movie?” Scott asks from across the room. 

Stiles and Lydia agree so they end up on the large sectional, half the pack sprawled out on the cushions while the other half finds a spot on the floor. Lydia sits in between Allison and Stiles, leaning against him but not otherwise touching him, which is odd because she’s usually very touchy when they’re together on the bed or couch. She might not be now because they’re around a lot of people and she doesn’t like people to know that she’s actually really affectionate.

He takes the liberty of lacing his fingers through hers and when she doesn’t pull away, he assumes that it’s fine and that whatever minute desire for space she’s had has vanished.

+++

The rest of the night is blissfully silent, other than the laughter of his friends, which Stiles is glad that Lydia is a part of now. Excluding her had always felt like a necessity, but Stiles knew that it was wrong to do so. Having her here now just makes more sense, makes it feel like a pack for real, and makes him all the more guilty that he kept her in the dark for so long.

When the rest of the pack leaves, besides Scott who has been helping Laura out with her alpha stuff where Peter refuses to, Stiles finishes cleaning up the game room with Isaac and Lydia, who volunteered to stay and help him. The pack didn’t leave the room a mess or anything, but Stiles figures that Laura will need all the help she can keeping everything as tidy as Talia usually keeps it, so they take the liberty of vacuuming and rearranging all the pillows and blankets the way Talia usually has them. Stiles figures they’ll both appreciate it and with everything going on, Laura might not have the time to do it herself, especially with Peter not helping her out.

Stiles even fluffs the pillows the way his mom taught him as Lydia puts the pieces for The Game of Life back in the box, which Boyd, Isaac, Erica, and Malia had been playing while everyone else had been playing pool. The game room is large enough for the sectional and entertainment on one end with a pool table on the other, encased by bookshelves with a fair amount of non-traditional books (meaning ones that aren’t strictly on the supernatural like the ones in the library downstairs) and board games, which are usually played on the floor in between the two spaces or on the couch with the board game itself on the large ottoman so that everyone can gather around the game.

Isaac rearranges the balls and cue sticks so that the game is ready for the next players as Lydia reshelves the board game.

“Anything else?” Lydia asks, eyes roaming over the titles on the shelves before looking over at Stiles. Isaac puts the rack around the balls and straightens as Stiles finishes fluffing the pillows. He glances around the room. It looks like it’s been returned to its normal state, so Stiles nods his head.

“Looks fine. I’m sure it’ll be used again before they come back, but hey, at least we tried,” Stiles says, walking around the couch and toward the both of them, who are nearer to the door.

“Laura will appreciate it,” Isaac says. “She’s been stressed with all this responsibility that Talia has thrown on her, especially with Peter not helping.”

“I figured,” Stiles says. “Well, whatever we can do to help her, we’ll do it.”

“I agree.” Isaac opens the door and heads out into the hallway. Stiles and Lydia follow. “Are you guys going home?”

Stiles glances at Lydia, who merely looks at him, suspiciously silent.

“Eventually,” Stiles says to Isaac, who nods.

“Well, see you then.”

He saunters off down the hall in the direction of his room. Stiles turns to Lydia, who watches him carefully.

“What’s wrong?” he presses.

“Nothing,” she insists, but Stiles is persistent and he knows her better than that.

“Don’t lie to me.”

She purses her lips and glances around.

“Well, I don’t want to talk about it here,” she says.

“C’mon, then.”

He guides her down the other end of the hall and through the maze of corridors until they reach the room that’s designated as his. When he opens the door, there’s a recognition on her face as she must remember this room from Tuesday and lets Stiles lead her inside, closing the door behind them. He puts his hand on the door and wills a soundproofing spell into the wood, which is hard to hear through anyway, even for werewolves, but may grant her a peace of mind that she seems to seek.

“What’s that?” Lydia asks, watching the door glow beneath his palm. “Magick?”

“A soundproofing spell,” Stiles tells her. “So whatever you want to tell me, you can tell me in private.”

“It’s nothing bad,” she insists. “I just feel... weird here.”

“What do you mean?” Stiles asks, approaching her and leading her toward the bed. They sit next to each other and she sighs.

“It’s like you have this whole life that I didn’t know about. All of you. I feel like I don’t fit in with any of it. I mean, I’m the only human, after all.”

“I’m human.”

“You’re magick . Or have magick, whatever you call it. There’s a notable difference. I just feel so weak around you guys and helpless. It’s not a feeling that I like.”

“I know,” Stiles says empathetically. 

He felt that way for a good majority of his life, up until he learned about the supernatural world and his place in it. But Lydia doesn’t have the same sort of intense realization that he’s had and doesn’t really have a place among the wolves. It’s not that humans are placeless in packs, Stiles knows that well, but for someone like Lydia, who is driven by her ability to help, a core part of her personality that has really come out over the time that she and Stiles have been together, she feels helpless among people that are stronger, more capable, and more knowledgeable than she is, which Stiles is sure a feeling she’s almost completely unfamiliar with.

But for someone like Stiles, who is familiar with the feelings of inadequacy and exclusion from the majority of his peers, finding a home among the wolves, his place in the pack, a place where he belonged and that seemed to be waiting for someone like him, he had all but leapt into the supernatural world and everything that came with it. And for Lydia to feel like she doesn’t belong for one of the first times in her life, Stiles can be empathetic as he knows exactly what that feels like.

“I promise you that you fit in here just like you fit in anywhere else,” Stiles tells her. “You’re brilliant and an amazing strategist, and if you’re looking for something to do or how to help, Laura would gratefully take your help while Talia is away and even afterward. There’s a home for you here, because, honestly, Lydia Martin, the world waits for you. You know there’s nothing you can’t do because you’re absolutely unstoppable and brilliant and so incredible. Anything you need to help with in order to feel more comfortable, you know that I’m there to help you.”

Lydia stares at him for a moment before leaning across the space and kissing him slowly and languidly, her strawberry lip gloss smearing as she leans into his space, and though she’s not one to be so easy to fall into anyone’s lap if they compliment her, it’s obvious what she wants now.

Stiles has mastered the art of picking her up and transplanting her in his lap, so he does so now, Lydia easily gliding across the bed and wrapping her arms around him as she combs her fingers through his hair at the back of his head and places a knee on either side of his legs. Kissing her is something he never imagined he’d be doing, at least not anytime soon, but now enough time has passed with her that it just feels easy and natural, like kissing anyone else. The deity-like tier he once held her in faded a few months after they started dating as he slowly realized that she’s just like anyone else. It’s kind of like how Stiles, in the very beginning, felt about Derek. He was a myth at the time, someone everyone talked about but no one actually knew. There was something alluring about that level of mystery, a fact that hasn’t really diminished even as Stiles has gotten to know Derek, in whatever capacity that is now. 

Wait, why is he thinking of Derek right now?

He grabs Lydia’s thighs again and picks her up, switching their positions and spot on the bed so that they’re more comfortably on it and he can lean in between her legs. He begins to pull his shirt over his head as she hikes up her skirt. He doesn’t even get the shirt up over his head before the door opens.

Stiles sits up and looks behind him at the door only to be met with Derek’s surprised face. Lydia scrambles to sit up in bed behind him, probably trying to look more put together than she is. Stiles realizes quickly that he forgot to lock the door, which is fair because he didn’t think that he and Lydia would be doing this at the Hales, but why was Derek coming in here anyway? Did he know Stiles was in here? Did he not? Either way he stands in the doorway with flushed cheeks and looking completely surprised, so whatever he was expecting, this surely isn’t it.

“Derek—” Stiles starts.

“Sorry,” he says, coming back to life. He backs out of the room immediately and starts to head back down the hall, closing the door behind him. Stiles watches the closed door for a minute before looking back at Lydia, who meets his gaze momentarily before climbing off the bed smoothly.

“And then there’s that,” she says with a sigh.

“There’s what?”

“Whatever’s going on between you and Derek.”

Stiles recoils in surprise. He doesn’t think she’s even spoken to Derek, even laid eyes on him more than a handful of times. And “whatever’s going on” between them? What does that even mean? They obviously hate each other, everyone knows that. 

“What are you talking about? We hate each other,” Stiles says emphatically.

“Whatever you want to call it, I don’t care.” Lydia fixes her outfit with obvious distress. “It’s like I don’t even know who you are anymore.”

“Lydia, I don’t even know what you’re talking about. I love you and I’m still me. I’ve always been the same person.”

“You love me, but you’re not in love with me,” she sighs, turning to face him fully. “Right? Because I think that’s how I feel about you and the more I think about it, the more the guilt consumes me. I love you, Stiles, but I’m not in love with you. Maybe I was, maybe I never was, but I’m not now. And with college and being on two different sides of the country, maybe this is for the best.”

“This?” Stiles asks, chest aching as he knows what she’s leading up to.

“Us breaking up. We should break up.”

Stiles lets the words sink in. It’s not that he doesn’t love Lydia, of course that’s not true. But there’s some truth to her words about being in love with her. It’s true that he does love her and maybe was in love with her before. But there was always something missing in their relationship that he could never put his finger on. Still, the idea of leaving her and the relationship he’s cultivated and been in for the past almost two years is hard. But maybe still she’ll always be with him. Maybe that’s what it means to be in love with someone, to never unlearn parts of them because of the space they still occupy in your mind.

“Okay,” Stiles says slowly. “Okay.”

“It doesn’t mean that I don’t love you,” Lydia says, something akin to fear and worry battling on her face.

“I know it doesn’t. I love you too.”

“It’s just different. And, honestly, Stiles, I haven’t been single since 6th grade. I think I need to give it a try.”

“I get it. Still friends?”

“Best friends,” Lydia promises. “Like you could be anything but.”

Stiles crawls off the bed, which he’s been awkwardly stuck in place on. He crosses the room to where Lydia stands next to the desk, staring at him. He pulls her into his arms and like always, she melts, dropping her head against his chest. This time it’s different though, and he can really feel the difference now, which isn’t dissimilar to the way it’s always felt and makes him think that maybe she really has a point about all of this.

“I’m gonna go home now,” Lydia tells him, pulling away.

“I’ll walk you out.”

Stiles walks her out to her car and though he’s understandably sad, tries not to feel like this is the end of something when it’s really more of a transformation. He watches her pull out of the driveway and disappear down the dirt road into the trees towards town. He stands outside for a few minutes in sheer shock, he guesses, unable to describe what exactly he feels about any of this.

It’s for the best, he tells himself as he re-enters the house.

His feet carry him to outside Derek’s door and he hesitates for only a moment before knocking. 

The door opens and Derek looks surprised, to say the least, to see Stiles.

“Hey,” he says slowly, like he’s in trouble.

“Hey,” Stiles says and slides in between the open space between Derek and the doorway into the room, taking a seat on the bed.

The room is messier than usual, the bed unmade and books from the bookshelf stacked on the nightstand and the desk, and his laptop is open to a word document that looks like it’s been given up on for the time being. Derek closes the door and takes a seat at his desk chair facing Stiles. 

“What’s wrong?” Derek asks.

“Aren’t I supposed to be asking you that?” Stiles says, trying to put his thoughts in order.

“Stiles,” Derek says slowly, because he must hear the dejection in Stiles’ tone.

“Lydia broke up with me,” he says. Then again. “Lydia broke up with me.”

“Why? Was it because I—”

“I think it was more for her,” Stiles says with a shake of his head. “Bad timing and all. She said she hasn’t been single since middle school and I guess she wanted to have her fun before college. That’s not—I don’t blame her or anything. It’s better this way.”

“I know how much you love her,” Derek says. Everyone knew, after all, Stiles never shut up about it.

“But I’m not in love with her. Maybe I never was. Maybe I just thought she was better when she was an unattainable idol on a pedestal, which makes it better this way. I’m still friends with her, but I think this will be better for both of us.”

Stiles glances up at Derek, who just watches him. Maybe he’s surprised that Stiles is telling him all of this. Stiles is kind of surprised too. He didn’t really think that Derek would care, and maybe he doesn’t, but he’s listening anyway. Stiles doesn’t know what he’d expected by coming to Derek’s room and telling him, but just this, being in here with him and talking, it gives him a kind of comfort that he needs right now.

“What are you working on?” Stiles asks when it’s obvious that Derek doesn’t know what to say. He gestures at Derek’s laptop open on his desk. It’s too far away to read anything, but if Stiles had to hazard a guess, he would say that it’s his statement of purpose barely written.

Derek glances back at the laptop screen and sighs before pulling it into his lap.

“It’s hard to talk about yourself when most of your identity is a secret,” Derek admits. It makes Stiles laugh.

“What, like you’re Clark Kent trying to get into college?”

Derek smirks. “It’s basically the same, right? Half my life exists out here on the edges of society. The parts of me that people do see are so watered down that you can barely call them me. Any life experience I have or have gained, lessons I’ve learned, things I’ve done, I have to lie about all of it. Writing down lies about the truest part of myself just makes me feel abysmal.”

Stiles stares at Derek, a little taken aback at the sudden transparency. Derek also seems a little taken aback and clears his throat.

“Sorry,” he says quickly.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Stiles says just as quickly. “It’s nice to hear you talk.”

Derek glances up and stares at him for a moment.

“Right,” he says.

His fingers fly over the keyboard, probably saving the document, before he closes his laptop. He deposits it back on the desk and turns once again to face Stiles. 

“Laura didn’t have this problem with school,” Derek admits as he faces Stiles. “When she applied for her master’s, all she had to mention was her incredible volunteering history with just about every organization in Beacon Hills to get accepted, no further information necessary. But I haven’t done anything noteworthy, not that I can tell anyone, anyway.”

“Your writing speaks for itself,” Stiles insists. “Tell them a story, and they’ll listen.”

“You’ve never even read my writing.”

“Not for a lack of wanting,” Stiles points out. “I know it sounds crazy, but I believe in you, Derek. Like I said before, you’re smart and you’re observant, and thinking that your writing would be anything less than exceptional is an insult.”

Derek gives him a strange look.

“Really?” he asks Stiles. “You believe in me this much after everything?”

“Derek, I know we don’t get along, but it doesn’t mean that you’re not my pack. That you’re not my family—”

“Please don’t refer to us as family.”

Stiles laughs at the request and after a moment, Derek does too. There’s a sort of levity that hangs between them and it feels like a breath of fresh air. Stiles thinks that, maybe after this, everything will be alright. 

“You know what I mean,” Stiles says around a smile. “I’m your biggest supporter. Talia’s got nothing on me.”

Derek laughs again and seems more carefree in the moment than he has in a while. Stiles revels in the sound.

“Yeah, you’d definitely have to fight her for the title. I’d love to see it.”

“Please, your mom loves me. I think she’d probably give it to me.”

“Well, it means you’d have to actually read my writing.”

“I want to. I told you, I’m waiting on you.”

A strange hesitation fills the room, a nameless tension. Derek stiffens a little just slight enough that no one else would notice but Stiles. Stiles can’t imagine why; the conversation was nice and lighthearted, but Derek’s reaction has taken a sharp turn. 

“Derek—”

“I’ll find something for you to read,” Derek promises, cutting him off. The tension is back in his shoulders. Stiles is kind of sad to see it return.

“Okay,” he settles on, because the moment has passed and there may be no smooth recovery to fix this. “I’ll be here.”

“Right. Have you had any luck researching?”

“No,” Stiles says sadly, upset that they’ve switched topics so abruptly, but not sure how to get them back to the easiness they felt a minute ago. “No, I’m going to read more tonight.”

“I’ve been looking at some journals,” Derek offers. “There’s one I want you to read. You might make better sense of it than I could.”

“Sure. Lead the way.”

Derek leads Stiles back down into the library and grabs an ancient-looking journal that was resting in Stiles’ reading nook, like maybe Derek left it for him to find. Derek offers it to him and waits for Stiles to flip it open to a bookmark he left.

“The Triple Goddess,” Stiles reads.

“It sounds like something you would know about.”

“You don’t?” Derek shakes his head so Stiles elaborates. “The Triple Goddess represents the aspects of the Goddess, this case being Mother Moon. We call her Mother Moon, but that’s only one form. She’s also the crone and maiden. The full moon and the crescent moons are another symbol of Her. Deaton taught me all this stuff years ago.”

“Okay, well, read the entry.”

“‘We give to the Triple Goddess our offerings to keep us safe. Creatures borne of ash and wood shall protect our home and hearth from the unholy and the impure, and all those who forsake us. Please protect our sacred realm and guide us to a fruitful grove. All hail the Maiden, the Mother, and the Crone. Mother Moon, guide us.’”

Stiles glances up at Derek.

“What is this?” Stiles asks.

“This is my great-great-great-great grandpa’s journal.” Derek frowns. “I think that’s enough greats. This is from the man that founded Beacon Hills back in the 1800s. This was a protective spell they cast to keep them safe back then. “Creatures borne of ash and wood,” doesn’t that sound familiar?”

“Sure, but what does it mean? A protective spell? And my blood, what, activated it? So, then, which are we? Unholy, impure, or forsaken?”

“I don’t know,” Derek tells him earnestly. “But maybe you should ask Deaton about it.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says and sighs, making sure the bookmark is in place before closing the book. “Thanks, Derek. Guess that means I owe you.”

“You don’t owe me anything,” Derek tells him.

“Still, this might be big. There must be something I can do to pay you back.”

Derek inhales a little through his nose, doing his best impression of a statue momentarily as he stares at Stiles. Stiles isn’t sure what he’s thinking, which is unusual, but he can’t imagine what kind of favor Derek would expect of him. He opens his mouth to say something, maybe even offer something, but then Derek looks away and then backs away.

“I’ll think of something,” Derek settles on. He heads for the door, throwing a, “Goodnight, Stiles,” over his shoulder before the door shuts behind him.

Stiles stands in the library holding the journal and staring at the door. He hesitates, another fleeting thought telling him to follow Derek. But he pushes the thought away and turns back to the journal, hoping to find something he can use.

Chapter Text

Stiles didn’t end up finding Deaton that night so he takes the journal home with him.

Saturday, Stiles has off, but he knows Deaton doesn’t, so he goes to the clinic with the journal. Scott greets him at the front desk.

“Hey, dude. What’s going on?”

Stiles raises the journal so Scott can see. “I’m here on business. Is Deaton in the back?”

“Yeah, but we’re in between patients. You can come in.”

Stiles pushes the gate open and lets himself into the back room. Deaton is organizing gauze on the metal examination table. He glances up when Stiles enters.

“Mr. Stilinski? I expect it’s urgent if you’re here instead of meeting me later at the Hales’.”

“Sorry, Doc. ‘Fraid so.” Stiles hands him the journal. “The bookmarked page. It’s the journal of the founder of Beacon Hills, Derek’s grandfather. Derek pointed it out to me and we think it’s something important.”

Deaton opens the journal and reads the page before glancing up at Stiles.

“The Triple Goddess?”

“That could be something, right? Ashen and wooden creatures sent to protect the townsfolk? They could’ve seen my magick as a threat.”

“Perhaps,” Deaton muses. “Perhaps it’s something more. Have you read the rest of the journal?”

“No.”

Deaton hands it back to him. “Read the rest. See if there’s any more mention of the creatures or of how to stop them. Anything relating to the Nemeton may be helpful.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, taking the book back. “Then, I’ll get back to you if I find anything.”

“That would be good.” The shop chime jingles in the front of the store and Scott starts talking to somebody that’s just entered. “That would be my next appointment. I will talk to you later, Mr. Stilinski.”

“Sure. Thanks, Doc.”

Stiles heads out of the room with the book and passes through the gate.

“Stiles, wait a minute,” Scott tells him before showing the woman with a cat into the back room. When he comes back, he gestures to the book. “You find anything?”

“I’m not sure yet. And Derek found it anyway, not me.”

Scott doesn’t bother to hide his surprise. “Oh? You guys are talking?” 

“Barely,” Stiles scoffs, thinking of their recent conversations.

“Really? Because Cora told me she heard you two talking last night in the library and it almost sounded like you were friendly.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Fine, okay. I don’t feel as negatively about him anymore. Are you happy?”

“A little bit.” Scott grins. “So, are you going to Lydia’s tonight?”

“Yeah, probably. Just gonna feel weird though.”

“Why?”

“Well,” Stiles hesitates, because maybe he should’ve already told Scott about this, “we kinda broke up.”

Scott draws back. “What? You and Lydia? I thought you guys were endgame.”

Stiles isn’t sure what to say. Quite frankly, he’s been trying not to think of the breakup these last twenty-four hours, mostly because he’s still in shock himself. There’d been some good points brought up last night from Lydia, and perhaps maybe before they left for college, they would’ve pulled the plug mutually. But her sudden and somewhat desperate need to call it off had honestly shocked Stiles, though not as much until he had gotten home and realized that they really weren’t together anymore and that she had seemed so hasty to break them up. It is a conversation he would have with her later, when he has put himself together more, but definitely not a conversation meant for her party tonight, though he still intends on going.

He’s upset, but not heartbroken. Maybe that says enough as is.

“Yeah, um, I don’t know. I guess we’re not.”

“Stiles, I’m sorry,” Scott tells him, putting a hand on his shoulder. “I know how much you liked her.”

“It’s not like that,” Stiles insists. “I’m not heartbroken over it, you know. I guess she just surprised me by saying it first. I mean, we’re going to different colleges on different sides of the country, so it was probably bound to happen one way or another.”

“Still, man, that sucks,” Scott says, looking at Stiles warily. “Are you sure you’re gonna go?”

“It’s not that we're not friends. Besides, I’m determined not to make this breakup awkward.”

Scott laughs and winces. “Yeah, well, that’s probably for the best. I’ll see you there, then?”

“Definitely.”

Scott pats Stiles on the shoulder before disappearing into the back room to help Deaton. Stiles heads out and drives over to the Hales’.

+++

He spends the rest of the morning and well into the afternoon reading the journal in its entirety. His name is Joshua Hale and he founded the town in 1853, just a few years after California became a state. Apparently the Nemeton’s location had always been known and protected by the Hales one way or another, and Joshua goes into excruciating detail about life in the 1800s that Stiles never really cared to know. When he finishes the journal, he has no new information, other than a brief summary on the Nemeton as a magickal object, stating basically information that Stiles and Deaton already know.

In the end, he leaves the journal on the window seat and drives over to Lydia’s just as it’s starting to get dark out.

He usually helps her set up and today is no different. It’s just him, Scott, Allison, and Lydia setting up and it seems that everybody knows the news, because Scott and Allison are creating an awkward tension that just isn’t there between him and Lydia, at least not that strong and not something that Stiles wants to deal with right now anyway.

“Can you just say it already?” Lydia asks the two of them when they’re setting out plastic cups. They both look like deers caught in headlights.

“Say what?” They ask in unison.

“Whatever you’re thinking. I can practically hear the gears whirring.”

“I agree,” Stiles adds. It’s been like this for the past thirty minutes now, the two of them minding their own business while Scott and Allison stare at them and say absolutely nothing.

“Why did you two break up?” Allison blurts out. “You guys were perfect together.”

Stiles glances at Lydia, curious to hear her reasoning, which one she stuck with.

“We’re going to different colleges,” she says after a glance at Stiles. “It was going to happen sooner or later.”

Stiles glances at Scott and shrugs his shoulders in a “I told you so” kind of way.

“You guys aren’t even going to stay together for the summer?” Scott presses, probably out of sheer curiosity rather than malicious intent.

“I want options,” Lydia declares. She tilts a hand in Stiles’ direction. “Not that our sex wasn’t great, but—”

“I get it,” Stiles tells her quickly and she grins at him, though he can tell that her grin is not fully there and that there’s a little curiosity in her eyes. He knows her well enough to know that she knows him well enough to know something’s wrong.

“So, does this mean you’re going to date someone new?” Scott asks Stiles.

Lydia hums as Allison’s eyes bounce from Lydia to Stiles to Scott.

“Date someone new? Like who?” Allison asks.

“I’m sure there’s an interested party,” Lydia says faintly. Stiles glares in her direction, knowing what she’s implying.

Derek Hale. If Stiles did want to blame anyone for their breakup, it would be him. He’s still deciding as to whether that’s unfair or not.

“Zip it, peanut gallery,” Stiles hisses.

“Oh my God, who is it?” Allison demands. Even Scott looks intrigued.

“I’m talking about Derek,” Lydia says. Stiles shoots her a betrayed look.

“Don’t put ideas in people’s heads!” Stiles says.

“Oh wow, you guys would be great together,” Scott says with a smirk. “I could totally see that.”

“Derek? As in Derek Hale?” Allison says, hiding her smile behind her hand. “Don’t you two hate each other?”

“Yes, we do, very much so!” Stiles says, gesturing in Allison’s direction. “At least someone isn’t delusional!”

“No, you guys would be great together,” Scott says. “You know, Laura and Cora used to tell me it was inevitable that you guys would get together and that you just liked pulling on each other’s pigtails.”

Allison’s face sours. “Is that supposed to be a euphemism?”

“No!” Stiles protests before turning to Scott. “And you’re wrong! And he’s probably straight.”

“But if he’s not…?”

“Shut up, Scott.”

“Sorry,” Scott says, but doesn’t bother to hide his traitorous grin.

“Let’s just focus on tonight and leave our love lives alone,” Lydia decides, patting Stiles’ arm with a regretful smile, like she’s sorry she even brought it up.

Everyone mutters their assent and they finish setting up by the time the rest of their friends and the party start to arrive.

Well into the party, Stiles loses most of his friends. He drinks because he thinks that he deserves it after essentially getting dumped. Stiles lets himself get lost in between his peers, granting himself an easy night as he takes shots with his friends and jokes around with them. They ask about him and Lydia, but they both give the same basic answers every time. No one knows about his relationship with Derek so no one asks.

Except for Cora. She knows everything and she bounces up to him (luckily when he’s alone) with an uncharacteristically giddy smile and pep in her step. Stiles glances at her over the rim of his drink. Off behind her and through the many open archways, he sees Derek talking with Erica, Boyd, and Isaac and declares him distracted enough for the inevitable line of questioning that he knows Cora is about to ask.

“So you and Lydia broke up,” she starts.

“Yeah.”

“So you’re single now.”

“Uh-huh.”

“So you’re gonna start dating Derek, right?”

Stiles sighs.

“Do you guys actually think that that’s going to happen?”

“Obviously,” she says, grabbing an empty cup from the table next to him and filling it with straight alcohol. It takes a lot to get werewolves drunk and it doesn’t last very long, but it doesn’t stop any of them from trying. “We’re all invested.”

“Well, uninvest yourself. I’m not into Derek.”

Cora scrutinizes him.

“What?” he asks at her persistent gaze.

“I don’t believe you. You and Derek are inevitable and you’re only delaying the inevitable.”

“I didn’t realize you were such a big fan.”

“He’s my brother, Stiles, and for whatever reason, you make him really happy. He hasn’t been happy ever since you started dating Lydia, though.”

“If he was ever happy around me, he had a funny way of showing it,” Stiles says, taking another long sip of his drink. He’s still too sober for this conversation and the unwarranted flooding of thoughts that come with this delusional line of thinking. If Derek has ever actually enjoyed his presence, he wouldn’t know the difference. And Derek now does seem a bit more morose than angry, but Stiles isn’t egotistical enough to think that’s because of him by any means, no matter what people say.

“You know my brother,” Cora says dismissively. “He has very little emotional intelligence, but you can’t fault him for that. Really, he likes being around you more than anybody else.”

“Cora, while I appreciate the valiant effort, if anything were ever to happen between me and Derek, which is a very slim, almost nil possibility, it would happen when both of us were ready for it to happen, okay? A lot of things would have to change in order for us to ever be something and that’s all based on the assumption that he even wants that.”

“Obviously he wants it, I mean just look at him.”

“I’d have to hear him say it. And mean it, too. And there’s a lot of other factors that I really don’t want to get into right now, like me even being interested in him in the first place. So if you can pass the message along to your family that I’m not interested and spare me the line of questioning, that would be helpful.”

Cora makes a face but thankfully seems to understand where he’s coming from.

“Fine,” she agrees. “Just one more thing? He’s changed a lot since you guys first met. I think it’s worth you, at least, talking to him about it.”

Cora walks away and disappears into the crowd. Stiles glances back across the house to where Derek stands, still talking with his friends. Stiles watches a smile bloom across his face as he listens to Erica tell a story and an old, familiar feeling comes to life in the pit of his stomach as he watches Derek and is, not for the first time, absolutely entranced by him. 

It’s not that it’s so left field that Stiles hasn’t thought about it. Despite what he’s told everybody about not liking Derek, he’s imagined it from time to time. Because the very few times Derek had been just a person around him and let Stiles see bits of him that Stiles had imagined not many else saw, it always felt so special, like Derek trusted him. Stiles has always been an oversharer, but he even told Derek private things, things he hadn’t told to Scott and still to this day hasn’t, especially his feelings regarding his mom’s death and how he still struggled with it. Derek, at times, seemed like he cared, but other times he was so distant that it felt like he wasn’t even listening to Stiles, even when he was sharing something personal and emotional that took him a lot of willpower to even say, only to be met with a brick wall of indifference.

But he’s not blind to Derek now and the ways that he seems different. There’s a sadness there, sure, but there’s also a newfound maturity. He’s not just a college douchebag anymore. Now he’s more withdrawn, focused on his writing and even applying for his graduate program. Stiles has had a strict “No Derek Talk” policy for the past three years, which the family abides by mostly though occasionally breaks, but now Stiles wonders what exactly he’s missed out on. The conversation he had with Derek the other day talking about his classes and his teachers gave him a glimpse into the new person that Derek has become, but Stiles wonders if there’s more to it than that. Talia mentioned once that he was working on strengthening his wolf too, which Stiles hasn’t seen if he has or not or what that means or would entail. What other parts of Derek’s life has Stiles missed out on in his ban? There’s obviously some kind of change in Derek, but what does that change entail?

Stiles watches Derek from across the house and thinks maybe it’s time to try and change himself, to try something new. They’ve ignored each other and they’ve been confidants at times, but they’ve never been friends. Stiles thinks that maybe Derek deserves a friend. Maybe Stiles does too.

Across the house, Derek glances over, like he senses Stiles’ eyes on him. Stiles gives him a little smile, firm in his plan of deciding to be Derek’s friend. Derek looks a little surprised, but gives him a smile back. Stiles’ own smile grows and he turns away and lets himself get lost in the crowd, deigning it a good interaction to start.

+++

The party ends like all the others and Stiles is not sober enough to drive so Lydia lets him stay in the guest room for the night, which he does after helping clean up and sending a quick message to his dad, who Stiles told about the breakup this morning and questions Stiles, but Stiles insists that they’re just friends now.

The next morning Stiles goes back to the Hales, wanting to dedicate the day toward research and furthering his newfound friendship with Derek. After all, Derek found the journal of Joshua Hale, so he might be able to find more information. As it stands, he’s currently the best researcher of everyone who’s looked for information, being Deaton and Stiles. Stiles will give him the accolade anyway, despite the participant pool being so small, because it’s sweet that he even tried.

Stiles stops by this bagel shop on the way to the Hales’, grabbing breakfast and coffee for him and Derek, fully intending to bribe Derek into helping him research. Given that Derek seems to be procrastinating his statement of purpose anyway, he suspects that he’ll have no issues with that. 

He parks in his usual spot and makes his way through the chaos and upstairs. It’s still early so he’s sure that Derek will still be in his room, even though he is an early riser. Derek used to have a routine of waking up at dawn and working out in his room before even eating breakfast and Stiles doubts he’s broken that, so when he knocks on the door and Derek opens sweaty and without a shirt on, Stiles’ brain short circuits for all of two seconds before he thrusts the bag of bagels out, balancing the two to-go cups of coffee in his other arm, and says, “I brought breakfast.”

Derek glances down at the bag before taking the bag from Stiles and the cup with his name on it out of Stiles’ arm, freeing Stiles up to grab the other cup before it spills. How he managed to get it up the stairs without making a mess is a true miracle.

“Why?” Derek asks as he retreats back into the room, leaving the door open for Stiles. Stiles enters the room and closes the door behind him, mostly out of habit. He hesitates while Derek’s back is turned, thinking maybe he should reopen it, but ultimately decides that being behind a closed door means nothing if he doesn’t want it to.

“I need a partner,” Stiles starts as Derek takes a sip of coffee and promptly chokes. Stiles’ eyes widen and he hurriedly corrects himself, wondering briefly if Derek has also heard any of the speculation about their relationship. “A research partner! I need a research partner. You found the journal and while it wasn’t the biggest help, there was some information in there that I think we can use or expound upon. Deaton’s busy with... whatever he’s busy with and our resources are kinda scarce, but you’re good at research and I really need help, especially from someone as keen as you and if you—”

“Stiles,” Derek interrupts. “You don’t need to flatter me to get my help. I’ll help you.”

“Anything to procrastinate your admittance submission, right?”

“Partially,” Derek admits, “but partially because you need help and research is something that college made me good at. Especially with everything that’s happening, I’m happy to help where I can.”

“Oh,” Stiles says, surprised by the mature answer. This is exactly what he’s talking about: Derek’s grown in ways that he hasn’t fully seen yet. He likes this new Derek. Maybe being his friend is a good idea after all. “Well, great, then. Thanks.”

Derek nods and takes another sip of his coffee and Stiles glances at his chest again and looks away just as quickly, walking over to the desk where Derek’s set the bagels down, taking out his cinnamon sugar bagel and taking a bite, purposely turned away from Derek. Derek sets down his coffee and starts rifling through the bag for his bagel.

“Can you put a shirt on?” Stiles blurts on. Derek looks up at him in surprise.

“Oh, okay,” he says and sets his bagel down before walking over to the closet, disappearing out of Stiles’ line of sight, thankfully. He’s not blind and a shirtless Derek is a distraction he doesn’t need.

When Derek returns with a shirt, he and Stiles take their breakfast and coffee downstairs to the library and set up space at one of the long center tables where the kids usually do their homework together.

“Where did you find the journal anyway?” Stiles asks as he recovers it from the window seat.

“Not in here. I found it in the attic. I’m sure there’s more stuff up there if you want to look.”

“Sure.”

Derek leads him back upstairs and to the third story staircase up to the half-level that contains an extra two rooms that are halfway between bedrooms and storage, a spare bathroom, and what’s deemed as the “attic” space, which is more of a large room on the third level that probably was intended to be used as a recreational space, but now stores a copious amount of tubs with duct tape stuck on the sides cataloging what’s inside each of them, along with older pieces of furniture that probably are as old as the house.

Among this, Derek leads him to a bookshelf tucked into the back of the room, dark wood with hand painted decals lining the sides of the cabinet. It was most assuredly handcrafted and made with a lot of love and time. It’s filled with old books similar to the journal, all with varying states of decay and wear at the effects of time and poor storage. Stiles knows that the third floor is seldom used and he wonders if anyone other than Derek even knows that these are up here.

Stiles looks over the shelves. Some have a sort of gold filigree year on the spine of the journal, but most don’t. They seem to not all be penned in the same hand either, as the years span over a century and the numbers appear to be written differently. The journal Derek found seems to only be in the middle of a long series of documentation and Stiles looks to Derek who seems to have realized the same thing.

“Hey,” Stiles tells him. “You said you love research.”

“I told you college taught me how to research, not that I love it,” Derek shoots back, grabbing the first journal off the shelf. He hands the second one to Stiles. “Hope you like reading.”

“If all your ancestors have the same indecipherable handwriting, then we’re gonna be here for a while.”

“Good thing you brought coffee, then.”

Stiles snorts as Derek grabs a second handful of the journals and they return to the library, spreading out at the tables.

Over the next four hours, Stiles becomes deeply acquainted with Joshua’s father, Sebastian.

“Hey, Sebastian, like your middle name,” Stiles points out to Derek when he first opens the journal.

“Yeah, I think I was named after him,” Derek says, glancing over. “He’s the one that found the Nemeton first and settled his pack around it. His son, Joshua, founded the town in order to protect it further.”

Stiles hums and returns to reading. The journal pretty much describes what Derek said, just in a lot more words. There’s little to no information on the Nemeton, other than a brief description, like Joshua’s, that describes it as having “immense” power, but doesn’t elaborate on exactly what type of power that is. He also describes having an Emissary, but doesn’t give a name or go into detail on that regard either, so Stiles sets the first journal aside and moves onto the next.

Derek and Stiles alternate between reading every other year, starting with Sebastian as a young adult and new alpha and going along with his tedious journey of figuring out how to manage a pack and protect the Nemeton. He mentions his sister briefly protecting another Nemeton, which is also a piece of information Stiles already knew, as the Hales have family in South America who protect their own Nemeton down there. 

By hour four, Stiles is halfway through his third journal when a line catches his eye.

“‘The Nemeton, an unruly beast in her own right, is connected to the Moon. The Goddess gives the Nemeton her power and it is this power I must protect,’” Stiles reads aloud. Derek looks up from his journal. “First mention of a goddess.”

“Not a goddess. The Goddess,” Derek corrects.

“You think it’s a reference to the Triple Goddess?”

“Could be. See if there’s any other mention of it. What year are you on?”

“1824.”

“I’m on 1825. I’ll look for it too.”

Stiles continues reading and the journal expounds upon the Nemeton, calling it a “conduit for natural powers” and detailing that the Nemeton, when harmed, may call upon a protector if it feels threatened. Stiles points out the passage to Derek.

“You think it called a protector?” he asks Derek. “Maybe the ash guys were just the first line of defense or the lackeys. Maybe there’s someone or something controlling them. It would explain why their magick is untraceable.”

“You think there’s some kind of bigger force? Like an actual ancient protector? From the 1800s?” Derek asks, sounding slightly incredulous, which is fair, because it all sort of sounds ridiculous when Stiles really thinks about it from an outsider perspective.

“Magick is weird,” Stiles reminds him. “And magickal people are weird.”

“Case in point,” Derek says, gesturing to Stiles. Stiles scowls, but the teasing makes the conversation between them feel lighter, even with the heavier topics they’re discussing.

“Whatever,” Stiles dismisses. “The point is that it’s not so far-fetched that maybe Sebastian’s Emissary, who helped find and protect the Nemeton, placed some sort of enchantment on it as a way to further protect the Nemeton and area surrounding Beacon Hills. I mean, my wards are set around the town’s boundaries, but I wasn’t the first one to place them there. There’s a deep magick in the woods and to say that someone didn’t do something drastic to protect it is just ignorant.”

“You don’t have to convince me,” Derek tells him. “If you think it’s worth investigating, then let’s investigate it.”

“Alright. Well, it all seems to stem around the Emissary. I think they’re our next target, but Sebastian seems very reserved with that knowledge. We should try to find a name to start. And maybe we should go back through the older journals and write down every name we see and start categorizing who was where and when. You start with your stack and I’ll go back through mine.”

They recomb through the journals with a notebook that they pass back and forth, writing down the names that they find and creating an interaction tree of whether or not certain people are family, pack, or pack allies. By the time Laura calls through the house for dinner, they’ve got a meager list of names as Sebastian spends most of his journal describing his environment and the feeling of the moon rather than talking about specific events and people.

The person he does talk about the most is his wife who spends half of two of the books pregnant with their first child, who turns out to be a girl and Joshua’s presumed sister. She’s human, too, or at least not a shifter, but again it’s rarely referenced as he talks more about her coming into the role of mother and how she takes care of young Laura.

“Laura?” Stiles asks, gesturing to the passage and holding it out for Derek to see. Derek glances over the book.

“Another family name,” he confirms. “Cora’s middle name is Matilda. We’ll probably find a Matilda somewhere in these journals, too.”

“You guys are like the royal family,” Stiles laughs. “You should start just putting Roman numerals after your names.”

“Mom says remembering our past family is an important part of knowing who we are today. Pretty much all of us have a different family members’ name one way or another.”

“Of course you’re a stickler for adages,” Stiles says, twirling the pen between his fingers. “You’ve always liked tradition.”

“Tradition is important,” Derek reminds him, not for the first time. 

Stiles is much more of a do-whatever-you-want type of person with just about anything, never really having or participating in traditions or having the chance to create new ones. He guesses that traditions like watching football with his dad on Sundays even though he could care less and semi-regularly having a pack movie night are ones he adheres to, but Derek is far more rigid in his observance of tradition things, which is partially due to himself being the way he is and also partially due to his family and pack being literally as old as the town itself and having developed a certain way of living that is most convenient for them while still upholding beliefs and values that their family has maintained since the beginning. Of course, not everyone is as strict on tradition; Laura tries but still jokes about it and Cora is completely divergent from the rigidity of social graces, but they uphold their own values in their own way, which is really what Talia teaches to each of her kids and family members and how they uphold it is entirely up to them.

“Sure,” Stiles agrees, stacking the journals in a neat pile, “but you say that as someone with traditions.”

“If you want to make traditions, then do it. You only get what you give.”

“Like magick. I guess that’s my tradition: full moons spent reciting a boring offering to a goddess I don’t believe in.”

“I don’t think that’s how it is,” Derek says, also packing up his books. Behind the closed oaken doors, the sound of feet patter across the bare wood as they make their way to the dining room. “I think the offering you give to the moon isn’t for the moon, but for your pack. The moon goddess isn’t real.”

“I know that,” Stiles says haughtily. “I wasn’t insinuating she was. The Triple Goddess and the belief of the moon goddess is how people rationalize all the strange stuff, like humans turning into wolves under the full moon and the pull and push of the tides and whatnot. But some people believed in that stuff completely. Some still do.”

They set all their stuff in the middle of the table to be collected or returned to later and exit the library, passing through the hallway and entering the dining room.

“You know,” Stiles says to Derek, voice hushed under the roaring of the Hale children all clamoring for food that Laura, Isaac, and Malia, who’s been spending more time over here to help, began to dole out, “Sebastian may have prayed to the Triple Goddess, like a devotee. I mean, think about what he said about protecting the Nemeton and the power within it. Maybe he thought the Triple Goddess actually gave the Nemeton power.”

“Okay, but why is that relevant?” Derek asks, taking his seat. 

Stiles slides into the seat next to him and leans in, not wanting any of the children to pay them mind as they don’t need to know the semantics of the research, not until they find anything concrete anyway and still after that it would be dubious as to whether or not include them on whatever unstoppable evil they may face.

“Well, maybe we need to look more into the Triple Goddess and her followers. What they believe, where it came from, what it represents. If there are people practicing it today, maybe one of them is this “protector” that Sebastian mentions. Like a lineage, or something. An organization.”

“You really think that’s the case? And that we didn’t know about it this whole time?”

“Nothing’s ever really happened like this to the Nemeton, other than it being cut down, but that happened before even your parents were born. Maybe they came then, too. We should try to ask your mom and see if she remembers her parents talking about it.”

“I’ll call her after dinner,” Derek agrees as Laura sets down a ceramic pot of green beans in front of them.

“You two seem awfully close all of the sudden,” she notes as she pulls back, placing a hand on the top of either of their chairs, the quilted potholder dangling trapped beneath her fingers. “Why ever for?”

Her grin gives her away and Stiles rolls his eyes so strongly that he gives himself a slight headache in the process. Even Derek looks annoyed, probably from having endured a similar line of questioning since the breakup news spread through the pack like wildfire.

“We’re talking shop,” Stiles says. “Not that we have to explain ourselves to you.”

“Geez.” Laura pulls away. “I was just asking.”

She leaves them be and heads back toward the kitchen probably for another dish. Stiles glances at Derek, who looks a little sheepish.

“Your family is very nosy, which I usually appreciate as a fellow nosy person, but they are way too nosy when it comes to us,” Stiles says quietly to Derek as Laura announces they’re ready to start eating.

“Trust me, I know,” Derek replies with a sour look on his face. 

Dinner is a chaotic experience, especially with the only real adults being Stiles, Derek, Isaac, Malia, Peter, Cora, and Laura, most of whom are barely considered adults as it stands. Beside the tension between Malia and Peter (who are never without tension after the discovery of Malia’s biological relation to Peter) and Laura and Stiles and Derek (who dodge the furtive glances she throws their way like they’re hiding something from her and she’s determined to figure out what it is), dinner goes as smooth as it possibly can, though most of dinner is spent strapping kids to chairs and making sure everyone is actually eating their food. Though not yet an alpha, Laura does possess the power to make everyone sit down, shut up, and pay attention to her, which she uses multiple times throughout the dinner.

After dinner, Derek and Stiles help their share with taking care of the kids. Lottie, as usual, clings to his side and helps as best she can, too desperate to grow up at such a young age. She has a younger sister and she just started walking, so Lottie’s a big help with keeping her corralled and making sure she’s well taken care of, which Stiles appreciates.

“Teeth brushed?” Stiles asks, passing the upstairs kids’ bathroom. He peers in to see Lottie and her sister Maggie who toddles as she tries to remain upright on the stool Lottie holds her in place on. 

“Yeah,” Lottie says, lifting Maggie off the stool and setting her on the ground, where she waddles into Stiles’ arms. Stiles sets her on his hip and heads toward their combined bedroom.

As the two youngest daughters of Talia’s sister Rachel, they share a room, but it’s less because there’s not enough rooms available and more because of the fact that they’re inseparable. Lottie likes to act as a mother to Maggie, helping her get along as she learns the world around her.

Stiles drops Maggie in her crib, safely tucked away in her rabbit pajamas and grasping at the spindles of the crib front as she begins her protestation of sleep, a familiar song and dance from the few times Stiles has put her to bed. Lottie ambles into the room, making her way over to the crib and beginning to console Maggie as Stiles turns on the mobile and opens the window a crack, letting the cool night air in. With the window open, the sounds of summer float in with the breeze, the robins’ song carrying in and slowly beginning to peter out as they rest for the night, branches and leaves swaying in the breeze, the smell of earth filling the room.

The fresh air, Lottie’s constellations, and soft lullaby from the mobile soothes Maggie and she leans back in her crib, getting herself comfortable. Stiles pats Lottie’s shoulder, guiding her toward her bed on the other side of the room. She claims she’s mature enough now to handle everything on her own, but she’s barely seven and Stiles has a soft spot for her, so he likes to make sure she gets tucked into bed properly and read a story on the nights he can. They’re three chapters into the first Percy Jackson, which she could probably read on her own, especially because Rachel already taught her how to read, but she likes Stiles to do the voices and whenever he reads a word or passage she doesn’t understand, she asks him to explain it. Her mom would do the same for her, Stiles knows, but she refuses to let anyone else read this book with her. It’s sat on the shelf for months now because he hasn’t had a chance to tuck her in, but today he picks it up and finds the woven bookmark still stuck in place from the last time they read together.

He reads her a chapter, complete with the voices, and watches as she slowly falls asleep, slipping the bookmark back in between the pages and leaving it on her nightstand, making a silent promise to get further along in the book with her soon.

He turns off her lamp and turns around, startling as he realizes that Derek is watching him from the door. Stiles makes a shooing motion with his hands and checks to see that Maggie is asleep too before shutting the door behind him as he leaves.

“You’re such a creeper,” Stiles tells Derek after he’s sure the door is shut, still mindful of keeping his voice lowered as they stand in front of the door. He grabs Derek’s elbow and leads him down the hall toward the stairs.

Derek follows him down to the library in silence, where they collect the journals and take them upstairs to the attic so that none of the kids will get into them or that they will be damaged. They leave the journals and their notebook on one of the covered credenzas upstairs. How the Hales got all this heavy-looking furniture up two flights of stairs beats Stiles, but he’s sure that their supernatural strength played a big part in it.

Stiles glances out of the small window at the front of the house. It’s well into nighttime now and stars dot in and out between the tree branches that canopy most of the view from the window. Derek shifts behind him.

“So, do you want to continue this tomorrow?” he asks, sounding unsure of himself. Stiles hates his lack of confidence now, but he knows that’s mostly his fault.

“If you don’t have a hot date,” Stiles teases gently, knowing that their love lives are sort of a sore subject right now. But Derek doesn’t seem to wilt at the comment, and instead gives Stiles a sort of Yeah right look. 

“I’m unsurprisingly free,” Derek retorts. “Should I expect breakfast again?”

If Stiles didn’t know any better, he’d say Derek is flirting.

“Maybe if you ask nicely,” Stiles says and hears the flirtation in his own voice. 

He clears his throat, growing awkward at the sudden realization of his intentional flirting. Derek must sense it and grows awkward too. Stiles turns away from the window and crosses his arms over his chest to stave off the tension.

“I should go,” he decides. “I’ll come back tomorrow, though, and we can start on the next decade.”

“I’ll walk you out.”

Stiles wants to protest, but he knows that Derek is not doing it to be forward or anything, just polite. Usually they walk everyone to their cars or people leave in groups together. It’s not a tradition per se, but just a kind of manners.

“Alright,” Stiles agrees.

They walk down the stairs and through the halls to the front staircase, mindful not to step too loudly by the children’s doors. They exit down into the front entry and from the living room to the right, they can hear the TV, which is probably Cora at this hour. Stiles doesn’t say bye, instead opening the front door and heading out to his Jeep, putting the key into the lock and turning it as Derek stands behind him, hands shoved in his front pockets and looking at peace in the calm night.

“Well, I’ll see you tomorrow,” Stiles tells him as he pulls the door open. 

“Get home safe.”

Stiles hesitates for a moment in between the door and Derek before climbing in and throwing out a small wave. Derek backs up to the porch and watches Stiles pull away. As Stiles drives down the dirt road back to the town, he watches his rearview mirror and the tiny dot of Derek that remains firmly on the porch until he’s too far away to see at all.