Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Peter regained consciousness after his fight with the invading beast that Stiles had called a Tarasque, he noticed several things in swift succession. First, he was definitely not in the forest. Second, his abdomen was on fire despite the unmistakable feeling of a pain drain. Finally, everything smelled like Stiles. 

Panic coursed through him. He didn’t think Stiles would attack him, but the boy had certainly shown quite the ruthless streak during his various escapades with the supernatural and Peter was currently in no position to defend himself, as much as that fact grated against him. 

As Stiles murmured reassurances that Peter nodded agreeably to without actually bothering to pay attention, he struggled to sit up, ignoring the way his injury vehemently opposed that course of action. He refused to lie on his back in an uncertain situation. It felt far too vulnerable. As he did so, memories of the ill-advised fight with the Tarasque trickled back. He had been losing. One beta-near-omega against such a beast was never going to end well, but Peter couldn’t let it be, no matter what Scott had insisted. 

Peter vividly remembered the fight swiftly turning for the worse, the scorpion tail stabbing him in the stomach and the burning fire that encompassed his torso afterwards. The pain made his memory hazy after that, but Peter definitely remembered another wolf, one with bright crimson eyes and lightning fast reflexes, stepping into the fight, distracting the Tarasque from Peter’s prone form and finishing what he had started. 

Then that wolf had come to Peter, draining his pain and clearing Peter’s mind enough for him to recognize Stiles’s distinctive features and scent, bearing those fangs and impossible red eyes. He couldn’t remember anything after that. The cessation of mind-breaking pain, dropping him straight into unconsciousness. 

And now he was here. 

Once Peter finally achieved an upright posture with help from Stiles, he pinned the boy with a stare that made even Derek look away. But Stiles watched him back easily. There was a steadiness to the boy that Peter hadn’t seen before, a surety in himself that had always been missing, for all that he hid it well with sarcasm, quick wit, and flailing motions. 

“You killed the Tarasque,” Peter said, acknowledgement and challenge all at once. Would the boy boast? Look away embarrassed? Gloat about his success where Peter had failed?

But Stiles only hummed in acknowledgement. “I did.” 

There was no boasting, no hesitance, no apology. Just simple, stated fact. Peter felt his respect grow despite himself. 

A face hung in his memory, eyes a bright red instead of the whiskey he was used to, and Peter hesitated halfway through his next question. Stiles didn’t rush him though, still watching quietly. 

Then, Peter all but accused him of being an alpha werewolf, the thought sounding absurd even as he felt more sure the second the words left his mouth. And Stiles confirmed it with the same uncharacteristic steadiness. There was a safety in the surety of his gaze and Peter felt longing well up inside himself. 

Then Stiles revealed that he had only been a wolf for a week and a half and an alpha for a bare few days, and Peter felt every other emotion drown under his frank shock and amazement. Stiles had been an alpha werewolf at the last pack meeting with the alpha spark settled by approximately two days and Peter hadn’t noticed. He had always thought Stiles would make an incredible wolf but this was unbelievable. But thinking about the pack meeting brought another thought to mind. 

“Scott doesn’t know.” It was barely more than thinking out loud, but Stiles confirmed it anyway, giving an explanation for that decision that Peter honestly didn’t care about. He was too busy thinking about the ramifications of this. If Stiles was an alpha, if he was building a pack, then Peter might have options that didn’t involve abandoning the home his family had protected for generations or bowing to Scott of all people. 

He teased around the true question, asking if Stiles was planning to build a pack. The boy had mentioned going to college out of state, so he couldn’t be sure. Stiles’s answer that he wasn’t planning to bite anyone and wasn’t deliberately looking for betas, didn’t help Peter, forcing him to directly ask if Stiles would accept betas seeking to join his pack. The question was far more revealing than he preferred, and he felt his skin crawl at the wide-eyed look that told him Stiles suspected where he was going with this. 

Still, the boy told him that he would accept betas if they offered, and Peter had to make a choice. Not that it was much of one. Scott still held a grudge against him for biting him so long ago and Peter’s position in the pack was barely enough to keep him from going feral. As it was, the lack of any strong pack bonds or the companionship normal in a true pack left him barely a thread from becoming an omega. The tenuousness of his situation left him constantly on edge. 

On the other hand, Stiles had proven his loyalty, not to Peter directly of course, but to those he chose. His loyalty was absolute, all-consuming, and unrelenting. If he accepted Peter, —admittedly a big if given their past— Peter just might get to experience a taste of that loyalty, if only out of obligation. It was a heady thought. 

With that in mind, Peter averted his eyes in the traditional angle and tilted his chin up to expose his throat. He tried to ask, as Stiles had just said he would require, but he couldn’t get his voice to form the words, knowing they would come out far too close to begging to be comfortable. Already, he felt horribly vulnerable, and even as wishful longing filled him, he waited for the sting of rejection. Because why would Stiles accept him, his former enemy, the feral wolf who had bitten his best friend and dragged him into this blood-stained world, the washed-up former left hand with more blood on his hands then most serial killers? 

The few seconds before Stiles’s answer dragged on into an eternity, and Peter thought he might collapse into the abyss forming inside of himself. He shut his eyes. Stiles would turn him down, but he would be kind about it. The boy was ruthless, but he wasn’t cruel. It would still sting though, would still inflict a deep wound on his already scarred soul. 

Peter was so wrapped up in his thoughts that Stiles’s first gentle touch on his throat caused him to startle. The hand slid around to his nape and squeezed. Peter went limp, some unidentifiable sound escaping his lips. The grip was comfort and claim, reassurance and dominance all at once. But most of all, it was acceptance, heady and rich and unbelievably good. 

But it didn’t stop there. 

Stiles pulled him in and slotted sharp fangs against the curve of his throat, applying light pressure but not piercing the skin. As he did so, a new pack bond flared into place, bright and strong, and more sturdy than anything Peter had felt since before the fire. He whimpered softly, unable to control the powerful emotions whipping through him. It had been years since he felt anything like this and its sudden presence made the previous absence all the more glaring. He could bask in this forever. 

A beautiful eternity later, Stiles released him, and Peter immediately felt the loss. Before he could sink into spiraling thoughts, Stiles scented him familiarly and settled beside him, his body a solid line of warmth against Peter’s side. Hating himself for the weakness, but unable to deny himself the comfort, Peter sank against him, leaning his head against Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Alpha,” he whispered, uttering the title without sarcasm and disdain for the first time since Talia died, and for a while before that actually, given his and Talia’s often-strained relationship. 

Part of him expected Stiles to gloat the way that Derek and Scott had upon gaining his reluctant submission. But Stiles simply responded by giving a reassuring rumble of acknowledgement and scenting him again. 

When the Sheriff burst in, Peter feared the worst. Most humans were spectacularly bad at understanding the dynamics of a wolf pack, pushing back against their customs and instincts. As Stiles’s father, the Sheriff would be uniquely positioned to pull Stiles away from him or even make Stiles reject him. Peter flinched back before he could stop himself, instinctively seeking shelter in his new alpha and waiting for the accusing words. 

But Stiles didn’t talk around the subject, didn’t lie or even obfuscate the truth. He claimed Peter as his beta, proud and happy, as if Peter was some sort of prize. Peter knew his shock and confusion were obvious, the newness of the bond wrecking his emotional control and shields, but he couldn’t remember the last time someone was proud that Peter was theirs. Talia respected him, acknowledged his position as left hand, even accepted that such a position was necessary. But she had never liked it, never liked what he did. She had hated that her ostensibly peaceful and modern pack still had need of him to dispose of threats that could not be dealt with in a public manner, and that unavoidable fact had stood between them ever since Peter took on that role. 

She had respected Peter and felt gratitude towards him, but she had always felt slightly ashamed. Never proud. 

Stiles was proud. And that was intoxicating. 

Almost as good was the way that Stiles’s dad accepted him into the pack with no more than some token grumbling and a bad dog joke. Apparently Stiles came by his sense of humor honestly. 

Just like that, Peter was accepted into their pack. Sure, it was small and new, but it already felt like home. Stiles and his dad even fussed over his wound in a way that would bemuse him if it wasn’t for the way it made warmth bloom in his chest. 

But all good things must come to an end. Peter knew that better than anyone, and he thought that he had reached the end of the good things the gods were willing to bestow upon him when Stiles decided it was time for bed. His alpha was new to his instincts, and he would still war with conflicting human custom and taboos. As much as Peter desperately wanted to stay close so that he could reassure himself that this wasn’t just a strange dream, he refused to make his new alpha uncomfortable. He would take the couch and hope that the lingering scent there would be more reassuring than taunting. 

Stiles stopped him, issuing his first command as Peter’s alpha to keep him close so that they could take comfort in each other’s presence. He explained himself, giving his reasoning for his instruction, all the while maintaining a reassuring grip on the nape of Peter’s neck and a steady pain drain. Dominance and care in perfect balance. Peter sighed in relief, and as Stiles helped him lie back down and curled around him, he couldn’t stop hope from building within him. 

Maybe, just maybe, this pack would be different.

Chapter Text

Sometimes life changes in a series of gradual motions, so smooth and steady that you don’t realize how different everything is until you stop and compare the present to the past. However, sometimes everything changes in the space of a day, sometimes in hours or even minutes, and you know that things will never go back to the way they were before. Not everyone experiences such life-changing events, but those who had, could point to the time that their whole world shifted.

For Isaac, he could point to two such times. First, the day he accepted the Bite and became a werewolf, joining the supernatural world permanently and leaving behind the weakness and victimhood of his life before then. The second was when he had a panic attack in front of the whole pack, and instead of laughing at him, Stiles helped him through it, took care of him, and somehow effectively ended up adopting him. 

That fateful day started when Isaac woke up his alarm, rolled over and groaned into the pillow. He could already tell it was going to be one of those days. A day where his skin felt too tight, and even without supernatural senses everything was too bright, too loud, too much. With the heightened senses he gained from being a werewolf? Isaac knew exactly how much today was going to suck. 

He rolled over and sat on the edge of the bed, head down and focusing on deep, even breaths. With enough concentration, he could dissociate from his senses, burying them down until it was like a wall of gauze separated him from the world, muffling it and smothering his instinctive reactions. He was the best at this technique out of the bitten wolves in Beacon Hills. Turns out that a lifetime of coping with his bad days this way gave him a massive advantage in coping with super senses. 

When the chaos of the world finally backed off and he successfully managed to retreat into his mind enough that everything felt oddly distant and less overwhelming, Isaac took one more deep breath and heaved himself to his feet. He still felt vaguely fragile and his skin still felt tight and over-sensitive, but it would do. 

It had to do. 

Isaac forced himself through the day one step at a time. Life didn’t take a pause just because you didn’t want to deal with the world, and he had more practice than he would care to admit at pushing through like everything was fine when it was actually the furthest thing from it. 

But it wasn’t easy.

His mind saw his personal demons in every twitch and shadow. Every man looked like his father for that first second, every raised voice, an angry yell at him, every sudden motion, the precursor to an attack. It was exhausting, but he always felt tired and drained, so what difference did it actually make? Isaac was just grateful that his extensive experience at suppressing it all meant that his scent stayed mostly neutral and the pack didn’t notice anything. 

Bad enough that his own brain and body betrayed him like this occasionally. He didn’t need them to know how much of a nut case he actually was. 

By the time the school day was over, all Isaac wanted to do was lock himself in his room, bury himself under all of his pillows and blankets, and pretend the world didn’t exist for a bit. 

So of course, Scott absolutely had to hold a training session. And Isaac couldn’t get out of it by claiming to be sick since werewolves don’t even get sick!

The worst bit was, Isaac actually liked training normally. He loved feeling the strength and power his body now held, loved honing his skills and knowing that every bit of improvement was a little bit more assurance that he would never be a helpless victim again. But he wouldn’t be able to enjoy it like this. 

Still, Isaac showed up and leaned against the wall near Erica and Boyd, letting Erica’s chatter wash over him and trying to ground himself in Boyd’s steady calm, wishing he could borrow some of it for himself. 

He listened with half an ear to Scott giving Stiles grief over apparently spending time with Peter. He was mildly curious, but honestly didn’t care that much. Both of them were kind of on the outskirts of the pack. Stiles was a bit weird, a little too smart and loud, a little too sharp and painfully human, while Peter was much older than the rest of them, even sharper than Stiles, and had a dangerous, jaded, and somewhat creepy air to him. Even if Isaac ignored that though, Scott made no secret of the fact that he hated Peter or that he didn’t really think Stiles, as a squishy human, should be heavily involved in supernatural matters. Isaac didn’t have strong opinions on either matter, so while he had a lot more confidence now that he was a werewolf, he had no desire to challenge his alpha, now the main authority in his life, over it. It didn’t really affect him and he definitely didn’t want to get in the middle of it. 

So Isaac mostly ignored the two of them when they made their way to the opposite side of the room and settled in to wait until training started. Still, the part of him that analyzed people’s body language as a survival method couldn’t help noting the way that the two of them moved in sync with each other, a comfort and familiarity in their motions that he didn’t understand, yet made something in his chest ache weirdly. 

He looked away. 

Training was just as difficult as he expected it to be. Oh, occasionally he would forget and lose himself in the motions and challenging excitement of it, but then a blow would come just a hair too close and knock the bottom out of his stomach. Then he would find himself entirely on the defensive, trying to protect himself while warring with the hard-earned knowledge that fighting back would only make it worse when his father finally beat him down. 

But he forced himself to acknowledge that he wasn’t there anymore. His father couldn’t hurt him anymore and Isaac could protect himself so easily from a mere human now! Then Isaac would come off the defensive with a ferocity that surprised even himself, over-compensating for his previous hesitancy with excessive aggression. 

It probably wasn’t ideal, but unpredictability was a good thing right? Isaac certainly had had a harder time dodging or protecting himself effectively when alcohol made his father more unpredictable than normal. It was fine. He was fine. 

Still, by the time that they were done, Isaac felt more on edge than ever, tense and wired in a way that felt dangerously unstable. He wrestled with himself as he absently followed after the rest of the pack, struggling for control that felt like it was slowly slipping through his grasp. 

The pack was laughing and talking excitedly (Too loud!).

The setting sun cast angled light over the trees (Too bright!).

The air was filled with the scent of sweaty teenagers and pine needles (Too strong!).

His body stung with small scratches from training (Too much!).

He just had to hold it together a little longer. Just a little bit longer. They were inside now. Almost there. He could do this.

Then Scott cracked a towel like a whip at Jackson and the other boy yelped exaggeratedly. Too much, too real, too close. 

And Isaac. 

Fell. 

Apart. 

His control snapped like an over-inflated balloon, emotions and memories rushing through like water bursting through a dam, flooding his senses and repainting the world. 

Because Isaac wasn’t in the loft anymore. 

He was in his childhood home. His father was yelling at him, cruel angry words that Isaac couldn’t make out over the rushing of blood in his ears and the thunderous sound of own heartbeat, but knew by heart anyway. 

His father was in front of him, cursing and shouting threats now. But that didn’t make sense because his father was behind him, slurring drunkenly as a belt whistled through the air, tracing lines of fire across Isaac’s skin as he sobbed and begged. But that didn’t make sense either because Isaac was locked in the freezer, nearly delirious with pain from a beating and out of his mind with the sheer terror of being locked up alone, as always, sure that this time he would suffocate or be locked up forever. 

Isaac was suffocating with remembered and relived fear, memories flashing past too quickly to keep track, overlapping with each other and twisting together, dragging him through combinations of past events until he was surrounded by memory copies of his father, by the many traumas of his childhood, by the sense memory of pain and fear and hopelessness too strong to control. So strong that it meant they had to be real. Right? 

A high-pitched, desperate whine filled the air. 

He was drowning, sinking further and further, and only aware of the overwhelming terror.

Then a new voice broke through part of the haze, utterly different from the rest. The memories faltered, just for a second, and Isaac turned towards that voice blindly. It was different. Not angry and yelling, drunk and slurring, or desperate and pleading. It was calm and reassuring, and it didn’t make any sense at all. Still, Isaac clung to it like a mental lifeline as the memories rose up to swallow him once more, all the more fierce for that brief interruption. 

But the voice stayed. 

Isaac couldn’t understand the words, all of them blurring into incomprehensible sound, but the tone stayed the same, calm and steady, patient and reassuring. It was getting closer too, and Isaac begged mentally, wishing, as he always did, that someone would save him from the hell he was trapped in. 

A hand touched his shoulder, and Isaac flinched away, dropping to the ground instinctively. If he was on the floor, he could curl up, protect the important bits from the coming fists. 

But the hand followed him down, another one joined it, and Isaac braced himself for the pain as those hands gently pulled him against a surface. 

But the pain didn’t come. Why didn’t it come? 

The confusion brought Isaac out of it slightly, but he was immediately bowled over by more memories that latched onto the sense memory of the changed position. They hurt of course. And Isaac was lost again. 

But the voice stayed. Why did it stay?

Isaac didn’t know, didn’t understand, but he clung to it nonetheless, grasping onto the voice like a rope thrown to a drowning man. And slowly, ever so slowly, he began to pull himself towards the voice. Memories buffeted him from every direction, the pain and fear were constant, but so was the voice, and as Isaac pulled himself up a bit more, a few words registered in his exhausted mind. 

“Safe… Safe… Safe…”

Safe? Isaac wanted to laugh. Of course he wasn’t safe, he was never safe, his father was there. Always. 

But the voice felt safe. It was promising safety, and like a dying man lying to himself to push on, Isaac let himself believe that he could be safe —if only he could make it to the voice. More words trickled in.

“Good… Good… Doing great…” 

Now Isaac knew that was a lie, knew that that was impossible, because in what world could his current struggles ever be considered “good” much less “great”? But Isaac soaked them up regardless. No more able to turn the praise away than a starving man offered food. He struggled to drag himself up more. 

He could hear a heartbeat now, calm and steady, unrushed, as if everything really was safe and good. Maybe if Isaac could make it to the voice, he could have a bit of that peace. Just a bit, he would do almost anything for it. 

More words came.

“Match my breathing… Good… Safe… Breathe…”

Breathe? What was the voice talking about? Of course Isaac was breathing, wasn’t he? But his chest ached fiercely, a discomfort Isaac hadn’t even registered over the other, far more pressing ones. And he could suddenly feel the steady rise and fall of a chest pressed against his own. His own fluttered with shallow pants. Maybe he wasn’t breathing? Not well at least? So he tried to obey the voice, and match his breathing to the chest against his. Did it belong to the voice? 

It was hard, like trying to suck molasses through a straw, but the effort to do so distracted him and pushed the memories away a bit, until they were less pressing and overwhelming. That gave him the space to actually succeed in drawing in a deeper breath, harsh and gasping, but deeper. 

And the voice praised him for it, tone rising in approval and happiness, as if Isaac had accomplished some incredible feat rather than simply take a breath. But it had felt like a herculean task, and Isaac soaked up the praise. 

The voice’s chest rose in an exaggeratedly deep breath and Isaac did his best to mimic it, but his breath caught in his throat and came out shaky and rough. Still, the voice heaped praise and encouragement on him, and Isaac kept trying. 

With every deep breath, the memories faded away and the real world slowly came back. Sound came back first. The voice never stopped its endless stream of praise and support, heart beating steadily —which, Isaac’s exhausted brain supplied, meant the voice actually meant the impossible praise. Touch came back next, and Isaac realized that he was curled against the chest of the owner of the voice, their hand rubbing gentle, soothing circles in his back. Then his sense of smell registered, and Isaac realized that Stiles was the owner of the voice, the person who had guided him out of the nightmare and gave him comfort and praise. 

Part of Isaac wanted to be embarrassed, wanted to pull away and retreat to lick his wounds in privacy, but a much larger part never wanted this moment, this impossible feeling of safety and care to end. So he stayed, pressing close and soaking it up. 

Slowly, his breathing evened out and his heart rate slowed to something approaching normal. A sense of peace and safety enveloped him, and Isaac felt like he could cry for the relief of it. 

“Is he…” 

Just like that, the moment popped like a soap bubble with the realization that Isaac wasn’t that the rest of the pack was there, had witnessed his breakdown. He stiffened despite himself, sure that Stiles would push him away now, clap him on the shoulder and move on. But Stiles pulled him closer instead, one hand squeezing the back of Isaac’s neck in a move that made Isaac go limp.

“Just focus on me, Isaac. Just you and me. You’re doing great,” 

And Isaac couldn’t have resisted if he wanted to, which he certainly didn’t. Instead, he pressed his nose into Stiles’s neck, breathed in his scent, and let the rest of the world melt away again, until all that was left was him and Stiles. 

Isaac wasn’t sure how much longer they sat there. It certainly didn’t feel like very long, minutes passing as swiftly as heartbeats, but eventually Stiles started to pull away a bit, urging Isaac to get up. Isaac fought a tremble in his limbs, but forced himself to pull himself together and get up. He didn’t want to, heavens above, he really didn’t want to, but he’d been enough of a burden and annoyance already. No need to make it clear how clingy he wanted to be. 

Stiles helped him up, Isaac’s legs seemed oddly unwilling to bear his weight despite supposed supernatural prowess. Then, instead of releasing him, when Isaac braced himself to step back, head already lowered to hide the desperation surely embarrassingly clear, Stiles pulled him into a tight hug, and Isaac fell into it with a relief that was probably as obvious as it felt. 

Then, instead of going their separate ways, Stiles invited Isaac to come home with him. He still had Isaac wrapped up in a comforting hug, and Isaac just breathed it in, listening to Stiles babble about movies and junk food. All of it felt impossible, like a dream taunting him mercilessly. Isaac wanted it so badly, wanted the companionship, comfort and lack of judgement inherent in the offer, but part of him was sure that if he accepted, it would be yanked away again. He hesitated, —too long, he was being horribly rude— but his panic attack had left him terribly off balance, and he wasn’t thinking straight. 

Stiles didn’t rush him, just held him patiently, and Isaac’s frayed nerves gave way a little bit more in the face of that comfort, and he nosed into Stiles’s neck, scenting him and looking for reassurance in a lupine way since his human side was so out of sorts. As soon as he did, Isaac’s heart sank, sure that the painfully-human Stiles would be weirded out by the gesture, and the kind offer would be retracted. But Stiles nuzzled him back, returning the scenting gesture easily with a rumble in his chest that made Isaac’s bones want to turn to liquid, Isaac sighed in relief and somehow found the courage to speak.

“If it wouldn’t be a bother…” he said slowly, keeping his face hidden in Stiles’s neck just in case. “I don’t really want to be alone…”

He felt horribly vulnerable at the admission, but Stiles didn’t use the opportunity to mock him. He hummed instead, somehow radiating delight.

“Then it’s a plan. We’ll go back to my house, —Peter will come too by the way— and binge on movies and snacks. We’ll have a blast and stay up way too late. I can’t wait!”

Isaac gave a watery chuckle and pulled back enough to give Stiles a hesitant smile, gratified when Stiles grinned back no trace of annoyance to be found. Maybe it would be alright after all.

Stiles shifted Isaac around a bit so that he had an arm slung over the beta’s shoulders instead and used the contact to guide him out the door. Isaac leaned into him, relieved at the continued touch. He still felt frayed at the edges, and Stiles’s support was more helpful than he’d care to admit. Peter met them at the doorway, an amused expression on his face as he fell in step behind Stiles like they did this every day. 

The rest of the evening passed like a dream. Everything felt so impossible and incredible that Isaac couldn’t help feeling like it actually was just a dream. The slight haze that his exhaustion cast over everything lent strength to those doubts, and he drifted through the evening feeling somehow disconnected from reality. The brief resurgence of panic when he was confronted with Stiles’s dad for the first time and Stiles’s continued support only served to increase the feeling that this had to be a figment of his imagination. 

Still, dream or not, real or not, Isaac let him fall into the playful, comforting atmosphere, watching the ridiculous hot chocolate discussion with baffled amusement and settling in to watch a movie curled up against Stiles like he belonged there. The feeling was heady and Isaac wanted to stay in the warmth, comfort, and acceptance forever. 

Unfortunately, all dreams come to an end, and Isaac was sure that he had reached the end of this one when he woke the next day. The chaos of their hurried efforts to get ready for school prevented him from thinking about it, but once he was in class, Isaac’s mind drifted back to think over yesterday’s events. 

As awful as that panic attack had been, Isaac would relive it a hundred times if it meant he could bask in the comfort and closeness afterwards. Was that what pack was supposed to feel like? Isaac wasn’t sure, but he wanted to feel it again more than anything in the world. 

There was just one problem. 

He couldn’t exactly ask, now could he? What was he supposed to do? Go up to Stiles and say “Hey Stiles, I know you sacrificed an entire evening of your time and attention to look after my pathetic ass nonstop, but would you mind doing it again? Pretty please?” Yeah, no. He cringed in preemptive humiliation just thinking about it. 

But the thought and longing lingered, and Isaac snuck glances at Stiles, wishing for a miracle. However, it felt like all he could do was sit nearby and greet the other teen casually like he wasn’t hyper-aware of Stiles’s every move.

Halfway through the day, Isaac had a brilliant realization. They hadn’t finished the movie. He could just ask if Stiles wanted to finish it with him. That was a totally normal thing to ask. It was a good movie, they started it together, didn’t finish it, so that meant that logically, it should be totally acceptable to ask to finish it together. They could just hang out casually, spend time together like friends maybe. No pressure. It was perfect.

It took him all day to work up the nerve, but finally, after school left out, Isaac saw Stiles walking out of the building and summoned all of his courage. It was now or never. He jogged after him.

“Hey, Stiles!” he called out, trying to catch his attention without it being awkward.

Stiles turned and looked at him curiously, body language open and friendly. Isaac hesitated, his courage draining away like it had never been there. Still, he swallowed heavily and barreled forwards. Here went nothing.

“I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out at some point…? We never did finish the second movie you know, with falling asleep and all whatnot. Would you want to…?” he trailed off, cursing himself silently. Why did all of his grasp on the English language have to fail him now? He sounded like a complete idiot. 

But Stiles didn’t seem to be bothered and just grinned at him, adjusting his bag on his shoulder and looking like Isaac had made his day.

“Sure thing. And after we finish it, I can show you why Ironman is superior to Captain America in just about every way.” 

Isaac squawked in outrage at the slight to the best superhero in Marvel. 

“He is not! Stark is an asshole and he just…”

Stiles laughed happily and Isaac couldn’t stay annoyed, following him to his jeep as his own joy bubbled up. 

It was like that one interaction broke down some barrier, because after that, Isaac found himself over at Stiles’s house all the time, almost everyday. It felt normal. It felt right. Isaac would go over to work on homework, or Stiles would challenge him to a video game, and then he would end up staying for dinner, sometimes even the night. Soon, Isaac felt closer to Stiles than anyone in Beacon Hills, including the rest of the pack. He even got close with Peter, since the older beta was almost always there.

However, since Isaac was spending that much time around the Stilinski household, he quickly realized some things were kind of… strange…

First, and most obvious, Peter Hale lived there. Not just spent a lot of time there the way that Isaac was beginning to, but actually lived there. Clothes in the closet, toothbrush in the bathroom, helping with the chores, lived there. Which, Isaac honestly couldn’t judge. He lived in the loft with Derek after all, and would jump at the chance to live with the Stilinskis if he had the opportunity. 

But Peter also obviously deferred to Stiles. Not to Stiles’s dad who, as the Sheriff and the head of the household, should be the obvious authority, but to Stiles, the clumsy teenager half his age. Of course, Isaac also deferred to Stiles. Stiles just had this sort of air and authority to him that plucked at Isaac’s instincts and made him want to follow, but Isaac hadn’t expected the ever-arrogant and reserved Peter to follow as well. 

Isaac wasn’t sure if the way that Stiles took care of and looked after them made it more strange or not, but he did. It was incredible. Stiles always knew what they needed, calming Peter with a touch or word and stepping around Isaac’s triggers or insecurities with unconscious ease. There was a steadiness to the other teen that Isaac felt like he could always rely on, and when his anxiety ramped up until it felt like it was choking him, Stiles would meet his eyes calmly or rest a firm hand on the back of his neck, and Isaac would breathe out, feeling all of his stress leave with it. 

That was another thing. Stiles was almost freakishly observant. It was like the other boy had eyes in the back of his head and ears like a radar. Isaac’s stomach could growl and he wouldn’t even notice, but a couple of minutes later, Stiles would drop a plate of Isaac’s favorite snacks between them to share. Or Isaac would have a hard day and think he was doing a good job shoving it all down and away, but Stiles would take one glance at him and then bundle him up in blankets and curl up with him to watch something brainless, ignoring any protests and not letting him up until Isaac felt like he was back on a steady keel. 

So yes, the Stilinski house was strange but Isaac wouldn’t trade it for anything. He never wanted to leave. 

Still, occasionally something happened that made Isaac cock his head and wonder. 

Like the time that Peter was grumpy about something he was doing to get back to work. Isaac wasn’t sure about the details but he had gathered that Peter was working on starting up his lawyer career again with Stiles’s encouragement. Most of the time it seemed to be a time-consuming, but relatively straightforward, procedure. However, that particular evening, Peter stalked into the dining room where Isaac and Stiles were working on homework, snarling under his breath about the idiocy of bureaucracy. 

Isaac couldn’t help the way he flinched into himself instinctively, uncomfortable being near an obviously angry man, despite Peter’s many differences from his father. 

Stiles acted immediately. One of his hands slid up Isaac’s back and squeezed his neck gently in that way that never failed to make Isaac go limp. He knew, theoretically, that someone besides his alpha touching his neck should make him want to tear them apart, but Stiles felt safe. Stiles was safe, and the dominant touch somehow always made him feel safe too, like nothing could harm him with Stiles there. 

“Peter,” Stiles said at the same time, his tone calm yet firm in a way that made Isaac instinctively twist his head to bare his throat slightly. 

Stiles’s thumb gently stroked the side of Isaac’s neck in a comforting gesture, but he didn’t look away from Peter. For his part, Peter glanced their way, and a faintly apologetic grimace flashed across his face. He tilted his head and shoulders in a way that sure as hell looked an awful lot like he was flashing throat. To Stiles. Peter Hale, offering an overtly submissive gesture to Stiles Stilinski as an apology for spooking Isaac. It was surreal. 

But they both treated it like it was normal and expected, and Stiles only hummed softly, nodding towards the door.

“Go for a run,” he ordered. 

And it was an order, firm and implacable. Had Scott said the same thing, Peter would have squared up to him, sneering in defiance, pithy insults rolling off his tongue. Isaac had seen it happen many times before. But when Stiles spoke, Peter merely dipped his head too low to be a simple nod and walked out, going for a run without argument.  

Then Stiles turned back to their homework, suggesting an answer for the next question like nothing had happened. Isaac shook himself off mentally and returned his focus to the assignment in front of them. They completed the remainder of their work, and the entire time, Stiles’s hand rested on the back of Isaac’s neck, a steady, grounding presence that was more comforting than Isaac would care to admit. 

Times like that made Isaac wonder, and filled him with the vague longing that somehow Stiles could be his alpha instead of Scott. Stiles, Peter, and the Sheriff often acted like a pack. Like a real one though, like the ones that Derek sometimes —though very rarely— spoke about on late nights when the mood was quiet and mournful. Packs that were a family, tight-knit and supportive, with an alpha that cared for them endlessly, looking out for them and protecting them. 

Those stories always made Isaac’s chest ache with a longing so fierce it was physically painful, and Derek always smelled miserably sad afterwards, practically sick with grief. 

Watching the Stilinski household, including Peter, often reminded Isaac of those tales. Sometimes, he even felt like he was part of their strange, yet close, dynamic, and he treasured those moments immensely. 

Still, Isaac refused to indulge his curiosity and push into why they acted like that. He was content, happy even, and he didn’t want to do anything that could jeopardize that. 

Then Stiles accidentally slipped up, revealing the unspoken secret, and Isaac found out that Stiles was an Alpha werewolf, that Peter was actually his beta instead of Scott’s now, and that Stiles wanted Isaac (Isaac!) in his pack. By the end of that mind-boggling evening, Isaac was part of a pack strong enough to leave a perpetual sense of warmth in his chest where the lonely longing had dwelled before. 

He didn’t have to leave. He could stay there, in that pack that felt like a fairytale. Inexplicably, they wanted him, and for the first time in his life, Isaac felt like he had a home he was safe and valued in. He had an alpha he trusted and packmates who cared about him.

For that incredible care and unbelievable acceptance, he would follow Stiles anywhere.

Chapter Text

The thing was, Erica didn’t have any frame of reference for what an alpha was supposed to be like, much less how they affected the dynamics of a pack. She hadn’t grown up around werewolves. She hadn’t had the slightest idea they even existed until that world-changing conversation that ended with her becoming part of the supernatural world. So when Derek gave his little spiel about pack being family, about them being brothers and sisters now, she rolled her eyes mentally and took it about as seriously as she had when the manager at her first job gave a very similar speech about the company being family. It didn’t mean anything. 

Oh sure, Derek cared about them in his own way, though he sucked at showing it, but it certainly didn’t feel like family, didn’t hold any of the warm, fuzzy feelings of belonging that Erica refused to admit she craved so much it hurt.  

So she sucked it up and pushed through and just added it to the list of things in her life that left her feeling unsatisfied and let down. Right along with her health —in danger first from epilepsy and now from supernatural horrors of legend, her family —parents distant and disappointed though always trying and failing to hide it, and her social life —never fitting in, never liked, whether due to her epilepsy, her new supernatural status, or some innate awkwardness or unlikeability, she never knew. No, Erica was well-acquainted with disappointment in life. 

At least the Bite brought her Boyd, her one shining beacon of light and hope in this dreary world. Erica would have been lost, and likely dead, many times over if it hadn’t been for her boyfriend’s calm loyalty and unfailing dependability. She loved him more than life itself, and his love and care filled her heart enough that she could almost ignore the hole still there that yawned into the void and caused her wolf to howl in agonized loneliness. 

And life moved on.

When Scott became the Beacon Hills alpha, Erica would admit to feeling more than a little leery —not out of some sense of loyalty to Derek, but because even she could tell Scott didn’t take the supernatural world seriously. Without any other choice, she submitted and followed, but couldn’t help the way she stayed a half-step closer to Boyd, letting him watch her back in a way she instinctively feared Scott wouldn’t. Likewise, Boyd stayed close to her, his unease matching her own when her worried eyes flicked to him. 

One evening about a week after Scott became alpha, Erica laid in the grass of her backyard beside Boyd with her head on his shoulder and pressed against his side from shoulder to ankle. They laid there in silence for a long time, watching the stars and enjoying the peaceful smells and sounds of the night. They had started stargazing together like that regularly after doing it once on a passing whim and realizing how much comfort they drew from each other’s undemanding proximity and physical contact. 

Erica snuggled a little bit closer to Boyd, ignoring the fact that she was already as close as possible without actually lying on top of him. Boyd, gem that he was, curled his arm around her shoulders tighter, pulling her in as much as he could. Erica sighed softly in contentment, feeling herself go practically boneless in response. Times like this, she could barely feel the hole in her heart from their lackluster pack. 

For a while, she just lay there, letting her mind drift. However, inevitably her thoughts circled back to their new alpha. She sighed again, this time with a sort of weary resignation. Boyd shifted against her, sensing the change in tone. His arm twitched against her shoulder and Erica heard the question in it. 

“So… Scott,” she started and then let her words fade into the night, leaving the rest unsaid. 

Boyd blew out a long slow breath, not quite a sigh, but tempered with a similar jaded tiredness. He didn’t say a word, but he didn’t need to. It never ceased to amaze and impress Erica how much Boyd could communicate without ever saying a thing or with only a handful of words. Just like it never ceased to frustrate her that nobody seemed to be willing to actually listen to him, and just assumed that he had nothing of value to contribute. 

“Maybe he’ll change? Grow into it?” Erica offered, not quite able to convince herself. 

Boyd hummed, communicating a doubt that mirrored her own. 

She sighed. “Yeah, I didn’t think so either.” 

Boyd tilted his head until his temple pressed gently against the top of her head. “Together,” he murmured.

In one smooth motion, Erica rolled on top of him, burrowing her nose into his neck until all she could smell was him and the sound of his heartbeat drowned out the world. “Forever,” she confirmed. 

As they predicted, Scott continued to be a less than impressive alpha. Each time he blew off his betas to spend time with Allison, insulted Peter for no reason, or ignored Stiles when the human raised a security concern, Erica reached out blindly and twined her hand into Boyd’s, letting the desperate squeeze there be the only sign of her unspoken fear and anguish. Each time, Boyd caught her gaze and held it. 

“Together,” his eyes said, calm and steady as ever. 

Then she would give his hand one more firm squeeze before relaxing, though she wouldn’t let go. “Always.”  

Erica practically threw herself into “their” corner of the loft, still fuming about the assignment. A 20 minute presentation for their history class! Over a randomly assigned time period or person! Working “together” with three other people! Erica didn’t know enough curse words to adequately express her opinion on that idea. And trying to look up more would get her in trouble faster than you could say “censored website”. Pity. 

Boyd hummed sympathetically. 

At least Boyd was on her team. He had a beautiful deadpan stare that should work great for guilt-tripping slacking teammates. Still, 20 minutes? Her life sucked. 

Erica let herself get lost in her rant. It was that or listen to their illustrious alpha make out with his hunter girlfriend. 

No thank you. 

She managed to draw out her rant until Peter spoke up, even if it got unfortunately repetitive —she really needed to find some new, better swears. But Peter raised a very distracting concern. Apparently, some sort of horror-creature was in their territory, capable of slaughtering anything it came across, and Scott didn’t care. He wanted them to leave it alone.  

Her hand found Boyd’s. 

Peter’s standoff with Scott made her incredibly uncomfortable, even more so because she found herself in the awkward position of agreeing with Peter on this one, of disagreeing with her alpha. Boyd sensed, or perhaps felt, her discomfort and pressed against her side, encouraging her to lean against him. She did so and watched in tense silence as the argument ended and Peter left, but her discomfort stayed, untouched by Boyd’s presence or the pizza that arrived a bit later. 

That night she laid on top of Boyd’s chest, face pressed against his neck. She wanted the closeness more than she wanted the peace of watching the stars. 

“I hate this,” she whispered into his skin, quietly, like a confession. 

Boyd rumbled in answer, his arms raising to wrap her in a hug like he could protect her from the world with the strength of his arms. 

“I hate this,” she whispered again, a bit louder. “The emptiness, the pretending, the posturing. Why does it always feel like something is missing? Why do I constantly feel like I want something I’ve never had and can’t even describe? I hate this, I hate this, I hate this!”  

Boyd rocked her gently as she broke down and wept near-silently into his shoulder. “I know,” he whispered into her hair, his lips brushing against the top of her head. “I know. Me too.” 

Erica fell asleep there and Boyd carried her inside. She woke up the next morning, washed the tear tracks from her face, dressed methodically like a soldier preparing for battle, and walked into school with her head held high, projecting confidence and false cheer like she had never done anything else. 

And if Boyd stayed at her shoulder, ready and willing to support her should she falter? That’s what made them a good team. 

A little over a month passed in that same agonizing mundanity. Erica sashayed through the days with a lifted chin, a confident smirk, and an ache in her heart. 

Then something changed. 

It started with a basic training session. Erica hadn’t needed Boyd’s sudden jolt of attention to make her watch Stiles and Peter’s arrival more closely. She straightened up as soon as they arrived together. And she did mean, together. Stiles and Peter arrived in the same car, walked up together, and, according to Scott, smelled enough like each other to indicate they had been spending a lot of time together. She watched curiously as they even staked out a section of wall together, standing close enough to each other that their shoulders were brushing. 

Erica could tell that Boyd didn’t quite buy the explanation that Stiles was acting as some sort of supplementary pack boost —whatever that meant— but frankly, Stiles and Peter had always been a bit weird. What did it matter to them if they decided to be weird together? So they left it alone. 

But then Isaac got involved. 

Since the three of them were all pack, Isaac had been some sort of pseudo-friend. They weren’t super close, but they still ended up gravitating to each other since they were classmates and vaguely knew each other while also not being part of Lydia and Jackson’s clique. At first, they, like Scott, ascribed Isaac’s closeness with Stiles to a puppyish imprinting after Stiles helped him through that horrible panic attack and breakdown. And maybe at first it was. 

But after about a month, something in Isaac’s behavior shifted. 

Boyd noticed it first of course. Sometimes Erica was jealous of how incredibly observant her boyfriend was. They were walking down the hall between classes hand in hand when Boyd tilted his head forwards. “Look.”

Erica glanced around, not noticing anything out of the ordinary, but Boyd’s tone had a note of seriousness that usually meant he was referring to something to do with the supernatural, and there were only two people in the range of Boyd’s nod who were also involved. 

“Stiles and Isaac?” she asked him quietly. 

A short nod.

She looked closer, before leaning back with a huff. “I don’t see anything.” 

“Look,” Boyd stressed. 

Sighing, Erica tilted her head and tried, not for the first time, to figure out what Boyd had seen. The two boys were walking together, laughing and joking about something. As she watched, Isaac bumped Stiles gently with his shoulder and then danced sideways a few steps away, head dunked and tilted away, still laughing. Stiles threw his head back in laughter and reeled Isaac back in with an arm around his shoulders, ruffling his hair playfully. 

Erica’s chest ached, but something about that interaction nagged at her. Suddenly it clicked. “Did Isaac just flash throat?” she ventured. 

Boyd nodded. “I’m pretty sure he did it this morning too.” 

“Why? That’s Stiles!” Erica didn’t even really like flashing throat to Scott, and he was her alpha. She couldn’t imagine flashing throat to anyone else. Stiles wasn’t even a werewolf!

Boyd shrugged. “No idea.” 

Erica hummed and watched them wistfully. “He looks happy,” she finally said softly. 

Boyd pressed against her side. He didn’t say a word, but Erica could feel his agreement. And his longing. 

Now that it had been brought to her attention, Erica couldn’t stop watching Stiles and Isaac out of the corner of her eye, and she knew Boyd was watching too. They could help it. Something was definitely going on there. 

For instance, one day Jackson had clearly woken up on the wrong side of the bed that morning and was storming around in a foul mood. Boyd clocked it as soon as Jackson came into sight and immediately found excuses to keep them out of his path. However, Isaac had his back to the door and didn’t see Jackson coming at first. When Jackson got closer, Isaac must have heard or sensed something, because he turned around and accidentally made direct eye contact with the other teen. 

Erica winced in sympathy. When Jackson was in a mood like that, he had a tendency to take eye contact as a challenge. Meeting his gaze would make that unfortunate soul his target, bearing the brunt of the teen’s foul temper. 

Isaac’s eyes widened in realization and he started to turn away, but the damage had already been done. Jackson pivoted to storm right up to him, tilting his head to glare down at the other boy and squaring up to him aggressively. “Got a problem, Lahey?” he snarled. 

Isaac flinched back, but before he could say anything, Stiles slipped in between them, tucking Isaac behind his back and folding his arms across his chest, staring Jackson down like he wasn’t facing off with an enraged and unstable werewolf. “I don’t know,” Stiles said, perfectly calm. “Do you?” 

Jackson sneered. “What? Are you his bodyguard now? Little Lahey needs a human to protect him from bad ol’ me? Piss off, Stilinski. No one wants you here.” 

Stiles flicked his gaze up and down Jackson’s body and shifted his feet into a slightly more balanced and stable stance. Then he raised an eyebrow wordlessly. 

Erica could practically see Jackson’s blood pressure skyrocket at Stiles’s dismissive attitude. 

“I said, piss off, Stilinski!” Jackson tried again, this time punctuating the words with a shove. 

But either running with wolves had made Stiles a good bit stronger or Jackson had finally figured out how to modulate his strength in public, because Stiles barely swayed with the push. He still didn’t say anything but something in his bearing and expression changed that made the tiny hairs at the back of Erica’s neck stand up. She took a half-step back into Boyd. Sure, Stiles had proven many times over that he could take care of himself, human or not, but suddenly the teen looked dangerous.  

Jackson clearly noticed it too. Or perhaps some tiny preservation instinct in his hindbrain piped up enough for him to realize that this was a bad idea, because he suddenly looked uncertain. 

Jackson sneered one more time, downright weakly in comparison to his previous efforts, pivoted, and stormed off. 

Stiles watched him go for a couple moments before turning to face Isaac who was standing limply, head down. Stiles tilted Isaac’s head up with a finger under his chin. “You okay?” 

Isaac shrugged and then pointedly straightened his shoulders and shook himself off. He tilted his head at Stiles hesitantly, as if looking for approval. 

Stiles grinned and clapped him on the shoulder. “There you go! Come on, we have class, but we’re getting milkshakes after school.” 

Erica watched as Stiles hauled Isaac down the hallway with an arm around his shoulders, chattering away about nothing in particular. But Isaac continued to relax with every word until he was laughing along as well. Erica’s emotions swirled. Unbidden, the thought popped up “I wish Scott would protect us like that.” She quashed the thought mercilessly. She knew from long experience that wishful thinking like that always ended in increased misery when reality failed to live up to dreams. 

She glanced up at Boyd. He was staring after the two teens, naked longing on his face. Erica’s heart ached for her boyfriend, and she slipped her hand into his. Boyd glanced down at her and sighed, squeezing her hand gently before leading the way to class. 

The next instance of note happened about a week later. Erica and Boyd were in the cafeteria that time, having accidentally-on-purpose selected a table that gave them a good view of the table that Stiles and Isaac were sharing. Isaac was trying to finish a math assignment during lunch, having apparently been unable to complete it the night before due to running in the preserve or something like that. Erica hadn’t been able to catch the entirety of his excuses due to the volume of the crowded lunch period. 

Stiles leaned over, his shoulder pressed against Isaac’s as he pointed things out with the eraser side of a pencil, clearly helping him figure things out. They were making steady progress, but Erica could easily see Isaac’s frustration rising. Stiles was supportive and encouraging, heaping praise on the other teen and letting Isaac’s increasingly short temper slide off his back. 

However, eventually Isaac’s patience snapped and he threw his pencil down and shoved himself back, glaring down at the paper. “I can’t do it!” he snapped. “What does it even matter? This is stupid! I’m too stupid for this! Leave it alone! I don’t want your help!” 

Erica sucked in a breath, offended on Stiles’s behalf. But Stiles calmly set down his pencil and just looked at Isaac, who shrank slightly beneath his gaze. 

After a moment, Isaac’s eyes dropped and Stiles spoke. “I understand you’re frustrated, and I get it, but that was unacceptable. I’m trying to help. There’s no call to yell at me like that.”

Isaac flinched and ducked his head —flashing throat, Erica couldn’t help but notice. She glanced at Boyd and he nodded. He saw it too. 

Isaac whispered something, too quiet for Erica to make out in the crowded room, but almost certainly an apology by his body language. 

Stiles nodded. “I know, and I forgive you. But even more important is what you said about yourself. You are not stupid, Isaac. If you keep telling yourself that, you’ll start to believe it, and that’s horrible. I don’t want you to ever disparage yourself like that again.” Stiles tapped the underside of Isaac’s chin, making the other boy glance up to meet his eyes. “You are smart, Isaac. And brave, and strong, and worthy. Don’t ever let yourself think differently. And definitely don’t tell yourself otherwise. Okay?” 

Isaac murmured something she couldn’t hear again, but as he did, he curled his head and neck into a posture that couldn’t be anything but baring his throat. And perhaps even more incredibly, Stiles slid a hand up his back to firmly grip Isaac’s nape. Isaac went limp at the hold, trusting Stiles entirely, and Erica felt shivers run down her own spine. Stiles leaned over and bumped their foreheads together. Isaac relaxed, leaning into the contact. Stiles allowed it for another couple moments before shifting his hold to a more casual arm slung around Isaac’s back and shoulders, seamlessly switching from that mind-boggling interaction back to the homework assignment. 

“Alright,” Stiles said, with absolutely no impatience or annoyance in his tone. “Now I know this looks like a lot, but the important bit is to break it down into manageable parts.” He tapped the paper with his pencil. “Let’s start here. Just ignore everything else for a moment. What can you do here?” 

And just like that, Isaac buckled down again with renewed focus and confidence. 

Erica turned to face Boyd, mind racing. She had never seen anything like that. Isaac was submitting to Stiles, —which in it of itself blew her mind— and Stiles was responding, not with disdain or punishment, but with supportive dominance, care, and guidance. She ached with the yearning to have that, to share that. Erica opened her mouth, not even sure what she was going to say, just wanting to give voice to the maelstrom inside her, but Boyd shook his head sharply, cutting her off. 

“Later,” he said, and only the fact that she could see exactly how amazed and dumbfounded he was too, kept her from snapping back. 

Still, she couldn’t let it go. “But…” she trailed off, eyes darting back to Stiles. She wanted that so badly. 

Boyd shook his head again, but his gaze was understanding. “Later,” he repeated. 

Erica sighed and subsided, looking down at her food. Boyd followed her example, but both of them were distracting, picking at their food and stealing glances at the other table between bites. 

That night, when they were star gazing, Erica could feel their shared tension and excitement. Finally, Erica broke the silence. “Is it just me, or was Stiles acting like an alpha to Isaac?” 

“He definitely was,” Boyd confirmed. 

The silence stretched for a moment, neither of them sure quite what to say next. 

“Can humans be the alpha of a pack?” Erica asked and the implication and longing behind the question echoed between them, unsaid. 

Boyd shrugged one shoulder. “I have no idea. It seems like they can.” 

Erica hesitated, and Boyd tilted his head down at her in question. She blew out a breath. “Do you think he could be our alpha too? Would he?” 

The air was suddenly charged. Boyd tightened his grip on her. “We can ask,” he conceded. 

Erica pressed closer, the world suddenly opening up in front of them, huge and intimidating, full of possibility for success or disaster. She reached for Boyd’s hand, gripping tight. “Together?” she asked. 

Boyd hummed, deep and rumbling in his chest. “Always.” 

It took a couple days to find a good opportunity to approach Stiles. It seemed like he was always busy. Besides, they didn’t really want to approach him at school, too many people who might overhear something they shouldn’t. Then, Scott told them that they were having a pack meeting outside during lunch to go over the most recent threat. 

“We can talk to him after the meeting,” Boyd said, and Erica nodded, resolute. This was their chance. 

They waited at the exit for Isaac and Stiles to catch up. As a result, they overheard Isaac’s pride at getting a good grade and Stiles’s immediate affirmation and praise. Boyd caught her eye significantly and Erica hummed softly. Boyd was right. Scott never would have responded like that. He didn’t care about that kind of success in his betas. Stiles apparently did. 

They shared another significant glance as they sat in the bleachers. Isaac sat right below Stiles, leaning against him. Erica looked up at Boyd. She wasn’t sure, but she suspected that that was another show of submission on Isaac’s part, more evidence that Stiles was, incredibly, acting as Isaac’s alpha somehow. 

Boyd gave a tiny shrug, followed by an equally subtle nod. He apparently thought that Isaac’s choice wasn’t necessarily an act of submission, but also agreed with her that it very well could be. 

After the meeting concluded and Scott wandered off, Erica and Boyd hovered at the edge of the bleachers while Erica attempted to catch Stiles’s eye. It wasn’t difficult, Stiles seemed to be watching them with slight suspicion and apprehension. 

As the other two teens approached, Erica watched in fascination as they shared some sort of entirely silent conversation. She couldn’t tell what it was about —Boyd would probably have a better idea, so she would have to ask him later— but it ended with Isaac falling in behind Stiles like a particularly loyal bodyguard while Stiles’s bearing radiated protective watchfulness. 

Amazed, Erica couldn’t help the way her eyes flicked to Boyd. “Did you see that? Look at how they support and protect each other!” 

Boyd’s answering expression was almost eager in its hopefulness. 

When she looked back, Stiles was standing in front of her, and the expression on his face made her quail. Stiles had earned her begrudging respect for his resourcefulness, determination, and loyalty, but never had she stood in front of him and felt so utterly outmatched. She was the werewolf here, but something in Stiles’s body language indicated that if she made an aggressive move here, she would lose. Immediately. She felt like a peasant before a war general: outranked, overshadowed, and naive. 

Her words died in her throat as she completely lost her nerve. Boyd pressed gently against her side and Erica looked back at him in slight desperation. “Was he sure this was a good idea?”  

Boyd’s steady gaze was all the answer she needed, and she straightened with renewed determination. She could do this. 

“We want in.” She began, more bluntly than she meant, but it got the point across.

Stiles blinked and stared at her in silence for a moment. “In…?” he finally questioned. 

Erica nodded, flicking a glance at Isaac and trying to formulate her thoughts better. “Isaac looks to you now. The way he used to look to Scott. He looks to you for permission, for approval, for support. And you give it. In a way that Scott never did. He’s happier now and more confident. Just generally doing better than ever before. And we want that —Boyd and I, that is.”

Isaac tensed at her blunt assessment, and leaned into Stiles. Stiles immediately returned the pressure in silent support. Erica shot Isaac an apologetic grimace. She hadn’t meant to make him uncomfortable, but even then, they were proving her point, and she couldn’t help but glance between them pointedly before refocusing on Stiles.

“I didn’t know a human could be Alpha,” Erica continued. “But you’re clearly that to Isaac. I didn’t really have a problem with Scott, but I see you with Isaac and I want that—” Boyd suddenly nudged her with an elbow, and she blinked, embarrassed that she had accidentally left him out of this. “— We want that,” she corrected herself. “We want in.” 

Stiles blew out a breath and rocked back on his heels, hesitating, and Erica felt her heart crawl up into her throat. Both her and Boyd had avoided talking about what they would do if Stiles flat-out didn’t want them. Erica wasn’t sure she could handle the rejection, and she knew she wouldn’t be able to watch Isaac receive what she craved so badly. The longing would break her. Would probably break Boyd too. He was much more stoic than her, but his desire to belong was just as strong as hers, if not stronger. In that moment, Erica decided that if Stiles refused them, she would beg, down on her knees if necessary, pride be damned. For Boyd’s sake, if nothing else. He deserved to be valued. 

“Scott won’t like that,” Stiles finally said. 

Erica felt like she could melt in relief. That wasn’t a rejection. It was also a ridiculous observation. She scoffed. “I don’t need his permission to decide who I follow.” Then her expression gentled, suddenly understanding why Stiles brought it up. “But I hear what you’re saying. Scott will hit the roof if we leave to submit to you instead. Especially if Isaac is already yours. But we don’t care. Not really, at least. It’s more important to us to have a pack worth the name than to preserve Scott’s pride.” She hesitated, suddenly doubting all of the evidence she and Boyd had seen. “Isaas is yours, right? You’re acting as his alpha?”

Stiles snorted but nodded. “Yeah. You already guessed it, but yeah. Isaac is mine. I’m his alpha.” 

Erica grinned, pleased with her and Boyd’s observation skills, but Boyd apparently saw something that she didn’t. “Humans can be alphas?” he asked suddenly.

Stiles hummed. “I’ll tell you what. Let’s catch the wendigo and secure the territory first. After it’s safe, we can revisit this conversation and figure out what the best thing to do is.”

It wasn’t the answer Erica had been hoping for, but she knew that expecting Stiles to welcome them with open arms after one conversation was a little optimistic. She could wait. Especially now that she had hope of getting something better. 

Erica nodded. “Fine, but we’re going to hold you to that, Alpha.” The title was a deliberate test. Would he reject it, reject them viewing him that way?

Boyd gave a nod of agreement, but Erica could feel his sudden increased watchfulness, studying Stiles’s reaction to the title. 

Stiles only rolled his eyes with a smile. “Not your alpha yet.” 

Erica wanted to shout with joy. That was all but an acceptance right there. She knew that that “yet” was practically a guarantee. Stiles would be their alpha before long. She could hardly wait.

“Yet,” Boyd rumbled, the joy in the single word echoing her thoughts. 

Erica and Boyd’s chance to join Stiles’s pack came only two days later. 

When Erica showed up at the planned battlefield, she was cautiously hopeful. This was it. If they succeeded —and Stiles’s plans usually did, even if not how they were originally supposed to— then she and Boyd would be able to approach Stiles again and formally request to join his pack. She still didn’t understand Stiles’s pack. Boyd even suspected that Peter was in on it too. However, she couldn’t deny their obvious camaraderie and support. She wanted that. 

The battle escalated extremely quickly. One moment she was hanging out, preparations completed, and just daydreaming about what it would be like to have a pack that was close and tight knit the way that Isaac and Stiles seemed to be, the next, the wendigo came out of freaking nowhere and starting trying to tear Isaac apart. 

Erica fluttered around with everyone else, feeling absolutely useless. Even Peter couldn’t get close enough to actually help. Then a furry blur shot out of the trees and separated the two combatants with sheer, blunt force. 

And then Erica couldn’t breathe. 

Because Stiles, the ever-clumsy, sarcastic, human, wasn’t actually a human at all anymore. He was a werewolf. And not any werewolf. An alpha. With a full alpha shift.

He wasn’t simply acting like Isaac’s alpha, he was Isaac’s alpha. And likely Peter’s as well, judging by their behavior. What. The. Hell. 

Erica glanced at Boyd, wondering if the whole world had gone crazy when she wasn’t paying attention, but his jaw had dropped, and he couldn’t have looked more shocked if Stiles had turned into a fish and started dancing the cancan. 

Erica shook her head slowly as she faced forwards again. She couldn’t help feeling a bit stupid. All of her and Boyd’s careful observations and attention, yet they somehow failed to realize that Stiles wasn’t even human anymore. She couldn’t help but think about how many of his new behaviorisms made so much more sense now. He wasn’t imitating wolf instincts with a high degree of accuracy, he actually shared those instincts now. 

She joined the hunt for the wendigo with her mind still racing even as she walked a weird balance between obeying Stiles’s orders with a sense of strange eagerness, and following Scott’s lead otherwise. Stiles only gave them orders once, at the very beginning of the hunt, but it still brought Erica a sense of giddy hope. If he was giving her and Boyd orders, surely that meant he would accept them as his betas (his betas! What the hell.) soon. 

Then the moment of truth came. 

Stiles had defeated the wendigo single-handedly when the creature came after him. Erica couldn’t help but notice how much that show of strength and competence appealed to the wolf side of her that was assessing him as a potential alpha. Afterwards, Scott had his rather predictable blow up.

Finally, Scott stormed off, snapping at them over his shoulder. “Come on.” 

Erica froze. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw Boyd freeze as well. They had an opportunity here. The bulk of Stiles’s and Scott’s argument was over the fact that all of the betas had the right to choose which alpha they wanted to follow. They had the right to choose. Erica flicked her gaze between the two Beacon Hills Alphas. This felt like the time to make a choice. 

Scott took a couple steps before he realized that the two of them weren’t following him and he twisted enough to glare at them. “Come on . Let’s go,” he said, and Erica could hear his clear annoyance and impatience. 

She took a breath. Now or never. Erica glanced up at Boyd, letting her eyes mirror her racing thoughts. Did they really want to do this? There was no going back if they did. Were they sure? Was this actually going to be better?

Boyd who gave her a shallow nod. She could see his answer in his steady confident gaze. Yes. We can do this. Let’s do it. 

Erica reached out and grasped Boyd’s hand tightly. “Together?” she asked silently. 

He squeezed back. “Always.” 

Erica looked up and met Scott’s impatient eyes, faking a confidence she didn’t feel. She and Boyd took a small step back in unison. 

“No,” Erica said, cursing silently at the waver in her voice. 

Scott’s eyes flared a bright, furious red and he snarled at them, radiating rage and fury. Erica couldn’t help her flinch, her instincts were screaming at her, both that she was angering the alpha —practically a death sentence— and that she wanted no part of the instability in Scott’s eyes. They took another step backwards, towards Stiles who was watching silently, not attempting to influence their decision either way. Part of Erica appreciated his lack of interference, but she couldn’t help but want support. Still, she knew they had to do this part on their own.

Erica stared straight into Scott’s eyes, forcing herself to ignore the red color there that demanded her submission and obedience. She was sure of her choice. 

“No,” she said again, and this time her voice was steady and firm. 

Scott went completely still for a few moments before something seemed to snap. “You’re choosing him over me?” Betrayal and outrage oozed from every word. “He’s a murderer!” A tinge of insanity joined the fury curdling in his red-tinted eyes as he glared at them. 

Erica and Boyd took another step back. Now they were closer to Stiles than to Scott, an unspoken declaration of their allegiance. 

Boyd squeezed her hand. “We are allowed to choose. This is our choice,” he declared, his voice soft but firm. 

Scott snarled at them in response, and for a second, Erica actually thought he might attack them. But Scott only glared furiously at Stiles and stormed away, Jackson and Derek trailing after him. 

As he did, Erica felt something snap in her chest, like a thread under too much pressure. The tiny, sharp pain was immediately accompanied by the sudden sense that she was entirely alone in the world. She swayed minutely, hiding the motion by pressing into Boyd, who leaned back just as suddenly. She took a second to breathe past that abrupt bleakness. She wasn’t alone. She had Boyd, and he had her. 

After a moment, Erica turned to face Stiles, Boyd at her side. She felt hyper-aware of their current, uncertain position. They had left Scott’s pack, but Stiles technically hadn’t accepted them yet. Stiles didn’t say anything to them at first, sitting on the ground, and letting his two betas curl up beside him, the three of them practically cuddling together in the dirt. 

Erica yearned, but all she could do was wait, somewhat awkwardly. She wasn’t sure what to do now. 

Then Stiles looked up and pinned them in place with a piercing look. Erica barely breathed. It felt like he was assessing their entire life history and worth in one look. She suddenly wondered if he would find them, find her, worthy. 

“You know,” he said finally, “Just because you don’t want to be in Scott’s pack anymore doesn’t mean you’re obligated to join mine. Beacon Hills is a chaos magnet, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you want to get out of here entirely.” 

Erica blinked. He was giving them a choice? Like there even was another choice. Although, she did appreciate the consideration. Boyd was already shaking his head, and Erica was quick to follow suit. “No,” she replied. “Beacon Hills is crazy, but it’s home. We’d like to join your pack.”

“If you’ll have us,” Boyd added, and Erica couldn’t help but glance at her boyfriend. While a valid point, she really didn’t need the extra awareness of their precarious position. 

Stiles reached out a hand, not speaking and not moving otherwise. Erica hesitated, not entirely sure what he was asking for. After a moment, she gave Boyd’s hand one last squeeze and dropped it, stepping forwards to place her hand in Stiles’s. Stiles drew her in, his hold light enough that she didn’t feel trapped, and once she was close enough, he pulled her into an almost-hug, pressing their cheeks together and sliding his hand around to the back of her neck. 

Erica tensed, instincts —both human and wolf— suddenly uncertain. But Stiles didn’t pressure her, waiting patiently. Finally, she relaxed, leaning into the touch and accepting Stiles as her alpha, in action and thought. As she did, her head fell forwards to land on Stiles’s shoulder, instinctively baring her neck. A pack bond immediately flared into place, brighter, stronger, and better than anything she had ever experienced. It was overwhelming. And wonderful.  

Erica was distantly aware of the fact that she had practically collapsed into Stiles’s lap at the formation of the pack bond, but she was far too distracted by said pack bond to care. It was incredible and beautiful, the promise of companionship and support no matter what. She could even vaguely feel her new packmates through it. However, despite the overwhelming joy of it, it  felt oddly like something was missing in the bond, and the lack of that something nagged at her like a missing tooth. 

Erica barely noticed when Stiles shifted her sideways, still relishing in the feeling of having a strong pack. She definitely noticed when Boyd joined as well though. His sudden presence in the pack bond sang to her, filling all the holes and erasing the vague sense that something was missing. Erica curled into him, cuddled between her new alpha and her new packmates. For the first time since she was turned, she didn’t feel lonely at all. 

They were home.