Archive of Our Own ^beta

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Sheriff Stilinski thought he'd left all of this behind when he'd retired from the Air Force. Hoped he'd never have to deal with anything like this again. The weird, the insane, the inhuman, the dangerous. It's all supposed to stay safely on the other side of the 'Gate. It did, too, when it was his job. But somehow, it seems, it's all found him again, even way out in this podunk little town, hundreds of miles and millions of lightyears away.

He can't say anything to Stiles, can't confirm or deny any of his son's assertions. He signed away his ability to speak on this matter when he got his security clearance. So when Stiles insists that the creatures with superhuman strength and glowing eyes are werewolves, Stilinski can't correct him, can't tell him they're actually aliens, Goa'uld, that Scott—that poor boy, but maybe he managed to nab himself a Tok'ra if he's really lucky—is possessed, probably lost forever. The Scott they knew is gone.

When Cora collapses—and if she really is Goa'uld, as Stiles claims, why isn't she healing?—and he brings her in, he quietly asks the doctor to give her an MRI. He needs to be sure, needs to know how many of these things he's dealing with when he calls in the cavalry.

It hurts—oh, God, does it hurt—to hear the crack in Stiles' voice, to hear the betrayal in his voice when he says, "You just don't believe." He barely manages to bite back the denial, hates himself for being such a hypocrite, for becoming a liar just as his son is trying to tell him the truth. He has to walk away, doesn't dare meet his boy's eyes, tries to blink back the tears, until—"Mom would've believed me."

He can't. He just can't. He needs his son to be safe, to stay out of this. He needs to make a call, right now. He just hopes the message will end up in the right hands.

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His worst fears seem to be confirmed when he shoots Jennifer—Julia—whoever—and she heals instantly. He thinks it's maybe a bit odd that she doesn't flash her eyes or let her voice change, but maybe it's just habit borne of being undercover on Earth for so long. But then she kisses him, and her face changes. And then Scott jumps in, all fangs and claws and sudden sideburns and irises glowing yellow. Those are not things he can reconcile with his knowledge of how the Goa'uld work.

He runs through his mental catalog of known alien races while he's waiting under the Nemeton, to see if any of them fit the bill. T'ekaya and her crew could change their appearances, but their true forms looked nothing like the mess that was Jennifer's face. And that virus that turned them all into cavemen caused weird hair growth and facial distortion, but that doesn't quite match up with what he saw happen to Scott. And it doesn't explain the eyes at all.

He almost sighs with relief when Jennifer drags an unconscious Melissa McCall into the cellar and leans her against the post across from him. And promptly berates himself for celebrating their shared misery. Truly, this is not a situation he would wish on anyone, especially not Melissa, not even himself.

He glares at Jennifer as she works, can't help but shout after her as she leaves, "But what if I have to pee?" and roll his eyes as she smirks but otherwise ignores him. He waits until the sound of her footsteps has receded, until he's as sure as he can be that she's gone, before he tries to wake Melissa. "Melissa," he calls, peering over at her. He can't see from this angle whether she's hurt, or maybe drugged. "Hey," he tries again, raising his voice. "Melissa."

"Whah—" she jumps as she wakes up, struggling in panic until she turns and sees him. "Noah," she sighs, relaxing into her ropes. "Thank God. We thought you were—"

"Reports of my death are greatly exaggerated," he assures her. Or at least premature, he amends to himself, but it won't serve to say as much out loud. "You okay?"

She takes a moment to diagnose herself, wiggling around to test her bonds and take stock of any injuries. "Yeah. Hell of a headache, but all things considered, I'm pretty okay." He breathes easier for a moment on hearing that, until she starts to panic again. "Oh God, Scott, he's out there with them, and she's going to kill us, we have to get out of here–"

"Melissa, hey, hey," he starts. He can't have her panicking right now. He needs her to stay calm and give him some answers so he knows how to help his son. He needs to figure out a way to get them both out of this alive, and go rescue their kids from were-whatevers, and stop a serial killer. “Melissa. Breathe for me, okay? Listen,” he says, keeping his voice as steady and reassuring as possible, trying to get her to make eye contact, “I know you’re scared, and worried, and I am too, okay? But we need to stay calm, and get out of here, to help our kids. We can’t help them from here, like this, and I can’t help until I know what we’re up against. So breathe with me.”

“Right, breathing, sure, I think I can do that.” She nods decisively, and when he audibly exaggerates deep, steady breathing, she mirrors him. Shaky, at first, but evening out after a few more.

“You good now?” He studies her face, tries to get a read on her.

“Yeah,” she says, still a little shaky, but definitely calmer now. “Yeah, I think so. Thanks.”

"What is all this, Melissa? Really," he asks gently.

She levels him with a look. "You sure you don't know?"

Well, I thought I did, but... He shrugs. "Stiles tried to feed me some bullshit about werewolves and druids and..." he trails off as her expression shifts to something pinched, something between apologetic and amused. "...kanimas... Ah, crap." He thunks his head back on the post behind him, weighing the pros and cons of just concussing himself into oblivion right now. Melissa actually believes her son is a werewolf.

"No bullshit, Noah. I'm sorry," she says. He doesn't want to look at her right now, but he knows the expression she's wearing now anyway.

"'S'not your fault," he says, shaking his head at the dirt ceiling above him. Ugh, why couldn't this just be easy? Why couldn't it be aliens? He knows aliens. He knows how to deal with them. Aliens are easy. But this? "Are you sure it's not–" he starts to ask, but, no. He can't finish that sentence. He can't risk violating his clearance, can't get sent to federal prison for revealing classified information. He needs to be here to protect his son. From werewolves, apparently. Not Goa'uld.

But of course, Melissa isn't one to let him leave a sentence unfinished. She never was. "Sure it's not what?"

He avoids her probing gaze and fixes his eyes on the ceiling. "Nothing. Never mind." He knows she doesn't believe him, but now is not the time. He can change the subject, has to change the subject. He clears his throat again. "So. Werewolves. Who'd'a thunk-it." A horrible thought occurs to him, then, and he straightens up in a panic to see Melissa's face in response. "Wait, my son isn't—"

He relaxes again when she shakes her head. "No. Stiles is still completely human."

"Oh, thank God," he breathes. He almost regrets expressing such immediate and obvious relief when he sees the tense look on her face, but he's really just glad his son is still his son. He winces sympathetically for Melissa, though, because her son isn't. "Uh. Not that there's anything wrong with werewolves. In theory. Or," he tries, watching the incredulity build in her expression with every word, "I mean, I'm sure Scott is still perfectly... um... I should probably stop talking."

"That'd probably be a good idea, yeah," she agrees. He's pretty sure she's actually more amused than offended, but it's probably best to move on anyway.

"Alright. Lay it on me, then. From the beginning." He settles down and prepares himself for a long discussion.

The tale she tells him is confusing as all get-out, but mostly seems to agree with what Stiles attempted to tell him earlier. Scott getting bit by a werewolf, turning into one himself, solving the Hale fire case, finding out that Peter—who is apparently far less dead than expected, and far more sleazy—was the Alpha, and how Derek killed him and apparently brought him back to life, which Noah will definitely need to look into in detail later. He learns about the Argents, who are apparently werewolf hunters and prone to xenocidal mania. She tells him how that crazy night at the police station last spring where half the night shift was wiped out was all thanks to the kanima—Jackson Whittemore, of all people—and his teenaged psychopath master, Matt Daehler. And now, apparently, there's an entire pack of Alpha werewolves running rampant in his town, killing members of the newly-rebuilding Hale pack and threatening Scott. And also, obviously, the wacko serial killer lady who's tied him up in a basement to be her next human sacrifice.

All of this is sounding less and less like something that'd fall under SGC jurisdiction. Not that these couldn't still be aliens, maybe something he's never seen before, but his gut is telling him that's not the case. He needs to get to a phone, soon, and hopefully call off his SGC buddies before they come to town and make an even bigger mess of things.

Chapter Text

Noah nearly collapses in relief when his son arrives just in time to save them from being crushed in the crumbling root cellar. The storm stops shortly after, and while they wait for Scott to arrive to help them out, they all take the opportunity to check each other over for injuries.

“You’re bleeding,” Noah frowns at his son, noting the head wound and a deep-looking gash at the back of his neck.

“I’m fine, Dad,” Stiles insists, batting Noah’s hands away and pressing a hand to the neck wound. “It’s just a scratch. Something fell on me while I was climbing in here.”

“You sure? When we get outta here, you–” He doesn’t get to finish, though, as a commotion from above heralds the arrival of Scott and Derek. Noah won’t let this go for good, but he supposes it can wait until they’re out, and home safe. He helps steady the ladder for the ones that climb out ahead of him, and he thinks he may never have been more grateful before once he finally climbs out himself. Grateful and exhausted. He hugs his son, and keeps an arm slung over his shoulders as they walk toward the cars.

The last thing he needs is for Agent Rafael McCall to meet them at the edge of the preserve with his gaggle of goons. But, of course, today is not his day. It certainly doesn't bode well for him that McCall zeroes in on him immediately, only sparing a fleeting glance for his ex-wife to ensure her safety.

"Sheriff Stilinski—" McCall starts, but Noah has had just about enough today. He does not want to deal with this right now, not if he can help it.

"Whatever you want, McCall, it can wait until tomorrow. I'm going home." He turns away, intent on ushering his son back to the Jeep and figuring out how to get them all home in one piece.

"I'm afraid it can't, actually," McCall insists, catching up with him. "And I'll need you to come with me."

"Not gonna happen," Noah replies, doing his best to ignore the other man and the curious looks his son is starting to give him.

"Raf, just leave him alone," Melissa pipes up. "What the hell are you even doing here?"

"Ask him," McCall replies. "He requested my team's presence on a matter of national security."

Noah freezes, turning slowly to face the other man. God, does he want to punch the smug little smirk off his face. He narrows his eyes, suspicious. He really hopes McCall isn't implying what he thinks he's implying. "Seriously?" he hisses, stepping between McCall and the others.

McCall pulls a badge out of his jacket and hands it to him. Noah curses under his breath as he recognizes the emblem, and snaps the case shut as his son tries to crane his neck around to sneak a peek. "We've set up a facility in town," McCall tells him.

He sighs and hands Agent McCall's NID badge back. "Fine," he grumbles, "but let's make this quick. Melissa, you can get everyone home?"

"We'll be fine," she assures him. He knows she’ll have questions, and that he won’t be able to answer any of them. He has the feeling he’s going to be doing a whole lot of that in the coming days—not answering questions, as much as possible.

McCall escorts him to a previously-vacant office building downtown where a makeshift secure facility has been set up. Noah spends the next several hours trying to convince McCall and his goons that he overreacted, that there isn’t actually anything SGC-related going on, that they should all just go home and leave him alone.

He doesn’t succeed in convincing them, and, in fact, they inform him that they’ll be reviewing everything he’s ever worked on as Sheriff of Beacon Hills. But at least he manages to not spill the beans about werewolves.

Chapter Text

Deputy Clarke peeks her head in at Noah's office door. "Sheriff?"

"Now's not a very good time, Deputy," Noah grumbles.

"Sorry, sir, it's just, the new deputies are here," Clarke explains, and at least she does have the good grace to look apologetic. "We just need you to sign off on their paperwork so they can get started."

Noah sighs, biting back a curt refusal. It's not Clarke's fault the world's gone crazy and he now has to deal with supernatural creatures, asshole government agents, and a job review. He closes up the open case file he'd been studying and sets it aside. "Fine. Send 'em in."

Clarke enters, two file folders in one hand and two young men trailing behind. She hands over the folders and pats the edge of Noah's desk, probably in an attempted display of solidarity and support. Noah appreciates the effort, small though it is. "I'll gather them up when you're done, sir," she says, and exits the room, leaving the two newbies standing, awkwardly silent, inside.

"Alright, then," Noah says, opening up the file folders for a brief glance. He's hoping to get this over with as quickly as possible so he can get back to doing some actual police work. "Parrish and—" he freezes momentarily when he sees the name on the second folder. Either this is one hell of a coincidence, or something hinky is definitely going on here. "—O'Neill." He looks up at the pair in front of him, and sure enough, the one on the right looks eerily familiar. He looks back down at the folder to make sure, and, yeah. Same name. Looks back up. Yep, same brown eyes, same sandy blond hair (minus the grey). He looks at the folder again. Colorado, military experience. He looks up once more. Huh. Age the guy thirty years or so, and yeah, that's him. Well, looks like this isn't going to be nearly as quick as he'd hoped. He clears his throat and glances again at the first folder. "Says here you both just moved here from Colorado. Why?" he asks, looking up at both of them this time.

Parrish is the one who answers, with a shrug. "We needed a change of scenery."

Noah raises an eyebrow at him. "Okay, but why here?"

Parrish answers again. "Seemed like a good idea at the time, sir."

Noah frowns at that and flicks his eyes over to O'Neill. The young man sighs, looking a bit embarrassed, and meets his eyes steadily. "I've heard good things about the town. Old friend of mine moved here a few years ago."

"Yes, well, the town might've changed since then," he grumbles. He ignores the curious and confused looks on the young men's faces and forges on. "You both have military experience," he notes after glancing back at the folders. "Air Force?"

"Army, sir," Parrish corrects. "Two tours in Afghanistan."

Noah raises an eyebrow at O'Neill, who shrugs. He doesn't even know where to start with that one. "Not Colorado?" he decides.

Parrish smirks. "Not as much action in Colorado."

"You might be surprised," Noah mutters down at the folders in his hands.

O'Neill snorts at that, and Noah snaps his gaze over, narrowing his eyes. Parrish elbows the other young man sharply, and O'Neill clears his throat. "Sorry," he mumbles, attempting to look contrite.

Noah purses his lips as he glances back over Parrish's folder. He nods decisively at what he sees and signs the required pages. He snaps the folder shut and hands it over to the young man. "Thank you, Deputy Parrish. Deputy Clarke can take care of you from here. Welcome to Beacon Hills."

Parrish grins in excitement. "Thank you, sir," he says, accepting the folder. He hesitates, though, before turning away, glancing questioningly at O'Neill. "Uh," he starts.

"Shut the door on your way out," Noah orders, not giving Parrish any opening to speak further.

Parrish clears his throat. "Right. Yes, sir." He thwacks the other young man on the arm with his folder as he leaves, hissing, "Behave."

"Yeah, sure, you betcha," O'Neill mumbles after him with a wry smile. Another buzz of familiarity settles in Noah at the phrasing.

He contents himself with studying the young man's file for a minute, even after Parrish shuts the door. He takes his time deciding where to start, ignoring O'Neill's restless fidgeting before him. "I had the great honor of serving with a Colonel Jack O'Neill at my last assignment in Colorado," he says at last, glancing up from the file. He doesn't miss the way this O'Neill preens slightly at the praise. "Any relation?"

"Ah," O'Neill says, scratching his neck and looking sheepish, "yeah, I guess you could say that."

Noah hums assuredly and continues. "Now, I know Colonel O'Neill didn't have any siblings, so you're not his nephew. And I know for a fact you're not his son."

O'Neill puts up a valiant effort to hide the flash of pain at the mention, but he's not entirely successful. "No," he answers quietly. "I'm not his son."

"Let me guess," he says, and waits for O'Neill to meet his eyes again. "Deep space radar telemetry?" he asks, quoting the old cover term.

O'Neill bursts into surprised laughter. "Something like that, yeah," he confirms.

Finally, he thinks with a heavy sigh of relief, someone who will know what I'm talking about. "So, you and Parrish...?" he trails off, letting the unsaid ask the questions for him.

O'Neill smiles wistfully. "Best friends since high school."

Noah quirks an eyebrow at that. "High school?" He can't quite picture Colonel O'Neill in high school. It's an odd image, to say the least.

O'Neill waves a hand in dismissal. "Long story."

"I bet," Noah agrees. "Does he know about—"

"Deep space radar telemetry?" O'Neill finishes for him with a smirk, and Noah nods. "No, he doesn't know."

Noah mulls that over for a moment. "Do you think he could handle it?"

"Yes," O'Neill answers promptly, "definitely."

Noah nods decisively and signs the forms in O'Neill's folder. "Well," he says, getting up from his desk, "I hope you weren't expecting a quiet life this time around, because you're about to be sorely disappointed. Come on." He trades O’Neill’s paperwork for his department-issued gun and badge with Deputy Clarke on the way out, with a quick, “Finish up with this, and Parrish, thanks. I’ll take care of this one’s onboarding,” then guides the young man along with a hand on his shoulder.

“Now, it might not be deep space radar telemetry, exactly,” he explains, voice low, “but at this point, I also can’t say for certain that it isn’t at least partly that.” He hands over the gun and badge and lets O’Neill get settled with them while they walk. “I can’t give you the whole story here, but I really need another perspective from someone who knows what I’m talking about. What are you doing after shift tonight?”

“What, you finally taking me fishing?” O’Neill grins easily at him as they reach the records room.

Noah snorts at the reference to their last goodbye. “Not yet, sorry.” He rummages for a few minutes in a random-seeming collection of file boxes, grabbing a few here and there, and handing them to O’Neill. “Take those,” he orders, and grabs one last box off a shelf, hefting it, “and let me know what you think. We’ll start going over all these tonight, and I’ll explain the rest.”

“What about Jordan?” O’Neill asks as they walk back to the bullpen. “Parrish,” he clarifies at Noah’s confused squint.

Noah shakes his head. “I need you up-to-date first. Need to be able to speak freely to at least one person for at least one day, or I’m gonna lose my mind.” He jerks his head over toward where Parrish is sitting. “Go get settled in with your boy. I’ll give him a batch of files to look over in a bit.” He sets his box on a desk at the edge of the room and starts sorting through it, picking out the case files he thinks might need a second look with his newfound knowledge.

“On it, sir.” O’Neill grins and salutes him cheekily.

Noah scrunches his nose and shakes his head. “Don’t call me that. Too weird hearing it from you, to me. Sheriff is fine.”

O’Neill cackles as he retreats, but doesn’t otherwise reply. Noah rolls his eyes and turns his attention back to his box.

“What was all that about?” he hears Deputy Parrish ask O’Neill quietly, a few seconds later. The two are now sitting close together in their back-to-back office chairs, Parrish swiveled partially around and leaning into O’Neill’s space as they get settled at their assigned desks.

“Nothing, just, uh,” O’Neill replies, glancing briefly in the Sheriff’s direction, “asking about my… uncle.”

“Uncle?” Parrish looks bewildered. “I didn’t know you had an uncle. He famous or something?”

“No, they, uh, they served together. Air force.” O’Neill grabs one of the case files off his desk and leans back, opening it.

Parrish bumps his shoulder to O’Neill’s. “Come on, seriously. Why didn’t you ever tell me you had an uncle? I thought all your family were dead.”

O’Neill relaxes for a moment against Parrish’s shoulder and sighs. “Long story. Can’t really talk about it.” He clears his throat and straightens in his seat again, refocusing on the file in his hands. “Anyway, I won't be home until late tonight. Sheriff invited me over to watch Wormhole X-treme! after work. Turns out he's a fan, too.”

Noah grins down at his box of files as he hears Parrish groan. "I will never understand what it is you find appealing about that show. It's ridiculous.”

"That's exactly the point!” O'Neill argues, and Noah can tell it's one they've had many times before. "It's supposed to be ridiculous! Sheriff, back me up here!"

Noah straightens his stack of files and walks over to the pair. “I think you'd find, the show can actually produce some very poignant and heartfelt stories, while also being the most silly and scientifically inaccurate thing you've ever seen." He hands the stack of files to Parrish. “I'm going over some old open case files, I'd like your perspective on these as soon as you can. Fresh set of eyes, and all that. And you might wanna rethink your stance on Wormhole X-treme! while you're at it."

He leaves the two of them to bicker about low-budget sci-fi and heads back into his office, door open, to mull over how best to explain everything to O'Neill. He wants to do better than his son's awkward chessboard analogy, but he thinks Stiles had the right idea when it came to providing a demonstration.

He picks up a pen as he sits at his desk, just to have something to fidget with while he considers his options. He needs people who can answer any questions O’Neill might have, but also not anyone he'd feel bad about kicking out after the supernatural side of things is fully explained. Two awkward phone calls later, he starts to feel like maybe soon he won't be so alone in this after all.

Chapter Text

“Oh good, you're the first one here. Come on in," he says, tugging O’Neill inside by the elbow. "My son is out with friends tonight, otherwise we really would be having Wormhole X-treme! marathon night. Which, actually,” he explains, "we absolutely can and should, but not tonight. Just fair warning, though, Stiles is a hardcore Levanning shipper."

O'Neill grins at the fandom shorthand for the Dr. Levant/Colonel Danning ship, for the characters based on himself and Daniel Jackson. “Honestly?" he asks, leaning close and lowering his voice as if sharing a secret, “me too."

Noah grins back at him and squeezes O'Neill’s elbow once before letting go. “Kinda thought you might." He guides the young man over to the dining table and gestures for him to get set up there. "We're waiting on two more for part one of this conversation. They aren’t read in on, uh, deep space radar telemetry. I really hope you’ll understand once they explain. Want anything? Beer?” He grabs a glass from the cupboard and fills it with water, sets it aside on the table for later.

O’Neill nods as he sets his stack of files on the table. “That’d be great, thanks. I think you’re onto something with these,” he adds, tapping the files. “But I get the feeling there’s more to it.”

“Boy, is there ever,” Noah mutters as he grabs three beers from the fridge. He opens two, handing one to O’Neill. “Quick question before anyone else shows up, when did whatever happened to you… happen? I know the drill, I don’t need details. Just, need to know what kind of knowledge base we’re working with here.”

“About four years after you left, I guess?” O’Neill shrugs one shoulder and sips his beer. “I have all his memories up to that point, though.”

“Good, that’s… helpful. I can work with that.” Another knock at the door interrupts them, and Noah puts his beer down on the table on his way out to answer it. His mind races on the short walk back to his entry hall, processing O’Neill’s most recent revelations. He opens the door and has to mentally shake himself to bring his mind back to the present, to the actual man in front of him and not the memory of the man he once knew. The resemblance really is uncanny, though, and having O’Neill there has brought all the memories to the front of his mind. “Chris, thanks for coming. Come on in.” He gestures for Chris to follow him and shuts the door behind them.

“You said you needed help with something?” Chris asks as he follows.

Noah claps the other man on the shoulder. “In a minute. I have someone you need to meet.”

“Martouf?” O’Neill gasps as they enter the dining room, looking a bit shell-shocked.

“Chris Argent,” Noah corrects while addressing the man in question, “I was wondering if you could help my new deputy—” He turns to gesture at O’Neill, but freezes when he sees the young man’s face. He’s pale, shaken, as if—as if he’s seen a ghost. Shit. “Sorry, one second, Chris,” he apologizes, and draws O’Neill a few steps away, into the kitchen. He lowers his voice, and asks, dreading the answer, “When?”

“About a year after you retired.” O’Neill draws a shaky breath and scrubs a hand through his hair. Noah squeezes his eyes shut, allowing himself only a moment to mourn. “It… wasn’t good.”

“No,” he replies gently, “I can’t imagine it would’ve been.” He squeezes the young man’s shoulder and waits for him to make eye contact. “We can talk about it later, right?” He pauses, and O’Neill nods. “For now, we have a job to do. This isn’t him, just–”

“You called me that, too,” Chris Argent, still standing in the doorway but clearly eavesdropping, interrupts, looking curiously at Noah, “the first time we met. Who was he?”

Noah raises an eyebrow in question at O’Neill, who just shrugs in reply, still looking unsettled. No easy answer to that question. “Old friend,” he decides. “Sorry again, you just… you look so much like him.” Exactly like him.

Chris takes that in for a moment, looking at the two of them, as if trying to map out connections. “Sounds like he was a good man." He steps fully into the room at last and braces his hands against the dining table.

“Yeah,” Noah whispers, and scoops up the third beer bottle from the counter. He raises an eyebrow at Chris and tilts the bottle at him. Chris nods, a bit absently, and accepts the bottle after Noah pops the cap and hands it to him. Another knock at the door sounds, startling Chris and O’Neill. “Chris,” he points a finger in warning at the man, “behave yourself. He’s here as my guest.” He turns his back on Chris’s perplexed face and stalks toward the door.

He swings the door open and immediately raises a hand to stave off any questions. “I’ll explain inside,” he says, and steps aside to let Derek Hale through the door. “Just promise you won’t maim anyone.”

Derek grins wide, revealing sharp (human) canines. “I’m not one to make promises I can’t keep, Sheriff.”

Noah rolls his eyes and leads him to the dining room. He doesn’t wait for any of them to react this time, just plows ahead with the introductions. “Chris Argent, Derek Hale, Deputy Jack O’Neill.” He waves his hand at each in turn and decides that’s good enough. “You two need to explain our situation to this one. Answer any and all questions he may have. I trust him implicitly, with this and all things.” He collapses into one of the chairs at the dining table and picks up his beer to take a long swig. He’s still reeling a bit from the news of Martouf’s death, though why it surprised him, he’s not really sure. He nudges the glass of water he’d prepared earlier in Derek’s direction and motions for all of them to sit.

The tension in the room is palpable, especially between Chris and Derek, but Noah doesn’t have the energy to let them start any nonsense. He just hopes this conversation leads to greater understanding instead of further confusion. Either way, though, he’s gonna need something stronger than beer after this.

Chapter Text

“So… thoughts?” Noah asks O’Neill tentatively, once Chris and Derek have cleared out. He walks back to the table carrying his bottle of whiskey and two glasses—pours both, sits, and shoves one glass toward O’Neill.

O’Neill flops back in his chair and scrubs a hand down his bewildered face. “I mean, I can’t say I was expecting werewolves,” he says with a dry laugh, “but honestly? Not at all the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen. Or experienced. Or been. So.” He shrugs, defeated. “Sure. Werewolves. Why not.” He picks up his whiskey glass and drains half in one go, shaking his head. “God, but Chris Argent…”

“I know,” Noah agrees. “It’s never not weird to see him.” He winces around a sip of his own whiskey, more from the memories he’s facing than the burn of the alcohol. “How…” he trails off, both dreading the answer and needing to know.

O’Neill stares at the table, through the table, for a long few moments before responding, sounding haunted. “He didn’t know… he’d been turned into a sleeper agent. Almost killed us all. Carter had to take the final shot.”

Noah releases one long, slow, painful exhale, then remembers one more thing he needs to tell O’Neill. “So, uh, not that I really wanna bring the mood down even more, but. You should know,” he says, rolling his glass between his palms guiltily, “the NID are in town.”

O’Neill’s eyes snap up to meet his, startled. “The—please tell me you’re kidding.”

“I really wish I could,” he apologizes. “I, uh, I’d already called this in, before I knew what was actually going on. They’re pretending to be FBI, conducting a job review. Of me.”

O’Neill barks out a humorless laugh. “God, they’re gonna have a field day once they recognize me. Hey, but, who knows,” he offers, “maybe having me around will distract them enough to keep them off your back a bit.”

Noah braces his elbows on the table and hides his face wearily in his palms to cover a slightly hysterical laugh. “Have I told you yet how glad I am you’re here?”

O’Neill’s eyes crinkle in a genuine smile. “I mean, you kinda implied it, with the whole ‘I trust him implicitly’ thing. But, y’know. Still nice to hear.”

“Hey, so, can I ask you something awkward?” he asks, studying the younger man.

O’Neill blinks only briefly at the abrupt change in subject. “Sure, always. Love an awkward question.”

“You seem…” he starts, trying to figure out the best phrasing for what he wants to ask, “a lot more open. Than you were at the SGC.”

And even though he didn’t manage to phrase it as a question, O’Neill still understands what he's asking, and nods. “It's a different world than the one we grew up in. Different laws. Different culture."

Noah sips his whiskey while he considers that. “It really is, isn’t it,” he agrees gently. He may be due for a bit of self-reflection, once this whole situation calms down. But first he needs to do what he can to make the situation calm down, so. Back on task. “Anyway. Now that you’re all caught up, what do we think of these case files?”

They study the case files late into the night, bouncing ideas off each other, debating whether something could be supernatural in origin or ‘Gate-related. And they do end up putting on a few episodes of Wormhole X-treme! in the background, just to help lighten the mood.

Chapter Text

There’s something wrong with Stiles. Noah is doing everything he can to keep it together, to keep McCall and his NID goons from figuring out anything important, to keep everyone alive. But there’s something wrong with his son.

He can’t stop himself from building a list of symptoms, first in his mind, eventually in his notepad. Sleepwalking, night terrors, memory gaps, insomnia.

The kids continue to go to school as if nothing is wrong. But the list of symptoms grows. Inability to distinguish dream from reality, sleep paralysis, paranoia.

There’s something wrong with Stiles, but there’s also something brewing, something bad. Something is coming for all of them. Changes in appetite, intermittent inability to read, irritability.

Chris comes to him one afternoon, informs him that Isaac was attacked, in Chris’s apartment and while he was there, no apparent indications of how they got in or how they left. Chris claims the creatures were likely there for him, but Noah’s not so sure. Chris gives him copies of photos, a broken mask he’d apparently knocked off of one of these creatures many years ago. Loss of inhibition, tremors, nightmares.

Derek doesn’t answer his phone when Noah calls to ask if he can provide any insights. He leaves a frustrated voicemail anyway. Impulsive behaviors, emotional withdrawal, memory loss.

There are two possible causes he knows of for what Stiles might be going through, plus any number of unknown supernatural causes. Noah doesn’t know which option he dreads most. All he can do for now, though, is observe. And apparently figure out what to do about shadow-ninjas attacking the kids.

Compulsive behaviors, loss of empathy, apathy…

Chapter Text

“Nice of you to finally show up,” Noah grumbles at Derek as he enters the Sheriff’s office with his sister in tow. “Shut the door.”

Derek lifts a judgmental eyebrow at Noah as he complies. “We were out of town. I had to arrange a few things with my university, and Cora…”

“Family business,” the younger Hale states, arms crossed, “and none of yours.”

“Yes, well, anything you can tell us about ninja warriors made out of shadows with fireflies for eyes would be greatly appreciated,” Noah snaps. He doesn’t have the patience today for whatever werewolf-y power play these two might be trying to pull.

He’s not met with the resistance he was expecting, though, as both Hales exchange a meaningful glance, and Derek says, “They attacked us both, not long after we got back to town.”

Noah nods, mouth pressed into a grim line. “They’ve been systematically attacking members of the supernatural community,” he confirms. “Hitting a few each night. Isaac, Lydia, Ethan, Aiden. We think Scott will be next.”

“I wish I could help you,” Derek says with a shrug, “but they’re nothing I’ve ever seen or read about before. They haven’t killed anyone yet, though, so. Maybe it’s not all bad?”

“I think we need to operate under the assumption that everything is always bad until explicitly proven otherwise,” Noah cautions. “Chris has encountered these things before, but even he doesn’t know what they are or what they’re doing here. He does have this, though,” Noah explains, and stands up from his desk to grab the stack of photos off the top of his file cabinet, handing them to Derek.

Derek frowns down at the photos of the broken mask, taking a moment to study each photo in detail, then handing the ones he’s finished with to Cora. He pauses longer on one, squints down at it, turns it to the side. “There’s some writing on this one. See, here, carved into the inside of the chin,” he says, tilting the photo so Noah can see and pointing to the area in question.

“We hadn’t noticed that before,” Noah mutters with a frown. The carving is shallow, easily missed, but clearly discernible to anyone paying enough attention.

Derek brings it back close to his own face, holding the picture at an angle and studying it intently. “I recognize the symbols, but unfortunately, it’s not a dialect I’m familiar with.”

Cora leans her hip against the arm of one of the Sheriff’s chairs as she shuffles through the photos. A flash of gold catches Noah’s eye, and a heavy amulet swings free from behind Cora’s layered flannel. Noah can’t help but stare, suddenly breathless, as though he’s been punched hard in the gut, as he recognizes it.

“I’m a little rusty in my ancient Japanese,” Derek continues, “but my thesis advisor can help. He–Sheriff?” Derek pauses, noticing the abrupt change in where Noah’s attention is directed. “You okay?” He narrows his eyes, looking like he can’t decide whether to be suspicious or concerned.

“You–” Noah breathes as the Eye of Ra seems to stare right back at him, “where did you get that amulet?”

Derek and Cora exchange a confused glance, and Cora picks the amulet up off her chest, frowning down at it. “It was our aunt’s,” she answers, voice heavy with grief.

“Your aunt,” Noah repeats, voice carefully neutral. “Catherine Langford was your aunt.”

“By marriage, technically,” Derek explains, brow furrowed, gaze flicking between Noah and the amulet. “To our great-uncle Ernest.”

A horrifying thought occurs to him, and he quickly digs through a drawer behind him to pull out the old Hale House Fire case file. Sure enough, listed among the deceased are Catherine Langford and Ernest Littlefield, though the coroner’s notes state that Ernest’s remains were never positively identified. “Wait—was she a werewolf, too?”

Cora’s frown deepens further, something Noah wouldn’t have thought physically possible. “No, but Ernest was. Sheriff… you knew her?”

“Both of them, actually, yeah,” he answers distractedly, fingers of one hand gently tracing over the list of names in the file. He has no idea how he’d missed this before, but then again, he really wasn’t expecting his two worlds to be so intimately intertwined. This feels somehow like it explains so much, but at the same time, it really explains exactly nothing.

Ignoring the two confused werewolves in front of him, Noah walks over to the door and calls Deputy O’Neill away from the NID agent he’s shamelessly flirting with (‘Distracting them,’ he’d insisted, ‘I’m helping!’), closes the door again as O’Neill steps inside and hands him the open file without any further commentary. He hears the sharp intake of breath as O’Neill reaches the relevant section of the file, followed by an impressively creative string of curses uttered low.

“Care to let us in on whatever it is we’re missing here, Sheriff?” Derek asks cautiously.

Noah shakes his head absently as he returns to where he’d been standing at his desk, O’Neill only a few steps behind, then straightens abruptly as a few more connections fall into place. “Dr. Daniel Jackson is your thesis advisor,” he guesses, though at this point, it’s not even a question. That’s the only person it could possibly be, in this crazy, mixed-up world he’s found himself in.

Derek’s eyes widen in shock. “You’re familiar with his work?”

“Familiar with his…” He meets O’Neill’s eye, and both of them double over in hopeless hysterical laughter at that, while Derek and Cora both look at them as though they’ve entirely lost their minds. “Yes, yeah, you could say that,” Noah manages to gasp out after a moment, wiping amused tears away from his eyes. “‘Familiar with his work.’ Oh, kid, you have no idea. No idea.”

Derek bristles defensively. “Look, I know his theories about the pyramids are a little unorthodox—”

Noah shakes his head emphatically, still chuckling. “No, hey, that’s not it at all, I promise,” he reassures Derek, though Derek doesn’t end up looking particularly reassured. He rubs both hands down his face, trying to smooth away the smile. “‘Familiar with his work.’ Oh, man, that’s a good one.”

O’Neill takes another moment to compose himself as best he can, bumping his forearm against Noah’s elbow as he says with a grin, “Werewolf’s got jokes, and he doesn’t even know it.” He then turns to Derek, fixing him with deeply assessing scrutiny. “There’s more to you than I thought,” he observes appreciatively. “Any chance you know something about deep space radar telemetry?”

“I have no idea what that means,” Derek replies, arching one brow.

“Worth a shot,” O’Neill mutters, shrugging a sympathetic shoulder at Noah. “Anyway, yeah, give ol’ Danny Boy a call, tell him I say hi.”

“We,” Noah corrects. “We say hi. Not sure if he’ll remember me, but…”

“He’ll remember you,” O’Neill assures him quietly. “He always liked you. We all did.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Noah says, shaking his head. “I barely even did anything, I was kind of just there.”

“You had our backs,” O’Neill reminds him. “That’s a whole lotta something.”

“Not that I’m not finding this conversation fascinating,” Derek interrupts, looking annoyed now, “but unless you have anything else for me, maybe I should get to work on this?” He lifts the photo to remind them why they asked him here.

“Actually, just one more thing,” Noah says, wondering just how far he can test the young man’s patience before he’ll snap. “What are your thoughts on Wormhole X-treme!?”

Chapter Text

It had started out as such a good day. Scott and the new girl, Kira, had survived the scrutiny of the Oni. Agent McCall had been stabbed and would be out of commission for a good few days at least. Daniel Jackson might be coming to town. He’d bonded with Derek Hale over Wormhole X-treme!. An undeniably good day, one bright spot amongst all the stress and panic of the past few weeks.

But now Scott and Isaac are here, telling him his son is missing, on the coldest night of the year. He has to brace a trembling hand against the desk he’d been standing near, try his best to keep his legs from collapsing under him.

He takes a shaky breath to compose himself and forces his emotions aside so he can focus. “If his Jeep is gone, that’s where we start,” he declares, mind racing. “Parrish, let’s get an APB out on a blue 1980 CJ-5 Jeep. Cordova, I want a list of any kind of industrial basement or sub-level of any building that he could've gotten into while sleepwalking. It's the coldest night of the year so far—” He takes another breath, as worst-case-scenarios play out in his head. “So, if he's out there barefoot in just a t-shirt, he could already be hypothermic. Let's move fast. Let's think fast. The two of you,” he motions to Scott and Isaac, “come with me.”

He escorts the two teens into his office and shuts the door. “Okay,” he starts, “is there anything you need to tell me that I can’t tell anyone out there?”

“Lydia knew he was missing,” Scott informs him, face grim.

Lydia, the banshee, who can sense death, who finds dead bodies without even trying. This is not particularly reassuring news. “Can she help find him?” Before he or anyone else is dead, Noah thinks but doesn’t say.

“Well,” Isaac offers, “she’s working on it.”

“Anything else?” he asks, with a silent plea for there not to be any more bad news.

“I called Derek and Allison for help,” Scott supplies, and maybe there’s hope after all.

Noah sighs, then remembers, werewolves have super senses. “Can—can you track him by scent?”

They’re interrupted before either of the kids can reply, Deputy Parrish poking his head through the door. “We got it, sir,” Parrish informs him. “We found the Jeep.”

There’s a mad rush as everyone heads out. Noah pauses just long enough at O’Neill’s desk to indicate that he should follow, but O’Neill shakes his head and grabs a file off his desk. “I have a hunch,” he says. “I’ll keep you informed.”

Noah nods and continues out the door, trusting O’Neill with whatever he’s doing. They make it to Beacon Hills Memorial in record time, and he parks haphazardly next to the Jeep. He leaps out to conduct a cursory search of the vehicle. “It’s dead,” he observes. “He must’ve left the lights on.”

“Why would he come here?” Scott asks, a perplexed frown clouding his face.

“Let’s find out,” Noah replies, and herds them all into the building.

“Security’s doing sweeps of every floor,” Melissa McCall informs him as they approach. “Nothing yet.”

“What about the basement?” he asks, since that’s still the only lead they have.

“Follow me,” she says, and turns to lead the way. Scott and Isaac break off and head in another direction, and he doesn’t bother to ask. Werewolf business, he figures. Best to leave them to it.

They find nothing, and Isaac rushes down not long into their search to pass a message along from Derek, that Stiles was on the roof earlier, but he’s long gone now. No word yet from O’Neill. Noah leans against a wall and tries not to hyperventilate. Scott, bless him, comes careening into the room with a more detailed report from Derek and orders for Isaac to go find Allison, who still hasn’t responded to anyone’s calls or texts. Scott fires off an update text to Lydia, then starts talking to Noah in that low, even tone he recognizes as the same one he uses to talk Stiles down from a panic attack. It’s sweet, really, but not enough to soothe his frayed nerves.

What does finally help, though, is when Lydia calls shortly after, insisting they meet her at Eichen House. He breaks several traffic laws on the way there (what is he going to do, arrest himself?) and stumbles up to the gate to meet her. “Lydia, I don’t want to say, ‘are you sure about this,’ but—”

“No—he’s here,” she insists. “I swear to god he’s here.”

He can’t explain to the deputies that followed him why he’s trusting the word of this teenage girl, but most of them are used to unexplained strangeness in this town anyway. He rushes everyone inside, demands access to the basement. Several minutes of frantic searching once again reveal nothing. Nothing. He doesn’t—he can’t—

“I don’t get it,” Lydia’s saying, faint, bewildered, “this has to be it.”

“Then where is he, huh?” he demands, desperation taking over, voice rising. “Where is he? Where is he?” he shouts, and then flinches himself when Lydia flinches away from him. He takes a step back, takes a breath, takes a moment. “I’m sorry,” he breathes, then breathes again.

But Lydia doesn’t seem concerned about apologies right now, just looking as lost as he feels. “I don’t understand,” she whispers, and follows, unseeing, as Noah leads them all out.

Chapter Text

O’Neill calls, and before he can even answer with a greeting, tells him, “I found him. I have him. I’m bringing him to you now.”

“Hospital," he gasps, fumbling his car keys out of his pocket and nearly sprinting to his cruiser.

“Beacon Hills Memorial, I know," O'Neill confirms, and hangs up.

It's a minor miracle that the kids manage to clamber into the car with him before he takes off, and another that he gets them all to the hospital in one piece, with the speed he's moving.

He arrives at the same time O'Neill does, helps him get Stiles out of the car, bullies the doctors and nursing staff into providing the absolute best possible care (as if they weren’t already going to), fusses and irritates and hovers over Stiles until his son finally shoves him away, insisting he’s fine, Dad, I just need rest, take a chill pill already, gets the update from the doctors, then goes out into the hall to wait.

Lydia, Scott, and Melissa are apparently interrogating O’Neill on where he found Stiles. “The Nemeton?” Scott’s asking.

Shocked realization settles on Lydia’s face. “He’d framed one of my drawings of it, there was a note on the back saying ‘For Lydia,’ Aiden thought it was just Stiles being Stiles, but do you think maybe—”

“He was telling you exactly where to find him?” O’Neill shrugs. “Could be. Sheriff told me that place is like a beacon for weird, I figured it was worth a shot.”

They all stop and turn as Noah approaches. “He’s sleeping now,” he updates them, “and he’s just fine.” He tugs O’Neill into a brief hug and claps him on the back twice. “How?”

O’Neill shakes his head. “Hard to explain. Too many times, I’ve seen people in, been in, situations where mind and body were not in agreement. You told me Stiles didn’t always know when he was dreaming?” He pauses, and Noah nods in confirmation. “Figured that might still be the case here, that he might’ve just been telling us what he was seeing in his dream, not what was actually happening around him.”

Noah places both hands on O’Neill’s shoulders and squeezes. “Thank you. No, hey,” he says, insistently holding eye contact, “I mean it. Thank you.”

“Of course,” O’Neill says, gruff, and pats Noah on the arm. O’Neill clears his throat, nods awkwardly when Noah releases his hold, and offers to give Scott and Lydia a ride home, which both teens gratefully accept. Noah thanks him again, tries to convince him he doesn’t need to come back after dropping the kids off, doesn’t succeed. They leave, and now he’s alone in the hallway with Melissa.

“I have to tell you something,” Melissa says, expression bleak.

“Stiles was here,” he guesses, and Melissa nods. “And no one told me, his parent, his emergency contact, that he was in the hospital.”

“I thought–he just needed sleep,” Melissa starts, apologetic for a moment, but then something more akin to pity takes over. “I asked him some questions, just symptoms, and, um—”

“Yeah,” he interrupts, “it’s okay.” It isn’t, but he has bigger concerns right now. “I think I, uh—I think I know what you’re talking about.” Hands trembling lightly, he pulls his notepad out of his pocket and flips to the relevant page. “I’ve been writing these down for the past two weeks,” he says, and shows her the pad. “I think we need to do some tests.”

Chapter Text

There are three possibilities for what this MRI will show: nothing, which should feel comforting, but actually just means they have no idea what’s going on with Stiles; frontotemporal dementia, which feels like the cruelest kind of irony, some kind of karmic retribution Noah is pretty sure he never earned in this life or any other; or a Goa’uld, which, honestly, should not feel like as much of a likelihood as it does now.

He doesn’t know which option he dreads the most.

His mind races as he watches his son enter the machine, starts to hear the clanging and banging as it takes its pictures. The doctor is doing his best to sound reassuring to Stiles over the intercom, and to Noah in the room with him. It isn’t working.

Option 1: the darkness from his sacrifice to the Nemeton, or possession by the Nogitsune, or something else of unknown supernatural origin. He really hopes Chris, or Derek, or Deaton, or someone with some supernatural expertise will know what to do, or be able to figure out what to do, and hopefully soon.

Option 2: well, that’s just the thing, isn’t it. He’ll lose his son, just like he lost his wife. Slowly, painfully, a little bit more every day. There will be days when he seems fine, and days when he’s lost himself completely. He honestly doesn’t know if he’ll make it through that again. Or if he’d even want to.

Option 3: he knows the host lives on, even when the parasite is in full control. He knows Goa’uld can be defeated, perhaps even safely extracted. But his son will have witnessed darkness beyond imagining, experienced torture, trapped in a body he can no longer control, that only the strongest souls can endure. His son may survive, but he’ll never be the same. Body used, mind corrupted, soul tarnished.

Melissa’s presence in the room with him is only the barest of comforts. Scott and Derek, just outside the room, and O’Neill pacing the halls restlessly. He knows they’re all there for him, will all continue to be there for him no matter what the results of the test show. He’s just not sure it’ll be enough.

He can’t watch, but also can’t stop watching, waiting for images to appear on the screen. Staying still like this has always been torture for Stiles. The anticipation is killing him—

The lights flicker.

A noise, electricity, and then—

Computers shut down, the MRI stops.

“What was that?” Melissa asks, looking up as the lights continue to flicker.

“It sounded like a power surge,” the doctor observes unnecessarily.

Noah doesn’t care, because—”Where’s my son?”

Chapter Text

“So, this…” Noah trails off, mind clouded with stress and fear for his son. His missing son. Twenty-six hours of nothing. Why anyone is trying to explain anything to him in this state, and expecting him to understand it…

“Nogitsune,” Scott offers.

“Nogitsune,” Noah repeats, “sure. So. What is it, and why do you think it’s my son?”

“The Oni—those ninja things?” Scott pauses, then continues at Noah’s nod. “That’s what they were searching for. Someone possessed by the Nogitsune.”

“Possessed,” Noah echoes, weighing the implications of that term. Possessed suggests that Stiles is still in there, that if they can expel whatever this thing is, that he’ll have his son back.

“It’s evil, a dark spirit. Not all kitsunes are bad!” Scott flounders a bit, strangely insistent, “but, this one is.”

“And you think it’s in Stiles because…” Noah prompts. Getting a complete and coherent story outta this kid is like pulling teeth.

“There—so—okay,” Scott stumbles along, “so remember when Barrow was gonna kill Kira?”

Noah rests his elbows on his desk and rubs his temples. He is getting such a headache from all this. “Yeah, sure, go on.”

“Well—I mean, it looks like the Nogitsune made him do it. To, like, jumpstart its power?” Scott cringes slightly, like he knows that sounds ridiculous.

“Which leads to Stiles… how?” Noah sits back with a sigh.

Scott fidgets with the hem of his shirt, looks down, looks back up. “Derek found Stiles’s bat at the power station.”

Chapter Text

Noah tries to scrub the weariness off his face with one hand as he yanks the door open with the other. “There’d better be a good reason you’re coming to me here, at this hour,” he grumbles, as he lets O’Neill in. He can already tell it’s not good news; O’Neill’s face is grim, and he’s holding something carefully bundled in what looks like an old t-shirt.

“I found something,” O’Neill says as he walks directly to the kitchen, “you’re not gonna like.” He places his bundle on the counter and unwraps it to reveal what looks like… pottery. Broken pottery.

“O’Neill, please tell me why I care about your broken dishes when my son is missing,” he gripes at the younger man.

“I found this at the Nemeton, in the root cellar,” O’Neill continues with an unimpressed but gentle glare. “Figured it couldn’t hurt to do a more thorough search of the place, see if Stiles left any trace there–”

“Get to the point,” he snaps. He’ll feel sorry about that later–for now he doesn’t have the energy for politeness.

“This is a canopic jar,” O’Neill explains, as if that’s supposed to mean something to Noah. “The Goa’uld use these as stasis chambers for symbiotes.”

All the blood drains from Noah’s face, and he has to brace himself against the counter to keep from collapsing. “So there’s—”

O’Neill nods, voice and face bleak. “There’s a Goa’uld in town.”

“So Stiles really could be—” Noah stops, mind racing. “But is he just a Goa’uld? Or is he also the Nogitsune? Or is someone else…” There are too many scenarios at play here, all of them bad. He groans into his hands, then scrapes both hands up and through his hair. “So—fine. Okay. How do we figure out which one this is, and how screwed we are?”

“The jar has writing on it,” O’Neill says, pointing to a few of the shards. Noah picks one up to inspect it, and sure enough, carved into the surface are characters of some ancient script he doesn’t recognize.

“Do we think Derek can translate these?” Noah asks, squinting down at the writing, picking up a second shard and fitting it against the first like puzzle pieces. “Do we think Derek should translate these? He isn’t read in–”

“Good thing we know someone who is, then, eh?” O’Neill says with a mischievous grin. “I’ll text Derek to hurry his thesis advisor along.”

Chapter Text

With the station still crawling with NID agents, Noah makes the executive decision to have this meeting at his home. The agents would, for sure, never let this go if they spotted Daniel here; in their minds, it would confirm to them that this is indeed SGC jurisdiction. Noah is still hoping to keep their interfering hands out of this as much as possible, though he’s not sure how much longer he can hold the line against them. Too many things are pulling his focus these days; namely, his still missing son.

The man in front of him, when he opens the door, has certainly aged since the last time Noah saw him, but he still looks good. Great, even. He looks like he’s grown into himself, gained a confidence and ease that suits him entirely too well, and the light peppering of gray in his hair only makes him look more distinguished and scholarly. Daniel’s smile is genuine, wide, and Noah can’t help but mirror it.

“Sergeant Stilinski,” Daniel greets, voice warm and fond, extending a hand. “So good to see you again.”

Noah accepts Daniel’s hand with both of his, squeezing tightly instead of letting himself default to a businesslike handshake. “Good to see you, too,” he answers. “I only wish it was under better circumstances. And it’s Sheriff, now. I’m retired.”

“I didn’t realize the two of you were so well acquainted,” Derek observes, and Noah startles at his voice. He honestly hadn’t realized the young man was here, too wrapped up in seeing Daniel again.

“You—Jesus,” Noah gasps, clutching one hand to his chest theatrically. “Warn a guy.” He glares at Daniel, who only looks amused in return. “Get inside before someone spots you,” he orders them both, exasperated. Noah pulls Daniel a bit further inside once the door is shut behind them and lowers his voice. “Daniel… should he be here for this?” He flicks his eyes over to Derek, well aware that the werewolf can hear him. He’ll have to choose his words carefully. “I mean, what can we say in front of him?”

Daniel looks Noah over in a way that makes him feel studied, clinically. “He’s cleared for anything he manages to translate in the field,” Daniel says after a moment. “Just don’t provide any… unnecessary context.”

Noah considers that for a moment, and, slowly, nods. “Right. Okay.” But speaking of unnecessary context… “Do you, uh, know? What he is?”

Daniel’s brow furrows in confusion, and over by the entry door, Derek’s posture tenses slightly, nervously adjusting the position of the strap on the bag slung over his shoulder. “You mean aside from being one of the most brilliant linguists I’ve ever worked with, a fellow orphan, and the closest thing I have left to family?” Daniel says with a small, fond smile. “What else is there?”

And that would be touching, if the situation were less fraught. “Just…” Ah, crap, how’s he gonna say this, “I don’t know. Keep an open mind.”

Daniel shoots a confused look over at Derek, and back to Noah, then shrugs. “I’m sure if there’s something he feels I need to know, he’ll tell me.”

“Sheriff,” O’Neill calls from the kitchen, “we doing this?”

“Doing this,” Noah echoes back in confirmation. He claps Daniel on the arm and motions for both he and Derek to follow. “C’mon.”

O’Neill has set up the shards of canopic jar on the dining table. He grins, quick and delighted, at Daniel in greeting. Daniel grins back, tugs him into a brief side-hug, then ruffles his hair, which earns him a playful shove in the ribs. Derek rolls his eyes at the roughhousing and unpacks a few old books, ancient-looking scrolls, and a laptop from his bag. Daniel picks up one of the pottery shards to examine the writing, and Derek wastes no time in opening and laying out his reference materials.

Noah makes eye contact with O’Neill and gestures for him to join him in the kitchen with a jerk of his head. He grabs two beers from the fridge, opens both, hands one to O’Neill, and the pair of them settle, in sync, leaning against the kitchen counter side by side and sipping their beers. Noah sighs, watching Derek and Daniel as they study the jar and their reference texts. “You ever have trouble—” he pauses, trying to find the right wording, trusting that O’Neill will figure out what he’s trying to say, “—compartmentalizing?”

O’Neill shrugs. “Not really. I mean, hell,” he says, smirking down at his bottle, “I’ve been doing classified work for longer than I’ve been alive.”

Noah snorts in response, amused, and lets the silence between them sit a while. He wishes he could enjoy this moment of calm, inexplicably surrounded by people he cares about—and who care about him in return—but everything happening with his son has cast a pall on the entire situation. He groans, swears under his breath, and pleads, softly, “just… tell me it’ll all be okay. Lie to me if you have to, just…” He shakes his head and takes a long, deep swig of his beer.

O’Neill reaches between them and grips the forearm Noah has braced against the counter, squeezing tight. “It’ll be okay,” O’Neill insists, and the sincerity in his eyes is almost enough for Noah to believe it.

It takes nearly an hour, beers long finished, before Daniel motions them over to discuss results of their research. Noah takes a breath to brace himself for what he’s sure will be bad news, and follows a step behind O’Neill as they walk the short distance to the table.

“It’s fascinating,” Derek is saying as they approach. “I’ve translated works referencing Onak before, but never in such a literal, physical context.”

“Onak?” Noah asks, scrunching his nose at the unfamiliar term.

Daniel lifts an eyebrow at him. “A false god,” he clarifies with meaningful emphasis, “a parasite.”

Ah. A Goa’uld. Noah nods in understanding. “Right. So this one is…”

“Susanoo, Japanese god of mischief, storms, and pestilence,” Daniel explains, gesturing at the webpage open on his laptop. An image on the screen, some ancient artwork, depicts an angry-looking man holding a giant sword to the throat of a dark, dragon-ish-seeming creature. “There are contradictory accounts of him, the mythology sometimes calling him violent and impetuous, other times a relatively peaceful harvest god. He’s credited with killing a monstrous serpent, and was honored as a great hero for a time. He was also banished by the other gods for bad behavior.”

Noah can guess the basics of what that story implies—Susanoo likely killed another System Lord, and was thus extracted from his host and left behind on Earth as punishment. “So what does this mean for us?” he asks. “How bad is it?”

“Honestly?” Daniel shrugs one shoulder apologetically. “Very hard to tell. The legends are too varied in tone. But I recommend we err on the side of assuming it’s very bad.”

“Oh, I was gonna,” Noah assures him. “Pestilence, you said?”

“Yeah,” Daniel confirms gently, “that worries me, too.”

Chapter Text

Forty-nine hours and seventeen minutes. Stiles has been missing for forty-nine hours and seventeen minutes now, and counting. Noah hasn't truly slept, hasn't been able to focus, has been running himself ragged, for forty-nine hours and seventeen minutes.

The results from the MRI still aren't available. The files got corrupted during the power surge, and the hospital is still working on restoring them. They aren't sure it'll be possible. But Noah had mentioned it offhand to Daniel, and Daniel had said he’d have one of his guys look at it. So, maybe there was hope for that after all.

Parrish makes him sign something and leaves a stack of packages on his desk. And now his desk is a mess, and he'll have to tidy it if he wants to get any work done there today. He thinks he'll find some excuse to go out on patrol instead.

Agent McCall asks him about some dead mob boss, and he thinks to himself, why am I supposed to care? Why does the NID care about a mob boss? He tells McCall he knows nothing, and to go screw himself.

And then all hell breaks loose.

He really shouldn’t feel grateful, he thinks, when dispatch gets simultaneous calls about an incident on the edge of the preserve—Coach Finstock shot with an arrow?—and a bomb threat at the school. But it’s something to do, at least. He sends O’Neill and one other squad car to deal with the Finstock call, and takes Parrish and a larger contingent—crowd control will definitely be an issue—with him to the bomb threat.

He springs into action immediately upon arrival at the scene, almost giddy with finally, finally, having something of actual importance to do instead of just stewing silently in helpless worry and misery. “Back those kids up,” he shouts, directing them to what should be a safe distance from the bus. “Move!” Nearly everyone complies, except for Parrish, who instead grabs some gear from the back of his SUV and actually moves towards the bus. Noah moves to intercept, telling him, “We wait for the bomb squad.”

But Parrish meets his gaze, steady, confident, and collected, and says, “I’m a certified HDT—two years in the army. I can at least find out if this thing’s real.”

Noah looks Parrish over, assessing, for only a moment, then nods decisively. “Fine. But no unnecessary risks. That’s a kid in there.”

“Understood, sir,” Parrish replies, the grim set of his face communicating that he knows full well what the stakes are, and climbs into the bus as Noah steps out of his way.

The scant few minutes that pass ramp up the tension building within Noah to all new heights. His mind is thrumming with a constant stream of Stiles missing, kid holding a bomb, Finstock shot, silence on the radios, hide everything from the NID, Goa’uld and Nogitsune and Oni and werewolves—

His radio crackles to life, finally. “It’s not a bomb, sir,” Parrish reports, “but there is something in the box…”

Noah stops breathing as Parrish continues, and he feels his heart drop like a stone, deep to the center of the Earth. “Oh, God,” he gasps, as a conversation from earlier today floats to the top of his mind, “there is a bomb—but not here.”

He orders Parrish out, rallies everyone back to the station as quickly as possible—and walks into a scene that reminds him of his time at the SGC, of the reasons why he left there, especially the attack that had been his tipping point—

He shakes that thought out of his mind and refocuses on the present day. “All available RA units, report to the Sheriff’s station,” he calls into his radio. “We’ve got an explosion, multiple officers down. I repeat, multiple officers down, and civilian casualties. We need paramedics, ASAP,” he barks, and pauses for a moment to take in the scene.

Scott and Allison are kneeling over a badly injured deputy; Derek Hale is standing just outside what remains of Noah’s office, his back riddled with glass and other shrapnel; Chris Argent is standing next to Derek, looking relatively unscathed; Deputy Clarke is directing civilians into triaged groups; O’Neill is seated on the floor next to his desk, hand pressed to his ribcage.

Noah tugs off his uniform jacket and starts ripping the lining out in strips, kneeling next to O’Neill. “C’mon,” he orders, “let me see.”

“‘M fine,” O’Neill says through gritted teeth, but he complies anyway, lifting his hand away from his side.

“You’re not fine,” Noah grumbles, using one of the strips of his jacket lining to gently clean O’Neill’s wound, just to get a better look. O’Neill winces and inhales sharply through his teeth. “It’ll probably need stitches,” Noah says, and presses one of his makeshift bandages to the wound, “but it doesn’t look like it penetrated the ribcage. Hey,” he keeps his voice steady, calm, as reassuring as he can manage, as he rambles in an effort to distract O’Neill from the pain, “your boy was pretty impressive out there today. Kept his head at the school bus. He’s good under pressure.”

“Sheriff,” O’Neill starts, and he lifts a hand to where Noah is tending his wound. Noah bats his hand away and continues working. “Noah,” the younger man says, this time covering Noah’s hands with his, and that is enough to make Noah pause. He looks up to meet O’Neill’s eyes. “Stiles was here,” O’Neill says, voice tight with more than just the pain.

“He—” Noah’s eyes widen, and his hands briefly fall away from O’Neill’s side before he remembers he needs to keep pressure on the wound.

“Just before the bomb went off,” O’Neill continues. “And, Sheriff,” he says, his eyes conveying layers to the story that he can’t say out loud here, “I don’t think he was entirely himself.”

Chapter Text

“C’mon," he prompts O'Neill, crossing his arms, “tell me. Stop trying to spare my feelings."

O'Neill rolls his eyes. “I'm not trying to be facetious,” he insists. "We just don't know who's listening.”

"To hell with that,” Noah snaps. “This is about my son."

O'Neill grimaces, then adjusts his position in his hospital bed. The injuries he'd sustained at the bombing were more extensive than Noah's original assessment had revealed, with shrapnel embedded deep in several places. It had been enough to justify his request for a private room while he was getting patched up. Still, he’d managed to avoid needing any major surgeries, and would be able to go home as soon as the discharge paperwork fully processed. "You know it's not that simple,” O’Neill hedges again.

"Then make it simple," Noah growls, uncrosses his arms, and grips the railing on the side of the bed. "If the NID comes after me for discussing classified materials outside a SCIF, so be it. I'll take full responsibility.”

O'Neill tries one more time. “You'll go to prison—”

"My freedom for the life of my son,” Noah interrupts. "You of all people should understand what I'm willing to sacrifice.”

O'Neill’s mouth snaps shut at that, and he glares at Noah, pain and fury simmering in his eyes. “They aren't only here for you," O'Neill says after a tense moment. "The NID. That dead mob boss? Katashi? He was a member of the Trust."

Noah blinks at that. "The what? And why do I care?"

“Evil spin-off of the NID. Well,” he explains, shrugging one shoulder, "evil-er. The Goa'uld infiltrated them a while back, apparently. I haven't just been flirting with them for fun, y’know.”

Noah pauses a moment to let that sink in. “They already think there’s a Goa’uld in town,” he concludes, and swears under his breath when O’Neill nods in confirmation. “Maybe more than one,” he mutters, and his grip tightens on the bed railing. “And Stiles—”

“What I saw,” O’Neill says, sitting up with a wince, “wasn’t enough to confirm, without a doubt, that it’s in Stiles. But I can say for certain that Stiles wasn’t the one in control.”

They both jump when a knock sounds at the door, and both relax when Daniel’s head pops inside. “Hope I didn’t come at a bad time,” Daniel says with a wry smile.

Noah snorts. “Kind of always a bad time here,” he grumbles. “But you’re not interrupting, if that’s what you’re asking.”

Daniel’s smile softens, and he steps fully into the room, a folder in his hands, closing the door behind him. “Just wanted to check in before I head out, see how you’re doing.” He walks over to the other side of O’Neill’s bed and squeezes the young man’s arm with his free hand.

“I’m fine, Daniel,” O’Neill assures him, and returns the arm squeeze, letting his hand linger. “Just a few stitches.”

“Head out?” Noah repeats weakly. “You’re leaving already?”

“Yeah,” Daniel sighs, “sorry. Gotta get back out there. And, uh,” his gaze flicks briefly to the door, “it’s getting a bit… crowded. Here. Don’t wanna cause trouble with your NID buddies.”

“Sure, yeah,” Noah nods, dejected, “I get that.”

“Before I go,” Daniel says, releasing his grip on O’Neill to hold his folder in both hands, “I have those recovered scan results for you.” He holds the folder out across the bed, towards Noah. “And, um,” he says gently, smile fully faded from his face, “I’m sorry.”

Noah reaches out to take the folder with trembling hands. “Bad?” he whispers.

Daniel just looks at him a moment, expression settling into something sympathetic and regretful. “Call me,” he says instead of answering, “when you get him back. We can help.” Daniel pats O’Neill’s shoulder one last time in farewell. He hesitates as though thinking of doing the same for Noah, but apparently thinks better of it. He nods a goodbye to both of them, then lets himself out of the room, door shut behind him.

Chapter Text

“You stole evidence from federal agents,” Noah repeats, hoping he just heard that incorrectly.

“Deaton says that the scroll says that all we have to do to expel the Nogitsune is ‘change the body of the host.’ Or, at least, he's pretty sure that's what it says,” Scott barrels on with his explanation. “So we were thinking, if we just turned Stiles into a werewolf—”

“Scott,” Noah snaps, pinching the bridge of his nose, “please tell me none of the agents saw what you are.” If even one of the NID agents saw a teenager with glowing eyes…

“No, no, we don’t think so,” Scott continues, shaking his head emphatically. “So if we turn Stiles into a werewolf—”

“You don’t think so?” Oh, this could be bad. This could be very, very bad. “Scott!”

“It’s fine, Sheriff,” Scott insists. “We have a plan now!”

Noah stands up from his desk and stomps over to yank open the door. “O’Neill,” he barks, ignoring the room full of deputies that all startle and turn toward him, “get in here now.”

O’Neill, at least, seems to understand that something is seriously and urgently wrong, and rushes over as quickly as his still-injured body will let him. “Sheriff?” he asks, eyes wide, as Noah slams the door shut behind them.

“This teenaged idiot,” Noah hisses, and ignores the offended ‘Hey!’ Scott blurts out, “just did something incredibly stupid in front of some federal agents.”

“Oh, for cryin’ out loud,” O’Neill groans, burying his face in both palms. “Can’t we just have one day where things don’t get actively worse?”

“Guys, seriously, it’s not that big a deal,” Scott says, and Noah almost envies his ignorance. “Look, now that we have a plan to defeat the Nogitsune—”

“It is that big a deal, Scott,” Noah says, exasperated. He loves this kid, but his patience is wearing too damn thin right now. “This situation is serious.”

“I know it’s serious,” Scott replies, and at least this time his expression seems to reflect that he’s at least somewhat aware of this. “Stiles is my best friend, and I’ll do anything I can to save him.”

And that—that takes the wind out of his sails, a bit. Noah sighs heavily, shoulders drooping. “I know, Scott,” he says, tone a bit more even now, “and I appreciate that. But there’s more at stake here than just Stiles’s life, now. You’ve endangered yourself and all your friends with this little stunt of yours.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Scott says quietly, looking small, and very much like the teenager he is.

Noah sighs again, and pulls Scott into a hug. “I know you are, kid.” He claps Scott on the back twice, then releases him. “Do you have the scroll with you?”

“Uh—no?” Scott’s face scrunches up in confusion at the apparent abrupt change in topic. “Deaton has it. Why?”

“Get it,” he orders, instead of answering, “and bring it to me. Then go home, and stay there.”

“...Bring it to you?” Scott asks, incredulous.

Noah rolls his eyes. “Almost feel like I should be offended by that. Yes, bring it to me. I know someone with more experience translating ancient Japanese texts.”

“Right, uh, okay,” Scott says, blinking in surprise.

“So… get moving?” Noah prompts, when Scott has done nothing but stand there blinking for several seconds.

“Right!” Scott repeats, startling out of his reverie. “Um. Bye! See you, uh, soon.”

“Yeah,” Noah confirms, lightly shoving Scott out the door. “Soon.” He shuts the door again behind Scott, watches for a brief moment as the bewildered teen wanders toward the exit, then turns to O’Neill. “This is bad,” he states.

“No kidding,” O’Neill agrees. “Hate to have to ask this, but… how much does Scott’s dad love him?”

Noah groans. “I’ve had the same thought myself. And, unfortunately, I can’t say for certain he loves him enough to go against his NID mandate.” He mutters a few choice curse words under his breath. “These kids… they aren’t even Goa’uld.”

“You think the NID will care?” O’Neill asks, raising an eyebrow. “Once they find out what these kids can do, it won’t matter. They’ll want to study ‘em all anyway.”

“I know,” Noah growls. “God, and we’d been doing so well keeping them away from all this.”

O’Neill sighs. “I’ll see what I can find out about what they know. And, uh, I’ll do what I can to distract them.”

Noah leans heavily against his desk. “Thanks. I’ll, uh,” he gestures vaguely, “keep… trying to contain my mental breakdown.”

O’Neill snorts, mutters “Good luck with that,” and leaves him to it.

Chapter Text

“Sorry, but I can’t let you walk out with this,” he hears Parrish telling Chris. “It’s way above the legal voltage limit.”

“I only use it for hunting,” Chris claims, and boy, isn’t that the understatement of the century. Noah would laugh, if he had the energy, and wasn’t in public.

“Yeah, well, I’m pretty sure you could use this to jumpstart a 747,” Parrish snarks back at him, clearly unmoved.

“This property belongs to me, and the charges were dropped,” Chris insists. “Although, I’m not exactly sure who’s responsible for that…”

“I am,” Noah announces as he finally enters the room. “I’ll take care of this, Parrish.”

“Sheriff, I’m not kidding—this thing’s a few watts short of being a lightsaber,” Parrish objects.

“I said I’ll take care of it,” he repeats, and nods toward the door in a clear dismissal.

Parrish hesitates a moment, clearly uncomfortable, but finally nods, says, “Yes, sir,” and leaves the room, shutting the door behind him.

Noah waits a moment, ostensibly to ensure that anyone who might try to overhear is out of earshot, but really just stalling long enough to gather his thoughts, tapping the edge of the file he’s holding against his palm. “I really shouldn’t be showing this to either of you,” he says at last, “but I’ve decided I don’t care anymore.” He pulls the image out and holds it out to Derek.

Derek’s brows furrow as he accepts the image, and Chris leans in so he can see too. “Um,” Derek says, “...what exactly are we looking at, here?”

“This is one of the images we salvaged from Stiles’s MRI. And this,” he explains, pointing to the snake-like shape wrapped around his son’s spinal cord, “is what’s possessing my son. Derek, you’d call it an Onak.”

“Susanoo,” Derek mutters, slightly awed, “god of mischief, storms, and pestilence.” His eyes snap up to meet Noah’s. “It’s real?”

“Very real,” Noah nods, face grim. “And very dangerous. We don’t know much about what this one is capable of, or what its motivations might be, but I’ve dealt with creatures like this before, and I guarantee you,” he explains, “it’s never good.”

“This thing is a god?” Chris asks, incredulous, tugging the image out of Derek’s hands, ignoring the glare Derek levels at him.

“False god,” Noah corrects. “It’s just a parasite, nothing magical about it, though it can do some things that seem like it. Derek,” he says, pulling the scroll out of his pocket and handing it to the werewolf, “I need you to translate this. Deaton gave it a shot, but his results were…” he searches for the right wording, “unsatisfactory.”

Derek unrolls the scroll immediately and starts studying it. “Hm. I can see why he’d have trouble. Not all of this is Japanese. These characters here,” he says, gesturing to a small section of the text, “are in the same language that was on the canopic jar. Got a notepad?”

Noah hands over his notepad and pen silently, then turns to Chris, who’s still studying the MRI image. “You look skeptical," he observes.

“It just seems a bit…" Chris shrugs, “I don't know, like you took it out of the plot of a Wormhole X-treme! episode."

Noah lets a grin slowly build on his face. "Oh, you are so invited to New Episode Nights,” he breathes.

Derek looks up, face a picture of theatrical betrayal. “Sheriff, no," he gasps, “not him too! I thought that was our thing."

Chris blinks in surprise. “You—you're both X-treme-ists?” he asks, using the fandom term, the phrase they don’t let non-fans use.

Noah raises both eyebrows, delighted, and meets Derek's eyes while gesturing toward Chris. Derek rolls his eyes and grumbles, “Fine, he can come, too," then pointedly returns his focus to translating the scroll, scribbling notes furiously on the notepad.

"Chris, buddy,” Noah says, reaching across the desk to clap him on the shoulder, "we are OG fandom here. You should see my son's AO3 history. Hell,” he adds with a smirk, "you should see mine.”

Chris stares at Noah, still looking stunned. "I am learning so many things I never expected today," he says faintly.

They startle when Derek inhales sharply and straightens up suddenly. “He can’t be both. Sheriff,” Derek says, looking up wide-eyed from the scroll. "He can’t be both. It's—” he pauses, eyes distant for a moment as though searching his own mind, then finding Noah’s eyes instead. "Something about the Onak prevents a successful blending. They both die, if an Onak tries to use a wolf or fox as a host."

Noah pales. “So Scott’s plan to turn Stiles into a werewolf, to cure him of being a Nogitsune—”

“Will kill him, yes,” Derek confirms. “But it’s more than that. We know who the Onak is now, we know it’s Stiles, but there’s still a Nogitsune out there.”

“Maybe this is a stupid question,” Noah starts, ignoring the indecipherable looks Chris keeps shooting him, “but, how do we know for sure we also have a Nogitsune?”

“I, uh—” Derek blinks for a moment, considering that, “—I guess we don’t? Not for sure yet, but—”

“But we should assume we do,” Noah finishes with a nod. “Yeah. Prepare for the worst,” he continues, rubbing his temples in an attempt to soothe his aching brain, “and by God is this the worst.”

Chapter Text

“Okay, so what’s the plan here?” Noah asks, leaning over to study the map spread out on Chris’s desk. “Where do we start?”

“Start with Stiles, I guess,” Chris suggests with a shrug. “The devil we know.”

“He’s not the devil,” Noah corrects through gritted teeth, glaring at Chris.

Chris rolls his eyes. “It’s a figure of speech. Where has Stiles been showing up?” He leans in to join Noah at the map.

“The school, the hospital, Sheriff’s station…” Allison lists, and Chris marks each location.

“Okay, hold on—we did this already,” Derek interrupts. “He disappeared, we looked for him, he led us right into a trap at the hospital.”

“He’s getting us to repeat the same moves,” Chris observes, nodding.

“So, what? We wait for him to come to us?” Allison suggests, looking skeptical.

Derek shakes his head. “We don’t know what might happen if the Oni find him. If we don’t get to him before the sun goes down—”

“Scott’s working on that right now with Kira,” Noah informs them. He’s not sure how much faith he has in the boy’s diplomatic skills, but maybe Kira can help with that.

Allison nods decisively. “Dad, you and Derek hit the school,” she orders. “Sheriff, it’s you and me in the hospital. We’ll all meet at the Station.”

Noah shakes his head. “Not the Station. It’s—” crawling with NID agents— “too crowded. Meet at the Nemeton.”

There’s a brief chorus of agreement, and they break off into their groups. He and Allison ride to the hospital in silence, both deep in their own minds about everything going on—or at least, Noah knows he is. He’s assuming Allison is the same. He waits until they’re in the hospital elevator, on their way up to the roof, to finally say something. “You know what?” he says gently. “I don't know how you guys do it. You're all so strong. You're fearless. Hell, you even manage to keep your grades up—”

“I am…” Allison interrupts quietly, “failing Econ.” She shrinks in on herself, as if the admission hurts her.

That surprises him. “Coach's class?” he asks, and Allison nods. “Well, I'll have a talk with him,” he declares, and looks up again at the floors ticking away. A sniffle from Allison draws his attention back to her. “Hey, you okay?” He reaches over and stops the elevator. Bad idea in a hospital, he’s aware, but this kid needs a moment.

“I'm not… fearless…” Allison admits, eyes welling with tears. “I'm terri-terrified. I'm always terrified. I…” she looks down at her shaking hands, “I act like I know what I'm doing, but I don't. I don't know if Isaac is dying right now,” she rambles, “I don't know if I made a mistake with Scott… I don't know what my dad is thinking… I don't know if we should trust Derek… I don't know—” she sobs, “I don't know anything.”

“Hey…” he sighs, pulling her into a hug. He knows it's only the barest of comforts, but he has to do something. “You're gonna be okay.”

Allison nods against his chest, clinging to him. “Okay,” she whispers. He holds her a moment longer, but a pinging from his phone startles them both. “What's that?” Allison asks as she pulls away, wiping her face.

Noah frowns down at the notification on his phone. “Someone's breaking into my house,” he says absently. At Allison’s questioning look, he explains, “After Stiles started sleepwalking, I had some safety precautions put in—motion sensors, cameras…” he trails off as he opens the app and blinks in shock at what he sees.

“Is that his room?” Allison asks, and yes, yes it is. Stiles is sitting on his bed, waving at the camera with a smirk on his face.

Noah fires off a quick text to Chris, and they all rush to his house. Stiles is gone by the time they get there, but he definitely drew them here for a reason.

“What is all this?” Chris asks, frowning down at Stiles’s chess board. “What are these sticky notes for?”

“This is what Stiles used to try and explain to me about…” Noah gestures vaguely, “all of you.”

“Well, maybe it's a message from Stiles,” Allison suggests. “The real Stiles.”

Derek crosses his arms and tilts his head to the side as he studies the board. “Do you think there's any reason my name's on the king?”

“Well, you're heavily guarded…” Noah observes, noting the positions of pieces and the moves at play. “Though, I guess the alarming detail is that you're one move from being in checkmate.”

“It's not a message from Stiles,” Chris guesses, “it's a threat from the creature possessing him.”

“He's at the loft,” Allison suggests, with a confidence Noah isn’t sure she’s feeling. “That's what he's trying to tell us. And he wants us to come there.”

Derek lifts his head to look out the window, brow furrowed. “Night's falling.”

Chris shakes his head, mouth set in a grim line. “This couldn't sound any more like a trap.”

“We’re missing something,” Noah mutters. There’s something niggling at the back of his mind, something incomplete. He stares down at the chessboard, trying to read deeper into the layers of the message it contains. Chess is Stiles’s game. Whatever part of Stiles is in there, fighting against the Goa’uld, would have tried to leave him a message. Of that, he’s certain. But whatever that message is, he can’t see it right now. He can’t see the whole picture yet, can’t see how their real-life situation is supposed to translate to the pieces placed so carefully on the board. He sighs and shakes his head. Whatever it is, he’ll have to figure it out on the go.

“We don’t have a choice,” Noah says to the room at large. “We’re running out of time. Trap or not, our best bet at stopping this thing is getting me to my son.”

Derek and Chris exchange a look, and both shrug. “Not like we have a better plan,” Derek says. “We’re in. What do you need us to do, Sheriff?”

Chapter Text

From the moment Noah walks into the loft, he can tell that the Stiles standing in front of him is not his Stiles. From his posture—spine straighter than Stiles ever holds himself, shoulders relaxed, hands clasped loosely behind his back, none of Stiles’s usual kinetic energy—to his expression—an arrogant tilt to his chin, a perpetual smirk just waiting to be unleashed—to his eyes.

His eyes are the most unnatural, un-Stiles-like, of all, and this parasite hasn’t even made them glow yet.

“Hi, Dad,” the parasite says, in Stiles’s voice, and fixes its steady gaze on Noah.

Noah meets his eyes in challenge. “You are not my son.”

The parasite raises an eyebrow. “No?”

“No,” Noah confirms, with absolute certainty.

He hears the telltale click of a gun’s safety disengaging, a step behind him, and there it is—the parasite’s eyes flash in response to the threat.

“Don’t, Chris,” Noah warns.

“Why not?” Chris asks, a dangerous edge to his voice. “You said it yourself, Sheriff, that’s not your son.”

“Dad,” the parasite pleads, a cheap facsimile of Stiles, “he’s going to shoot me. He’s gonna kill me, Dad, please.”

“Shut up,” he snaps. “Chris, stand down.”

“I’ve done it before,” Chris says, gun still leveled steadily at Stiles’s center of mass. “Werewolves, berserkers… Killing you will be no different.”

The parasite’s smile changes, twists, into something dark. “Then do it," it goads Chris. "Pull the trigger. Come on.”

"Chris, don't,” he orders, more emphatically this time. He hasn't drawn his own gun, hasn't taken another step, hasn't looked away once. He doesn't know the best play here, but he knows he still doesn't have the full picture. And acting before they know what they're dealing with is sure to only cause more problems.

"Shoot me,” the parasite taunts again, and Noah thinks faintly that it's a bit strange, that it hasn't changed its voice yet. What is it waiting for? “Go on, shoot me!" Its voice rises to a shout.

"Chris, put the gun down, now,” he orders again, and his hand twitches by his hip, fighting the instinct to pull his own gun from the holster and point it at the man with a gun to his son’s head.

"Shoot me!” it shouts again, eyes flashing, and this time, finally, its voice changes into the reverberating booming that haunts Noah's worst nightmares.

But Chris isn't the one to break—Derek is. The werewolf launches himself forward, claws out, teeth bared, growling—

Stiles extends a hand—metallic ribbon twisted around his wrist, gold caps on each finger, fiery jewel at his palm—and a shockwave blasts Derek backward into a wall.

Great. It has a hand device.

“You will pay for your insolence,” the parasite spits, but it has a satisfied look on its face, like making a vaguely-Derek-shaped dent in the wall was all part of its plan.

He hears Chris adjusting his stance, adjusting his grip—it’s a subtle movement, but one he knows well. Chris is preparing to fire. Noah reaches out a hand, steadier than he feels he should be, and places it on Chris’s outstretched gun. Not pushing down, or away, just stilling him. “Chris,” he says, voice low and as even as he can make it, “hold your fire.”

“What is that thing?” Chris asks in an unsteady whisper.

Noah ignores him. We’re missing something, he recalls. “Susanoo,” he says, and watches his son’s face twist again into a dark parody of delight, “what are you doing? Why have you brought us here?”

“You know the name of your god,” it observes, pleased at the recognition, ignoring the question.

“You’re no god,” he asserts firmly. “Just a parasite using my son. Why are we here?”

“To protect us,” it answers at last with an arrogant grin, “from the Oni.”

“Us,” Noah repeats, and several thoughts race through his mind in rapid succession. It could be saying ‘us’ to mean the parasite and host, but he doesn’t think that’s the case. He thinks back to the chessboard, to Derek poised to fall into checkmate, to the pieces positioned around him. Derek, the black king, the rest of the werewolves black pawns. Chris Argent, white knight. White pieces poised to strike, most of them unlabeled, except—Allison. White bishop. One move away from checkmate.

He snaps his head around to see—

She’s been watching everything. Drinking in the chaos and strife. Soft, pleased smile on her face.

Chapter Text

“Sheriff.”

Ow.

“Sheriff,” the voice repeats, insistent.

Noah groans and clutches his skull—his head is pounding—and tries to cringe away from the hands grabbing at him.

“Sheriff, hey,” the voice repeats, and oh—it’s Chris. Those must be Chris’s hands, trying to guide him back to consciousness. “You with us?”

“Ow,” he repeats, aloud this time, because he feels it needs to be known. He takes a breath, then another, and lets the hands guide him to a seated position. He tries to open his eyes—regrets it immediately. Keeps them shut instead. Takes another breath. “I’m with you,” he manages at last. “What happened?”

There’s a pause— “What do you remember?”

He remembers—

The sun setting. The Oni appearing. Fighting. And then—

“The Oni just… disappeared,” he recalls, “And then—”

And then the parasite turned its hand device on Noah, a look of sadistic glee on its face, and all he can remember after that is pain, and the sound of a gunshot. And darkness.

“Stiles—or the thing possessing him,” Chris explains, “attacked you. I shot him—his arm. He—” Chris falters. “He took Allison.”

Oh, right. Allison.

He groans again and forces his eyes open. It hurts, but then, everything does. “He didn’t take her.”

“Uh—” Chris frowns at him, clearly a step behind. “He—”

“He didn’t take her,” Noah reiterates firmly. “She went with him.”

Chris shakes his head, disbelieving. “Sheriff, what exactly are you saying here?”

“He’s saying Allison is the Nogitsune,” Derek’s voice supplies from off to one side. Noah points a finger vaguely in the direction of Derek’s voice and nods weakly.

“No,” Chris denies, shaking his head again. “No, she can’t be. I would know.”

“You sure about that?” Noah asks. Looking at Chris right now hurts too much. He decides he’s allowed to close his eyes again.

“Chris…” Derek starts, “did the Oni ever test Allison?”

The horrified silence that follows tells them everything they need to know.

Chapter Text

O’Neill is sprawled back in his desk chair, absently tapping a pen against his desk, glaring unflinchingly at the NID agent chatting with Parrish on the other side of the room.

Noah has tried to stay focused. The NID are breathing down his neck. He has to assemble the paperwork and figure out a way to phrase the truth, in all these unnaturally weird cases, that will explain away anything that could be misinterpreted as an alien incursion. Or worse, anything that will interest the NID enough that they won’t care if it’s alien or not.

His son is a Goa'uld, Allison is a Nogitsune, and both are in the wind. And he's stuck here at work dealing with NID agents, instead of out there helping figure out how to bring both kids back home safe.

And to top it all off, he’s fighting the migraine to end all migraines after being subjected to Goa’uld torture devices.

But O’Neill has been acting off since he showed up at the Station this morning.

O’Neill is tense, anxious, seething with barely-contained rage. None of his usual ease and teasing and playfulness.

He’d been on distract-the-NID duty all day yesterday, so Noah hadn’t thought anything of it at first. The agents always put him in a bad mood, this hadn’t seemed any different.

But, this is different.

Noah lures Parrish away from the NID agent, on the pretense of helping him organize some files. O’Neill’s glaring doesn’t ease. If anything, he seems even more tightly wound, as if readying himself to pounce.

“Parrish…” he starts, frowning across the room at O’Neill, “did something… happen? Yesterday, or last night? To O’Neill?”

“Happen?” Parrish blinks up at him, looks over at O’Neill, looks back at Noah. “Um, no. Don’t think so. Why?”

And maybe it’s the migraine eroding his filter, but something is wrong with O’Neill, and he can’t afford for anything else to be wrong right now. “Does he seem… off? To you?”

Parrish studies Noah for a minute before he responds. “We all have off days, Sheriff,” he says. “As a fellow soldier, you know better than anyone—”

“Not him,” Noah interrupts, shaking his head emphatically. “Not like this. Despair, self-destruction, yes, maybe. But he directs it inward. Right now, he looks like he’s gonna explode.”

Parrish blinks, surprised. “I, uh. I’ve seen him explode at people before, sir, so—”

“In righteous fury,” Noah corrects. “Never in rage.”

Parrish looks at him curiously. “I haven’t wanted to ask,” he starts hesitantly, “didn’t really think it was any of my business. But… you seem to know him… remarkably well, for someone who only met him a few weeks ago.”

Noah doesn’t know how to respond to that, but luckily (unluckily), he doesn’t have to. The explosion he’d been bracing for since the moment O’Neill walked in today finally hits.

He doesn’t know what triggered it. Maybe the agent said something antagonizing, or maybe whatever’s up with O’Neill spontaneously reached critical mass, or maybe the universe just hates Noah today and thought he needed yet another terrible thing to happen because why the hell not.

“Hey, what's your problem, man?" O'Neill shouts across the room, getting up and stalking toward the agent.

"My problem?” the agent asks, incredulous. "What the hell is your problem?”

“You wanna know?” O’Neill asks, stepping aggressively close to the agent. “You really wanna know? Okay, how about this: you and your gaggle of sycophants have done nothing but make everyone miserable since the second you got here.”

“Oh, what, are we supposed to care that you got your little feelings hurt?” the agent mocks. And seriously, Noah thinks, are none of these NID idiots trained in deescalation?

“You all think you’re so clever,” O’Neill continues, matching the agent’s mocking tone. “When you’re the ones who keep getting infiltrated by the villain of the week.” Noah’s eyes widen in shock. Did O’Neill really just—

“What exactly are you implying, Deputy?” the agent asks, narrowing his eyes.

“Oh, please,” O’Neill scoffs. “You really think the Sheriff is in with the Trust? You’d have to be the most idiotic, asinine, stupid sons of b—”

Parrish mutters, low and fast, all in one breath, "Okay you're right this is not like him Jack!” He shouts the last word as they both rush over. Parrish grips O'Neill’s arm and leans close, speaking softly into his ear. Noah steps between him and the NID agent, hand held placatingly at the agent's chest.

“I'm gonna need you to step back, son," he says to the Agent.

“Me?" the agent scoffs. “Maybe you'd better keep a tighter leash on your deputy there, Sheriff.”

There's the sound of a minor scuffle behind him, as O'Neill, presumably, tries once more to launch himself at the agent. Noah will just have to hope Parrish is enough to hold him back. "I'll thank you not to antagonize my deputies, agent."

“Wh—he's the one who—” the agent starts, indignant.

"Parrish, escort Deputy O'Neill to my office,” Noah orders, still staring down the agent.

“Yes, sir,” Parrish responds, and Noah hears him hiss to O’Neill as they walk away, “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

The agent smirks, looking infuriatingly smug. “When my supervisor hears about this—”

“If Agent McCall has a problem with one of my deputies,” Noah interrupts, “he can bring his concerns to me directly.”

“Oh, believe me,” the agent declares, “he’s gonna have a problem with this. Not only accusing us of—” he, wisely (maybe for the first and only time in his life), cuts himself off. But then a sharp, devious grin spreads across his face. “...But to talk about it in public.” He chuckles darkly, and saunters off, presumably to report this incident to Agent McCall.

“Ah, crap,” Noah mutters, letting his face fall into his hands. This is exactly what he did not need out of today.

But then… Maybe that was the point.

There’s a Goa’uld out there, and a Nogitsune. A god of mischief, and a trickster spirit. Both creators of chaos.

And what better way to create chaos than to antagonize the NID?

O’Neill’s behavior is clearly being influenced by something. If the source is supernatural, maybe Derek will know what to do. Or Deaton. If it’s the Goa’uld… Noah doesn’t know. Maybe Daniel could come back to town.

Noah braces himself, walks over to his office, and enters as quietly as possible, staying by the door. “Parrish?”

Parrish looks up at him, frowning. “Sir?”

“A word?” Noah asks, motioning him over.

Parrish nods, but before he moves, points a finger at O’Neill and commands, “Stay here.” He ignores O’Neill’s answering glare and meets Noah at the door. “Sheriff,” he starts hesitantly as he approaches, “I honestly don’t know what’s gotten into him. This is—”

“Yeah,” Noah sighs heavily. “I get a feeling there’s a lot of that going around right now.” He glances over at O’Neill. He’s leaning back petulantly in his chair, arms crossed, tapping a foot impatiently, glaring at the floor. Noah groans in frustration, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Stay with him,” he orders. “If he gets worse, or even if he just doesn't get better, take him to Dr. Deaton."

Parrish stares at him, incredulous. “The veterinarian? Sheriff, come on, you can't be—”

"I can't—" he sighs, squeezes his eyes shut, rubs his forehead. This is the worst day, and his head hurts so much. “I can't explain right now. Just. Trust me?"

Parrish studies him for what feels like an agonizingly long moment, then nods. “Yes, sir," he replies, and walks back across Noah's office, sitting in the chair next to O'Neill, turning both chairs to face each other and leaning in close as they speak.

Noah exits his office, shutting the door gently behind him. He takes the briefest of moments to appreciate that the O’Neill problem, at least, seems contained. Now he just has to deal with the fallout.

Chapter Text

There’s a joke in here, somewhere, about inquisitions. If his head didn’t hurt so much, maybe he’d be able to enjoy it.

Noah squints under the bright overhead lights of the NID office, cringes a little and tries to shield his eyes.

“Something the matter, Sheriff?” one of the agents across the table asks with a suspicious raised eyebrow.

Noah does his best to turn his pained motion into a casual forehead scratch. He shakes his head and tries to ignore the way it makes his brain feel like it’s rattling around in a jar held by an overeager toddler. “You mean,” he grumbles, “aside from the fact that I’m stuck in here with you, instead of out there doing my actual job?”

The agents across from him—Agent Smith, in case this situation wasn’t cliche enough already, and Agent Johnson, who he’s pretty sure just uses that name professionally to live out her fantasies of pretending she’s an extra in one of the Die Hard movies—both scowl at him. Agent McCall, leaning against the wall in the corner, rolls his eyes, but doesn’t look up from the file he’s been glaring down at.

“We’re just here to talk, Sheriff,” Agent Johnson says, still scowling. “The incident from this morning—”

“One deputy’s lapse in judgment doesn’t merit a full-scale inquiry,” Noah snaps. “He’s having an off day, that’s all.”

“An ‘off day’ that leads to him nearly revealing highly classified information to a room full of uncleared individuals?” Agent Smith snarks, finger quotes included.

“Nearly revealing and actually revealing are two entirely different things,” Noah says, insistent. He leans an elbow on the table and rubs at his forehead again, hoping maybe this time the pressure will erase some of the agony in his head. “Look, I know we haven’t all been on the best of terms here—”

Agent Johnson snorts. “Understatement,” she mutters.

Agent Smith continues, “Deputy O’Neill’s suggestion that you may be an operative of the trust—”

“Oh, come on,” Noah groans. “You can’t honestly think that I—”

“Something is going on in this town, Sheriff,” Johnson interrupts, banging a hand on the table in emphasis. Noah flinches away from the sound. “And you’ve been so obviously hiding something, right from the beginning. What else are we supposed to think?”

“Maybe that it’s none of your fucking business,” Noah snaps. He is just so done with this whole situation.

“Need I remind you, Sheriff,” Smith says, “but you’re the one who requested our team’s presence here in the first place.”

“I never actually requested your team,” Noah clarifies. “I asked for a consult with someone in the SGC, that’s all.”

“Well,” Johnson says, looking smug, “you got us. And good thing, too, because from what we’ve seen of this town—”

“Thank you, Agent Smith, Agent Johnson,” McCall interrupts, straightening up from where he’d been lounging. “You’re dismissed.”

“But, sir—” Johnson objects.

“You’re dismissed,” McCall repeats, very unsubtly walking up to the table, putting down the file he’d been holding, and moving as though to sit in the seat already occupied by Agent Johnson. Johnson makes an undignified noise, and she and Smith get up in a huff and leave, slamming the door behind them. McCall watches them go, sliding the rest of the way into the now-vacated seat, pulling a small device of some sort out of his pocket, pressing a button, and setting it on the table. At Noah’s questioning look, he explains, “Cone of silence. No one’s listening.”

“Big bad spy doesn’t trust his fellow spies?” Noah observes wryly. “Shocker.”

“Look, Stilinski…” McCall says, folding his hands together, “I know there’s something big going on here, that you’ve been trying to keep from us. And I know that you know that I know that.”

“McCall, please,” Noah sighs, scrubbing his hands down his face, “I don’t have the energy for this right now. If you have something to say, just—”

“I also know,” McCall interjects, putting one hand on the file in front of him and pushing it forward slightly for emphasis, “that whatever it is… My son shows up in way too many witness statements to not be a part of it.”

“Yes, well,” Noah mutters, leaning back and crossing his arms, wondering where McCall is going with this, “witness statements are notoriously unreliable.”

McCall looks up, meets Noah’s eye steadily. “You’re protecting him.”

Noah doesn’t answer, just holds eye contact, tries to keep his expression as neutral as possible. He doesn’t want to give anything away, if this is going to go sideways.

McCall studies him for a moment, then sighs, looking resigned. “What do you need me to do?” he asks.

Noah blinks in surprise. “What—” he clears his throat. “Uh. What?”

“To help you protect my son,” McCall clarifies. “What do I need to do?”

And, well. Noah has to admit, this is not the way he expected this day to go. But, he’ll take it.

Chapter Text

Noah does his best to ignore the tentative knock at his door. “Sheriff?”

“‘M busy,” he grumbles, and keeps making notes in his file.

“Sheriff, listen,” O’Neill ignores his dismissal and enters his office anyway, “I’m really so—”

“It’s fine, Deputy,” Noah interrupts, still focused on his files. “Wasn’t your fault.”

“Deputy,” O’Neill echoes faintly. “Right.”

Noah sighs and looks up. It really wasn't O'Neill’s fault, he knows that, and in the end, it didn't turn into as big of a disaster as he'd feared. Yet, anyway. But, still. The timing of it all had hurt. “You weren't yourself. It's fine."

"How bad is it?” O'Neill asks, cringing as he steps fully into the office and closes the door.

“I mean, you certainly didn't help matters,” he says with a raised eyebrow, and O'Neill looks sufficiently guilty in response. “But the situation is contained. For now."

“Good," O'Neill breathes a heavy sigh of relief and flops into a chair. “That's good. So, um…” he picks up Noah's nameplate from desk and fidgets with it. "I heard some of what went down at Derek's loft, but—"

Noah picks up his pen again and pretends he needs to make more urgent notes in his file. “He has a hand device," Noah mutters down at the paperwork. O'Neill inhales sharply in sympathy. “It was… not fun."

O'Neill sits with that for a moment before responding. “You okay?"

The obvious answer is no, absolutely not. To be tortured, nearly killed, at the hands of his own son… "I had a five-minute nap earlier,” he says instead, waving a hand in dismissal. "Practically back to normal.”

And if by ‘five-minute nap’ he really means ‘shutting himself in his office, blinds closed, lights off, sitting curled up on the floor in a corner by the file cabinet waiting for the strongest available painkillers to kick in,’ well. That's neither here nor there. It's fine, he's fine.

“That’s not what I—okay,” O’Neill says with a sigh, but apparently he decides not to push it for now. He spins Noah’s nameplate around in his palms one more time, then sets it back on the desk. “So, what’s the plan?”

Noah snorts. “I appreciate your confidence in me, but I’m afraid you’ve overestimated my ability to know what the hell I’m doing while recovering from Goa’uld torture and worrying about two possessed children.”

“Deaton said something about Scott planning to turn Stiles into a werewolf—”

Noah shakes his head emphatically. “Won’t work. It’d kill him.”

O’Neill’s eyes widen. “Does Scott know that?”

Ah, crap. “...He might not know that yet,” Noah admits. “Knew I was forgetting something…” he groans, scrubbing a hand down his face.

“I’ve also been thinking about the Oni,” O’Neill continues. “Nothing we have seems to do much of anything to them, but Chris broke the mask off of one once. Do we know how he did that?”

“No,” Noah answers, kicking himself a little for not thinking about that earlier. “Not even sure he knows how he did that.”

O’Neill nods. “I can talk to him.”

They both jump slightly when someone knocks on the door, and relax again when Parrish peeks inside. “Hey, Sheriff,” he starts, hesitant, eyes flicking between Noah and O’Neill. “All good?”

Noah nods, once. “All good.” Both deputies relax visibly.

“I was gonna order some takeout,” Parrish offers, to both of them. “You in?”

O’Neill perks up at that. “What’re we having?”

Parrish shrugs, grinning. “Mexican? That place over on Willow?”

“Excellent,” O’Neill grins back. “I’ll take my usual. Sheriff?”

And actually, yeah. He’s kind of starving. “Number five, al pastor, guac on the side.”

“You got it, sir,” Parrish confirms with a nod, taps a palm against the door frame twice, and leaves again to place the order.

Noah waits a moment, thinking, then asks, “Have you told him yet? About our… situation?”

O’Neill scowls down at his hands, picking invisible lint off his pants. “Not yet. Hard to explain everything to someone who isn’t already aware of…” he trails off, gesturing vaguely.

“Tell him,” Noah suggests, firmly. “He can’t help if he doesn’t know.”

O’Neill makes a face, but says, “Yeah, you’re probably right.”

Chapter Text

“Wait—what do you mean, there's two of her?” His headache is coming back. This whole situation is stupid.

“Peter showed me how to do this, like, werewolf mind meld thing with claws—” Scott explains, lifting his clawed hands as if to demonstrate.

“Put those things away, Scott," Noah says, reaching out to push Scott's hands down, glancing quickly to the door to check for any NID eavesdroppers.

"—so we could try to, like, expel it from her? And it worked! Sort of,” Scott continues, making a face.

“But now there's two of her," Noah repeats, trying to pull Scott back to the relevant point of the conversation.

"Right. But that's not the confusing part!” Scott frowns. "Because I was so sure Stiles was the Nogitsune. But it's Allison? And Stiles is something else?"

Noah sighs. “Sure, Scott. The fact that more than one type of bad guy can be in town at the same time is definitely the confusing part here.”

"But then, what's Stiles?” Scott shrugs expressively, still frowning.

Noah pats Scott's shoulder reassuringly. “Don't worry about it. Just, don't try to turn him into a werewolf to fix him. Now about there being two of Allison…”

Chapter Text

Noah knows he should have been prepared for the onslaught of questions Parrish would have when O’Neill finally brought him up to speed. He should have known Parrish would be thorough, thoughtful, and curious. But maybe he didn’t expect to have to be the one to come up with all the answers. He wonders, faintly, if he can get away with calling in Derek or Chris as backup.

They’re in Noah’s office, Parrish leaning against the desk while he processes everything, Noah standing, arms crossed, leaning against the arm of one of his chairs. Noah turns when his door opens without anyone knocking, and O’Neill lets himself in.

O’Neill saunters over to the desk and leans against it next to Parrish, arms braced behind him, as casual as anything. But Noah immediately clocks the tense line of his shoulders, the irritated set to his jaw, and straightens up to brace himself.

“Thought you said McCall was taking care of our NID situation,” O’Neill mutters. He kicks one foot out at Parrish, hitting him lightly on the shin, just to be annoying. Parrish frowns and kicks back. Noah rolls his eyes and reaches out to whack O’Neill’s arm in an attempt to discourage retaliation.

“He said he’d lead them after Katashi’s men in the Trust,” Noah mutters back, glancing over at the group of agents filing into the bullpen, led by Agents Smith and Johnson. Of course. “Doesn’t mean they’d all follow him.”

Parrish’s eyes dart between the two of them and the group of agents, confused. “I thought they were FBI. What’s the NID? Is this also a werewolf thing?”

Oh, if only it were that simple… “Not exactly, but they’re definitely part of the problem.” Noah moves over to the door, leaning against the frame while he watches the agents. His eyes widen as two additional figures appear behind them. “Uh… guys?” He pulls out his gun, on instinct.

"Sheriff? What are you—" O'Neill starts, walking up behind him, and cuts off when he sees it. “Oh."

“Guys? What's going on?" Parrish asks as he joins them, too. “Why—what the hell?"

“Please tell me you got something useful out of Chris." He ducks behind the door frame, stalling for time. He's pretty sure the NID agents saw him with his gun out, but they haven't noticed the other big problem in the room yet.

“I think I did, yeah," O'Neill answers, “but I wasn't expecting to have to test it so soon. I thought they were on our side."

“When has that ever—Get down!” he shouts as one of the Oni swings its sword to strike one of the agents in the back. He fires at it—accomplishing nothing but scaring the agents, and now everyone has their guns out.

He’d have thought, bringing guns to a sword fight would be a good idea, actually. Apparently not so much in this case.

The Oni are relentless, merciless, slicing deep gashes into everyone. They’re completely unphased by the gunfire, even when Noah upgrades to something with more firepower. They disappear and reappear in the blink of an eye. They slash at everyone in their path, leaving a trail of wounded—deputies and NID alike, attacking indiscriminately—as they work their way through the room. Noah takes a slice to the arm, Parrish a hit to the abdomen.

They don’t stop until one of them comes after O’Neill, and he throws something at it—something sharp, something shiny and ornamental-looking.

Both Oni freeze.

The one that took the hit looks down, as if in shock, and—

Implodes, in a burst of light.

The other one retreats, vanishes into the shadows.

“I can’t believe that worked,” O’Neill says faintly, sounding as shocked as Noah feels.

“What the hell was that?” Noah gasps, clutching at his wounded arm.

“Silver,” O’Neill answers distantly. “The Oni are vulnerable to silver. Jordan!” He rushes to his friend’s side, starts applying pressure to the wound.

“Why… why’d they leave us alive?” Parrish asks through gritted teeth.

And Noah’d had the same thought. He glances around the room, at all the wounded. None of the sword strikes were fatal blows. But then he pulls his hand away from his own arm wound and watches a cloud of fine black mist evaporate from it. “I’m not so sure they did,” he observes bleakly.

Chapter Text

“I’m fine, O’Neill,” he lies through gritted teeth.

O'Neill shakes his head, frowning down at the wound. It's still emitting that black haze, and the darkness is spreading quickly all along his arm, black veins reaching toward his heart. “It’s progressing fast. At this rate, you won’t be able to—”

“I’m going,” he growls as he snatches the gauze out of O’Neill’s hands to take over the wrapping himself. "End of discussion.”

“I’m coming, too,” Parrish declares as he pushes himself up to lean against the desk. His arm is curled protectively around his injured side, breathing uneven.

O'Neill rushes back to Parrish’s side to support him, looking incredulous. “Jordan, what—”

“I’m not waiting around here to die," Parrish growls. “I’m coming with you.”

“You’re both ridiculous,” O'Neill laments, exasperated. "You can’t fight like this.”

Parrish just glares at him, unrelenting. “We’re coming.”

O'Neill looks over at Noah for a moment, as if hoping he'll be the voice of reason. Doesn't take long, though, to see he won't be winning this one. He drops his head into both hands and groans. “Oh, for cryin’ out loud… Fine,” he says, throwing up his hands in defeat. “Come on.”

O'Neill reluctantly herds them into his squad car, Noah in shotgun and Parrish in the back. Noah knows this is a bad idea, that he won't be able to do much of anything to help, but there's no way he’s staying behind for this. Not with his son's life on the line.

“Just do yourselves a favor and stay here,” O’Neill orders once they arrive at the school, shoving both of them at the Beacon Hills High School sign.

“If you really think I came all this way just to sit on the sidelines—” Noah starts, glaring at O’Neill. His determination is undermined by the fact that he can hardly stand, has to lean heavily against the sign just to keep from collapsing, but still. He has every intention of getting out there with the rest of them.

“Do me a favor, then,” O’Neill says firmly, glaring right back. “Don't force me to split my focus.”

“He’s right, Sheriff,” Parrish agrees reluctantly, grimacing in pain and sliding down to sit on the ground. “We’re in no condition to fight.”

Noah shakes his head, braces himself against the sign to stand more upright. “I can still fire a gun—”

“Then fire it from here,” O’Neill insists, then looks around furtively and pulls something out from under his jacket, pressing it into Noah’s hands. “This should help,” he mutters.

Noah’s eyes widen, grip tightening around the Zat gun. “What—how?”

O’Neill shrugs. “Gift from Daniel.”

Noah shakes his head in wonder. “O’Neill—”

“I know.” O’Neill squeezes the shoulder of his uninjured arm, then looks up as Derek, Cora, and the twins all show up together. They both straighten, alert, when Stiles saunters out of the main entrance, flanked by the Oni.

“Stall,” Noah suggests. “Chris is on his way. Get him monologuing. You know how these things are—he won’t be able to resist.”

O’Neill nods once, sharply, in agreement. “I’ll bring him back to you,” he promises, and jogs out to stand between the werewolves and the Goa’uld, shouting taunts at the thing possessing Stiles.

Noah sighs and rolls his eyes as he hears the Goa’uld responding, predictably, to O’Neill. He tunes out the inevitable monologue and slides down to sit next to Parrish, situating himself so he can still keep an eye on the action. The parasite seems to be enjoying its supervillain moment, explaining its entire evil plot and its apparently millenia-long partnership/relationship with the Nogitsune. Noah grimaces and settles in for the long haul while they wait for Chris to show up with Allison and her silver-tipped arrows.

“Bit over-the-top, isn’t he?” Parrish observes dryly.

Noah snorts. “That’s just what these things are like.”

“You’ve fought these things before?” Parrish looks at him curiously.

“Oh yeah.” Well, not personally, but close enough.

“But it’s a… god?”

Noah shakes his head emphatically. “Not a god. Parasitic brain worm with delusions of grandeur.”

Parrish nods consideringly. “And how exactly is it that Jack knows so much about it?”

Oh, boy. This again. “Long story. Can’t really talk about it.”

“That’s what he tells me, y’know,” Parrish says, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “Every time I ask him about his family, or when he acts like he has experience in something I know he’s never done before.”

“He has his reasons,” Noah deflects. He thinks, maybe, Parrish is too smart for his own good.

Parrish shifts his position and grimaces, both from the conversation and the pain of his wound. “Stupid reasons. I hate knowing he’s hiding things from me.”

“Parrish…” he starts, shaking his head, but he trails off as he truly considers the man next to him. Turnabout is fair play, after all, so maybe it’s time to get some answers in return. “What are you doing here?”

Parrish frowns, confused. “I’m—”

“I don’t mean here,” Noah interrupts, waving a hand to gesture vaguely at their current situation. “I mean, in Beacon Hills. And don’t tell me it’s just because of him.”

“I don’t…” Parrish trails off, eyes searching until they land on O'Neill, watching him goad the Goa'uld. Noah can tell Parrish is considering denial again, but instead he sits with the question a moment. “I felt drawn here,” he answers, finally, turning back to Noah, brow furrowed as if surprised by his own answer. “He’d mentioned this place, yeah, but I think… I think I would’ve ended up here eventually, even without him.”

“Yeah.” Noah feels like, somehow, a suspicion has been confirmed. Isn’t sure what it means yet, but he’s pretty sure it means something. “And maybe he knows you’re hiding things from him, too.”

“I’m not—what?” Parrish blinks in confusion, shaking his head. “I’m not hiding anything from him.”

Noah hums thoughtfully, studying his face. “You might not know it yet, but you are.” He doesn't get to follow that train of thought any further, though. The Goa'uld apparently got sick of waiting. Next thing he knows, the Oni are attacking O'Neill and the werewolves. And that’s when he notices another weird thing. “Hey, Parrish, do you—” He glances over at the deputy, expecting that same lively curiosity he’s had all day, but the wound must be getting to him. Parrish is slumped over, eyes closed, breathing labored. “Parrish, come on,” Noah says firmly, nudging his arm. “Stay awake. Gotta ask you something.”

Parrish groans, but blinks blearily awake to look over at him. “...Ask me?”

“Yeah,” Noah says, nudging Parrish again to make sure he’s really awake, then pointing at the fight. “Am I hallucinating, or are Cora’s eyes glowing red?”

Parrish’s brow furrows in concentration as he tries to bring himself back to alertness, then he turns to see the fighting. “Cora? Which—oh, right. Uh—red,” he agrees decisively. “Yeah. Definitely red. What does red mean?”

“Red means Alpha,” Noah explains, feeling almost as confused as Parrish sounds. “Leader of the pack.” He watches her dodge a savage swing of an Oni sword, then use the creature’s momentum to bury her claws deep into… well. Shadows and nothingness, unfortunately. Would’ve been a killing blow on something more fully corporeal, though.

“Thought you said Scott was the Alpha.” They both flinch as O’Neill fires his gun at Stiles—at the Goa’uld. The bullets stop just shy of hitting him, instead striking the personal shield the parasite apparently has. O’Neill growls in frustration and parries a sword strike from one of the Oni with the barrel of his gun.

“He is.” Through sheer stubbornness, it seems, but yes. Noah is still not clear on how werewolves work. He wonders if he can wheedle some answers out of Derek, once this is all over. Invite him over for Wormhole X-treme! and werewolf lessons.

“But she’s one now, too?” Parrish asks. Derek grabs an Oni by the arm on the downswing and uses its sword to parry another Oni’s strike. Cora launches herself at the Oni Derek’s gripping, tearing at its back before it throws her off.

“I don’t know, man. I guess.” He vaguely remembers her saying something about ‘family business,’ last time he saw her. He watches her intently, and can’t help but feel impressed. She’s holding her own well, against an enemy she can’t even really hurt, and she and Derek compliment each other’s strengths. She’s fast, ruthless, relentless; he’s controlled, powerful, strategic.

“You still haven’t told me, you know,” Parrish says after another minute of watching the fighting. His voice is still strained with pain, but he seems more alert now. “How you know him so well.” He doesn’t need to clarify which ‘him’ he’s referring to.

Noah frowns, still focused on watching the fight, wondering if jumping in with the Zat now would help or just cause more chaos. It’d probably get him out of answering awkward questions, if nothing else… “Maybe I don’t,” he answers absently. “Maybe I’m just a good judge of character.”

“He said an old friend invited him here,” Parrish supplies, undeterred. “Except I know all his friends.”

“You met him in high school, right?” he hedges, trying to deflect again. His finger hovers over the button on the Zat. “I’m sure he had friends before then.”

"It was you, wasn’t it?” Parrish continues. O’Neill dodges another Oni sword strike and pulls a knife out from under his jacket, flinging it at the Goa’uld—it lands, buried deep in Stiles’s shoulder. The Goa’uld snarls, pulls the knife out, and fires a blast of energy from its hand device into the melee, uncaring about who or what it hits in its frustration. Both twins end up flung several feet away, and one of the Oni temporarily disintegrates.

“Don’t know what you mean,” Noah tries, glancing over briefly. Probably a bad idea to try to get out of an awkward conversation by using an alien energy weapon, tempting though it may be. It’d just end up starting an entirely different, entirely more awkward conversation instead.

“You don’t talk to him like someone who knew him as a kid,” Parrish observes, clearly not buying it. Noah thinks, maybe, he’d have been better off not reading Parrish in on any of this.

“I—Chris,” he sags in relief at the sight of the other man approaching. A distraction, thank God.

“You guys okay?” Chris asks, crouching down next to them, gun out but not yet aimed. He looks them both over quickly, frowns at their obvious incapacitated state.

“Yes,” Noah tries to reassure him. “I mean, no,” he corrects, honestly, with a shrug and a pained gesture at their injuries. “But, yes.”

Chris narrows his eyes, clearly unimpressed. “That clarifies things, thanks,” he responds dryly, but he doesn’t seem eager to press the issue, instead glancing over at where the werewolves and Oni are fighting.

“O’Neill stalled as long as he could for you,” Noah tells Chris, following his gaze. All four Oni have refocused their efforts directly onto O’Neill now, with all the werewolves—including Isaac, who arrived with Chris—attempting to draw them away. “Got ‘em?”

“See for yourself,” Chris replies with a proud grin, pointing at where Allison is standing, overlooking the battlefield, bow drawn. She looses an arrow; it flies, straight and true, into the back of one of the Oni. Just like the one at the Station, this Oni implodes. The doors to the school fling open, and another Allison—the Nogitsune—strides out, looking thunderous. Chris’s smile drops away and he stands, gun leveled at the Nogitsune, walking toward her and looking grim.

“Wait—who is that?” Parrish asks, sounding entirely dumbfounded. “And why’re there two of her? Are evil twins a thing?” Scott, Lydia, and Kira stumble out of the school, chasing after the Nogitsune.

“Chris’s daughter, Allison, and honestly, don’t ask me,” Noah answers, watching transfixed as arrow strikes take down two more Oni in rapid succession. “I don’t even really get this either. She doesn’t usually have an evil twin.”

“Doesn’t usually have…” Parrish echoes faintly. “Oh I have so many more questions now.”

“Really wish I had some answers for you,” Noah grumbles. If he had answers for Parrish, it would mean he had answers for himself. This situation is too confusing for his liking, and the poison from his wound is starting to cloud his thinking.

The Nogitsune screeches something melodramatic as Allison takes out the last Oni. Noah doesn’t bother paying attention to what it’s saying, though. The second the last Oni vanishes, the fog in his brain lifts, and the black veins reaching out from his wounded arm vanish. The pain fades to that of a run-of-the-mill sword slice, no longer a supernaturally-enhanced gash.

“Right,” Noah says, shaking the tingling sensation out of his wounded arm as he stands. “That’s quite enough of that.” Scott launches himself at the Nogitsune, eyes glowing red, werewolf teeth bared—Noah fires first, and everyone freezes in shock as the electricity hits.

The first shot doesn’t do much to the Nogitsune besides angering it, so Noah fires the second shot. That does a better job; the Nogitsune starts collapsing in on itself, crumbling into a pile of black dust. But something starts to rise from the pile, so Noah fires again, and the entire thing disintegrates into nothingness.

“Sweet,” he hears O’Neill mutter appreciatively.

“Uh.” Scott blinks, bewildered, as his face slowly reverts back to human. “...What? Since when do you have a ray gun?!”

“You dare use the tools of your God!” the Goa’uld roars. “Your insolence will not—”

“Will someone shut him up?” Noah complains, making a face and gesturing with the Zat for someone to restrain him. “O’Neill, Derek, could you—” O’Neill nods and steps forward to restrain Stiles, and Derek, recovering surprisingly quickly from his own stunned silence, does the same.

“...Can’t you just use your ray gun?” Chris asks, pitching his voice low.

“He has a personal shield, Chris,” Noah explains, rolling his eyes. “Protects him from energy weapons and high-velocity projectiles. And it’s not a ray gun. Technically.”

“Do—” Scott starts, still gaping in shock. “Uh. Should I still—”

“No, Scott,” Noah sighs, annoyed at having to explain this again. “Biting him would kill him. I’ll take it from here. O’Neill, get that thing off him,” he orders, gesturing to the hand device. “I gotta make a phone call.”

Chapter Text

“Major Disaster,” Noah greets, grinning at the man who walks in beside Daniel. Daniel nods a quick greeting, then moves to stand next to O’Neill, conferring with him quietly as they both watch Stiles—handcuffed and thoroughly sedated, slumped over on the couch in his office—warily.

“That’s Lieutenant Colonel now, Sergeant,” Colonel—formerly Major—Paul Davis corrects, eyes crinkling in amusement at the old nickname.

Noah shakes his head and wrinkles his nose in mock disapproval. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it. And it’s Sheriff,” he replies with his own correction. “I’m retired. Gotta say, your timing’s gotten better. Here for the wrap-up instead of the main event.”

“Certainly makes my life less stressful,” Davis says with a satisfied nod. “Small price to pay for missing out on all the fun. Not that I’m, uh,” his eyes widen as he realizes what he’s just implied, “referring to your son being taken as host to a Goa’uld as fun, just—”

Noah waves a hand in dismissal at the comment. “‘S fine. I know what you meant.” He sighs and leans against his desk. “That’s not the only reason you’re here, though, is it?” And Noah knows it isn’t. They wouldn’t send Davis out here as an escort for a single rogue Goa’uld, not when Daniel could easily take care of it himself.

Davis nods, looking apologetic. “We also need to address the NID presence in your town, the reasons you called this in in the first place, and, from what I understand, a series of potentially serious data breaches.”

Noah grimaces and rubs his neck. “Yeah. Figured as much,” he mutters. “How much trouble am I in?”

“Depends how many NDAs we need to produce,” Davis answers, gentle but firm.

“Actually, ah—” he perks up slightly, because, to be quite honest, only a very small part of this situation can’t be explained away as something supernatural. “Would you believe me if I said just two?”

Davis blinks in surprise. “Uh. From what I’ve heard, I don’t see how that’s possible.”

“I showed my son’s MRI to Derek Hale and Chris Argent,” he explains. “Everything else can plausibly be folded into another part of this discussion. Sensitive, but not classified, and not under SGC jurisdiction.”

“Actually,” Daniel interjects, turning to them, “granting full clearance to Derek would be immensely helpful to me. I’ve been wanting to take full advantage of his language skills for the benefit of the SGC for some time now. He’d be an asset, in any capacity.”

Davis frowns thoughtfully. “One NDA and one read-in,” he nods. “I can work with that. Now, about the—”

“Sheriff Stilinski,” he hears someone call from outside his office.

“Ah, crap,” he sighs as he recognizes the voice of Agent Johnson and pushes himself upright. “Gonna join me for the NID standoff, Colonel?”

Davis smirks. “I’d really rather not. I think you can handle this just fine on your own.”

“Yeah, yeah. Dodging all the disasters now,” Noah complains, rolling his eyes. “Glad you’re not letting that promotion of yours go to your head.” He hears Davis chuckle as he walks out, closing his office door behind him. “Agent Johnson, Agent Smith, what a pleasant surprise,” he says, forcing a smile.

“Is it?” Agent Smith sneers. “I don’t know how you did it, but I’m certain you orchestrated that attack. We nearly died.”

“Um. I did, too,” Noah counters, bewildered by the agent’s twisted logic. He lifts his bandaged arm to wave at them.

Agent Johnson scoffs. “A likely story. If you think, for one second, that—”

“...That what, exactly?” He raises both eyebrows in challenge. "You expect anyone to believe that I'd call in a team of ninjas to attack my own deputies and myself, just to get you out of my way?”

"How should we know? We're not the criminal masterminds here,” Agent Johnson says, crossing her arms and looking smug.

Noah snorts. "Well, that much is obvious,” he mutters. "Listen, agents—”

“Johnson, Smith, let's go," Agent McCall calls from the entry doorway. “New assignment’s come in. Wheels down in five."

“But, McCall, we haven't—” Agent Smith objects.

McCall raises an eyebrow. "Do you want to be the one to explain to Agent Barrett why we’re late?”

Agent Smith’s jaw drops. "Agent Barrett? He—"

“Let's go," McCall repeats firmly, and the other agents finally scramble to comply. McCall meets Noah's eyes and nods in acknowledgement; Noah nods back in gratitude, and McCall disappears out the door.

Noah sags in relief and allows himself a moment to breathe, then heads back into his office. Three amused faces greet him, and he collapses back against the door, releasing one long exhale, as the door latches shut. “So, what're my chances that we get to call this a day and just go home as soon as that thing is out of my son?”

"Not a bet I'd be willing to take,” O’Neill admits wryly.

"There's still that matter of why you called us out here in the first place,” Davis reminds him.

Noah sighs and runs a hand through his hair. "Yeah… About that…" He glances over at O'Neill, who shrugs, resigned. Noah nods in defeat. “So. Speaking of Derek Hale, this conversation will go a lot smoother with visual aids…”

Chapter Text

“So…” Stiles starts, fidgeting with the top hem of the blanket bunched up in his lap. “Aliens.”

Noah sighs and leans back in his chair next to the hospital bed, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Yes, Stiles. Aliens.”

“And you were, just,” Stiles frowns, flailing a hand sarcastically, “never gonna tell me.”

Noah rolls his eyes. “It’s classified, Stiles. I couldn’t.”

Stiles makes an indignant squawking noise. “Wha—I told you about werewolves!”

“Talking about werewolves doesn’t have the potential for landing me in federal prison for discussing national secrets, Stiles,” he counters. “Talking about aliens does.”

Stiles scoffs dismissively. “Like that would’ve stopped me.”

“Exactly,” Noah says, pointing an accusing finger at his son. “And that’s part of the problem. You can’t talk about this with anyone, Stiles.”

“But, Dad, this is huge,” Stiles objects, leaning forward. “You can’t expect me to—”

“Okay, actually,” Noah concedes, leaning forward to rest his forearms on the edge of the bed, “this is a lot to process, especially what you’ve just gone through, you’re definitely going to need to talk to someone. You can talk about it with me. And Derek, and Deputy O’Neill.”

Stiles flops back again, blinking in surprise. “I can talk to Derek about aliens,” he echoes faintly, shaking his head in disbelief. “What even is my life?”

Noah shrugs. “Derek probably won’t have any answers for you. He’s almost as new to this as you are. But,” he raises a finger for emphasis, “you two could still talk it out. Help each other, I don’t know, process. Or whatever.”

Stiles stares at him skeptically for a moment. “Right,” he drawls, sarcastic, “because Derek has historically been so good at talking things out to process them. Especially with me.”

Noah smirks, because he’s been observing the way Derek interacted with Stiles leading up to the extraction; the way he reacted during the procedure; and the way he’s been hovering while waiting for Stiles to recover. “He might surprise you,” he mutters. He can’t say he’s one-hundred-percent thrilled about something developing between a twenty-three-year-old werewolf and his underage son, but Derek is a good man. Noah trusts him never to hurt Stiles.

Stiles snorts and shakes his head. “Right, sure. I’ll believe it when I see it. And Deputy O’Neill? Where does he come into all of this?”

Noah rests his face in his hands for a moment and sighs heavily. “That’s a long, complicated story I’m not at liberty to share the details of,” he says when he lifts his head again to meet his son’s eyes, clasping his hands in front of him. “But suffice it to say, he’s been through a lot. And he’ll understand more than you could ever imagine of what you’ve just gone through.”

Stiles frowns deeply down at his own hands, fidgeting intently as he sits in silence for a moment. “I, uh, I remember—” he cuts himself off, lifting his hand slightly, clenching and unclenching his fist. “I remember what it made me do. What I almost—”

“Hey, Stiles, no,” Noah reassures him, grabbing his hand. “It wasn’t you. I don’t blame you. I would never—” He clears his throat, squeezing his son’s hand tight. “It wasn’t you.” Now’s probably not the best time to tell him he kept the hand device, tucked it away in the back of a closet at home. He figures, Stiles should be able to learn how to use it. If he’s going to continue to face down werewolves and kanimas and whatever other crazy superpowered supernatural creatures might show up, he—fragile, breakable, human—can use whatever advantage he can get. And this hand device comes with a bonus personal shield.

“I keep—” Stiles cringes. “When I dream, and sometimes just—you know,” he shrugs, “whenever. I remember things it did, people it hurt, even from before it was in me. Is it gonna—”

Noah squeezes his eyes shut, shoulders slumping. “Yeah,” he confirms regretfully. “You’re gonna remember a lot of things.” He looks up at his son’s eyes again. “Talk to me, and O’Neill and Derek. We can help.”

Chapter Text

“Stop fussing,” Stiles says, exasperated, slapping his hands away from where he’d been repositioning snack bowls. “It’s a TV show marathon, not a peace conference.”

“It might as well be,” Noah grumbles. Chris, Derek, and O’Neill will be here any moment, and historically, those first two haven’t been the best of friends.

“And anyway,” Stiles continues, punching Noah’s shoulder lightly, “this is our first time watching with our newfound knowledge. I didn’t know before that you’d been having me watch educational programming this entire time!”

Noah rolls his eyes fondly. “The show isn’t exactly scientifically accurate, Stiles.” Someone knocks on the front door, and he turns with a grin, clapping his son on the arm on his way out to answer it.

“Oh, we are so doing a rewatch soon, and you need to tell me every time they mess something up,” Stiles calls after him.

Noah chuckles to himself and pulls the door open. “Derek,” he greets warmly, eyes flicking down to the tray in the young man’s hands. “What’s this?”

Derek shifts a little, uncertain. “Cookies. It’s an old family recipe.”

“Oh, Stiles is gonna love this,” Noah mutters. Movement outside catches his eye, as O’Neill’s car pulls up. “Come on in, everything’s set up in the living room,” he says to Derek, gesturing him inside. He waves O’Neill over, but doesn’t bother waiting for him at the door; he leaves the door slightly ajar and walks back in to the living room.

“—Can’t believe you baked,” Stiles is saying, looking at Derek with a combination of disbelief and awe. He picks up a cookie and takes a bite. “Mmh my God,” he moans around the mouthful, “and they’re good.” He shoves the rest of the cookie into his mouth all at once, then reaches for another.

Derek slaps his hand away. “Don’t eat all of them now,” he scolds. “Save some for your dad, at least.”

“Sounds like I’d better grab one of these while I still can, then,” Noah says, crossing the room to snatch a cookie. Stiles was right, they are good. He nods approvingly at Derek, who ducks his head with a bashful smile.

“Someone say cookies?” O’Neill asks, sauntering in and depositing a six-pack of beer on a side table. “Ooh! Excellent.” He swoops in to grab one, flopping down on the couch next to Derek.

Noah reaches across with a grin to grab one of the beers and pop it open. He holds it up in silent cheers at O’Neill, who winks at him and returns the gesture with his cookie. Noah retreats to the edge of the room to wait for Chris, leaning against the wall and listening to the rest of them debate popular ships and fanfiction writers. He sips his beer with a soft, fond smile, listening contentedly until he hears another knock at the door.

“Chris, thank God,” he says the moment he yanks the door open, tugging the other man inside by his elbow. “Save me from my son’s bad taste in fanfiction.”

“Uh,” Chris blinks in surprise, but seems to recover fairly quickly this time. “Well, if you really want good plot-driven stories, you’ll want to read StylinJoe. He’s been the gold standard for mission fics since he started posting.”

“You,” Noah declares as they enter the living room, “are my new favorite. Sorry, O’Neill, you’ve been demoted.”

“Hang on, I gotta look something up,” O’Neill mutters, frowning down at his phone.

“But Dad,” Stiles objects, indignant, “How can Chris possibly be your favorite when Derek’s the one who made you these awesome cookies?”

Noah shrugs as he takes the empty seat on the couch next to O’Neill. “I just can’t take him seriously. Did you know he thinks Doctor Levant is annoying?”

Derek wrinkles his nose. “Just reminds me too much of someone I know.”

Noah nearly snorts up the next sip of his beer. “Oh, I imagine he does,” he snickers.

“Holy…” O’Neill breathes, staring down at his phone, “...buckets. Uh. Yeah. StylinJoe’s the real deal. These are—” he cuts himself off, shaking his head in disbelief. “Yeah. Read ‘em later. We can discuss.” He tucks his phone away hastily and grabs a beer, opening it to take a long swig.

Noah looks at O’Neill a little curiously, but he doesn’t seem interested in elaborating at the moment, so Noah lets it slide. He motions for Chris to sit, and once everyone is settled, cues up the first episode. They have five to get caught up on before tonight’s season finale—all the ones they’d missed during the recent crisis—and they need to get started if they want to finish in time to watch tonight’s episode live. “We ready?”

Everything goes better than expected. Derek and Chris have surprisingly similar opinions about most of the characters, and bond over a mutual fondness for Grell. O’Neill’s commentary throughout keeps leaving Noah in stitches. Stiles is watching everything so intently Noah almost expects him to start taking notes.

The biggest shock of the evening comes when, in the finale, Doctor Levant dies. Certainly not a first for his character, but this time feels different.

Chris shakes his head, looking devastated. “I, uh, can’t say I expected that.”

“Well, now I feel like a jerk,” Derek says faintly, wiping a tear off his cheek.

“I wouldn’t worry too much,” O’Neill says, still looking sad, but with a soft smile. “I have a feeling we’ll see him again.”