Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes up to the soft warmth of Riot, his familiar, curled up against his chest, the small red fox content in its usual spot. The morning sun filters through the window, casting a soft glow across the room. Riot stretches, letting out a little yawn, before hopping down from the bed, his size shifting effortlessly to that of a housecat.

Stiles groans, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. Riot gives a knowing glance, tail flicking. The fox jumps up onto the counter as Stiles shuffles into the kitchen, still groggy from sleep. Riot follows, a small purr like sound in his throat as he changes to a more playful size, leaping from the counter to Stiles' shoulders with ease.

“Morning, Riot,” Stiles mutters, reaching for the coffee pot. The fox curls into the crook of his neck as Stiles fills the mug, the warm scent of coffee filling the air. Riot nips at Stiles’ ear affectionately, drawing a small laugh from him. The fox has been with him through everything, never leaving his side since that first case together.

As Stiles stirs his coffee, he glances down at his arm, where the latest tattoo sits - dark, intricate lines that twist around his wrist and up his forearm. It’s a vampire motif, a mark of a hard fought victory against a creature that almost got the better of him. He still doesn’t fully understand how it works, how each new supernatural enemy he defeats leaves its mark on his skin, but he’s not complaining. The tattoos have become a part of who he is, a history of the battles he’s fought.

Riot nuzzles against Stiles’ cheek, and he laughs, scratching the fox’s chin. “You’re the only one who knows all the details, huh?”

The fox chirps softly in response, hopping down to the table, where Stiles sets his coffee mug. Riot’s tail flicks with interest as Stiles traces the edges of the tattoo with his fingers.

The morning moves on quietly. Stiles has nowhere to be; he’s on sabbatical after the particularly dangerous case, the first break he’s had in years. It’s strange, but in a good way. He’s not lonely. He’s never been more content in his life. He has his work, his magic, and Riot by his side. And for the first time in a while, he’s allowed himself to just breathe.

After finishing his coffee, Stiles stands, stretching with a groan. Riot follows him to the window, perched on the sill, as Stiles looks out over the small town. The peacefulness is almost too much to handle after the chaos of his life before; the supernatural, before everything went wrong with Beacon Hills. But right now, it’s all he wants.

A soft ding from his phone cuts through the silence, and Stiles glances down at the screen. The name that flashes up isn’t one he’s seen in a while. Peter Hale. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he swipes to answer, setting the phone to his ear.

“Peter,” he says, voice low. “What’s up?”

Riot shifts on the windowsill, his sharp eyes following Stiles’ every movement. Something is coming, and Stiles can feel it already.

Stiles clenches his jaw as Peter's voice crackles through the phone.

“Stiles, we’ve got a problem,” Peter begins, his voice clipped, with just a hint of tension beneath the surface. “The Nogitsune is back, and this time, it’s targeting Eli.”

Stiles freezes, the blood draining from his face. Eli. Derek’s son. The person who Stiles has only heard about through Peter's cryptic conversations and his few contacts left in Beacon Hills, but never met. His grip on the phone tightens, a flash of something dangerous passing through his chest. His heart races, a mix of anger and fear.

“The Nogitsune?” Stiles repeats, voice tight. "How the hell is that even possible? I thought we-”

"I thought so too," Peter interrupts, his tone heavy. “But I just found out. The McCall pack is back together, and they’ve unanimously decided not to call you.”

The words hit Stiles like a punch to the gut. His anger boils over, and he grips the phone so tightly his knuckles turn white.

“What? Are you serious?” Stiles’ voice shakes with fury. “You’re telling me, after everything, after all the shit we've been through, they just decide not to call me? And you’re only telling me now? After Eli is in danger?”

Peter sighs, the sound carrying a quiet understanding, but there’s still the unmistakable edge of frustration in his voice. "Stiles, I don’t agree with their decision, but they’ve made it. The pack doesn’t trust you apparently. And it's not like you and Derek are even friends anymore."

The last words hit Stiles like a slap, and for a moment, he's silent. He didn’t expect Peter to bring that up now, especially with everything at stake. His breath is ragged as he stares at nothing, the memories of Derek; the bitter anger, the abandoned feelings, the years of silence flooding him in an overwhelming rush.

“I don’t need their trust,” Stiles finally mutters, his words sharp with resentment. “You could’ve called me sooner, Peter. I’ve been doing my own thing for years, and this...this is what you call me for?”

Peter’s voice softens, though there’s no disguising the urgency now. “I know, Stiles. I’m sorry. But I’m telling you now because you need to be ready. Eli is caught in the crossfire. You’re the only one who might be able to stop it, and that’s why I called you. Not the pack. Me.”

Stiles stares at the wall, his pulse pounding in his ears. A mix of anger and determination roils inside him. He hasn’t had any contact with anyone in the pack in years. It stings more than he cares to admit, but right now, he can’t afford to dwell on that.

“Fine,” Stiles says, his voice clipped, though there's still a deep simmer of fury beneath it. “You want me to help? I’ll help. But don't expect me to just fall back into the fold with the pack. They can rot for all I care.”

Peter doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to. “I never expected you to. Just get to Beacon Hills when you can. And Stiles… be careful. The Nogitsune is worse than ever. If you can’t handle it…”

Stiles cuts him off, determination rising in his chest. “I’ve handled worse. I’ll handle this.”

With that, he hangs up, tossing the phone aside, his eyes blazing with a mix of old rage and newfound purpose. Riot, sensing the change in Stiles, hops up onto the counter, now about the size of a housecat, his tail flicking with interest as Stiles runs a hand through his hair.

“Looks like we’ve got a trip to make, Riot,” Stiles mutters to the fox, who gives a small, almost comforting yip in response. He stands up from the kitchen counter, his mind racing as he prepares for what’s coming next.

He doesn’t need the pack. He doesn’t need their approval. He’ll handle this on his own; just like he’s always done.

Stiles moves through his small apartment with methodical precision, his fingers grazing over the worn spines of old tomes and books that line the shelves. He’s collected these over the years; arcane volumes on magic, dark arts, ancient spells, and supernatural creatures. Some were passed down from trusted contacts, others he stumbled upon during cases. They’re not just books; they’re his lifeline, his key to surviving this twisted world that seems to always be teetering on the edge of chaos.

His fingers trace over the pages of a thick, dusty tome with worn edges. His eyes skim over the ancient incantation, something he’s been preparing for, though he wishes he didn’t have to. The thought of using this particular spell makes a cold shiver run through his spine. it’s not something anyone should want to do, especially against something like the Nogitsune. But it’s the only way to make sure the demon is gone for good.

The ritual is dangerous, a push of magic that’ll rip through him, leaving him vulnerable. He can already feel the weight of the decision, the familiar heaviness in his chest. This will cost him. It always does. But it’s a price he’s willing to pay.

Stiles flips through the book until he finds what he’s looking for. The spell is old, complicated. He knows it’ll hurt. The magic will sear through him like fire, twisting his insides and challenging everything he’s worked to master. And yet, he knows that if he doesn’t do this, if he doesn’t end it now, the Nogitsune will never stop. He’ll never stop. He remembers the pain, the agony of that thing’s influence, and the havoc it wreaked on those he loved. He can't let that happen to Eli.

He gathers the supplies: enchanted herbs, rare crystals, chalk for the circle, and other talismans. He packs them all carefully, his hands steady despite the tremor in his chest. He pulls on his leather jacket, tucking the essentials into the inside pocket, making sure nothing important is left behind. Riot, sensing the change in the atmosphere, jumps up onto the counter, nudging Stiles' leg with a soft, comforting mewl. Stiles gives the fox a brief, affectionate scratch behind the ears.

“Don’t worry, Riot. We’ve got this,” he murmurs, voice soft but resolute. Riot curls up in his arms as Stiles finishes packing, his eyes bright with trust and understanding. Riot’s presence is grounding, like an anchor keeping Stiles steady when everything inside him wants to spin out of control.

Stiles takes a deep breath, his eyes falling on the collection of tattoos across his arms. His magic, his powers, they’ve grown since he left Beacon Hills. He’s learned to control the chaos, to bend it to his will. But this? This spell will be different. He knows it will leave him scarred; physically, mentally, and emotionally. The tattoos will be proof of that. They’ll mark him. But there’s no other way.

With everything packed, Stiles closes the bag and walks to the center of the room. He closes his eyes and, with a focused thought, begins to concentrate on the magic, calling forth the power within him. The air crackles, sharp with energy as the room blurs around him. In an instant, the space around him warps, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of Peter's location, the shift in space barely leaving a trace.

Peter stands frozen in the middle of the room, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. His eyes widen when Stiles appears out of thin air, Riot tucked into his arms like a cat that’s seen far too much magic for one lifetime.

“Stiles, what the fuck,” Peter breathes, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s just witnessed a kind of sorcery they never expected.

Stiles quirks a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he glances around, unfazed. “What? You made it sound urgent.”

Peter blinks at him, still processing. “You can teleport now?” he asks, a little more stunned than he’d like to admit.

Stiles shrugs nonchalantly, crossing his arms, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Oh, there’s so much I can do now.”

Peter’s gaze flickers to Riot, who curls up in Stiles’ arms like he’s just another pet, as if the entire situation is perfectly normal. The shock doesn’t wear off easily, but Peter doesn’t have time to comment on it. The urgency has shifted from confusion to something darker.

“Did you bring what you need?” Peter asks, his tone suddenly more serious.

Stiles nods, his jaw set firmly. “Yeah, I’ve got it. We’re going to end this.”
~~~~

Stiles, with Riot tucked into his lap, sits quietly in the passenger seat of Peter’s car as they drive down the familiar roads towards Derek's house. The air outside is thick with tension, but inside the car, it's like a pressure cooker ready to explode. Riot rests contentedly, the small red fox unbothered by the journey, eyes half closed in a comfortable daze.

Peter keeps his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel. He knows what’s coming. He knows the storm that Stiles is about to unleash on Derek. And honestly? He’s not sure if he should brace for impact or sit back and watch the firework show.

“Damn, kid’s got some energy,” Peter mutters, flicking a glance at Stiles, who’s staring out the window with a quiet, simmering rage.

“I’m gonna make them all feel it, Peter,” Stiles murmurs, eyes narrowing. “I’m done being the afterthought.”

Peter stays silent, choosing not to engage. He knows better.

When they pull into the driveway of Derek’s house, Eli is just walking up the front steps, freshly showered, carrying a lacrosse bag over his shoulder. The sight of the young man seems to ground Stiles for a split second, but it doesn’t last long. The anger burns hotter, sharper, because of what the Nogitsune could do to Eli.

Eli pauses when he sees Peter’s car, confused by the unfamiliar presence in the passenger seat. He stops at the top of the stairs, squinting through the growing shadows of the evening as Stiles steps out of the car.

“Uh, Uncle Peter? Who is this?” Eli asks, looking at Stiles with a raised brow, his voice laced with curiosity and just a hint of unease.

Peter’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate to respond. “Friend of mine. He’s here to help me with something.”

Stiles flashes a grin, albeit a tense one. “Damn good to meet you, kid,” he says, his eyes running over Eli with a new assessment. There’s something in his gaze, respect, maybe, but it’s hard to read. It’s clear, though, that he’s here to do something far bigger than meet Derek’s son.

Eli, a little surprised, tilts his head. “Wait, you’re the sheriff’s son. Stiles. Dad’s told me about you.”

Stiles freezes. His eyes flicker back to Eli, but his mouth tugs into a grim line. “Well, that’s a fucking shock. I thought Derek liked to pretend I didn't exist.”

The words hang in the air like a challenge, and Stiles doesn't even try to soften them. He’s already bracing himself for the conversation with Derek, but hearing it come from Eli’s lips only sharpens the ache.

Eli shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to react to the tension in the air. “That sounds like something I don’t want to get in the middle of,” he says, a small laugh escaping him, but it’s awkward, like a plea for peace. “Dad’s inside. You should go talk to him.”

Stiles doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a bitter smile as he steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, still holding Riot in one arm. “Oh, he already knows I’m here. I can feel his presence from the room just inside the door. He can hear me, and he’s being a fucking coward and won’t come out.”

Peter watches from the side, hands jammed into his coat pockets, his face impassive, but there’s a flicker of something at the intensity of Stiles’ words.

Stiles’ chest heaves as he shoves the words out like they’ve been stuck in his throat for years. “Come on, Derek. I won’t make it hurt much. One punch and I’ll feel so much fucking better ABOUT YOU NOT CALLING ME WHEN THE FUCKING NOGITSUNE CAME BACK!”

His voice echoes across the yard, defiant, raw, and full of the kind of rage that Stiles has been holding onto for far too long. Riot’s ears perk up at the sudden outburst, but the fox doesn’t flee. Instead, Riot’s eyes glint, as if understanding the storm brewing around them.

Inside, Derek is standing just out of sight, a mixture of guilt and frustration tightening his jaw. But Stiles knows that. Knows him. And as much as Derek wants to hide, Stiles is here now, and he’s not going anywhere until it’s all out in the open.

Derek opens the door, and Stiles can feel the weight of his presence, even before the man steps into view. When he does, Stiles is hit with an unexpected wave of shock. Derek looks different - thinner, older, and with streaks of gray running through his hair, but still undeniably Derek. God, he looks good. The sharp angles of his face have softened slightly with time, and the same intense, brooding presence that Stiles had once been drawn to is still there, though it’s been muted, like everything else in this town.

But it’s all overshadowed by the seething rage building inside Stiles. His heart pounds as he looks Derek up and down, his hands clenching at his sides.

"Who the fuck do you think you are? Not calling me?" Stiles explodes, stepping forward, ignoring the way his voice shakes with anger. "What, Scott gets to make all the decisions? You have no fucking opinion of your own? Or do you think Scott can save you? Save your son?" His voice cracks as the weight of it all crashes down on him. "Why did Peter call me and not you? Goddamn it, Derek!"

Derek’s eyes narrow, but there’s something in his gaze, something that Stiles can’t quite place. Instead of addressing anything Stiles has just shouted at him, Derek simply says, “Why would I call you? Why would I make you relive that?”

It’s like a punch to the gut. The words hit harder than Stiles was prepared for. His hands tremble at his sides, but he takes another step forward, voice rising.

"Because I'm the only one who can get rid of it! I'm the only one who can extinguish the motherfucker for good. You either don’t care about me, or you don’t care about your own fucking son, and that’s why you didn’t call!"

The air between them crackles, charged with so much fury that Stiles can barely contain it. His breath is ragged, and for a second, the world feels like it's narrowing down to just this; Derek, standing in front of him like a brick wall, and Stiles, ready to tear through it.

Derek’s eyes flash an electric blue, his power surging as he takes a threatening step toward Stiles. Stiles bristles at the motion, but before he can react, Riot does it for him.

The small red fox, who had been nestled in Stiles’ arms moments before, shifts. In an instant, Riot grows into a mastiff sized creature, fur bristling, teeth bared, and a deep growl rumbling from his chest. The massive fox stands between Stiles and Derek, blocking the man’s path and giving a low, threatening snarl.

Derek freezes, caught off guard by the size and ferocity of Riot’s sudden transformation. His eyes flicker back to Stiles, a mixture of surprise and wariness in them. Stiles, still fuming, watches the standoff for a moment before he lets out a shaky breath and steps forward, placing a hand on Riot’s head.

"Riot, no," Stiles commands softly, and the fox immediately shrinks back down to his usual size, not losing any of his intensity but obeying Stiles without question.

The change in the air is palpable. Derek’s posture stiffens as he watches Riot return to his housecat sized form, now resting calmly at Stiles' feet. Stiles glances at the fox briefly before his gaze locks onto Derek again, the anger still boiling inside of him.

"Look, I get it," Stiles says, voice low and simmering with frustration. "You’re trying to protect your kid, protect yourself, and yeah, maybe you don’t want to drag me into this fucking mess again. But it’s not a fucking choice, Derek. The Nogitsune is coming for you. For Eli. And you didn’t call me. You didn’t even think to reach out, so fuck you for that."

Stiles stands his ground, chest heaving with every word, but there’s something else now too, something deeper, more vulnerable beneath the surface. This isn’t just about the Nogitsune. It’s about everything. About Derek. About the years Stiles spent waiting for someone to call him when it mattered, only to be left in the dark.

Riot lets out a soft, comforting chuff at Stiles' side, grounding him. Stiles reaches down, stroking the fox’s fur with a quiet sigh, trying to calm the storm inside him. But it’s Derek’s next words that get through.

"I’m sorry," Derek says, his voice low and rough, almost unwilling to admit it. "I should’ve called. I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do."

Stiles flinches at the apology, a strange mix of anger and relief flooding him. His throat tightens, but he doesn't let it break him. Instead, he nods stiffly, finally letting the silence fill the gap between them.

"Yeah, well, now you know.”

Derek steps aside, gesturing for Stiles to come inside. The tension is still thick in the air, but the door opens wide, and the familiar scent of Derek’s house; wood, musk, and a bit of that ever present werewolf tang, fills Stiles’ senses. He doesn’t hesitate, stepping over the threshold with Riot still nestled at his feet.

Peter trails behind, raising an eyebrow as he takes in Stiles’ presence in the house. Stiles sheds his jacket once inside, the movement fluid, his muscles flexing beneath the layers of fabric as the weight of his magic and emotions lingers like an unspoken challenge in the air.

As soon as Stiles removes the jacket, his tattoos are in full view; an intricate array of symbols and designs that ripple over his skin like living art. The tattoos are an odd mix of delicate and fierce, a clear testament to the battles Stiles has faced.

Peter’s eyes flick over Stiles' body with a mixture of shock and interest, his brows furrowing. “Last time I saw you, you didn’t have any of those,” he comments dryly, clearly surprised by the sheer number of them. “You were… clean.”

Stiles shrugs as he takes a seat at the small table in the living room. "Got a new job a few years ago," he says, his tone nonchalant as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "These are the aftereffects of magic. Every time I take down a supernatural creature, a tattoo shows up. It’s like… my reward, I guess, for surviving."

Eli, who has been standing by the doorway, eyes wide and absolutely fascinated, takes a step forward. "What do you do now?" he asks, his voice filled with curiosity.

Stiles chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm an FBI agent, but…" He pauses, glancing at Peter before continuing, "for a division that, like… technically doesn’t exist. It’s hard to explain. I guess you could say I'm a hunter ish type of person."

"Wait, wait," Eli cuts in, clearly intrigued. "You’re like a bounty hunter?"

Stiles smirks, appreciating the comparison. "Sort of, yeah. A bit more supernatural, though." He pulls up his sleeve to reveal the newest tattoo; a dark, ornate motif that looks like a vampire’s fang curling into a snake. "Two days ago, I took down a coven of vampires. That’s where this tattoo comes from."

Eli leans in closer, eyes widening at the vampire symbol on Stiles’ arm. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch it, but he holds himself back.

Stiles sees the curiosity radiating off Eli and grins. "Yeah, I absorb some of the powers of the creature that dies. For a short time, at least. And with each kill, the tattoos show up and they strengthen my magic inside me."

Peter’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches Stiles explain, but the intrigue in his expression is unmistakable. Eli, on the other hand, is practically bouncing on his heels.

"Can you show us more?" Eli asks eagerly, almost pleading with Stiles. "I’ve never seen anything like it!"

Stiles laughs, shaking his head. "Sure, kid, why not?" He stands up, rolling his shoulders before slowly lifting his shirt over his head, revealing a canvas of tattoos covering his torso and back.

The intricate designs cover nearly every inch of skin. some are geometric, others abstract, and still more are creatures or symbols that seem to pulse with energy, almost as if they’re alive. A jagged wolf symbol on his shoulder blade, a phoenix on his ribs, and a twisting serpent running down his back, each tattoo telling the story of a different creature, a different fight.

Eli’s eyes are wide, his mouth open in awe as he steps closer to inspect the tattoos, tracing the lines with his gaze. "This is… this is insane. It’s like you’ve fought everything!"

Stiles nods, a bit of pride in his smile. "Pretty much. Every supernatural creature that’s ever crossed my path, I've dealt with." He turns slightly to give Eli a better view of the tattoos on his back. "These aren’t just for show, either. They give me access to some of the powers. The wolf one is from a werewolf I took down a while ago, used to boost my speed and senses for a while. And this one" - he points to a serpent that coils around his spine - "was from a snake shifter. That one’s been useful."

Peter watches the whole exchange in silence, his usual sarcasm gone for once. It’s clear he’s still absorbing what Stiles has become, and there’s something unspoken between them, something Stiles doesn’t want to deal with just yet.

"Can you ever stop?" Peter asks suddenly, his voice laced with an edge of concern. "Like, can you just… quit?"

Stiles looks at him, his expression darkening. "I don't have a choice, Peter. If I stop, things die. People die." He turns to look at Eli, his tone softening. "I can’t afford to stop. Not when sometimes I’m the only one who can stop them."

Eli watches him for a long moment before nodding, seeming to understand, but there’s a sadness behind his eyes as he takes in the weight of what Stiles carries.

"You’ll help us, right?" Eli asks quietly, almost like an afterthought.

Stiles gives him a tight smile, nodding. "Yeah. I’m here to help. But don’t expect this to be easy. It’s going to hurt, and it’s not going to be pretty." He glances back at Peter. "But we’ll get rid of the Nogitsune. For good.”

Derek's eyes darken as he steps forward, arms crossing tightly over his chest. "Who is it going to hurt?" His voice is steady, but there's something raw in his tone.

Stiles meets his gaze without hesitation. "If it goes according to plan, it'll only hurt me." His tone is too casual, too matter of fact, like he’s discussing a grocery list instead of an impending battle against a nightmare from their past.

Peter scoffs, shaking his head. "Yeah, no. Not okay with that." His blue eyes flash, sharp and calculating. "Find another way."

Stiles tilts his head, giving Peter a look that’s more exasperation than anything else. "Then you shouldn't have called me." His voice is clipped, his patience thinning. "I'm going to do this my way because it’s the only way. Unless, of course, you’ve got another magic wielder in your little fucking ragtag pack?" He lets the question hang in the air, knowing damn well they don’t.

Silence settles over the room.

Then, Derek, his face unreadable, says, "You’re pack."

It’s quiet but firm, like it’s a truth Stiles should have already known.

Stiles stares at him for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I stopped being pack the second you were no longer an alpha."

Derek flinches like the words physically hit him. His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time in years, he looks genuinely stunned; speechless, even.

Stiles doesn’t let the silence linger. He turns to Peter and Eli, his stance unwavering. "Now, are we going to stand around rehashing old wounds, or are we going to deal with the thing that actually matters?”

Derek rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "There's something else you need to know."

Stiles arches an eyebrow. "Oh, good. Because this day wasn’t already a shitstorm."

Derek doesn't react to the sarcasm. He just says it. "Allison’s back."

Stiles blinks. "Back? As in, back back?"

Derek nods. "She doesn't remember dying. She attacked me the first time she saw me. thought it was still senior year."

Stiles stares at him for a long moment, processing, before he finally sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. That’s exactly what I fucking needed today. Resurrected ex girlfriends and a vengeful fox spirit. Awesome. Just fucking awesome."

Peter smirks, watching Stiles with something like amusement. "Still as dramatic as ever, I see."

"Eat shit, Peter," Stiles shoots back as he drops his bag onto the nearest surface, already rummaging through it.

He pulls out a heavy, leather bound tome, flipping through the yellowed pages until he finds what he’s looking for. He taps the page once before looking up at Derek. "It'll take a few days to get everything together, but I know exactly how to get rid of the spirit."

"And how's that?" Peter asks, arms crossed.

Stiles doesn't hesitate. "I'm going to invite him in."

For a second, there’s absolute silence.

Then, Derek and Peter lose their shit.

"Are you insane?" Derek’s voice is sharp, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.

"Absolutely fucking not," Peter snaps, stepping closer, his expression deadly serious. "You're not giving that thing a free pass into your body. That’s a terrible idea. That’s beyond a terrible idea."

Stiles just shrugs. "Eh. I’ve had worse."

Peter makes a frustrated noise, looking ready to strangle him. "Stiles-"

"Dude. I know what I’m doing," Stiles interrupts, tone steady, unshakable. "I have more control over my magic than I’ve ever had in my life. And this? This is the only way to make sure it never comes back."

Derek shakes his head. "There has to be another way."

"Well, unless you’ve been secretly training in dark magic in your free time, we don’t have another way," Stiles tells him, snapping the book shut. "So, unless one of you is suddenly an expert in dealing with malevolent, centuries old trickster spirits, we’re doing it my way.”

Eli, who had been quiet up until now, finally steps forward, his arms crossed as he looks between his dad and Stiles. “Dad,” he says slowly, deliberately. “Maybe you should just listen to Stiles.”

Derek whips around to face his son, eyebrows knitting together. “Eli-”

“I mean, look at him,” Eli continues, undeterred. He gestures toward Stiles, toward the ink covering his arms, his shoulders, the edges of tattoos peeking from under his collar. “You keep acting like he’s the same guy you used to know, but he’s literally wearing proof of his power on his skin. Maybe instead of arguing, you should just trust that he knows what he’s doing.”

Stiles lets out a delighted, sharp laugh and points at Eli. “Oh, I like you.” He claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder, grinning. “Congratulations, you’re officially my favorite Hale.”

Peter makes an offended noise, placing a hand on his chest. “Excuse me?”

Stiles smirks. “You heard me.”

Peter scowls. “I kept you in the loop. I called you.”

“And you get points for that,” Stiles agrees easily, then looks back at Eli. “But this kid? This kid just hit me with logic and reason? In this family? Absolute unicorn. He wins.”

Eli grins, clearly pleased with himself.

Derek, however, is not amused. He exhales sharply and looks at his son. “It’s not that simple, Eli.”

Eli raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like it is.”

Derek clenches his jaw, frustrated. “You don’t understand-”

“No, I do,” Eli interrupts. “I get that you and Stiles have history, I get that you don’t trust easily, but he isn’t just talking out of his ass. He’s showing up with literal receipts in the form of his magic tattoos. You’re acting like he’s some reckless idiot, but he’s been doing this without any of you. And he’s still here.”

Derek’s shoulders tense, his face unreadable, but he doesn’t argue.

Stiles watches the whole exchange, tilting his head. “Damn, kid. When did you get all insightful? You sure you’re not a Stilinski?”

Eli smirks. “I think I’d know if I was.”

Peter sighs dramatically. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to accept second place.”

Stiles grins. “You’ll survive.”

Derek’s expression tightens, the frustration radiating from him. He’s trying to keep his composure, but it’s obvious that Stiles’ refusal to explain is pushing him to his limits. His eyes narrow, and his voice is tight when he speaks. “I need more information, Stiles. What exactly is this ritual? How does it work? If you’re going to do this, I need to know what’s at stake. What could go wrong?”

Stiles stands there, arms crossed, eyes dark with the weight of his frustration and the depth of his anger. “You just have to trust me, Derek. I’ve got it covered. I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t know what I’m doing.”

Derek isn’t satisfied with that answer. He presses, a slight growl in his voice. “I can’t just trust you without knowing the consequences. You’re talking about a ritual that could have huge risks. I need to know more than just ‘trust me.’”

Stiles’ jaw tightens as he looks Derek dead in the eye. “I’m not explaining it to you. You want to help, you’ll just have to trust me. That’s the way it’s going to be.”

Peter watches the two of them, a raised eyebrow the only sign of his amusement at the tension.

Derek exhales sharply, clearly fighting the urge to press harder. Finally, he sighs, giving up on getting any more details out of Stiles. “Fine. But I’m still taking this to Scott’s pack. We’re not handling this alone.”

Stiles scoffs loudly, the anger in his voice unmistakable. “You don’t have to do shit, Derek. You don’t owe Scott anything, and it sounds like he’s got enough fucking problems with his zombie girlfriend, right? Why are you even thinking about bringing them into this?”

Derek’s brows furrow, and he looks at Stiles with a mix of confusion and frustration. “Everyone’s here, Stiles. Jackson, Ethan, Parrish, Malia, Lydia… they’ve all come together to help.”

Stiles’ eyes flash with anger, and the words burst out of him before he can stop them. “You act like I should give a fuck that any of those people showed up. Let’s not forget, THEY DIDN’T CALL ME EITHER,” he yells, his voice sharp with emotion.

The words hang in the air, thick with the tension between them. Derek falters, visibly taken aback by the raw pain in Stiles' voice, but he doesn’t back down. “I… I didn’t think you wanted to be involved.”

Stiles snorts bitterly. “Yeah, well, you didn’t think much of me when you made the decision to cut me out of all this, did you?” His tone is ice cold now, a clear barrier between him and Derek, and he turns away to start preparing what he needs for the ritual. “I’m doing this alone, Derek. I'll need you guys there as support but nothing more.”

Derek stands there, a mix of guilt, frustration, and confusion fighting for dominance in his chest. He opens his mouth to say something, but words fail him.

Stiles mutters to himself under his breath as he gathers his things, frustration clear in his voice. "Stupid werewolves. Always think they know best." He shakes his head, grabbing a few last items from the table, his focus on the ritual. But before anyone can register what happens, in a blink of an eye, Stiles and Riot are gone. The living room is suddenly empty.

Derek freezes for a second, his brows furrowing in confusion, his voice a low growl. "Where the fuck did he go?"

He scans the room quickly, eyes darting across the space. His gaze lands on the empty spot where Stiles had been standing just a moment ago, his heart rate spiking. "What the hell?" he mutters under his breath, still looking for any sign of him.

Peter leans back against the wall with a smirk, clearly unfazed. "Who knows. Imagine my surprise when he teleported into my apartment earlier. I literally called him like five hours ago, and he just showed up. Scared the fuck out of me."

Derek’s head snaps toward Peter, disbelief coloring his features. "He just appeared?"

Peter shrugs nonchalantly. "Yup. Poof. One second, I’m sitting there, and the next, bam. Stiles, looking like he was ready to punch me in the face." He chuckles at the memory, clearly more entertained than worried.

Eli, still processing everything that just happened, looks up in awe at the spot where Stiles had been. "Stiles is literally the coolest person I’ve ever seen in my life." His voice is filled with a kind of admiration that Derek isn’t sure how to handle.

"Yeah, well, don’t get too attached," Derek mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing over at Eli. "He won’t stick around."

Eli raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Why not? He seems like he’s got your back."

Peter smirks, eyes glinting with that familiar sharpness. "Let’s not forget, it was you who left, Derek. Don’t fill Eli’s head with shit that’s not right. You ran first, why would Stiles stick around here?"

Derek scowls at Peter, the old frustration simmering back up to the surface. "You’re so not helping," he mutters through clenched teeth, not sure if he wants to snap at his uncle or let it go.

Peter only grins wider, clearly enjoying this moment of disruption. "Good thing that wasn’t my intention, huh?"

Eli looks between the two, sensing the tension but also the underlying warmth in their banter. His mind is elsewhere, though, still thinking about Stiles. "Do you think Stiles will come back?" he asks, voice softer now, his curiosity getting the better of him.

Derek's gaze flicks toward the couch, where Stiles’ jacket and a few of his things are still draped across the cushions, untouched. His stomach tightens, an odd feeling settling deep within him. He looks back at Eli, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. "Yeah. He’ll be back. Just didn't know how long he'll be back for."

“The long haul I'd assume.” Peter says most helpfully.

Eli smiles a little, reassured by his dad's words, but there’s a hint of sadness in the air.

Derek can’t help but wonder, though, if Stiles will come back in the same way he left; full of anger and frustration, or with something else.

Chapter Text

Stiles appears in a flash of dark smoke, the familiar surroundings of his dad’s house greeting him in an instant. The air feels thick, but it’s not from the tension of his last conversation; it’s the prickling energy of his magic still buzzing through his veins. He sets Riot down at his feet, eyes scanning the room for any sign of why he’s here.

As he steps into the kitchen, his eyes land on Scott, Lydia, and Jackson, all seemingly relaxed in a way that immediately rubs Stiles the wrong way. Scott smiles, like they’re old friends again, as though nothing is amiss. "Stiles! You’re here! Great to see you!" He opens his arms for a hug, an action so casual and normal that it makes Stiles’ stomach churn.

Before Scott can close the gap between them, Stiles’ patience snaps. In a fluid motion, he swings back and punches Scott hard in the face, his fist landing with a sickening thud against Scott's jaw. The force is enough to send Scott sprawling across the kitchen floor, crashing against the counter with a grunt of pain. The leftover strength from his vampire takedown still surges in him, a reminder of how much power he now wields.

Scott groans from the floor, rubbing his cheek, eyes wide in shock. “Stiles, what the hell?”

Stiles stands over him, chest heaving, his voice dripping with fury.

“That… was kinda hot,” Jackson says from his spot in front of the fridge, his eyes gleaming with some strange mix of admiration and amusement. Stiles doesn’t spare him a glance. He’s focused entirely on Scott, the anger fueling him now, like a wildfire spreading through his body.

His tone is sharp, like a knife. “Which one is it, Scott? Which one were you going to sacrifice? Was it Eli or Derek? Which one of the Hales would you have sacrificed in your bullshit this time? It wouldn’t have been Peter, because he wouldn’t fall for your shit. So which one?”

Scott starts to push himself up off the floor, his gaze locked onto Stiles with a mixture of confusion and frustration. But before he can get back on his feet, Stiles steps forward, voice a low warning. “If you get up without answering me, I’m putting you on your ass again.”

The room falls deathly silent as Stiles’ eyes narrow, his stance strong and unyielding. He’s never been one to back down from a fight, but this isn’t just about anger, it’s about what Scott’s done, the choices he’s made without considering the consequences for everyone else. Stiles can’t stand it anymore.

“You don’t call me, for whatever fucking reason,” Stiles continues, his words laced with bitterness, “so I know it has to do with you TRYING TO SACRIFICE ONE OF THE HALES TO STOP THIS. AND OVER MY DEAD FUCKING BODY WILL THAT BE HAPPENING!”

His voice is a growl, raw with all the years of frustration, betrayal, and resentment that have built up between them. He won’t let Scott get away with this. Not again. Not when so much is on the line.

Stiles’ eyes bore into Scott with an intensity that feels like it could ignite the air around them. His voice is cold and biting, each word dripping with disdain as he steps closer to Scott, forcing the other man to meet his gaze.

"Which was it, Scott?" Stiles presses, his jaw tight. "Were you going to sacrifice a 15 year old kid, Eli, or were you gonna make him an orphan by sacrificing his dad?" His voice cracks with the weight of his words, the thought of Eli being left without Derek making him sick to his stomach. His hand clenches into a fist, the vampire strength still lingering in him as he struggles to keep himself in check. But it’s getting harder by the second.

Scott opens his mouth to speak, but the words get stuck in his throat as Stiles’ anger pours out of him, relentless and unforgiving.

"Answer me!" Stiles roars, his eyes flashing with fury. "Because either way, it’s unforgivable. You and your fucking pack are gonna keep throwing people away like they’re expendable, huh? Like they’re just pawns in your stupid fucking game?"

Lydia steps forward then, her voice cutting through the tension. "Stiles, you should calm down," she says, her tone sharp but trying to keep things from escalating further. "I get it, you’re pissed, but this isn’t going to solve anything."

Stiles turns to her, his eyes burning with barely-contained rage. "Oh, really, Lydia?" His voice is dripping with venom. "You think I should just calm down? Maybe you should mind your own fucking business, huh?" He takes a step toward her, his anger rising like a tidal wave. "You’re not the one who’s had to clean up everyone’s fucking mess all these years, are you? You’re not the one who’s been left out in the cold when shit hits the fan. So maybe, just maybe, you should stay the fuck out of this."

Lydia’s eyes widen, the sting of Stiles’ words landing harder than she expected. She opens her mouth to respond, but Stiles doesn’t give her the chance. He’s already turned back to Scott, fists clenched at his sides as his anger simmers, ready to boil over again at the slightest provocation. He’s not finished. Not by a long shot.

"Did you think I wouldn’t find out? That I wouldn’t see right through your bullshit?" Stiles growls. "You’re all the same. And you’re gonna regret not calling me when you needed help. I’ll be damned if I let you sacrifice anyone, let alone a fucking kid.”

Scott stares up at Stiles from the floor, eyes wide with shock and something else - maybe guilt, maybe anger, but Stiles doesn’t give a shit. Not anymore. Scott rubs his jaw where Stiles clocked him, eyes darkening as he pushes himself up slowly, wary of setting Stiles off again.

"What do you plan to do, then?" Scott asks, voice measured, like he’s trying to keep the peace.

Stiles scoffs, running a hand through his hair before crossing his arms over his chest. Riot, still perched on the counter behind him, flicks his tail, watching Scott with the same unimpressed look Stiles has.

"What I plan to do doesn’t concern you," Stiles says, voice firm, absolute. "All you need to do is keep Beacon Hills from falling apart for the next three days. Just three days, Scott. And then you need to get the fuck out of this town. All of you do." His gaze sweeps over Scott, Lydia, and Jackson, landing on each of them with unwavering certainty. "You’re not welcome here."

Scott’s nostrils flare. "That’s not your choice to make," he says, stepping closer like he actually thinks he has a say in this. Like he thinks Stiles isn’t serious.

But Stiles just laughs. It’s not lighthearted, not amused; it’s dark, bitter, full of something sharp and jagged that’s been sitting in his chest for years. He steps into Scott’s space, the weight of his power pressing down, suffocating, heavy.

"It is my choice," Stiles says, voice low and deadly. "The Nemeton gave me my power. It made me what I am. And you wanna know what that means?" He leans in, and Scott stiffens. "It means I am the protector of Beacon Hills. I decide who stays and who fucking goes. And you? You’re done here."

Scott looks like he’s about to argue, but there’s hesitation in his eyes now. Lydia is tense, watching Stiles like she doesn’t recognize him anymore. Jackson, for once in his life, has the good sense to keep his mouth shut.

Stiles lets the silence stretch, lets the weight of his words sink in. Then, he exhales sharply, straightening up. "You wanna prove me wrong? Then for the next three days, you do exactly as I say. You don’t question me, you don’t argue, and you sure as hell don’t get in my way. Otherwise, you’ll find out exactly what happens when someone crosses me."

Scott swallows hard. He doesn’t argue this time. Instead, he clenches his jaw, his hands curling into fists like he wants to fight back, like he wants to argue, but he doesn’t. Because he knows, somewhere deep down, beneath all that self righteous bullshit, that Stiles isn’t playing games.

Lydia shifts uncomfortably, eyes darting between them. "Stiles, you can’t just-"

"I can," Stiles cuts her off sharply. "I did." He turns his gaze to her, and for the first time since he arrived, there’s something raw in his expression. "You should’ve called me, Lydia. You, of all people, should have fucking called me."

Lydia flinches like he slapped her. For a second, Stiles sees something like regret flicker across her face, but it’s gone before he can fully read it.

"You were happy," she says, voice small.

Stiles lets out a slow, disbelieving breath, shaking his head. "Happy? You thought I’d be happier not knowing that the Nogitsune was back? That it was after Derek’s kid? After Derek? You fucking know me, Lydia. You know me better than most and you thought I wouldn't want to be here?" His voice rises again, anger flaring white hot. "Did you all just decide I didn’t exist anymore?"

Lydia doesn’t answer.

Stiles scoffs, turning his gaze back to Scott, who’s still standing there, looking like he’s trying to figure out what to say.

"Look," Stiles says, voice steadier now, more controlled, but still laced with fire. "It doesn’t matter anymore. What’s done is done. I’ll deal with the Nogitsune. You? You make sure Beacon Hills doesn’t fall apart in the meantime. And when it’s over, you leave."

Scott exhales sharply, his eyes searching Stiles’ face, like he’s hoping to find some hint of the person he used to know. But Stiles isn’t that person anymore.

Finally, Scott nods slowly, reluctantly. "Fine," he says.

"Good." Stiles gives a mockingly bright smile. "See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?"

He turns on his heel, grabbing his bag off the counter and nodding toward Riot, who stretches lazily before hopping onto Stiles’ shoulder. He strides toward the front door, pausing only once as he reaches the threshold.

He glances back over his shoulder. "Oh, and Scott?"

Scott looks up.

"If you do try some dumb shit, if you even think about pulling the same mistakes you’ve made before…I will stop you. And I won’t be gentle about it."

Scott says nothing.

Stiles doesn’t wait for a response.

With a blink, he and Riot vanish into thin air, leaving behind nothing but the weight of his words and the stunned silence of the people who should have never forgotten who the hell he was.
~~~~

The sheriff's department is exactly how Stiles remembers it - too bright, too sterile, filled with the same tired, overworked officers trying to keep a lid on the supernatural shitstorm that is Beacon Hills. The second he steps inside, eyes turn to him, some familiar, some not, but he doesn’t stop, doesn’t hesitate. Riot is perched on his shoulder shrunk down to kitten size, tail flicking, eyes sharp.

He pushes straight into his dad’s office without knocking, because he’s past that. Past pretending things are okay.

Noah Stilinski is sitting behind his desk, leaning over paperwork, but he looks up immediately, his mouth opening, probably to tell Stiles to knock like a normal person, but he stops short.

“Stiles.” His dad’s voice is heavy, cautious.

Parrish is standing near the window, arms crossed, eyes flicking between them like he already knows this is about to go sideways.

Stiles doesn’t sit. He doesn’t even move past the threshold. “You didn’t call me.”

His dad exhales, rubbing a hand over his face. “Stiles-”

“You didn’t call me,” Stiles repeats, voice sharp, biting. “The Nogitsune came back. It went after Derek. It went after his kid. And you didn’t fucking call me.”

Noah sighs, straightening in his chair. “Because this isn’t your fight.”

Stiles lets out a humorless laugh. “Bullshit.”

“It’s not,” Noah insists. “You got away from all this, Stiles. You built a life for yourself. You were happy-”

“Don’t,” Stiles warns, pointing a finger at him. “Do not stand there and try to justify this by saying you were protecting me. I am so fucking sick of you guys making decisions for me. Lydia tried the same happiness bullshit and guess what, I didn't fucking believe her either!”

His dad doesn’t say anything, but his expression says enough.

Stiles breathes in sharply through his nose. “Anything concerning the Hales is my fight.” His voice is quieter now, but no less intense. “And you were so fucking wrong for not calling me.” He shakes his head, staring at his dad like he’s seeing him for the first time. “You’ve always been the one person I could count on. Always.” His chest tightens, and he forces himself to swallow past it. “But now? Now I look at you, and I feel-” He stops himself, biting down on the words forming in his throat.

Noah’s face softens, regret bleeding into his features. “Stiles…”

“I’ve never been disappointed in you before,” Stiles says, and it comes out harsher than he means it to, but he doesn’t take it back. “But now? I’m so fucking disappointed. I can’t even-” He cuts himself off, blinking hard, shifting his gaze to the floor because fuck he actually can’t look his dad in the eye right now.

Silence hangs heavy in the room.

“Stiles,” Parrish finally speaks up, tentative, measured. “Your dad thought he was doing the right thing.”

Stiles scoffs, shaking his head. “Yeah, well. He wasn’t.”

His dad looks like he wants to say something, maybe apologize, maybe argue, but Stiles isn’t in the mood to hear it.

Without another word, he turns on his heel and walks out, Riot jumping down to trot beside him.

And for the first time in his life, Stiles doesn’t stop when his dad calls after him.
~~~~

The Preserve is quiet at night, the air thick with the scent of damp earth and pine. Stiles moves through the trees like he’s done a thousand times before, boots crunching softly against the forest floor. Riot pads silently beside him, his fur shifting between red and shadow in the dim light.

Then he sees it - the Nemeton.

Just a massive, weathered tree stump in the middle of the clearing, gnarled and ancient, but still pulsing with power. Still alive, in a way that makes the air feel charged with something unseen.

Stiles exhales slowly, stepping closer, his fingers twitching at his sides. He hesitates before dropping down into a crouch, resting his hands on the rough bark. The moment he touches it, warmth bleeds up his arms, a familiar hum of energy wrapping around him like an old friend.

“Hey,” he murmurs. His voice feels too loud in the stillness, but the Nemeton doesn’t mind. It never has. “It’s, uh… been a while, huh?”

The hum beneath his palms intensifies, subtle but steady. Yes.

Stiles sighs, fingers tightening against the wood. “Yeah. I know. I should’ve come back sooner.” His voice is softer now, like he’s admitting a secret. “I didn’t mean to stay away so long. I just… I didn’t think I’d need to.”

The power thrums beneath his skin, seeping into his bones, curling around his ribs like a heartbeat that isn’t his. The Nemeton isn’t mad. It never gets mad at him. But there’s something in the way it responds, something that feels like understanding.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles says, closing his eyes. “For leaving you alone for so long. For not knowing the Hale's were in trouble.”

The energy shifts, a ripple of warmth running up his spine. Not forgiveness, because there was never anything to forgive, but acknowledgment. Acceptance.

Stiles lets out a shaky breath and presses his forehead against the stump. “I need your help,” he whispers.

And the Nemeton hums beneath him, stronger than before.

Listening. Waiting.

It’s been waiting for him all along.
~~~~

The night air is cool when Stiles finally makes it back to Derek’s house. The moon is high, casting silver light through the trees, and the world is quiet. Riot trots beside him, his fur barely visible in the shadows, and Stiles exhales slowly as he steps onto the porch.

Inside, the house is dark except for the soft glow spilling from the living room. Stiles doesn’t knock, doesn’t even hesitate before turning the handle and stepping inside.

Derek is sitting on the couch, one arm draped across the back, a beer bottle loose in his other hand. His eyes lift the second Stiles steps in, sharp and alert, but he doesn’t move, doesn’t tense. He just watches as Stiles shuts the door behind him, looking exhausted but unsurprised.

Stiles stands there for a second, then lets out a breath that’s almost a laugh. “I, uh… I wasn’t planning on coming back here.” His voice is quiet, a little rough. “But after I burned every last bridge I had today, I realized I didn’t have anywhere else to go.”

Derek doesn’t say anything right away, just tilts his head slightly, eyes searching Stiles’ face like he’s seeing something Stiles isn’t sure he wants to acknowledge. Then, finally, Derek shifts, setting his beer down on the coffee table with a soft clink.

“You’re always welcome here,” he says simply.

Stiles swallows hard. He wasn’t expecting that. Was expecting maybe a scoff, maybe some kind of Why are you like this, Stiles? comment. But not that.

For a second, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

Then he huffs a breath, dropping his bag onto the floor before collapsing onto the other end of the couch, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. Riot hops up beside him, curling into a warm ball of fur at his side.

Stiles rubs a hand over his face and mutters, “God, I’m so fucking tired.”

Derek watches him for a moment, then shifts, stretching his arm back across the couch. It’s not quite an invitation, but it’s not not one either.

“Then sleep,” Derek says.

Stiles doesn’t argue.
~~~~

The sunlight filters in through the blinds, casting a soft golden glow over the room. The sound of quiet footsteps is the first thing that cuts through the stillness of the morning. Eli, still in his pajamas and barely awake, pads into the living room. His eyes immediately land on the couch, where Stiles is sprawled out, one arm thrown across his face as if he's trying to block out the sunlight. Riot is curled up at his feet, his fur a dark, sleepy contrast against Stiles’ legs.

Eli’s eyes widen, a grin slowly spreading across his face. He can’t help it. The sight of Stiles, still asleep, is somehow comforting - like maybe things are going to be okay, despite all the chaos.

He’s careful at first, approaching quietly, as if he’s worried about waking Stiles. But his excitement gets the better of him. He can’t hold it in, and he gently taps Stiles on the shoulder.

Riot’s ears twitch, and then his lips curl up in a low growl, his eyes narrowing as he looks at Eli.

“Riot, no,” Stiles mutters in his sleep, not opening his eyes.

Eli freezes, not sure what to do. He’s never seen Riot act like that, but something about the way Stiles is talking to the fox tells him he doesn’t want to push it. He takes a cautious step back.

Then Stiles speaks again, his voice groggy but firm, “Eli must be protected at all costs, Riot.”

Riot’s growl fades immediately, and the fox relaxes, his eyes softening as he turns back to curl up by Stiles' feet. Stiles, meanwhile, shifts slightly, finally blinking his eyes open and glancing up at Eli with a sleepy but amused look on his face.

“Good morning, kid,” Stiles mumbles, stretching his arms above his head before letting them fall back onto the couch.

Eli beams, his excitement barely contained. “You’re still here!”

Stiles raises an eyebrow and rubs at his face. “Yeah, I’m still here.” He glances around the room, and then his gaze lands on Derek, who’s standing in the kitchen, his arms crossed as he watches the interaction with a faint, amused smirk.

Eli, looking between them, says, “Dad didn’t think you’d stick around, but Uncle Peter said you would.”

Stiles laughs quietly, sitting up on the couch and looking over at Derek. “Don’t listen to your dad too much. He can be a dumbass sometimes,” he says with a grin, as if it’s the most casual thing in the world.

Derek, who’s been silently observing from the kitchen, scoffs. “I can hear you, you know.”

Stiles just gives him a look, as if he couldn’t care less. “Good. It’s meant for you,” he says, giving Eli a wink.

Eli laughs, and even Derek can’t help but roll his eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

The morning stretches on with a strange, unspoken comfort between them, the tension of the previous day ebbing away, at least for now.

Stiles stands in the living room, his fingers drumming on the back of the couch as he watches Eli pace back and forth, still wearing his pajamas and looking like he’s not quite sure what to do with himself. Stiles’ eyes narrow slightly, already thinking ahead, his mind working a mile a minute.

“You need to get to school,” Stiles finally says, breaking the silence that had hung in the air for the past few minutes. “I’m going to go talk to Finstock. You’re not missing a day.”

Derek looks over at Stiles, confusion in his expression. “I can just pull him from school for the day. It’s fine.”

Stiles immediately shakes his head, frustration edging into his voice. “No, that’s a bad idea. You don’t pull him out of school right now.” He crosses his arms over his chest, standing a little taller, as though trying to make his point clear. “In two days, everything is supposed to go back to normal, and Coach isn’t going to care why Eli missed school. He’s going to bench him from lacrosse, and Eli won’t be able to catch up, not to mention he’ll miss out on the chance to practice with the team.”

Derek’s brows furrow. “How do you know so much about Eli?”

Stiles can’t help the smirk that tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Oh, I don’t know, Derek. Just because you’ve been out of the loop doesn’t mean I have. Not like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing all these years.” His voice is dripping with snark as he steps forward, arms still crossed over his chest. “Besides, me and Finstock have kept in touch over the years. So yeah, I know what’s going on.”

Derek’s expression shifts, a flicker of surprise and maybe something else - guilt or confusion - crossing his face. He doesn’t say anything at first, just nods slowly, taking in Stiles’ words.

Stiles looks at him for a moment, then glances back at Eli, who’s still watching them both, clearly waiting for some kind of decision to be made.

“You’ll thank me later,” Stiles adds. “Trust me. Go get dressed. I’ll take care of it.”

Eli looks between Stiles and Derek for a second, seemingly processing what was just said, before he gives a nod and heads back upstairs to get ready.

Derek watches him go and then finally sighs, looking at Stiles. “Fine. Do what you want. But you’re not pulling any bullshit with Coach. You hear me? Don't mess lacrosse up for Eli.”

Stiles lets out a short laugh. “You really think I’m going to mess that up? Me and Coach have an understanding, okay? I’ve got this.”

Derek doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t argue further. He just watches Stiles, as if trying to figure out everything that’s changed, and maybe wondering what exactly it is about Stiles that always seems to know what needs to be done.
~~~~

Stiles and Eli sat down at a small booth in the local diner, the warm, comforting smell of coffee and bacon filling the air. Eli, still groggy but visibly more awake now that they were seated, picked at his pancakes, but his curiosity about Stiles' past seemed to be eating at him more than the food ever could.

"Stiles," Eli began, his voice a mix of awe and genuine curiosity, "what kind of supernatural creatures have you fought? I mean, like, what have you seen? You’ve got all these crazy tattoos, and-"

Stiles cut him off with a smirk. “If you know it exists, Eli, then I’ve probably fought it.” His voice was light, teasing, but there was something in his eyes that spoke to the weight of what he’d been through over the years. He leaned back in his seat, taking a sip of his coffee, and the steam from the mug seemed to reflect the intensity of the past he was all too familiar with. “Vampires, witches, chimeras, ghosts… hell, I even fought a fucking dragon once. That was a nightmare.”

Eli’s eyes widened in disbelief. “A dragon?!”

“Yeah,” Stiles chuckled, his voice softening a little as he leaned forward across the table. “But don’t get too excited. It’s not like the dragon you’ve seen in cartoons. It was ugly and, frankly, smelled like death. But yeah, I've handled my fair share of chaos.”

Eli let out a low whistle, clearly impressed. “You’re a badass, Stiles.” He paused, looking down at his pancakes before adding with a small shrug, “My dad’s boring. I mean, he just... deals with normal stuff and looks all serious.”

Stiles snorted. "Boring is good, kid. Boring means he’s staying safe.” His gaze softened a bit, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of his cup. "You don’t want to go looking for trouble. Trouble has a way of finding you, trust me."

Eli seemed to think about that for a moment, nodding slowly but still visibly intrigued by the idea of the supernatural world Stiles had clearly been so deeply entrenched in. He looked up, hesitating for a second before asking, “Have you ever had to... you know, fight a werewolf?”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “A werewolf? I’ve fought plenty, kid. Hell, even before I was a supernatural agent I fought wolves, your God damn uncle Peter being one.” He paused, staring off into the distance for a moment, remembering some of the faces of those he had taken down. “But you’ve got to understand, most werewolves are just... people. The thing that makes them different is their ability to shift. Their instincts, their power. And it's not all bad, not at all.”

Eli looked down at his hands, a little uncertainty creeping into his voice as he fiddled with the syrup bottle. “I’ve tried. I think I’ve tried too many times, and nothing ever happens. I think... I think my werewolf is broken.”

Stiles immediately softened, his demeanor shifting from lighthearted banter to something more reassuring. “Your werewolf is not broken, Eli. You’re just... not ready yet. It takes time. The shift doesn’t always happen when you want it to, or even when you think you’re ready for it. But I promise you, when it happens, it’s going to be powerful. And you’re going to be powerful.” His voice was firm, like he was trying to instill some confidence in the boy who had so many doubts about his own strength.

“Really?” Eli asked, looking up with wide eyes.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, leaning forward a little, making sure Eli could see the sincerity in his eyes. “You’ve got the blood of the Hales running through your veins, kid. That’s not something to take lightly. And when you finally manage to shift for the first time? It’s going to be something special. You just have to trust yourself.”

Eli smiled softly, though there was still a hint of doubt in his eyes. “Thanks, Stiles,” he said quietly.

Stiles grinned, reaching over to ruffle Eli’s hair. “Anytime. Now, finish your pancakes. We’ve got a school to get to.” He shot Eli a smile as they both finished off their food, the quiet reassurance settling in between them like a pact, one that only the two of them understood in the moment.
~~~~

Stiles parked outside the school, the morning fog still lingering in the air as he sat in his car for a moment. He couldn’t help but think about how strange it was to be back in this town, walking a fine line between the supernatural chaos he had left behind and the mundane, everyday world that people like Eli were still trying to navigate most days.

He locked the car and walked briskly toward the school, his mind still buzzing with all the things that had been left unsaid and undone. The familiar scent of old books and the echoes of students laughing in the halls did little to calm the knot in his stomach, but he pushed it down. This was important.

He stepped into the office and glanced around, spotting the secretary behind her desk. She didn’t miss a beat, greeting him with a small, knowing smile. "What can I do for you, Mr. Stilinski?" she asked.

“I’m here to see Coach Finstock,” Stiles replied, his voice low but purposeful.

The mention of Coach’s name immediately made the secretary’s eyes light up with recognition. “Of course. He said you might be by sometime soon.” She stood up and walked over to the intercom, pressing a button. “Coach Finstock, Stiles Stilinski is here to see you.”

Within moments, the door to the office flew open, and Coach Finstock’s tall, broad frame filled the doorway. His eyes widened when he saw Stiles standing there, a mix of surprise and excitement flashing across his face.

“Stiles?” Coach’s voice was gruff but warm. “What are you doing here? I thought you were off saving the world or whatever. You always say you'll stop by and then you never do, so didn't think it was happening this time either.”

“Thought I’d stop by, make sure my favorite coach hasn’t forgotten all the lessons I taught him about handling chaos,” Stiles said, a hint of his usual snark creeping into his words.

Coach chuckled, shaking his head. “Well, I guess I’ll always owe you for that.” He stepped forward, grabbing Stiles by the shoulder in a brief but firm grip. “But seriously, what’s going on? You wouldn’t be back here if it wasn’t important. What’s happening?”

Stiles’ smile faded a little, and he lowered his voice, glancing around the office as if making sure no one could overhear. “I need you to keep an eye on Eli Hale. He’s going to need protection for the next few days. You can’t let anything happen to him, not even for a second.”

Coach’s expression shifted immediately, becoming serious. He didn’t question, didn’t ask for details. He just nodded. “You’ve got it. Eli’s under my watch now. I’ll make sure nothing happens to him. You don’t even have to ask, Stiles.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said quietly, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders. “I know I’m asking a lot, but... I can’t do this alone. Not in regards to Eli's safety.”

Coach smiled, clapping Stiles on the back with the same rough affection he always had. “That’s why I’m here, kid. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”

Stiles chuckled, the tension in his shoulders finally easing a little. "That's why you're my favorite," he said, his voice softening.

Coach gave him a knowing look, then raised an eyebrow. “Don’t get too sentimental on me, Stilinski. You know I hate that mushy stuff.”

Stiles smirked, stepping back toward the door. “Don’t worry, Coach. You won’t see me crying over it. Just keep an eye on Eli, alright?”

“Always do,” Coach replied, giving him a nod of understanding.

As Stiles turned to leave, he paused, glancing back at Coach Finstock one last time. “I owe you one for this.”

Coach shrugged with a grin. “You’ve already done enough for me, kid. Don’t worry about it.”

Stiles nodded in thanks, his mind already on the next steps. But for a moment, he allowed himself to feel a small sense of relief. There was one less thing to worry about, and one more person looking out for Eli Hale. That mattered more than he would ever admit aloud.

Chapter Text

Stiles barely had time to open the front door to Derek’s house before he was met with a furious looking Peter Hale standing in the middle of the living room, arms crossed and lips pressed into a thin line. His blue eyes were practically glowing with irritation, and if Stiles weren’t already used to Peter’s dramatics, he might’ve been at least a little concerned.

Instead, Stiles let the door swing shut behind him and raised an eyebrow. “Alright, what crawled up your ass this morning?”

Peter scoffed, his jaw tightening. “I woke up to find my car missing, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked, then grinned. “Oh, that’s what this is about.” He tossed Peter’s keys onto the coffee table with a careless flick of his wrist. “Yeah, that was me. I needed a ride.”

Peter’s eyes narrowed. “You stole my car?”

“Borrowed, Peter,” Stiles corrected, slipping past him and heading for the couch. “Let’s not be dramatic.”

“That’s not how this works!” Peter snapped, following him.

Stiles flopped onto the couch, stretching out with a satisfied sigh. “Well, considering I took your car, it kinda seems like that’s how it works.”

Peter’s nostrils flared, and for a second, it looked like he might actually lunge at Stiles, but then Derek walked in from the kitchen, looking between the two of them with an exhausted expression.

“What the hell is going on now?” Derek asked, rubbing his temple.

“Your stupid little human stole my car,” Peter informed him, pointing accusingly at Stiles.

Derek sighed. “You left the keys out, didn’t you?”

Peter scoffed. “That is not the point.”

Stiles smirked. “I’d argue it is the point.”

Peter groaned dramatically and ran a hand down his face. “You are insufferable.”

“And yet, here I am, still your favorite,” Stiles shot back, grinning.

Peter scowled, but there was the slightest twitch at the corner of his mouth, like he was fighting back amusement. “Not even remotely.”

Stiles winked. “Keep telling yourself that, Petey.”

Peter growled in irritation, and Derek just sighed again, clearly regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment.
~~~~

Stiles leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed as he looked at Derek. “Hey, can I borrow your room? I need somewhere quiet to work.”

Derek raised an eyebrow. “You mean my office?”

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Sure, whatever. The place where you pretend to be busy and brood in solitude.”

Derek huffed but didn’t argue. “Do you need any help?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nope, I got it covered.”

Derek just nodded, letting it go, and Stiles made his way toward the office, Riot trotting at his side. As soon as they stepped inside, Riot’s ears perked up, his nose twitching as he started sniffing around. A moment later, he let out a happy chuff and wagged his tail, clearly excited about something.

Stiles frowned. “What is it, bud?”

Riot pawed at a corner of the room, nudging something with his snout. Stiles stepped closer and-

Oh.

His old baseball bat.

Stiles reached down, fingers wrapping around the familiar handle, and lifted it slightly. The wood was still smooth beneath his touch, worn down in places from years of use. He turned it over in his hands, his thumb brushing over a small dent near the middle, a scar from one of the many times he’d used it to fight off something supernatural.

He didn’t ask Derek why he had it.

Didn’t need to. For as grumpy as Derek is, Stiles knew he was a sentimental man.

Instead, he just smiled and placed the bat back where he found it. Then he patted Riot on the head. “Good find, buddy.”

Riot chuffed happily and curled up at Stiles’ feet as he settled in to work, the weight of old memories lingering but not unwelcome.

Stiles sat cross legged on the floor of Derek’s office, surrounded by open tomes, loose sheets of parchment, and his own hastily scribbled notes. A lamp was on beside him, the dim glow casting long shadows across the aged pages. Riot was curled up on a pile of books nearby, his tail twitching occasionally as he dozed. He laid at Stiles feet for as long as he could before the constant movement of Stiles around him started to irritate him.

Stiles muttered under his breath, one hand flipping a page while the other absently gestured in the air, tracing sigils only he could see. He had spent the last few hours deep in research, pouring over ancient spells and incantations, searching for the exact combination of power, intent, and ritual he needed. His fingers were smudged with ink, his eyes sharp despite the exhaustion settling in behind them.

He barely registered the sound of the door opening until the scent of food hit him.

Derek stepped in, carrying a plate of food in one hand and a drink in the other. He placed them on the table next to Stiles without a word.

"What are you, my mom?" Stiles asked, not even looking up from the tome he was currently nose deep in.

Derek didn’t miss a beat. "Yes, now eat, you ungrateful little fucker."

That got Stiles’ attention. He blinked up at Derek, mouth twitching. “Wow. Parental instincts at their finest. You and Eli must get along great.”

Derek just crossed his arms and gave him a pointed look, nodding toward the food. "Eat."

Stiles huffed but set his book aside, grabbing the plate. "Fine, fine. But if this is poisoned, I swear to God, I will haunt you in the most annoying ways possible. I’m creative, you know this, Derek."

Derek scoffed. "Like you’re not already doing that."

Stiles grinned around a mouthful of food, chewing quickly before muttering, “Touché.”

Stiles shoveled another bite into his mouth, chewing thoughtfully as Derek lingered in the doorway. He could feel the werewolf watching him, arms still crossed like he was trying to figure something out.

"What?" Stiles asked around a mouthful of food, raising an eyebrow.

Derek rolled his eyes. "You’ve barely eaten since you got here. You’re running on fumes and whatever stubborn rage is keeping you upright."

Stiles smirked. "Well, yeah. That’s how I operate."

Derek didn’t look amused. "I don’t want you to operate that way."

Stiles stopped mid bite, his eyes flicking up to Derek’s face, searching. There was something in Derek’s voice that was firm and unyielding. It wasn’t a request. It was a statement. A fact.

A weird warmth settled in Stiles’ chest, something uncomfortable but not unwelcome. He swallowed and looked away, setting the plate down on top of an open book, much to Riot’s annoyance. The little fox made a disgruntled noise and swiped at the plate with his paw, as if punishing Stiles for treating ancient magic texts like a dining table.

Derek sighed, stepping further into the room. "You know, most people would ask for help when they’re about to do something stupidly dangerous."

Stiles snorted. "Yeah, well, most people don’t have a fucking Nemeton whispering sweet nothings into their subconscious, do they?"

Derek frowned, and Stiles immediately regretted saying that much.

"The Nemeton is talking to you?" Derek asked, voice laced with concern.

Stiles waved a hand dismissively. "It’s more like… a hum. A feeling. It’s not telling me anything bad, just reminding me what I have to do."

Derek’s frown deepened, and Stiles could see the exact moment Derek's protective instincts kicked in.

"You don’t have to do this alone," Derek said, quieter this time.

Stiles scoffed. "Of course, I do. Unless you’ve got another magic wielder hidden under your floorboards, this is on me."

Derek’s jaw tightened. "That doesn’t mean you have to shut everyone out."

Stiles sighed and ran a hand through his hair, staring down at the mess of books in front of him. "I’m not shutting everyone out, Derek. I just-" He hesitated, exhaling slowly. "I can’t trust them."

Derek didn’t need to ask who them was.

"They didn’t call me," Stiles muttered, voice quieter now. "They didn’t think I needed to know. Dad and Lydia kept talking about my ‘happiness’ as a reason not to call, not to drag me back to Beacon Hills. But if they would have actually listened to anything I had been telling them, they would have known that happiness isn’t what I was feeling. I’m…content. I like my job, even though Dad and Lydia still don’t know fully what I do, how dangerous it is. But content doesn’t translate to happiness, Der. And I hate that they cut me out. That you cut me out. I hate that I feel like it’s because everyone didn’t think I was important enough to know. "

Derek sat down on the arm of a nearby chair, studying him. "That’s not true."

Stiles gave him a sharp look. "Isn’t it? Because that’s sure as hell what it felt like."

Derek didn’t argue, and Stiles hated how much that meant.

For a long moment, neither of them spoke. Riot stretched lazily, curling into a tighter ball beside Stiles’ leg, his soft red fur brushing against Stiles' knee. His familiar was really good at reading his emotional state and the more on edge Stiles became, the closer Riot got.

Finally, Derek exhaled through his nose. "Just… don’t do anything reckless before telling me first."

Stiles smirked. "Reckless is my middle name."

Derek gave him a look. "No, it’s not."

Stiles grinned. "It could be."

Derek groaned and rubbed his temples like Stiles was giving him a migraine. "Just…try to be careful."

Stiles picked up his plate again, casually taking another bite. "No promises, Big Guy."

Derek just sighed, standing up to leave, but not before muttering, "You’re exhausting."

Stiles grinned around another mouthful of food. "And yet, you still put up with me."

Derek didn’t argue. He just walked out of the room, shaking his head.

An alarm blared from Stiles’ phone, cutting through the quiet of the office. Riot’s ears perked up, and Stiles groaned, swiping at the screen to silence it. He stood, stretching out the stiffness in his back, and left the office in search of Derek.

He found him in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. Derek barely glanced up before Stiles spoke.

"Hey, I need your keys."

Derek narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

Stiles huffed. "Because I need to go get Eli, and Peter - that absolute bitch - hid his keys so I wouldn’t steal his car again."

Derek snorted, clearly unsurprised. "He does have a habit of holding grudges."

"Yeah, yeah, we can psychoanalyze your uncle later. Keys, please." Stiles made a grabbing motion with his fingers.

Derek took a sip of his coffee, like he was debating it. "I could just go get Eli. Ya know, since he’s my kid and you’re literally a stranger."

Stiles shook his head. "No, I need to. I need to check in with Coach anyway. I may be a stranger to him, but he’s not a stranger to me."

Derek stared at him for a long beat, then sighed, reaching into his pocket. "Fine." He tossed Stiles the keys. "Try not to get pulled over."

Stiles caught them easily, grinning. "No promises."

Derek just rolled his eyes as Stiles made his way out the door.
~~~~

Stiles strolled onto the lacrosse field, hands in his pockets as he scanned the players running drills. The rhythmic sound of cleats pounding against the grass and the sharp whistles from Coach Finstock filled the air. He spotted Eli easily - too easily, actually, considering the kid was lagging behind in the sprints.

Coach Finstock caught sight of Stiles approaching and waved him over, barely taking his eyes off the field. "Well, well, look who decided to show up and haunt my practice. Figured you wouldn’t be back since you hadn’t heard from me about anything going wrong."

Stiles grinned. "Just checking in. How’s Eli doing?"

Coach crossed his arms and let out a loud sigh. "Everything’s fine-"

Stiles nodded, relieved-

"-Ya know what’s not fine? That kid’s lacrosse skills." Coach jabbed a finger in Eli’s direction, who at that moment fumbled a pass and got smacked on the back of the head with a rogue ball.

Stiles winced. "Oof."

Coach shot him a sharp look. "Yeah. Oof. Work on it."

Stiles chuckled, shaking his head. "Yes, sir."

Coach clapped him on the shoulder before stomping back toward the field, yelling, "Eli! If you move any slower, I’m gonna assume you’re part of the grass and mow right over you!"

Stiles watched Eli groan and pick up the pace, then laughed to himself before heading toward the stands to wait for practice to finish.
~~~~

The drive home was filled with Eli rambling about practice, mostly about how Coach Finstock was way too mean and how lacrosse was way harder than it looked. Stiles just smirked and nodded along, throwing in the occasional, “Yeah, yeah, sounds rough, kid,” as he navigated the streets back to Derek’s place.

By the time they got home, Stiles immediately set about making dinner, rolling up his sleeves and getting to work in the kitchen after raiding Derek’s cupboard and fridge to see what he had. Derek stood in the doorway, watching skeptically.

“You know how to cook?” he asked, arms crossed.

Stiles scoffed. “Excuse you, yes. I was left unsupervised most of my teenage years; I had to learn.” He turned to Eli and pointed at him with the wooden spoon. “You like pierogi?”

Eli blinked. “What’s that?”

Stiles clutched his chest dramatically. “Oh my god, I’ve failed you already.”

Peter strolled in, leaning against the counter with a smirk. “Oh, this should be good. A Stilinski cooking experience.”

“You shut your mouth, crypt keeper,” Stiles shot back, then turned back to Eli. “It’s a Polish dish. Dumplings filled with cheese and potatoes - absolute heaven.”

Eli perked up. “That sounds awesome.”

Peter hummed. “Well, let’s see if your cooking skills live up to the hype or if I should be making funeral arrangements. It’ll either be delicious or everyone will die.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and got to work.

By the time dinner was ready, the four of them sat around the table, plates stacked high with golden, crispy pierogi, topped with sour cream and caramelized onions. Eli took one bite and made a noise that was far too obscene for a fifteen year old.

“Oh my god, this is amazing,” he mumbled through a mouthful of food.

Peter arched a brow at Stiles. “Alright, I’ll admit it- I’m impressed.”

Stiles smirked. “Damn right you are.”

Derek, who had been quietly eating, finally looked at Stiles and asked, “So… are you going to share your plan now?”

Stiles didn’t even hesitate. “Nope.”

Derek sighed heavily. “Stiles-”

“I almost have everything I need,” Stiles cut in. “Just a few more pieces to put together.”

Peter huffed. “Translation: he’s planning something reckless.”

Stiles grinned. “Obviously.”

Eli looked between them. “This is so cool. Like…not what's happening, obviously, but like…magic.”

Derek groaned, rubbing a hand over his face. “Please don’t encourage him.”

Peter smirked. “It’s in his blood.”

Stiles pointed a fork at Derek. “You should be thanking me. I made dinner.”

Derek just sighed, but there was something softer in his expression as he went back to eating.

Derek leaned back in his chair, idly pushing a pierogi around his plate with his fork. His gaze settled on Stiles, sharp and assessing, before he finally asked, “Have you seen anyone from the pack yet?”

Stiles barely paused mid bite, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing. “Oh yeah,” he said casually, reaching for his drink. “Saw Scott when I laid his ass out in my dad’s kitchen.”

Derek blinked. “You what?”

Peter let out an amused snort. “Oh, this I have to hear. I would have paid to witness that.”

Stiles smirked, leaning back in his chair. “Yeah, I walked in, he smiled at me like everything was fine, went in for a hug, and-” he made a quick swinging motion with his hand, “-I decked him. Sent him sprawling across the floor.”

Eli’s eyes went wide. “No way. You punched an Alpha?!”

Peter’s smirk turned downright delighted. “And here I thought tonight couldn’t get any better.”

Derek just sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. “Jesus, Stiles.”

“Oh, don’t ‘Jesus, Stiles’ me,” Stiles shot back. “He deserved it.”

Derek frowned but didn’t argue. Instead, he just shook his head and asked, “Who else was there?”

“Lydia,” Stiles answered with a roll of his eyes. “Pretentious as always, trying to tell me to calm down like I’m some kind of rabid dog.” He scoffed. “Like, sorry, Your Highness, let me just bottle up my very valid anger and pretend everything’s fine for your delicate sensibilities.”

Derek’s lips twitched slightly. “And Jackson?”

Stiles let out a dry laugh. “Oh yeah! Jackson hit on me.”

Peter raised a brow. “I thought you two hated each other.”

“We do,” Stiles said, gesturing vaguely. “But let’s be real - it was only a matter of time. Guy has a type, and I happen to check all the boxes.”

Eli furrowed his brow. “What’s his type?”

Stiles smirked. “Smart, hot, and way out of his league.”

Peter barked out a laugh. Derek just muttered, “You’re insufferable.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles said, waving him off. “You love me.”

Derek did not respond to that, but Stiles caught the small, exasperated shake of his head as he went back to eating.

And that was enough.
~~~~

The soft hum of the coffee machine was the first thing Derek noticed as he slowly roused from sleep. He blinked a few times, disoriented, and then noticed the soft glow of light in the kitchen, where Stiles was already busy at the counter, a mug of coffee in hand and a stack of books spread out before him. The familiar, comforting chaos of Stiles at work.

Derek rubbed the back of his neck, his voice rough with sleep. "What are you doing today?"

Stiles didn’t look up from the pages he was flipping through, but he spoke without hesitation. "Got a bit more research to do. I'll need to head to the preserve later."

Derek frowned, stepping into the kitchen, his eyes narrowing slightly. "The preserve? Why?"

Stiles paused, letting out a deep breath before looking over his shoulder. His gaze was tired, distant, like it always was when he was digging through things he didn’t like to confront. It was time Derek finally knew the truth. Well, most of it. "Five years ago, I woke up at the nemeton," Stiles said, his voice quieter than before.

Derek’s brow furrowed at that. "I didn’t realize you’d been back in town."

Stiles snorted darkly, shaking his head. "That’s the thing. I wasn’t in town. I went to sleep in my bed in Virginia and woke up at the nemeton. That’s when my powers really took off. The nemeton chose me as its guardian. I’m tied to the land and the town." He paused, his hands stilling over the pages. "My connection to Beacon Hills? It’s deeper than anyone knows."

Derek processed this in silence for a moment, his gaze moving over Stiles as he tried to piece it together. Then, his voice was low, almost cautious. "And you didn’t tell anyone?"

Stiles didn’t meet his eyes. He just exhaled slowly, letting the weight of his words hang in the air between them. "Peter knows." His tone was sharper than it had been a second ago, edged with something that Derek couldn’t quite place.

Derek’s face twisted in confusion. "You told Peter and not me?" There was a hint of hurt in his voice, something he didn’t normally allow to show, but it was there.

Stiles’ eyes snapped up to meet Derek’s, and there was an edge of anger behind them that Derek hadn’t expected. "Yes."

The word hung in the air between them like a heavy weight. Derek waited for more, but Stiles didn’t offer any immediate explanation.

"Why?" Derek pressed, his voice quieter, but more insistent now.

"Because Peter fucking answered when I called!" Stiles’ tone cracked with frustration as he finally dropped the facade. The anger was spilling out of him now, raw and unfiltered. "You didn’t. You didn’t answer, Derek." His voice dropped a notch, his shoulders tense. "So yeah, I called Peter."

Derek stood still, his expression unreadable, but the hurt in his eyes was obvious, and Stiles could feel it like a punch in the gut. He was going off, angry at everyone, and now Derek was bearing the brunt of it.

Stiles was wound too tight, too far gone in his own mind, to ease up now. He shook his head, quickly standing and tossing a few things in a bag, clearly about to leave. "Make sure Eli gets to school and checks in with Coach Finstock," he muttered, the words coming out flat and exhausted.

Derek didn’t respond immediately, his throat tight. He wanted to say something, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead, he just nodded, understanding the underlying message. Stiles was shutting him out again.

Before Stiles left, he turned to Derek with a pointed look. "I’ll be back later."

Derek didn’t try to stop him. He couldn’t. But he could still feel the weight of Stiles' words sitting in his chest.
~~~~

Later in the afternoon, Peter walked into the house, his usual smirk already in place as he took in Derek’s tense posture from across the room. Derek was leaning against the counter, his arms crossed over his chest, eyes fixed on the floor like he was lost in his own thoughts. It didn’t take long for Peter to notice.

"Alright, what's eating you?" Peter asked, his voice full of mock curiosity, though he knew exactly what was going on. He’d never had a problem seeing right through Derek, especially when it came to the emotional minefield that was Stiles.

Derek let out a heavy sigh, his eyes narrowing when Peter’s gaze flickered to him. "I didn’t know Stiles was the guardian of the nemeton."

Peter’s expression didn’t change. "That happened five years ago," he said simply, as if it were no big deal, though Derek could tell from his tone that Peter didn’t really expect Derek to know. He probably assumed Stiles hadn’t told him, but the fact that it had never come up until now stung.

Derek frowned, frustration bubbling up from somewhere deep inside him. He pushed off the counter, stepping closer to Peter. "Why didn’t you tell me?"

Peter paused for a moment, then gave a lazy shrug. "Probably for the same reason you never told Stiles you were in love with him," he said, his voice dripping with that all knowing confidence of his. "You didn’t want him to know."

Derek’s jaw clenched at the words, and the tightness in his chest seemed to double. "I fucking hate you," he muttered, his voice low and seething with irritation.

Peter just raised an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by Derek’s anger. "No, you hate when I’m right," he shot back, his smirk only widening as he leaned casually against the doorway, waiting for Derek to admit the truth of it.

The silence between them was thick with the weight of Peter's words, but Derek couldn't bring himself to argue it anymore. It was true - he hated when Peter was right, hated that Peter always seemed to know exactly where to hit. And that only made it worse. The feelings he’d buried for so long now felt like a live wire, thrumming under his skin, and Peter had just exposed it all with one simple sentence.

Derek’s eyes burned with the frustration of it all, the helplessness of it. Peter was right. And Derek hated himself for it.
~~~~

When Stiles finally strolled back into the house at nine that night, he was met with three expectant faces - Derek, Peter, and Eli - all sitting in the living room like they had been waiting for him for hours. The air in the room was thick with tension, and Stiles could feel it pressing against his skin the moment he stepped inside. Riot stood beside him, ears flat against his skull, his usually sharp, expressive features dull with unease. The sight of it made Stiles' stomach twist. Riot was rarely unsettled. Seeing him like this made it all the more real.

Eli was the first to speak, his voice hesitant as he looked at the small fox. "What's wrong with Riot?"

Stiles sighed, dragging a hand through his hair before meeting their gazes. "I need to talk to you guys," he said, his voice unusually serious. Riot let out a soft growl, low and warning, but Stiles just gave him a small scratch behind the ear before stepping further into the room.

"Listen to me very carefully," Stiles began, his eyes sharp as he looked between them. "If something goes wrong tomorrow, you need to let it. I've put everything in place that should work, but in case that fucking trickster gets past all my defenses, I need you to let whatever happens happen. Don't try to help at all. Just… let it happen."

Derek immediately stiffened, his entire posture radiating defiance. "I refuse to let you die."

"If that’s what it takes, Derek, you let it fucking happen," Stiles snapped, his voice harder than it had been all day. He could see Derek's hands clenching into fists, his jaw tightening as his breath came out sharp and uneven.

"Absolutely fucking not," Derek growled, his eyes flashing blue for a brief second. The sheer force of his anger vibrated through the room, thick and unrelenting.

Stiles took a step closer, voice rising as he let his own anger meet Derek’s head on. "You ready to make your son an orphan at fifteen? You ready to have Peter raise your kid? Miss out on his whole life?" His voice cracked slightly at the end, but he didn’t care. He needed Derek to understand.

Derek flinched at the words, his eyes flickering briefly to Eli, who sat tense and silent on the couch, his hands gripping his knees so tightly his knuckles had gone white. The mere thought of leaving his son, of missing every moment of Eli’s life, had Derek’s stomach twisting into knots. His breath came out shaky, and for the first time, he didn’t have a quick retort, didn’t have an immediate refusal.

Peter, who had been silent up until now, finally leaned forward, his eyes unreadable as he studied Stiles. "You're asking for a lot," he said, voice calm but laced with something dangerous.

Stiles didn’t flinch. "I know," he admitted. "But if you interfere, we lose everything."

Silence hung in the air, thick and suffocating. Riot let out a quiet whine, curling closer to Stiles’ leg as if to anchor him. Stiles exhaled sharply, running a hand over his face. He was exhausted. He needed them to understand, needed them to trust him, even if it killed him.

Because tomorrow, everything would change.

The silence stretched for an unbearable moment, thick with unspoken words and tension so sharp it could cut. Stiles held his ground, his chest rising and falling with measured breaths as he waited for someone, anyone, to say something.

Derek was the first to break, though not in the way Stiles expected. With a sharp inhale, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the kitchen, bracing his hands against the counter. His shoulders were taut, his back rigid with frustration, anger, and something deeper; something raw.

"You don’t get to ask me that," Derek finally said, his voice low, but it carried a weight that settled heavy in Stiles' chest. "You don’t get to tell me to just stand there and do nothing while you-" He stopped himself, inhaling sharply through his nose. "I lost enough people already, Stiles."

Stiles swallowed against the lump in his throat, fingers curling into fists at his sides. "And if you interfere, you’ll lose everyone." His voice was softer now, but no less resolute.

Peter exhaled a slow, measured breath. "He's not wrong," he murmured, though there was no smugness in his tone. It was rare to hear him serious like this, but even Peter knew when to set aside his usual amusement. Peter knew the Nogitsune would not stop this time until he'd taken everything he could.

Derek turned his head just enough to glare at Peter, but Peter simply held his gaze, unreadable as always.

Eli, who had been quiet, suddenly stood from the couch, his movements stiff, uncertain. "So what, we just... sit back and hope you don’t die?" His voice wavered, and Stiles' heart clenched at the sight of him wide eyed, tense, young.

"Yes," Stiles answered, hating himself for it.

Eli scoffed, shaking his head. "That’s bullshit."

"Yeah, it is," Stiles admitted. "But it’s also necessary."

Eli looked to his dad, then to Peter, his frustration evident. He wanted to argue, but he wasn’t stupid, he could see that Stiles had already made up his mind. With a sharp exhale, he sat back down, crossing his arms.

Derek finally turned around, leaning against the counter, his gaze hard, unwilling to accept this, but knowing he didn’t have a choice. "I hate this plan," he muttered.

Stiles huffed out a dry, humorless laugh. "Join the club."

Derek’s jaw clenched. "What if I refuse? What if I stop you?"

"Then we all die," Stiles said simply, and for the first time that night, Derek saw the truth of it - the exhaustion in Stiles' posture, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. Stiles wasn’t doing this because he wanted to. He was doing it because he had to.

Derek looked away, exhaling through his nose.

Stiles softened, just a fraction. "Look, Derek. I’m not trying to piss you off, I swear. But I need you to trust me."

Derek let out a slow breath, shoulders finally sagging. "I do trust you," he admitted, though the words were reluctant, pulled from him like they physically hurt. "I just don’t trust the universe not to fuck us over."

Peter snorted. "Smart man."

Stiles offered the faintest ghost of a smile before shaking his head. "Tomorrow," he said, more to himself than anyone. "It all ends tomorrow."

No one responded.

Because there was nothing left to say.

Chapter Text

The kitchen was dark except for the dim glow of the stovetop light, casting long shadows across the room. Stiles sat at the table, hunched over a worn leather bound book, fingers absently tracing the spine. Riot was curled up at his feet, ears flicking at every slight sound, though he made no move to acknowledge Derek when he entered.

Derek didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, watching; taking in the way Stiles’ shoulders were drawn tight, the way exhaustion lined his face, the way his fingers twitched like they wanted to be doing something, anything, just to keep moving.

Finally, Derek sat down beside him, his movements slow, deliberate. Riot lifted his head, blinking at Derek before settling again, as if sensing the heaviness in the room.

Stiles didn’t look up from the book. “Couldn’t sleep?”

Derek exhaled through his nose. “Neither could you.”

Silence stretched between them. Derek swallowed hard, his hands clenching against his thighs before he finally spoke.

“Find another way.” His voice was quiet, but there was a desperation in it that made Stiles finally lift his head. “If this ends with you dying, I don’t want it to happen.”

Stiles met Derek’s gaze, and for the first time that night, Derek saw just how tired he really was, not just physically, but in his soul. Stiles had carried the weight of his fights alone for so long, and now, just when Derek had finally gotten him back, he was asking him to let go.

“Derek,” Stiles sighed, shaking his head. “I would do anything to protect this land. To protect the place your family built. The place you rebuilt.” His voice was steady, but there was an ache in it, something deep and unwavering.

Derek shook his head, his breath catching. “That doesn’t mean you have to die for it.”

Stiles tilted his head, giving him a sad smile. “That’s exactly what it means. Or could mean. This might not go as sideways as you’re imagining, it’s just…it’s a very real possibility is all.”

Derek clenched his jaw. “No.”

Stiles inhaled slowly, then placed a hand over Derek’s, grounding him. “Derek, I’m not just the protector of Beacon Hills. I’m the protector of the Hales.” He squeezed Derek’s hand, his own rough and warm and alive. “I was literally born to do this. To become this. Everything I have lived through, everything, has led me to this moment.”

Derek’s throat tightened, and he tried to pull his hand away, but Stiles held firm.

“The moment where I choose the Hales over myself,” Stiles finished.

Derek closed his eyes for a brief second, his breath shaking. When he opened them again, Stiles was still looking at him, still holding onto him.

Derek wanted to fight it. Wanted to tell Stiles he was wrong, that there had to be another way. But the look in Stiles’ eyes told him the truth.

This wasn’t just Stiles being reckless. This was fate.

And Derek fucking hated fate.

“Please,” Derek whispered, just once, because if there was ever a chance to change Stiles’ mind, he had to take it.

Stiles’ expression softened, but his resolve didn’t waver.

“I’m sorry, Derek.”

Derek turned his head away, staring at the darkened kitchen cabinets, swallowing past the lump in his throat.

Stiles gave his hand one last squeeze before finally letting go.

The second Stiles’ hand left his and he was no longer tethered to the man, Derek’s chair scraped against the floor as he pushed back abruptly, standing so fast that the table shook. Riot tensed at Stiles’ feet, ears flattening, but Stiles barely reacted. He just sat there, watching Derek with an infuriating sense of calm.

Derek’s hands curled into fists at his sides, his whole body trembling with something too big to contain; anger, confusion, desperation.

“This isn’t fucking fair, Stiles!” he exploded, voice raw. “You can’t just…just sit there and tell me you’re going to die and expect me to be okay with it!”

“I’m not expecting you to be okay with it,” Stiles said evenly, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t expect you to like it, or accept it, or even forgive me for it.” He tilted his head, studying Derek like he was memorizing every single detail. “But I need you to let me do this anyway. Derek, it might not even be that bad, you can’t worry so much about it.”

Derek’s breath came hard and fast, his heartbeat pounding in his ears.

“Why the hell would I let you die?” he growled, voice breaking. “Why would I ever let that happen?”

Stiles stood slowly, stepping toward him. Derek wanted to back away, wanted to put distance between them, but his feet wouldn’t move.

“You think I want this?” Stiles asked, quiet but firm. “You think I don’t want to stick around? That I don’t want to see Eli grow up? That I don’t want-” He cut himself off, shaking his head. “But I might not get a choice, Derek. Not in this. This is bigger than me. It’s bigger than you.”

“I don’t give a damn how big it is,” Derek snarled. “You don’t get to decide this on your own.”

Stiles sighed, his fingers flexing at his sides. “I’ve already decided.”

Derek’s breath hitched. The weight of those words slammed into him, knocking the air from his lungs.

“You-” His voice cracked, hands shaking. “You can’t do this to me.”

Something flickered across Stiles’ face, something soft and painful and unbearably fond.

Then, without a word, Stiles stepped closer, closing the distance between them, and before Derek could stop him, before Derek could even think, Stiles kissed him.

It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was soft, grounding. A quiet kind of devastation.

Derek froze, breath catching as Stiles’ lips brushed against his, gentle but sure, like he was giving Derek something to hold onto before taking it all away.

When Stiles pulled back, his eyes searched Derek’s, something raw and aching in them.

“I wish-” Stiles started, but he didn’t finish. He just gave Derek a small, sad smile and stepped back.

Derek reached out on instinct, fingers brushing Stiles’ wrist, but Stiles didn’t let him hold on.

Instead, he whispered, “Get some sleep, Derek,” before slipping away, leaving Derek standing there angry, desperate, and more confused than ever.
~~~~

The next morning, Stiles stood in Derek’s kitchen, absently spinning his phone between his fingers before sighing and pulling up Lydia’s contact. He hesitated for only a second before typing out the message.

Stiles: I need you to bring the pack to my dad’s house. No arguments. Just be there.

A response came almost immediately.

Lydia: Are you going to explain why?

Stiles: No.

Lydia: Fine. We’ll be there.

Stiles exhaled and tucked his phone away.

By the time Stiles, Peter, Derek, and Eli arrived at his dad’s house, the pack was already there, gathered on the front lawn like a mismatched band of old friends and bitter memories.

Scott stood front and center, arms crossed, watching Stiles carefully. Jackson leaned against his car, looking bored but still observant, while Ethan stood beside him, arms folded. Malia, perched on the porch railing, gave Stiles a sharp look, her foot tapping impatiently.

Lydia was standing beside Parrish, her expression unreadable, while Noah stood by the door, concern written all over his face.

“Alright, we’re here,” Scott said, his voice clipped. “What’s going on, Stiles?”

Stiles glanced at Peter, who just smirked like he already knew where this was going. Eli hovered close to Derek, shifting nervously. Derek, for his part, looked tense, his jaw clenched tight as he stared at Stiles like he was trying to decipher something.

Stiles took a deep breath, shoving his hands into his pockets.

“We need to talk,” he said simply. “All of us.”

Scott huffed. “About what?”

Stiles met his gaze, steady and unwavering.

“About what’s coming.”

Stiles had everyone gather inside the living room of his dads house, knowing it was too big of a group to stand in the yard without drawing attention. Everyone fell silent after Stiles’ words hung in the air, thick and heavy, like a storm waiting to break. The tension was palpable as everyone turned to him, eyes wide and brows furrowed. They could all sense the gravity of what he was saying, but none of them were prepared for the weight of it, least of all Scott, who looked like he was about to speak but hesitated when he saw the fire in Stiles’ eyes.

Stiles was standing in the center of the group, his posture rigid and purposeful. He could feel the air around him crackling, his pulse steady but quick, each word that left his mouth burning with truth. This was it, there was no turning back.

“I’m drawing out the Nogitsune today,” Stiles said, his voice calm but razor sharp. “I need all of you to keep Derek from interfering. If you try to stop me, it won’t work. The only way this will go down is if no one interferes. You’ll let me do this, and you’ll stay out of the way. If I had a way to do this without everyone else needing to be there, then I would do it. But I know Derek won’t stay home and I’ll need all of you to hold him back if it comes to it.”

Scott scoffed, crossing his arms over his chest, his expression a mix of skepticism and irritation. “If you want to sacrifice yourself, so be it.”

Stiles froze, his jaw tightening, his eyes narrowing as he slowly turned his gaze toward Scott. The words rang in his ears like an insult, cutting deeper than they should.

“You’re a fucking horrible person, Scott,” Stiles snapped, his voice low but laced with venom.

Scott raised an eyebrow, clearly unbothered by the accusation. “You’ll do what needs to be done, as always. You’ll protect the pack.”

Stiles’ lips curled into a cold smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. The words slipped out between clenched teeth, each syllable dripping with a quiet rage.

“Make no fucking mistake, Scott McCall,” Stiles said, his tone sharp and deliberate. “I’m not doing this for you or your fucking pack. I’m doing this for Eli. For Derek. For Peter. I was made into who I am to protect the Hales. I was born to make sure the lineage lives on. And I’ll do whatever, kill whoever, necessary to make sure that happens.”

The silence that followed was deafening, a collective breath held in the air as everyone processed what Stiles had just said. His words weren’t a threat; they were a promise. And it was clear that if any of them stood in his way, they’d be met with an unstoppable force.

Eli, standing by Derek’s side, glanced up at his father and then at Stiles, uncertainty flickering in his gaze. Derek, on the other hand, looked like he wanted to argue, but there was a tension in his shoulders, a quiet understanding that Stiles had made his choice. Peter, however, didn’t look surprised at all.

Lydia looked conflicted, but she didn’t say anything. Malia’s expression remained hard to read, though she seemed almost impressed.

“Fine,” Scott finally muttered, his tone begrudging. “But you better make sure it works, Stiles. Because if it doesn’t… I’m not the one who’ll be cleaning up the mess.”

Stiles didn’t flinch, didn’t give him the satisfaction of a response. Scott McCall has never cleaned up a mess in his fucking life.

Stiles’ gaze moved to each of the pack members, meeting their eyes one by one. They all knew what had to be done. And they all knew that if Stiles was going to do this, they had no choice but to let him.

But the silence didn’t last long.

Once the tension had settled just enough, Scott’s voice broke through, sharp and almost accusing. "When this is all over, you're going to help with Allison, right? We need your help, Stiles. She-"

Stiles didn’t even let him finish. He turned, cutting him off with a bitter laugh, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Oh, right. Totally forgot about the zombie girlfriend that suddenly resurrected when the Nogitsune came back.” He paused, his expression hardening as he folded his arms. "Yeah, no. I won't be helping with her. She's not my problem and not my concern." His tone was cold, every word dripping with a mixture of disdain and exhaustion.

Scott’s brow furrowed, but Stiles didn’t give him the chance to argue. "That crazy bitch has attacked every Hale. Every. Single. One. And over my dead fucking body will she get close to Eli."

The venom in his voice left no room for doubt. He wasn’t going to help Scott with Allison. Not now, not ever. And the mention of Eli was the final nail in the coffin. There was no negotiation. Allison was an immediate threat to Eli, and Stiles wasn’t about to let that slide. Not when it came to protecting the people he cared about.

Scott opened his mouth as if to protest, but quickly shut it, the frustration on his face deepening. He knew it was pointless to argue with Stiles now. The decision had already been made.

“And I sure the hell won’t be cleaning up any messes she, or your pack, leave in your wake,” Stiles added with a dark chuckle, turning back toward the group, his eyes scanning the room, daring anyone to challenge him.

No one did. They all knew better.

Stiles stood tall, his expression serious as he addressed the pack one last time. The weight of everything was about to come crashing down, and the urgency in his voice left no room for argument. "Meet me at the Nemeton in an hour," he said, his voice firm. He didn’t wait for any response. There was nothing more to say. This wasn’t a choice, it was a command. And everyone knew it.

As he finished speaking, Stiles turned away, his fingers reaching for Derek’s shoulder before moving to Eli, the heat of his palm briefly lingering on their skin. In a blink, the world around them shifted.

The air rippled like water, the landscape warping, and then, just as quickly, they were gone, transported to a place that felt like it had existed long before them. The Nemeton, ancient and pulsing with a power all its own, stood in front of them like an old, familiar icon.

But as they arrived, Eli blinked around, his eyes scanning the surroundings in confusion. "You forgot Uncle Peter," Eli said, his voice light with a little humor despite the situation.

Stiles, however, didn’t share the amusement. His focus was on Eli, and he shook his head. "No, I didn’t. I needed to talk to you two alone."

He turned fully toward Eli, his gaze intense. "Eli, I need you to shift. I know you don’t know how yet, but I really need you to try. Derek, if he can’t shift, call out to him. You shift and roar at him, try to pull it out. He's too vulnerable if he can’t shift. He probably shouldn’t even be here. But I…I need you all here when I can see you, where I can protect you."

Derek stood beside them, his expression unreadable but tense. He watched Stiles carefully, understanding the gravity of the situation, but his eyes flicked to Eli as Stiles' words sank in.

Eli nodded, trying to look confident, but there was a flicker of doubt in his eyes. He closed his eyes, willing his wolf to come forward. The muscles in his body tightened, the familiar shift of energy pulling at him, but nothing happened. His brow furrowed in frustration. He tried again, focusing harder, but still, no shift.

Derek placed a hand on his shoulder. "It's okay. Just breathe," he muttered, trying to offer some comfort, but the stress in his voice betrayed his concern.

Still, nothing changed.

"Damn it," Eli muttered, looking down at his hands, frustration mounting in his chest. "I can’t do it. It’s not working."

Stiles watched Eli, his face unreadable. "You can do this. You just have to try harder."

But Eli’s frustration was starting to bleed into his nerves. He shook his head again, a shaky breath escaping him.

Stiles turned to Derek. "Roar at him," he instructed sharply, voice tight with urgency.

Derek didn’t need to be told twice. He took a step back and let his energy grow, the familiar tug of his wolf snapping at his insides. A deep, resonant growl rolled from him, reverberating in the air. It was a challenge, a call to Eli’s wolf. He was trying to push Eli’s shift, trying to force it out.

But still, nothing. Eli stood frozen, the strain on his face clear, but no shift came. Derek’s growl died in the air, the tension building between them all.

Stiles cursed under his breath. His eyes met Derek’s. The desperation in Derek's eyes matched his own. Eli couldn't shift. And that could mean everything.

Stiles stood still for a moment, looking at Derek and Eli. The weight of the situation bore down on him like a heavy storm cloud, and he could feel the energy crackling around them all. He ran a hand through his hair, visibly frustrated, but determination sparked behind his eyes. He took a deep breath, steadying himself, and finally spoke.

"I'm going to try something. I don't know if it'll work, and I sure as fuck don't know what it means if it does," Stiles said, his voice low, with an edge of uncertainty but a calm resolve beneath it. He wasn't used to uncertainty, especially not in the face of something as significant as this.

Derek watched him intently, tension building in the air around them. Eli, too, looked to Stiles, confusion and anxiety etched across his face. Stiles could see the struggle in Eli's eyes, and it only spurred him on further.

Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, his hand lingering near his chest, focusing on the power within him, the power that had surged to the forefront of his being ever since he'd become the guardian of the Nemeton. When he opened his eyes again, they were no longer the light, human brown they usually were. Instead, they glowed a vibrant, unnatural violet, a light that pulsed with a quiet, but undeniable power. It was the kind of power that demanded attention, that could bend reality, the kind of power that belonged to the guardian of the land.

His voice, when he spoke again, was deeper, almost guttural. The air shifted with the force of it, and the power behind the words rippled outward, carrying an undeniable weight.

"Shift," Stiles said, his voice a low rumble that resonated in the air like the growl of a wolf. His words were an order, but not just any command. There was a deep, primal force beneath them, something that felt ancient and necessary.

Eli’s eyes flashed gold at the sound of Stiles’ voice, and for a brief moment, Stiles could see the wolf struggling within him. The power was there, raw and pulsing, but it couldn’t break free. Eli’s body trembled as the energy from Stiles' command rolled over him like a wave, and for a moment, it looked like Eli would finally shift.

But it wasn’t enough.

"Eli," Stiles said, voice carrying the weight of authority. His eyes never left Eli, his stance solid and unwavering. "Shift!" he demanded again, this time with more force, the power in his voice not just urging, but pulling at Eli's very essence.

Eli shook his head, his body wracked with confusion. The surge of power from Stiles was too much, too overwhelming, and his wolf was fighting it. His body twisted with uncertainty as his eyes darted between Stiles and Derek. He couldn’t do it. He couldn’t shift under all of this pressure.

Stiles' frustration mounted, but his resolve only solidified. He took a step forward, his presence radiating. He was no longer just Stiles Stilinski; he was something more, something old, something tied to this land, to these people, and to the Hale bloodline. His words carried with them the full weight of his purpose.

"Eli Hale," he said, his voice breaking through the confusion, his tone commanding. "I am Mieczysław Stilinski, protector of the Hale's, Guardian of the Nemeton, Alpha of this land, and I demand that you shift."

The words rang out, not just a command but a declaration. The land beneath their feet seemed to tremble with it, as if the very earth recognized Stiles' power. There was no hesitation now, no second guessing. It was a force of nature, a declaration of authority that could not be ignored.

The violet in Stiles’ eyes burned brighter, and his aura pulsed, surrounding them all like a shield. The air became thick with the charge of it, a heavy pressure that settled over the land and the people who called it home. This was his birthright. This was what he was meant to do.

Derek could only stare.

The moment the words left Stiles’ mouth, something shifted - something ancient, something undeniable. The power rolling off of Stiles was nothing like Derek had ever felt before. It wasn’t the forceful, primal dominance of an Alpha challenging for control, nor was it the oppressive weight of submission forced upon another. No…this was something deeper, something woven into the very fabric of the land itself.

Derek’s breath hitched as his inner wolf stirred violently, instincts screaming at him to submit, to bow his head, to bare his throat to the power standing before him. He clenched his fists against his sides, digging his nails into his palms in an effort to ground himself, to fight the pull, but it was like trying to hold back the tide.

His wolf wanted to yield. Wanted to acknowledge Stiles as something greater, something more.

The shock of it settled deep in Derek’s chest, rattling him to his core. This was Stiles. The same sarcastic, quick witted, endlessly frustrating Stiles Stilinski who had once been just a boy fumbling through the supernatural world with nothing but his mind and his sheer determination. And yet, standing before him now, he was power. Not borrowed, not forced - his own.

Derek’s throat felt dry, his heart pounding in his ears as he stared at Stiles. The violet glow of his eyes burned like embers in the dimming afternoon light, his stance firm and unyielding. His presence was undeniable, and the land around them seemed to listen, the rustling of the trees, the distant chirping of birds, even the wind itself seemed to still, waiting.

And then…Eli gasped.

Derek’s gaze snapped to his son just in time to see the shift take hold.

Eli’s body trembled, his pupils blown wide as the golden glow of his eyes burned brighter. His fingers curled into, his body snapping forward as the transformation overtook him like a dam finally breaking. His breathing was sharp, quick, panicked for a moment before he settled, before he accepted what was happening.

His ears sharpened to points. His fangs elongated. His muscles tensed with newfound strength.

Eli Hale had shifted.

And no one looked more shocked than he did.

Eli lifted his hands in front of his face, turning them over like he couldn’t quite believe they were his. His mouth parted slightly, his fangs flashing as he took a hesitant step forward, weight shifting differently now that his body had fully embraced the wolf inside him.

“I-” Eli’s voice wavered as he looked up at Stiles, at Derek, then back at his own hands. His golden eyes blinked rapidly, still glowing, still pulsing with the change.

Derek swallowed hard, his throat working around the sheer disbelief holding him in place. His son had struggled for years, had tried and failed so many times that Derek had begun to fear it might never happen at all. He had spent sleepless nights wondering if Eli would always be vulnerable, if his wolf would remain locked away forever.

But now?

Now Eli stood before him, shifted, whole - because of Stiles.

Derek turned back to the man in question, still shaken, still fighting against the instinctive pull of submission clawing at his gut.

“What-” Derek’s voice came out rough, like he had to force the words through his own hesitation. “What are you?”

Stiles finally looked at him then, eyes still glowing, still carrying that heavy, undeniable power. But there was something else there too; something softer, something knowing.

“I told you,” Stiles said simply, voice steady, sure. “I’m the protector of the Hale’s.”

Derek’s breath shuddered out of him.

He believed him.

And that terrified him.

Eli stumbled back a step, his chest heaving as he still stared down at his own hands, claws still extended, his body still humming with energy. His golden eyes flickered between Derek and Stiles, his mind struggling to catch up with what had just happened.

"I - what the - what the hell was that?" Eli blurted, his voice cracking slightly. "I - I felt something - I don’t know what the fuck it was, but it…it was like…like I had to listen, like my whole body just knew I had to shift, and then I did and-"

Eli looked at Stiles, wide eyed, breathless. His fingers curled in and out of fists, testing the strength in his limbs like he still couldn’t believe they were his own. "I don’t…I don’t understand what just happened, but I feel-" He cut himself off, pressing a hand to his chest, as if that would help steady the wild rush of emotions slamming into him all at once.

"Connected," Eli finally said, looking straight at Stiles. "I feel connected to you. And I don’t - I don’t get it."

Derek inhaled sharply, his gaze flicking to Stiles, then back to Eli. His own heart was still pounding from the overwhelming weight of Stiles' power, from the way his wolf had wanted to kneel, to acknowledge Stiles as something above him.

"Like he's your Alpha," Derek said, voice rough.

Eli turned to his father, eyes blown wide, stunned into silence.

But it was Stiles who reacted the most.

His entire body locked up, his expression stricken, like Derek had just slapped him across the face. His mouth parted slightly, but no words came out at first. Then, finally, he shook his head, stumbling over his own words.

"No. I’m…I'm not-" Stiles stammered, his voice unsteady, his breathing shallow. "I’m Alpha of the land,Derek, not of a pack. I can’t…I can’t be his Alpha."

Derek’s jaw clenched, watching the way Stiles’ fingers twitched, how his shoulders rose and fell with uneven breaths. Stiles was always quick witted, always had something sharp and sarcastic to say, but now? Now he looked shaken to his core.

Derek took a slow step closer. "Stiles," he said, voice low, steady. "My wolf wanted to submit to you."

Stiles' eyes snapped to his, wide, disbelieving, scared.

Derek could see it. The way Stiles' mind was racing, trying to rationalize it, trying to deny it.

But the truth hung heavy in the air between them.

The moment Peter arrived, the air in the clearing grew even heavier. His boots crunched against the dirt, his movements sharp with barely restrained irritation.

"You little shit," Peter seethed as he stalked toward Stiles. "You left me with them? With McCall? While you whisked away my family without so much as a warning?" His eyes were glowing blue, his lips curled into a snarl. "Explain. Now."

Stiles didn't even flinch. He stood his ground, his expression unreadable, his arms crossed over his chest as he watched Peter approach like he was nothing more than an inconvenience.

"It was necessary," Stiles said simply, voice calm but firm. "I needed to talk to them alone."

Peter scoffed, throwing his hands in the air. "Oh, necessary, was it? And what, exactly, was so fucking important that you-"

"Shut the fuck up, Peter."

The words cut through the air like a blade.

Peter's mouth snapped shut instantly. His whole body locked up, his snarl vanishing mid breath. His throat bobbed like he wanted to speak, but he couldn’t. He just stood there, eyes flickering between beta blue and human blue, his jaw tightening and loosening like he was trying to force himself to defy Stiles.

But he didn’t.

Derek had seen Peter challenge Alphas before, had seen him scoff in the face of authority, had seen him mock power just to prove that he could. But now? Now Peter was silent, still.

Submissive.

Derek’s breath caught in his throat.

Even Peter - Peter, who followed no one, who bent for no one - recognized Stiles’ authority.

Derek wondered if Stiles’ new found Alpha feelings he was emitting was because he was so close to his power source, the Nemeton, or if he was just now accessing more of his power so he could help Eli.

Stiles, for his part, didn’t gloat. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t throw out some snide comment about how easy that had been.

Instead, he sighed, rubbing a hand down his face before looking Peter dead in the eye. "Now, are you done throwing a tantrum, or do I need to make you sit in time out? Because I’m going to be honest Peter, we don’t really have that kind of fucking time."

Peter’s lips curled back, frustration flashing across his face, but he still didn’t speak.

Derek exhaled, staring at Stiles like he was seeing him for the first time. This wasn’t just the boy he’d known before. This wasn’t just the strategist, the researcher, the one who somehow always had a plan.

This was something more.

Derek realized he had no idea just how much Stiles had become.

The sound of footsteps crunching through the underbrush signaled their arrival. Stiles didn’t need to turn around to know it was them. He could feel it, the weight of their presence pressing against the boundaries of his magic. The McCall pack had arrived.

Scott was at the front, of course, his usual self righteous determination written all over his face. Jackson followed beside him, looking bored but alert, like he was waiting for someone to piss him off. Ethan moved in step with them, quiet but taking everything in. Lydia’s heels made sharp little clicks against the forest floor, her arms crossed, expression unreadable but eyes sharp. Malia had her hands shoved into her pockets, looking impatient, while Parrish walked with the kind of cautious awareness only a man with literal hellfire in his veins could have.

And then there was Stiles’ dad. Noah Stilinski wasn’t glowing with supernatural energy, wasn’t shifting or radiating power like the rest of them, but his presence was the one that made Stiles’ chest tighten. His dad looked worried. Hell, he always looked worried, but this time, it was different. It was the kind of worry that came with knowing something bigger than you was about to happen, and there wasn’t a damn thing you could do to stop it.

Stiles didn’t acknowledge them at first. He crouched by the Nemeton, setting his bag down beside him and unzipping it with practiced ease. One by one, he pulled out what he needed. Small vials filled with dark liquid, carefully wrapped herbs, a smooth stone marked with intricate carvings, a thin dagger with an edge so sharp it could split a hair. He arranged them carefully on the Nemeton’s surface, the old, gnarled wood humming beneath his fingertips.

"I'm really gonna need you on this," Stiles murmured, patting the Nemeton like one would an old friend.

The reaction was immediate.

The air around them shifted, the magic in the clearing crackling to life. It was a pulse, a heartbeat, something ancient and powerful and alive. The Nemeton responded to Stiles’ touch, its energy weaving into his, threads of magic curling up his arm, wrapping around his fingers like it recognized him, like it claimed him all over again.

The others must have felt it, because even Scott hesitated, his usual arrogance faltering as he watched the interaction.

“What the hell was that?” Jackson asked, eyes narrowed, arms crossing over his chest.

Stiles didn’t answer him. His focus was solely on the Nemeton, on the connection thrumming between them.

“This is gonna work,” he whispered, more to himself than anyone else. The Nemeton pulsed beneath his palm, its magic seeping into him, an agreement made in silence.

This was his battlefield.

And the fight was about to begin.

Stiles exhaled sharply, steadying himself as he turned to face the Hales one last time. The Nemeton’s magic still hummed through him, wrapping around his ribs, grounding him, but it wasn’t enough to make this easy. Nothing about this was easy.

Peter, Derek, and Eli stood before him, the night wrapping around them like a second skin. Peter looked unreadable, but his sharp blue eyes gleamed with something close to understanding - he knew what Stiles was about to do, and despite his usual snark, he didn’t say a damn word. Eli stood slightly behind his father, shoulders squared, fists clenched, like he was trying to make himself seem bigger, stronger, even though Stiles could see the fear simmering just beneath his determination. And Derek…

Derek looked wrecked. His lips were pressed into a thin line, jaw clenched so tight it was a wonder his teeth didn’t crack. His hands curled into fists at his sides, the tension in his body wound so tight it might snap at any moment. His wolf was right there, just beneath the surface, glowing behind his eyes as if it was begging to take control, to *stop this*.

Stiles swallowed hard.

"Before I call him here," he started, voice steady, though it cost him, "just remember that he's a trickster. He can show you things that aren't real. Make you feel things that aren't real. He will do everything in his power to get into your heads, to twist your thoughts, to use your worst fears against you."

His eyes flickered over each of them, lingering on Derek just a little longer.

"You can't interfere," Stiles stressed, his voice gaining an edge of urgency. "No matter what happens. No matter what he does, or what it looks like is happening. If you try to stop this, you could ruin everything. And I need you to remember that."

Eli swallowed audibly, shifting on his feet. "But-"

"No." Stiles cut him off, shaking his head. "No buts, kid. This is your land. Your birthright. I am just the one who stands in front of the storm. And I will do whatever it takes to make sure that storm doesn’t destroy everything you have left."

Derek took a stiff step forward, but Stiles held up a hand, stopping him in his tracks. His fingers twitched at his side, aching to reach for Derek, to grab onto him, to hold on. But he couldn’t - wouldn’t.

"Just remember…" Stiles inhaled sharply, blinking rapidly before his voice softened, almost breaking. "Remember that I love you."

It wasn’t directed at just one of them. It was all of the Hales.

Peter’s expression faltered, just for a moment, something almost pained flickering across his face. Eli inhaled sharply, eyes widening, as it was the first time hearing this. He hadn’t even known Stiles three days ago, and Eli could hear the truth in the words anyway.

And Derek…

Derek broke.

It was in his eyes, in the way his fists trembled at his sides, in the way he exhaled sharply like Stiles had hit him.

Stiles didn’t wait for a response. He turned away before he could lose his nerve, before his own emotions could claw their way to the surface. He took a slow, deliberate breath, grounding himself in the Nemeton’s magic one last time.

And then he called for the Nogitsune.

Stiles planted his feet firmly on the ground, the Nemeton’s energy curling around his ankles, seeping into his bones as he closed his eyes. His lips parted, and a low, rhythmic chant poured from him in a language old and powerful, a language that seemed like it was not meant for human tongues. The words rolled off his lips like a command woven into the fabric of reality itself.

The wind howled in response.

It ripped through the preserve, bending branches, whipping leaves into a frenzy. The temperature plummeted, the warmth of the California afternoon vanishing as if the land itself recoiled from what Stiles was summoning. Darkness crept in unnaturally fast, swallowing the light, pressing against them with an eerie, suffocating weight.

The Nemeton pulsed once beneath Stiles’ hand, the force of it rattling through his chest like a heartbeat too big for his body to contain.

And then-

A shadow twisted into existence before them, stretching and warping into something vaguely human. The shape solidified, sharpened, and in an instant, the Nogitsune stood before them, his expression a grotesque mockery of a smile.

Beside him, another figure emerged from the gloom.

Allison Argent.

Stiles barely kept the scoff from escaping, his fingers twitching at his side as his eyes flicked over her. The Zombie Girlfriend herself, resurrected and tethered to the Nogitsune’s side like a warped reflection of who she used to be.

The Nogitsune’s grin widened. He tilted his head, his dark, empty gaze locking onto Stiles with something akin to amusement.

“Stiles,” the spirit hissed, his voice slithering through the air, thick with something cold and foreboding. “You’ve returned.”

Chapter Text

Stiles squared his shoulders, his fingers flexing as he felt the magic of the Nemeton humming through his veins. He could feel its power coiling around him, steady and waiting, a silent promise that he was not alone in this fight.

“Yeah, well,” Stiles said, tilting his head as he eyed the Nogitsune. “Somebody had to clean up this mess. And since no one else was stepping up-” He gestured vaguely. “Here I am.”

The Nogitsune chuckled, a dry, rasping sound that sent a shiver down the spines of everyone present.

“Oh, but you are the mess, little spark,” it crooned, tilting its head as though inspecting him. “And you have grown… different.”

Its gaze flickered, sharp and calculating, and then it inhaled deeply, as if trying to taste the air around Stiles.

Something flickered across its expression - something almost like recognition.

Stiles' jaw tightened. He could feel the weight of every gaze on him, but he refused to let it shake him. He was ready for this. He had to be.

Allison, silent up until now, shifted beside the Nogitsune. Her grip tightened around her bow, her expression blank, her dark eyes flickering between Stiles and Derek, then Peter.

A ghost of a smirk crossed the Nogitsune’s lips as he followed her gaze.

“Oh,” he murmured, amusement curling around his words like smoke. “This is delightful. So much has changed… and yet so much is exactly as I left it.”

He turned back to Stiles, his grin stretching wider, splitting his face.

“You reek of power now,” he mused, his voice thick with interest. “I wonder, guardian, if you truly know what you are… what you have become.”

Stiles’ fingers twitched, but he kept his face blank, his voice steady.

“I know enough.”

The Nogitsune laughed, the sound cutting through the air like a blade.

“Oh, I doubt that.”

The wind picked up again, rustling through the trees, carrying the scent of something unnatural.

Derek shifted beside him, his stance tense, and Stiles could feel the weight of Peter’s sharp gaze boring into him from the other side. Eli, standing slightly behind them, swallowed hard, his eyes darting between Stiles and the Nogitsune, confusion and unease etched into his features.

Stiles didn’t dare look at them.

Instead, he took a slow, deliberate step forward, his chin lifting as he met the Nogitsune head on.

“Enough talking,” Stiles said, his voice even. “You wanted me. You got me. Let’s finish this.”

The Nogitsune's grin widened. “Oh, but where would the fun be if we finished things so soon? No, no, Stiles, we must play first.”

The wind howled through the preserve as the shadows thickened, curling unnaturally around the clearing. The air grew heavy, charged with something sickly and wrong.

And then-

Derek inhaled sharply, his entire body locking up as the scent of smoke filled his lungs. Not the crisp, clean scent of a campfire or the lingering burn of gunpowder…but that smoke. The thick, acrid stench of burning wood, flesh, home-

His breath stuttered. His heartbeat roared in his ears as his surroundings melted away, the Nemeton vanishing, replaced by a place he hadn’t set foot in for years.

The Hale house stood before him, wreathed in flames, the fire crackling hungrily as it consumed everything.

And then-

“Derek!”

His mother’s voice-

Derek’s chest seized as he turned sharply, his heart lurching as he saw her. Talia Hale, standing just beyond the fire, her piercing eyes locked onto his. She looked untouched by the flames, whole, alive.

“Mom?” Derek choked, his feet moving before he could stop himself.

He barely made it two steps before a hand grabbed his wrist, yanking him back.

“Derek!” Stiles’ voice cut through the haze, sharp and real.

Derek turned, dazed, and for a split second, he saw Stiles as he was - his eyes burning violet, his power pressing against Derek’s skin like an undeniable force.

But then another blow came. One of the Nogitsune’s haunts.

“Oh, Stiles,” a new voice murmured.

The world around them shifted again.

Stiles barely had time to brace himself before the shadows coiled again, twisting into something new, something worse.

The air went still. The wind died. The world around him faded, and in its place-

“Sweetheart.”

Stiles went rigid. His breath hitched.

No.

No.

His heartbeat slammed against his ribs as he turned, slow, hesitant.

His mother stood before him, bathed in the soft, golden glow of the sun. Her eyes were warm, filled with love. She looked exactly as he remembered; soft smiles, gentle hands, the scent of her perfume curling in the air.

“Stiles,” Claudia said, stepping closer, her voice honey-smooth, full of love. “My beautiful boy.”

A sharp gasp came from behind him.

“Claudia?”

Stiles flinched.

Noah Stilinski’s voice wavered, raw and broken. He took an unsteady step forward, his eyes wide, wet, disbelieving.

“Mom?” Stiles rasped, his throat tight.

Claudia smiled, reaching for him.

And for one awful second, he almost stepped forward.

“None of it is real!” Stiles yelled, jerking back like he’d been burned.

His father startled, blinking rapidly as if waking from a dream.

“What-” Noah sucked in a sharp breath, his expression flickering with confusion, then horror.

Stiles’ hands curled into fists. His entire body trembled, rage bubbling under his skin like a wildfire.

His mother, his fake mother, tilted her head, her soft smile twisting into something wrong.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she cooed, her voice sickly sweet. “Why would you say that?”

Stiles bared his teeth. “Because I’m not a fucking idiot.”

The illusion shattered.

The warmth, the glow, the lie, all of it dissolved into shadow, Claudia’s figure twisting, distorting until the Nogitsune stood in her place, grinning wide, his dark eyes glinting with satisfaction.

“Oh, but it was a good trick, wasn’t it?” the trickster purred. “Didn’t it feel real?”

Stiles’ chest heaved. His blood roared in his ears.

“You’re gonna wish you never crawled out of whatever fucking pit you came from,” Stiles seethed, magic coiling around his fingertips like smoke, his power surging.

The Nogitsune laughed.

“Oh, Stiles,” he crooned. “You still don’t understand, do you?”

He spread his arms wide, his grin stretching impossibly further.

“This isn’t my game anymore.”

Stiles stiffened.

The air shifted.

Something dark, something ancient, coiled beneath his feet, latching onto the earth, into the land, into him.

And then, Stiles felt it.

The Nemeton screamed.

A violent tremor shook the ground beneath them, a pulse of raw, untamed power surging outward from the Nemeton. The trees groaned, their roots twisting as if trying to pull away from the source. The sky above darkened, the very air vibrating with something old, something hungry.

Stiles staggered, his fingers digging into the bark of the Nemeton as he tried to steady himself. The moment his skin touched it, another pulse rippled through him, slamming into his chest like a heartbeat that didn’t belong to him.

What the fuck?

The Nemeton had always been a well of power, something he could tap into when necessary, but this? This was different.

The Nogitsune stood at the edge of the clearing, his grin somehow wider, his hands folded neatly behind his back.

“There it is,” he murmured, tilting his head. “The connection. Do you feel it, Stiles?”

Stiles clenched his jaw, his magic crackling at his fingertips. “Shut the fuck up.”

The trickster laughed, dark and rich, like he’d been waiting for this moment.

“You never understood, did you?” the Nogitsune mused, pacing slowly around the clearing, his shadow stretching unnaturally long. “The Nemeton doesn’t just hold power—, it binds it. It chooses who wields it. Who protects it. Who it owns.”

Stiles’ breath hitched, his stomach twisting.

The Nogitsune stopped, turning toward him with sharp, glinting eyes. “And you, Stiles… were chosen.”

A shiver ran down Stiles’ spine, but he refused to let it show. “Yeah?” he bit out. “Well, that’s real fucking inconvenient for you, isn’t it?”

The Nogitsune only smiled.

Then, suddenly…

Derek roared.

Stiles’ head snapped toward him just in time to see Derek lurch backward, his entire body tensed like he was being dragged by some invisible force.

“Derek!” Stiles barked, magic crackling in his veins as he reached for him.

And then Derek’s eyes changed.

Not red. Not blue.

Not even gold.

Black.

Deep, ink-dark, swallowing the light around them.

Stiles’ stomach dropped.

“Oh, fuck no,” Stiles hissed, his pulse spiking as Derek’s lips curled back into a silent snarl, his body rigid, fighting something Stiles couldn’t see.

The Nogitsune sighed, almost wistfully.

“You see, Stiles,” the trickster mused, “you weren’t the only one chosen.”

A sharp snap of energy cracked through the clearing. And Derek collapsed.

Stiles’ heart hammered against his ribs as he watched Derek struggle, his body convulsing as though something unseen had its claws buried deep inside him.

But something wasn’t adding up.

The Nogitsune stood right in front of him. Watching. Grinning.

Stiles' mind worked at lightning speed, piecing it together. If the Nogitsune was here, manifesting in the physical realm, then he wasn’t inside Derek’s head. He couldn’t be possessing him.

Which meant.

“It’s not real,” Stiles whispered, his breath hitching. “None of it is fucking real.”

His magic flared, anger flooding through him. He bent down swiftly, grabbing one of the vials from the Nemeton’s roots. Without hesitation, he hurled it at the Nogitsune.

The trickster moved faster than should have been possible, his hand flicking up at the last second. The vial shattered mid air, fragments of glass scattering across the grass, the liquid inside hissing as it seeped into the earth.

Stiles clenched his teeth, frustration boiling inside him.

The Nogitsune tsked, shaking his head. “Come now, Stiles. You’ve always been clever. But even you should know better than to rely on tricks.”

Stiles ignored him, turning to Derek who was still writhing, his face twisted in pain, his hands clawing at his own chest like he was trying to rip something out.

But it wasn’t real.

It was all an illusion.

Stiles took a step forward, voice sharp and commanding.

“Derek. Look at me.”

Derek didn’t respond. His body jerked again, a strangled noise escaping his throat.

Stiles pushed harder, magic laced in his words.

“Derek Hale, look at me!”

Derek’s movements faltered.

Stiles felt the power in his veins, felt the way the land itself listened to him, and pushed harder.

“It’s not real. None of it is real. Whatever you’re seeing, whatever you’re feeling…it’s a fucking lie.”

Derek’s breath hitched.

Stiles could see it now; the flicker of doubt, the moment where Derek’s instincts fought against the illusion.

The Nogitsune laughed, slow and mocking.

“Oh, Stiles,” he mused, tilting his head. “But isn’t everything we feel real, in the end?”

Stiles didn’t even hesitate.

“Not when it comes from you.”
.
The Nogitsune grinned with wicked amusement as the air around them grew thick with dark energy. Stiles barely had a second to brace himself before the images started flashing in his mind; rapid, visceral, horrific.

Derek, bloodied and broken, lying motionless on the forest floor. His chest torn open, unmoving.

Eli, eyes wide with terror, his small frame crumpled against the Nemeton, a deep, ragged wound across his throat.

Peter, his smirk forever frozen in death, impaled through the stomach with his own claws.

Stiles gasped, his knees nearly buckling beneath him.

Then it changed.

The vision shifted, and suddenly Stiles saw his father, his dad, strapped to a chair, his face bruised and bloodied, his wrists raw from restraints. A shadowy figure loomed over him, whispering things Stiles couldn’t hear, but he knew, he knew it was bad.

Noah’s face twisted in pain as the figure pressed something, a blade?, against his skin, slow and deliberate. A silent scream ripped through Stiles’ throat, his heart hammering so violently he thought it might shatter his ribs.

He felt like he couldn’t breathe.

The Nogitsune’s laughter slithered through the air like poison. “Does it hurt, little spark?” he crooned. “Does it burn to watch those you love for because you can't protect them? Because you're not enough?”

Stiles staggered back, hands clenched into fists. His pulse was so loud in his ears that he barely registered the voices around him; Derek calling his name, Peter snarling, Eli gasping.

The world blurred at the edges.

The Nogitsune leaned in closer. “You can’t stop this,” he whispered. “You can’t fight me. You know that, don’t you? That’s why you’re afraid.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut.

Think. Think, dammit.

The Nogitsune was a trickster. A manipulator. He fed off of chaos and pain, turned it into something worse.

And Stiles…

Stiles had already been his before.

His breath steadied.

His fingers twitched.

And then he did the one thing no one outside of the Hale's expected.

He opened his eyes, staring straight into the Nogitsune’s empty gaze.

“Then take me.”

The Nogitsune stilled.

The entire preserve seemed to exhale, the unnatural wind dying down, the eerie silence pressing in like a vice.

Derek knew it would happen and still froze. “Stiles, no.”

Peter let out a sharp breath, stepping forward. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

But Stiles didn’t waver.

“You want chaos?” he said, voice steady despite the terror clawing at his ribs. “You want pain? Then take me.” His jaw clenched. “Let them go, and I’m yours.”

The Nogitsune tilted his head, his grin stretching impossibly wide.

“Oh, Stiles,” he purred, his voice dripping with satisfaction. “I thought you’d never ask.”

And then darkness swallowed him whole.

The moment the Nogitsune slithered into his mind, Stiles felt it - cold, invasive, like a thousand spiders skittering under his skin. It coiled around his thoughts, whispering in a voice that was both inside his head and all around him.

"You feel it, don’t you? The power. The freedom."

Stiles' body jerked, his limbs sluggish, but he held on, held onto himself, onto the reason he was doing this. The Nogitsune wanted control, wanted to drown him in illusions and trickery, but Stiles had lived through this before. He knew the game.

"Oh, but this time is different," the Nogitsune murmured, his voice like silk wrapping around his brain. "This time, you're not just a pawn. You invited me in. You made this easy.”

Stiles' muscles tensed, his fingers twitching at his sides. He knew what he needed to do. He just had to hold out long enough.

A sudden scream tore through the air.

Stiles’ head snapped up, his vision swimming before clearing just in time to see Allison, her face twisted in a cold, detached expression, as she raised her bow and fired.

The arrow sliced through the air, aimed directly at Scott.

Scott barely managed to dodge, the arrow grazing his arm before sinking into the dirt behind him.

“Allison, what the hell?!” Jackson shouted, his hands up defensively as she turned, eyes dark with something not her own.

Another arrow loosed, this one aimed at Lydia, who barely ducked out of the way, her breath ragged.

“Allison, it’s me!” Scott tried again, his voice desperate.

But Allison didn't hesitate.

She nocked another arrow, her gaze locked onto him like a predator sizing up its prey.

Stiles felt the Nogitsune's glee ripple through him, dark and sickening.

"Ah, look at her. Such a beautiful instrument of destruction. You should thank me, Stiles. Now, you don’t have to get your hands dirty."

Stiles' fingers curled into fists.

He fought against the weight pressing down on his body, forcing himself to remain aware, to focus through the storm in his mind. He could feel the Nogitsune shifting, trying to push deeper, trying to consume him.

But Stiles wasn't the scared kid from before.

And he sure as hell wasn’t going down without a fight.

"You're quite the stubborn one, aren't you?" The Nogitsune's voice slithered through Stiles' mind, smooth as silk and twice as suffocating. "You let me in, and now you're fighting me? How ungrateful."

Stiles gritted his teeth, his fingers curling around the thin ceremonial blade he had placed atop the Nemeton earlier. His hands were shaking, not from fear, but from the sheer force of will it took to keep the spirit from sinking deeper into his mind.

"You're only making this harder on yourself," the Nogitsune cooed. "Let go. Let me take the pain away. Let me make it easy."

Stiles exhaled through his nose, his grip tightening. "Yeah, see, I don't do easy," he muttered. Then, without hesitation, he dragged the blade across his forearm, carving the first rune.

A sharp sting shot through his skin, and for a moment, the Nogitsune reeled.

"What are you-"

Stiles didn't give him time to recover. He carved another, then another, inscribing the runes in precise strokes, each one glowing faintly as his blood welled up and soaked into the lines. They burned like fire, searing pain spreading through his limbs, but he didn't stop.

Derek's voice was the first to break through the chaos.

"Stiles, stop!"

Derek surged forward, but Peter was already there, grabbing him by the arms and hauling him back. Derek thrashed against his uncle’s hold, his chest rising and falling in heavy, panicked breaths.

"What the hell is he doing?" Derek demanded, his voice raw, frantic. He fought against Peter's grip, his instincts screaming to intervene, to stop whatever the hell Stiles thought he was doing.

But Peter…Peter somehow knew.

His sharp blue eyes locked onto the glowing runes, the way Stiles' magic flared and crackled around his body. "He’s warding himself," Peter murmured, almost in awe. "Sealing himself."

Derek’s breath hitched. "Sealing himself from what?"

Peter’s grip tightened as Derek tried to lunge forward again.

"From the Nogitsune."

Derek went still, his heart hammering against his ribs.

Stiles' face was pale, sweat dripping from his temples as he carved the final rune just below his ribs. The blade trembled in his grasp, his fingers coated in his own blood, but he lifted his head, his breath ragged as he felt the shift inside himself.

The Nogitsune screamed.

The spirit writhed within him, clawing at his mind, trying to slither deeper, but the runes, the seals, were closing in around it, tightening like an iron cage.

"You fool," the Nogitsune hissed, fury lacing every syllable. "You think you can trap me? You think you can hold me?"

Stiles licked his lips, tasting copper, and let out a weak, breathy chuckle. "I don't think, asshole," he whispered. "I know."

Derek was still fighting against Peter’s hold, his entire body shaking with rage and helplessness.

"Stiles, stop," Derek pleaded, voice breaking. "You're hurting yourself."

Stiles turned his head slightly, his exhausted gaze landing on Derek. His lips quirked into something that might have been a smile in another lifetime.

"I know.”

The preserve was chaos. Scott’s pack was falling apart, torn between fighting and their unwillingness to harm Allison.

She moved through them like a specter, swift and merciless. Arrows sliced through the air with precision, finding flesh with sickening ease. Lydia screamed as she dodged a strike, Jackson took an arrow to the shoulder, and Ethan barely managed to shove Malia out of the way before taking a hit himself.

"Stop hesitating!" Stiles’ voice cut through the madness, raw and furious. Blood dripped down his arms from the runes he’d carved, but his grip was steady as he clenched his fists. "She's not real! None of this is real! Jesus fucking Christ, how many times do I have to say it?!"

No one listened.

Scott was shouting her name, his face twisted in anguish as he refused to fight back. He tried to grab her, tried to talk to her, his red eyes wide with desperation. "Allison, stop! It’s me, it’s Scott! I know you…I know you’re still in there!"

Allison didn’t hesitate. She turned and fired.

The arrow slammed into Scott’s side, just below his ribs. He staggered, his eyes going wide with shock, hands flying to the wound. A broken, breathless sound escaped him.

"Scott!" Lydia screamed.

But even as Scott gasped for breath, he still looked at Allison like she was real. Like she was worth dying for.

Stiles saw red.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" His voice cracked with rage, the magic pulsing through his veins turning volatile. "She’s not real! How the fuck did none of you see that?!"

Scott turned to him, his expression twisting with rage and grief. "You’re wrong!" He forced the words out between ragged breaths, shaking his head wildly. "She’s real! She’s standing right there!"

Stiles bared his teeth. "No, she’s fucking NOT."

With the Nogitsune’s power burning through him, Stiles lifted a shaking hand and snapped his fingers.

Allison, the illusion of her, froze mid step, midbreath, mid existence. Her face contorted in something eerily close to realization, and then without warning…

She turned to dust.

The ash that had formed her shape swirled in the wind before dissipating completely.

Silence fell over the preserve.

Scott's breathing was shallow as he stared at the empty space where she had stood. His fingers twitched at his sides, his heartbeat wild and erratic. Then, slowly, his expression darkened.

"You," he breathed.

Stiles barely had time to process before Scott was in his face*, his canines bared, his bloodied hands clenched into fists. "You killed her." His voice was guttural, shaking with fury. "You killed Allison. Again!"

Stiles didn’t flinch. He stared straight into Scott’s golden eyes, unyielding.

"No, you fucking idiot," Stiles spat. "I ended the illusion before she got you all killed." His chest heaved, his skin still glowing faintly with magic, the Nogitsune writhing inside him, restless and hungry. "She wasn’t real. She was never real. And you…" He let out a sharp, bitter laugh, "You let yourself believe she was."

Scott trembled, his jaw clenched so tight it looked painful.

The rest of his pack stood frozen, wide eyed, shaken.

They had hesitated.

They had fallen for it.

And Stiles had done what they couldn’t.

Scott’s entire body was trembling with rage, his claws flexing at his sides. His red eyes burned into Stiles with something akin to hatred.

"You had no right," he growled. His voice was low, dangerous, teetering on the edge of something violent. "She was real to me."

Stiles let out a sharp, humorless laugh, his hands still shaking from the power surging through him. "She wasn’t real at all, Scott. And if you weren’t such a fucking moron, you would’ve seen that before she put arrows in half your goddamn pack!"

Scott took a threatening step forward. "She was real!"

"No, she was a trick!" Stiles roared, his voice filled with magic, with power, making the trees shudder around them. His violet lit eyes burned into Scott, his presence radiating something undeniable. "Just like everything else the Nogitsune has ever done! And you fell for it again. You let your stupid, selfish grief blind you, and your pack paid the price!"

Scott bared his teeth. "You didn’t even hesitate."

Stiles’ face twisted, something bitter curling in his chest. "Of course, I didn’t fucking hesitate! Because I’m not a lovesick idiot willing to let people die just to hold onto a ghost!"

Scott lunged.

But before he could even get close, Derek was there.

With a snarl, Derek shoved Scott back hard, slamming him into the nearest tree. "That’s enough." His voice was pure authority, raw and furious.

Scott struggled against him, eyes still wild, but Derek didn’t let him go. "Enough!”

The entire clearing was deathly silent.

Stiles was still panting, his arms burning where the runes were carved into his skin, but he stood his ground, glaring at Scott with a fury that ran deep.

Peter smirked from the sidelines, eyes sharp with amusement. "Interesting," he muttered under his breath, watching the way Derek instinctively stepped in front of Stiles.

Scott, chest still heaving, glared at Stiles past Derek’s shoulder. "We could’ve saved her."

"She was already dead.” Stiles’ voice was quieter this time but no less sharp. "You just didn’t want to admit it."

Scott’s fists clenched, his breath ragged.

But he didn’t deny it.

And that was enough.

Stiles exhaled sharply, rolling his shoulders back. "We don’t have time for this bullshit," he snapped. "The Nogitsune is still inside me, and I don’t know how much longer I can hold it back. So if you’re done throwing a tantrum about your fake zombie girlfriend, maybe we can actually deal with the real fucking problem."

Scott didn’t respond.

Stiles didn’t wait for him to.

Instead, he turned toward Derek and Eli, his expression softening just slightly. "You guys good?”

Eli nodded, still shaken but there. Derek gave a sharp, curt nod, but his eyes lingered on the blood still dripping from Stiles’ arms.

Peter was watching, too, but his expression was unreadable.

Stiles squared his shoulders, looking out at the rest of the pack. "We finish this now. No more distractions. No more illusions. We end it, or we all fucking die trying."

No one argued.

Even Scott, still silent, didn’t object.

And so, with the scent of blood and magic thick in the air, Stiles turned back to the Nemeton and braced himself.

Stiles exhaled slowly, his fingers tightening around the thin blade as he turned back toward the Nemeton. His hands were steady despite the burning exhaustion creeping into his limbs. He had one shot at this, one chance to end it for good.

Without hesitation, he pressed the edge of the blade against his palm, dragging it across the flesh in a single, fluid motion. Blood welled up instantly, warm and slick, dripping down onto the bundle of herbs he had carefully arranged atop the Nemeton.

The second his blood hit the mixture, the entire clearing shifted. The air became thick, humming with ancient energy as the Nemeton responded to the offering. The roots of the old tree seemed to breathe, reaching outward, drinking in the power that Stiles had spilled.

"Heed me," Stiles murmured, his voice a low chant laced with magic, violet eyes burning as the wind howled around them. "Bind the spirit. Trap the darkness. Cleanse the land."

The Nemeton pulsed beneath his touch, responding eagerly to the command. It wanted this. It had been waiting for this.

Stiles reached down, grasping one of the woven twines he had laid out, one of the carefully constructed ties that connected the Nogitsune to him. This was it. This was how he forced it out.

With a sharp yank, he snapped the twine.

The entire forest shook. The sky darkened, the ground groaned beneath them, and power crashed through Stiles’ body like a tidal wave. He clenched his jaw, bracing himself for the telltale pull, for the moment the Nogitsune was ripped from him.

But it didn’t happen.

He was still standing.

Still breathing.

Still…full of something rotten.

His heart pounded, confusion slamming into him like a freight train.

"No," he muttered, shaking his head, snapping another twine. "No, that’s not…you’re supposed to-"

A low chuckle curled through his mind, thick and smug.

"Oh, Stiles," the Nogitsune purred, inside him, still coiled around his bones. "Did you really think it would be that simple?”

A shudder ran through Stiles' body, his breath catching in his throat as the wrongness of it settled deep in his gut.

"Get out," he hissed, but the Nogitsune only laughed.

"Why would I leave?" it mused, its voice slithering through his skull like oil. "You are so much more than I expected. So much power. So much anger."

Stiles’ fingers dug into the bark of the Nemeton, his nails biting into the wood as he gritted his teeth. "This isn’t how this works. You don't get to fucking win "

"Oh, but it is now.” The Nogitsune practically purred, winding tighter inside him. "you want me out? Then let’s make a deal.”

Stiles’ blood ran cold.

"No deals."

"Oh, but I’m afraid you don’t have a choice," the Nogitsune whispered, its tone laced with dark amusement. "You see, I like it here. You burn so bright, Stiles. So much delicious energy. And I think I’ll stay. I think I’ll feed on you until there’s nothing left."

Stiles' breath hitched.

The others were watching him now. waiting.

They had no idea.

They had no fucking idea.

Stiles turned his gaze toward Derek, and for the first time since this entire nightmare started, his carefully constructed walls cracked.

His eyes, still glowing faintly with the violet energy of his magic, locked onto Derek’s with a depth of pure anguish. The kind that spoke of finality, of sacrifice, of something Stiles had already accepted, even if no one else had.

But he said nothing.

There were no goodbyes. No explanations.

Just a flicker of something soft, a quiet plea, a silent apology, before he reached into his pocket, fingers closing around the smooth vial of mountain ash.

Derek's entire body went rigid.

"Stiles-"

But Stiles had already moved.

In a sharp, fluid motion, he pulled out the ash and let it spill from his fingers, tracing a perfect, unbroken circle around Derek, Eli, and Peter. The second the line was complete, the air hummed with power, the barrier sealing in place with an invisible force.

Derek snapped.

"No - NO!" He lunged, claws flashing as he threw himself toward the edge of the circle, but the mountain ash held, repelling him with a force so strong it sent a crackle of blue sparks into the air.

"STILES!" Derek roared, his voice raw, his wolf rising to the surface in a way that was nothing short of primal. His fangs bared, his claws dug into the ground, desperate to break the seal, to get to him, to stop whatever the hell Stiles was about to do.

But it was useless.

Peter slammed a hand against the invisible barrier, his expression twisted with fury and something dangerously close to fear. "Stiles, drop this NOW."

"Let us out!" Eli shouted, his golden eyes wide, his entire body trembling with the force of his wolf trying to obey the instinct screaming at him to protect.

But Stiles just stood there, still looking at Derek with that same heart wrenching finality.

"Don't do this," Derek growled, voice shaking, his fists slamming against the barrier so hard his knuckles split. "Don't you fucking dare-"

Stiles' breath shuddered.

But he didn't drop the barrier.

He just closed his eyes, clenched his fists at his sides, and turned away.

Because this?

This was the only way.

Stiles turned to his dad, his breath coming in sharp, uneven gasps as the weight of what he was about to do settled deep in his chest. His throat felt raw, his body trembling with adrenaline and exhaustion, but when he spoke, his voice was soft.

"Dad...I love you," he whispered, eyes glassy and red rimmed. "But you need to go."

Noah's jaw tightened. "No.”

Stiles let out a choked, broken laugh. "Jesus, Dad, for once in your life, just-" His voice cracked, his whole body flinching as a wave of the Nogitsune's presence clawed at the edges of his mind. "Please, just go. You don’t need to see this. You shouldn’t-"

"I’m not leaving you, kid." Noah's voice was firm, absolute. "Not now. Not ever."

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, a sob ripping its way from his throat as he turned away.

His gaze landed on the Hales, trapped behind the mountain ash barrier. Derek, still thrashing against it like a caged animal, Eli with tears streaking his face, Peter standing unnaturally still, his expression unreadable but his blue eyes burning.

"You should close your eyes,” Stiles said hoarsely, his words directed at all three of them but his gaze locked on Derek.

Derek snarled. "Like hell I will-"

"Please!" Stiles sobbed, his hands clutching his own shirt like he was trying to hold himself together. "Just…just don’t watch. I’m so sorry. I’m so-" His breath hitched, his entire body shaking. "God, I’m sorry."

His voice broke apart on the last word, and then he was crying, really crying, chest heaving, face twisted in anguish, every ounce of his pain laid bare in front of them.

And for the first time in years, Stiles hated his magic.

Because no matter how strong he was, no matter how much power ran through his veins-

He couldn’t stop this.

Couldn’t stop himself.

Couldn’t stop the fact that, one way or another-

This was going to end.

Stiles’ fingers trembled as he grabbed the knife, his knuckles white from how hard he was gripping the hilt. His breath came in ragged, uneven gasps, his body already screaming in pain from the runes he had carved before. But this one…this one had to be perfect. It had to be precise. It had to be his last line of defense.

The blade pressed into his chest, just over his sternum, and he bit down on a cry as he carved the sigil into his own flesh. His skin split, crimson blooming across his chest, and the pain was blinding, but Stiles gritted his teeth and kept going.

Behind the mountain ash, the Hale’s were begging him to stop.

"Stiles!" Derek’s voice was desperate, raw with anguish. He was thrashing against the barrier, his eyes wild, his claws tearing at the invisible wall that held him back. "Dammit, STOP!"

"Please!" Eli sobbed, his small body trembling violently, his golden eyes wide and terrified. "Don’t do this!”

Peter had gone still, but his breathing was uneven, his expression carved from something close to grief. "Mieczysław," he whispered, voice hollow and pleading.

Beyond them, Lydia and Jackson were crying.

Lydia, whose screams could break mountains, stood with tears streaming down her face, her lips trembling as she clutched at Jackson’s arm. Jackson, who never let anyone see him cry, had his face twisted in anguish, his jaw clenched so tightly it looked painful.

Stiles sucked in a shaky breath, his vision blurring as blood dripped down his chest, warm and slick against his skin. His heart was hammering so hard it felt like it was trying to break free from his ribcage, but he turned, just once more, toward the Hales, his gaze locking on them, memorizing every detail.

"I love you guys so fucking much." His voice cracked, thick with emotion, but he didn’t look away. "The Nemeton will find another protector. You won’t be left without protection again.”

Eli let out a broken sob, Derek shook his head wildly, and Peter’s hands curled into fists.

And Stiles…Stiles knew he was out of time. He called Jordan’s name.

Jordan hesitated, his eyes flickering with uncertainty as Stiles turned toward him and beckoned him forward. His hands curled into hesitant fists at his sides, his entire posture screaming his reluctance, but something in Stiles’ gaze told him he had no choice.

So, he stepped forward.

The air between them was thick with tension, crackling with something ancient and electric. Jordan could feel the Nemeton’s power thrumming beneath them, could feel the way Stiles’ magic was pulling at the air, weaving it into something dangerous.

"Whatever you do, don’t let go," Stiles murmured, voice hoarse but firm.

Jordan’s brows furrowed. "I don’t understand-"

"Flame on."

Before Jordan could protest, Stiles lunged forward, wrapping his arms tightly around the Hellhound’s frame, holding on like his life depended on it. Jordan froze, caught between instinct and confusion, his flames flickering uncertainly along his skin.

"Do it!" Stiles demanded, his fingers digging into Jordan’s back.

Jordan swallowed hard, the weight of what was happening settling deep into his bones. But he obeyed.

The fire started slow, licking at his arms and spreading outward, wrapping around Stiles like a second skin.

And then Stiles screamed.

A raw, agonizing sound tore from his throat, his body convulsing as the flames consumed him. His flesh seared, his nerves burned under the inferno, but he held on. He held on, even as the pain turned his vision white, even as his magic flared in response, fighting against the fire and pulling it deeper into himself.

The Nogitsune screeched inside his mind, writhing as the purifying flames surged through Stiles’ body.

The Hale’s were losing their minds.

"STOP!" Derek roared, slamming against the mountain ash barrier so hard he cracked the earth beneath him. His fangs were bared, claws fully extended, his wolf utterly feral at the sight of Stiles burning before his eyes. "STILES, STOP!"

Eli was screaming, his small hands banging against the invisible wall, tears streaming down his face. "Please!" he sobbed. "Please, don’t do this!"

Peter had collapsed to his knees, his head bowed, breathing harsh and uneven as he dug his fingers into the dirt like he could ground himself. His whole body shook, rage and grief twisting across his face as he felt Stiles’ magic intertwining with the fire, as he felt the unnatural pull of the Nogitsune being ripped apart inside Stiles’ body. He could feel it all through the ground his hands were dug into.

"Stiles!" Lydia shrieked, hands clawing at her own arms, trying to suppress a scream so powerful it could shatter them all. "You’re killing yourself!"

Jackson was white as a sheet, frozen in horror, his lips parted like he wanted to say something but couldn’t. His hands were clenched so tightly that his claws had pierced his own palms, blood dripping onto the dirt.

And Noah…

Noah was silent.

His entire body was locked in place, his breath coming in sharp, unsteady bursts as he watched his son burn. His hands shook at his sides, his lips pressed together, and his eyes…his eyes were wild with fear and devastation.

"No," he whispered. "No, no, no."

But Stiles didn’t stop.

He held tighter to Jordan, his body wracked* with pain, his voice hoarse from screaming. His skin blistered, his magic howled.

And inside of him, the Nogitsune screamed.

The Nogitsune screamed inside Stiles’ mind, its voice a thousand echoes of pain and rage, clawing and thrashing as the purifying fire ate away at its form.

"No! No! This is not how our game ends!" it shrieked, its presence writhing, folding in on itself, trying to burrow deeper into Stiles’ body, into his soul.

But Stiles wouldn’t let it.

His entire body was on fire, inside and out, his nerves flayed raw by the unbearable agony, but he gritted his teeth, held on, and pushed back. He could feel the Nogitsune's influence, could feel its darkness slithering inside of him, trying to find a place to hide, a corner of his mind to fester in.

"I’m not a kid anymore," Stiles snarled in his head, his mental voice a low, steady rumble of defiance. "I know all your tricks now. I know what you are, and I know how to end this."

The Nogitsune shrieked, its form flickering, fracturing as Jordan’s flames continued to consume Stiles from the outside, feeding into the magic thrumming through his veins.

The Nemeton answered the call.

The moment Stiles’ blood had hit the wood, the tree had awakened. Its ancient, pulsing power rose up around them, a humming force that wrapped around Stiles like unseen hands, fueling the magic etched into his skin.

The runes he'd carved into himself blazed with power, pulsing in sync with his racing heartbeat, amplifying the connection between his body, the fire, and the land itself.

And then…

A sickening, inhuman screech tore through the clearing.

The Nogitsune's form ripped free from Stiles, a twisting mass of darkness and malice, burning at the edges as it was forcibly expelled.

Stiles collapsed to his knees, gasping, his body still smoking from the fire, his hands gripping the Nemeton for support. Every inch of him screamed with pain, his skin raw, his veins humming with residual magic and lingering agony.

The Nogitsune, now hovering in front of the Nemeton, writhed and howled, its form flickering between shadows and its monstrous fox like visage.

"You think this is over?" it hissed, its voice a sickly rasp, its eyes burning with hatred as it glared at Stiles. "You think you have won?"

Stiles, still panting, still barely holding on, lifted his head, eyes flickering with fury and something cold.

“Yeah," he rasped, voice hoarse, but steady. "I do."*

And with the last of his strength, Stiles slammed his bloodied palm against the Nemeton.

A shockwave of magic exploded outward, blasting through the clearing with a roar of unseen force.

The Nogitsune screamed, its body twisting, breaking apart as the Nemeton pulled it in, devouring the spirit like a starved beast, consuming it whole; purifying it.

And then there was silence.

For a long, breathless moment, the clearing was utterly still.

The wind had stopped. The energy had settled. The oppressive weight of the Nogitsune’s presence was gone.

It was over.

But Stiles.

Stiles wasn’t moving.

He was still kneeling at the base of the Nemeton, his body limp, his hands slipping from the bark. His skin was still charred, his wounds still bleeding, and his magic…his magic felt drained, like the fire had burned through every last ounce of him.

"Stiles?”

Derek’s voice was rough, desperate.

The mountain ash barrier shattered with a pulse of Derek’s fury, and he was there in an instant, falling to his knees beside Stiles, hands shaking as he reached for him.

"Stiles!"

No response.

"No, no, no-" Derek's voice cracked, his fingers pressing against Stiles’ throat, searching for a pulse, his heartbeat thundering in his own ears.

Eli stumbled forward, dropping down beside them, his hands gripping Stiles’ arm, his small fingers trembling.

"He's gonna wake up," Eli whispered, voice shaking. "He has to wake up.”

Peter stood behind them, his face unreadable, his breathing shallow as his fingers curled into his palms.

Noah staggered forward, his legs barely holding him up, his face pale with shock. "Oh, God."

Lydia made a choked sound, tears streaming down her face, her hands pressed to her mouth.

Jackson clenched his fists, eyes red rimmed, looking away like he couldn’t bear to see it.

Derek refused to accept this.

He grabbed Stiles’ face, cradling it in his hands, his thumbs brushing over the soot streaked skin.

"Come back,” he growled, voice rough, pleading. "Damn it, Stiles - Come back.”

Nothing.

Derek felt something break inside him.

"Please.”

A sudden pulse of magic surged through the clearing, an unseen force rippling outward from the Nemeton. The air around them hummed, the pressure building until…

Stiles gasped.

His entire body arched off the ground as a shock of raw energy raced through him, searing through his veins, forcing him back into himself. He sucked in a ragged breath, lungs burning, head spinning, every nerve in his body screaming in protest.

And then a fist collided with his jaw.

"The fuck?!" Stiles yelled, his head snapping to the side, pain flaring hot and sharp along his cheek.

Derek was right there, breathing hard, his eyes wild with rage, hands shaking at his sides. His face was a mask of pure fury, his nostrils flaring, his entire body coiled tight like he was barely holding himself together.

"Fire?!" Derek roared, his voice raw, breaking at the edges. "Fucking Hellfire was your answer?! You made me watch you BURN ALIVE, Stiles!”

Stiles blinked, his head still spinning, his jaw throbbing from the very real punch he just took.

"Actually, I told you to close your eyes," Stiles muttered, rubbing his face, wincing as his fingers brushed over the fresh bruise forming along his jaw. "Fuck - like I wanted you to have to witness that?! Like I would purposefully make you watch someone die in fire?"

Derek snarled, his entire body trembling with barely restrained emotion.

"It was the only way," Stiles continued, his voice hoarse, thick with exhaustion and something close to guilt. "He wasn’t leaving. The runes didn’t work. So I had to. I’m so fucking sorry, but I had to.”

His gaze flickered up, meeting Derek’s, and for a moment, he wondered if Derek was going to hit him again.

But before Stiles could even process another thought, Derek lunged.

His hands shot forward, gripping the back of Stiles' neck in a tight, almost desperate grasp. And then Derek kissed him.

Hard.

The force of it knocked the breath out of Stiles, made his already weak limbs tremble as Derek poured everything into it - rage, relief, anguish, love. It was a claim, a punishment, a prayer, all wrapped into one searing press of lips.

Stiles froze for half a second, his brain still catching up to the fact that holy shit, Derek Hale was kissing him, but then he melted into it.

His fingers fisted in Derek’s shirt, clutching at him like he was afraid he’d disappear, like he needed something to ground him, to remind him he was alive.

Derek growled into the kiss, his grip tightening, and Stiles whimpered, the sound muffled between them.

The world around them…the pack, the aftermath, the Nemeton still humming with power, all of it faded into the background.

For this moment it was just them.

The kiss lingered, heat and tension wrapping around Stiles like a blanket, thick and unyielding. Derek's hands were at his neck, his mouth claiming Stiles like it was the only thing keeping him from falling apart. The world around them might have been a storm of magic, danger, and chaos, but this…this was something different.

Stiles, still feeling the residual burn of the magic, melted into Derek, his hands moving to the back of Derek’s neck to pull him closer. His heart was thundering in his chest, adrenaline still coursing through his veins. This kiss wasn’t just about the relief of surviving, it wasn’t just about the intensity of the moment, it was about something deeper. Something that was always there, but they’d both been too terrified to face.

Derek’s lips softened, his grip on Stiles’ neck lessening, but the connection was still there, tight and strong, like they could feel each other without speaking. For a moment, time seemed to stop, and Stiles lost himself in it, just breathing. When Derek finally pulled away, both of them gasping for air, Stiles could feel the remnants of the kiss burning in his chest, under his skin.

Derek didn’t say anything. His eyes were soft, but there was something unspoken in them, something raw, like he didn’t quite know what to say or how to process the overwhelming mix of emotions. Stiles felt it too. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, a familiar voice cut through the air.

"You’re a fucking dumbass," Peter’s voice was low, but there was no malice in it. Just a certain weariness, like he had seen enough reckless stunts from Stiles to know exactly how this was going to end. Stiles looked over, his heart still racing, and caught Peter’s eyes.

But Peter didn’t wait for Stiles to respond. He stepped forward and pulled him into a tight, unexpected hug.

Stiles blinked, his chest tight from the shock of it. Peter Hale, the Peter Hale, hugged him. It was rough and unyielding, and Stiles felt the sharpness of Peter’s shoulder against his own. But there was something there, something that wasn’t just an insult or sarcasm.

"Don’t ever do that again,” Peter muttered, voice gruff. "If you do, I’ll make you regret it, you stubborn little shit."

Stiles managed to smile, a bit of warmth cracking through the tension that had been building all night. "I’ll try not to." He pulled back, looking Peter in the eye, and said, "Thanks... For, you know, being here. For holding Derek back earlier."

Peter shot him a glare. "Shut up, Stiles. You’re lucky you’re not still unconscious." But he did pat Stiles’ shoulder, a little softer than before. "Just... Be sure to stay alive next time. Got it?"

Stiles nodded.

And then Eli.

The moment their eyes met, Stiles was almost overwhelmed with the emotion pouring off of Eli. The kid was trembling, his whole body shaking like a leaf in the wind. And then, without warning, Eli rushed toward him, collapsing into Stiles’ arms with a force that nearly knocked the wind out of him.

"You’re okay..."

The words were so raw, so full of relief, that Stiles had to swallow against the lump that formed in his throat. Eli clung to him like he was afraid to let go, his small hands gripping the fabric of Stiles’ shirt as though his life depended on it.

"You’re okay," Eli repeated, his voice cracking with emotion. "I thought…I thought I lost my Alpha..."

Stiles’ heart clenched, and for a brief second, he forgot to breathe. His hands moved to Eli’s back, patting him gently. "Eli," he said, voice soft but firm, "I’m not your alpha."

Eli shook his head violently, his eyes fierce. "You are. You don’t get to tell me you’re not, Stiles. You are my Alpha."

Stiles sighed, looking helplessly at Derek. "I swear, I didn’t ask for this." But he couldn’t help the small smile that tugged at his lips as he watched Eli. The kid was loyal, and Stiles could see that this wasn’t just a moment of relief, it was the deep bond they shared, whether Stiles liked it or not.

"You’re not getting rid of me," Eli said with such confidence that Stiles couldn’t help but chuckle despite the situation. He ruffled Eli’s hair, knowing this was something he’d have to deal with.

As Stiles turned back to the rest of the group, he caught sight of his dad, standing just a few steps away, eyes wide with concern and something else. Stiles had barely had the chance to even process what had happened with his father during the chaos of the past hours, but now, standing there with all the mess of the battle behind them, he felt the weight of the moment settle.

"Dad," Stiles said, his voice a little quieter, but still tinged with the intensity of everything that had happened. "I-" He stopped himself. There were so many things to say, so many emotions he didn’t know how to put into words, but in that moment, none of them seemed to matter.

Noah didn’t say anything at first. He just stood there, his arms slightly outstretched, as though he wasn’t sure if he could touch Stiles after everything. His eyes were glassy, but when he stepped forward, Stiles could see the raw love in them as well as relief, fear, pride.

Noah’s hand landed on Stiles’ shoulder, a gentle but firm touch, and he looked his son in the eye, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I’m... I’m so damn glad you’re okay."

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat tight. "I’m sorry, Dad. I didn’t-"

"Don’t," Noah interrupted, shaking his head slowly. "Just don’t. You’re alive. That’s all that matters."

Stiles nodded, his chest aching, and he wrapped an arm around his dad, holding him for a moment. His father’s presence was a grounding force, something Stiles had always needed but hadn’t realized until now.

"I’m not going anywhere," Stiles whispered, his voice barely above a breath. "I promise."

And for a moment, everything felt right.

Chapter Text

The clearing was still littered with the wreckage of the battle- scorched earth, broken branches, the lingering scent of burnt ozone and magic hanging thick in the air. The Nemeton pulsed faintly with energy behind them, its presence a constant reminder of everything that had just happened. Everyone was still reeling, their bodies exhausted, their minds barely catching up to the fact that Stiles had won - that Stiles was standing there, alive, when he shouldn’t be.

Jordan Parrish, who had been silent up until now, finally broke the quiet. His voice was hesitant, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How the hell are you still alive, Stiles?”

All eyes snapped to him. Derek, still standing close, too close, like he was afraid Stiles would vanish if he stepped away - stiffened, his fingers twitching at his sides. Lydia and Jackson, who had barely stopped crying, were looking at Stiles with similar expressions of confusion. Even Noah, who had been clutching Stiles like he was afraid he’d disappear, turned to him with an expectant gaze.

Because yeah, that was the question on everyone’s mind.

Jordan was very obviously immune to hellfire. He could withstand it, let it consume him, and still come out the other side unscathed. But Stiles? Stiles wasn’t a hellhound. He was human, more than human, sure, but still flesh and blood. He shouldn’t have survived.

Stiles sighed, shifting uncomfortably under the weight of everyone’s eyes. He reached up and tugged at the front of his shredded shirt, revealing the raw, angry red sigil carved into his chest. It was still glowing faintly with the remnants of magic, the intricate lines pulsing in slow waves.

"This," he said, tapping the rune with two fingers. "It’s a fire protection rune."

Jordan’s eyes narrowed as he stepped forward, tilting his head as he studied it. "I’ve never seen one like this."

"Yeah, well," Stiles muttered, "I made it up."

Derek bristled immediately, his head snapping toward Stiles so fast it was a miracle he didn’t give himself whiplash. "You what?!"

"I made it up," Stiles repeated, shrugging slightly. "I’ve used fire runes before, but never on myself. And definitely never against hellfire, but…it was the only thing I could think of."

A sharp breath cut through the air, and then Derek lunged, not to hit him this time, but to get right in his face. His expression was wild, his eyes flashing blue for a brief second as his jaw clenched so tightly that Stiles swore he could hear Derek’s teeth grinding.

"So it might not have worked?” Derek bit out, his voice low and dangerous.

Stiles hesitated, then gave him a small, sheepish grin. "Well... yeah."

Derek snapped. "Stiles!" His hands fisted in his own hair, his entire body vibrating with barely contained rage. "Are you fucking kidding me right now? You let yourself be burned alive with hellfire, banking on the fact that maybe your bullshit rune would work?"

"Either way, the hellfire was killing the Nogitsune," Stiles countered, his tone firm but not unkind. He understood why Derek was losing it. He did. But Stiles had made his choice, and he’d do it again if he had to. "It was the only way, Derek."

Derek made a sharp, frustrated sound in the back of his throat, his fists clenching and unclenching like he was physically stopping himself from shaking Stiles senseless. "You could have died.”

"But I didn’t.”

"But you could have."

The air between them was thick with tension, both of them breathing hard. Derek looked furious, but there was something else there, too, fear. Bonedeep, soul deep fear. Stiles had seen it in his eyes before, but never like this. It wasn’t just anger, wasn’t just frustration. Derek had thought he lost him, had watched him burn, had smelled the fire, had felt the helplessness of it all.

And Stiles…he understood.

But he didn’t know how to fix it.

So instead, he just held Derek’s gaze, his own softening as he exhaled. "I know," he murmured, voice quieter now. "I know it was stupid. But I had to."

Derek’s hands twitched like he wanted to grab him again, shake him or kiss him, Stiles wasn’t sure. Maybe both. But instead, Derek just sucked in a sharp breath, visibly forcing himself to step back.

"Next time," Derek growled, his voice rough with emotion, "find another fucking way."

Stiles nodded, though they both knew that if it came down to it again, Stiles would do exactly the same thing.

But for now, at least, they had survived.

But the tension in the clearing was still so suffocating.

Scott was pissed. More than that…he was seething. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, his breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts, his entire body radiating barely contained rage. His eyes were red rimmed, not from the fight but from the devastation clawing its way through him.

Allison was gone.

Again.

And Scott was looking for someone to blame.

His gaze snapped to Stiles, wild and accusing. "You had no right!” he snarled, his voice cracking with grief fueled fury. "You didn’t get to make that choice!"

Stiles had had enough.

He let out a slow, exhausted breath, scrubbing a hand over his face before fixing Scott with a flat, unimpressed stare. "Scott, I am so fucking done with this conversation." His voice was rough, worn thin from pain and overuse. "Allison wasn’t real. She was another trick. How the fuck did none of you see that?"

Scott’s teeth ground together, his entire body tensing like a coiled spring. "You don’t know that.”

"Yes, I fucking do!" Stiles snapped, frustration cracking through him like a live wire. "You think I wanted to do that? You think I wanted to destroy her for the second time? But she wasn’t Allison, Scott! She was just another fucking ghost the Nogitsune pulled out of its bag of tricks, and you-" He huffed out a bitter, incredulous laugh. "You were all too caught up in your own grief to fucking see it!"

Scott shook his head, stepping forward aggressively. "We could have found another way!”

Stiles took a step back, not because he was afraid, but because he was done. So done. His body ached, his soul felt raw, and the last thing he had energy for was Scott fucking McCall and his endless self righteous bullshit.

"It’s time for you to leave, Scott,” Stiles said, voice cold.

Scott stilled, his nostrils flaring as his eyes flickered red. "I’m not leaving."

"Yes, you are."

"No, I’m not-”

"Scott," Stiles warned, his voice dropping lower, sharper. "If you don’t walk out of here on your own right now, I will fucking throw you out myself. And I won’t be gentle."

A hush fell over the clearing. The pack…Scott's pack, stood behind him, silent and watchful. Lydia and Jackson were tense, their eyes darting between Stiles and Scott. Noah watched with careful apprehension.

On Stiles’ side Peter smirked, though there was something calculating in his gaze. Derek stood rigid, his entire body coiled tight like he was ready to pounce if Scott made a move.

Stiles inhaled deeply, turning his focus inward. He reached for the power of the Nemeton, for the land itself. Magic thrummed beneath his skin, curling up from the roots of the earth, wrapping around his bones like an old friend. He let it flood through him, let it knit his wounds back together, let it make him whole.

The aches faded, but were still there. The pain dulled.

Stiles straightened, standing taller, stronger. Power pulsed through him, humming beneath his skin like a living thing. He met Scott’s furious gaze and let his voice ring out, steady and unshakable.

"Scott McCall," he commanded, "you are no longer welcome here. Leave this place.”

Scott flinched.

The words weren’t just words…it was an Alpha command. It was something ancient, something Scott could not refuse.

Scott’s body trembled, his breath hitching as his muscles fought against the invisible force pressing down on him. His eyes widened, shifting between red and brown as his wolf instinctively submitted. His jaw clenched, his entire body resisting, but he couldn’t fight it. He couldn’t win.

With a choked growl, he turned, forced to turn, and stalked away, his movements jerky and stiff as he disappeared into the trees.

Silence hung thick in the air.

Stiles exhaled slowly, letting the last of the magic drift away, leaving him steady but exhausted. He turned back to the others, his chest rising and falling in even breaths.

"It’s done,” he muttered. "Let’s go home.”

Derek’s voice cut through the tense silence.

"What about them?"

Stiles turned his head, following Derek’s gaze to where Ethan, Jackson, and Lydia stood. Derek’s arm was still half raised from where he had gestured toward them, his eyes unreadable, but his stance was tense, like he was bracing for another fight.

Jackson crossed his arms, his usual arrogance dimmed but not entirely gone. Lydia looked pleading, her brows drawn together in a rare show of distress. Ethan just looked wary, waiting.

Stiles sighed, so fucking tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose before dragging his gaze back up to them. "They know they're supposed to leave," he said, voice flat, done. "And I haven’t changed my mind."

"Stiles-" Lydia started, stepping forward, but Stiles held up a hand, stopping her in her tracks.

"No," he snapped, sharper than he meant to. "Don’t. Just…don’t."

Lydia flinched, her mouth snapping shut.

Jackson, of course, couldn’t let it go. "That’s bullshit." His voice was edged with something dangerously close to desperation. "You know we respect you now. That has to count for something."

Stiles barked out a bitter laugh, running a hand through his sweat-damp hair. "Respect me now?" he echoed, shaking his head. "Now? Now that I just ripped my own skin open with runes and burned myself fucking alive to fix this mess? You finally decided I was worth something? That’s great, Jackson. Really. But unfortunately for you, that newfound respect?" His voice dropped, hard and unyielding. "It doesn’t mean shit in the face of what you’ve done. In the face of the history I have with you and the members of your pack."

Jackson’s jaw clenched. "Stiles-"

"No," Stiles interrupted, shaking his head. "No. I’m not having people on my land, my home, who deemed me unworthy to protect it. And that’s exactly what you did, Jackson. You and Lydia both."

Lydia’s breath hitched. "We were wrong," she whispered, and for once, she looked genuinely remorseful. "Stiles, we were wrong.”

"Yeah, you were," Stiles agreed, but there was no malice in it. Just exhaustion, deep and bone weary. "And I don’t have the energy to give a shit right now."

Lydia’s eyes shined with unshed tears. Jackson looked furious but helpless, which nearly made Stiles change his mind. He had never seen Jackson look helpless before. Ethan glanced at them both before exhaling softly, like he had already accepted the outcome.

"I’m tired,” Stiles muttered, rolling his shoulders, trying to shake the ache from his bones. "I just want to go home. Take a bath. Sleep for, like, three days.”

"Stiles-"

"Lydia, go," Stiles said, softer but final.

She swallowed hard, blinking against the tears that threatened to spill. Jackson looked like he wanted to keep arguing, but Lydia grabbed his arm, squeezing once before turning away. Ethan followed without a word.

And just like that, they were gone.

Stiles exhaled sharply, rubbing a hand over his face. “Can we please leave now?” he asked, voice muffled. "I have never wanted my bed more in my life,”
~~~~

The drive to Derek’s house was silent; not the awkward kind, but the kind where everyone was just too exhausted to force words. The only sound was the low rumble of the engine and the occasional sharp inhale when the car hit a bump that jostled Stiles' wounds, even though they were mostly fully healed.

Derek drove with both hands gripping the wheel tightly, his knuckles white, his jaw set. Every once in a while, Stiles caught Derek glancing at him from the corner of his eye, like he was checking to make sure Stiles was still there, still breathing. Peter, sitting in the back, was oddly quiet too, but his gaze was heavy, unreadable. Eli, curled up beside him, had his arms wrapped tightly around himself, staring at nothing.

Stiles could have teleported home. He had the magic for it, now fully replenished after calling on the Nemeton to heal him completely. But he was just too fucking tired - physically, mentally, emotionally. Every muscle in his body ached. His mind felt raw, like an open wound. So he sat in the passenger seat, watching the road blur by, his eyelids growing heavier with each passing mile.

By the time they pulled up to Derek’s house, Stiles could barely keep his eyes open. The second he stepped out of the car, he felt a shift in the air, something big barreling toward him.

"Oh, shit-” was all he managed before a wall of fur crashed into him, knocking him flat onto his back.

"Riot- goddammit." Stiles groaned, but he was laughing, arms flailing as his massive fox familiar slobbered all over his face. Riot had grown into his favorite size - huge, bigger than a mastiff, with thick red fur and bright, intelligent eyes that gleamed in the dim porch light. His weight pressed down on Stiles’ chest, warm and solid, his tail wagging so hard it thumped against the wooden floor.

"Okay, okay, I get it! I missed you too!" Stiles wheezed, trying to push Riot’s enormous head away, but the fox just huffed and licked a long stripe up Stiles’ cheek, his ears flicking back in clear disapproval.

"Yeah, yeah, I know," Stiles muttered, finally managing to shove Riot back enough to breathe. "I banished you to the house during the fight, and you’re pissed. But I couldn’t let you die, Riot. You know you would’ve thrown yourself at that thing if I let you come."

Riot gave him a look. The kind that clearly said duh.

"Don’t give me that," Stiles grumbled, scratching behind Riot’s ear. "I was already being a dumbass. I didn’t need you doubling down on it."

Riot just flicked his tail and flopped dramatically over Stiles’ legs, effectively pinning him to the floor.

Derek sighed heavily from the doorway. "Are you two done?"

"Nope," Stiles said, making no move to get up. "I live here now. Floor’s comfy. Riot’s warm. Go on without me."

"Absolutely not," Derek muttered, stepping inside. "Get up, you idiot."

Peter chuckled as he passed them, heading toward the kitchen. "At least someone appreciates him," he said dryly, before disappearing inside.

Eli, still looking a little shaky, hesitated before stepping over and sitting right next to Riot and Stiles on the floor, curling into Riot’s side. Riot huffed but let him, resting his massive head across Eli’s lap.

Stiles sighed, carding a hand through Eli’s hair before finally forcing himself to sit up. "*Fine," he grumbled. "But I still deserve a nap, a bath, and like...an entire pizza to myself."

"We’ll see," Derek muttered, but his voice was softer now.

Stiles just huffed, knowing damn well that meant yes.

Derek didn’t say anything as he guided Stiles upstairs and down the hall, his hand firm but gentle on the small of his back. The house was quiet, the soft creak of the floorboards beneath their steps the only sound between them.

When they reached the bathroom, Derek moved with ease, turning on the faucet and adjusting the temperature without needing to ask what Stiles preferred. He knew. Of course, he knew. Stiles sat on the closed toilet lid, watching the water rise, the steam curling into the air. His body ached in ways he couldn’t even begin to describe, but it was the silence, this silence, that weighed on him the most.

Derek crouched in front of him, his fingers reaching for the hem of Stiles’ ruined hoodie. Their eyes met for a brief moment before Stiles lifted his arms in silent permission. Derek peeled the fabric away carefully, his jaw tight, his movements too controlled, like he was afraid he might break him.

One by one, Derek removed the rest of his clothes, his fingers ghosting over the deep, angry runes still etched into Stiles’ skin. The magic had healed the wounds, but the scars…those hadn’t faded.

Derek didn’t comment. He just exhaled sharply through his nose and helped Stiles into the tub, his hands steady as he lowered him into the warm water. Stiles hissed at the initial sting but melted into it almost immediately, his muscles loosening, his body sagging against the curve of the tub.

Derek rolled up his sleeves and knelt beside him. He reached for a washcloth, soaking it in the water before bringing it to Stiles’ skin. His touch was firm but careful as he ran the cloth over Stiles’ arms, his shoulders, the planes of his chest. Stiles let his eyes slip closed, the rhythmic motion soothing in a way he hadn’t expected.

Neither of them spoke. The silence wasn’t comfortable, but it wasn’t empty either. It was heavy, thick with everything they weren’t saying.

When Derek reached for the shampoo, Stiles finally cracked an eye open, watching as Derek lathered it between his fingers before running them through Stiles’ hair. The sensation made his throat tight. Derek was so careful with him, his fingers massaging gently, his nails scratching lightly at his scalp. Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat, staring at the water, at the ripples that formed every time Derek moved.

The moment stretched on, thick with tension. It wasn’t until Derek was running the washcloth over his back, slow and deliberate, that Stiles finally broke the silence.

"I’m sorry."

Derek’s hand froze.

Stiles barely had time to register the sharp intake of breath behind him before he felt Derek’s fingers tremble slightly against his skin. He didn’t turn around. He couldn’t. But he knew. He knew.

"Derek-”

"Don’t." Derek’s voice was rough, like it had been scraped raw. "Just... don’t."

Stiles closed his eyes, biting his lip, gripping the edge of the tub as Derek resumed his movements, slower this time. The silence stretched between them once more, heavier than before.

Derek was crying.

And Stiles had no idea how to fix it.

The silence pressed down on them like a living thing, thick and suffocating. Stiles felt Derek’s fingers tremble slightly as he dragged the cloth down his spine again, slower this time, like he was grounding himself with the motion.

Stiles wanted to say something, needed to say something, but his throat felt tight, the words lodging there like splinters. He didn’t know how to fix this, didn’t know how to make up for what he had done.

Instead, he shifted slightly in the tub, reaching back with a damp hand until his fingers found Derek’s wrist.

Derek flinched at the contact.

That made Stiles’ chest ache worse than any wound he’d suffered tonight.

"Derek..." His voice was barely above a whisper.

Derek didn’t respond right away. His fingers curled against Stiles’ skin for the briefest moment before he pulled his hand away, grabbing the cup on the edge of the tub and filling it with warm water.

"Close your eyes," Derek murmured, voice hoarse, like he had just finished screaming.

Stiles obeyed without question, letting Derek pour the water over his head, rinsing away the suds. The warmth trickled down his scalp, over his face, his shoulders, like Derek was washing away everything…his pain, his exhaustion, the scent of hellfire still clinging to his skin.

But he couldn’t wash away the guilt.

"You were burning*," Derek finally spoke, his voice a low rasp. "I had to watch you burn."

Stiles’ eyes snapped open, his breath catching in his throat. Derek wasn’t looking at him, his gaze fixed on the water, but his hands were clenched so tight around the washcloth that his knuckles had gone white.

"You died in front of me," Derek whispered, voice thick with something raw, something Stiles had never heard from him before. "I couldn’t…I couldn’t do anything."

Stiles swallowed hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. "I came back."

Derek let out a sharp, humorless laugh, finally looking at him, eyes dark and stormy. "You think that makes it better?"

Stiles flinched. "I-"

"You chose to do that." Derek’s voice was rising now, rough and jagged. "You made that choice without thinking what it would do to us - to me!"

Stiles stared at him, water dripping down his face, heart pounding against his ribs.

"I had to," he said, voice cracking. "The runes weren’t working. He wasn’t leaving. I had to, Derek."

"You could have died.”

"But I didn’t!" Stiles shot back, gripping the edge of the tub. "The last rune worked, didn’t it?”

"You didn’t know that it would!" Derek exploded, surging forward so fast that the water sloshed against the sides of the tub when Stiles flinched. His hands grabbed the edge, his face inches from Stiles'. "You didn’t know if it would work or if I was going to have to pull your fucking body out of those flames!"

Stiles’ breath hitched. "Derek-"

"You are the most infuriating, reckless, stupid person I have ever met, and I swear to God, if you ever do something like that again-"

"What?" Stiles interrupted, his voice shaking. "What will you do, Derek? Yell at me? Hit me again?"

Derek went still. His grip on the tub tightened, his shoulders rising and falling with each ragged breath.

Then, before Stiles could blink, Derek grabbed his face in both hands and kissed him.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, raw and unfiltered, teeth clashing, hands clutching too tight. Stiles gasped against his lips, but then his own hands were tangling in Derek’s soaked shirt, pulling him closer, closer.

Derek kissed him like he was drowning, like he needed this to breathe, to live.

And Stiles kissed him back just as fiercely, just as desperately - because fuck, maybe he did too.

Derek’s hands were on Stiles’ shoulders, his movements urgent, frantic, as if he was trying to remind himself that Stiles was alive, that he was here…that the nightmare was over.

Before Stiles could process what was happening, Derek’s weight was suddenly on him. Derek climbed into the tub, clothes and all, straddling him with a forceful, desperate motion, his legs slipping on the smooth sides of the tub, water splashing over the edge.

Stiles gasped, his hands instantly moving to Derek’s waist, gripping him tightly to steady him. He was still in shock, still not fully grounded, but Derek’s presence, Derek’s heat, was everything Stiles needed to center himself.

Derek’s lips never left his, even as Derek positioned himself, one knee braced Stiles left leg and the edge of the tub, the other between Stiles’ legs. There was a rawness to his kiss, something wild and unrefined, as if Derek had been holding back everything for so long and was finally allowing it all to spill over. His body pressed down onto Stiles’, grinding against his lap, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to mark every inch of Stiles as his own.

Stiles felt it, the weight of Derek’s body, the way Derek moved against him, pulling a soft groan from his throat. His own heartbeat thundered in his ears, and it was hard to think through the haze of it all, through the intense connection surging between them.

Derek’s hands were everywhere, tracing over Stiles’ jaw, his neck, pulling at the wet strands of his hair, as if he were mapping out every part of him. The heat between them was electric, alive with a tension that left Stiles breathless.

But it wasn’t just lust. There was something else there, something fierce, something protective and tender, like Derek was saying everything that he couldn’t with words.

Stiles finally managed to break away from the kiss, his chest rising and falling in quick succession, his hands trembling slightly on Derek’s hips. “Derek,” he breathed, voice strained, “you’re gonna drown us both if you keep doing that.”

Derek didn’t answer, but his lips curled up slightly in a rough, broken smile. His forehead leaned against Stiles’, his breath coming in harsh gasps. “I don’t care.”

Stiles blinked, unsure if he should feel elated or terrified by the way Derek was acting, but before he could speak again, Derek kissed him once more, harder, more fervent this time. It was like everything they had just been through - the pain, the fear, the heartbreak - was pouring into this one moment.

And for a moment, Stiles thought that maybe, just maybe, Derek needed this as much as he did.

Stiles' breath hitched when he pressed up against Derek, his hips instinctively grinding upward, the heat between them intensifying with every second that passed. His body craved more, craved Derek, but his mind was suddenly snapped into reality. He pulled back just slightly, panting, his hands still resting on Derek’s hips.

“We can’t do this right now,” Stiles said, voice strained. His thoughts were scattered, but one thing was crystal clear: Eli was downstairs, and the last thing he wanted to do was complicate things further, especially in front of the kid. “I can’t... I can’t have sex with you when Eli’s downstairs.” His chest felt tight as he spoke, torn between his wants and his responsibilities.

Derek sighed, his forehead resting against Stiles’ in understanding. He didn’t pull away, his body staying close, as if anchoring both of them in this moment of quiet chaos. “Yeah, you’re right,” Derek said, his voice rough, barely above a whisper. “It’s not the best idea.”

They stayed like that for a moment, the water sloshing around them as they both caught their breath, neither one making a move to break away. Derek let his eyes drift down to Stiles’ chest, noticing something that hadn’t been there before. Tattoos…new tattoos that Stiles hadn’t before today.

The first was a kitsune, the mythical nine tailed fox, stretching across the chest just over the rune that still remained there. It was intricately detailed, the fox’s tails curling and twisting with an almost hypnotic grace, capturing the fierce, mysterious energy of the creature.

The second was a firefly, positioned just over the runes on Stiles' arm, glowing faintly with its delicate, ethereal wings. It seemed almost alive, as if it were still buzzing with energy from whatever fight had caused it to appear.

The third was a triskelion, on the side of Stiles’ neck. Derek’s eyes lingered on it. It was exactly like the one he had, a triple spiral, a symbol of unity, strength, and protection. It felt... personal, and Derek couldn’t help the way his breath caught when he realized what it meant.

“Stiles,” Derek whispered, his voice rough with emotion, “what are these? The triskelion... it’s exactly like mine.”

Stiles didn’t flinch, though there was a slight flicker of uncertainty in his eyes as he looked at Derek, the weight of the question sinking in. “They just show up after a fight. A new tattoo means I’ve taken something down…something dangerous. The triskelion…” He paused, tracing his fingers lightly over the ink. “It must be about my devotion to you guys - the Hale’s. It’s probably how I’m tied to the pack, or maybe... I don’t know. But I guess I’m officially part of it now.”

Derek’s eyes softened, a mix of pride and guilt flickering in his gaze as he let his fingers trace the outline of the triskelion on Stiles’ neck. “You don’t have to prove anything to us, Stiles,” he murmured. “You’re already part of us. You always have been.”

Stiles glanced up at him, an almost rueful smile pulling at his lips. “Yeah, well, it’s not like I’ve ever been good at not proving things, right?”

Derek chuckled softly, the tension easing slightly between them. Still, his fingers lingered on Stiles’ skin, tracing the tattoos, and Stiles let him, feeling the soft pressure of Derek’s touch grounding him. For a brief moment, everything else faded, the battle, the fights, the chaos of the past few days, and it was just Derek, Stiles, and the quiet comfort of the bathwater surrounding them.

“I’m just glad you’re here,” Derek said, his voice almost a whisper. His hand brushed Stiles' damp hair back from his forehead. “You’re safe now.”

Stiles nodded, though his heart ached at the reminder of everything they’d just gone through. “For now, yeah. But we’ll deal with whatever comes next when we have to.” He rested his head back against the tub, his body relaxed for the first time in days. The weight of everything that had happened was still there, but it felt manageable now, with Derek’s presence beside him. Or in this situation, literally on top of him.

Derek didn’t say anything more, just leaned down and kissed Stiles softly on the forehead, his lips lingering there for a moment before he pulled back. “Get out and get some rest,” he murmured. “We’ll figure everything out, together.”

Stiles closed his eyes, his body finally starting to let go of the tension, the exhaustion weighing heavily on him. With Derek’s warmth on top of him, the feeling of his hand gently resting on his back, Stiles felt, almost for the first time in a long while that everything would be okay.

Chapter Text

The house is quiet in a way it hasn’t been in days. No more arguing, no more tension, no more ghosts of the past clawing at their throats. The McCall pack is gone, the Nogitsune is gone, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the air in Derek’s house isn’t heavy with grief or anger. Just… stillness.

Stiles is curled up on the couch, Riot stretched out beside him, his massive head resting on Stiles' thigh. Stiles absentmindedly runs his fingers through the fox’s fur, eyes half lidded in exhaustion but too stubborn to go to bed. Across the room, Peter is sitting in one of Derek’s chairs, lazily flipping through a book he’s definitely not reading, sipping from a glass of whiskey. His expression is unusually relaxed, but every so often, his sharp blue gaze flicks over to Stiles, assessing. Watching.

Derek and Eli are in the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner. It had been a quiet meal - something warm and home cooked, something that felt normal. Stiles had barely picked at his food, still too drained, still healing, but Derek had just set a hand on the back of his neck in quiet understanding before letting him be.

Eli chatters about something from school, some assignment, some kid in his class who got detention for something stupid, and Derek makes the right sounds at the right times, but his attention keeps drifting to Stiles.

Stiles catches his eye and smirks, voice rasping from disuse. “You’re staring, Big Guy.”

Derek huffs, shutting the dishwasher a little harder than necessary, but Eli just snickers, rolling his eyes at his dad. He scampers over to the couch and flops down next to Stiles, pressing into his side like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“You shouldn’t be up,” Eli says, looking at Stiles seriously.

“Yeah, well, I figured I’d be a bad role model if I let you stay up later than me.”

Eli snorts. “I always stay up later than you, old man.”

Stiles rolls his eyes but ruffles Eli’s curls anyway, and Eli leans into the touch.

Derek comes over, towel slung over his shoulder, and Peter closes his book with a soft thump. “Alright,” Peter sighs, standing. “I’m heading home before this turns into a heartwarming family moment that I want no part of.”

“Too late,” Stiles quips, and Peter shoots him an unimpressed look.

Still, before he leaves, he pauses behind Stiles and rests a hand briefly on his shoulder. He squeezes once, firm but careful, then mutters, “Try not to get yourself killed again, you insufferable brat.” Then he’s gone before Stiles can fire back a retort.

Derek watches the door close, then sighs and sits down on Stiles’ other side, letting his hand rest on Stiles’ knee. Just grounding. Just there.

Stiles exhales slowly, some of the tension in his body unwinding. He leans his head back against the couch, exhaustion creeping in, and murmurs, “I could get used to this.”

Eli grins. “You better. You’re stuck with us now.”

Derek doesn’t say anything, but his hand tightens over Stiles’ knee, a silent promise.

Stiles lets his eyes drift shut, breathing in the scent of home.
~~~~

The house is warm, filled with the low murmur of conversation and the scent of a the meal Noah had made for the pack l. Plates are scattered across the kitchen table, half finished drinks resting within arm’s reach. The tension of the past few weeks has faded, replaced by something lighter - something that feels like belonging.

Noah leans back in his chair with a contented sigh, nursing a beer while Peter swirls a glass of whiskey between his fingers. Derek and Eli sit side by side, their body language easy and comfortable, a quiet reflection of their pack bond. Riot is curled up at Stiles’ feet, chest rising and falling in steady, lazy breaths.

Stiles, however, shifts uncomfortably in his seat, aware of the way everyone is looking at him. The air crackles with something unspoken, something just on the edge of being said.

Peter is the first to break the silence. “I suppose we should finally address the very large, very obvious thing in the room.” His lips curl, sharp and knowing. “Our Alpha.”

Stiles chokes on his drink. “Whoa, whoa - what?”

Derek nods, watching Stiles carefully. “Peter’s right.”

“No, he’s really not,” Stiles argues, gesturing wildly. “I’m not a wolf. You guys have an Alpha already, and it’s not me.”

Peter snorts. “You’re an idiot. Derek is a beta.”

Noah sighs. “Peter.”

“What?” Peter lifts a shoulder in an exaggerated shrug. “He is.”

Derek cuts through the brewing argument with a steady voice, grounding and certain. “Being an Alpha isn’t about being a wolf, Stiles.” His gaze is unwavering, heavy with meaning. “It’s about the choices you make. The way you put us ahead of yourself - how you always do. You fought for us. You sacrificed yourself for us. You’ve led us when we had no direction.”

Eli nods earnestly. “I already thought of you as my Alpha.”

Stiles’ throat tightens, and he looks at Noah, desperate for an out. But his dad just gives him a small, knowing smile and says, “You already knew this, kid. You just didn’t want to admit it.”

Stiles swallows hard, staring down at the table. “I…I don’t know how to be an Alpha. That’s not-”

“You are one,” Derek interrupts firmly. “It’s not something you have to figure out - it’s who you are.”

Silence falls over the room as the words settle deep into Stiles’ chest.

And then, finally, he accepts it.

The moment he does, his magic explodes within him.

A pulse of raw power rolls through the room, sending a shiver down their spines. The air crackles, electric, charged with something old and wild and right. The bond between them flares to life, wrapping around each of them, an unbreakable tether that connects them all - deeper, stronger, permanent.

Derek gasps, eyes flashing beta blue as the energy surges through him. Eli’s hands tremble where they rest on the table. Even Peter - normally composed, always in control - lets out a breathless, stunned laugh.

“Holy shit,” Eli whispers.

Peter runs a hand through his hair, eyes wide. “I - wow.”

Derek looks at Stiles, eyes full of something reverent. “You felt that, right?”

Stiles blinks, overwhelmed, his own magic buzzing under his skin like an overcharged wire. “Uh. Yeah.”

He hadn’t just accepted the role. The land, the Nemeton, had accepted it, too. And it had bonded them all in a way that was undeniably pack.

Noah watches them all with quiet understanding. “Looks like it’s official.”

Stiles lets out a breath, feeling the bond settling, wrapping around him, warm and safe and whole. He glances around at the people sitting at the table…his dad, Derek, Eli, Peter. Riot lifts his head and huffs like he already knew this would happen.

“…Alright,” he murmurs, a slow grin spreading across his face. “Guess I’m the Alpha now.”
~~~~

Derek slams Stiles against the bedroom door, his body pressing into him, solid and unyielding. The air between them is charged, heavy with something raw and undeniable. Derek’s hands grip Stiles’ hips, fingers digging in just enough to make Stiles gasp. His lips crash against Stiles’, desperate, hungry, claiming.

Stiles groans into the kiss, his fingers threading into Derek’s hair, tugging just enough to make Derek growl. Derek grinds against him, hips rolling in a slow, intoxicating rhythm that has Stiles’ head spinning. It’s overwhelming - the heat, the bond between them pulsing with newfound intensity.

Derek breaks the kiss just enough to pant against Stiles’ lips. “It feels - fuck. It feels so raw. Untamed.” His voice is rough, his hands sliding under Stiles’ shirt, dragging over heated skin like he needs to touch, to feel.

Stiles’ breath stutters, his own hands wandering down Derek’s back, feeling the tension coiled beneath his skin. “It’s because we’re mates,” he breathes, voice barely above a whisper.

Derek freezes for a fraction of a second, just long enough for Stiles to catch the way his pupils blow wide before he growls low in his throat and shoves Stiles back onto the bed.

The mattress gives under Stiles' weight as Derek follows, crawling over him, his eyes dark and burning with something primal. “Say it again,” Derek demands, his voice a low, possessive rasp.

Stiles swallows hard, his heart hammering against his ribs. He cups Derek’s face, his thumb brushing over his cheekbone, softer now. “We’re mates.”

Derek’s breath shudders, something like relief and hunger and acceptance flashing across his face before he crashes his mouth against Stiles’ again, grinding down harder, as if trying to fuse them together completely.

Derek's body is solid against Stiles' as their lips meet again, this time with a fierceness that makes Stiles’ pulse race. Every touch feels like fire, like a brand, and Stiles can’t seem to get enough. The world outside this room vanishes, leaving only the two of them, tangled together, raw and unrestrained.

Derek’s hands roam over Stiles’ chest, exploring like he’s memorizing every inch, before pushing the shirt off completely. Stiles lifts his arms, allowing Derek to strip him bare, the cool air of the room making his skin flush with anticipation. Derek takes a moment to look at him, eyes dark, but there’s something soft in them too, something that pulls at Stiles’ heart.

“You’re beautiful,” Derek mutters under his breath, voice rough, almost too quiet to hear. But Stiles hears it, feels it, deep in his chest. He reaches up, running his fingers through Derek’s hair as their lips meet again, slow and tender for a fleeting moment before it picks up again, fast and desperate.

Stiles wraps his legs around Derek’s waist, pulling him closer, feeling the heat of him, the weight of him above him. The connection between them thrums louder now, more intense. It’s the bond, the mate bond, alive and vibrating in every fiber of his being, telling him that this is right, that this is where he’s meant to be.

Derek pulls back just enough to look at him, his face inches from Stiles’ as he whispers, “You’re mine.”

Stiles’ heart skips a beat, a strange thrill shooting through him. His voice comes out breathless, but it’s steady. “I’m yours.” He says it like a vow, an acceptance, and the second the words leave his mouth, something shifts between them.

Derek’s expression softens, his breath catching as he leans down, kissing Stiles with a tenderness that’s almost overwhelming. For a moment, it’s just them on this world - no pack, no fighting, no danger - just the two of them. And when Derek finally pulls back, he looks at Stiles with something akin to awe in his eyes.

“You’ve always been mine, Stiles,” Derek murmurs, his voice a quiet growl as he rests his forehead against Stiles’, their breaths mingling.

Stiles smiles, the ache in his chest deepening. “Yeah, I guess I have.”

Derek kisses him again, softer this time, a silent promise.

The quiet of the room wraps around them, and for the first time, there’s a vulnerability in the air that neither can ignore. Derek's hands have stopped moving, resting on Stiles' body, fingertips lightly tracing the lines of his chest.

Stiles notices it; sees the way Derek’s usual controlled demeanor has cracked, the way he seems almost... uncertain, just for a moment. His breath catches in his throat. He pulls back, just slightly, enough to look Derek in the eyes.

"Derek?" Stiles' voice is softer than he expected, a little trembly. His heart is racing for a completely different reason now.

Derek looks down at him, eyes soft but guarded, his breath still uneven. For a moment, neither of them speaks, the silence thick with something unsaid. Stiles can feel the weight of it, the enormity of the moment, and he suddenly feels incredibly small under Derek’s gaze, as if the bond between them has stripped away all the walls they’ve built around themselves.

"I don’t know how to do this," Derek finally admits, his voice barely above a whisper, hoarse with emotion. "How to do us. I’ve never had this-" He gestures between them, his eyes filled with a mix of hesitation and longing. "I’m not sure I’m good at it."

Stiles’ chest tightens at the rawness in Derek’s voice, the fear that flares in his eyes. For all the intensity Derek carries, all the strength he shows, he feels so damn human right now. And Stiles, as the words sink in, can’t help but reach up, cupping Derek’s face gently in his hands.

"You don’t have to be perfect," Stiles murmurs, his thumb brushing Derek’s cheek. "You don’t have to know everything. We’re figuring this out together."

Derek’s eyes flicker with something vulnerable, a pain from the past that’s hard to ignore. But Stiles isn’t scared of it. He never has been.

“I’m not used to being… this,” Derek says, voice almost breaking. “I’m used to being alone. And now I don’t know how to be what you need, to be what we need.”

Stiles shakes his head, his heart aching. “Derek, you’re already everything I need. You’ve been here, fighting for us, for me. You are what I need. I just need you. I want you. And I’m not going anywhere.”

Derek exhales, his shoulders relaxing, but he doesn’t pull away. Instead, he leans forward, pressing his forehead gently against Stiles’. His breath shudders, and for the first time, Stiles sees the cracks in the façade.

“I’m terrified, Stiles,” Derek admits quietly, almost like it’s a confession. “Terrified of failing you.”

Stiles feels his heart swell in his chest. The bond they share hums, as if it’s responding to the truth in Derek’s words.

“You’re not going to fail me,” Stiles says softly, the words a promise. “You’re not going to fail us. Not now. Not ever.”

There’s a long moment where they just stay like that, foreheads pressed together, breaths mingling, before Derek finally speaks again, his voice thick with emotion.

“I’ve never had someone fight for me the way you do.”

Stiles lets out a shaky breath, his hand slipping to the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him closer. “And you never will again. Because I’m here. Always.”

The vulnerability in Derek’s eyes melts into acceptance as he closes the space between them, kissing Stiles with a gentleness that’s almost startling, considering the storm that’s been between them all along. This kiss is different - slow, tender, filled with the kind of quiet understanding that doesn’t need words.

When they pull apart, Stiles doesn’t look away, letting the intensity of the moment wash over them both. He’s not afraid, not of Derek’s past, not of the future, and certainly not of the raw emotions that have spilled into the air between them.

Derek’s hand rests against his chest, over his heart, and for the first time, Stiles feels like they’ve reached something deeper, something unspoken but undeniable.

“I love you,” Stiles whispers, and the words feel like a revelation, a vow that’s been there all along.

Derek’s eyes soften. “I love you too.”
~~~~

The warm water cascades over them, steam thick in the air as Derek and Stiles lean against the shower wall, both of them laughing softly. The sound of water hitting the tiles is almost drowned out by their quiet banter, the light hearted teasing and shared inside jokes that have become second nature between them.

Stiles, face flushed from laughter, leans into Derek, wiping the water from his eyes with the back of his hand. "I swear, I don't know what he's thinking half the time," Stiles says, still chuckling. "Peter's like a dog chasing its tail, but with more ego and less self awareness."

Derek's laughter joins Stiles’, deep and genuine, his hand moving to rest on Stiles’ waist. "He’ll never change. But hey, it’s entertaining to watch him try."

Stiles grins, tilting his head back to let the water hit his face, savoring the moment. But then, suddenly, the laughter dies in his throat as something else catches his attention. The sensation of something shifting on his skin, a faint heat, a tingle, like a mark being etched into him.

He glances down, confusion flickering across his face. Derek notices immediately, his attention snapping to Stiles as he follows his gaze to Stiles’ chest. The ink forms quickly, a new tattoo appearing just above his heart. It’s unlike the others. This one is vibrant, detailed - an image of a powerful, full wolf with jet black fur and piercing, bright blue eyes, standing tall and protective next to a smaller silver fox with bright violet eyes.

Stiles’ hand instinctively presses against it, the image already feeling like it’s a part of him, a representation of something both foreign and familiar at once.

"Derek...?" Stiles breathes, his voice cracking slightly as he processes what’s happening.

Derek steps closer, his breath caught in his throat, his hand coming up slowly to rest over the tattoo, fingers brushing the cool ink. His eyes flicker between Stiles’ face and the image etched into his skin, his heart pounding as he takes in the symbol.

"God, just when I think I can’t fucking love you more than I already do," Derek mutters, his voice rough with emotion. "You display our bond on your body."

Stiles, still slightly stunned, meets Derek’s gaze, his chest tightening with something that feels like both pride and overwhelming affection. "I didn’t... I didn’t ask for this, but I think it’s..." He pauses, his thoughts racing, unsure of how to explain it. "I think it’s just-"

"You don’t have to explain it," Derek interrupts, his voice low, reverent, as his fingers trace the lines of the tattoo. His touch is light but intense, like he's trying to absorb the meaning of the mark into his own skin. "It’s us. It’s you and me."

Stiles breathes out a laugh, though it's soft and filled with wonder. "Yeah," he says, his voice barely above a whisper. "I guess it is."

Derek’s gaze lingers on the tattoo for a long moment, a silent acknowledgment passing between them, both of them understanding what this represents. It’s not just a mark. It’s a sign of their connection, their bond, something that runs deeper than anything either of them could have anticipated.

With a gentle touch, Derek pulls Stiles closer, pressing their foreheads together, the steady rhythm of the water filling the space between them. "I’ll never stop being amazed by you," Derek murmurs, his voice thick with affection. "By us."

Stiles smiles, his fingers reaching up to stroke Derek’s jaw, brushing away droplets of water. "I don’t think I’ll ever stop being amazed by you either," he admits, his voice soft, full of tenderness.

Derek's lips quirk into a small, fond smile before he leans in to kiss him, slow and deep, the weight of the moment settling over them like a promise. And even though the water continues to fall around them, neither of them feels the need to say anything more. The bond they share, now etched on Stiles' skin, is enough.
~~~~

The morning sun was still low in the sky, casting golden rays through the trees as Stiles, Derek, Peter, Eli, and Riot made their way through the woods. Stiles had been visiting the Nemeton for the past few months, but today felt different. The air was charged with something intangible, a feeling of anticipation that made his pulse quicken. Riot trotted at his side, his usual boundless energy tempered by a quiet calm that seemed to match the atmosphere. Derek and Peter walked behind them, the two older Hales keeping a close eye on the surroundings, their senses sharp. Eli, always full of questions, kept glancing at his father and Stiles, his curiosity apparent, but he followed quietly, sensing the weight of the moment.

As they neared the clearing, Stiles could feel the presence of the Nemeton before he even saw it. The trees around them seemed to lean inward, as if creating a path just for them, and the whisper of the wind through the leaves sounded almost like a voice, beckoning them closer. When they emerged into the clearing, Stiles stopped, his breath catching in his throat at the sight of the Nemeton.

The ancient tree was standing tall now, its branches thick with vibrant green leaves, and its roots seemed to pulse with life, spreading through the earth. Where it had once been withered and broken, it had grown back stronger, as though the land itself had healed along with it. There was a strange, peaceful energy radiating from the Nemeton, something that felt both comforting and powerful. It was as if the very heart of the earth was alive beneath their feet.

Stiles walked forward, his feet moving almost of their own accord, drawn to the Nemeton. Riot walked alongside him, the small fox’s head held high, his ears perked as though he could sense the Nemeton’s whisper as well. Derek and Peter exchanged a look, knowing that Stiles had a connection to the land, one that none of them fully understood, but all of them respected.

Stiles reached the Nemeton and placed his hand on its bark, the sensation of its energy flowing through him, grounding him in a way he couldn’t quite explain. It was familiar, soothing, and at the same time, it was powerful, stronger than it had ever been before.

And then, the whisper came. It was soft at first, like the rustling of leaves in the breeze, but it grew clearer as it spoke directly into Stiles’ mind, a voice that felt ancient and full of knowing.

"You have done well, protector," the Nemeton whispered, its voice like the rustle of wind through the branches, deep and timeless. "You have returned what was lost, healed what was broken. You are good, Stiles Stilinski."

Stiles closed his eyes, his breath catching as the words settled into him. The Nemeton had always spoken to him, but this was different. This felt more like an acknowledgment, a blessing, and a bond. It made his heart swell in his chest, the weight of its words settling over him like a cloak.

Peter stepped closer, his voice low. "The Nemeton speaks to you like you belong here," he said, his tone laced with something Stiles couldn’t quite place - pride, maybe? Or something deeper, more emotional?

The Nemeton’s response was immediate, as if the land itself was aware of Peter’s words. "This land will always belong to the Hales," it whispered, its voice carrying the weight of centuries. "You are rooted in this earth, and it will never forget you."

Derek’s eyes narrowed, his protective instincts flaring up. He stepped closer to Stiles, placing a hand on his shoulder, as if to anchor him. "It’s not just you, Stiles. It’s us. We’re all part of this. This is our home, our land, our protection."

Stiles nodded, feeling the weight of Derek’s words settle within him. The Nemeton had recognized him, had chosen him - but it had also acknowledged the bond that tied them all to the land. This was not just his connection; it was theirs. They were bound together, as much a part of this land as the trees, the earth, the very air.

"Thank you," Stiles murmured to the Nemeton, his voice thick with emotion. "I’ll always protect it. We all will."

The Nemeton hummed softly, a sound like the rustling of leaves in the wind, a vibration that filled the air with warmth. "You are the protector, and this land will always welcome you home."

Stiles’ heart swelled with a mix of pride and gratitude, and as he stood there, with his hand on the Nemeton, surrounded by Derek, Peter, Eli, and Riot, he felt something deep inside him shift. The land had recognized him, yes - but it had also recognized the bond they all shared. They were family, and this place was their home.

Eli, standing just behind Stiles, stepped forward cautiously, his young voice full of wonder. "Does that mean… the Nemeton will always protect us, too?"

Stiles turned to look at him, giving him a small, reassuring smile. "It means we’re never alone, Eli," he said softly. "No matter what happens, we’ve got each other. We’ll always have this land, and this land will always have us."

Derek’s arm around Stiles’ waist tightened, and he leaned down to press a kiss to Stiles’ temple, his voice soft but full of conviction. "We’ll always be together. This is our pack, our land, our home."

The Nemeton’s presence seemed to settle over them, the air thick with its ancient magic. And for the first time in a long while, Stiles felt a sense of peace settle deep in his chest, knowing that, no matter what the future held, they were all bound together by something greater than themselves. Something that could never be broken.