Chapter Text
“Well,” Stiles said, licking a bit of cookie from his thumb with the kind of flourish that only made Ric look away and Damon groan dramatically from across the room, “I’ll grab the witch.”
“You can’t give us the location ?” Stefan asked, half a step from the door, always ready to bolt into action like a good boy.
Stiles grinned at him, wide and toothy. “Oh, sweetheart. She’s doing that deep meditation thing—you know, the kind that repels bad vibes. She’s probably out there breathing in moss and aligning her moon chakra or something. You'll never find her.”
He waved a crumpled napkin like it was holy scripture and held it out between two fingers. “This? This is the address for your other one. From what I remember, there were two people. Maybe three. Honestly, I didn’t count. You should hurry, though. It'll be bloody soon.”
Stefan snatched the napkin without a word, and Damon blinked. “Wait. Bloody?”
Stiles cocked his head. “Oh, did I not mention? Yeah. I didn’t get any faces, just—blood. Splattered. Gutsy. Scream-y.”
“You said two people,” Jeremy cut in, stiff. “Is my sister okay?”
“Probably,” Stiles said with a shrug so nonchalant it was insulting. “Didn’t see her dead or anything. She could be the one doing the stabbing. Girl power and all that.”
Damon and Stefan were already halfway out the door, the wind slamming it shut behind them like punctuation.
“Bloody,” Jeremy muttered again, still staring after them.
“Oh, relax,” Stiles said, stretching with a crack of his spine. “Your sister’s fine. At least she was last I peeped. It was weird, though. Magic didn’t work the way it usually does. Really annoying, actually.”
Jeremy frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Just… hard to find.” Stiles said vaguely, starting toward the door. “What is she anyway?”
“She’s just a human,” Jeremy said, following.
“That’s… boring.” Stiles blinked at him, visibly unimpressed. “Is she wearing anything magical now? Some hand-me-down necklace with a dead witch’s ghost in it or something?”
Jeremy blinked. “I… I don’t know.”
“Magic-adjacent?” Stiles teased, lips twitching. “Is she the kind of girl who keeps crystals under her pillow and prays to the moon on Tuesdays?”
“I don’t know!” Jeremy snapped.
Stiles just grinned wider.
“She’s just a girl,” Ric offered, a bit more grounded. “Nothing supernatural. Nothing that would repel a locator spell.”
Stiles clicked his tongue. “Well, then something else is fucky.”
He said it like he was casually diagnosing a weather pattern.
Jeremy crossed his arms. “So you’re a witch or not?”
“Nope.”
“Wait, what?” Ric frowned. “Then how are you doing any of this?”
“I’m a Spark,” Stiles replied, tossing the word like it meant everything and nothing all at once.
Ric narrowed his eyes. “What does it mean?”
“That I’m a Spark.”
“Not helpful.”
“Correct.” Stiles was already stepping over the threshold of the Salvatore porch, hands in his pockets, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. “I’m not here to give TED Talks on my metaphysical classification. I’m here to help, snack, and traumatize.”
“Can you at least tell us what makes your magic different?” Jeremy asked, following after him.
Stiles pretended to think about it, pursing his lips. “Nope.”
Jeremy threw his arms in the air. “You’re impossible!”
“I get that a lot,” Stiles chirped, swinging into the tree line like he belonged there.
Ric muttered something about his blood pressure and fell into step beside Jeremy.
They walked deeper into the woods, a cold hush settling around them. Stiles didn’t seem fazed by the biting wind or the crunch of leaves beneath his boots.
“You know, I don’t usually do this creepy forest thing,” he said, glancing over his shoulder. “Like… I’ve had some bad woodsy experiences. Cults. Ceremonial dancing. Animal skulls. You know how it goes.”
Jeremy snorted despite himself. “Sounds like a Tuesday around here.”
“Oh Mystic Falls,” Stiles sighed dreamily. “So what were you doing before your witch friend went MIA?”
“Wolf problem,” Ric supplied. “We were dealing with werewolves.”
Stiles perked up. “The Lockwoods, right?”
Both Ric and Jeremy stared at him like he’d just recited their credit card numbers.
“How do you know the Lockwoods are werewolves?” Ric asked slowly.
“Dumbass,” Stiles replied sweetly, not even looking back. “I wasn’t born yesterday.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I ran with a pack before I got here.”
“You ran with a—what? A werewolf pack?” Ric asked, disbelief cracking through his voice.
Stiles nodded sagely. “Yep. Vamp in a wolf pack. Real Montague-and-Capulet energy. But it worked. We were all a little fucked up and feral, and somehow that made it functional. Bunch of misfits. One guy was a lizard man. Good times.”
Jeremy blinked. “And what, now you’re just passing through Mystic Falls?”
“I’m haunting Klaus,” Stiles said casually.
“Who?”
“Never mind.” He waved a hand like swatting a bug. “Old beef. Ancient history. Nothing to concern yourselves with—unless he shows up, in which case, run. Or don’t. I’d like to see how much you scream.”
Ric gave him a look.
Stiles grinned wider.
They reached a break in the trees where a low fog was starting to roll in like a curtain drawn by invisible hands. Stiles paused, breathing it in like perfume.
“Yup,” he murmured. “Witch vibes.”
“Do you always sense them like this?” Jeremy asked.
“Only when they’re humming this loud,” Stiles said, his fingers twitching like antennae. “This one’s doing deep, ancient meditation. Like, full ‘I-don’t-need-blood-I-need-enlightenment’ bullshit. I’m gonna have to snap her out of it.”
Ric nodded once. “You’re sure you can bring her back safely?”
“Oh I could,” Stiles said slowly, eyes glittering. “But where’s the fun in safe?”
Jeremy groaned.
He stopped, suddenly serious. “You two should wait here.”
“Why?” Ric asked immediately.
“Because she’ll sense you. You smell like weed and disappointment.”
“That’s rude.”
“It’s accurate,” Stiles said, already walking forward. “Just give me fifteen minutes. If I’m not back by then… call someone prettier than me to avenge my death.”
Jeremy rolled his eyes.
Stiles winked, then vanished into the fog, whistling something that sounded suspiciously like the theme to The Twilight Zone.
The woods swallowed him.
Silence settled in his wake.
“Should we be trusting him?” Jeremy asked, arms folded tight.
“Probably not,” Ric muttered. “But here we are.”
.
Stiles whistled low as he stepped over a thick root, hands tucked in the pockets of his pants. The mist curled around his shoes like it knew him—like it liked him. He arched a brow at the girl on the forest floor, eyebrows slightly pinched in meditation, shoulders slack.
“Oooo,” he said, tilting his head and crouching beside her. “Yes indeed. Looking very much... enlightened.”
He poked at a mossy patch near her hip and grinned. “So this is another one of those famous Bennett witches, huh? You know, these woods were a whole lot livelier when your bloodline meant something.” He flicked his fingers, a spark dancing briefly between them before vanishing.
The girl didn’t move.
“Hmm. Okay, sweetheart, you are clearly very committed to this comatose earth-goddess cosplay, but I have zero interest in playing prince charming or your fairy god-spark.”
He leaned back on his heels. “Now, I could use magic to wake you up, but it’d be a whole production. And honestly? I’m on cookie cooldown. Too much effort.”
Instead, he made a quick swirl in the air with his hand. A sphere of shimmering water appeared over his palm.
“Ah, yes,” he muttered. “The good old-fashioned wake-the-dead method.” With a flick, the water poured over Bonnie’s forehead.
“Ugh—!” she sputtered, gasping and jerking upright, hands bracing against the forest floor. She blinked rapidly, eyes unfocused, chest heaving.
“There she is,” Stiles sang cheerfully. “Welcome back to the land of the petty and the breathing.”
Bonnie wiped at her soaked face, disoriented. “Who—who the hell—”
“I’m just your friendly neighborhood Spider-Man,” Stiles replied with a wink. Then, with mock-serious gravitas, “Actually, I lied. I’m Batman.”
Bonnie blinked at him, bewildered. Then, instinctively, she threw a hand out—magic coiling with defensive purpose.
“Uh-uh.” He tsked, wagging a finger. “I wouldn’t, Bambi. You’re still all groggy and I’m not the enemy. Well, today, anyway.”
Bonnie narrowed her eyes.
“I’m here to help,” he said, holding both hands up. “Your friends got all emotional about you disappearing. I volunteered as tribute.”
“Friends?” Her voice was still scratchy. “Who even—?”
Stiles tilted his head. “You know—tall, dark, broody. Younger one with a baby face. The tall glass of angsty bourbon,” he listed off casually. “Blue-eyed baby bitch."
Bonnie’s lips twitched. “Damon?”
Stiles lit up. “ I knew I’d like you. Anyone who can clock Damon Salvatore on sight gets a cookie and a gold star.”
He extended a hand. “C’mon. Let’s get you off this mossy yoga mat. It’s terrible for your posture.”
Bonnie eyed him, but accepted the help. “You still didn’t say who you are.”
“Stiles,” he said simply, letting her steady herself.
“Wait, how did you even find me?” she asked, squinting at the fog.
“Magic.”
“That’s impossible,” Bonnie muttered. “The spell I used should have blocked everything—any tracking spell, any locator magic—unless you were…”
“Me,” Stiles said casually.
Bonnie blinked again. “What?”
“So,” Stiles cut her off with a clap. “No more sleeping in mossy circles, yeah? Back to civilization.”
“Are you a witch?” she asked, eyes narrowed again. “Or a warlock?”
“Nope,” Stiles said with a pop of his lips. “I’m a Spark.”
Bonnie froze.
“A what?”
“Spark,” he repeated with a grin, almost bouncing on his heels. “Ask your Grams. She’ll know. It's like… witchcraft’s weirder, meaner cousin who doesn’t care about circles or candles or chanting. More impulse, less restraint. Big bang, no apologies.”
Before Bonnie could press further, Jeremy’s voice echoed through the trees.
“Bonnie!” he shouted, relief flooding his face. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“I’m fine,” she said, blinking away the last of her haze. “I… I think?”
“What are you doing here?” she asked, staring at the two of them.
“Elena’s been kidnapped,” Jeremy said grimly. “Damon and Stefan ran off to get her.”
Bonnie’s eyes widened. “Wait—what?!"
“Soooo,” Stiles drawled, sliding up beside Ric with a wicked grin. “My forbidden love interest. Shall I be your Romeo to your Juliet? Star-crossed and thirstier than a CW soap opera?”
Ric gave him a warning look. “Don’t start.”
Stiles’ arm wrapped lazily around his, flashing a smirk. “But think about it. You drink the poison, I drink the poison—except I won’t die. You can just join the undead, and we can make brooding look sexy together.”
Bonnie stared at them like she’d walked into the wrong show.
“I mean,” Stiles said, turning to Ric with a wink, “you already gave me a little taste upstairs. I’m just saying, second dates usually involve less clothing.”
Jeremy made a choking noise. “Gross.”
“Aww, don’t be jealous,” Stiles said.
He flicked Jeremy’s ear.
Jeremy yelped.
Bonnie pinched the bridge of her nose. “Okay. What is happening right now?”
Stiles was already halfway turned toward the path again. “Well,” he said with an exasperated sigh, “we head back to the boarding house, see if our kidnapped mystery girl has been recovered—and whether she’s, you know... bloody, dead, mutilated. All the fun adjectives.”
Bonnie’s eyes widened. “Bloody and dead? What are you talking about?”
He shrugged. “You know—strangled, drained, impaled on a conveniently decorative stake.
Bonnie shook her head, still trying to climb out of the fog in her brain. “You’re seriously messed up.”
He turned to her, expression shifting. “And you, Female Bambi, and I—we need to have a talk. You, me… and your grandmother.”
Bonnie blinked. “What?”
“There’s a few things I need to run by the eldest Bennett,” he said, voice dipping serious for the first time. “Witchy cross-referencing, ancestor gossip, possibly a séance. Haven’t decided yet.”
A pause.
“You can’t,” Bonnie said quietly, face tightening.
“What do you mean I can’t?” Stiles asked, brow furrowing as he turned to face her fully.
“Grams passed away,” Bonnie said softly, her voice low and grief-touched. “A while ago.”
Stiles stopped dead in his tracks, his arm dropping from around Ric. “What.”
“I’m the only witch in Mystic Falls now,” Bonnie added.
He blinked, once. Twice. Then drew a sharp breath through his teeth and dragged a hand across his face.
“Well... that’s just fucking inconvenient.”
Ric gave him a sideways look.
Stiles held up a finger. “First off, my condolences. Your grandmother was a bit of a bitch—but she was also a brilliant bitch. Real backbone. Silver-tongued, full of righteous fire. The kind of witch you don’t try to swindle twice.” He sighed dramatically. “This just put a very large thorn in my very delicate ass.”
Bonnie crossed her arms. “You knew her?”
“Only in passing,” he replied. “She didn’t like me. Most witches don’t.”
“Gee, I wonder why,” Jeremy mumbled.
“Anyway,” Stiles continued, looking at Bonnie again, “do you have contact with any of your cousins?”
“What cousins?”
“Laura?” he tried. “Tall. Leather jackets. Spells like a lunatic?”
“No.”
Stiles groaned. “This is just getting worse by the minute.”
“Why?” Bonnie asked, irritation starting to creep in. “Why does it matter?”
Stiles turned to look her over like she was a math problem he didn’t like the answer to. “How long have you been practicing magic?”
“This year,” Bonnie admitted, suddenly self-conscious.
Stiles looked ready to either faint or bang his head against the nearest tree. He blinked slowly, then tilted his face up toward the heavens like he was asking for strength from the ancestors he didn’t believe in.
Jeremy smirked. “So not what you wanted to hear, huh?”
“That’s fine,” Stiles muttered, releasing a slow breath through his nose. “That’s fine. This is fine. Everything’s fine.” His tone made it clear nothing was fine. “Let’s just… go back to the boarding house. I need a drink.”
The walk back was a strange mix of silence and low murmurs. Mist still clung to the woods, trailing after their ankles like a living thing, but no one seemed to notice it anymore.
Bonnie stayed close to Jeremy. Ric kept pace beside Stiles, watching him out of the corner of his eye.
Finally, Bonnie broke the quiet. “Why did you want to talk to Grams anyway? You’ve got your own magic. You clearly don’t need help.”
Stiles glanced over his shoulder at her. “You have a mentor yet?”
“No.”
“Anyone showing you how to use that magic in your bones? Teach you the difference between a spell and a curse?”
Bonnie looked down. “It’s been… trial and error, I guess.”
He stopped walking, turned to face her fully. His gaze softened—not pitying, but real.
“That’s dangerous,” he said quietly.
“I can handle myself.”
“You shouldn’t have to,” he replied. Then, after a beat: “No offense. You’ve got fire in your blood and no one showed up to help you control it? That’s not power. That’s a ticking bomb.”
Bonnie didn’t respond, but she didn’t look away either.
Stiles nodded, like that settled it. “Okay,” he said. “Well. Then I guess we’re going to have to fix that.”
“Wait, what?” Jeremy said.
“You never answered,” Ric added. “Why did you want to talk to her?”
“Well,” he said softly, “from what I’ve heard… Mystic Falls is about to get messier than usual. Lots of bad things crawling out of the crypts. Something’s coming. And if I’m right…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Just winked.
“I’ll handle it. Don’t worry.”
The walk back to the boarding house should’ve felt longer.
Bonnie was still trying to brush off the aftertaste of deep meditation—her limbs heavy, her brain filled with soft static, like she was stuck between dreams. But the strange part wasn’t how fogged she felt.
It was that… she didn’t care.
She wasn’t panicked. Not really. Not even when Jeremy told her about Elena being kidnapped. That kind of news usually kicked her straight into high gear—full-blown worry, emotional spirals, the whole nine yards. But right now?
It felt distant. Muted. Like hearing about a car crash across town and thinking, That’s awful, but then going back to your sandwich.
Jeremy had been on edge all day—heart pounding, ready to bolt, fists clenched tight.
Now he was just walking.
Not relaxed, exactly. But dulled. Like something in the air was laced with soft static and sleepy serotonin. Like the panic couldn’t stick.
And the eye of it all?
Stiles.
He moved through the woods like a fox with a full belly—smug, smooth, totally unaffected by the cold. His arm was still lazily wrapped around Ric’s, tugging the hunter forward like a bored date dragging their escort home from a party.
Bonnie noticed it too.
She’d always been hyper-attuned to people. Sensitive to lies, to secrets, to vibrations that didn’t sit right. But ever since meeting Stiles, it was like that particular compass had gone fuzzy. The sharper instincts she usually trusted to guide her through magical weirdness had been… softened.
Her steps felt lighter. Her breathing easier.
And Ric? Ric should’ve been more suspicious of the vampire currently wrapped around his arm like a lazy vine. But Stiles’ presence had a gravitational pull—warm, irreverent, inexplicably soothing. It didn't smother. It disarmed. It made you laugh when you should be angry and soften when you should steel yourself.
Bonnie didn’t miss how Ric leaned in slightly, like his body was tuning itself toward the sound of Stiles’ voice.
He looked like he might fall asleep standing up.
The moment they stepped onto the boarding house porch, Stiles let out a theatrical groan.
“Oh my god,” he said, exasperated. “They’re still not back?”
He kicked the door open with a little more drama than necessary and swept inside like he owned the place. The others followed—less from intention, more from inertia.
Stiles tugged Ric along as they neared the boarding house, his arm still looped casually through the hunter’s. “Two people. How hard can it be?”
Stiles flopped onto the couch, kicked off his shoes, and immediately made a face.
“What are they doing, reenacting Die Hard in the suburbs?” he muttered.
Jeremy gave Bonnie a sidelong glance.
Ric just sighed.
“If they’re not back in an hour,” Stiles said, already padding barefoot toward the kitchen, “I’m going to fetch them. Someone has to clean up the mess. I hate being the responsible one. Makes me itchy.”
Bonnie’s brows lifted as she exchanged another confused glance with Ric and Jeremy. There was something surreal about all this. The calm in her chest was unnatural. She’d gone a whole day in magical limbo. She should be exhausted, edgy, hungry—and yet…
“Maybe you should eat something,” Jeremy said, nudging her gently. “You’ve been out for, like, a day.”
Bonnie blinked, slowly registering her own body like it had only just caught up. He was right. She did feel faint. Hazy.
She followed Jeremy into the kitchen.
Stiles stood at the counter holding an open blood bag with the other. He poured the dark liquid into the glass like it was merlot, humming softly under his breath.
Bonnie froze.
“Is that—?”
“Blood,” Jeremy confirmed.
Stiles looked over his shoulder and grinned. “Bonnie, babe. I told you already—I’m not a witch.”
“I know, but—” She gawked. “You’re drinking it!”
“And?” he asked, swirling the glass like a sommelier.
“Doesn’t that—hurt you?”
Stiles tilted his head. “What part of laws of nature don’t apply to me was unclear?”
He took a sip, his lashes fluttering.
“Mmm.” He smacked his lips.
Bonnie stood there, mouth agape. Jeremy, entirely too calm, picked up one of the cookies Stiles had baked earlier and shoved it into her mouth before she could spiral.
“Chew,” he said flatly.
She did.
It was—annoyingly good.
“I know,” Jeremy muttered, reading the expression on her face. “This shit is fucking amazing.”
Stiles gave the two of them a thoughtful look, like he was tasting the mood in the air, then tilted his head.
“Huh,” he said quietly. “Interesting.”
Bonnie opened her mouth to ask what that meant, but he was already walking away, disappearing into the living room with his drink in hand.
Stiles collapsed dramatically into the couch again, glass of blood in hand, legs kicked up.
“Actually i'm giving them ten more minutes,” he declared, “and then I’m storming in there like a gothic fairy sparkfather and dragging them back.”
But he didn’t have to.
Because the front door swung open.
The dramatic ass wind pulled it wide, and in walked Stefan and Damon and behind them…
“Jesus Christ,” Stiles muttered, sitting up straighter.
There was a girl.
Dark hair, wide eyes, clothes through with a bit of blood
Stiles stared.
The wine glass halted halfway to his lips.
He blinked once.
Then twice.
“Katerina?” he breathed.
The glass slipped in his grip. He caught it, barely.
Damon looked up, already tensing at the familiar crack in Stiles’ voice.
“No,” Stefan said quickly, stepping forward. “This isn’t—she’s not Katherine.”
The girl flinched. Her eyes went to Stiles, wary and confused.
“I’m—Elena,” she said, voice uncertain. “Who are you?”
“She’s not Katherine,” Stefan repeated, firmer now.
But Stiles wasn’t listening.
He stood up slowly, posture stiff, breath shallow. His eyes scanned Elena like she was a alien. He stepped forward once, then stopped, blinking too fast.
And then it hit him.
“Oh my god,” he whispered. “She’s a doppelgänger.”
Damon’s jaw twitched. “Stiles—”
“You didn’t tell me,” Stiles hissed, turning to glare. “You knew she looked like Katherine—you knew what that would mean—and you didn’t say a goddamn thing.”
“I didn’t think it mattered,” Damon replied, raising a brow. “She’s not her.”
“No shit, she’s not her,” Stiles snapped. “But her existence? That means something. You think doppelgängers just happen?”
He turned sharply, face twisting with something between anger and horror.
“This changes everything.”
Bonnie stepped forward, “What does it mean?”
Stiles didn’t answer.
He just downed the rest of his blood in one go, slammed the glass down on the coffee table, and rubbed his temples like he could massage clarity back into his skull.
“Hey,” Jeremy said, finally hugging Elena. “You okay?”
She nodded faintly, still watching Stiles like he might bite her. Which, to be fair, wasn’t a totally irrational fear.
“Oh my god,” Bonnie breathed, stepping forward. “Elena—your shirt.”
Elena looked down at the blood like she’d only just noticed it.
“Don’t worry,” Damon muttered, brushing past them. “Most of it’s not hers.”
Stiles dropped onto the couch again, flopping like a corpse at a wake.
“What happened?” Stefan asked him. “Why are you freaking out?”
“I was told me she was human,” Stiles said, glaring up at Damon. “You told me there was nothing unusual about her.”
“She is human,” Damon insisted.
“Yeah, and I’m a fucking vegetarian,” Stiles snapped. “Doppelgängers are cosmic cannonballs. They don’t exist in a vacuum. If one shows up, it means the universe is compensating for something.”
He blew out a breath, then narrowed his eyes.
“Always you,” Stiles said bitterly, voice muffled into the cushions. “Always you making my life harder.”
“Excuse me?” Damon asked, affronted.
“Wait,” Elena said again, staring between them. “Who are you?”
Stiles blinked at her.
He turned and started walking upstairs, still muttering under his breath.
Ric raised a brow. “Where are you going?”
“Upstairs,” Stiles called. “To spiral in the bath like a respectable vampire.”
He vanished.
Elena’s eyes darted from Damon to the quiet group clustered around the room. The soft sound of running water upstairs and the gentle click of a shutting bathroom door underscored the tension lingering in the air. The familiar hum of energy that had clung to them since Stiles’s departure was replaced by a palpable emptiness—a void that none could disguise.
“Who is that?” Elena asked, her voice steady yet laced with confusion as she searched Damon’s face for answers.
Damon’s gaze shifted between her and the others. His deep-set eyes held secrets that danced between regret and resolve. Before he could respond, Jeremy stepped forward. With a quick, appraising look at his sister, he said, “That’s Stiles.”
A low murmur swept through the room as Stefan added softly, “An old friend of ours… he was the one who helped us find you.”
Elena’s brows furrowed. “Why? Where were you?” she demanded sharply, every syllable laced with disbelief and hurt. Looking at Bonnie.
Bonnie, still recovering from her deep meditation—one that she reluctantly admitted was more than she cared to detail—only managed a quiet reply. “I… I was in a deep meditation. It’s a long story.” Her voice carried the weight of lingering shock, and her eyes darted toward Damon as if silently urging him to fill in the gaps.
“So he’s a witch?” Elena guessed, her tone mingling skepticism with curiosity.
“No,” Damon said immediately, already halfway to the bourbon cart. “He’s… different.”
Elena followed his movements with her eyes, frustration creeping into her voice. “Different how?”
Damon didn’t answer right away. He poured a few fingers of bourbon into a glass, swirled it, and then turned back to them with a dry smile. “He calls it a Spark,” he said, the word sharp on his tongue like something between a joke and a warning. “Which, frankly, means absolutely nothing unless you know how he works—which I don’t, by the way.”
Jeremy shot him a look. “Then why do you talk like you do?”
“Just because I know him,” Damon replied, shooting the younger Gilbert a flat glance. “Doesn’t mean I understand him.”
He took a slow sip and leaned back against the edge of the cart. “From what I do know, it’s less spellcasting and more… belief-based manifestation. He thinks it, it happens. But only under certain conditions. Don’t ask me what they are—he’s never told me. He likes to pretend it’s whimsical, but everything about it is ridiculously controlled. Intention, emotion, focus, timing—there are layers. I once asked him how it works and he told me I wasn’t spiritually evolved enough to handle the answer. Then he smirked and turned into mist for dramatic effect.”
Bonnie frowned. “That feeling earlier…”
Damon blinked at her. “What feeling?”
“That warmth,” she said. “It was like sitting next to a fireplace. Like…” She trailed off.
“Like someone brushing your hair while you lie in their lap,” Jeremy added, shrugging at the others’ looks. “It felt like peace. Not fake peace, but something real. Like, safe.”
“Oh, that,” Damon said, sighing. “Yeah. That’s him. Sort of.”
“What do you mean, sort of?” Elena demanded, a nervous edge creeping into her voice.
Damon turned back to his drink, rolling the glass between his fingers. “Fifty percent is just… him. The other half? That’s the magic. The Spark, or whatever. He doesn’t cast that feeling, not exactly—it’s more like he unlocks something in you. The calm. The serotonin. The safety. Whatever your subconscious craves, he finds it. Amplifies it. Gives you access to it.”
“Even though he’s a vampire, it doesn’t diminish the truth of that effect. It’s like he channels a part of his pre-vampiric essence, that spark that used to define him. When he walks into a room, it’s as if he reclaims that essence, molding it to your deepest need. I've seen angry hags soften, crying children calm down. But—” His voice darkened ever so slightly, “—the longer you depend on that warmth, the more dangerous it becomes. It’s addictive.
“And if your subconscious doesn’t want that?” Bonnie asked slowly.
Damon’s lips twisted. “Then it backfires. Hard. That’s why some people can’t stand being around him. If you’re hiding something—guilt, hate, betrayal—it turns on you. Like a mirror you can’t turn away from. Or worse.”
The room went quiet.
Bonnie looked unsettled again. Jeremy ran a hand through his hair. Ric didn’t move at all.
“What do you mean, worse?” Elena finally asked.
Damon met her eyes. “I mean, I’ve seen grown men cry just because he walked into the room. And not sensitive men, either. Tough guys. Cops. Hunters. There’s something about him—if you’re holding something poisonous inside, he’ll bring it to the surface. Not on purpose. That’s just what he is. He reflects you back at yourself.”
Elena’s face twisted with confusion and something bordering on fear. “Wait. You said he’s a vampire?”
Damon took another drink. “Yeah. He is.”
“That makes no sense!” she snapped. “You just said he uses magic. Witches can’t be vampires. And how do you even know him?” she pressed, unaware of the delicate balance the others maintained in their silence about Stiles’s true past.
Damon hesitated—just long enough for it to matter—before finally answering. “He knew Katherine.”
Elena stilled. “Katherine?”
Stefan’s voice broke in, calm yet tinged with something unspoken. “Stiles isn’t a witch, Elena. He exists beyond the conventional laws that govern us—or the supernatural. He helped us once, back when things were so much darker. He checked in on us, kept the line open during times when Katherine was still in the picture… times when we weren’t as united.” His eyes, though warm, hinted at grief for long-buried memories.
Bonnie blinked. “Wait, hold on. If he met you before you were turned—”
“He’s probably around six hundred,” Stefan said, cutting her off. “Give or take.”
Elena’s eyes widened in disbelief.
“After Katherine disappeared,” Damon went on, “he stuck around. Checked in on us. Tried to get us to talk again—me and Stefan. Didn’t really work, but the effort was there. Then he vanished. We hadn’t seen him for decades until today.”
“He’s been MIA for over sixty years,” Stefan clarified. “No calls. No sightings. Nothing.”
“And then just… reappears now?” Elena asked.
Bonnie’s lips parted slightly, like she wanted to ask something but thought better of it. Instead, she said, “And none of you think that’s strange?”
“Of course it’s strange,” Damon replied. “Everything about Stiles is strange. That’s sort of the point.”
Elena paced, hands on her hips, trying to process. “So he’s a six-hundred-year-old vampire Spark thing who used to hang out with Katherine and now just waltzes into our lives like some sort of fairy Godmother?”
“More or less,” Jeremy said.
“And you trust him?”
Damon was quiet for a beat too long.
“He’s not the enemy,” Stefan said firmly. “Not to us.”
“How do you know?” Elena asked.
Now no one answered.
The sound of the bathroom door opening upstairs was quiet, but it snapped the tension like a frayed wire.
Damon exhaled sharply, dragging a hand down his face. “Well, I’m leaving,” Ric muttered, already snagging his coat off the back of the couch. He didn't even bother looking at anyone as he double-checked for his keys.
“You’re not even gonna say goodbye?” Damon asked, raising a brow.
“I think I said enough,” Ric said, tone clipped, but not unkind.
There was something unfinished in the way he said it—something that didn’t belong in front of Stefan, or Elena, or Bonnie. Damon caught it, but didn’t comment. Instead, he watched as Ric made for the door, pausing just long enough to throw one last glance up the stairs. Then he was gone, boots heavy on the porch, the door swinging shut behind him.
A breath of silence lingered in his wake. Elena looked like she was biting her tongue bloody. Her eyes darted between Damon, Stefan, and the staircase as though trying to decide which line of questioning would get her the fewest lies.
Jeremy shifted beside her. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “We should head home too.”
He placed a guiding hand on his sister’s elbow and turned toward the door. “Tell Stiles I said bye,” he added over his shoulder, voice unsure. There was a strange note of awkwardness in it,
Elena resisted for a second. Her heels skidded against the wooden floor. “Jeremy—”
“No,” he said, not unkindly, but firm. “You need to relax. Come on.”
The front door clicked shut behind them.
And just like that, only three remained.
Bonnie stood in the center of the room, arms folded across her chest. The firelight flickered against her face, casting her expression into a series of unreadable shadows. She didn’t move to leave.
Damon, lounging against the bourbon cart, raised a brow. “You still here, Judgey?”
Bonnie ignored him.
Instead, she studied Stefan, who blinked at her, surprised she hadn’t been the first one out the door. Her silence was measured now, her breaths slow and even—centering herself. The flighty magic-induced haze from earlier was gone. Her shoulders were no longer taut, her aura no longer flickering. Her feet were planted. Her voice, when it came, was low. Serious.
“On the way back from the woods,” she said slowly, “he said something. He didn’t go into detail, but he said someone—or something—was heading toward Mystic Falls. He told us not to worry, that he’d ‘handle it.’”
Damon and Stefan exchanged a look.
“Classic cryptic Stiles,” Damon said. “Why say what you mean when you can act like you’re in a gothic opera.”
Bonnie stepped forward. “He’s not just being dramatic, Damon. His magic was humming when he said it—like it was already reacting to whatever’s getting closer. You might want to actually listen for once.”
“Oh, I am listening,” Damon said, placing his drink down. “And here’s what I hear: my magical, vampire, terrifyingly competent ex-boyfriend shows up out of nowhere, makes my bourbon taste like sunshine and trauma, and announces that something is coming. Sure, yeah. No big deal. Just Tuesday.”
Bonnie gave him a flat look. “You’re deflecting.”
“I’m Damon,” he shot back, gesturing to himself. “That’s my brand.”
Stefan tried not to smile.
Bonnie rolled her eyes. “You’re acting like a sulking teenager. Grow up.”
“Oh, now you sound like him,” Damon muttered.
“I’ll take that as a compliment,” Bonnie snapped.
Stefan cleared his throat, mildly amused despite the tension. “Can we all agree that whatever Stiles meant, it wasn’t just a passing comment? He’s not one to make vague threats unless they matter.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Damon muttered. “He’s the king of ominous one-liners. Great. Duly noted.”
Bonnie took a deep breath, visibly grounding herself again. The sparkle of residual magic still shimmered faintly at her fingertips before fading completely. “Whatever it is, we need to figure it out. Soon.”
Damon met her gaze then, and for a brief second, the sarcasm dropped. His jaw tightened. “I know.”
It wasn’t defeat. Not quite. But it was close.
Bonnie nodded once, sharply, then turned on her heel. “Tell him I said thank you. For earlier.”
Damon raised an eyebrow. “You sure you want to give him a compliment? Might go to his head.”
Bonnie didn’t break stride. “He earned it.”
She reached the door, paused, and added without looking back, “And tell him if he turns my brain into soup again without asking, I’ll stake him.”
Damon grinned faintly. “There she is.”
She was gone with a flick of curls and a soft click of the door.
And just like that, the boarding house was silent.
Again.
Only the two Salvatore brothers remained.
Damon crossed the room and refilled his bourbon glass, his jaw still set. “You think he’s really going to handle it? Whatever it is?”
Stefan folded his arms. “He usually does.”
Damon glanced toward the staircase. “Yeah. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
They were silent for a moment longer, the stillness thick now, no longer peaceful but expectant. Like the house itself was holding its breath.
“Do you think he’s going to stay?” Stefan asked.
Damon didn’t answer right away. He took another sip, then looked up the stairs—toward the guest room that wasn’t really a guest room anymore.
Stiles hadn’t asked to move in.
He just had.
Broken into their house, claimed a bedroom, and made himself comfortable like he’d never left.
Like he belonged.
Like he’d always belonged.
“Of course he’s staying, for now at least,” Damon said eventually. “He picked the biggest room, probably rearranged the furniture, and probably spelled the pillows to fluff themselves.”
He tossed back the rest of the bourbon.
“And worst of all,” Damon muttered, “he didn’t even ask.”
Stefan’s smile was small. “Sounds familiar.”
Damon didn’t return it.
Instead, he looked up at the ceiling with an expression halfway between nostalgia and dread.
“He’s back,” Damon said under his breath. “And it’s not going to be peaceful.”
“Damn, Damon,” Stiles called from the top of the stairs. “Is that what you think of me? That I’m not a peaceful person?”
His voice was lazy, but his smirk was razor-sharp. He descended the stairs in a worn hoodie and silk pajama pants, the kind that screamed unapologetically comfortable. His hair was still damp from a shower, his skin clean, almost glowing in the low light of the Salvatore living room. Stiles looked completely unfazed by the tension hanging in the air like a storm cloud ready to break.
“Rude,” he added with a dramatic pout as he sauntered toward the couch.
He stopped in front of Stefan, ignoring Damon’s scoff entirely. “And how’ve you been? It’s been a minute since I saw your pretty face.”
“A lot better since you haven’t been around,” Damon grumbled, already pouring himself another drink.
Stiles clicked his tongue. “Ugh.” He rolled his eyes dramatically but offered Stefan a more genuine smile. “I wasn’t talking to you, Damon. I could give two donkeys’ right ass cheeks about your opinion.”
Damon made an exaggerated show of pretending to be offended. “That’s not even a real measurement.”
“Sure it is.”
Stefan stifled a laugh as he stood, offering Stiles a brief hug. “I’ve been fine.”
“Have you really?” Stiles asked, too sweetly. “I mean, the both of you, living in the same town as the doppelgänger of your ex-girlfriend? That’s impressive. Borderline unhealthy. At least when I chased my exes, I tried to kill them. You two are just chasing after the same punani.”
Damon choked on his drink.
Stefan’s expression didn’t shift—just a resigned blink and a long sigh, like he was used to this sort of thing.
“She’s not Katherine,” Stefan began.
“Oh boy, here we go,” Stiles cut him off, raising his hand. “She’s not Katherine. She’s not like other girls. You love her. She’s different. Blah, blah, blah.” His tone was mocking, but the twinkle in his eye said he wasn’t really judging. “But you can’t tell me it’s not at least a little weird. Right?”
Stefan frowned, and Stiles immediately reached over and pinched his cheek.
“You’re lucky you can’t get wrinkles anymore, or else you’d be the ugliest bag of bones with a permanent frown line.”
Stefan swatted his hand. “I would not.”
“You would, ” Stiles said sweetly, then lightly slapped him on the cheek twice before flopping down into the nearest couch with all the grace of a cat falling off a table. “But don’t worry. You’re still cute in that brooding, ‘I-read-Kafka-for-fun’ kind of way.”
Damon slid further onto the couch beside Stiles. “Are you done insulting my brother, or do you need flashcards?”
“Relax,” Stiles said, stretching his arms overhead. “I trust you’ve both been good little immortals while I was gone?”
“Not Damon,” Stefan replied without hesitation. “But I’ve been great.”
Damon looked personally offended as he slid onto the couch beside Stiles. “How you gonna shit-talk me in the same room, acting like you’re the holiest angel? Your name is not Gabriel, Stefan.”
Stiles laughed loudly. “And you, Damon? Other than chasing after doppelgängers and losing your shirt in every altercation — been keeping your nose clean?”
Damon leaned on one elbow, grinning lazily. “I’ve been on my best behavior. Bestest. Gold-star good. I think I deserve a cookie. Or a kiss.”
Stiles made a face. “Yeah, I’m not buying that for a second.”
“Still,” he said, cracking his knuckles and stretching, “that’s enough of you being cute for comfort. I know you two are dying to ask me a million questions. So go ahead — ask away. Just keep in mind that I will be vague and evasive unless I actually need your help.”
Both brothers exchanged a glance before nodding.
“Yeah, we know,” Stefan said. “So we’re not going to bother with the interrogation. Just tell us — is it big? And will it affect us?”
Stiles hummed, tilting his head as if running calculations in his mind. “Well, with the new info you gave me? I’d say there’s about a 65% chance it’ll affect you. Maybe more, if you stick your noses where they don’t belong. Which… you will.”
He gave them a look.
“If you ignore it, it’ll pass like a blip. Quick and efficient. I’ll handle it, I’ll smile smugly, and I’ll be out of town shortly.”
He paused, voice softening.
“I do have kids to get back to.”
Damon blinked. “Kids? Whose kids?”
Stiles looked at him flatly. “Mine.”
“Wait. Married? Babies? Your babies?” Damon’s voice went up an octave.
Stiles’ smile faltered, and his tone shifted — quieter, sadder. “Damon… we’re vampires.”
The words hung, weighted and cold.
His breath hitched. For a second, he looked vulnerable, something fractured behind his dark eyes.
The brothers said nothing. Damon looked guilty. Stefan watched quietly.
“Yeah,” Damon said softly. “Totally forgot. Sorry.”
Stiles waved a hand, clearing the moment. “It’s whatever. You asked. The answer is — they’re my family. My pack.”
Both brothers froze.
“Pack?” Stefan echoed. “As in—”
“Werewolves,” Damon said.
“Yeah,” Stiles nodded. “But it wasn’t a real pack. More like… found family. People who stumbled into each other’s orbit at just the right time. You know how that goes. And I have to check on the Orphanage too ”
He ran a hand through his hair and stood up. “Anyway, I’m not planning to stick around Virginia much longer. Your town is kind of… generic.”
Damon snorted. “Coming from you, that’s rich.”
“I mean, hell — between our past chaos and this white-picket-fence soap opera you’ve got going on here? I’d take blood and betrayal any day over brooding porch swings and PTA moms.”
Stefan leaned forward. “You said you’ll handle it. But if there’s even a 65% chance it affects us… do you need help?”
Stiles looked at him and — for once — didn’t dodge the question.
“Because it’s you two?” he said. “I’ll give you a heads-up. If anything.”
Stefan nodded, a small, rare smile touching his face.
Stefan smiled slightly. The tension in the room had mellowed, softened like old velvet.
It was something both brothers felt every time he came back.
There was something about Stiles — his magic, his presence, maybe just his chaotic gravitational pull — that warped the very atmosphere. Within fifteen minutes, the room was different. Looser. Easier.
Damon sank further into the couch, muscles visibly relaxing, his glass forgotten.
Stefan exhaled. Then, casually — too casually — he dropped a name.
“Katherine.”
The name hit like a dropped glass.
“She’s fine,” Stefan said quickly, catching the flicker of concern in Stiles’ eyes. “She was here a few days ago.”
“What?” Stiles sat up straighter. “She was? That’s good. Is she still in town?”
“No clue,” Damon said, shrugging. “She might’ve skipped already. No goodbyes. Typical.”
Stiles hummed thoughtfully. “What would you two do if the whole gang got back together?”
A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips. He stretched languidly, turning to face Damon.
His legs extended toward him, only to be stopped when he found Damon’s thigh in the way. He kicked out, not hard, but pointed enough to get Damon to slide over.
Damon clicked his tongue and retaliated immediately, grabbing Stiles’ ankle and dragging him back across the cushions.
“Always kicking me,” Damon muttered, securing a firm grip on his calf. “You want a leg massage, is that it?”
Stiles glared at him, wiggling his leg. “Touch me again and I’ll enchant your bourbon to taste like boiled sock water.”
“I’d still drink it,” Damon said with a grin, already massaging the muscle.
“I can only imagine,” Stefan said, rolling his eyes. “If all four of us were in the same room again… I’d rather drive a pencil through my eye.”
Stiles pulled his leg from Damon’s grip and thudded it dramatically back onto Damon’s lap.
“You’d love it,” he said, grinning. “Oh, yes. I’ll definitely have to go find my Katerina. We’ll have a tea party, just like in the good old days.”
He paused, eyeing both Salvatore brothers with mock scrutiny.
“Back when you two actually had fashion sense. Maybe I’ll dig through my old trunk, find some of your tailored waistcoats. You know — the ones that didn’t make you look like teenagers pretending to be middle-aged dads.”
Damon snorted — but didn’t stop massaging his calf.
“You’re the worst,” Stefan muttered.
“You love me,” Stiles sang back.
Stefan leaned back in his chair, watching them with something like affection, even if his expression remained impassive.
“So…” Damon said, still massaging Stiles’ leg like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You staying?”
Stiles looked over, quiet for a moment.
“No,” he said softly. “Not long.”
A beat passed.
“But while I am here,” he said, voice shifting lighter again, “you two better entertain me. Or I’m dragging you into my mess, kicking and screaming.”
Damon raised his glass again. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”
Stiles grinned. “That’s the spirit.”
And just like that, the boarding house felt like it had fifty years ago