Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles sits up slowly and presses a hand to his aching head. His temples throb with a sharp, stabbing pain. Something is wrong. He feels wrong, like he's sick with a fever. He's lying on cold cement—not at all like the soft bed he'd fallen asleep in. A gnawing, intense hunger threatens to overwhelm him. It feels like he hasn't eaten in days. He feels like he'll die if he doesn't eat something immediately.

"You're awake."

Stiles shoots to his feet, or at least tries to. He wobbles as he stands and has to lean against the wall for support. He recognizes that voice. It means nothing good.

The door to the small, windowless room he's trapped in opens. Viktor Markov leans against the doorframe, smirking. If it weren't for how incredibly evil Viktor is, Stiles might have been attracted to him. He's tall with long blonde hair, but he dresses like a goth reject from the nineties. Stiles suspects Viktor's much, much older.

Stiles resists the urge to shrink away from the vampire. He absolutely refuses to show how very, very afraid he feels. He doesn't think vampires can smell emotions like werewolves. He hopes they can't. He doesn't want to give Viktor's ego a boost. The guy seems to get off on acting like the villain from a cheesy B horror film.

Stiles once fought off an alpha werewolf with a baseball bat. He isn't going to cower to this asshole.

"It's okay, little rabbit. No need to worry. You're one of us now," Viktor says, his voice pouring out like smooth honey—the same voice that had lured ten of Stiles's classmates to their deaths. Really, people need to start believing him when he says someone is evil. He's always right.

"What are you talking about?" Stiles bites the words out. He knows he shouldn't engage in whatever sick game Viktor is playing but he can't help himself. He needs to know what Viktor means by 'one of us.'

Viktor's smile is far too pleased to mean anything good. "Your pack killed one of mine, so I killed one of theirs." Viktor steps away from the door and gestures for Stiles to precede him. "Come, meet your new brothers and sisters."

"W-what?" Stiles's mind sticks on Viktor's first sentence. "Killed? Who?" There's no one else in the room with him. No dead bodies, which he hopes means none of the pack are dead, except.... Stiles's hand flies to his neck. Two round scabs sit where his neck and shoulder meet. Panic grips his chest in a vice-like hold and he slumps against the wall. "What did you do?" he asks, the words practically a moan.

Fuck. Fuckity fuck. This isn't happening. It doesn't mean what Viktor is implying. It can't.

"I thought you were the smart one," Viktor chides. His smile practically splits his face, it's so wide. "Surely you can figure it out. Come now, we don't have all night."

Stiles's body moves without his input. He follows Viktor in a daze, still reeling from the revelation of his undeath. He's dead. Viktor killed him. He presses two fingers to his wrist, checking for a pulse. He can't find one.

He's a vampire. A monster. Not a 'monster' like any of the werewolves, but an actual needs-to-be-put-down-before-he-hurts-someone monster. Peter and Mr. Argent hadn't had anything good to say about vampires, leading Stiles to believe they were irredeemable.

Fuck. Is the pack going to have to kill him? Would they hesitate? Did he want them to hesitate? Maybe he should take care of it for them, save the pack from Scott's inevitable moral dilemma and the ensuing argument.

Whatever happens, it's going to end tonight. He will not let himself become like Viktor or his bloodthirsty vamps. Too many people have died. Viktor needs to be stopped.

It's stupid, but with his determination comes a fierce melancholy. He's never going to see his dad or any of his friends again. He's never going to finish high school or go to college or do any of the things he'd planned to after graduation. He won't be there for Scott when he gets married or has his first kid. They aren't going to share a nursing home, like they always joked.

Viktor leads them down a short hallway full of empty doorways and empty offices, then through a metal door to the main room of the warehouse the vampires are squatting in. Stiles should have guessed they were in a warehouse when they couldn't find any sign of vampires in Viktor's home.

Dim fluorescent lights illuminate the room. The windows are all boarded over. The main floor is a mess of bloody mattresses, broken furniture, and lifeless bodies. As Viktor leads him further into the large, open room, Stiles spots the other vampires. There are seven of them, more than they'd thought and definitely more than Stiles wants to deal with. They're gathered around something, chattering in low, excited voices.

"Now, now, children," Viktor says. "Make way and show Stiles his prize."

The vampires turn with a chorus of snickers. Stiles jolts. He recognizes three of the vampires as his missing classmates, the ones who hadn't turned up dead. He can't process further than that, can't wonder what made these three different from the ones that had been killed, because he recognizes another face. In the center of the group is a middle-aged man tied to a chair.

"Dad!" Stiles tries to dart forward but Viktor catches his arm in a steely grip. No matter how hard Stiles struggles, he can't get closer. At least his dad is still alive, and not too badly injured from what Stiles can see.

"We mustn't rush, Stiles. The first meal should be savored."

Stiles's stomach drops. He turns to Viktor with disbelief. "What?"

Stiles is getting very sick of Viktor's stupid, smug smile. "I take care of my children, Stiles. They're precious to me. You're precious." Viktor reaches toward Stiles's face, but Stiles stumbles backward. Viktor chuckles and drops his hand. "Now, you must be hungry. You can feel it, can't you? The hunger deep in your veins? It calls out for nourishment. Just breathe in and you'll know. You'll feel what your body craves."

Stiles inhales before he can think better of it. The pain in his stomach doubles, causing him to fold in half. But he can smell what Viktor was referring to—an aroma better than any cheeseburger or pizza, promising an end to his hunger. He feels his mouth reshape itself to make room for sharp fangs, not unlike a werewolf's canines. He wants to scream, to rage against the hold Viktor has on him, but all his senses are homed in on that amazing smell, blocking out thoughts of danger and despair. He turns, takes one step towards his father, and freezes.

His father. He can smell his dad's blood.

Stiles gags and tries to turn away. Viktor's hands grip his face, gently turning him back toward that delicious aroma. It takes only a light touch. Stiles wants to resist but he can't.

He can't.

"It's okay, Stiles. We brought this one just for you."

"No," he says, even as he takes another step toward Noah.

"Eat, Stiles." Viktor's voice echoes through the warehouse, surrounding him. It isn't just sound anymore. It's in his head, in his thoughts, wrapping around him like a warm embrace, a tight cocoon of obedience. He wants to give in, to do exactly what Viktor tells him to do.

"This is for you," Viktor croons in Stiles's ear. His tone is seductive, like he's talking about taking Stiles's virginity, not making Stiles murder his dad. "Your first taste. It will be so delicious."

He squeezes his eyes shut. It doesn't help. Without seeing Noah, the scent becomes so much harder to resist.

"That's it, Stiles. I know you can do it. Give in to the desire."

Stiles shakes his head. His nose brushes against fabric, and he opens his eyes to stare at the exposed flesh directly in front of him. When had he crossed the room? When had he gotten so close?

Viktor pets the back of Stiles's head. His fingers brush through Stiles's hair and guide Stiles forward. Stiles's fangs ache to sink into flesh. It would be so easy. So simple. Just drink. Drink and be one of them.

Stiles jerks to the side, tumbling and rolling until he lands in a pile of broken furniture. His hand hits something jagged, and he gropes after it, tightening his fingers around a short length of wood while Viktor laughs.

"You shouldn't fight it. You're going to lose, just like your pathetic pack. You're going to be our Trojan Horse, you see. Our invitation in so we can kill the rest of those pesky dogs."

Stiles feels Viktor's influence pushing against his mind, trying to pull him under but the thought of losing his dad, of losing his friends, keeps him at the brink. He stands, the hand with his makeshift stake hidden behind him.

"That's it," Viktor says, practically purring with smug superiority. Stiles hated Viktor from the moment he'd shown up at their lacrosse game two months ago, lurking in the stands and eying the cheerleaders like they were prime cuts of beef. It didn't help that Viktor kept hitting on Stiles every time they ran into each other. The guy would have given Matt Daehler a run for stalker of the year. "Eat."

Stiles moves slowly, keeping the stake hidden behind his back. He pretends like he's still under thrall, like he'd seen Jennifer Cassidy move after their last home game, like Viktor is a magnet pulling him forward. Viktor waits with his hand on Noah's head, tilting it to the side in offering. Stiles hates the way his fangs itch so desperately to drink the blood he can see pulsing just beneath Noah's skin.

He leans forward, like he's about to drink and then turns—faster than he should be able—and rams the makeshift stake into Viktor's chest. Viktor stares down at the piece of wood like its presence offends him. He's visibly taken aback.

"Impossible." That's the only word Viktor is able to get out before red lines crawl over his skin and he turns to ash.

The warehouse descends into chaos. Stiles moves in a circle around Noah, deflecting each vampire's attack before it can land. He's suddenly so grateful for the training Mr. Argent and Peter forced on him. If he ever gets to see them again, he should thank them because now, when he really needs it, his body moves exactly like they'd trained him.

One by one the vampires turn to ash or flee until the warehouse is silent save for Noah's breathing. He killed two of his classmates, and their faces as they turned to ash are images that Stiles is never going to get out of his brain. He drops the stake and turns to the ropes tying Noah to the chair. All he has to do is think about it and tiny claws sprout from his fingertips, much more delicate-looking than what his friendly neighborhood werewolves sport, but just as sharp.

Once the ropes are gone, he stares at the mess around him. Noah's still out cold, hopefully from some chemical Viktor had given him and not from anything that would leave permanent damage. Stiles can see the exit to the building, left hanging open after the last vampire had fled, but he would have to pick Noah up or drag him through that door and that meant getting uncomfortably close. That meant bringing his fangs near flesh.

He steps back and takes a deep breath. Oxygen is no longer a necessity for him, but the act of inhaling and exhaling helps, like his therapist taught him back when his mom died and he'd started having panic attacks. It sooths him enough that he can think, even with the distracting smell of blood.

No drinking. Ever. He isn't going to become a monster. He's going to make sure Noah is safe and alive, then fix his vampire problem before any of his friends have to take him out.

His fangs recede and he shakes out his hands, dancing a little on the spot to hype himself up before stepping up to Noah. Very carefully, he lifts Noah into a fireman's carry. He doesn't breathe, but he can still feel the warmth of fresh blood pulsing beneath his hands, almost vibrating against his touch. It calls out to him. He tries his best to ignore it.

There are no cars parked outside, nothing but dark, empty buildings as far as he can see. He walks three blocks before he finds a payphone, mentally thanking whoever on the Beacon Hills Town Council insists on keeping a few working payphones in the city. He gently places Noah on the curb, leaning him against the phone booth, and calls 911. He gives them just enough information to find Noah and nothing else. He drops the phone, letting it dangle on the cord and ignores the operator's attempts to get his name or any other details. He hides in an alley, arms wrapped around himself in an effort to hold himself together until the ambulance arrives to take Noah to safety.

Then, he runs. It's exhilarating. He's probably as fast as the wolves, if not faster. He jumps up a fire escape staircase and then hops from rooftop to rooftop, leaping over wide distances like they're nothing more than a crack in the sidewalk.

He makes his way through the city back to his house. The front door hangs open. That's probably how the vampires got in. Hadn't he warned Noah not to invite strangers inside? No one listens to him. He's surprised the house lets him in. Maybe it's still considered his territory.

Not for much longer.

He slowly walks to his room, savoring the feel of the wooden railing beneath his hand as he climbs the stairs. He stops at each picture that he passes, burning the faces into his memory. His bedroom seems so different than when he'd gone to sleep only a few hours ago. He can pick up scents now that he couldn't before—his dad's aftershave, Scott's favorite brand of chips, the leather of Derek's favorite jacket, and Lydia's perfume. There are hints of leftover Mountain Dew and discarded pizza in his trash can. Dirty laundry. Old books. Musty sheets.

He can smell the lingering stench of the vampires that kidnapped him from his bed.

He sits at his computer and stares at the dark screen for a moment before logging on. He starts by deleting his social media accounts. He clears his browsing history and cache, deletes all the porn off his hard drive. He had an essay half-finished for English Tuesday. He's supposed to help Erica and Isaac with their math homework tomorrow.

He goes through his room. The porn magazines and dildo he keeps under his bed go in the trash. He tosses the bottle of lube from his nightstand drawer in as well. He makes the bed, then sets out everything that he wants to give away to specific people in neat piles labeled with sticky notes.

Once that's done, he sits at his computer again. Stiles opens his email and starts a new draft. He doesn't think, just types until he runs out of words. Each packmate gets an email, one after another until he's run out of people he'll miss and who might miss him.

He closes his computer and grabs the first notebook he can find. Writing a letter to Noah is harder, not just because the words feel more real as he lays them out on lined paper, but because it's his dad. It's going to be hard for him, losing Stiles. He'll need all the support he can get.

He sets the note out where his dad will find it on the kitchen table, then goes through the cabinets, pouring out every bit of alcohol they have. Upstairs, his phone explodes with multiple text messages. He'd assumed everyone would be asleep at this hour, but apparently not.

He leaves through the back door, taking a bag of trash with him to leave in the bin, then sets off to the Preserve. It's almost three in the morning. He doesn't have much longer to wait.

There's a spot at the edge of the Preserve that Scott had shown him, a place where Scott and Allison used to meet up for dates. A small cliff looks out over Beacon Hills. That's where Stiles goes. He sits and watches the flickering lights of the city—streetlamps, houses, offices where people are either working far too late or far too early. Some lights go out. More come on.

He's going to miss this place. He's going to miss fighting the monster of the week. He's going to miss lacrosse and being a loser in high school and taking tests and doing homework. He's going to miss his dad and Melissa and the pack.

But he can't stay. He's spent too long saving people from the things that go bump in the night to become one, even if that means giving up his future and everything that comes with it.

He lets himself imagine what it would be like to stay and see his friends grow into the awesome adults he knows they will be. He'd always planned on following his dad into law enforcement and Scott is going to be a vet, but what about the others? Would Jackson mellow as he got older? Would they get to see more of that soft, vulnerable side that Isaac tries to hide? Would Lydia and Erica combine their awesome powers to take over the world?

He sighs. It isn't worth thinking about all the things he's going to miss. His heart hurts enough as it is. He shouldn't make it harder on himself. He's doing the right thing.

Why does the right thing always feel so awful?

The sky's lightening on the other side of the city. There's an almost deafening urge inside of him to run and hide from the light but he's not going to. He's going to face it head-on. The sunrise has never been such a dangerous thing. Instead of the promise of a new day, it feels like a timer running out.

He doesn't have much longer. Will it hurt when the sun's rays touch him? How long will it take him to burn to ash? Is there an afterlife for vampires or is there just nothing? He doesn't want to be stuck in eternal nothing, but then, will he even be aware of it?

Will he see his mom?

Will she be horrified of what he's become?

"Stiles!"

Erica's voice breaks Stiles from his thoughts. He stands and turns, watching in horror as she tilts her head back and howls. She's letting the rest of the pack know where he is. The sound scares him more than the sunrise.

"What the hell is going on?" Erica says as she marches forward. "I should be sleeping right now instead of chasing down your dumb ass."

He holds up his hands, both in an attempt to placate her and a warning to keep away. He can't let her get close. He can't let any of them close.

He's so fucking hungry.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes an unnecessary breath. "Erica, go away."

She ignores him. Typical. Her face is twisted into a scowl of annoyance. He's only ever been a bother to her. He hasn't had time to become anything more.

"Did you email everyone?" she asks. "I don't know what you said to them, but Derek and Scott are freaking out. You even have Peter rattled. I don't think I've ever seen him rattled." Her eyes narrow. "Did you kill someone? Come on. What's going on?"

His laugh is the wrong side of hysterical. She doesn't know how close she is to guessing the truth.

Stiles swallows down this temporary madness and stares at the tree line like it's full of monsters. He hasn't thought of werewolves as monsters in a long time. Only Peter's mad Alpha-form lived up to that name.

No, he's the real monster here.

He can't let them see him like this. It'll destroy every good memory of what he was. "Call them off," he says, voice steadier than he feels. "Tell them not to come here."

Erica arches an eyebrow. "Too late for that." She tilts her head toward the woods in time for Boyd and Isaac to come crashing through the underbrush.

"No." Stiles shakes his head and takes a step toward the cliff. "No. You weren't supposed to come looking for me. You aren't supposed to be here. Scott..." Scott's going to try to stop him. He can't even think about facing Peter or Derek. "Tell them to go away or..." Stiles glances behind him. "Or I'll jump."

Erica frowns. "I can't tell if you're bluffing." Her frown deepens as she stares at him. "Why can't I hear your heartbeat?" He sees the moment she gets it. "Stiles," she asks slowly, "what's that on your neck?"

Stiles closes his eyes. He feels like he should be crying. Can vampires not cry? Probably not. Either his endocrine system isn't sending hormones to his ocular area or there is no fluid in his tear ducts.

He licks his lips. It's a reflexive gesture. His mouth is dry, but not unpleasantly so. "The vampires... they had my dad."

"Your dad's fine," Isaac says. "He's the one who called Scott. He sounded pretty upset. He thought you'd killed yourself."

Stiles shakes his head. He has to laugh a little. "I didn't..." He looks over his shoulder. The sun's coming up. He can feel a warning tingle on his bare hands and the back of his neck. "Well, I am, but... You can't kill something that's already dead."

"They bit you." Boyd says it so matter-of-factly, like it doesn't mean the end of everything for Stiles.

Stiles nods. Boyd's always been perceptive.

There's another burst of noise from the woods. "Stiles, thank God," Scott says as he rushes forward. Stiles can't move. He should be running away but he stands there, frozen, as Scott's arms wrap around him in a crushing hug. "We thought you were dead. All those emails... And your dad... What did you say to your dad? He's freaking out."

Stiles lets himself fall into Scott's embrace. His stomach twists in agony, aching for blood that's so close, but he fights it. Just a little longer. He needs this. He needs this last moment of comfort.

"Stiles?"

He pulls back and holds Scott at arm's length. "It's okay," Stiles says, though the roughness of his voice gives away the lie.

Scott frowns. He tilts his head. "Are you okay? You look... pale."

"He's been turned." When did Erica get so close? She hovers over Scott's shoulder, staring at the bite mark Viktor left.

His neck feels like it's sunburnt. His instincts scream at him to run, to hide, to save himself. He steps closer to the sun, putting more distance between him and the pack. "I took care of most of the vampires. Viktor's gone. The rest shouldn't be difficult to get rid of."

Scott's frown deepens. "What do you mean you took care of them?" He takes a step closer. Stiles matches it by taking a step back. The cliff edge is barely a foot behind him. Scott's eyes dart to the edge then back to Stiles. He holds his hand out. "Stiles, come away from the edge. It's dangerous. We can sit down over here and talk about it." Scott gestures to the rock Stiles had just vacated.

Stiles shakes his head. "I didn't have a choice. They had my dad. They were..." A lump catches in Stiles throat and he swallows it down. "You have to understand. They were going to kill him. I couldn't let them hurt him. He's my dad."

Scott attempts another step forward and then stops as Stiles starts to move away. "Dude. Buddy. We can talk about this. You don't have to do anything dramatic."

The smell of burning flesh hits Stiles's nose. He lifts his hands and stares with morbid curiosity as smoke starts to rise off his flesh in delicate tendrils. "It's too late, Scotty. It's all going to be over soon. No more vampires."

"What? You..."

"Stiles!" Lydia's voice reaches him as more figures pour out of the woods. They'd come looking for him. All of them. He's touched, but it's too late.

"I'd hoped to spare you this part," Stiles says, his voice rising high as his back erupts in pain. He falls to his knees screaming. Fuck. It hurts. It hurts so bad. He's on fire. His body's literally burning.

Voices surround him. Hands press against his burnt skin and the pain lessens as the werewolves try to take it away. But it's too late. Too late. He feels himself tumbling, falling away into shadows. Into darkness. Into nothing.

To: Peter Hale <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: Bad Timing

I love you. Shitty time to tell you, I know, but I've never been good at rejection. At least this way, I don't have to live with the consequences. It's selfish of me to tell you now, but I really do love you. All of you, not just the polite mask you use to fit in with normal humans, but the wolf as well. Fangs and fur and everything.

You were right, by the way. I should have let you bite me.

Be good to Derek. He needs you.

Love,

Stiles

Chapter Text

Stiles opens his eyes. This is unexpected and unwelcome. He sits up and hisses as the movement tugs at the burnt skin on his back and hands. He stinks of blood and smoke and dead flesh.

"You're awake."

That's the second time Stiles has heard those words and they're just as unpleasant now as they were then. He turns and glares through the iron bars at Peter. Peter stands with his arms crossed and a scowl on his face.

"You can't do this," Stiles hisses. He pushes himself upright despite the pain and hobbles over to grip the bars. "I had a plan. I had it handled."

Peter raises one eyebrow. "Killing yourself? That was your masterful plan?"

"It's better than this," Stiles spits. "What do you think's going to happen? What do you think I'm going to become? You saw what Viktor and his cronies did. You were the one that told us not to reason with vampires, that they were immoral and irredeemable. Do you think I'm going to be any better?"

"You are better."

Stiles laughs. He's so hungry. "No, I'm not."

The pain makes his hunger worse. He craves blood. Blood will heal his wounds. Blood will fill the aching void inside of him.

He lets his fangs descend. "I'm a monster," he says, slurring a little around the fangs. "A monster that you let live."

He shoves away from the bars and paces the tiny cell. It's only three steps from one end to the other but he has to move.

"Do you know how hard it was not to kill my father? To not drink from him until every drop of blood was gone? I could have killed him!"

"But you didn't!"

He whirls back to face Peter. "I almost did! I had my fangs at his throat. I'm so goddamn hungry. I don't have anything to compare it to. It's worse than craving curly fries or being hungry from missing a few meals, it's like something alive inside of me." He pounds on his chest. "It's in me and it's not ever going away. That's what I am now."

He feels his senses sharpen as he lets his vampiric instincts loose. He stalks up to the bars like the predator he now is. "I'm a monster that feeds on blood and I just want to eat and eat and eat."

Peter pushes away from the wall and walks over. He holds his arm through the bars right next to Stiles's head. "Then eat."

Stiles jerks back. That isn't the response he'd planned for. He isn't... He can't... Before he even realizes what he's doing, his fangs sink into Peter's forearm and warm, delicious blood pours into his mouth. He moans. It's like an orgasm in liquid form. He can feel the warmth of it spreading through him, lighting up every cell of his being. He's never felt so alive.

A hand presses against his forehead, pushing his mouth away. He whines and reaches forward but Peter's already stepping back, moving away from the bars. "Do you feel better?"

Peter's voice jolts Stiles back to reality. He stares at the puncture wounds on Peter's arm. They've already stopped bleeding. He stares down at his own hands, tinged pink with blood.

What has he done?

"No!" Stiles staggers back until he hits the wall. "No, no, no, no." He trembles. It felt so good. He can still taste the copper in his mouth. Blood. That's blood. He falls to his knees and retches, but nothing comes out. He doesn't want this. He doesn't want to hurt anyone. He doesn't want to be a monster.

He curls in on himself and sobs. Peter's words echo in his ears. He does feel better. The pain is gone. The hunger is less. His burns have healed in seconds. There's a warmth in his chest that wasn't there before.

He feels so much better. He hates himself for feeling that way.

"Did you really think we were going to let you die?"

Stiles raises his head slowly. He expects Peter to leave him down here. Stiles knows exactly where they are—under the rebuilt pack house. He'd helped design these cages. They're strong enough to hold the betas during the full moon. He'd never expected to end up inside one himself.

Peter sits on the floor just outside the cage door. His expression is blank as he stares at Stiles. "Did you think we wouldn't put up a fight?"

Stiles shrugs. He moves so that his back rests against the wall. "I thought..." He shakes his head. "I know I'm not pack, not really. I'm just Scott's tagalong. The weak, pathetic human." He laughs bitterly. "At least I was. Besides, you don't even like me. I didn't think you'd miss me. Scott and my dad, yeah, but the rest of the pack? Half of them didn't even know me a year ago, and the other half ignored my existence."

Peter's gaze turns toward the ceiling. He's silent for a moment, listening to whatever they have to say. Stiles wonders how many of the pack are listening in.

Whatever the pack said, Peter doesn't relay it. He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "So, you decided to send the entire pack personal emails telling us good-bye, making us think you're about to do something really stupid—which suicide by sunlight definitely counts as—and you expected us not to come looking for you?"

Peter's angry. Very angry. His claws dig into the fabric of his jeans. His eyes blaze blue and for a second, it looks like he's going to start yelling. Instead, he glances up at the ceiling, then looks at Stiles and speaks in a low hiss. "You know what you wrote to me, and I..." Peter pins him with a look. "I couldn't just ignore that."

Stiles shrinks inwards with embarrassment. He wonders if vampires can blush. "I was hoping you would."

Peter tilts his head and frowns. "Why?" His tone makes it very clear that he expects an answer.

Stiles looks away. He picks at a rip in his pajama pants. God, he's filthy. He's covered in blood, soot, dirt, and who knows what else. He really liked these pajamas, and they're ruined now. Just like his life.

"I thought... I mean, you don't..." He swallows and forces the words out of his mouth, damn whoever is listening. "You don't feel the same."

"I think that's my call, not yours."

Stiles slowly looks back over at Peter. That blank expression is back, but it's better than the disgust Stiles expected. Stiles licks his lips. He isn't a brave person, not really, but he's been through enough in the last twenty-four hours that he feels like he doesn't have anything left to lose. "Then can you at least let me down gently? I've had a rough day."

Peter snorts and shakes his head. "And if I don't want to let you down at all?"

Stiles lets his head fall back against the wall. He's tired. Is it still light out? How long has he been unconscious? "What does that mean?"

"That I might like you back."

Stiles sighs and closes his eyes. He wants to argue about how they have the worst timing ever. How none of this was ever supposed to work out. "You can't love me. I'm a monster."

He's so tired. He doesn't want this cursed existence.

"Someone once said that about me. I plan to prove you wrong."

He hears Peter stand but nothing after that.

To: Scott McCall <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: To the best brother-from-another-mother

Hey, bro. I'm sorry to do this to you. I really am. Just know that the decisions I made were the right decisions at the time and the people responsible won't be able to hurt anyone anymore.

You're going to miss me, and I'm going to miss you, but it'll be okay. You've got the pack now. It's not just you and me against the world. Let them help you. I want someone to tell my dad what happened. Give him the full story. No more lies. It's going to hurt him, but he needs to know why. Please take care of him for me. I'm all he has left. Don't leave him alone.

The password for my laptop is S0urw00f and my locker combination is 12-24-3. Also, there's a pile of books hidden under my t-shirts that need to go back to Deaton.

Your bro,

Stiles

Chapter Text

Stiles looks up when the basement door opens. Multiple footsteps echo through the room. Peter—the only one who's been down in the basement so far—is first in line with Derek and Scott following. Their arms are laden with boxes and bags. Boyd and Isaac follow, carrying a twin-sized mattress between them.

Peter drops his bags by the cage door, then pulls a keyring from his pocket. He reaches for the padlock on the cage door.

Stiles jumps to his feet and backs away as far as he can. "What are you doing!?"

Peter arches an eyebrow at him, and yeah, the answer is pretty obvious, but he doesn't understand why. The lock clicks open in Peter's hands.

Stiles shakes his head and presses into the corner. "You can't let me out. I'm a monster. Please, I don't want to hurt anyone."

Scott moves to stand next to Peter. It's so strange seeing them present a united front. "You're not a monster, Stiles."

Oh, Scott and his blind trust of everyone. Stiles shakes his head again, but Scott speaks before Stiles has the chance.

"You're not!" Scott's eyes flash yellow. There's a bit of growl in his words. "You're the one that helped me see that when I was turned, and I refuse to believe you are either."

"I almost killed my dad!"

"But you didn't!" Scott yelled back, unknowingly echoing the argument he'd had with Peter yesterday.

Derek claps a hand on Scott's shoulder and pulls him back. "You can learn control, just like we all did. You think it's easy for us? It's not. You've seen Scott struggle. You've seen Peter feral. You may have turned, but you're still you. You've still got your mind and your conscience."

"We're going to help you," Scott says. He offers a crooked smile. "I'm going to be here for you, just like you've always been there for me."

Stiles groans and tugs at his hair. The pain is grounding, helping him think. "So, this is your solution?" Stiles gestures at the cage bars. "Keep me locked up until you decide I'm tame enough? Then what? Are you going to have someone following me 24/7 to make sure I don't slip up and eat someone?"

Peter pulls open the cage door and steps inside. "Is that what you think we're doing? Holding you captive?" He moves closer, until he's an arm's length away. He smiles but it's not a happy expression. "Stiles, you're in here to make sure you don't try to kill yourself again, not because we're worried that you're going to go on a killing spree."

Stiles stares. He's on suicide watch? What the fuck?

Peter holds out his hand. "Now, come along. You need a shower, badly."

Stiles shrinks back. "No." He doesn't want to risk hurting anyone, especially his pack.

Scott takes a step forward. "You're not in this alone. We're going to help you. All of us."

Peter regards Stiles. "Would it help if I stayed with you?"

Stiles considers the offer. Peter was able to push Stiles off while he was feeding. Peter's strong enough to stop Stiles if he tries to escape.

He nods. "Only if you promise to stop me if I try to leave the house."

"Deal," Peter says. He grabs Stiles's wrist and tugs him toward the cage door.

"I brought you some clothes from home," Scott says. He lifts one of the bags and holds it out for Stiles to take. "Your dad wants to come see you."

Stiles quickly shakes his head. "No! You can't!"

"He needs to know you're okay." Scott takes a step closer. "You didn't see him, man. He's wrecked."

Stiles pauses. "What... What did you tell him?"

"The truth," Derek says. "We told him everything. It's the only way we could keep him from storming down here."

Stiles doesn't know what to say to that. He's tried for so long to keep his dad out of the supernatural mess. In the end, Noah's smack in the middle of everything. Because of Stiles. Because they didn't stop the vampires soon enough.

Peter places a hand on Stiles's lower back and guides him out of the basement.

They don't run into anyone else on the short trip from the basement to the closest bathroom on the second floor. Stiles isn't sure if that's disappointing or not. He doesn't trust himself around other people. He barely trusts himself around Peter. He's hungry again, but not enough that he's worried about attacking anyone. Yet.

It's a relief when Peter follows him into the bathroom and leans back against the closed door. There isn't a window in this bathroom. There's no way for him to escape.

He doesn't think about Peter's eyes on him as he strips off his clothes. His sense of dignity got left behind with his mortal life. He steps into the shower, slides the glass door shut, and turns the water on as hot as he can stand. It's considerably warmer than he'd normally use but he needs to feel the heat on his skin. He revels in it for a few glorious minutes before actually showering.

He stands under the spray and watches as the dirty water swirls down the drain in streaks of red and brown.

"Thank you," he says. "For doing all this. For watching over me."

Peter's snort of laughter is barely muffled by the glass. "Yes, it's such a hardship."

Stiles glances over at Peter. His figure is distorted by the glass so that Peter's more of a swirl of colors than a discernible person. "You don't have to, and I appreciate it."

Peter just hums in response.

Stiles grabs the first shampoo bottle he finds. He's not sure whose it is. He doesn't go upstairs in the pack house unless he's crashing in one of the guest rooms after a late night of research. He prefers to shower in his own bathroom at home, but he definitely doesn't trust himself enough for that.

"You're not a burden," Peter says while Stiles is working the shampoo into a lather. "It's not a chore to help you. I volunteered."

Stiles opens his mouth to ask, but he thinks he knows the answer anyway. Peter had implied that he cared about Stiles, maybe not the same way Stiles loves Peter but close. Stiles hadn't believed it at the time, but he can imagine, if their positions were reversed, that Stiles would be the one volunteering to help Peter in any way he could.

It's a sobering thought.

Aside from enjoying the warmth, he doesn't linger in the shower. He works quickly, methodically, to clean himself of the last forty-eight hours. Has it really been only that long? It might have been less. He hasn't kept track of time. He doesn't have a reason to.

When he turns off the water, the glass door slides open wide enough for Peter to hand him a towel. Stiles takes it with muttered thanks. He dries himself off quickly, then wraps the towel around his waist. He steps out of the shower and pauses. Peter's eyes are on him and there's no hesitancy in his gaze. His eyes rove over Stiles's exposed skin with naked hunger.

Oh.

Maybe Peter really does like him the same way.

To: Derek Hale <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: Don't be a sourwolf

The vampires are gone. I killed Viktor. You're welcome. A few of his minions escaped but I don't think they'll be hanging around without their leader, but if they do, they should be easy pickings.

I know I don't have much room to ask for favors, but please look out for Scott for me, if you can. I know he's bad at being a werewolf but he's trying. He's going to do dumb things and be stubborn, but he's a good guy and he'll make a great beta.

Speaking of betas, maybe be a bit nicer to the ones you have? I know you're still new-ish to being an Alpha, but they've had sucky lives and so have you. You deserve nice things. All of you do, and I think you could be really good to each other if you tried. They're your family now. Let them be one.

I know you still hate Peter for killing Laura. I know he's sorry for what happened. Sorry won't bring your family back but maybe you can keep what remains.

I'm sorry for getting you arrested and thinking you were the bad guy. You never were. You didn't deserve the shit we threw at you, and I don't think we ever apologized for it. You were only trying to help.

I'm sorry I wasn't a better friend.

Wishing you only the best,

Stiles

Chapter Text

Stiles doesn't magically feel better after the shower, but he at least feels clean.

Derek's waiting in the basement. Stiles is shocked at how different it seems. He can't have been gone more than half an hour, but the little cell is transformed. There's a mattress on the floor, fitted with sheets, blankets, and a pillow. Two fuzzy rugs obscure most of the concrete floor. A stack of large cushions is piled in one corner, almost like a nest. There's a box of books next to the nest, a mix of mythology and comic books. There's a small cooler and two plastic bags of junk food.

Can he even eat food anymore? He's constantly hungry, but not for food.

Stiles steps inside the cell and turns. He feels better when Peter locks the door behind him. It makes him feel safe, like without the lock Stiles could stumble upon a random person in the Hales' basement. He's more worried about stumbling into Lydia or Melissa or his dad.

He drops to sit on the bed and regards Derek. Peter leaves, though Stiles has no idea if it's to give Derek privacy or because he's taking a break from babysitting Stiles.

Derek reaches into the pocket of his jeans and holds out a large bronze disc. "I pulled this from the vault for you."

Stiles rises and moves forward, compelled by curiosity. He reaches through the bars. Derek hands him the disc. It's slightly warm from being in Derek's pocket, but other than that, there doesn't seem to be anything special about it. Stiles flips it over. There's a scratch mark on the back, like something was scraped off.

"Do you know what that symbol means?" Derek asks.

Stiles flips the disc back over. He runs his thumb along the spiral. "It's a triskele. A trinity symbol. It has a lot of meanings and can stand for pretty much any set of three. Christians use it for the holy trinity. Pagans use it for the triple goddess. It can mean past, present, and future."

Derek nods and shoves his hands in his pockets. "For my family, it's a symbol about werewolves. Alpha, beta, and omega. The spiral reminds us that we can always rise to one or fall to another. Betas can become Alphas, but Alphas can also fall to Betas or even Omegas."

"Okay." Stiles regards the disk. "I don't think that's a thing for vampires. I think it's just sire and fledglings, or whatever we're called."

"We also use it for control," Derek continues. "My mom used it to teach Laura and I how to control our shifts. I used it to teach my betas."

Stiles stares at the disc. It seems too simple, like such a small object couldn't possibly help anyone. "How?"

Derek shifts closer to the cage bars. "Hold the disc in your hand. Focus on the weight of the metal. Let it ground you. Repeat the mantra: 'Alpha, Beta, Omega.' With each repetition, feel yourself becoming calmer, more in control."

Stiles glances up at Derek. "And that worked for you?"

Derek's lips quirk in a rueful smile. "No, actually. I learned a different way. But it worked for Isaac, Erica, and Boyd. It can work for you too."

Stiles flips the disc. He spins it between his fingers. Triskele, blank, triskele, blank. He thinks the mantra, but he doesn't feel any calmer. Not yet. It reminds him of when he was younger, right after his mom died. The school counselor had tried to get Stiles to meditate, saying it would help with the panic attacks that had been so frequent back then.

It hadn't worked then. He doesn't think it'll work now, but it's not like he has anything else to do.

"What did work for you?" Stiles holds up the disc. "If this didn't."

Derek looks away and shuffles his feet. "I learned the same way Peter did. I focused on my anger and rage. It got easier, after the fire, when that was all I felt, all the time."

Stiles cocks his head as he regards Derek. He can see that with the Derek they first met, but now? Derek's mellowed a lot since he gained his betas, thanks to the growing stability of their pack.

"And now?"

Derek looks up at the ceiling and smiles shyly. "All of you. The pack. That's what keeps me in control. Knowing that I have people who need me. Knowing that I can rely on them if I need anything. There's still parts we need to work on, ways we could all grow together as a pack, but what we've built here is solid. It's a foundation."

Stiles had never considered how much the pack affected Derek. He knew how it affected himself and Scott. Even Derek's betas, Lydia, and Jackson have benefitted. Isaac, Erica, and Jackson have mellowed, rounded out their sharp edges. Lydia doesn't pretend to be dumb. Boyd isn't a silent ghost in the halls of Beacon Hills High.

They're friends. All of them. Stiles can say with certainty that he's friends with Derek. Hell, he's friends with Jackson and Lydia, which would have seemed impossible a year ago.

He drops back onto the mattress and stares at the metal in his hands. He spins it and repeats the words in his head. Alpha, beta, omega. Alpha, beta, omega.

He can see how that would help a werewolf, but it doesn't connect with him. He has nowhere to go. He's definitely never going to be a sire. He refuses to spread the curse. He doesn't want to live long enough to get the opportunity to turn anyone, which is why he's locked in the cage to begin with.

He traces the spirals with his thumb. No, he needs something else to focus on. He doesn't have any anger or rage, at least not any after he'd killed Viktor. The pack would be a better option. When he thinks about them, about Derek and the rest, he can feel warm fondness settle in his chest.

In his peripheral vision, Derek pulls out a chair next to the small card table that had made its way to the basement. He picks up a paperback that had been left on the table and starts to read.

Okay, so conversation is done then. Derek's serious about getting Stiles to focus.

He thinks of sets of threes and discards them, one after another, until a silly thought hits him. He traces the spirals and thinks of his dad and Scott and Peter. Father, brother, potential lover? He bites his lip to hold in a laugh. It's stupid, surely. It wouldn't work. But he doesn't stop.

He traces over each spiral, flowing from one into the other, picturing himself as the connection between the three spirals. He loves his dad, he loves Scott, and he loves Peter, each in different ways but deeply, fiercely. He loves like a fire in his chest and that's what he focuses on. On protecting his father. On Scott's assurance that Stiles isn't a monster. On Peter's promise to prove Stiles wrong.

He's not sure if it's the coin or the mantra but it feels like it helps.

To: Erica Reyes <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: You're Amazing

Hey, Catwoman. You're beautiful. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise. And you don't need makeup or skimpy clothes to prove it, though you do rock the look. Your beauty's in your smile. In the way you move. In your confidence and courage. Stay sassy and don't let anyone make you feel like you're not worthwhile, because you are.

If I'd known you had a crush on me, I would have gone for you, seizures and all.

You've got this,

Stiles

To: Isaac Lahey <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: A Favor

Hey, I know we haven't really been close at all, but I wanted to say that I admire you. You're strong. Stronger than the rest of us, I think, considering what you've been through. You put up this tough exterior like you don't care, like you think that will protect you. I don't know why you're trying to protect yourself from the rest of the pack. They like you. I liked you. Let them in.

Also, keep an eye on Derek and Scott for me. I know I was jealous of you and Scott becoming friends, but it's only been me and Scott for so long that I didn't remember what it was like to have other people to care about too. Be his best friend when I can't and make sure he does his homework, because he will forget and he'll fail everything and that will make me sad.

Thanks,

Stiles

To: Vernon Boyd <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: Look Out for Them

I wish we'd had a chance to get to know each other better. You're smarter than you let on. Don't let Derek or Scott do anything stupid. Keep them grounded. Remind them that they're human. And take care of Erica. She puts on a brave front, but she's still fragile on the inside. Let her know how much you love her every day.

Stay safe,

Stiles

Chapter Text

"Breakfast time! Rise and shine!"

Stiles opens one eye as Peter comes down the cellar stairs. "What time is it?"

"Around eight PM. So, I guess dinner would be more appropriate."

Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Come on. Up and at 'em. I've got some nice, juicy veins for you." Peter rolls up his sleeve and holds his arm through the bars.

Stiles wants to leap across the short distance and bite into the offered flesh. He's still hungry. Drinking from Peter last time had healed most of the damaged caused by sunlight, but it still feels like he has an aching void inside of him. He doubts that will ever go away.

He rolls on his side, facing away from Peter. "No."

"A growing vampire needs his energy." Peter's voice is far too chipper for a man offering his blood to be drank.

"I'm not doing it. I'm not drinking your blood."

There's a soft rustle of fabric, presumably Peter pulling his arm back. "Is it the particular vintage you're objecting to? I can call one of the others to come over. Erica maybe? I'm sure her veins are rather... plump."

Stiles rolls onto his back and glares. He feels his face shifting, fangs dropping and claws extending. Were his eyes glowing? Was that a thing? "I'm not drinking from anyone."

Peter shakes his head. He's smiling, but it's a dangerous kind of smile. "Now that just won't do. You need to keep up your energy. Wouldn't want you going mad from hunger, would we?"

Stiles crosses his arms and stares at the ceiling. "No."

Peter's grin reminds him far too much of crazy Alpha Peter. Peter holds up one claw and then pointedly runs it down the length of his arm. Wet, red blood appears in its wake. Stiles's stomach clenches as the smell of fresh blood fills the air and he has to close his eyes to keep from staring at it. He can still hear it though. Each fat drop that falls to the floor is like a cannonball exploding in his head.

"You're allowed, you know," Peter says, his voice strangely gentle compared to his earlier expression. "Blood is integral to your survival. You're allowed to want it. You're allowed to drink it. It's encouraged, in fact, by the many people invested in your continued existence."

"I don't want to become one of them." The words slip from his lips, whispered so low as to be barely audible. Peter hears them anyways. Stupid werewolf hearing.

The bars creak as Peter leans against them. "There's a proverb about two wolves. Have you heard it before?"

Stiles shakes his head.

The look Peter gives him is sincere. "There are two wolves inside of us, one good and the other evil. They are constantly at war with each other. Which one wins?"

"I don't know."

"The one you feed." Peter pauses for a moment, staring at Stiles. "There are those who believe werewolves are inherently evil—that our bloodlust knows no bounds and that we have no trace of humanity left to salvage. Those people are the ones who burnt this house to the ground not so long ago. Do you agree with them? Do you think we are monsters?"

"No." He might have said that about Peter once, but Peter is different now. He'd changed when he'd come back from the grave.

"So why do you believe the same of yourself? Why do you think yourself so far from redemption?"

Stiles opens his mouth, ready to rehash the same argument he's had several times already, but he hesitates. Vampires—actual vampires, not the ones found in fiction—are a new thing for him. He'd never even knew they were real until Viktor showed up. So why is he so certain that he knows what will happen to him?

Peter holds his arm through the bars once more. "Come here, Stiles. You can choose which wolf you feed."

Slowly, Stiles stands and walks over to the proffered arm. He prays he's doing the right thing.

Hot blood trickles down his throat. It feels so good. The taste should disgust him, but he hardly thinks of the coppery aftertaste. Maybe his tastebuds changed when he was turned. He can't help the moan that slips out of him. Peter shifts, not to pull away. He twists the fingers of his other hand in Stiles's hair and holds tightly. He doesn't pull Stiles away but it's clear who's in control right now.

Stiles opens his eyes to glance over at Peter. Peter's eyes are electric blue. He's staring at Stiles and that sharp focus goes right to Stiles's dick. He moans again, louder, and earns an answering growl from Peter. The hand in his hair tugs harder, pulling Stiles's head back and away from Peter's arm.

Peter doesn't withdraw fully. He grabs Stiles's shirt in his fist and pulls Stiles against the bars. Then, with his other hand still guiding Stiles's head, he presses close enough to stick his tongue down Stiles's mouth. Peter laps up the lingering blood in Stiles's mouth and Stiles has to chase the taste of it back to Peter's mouth. Stiles grips the bars so hard he's worried about breaking his bones. But the other choice is grabbing Peter, and he definitely can't control himself right now.

The basement door bangs open. They jerk apart. One of Stiles's fangs scratches Peter's tongue, adding a fresh burst of blood for Stiles to savor.

Multiple sets of footsteps stomp down the stairs. Stiles moves quickly across the cell and drops into the nest of pillows, rearranging them so that one covers his crotch. Peter doesn't have an easy cover, but he doesn't look one bit ashamed of the bulge in the front of his jeans. Instead, Peter grins wickedly at Stiles, winks, and moves over to the card table where they keep antiseptic wipes and towels.

Peter's back just happens to be toward the stairs as Erica and Isaac appear, followed more slowly by Boyd.

"You," Erica points at Stiles and announces loudly, "are a sap."

Stiles blinks. He hasn't seen Erica since the morning Stiles had tried to greet the sunrise. He'd honestly expected more yelling when she saw him again.

Erica steals the card table from Peter, grinning in response to his playful growl. "Don't think, just because you have all this," she waves to encompass Stiles and the cell, "going on that you're off the hook."

She shoves the card table against the bars. Isaac and Boyd obediently grab three folding chairs without being asked. Stiles is only mildly confused when they all sit at the table and start opening their backpacks. "What?"

"Math homework." Erica snaps her fingers at him. "Keep up. You promised you'd help."

"Oh." He looks around the tiny cell. They haven't trusted him with any furniture yet, wisely assuming that he would have tried to stake himself with it. He pushes the box of book over to the table and piles two pillows on top. It puts him around the right height so he can see what the others are working on.

Peter leaves quietly while the three betas are getting settled, sending Stiles a quick wink and a wave.

"You're our friend."

Stiles startles and turns to Isaac. "Huh?"

"What you wrote." Isaac meets Stiles's gaze. There's no hesitancy there, no meekness or shyness. "You said that we weren't close. That we're not friends, but we are. Maybe not like you and Scott are, but we are your friends. We're pack."

"We'd miss you," Erica adds. "If you were gone. So don't. Don't try that again."

Even Boyd speaks up. "If we can learn control, so can you. The pack isn't giving up."

Tears threaten. Stiles blinks them back and stares down at the card table. "Right. Okay."

He really didn't expect the rest of the pack to care. He was wrong. Maybe he's wrong about not being in control as a vampire. Maybe he can make it work, with the pack's help.

"Alright," Erica says. "Now that that's out of the way, problem three." She slides her notebook in front of him. "Tell me what I'm doing wrong."

Stiles grins. At least for now, he can do this. He can be their friend. He can hold onto his humanity.

To: Allison Argent <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: Please remember this

Remember that pack comes first. Pack is family. No more trying to kill any of them. Always remember: We protect those who can't protect themselves. Keep an eye on Scotty for me. You mean the world to him, so if anyone can keep him out of trouble, it's you. He'll need help keeping his grades up, especially in math and sciences. He probably hasn't told you yet, but he wants to be a vet and he's got a specific school in mind. He'll need to work to get into AP Bio but I know you can get him there. I'm trusting you with his future.

Also, don't even think of naming any of the gorgeous kids I know you and Scott will eventually have after me. My legal name is a nightmare and should not be perpetuated.

Good luck,

Stiles

Chapter Text

When Chris and Allison Argent come down the stairs, Stiles thinks finally, it's over. He stands and walks over to the bars. He waits, swallowing down his impatience and fear. He doesn't want to die, but he doesn't believe he can live like this either. He doesn't think he should.

Chris stops three feet away and studies him. This is the hunter version of Argent, the one who takes out monsters and protects humanity. Next to him, Allison seems almost unreal. She smiles at him. She doesn't have her crossbow. She doesn't have any weapons that Stiles can see, though that doesn't mean Allison is unarmed.

Chris doesn't have any visible weapons either. Stiles frowns. He'd expected a gun or a stake at the very least. Allison's crossbow would have been perfect for long-range staking.

"What's going on?" Stiles asks before his anxiety can build any higher.

"We found someone you need to talk to," Allison says. Her smile is bright, unconcerned.

What the hell is going on?

"I don't understand."

Chris pulls his phone out of his pocket. With a few quick taps, the phone is ringing. The person who picks up has a smooth voice with a heavy British accent. "Is he there?" the voice asks.

Chris doesn't say anything. Instead, he turns the phone to face Stiles. It's a video call. The person on the other end is obviously a vampire. His skin is so pale it looks like marble. His eyes reflect the light from whatever device he's using for the call.

"Ah," the man says, "good evening. You must be Stiles."

Stiles glances past the phone screen. He has no idea what's expected of him here. He has no idea what game the Argents are playing. Why haven't they killed him yet?

"Yeah," Stiles says. "That's me."

The man nods. He leans back in his chair. He must be using a webcam. "I hear you're new to the unlife. Your pack reached out to mine." The man's lips quirk. "Argents, huh? Interesting choice of packmates."

"Who are you?" Stiles blurts. He needs to know what's happening. "What's this about?"

"I'm Ambrose, a member of the Smith pack in London." Ambrose smiles widely. "And this is about you and your continued existence. Have you noticed yet how your hunger has diminished?"

Stiles glances again at the Argents. Is this some kind of trick? He nods slowly. "Peter's been feeding me."

"One of the wolves?" Stiles nods again. "That helps, but it's not the reason. How do you feel now compared to when you were first turned?"

Stiles hasn't given it much thought, really. He takes a moment and closes his eyes. He feels stronger and steadier, more in control. He's been practicing the mantra Derek taught him. He has no desire to leap at either Argent for their blood. He barely even smells it. The scent is not overpowering like it was at first.

When he opens his eyes, Ambrose's look is knowing. "There's a difference," Ambrose says, "between being a vampire in a coterie versus a vampire that's part of a pack. With a coterie, you all feel the hunger and it amplifies. If one vampire is hungry, you all feel it. That's why the younger vampires are usually so reckless. They can't control themselves."

"Yeah," Stiles drawls. "We picked up on that."

"You, however, are different." Ambrose gestures widely around himself, though there's no one else in sight. "You're part of a pack. Why do werewolves form packs?"

"Safety," Stiles answers, because that was the first reason any of them came together. They weren't safe on their own, between rogue Alpha Peter, the Argents, the kanima, and the Alpha pack. "They're stronger in packs." That had been Derek's reason for turning his betas. He needed the strength.

"It's not just the werewolves. Argent said that you have other supernaturals in your pack. A banshee and now yourself. Packs bring connection—a connection you might not have noticed as a human pack member. With that connection comes an increase in strength, yes, but also an increase in control. The witches in my pack refer to it as being grounded. It's like an anchor for your humanity."

Stiles blinks. It takes him a few seconds to process all of that. "You mean I haven't turned into a bloodthirsty monster yet because I'm part of a pack?"

"Precisely!" Ambrose beams. "All varieties of supernaturals benefit from being in a pack, but for us, it's life changing. You won't lose yourself to the hunger. You will remain as you were, just with a few extra powers and an unfortunate sunlight allergy."

"Why?" The word is out before he even realizes it.

"Which part are you confused about?" Ambrose has the vibe of a patient teacher, like he's helping Stiles puzzle through a Calculus equation, not figure out his entire being.

"Why does it matter?" He stares at the phone, but he still sees the way Allison and Chris share worried glances. "Yay, I'm not going to go mad and kill anyone. Big relief, actually, but that just means I'm a monster with control. It's not like I can live a normal life. I can't go out during the day which means no high school graduation, no going off to college, no nine-to-five job. I don't get to have any of that, so what's the point?"

Ambrose's expression shifts suddenly. His good nature is gone, and Stiles is left staring at a truly impressive vampire. "You're right. That part of your life is over, but your life isn't. You'll have to make adjustments, but you can still do everything you want. You can attend night classes, work from home, get your GED. More importantly, you can still be with your pack, still have those meaningful relationships that make life worth it. You're not going to be serving hamburgers all afternoon, but there are plenty of jobs that don't require daylight hours."

Ambrose's sharp grin returns. "Trust me, I know. And you're part of the supernatural world. You'll find there are more accommodations out there than you realize. We're not the only vampires in the world with control." He shrugs. "We tend to not advertise our existence due to the stigma."

"Oh."

"I've left my contact information with the Argents. Feel free to contact me any time." Ambrose winks. "But save the phone calls for the evening hours. Vampires still need our beauty sleep."

The call disconnects and Argent shoves his phone back in his pocket.

"I was wrong," Chris starts, "when I thought of werewolves as nothing more than rabid dogs. I'm glad I'm wrong again. You're not a monster, Stiles, and the pack—Allison and I included—aren't going to let you become one. If you can't trust yourself, trust us. We won't let you stray."

Chris nods once, then heads to the basement stairs. Allison lingers. She moves closer to the bars. For once, Stiles doesn't flinch away. Ambrose is right. Stiles is in control.

"We're going to help you, Stiles, like you've always helped us. Derek and your dad have been looking into options for school. Scott and Lydia are comparing colleges with night classes. And, as strange as it is to say, Peter's ready to follow wherever you decide to go." Allison smiles, bright and wide. "But Peter? Really?"

Stiles shrugs. He can't help but smile back. "He's hot. Turns out I have a thing for older men."

"It seems to be working for you."

They both laugh and Stiles can feel himself relax. It's like a lock clicking in place, a puzzle piece connecting to the whole picture. He thinks, for the first time since he was turned, that maybe he was going to be okay.

To: Lydia Martin <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: You're going to do amazing things

I will always love you, not like you think and not how I planned. I love you but I'm not in love with you. Don't hide your brilliance. Don't be anything less than your best. If Jackson or anyone else can't accept you for who you are, then they don't deserve you. You deserve the best. I hope you win the Fields Medal. If you ever have the chance, name something after me, even if it's dumb. Especially if it's dumb.

Forever in awe of your genius,

Stiles

To: Jackson Whittemore <[email protected]>
From: Stiles Stilinski <[email protected]>
Subject: Warning

Take care of Lydia or I will haunt you.

Stiles

Chapter Text

Stiles is surprised when Lydia enters the basement with Jackson following. She seems out of place among the stone walls and iron bars. She's dressed as impeccably as always in a cream sundress dotted with purple flowers. As soon as she's off the stairs, she opens her large purse and pulls out a folded stack of papers.

"Here." She thrusts the papers through the bars but doesn't let her hand pass through. Wise. Jackson presses against her back as Stiles stands and moves closer.

Finally, someone's actually treating him like the threat he is. He relaxes and keeps himself at arm's length as he accepts the papers. "What's this?"

It's obvious what it is when he unfolds the papers and flips through them. It's his homework. He's confused.

When he looks back up, Lydia has her arms crossed over her chest and Jackson is slouched in one of the chairs by the card table. "Why?" he asks.

"You are going to graduate," Lydia says. It's both a promise and a threat. Stiles shifts back a step. Of everyone in the basement, he thinks she's the most dangerous. "As far as the school is concerned, you've been stricken with mono and will be out until graduation. The Sheriff submitted your doctor's note and made arrangements with all of your teachers. Since there's only two months until graduation, they're allowing it. You're going to be too sick to walk at graduation, but you will get your diploma."

There's an implied 'or else' at the end of Lydia's speech. Stiles stares at Lydia, then down at the papers in his hands.

"I'm only going to say this once, so pay attention." Lydia steps up to the bars. If Stiles wanted, he could reach through and grab her, but he doesn't feel the need to feed. "You are important to this pack. Not just Scott, Derek, and Peter. You're important to the betas. You're important to me and Jackson and Allison. If you were gone, there'd be an irreparable hole in the pack."

With a burst of startling speed, Lydia reaches through the bars and yanks Stiles forward by the front of his shirt. Stiles is so surprised that he doesn't think to stop her.

Lydia's face is inches from his as she bites out, "I will not scream for you. I felt it, when you tried to kill yourself. I felt the scream in my throat, and you will not do that to me again."

Stiles nods dumbly. He staggers backward when Lydia releases him. She turns on her heel and marches out of the basement. Stiles stares after her.

"I know what it's like," Jackson says, making Stiles jump. He'd forgotten Jackson was down here. "To be made into a monster and used to kill. You were lucky. You were aware enough to stop yourself. I didn't have the option." Jackson rises from the chair. "I killed people, and I wasn't even aware of it. I don't remember most of it. Just because you're a monster, that doesn't mean you're not a part of this pack. If they can accept me after I was an asshole to everyone, including you, then you deserve to be part of the pack as well."

Jackson stalks across the room to stand in front of Stiles. He sees Jackson's arm move and he expects Jackson to grab his shirt like Lydia did. Instead, Jackson reaches up and flicks Stiles in the forehead.

"Ow!" He covers his forehead with one hand and shies away from the bars.

"Get over yourself and quit hiding down here." Jackson leaves after imparting those encouraging words.

Stiles sighs and drops down onto the mattress. They both have good points, but he's so scared that he'll do something he'll regret if he leaves the cage.

Dad,

Never doubt that I love you and that you mean the world to me. You were the best dad a boy could hope for.

I know my leaving doesn't make any sense. It's a senseless world. Just because I'm not here doesn't mean you need to be alone. Let Melissa and Scott and all the deputies at the station help you. You're not alone.

If you need answers, talk to Scott. I told him to tell you the truth. The whole, messy truth. If you can't talk to Scott, then talk to Derek Hale. Yes, that Derek Hale. He's a friend and a protector. Be nice. He's been through a lot.

Don't fall into the bottle just because I'm no longer watching. I want you to live a long and healthy life. Do it for me.

Love,

Stiles

Chapter Text

"Hey, son."

Stiles startles awake so hard he falls off the bed. Since his bed is just a mattress on the floor, the fall is thankfully short. He scrambles to his feet. "Dad! What are you doing down here?"

As terrified as he is to have his dad anywhere near him, he's also immensely relieved to see Noah conscious and moving around. He's been having nightmares of that night, of being too late to save his dad, of draining his dad dry and then going after his friends.

Noah raises an eyebrow. "What am I doing visiting my only son who won't leave his friend's basement? Gee, Stiles, I wonder."

Stiles shrinks back and drops onto the bed. "Scott explained, didn't he? Why I'm down here?"

"He certainly tried," Noah says, though his tone and expression convey just how well that went. "Melissa tried to fill in some blanks, but she didn't know much. The Hales brought me up to speed." Stiles winces. While Peter and Derek are no longer the missing coma patient and murder suspect, the truth is probably worse. "Then Mr. Argent paid me a visit, followed by Dr. Deaton."

"Oh." That's a lot more people than Stiles expected. He almost smiles, but his dad would probably take it the wrong way. He's relieved to know so many people are looking after his dad when Stiles can't.

Noah crosses his arms. "Yes, oh."

Stiles winces again. "So, you know all about...." He doesn't even know where to start. Vampires? The Alpha Pack? The kanima? The Argents?

"About you getting involved with werewolves and running around, nearly getting yourself-" Noah cuts himself off and looks away. He stares at the wall with what Stiles recognizes as his dad's stoic not-gonna-cry face.

"I'm sorry." He's not sure what he's apologizing for. All of it, really, plus the lying and the fact that his insistence on helping Scott got him killed.

Noah sighs. He pinches the bridge of his nose and takes in a deep breath before turning back to Stiles. "I'd be lying if I said I wasn't angry." Stiles flinches, instinctively moving away from his dad. Noah seems to know exactly what's going through his son's mind because he continues before Stiles can work himself into a panic attack. "At myself, not you. You should have been able to come to me for help, and the fact that you though you couldn't is a failing on my part, not yours. I should have been looking out of you. Then maybe...."

Then maybe Stiles wouldn't have died. The words hang like a flashing neon sign between them.

"Dad...."

Noah shakes his head. He steps forward and unlocks the cage door.

Stiles jumps to his feet and backs as far away as the cage allows. "Whoa! Wait! What are you doing?"

Noah holds the door open. "Come out of there, Stiles."

Stiles shakes his head. "I can't."

"You can."

Stiles groans and rubs his hands over his face. "No, Dad, you don't get it. I've been turned into a vampire. I'm a monster now. You can't just let me loose. I could kill someone."

"So could I," Noah says. "I have, in the past."

Stiles's mouth snaps shut.

"I was in the army before I joined the police force. You know that, Stiles."

"Yeah, but I didn't think...."

"Taking a life is a hard thing to do, but it doesn't make you a monster. You did what you had to to keep me safe and to keep this town safe. I'm proud of you." Stiles shakes his head but his dad continues on. "You've been doing everything you can to beat this thing, to stay in control. You're not a monster, you're my son. Now get out of the damn cage."

Stiles bites his lip with human teeth. He shifts on his feet. "What if I hurt you?"

Noah spreads his hands. "If you were going to, you would have already done so. You had the opportunity at that warehouse and you didn't. I've been standing here with the door open for minutes and you haven't even shown a hint of fang. Give yourself a bit of credit, Stiles. You've got this."

Nothing Noah says is different than what the others have been telling him all week, but his dad's words hit in a way none of the others had. His dad is human and he's standing in the doorway without fear or concern. He trusts Stiles. He believes in Stiles.

Noah holds out his hand.

Stiles hesitates for another minute before slowly crossing the distance between them. Noah pulls him into a tight hug. Stiles tucks his face against his dad's shoulder, like he always does, and there's no hunger waiting to take over. He doesn't want to drink his dad's blood. He doesn't have the slightest urge.

Noah is the first to pull away. He holds Stiles at arm's length and stares, likely cataloging the changes that Stiles had no control over—the pale skin, the change in his eyes, how cold he feels. His dad sees it all and he doesn't let go.

"Come on." Noah slides an arm around Stiles's waist and guides him toward the stairs. "Your friends are waiting."

Stiles follows his dad out of the basement.