Chapter Text
Stiles felt the tug of the wards on the thin lines of the tattoo on chest. Turning away from the bestiary on the coffee table, he opened his mouth to call for Derek when his phone rang. Accepting the call, “Yo Scotty, I got it.”
“Can you guys head out? We’re in the middle of setting a leg on Mrs. Henderson’s Collie.”
“Buster?”
“Focus, Stiles.” Derek appeared on the stairs, pulling on a maroon Henley. He’d just finished his thousandth push up and then showered, no doubt.
“We’re on our way,” Stiles said into the phone while rolling his eyes at Derek. “Seriously, dude?” He walked to the kitchen, his favorite coffee mug in hand.
Derek playfully hip chucked Stiles. “Don’t call me –”
“Watch it,” Stiles said, carefully placing the chunky red mug in the stainless-steel farm sink. “Besides: you know you love it.”
Stiles jumped out of the way, headed back to the couch as Derek took a friendly swipe at him. He chuckled to himself as he tidied up his workspace on the couch and coffee table. After stacking the bestiaries, he took note of the application for law enforcement academy beneath the bottom book. He needed to get on that, the next class began in February. His dad said he might hire him, but there was no way he would ever be paired with Derek or Parrish. Too bad, that woulda been fun.
Derek had joined up during Stiles’ sophomore year in college. Stiles knew his dad had been after Derek to join the department ever since the Sheriff had understood just how much supernatural crap was happening in Beacon Hills.
“Ready?” Derek picked up his keys from the table by his door. Stiles grabbed a jacket and checked he had his phone.
Within moments they were in Derek’s mom-o-bile, headed to the preserve. Stiles tattoo tingled again, and in the fading daylight, he thought he saw it glow under his threadbare Captain America T-shirt. “Uh, Derek –”
Derek’s hands tightened on the steering wheel. “I felt it.” He punched the accelerator. “Glowing, huh? Great.”
After returning from GWU, Stiles and Deaton tied the wards surrounding the Hale Property, and the Nematon to him, Derek and Scott via tattoos. The intricate magic needed, that Stiles was profoundly involved in creating, finally made him accept he too was supernatural. There had been signs of his ability in high school, but Stiles was nothing if not a master at denial.
Derek and Scott were able to tie the wards to their respective existing tattoos. But Stiles had to finally go under the needle.
Deaton and Derek flew in a powerful druid tattoo artist from Seattle who created the subtle Celtic triskelia, about 1/3 the size of Derek’s. Stiles decided to use white ink, symbolic of his intent to use his magic for good. The tattoo was just below his collarbone, so he could see it in the mirror if he needed to make changes to the wards.
The tattoo flared again, and Derek growled low in his throat. Stiles winced and rubbed his own through his shirt. “Think we should call Dad?”
Derek sighed. “Let’s see what is going on first.”
Stiles snorted lightly, noticing neither of them said, ‘it’s probably nothing.’
It had been remarkably quiet the last several years, particularly after most of the pack went away to college. Deaton had theorized breaking up the menagerie of supernatural creatures might have helped curb the draw to the area. The most common thing they dealt with these days were rogue werewolves and negotiations with other packs.
“Woah,” Stiles said, as Derek pulled onto the gravel road that led to the shell of the Hale house. The clearing was bright as full daylight even though it was 6pm in mid-December. Stiles looked in the passenger side mirror, checking out the road behind them. It was still cloaked in the twilight, sliding toward full darkness.
“Call the Sheriff,” Derek said, as he stepped out of the car.
Stiles scrambled for his phone and almost tripped over his feet getting out of the car. “Wait a damn minute!” Derek complied, which told Stiles just how unnerved he was. With his eyes peeled on the clearing, he quickly updated his dad, and then slid the phone in his front pocket. “He’s on his way,” he murmured. “20 minutes, tops.”
Together they moved to the front of the car, paused. “I can feel it,” Stiles said quietly. “Druid magic.”
“Great,” Derek said, voice dry.
“Hey!” Stiles' head snapped back. “You like my magic.”
“You’re not a druid.”
“Well no,” he admitted. “But I’m something.” There was a moment when Stiles saw a ghost of a smirk begin to grace Derek’s mouth. In a flash, it was gone, and Derek’s claws were out, his arm thrown in front of Stiles as if for protection.
“What the –” he began, rolling his eyes at the protective measure. His eyes followed Derek’s gaze, and he prided himself that he didn’t jump three feet in the air. It was bad enough he knew he was gaping. Time Lords. There were fucking Time Lords standing in front of him. “Derek –”
“I see them.”
“Hello,” the brunette woman in the middle said. She stood slightly in front of the male on the left and the female to her right. “We are here to right a wrong.”
“Who are you?” Derek asked teeth elongated, bared. “What are you doing on my land?”
“We are The Council.” She opened her palms outward. “We mean you no harm.”
“No one ever does,” Stiles said, forcing his mouth to work even though it was dry as dust. He crossed his arms, cocking his head, considering. “Why are you dressed like Time Lords?”
Derek did a double take, then stared at Stiles. “Like what?”
“Time Lords. They look exactly like Time Lords from Doctor Who, the reboot.”
Derek looked back at the three, then carefully back to Stiles. Stiles knew he was making sure he kept them in his sights. “Stiles, they are dressed in Celtic ceremonial dress.”
Now Stiles did the double take and stared at Derek. “Seriously, dude?”
“Don’t call me –”
“Really, Derek? Right now? Bit not good.”
Derek turned to stare at him, his mouth pulled down into a frown, incisors retreating. “Are you quoting Sherlock to me now? First, it’s Doctor Who, now Sherlock.”
“Well, what have you been binge watching?”
“Outlander!” Derek bit out.
They both stopped dead, eyes widening in understanding. Together they turned back as one to the waiting entourage.
Stiles knew his eyes were bugging out. These people, the ‘Council’ looked different to him and Derek: dressed in the costumes of the two shows they’d been recently binge watching.
“We tried to take the form of something you were comfortable with. I am Elysia.” She gestured to the female to her right. “This is Terra.” To the man on her left, she said, “And Tormand.” They offered a deep nod.
“Why are you here?” Derek asked again, his voice low, dangerous.
“We were just made aware of a wrong,” Elysia said. Her vivid aquamarine eyes looked sad. “We are here to correct it.”
“What kind of wrong?” Stiles asked. In his experience, not a single supernatural creature who had stepped into Beacon Hills had ever come back to ‘right a wrong’. “And how can you ‘correct’ it?” He immediately thought of messed up timelines, multiverse theory, and the kind of power it would take to even present themselves to him and Derek in different clothing. Who the hell were these people?
Elysia answered the question in Stiles' head, the one unasked. “We are The Council. We exist in a different plane. Our purpose is to ensure universes are not tampered with. The wrong we have found was very dark, very well hidden. It is what has caused so much sorrow in this place. Sorrow that was never to have been. It has upset the balance of this universe and has impacted our Council.”
Stiles let out a scoffing laugh, crossing his arms around himself, causing Derek to stare at him. Stiles sank into the hood of the car, leeching the warmth of the engine block. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll bite. What was the ‘wrong’ and how are you going to fix it?”
Elysia nodded her acquiescence. “Through dark magic, a powerful druid laid the groundwork to obtain ultimate power through your nematon.”
“You’re just now figuring that out?” Stiles felt his gorge rising, viciously swallowing it down. “That Darach damn near destroyed us! That was six years ago! How are you going to fix it now?? People died!”
“Time doesn’t have the same meaning to us,” Elysia said. She paused as Terra raised her head to murmur something to her. “Terra has reminded me of the linearity of your time. The ‘Darach’ of which you speak, put her plans in motion many ‘years’ earlier. It began when she poisoned the Emissary to the Hale pack.”
“Our Emissary hasn’t been poisoned,” Derek said. He half turned toward Stiles, who raised his eyebrows in question. “Get them out here.” But Stiles already had his phone out and already punching the recall button for Scott.
By the time Stiles ended his call, he heard the crunch of tires on the road. He looked at Derek.
“Sheriff,” he confirmed.
The car rolled to a stop, and Stiles glanced back in time to see his father move into a defensive posture, gun drawn between the car and the door. “Put down your weapons!” he called.
Whipping back around, Stiles didn’t see weapons on the Time Lords, the raised eyebrow on Derek said the same. “Dad, they don’t have weapons."
“I’m looking at AK-47s strapped to their backs. What the hell is wrong with you two?”
Stiles let out an exaggerated sigh and turned back to The Council. “Look, you’ve got to settle on a form, and not probe our brains for something you think we’d like to see. You’re probably all camo-ed out for my dad,” he waved at him. “And it’s freaking him out.”
“What form should we take?”
“How about something not threatening?”
Before Stiles could blink, the three had shimmered and were then standing there in silver robes, their hair covered by geometric hats worthy of British royalty on Derby Day. “Derek?”
“Silver robes.”
“Dad?” Stiles heard his dad stand up, moving around the car door. “Yes, silver robes. And crazy hats.”
“No weapons?”
“No weapons,” his dad said, but Stiles saw his guard was still up as he moved to flank Stiles on the other side. “What’s going on boys?”
Derek did the introductions, and summarized what they had learned, and concluded with the information that Deaton and Scott were on their way.
The Sheriff turned to the visitors. “How could you fix something that occurred over five years ago?”
Terra conferred with Elysia before Elysia spoke. “While we disagree with your assessment of the time in which this occurred, for sake of continuing this discussion, we will allow that misunderstanding to stand.”
Stiles snorted. “As if we could ever forget that reign of terror and when it occurred.”
“Stiles,” Derek said, his voice quiet. “Let’s hear them out.”
Elysia nodded, then began. “Once we realized the damage wrought to this universe, we explored opportunities to correct the timeline.”
“Oh boy.” The Sheriff side eyed Stiles. “I told you and Scott once before: if time travel is real I’m out.”
Stiles snickered and knocked his shoulder against his father’s. Derek released a warning growl, and both Stilinskis straightened.
Elysia continued. “Unfortunately, we cannot go back and erase the events that occurred. There is too much dark magic, and no assurance the druid would not succeed again.”
“So,” Stiles drug out the word. “What does that mean? How can you correct it if you can’t stop it?”
Before Elysia could answer, the sound of tires locking up as brakes were slammed on, drew everyone’s attention to Scott and Deaton’s arrival. Stile heard his dad mutter about speeding tickets.
Scott raced to their side, scenting them, scanning for injury.
“We’re fine,” Stiles said, turning to watch as Deaton exited the car. For a moment, the vet stood stock still, shock in his eyes, which amped up Stile’s anxiety. “Oh boy,” he muttered. The wolves tensed, and his father’s hand went to his gun.
Deaton ignored them all, walking past them, staring straight at Elysia. He stopped and bowed low. “My liege.”
“You know them?” Stiles blurted out, taking a step forward even as Derek’s hand came up to catch his arm.
“Alan?” the Sheriff questioned. “What can you tell us?”
“The Council holds sway over all magical creatures. From The Council sprang all magic.”
“I’ve never heard of them,” Derek said.
“You were young when you lost your family, Derek,” Deaton said. “The Council is sacred. Your mother would have most likely provided you that education as you grew older.”
“You never mentioned them to me,” Stiles countered.
“You are very early in your training.” Deaton looked at Stiles. “There is a lot you still haven’t learned.”
“Great,” Stiles said, throwing his arms up. “Good to know. Now: can we get back to the problem at hand?”
“Please,” the Sheriff seconded.
Again, Derek recited the events, this time to get Deaton and Scott up to speed.
As he finished, Stiles spoke up, “Deaton, Elysia,” he waved his hand at the woman who had so far done all of the speaking, “Says the Darach poisoned you.”
Elysia shook her head. “No. I said the Darach poisoned the Emissary to the Hale Pack.”
“Well, he’s standing here,” Stiles said. “Does that mean he is poisoned and doesn’t know it? Or is this a timey-wimey thing and he will be poisoned?”
Deaton froze and turned slowly to look at Elysia. “The Hale Emissary was poisoned?”
“Yes. Many of your years ago.”
Derek’s eyes narrowed as he looked between Deaton and Elysia. “What are you saying?”
Deaton sighed. “I was not your pack’s first emissary. I took her place after her death.”
“Huh,” Stiles said. “That’s new.” He looked at Derek, who shook his head. Not that Stiles was surprised, Derek hadn’t even known Deaton was the Hale Emissary until Deaton told him.
Elysia began again. “We cannot go back and stop the poisoning of the Hale Emissary, as we discussed earlier. There is too much dark magic tied into the fabric of that time. Also, there is no guarantee events would not be compromised by the Darach at a later point in the timeline. We have reviewed all possibilities: past, and future. Here, now is the best time to correct the wrong done to you and your pack.”
“How would you do that exactly?” Derek asked.
“By bringing back those who were innocently taken due to the Darach’s interference, we can begin to right the events in your universe that have been wronged.”
For a long moment, silence hung in the clearing. Not even the leaves rustled. It was so silent Stiles could hear his own heartbeat.
Then everyone spoke at once: “What??” “Are you saying –” “You can’t do that, can you?” “This is crazy!”
Only Deaton remained silent.
Finally, Scott stepped forward. “Do you mean,” he hesitated. “You could bring Allison back? Derek’s family??”
Ice ran down Stiles' spine, and he closed his eyes as his vision swam, breath hitching. Memories of the nogitsune never failed to almost destroy him. Never. And he guessed he was glad of it. He didn’t want to lose more of his humanity than he already had. Derek and the Sheriff reached for him at the same time. “Stiles,” his dad breathed. “Don’t.”
“Among others, yes,” Elysia said.
Stiles head snapped up, as he felt Derek still. “What does that mean? What others? Who??”
“I need to sit down,” Scott said, then sunk to the ground. “Wish you’d rebuilt this place, Derek. I could really do with a porch right about now.”
In a blinding flash of light, the Hale House appeared. Rebuilt, complete.
Stiles stopped breathing, trying to understand what had just happened. He blinked, blinked again, then turned to Derek, worried.
Derek stood stock still, color draining his face, and Stiles saw blood dripping from his clenched fists.
“Oh my God!” Scott hung his head even lower. “You really can bring her back.”
“Is it real?” the Sheriff asked.
“How dare you?” Derek growled. “I don’t give a damn who you are, you have no right–” he broke off, turning away.
Stiles moved to him. “Derek.” Touching Derek’s arm, he reached for the strand of magic that bound them, necessary to be bound to the Hale wards. He pushed comfort through the magic, glancing down when he saw his tattoo flare with light again.
On any other day, that would be a concern. But, now? Not his first problem.
He turned to the members of The Council. “Spit it out. Tell us what you’re planning to do. All of it. We can’t keep getting punched in the gut every time you dribble out a detail here and there.”
Elysia demurred. “There are no others joining us then? We would gladly finish the telling if there are no others joining us.”
Stiles sighed. They had a point. “Scotty?” Stiles squatted down to his best friend, well, his other best friend, and touched him on the shoulder. “Should we call your mom?”
“I don’t need my mom!” Scott growled.
“Oh, for god’s sake,” Stiles shook him. “I meant in case people are actually, you know, ‘coming back’. I thought we might need a medical professional here.”
“Not a bad idea, kid,” the Sheriff said. He crouched down, to look at Scott, who still looked a shade green, and then up to Stiles and Derek, who was unflinchingly staring away from the house. “You boys wait here. I want to talk to Alan. I’ll call Melissa.”
As he stood up, the Sheriff spoke to Elysia, “I’m going to call Scott’s mother. She is a nurse, and we’d like her here to help. She will be the last person joining us.” He hesitated a moment, then nodded toward the house. “Is that real?” he repeated his earlier question.
The Council members nodded. “It is of real substance, put back into the state of order it was in before the devastating fire.”
A groundout whimper escaped Derek, and Stiles, winced, feeling Derek’s pain centered in his own chest, tattoo lit once again. “Come on big guy, let’s take a walk.” Over his shoulder, he told his Dad and Scott, “We’ll be back when Melissa gets here.”
The deeper they walked into the woods, the spongier the earth became beneath their feet, the smell of pine needles & leaves releasing their pungent fragrance as they strode over them. Keeping one eye on the ground and his feet, and the other on the werewolf at his side, Stiles remained quiet. He could feel the pain Derek was in via the bond between them. The magic tying them together after Stiles had moved back to Beacon Hills, had an interesting impact on his and Derek’s relationship.
Throughout the remainder of Stile’s high school days, they’d maintained their bickering/lifesaving routine, heavily underscored by the desire Stiles finally quit pretending he was successfully hiding. He’d never acted on it, firmly believing he had zero chance with Derek.
Over time his lust for Derek had mellowed, deepened to a deep abiding affection for the werewolf. It helped that Stiles moved on to fairly meaningless ‘friends with benefits’ relationships, after breaking up with Lydia, and two subsequent painful breakups at GWU: one of each gender during his sophomore and junior years.
When Stiles had returned home from school on breaks, he and Derek began hanging out more. Upon moving home six months ago, while Stiles still technically lived with his Dad, he spent most of his time at Derek’s loft, working on translating bestiaries, when he wasn’t working with Deaton on continuing his magical education.
Once the wards were tied to their tattoos, after graduation in June, Stiles could feel Derek like a low soothing hum through the bond. They were still quick to bicker, but Stiles knew, without a doubt, it was all done in affection.
Stiles had double majored in criminal justice and mythology, his two passions. He’d thought about going into the FBI, had even attended a summer internship right out of high school, but he’d found out quickly that his snark was not appreciated, and he knew he’d never make it through the academy.
As a side gig, he’d fallen into the translation of bestiaries after spending the summer between his junior and senior year in college in Rome learning to read, write, even rap and sing in Latin. After that, word got out of his abilities to translate old texts. Originally, it had been painstaking, until he finally realized at Halloween, while contemplating carving a pumpkin, that his magic had afforded him an amazing ability.
He’d been running his hand over a template he’d printed out, while his other hand was on the pumpkin, trying to work out the best placement. As he traced the template with one hand, and the pumpkin with the other, he’d automatically etched the pumpkin.
He’d stepped back, shocked, and looked over to where Derek had entered the kitchen. The jackass had just raised an eyebrow, as he’d retrieved a bottle of water. “Nice going, Sparky.” But he’d remained in the kitchen while Stiles, who was shocked speechless, finished the etching.
It had probably taken him a week to realize he could do the same with the texts in the bestiary. By running his fingers over the Latin text, with another hand hovering over his laptop, the blank document on the screen was filled with the text, and drawings, in English.
“Whoa!” he’d said, sitting back.
“Took you long enough,” Derek had teased, from where he’d been sitting in one of the oversized arm chairs, reading a book.
“Shut up,” Stiles had said. “Jeez, you could have just told me.”
“Nah,” Derek retorted. “Where would be the fun in that?”
Yes, Stiles thought, as he tramped along beside Derek, his tattoo still thrumming, the bond between he and Derek was alive and well. They were like an old married couple: comfortable in each other’s space, complete with a lack of sex.
The link between Stiles and Scott had been subtler. They knew if each other was in mortal danger: real or perceived, but Stiles couldn’t ‘feel’ Scott the way he could Derek.
Derek paused by a stream, nosing his boots into the springy moss. “We used to jump this brook during our full moon runs. Even the tiny cubs could make it.” His voice was quiet, and Stiles knew he was a million miles away, or a million years ago.
“It was like a big moment when someone made that first jump,’ he finally continued. “We celebrated.”
Stiles stepped closer. Even with the closeness they now shared, it was rare for Derek to talk about his family. Stiles didn’t want to break the moment. Yet, he couldn’t slow down his mind as it careened from one question to the next: could The Council really give Derek back his family? How would that even work? Would they be the same age they were before they died? Would Allison? Why was now the only time they could ‘bring them back’? Raising his hands, Stile rubbed his temples, he finally gave in and asked. “What do you want to do?”
Derek turned, “What do you mean? Does it matter what I want? What do you want?”
“This is nuts,” Stiles said, running his fingers through his hair. “How can this be happening? It just doesn’t make sense.”
Now Derek snorted with painful sounding laughter. “Since when does anything around here make sense?” He reached out and touched the t-shirt, covering Stiles tattoo. The tattoo was still dimly lit, visible through the thin material. “Any idea what is going on here?”
Stiles bit his lip, and shook his head, “No. You?”
“Not a clue,” Derek said. He turned, offering his back to Stiles. “Is mine glowing? I feel you through it more. your frustration and anger.”
Stiles pulled up Derek’s jacket. The triskele didn’t appear to be emitting any light. “Nope,” he said, popping the ‘p’. “No eerie ghost lights, like on yours truly.” He let the jacket back down, tugging it into place. “So, what? Did we decide what we want to do?” He didn’t know what he wanted. Except he did. He wanted Derek to be made whole again. Pivoting the topic, he asked, “Will Allison really be Allison?”
Derek turned away for a moment, took a deep breath, and then turned back. “I guess the only way to find out, is to go back and see what they say.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “I want to know how long the Darach has been interfering in my life.” Cocking his head, he listened. “I hear Melissa’s car. Your dad is going to be threatening more speeding tickets.
Stiles nodded, lost in thought. Would bringing Allison back help bury his own ghosts? If he was asking himself that question, what must Derek be thinking ten times over?
They both stopped at the edge of the clearing, the artificial light glaring after the natural darkness of the forest. Melissa McCall stood by the side of her car, staring, as Scott and the Sheriff hurried toward her.
Swinging his gaze to follow Melissa’s Stiles swallowed a low whistle as he looked at the mansion for the first time. The Hale house was magnificent. Three stories of beige brick, almost blindingly white French doors, windows and a portico with the long porch were complimented by black roof, shutters and a six-foot porch swing and a bright red door. Knowing there was a basement, Stiles guessed that made the house four stories tall.
Beside him, Derek almost whined, “I can’t go in there.” Stiles reached for his hand, locking their fingers together, and nodded. “I can smell my family like they are inside.”
Seemingly coming out of her own shock, Melissa hurried to their side. “Are you boys alright?” She looked them over, with a critical eye.
“We’re not injured,” Derek said.
“Not physically, anyway,” Stiles chipped in.
“I’ve got to say,” she said, “Your dad told me what was happening as I drove over. I almost rear-ended a guy when he told me these people are saying they can bring Allison back.” Her mouth was turned down as she gave them a long look. She clapped Stiles and Scott both on the shoulder. “Let’s go see what fresh hell awaits us, shall we?”
Stiles barked out a surprised laugh, and then slung his other arm around her, pulling her in for a quick hug. “I love you, Melissa!”
“Backatcha, Stiles,” she said, as they moved toward the others waiting near the front porch of the house.
The Council stepped back, deferentially, as they joined them. Elysia spoke, “Derek, Dr. Deaton has been explaining to us how shocking this must be for you. We are very sorry for creating pain. Our intent was to ease it.”
“Just tell us what you’re planning to do.” His voice was clipped, and Stiles felt the control thrumming around Derek, his back ramrod stiff.
Terra murmured into Elysia’s ear.
“Ah,” Elysia said, her eyes showing comprehension. “We are offering to bring back those who were wrongfully taken from your pack due to the damage wrought by the Darach many years ago.” She looked deeply into Derek’s eyes.
“Is it an offer? Or a mandate?” Stiles asked, anger filling him up. “You,” he pointed his finger at Elysia, “said the universe was out of whack. And that it was impacting you. So, which is it? A choice or a command?”
“Stiles,” his dad admonished.
Derek grabbed his shoulder, and pulled him back, away from The Council. “Give us a minute,” he said. He motioned his pack toward him, moving them about 100-feet back, to where the bright daylight didn’t touch them and they were back in the dark.
“Stiles,” Derek began. “What’s going on? You haven’t been this reckless with a supernatural entity in years. You’re normally the calm one in negotiations.”
Scott hummed his agreement.
“I’m just over it,” Stiles said, jerking away from Derek. “I’m sick of everyone shitting on you. All the time. And, frankly, I just don’t trust them. This is complete bullshit. We don’t even know if these whatever-they-are –”
“Mages,” Deaton cut in, his voice as calm as ever. “And they are who they say they are. And they can do what they say as well.”
“Why?” Derek asked, and Stiles winced at the pain in his voice, pain he could easily feel through their ward bond.
“Why would they?” Derek continued, eyes scanning Deaton’s face. “Beacon Hills and our supernatural playground has upset the applecart of the universe?” He scoffed. “It’s kind of hard to believe.”
They all murmured their assent, and Melissa ran a comforting hand over Stiles’ shoulders. “There is no way to find out except go to the source, is there?” Her voice was bright, but Stiles heard the concern.
Derek swung back to Stiles. “You good?” Derek asked him, staring like he could see the answer in Stiles’ eyes.
Stiles nodded and pushed comfort through the magic between them. Derek nodded too, and Stiles felt a warm sense of belonging in return.
“I should be asking you that, not you asking me,” Stiles said, bumping into Derek’s shoulder with his own. “And I’ll try to stay calmer.”
“Liar,” Derek whispered, as he bumped back.
The Council remained exactly where the pack had left them but Stiles wondered if they’d been off screwing up someone else’s life in the two minutes they’d been gone.
“Stiles!” his dad hissed.
“Oh, did I say that aloud?” he raised his eyebrow in his best imitation of Spock.
The Council appeared to have not heard him, even though Stiles knew they had.
Elysia began again. “Derek, this was not the intended path of this pack. The timeline was altered by very dark, complex magic, as we’ve stated. In wiping out this pack, things are not as they should be. We can, and believe we should restore the pack at this point in time. While it would take time, eventually the course would be righted.”
Stiles took a step closer to Derek, touched his arm. “What do you want to do?”
Before he could answer, Elysia spoke again. “We can bring back your Alpha and your Emissary first if that would help ease the decision making.”
While Derek showed no outward sign of responding, Stiles felt the pain building in Derek’s chest. Derek nodded once, tightly.
As quick as a flash, there stood Talia Hale, and a dark-haired woman, behind her, her head bowed.
The Sheriff choked, Melissa gasped, and Stiles cried out: “Mom!”