Third Time's The Charm

by novasillies

Summary:

"You're a person people are better off without."

Theo's words struck hard and deep. The claws of them dug in and twisted; mangled him relentlessly. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t true.

Of course, it was.

"That's not on me."

-

Stiles goes back in time again to stop the Hale House fire. It rings true for the rest of his life that he seems to break more than he fixes.

Updates! Every! Thursday! Except for when it doesn’t

Chapter 1: Back to the Old House

Summary:

Season 1: 'Promises, Fools'

Stiles tries his best to prevent the Hale House Fire, despite the human-shaped bumps in the road. Derek gains new levels to his many layers of trauma.

Notes:

holy god.

we've got a playlist going on where im adding the songs by chapter so go on and take a gander if ur feeling frisky!! i was gonna just link the full playlist but i am not correct in my belief that the songs don't spoil the entire story. and i do not want to spoil the story. so. we shall add to it was we go. if u read this later on then lucky you!!!

 

playlist here!!

 

I am unreasonably harsh on this chapter. its not as bad as I tend to act like it is. but its significantly less effective than the other 6 I've written for this. its just the second section feels. messy. but it all kind of sorts itself out pretty fast. i think. whatever it's still better than tafa season 1 (I just hate kate so much. i hate her so. much.)

WELCOME BAAAACKKKK!!!!! MWAHMWAHEAMHWEAWM

(thank you to my beautiful friend ana for basically beta reading this for the last year or so (meaning: let me read hundreds of thousands of words out loud to you in class instead of working on our projects and therefore allowing me to notice my mistakes better than I would if I were reading it by myself) your patience knows no bounds. big ups dawg. ur a real one.)

and also thank you to patolemus for always hyping me up. luv u luv u luv u I hope you enjoy <333333

Scott is gone. 

Picked up by the wind, fluttering away in a light show of his own. In flickers of bright red magic. Stiles brings a hand to rub at his tired eyes as the rain starts to let up. He rises to sit in the empty patch of land they find themselves in now. It's just him and Derek. Gone is the mirage Stiles has tormented himself with for so damn long. Fucking finally.  

“It…” Derek gasps, radiant in this light. He’s glistening through the cracks Stiles has given him, “It wasn’t…? Scott’s not…”

Stiles tilts his head, barely able to keep it upright at all from the exertion of the past fucking eternity, “Why do you think you married me?”

Derek looks over at him, then. He’s smiling. That gorgeous, confused, lovesick smile. So damn disarming that, even if, even if, he’d gotten this wrong, Stiles would have been taken back to nineteen. Back to lacrosse games and hand-holding and promises. 

Stiles Stilinski is no stranger to promises. Or anything, by the looks of it. Not the supernatural, or de-aging, or birth, or death. Or time travel. 

Now, it’s someone else’s turn. It’s Derek’s turn. 

Stiles quirks his brows, “Go get him.”

Derek laughs down at the empty space below him, rises to his feet, and then he’s gone. Without a clue. Blind. Stiles rests his forearms against his thighs. 

He regretted it the moment the words left his mouth; the blind leading the blinded.

He wonders what would have happened if he’d found the answer sooner. If he’d been able to see it. To hear it. 

Destiny’s a fucked up thing, though, isn’t it?

 

⭑

 

There was a new type of silence in the air of the clearing. 

What are you meant to say in that situation? On either side? Finding, atop the Nemeton of North America, the future self of the boy you’re grooming to help you burn his whole family alive, or being the future self of that boy, having to see that woman again. Being a seventeen-year-old Derek, seeing yourself at twenty-three, beneath a man with glowing arms you’ve never seen before in your life. Being Stiles. Having just watched your own future self kill your best friend. Trying to fix it all, and having to take the man you love back to the darkest time of his life to do it. 

This fucking sucked. 

It all fucking sucked.

And there was still a sort of ache burning through him - through Stiles. It made his hands shake and his throat close up.

A sickening laugh.

“What is going on here? ” Kate asked, like a taunt.

Derek’s lip twitched, as his brows flinched toward the middle. He squeezed his eyes shut. He sucked in a breath. Stiles had so many thoughts racing through his head, flashing up. Like sparks. He swallowed them down.

Then, Derek’s tiny voice was speaking from beyond them, “I don’t…”

“Well, at least we know you’ll grow into those hands,” Kate mused.

Derek’s hands, the ones resting against the wood of the Nemeton, curled tightly into shaking fists. Stiles slipped off of the Nemeton and rose to stand. His clothes hung heavy on his skin. Cold. Sticking. He swallowed and met Kate’s dancing eyes. She looked exactly the same. Maybe one less wrinkle, but the same hairstyle, the same skinny jeans, the same cruel smile. She beamed as she took him in, eyes raking up and down. He pretended it wasn’t paralysing. 

“You’re a spark,” she mused with a tilt of her head, “Are you a Gajos? Or, no, it’s Stilinski now, isn’t it? A bit boring, if you ask me.”

Stiles swallowed, looking pointedly at the teenager beside her, “Derek, get away from her.”

Kate snickered as the boy’s brows furrowed so familiarly and he asked, “Why are you so scared?”

Stiles sighed, “Please move.”

“No,” Derek said. He did move, technically, though it was to stand just in front of her. Stiles wasn’t sure if he should swallow his pity down or not. If he should be purely analytical about this. Unemotional. 

It was hard not to be emotional in that moment. Stiles was pretty sure he had no sensations in his body besides emotion. The terror of seeing her again, the anger at her and at himself - in every sense of the word. Hatred, regret, anticipation. His heart and his mind were working overtime, but his body was numb. 

“Derek, get out of the way.”

“Or what?” The teenager challenged, “You won’t hurt me, that’s for sure.”

Stiles froze. 

Derek really was not the best at picking them, was he? He didn’t care when he said that same thing to the Other Stiles and He threw him across the room. He ‘didn’t give a shit’ that the Other Stiles had killed Scott in front of them. He probably would’ve forgiven Kate if Laura hadn’t taken him away to New York. It was that selflessness again. Stiles wondered if he thought he deserved it. And that. That made his heart break. 

He glanced past the teenager, to the woman that held all of him in the palm of her hand. Then he turned back to the man he supposed he held in his. His Derek gave him a minute, restrained nod. Stiles kissed his teeth. 

“True,” he said, as the anger rose to the surface. It wasn’t directed at Derek. He had to know that. It wasn’t at Kate either, not really. Purely at the man who killed Scott McCall. “You’ll heal,” he forced out. Then he moved.

It would have disturbed him, if he was more set in the fabric of his reality, how easy it was for him to throw the kid out of the way. To look in the eyes he knew only for their fragility, a fragment of another time, where Kate was just as back as she was now, and to feel the barest of guilt. The kid landed against the grass with a snarl, scrambling to his feet as Stiles kept going. 

Kate felt better to hurt. To bring his foot up to send her flying back. Seeing her face shift to pain in a split second felt like vengeance. She slammed back against a tree, with a little shock wave kicking up sticks by her feet. A laugh was punched out of her in the impact.

Then a claw was pressed against the left side of his throat. He froze against the chest behind him. He raised his hands. 

“I don’t know who you think you are,” Derek’s voice, barely, growled into his ear, “but you won’t lay another hand on her.”

“It was a foot, but, sure, point taken,” Stiles swallowed, brows furrowing at the way it pressed his skin closer to the points of the boy’s claws. The Other Stiles’ scar started right about where they met.

“That’s enough,” Derek, actually Derek, called out, “Let him go.”

The kid called back, “Why should I?”

“Use your senses,” Derek said. Stiles could hear his feet against the grass. Finally standing. “Use your nose. Your ears.”

Stiles stared straight ahead. Kate was grinning madly at him.

“You know I trust him,” Derek said.

The kid tightened his grip, “And why should I trust you?”

“I’m the only one you can trust,” Derek answered, “Yourself.”

The claws moved away, only slightly. Stiles breathed deeper.

“But you don’t trust Kate,” the kid whispered.

Derek hesitated for one long moment before saying, “If you do, why don’t we take her to meet the family?”

Stiles winced. 

“She’s an Argent,” the kid spat, “If you’re me, you know what they’ll do to her.”

“You think it’s unjustified?”

“They don’t know her like I do!” The kid cried. 

Stiles didn’t know his heart could hurt this bad. His jaw, too, clenched so hard he was afraid he’d chip a tooth. The satisfaction on Kate’s face was making him sick to his stomach.

He opened his mouth and whispered, “Are you going to let me go yet?”

The hand slipped away. Stiles breathed deeply, properly. Derek slashing his throat open probably would not have been a good start to his plan. 

“Why did you two come here?” The kid asked, “To the past?” 

Stiles looked away from the grinning woman on the forest floor to turn to him. Derek didn’t answer. So he didn’t either. As long as Derek was having to deal with this, he would be the one calling the shots. Stiles decided that too late. 

The kid shook his head, “How did you get to the past?”

“Magic, Der-bear,” Kate answered.

Oh.

Stiles froze. He could hear Derek hold his breath.

When he turned around, now having almost done a full one-eighty, Derek’s face was completely blank. His eyes were far away. Closed off. It bore a hole into Stiles’ chest. Those eyes came back into focus after a moment, meeting his. Stiles quirked his brows. 

Derek steeled himself with a deep breath, then said, “We’re bringing her to the house.”

 

-

 

A teenage werewolf, his future self, his abuser, and his future self’s boyfriend walk through the woods. A setup to a very ugly punchline.

Derek stopped as they crossed into the clearing. Stiles felt sick at the sight of the house. Not for the same reasons. His reasons were much more selfish. So, when Derek reached between them and took his hand, he squeezed back as hard as he could. Because this was the worst thing he’d done to him. No, this was not the worst thing. That was what made it feel so bad. There were many things Derek deserved - sweet, brilliant things. This was not one of them.

The door opened.

Confidently, swiftly. Stiles was used to it scraping along the floor, from the hinges melting and the wood warping. Now, it fit properly. Seamlessly. And on the other side, there was Talia Hale. 

Stiles was sure it was her. It was not like he’d ever seen her before, beyond blurry black and white photos in newspaper clippings and yearbooks, but he was sure. Without uttering a word, she’d commanded the clearing to a silence unimaginable. So silent it was deafening. Her hands rested firmly at her side, and her chin tilted firmly downward. Stiles’ eyes flickered to her side as they caught movement. 

Peter stared back over her shoulder. Younger, yes, but barely. Like Kate was. His eyes widened, flickered back and forth between Stiles’ and the general direction of Kate and the other Derek, and then he opened his mouth. He closed it. And he turned around and vanished back into the house.

“Derek, get inside,” the woman said. The alpha. The Alpha.  

Derek’s hand clenched against Stiles’. The spark’s heart ached, as the kid so hesitantly stepped away from Kate and across the grass. She was wise not to try and stop him. Sometimes Kate had half a mind.

But the look on Derek’s face, so young and broken, it broke something in Stiles, too. As if there was anything whole left to break. He had little left, and yet. 

Once her son was inside, Talia’s eyes changed. Darkened. It was weird, though, because her eyes were so sinister, but her face seemed to soften, shift into something so welcoming and warm. 

“What is this?” She asked. 

Kate shrugged her shoulders, “Don’t look at me.”

“Do look at her,” Stiles growled. She gave him a playful look over her shoulder. Her eyes caught Derek’s, to his left, and she winked. Stiles almost truly growled, then, low in his throat, tugging at the wolf’s hand to hide him behind his body. 

“We need to talk,” he said, moving his eyes to meet Talia’s - the most intimidating set of eyes he’d ever met, “Well, really, we need to kill this woman, but, step one is probably talking.”

Kate snickered and shook her head, “You won’t kill me.”

Stiles breathed in deep, “You think?”

She gave him one last delighted look over her shoulder and pouted, “We have a treaty.”

“Not with me.”

She blinked. Then hummed.

“No,” she mused, “I guess not.”

And she turned away and strolled right to the front door. Talia blinked, once. Then she moved out of the way and Kate was walking straight in. 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “You’re letting her inside?”

“We are civil with the Argents,” Talia said, with something pinched in her voice, “Should I have reason to reconsider that? Someone coming from the future and telling me to kill an innocent woman is something I find concerning, believe it or not.”

Stiles squeezed Derek’s hand.

Derek squeezed back.

And he spoke, the first words he’d said to his mother in almost a decade, and asked, “Can we talk inside?”

 

-

 

The Hale House isn’t exactly how it was in the future Stiles saw. For starters, there was no giant wall around the perimeter. Only open land, somehow both cocky and overwhelmingly vulnerable. But inside, the differences were far more astonishing. The walls were solid grey, not white, the floorboards were a dark oak. The living room, off to the left, was decorated differently, too. But there was still a doll on the floor. A different doll, but a doll all the same. 

There were children living there. And if Stiles did nothing they were going to burn. Again. 

And as he looked around at the family photos in picture frames and toys on pristine floorboards, he felt his arms begin to ache. A steady thrum of pain across his forearms, from his elbows down to the tip of his pinky fingers. He felt a pang of fear trill up into his throat. As if it were a warning of something. It was persistent, unwavering enough to make Stiles look down to check that he hadn’t cut himself somehow. But there was nothing. Just the black lines beneath his steadily-drying sleeves. 

They had air-con in the house. On full blast. Probably because wolves ran so hot. Heatwaves must have been. Not great. Okay. The word association games in Stiles’ mind were not helping with anything. Especially not the pain. 

When the breeze made his hair shift and stab into his eyes, he froze. The brush of the wind made his jaw itch, too, and he brought that aching arm up to scratch, but. 

There was hair there. A beard. Maybe beard was too generous of a word, but whatever you’d describe it as, the sensation made Stiles’ blood run cold. 

A shimmer beside him caught his eye. A mirror catching the light. He turned with bated breath.

The Other Stiles stared back at him. Almost. He was too young, too clean. The beard he had was patchy, but his hair. His hair was spot-fucking-on. Curling at his ears, messy and uncared for. Too damn long. And he was too young, yes, but he was older still. 

He’d finally caught up to himself. No longer trapped in his own youth. Now he was crawling to his future. It was taunting him.

Then his throat was closing up and his heart was racing. He was hot all over, clammy, and his mind was spinning, and he could not be doing this right now. He had people to save. He has a chance to be better than who he could become. He couldn’t lose himself now.

“Stiles,” Derek murmured, appearing in the mirror as he came up beside him. His hand found the curve of his back, “You okay?”

Stiles swallowed, brushed his fingers against the hair on his face one more time, and looked away from his reflection, “Fine. You?”

Derek gave him a pointed look. 

He took in a shaking breath, “I’m so sorry.”

Derek shook his head, “I wasn’t supposed to be here. Don’t be.”

“Derek–”

“Stiles,” Derek ground his jaw, “I’m going to be fine. Everything is going to be fine.”

He was shaking, “Is it?”

There was a moment of silence, where he could see the question parry across Derek’s mind, before his eyes eventually softened and he smiled. He tucked the hair behind Stiles’ ear, with no idea how it made his stomach churn, and said, “I think so.”

“Boys,” Talia prompted. Her voice was soft. So gentle and calming that Stiles almost thought it was magic. So far removed from what it had been mere moments ago. He turned to face her, to meet her reassuring eyes, “Come.” And her voice really was magic, if the way the two of them obeyed without a single thought was anything to go by.

Kate Argent should never be so calm. So confident. So self-righteous in all that she does. As if Stiles was playing right into her hands. 

It’s then, for some reason, that it all started to really hit him. He was in the Hale House. The real one. The original one. The home that he’d only ever seen as a charred shell of itself. The home that Derek was raised in. The home his whole family died in. And they were all alive. Kate was alive. Inside this house.

What if this was how she’d figured out a way to burn it all down? 

“Take a seat,” Talia prompted, as she moved around the desk at the centre of the room to stand in front of her grand chair. Not sitting first. Kate was standing, too, arms crossed cockily over her chest. The kid wasn’t there. Stiles didn’t care for the pissing contest. He sat down as soon as he was close enough. The seat was soft, cool from the air. He needed to rest. He’d just ran from Oak Creek to the Nemeton and then walked to the house; his feet might’ve fallen off if he didn’t take the chance. Just resting his neck back against something sent such comfort through him, it felt utterly unearned. 

Derek didn’t sit beside him.

He didn’t move from his spot. Stiles watched as he kept his gaze firmly to the floor. 

He hadn’t touched anything since they got there, had he?

“So,” Talia’s voice boomed, “I think it goes without saying, an explanation is needed here.”

Stiles turned back to her. Her dark hair, framed by the bookcase behind her. Stiles’ hands itched to get their fingers on them, to memorise each and every word they lost to Kate Argent. 

He gripped the book in his lap instead. 

And, simply, he said, “Kate Argent’s been grooming your son, and she plans to burn this house to the ground. And she will. Unless we stop her.”

Talia’s eyes considered him for a long moment, unwavering as Kate scoffed in the background. She stared and stared, as if she could decipher him with just a look. As if.  

“Your mother told Peter she wouldn’t go through with it,” she said. 

Stiles knew she could hear the way his heart picked up, the way the sadness started to seep out of him, the horror at the realisation that it hadn’t happened yet - they didn’t know. His voice was too little, “I guess she wasn’t thinking clearly.”

“Claudia said that?” Kate hummed. 

Stiles froze. 

He didn’t ask. He didn’t want to hear the answer. Any implication that she knew his mother for the same reason Peter did. That they’d known each other for years. She was Chris’ little sister - Stiles had tried not to think about how much littler she really was. It made him nauseous. He couldn’t even imagine what Derek was feeling right now.

“Kate,” Stiles said. He knew his voice was barely above a whisper. He didn’t care.

“Yes?” She sang.

“No matter how this ends,” he said, “I am going to put a bullet in your head.”

He looked at her as the room went still. Stiller, somehow, than it had been before. The woman had a new sort of decadence in her eyes. Still seeming as if she were perfectly pleased by everything unfolding before her. 

She tilted her head, scrunching her nose as she said, so condescending, “That’s not very nice, Stiles.”

His teeth clashed, “Maybe I’ll make it a silver bullet.”

He swore it. With malice and fiery rage. He promised, he would put one right between her eyes and watch the unused brain matter paint the walls. He’d deal with the disgust of whatever fate that might seal him to when it happened. She deserved worse for all she’d done.

“Argent,” Talia said then, voice pinched, “I will give you a chance to be honest with me.”

Kate hummed out a laugh and turned her predatory gaze to the Alpha, “You can listen to my heartbeat, Alpha Hale. I. Am not. Going. To burn. This house. Down.”

And, God, how badly Stiles wished he could hear it, too. His arm thrummed with that ache again. Distracting and persistent. 

Talia’s voice was strained even more when she went on to say, “You should head home, Argent. Don’t let us catch you waiting around.”

“You’re gonna let me go?” She mused, crossing the room. Stiles felt himself tense up as she passed by him. She was too close to Derek. “Not even gonna rough me up?”

Talia met her eyes, calm, “We don’t do that here. You know that, Argent. But this man here doesn’t seem to hold our same values. If we are to handle this situation humanely, I don’t think you should be here together.”

Kate hummed, and a hand was pressing against his shoulder. He didn’t look up at her.

“I’m sorry for whatever happened in the universe you came from,” she said, “to make you think I’d do such a thing. I hope we can all be friends one day.”

“Get your hand off me, or I’ll show you exactly how friendly I can get.”

She practically cackled as she left. Derek didn’t move an inch. In the distance, the front door clicked shut, and Stiles could finally breathe. 

“What is going on?” The kid’s voice came from the office’s entrance. 

Stiles dropped his head into his hands, “Why couldn’t you let me kill her?”

“You…” the boy tried, “Mom.” 

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles was whispering into the dry heels of his palms, “I’m so sorry.”

 

-

 

Somehow he ended up on a couch, with a steaming cup of tea cradled in his lap and Peter Hale sat across from him. His right ankle was resting on his left knee, just like it had been that day at the motel, and at the lake house. He was smirking.

“So,” he drawled, “your mom and I are still best friends in the future, huh?”

Stiles was surprised he was able to stop himself from shattering the cup in his hands as he said, so swiftly, “She’s dead.”

Peter froze.

“Like, so dead,” Stiles nodded, “As in, died before my eyes in a hospital bed. Dead. I guess.” He squinted down at the tea, “Why do I have this?”

“What are you talking about?” Peter growled. 

Stiles’ brows rose, “It’s not that complicated–”

“How could she get sick?” He snarled. Stiles wasn’t sure if his heart was racing out of some sort of fear of an unpredictable version of Peter, or if it was just working overtime trying to keep his body functioning in the madness of that day. “She was the Hale emissary. If anyone can heal their own illness, it’s her.”

Now it was Stiles’ turn to freeze.

He took a deep breath, “It was dementia. I guess she forgot how.”

Peter pulled a face, almost entertained, “Oh, really? That takes years to actually get bad, you’re telling me she didn’t think to even ask someone else to heal her?”

The questions made something uneasy begin to brew in his stomach.

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “Well, she was dead in nine months and everyone else was dead before her diagnosis, I don’t think she had a lot of options– Where is Derek?”

Peter blinked, then relaxed down into a smile, “You know, my bets were always on you and Cora. I should’ve known when you started obsessing over those DC superheroes. You like ‘em chiselled, huh?”

“Where is he?” Stiles growled.

Peter opened his mouth, as if he wanted to say something else entirely, but Stiles could see the instant he gave up on whatever it was. He took in a placating breath before he answered.

“He’s outside his bedroom.”

Stiles bit his cheek and left the cup on the coffee table, next to his mother’s grimoire, pointed at it and said, “Don’t you dare touch that. I’m serious.”

 

-

 

Derek looked so small. Now, Stiles had seen him at his smallest, and somehow he seemed even smaller. As if he were the one sat on his bed with his head in his hands through the crack in the door. As if everything wasn’t miles behind where it ought to be. As if he were that scared little kid. 

The muscles beneath his drying clothes seemed to relax with each step Stiles took down the corridor. The little boy in the room shied away in time with him.

Stiles took in a breath as Derek turned to face him. 

“You need to talk to him,” he said. He tried to be gentle about it. He tried.

Derek’s nostrils flared as he tensed again, “And say what?”

The little boy beyond the cracked door wrapped his arms around himself.

“‘Hey, teenage me, just thought I’d let you know that the time travelling stranger that reeks of you isn’t lying!’,” he snarled, “‘The woman you love wants to burn your house down with your whole family inside and I know that because it happened to me !’ ?” 

Stiles licked his lips and swallowed down the bitterness, “Sounds like a decent starting point, yeah.”

Derek’s mouth twisted into an even deeper frown. Stiles was being a dick - he was well aware. In his defence, he had just watched himself murder his best friend. That tends to fuck with a person. That and he was currently trying to stop the Hale House fire with no idea how to actually do it.

“Just–” he tried. The helpless flicker in Derek’s eyes forced him to pause, “I… I don’t know.”

“What were you going to do before I came with you?” The wolf asked.

Stiles exhaled through his nose, his eyes flickered to a crack in the wallpaper beyond Derek’s head, “... I don’t know.”

“Were you just gonna shoot her point-blank in the head and run?” Derek shook his head, “Even if I believed you’d want to do that, you can’t just kill her as your entire plan.”

“You did!” Stiles threw a hand out.

The kid showed up in the doorway, “What?” 

Stiles choked out an ‘Oh, my god’ as he flinched back. He brought a hand up to rub at his face. The beard made him nauseous again.

“I’m going to kill Kate?” He snarled.

Stiles dropped his hand. Derek was staring at him with piercing green eyes. 

“I mean..” Stiles squinted, “I don’t kn–” Derek’s stare got harsher. Stiles bit his lip, “This never happened to him,” he said, looking at the kid and gesturing at his boyfriend, “and the entire point of this is changing your future, so. No.”

“But if you’ve changed my future, how does he exist?” The kid whispered.

Good God, why did these people keep asking questions Stiles didn’t have answers to? This wasn’t how this was supposed to go - Stiles was supposed to be the one who knew everything, who could fix everything like it was the easiest thing in the world. That was his plan. His Stiles Plan, even.

“Derek,” Stiles tried, speaking as the words formed in his mind, with little afterthought, “Why don’t you believe us?”

“I don’t…” the kid tried, “... I don’t want to believe this. Why would I want to believe I… killed my family? That I got tricked by an Argent?” He shook his head, backing into the room again, “I’m not that stupid. I can’t be. But you’re not lying. And he is me. So… I just…” He sniffled, “Why do I have to be the one who survives?”

Derek - Stiles’ Derek - took a deep, wet breath, and slid past Stiles to race down the corridor. He mumbled something as he passed. Stiles didn’t catch it. He spun to look after him, as his heart flip-flopped and crashed down onto itself; looked back at the kid and his upturned brows.

The words were punched out of him as he said, “It’s not your fault. Okay? It was never your fault.” And if he winced at the Other Stiles’ voice echoing back to him, the kid had no way of knowing it.

 

-

 

The woods looked the same as they always had. That was a small mercy. 

The creek looked the same, too.

Well, the stream was heavier, and the bank hadn’t yet eroded as much, but other than that. It looked about the same as it had the last time they’d been there. In the day, at least. Only, this time, Stiles was the one walking over to sit in the grass beside Derek. And their pack was gone. Left behind. Stiles detested the fact he’d have to leave what he had for the chance of something better, but he couldn’t stay in a timeline where Scott was dead. 

Scott was dead.

Derek sucked in a breath beside him, wringing his fingers over his knees, “I don’t know what I expected,” he said shakily, “going back there.”

Stiles decided to shut up. Just this once. He wrapped his hands around the wolf’s arm, even if the proximity was far too warm.

Derek kept talking, “I shouldn’t feel this bad for myself, should I?”

Stiles shook his head, dropping it to nudge against the man’s shoulder, “No, it’s…” he sighed, “There’s not exactly a handbook for how to feel about… this exact situation. I mean, there’s not a handbook for how to feel about anything.”

Derek exhaled roughly through his nose. Almost a laugh. 

It made Stiles smile a little bit, “You don’t have to go back. I don’t really want you to go back.” He moved back just enough to look Derek in the eye, “You can… find a motel and wait until it’s over. Go get some food. Go… bowling, I don’t know. See a movie?”

“Stiles,” he said, with his eyes finally soft in the way they ought to be, “I’m not leaving.”

“And that’s very sweet and very stupid,” Stiles nodded, “I’m not asking you to go back to the future, unless that’s the movie you want to watch, because I just want you to be okay. And this?” He gestured in the vague direction of the house, “Isn’t okay! If those two hadn’t been near the Nemeton when we showed up, I would’ve locked you away in a tower before I even thought about going to the house. Just… It’ll make me feel a lot better if I know you’re not going to get even more traumatised by all of this.”

After a moment, Derek’s lip quirked up, “I guess I don’t really want to go back.”

Stiles tilted his head, “I wouldn’t, either. You don’t see me running into my mom’s arms right now.”

Derek knocked their foreheads together, “Motel, then.”

Stiles smiled, and nodded against Derek, “I’ll catch up. I left the grimoire at the house. I’ll get Peter to pay while I’m there.”

The wolf pecked his lips and moved away, “Okay. You sure that’ll work?”

With a quirk of his lips, Stiles answered, “Please, as if he can say ‘no’ to me.”

Derek hummed and backed up, rising to stand so effortlessly, “The motel on Belle Street. I’ll see you there.”

“I might be a minute,” Stiles practically whispered, taking hold of Derek’s hand as he did, “So. Stay safe. Okay?” Derek’s face softened. He gritted his teeth, “And don’t… pick up any coins. Or drop any coins. Or shoot any presidents. Or kill your grandpa.”

“I never met any of my grandparents,” Derek said.

Stiles nodded, “Okay, I will take care of the grandpa not-killing, then.”

Derek gave another nose-exhale-not-a-laugh and stepped away, “Stay safe, too,” then, with a shy little smile, “I love you.”

Stiles bit back a very untimely grin and scrunched up his nose, “I love you, too, you dork. Go.” 

His throat tightened. 

Derek smiled properly as he turned and left. Swift as the wind, as if he were never there. Stiles let his eyes fall shut. 

He could hear Erica’s laugh echoing through the trickle of the stream. Through the whistle of the wind and the rustling of the trees. She was alive. Scott was alive. Everyone who wanted them dead was alive. His mom was alive. And so was he. With the grass staining his dry jeans and his shirt, it all started to really set in. His reality was insane, but it was real. And he knew what he had to do. How to keep everyone alive. 

He didn’t like it. Of course, he didn’t. Even as he accepted it, he didn’t like, for a single second, the fact that he would have to kill Kate. And the only way he could do that with a clear conscience was exactly what he’d threatened to do. What he’d promised to do. What the Other Stiles said he would.

He had to shoot Kate Argent.

But where the hell was he supposed to get the gun from?

 

-

 

Stiles wondered if the front door was always unlocked. It was probably easier that way, he supposed. The Hale pack had been a massive thing - it would be a waste of time and money to cut keys for every person welcome in the house. Stiles figured it was just reckless. Then again, Derek’s loft door was literally a giant sliding piece of wood, so maybe he wasn’t the best person to vouch for home security. But then he noticed the runes.

He wouldn’t have seen them if the light hadn’t caught on them just right - tiny notches engraved into the wood of the doorframe. So small Stiles had to get real close to even make out the shapes. It seemed like such a ridiculous thing to be focussing on when his life was pure chaos. The Nogitsune would have loved it. Stiles blinked that thought away as he brushed a finger over one of the runes. Most of them were protective - barriers against unwelcome energy and people. But a handful of them, Stiles had never seen before. Not even on his rabbit hole deep-dive in Sophomore year when he first found out about all this. He wondered if his mother had carved those runes into the wood. 

“Welcome back,” Peter’s voice called out, “You seem to have lost a Derek.”

Stiles jumped back, looking the man up and down as he pushed through the door properly, “He’s not coming back.”

Peter’s face twisted up, “Did you kill him?”

Stiles blinked, “What? No, I didn’t want him to keep traumatising himself by doing this with me, he’s at a motel.”

The wolf made a noise of understanding, “Well, that’s far less entertaining, but my sister wants to speak with you. Again. And so do I, so, chop, chop.”

“Alright,” Stiles hummed, “But you’re paying for the motel.”

“Sure, I am,” Peter said with a smirk, and Stiles slipped past him - glancing into the living room and at the bare coffee table. 

“Where’s my grimoire,” he snapped.

“Claudia’s grimoire,” Peter answered, “is in there with the family. Do you mind getting a move on?”

Stiles quirked his head, “Never lost your charm, did you?”

“I would sooner die.”

“Too soon, Peter.”

“But that’s the thing,” the wolf mused, as they pushed through the grand oak office doors, “I’m not going to die, am I? Because you know me, and you’re not alarmed by the fact that you know me.”

Stiles flicked his eyes over the bookshelves and mahogany furniture one more time, at Talia behind the desk, the kid sat across from her, the woman by her side, and the grimoire sat before the Alpha, “If you let this go the same way it did, you’re gonna wish you had died, Peter.” And he dropped into the seat beside the kid as he said it. 

There was a moment of silence, before Peter muttered, “How exciting.”

Stiles hummed, reaching for the grimoire, “None of you read any of this out loud, right?”

“We’re not stupid,” the woman to his left snapped.

Stiles blinked, then turned to look up at her. She looked like all the other Hales - tall, dark, and terrifying. 

“Who are you?” He asked.

Her jaw clenched as she answered, “Laura.”

And Stiles’ hands froze over the leather binding. Yes. It was her. It was the rotting face he’d dug up outside Derek’s house when he was fifteen, the one he’d seen in the morgue. Derek’s sister. His Alpha. 

He swallowed, “Right.” Then, with a closed-lipped smile, “Awesome to meet you. Properly. Heard great things. I’m Stiles.”

“I know,” Laura said, “What, is this fire gonna kill me, too?”

“No,” Stiles answered. He said nothing more. Just fiddled with the cover of the grimoire, flicking it up and down with his right forefinger and thumb. He itched to delve into it; to find those runes, with no idea where this curiosity was coming from or what founded it. 

“Who,” the kid broke the silence, “Who is it going to kill?”

Stiles furrowed his brows, staring down at the embossed leather, “I don’t know anyone’s names. Derek doesn’t… You don’t talk about it.”

“Then who survives?” Talia prompted. She was using that gentle voice again, like she had when she beckoned them inside.

The spark chewed at his lip for a moment, then met her eyes as he answered, “Peter, Laura, Cora, and Derek. Evidently.”

Peter cursed. Talia held his gaze, though the way she swallowed and her muscles tensed gave her away. Stiles blocked out Derek’s reaction. But, all things considered, this was good. Stiles was used to this: being the one in the room with all the answers. Being cryptic, holding all the cards. Trying to change the timeline. It’s all he’d done for the last two years, anyway.

“If I survive the fire, how come you don’t know me?” Laura asked, voice lower, too.

Stiles licked his lips, “It doesn’t matter. The fire’s not gonna happen this time, neither is anything that happened after.”

“But you went back in time,” the kid says, “If stopping the fire will change everything, you wouldn’t be here. You’d never change it. It’d happen. You’d come back to change it–”

“Okay, yeah, shut up,” Stiles rubbed at the bridge of his nose, “I know the grandfather paradox, Miguel. ” He slammed his hand down.

“Who the hell is Miguel??” Laura cried.

Stiles outright laughed, “Oh, my God,” turned to the kid and cringed at the confusion on his face, “Wow, that is too niche. Derek doesn’t even know about that.”

“Know about what?” The kid - Miguel, if you showed a photo to Rafael McCall in 2014 and asked him - snapped.

Stiles shook his head, “Just. An inside joke. Not even that– Something I did a few times in the first timeline.”

“The first timeline?” Talia prompted.

The spark turned back to her, staring for a long moment, “What, you didn’t think this was my first time-travel extravaganza, did you?” He shrugged, “I just have an actual plan this time.”

“Which is,” she kept prodding. 

Stiles just sighed, “Killing Kate Argent.”

“But you can’t just do that!” Miguel snarled, “You know, she hasn’t actually done the shit you’re executing her for.”

“Language, Derek,” Talia murmured. 

“Yeah, language, Derek,” Stiles snickered.

“Alright,” the kid snapped, “You don’t seem nearly as distraught as you did half an hour ago.”

“I don’t have an issue with being here,” Stiles said on an exhale, “Derek does. And Derek being upset is upsetting by default but it’s worse because I’m the one who brought us here, even if I begged him not to come because I knew it would be torture. I’ve met you before, Miguel, ” he tilted his head, watching as the kid’s brows met in the middle, “Because Kate needed to make you a child again so she could use you. Again.”

The kid took in a shuddering little breath.

Stiles sighed again, “And that was after Peter here had already killed her. By clawing her throat open. But, unfortunately, that just turned her, and made everything way worse, thank you, Peter.”

“May I remind you I have not done that yet,” the wolf started, but stopped just as abruptly, “I turned her?”

“Not the point,” Stiles snapped, “The point is I need to shoot her in the head because that’s the only way she’ll stay dead.” Miguel made a little whining noise. “And, shut up, because as far as me and my Derek are concerned, she has, in fact, already done it. And I will never feel bad about Kate Argent dying.”

“Your Derek,” Laura drawled, “I thought my nose was fucking with me.”

“Laura,” Talia scolded.

“Yeah, yeah, language, I know.”

Stiles scratched at the hair on his face and squinted as his fingertips brushed the scar, far less obvious, on his cheek, “Yeah, mine. I definitely am not getting a boyfriend of the year award for doing this to him the day before his fucking birthday, though.”

Miguel made a noise, “It’s August.”

“Yeah,” Stiles grumbled, “and it was November for us an hour and whatever ago.”

“How the hell did I end up dating you?” Miguel asked, with his face scrunched up like it offended him. Stiles’ jaw dropped.

He raised his brows, “You want the real answer?”

“Yeah, actually!” Miguel snapped.

“You shot Kate Argent in my kitchen,” Stiles snapped, “because my future self is married to you and told me I would shoot her in the head. And future me is a psychopath who just murdered my best friend before my very eyes, so that freaked me out just a little tiny bit. Derek shot her to help me get over it. And, technically, we didn’t get together officially until my dad shot Kate’s dad and I force-shot a random hunter that was about to shoot you. Again. And then healed you.” The kid’s face was pale, so horrified and fragile. Stiles shrugged, lips splitting into a rough smile as he patted the hair on his head, “Romantic, huh?”

Peter giggled off to the side, “You are so Claudia’s son.”

“And yet you still want to shoot her?” Derek’s face was so crunched up, it must’ve hurt, “You already are a psychopath. I guess I have a type, do I?”

Stiles genuinely didn’t know how to respond to that. Other than by throwing up or something. He went with or something and just gawked at him instead.

“Okay, I think we are going off-topic here,” Talia said. Stiles pursed his lips as he snatched his hand back to rest against the leather in his lap, sinking further into the chair. “How is Kate going to do it?”

The spark licked his lips, “Gasoline? Matches? How do people normally set houses on fire? I mean, for the record, this house is way too flammable.”

I would know, he did not say. At all. 

Fuck.

No voice chastised his language. And thank whatever’s out there for that small mercy.

“And mountain ash,” he added gently.

“I mean how will she get past the wards?” Talia asked. 

Stiles blinked, “You mean the protection runes?”

Talia hummed in affirmation, “Your mother’s own. They aren’t exactly easy to get past.”

Stiles swallowed as he turned his gaze down to the grimoire again. He itched to paw through it still. It was the first question he hadn’t had an answer for. He’d never thought about that before. How Kate could possibly destroy the Hale House and everyone inside. Mountain ash would’ve kept them in, sure, but what about the humans inside? How could everyone not have…

He could feel a heat run through him as his heart sped up, “How did you not hear it happening?” Peter shuffled into view, perched beside his sister, with his brows furrowed. Stiles’ mouth bobbed open and shut for a moment, “I… You said my mom told you Kate… wouldn’t go through with it. What does that mean?”

“I had my suspicions,” Peter answered, “a few months ago. She’d figured out a way to see into the future and I asked her to see if it would happen. She said it wouldn’t.”

“What did she say would happen?” Stiles muttered.

“I would be the Alpha,” Peter answered.

Stiles’ jaw dropped open again, “She said you– And that the fire wouldn’t happen? She saw you being the Alpha.”

Peter tilted his head, “Is the fire what makes me the Alpha?”

“No,” Stiles bit out, “Yes. Not directly.”

The wolf went quiet; his face went stony. He gritted his teeth, “She lied?”

“If she did, you didn’t know,” Stiles said, turning his gaze back to Talia, “You didn’t mess with anyone’s memories.” Talia’s gaze was piercing. Stiles ground his jaw, gripping the grimoire in one hand and the arm of his chair in the other, “I need to talk to Deaton.”

“Alan?” Laura piped up, “I– Back up, how does Peter end up being the Alpha? I’m the one who’s supposed to take over if anything happens, and you said I survive–”

“Until Peter mauls you,” Stiles spat. The words spilt out through him before he could stop them. He flinched away from them, from the way Laura’s face closed off, how Derek stared up at him, the clench of Peter’s jaw. With a clash of teeth, he said, “It wasn’t his fault.”

“Like the fire wasn’t mine?” Derek growls.

Stiles huffs out a breath, but Talia cuts in, “We don’t blame you for any of this, Derek. Kate has been using you, and she will pay.”

“With her life?!” Derek cried, rising from his seat, too, “I’m not letting another person I love die!” 

His eyes flashed blue. Talia stood, with a flash of red, but Stiles didn’t care about that. Derek had thought this was what happened, he’d hoped someone else had known, that they’d let it happen. Now the puzzle pieces were fitting together and they looked an whole lot like someone Stiles knew awfully well. He thought so, at least. If she was able to hide her entire life from him, though, well, he supposed that spoke for itself. 

“I’m going to see Deaton,” Stiles forced out.

“Why him?” He couldn’t tell if that was Laura or Talia speaking, “Why not Claudia?”

“I’m not seeing her,” Stiles paused to breathe. He tapped his thigh with the grimoire one, two, three–

“Why the hell not?” Peter cried, “Hit two birds with one stone - get to the bottom of this and see your dead mom again.”

“I have seen more than enough of her,” Stiles said, “I–... She saw the future, and yet the words embedded into the cover of her grimoire damn whoever reads them to be possessed by the thing that possessed me and made me lose my fucking mind and murder Chris’ daughter–” Peter froze. “–one of my best friends, along with another’s boyfriend and more than a few helpless souls at the Sheriff’s station. This isn’t exactly out of character for her. And I’d much rather talk about it to a man who spent the last four months of my life telling you and I to stop trying to figure out some terrible thing that my mom did, than a woman who raised me on lies. It doesn’t help to know that her best friend was the only one to actually survive the fire.” Peter was staring at him, so intensely he was a little bit scared he’d explode him with pure willpower alone, but that was more Stiles’ style, wasn’t it? He chewed at his lip for a moment, then, “Are you coming with me or not?”

Peter gave a snarl of a grin, “Well, I am slightly curious to see how Alan explains me ‘mauling’ my niece.”

Stiles quirked his head, pivoting around the edge of the chair and storming to the door, “You don’t need him to explain that. I can’t explain why Chris cut her in half, though. He still ended up one of our closest allies, anyway.” He stopped, bracing his free hand against the doorframe, to cast a look over his shoulder at a blanching Peter, “Maybe you can explain that part to me.”

Peter growled, low in his throat. Talia rolled her eyes and the siblings pulled the exact same face of disturbance. This was Stiles’ own personal hell. He gave Peter a pointed look as he broke out of his own horror and started crossing the room to meet him.

“Stiles,” Talia called after them. The spark stopped. She raised her brows and tilted her head down, “Be careful. I have a sneaking suspicion that if you run into Kate, it won’t end well.”

Stiles tilted his head, “She has a treaty to follow, doesn’t she?”

“Not with you,” Talia stressed, “And not with your mother. Not anymore. Be careful.”

“I run with wolves,” Stiles said, “I can take care of myself.” He tried his best not to catch Derek’s eye as he turned away. The grimoire in his hand was heavy with foreboding as he did. He could only pray they were all wrong.

He’d get on his knees and pray for it.

He snapped a photo of the runes on his way out. Peter pretended not to notice.

 

-

 

“Your phone is weird.”

He was bad at pretending. His hands were gripping the wheel too tight. The wheel of the Camero. Stiles didn’t find himself in that car often, but the confirmation that it had been anyone’s car first, let alone potentially Peter’s was making it seem far more uncomfortable than usual. So, he focussed on the grimoire. Flicking through the pages and pages of runes, on pages dating back to 1989, scrawled in extremely varied levels of detail. It didn’t take long to piece it together, to find the patterns and slot them into place. 

Some were for soundproofing. One of the first runes she’d written about in the book. Others were for sealing entrances. Or exits.

The runes were activated by fire. 

The runes were activated by fire.

“Fuck.” The curse wasn’t meant to be verbal. 

“What?” Peter asked, glancing away from the road for just a split second.

Stiles didn’t know what to tell him. Surely, there was another explanation. Wasn’t there? His mom had done some fucked up shit, sure, but this? Lying to werewolves and helping Kate Argent slaughter her best friend’s entire family? Why would she do that? Why would anyone do that? 

She saw the way Peter was trapped inside his own mind, how it was burned away, how the shell of himself murdered his niece for the hope of healing itself, and she did it anyway. How did he survive it? If Claudia made that house an inescapable death trap?

This was it, wasn’t it? It was real. Claudia Stilinski was the reason Kate Argent was able to burn the Hales alive. Without her, they might all have lived. None of it would’ve happened. Scott wouldn’t’ve been turned. Stiles wouldn’t be rendered immobile by the sight of a beard and overgrown hair. It was her fault Kate was able to dig her claws into Derek. It was all her. She did this.

She did this.

‘I’m sure you won’t listen to me when I say this, and it’s not often I say it,’ Deaton had said, ‘but you should stop looking for answers. Both of you.’

‘You surely would’ve found something you didn’t like.’

“Stop the car,” he murmured. 

Peter tilted his head in his peripheral, “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” Stiles said, “Pull over.”

“I thought we were going to see Deaton?” 

“Well, we don’t have to,” Stiles snarled, “Stop the fucking car.”

Peter lifted his fingers in surrender as he pulled off the road and brought the car to a stop, muttering incoherent complaints to himself. Stiles gently placed the grimoire on the dash. The second the car was still enough, he fumbled with the handle and wrestled the door open; forced his seatbelt off in the same breath. Stumbled out the car and barely made it to a trashcan on the side of the street before he threw up. He coughed and spluttered, spat, and breathed deep as he moved back from the can. He braced his left hand against his hip, and pressed the back of his right to his mouth. His stomach clenched and ached around nothing.

“Hey, son,” that was his dad’s voice, holy God, “You alright?”

Stiles whipped around, blinking madly at his dad’s significantly younger face, briefly considering fully sprinting away, “Uh. Huh. Yeah, all good…” He glanced down at the name tag on his uniform, and the title right beside it, “Deputy.”

His dad smiled, “My wife can’t handle heat too well either.”

Stiles swallowed the puke down that time.

“There’s a Seven-Eleven down the street to the left,” his dad said, pointing in the direction and squinting as he did, “Their slushies always help her.”

Stiles had to remind himself to react, to nod and smile, “Thanks. I’ll give them a try.”

 “Alright, kid,” his dad nodded, “Take care of yourself. And maybe… lose the jacket.”

Stiles nodded again, more than a little thrown, dizzying himself with the motion, “You too.” He frowned, “I mean- thank you. I will. Um.”

His dad laughed a little to himself and nodded again, turning away just a little, “Alright, son.”

Stiles cringed, “Alright. Tha-a-anks. ”

He stumbled back to the car before his dad could get another word in, hypnotised by the innocence in his eyes. This was a version of his father that hadn’t lost anything yet, had never had to pick up a bottle to try and handle it. He had no idea. 

Stiles’ throat was closing up. Peter didn’t say anything, just took the car out of park and started driving. The reflection of the book in the windscreen, warped and distorted, burned into his retinas and made his chest feel like it was caving in. He reached for it anyway. Thumbed mindlessly through the pages again. Like a puppet on a string. He landed on a spell, just past the midway point, scrawled in ink so delicately. Detailed and precise. 

A revival spell. 

The page creased beneath Stiles’ fingertips. His eyes raked over the words, the warnings – ‘will only work as well as ordinary resuscitation - this is not necromancy. Expect brain damage, permanent injury, or worse. Do not attempt if’ blah, blah, blah. The bitter taste of loss sat heavily on Stiles’ tongue. He could’ve saved Scott if he’d just found the damn book. If the Other Stiles was half as honest as He kept insisting He was, He would’ve helped. Would’ve brought Scott back himself, or, hey, maybe just not murdered him. But He wanted Scott dead. For some reason, He took them to Oak Creek again, knowing they wouldn’t find what they were looking for, just so He could murder His best friend.

No wonder his mom loved Him so much.

“Are we still going to the clinic?” Peter asked, about as gentle as he could ask anything. Stiles wanted his Peter back, even if that thought made his head hurt. He wanted the Peter who’d sooner laugh in his face than treat him like he was fragile. The only person who could really understand why Stiles had ended up here. The only one who remembered. Who knew Stiles better than anyone.

Stiles left him behind. He could only pray that the loose ends tied themselves together. That he’d never existed at all. He didn’t need anyone to miss him. 

He didn’t need to wonder if he’d left his dad alone.

“No,” Stiles breathed out, “The motel.”

Peter hummed, “Say no more.” Then, after a long moment of rumbling silence, “Noah isn’t going to do anything horrifying, too, right?”

“Peter, just drive.”

 

-

 

Stiles was sweating profusely. With his clothes long since dried by the blazing sun, with the heatwaves warping the horizon, muddying the edges of dying grass along the side of the road. He was a little surprised the Hale House didn’t catch itself on fire that summer. A wooden house in the middle of the preserve in the hottest summer the state had seen yet? It’s probably where Kate got the damn idea. 

Had she planned it with Claudia? What would Claudia have claimed to have to gain, from killing her pack? She couldn’t have told Kate the future. She wouldn’t have liked a word of it. Unless Claudia lied. She was good at that.

Kate would die tomorrow. She had to. As soon as he was physically able, and not a shell of himself, Stiles had to kill her. And it had nothing to do with the Other Stiles. This was his only option. He had no other choice. 

Gravel crunched beneath the tyres as they turned the corner; Stiles remembered the way He had blasted His music. Peter drove in silence. With his hands tense around the wheel, his turns rough, and his gear changes swift. He unclasped his seatbelt as they pulled into a free space. Stiles hadn’t done his when he got back in. 

His arms were still aching like hell.

Peter’s face had shifted, as they slipped out of their seats, from the silent contemplative smoulder he wore behind the wheel to one of thinly veiled fear. Stiles knew that face well. Never once had it meant anything good for either one of them.

“What?” Stiles muttered.

Peter shook his head, “Stay here.” He slammed the driver’s side door shut and started walking.

“Absolutely not,” Stiles tailed after him, shifting the grimoire around in his hands to shrug his jacket off. Peter didn’t try to stop him - a good choice, seen as Stiles would’ve punched him in the throat if he did. “What the hell is going on?”

Peter turned back to him with a flash of golden eyes and, dear God, that was weird. It worked to shut him up, though, Stiles had to give him that. Only he was more stunned by the eye colour than the action itself. The wolf moved up to a door, room 88, to Stiles’ amusement, and stared at the handle like he could melt the metal. It was a wonder the heat hadn’t.

There was a voice on the other side. Stiles was so absolutely done with hearing it. 

“You grew up in all the right places,” it drawled, “Your little boyfriend’s cute, too. Maybe I could take you both at the same time.”

Derek growled, and Peter roared as he barrelled through the door. Splintered wood flew out into the room, just as the wolf did, and Stiles only briefly wondered if he knew he was going to be the one paying for that. His roars were far too loud, even as they were dampened by the thick layer of humidity in that shitty room - Stiles just let him do what he needed to do. Still, as he got close enough to the bitch to try and swipe at her, he was knocked down by a sparking stick of delight before he could get a bite in edgewise. The metal poking out of her waistband caught the light through shitty puke-yellow drapes.

“Oh, come on, really?” Kate chastised, pressing the taser down into the spot between Peter’s shoulder blades as he tried to stand again. He fell to his stomach with a fierce roar. Stiles considered those bright blue sparks of electricity. Kate’s eyes met his, “This is seriously the family you choose to associate with? They’re all pathetic. Little. Bitches.” 

Stiles got his legs to start working then. Whether they were frozen by the horror of what this woman was, or the horror of what Stiles was going to do when he finally moved, it took him long enough. He lunged, fist colliding hard against her jaw; her groan barely muffled the crack of his knuckles. That sparking stick was stabbed into his stomach - a blunt, disappointing little pain. He had her back against a wall, with the windowsill digging into her hip as she stared up at him with that angry look on her face. Her jaw cut into the painted skin of his forearm.

“You’re just as wrong as the rest of them,” she spat.

Stiles wrapped his hand around the taser pressing against his abdomen, raising his brows as he hummed in agreement. Her lip curled, exposing her teeth like a rabid dog, and Stiles almost - barely - felt the slightest bit pitiful toward her.

“I’m gonna enjoy killing you,” he sighed, “Isn’t that just so wrong?”

He was pulled back just as his hand wrapped around the gun in her waistband; thrown to the floor like it was nothing. 

“Peter! No! For God’s sake!” 

It meant nothing to him. Stiles should’ve known better to expect an unburned Peter to be selfless enough to let someone else punish her. His vengeance was the first part of him Stiles ever knew - or, remembered he knew. Nothing about Peter should ever have surprised him. 

Still, that did little to calm the burn inside himself as the blood splattered. As Peter roared, and Kate screamed. She clocked him in the side of the head with her weapon and Stiles was frozen by his anger at the sight of the blood dripping past her hand, pressed against her neck. She stumbled past Peter’s body, racing to the door. Stiles raised the gun as she passed him, though pulling the trigger sent flares of pain up his forearms; made him lose his focus, his aim. He clambered up to his knees as she disappeared past the doorframe and out onto the street. His shoulder smacked against that doorframe, and he pushed through the stupid, blaring, distracting, pulsing pain in his arms to lift the gun one last time. 

He aimed right at her skull. At the blonde hair painted red. 

He strained to pull the trigger.

Click.

“You’re fucking joking,” he groaned. He lowered his arms, wincing at the ache and dropping the empty gun to thud against the matted old carpet on the floor. A little noise forced its way out of him as the pain kept pulsing, persisting as he flexed his hands. “ Fuck. You just can’t stop yourself from slashing her throat open, can you?” Peter met his glare as he rolled to his side. He pressed a bloodied hand against the carpet. Stiles made a low noise, “Now we have to go to a new motel, you– God!! She hasn’t even done anything to you yet, you asshole!”

“As if she’s already done anything to you!” Peter cried.

“She raped me.”

Stiles turned to him. To stare at the shaking shell of Derek, cowering in the corner of the room - so unlike himself and so raw. Stripped away were the walls he’d spent so long putting up around himself - around what happened to him, what Kate did to him, in no passive sense at all. Derek looked like someone else entirely, so utterly foreign to Stiles, as he sat beside the bed with his arms wrapped loosely around his legs, but with his clawed hands digging down through his jeans and breaking skin. His eyes weren’t focused on either one of the other men. They were barely focused on anything. 

“She raped me,” he said, with a growl in his voice, “And you let her.” His eyes moved over to Peter with a blink. They were sea glass. “Don’t act like I was any good at hiding it. You knew. And you didn’t do anything. But now that you might get burned, suddenly she has to die by your hand? Literally?” He took in one deep breath, “You are so believable.”

Peter scoffed, “I… You saw the way you reacted to all of this. As if you would have listened if I tried, if I even knew, which I didn’t.”

“You’re my family,” Derek seethed, “You were supposed to be somebody I could depend on. You… You promised you'd...” His lip quivered, covered with a show of teeth, “Why didn’t you protect me? Why didn't you save me?”

Peter said nothing.

“Stiles was supposed to shoot her in the head,” Derek said, with a sudden coolness that sent a similar chill down Stiles’ spine; dampened the burning flame in his chest on its way down, “And I was supposed to be happy. She would’ve had no way to come back if her brain matter was in a biohazard bag in a dumpster behind the Sheriff’s station.” He took another deep breath, “Now, what?”

Stiles couldn’t speak, either. 

“Are we supposed to wait until she finishes tending to her wounds and shows her face again to get another shot?” 

He didn’t think he was actually asking. But then Derek’s eyes met his, knocked the air out of his lungs, and slapped him back-handed across the face. He swallowed, so thickly it was audible even to him.

Derek’s eyes were so terrifyingly beautiful, all broken like that, as he shook his head so helplessly, “I can’t wait here for that. I can’t sit around and wait for her to…” The words devolved into a sudden burst of a growl, smothered just as fast with the bloody palms of his hands, “Fuck.”

And it was simple. As simple as the ache of Stiles’ arms and the weight of the gun in his hands. He and Peter were alike in more ways than he liked to admit, but one thing he would concede to was revenge. The jump to murder. He was trigger-happy, maybe. But, nevertheless, Peter did one thing right when he was the Alpha. He killed the people who had helped Kate commit her crimes. 

He was going to make himself useful and help Stiles do it again. 

He declared it as such, though the words were barely audible beyond the blur of pain and fear and hatred coursing through him. Derek pulled his hands in when he urged him to his feet, pressed his palms against his cheeks and his throat; melted down into his arms and burrowed into his throat as if he could crawl into his skin and hide until it all went away. He was so far removed from the Derek Stiles met in that clearing, but just the same, surely. Stiles would have known that if the wolf hadn’t been playing some sort of role back then, trying to fill shoes that didn’t belong to him yet, trying so desperately to survive. 

He was just a scared kid. Back then, and now. Stiles would burn the world for him if he didn’t think it disgustingly ironic. Even still, he might just do it anyway. Just to know Derek might be safe when it all died down.

For now, he was satisfied with preventing the fire. 

For now.

 

-

 

“Do you want me to come with you?” Stiles had asked.

“No,” Derek had answered, “I want to go alone.”

Stiles nodded, even as the unease settled in his stomach, “Alright. I’m just a howl away. Or a phone call. Preferably a phone call. We are civilised mostly-human beings.”

“I’ll be fine, Stiles,” Derek had smiled, “It’s not like I’m saying goodbye forever. Just… ‘see you later’.” 

Stiles understood that. Still, letting him go to see his family again - alone - kind of made him want to throw up again. He hadn’t even told him about what his own mother had to do with all of this, as if it would help, anyway. But he had to get used to it. Both of them did. This was going to be permanent. Derek couldn’t keep pretending it was all a bad dream, and Stiles couldn’t keep treating him like glass. He wanted to, though. He really, really wanted to.

He let him go. Now he was sat in the passenger seat of Peter’s car again. His mother’s grimoire stared back at him, giving just as good as he gave. The hands of the wolf beside him were tense around the steering wheel.

“So, you’re, what?” He said, “A hunter hunter? ”

Stiles gave him a judgemental look, “What? I don’t hunt anything.”

The gun in his lap was empty again. Still, he did not believe he was lying.

Peter hummed, “Nous chassons ceux qui nous chassent.”

The spark squinted at him, “Are you speaking French?” Peter shrugged his shoulders. “On that note, I still don’t know what happened between you and Chris.”

“Are you sure you want to get chatty with me?” Peter grumbled, “I thought I was ruining all of this for you. And I already ruined Derek.”

“Sure,” Stiles nodded, “You also ruined my first love and my first everything else and ruined Derek again in more ways than you can imagine and I’m very tired of recounting your crimes against humanity to everyone else, least of all to yourself. And yet, somehow, there’s still a very determined part of me that feels enough empathy for you to not be able to hate you like I used to.” Peter said nothing. Again. Stiles chewed the inside of his cheek for a moment, “We’re more alike than I like to admit.” The gun in his lap felt heavier now, “And, hey, here we are. Killing people together.”

“Not killing people,” Peter corrected simply.

“Maiming people together,” Stiles conceded, “We’re getting a message across. Semi-passively. Making leaps and bounds. Now, you and Chris. Spill. I will beg if I have to.”

It was awfully convenient, far from coincidental, that the determination died on his tongue as the car slowed to a stop and he caught up to where they were. He was going to kill Peter. Not maim. Kill. 

His Jeep - not his, his mother’s - rocked in the driveway. The doors swung open in swift succession, and the bodies were slipping out. First, himself. A silhouette he would recognise not only for the memory of it, nor the abundance context, but from the hideous DC collage t-shirt he wore, with those bright green jeans he’d burned a good eight years back. He was bouncing on the balls of his tiny feet, with his hands braced against the seat he’d just left. The second body left the car.

Stiles closed his eyes. He knew he’d see spots when they opened again if he kept them sealed shut so tight. As if he cared.

“Stiles,” Peter’s voice taunted, “I thought we were sending messages to all the people who helped Kate. You’ve come this far, and you can’t even look at this one?”

“Shut up,” Stiles hissed, “Shut the fuck up.”

"Oh, come on,” he drawled, “You’re tougher than this.”

Stiles kept his eyes closed, squeezed shut as tight as he could manage, “No. No, I’m not.”

He didn’t understand why. He couldn’t answer Peter when he asked. There was some sort of a difference, in the most primal reaches of Stiles, that understood far better than he consciously could, the difference between hearing his mother’s voice, reading her words, seeing mirages of her in voids and dreams. And seeing the real her. The body whose hands had bruised and broken him. The voice that haunted nightmares for years before its memory brought any comfort. 

He couldn’t do this.

He couldn’t see her. He didn’t need to.

Why the fuck had Peter brought him here?

“Turn around,” he seethed.

Peter hummed. A question.

“She’s gonna forget all about whatever plans she had,” Stiles said, “if she even remembers them now.”

Peter tch’d; kissed his teeth, “Oh, let’s not underestimate her. She did outsmart everyone she ever knew, after all.”

“Yeah, and then she died alone.”

The words shocked a tightness into his throat. The half-lie, the memory of her dying before his very eyes, of the flatline, of the death rattle, of him crying for help, pathetically unanswered. He needed to get away from this. From her. From the past. Once they were back in the right time (or as close to the right time as Stiles was ever going to be again), he could at least find something else to occupy himself. He wouldn’t have the ghost of his dead mother and the life she left behind lurking around every corner. He could leave town, let them be with their living families. There would be one too many Dereks and Stileses, anyway. They would be off the hook. 

“Peter, I’m not gonna keep doing this,” he wept, “Just take me to a semi-functioning motel and leave me alone. You can do whatever you want now. I don’t care.”

And he didn’t listen to Peter’s words. The drone of disbelieving bargains for any claim to his mother’s righteousness, her innocence. When he said nothing for long enough, Peter gave up. He drove. Stiles didn’t open his eyes until he heard the ground beneath their tyres shift from smooth tarmac to dirty gravel. 

The spots in his vision were dizzying.

Everything was so disarmingly blue.

 

-

 

The face in the mirror wasn’t his. It wasn’t His, either. Not enough for him to justify any real feeling about it. 

He looked closer to how he remembered, roughly and without focus, before he was taken back to the day Scott got bit. That exact face he’d cringed at, with its mouth pulled into an awkward incomplete smile in his yearbook photo, that he’d vowed to outdo in their Senior year. He never got to. 

He wondered whether they should go that far. To his Senior year. Let him finally catch up. That would leave Derek a few years behind. He didn’t think he’d care. Though Stiles might care about still being almost two years ahead.

The door of the motel room opened with a click. It shut just the same.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice called out.

“There are no razors here,” Stiles said back. Something crinkled in the other room.

Derek appeared in the reflection as he slipped into the bathroom, asking with a genuine earnesty, “What do you need a razor for?” 

Stiles lifted a brow and gestured around his head, eventually resting his hand just below his jaw, and the scruff that covered it. His arms ached with the effort. Derek glanced down at the reflection of them.

“Motels don’t tend to cater to… any needs,” he nodded, “at all. So. You won’t find one.”

“What, you’re a motel expert now?” Stiles grumbled, though the snark was dead on his lips the moment Derek stepped closer and wrapped his body around him. His hands pressed against the skin of his arms. And the pain was gone. Derek swore, his fingers digging in deep enough to cause more pain for him to take, but Stiles was so stunned by the sudden relief his head fell back onto Derek’s shoulder.

He breathed. 

Derek breathed back against him.

“You don’t have to do that,” Stiles murmured. 

“What is that?” Derek whispered back, “Why are you hurting so bad?”

Stiles shook his head and let it fall back into place, staring at the image of the two of them. Their heads level. Their shoulders barely differing in width. The black seeping up through Derek’s veins, past the watch on his right wrist up to vanish beneath the fabric at his elbows, and painting his arms near-perfect replicas of the spark’s. He pulled his right arm up to lace his fingers between Derek’s and feel the weight of him, “I don’t know.”

“Do you need a doctor??”

“Probably,” Stiles shrugged, “But I’ve survived being impaled. I can survive a little pain in my forearms.”

“A little?” Derek choked out.

Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled the wolf’s hands off of him, staring easily into the reflection of his concern before them. The pain came rushing back. It felt about as bad as he’d been ready for. 

He smiled, “See? I’m still standing.” He ignored the look in Derek’s eyes and turned to pat him solidly on his chest, “Anyway, less talk about me, how are you doing in this Hellscape we have suddenly been thrust into? You look a little less traumatised.”

Derek nodded, considering, “I’m still as traumatised as before, I’m pretty sure. I didn’t see my family, so.”

“What?” Stiles blinked at him.

“Well, I,” Derek tilted his head, “I got dinner with Laura. Which was as awkward as it was upsetting, but,” he gave a deeply insincere smile, “I’m still standing. I’ll have enough time to acclimate to my entire family being revived in the future if this all works.”

“If?” Stiles frowned, “It is absolutely going to work. Those guys are not committing any arsons any time soon.”

“Well,” Derek sighed, “Either way. I got a little too used to being an orphan. It might take a while to start believing this is real. They’re. They’re not alive. To me.” He looked down at the floor, “They’re dead. All of them. They’ve been dead for seven years. I’ve mourned them. And I’ve. Gotten better. And now it all just,” his brows furrowed, “Doesn’t matter? And I need to act like it never even happened?” He shrugged his shoulders. An image of such a helpless, small being.

Stiles shook his head, “No,” he tried, reaching up to cup Derek’s bearded cheeks, “Hey.” Derek met his gaze with such reluctance it hurt. “I don’t know how this’ll work with, you know, two Dereks and two Stileses. Maybe when we go back it’ll be like we were never anything. Maybe our minds and memories will go to the future and our bodies will turn to stardust. But whatever happens, whether we have to face this or not. It’ll be okay. And we will have each other. Right?”

Derek stared at him so delicately.

Stiles’ brows twitched, “And you can have your family back. Isn’t that a good thing?” He asked. Though he knew his own answer to the question would be a resounding and emphatic ‘no’.

“I don’t–” Derek scrunched his nose, “Yes. Yes, it’s a good thing. I just. I’m.” He pursed his lips and ground his jaw - Stiles felt his teeth grinding beneath his palms. His arms ached from holding them up for so long. Derek winced, “A part of me. Feels wrong. Like. Angry. Like I went through so much just for it all to be fine. It feels. Wrong.” Stiles watched him continue to grind his teeth for a long moment as his eyes found their way back to settling on Stiles’ own. They softened, and his hands rose to cover the spark’s over his cheeks, “You don’t have to say anything, Stiles. I know you like to fix things, but…” He frowned, “Feelings can’t be fixed.”

It was far too heavy of a conversation to be having in a motel bathroom. Though, maybe, it was the only place they could talk about it.

“I hate motels,” Stiles muttered.

Derek quirked his brows and pulled his hands down, “You’re telling that to the guy who can smell every person who had sex or died in this entire hallway. Or both.” 

Stiles decided not to start talking about his reasons for hating motels, and also flares and handsaws, and instead tilted his head and said, “Holy God.”

“And then imagine having your sister right next to you smelling it all, too,” Derek drawled. Stiles pulled a face - less of a real reaction and more of a step back from the realness of this whole conversation. Surely Laura couldn’t stay a sensitive topic between them. Not if she was going to live. Derek hummed, “The road to New York was not a fun one. And that is how I’m a motel expert.”

Stiles tilted his head again, “You ever heard of the Glen Capri? ”

Derek blinked at him, “No. Why?”

Stiles shook his head, “No reason. Forget about it.”

Derek squinted at him for a long moment, then ground his jaw, “I brought some food back for you. You haven’t eaten since…” His brows somehow seemed to fall and rise at the same time, and even in the absence of an actual measure of time, Stiles’ stomach started to growl awake at the reminder. Eventually, Derek just shook his head and started to head out of the bathroom, “I got you curly fries.”

“Oh, you do love me.”

And so they ended up sprawled across the bed, leaving grease stains in the long-ruined, shoddy, crinkled sheets, mindlessly talking back and forth into the stale air. Derek was okay now. It seemed like it, at least. As close to that last summer as he’d been since. Stiles missed that summer. Yearned for it. How simple it had all been. Everyone was alive, and happy, and safe. It was the kind of summer he’d been wanting since he was a kid - weeks of fun without stopping, not a moment alone. It was everything he ever wanted. He couldn’t recreate that when they went back. It was lightning in a bottle. 

Another fry turned to mush between his teeth as Derek continued to spew details of Peter’s Camaro - Peter’s - that went in one ear and out the other. Stiles didn’t really care about cars. He would listen when Derek talked about them, but he would never pretend he understood a word of it. Or wanted to. Derek didn’t seem to mind. The only car Stiles ever cared about was his own. His mother’s. 

He sucked the seasoning off of his fingers.

Drawing in a sharp breath in a pause in Derek’s engine talk, he said, “I’m shaving everything the second we get back.” The wolf made a tiny growling sort of noise and Stiles looked up to give him as judgmental of a look as he could manage, “I do not understand what the hell you think is so great about this look, and I’m flattered that you think I’m pretty enough to overlook murdering Scott, but I don’t! So! It’s gotta go! And then I will get so shitfaced I won’t even care that I’m bald again.”

“I’m not overlooking anything, you–” Derek cut himself off with a huff. 

Stiles crossed his arms and propped himself up on them. It was not often that Derek was the one withholding information. In fact, it was always Stiles. One-hundred-percent of the time. Often unnecessarily. He did it exactly twenty minutes ago about the murder-suicide motel thing. So this. This seemingly extremely relevant yet utterly indecipherable piece of information that now Derek decided to be secretive about. 

What the fuck happened when Stiles left them at Oak Creek?

“Did you get freaky with future me at that concentration camp?” 

“Oh, my God, Stiles!!”

“That is not a ‘no’.”

“No!” Derek’s eyes were wide and just horrified enough to feel mildly offensive, “No, I didn’t ‘get freaky’– ” He broke out in a loud laugh.

Stiles hadn’t heard him laugh in months. Not like that, anyway. Then he stopped as the laugh morphed into a yawn. Stiles pushed down the urge to mirror it.

His brows furrowed, “What time is it?”

Derek flicked his wrist to squint at the watch on his wrist, still chuckling a little to himself, “Just gone midnight.”

Stiles blinked.

He considered nudging the takeout box in his direction to offer up the last fry, but Derek tossed it in his mouth before he could even start to move. The wolf chewed silently, with his tired eyes still sparkling in the dull yellow light. He hadn’t had the slightest chance to shave, either, now scruffy and entirely too soft around the edges.

Stiles loved him so bad. It was terrifying.

“Happy birthday,” he whispered. 

Derek stopped chewing for a moment. Then swallowed. His brows drew together, “Oh.”

“Oh.”

“I forgot,” he murmured.

Stiles smiled, “I didn’t.” 

And Derek’s eyes did that thing. Where they got all soft and gooey. And it felt wrong for Stiles to be aware of the way he looked at him. It seemed too private even for the only man it was meant for.

“That fry was gonna be your gift, but, well,” Stiles pursed his lips. Derek’s face morphed into a very convincing glare. That fire was far more familiar. Irony. Stiles bit his lip, “Now I’m thinking of a different gift that I should definitely not give you right now.”

Derek’s brows fell barely a millimetre. His eyes sparkled, “No?”

The want burned bright in Stiles’ stomach, “Absolutely not. That would not be healthy. In light of recent events.”

“Aw,” Derek drawled, “Well. As we are the healthiest couple in this town and, probably, the entire universe, we can’t have that, can we?”

Stiles couldn’t do much more than shake his head. 

“I don’t see what’s wrong with a birthday gift, though,” Derek mused.

Stiles’ mouth slowly, slowly drew into a grin, “Me neither.”

Derek’s own mouth split into a grin, sharp, and animalistic, and the empty box of crumbs was pushed to the sullied carpet below them just as fast as Stiles was pulled up into the man’s arms. Ravished. 

‘Happy birthday’ was sighed into that devilish mouth enough times to make up for the fact that Stiles’ other gifts were doomed. Eternally and biblically.

And even divine intervention wouldn’t make ‘I’m sorry’ pass his lips half as easily.

 

-

 

The next morning, it was hot, and bright, and blistering. And Stiles was afraid. 

The bark was dry. Or, the heartwood. That’s what it’s called, isn’t it? The centre of a tree. Its core. Stiles wasn’t sure.

They went alone. Derek was so contented as they walked through the preserve. With his nose high. Stiles wondered what he was scenting. His pack? The trees? Stiles? All of it? Really, Stiles’ arms were hurting too hard for him to think too hard about any of it. He wondered if Derek was more confident in this than he was. He knew it had to work. The house was still standing in the future Stiles saw. The one he resented. Different, but standing.

‘We renovated’ He’d said. There were two possible meanings to that. Stiles could try optimism. However many times it had failed him, he could try again. Why not try?

The Hales would be there waiting for them. Stiles wouldn’t botch it this time.

The Nemeton was so easy to find. Like it was finally back to wanting anything to go right for Stiles at all. Like he was connected with it again. Even if that connection had only ever been through his mother. And Stiles didn’t want anything to do with it anymore.

He could revel in the silence.

Stiles placed the grimoire between him and Derek. Met his eyes and breathed in deep. The book taunted him with the necessity of itself. Inserting itself always where it wasn’t wanted.

“Take my hands,” he whispered uneasily, “And close your eyes.”

Violet simmered beneath the Nemeton’s surface.

Derek’s thumbs rubbed back and forth against his knuckles. The pain seeped away.

September 9th.

Stiles breathed in as the wind picked up and choked him.

2012.

He read the words aloud.

Notes:

haha! fun!!

Now's the time to read Contingency Plans (a lovely lovely prequel! with so much peter!! and even more Claudia!!!!)!! Seriously, it'll make the rest of this make a lot more sense. Or maybe less sense. Who knows. I'm just a girl. Living in a lonely world. Who took a midnight train going ANYWHERE.

Chapter 2: Livin' La Vida Loca (Murphy's Law States...)

Summary:

Stiles navigates the changes they caused. Derek deals with the repercussions of Stiles' megalomania. Resuscitation ≠ necromancy.

Notes:

more! google! translate! latin!!

also Małpka = 'little monkey' ... in case u needed. that information. for whatever reason. going into this. ur gonna forget by the time you get there so this is entirely redundant

goddddd i love this chapter. it's a real Inbred by Ethel Cain chapter. those r the best chapters.

this chapter is deeply personal to me. most of stiles' Big Feelings are directly taken from stuff that was going on in my life at the time I was writing this. which Is kinda crazy. we r so twin. its double crazy bcz it was gonna happen in this fic whether it happened to me or not so I guess I'm just a psychic. i say that as if it's news. i am so powerful

 

playlist here!!

It was dark. Stiles was not afraid. 

He was almost elated. With the pride pricking at his skin, even as Derek let the pain slip and ebb back into his bones. He opened his eyes, blinking to adjust to the dark of the Fall forest in early morning. Or late night. Ready to follow Derek, whatever time it was, to loiter around Scott’s house and watch him in all his human glory. Alive.

He did it. 

He could fix it this time.

Once and for all. Or, something like that.

Then his eyes caught the blue flaring in Derek’s. 

Pulsing, almost. Like he was losing control. The question was half-baked on his dry tongue.

“No,” Derek rued, “No.”

He clambered up to his feet. Stumbled past Stiles and the grimoire. The spark brought out a glimmer of power through his aching arms to help him follow his wolf. He rose to his feet in a glowingly similar way. Stepped down off the ring of wood and past its roots with his footsteps like lead. He couldn’t breathe.

Because there was Derek. Trudging up to the ash and charred-black timber of his childhood home.

Again.

Stiles didn’t understand. He did everything right. The Hales knew what was going to happen. The people who did it were either too badly hurt or too badly terrified to go through with it. He put Derek through the horror, unwillingly at that, for the sake of the light on the horizon. Kate got her throat cut open.  

“How did…” Stiles tried. He couldn’t finish the sentence. 

Why was the Nemeton here now?

Just to taunt him?

Derek’s shoulders shook. Stiles couldn’t tell if he was laughing or crying or both. Either way, he wanted to join him. The whole point of this was they were supposed to prevent this. There was no way that nothing was changing. Not again. Stiles didn’t even have a voice in his head to scream at over it, and, fuck.

She couldn’t have done this. She wouldn’t…

But who the fuck cared? Stiles was watching, helpless, as Nirvana was ripped straight from the hands of the man he loved. He would fix it. He would. But right now Derek needed him more than he needed to find a way to blame a dead woman for a crime committed far too long ago now. 

Again.

They could fix it again.

Stiles never wanted to utter the word again, again.

“Derek, it’s okay,” he said. His heart was caught in his throat, “We can go back, just–” He turned around as the wolf did the same. 

The Nemeton was gone. 

Just the grimoire left alone in the clearing. Its pages fluttered in a passing breeze. The earth beneath it, unmarred. 

“No. No, no,” Derek cried. Guttural. He stumbled back to the empty space where the beacon had sat. His voice cracked and splintered like the wood of the home just behind them as he fell down to his knees, clawing at the dirt and leaves, “I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t say goodbye.”

It’s something Stiles had never seen of him before. Begging. Pleading. He’d broken him. He’d pushed him over the ledge even Kate had never gotten him to. Derek didn’t break. At his lowest, he would close himself off to stop himself from getting worse. But now Stiles had brought him out of that habit. And it had made him sink lower than ever before. He’d shaken beneath Stiles’ hand in the loft Last Time. With Boyd dead under Cora’s sobbing body. He’d cried. But he said nothing. He didn’t plead or beg even after a chunk of his own soul was ripped out through his own bloodied claws. But he did after Stiles let him think he could be whole again.

Stiles couldn’t feel anything beyond the aching of his arms. Focused on the way the light flickering and sparking out of them calmed the pain with each kiss of his skin. That and how the wind was blowing his hair into his face and covering his eyes. He couldn’t see how Derek sank down as though the ground were pulling him in. As if he could join his family down there if he let it. How he pressed his forearms against the earth and dropped his head against them and kept whispering, over and over, like a mantra. 

‘I didn’t say goodbye. Give them back.’

‘I didn’t say goodbye. Give them back.’

‘I didn’t say goodbye.’

‘Give them back.’

Stiles had ruined him.

“Derek, we can’t stay here,” he forced out, choking on the words, “We… Laura could still be alive. We need to find her, just–”

Derek roared.

It sent Stiles stumbling back, bracing his hands over his ears and losing focus on the power. Dropping them back into darkness. The noise, so low and so deep, it shook the earth beneath them. Made the wood of the house groan. It sent Stiles’ body into a state of sudden panic, making his heart stammer to a frantic pulse and thudding back through his ears. 

They were ringing by the time he realised Derek was silent again.

His body was breathing in deep to calm himself down before he could acknowledge he was panicking. How he couldn’t see anything in the dark. Not beyond the vague greyish-blue distortions of the forest beyond the shaking form of his boyfriend. 

How had this happened? 

How had this happened? He would scream it to the Gods if he could. 

But then he saw those two dots of red, breaking through the pitch black. He couldn’t make out who it was. Or what. Whether it was Laura or, Heaven forbid, Peter. 

He brought the energy out from the thudding ache of his arms one more time.

That monstrous embodiment of the torture Claudia had inflicted on Peter Hale stared back at him. Blurred and distorted by shadow, but just as recognisable as it always had been. The monster his coma turned him into. Stiles was not afraid. He was sad. Simply so. He had to grind his teeth to reign it back in, steeling himself as the wolf, the Alpha, dropped down to all-fours.

Peter was the Alpha. Laura was already dead.

The monster moved too fast for Stiles to react. He passed over Derek like he wasn’t even there, met only with a wild flail of Stiles’ overly weak limbs as he fell back. A very new pain shot up his left arm, blunt and sudden. He grabbed at the wolf’s short fur and pulled, with a cry ripped from his throat as he slammed as much energy as he could muster, to launch him up and off of him. 

His teeth tugged at the skin of his forearm as they pulled away.

His teeth.

Stiles swore as he broke free, ending up back on his feet with the way he twisted to throw the wolf away. The pulse of pain from his left arm was suddenly far different, and far more distracting, than the usual hum he’d felt for the last however many hours. He was bleeding, gushing enough to catch what moonlight was actually coming in through the trees.

Peter’s body was still. Breathing slowly. Smoking, a little. Stiles lifted his arm, despite the sting, the burn, the Ow-Fuck-Jesus-Pain of moving it, in the hopes of at least slowing the bleeding a little.

“Derek,” he said thickly, swallowing, “Where is Laura?”

There was a subdued breath from the wolf, “What?”

“Her body,” Stiles said carefully, “Where is it?”

Derek went quiet for a long moment. Stiles turned back to look at him. The broken, helpless, fearful little look on his face over his shoulder. It was sick.

“She…” He took in a shaky breath and rose to his feet. Stiles stormed past him to sweep up the book on the ground, shaking the dirt from the cover and suppressing a scowl. Derek turned back to stare at the body of his uncle. He breathed in again, barely more steady, but certainly more deep. Stiles reached up to press his hand against the side of his throat and turn him to meet his eyes. His skin was mottled red with his own blood, swiftly cooling in the icy breeze. Derek’s eyes flickered blue. His cheekbones caught the moon. He nodded, “That way.”

Stiles didn’t have a real measure of what ‘that way’ meant, so he let Derek lead, and he followed. He didn’t look back at Peter’s unconscious body or the empty space where the Nemeton had sat. He just followed carefully after the wolf, with his uneven steps and heavy breaths - Stiles’ spark the only light in the pitch black of thick forest. 

He was still stuck on the Nemeton. With Kate left alive, there was still the slightest chance the fire would’ve still happened, and it did. With Claudia left alone, there was an even higher chance. And it did. But the Nemeton didn’t do anything without reason. Why it would refuse to let them try again. That, Stiles didn’t understand. If the Nemeton was always as easy to find as it had been just ten minutes ago when they were trying to go to the future or after He killed Scott, he would keep going back again and again until he got it right. There should’ve been nothing intervening with whatever little connection he alone had with that asshole of a tree. Nothing. If the Nemeton was going to trap him there, he was going to fulfil his promise as well as he damn could. Even if the universe itself tried to stop him. 

Derek slowed to a stop and turned his gaze to the ground. He huffed out a breath, speaking so low it just broke a whisper, “Why?”

Whether or not it was meant for Stiles, he didn’t answer; just stepped past the man and looked out past the trees they stood between - at the body strewn across the floor. The woman he’d just met the day before, who’d been snarky and rude and alive. He dropped down to crouch beside her, pulling her onto her back. He took in a deep breath at the sight of her - her throat slashed, and her clothes torn and bloody, the dirt and debris in her hair. He opened the grimoire.

Flipping to that page he’d felt such a rush of anger at before, in Peter’s passenger seat. The revival spell.

‘This is not necromancy,’ he could almost hear his mother read the words to him, ‘Expect brain damage, permanent injury, or worse. Do not attempt if body is disfigured beyond medical (or magical) treatment. In case of bifurcation, dismemberment, incineration, or decapitation, DO NOT use this spell. Just let them go, they will thank you later.’

He chewed his lips as he eyed the spell, the incantation.

‘Mortuos, cujus tempora transierunt da ei unum ultimum largiri cum animo tuo.’

A drop of blood trickled from his arm onto the page, a dark purple in the violet light. Stiles glanced down at the instructions and placed that bloody hand against her chest, right over her silent heart.

“Stiles,” Derek murmured, “What are you doing?”

“It’s okay,” he answered. A twig snapped beneath his knees, slowly dropping to rest against the dirt. He spoke, careful as the words broke past his lips, fighting the detest at the idea of what could have inspired them - at the listing of ‘incineration’ in the causes of deaths not to fix. He focussed on how her heart would begin to beat beneath his palm. How the blood would start to flow from her wounds again. How her eyes would open, gold in the absence of the power Peter had stolen. 

He called upon the power of the forest that had forsaken him. The power of the mother that had damned him. 

The glow of him - of her, he supposed - grew stronger, radiated the pages of her grimoire, and poured into the life of the woods. Poured into Laura. 

The pain in his arms was dizzying.

“Mortuos, cujus tempora transierunt da–”

His head started to pound, too.

“–ei unum ultimum largiri cum animo tuo.”

If he could do anything right today, it would be this. This was going to work. 

This was going to work.

Bum.

His heart tied a knot in his throat.

Ba-dum.

Stiles didn’t laugh. He choked a little bit, stumbling to brace his hand against the trickle of blood from the gaping wounds on her neck and willing the skin to piece back together.

“What did you,” Derek gasped, “What did you just do? She– Necromancy? ”

“CPR,” Stiles answered, “Magical CPR. Her body was still… vaguely warm. She’s fine.”

“She died,” Derek growled, closer now, “How is she going to be fine?”

“Scott died and he was fine,” Stiles turned to stare up at him, wide-eyed, “He died twice, even. And now he is fine again, too. Probably. Shit, I need to see him.”

“Stiles!” Derek barked, “Focus! What is going on right now?!”

Stiles shrugged, “If we’re stuck here. I’m trying to soften the blow.”

Derek just stared at him. Muddy in the dim light. Stiles just stared back. Then Derek’s eyes snapped away, wide and panicked. The chest below Stiles’ hand started to lift. He flinched back, turning to blink down at the woman as her body stirred. 

Damn, he was good.

She breathed in deep. Her eyes fluttered open and burned gold. She was bordering on hyperventilating when those golden eyes met Stiles’ and her mouth fell open.

“You,” she said, jerking up so suddenly Stiles fell back. Derek let out a long, deep breath.

He stared at her for a long while, as if she might die again with the slightest blow of the wind, “Me.”

“You,” she said again.

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “… Me– Is this the brain damage?”

“What the fuck?” She squinted her eyes at him and, just like that, the colour faded away. Stiles’ brows rose, then. But it all got far more interesting when she turned her gaze to her brother and said, “Oh, the boyfriend. Right.”

“Excuse me?” Derek choked out. 

Stiles considered the impartial look on her face, the frown as she nodded and said, “Yeah, I went to dinner with you, didn’t I? Why did I go to dinner with you?”

The forest seemed quieter than it had a moment ago. Stiles was so lost it almost distracted him from that never-ending pain. Almost. Al–most.

“Wait,” Laura muttered, “Sorry, what was your name, again? Boyfriend guy?”

And Stiles almost screamed, “Oh, dear God.”

“Are you…” Derek shifted on his feet, “Are you messing with me? I…”

“No,” Laura gave Stiles a wary glance, “I just… What was it, like, Drake?”

“Okay,” Stiles said, as carefully as he could manage, “Definitely brain damage.” He turned to the other man and nodded up at him, “This was probably going to happen, I don’t actually know how long she was dead for. We just need to get her to Deaton and she’ll be fine.”

“What is it with you and Deaton?” She grumbled, “Am I meant to actually know him?”

“Laura, he’s your brother,” Stiles spat.

She blinked at him for a long moment, then, very simply, said, “I don’t have a brother. Peter definitely doesn’t count.”

“Yeah, well,” Stiles pulled a face, “He just mauled you, so.”

“Just like you said he would,” Laura grumbled, “That’s interesting.”

“Right,” Stiles nodded, slowly rising to stand, “Now how about we get out of here, huh? Get that ol’ noggin of yours checked out? You did just, you know, die. ”

Laura hummed, “Kinda embarrassing, actually.”

Stiles had no idea what was going on, “Sure!” He turned his desperate stare to Derek’s near-identical one, “Deaton. Let’s go.”

The woman made a strangled noise at the base of her throat, “I’ll go by myself. You might wanna go home.”

Stiles turned back to her, asking slowly, “Why?”

She stared at him. There was an apprehension there. Something he hadn’t seen in her eyes before. She tilted her head and said, “I don’t think brain damage works the same for werewolves. And I don’t see much of a correlation between not remembering ever having a brother, and remembering what happened to you.”

“What happened to me?” Stiles tilted his head, “What do you mean?”

“Go,” she said, “I’m pretty sure I’ll see you at Deaton’s begging for help afterwards, anyway.”

“What the fuck?” Stiles cried, “What are you talking about?”

“ Stiles, ” she practically begged, rising to her feet with a wince and a bracing hand against the tree she’d died beside, “Just go home. Talk to your dad. See that… sad little asthmatic boy. Go visit…” She licked her lips, “I don’t want you to hear any of this shit from me.” Her dark brows met in the middle, “Wait, am I not the Alpha anymore?”

“No, you’re not,” Stiles answered stiffly. She hummed. 

“Awesome,” she drawled, “Okay. Deaton, I’m-a comin’.”

She’d hobbled barely two feet in some random direction before Derek was following after her. Stiles caught his arm in a bloody grip.

“Hey, wait,” he hissed, “You’re not gonna go check this out with me?”

Derek turned back to him with wide, accusatory eyes, “Stiles. My sister just came back from the dead and she doesn’t remember I exist. I’m not letting her limp to the clinic alone and die again permanently on the way there. Thanks for this, by the way. Getting her back, only for her to not have any idea who I am feels great.”

And, fuck, Stiles was trying his best, “I didn’t do it on purpose,” he mumbled. 

“Right,” Derek said, “But it happened. And I’m gonna find a way to get back to the Nemeton when I see Deaton.”

“No!” Stiles cried, “Do not do that!! There is only one way to do that and that way is a bad way and no way is it happening!!”

“Stiles,” Derek stopped, glanced away, then back, and licked his lips, an anxious little mannerism, “Okay. You check on Scott, your dad, or whoever you need to check on. I’m going to the clinic. I trust that she has some idea what she’s talking about when she says you’ll find your way there, anyway.”

Stiles nodded, apprehensive, “Okay. Meet you at Deatons, then?”

Derek nodded back, “Call if you need anything. Or howl.”

“No,” Stiles protested weakly, “No, I will not do that.” He planted a firm kiss on the other man’s lips, tight-chested when he pulled back, “Don’t break her.”

Derek sighed and nodded again, “Don’t break the space-time continuum.”

Stiles released his grip on his arm and Derek didn’t move away. He brought a hand up to brush, firm, against that scarred cheek of Stiles’, tracing down to the uneven hair on his chin. He nodded one last time and broke off to chase after his sister. She’d gotten further than Stiles expected.

He didn’t stand there for long. Eventually, the cold air fluttering against his open wounds and through old pages got a little old.

He allowed his bitterness to carry along the wind, “Happy birthday.”

 

-

 

Scott’s house looked exactly the same. That blueish-grey paint job with the white trim. Almost brown in the dark, with gold streetlamps muddling the colours. Stiles climbed up those steps with that lifelong ease. He rested his hand against the door for a moment, willed himself not to throw up if and when he saw Scott again, and pulled back to knock.

Once, twice. Thrice. Fource.

A few more times. For good measure.

And he waited. 

The sun had just barely started to rise since he made it out of the preserve. It was dawn now, with the sky the faintest of light blueish-greys, not unlike the paint of Scott’s house. Still dark enough to be uneasy. Definitely still cold enough to make Stiles’ hairs stick up. It made him remember he was still bleeding. That he was, in fact, not impenetrable, and blood loss was not a good thing. Either way, he had a sneaking suspicion the ache in his arms would be sticking around. He shifted the grimoire over to that bloody hand and placed his free palm over his sticky skin. He winced at the sensation, at the fresh pain that danced up through his arm. He was on the brink of focusing. 

Then the door swung open. He blinked up at the face of a freshly sixteen-year-old Scott McCall.

It was like a sucker punch - the relief that flooded through him. The pure joy at seeing his best friend, alive and healthy. With that floppy hair and uneven jaw. He didn’t see the abject horror on Scott’s face as he raced forward to pull him into a smothering hug. 

“Oh, my God,” he murmured over his shoulder, “Sorry. Sorry.” He pulled back, only slightly staring at the blood he smeared over his white shirt. The sudden desperate pang of fear had his will morphing his wounds shut awfully fast. His head span a little.

“Mom,” Scott called out, eyes unblinking as they stared straight through Stiles, “Mom, can you come here?”

It hit him, then, how dumb this was. Sure, Laura had told him to stop by, but Laura was, as they had established, brain-damaged. Stiles looked nothing like the version of him this Scott knew. He might’ve just screwed his own plan from the very start. Because Scott could not know about the supernatural. Not This Time. Especially not because Stiles accidentally sprouted hair. Everywhere.

“Who is it, Scott?!” Melissa called back from deeper into the house.

Scott took in a shuddering breath before he answered, “Stiles.”

“What?!” She called.

Scott finally blinked, hard, “It’s Stiles!”

Melissa didn’t say anything more, just answered with the thudding of footsteps before she emerged, in her pyjamas just as Scott was. Her face wore confusion at first. Then he met her eyes and it changed. It turned clinical and calculating. That same face she always wore when she was met with anything supernatural. Whenever it was serious. 

Perhaps Stiles figured it out then. What Laura meant had happened to him.

“Okay,” Melissa said, so carefully, like handling fine china, “Stiles, let’s get you inside. Scott, go call Noah.”

“What?” Stiles muttered.

“It’s okay, sweetie,” Melissa said. She nodded, stepping past her son as he backed, uneasily, into his house to get to a phone, presumably. Her eyes looked him up and down, “Come in.” She didn’t touch him, just hovered, still acting like she was handling something delicate, “Are you hurt?”

“No,” Stiles answered. He licked his lips and glanced down at the still-wet blood on his hands, “That’s… old.”

Melissa nodded and urged him to come in. He didn’t miss the way she peeked out to check the street before she shut the door behind them. He kept his mouth firmly shut. Scott was stumbling over his words in the kitchen.

“I know,” he said, “No, I’m not… No. Can you… Um… You should come here.”

Stiles slipped his phone out of his pocket, barely able to shoot off a ‘911’ text to Derek before Melissa was hounding him.

“What are you doing?” She asked, the words tumbling out all too fast, “Who are you talking to?”

Stiles blinked at her, “No one. Just checking the time.”

She gave him another once-over, “Right. Sit down, I’ll go get you some wipes.”

The spark nodded and settled easily on the couch, with his phone loose in his grip. He placed the grimoire safe in his lap and eyed the ‘delivered’ beneath his message. He started to chew at his bottom lip; bit and gnawed until it was raw. Scott reappeared in the archway as he was flipping the phone upside down and back around again. Stiles didn’t know what was going on. He didn’t know why Scott was looking at him like that. But he knew, no matter the look on his face, the sight of him breathing was the greatest feeling of the last few months. 

Melissa came back with a first-aid kit opened in her hands, and two disinfectant wipe packets between her fingers. She held them out to him. He took them, tore them open and scrubbed at his skin. It was far from the first time he’d wiped blood from his hands. He wondered if that was something they were expecting. But he wasn’t going to get any answers like this.

He steeled himself before he asked, “Why are you both looking at me like you’ve seen a ghost?” Then, when they both said nothing, “You can be honest, if you hate this haircut, I get it.”

“Stiles, you’re dead.”

…

Okay. He didn’t expect that.

He squinted over at Scott, the one who broke the batshit crazy news, and asked, “Are you sure?”

Scott gave him that look, the ‘are you kidding?’ look, “I went to your funeral. You were shot in the head.”

And, oh. 

Now it made a little bit more sense.

Stiles worried his lip between his teeth for a long moment, as the startings of a plan began to form in the forefront of his mind, incomplete but possible and, either way, necessary, “Yeah, no. Kidnapping,” he said carefully, “Not murder.”

“Your mother identified your remains, Stiles,” Melissa said.

Stiles suppressed the eye-roll with a surprising restraint, “Well.”

Gunshot wounds were not on her list of causes of death to leave alone. Perhaps placing a skull back together would cost more than it was worth. If Laura could forget a whole family member from blood loss, what would a shattered brain leave you with? 

“How did this…” Scott paused, “How are you alive?”

“I never died, for a start,” Stiles said firmly, meeting the boy’s gaze for a brief moment before dropping his eyes again. He prayed to God these lies would be worthwhile, “I got away from… them not that long ago. I’ve been bouncing between motels on the way back with–”

“Oh, my God,” Melissa said softly, “How is this happening? This doesn’t happen.”

There came a frantic pounding on the door. Melissa sped away to answer it, met with the frantic yelling of none other than Noah Stilinski. With that rage he felt when faced with the unknown. Stiles knew it well.

“I swear to God, Melissa, if your son is playing some sort of sick–” 

He stopped. His body came into view, past the entryway to the lounge. And he looked just the same. Donning his uniform, with the Sheriff’s badge on his chest. Stiles didn’t expect to be so elated that someone wasn’t as affected by his death as he’d’ve thought.

He didn’t say anything. Neither of them did.

Until his father broke the distance, in no more than three steps, and yanked Stiles up into a hug tight enough to rival the one Stiles had given before he left. The thought made his chest ache, made his arms feel even worse, and dared to make his eyes cloudy. He hugged back just as tight. There were few things Stiles needed to sustain himself. Scott and his dad were two things high on that list. And he had both of them now. And it was okay.

“How?” The man breathed out, moving back to grab his son by the face and turn him side to side, “I don’t understand.”

“Someone faked my death,” Stiles answered carefully, swallowing, “They took me. And I’m back now.”

“What?” Noah hissed, “ Who? ”

Stiles licked his lips.

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice called out.

The Sheriff had his gun on him in a second. Derek slammed his mouth shut as he held his hands in the air.

“Oh, my God!” Stiles cried, “No! Quit it!!” He stepped in front of the gun, hands out to calm the man. Derek’s body was hot behind him. He’d ran there, for certain. That was relieving. More relieving than the awkward way the grimoire landed when it flew off his lap as he stood up. He cared significantly less about his phone.

Noah eyed the both of them, “Stiles, is he the one that took you?”

“No!!” Stiles hissed, “So put the gun down. Alright? Chill out.”

“‘Chill out’ ?” Noah seethed, though he lowered his weapon anyway, “Both of you, sit down. Now. Who is he?”

Stiles was halfway to ushering Derek toward the couch when he paused, “He’s the Hales’ son. They… took him too.” Derek gave him the wildest of looks. He just gave him a tiny shake of his head in response.

“Son?” Noah shook his head, “They don’t… You mean Peter? He’s not Peter.”

“No, he is not,” Stiles said carefully back, staring at his father now, “What?”

“Claudia’s friend Peter?” Melissa asked softly. 

Stiles was going to lose it.

Then Melissa muttered, “Oh, God, we have to tell Claudia.”

And he thought he might have already. 

It crawled up his spine. The realisation. Reared its fucking hideous head and swallowed him whole, as he felt his eyes widen to the point of pain and the ache in his arms seemed to all but disappear from the shock to his system, “What do you mean. You have to tell. Claudia.”

Because you did not tell Claudia anything. Claudia was not spoken about in the present tense. Not anywhere except for the past. Especially not here. Now. Ever again.

Noah rubbed a hand down his face, “Oh, God.”

Derek’s hand pressed against his shoulder and snapped him back, not pulling him down onto the couch at all, but ripping the balance from his legs and practically forcing him down anyway. He couldn’t breathe. Derek’s hand squeezed. 

So, this is what Stiles did to him.

He momentarily abandoned the death-revival cover-up to muse about apology gifts.

“How did she know?” Noah sighed, “God, I shouldn’t’ve admitted her.”

“What?” Stiles barked, “Admitted where? What are you…” His eye was twitching. The grimoire on the floor felt like it was laughing at him. He needed a drink.

“Eichen House,” Scott answered, “She kept insisting you were alive. She’s being treated for psychosis. She’s been in there for, like… years.”

“But she’s…” everything hurt, “Why is she still there?” The patronising confusion on their faces was too much, even if Derek’s hand smoothing down his back helped soften the blow, “Eichen house couldn’t keep her.” He turned to look at Derek, whose face was pinched in exactly the way it damn should be because what was Stiles talking about? His mother was dead.

“We need to get him to the hospital,” Noah said suddenly, “Both of them. We need to get them seen by a doctor. And we need statements. And I’m gonna need a damn clear blood test, because if my son is–”

Stiles tuned it out. Because Peter’s voice was echoing far too loud in his head, answering the question so bitterly: how does someone survive the terminal illness that killed them? With: How does a self-healing being of magic die from something as demure as terminal illness? Evidently, she doesn’t. Or didn’t. Not when Stiles wasn’t there to torture with it.

He briefly understood that he was being coerced into the back of his dad’s cruiser, with Derek in the seat next to him, and the McCalls trailing closely behind. He registered Derek’s hand finding his, in the space between them, lacing their fingers together and squeezing. He squeezed back, he was pretty sure, but, before long, he was tapping. One, two, three, four, five. One, two, three, four, five. 

“Go visit your mom,” he muttered. Felt Derek’s eyes on him. Squeezed his hand, “Laura was going to say ‘go visit your mom’.”

His dad’s eyes pierced through the grate between them. Practically indecipherable in the rearview mirror. Stiles wondered if he could even see behind him with the divider in the way. He wondered what he looked like to him now. Some probably-crazy, undead, poorly-made recreation of his son. How old was he when he died? When he was murdered? It was Kate, surely. Equal parts attempt to prevent Stiles from preventing her crimes, and ironic punishment for threatening to do the same thing to her. Shoot her, that is. In the head. 

And somehow he was back in that limbo of I Can’t Change Anything and Yet Everything Is Entirely Wrong. 

He should’ve stayed in 2006 until he could bury Kate’s dead body himself.

He didn’t really think about all that much until they got to the hospital. That was when he realised his phone and the grimoire were still on the floor at Scott’s. It sent a stab of panic through his chest, a swell of his heartbeat. As if he needed it now. What could he do with it, besides use it to blow the hospital up again? 

He considered it for a moment too long.

But then he was being hounded by doctors and nurses - the crowds being forced back by his father’s authoritative barked orders. His voice could move the Earth when he used it properly. It made Stiles wonder what Lydia was doing that morning. 

Stiles had assumed his dad’s frantic booming, or the fact they all considered him to be a zombie, would’ve had him locked up in a room by now, but, instead, he was awkwardly sitting himself down in a crowded waiting room chair and staring down at his hands. 

“Stiles,” Derek murmured from beside him. He snapped over to look at him. Derek licked his lips, “I swear this is the last time I’m gonna ask this, but what is happening?”

The spark glanced over at his father, urgently speaking with a doctor in his white coat, then swallowed before he turned back to his boyfriend, “I think Kate murdered me.”

Derek blinked, “What?”

“I know,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “I’m gonna kill her, but I told them some people faked my death to kidnap me ‘n’ I’m gonna let them think they, I don’t know, like, Red Room’d me, so you have totally been kidnapped with me, alright?” Derek nodded slowly, with a concerned sort of look in his eyes. Stiles nodded back, “Cool. Great. We’ve been staying in motels on the way here, work with what you know, right? But, um. Yeah. I died. And somehow I’m still here.” He blinked, “Is Laura okay?”

Derek ground his jaw, “We can talk about that later. When people aren’t freaking out about you rising from the dead.”

“Great, but, remember,” Stiles pointed a finger at him, “The Stiles that died wasn’t the real Stiles. Even though it was. But they can’t know that.”

“This is extremely ridiculous.”

“I am so aware, Derek.”

“How are they believing you?”

“Well,” Stiles pulled a face, “I am clearly alive. So. That’s one point in my defence.”

“It’s like a comic book plot line.”

“Exactly, that’s where I’m getting all of these ideas from, are you even listening? Red Room, Derek. Marvel. ”

“Stiles?” Came a far more gentle voice. He startled, turning to look ahead at the woman bending down to look at him. “Hi,” she said.

Stiles stared at her for a moment, “Hello?”

“Hey,” she said. Stiles nodded. She smiled, turned her gaze to Derek and nodded, “I’ll be with you in a sec’, okay?” Then back to Stiles, “Okay, honey. My name’s Claire. How about you come with me?”

Stiles shook his head, “Absolutely not.”

She blinked, “Okay. That’s fine, we can do this here. I just thought you might want some privacy.”

“I’m perfectly fine doing this here,” Stiles said. His arm brushed against Derek and just the slightest amount of tension seeped out of him. The wolf pressed back harder. The lady - a psychologist? A doctor? Nurse? Student? Hunter? - gave the contact a brief glance, then turned her gaze back to Stiles. She showed no reaction.

“Sure,” she said, dropping down into a crouch, “Could you… try and tell me what happened to you?”

“Wanna be a bit more specific?” Stiles snarked, “You mean my death, or?”

“Where you’ve been for the last five years,” she corrected, “Who took you, what they did to you. How you met this man here. I’m sure you can see why I offered you privacy.”

The spark forced down a snide remark about her professional skills, glancing up at his father, who was now speaking on the phone and periodically looking over at him.

“Do you not remember?” She asked.

Stiles glared at her, “You’re not very good at your job, are you?”

She adjusted her side-part and leaned back a little bit, “Okay. How about we get you somewhere quieter?”

Stiles gave the waiting room a once-over. It was crowded. Too crowded for September 9th, “Yeah, what’s with that?”

“Pile-up on the highway,” the whatever-she-was answered, “A mountain lion ran out into the road. It’s pretty bad.”

Stiles and Derek exchanged glances. The lady with the broken arm beside the wolf glared at Stiles over his shoulder. He gave her an aborted wave.

“Alright,” he grunted, “Let’s go then. The big guy’s coming with me.”

The lady seemed to send a prayer as she rose to her feet, “Of course. Whatever makes you comfortable, Stiles.”

He hummed. His dad was gone now. Surprising. He’d figured he’d refuse to let Stiles out of his sight. Clearly that phone call was important. Stiles shook his head and lifted himself out of the chair.

As they started walking through the halls, the lady turned to him again, “How did you get those tattoos?”

He gave her an alarmed little look, “I… Uh.” He had to genuinely think about it, “That’s a long story.”

“I have time.”

Stiles hummed, “I bet. What is your job, by the way?”

“I’m a pediatric psychologist,” she answered.

Stiles paused, “Pediatric? How old… I. Okay.”

If he had to be perceived as fifteen for five more minutes, he’d shoot someone. Again. Even when he was five-eleven with a beard and not-tattoos, he couldn’t get away from it. Some may say an even more tragic fate than death. 

He turned around properly to speak again, eyes darting around the hallway as he did, “So, you’re trying to–” 

Then he saw her.

His mother. 

Claudia. 

Claudia Stilinski. 

Claudia Gajos. 

Mom.

He thought he was imagining it. That his mind was just set alight by the idea of his mother, alive, of being thrust into a hospital again. The same hospital she’d died in, right before his eyes. Where he’d screamed over her dead body. Where he’d been diagnosed with the same disease that killed her. 

But no. 

She was there.

Not in a hospital gown, but, instead, such similar clothes to the ones he’d seen her in last. Baggy grey loungewear and sneakers.

“Stiles?” He didn’t know who was speaking, “What’s wrong?”

Then she just. Slightly. Tilted her head. 

And she smiled.

And, just like that, she was back in that hospital gown. She was screaming and begging for Stiles to get away from her. Her hands were pounding into his skin. He was ten years old, and his mother was dying. And she was blaming him.

He didn’t mean to run. With the soles of his shoes squeaking against the linoleum floor as he did. It was all instinct. A rush of blood-pumping adrenaline that had his body moving on its own. Flight.

His heart thudding in his chest. His lungs constricting. His mouth flooding with saliva. The swim of nausea from his cheeks to his stomach. Clammy hands slamming against the elevator buttons. All of him, shaking. It was all-consuming. Fear. Terror. A sort of reaction he had never expected of himself. Had never lived. Not when he was possessed, not when his mother was actually alive, when she was really sick, and really trying to kill him. Not even when the Dread Doctors made him relive it all. 

Why was he on the roof again?

Of all fucking places. He needed to get back down. He needed out of this hospital before he blew the place up again and landed on his face with Peter laughing above him over just how alike him and his mother really were. 

He was about to throw up.

“Mischief.”

He froze. The sun had risen now. Cold and grey. He couldn’t stop shaking. If he jumped, would he be able to catch himself? Could his spark get him away from this - this sick, fucked up excuse for a joke?

“Stiles,” her voice insisted. It broke through something in him.

An aborted noise wrangled its way out of his throat, “No.”

“Mischief.”

Her voice was nothing like he remembered. Like in his dreams and his visions, soft and forgiving. Nothing like the violence he knew.

“You’re dead,” he forced out. The suburbia spanning out beyond them was dizzying in its monotony. He was losing his mind.

“Mischief, look at me,” she said, “I didn’t spend all that time in your head for you to not even look me in the eye.”

A chill ran through him.

He did turn to look at her, willing the nausea to pass as he did, “What?”

That face smiled back at him, “You weren’t supposed to die. I had to find what changed.”

“But you were, ” Stiles said, “You were supposed to die. You did die. In front of me.”

“I know,” she said back, “It was what was necessary.”

Whatever bone-deep fear still sat with him gave way to a fury so violent it made him stumble on his feet, “Yeah? Like killing Scott?” His mother just stared at him. So unbothered by it all. He stepped forward, and kept going, “Like Peter mauling Lydia at the formal? Like burning your best friend’s entire family alive? ” He was yelling. And his hands were in her cheap sweater. Her back was pinned against the wall of the entrance to the roof. 

The wind blew his hair. And Stiles almost cried.

“How the fuck are you alive?” He seethed, “How are you here? ”

“I could ask you the same question,” she said calmly, “But I watched the answer play out for a year and a half. Until your father found out I was talking to our dead son and had me sent to the loony bin. A bit dramatic. Not unlike this little outburst.”

“Shut up,” he spat, “Answer my question.”

“Shouldn’t you be used to me dancing around answers by now?” She tilted her head, “One of my more Hale-like traits.”

“Why did you help her?” Stiles cried, “Why did you burn them? ”

She gave him such a pitying look, like rendering him back to a helpless child, “Stiles.” He held his breath. “You’ve gotta choose one question or we will get nowhere.”

He barked out a laugh - a venting of pure frustration, as his arms throbbed and ached so loudly he had to let go of her, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t.

With a shaky breath, he asked, “How are you alive?”

She held his gaze, for a long moment. Considering. It was with a little twinkle of amusement in her eye, so self-indulgent, that she answered, “I didn’t have to die.”

Stiles licked his lips and swallowed, “Why not?”

Her brows twitched towards each other, only barely, and she said, “You weren’t here. I didn’t have to die because you weren’t here.”

The words burrowed into his chest. Deep. Cushioned by the echoes of that same voice screaming ‘He’s killing me, he’s trying to kill me’. Her almost jumping off of that same roof just to get away from him, trying to kill him herself. Her dead body beneath his tiny hands.

“You did it on purpose?” He didn’t mean to say the words out loud, trying to swallow them back down as they did. He tore his hands off of her and backed away. The hole in his chest grew deeper, all-encompassing, “You made yourself sick? So… So you could do that to me?”

Her face twisted, stepping away from the small doorway and closer to him, “I did it to protect you.”

Stiles stumbled back, “Get away from me.”

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice called out, just moments before his footsteps came thudding closer, and that door swung open. His eyes barely darted between the two of them before he was placing himself in between, in front of Stiles, with his claws unsheathed. His voice was rich with his shift as he growled, “Who is she?”

Stiles felt his throat close up, his eyes burning like his chest as he sniffled before he answered, “My mom.”

Derek whirled around to gawk at him, “Her? ”

“Yeah,” Stiles swallowed, “Two revivals in two hours. We might be going for a record.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s now-human brows drew together, “What? You brought her back to life?”

“I never died, Derek,” Claudia said, oh-so calmly. Stiles froze again at the sound of her voice. The wolf turned back to her.

There was a long moment, where Stiles didn’t know what was going to happen. If anyone else would speak. If Derek would lunge out and attack her. But he had no reason to. He didn’t know what she did.

Stiles didn’t tell him what she did.

A whisper of the story died on his lips.

“You’re Claudia,” Derek said. She hummed. He waited another small moment, then lifted his head, “You’re gonna show us where the Nemeton is.”

There was another pause, where the wind whistled, before his mother said, “No, I’m not.”

Stiles stepped out past the shadow of his boyfriend to stare at her blank face. 

“I’m not staying here with my whole family dead,” Derek growled, “Not again. Not when there’s a way to fix it.”

Stiles swallowed down the truth again.

Claudia met her son’s eyes, “You would kill me again? To save them?”

The overwhelming sadness almost swallowed the pain in his body, “I didn’t kill you. You killed yourself.”

“Well,” Claudia’s eyes darted to Derek and back, “Self-sacrifice and suicide can sometimes look awfully similiar.”

“What the hell did you sacrifice?” Stiles cried, “You didn’t have to live with the memory of you beating the shit out of me right where we fucking stand!!”

“I died with it, Mieczysław,” she said slowly, “Do you think I wanted you to grow up without me? With any memory of me completely ruined?” She stepped closer. Derek growled. Stiles wasn’t sure if it was because he really thought she was a threat, or simply because Stiles’ body was reacting as if she was. The woman frowned, “Why do you think I reached out to you at all? After Kate… after I lost you?”

“How am I still here if she killed me?” Stiles asked instead of answering her questions. His mother simply sighed.

“For the same reason I won’t take you to the Nemeton,” she answered, “You are not my son anymore. You can keep creating new timelines all you want but you’ll never save anyone. They will always be dead somewhere. You will always be mourning them.” Stiles’ blood was running cold as she spoke. Her eyes were unlike anything he’d seen. Not frantic and manic. Not loving. Not angry, afraid, confused. But robotic. Apathetic. “I’m only here because you ruined this timeline so far beyond comprehension I saw no point in seeing anything else through and driving your father to suicide. Or worse. The Hale Fire was a last-ditch attempt at keeping the universe from overloading with fate’s own idiotic ways of restoring the balance.”

Stiles’ voice came without his permission, “Regression to the mean.” 

Derek took a step back, “What?”

Claudia turned to him.

He growled again, low and animalistic, “So Stiles did stop the fire?”

“He tried.”

“So you did it instead?” Derek spat, “Why would you–”

“I just told you,” she squinted her eyes, “Kate never did it alone, anyway. I helped her just as much as I was always going to. It doesn’t matter nearly as much as you think it does. You will never get them back. But I wonder if you’re going to try again, anyway.”

Derek was shaking, “Oh, yeah? And why’s that? You remember me trying to tear you apart before you did it?”

“No, the opposite,” she tilted her head, just like she had in the hallway. The wind blew harsher, “I don’t remember you at all.”

Stiles was sick of this. 

He was just sick. Period.

“I’ve been getting that a lot today,” Derek said carefully, “But you knew my name.”

Claudia hummed, “I remember you in memories. I remember you in Stiles’ eyes. But there’s no Derek Hale here.” She said it as if it were the simplest thing in the universe, “Talia never had a son. I wonder if you went back to try and self-sacrifice. Something tells me that’s not beyond you.”

Stiles gnawed at his lip, chapped from the wind, as he uttered once more, “Regression to the mean.”

“So why not let me do it?” Derek said, shaking as he did, “You think I’m gonna go back again, why wait? Just… Show us where the Nemeton is.”

Claudia shook her head, “I am going to pretend to have my son back. You can pretend to have your sister back. I won’t help you destroy what I built again.”

“So you can destroy him,” Stiles said, “But he can’t fix it? That’s what you’re saying.”

She ground her jaw, “There is not a single version of me in any timeline that wants anything other than the life you escaped from when you were eighteen. I’m just working with what I’ve got.”

It hit him, then. What happened to Derek. It gets a bit exhausting, honestly. Understanding. Especially when it’s not something you can explain without everyone thinking you’ve lost your mind. That wasn’t new to Stiles, though. Practically every moment of his life before Derek had been him screaming into a void and glaring at the answer he already knew when it finally came around for everyone else.

But that was nothing compared to how it felt when they’d all forgotten him, too.

 

-

 

“I’m not going anywhere without him. And he’s not going anywhere with her.”

“Sir, I don’t know what your relation to him is, but we need to separate you two for just a few minutes to run some tests–”

“I’m his boyfriend!” Derek roared, “And she just broke out of an insane asylum!”

The hallway fell into a stunned silence. Walking alongside his mother was torture enough, worse paired with the looming dread of all the information funnelling into his brain with each step, and then they had to start dealing with the goddamn doctors now. The doctors, and the Sheriff’s deputies. They even called in state police. Hah. And now Derek was being an idiot. And Stiles almost wanted to laugh. 

Someone coughed.

“Alright,” the Sheriff said - perfect. - “Now we definitely need you two separated. And not for tests.” He stepped closer to Derek, “You’re coming with me, son. I’ve got a few questions for you.”

“Hold on,” the doctor from earlier piped up, “They have both been held captive for five years, I need to–”

“You can test this man once I’m sure he isn’t the sick fuck that held him there for those five years,” Noah snapped. He gave Derek a very meaningful look, and the wolf turned his tight-jawed gaze to Stiles.

The spark muttered to himself, “Of course.”

“I’ll have him know I checked myself out of the insane asylum,” Claudia muttered beside him, “Who does he think I am? Lydia Martin and Peter Hale?... Haha. That was good.”

Stiles was able to give her a brief enough glare to hopefully get his annoyance across before he started feeling sick at the sight of her again, “Christ.” He met Derek’s eyes again, wide and questioning, and he glanced over at his dad. He gave Derek a look, and scratched behind his ear. 

The wolf’s chin rose.

“Right,” he said carefully, pursing his lips as he turned to Stiles’ dad, “Where do you need me to go, sir?”

“It’s ‘Sheriff’ to you, kid,” Noah snapped, starting to walk away, “Let’s see if you can graduate to ‘sir’ by the time we’re done. Keep up.”

Derek met Stiles’ eyes again as he passed by him, caught the wink Stiles shot him, and answered with the most minimal of nods. And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how a power couple operates. Stiles chewed at the inside of his cheek for a moment as Derek and his father disappeared down the hall.

“Right, who’s whisking me away then?” He asked, “‘Cause I also do not want me to be around this woman.”

“I will!” Melissa’s voice broke through the crowd, as she herself did, “Sorry, excuse me, yes, hi!” She was like an angel breaking through the clouds, and Stiles felt the horror seep out of him at the sight of her, now dressed in her scrubs, “I’ll do your tests for you, Stiles. Come on.”

“Thank God,” he breathed out, “Hey, if any of you deputies wanna come interview me while we’re at it–”

Tara (she had died in the first timeline. Stiles remembered that. She was still dead there.) shook her head, crossed her arms over her uniformed chest and said with the most troubled of frowns, “Your dad wants it to just be him.”

“God damn it!” Stiles snapped with a wide grin, “Fine!! Let’s go, Melissa.”

She gave him a puzzled look as she guided him away. Claudia’s stare was just as suspicious. Almost a glare. Stiles would think it was malicious if it weren’t for the prideful glint in her eyes, nor the twitch of her mouth. He was waiting, deep down, for the moment he’d wake up. That all of this would only be a bad dream. The sheer absence of any real logic to these situations Stiles was somehow still following perfectly well seemed to agree with him. But, the clock on the wall read 8:35 and the numbers on the doors were going up by one each time and he still had one, two, three, four, five fingers on each hand.

Maybe it wasn’t foolproof. He still had time to wake up. 

The pain throbbing in his arms was screaming at him to just suck it up. He was sat on the edge of a hospital bed before he could find another explanation. 

It all feels real in the moment–

“So. Boyfriend, huh?” Melissa asked gently, milling around the room until she eventually pulled out a needle. Stiles swallowed and looked away.

“I wasn’t expecting him to cry it from the rooftops,” he mused. His jaw clenched at the thought of rooftops, anyway.

Melissa’s lips were pursed as she pierced the needle into Stiles’ forearm, just at the bend, and began to draw his blood. She huffed a little. 

“How’d you get the bite mark?” She asked gently. 

Stiles stared into her downturned eyes, watching the needle rather than the man she was talking to, “A mountain lion.”

She gave him an aborted little laugh, “Where had the blood come from when you showed up at the house? This is at least a day old.” 

Stiles’ brows drew together as he looked down at his arm. He hadn’t noticed she’d finished with the needle, but just watched as she pressed a small cotton ball to the point she’d drawn from. She’d only filled a small vial. Still, the stark white cotton against the black of the not-ink in his skin did little to distract from the bite. It hadn’t scarred over. Stubbornly scabbed. 

The friendship bracelet on his wrist was half brown now.

She walked away for a moment, vanished from his peripheral. He only realised she came back because of the file she placed by his side, with a thin strip of blue dots on top. Stiles had grown up in that hospital. He knew what those stickers meant.

To have Melissa imply that Derek would be out to hurt him was almost hilarious. That anyone could think either of them would do anything to hurt the other. As if they could. As if.

“We were both victims of them, Melissa,” Stiles said carefully, “Him more than me. It was my fault I got involved with it all anyway. Not to mention I kissed him first.” He chewed at his cheek for a moment, “And second.” 

The nurse had paused before him.

“Once you’ve been electrocuted together, feelings get a little harder to repress, you know?”

He met her controlled gaze. That same look she’d had when she’d told him he was just sleep-deprived, as the memories of his mother’s symptoms were just a swimming idea in her mind. Before they ‘figured it out’, if they could say that. 

God. 

Peter was really on the mark when he said Stiles reminded him of his mother.

“Your scars,” Melissa whispered, “Are they from the people that electrocuted you?”

Stiles quirked his head, “Some of them.” He ground his teeth to force back the smile that built on his cheeks, “I’ve had more scrapes from mountain lions than hunters, though.” 

She nodded slowly, “Stiles, if you tell me what happened to you. I can help.”

Even if it were true, you couldn’t, he thought. It made him consider telling her the truth. It would be easy. 

‘Stiles is dead.’

It was a bit too edgy, even for him. It would certainly be too much for the woman staring at a dead man and pressing ink to his fingertips. He let her take his prints in silence, patter around the room in silence, and jot down her notes in silence. The domestic violence stickers stayed right where they were. 

“How did you know my first name?” She asked as she brought a tiny flashlight to his eyes. Barely even a whisper. Stiles stopped still.

He really did consider telling her then. Just to make her feel less involved. But then he wondered if she’d slip up and tell Scott. That was one person Stiles was not letting in on their little secret. Not if he could help it. Not This Time.

So he said nothing. 

Maybe he’d explain it one day. If one of them were dying and Deaton was nowhere to be seen. He wondered if it’d take more than a week. 

“I’m intrigued by the tattoos, too,” she said, with more of a voice than before, “And the beard. You look far too lived for a fifteen-year-old.”

Stiles sighed, “Yeah, I wonder why.”

She gave him a pitiful glance. He pursed his lips. He didn’t wait for any more questions. Instead, let her run her tests and take her notes as he gave her a bizarrely contrived retelling of some conglomeration of Marvel comics and memories of Mexico and the Calaveras and, especially, Kate. It was his plan (his Stiles Plan ) that, with any luck at all, Derek understood he needed him to tell the exact same bullshit to the Sheriff. He prayed they were in earshot. That Derek understood. They got each other most of the time. Hopefully, this was one of those times.

“But, anyway,” Stiles mumbled as he ran out of Black Widow quotes, “The scars ‘n’ the bites and electrocution ‘n’ all that, who cares, my main issue at the moment’s my arms. What’s up with those?”

Melissa gave him the same pale, wide-eyed stare she’d had for the last six and a half minutes - Stiles had been watching the clock awfully carefully, “Huh?”

“You’ve been inspecting me for this long,” Stiles shrugged, “What’s wrong with my arms?”

Her brows drew together, and she tilted her head, “You tell me. Is there something wrong with your arms?”

“Well, yeah,” Stiles gave her a weird look, “They won’t stop hurting. Like, aching.”

Melissa nodded, “Okay. Where? Explain.”

“My forearms,” Stiles answered, “It’s like a throbbing kinda pain. It gets worse when I move them, but it’s torture anyway.”

She gave a subdued kind of look of her own, “Okay. Well, I won’t rule out anything else, but it sounds like tendonitis.”

Stiles blinked at her, “What the hell is that?”

“It’s when your tendons get inflamed,” she explained carefully, “Usually caused by extreme stress over a long period of time. It seems like you’ve had more than enough. How long have you had the pain?”

Stiles shrugged, “Two days. If that.”

But it only started when my body suddenly aged three years, he did not say.

She tilted her head, “Hm. I’ll add some notes to your bloodwork, but can you…” She turned around, looking for something, but Stiles didn’t really care.

“Is tendonitis permanent?” He asked.

She gave him a brief glance, “Not usually. Let’s not worry about that until we know what it is. The people that kept you didn’t do anything to your arms in particular, did they? Besides the tattoos?”

“They’re not…” Stiles shook his head, “No. But, hey, at least I’m in better shape than whoever you guys buried!”

Melissa’s stare was withering.

Stiles swallowed, “Too soon?”

“Too soon,” she snapped.

Stiles shut his mouth.

 

-

 

Few moments in Stiles’ life had been as painfully awkward as that drive home. Stiles detested awkwardness. He avoided it like the plague. Most of his life would be riddled with it if he didn’t go out of his way to fight back against it at every given chance and pretend it wasn’t there. Because awkwardness is the death of humour. And, yet, also its birthplace. Stiles toed the line, truly, masterfully, but sometimes. Sometimes the awkwardness was so thick, and impenetrable, and horrid. He could do nothing but watch any prospect of this horror story ending semi-comfortably crash and burn. He kind of hoped the car would too.

They’d been at the hospital all day, stuck in separate rooms as cops interviewed them and doctors inspected them - well, presumably both of them. Stiles hadn’t had a chance to say a single word to Derek and, if they weren’t currently in the back of his dad’s cruiser together, Stiles would be as worried that he’d accidentally framed Derek for kidnapping and a litany of other insane crimes as he had been the entire time they were separated. 

The mutters of ‘trauma bonded’ and ‘codependent’ throughout the day weren’t boding well, in any case.

Derek’s hands were laced between his in the space between them. It didn’t stop Stiles’ incessant counting of fingers. His father’s piercing glare through the rearview mirror just made his palms clammy. It wasn’t pretty.

He wished he could turn back time. Which is funny, because that was, like, the one thing he was good at at this point. And yet he wasn’t allowed to. Because mommy wanted to play house. At least his father being the County Sheriff meant he didn’t have to stay at the hospital overnight in an empty bed with officers perched outside his door. He just needed a hug. From Derek. Not his mom, or his dad, or, well, Scott or Melissa were welcome, but. He wanted to be alone with Derek again. He wanted to go back to last night. For just a moment. To be alone with Derek in that motel room, happy and hopeful above the fear. 

The memory helped him breathe easier. It was better when he wasn’t catching either of his parents’ eyes in the mirror. When he focussed on the gentle swiping of Derek’s thumb against his hand. He pressed his knee against the wolf’s. 

The thought floated in, unwelcomed.

Derek, that first Derek, the other Derek. Was still real. The world didn’t end when Stiles left. 

Did he remember him? Did the Riders tear him from that reality as flawlessly as they’d tampered with this one? He was sure that was what it was. That was why Laura and Claudia and Melissa - and, wow, the names in this town really followed a trend - didn’t know who Derek was; persisted that he never existed. 

Stiles remembered him. 

He was right there.

Heatwaves called upon thunderstorms, didn’t they?

But that thought would have to go unsolved. Stiles couldn’t seek out the Hunt. He couldn’t figure this out. He hadn’t lasted long enough in his own timeline to learn how.

It was all too much information at once. He’d been such a fucking snakes-for-brains dumbass to try and change so much. And now he was dead. His mother caused the Hale House Fire, not even just here. She caused her own frontotemporal dementia. She was alive. Laura was alive. Derek had been taken by the Hunt here. 

Regression to the mean.

There couldn’t be both Claudia and Stiles, nor Laura and Derek. He wondered how long the universe would take to fix it. He wondered what else had changed. Was Cora still in hiding? Had she even still survived the fire? Did anyone else survive? Who was Scott friends with now? Was the Nemeton alive enough to draw the supernatural to their town already? When would Kira, Malia, Liam, Theo, the Alphas, Jennifer, Kate–  

Where was Kate?

She clearly healed well enough to put a bullet in Stiles’ head. How did she remember it all if Derek had never existed to her? Was it like Laura? Derek was just the boyfriend and meant nothing else? Would she come back when she heard they were both alive? 

And she would hear. They’d been swarmed by enough photographers on the way out of the hospital to be sure of it. Stiles had stared straight into Matt Daehler’s eyes over his camera as he got into the car. That was fun. Having the image of his body cut in half burn itself back into his retinas. A death Claudia deemed irreversible. Bifurcation.

He was gonna sleep so good tonight. Evidently. As long as Derek was there, he’d be fine. 

His dad was swift to crush that measly fantasy. Fucking shocker.

“Right, Stiles can sleep in his old room,” the Sheriff said, “Derek can sleep downstairs.”

The living room already felt cold enough. Stiles didn’t need anyone adding to it.

“What?” He barely managed to get the word out.

“You’re gonna need to start weaning off of each other sooner or later,” Noah said sternly, “And it’s starting now.”

“Weaning–” Stiles squinted at him, “What are you talking about right now?”

His dad answered with a stare so solid, as he says, “You two are not a regular couple. You aren’t in love, you’ve been through a traumatic experience together and think you need each other. You need time apart to learn how to be people again.”

Stiles could do little other than stare back at him. Silent. He was so cold.

“Why do you think you’re together, Stiles?” He asked, “Did you count pit stops on the way back from captivity as dates? Do you even have a single thing in common??”

“We both like Taylor Swift,” Stiles mumbled.

“Wow,” the Sheriff nodded his head, “Do you know anything else about each other? Or is that the one trait you had the chance to find out about–”

“His favourite food is curly fries,” Derek cut in, “He loves Marvel, but not as much as DC. He loves being right more than anything, which is lucky because he usually is. His real name is Mieczysław–” The pronunciation was almost correct. Stiles was more than a little stunned anyway. “–He can fall asleep anywhere. He wants to join the FBI. His biggest fear is going blind. He will always put everyone else before himself. And his birthday is April 8th.”

Stiles wanted to jump his bones. 

Then his father asked, icy, “What year?”

The spark was able to catch the minute twitch of Derek’s brows as he asked, “What?”

“1997,” Noah spat, “And if you don’t know how to count - maybe that’s a side effect of all the torture you two have survived together - that makes him fifteen. And that’s exactly why you’re not so much as sleeping in the same room as him. Not under my roof. Not on this planet, as long as I live to stop it. Derek.”

Stiles’ jaw barely fell open. 

It was some serious déjà vu. His dad preaching Stiles’ (wrong) age to the heavens. It was a little dated. So last timeline. Stiles was brave enough to give Claudia a desperate look over her husband’s shoulder. He was met with a look that he either misinterpreted or understood perfectly. Or it meant nothing. Either way, his understanding of that combination of eyebrows and frowns was: Tell him about the supernatural, or suck it up and sleep alone.

To be fair, if his dad was right, this would be an admirable response. Stiles could not blame him. He didn’t blame him. It’s not every day that your son comes back to life after five years with a very clearly grown boyfriend and tattoos and scars and a beard. But it was today. So. 

“Alright,” Stiles put his hands up in surrender, “It won’t kill me. I can sleep anywhere, remember? Dreamland, here I come, party of one!”

Derek shrugged his shoulders, “If it helps you, Sheriff. Your house, your rules.”

“Too right,” Noah grumbled, “Now, I’m gonna get a drink. I need everyone in bed as soon as possible, so I can take the night alone to adjust to this… This.”

Stiles hummed, “Take your time, daddy-o.”

The Sheriff gave him a tired sort of look, reaching out to brush a hand against his shoulder, “I’m sorry… S… I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in.”

“Tell me about it,” Stiles murmured, with his gaze darting away to his mother for the briefest of moments. He placed his hand over his dad’s, “But it’s a good thing. Right?”

His dad nodded, “Right.” He took a moment, where his mind seemed to wander away for a moment, before he blinked himself back, “You need help finding anything? You… remember where your room is, right?”

“I’m all good,” Stiles nodded. His dad was far more fragile than he was used to. 

He was regretting a lot of things in that moment. He was sure they both were.

“You don’t suppose I could tempt you into pouring me a glass, too?” 

“Absolutely not. Please, for the love of God, get to bed.”

It was barely 8 PM.

His father had never parented a child older than ten. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, “Yeah, sure. Night.” And he escaped up the stairs. Derek gave him a desperate stare as he passed by him. He was on his own now. Every man for himself. May the best time traveller win.

Then Stiles remembered the grimoire was still at Scott’s house. And he backed down the stairs as fast as he’d sped up them.

He found Claudia’s eyes easily, but wasn’t able to get the name ‘Mom’ past his lips, “Hey. Um.” He lowered his voice as his father vanished into the kitchen, “The grimoire’s still at Scott’s.”

Claudia gave him a look, “Can you take better care of my belongings?”

“Well, if anyone ever showed me how to make it go back into the–” He shook his arms wildly, “–then maybe we wouldn’t be having this problem.”

She considered his flailing arms for a moment, then tilted her head, “I’ll go get it. Go to bed. You look like you need it.”

“Screw you too,” Stiles mumbled, “My phone’s also there. And if he goes out tonight and gets bitten, I’ll kill you for real, so.”

Claudia blinked at him, “I’m not getting your phone for you if you’re gonna be disrespectful.”

Stiles gawked back at her, “Oh, my God, you permanently traumatised me as a child, on purpose, the least you could do is go get my phone.”

She squinted at him for a long moment, staring at him with his own eyes, before she shrugged, “Can’t argue with that.” She called out as she turned back to the door, “Noah, I’m going out to grab something I left at the hospital! You gonna be okay on your own?”

“I’m not on my own!” His dad’s voice called back, “I’ve got a mystery Hale to keep me company!”

Claudia muttered something unintelligible under her breath, and she was gone without so much as a goodbye. How unsurprising. Stiles turned back to Derek. They were almost alone again.

Then Noah called out again to say, “Well, Derek? You want a drink?”

The wolf’s jaw clenched. It was practically instinct that Stiles reached out to stop him from turning toward the kitchen. He gave him a look, and a quirk of his brows, as he stepped closer to cup Derek’s face and place the quietest of kisses against the corner of his mouth. The brush of stubble against stubble was still too new. The wolf leant into him, swaying in his hold, uneven in his release. 

Stiles mouthed a ‘goodnight’ to him.

Derek gave him the most lovelorn look he’d seen on anyone. It did wonders for his ego every damn time.

‘Goodnight’ Derek mouthed back.

“I don’t drink,” he said, louder, as he turned on his heel to make his way into the kitchen. Their fingers clung together for as long as they could reach. 

“Good man,” Noah grumbled, “Or is that just because you turned twenty-one in captivity?”

“Uhhh.”

And then Stiles had nothing to do besides sleep. What misery. 

 

-

 

That room was a relic. It had that same snowboarder mural on the wall Stiles had put in when he was nine and had left there until his Junior year. At that point, he had so much shit covering his walls it didn’t matter if he’d kept it. But now his decorations were even more jarringly childish than they had been the last time he went to the past. At least he’d never had a bunk bed. That was a little mercy. It didn’t mean the bed he had was any less tiny, or that the desk and chair beside it were any less too short. He’d sort it out tomorrow. 

He couldn’t sleep.

He tossed and turned for seemingly eons, jamming his elbows into the blue painted wall beside him, and smacking his head into the bookshelf behind. Whoever built a bookshelf into his bed was deranged. He was pretty sure it was his own idea. He did it multiple times. The fact he had to sleep in the same clothes he’d been wearing for almost three days straight through November rain, August heatwaves, and Alpha wrestling didn’t help.

However long it took for sleep to finally give him the mercy of welcome, it was too long. Long enough for him to think it would bring him some relief.

Wrong. 

Wrong, wrong, wrong.

Because in his dreams, Derek was there. 

And he was burning.

Stiles couldn’t run to him. He couldn’t save him. He had to hold back the boy in his arms, crying out and screaming Dad, Dad, no.

Derek’s feet were braced against the Nemeton. With Parrish on the other side of another man, holding tight as he burned the both of them. And Stiles couldn’t move. He couldn’t stop it. The unintelligible disconnect between him and reality wasn’t helping to calm him down. Allison and Scott were there, too. Older. And Malia. And God knows who else because Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from his…

His eyes, that familiar piercing blue, turning a blazing red.

And the fire roared louder. 

Stiles’ hair blew past his eyes, and the black fabric over his arms did nothing to cover the red of them. Just the same as the last flash of Derek’s eyes he saw before they were swallowed by the flames. The boy beneath those arms sobbed louder. His black and white flannel shirt was dirty.

Stiles had a ring on his left hand. 

And Derek was burning alive.

“Stiles!”

The arms were grabbing at him now. He was screaming. He hadn’t screamed in his dream.

Derek was there, grabbing feverishly at his arms and his face. Stiles’ chest heaved with his breaths, janky and shaken. His throat was dry, forced to stop screaming before he could even really understand where he was. Derek’s wide eyes were right in front of him. He was alive. Of course, he was alive. 

“You’re okay,” he said. Stern. 

Stiles swallowed thickly. He just nodded.

The image of a golden wedding band against red lines scorned him.

Then another body appeared in the doorway - his dad.

“What did you do to him?” He boomed. There was something in his hand. Stiles reached up to grab Derek’s arm.

“He was having a nightmare,” Derek stressed, briefly frowning over at the man, “I didn’t do anything.”

Noah paused, for a long moment, before he shook his head and muttered under his breath, “How did you get up here so fast?”

Stiles wasn’t really listening.

He needed this hair gone. 

The carpet was rough beneath his feet, and he kicked the half-full box on the floor by accident as he passed it. Stumbled. Derek called out behind him. He kept going. The drawers beneath the bathroom sink had a razor in them. Dead batteries. Stiles dropped it to the floor and rushed downstairs. The others were still yelling. 

He nicked his finger on a knife as he rustled through the kitchen drawers. Scissors. Scissors would work. 

His hands were frantic and uncomfortable as he brought the scissors to a chunk of his hair and chopped. They only got through half of the hair; forced the rest of it out of reach of the blades with a sound like a match striking to ignition. They were too blunt. Stiles didn’t care. He just took another handful and cut again.

He pinched his finger with the handles. 

“Mischief.”

A blink.

His mom was there in the kitchen door.

“You,” he forced out, “You told me to trust Him.”

She gave him a careful look, “You don’t know half as much as you think you do.”

“Then tell me,” he growled, “Why do I have to kill my best friend? If He’s me, He did all of this too, right? What could I possibly learn that would make it okay?”

Claudia stepped into the room. The grimoire, bound in leather and long-since water-damaged - just damaged in general - was placed calmly on the counter. Right beside the small, uneven pile of brown hair. 

Her gaze was equal parts intense, chilled-to-the-bone terrifying, and supernaturally comforting, “Why do you think he married you?”

That ring flashed back into his mind. Light of the flames reflecting off of the gold.

His heart caught in his throat, “He shouldn’t.”

“Who?” His dad suddenly cut in, “What the hell are you talking about? Who’s marrying who??” 

Derek was just behind him, staring over his shoulder. Unreadable. 

“It was just a dream, Noah,” Claudia answered gently, “It’s okay. We should all go back to bed.” 

Stiles snatched his phone off the counter in the same breath she placed it down, “I’m not going to sleep.” He rubbed a hand over his face, reached up and tugged at his hair. His sigh was shaky, “I’m going outside.”

“No you’re not,” his dad said.

“I’ve survived literal torture, Dad. I don’t think sitting in the backyard for a few minutes will kill me.”

He was certain of that. Knowing your future made life a whole lot more boring. Well, maybe not boring. Torturous. Which was ironic, considering the torture was all the present. If he ever met Him again. If he ever saw Him. He would kill Him. He said He’d be able to die after what happened at Oak Creek, didn’t He? 

The air was crisp. The wood of his back porch, with the grainy remnants of lawn dirt, scratched against his bare feet. He dropped down to sit against the steps. His parents were arguing in the kitchen, muffled by the door when it clicked shut again. 

Derek sat down beside him, pressing their sides together from shoulder to toe, “What happened in your dream, Stiles?”

The spark leant against him, almost entirely limp, to dig his jaw into his shoulder and utter, no louder than a choked mumble, “You died.” He flexed his fingers, looking straight out across the yard as Derek turned to look at him. “I didn’t stop it.”

“It was just a dream, Stiles,” Derek said gently, “I’m fine.”

“I know,” Stiles swallowed, “But it felt real.”

Derek let that hang in the air for a minute, before he brought a hand up Stiles’ back to stroke through his hair, “Now you’re gonna have to fix this.” Stiles grumbled. “I could do it, if you want.”

Stiles sniffled and backed away to bring them back to eye level, “You know how to cut hair?”

Derek shrugged, “How hard can it be? As long as I’m not frantically chopping it with kitchen scissors…”

Stiles pulled a face, “Alright, asshole. I was having a moment.”

‘I was going through something,’ His voice echoed.

The spark made a low noise, buried his head in his hands and practically flopped down to lounge across Derek’s lap, with the wolf’s hand steadily soothing through his hair. The argument beyond the door had died down just a little. 

Stiles’ cheek was squished by his thigh, “This is the most horrifying birthday ever, I’m… so fucking sorry.”

Derek tapped his finger against his shoulder. He sat up. The wolf gave a pointed look to the far end of the backyard - there, to Stiles’ gentle acceptance, was a wolf. A real one. On all fours, black fir barely jostled by the wind. And its eyes a firm gold. 

Laura.

“She might not remember I’m her brother,” Derek said gently, “But I didn’t lose everyone today. Getting my sister back is as good a birthday present as I could get.”

Stiles pursed his lips, “Wouldn’t it be better if she knew who you were?”

“What are you supposed to do about that?” Derek murmured, “Something tells me that wasn’t anything to do with your magical CPR.”

Stiles hummed, sighed so hard his chest hurt, “I have a few theories.” Derek’s eyes were curious, and patient. Stiles quirked his brows, “Remember how I went back in time? I told you about that, right?”

Derek nodded, “The freaky ghost cowboys. You told me.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded back, “That’s my theory.”

“Freaky ghost cowboys?”

“Freaky ghost cowboys. Happy birthday.”

Stiles’ eyes were drooping now. He melted back against Derek’s shoulder, not quite cushioned by the solid muscle, but comfy either way. His hand found his hair again. Derek’s dry lips placed a mute kiss on his forehead before his head nestled upon the other. 

“We’re gonna save everyone else,” Stiles murmured as he slipped away, “Or my name isn’t incomprehensible.”

“No, it’s Mieczysław.”

His brows scrunched up, “We’ll work on your Polish while we save the world.”

They fell asleep there. Whether Laura was still watching over them, Stiles wasn’t sure. His parents weren’t fighting anymore. And the air was thin and the leaves where rustling. He didn’t dream again that night.

 

-

 

An understanding came to the household - albeit slowly - that this was their new normal. It settled in for his dad that he had a son again. Claudia got it into her head that Stiles would not be anywhere near her when his dad left her alone with them. Derek talked alone with Laura in the backyard whenever Noah’s eyes weren’t on him. They never made them sleep on separate floors again. 

Now their house had security cameras. And Stiles was going insane. 

Like, okay. Yeah. If his son had been shot in the head and was dead and buried, then came back five years later saying someone faked his death and he’d been held captive that whole time, Stiles would probably lock the kid in a tower like Mother Gothel, but come on. Stiles couldn’t even get dressed in his own bedroom anymore. It was ridiculous and annoying and maybe his dad would understand him better if he were throwing a tantrum about it.

The prospect of him putting him back in school was downright horrifying. Maybe he could’ve avoided it if his dad hadn’t caught him and Derek racing at the newspaper crossword and caught onto the fact that Stiles was not intellectually stunted. Especially now that he was taking his Adderall again. Still, if Stiles had to redo Sophomore year one more time, he would finally give in and lose it.

Just as he was losing the battle with awkwardness again. This time with Scott. 

“So,” the teenager looked around the living room, with his hands firmly planted against his knees, “You’re going back to school. That’s neat.”

Stiles chewed the air, “Yeah, man. It’s gonna be crazy.”

Derek was on the floor, putting together an IKEA chair Stiles had gotten for his room. He looked more focused than Stiles had seen him in a long time. With the furrow of his brows and the tense curve of his back beneath Noah’s borrowed sweater. 

“High School’s a lot to get used to,” Scott said carefully, “I’m on the lacrosse team, though. You remember how we used to practice together?”

Stiles ran a hand through his hair (Derek had tried to fix it, but it turned out he wasn’t a whole lot better at cutting hair than Stiles was, so his dad took him to a barber’s instead. It was fine. They barely cut anything.) as he looked away from the man on the floor to smile at his best friend, “Obviously. I’m not an amnesiac.”

“Yeah,” Scott laughed a little, like he didn’t mean it, “I don’t really know how to… I never thought I’d talk to you again, so.”

“Well, one of us died,” Stiles blinked. Scott’s face fell. The spark squinted his eyes, “Anyway. More about you, what’s the dealio? Who’re you runnin’ with? What’s the squad like? You pulling any hot chicks?”

Derek snorted. Stiles gave Scott the most innocent of grins.

The kid gave him a helpless sort of look, “I…” And he devolved into laughter, speaking through his giggles, “I don’t know, I’m kinda still a major loser. I guess… You remember Lydia?”

“Some may say she’s the only reason I’m still here,” Stiles mused, answering Derek’s withering glare with a wink and a blown kiss. He didn’t think he was wrong.

Scott blinked at him for a moment, “Sure. She’s throwing a party this Friday. I’m actually… thinking about asking this girl to go with me. You should come! Get reacquainted with everyone! Experience a high school party, you know?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed by their own accord, with his answer pushed out by the pout of his lips, “That sounds like it will end in disaster. And my dad definitely won’t let me go.”

Scott frowned.

Stiles nodded, “We’ll be there. But what girl?”

“We…?” Scott pursed his lips and shook his head, “Uh, a new girl at school, Allison. She sits behind me in English. She hit a dog with her car and I think I’m in love with her.”

“You never change, Scotty,” Stiles reached out to pat the kid on the arm, “Never, ever change.”

“Stiles,” he got out, so suddenly. The spark paused. Scott opened and shut his mouth a few times before he was able to form the words, “Why did you come to my house?” Stiles stared at him. “Instead of yours?”

Stiles’ brain was empty, possibly for too long, before he could start forming his bullshit answer, “No one was at my house.”

Scott considered his answer for a moment, then asked, “Where was… Derek?”

They glanced over at the wolf at the same time. He froze, barely for a split second, before he went back to fiddling with his screwdriver. 

“Just,” Stiles blurted out, “Around. You know. Got lost following after me, or something, I don’t know, what am I, his keeper? That’s so the last five years.”

Scott leaned in as he asked, “Is he mute?”

Stiles tilted his head.

Derek’s growl was just human enough to pass, “I am right here.”

 

-

 

Stiles had a routine now.

Wake up, shower, brush teeth, get dressed, suffer through breakfast, take his meds, hide in his room (if Noah’s on a shift) or watch as much TV as he can before his mind starts to melt, keep trying to teach Derek how to use modern video game consoles, refuse to see a therapist, possibly see Scott, suffer through dinner, brush teeth, sleep, repeat. It was so mind-numbingly boring, he could feel what little sanity he had left slipping through his fingers. Stiles needed enrichment. More plants, maybe. A puppy. Or the freedom to step foot outside of his front door.

Until, the day of Lydia’s big start-of-the-year party, when Stiles was once again left under the watchful gaze of his walking PTSD flashback of a mother (Not something he can say with conviction, given he refuses to see any therapist or psychologist who could potentially diagnose that. Maybe he would sign up for some more sessions with Morrell this time around. Just to see whether she’d rat him out to the Alphas. If they even existed here.) and the lovely baby monitors dotted around the house. His dad was at work - he’d left with the same scrunch of guilt on his face that he did every morning. So Stiles was occupying himself with flexing his comic collection.

Derek watched him as if he actually cared. Stiles knew Derek was way cooler than him, and that his teenage years centred more around basketball than MMORPGs and superheroes - well, until. You know. - and yet he seemed to have no problem understanding just how crazy it was that Stiles did, in fact, own two original 1940s Batman comics.

“Wait, why do you have two of those Scarlet Witch ones?” Derek mumbled.

Stiles stared at him, “She’s gorgeous. I’d buy all of them if I had enough room in here.”

A knock at the door had his train of thought cut short. 

There was an unspoken rule in the household. Between him and Claudia. That he was not going to interact with her. And she shouldn’t interact with him. The sight of her made him nauseous, made his skin itch with the need to run, because she wasn’t supposed to be there. And his body knew that. Stiles wondered how Derek was so okay with Laura being alive again. He had better memories of her, he supposed.

“Stiles,” Claudia was saying through the door, “Can I come in?”

He knew his heart picked up. He knew Derek could hear it. So neither of them said anything.

“I want you to get out of the house,” she said through the door, “And I have something I wanna show you.”

Stiles didn’t answer.

“Małpka.”

His body seized up. Hearing her gentle voice call the name Stiles, or Mischief, or Mieczysław was one thing. One horror torn straight from his nightmares and the most harrowing moments of the year she’d haunted his mind. Somehow the mindless term of endearment felt far too unfamiliar. It made his skin crawl. 

“You can’t keep Derek cooped up in here,” she said carefully, and her voice sounded like she’d moved closer to the door, “Wolves don’t belong in captivity.”

Stiles ground his teeth, with the curse locked behind his lips; You locked the wolves away so you could burn them.

He rose to his feet, abandoning the pages in his lap, and released the handle of his door like a morgue locker. Her dead body smiled at him. 

“Where?” He forced out.

She grinned, “The graveyard. Shall we howl Laura?”

It’s not a lie when Stiles says he truly would’ve attacked her if he wasn’t scared just to touch.

 

-

 

Stiles had visited a grave other than his mother’s exactly twice. The first time wasn’t a visit, more of an observation, and the grave was still empty. The second time was the evening of Erica’s funeral, after he found out Derek had left town. He’d ended up at his mother’s grave again anyway. She hadn’t spoken to him. 

He’d never visited a grave with her. He had especially never visited this grave. 

‘Mieczysław Genim ‘Stiles’ Stilinski

04.08.1997 – 10.26.2007

Beloved son and friend.

A spark snuffed out too soon.’

“You made a pun on my gravestone?”

“Obviously. What’s the fun in death if there’s no fun? Oh! I put the ‘fun’ in ‘ funeral’! Hah, get it? Fun?? ”

Stiles couldn’t take his eyes off of it. The fresh flowers laid beside it, the photo of his tiny, young face in the middle. He’d seen that boy, bouncing on his feet in his ugly, perfectly innocent clothes. He’d killed him.

“Why are you showing me this?”

His vision blurred. He sniffled.

“You’ve gotta know how fucked up this already is for me.”

“You don’t get it, do you?” Claudia said, no longer high-spirited. Stiles clamped his mouth shut so tight his teeth might’ve cracked. “I don’t believe in fate. Or destiny. But your future is set in stone now. And my past is buried beneath it. Whatever path you take to reach your ending, I won’t interfere with but do not,” her hand against Stiles’ shoulder bolted him to the dirt, right down to where his bones were buried, “kill his son again.”

Stiles swallowed, almost choked on it. He squeezed his eyes shut, willed her to take her hand off until the mercy came when she did. 

There was something about graveyards. Maybe it was just a Stiles thing - the way he could feel the spirits around them. The bodies beneath the earth. How some headstones marked graves that felt so empty. How he felt the need to side-step empty air so as not to bump into used-up molecules. It made him feel a little bit crazy. Especially since his own grave felt so full. Like the tiny body beneath his feet might reach up to drag him down to join it.

He’d let it. 

“I want to go home,” he choked out.

Claudia tucked the shorter hair behind his left ear, he flinched away, “Don’t you have a party to go to?”

Stiles’ brows drew together. An unasked question on his lips as he turned, almost, to look at her. Derek and Laura by the edge of the break into the forest caught his eye instead.

“Hey, spark senior!” The woman called out, “I think we’ve got some stuff to chat about.”

His mom’s lips wore no smile in his peripheral, “Yeah.” She turned to her son, “You kids have fun.”

“What about my da–”

“Have fun,” she almost begged, “Or at least fake it. I need something to make me feel better about myself during this.” And she trudged away to meet Laura where she stood. Derek gave Stiles a curious stare. The spark just shook his head.

He was going to get so fucking wasted.

 

-

 

The road to Lydia’s house was a familiar one. The floor was bouncing with the music, or Stiles would think it was, if it weren’t brick.

“What do you think Lydia’s like if she never met you?” Derek asked into the chill air.

Stiles gave him a mild glance, “She didn’t know me yet anyway.”

“You were in love with her.”

“I’m a hopeless romantic,” Stiles brought their hands up, interlaced, to press a kiss to the wolf’s knuckles, “Don’t act surprised. And for the record, she has met me. She was just too far above me to notice.” He yanked him up to the open door, and passed through with a plea into the wind of, “Please, God, let there be alcohol.”

Scott was the first familiar face they saw, greeting them with a broad smile, “You made it! Your dad really let you come?”

“Sure,” Stiles called over the music, glancing over at Allison, who was hiding behind her red solo cup.

“This is Allison!” Scott grinned so wide, “The girl I told you about! Allison, Stiles.”

She gave him a pinched smile as she swallowed, “Hi…! I like your scars! Remind me of my aunt’s!”

Off to a great start. 

Scott gave her a starry-eyed stare, “What? Your aunt has scars? What from?”

Allison nodded, “She fought a bear!”

Stiles burst out laughing. He clapped his hand over his mouth far too late. Allison gave him a weird look, glancing at Derek, then back to Stiles. The wolf’s hand tightened around his other one.

“She’s a hunter,” she said, a little quieter, but still sternly above the music, “So. Yeah.”

“I’m sorry!” Stiles lied, very loudly, “Just reminded me of a joke!” Peter Hale, the bear. Holy God, he banged her dad. Oh, Stiles was about to start floating. “We’re gonna go mingle!!” He cried all-too-suddenly, yanking on Derek’s hand as he did, “You two can do your own cutesy teenage romance thing! Practice safe s–”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed into his ear.

He looked over at him, “What? It’s important.”

The couple was gone by that point anyway, “You need to make a good first impression.”

“Or what?” He grumbled, “So they don’t wanna hang out with me in this timeline, big whoop. You know what hanging out with me did to those bozos Last Time?”

Derek gave him a harsh look.

Stiles ignored it, “It killed them. Remember that?”

“Oh, I remember.”

“Well, you were only there for one of them.”

“Moot point, Stiles.”

“I don’t even know what that means.”

“Who the hell are you?” That familiar bird-song voice cut in. Not hostile. Like a sort of curious drawl. Lydia was giving them her catlike stare, the one she wore when she was particularly intrigued by a person - and only ever a person. The cups and bottles littering the kitchen island between them were calling his name.

“Stiles,” the spark answered, memories of her misunderstanding of his name swimming through his mind as he did, “And this is Derek.”

Her eyes darted down to their still interlocked hands, the devilish grin on her mouth widening, “The zombie boys,” she said with an air of wonder, “at my very own party. It’s as if Christmas came early.”

Livin' La Vida Loca started to play from a speaker too nearby. 

Christmas came early, indeed. 

“Sure,” Stiles nodded, picking up a random cup from the counter, “Are these alcoholic?”

Her eyes narrowed, like a dare, “Are you gonna tell your daddy?”

The laugh was half a scoff as it spilled out of him, before he brought the cup to his lips and chugged the drink down. It burned. Tried to force his throat shut to get the horrid taste out of him before it was even in. He ignored it, pushed through the grimace, picked up another cup and chugged it down just the same. Derek forced his hand down as he reached for a third. He let go of the wolf’s hand to pick up a different cup and folded his arm around Derek’s to pour the stuff down his throat again. 

Heat rested in his stomach, the familiar blaze of cheap liquor. Derek’s scowl was totally unfounded. Stiles grinned as he slipped his other arm out from his hold and brought the cup to Derek’s mouth.

“Come on,” he coaxed, “Get in the spirit, Derek.”

His lips fell open just enough for him to drink, as Stiles tipped the cup higher, and his other hand rested comfortably against the stubble at the base of his jaw. 

“There’s a good boy,” he laughed, relishing in the annoyance in Derek’s eyes as the cup came up empty. Derek tore it out of Stiles’ hand and crumpled the plastic up in his own grip. He dropped it to the floor. Stiles laughed again, more of a giggle, as he leant in and placed a kiss on the corner of his mouth, “Wanna do a keg stand with me?”

“I’ve never done a keg stand,” Derek murmured against him.

Stiles grinned, “Me neither. You wanna?”

He whispered back, barely audible, “I can’t get drunk, Stiles.”

“Not with that attitude, you can’t.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, “If this is your way of coping with whatever happened at the graveyard, it’s not healthy.”

“You are not lecturing me about healthy coping mechanisms, Derek Hale,” Stiles grumbled. He needed more alcohol in his system and he needed it now. He didn’t feel nearly weightless enough. Nor nearly as if he weighed as much as a building… enough. Was that a sentence? Whatever.

Derek gave him a tired sort of eyebrow situation and tilted his head, “Lead the way, zombie boy.”

Lydia giggled behind him. Stiles gave her a brief glance.

“Thanks for the drinks, Lyds!”

Her face had only just started to fall when he turned his back to her again and pulled Derek away by the collar of his shirt. 

The rest of the night got hazy from that point on. Stiles liked getting drunk. It made him all light and giggly, even if it felt like the ground was forcibly pulling him down just at the same time. Even if the details of most of his time in the house were a blur, he remembered dancing with Derek, and Derek’s hands righting him when he stumbled, and Derek drinking about as much as he was. Whether it was doing anything, Stiles had no clue. He didn’t really care. Because he was drunk. And Jackson was yelling at him.

“What??” Stiles yelled, “Are you okay???”

“You spilled your drink all over my fucking shirt, you jackass,” Jackson spat back.

“But you’re jackass,” Stiles slurred.

“What the fuck did you just say to me?”

“I don’t know, what did I say? Was it rude? I’m so sorry.” The words almost felt too big for his mouth, but he was not drunk, so that was just him being dramatic, or something.

“Oh, you asshole, ” Jackson growled, shoving at Stiles’ shoulders. The world went for a spin really fast, tipping on its axis and sending him flopping unceremoniously onto the couch behind him with the weight of a freight train. His drink toppled over just as he did, emptying itself all over his sleeve and down his side to seep into his thighs.

“Aww, come on, man,” he whined.

Where was Derek?

Something yellow flickered before him, swiping across his vision like a phone screen moving too fast. Stiles yanked at his sleeve, tugging the fabric off his shoulder and off his body. He’d just washed that flannel that morning. This was so sad, man. God. And his shirt was wet, too. 

His clothes were wet when he killed Scott.

Sick.

He felt sick.

But he couldn’t throw up. Because he’d stop feeling good. So, he took his shirt off. Wet fabric was bad. Bad, bad, bad. And Mom was bad. And he was bad.

Derek was good.

Where was Derek?

“Hey, you,” Lydia’s voice murmured from above him. Some part of his brain flickered up to call upon some connections between her and the Heavens, and Angels, and then it all circled back to Derek just as fast. She flopped down beside him on the couch, somehow still just as graceful with alcohol in her system, “Where’s my boyfriend?”

Stiles settled deeper into the cushions, “Where’s mine?”

“With mine,” Lydia answered carefully, “That’s why I’m asking you.”

Stiles turned to her. Did that make no sense because it made no sense or was he actually drunk?

“What time is it?” He murmured. 

She flicked her hair, “Too early to be this gone, zombie boy. Can’t hold your liquor?”

Stiles hummed, “My old friends weren’t big dr–inkers. Never got much of a chance to get betterer at it. And, actually, I’m holding it, like, suh-so well. It’s still in here. So. Held.” He glared down at his arm, a little sticky from the drink Jackson had made him spill. His bracelet was rubbing blood against his skin where the liquid watered down what had dried onto it. His chest tightened.

“Cute bracelet,” Lydia mused, “Someone make that for you?”

Stiles turned to her again, squinting at the fuzzy image of her before his eyes, “You.”

She gave him a look, “Yeah, you. Or did you steal it?”

His lip curled as the pain in his chest got worse, “I hate it here.”

“It’s gotta beat wherever you got these,” she hummed, and suddenly she was leaning across him, putting her moisturized hands all over his scars. A panicked noise bubbled out of him, with his brows weaving together. 

He felt a whole lot more sober way too suddenly, forcing her back with a firm hand to her shoulder, “Okay! Not doing that, no thank you! Neither of us want that to happen.”

Lydia gave him a bored look, “What makes you think that?”

“I am not your type,” Stiles answered with a nod of his head, blinking away the way that nod seemed to alter the angle of everything around him.

“How do you know what my type is?”

“I know l–ots of things,” Stiles grumbled, breathing out hard, “But, seriously, back off before the hubby gets back. He bites.” He snorted. He still had it.

Derek was there, then. Whether any time had passed between Lydia deciding to shut up and that moment, Stiles couldn’t tell. He didn’t care. His hands were in the air reaching for him before he could think about it. 

“Derek!” He grinned, “You’re here! I l–ove you–u!! All the versions of– you, love ‘em so much. Dereks galore.”

Derek’s face was pinched as he grabbed Stiles’ hands and yanked him up to his feet, grabbing his abandoned clothes in the same perfect movement, as if he hadn’t drunk a drop.

“Where’d you g–o?” Stiles mumbled as he leaned his weight against him, “My legs are broken.”

“Your legs are fine.”

“You promise?”

He sighed, “Yes, Stiles.”

“Fuck yeah!!” Stiles cheered, “I could run… to…” 

He squinted his eyes. They were outside. The air was cold against his bare skin. Jackson was over somewhere. Laura was with him. Stiles’ face scrunched up.

“What’s Laura doing with Jackson?” He murmured. 

Derek sighed again, with more of a growl than before, “We’ll talk about that later.”

“Fine by me!” Stiles straightened up, “I love not talking. I also love talking. Did you know that? I really like to talk. W–ords. And connecting them. Usually to say ab–solutely nothing. Just like the way the words feel because when I say words people can’t say words back until I stop. Unless they yell at me. But then I just yell back louder with more words. Flawless s–ystem! I sound so drunk,” he let out a belly laugh.

“You are drunk, Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles turned to glare at him, “ You’re drunk.”

Derek raised a brow.

Stiles’ bottom lip jutted out, and the words wouldn’t stop, and the blood was rushing to his cheeks, “I love you. I don’t know why it took me so long to say it. Like, who ca–ares if I knew another you, right? You don’t care! You are you! Reality– is meaningless and time wishes it could hold power o–ver m–e.” He turned his gaze to the empty street they marched down together, “You hear that, America?! I am time!” He lifted his hands over his head. It made him wobble on his feet. Derek’s hand steadied him by his waist, “What do you s–ay to that 2012?!! I shake it off, I shake it off– 2014, you rest in my hands!! CLAP ALONG IF YOU FE–EL LIKE A ROOM W–ITHOUT A ROOF!!”

Derek’s hand slapped over his mouth. He stuck his tongue out. Derek took his hand back, just as the riotous laughter bubbled past Stiles’ freed lips.

“Just you wait for 2015, Derek,” he was smiling so hard the alcohol couldn’t even blur the pain in his cheeks, just as it couldn’t stop the ache of his bare arms, “‘Cause uptown funk gon’ give it to ya! Don’t believe me, just watch–”

Dance, jump on it, if you sexayy then flaunt it, Derek just didn’t get the groove of the future. How could he? He’d never heard it before. Poor, unfortunate soul. Hey, that’s an in-date reference! 

Stiles couldn’t really feel it as he landed on the ground, slipping past Derek’s arms onto the curb. The drinks in his stomach sloshed around, a weird, uncanny feeling. Like. There isn’t supposed to be stuff inside you. Haha. Inside you. 

He blinked up at the inky-black sky, “I wanna go on an adventure. Which way’s the train station?”

“Stiles,” Derek nudged his thigh with his foot, “Get up. We need to get you home.”

“Why–y?”

“Maybe because of the ravenous Alpha who’s currently rampaging?” 

“LAME!!”

“Stiles!! Quiet!”

“That’s so Last Time. And so Last Time’s Last Time,” he lifted his head off the pavement to blink blearily at his boyfriend, “Woah, d–ouble Last Time… This Time…”

Derek was just staring at him in silence now. 

His stomach churned, “I’m so scared.” Derek’s eyes softened, without a clue in the world that Stiles’ reality just started to crash back down on him again. He was sobering up. It was the cold. Probably. And it was terrible. “I don’t kn–ow what to do.”

“You’ve done this before, Stiles,” Derek said gently, “You can do it again, now, let’s go home.”

“I don’t w–ant to go home,” Stiles’ breaths felt too small, “I d–on’t. My mom told me to–… She told me I co–uldn’t… I can’t do anything– I can’t tell my dad anything– I don’t wanna lie to him anymore, but I can’t k–ill his son again– ”

The sirens had been the thing to silence Stiles that time.

Stiles’ eyes widened, “Oh, shit, the police. Oh, shit, my dad is the police. ”

Derek’s stare was so pitiful it was like it drew the alcohol straight out of his bloodstream, “I tried to tell you to be quiet.”

“I’m drunk, ” Stiles hissed, “I’m underage drunk! I’m gonna get– underage drunk arrested by my dad who can’t know I’m not his real son! Derek, what the fuck. ”

“Stiles,” he growled, “Stop panicking. You’re freaking me out.”

“I’m freaking me out, too! You’re not special!!”

Eyebrows. Jeez.

“I didn’t mean it,” Stiles whined.

A car was rolling down the street. Stiles had never sat up so fast. The world spun around him, coaxing him onto his back again; Derek kept him upright.

“Run?” He asked.

Derek nodded, yanking him to his feet, “Run.”

“Hold it right there!” 

His mother’s voice.

Stiles swayed on his feet. He felt the nausea building.

His Jeep pulled up to stop right in front of him, with Claudia’s face grinning beyond the rolled-down passenger-side window, “Get in, losers!”

His Jeep. His.  

“I told you to have fun,” she said, “So get in before my husband ruins it, would you?”

Stiles gave Derek the briefest of glances. The Fall air was soft against his scars, soothed the pain in his arms and the point where his head had slammed back against the sidewalk. His dad finding them might have been fun if he let it. It could have been a moment of ordinary young-adult fear. He could have pretended he was any other nineteen-year-old. That him and Derek were college students who had too much fun at a frat party. It would be far from perfect.

Nothing about this version of his mother, brute-forcing her way back into a wound that had already healed, would ever be any better.

Notes:

welcome back claudia stilinski. blink bliiink. blinkity blink bliink. i miss peter

anywhosies!!! it'll be weekly updates until chapter six, then a two week break, then the interlude on Boxing Day, then two weeks off again, and then (fingers crossed) the next six chapters weekly, rinse and repeat until I have written every sentence possible. (AND ETHEL CAINS NEW PROJECT WILL BE OUT THE WEEK BEFORE THE NEXT SEASON AND I KNOW FOR A FFFFAACCCT 'PERVERTS' IS GOING TO BE SSSOO ON POINT.)

Chapter 3: Erica

Summary:

Second (or third) chances can be very emotional. Peter Hale is just as vengeful as ever.

Notes:

nhaha. 20k words of this. i cried

side note but for some reason everyone hated lydia with a passion in twice and for all and that made me so sad bcz she was literally just the voice of reason. this time she is a capital 'B' Bitch and i love her and i will accept no slander. she is fifteen. she does bad things. and she has strong opinions. and that's okay. #feminism. #booyah

 

playlist here!!

Stiles was pretty sure he passed out on the drive home. It was probably for the best, all things considered. What was not for the best was the way Derek woke him up.

“Holy–” Water went up his nose. His elbows thudded against the edges of the bathtub, and he struck his funny bone. He spluttered, “Jesus fucking Christ!! Waterboarding is not a healthy method of–” Another flood of water. Stiles slammed his head into the end of the tub to get out of its line of fire, leaving the water to pour down his chest instead, “Derek! What the hell!?!”

“You sober enough now?” Derek asked. His eyebrows were a force to be reckoned with. 

Stiles licked his lips, “I think so, asshole. What the hell is wrong with you?”

Derek’s brows furrowed, “Sorry.” Stiles gave him an aborted grumble in response. “You shouldn’t’ve drank that much,” Derek glowered, “You’re gonna be hungover as shit tomorrow.”

“I don’t get hungover,” Stiles declared, valiantly ignoring Derek’s muttered ‘sure you don’t’, “And, either way, tomorrow’s Saturday. I think. Who the hell cares if I’m hungover??”

 

-

 

Stiles cared that he was hungover.

He actually might have still been drunk? Sure, he’d take that. Because that meant he wasn’t hungover. Which would be dreadful. If that happened to him. Which it absolutely never did. Because Stiles didn’t get hangovers. 

Brain-fog was not an unfamiliar sensation. That much was true. As true as it was, it did little to keep said brain-fog from making breakfast that morning… interesting.

“So,” his dad started, not one to usually talk at the table those days, with a private, warm little smile, “What did you two get up to with your mom last night? You have fun?”

Stiles didn’t remember. Practically anything. That happened. Last night.

“When’s…” He clicked his tongue, “Not fun? With us. Amiright?”

Derek gave him a sideways glance. Claudia took a slow breath.

“We just went out for dinner,” she said carefully, “Nothing crazy. Just getting them used to everything again.” She bit down on her bacon with force. Stiles nodded until he heard his neck creak. He burped. 

Noah smiled, “Well, you’re staring up at the high school on Monday, how’re you feeling about that? You nervous?”

Stiles laughed, “I eat high schools for breakfast, Dad, don’t even sweat it.” And he shoved a chunk of waffle into his face for emphasis. Waffles weren’t high school. Waffles were good. And pleasant. And tasty. And didn’t make Stiles want to jump off a roof. Or take a nap on some train tracks. Or shoot himself. He turned to Derek with a mouthful of syrup-covered waffle, only barely thrown by the perplexed adoration on his face, “How long d’you think it’ll–”

“Chew your food,” Claudia said.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full, Stiles, come on,” his dad chastised, at the very same time.

Stiles slammed his mouth shut, finished chewing, swallowed, and gave his father a withering glare. He ignored Claudia. Turning back to Derek, he continued, “How long d’you think it’ll take for me to get on the lacrosse team?”

Derek put his spoon back into his bowl of cereal, making the milk pool on the surface, “How long until you meet the coach?”

Stiles snickered, “You betting on love at first sight?”

“First line at first sight,” Derek said lightly, bringing the spoonful of milk to his lips and slurping it up. Stiles snorted.

“I need, um,” he squinted out of the window, to the backyard, past the kitchen, “What the hell is it called? The thing you catch the ball with??”

Derek turned to him with a withering stare, “Are you kidding?”

“The… stick?” His dad prompted.

Stiles pointed a finger at him, “Yes. Papa needs a stick.” He mimed a pass, with his fork in the place of his imaginary lacrosse stick. What a pass it was.

Nobody brought lacrosse up again until Stiles was just starting to admit he might be hungover. He was draped over Derek in his bed (fully-clothed, with the door open, Dad. Not that it mattered, because the camera in his room had been cockblocking him for that entire week anyway) being, pretty much, a pathetic puddle of a human being, and outright whining whenever Derek stopped taking the pain from his headache. It didn’t help the dizziness. Or the nausea. Neither of those things were stopping him from being practically out cold.

“So you know what you’re gonna do about Jackson, then?” Derek’s voice slipped through the fog, “Lacrosse?”

Stiles squished his cheek up against his collarbone, groaning out, “W’t the fuck ‘r’ you talking ‘bout?”

Derek’s hand paused where it had been stroking back and forth through his hair, “Jackson. What we talked about last night?”

Stiles glared into the fabric of Derek’s shirt, as hard as one can glare into a surface with ones eyes closed. He, quite genuinely, had no clue what this guy was on about. 

“I don’t remember, like,” he made a noise as the nausea built up again, “Anything. Was he even at that party?”

Derek paused for a moment of stunned silence, “Stiles, you two got into a fight. He almost shifted in front of everyone.”

“Oh, that’s not good,” Stiles murmured, “He shouldn’t do that.”

Derek’s heartbeat was a soft sound. Comforting. Ba-dum, bum, ba-dum, bum, ba-dum.

Wait.

Stiles lifted his head, even if it made ever part of his body feel like it was dissolving, and asked, alongside the burning in his chest and the pain in his everywhere the fuck else, “He almost what? ”

 

-

 

It made sense. Stiles was pissed that it made sense. But it did. But also it didn’t make any goddamn sense at all, Stiles’ head was going to explode, and he was going to scrub his teeth down to nubs if he kept this up. As if teeth weren’t glorified bone nubs to begin with. It’d been two days of hushed debate and Stiles still didn’t get it.

He spat out into the sink, flipping the faucet down to rinse the bowl, and licked his lips, “But he’s a werewolf? ”

Derek nodded in the reflection before him, “Peter bit him. Not a scale in sight.”

Two days of hearing it and it was still not going in.

“But that doesn’t–” Stiles shoved his foamy toothbrush back into his mouth to keep scrubbing, “–‘At d’shn’t mach a’y shenfe–” He spat again and rinsed the brush under the faucet, “He’s dating Lydia. How is he a werewolf? He can’t know he’s gay. I haven’t been here to make jokes about it.”

Derek tilted his head, “Maybe you not being here made him figure it out faster.”

“How is that possible?” Stiles frowned, “If anything, I should’ve been his gay awakening. And not in the completely literal way I was Last Time. I’m a smokeshow, Derek,” he glared into his boyfriend’s amused eyes, “A smokeshow.”

“You had a buzzcut most of the time he knew you back then.”

“Hey, don’t knock the buzzcut, asshole,” Stiles narrowed his eyes, “Okay, it wasn’t my hottest look. But, like, come on.”

“I guess it’s a good thing you’re gonna be stuck in a building with him all day today,” Derek said pointedly, “Or, most of the day.”

Stiles grunted, twisting to lean back against the sink and cross his arms over his chest, “If I lose it and start exploding shit, you’ll come get me, right?”

Derek pulled an indifferent face, “How about you just… don’t… do that?”

“So unsupportive. Really, Derek.”

 

-

 

He supposed it was a good thing. This was a tangible problem - if it was a problem at all. There would be no Kanima This Time. That genuinely brought Stiles the most joy of anything that had happened to him since finding out Allison was void. So. That really went to show just how peachy of a time he was having, didn’t it? Still, he was glad to have something to focus on. A pet project, if you will. Operation: Jackson Wolfmore, The Enigma (subject to change). 

Maybe having to deal with school again would be a little bit fun. He’d pester Jackson, figure out how exactly this shit had happened, play werewolf yoda, let Scott pelt him with lacrosse balls until he was almost good at the game, stay away from Lydia’s confused lesbian hands, and destroy both Jackson and Scott at that godforsaken net, stick, and ball game. Oh, the vindication. If only fifteen-year-old him could see him now. 

Anyway, he was just glad there was something to do. Nothing else would be a problem. He didn’t have to deal with anyone else. 

Well, there was Coach. He was being Coach. Not much to report there.

“Listen, I’ve had a few unsavoury run-ins myself,” he said, “If you need to talk to anyone about any… bodily issues. I am the guy to go to. I’ve had it all done to me. You know, I once had to chew my way out of the trunk of a car! That’s how I lost my left testicle. But, uh, the brain stuff–” he cringed and shook his head, “–leave that to the shrinks, I don’t mess with the mind. The guidance councillor is there for that.”

Stiles doubted he’d be seeing any guidance councillors any time soon, but the thought was there. Coach showed him around the school (unnecessary), told him about the teachers (redundant), and either forgot how he lost his ball (singular) or somehow Stiles dying and Derek never existing had something to do with it (or he was just saying shit for the sake of saying shit (far more likely)). What else was new. Maybe the exposure was a result of chewing his way out of a car.

They only had him in for four periods that day. The basics (Math, English, Science - Stiles chose Chemistry out of morbid curiosity) and an elective of his choice. A way of easing him into it. They’d done the same thing for Malia. 

Huh.

He really ought to go save Malia.

Eh. It’s not like she knew what was going on. She could survive until Stiles had the Jackson Wolfmore Problem under control. Or until Jackson had the Wolf Problem under control. Same difference.

Math sucked as much as it always had. Not that Stiles was struggling. More because he wasn’t. Normally that just made it boring beyond words, but now he had Mr. Ajout creeping up to his desk every five seconds like some sort of evil math assassin ( mathssassin – thank you, thank you, he’s here all night! ) as if trigonometry would send him into a nervous breakdown. He hated this, but not that much. He was not going to have any nervous breakdowns today. Especially not in front of Jackson.

The guy was glaring at the back of his head that entire lesson - he briefly wondered if he wasn’t, in fact, a werewolf, and somehow was instead a werekryptonian, and if he focussed hard enough, his glare would, in fact, shoot lasers out of his eyes and melt Stiles’ head into a puddle on his desk. Now, that would send Mr. Ajout into his own mental breakdown. 

What Jackson was glaring for, Stiles was none the wiser. He was an angry guy. It was part of the reason he was, you know, a lizard man. An angry lizard man. 

He raced after him when class was over - without a clue as to where Scott and Lydia were at that point, and utterly apathetic to the prospect of looking for Allison - and wrapped an arm around his shoulders as soon as he was close enough to, “Jackso-o-n!” He grinned at the sheer abysmal horror on the man’s face, “The wolf of Whittemore street! Fancy seeing you here!”

His grimace morphed into a glower, “You’re gonna take your arm off me. Or I’m gonna make you.”

Stiles raised his brows, “Wow. Okay, tough guy, how about, instead–” He brought his arm back to brace his hand against the back of his neck. “–you come with me, and we have a little chat.”

“I think we talked plenty on Friday night,” Jackson growled.

Stiles squinted at him, still steering the both of them through the ogling crowds of sweaty teenagers, “Yeah, I don’t remember any of whatever you’re talking about.”

“You called me a jackass,” he hissed.

“Oh, my God,” Stiles groaned, “I think you’ll live. If you seriously think that’s the worst thing I could’ve done to you, then you’re gonna get a real bad wakeup call sometime soon.”

Jackson slowed, “Is that a threat?”

“Is that an invitation?” Stiles blinked back at him. Jackson’s mouth opened, then shut. Stiles nodded, “Keep walking, jackass. You know, I think the name’s really starting to stick.”

The teenager’s muttered ‘Jesus’ was just audible enough to fill Stiles with unfathomable glee. He grinned at a vaguely-familiar unfamiliar face as he steered the werewolf(?) into the second floor men’s bathroom. He did not trip on the way through the door, and if anyone tells you otherwise, they’re a liar and a fool.

“Oh! Sorry– Stiles?”

Scott. 

Scott!!!

Stiles snapped his head up again, lips splitting into a grin at the sight of him, “Scotty! What’re the odds!!”

The teenager gave a glance to Jackson, who was completely and utterly still. Like a rock. A statue. A very startled deer. And other very still things. A Newton’s Cradle before you pull one of the end balls! Stiles needed to stop. 

“What’re you two…” Scott’s brows knitted together, “Doing in here? You know Jackson?”

Stiles blinked at him. Jackson remained as still (as a… dead body?) as he had before. He’d forgotten they didn’t meet Jackson until middle school. Oops.

“I do now!” Stiles grinned, wide and bright, presumably. He clapped the wolf(?) on the shoulder, “Thanks for showing me where the bathroom is, Jackson, much appreciated.” Slapping his shoulders like a pair of drums, he started to slip back out of the doorway, “We shall power onward!”

Scott made a noise, like he wanted to say something, but cut himself off before he could. Jackson muttered something under his breath that Stiles didn’t catch. He honestly didn’t care. He just needed to get this doofus alone so he could figure out how he knew he was gay. He wasn’t gonna get anywhere with it if the idiot was acting like a wasp petrified in amber. So many still things, so little reason to list them.

Jackson made no move to leave, so Stiles gripped his shoulder slightly tighter, let go, and turned on his heel, “Alright, bye! The cafeteria beckons me.”

It was like playing a point and click adventure game based on a TV show you watched as a kid. Like every interaction was just slightly off, but, like, it’s official, so you can’t say it’s out of character because they’re the characters. But also the characterisation is all slightly different for some reason, and you can’t tell if you’re the problem, or the writers, or the fact they only speak when clicked and never to each other. But, hey. At least he was only having to deal with these idiots. Jackson and Scott? Absolute breeze. Pat Scott on the head and smack Jackson over his and they will just keep on truckin’. Simple minds, they were. So long as you mentioned neither of their parents. As if Stiles didn’t know all about that. 

It was a minor setback to Operation Jackwolf Whittepaw 2: Electric Boogaloo, but Stiles had all the time in the presumably short, nondescript amount of time he had. He wondered what marvellous characters he’d run into next! What if this timeline was so twisted beyond belief that Theo Raeken was in the drama club or the chess club or something equally embarrassing instead of a steampunk throuple’s pawn? Thematically cohesive burn. Tsss. 

At least the school was physically exactly the same. The cafeteria food was just as miserable. That was… good? It was definitely an observation! Stiles did mildly wish his death and Derek’s nonexistence had somehow inspired the lunch ladies to bring some more pizazz to the place. But, whatever. Tiny water bottles had never killed anyone.

He sat down at his normal spot.

Someone sat down across from him.

Stiles could not see his own reaction. Nor could he dictate it. 

“What the fuck are you doing here?” He blurted out.

Cora raised an eyebrow back at him - she was so tiny, “Getting an education. Same as everyone else here.”

“You…” he squinted his eyes, “Huh. How old are you??”

She raised the other eyebrow, as pointedly unimpressed by him as she had always been, “What, you’re not all-knowing anymore?” Stiles pressed his lips into a thin line. She was sixteen at the oldest. He knew that much. Cora tilted her head, “Laura told me all about the shit you told them before the fire. You did a great job stopping that from happening, huh?”

Stiles didn’t feel all that hungry anymore.

Cora frowned, “I– Thank you for… saving my sister, though. I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Stiles swallowed dryly, “Yeah. What, uh, what’re you guys thinking about good ol’ Uncle Peter?”

Her gaze turned just as hostile as it had been when she sat down, “He could’ve bitten anyone in the town and he chose Jackson Whittemore. He’s the most idiotic long-term care patient this world has ever seen.”

“Interesting standpoint,” Stiles nodded his head, “What about the killing your sister to become the Alpha thing, Cora. ”

Her eyes sharpened further, if that was even possible, and she took a moment before she said anything, just too long of a moment to be comfortable, “How did we stop Peter… before you went back in time?”

Stiles shook his head, “I think you mean ‘me’ not ‘we’. You had nothing to do with it. Derek thought you were dead.”

“Right,” Cora said slowly, “And who is he exactly?”

Stiles slammed his head against the table.

Even through his delirium, he could recognise Lydia’s giggle anywhere, “Of course, you know the zombie boy.”

“Lydia, I swear to God,” Stiles growled into the table, “if you call me that one more time, I will rip my own face off.” 

“I’ve been wondering,” she mused, slipping into the spot beside him, “How exactly you know my name, Stiles. ”

Stiles lifted his head to stare blankly at her, “Lydia. I’ve known you since the third grade.”

She blinked her long lashes at him, reeling back a little bit, “Oh.” Her neck seemed to redden just the slightest bit, as she brought a hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear. Those green eyes darted to Cora, then snapped straight down to the tray of food in front of her.

It was a fond memory, her and Cora. Just a week ago, he’d been sure that the them he knew were madly in love. Whether they’d realised it or not. Something was going on there. It irked him how he never saw the resolution to that. How He took them to the wrong place. He never found out if Cora had saved Lydia or not. If any of them had survived Allison, or whatever he should call the husk of her body. Well. The Nogitsune.

He’d left that timeline in His hands. 

His father was still there. 

He turned his gaze back to Lydia, narrow-eyed, “You just here to hang out, or?”

She gave him a sideways glance, “You’re interesting. I have heard a lot about you. Most of it’s very obviously bullcrap. I still wanna hear how you got all your scars, though. The real story. I’m sure it’s so tragic.”

Cora scoffed. She turned her glare down to her tray. 

“Are you seriously still hitting on me?” Stiles’ head hurt, “Jesus Christ, Lydia, I told you, I’m not your type.” It might have been the one thing he remembered from that night.

She turned to him, a challenge in her eyes, “Oh, yeah? And what’s my type?”

Stiles snuck a glance at Cora, who was stabbing her mac ‘n’ cheese with a fury. When he looked back at Lydia, the redhead’s stare had changed. All humour gone. She swallowed. Took in a breath.

“Well?” She asked, with that impatient edge Stiles hadn’t heard in years, asking again, enunciating so clearly, “What is my type, zombie boy?”

Stiles’ mouth split into a grin, “I think we both know what I mean. Don’t we.”

She did not look at Cora. Instead, she rose from her seat, snatched up her tray and stormed off. Stiles could almost see the little relationship metre go down. Maybe he lost one of her five hearts he needed to win to get the perfect ending. Two red people with minuses beside them appeared in the air. Or other ways that a negative interaction is depicted in video games. Which Stiles was not in. He was losing the plot a little bit.

She sat down at another table. Stiles caught Jackson’s eye as he wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Those eyes turned downright murderous.

“Well, that went swimmingly,” Stiles muttered to himself, “She needs to get her shit together.”

“What was that?” Cora asked tensely, barely glancing up at him.

Stiles blinked, “What was what?”

She gave him an incredulous look, “You’re so weird.”

He reeled back, “Okay, Cora Hale. That is wild coming from you.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“Don’t I?”

She clamped her mouth shut. Stiles shoved a baby carrot into his mouth. This was fun. They were bonding, for sure. Best friends imminent. 

“What’ve you got next period?” He asked.

She glared back at him, “Chemistry with Mr. Harris.”

And Stiles had never been so happy to hear it.

 

-

 

One thing that had not changed: Chemistry was a class of convergence. Scott was there, Allison was smiling, just as love-sick as him, as she trailed after him, Jackson was sat beside Lydia. Even Isaac was there. At the back, staring at his hands. He was wearing another scarf. When he reached up to scratch at his jaw, the fabric shifted just enough to expose a mean purple bruise on his throat. Stiles’ chest tightened. 

Right. 

Jackson wasn’t going to save him This Time. 

Well. Stiles had killed for less.

He’d think on it.

Jackson was still glaring at him like he’d just killed his mother (Stiles was confident that he had not, but only because she was already dead when they went back in time.) and Lydia was staring out of the window like she was freshly traumatised and derealizing. It was a bit too soon for that. Scott patted him on the shoulder as he passed by him to find his seat, Allison joining him at their station with as pinched a look as she’d worn at the party. Stiles remembered that much. It was really just that, meeting Lydia, Lydia flirting with him, slamming his head into the concrete, his mom rolling up in his Jeep before his dad could find them, and waking up to Derek trying to drown him. Anything else that happened in those however-many-hours, Stiles did not have a clue. He sincerely hoped he hadn’t actually done anything to warrant Allison’s wariness of him. On that same note, it was honestly weirder that more people weren’t wary of him. He was dead a week and three days ago.

His eyes raked over the rest of the class - oh, hey, Matt was there, too. Oh, and there’s Boyd! - until he.

Oh.

Grasping claws tore at his chest, from the inside out. Like a burning. As if he were on fire. As if his heart was being ripped out of him. Somehow it felt like nothing at just the same time. Like his body was petrified. 

He felt his throat seal shut.

Erica looked up.

Like a lightning strike to the heart. And Stiles couldn’t breathe. He stumbled backwards, slamming into something as he did - the doorframe, a wall, Mr. Harris, he didn’t care - and spun on his heel. He blinked up at the ceiling as he walked, ignoring the calls of his name from someone back in the classroom. His breathing was shaky. The tears in his eyes burned. 

Holy God.

He made it to the bathroom before he realised that was where he was going, but stormed into it as fast as he possibly could the second he recognised where he was. 

Erica.

Erica was alive.

She’d looked at him.

She had no idea who he was.

She was alive.

She was alive.

“It’s okay,” she said once more, “This isn’t the end. You know that.”

Stiles slammed into a cubicle and dropped to his knees. The pain didn’t matter.

Erica’s eyes fluttered shut one last time, “You’re the strongest person I know,” she said with a small smile, “You can get through all of this. You already did, right?”

“Erica, don’t say that,” Stiles cried through a broken sob.

She gave him a fleeting, closed-lipped smile and shook her head. Stiles’ jaw clenched so tightly shut he could’ve sworn he heard teeth crack.

“Erica,” he spoke, barely above a whisper.

She said nothing back.

He vomited into the toilet bowl. He coughed. It burned. God, it burned. The horrid feeling of phlegm and cafeteria scraps coming back up the wrong way. He spat out whatever was left in his mouth. 

He was sobbing like a fucking baby.

“Stiles?” Jackson’s voice came, muffled as though Stiles were underwater.

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t answer. The words wouldn’t come out.

“Hey, what the hell is wrong with you?” Jackson asked, closer now, “What… Stiles??”

He rested his head against the wall of the cubicle, reaching up to flush the toilet. The wall was cold. He focused on that. He just needed to focus on that.

“Panic attack,” he said carefully through his gasps, as well as he could, “I’m having a panic attack. Don’t– worry about it.” 

“Okay,” Jackson said stiffly, “Uh. You, um. Oh! The thing Laura showed me– You. Um. Focus on something else.”

“Wow, when did you get your– psychology degree?” Stiles gasped out.

“Shut the fuck up, I’m trying to help.”

Stiles wheezed out a laugh, “I know what anchoring is, Jackson.”

“Alright, then use it, smartass,” the wolf growled, “Think about that Derek guy. Your boyfriend? Think about him. Not whatever you’re freaking out about now. Just him.”

Stiles hiccupped, “I’m not a werewolf.”

“Well, you’re something!! Would you just try?!” Jackson stopped, huffing, “Why am I even helping you?” 

Stiles had to laugh again. It was a damn good question. 

The only problem with thinking about Derek instead of… The only problem with thinking about Derek was the fact that that automatically circled back to. It. Her. Stiles swallowed thickly. One memory was clear before his eyes, then. The day after he got impaled. The first time he’d properly talked about her after. It. Happened. Derek helping him into the shower. Him talking about his scars. How safe he’d felt. How desperate and hopeless and desolate he’d felt at exactly the same time. That was the day Lydia gave them their friendship bracelets.

He missed that loft.

He missed being alone with Derek.

He missed his pack.

“Okay,” Jackson said stiffly, “You sound. More okay. It smells so fucking bad in here, though.”

Stiles took in a deep breath, “You don’t have to stay.”

“As if Mr. Harris would be any better right now.”

Stiles snickered, “True.”

The stale, gross, men’s bathroom stall air was silent. Suffocating. 

Stiles stared at the graffiti by his head - ‘PETER WAS HERE’ - a testament to how rarely that hellhole was cleaned, and mumbled a careful, “Thank you.”

“Yeah, whatever,” Jackson mumbled back, “But not that whatever. You owe me now.”

“Of course I do. Because there was no way I’d possibly survive a tiny little panic attack on my own.”

“You threw up.”

“Your mom threw up.”

Jackson went silent.

Stiles licked his lips, “Sorry. That wasn’t even a good one.”

“What are you?” 

He sat back on his heels, twisting to give Jackson a questioning look, “Huh?”

The wolf, crouched behind him, shrugged his shoulders, “Laura hasn’t told me that much. Just enough to keep me from, like. Murdering anyone. So, what the hell are you? How do you know me?” He squinted his eyes, “And how are you actually alive?”

Stiles stared at him for a while, unsure of whether the bitter taste in his mouth was from the puke or the general misery, “Oh, boy.” He scrubbed at his face, “Ugh, okay. Uh.” He squinted at the teenager, “You can’t repeat this to absolutely anyone, okay? Not a soul.”

Jackson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he gulped, “Yeah, totally. Not a soul.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes even more, “Uh huh. Stiles Stilinski is dead.”

Jackson just stared.

Then he pulled a face, “Are you… Are you trying to be edgy, or?”

“No, shut the fuck up,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “I’m from a different timeline - shut up - and I came here to stop the Hale House Fire but apparently some people don’t think that people being alive is a good thing, so– Okay, whatever, forget that.” He blinked furiously and took in a deep breath, “My least favourite dumb blonde arsonist pedophile shot me in the head to try and stop me from going back in time. Unfortunately that’s not how time travel works, I guess. News to me.” He twisted around as he spoke, so that he was sat on the floor with his knees by his chest and his back to the cubicle wall. Jackson’s mouth was slightly agape.

“So…” Jackson tilted his head, “Werewolves and time travel.”

Stiles nodded, “I’m a spark. That’s how I can do the magic stuff. Like time travel. Or making people not werewolves anymore. I did that to Scotty once. Pretty proud of that. Even if he was being a bit of an asshole leading up to it.”

“Wait, what?” Jackson’s voice rose a smidge too high, “Scott was a–”

“Shut up, or I swear to God,” Stiles shook his head, “If he so much as hears the word werewolf This Time, I will just give up and shoot myself in the face. You’re not screwing this up for me and getting him involved again, I’m not gonna kill him–” He slammed his mouth shut.

Jackson’s face stiffened, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles answered through gritted teeth, “Why the hell am I even talking to you about this? Jackson? Whittemore? The same asshole that gave me this damn scar on my nose,” he pointed at the thing, “just because I told you you were gay and saved your life??”

Somehow Jackson got even more still.

“Oh, yeah,” Stiles sat up, “That’s what I was gonna talk to you about earlier before Scott appeared out of nowhere.”

Jackson swallowed again, “What?”

“You know you’re gay,” Stiles squinted at him, “How?”

“What makes you think I’m gay?” Jackson spluttered, “I have a girlfriend.”

“Yeah,” Stiles rolled his eyes, “Right. Been there - seen that. It’s never made you straight before, genius, it’s not going to now. You’re a werewolf. Which means you’re not repressed enough to become a lizard.”

Jackson’s brows rose, “What? ”

“Don’t worry about it, it’s not gonna happen, evidently,” Stiles tilted his head, “How did you–”

“Why are we talking about me now?” Jackson snapped, “You just threw up because you walked into a classroom, let’s talk about that instead, huh?”

Stiles licked his lips. He almost got away with it, too.

The tears threatened to break through again, rising to his eyes as swift as any beast, “I’ve lost a lot of people. It’s never easy to see them again.”

Jackson waited a moment, the briefest of hesitations before he asked, “Who? Someone in our class?”

It was a completely understandable question. Relevant. But something about it, the way he asked it, made it hit Stiles full-throttle across the face that he was really just a kid. Jackson was fifteen. And now the thing that had ruined Scott’s life was almost destined to ruin his. For all his glamour muscles and girlfriends and fancy cars, he was an actual kid.

And so was she.

“Erica Reyes,” he whispered.

Jackson’s brows twitched, “The epilepsy girl?”

Stiles kissed his teeth, “The epilepsy girl. She…” He blinked hard, “Died in my arms. Barely two months ago. It feels like years, though. And, somehow, simultaneously, like it was yesterday.”

“Oh, my God,” Jackson winced, “That explains why you’re so weird.”

It was a miracle that Stiles didn’t slam his head into the wall.

“You really are a jackass.”

Jackson tilted his head, “So I’ve heard. Made you stop crying, though.”

Stiles’ hand rose instinctively to wipe at his cheeks, swiping the moisture away. Jackson watched with that look of mild disturbance he seemed to wear for Stiles and Stiles alone. The bathroom falls awfully silent, save for the creak of the wall behind the spark’s back. Then Jackson’s eyes widened, just the slightest bit. His jaw clenched and he rose to his feet. 

Scott came bursting in before Stiles could ask. 

“Stiles!” Scott looked over his shoulder, a gentle smile on his baby face, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles answered. He felt a bit silly being the only one on the floor.

“Okay, well, I called your mom and told her to come get you,” Scott winced, “Maybe you coming back to school wasn’t the best idea, huh?”

Jackson glanced at the other teenager, then turned back to the man on the floor, who was genuinely, very seriously, contemplating a litany of major felonies. Stiles let his eyes fall shut and slammed his head back against the wall. He could hear Scott jump. 

“Thanks, Scott,” he forced out, “You didn’t have to.”

“I mean,” Scott started, “It definitely smells like you puked, so you should go home either way.”

“The smell isn’t that bad, you’re both such babies.”

“Okay, well. It happened.”

“I can handle it,” Stiles blurted out awfully suddenly, “I don’t need to go home.” He met Jackson’s eyes, catching the look of (almost) concern in them.

“I mean,” Scott frowned, “She’s already on her way. So.”

Stiles swallowed, “What did you tell her?”

“That you sprinted out of Chem and ran full speed into Mr. Harris looking like you’d seen a ghost?”

Stiles stared into Jackson’s eyes. The teenager turned away with a grimace. He contemplated throwing up again. Just to make Scott squirm.

He wondered which ghost would be worse to see again right now.

 

-

 

Stiles could handle it. He swore he could. Claudia did not need to pick him up in his Jeep. Derek did not need to look at him like that when he walked through the front door. He could handle it.

“Who was it?” Claudia asked as Stiles beelined to the kitchen. She hadn’t spoken the entire drive home.

“The tooth fairy,” he barked, “We go way back. Tragic reunion. Very emotional.”

“Don’t joke about fairies, Mischief.”

He rolled his eyes so hard it hurt, “Jesus.” He started rooting around in his cupboards, turning around containers and bags, “Or can I not joke about him either?”

Claudia snorted. Stiles almost lugged a bag of flour at her. He felt Derek crossing the room, just as he felt Claudia hovering in the doorway, and the grass shifting in the wind outside, and the blanket slipping off the recliner in the living room. He could feel the cells dividing in his bloodstream if he focused on it. He could hear it too. Just like his heartbeat pulsing in his ears. Just like the ache in his arms.

He clenched his hands into fists, his face scrunching up at the pull, “How do I make it go away?”

“Make what go away?” Claudia asked.

Stiles turned around to stare at her, the disgusting concern on her face, “The pain. You figured out how to give yourself dementia, surely you can make my arms stop hurting. If–” He ground his jaw, “If I have the grimoire. If I get it back under my skin, it’ll heal me, right?”

Claudia smiled softly, “Mieczysław. I don’t think you should be worrying about that right now.”

“Oh, shouldn’t I?” He spat, “The constant debilitating pain in my arms? I should just forget about that, right? Ignore it? Think about Erica instead?!”

He felt sick. Derek and his mother were silent.

“Or, how about Matt Daehler?” Stiles growled, “And how I saw his body cut in half Last Time? Or about Scott, who’s already too close to the supernatural for comfort? Who I murdered?”

Derek’s voice started, “Stiles.”

“Or Derek!” Stiles cried, “Derek, who doesn’t even exist in this timeline anymore and has been forgotten by what little family he has left because I went back to try and fix it and didn’t have the balls to face you.”

Claudia’s lip - it almost seemed to quiver. 

“You,” Stiles growled, “The psychopath who destroyed her own mind so she could get away with murder. Every time I fucking look at you, all I see is– is you trying to kill me and screaming at Dad that I was the one killing you– and– and for what? So you wouldn’t be able to remember what you did? Do you remember now? You killed them, Mom. You killed them.”

“Mieczysław–”

“Don’t call me that,” Stiles swallowed. His eyes burned. Claudia stared back at him with such sorrow, such undeniable sadness, it made him sick to his stomach, “You don’t get to call me that. That’s not my name. Alright? It was one thing when you were inside my fucking head, but you– My mom is dead. And she died a long time ago.”

He needed to leave. He had to be somewhere else.

Her lashes fluttered, “Like Erica?”

Stiles physically flinched, reeling back from her as if he’d been struck. All he could do as those stupid tears built themselves back up again was bury his face in his hands.

“God damn it,” he snarled into his palms. 

“You…” Derek’s voice was so far away, it had Stiles turning as stiff as stone when his hand suddenly braced against his shoulder, “God, Stiles.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles growled, “I swear, I’m perfectly damn fine.”

“I don’t know what you were expecting when you went back to before she died.”

“You - shut the fuck up,” Stiles snapped, turning to his mother with a fierce glare, somewhat nullified by the tears in his eyes, “I… Haha! I’m fine! Anyway! All of this is fine! And Scott shouldn’t have gotten you to come get me!”

“You threw up.”

“And so I am going to make myself a second lunch,” Stiles powered on, whirling around and out of Derek’s touch to start rummaging through the cabinets again, “Which would be easier if everything wasn’t backwards for some damn reason. ”

“Okay,” Derek said.

Stiles was suddenly a whole lot taller, hoisted up into the air by a pair of solid arms. He cried out, slapping at Derek’s forearms and kicking his feet back into the wolf’s knees.

“Stop struggling.”

“Put me down, you bitch.”

“You’re going to bed.”

“It is one o’clock in the afternoon, Derek.”

He braced his hands against the doorframe as Derek tried to carry him through it. Claudia had stepped out of the way. Stiles didn’t understand the look on her face.

“Stop being a baby.”

Stiles clawed at his bare forearms with blunt nails, “Stop trying to put me down for nap time!! ”

“You could break my arms if you wanted to, Stiles,” Derek said matter-of-factly, “Don’t act like I’m dragging you out against your will.”

“I’m not gonna hurt you, genius,” Stiles snarled, “Now let me go before I change my mind.”

Derek sighed against the back of his neck, “Such a sweetheart.” He set him down when they reached the stairs, gesturing up at them as Stiles whirled around to glare at him, “We’re going upstairs.”

“You–”

“We,” Derek said, “Are. Going. Upstairs.”

Stiles slammed his mouth shut. He swallowed, eyes flickering to the side in a sudden rush of hyperawareness. The blinking light of the camera on the hall table stared straight back at him. His first step up the stairs was backwards. He spun on his heel to take his second one. Listening to Derek felt deeply foreign. He did it anyway.

Derek shut his bedroom door behind them. 

And he didn’t say anything. 

Not for a long moment. 

Too long. 

Uncomfortably long.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked. There was something about the way he said it. Some weird twist to the words that somehow managed to strip any condescendence straight out of it.

Stiles swallowed.

His lip quivered.

He shook his head.

Derek’s earnest little frown slipped away to a sorry wince, the man stepping forward and opening his arms, uttering the smallest ‘come here’ Stiles had ever heard. And he broke. Barely able to wrap his arms back around Derek’s waist, burying his face in the man’s shoulder as he sobbed. Derek held him so tightly. So firmly. Rubbed back and forth across his shoulder blades as if he could leave a permanent mark there. Stiles almost laughed between his sobs at how pathetic he must have looked. With his whole body convulsing with his gasps and hiccups. 

“You can handle this, Stiles,” Derek said into his ear, as though the words would embed themselves in him if he said them close enough, “You already have, right?”

And Stiles started to wail.

 

-

 

Stiles was terrifying. Allison was absolutely unmoving in that stance.

And, for some reason, everyone was drawn to him like moths to a flame. Stiles. Stilinski. The kid that, to her knowledge, was murdered as a child. And now had come back to life. As some sort of tattooed, loud, freak of nature with a future wanted poster for a boyfriend. It was so weird. And so scary. And no one else got that.

She was definitely starting to understand why her dad was so reluctant to move back here. The town was full of crazies.

“Hey, Lydia,” she murmured as she slipped into the free seat beside her. Lydia looked up at her, cheek smushed into her fist, with a playful glint in her eye. Allison swallowed, “How does Jackson know that Stiles guy?”

Lydia blinked at her, and pouted her lips, before answering with a smack of them, “He doesn’t.”

Allison squinted at her, glancing away at the empty doorway Scott had just crept out of to call Stiles’ mom, “Are you sure? Because he just ran after him.”

“Yup,” Lydia shrugged, “Jackson moved to Beacon Hills during middle school. Stiles never met him.”

It was a sad thought. A life taken so soon. Well, ultimately taken in a different sense than everyone believed it to be. She wondered how the Sheriff was taking it. She figured she’d be more embarrassed by the fact she buried the wrong kid, if she were him.

Allison shook her head, “What, so, your party was the first time they met?”

“I’d assume so,” Lydia mused, “But he seems… He seems like he knows a lot of stuff he shouldn’t.”

Allison felt her brows rise, as her right eye threatened to start twitching, “And you don’t find that… terrifying?”

Lydia gave her an odd look, “It’s not the knowing things that’s scary about him.”

A short moment passed where she said nothing more. Allison was almost scared she’d have to start listening to Mr. Harris.

Then the redhead pouted her lips again, “He’s definitely more scary than his boyfriend, at least.”

Allison’s brows drew together, “The grown man that I saw do five tequila shots in a row and immediately go on to win a game of beer pong against Scott? Why??”

“Scott’s an uncoordinated little baby deer, Allison,” Lydia cooed, “But, come on. Only one of them got out of whatever they went through covered head-to-toe with scars.” She moved her hand to start tapping her manicured fingers against her cheeks, “So, only one of them is getting their fucked up little hands dirty.”

The brunette chewed at her bottom lip for a moment, “Maybe Derek gave him those scars.”

Lydia barked out a laugh, “As if. That big guy is wrapped around his little finger. Even when Stiles was blackout drunk and crying out his love for ‘all the Dereks’ to the entire town.” She giggled to herself, “I bet you he’s killed a guy.”

“You think he’s murdered someone??” Allison hissed, dropping her voice down to a whisper.

Lydia levelled her with a sharp gaze, “Oh, don’t be silly. He’s murdered several ‘someone’s.”

She said it so matter-of-factly, Allison almost wondered if Lydia had, too, ‘murdered several someones’. She wouldn’t put it past this town to have two killers in one high school class. Which was crazier? That, or one of the murderers being a zombie?

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lydia chastised, “Nobody comes back from the dead cracking that many jokes and drinking that much alcohol without the same disregard for mortality that any good murderer has. I’m just saying.” She shrugged her right shoulder, “Frivolity. It’s a red flag.” Then her eyes went a little bit distant, “I could’ve sworn he had a scar on his stomach that looked an awful lot like a deep, deep stab wound. It could’ve been impalement, too. Whatever happened to him, I have got to find out.”

“Why??” Allison outright begged, “You just told me you think he’s a murderer.”

“Well, if he is, I’d like to know for sure,” Lydia responded, affronted, “I’d at least like a chance at steering him away from wanting me dead. By helping him. And if he’s not, then, well.” Her lips pouted one last time, “Win-win, I guess.”

“How about not getting involved with him, Lydia,” Allison shook her head, “I sure as hell don’t want him to kill me. Or Scott.”

“Well, he seems pretty involved with my boyfriend,” Lydia grumbled, “So, do I really have a choice?”

Allison’s eyes started to hurt from how wide they were, “Are you seriously not freaking out about that??”

“He’s your little boy-toy’s childhood best friend, are you not freaking out about that?”

“Yes. Yes, I am.”

“Ladies,” Harris’ voice boomed from the front of the class, “If you’re going to insist on gossiping through my class, at least try to pretend to be quiet about it. One more peep and it’s a detention for both of you.”

Lydia slammed her mouth shut so fast, and started scribbling in her notebook just as swiftly. It really was like this was normal for them. Allison was curious. Of course, she was. She was probably even more curious than Lydia, but she was not about to kill herself trying to find her answers. She was scared for Scott - boy-toy allegations notwithstanding - and, honestly, she was scared for Jackson and Lydia even more. 

She didn’t see Stiles again until after school the next day. 

It all became far more real when she did.

He was leaning against the side of a sleek black car, with his eyes scanning over the flood of kids leaving the building. She’d seen that car in the parking lot before - that girl, Cora, the one Lydia pretended not to stare at (none of Allison’s business, she was not getting involved in that mess), would get picked up in that car. He met Allison’s eyes, and barely smiled; something unrecognisable sparked in his eye, and he raised a hand to wave. 

She swallowed, almost welcomed the horror, and remembered they’d met - no matter how odd that meeting had been. Her hand shook as she waved back.

Then Stiles’ eyes snapped away, and suddenly his arm was flailing through the air, “Hey!! Jackson!!! Get your ass over here, pretty boy! We’re going on a field trip!!”

Jackson tumbled past her, his shoulders high and tense as he raced over to the car, “What the hell?? Where are we going?”

Stiles grinned - a bright, sharp, dangerous sort of grin, as he answered, “The hospital!”

And, holy God. Stiles was going to kill Jackson.

Allison was frozen, helpless as Jackson slipped into the car. He caught her eye as he did. His eyes widened, then sharpened just as fast. He was gone before she could figure out what that meant.

But she was curious.

God, she was so damn curious.

Her eyes snapped back to Stiles. He was staring right back at her. With narrowed eyes, and a raised eyebrow, he quirked his head and pulled open the passenger side door to vanish behind. 

And Allison needed answers.

“Hey, Allison!” It was Scott, bounding up to her with the brightest smile on his face, “Are you free right now?”

She swallowed, “Um–”

“If you are, do you wanna go do something?” His smile turned sheepish, “I still need to show you all the best spots in town.”

Allison sucked in a breath, releasing it with a huff as someone bumped into her - a blonde girl, with unkempt hair and the baggiest outfit she’d seen since she moved here. The girl bit her lip and squeaked out a ‘sorry’ before she scurried away. 

She turned back to Scott, with that absolutely helpless little lost puppy look, and she gave in, “Of course. I’m always free for you.”

She would figure Stiles out eventually. Save everyone from him if she had to. But for now, Scott was a pretty boy. And Allison was too far gone to say no to him. Embarrassingly quickly, too.

 

-

 

“Why is Jackson coming with us?” Cora sighed.

Stiles finished buckling his seatbelt, running his hand up the length of it as a force of habit, “He’s his alpha, you silly goose, of course, he’s coming with us.”

“I’m sorry, what?” Jackson called out.

“If you ever call me that again, I will hunt you like a goose,” Cora glowered.

Stiles twisted around and looked over his shoulder to pull a face at her. She just stared at him. Like a loser with no sense of whimsy. An absolute lack of silliness. What a tragic life to lead. It was a terrible comeback anyway, the Cora he knew would be appalled. 

It should be brought to your attention, anyhow, that Stiles was perfectly fine once more. He sobbed like a baby for a second, but he was back, baby. Like Slim Shady. And no ghosts were gonna get the drop on him, no sir-ee! Erica Shm-erica! Amiright?

His chest hurt.

Most of him hurt, actually.

He was fine.

“You think if I yell ‘I told you so’ at him loud enough he’ll get mad enough to wake up and handle this like a mature sociopath?” Stiles mused.

“No,” Derek answered from the back seat. Stiles snorted at the thought of his scrunched-up face, surely still as aggravated by his demotion from driver to back-right window seat. Sucks to suck. Stiles called shotgun.

“Wait, I’m sorry, who are we seeing?” Jackson piped up again, “And why are we seeing them at the hospital??”

“Our uncle,” Laura answered, taking a glance at the rearview mirror, “The Alpha.”

“The one that bit me?” Jackson asked.

Stiles squinted his eyes, “No, the one that wants to take you to the winter formal. Ha! That actually fits.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?” The beta growled.

“Nothing,” Stiles waved a hand around, despite the persistent ache, “You had to be there.”

Derek made a small noise, “What are you actually talking about?”

“You know…” Stiles gave another glance over his shoulder, “The formal. Peter. ‘N’ Lydia, and Jackson, and… Whatever. That was hilarious, you losers just aren’t worthy of understanding it.”

“Sure,” Laura tilted her head, “Now shut up so I can focus on not crashing this car.”

Stiles shut up. Because he had manners. Sometimes.

Now it was time to get his shit together. He’d had more than enough time to panic, and puke, and party (surprisingly works, he was just going for alliteration) but now. Now it was time to plan. Oh, yeah, baby. The Ps. He was sure Peter (another P!) didn’t have to die. Somehow the asshole had wormed his way into Stiles’… not heart. Psyche? General sense of reality? Day-to-day life? Family? Whatever he’d wormed into, it was infuriatingly unmoving. And Stiles’ everything hurt a whole lot worse when he thought about having to kill the guy again. To be fair, he hadn’t seemed too opposed to it Last Time. What if it was some sort of hard reset? A little vacation where he got to see his family and deliberate over his heinous crimes before committing far worse ones to bring himself back? He still didn’t understand how the hell he did that. Do all werewolves have the ability to speak from beyond the grave?

Stiles didn’t plan on finding out.

But, either way, if anyone was going to know how to solve this without murder, it was the one person Stiles was really struggling to be fine about.

She was there by the time they got to his room. Claudia. Stiles hadn’t seen her since their fight the day before. He didn’t want to. He’d meant every word. 

“Well, this is gonna be fun,” she mumbled.

Stiles met her gaze, fiery, and said, “Maybe you should’ve thought about that before you burned him alive.”

“Okay, can we just set the record straight,” Claudia snapped as they slipped into the room, “I didn’t burn anything.”

“No, you just trapped them inside,” Stiles snarked, “Which was far less deadly.”

“I’m the only reason he’s still alive.”

“And I’m sure he’s real happy about that.”

Peter’s lifeless husk of a body gave no indication of any sort of agreement, but Stiles knew they were on the same level. He looked exactly the same as he had Last Time. Only now, he wasn’t listening in on everything with a morbid fascination, playing spot the difference with each story Derek came in to vent back out to him. 

Somehow Stiles genuinely missed having that Peter to know things with. Because he knew everything from the very beginning. Not from halfway. Not bits and pieces. He knew the whole story, because he started it just as much as Stiles had. He took it about as seriously as Stiles had. Which was to say barely at all.

He was back there still. With Him.

Stiles could not believe he was even starting to entertain the idea of ending up as Him. 

Still, he wondered if Peter would be able to keep everything in order back there. If they could save Allison, and get rid of the deadpool, and stop Theo and the Dread Doctors and the Beast, and Peter wasn’t even there for that, but he could figure it out, couldn’t he? He was practically just an older, taller Theo, anyway. 

He wondered what would happen to him and Chris.

He wondered what had happened with him and Chris.

Peter’s burned-up face wasn’t gonna tell him any time soon.

“I’m sorry,” Jackson drawled, “That’s the guy that bit me?”

“Aw, come on,” Stiles grinned, yanking his sleeve up his forearm to wave his still-healing bite mark in the air - it hurt far too bad, “He also bit me! Twinsies!!!” Jackson’s face contorted into a grimace of pure annoyance.

“How did he bite me if he… is like that?” He asked, turning to Laura as he did.

Laura sighed, “The same way he managed to kill me while he was like that. A question that I don’t know the answer to.”

“He’s feral,” Stiles answered, “When he’s shifted, he’s stronger than whatever they’re using to keep him asleep so he can heal. He should almost be done, but.”

His brows twitched.

“Wait, we can just heal him now.”

“You shouldn’t mess with burns, Mischief,” Claudia said.

Stiles rolled his eyes, turning to her with a glare, “My future self healed my burns once. And, sure, I’d rather die than do most things He did, but He and I have a few things in common, such as–” He gestured widely at Peter’s blank face. “–an unexplainable attachment to this asshole. So I’m gonna heal him, whether you like it or not. Actually, especially if you don’t like it. ‘Cause you have terrible ideas about what things will make things better.”

Claudia stared at him for a long while, then sighed, “I barely followed that, sweetheart.”

“Derek, can you make her shut up?” 

“Let’s just focus on making him not murder people, Stiles,” Derek said.

Stiles dropped down to crouch in front of the alpha, crossing his arms over his chest, “Who’s he gonna murder anyway? Kate burned the house down. He and I went around crippling everyone who was going to help her. Claudia’s probably not in his good books.”

“Don’t call me that,” she grumbled.

Stiles ignored her, “If you help us heal him, he might wanna kill you a bit less.”

“Who says he wants to kill me?” Claudia cried.

“You helped to murder our entire family,” Cora answered, low and surprisingly terrifying for a maybe-fifteen-year-old, “You’re lucky I don’t kill you for him.”

Stiles’ chest hurt again.

He stared at the half-burned shell of Peter. The scars across the left side of his face. Half-healed, too. Still trapped in there, in that long-since deteriorated mind. Claudia was a fucking psychopath to do this again. 

Stiles let out a breath, “Let’s heal him. You gotta make up for doing this to him somehow.”

His mother just stared blankly back at him. He gave her a look. A prompt for her to get on with it and heal her best friend. ‘Best friend’. Right. She ruined his life for the ‘greater good’. Stiles wouldn’t do that to Scott.

… Oh.

“Stiles,” Claudia said, bitten - forced, even, “Do you remember when you took my power through the grimoire? When you got those little purple lines?”

Stiles swallowed. He nodded.

His mother hummed, “And you remember how you healed Derek’s gunshot wound?”

“It is wildly uncomfortable that you remember it,” Stiles murmured, “but yeah. Vividly.”

She nodded, “Derek, shall we have a look at your one and only scar?” Something about her decadence really reminded him of Peter. That cocky, I-know-more-than-you-and-explaining-it-is-making-me-want-to-hurt-you energy that he almost always spoke with.

Derek hesitated before he lifted his shirt, just enough to show the little oval of scar tissue on the right side of his abdomen. Stiles didn’t turn away from the sharp look in his mom’s eyes. He’d seen Derek’s scar more times than he could possibly count. It was his mark on him. A symbol. It was unintentional, but it was there. Permanently. Something primal in Stiles enjoyed it, he wouldn’t lie. When he wasn’t distracted by the looming knowledge that there was a certain other Derek he would not be seeing in that same way.

“Fun fact,” Stiles said, “I’ve seen that before.”

“Don’t get smart,” Claudia said mildly, “My point is, if you think either of us can heal him any more effectively than he can heal himself, you’re delusional.”

“I brought Laura back from the dead a week and a half ago,” Stiles grumbled, “And you’re telling me you can’t heal some stupid burns?”

“Those stupid burns left him with no skin at all,” Claudia said, “You read my notes on that resuscitation spell you used. And I don’t wanna hear you using your own burns as an example, because, lest we forget, you got those by burning the Hale House down yourself with Peter inside.”

The room was suddenly awfully silent. Stiles caught the way Jackson’s face fell as he jerkily glanced over at Cora - how her eyes darkened. How Laura crossed her arms over her chest. How Derek held his breath.

“That was my fault,” he said.

“What?” Stiles snapped, “How the fuck was that your fault?”

“I was the one that distracted you at the formal!” Derek cried.

Jackson’s voice cut in, “This is the same formal as earlier???” 

“You only did that ‘cause super-mega-evil future me told you to!” Stiles stuck a shaking hand out, “I was the one that shot Peter in both legs with wolfsbane and threw him at a house and tried to stab him to death and accidentally set everything on fire because he bit Lydia again!”

“What the fuck??” Jackson cried. Cora muttered something that Stiles didn’t catch, but the way Derek’s jaw clenched told him enough about how badly he didn’t want to know. 

He turned back to Peter just in time to catch the moment his eyes moved. They stared straight at him. It made the air catch in Stiles’ throat. Chilled him to the bone.

“Okay, we’re getting nowhere with this,” Derek growled, “Just– What are we gonna do?”

“Before we do it,” Stiles said carefully, still staring into the icy blue horror of Peter’s dead eyes, “Let me set the record straight that after Derek threw me off him and slashed his throat open, he came back to life and immediately called me his favourite, so. No bad blood.”

“Stiles!” Derek cried, “What the hell?”

“Wait, woah,” Laura butted in, “You were the Alpha? Why aren’t you now?”

Derek sighed, “I gave up my power to–”

“Enough exposition, Jack Gable,” Stiles grumbled, “Derek sacrificing way too much for the people he loves is not news.” He slowly peeled back from the prolonged eye contact with comatose Peter and rose back to his full height, “We need to figure out what to do about Really Old Guy.”

Laura gasped a little, “Was that a Grey’s Anatomy reference?”

Stiles blinked up at her, “Yes, but I refuse to actually watch it, so don’t even try.”

“Then why are you referencing it?” Cora mumbled, “How are you– Never mind, I don’t care.”

“Lydia likes it,” Stiles grumbled.

“How do you–” Jackson shook his head, “This is insane. We are all… aware? Of how insane this is?”

Derek nodded his head, “Yes. Claudia, please.” He turned his furrowed brows to her, “You agreed to come here to help us - if you don’t have anything you can do, then why are you here?”

This was so unbelievably frustrating.

Her eyes flickered over to him. She stared for a while. Not doing much of anything. Until she sighed, as if this were the greatest inconvenience to her in decades and spoke.

“I’d like to request some privacy.”

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t care what she did. That visit was an actual dumpster fire and he wanted to burn his mother alive. Or something less insensitive. So, Stiles decided to just pretend it never happened, and whatever Peter did to his mother, well. Too bad. Nothing he could do about it. His dad could handle losing her. And Stiles sure as hell could, too.

In the spirit of keeping himself from spiralling into a bloodthirsty frenzy, Stiles decided it was time to get on with something far more important than his mommy issues.

Building his pack.

Or, their pack. But it wasn’t like Derek had easy access to the teenagers they were so attached to. Really, he had about as easy access as he always had every other time he dragged them together, which should not have been possible. Beacon Hills as a town should not have been nearly as surprised by the number of crimes it deals with if it just lets very suspicious-looking grown men traipse around the high school all day. What they didn’t know was that Stiles was also a suspicious-looking grown man. To them, he was a suspicious-looking teenager-slash-zombie-slash-kidnapping-victim. And somehow that was better. What a world.

So, when Stiles went back to school the next day, he decreed his perfect physical and mental health (both lies) and suffered through his classes just as he’d done on Monday. He ate with Jackson at lunch, pretended he wasn’t thoroughly off-put by the stares from Lydia and Allison, and the deeply bizarre energy between Scott and their little wolf friend. He plotted. He schemed. He prevailed. Or, would prevail. Imminently.

“So, where are we going tomorrow night?” Lydia asked, leaning forward all chipper, “You free to come out with us, Stiles?”

Stiles could’ve kissed her, “Absolutely.”

“Doesn’t your dad not want you going out without supervision?” Scott murmured, “Also, who is ‘we’ ?”

Lydia tilted her head, “You, Allison, Jackson, me, Stiles. Derek?”

Stiles nodded furiously, “Yes. Especially if we’re bowling. Please. Please.”

It startled a laugh out of Allison, “Why bowling?”

“Yeah,” Jackson’s brows were low-set on his face, “Why bowling?”

“Come on,” the spark shrugged, “What better way to bond than through competition?”

“Scott’s a terrible bowler,” Jackson mumbled, “Choose something else.”

Stiles blinked. What? Okay. He tilted his head, shocked still by that little development. Unless Jackson had known the whole time every other time they went on this stupid double (then triple) date and he just let them do it to try and embarrass Scott. Or make Allison not want to date him as some weird power thing. Or something else that was equally as nefarious.

“Sure, yeah,” Stiles squinted at the completely fed-up glower on Lydia’s face, and the sheepish little wince on Scott’s, “Maybe not bowling. Something more… demure. Like. Ice skating! Ice skating!! ”

Jackson winced, “Why are you yelling?”

“Boyd can give us keys to the rink,” Stiles said, whisper-yelling now instead, “We can so go ice skating together!!”

Lydia’s eyes lit up, with the same morbid curiosity he only ever saw in the first few months he knew her, “How the hell do you know Boyd?”

“I’m surprised you know him,” Stiles grumbled, snorting to himself, “It’s funny, ‘cause, you know, I was, like, obsessed with you and you didn’t even know who I was.”

Her gaze hardened, “You were what.”

Stiles’ brows drew together, “I was a kid. It wasn’t creepy.”

Scott snickered, “He had a whole ten-year plan and everything.”

Lydia was turning pale, “Ten-year plan to what?”

“Marry you?” Scott laughed, “I guess? Clearly that went out the window.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Stiles grumbled, waving a hand through the air, “Wonder why. Now, who’s down for ice skating?” No one said much, mostly just exchanging wary glances. Until Scott nodded, grinning wide and bright, and Allison’s eye twitched beside him.

“Of course!” He beamed, turning to her, “You can skate, right?”

“Sure,” she murmured, “Can you?”

Scott swallowed, “I can entertain!”

And so, by some stroke of pure, Scott-willed luck, it was decided. As if this was at all a more Scott-friendly activity. Stiles was absolutely nailing this.

“I’m gonna bring some more friends, if you guys are cool with it,” he grinned. He caught the shaky exhale from Allison as she brought her interlocked hands up to her lips. 

 

-

 

After lunch, he walked into Chemistry and saw her again. Harris wasn’t there yet. 

And she was seizing. 

That deep, unmoving, near-pathological fear of seeing her again; the panic. It was all ripped out of him in that split second. The moment his mind caught up to the crowd of kids, and the flash of blonde hair on the floor. He cried out as he raced up to them. 

The crowd split open wide as he did. Everyone backing out of his way like he had some invisible force field around him, and something about it terrified them all. To be completely honest, he didn’t actually care. 

All he cared about was Erica. All he cared about was saving Erica. 

“Hey, hey,” he forced out, dropping to his knees - the pain matched his arms, “Erica, you’re okay.” He rolled her onto her side. His whole body was burning. “Would someone get a teacher? Mr. Harris? Has anyone tried being even a little bit fucking helpful?”

A handful of red-cheeked kids with phones in their hands turned away from his eyes. 

“Hey!” He snapped, “You just gonna keep recording or are you gonna use the magical, all-powerful invention known as a phone in your hand there to dial 9-1-1?” A phone or two dipped, just slightly. “I swear to fucking God, if I see a single video of her seizure anywhere, I will tear you apart, limb from limb, and I am not joking.”

Then her hand latched around his wrist. Any other threats died in his throat. 

He could do little besides stare down at those fingers, as her nails grazed the scars on his wrists, as if they were going to jump up and kill him. 

Erica was half in his lap again. And he couldn’t panic. She was there, convulsing against his knees, grunting. She was alive. And he swore she would fucking stay that way. Even if he had to die in her place. Even if he had to kill someone himself to make sure of it. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there, paralysed by her dainty fingers around his wrist, before Harris finally showed up. 

He only looked at her as he watched paramedics funnel in. He stayed by her side as they hauled her onto a stretcher. He watched their injections and assessments with no understanding of them. 

“Sir?” Someone was saying - some lady in a uniform. Stiles blinked to attention. “Do you know what medication she’s on?”

Stiles’ mouth ran dry - something like a thud of dullness striking him in the chest. He shook his head. No, he wanted to say, we turned her into a werewolf before I ever had to find out.

“It’s Diazepam,” Lydia’s voice cut in, “She’s taking Valium.”

That redheaded girl would always surprise him. Maybe something in his face showed that much to her, if the way she suddenly grew all-too-familiar levels of affronted and scrunched her nose up was any indication. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” she grumbled, lifting up a light yellow plastic tab with a laminated block of text on it, “It’s on her keychain. I’m not just obsessed with her, or something.”

Stiles gave her a narrow-eyed glare, “Yeah, that wasn’t where my mind went. I more thought you were just a kind, attentive classmate.”

She glared right back, stuck her nose up and left with no more than an impartial glance down at Erica’s slowly steadying body. He didn’t get her. Not yet. He didn’t understand why she felt the need to hide herself like that. As if who she really was wasn’t worlds better than the persona she put on. 

“You coming with her?” That paramedic asked, then.

That felt like a stupid question to ask, to Stiles. As if, in any universe, he would say no. As if there was a single thread of the multiverse, across seemingly infinite timelines where he wouldn’t go with her. Where he would leave. That seemed a bit much to say to some random twenty-something paramedic, so Stiles settled on ‘yes’.  

It was the worst kind of déjà-vu, that ride to the hospital. Taking him back to that same Winter Formal he’d not been able to stop thinking about recently. To having to choose between riding in the ambulance with Erica or Lydia - and choosing the latter. All ambulances looked the same. And they all cost the same. But that was on the school right now. Something about the sound of all that apparatus bouncing around with each jerk of the wheels, and the friendly chatter of the paramedics, that was just so way too familiar. It had memories flaring up in Stiles’ mind; had his jaw clenching and his skin popping up with goose-pimples. Watching Erica’s fragile, human skin pierced with needles and unable to shake the memory of who she should be - a wolf. A powerful, independent, not epileptic werewolf, who would sooner die than have to be back in a stretcher in the back of an ambulance because she had a seizure at school. And she did. She did die. She died in his arms. He watched her take her last breath, say her last words, watched her die without being able to fucking do anything. 

Pathetic.

He was pathetic. 

 

-

 

Sometimes he thought about blowing the hospital up again just so he wouldn’t have to spend another second in its waiting rooms. Even when they built it again, the rooms wouldn’t be the same. All the horrid memories soaked into the linoleum flooring and single-use sheets, his and his friends’ blood - it all would’ve been lost in the shattered concrete. He would finally be free from it all. Unfortunately, Last Time, that got him wanted by the FBI for terrorism. That probably wouldn’t be a great plan to replicate. 

It was a tough call, though, whether the waiting room was worse than seeing Erica in a hospital bed. A lot of Stiles’ thought processes often felt irrational and incomplete, and maybe this was just more of the usual. That sharp, stabbing, desperate need to make sure she was okay. Because when she was there, a helpless head of blonde hair rested against paper-thin sheets, all he could think of was how easy it would be to make all of her suffering end. If he could just get Peter conscious for long enough. If he could be certain he could keep her safe if he went through with it. 

“Stiles!”

He jumped, melting back into himself just as fast as the voice registered in his head - Derek. His shoulders slumped at the sight of him, tailed by his dad and looking downright horrified. The wolf didn’t say anything else before he crossed the distance between them and pulled Stiles into his arms. He held him back just as tight.

“I’m okay,” he murmured into Derek’s ear, nodding as if it would denounce the thousand ways he could hear that terrible lie. But Derek just dug his chin into his right shoulder and dragged the fabric of his shirt into his hands.

“Chaos just follows you, doesn’t it, kid?” His dad was saying. Stiles broke away from the wolf to look at him properly.

He was caught off-guard by the look in Derek’s eyes. Staring through the doorway at the ghost of the girl he turned, watching her like you’d watch a car crash. With wide eyes and a barely open mouth. Unable to look away.

Stiles’ eyes twitched, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah,” he answered before he actually looked away, “I’m fine.”

Somehow, they’d lost focus on the fact Stiles’ dad was right there. And that he knew nothing.

“Hey, let’s…” Noah was saying, “Let’s get you two out of the doorway, so we’re not in the way of the doctors, huh?”

“No, I can’t–” Stiles tried, “I have to keep an eye on her.”

“Stiles,” Noah stressed, “She’s fine. This isn’t new to her. You have to leave her alone, just for a moment. Okay?”

Every interaction with his father felt like walking on eggshells. On both sides. Very obviously. Stiles was fine with him, it was just the trying not to bring up what happened over the last five years that was a little tough. And that went for both of them. For Stiles, it was because he was pretty sure he’d forgotten almost every detail he spewed to Melissa in the hospital then refused to repeat, but for his dad. For his dad, it was bringing up what had to have been the hardest years of his life. That was why both he and Derek were shocked silent when Noah started talking. 

“Listen, kids,” he nodded, dropping into a crouch before the two of them - sat, again, in that waiting room, “You two have been through something impossible. And I am not going to underestimate the weight of it all on you. But you have to talk to me. Or somebody—”

Stiles could just hear Derek’s own voice echoing back over his father’s words.

“How did you…” he’d sobbed into Derek’s neck, “How did you get used to having her back? Laura? Cora, even?”

Derek had run his fingers through the spark’s hair, digging his chin into the top of his head as he answered, so carefully, “I didn’t. But I know it won’t help me to hide from her.”

Stiles had just hiccupped. And waited.

“She’s here,” Derek said, “You have to choose to be fine with it. Because, soon, you will be. You’ll have your girl back.”

Noah was sighing then, coming down from some schtick Stiles hadn’t listened to a word of, “I’m sure I can get you guys permission to go in and chat to her when her doctor’s done with her, but, seriously. For all the jokes you can make about it, a shrink could do you both some good. This trauma is doing nothing for you both, just sitting here.”

Stiles blinked, “We can talk to her?”

His dad’s face screwed up, “Is that all you– I. Yeah. Well. You can, considering you’re the one that actually helped her out. I don’t know about Derek.”

Stiles could feel his glower.

“I’m sorry, kid,” Noah winced, “You know you look like an axe-murderer.”

Stiles turned to his boyfriend with pursed lips, “He’s a little bit right.”

Derek growled at him. Stiles’ jaw tightened. 

 

-

 

Seeing Erica seize on the floor, or lie still in the back of an ambulance, or hold his wrist, was nothing compared to seeing her actually up and moving, sat in a bed and alive.

He had to take a deep breath before he properly looked at her. Her big brown eyes, wide and apprehensive, staring straight ahead of herself. He remembered how she’d been the one to visit him in the hospital Last Time. He didn’t understand how badly he needed her back.

“Hey,” he said. It took all of him.

Erica swallowed, barely glancing over at him before she answered, “Uh, hi.”

“You feeling okay?” Stiles asked, still just staring at the side of her face, “I was pretty worried.”

Understatement of the year.

She took in a shaky breath. It was like magic, seeing her again. The soft lines of her nose, the jut of her lips, her lashes, her blonde hair. It was all so overwhelming. How very alive she was.

How alive she could still be.

Stiles could feel his chest tightening.

She shrugged her shoulder, “Why are you here?”

Stiles’ brows twitched, “I, uh, just wanted to check you were okay. The people at school weren’t being very helpful. Not surprising, though, they’re all assholes.”

That made her look at him. Warily, sure. But with just enough of a flicker of understanding. Like the starting of the way she’d looked at him that night in the hospital. Before visiting hours ended and Kate decided to show up. 

“Well, I’m an asshole,” she said matter-of-factly, slowly, as if the words were draining her, “So, maybe I’m not the best choice for a new friend.”

Stiles tilted his head, “A true asshole never admits that they’re an asshole.” He licked his lips, “Like Jackson Whittemore. He wishes he could be you.”

She raised an eyebrow, “Me? Are you joking?”

Stiles levelled her with a glare, “No. He wishes he could have the balls to be anyone other than the popular, beloved, CW stereotype he is.”

“You’re saying he wishes he was… an unpopular loser. Like me.”

“No!” Stiles winced at the volume of his own voice, glancing out to the hallway, where Derek was waiting, just out of view, “What is wrong with me? I– Okay. Let me start over. God.” He thrust his hand out. It hurt. “I’m Stiles. And you are?”

She looked down at his hand, then back up, “I’m Erica,” she said, reaching a shaking hand out to shake his, “It’s nice to meet another loser.”

Stiles’ eyes were glued on their hands. Those scars along his wrists, so close to her fingertips. Her skin warm against his. He missed her so much. So much. So helplessly. It was swallowing him whole. But he had her back. And, even if her body was buried beneath the earth in two other timelines before this, he would sooner die than let anything happen to her. Ever again.

He willed away the tears, and he was fine, “It sure as hell is.”

She glanced down at their hands, slipping hers out of his grip, “Cute bracelet.”

Stiles blinked down at the bracelet. Their ‘pack symbol,’ Lydia had said. He smiled. Erica tucked a chunk of wild hair behind her ear. 

“I’ve always wanted a friendship bracelet.”

“But you can’t just bury down the way you really feel about it, either,” Derek had said as Stiles slowly caught his breath. He’d known, the second the words left his mouth, that he would ignore that part.

 

-

 

He made Derek cut the thread with his claws. Not because he didn’t have any scissors (well, they had been moved to somewhere he had not yet found after the haircut incident, but I digress) it was more the fact that he was experiencing some sort of supernatural withdrawal. Just the sight of Derek’s claws, hidden from the nanny cam on his dresser, filled him with the most joy he’d felt in too long. 

The bracelet was terrible. A messy, knotted, sorry excuse for a friendship bracelet. None of the thread was exactly right for making bracelets - Stiles having had to scavenge for them in his mom’s sewing kit. She didn’t have the right shade of purple. He would’ve gone to Lydia for help, but she seemed to be avoiding him for some reason. And he didn’t have her number here. Or any of their numbers.  

There was something to do.

Derek tried to talk about Erica again while he was making it. About their feelings. Those feelings swiftly made Stiles start tearing up again. He’d had enough of that. So he didn’t talk.

He thought about how she was the only one who never got one Last Time.

He was still on school probation (he kind of hoped he’d never get off it, because it was already way too much high school for an adult to be doing), so he didn’t get to see Erica nearly as much as he felt like he needed to. It was a stroke of luck that she was lonely and crazy enough to actually humour him in becoming friends, but, hey. She’d agreed to let Derek bite her the first time they met. In two different timelines. She was a scared girl desperate for companionship in a world where everything seemed like it was never going to get better because she was, like, fifteen. And everything is terrible when you’re fifteen. And if Stiles was going to do one thing right, it would be helping her get through that nightmare just a little bit easier. And he would celebrate her seventeenth birthday.

The bracelet was in his pocket when lunch rolled around. He slipped into the seat in front of Boyd this time. 

The man raised an eyebrow at him.

“A little birdie told me you work the Zamboni at the ice rink,” he said with a grin, “How much to borrow the keys for a night? Forty? Fifty?… Ten?”

Boyd blinked at him, tilting his head a little, “I’m not gonna be an accomplice to a murder.”

These kids and their fragility about killing. They were all snowflakes. Whatever, they just didn’t get it yet.

God. Why did Stiles want that?

“No, I’m not…” Stiles shook his head, “I just wanna skate with my friends. Like. Alone. It’d be so cool, come on. You should come with us!”

“I’m not gonna be a victim of a murder, either.”

“Jesus Christ, Boyd!” The spark crossed his arms, “Please never say that to anyone else you think is going to kill you, because I guarantee they will. Come on, you so wanna come skate with us. Or, what, you can’t skate? I’ll teach you! I don’t know why you would work at an ice rink if you couldn’t skate, but I guess driving a Zamboni doesn’t require a whole lot of foot-on-ice action–”

“Stop,” Boyd said. He sighed a little, “You really just wanna skate?”

“Yeah, duh,” Stiles said, shying away into himself a little, “You assuming I was gonna kill someone there is part of the reason I want us to have the place to ourselves.”

“Okay, and who is ‘us’,” he asked.

Stiles shrugged, “Me, Scott, Jackson, Lydia, Allison. Fingers crossed, Erica. My boyfriend. Maybe Isaac if I can get him there. Cora? I doubt that.”

Something in Boyd’s eyes had changed, “I shouldn’t. You’re gonna have to pay up real well.”

“I will give you literally anything you want,” Stiles gushed, “Well, not everything. I won’t get you, like, a car. Actually, I would. Do you have a licence? I… Do I have a–? Not the point, anyway. Name your price.” He licked his lips, “And I’m serious about inviting you with us, by the way.”

Boyd raised a brow, “What, you think it’ll make me expect you to pay me less?”

Stiles’ face screwed up, “What? No, because I want you to hang out with us.”

The teenager went quiet for a moment - Stiles had never been able to read him, and he could do so even less when the guy didn’t trust him yet - but, eventually, he asked, “Why?”

Stiles took a deep breath, “Why not?” And when that didn’t get any meaningful reaction, he added, “What, you think you’re too good for me, Vernon? Come on.”

And somehow. Once again. The kid’s sheer desperation for something new, something less lonely, won out against all common sense. Really, the helplessness of this graduating class was doing nothing but good for Stiles’ plans.

Isaac stared at him like he was actually insane for just talking to him.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, glancing away, then back again, “Are you talking to me?”

“Yes, Isaac,” Stiles said, “I am talking to you. Do you want to come ice skating with me and my friends after school today?”

His brows fell, very slowly, “How do you know my name?”

Stiles’ eye twitched, “Come on, man, you really wanna go home instead?”

“What?” Isaac snapped. He adjusted his grip on the strap of his backpack and looked around them again, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I’m not talking about anything,” Stiles said slowly, “But if you can, I would really, really like for you to join us. It’ll be fun, Mr. Frowns.”

Isaac’s jaw clenched up, as his eyes filled with even more distrust than before, “Why me?”

“Does everyone in this school have major self-confidence problems?” Stiles hissed, mostly to himself, “God! Be there or don’t,” he started making his way past him, flexing his fingers as he walked, “I am getting so sick of this.”

 

-

 

When he told Erica who else was going ice skating, in an attempt to defend his image as an admittedly not entirely normal person but also not a psychotic axe-murderer, her reaction was suboptimal.

“Lydia?” She’d said, “Lydia Martin? Yeah, I don’t think she and I are entirely compatible. The first time she saw me this year, I think she started praying. Like, to God. And Jackson? Come on, he’ll probably trip me over just to get a chance at finally feeling happy for once.” Stiles had laughed. She’d given him a look, “I’m not joking. He’s a threat to my health. The others I don’t care about.”

But now, he was watching her tie the laces of her (technically stolen (borrowed)) rented skates, and, so tentatively, talking to Boyd. His skates were his own - only partially answering Stiles’ question as to whether or not he could skate. Seeing is believing, right? But then there were Scott and Allison, being as ridiculously adorable as always. It was comforting to know that Scott still got the girl even without his supernatural lacrosse talents. A bit of a kick in the balls at the same time. A reminder that Stiles never had to lure him to his doom Last Time. That he never would’ve killed him if he hadn’t gotten him involved. Though, maybe he still would. Maybe Allison would always drag him back in and keep him there. It made the sight of Allison slowly coaxing Scott into skating in a semi-straight line just a little more sour.

Allison would never be able to stay away from the supernatural. 

And Stiles was totally fine with that.

He was so fine.

 

-

 

Somehow, Erica knew that Stiles needed her more than she needed him. She knew a lot of things. How could she not? She’d spent her entire school life stuck at the sidelines, ostracised and ignored. It’s amazing the things you hear when people have no idea you’re listening. The things you notice when people don’t realise that you’re looking. Like the look on Stiles’ face when they first locked eyes. Right before he turned heel and ran straight into Mr. Harris and kept going. It sent a chill down her spine. She didn’t need to think about what it made him feel.

So, she humoured him when he grew a pair at the hospital and dared to introduce himself (This was before she saw the videos of him threatening to kill anyone who posted the other videos of her seizing minutes before - how she felt about that was to be determined). She’d assumed the dread-filled horror he wore when he first saw her was because she reminded him of whatever happened to him while he was ‘dead’. When he started talking to her in the same exact way Scott talked to him, though. 

She knew she was absolutely right.

She didn’t know who he’d lost. Or why she reminded him of them. But she’d seen those glassy eyes before. Those shaking hands. That look. She was glad to see those eyes a little less glassy when he thrust a tangled bundle of thread into her face, a thousand-watt smile wide across his. 

It was all fake. Obviously. He wasn’t as good an actor as he seemed to think. Or maybe he knew. She thought that was even more pathetic. She’d given up on pretending to be okay a long time ago. Maybe it was the side effects of her meds making it take up far more effort and strength than she had to spare. Maybe it was just the fact that no one cared either way. Stiles clearly hadn’t gotten to that point yet. So, she took the bracelet. She couldn’t hide the smile it brought to her face, either.

Was it selfish of her? To take advantage of this? Stiles had clearly lost someone he cared about. Far more deeply than she’d ever cared about anyone. And whoever it was, it certainly wasn’t her. But she was taking the attention like a starved puppy. She let him tie the bracelet around her wrist with shaking fingers. She let him fetch her skates for her from the rental place. She pretended not to wonder who else he’d lost to make him choose the rest of the people he’d rounded up to hang out with that evening. 

How he’d noticed Boyd was completely beyond her. That guy was even less noticeable than her. At least she had some great videos of her seizures that would recirculate every few months. What a fucking joy that was. She doubted Boyd even had anyone to send those to him.

No one had ever sent them to her, either. There was a fifty-fifty chance as to why.

“How much did he pay you to let us do this?” She asked the guy, quietly, as he dropped down onto the bench beside her. 

Boyd turned to her, “What?”

Erica shrugged wonkily, “I wouldn’t risk my job for a random undead stranger for free. Or do you just like the thrill?”

“Well, how much did he pay you to come here?” He drawled in response, “I didn’t know you could even skate with epilepsy.”

She raised an eyebrow, the laces rough against her fingers, “I should be fine. Are you worried?”

“I don’t think a girl having an epileptic seizure on the ice because I let a group of teenagers break in after-hours would get me a great reference in the future,” Boyd muttered. It shocked a laugh out of her. 

The thought of hanging out with such a big group of people. The chance that something could go horribly wrong. That she might embarrass herself. Have a piss incident (Pisscident. Hah!) all over again. She would do anything to make it go away. To be able to live a life without fear. To be a normal teenager. Like, damn. She was already worn out just from forcing these boots on. She was betting on maybe ten minutes of skating before she had to sit down. But she was going to try. Because Stiles, for some probably deeply sad reason, was giving her a shot at doing normal teenager things. And having a group of people to do it with. And her determination to take that chance far overshadowed what crippling anxiety she had over the worst-case scenario. 

She cracked a joke as Boyd walked alongside her to one of the gates at the side of the ice, “So, do you think you skate more like Evan Lysacek or Kim Yuna?”

Boyd’s mouth split into a grin, “Alex Ovechkin.”

“Huh?”

“The hockey player?” Boyd’s face did something funny at the look on Erica’s. A look no one had given her before. It made the heat rise to her cheeks. Boyd licked his lips, “Okay, there’s something to do while we take a lap.”

“What?” She asked, barely able to get the word out.

He shrugged his massive shoulders, “I’m gonna teach you about the magical world of ice hockey.”

He stepped onto the ice. 

And, for the first time, Erica was hopeful.

 

-

 

Stiles was a fucking genius. Oh, my God.

Erica was skating with Boyd.

Erica was skating with Boyd.

Before his very eyes. And Scott was actually going in a straight line next to Allison, who was so distracted by the pure Bambi-ness of the guy that she hadn’t even stared at Stiles like he was a serial killer yet. And Lydia and Jackson were fighting over whether ice hockey or figure skating was the better sport. And Isaac was walking in.

“Holy shit, you came!” Stiles barked out. Lydia and Jackson jumped. Erica looked over from across the ice. 

Isaac froze. The doors slammed behind him. He full-body flinched. 

“Um,” he swallowed thickly, “Yeah. Hi.”

Stiles. Was. A. Genius. Seriously, no one was doing it quite like him. He would make a great supervillian. You know? Like, if he were trying to get them all in one place so he could gas them or blow them up or put them in a bunch of Saw traps, he would be set! It was too easy. They didn’t even trust him and they still showed up. In Isaac’s case, potentially at the risk of getting locked in a freezer. That was dark. I mean, it probably was, it was a box locked shut with actual chains. 

“Hey, Isaac,” he said as they looked through the rows and rows of skate-filled cubby holes, “You like comic books, right?”

Isaac gave him a passing glance, “Yeah. Why?”

“I mean, you wanna trade sometime?” He asked. Isaac turned to him far more solidly. Giving him that same incredulous, are-you-crazy look he had in the corridor earlier. Stiles pursed his lips, “I have a few doubles I wanna get rid of.”

Isaac blinked, “I guess. Sure. Why the hell not?”

“That’s the spirit!” Stiles grinned wide, “And, hey, your dad’s the swim coach right?”

Isaac took in a deep breath and nodded. 

Stiles tilted his head, “So, you’ve gotta have a pool.”

The kid swallowed, “I do.”

“Well, maybe we could all hang out there sometime!” Stiles stared into his eyes, almost hoping the message he wanted to get across was being beamed out through his retinas and into Isaac’s, “I’m sure your dad wouldn’t mind. He probably wants to meet your new friends, huh?”

“We’re not friends,” Isaac said. Stiles slammed his mouth shut. The kid’s sad little eyes moved away, “I don’t think meeting my dad is a very good idea.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” Stiles leant against the size 12 rack, “I think we’ll get along super well.” He gave a pointed look to Isaac’s neck, still sporting that scarf, not nearly covering his bruise as well as he probably thought. “Or, something like that.”

Isaac gave him a panicked little look, “I don’t know what you’re getting at, dude. I…” He blinked down at the skates in his hand, “I’m gonna go… um. Find Scott.” And he scampered away.

Aw. They were a fun little duo. Stiles didn’t care either way. He was going to build this pack whether the universe liked it or not. He would get Isaac away from his dad. And if that required a terrible pool party, then so be it. Maybe he’d invite Matt Daehler. You know. Just to mess with his freaky ass.

Jackson and Lydia were still fighting when he got to the ice. The guy looked like he was seconds away from strangling her to death. Stiles wouldn’t put it past him. He stepped onto the ice without much of a clue as to what to do next. Everyone was there. And they were. Bonding? Maybe? 

Great.

This was great.

Stiles had no other thoughts about it. Let alone feelings. Wow, the sheer lack of other feelings about this was astonishing!

He screamed and lost his footing when a pair of hands jabbed into his sides. The blades against the ice made a swift ‘shhh’ noise as he slipped, cursing as he fell backwards with his arms flying out around him. Two hands caught him by his armpits.

He gasped up at Derek’s grinning face. 

“Hey,” Derek said, tilting his head, eyes practically glowing with delight, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

“I will gut you.”

Derek cackled as he pulled Stiles up onto his feet. The ice was slippery beneath him, and his cheeks felt red hot.

“You are an asshole,” Stiles growled, “and I swear to God, I will gut you.”

“Zombie boy number two!” Lydia’s voice sang as she gracefully floated over to them, “I wondered if you were ever gonna show up. And you brought Cora,” she glanced at something past Derek’s shoulder’s, then met eyes with Stiles and hummed, “Let’s see what you both have got.” Then she turned, so seamlessly, on her skates and started to speed away, distantly chiding Erica as she passed her, “Oh, come on. Temperature-appropriate doesn’t have to mean atrociously boring, even you have to realise that.”

Erica gave her an exhausted sort of glare, and Boyd pulled a face beside her.

“Regina George called!” He snapped, “She wants her decency back!”

Lydia dragged to a stop. The ice scraped beneath her skates. She scoffed, “Excuse me?”

“He’s right,” Cora’s voice cut in as she appeared at Derek’s side, “Stop being a bitch. You should be grateful Stiles even likes you enough to invite you out with him.”

Lydia stared at her, utterly blank-faced except for the little glimmer of shame in her eyes. The slight blush on her cheeks. She pressed her lips together.

“Okay,” Stiles started, glancing to Derek for any sort of support, answered with a shocked frown. He started to skate over to the others, “I think what Lydia meant is… she just really wants to give Erica a makeover!”

“Don’t patronise me,” Erica grumbled, “I know what I look like.”

“He’s not wrong,” Lydia muttered, crossing her arms over her chest, “I would change your life if you let me.”

Stiles’ brows drew together, “Okay. That sounds very wrong.” Lydia’s eyes sharpened as they snapped over to him. He bit his lip. 

“As cool as it is to be hanging out,” Erica said with a nod, “I don’t think a makeover from Lydia Martin is really something I need.”

“Oh, stop being so high and mighty,” Lydia growled, “You’re not better than me because you think you’re above doing girly things.”

“I’m not ‘above doing girly things’, I can’t do them because my medication makes daily life practically impossible,” Erica said. She raised a challenging eyebrow, then sighed and started to turn on her skates, “Speaking of which, I am going to go and sit down. Because two laps around an ice rink has already made me feel like I’m dying. So. Bye.”

Boyd followed her as she left, glaring over his shoulder at the frowning form of Lydia just beyond them.

Hm. 

That went well.

Stiles looked behind him. Derek was stood on the ice, utterly still. To be fair, any reaction from him would probably be better than Stiles’. He’d always been far less emotional than him. Or just better at compartmentalising it. But, somehow, the faint upturn of his brows, and the tiny frown on his lips felt far worse to see than any hysterics.

Green eyes met his. Stiles quirked his brows. 

Derek smiled. 

A massive weight dripped off of Stiles’ shoulders. One he had no idea he was bearing. Probably because he hadn’t been thinking lately. Or feeling. Speaking of which, he was perfectly fine with all of this and everything that was happening and how everyone was getting along. And he had a plan of how to fix it. Not that he had any feelings about it. Clinically and logistically. 

He had a plan.

The energy had turned sour, though. Allison and Jackson had skated over to Lydia to talk to her, leaving Isaac and Scott untethered with their subpar skating skills, practically stranded. Cora was doing some sort of bubble thing back and forth on the ice. Stiles actually didn’t care about that. She was so weird. And if Lydia actually did have a little baby crush on her, then this entire evening was even more horribly tragic than anyone could have foreseen. 

“You good?” Stiles asked as Derek skated up to him, smooth on the blades like he was born doing it. The wolf nodded. 

“You?” 

Stiles nodded back, “For some reason I am deeply shocked that you can skate.”

Derek gave him a look, “I’m a werewolf. I can do everything. Skating is like riding a bike, anyway.”

“I do not believe that is true,” Stiles nodded his head, “Neither part. Scott was just as much of a lost cause when he was a werewolf and, no, skating is not like riding a bike at all. Scott has to relearn how every time he does it. Like a baby giraffe. But without the eventual retainment of motor skills.”

“Well, he’s Scott,” Derek frowned, “I don’t think he should be anyone’s reference point as to how werewolves function.”

Stiles hummed and narrowed his eyes, “So can you, like, do jumps and shit?”

“What?”

“Like tricks,” Stiles grinned, “Can you figure skate?”

Derek just stared at him. 

Stiles stared back, “You are giving me nothing.”

“Correct.”

“God, I hate you.”

“You love me.”

“I’d love you more if you were twirling around like a pretty ice princess.”

“I think we should break up.”

“As if you could get rid of me that easily,” Stiles pouted, “It was cute of you to try, though.” He tilted his head, “You know how we can make Erica’s life a whole lot better, don’t you?”

“Obviously,” Derek said, grinding his teeth together, “But I don’t think any of us are gonna kill Peter to do it.”

Stiles sighed, “Yeah. Not unless he starts killing people first.”

Derek gave him a look. Stiles scrunched his nose up. He got it. The only people he could want dead now were Kate Argent and Claudia Stilinski. And only one of them was even in Beacon Hills. And the other one already had someone who planned on killing her. 

“He is being weirdly…” Stiles pulled a face, “Boring.”

It was as if he’d planned it. Because, in that exact same breath, a howl shook the very foundations of the building. Sent panic flaring up through Stiles’ nerves. Made all kinds of horror stories flash before his eyes. Scott getting bit, Erica seizing with no way out of the rink, any one of them dying in some horridly violent way. He could see blood-stained ice and dripping red teeth. 

But the only thing that was real was Jackson, dropping to his knees with his hands over his ears. Derek and Cora had flinched, even the humans had jumped, but Jackson was not doing good. It was the call of his Alpha. Of course, he wasn’t doing good.

When the roar was over, Jackson was left shaking on the floor. Lydia pushed past Allison, making the girl just sort of drift away on her skates for a second. 

“Hey!” Cora snapped as Lydia reached a hand out. The girl froze, eyes wide and panicked. Cora was whizzing up to them, clashing against the ice as she went. 

“Okay,” Stiles mumbled, turning to Derek again, “What are we doing?”

Derek’s eyes stayed firmly on the two teenagers, as Cora was speaking into Jackson’s ear, he answered, “Keeping the secret.”

Cora looked over. She yanked Jackson up onto his skates, though the boy was completely uneven on his feet, slipping and sliding as he tumbled his way to their side of the ice and off onto the padded ground beyond it with his eyes flaring yellow and his teeth popping in and out. Derek sped off with them. 

Stiles blinked over at the girls. Lydia and Allison stared back. 

“What the fuck just happened?” Lydia muttered, still loud enough to carry across the ice. Allison’s eyes were sharp and calculating. Too familiar. 

Stiles swallowed, “Um. I think he just ate some bad cafeteria food earlier. We’ll be right back.” He turned, as smoothly as he could, which was not that smooth at all, and stepped off the ice.

“What was that noise?” Allison called out to him, “It sounded like an earthquake, Stiles.”

He didn’t look back, “Probably just a really low airplane. Or a helicopter. Or a blimp! I hear blimps are really in these days! Haha, okay! Be right back!! Love you guys!!!”

Jackson was in the bathroom, curled tight into a ball and shaking like a leaf. A true imitation of who Scott was back at the beginning. Before he knew anything, just a scared little kid who suddenly had the universe waiting on him. The sensation of feeling sorry for Jackson would never be one that Stiles was used to. It seemed to grow more familiar the older he got. 

“Jackson, you know how to control this, okay?” Cora said, “You find your anchor.”

“Yeah, it’s okay,” Stiles called out from across the room, slowly but steadily stomping over. He was seconds away from falling on his head. “Who is it? Or what is it? Anger? The triskele? Lydia??”

“Scott,” Jackson growled.

Stiles froze.

Derek slowly turned to him. 

“I’m sorry?” He murmured.

Jackson looked up past his forearms, crossed over his knees, to give Stiles a golden-eyed glare, “Scott. Shut the fuck up, I hear enough about it from Lydia.”

Stiles’ heart dropped. Cora started telling him to find him, his heartbeat, whatever-the-fuck, but Stiles wasn’t listening. Under any other circumstances, this realisation would be hilarious. He would be floored. 

Jackson Whittemore had feelings for Scott McCall.

That was objectively brilliant. Comedic gold. But not fucking now. Why not back when Scott was the first beta? When Jackson was an asshole with his head stuck so far up his own ass he might as well have been a circus contortionist and Scott was the heartthrob sweetheart who was way out of his league? Not when Jackson was a werewolf and Scott could not have anything to with it.

Surely, this was a joke. Right? Jackson was fucking with him. That had to be it. Because there was no way in hell that him dying at age ten somehow lead to Scott being a dickbag werewolf’s anchor. No fucking way.

How did he pull a werewolf and a werewolf hunter?

What the actual hell was wrong with this timeline?

Stiles was going to jump off a bridge.

“Stiles–”

“This is the worst thing to ever happen,” he said. 

Derek gave him a look, “Sure. But that howl was right outside, Jackson’s fine, we need to go deal with this.”

“Of course it was. Today just keeps getting better.”

He ended up going outside in his socks. It was equally as embarrassing as it was uncomfortable. His arms felt as though they might implode, and his head hurt, and everything was terrible.

But it was fine.

He more or less blacked out after that point. In the way that all people who are perfectly fine do. Peter was long gone by the time they got outside, anyway. Whatever he was howling for, they had no way of knowing.

He needed everything to slow down. Because it was all. A lot. His life was somehow moving a thousand miles too fast for him to keep up, yet stuck in some stagnant limbo. And how could he fix it? Kill Peter when he hadn’t done anything wrong? Track down Kate and kill her too? Lock Scott in a padded room until he turned fifty? Throw Isaac’s dad down a flight of stairs and give Erica the bite (somehow??) and give Boyd… a hug? Honestly, Boyd was the least of his problems. He’d un-turn Jackson if he didn’t know for a fact the guy would rather die than lose his even more superhuman lacrosse abilities now. And as if he could convince Chris and his wife (good God) to stop murdering werewolves.

Oh, boy.

Why did he think going back again was a good idea? Oh, right, because he was an idiot who thought he could un-kill Scott if he did. 

He was fine. You know that.

But, if he wasn’t fine, he’d say that he was so consumed with guilt that it was suffocating him. He thought that he knew what was best for everyone. And all he did was destroy them. And now he was doing exactly the same thing. He needed these people, whether it killed them or not. He was a fool. And he was making a whole litany of terrible mistakes.

Unfortunately, he was fine. So he would never think about the feelings he refused to have for long enough to realise that.

 

-

 

There were many things Stiles didn’t care about. And many things he cared about too deeply. 

“Lydia,” he groaned, “You have nothing else to spend your money on. I will literally get on my knees and beg if I have to.”

She stopped, heels clicking against the hall floor, and spun around to stare at him, “Okay. Then beg.”

Stiles’ face dropped, “Are you serious?”

“It’s not every day you get someone as scary as you to kneel at your feet,” she mused, “On an unrelated note, are you in therapy?” Stiles just stared. He shook his head. Very slowly. She gave him that fake, overly-dramatic pensive look, then nodded, “You should be in therapy.”

“And you should apologise to Erica,” Stiles stuck his hands out, “What do you have to lose?”

“Hmm, let’s see,” she did that thoughtful look into the distance again, “My reputation, my social standing, my sanity, my sense of fashion by proxy?”

“I am asking you to buy her some clothes and have a cutesy teenage girl fashion show,” Stiles growled, “Surely this is your dream come true! I’ll even invite Cora!”

Lydia gave him the most dangerous glare he’d ever seen her give, “Right. Well, a few issues with that. One: I don’t know her size. Two: I don’t care about her. Three: It’s my money. Four: I don’t do charity cases. And five: I honestly think she’s a lost cause anyway.” She wiggled the five fingers she’d been counting on, “There’s a whole hand of reasons why I am not doing this. Now you can talk to this hand, because my face is not listening.”

“Wow, that was really mature of you.”

She hummed and lowered her hand, starting to turn to leave, “Yeah, I’m really done with your freaky ass. And you can keep my boyfriend out of whatever sick shit you and yours get up to, by the way.”

Stiles raised a brow, “Right, yeah, I don’t think that’s really gonna work out.”

She paused, narrowing her eyes, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Well, him, Cora, Allison,” he shrugged his shoulders, “You. You’re stuck with me whether you like it or not. The only people I can back off of are Scott and the three musketeers, and, you know. I just don’t really feel like it.”

Lydia was frozen, “What the hell are you talking about?”

“This is bigger than us, Lydia,” Stiles said, stepping closer to her. She flinched back. 

“If you get any closer, Stiles, I swear to God, I will mace you,” she squeaked.

Stiles blinked, “What?”

“If you think you can get away with hurting me in a school, then you are dead wrong.”

“Okay, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles shook his head, “I’m not gonna– Whatever. You’re going to go shopping. With whoever. You’re going to bring the clothes to Erica’s house. You’re going to have your girly girl makeover montage. You’re going to bond. And you’re going to be happy, or, so help me, I will have a mental breakdown. Okay?”

“What,” she spat, “are you talking about?”

“Shut up!” Stiles snapped, “Shut! Shh!! Go! Do it! You know what, we’ll do it together.”

“Oh, God.”

“Shopping!” Stiles cheered, “Stiles and Lydia! Stydia! ”

“What??”

“I don’t know. I’m so tired. You’re driving.”

“Oh…”

…

“Okay…”

 

-

 

“If you’re gonna kill me, could you maybe not drag it out this much?”

Stiles looked away from the rack of leather skirts to raise an eyebrow at her, “You think I want to kill you? I thought you had mace, anyway.”

Lydia gave him an uneven frown, “I do.”

“Okay, so, you’re lying,” Stiles nodded, then turned back to the skirts, “That’s smart. Unsurprising. You’re smart. Which one of these do you think is Erica’s size? I don’t understand these numbers at all.”

“If you don’t want to hurt me then what do you want?” Lydia asked. 

Stiles glared at a paper tag - thirty dollars for a skirt was extortionate, “If I wanted to hurt you, you’d be in the hospital by now. If you made it out alive.” The conversation fell to silence. Well, as close to silent as they could get. Some vaguely familiar pop song was trilling out through the stale air, and the garbled mess of unintelligible conversations almost drowned it out. Some irrelevant announcement burst out of a speaker nearby. Stiles sighed, “You don’t need to be so wary of me. You know, I’m far more scared of you than you are of me. Like a spider.”

“How the hell are you scared of me?” Lydia scoffed, “You’re…” He turned to see the way she threw her hand around in his general direction, “I mean, seriously.”

Stiles stared at her, “Do you remember visiting your grandma at Eichen House?”

Lydia froze again, and it took a moment but, quickly, her face went pale, “How the hell–”

“Yeah, you think the stuff I know is creepy?” Stiles shook his head, “What she knew, and what you’ve inherited, is far fucking scarier. Now, skirts.” He held one up, “Is this actually hideous?”

Lydia blinked at him, still paper-white, “How did you know that? Who the hell were you kept by all those years?”

Stiles groaned, far too loudly, and threw his head back, “A group of leprechauns named Jett, Turbo, and Rebel. What do you pair with a leather skirt?”

“Oh, my God!” Lydia shrieked, “Oh. My. God. Give me that,” she snatched the skirt out of his hand and stormed off, “I am going to– Stay there!! ”

So, Stiles stayed there. 

Lydia had to know. It was just bad timing that she’d grown up without knowing already. That her grandmother was treated like she was sick and abused by the freaks at Eichen, instead of given the tools to harness her power. That her mother had no idea the things her husband’s mother said were true. There was always a chance she could have grown into it, without Peter jump-starting her abilities with his stupid teeth. But if she was gonna keep being all skittish about him, she needed to know. There would be no pack without their genius little queen banshee. 

Also, if he told her everything, he could probably worm out of her an explanation for her and Jackson’s weird lavender relationship situation.

He went to look around for her. Still staying put like she asked, just taking a quick glance to make sure she hadn’t come back already. He didn’t know what he expected. He didn’t actually know what she’d gone to do.

But then he saw Peter.

Like. Human Peter. Normal Peter, stood there.

His heart sort of caught in his throat at the sight.

“The hell?” He muttered, “Peter??”

He thought they couldn’t heal him. Claudia made it seem like there was nothing they could do. Or, at least, nothing he could do.

And it was far too early for him to heal himself.

He opened his mouth.

His teeth were pointed and bloody.

Stiles’ own blood ran cold.

Something twisted in Peter’s face, something cagey and uncomfortable, as he slammed his mouth shut again. He ground his jaw and cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders and scrunched up his nose. He slowly tilted his head, locking his eyes onto Stiles’, and he turned on his heel.

“Peter!” Stiles called out, stumbling over himself to chase after him, “Hey! What the hell happened?! Peter??”

The guy vanished by the time Stiles got out to the parking lot. 

He caught a glimpse of his coat dropping behind the corner of the mall - down the side-alley no one ever went in. Any normal person would know not to follow that creep. Stiles didn’t need to remind anyone how far from fitting the term ‘normal person’ was for him. 

So he ran after the man’s shadow.

He rounded the corner. One hand braced against the concrete wall. 

And Jesus Christ.

Lydia’s body on the floor. Her bloody clothes. Her falling and rising chest. The writing carved into the concrete. The spiral.

No Peter.

Cute. 

Cute, cute, cute.

Stiles sighed, pulled out his phone, and dialed 9-1-1. 

Only after he called Derek, obviously. He wasn’t an idiot.

God, this was ridiculous.

 

-

 

‘Stilinski’.

That’s what Peter carved into solid concrete with his claws, surrounded by the deepest revenge spiral Stiles had ever seen. It was one thing to see something like that coming from the same man who had called Stiles his ‘favourite’ more times than he could count. It was a whole other thing to have his father, a man with no knowledge of anything that was going on, find said carving as a teenage girl’s unconscious body was wheeled out to an ambulance. 

So now he was sat in a hospital waiting room, with his feet propped up on his plastic chair, glaring out at the silhouettes of his parents arguing again.

Derek sighed heavily beside him, “You said he was healed?”

Stiles hummed, “No scars, no nothing. And he didn’t even say anything! No ‘hey, Stiles! If it isn’t my favourite time-travelling human! Come, follow me, I have a surprise! I bit your homegirl again!’, no, he just opened his mouth, glared at me like I kicked his puppy, and stormed off!” He whipped his head around to look at the wolf, who was frowning back at him from the next seat over, “The jackass bit Lydia again. I just told him that we killed him for that Last Time!”

“Stiles,” Derek growled, “Keep your voice down. And that wasn’t exactly why I killed him.”

“It would’ve been why I killed him.”

“Okay, Stiles.”

“How did he not break a claw scratching that shit into the wall, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Stiles.”

“He bit Lydia!!”

“I know, Stiles.”

“Stiles?” Erica’s voice came.

He jumped, spinning around in his seat to blink up at her, “Jesus. Where the hell did you come from?”

“What’s going on?” She asked, glancing over at the windows into Lydia’s hospital room. Stiles rubbed at his eyes until he saw spots.

“Lydia got hurt,” Derek answered gently. Stiles flopped over, letting the arm of his chair dig into his side for the chance at resting his head on the man’s shoulder. He groaned into his hands.

“Why are you here?” He asked.

This was fine. 

“I had a checkup and heard you guys were here. Wanted to… check you were okay.”

This was fine.

Actually, it was. Because. This had happened before. So, he knew, for a fact, that it was absolutely fine. Like, so fine. And he ain’t lyin’. Haha. Rhyming. Okay.

He took in a deep breath, so deep he kind of lost the ability to breathe at all, then tore his own hands down and sat up, “Hey, Erica, do you know why I want to be your friend so badly?”

Derek’s hand brushed against his arm.

Erica met his eyes, calm, big, and brown, “Yeah.”

And he stopped, “I’m sorry, what?”

Notes:

that's two chapters in a row which contained the word 'demure'. im really sorry. it was a rough five months.

Derek fascinates me.

Chapter 4: To Be Torn Apart

Summary:

Stiles comes over for dinner. Noah gets into comic books.

Notes:

Ohh this one has a comic page!! The link to that will be at the end oooo

This one's a doozy.

playlist here!!

Kate Argent was there, the day of his funeral. Noah didn’t recognise her.

God, he could hardly even recognise himself. Stiles was his world. That little hyperactive boy; the mirror image of the woman he fell in love with. The kid that lit up every room he walked into, even if he had to force it. The kid who’d wake him and Claudia up every morning at the crack of dawn, like it was Christmas, just to make it to the library before the older kids would be there. The kid who’d make them line up for hours outside of comic book stores to get a brand new issue.

None of that would ever happen again.

It was such a foreign feeling. You know, he’d lost people. He’d lost his grandparents, he’d lost his mother. His father was as good as gone. He’d prepared to lose his wife, hell, he’d prepared for them to lose him. They had about as good a chance as each other at getting taken from this Earth early. Between Noah’s job, and Claudia’s funny ability to get into the most bizarrely life-threatening situations, they were pretty much tied.

He never once thought he’d be the one burying his son. 

He had so many feelings and nothing to do with them. 

No way to fix them.

No little foreheads to kiss goodnight. No tiny limbs to slap bandaids onto. No hideously adorable clothes to wash. No unintelligible rambles to listen to. No dark jokes to be deeply concerned by while his wife cackled along.

His wife.

Something was wrong with his wife. 

He knew people grieved differently. He’d never seen her go through anything half as terrible as this. But as she stood by his side, watching the coffin be lowered into the ground, trying to distract himself from the fact that his own son, his flesh and blood, was gone forever, all he could see was curiosity. She looked to him with pity, rubbed his back as he cried, and smiled as the sun caught the words on his tombstone. 

It made him angry. Irrationally so. And he knew that. But there was still such a loud part of him that could not understand how she wasn’t completely broken. How she was even standing. 

She’d punched a hole in their living room wall the day she identified his remains. But now, she seemed as though she hadn’t lost a thing.

And then there was the crowd. It’s not every day the son of a Sheriff’s Deputy gets murdered. It’s not every day the town has to hear of something so evil. He wasn’t shocked by the congregation. Irritated, sure. Apathetic, definitely. But he knew they were there to show their support. There were a number of people in that crowd that he knew. Whether he recognised, or even noticed, them at all.

Peter had given him a hug once the funeral was all over. An awkward, forced sort of hug. But still the closest to compassion that man had ever shown him. Chris wasn’t there. Noah was only a little bit surprised by that. Claudia didn’t seem to care. But that was pretty on point for the way she’d been that whole day, wasn’t it? And there were two kids with Peter. He was sure there were. Even if he could hardly even remember anyone’s face but his son’s in that moment. Looking back, he had no idea who the boy with Peter could’ve been. The girl - Peter’s niece, he knew that much - had given the grave a pitiful look, not at all dissimilar to the one Claudia had been giving him, and had given her condolences with more poise than he’d ever seen of a kid her age. 

It reminded him that he would never see his son grow up. And it made him break down all over again.

A woman he swore he’d seen before approached his wife soon after the Hales left. She was blonde, pretty, with thick, half-healed claw marks trailing down from behind her ear to her collar bone. He didn’t understand what they said to each other. Nor the look in his wife’s eyes when she saw her. Something so vengeful. Hateful. Murderous. Still curious.

That night, the night before Halloween, the Hale House burned down.

It was Mischief night.

Noah drank so much that night he couldn’t remember if it even hurt at all.

Until he stared into his cup of whiskey, and didn’t see his son’s eyes staring back.

He didn’t know what Claudia did when he was at work. That was his escape from the effective walk-in tombstone that was their home. He had no idea what hers was. Until, one day, she stumbled in through the front door, half-asleep and terribly weak. Weak enough to tell the truth. No more ‘I went out with Natalie today’ s or ‘I visited Peter in the hospital’ s. Not even ‘I brought little Mischief some flowers and that new Spider-Man comic’.  

She said, “Mieczysław is really good at getting himself into trouble.”

Noah had frozen, like she’d electrocuted him, before he asked what she meant.

She’d blinked at him through the door to the kitchen, “Nothing new. He needs to stop acting so helpless. He’s a Gajos, for Pete’s sake. Literally.” Then she snorted, tapped herself on the cheek and left. Noah worried she was drunk. And that she needed help. It was painfully ironic. 

He followed her out one night, after just short of a year of not knowing where she was going. Watched her old Jeep pull into the preserve. Trailed after her until she ended up at a giant tree stump. A familiar one. She sat atop it and crossed her legs. And she started to talk.

“You’re not killing anyone, Mischief,” she said.

Noah stopped still.

She was silent for a long while, shaking her head every now and then, until she spoke again.

“Come on, Mischief. Forget the red - give the wolf some violet. Violence! ”

He felt his brows draw together; his breathing turn shallow.

“Not unless you want to throw up again,” she said, “My fighting days are over, Mischief.”

“Mieczysław, focus.”

“For goodness’ sake, Mieczysław.”

A long moment of silence.

Then, “You are going to kill me again, Mischief, good Lord.”

He turned on his heel and stumbled back to the cruiser. He didn’t care how much noise he made, or if she noticed he was there. He’d seen enough, and he didn’t understand it, and he was terrified. She did need help. She definitely did. And he didn’t know how to get it to her.

The problem was whatever she was doing, however unhealthy Noah was sure it was, it seemed to be helping her. Or at least she thought it was. Noah had learned to grow around his grief. He carried the loss of his son heavy within himself, used it to push him to protect the rest of the world from what happened to his family. But Claudia had never dealt with it. These conversations she had with herself, the denial of that loss, it was something she would destroy herself with if she didn’t give it up.

And then, one day, she did. 

About a month, maybe two, later. Noah found her at their son’s grave. Sat cross-legged again. 

She seemed to know he was there by sheer intuition, “He’s gone,” she said.

Noah walked down the path, and dropped to sit beside his wife. He wrapped an arm around her, held her tight.

“I know,” he said. His lip quivered as he spoke.

She shook her head, “No, you don’t get it, Noah. You don’t get it.” She hiccupped. Noah stayed quiet. He waited for her. Claudia shivered beneath his arm, “I didn’t– I can’t believe she–… Why couldn’t I have him back for just a little bit longer?”

Now it was Noah’s turn to shake his head, “Have him back? What do you mean?”

Claudia sobbed, halfway to a laugh, “My baby. I can’t hear him anymore. Fuck.” She buried her head in her hands. 

It was then that Noah realised he could not give her the kind of help she needed. Not unless he magically sprouted a psychology degree. Somehow, he eventually managed to get her admitted to Eichen House. They could help her there, far better than he could. Especially as her outburst grew more violent and more frequent. More manic. Passing comments about how she was ‘so excited to see him again’.  

It was terrifying.

And then. Then it was true.

 

-

 

Three things of importance happened that Friday. Somehow Lydia's fresh ‘new’ bite-induced coma had nothing to do with any of them. 

Probably.

The first thing happened just as Stiles walked into the school building. Coach cornered him in an instant, clapped him on the shoulder, uttered a ‘walk with me, Stilinski’, and that was that. He walked with him.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t wanna trigger any…” he stammered, “Memories of any unpleasantness, here, but, I’ve gotta say, in a not at all creepy way, I couldn’t help but notice. You’ve got a bit of a build going for you, kid.” Stiles squinted at him. Coach nodded his head, “That, and you seem to be pretty buddy-buddy with my star player. And Scott and Isaac, I guess. Whatever.”

“I’m sorry, Coach,” Stiles pulled a face, “What is your point?”

Finstock rolled his eyes, “My point is. That idiot, Greenburg, is off sick and I’m down one player for the game tonight. You know how to play lacrosse?”

And so, with a wide-eyed nod so violent it made something pop, Stiles was invited to their last practice before the game, at lunch. He went. Obviously. Even if that meant having to deal with the horrible, disgusting, foul-smelling changing rooms. There was a price to pay for everything. Changing in a room full of high-schoolers was definitely getting old fast, though.

“Oh, my–” Isaac cut himself off. Stiles yanked his shirt off his head to give him a look. 

“What?” 

“You–” Isaac shrugged his shoulders, “Were you out there fighting bears or something??”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, then answered, “Yes.”

“What?? ”

“I’ve fought so many bears, Isaac,” Stiles nodded, “They just keep coming, man. I think they remember my face. They just keep finding me, I don’t know what to do.”

“You’re fucking with me?”

“Yeah. I am fucking with you.”

“Right.”

“Why would I be fighting bears? Isaac? Do you think bears try to fight me that frequently? What am I, some kind of… bear… fighter?? Is that all I am to you?”

“I mean,” Isaac gave him a wary look, “Something roared when we were at the ice rink, I don’t know.”

Stiles blinked at him, reaching over to pull on a borrowed grey t-shirt, “I don’t remember a roar.”

“Right,” Isaac drawled, muffled as Stiles pulled the shirt over his head and onto his body, “Well, um. About that evening.”

Stiles hummed.

“And how you, um, wanted to come to my house?”

Stiles slowly turned to look at him.

The kid swallowed, “My dad, uh. He… He asked to have you ‘round for dinner.”

Stiles tilted his head.

“He just, um. Wants to, you know, meet my new friend.”

It was the second important thing to happen that Friday. 

Stiles said yes to that, too, of course. Very nonchalantly. And he shucked on his borrowed pads and gloves and helmet, and he pretended to listen to whatever Coach was rambling at him, and he practised. It was easier than it ever had been, with his muscles finally filled out by the years of running and fighting and wrestling. But his arms were weak. And they ached. And it was pissing him off, just enough to fire him up and push him through to the end of the hour. Until just holding the stick made his wrists and elbows quiver. 

But hey. He scored with Jackson in goal. If that wasn’t something to be proud of, then what the hell was?

He was headed back to the changing rooms, heart racing and arms pulsing, when Coach clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Listen to me, Stilinski. If you help us win this game tonight. I swear to you, I will love you like my own son.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “Sure thing, Coach.”

They nodded at each other, and he was freed. 

Stiles loved lacrosse. He genuinely did. That game in his first Sophomore year, when he scored for the first time. Properly. His father cheering for him, the proud smile on Lydia’s face. The companionship during the height of the action. Actually feeling connected with the other players. That bond. It was electrifying. And, if it meant Stiles got to feel any of that again, he’d put his whole heart and soul into the game that night. Even if it killed him. 

And then he’d stop by Lydia’s hospital room to tell her all about it.

She wasn’t awake yet. 

He didn’t expect her to be.

Peter Hale was on thin ice. But it was not his fault. And he just needed help. And it was fine. We are remembering that. Everything. Was. Fine.

He got ready for the game just as he had gotten ready for practice. Awkwardly, uncomfortably, and wanting to be anywhere other than that changing room. He went out onto the field with his arms aching like hell. 

His dad was there, in the bleachers. Claudia wasn’t. He knew she was with Derek, and Cora, and Laura, and whoever else, trying to find Peter. Which was also fine. As long as his dad was there. Erica was, too, with Boyd. And Allison.

He froze.

Allison was leaning over the bannister at the side of her section, smiling down at Scott, who was enthusiastically talking up to her about whatever. At her left was her mother. Beside her, Chris. 

Then, at his side, was Kate.

Kate Argent.

“Oh, fuck, no,” Stiles growled to himself. 

She was staring straight at him, smirking to herself as the wind shifted her fugly blonde hair. Cocky. Curious. She had a scar coming from just behind her ear down to vanish beneath her coat collar. The scar Peter gave her.

This was not fine.

Jackson was there, then, appearing out of nowhere to speak over the noise, “What?”

Stiles slowly turned to him, tearing his eyes away from her, to give Jackson a weird look, “We don’t know each other.”

Jackson’s eyes squinted, “What??” He shook his head, “No, hey, you got my girlfriend put in the hospital, you’re not gonna keep avoiding me–”

“We don’t,” Stiles said slowly, giving him as disinterested a look as he could manage, “know each other. And you’re gay anyway, so chill out about your girlfriend. Just say friend. And if you lose control during his game,” he stepped past him, “I will kill you before anyone else even has the chance to think of it.”

He spun the stick in his hand. A nervous tick he hadn’t had the chance to remember he used to have. That flick of his wrist continued to send those flaring thuds up his arm, so relentless and so, so fucking annoying. 

Kate was here.

The pain couldn’t distract him from that. And it would not stop him from killing her now.

How the fuck was he gonna tell Derek?

Scott was on the bench. Isaac was first line, with Jackson and himself. Stiles felt so bad for Scotty. The fact that he knew the bite would make his life so much better if he could just see that. The bigger picture. Just a little bit of suffering for the greater good– Fuck.  

Stiles was nauseous.

Coach blew his whistle. The game began.

Not only was Kate watching, making the hairs on Stiles’ skin stand up and setting his nerves alight, but everyone else was, too. Coach decided to make this game mean something, Scott was watching his undead best friend overtake him at something he’d spent the last five years actually doing, which made one of them. Erica was watching. 

What a curious thing. Erica. 

She knew so much more than she thought she did. Stiles had nodded along to her theory of why he needed her with him so badly. How she reminded him of someone he lost. 

She had no idea how right she was.

He had cried again that night. Over Erica, and his mom, and Lydia, and Peter. Derek had cried too. Dug his chin into the top of Stiles’ head as they sobbed together. He’d done pull-ups off his doorframe the entire next morning, just like he had when they lost her. 

‘I’m weak,’ he’d said. 

Stiles still didn’t understand it. 

He caught the ball. 

Did Kate have to die by a gunshot? Sure, He’d said they’d shot her. But he could kill her in far better ways than that, couldn’t he? He could burn her. Smell her skin cooking, hear her gargled screams as her vocal cords melted together. He could break every bone in her body until they poked out through her skin. He could suffocate her, cut her in half, feed her own body parts to her like Hannibal Lecter, bludgeon her skull before he shot it. Not to kill her. Just for fun. Just to say that he had. He could skin every inch of her body. He could boil her alive. Bury her alive. Fillet her like a fucking fish.

He could make her whole family watch.

He rammed himself into one of the other team’s defenders - some buff little kid in a dark blue uniform. The guy fell onto his back with a thud and a crack.

Stiles launched the ball at the goal. 

It cut through the air so swiftly. Sliced through the silent anticipation. 

The goalie flinched to the side as the ball grazed his helmet.

He scored.

Cheers and screams and groans filled the air. 

His breath was mist.

He flipped the stick in his hands. The flick of his wrist kept the pain coming. The pressure of the gloves seemed to be helping somehow. 

The kid on the floor writhed for a moment more, helped to his feet by his teammate. Stiles met his eyes through the grates of their helmets. His nod was answered with a glare. 

“That’s the game, dude,” he said with a shrug, lifting the stick up to rest across his shoulders and hang his hands off. The pain was incessant. Like a mosquito buzzing by your ear that won’t fuck off no matter how much you smother yourself in bug spray.

He groaned. 

Whatever.

It was fine.

They set up the start again. Now with Stiles in the face-off.

He stared into the other player’s eyes.

Coach blew his whistle.

Stiles refused to go to therapy. But this was working surprisingly well at helping him vent all his shit out. Because, yeah. Maybe there was some shit he needed to get out. But only some of it. Almost everything was perfectly fine, but he was going to destroy Kate with levels of violence infinitely beyond the pathetic excuse for brute force he was beating these kids with. 

They were all so weak.

They were all human.

They had no idea.

Stiles and Jackson had their team ahead by a landslide. Danny was holding down the fort, too, but when was he not? Aw, Stiles loved Danny. What a guy. Seriously, though, where the hell did he go after Allison died in the first timeline? He vanished! Stiles missed him, damn it. And he’d left without so much as a note. Or a text. Like, sure, Stiles did very little besides pester him beyond reason, but, come on. They bonded. Sometimes.

I digress. Stiles pretty much gave up once they were five-up on the other team. They had four minutes left. If they managed to win now, they’d earned it. Nothing he could do about that. 

He looked out into the bleachers when they were down to the last thirty seconds. 

Kate was speaking into her brother’s ear. Chris was staring straight at him. His brows raised. His mouth a thin line.

The time ran out.

He’d spent an hour breathing the same air as Kate Argent. And he hadn’t killed her. It made the cheers turn sour, made the gloved hands clapping at his padded shoulders punch like fists. His whole body was burning. Every nerve and molecule. 

Chris was talking to his father.

So Stiles fought down every instinct to turn tail and run back to the changing rooms. He broke through the crowd until his dad could spot him, grinning wide and breaking away from Chris to drag him into a hug.

“Oh, my God, Stiles!!” He gushed, “What was that? Where did you learn how to do that???”

Stiles just stared at him when he broke the hug. Noah’s face fell.

“Right,” he blinked a little, shaking himself out of it, “Uh, your friend Allison’s parents were talking to me, um, how’d you feel about going over to theirs for dinner?”

Allison was staring at him just a few metres over, arms crossed over her chest and Kate leering at her side. Stiles took in a deep breath. One, two, three, four, five bashes to her imaginary blonde skull. One, two, three, four, five imaginary bullet wounds. One, two, three, four, five. Tap, tap, tap. Life is a nightmare. Existence is a torture chamber.

“Of course!” He blinked at Chris by his dad’s side, “I would love to. More quality time with Allison!! Yay! Gotta go get changed, though, you don’t want me eating with you smelling like this, right?” He forced his grin so wide his cheeks started to ache. All of him did. Jesus fucking Christ. “You coming with us, Dad?”

“I mean, if you want me to–”

“No,” Stiles shook his head, “Actually, I think going alone’ll be better for me. Exposure therapy or some– shit, I don’t– Okay, bye!!”

He turned on his heel and stormed away. About fifteen different rando's tried to congratulate him for the game, answered with Stiles’ pinched smiles and wide-eyed stares, before everyone seemed to get the idea that he was not looking for praise. Stiles felt like crawling out of his own skin. He wanted to claw his own face off, or pull his hair out; slam his head against a wall. 

The metal of his locker bending beneath his fingers snapped him back a little. Jackson’s horrified stare met him on the other side. Scott was peering over his shoulder.

Stiles was gonna jump out of a window.

“Stiles!” Scott smiled weakly, “You were so good, man!” He swallowed audibly, “You gotta practise with me sometime, huh? I mean… I won’t really be able to keep up, but.”

“I will punch you in the face,” Stiles snapped, “You are a legend and I would die for you.” He reached out, ignoring Scott’s flinch, to grab his shoulder, “You don’t have to prove anything to anyone. Lacrosse is meaningless. It’s a stupid game. I love you so much, dude.”

Scott gawked at him.

Stiles squinted, “Also, I am going to dinner with your girlfriend. So. Just thought you should know that.”

Jackson’s eyes somehow sharpened even more, “You what?”

Scott pouted, “Huh?”

“Yeah, sorry,” Stiles shrugged, “Her family invited me over. I have to go.”

“I don’t think you do,” Scott tried. Jackson looked constipated. 

Stiles shrugged his clean shirt back on, “Maybe not. I’m gonna anyway.” He slammed the bent locker door shut and slid past the two boys, “Love you both! Talk later!” He grimaced at the desperate look on Jackson’s face, brushed past Isaac with some mumbled declaration of dinner at his place next week, and slipped out of the room. 

The field was colder without his gear on. His arms hurt far worse without the support of his glove straps. Felt weaker. It made his lip curl. He flexed his fingers as he walked, still tap, tap, tapping as he did.

The Argents were still talking with his dad when he met them, half-grimacing, half-grinning as he raced up. 

“You can go home, Dad!” He snapped, “I’ll get a ride back.”

Noah gave him an apprehensive little look, “Are you sure? You haven’t been out without your mom since–”

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” Stiles growled, “Perfectly fine. What’s better protection than a family of arms dealers, right? And, hey,” he gave Chris a sideways glance, “You know her dad really well, don’t you?”

Noah’s brows twitched, “I, uh. Yeah. I don’t remember telling you that.”

“Well, I’m sure you did, because how else would I know it, Dad? ” Stiles’ eye twitched, “Anyway! You go ahead! Bye, bye!”

The Sheriff considered him for a second, half stepping away as he did, “Alright.” He gave Chris a meaningful look as he turned away, “I’m trusting you, Argent.”

Chris nodded back at him. Stiles watched his father’s back vanish into the crowd, glancing back over his shoulder every few seconds and shaking his head as he dipped out of view. Stiles’ grimace-grin fell; he rubbed at his jaw with his right hand. 

“Um,” Allison said, “Stiles, where’s Scott?”

“Not here,” Stiles sang, “Now, let’s get this show on the road, eh?” The group started to walk, albeit subdued, as Stiles barrelled on, “Who’s driving? Don’t tell me it’s Kate.”

Allison’s nose scrunched up, “How do you know my aunt??”

Stiles found the blonde at his side just as she asked that, reaching up to wrap a forceful arm around her shoulder, “Oh, we go way back! Don’t we, Katie?” He brought that hand back just enough to tap her plenty forcefully on her temple, “You remember.” The feeling of her alive beneath his hand made his skin crawl. Reaching up to her had made his whole body flare up with pain. 

She stared back at him with pure delight in her eyes, humming, “You haven’t aged a day.”

Stiles’ grin-mace came back full-throttle, “Neither have you.”

As he snatched his hand back, glaring down at the claw mark so visible down her throat, Allison’s mother spoke up, “Do you eat meat, Stiles?”

He tore his eyes away from Kate, shaking off the vivid thoughts of that face blasted into a million pieces, to give Victoria a polite smile and answer, “Totally. I’ll eat anything.”

You tried to kill my best friend, his mind screamed, I am going to gut you like a fish. But, no, brain. No, no. She hadn’t done that yet. Stiles was on the edge of a psychological break. This was not going to be pretty.

 

-

 

“So, how does gun dealing actually work?” Stiles asked around a mouthful of potatoes, “Do you have a website? Or, like. Business cards?”

Chris gave him a wary look from the head of the table, “Are you planning on buying a gun?”

Stiles blinked, “I wasn’t. Now I might be. Could I?”

“Not if you’re fifteen,” was Chris’ answer.

Stiles just hummed and shoved another forkful of potatoes in his mouth. He felt sick, but, all horrible crimes considered, ol’ Tori cooked a mean potato. The rest of it was. Well. A slow-cooker was involved. 

Oh, could Stiles slow-cook Kate? He would so slow-cook Kate.

“Uh, hey,” Allison started awkwardly, “So. Um. How do you two… know each other? Stiles?”

He didn’t even look at Kate, sat beside her and directly across from him, instead just stared Allison in the eye as he answered, “Well, you know how I was dead for the last five years?” The teenage girl stared straight back, eyes wide and afraid. Stiles smiled, “Someone had to kill me.”

Kate laughed, sudden and shrill, making the words die in Stiles’ throat as his heart rocketed up to meet them, “Oh, boy. You are a riot!”

“I get that a lot,” Stiles grunted, forcing in another mouthful of potatoes.

The yellow lights flickered above them.

Kate made a small noise, turning to her niece, “You know how your father and Stiles’ father went to high school together?”

Allison nodded meekly.

Kate nodded back, “I did, too. I was a Freshman when those two were Juniors. His mom, as well. And Peter Hale. Stiles is technically a family friend.”

Stiles grabbed his glass to wash down the nausea. 

Allison tilted her head, “Hale. Like Cora Hale? The family that… died in a fire, Hale?”

Stiles barked out a laugh, “Funny you mention it—”

“Okay,” Victoria cut in, awfully tense at Stiles’ right side, “How about we talk about something a little more family friendly.”

Chris grumbled, “I agree.”

Stiles ground his jaw, “Eh. Hey, Kate, Allison here told me you got that neat-o scar of yours fighting a bear! How about we hear that story!”

The blonde challenged his gaze with something deeply sadistic, “It’s a pretty boring story, actually. Poor guy hardly knew what he was doing.”

Stiles tilted his head, “Huh. You know, I’ve had a few bear fights my self.” He flexed his fingers, leaning forward to peer over at the man at the head of the table, “Do you like bears, Chris?” He smiled, “Can I call you Chris?”

The man levelled him with a murderous glare, “Mr. Argent is fine. Stiles.”

“Cool, but you didn’t answer my question.”

“How’s everyone finding the food? Hm?” Victoria cut in again. Rude. Things were just about to get entertaining. Allison nodded emphatically, cheeks full with whatever stew they were eating. 

“It’s great,” Stiles answered, “You hunt the meat yourself?”

Victoria turned to him slowly, “I’m sorry?”

Stiles tilted his head, sincerely hoping to offend at least one of them with his terrible attempt at playing dumb, “Oh. Yeah, Allison mentioned you guys were hunters? Right?”

The woman spared a glance to her husband.

“Sure are,” Kate drawled, “You know, Allison, we were thinking of taking you out on our trips soon!”

The girl’s brows furrowed, “Oh. Really?” 

Very enthusiastic. You’d think someone had just told her Santa Claus wasn’t real.

“I’ve been thinking lately,” Stiles mused, stabbing at his food with his fork, “Like, what exactly would you call a hunter of hunters?”

Allison squinted in his peripheral, muttering, “A murderer?”

“Ill-informed,” Chris answered with a grovel. His daughter squinted at him.

Stiles pouted, “Hm. Subjective.”

Allison cleared her throat, sitting up straighter as she pushed her plate away, “I’m gonna go grab dessert, is that okay?”

Victoria’s head tilted in a funny way, like a little twitch, “Of course.”

The girl rose from her seat as swiftly as she could, by the looks of it, wood scraping against wood. She scampered away just as fast.

“I’ll help,” Stiles snapped.

Victoria put a hand out, sudden - a pattern he was starting to see with her, “No, please, stay.”

Stiles considered her sharp eyes for a moment, tilting his head before he said, “What kind of guest would I be if I didn’t help out?”

“Just let him go, Vic,” Chris said. 

God, her eyes were freaky.

Stiles slowly got up out of his chair, smiling down at the red-haired woman as he backed away, “Thank you, Little Red.” He winked. Her stare turned homicidal.

Allison was in the kitchen, clenching a plate of cookies like a lifeline. The family was speaking in hushed tones back in the dining room. Stiles couldn’t quite make out what they were saying, but he wasn’t a dumbass. It was all about him. The girl was staring at him, though. With such an indecipherable look. Something close to the last he’d seen of her in the timeline he left - when she was screaming and wailing in his arms. 

There was such an emptiness in his chest.

“You need my help with anything?” He asked.

Allison jumped, “Um.” She tucked a hair behind her ear, “Y– Uh, yeah, sure. You can carry that.” She vaguely pointed at another plate - a cake. What kind of psycho family has a whole cake for dessert?? Stiles was almost confused enough to care. He was more distracted by the acknowledgement of how she seemed to mirror her mother’s nervous twitches. 

“Sure,” he said, “Are you okay?”

Allison nodded furiously, lips pressed into a thin line, “Mhm. Fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Stiles said.

“Well, you’re terrifying,” Allison nodded even more violently, shaking as she said it, “And I– God. Never mind. Forget I said anything, I just want this dinner to be over.”

“What are you–” Stiles stepped in the way as she started to leave, “You’re scared of me? Why?? In what world am I scary? I’m pathetic, dude.”

Her eyes nearly bulged out of her head, “You pretty much threatened to kill my entire family, like, five times in the last hour and a half. And accused my aunt of… murdering you? Not to mention you seem to know everything about everyone, like you’re planning something. That is terrifying. You’re terrifying. You just destroyed a top lacrosse team practically on your own with no prior experience and dislocated their star player’s knee. You have full sleeves of tattoos. You’re covered in scars, as if the people holding you captive, who you somehow escaped, were training you to– fight– lions, or something, and–”

A snort, “Bears, more like.”

“I–” She let out a forced, panicked laugh, “At this point, be completely honest with me, I might as well just ask.” She sucked in a sharp breath, “Have you killed someone? Or several someones?”

Allison Argent. Asking if he had ever killed anyone.

Stiles glanced down at the violet cake resting in his hands, flashes of memories behind his eyes as his heart started to beat in his ears and his body shut down the rest of his senses. 

He licked his lips, opening and shutting them once, twice, before he forced out the words, “There are some questions you shouldn’t ask me, Allison.”

There was a horrible crash as the plate of cookies dropped to the floor and shattered. Stiles squeaked and jumped back. Allison took in a shaky breath, eyes darting down to the remnants of porcelain and back up to him. Her hands were shaking like motors. 

“Jesus,” Stiles hissed, placing his own plate back down on the counter.

Her parents came bounding in, Chris speaking up first, “What is going on in here?”

“Nothing,” Allison shook her head, “I’m fine.” Her mother stepped around the wreckage to reach for her. She smacked her hands away, “I said I’m fine. I tripped. Everything’s fine.”

That was Allison. Just a bit of a pathological liar. Possibly one of the most helpful flaws the world had ever bestowed upon her. The debilitating fear, need to prove her toughness, major family trauma, and apparent belief that she was indestructible weren’t as good. Still useful, probably. If the situation so required them. 

“I think this is a good place to call it, then,” Chris growled from the doorway.

Stiles barely glanced back at him, “With all due respect, you’re the one that invited me here.”

“Out,” Chris spat, “Let’s go.”

The spark let out a self-suffering sigh, “This is not how I imagined our first meeting would go, Chris.” He shook his head, sighed again and spun on his heel, “That cake looked really good, too. Damn.” The older man was glaring daggers at him as he ushered him back out to the main hall. Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, “You still didn’t answer my question.”

Chris’ stare was withering, “What?”

“Bears,” Stiles nodded, lips breaking into a smile against his will, “You like ‘em, huh?”

“Get out of my house,” Chris snarled, opening the door and crowding Stiles out through it, “And stay away from my daughter.”

“How about your sister?” Stiles whispered, “‘Cause I am kinda pissed that she killed me.”

The Argent just stared. His eyes were way too damn blue. They were genuinely unsettling.

Stiles quirked his eyebrows, “And she fucked up my favourite bear. And yours. You know where he is, by the way? ‘Cause he bit my friend and vanished off the face of the Earth.”

Chris just kept staring.

“So,” Stiles nodded, “Ditch the evil blondie. We both want the bear to get out of this alive. And we both want Allison to be left out of it.” He shrugged his shoulders, “You really are too quick to judge, oh, Silver Bullet.”

Those blue eyes sharpened, “I don’t work with monsters.”

“No, you only sleep with them,” Stiles squinted at the lack of a reaction from him, grinding his teeth, “I swear to God, I will get the story out of one of you someday, man.”

“Sure, you will,” Chris growled, “You best be heading home, Stiles.” He scrunched his nose up, “It’s getting cold out.”

Stiles glared down at his bare forearms, looked back up at the hunter and bit out, “You’re an asshole. You two are meant for each other.” He turned on his heel and stepped out onto the brick-laid driveway, “See you ‘round!”

Kate’s voice called out from the doorway, “You need a ride? I have a car.”

“I would actually rather die,” Stiles snapped, spinning around to glare at her, still walking - backwards - down the drive, “Which is funny, right? You know, I meant what I said last time we talked, blondie!” He tapped the side of his head, “You remember!”

She poked the inside of her cheek with her tongue, “Sure do, cutie.”

Stiles grin-maced once more, “Good night, my favourite family!!”

Kate waved, one finger at a time, swiftly swallowed up by the giant wooden door as Chris slammed it shut. 

Stiles was seething. Holy God, smoke was practically pluming out of his ears. He was seeing red. He was on fire. How the fuck had he not killed Kate? Who gave a shit if he traumatised Allison, she was doomed anyway, he might as well have grabbed a knife while he was in the kitchen, stormed back into the dining room, and slit her throat open like Peter abysmally failed to do. Her blood splatters would’ve made better decoration than whatever the fuck Victoria had going on in there, anyway. Who doesn’t love a pop of red? 

He was scratching at his arm - that bite mark. The scabs. They were practically fully healed, but still itching above the ache screaming down from his elbow. He picked away at the blood and skin, sealed over each piercing of Peter’s teeth. One of them flaked off. Underneath, a bright pink scar.

The noise he made was somewhere between a sigh and a whimper.

That street was dark. And cold. The streetlamp above him was broken. Its flickers were pathetic. Something stupid in him reached out to press a hand against the metal, his chest tightening as he let some of the energy out. Let it spark and flicker and glow. Bright purple. It travelled up the lamp until it met the bulb - the light growing brighter and brighter until the bulb blew with a loud pop.  

Stiles had done some research, you know. Silver is the most conductive metal.

He stared into the darkness. He didn’t even know where the hell he was.

He saw red again.

No, like. Literally. Two red dots, over there. In the shadows. 

They were getting closer. He could tell that much. And there was a faint glow just beyond them. The same colour as his own sparks. Approaching, far faster than Peter was, eventually close enough to show the monstrous silhouette of the Alpha.

Fuck.

The guilt was harrowing.

“Peter!” His mother’s voice called out. The silhouette of him turned its head like it had been hit. “Talk to me!!”

There was a fierce roar, and then the glowing form of his mom was tackling the wolf to the ground, bright and furious. Her eyes were filled in with that same violet. The violet under Stiles’ own skin.

Peter was still beneath the sparks coming off of her, unresponsive to the slap across the face she gave him, “Hello?? Oh, my God.”

She placed both of her hands on the side of his head. That glow grew even stronger. She went completely silent.

What the fuck?

Where was everyone else? Stiles thought they were all looking for Peter together. And what was she doing?? And why was he letting her do it??? And, holy shit, she actually had magic, it wasn’t just a silly thing he said sometimes - is that what Stiles looked like when he used his? He was gonna scream. This was insane. What. What was going on?

And why was he so terrified? This wasn’t even half as bad as a thousand things Derek had seen him do, and he wasn’t afraid of him. 

This was a terrible night. 

When his mother’s eyes cleared, the air seemed far colder. He could feel their eyes meeting more than he could see it. 

The light faded. 

He was frozen. 

The fact that the thought of his mom hurting him made him panic this badly. The fact that he actually had issues like that. Honestly. Made him want to laugh. Like, wow. He was seriously about to pass out. Because he saw his mom look a little bit mad. How was that his reality? How? What the fuck had he done to deserve that? To be made into a pathetic little baby whose own mother wanted him dead? The same mother that killed herself to get away with helping murder an entire family?

You know, maybe he did need therapy. A little.

“You know I’m not going to hurt you, right?” Claudia said, suddenly right in front of him.

Stiles’ whole body felt numb, empty, his throat almost sealed shut as he answered, “How the fuck am I supposed to believe that?”

He could only just make out the shape of her face in the dark. She had the audacity to be frowning at him. 

“What did you just do?” He asked shakily, “Where… Is Peter okay?”

She went quiet for barely a second, “He’s fine. We should get you home. I thought your dad said you’d get a ride back from Chris’.”

Stiles’ mouth was bone dry. He couldn’t even speak back to her anymore. He needed to be at home. And he needed to cry. Because everything was actually a little less fine than he’d been insisting it was. He could handle it. Obviously. Stiles could handle literally anything at this point, and he knew that because he’d handled everything he’d faced up until this point. He’d even dare to say that he had experienced everything. Full stop. Although that wasn’t entirely true. And everything could always be worse. 

It was just a matter of time until they were.

 

-

 

Somehow, he got home. It was a blur. Stiles had been so far removed from his own body the entire journey back that he wasn’t even sure they’d left that street until he saw Derek’s face in his front door.

The look on that face was not unrecognisable, like the looks of the Argents had been for most of that evening. No, Stiles had seen that look before. Too many times. Even once would be too many. But never directed at him. 

Only ever directed at Kate.

He was terrified.

“What the fuck? ” He choked out, stumbling back into the hallway and shaking his head, “Why–”

Stiles’ brows drew together, the question high on his lips when his father broke into view, “Stiles! I was getting a little worried. You have a good time?”

The spark nodded. 

His mind was pure radio static.

And Derek was still staring at him like that. Like he’d hurt him. Betrayed him. Ruined him. Like he was her.

Each step he took into the house, Derek took one step back, until he was forced up the stairs. Stiles tentatively followed him up, bidding his parents goodnight and silently thanking the Lord for an escape from his mother, however disturbing it was turning out to be. 

Something was so wrong.

“Stiles, why the fuck do you smell like her?” He spat the moment they were up the stairs, backing into the spark’s room.

He stopped still.

Derek’s eyes, that gorgeous green, flared the harshest of blues, “What were you doing with her?”

Stiles blinked, “They–”

“Wash her off,” he growled. His voice was strained; his eyes were shiny.

Stiles didn’t say anything. He didn’t move.

Derek outright snarled, pointing over the spark’s shoulder and out the door, “Go.”

Stiles felt like he’d had his stomach torn open. Funny. That had happened to him once. But this was not funny. Not even a little bit. He tripped over his own two feet in his race to the bathroom. 

Fuck.

How had he not thought about that?

Stiles was not a wolf. He would never truly understand what it was like to be one. The instincts, the senses. Taboos and habits. But the most basic of traits, one of the first damn things he ever learned about werewolves, was their sense of smell. Scents. Scent marking. He must have known how Derek would react to Kate’s scent. How it would feel to have that scent all over Stiles. How confusing it must be to have them mix. The woman that destroyed him - hurt him beyond Stiles’ possible understanding - and the man he’d left his entire life behind for. 

He scrubbed at his skin until it was red. 

That made him nauseous. 

Because, of course, his own issues were what he should have been thinking about right now.

When he went back into his bedroom, back in the same pyjamas he’d worn for four nights straight, Derek was curled in a ball on his bed. His face was buried in Stiles’ pillow, clenched tightly in his arms. He was shaking. Feathers were peeking out from the spots where his claws had torn through the cotton. Stiles’ clothes were strewn on top of him, alongside his blankets. 

And he was seriously shaking. Like. Quivering. Bordering on convulsing. 

He’d never seen him like this before. 

What was he doing to him?

“Derek,” he tried. 

The wolf seized up. Each muscle in his body that wasn’t covered rippled as it tensed. Stiles swallowed, glancing over at the nanny cam on his desk. The light blinked.

“Hey. Dude,” he tried again. He felt like he was trying to settle a mad horse. Which was weird because he’d never had to do that and had no real measure of how stressful that may be. Not the point. Not the point at all. 

He dropped to sit at the edge of the bed. 

“I’m…” His lip curled, some new, deep anxiety brewing in his stomach.

Derek didn’t have to stay. He could leave whenever he wanted. He’d made Derek promise that he’d leave if he hurt him. What if this was that time? What if he had to do this alone? Whatever the fuck ‘this’ even was?

Jesus Christ, Derek could not leave him. 

“Fuck, please don’t,” Stiles’ teeth clashed. He swallowed, reaching out a shaking hand to touch Derek’s own shaking shoulder. 

If he hadn’t relaxed into his touch. If Derek’s muscles hadn’t untangled beneath his fingertips. He didn’t know what he might’ve done. Probably something panic attack-adjacent. He almost definitely would’ve cried. That was terrifying. Acknowledging that the mere thought of Derek leaving could fuck him up like this. 

What was wrong with him?

He rubbed his hand back and forth against the curve of Derek’s shoulder. The wolf’s head nuzzled against the pillow, turning just enough to expose the sharp cut of his left eye. He blinked, carefully. Those green eyes. Stiles wanted to press kisses against their lids forever. He pursed his lips instead.

Derek took in a shaky breath, “I’m sorry.”

Stiles shook his head, “No. No, what? Don’t say that.”

He was elated that he said that.

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he said.

Derek’s eye darted around for a moment before his left hand unravelled itself from the pillow he’d been clenching. That rough, calloused hand pressed hard against Stiles’ skin, trailing around from his cheek down to his throat and back up along the line of his jaw. Any attempt not to lean into it would be futile. Soon, that hand was reaching down to grab at his waist and manhandling Stiles to lie down beside him. 

“You smell okay again,” he said. As if he knew Stiles needed to hear it. 

“Are you okay?” He asked.

Derek nodded into the pillow, tucking it up under his head and burying his face in Stiles’ collarbone instead, “I will be.”

Stiles brought a hand up to wade through the soft spikes of his dark hair. The pressure of his skull against his chest was more grounding than any finger-counting or clock-checking. Stiles felt alive. Back to himself for a moment. If he could have a mini Derek in his pocket at all times, pressing up against him, holding his hand, palming his throat, maybe everything would seem less scary. Maybe he’d feel less crazy.

He settled into the mattress, trying to ignore the discomfort of Derek’s odd little impromptu nest type-thing of clothes, and wrapping his arms around him. Derek tucked his own arms into the space between them. The fingers of his left hand clung to the fabric of Stiles’ shirt. 

“You’re safe,” Stiles whispered into the sudden stillness.

Derek breathed in response.

Stiles knocked his chin into the wolf’s forehead, “I love you.”

Derek breathed.

He tightened his fingers around his shirt, “I love you, too.”

 

-

 

Stiles couldn’t remember the next week. Or maybe two. All he could remember was the sharp bursts of panic whenever Derek said he’d be going to bed, or he was gonna go see Laura, or he just wanted some alone time. They were all stupid for calling them codependent. But. Maybe Stiles was a little, tiny bit dependent. It made him sick to his stomach - every part of being away from Derek. Having to be with literally anyone else, without him to lean on, was actual torture. Because, really. His mother? Erica? Literally any of the other kids he was trying to wrangle together? Allison, who seemed to be awfully afraid of him killing her and– Ugh. He just needed Derek. And Derek, somehow, didn’t seem to need him as much.

And that was terrifying.

Other people were afraid of normal things. Like death. Or heights. Or spiders. Or going blind. But that was the one part of that list Derek gave of Stiles’ traits that he got wrong. His biggest fear was not losing his vision. It was losing Derek. He kind of couldn’t tell the difference. Derek was ingrained into him. Had been since long before this Derek even met him. Him leaving the first time sent him off the rails and he didn’t even have him. He’d almost cried at his initials on a fucking shelf. Now, it was like Derek was an extension of him. His memories, his sheer existence in this timeline. And he got to kiss him and touch him and bite him and he’d actually consume his entire being if he could, and what the fuck do you mean Derek was allowed to leave whenever he wanted? Why would Stiles tell him that? Was he a fucking idiot? Derek couldn’t leave him. He couldn’t. It might kill him. 

So, Stiles started being. Weird. Even he knew he was being weird. But he just. Kind of. Couldn’t not be weird. He was texting Derek too much. And being too touchy. And Derek didn’t say he cared. But he also never said he was upset about his whole family being dead. Or that he blamed Stiles for it. Both of which had to be true. So. Hm.

And then, to top it all off, Stiles had to go to dinner with Isaac. He’d been totally down for it when he wasn’t completely consumed by Derek. But now? Ugh.

Wasn’t he supposed to be dealing with Peter or something?

What the hell had his mom done to him??

Two questions Stiles could not think about while inside Isaac Lahey’s home.

With both of their dads.  

For a number of reasons he was not entirely sure of. He wasn’t kidding when he said that week (or two?) were complete nothingness in his brain.

He was feeling pretty fine, though. 

The dinner would’ve been better if Derek were there.

“No phones at the table, please,” Coach Lahey said. Something about the greenness of their house made him look even more sinister than usual. Which was an impressive feat. Cause. You know. He was a literal abuser. Who regularly locked his son in a freezer in the basement. 

“Sorry,” Stiles mumbled, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

It was a symphony of awkward clacking of cutlery for the most part. Nobody there seemed comfortable enough to start a conversation about quite literally anything - Stiles didn’t want to be there if he wasn’t committing a murder, Isaac didn’t want to piss off his dad, his dad didn’t want to tip off the Sheriff, and the Sheriff was a mediocre-at-best socialiser in dinner settings. It didn’t help that there was absolutely no way Stiles could out this dickwad as the bitch baby he was within the span of one dinner without just getting kicked out and grounded, and making Isaac take the blow in the end anyway.

But then Lahey cleared his throat, turned to the Sheriff and said, “Your son was quite the powerhouse at that game the other week, huh?”

Stiles shovelled some spinach into his mouth.

Noah beamed, “Yeah, he was,” it was the softest he’d looked since Stiles had gotten stranded in this godforsaken timeline, “We’re really proud of him. It’s meant a lot to find something he can focus his energy on, you know?”

“Hm,” Lahey hummed, cracked lips forming some sort of bitter smirk, “My son’s never played half as well. We can only dream, huh, son?” 

The way Isaac sort of vanished into himself - it was so jarring. Stiles only ever recognised him as this snarky, cocky, too-big-for-his-own-boots asshole who only derived pleasure from wearing scarves out-of-season and threatening to kill people. Not this meek little boy who was scared to even look his own father in the eye. 

It made a familiar rage begin to burn through him, “You could lose your son at any moment, and you’re gonna spend your limited time together only caring about that?”

Lahey’s brows rose, “Excuse me?”

Noah winced, “Stiles, please.”

“What?” Stiles shrugged, “You know better than anyone. That’s your son, dude,” he growled, turning back to the man at the head of the table, “You should try treating him like one–”

“I know damn well what it’s like to lose a son,” Lahey growled, “I don’t think it’s your place to tell me how to parent the only kid I have left.”

It rendered Stiles speechless. 

His dad swallowed audibly beside him, “Uh.”

Oh. This was Stiles’ own personal hell.

“You two were here to trade comics, right?” Noah said, rough and uncomfortable.

Stiles nodded furiously, as Isaac blinked back to reality and hummed in affirmation.

“That’s cool,” Noah tried, “What, uh, what ones did you both get out of it?”

He had to do a mental scan of his backpack to actually remember what Isaac gave him. The food was going cold. He wanted to leave. 

“I gave him my first two Watchmen issues,” Isaac answered carefully, “And he gave me two of his Champions ones.”

Stiles blinked. Why the hell did he make that trade? They’re not even the same universe.

“Oh,” Noah nodded, “What, um, what are the… champion stories about?”

Isaac gave Stiles a desperate look. Stiles just shovelled more cold spinach into his mouth. This dinner was doomed from the start. He was officially giving up. And the sooner it was over, the sooner he could be back home and certain that Derek hadn’t packed his shit and moved in with his sisters.

“Well,” Isaac said eventually, “Uh, one of the ones I got is about the Black Widow’s, um, backstory?” Noah nodded along. Stiles stared straight down at his plate. “Uh, so it, like, introduces the character that… kidnapped her… as a kid and… trained her to be an assassin.”

The room fell to silence. 

Noah spoke, cutting through that silence like a knife, “I see.”

The silence continued.

They were back to clacking cutlery and tense avoidance of eye contact.

It stayed that way until everyone finished eating, to which Noah insisted on helping with the dishes, and Lahey started kicking off again.

“Oh, no, that’s Isaac’s job,” he said, “I’m trying to teach him responsibility.”

Isaac turned his gaze down to his empty plate, pushing his chair out with a harsh screech of wood.

“I’m not gonna make a guest clean up after him,” he said. 

If only there was a way he could somehow convince Lahey to punch his son in the face. Not because he wanted Isaac to get punched in the face. Especially by his dad. But. In front of the Sheriff? He’d be locked up immediately. Goodbye, Lahey, hello, happy days. Honestly, Stiles would be better at getting away with his murder than Isaac would be at asking for help. And, hey, Stiles knew exactly how easy it was for Isaac to get over his father’s death. He was sure it was more complicated than it looked from the outside. But still. Murder was still excessively high on Stiles’ list of ideas at the moment. I mean, if he’s gonna kill Kate, he might as well keep the energy going.

Isaac didn’t meet his eyes as he took his plate. Stiles didn’t say another word until they were in the car.

His dad didn’t even turn on the ignition before he spoke, “Stiles, what the hell was that?”

“What was what?”

“You know what.” He still hadn’t turned the car on. “Is there something about Isaac’s dad you want to tell me?”

Stiles turned to him. He ground his teeth at the harsh look of his dad’s eyes. He took in a breath, “Is there anything I can tell you that you can do anything about? And it won’t make everything a thousand times worse?”

That harsh look changed - it didn’t soften, just changed, “If something serious is actually going on,” the Sheriff said slowly, carefully, “and you have real proof. You have to be honest with me, Stiles.”

Stiles blinked at him, “How am I supposed to get proof of Isaac’s psychotic dad locking him in a freezer in the basement and beating the shit out of him?”

Noah’s brows shot up, jaw falling slack as he brought a hand over to rub at it, “Jesus, Stiles. You better not be joking about something like that.”

“I’m dead serious.”

“What is–” He shook his head, stammering for a moment, lost for words, “How do these things follow you everywhere? I swear to God, this town was perfectly calm two weeks ago.”

“As if,” Stiles grumbled, “It’s still Beacon Hills. Even if I’m long gone. This place attracts madness. That’s not my fault.”

His dad said nothing to that. Finally turning the key in the ignition and allowing the car to rumble to life. Stiles just sunk back into his seat. They stayed silent the whole drive back. Stiles just barely ignored the itch to reach for his phone. If his dad was already getting sick of him, there was no way Derek wasn’t. There was no way Derek was happy to keep putting up with everything Stiles continued to put him through. That he was okay with this purgatory, the endless limbo of loss and gain and loss again. The guilt that brewed in Stiles’ chest at the thought of it made him inexplicably mad. The fact that Derek was just taking it.

With no way to vent it out, that anger - irrational, he’d admit - was left to brew and grow for the duration of the drive home. And then they walked in. Just as silent as they’d been in the car. 

Perhaps that was why Claudia didn’t stop talking. 

“But that’s not his fault,” she said, “It’s mine. You know that, honey.”

Derek didn’t say anything back. If he did, it was hushed enough to be muted by the single wall and the open doorway between them and the kitchen.

“But you don’t want it to happen?” Claudia asked.

“I want her dead,” Derek said stiffly, “But I just… I see… When I did it– before.”

Stiles watched as his dad vanished into the living room. He didn’t turn the TV on. He didn’t make a noise.

Stiles couldn’t move.

Then Derek whispered, “I can still see her body on the floor now.”

They both went quiet. For a long moment.

“Do you not want him to do it?”

“No,” Derek said, “He doesn’t have a choice anyway. But I’m not scared of the future like he is. I’m… I’m only scared of the past.”

Why was he speaking to her? Why was Derek talking to her? He couldn’t be open about these things with Stiles, but he could tell her about it? Claudia? She– That... 

“You should get some rest, Derek,” Claudia said, so much softer than anything she’d said to Stiles in recent memory, “The future’s gonna wear you down, too.”

Derek hesitated a moment, “Thank you, Claudia.”

One last passing silence fell over the room.

That woman helped murder his entire family. And he wasn’t mad at her, either. Stiles had always known that he was unreasonably selfless. Far too forgiving. The simple fact that he didn’t ever burn the Argents alive, that he worked with them, was absolutely mind-bending to him. Even if he still hated all of their guts for allowing Kate to do what she did to him, he never took it out on them. Stiles refused to be another person he was scared to be honest with. He refused to let that resentment build up. It would tear them apart. And he could not lose Derek. Especially not if it was his own fault. 

He was sat cross-legged on his bed when Derek finally came in. 

The camera blinked on his desk. Stiles didn’t even notice it anymore. 

“How was Isaac’s?” Derek asked, dipping his head into the closet and out of view. Stiles just watched him. The wolf’s shoulder’s flexed, “You didn’t kill his dad?”

“Why aren’t you mad at me?”

Derek froze. 

“You should be mad at me,” Stiles said.

Derek moved back, bringing his face back into view to show the furrow of his brows. The frown on his lips. The question in his eyes.

Stiles’ chest almost tore itself open, desperation stabbing through the tortured tendons in his arms, “You should hate me. Derek. Look at what I’ve done to you. I held your dead family just within reach and then tore them away. I didn’t tell you before I sat in a room with Kate for an hour and a half. I burned down the Hale House. The only other people you love don’t remember you ever existed. I can’t even kill Kate correctly– I– I’m going to kill Scott. Why don’t you– Why do you not hate me? Why the hell aren’t you angry at me?”

He climbed off the bed. 

“I need you to get mad at me, Derek,” he said.

Derek stared back at him. 

He didn’t even look like he was breathing. He was completely, utterly still.

Stiles ground his jaw together, “Get mad, Derek. Please.” His lip quivered, “Get mad, so I can fucking feel better.”

“I am angry,” Derek said.

Stiles stopped. The carpet pressed into his bare feet. 

“Of course I’m angry,” Derek nodded his head, taking in a sharp breath, “But I don’t see how lashing out against you is going to help either of us.”

“What is wrong with you? ” Stiles hissed, “You’re Derek Hale. The angriest man in Beacon Hills. Anger is your anchor–”

“Not anymore,” he said softly, “You’re my anchor now.”

Stiles shouldn’t have been shocked about that. And maybe he wasn’t. Maybe it was just the fact that, after everything they’d been through over the last few weeks, months, however damn long they’d been fighting for their lives together, Derek could somehow still find safety in Stiles. Stability. Humanity. The man that he knew was going to kill an innocent kid. 

He didn’t understand. 

Then Derek’s eyes softened and he said, “You do know I’m not the Derek you left behind, right?”

And Stiles’ heart might have stopped beating. Just for a second. His whole being shook. Those thoughts - the memories, the mistimed fantasies - they were not something Derek was supposed to know about. That other Derek could haunt Stiles as much as he wanted to, but that had nothing to do with the version of him he had. The one he got to keep. This Derek could never understand what Stiles felt about that other version of him any better than Stiles could. And he might never figure it out himself.

“What?” He forced out.

Derek’s brows quirked up, “Your reluctant ally? I’m sure he was a lot angrier than me. He didn’t have you. Not like I do. Thank God for that, actually, that probably would’ve been really weird. Considering he would’ve met you when you were, like, fifteen.”

Stiles could hardly even react. He forced down whatever emotions bubbled up at the shit he was saying, but something in his face clearly gave too much away. Derek stepped forward and brought a hand up to hold his face. To stroke at that scar on his cheek.

He shook his head, “Are you okay?”

“What?” Stiles blinked, “Yes. What? Are you okay? Please be okay.”

Derek’s brows quirked up, “I’m fine.”

Stiles swallowed forcibly, “So, you’re not… You’re not gonna leave?”

“What?” Derek shook his head again, “Why would I leave??”

“Because I hurt you!” Stiles cried, “I made you promise you’d leave if I hurt you!!”

Derek stopped, blinking as he seemed to fight for the words, “You… I…” His brows did something insane, “Jesus, Stiles. Is this all about the Kate thing?” Stiles couldn’t speak. “I was upset, yeah, but I’m not gonna leave you for making one mistake. Are you serious?”

“You screamed at me to ‘go’, Derek.”

“I needed you to wash her scent off before I freaked out even worse than I already was over her scent mixing with yours!” Derek said, “With ours! Of course, I know you’re going to be around her because you’re going to kill her, but I… Just– tell me, the next time you’re gonna come home smelling like her. And fear. And… stew. For some reason.”

Stiles’ whole body felt utterly weak, “So you’re not leaving me?”

Derek’s eyes shifted around him, eyeing him so critically it cut a hole in his chest. Then he lifted his other arm to start to wrap them both around him, uttering, “Just come here, you massive idiot.”

“Oh, thank God,” Stiles squeaked, grabbing him right back and clenching at his ribs like a vice, “I thought I was gonna die if you left.”

“That’s really concerning.”

“No, it’s not. I have big feelings.”

 

-

 

Stiles was pretty sure his dad watched him sleep that night. Not in a creepy way - just the way parents sometimes say they like to. His mom used to do that. Before she got sick. He would wake up in the middle of the night and catch a brief glimpse of her, sat on the tiny chair at his desk, before he slipped back into dreams. He only saw as much of his dad that night. He tried not to think about it.

Apparently, it was the weekend again. He wondered how he’d lost a whole week, but he didn’t spend long thinking about it. Instead, he got up bright and early and went to visit Lydia. God knows if he’d done that at all since she got put there. Either way, Derek happily tagged along. An unfortunate lack of a verifiable licence, however, left them taking the bus. That was suboptimal, especially considering Stiles had spent the last four-and-a-half years exclusively driving, and before that being driven. So a damp, over-crowded, thirty-minutes-late bus was, you know. A bit of a downgrade. The public transport of Beacon Hills was a sorry, underfunded mess, that’s all Stiles had to say about it.

Jackson was by her bed when they got there. Face pressed into the sheets and hand wrapped tight around Lydia’s. The heart rate monitor by her bed beating nice and steady on the opposite side of the bed to him. His head tilted, ever so slightly, against the crisp, cheap sheets. And he spoke.

“Are you finally gonna tell me what’s wrong with her?”

Stiles stepped into the room, with Derek following close behind. 

“Nobody’s told you?” The wolf asked.

Jackson lifted his head, eyes accented by deep, dark circles, with an even deeper frown, “Cora has no idea. Laura has no idea. The guy that bit the both of us has vanished off the face of the Earth. I haven’t seen you in two weeks,” he turned his glare to Stiles, “and every time I’ve spoken to you, you’ve just ignored me and walked off as if you’re in a fugue state.”

Stiles quirked his head, “Life’s been crazy recently.”

Two weeks.

She had to wake up soon, didn’t she?

Derek moved past him to stand by the top of the bed, just beside where her head rested, with her strawberry-blonde hair spread out across the pillow. Her long lashes casting shadows on her cheekbones. Chest rising and falling. An image of sleeping beauty. A ticking time bomb. 

“She’s a banshee,” he said softly, “The wailing woman. Harbinger of death. You know.” Jackson’s little face was so confused. So helpless. Stiles swallowed down his dread, “The bite won’t react normally with her. She’s sort of… immune to the supernatural. For the most part.” He itched to reach out and card his fingers through her hair; to make pretend she trusted him enough to bring her any comfort at all. He sighed, “She’ll wake up soon. It’ll be scary. More for her than us. But she’ll be okay.” His eyes sharpened, “Well, as ‘okay’ as anyone can be when they constantly black out and come to staring at dead bodies, or prophesying people’s deaths, or hallucinating, or being sort of possessed-slash-brainwashed into bringing people back from the dead– You get the point.”

“Peter did that to her?” Jackson asked. His voice was rough with sleep and horror in equal parts. Stiles understood. He really, really did. “Did he know what he was doing?”

“I don’t know.”

“He carved your name on the wall by her body,” Jackson snarled, “Did he do this because of you?”

He never let go of Lydia’s hand. Even as his whole body seemed to be fighting against the urge to get up and attack. To lash out and hit anything that would bleed, so the blood of her felt less personal. 

Stiles’ brows twitched, “He heard me when I said I tried to kill him for this Last Time. If he did it on purpose, that means he wants to die.”

“Then why aren’t we killing him?” The beta snapped, “If he wants to die, I’d be more than happy to–”

“Okay, you do not need to become the Alpha, dude, no offence,” Stiles shook his head, reaching over to nudge an unruly piece of hair from Lydia’s forehead, “That’s not happening. We’re gonna find another way to deal with this. Alright? It’s not like she’s dying–”

“Well, that’s not what it feels like!” Jackson cried, “She’s my best friend! Do you– Do you have any idea what it’s like to see your best friend like this? It– It feels like– at any moment, if I take my eyes off of her, she’ll be gone when I look back. I can’t lose her! She’s all I fucking have!” His thumb pressed hard, back and forth, against her hand in his as he spoke. The claws never came out. His eyes never flashed. 

If he could anchor himself to her, then maybe this could all work out. Scott could stay out of it. Everything would actually - not by way of potentially problematic coping mechanisms - be fine.

“You know, I don’t actually know what you two are to each other here,” Stiles said carefully, “I’ve seen you two be a couple that hated each other, exes that loved each other, exes who were close friends… But not whatever you are now.” Jackson’s face scrunched up. Stiles tilted his head, “Do you wanna tell me about her?”

He watched his face soften. Those tired eyes turned to her sleeping face.

 

-

 

Jackson realised he was gay when he was twelve. Lydia had been the entire reason.

Scott was exactly the same back then. As he started to outgrow the loss of his best friend. The only real difference between him then and now was the growth spurt he had when he turned fifteen and the muscles he’d built from training to sit on the bench with his inhaler in his bag, rested against his foot. Only, back then, they were a lot closer than they are now. 

That was the problem. 

He’d never met Stiles. He was the only person Scott knew that hadn’t ever met his best friend. Somehow, it seemed like that was a dream come true for him. Like Jackson walking into first period in Sixth Grade was a gift from the heavens and not random scheduling. Though, Jackson would be a liar if he said that Scott magnetising himself to him wasn’t the best part of the first year of Middle School. Scott was one of the oldest in the year - a September kid - and Jackson was always one for trying to climb the social ladder. Scott didn’t have a lot of athleticism going for him, but that wasn’t his fault. His birthday had little to do with his actual self, either, but, as a child, being one of the oldest in the year was one of the greatest powers you could have. 

That was the reason Jackson told himself he befriended Scott.

It was really because Scott complimented his backpack. Lacrosse-themed. He’d been distracted by the uneven tilt of his jaw when he spoke, and asked him to repeat himself. The second time, he was distracted by his eyes. 

Jackson was the only one who didn’t treat him like glass. Scott had said that it wasn’t as bad anymore. That people had moved on a little. It’d been a year, anyway. Jackson had told him it was okay to not be okay about it. In return, Scott had just smiled. Jackson had thought he was getting sick. He had to have had a fever, he figured. Scott had told him about Stiles. Only sometimes. He’d mention him when they passed by comic book stores, or laced the nets of their lacrosse sticks, or when a certain song would play on the radio. 

Still, even with the ease of their lack of expectations, hanging out with Scott left Jackson tense. As if he’d been putting up a front. Especially whenever girls came up. Scott asked him if he had a crush on anyone, once. Something about that question made him panic, eyes shifting away instantly and searching, grasping for any girl at all. Until, eventually, they landed on her. The straight-A queen bee princess: Lydia Martin. A glowing head of red hair and near-clinical perfection. She was pretty. If Jackson thought she was pretty, that had to mean he liked her. Right?

“Lydia,” he forced out, “I like Lydia. I guess.”

Scott’s face had done something he hadn’t ever really seen before, “Woah,” he said, mouth breaking into a little private smile, “Stiles liked Lydia.”

Jackson hadn’t known what to say to that. 

“Well, why don’t you ask her out?” Scott had asked, eyes lit up like amber in the sun.

Some sort of a chill had passed through him. The spring breeze, he’d thought. Jackson had shrugged. 

“Why?” He’d asked.

Scott had looked at him like he was crazy, “So she can be your girlfriend, duh. She might even let you hug her!”

“Why would she say yes?”

Scott had frowned, “Why wouldn’t she?”

In hindsight, there were a lot of reasons why. But Jackson wasn’t aware of himself enough to understand why he didn’t want her to be his girlfriend. And she was not aware of herself enough to understand why she wanted to say no. So, Jackson came up to her after school that day and asked her to be his girlfriend. And she said yes. After giving him a scathing look up and down that was far too intimidating for an eleven-year-old girl. 

She’d later tell him it was because she was assessing whether or not he was pretty enough to boost her social standing. If he hadn’t known it for sure before then, that would’ve set in stone the face that they were meant to be. Maybe just not romantically. He was pretty sure they were the only two eleven-year-olds who thought like that. 

Lydia and Scott hadn’t really meshed. The only time they seemed to get along was when they were studying together. Only for biology, though. Anything else and she would get so frustrated, caught between her need to correct him and her need to fawn around and seem helpless to everyone else, that she’d lash out and make him cry. They’d fight about that sometimes.

That was how she figured it out. 

That was how they both figured it out. 

It’d been explosive, that particular fight. In the way most kids’ fights are. Everything seems so much bigger than it really is when you’re that small.

“We’re boyfriend and girlfriend!” She’d screeched, “Why do you care more about him than me?”

Jackson hadn’t known the answer to that, and it made an anger start to build inside of him, “I don't know! I mean. He. I don’t! I care about you equally!”

Her little face had scrunched up, bright red, “You care about him like a girlfriend??”

Jackson had felt sick to his stomach. Like he’d gotten caught in something. 

“No,” he’d forced out and, even to him, it felt like a lie. 

It was terrifying.

Lydia’s brows had drawn together, “Jackson. Do you love me?”

Jackson had shaken his head, “I don’t know. We’ve only been dating for a few months. My parents didn’t say that for way longer.”

“But that’s forever!” She’d cried, “Heather and Danny said ‘I love you’ three days in!”

“Yeah, but they broke up! Danny’s gay, remember?”

“Are you?”

“What?”

“Are you gay?”

“No!”

“Do you like Scott?”

Jackson lasted five seconds before he burst into tears. Lydia had hesitated, but she’d pulled him into a hug anyway. It was awkward, with her being far shorter than him, all bones and angles. But he’d given in, anyway.

“Why am I crying?” He’d hiccuped, “It’s not that big of a deal. Everyone loves Danny and he’s gay.”

Lydia’s jaw had dug into his shoulder, “You’re not Danny.”

“What the heck is that supposed to mean?”

Lydia shrugged, “Not everyone can be Danny.”

Jackson hadn’t understood her point. Even now, he thinks she didn’t either. 

But after a moment, she’d said, “If it makes you feel better, I think I might be too.”

“What?” He’d sniffled.

“Oh, forget it,” she’d shaken her head, “Later. Let’s go beg your mom for ice cream.”

Somehow, they’d figured it out. People thought their childhood romance was so sweet, and precious, and perfect. Jackson didn’t want anyone other than Scott, as mortifying as that was. Lydia had a fine enough time entertaining herself with watching that Hale girl at any chance she got. They’d mock each other for it all often enough. Jackson was sure that if they had dated properly, they never would’ve gotten half as close as they had through playing this charade. 

Lydia got him like no one else did. She knew his deepest, darkest secrets. All the things he’d never tell Scott. Or Danny. Or any of the random people that trailed him and Lydia like pathetic groupies. She was the only person he told when he found out he was adopted. The only one who knew how bad that had fucked his whole world up.

But then came the things he couldn’t even tell her.

Because then came werewolves. And time travel. And magic and resurrection and alphas, betas, omegas - things he had to protect her from, not things he could fight with her.

Not until now. 

And she was the only one who knew everything else until now. Now Stiles and Derek knew even more than she did. 

He just needed her to wake up. He needed his best friend back.

 

-

 

Secrets were a tough thing to deal in. Stiles often felt like he was better off not knowing. But he’d always know more than everyone else. That was a simple fact of time travel. So, he knew how rare it was for Jackson to care like he did here. And he wanted to help him. Sure, a part of that was his need to keep them all on his good side. But it was for him, too. 

He was going to heal Lydia.

There was a chance it could fuck things up if he did. He was aware of that. Clearly whatever his mom did to heal Peter hadn’t helped a whole lot. He didn’t know if messing with her own healing process would just hurt her more - if it would tamper with her power, her very being. 

Surely the grimoire would have something about it in there. Stiles headed home alone to pick it up. 

You know, the real problem with secrets is that they never last. Not when they matter. 

He’d thought his dad had a shift that day. But there he was, catching his sight out of the corner of his eye, sat at the dining table.

Surrounded by whiskey bottles and police files. 

He rubbed at his face with his palm, and his eyes drooped as they met Stiles’ through the open doorway. Stiles’ stomach lurched.

“I thought you were supposed to be at work,” he murmured. 

Noah nodded unevenly, his head dipping just slightly too low, as if a weight were tethered to his chin, “Yeah, well. I couldn’t… bring myself to go in today.”

Stiles’ body started to flare up with panic - he forgot all about the grimoire, “What? Why? What’s wrong, where’s… Mom?” His dad just turned his gaze down to the papers in his hand, tapping away at the table. The near-empty bottle of Jack, and a cleaned-out whiskey glass by his right hand. Stiles felt nauseous, “How much have you drunk?” He stepped into the room, “It’s not even noon, Dad– What the hell are you doing?”

The Sheriff stared vacantly at the paper in his hands for another long moment as Stiles lifted a piece up off the table - some witness report about a green Kia Soul, “I’m going over a case.”

Stiles didn’t say anything. He put the paper down.

Noah grumbled into his hand, “A ten-year-old boy, shot dead in an alley on his way to the corner store. Witnesses describe a blonde woman in a bright green Kia Soul leaving the area.”

He was holding his breath. His dad looked up to meet his eyes.

“Five years later, that boy turns up alive,” he said, “And I’ve gotta ask. Which story do you like better?” Stiles’ brows came together. His dad tilted his head, “The Red Room,” he said, “Or inter-dimensional time travel?”

Whatever he would’ve said, desperate, confused denials, dead on his tongue, were stopped before they could even start by a raised, calloused hand. 

“I watched your mother talk to you, you know,” he said, “I watched her sit on that tree stump and talk to herself for hours. I thought she’d lost her goddamn mind. But then you came back. Just like she’d said you would.” He nodded his head, still wobbling as it had before, “And you came back with Derek Hale. A kid with no record of having ever existed. As if there was any way the Hales could have a secret child that even they don’t know about.”

Stiles saw Malia. He saw the millions of things he could not explain to his father. Not now. 

Then Noah started to laugh - a rough, distressed grating chuckle, “I just don’t understand. Can you please just… Just tell me the truth, Stiles.”

“I don’t…”

Noah slammed the papers in his hand down onto the table - photographs. A boy in hideous green jeans and a DC t-shirt. Parts of his jeans turned deep brown with blood. The gravel soaked with red. Hair. Skin. Brain matter. 

Stiles forced himself not to gag. Like putting up a barrier around himself. Padding. All feeling seeping out in a last-ditch effort to protect himself from letting it all get worse. 

“That was you,” Noah growled, “So, explain to me how I’ve been leaving flowers at the wrong kid’s grave this whole time. Explain to me what in the holy hell happened to you, Stiles.”

“I can’t,” Stiles said carefully.

“Oh, like hell you can’t,” the Sheriff boomed, rising out of his chair and knocking the table. The bottle of whiskey wobbled on the surface. Those photos scattered out. 

Stiles couldn’t look away.

“Tell me why you’re so scared of your mom. Tell me how you survived for five years, God knows where, and somehow ended up telling an identical story to Derek, only for that story to be ripped straight from a damned Marvel comic.”

He couldn’t speak. He could hardly breathe. 

“And then I’m here, watching you talk to Derek through those cameras about shit that makes no sense– About killing Scott?’

Stiles’ lip quivered.

“Tell me the truth, Stiles,” he snarled.

He couldn’t hear anything but his beating heart.

“Tell me the truth. Tell me the fucking truth!! ”

A flash of panic. 

Sudden heartache. 

A gasping breath.

And Stiles answered with the truth.

“Your son is dead.”

The room fell to silence.

His dad poured himself another drink.

Notes:

yeouch

i often want to punch stiles in the face. that means im writing him the way i intended. hes SO me. also 'you do know i'm not the derek you left behind, right?' has not left my mind since i first thought about it. hhhhaaaaaahaha

NOOAAAAHHHHHHHHHH 😫

the comic page is technically here

Chapter 5: Knowing It

Summary:

Peter changes angles. Stiles thinks on the past.

Notes:

IM OKAY. IM OMAY. IMAAAAAA this one is CRAZY omg

So many ppl just don’t Get Me it’s tragic. hope u enjoy tho. if u don’t, I DONT. WANT TO HEAR IT. I AAM SENSITIVE

THE TITLE. THE TITLE BRI. BRO IVE BEEN WAITI NG FOR THISS SINCE LIKE VISIONARY IN TAFA OMFG anyway no spoilers have fun xoxoxo

playlist here!! 

Was there any chance that it would ever get easier? Telling the truth, unravelling people’s realities, doing what was necessary. 

Because when he had to watch his dad knock back another full fist of whiskey and sob into his mother’s arms at the discovery that his son was gone, all over again, he didn’t think it ever would. He’d listened as Stiles told him the whole story, every single detail, until he had nothing left to say. Neither of them did. To hear a man you thought was a miracle tell you that he was someone else. That you hadn’t gotten anything back. Just a cheap knockoff with nowhere else to go. That your wife was meant to die instead of your son, that magic was real and there was no getting away from it. But even that wouldn’t bring your little boy back.

Then Claudia came home, and he broke down.

She’d stared at Stiles through that crack the doorway like she had on that rooftop. 

Like she hated every inch of him.

It all made his arms hurt far worse than they had been. It’d kind of faded into the background over time. Like white noise. But now. Now it was loud. And demanding. And, fuck, it hurt. Like someone was dragging a blade through his arteries and grinding back up. Over. And over. And over.

So he got the grimoire from his room. He turned the nanny cam face-down on his desk. He called Derek. He left the house. And he started walking.

-

 

When Derek got that call and left him with nothing more than a grimace and a sorry look to Lydia’s unconscious body, Jackson didn’t think twice before he chased after him. 

“Hey, what the hell’s going on? Why isn’t he coming back?” He barked. The linoleum flooring squeaked beneath his shoes. 

Derek barely looked back over his shoulder, “We have to do something else right now. Lydia’ll be fine.”

“Did he say he told his dad everything? ” Jackson hissed.

The man - a freak, if you asked Jackson - continued down the hallway until he turned out of sight, voice still carrying through the air as clear as it would if he were stood right in front of him as he said, “I guess people are being open today. You shouldn’t eavesdrop, Jackson. It’s rude.”

God, Jackson did not like that dude. Not just because he totally wasn’t a real person. Or because he constantly stank of fear. And his heart told lies. Just because he was… scary. He knew perfectly well how much of a bullshit front that whole kidnapping story was, but whatever had actually happened to him to bring him here, with Stiles, was definitely far worse. And he did not want to fuck with a guy who’d been through worse than that. To be fair, anything that left you attached to the hip with a man like Stiles had to be pretty damn bad.

He knew how afraid of Stiles everyone else was. Jackson found him more irritating than anything. Why would he be scared, anyway? He wasn’t a teenage girl - he was a werewolf. A teen wolf, sure, but a wolf either way. He could hear an attack coming from miles away, react in a millisecond, and heal from anything he can’t dodge within minutes. Some idiot time-traveller with an undiagnosed anxiety disorder didn’t scare him.

What he did do was mess his life up. And get his best friend sent into a banshee-werewolf coma. 

God, he hated both of those assholes so bad. Although he could respect how perfect their bullshitting asses were for each other. At least they seemed it. He was a werewolf, not a psychic. And definitely not a love guru.

In any case, he didn’t spend long dwelling on it. Not when something was wrong with Lydia.

He couldn’t hear her heartbeat. 

And he really didn’t care about Derek or Stiles anymore. Because he scrambled back into her room, almost bursting the door off its hinges, to the sight of an empty bed. A sight that had his own heartbeat blaring out far too loud in his ears. 

She wasn’t there. 

She wasn’t anywhere.

He could just barely catch her scent, trailing out to the bathroom off the side of the room.

The window was wide open.

Lydia had vanished. 

She was awake.

She wasn’t human anymore.

And, shit, Jackson had to find her right fucking now.

-

 

“Oh, sweet babies,” Allison cooed. Bottom lip jutting out and brows tilting upward as her heart swelled in her chest. The question parried through her mind as to whether the kittens or Scott were cuter. “You get to work with these guys every day?? Are you kidding?”

The little ginger kitty in her lap rolled over, nuzzling its only ear against the inside of her knee and falling into the gap between her legs. She almost melted on the spot.

“Well, four times a week. We call that little guy Vincent,” Scott said, dropping down to sit criss-cross-apple-sauce just like her, right in front of her, with a bigger tuxedo cat in his arms.

Allison snickered, “‘Cause of the ear?”

Scott nodded, with the tiny smile and his puppy eyes enough to make her doubt she needed to take a single look at the real puppies’ room - she wasn’t much of a dog person, anyway. Scott stroked the cat in his lap along its back, watching with a sparkle in his eye as it stretched out with each swipe of his palm to press back against the touch.

“What’s that one called?” She asked.

He gave her a flash of teeth before he answered, “Intercom.”

The giggle that forced out of her felt entirely uncharacteristic, “You named the cat Intercom? ”

Scott gave her a sheepish look, “That depends. Do you think it’s funny or stupid?”

“I think it’s perfect,” Allison said softly through her giggles, “That little guy is definitely an Intercom.”

She had to snort at the absurdity of her own words, revelling still in the way Scott’s face melted at the sound. Because he liked her. And he was sharing his adorably nerdy interests with him, and he was sweet, and sensitive, and he hadn’t tried to pressure her into anything which was a damn rarity those days. Oh, she really, really, liked him. And somehow he’d gotten her sitting on the floor of the back room of a veterinary clinic playing with injured, homeless kittens. 

Oh, boy.

The jingle of the bell on the front door chimed out through the two walls between them, and Scott perked up just in time for his boss to call out from the main treatment room, “Get the door for me, Scott?”

“Sorry,” he winced, “You good to wait in here?”

Allison gave him her best, most playful look of suspicion, “I doubt the kittens are gonna kill me while you’re gone.”

He gave her another guilty smile and rose to his feet, placing Intercom - what a stupid name - back in its cage with a sorrowful meow, rushing out of the room as quick as he could. It was surprisingly easy to hear through that door - she thought they’d want more noise reduction on the single barrier between them an a couple dozen sick and injured cats. Let alone the dogs’ room. To be fair, when they left the room, they seemed far less bothered with making any noise. Point being, she could hear all the way out to the front desk from where she sat. 

Light orange fur separated into near-white beneath her pointer finger. 

“Stiles? Derek?” Scott said from out front.

Her finger stopped.

Vincent made a little chirping sort of noise. She would’ve been star-struck if she wasn’t suddenly panicking.  

Deaton put something down in the next room over.

“Hey, Scott, I need to talk to Deaton. Like, right now,” Stiles said.

“You know my boss? I– Did you guys hit an animal, or something?”

“Don’t give me any ideas.”

“Wait, you can’t… drive. Nevermind.”

She could hear Deaton’s feet rushing across the floor before his voice called out, “Stiles!”

“How do you know each other??”

“He’s a family friend,” Deaton said, “I used to be very close with his mother. And, well. Who doesn’t know him now, right?”

Allison was right. Everyone in this town was absolutely crazy.

“Scott,” the vet said then, “How about you go grab your friend? You can finish early today. Not much for you to do, anyway. And I doubt removing a dog’s anal glands is something she’s very interested in watching.”

He was right about that much. 

God damn it, were Scott’s best friend and boss both murderers? What was actually going on? This was like something out of a goddamn movie. And not even a good one. One that she’d walk out of half way through after spilling her popcorn because the plot was so hard to follow there was no point in staying. 

“Uh, sure,” Scott said slowly, “Is everything okay?”

“Oh, absolutely!” Deaton said, “You weren’t even supposed to come in today, anyway. The Lord’s day, right?”

“Yeah, sure. I guess. Uh. I’ll go get Allison, then.”

With a sudden surge of sharp pain from her bottom lip, she realised she’d been gnawing at it. Vincent flipped over in her lap, jumped up, and stumbled over her thigh onto his head, kicking at the air until he contorted his body back upright. She stared at him in fascination. Then he started yelling at her. 

“Oh, my God, you’re loud,” she murmured. The kitten just kept meowing.

Scott came through the door like her savior, scooping Vincent up and locking him back up with a brief stroke of his back, gently spewing apologies - possibly to the both of them. Allison just silently yanked at his collar until he got it together and started following her out of the room. 

She didn’t look at Stiles on her way out. Or Derek. But, hey, Derek wasn’t the one who half-confessed to actual murder in front of her two weeks ago.

She felt sick. Deep and heavy in her very core. With that little pang of insecurity insisting that maybe he had to. Maybe it wasn’t his fault. As if her body was reaching for a way to forgive him for it. But it wasn’t her that he killed. So it didn’t matter either way.

“I’m sorry,” Scott mumbled, once they were in her car.

“For what?” Allison asked, burying the bone-deep horror beneath her adolescent sincerity, “I got to cuddle with kittens. Score. We can just… drive around. See where the wind takes us.” She turned on the ignition. Scott facened his seatbelt. She started to drive.

“One kitten,” he grumbled, “You cuddled one kitten… My boss doesn’t usually kick me out when a ‘family friend’ comes around. Then again, he doesn’t seem to… have many friends. I mean, Laura Hale stopped by once about a month ago.” He stopped. His voice trailing off into silence for a moment just slightly too long before he continued, “That was only a few days before Stiles came home.”

Allison’s fingers curled tighter around the leather of her steering wheel, “Oh.”

The conversation fizzled out from there. Neither of them said much of anything, besides Scott occasionally pointing out a dog on the sidewalk with such genuine excitement it almost made her feel better about his best friend being an undead murderer. Then they drove past the school. There were no cars in the parking lot, just two bikes on the racks - one that had been there since long before she moved here. The front door was cracked open; a link of chains abandoned on the floor.

“Scott,” she said slowly, teasingly, as she took her foot off the accelerator, “Have you ever snuck into school on a weekend?” 

Scott’s head turned to her in her peripheral, “Uh, no. Why?”

“Do you want to?” She asked. His eyes were wide when she met them.

“I mean,” he pouted, “What would we do?”

“I don’t know,” she mused, “There’s always the pools.”

Scott’s brows met in the middle, “I can’t swim. The asthma.”

Allison shrugged, turning the wheel as the car slowly rolled into the parking lot, “Well, who says you have to do laps? You don’t even have to leave the steps.”

“We don’t have swim suits.”

“I guess if you don’t swim you won’t know,” Allison said, feigning concern as she pulled into a parking space, “Underwear’s just as good as any swim suit.”

And she watched with a grin as Scott’s face turned beet red. 

He swallowed, and his Adam’s apple bobbed as he did - Allison wanted to kiss it, “Okay. Sure. Let’s sneak in.”

-

 

Erica and Boyd snuck in first. Only difference being Erica and Boyd took the bus. Erica didn’t mind it. She couldn’t drive because of her epilepsy, anyway, so complaining about public transport would be utterly futile. It wasn’t a big deal, though. Most of the kids in their grade didn’t have cars yet. It was really only the rich assholes and a handful of lucky (and, occasionally, hardworking) ones who got cars under circumstances other than daddy’s money.  

Why were they breaking into the school, you ask?

Well. Why not?

“Are you sure about this?” Boyd asked as he slid the key into the padlock on the front door -  him and his keys, “I mean, what if you have a seizure?”

“Then you call an ambulance,” Erica said slowly, “It’s not rocket science. Or are you more concerned about getting caught than you are about my life?” Boyd made a contemplative noise. She slapped him across his unfairly gigantic bicep. “Don’t worry,” she said, “I’m sure Stiles will appear out of nowhere to save the day. Did you see that video of my seizure in Chemistry?”

“You mean the one where he threatened to violently murder the person recording?” Boyd asked as the chains fell to the floor, “Yeah, I saw that.” He pushed the door open, looking back over his shoulder with a grimace, “You should choose your friends more carefully. You can do a whole lot better than that psycho.”

Erica hummed, “Says the guy that risked his job to hang out with him.”

Boyd frowned, his face now framed by the lockers lining the walls behind him, “I am shockingly lonely.”

“No way,” Erica faux-gasped, “Same! We have so much in common!” She tapped at his shoulder excitedly with her palms, “Now, let’s go destroy Harris’ desk!!”

Boyd just smiled. It was something she deeply believed he should never stop doing. How the hell they’d never crossed paths until Stiles invited them both out was beyond her. It was as if he’d planned it, with the way his eyes lit up like an undisturbed night sky when she sat by him. Like he was cupid, or something. Not that they were in love or anything. No. Ew. Gross. God. Can’t a girl have a friend? 

Just a friend.

Her only friend.

Maybe the only friend she actually wanted. 

Even Stiles, the one who started all of this, hadn’t spent nearly as much time with her as Boyd had. They didn’t have each other’s numbers. Stiles wasn’t even in school half the time. When he was he didn’t seem like he was really there. He didn’t invite her out beyond that one time at the rink. Then again, his buddy Lydia seemed to be going through it at the moment. Serves her right, Erica thought. Finally a taste of what it was like to not feel like some Biblical being incarnate all the time. 

Maybe that was a bit mean to say about a girl who was a victim of a violent attack and was now in a coma. 

She was more interested in what the hell Stiles had to do with it, though. God, how she wanted to know everything. How badly she itched to know exactly what it was about all of them that drew Stiles in; who attacked Lydia and what they would do next. What Stiles would do about them. If he’d threaten murder over a video, then, well. It was another thing she wondered - how Stiles knew she hated people filming her seizures. Had that video of her last public one really gotten all the way to a random kid being held captive God-knows-where? She wouldn’t really be all that surprised.

Somehow, switching around the contents of all of Harris’ drawers and raiding his secret candy stock - score - wasn’t even the most interesting part of their break-in experience. 

“Is that Isaac?” Boyd asked suddenly, far further away than Erica remembered him being.

“Huh?” She asked, “Who? Grave-digger Isaac?”

“What?” Boyd turned back to her, looking away from the window, “Is grave-digger Isaac on the lacrosse team?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yeah,” he shook his head, “Grave-digger Isaac. Must’ve been his bike outside.”

Erica took another bite of her stolen Twix, “What’s he doing?”

“Lacrosse,” Boyd answered.

Erica blinked, “Well.” She took another bite. The wrapper crinkled loudly in her hand.

“We should go talk to him,” Boyd said.

Erica narrowed her eyes, “Okay. Why?”

The man shrugged, “He’s lonely.”

She considered him for a moment, heart clenching so torturously in her chest, “You think he likes chocolate?”

-

 

The panic of a wolf with something lost is not easily translated into terms understandable by anyone else. It’s like a pull bigger than yourself. Something cosmic. A panicked, frantic scrambling for any hint of whatever it is you need to get back.

Compulsion.

The only problem with that being Jackson had nothing there to hold him back from it. To ground him. To anchor him. Because good ol’ best bud Scotty was out with Allison today. But that wasn’t the point. That wasn’t who Jackson had just lost. It was just the fact that he couldn’t remind himself to keep himself human as he sprinted out of the hospital, with his shoes skidding and squeaking and his vision brimming with that animalistic red and his claws punching into his palms. That horrible fear of what could happen to her, what could have already happened, was clawing at him worse than that, anyway.

So he ran.

And ran.

And ran.

As he passed the gas station, he heard it for the first time. That scream.

The cry of a banshee. 

Jackson didn’t know a lot. Like how he didn’t know where exactly that noise had come from - not more than the vague direction of over there - but he knew as much about that particular part of whatever country’s folklore banshees came from as any other American highschooler. What a banshee’s cry meant. What it warned of. 

Every molecule of his body was panicking. Fritzing. Senses going haywire, urging him to run again. To keep running and running.

He got two steps before someone was calling out to him and sending him almost tumbling over his own two feet.

“Woah, there, tiger,” she said, voice booming, “Are you okay?”

Jackson’s head snapped over to look at her, narrowed eyes raking up and down and catching on the scar on her neck. The blonde hair barely covering it. A new feeling at the sight of those jagged, raised lines. Claw marks. 

Why could he smell Peter?

“Hey,” the woman’s face shifted carefully, morphing into something dangerously inquisitive, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” Jackson bit out, pressing his lips together harshly after and overtly nodding his head. The dry blood on his palms felt too cold as the air shifted. “Just… out on a walk. You know.”

“You seem to be in a bit of a hurry,” she said, “You sure I can’t offer you a ride?”

He didn’t need to also smell the faintest hints of wolfsbane around her to know that was a terrible fucking idea.

“I’m good, thanks,” he said, keeping his chin low as he stood his ground.

The woman tilted her head, “C’mon, you’re way too pretty to be out here all by yourself.”

“I said I’m good,” he growled. As human as he could manage. 

For fuck’s sake, he didn’t have time to be kidnapped and murdered by freaky, rapey hunters. None of that was on his to-do list. Not today. Not ever. To be fair, neither was becoming a werewolf. Or having to chase after Lydia before she predicted her own death.

“I should really be going,” he said through gritted teeth.

The woman’s eyes practically glittered, a hum cutting through the air, “Suit yourself, handsome. I’ll see you around.” And she slipped into her bright green Kia Soul. Amazing how she could get even more horrible. At least try to compensate for your creepiness with a better car. As if you could kidnap anyone with that monstrosity. 

Jackson had calmly jogged away from the gas station before she could get the chance to start following him. It wasn’t until he got two blocks away that he started sprinting again. Right in the direction he’d heard Lydia scream.

Fuck, how lucky had he been not to lose control in front of that woman? 

Had Jackson just almost died?

Was Lydia’s cry for him?

He wouldn’t have made it to the school in one piece if it had been, right? With Allison’s car parked outside and an eye-opening lineup of familiar scents in the air. The only one he cared about was Lydia. The only one that helped was Scott. 

Though, once the wave of calm passed over him and he found himself in control of his body again, it was the assurance Lydia being nearby that gave him the strength to do what he needed to do. To call for his pack.

So he steeled himself.

He breathed in.

He remembered all that Laura had taught him.

And he howled.

-

 

The doorbell chimed as Scott and Allison left.

“I was wondering when you’d come to see me.”

Stiles would’ve crossed his arms if moving didn’t feel like dying. He could hardly lift the grimoire up enough to show it to him.

“I need to get this thing into my skin again,” he gritted out, “Or I think I might die.”

Deaton’s brows slowly rose, “I doubt that.” He gave Derek a passing glance, then opened the barrier to that room - was it an operating theatre? A doctor’s office? What the hell do you call a room like that? - and gave them both a pointed look, “Please, come in.”

That place was suffocating. It held Stiles like a vice with its fist of near-death experiences and possession. The place where he’d held Derek’s life in his hands, where he’d held Scott just the same with a sword impaled through his stomach, where Allison had done almost exactly that to Derek, too. Where he’d died in an ice bath and lost Scott to Theo and learned what a spark was for the first time. 

Still, it was almost comforting how it was always exactly the same. That metal table in the centre of the room. Walls lined with cabinets and drawers and tools and basins. The high line of windows just before the ceiling. Though, in his mind, that grey floor was still covered in blood and water and tar. Isaac was dying there, and Derek was giving up his power to save him. 

And, fuck. His arms hurt.

“Do you mind explaining what you mean by getting that book into your skin?” Deaton asked, moving over to the table in the centre of the room - a little dog with curly white fur laid utterly still on top of it, “And, uh, don’t mind me.”

Stiles gave a critical stare to the gloves on his hands, “Right. So. My tattoos - they’re not tattoos. They’re just the left over bullshit from having my mother’s grimoire seep into my skin and, really, I don’t want it back in there, but when it’s in there, I can heal. And I think that’s the one thing I need right now that I can actually get. So a little help with getting it back would be great, oh, guru of wolves.”

Deaton casted him an amused look, “I wouldn’t call myself that. How did you… merge with the book before?”

“I am living in a Disney movie,” Stiles grumbled to himself, adjusting his grip on the spine of the book and wincing as it made the ache grow, “I don’t know, dude, Peter just threw it at me and I tried to catch it and then everything went white and I–”

It had been so warm. Like his mother’s love was being injected straight into his veins. That feeling of seeing her for the first time. Forgetting everything she’d done. When she was comfort, and strength, and love. How she’d turned into a confidante by the end. Until he found out the truth. What she did. Who she hurt. Who she killed. How she’d cursed herself to try to kill Stiles while her best friend sat, conscious and frozen, burned into his own prison, in the same building. He would’ve heard it all. He would’ve heard her heart stop. He would’ve heard Stiles screaming.

Stiles could not hate him anymore. 

He swallowed, with his throat clicking as he did, “I woke up with glowing purple arms. So. Either I walk out of here with those again, or I throw myself off a bridge.”

“Stiles,” Derek muttered. 

“I’m kidding,” Stiles stressed, “Mostly.”

“Well, have you tried to do it?” Deaton asked. 

Stiles gave him a look, “What? Throw myself off a bridge? I’m not suicidal, it was a joke.”

Deaton didn’t look at him, “I meant letting the grimoire back in. Have you tried?”

“What kind of…” Stiles stopped. 

Because, no, he hadn’t. 

“I mean,” he frowned, “No. I dunno, the only times it’s gone in or come out were life-or-death situations, I didn’t think I could just do it whenever.”

As if doing it like it was breathing wasn’t the thing he witnessed that started this all. As if He couldn’t slip those pages in and out of His fingertips as if they’d been written with His own blood as ink.

“But you thought I could teach you?” Deaton asked. His voice laced with that same coy amusement that it always had. Just as infuriating as every other time Stiles heard it. “I didn’t have anything to do with it before.”

Stiles didn’t have much to say to that. He just stared down into the unmoving eyes of the dog on the table. Its tongue sticking out. Sleeping and vulnerable. 

“It doesn’t help that I have a sneaking suspicion you missed something out,” Deaton mused, “Something important. I can’t help you unless you tell me everything, Stiles.”

“Let’s just go,” Derek said softly, “We can figure it out ourselves.”

“No,” Stiles spat, “I couldn’t figure it out myself before and I won’t be able to now. Figuring it out without Deaton means figuring it out with my mom and I don’t–” He went to rub at his face, dropping into a whimper when the motion made his arms feel like death. It’d be easier just to chop them off. “I need the pain gone,” he forced out.

“Your mom?” Deaton said. He met Stiles’ eyes, brows meeting in the middle and giving a brief glance to the book in his hand, “Ah.”

“Yeah,” Stiles grumbled, “Ah. I’m not going to that psychopath for help with anything.”

Deaton stared at him for a moment. Analytical and potent. Like his eyes could strip him of every lie and secret. Like he could read him. As if anyone could understand what was going on inside of him without seeing everything he’d been through. Without living it. That being said, if anyone could, it would be Alan Deaton, wouldn’t it?

“What did your mother have to do with the other times?” Deaton asked, “You letting the grimoire in and you letting it go?”

Stiles’ llip quivered. A sickness washed over him. 

“Will you accept it?” She’d asked.

Stiles had stared. She’d tightened her grip on his hand, staring down at his arm. The glowing was stronger.

“The Grimoire’s power,” she’d continued, “The Nemeton filtered down into one malleable object. My magic. My spark.”

Her eyes had lifted to meet his.

“It can be a part of you,” her lips had quirked up at one side, “If you want it.”

Stiles had breathed in.

He hadn’t understood. If he had, he would not have reached out to his mom. He would not have pulled her into the tightest hug he could manage. He would not have squeezed his eyes shut. He would not have said, “I do.”

No, he would’ve punched her in the face. Beaten her into the ground of that limitless void until she vanished into silence and left him the hell alone. If he’d told her ‘no’, he wouldn’t be here now. He would’ve lost the grimoire, he would’ve lost his life. Because Stiles would have died to the bullet that he stopped when his mother’s magic was flowing through him like molten lava. 

And then, even with that decision to welcome his mother back into his life after death with open arms, it was his decision to lose her again that let the pages pour out. Cutting their connection so that the book would think it had nothing to do with him. 

If he hadn’t, maybe he could’ve saved Scott. 

And, if he hadn’t, he would’ve never ended up here.

Here, at the clinic. With everyone he’d ever loved alive, and safe, and in one piece. Physically, at least. Derek at his side, Scott - human and utterly unaware - off having fun with Allison, Erica and Boyd and Isaac safe at home, both of Derek’s sisters here to stay, Lydia safe at the hospital under the watchful eyes of a non-Kanima Jackson. If he could make sure Peter was fine, too, it would all seem perfect. But then again. His father had just found out his son was still dead. And his mother had been the only reason Kate was able to burn the Hale House down.

His mother was a monster. And he couldn’t do this.

Deaton was giving him a knowing look - a stupid, pretentious, bullshit knowing look - when he brought himself back to reality. “I think you know what to do,” he said.

Stiles took in a deep breath.

“This was a waste of time,” he said, “Thanks for nothing, Doc.”

And he turned on his heel and left.

He only made it to the edge of the tiny parking lot outside before he lost all grip on the book in his hand. It fell to the floor in a cascade of pages, the occasional tucked-in note or photo fanning out across the gravel in fractured spirals. His chest shook with uneasy breath. 

“Stiles,” Derek was saying from behind him, as a hand took hold of his shoulder and turned him around. The look on his face asked more questions than he could probably even put into words.

“It hurts so bad,” Stiles squeaked out, scrunching his nose up as that familiar warmth began to build through his sinuses and his eyes grew wet. He shook his head, “It’s like– I’m powerless over something for the first time in so long and I– Fuck, it hurts so bad, Derek, it hurts, it hurts.”

He was pulled into the tightest of hugs. And the pain was gone. Leaving him gasping and blinking into the monotonous grey of concrete and stones over Derek’s shoulder. He hiccupped. A pathetic little sound.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Derek nodded onto the curve of his neck, though the motion was stiff and slow, “If I could forgive your mother, so can you, Stiles.”

“Are you kidding?” Stiles hissed, moving back out of his hold enough to look him in the eye, but staying close enough to keep taking advantage of his pain relief, “You cannot actually forgive her, Derek.”

“What else can I do?” Derek asked. His eyes were serious. Intense. Like he could change Stiles’ mind with seafoam green and nothing else. “I can’t lock her in and burn the house down around her, instead.”

“It’s not just what she did to you that I can’t forgive,” Stiles spat, “She killed my mother, too.”

The harsh lines of Derek’s face softened near imperceptibly. 

His mouth clicked when he opened it to speak, “You have to talk to her.”

And Stiles only listened because he hated his own helplessness. Hated how Derek had been thrown into this impossible situation and forced to coddle Stiles like a baby and waste all of his energy comforting him. Hated how he could spend all of his time fighting for his life, and yet his mother was the one thing he couldn’t face. 

-

 

His mother, who sat before him on their couch in the living room, with a cup of steaming hot tea cradled in her hand. Stiles thought of Peter. He thought of a lot of things. He thought of the first time he saw him - that he remembered. Peter fighting Derek and denying forgiveness, yet asking for understanding. That he’d never wanted anyone to forgive what he’d done. Not his own family, nor the families of anyone he killed after Laura. And certainly not Derek. Even when all of his sanity was lost to a hateborne flame, all he’d wanted was understanding.

Stiles understood.

“Can you help me understand,” he started, staring down at the swirling grey of his mother’s tea, “why you did that to him?”

“To who?” She asked.

“If you need to ask, that’s a whole other problem.”

Claudia fell silent. She lifted the teacup to her mouth, slurping in a tiny sip of her drink as the steam trailed slowly behind in lazy curls.

“Where’s Dad?” Stiles asked softly, “Is he okay?”

Claudia slowly dropped her drink, “He got called in.”

“He’s been drinking,” Stiles shook his head, “He shouldn’t be working.”

“Well,” Claudia forced his eyes to meet hers, somehow. He wouldn’t have done it himself. “He’s always had the same ways of coping.”

Something wrong screamed at the forefront of his mind whenever he saw her. It was hard to put into words. That discomfort. How irrational it seemed to be afraid of someone who put you here. Someone who made you. Someone you loved. 

“Just tell me why,” he forced out.

How unnatural it felt just to speak to her. And how terrifying it felt for her to speak back.

“You know what it’s like to see your future,” Claudia spoke softer than she ever had, voice so small though the still air. Her brown hair dragging along with each shift of her head. Her brows pulled inwards just the slightest bit, as he mouth dragged up at the corner, “You know that feeling of… not knowing what is you and what’s just… destiny.”

“But you could’ve changed it,” Stiles spat, “You looked into the future, you didn’t live it.”

“I saw more than just the fire,” she said, nodding gently, “You know that. I’ve felt the way you feel about it. How I knew everything that would happen, the engravings on my grimoire–” Stiles’ breath caught in his throat. “–but you have to understand, it was supposed to end far better than this.”

Stiles bit his tongue. It was far easier to do with her.

“I saw my own death,” Claudia said, “I saw… You.”

The tea fell stagnant.

“You didn’t even get to the good part,” the bitterness crept in without him noticing, “I’m not surprised you’re so angry I did it.”

“You burned them all alive,” Stiles spat, “I don’t give a shit what that did to me.”

“In all fairness, I don’t remember a Derek that I could’ve cared about the effects on,” Claudia spat right back, “And the one you ended up with seems pretty okay with it all.”

“Yeah, because he’s a better person than I am. I don’t forgive like he does.”

Stiles wondered where exactly he’d wondered off to.

His mother nodded slowly, eyes softening as they filled with something uncannily reminiscent of the way Peter would look at him, “You get that from me.”

He was suddenly overcome with that need to cry again; pulled back to lean against the furthest corner of the couch he could reach. Fighting against the pull to forget that trait entirely and forgive and forgive and forgive. To crawl back into her arms like a frightened child and be rocked to sleep. 

Instead, he pretended his voice didn’t break when he asked, “Can you tell me what would’ve happened in that first timeline? If I hadn’t left?”

Claudia took in a slow breath before she answered, “You ended up with Lydia when they saved you from the Wild Hunt.”

Stiles just stared at her.

“You left town and started at an FBI internship program,” she said, “You… You came back… With…” Her brows drew together, then she shook her head, “Everyone split ways eventually.” She slowed, “Until Malia, Lydia, and Scott brought Allison back to life.”

Stiles almost stopped breathing, “Are you fucking kidding me?”

Claudia’s eyes warned ‘language’ even when her voice didn’t, “Also, I saw Melissa McCall wearing a bright green blouse for some reason, so I’m sure that would’ve been fun.”

“What do you mean they brought her back to life?” He asked, short of breath.

Claudia shrugged, “Well, that was necromancy. Not magical CPR. It was more complicated than that, though. There was a lot going on there.”

“Where the hell was I?”

“At the FBI,” she said, matter-of-factly.

“Why wouldn’t I come back to help?” Stiles spat, “They– What?”

“Stiles, you have to understand,” she said carefully, “Your life was going to end up unlike anything you knew. But it’s done exactly the same thing now.”

He watched as she pondered over what to say next. As her tongue darted out to wet her lips - a mannerism he’d always considered uniquely his. As if he was at all unaware of how his very being was a mosaic of pieces of her. Her eyes, her hair, her moles, her magic, her nose, her mouth, her ridiculous tendency to take control of everyone else before they even get the chance to control themselves. 

“I had to do something so… inconceivably monstrous,” she said, “so that I could be sure that you would get that life you ended up happy with. Because I didn’t know what other options either of us had. And you know what?”

She waited. 

Stiles didn’t ask.

She shook her head, “I know it was me. Not destiny. Or fate. Or divine intervention. And I don’t regret it.”

I don’t regret it.

He felt sick.

“I will never forgive myself for what I did,” she said, “You have to understand that. I don’t forgive myself for helping Kate, not in the slightest. And I absolutely do not forgive myself for what happened to you–”

“It didn’t happen to me, you did it,” Stiles spat, “You said it yourself, you made yourself sick. And you knew exactly what you’d do to me, even if you knew you’d forget all about it–”

“But I didn’t do it,” Claudia cut him off. Her face so gentle and considerate. It made him feel so small. She tucked some hair behind her ear, “I didn’t do that. Not here. I saw myself doing it, sure, but Kate killed you before I’d even finished researching those runes.”

Something in the sickly yellow of that room had him locked, unmoving, into place. Hypnotized.

“Do you forgive Peter?” She asked.

Stiles somehow froze even more than he already had, “What?”

“Do you forgive him?” She asked, “For killing Derek’s sister? Biting Lydia, kidnapping you, haunting Lydia? The deadpool, working with Kate to kill Scott, biting him in the first place, doing it all again when you took him back in time with you? For not helping to protect Derek from Kate?” When Stiles didn’t answer, she gave an understanding nod, so full of care, as she said, “No one would expect you to. And I don’t think you even realised you did. But you have, haven’t you?”

Stiles said nothing.

“And it doesn’t change what he did,” she said, “or how it affected anyone else. Forgiving him doesn’t erase the memories, or the nightmares, or the lingering fear that he might do it all again. It just shows that you’re bigger than your past. And you are, Stiles.” Her smile turned bitter, “Because you and I know better than anyone that you can’t change it.”

Her breathing caught for a moment.

Then she said, “But you have been so brave, Stiles. And I am so proud of you. And I’m so, so sorry, baby.”

And just those simple words were enough. Somehow. Despite the pang of indignation at the softness of it all, the burning in the back of his mind that it was too easy, that it was a lie - a deception. Despite all of it, he could feel it as he let her in again. As though his soul had reached out with open arms to pull his mother back to himself in the same split second that her whole face melted and she did exactly that. 

He hadn’t actually hugged his mother since he was ten. Not while she was breathing. And it was so starkly uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Having that warmth, the inherent safety of her arms beneath the buzzing of fear at the recognition of what she was more than capable of doing to him. How she was there, in front of him, holding him, and she wasn’t sick. Her hands wouldn’t hurt him anymore. 

He pressed his nose hard into the curve of her neck. That nostalgic smell of home washing over him,  Her hands rubbed across the curve of his back. His own arms stayed limp in the crook of his crossed legs between them, cradling that book.

The beige of the couch didn’t light up immediately. But he felt it before he saw it. As his fingers met through empty space.

Relief.

Nothing.

He felt nothing. No pain. No ache.

Finally, he could breathe again. He could move his fingers without the thrum of weakness through his bones. Without the pain shooting up all the way to his shoulders and settling in deep along the lines beneath his skin. So he reached those arms up to wrap back around his mother and held.

He was violet again. Flickering and glowing. Just for that relief, he could’ve been selfish enough to forgive everything.

Her hands were firm against his back, “Whenever you need me or my power, it is always going to be ready for you, Stiles. And whenever you need to be as far away from it as possible, it will be just as ready for that, too.” Stiles nodded shakily into her shoulder, still staring straight down at the way that purple pulsed and shifted within him. She pulled back, though. Made him take his hands back to himself as hers came into view and his mind started firing up with darkness again. She raised her brows and tilted her head down, “You understand that, right? My magic is as much yours as it is mine. And it is just as much yours alone.”

“You know, you don’t make a lot of sense half the time,” Stiles whispered. 

Claudia smiled, “I know. It’s part of my charm.”

There was a moment, right then, where Stiles was okay. He was just a kid in his own home. He was smiling with his mother. There was no pain in his body and he could breathe. Everyone was alive. Everyone was safe. Everything was fine.

But there was another moment, right after. The moment between that distant howl shaking the Earth, and the door to the living room slamming open. A moment of sudden stillness. All the optimism burned up in that split second.

“Hey,” Derek growled, “We have to go.”

Stiles just sighed, “Of course, we do.”

-

 

“You feeling a whole lot of déjà-vu right now, or is it just me?”

“It is not just you.”

Derek’s voice was rough and jagged at the edges - more nostalgic than it was threatening. It brought a smile to Stiles’ face, with his arms crossed high over his chest. Pain-fucking-free. Everything else could suck a thick, throbbing, veiny dick.

“Someone was dumb enough to do this before?” Laura growled from Derek’s side.

Stiles’ eyes dragged along the asphalt of the school parking lot as they found their way to her, “It was my idea the first time.”

Derek gave him a sideways look, “Seriously?”

Stiles frowned, “I actually am so unsure, but, hey,” he threw his free-as-hell arms out in a wide arc, “we don’t call ‘em Stiles Plans ‘cause they’re well-thought-out.”

“Well, can we?” Cora growled from somewhere behind them, “And can we start doing it now before we come up with another one?”

“Also, I was fifteen and didn’t know what the hell I was doing, so, let’s go a little easier on baby Stiles, alright?” He grumbled. Cora actually growled in response, low in her throat. He looked over his shoulder to scowl at her, before turning back to meet Derek’s eyes, “This’ll be fine. It’s just Jackson and Peter.”

That little werewolf was bounding out of those big metal doors with a horribly distraught downturn to his face in just the same breath. His chest rising and falling and his eyes wide and flickering.

“Thank fuck you’re all here,” he gasped out, “I need your help.”

Stiles stepped out to make his way toward him, as the others did the same, “It’s okay, dude, it’s just Peter–”

“What?” Jackson shook his head, “No, what’s Peter got to– It’s Lydia.”

Something in the air shifted. Changing directions, or speeds. Something that made his stomach turn and his skin come over with a chill. 

“The fuck’s she got to do with this?” Cora piped up.

“Language,” Laura and Claudia drawled.

Stiles stuck a hand out behind him, “All of you shut the fuck up - she’s here?” 

Jackson nodded. 

“Lydia is here? At the school?” 

Jackson nodded again.

“Lydia Martin is at the high school. And you howled.”

“Yes,” Jackson nodded emphatically, “She vanished and she screamed and I followed her here–”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles hissed, feet colliding too hard through his converse against the solid ground as he stormed up to the doorway and pushed past him, “We’re getting her out of here right fucking now.”

“Hey, Stiles–” Derek barely got the words out before Stiles caught up to exactly what the wolves were certainly already well aware of. 

He stared blankly at the group of people in that hallway. 

He was seconds away from turning back around and bashing Jackson’s skull in. 

There wasn’t any particular way they all looked at him. It wasn’t unanimous fear, or confusion, or hatred, or even pleasant surprise - really, that was only Scott - no, it was… Allison was terrified, for sure. Stiles wasn’t surprised by that. Scott was next to her - Scott was next to her - with that unexpected little pained smile on his face, but, really, no part of either of them was as disarming as the fact their clothes were dripping water onto the dirty floor and their hair was doing just the same. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, all wore varying levels of indignation.

And Lydia.

Dressed in a hospital gown, arms wrapped around herself and staring, wide-eyed and petrified, at him. 

He pushed forward, breaking out into habit as he crossed the distance and reached up to hold her face, “It’s okay, Lydia. Alright? Who was it?”

Her mouth fell open. Her bottom lip quivered.

“Come on,” Stiles stressed, “Who is it?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” she whispered, her mouth wet and clicky.

Stiles’ brows drew together, “Focus. Why are you here, Lydia?”

“Please don’t hurt me,” she squeaked out.

Stiles flinched back. Another chill running through him like liquid ice. He tore his hands back like he’d been burned. She stumbled away from him like it was her who was instead. Shifting her eyes firmly to the ground as Allison stepped in between them, giving him a glare so dark over her shoulder that Stiles could feel it wither away a part of him.

But why was Lydia afraid of him? She had to know he’d never hurt her. She had to. She was Lydia. Stileses don’t hurt Lydias. It just doesn’t happen, why would she– How did– No.

“Okay, it’s– it’s fine,” he muttered, passing a glance at Scott - human Scott. Unaware. Scott, “It’s fine.” He let out a sharp breath, stepping around Allison as he started to take off his hoodie. Lydia needed clothes, damn it, not coddling. “Let’s just get out of here–”

“What the fuck?! ” Scott squeaked, alarming both for its volume and for the swearing, “Are your tattoos glowing?!?”

Like an electric shock to the heart. He stopped. 

So slowly, he turned to meet Scott’s wide eyes, as the boy cried out, “What?!?”

Stiles just blinked at him. Utterly frozen. Like a deer in headlights, or a Newton’s cradle– Oh, God damn it, you get it. You understand it. Stiles didn’t need to tell you how horrified he was. He didn’t need to drone on and on about the way his mouth ran dry and everything went completely fucking silent, because, at this point, what else was new? When did he ever get a chance to have something go fucking fine in this Hellhole of a town?

Then there was a growl. A low, familiar growl. And his mom’s voice was warning, “Stiles.”

Peter was there. Outside. Wasn’t he. Of. Course. He. Was. 

Stiles wanted to kill someone.

“Somehow that’s not our biggest problem right now,” Stiles said, nodded at Scott as he finished taking his jacket off and pushed the last bit past Allison to wrap it around Lydia’s shaking shoulders, “Scott, you got your inhaler?” 

Lydia’s green eyes were watering.

Scott’s voice broke when he answered, “Yeah? What?? Why??? Dude, I’m really stuck on the tattoos, that’s so sick–”

“Shut up,” Stiles clapped Lydia on each of her shoulders, eyeing the way she flinched, “We have to run now.”

“What?”

“We can’t just run away from him!” Cora cried from the doorway - to which Lydia’s eyes came back into focus.

“Oh, yes, we can!!” Stiles yelled back, stepping forward until Lydia had no choice to start moving, too. The others soon started to follow, coaxed onward by Stiles’ crowding hands. 

“Stiles, what is going on?” Erica snapped.

“Ask me questions when we’re somewhere safe,” Stiles growled, “Keep moving.”

He looked back at the door, almost hypnotised by the squeaking and thudding of footsteps, to see Derek grabbing at his sisters arms and pulling them through the doors as Claudia pushed them shut. Peter was there. A little figure in the distance. Somehow, despite Stiles not even being able to make out the features of his face, he could feel those eyes drilling into him. 

Jackson’s chest was heaving, “Where are we going?” 

“Anywhere that’s not here,” Derek answered. Laura gave him a sideways look as he continued to drag her and her sister down the hallway. Stiles went back to focussing on not tripping over his own two feet.

Déjà-vu was putting it lightly.

Peter was banging at the door. In slow, sudden thuds.

Bang.

Bang.

Bang.

Eventually, they ended up stumbling up the stairs, narrated by broken complaints and Cora’s grumbling, and Laura’s hisses of silence, and the clicks of his mother’s high-heeled boots. He felt dizzy. Watching Jackson slam open the door of a random classroom, just to watch the group of kids funnel into the same science lab as Last Time was a sick joke.

“Stiles,” Boyd growled as Claudia closed and locked the door behind them, “You have to tell us what is going on right now.”

He didn’t fight back the desperate laugh that tore from his throat as he moved to fold his glowing arms over a lab station and slam his head down against them. Any pain it caused was gone in a split second - violet too bright through his closed eyelids. A hand, distinctly Derek’s (it better have been Derek’s), pressed against the base of his neck, right at the collar of his shirt.

“Right, this has got nothing to do with you guys,” Cora said suddenly, “Mostly. So we just gotta find a nice, calm, non-lethal way out of here.”

“Non-lethal?” Isaac squeaked.

Erica’s voice was a little airy, “I think I’m gonna throw up.”

Stiles snapped his head up, “Don’t you fucking dare.”

“Your arms are glowing and you’re all acting like we’re about to die,” she nodded her head, “I think it’s justified.”

“Nothing is going to happen to–” Stiles groaned, squeezing his eyes shut again as he slid his hands up along the cold granite to hold onto the edge of the table, “Alright. I just need you guys to trust me, and this’ll all be over soon.”

“Trust you?” Lydia asked. So small. Like a sucker punch to the throat. “You expect us to trust you? ”

He could do nothing but stare.

“The last time I trusted you to so much as go shopping with me,” Lydia growled, “I ended up in the hospital, Stiles.”

“Yeah, I noticed that,” he snarked.

“What the fuck is going on?” She snarled back.

Stiles swallowed, eyes darting down to the glow of his skin, then back up to her. To Scott’s puppy dog eyes. To Allison’s shaking hands. To Erica, Boyd, and Isaac. Laura. Cora. Derek. His mother.

His brows drew together, “Huh.”

Allison gave him a harsh look, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles shook his head, “Just realised I’ve seen everyone in this room die. Funnily enough, except for Lydia.”

Derek gave him a look of scrutiny, “Stiles.”

“No, I have a point, I’m running with it,” he tilted his head, “You all knew me as being dead for, what, five years?”

There were a few shaky nods.

Stiles nodded back, slow and deliberate, “Well, for me, it’s been five years, not since I’ve died, or gotten kidnapped. But since I found out that werewolves are real.” He clenched his mouth shut so tight when he finished that sentence that he heard something pop.

Erica’s lip curled, “Never mind. I’m done. Let’s go home.”

“There are four werewolves in this room,” Stiles nodded, “One coming after us. One banshee. And two sparks.”

“Werewolves…” Allison said roughly, “You’re going with werewolves.”

“Sorry, should I have stuck with bears?” He snapped. 

Her mouth fell open, a disbelieving scoff coming out, “You’re joking.”

“No,” Stiles shook his head, “No, your dad really does love them.”

Claudia stifled her cackle a moment too late. Stiles pursed his lips and forced them into a pout.

“Werewolves are real?” Scott asked airily, “Does that mean I can actually marry a mermaid one day?” Allison gave him a withering glare.

Stiles’ face scrunched up, “… Sure. Dude. You could marry a mermaid. What? Okay. Speaking of, why are you wet? ”

The bunched up material of his drenched t-shirt seemed to gasp in indignation as Scott’s cheeks went a little pink, and Allison’s mouth bobbed open and shut, the boy stammering, “We– Uh. We were in the pool–”

“Never mind, I don’t wanna hear about that,” Stiles shook his head, “You keep that to yourselves.”

“Okay! We are so not getting distracted right now,” Lydia snapped, more lucid in that instant than she had been that whole time, “Is there a gas leak in here, or has Stiles finally cracked and lost it?”

“I haven’t–” He sighed, “Derek, come on, get the face out.”

The wolf gave him a tired little look, then sighed, too, as his face began to morph and shift - eyebrows vanishing beneath skin and fur sprouting from his jawline just as fantastically as it always had. Stiles didn’t bother to hide the mystified smile it brought to his lips. 

“Yeah,” Erica said softly through the sudden cutting silence, “I’m gonna throw up.”

“What?” Stiles cried, as he reached up to brush a finger along that smooth brow, to Derek’s quiet amusement, “Why? He’s gorgeous, are you kidding?” 

“Oh, my God,” Cora groaned, “Cool, show and tell is over, let’s go kill this guy now!!”

“What?” Lydia squeaked again, “Who??”

“No one!!” Stiles cried out, stepping past Derek to glare at that head of indignant brown hair, “We’re not killing him, he’s not done anything!”

“He did kill me,” Laura mumbled, raising a hand, “But, hey. I do not actually feel like killing him back. And I didn’t stay dead.”

Lydia dropped down into a stool with a screech of metal against flooring, murmuring something into Allison’s side as the girl came over to wrap her arms around her. She was staring, panicked, into Scott’s eyes as the kid took a pump of his inhaler. 

Boyd crossed his arms over her chest, “Is this guy trying to kill us? ”

“Wait are we gonna die??” Scott cried.

“No!” Stiles barked, “I don’t know. Mom, what did you do to him?”

Isaac’s voice was faint as he chimed in with, “That’s your mom? ”

Stiles ignored him.

Claudia pressed her lips into a thin line, “Well. I tried to heal him, like you asked. But, like I said, it didn’t exactly… work out correctly.”

“Heal him?” Allison hissed, “What are you talking about now?”

“Shut up,” Stiles snapped, “This is already bad enough, I don’t need you fucking with my psyche, too. H– Oh, God, Scott knows about– I just told–” He made a weird little noise, “This is Hell. I died and went to Hell. And it’s this.”

“No, this is just Beacon Hills High School,” Laura murmured, “But close enough.” Stiles didnt find that funny.

“Wait, just so I’m following,” Erica started, “Werewolves are real. One of them might want us dead but might not. Your boyfriend is also one. So are… they. I guess. And you… have been doing what for the last five years? And how do I fit into it?”

Stiles blinked, “Allison’s aunt shot me in the head. I haven’t been doing anything here for the last five years.”

As eyes turned to her, Allison’s face paled, “You… You were fucking serious?”

“Yeah, no, I didn’t die here,” Stiles nodded, “The Stiles that died is dead. I’m not him.”

“Then who the hell are you?” Boyd boomed.

Stiles squinted at him, “Your friendly neighbourhood Spider-Man?”

No one seemed to find that very funny.

“You can trust me, alright?” Stiles shook his head, “I just… I tried to go back in time to stop the Hale House fire. I fucked it up. Tiny baby me got murdered for it. I came back to now without knowing that. Now everything’s trying to go the way it went the other times and I won’t let it, so we are going to leave this place very calmly, okay?”

“And kill Peter,” Cora nodded.

“No!” Stiles cried, “We’re not killing him!”

“Why the hell not?”

“How about this? I kill the next person to suggest we kill Peter! Then we’re both happy!” 

“You can’t just kill people!” Scott cried out, “Are you freaking joking?!”

He was staring at Stiles like he’d never seen him before. Like he was afraid of him. 

God. Fucking. Damn. It.

“Oh, my God,” Lydia snapped, “Whatever we’re gonna do, can we please do it somewhere else because if I spend another second in this room with all of you, I think someone is going to die.”

Stiles’ face fell in that next second, “Yeah. Sure. Fine. Going. Let’s go. Don’t even know why we’re up here, but, hey, wasn’t my idea.”

“You start brewing up a Stiles Plan yet, then?” Cora grumbled.

“Wait, did you said ‘banshee’ earlier?” Someone else asked.

Stiles’ eyes widened, “Shut the fuck up! Go!!”

 

-

 

It was too quiet. 

This was easier when Peter was a crazed, ravenous monster. Not just physically, but in Stiles’ perception of him. Just as it was easier when people saw him as a person. Not some zombie-victim-turned-time-travelling-psychopath. When Lydia trusted him implicitly despite her better judgement. When he wasn’t the one to blame for it all.

God, he’d miss them forever, wouldn’t he? His friends. His pack. His Scott, his Dad, his Lydia, his Derek. Fuck.

Somehow, he even missed the torment of not knowing. That was a new low. Though, there were some things he didn’t know now. What Peter wanted. Where Peter was. And how this would end. 

He heard him, then. They all did. Stopping still in a short echo of clicking soles of shoes. Only his could be heard then. Solid and fast through the halls. 

Growing closer.

Stiles held his breath. Steeled himself for an attack. Derek’s body behind him relaxed, somehow, and it did nothing to soothe Stiles’ nerves as the footsteps came closer, closer, closer until–

“Hey–!”

“Dad?!” He cried.

The Sheriff stared back at him from beyond his handgun. His wrinkled brow furrowed, “What in the Hell are you doing here?” Blue eyes darting away, flickering through the crowd behind him and narrowing, “Claudia?”

“What are you doing here?” Stiles cried.

“You are all trespassing,” Noah growled, “That’s what I’m doing here. We got a call about a violent disturbance.”

Stiles blinked, “If you’d kindly lower your gun, I would be able to turn around and stare accusationally at my friends about that. Can you… Can you do that? Please?”

The gun lowered painfully slowly. As if it was being physically held up by his distrust. That left a bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth. Better than gunpowder, at least.

“Great,” he muttered, turning slowly, “Accusatory stare incoming.” 

“Don’t even!” Lydia snapped, “None of us called anyone!”

“How would you know?” Stiles glowered, “You were in a fugue state until like twenty minutes ago.”

Lydia didn’t have anything to say to that.

“She’s probably right,” Derek mumbled, “You remember how Peter got everyone here Last Time. And the time before that.”

Stiles frowned at the capital letters, far more bitter now at the abandonment of their past than he had been so far, “Yeah.”

“Who?” Noah grumbled, “You mean the… Jesus. I just wanted a fucking escape from this.”

“Language,” Stiles tried meekly, “And I don’t think you should be operating a weapon right now.”

“I don’t think I should be in the same room as you right now,” his dad snarled back.

Stiles couldn’t look at him.

“Claudia, what the Hell are all of you doing here?” Noah snapped.

“Um,” his wife hummed, “Well, I’m sure Stiles explained the Peter thing–”

“Your burn victim homo honey is a werewolf, yeah, it might’ve come up once or twice,” he said, “But what that doesn’t tell me is why you’ve broken into the high school on a saturday with a group of teenagers, Stiles, Derek, and Laura Hale.”

Claudia’s tongue clicked, “Actually, it kinda does, honey. And you should definitely put the gun away, you’re scaring the kids.”

“Can we please just leave,” Jackson grumbled. 

“Yes, we can,” Noah boomed, “Everyone out. Now.” Then his face fell, so suddenly, as his brows rose, “What in the Holy Hell is that–”

Cora was snarling and Lydia was screaming before Stiles could even turn around. People scattered, colliding with each other in the rush to get away. Stiles watched as his mom smacked his dad’s shooting arm down again, right before they started to argue. He tried not to listen. Because there was Cora, stood in front Lydia’s trembling body, the only barrier between her and Peter. 

The wolf just stared.

“Yeah, I don’t think so,” Cora snarled, “You’ve gotten enough tastes of her, don’t you think, Uncle Peter?”

“It’s him,” Lydia forced out, shaking so hard she seemed to be hyperventilating, “It’s him.” 

She kept repeating it, over and over, even as Stiles broke forward from the rest of them to pull her away from the wolves. Then Derek was moving - Laura and Cora, too - lunging for Peter. A futile effort. What kind of idiots do you have to be to think you can beat an Alpha like Peter with brute force? It took intelligence. Mind games and tricks. Peter was playing a game. Always playing. And Stiles knew that because he understood. He understood too fucking well. 

That didn’t mean he could understand what his moves meant. That didn’t mean that he understood why, exactly, he evaded his nieces and nephew just to break through the crowd at full speed, grab hold of her and bite.

To bite Erica.

Now crying and screaming and flailing away as Noah’s gun rose again.

All the chaos seemed to still. 

Erica fell to the ground. Blood pooled out from her shoulder. It painted her golden hair red. The reddest of reds. And she started to seize. 

Noah fired his gun.

The bullet passed through Peter’s thigh. Shattered skin sealed shut again as fast as it was split open. Peter brought a clawed hand to his perfectly human face, swiping at the blood dripping from his mouth - Erica’s blood - and he turned around.

He took one step closer to the wall of lockers behind him.

Raised his bloodied finger.

And he wrote.

‘O’.

Stiles’ heart was racketting in his chest, “Get Erica.”

Nobody moved.

‘T’.

“You need to get her out of here, I swear to God.”

“What did he do to her?” Allison sobbed.

‘H’.

“Just someone,” Stiles snarled, “Get her out!”

His dad fired another bullet. It worked about as well to stop him as the first had. Though Peter did wait a short moment before he painted the next letter. Faint and spotted. Not enough blood to do it properly.

‘E’.  

“‘Other’ ?” Cora snarled, “Is he writing ‘other’ ?”

Stiles shook his head. Peter turned his. He didn’t look at the metal as he haphazardly finished his word.

‘R’.

“We do not have time for this,” Jackson snapped, “Let’s go. Just run!!”

Derek slid past him, pulling Erica by the arm and swiping blood along the floor as he pulled her away from the Alpha, just far enough that he could yank her up and lift her into his arms. He gave Stiles a purposeful look, and the spark yanked on his dad’s arm hard enough to get him moving. The rest of them followed fairly quickly. Faster than he’d been able to get them to do damn near anything.

He didn’t know where they were going. Or why he didn’t swoop in to save Erica himself. Fuck, why didn’t he? Was he that pathetic that he couldn’t even go near her when she was hurt? What good was a second chance if he was too scared to save her?

“I thought you said he didn’t want to kill us!!” Lydia screamed.

“I thought you said you didn’t trust me!!!” Stiles spat back.

“Where are we even going?!” Someone yelled. Lydia looked back at them, brows pinching together, as they broke out into that same hallway again. They each slowed to a stop.

Derek adjusted Erica in his arms. She was still seizing. 

Stiles met his eyes, “If she’s not okay, I swear to–”

“She’ll be fine,” Derek said, “You need to focus.”

“I need to–” Stiles pressed his lips together, “Alright. Focusing.”

Claudia made a choked, gutteral noise behind him, “Can we please just stop running every five seconds, these boots were not made for walkin’.”

Stiles rubbed his palms against his thighs, suddenly short of breath as the activity actually caught up to him. He dropped down into a squat, thighs burning. Erica’s blood was smeared across the floor and that wall of lockers. The first word was erased - as well as fresh blood could be with a wipe of a palm - and replaced, far bolder.

‘PLEASE’.

Stiles’ heart nearly tore itself from his chest.

“Alright, where the hell is the nearest exit?” Noah snarled, “We are leaving right now.”

“I need to stay,” Stiles gasped out, “I have to talk to him.”

“You can’t help him, Stiles,” Noah snapped, “He’s insane, and he just mortally wounded a child who now needs desperate medical attention. I can’t have you getting hurt, too, I’m not losing you a third damn time!!”

Stiles swallowed thickly, dizzy, “Okay. Okay– We can go out through the gym.”

The sound of Scott’s inhaler cut through the air. 

“And if anyone lets anything happen to Scott on the way out,” Stiles added as he rose to his feet and started jogging toward the gymnasium, “I am deadly serious when I say I will kill them.”

He didn’t think he’d stepped in her blood, but his footsteps were red beneath him as he moved, overtaken by his father’s downright violent powerwalk. Somehow this was even worse than the nights they’d had at the school. The first, when they were all utterly powerless, and the second, where Stiles had almost bled out in the very gym they were headed to now. But Peter hadn’t tried to speak to them then. He’d wanted Scott to join him. The second time, Stiles didn’t have a clue what he’d been after. Maybe he was just bored. Felt nostalgic. 

The question still itched at him, though: Why wasn’t Peter talking? Was that part of Claudia’s botched healing? Surely there was a way Stiles could fix that. Right? There had yet to be any one thing he couldn’t fix (of course there was, as he was slowly discovering with each major fuck-up he made).

All Stiles could do was save people. He wasn’t good at it. But it was his only shot at redemption now. He’d destroyed so much, so relentlessly, so selfishly. He had to save someone. He had to save them tangibly. 

He had to make himself worthy of the incessant kindness of the people he surrounded himself with. Because God knows he was nothing like them.

There was such a strong chance that he was horrifically wrong about how Peter worked. Maybe he didn’t understand him at all. 

In that instant, he felt sure of that. 

It was unfair how powerful Peter was in this state. How fast. Was it because Stiles and Derek had grown to care for him? Because Claudia was still alive to somehow call him her best friend? Because the other Hales hadn’t lost Laura? Had Stiles managed to, in destroying everything, give Peter the pack he’d been tormenting Scott to create every other time?

Was that what made it so easy for him to overpower his father? To render a whole entourage of people frozen right where they stood as the Sheriff’s gun clattered to the floor and his throat was taken in the gentle hold of a madman’s claws without any of them even noticing he’d been nearby.

Noah breathed shallow and slow, “It’s okay. It’s okay.”

Stiles just stared straight into Peter’s bright red eyes. The same colour as Erica’s blood, slowly drying dark around his mouth. That mouth that was mouthing silent words over Noah’s diplomatic negotiations and Claudia’s cursing.

‘Didn’t like that, did you?’

Stiles thought that was what he said, though he couldn’t be sure. Something about it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand up.

Peter’s eyes were wide and desperate as he over-annunciated the next part.

‘Well? Come get me, puppy.’

The words didn’t register in his head. Not the way that Peter wanted them to. Not that Stiles knew that. But it was the slight dent of Peter’s razor-sharp claws against his father’s skin and the flash of stained fangs that had Stiles rushing forward. 

He hadn’t used his spark in too long. Not like this. Not to burst out into bright violet light and knock a man twenty feet to the ground. His dad cried out as he did, but the simple sound of his vocal chords intact was enough for Stiles not to turn back. To keep going. To keep storming forward as the words swam in his mind; replayed twisted jokes and first times at doing just this. 

Someone else was yelling at him, and Derek was yelling, too, but at someone else. Stiles was not with them. No. Now it was just him and Peter.

The man who decided to bite Lydia again and carve his name beside her body. Who bit Erica. Who found them all back at the school after Lydia screamed. Who brought Noah there with a fake 9-1-1 call for the sole purpose of this.

For Stiles.

It made him sick. And how Peter rose to his feet and lunged at him. Claws, fangs, snarls, and roars.

He slashed through the flesh of Stiles’ stomach and the fabric of his shirt before the man could even consider hurting him properly. 

It was soul-crushing, as he finally started to fight back. How Peter let him. How he practically went limp, save for one or two pathetic swipes of claws. Warning snaps of teeth. Pure instinct. 

“Peter, what the fuck are you doing?” He sobbed. Was he crying?

The wolf was on top of him grabbing at his glowing wrists with clawed hands and pulling them up to his jaw, mouthing through saliva and blood and horror, again, the word ‘please’.  

And he tightenened his grip until Stiles got it. 

The same thing he understood about him over a year ago. When Peter bit Lydia with absolute understanding of what Stiles would do to him if he did. What Stiles declared he’d do at the hospital before he tried his damndest to. What Derek did to him, instead. 

It was different this time.

Not because Stiles cared. Not because he could feel Peter’s silenced panic bursting out through him like burning flames. Not because he was so fucking terrified. Not because he knew exactly what it would to do him.

Because breaking Peter’s neck was kindness. 

His eyes were squeezed so tightly shut, he could hardly feel his face. But he could feel the tiny droplet of water brush his cheek. 

It was not his own tear. 

Stiles didn’t cry. He just melted back into the rubber floor as Peter’s dead weight melted onto him before he built up the strength to force him off. He hit the floor by Stiles’ side with a solid thud. His body bounced. And his lungs rattled. Stiles felt it more than he heard it. The ringing of his ears was drowning it all out, anyway. If anyone spoke, or yelled, or moved, he couldn’t hear any of it. Just the way his heart was rabbiting through the ringing and his eyes were clicking as he brought a hand up to rub at them. To force any feeling back in right through them. Any sensation he could focus on other than the hum of Peter’s life through his veins.

He knew what he’d see when he opened his eyes. 

Peter would be so proud.

He swiped his hand down across the rest of his face, settling in the silence as he slowly forced his unstable body to sit up. 

Red.

The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was red. It coursed through his skin. Buzzed within him far louder than any violet had. It was shaky, though, that was only because Stiles was. He couldn’t stop. He couldn’t stop shaking.

Derek was there when he rose to his feet. However long that took him to do.

“Is my dad okay?” Stiles forced out, “Is Erica okay? Is Scott–”

Derek was staring at him like he’d just found religion, “They’re okay. Everything’s okay, Stiles.” He nodded like he actually believed it.

Stiles nodded back, “I killed Peter.”

“I know, Stiles,” Derek said. Like music. “I know.”

“I killed– I killed him?” Stiles whimpered, “I didn’t want to– I don’t want to– I can’t–”

Over Derek’s shoulder, not a single face was looking back with anything but fear. No one could lighten the blow. No one had any softness in them to pad their horror with pity, even. Not even his own mother. The woman who sang His praises from the rooftops.

Stiles stared down at the red until it seemed to bleed out into everything.

His hands were red with Erica’s blood, too.

He was the Alpha now.

It was silent in the gym.

And Peter’s last words were begging.

Notes:

AAAAAAA ahaahAaaaa

Did this make ANY sense???? Maybe??????? I’m delirious I forgot it was update Thursday I’m posting this from class rn SPELLING LESSONS WITH PETER!!!!!!! Other WHO?!!?!? I UNDERSTAND HIM GODDDD

Chapter 6: Reflection

Summary:

Stiles hates the winter formal just as much as he always has. For the first time, he makes good on a promise, and carefully toes the line between empathy and self-loathing.

Notes:

this one has the first scene i EVER thought of for this fic!!! back when I didn't even know how stiles was going to become the alpha and he was meant to go back to 2006 alone the freaking Mirror Scene was already there. what a legend. i sincerely hope you enjoy all 21k words of this. this chapter is. it is. its. i am very proud.

god this went by fast.

also I accidentally plagiarised sabrina carpenter at one point and didn't realise until I was listening to that specific song while rereading this and the line played at the exact right time and I was like oh no so that's the kind of fun that I have

also also, mild content warning for discussions of child abuse. if you don't want to see that, skip over the lacrosse practice scene. nothing explicit but still. love u love u

Playlist here!!

He wondered when he’d wake up. When he’d find himself back in his room - his real room - with Scott as his Alpha and Derek on the other side of the country and his mother six feet under. Because it had to happen. It had to. There was no way that any level of reality could be cruel enough to make this all be just that. Reality.  

They’d given false statements at the Sheriff’s station. 

His dad had wrapped him up in his uniform jacket - not nearly as baggy on him as it so should’ve been. Erica had stopped seizing by the time the Sheriff had started devising a plan for them. With the smallest drops of blood wetting the collar of his shirt from where Peter’s claws had pierced him. He told everyone what to say. Somehow adjusting far faster to his new reality than Stiles could’ve ever thought, but maybe that wasn’t how it really was. Maybe he wasn’t really there while he was talking, and it’d all been a whole lot different to how he perceived it. But he knew that Noah told him to say that Peter was the one that took him. Call it self-defence. 

Claudia had gotten mad at him - begged him to say someone else had killed Peter. That it had nothing to do with any of them. That they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. Noah simply told her that Stiles’ sparks hadn’t burned off his fingerprints.

He’d never had to deal with something like that. When he’d killed Donovan, that had been self defence. And his fingerprints on the piece of scaffolding that pierced right through him were gone with the help of Parrish and the doctors before he even knew what was happening. It hadn’t even set in that he’d killed someone yet. He’d been terrified about Scott finding out - about anyone finding out - and that time he had been innocent. 

This time he’d pressed his palms into the bloodied skin of an innocent man and taken his life away with his bare hands. Not with the yanking of a pin. Not with the pulling of a trigger. Stiles had done that. Stiles had killed Peter.

He couldn’t quite describe the look Chris gave him as he collected his daughter from the station, either. Still, it knocked the breath out of him and made him tug his father’s sleeves further down his arms. 

Something irrational in him felt like everyone could see it. The red. Like it was glowing straight through the fabric, burning out beyond any covers for the world to see. It was burned into the back of his mind. He couldn’t focus on anything else. Not his statements, not the others. No one besides Erica and Scott. They were both fine. Safe. Erica was sat right against Boyd on the couch in the Sheriff’s office, staring into space with his hand stroking her arm. The bite hadn’t killed her. That, besides the incessant hallucinatory glowing in the corner of his eyes, was all that Stiles cared about.

Until they got home. 

It was dark out by then. He hadn’t bothered to turn his bathroom light on as he stepped in. His father’s jacket abandoned on the floor. 

The face staring back at him in the mirror had him swallowing his vomit. The face of the man that killed Scott. And now he’d fucked it all up and told Scott everything– showed Scott everything, and it was the one damn thing he’d sworn he wouldn’t do. Scott was meant to stay as far away as possible, wasn’t he. He wasn’t supposed to even hear the word ‘werewolf’, he should’ve never known who Stiles really was, or what he’d done, or seen, or said, or who he’d killed–

A seething, aching cry.

A rush of strength.

A swinging arm.

His reflection shattered. Still glowing brighter and brighter with that twisted maroon. Now his knuckles were painted red, too, past the tiny shards of glass pierced through them. 

They stayed there. 

The red light kept him awake. Illuminated the paint on his wall before his face and made the shards embedded in his skin shimmer. When he came down, it all felt a bit embarrassing. An outburst like that. Like he was throwing some sort of tantrum. He should've been able to handle this shit. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed someone. He wasn’t a baby. And Peter, here, didn’t even seem to like him a little bit, but… He’d remembered, hadn’t he? Claudia had tried to fix it and, just like Stiles, had fucked it all up and gotten him trapped in his own mind in an even more torturous way than before. And he’d begged Stiles to kill him.

Even if that somehow made it all feel okay, which it absolutely did not, that wasn’t half as bad as the fact that every time Stiles closed his eyes, his ribs were bruising and Scott was dead on the floor, and every time he opened them, the blade was passing through and He was hugging Peter like they were the bestest of friends. 

Peter had never seemed weak before. Well, not like that. Pathetic, sure. Desperate, in his own too-big-for-his-own-hugeness kind of way. But never helpless. He’d rather die than beg for anything and, well. How ironic. To think that he wasn’t the first Hale whom Stiles had maddened to the point of speechless, mindless begging. 

He was sure he could get the glowing to stop. Easily. As easily as he’d gotten it to start. But he did not have the energy for the level of introspection that probably required. Even if it was as simple as the consideration of a memory. The acknowledgment of everything his mother did. How it had trickled out to bring him to this very moment. It would be that easy. Yet, the glowing continued. Just as frustratingly persistent as the acknowledgement of who he was becoming.

He’d really thought that going back again would save him from it. 

Nah.

Stiles was stuck with it. Just like he was stuck in this timeline. Just like that glass was stuck in his skin. 

He felt Derek looming in the hallway before he heard him. Whether that was an alpha thing or just him being hypervigilant, he had no clue.

“Stiles,” he said, and the spark’s eyes lifted from the mess of red where his hands rested beneath the covers to a spot of pilled blue paint on his wall, centimetres away from his nose, “You know, this is–”

“What, a gift?” Stiles’ voice didn’t sound like his own, “Shut the fuck up.”

“I was gonna say fine, ” Derek continued, somehow equally as infuriating as he was comforting with his ignorance of the warning, “This is fine, Stiles.”

And Stiles laughed. He honest-to-God laughed - utterly hysterical and almost painful.

“This place is a fucking nightmare,” he wheezed. The tears burned as they reached his eyes, “What the fuck have I done, man? What did I do? ”

Derek did hesitate for a moment then, before he answered on a whisper, “What you had to do. What was–”

“Oh, no,” Stiles forced out, “No, no, no. Don’t say– I’m not–”

He couldn’t think beyond the images at the forefront of his mind. Couldn’t rationalise over memories of Scott’s blood coating a blade and the sounds of rain thundering down. He’d hardly thought of the words at all as he sat up to turn to Derek and beg.

“Kill me,” he said, far too simply, as Derek’s face contorted in horror, “You need to kill me.”

“Are you even hearing yourself?” Derek spat, “How the hell is dying supposed to help you right now?”

There was a shard of the mirror in his hand. Stiles caught his distorted reflection on the surface. Just a mess of red and red and red.

“You can take my power,” he said, “You were good at being the Alpha. Better than the other Derek, anyway!” His laugh came back for one last punch, “Definitely better than me!”

“I was only as good as I was because of you,” Derek said slowly, seriously, like if he annunciated properly enough Stiles would actually believe him, “Because you built my pack for me and kept us all going, Stiles. It’s you. You were made for this.”

“No,” Stiles choked out, “No, I can’t do this, Derek. Please. Just. Please. ” His begging was swallowed just as fast by Derek’s reaching arms, tucking him in and wrapping around him, holding him with strength and intention. Grounding him. Melting into the sheets. God, if he cried in front of Derek one more time. “Laura can take my power instead,” Stiles tried, “You can bring me back after, it makes the most sense–”

“You are never going to be ready for this, Stiles,” Derek said, a deep, concentrated vibration through his bones, “I’m not letting you get hurt just so you can do this all again later.”

He was right. 

Of course, he was. He was always right. No matter how infuriating it could be.

So Stiles held him back just as tight and breathed him in through choked gasps and wet hiccups. He focussed on the way Derek’s strong hands rubbed across his back like he was forcing the calm in through his muscles; on the smell of him radiating right out from his pulse point; on the echoing synchronicity of their heartbeats; on the rustling of his sheets beneath their tangled legs and how his began to ache from the awkward contortion. This was home. Over the endless yearning for something so similar, this was home. So how was he still homesick?

“Tell me what you need, Stiles,” he said, “and I’ll get it for you. Anything. I’ll do it.”

Stiles slowly shook his head, digging his chin into the curve of Derek’s shoulder, “You can’t.”

“Try me,” he said.

Stiles’ nose twitched; his knuckles were mangled before his eyes, “The only things I need that I don’t have right now are two timelines over.” He swallowed thickly as he started to pick the shards out of his skin to watch it scar over with glimmers of molton wine red, “I need my Scott. My Alpha. He’d know what to do. Or he wouldn’t, but he’d make it feel okay, anyway. And he’d do something stupid and I’d yell at him and he’d save the day and I’d go home to my own bed and hug my dad goodnight and look at my two scars in the mirror and–” He hissed as one of the shards struck something and more blood started to pool out, darker than his magic, “Fuck, I should be off at college right now. I should be living off of Pot Noodles and instant coffee and my biggest problem should be the mould on the floor of my shared bathroom, or– or the fact I have an exam I haven’t studied for in a mandatory class that has nothing to do with my major.”

Derek was pressing feather-light kisses across his right shoulder, “I know. I know.”

“And even if I could go back to that timeline,” Stiles said, sort of delirious now from– well, everything, “without just fucking up again and creating a fourth hell on Earth, none of them would even remember me.” He shook his head again, “Scott didn’t know who I was, Liam and Mason and Hayden didn’t even know I went to their school, my own dad asked where my parents were– It was just Lydia. And then they took me. And I know she forgot, too.” He was laughing again. Nothing more than a thin, helpless, breathless wheeze, “I bet you forgot me before I even saw the fucking hooves under that Goddamn bed.”

Derek shook his head, brushing his stubble over the skin of Stiles’ throat, “He didn’t.”

Stiles made an aborted noise, “I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

“You’ve told me about a thousand different reasons why you two were important to each other,” Derek said softly, “You saved each other’s lives. You trusted each other. I know you never believed yourself when you said you were ‘reluctant allies’. If you did, you wouldn’t’ve done everything you did to get me to be close to you. You wouldn’t’ve smelled like… grief. When you first saw me.”

Stiles knew his heart was speeding up, something he couldn’t force down, “He didn’t need me like I needed him.”

Derek’s arms tightened around him, an iron grip, “I’m not him. You know that, right?”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded sharply, “You have no idea how well I know that.” He swallowed, “I love you. And you love me, too. Right?”

“More than anything,” Derek said softly, bringing his hands up with a drag of fingertips across fabric to push Stiles away by his shoulders, just far enough that they could see each other without needing to close one eye to bring the other into focus, “So, you need to know that I mean it when I say that I’m here. Okay? I know you. I know you can handle this.”

“Don’t you dare say I already have,” Stiles whispered.

Derek lowered his voice, too, “You don’t have to be perfect. You don’t even have to be good. You’ll learn. You’re the smartest person I know, of course you’ll learn. For Christ’s sake, Stiles, you’re the one that taught me everything.” Stiles gave that a wet sort of chuckle. Derek moved his hands down to hold his, rubbing his thumb over those scarred, bloody knuckles, “You’ve been my Alpha for far longer than you know, Stiles. The colour of the lines under your skin has never mattered, you understand me?”

Stiles nodded weakly.

“All you need to do is stay,” he said softly. Like it was the simplest thing in the world. “You don’t have to be running this town like you were born for it by day two. You don’t have to be okay with this. But it’s happening. And I’m not gonna let you hide away and rot in your bed because you’re scared. And that doesn’t mean you can’t be scared. You can be losing your mind afraid, but you have to do this petrified. Because not doing it isn’t an option.”

“Not doing what,” Stiles forced out.

“Being the Alpha,” Derek nodded, “Erica’s your beta now. I’m your beta. Laura, Cora, even your mom, if you’ll take her.” Stiles’ lip curled. The wolf gave him a careful look, “You are the Alpha. You’re the leader. You’re mine. Alright?” His hand came up to cup Stiles’ cheek, pressing his thumbpad into the line of the scar on his cheek, bringing up flashes of Peter and everything Stiles had done and– “You’re everything. ”

Stiles surged forward to catch his mouth. To lock his bottom lip in between his own and feel Derek’s lips press back; to feel his fingers lace through his hair where it continued to grow too fast; to feel the brush of their stubble connecting. He sighed into the kiss so helplessly. Derek pulled away just enough to whisper against his lips in a harsh shared breath.

“Bite me.”

For someone who was supposed to be in charge, Stiles listened to him awfully fast. Something in him might’ve thought that it would help. Maybe by dragging his lips down to the soft skin at the base of Derek’s throat and pressing his teeth down against him, he could make this all make sense to him. He could flip a switch and Peter’s power could fit him. He could feel the pull. The way that wolves do.

It didn’t work.

But he woke up better the next morning. A little. And he woke with a memory of a carnal possessiveness at the sight of his teeth leaving marks in Derek’s skin. How his body hesitated to heal them. Like he wanted Stiles to be a part of him, permanently and irrevocably. To have that much of a hold on someone, to be able to make their biology falter, it was like being at the executioner’s switch. Being the closest thing to God. 

Maybe it wasn’t the way a werewolf would feel it, or a werecoyote, or a werejaguar, or a chimera (if they could even function like a real supernatural at all), but it was something. It was real. And raw. And probably far worse. Because it was Stiles. Stiles, who was catnip to dark trickster spirits and hunters and murderous mothers and manipulators. Sometimes multiple at once. It was Stiles, who damn-near lost his mind when Derek left before, and damn-near lost it again at the thought of him leaving now. Stiles, who had more blood on his hands than any of them. More than Peter. More than his mother. More than Kate. 

Not that he’d counted. It wouldn’t make a difference. He probably couldn’t. The ripple effects were just as much his fault as the triggers he’d pulled and only God knows how far out they went. But he knew he’d killed Allison and that Sheriff’s Deputy and Donovan and Scott and Erica and his mom and Derek at least twice and Derek’s entire family and a hunter or three and Ennis and Deucalion and Peter. 

He’d never thought that Peter would be the worst one. The simple fact that there were multiple options for a ‘worst one’ was a close second. He’d hated Peter with such an unmoving, burning rage for so long, he wasn’t sure when he’d stopped. And he hated that part, too. How he could rationalise what that man had done to the people he loved, how somewhere along the way he’d empathised so deeply with someone he thought of as a true monster - a man who was not one of the good guys, Scott - that he’d started seeing him as family. 

Tossing a Molotov cocktail and watching it fail to ignite was nothing like breaking your friend’s neck. 

Because that’s what they were, weren’t they? Friends. Stiles Stilinski and Peter Hale, possibly the two worst Alphas Beacon Hills had ever seen and ever would see. The only two people in that town to ever truly see each other. Peter saw Stiles for the monster he was. Stiles saw Peter’s humanity. 

“I need you,” were the first words he whispered into the soft rustling of sheets as Derek began to stir behind him. A real answer to the question he’d asked earlier. Derek probably didn’t hear. Or maybe he was too close to asleep to answer properly. Or to understand. Or maybe he just didn’t want to. He could almost hear the bullshit answer Derek would give him back if he gave one at all. ‘I’m right here,’ he’d say. ‘You already have me.’

“I don’t wanna be Him,” were the next words he said, an eternity of silence later. Derek’s hand stopped where it had been tracing back and forth right beside the concave scar tissue left over from that night at the mall. It was the only one of his scars that made him nauseous to touch. It had hurt, when the grimoire was out of his skin. It ached and burned if he strained too much. It itched. But then he’d touch it and that phantom sensation of touching his own internal organs made his stomach lurch. That and he couldn’t sleep on his front or back anymore. 

“Who?” 

“Him,” Stiles answered, “Me. The Other Me.”

After a moment, Derek answered into his skin, “I know.”

Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I don’t want to. I don’t… I…” His brows met in the middle. Derek’s fingertips started to move again, more conscious in their comfort. “I don’t understand you.”

He could feel the way Derek’s brows moved, just as his did, against the back of his neck, “What do you mean?”

“I burned your house down,” Stiles answered mildly. 

Derek’s breath caught against him, “You didn’t–”

“I did,” Stiles said, “I burned it down with you and Peter inside. And you carried me to the hospital.” He turned around, unflinching, with the unwanted power of his spark muting any pain from his scars once again, to stare straight into Derek’s eyes. Into the horribly familiar way his jaw tightened and his green eyes sharpened. He waited for Derek to adjust his arms around his waist before he went on, “And when I left to try and go back in time, you even went to Scott to help you find me.” He blinked slowly at the just as slow downturn of Derek’s brows, “I don’t understand how you could react like that.”

Those green eyes darted down for just a fraction of a second before they rose again, “It’s complicated.”

“Well,” Stiles said, “I didn’t think it would be simple.”

Derek’s left eye twitched, and he licked his lips, “It’s not–” He huffed a little, shifting where he lay, “It felt like it was my fault you lost control like that.”

Stiles said nothing. 

“The Other Stiles didn’t…” Derek’s eyes shifted away slightly, “He didn’t have to say much to convince me to keep you busy at the formal. I…” He frowned, “I guess I felt like I was…” 

Stiles got sick of waiting for him to finish that sentence awfully fast, “You know He’s not gonna be better than what we saw of Him just because you love me, right?”

Derek met his gaze, steadfast, “You know he’s not another you, right?”

Stiles’ stomach turned. 

“I said last night you don’t have a choice,” Derek nodded, “and I meant it. I love you, Stiles. And that means I love you even when you think you’re at your worst.”

“You shouldn’t,” Stiles spat with narrowed eyes, “My worst is deadly, Derek. My worst is getting possessed and stringing together elaborate plots to kill and terrorise as many as possible. It’s wrecking my car. It’s shattering mirrors and vomiting and snapping necks and burning down houses.” The words flowed out of him like molten lava, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion, you remember that?”

“So, he’s trustworthy when it means you can use his words to try and push me away?” Derek drawled, “Okay.”

“No,” Stiles hissed, leaning up on his elbow, “I just don’t understand what it is you’re sticking around for. You can love me at my worst, but I am not giving you my best, am I?”

The man’s eyes softened, “Stiles. You remember last summer?”

Stiles nodded. Barely. 

Derek’s hand reached up to cup his face, “That summer is our future. That’s how I see it. The present is a shitshow, sure, but I’m going to stick through it with you because you are forever. I swear to God, Stiles.”

“I am going to kill Scott,” Stiles spat, “That’s the forever you want?”

Something funny crossed over Derek’s face, like he’d brought up an inside joke Stiles wasn’t a part of, and his lip quirked up as he shrugged and answered earnestly, “Yeah.”

The red of his arms, dampened slightly by the morning light streaming through his window, seemed to brighten as a flash of rage passed through him, “Explain that to me. Explain how you can do that to yourself, Derek. ‘Cause I know you deserve so much better.”

Derek’s mouth fell open, then shut again, before he said, “I want to.” Stiles’ noise of pure aggravation was snuffed by Derek’s entertained little smile - as if any of this was pleasant. As if he wasn’t torturing him. “I want to, so badly. I want to make you understand. Because I know how easily it would fix everything you’re struggling with right now, but I don’t… I don’t know if I’m supposed to.”

Stiles’ eyes sharped, “What?”

The wolf winced, “I don’t know if I told him before he did it.”

“You–” He was gonna hit him, “What?? Tell me.” Derek pursed his lips. “Tell me or I will bite you.” He caught the glimmer in his eyes. “I will bite you with malice.”

“Nah, you won’t.”

“Why, because you’ll heal? ”

Derek smiled, “‘Cause you like me too much. And I totally won whatever that conversation was.”

Stiles said nothing back to that. He rolled over and yanked the comforter entirely over himself and off of Derek. The wolf protested for a short while. Stiles ignored him. He ignored him until he gave up, gave in to his grumbling stomach, and softly tried to convince Stiles to get some food. 

Stiles ignored him some more. Derek left on his own.

He didn’t get it. He did not understand Derek Hale. People like Peter and Scott and Jackson and Lydia made sense. They wore their emotions on their sleeve. You piss them off, you’ll know. They like you, you’ll know. They want to fuck you, you’ll know. They disagree with a particular moral standpoint you uphold, you’ll know. They want you dead, you’ll know. But Derek. Something about the years of self-defence and building walls and hiding had made him a fucking enigma. Even this version of him. A version Stiles had curated who could say what he meant and kiss like he meant it even more. Even he was too scared to just come out and say it. To tell Stiles what he really thought. What Stiles needed to hear. 

He wasn’t a hero. He wasn’t a good person. He killed in cold blood and twisted whole timelines just to make sure he still had a best friend or a Derek. He was going to kill Scott. 

Fuck. 

Fuck. 

The sheets were too cold now, with Derek gone. Stiles didn’t particularly want him to come back. It would mean he was good enough to convince him to leave. He had to see how that was the right thing to do. To leave. Stiles was not about to start doing anything better than he already had. The next thing he had to do was kill Kate. And even if more people than not would see that as a good thing, it was still murder. And somehow murder had become something so real to him that it wasn’t even a funny threat to make anymore. Because he could. He would. He has. And he will again. 

But Derek couldn’t leave. Because Stiles needs him. He does. He needs him so badly. He needs that man to talk him down again and again. Stiles could only roll with the punches so far before every bone in his body cracked under the abuse, but Derek was a diamond. He turned into solid, unbreakable perfection under the same pressure that would shatter anyone else. 

And Stiles certainly wasn’t scared to kill Kate. He had no problem with bringing her as much pain as was physically possible. Because Kate was a real monster. Not something that goes bump in the night. Not a beast with razor sharp teeth and glowing eyes and knives for claws. She didn’t have to be. She was born with a monstrosity subhuman. Her ability to corrupt everything she touched, to contort and scar every inch of a person’s body, mind, and home. She destroyed souls. That was the kind of monster she was. Unforgivable. Irredeemable. 

So, no, Stiles wasn’t scared to kill Kate. 

He was just scared to become a killer. 

 

-

 

Interventions were stupid. They were useless. Stiles didn’t see how a group of people could truly believe they knew what any one person needed better than they did. If you’re gonna get better, you’re gonna get better because you do it. Not because some of your pals put up a banner that said ‘we care about you!’ and took turns reading out their pre-written notes of encouragement and pleas for change. ‘This isn’t healthy’ and ‘We just want to help’ and ‘It wasn’t a problem at first, but last week you got so high you drop-kicked my neighbour’s kitten and we think it’s time you get clean.’

It took two days of ignoring, and fake-sleeping, and ignoring, and drinking and eating whatever Derek brought him (Only once he’d left the room. Stiles couldn’t face him while he ate the food.), and ultimately clinging to Derek when the sun set and he slipped back into bed. Two days. And then Stiles’ time was apparently up. Ignoring was over. 

Because Derek came in the room, bright and early on the third morning, waking him after his absence in bed hadn’t stirred him, declaring louder than anything Stiles had heard in over fifty hours, “Stiles. You have some people here to see you.” 

There was something so cocky about the way he said it that had Stiles poking his head up out from under the covers to glare at him. But his eyes caught Erica’s and he barely managed to hide his horror behind the sheets again.

“Absolutely not,” he growled into the fabric, “Not today, man.”

“Oh, wow,” Erica murmured, “When's the last time you showered?”

Derek made an aborted noise, “He, uh. He’s been struggling a little bit.”

“I am perfectly fine. Never been better. Top form right now.”

“Okay, absolutely not,” Lydia’s voice clicked, “This is not happening.”

“Stiles,” Jackson - how many were there?? - growled, “You smell terrible.”

He slammed the sheets back off of himself, with one giant arcing swing of his arm and a thud. The glow broke into the room. No one said anything as he spun on his ass to sit at the edge of the bed and pointedly stomp onto his own two feet. He stared at the little crowd, spilling out from his doorway into the hall. Erica, Derek, Jackson, Lydia, Boyd, Allison, Scott. He wanted to punch a hole in a wall. Maybe break a few knuckles. 

He stared into Derek’s patient eyes, “You couldn’t get Isaac, too? It’s not a pack intervention without Isaac, Derek.”

Derek just sighed.

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded slowly, stepping forward and grabbing a random shirt and pair of jeans strewn across his floor, pointedly not looking at his own arms as he did, “Well, I’m gonna go un-repulsive myself, but you kids have fun. Don’t touch anything.”

And he showered. And he stared the way the water seemed to carry the light down to his palms like freshly drawn blood and he thought of Scott. He thought of the Other Stiles, before they all saw what He was really like, when He was just a bizarrely enthusiastic, happily married, scarred, and powerful vision of Stiles’ future. He’d mentioned Scott on the phone to Derek. But Claudia had said, in her glowing recommendation of His character that He was a brilliant liar.  

Stiles didn’t know how he could get away with a lie like that. But he did not want to risk it. Not for a moment.

After he got out of the shower, towelled his hair dry with a little too much force, and yanked on his slightly-less-dirty clothes, he drudged out of the bathroom and stormed straight through the crowd of teenagers-plus-Derek and down the stairs. Some of them called after him, and all of them followed him. Like fucking ducklings. Jesus Christ.

“Where are you going?” Erica called out.

“The kitchen,” Stiles called back as he rounded the corner at the bottom of the stairs to pass into the room, “I haven’t eaten in twenty hours.” And his stomach rumbled in agreement. 

Derek was stood close to his side as he found a loaf of bread and stuffed it into the toaster. He crouched down to be eye-level with the thing as he pulled down the lever. And he waited. Everyone waited with him. For a while, at least.

“Okay,” Lydia tried, “Can you–”

Stiles shushed her.

He could hear the offence on her face, “You–”

“Be quiet,” he said mildly, “I’m cooking. I need to focus.” Hopefully the I really just want to pretend you’re all not here right now was inferable. 

“No,” Allison said suddenly, earnestly, “You need to explain all of this.”

Stiles’ eye twitched. He made a disinterested little humming noise. 

“Werewolves, banshees, magic,” she continued, “I… I mean, what else is there? What are we going to have to deal with?”

Stiles felt a pang of guilt for how badly he wanted to spin around and slam her into a wall just to get her to go away, so instead he answered her question with, “Define ‘we’.”

She hesitated a moment before she answered, “Me, Scott, Erica, Lydia, Boyd. Isaac?”

Stiles sighed, “Not quite. Scott, Isaac, and Boyd don’t have to deal with anything. Isaac and Boyd could probably use the company, though.”

“I’m not a charity case,” Boyd snarled.

Stiles hummed, “Sure. And you’re also not a werewolf. Or a member of an infamous hunter family that spans back millennia. So. This is absolutely a conscious choice you’re making. And Scott.” He turned to find the boy’s eyes, “There is not a bone in my body that wants you to even remember this shit is real.”

“Why me?” He asked tentatively, “You said you… You travelled through time. Did something happen to me?”

Stiles turned his gaze back to the toaster. He snorted, “What didn’t happen to you?” He thumbed the little button on the toaster and caught it as it popped up, snagging a wide bite as he rose to his full height and motioning for the kids to follow him as he walked off with it. They followed again. Ducklings. Sweet, innocent ducklings with no one better to follow. They didn’t have a True Alpha. Or even an Alpha Werewolf at all. Not to mention only two of them were wolves. And Stiles wanted none of them to be here right now. 

He could’ve melted straight into the couch cushions and never come back out. Heaven only knows where his parents were. It took more than a few deep breaths, the settling of dry bread in his stomach, and Derek’s knee pressing against his for him to calm himself down enough to start talking again.

“Alright,” he sighed, crossing his covered arms over his chest and tucking his hands away, “I’ll answer your questions.” A handful of sparkling eyes set him on edge again, “But! I will not claim any responsibility for what the answers might do to you. You are choosing to find out a lot of information that will definitely make you sick to your stomach, or make you hate my guts, or make you question everything else you thought you already know. That’s not on me.”

The kids exchanged glances. Stood above him like they were the ones in charge. A few of them nodded. Erica looked him dead in the eye. 

He narrowed his gaze, “You gotten the wolfy rundown?”

She nodded, answering mildly, “The Hales helped me out a lot. You got the Alpha rundown?”

Stiles swallowed down the instinctive urge to bite out an ‘I’m not the Alpha’. He was. He was her Alpha. So, he pretended he didn’t just spend a solid twenty seconds staring at his hoodie sleeves and looked back up to give her a nod.

“I’m just so stuck on the time travel thing,” Scott said, “You… I mean… Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why did you go back?” Scott’s little baby face scrunched up, “Or, come back.”

Stiles blinked at him, “I, uh.” It was as if he was made of lead. Like he weighed a thousand tonnes. The constant pressure of Derek’s knee against him could barely lighten the load. “I needed to save a lot of lives, real fast. To prove that I could. I guess.” He ground his teeth, “I didn’t do a very good job of it. But I’m… I’m trying.”

“And you killed Peter,” Allison said suddenly, “So. Doing great.” Scott elbowed her. Stiles let out the most alarmingly pathetic little whimper of a noise. Allison’s eyes somehow got even sharper, “You know, you’re a lot less scary now. Were you that pathetic every other time you killed someone?”

Stiles didn’t even know how to take that, “Well, this time I had to snap the neck of someone who might have, in that moment, been the only person who knew me from the ages of fifteen to eighteen. So, forgive me if I’m not as hot and mysterious and evil about it as you thought I was.” 

“But you are evil.”

His throat tightened, “How can I be evil? We’re on the same side.”

“Side of what?” Allison hissed, “You have killed. People. Stiles. Real people! And you perceiving the people you kill as being on the other side doesn’t make it not murder!! ”

“What, you think I like it?” Stiles snapped, his voice rising without his permission as he sat up, “You think I was so happy to break Peter’s neck and become Him? You think I liked it when I was possessed, completely out of control, planting bombs at the Sheriff’s station, watching Scott hold a Deputy’s hand as the life drained out of his eyes? You think I’m lulled right to sleep at night by the knowledge that it was me controlling the blade that murdered you? ”

Allison didn’t say anything. No one did. Her skin went pale, and Scott’s hand wrapped tight around her arm. She took in a shuddering breath.

“That,” Stiles snarled, “You think I enjoy that? That look?” He rose to his feet and ignored Derek’s gentle words, “You think I enjoyed the way Scott looked at me after? Because I didn’t watch you die, but he did. That’s just one thing that the supernatural did to him. You died in his arms, Allison.” Tears were welling in her eyes. He could see them. And he could feel how they tore at his chest. “And don’t think I didn’t mean it when I said everyone in that room in the school had died. All of you,” he boomed, pointing a finger at each of their faces, landing on Lydia, “Except for you.” He stepped back a little, “Scott, Allison, and I all died for fourteen hours to find the magical tree stump that Derek’s psychotic girlfriend was keeping our singular remaining parents under, because let’s not forget how Allison’s mom tried to kill Scott and got bit by Derek in the process and killed herself so she wouldn’t turn because that’s your family, Allison. And you don’t get an out. Your parents are murderers, just like me, and they don’t do it out of necessity. They’re hunters. Werewolf hunters. Your aunt killed each and every Hale that isn’t still standing today with a goddamn match and the help of my mom. And, hey! She also died! She died of Frontotemporal Dementia, before my very eyes, while my dad was holding the hand of Derek’s cousin and my ex’s sister as she slowly died in a car wreck. That cousin is Peter’s daughter, too. But, hey, how else did everyone in this room die?” He made a big show of looking up at the sky and tapping at his chin, “Peter impaled Derek, Derek fell two stories onto an escalator, Scott was stabbed, or clawed, by our childhood friend. Boyd had the same thing done to him by Derek because he was forced to by Kali, who also impaled me but that’s not important. Erica was killed by the Alphas. She then was killed by them again and died in my arms—” He did not look at her that time. He could not. “—Isaac had to do the ice bath thing that killed Scott, Allison, and me a while before we did it. Also, Allison’s aunt did kill Derek for a brief moment in Mexico. And she shot the me from this timeline in the head. And my dad almost died because of Theo. And Cora died for a moment and I had to give her CPR in the back of an ambulance. Not to mention Jackson dying for like a day and then coming back and then me hitting him with my Jeep and Derek and Peter impaling him and then him being brought back by– I don’t even–… Derek clawed Peter’s throat out twice and Peter clawed out Kate Argent’s throat once and a half. Derek shot her in the skull once. I impaled a guy because he was trying to pull me down some scaffolding to eat my legs and I killed Scott—” 

Stiles flinched back, as if his words were dangerous. 

Scott did, too. Like he’d try to do it now. And Stiles couldn’t handle that. Allison could fear him, she could hate him, and that was more than okay. He needed her to. He needed to be reminded of what he did and how permanent Void’s damage was. But not Scott. Never Scott. Anyone else could want him dead. They could try to kill him themselves, even. But Scott being scared that Stiles would hurt him, that was something Stiles could not take. Not again.

He pressed a hand to his mouth and breathed out hard against it.

“I didn’t,” he murmured into his skin, shaking his head and peeling his palm away, “I didn’t mean to say that.”

“Are you kidding me?” Allison said, voice cracking, “You killed me and Scott? And we’re supposed to trust you??”

“When the hell have I ever told you to trust me!?”

“It’s all you ever do!” Allison cried back, “You beg for us to trust you when you’re just some crazy stranger who can time travel and has glowing arms! Are you actually serious??”

“Okay!” Derek boomed, “Stiles!! ”

He froze. And he turned. Derek was looking at him like he always did. Like he was something worth looking at. Like anything about him was admirable. Or trustworthy. Or deserving of love. 

“Alright,” Derek said first, mumbled, as if it was only for his own ears, before he started to speak far too loud, “You remember when I told you that it was your future self who asked me to distract you at the winter formal? So Peter could bite Lydia?”

Stiles wanted to cry, “Literally why are you talking about this right now.”

“You remember what I said?” Derek asked, “Why I trusted him?”

Stiles barely glanced over at Lydia’s dropped jaw, answering as he sighed, “You said you trusted Him because He was me.”

“Yeah, psychotic alpha or not,” Derek nodded - and why the hell was he talking about this again now, “At first I trusted him because I knew you would never do anything to hurt me–”

“But I have hurt you,” Stiles spat against his better judgement, “I brought you back here, Derek. I burned down your house when it was already ashes, I’ve made you deal with Kate again, and that future me that you love so much literally threw you into a train carriage, dude.”

Derek just waited for him to stop. And waited for him to say anything else. If he’d had the strength to, Stiles would’ve talked for hours. Hell, he would’ve categorised each and every misstep toward Derek by date and time and severity. Subjecting him to a long-term relationship with himself - locking him into forever - would be first place. 

After enough time passed where not a soul whispered, Derek said, carefully, “I trusted him because I knew you would never hurt me. And I still trust you because he didn’t hurt Scott.”

It made Stiles hold his breath, made his face scrunch up in confusion as he hissed out a, “What?”

“It wasn’t real,” Derek answered, “None of it was. Oak Creek, Scott, the Oni.” He slowly shook his head, “Scott didn’t die. He didn’t kill him.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?” Stiles snarled, lip curled and heart racing in his chest.

“It was an illusion,” Derek shrugged, “I…” His brows quirked up like something was funny, “Why do you think I married him?”

I don’t think you did, was all Stiles could think. He couldn’t bring it out. Couldn’t utter the words out loud. He couldn’t breathe. Because. Because. 

What else was fake?

Oh, shit. 

“Well, that’s worse,” he forced out, “Somehow that is far fucking worse.” Derek’s bright eyes dimmed, just enough to make Stiles want to point a gun at his own head, “How long have you known?”

Derek’s eyes darted away then back again, “He dropped the illusion when you ran to find the Nemeton. It was all magic.”

“That’s why you took so long to–?” Stiles’ jaw dropped, “You… You’ve known for weeks that I was never going to kill Scott and you never told me? Derek, are you fucking serious?”

“Well, I’m not the first one to keep secrets between the two of us,” Derek said, “Only I didn’t tell you because I was scared the future might fall apart if I did!”

Hearing Derek say the words ‘I was scared’ felt like watching Santa Claus come down your chimney when you know he isn’t real and neither is your chimney - perplexing and wildly alarming, “As if! We both know the future isn’t going anywhere!! Free will doesn’t exist!!”

“So why are you still yelling at me?!” Derek yelled.

“I don’t know!!” Stiles yelled back.

“Okay, I think we should go…” Lydia mumbled.

“No!!” They both yelled, then. Stiles swallowed thickly as the kids went silent. There was a clear look in Derek’s eyes. Like he could read his mind. He hung on the word ‘kids’. They were just kids. They could barely all drive, and that was the barest of age-restricted abilities and God. This was horrible. This was horrible.

“Fuck. Okay. I’m… so scared,” Stiles said, turning to them, “You are all so young, and I am terrified of any of you getting hurt. Because I care about you all, so deeply. Okay?” None of them reacted much. But Erica’s eyes were softer than the rest. He licked his lips, “I don’t think you are mature enough to make this choice, but I want you to understand that I am not trying to control you. I don’t want any of you involved in this,” his head quirked to the side, “but if you want to stay together, you’re gonna have to be. One way or another. And if you do, let me just say now that I will protect you all with my life. And I fucking mean that. Alright?” Only Erica nodded. Stiles nodded back, “Alright. Because I’m not watching a single one of you die. Never again. Not when I can do something about it.”

Something in Allison’s eyes meant she had something to say. It would probably leave Stiles slack-jawed and heartbroken. But she kept her mouth shut. Lydia rubbed at her upper arms, and Jackson rubbed a hand up and down her back. Then Erica was moving forward. Stiles was suddenly steeling himself for a swipe of claws, or a punch, or a tackle. But no. 

Erica hugged him. Tight.

“What are you doing?” He murmured over her shoulder. 

She held him so tight, werewolf tight, with her perfectly curled blonde hair bunching up against his collar bone and she said, “Being involved with you meant I got cured for life, Stiles.” She shook her head, “You’re not a curse, dude. You haven’t hurt me.”

Stiles forced back down the unspoken ‘yet’. He held her back.

It could’ve gone better. But it could’ve gone worse. And maybe being terrified of Stiles was the one way Scott could actually stay safe. Maybe Stiles could handle being the Alpha. It seemed to beat through Erica’s chest right into his. Something bigger than him. Something he wasn’t born to do but he was made for. Raised and trained to spend forever doing.

He was still terrified. But he knew how to work through that.

And he did, later that day. After they’d all let him order pizzas for lunch and tell them all the actually cool shit they can get up to now. Because they stayed. They watched Stiles lose his shit over his own grief and guilt and they all stayed. He told them about all the people who’d stayed and lost their lives because of it and they still stayed. 

Stiles was surrounded by idiots. 

At least Allison had looked like she wanted to leave real bad the whole time, but her boyfriend was asking gentle questions and clapping Stiles on the shoulder and she stayed for him. Maybe there was something they could feel, too. The humans. Maybe the whole Alpha thing passed along to them. They could feel the pull. The urge to follow and obey and trust. Maybe it was just because they were so young. They didn’t understand the danger they were in because they hadn’t seen it yet. They were naïve. Innocent. It was just a new thing for Stiles to feel guilty about. Because Stiles - selfish, pathetic Stiles - would rather risk their lives than let them be safe and happy without him. Just like how he wouldn’t let Derek leave even when the darkest parts of him knew it was what was best for everyone. Stiles would rather watch a person die in his arms than watch them live in anyone else’s.

“You know, we don’t actually know what our future is gonna be like,” he said into the darkness, late that night. Derek hummed where he stood. He dropped his shirt to the floor and stepped out of his jeans. Stiles could only just see his silhouette as he slipped in under the covers. At least he wasn’t stuck sleeping on his childhood twin mattress anymore. At least the sheets could cover both of them.

“You think?” Derek murmured back, once he was comfortable. 

Stiles sighed, “I mean, yeah. We only know parts of it. You…” He swallowed, “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

Derek’s face softened and twisted in the dark, “I’m sorry.”

“I’d never have come back here if you’d just told me.”

“I know. I’m sorry.”

Stiles exhaled, hard, through his nose, reaching out to brush his hand along the stubble of Derek’s jaw, “Why would fate need us to do this?”

Derek’s jaw shifted beneath his hand, and his brows quirked up against the pillow, “What do you mean?”

“There has to be a reason,” Stiles said, “Otherwise He would’ve told me Himself. He wouldn’t’ve done it in the first place.” He swallowed, “Why did I need to see that?”

“I don’t know,” Derek said softly back.

Stiles huffed, “I think you should hate Him just for hurting me. Forget any Scott McCall non-murders, that guy fucked me up and we should kill Him.” Derek snickered. Stiles smiled, “What a dick move though, right?”

“You seriously still hate him?” Derek mumbled, “He didn’t kill Scott. And don’t think I can’t hear the capital letter whenever you talk about him.”

“I punctuate my words with intent, dude,” Stiles said, “Do you capitalise the ‘S’ when you’re talking about Satan?”

He could feel Derek’s judgemental look, “You’re calling your future self the Devil?”

“He hurt you,” Stiles shrugged against the mattress, “And He made me think I was going to kill Scott. And those sunglasses just pissed me off by default. I am sure I will hate Him just as much if I end up being Him.”

Derek’s mouth fell into a small frown, “If?”

“When,” Stiles offhandedly corrected, “Whatever. Same diff’. C’mere.” And he shuffled down on the mattress just enough to bury his face in the curve of Derek’s throat, right where it met his collar bones. Derek’s left arm found its place resting over Stiles’ waist. And he was warm. And he smelled like burning Autumn leaves. And Stiles was safe. 

Derek whispered into the night, almost inaudible, as he drifted off, “We don’t know everything, but I know that I love you, Stiles. That first night at the school. Meeting your future self.” His sigh rustled Stiles’ hair. “Trusting you was the best decision I ever made.”

And Stiles fell asleep thinking about what they’d make for breakfast the next day. He wanted a greasy diner breakfast. With sausage and eggs and bacon and waffles. He needed his licence back. 

He tried not to think, as he fell asleep, about what he’d really wanted to ask Derek. ‘Do you really love me, or do you love what you think I’m destined to be?’ He tried not to think about what else in the future He flaunted was an illusion. From His tattoo to His house to His kids to that phone call. Was it why He’d worn those sunglasses? So He could hide the horrid bright red glow of His eyes as His magic twisted and morphed everything around them into exactly what He needed them to see. Into His reality. As if He were some sort of a God. Existence bent to His will and Stiles’ life was in His hands. He referred to Him with capitals and revered Him with a fear he held for no one else. 

But he didn’t think about that. He thought about breakfast, instead.   

 

-

 

Nothing much happened for the next two months, or so. Erica’s first and second full moons passed about as smoothly as any first and second full moons. At least doing it with a wolf trained to be an Alpha and a wolf who had only just gotten the hang of it, she wasn’t completely in the dark. Stiles didn’t go to school often. He went on those full moons and the days surrounding them, and if Erica asked him to, and if Jackson asked him not to. Allison didn’t speak to him. He started applying for jobs. He didn’t hear back. He watched lacrosse practices and games from the woods with Derek. He cooked. A lot. He pretended it didn’t make his skin crawl when people called him ‘the Alpha’. He also pretended he didn’t, deep down, cringe so hard it hurt. He made copies of every key he could get his hands on. He scrubbed at his glowing arms in the shower until they burned, and healed too fast. He did not break down again. Erica went as Catwoman for Halloween. She told Stiles to be Batman. Stiles told her Boyd should, instead. He then begged Derek to go as Superman and Lois Lane and eventually convinced him. They ended up leaving Lydia’s party early because he’d put Stiles under a strict three-drinks-maximum and he quickly discovered he could not enjoy a high school party when he wasn’t blackout drunk. They spent the rest of the night watching horror movies at home. His parents joined them. 

Derek had started going on runs with the Sheriff, early in the morning. Stiles asked him about it, one day.

“How is it so easy for you?” 

Derek had stopped too suddenly, brows doing something crazy, “What?”

“Getting close with people,” Stiles answered, as if he’d missed a very clear point, and Stiles’ question was not completely unrelated to the pizza he was making.

“I mean,” Derek frowned, “No relationship is easy.”

That made Stiles stop, confused and slightly affronted, “Ours is.”

Derek had stopped and tilted his head for just a moment. Then, he’d grinned and stolen a pepperoni. Stiles had swatted his hand and swore at him.

Two months passed, and nothing happened.

Kate didn’t show her face. The Alpha pack didn’t leave angular warnings on windows and front doors. Chris didn’t utter a word. 

Everything was fine.

It was weird. And it was freaking him out. Stiles didn’t fill silence well. Not with anything other than violence and explosions and conspiracies. He didn’t do fine. He wanted it, sure. But when he had it. It felt like the calm before the storm. Or the eye of the hurricane. Or a third applicable weather metaphor.

He thought about bringing Peter back. Of course, he did. He thought about it often. And he waited to hear about how Lydia had started writing backwards on chalkboards in class, or poisoning her beard-slash-lavender-boyfriend. But nothing. Nada. Peter was not bringing himself back. And Stiles decided that, this time, he’d quit while he was ahead. Peter was stronger than he ought to be. He’d find a way to ask. To beg. If he wanted Stiles to bring him back to life, he’d know. If he wanted Lydia to do it, he would’ve already. 

It left Stiles with some sort of a void. Not that kind. But a hole in his life that he had to fill. Normally, Peter was just there. Either Stiles was avoiding him like the plague or he was begrudgingly working alongside him, but he was always there. Part of that was his reluctance to give up and die. And now he had. He’d gone and gotten Stiles to see him as family and then got him to kill him. So maybe he was just as insufferable as always. Well, he wasn’t anything at all now. Stiles had to remember that. He was probably never coming back. He’d never be a nuisance again. And that made Stiles want to bring him back just to punch him in the face. The fact that he’d done nothing to help before made it worse. How he’d expected his mom to do anything but make it all worse. He hadn’t even tried.

So, he focussed on something else. Bringing Peter back against his will and having him become even more vengeful and, just, kind of bitchy - catty, even - would do no one any good. So, Stiles tried to bring their pack to life instead. And that was how he ended up on the lacrosse field that day.

He felt a little like Derek - waiting for Isaac to reach to scoop up his last ball of his shot practice and realise it wasn’t there, only to look up and see him standing just a few feet away, holding it and waiting. It was probably less satisfying to see Isaac flinch and jump back in surprise than it was for Derek to see him do it. He spun the lacrosse stick on his shoulder. 

“Jesus,” Isaac hissed, “Where did you come from?”

Stiles’ eyes locked onto the purplish yellow bruise over his eye, grinding his teeth a little, “I’m guessing you didn’t get that practising lacrosse?”

Isaac froze, a complicated look flickering over his eyes, “I–… You… Just leave it.”

For once, he listened, nodded and said far more gently, “Wanna practice some passes? Can’t practise a team sport alone all the time.”

And Isaac waited a moment; thought before he answered. But he did. With a nod and a slow jog to go and collect the balls he’d tossed (which had, in a pleasantly surprising turn of events, gone into the net more than not) from the general direction of over there. Stiles dug his shoes into the grass while he waited. 

It was a grey day. It was cold. Early December, now - time was moving far too damn fast for him. Funny, considering it practically bent to his will. When the balls were collected, Isaac hesitantly scooped one up with his net and got into position. 

Stiles did, too. It was easy. He caught the balls Isaac threw. Isaac caught the ones Stiles occasionally threw back. They didn’t say anything. Not until the sight of Isaac’s tiny, skinny, bruised face started to worm in too deep. Started to look too familiar. After a certain point, Isaac started fumbling too many catches and Stiles was struck with such a strong urge to run over and hug him tight until it all went away. Because he’d been Isaac. And he couldn’t fix him any more than he could fix himself.

“My mom used to beat me when I was a kid,” he said. It cut through the crisp winter air like a bullet and had Isaac seizing up like he’d been struck. Stiles’ hands burned from the cold, wrapped around the stick in his hands, “I ended up with a few black eyes like that. It wasn’t the same situation, but. I get it at least a little bit.” 

Isaac didn’t look at him. He just stared down at the ball in his hand. His curls shifted in the wind.

“That… feeling of betrayal, every time it happens,” Stiles nodded, “‘Cause you know they’re meant to love you unconditionally. And they choose to hurt you instead. And you remember before. When they didn’t. And you wonder what changed.” 

Isaac’s eyes traced the grass between them before they snapped up to meet his.

Stiles tried to give him as gentle of a look as he could manage, “It wasn’t you. It never was.”

“Why’d your mom stop?” Isaac called out suddenly, amending his words with a sort of awkward after-thought that only fifteen-year-old Isaac ever seemed to do, “You– You said she used to. When you were a kid. So, why’d she stop?”

Stiles’ lips fell open a little, dry and chapped, and the moisture left over from his tongue darting out just made them cold and drier, and he answered, “One of us died.”

Isaac’s mouth fell open a little, too, before they pressed into a pout, “You’re not hurting my dad. He– He doesn’t deserve that—”

“I didn’t say I would,” Stiles shrugged, “I’m just saying, you’re gonna have to take care of yourself. You need to let people help you. Because you know he’s not gonna change.”

“I just wanna get through high school,” Isaac said. Stiles could barely hear him. So small and quiet. Nothing like the Isaac he remembered. “When I get into college, I can… I don’t need to get away from him, alright? He’s my dad. He loves me. He’s just… We’ve been through a lot. We’ve lost a lot. He’s just… scared.”

“I’m sure,” Stiles said, “But other parents have been through worse and been more scared and their kids haven’t ended up with black eyes.”

Isaac’s jaw clenched shut so tight Stiles could see it from fifteen feet away. He didn’t expect this part to be easy. He couldn’t just offer Isaac the bite and a community he’d be bound to by blood thicker than his father’s. He couldn’t wait for a monster that wouldn’t exist to kill Isaac’s dad on a rainy day for revenge. Maybe Matt would do it anyway. But that wasn’t a solution. That never healed him. Stiles didn’t think he ever did see Isaac healed. He saw him distracted. Healing, maybe. But never healed. 

“If you ever need a place to stay, even for just a night,” Stiles nodded slowly, “Or even just a few minutes. My door’s always open, man.”

Isaac nodded warily.

“I mean it,” Stiles stressed, “No questions asked. I’ve always got enough oven-cook curly fries in my freezer for an extra guest.”

The kid nodded more convincingly the second time. 

Baby steps, he thought. He wasn’t delusional enough to truly believe he could save Isaac with one lacrosse practice. But he hoped he’d learn to trust him. He hoped he’d learn to trust, period. This was a team sport. Isaac wasn’t gonna make it out all on his own.

 

-

 

Six and a half (long story) private lacrosse practices with Isaac later, and he finally was with the rest of them as they brought up that dreaded dance again. The Winter Formal.

Somehow, Stiles had forgotten it was actually going to happen. I mean, three times felt like overkill. Was he even allowed to go This Time? Should he? He was nineteen. It was seriously getting a bit weird. Last Time, he had the excuses of Nobody Knows I’m A Time Traveller and Lydia, Stay Where I Can See You Or So Help Me, God going for him, but now? The hunters had been radio silent, Peter was definitely not biting anyone any time soon, Erica and Jackson both were happily anchored, and the rest of them were completely ordinary teenagers. Mostly. But, still, they seemed to really be struggling with the entire concept of time travel. And the simple fact that Stiles was not fifteen. 

Because Lydia was in his kitchen, pressing up against the counter and eyeing Stiles’ brownie batter when she asked, “What’re you wearing to the formal?”

Stiles stopped stirring to stare at her, “Excuse me?”

“The Winter Formal,” she clarified, as if he had somehow not understood that glaringly obvious part, “What’re you wearing?”

“Am I going to the formal?” He grumbled, and started to mix again.

She shrugged melodramatically, “You tell me, pretty boy. You want the rest of those maniacs running around unsupervised at a school dance?”

Stiles blinked at her, “Well, they will be supervised. It’s a school dance. It’s chaperoned, Lydia.”

The girl scrunched up her nose in annoyance and reached past him to yank a drawer open and pull out a teaspoon, snagging a scoop of batter and licking the spoon clean, “Well, the punch will obviously be spiked anyway.”

Stiles’ stirring paused for barely a second, briefly scolding her at the back of his mind for drinking so young, then remembering he’d always done the same thing and, God, could he go for a drink right about now, “I’ll think about it.”

Lydia gave him a curious little look, humming to herself, “Good batter. Needs an extra pinch of salt. I’m taking you shopping once they’re done baking.”

And somehow that ended up coming true. 

Stiles didn’t understand Lydia. She was really one of the few people who’s fear of Stiles would be completely justified if she showed any at all. But she didn’t. Not since that day at the school. And if she was afraid, that never seemed to deter her from hanging around. From putting on that perfect facade of the ultimate unbothered young woman. She didn’t ask about Peter. She did once, only asking why he’d attacked her, but Stiles’ nausea must’ve been clear on his face because she never asked about him again. He did answer. He told her a lot of things. About her abilities, and how they might hurt her. If she was scared of that, she still didn’t show it. Stiles wondered if maybe that was what drew her back to him. He almost killed her once already, but she still stayed. Just like all the other idiotic teenagers he couldn’t live without. Maybe it was the death he was surrounded by. The ghosts that haunted him. The skeletons in his closet. Maybe she was pulled to it. He wished she wasn’t.

Still, he slid into the passenger seat of her car as soon as the brownies were out of the oven and in the fridge to set. The others came along, too. The humans, that is. He’d wanted to drag Derek out with them, but he was still off with the rest of the wolves, probably romping around in the woods and chasing rabbits or squirrels or something. Stiles felt like he should be there. But he couldn’t - and wouldn’t - run around like them. And, honestly, he refused to even look at them running on all-fours. At least Laura could turn into an actual wolf. And he did not need to see her naked when she detransformed. Thanks, but no thanks. He’d wait until Derek evolved to start getting a load of those visuals. If he evolved.

Lydia played Taylor Swift in the car. Boyd and Isaac had groaned like they’d rather die than listen, but Stiles had still noticed how they both started mouthing along to the words a few songs in. Allison and Scott were in her car, following along close behind in the rearview mirror. She still didn’t talk to him. Stiles had started trying to teach the kids self-defence, thinking about asking his dad for help and chickening out. Parrish wasn’t a Deputy yet. And Allison brought Boyd to the floor in ten seconds. He’d groaned, swore, and asked her where she learned to do that. She’d met Stiles’ eyes when she answered that her aunt had taught her. 

He was worried about her. And the fact that that was the first and only time she’d mentioned Kate since Stiles told everyone what she’d done. He wondered if Kate had taught her self-defence when she was younger, or if Allison had gone to her after the day at the school. If she’d allowed Kate to start indoctrinating her again. For someone so against murder, he seriously couldn’t believe why she would. But they were family. And family was complicated. He knew that much.

Once they were in a space in the mall parking lot, Lydia turned off the ignition and looked back at the boys in the back seat, saying, “You boys go ahead. I need to talk to Stiles for a sec.”

They gave each other a look, but they listened. Anyone who didn’t listen to Lydia was an idiot. But, well, they were all idiots anyway. Unpopular idiots. And Lydia was a popular genius. You listen to Lydia Martin. Or else.

“You listen to me,” she indeed said, the second those doors slammed shut. The car rocked a little. Stiles quirked his head, a prompt for her to continue. She raised her perfect brows and unclasped her seatbelt - it shifted her flawless strawberry blonde hair over her shoulders, “We are going to get you some suits. I am going to get some dresses. We are going to have fun. We are going to go to the formal. We are going to look good. You are not going to let anyone have so much as an allergic reaction, do you hear me?”

Stiles blinked at her for a moment, crossing his finger over his chest, “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She nodded, with a sharp, assessing glare down his body, then she pulled open the driver’s side door and slipped out.

“Also, did you say suits?” Stiles called after her, “Plural??”

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t like shopping. He didn’t understand how the sizes worked, or what was in fashion, or how it was all organised. The ‘in fashion’ part had only gotten worse with the going back and forth through time thing. That and dressing rooms stressed him the hell out. It felt like he was being watched, like the curtain was never closed enough, and the mirrors always made him look… wrong. It was part of the reason why he’d worn the same four outfits on rotation since he was thirteen. Another problem with shopping was the music. It grated on his ears and he couldn’t even imagine how horrific it would be for someone with super senses. The same three pop songs on a loop for hours. Not even good pop songs. They were seriously missing out on Bruno Mars. At least they’d play a song off of Red every once in a while, now, that, Stiles could get behind. But, holy God. If he heard Let’s Go by Calvin Harris one more time. 

“Okay!” Lydia chirped suddenly, snapping Stiles out of his zombie-like, pop-music-induced coma, and thrusting a pile of clothes into his hands, “Go try those on.” He glared down at the clothes, then up at her, as she adjusted her purse on her shoulder and shifted her headband up on her head, “I’ll meet you outside the changing rooms when you’re dressed. Be there in ten.”

And she spun on her heel and strutted off like she was going to save the world. Something about the synth blaring out across the endless displays of clothing made him malleable, or something, because he listened. But that was just Lydia, anyway. Normally, he’d give her a drop of meaningless snark, but, ugh. The sooner this was over, the sooner he could have his brownies. And not be there.  

The first suit he managed to figure out was one cohesive suit was a simple one. Dark grey, almost black, blazer and pants, and a white button-up shirt. He thought he looked like he was going to a wedding and he didn’t like whoever was getting married that much. So, he took it off and shuffled through the rest of the pile. 

He only put it on out of morbid curiosity. 

The midnight black button-up and dress pants. The sleeves of the shirt were too long. When he started to roll them up, and he turned to look at his reflection in the mirror, it was like he’d been slapped. He almost couldn’t breathe at the sight. His arms, patterned with red in such a deep, solid glow, trailing up to vanish beneath the dark fabric. If he’d thought the flashing images of Him at the sight of himself were bad before.

“Oh, baby! ” Lydia’s voice was gasping just within earshot, “I knew you had it in you. See, I’m never wrong about these things.”

He stuck his head out past the curtain to peek around the corner and see what exactly was going on, and he could do little bit raise his brows at the sight. Erica was there, for some reason, wearing a long black dress that was practically all boob, with Lydia stood in front of her with the widest smirk on her face, quite literally checking her out. Stiles was stuck between wondering why the hell Erica was here and why Lydia and Erica were both enthusiastic about it. 

“Hey, Stiles!” Erica called out, leering over at him, all dark eye makeup and bright red lips, “You seen Derek?”

Stiles’ brows fell, “What the shit are you talking about?” Then, turning his gaze to Lydia, “Did you mastermind something ridiculous?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” she said back, pouting her lips, “Love that outfit on you, by the way. Let me know if you go with all black, though, I’ll have to adjust my options.” It was then that Stiles finally noticed she’d changed her clothes. He was ninety-nine-percent sure you weren’t allowed to wear the clothes you tried on out of the changing rooms, but, hey. What did he know about shopping? Either way, he much preferred this unfamiliar pink dress to the satiny silver and black one she wore twice before. It was better than the frilly blouse thing she was wearing that day, at least.

“I like it, too,” Derek’s voice drawled from sort-of-behind-him, sort-of-left-of-him, and Stiles almost jumped out of his own skin. 

But when he saw him, all that Stiles could muster up was, “Oh, that is so unfair.” Because it was. What the fuck? Derek was so ridiculous. Stood there, all perfect and gorgeous and perfect and beautiful and perfect and sexy, with his brows raised in amusement, and his lips just almost smirking and a fucking suit on. It’d been a horrible sight the first time, too, but now? Now, the suit was velvety at its lapels, and his top two buttons were undone and Stiles could remember how the tan skin right there had dented with his teeth marks and he could jump him right here, right now and it would be anyone’s game. He briefly went over what he knew about indecent exposure laws in the state of California.

“You okay there?” Derek asked, all cocky and, God, Stiles had more than a few thoughts about that exact word.

Instead, he bit the inside of his cheek and pulled a face, “You are never, ever escaping emo purgatory, are you?”

“You say the sweetest things,” Derek grinned, “Nice outfit, by the way. Never would’ve thought that’d suit you.”

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbled, “Don’t make puns right now. This is terrible. Terrible and horrible. I hate you.”

Derek quirked his brows. 

Stiles glared as hard as he could, “I’m gonna get changed again now. Goodbye.” He turned back around, disappearing behind the curtain, “You look amazing and I hate this suit and you’re a freak.”

He ended up being sat down on a cushioned bench at the edge of the shoe section by the women’s dressing rooms, with Derek to his left, back in his own clothes, with that suit laying across his lap, and Scott on his right. And they had to watch the girls cycle through choices. As if it were Say Yes To The Dress. And he was so torn between enjoying it and wanting to kill himself, it was almost impressive.

Lydia was being very Lydia about it. Taking it extremely seriously. Allison only tried on two dresses and Scott had cheered so loud for both that Cora had stormed out of her dressing room half-naked to yell at him to be quiet. Clearly, Stiles was completely on-point with his assumptions about werewolves and malls. Maybe it was just Cora. But, also, the look on Lydia’s face when Cora had torn the curtain back with her dress half on and more of her bra showing than anything else was so worth it. 

Laura came out of one of the rooms at one point, in a long black and gold stripy dress, with the brightest grin on her face that anyone had ever had, and heels on her feet that were clearly supposed to be tied together with the anti-theft tags that were hanging from them, pointing at herself as she strutted down the little hallway, “Come on!! Tell me this isn’t everything!!”

“You are not going to the formal,” Derek said. Stiles pulled a face in agreement.

The woman kissed her teeth, “Okay? I’m just here to feel pretty. I’m rockin’ this, man. Screw you.” Then she spun in a circle, started to walk away and jumped in the air to do a heel-click, somehow still landing on her actual high heels when she hit the floor again, cackling like a madman.

Stiles’ jaw fell open a little bit, “How are you two related?”

Derek nudged his arm, reaching between them to lace their fingers together, “You say that as if you’ve never seen me do a backflip before just because I can.”

“Oh, shit, should I do a backflip in this?!” Laura laughed.

He and Derek both barked out a, “No.” 

She vanished with a snort and the shuffling of curtains. It wasn’t long before Isaac and Boyd wandered back to the rest of them after a solid eternity of having vanished off the face of the Earth - they’d found Jackson, too, who was now giving a narrow-eyed stare to the shoes behind them.

“Where the hell have you guys been?” Stiles asked.

“We got pretzels,” Boyd answered, “Found Jackson coming out of Sephora.”

“What?” Jackson’s face scrunched up, “No– No, I was—” He crossed his arms over his chest, “I was at the Timberland’s store, what the fuck are you talking about?”

Stiles raised a brow, but Boyd snorted and punched his shoulder, “I was joking.” Isaac gave Jackson the single most judgemental look Stiles had seen on his face, to date. 

“You're not shopping for suits, too, Jackson?” Derek asked.

The boy gave him a devastating look, “I’ve already got my suit for the formal.” His lips quirked up in an insufferable sort of smirk, “It’s Hu–”

“Hugo Boss,” Stiles murmured, at the same time that Boyd and Isaac rolled their eyes and groaned out the same thing, following it up with a terse ‘we know’. Stiles snorted.

“You guys got pretzels without me?” Scott murmured from Stiles’ right, staring up at the other guys with his best puppy dog eyes.

“I’ll get you one later,” Jackson grumbled.

Scott sat up straighter, “Really??”

“Don’t have an aneurysm,” the wolf murmured, “It’s a pretzel.”

Stiles had to look away. Jesus. It hurt to watch. But then he was looking at Erica, happy and healthy Erica, in a mall with all its bright lights and loud noises and strong smells and stress, and she was thriving. And her dress was absolutely not going to work.

“Oh!” Scott said tightly. Jackson made a weird little noise.

“Alright, how old are you?” Stiles asked.

Erica narrowed her eyes, “Fifteen?”

Stiles nodded, “Yeah, okay. Put your boobs away!”

“You can’t tell me what to do with my body!” She growled, placing her hands on the cutouts by her hips.

Stiles’ brows shot up, but Laura was there to swoop in and save the day as she strutted out with that dress from earlier folded over one arm and the heels in her other, “Woah, yeah. No kidding. Sweetie, you look great, but it won’t feel as good when it’s grown men leering after you instead of…” She winked. Erica’s cheeks pinked. 

She clicked her tongue, drawling, “Fine.” And she turned and vanished into her booth. Boyd exhaled so harshly Stiles wondered if it hurt. 

“Talk about aneurysms,” Laura snickered, turning to the boy and giving him a look. Stiles wasn’t sure if they’d ever even spoken one-on-one. Then Cora came out in a tiny black dress and Laura barely gave her a glance out of the corner of her eye before she snapped, “You look like you’re about to go work the corner, pick something else.”

“You are such a bitch,” Cora snarled.

“I’m a Godsend, who is trying to save your life,” Laura said pointedly, “Or, at the very least, your virginity. Who are you even trying to impress with that?”

Cora’s mouth had fallen open by that point, “Wow, I hope you die. Again.”

Laura barked out a laugh, “Right. Just saying, I remember when I was your age.”

“You’re just mad you couldn’t rock this anymore,” Cora nodded, “‘Cause, you know. You’re too old.”

“I’m twenty-four,” Laura said mildly.

“You wish you could look this good in this dress,” her sister powered on.

Laura tilted her head, “You do look awesome.”

“Exactly. Thank you.”

“But you’re going to a Winter Formal. Not a strip club,” the woman nodded, “You can look awesome in that when you’re eighteen.”

Stiles’ right eye was twitching. It was like someone had put his consciousness into the body of a twenty-four year old she-wolf. Every word felt like hearing his own voice echo back into his ears. Like she stole every sentence straight from his own mind. It was freaky. He didn’t spend much time with Laura, besides the occasional crashed dinner, or lunch, or breakfast, where she and Cora would show up unannounced to his house and eat with the rest of them. He wouldn’t dream of telling them not to - just the thought of the childish little grin on Derek’s face whenever they were both there was enough to make him melt now. But it wasn’t like he and Laura were off getting coffee together or kicking ass in some local bowling league or whatever else normal people do for fun in this town. He certainly wasn’t running around in the woods with them. But, damn, did she remind him of himself. 

There was a very high chance that none of these people were like him at all. It was just a lack of real identity that had him projecting himself onto everyone else.

“Oh, wow,” Lydia squeaked out all of a sudden. Cora barely even looked at her, just bared her teeth at her sister and yanked back the curtain to her booth. The redhead was back in her own clothes, one hand untethered in the air, and blinking out into space. She cleared her throat - a sudden, abrupt noise, “Cora Hale in a dress will never lose its novelty.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Cora barked through the curtain. Stiles wondered how anyone even got her to come. Had Erica and Laura made some bullshit plea about sisterhood and bonding? Had Derek said he didn’t want her going off alone? Maybe Jackson had begged to not be the only one who was miserable about dress shopping. Whatever happened, Stiles found them all fascinating. 

Peter would’ve loved this. He would’ve played devil’s advocate and bought all the dresses Stiles and Laura didn’t approve of behind their backs. The girls would’ve found them, having magically appeared in their rooms. He would’ve been a freaky creep about it, probably. But there was also the off-chance he would’ve been a responsible adult about it all, too. That he would’ve taken photos of every option on his phone so the girls could compare them properly. That he’d’ve held their bags as they went from store to store, and paid in full for the clothes and the obligatory food court pit stop. He would’ve bought himself more than enough shit, too. It would just be an excuse for him to go on his own shopping spree, while also micromanaging and fashion guru-ing the kids. 

Stiles hadn’t paid much attention to the rest of their time at the mall, aside from the brief and sudden realisation that Lydia was actually expecting him to keep one of the suits, stammering out an, “I literally have zero dollars. Nobody wants to employ me.”

Lydia just licked her lips, shrugged, and said, “I’ll pay.” Then, a moment later, as if it were an afterthought, “The coffee shop on the first floor is hiring, if you really need someplace to work. I think they’ll take you.”

Stiles had rolled his eyes, and then had slipped into that coffee shop the moment he’d spotted it on their way out, ready to beg. Lydia had followed him in and loomed. The girl at the counter had stared at her for a long time. Her manager had taken down Stiles’ phone number with a polite smile that only someone who was good at working in customer service could manage to upkeep with that level of indifference in their eyes. He’d squeezed Lydia’s elbow in thanks on their way out. She’d given him a conspiratory wink in return.

Stiles didn’t understand Lydia. He didn’t think he ever would.

 

-

 

Erica was laughing. Stiles was contemplating murder and Erica was laughing.

“It’s just a suit!” She giggled as she wrapped a chunk of her hair around the curling iron she’d brought with her, shifting where she sat in her frilly, ruffled, blue dress. 

“No!” Stiles snapped, “It’s not just a suit! It’s a… It’s a… Bad. Bad thing! It’s a bad omen!”

She gave him a slow look, still holding her hair in the air, “It’s… a suit.”

“Well, yeah, no shit, it’s a suit,” Stiles spat, “but it’s the same suit I was wearing when I killed Scott!!”

The pile of sort of shiny fabric stared back at him from its place, half-spilled out of the plastic bag on his bed. It was taunting him.

Erica went quiet for a moment, and Stiles swore he could smell her hair burning as she finally moved again, “Well, apparently, you didn’t actually do that.”

“That doesn't change the fact that I saw it. Okay?” Stiles grumbled, “And I don’t wanna think about what it felt like to have Scott die in my arms - just like you did, for realsies, Erica - while I’m trying to get drunk off spiked punch at the age of nineteen with my sophomore best buds at a high school dance.”

Erica seemed to hold her breath, not making a sound beyond the crinkle of her curling iron and the shuffling of the fabric of her dress, eventually speaking up to mutter, “That was… a lot.”

Stiles grunted in response, “You think I have enough time to return this before we have to be there?”

“Absolutely not,” Erica answered mildly. Stiles groaned.

If he’d gone to Lydia’s with the rest of them, he could’ve yelled at her about it. Instead, he was here, with the wolves, listening to Derek and Jackson bicker about cufflinks in his bathroom and Cora yelling about her heels downstairs. He rubbed at his face, bit down on his lip and stared. 

“Stiles,” Derek said suddenly, bursting into the room, “Can you please tell Jackson nobody cares about his cufflinks?”

“I don’t even care enough to tell him that,” Stiles mumbled, still glaring at his bed. 

“Thank you!” Derek barked, “Point.”

“Shut the fuck up!” Jackson cried, “I care! Why does no one ever care that I care?”

Stiles glanced over at him, ready to be deeply saddened by whatever he was talking about, only to be stopped in his tracks by the sight of Derek again. His shirt half-buttoned, and his jacket nowhere to be seen. His hair still slightly damp. Downright filthy, that’s what it was. A slight against him. Fucking ridiculous. The fact he looked like that in Stiles’ room and he couldn’t do anything about it? Rigged. Rude. Unfair. Actually homophobic.

“That’s crazy,” Erica drawled.

“Erica!” Jackson snapped, “I lost my five-hundred dollar cufflinks! Tell them that’s a big deal!!”

“What good things did you think would come from spending five-hundred bucks on two little pieces of metal?”

Jackson let out an aggravated noise, not quite a growl, and Derek’s perfect face turned back to him, “We can buy you new ones, but you’re just gonna have to go without them tonight.”

“Jesus fucking Christ,” the beta snarled back.

“That is an extortionate amount of money,” Stiles said, “I would’ve killed someone by now.”

“You’d kill someone anyway,” Derek grinned. 

Stiles was almost blinded by it, “Well.”

“Since Derek is being the voice of reason right now,” Erica said, “Can he please tell Stiles that a black suit won’t kill him. Or Scott.”

“How about I kill myself with that curling iron, instead?”

“Stiles,” Derek said, “You’re seriously too scared to wear a black suit?”

“I’m not scared,” he snapped back, “I just feel nauseous at the sight of it.”

Derek’s brows tilted upwards in sympathy, or pity, or something, “Stiles. You don’t have to wear it.”

“Thank you–”

“But you know you have no reason not to,” Derek continued, because he was the worst, “You’ll never get over your issues with what you saw if you never even try.”

Jackson stormed over to where Erica was sitting on the carpet, slinking past Stiles and leaving only Derek in front of him. His mouth felt too dry.

“You know, you’re not gonna magically become whatever version of yourself it is you’re so afraid of,” Derek said, “just because you’re wearing a suit that looks like his.”

Stiles hated how he made it sound so simple. How he made it sound so stupid. Like he was having to go to a meaningless dance without cufflinks, instead of practically cosplaying his worst fear. It was just fabric. It wasn’t a big deal. He was being a pathetic, little kid about it. It was just fabric.  

He almost threw up at the top of his stairs, watching Erica strut down to meet Boyd at the door. He almost threw up at the look in his parents’ eyes. He almost threw up when his mom brought out the camera. He almost threw up again in the passenger’s seat of the Camaro. Really, he almost threw up every time he saw his own arms. Or thought about it. Or remembered it. Derek looked at him like he was being brave. He wasn’t being brave at all. He was just being nauseous. And it sucked a bag of dicks. And, sure, it was real cute to watch those teenage idiots partner off into their dates to the dance - Jackson and Lydia, Erica and Boyd, Allison and Scott, Isaac and Cora (she’d only asked him after she and Stiles spent an entire hour whispering about how bad they felt for him) - but it was just. Something was wrong. And Stiles couldn’t tell if that was his constant rampaging anxiety speaking, or something more accurate, because something had been wrong for a while. He couldn’t place it. But it was wrong.

Maybe it was the fact they were dancing in the same room he’d killed Peter.

Had the school spent their entire budget on getting a live band for this formal? Stiles was pretty sure they had. He was almost glad. It made it a little less embarrassing that he’d given into the energy of the overcrowded room and allowed Derek to lead him into the slowest of slow dances at the edge of the room. The band was playing one of the ‘new’ Bruno Mars songs - fucking finally. And it was nice. And somehow no one had mentioned his glowing ‘tattoos’. Not out loud, at least. Or, more realistically, not to his face.

“And now my baby’s dancing, but she’s dancing with another man,” he muttered along. Derek snorted. Stiles broke out into a grin, “You don’t like this song?”

Derek shrugged, “I’m not big on slow songs.” He didn’t even need to raise his voice for Stiles to hear it. He felt like he’d be able to hear Derek’s voice across continents. He’d find it in any room. Under any circumstances. He’d inject it into his bloodstream if he could. Instead, he just shook his head and leant down to rest his cheek on Derek’s shoulder and sway. It was like their bodies were moulded just for each other. And it was almost perfect. 

It didn’t last for long - of course not - because Allison was there, eyes focussed and concerned and terrifying, because she didn’t look at Stiles at all, let alone like that, and she was speaking, saying, “Stiles, I need to talk to you.” And then Scott was there. Grinning like a madman with his hand out in offering. He could only watch as Allison’s mouth bobbed open and shut, twitching up at the corners as she rationalised something in her mind, and took his hand, giving Stiles one last glance backwards, “Find me after this song, okay?”

And, yeah. Something was definitely fucking wrong.

“What was that?” Derek asked into his hair, “You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles shook his head, “I have no clue what that was.” He looked up at the wolf, lips pressed into a frown. Derek frowned back. “I’m gonna go check if the punch’s been spiked yet.”

“Do not get drunk off spiked punch,” Derek growled, following closely after him as he turned on his heel and started to storm off.

Stiles pulled a face, “Name a single person that has ever happened to. It’d be like getting drunk off a single can of cider.”

“I have no frame of reference as to what that means.”

“I know, buddy,” Stiles patted him on the arm, “One day we will amend that.” Derek hummed noncommittally. 

The table that held the punch was almost entirely void of students, probably because it was getting to the end of the first slow dance of the night, and teenagers were being their embarrassingly helplessly romantic teenage selves. Stiles pretended he was above all of that. He was probably far worse than all of them in terms of hopeless romanticism. But right now, he was focused on the drinks. And the snacks. And partially on the way Erica was laughing with Boyd out on the dance floor. 

He poured a glass for Derek, too, out of the kindness of his own heart, and offered it up to him first. 

Derek gave him a pinched sort of look, “If everything I drank at Lydia’s party didn’t do anything to me, what makes you think this will?”

“It’s about the sense of companionship,” Stiles drawled, “Not the effects of the drink. Drink with me, just because.”

The wolf gave him a helpless little snort and brought the drink up to his mouth, flinching back with a start and sending it spilling over his sleeve. He flicked it off with a curse.

“What?” Stiles’ brows drew together, “Did someone put, like, UV Blue in it or something?”

“Wolfsbane,” Derek growled out. His eyes, wide and dangerous.

Stiles stopped, “What?”

“Someone spiked the punch with–” His head snapped away, eyes flashing bright, vengeful blue. He was storming off, then, practically teleporting to the doors of the gym, with no notice of Stiles’ useless yelling. He ran off after him, glancing back across the room as he tried his damndest not to ram full-speed into some helpless fifteen-year-old, doing the briefest of headcounts to spot Allison and Scott, Isaac and Boyd. No wolves. No Lydia. He almost tripped over his own two feet in his hurry. 

The hallway was strangely quiet. Like he was suddenly underwater. He’d known something was wrong. Maybe it was the suit, or the formal itself, or what had happened in that very gym almost three months before. That’s not to say that he even knew what was going on, now. Not beyond the silhouette of his boyfriend slipping out of the door that led out to the field. You’d think his Alpha would get a single utterance of a warning, or a ‘hey, let’s go together’, but, nah. He didn’t need one. Not at all. Thanks, Derek. This was exactly what he wanted to be doing today. He’d probably gush about it on his Tumblr blog, ‘there-is-a-me-in-team’, a blog entirely dedicated to the passionate hating of teamwork, later.

His hands were shaking as they pushed open those doors. As he took in the stand-off on the field and everything within it. 

God, what had he done?

He couldn’t even tell what the worst part was. Was it the fact that Erica was there? Or Jackson? Or Cora? Or Lydia? Or Derek? Or was it the fact that Kate was the one heading the crowd of hunters directly in front of them, guns aimed and ready. Or the fact that Erica and Jackson were already on the floor and Derek was racing forward with his claws bared and–

“Stop! ” Stiles cried, so loud and so sudden that it made his throat scratch.

Derek did. Only barely. And so reluctantly it hurt.

Stiles’ feet thudded against the ground as he stormed over to them, and maybe a few sparks broke free from his skin, but he didn’t care anymore, “Get the fuck away from them, right now, Kate.”

“Aw,” the woman cooed, “You think I’m gonna kill your pups? Come on, what do you take me for? A psychopath?”

“Yeah, pretty much,” Stiles spat, coming to a stop by Derek’s side as the reality of the sheer number of guns currently pointed at him actually set in, “You clearly want to kill someone.” He stepped in front of Derek just enough to calm the shaking in his own palms. He was sure Derek’s hadn’t stopped.

“Well, your little boyfriend’s eyes tell me I’ve got free reign,” she mused, “I don’t know who he killed, but he’s done something bad. ” Her voice broke into baby-talk as she pouted her lips. 

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles snarled, “You should leave while you still have legs to run away with.”

Lydia’s voice was airy as she mumbled out a, “No.”

Kate bared her teeth in the widest of grins, “Is that a threat?”

Stiles nodded, “It’s more courtesy than you deserve, that’s what it is.”

“Stiles, please,” Erica whispered out wetly. It made Stiles’ whole chest seize up.

Kate gave him a look up and down, “You know, for someone who seems so upset over what I do for a living,” she pouted her lips and scoffed out a laugh, “Something tells me you’ve killed even more than I have.” She gave some sort of signal. The other hunters cocked their guns. 

Stiles licked his lips, “Okay, so, I’m killing you now, then. Works for me.”

It didn’t. Stiles felt nothing but the solid, unending ache of remorse as he let the light burst out from his forearms as he short forward, grabbing at Lydia’s forearms and yanking her up to twist her around and shield her from the sudden gunfire. She screamed. It shook him, forced him to grind his teeth and focus on the overwhelming need to not get shot as the shells fell to the dirt. He forced her forward, stumbling over both their feet as he tried to manhandle her in the direction of the school.

“Go,” he growled against the shell of her ear, “Go make sure the others are okay. Call my dad.” Then, as an afterthought, “Be fucking safe.”

She was just muttering Kate’s name, over and over, and Stiles understood. He knew. It was going to be her. And, God, was it a sweet thing to hear. The only name he’d ever wanted a banshee to get stuck on. Kate, Kate, Kate.  

And she wasn’t saying her own name. So Stiles spun around, listened as well as he could to the sounds of her sprinting back to the building, and honed in on the fight. 

He lunged in without much thought. Knocked down as many men as he could manage, brought out as much vengeance through his palms as he could muster, powered himself on with the though of a single hair on those kids’ heads getting hurt, and he fought. He punched and kicked and dodged and rolled and dragged - eventually pulling a gun out of a man’s hands - a whole fucking assault rifle - and didn’t think twice before he slammed the base into his skull as hard as he could and turned the gun on his friend. That hunter fell to the ground in a series of sudden jerks back and forth. Bloody. Messy. Deserved. 

It was horrible.

And Stiles hated it.

The gun clicked - out of ammo and blessedly useless - so Stiles threw it to the ground and rose from where he’d been crouched over that first hunter’s unconscious body. Kate was a faint blur of blonde in the chaos, one he wouldn’t dare risk mistaking Erica for, and he could barely tell what was happening. There was the occasional sudden, blunt pain, but his stolen red made it all go away before he could ever tell what had hurt him, or even where. It was dizzying. At least pain would give him something concrete to fucking focus on.

But then there was Derek, slashing at a man on the floor as another raised his gun right to his head and Stiles moved faster than he ever had before. He must’ve thrown the both of them a solid twenty feet just from the sheer force that he slammed into him; it set his gun off into the open air. Stiles concentrated the energy in his palms until the man’s hand lost its grip and he fell to the grass, limp. 

Stiles was gasping for air. 

Then there was a real pain. A lasting, sudden thud, sending him down to catch himself with his arms only to discover a new sensation: the pulsing, brilliant shooting pain passing down from his left shoulder. He was certainly gasping now, stuck between a lack of air and the inability to breathe in deep enough without the pain flowing out again. His chest felt too warm.

He looked down just in time to catch the first droplet of blood to fall. 

He wasn’t healing.

“What?” He forced out, grunting as his arm gave in to his weight and he dropped to his side, slipping on the curve of the hunter’s leg beneath his foot. 

“Now, that was a special one,” Kate’s voice cut in then.

The quiet around her words was far more terrifying than anything she could say to him now.

“That bullet cost a lot, you know that?” She was standing near to him, looming over him like an idol and hissing through her teeth as if she pitied him, “I don’t spend that kind of money on just anyone. You’re special, Stiles.”

The gears were slowly turning. He just pressed his hand against the wound and groaned at the feeling - something was still inside of him. 

Kate nodded, smiling like it was utterly brilliant, “Oh, yeah, you’re special. And I’m assuming this other guy is, too.” She pointed her gun in the direction of Derek, a little blurry and completely limp, being dragged away by a hunter toward a big, black van. Cora - he was sure it was her, with her converse and her dress and her dark hair - was being dumped in the van already. Stiles couldn’t see Erica or Jackson. He was hyperventilating. 

This could not happen. 

“So I think I’ll have some fun before I kill him.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles snarled, spitting the words out like they were filth. She was. 

But he couldn’t move. And she knew that.

She knew that as she gave one last biting grin and spun on her heel, “I’m feeling nice, so I’ll give you a hint.” Her eyes were darker than dark when they glared over her shoulder, “Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.”

Yeah, Stiles had gotten that. But he couldn’t quite scream the profanities he wanted to when his vision was swimming and he was slipping into darkness himself. So much for power. One measly diamond and he was out for the count. A fucking diamond.

If he was still conscious, he’d feel a little emasculated. 

He’d later find out that he was out cold for fifteen minutes. It would come to haunt him, the wondering of what had been done to his wolves in that time. To his boyfriend. What had happened to Derek Hale while he was helpless and taken by Kate. But it wasn’t something he could think of while it was happening. It felt like a blink. One single second where it’d all faded to black and then Allison was there.

She was sobbing. Almost hysterical.

“I’m sorry,” she sobbed, choking and gasping for air, “I’m so sorry– I tried– I tried to– I swear to God, I tried t—”

Stiles could hardly make out the features on her face, squinting as he forced himself to speak, “Allison. Am I still bleeding?”

She sucked in a sharp breath, nodding her head and moving her hair around madly as she did, “Yes. Yes, you’re– It’s okay, though. You’re gonna be okay.”

“I know I’m gonna be okay,” Stiles said slowly, more because he couldn’t speak any faster if he tried than because he wanted to keep her calm, “Because you’re gonna get whatever’s in my shoulder out of me. Right now. Like, yesterday.”

Her mouth fell open, a horrid, wide, downturned shape, “What? ”

“Your aunt shot me,” Stiles closed his eyes for a moment, catching his breath as Allison seemed to steel herself up to start begging for forgiveness again, “She shot me with something with diamonds in it. I don’t know how. It’s either– It’s gonna be a powder, or shrapnel, or something, but you need to get it out because I can’t heal while it’s in there. I need you to do that for me. Okay?”

The shaky form of her nodded again, whispering encouragement to herself under her breath, “You can’t do it yourself?”

“I don’t do blood,” Stiles said, “Or wounds. Especially not mine. And foreign bodies? In wounds?” He lurched, “That’s not happening.”

“Okay,” Allison gasped out, “You’ve killed people, but you can’t—” He bared his teeth at her ridiculously humanely. “Not right now. Right. Got it. Okay. I can do this.” She nodded as Stiles let his eyes shut again, nodding back and readying himself for just how damn bad this was about to hurt. “It’s just like a deer. Or a rabbit.” His cheeks quirked at the comparison. Why not a buck? Or a mighty… lion, or some shit? A rabbit. Shah. Deer, maybe, he heard the eye thing more often than he cared to admit but– 

“Holy fucking fuck you,” he roared, “Oh, my God!! ”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!!”

“Don’t be sorry, oh, HOLY FUCKING GOD!!!—”

The pain made him black out again. He came back a lot faster, that time. He only knew that because Allison was still muttering ‘I’m so sorry’ s at the speed of light when he did. 

“Are you okay??” She gushed.

Stiles’ vision was clearing, ever so slowly, as he nodded, “If it wasn’t weird and wrong for a thousand different reasons, I’d say I was gonna kiss you on the mouth.”

Allison laughed, a shocked little sound, but it sobered into another deep, wide, frown, “Stiles, I swear, I tried to stop this.”

He fought back any reaction he wanted to give to that. Just allowed the otherworldly relief of his magic to flicker through him like butterfly kisses and rose up to sit. He rested his forearms on his thighs. His lip curled at the sight of red on black. 

“I thought that I could–” Her voice powered on, shaky and cracking, wet with her tears, “I thought that maybe if I was normal and perfect and kind to her, she’d choose a normal life over this– I thought I could fix her, or– or just… I thought she’d stop? I don’t– I didn’t think she was like this, I thought–”

Stiles turned to her, slowly, taking in the soft, innocent naivety of her, as he said, “Allison. You can’t save her.” She shook her head, seconds away from breaking into some probably extremely Disney monologue, and Stiles reached a hand out to hold her bare shoulder as firmly as he could, “You are a teenage girl. And she’s a grown woman who is no more capable of change than she was in two-thousand-and-six when we made it real clear what would happen if she burned down the Hale House.” Allison’s lip quivered. Stiles’ curled, “You can’t save your aunt. But you can save our friends.”

Allison ground her jaw, calming herself with a single deep breath. Like it was practiced. Trained.

Stiles nodded, glanced at the way the red glow from his arms lit up her jawline, and added, “By the way, going into this, I’ve got to tell you I am going to be shooting my boyfriend’s rapist in the head. So, is that okay with you, or are we going to have a moral quandary over it? Let me know now, because it’s happening either way and I don’t have the energy to have you hate me afterwards.”

The girl’s jaw had fallen open, her brows twitching for a moment, before she swallowed and nodded her head as her eyes seemed to light up with something truly brilliant, “God, Stiles, if you’d’ve led with that, I would’ve gotten you the gun and loaded it myself.”

 

-

 

She didn’t seem to believe that as strongly when it actually came down to it. Stiles didn’t blame her. Being raised by killers had never meant she was okay with it, and she never should have been. It wasn’t cool, or badass. Stiles was preparing to hunt a woman down and put a bullet in her head. She more than deserved it, sure, but Allison was never going to believe that like he did. 

“She’s my aunt,” she whispered, voice clicky from dehydration, no doubt from how hard she’d cried before, “She’s been like a sister to me, as long as I can remember.”

Stiles didn’t look up from the rows and rows of bullets. He couldn’t think about Kate like that. 

“I never thought this would happen,” she gasped, “You know, I– I always thought she’d be the Maid of Honour at my wedding, and she’d be there when I had my kids. She’d babysit.” He could hear the way she sort of froze between the words, with her mouth agape, “I never, ever thought she could do something like this.”

He picked out a lighter bullet, twisted it to stare down at the Fleur-de-Lis on its side.

Silver.

“I,” Allison sniffled, “I’m sorry, Stiles, I can’t do this.”

“You’re not doing anything,” Stiles said.

He loaded the gun in his hand. A revolver. Only one bullet, in the first chamber. He wondered, briefly, if it was better to give himself more leeway. It would make the murder feel less divinely predetermined. 

“I can’t kill my aunt,” she hissed, half-hysterical and too close to crying again.

Stiles glanced over at her, and he felt sick to his stomach, “Allison.”

She shook her head awfully suddenly, “No. I’m fine, I just… We don’t have time for me to lose my composure like this, I swear I’m not normally this emotional—”

“Allison, if you weren’t being emotional right now, I would be terrified,” Stiles nodded, “You get that, right? But, yeah, we really don’t have time. You got a handle on it?”

“Yeah,” she nodded, swallowing thickly and breathing out for a little too long, “I do. I do. I feel like. I feel like the version of her I’m thinking of died a long time ago, anyway.” She gave him a long-lashed, wet look, “You know?”

He sighed, “Yeah. Yeah, I know.”

She moved too fast for someone surrounded by firearms. For someone who was moving toward a man who was preparing himself for murder. Though the only one that held their breath was him, as Allison wrapped her arms around him as tight as she could and shook. His own hands were shaking too as he hesitantly brought them up to press into her hair and across her shoulders.

“Hey, woah,” he said softly, “Allison, you don’t have to– You’re okay.”

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered against his suit, “I’m so scared. I’m so scared.”

Stiles nodded, only just letting himself give in to the hug, “I know,” he said, “I know.”

They were running out of time. He could feel it.

“I just thought she could still be good,” Allison hiccuped, “Even after the fire, and everything. You know. Like– Like your mom.”

His hands stopped their stroking through her hair. His mouth snapped shut so fast his teeth clicked. Her hair was frizzing up now. Stiles was suddenly too aware of it all. Every crinkle of fabric. Every incomplete gasp for breath. He wrapped his arms around her tighter.

“My…” he pressed his lips together tight, “I, uh…” he swallowed, “I’m going to do this. I think you should stay here.”

She shook her head, “No, I can do this. I can help, I have to prove to you that– that I’m good, that I can help.”

“Allison,” he snapped, abysmally failing at his intentions of being any sort of calming presence, “You do not need to prove that you’re good.” 

She stilled in his arms.

Stiles licked his lips, “You’re human. That’s something that not all people can say. Alright? Like your aunt. But you are kind. And you are strong. Too strong. And too damn young to be worrying about this.”

Her next breath was deeper, steadier.

“You never helped her,” Stiles said, “You had nothing to do with anything she did. You never could’ve stopped it. But I have to do this right now, okay?”

“Well I’m gonna help. Right now,” Allison nodded, pulling back to look up into his eyes. Her makeup was smudged, and her hair was all over the place, but she was alive and this felt… so cruel. As she adjusted her dress and asked, “What would I have done?”

“You couldn’t have done anything–”

“No,” Allison tilted her head down, avoiding his eyes, “The first version of me that you knew. What would she have done?”

He didn’t have to think on it, “She’d’ve fought.” But the words were barely out of his mouth before the door to the garage was bursting open and another man’s gun was cocked.

“Back away, Stiles,” Christopher’s voice snarled. 

Fantastic.

“Or else.”

Stiles closed his eyes just to send a silent prayer up for strength. This fucking guy. 

“No, Dad!” Allison cried, “Don’t shoot him!”

“I won’t have to,” Chris growled, “if he gets the hell out of my house. Right now.”

“Kate shot him!” She yelled, “She’s gonna kill them all, Dad!”

Stiles’ mouth was shocked open, “Okay. She’s– Well.” His brows quirked, “She’s not wrong. But she’s not… not wrong. She did shoot me.”

“Yeah, well, we’re about to have that in common,” Chris snapped, “Get out. I’m not gonna say it again.”

Stiles tightened the grip on his gun. He chewed at the inside of his cheek. 

“Is this because you’re worried about your daughter, or is this something else?” Stiles grumbled, “Because, either way, I don’t have time for this. Do you know where Kate is?”

Chris curled his lip, “You’re gonna stay away from my sister, too.”

“Cool threat, don’t care,” Stiles nodded, “If you know where she is, you need to tell me right now, because every second Derek spends kidnapped and unconscious in her company is another moment she could be spending–” His throat closed up, “You don’t know the half of what that bitch has done to him, Chris. Just tell me where she is.”

The hunter’s gun lowered by a fraction of an inch, “What are you talking about?”

“She has my betas, too,” Stiles nodded, “She’s got Erica, and Jackson, and Lydia. And I swear to God, Chris, if anything has happened to any of them and this waste of time has made it last a second longer, I’m going to be the one hunting you down. Do you hear me?”

He clicked off the safety of his stolen revolver. Chris’ brows shifted.

“He’s telling the truth, Dad,” Allison cried, “If you hurt him– If you let my friends get hurt. I will never forgive you.”

That made his eyes break from their relentless staring into Stiles’ own. Weak for his daughter. It was one of his best traits. A family man, was Christopher Argent. It was part of his worst habits, too, he supposed.

They were running out of time. 

Chris answered, blinking back to stare at Stiles as if the answer was a shock to him, “She’s in the basement.”

And it could’ve been worse. It could’ve been the basement of the Hale House. Or some warehouse in the middle of nowhere that neither of them even knew how to get to. It was almost too easy. Like she knew. Like she wanted Stiles to put that bullet between her eyes. 

There was one split second before he opened the door where Stiles wondered. He wondered if there was another world where this didn’t have to happen. Where he really had gone off to college, living off of Pot Noodles and coffee. Maybe Scott could’ve been human the whole time. Werewolves could’ve never been real. Derek would’ve never met Kate. He would’ve never lost his family. He would’ve never lost Paige. They all probably would’ve never met. Maybe he’d’ve known Derek as his classmate, Cora’s, older brother. Or as Malia’s cousin. He wouldn’t have any idea what this kind of fear felt like. He wouldn’t know what his own blood tasted like. He wouldn’t know how it felt to die. 

Then the door opened. It would leave a dent in the concrete its handle slammed into. 

Stiles was down the steps, gun drawn and aimed, before Kate could even turn around. Erica and Jackson were tied on either side of Derek, all up against a chain fence like they always were, and Stiles was almost disappointed in the lack of creativity. Cora was unconscious on the floor. He wondered why. How.

Derek’s bare chest caught the light as Kate turned around.

His shooting hand didn’t shake. 

The woman’s brows quirked up, “You got my family in on your sick delusions, too? Or did you just break into my house?”

“You cannot act like you thought you’d get away with any of it, Kate,” Stiles said, “I told you this would happen.”

“And how kind of you to give me fair warning,” she snarked, “Put the gun down, kid. You don’t have it in you.”

Stiles could’ve shot her right then, just to make a point.

He wasn’t sure why he didn’t.

It wouldn’t matter if it was petty. 

“You’re just gonna shoot me?” Kate said then, “You’re gonna shoot another human being in cold blood? You think you can really stomach that?”

“I’ve shot people far more innocent than you,” he snapped.

“And yet, here you are,” she took a step forward, “And you’re not pulling the trigger.”

Erica murmured something behind her. Delirious and weak. Unintelligible.

“It’s because you understand me,” she said, taking another step.

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah,” Kate’s brows came together as she nodded, some conspiratory, downright convincing, serious look in her eyes, “You know a whole lot about me, don’t you? Surely, you know what my father is like. What do you think a girl’s gonna end up like, growing up under a man like him? With no kind, nurturing mother in the house,” she tilted her head, pouting, “Like yours.”

Stiles just stared at her. He didn’t say a word. 

He didn’t know why he wasn’t shooting. 

Kate’s pout split into a smirk, ready to bloom into a devilish grin at a moment’s notice, “It’s not my fault I don’t know anything but this. You know that, don’t you? Daddy raised me to be a fighter, don’t you understand that? Son of the Sheriff. Son of the dead woman conspirator.”

He should’ve shot her then. In that exact moment. Not for the mention of his parents. It was more selfish than that. 

Just because the others would’ve never heard what she said next.

“Don’t you get it, Stiles?” She shrugged her leather-clad shoulders and shook her blonde head, “We’re just alike, you and me.”

It pulled a trigger in his mind fast, and he caught it just fast enough.

“I am so sorry,” he forced out, low in his throat.

Kate gave him a look - one purely evil, “You don’t have to feel sorry for me, sweetheart.”

“Not for you,” he said, “I am so sorry you all have to see this.”

He pulled the trigger.

He saw it before he heard it. Felt it before he heard it, too. The recoil, shooting up to the shoulder she’d just shot no more than a half-hour before. 

It was an odd thing, to watch the life vanish from someone’s eyes in a split second. To watch a body lose all control and crumple to the floor like a doll without a hand to play with. It was the kind of sight that should make you sick to your stomach and, for Stiles, it did. No matter what she’d done. Or how desperately she deserved it. It wasn’t even the thought of who this could turn him into, not in that moment.

How could he feel guilty?

He had to get the others out. It wasn’t hard. Breaking through their binds was like tearing paper with the amount of adrenaline pumping through him. The red lines on his skin seemed to be glowing even brighter than they had before, in the air, as his hands tore the metal from Derek’s wrists and allowed his pale form to go utterly limp in his arms. He held him as tightly as he could. He didn’t think he’d let him. Not after what Kate had said. 

She wasn’t right. She wasn’t. 

Had she known that those words were Peter’s? 

Maybe. Maybe if she had, Stiles could justify it as nothing more than a last-ditch attempt to get under his skin. Kate Argent’s final offense. Because if that’s not what it was, that meant she genuinely believed it and that. That, Stiles could not live with.

It scared him that the thought was festering. Even worse that he was starting to understand it.

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he said to Chris as he passed by him, headed to the door. Allison was shaking in the living room just beyond them. 

The hunter met his gaze solidly, and nodded, barely glancing back at the door to the basement.

“Not her,” Stiles said. Chris’ eyes were almost afraid when they came back. Stiles swallowed, “I don’t get why I like him so much, either. Liked–” He shut himself up, for once; took a moment to wait for a reaction, “I’m sorry.”

Chris’ eyes - so blue, just like Peter’s, maybe that had been a joke between them once upon a time - darted down to Stiles’ exposed, blood-red forearms. He only nodded. He didn’t acknowledge it, not really, but it was enough. Stiles felt a little less like his guilt might drown him.

“My wife will be home soon,” Chris said, “I need to get this all under control.”

Stiles nodded, glancing over to where the betas were helping each other out of the front door, brightly coloured eyes glowing back at him in desperate question, and he squinted, “Can I borrow your car?”

 

-

 

All he cared about by the time he got home was making sure no one was hurt. Not physically, at least. There was only so much he could do about the (no doubt irreversible) psychological damage that those kids were about to have to live with. There was nothing he could do. What a pitiful thought.

The second he jammed his key into the front door, it slammed open. His mother’s horrified face on the other side.

“Stiles!” She cried, “Fuck– Sorry– God, I was worried sick! Are you kidding me?!” Half of the words were obstructed by her arms pulling him into a hug, from which he could feel the deep breath she took at the sight over his shoulder, “Oh, no. Okay. Let’s go inside.”

He could feel her phantom touch for hours after she let go. It made his skin burn.

Erica, Jackson, and Cora were on the couch - all conscious and alert, but shaken, absolutely - sharing a blanket, when Stiles finally spoke. Derek was sat on the floor, wearing Stiles’ clothes now.

His lips quivered, “I don’t…”

Derek’s eyes flickered up to meet his. Green.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles said, like he was pleading. He was. God, he was. He’d never felt so close to losing him. He’d never felt like he deserved it. Not like this.

But Derek just leant forward and tucked his head into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder. He didn’t quite hug him. Just closed the gap between their crossed legs and opened the floodgates for all of it to come crashing into him. Wrapping his arms around Derek’s back was the only way he could hold himself above the water.

“I’m sorry,” he said, over and over, above the fussing of his mother in the kitchen and the hum of the TV, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

The red of his arms over Derek’s shoulder was still taunting him. The knowledge that he was becoming his worst fear - dancing at the forefront of his mind. Swinging back and forth before his eyes like a body at the gallows.

“It’s okay,” Derek muttered against him, “Stiles, it’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Stiles snapped, “She’s right. I’m– Fuck. What the fuck have I done?”

“Stiles, you’re not her,” Derek said. His voice was solid and true as he pulled back to meet the spark’s eyes again, “Tell me you don’t believe that.”

“I…” Stiles took in a sharp breath, “I just don’t know if being me is any better.”

Derek shook his head, “If you’re this scared of that, then you’re nothing like her.”

It felt so unfair. How Derek was the one who’d been kidnapped by a woman who’d hurt him the way she had, and yet Stiles was the one shaking in his arms and lapping up his comfort like a starved dog.

“Tell me what you need,” he whispered, “I’ll get it for you. I’ll do it.”

Derek’s eyes were tired, and his smile even more so, as he brought his head back down to Stiles’ shoulder and finally, finally, held him back, “Just stay.”

It was then that Claudia came bursting in, holding too many mugs in each of her hands and rushing to hand one to each and every one of them. Hot chocolate, it had to be. The only comforting thing she was capable of creating. Even with the constant knowledge that she was his mom, Stiles was consistently sickened by the fact that he loved her still. How confusing it was that Derek had forgiven what she did. 

Forgiveness was his strongest weapon, Stiles thought. Fiercer than his wolf - his claws, his fangs, his strength, speed, senses. It cut deeper than any sharpness about him. It was somehow more beautiful. And more terrifying.

His dad showed up as loudly as he always did, bursting in with an ‘I swear to God’ and falling silent at the sight of his son. He melted, cursing under his breath as he crossed the room and dropped to his knees to pull both him and Derek into the tightest hug Stiles had ever gotten from a human man. It made him cry. Just a little bit. 

“Oh, my son,” Noah hissed, sniffling harshly, “God, don’t ever do that to me again.”

“What?” Stiles asked weakly.

“Make me think I was going to lose you,” the Sheriff boomed, “Once was damn near enough.”

That wasn’t what Stiles had meant, but it answered his question nonetheless. To think that his dad would let him be his son again. After all the lies, the deception, the secrets, turning his whole entire world on its head, and back again, then upside down once more, until everything was such a garbled mess there seemed no clear way back to normal.

“You could’ve died,” Noah said with a puff of warm air. 

Stiles didn’t think so, “Yeah, that probably would’ve been more fun.”

His dad shook his head with a spiteful laugh, and held the both of them tighter. Derek’s hands tugged at the fabric of Stiles’ button-down. The blood had dried on the front.

They all forgave like it was easy. They forgave like dogs.

For Stiles, forgiveness was something that had to be torn out of him. Melded out of life or death. It was so easily retractable, and forgettable, and nowhere near as unmoving as the people around him. It was almost insulting. How stubborn he was in his nature. 

Scott, and Lydia, and Isaac, and Boyd all showed up soon after. While Stiles’ dad was in the hall with his mom. He’d heard the announcement that Allison had texted. She was doing okay. Her mom was yelling downstairs. Stiles caught his mom’s eye through the doorway and almost broke at the sadness in that look. The remorse. Something she didn’t have the right to feel. Derek would go all stern at the notion if he ever said it out loud, but he thought it. He believed it with everything he was. Derek could forgive. Stiles would not.

But, surrounded by all of that forgiveness, Stiles began to think it might be okay. His flaws - and what horrible, unforgivable flaws they were - made no difference to these people. Not here. Somehow. Beyond the memories of any betrayals or deaths. Beyond the possibilities and promises of the future. 

Right now was forgiving. Somehow, Stiles was selfish enough to accept it. Because nothing else actually mattered. Did it? 

The present’s all he had. 

He couldn’t give it all up just yet. It was only a matter of time.

Notes:

and just like that we hit 100k words and season 1 is over. the interlude should be posted on the 26th. to be fair fuck knows how much of the next season I'll have finished by then. I'm like halfway through. so. fingers crossed.

thank you so so much for reading!!!!!!! i always appreciate the comments and kudos and bookmarks, I'm so glad people are enjoying the story I love so much <3333

Chapter 7: Interlude: That's That Mean Espresso!

Notes:

what a terrible pun. merry late christmas xoxoxoxxo

Stiles often thought of ‘regression to the mean’. That didn’t mean he understood entirely how it worked. 

He remembered when Scott had told him about it, sat up on the hood of his Jeep and staring out at the night sky like a muse. Stiles was not focused on much of it. Just the ominous feeling of foreboding in his chest at the way he explained how the universe would always bring the world back to the middle. You could experience the highest of highs, then the lowest of lows, but it would always balance itself out. Stiles felt like that sounded more like a symptom of something that needed medicating.

Leaving anything to the universe felt reckless to him now. Though it was relentless in the way it took hold of everything anyway, all bloodied palms and gravestones. Stiles really ought to start seeing that loss of control for its benefits, too. For how it cured ailments and brought families back together. 

Stiles was not an optimist. 

And Scott was going to get himself killed by being one. 

“You should turn me,” he’d said, when Lydia was shaking and worrying over the wolves on the couch, and Derek was asleep with his cheek pressed against Erica’s knee, and the Sheriff was talking to a man over the radio about bodies found at the school. 

Stiles had turned to him, only hopeful that the pure, visceral distaste he felt was evident on his face, “Even if I could do that, it’s not fucking happening. Get that idea out of your head right now, man, it is not happening.”

“Well, I’m not leaving either way, so you might as well make me able to look after myself!” Scott snapped, “I’m involved in this as long as I’m your friend and I’m not giving that up for anything, Stiles. Alright?”

Claudia met his eyes from the doorway, cradling Erica’s third refill of hot chocolate. Stiles’ mouth was dry. He felt dirty. Ruined, a little bit. He was far beyond ruin. The thought of him only being a little ruined now was laughable.

He could feel Kate’s blood beneath fingernails that had never once even touched her. He still could feel Erica’s blood warm on his hands over Peter’s stubble and it had been months. Every inch of him was painted in the blood of the others. Allison, Aiden, Donovan, Erica, countless more he didn’t ever even know the names of, and that was inexcusable. How could Scott want anything to do with that? How could Scott want to be a part of it? Stiles had killed his girlfriend’s aunt maybe two hours ago. He’d killed his own boyfriend’s uncle before Scott’s very eyes. 

Scott was seriously going to get himself killed. Forget the Other Stiles. Scott was going to kill himself with his own animalistic loyalty no matter what Stiles had to say about it. In fact, he’d probably kill himself far faster if Stiles tried to stop him. If he did nothing. And there’s an equal chance now of that being his fate over what He had said on the phone. 

His eyes lingered on his mother, and he blinked himself back to Scott’s earnest stare.

“I can’t turn you,” he said slowly, “But there might be another way you can be involved.”

 

-

 

Fundamental skills of a barista include: extracting espresso, steaming milk, setting up and cleaning machines, time management, the ability to work efficiently under pressure, and an immunity to the behaviour of the general public. Also, maths. This was all according to a single forum post Stiles had read on his phone a long time ago, stretched out under a table at a coffee shop downtown, waiting for his boyfriend to show up. 

It made it seem like not much had changed at all. The forum post most definitely rang true, and Stiles was most definitely waiting for his boyfriend. Painstakingly. Only, this time, he was on the other side of the counter. And somehow this was worse than finding out Derek was probably off, dying in Mexico, or something. 

“Excuse me, I’m allergic to peppermint. And this definitely has peppermint in it. I need to speak with your manager.”

Stiles turned to the lady with mousy brown hair at the end of the counter, glanced down at the coffee cup in her hand and left his gaze there, “You ordered the peppermint latté?”

“Yes,” she snapped. Her filler had migrated. Stiles noticed.

“You–” his brows fell, and his head twitched in the way it always did when something made absolutely no sense, “You ordered the peppermint latté when you’re allergic to peppermint?”

“I thought it was just a cute name!” She hissed, “How was I supposed to know it actually had peppermint in it?”

“Are you… genuinely serious?”

“Get me your manager!” She barked, “Right now! I’d like to speak with them before I die of anaphylaxis!!”

Yeah, dying in Mexico himself would be better.

He was just, kind of, staring, with his mouth open a little, when his manager did, in fact, step out. She was clearly (to his eyes, at least) just as done with her already. And she hadn’t had to take Peppermint Girl’s order. 

Derek didn’t show up for another twenty minutes. Twenty. Painstaking. Minutes. Stiles made a deeply inappropriate noise at the sight of him, and kind of melted down on the counter to reach for him. Derek snorted at him.

“Get up, that’s unsanitary,” he said, turning his gaze briefly to the espresso machine and scrunching up his nose like he always did. Stiles wondered how coffee was still the most dominant smell to him under the thick layers of holiday flavours and toppings they’d been using this whole time.

Some One Direction song broke the constant loop of All I Want For Christmas Is You and Stiles wondered, for a split second, if Mariah Carey was better than the memory of his mother, Lydia, and Erica screaming along to this very song in his kitchen.

“Derek, a woman just ordered a peppermint drink then complained and said she was allergic to peppermint and that I tried to kill her,” Stiles groaned, “And that’s not even half as bad as the woman who called me a ‘perfect twink’ and might have wanted me to do some heavily illegal sex stuff, and I don’t even know what a ‘twink’ is, man.”

Derek just blinked slowly at him.

“And that’s nothing compared to the man with the shotgun yesterday,” he scrubbed at his face with his hands, “And the rainwater thing– Where did it even come from?? This is the first floor of a four-story mall, where the hell was the rain coming from? And I’m, like, a thousand percent sure there’s asbestos in the break room.”

“Of course, there is,” Derek said seriously, “I can smell it.”

Stiles stopped, “Wait, for real? Are you joking?”

Derek’s lips split into a smile, and he softly nodded. Stiles reached out to swat at his shoulder.

“Not funny, asshole!” He hissed, “I could get lung cancer and die!”

“No, you couldn’t.”

“Well…” Stiles’ face pinched up, “It’s about the principle. Alright? Asbestos has, like, negative energy. Totally negative. So negative.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yes, really!” Stiles squinted, “Now, are you gonna order something, ‘cause you know you can’t just hover there. We have customers, handsome.”

Derek’s lip quirked up, “Seriously?”

Stiles hummed, “Yeah, I have a job to do. Actually. Shocker, I know. Do you…” He pouted, tilting his head, “Do you know what a job is?”

His boyfriend poked at his inner cheek with his tongue. 

“Derek, can you,” he squinted, “Can you spell ‘job’? Spell ‘job’ for me.”

“Fuck you,” Derek murmured, flushed at the apples of his cheeks. His ears, bright red.

“No, come on, you can do it,” Stiles nodded, leaning across the counter to grab at Derek’s arm and bring his hand up to play with his fingers. They chased after his touch. He wondered if it was a conscious thing. His grin was too big to hold back now, absentmindedly fiddling with Derek’s calloused fingers, “That’s okay, I know you can’t. It’s too hard, I get it. So, a ‘job’ is where someone does tasks. For money. And then they can save that money up to eventually pay for a driving test,” he nodded, “Or, a car. Or, a house. Or, even, just, an apartment. A room.”

“Okay, I think I get it,” Derek grumbled.

“You do?” Stiles made a surprised little noise, letting his hand drop to the counter, “Well, great. Now, can I take your order, beautiful stranger?”

 

-

 

Regression to the mean.

Surely, it meant ‘regression to the median’. Right? To the middle, not the average. If your life is punch after punch after punch, regression to the mean would just be… regression to the most mediocre punch. No, surely, they meant ‘regression to the median’, because, yeah. Punches, whatever, you get some rainbows too, but then you end up slap-bang in the middle no matter how hard the pendulum has swung. Or, does it have to swing back the whole way before it settles in the middle? The mean could be a perfect middle if it’s balanced on either side. 

That was the solution, wasn’t it? As simple as it had been the first time Scott had explained it to him. 

It was far more complicated to tell, however, which stage of the pendulum’s swing they were in now. Because this wasn’t almost losing his mind over the colour of the lines under his skin and killing and killing. But it also wasn’t throwing housewarming parties and watching his pack run around the preserve like children. This was the six months between La Iglesia and Theo Raeken. And that six months of ‘well, I’m not dying, so it could be worse, but I’m not over the almost dying, so it could be better’ had not made the pendulum swing back to heaven. As if he’d had it in the first place by then. He hadn’t gotten calm since he was fifteen. And he was still fifteen when he lost it forever. 

It was his fault, anyway. No point in sulking about it. Or, really, it was Kate’s fault for burning Peter alive and getting him in that state. Claudia’s fault for helping. Technically Gerard’s fault for raising Kate to be the woman she was. But that didn’t take away from her fault in it. So her actions didn’t take away from Stiles’. He understood that. Derek still looked a little bit like he wanted to bite him whenever he so much as alluded to it, but it was true. He took Scott into the woods. He knew it could’ve killed them. And he wasn’t wrong. 

He pulled the candy cane out of his mouth, sharpened it to a point that could be deadly, and gestured at the two men in the room he’d sauntered into, “Working hard, or hardly working?”

Scott turned to him, bright-eyed and grinning, “Stiles!”

Derek slipped past him to hand Scott his coffee - some horrifically sweet concoction of every holiday-themed ingredient they offered, which Stiles had tried a sip of once after he made it, and immediately thrown up - and slid Deaton’s across the table to him. The vet gave him a gracious nod. 

“How’s our darling boy coming along?” Stiles asked, “He able to move mountains yet? I don’t know what emissaries do.”

Scott’s eyes were still sparkling as he brought the cup down away from his lips, “I set a bush on fire!”

Stiles tilted his head, “Huh. Like Jesus.”

“That’s not how that story went,” Derek murmured.

“Well, it was God,” Deaton mused, “He wasn’t far off.”

“Yeah, suck on that!” Stiles grinned, “That’s the Christmas spirit, baby.” He shoved the weapon of a candy cane back into his mouth and sucked. Derek gave him a high-browed stare. Stiles laughed around the candy, “That wasn’t even meant to be a pun! I’m on fire today. Like Scott’s bush. Oh, God, ew, never saying that again. Sorry.”

“It’s mostly just reading,” Scott said softly, “Like, a lot… of reading. But I memorised, like, a hundred different kinds of demons, so if we ever have to fight one of those, we’re set, dude.”

Stiles nodded grandly, “Absolutely phenomenal work. The demons won’t know what hit ‘em, I can guarantee that.” 

Derek gave him a funny little look, “Well, we’ve fought demons. They seem to know what’s hitting them most of the time.”

It made Stiles’ skin crawl, “They don’t count. They’re glorified guard dogs. And they can’t even tell a nogitsune from a banshee.”

“Oh! I read about nogitsunes!” Scott beamed, “So scary! Can you imagine? Trying to fight a creature with no motive besides chaos? You don’t know what they’re gonna do, and neither do they. You can’t kill them, either.”

Stiles turned to Derek as he bit the candy cane in half, “Well, you can stop ‘em.”

“How?” Scott asked.

Deaton sighed heavily as he started to move some jars over to the counter. Stiles licked his minty-sweet lips.

“You turn the person they possessed into a werewolf and trap the fly in a mountain ash jar,” he said.

Derek grumbled, “I still don’t know what that means. What fly?”

“The nogitsune is a fly, dude,” Stiles shrugged, “I don’t know what to tell ya.”

“Wait, wait,” Scott shook his head, “Have you fought a nogitsune?”

Stiles felt sick, “Well. Yeah. I was possessed by one.”

Scott’s brow twitched, “Oh.”

“Hm,” Stiles hummed, “Then you bit me, or, the other me, and Kira stabbed me from behind through the chest with a sword and voilà! Fly. Jar. When is a door not a door?” He made a low noise as the sentence made him properly nauseous, “Don’t ever. Ever ask me that. No riddles.”

“You…” Derek was giving him a cautious look, “You never mentioned the stabbing with a sword thing before.”

“Huh, wonder why,” Stiles mused with a sickness-lined grimace, “I feel like I talk about that experience all the time. I love to bring it up whenever I get the chance. Funny how that detail never came up.”

Derek rolled his eyes.

“Who’s Kira?” Scott asked.

Stiles turned to him, squinted for a moment, then bit his cheek, choosing to ignore once more and instead said back, “Hey, guess who finally saved enough to take his driving test again!”

There was always a swimming feeling of anxiety whenever he heard Scott talk about the supernatural like it was a good thing. And, sure, it could be beauty, and power. But it was dangerous. How stupid had he been, at eighteen, to drag Scott back into all of this? He left it up to a pros and cons list and that voice.  

He’d started having nightmares about it. About having his mother in his head again. If he thought about it at all, instead of pretending they never happened the second he was aware of his reality again, he’d probably trace it back to the same thing that was overwhelming him with every moment he spent watching Scott intertwine himself with their world: guilt.

He felt guilty over almost everything, but this was particularly painful. He felt guilty about feeling guilty, could you believe that? 

He felt guilty over killing Kate. 

Well, yes, he was guilty. Of murder. But it was more than that. He felt remorseful. He dreamed about his mother’s voice ringing through his mind, agreeing with her that Stiles and her were just alike– She had no right to say that. Only Peter could say shit like that. With him, it was almost endearing how much of an asshole he was. With him, when he said it, it was true.

He was afraid that it was true when Kate said it, too. And his mother. If he was, he wouldn’t be so scared of it, right? Neither of them had ever been shy to show their true colours. They justified it any way they could. 

It just felt unfair. Kate was six feet under, and Allison had lost someone she saw as a sister. And Stiles let his mother live. She hadn’t done everything Kate had done. The things she’d done hadn’t been her idea. He could understand her (only in the dead of night, in the split second after he woke up, and her voice was still lingering, whispering). She’d done it for good, even if it hadn’t seemed to ever work. Kate never did anything for anyone but herself. To prove herself to her father, maybe. Or to inflate her own ego. Or to get off. 

Stiles wasn’t like her. He wasn’t like that. He didn’t think he was good - he wasn’t delusional - but he wasn’t that bad. As long as he felt bad about killing her, he was already infinitely better. Surely. Probably.

And if his pendulum ever swung to the other side, he’d probably confuse it for the end times. ‘Cause it’d have to be heaven on Earth to balance out this bullshit.

He needed to brush up on his Bible. The near future was closer to true Armageddon than whatever he thought the end times would be.

 

-

 

His dad had insisted on a proper Christmas. Early morning, the tree overflowing with presents, dinner around the table with all the family, hot chocolate and music. Stiles was sure he couldn’t afford any of that. He hadn’t been able to when it was just them. Now it was them, Derek, his sisters, Stiles’ betas, and her.  

It was Christmas with his mother. With his mom.

It had been a decade since he last had a Christmas with her. Ten years. He was nine the last time. The Christmas of 2006. He’d thought of that Christmas every year since. 

Stiles had woken up at 5:42. All of him had been buzzing. He’d stayed in bed for as long as he could force himself to before his body had to move. He had to see what Santa had brought him, if he hadn’t he might’ve died. That’s what it felt like, at least. In his little mind, he could see the crumb-covered plate on the coffee table. The empty glass of milk; a ring of residue at the bottom. He could see his stocking hung up on the fireplace bulging with tiny boxes. He could see the glow in Mommy’s eyes as he tore the wrapping paper to shreds. 

That was the year he got his first collector’s edition DC comic. Batman Legends. He’d reread it every year after that. 

Now, there was a lot on his mind besides Batman Legends. The first time, this Christmas had been spent largely camped outside Lydia’s hotel room, waiting for her to wake up by some Christmas miracle so he could give her her present and she’d realise it was him all along and now that all sounded very silly. The last time, he’d been the one unconscious in a hospital bed. This time, he was glued to Derek's side and trying not to think about the first Christmas without his mom. 

That Christmas had been Derek’s first without his family, too. 2006 had also been his last. 

Now, his hand was held tight in Stiles’ and his thumb was rubbing firm and constant lines back and forth. Stiles’ house was lit up with Christmas lights and they had just gotten home from Church. Neither of them had really wanted to go, but his dad had. So they all did. Claudia was making a fresh batch of hot chocolate before anyone else was even in the front door, and Laura was rubbing a hand up and down Isaac’s back over his Christmas sweater, and Stiles was… fine. 

He squeezed Derek’s hand and turned to look at him, letting his eyes trace along the gentle points of his profile, “You good?”

Derek turned to meet his eyes, and his own crinkled as he smiled, “Yeah. You?”

Stiles hummed. He watched his mom shuffle around in the kitchen for a moment longer. The turkey was done cooking. He could smell it. 

“Yeah,” he said back, “I’m good.”

“Stiles!!” Natalie Martin was calling out, then, “Can Lydia open your gift for her?”

“Oh, hell, yeah,” Stiles grinned, “Oh, she’s gonna love it.” And he sped into the living room to watch, “Trust me, I spent a lot of time shopping for her.”

When dinner was ready, his dad had them say grace. Stiles halfheartedly went along with it, wrapping his hand around Derek’s to his left, and Scott’s to his right. Then he was allowed to start eating, and the first bite of his mom’s cooking made him freeze. His childhood spread out across his tongue. Derek’s head turned to him in the corner of his eye. He just kept staring down at his plate, mouth full and fork suspended in the air. 

Noah moaned, “This tastes even better than I remember, honey.”

“Thank you!” Claudia cheered, “I was worried I got rusty locked up in the loony bin.” Her husband nudged her and she laughed. Stiles swallowed and downed his glass of water to wash the taste away. 

Stiles tried to keep eating. Tried to focus on the good memories that taste was bringing him back to, not the nightmare of the years that followed. But then, eventually, the conversation at their end of the table lulled. 

“You know,” Laura said gently, “There was always something missing on our Christmases.” Stiles looked up as Cora tucked her hair behind her ear and tilted her head down toward her plate. Laura leant into her sister, just a little bit, “I think we got it back. Or, most of it.”

Derek’s fork clinked against his plate, and he swallowed his food, “Yeah. I know.”

In the corner of his eye, Stiles caught the loving look his parents shared. His heart felt like it was made of lead.

“Weirdly enough, I kind of wish Peter were here, too,” Cora said slowly, quietly, almost tentative, and her words seemed to trail off as her eyes barely widened and rose to meet Stiles’. 

The conversation died at the other end of the table, then, too. 

Stiles briefly glanced down at his practically untouched plate, gritted his teeth at the blur in his vision, and sucked in a deep breath. 

“Sorry,” he forced out before he lost the ability to speak. 

“He’d probably just be masterminding some sort of family drama to keep him entertained when the food runs out,” Laura said gently, “He’s not good at holidays. You’re not missing out on much.”

Some stupid impulse had Stiles turning to his mother, at the head of the table. The dumbest thing he could’ve possibly done. Because she’d snapped back - out of Mom and into Claudia. She did not talk about Peter. They didn’t mention Peter in front of her - hell, they didn’t mention Peter in front of Stiles. It was an unspoken rule that he was perfectly happy with, considering the mere mention of him celebrating anything with his family was making Stiles want to rot in his bed for far longer than he did the last time. 

It was cripplingly unfair that everyone around that table fit into one of two categories: people who hated Peter with everything they had, and people who were his family. People who had lost him, and people who were rid of him.  

“Sorry,” Stiles whispered out again. His chair screeched against the floor as he pushed away from the table and rose to stand. 

That pendulum had better start fucking swinging. 

Chapter 8: Familiar

Summary:

Season 2-3: ‘Ptolomaea’

He was right when He said that killing Kate would make things more streamlined. Stiles fights to keep up.

Notes:

I’ve been waiting for this one turn it up

My laptop is broken and is in the shop rn and I am literally devastated going to kms ASAP I need her back I HAVENT FINISHED WRITING THE FUCKING SEASON YET BROO IM NOT READY LAPTOP COME HOME TO ME SWEETIE 😭😭😭😭😭😭

I started writing this in September of last year?? The fuck? Okay. 50k words in. 4/6 chapters done. We can do this guys OH MY GOD.

Fair warning, this season is fairly dark. This chapter is chill and breezy but from the next one onwards it gets bad. Please heed any content warnings as they come

It didn’t all come together right away. But once it started, it didn’t stop. Didn’t slow down. Didn’t take a breather and let him consolidate everything that had happened. Not long enough for it to do him any good, anyway.

It started with the wolf in his bed.

Not Derek. Probably. Well, it. It could’ve been Derek. And he thought it was Derek, for a brief, shocking second that felt more like seeing his dead mom, or Allison, or Erica again for the first time. Because it was a wolf. Like, a paws and fluffy ears and a tail kind of wolf. With fur. And four legs. And, at first, he did not think it was a version of Derek he hadn’t seen for years, and thought of every time he touched the Derek he had now. Not at first.

“Laura?” He asked as he slipped into his room, dragging his feet against the carpet and feeling his brows draw together. He was sweating, despite the persistent chill of the New Year's air outside. Customer service made him sweaty, apparently. 

It wasn’t that he had a problem with Laura being in his bed. Just that, you know. What the hell would she be doing in his bed? He was her Alpha, sure, but they still were not tight like that. That was what made him start to panic, a little. The same sort of panicking he’d been doing since the moment he pulled the trigger and put a silver bullet in Kate Argent’s skull.

There was little more ominous to hear than a warning of things becoming more streamlined after you commit an act like that. Especially when you know what has happened every time before, and had yet to happen here.

“Hey, Laura,” he said a little louder, stepping into the room and praying his heart rate didn’t set her into a panic of her own when she finally reacted to his presence at all, “Hey, are you okay?”

Those eyes opened slowly. The wolf’s chin rose from his pillow. Its tail slowly started to wag. That was when he panicked. When the sudden possibility of seeing that Derek again struck him and left permanent marks. 

Those blue eyes. 

They made him take a tiny step back into the doorway, as the glow grew stronger, and it felt just as silly as it really was when Stiles whispered, “Derek?”

The wolf huffed. Like a laugh. And somehow its eyes turned from soft and unsurprised to something almost judgemental. It shook its head. Stiles couldn’t quite tell if that meant something. Laura mostly just wagged her tail and panted when she was wolfed out. And this wasn’t Laura. And it, apparently, was not Derek.

So, there was a secret third werewolf who could do this. In his bed. Second, really, because, Stiles had to remind himself, his Derek could not, in fact, do this. And the other Derek was not coming here any time soon. And his Derek, in this timeline, was out with the other wolves right now. And there was now a werewolf in his bed. 

Whatever happened to werewolf etiquette, he wondered. This wolf had no respect for him or the man he shared that bed with. And it was setting in that this was kind of probably a problem. And dangerous. Because a completely unknown werewolf with blue eyes was in his bed.

He should’ve known better than to run. Coming up on five years running with wolves, metaphorically, should’ve taught him not to actually, literally, run. He should’ve spent more time reading up on shit like that with Scott. Because when you run, a wolf will chase. Whether they think it’s a game, or they want to tear your throat out for real, their instinct to hunt will always take over. Especially when they’re evolved. Giving that level of control over to the wolf is admirable in the control it, alone, requires, but, yeah. The wolf is never gonna be above its instincts. Not when the human is that deeply settled in the backseat.

So, yeah. He ran. Like a dumb, stupid idiot. And the wolf chased. It tumbled out of his bed, getting caught in his sheets as it did - he could hear it when they r-r-rripped; a terribly lucid part of his mind was suddenly very upset about having to buy new ones - and he was barely at the top of the stairs when it caught up. From there, it was a panicked, yelling-deafened, blunt-force-trauma-filled tumble down those stairs until his eventual collision with the front door. 

“Oh, God, fuck,” Stiles snarled, with his body sort of freezing between states of blast this fucker to the moon and ouchie, my head, frowny face before he got his shit together, reached around the flailing pile of wolf on top of him, grabbed a handful of fur, and yanked.

The wolf landed beyond the doorway to his right, far into his living room and out of his sight. There was a loud thud, the slight scratching of claws on wood, and then nothing. Just Stiles’ gasping breaths and the phantom thudding in his head. He twisted his legs out of their uncomfortable tangle beneath himself, stretching them out before he reached up for his door handle.

He snapped out an aborted curse when the door started to open and slammed against his skull.

“Jesus—” He shuffled out of the way as the door started to open again, turning up to it with a glare, “What the hell are y– Isaac??”

Any further curses died on his tongue. The sight that met him was just so unequivocally depressing. From the split lip, to the grazing on his cheeks, to the way his whole body was shaking and he looked like he might collapse, it all sent a spike of panic so sudden through Stiles that it almost made him dizzy. 

“Can I come in?” The kid whimpered.

Stiles nodded before he could think, blinking suddenly as he shot up to his feet, “No! No, there is something– You need to—”

There was a soft sound. Like wind. And Stiles took a few steps back into his hallway, peering in through the doorway of his living room to frown at the shattered vase on the floor, the trampled flowers, and the wet pawprints leading out to the kitchen. He held his breath for a short count as he waited. Isaac was waiting, too. 

“Sorry,” Stiles forced out, “Something was here. Come in.”

“Are you sure?” Isaac’s voice was tiny, “I don’t want to… cause any problems.”

“No, shut the fuck up, come inside,” Stiles snapped, stomach turning with guilt when he turned back just as Isaac flinched away. He sighed, swallowing it all down - all of the apologies, the threats and curses against his father and God itself - and just held a hand out. Isaac shook as he stepped in through the door. 

It didn’t help that Stiles’ heart was still racing. That he didn’t know who or what had just been in his bed, rolling around in his sheets and ruining them, and had just shattered one of his mother’s vases and probably incurred her eternal wrath, only to vanish into thin air. Or thin pawprints. Stiles’ skin was still buzzing, vibrating with energy with nowhere to direct it and a sudden need for indisputable calm. Calm was not something that Stiles radiated. Calm was not Stiles’ thing.

But then Isaac was dropping down onto the couch like a terrified, wounded husk of a kid, and Stiles had to force it. For him. 

He sat down next to him, let his weight sink into the cushions and waited one long, drawn-out moment to ask a question he had firmly learned from Derek, “What do you need?”

“To kill my dad?” Isaac answered with a wry laugh, one that fell short as he turned his gaze to Stiles and saw whatever his face was doing, though Stiles knew the horror and rage and sadness was something that would never really translate into a look - not properly. It made him shrink back in on himself, avert his eyes, and whisper, broken, “Can I just have a hug?”

There wasn’t a single member of his pack (his pack, his pack, his pack, this timeline is a fucking nightmare) that he didn’t lay awake at night fantasising about saving. The boy shaking in his arms was a frequent flyer. His betas (his betas, fucking Christ, make it end) were stuck in some weird limbo between being his friends, his little siblings, his estranged cousins, and his actual children at any given moment and, no matter which association he holds in that moment, the deep, neverending need to protect them is, well, neverending. Somewhere along the line, though, he seemed to promise himself he wouldn’t interfere unless they asked him to. He had meddled more than enough in their lives before he ever met them. But now, with Isaac shaking like a leaf and bleeding onto his sleeve, and the distant recognition that something was coming, it felt like it would be far too easy to take his learner’s permit, his mom’s Jeep (his mom’s Jeep, oh, wow, this place never ceases to amaze), his dad’s gun, and his baseball bat and leave Coach Lahey unrecognisable. He couldn’t even imagine what it would be like if he could feel the pull like the wolves did. If he could feel Isaac’s pain, and fear, and heartbreak beyond his faint recollections of his own fucked up childhood. He wouldn’t be able to stop himself.

“Why does he do it to me?” Isaac asked through a hiccupping gasp - enough to make anyone’s heart shatter, “I didn’t do anything.”

“I know,” Stiles said.

“I didn’t do anything wrong,” the kid whimpered, “I didn’t mean to.”

“I know. You didn’t.”

“Why would he–? I don’t understand.”

“It’s not your fault,” Stiles said.

Isaac nodded into his shoulder, “I know. It’s just…” his breath caught a little, “So many of them have lost their parents and I– I already lost one and I can’t be the guy that takes having a father for granted—”

“Isaac, you are bleeding,” Stiles said, tense, because crying right now would not be helpful.

His shoulders tightened, as if he wanted to pull back, so Stiles did first. The boy, just a tiny pile of skin and bone and blood and dirty blond curls, scrunched up his face so tiny and forced past a grinding jaw, “I didn’t mean… I don’t want to hurt him.”

“I know,” Stiles nodded, “Nobody is going to hurt anyone. Alright? You’re safe.”

Isaac’s grey-blue eyes were glistening, wide and round, as they met his, nodding back, “You promise?”

“I promise that you’re safe,” Stiles said, somewhat apprehensively, “Unfortunately, ‘nobody is going to hurt anyone’ is a bit too vague for me to promise right now.”

The kid almost laughed, bringing up a sleeve-covered hand to wipe at his tear-stained cheeks and hissing as he swiped across that graze on his cheekbone. No human being had ever looked so sorry for themselves, Stiles thought. And no human being had been so justified in it. 

“I’ll go get the First Aid kit,” Stiles said softly, rising to stand, “Stay there, okay?”

Isaac nodded once more, settling deeper into the cushions and somehow pulling his sleeves even further over his fingers. Just buy mittens, at that point. Stiles shook his head at how unnecessary that train of thought was about to be. And he focused. For Isaac. Which is weird because, you know, pretty much since he met him, Stiles had always found Isaac to be little more than an annoying, cocky, mildly off-putting ball of angst that was far beyond being worth his time or energy. Now look at them. How moving. 

Kitchen, bathroom, bedroom. There were three First Aid kits in this household and that is where they lived. One in the kitchen, one in his parents’ bathroom, one in Stiles’ bedroom. Now, as he went to find the first of the three spots, he was brought to a stop by the wide open back door, and the tiny blue dots at the far end of his backyard. 

Not his problem. 

Not right now. 

That simple fact did not stop him from double-locking the door and walking backwards on his way out of the kitchen. It was, actually, definitely his problem, which was also a problem, but he was right in the not right now part. Because, seriously. One thing at a time. 

It was not a big ask. One thing at a time is not a crazy idea. It’s not an entirely alien concept that no one on this planet has so much as heard of, let alone would entertain, certainly not in this lifetime. So, why, oh, God, please, why. Could no one ever let him have it.

“Hey, Stiles, where’s your– Isaac? What in the Hell happened in here?” 

Stiles stopped, the kit halfway unzipped in his hands, to blink at the man in the doorway, “Hey, Dad. When did you get home?”

“What happened to Isaac?” The Sheriff asked, eyes sharp. At least he wasn’t yelling about the flowers. 

Stiles ran his tongue across his teeth, humming to himself, “Guess.”

Noah turned those sharp eyes to him, “Did you—”

“What is wrong with you?” Stiles shook his head, “Not me. Coach Lahey happened,” he spat, gesturing (very gently) at the kid and his weirdly long sleeves and heart-wrenching eyes. As his father started to cross the room to crouch down beside that kid, all parental and soft, his brows began to come together, “What’re you doing home? You forget your lunch?” He bit his cheek, “Were you asking me something?”

The sound of the zip cut through the air like a knife. 

Noah barely glanced back at him, “It can wait.”

Stiles just blinked at him for a moment, “‘Course, it can.” He brought a hand up to rub at his nose, “Wanna scooch? I gotta treat the sweet boy’s wounds.”

“Yeah, hold on just a sec,” Noah grumbled, nodding up at Isaac and bracing his hand beside his leg, on the cushion, “Your dad did this to you?”

Isaac gave Stiles the briefest of looks, all wet lashes and kicked-puppy-ness, before he nodded.

“You can report this,” Noah said sternly, “If you come to the station, you can give a statement, we can get you help.”

Isaac’s mouth fell open a little, his face scrunching up, “And you– What, you’ll put my dad in jail?”

“If you report this,” Noah emphasised, “We can get you help.”

“I’m not putting him in prison,” Isaac shook his head, scooting back further into the seat, “I’m not giving him a reason to hurt me.”

“You won’t,” the Sheriff shook his head, “I will keep you safe. Okay? He doesn’t have to hurt you again, if you let us help you.”

“He’s not…” Isaac’s lip quivered, getting too close to breaking down again, “I can’t do that to my dad. I won’t… do that to my dad.”

“Isaac…” Noah tried, one more time.

“No!” Isaac snapped, “No, I’m not.” He swallowed thickly, “He just needs some time to cool off. It’s fine. It was my fault.”

Stiles’ head shook itself, “Isaac.”

“No, it was,” the kid said, somehow shrinking further into that hoodie, “I started it.”

There was a long moment of stunned silence. Not at the idea of Isaac ‘starting it’, more at the idea of him genuinely believing it was justified. Or, ingenuine believing. At least that’s what had stunned Stiles - his father, well, that man had a poker face like no other.

“Okay,” Noah said, sighing, and Stiles almost lunged at him before he followed it up with, “Well I’m reporting it, then.”

“No, Sheriff, no, you can’t—”

“You are a minor,” Noah said, stern but not unkind, “Who’s just confessed to me his father has beaten him bloody. I cannot, in good conscience, look the other way. I’m not letting your father get away with this, you hear me?” His voice was almost raw, “I know you’ll always forgive him, you’ll always defend him, but your wounds won’t. And I, most certainly, will not.”

Something so impolitely selfish in Stiles’ mind found the time, then, to remind him of how his father had stood by and allowed it when his mother did the very same thing. Well, this Noah Stilinski hadn’t lived that. Stiles had. Stiles remembered. Stiles still didn’t forgive like Isaac and Noah did. 

“Now, I’m going to report an instance of child abuse,” Noah said, “And I am going to need to keep you in my custody while I ask a few questions.”

“What?” Isaac whispered wetly.

“Woah,” Stiles blinked, “I still need to help him, his lip is bleeding– I need to clean him up—”

“You can do that once I’ve had his injuries photographed and documented back at the station,” Noah snapped, “Let’s go.”

Stiles just stared at him. Isaac was almost shocked into listening, it seemed, as he clambered up onto his feet near instantaneously. Tragic. He was tragic. And Stiles was very overwhelmed. And there was still the wolf thing. But, hey. Whatever. Four-and-a-half-things at a time was fine, too.

He hadn’t even gotten to take his thirty-minute after-work shower. Somehow that felt like the worst part.

-

“You can’t just force a kid to put his dad in jail.”

The Sheriff’s station was a constant. Never-changing, permanent monotony. Bustling Deputies and harmless citizens in and out of handcuffs. A drunk or two. A scared parent with a missing child. Lydia Martin bleeding out on the floor. Void sending a mail bomb. Parrish breaking out of the holding cell he locked himself in and leaving the bars still hot to the touch an hour later. Stiles hadn’t accounted for how he would deal with Parrish This Time, even as he stared right at him at his desk in that exact moment. He’d never been a problem before the deadpool. Stiles didn’t have the energy to make him a problem himself. 

“I’m doing what’s best for him. He won’t do it himself, so I’m doing it,” Noah said from the other side of the desk, riffling around for some paperwork while Isaac stayed over on a couch across the room, “Do you want him to go back home to that man, instead?”

“No, obviously not,” Stiles answered, face scrunched up in disturbance, “But this just… I don’t know, you’re practically orphaning him. It just… It feels… bad.”

“Of course it feels bad, Stiles,” the Sheriff said with a pointed nod, “But sometimes the right thing feels bad.”

Stiles watched his eyes turn back down to the desk, the way the lines across his forehead and by his nose deepened as he searched for whatever it was he needed, “Yeah. But I mean. Come on.” He licked his lips, catching his dad’s eyes again as the man gave him another exasperated look, “Isaac? That kid’s got nothing but his dad.”

“Yeah, his dad who beats him senseless,” Noah hissed, “And he has you, doesn’t he? Aren’t you supposed to be his… eh– sigma? Or,” he stammered for another moment, “whatever the Hell you people call it?”

Stiles hoped his eyebrows conveyed his disappointment aptly, “Alpha. Still a Greek letter, so. Close enough. I guess.”

“Whatever, Alpha, Sigma, Pi, who the Hell cares—” Noah flung a disinterested hand through the air, bringing it down like miming a karate chop as he suddenly got all laser-focused and starey-eyed, “You should be willing to protect him, no matter what. You should be all he’s got.”

“I’d rather not be,” Stiles grumbled, “He deserves better. And I’m not his dad. Neither are you.”

“Thank God for that,” Noah muttered to himself, breaking off into a rough sound of apparent joy as he snatched a piece of paper out of the deep end of a drawer and nabbed a clipboard from the edge of the desk. He pointed the clipboard in Stiles’ general direction, “I’d have to turn myself in if I were.”

Stiles gave him a look, “My point is we can’t just take control of his life like this.”

“Yeah?” Noah asked, brows raised, all accusatory, “This is coming from you? The guy who, so infamously, has taken control of everyone’s lives beyond reasonable belief?” He scoffed. 

Stiles swallowed his tongue.

“Yeah, okay,” the Sheriff nodded, voice dripping with sarcasm that sat so horribly in Stiles’ stomach, “Well, maybe you can’t. I sure as Hell can.” He grinned; it left a sour taste in Stiles’ mouth, “It’s in my job description.”

As he walked off and waved Isaac into his office, Stiles stayed right where he was, leaning against the front desk and staring resolutely into space. He was good at staring into space. He did it a lot. Especially when his dad got like that. He liked to call it him being ‘salty’. It felt accurate. I mean, sue him for trying to save the timeline like some sort of a noble hero. It wasn’t his fault he was bad at it. Peter had called that, hadn’t he? It was weird how Peter had been so right about him, since the very beginning. Stiles was always slightly too faithful in his own goodness to believe Peter’s neverending litany of bluffs and blunders but, in the end, he was right. Stiles would have made a good wolf. Stiles was not good at playing the hero. Stiles was just like him. 

Stiles missed him. It was embarrassing. And he didn’t talk about it. But he did. He missed everything about that timeline. Furiously. The people he’d met since the Wild Hunt took him could learn as much about him, or spend as much time with him, as they would like, but they would never know Stiles before it all went wrong. Before he went Void. That was the turning point, he thought. Before he lost his mind and had his body stolen, and turned, and slaughtered, he was a different person. Shocker, I know, but it felt like anyone who didn’t know him with a buzzcut would never really know him at all. He didn’t deserve to only be known as himself now. He deserved to have someone remember how he was when he was really, properly, innocently good. Right? Right. 

Derek was the closest to familiar he got those days. It helped that his dad had allowed them to get rid of the damn nanny cams all over the place. Privacy was a basic human right to some people, funnily enough. At least Derek could remember maybe a brief second where he didn’t think he was evil, or didn’t know he was a time traveller, or didn’t know he would end up being evil, or not, apparently - that still didn’t make any damn sense to him - but Derek knew him. Or at least was the closest to knowing him as anyone could be. 

It was with the thought of Derek that a dark sort of feeling started to creep in. Like something bad was about to happen. Or was already happening. Well, more bad than everything else that had happened in the last hour. 

His phone chimed, already halfway out of his pocket and, hey. Maybe the Alpha thing did mean something. Because the notification was a text from Derek - a photo - and, not only had his gut, very swiftly, and very surprisingly, been entirely correct, then came the best part. 

The image of the Alpha Pack’s triskelion on his bedroom window. 

-

Deaton did not seem to have an ounce of respect for him. It was appalling and unwarranted and rude. And Stiles detested it. What was it about him that made his moral ambiguity and his age ambiguity and job ambiguity and general ambiguity so much better than Stiles’? Huh? He also hated the dude’s clinic. It smelled too much like a hospital. And like sick dogs. That was a particularly pungent smell. Stiles did not likey. 

“But we know how to stop them, and we know who they’re working with,” Derek was growling, of course, he was, “Your sister comes to mind as a particularly helpful presence in their lives.”

“I don’t believe that you have to address this at all,” Deaton said carefully, “All they are doing is expressing interest.”

“Yeah, in taking Stiles for their own by having him slaughter the rest of us,” Derek snarled back.

“One thing at a time,” Stiles sighed wistfully. It was somewhat undermined by the growl in his throat. Derek turned to give him a look - a ‘I know but not right now, babe’ kind of look. Stiles bit his tongue. The second time today. That had to be a record. He shrugged his shoulders, giving up on that very swiftly, “Where’s Claudia? She can smack some sense into Deucalion, right? She did once before, didn’t she?”

Deaton’s eyes shifted, “I don’t think that will work in this particular instance.”

Stiles pulled a face, “The hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“We have dealt with the Alphas before,” Derek said sternly, turning back to the druid with his massive arms crossed high over his chest, “They murdered Erica, tried to murder the rest of us, and only left us alone once they were all dead. I don’t have the highest hopes for civility this time around.”

“Yeah, that wasn’t fun in either timeline,” Stiles said through gritted teeth, “But, hey. Could’ve been worse. Kali could’ve made you impale Boyd in that timeline, too.” Derek turned again to level him with a dangerous glare. Stiles nodded, “I’ll just stop.”

“How do we get in contact with them?” Derek asked, looking back to Deaton once more.

The vet met his eyes, pressing his lips into a thin line, “Are we sure which Alpha they are looking to recruit?” He turned his gaze to Stiles, “Because I don’t think I am.”

Stiles’ jaw fell slack, only a little bit, “Excuse me?”

“I will help if Deucalion and his pack actually try to cause any harm beyond vandalism,” Deaton said, “I am on your side. I believe that goes without saying. But this is far from a blameless situation, and I will not ignore that. I’m not the Hales’ emissary anymore. And I am certainly not yours.”

“No, you’re training mine,” Stiles almost snarled, “So, you’d better act like it. ‘N’ if Dookie and his merry band of power-horny freaks hurt a single hair on Scott’s head, Deaton, I’ll cut yours off.” 

The druid didn’t even blink. 

Stiles’ cheek twitched, “And what do you mean this isn’t blameless? Something’s set them off?”

“Well, besides you killing Peter and taking his power?” Deaton mused, utterly unfazed by the way the words made Stiles want to lunge across the room and choke him out, “An Alpha Spark is far from common, believe it or not.”

“You’re blaming me?” Stiles almost couldn’t ask.

Deaton’s face shifted as if he were really considering it for the first time, “Among others.”

“Cool,” Stiles hissed, “Well. Thanks for nothing. This has been great. Derek, let’s go.”

Derek gave him an only slightly helpless look, maybe bordering on desperate, “Stiles.”

“I’ve heard everything I need to hear,” Stiles snapped, “We’ve killed them before, we can do it again. Let’s. Go.”

He didn’t protest anymore after that. But he did have a certain tension in his jaw that had Stiles woefully aware of the earful he’d get the moment they were out of the front door and the bell had stopped ringing. 

“Stiles,” Deaton’s voice broke through as Stiles pushed the door open, “If you see your mother, do tell her to come and see me. Urgently.” 

The spark made a deeply noncommittal noise in acknowledgement, barely agreeing at all, as he only slightly mulled over the words themselves. He had bigger problems than Claudia dropping by for afternoon tea with her old friend Deaton. Far bigger.

It was his pack now. Deucalion was after his pack. His Betas. His wolves. His humans. And it was his fault. Deaton saying it felt utterly dickish, but Stiles could blame himself for absolutely anything at this point and this was definitely making the list. Those kids, those tiny kids, were his responsibility now. Only his. And he wasn’t getting them killed. Not again. He was not going to cower away from Lucky Charms or hold Derek’s shoulder while Boyd lay dead at his knees. He would not hold Erica in his arms as she slowly bled to death. He would not watch his father break his bones, or have his friends be kidnapped, or. 

“There was a wolf in my bed,” Stiles said, when they were halfway across the parking lot on their way to the Camaro - the Camaro that Derek, despicably, was still permitted to drive. 

The wolf gave him a look, “What are you talking about?”

“A wolf,” Stiles nodded, “Like. Furry, clawed, pointed ears, bushy tail, all-fours. Wolf. In my bed.”

Derek’s brows were amused, somehow, “Are you confessing something?”

“Besides the fact I was almost a victim of a murder? No,” he squinted at his boyfriend, “I’m not kidding. A blue-eyed evolved werewolf broke into my house and curled up on my bed while I was at work. Is that not concerning to you?”

“You sure it wasn’t Malia making a surprise appearance?” Derek asked, pulling open his car door.

“Yes,” Stiles enthused, rushing around to the other side of the car so he could slip into his seat, “I am extremely sure. She’s definitely not pure black and massive. Or a wolf.”

He slammed the door behind him. Derek gave him another look as he gently closed his own. 

“Well, it clearly didn’t cause enough concern for you to mention it to Deaton,” Derek said carefully as he turned the key in the ignition, “Or for me to sense it. I’m more worried about the Alphas, really, than some random wolf in… our bed.”

Stiles made a noise, clipping his seatbelt in with one hand as he pointed at him with the other, “Exactly! Our bed! Rude! It was rude.”

Derek’s face was pinched now, thank you, “Yeah. Rude.”

“I beat its ass, though, and it ran off like a baby,” Stiles snorted, sobering fairly fast because, “Then Isaac showed up ‘cause his dad beat his ass. So. Yeah.”

“He what?” Derek asked, briefly glancing away from the road, “Is he okay?”

“Yeah, he’s at the station with my dad, while my dad actively ruins his life,” Stiles nodded, “It’s great. We are totally rocking. And I think I need to play some music or else I might go into hysterics, is that cool with you?”

Derek hummed, reaching over to open the glove compartment and Stiles was mapping out the CDs inside before he could even see them.

“Fucking Deucalion,” he muttered to himself as he shuffled through cases upon cases, “I’m gonna tear him apart. Oooh, A Spaceman Came Travelling! Now, this is real Christmas music.”

“It’s January.”

“We have five more days, cupcake. And so many partridges in our plenty pear trees.”

“Don’t call me cupcake.”

“Okay, honeymuffin.”

-

It’s not like he didn’t know the Alpha Pack would be showing up again. He may have been cautiously optimistic that they might not but what’s being wrong one more time? There were a lot of people he was cautiously optimistic about not meeting again. The Alphas, Theo Raeken, the Nogitsune, Gerard, Jennifer Blake, Theo Raeken, Meredith, honestly, Theo Raeken, the Nogitsune, the Alphas again but especially Kali and her freaky toe-claws. The Wild Hunt, too. Meeting them again wouldn’t be fun. Could he call it ‘meeting’? Whatever, not the point. 

The point was that, even with a solid four-and-however-many years of foresight, you can never truly predict just how terrible things will be when they happen again.

Kate Argent’s funeral should have been a happy day. He’d worn yellow and lingered nearby, because Stiles was a true comedienne, at heart. He wasn’t sure what had made him believe it would actually be a happy day. Other than the general celebration of Kate Argent being as dead as Kate Argent can be, hallelujah, praise be, thank you, Jesus. Stiles was not religious - he wasn’t sure why he said things like that so often. His dad was Catholic. Maybe he heard it all too much as an impressionable baby. He heard a lot as an impressionable baby. 

How had Gerard raised Kate, he wondered. How do you screw up a child so badly they turn into her? And how did Chris not turn out exactly the same? That was what reminded him that Kate was not just a victim of her upbringing. Not just. He briefly considered going back in time again just to witness an Argent family dinner back when they were all one (probably unhappy) family. Did Kate pass the potatoes when she was asked - or did she act out as payback for some punishment, only to have it happen all over again? If she’d been raised by anyone else, lived any other life, could that have prevented it? Could that have stopped the Hale House fire?

Seeing an Argent family dinner again might be too much. Watching them congregate for a funeral was enough. 

Mere seconds after he noticed Allison’s absence, that sudden alarm was just as swiftly calmed. The girl dropped herself down to sit beside him on the grass far more gracefully than he’d done so himself. Her hair was curled to perfection. Her clothes - all black. Appropriate.

“You sure it’s a good idea to walk away from this particular situation?” Stiles asked, nudging her with his elbow, as his arms rested comfortably against his knees. 

Allison gave him a look out of the corner of her eye as she brought her own knees up tight to her chest, sighing into them and tilting her head, “Definitely not. But I cannot spend another second with my grandfather.”

Stiles whistled, “Oh, believe me, I get that.”

“You met him before?” She asked mildly, turning her head and resting her cheek against her knees to look at him.

“Yeah,” Stiles answered with gritted teeth, “We’ve met.”

He thought of Gerard beating him in his basement. Gerard threatening to execute his father. Gerard trying tirelessly to slaughter his friends like animals. Gerard drowning Matt Daehler - the boy was photographing his daughter’s funeral again. Gerard kidnapping him, several times. Gerard kidnapping Derek. Gerard shooting Derek. 

“We have historically not gotten along,” Stiles said carefully.

“Like you and Kate?” 

Stiles’ nose twitched, “Well. They’re different breeds of crazy. But, uh. Sort of.”

Allison watched him for a while. Too carefully. Uncomfortably so. And Stiles was acutely aware of how her family would be looking for her and would probably join forces to slaughter him if they found them there, against that tree, just close enough to see the funeral she was supposed to be attending. And Derek wasn’t there to tell her to leave for him. Stiles knew himself well enough to know he was not good at telling these kids to leave. Derek rocked at it. Derek could tell people to go. Stiles could not.

“I’ve been worrying it might be genetic,” Allison almost seemed to laugh but that could’ve just as easily been her choking on her own words and fighting to keep her composure, “But I’m not Kate’s daughter. My dad isn’t like her, right?”

“No,” Stiles said quickly, “No, he… He is nothing like Kate. For a guy who kills people as a side gig based on their genetic makeup and nothing else, he’s um. He’s one of the good ones. Good-er, at least.” Allison didn’t look convinced. Stiles nodded, “He’s always been on our side. You’ve always taken after him.”

Allison’s lips pulled into a thin smile, nodding back just as shallow, “What about you?”

Stiles’ brows drew together, “I’m sorry?”

“Your mom reminds me of Kate sometimes, a little bit,” Allison said, “And you said she helped burn… burn the Hale House down.” Her nose scrunched up a little, as if this were a silly little harmless conversation and not something that had Stiles’ whole body burning, “I just can’t stop wondering if Kate could’ve been good like her in the end.”

Stiles’ chest was tight, too tight, “My mom isn’t good,” he said, focussing on Allison’s excessively-long lashes instead of how his stomach was hurting, “but she’s human. Ish. More human than Kate. I think your aunt was doomed from the start.” His brows drew together, “You asking if you think I take after her?”

“I mean,” Allison shrugged, “Not in a bad way. I just… There were good parts of Kate, too. Parts that I knew. Or… thought I knew.” She shook her head, “I don’t want to have to leave the good parts that I see in myself behind because of what she did.”

“Who says you have to?” Stiles asked, “You’re not her. I’m not my mom. Right?” Allison nodded the slightest bit. He nodded back, “Right. You are your own person. The good parts of you are yours, and so are the bad parts. Because you’re a person. And you aren’t perfect. And as much as I am rejoicing that she’s dead, you lost someone you really loved. Your family lost someone.” He gave her a look, “You should be with them.” He ignored the way her lip curled. “Also, if you don’t go be with them, your dad will probably track me down and put a bullet in my ass. Or your grandfather will cut me in half, because he’s definitely found out I killed his daughter by now. Wow. Okay. I am so screwed. God, today is terrible. You know there was a wolf in my bed?”

“What are you talking about?” Allison mumbled.

Stiles shook his head, “Ignore me. Go mourn. I am not the right person to do it to. I am far too happy about this funeral.” He shot her a wink. 

She seemed to catch how phoney it was as she placed a comforting hand on his shoulder, swallowing as she mulled over the words before she said, “I’ve been waiting for the right time to say this. And I, um, I don’t think it’s ever gonna happen, but. I don’t think you’re evil, Stiles.”

He bit his cheek.

Her brown eyes were wide when they met his, “And, for what it’s worth. I forgive you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said swiftly, “I know.”

“No,” Allison shook her head, “Not for Kate. Well, yes, I forgive you for killing her. I mean.” Her face scrunched up a little as she tried to find the words; Stiles wanted her to stop trying, “It didn’t happen to me, but I forgive you… for… for what happened when you were possessed.”

His mouth was dry, “What?”

“You didn’t kill me, Stiles,” she said, “Or her. It wasn’t your fault. You are good. You are a good person. Okay?”

He shook his head, “No.”

“Yes,” she stressed, “If you went back to that timeline and brought her back to life she’d say the same thing. I’m kind of a reliable source on that.” 

She had too much humour in her eyes. Stiles just slammed his mouth shut and made a small noise, maybe of agreement, just to get her to shut the hell up. She squeezed his shoulder where her hand had been resting, nodded seriously, and slowly rose to her feet. Her heels crunched the leaves beneath them as they walked. Stiles melted back against the tree. Not good. Not a fun thing to bring up. Not a good thing to pretend was okay. Not a good thing to claim forgiveness over. Not fucking cool. 

The Argents, the Alphas, a strange wolf, and potentially his mother, if Deaton was anyone to listen to. All causing problems at once. All digging up old ones. 

Stiles was screwed. He was so, so damn screwed.

-

The grimoire fell out of his skin right as the kids showed up at the house. Stiles stared at the pile of paper on top of the Wii U for maybe one minute, uninterrupted. 

He went to count his fingers and the barest movement of his wrist made his whole arm seize up. Those shooting pains. 

Amazing. 

He had lasted twenty-four hours without a new problem. Twenty-four hours in which, he was now noticing, he had not seen his mother. What. The fuck. Was going on.

“Hey, Stiles!” Erica’s voice cheered, “Why are you giving off such, uh, horror? Right now? And, like… rage. You good?”

Stiles breathed in for four, held for four, and released for four, “I’m fine.” He scooped up the pages, haphazardly shoved them back into place and snatched the book up. Keeping it in his grip felt like holding up an impossible weight. Pain. Pain. Pain. When he rose to stand, Derek was watching him from the doorway.

The spark smacked his lips, “Just thinking about how I’m gonna kick your asses at Mario Kart right now.”

“I’m getting better, so watch yourself,” Erica warned teasingly, tossing her backpack to the floor and hopping over the arm of the couch to slip in right next to Isaac (who had spent the night with them, utterly ruined) and pressed herself right against his side. She didn’t seem to get that he did not do what wolves did. Stiles doubted Isaac was as appreciative of the gesture in this timeline as he would’ve been in the last two. But they were both alive and in Beacon Hills and relatively okay in the grand scheme of things. So. Win. Mostly. Boo-yah.

Pain. 

That fucking book. 

His fucking mother. 

The others funnelled in after Erica, slipping past Stiles while he was still staring at the book in his hands so hard the embossments stopped looking like words and he could almost count the wrinkles in the leather. He could almost see the pain beneath his tainted skin. 

“Oh, woah!” Scott blurted out, “Where did you get that? Your arms aren’t glowing anymore.”

Stiles barely glanced at the black lines, “Uh-huh.”

“That thing is sick,” the boy gushed, “Can I look?”

Stiles paused minutely, “Uh– Yes. Yeah. Yes, you can look.” He stared into Scott’s eyes, deeply and intently, and very suddenly, “I give you explicit consent and permission and… allowance to read every word in and on this grimoire whenever you want for the rest of time, always. Forever. All the words. Including the cover. You are allowed. Permitted.” 

Scott blinked a few times.

Stiles swallowed, “Claudia’s grimoire, that is what this is,” he said, waving it in the air a little, “It goes into my arms sometimes. And comes out. It does both of those things.”

“No way!” Scott almost squealed, “You– You’re sure I can look at it? It sounds, like, super personal.”

“No, take it from me,” Stiles snapped, “Take it. Now.”

Scott nodded slowly, and ever-so-gently pried the book from Stiles’ too-weak grip on its binding. The spark watched him walk away.

“Totally permitted,” he forced out, pointing at his retreating back despite the rush of fuckingGodfuckpainowfuckyoupain as the boy found a spot on the floor to get comfortable, “Unequivocally. Infinitely. No issues at all.” He slammed his mouth shut as people started to look at him funny. He only cared a little bit. They didn’t understand what it meant to not get permission. He didn’t really know what it meant to give it. But he wasn’t going to risk Scott going Void. Holy God, no.

What even was his mom’s problem?

“Are you okay?” Derek was asking, low and warm in his ear. 

He jumped before he spun around to meet the man’s eyes, nodding shortly with a terse smile, “Fine. The grimoire’s taking a day off, I guess. No biggie. It’s Mario Kart time. First day back at school… atron? What?”

“Stiles,” Derek said.

The spark hummed, “Hug?”

Derek’s arms were open in a split second, and Stiles slotted himself right into place. Warm. Derek’s arms held him tight, intently, like he actually wanted him to be there. It was overwhelmingly good. And hugs with Derek didn’t make Alpha Pack symbols appear on his window, or put strange wolves in his bed, or make Allison say she forgave Void Stiles, or make the grimoire decide to fuck right out of his arms and make him hurt again, or—

“Oh, Stiles, we got a new English teacher!” Jackson drawled, “She said to tell you she better see you tomorrow.”

Stiles pulled his head out of Derek’s neck to bring himself back to eye level with the wolf. He stared back with sharp eyes. The sudden rush of fogginess in his mind from the pain was gone as fast as it came. 

“English teacher?” Stiles growled, turning slowly to level Jackson with a look that, hopefully, conveyed some sort of pure, animalistic threat.

The wolf’s brows slowly rose, “Yeah. What’s your deal?”

“What’s her name?” Derek asked, taking his arms back to cross them over his chest, between them. Stiles backed away to turn his whole body around and do the same. It just made his arms ache more. His eyes flickered over to the book in Scott’s hands. 

“Uh, I don’t remember?” Jackson said with a frown, “Why?”

“Her name is Ms. Blake,” Lydia crooned, “which you would know if you actually paid attention in class, Jackson.” 

By the time she completed her sentence, Stiles’ face was buried in those damned hands, only barely muffling the loudest groan his body had ever produced. A frantic laugh was fighting to take over, and Derek’s ridiculously warm hand was already starting to rub the most frustratingly soothing motions into the nape of his neck and slowly slipping the pain out from his wrists. 

“That is an insane reaction,” Boyd mumbled from somewhere.

“Yeah,” Cora said, “Aren’t you supposed to be an adult? Why are you throwing a tantrum?”

“Oh, my God, Cora, clearly something is actually wrong,” Lydia snapped, “Maybe we shouldn’t judge the time-travelling magician when he gets… very weirdly upset about things. She is a little bit right, though, what is happening right now? It’s off-putting.”

“Thank you?” Cora muttered back.

“Oh, my God,” Stiles snarled into his hands, scrubbing so furiously, spurred on by a newfound vigour, at his face he started seeing colours, “Oh, my God, oh my God—” He snapped back, “This is fine. Mario Kart time.”

Derek’s voice tried to warn again, “Stiles.”

“No, it’s Mario Kart time,” Stiles snapped, “Because– Because, hm, what else can I do? But play Mario Kart? I can’t blow up the hospital with her inside again, that will not fly, no-sir-ee!” He snapped his fingers, then said, “I can’t do anything, can’t even heal my arms, so I am going to play Mario Kart. And imagine that I am decimating her, instead. Because I can’t. She hasn’t done anything yet, no?”

Derek’s brows were high-set on his face, “I don’t think so.”

“Twenty-four hours,” Stiles almost laughed, “I got twenty-four hours of nothing. And this is practically nothing, too! The Alphas haven’t tried to kill me, Justin Bieber hasn’t tried to kill me, that other random wolf that I still have no answer about hasn’t tried to kill me. It’s fine!”

“I wouldn’t jinx that,” Derek murmured. 

“Oh, you f—” Stiles shook his head, “Do you want me to beat your ass at the racing game or do you want to worry about James Bond?”

“James Bond,” Derek echoed, as his eyebrows somehow crawled higher.

“Jennifer Blake, Julia Baccari, JB,” Stiles cut his hand through the air, “Initials– this is a simple bit, keep up.”

“Holy shit, what is a Urayuli??” Scott cut in, still buzzing over the book in his hands, “Stiles, your mom wrote about so much cooler stuff than the people whose books Deaton’s had me studying!”

Stiles stared at him for a moment, “Cool.”

“Yeah,” the boy guffawed, “You can say that twice!”

The spark’s heart may have swelled, or grown three sizes like the Grinch, or something equally as sappy, but he would never admit that. Especially since the book he was so amazed by was the same grimoire in which Claudia had documented exactly how she’d allowed Kate to slaughter Derek’s entire family. So. He could have it for the time being. And, hey, Stiles didn’t have to see the damn red glow in the corner of his eyes until he gave it back.

It was definitely bugging him that the book had just… left. But, hey. Claudia was an enigma. And so was her life-ending book. The problem was just the pain that it had stopped constantly treating. Stiles had forgotten it was ever even a thing. It was not a thing he could deal with until the book decided it liked him again, or his mother showed her face again, and he had no way of knowing when or if either of those things would be happening any time soon. And he sort of had to compartmentalise right now. Jennifer Blake’s impending ritualistic sacrifices vs. book he didn’t particularly want under his skin no longer being under his skin and his arms hurting a little bit a lot. It was not too hard of a choice to make.

“Mario Kart,” he sang under his breath, grinning over at his boyfriend, who was still staring at him like he was about to spontaneously combust, “I am gonna beat your ass so good.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, “Sure.”

-

Kate was dead. Like, super dead. Not coming back anytime soon, dead. And that was a good thing. Unfortunately, according to Lydia, she was not the only one who was now super dead. It must have been a terrifying thing. Not knowing what was going on, waking up before a dead body, the way that Lydia had to again. It didn’t help that Peter was another dead person, so Stiles couldn’t vent his frustration onto the cause of it. He didn’t blame him. It would’ve become a problem for Lydia eventually. Maybe it was better that she went through the worst of it young. She had more time to work out the kinks. More time to blame it on puberty when people asked what all the screaming was for. 

Heather didn’t make it to her birthday party This Time. 

Jennifer Blake was officially allowed to die, too. 

Stiles was not looking forward to it. Which was weird. By default, he always wanted Jennifer dead in a ditch and would jump at the chance to put her there. Something felt wrong about being excited to kill her. Especially with people watching his every move, waiting to dub him ‘good’ or ‘bad’ - as if it was any of their business. As if they had any right to make that call about him. He knew who he was. He didn’t need people believing that he was good. 

He didn’t need that pressure. 

Especially now that Jennifer had killed someone - his childhood friend, no less - on his territory - his - and it was his responsibility to take care of it. Of her. 

But first, he had a licence to get back. And a test to take. 

More people could die the longer he waited, yes, yes, he was perfectly aware of that, he had heard it enough from Laura and Cora and whoever the fuck else but he was practically useless without any way of getting to the danger. This was a completely necessary detour.

“So,” his instructor - Stephen, what a lovely guy, was Stephen - started, “Licence stuff all good. Great, awesome. So,” he repeated, “We are going to start the independent driving section of the test. I would like you to drive for some distance independently. I'd like you to follow a series of directions from the GPS. Please continue to follow the GPS until I tell you differently.”

He pressed a button, and the map sprung to life.

“Whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles was born ready. And, you know, he’d been driving every day for four and a half years and this was just a formality so his dad wouldn’t have to keep him from getting arrested for driving without a licence. And they could not seriously expect him to keep everyone safe - something that he now had to do and wasn’t just doing out of blind desperation and the need to make up for countless misdeeds that had maybe or maybe not happened already - without any reliable method of transportation. Such as his totally reliable Jeep. His Jeep which, along with the woman who technically owned it, had not been seen in his driveway since she vanished.

He didn’t care about the driving test. Or where his mom was. Or why her grimoire had decided to ditch him - Scott was entertaining himself perfectly well, and Stiles had screamed at everyone that they were officially allowed to read every word in, on, and around it, too, so it was fine. Super fine. He didn’t lay awake that night thinking about it. Or about Isaac sleeping downstairs on his couch. Or about how his aching arms were the things really keeping him awake. Or about the way that driving was so deeply, dizzyingly exhausting to do with that pain for as long as he had to to appease the US government into giving him his licence. Or, in fact, about where his mom was. 

Or that wolf. 

That wolf, who was following his car. ‘His car’ - his instructor’s car. Stephen’s car. That distinction was the only reason he kept himself from lighting the steering wheel on fire. His eyes were glowing in the rear-view mirror. It made his lungs constrict. The thudding, pulling ache of his wrists flared up loud. 

“Okay, so, we’re gonna turn out onto the highway now.”

He checked his mirrors and his blind spots properly. He indicated. He turned. The wolf ducked behind a divider and vanished. Not his problem, he tried to tell himself. Almost desperately, really. It was all he could do to ignore it and focus on hiding his winces as using the gear shift made his right arm feel downright boneless. It was infuriating. And he didn’t have to ignore the wolf, or the lack of wolf, because suddenly his mind was far more preoccupied with thoughts of his mother and her stupid, useless book of bullshit and whether Melissa could get him a discount on painkillers.

Stiles had always been good at compartmentalising. If he got more introspective, he might trace it back to his pathological need to protect himself and everyone around him. He might trace it back to his mother dying before his very eyes - to foolishly trying to protect his grown-ass father from all of it. He was able to keep his head on straight even at fifteen when he turned his own life on its head by taking Scott into the woods and getting them both flung headfirst into the supernatural world. He kept it together, kept everything organised, kept himself alive - mostly - for years; through possession and deaths and time travel, and now all of this. He’d be damned if he gave that ability up now. When it really mattered.

His deliberations on what problems to face when were as follows: right now, continue nailing his driving test. As soon as it was on paper that he had a license, he would deal with Jennifer, in one way or another. Then, if they tried anything or he found them, whichever happened first, he would take care of the Alphas. If she hadn’t come back by then, he would start worrying about his mom. And then, if it hadn’t brute-forced its way higher on his list of priorities already, he would deal with the wolf. Old problems, familiar ones, were easy. Almost practised. New problems took time. Time that he did not have with that many old problems to deal with. 

But, for now, it was driving and not giving in to the weakness of his arms. And cursing his mother with his entire being. 

-

He did not see Jennifer in class. That is because he did not go to class. 

He saw her after hours, when the school was near-abandoned, having taken the bus again because, even with his license technically viable despite the two-to-three weeks left before he would get his physical one, his mother had taken the Jeep when she vanished off the face of the Earth. So he took the bus. He wore possibly too many layers because Google said that heat would help to soothe his arms and the weather wasn’t doing it for him. He promised not to be late for dinner with Derek at that new Italian place downtown. 

Jennifer looked just like she always had. Hidden by that immaculate disguise - the innocent high school English teacher. A young woman who worshipped pencil skirts and side partings instead of Celtic deities. A scholar who drowned herself in literature rather than spells and ancient writings. Her eyes were so clearly dangerous beneath that thin veneer of maternal care. Stiles knew what she looked like under it all. He knew her real face. He knew her real name. He knew her. 

Her eyes - green? Blue? He couldn’t quite tell - raked over him like she could burn him with a look, and maybe she could, “You must be Stiles.”

“The one and only,” he crossed his arms, eyeing the obnoxious posters that lined the walls - one read ‘“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.” –William Shakespeare’ in stretched out sans typeface on a light grey background, that one really stood out to him, how fucking rich, “I‘m guessing you know why I’m here?”

“Well, I would’ve preferred it if you were here during school hours,” Jennifer said pointedly, with that odd roundness to her words that she had, “Or even first period. Missing the first two days of school is not a good way to start the year, don’t you think?”

Stiles scrunched his nose up, “Yeah, I’m not here to talk about English with you, Julia.”

She paused at that. Her eyes darkened perceptibly, and her chin dropped the slightest amount. Something sinister split her lips into a little smile.

Stiles hummed, “You murdered a sixteen-year-old girl. Sacrificed a sixteen-year-old girl, actually—”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jennifer cut in, speaking slow and intently.

Stiles gave her his most insincere of smiles, “Yeah, you can drop the act, James Buchanan, we both know exactly what I am talking about. You sacrificed Heather. You sacrificed an innocent girl - an old friend of mine - on my territory.”

Jennifer didn’t react. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. She barely breathed. 

He stood his ground just as solidly as she did, “I’m going to be courteous. Okay? If you leave Beacon Hills tonight and never come back, I’ll let you live.”

She scoffed, almost laughing, a sound that had such a burning distaste brewing in his chest that it downright ached, “Tonight? I can’t quit my job and leave town by tomorrow. And I won’t. I need this power, Stiles. You had to take yours from somewhere, too, didn’t you?”

A bitter taste grew in Stiles’ mouth.

Jennifer seemed to notice, if the villainous, too pleased glint in her eye was anything to go by, “You’re not the only one who knows things, Stiles. You know, I might have taken you up on your offer of letting me leave town alive if the circumstances were different but, thanks to you, the power I can gain from your Nemeton is invaluable. And I’m not leaving.”

“And when Kali realises you’re here?” Stiles asked, “While her pack is running around, trying to spook me into joining them? You think she’s gonna give you a chance to walk away?”

“She did once before,” Jennifer said, strained enough to bring him the briefest of comforts.

“Right,” Stiles snapped, “Well. I’m going to, probably stupidly, give you a chance. If you’re not gone by the morning, I will find you. And I will kill you. And it will probably be messy. And painful. And drawn-out. And maybe it will be a threefold death just for the sake of irony. Okay?”

Her thin brows rose.

He widened his eyes, “Okay. Glad we’re all on the same page.” He took a step back, toward the door, “I will not see you tomorrow. Yeah?”

She just tilted her head and half-shrugged her shoulders.

Stiles sighed and turned on his heels, “Don’t make me kill you, Julia. I don’t have time.”

-

He was trying to be better than Him. Or better than what he perceived Him to be, at least. Time seemed to do little for him besides slowly show him how little he really knew about who the Other Stiles actually was, or, would be. If Stiles was just the slightest bit more desperate, he might have tried to reach out and ask. Ask Him what really happened at Oak Creek, what he was supposed to do, if it would ever get better. He was not that desperate. Yet. For now, he was following a very flexible system of ‘WWTASMD’, or, ‘What Would True Alpha Scott McCall Do’. True Alpha Scott McCall would give Jennifer a chance to live, firmly somewhere else, but to live there nonetheless. She’d sacrifice people wherever she went, but it would leave him with the (mostly) comfortable knowledge that he hadn’t killed her. He had protected his territory without killing her.  

Stiles was not good at playing the hero, nor was he good at playing True Alpha Scott McCall, for he was neither a True Alpha nor Scott McCall. Those are two things one cannot easily fake until you make.

Then something happened.

That was all Lydia’s text had said. ‘Something happened.’, period and all. The notification had woken him up, just past midnight, in the way that all small noises woke him those days. He’d been tangled up so tightly with Derek that he’d somehow elbowed his stomach and the back of his neck in the scramble to get to his phone. Derek had growled right in his ear and gotten violently shushed. He’d tried to yank Stiles back into the shockingly comfortable pretzel-like cuddle position he’d broken out of, but Stiles was up on his feet within seconds of reading the message.

Should he have stolen his dad’s cruiser? Maybe not. Did Derek tell him not to steal his dad’s cruiser? Yes. Did he give up and switch to giving Stiles that sweet little amused, lovey-dovey look of his when Stiles insisted it was borrowing? Also yes. True Alpha Scott McCall would totally do it, too. Or, well. He would give Stiles his own amused, loving look as he suggested they do it. It counted.

Had he mentioned he missed that timeline? ‘Cause he kind of missed that timeline.

Derek had played along with his not-theft but drew the line at Stiles turning the lights or the sirens on, because he was a boring loser spoilsport, and he was slowly coming down from his sudden-awakening-adrenaline-rush and was now dozing off in the passenger’s seat. Stiles was just grateful he got up at all. Lydia was no doubt going to need comforting, whatever had happened at the pin-drop she’d sent, and Stiles was good at that (mostly) but not when he was upset, or angry, or really feeling anything at all besides all-consuming guilt and concern and fear. And he had a strong feeling this was all about to make him feel a whole lot.

He was right, and, of course, he was right. He had done this all before. At least, This Time, Lydia didn’t seem to be plagued by nightmarish memories. That would just be the cherry on top. He wondered a little why she didn’t have them here. It was almost disappointing. She got him when she remembered. She told him off. She didn’t coddle him. She wasn’t scared. Mostly. It gave him a friend he knew was actually a friend who knew him before, back when Peter was far from fitting that description. 

Now, this was happening.

Derek sighed at the drip, drip, drip of blood from atop the lifeguard’s chair as if it had personally offended him, “Can’t say I’m surprised.”

“She could’ve at least waited and let me think I won,” Stiles snarled back, “But, no! No, Stiles, I’m gonna kill someone else in, like, six hours. Go fuck yourself!” Lydia made another low noise of distress and Stiles went back to smiling cheerily at her, “You’re okay. It’s all okay.”

“That guy isn’t,” Lydia snapped.

Stiles was very proud of himself for not laughing, but he almost lost it when he looked over at Derek and caught the pathetic suppression on his part. He swallowed, “Yes, well. That is… accurate.” He shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, turning back to the narrow-eyed glare of the freshly traumatised fifteen-year-old girl sat on the floor before him, “But, hey,” he said cautiously, “He’s in a better place now.”

“I hate you,” she said sharply, “I really hate you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded, “Can’t say I blame you. But, anyhow,” he said, rising to stand and brushing her shoulder with his fingertips because it was the best he could do with that pain fucking him over, “I’ve gotta go get some revenge. You have any thoughts on that?” Lydia just raised a terrifying eyebrow and didn’t utter a word. Stiles nodded back, “Roger that.”

He slipped his phone out of his pocket and had Scott’s contact open within seconds. Before he pressed the call button, he looked over at Derek again. The man nodded, coming over to take his place in front of Lydia and begin to coax her up onto her feet, so gently it almost made everything seem okay, almost covered the stench of death and chlorine. Almost.

Scott actually answered the phone for once, and Stiles greeted him with, “Wakey, wakey, sleeping beauty. I need my mom’s diary back.”

-

Scott was a nerd. This was not news. Yet he seemed to reach a new level of nerdiness with the whole supernatural bombshell Stiles had dropped on him, which was nothing short of fascinating. Biology had always been his thing when they were younger. He’d spend hours in the nonfiction section of the library, doing extra credit for his bio classes and other nerdy things that nerds did. It had always made Stiles smile to see him get all excited about it. He didn’t get it. It was just convenient that Scott getting bit by a mysterious wolf in the woods triggered a deep, deep hyperfixation on the supernatural, or else Stiles would never have been able to spend more than five minutes looking into any of it and they all would’ve died within a week. Because Stiles was not a nerd. Stiles was a geek. Which always seemed worse.

Maybe the lack of constant threats to his life was bringing to light something he could’ve had any other time. If Stiles had been the one Peter turned that night, if that was even possible. Maybe Scott was always capable of being this adorably, brilliantly, nerdily helpful.

“There wasn’t anything in the grimoire specifically about… tracking down dark druids,” Scott said slowly, “But there was something about tracing magic,” he was sifting through a pile of papers and old books at the foot of his bed, while Allison laid grumpily, completely submerged in the covers, at the head of it. Stiles just watched from where he leant against the door. Scott grinned over at him, “And I knew it’d just lead back to the Nemeton, so I started looking into other spells for tracing magic and I found…” His grin widened as he handed a book over, open to a page near the back. Stiles took it, and he stared. “A point of origin ritual.”

Stiles’ brows rose up on his face, “A… Right. This is real?”

“Yeah!” Scott beamed, “Cross-checked it with a bunch of other stuff. All the different parts of it work, they all do the stuff it needs it to do. I couldn’t, you know, try it, ‘cause I don’t have a spark and… you called, like, half an hour ago.”

“It took you half an hour to find exactly what I needed without any warning,” Stiles said pointedly, “Scott, you are a fucking Godsend.”

His face melted into a grateful little puddle, cooing, “Stiles,” then he pouted, shaking his head a little as he focussed up again, “Wait, what are you gonna do when you find her?”

Stiles stopped, halfway to the boy’s door handle, to blink at him. He didn’t say a word and, apparently, that was more than enough. Because Scott’s face suddenly fell in a starkly similar way to that day at the school. Like he remembered who Stiles was.

“You can’t kill her,” he almost whispered. Allison peeled the covers off of herself. 

Stiles took in a steadying breath, “Scott. She killed Heather. Lydia just found a second body.”

“Stiles, you can’t stoop to her level,” the kid near pleaded, “You can’t be as bad as her. Two wrongs don’t make a right, you know that, don’t you?”

“I wish it were that simple, Scotty,” Stiles shrugged, “I tried your way. Now it’s time for mine.”

“No, no, there’s gotta be another way,” Scott snarled, turning back to his pile of stuff, “I’m going to find a way.”

“Scott—”

“No!” The kid barked, “You’re not a killer. I won’t let you be a killer.”

Stiles tilted his head, despite the fact that Scott couldn’t see it, and he said, “Scott. I’ve been a killer since you were eleven.”

“Yeah, well, you don’t have to be,” Scott said firmly, “Yeah. Yeah, no, this could…”

He was looking through Claudia’s grimoire. He flipped a few pages ahead, then a few pages back, and then he stood up straight. Allison was watching him carefully, quietly. 

Scott was a nerd, and Scott was low-key a Kantian. So morally pompous. All lying is bad, and hurting people is bad, and manipulating people is even worse! It wasn’t a bad thing, it just clashed so harshly with Stiles’ own fuck-it-we-ball attitude that it often had him wanting to wring the kid’s neck. Mostly because it made him second guess his own disregard for other people’s lives (and his own) and that just pissed him off. But Scott was just a better person than him. Most of the time. And he was too young to know any better. Good for him. Didn’t mean he had to bother Stiles with it.

“Can you bring your passive solution out to the car or do I have to wait here?” Stiles asked gently, because Stiles could be good sometimes, too. He could. 

-

Allison had stayed in bed. Stiles was jealous. He missed lie-ins. Well, it wasn’t exactly a lie-in if they’d woken her up at midnight and then she’d gone back to sleep, but still. 

“So, what does this ritual need? Do we have to stop at Deatons?” Stiles asked, glancing over at Scott for a moment and catching the furrow of his brow.

“Yeah, uh, I don’t…” the boy’s body scrunched up, “These steps are actually really complicated.”

“Awesome,” Stiles sang, “Is your non-lethal alternative for stopping her any easier?”

“Yes,” Scott said determinedly, “Definitely.”

Stiles quirked his head and glared out into the dark road ahead of them, through the mist illuminated by his stolen headlights, and grumbled, “I’ll take it.” He paused a little, “But if it doesn’t work, I’m still killing her.”

Scott hesitated a long while, then just sighed. Stiles could take that. He listened as Scott started to list out the things they needed. Stiles sort of stopped listening around the point in which he started listing types of crystals. This was all ridiculous. He wasn’t sure when, exactly, magic had lost its novelty. Maybe it was around the time he found out his mother used it to help slaughter the Hales. Or when his future self used it to throw him across a room and bruise his spine. Or when he killed himself to find his father after Jennifer hid him beneath the Nemeton.

Maybe that’s why he wasn’t as scared to kill her. 

Magic was a bit of a hit or miss those days. Something of a toss-up between happy and fun and a general improvement on the situation pre-magic, and a terrible, horrible thing that does nothing but remind him of everything he’d done. It was worse now, when even the simplest of actions made his skin glow with the light he stole from Peter’s eyes. That was the only good part of the grimoire seeping out of him. The light was gone. The pain felt like a suitable punishment. Long overdue, he thought. Peter would probably scoff at that, drawl something incomprehensibly convoluted about his own brilliance and how being anyone else was punishment enough, or something accidentally fascinating about the ways of the universe that he would refuse to elaborate on (Stiles was pretty sure he only did that because he never actually knew what he was talking about, not because he wanted to keep his fun facts close to his chest). It didn’t matter what he’d do, though. Nor what he used to do. Because Peter was not doing anything anymore. And that was okay. As long as the arms that killed him were trying to destroy themselves, it was okay.

He huffed as he brought one aching arm up to wipe his hand across his sore eyes. He hadn’t slept - not well, at least - in too damn long. This shit was no doubt about to very much not help. 

It was easy to follow Scott’s lead as they found all the shit they needed at the clinic. Comfortable. Familiar. And in the fog of Stiles’ exhaustion and the pain through his arms and his scars and his eyes, he almost forgot it was not his Alpha he was following. The fact that Scott had cut his hair short, the way he’d worn it all that time before, did not, in fact, mean Stiles had been transported to another world where he got to have his Alpha back. His best friend. It was whatever. It didn’t keep him up at night or anything. 

It started to snow while they were rooting around, pretty heavily. Stiles had never particularly liked snow. Now, with the lingering knowledge that the cold would make his pain even worse, he wasn’t getting any fonder of it. From afar, he was a fan. But up close and personal? Not really.

He was not looking forward to finding the Nemeton with his clothes swiftly soaking with ice. He was not looking forward to finding the Nemeton, period. Why couldn’t Jennifer be a simple person? Why couldn’t she live in a gigantic evil lair, the only one in Metrocity with a fake observatory on the roof, to be precise? That was an excellent movie. Not the point. Jennifer sucked. And it was like every single miniscule part of her existence was tailored specifically to make Stiles’ life more difficult. 

He sucked it up and got on with it, though. It was no help of his mother that her grimoire had torn itself away, something that only indicated her ripping away her own connection to him somehow and almost definitely taking the Nemeton with her, but Stiles was nothing if not a master of improvisation. He remembered Lydia and Parrish getting awfully good at finding the Nemeton not long before he was taken. If those two could figure it out without any supernatural ghost parents guiding the way, then how hard could it really be? Without, you know, killing yourself. That was off-limits. And they were already in the preserve and he did not have time to go back to the clinic. Or to buy any ice.

That was when he remembered holding Peter under icy water. It made the stabbing cold through his limbs and his fingers and his toes and his nose and lips and ears burn brighter. The ache of his arms grew louder. It made his chest hurt, too, sympathetically. 

He was distracted by that wolf, again. Or, he thought he was. For a moment. He could’ve sworn that those bright blue eyes were glowing right back at him through the trees and the snow as it grew heavier and heavier. They were gone in a blink. If it was really there, it didn’t make a noise. Maybe muffled by the snow, maybe too swift for Stiles to catch. He tried to follow it anyway - that, probably false, image flickering through the darkness. Scott stumbled after him with his inhaler in one hand and his flashlight in the other. The snow and twigs crunched beneath their feet so loudly that Stiles didn’t understand how even the gentlest of wolves could move without making a sound. 

Scott’s flashlight, as unsteady and dim as it was, unmistakably caught the form of the Nemeton, and Stiles damn near lost it. 

That tree stump had vanished when he got there. His mother had refused to show him where it was because she didn’t want him to leave again. Where the hell was she now? And how was that wolf so easily able to lead him right to it? Who the fuck was it?

He didn’t have time. He did not have time. Right now, he had to track the sacrifice back to Jennifer, and then do whatever the hell it was Scott was planning for him to do to her when they got there. He had to protect the people she was planning on sacrificing. He had to protect Lydia. 

So, he followed Scott’s shivering instructions, placing down and lighting candles with a focussed burst from his fingertip, despite the aching, aching, aching fighting to stop him. He dragged chalk across the ripples in the wood as best as he could. It felt so natural it made him want to stop. He sprinkled herbs across the gaps between the candles. He placed the crystals down where Scott said to, only sort of following what they were meant to do. Amethyst, something clearer than quartz and smoother than selenite, something that looked a bit too similar to sea glass, lapis lazuli, and one of solid black. Scott called it ‘the sorcerer’s stone’. Stiles almost flung it at him before he caught the genuine amazement in Scott’s eyes and he wondered if maybe Harry Potter had actually gotten it from somewhere. So he just placed it in front of that particular white candle, like Scott told him to.

He sat himself down in the middle of the circle, surrounded by candles and crystals. He took the paper that Scott handed to him. He breathed in as deep as he could with his whole body wrestling to weigh him down. And he read.

“Explico,” he said. He frowned, “That’s it?”

“I, uh,” Scott shrugged, “Yeah?” He waited a ridiculously long time before the snow crunched beneath his feet again and he asked, “Did it do anything?”

“No, obviously it didn’t do anything,” Stiles snapped, “One word?” Scott shrugged dramatically, making his flashlight shift straight into Stiles’ eyes, to which he flinched back and cursed, hissing out, “Turn that damn thing off. Jesus Christ, dude.”

Scott murmured a ‘sorry’ and the light vanished with a click. It took a solid ten seconds for Stiles to be able to see anything in the resulting darkness, more due to the floating spots in his vision than the actual dark. The candles picked up the slack rather well, actually. It didn’t help the snow melting into his clothes.

“I mean, it’s not about the actual ritual, you know,” Scott mumbled into the candlelight, teeth still clattering, “It’s intention.”

“Then why the hell did we waste so much time at Deaton’s?” Stiles grumbled back.

“It helps,” Scott said, “Or, it’s meant to, at least. Just… focus on the candle in front of you. Focus.”

“That’s asking a lot,” Stiles murmured, then breathed in deeper, nodding his head anyway as he locked his gaze onto the flame in front of him.

He liked fire. He always felt like he shouldn’t. But there was such comfort there. The hypnotising sway of the flame, the gentle warmth, the violence and life and death. How fire was humanity’s first creation, so essential to survival. Life and death, as he said. It could feed a family and burn them to a crisp just as easily. It owed nothing to anyone. It was uncontrollable. Even God could not control fire. Nor the Devil. 

Visions of Peter came to him so clearly. Not memories. He wasn’t there when Peter was burning alive in the basement of his home. He wasn’t there when Peter was sipping some fruity cocktail at a bar. He wasn’t there when he was impaling Chris Argent in the sewers. He wasn’t there when he was taking a blowtorch to a bullet wound in Derek’s chest in some suburban living room. He wasn’t there in that church. He wasn’t there in Eichen House. He wasn’t there in that train station. They didn’t feel like fabrications, though. ‘Visions’ really was the best way to put it. It was the closest he’d gotten to seeing him in months beyond his occasional ventures up to the boxes and boxes of photo albums in the attic. Those visions, so starkly clear and disorientating, felt like. Felt like. 

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice snapped him back - tore him back, more like - to blink at that flickering flame and swallow, “Stiles, what did you see?”

His face was freezing. He sniffled, scrunching his burning nose up and staring up at the boy, “What? I didn’t do anything yet.”

Scott’s face twisted up, his hand rubbing back and forth furiously over his arms, shaking his head as he said, “Yeah, you did. You said the thing. And now you’re crying. Are you okay?”

“I’m not…” he tried. His throat was rough, and when his burning cold hands rose to wipe at his face, the iciness there came away wet. He cursed under his breath and scrubbed at his cheeks until the coldness was even. He didn’t look at Scott. “I wasn’t… I wasn’t focused on the right thing. Let me try again. Yeah?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Scott said quickly, “Take your time. But, you know,” he ploughed on, “I am, like, really, really cold, so, um. Maybe don’t take too much time?”

Stiles gave a noncommittal noise in response, far more focussed on steadying the unmoored dread in his chest than speeding through any rituals. His eyes settled on that flame again, shifting more under the assault of his too-harsh breathing. Something in him felt like it had to be steady. Like if the flame was too chaotic, none of it would work. The chaos would seep right into the ritual and it’d all go to shit. That was the only thing that steadied him. He forced his heart rate down by some probably supernatural will. He held his breath until it all slowed down. And he focused. 

Jennifer Blake was walking down an alley, street name high up on a brick wall under a streetlamp - Marsh. Her heels were clicking loud and her hair was bouncing with the speed of her gait. There was something of a glow about her. Not in the superficial way, where her skin was glowing and she looked great and had she done something new to her hair? As if Stiles could ever think that about her. It wasn’t superficial. It was supernatural. It was the power of the people she’d sacrificed. And Stiles knew exactly where Marsh was.

The candle he’d locked onto snuffed itself out as the snow started to get heavier. Stiles took in one last deep breath.

He turned to Scott’s wide eyes, and asked, “What are we doing to her, then?”

-

“I just don’t get it,” he sighed as the car came to a stop. He was more upset about having to leave the heating behind than the imminent… whatever this was.

“What’s not to get?” Scott asked from the passenger’s seat, “People steal power all the time.”

“Yeah, but…” Stiles scrunched his face up, “It’s not normally like that. And what power am I even taking?”

Scott’s big brown eyes darted away for a while, “She’s been sacrificing people for a reason, right?”

Stiles squinted at him for an even longer while, “So, I’m stealing the power of a flock of birds, a deer, and two virgins.” He nodded jerkily, “Epic.”

“Technically a flock of crows is called a murder,” Scott said mildly. 

“Of course it is,” Stiles snapped, “Are you coming or not?”

Scott frowned, “I think I’ll wait in the car.” He passed another page over after shuffling through his handy-dandy backpack for a moment. 

“Good call,” Stiles grumbled, snatching the page and glaring down at it. 

“You might need to get her weak to be able to do it,” Scott said softly, “I don’t know how strong she is, but the sacrifices probably are helping.”

“You don’t say,” Stiles murmured, “Alright. I’ll be right back. Don’t go anywhere.”

Scott’s voice cut through the air as he opened the door, more of a noise than a word, before the grimoire was being thrust across the centre console and against Stiles’ arm. He blinked down at it, then back up, as he raised an eyebrow.

“Just in case,” Scott said, “I mean. If it doesn’t work. It can’t hurt to have all of that as backup.”

Stiles’ lips turned up into the slightest of traitorous smiles, “Thanks, Scotty. See you in a minute, ‘kay?”

Scott nodded earnestly, though there was a particularly persistent worried wrinkle to his brow that Stiles got caught on. It seemed to linger in his mind as he slid out of the car and out onto the street, pulling his jacket tighter around himself and crossing his arms over his chest. It was almost too cold to think, with the snow still close to blinding him in its endless barrage. He almost couldn’t see her silhouette down the street. 

It was a few minutes of near-silent stalking through the snow and trying to fit the grimoire in his coat pocket before he got bored of it. 

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said into the snow. 

Jennifer’s body stilled. Her heels didn’t click as loud against the snow-covered concrete.

“I seem to recall telling you to fuck off,” he snarled, mentally recounting whatever this spell needed him to visualise - was it water? Ice? Chains? - as he kept walking, “Or did I imagine that? I wouldn’t be that surprised, actually.”

“I’m doing what I have to, Stiles,” she said back. 

Stiles’ ice-cold lips turned up into a bitter smile, “Oh, yeah? You think it’s necessary?”

“I know it is.”

He hummed, bringing his hands out and closing his eyes. He imagined rolling tides, waves pushing and pulling until they flowed into him; exactly what the spell told him to do. He recited that ridiculously long chant. He believed.

Belief was meant to be the whole point, wasn’t it? You believed it would be and then it was. It was one of the first things he learned. He understood it. It made sense. He knew full well how much he could control his own reality, medial things like spells were no different. 

So why, when he opened his eyes, was Jennifer just staring at him through the snow like he’d offended her? Why had nothing changed?

“You want to take my power?” She asked, finally turning fully to start to make her way toward him, “You’re a bit of a coward, aren’t you? Well, if we’re gonna go there, then let’s go there.” 

Her hands rose and Stiles swore, ducking down and scrambling for cover. If that would even work. He really didn’t understand magic as well as someone should understand magic when that person uses magic on a regular magical basis, did he? It didn’t matter much in the moment because his lack of magical book (in his skin, at least) left his palms stinging in the aftermath of dragging across brick walls in his rush to cower in an alley.

“Oh, now you’re scared?” She snarled past the thuds of her heels, “I thought you were supposed to be a big, strong Alpha?”

Stiles’ nose scrunched up, huffing in sharp and swift breaths of frozen air as he pressed himself as hard back into that wall as he could manage. Those thudding footsteps grew closer fast, but not too fast for him to get it into his head that this bitch really wanted him dead. And he was not about to be killed by Jennifer fucking Blake. 

The second her silhouette broke past the edge of the building he was plastered to, he swung his leg around to slam into her knee. She cried out as she tumbled, morphing into a snarl as Stiles snagged the collar of her sweater and yanked her around to slam her against the wall. The snow on her lashes made her eyes seem darker, though maybe that was her newfound homicidality. 

“That’s what they tell me,” he forced out, shaking from the use of his arms, “You’ll never hear me saying it, to be fair.”

“Good to hear,” Jennifer snapped, and her hand - possibly her foot, whatever it was it was strong - slammed into his stomach with an inhuman burst of power and sent him flying across the alley into the opposing wall. He felt his whole ribcage shift, the air tearing itself from his lungs awfully familiarly. The pain radiated out from his spine like clawing hands. 

He was only just starting to be able to differentiate the stars in his vision from the snowflakes dancing so carefully down before his eyes when she started to speak again. His chest heaved.

“Ante hanc horam,” she cried, hands outstretched before herself.

“Oh, fuck no,” Stiles wheezed out.

Jennifer’s eyes could have just as easily began to glow solid white as they could have been covered by the snow as she continued, “Da suam potestat—”

He cursed before he saw it. The blackness covering his vision and wiping Jennifer away. The woman cried out, close to a wail, as that blur of black fur tackled her to the ground and carried her with it. There was snarling, and screaming, and Stiles’ chest was only just letting the crisp air back in. His arms ached the worst at the elbows right then. At the point where they pressed back against the rough brick, felt it cutting into his skin. It felt better than the ache. 

A plethora of questions for that wolf were dead on his tongue - whats and whys and hows and whos, not so many wheres - as the thing was thrown to the side with a burst of power not unlike the one she’d used on him. It landed a good few yards away and rolled across the snow, eventually stopping awfully still. 

“Animals,” Jennifer said, though her voice was weak, and her blood was painting the snow red. Red. 

Stiles’ hand rose, and he spoke through curled lip as he saw it unfold before it did, “Ante hanc horam,” he said slowly, carefully, watching just as such as the wondrous wispy grey-white of her began to tear itself toward him, “eam potestatem mihi.” 

Her mouth fell open, her whole face contorting in pain as the smoke-like essence of her power seeped out of her and into his reaching, commanding fingertips. He kept his gaze on her eyes as a choked sort of sound fell from her lips, on the second repetition of the spell, as the power started to buzz through him. It dulled the pain in his arms. It soothed the fear in his chest. 

He didn’t realise he had to stop until it was too late. He didn’t stop until she stopped breathing. Her skin, grey and lifeless, flesh against bone. Empty. Her eyes, dull. With her mirage gone, now just a hairless husk of scars and nothingness. The snow covered her with more dignity than Stiles would. 

There was a new strength in his bones as he slipped out of the alleyway. As he brought a foot to nudge her leg and receive no response. 

“God damn it,” he muttered, “Scott’s gonna be so pissed.”

Something crunched against the snow, a few metres over. His head snapped over to look.

Right where that wolf had lay, a man was huffing, bringing himself to rest against his right arm, with his head low beneath his shoulders. His hair was dark, clear against the pure white of everything else. Not Derek, not at all, but the sight had something in Stiles shifting. Warming.

“Hey,” he called out. The man froze. Stiles breathed in sharply through his burning cold nose, “Thank you.”

The man’s shoulders seemed to lose some infernal weight, as his head only slightly lifted, “Let’s not have a moment, Stiles.”

He froze. And somehow it was worse than the wolf being Derek. He would like to say that, as that man lifted his head to give Stiles a condescending smoulder he hadn’t seen outside of memories and dreams and visions in far too long, there were not instantly the most inopportune sparks of tears in his eyes. Stiles had always been a liar.

Stiles’ fingers twitched, “I.” 

Peter’s eyes shone, “You…”

Stiles gulped, “Holy shit.”

He had always been a liar. So had Peter Hale. 

Notes:

Ding Dong the witch is dead. And Peter isn’t. That lasted didn’t it lmao dumb bitch sorry I love him too much I can’t stay away. It’s like toxic now.

Chapter 9: Forged In Life

Summary:

Stiles is pushed to his breaking point.

Notes:

ohh this one's fun. and that was a dicken's reference! 16 yr old me is so proud of herself.

I feel so bad for what I put stiles thru in this one oh god my shayla 😭 I wrote this the day before my first date with my partner and being in that mindset had me STRESSING and I was a mess so have fun!!!

i did so much googling for this. stiles should've definitely died in this chapter. like for real

and on an unrelated note, happy (late) birthday to ME!!!!!

Peter was drinking a piña colada. 

He was dressed, once Stiles caught up with him. In a bar. Alive. Breathing. Not at all the same lifeless body Stiles had pushed off of him in the gym after giving in to his pleas and snapping his neck with his bare hands. The wolf had practically vanished into thin air barely twenty minutes earlier, save for the footprints he left in the snow. Stiles had followed them. Dazed. Nauseous. And terrified.

And now Peter Hale was drinking a piña colada. 

The stool Stiles was perched on dug into his thighs uncomfortably, but that was pretty much cloud nine compared to how the rest of him was feeling, “You can’t get drunk.”

Peter didn’t look at him “No, I can’t.” He tilted his head, “Normally, I only drink these for the taste, but you see that… faint purple iridescence?” He asked, bringing the glass up to the light for Stiles to see just that. Tiny flickers of violet, like glitter, swimming through his drink. The wolf - alive, breathing, safe, alive, not dead - smiled, “This, here, is wolfsbane. Just a large enough dose to lower my inhibitions enough to truly get the tipsy experience. Or blackout drunkenness, if I’m feeling frisky. That little trick, I learned when your mother and I were about your age.” His wonder-filled look dimmed so fast Stiles saw flashes of the life leaving those eyes, “… Therein lies my problem.”

Stiles’ whole head was spinning, and utterly alcohol-free, “Huh?”

“Your mother, Stiles,” Peter snarled, those dark eyes snapping to meet his, “We have a problem.”

“Okay,” Stiles forced out, “There are few things I’ve found less surprising recently. Who doesn’t have a problem with her? I mean, besides my dad. Or Derek. Not the point,” his brows drew together, “You know what I have a problem with?” He nodded his head swiftly, almost enough to dull the frantic chaos of his mind, “How the fuck you’re sat in front of me right now.”

Peter blinked slowly back at him.

“Context clues,” he drawled, pausing to take a sip of his drink and ignore any very fucking justified indignant spluttering from Stiles, “I see you’ve gotten rid of the grimoire. That wasn’t because of me was it?”

“You mean because of the fact your power and actual life was glowing through my skin while it was in there?” Stiles snapped, “Not technically.” Peter’s lip twitched up in amusement. Stiles shook his head, “Peter. I killed you.”

“Yes, I remember, I was there,” he said mildly, taking another sip.

“You’re not…” Stiles’ mouth had never been so dry, “You don’t have anything to say about that?”

“I was quite literally begging you to do it, Stiles,” Peter said slowly, giving him a sideways look, “The only one I’m mad at now is the idiot who brought me back.”

Stiles’ brows drew together, “I… Uh-huh.” He blinked, “Who?”

Peter tilted his head and stared into the distance, “Do you believe in god, Stiles?”

“I mean, the Bible never mentioned time travel,” Stiles murmured, “Or werewolves.”

Peter hummed, “Or werecoyotes or nogitsunes or… dark druids.” He took in a harsh breath. Stiles wasn’t listening to him as much as he was trying to compute the fact that he was actually hearing him speak. “I never believed much in god. Always figured I was the next best thing. But, really, if anyone’s that close to god, Stiles, it’s her.”

Stiles took in a deep breath of secondhand smoke and held it. He waited.

“I mean,” Peter shrugged his globed shoulders, “burning people alive for the betterment of her son? Working with Kate to destroy everything her best friend had?” Stiles took in another, deeper, breath. Peter’s bottom lip jutted out, “I suppose that would make me Job. I doubt your mother is going to give me two mansions and twice the family to make up for it, though.”

Stiles had only followed maybe a third of that, “… Are you comparing me to Jesus?” His whole face hurt from the expression it was wearing, “Are you saying I’m God?”

“I’m saying you’re more human than her, at the very least,” Peter said, as if it made sense. 

Stiles just stared at him. At the familiarly long hair on his head, the equally as pleased as cynical sparkle in his eye, the thick, black coat over his shoulders. At the words resting in the air, so pompously contrived and so him. This was Peter. Actually. He wondered what the odds were that this was all fake; that Jennifer had turned him into a lifeless husk and this was the afterlife. Either way, this could really be Peter, couldn’t it?

“My mom… brought you back to…” he tried, and swiftly gave up. His chest seemed to give in, actually, with a sort of helpless puff of air, half a whimper, and a flush of humiliated warmth to his cheeks. The well-known sensation of welling tears had him growling at the base of his throat, “Fuck you, Peter.”

“So kind,” Peter cooed. 

“Don’t. You—” Stiles took in a sharp breath, “You made me kill you. For nothing.”

“Well, I didn’t know that, did I?” Peter drawled.

“That’s not the point,” Stiles snapped. The wolf slowly placed his drink down on the bar. Stiles licked his lips, almost laughing, “I couldn’t even get out of bed for two days after.”

“I’m sure Derek was happy about that.”

Stiles pulled a face, “Oh, my God. Time and place.” He glared at the pleased quirk of Peter’s mouth for a long while, then sighed, “What did… What did ‘other’ mean?”

The wolf considered him for a moment as one of his brows rose slowly, “Well, it was meant to be the thing that got you to realise I wanted you to kill me. You know. Because of the Alpha thing. I had to resort to outright begging and forcing your hand instead, which was actually, I’ll have you know, rather traumatic for me.”

“I had to snap the neck of my—” Stiles cut himself off with a rough, closed-mouth huff, shrinking back at the amused glow of Peter’s eyes, “My friend. Arguably more traumatic – you didn’t have to live with it.” He scrunched his nose up, “Don’t make it a big thing.”

“No, why would I?” Peter said mildly, “You know someone as long as we’ve known each other, you either become mortal enemies or best buds. I suppose we alternate.”

Stiles stared for a while more, “You… So, you do… You…”

“I remember,” Peter said, nodding graciously, “I remember everything. I didn’t, at first. Obviously. But then Claudia…” His jaw tightened and he turned away, “As I said. Mortal enemies, or best buds.” His bitter eyes widened a little, “It’s always a toss-up.”

“What did she do?” Stiles asked, finally finding his voice, properly, “Tell me. Or I can’t help you.”

“I doubt you can help me either way,” Peter murmured, “But I don’t know what she did. Only that it made me almost lose my mind even more than I already had. Hence the begging for the sweet release of death. And, boy, was it sweet.” He took another slow sip of his drink, sighing in the aftermath, “And then she ruined that, too. Unfortunately, in the time I’ve been back in Beacon Hills, I haven’t heard a peep from her. And neither have you.”

His eyes were on Stiles’ arms, still covered by his tattered sleeves, when the spark asked, “Were you… away from Beacon Hills?”

Peter seemed to glow with pride, “Oh, Stiles. Even when I’m not trying to be cryptic, you still see right through it.”

“It’s not rocket science,” Stiles murmured.

“Mexico,” Peter nodded slowly, “La Iglesia.”

Stiles’ brows scrunched up, “Seriously? What, she brought you back at the temple?”

“It sure seems like it,” Peter said, “Although, you have to ask how on Earth she got a corpse across the Mexican border with no issues.” He then rolled his eyes, “Well. Magic.”

“Magic, yeah,” Stiles nodded, “This is… so insane. Why aren’t you acting like this is insane?” He squinted, “How did no one smell that it was you?”

Peter shrugged generously, “Don’t ask me. You’re surrounded by buffoons.”

“Right,” Stiles drawled, then slammed his knee into the bar as he suddenly flailed, “Oh, shit, Scott!”

“He is the biggest buffoon of them all, I have to agree.”

“No, you—” Stiles shook his head, “I left him in the car. Shit. How long has it been since Jennifer?”

Peter pulled a face, “Do I look like a clock to you? Check your phone.”

Stiles pulled a face right back, “You could just try to be helpful for five seconds.”

Peter slammed his drink down, “I saved your life half an hour ago.”

“Half an hour!” Stiles nodded, “Awesome.” Peter stared so blankly at him. Stiles just grinned back, “Well, it has been… a lot to see you. I’ll see you around. I need to go make sure Scott isn’t dead or dying. I’ve got a fair amount of one-sided beef going for me right now. It’s… exhausting. What time is it?”

“Again,” Peter nodded, “Not a clock.”

“Well, you are a cock,” Stiles barked out a laugh, then settled into a mild grimace, “Not my best.”

“No, that was terrible,” the wolf agreed, “Please leave before I decide to kill you.”

“As if,” Stiles murmured, slipping out of the chair and just sort of. Stopping. His stomach settled with a deep weight, flashes of something apprehensive sparking up in his chest. He turned back to watch, tight-lipped, as Peter slowly and very exaggeratedly rolled his eyes and turned to him. 

He held an arm out, “Come on, you raging coward.”

“Screw you,” Stiles huffed, sliding into the open space as fast as he could and wrapping his arms around that idiot zombie of a man. Peter’s hand came down hard against his mid-back, stern and oddly comforting. He swallowed and dug his chin into the man’s shoulder, “Don’t make it weird. But. I missed you. Like, a lot.”

“Of course, you did,” Peter murmured back, “I’m a delight.” Stiles didn’t want to pull back, but he did, brows high on his face, and Peter broke into a wide grin - a sight that still had Stiles’ hackles raising, metaphorically at least, “I missed you too, Stiles.” He braced his hand on the spark’s shoulder, “Now, go make sure that teenage idiot hasn’t gotten himself killed.” 

“You not coming with me?” Stiles asked.

“You can take care of yourself,” Peter said, “I know that much.” The hand on Stiles’ shoulder squeezed, then retracted, and Stiles’ arms suddenly hurt a whole lot more. That made him want to die a little bit. 

“Alright,” Stiles nodded, starting to walk back, “I’ll see you.”

“If you see your mother before I do,” Peter called after him, “Do tell her I want a word.”

“Do not kill my mom!” Stiles called back.

“You said it, not me!”

It hadn’t set in yet. If it had, he wouldn’t have walked out of that bar into the settling snow. He wouldn’t have left, at all. He wouldn’t have thought about Scott. He would’ve stayed in that bar, sobbing and hyperventilating at the sight of Peter Hale until he lost his vision. The snow would not be crunching beneath his feet and seeping ice water in through the soles of his shoes. He wouldn’t have been distracted.

All there was was that wolf. The fact that Peter was back. It had not set in, but it was trying to. Dizzyingly, as Stiles tried to remember the way back to the car past the blur of streets and alleys he’d followed shadows through to find Peter at that bar, that understanding was trying to settle at the top of his mind. It was making him short of breath. The cold didn’t help with that. Nor did it help with the pain in his arms, not like Peter had.  

When he buried his hands in his pockets, he stopped. His heart dropped to his stomach. 

Empty. His pockets were empty. 

Stiles swore, releasing a puff of mist from his mouth in the chill of the air, and he spun on his heel just as the footsteps caught up to his ears.

Peter was there, still alive, still breathing, waving the grimoire in the air, “Forget something?”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles almost cried, “Thank you.”

“Wow, two ‘thank you’s in one day,” Peter smirked, “This is new.”

Stiles quirked his head, heart swelling so tenderly, “Don’t get too used to it.”

The sharp, sudden wave of wrong was not decipherable enough. Like at the station, before he got that text from Derek. It was just an untethered, nonspecific stab of terror that spread out across every inch of him. Peter’s face fell.

The grimoire was on the floor before Stiles knew what had happened. Before he recognised the sound of a silenced gunshot and the sudden roar of a wounded wolf. 

Sensations came to Stiles in this order: 

First, terror. 

Then the ache of his arm reaching out. 

Then the chill of a sudden breeze. 

Then the smell of wolfsbane burning through a wound. 

Then a sudden thud of pain in his abdomen. 

Then the snow, right at his face. 

Freezing, wet, and blinding. 

Red. 

Saliva filling his mouth. 

His head pounding. 

Warmth across his stomach. 

His aching, damp, snow-soaked arm reaching downward. 

Remnants of Jennifer’s power pulsing through the pain there and sparking pathetically maroon from his fingertips and fizzling out. 

Nausea. 

Mortification. 

Rage. 

Dark.

 

-

 

Terror. And pain.

Melissa probably wouldn’t recommend having his arms suspended above his head like this. He was just glad he wasn’t dead. It would probably feel better. When you’re dead, you don’t have to hold your breath to keep yourself from vomiting at the sight of your blood-soaked stomach. Your head doesn’t pound like a freight train is running through it. Your arms don’t lie limp above your head and make your restraints dig into your wrists like they’re lined with blades. Not unless you’re in Hell. 

Stiles wouldn’t’ve put his money on denying that. 

Resting his head back against the wall he sat at, he tried to make sense of it. Tried to push through the distraction of overwhelming, all-consuming pain, and focus. The wall was rough. Not as rough as brick, he was more than familiar with that. Just rough enough to make it just as uncomfortable to lean back as it was to keep his head straight. He had to lean back to look up at his hands, though. To see, as well as he could through the darkness, the restraints that held them together. 

It was a miracle he even had the strength to try and bring his power through to his hands. He gave up when the strain had him shifting his stomach and the pain forced a mangled groan from his throat. That groan devolved into a whimper, half a cry, long and drawn out and burning. 

His throat seemed to close up, ready for the tears, as the reality started to set in that, fuck him sideways, he was going to die. He was already dying. He was bleeding out. And there was nothing he could do. 

A door somewhere scraped open, a disgusting, teeth-grinding, skull-shaking sound, drawn out and torturous, and as the light broke in, Stiles knew he was right. It caught on the little crystals of his restraints and the remnants in his blood. He should have been dead already. He knew that. He’d researched that. Countless times. Bullet wounds, proper ones, like the one he was sure his fucking stomach was sporting right now, would have you bleeding out in minutes. If you’re lucky. But he should’ve already been dead, anyway. He should’ve died that night in the woods. He should’ve died that night at the school. He should’ve drowned in that pool. He should’ve been mauled to death, or clawed to death, or shot, or stabbed. He should’ve rotted. He certainly should’ve died when that shard of glass pierced through his chest. That was a long time ago.

He was dizzy. And he was not dead yet.

Where was Peter?

Maybe he was in Hell.

“Well, I must say I have been looking forward to this,” Stiles was not surprised to hear that voice. The false timbre, the old sack of shit shakiness, the accent he couldn’t quite place. “It is about time that I met the man who killed my daughter.”

Stiles turned his gaze to the blurry silhouette of Gerard and felt the disdain settle deep in his chest. His mouth clicked as he spoke, “We’ve met.” His next inhale made his stomach shift and the pain and sudden flush of nausea forced his eyes tightly shut. 

He couldn’t quite see his face when he opened his eyes, but he knew when the old man smiled, “You know, when I heard what you had done, I thought I would just come down here and kill you.” He stepped closer, and Stiles didn’t have it in him to fight the instinct to bring his legs back towards himself. Even if it made his stomach lurch. He breathed in slow and deep through his nose and kept his eyes on Gerard. His stomach and his terrified heartbeat were tied for how likely they were to be causing his dizziness.

A click.

Stiles groaned and squeezed his eyes shut again, burning from the sudden light. He barely bothered to open them again.

“Killing you would be too easy,” Gerard said, as if he were Father fucking Christmas, “Well, I’ll still kill you. But this will be far more exciting.”

“Yeah?” Stiles asked, face wound up in the middle as he finally squinted up at the old man through the burning in his eyes, “You gonna torture me?” The delight on Gerard’s face showed no signs of stopping. Stiles’ head bobbed, not quite a shake or a nod, “‘Cause, even if I didn’t know that my pack will find me before the end of the hour, I’ve gotta tell ya, I will torture you right back. I have been told so many times that listening to me talk is far worse than whatever bullshit you’re planning to do to me, so you can go ahead and get started,” his lips split into a grimace as he powered through the burning in his throat to just keep talking, “I’m ready when you are. I’ve got the entire history of the male circumcision up there in the ol’ noggin just waiting for a chance to get out. You know, they can be traced back as far as ten thousand BC—”

“Am I correct in assuming,” Gerard cut in, too fucking loud, “this belongs to you?”

Stiles huffed as he focussed his gaze again, on the hand sort of waving through the air. 

On the book in his hand.

Stiles said nothing. He pressed his lips as tightly together as he could manage, and he said nothing.

Gerard’s eyes lit up, turning that gaze to the book and reading, “Sit qui loquuntur–”

“No,” Stiles snapped, deep and sudden.

“–verba tua illicite–”

“Stop,” Stiles cried. His wide eyes flinched with each tug at his chains - frantic, unthinking, “No, no. Stop. ”

“–facti sunt inanis,” Gerard stopped, thin white brows quirking up on his face as he turned his eyes to Stiles, “Thine Book of Shadows. I wonder where you got this.”

“Gerard, you don’t—” Stiles was shaking, irritating the wound in his stomach, though it had somehow long stopped bleeding and had left his clothes cold and brown and tacky, “Why the fuck did you read that?”

“Words are not meant to be kept to ourselves,” Gerard said primly, “What good is this knowledge if you’re hoarding it, Mischief? ”

“Don’t,” Stiles whimpered. He shook his head so sharply it span, “You don’t know what you just—”

“You know, I just don’t think this kind of literature has much relevance to our modern society, wouldn’t you agree?” Gerard said, flicking through the pages and letting papers and secrets and his mother fall to the floor like worthless garbage, “It’s just the meaningless rambles of a woman who does not even have the guts to face time. And, unfortunately for both of us, it would seem,” his eyes glittered again, “I cannot use a single word of it. And you most definitely can.” 

Stiles’ hands curled into fists, “What are you talking about? Do you know what you just summo—”

Gerard’s hand, his right, which had vanished briefly into his pocket, emerged holding a lighter. Stiles’ words died on his tongue.

Hell.

He was in Hell. 

“No, don’t,” Stiles mumbled, wide eyes locked on the flame as it flashed to life and hovered right beneath the bottom corner of a page, “Gerard, don’t… Stop.”

The man’s eyes seemed to force Stiles’ to meet them. He brought the flame higher. It caught.

“Don’t… stop?” Gerard tilted his head and brought the flame even closer, dragging it along the base of the book and hovering to make the flames catch even more.

“Stop it,” Stiles cried, “Stop, stop, just– Please, stop—”

“Begging already?” Gerard was a bad actor. His delight was nowhere near masked by that fake disappointment as the pleas kept falling from Stiles’ lips and the flames grew. “I thought it would take a little longer. Hoped I’d at least get my hands on you first.” 

Stiles slammed his quivering lips shut and Gerard dropped the grimoire to the floor. The pain through his arms meant nothing now. Not when it was battling out against the radiating, burning, sickening pain from his abdomen and the tingling in his fingers from the lack of circulation, and the swimming of his head, and the ache of his tailbone and ankles and shoulders and neck, and the horror. His eyes were burning, and his arms really could not keep his wrists up high enough to stop the metal from cutting into them, and he was so. He was so tired. And he had no idea where Peter was.

“Oh, and, before we really begin,” Gerard said as he stepped around the burning pile of curling paper and char and ash, “I hope it will dishearten you to know it has been plenty more than an hour since we took you and left that idiot mut to rot in the snow. And your oh-so-brilliant pack hasn't found you yet.”

Stiles’ ears were ringing. He stared down at the stained reddish-brown concrete floor. 

“So, tell me, Mischief,” Gerard mocked, “How shall we begin?”

 

-

 

Stiles was dead. 

He didn’t know when, exactly, it happened. But it did. Maybe it was that night in the woods. Or that night at the school. Or maybe he drowned in that pool. Or he had gotten mauled to death, or clawed to death, or shot, or stabbed. He had rotted. He probably died when that shard of glass pierced through his chest. Or maybe it was when the Wild Hunt took him. Or the second time that most of those other things happened. Or when he got impaled by Kali. Or when he went back in time to stop the Hale Fire. Or when Kate shot him. Or maybe he killed himself at some point and the memory of his death was traumatic enough to forget. Or maybe he died when he was Void all those years ago, oh, what a thing to remember now. Whatever. Gerard hadn’t summoned the Nogitsune. Because none of this was real. Because Stiles was dead. And he had gone to Hell. It probably was Jennifer that did it. How mortifying. Why else would Peter be the only person he’d seen since? Simple. Because Stiles was dead. 

That made it a little bit easier. The pain didn’t matter as much because it wasn’t real. It would probably never end but it wasn’t real. And it wasn’t Gerard. He’d probably be mad he wasn’t the one to kill the man who killed his daughter.

“She deserved it, you know,” Stiles slurred around the blood in his mouth as Gerard turned down the volts of electricity he hadn’t been able to absorb back into himself, “Katie.”

The man’s eyes were dangerous. They had Stiles’ conscience screaming. Begging him not to look at him. 

“You knew that, though,” he almost laughed through his delirium; it was like playing pretend, “You’re the one who raised the bitch.” 

Electricity burned when it wasn’t his own. Or when he wasn’t able to take it. 

“She couldn’t even do this right,” Stiles’ head would’ve rolled if the voltage wasn’t pinning him still, “That dumb cunt was– good for nothing. The only p–art of her worth anything when she di–ed was the s–ilver in her skull—” The sudden convulsing of his body cut his words off just as the sensation of his body burning from the inside did. His teeth almost shattered from the force that they clashed together with. 

Gerard turned the voltage down to zero two minutes before the inferno in Stiles’ skin calmed down enough for him to see anything again. Then all of him was numb. Not an organic numbness, the fake kind. The kind where his body pretended it couldn’t feel anything. Where his lungs weren’t taking in enough air, but breathing was the only thing he could focus on. Because if he acknowledged the pain. If he felt it. It would kill him again. 

Every second was eternity. He couldn’t even differentiate the different things being done to him. It was just a blur of pain he fought not to feel. Then, when it stopped, it was an eternity of waiting. An eternity of his body foolishly accepting it was over, only for it to start again and for him to shut down once more. 

He was so tired. And so angry. So fucking angry. Carnally. Infernally, Hellishly. 

He was angry at Gerard for doing this. All of it. For the diamond chains, for the bullet, for shooting Peter, too, and leaving him for dead. Even though it wasn’t real. So it didn’t really matter.

He was angry at Kate, posthumously. What, was it his guilt over killing her that created this Hellhole? It wasn’t his fault that she was a monster. It wasn’t his fault.

He was angry at his mother. She didn’t have to be tormented like this when she died, did she? If she did, she never would’ve killed herself. Or maybe that’s why she was so content to torture him before she went. It was retribution for something Stiles had never done to her. Something that hadn’t happened yet. Now she was alive. And he was dead. And she brought Peter back to life. Or, no. Maybe. Maybe she didn’t. No, Peter was still dead, wasn’t he. Whatever she’d done, she’d brought the Alphas to Beacon Hills, that much had to be true. She’d surely brought Jennifer, too. She’d killed him. Bitch. Both of them, actually. Jennifer and Claudia. 

He couldn’t feel his arms anymore. He couldn’t feel much of anything. He was pretty sure his whole body was shaking, though. 

Could Gerard tell he’d started to get impatient? What was it that made him start again? Stiles wasn’t lucid enough to find a pattern to it all. Not until Gerard woke him right up.

Stiles knew what drowning felt like. He’d been held underwater as his lungs burned and burned and his body fought to breach the surface until he lost consciousness. 

The ice bath was not in salt water. 

So, when he was suddenly swallowed up by an assaulting wave, sending water into his lungs and salt into his eyes and mouth and nose and– fuck. He coughed and gagged and, as soon as he could breathe, he screamed. The water was freezing, and soaking down his clothes and it must have reached his abdomen because the sudden burn was inconceivable. He was screaming, almost roaring, wet and terrified and snot-covered and raw. His eyes were squeezed shut so tightly everything was red and white and swimming dots and incessant burning. He was begging. Or, he wanted to be. He wasn’t sure if any of the noises he was making were actual words. 

“Oh, no,” Gerard drawled. He sounded like he was still underwater. 

Stiles spat, and forced his burning eyes open to glare at the mixture of salt water and blood that came out. 

“Your little scratch doesn’t look too good,” the man - the Devil - walked across the room so loudly, and Stiles forced his head upwards to look at him, still groaning through gritted teeth in some useless plea to force the pain out through his voice. The Devil held a roll of gauze in his hand. Stiles’ breathing was shaky. Frantic. 

With every step he took, the hate in Stiles’ chest burned louder than the pain. 

“Let’s get that looked at, yes?” The Devil grinned. 

Then he was right in front of him, kneeling down as well as he could with his aged knees, close enough for Stiles to lean over and slam his skull into the other man’s. Or to bite at him. Like some sort of cornered, caged, rabid dog. 

It wasn’t Stiles’ fault that his vision was so blurred he hadn’t noticed the Devil had anything else in his hands. It was only when he heard the glug, glug, glug of the liquid that he found it in him to force his gaze down to the bottle. Brown. Water was still dripping down his face, slipping into his eyes with every blink, and spreading salt everywhere salt didn’t need to be. Then the Devil started to unravel the soaked gauze and reached his wrinkled fingers out to lift Stiles’ shirt. 

He cried out again. The soaked fabric pulled at his wound, caught and irritated the skin, was just too adhered to move enough not to, and the salt water that had soaked it was not fucking helping.

“Get… Get away… from…” Stiles tried. 

The Devil laughed heartily, and grabbed at Stiles’ jaw with a wet, pruned hand, “Are you talking to me, boy?”

“‘M gonna f–ucking kill you,” Stiles snarled.

The Devil’s smile lit up, “Well, Stiles. Don’t threaten me with a good time.”

When the gauze met his wound, his entire body seized up. He tried to ignore it again. To force that numbness and ignore it. It didn’t work. Because the Devil was pressing that stinging, burning fabric as hard against his abdomen as he could as he wrapped it around his midsection, making the entrance wound at the back burn just as much even without the salt water. 

Stiles had never been so angry in his life, “She–… took after you, you know that?”

Something in the Devil’s brows shifted.

Stiles nodded, “She was almost as– pathetic as her daddy—” The words devolved into heaves as the Devil dug his fingers into that freshly covered wound, encased in what he thought had to be alcohol. Nothing came up. It was all wrong. 

A hand slammed his head back into the wall and sent his vision spinning - what vision he even had, at least. 

But it was okay. He was already dead. 

 

-

 

Erica was a wild one. Free-spirited. She was fiery, that’s what she was. Stiles thought sometimes about what would’ve happened if he’d noticed her when they were kids, when she liked him. They might have been too powerful if they’d gotten together. That much violence and hotness and DC probably would’ve made the world implode. He always came to the same conclusion that the way he loved her now was better than whatever that could’ve been. 

He wondered, now, how she would find him.

A blade cutting through skin. Stinging. Dull.

Someone must have heard Peter’s roar. Even if none of them considered him pack, Erica was turned by him. The Hales were his blood. If Stiles had actually lived that long and it had been the bullet that killed him. That made him want to laugh. Surviving everything he did, only to be killed by a gun. He could still feel the sudden pulse through his stomach and the warmth of his blood against the snow. 

Shifting and making the alcohol-soaked bandages rub against his salted wound. 

Either way, someone would’ve noticed he was gone. Scott, probably. He was just on the right side of impatience. He’d realise Stiles had been gone for too long and he’d probably do something stupid, like try to look for him himself. Then he’d remember how cold it was - what time had it been? It must’ve been almost 2 AM by the time Stiles caught up to Jennifer. But maybe Scott would put up with the 2 AM early January air to find Stiles. Because Scott was an idiot. An idiot with a heart too big for his chest. 

Burning. Burning. Searing. 

Whether Scott found him or not, he’d call someone. Who would he call first? It should be Derek. It should always be Derek. It would probably be Allison. He’d ask her what the hell he was supposed to do and she’d panic for a brief moment before she got herself together. She’d tell her dad. Chris, being a responsible adult with half a brain, would call Derek. Derek would… 

Prickling. What is that?

Stiles was dead. But if Stiles had really been taken, Derek would not be mourning now. He would be searching for him. He would find Peter, dead or alive, surely. There would be no drama - or, there would be plenty of drama, Derek was a drama queen and if Peter wasn’t dead, he was at least five times as bad - and Derek would find him. He’d follow the scent of his blood through the snow. He’d have Stiles’ dad put out an amber alert or some shit. An APB. A BOLO. Anything. He’d find him. He’d save him. Derek always saved him. If he found him dead, he would be so disappointed that his oh-so-perfect vision of his future would never come true. He didn’t deserve to have that taken away from him. 

Spit dripping from his mouth. It won’t close.

One-hundred. 

Ninety-nine. 

Ninety-eight. 

Ninety-seven.

It had been too long.

 

-

 

When Stiles was fifteen, Erica and Boyd were kidnapped by Gerard. He had them tied up by their hands with wires and pumped full of electric currents so they couldn’t heal. He’d begrudgingly saved them. They wouldn’t have done the same for him - not those versions of them. 

Erica was terrifying when he was a kid. Even if she’d never knocked him unconscious and dumped him in the garbage and left him for dead. She was terrifying. She was a confident, hot, independent she-wolf and Stiles was still just 147 pounds of pure, concentrated anxiety and a buzzcut. He was a walking death wish, and she was the one who died. For the sin of wanting to live. She’d died alone. It was Allison who found her, wasn’t it? That wasn’t fair. None of it was fair. Back then, Erica was far from a sweetheart - she was a girl. A girl who deserved to grow past the age of sixteen. To grow past girlhood. So was Allison. And, still, it was Stiles’ teenage idiocy that winded up getting them killed. The bite of Erica’s snark and the sting of Allison’s old, undying habits didn’t deserve to die. 

Boyd had always made it perfectly clear how much he did not like Stiles. Which was, well, fair. It wasn’t like Stiles had ever advertised himself as liking him. He only did if it meant he got something from him. Stiles was a pack animal. He stuck with the ones he had - and that meant he stuck with Scott. New people didn’t compute with him back then. Why would they? He hadn’t branched out to new people since kindergarten. Or, at a stretch, Little League. Even that was seriously a reach. He still hated most people who weren’t Scott, or. Theo. 

Boyd was never quiet. He was uncomfortable. Stiles had learned that over a long time. He’d always seen him as some stoic, wise, mysterious being who never spoke because it was above him. Turned out he was perfectly happy to speak as much as anyone else when he knew the people he was speaking to cared. Stiles had kicked himself for not getting that. But Stiles’ observant nature was a bit of a toss-up. Depending on the day, he could either be figuring out the many layers of trauma to someone without them saying a word about it, or not even getting that that same someone wanted him to shut the fuck up and leave them alone when they were practically screaming it in his face. It seemed, somehow, even more unfair that Boyd survived the Alphas when Erica didn’t, and they still managed to kill him. They were all just kids. Their parents lost their children and Stiles had been there thinking about how horrible it was that he had to see Boyd’s body or watch Derek lose himself after he lost Erica. That Derek. 

That Derek had lost so much. He was a tragedy. If life was unfair to any of them back there, it was him. First Paige, and then his family, and then more and more and more and somehow he stayed standing. Even death had not defeated him. Stiles had hated him, when he was that fragile, terrified, stupid kid. The hate didn’t last very long. Once he figured out how the Hale House Fire had happened, he couldn’t hate him even if he tried. That Derek could slam him into as many walls or steering wheels as he wanted, it would never change the fact that Stiles knew his toughness was just a cover for how fragile, and terrified, and stupid he really thought he was. 

Gerard had beaten him in their basement back then. He’d gotten home and been Who Did This To You’d by both his dad and Lydia and he’d had nightmares for a week straight. After that, it was only every few nights. He couldn’t laugh without it hurting for only a few days. It felt like that graze across his cheek had scarred. It couldn’t have. It might as well. 

Time had been so unfair. Now Stiles had wasted it. 

 

-

 

It was actually Laura who realised first. Not Erica, or Scott, or Derek. He hadn’t even considered Jackson.

Beacon Hills was to Laura what a child is to a mother. As if she carried the earth in her womb and let their cells transfer back and forth until they reached equilibrium and split from each other. The land held a part of her soul and she held a part of the land’s. And, so, when the earth screamed out for something, she heard it. Granted, she was tending to more of a tangible scream at the time. Well, Lydia hadn’t screamed, but Banshees, screaming– you get the point. Disposing of bodies was getting old fast. 

It came to her like an ache. One she couldn’t ignore, like an annoying younger sibling nagging and nagging and—

“Something’s happened to Stiles,” she snapped as she slid in through Lydia’s open bedroom window, because the last time she ignored that feeling, the betas all got kidnapped and Stiles shot Kate in the skull. Now that entrance almost made Lydia scream. If she had, Laura probably would’ve panicked and torn her perfectly frilly curtains or dug her claws into her pink wallpaper. That would’ve just earned her a Lydia Martin shakedown and, God, did she not have the guts for that. Or the time. 

“You felt it, too?” Derek asked tensely through his brows, and Laura’s heart started to ache for him instead. She nodded her head.

Lydia’s wide, pretty eyes - Laura would wonder whether she used anything on her lashes if she wasn’t about to burst out of her own skin - were darting between them in that frantic yet focused discernment she always had about herself, “What’s happened to Stiles? We… It hasn’t been that long since we saw him.”

“Yeah, a guy like that doesn’t need a lot of time to make everything go to shit,” Laura said matter–of-factly and cast her brother a sympathetic look through the orange-pink light, “No offence.”

“You have no idea how right you are,” Derek grumbled back, “Especially now.”

“Excuse me?” Lydia snapped, “What has happened to him?”

“If you don’t feel it, that’s a good sign, don’t you think?” Derek quirked his head, “Let’s keep the optimism going.”

“You are spending too much time with Stiles, man,” Laura murmured.

Derek gave her a look, “He’s spending too much time with me. And we are spending exactly the right amount of time with each other. And don’t act like you remember what I was like before I knew him.”

Laura’s eye twitched. 

Her brother shook his head, “I’m not having either of those conversations again. We are going to find Stiles.”

“Something else is wrong, too,” Laura sighed. Derek gave her that eyebrow furrow that always triggered some bone-deep recognition in her that did little but confuse her senses, which she’d learnt meant something along the lines of ‘do you want to tell me now, or when we’re alone?’. She just flickered her eyes toward the window. Derek nodded in response. 

They left Lydia to her warm lighting and comfy, clean sheets awfully quick, which was good because Stiles was in danger and he was Laura’s Alpha too, damn it, and it was fucking with her wolf. Not to mention the bringing her back to life thing. That had the dweeb stuck to her in ways he would (hopefully) never even know about, let alone understand. 

There wasn’t much Laura could do for Derek as they ran. They still had to howl for Cora and Erica and Jackson, and she had to feel and smell and hear the fear of Derek, smothering her. Beyond forcing her chemosignals to send out messages of calm and determinedness, rather than Earth-shattering terror and stress, and controlling her heart rate, there wasn’t much she could do to try to calm him. She couldn’t fix it until they found out what was actually wrong. 

She had a few things to say about Derek and Stiles. Because, whether she remembered Derek as her brother or not, she could still feel their wolves and how deeply they knew one another. She didn’t need memory. Derek had heard most of it, of course. Not all of it. Heavens, no. If he heard all of it, he’d do something idiotic. So, she only told him the parts she thought he already knew. He should have a life for himself. He should have time to himself. He should feel safe. Of course, he just asserted that he had all of those things, and she kept the rest of it to herself. Because he would say the rest of it was fine, too. She did not tell him that if Stiles was enough of an adult to live with, then he was enough of an adult to deal with his own problems. She did not tell him that it was not his job to save him from the endless barrage of problems he created for himself with no regard for the people he swore he loved more than himself. She did not tell him that Stiles reminded her of Kate and, yet, somehow, of herself. She did not tell him that Stiles terrified her. She did not tell him that, for years, she remembered only him coming from the future, and she remembered hating him for every second of it. She did not tell him that she could feel the Earth protesting everything about the both of them just as much as it magnetised them together. Derek’s phone started to ring in his pocket just as the other betas started to show face, right at the edge of downtown Beacon Hills. It was pressed against his ear without so much as a glance toward the screen.

“Where is he?” 

The others froze, just as silent as they had been the moment they arrived as they listened in. 

“I don’t know, I– He’s just been gone a bit too long and I’m kind of freaking out,” Scott gushed on the other side of the phone, “… You’re talking about Stiles, right?”

“Yes,” Derek snarled, “Where are you?”

“I, uh,” Scott stammered, “Jennifer was on Marsh, so he parked, like, a block away—”

“That’s close to here,” Laura said, “We can be there in five.”

“Great,” Derek snapped, and he hung up the phone.

“Don’t tell Scott about that then,” the woman murmured to herself, “I’m sure he wouldn’t wanna hear about it.”

“Jackson, you go find Scott, make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid,” Derek barked, “Cora, go with Jackson and make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”

Jackson scoffed, “What do you take me for?”

Derek just gave him the single most patronising look Laura had ever seen, and Cora was whisking the young wolf away before the offence could worm its way out of Jackson’s loud-ass mouth. As Derek continued to bark out orders, a gentle smile started to creep up onto Laura’s mouth.

“You’d think you’re the one who used to be the Alpha,” she snorted. 

Derek gave her an odd sort of look, “I am. Keep up.” And he was speeding away like nothing was new. 

For as much time as they had spent together, there was so much Derek had never told her or Cora about even half of what he’d lived. He talked about his childhood endlessly, about the things they should’ve both been there for. He talked about Peter. Neither she nor Cora could ever bring themselves to disregard that. Because when he was talking about their Uncle Peter, the man who used to snuggle them to sleep as kids and take them to the park and never understood their games, all they could do was remember him, too. Not the Peter that Kate had turned him into. Not the Peter that Stiles had killed. 

He never talked about how he met Stiles - no more than ‘He was trespassing. He smelled like smoke. And grief. Like me. He knew me.’ - or how they got together, or absolutely anything else that happened to him between the ages of seventeen and twenty-four. He didn’t talk, pretty much, at all. He got all monosyllabic a lot of the time, especially when Laura brought up Stiles. Which, you know. Red flag. But whatever. The closest they’d gotten to finding out anything about what had happened to him was Claudia scolding Stiles for burning the Hale House down with Peter inside, and healing a bullet wound for Derek and making it scar over. Neither story was particularly endearing to Laura. And Claudia was now freaking the land out. So, there were pretty negative feelings all around. 

The streets were empty. It was past 2 AM on a weekday in January - they hadn’t seen so much as a moving car the entire way to that street. The snow muffled the noise, if there was any besides their own footsteps and huffing breaths. When they found the cruiser Scott was waiting inside, even Laura was starting to shiver in the cold, with her breath coming out in puffs of steam like dragons’ breath. She and Derek exchanged a tense stare over the teenager as he poked his head out of the car.

“Erica, you stay with Scott,” Laura said when Derek didn’t, “Wait until we howl for you. ‘Kay?”

“What?” Erica hissed, “I need to help you find him.”

“You will,” Laura nodded to her, “But Scott can’t. So you both need to stay put.”

“No way!” Scott cried, “I’m coming with you.”

Derek seemed to snap back to life, turning a dark stare to the kid and shrugging his shoulders, “I don’t care. I’m not paying for your therapy bills. Come or don’t but make your damn mind up because I am going now.”

Snow muffled the noises, but it did not muffle the scents. Death reeked particularly strongly. It was coming from barely three blocks away. Imperceptible to Scott’s human nose, but to them it was nauseating. 

And it was not Stiles. Not all of it, at least. 

Unease was the only word Laura could really find for the feeling that settled at the base of her ribs when they saw it. When she figured out it wasn’t Stiles’ scars she was scenting. Then Erica’s terror was swallowing Derek’s tenfold. 

“Are you fucking kidding me?” Laura snapped. 

When Peter’s left eye blinked open, it creased with the bitter quirk of his cheek. Only a few metres away, the snow was melted and deep red. His hand was pressed firmly against his abdomen.

“What are the odds any of you have taken up smoking since I last saw you?” He asked, strained and gritty.

Laura’s heart leapt to her throat. By some miracle, the growl that tore from Derek’s was quiet enough as to not wake the fucking town before he flew forward.

“What the fuck did you do to him?” Derek snarled, down on his knees in the slush Peter was surrounded by before Laura could even understand what was going on. His back was tense and rounded beneath his jacket, and his words formed around growls, “Peter, tell me where Stiles is right now or, I swear to God, I will tear your throat open. It won’t be the first time, do not fuck with me—”

“Yes, yes, Derek, I remember you doing that more times than you do,” Peter grumbled back, “I did not do anything to Stiles. Do you have a lighter?”

Derek’s back loosened minutely, and the hatred of him started to dampen, “What?”

“The wolfsbane,” Peter growled back, “I’d rather we get that burned out sooner than later, don’t you agree? I didn’t get brought back here just to die again before I’ve made it right.”

Derek took in a deep breath, pulled back, and there was a faint shuffling of fabric before relief began to flood out of their uncle and, soon, there was a gentle fire. Erica’s hand was tugging at Laura’s sleeve and she was reaching over to cover the girl’s fingers with her own.

The teenager swallowed thickly, “That’s Stiles’ blood.”

“I know,” Laura said back, as gently as she could, “I know.”

Peter’s half-muffled cry of pain thudded out through the air like a bullet. All things considered, this was not the most shocking thing to happen to her. Peter was not the first person in that town to come back from the dead. This was so unoriginal. 

But he remembered Derek.

That was new. 

“Peter, what happened?” Laura asked gravely, roughly. 

When Derek pulled back far enough in the death of Peter’s growls for the man’s face to finally be visible, his bared teeth clashed as his whole face contorted in distaste and he answered, “The Argents.”

 

-

 

Derek was not okay. And he still wasn’t talking about it. Laura was slowly starting to go insane.

“Gerard kidnapped Stiles, and I am going to tear him to shreds,” Peter had said, somehow perfectly balanced between pure, animalistic rage and utter nonchalance. And Derek had lost it. 

He spent six hours running around chasing phantom scents before Laura and Cora tracked him down and dragged him home. Well, they’d dragged him to their home, which, in hindsight, was probably not the brightest idea. The second he saw the porch of the Hale House, his eyes flared up bright blue and his teeth dropped. His chemosignals were far too convoluted for Laura to decipher, running on zero sleep and pure worry for her sort-of-brother. 

She and Cora had spent the last four months rebuilding. It wasn’t their fault that Derek had always refused to see or help. If he had, maybe it would’t’ve been such a terrible sight now. Still, somehow he knew exactly which room they were making up as his, and he was just as fast to roar and stumble back out of it as he was to find it in the first place. 

The man was a mess. 

“We’re gonna find him,” Laura said softly into the kitchen that night. Derek didn’t look up from his interlocked hands. She leant against the doorframe, “Chris Argent and his daughter are looking into it. They’re gonna find him—”

“You trust Chris Argent to find Stiles when I couldn’t?” 

Laura took in a deep breath, “He seemed to have a pretty motivating interaction with Peter, so, I don’t know. Better than nothing.”

“I wouldn’t be doing nothing if you let me do what I want,” Derek snarled, “I should be out there looking for him.”

“You should be in therapy,” Laura shrugged, “And, no. You’re a mess. You’ll end up doing something stupid.” Derek’s eyes lifted from his hands - sharp and darker than she’d seen. “If you couldn’t find him right after he got taken, you’re not going to now.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t care, Laura,” Derek boomed, “I need him. Okay? And I need him to be okay.” He breathed like a rabid, seething dog, “Because he’s already too close to losing his damn mind and I know I won’t be able to handle that and that terrifies me.”

It was the most he’d ever said about him.

“It terrifies you,” Laura said slowly, “that you won’t be able to handle him losing his mind?”

“Yes!! ” Derek cried, “He’s supposed to be the one who stays, I can’t just lose him like this!”

It took her a moment to catch up, “Derek. You…” She huffed, “What will you do if he doesn’t make it out?”

“He always makes it out, the problem is him losing himself when he does.”

“No,” Laura shook her head, “If we find him and he’s… If he dies, what will you do?”

Derek gave her a weird look, “He doesn’t die.”

Her brows rose, “Doesn’t?”

“Yeah,” Derek shook his head, “Stiles doesn’t die.”

“Okay, but he’s not immortal,” Laura said gently, “I– Okay, my point was meant to be that you should think about how dangerous your mindset about this relationship is but, now, I’m… You do realise he can die, right?”

The man seemed to almost roll his eyes, “Not yet, he can’t. Just trust me. This is going to do far worse shit to him than kill him. And that is exactly why I need him home safe right fucking now.”

“Why do you think he can’t die?” Laura’s heart hurt, “Derek, he’s not… he’s not God.”

“He might as well be.”

Laura’s chest might as well have torn itself open.

“We’ve seen his future,” Derek said matter-of-factly, “And I’m still trying to wrap my head around how he’s going to become that version of himself. The version that I’m married to.” He let out a harsh breath, “The whiskey.”

She was so confused. 

“He always smelled like whiskey,” he said, more dazed than before, like she wasn’t even listening anymore. 

“Okay,” she said gently, “How about we get you to bed, hm?”

“I’m not a kid,” Derek growled.

“No, but you are going through something incredibly difficult and I need to know that you are safe and unconscious,” Laura nodded, “If you don’t go to bed, I will knock you out and I don’t think either of us want that.”

Very slowly, the man raised a brow, and she raised one right back. A pang of sadness flashed outward, all confusing and upsetting, and he rose to his full height. He nodded, only barely, and he was gone before she could get another word in. Still, those walls were only as thick as she had built them to be, and their ears could hear far further.

“You know he’s not the only one who’ll stay, right?” She said to the stairs behind her, “I’m not going anywhere, Derek. None of us are. You’ve still got me.”

Derek’s heart only barely slowed beyond the ceiling. He said nothing back. It had been over twenty-four hours, and Laura really needed to find that idiot kid.

 

-

 

Derek was gone by the end of the hour. Laura didn’t see him for the entire two days that followed. She saw more of Victoria Argent. The betas refused to sleep. Scott refused to eat; the endless stream of ‘it’s all my fault’s got old fast. The Sheriff was the worst of all of them. Laura would catch the scent of whiskey on his breath and pretend it didn’t make her heart ache. Peter’s eyes bared dark circles and lingered on Chris and it was all far too much. 

Stiles was dying.

And, after three whole days of searching and mapping and sleepless nights and wanting to plunge her claws into someone, Derek was howling like he was dying, too.

And Stiles was found.

 

-

 

When the other ghosts came to save him, he wasn’t chained up anymore. 

Hands were wrapping fabric around his shoulders, covering his bare chest as it slowly rose and fell and rose and fell. Those hands were frantic and shaking. Stiles’ eyes felt sluggish as they blinked out across the faces before him. The ghosts. Peter, and Erica, and a frightfully pale Allison. Stiles’ vision was blurred. 

His mouth was dry, and his throat was worse, making the words he tried to form shrivel up and give way to fervent coughs for a brief moment before he wiped at his lips and shook his head, staring up at the man before him, “You died, too?”

Derek’s brows drew together. His stubble had grown thick. Beneath his eyes rested dark, dark circles, sunken in. Stiles had never seen that look on his face before. Had he? Maybe he had. 

“La Iglesia,” Stiles said as it came to him, nodding to himself, “Right. Wait– That means you’re that Derek… Oh.” 

Suddenly his fingers were twitching, itching to reach out and touch. His chest was tight and his stomach was turning. His arms ached. All of him ached. And by the furrow of Derek’s brow and the scrunch of his nose, those black veins of his were from some attempt to take his pain. It wasn’t working. 

“Stiles,” Derek tried, “You’re okay.”

“I guess,” Stiles nodded, “I’m not being tortured by the Devil right now. That’s cool.”

Somehow the furrow in Derek’s brow got deeper. He said something, something Stiles wasn’t paying attention to, and tried to coax him forward, but there was some sort of a pull tearing his eyes away. Turning his head to the floor, to the left, and feeling something fundamentally shift within him. Maybe that was just the need to puke with nothing to throw up.

Gerard’s hazel eyes stared, not at him, not at anything, with no lids to cover them. No skin to cover his muscles and cartilage. A blurred mess of red. Red. Red. Wrong. 

“What…” Stiles heard himself try to speak. 

“Stiles, as delightful as it is that you’ve rid the world of the most obnoxious old man I’ve ever met,” Peter stressed, “We should really go.”

Stiles couldn’t tear his eyes away from the corpse - it didn’t look real, “Go where?”

“Home,” Erica said. 

Something like a laugh wormed its way out of him, “Right. What, I got through enough hundreds of years of purgatory and now I get to see the pearly gates? ”

He could hear Peter’s face, “What the shit are you talking about?”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was enough to force his eyes away from Gerard, still dazed and still hurting fucking everywhere. The wolf was staring at him so intensely that it made him feel sick again. So, so sick. Derek tilted his head downward, “Stiles. You are not dead.”

Stiles almost laughed again, “Yeah, and you didn’t die in Mexico.”

The shake of Derek’s head seemed so helpless, “What did he do to you?”

“Stiles,” Peter snapped, “Get it together. This is already miserable, I don’t need you losing your mind and mixing shit up now.”

“I haven’t lost anything,” Stiles said mildly, “I’m… I’m fine.”

It all hurt so bad that it didn’t hurt at all.

“If I go home,” he said, “Can I sleep?”

The pity in Derek’s eyes was so terrifying. Like watching the ocean at night. No knowing what hides beneath the surface. Sure that if you stepped in, you’d drown. It would take you in and keep you. That was too selfish of a metaphor. It didn’t suit him. But whether his eyes were an ocean or just eyes, he nodded intently and told Stiles yes. It didn’t quite matter, after, whether he was dead or not. 

Then he was about to cry, for some reason, shaking as he nodded and spoke - his voice so small he could not recognise it, “Okay. Take me home. Please take me home.”

Notes:

actually very proud of this one. the narrative structure of it makes me happy. like yesss move further away from the present yessss show his dissociation to such an extreme degree the p.o.v changes entirely yesssss

Chapter 10: Rigor Mortis

Summary:

Recovery is not linear.

Notes:

I am that I am, and I am nothing.

A firefly landed on his window one night and rested. 

It was a stormy night. Of course, it was. Every night had been stormy since he came home. Derek kept telling him that he wasn’t dead. After about four restless, nightmare-filled nights, he started to wish he was. He was downing a handle of whiskey when Derek started asking questions again. 

“You’re drinking?” He asked. It cut through the otherwise perfectly soothing sounds of rainfall and the dishwasher. Neither of them made him think of salt water hitting concrete or chains rattling. He poured out another full glass. 

“Plan is,” Stiles said into the cup, “I get drunk enough to pass out. No nightmares.”

He would be lying if he said that he didn’t see Derek’s hand coming. He’d heard the moment Derek fucking decided he’d come downstairs to check on him; each and every move from that point onward was practically an assault on his senses. Everything was. The rain was too fucking loud. The whiskey burned too fucking much. It tasted like shit and the aftertaste was worse. His arms ached too fucking badly. His right foot was still out of commission from having something burned into the base of it and every inch of him hurt and it was fucking maddening. 

Stiles had not started to accept he was alive until they left that place and he saw his dad. Not because he didn’t believe that his dad could be one of the dead ones - he remembered what the Belasko did to him in the first timeline - but maybe the need for his dad trumped the overwhelming sense of unreality when it made him collapse into his arms. The adrenaline started to wear off. That was what made him feel alive again. Only because it made him feel how close to death he still was. 

The rough hand pushing his back down towards the counter made his skin start to tingle. It was his Derek. And that should have helped. Instead, when his Derek’s hand came up and reached for his cheek, he flinched back, bit his cheek hard enough to distract from the fear, and yanked his hand back, too. 

Derek’s hand hovered in the air for a moment before it left, and Stiles almost breathed properly until the wolf asked, “What did he do to you?”

He’d asked that question before. Stiles had answered the same way. Honestly, and almost laughing at himself.

“I don’t remember.”

He swallowed down the bitter, smoky aftertaste of his father’s whiskey - a little like the burn of electricity - and added on, this time.

“I think my body does.”

He did not elaborate. But what he meant was that it felt like his bones could remember aches he could not feel. His skin could remember hands and blades he could not see. His mouth could remember words he could not hear. It’d been like that since he got home and understood that the torture had really happened; that Gerard wasn’t the Devil, he was just a monster. A real one.

Yet, in his dreams, he was there again. Tortured endlessly by that creature until his screams woke him up, or Derek beat them to it. In his dreams, he was tortured and he was doing the torturing. His mother was screaming and hitting and dying; he couldn’t tell the memories from the fabrications and he was sick and tired of trying. 

So, he took another swig of whiskey and slammed his glass down onto the counter, so loud it echoed. 

Derek sighed, “Talk to me. Stiles.”

“And say what?” Stiles growled around the burn, “Huh? What do you want me to talk about?”

“Anything,” Derek shook his head, “Nothing. Movies, TV shows, comics, music, our friends. Anything.”

“Well, I’d love to chat but, unfortunately,” the spark said carefully, “I can’t think about anything without it leading back to being tortured for three days straight. Thanks for your help, by the way. You were real swift with the rescue, there, big guy.”

Derek’s face flickered out of view as he turned to leave, but the pain on it stuck.

He slept on his floor that night. Only because he’d tried to fall asleep upright, with his legs folded, as uncomfortable as possible, and his ass digging into the carpet. Cold. The worse he felt, the less deep his sleep would be, right? No dreams.

Buzzing. White noise. 

No dreams. 

 

-

 

The kids didn’t understand. It was all too novel to them. Because they were lucky enough to not yet know kidnappings and torture and irreversible damage as just another Tuesday. And it was nauseating every time they reminded Stiles just how much they believed they could make it better. All it did was remind him of the innocence he waited with bated breath to destroy. 

Lydia tried to bake him things. And to make him bake things. Rather forcibly, at that. She didn’t make any more jokes about him needing therapy. Which was probably for the best, because he didn’t know exactly how violently he would react to that, but it wouldn’t be pretty. As sweet as it was - literally - he had no appetite for it. And there’s only so many apple pies and brownies and blondies and cookies and French pastries he could have thrust at him before he had to just walk away. 

The betas loved their movie nights. Stiles humoured them. It was just another way to stay awake. To stay distracted. And Derek liked it when they got to act normal for a while. When Stiles wasn’t flinching away from the slightest touch or waking up screaming. Still, it was a little fucking irritating that everyone treated him as if he was made of glass. He didn’t need to be coddled. Ger… He was dead. And Stiles was not. It was fine. 

If anybody needed to be coddled, it was Scott. God, Scott was a mess. It was… upsetting.

Not too long after it ended, Scott started saying it; “It was my fault.”

Every time, it made Stiles just as angry. But there was nothing he could do to make the kicked puppy look on Scott’s face go away. No amount of rationalisation did anything for him. Stiles explained, over and over, that the person really at fault was dead. If anyone was to blame, it was Jennifer, for not leaving that shithole town when Stiles fucking told her to. And she was also dead. Sorry, Scott. I know you said not to kill her. Maybe if I hadn’t, I wouldn’t’ve gotten—

Scott was the only one of the kids who got how serious it was, and he was the worst possible person to get it. Because Scott was emotional. Which was good, when it was happening away from Stiles. He had enough emotions of his own. He didn’t need Scott’s flying at him twenty-four-seven, too. 

But, really, it was ridiculous that Scott McCall would ever think something that happened to Stiles was his fault. It was always Stiles’. He had to remember that. None of it would’ve happened ever, at all, period, if Stiles hadn’t created this timeline. If he hadn’t taken Scott into the woods. Really, if he hadn’t been born in the first place. 

It was his fault. 

He did it to himself.

 

-

 

Stiles was walking back from the bathroom to the bedroom one night when he heard his father’s voice down the hall. When it faded out, it gave way to the slow breathing of Derek in his bedroom, the creaking of floorboards in Isaac’s wake downstairs, and the dripping of his bathroom sink. Then his dad was talking again.

“Just…” he sighed, “I need you back here. I’m all… I can’t do all of this alone, alright? Stiles… Stiles was kidnapped, he– He’s not…”

He broke off into a hiccuping gasp. Stiles’ feet felt like bricks as he stepped closer to the door. 

“Claudia please,” Noah almost whispered, “I can’t lose him again. I can’t lose… I can’t lose you again.”

A floorboard creaked beneath the carpet. Stiles froze. 

Noah sniffled, “I gotta go. Call me when you get this. Please, Claudia.”

Stiles scuttled back to his room as fast as he could, flinching with each press against his right sole. 

His new scars were worse than the old ones. They hadn’t healed right. His wrists still ached if he moved them the wrong way. His bullet wound hurt like a bitch even when he was perfectly still and it made his body remember the feeling of being impaled and plagued his dreams with disembowelment and scattered guts. Not a pretty thing. 

His new scars kept him awake at night. His new scars carried into his dreams. His new scars woke him up. 

“How many scars do you actually have?” Erica asked one day, her face too close to his and her breath smelling too much like garlic. 

Stiles just shrugged his shoulders and tried to ignore his headache, “I dunno.”

“How?” Erica narrowed her eyes, snuggling in closer, “They’re your scars.”

He squinted his eyes and looked down at his arms - at the tiny pinpricks left over from another version of her. Derek shifted at his left. Scott looked up from his spot on the floor in front of him. 

“Huh,” Stiles pouted, “I mean,” he tapped his shoulder, “Peter,” he tapped his cheek, “Peter,” he tapped his left forearm, “Peter,” he tapped his nose, “Jackson,” he tapped his shoulder again, “Donovan,” he tapped his chest, “glass table,” he ghosted over his stomach, “Kali,” then a little to the left, “… gun,” then his other shoulder, “Kate,” then his wrists, “Erica,” then the back of his right ankle, “… knife. That’s ten.”

“And the one on your back,” Derek murmured lightly, “knife.”

“What?” Stiles turned to him, “When? How?”

“Uh, when you saved me at that warehouse,” Derek said, “That hunter slashed you on your back.”

“She did??” Stiles’ brows fell, “I thought she missed.”

Derek’s lips quirked up into a small smile. 

“Why can’t I still be that good at healing?” Stiles mumbled. His hand brushed against that bullet wound on his abdomen and stopped there. His eyes drooped a little, and he scrunched his nose up as he forced them back open, “What are we even watching? This is so boring.”

“Star Wars is boring?” Scott looked like he’d just been told Stiles had slept with his mom, “All of this just for Star Wars to be boring now? Who even are you?”

 

-

 

His dreams were leaking into reality. Was it because he was trying so hard to stop them? Was it the alcohol? Was it the taste he couldn’t get out of his mouth muddling nightmares with now?  

Scott would break down from guilt and Stiles wouldn’t be able to get the flare out of his hands in time but, when the desperation for it to be a dream got strong enough, he’d look down and count his fingers and then he’d be back in bed. Or the floor. Or the couch. Or the kitchen table. Or behind the wheel. And Derek would be there again. Like a shadow, following and following. So concerned it made Stiles want to choke him out. 

But then his dreams were playing games with him. 

“Stiles,” Derek was saying then, not really him, “Stiles, you need to get up. They took them.”

“Who?” Stiles was gasping out, sitting up fast on his bed and grabbing at the sheets, “What?”

“The Alphas,” Dream Derek growled, “They took them again. Stiles, they took Erica. ”

And Stiles looked down at his fingers and his hands were right. He had five fingers on each, all recognisable and correct, and, no. Every inch of him was pleading in that moment, clawing at a change. Glaring at the empty space beside his right pinky until–

He blinked. 

Six fingers.

Relief.

“Stiles,” Derek barked. The spark’s eyes snapped open with a deep breath. It was not a new way for him to wake up. “Stiles, you need to get up. They took them.”

He stopped. His hands froze where they were, one braced against his pillow and the other propping him up. Fear crept in on him. It made him burn.

“What did you just say?” He whispered, glaring up past his brows. 

“The Alphas,” Derek snapped, “They took them again.” And when his Alpha said nothing back, Derek growled, “Stiles. They took Erica.”

He looked down at his hands and he stared. And stared. And stared. He stared for a long time. Derek’s voice kept going and going somewhere far away but it was consistent enough for the reality to eventually - eventually - set in. 

Reality was a joke. And it wasn’t even funny. 

 

-

 

Beacon Hills First National Bank looked exactly the same. Stiles wondered if his dreams would turn that place into something else. Like when he dreamed about the high school and, when he woke up, he realised he’d actually been inside the Hale House, instead. That just made him have to run to the bathroom to puke, those days. Which was more embarrassing than troubling, actually. 

Peter’s face was so real it felt like overcompensation, “They really are never very creative.”

“They don’t know they’ve done this before,” Stiles said back mildly, “It’s not their fault.”

The wolf gave him a wary sort of look, hands braced against the concrete wall beside the glass doors of the bank. Derek’s feet crunched against the ground behind them. 

Stiles half-shrugged his shoulders, “Lucky for us, though.” He tilted his head, “Whatever happens, they should’ve tried harder.”

“Why do I feel like you aren’t exactly taking this seriously?” The beta drawled.

Stiles turned to him again, slowly, “I don’t even know if this is real, Peter.”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed from behind him, harsh enough to make his head snap to the noise and put the wolf’s distressed little face into view, “This is definitely real.”

“Uh-huh,” Stiles nodded, “Saying it doesn’t do much for me, sunshine. I’m not gonna waste time figuring it out - real or not, Deucalion is dying tonight!”

“Say it a little louder, maybe,” Peter growled under his breath, “I don’t think all the alpha werewolves holding your betas hostage could quite hear you.”

“Yeah, well, they’re not the only alphas here,” Stiles spat, voice rising in spite of the unease it made brew in his stomach, “And I don’t need to sneak around to kill them.” It felt like his voice was echoing, but surely that had to be his mind playing tricks on him. Surely that’s all everything had to be.

The doors slammed back against the walls as Stiles forced them open. Ruptured chains cut through the air - bullets. They landed in marble. There was creaking, and there was bated silence. Stiles’ heart began to tick up, up, up. Beating against his ribs hard enough to feel each pulse. So aware of his own body it might as well have been its own external force. And as the faintest shifting of the air bushed his wrists, the pain thrummed along, and he was slightly more sure it was real. He still was not sure if he cared. 

A passing thought of needing the grimoire fluttered on by. He wondered when exactly he’d lost it. 

There was a flash of Peter’s body falling to the ground. A hand in the snow. 

Fire. 

Peter shouldn’t have been brought back. Stiles didn’t deserve that.

“You two remember where they are,” he said, “No time like the present. Hey Deuce!!” That time, it echoed. So did the crunching of dirt and debris beneath his shoes as he walked in, “Your mum never teach you it isn’t cool to steal?!”

Click, click.

“Stiles Stilinski,” Deucalion’s oh-so-delightful British voice rang out from somewhere, “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you. I’ve heard lots of things.”

“Yeah?” He called out, “You know, that’s funny, ‘cause I know a lot about you, too.”

Click, click.

The wolves behind him finally started to make their way into the building. Stiles tilted his head lazily as he waited for anyone else to show their faces. He hurt so badly. He hurt so badly.

“Gerard is dead,” he said.

Everything fell awfully still. Derek’s face in his peripheral gave him a blurry, distorted frown.

“What are you building your power for?” Stiles drawled, “I got your revenge first. Sorry. No war against hunters for you. I killed them.”

“What are you building your power for?” Deucalion’s voice echoed back.

Stiles’ brows twitched, “I didn’t want it. Believe me, if anyone would let me give it back, I would.”

“Well, it seems someone’s trying,” that voice mused, “And, just like that, you’re the slightest bit closer to your answer.”

It activated the same parts of him as a riddle. Meaning it had his skin crawling and his head aching. Wrongness ringing out like alarms with hair triggers in his skull. 

“And remember, Stiles,” Deucalion spoke slowly, closer, closer, until he finally came into view, entrenched in shadows, “Kate and Gerard were not the only hunters. You are far more small-minded than I expected.”

Stiles almost laughed, “Really?”

Deucalion shrugged his shoulders, click, click, “Think bigger, Stiles.”

“How about you drop the act and the cane and we get to the good part, hm?” Stiles snapped. 

The brows behind his shades rose, and the alpha’s lip almost frowned, “Peter. It’s been a while. The déjà vu hitting you yet?”

“You have no idea,” Peter’s voice drawled.

“Well.” Stiles could feel Deucalion’s eyes on him now. He hadn’t been able to before. The wolf’s lip quirked back up, “You know what I want from you. Agree, and I let your betas go.”

“No, you won’t,” Stiles said with a shake of his head, “and now you’re boring me. Time to die.”

“Stiles!” Derek barked out, but the spark was already gone. Pushing off against the scars on the base of his right foot and through the aching of every other scar as it faded and returned and faded and returned again and again with each pulse of magic through his skin. The glow never quite broke through those thick, black lines. 

He needed his grimoire. 

Did he?

Deucalion was deceptively strong, as all wolves were. Only difference being, where Derek and Peter and Cora and, once upon a time, Scott and Boyd and Theo and everyone else definitely had, Deucalion never bothered to build up any glamour muscle. If he did, he hid it behind his big coats and sweaters. It made no difference in how solid every inch of him was, and how unmoving it was in Stiles’ strikes. Had he always been that strong?

Stiles was stronger. He understood that like it was how he was born. And he understood that, if this wasn’t real, then he was even stronger. Because reality was whatever the fuck he wanted.

There were a lot of loud noises. Loud, distracting noises. Growling, banging, shouting. There was blood on the floor and Stiles’ entire body was beyond hurting. 

He snapped out of the blur when he was slammed into a wall. His skull bounced against concrete and, like smacking a radio, he was far more awake than he had been. He didn’t remember even throwing a single punch. But Derek and Peter were out there - together, both alive, that still was fucking with him. How had that not been fake? How? - faces shifted and full-out battling with Ennis and Kali. Stiles’ chest rose and fell with the sharpest of breaths; in, out, in, out, inoutinoutinoutin–

That hallway, lit just enough to make floating dust specks glow like stars in the night sky outside. It wrapped around his chest, constricting his breathing even further with memories of grief-stricken stumbling and wails. The base of his foot still burned, and his arms still ached, and blood was dripping onto the dirtied floor. Still, he ran. Someone roared too loud behind him and, still, he ran. 

It was easier to open the vault that time. Maybe it was the adrenaline. Maybe he was stronger now. Probably, it was both. The scraping of concrete on concrete was music to him. The way his arms were about to give in was just proof he was trying hard enough. 

He heard Erica before he saw her, stepping into the vault, that voice gasping out, “No, no, Stiles, don’t come in—”

His left hand snapped upward, fingers wrapped tight around something solid as he turned to look. The bright red eyes of the amorphous twins stared back. Stiles breathed in the still silence, feeling the muscles flex beneath his fingers until the animalistic rage in the twins’ eyes turned to something new. 

He tilted his head, one slow second passing before those red dots sharpened once more and their left fist swung toward his face, caught in his palm as he followed the momentum through to twist them all around and launch the twins into the wall to his right. Erica squeaked somewhere nearby. They snarled and bared their teeth as they regained their footing and the dust settled.

“Oh,” Stiles drawled. He didn’t like the way his voice sounded. “Scary. You know, a few drops of concealer would be good for you two.”

Something like a smile pushed at his lips as the twins lunged at him again. 

“Stiles!!” Scott’s voice cried out. 

He froze, for just a second too long, “What—”

He took the hit with a racing heart and unsteady feet, slamming against a wall hard enough to make something, somewhere, crack. If there was a single millimetre of his body that wasn’t already in debilitating pain, he might have been able to tell what part had just broken. 

A metallic taste filled his mouth - had he bit his tongue? - and he ground his teeth together, “You took Scott?”

“Tough break,” the twins said around their teeth, like they were too big for their mouth. 

Stiles’ brow twitched upward, eyes fluttering, “Yeah.”

His spark flowed recklessly with no grimoire beneath his skin. When it burst out of his palms, it travelled as far as it could reach, illuminating that dark, damp vault with a red light so venomous and blinding it almost threw him. The twins were the ones being thrown. 

With a flick of his wrists, the twins were twisted off of their feet, and a swinging leg was slamming as hard into their stomach as it could, laced with energy reverberating through the muscles of their abdomen and glowing bright enough to show it. Their body flew through the vault door and collided with the wall outside. Stiles felt the impact shake the foundations beneath their feet. Through concrete and marble. A gargantuan boom and the sound of snapping bones. A symphony.

“Stiles?” Erica squeaked out again.

His head cleared, “Erica. Scott. Erica and Scott. It’s just you? No one else?”

“And me,” Jackson groaned, hissing in a breath after he shut his mouth.

Stiles’ footsteps echoed, alternating between soft and thudding as he tried to find a comfortable balance on his feet. He held a hand out, concentrating as gently as he could to create just enough light to see. As he did, it seemed to fight to ebb back into the lines in his skin, flowing back, back, back like flinching away from some invisible force. Stiles dropped into a crouch as well as he could manage.

“Are you all okay?” He sighed out. 

“We are,” Erica nodded in the dim red, “Jackson, not so much.”

He was sat in between them, pale and clammy, even with that light shining directly in his face. His flickering yellow eyes glared up into it, looking more orange than anything.

“Did you…” Scott murmured, “I…” And he rose to his feet and vanished from sight.

“That cocky bastard scratched me,” Jackson snarled, “It’s taking its merry fucking time to heal, I’ll tell you that.” He cut himself off with another muted growl. 

Stiles nodded, “Okay. Okay. You’re gonna be fine, injuries inflicted by alphas just take longer to heal–”

“I have been a werewolf for five months, Stiles,” Jackson rumbled, “not five minutes. I fucking know.”

The spark just closed his mouth and hummed out a laugh. He rose back to his feet, slow and steady, and turned back toward the vault door, where Scott was standing, hand braced against the entrance and shoulders shaking. 

“Scott,” Stiles said gently, lifting a hand to press against the teenager’s shoulders as the energy in that palm dissipated into musky air, “You gotta help me get them out, okay?”

Scott was just staring down at the twins’ - now separate - bodies, strewn across the floor and bending in ways bodies should not bend. The sight had Stiles’ brows raising just slightly. 

“They’re gonna be fine,” he said reluctantly, giving a look to his best friend, “I’ve seen weaker wolves heal from worse. Let’s g—” He took half a step forward, then froze. 

Eyes snapping to the floor, he felt his teeth clack back together. A thick line of mountain ash stared right back at him. 

Something was wrong. Something had been wrong for a long time but, in that exact moment, with his eyes locked onto that barrier, that wrongness settled deep enough into his bones to stay. It made his heart pick up again. It put a sour taste in his mouth. The wrong was some twisted marriage between rage and terror and it was indecipherable. 

“Scott, break the line.”

“No,” Scott shook his head, “We need to keep them out.”

“What we need to do is get my betas out of the building where Erica died in every other timeline,” Stiles growled, “Break it.”

“She can’t die if the people who want her dead are trapped outside,” Scott’s eyes sharpened, “Break the line yourself if you want to leave so badly. But I’m not gonna be the one who let you walk off straight to your death again.”

Stiles could not explain why he didn’t but, instead of simply breaking the line and dragging the three of them out through the carnage that awaited, he dropped his hand and stepped back. Scott watched him for just a moment before he turned back. For a second, he almost felt like he used to. Even when he was older than Stiles, and was his leader, his Alpha, he always had this way of speaking that made him feel like a child. When he got angry and it looked like his words were filling his mouth with air. He shouted like a ten-year-old playing on his Xbox. This Scott had not shouted, but his cheeks had puffed up like he’d wanted to. 

Why? It was just mountain ash. Stiles could break mountain ash. He remembered the first time he placed it and the first time he broke it like it was yesterday. That had been to save Scott. And then Victoria died, so, all-in-all, an incredibly successful day. 

“Hey,” Erica called out after a while, “the others are here!”

Stiles’ brows drew together, “Define ‘others’.”

A chorus of far louder roars burst out through the halls. Stiles’ chest was heavy and his breathing shallow. The pain coursing through him was starting to make his head buzz. 

Then the sounds were growing closer, wilder, and Deucalion was laughing. Someone was snarling like an animal with all the roughness of a human without instantly healing vocal cords. Some bangs later, a flinch or two from Jackson, a widening eye from Erica, and the sounds finally reached them.

The bodies burst through the vault entrance, skidding along the line and spreading mountain ash across the concrete floor. Scott swore and jumped back to cower in a corner. Stiles’ eyes were just as locked onto those fighting figures as his body was locked in place. 

A new indescribable feeling washed over him when the bodies began to make sense. 

“You’re that pathetic these days, you have to kidnap children?” Claudia was snarling, “Oh, Deuce, you’ve lost your touch.”

“And you’ve lost your mind, I hear,” Deucalion said, voice thick, as if his mouth were filled with liquid, “Is that hereditary?”

Claudia screamed, a burst of neon violet lit the room blind, and Deucalion roared as he was thrown back. The woman rolled onto her stomach, then bounced to her feet, storming after him with her hair mad and her heels clicking and her eyes filled in purple. 

“Claudia??” Erica cried out, “Where have you been???”

“Not right now, sweetheart,” Claudia snarled back.

Stiles stepped back, as far out of her way as he could be, as she raced past him and hopped out of the doorway. His right eye twitched. The pulse in his arms answered back in kind. She couldn’t come home for him, but she could for these three. Teeth were grinding, and hits were landing, and his mother was making the same sounds she made whenever she’d try to kill him all those years ago and Stiles was—

Buzzing. Everything was buzzing. His skin, his soul, the energy slipping out of him and melting past his fingertips. He could hear it. Far beyond the pits of his stomach, reverberating out from the scar that bullet left and the construed bridging of his organs deeper and deeper within him. He could hear it in the air. Buzzing. Turning into tingling in his palms and tiny pinpricks of pain, now wrapped around an abandoned pole, left to rust on the ground with the rest of them. The buzzing left him numb. And, still, he could hear it. 

It drowned everything out. Every sound from his mother’s mouth, every crunch beneath his feet, every shot of pain through each and every one of his limbs. There was a glow in his peripheral, just below his eye line, while he kept his gaze straight on Deucalion’s back. 

That back straightened. 

The buzzing dimmed just enough for him to hear the silence. Not quite silence. And, still, it buzzed. 

Deucalion seemed to chuckle, dry, “Back for more, Stiles—?”

One of the many things Stiles learned over the years of hating Adrian Harris was that the melting point of steel is between two-thousand-five-hundred and two-thousand-eight-hundred degrees Fahrenheit. One of many things Stiles had learned over years of mindless internet scrolling was that it takes approximately one-point-nine gigajoules of energy to bring steel to its melting point. One of the many things Stiles had learned over the years of being kidnapped and tortured was how much energy he could generate. 

Which was, precisely, specifically, exactly, enough.

White-hot steel cut through the alpha’s skin and bones like a freshly sharpened blade, filling the air with the smell of burning flesh. Like barbeque. It made a sharp, loud, searing sound, and Deucalion roared. Wailed. Screamed. His legs toppled beneath him. 

The top half of him slid to the floor. 

Stiles didn’t know what he was doing until it was done and Deucalion was split into two. Right at the waist. The swiftly melting steel in Stiles’ hands was wrapped tight with the red sparks that melted it; the building was silent. Claudia was there, back rested against a greyish wall, mouth agape and eyes… Her eyes… That look.

Somehow the sickness in his stomach was swallowed up by some sort of deep thrumming of power through his bones. Lighting up his senses and squeezing at his heart until he was able to snap back to reality. To the writhing top half of the Alpha of Alphas on the dust-laden floor. 

“Back for more,” he mumbled roughly, “Back for more?” He nodded, considering, letting the power slip back into his arms as he stepped over Deucalion’s legs and eyed the way the molten metal had seared him clean enough to stop the bleeding, “I guess so. But, Deucalion, you should learn that predictability is a terrible flaw.”

He looked down at the steel. Slowly coming down from melting to white-hot to red-hot to solid yet not quite cool. Deucalion just kept screaming through his gritted teeth, blowing dusk and smoke away from his face with each pained puff of air. 

“Chaos gets results.”

He plunged the bar through Deucalion’s back. 

Stiles brought his hands back, fingers spread wide in the brief glance he took before he turned around. The first face he saw was Derek’s. The eyes he sought out in every crowded room, staring back at him, wide and deep. Some emotion far heavier than fear on his face. Fangs dripping with blood, shirt torn and stained. Laura was behind him, brows low on her face. 

Peter was frozen, pinned against a wall. He did not look afraid. He was angry. His eyes were calm; his lip was curled. 

And Ennis was on top of him. And Kali shared the look on his face. And Stiles felt himself smile.

“Well, don’t make it boring,” he shook his head, “Who wants to be the new Alpha of Alphas? Why not try?”

Kali growled - low, deep - and stepped away from Derek.

Stiles smiled wide enough to make his cheeks hurt, “Come take it from me.”

He caught the moment Ennis decided he would. The slight change in his eyes. He remembered exactly what his eyes looked like when Stiles killed him. Now, he was charging at him, not nearly as fast as Stiles was sure he could be, snarling like a rabid dog. 

Stiles didn’t know what had come over him. He should’ve been running. Taking Scott and Jackson and Erica and running for the hills and not stopping until they were too far gone for the Alphas to trace. Why was he still there? Why was he taunting them? Why was he doing this?

It was like his body was moving on its own, as Ennis finally reached him and he leant out of the way and reached over the wolf’s shoulder to pull him down and launch him around and across into a wall. To which Claudia, who had been paralysed right where Ennis was flying toward, scrambled out of the way and started to swiftly back away from her son by her hands. 

Ennis bounced off the wall and landed solidly, and loudly, on the floor. It made Deucalion’s body, both parts, bounce. The steel bar in his back wobbled.

Stiles hummed, why was he doing this, “No? Well. Shocking.” He took a few steps forward, to which Kali and Derek both flinched back. His brows fell, “I’m gonna take my betas and go. If they don’t mind getting up and moving. Pretty please?”

“Come on,” Peter called out, far louder than Stiles had, as he slowly made his way toward the hall the vault was down, “You heard him!”

Stiles didn’t know why he was doing anything he was doing. It was as if he wasn’t in control of his body at all.

It was familiar.

“Stiles!” Laura snapped, rising to her feet as Kali seemed to vanish down a hallway, “What the actual fuck was that??”

“We need to go,” Derek said lowly, almost out of breath, with his eyes darting everywhere but at Stiles, “Questions later.”

People finally started moving. The kids came out from that hall, with Peter trailing close behind and keeping his darkened, narrowed eyes on the ground. Not good. This was not good. Stiles’ ruthlessly irregular heartbeat was ticking up again and his throat was closing up and Deucalion’s mangled body was right beside him and three other alphas were out cold and everyone - everyone - was looking at him like… Well, like he’d just killed a man.

“Stiles,” Derek was saying.

“I didn’t…” he tried, jaw working itself open and shut a few times, “I don’t know what—”

“Stiles,” Derek said, more sternly. He was right in front of him. And pale. And shaking. He took a deep breath, “Your leg is… Your leg is broken. Let me… carry you, or—”

Stiles looked down, for the first time since they got there, to actually see what was happening. The buzzing was faint enough to make it all real again. Real. Real and painful. There was a flash of bone poking out through a tear in his jeans.

“Oh,” he said. He stumbled back, out of Derek’s reaching hands and toward that wall that he’d thrown Ennis against. With one, swift motion, he turned his leg to the side and slammed his shin into the wall. The pain bubbled out through him, up to his hip, and he ground his teeth, fluttering eyelids turning down to inspect the damage as he willed that bone back together beneath his torn skin and felt the pain slowly - oh, so fucking slowly - fade into obscurity, “There. Fixed.”

That vague shape of blonde hair caught his eye, and few things had ever made his stomach drop the way that it did right there. Erica had a mottling of blood over her cheek where a cut had healed, soot in her hair, and, for the first time, fear in her eyes. But she was still blinking. She was still breathing. And, no matter what Stiles had just done, or why, or how, he had saved her. 

Something very small snapped inside of him. Any empathy for Deucalion or the people who watched Stiles slaughter him was gone. Because Erica hadn’t died this time.

Erica hadn’t died this time. She had been taken, like every time before, and she had not died. 

He was very much aware of himself when he started speeding over to her. With each step on broken, scarred, burning feet, and each shift of aching muscles, in the clearest state of mind he’d been in for weeks. He yanked her into his arms and squeezed; cradled her head against his shoulder and held on as tight as he could. 

He pressed his hand across her shoulderblades, breathed in deep, and Erica stayed utterly still.

She was alive. Here, in this universe, at least. Somewhere, she was alive. 

That should’ve made a bigger difference to him. And, still, he wanted to go home. He wanted to sleep. He wanted that look on Derek’s face to go away - since when had he ever had that look? Since when was Derek afraid of Stiles? Since when—

“Claudia,” Peter growled, “Get up, let’s go.”

“Let go of me,” she snapped. Her voice wavered.

“Oh, don’t make me hurt you, I am already at my limit—”

“Good, because I’m going!” She cried, “I’m done! Coming back here was an even bigger mistake than I thought.”

“Claudia—”

“Peter.”

Stiles turned to watch them, moving back from Erica and . Claudia’s chest was heaving, and her eyes were watery. They snapped to Stiles and her whole body flinched backwards. Then the fear in her eyes washed over with a thick rage. Hatred. The scrunch of a nose and curl of lip that Stiles knew so, so well.

Peter’s shoulders tensed, “Claudia, that is your son—”

A laugh tore from her throat, “No, it isn’t. My son’s dead, Peter.” Her eyes snapped to him. “I shouldn’t’ve been stupid enough to let the both of you come back.”

“What are you talking about??”

“He’s going to kill me, Peter,” she snarled. Her lips quivered, voice wavering and so small as she echoed, “He’s going to kill me.”

Familiar. 

It was all so familiar. 

A sort of tunnel vision came over him. Directing his eyes to his hands, fingers spread wide, shaking furiously. 

One, two, three, four, five.

One, two, three, four, five.

One, two, three, four, five.

One, two, three, four, five.

One, two, three, four, five.

 

-

 

When he was finally able to look away from his fingers, he was at home. Those fingers were wrapping around a bottle of whiskey and suddenly they had something to do besides be counted. Everyone had greatly split up and left, aside from the kidnapping victims of the day and Derek, who was upstairs in the bathroom with Jackson and Erica. Laura was still looming, too. 

“What the hell was that, then?” Her voice cut in. 

Stiles looked up from the dining table. She was in the doorway, arms crossed over her chest as she rested against the doorframe. Those dark eyes squinted at him. She raised a mocking eyebrow.

He swallowed, “Self-defence.”

“That…” Scott’s little voice croaked from just nearby enough, before he emerged from beyond that same doorway, “That was not self-defence.”

Stiles’ lashes fluttered again as his eyes suddenly began to sting - he forced out a laugh, “God, this shit is getting old.” He took a small sip from his cup and waited for the bitterness to pass, “You know, you really are so unoriginal, Scott. At least Laura was… well… dead every other time.” He took a much bigger sip that time. He sighed into his cup, “I’m going to bed.”

His chair scraped against the hardwood floor loud enough to hurt, and his legs almost gave out beneath him as he stood. The bitter beginnings of a laugh snapped out of him.

“Come to think of it, I never did get a ‘thank you’ for that,” he drawled as he reached the doorway. Laura’s dark eyes stared right back into his. Stiles tilted his head down, “I give you your life back, your brother back, and - what do you know - Peter’s back now, too. And what do I get in return? Possibly the weakest ex-alpha I’ve ever seen not even offering me a ‘thank you’.” His brows crept up his face, “You’re welcome. And sorry you weren’t even strong enough to fight off your rabid, stupid, comatose uncle—”

The laugh tore out of him as he was slammed back into the wood panel of the doorframe. Laura’s fangs inches away from his face.

“I didn’t ask you to bring me back,” she snarled. Subhuman.

Stiles smiled, and shrugged against the wood, “Guess I’m just nice like that.”

A funny noise came out of her at that, almost a laugh, but certainly angry, “I don’t know if that’s the word I’d use.”

Stiles pouted and tilted his head, “No?”

Her golden eyes narrowed, the glow of them dim. Her brows furrowed. She pulled away. 

“You should really walk away from me, right now,” she nodded, “or, I swear to God, you’re gonna be walking away in even worse shape than you already are.”

His smile widened, “Oh, we don’t want that.” He pushed off of the panel and started to walk off, ignoring the way Scott flinched away from him, “And we certainly don’t want anyone ending up in worse shape than ol’ Dookie.” He spared one last glance over his shoulder to give her a smile, “Sleep well, Laura.”

His mind buzzed so loud he couldn’t even hear himself speak.

 

-

 

Scott watched a firefly land on Allison’s windshield one morning, on the way to school. It made his next breath leave him easy. Still, his stomach ached with a long-lasting anxiety and his skin was burning. 

He felt a tenseness in his brows, “Fireflies are fascinating.”

Allison gave him a short look, warm, “Yeah?”

He nodded, staring right at that little dot of glowing greenish-yellow, “They’re not flies. They’re actually beetles. And they’re toxic,” he said, looking over at her, smiling a little at the soft lines of her profile, “The luciferin that makes them glow. It’s toxic. Only twenty fireflies could kill an adult human. It’s pretty, though.”

“Pretty and lethal,” Allison mused, pulling into the school parking lot, “and real distracting.” 

She switched her windscreen wipers on and the firefly fluttered away. Scott whined. 

“Hey, come on,” he mumbled, “That could’ve been a sign you just told to screw off and die.”

She snorted, “I turned on the wipers, I didn’t burn a feather over a…” she pulled a face, “… candle with a pentacle carved into it, or whatever it is you do.”

“Fireflies symbolise hope,” Scott said emphatically, “that’s something we could really use right now. Don’t just brush it off.”

“Scott,” she said as she finally finished parking, pulling the handbrake up and turning to give Scott the most patronising look he’d ever seen - which was a lie, “It was a firefly. If we’re gonna find hope, we will find it ourselves. It won’t be given to us by a bug.”

“Not a bug,” Scott murmured, lips pulled down into a frown.

She shrugged her shoulders high, and pressed her lips into a thin, straight line, undoing her seatbelt as she said, “Okay. Let’s just get through the day without a firefly trying to kill us, or something. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Scott sighed, “Right.”

She snickered and slipped out of the car. Scott followed. As he hucked his backpack onto his shoulder and reached to lace their fingers together, he looked out across the murky early morning darkness, “In Japanese mythology, fireflies - well, two specific species of firefly, at least - are thought to be the ghosts of ancient warriors.” Allison hummed, in lieu of a prompt to keep talking. Scott smiled to himself and pushed through the doors to the school, “There’s also a lot of Japanese myths about floating lights. How many d’you bet were just fireflies seen by someone with an astigmatism?”

Allison giggled as they passed through the door to history class, with her lips parted, ready to speak, when someone was bounding up to them like a ball of pure energy. A floating light, even.

“I’m sorry,” this girl said, as if out of breath, “were you two talking about Japanese mythology?”

Scott glanced over at Allison, who did the same right back and apprehensively said, “Yeah?”

“Sorry,” the girl laughed a little, still sounding short of breath, “I just– I love Japanese mythology. And I’m new. And I really, really want to make friends. Is that enough to be friends with you guys? I love your hair by the way!” 

Allison made a small noise, “Thank… you.”

“I’m sorry,” the girl said again, wincing dramatically, “I’m being… so weird. Aren’t I.”

“No!” Scott put his hand out, “No, not at all! You wanna… sit with us?”

A strong sense of relief washed over the girl’s face, “Yes. Please. And I need this lesson to start so that I have something forcing me to shut up. And then I need it to immediately be over because the embarrassment of my dad being my own history teacher is already getting to me. I’m just gonna shut up now. Actually. I am so sorry.”

“Stop apologising,” Allison said, stepping forward and dropping Scott’s hand to grab the girl’s wrist and pull her towards their corner of the room.

“Sorry,” the girl squeaked. Allison turned back to her. The girl winced.

“Don’t,” Allison said, pointing at her, “What’d you say your name was?”

“I, uh, I didn’t,” the girl mumbled as she stumbled around a desk, “It’s Kira. Kira Yukimura.”

Allison smiled, “I’m Allison. Argent. Lovely to meet you, Kira.”

“And you!” Kira - Kira? - beamed, “And, uh, who’s your… friend?”

“That’s my boyfriend,” Allison said softly, with a small smile, “Scott.”

Scott swallowed and smiled, surely lopsided and weird-looking, when Kira turned back to him and waved. Then she walked into another desk and Allison’s brows inched just that bit higher on her forehead.

“We oughta bubble-wrap you, huh?” 

Kira laughed uproarously, “Yeah! Seems like it, doesn’t it!” She bonked into a chair, and the pink was now glaringly obvious on her cheeks, hissing under her breath, “Oh, my God. Get it together.” Then swallowing and speaking far louder, “Sorry. I’m really nervous. New school, new town, you know.”

“Not really,” Scott mumbled as Allison nodded enthusiastically.

“Trust me,” she said, “I get it. Scott’s not much of a traveller but–” she gestured to herself, “–military family. I’ve done this a hundred times. You’ll be just fine, Kira.”

Kira sighed shakily, nodding her head and tucking her hair behind her ear, “It’s real different to New York, I’ll tell you that. But– thank you. So much. You’re– so kind, Allison.”

“Don’t stroke her ego too much,” Lydia’s voice chimed in from behind Scott, making him flinch out of her way, “It’ll go straight to her pretty little head.” Allison rolled her eyes, as Lydia strutted right up to the two and bounced a lock of Kira’s hair on the back of her hand, humming to herself. She looked her up and down and stepped back, “Yeah. Okay. I can work with this.” Then she dropped down into the seat right next to them and started to place her things on her desk. 

“Scott?” Allison coaxed, “You just gonna stay in the doorway all day?”

He blinked, “No.” And he was stuck for just a little longer before he cleared his throat, laughing somewhat dryly, “No, obviously not. History!”

Allison nodded slowly, watching him make his way over to them, “Uh-huh.”

“Kira,” he said slowly, “History. History with our new friend Kira.” He nodded vigorously, rolling his shoulders and slipping past the both of them to drop into his own seat. His heart was far too heavy for someone who didn’t know what exactly he knew. And Allison was looking at him a little like he was crazy, and Kira was frowning, all confused and hurt looking, and Lydia was staring over her shoulder with that judgy Lydia look but even worse because there was concern there, too, and. And. 

A firefly landed on the window by his side. 

What, exactly, had Stiles said about Kira and swords?

 

-

 

When Stiles had said he was going to destroy those kids, he knew he’d be right. How could he not? It was done to him first. 

That didn’t mean it hurt any less to watch it happen. When he didn’t know why everything seemed to go wrong, and why he could never say the right thing, or do the right thing, or be the right person. Isaac was still living on his couch and trying to stay as out of sight as physically possible. Stiles had seen the files - they were still looking for evidence against his father, trying to get statements from neighbours. Almost no one was giving them anything. It was unfair. No kid should have to go through something like that. 

He only kind of hated his dad for doing it. He could’ve found another way to get Isaac out of that situation. He could’ve convinced him to leave on his own; done literally anything other than practically kidnapping him and undoubtedly traumatising him forever. Well, more than his dad already had. Whatever. 

Despite the horrible understanding of what Stiles was doing to those kids by just being around them, he found himself - as selfishly as ever - frantically trying to keep them around. As if being around him hadn’t just gotten Scott and Jackson and Erica kidnapped almost killed. He could empathise with not liking the kidnapping thing. But that selfish part of him needed not only to know that Erica was alive, but to have her by his side. Maybe that was some sort of Alpha bullshit that was finally setting in. That being said, he still wasn’t feeling the undying need to have Jackson hanging off his arm. 

He texted Erica before he fell asleep that night, asking her to come to his house before school the next day. He heard the ping of her answer, but didn’t read it. He’d found a lighter in Derek’s jeans in the hamper and had decided to watch the flame until… something. He wasn’t sure. But, in the end, he found himself so hypnotised that he ended up staring for hours, more at peace than he had been for weeks. It was nice. 

That night, he slept. Not for long. Long enough to dream, though.

Stiles hadn’t been there when Allison died. He’d been only metres away, but he had not seen it happen. He’d heard Lydia scream, just about. Really, he was too close to passing out to know what she was screaming for, or whose name. 

He had been there for her funeral. 

Not the service. He wanted to go. He was invited. Chris had shown up at his house to tell him that. Stiles had said he needed to focus on finding Derek. Chris had given him the most gentle, most paternal look Stiles had ever seen on his face, and left. Stiles did try to go to the service. But the second that mourning suit was on, he lost the ability to breathe, and no one was there to help him. Because they were all at the service. 

He did make it to the burial. Only just. He lingered on the outskirts, near the woods, choked up by nostalgia and grief and guilt and. And. 

That was where that dream started. At Allison Argent’s funeral. Praying that her father, and Scott, and Isaac, and Lydia wouldn’t notice he was there. Squeezing the tip of his right pointer finger over and over to remind himself that it was real. And it was his fault. And he could’ve done something different. He could’ve stopped Void. It would’ve been easy. A shot to the head, or a handful of pills, or, fuck, another ice bath? 

It was suffocating. The guilt. Like dread and anxiety woven together and draped over every inch of him, pulling him down just as her body was lowered into the ground. 

And there he was. Alone. Exactly how it should have been.

Then that feeling passed over him. That feeling that something was wrong. That was when the dream got mean. 

At first, all he saw was a blurry shape. Brown, unidentifiable. That instinctual, subconscious part of him already brewing terror at the sight. 

It was Allison. Covered in dirt and soil, crawling out of her own grave like a fucking zombie. And he was frozen. And Chris and Scott and Isaac and Lydia still weren’t acknowledging any of it. Allison kept crawling, slow and steady, right past them. Past her father, her boyfriend, her first love, past Lydia. Stiles was sitting down, then. And Allison was at his side. 

“You didn’t kill me, Stiles,” she said.

A heavy hand rested against his shoulder.

“I’m sorry. Allison, I’m sorry.”

“You didn’t kill her, Stiles,” she said. 

He couldn’t move. He couldn’t turn to look at her.

Her voice changed, turned deep and gravelly and dark and wet and Stiles knew that voice, “I didn’t, either.”

In a moment of sudden lucidity, he snapped his head over to the right. 

And then she was Kate. Brain matter leaking out of the hole in the centre of her forehead, saying something Stiles couldn’t remember when he woke up.

All the things he couldn’t remember.

He could remember the last time he was there, in that graveyard, at that family plot. It was her funeral. It was the first time they saw Gerard. 

Maybe that connection was what brought him back there. To that… wherever it was. It was clear in his head that time. The concrete beneath him. The cold. The ache in his arms. The feeling of unoquivicable weakness. Was it weird that now he felt more shame at how he gave up then than anything else? It was stronger than his hatred of Gerard, the residual horror of what was done to him - what was done to him? 

In that particular dream, he saw Gerard holding the grimoire. That was new. 

The memory hit him faster than the understanding that it wasn’t real. And then it was like watching your own play. Witnessing the actors do exactly what you’d rehearsed, time and time again, exactly how you wanted them to. Ecstasy. Finality. 

Those words, they echoed through his mind as they came back to him and, as Gerard set those pages alight, the flames brought no warmth.

“Sit qui loquuntur– ”

“No,” Stiles snapped, deep and sudden.

“–verba tua illicite–”

“Stop,” Stiles cried. His wide eyes flinched with each tug at his chains - frantic, unthinking, “No, no. Stop.”

“–facti sunt inanis.”

A bandaged face spoke through the flames, around spiked, tar-covered teeth. The Devil.

Stiles woke up alone. He woke with a terrible feeling in his chest. He woke with a buzzing behind his eyes. He ignored it. This was just what happens when you get tortured for 72 straight hours. 

There was a knock at his door, some amount of time after he woke. It made him wonder where Derek was. He heard the door open, after the soft creaking of floorboards, and then Erica’s voice was coming up through the floorboards. 

“Hey, Isaac,” she said, “Stiles in?”

There was a murmur in response. 

Stiles kept his gaze firmly at the ceiling as high-heeled footsteps begin to trail up the stairs. His eyes stayed as they were until there was a soft knock on his bedroom door. He grunted in response.

He watched as Erica’s face poked through the gap in the door, asking in that low voice, “You okay, freak?”

“You can come in, you know,” he murmured back. 

Erica hummed, a stream of light casting over her brow as it twitched. She shut the door behind her as she came in, dressed to the nines as she always was. Stiles noticed how she didn’t move away from the door, just kept her back to it and and shrugged her shoulders at him. 

“What did you wanna talk about?” 

Stiles let out a slow breath and sat up on his bed, shifting the sheets around himself a little, “Come here.”

Her round eyes sharpened only slightly, in a way they never should’ve had to. Leather squeaked as she made her way over to him and dumped her tote on the floor by his bed. He brought his legs back as she sat at the other end. 

She did a sort of shimmy as her eyes darted around the room, “… So…?”

“I want you to know,” Stiles said slowly, “that you don’t have to stick around. Just because I’m technically your Alpha doesn’t mean anything, alright? When Scott was turned, Peter was not exactly his best friend, and when Derek became the Alpha, he didn’t like him any better. And he didn’t have to. He had his own pack. And him, Allison, Lydia, and I didn’t need Derek then, just like you, Boyd, Jackson, and everyone else don’t need me. Okay?”

“You don’t…” Erica sighed, “You don’t get it, Stiles.”

“I do,” he nodded, “I know what I look like to you kids. I know how scared you are. You don’t have to be.”

“I—”

“I said I’d protect you all with my life,” he barrelled on, “and I meant that. And I always will. But when things like… When you get… When I’m reminded of the times that I… wasn’t able to protect you, I’m going to… I might…”

“I get it, Stiles,” Erica nodded.

Stiles winced, “But you don’t. That… What I did? You shouldn’t have seen that. But when I heard that you were taken by them again, and my mom was fighting, and the buzzing was–” He pressed his lips so tightly together they almost burned, “I am so, so sorry, Erica.”

She quirked her brows, “I’m not the only person who watched it. And I’m definitely not the one who needs the most babying.”

He almost laughed, “I don’t need Jackson to understand why I do things or how I feel about them. And I think Scott gets it.”

“Do you want us to be a pack, Stiles?”

He frowned; his stomach ached, “Obviously.”

“Okay,” Erica nodded, “We want to be a pack, too. And you are…” Her brown eyes squinted slightly, “Intimidating… sometimes. But for us, for the wolves, it’s hardly a choice. And, even if it was, as you’ve clearly shown, I trust nobody to protect me the way you would. The way you have.” 

Stiles’ mouth was dry, too dry, “I’ve failed before.”

“And you just cut the Alpha of Alphas in half at the thought of failing again,” she drawled, “in front of Laura, no less, who already hates you. I think I’ll be fine.”

“Laura hates me??”

“You threatened to cut her in half right after you did it to Deucalion,” Erica gave him a blank, blank stare, “She’s not gonna be your biggest fan, sweetums.”

“I…” Stiles’ eye twitched, “That was…”

“Anyway,” Erica started to adjust her clothes, tugging her shirt up higher and picking at her tights, “If you want us all to trust you as consciously as we trust you instinctively, you should try a little harder.”

“I don’t know if trust is what I want,” Stiles said slowly.

She rolled her eyes, “Okay, edgelord.”

“I just don’t want you to waste your youth trying not to die because you’re sticking with me,” he shook his head, “That’s not fair.”

“Okay, well, how much of your youth has been wasted trying not to die?” She asked, standing up from the bed and crossing her arms over her chest.

Stiles raised a brow, “It was my fault when I was fifteen, too, Erica.”

She stared at him for a while. Didn’t say anything, just stared. The calculated look in her eyes wasn’t entirely familiar. It was hazy, like a painted over memory of a stare he’d seen before. 

“I can never tell if you want us around or not,” Erica said slowly, “But, believe it or not, we want you around. Mostly because, when you’re around, anything that tries to hurt us ends up… maimed.”

His brows shot up, “Not a good thing.”

“Well, when you’re a fifteen-year-old girl, it lends an air of confidence,” she nodded, “So. Come to school today.”

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as a groan escaped him, “Fuck. Why?”

“Because I want you to,” her voice was starting to get to him, “And those Alpha twins are there now, and it’d help to have my own guard dog following me around.”

Stiles peeked one eye open, raising the same brow. Erica grinned, wide and wild and so, so soft. 

“Please?” 

He scowled, “You’re lucky you’re my favourite. Also, you’re an idiot.”

And she cooed back, “Thanks, Stiles! Give me a ride?”

“How did you get here?”

“I ran.”

“Of course you did.” 

 

-

 

Stiles’ gut is always right. He became very sure of it that day. 

‘Wrongness’ followed him closely, a ghost over his shoulder, constant and distracting. At least it distracted him particularly from the mess that was figuring out his new schedule for the semester. It also distracted him from the multitude of missed calls from his boss he hadn’t realised were on his phone. It also distracted him from the fact that he had to sit through Chemistry. 

It was hard to distract him from some things, though. 

It was too cold to sit outside still. They sat at a different table in the cafeteria than they used to. Or, they never did sit there, but Stiles had to hear his shoes squeak against the floor as he realised the kids were all sat on the complete opposite side of the room. At least there were less eyes on him than usual. Maybe because he’d shaved before he left and his tattoos weren’t glowing anymore. Still, less eyes didn’t mean none. And the few that lingered were too much.

He could see his Jeep outside the massive cafeteria windows - his mom’s Jeep. Part of him wanted to have forgotten how to drive it, but that kind of familiarity never goes away. Neither does the familiarity of Claudia Stilinski hating the very fabric of his being. His dad had tried to reason with her once she got home from wherever her and Peter had disappeared to. It’d been a lot of the same things he was used to. ‘He’s going to kill me’, ‘That is not my son’, ‘You don’t see the way he looks at me’, blah, blah, blah. He didn’t cry about it anymore. He was all cried out. And crying had never helped.

He just didn’t understand why it was happening. He didn’t understand why she brought Peter back. He didn’t understand why she was suddenly exactly how she’d been when she was dying. He didn’t understand why she would do any of this to him. And he didn’t understand where she kept going.  

It felt like all of this could’ve been fixed so easily and it just wasn’t. They were one misunderstanding away from where they were meant to be - where Stiles desperately needed to be - but something was stopping them. It made him unable to talk to her. It made her unable to talk to him. It was frustrating. 

That frustration didn’t have anything good to do besides turn into fear. 

Driving around in his undead mom’s Jeep with an utterly terrified Isaac Lahey and a non-stop chattering Erica Rayes felt like having his skull bashed in over and over again. Not entirely in a bad way. But it wasn’t much better to be sitting at their lunch table. That being said, sitting at their lunch table brought the new problems of Boyd and Cora. Those kids were all so confusing. ‘Stiles is our Alpha, we love him’, ‘Stiles is evil, he scared my girlfriend’ – pick a lane, people.

He was picking at his mac and cheese when Scott started talking.

“Woah, another firefly!” He gasped, staring off into the distance.

“It’s the middle of the day,” Jackson grumbled around his food, “Where?? What?” Scott pointed over Stiles’ stiff shoulder as Jackson squinted, grimacing, “How did you even notice that? You’re such a freak.”

“Don’t you literally have night vision?” Scott mumbled back, “Also, fireflies come out during the day, too. Most just don’t glow during the day. Adult fireflies don’t tend to glow at all, actually. Only certain species do.”

The wolf gave him a dirty look and shovelled more mac ‘n’ cheese into his mouth. 

Stiles wondered if anyone else could feel the wrongness. 

Could Lydia feel the wrongness?

Something in the energy at the other end of the table shifted. Like they all lit up. Stiles glanced over to see the grin on Scott’s face and the warm, wide smile on Allison’s. 

“Kira!” The girl cheered, moving her bag from the seat beside her, almost glowing, “Where’ve you been?”

Stiles stared.

Kira dropped into that now-empty seat, grinning ear to ear and slightly pink, “Sorry, my dad needed my help with something. How are you guys—” 

Her eyes met Stiles’.

Stiles stared. 

“Oh,” she said softly, “Who’s this?”

Allison’s head snapped over to him, “Oh, that’s Stiles. He doesn’t really come into school much.”

Kira nodded slowly, “Oh.”

Could she feel the wrongness? Because now Stiles had a far better grasp of what it might be. His mouth was shut so tight it was as if his teeth were magnets. His heart was made of lead. His hands were shaking. And he was tapping.

One, two, three, four—

“How come you guys have never mentioned him before?” Kira asked. 

“‘Cause he’s an even bigger freak than Scott,” Jackson murmured. 

“Don’t test me,” Stiles murmured right back, “You know what I know about you, Jackson.” 

The teenager turned his low-browed gaze to him, lip curled in disbelief. Stiles’ lashes fluttered. 

Wrong. That was wrong.

“Kira,” he felt himself say. 

She gave him a meek little look, “Hm?”

He bit his cheek, “Kira Yukimura.”

Her mouth sort of twitched, “Yes.”

“When did you move here?”

“Uh…” She frowned, “Like, a week ago, maybe?”

He nodded, “What brings you here? Your parents’ work?”

She nodded back, “My dad. He’s, um, he teaches history here… Unfortunately.”

Stiles almost laughed, “Not your mom?”

“What?”

Kira looked at him like a lost puppy. Kira. Yukimura. Not a puppy. A fox. What are fox puppies called? Pups? Kits? Hah. Kits. Kitsune. 

Fuck.

He hummed, “I think I need to, um.” He pushed his tray away, rose to his feet and rolled his shoulders, “Where, uh, where’s Peter staying these days?”

“A penthouse downtown,” Cora mumbled, “Why?”

“Who’s Peter?” Kira whispered.

“My uncle,” Cora answered.

“Do you have an address?” Stiles asked. 

“Again, why?” 

He turned to her, “When has asking me questions ever helped? Ignorance is bliss, you ever heard that?”

“Stiles,” Erica said softly beside him, “are you okay?”

He ignored her.

Cora’s brows rose, “Sure. It’s the big fancy place on Seventh Street, by that Korean restaurant. You’ll know it when you see it. It’s, like, all windows.”

“Great,” Stiles said, nodding his head and stumbling backwards, “Thanks, Cora.”

She hummed back to him. 

“Is he on drugs?” Kira asked quietly as he began to storm off, or maybe she was just too far away, “Is your uncle a drug dealer??”

If someone answered those questions with a ‘sure’, he didn’t know who, nor did he care. Kira could think whatever she wanted – Stiles’ problem was the fact that she was there in the first fucking place. With her parents. With her mother. And her mother’s tails. The Oni.

There was only one reason for Noshiko Yukimura to return to Beacon Hills. And Stiles’ gut was always right.

 

-

 

“Are you sure you want to go back there?” Peter was wincing, “I mean, I don’t even like to go back to the Hale House and I wasn’t tortured there. Technically.”

“I don’t,” Stiles almost snarled, hands clenched tight around the steering wheel, “But I need to. I have to know.”

Peter looked over at him from the passenger’s seat, calculating as ever. It was still feeling completely unreal that he was back. That it meant nothing that Stiles had killed him. How had his mom brought him back? Why? What had it— God.

“You have to know what, exactly?” Peter asked with narrow eyes, almost looking entertained but, then again, when the hell did he not? “I can’t really see the benefits to knowing exactly what torture you endured.”

“I need to know what happened to the grimoire.”

Peter’s brows barely moved, but something eased in his expression, as he waited one long moment before he nodded, just slightly, and said, “Very well. Let’s go find out.”

It had happened in the warehouse district, apparently. He didn’t remember any of it. Not even the drive home. There was a distant feeling of having those memories, but he was too far away to even remember remembering now. He blacked out in a similar way when he was following Peter to that storage unit. 

But then he was there. Peter pushed the door open, and Stiles knew that sound. It sang through his bones like a symphony of screams, making his hair stand on end. 

The wolf turned back to him, “After you, I guess.”

Stiles gave him a grave look and stepped over the threshold. It took too much effort. Like there was a mental block, some invisible forcefield stopping him for a moment. Once he was inside, it didn’t get easier. 

“Can I just say how honoured I am that you chose me for this little adventure?” Peter’s voice mindlessly rang out, echoing off the metal walls and meeting Stiles’ ears over and over. 

It was dark. Dingy. It reeked – a smell Stiles didn’t quite recognise but his body knew to hate. His stomach was turning, aching; his mouth filled with saliva. 

“You could’ve chosen anyone, but you went with little old me—”

“Shut the fuck up, Peter,” he forced out. The words were rough and tangled. He pressed his lips tightly shut. 

His eyes stuck on a patch of concrete, on the far side of the room. Dyed a deep brown. Almost orange. 

Stiles could see Gerard’s face. Every skinless inch of it. 

The entire floor was mottled with uneven stains – some dark grey, some brown, some almost black. There was a pile of char right in the centre of the room, covered with dust. That couldn’t be the grimoire. 

There was a point on the wall where those restraints hung high. Two metal bands, drilled straight into the wall, glittering in the light from the open door. He could see them, blurred in his tear-laden vision as he desperately stared above himself. He could see it all. He could hear his own voice screaming back at him.

Peter said something.

Something touched his shoulder. 

It was pure instinct - reflex - what he did. The way he spun around, the roar torn from his throat, the flare-up of energy passing through him like being struck by lightning. The light was blinding, and the burn was too familiar. Peter’s body must have been what made the sound of crashing, the groan, the whine. 

Stiles was not there anymore. 

As he stumbled backwards, spine meeting solid metal, feet slipping and dropping himself down to the floor. He was not in the present anymore. He was back there. 

“Sit qui loquuntur– ”

“No,” Stiles snapped, deep and sudden.

“–verba tua illicite–”

“Stop,” Stiles cried. His wide eyes flinched with each tug at his chains - frantic, unthinking, “No, no. Stop.”

“–facti sunt inanis.”

“Stiles! ” Peter’s voice roared. 

He gasped. The memories still danced before his eyes - not real, he knew that it was not real. Well, it was. Not now. Not real anymore. 

He stared at the pile of ash and charred-black paper.

Worse now. Far worse. 

“Stiles, look at me,” Peter snarled, “Hey. Get it together.”

Stiles breathed in deep. Slow. Peter wasn’t helping. 

Something like a hum came from his throat, “I’m fine.”

“You don’t look it. You almost broke my fucking spine, what was that?”

He just tuned him out. He had to. He seemed to tune it all out. All that was left was the buzz. He could place it now. He knew it. He knew it just as well as the rise and fall of his chest with each gargantuan breath, or the shake of his hands; the fear beneath his skin, or the taste of the word ‘chaos’ on his lips. Of Pain. Strife.

No, no, no. 

He forced his eyes up, to meet Peter’s bright blue terror-filled stare. 

No.

He had to go. Better he do it than the Oni. 

He had to go.

Chapter 11: Some Things Wrong With Stiles

Summary:

Something's wrong with Stiles.

Notes:

Do you guys like it when i write other characters' povs? No? welp!

on a serious note. uh. suicide warning. there is a suicide attempt in this chapter.

omfg ho void stiles is NOT coo 😭

“Something’s wrong with Stiles.”

Derek lifted a slow, judgemental eyebrow, and said back, “Yeah. He was kidnapped and tortured for three days. That’s what’s wrong with him.”

Peter gave him a thoroughly sarcastic ha-ha of a laugh, “Listen, Derek, I know Stiles and I know that—”

“What, you think I don’t?” His nephew shook his head, “At least I was actually out looking for him when he was missing. What the hell were you doing? House-hunting? Making googly eyes at Chris Argent??”

Peter just turned his gaze back to his flat screen. He tapped his fingers against the white leather of his new couch as if it could ground him. If he could care about his high ceilings or floor-to-ceiling windows or fresh house plants or crisp, new, well, everything, this moment would be far less exhausting. Derek stood, waiting, beside his glass coffee table. Peter took in a deep breath.

“What you did was stupid, Derek,” he said. When he looked over at his nephew again, the man was glaring back at him with such distaste it almost stung. Peter nodded his head, “We didn’t know what Gerard was after, or if there were people waiting to take you, too. Hell, we still don’t know what he was after. And we never will. Because Stiles ripped his face off.”

His own slow, judgemental eyebrow received little response other than a stutter in Derek’s heartbeat and the sharp scent of fear. 

“I have known Stiles since he was a murmur of a heartbeat in his mother’s uterus,” Peter said slowly, “I named him, Derek. Don’t think for a second that you know him better just because you’ve had your dick in him.”

Derek’s lip curled, “Oh, my God, Peter.”

“I’m serious,” Peter said, “He doesn’t know you better than I do, either. Nobody does. Sorry you had to hear it, but it’s true. Uncle Peter knows best.” He shrugged his shoulders grandly, “In a similar vein, I’m the only person who knew Stiles when he was…” He squinted his eyes. What was the word? Normal? Innocent? Human? “… undamaged.” He gave a pointed look to his nephew, “Trust me when I say that I am ninety-nine percent sure exactly what is wrong with him.”

“Other than the…” Derek pulled a face, “… constant, life-changing trauma?”

“I’m sure it isn’t helping,” Peter considered, “but yes. Other than that.”

Derek blinked slowly at him, “Well, are you going to tell me what you think’s wrong with him, or are you just going to continue being… Peter about it?”

Peter tilted his head, “I feel as though if I tell you, you will either - A - freak out and set off some terrible chain reaction or - B - not believe me and set off some terrible chain reaction, so…” He nodded, “I think I’ll wait until I hit a hundred.”

Derek rolled his eyes, “And when will that happen?”

“When Stiles remembers what Gerard did, and what happened to Claudia’s grimoire,” the man said, bobbing his head once more, “Or, well, when Stiles tells us.”

That was what got Derek to finally seem to actually care about what Peter was saying - as if he ever said something that didn’t matter. Did these kids think he was just talking for fun? He didn’t have time for that. 

“Well, how do we make him remember?” Derek asked lowly, then scrunched his face up, “You know, I don’t think that would be good for—”

“Don’t worry, oh, sweet nephew of mine,” Peter flung his hand around, “I think we both know more than we are letting on.”

Derek blinked, “Sure.” He raised a brow again, “So, just to summarise, you called me here to tell me there’s something wrong with Stiles, I can’t know what it is, and I can’t do anything about it.”

“Here’s something you can do for him,” Peter grinned, “Pour out the whiskey. It is really starting to put a bad taste in everyone’s mouths.”

 

-

 

Peter woke, maybe one month earlier, buried in dust and fucking pissed.  

It took a while to understand what was going on, or where he was. To figure out what, exactly, had torn him from the peaceful not-quite-existence alongside his sister and mother and—

The scent of wolfsbane burned his nose. He stared up at the darkness in front of him, reached a swift and angry hand up and pushed. The light damn-near blinded him, and the grating of stone was so loud it made his head spin, but he rose to sit up, anyway. 

He recognised the church right away. It’s hard to forget the place where you both got your ass kicked by a seventeen-year-old idiot and discovered you failed to murder the love of your life. Oh, and the place where your only nephew died for a moment. And the place where you were escorted to Eichen House from. Boy, that was a good day for him, wasn’t it? 

It was pleasantly mild in that desert. Better than it had been the last time he was there, but still not great. The dust covering him was making him itch.

He recognised Claudia’s scent before he understood why. Or how. But he could smell her and fear and desperation and that stupid, hideous, terrible, good-for-nothing Jeep and the specifics of the situation didn’t matter much. 

Claudia had taken him from the first peace he’d known in a decade. She’d burned him alive, kept him alive, and brought him back again.

He was going to find her. And she was going to pay.

 

-

 

When he saw Chris again, it was not nearly as melodramatic as Peter had expected. Maybe because he had been so used to living in a world where Victoria was dead. But Peter, ever the optimist, just saw that as a chance to finally be the one to kill her. Surely, it was some divine necessity. Who else was dead both other times? Well, besides him. And Erica. It’s lucky that he never cared about her, then, isn’t it? 

He always thought that grief looked awfully good on Chris. It was utterly infuriating to acknowledge that comfort looked even better. But, better yet, was whatever he felt when he saw Peter that first time, when they dragged his bleeding body to the Hale house and Cora called Allison to tell her what was happening. 

This had been hell. All of it. Trying to jam together the mismatched puzzle pieces of memories and differentiate what was him and what Claudia had given him. He still had yet to decide which Peter he was. Was he the version of himself that believed he had no nephew, who met this version of Stiles in 2006 and attended his own Stiles’ funeral and was somehow still burned alive even despite the vervent warnings of exactly that? Or was he the version of himself who turned the True Alpha Scott McCall, who was dragged back in time by his own Stiles, and who first met that version of Stiles long before anyone else? Was he either of them? Did either of them even exist?? Was he both of them at once? It was giving him a headache just thinking about it now. 

Whoever he was, Chris was always there. And - as furious with Claudia as he was for bringing him back when he fervently wished for a permanent end to the torment of being trapped in his own head with not one but three timelines worth of utterly mindbending bullshit to decipher - now he could try again. Now, he had not hurt Chris. But Chris’ father had, in fact, hurt him. And definitely had hurt Stiles. And, somehow, that was enough to keep the both of them from acting half as over-the-top as Peter, for one, certainly wanted to act. 

Still, seeing Chris again felt a lot like getting shot in the stomach. Or maybe that was just the fact he was just shot in the stomach.

The hunter’s brows drew together as Allison stumbled in the door past him, “You weren’t lying.”

The girl froze, and her eyes finally met his. Her mouth fell open, “Peter?” She turned those wide eyes to her father, “You didn’t say anything about Peter.”

Chris just stepped past her and looked out across the room, “You said my father did something to Stiles?”

“He kidnapped him,” Peter nodded, arms rested against the back of the couch. He had not expected to come back to a half-rebuilt Hale House, but he supposed it could’ve been worse. He gave the hunter a look, “And he also shot me, but, hey. Bygones, am I right?”

Chris’ eyes fell shut, “Fuck.” He brought a hand to rub at his face, “Fuck.”

“Where could Gerard have taken him?” Derek growled, from somewhere too far away. Some part of Peter was grateful - the thick scent of Derek’s angst was suffocating enough to cover up anything that might’ve been going on with Chris. His senses still reached for it, though. 

The room was too quiet in the wait for Chris’ answer. 

“What do we do, Chris?” Laura asked lowly.

He turned to her, “You’re the one who used to be the Alpha.”

“Excuse you,” Peter murmured. 

“You did not count,” Cora said, “Don’t even try.”

His jaw fell open, “What?? I was the original.”

“No, you weren’t,” Laura growled, “I was. And then you killed me—”

There came a crash. More like a bang. To which Peter turned and looked over his left shoulder, past his arm, to raise a brow at the dark doorway Derek was standing in, and the splintered wood beneath his fist. 

“Stiles is missing,” he snarled, utterly rabid, “I’m not wasting any more time watching you all bicker like nothing’s wrong.” 

The look in his eyes was wild, flickering blue, and Peter had died enough times to know when to quit while he was ahead. And, truly, he shared the sentiment. If anything happened to Stiles - though Peter knew better than most that he would be just fine - he’d kill Gerard himself. He’d make everyone watch, just to make a point. Stiles was not to be messed with. He was awfully good at getting himself into trouble, though, wasn’t he?

Though, between hearing that Derek had ran off again to try and get himself killed in his own stupid search for Stiles, and scouring through files in Chris’ basement with Victoria watching the both of them from the top of the stairs like a hawk - Peter had a great admiration for blue eyes, but she really took it too far - and feeling thoroughly thrown by the way his nieces had decorated what parts of the house they’d made liveable again, and the overwhelming sense of foreboding looming over him at all times, the three days of Stiles’ kidnapping passed torturously slow. The kids wanted to help, but they were no use. Lydia, too, thank god.  

And then Derek found him. He was in the warehouse district, in a tiny storage unit off the main grid, hidden beneath layers and layers of soundproofing and surrounded by wolfsbane and mountain ash. 

The smell was the first thing Peter noticed. 

It was the smell of disease. The smell of a dead man. More specifically, the smell of Claudia, that night that she visited him. The night she died.

It was the smell of Void Stiles as the two of them split bodies. Not that Peter had any reference for what Void Stiles had smelled like at any other time. He’d largely been avoiding the lot of them when that was all going down. And how wise that had been. 

But it was not a good thing for Stiles to smell like. 

Stiles had stared at all of them as if they were annoyances. He’d moved slow, like he wasn’t familiar with his own body. Spoken like he were half-asleep. It had brewed a dark, dangerous fear at Peter’s core. And suddenly he had more purpose to his return to Beacon Hills than revenge. It was a dreadful thing to discover. 

He cared. And he was fairly sure that, if he was right, he wouldn’t be able to do what was necessary to stop it. Not anymore. 

How irritating.

 

-

 

Isaac had seen a lot of terrible things. He let them flow over his skin and cover him, always. Reminders of the depth of the darkness in people. Every scar left over from his father, every tearstain on his cheeks, his sleeves - everything the pain touched, was a purposeful reminder of just how terrible people were. It wasn’t something that kept him up at night. He accepted it. And he knew that people could be good, too, but, at their core, they were all bad. 

Like Stiles.

Something was wrong with Stiles.

At first, when Stiles came back from the dead and manhandled his way into Isaac’s life, he’d thought he could be the one to save him. Not that he ever believed he needed saving. But he thought that he could find sanctity there. Stiles was building something good, and he wanted Isaac to be a part of it. He wanted to save him. Whether he ever could - or should - wasn’t important. 

At first, Stiles was never without that wide, shining smile. He never lacked the soft, playful sparkle in his eye. He was weird, and overly confident, and said strange-ass things, but he was trying to help. 

Then Isaac got too close. Stiles wasn’t him anymore. That version of Stiles was lost - replaced by the red-eyed, calculating, angry husk he was now. He’d let the Sheriff take Isaac out of his home. He’d snapped a man’s neck in front of them, then acted like that man meant the world to him. He’d act the way he did before that, sometimes, but Isaac could see the coldness behind it all now. The rage. Like the smile on his father’s face before it all bubbled over and the silverware hit the floor. 

Still, he hadn’t been that bad - not really - until the kidnapping. He came back from that so, so much worse. 

There was one night which, when Isaac had tried to bring it up afterward - a brief moment of bravery - Stiles did not remember. That made sense. He was far from sober.

The first crash was what made him realise anything was happening at all. It snapped him back to reality so hard it felt like he’d been smacked across the face - and he would know. Every fibre of his body was paying absolute attention from then on. Like he could hear a mouse walking on the other side of town if he tried.

“That make you happy, Derek?” Stiles’ voice drawled. 

Isaac could hear Derek’s minute inhale.

Another crash. Isaac flinched a little too hard. He clenched his blanket tight in his hand.

“Oh, come on,” Stiles tsk’d, “Don’t give me that face, Der-bear. I’m getting rid of it. Like you asked."

Another crash. Another flinch.

Then Derek’s voice barked, “Stop it! Stiles. Stop.”

“Oooh.” Stiles gasped. So quiet, Isaac almost couldn’t hear it, “There he is. That’s Derek Hale. Angry. Cold. Sexy.”

A long moment passed before Derek’s voice, low and broken now, croaked out, “Please, just—”

They fell silent.

Someone sniffled.

Someone huffed.

“Oh, please,” Stiles snarked, “Don’t be a little bitch. You’re a big boy. Don’t cry.” He scoffed, “You are so pathetic.”

“Stiles,” Derek begged – Isaac had never heard his voice so desperate. So weak. 

Stiles didn’t say anything back. Isaac listened as he left the kitchen, watched him pass by the living room, and felt his breath catch as their eyes met. The emptiness in Stiles’ stare. The dark circles beneath his eyes. The fear in Isaac’s heart at the sight.

Stiles’ lips quirked up into a smile. He walked up the stairs like he hadn’t drunk a drop.

 

-

 

Everything was going wrong. Like, to a comedic degree. 

Now, Lydia didn’t exactly try to understand most of the things that happened in that town those days but, unfortunately, she was very much involved with all of it. She was definitely glad that Stiles’ hostage situation had little to nothing to do with her. Everything since – not so much.

It was just… the buzzing.

She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t study. She couldn’t think. Her days were just endless, mindless buzzing. It was driving her crazy. Her house started getting noise complaints over the screams. She tried to muffle them in her pillow, but it didn’t help. Then, on one particularly weird night, Peter Hale came to her window and practically begged her to go to her grandmother’s lake house if she needed to scream so badly. She still was not sure what that was about.

Allison seemed to believe she was a psychic. Somehow, she’d convinced Cora of it, too. 

“Hey,” the wolf snapped, appearing in her window as all wolves seemed to be getting in the habit of doing, “I need you.”

Lydia’s lip quirked up at the corner, a small hum peeling from her throat, “I didn’t know you swung that way, Cora.”

“Shut the fuck up,” the other girl snarled, “Allison’s downstairs. We both need you. Now.”

“Oh, even better,” Lydia said mildly. She snapped shut the book in her lap and paused. The buzzing grew stronger in that moment. She felt herself swallow thickly, as Cora moved in her peripheral. 

“Hey,” her voice came, “You good?”

Lydia hummed primly, “Yep. All good. Fine. What do you need from me?”

Cora hesitated a moment. Lydia turned to her, brows raised as sternly as she could manage while her mind was practically impenetrable. The girl stared back with a look of genuine concern. Lydia wanted to smack her for it. 

“Someone stole the Argents’ strongest wolfsbane,” Cora said slowly, “We need you to find it.”

Lydia wondered if her scream would be loud enough to shatter this beautiful idiot bitch’s skull.

 

-

 

“You do realise this isn’t my job, right?” Lydia drawled, the second Chris walked into the room, “Maybe if you took better care of your highly valuable items, this wouldn’t be happening. You people can afford trackers, right? You’re crazy enough to have access to those things.”

Chris raised a brow back at her, “We’ll keep it in mind for when we get it back.”

Lydia hummed, for what felt like the millionth time, and crossed her arms over her chest, “I mean it when I say this isn’t my job. I don’t find magic fairy dust. I find dead people.”

“Yeah, okay, edgelord,” Cora grumbled, “Can you try?”

“Well,” Lydia said, rolling her eyes so hard it hurt, “Since you asked so sweetly.”

Cora pressed her eyes shut and exhaled loudly through her nose, “Mmmh. I can’t deal with her today. Come find me if you need me.” And she walked right out of the room. Lydia didn’t care. At all. 

She cared more about the buzzing, to be honest. 

“How much did you lose?” She asked.

Allison frowned back at her, “All of it.”

“We didn’t lose it,” Chris growled, “It was stolen from us.”

Lydia’s brows twitched, “So, why not go to the police instead?”

“Do you want to go to the police and tell them you had your most lethal doses of aconite stolen from your gunhold?” He snapped.

She blinked, “Well, not when you put it like that.”

A piece of paper, a pen, and a candle were slammed down in front of her. She raised a tight brow at the ridiculously disconcerting look on Allison’s mom’s face. Lydia did not understand what business she had being married to Chris. You normally see everything women with nothing men, not gorgeous, authoritative men with creepy, weird, probably murderous women. But, hey. Maybe creepy and weird and murderous was Chris’ type. Who was Lydia to judge?

She took the pen into her hand as Victoria lit the candle. She’d done this before. Practiced it with Laura, to be specific. It was meant to bring her a sense of agency among the whole waking up in front of dead bodies thing. It just gave her a headache and made her draw a tree. It was a damn good tree. 

“Alright,” she sighed, “Wolfsbane. Am I getting paid for this?”

“No,” Chris snapped.

“Good to know,” she mumbled, “It’s not like you’re rich, or anything.”

“Lydia,” Allison cut in, earnest as ever, “If this stuff gets in the wrong hands, our friends could be in serious danger. Please can you focus.”

Lydia gave her a mild look, and listened. She’d really ought to start charging for her services, though. This was exhausting.

Going into that trance-like state was fairly easy now. Especially with the buzzing. She tried to focus on the thought of wolfsbane – it was like a powder, wasn’t it? The kind that they used? But, really, it was a flower. Purple. Pretty. She saw images of flowers blooming and wilting and blooming and wilting again. The buzzing, like a film over the top, like TV static, was just that bit too loud. 

She could never tell how long she was out for. 

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Victoria’s voice cut through the static. Shrill. Very, very annoying.

Lydia blinked at the flame. Her brows drew together. 

The flicker sounded like static, too. It all started to meld together. One harmonious symphony of crackling and fizzling and scratching. 

“Lydia,” Allison’s voice came.

“Lydia,” Cora’s voice cut through louder. 

She snapped back to reality. Her hand was cramping up, and shaking. She stared down at the paper in front of her. She frowned.

A chessboard.

She’d drawn a chessboard. 

It was no wonder her hand had cramped up. She’d coloured each black check on the board, each black chess piece. Solid fllls of colour.

“Huh.”

“Well?” Victoria’s voice snapped, “What does that mean?”

Lydia pressed her lips firmly together, shrugged, and shook her head, “How the hell am I supposed to know? It’s a chessboard.”

Cora, who had apparently decided to join them again, stood far to close to her, “What does chess have to do with wolfsbane?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia said slowly, “But it sounds like you’re gonna wanna find out sooner rather than…”

The fire tore the words from her mouth. It dried her tongue. The buzzing grew louder. Louder. 

Louder.

She flipped the paper over. 

She tightened her grip on the pen.

It could only have been a few seconds. Then she snapped right back. Stared down at the paper again and felt the symbol stare right back at her. Angular. Threatening. 

“The Alphas?” Allison asked gently.

Chris sighed, “We’ll leave in twenty. Get your stuff ready.”

“Wait, what?” Lydia blinked furiously, as Victoria snuffed out the flame and the smell of smoke began to make her skin crawl, “What are you going to do?”

Chris met her eyes, as intense as always, “Get my stuff back.”

 

-

 

Scott was not involved with the Alpha pack. Not at all. At any mention of them, his whole body would seize up. He’d reverse into his hoodie and Isaac would squeeze his wrist like he knew what he was feeling. Surely, he was. God, poor Isaac. Scott wanted to wrap the little guy up in a blanket and lock him in a padded room until everything went away. It was a weird feeling.

But, yes. He didn’t mess with the wolf things. Not at the moment. He focussed on his education. With Deaton. Both educations. The veterinary stuff, and the magic stuff. He was lucky there weren’t actual wolf-y wolves in California.

That particular night, while the hunters and wolves were throwing down across town, Scott was cozied up in his room, glaring at an old book and trying to remember the difference between a Kelpie and a Selkie. Deaton’s stare, if he knew what he was struggling with, would have been withering enough to smack the knowledge back into his head. 

Lydia’s chessboard kept catching his attention. It was resting on his desk, bright against the darkness of the rest of his room. She’d asked him, in no polite terms, to figure out what the heck it meant. He hadn’t gotten far with it.

His mom was working a night shift, so he’d gotten take-out for dinner. The packaging was strewn across his floor, stinking up his room, and he knew she was going to be on his ass about it when she got home. For a while, that was the biggest thing on his mind. That was his only problem. Because, as far as he was concerned, nothing was happening that night. Nothing at all. 

He was wrong, of course. But Scott McCall didn’t have supersenses to warn him of that. Not in this timeline.

So, he was completely caught off-guard when he heard the sound of his front door unlocking. His mom’s shift wasn’t ending until 8AM, and no one else had a key. So, he sat right where he was. In silence. And waited. She would call out if it was her. ‘Scott, honey, I’m home!’  

Nothing.

Then, the creaking of stairs. And, still, no voice called out. 

Slowly, as carefully as he could, Scott reached over the edge of his bed, pulling out from underneath it a small jar. Mountain ash. 

The creaking grew closer. The footsteps grew louder. 

Scott unscrewed the lid of the jar and poured enough ash into his hand to use. 

The footsteps stopped. Right outside.

His bedroom door slowly scraped open.

The second the figure was visible, Scott screamed and threw the powder, eyes squeezed shut as he prayed and begged for it to do what it needed to and keep him safe. He coughed as some went up his nose. His heart was beating dangerously fast.

A familiar voice yelped, coughed, and gasped, “What? ”

Scott blinked his eyes open – his skin was buzzing, “Stiles?”

Stiles, in fact, was there. His hands raised in front of him, eyes wide and darting frantically around the room. His eyes seemed sunken in. He was shaking like a leaf.

“What the hell, dude?!” Scott screeched, “How did you get in here?? Do you have a key to my house?!”

Stiles swallowed so thickly Scott could hear it from across the room. He didn’t say anything. He just stared at his hands like they’d betrayed him. Each finger moved, slightly, one by one. In sequence. As if he was counting.

“Stiles?” Scott tried, gentler that time, as he pushed his covers away and rose to stand, “Are you okay?”

When Stiles’ eyes met his, he flinched back, just a little. Scott eyed the circle of ash around his feet. 

“Scott,” Stiles said, voice thick with something, “Did I… Did I hurt you?”

“What?” Scott shook his head, “No. You’re good. What’re you doing here?”

“I…” Stiles stopped. He looked down at the mountain ash. Something in him relaxed. He swallowed again, “I don’t know.”

Scott’s chest began to grow heavy, “Were you… Were you asleep?”

“What?” Stiles squinted down at him.

Scott shrugged his shoulders, “You were counting your fingers. Right? You’ve told me you have to count your fingers to see if you’re dreaming. I know you haven’t been sleeping good, but sleepwalking across town to my house is…” He frowned, “Another level.”

There was something so intense in Stiles’ stare that it made Scott want to look away. He didn’t. He couldn’t. None of this – the sleepless nights, the terrifying look in his eyes, the sleepwalking – would be happening if Scott hadn’t let him go off alone that night. He can’t let him think he’s alone now. He can’t let him know how afraid Scott is.

Stiles’ face scrunched up, knitting his brows together, “Fuck.”

Scott didn’t know what to do with that. So he just bent down and broke the circle to start coaxing the ash back into his palm, and back into its jar. As he did, Stiles’ legs tensed in front of him and began to creep backwards. 

“Um,” Stiles said thickly, “I need to… Scott, I’m gonna…”

Scott looked up at him, frowning hard. Stiles rubbed at his eyes.

“I need to go home. Okay?” He nodded, “I’m gonna… go to sleep. Properly, this time.”

“Okay, yeah,” Scott nodded back, “Good idea. You want me to take you back? Or, I can call Derek—”

“Don’t,” Stiles snarled.

Scott froze.

“Derek isn’t home tonight,” Stiles said slowly, “Isaac is sleeping over at Cora’s. My dad’s working late. I am… It’s fine. I’m going alone.”

Scott nodded shakily, “Okay.” Then, as Stiles started to stiffly walk back, he sucked in a breath, “I don’t think that’s a good idea, man.”

“Well, it’s not your idea,” Stiles said, “It’s mine. Nothing that happens to me will be your fault. It never was. It’s okay, Scott. I’m gonna be fine.”

Scott swallowed, and nodded, and Stiles left him alone on his bedroom floor. The ash slipped through the gaps in his fingers and settled back down on the hardwood. He listened as the footsteps stormed down the stairs and the front door slammed shut.

Something was wrong with Stiles.  

 

-

 

Erica heard about the fresh beef between the Alphas and the Argents from Cora later that night, lazying around on her couch. Isaac was baking something in the kitchen. She was trying, and failing, to paint Vernon’s nails. Maybe if he stopped moving, it would be going better.

She slapped him on the arm, “Quit it.”

He frowned down at her, “I’m uncomfortable.”

“Then be comfortable,” she growled, slightly less human than she’d intended, “Cora, keep talking.”

The other she-wolf sighed, “Yeah, right. So. Then, Chris was all like ‘You’re the ones that took it!’ and Kali was like ‘Oh, really? You’re just like your father!’ Can you believe that?”

Erica exchanged a wide-eyed glance with Vernon, then shook her head, “Kind of, yeah. That girl’s a psycho bitch. She kidnapped me.”

“Right, but the thing is,” Cora stressed, “She was saying that because Gerard Argent, like, the guy who kidnapped Stiles, or whatever the fuck, he killed a bunch of his hunters and framed Deucalion for it. You know, the guy who Stiles cut in half.”

“I remember,” Erica nodded, “That’s wild.”

“Yeah, and now they’re talking about going to war?” Cora scoffed, “They’re so dramatic.”

Erica hummed, moving back from Vernon’s hand to look over at the brunette, “Can you pass me the popcorn?”

Cora made a vague noise of agreement, scooting across the floor with the bowl of popcorn in hand, before she took a glance at the nail polish covering Erica’s fingers. She snorted, grabbing a few pieces and lifting them to Erica’s mouth. She took them, happily, and blew Cora a kiss. The other girl grinned back. 

“Boyd, you want some?” She asked.

The boy shook his head, “No, thanks.”

“Alright,” she shoved a handful in her mouth and turned back to the TV.

“I still can’t believe Stiles actually cut that guy in half,” Erica laughed a little, “I mean, I love the guy, but that was… Wow.”

“He’s fucking insane,” Cora said around her mouthful of popcorn, muffled and spluttery.

“Yeah,” Erica said softly.

“Something is wrong with him,” Boyd agreed.

“Agreed!” Isaac called out from the kitchen – the first thing she’d heard him say on the matter ever.

Erica frowned a little, “It’s not his fault.” She pulled back from Vernon’s hand again, tilting her head at the half-decent paint job, “I mean, he thinks it is. But he’s… He just needs help.” She twisted the cap back onto her polish as Vernon lifted his hand to inspect her work. She smiled to herself, “We heard him go through every single person he’d seen die, and that wasn’t even a fraction of everything that had happened. God knows what else has been done to that poor guy.”

“Erica, he’s a psychopath. And he keeps making Derek, like, so sad. He slept here the other night. Do you know how serious that is?”

“Stiles cured my epilepsy,” Erica turned to the other wolf, brows high on her head, “And he was just tortured non-stop for three straight days. No one deserves that, especially not the man who gave me back my confidence. He saved my life, in more ways than one. You’re all way too hard on him.”

Cora scrunched her nose up, “Maybe you’re just too easy on him.”

“To be fair, he was beaten as a kid,” Isaac’s voice said, “That fucked me up pretty bad.”

“Stiles has issues. Let’s all agree to disagree,” Vernon cut in, “and watch the movie.”

“Wait, you started the movie already??” Isaac called out, “Hey!”

Erica pouted her lips, as Cora threw her hands up in surrender. The blonde turned to do just that – watch the movie – when a reflection in the screen caught her eye. A weird, silver shape in a dark spot in the top left corner.

“Hey…” she started, “Am I seeeing…”

The hairs stood up on the back of her neck, and then whatever she was imagining was far from their biggest problem. 

Creatures – human-like creatures – were fabricating out of thin air, dotted around them. Swords. They had swords. Erica was shifted before she could take a moment to count how many there were. They looked like… like… She didn’t have a fucking clue. And she didn’t like the horror reflecting back off of their silver faces. 

“What the fuck? ” Vernon snapped, and then one of them was moving, grabbing him by the throat, and Erica was pouncing forward. 

Another grabbed her by the back of her neck and yanked her away. 

Cora roared.

Isaac cried out.

Everything went black.

Something was wrong. That much was damn right.

 

-

 

Peter was spending far too much time with Chris. It was only slightly uplifted by the knowledge that he could kill Victoria this time. People were very fond of doing that while he was dead, or preoccupied, and, you know, after this many years, he felt he deserved a turn.

For now, it would have to wait. 

“I need all of your silver bullets, please and thank you,” he said solemnly, the moment Chris opened his front door.

The man raised a brow at him, “Absolutely not. I’m trying to werewolf-proof the house so those psycho Alpha twins don’t come for my daughter. Why the Hell do you need silver bullets?”

Peter tilted his head, “You remember your first gun deal?”

Chris’ eyes darkened, a sigh so tired breaking from his mouth that Peter was almost entertained, “Please tell me you’re fucking with me.”

“Oh, I wish, handsome,” Peter grinned, “We need some silver. And by some, I mean a lot. All of it. Preferably.”

Chris scowled, closed the door only slightly, moved around for a moment with a number of shuffles, then slipped out onto the driveway clutching his coat and his keys. Peter bit down the real smile that fought to spread across his mouth as he followed after him. 

He had class, but Chris seemed to feel the need to slam the driver’s side door of his car hard enough to make the whole thing rock. Peter gave him a look, just out of the corner of his eye. He watched the tensing of his jaw, the scrunch of his nose, the flex of his arms as he started the car. 

“Stop staring at me like that,” he snarled.

Peter pouted, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“God, life was so good when you were dead.”

“You’re the one who chose to come back here.”

“You’re… I hate you.”

“Oooh, ouch.”

“Shut up.”

“You can stop talking to me whenever you want, Chris.”

He rolled his head over on his shoulders. Chris glanced away from the road to glare at him. He said nothing more. Peter didn’t fight the smile that time.

As fun as it was, his stomach was still uneasy. His fingers were still tapping against the car door, his feet were still tapping at the floor. It was easy to joke about it, but this was terrible. He was right. The kids were asking if he’d ever heard of smoke men with silver masks, and he was telling them they sounded insane, and he had been fucking right.  

Of course, he had. He knew Stiles. He knew Void Stiles. He knew how Stiles made Derek feel, and he knew how Void Stiles made, well, everyone feel. He knew. 

And every time he heard people speak about the things that had been happening – the tensions between the Argents and the remaining Alphas, the fights between Derek and Stiles, the Yukimura girl coming to town, Lydia’s chessboard, the fireflies. It was like he was back there. In the last timeline. Only, this time, he didn’t have Stiles to help him decide what to do. This time, he had his wolf. This time, the nogitsune had made the mistake of being the one thing it hated the most: predictable. 

Stiles wasn’t able to help him decide what to do. But Peter understood him. He knew he understood him right back. And whatever he did, Stiles would understand. And, hey. Stiles killed him once already. If it came to it, they would just call it even. 

Chris drove for a long time. Too long, if you asked Peter. He had things to do. Demons to kill. Stileses to save. But, eventually, they arrived. Chris pulled in outside a massive warehouse – something Peter was sick of being in and around by that point – and turned to him with a purposeful look. 

“Shall we?” Peter asked, turning to meet his eyes.

Chris considered him for a moment, then quirked his head, “After you.”

Peter let out a soft laugh, and slipped out of the car. It was a delicate dance, keeping people from seeing what was really going on in his mind. Sometimes he’d think that he wasn’t as good an actor as he believed he was. Then he’d feel sick to his stomach and have to smoke a cigar to bring himself back. He was suave. He was mysterious. He was unknowable.

“Who’s possessed, then?” Chris asked as they walked up to the front door.

Peter raised a brow, despite the fact Chris could not see that from behind him, “How should I know? It’s the Oni I’m worried about.”

“Sure, it is,” Chris drawled as they came to a stop before the entrance. Peter gave him a look – one he could actually see, that time. Chris pulled a face, “You don’t get involved with shit like this. You only came back to Beacon Hills to find Claudia ‘cause she brought you back from the dead and you wanted to kill her for it. As if you care about protecting this town, or anyone in it, from demons.”

Peter’s eyes sharpened.

Chris’ almost shone, “This is personal.”

“Still don’t know what you’re talking about,” Peter smiled stiffly.

“Of course, I do,” Chris said back, “I know you, Peter.”

“No, you don’t.”

Chris fell silent. Peter’s nose twitched. The security in the other man’s heartbeat was making him want to slam his head into the wall. 

Then Chris barely tilted his head upward, his face an uncomfortable mix of understanding and unease, “It’s Stiles.”

Peter’s face twisted up, “What? Of course not.”

“Yes, it is,” Chris nodded earnestly, “Stiles is possessed?” He tilted his head, “Makes sense for him, actually.”

“Stiles is…” Peter let out a harsh breath, laced with a growl, unwanted and too honest, “Stay out of this, Chris. It was bad enough the first time.”

“This happened before?”

“Yes,” Peter bit his tongue before he could say something utterly idiotic, like ‘he killed your daughter and you moved to France with that tiny traumatised blond boy’, “Stay out of it.” He sighed, “Please.”

“Why?” 

“Oh, for goodness’ sake, Chris, just let me save you for once,” he growled, “Do you have a key to this damn door or are we going to stand out here talking at each other all night?”

Chris stared at him for a moment. It made him fidgety. And kind of made him want to punch the other man in the face. Then Chris nodded his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out a ring of keys. He filed through them for an excruciating moment, uncaring of Peter’s no doubt piercing stare, and then placed a thin, silver key in the lock of the door. He turned it, it clicked, and he pushed the door open.

It had taken a brilliant amount of restraint for Peter not to kick the door down the second they got to it. He was repaid for his patience with an excellent reminder of exactly why the Nogitsune had ruined everything and everyone beyond repair the last two times they met.

Reason being: explosions are hard to repair.

Peter didn’t even feel it. One second, he was preparing to follow Chris to wherever he kept the silver, and the next, he was on the floor, metres away, completely deaf and feeling the world spin around him. His head was pounding. His throat was burning. He was healing fast enough.

“Chris?” He croaked out.

No answer. But a faint heartbeat. Faint, but strong.

His head dropped against the gravel. The Nogitsune was so dramatic. Setting its traps instead of showing some balls and fighting himself.

“Chris,” he tried again, “You–” A growl tore from his throat, “You good?”

A moan. Enough for him. 

“You know,” Peter snarled into the ground, “Maybe this just isn’t the day for this.”

Another moan.

He groaned back.

 

-

 

There was no silver. The Nogitsune seemed to be a bit of a kleptomaniac this time around. Surely there were better ways to cause chaos. 

At least Peter got to see Chris lounging on his couch looking like he’d just seen god. Maybe he had. Humans really were embarrassingly pathetic creatures. If Peter was still covered in scratches and burns and bruises and had a concussion, he’d be mortified. 

“Well, this has been fun,” he drawled, “Same time tomorrow?”

“Can you just…” Chris sighed, “Stop. For five seconds.”

“Well, it’s not my fault you’re as durable as a five-year-old’s paper doll,” Peter grumbled, “I’ve already put up with you throwing up in my toilet.”

“I have a concussion,” Chris roared.

Peter’s brows rose, “Yes. And it’s not my fault. Good to know we’re both on the same page.”

His heart did swell at the glare of Chris’ eyes. The lack of hostility behind it. Of course, his heart swelled. 

Then his front door opened. Not anything to be alarmed about. Derek’s scent was particularly recognisable those days. The discomfort and fear and insecurity were how he’d smelled for years, once. It was nice to have a real reason for it to come back.

Peter turned to give his nephew a kind look, and say, “Hello.”

Derek’s mouth bobbed open and shut for a moment, eyes darting to Chris’ groaning form, then back, before he said, “Something’s wrong with Stiles.”

Peter looked down at Chris. He met his sharp stare, raised a brow, and pressed his lips tightly together, turning back to his nephew and giving him a look, “You don’t say.” Then his lips pulled into a tight frown, “Why are you bringing this issue to me? You can’t go to Stiles to talk about it?”

Derek swallowed – his heart was all over the place, and the angst absolutely reeked, “You said you knew what it was. Tell me. Tell me what’s wrong with him.”

Peter considered him for a moment, eyes blinking slow, “How about we all deal with this in the morning.”

“What?” Derek tried.

“I have tried to fix this, multiple times, technically,” Peter’s brows knitted together as he turned on his heel, “and, quite frankly, I am starting to want to give up. So, I’m going to bed.”

“Can’t you just tell me what the fuck is happening?” Derek begged, “I just… Tell me it’s not… in my head.”

Peter ground his teeth, “Well, it’s in someone’s.”

Derek hesitated, “What?”

“Stiles is possessed,” Chris growled.

“Chris!” Peter snapped. The hunter met his accusatory glare with a harsh frown. It made him pause.

He could hear the conflict in Derek’s heartbeat – the back and forth of good and bad and hope and doom – before he spoke again, barely above a whisper, “Stiles is void?”

Peter swallowed, taking a long, painfully drawn-out second to compose himself, before he clicked his tongue and affirmed, “Stiles is void.”

Derek was gone before he could even think to try and stop him.

Peter turned back to Chris, “If he dies, you’re paying for the funeral.”

“If he dies, I’ll pay Claudia to resurrect him. Then I’ll let you kill her for free.”

Peter hummed.

“Deal.”

 

-

 

‘Derek. I’m sorry.’

He wrote the words on a random piece of paper he found on his bedroom floor. He didn’t have time to make it special. 

‘I remember once I told you that if I went void again, you had to promise to kill me. I knew you wouldn’t. It would probably be the first selfish thing you ever did. It’s my turn to be selfish (as if I’m ever not).’

It had taken too long to research which of his mom’s pills would work best. 

‘I’m sorry.’

He took as many as he could swallow without needing to throw them all up again.

‘It isn’t me. I am fine. I was fine. I will be fine. I don’t know what I’m saying anymore, I’m sorry. I’m scared.’

He drew a bath. He didn’t undress. 

‘Don’t be sad. It’s okay. I had to. I didn’t want to.’

He let his head sink below the water. 

‘I’ll see you later.’  

Maybe he should’ve said more. He should’ve told him not to do anything. Not to stop him. Not to bring him back. Not until the Nogitsune was gone again. 

The first time, he’d liked it. It had been the first time he’d felt power like that. He’d known it wasn’t him. It’d been his one shot at seeing what it was like to be them without having to actually do it. And he’d thought that he was going to die. None of it had mattered. 

Now, he knew too much. He had too much. Too much to lose, too much to gain. He had his own power – power the Nogitsune could use. To do what? 

Whatever it wanted to use him for, he couldn’t let it. It couldn’t use a dead body. This body was not the Nogitsune’s. Not yet. And if it had to be nobodies to ensure it wasn’t his, then that’s what it had to be. It was okay. Stiles wasn’t even that scared of drowning anymore. He was far more scared of what might happen if he didn’t. The things it could do to Derek. To Scott. Allison. Erica. His father. Peter. 

If he hadn’t already, he would’ve slaughtered Gerard for doing this to him.

Stiles didn’t notice when he lost consciousness. It brought him eternity in a second. White, or black. Nothing and everything. All-consuming and insignificant. 

He let it happen.

It was a mistake. 

He remembered what it felt like. Being possessed. Properly. Giving over control. It was like being a puppet on a string. Like having someone guide your mind with their bare hands, leaving fingerprints and distortions everywhere they touched. Taking the backseat in your own body and giving the wheel to a homicidal maniac. Stiles remembered it, so well. It haunted every nightmare, every dream, every waking moment of lost autonomy. 

Blinking up at Derek’s horrified face, in that moment, he knew. 

“Stiles,” Derek croaked, “Why the fuck did you do that?”

He blinked slowly, tiredly, feeling his voice curl out across his tongue and stab at the backs of his teeth – a distant concept of a sensation, “… I don’t know.”

The bathroom floor was flooded; his clothes were soaked. His body moved back, calculated in its motion.

“You…” Derek tried, frantic, “It’s okay, we can… We can fix it. Okay? You’ve defeated the Nogitsune before. You know what to do.”

You know what to do, Stiles wanted to scream, Kill me.

“I don’t…” Stiles’ voice said, “I don’t think…” He took in a small, shaking gasp, “I need to talk to Peter.”

“Okay,” Derek nodded, as earnest as ever, “I’ll take you to Peter. But, Stiles, I think you need to go to the hospital– You can’t heal– You took a lot… You took—”

“I’ll heal,” Stiles’ voice said softly, “I need to talk to Peter.”

“Tomorrow,” Derek said. 

Stiles could feel the annoyance in his own stare, though his lips quirked into a gentle smile, “Yeah. Okay. I need… I need to sleep.”

“Yeah,” Derek said shakily, “Sleep. Let’s go to sleep. I’ll get you some dry clothes and we… we’ll sleep.”

He watched, almost outside of his own body, as he reached out to hold Derek’s hand. He felt the sickness grow in his stomach as his thumb rubbed back and forth against the wolf’s skin. He watched Derek seize up even more. He watched. And he could do nothing. 

A tear, cold, traced his jaw and fell to disappear in the puddles of water on the floor. 

His body waited until Derek finally drifted off, hours later. It left in silence.

 

-

 

Chris did not stay the night. That much felt obvious. Once the nausea eased up enough, Peter drove him home in his car, then ran back to his penthouse. Alone. Mildly disappointing, but making out with Chris on his wedding day was as far as that hypothetical scandalous affair would go. Not to say that he didn’t want farther. He just wasn’t interested in losing Chris after the resulting slaughter of Victoria after she inevitably found out and tried to kill him. And he had more important things to stay up at night doing than sleeping with a married man.

When he settled, at home, he hadn’t expected Stiles to visit. Whether he was Stiles or Void Stiles, whoever it was, their heart sounded the same. Too fast. For a normal person, that is. He reeked of fear. And power. And death. Power didn’t necessarily have a scent, but Peter could feel it, anyway. That was Stiles.

The knock on his door rang out through the place. He waited a while before he answered. 

When he did, his heart might as well have torn itself out. Stiles’ face on the other side was not how he’d been expecting it. The quiver of his lip, the wide eyes, filled with tears. Holding back sobs.

“You’ve looked better, I must say,” Peter murmured, not even sounding sincere to himself.

Stiles’ lips pressed together like they did when he cried as a child, and it hurt, it did, “Peter,” he hiccupped, “Peter, I need—”

“Come inside,” the wolf snapped, ushering the stumbling man in and shutting the door behind him, “What are– Stiles.”

The man – he looked like a boy again – just sobbed, and lunged forward to yank Peter into a hug. He was shaking like a leaf. Peter held him back, more out of instinct than anything. Somehow it escaped him to worry about the boy’s tears ruining his satin pyjamas. 

“Hey,” he said softly, “It’s okay.”

“I’m scared,” Stiles sobbed, “I’m so fucking scared. He’s gonna… It’s… I don’t want to—”

“Stiles, you’re going to be fine,” Peter said, “We’ll find a way to turn you, and trap it, and everything will be okay. Maybe… Maybe it’s decided not to possess you permanently this time. Maybe it’s like when it got Derek and he tried to burn Chris alive! Wish I was there for that.”

Stiles went still – or, still-ish. His shaking began to slow. His breaths were more even, deeper, less like he was about to hyperventilate into an early grave. Peter nodded. That was good of him. Wow, he’d done a nice thing. 

He felt something an awful lot like a smile pressing against his shoulder. A familiar, burning smell struck his nose.

Then a thudding pain hit his stomach. He gasped, deep and rough, groaning as the inflation of his lungs pulled on that point that had just been hit. 

Stiles’ shoulders were shaking again. Not with sobs anymore. 

He pulled back with a crazed look in his eyes that Peter knew too well, a darkness underneath, tear stains down his cheeks, and a droning voice, “Really. You Hales are too easy.” 

He twisted his arm, and the pain grew stronger. It seemed to get worse as the black lines ebbed and weaved through Stiles’ skin, up his throat and across his cheeks. He giggled like a child. Peter tried to pierce his skin with his claws, grab at him and tear him away, but he couldn’t. It didn’t work. He looked down at the point where their bodies connected. A spell of dizziness hit him like a freight train.

Embedded in his abdomen, Stiles held a knife, laced with a dark purple powder.

“Wolf–s–b–ane?” He forced out, “C–reati–ve.”

Stiles’ brows danced upward, “Special wolfsbane.” He twisted the knife again, “Caused quite a ruckus with your little boyfriend and the nuclear family. And those Alphas are truly irritating creatures, don’t you think?”

Peter’s bitter laugh didn’t land quite how he wanted to. His body was failing him. He grabbed at Stiles’ shoulder, and the man just tore the knife from his flesh and backed away from his touch. Without the support, Peter collapsed to the floor. So helpless it made him burn – with pain, with indignation, shame, anger. 

“I really hope you’re waiting on a late-night visit from Mr. Silver Fox,” Stiles drawled, “Otherwise, I doubt you’re making it to the morning. Unfortunate. You’re my favourite, you know. And you only just got back.” He pouted his lips, a blurred vision, “Poor Peter Hale.”

The wolf’s lip curled, furious and terrified all at once – something he couldn’t hide. Stiles just tutted. 

“What’s wrong, Peter?” He asked, with a tone Peter had never, ever fucking heard before. He could hardly see, but the outline of Stiles’ body lowered down into a crouch before him, and he could feel the faint sensation of someone moving his hair. He bared his teeth. The other man snickered, “I thought you liked Void Stiles?”

Notes:

smash

Chapter 12: The Mother and the Son

Summary:

Somehow, it gets worse. It always gets worse.

Notes:

I am what I am, but we are not the same.

I cried writing this chapter. either that's proof that it's good or just proof that I was PMSing at the time. stream gibson girl and ALSO pulldrone by ethel cain. I am what I am, but we are not the same. it's happening to everybody.

i STILL have not finished the next chapter guys I'm stressing #cantwaittillthisisover

Sometimes, Noah wondered why. Surely, there wasn’t anything he’d done to deserve this. Had he just taken it for granted too much when he had it good? When he had a happy wife and a beautiful baby son and a job he loved? That can’t have been bad enough to warrant this. What had he done – as a boy – to deserve the house he grew up in? The father he was raised by? What had he done to have to watch his wife devolve into madness not once but twice? To have his son shot and killed, then come back a murderous, sick, beyond-traumatised man? 

Everything Noah touched turned to Hell. And it kept getting worse. 

“Claudia,” he snapped one afternoon, the first time he’d seen her in the house in weeks. His wife had frozen and turned to him with sharpened eyes. 

She’d bitten her lip, “I can’t talk right now, honey.”

“Like Hell, you can’t,” Noah growled, “What is going on? Where did you go? How is Peter Hale back? Why did you not answer my calls—”

“Noah, I…” there was a thickness to her voice, like a knot in her throat, “Honey. I can’t talk about this with you.”

“Why not?”

“Because,” she said as if it was an actual answer.

He swallowed, “Claudia…”

Her brown eyes softened, shining a little, as her lips pursed, “I really ought to learn to leave well enough alone, don’t I?”

“Claudia, what are you talking about?”

“I brought Peter back,” she said slowly, “To life. That wasn’t the best idea. I didn’t think to look into the future until after I did it. And the changes I think it made… were… not good.”

“Again,” Noah blinked, “what are you talking about?”

Her lashes fluttered. The golden shimmer in her eyes with each tiny sparkle of unshed tears rose to meet his, and her lips curved into a gentle smile. She reached up to cup his cheeks. Something about the way her thumb pressed into his skin felt like death.

“You know I love you,” she said softly, “More than anything.”

Noah nodded against her touch. She nodded back.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said, “And I’m sorry I’ve roped you into it. I’m sorry I did this to you.”

“Did what?” He pleaded.

Claudia looked down. She placed a gentle kiss on his lips, and pulled back, fighting against his hands as they searched for her, “It’s okay, baby.”

He shook his head, “What are you– Why are you talking like that? Why are you…”

“I need to take care of some things, okay?” She gave him another gentle look, made the words die on his mouth, and stepped back, out of his touch, “I’ll see you later.”

She left. Noah couldn’t stop her. Something had him frozen, helpless, weighed down by some invisible force. Like guilt – though he didn’t know what he was guilty of. Not anymore.

 

-

 

That house was entirely different, now. The air was thick. The silence was thicker. 

Derek was sitting at the kitchen table when Noah got home that morning. His shoulders were high, tight – his head was dropped between them, staring down at the table in front of him. Noah flicked the light on and watched him.

“You alright, son?” He asked, as soft as he could manage. 

Derek took in a sharp breath, then let it out all broken. His head dropped lower, as his hands came up to run through his short, dark hair. 

“Hey,” Noah said, his heart picking up a little at the sight – that fear that comes with seeing any kid in distress, yours or not – as he made his way into the room and dropped into the seat beside him, “What’s…”

His gaze landed on the near-empty orange pill bottle, laid on its side, the empty whiskey glass beside it, and the hand-written note. The panic grew. 

Almost frantic, he grabbed at Derek’s shoulder, tried to pry his hands away, “Derek, did you—”

“Stiles,” his voice croaked. 

Noah’s brows fell, “What.”

Derek rubbed at his face, before he pulled his hands away to show his red-rimmed eyes, “Stiles did it. Not me.”

Noah blinked, “Are you fucking with me?”

Derek’s face scrunched up in distaste, “No. I’m not lying about my boyfriend trying to kill himself because he’s possessed to fuck with you.”

Noah’s face scrunched up, that time, “What??”

“It wasn’t him,” Derek said. He almost sounded dazed. “None of it was him.” Something like a laugh slipped out of him. He covered his face again as his shoulders started to shake.

“Derek, I…” Noah tried. He slid the note across the table to himself, trying to focus enough to read the words written on it. ‘Derek. I’m sorry.’ … ‘if I went void again, you had to promise to kill me.’ … ‘It’s my turn to be selfish.’ … ‘I’m scared.’ … ‘I’ll see you later.’

He stared at that paper for a long time. With his heart tied in knots at the base of his throat. It was something he’d never considered was even possible. As fucked up as his son admittedly was, and as often as he seemed to end up fighting for his life, Noah never saw a day where Stiles would do something like this. He didn’t understand what was going on. 

“He’s gone,” Derek said into his palms, “I don’t know where he’s gone.”

“Is he…” Noah’s voice came out without him really meaning for it to.

“No,” Derek said, “He’s alive. I… I got him out. I did… I did compressions until he woke up. And then we… We went to bed. I didn’t know what to do, so I just. We went to bed.”

“Okay?” 

“And then I woke up alone—” Derek broke off into a wheeze.

This was definitely not something Noah had seen before. Laughter wasn’t necessarily new for Derek. He wasn’t the silent, brooding type. Not until Stiles was kidnapped. But this kind of a laugh, in this kind of a moment, was not a Derek thing to do.

“What the Hell are you doing?” Noah murmured.

Derek turned to him, wide eyes brimmed with tears, and a pained grin across his face, “We’re screwed,” his brows scrunched up in the middle, “If we fix this without all of us dying, I am moving to New York and booking a therapy appointment. I’m booking a hundred.”

“How do we fix this?” Noah stressed, largely ignoring the rest of it, “You said he’s… possessed? What–” He glanced down at the paper, “What is ‘going void’? ”

Derek just sighed.

“How do we fix it, Derek? ” 

The man gave him a soft look, “You have to…” his lips quirked up in a bittersweet smile, “Turn the person it’s possessed into a werewolf and trap the fly in a mountain ash jar.” He blinked, “And stab them with Kira’s sword.”

Noah was sure the look on his face was not pretty, “What the Hell did you just say to me?”

“Peter would know,” Derek said, suddenly sobering, “Stiles was… We need to find Peter.” 

“Peter?” Noah’s lip curled, “Hale? ”

Derek nodded. 

The Sheriff sighed, “I thought he was dead.”

 

-

 

Noah didn’t understand the supernatural bullshit these kids got up to. Well, these kids and, apparently, everyone he’d ever met in that town. So, when he pulled up in his cruiser to the address Derek had led him to, made his way up and let the (now sufficiently panicked) werewolf break the door down, he had been thoroughly disturbed by the sight of an unresponsive Peter Hale excreting purple smoke. 

“What in God’s good name is going on??” Noah cried out.

“Wolfsbane,” Derek snarled back, face scrunched up like he’d stepped in dog shit. Then his head tilted, “Oh, fuck.”

“What?” Noah watched as Derek reached into his pocket, fishing out a lighter and storming over to kneel in front of his uncle’s still body, “Derek, what is happening?”

“It’s poison. I need to try and burn it out,” Derek’s back was covering whatever it was he was doing, but the pungent smell of burning flesh was, well, pungent, “If this doesn’t work, you need to call Chris.”

“Don’t tell me you mean Argent,” Noah said gravely.

“Okay, then I won’t.”

Noah was at a loss for words. Derek made no sense to him. He only knew a fraction of everything he’d been through, but he didn’t think knowing the full story would help him understand how his mind worked. It wasn’t much of his business, he supposed. As long as Derek wasn’t also trying to kill himself, it wasn’t his problem whether his brain was normal or not. Having your whole family die in a fire and then forget you ever existed ought to do a number on your psyche. Still, he was awfully calm. 

“Call Chris,” Derek said lowly.

“Now?” Noah shook his head, as Derek whipped around to flash his blue eyes at him. Noah shut up. He pulled his phone out of his pocket and searched for the contact. He didn’t even know if Chris used that number anymore, but he waited, patient as ever, as it rang.

“Put it on speaker,” Derek said as he turned back to his uncle. Noah listened.

“Noah?”  

He stammered a little, “Chris. Hi. Uh.”

“What are you…” Chris’ voice was somewhat slurred, “Why are you calling me?”

“Peter’s dying,” Noah blurted out.

The other line went quiet for a moment, before Chris groaned, “I leave him alone for five minutes.”

“It’s the wolfsbane that was stolen from you guys,” Derek said, loud in the emptiness of the apartment, “I think Stiles was the one who stole it. How do I heal him?”

Chris went silent again, then, “Fuck. I’m on my way.”

“We don’t have time for that,” Derek snarled, “Just tell me.”

“You can’t–” Chris groaned again, “Fuck. I’m– You need to burn the wolfsbane and– The thing with the– We never found the rest of it, you can’t—…”

Derek turned back again, slower that time, meeting Noah’s eyes as he raised a brow.

“Are you okay?” The Sheriff asked into the phone.

“Stiles blew our… storage building thing up,” Chris answered, “I have a concussion. I’m fine.” 

Derek’s face fell, “Of course.” 

Noah watched him as Chris continued to mumble near-unintelligible instructions, or ideas, or whatever the Hell. Derek wasn’t listening. His eyes went distant, calculating. His brows shifted, as his lashes moved with each flicker of his gaze. Until that moment, Noah hadn’t noticed how grown-in his beard was, and how dark the circles beneath his eyes were. He wondered how badly a werewolf would have to sleep to get dark circles at all. 

“Chris,” he said, suddenly. The voice on the other end went silent. Derek’s brows twitched again, “You guys used Lydia to try and find it, right?”

“Yeah,” Chris’ voice answered.

“What did she… do?” Derek asked, shaking his head, “What happened?”

“She…” there was a shuffling on the other line, “She drew a chessboard.” Derek’s eyes lit up. “Then she flipped the paper over and drew the Alpha pack symbol. They said they didn’t do anything, though.”

“Where is her drawing?” Derek asked, louder than before, fired up all of a sudden.

“I think…” Chris mumbled, “Scott has it.”

“Great, thanks,” Derek rose to stand and made his way across the room to Noah, who was stood between him and the door. He werewolf clapped him on the shoulder, “You stay with Peter. Make sure he stays breathing. I’m gonna go find this wolfsbane.”

Noah grabbed his arm before he could pass him, “What are you– How are you so calm right now?”

Derek stopped, blinked at him, and shrugged, “Because. Stiles is fine. Peter will be fine. I’m fine.”

“How is Stiles fine??” Noah’s face hurt.

“A parasite won’t let harm come to the host,” Derek said slowly, as if he was making it up on the spot, “Being possessed is Stiles’ best defence from the Nogitsune. It’s okay. I’ll be right back.”

He broke out of Noah’s grasp and vanished. More of a blur than a man. And Noah was left alone, in Peter Hale’s penthouse, with his unconscious, poisoned, and dying body. And his son was somewhere out there running around blowing up buildings and trying to kill people. 

Sure. 

Why the Hell not?

 

-

 

Scott liked his privacy. You know? He liked to be in his bedroom and know that nobody was going to suddenly appear in his bedroom, without warning, at any moment, when he’d just gotten out of the shower, for a completely random example.

He thanked God that his mom hadn’t gotten home from work yet and couldn’t freak out over his scream at the sight of a man lurking in the corner of his bedroom. The understanding that it was Derek and not some axe-murderer coming to cut him into a thousand tiny pieces did little to calm him down.

“Dude!” He screeched, “Don’t you knock?! How do you people keep getting into my house?!”

“Where is the chessboard Lydia drew?”

Scott blinked at him for a moment, “Uh. Why?”

Derek’s brows rose, “Because I need it.”

“Why?”

His eyes narrowed, “Don’t start doing that. Where is it.”

Scott swallowed, nodding to the side, as he clutched his towel a little tighter where it wrapped around his waist, “It’s in my desk drawer.” Then the panic struck him a little, “The right one. Not the left. Don’t look in the left.”

Derek gave him a brief dirty look, and made his way across the room. Something about him was off.

“You okay?” Scott asked, “It doesn’t… mean anything, you know that, right?”

“Yes, it does.”

Scott swallowed, “Not really. It’s just a… kind of bad game of chess.”

Derek slammed his drawer shut and his back straightened, “You understand it?”

“Yeah, mostly,” he shrugged.

The wolf was closer, now – why did they have to move so fast, “Is the King okay?”

Scott blinked at him for another moment, “Uh. Which one?”

“I don’t know, either of them?” Derek shook his head.

“No. Not even a little bit,” Scott blinked again, “Like I said, it’s a bad game of chess. They’re both, like, one or two moves away from losing, if the other side doesn’t kill itself in the process. Metaphorically. Chess pieces can’t die.” His eyes darted away, “Oh, woah, do you think you can make living chess pieces? Like in Alice in Wonderland? Is that a thing in Alice in Wonderland?? I fell asleep halfway through that movie when I watched it with Allison—”

“Scott,” Derek snapped, “What are the next moves?” 

The question didn’t really sound like one. It was more of a demand. Scott hadn’t seen Derek like this since Stiles was taken. That wasn’t a fun thought.

“I mean…” Scott looked down at the paper in Derek’s hands, pointing at one of the horse heads, “If any of the knights moved, they could put either of the Kings into a stalemate, and then the whole thing is… null and void, I guess.”

Derek took a deep breath, “Of course it is.” Then his brows twitched, “Wait.” He brought the paper closer to his face, frowning at whatever it was he saw, “Why are there four knights?”

Scott felt himself pull a face, “Well. That’s… how many knights there are in a chess set.”

“No, that’s not what I meant,” Derek said with a grandiose eye roll, “Allison and Chris are the white knights, Peter is the black one, I am not meant to be a knight anymore.”

Scott’s brows had slowly crept up his face with every word he said, “I’m sorry? Derek– Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Derek snarled, “But I am supposed to be the King.”

“Dude, this is a chessboard.”

“I know,” Derek roared, “I have done this before. I was the King. If I’m a knight again, then who the fuck are the Kings?”

The sound of his mom’s car rolling up outside was like a blaring alarm. His eyes snapped to the window. The concern for Derek’s mental state did not wither, but the need for this to not be happening right now did grow somewhat stronger. Scott stammered for a moment, largely giving up before he even started because what was he meant to say? ‘That’s cool, Derek, good to see you and Stiles are both losing it right now. Anyway, my mom’s home and I’m half naked and you’re waving a piece of paper in my face and you are, like, so old. Old man in my room. I am still half-naked. Please leave me half-naked alone. It is just chess.’

“Mom,” he squeaked out, instead,

Derek growled under his breath, then looked over his shoulder, “Go to school. If you see him, do not talk to Stiles. Don’t let anyone else talk to Stiles.”

“What?” Scott’s brows met again, “What’s wrong with Stiles?”

“Stay away from Stiles,” Derek practically begged, and then, quick as the wind, he was gone. 

Fucking werewolves, man.

 

-

 

“Stiles! What the heck is going on with Derek?”

Scott had never been good at following instructions. 

Stiles did a double take, looking up from his clasped hands on his empty desk and raising his brows, “Something’s wrong with Derek?”

“I don’t know,” Scott shrugged, dropping into the desk next to his, “He told me to stay away from you.”

Stiles’ head tilted to one side, a small smile lifting the corners of his lips, “Why?”

Scott frowned, “He didn’t give me a reason. Is everything good with him?”

Some other students nudged Scott’s shoulder as they passed him. Stiles just pressed his lips together and shrugged. 

Then Scott frowned a little deeper, “Why are you in school today?”

The spark’s eyes flickered down, then back up again, as his bottom lip jutted out and he reached a hand out across the aisle to clap Scott’s shoulder, “I wanted to hang out with you, dude. And Kira,” he quirked his head, “You know, you two were real close in the other timelines.”

“Yeah?” Scott smiled, “Aw. That’s good. I was worried about the sword thing, even though I can’t… really remember what you were saying she stabbed.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said, a bittersweet, drawn-out sound, “Her and her swords.” His fingers tapped together, slow and sure. Not like how they’d moved the night before. None of him shook anymore.

“You doing okay now?” Scott asked gently. Stiles turned to him, tilting his head. Scott’s shoulders crept upwards with the sudden chill that ran up his spine, “You know. You didn’t seem to be doing too good last night.”

Stiles blinked slowly at him, as the smile spread across his lips again, “Yeah. It’s all good. I’m better now. Just had to go home and clear my mind. I slept a lot better after that.”

Scott nodded wonkily.

The spark’s eyes felt like they were burning into Scott’s, “Sorry if I scared you.”

Scott swallowed, shook his head and lied. Told him he didn’t. He didn’t believe that he was in danger, the way Derek had seemed to believe it, but there was an unease running through him. An urge to go back home and stick his nose in his books until he found the answer. If something was wrong with Stiles, he wanted to help. He just wanted to help.

They had first period together, but they largely all split up until lunch. That was the first time he saw Cora all day. It made him realise Erica, Boyd, and Isaac weren’t in school that morning, either.

“Hey,” Cora barked, as soon as she was within earshot, “Where the hell is Stiles?”

Scott’s brows drew together, “Okay, you guys are really starting to freak me out.”

“It took this long?” Lydia drawled, sat across from him, nose-deep in some AP textbook. Cora glared at the back of her head.

“Where is he?” She snarled. 

“I don’t know,” Scott said weakly, “You’re the one with magical… person locator powers. He’s your Alpha.”

“He’s your best friend,” Cora said slowly, “And he’s the only one who would know what attacked us last night, so.”

“Wait, what?” Lydia looked up at her, as Scott’s brows scrunched up even tighter, “Something attacked you?”

“Yeah,” Cora nodded, “These freaky fucking… smoke things. With silver masks and swords– they gave us these…” She tucked her hair behind her ear and pointed at something Scott couldn’t actually see, “… tattoo things of the number five, I don’t even—”

“You were attacked by Oni? ” 

Both Cora and Lydia turned to him with the same look on their faces. One brow quirked up. Lips slightly open. Pure judgement.

“Only… what?” Cora asked.

“Oni,” Scott corrected, “Japanese demons... Peter said… Stiles…”

The realisation crept up on him like a thief in the night. Like a foggy memory. Like the understanding that Stiles had been gone too long and the knowledge that none of this would be happening if Scott hadn’t let him go alone.

“The Nogitsune,” he said. The words fought their way out; slipped past his lips before he could reign them in. 

Lydia’s brows quirked up, “What is this now?”

Scott swallowed, mouth bone-dry, “The Nogitsune. We need to find Stiles.”

 

-

 

Kira’s new friends were weird. It was awesome. 

Back in New York, the school she went to was more of a warzone than here in Beacon Hills. She’d never felt like she could really be herself, not if she wanted to have friends or get through the day without losing her mind over that one kid at the back of all of her classes who would never shut the hell up. Here, she’d decided to just be herself. No regrets. No embarrassment. Just pure, honest, self-expression. And, by some miracle, it had worked. 

Allison and Scott were adorable. Kira sort of wanted to put the two of them in a glass box and shake them around. Like, a cuteness aggression thing. Isaac was hilarious – so were Boyd and Erica. Lydia and Cora were both somewhat terrifying, and Kira was still unsure if the two of them were even friends or not. They seemed to want to kill each other most of the time. Jackson was an asshole. But he did threaten to beat up a kid who shoulder-checked her in the hall once, so she was pretty sure she was safe from his wrath. For now. 

All of them were so sweet. Scott nerded out with her over the supernatural; Lydia and Erica went shopping with her; Isaac traded chemistry notes with her; Lydia caught her up on stuff they hadn’t learned at her old school. And then there was Stiles.

She’d only met Stiles once. He’d known her full name and brought up her mom for some reason. And he was definitely on drugs. 

So she was mildly concerned when he came up to her in the hall that morning. 

She looked past the dark curl of hair by his ear, down the busy hallway, and leant back to meet his eyes, “Um. Hi?”

“Hi,” he said. There was something about his eyes. The darkness in and around them. The pale of his skin, the red of his waterline. The tattoos poking out of his sleeves – they weren’t old enough for tattoos, were they? Or were the laws different in California? Or did he just do them himself? Out of nowhere, his face scrunched up and his eyes squinted, “I have acted so weird around you, haven’t I?”

Kira blinked back to his eyes, “Kind of. I mean, I get it, I am more awkward than pretty much anyone, ever.”

He hummed out a laugh, “You only think that because you haven’t spent enough time with me yet.”

She laughed, too, far less authentically, “Maybe.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted into a smile, “I want to take you out for lunch.”

“Huh?”

“You’re new in town,” he shrugged, “I doubt you’ve had a chance to try out all the best spots yet. My treat.”

Kira felt the urge to run, run, run, “Oh. I don’t know…”

“Consider it an apology for being so weird the first time we met,” Stiles said, “And a chance to explain why.”

“You weren’t weird enough to warrant something like that, I don’t think,” Kira squeaked out, “And, you know, everyone’s probably… expecting me.”

“You should come with me,” Stiles said. His eyes were boring into her. Making her want to crawl back into her own skin. The man practically bared his teeth, “I really think you should.”

 

-

 

The thing with Stiles was that he didn’t respect the balance of the universe. As a person, Deaton did not mind him. He liked Derek, no matter the fact that he could not remember him before the mess that was Stiles’ time travel escapades. Stiles was reckless, and he believed the universe revolved around him, and, honestly, it might as well have. Because with every idiotic decision he made – every life he took or power he moved around – everything changed, often imperceptively, but it changed, nonetheless. Deaton was still waiting for most of it to come back around. 

Claudia was a fool, too. Sometimes he wondered if it was genetic.

But, as he said, he liked Derek. So, when Derek wanted to help Stiles, he humoured him. 

“He’s possessed…?” Deaton could usually contain the judgment. Not so much right now.

“And Peter is dying,” Derek stressed, “And I need to know if you have any of the wolfsbane the Argents had stolen from them. Also, if you understand chess, that would be helpful.”

Deaton stared at him for a moment, “I see.” He blinked, hard, “Yes, they lost, um, Aconitum napellus, right?”

Derek shrugged, shaking his head, “Do I look like I have time to memorise scientific terms?”

Suppressing a sigh, Deaton hummed, “No. I suppose not.”

His office employed a system curated over decades. Deaton had been around for a long time, and he knew exactly how to keep the machine of his supernatural life well-oiled. Wolfsbane was kept in a drawer hidden behind his feline medication. Subverts expectation. The second the wolfsbane was in his hands and not two feet deep in a cabinet, Derek was snatching it away.

“Is that all?” Deaton asked.

“Unless you know how to stop a Nogitsune without hurting Stiles,” Derek answered, “Pretty much.”

Deaton turned his contemplative gaze to the younger man, and tilted his head, “I’ll see what I can do.”

 

-

 

His pack were all idiots. It was poor luck. 

Derek was an idiot for bringing him back. Scott was an idiot for not listening to him. Peter was an idiot for trying to comfort him. Now Kira was an idiot for not running for the hills. They weren’t exactly making it difficult for the Nogitsune, were they? 

Stiles was no longer trying to fight back. There was a weird cognitive dissonance over how he simultaneously felt like he was trapped in his own personal hell, and yet also none of it meant anything to him. It didn’t matter. It was torture. He didn’t care. He was horrified. And Kira was typing on her phone with shaking hands in the passenger’s seat of his mother’s Jeep. And, as terrified as she was – Stiles could feel it, it was making his chest bloom with excitement; making his skin tingle with power – she had no idea how much danger she was really in. Neither did Stiles. Kira’s naivety did not earn her a death sentence, but the Nogitsune didn’t care about things like that. Things like empathy. Or humanity. Stiles doubted it would kill her, but he never thought it would kill Allison, either. 

He didn’t understand where the Nogitsune was taking her until he saw the tops of the warehouses begin to peek out past the houses. All of him wanted to clench the wheel and turn around but he couldn’t. All he could do was watch. Kira’s fear felt so good it made him sick to his stomach. 

Everything was a daze. Like he was fading in and out of consciousness. It’s not like he wanted to. Well. He did want to fade out of consciousness, actually. Wake him up when whatever month it is now ends, if you catch his drift. But he didn’t want to be unaware of what the Nogitsune was doing any more than he wanted to watch himself do it. Still, sometimes, the Nogitsune got too excited, and Stiles got too afraid, and it all resulted in him being thrown into the future and losing too much time. 

It really hit hard, in those moments of desperation, how he was supposed to be, you know, dead. And, if he was, this would not be his problem. 

He should have died a long time ago.

He had no idea how Kira ended up on the floor of that storage unit. He had even less of an idea where he got the sword from. 

Kira was sobbing, shaking, staring up at him with tear-filled eyes, begging, “Please. Stiles, I don’t know why you’re—”

“You know, Kira,” Stiles’ voice said. She forced her quivering lips shut. “You look just like your mother did the first time we met.”

She hiccupped, “What?”

“I spent a long time in the mind of a man who loved her,” Stiles drawled, “I guess I get it. You share a pretty face.” He brought the tip of the blade up against her chin, tilting her head up as she tried to avoid the metal. She whimpered. Fear. Too good. “Mothers are a funny thing, aren’t they? There’s no one in the world who can keep a worse secret from you than a mother. I mean, I don’t have one, but Stiles? ” At the way his own heart clenched, Stiles’ lips twisted up into a grin. He whistled, “Stiles’ mother is one of a kind. I mean, come on. She killed his boyfriend’s entire family, then herself, and embossed a curse unleashing me onto whoever read the title of her grimoire without permission. Terrible. Great for me. But, you know.” He pouted, “Poor little Stiles. So much to feed off of.”

“I don’t understand,” Kira wept.

Stiles’ eyes stayed locked onto her face as his voice kept talking, “I have no idea why, in the last timeline, I would’ve settled with using that hunter girl, when Stiles was right there.”

Was it doing this on purpose? Of course, it was, he reminded himself, that’s what it does. The Nogitsune was monologuing its ass off – the most words Stiles had ever heard it say – just for him. Not for Kira. Not for the empty, boundless miles of warehouses and storage units around them. For him.

“And could you imagine if he hadn’t killed Kate?” Stiles felt himself sigh, almost wistfully, “If I could’ve possessed her instead. The things I could’ve done to Derek Hale. ” He broke off into something Stiles could only describe as a moan. A self-aggrandising sigh. Sickening. Exactly what it was intended to be. 

Kira’s head shook back and forth, “I don’t know who you’re talking about.”

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to hers, like the Nogitsune had forgotten she was there. He hummed, “Of course. Well. Sorry about this.” His brows quirked up, “I’m not, but Stiles really is.”

Stiles didn’t understand the Nogitsune most of the time. He thought that was the best way to outsmart it but, at the same time, he really just didn’t understand it. The Nogitsune probably didn’t understand itself, either. A being of chaos that has planned out every move before the game even begins? Stiles was sure that made sense. Funny. Maybe it did make sense, in the end. The Nogitsune was a walking contradiction. It was fitting.

Point being: Stiles could never tell what was intentional, if any of it ever was. If it had let Kira text on purpose, or if it hadn’t known that was what it was doing. It had to have known. It had to have known. It was living in Stiles’ brain. And Stiles definitely knew. 

This wasn’t about Kira. 

He didn’t have it in him to care much, anymore. There was no regaining control. There was no more Stiles. Not until someone else figured out how to save him. And Peter wasn’t doing it any time soon. 

None of it mattered. He watched as Kira screamed, fought back, and flailed away as new people burst in and those Godforsaken Alphas were in front of him. Stiles didn’t know what the hell was going on. All he knew was Kali was yelling and the twins were growling and Ennis was still hanging around and they were losing. Whatever was happening, they were losing. 

Stiles was distracted by the pain. Pain, pain, pain, endless pain – through his arms, his scars, all over him. And, above it all, still echoing over and over was that fact: he was supposed to be dead. But when had anything ever gone his way before?

The smoke cleared when he saw Derek. 

Derek was protecting him. Putting himself between Stiles and the countless people trying to kill him – for what? He didn’t know anymore; his memory was beyond hazy – a poor excuse for memory at all. It was all empty space and sudden jumps, but Derek was there. Still on his side after what few torments Stiles could remember. He was facing the Alphas, as weak as he was, for Stiles. 

Tears fought their way to his eyes. Real tears. One brief moment of autonomy for that. And he was gone again. 

This was a new kind of cruelty. One Stiles had expected – predicted – a long while ago. He knew that becoming Void again would’ve been far more horrible than it was the first time. He knew it. It wasn’t rocket science, but it was so unfair. Derek Hale, the angel he was, didn’t deserve to have to see him like this. None of them deserved this torture. A part of him still believed that even he didn’t.

Had his mother known?

He stared down at the dark lines of his skin as if the Nogitsune was thinking the same thing. It couldn’t be. He would not be able to handle it if the Nogitsune proved his mom right. He couldn’t be the monster she thought he was. He couldn’t. He couldn’t.

The first time Stiles was able to regain control of his own body, it was because the twins were lunging at Derek. Somehow, he did what he wanted to. He dragged him out of the way. That was him. He was sure of it. He was at the front of his mind, the pain in his arms strained the movement of his hands as he grabbed at Derek’s shirt and pulled him across the room. It was too small of a room to be doing this, and maybe that’s why they ended up against a wall so fast. 

Then Stiles was gone. 

His hand snapped up to wrap around Derek’s throat, to lock him in place against the metal. Derek’s eyes sharpened, darting. 

Stiles’ head moved like that of a stalking animal, “You love this, don’t you?”

Derek’s lip curled, head shaking what little amount it could, “You’re not Stiles.” 

As if Stiles needed the reminder. As if the Nogitsune didn’t know he knew. As if he needed to say it at all. Still, the Nogitsune leant his body back just a little, opened his mouth in gentle shock before he pressed his stolen lips into a pout and tilted his head firmly down. He shook Stiles’ head ‘no’. Coy and playful and cruel and evil. Derek’s eyes. 

Hate. Hate.

“I’m not,” his voice said lowly, tipping his head forward to press their foreheads together, “But you should feel how terrified he is right now.”

The second time Stiles was able to regain control of his body, it was just as it had been when he was a child, pleading ‘pull the trigger’, only forcing his voice out of his own vocal chords to murmur, “Kill me.”

Derek’s brows twitched, as his lip curled. He didn’t know who was speaking any better than Stiles did.

“Kill me,” he said again – the Nogitsune said – leaning in close enough to feel Derek’s huffing breaths against his lips, “Like you killed Kate. And Paige. And everyone else you ever LOVED!! ” 

Disgust, and rage, and hurt, all mangled together on his face passed by him in a blur. Stiles was torn from Derek and thrown across the room, and he was glad the Nogitsune had no regard for his need to eat, because he would’ve thrown everything up, just from the look on Derek’s face. 

On top of him was a wolf. The thought that Peter had survived flickered through his mind, but then golden eyes were blaring down at him and his stomach turned again. He only had a split second to recognise those eyes before they were gone again, hidden as she lunged to clamp her teeth into his shoulder. Stiles wanted to scream at the pain; the burn; the scraping of enamel against bone. His body just glared, silent, at the mess of fur around him, and raised his hands.

He barely caught the flicker of red light before he grabbed hold of her body and felt her teeth dislodge. The sparks of energy consumed her – blinding him for a moment – before she was gone. There came a deafening crash. 

Then silence.

His body sat up. Slow. It just made the steady throbbing of his shoulder a more drawn-out torture. Slowly still, he turned his head to the side. It was like a trainwreck. A moment in which Stiles wanted, more than ever, to disappear and disconnect, but something was keeping him aware. Present. Participatory. 

“You all just have to make things more complicated than they have to be, don’t you?” His voice drawled. The corners of his lips forced themselves upward, uneven, “I see why Stiles likes you all so much. The chaos.” He nodded loosely, “He feeds off it, too. Why else would he still be hanging around this town?”

He rolled his shoulders – pain, everywhere – before he moved to his left and rose to stand. Derek was still standing against that metal wall, staring at him like he’d never seen him before. Stiles’ heart was breaking. He could feel it. 

His eyes scanned across the room, all the waiting faces watching, terrified, “Where’s Mama? ”

Silence answered him. Stiles felt like his body was falling apart from the inside. Collapsing in on itself like a dying star. His vision started to blur. He started to fade away again. Then a familiarity, faint but present, dragged him back. 

It was Chris, emerging slowly through the crowd, with a thoroughly pissed-looking Peter trailing behind him. There was a gun in his hands. Kira was ushered out, finally, by Stiles’ father. 

Chris lifted his gun. Stiles’ mouth twisted into a grin. Wide. 

He began to walk forward. Everyone stayed right where they were. Smart, Stiles thought. Don’t show your fear. Maybe the Nogitsune can’t feed off of it as easily if you hide it. 

Incredibly juvenile. 

“Go on,” Stiles’ voice said gently, closing the distance between Chris and himself, reaching out to tilt the gun higher, aiming it at his own skull – at Stiles’ skull, “Do it. Stiles could meet his real mom, wouldn’t that be sweet?”

Chris’ eyes narrowed, “Stiles is still in there?”

Stiles’ body stared at him for a while, leaning forward to press his forehead against the cold metal, “You think that would change what’ll happen if you pull the trigger?” Chris’ brows drew together. Stiles’ brows arched up, “It’ll be just like every other time. Spark brains scatter the same as werewolves’. Only, without Mama’s grimoire, Stiles won’t do that thing where the skull tries to heal in the last split second before muscle memory stops working.” His lips pouted, “Shame, right? I’m sure that’s your favourite part.”

“Shut up,” Chris warned lowly.

“You ever imagined Peter’s skull doing that?”

“Shut up! ” His finger moved to the trigger. Peter’s voice cried out, and he froze.

Silence, again.

A laugh bubbled at the base of Stiles’ throat and spilt out – he traced his hand down from the barrel of the gun to rest over Chris’ wrist, “Woah, there. Careful now, Chris,” he murmured, “You might hurt someone.”

Chris’ right brow crept up, “Might do.”

“Okay, Stiles,” Peter’s voice cut in, “This is a lovely little throwback – really enjoying all the memories, here, but the fun’s over now.”

“You know, when I snapped his neck, that wasn’t the first time he died,” Stiles’s voice said, still staring into Chris’ eyes and smiling like an idiot, “The first time, Jackson and I threw Molotov cocktails at him, set him on fire, and Derek slashed his throat open.” His grin widened, “Stiles likes that Derek.”

Peter moved too fast. For Stiles, at least. For the Nogitsune, it was nothing. Just like he had with the Alpha Twins, and as he had to every other attempt at an attack since, his hand snapped up inhumanly fast to block it. He turned his neck uncomfortably, contorting to give Peter’s hand the most patronising glare he could manage.

He hummed, staring right at the needle of the syringe pointed at him, “Letharia vulpina or Kanima venom?”

Peter’s lip curled.

Stiles’ gaze lifted up to him, unblinking, “You’re not the only one with memories, Peter. And, unlike some,” his voice drawled, as his hand, grip too tight, began to twist, “I learn from my mistakes.”

With a flash of sharp, animalistic teeth, Peter’s wrist snapped under Stiles’ hand. The syringe toppled to the ground as Peter roared. Stiles didn’t realise his leg was moving until the glass shattered beneath his foot. 

He pouted, “Better luck next time.” Peter’s bright blue eyes flared violently right back at him as his pout shifted back into a grin, “I’m glad you didn’t die.”

“Oh?” Peter snarled.

Stiles’ voice hummed, a low, drawn-out sound, “Now we can kill you again.”

And Stiles – the real Stiles – was gone.

 

-

 

Peter spoke to Claudia only once after she came back to Beacon Hills. After she hysterically accused Stiles of trying to kill her. Or something like that. He’d had a vague understanding that she was coming from a place of accuracy. It wasn’t what he’d wanted to talk to her about, though.

It had been a simpler time. 

“Why did you bring me back?” He asked. His eyes stayed trained on the horizon, at the streets stretching out endlessly before them through his windscreen.

Claudia breathed deep beside him, “I missed you.”

Peter turned to her, eyes narrowing, as the distaste brewed in his stomach, “Were you always this selfish, Claudia?”

She stared back at him with her honey brown eyes, more Stiles’ eyes to him than hers, “I guess so.” Then she shook her head, “It was a mistake.”

“Yeah, you don’t say,” he growled, peeling his right hand off the steering wheel to rest his arm against the centre console, “You can’t mess with the universe like this, Claudia. Forget the fact that I very much did not want to come back, who the fuck knows what you’ve done by bringing me back—”

“I know,” she said, breathless, “I know exactly what I’ve done.”

Peter sat in the not-quite silence. Her eyes, as big as always, like a deer frozen in headlights, blinked back at him. They almost seemed to well up. He could smell the fear – he could feel it – it was seeping into his skin like a poison. As if he needed Claudia to destroy him in any way ever again.

“Why did you let her burn us?” He whispered.

Claudia’s lips rolled over themselves, as her lushes fluttered and she shrugged, “Why do you keep letting people do it again?” When Peter didn’t answer, her brows rose, “Because you have to. For whatever selfish reason, you have to,” she said, “I did what I had to do, Peter.” Her brows drew together, “… I did what was necessary.”

“So, you had to look Stiles in the eye and take him right back to when his mommy was trying to kill him?” Peter snarled, “What, exactly, is wrong with you?”

“I’m not… scattered and fucked up this time, okay?” Claudia said sternly, though her voice still wavered, “Stiles probably wasn’t there to hear it, anyway. And, this time, I’m right.”

“You seriously think he’s going to kill you?” Peter shook his head, “You? The woman who he got all of his power from? What, is that why you took the grimoire away from him?”

“Again, I had to,” she grumbled, “How about, from now on, we function under the assumption that I only do things because I have to.”

“Do you have to be relentlessly vague, as well?”

“Look who’s talking.”

Peter stared at her for a while. She stared back. The horror was still coming off of her in waves, laced with anger, only slightly – mournfully. 

He shook his head, “Don’t ever do that to Stiles again.”

“He’s my son,” she said, like a shot to the stomach, “Not yours.”

And Peter could do nothing more than raise a brow, “Burn in hell, Claudia.” 

“Peter,” she tried as he opened the car door, slipping out, “Peter.”

“What?” He hissed. He turned back to meet Stiles’ eyes.

Claudia swallowed, “I love you. Okay?”

Peter could’ve killed her right then, “If you love any of us,” he said slowly, “you’ll stop interfering with our lives and leave us all alone.” He stepped back from the door, “Thank you so much for the kind reminder that nobody in this bullshit town cares about anyone but themselves.”

“Peter,” she’d called through the closed window, muffled, “Peter, remember your promise. Okay? I love you! I’m sorry! ”

He’d left her – in his car – and walked into his apartment building. Her heartbeat kept beating steady just within reach, and a part of him wanted to find some earplugs. Call him a hypocrite, and you wouldn’t be wrong, but the sheer audacity of her to be that harrowingly selfish and expect to walk off scott-free was actually amazing. In the worst possible way. She’d lied to his face and let Kate Argent burn him alive, knowing damn well what was going to happen; she’d let his entire family, her family, die in anguish; she’d killed herself and taken Stiles’ childhood with her; she’d visited him when he’d died the second-first time, after Stiles burned down the Hale House and Derek had clawed out his throat for what Derek thought was the first time, like an Angel from the heavens, and she’d still let him believe that Kate had cheated destiny. Because she had to. Everything that happened after the fire was her fault. She was a fucking cancer upon that town. Just as to blame as Kate. If he never saw her again, he’d die damn happy. And she wouldn’t sour it by bringing him back. 

Her words were still ringing in his mind. 

Then he’d reached his floor and realised he’d been hearing three too many heartbeats coming from the direction of his penthouse. And, as the elevator doors opened in front of him, he’d stared at the three teenagers on the other side in utter confusion. 

Allison stared back at him. Isaac and Scott were hovering behind her.

He raised a brow, “I don’t have time for whatever it is you three are about to do.”

“I’m sorry,” Allison pleaded, “I didn’t know what else to do.”

His face scrunched up, “Really? Because I am truly never a first solution. And I shouldn’t be. What problem could these tiny children possibly have?”

“Something’s wrong with Stiles,” she answered.

“Oh, good, this again,” he murmured, “I am aware, thank you.” He stepped out of the elevator, metal doors sliding shut behind him, “You can all go home now.”

These kids really ought to stop getting themselves involved in things like this. You know. Things like Stiles. 

“No, that’s not…” Allison huffed, “They’re terrified, Peter. And you know Stiles better than anyone. I thought you’d… talk some sense into them. Tell them everything’s fine.”

Peter narrowed his eyes at the blonde mop of hair that was Isaac Lahey, “Well, what’s your problem with him? You weren’t even there when Stiles cut Deucalion in half.”

The teenager’s brows rose, as his face paled, “None of your business why I’m scared.”

Peter raised his brows right back, “Sure, it’s not. Can I please enter my home, or are we going to keep having this amazingly enlightening conversation in the hallway?”

They were lucky he was a beacon of hospitality. It was the first time anyone other than his immediate family had actually come into his home. At least they were too petrified to overstay their welcome. This would be relatively painless, he figured. 

The children talked for a long time – far too comfortable with him, in his opinion. They should’ve been terrified of him – but, then again, they were the same children who followed Stiles as if he wasn’t far more terrifying. Still, he listened as they recounted the moments Stiles had scared them recently, how weird he’d acted, how, in Isaac’s case, he reminded him just too much of his father. That, Peter could empathise with. And, with each story, his stomach turned worse, the dread grew, the reality started to set in that he was not being unrealistically pessimistic. He was, as always, right. 

“Do you know how to help him?” Scott asked, so earnest. Peter stared at him for a while and felt his mind wander, only slightly, to ponder how unfair the universe had been to him the first time. And yet that Scott would have asked the exact same question. 

Peter pursed his lips, “You can’t.”

“Well, yeah, obviously,” Allison’s brows arched up, “it’s not like we can erase his memories of what my grandfather did to him, but we can make it a little bit easier, right?”

Peter felt himself hesitate, “Huh.” He tilted his head, “That’s not a terrible idea.”

Allison blinked, “What’s not a terrible idea?”

Peter frowned, turning to stare into space, “I need to find my daughter. Wow.”

“What??” Allison squinted at him.

Isaac frowned back, “You have a child?”

“She’s your age,” Peter said mildly, “She’s a coyote. Lives in a cave. In the woods. With a baby doll. Stiles dated her for a while.” The kids just stared at him. Silently. He shrugged, “Anyway. I’ll see what I can do for Stiles. But, rest assured, you all can do, quite literally, nothing. Unless he tries to kill you,” he murmured, rising to his feet and starting to usher them out, “If he tries to kill you, just kill him back. We can fix it after the fact. If you fight and let him live, he won’t stop until you die instead.”

“What?” Scott squeaked. 

“I am kidding,” Peter grumbled, “Mostly. Now, get out of my house. It is far too late for this.” His gaze flickered back to those giant windows, at the darkness that lay beyond it, at the absence of Claudia’s heartbeat – for once in his life, he wanted to apologise, and of course, it was to her, “If you see any evil ninjas, though, do give me a call.”

“We don’t have your number,” Isaac murmured.

Peter grinned down at him, “Yeah.” He reached out, opened the door, and nodded at the hallway, “Get out.”

He hadn’t known how little time he had. He hadn’t known that the Nogitsune was going to try and take him out of the game before it even started mere days later. He hadn’t yet known how it felt to have his life stripped from him so slowly. Not with the breaking or clawing of a neck. He didn’t yet know what it was like to feel himself die. Properly. Torturously. And maybe that’s how it had felt for Stiles, those days with Gerard. He could fix that. The only reason the Nogitsune would be able to take control of Stiles’ mind was if it was broken. He knew that Stiles would never let it happen if he had any kind of choice.

He knew how to help him.

 

-

 

Claudia had seen her death once before. She’d held Peter’s hands in hers and watched how the world healed without her in it. 

That was not what she saw this time.

After she brought Peter back, she’d had a moment of clarity. When the fog of grief faded and it was just her, in that sand-ruined tomb, surrounded by cobwebs and dust, she remembered the things she’d been taught. The words she’d treated as gospel. She’d remembered the will of the universe. Yet, she’d known that Peter would not be breathing in that stone box if he was not meant to be, but he would never have died, either. She would not have been resurrecting a decomposing corpse with too many spells from her grimoire. He would still be there without her interference. 

So, she looked. Just to see what would happen now, something she should’ve done before ever even thinking of bringing him back. In doing so, she’d left him alone. She hadn’t realised he’d wake up so soon. She saw him waking up alone when she looked for it, though. 

And she saw this. 

Her son, her beautiful son, rotting from the inside out as that demon took control of every aching bone in his body. A being of chaos, so quick to deviate from the future she’d now seen, just enough to give her a flicker of hope. False hope, of course. Still, the first time, it had not come true. Not for her. 

But if it’s meant to be, it will be. The universe will take what it needs. And, maybe, it just is so that she cannot live with her baby. A cruelty, yes. But a cruelty bigger than her.

She’d been too scared to come back to Beacon Hills. Too scared to face him. To, at any moment, have her life taken from her. Then, other people’s lives were in danger, instead, and she had to. She hadn’t expected to still see lucidity in Stiles’ eyes. She’d watched this happen to him over and over – the evil of the Nogitsune. She’d seen the first time, the second, the third. Now this. Technically, in the nature of chronology, this should be third. Second should be fourth – though she’s still unsure if Stiles is ever going to be there to see that. Back in the first timeline. When the Nogitsune made – or is going to make – them bring Allison back. Claudia was terrified for her, too. She didn’t know– She’d seen so much, but she didn’t know anything. The Nogitsune wouldn’t let her know anything.

It kept her up at night to know that she’d let her son be tortured in that tiny room just because she was afraid. That she’d let it happen and, in turn, let the Nogitsune in. That it was her fault. Just as it all was. Oh, how pathetic of a tragedy was she.

She couldn’t put on a brave face at the sight of him in that storage unit, when she finally arrived. There wasn’t a single glimmer of Stiles in those eyes. All she saw was those visions of her predetermined insanity staring back at her. Her own eyes. The only good part of her she’d given to him. 

She just wanted her baby back.

Instead, she’d had to hurt him. She’d had to get him away from everybody else. Away from the other kids, from Peter and Chris – most of them battered and bloody. She’d had to stare at the blood staining his hoodie and fight. And, when he got bored of faking out and pretending to snap back to Stiles, he was gone. He vanished. He slammed her head back into a wall, and when the mist faded, he was gone. 

She couldn’t let him hurt himself. Or anyone else. She couldn’t run away and wait for Noshiko and her Oni, or Peter and Chris, or Stiles’ betas to save him. They couldn’t see what she could see. 

It was lining up now. It was starting to make sense. When she looked, the visions didn’t jump and shift and rewrite themselves. They were starting to stick. The chaos was starting to die down. And she could see, as clear as day, what she had to do for that to happen. For the chaos to rot out of him – out of time. 

So, she let him come for her. Call it her divine move. Self-sacrifice. Suicide. She’d always found them rather synonymous. 

When she ended up in a creaky chair in that abandoned building, she watched her son with nothing but attentiveness. She wanted to remember every inch of his face, every cell of his skin, just in case. Even if it was all wrong. It didn’t matter to her. This was her baby. Her baby.

All she’d ever wanted was her baby back.

It had been days since anyone had seen him. She’d found him in a darkened street and he’d pretended to be Stiles. He’d begged her for help, pretended to be her baby, and she’d let herself pretend, too. It was okay that it was happening exactly how she’d seen it. It was okay.

Her baby was crouched down in front of her, staring up with those empty, stolen eyes.

Her hair was dripping. Her eyes were burning. The container of gasoline was resting loosely in his thin fingers. 

“I don’t normally try to,” he said, rough and low, like a droning sound, “but I don’t understand you, Claudia. You could kill us in seconds, and I know you have it in you. You’re not scared to hurt us. But you’re not doing it.”

Claudia couldn’t speak. She just sat there, still and silent. 

He rose his right hand, exposing the thin lines of red over black across his wrists, and pressed his palm against her knee, “I haven’t really wanted to kill anyone, you know? You’re all much more fun when you’re alive. But you. You are someone who is more fun dead.” His lashes fluttered, as the veins in his hand and arm began to pulse dark black – she wondered what feeling, in particular, he was feeding off of, “For Stiles to know that he let me in and, because of him, I brought his mother her karma. To know that he burned his mom alive.” His lips split into a grin, sharp and nauseating, “It’s delicious.”

Her eyes flickered to her bound, gasoline-drenched wrists, then back to him. She still had nothing to say. She just wanted to reach out and cradle his cheeks. Her baby.

“The way that he hates you,” Stiles growled, “It’s amazing. After everything you did – helping Kate, killing yourself, beating the life out of him, I mean, I could go all day, but that hate.” He laughed, “I mean, it’s your fault we’re here in the first place. That speaks for itself, I’d say.”

Had she set her fate in stone the moment she embossed those words in the cover of her grimoire? Was it just a matter of when?

She swallowed, “I love you.”

His eyes darkened. 

“If you can hear me, Stiles,” she took in a shaky breath, “Mischief.” There was a mirth to those dark eyes. A glimmer of entertainment. She fought back the tears, “I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.”

“He’s not listening,” Stiles said softly, false sympathy twisting up his perfect features, “Sorry to disappoint, but he’s gone, Claudia. And he’s not coming back.”

And Claudia smiled because Claudia knew. She saw. Stiles was not lost and the world, again, would heal without her in it. Stiles would heal. It was meant to be, and it would.

“You won’t even pretend?” She asked, the taste of gasoline thick in her mouth, bitter and sickening, “Let me have my baby back one last time?”

“Pretending has gotten you far enough,” Stiles said, “I won’t help you go out peacefully, Claudia. How would that help me? You know, this sort of thing is kind of important to me.” He nodded loosely, “The pain. Chaos. Strife. I’m sure you’ve heard it all before, I mean, you’re the one who wrote the incantation that summoned me. In Stiles’ last timeline, as well. You really are a narrative force to be reckoned with.” His brows rose, “But, alas. All narratives must come to an end. Another knight off the board and, hopefully, you won’t get off as easy as Uncle Peter did.” He scrunched up his nose, bringing a box of matches out of his pocket and sliding the container open, “The favouritism is pretty obvious, though. It’s funny, right? How Stiles loves the man that ruined his life and really brought him here, but hates the woman who died for him to be happy. Well, you’re not her. But the point still stands. He should be more compassionate to the woman in his life, don’t you think?”

Claudia’s lips fell open, “Why don’t you use his magic?”

Stiles grinned, “Because I want him to remember he is no stronger than he was at sixteen. And, if he somehow gets rid of me, I will leave him with gallons more blood on his hands than the last time.” His lips twitched, “And that every negative feeling those words make rise to his heart make me that much stronger.”

He tilted his head. Waiting.

Claudia said nothing.

And Stiles’ smile fell, pressed down into a hateful frown as the light drained from his eyes, “Good riddance, Claudia.”

Time froze as her heart finally broke. As she registered the last words she would ever hear her baby say, and she forced her mind to remember. To bring back memories of her baby, her tiny, perfect baby calling out to her, laughing with her, showing her his favourite comics and movies and games, the light in his eyes – her eyes. She let the love wash over her. Like liquid adoration, unconditional, pouring over her skin and seeping in. Warming her eyes and her mouth and all of her. Her baby. She just wanted her baby back.

Stiles struck the match.

Her baby would be there waiting for her. It had been six years too long. 

It burned. Only for a moment. A faint calm ignited from the understanding – the Hales had not suffered for long before they died. She was so happy to understand. She was not screaming because it hurt. She didn’t know why she was screaming. She didn’t stop until her vocal cords melted. 

It had been six years too long. Her baby would be there waiting for her.

 

-

 

In front of him, the building was ablaze. It was roaring, the flames licking and tearing at the brick and lumbar. With a flurry, another burst of fire broke free from the shattered windows of the third story. 

His throat was closing up. Surely, he was suffocating. From the smoke, or the horror, disgust, rage, grief, all of it at once, whatever, it didn’t matter. He could still see his mother’s eyes. The love in her eyes. She still loved him. 

She had never stopped loving him. 

Stiles felt his mouth split into a grin. The skin at the corners of his lips cracked. The heat of the fire burned at his skin. 

He remembered this.

“Stiles.”

He felt his head turn to the side.  

There was Derek, just as he remembered. His eyes were tired, and his brows were low. That exhausted look – the face of a man who had not known peace in months. A victim of a pathetic monster’s relentless abuse. A man forced back into all of the worst moments of his life. 

This was a sick joke.

“Stiles,” he said again. 

Stiles felt his smile grow, his chest moving with the sick laugh that bubbled out of him. 

This laughter was not his. 

This joke was not his. He swore, it wasn’t his.

Derek shook his head. 

It was a memory of a dream. Of that last timeline, back months ago, before they even knew Allison was Void. When he still thought it could have been him. So much had happened. He had done so much. His mother was burning alive, and Derek was forced to watch, and nobody in this place deserved to be subjected to Stiles Stilinski.

Derek. Perfect, beautiful, heaven-sent Derek.

The smile fell, just barely, with an effort behind it that made Stiles’ skull burn. A pain he remembered. 

“Derek,” he forced out. His throat closed up once again.

Derek’s eyes widened. Hope – treacherous hope – broke through, “Stiles?”

A thud of dull pressure against the back of his neck, and a sudden searing pain, and Stiles was gone just as fast as he had been when this was all just a dream.

All black. 

He hoped, wherever he had gone, his mother might be waiting for him.

Notes:

FUCKKK MY SHAYLAAAA

the longest 10k words of my life fuckingg helllllll

Chapter 13: The Parasite and the Host

Summary:

It's less of a Divine Move and more of a Frantic Attack.

Notes:

ough

special thanks to ethel cain and jorge rivera-herrans. couldn't have done this without pulldrone and odysseus. weird combination but it got the job done THIS IS 13K WORDS LONG AND I WROTE 7K OF THEM IN FIVE HOURS LAST NIGHT

Suffocation. A familiar sensation. 

Stiles was clawing his way back to the surface. Or, he thought he was. It would do nobody any good to dig further down. He wouldn’t be surprised, though. It was almost comfortable. He wouldn’t have to face it all if he just kept. Digging. Down. 

Direction was lost on him. A useless idea. His body was full and everything around him was suffocating. He knew suffocation. He knew what it was to drown. To be buried alive. This body, whosever it was now, was still fighting to stop what he new. The moment in which the pressure grows so strong your brain starts to die and your lungs give in. His body was still clawing its way back to the surface. 

And, when the air, the sudden assault of empty space, rested upon his fingertips, he wondered if they had finally let him go. If it was over. If Stiles was finally dead.

Stiles was dead. He had said it enough times. Stiles was dead.

And now his mother was, too. 

Of all familiarities, the feeling of a mother’s death was not one he had ever expected to find. For him to be to blame for it. Twice. 

Stiles Stilinski, the dead boy with the dead mother, was clawing his way out of a grave, suffocated still by those sins. They wrapped around him, around, and around, endlessly, relentlessly, everywhere. He could tear and pry at the rotting gauze until his fingers bled, but it would not change the blood that was really on his hands – it was not his own. 

The silence in his mind was deafening. 

There was no buzz, no gentle murmurs of his mother’s voice. All there was left was himself. Stiles. 

Blinding, the blur of red and orange, the reaching hands pulling at the bandages around his face – no longer just his own. There’s a roughness to Derek’s fingertips, earned over years of fighting and grappling for sanctity. It’s a roughness that Stiles’ skin takes as a touch from heaven. His cheeks were cradled so gently by those rough hands and his throat was burning as the gauze was dragged out through his teeth. 

Suffocation. 

He gagged as his throat constricted around the bandages; like a wormhole into infinity, they kept on going. And, just when he thought it might never end, it did. 

The first sound from his empty mouth was a just as empty scream. His throat was already raw. There was nothing to gain by not letting himself make it worse.

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was breaking through the mist, through the deafening sound of his own droning cries – to have his voice back was a dizzying, desperate thing, “Stiles, look at me.”

When his eyes rose to Derek’s, all he could see was the way the fire made his green eyes shine orange. A golden glow he could’ve let him have if he were better. If time had been on his side, and he had known to go further back. If Stiles could have let Derek stay with that girl, his first love, whose name he could not quite remember, he would not be there now. The fire blazing beside him would mean nothing to him if it still happened. What could their lives have been if that girl had never died? How had Stiles not thought to go back to a time where Derek did not even know the name Kate?

It was all meaningless now. Nothing within him was safe from the ache. His face was soaked wet. Derek’s darting eyes were wide, and panicked. 

One moment passed where Stiles was still running on pure instinct. His legs practically boneless beneath him, he dragged himself up onto aching feet and stumbled, yanked back by Derek’s iron grip as—

A thundering bang. 

The house collapsed down onto itself. Fire burst out in pillowing waves, and Derek dragged Stiles away so fast his feet were just scraping along the ground, tangled in gauze, and he was still screaming. His aching hands – all of him was aching, so much it all faded into nothing – were reaching out, near burning from the heat, and Derek kept pulling him away. A hand reached down to grab at the wolf’s arm, and Stiles had to bring himself back to stop himself from snapping Derek’s wrist to get him off of himself. He did stop himself. Only barely. 

When his voice cracked and shattered and died in his throat, he broke off into the driest of sobs. The words echoing in his silent mind, over and over –  I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault. I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault. I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

Why couldn’t she have died the monster he’d spent so long believing she was?

“I know,” Derek was murmuring into his ear, stroking his hands up and down Stiles’ arms, because apparently Stiles had been saying things, and apparently Derek didn’t hate him. He forced Stiles’ body around, and buried his face in his chest, “I know.”

Stiles just shook, and cried and cried. 

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

“Where did it go?” Stiles forced out.

Derek’s hands kept stroking, up and down, “What?”

Stiles yanked backwards, away from his touch, mind spinning, “ Where did the Nogitsune go? ”

“I don’t…” Derek’s brows twitched. He looked over to his left.

Stiles’ head snapped to the side, to stare at the waiting form of Peter Hale, whose claws lay limp by his sides, dripping with blood. His face was utterly blank.

“Peter,” Stiles croaked, “Where did it go?”

Peter’s vacant eyes shifted, looking straight through him, “I wasn’t exactly paying attention.”

A growl broke from Stiles’ aching throat – all of him, aching – as he stormed forward, away, again, from Derek’s reaching hands, “Don’t give me that, where the fuck did it go?!”

“What do you think you can do to it, Stiles?” Peter’s dazed voice asked, “You can’t kill it.”

“I killed myself to get rid of it once already,” Stiles spat, “You think I won’t do it again?”

And Peter just stopped. He tilted his head. And Stiles’ blood ran cold. 

“What the fuck?” The words came out like molten lava – so heated, burning his tongue, “You…”

The look on Peter’s face. Stiles knew that look. He knew that look. He knew that look. 

He lunged forward, and Peter roared. A small little roar. He hadn’t expected Stiles to catch on, had he? How could he? He thought he was God – it thought it was God. But if the Nogitsune was God, then Stiles was going to kill God. Nothing poetic, or pretty, or mystical. He was going to kill God.

Stiles was going to kill the Nogitsune. And if that meant he had to kill Peter, then so fucking be it. It wouldn’t be a difficult thing to undo. He was going to kill the Nogitsune, but first he had to make its host uninhabitable. He had to force it out. 

He did it with Gerard. He would do it again. He was going to do it again.

Peter struggled against him, clawed at his skin with blunt fingers, and Stiles grabbed back with the brightest glowing arms. The wolf was screaming. The wolf.

“Stiles!! ” Peter roared, truly roared, so loud Stiles’ ears rang, “I am not possessed! I cannot be possessed!! It’s me, Stiles!!”

Stiles was gasping for air, throat burning now more from the smoke he was inhaling than the screaming, and when he finally figured out which way was up, he could see Peter staring down at him; feel the hands wrapped around his wrists, the ground beneath his back. He hiccupped. 

“I’m sorry,” he gasped. 

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

Peter slowly nodded, “I know. It’s okay.”

Stiles shook his head, feeling his lips quiver as fresh tears began to push their way to his eyes and through his nose; he sniffled, “No.”

“No, that’s true,” Peter said, just as slowly as he had nodded before, “But you have done enough, Stiles. You need to go home, and let us take care of this.”

“No,” Stiles said. He meant it. “I need to kill it, Peter.”

“We will,” Peter said.

“You can’t.”

“Neither can you.”

Peter stared at him for a while. Covered in glowing orange. Sweating. Shaking. Almost inperceptibly, but Stiles was perceptive. Now, he was. Now, he was focused. He was aware. He was himself, that was the most important part. The nogitsune had made the horrible, terrible mistake of giving him something to fight for. Someone to avenge. 

He shouldn’t have had to. He was supposed to be dead. 

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

He wanted to go home. It wasn’t time to go home yet. 

The Nogitsune was not as smart as it thought it was. It didn’t think about anything, not properly. It took opportunities as they arose, it didn’t plan further ahead than maybe a few hours, and then insisted everything was falling into place. There is no order in chaos. There were no places for anything to fall into. 

How do you stop a thing like that?

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

“I need the grimoire,” Stiles said before the thought even fully formed in his head. The words almost shocked him. His whole body tensed. 

Peter’s brows shifted.

“Get off of me,” Stiles murmured. 

Peter listened. He held out a hand, offering to help Stiles to his feet. He just stared at it.

“Where did… Where is this timeline’s grimoire?” He asked.

Peter frowned, “What do you mean?”

“I brought mine with me,” Stiles said slowly, “But she… She had to have one here. Her own one.”

“It’s probably in the same place as the other one,” Peter murmured. His hand started to move back. Stiles snatched it, and pulled himself up to his feet. A lie. He tried to. The effort was all Peter’s. Derek’s doe eyes were staring back when Stiles met them.

He swallowed dryly, “Who’s driving us to the Hale House, then?”

 

-

 

They hadn’t told him it would look like this.

Stiles had almost thought he’d slipped into another timeline, stumbling out of Peter’s car and staring up at that house. So white and tall. Like he’d gone back in time again. Or forward. That level of disconnect from reality would be more easy to understand than what he was actually experiencing. But, no matter what memories that solid porch brought back to him, he did not have time to concern himself with it.

Everybody needed to get out of his way.

The second the door was open, a clawed hand was at his throat, yanking him in and slamming him up against a wall. He was sure the wood had cracked beneath his skull.

“Laura!!” Derek barked.

Her bared teeth were right by his nose, “You’re back for seconds, huh?”

“Laura, put him down!” Derek snapped, “It’s him!”

“Jesus, Laura,” Peter drawled, further away, “Who raised you?”

Her eyes slowly dimmed, flickering out into their natural deep brown. He remembered how her eyes had glowed when she’d tackled him off of Derek, how she’d fought for her brother. The love. Family. Stiles’ bottom lip quivered. 

The second her grip loosened, he lunged forward to wrap his arms around her. She stumbled backwards, barely two steps, before she steadied the both of them. Her hands hovered awkwardly around his back, but he didn’t care. He just kept latching onto her.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, “Laura, I’m so sorry.”

After a moment of silent stammering, she half scoffed, “Yeah, I don’t think I’m the person most in need of an apology, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles gushed, “I don’t care.”

Slowly, but surely, she brought her hands up to hold him back. It was a shame, he thought, briefly, that he hardly knew her at all. And it was a shame that she seemed to have spent a long time rebuilding this house.

“I’m more sorry about this,” he said, and then broke out of her arms and began to storm across to the next room over. He understood that there were people inside, but he did not acknowledge them. He didn’t have time. They didn’t have time. 

“Stiles?” Erica’s voice squeaked, “Stiles, what the hell are you doing?”

Pain shot up from his knees as he fell to them, but what pain mattered to him anymore? He slammed his fist into the floor. The wooden boards dented beneath his punch. Laura was yelling. He ignored her. He slammed his fist into the floor again. And again. And again. Until the wood split and splintered and he could tear it up off of the ground and reach… concrete. 

Some sort of an animalistic growl tore out of him, a bitter thought of oh, now you use concrete? Before he kept punching. He heard his bones crack, and he would’ve let himself feel it, but that was another thing he didn’t have time for now. He needed… her grimoire. And, clearly, him punching his way through concrete foundations was a sight disturbing enough to keep even Laura Hale from interfering. Punching. Punching. Punching. He kept going until he reached dirt. Then, he was digging. Only, his right hand was more a mangled mess of bone and flesh than a hand, and he didn’t know how deep he was supposed to—

Something solid brushed his fingers. Leather. Almost soft. 

He sobbed again. He knew he did.

He wrestled the book out from the dirt and roots and debris and he could feel it. She was gone, but she was back. 

The grimoire. 

His mother’s grimoire.

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

Stiles clutched the book to his chest, and settled back onto his knees, then contorting his legs up to rest his chin on them, “I need your help,” he whimpered, “Mom, please. Come back. Help me.”

Silence.

The room was silent. His mind was silent. The house, the forest, the town. Silence. Smothering. Deafening. 

He sobbed, “Please.”

Silence.

“Stiles.” He flinched, blinking frantic tears out of his eyes and staring up through the blur, over his shoulder, at the man whose hand had just crept onto his shoulder. Derek. 

How could he touch him like nothing had happened?   

As Derek took a deep breath, Stiles felt himself do the same. The wolf dropped down to crouch, rolling his broad shoulders as he did, and Stiles wondered if he had ever really comforted him the way that Derek always did. And maybe now it was not entirely helping, but he was trying. Stiles’ whole body hurt beyond comprehension and it was a pain that Derek could not take. 

That was how he would defeat the Nogitsune, wasn’t it?

He would not hurt.

He would not feel. 

He would win.

One more deep breath, and it was decided. His eyes flickered across the faces around him. His body hummed one cohesive note, a buzz of pain so overwhelming he couldn’t have felt it even if he wanted to. The adrenaline wouldn’t let him. If he felt it, he would die. 

“Where’s Isaac?” He asked, almost breathless. 

Some wide eyes exchanged just as wide-eyed glances, silent communication to questionable degrees of efficiency, before Boyd answered, “He’s with your dad.”

Stiles would’ve broken if he hadn’t decided not to.

“Well, someone needs to tell my dad he’s a widower again,” he said lowly, rising to stand. There was a strange feeling to his right leg, like a weakness, right below his knee. 

“What??” 

He didn’t care who asked that, “I need everyone in one place. Nobody in or out once everyone’s here. No humans, that is. Wolves are fine. Kira is fine. Kira…” 

She looked like she’d seen a ghost. 

Stiles licked his lips, “Is your mom home?”

“Why?” She squeaked.

Stiles blinked, “Because another version of my body is almost certainly going to try to kill her. One dead mom is enough for one day, don’t you think?”

“You…” she tried, “What??”

“Where the fuck was she when I kidnapped you?” Stiles shook his head, “Jesus Christ.” His hand, the unbroken one, tightened around the grimoire, “I need to… Okay. Okay. Actually, yes, Kira, you’re coming with me, we’re gonna go get your mom.”

“Absolutely not,” she shook her head fervently, as Allison reached over to touch her leg, “I’m not going anywhere with you ever again.”

“Yeah, great, you’re the only person in this room besides Laura with basic survival skills,” Stiles snapped, “Forget those for five minutes and come save your mom from an ancient fox spirit of chaos with me, yeah?”

“Stiles, you tried to kill me less than a week ago,” she stressed, “What on Earth is going on?”

“What’s going on?” Stiles focussed on that buzz of pain, of nothingness, of ecstasy, “What’s going on? What’s going on is my – now dead – mother embossed a spell summoning this ancient spirit of chaos onto the front cover of her grimoire, while being able to see the future and knowing that I, at sixteen, would get possessed by that spirit because of Derek’s mass-murdering, psychotic, human-sacrificing dark druid girlfriend. Then, the embossed spell got Allison possessed after I went back in time, and, now, the embossed spell has gotten me possessed a second time after I went back in time again. That is what is going on, Kira. We need to go.”

She stared at him, mouth agape, and eyes unblinking, for a long, long time, “I’m sorry, I don’t think I heard any of that correctly.”

“Yes, you did,” Stiles snapped, “And you and your mother are both nicer fox spirits, but mommy dearest was the one who summoned this very mean one in the first place, back in World War Two, so we need to go and save your nine-hundred-year-old mother’s life sooner rather than later, Kira. And you need to get your sword. I need to get your sword. Someone needs a sword.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice coaxed.

Stiles steadied. 

Kira just gawked at him for another moment, “I… I can’t. Do that.”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut, “Do I need to convince a psycho to kidnap you and electrocute you again? Is that seriously what it takes to get you to stop being so useless?”

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice reprimanded. 

The spark huffed, and listened. He ran his tongue over his teeth, opening his eyes again to give her horrified face an apologetic look, “I’m sorry. I do love you. I’m just… going… through some stuff.” The words were bitter. They left a foul taste in his mouth. That could’ve been a multitude of other things, he supposed. 

He didn’t have time to suppose. And it wasn’t working. He was still feeling. His heart was still pounding out of his chest, all the infinite pieces it had shattered into. Stiles didn’t understand why it wasn’t working. Every other person he’d seen manage to shut themselves down had gone through far less. 

“We need to go,” he said despite himself, stumbling up to his feet – always stumbling. 

“Stiles, slow down,” Peter snapped.

Stiles turned to him, squinted eyes tracking up and down, “I am going slow.”

“Your heart isn’t,” Peter said, nodding his head, “You are going to hurt yourself.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Stiles.”

He stopped. Peter had managed it. For him, it was working. He had shut himself off again, Stiles could see it. Of course, Peter had managed it. He always did. He was the most focused person Stiles had ever met. He could hone in on his rage in ways that explained exactly how Derek had learned to try and imitate. Maybe there were some skills to be gained from being trapped within your own mind for so long, so many times. Stiles wondered if he was any good at meditation. Maybe he should start learning. 

“Let me make good on my promise, Stiles,” he said, and it took Stiles a moment to understand what he meant. When he did, he flinched back. His breath caught in his throat. He bit at his cheek. Peter gave him a solemn nod, “Let me protect you. Please. I will take care of it. You need to stop.”

Stiles just stared up at him. Helpless.

“I can’t,” he whispered. 

“I know,” Peter said, “But you have to. Let me take you home.”

“I have to keep an eye on the pack, at least— I’m their Alpha—”

“And you think you can help them better like this?” Peter tilted his head, “I know a thing or two about being a bad Alpha. Taking care of yourself after watching your mother die is not something that makes you one.”

“Letting my pack get hurt is,” Stiles snarled. 

“No nineteen-year-old will be a perfect leader,” Peter said softly. 

Stiles swallowed, “I’m pretty sure one was.”

Peter’s brows rose, and his eyes darted away, an unimpressed frown coming over him, “You are not Scott McCall. And this Scott is not even a werewolf. Stop focusing on the past, Stiles, we aren’t there anymore.”

“That’s easy for you to say!” Stiles cried, “You didn’t just get possessed again, watch your mother die again, try to kill everyone else you love again, walk right up to a fucking furnished Hale House again!! I am stuck there, Peter, it won’t stop fucking repeating itself no matter what I do! It’s like I’m eighteen again wrestling with you to stop everything from going exactly how it had when I was a kid— Only, now, I’m the one responsible for letting it happen again! I should know better!!”

“You are not all-knowing, Stiles—”

“Am I not?” Stiles snarled, “What, I don’t know everything? You seriously believe that? I don’t know everything about everyone in this room – what has happened to them, what will happen to them, what they want, what they hate, their worst fears, how they are going to die if I don’t stop it? ”

Peter stared at him. Just stared and stared. 

“I am fighting for my life and you’re all acting like I’m crazy!” Stiles’ arms were flailing around, no matter the pain, “I didn’t want this!! I never fucking wanted this!! All I wanted was to graduate highschool and go to college and move into an apartment with Scott and pretend that I didn’t miss everyone we’d lost with every atom of my being. I never wanted to have them back. I never wanted to be able to lose them again.”

“Go home, Stiles.”

Stiles’ eyelids fluttered, more of a twitch, “Go home? You think I should go home right now? And what am I supposed to say when I see my dad, huh? You expect me to tell him about how I murdered his wife? ”

Peter flinched so minutely that Stiles was sure he was the only one who could’ve even noticed it, “I’ll go with you. Derek will go with you.”

“And who’s gonna make sure these children aren’t murdered, too?” Stiles snapped. 

Peter watched him, “Don’t you know that?”

Stiles’ voice caught in his throat, an indignant scoff, “I know this is exactly how Allison died and we don’t have any silver to protect her with. Or a Hellhound.”

“And, when Allison died, you didn’t have Laura,” Peter mused, “Or Cora. Erica, Jackson, Lydia, Chris— Do I need to keep going?”

Stiles felt short of breath. His heart had not calmed down. 

“You are not nearly as bad at this as you think,” Peter said softly, “Now, go home. Your pack can handle this.”

“Kira doesn’t even believe she’s a Kitsune—”

“And I am sure she will figure it out,” Peter said, “without you. And she will most likely be grateful for that.”

Stiles swallowed. 

Peter almost smiled, “Stiles. Please just let me protect you.” He nodded to Derek, “Let your family take care of you.”

Stiles’ actual family was dying. 

Yet, he nodded. He swallowed it all down, and it all still threatened to swallow him whole. He would go home. He would try to stop himself. He would try.

He could not kid himself, though. The Nogitsune was not dying by any other hands. 

 

-

 

It was not Stiles – Noah was sure of that the moment he saw it. 

Those were not his son’s eyes staring back at him through the bars. If one more patronising plea for freedom passed its lips, Noah was going to reach for his gun. This was not the time for it to come back. And Noah had only just been convinced by Chris and Peter that Stiles was going to be okay. That he wouldn’t hurt himself. That they would take care of it and bring Stiles back to him, safe and alive. He’d given a weak, half-baked offer to help. Chris had just given him a too-knowing look. Noah had remembered how it felt to see hear his son’s voice twisted into something entirely else, taunting each and every person he could get to. How he’d spoken about Claudia.

Noah could not wait until this was over and he could sit and rest with her. With their son. To be safe and alive together. That was all he wanted.

For now, he was staring through the bars at his son’s stolen eyes. Stiles was sat on that concrete bench, hands clasped between his opened knees, staring up at him through his brows. 

“Dad,” he said, swallowing audibly, scrunching up his nose as his eyes started to glitter, “Dad, come on. It’s me.”

“You know,” Noah started, “You might be a good liar. But I’m a better cop.” He tilted his head, “I don’t believe you. I want to. But I don’t. And I’m going to call Chris, or Peter, or Derek, or my wife, or anyone else who can help me save you from whatever the hell is going on right now. Okay?”

Stiles just stared at him. He tilted his head, mirroring, awfully slowly, “Call your wife.” He almost smiled, “Go on, Sheriff. Call her.”

Noah just sighed, “Really, you break too easily. I’ll be back.” He tapped the bars between them, “Remember, you’re not going anywhere.”

That made him smile. Wide and sharp. 

“Neither is your wife.”

The words carried through the stale air and hit him as he left down the corridor. They made no sense. It didn’t stop them from making worry crawl up his spine. He understood what this creature could and would do, what it wanted. How it had practically begged for Claudia to show up at that storage unit. The last time he’d seen her, she’d acted so strange. She’d treated it like… Like she was saying… 

So, he reached for his phone. Just to call its bluff. He dialled her number, knowing she had to pick up. She knew what it had done to him those weeks she’d spent radio-silent. She had to pick up.

But she didn’t. 

The dial tone felt like an omen of something – something terrible, gut-wrenching, monstrous – and her voice broke through, “Sorry, you missed me. Or, I missed you. Either way, snooze you lose. Leave a message!”

Beep.

Noah sucked in a breath, took his phone away from his ear, and hung up. 

“Sheriff? Mr. Lahey’s here.”

Right. He was meant to be working. He was meant to be saving Isaac right now. That was what he’d been doing before that demon had walked in, pretending to be his son, bright-eyed and completely disregarding the fact that he’d taken Stiles’ body and vanished for the last three days. It was not hard to figure out whether it was really his son or not.

“Thanks, Parrish,” Noah nodded, tucking his phone into his pocket, “He in the waiting room?”

The young deputy nodded, grinning muted and stepping off to the side, “Should I go wait with the kid?”

Noah sighed, “Yeah. Go ahead. You process Lahey?”

Parrish hummed, slipping away to go find the interrogation room they had Isaac hauled up in. The cushy one with the comfy couch and brightly coloured walls and normal lights. Intended for children; victims. Nothing like the one his father was headed for. 

Noah had taken a few creative liberties with this case. It wasn’t like him to go above the law, but he knew what he saw. He saw himself, reflecting back in Isaac’s eyes as clear as day. He saw the boy he was that night, after prom, finding himself at Claudia’s door and begging to be let in. Utterly helpless, hating himself for leaving his mom at home, and just wanting a split second of safety. How Mieczysław had given it to him. Isaac had found that with Claudia’s son – Mieczysław’s grandson, his namesake – just as Noah had found it with the both of them. And that all had made it clear in his mind that he had to do whatever he could to get this boy away from his father. 

He’d listened to Isaac’s side of the story. He tried to justify it all, but that didn’t change how real his explanation could have been. His older brother died in combat, and his mother died unexpectedly soon after. His dad spiralled out of control. All he wanted was for Isaac to make up for what they’d lost. For him to be perfect. ‘All he wanted’. Well, all Noah wanted was for this child to not be living in a household where he couldn’t breathe without the threat of violence. That’s all he wanted.

A fly passed by his ear, buzzing insufferably in the split second he could hear it. He swung a hand past his ear. The buzzing stopped. 

Mr. Lahey was glaring up at him the moment he entered the waiting room. Somehow knowing what he’d done seemed to contort his features into something so hideous. 

“Follow me, Mr. Lahey,” he said, nodding his head to the corridor to their right. The man slowly rose from his chair and started to slink toward him. 

Oh, how Noah hated him.

“Is this finally over?” He growled as Noah shut the door to the interrogation room behind him, “You’re done with the home visits and drug panels and kidnapping my son?”

“Not exactly,” Noah grumbled back. 

Lahey glared up at him as he dropped into a chair he knew so well, “You don’t have anything. Give me my son back.”

“Not happening, sunshine,” Noah smiled, “And, unfortunately, we do have something. And you’re not getting your son back.”

There was a file in his hands, a thick one, which he dropped down onto the table and sat across from. He peeled it open. The first thing inside of it was the photos of Isaac’s bruises from that first day. 

Lahey scoffed, “That’s your proof? He plays lacrosse, he’s gonna get banged up.”

“Sure, but the story’s a little different when my son and I can both attest to him plainly stating that you gave him those bruises,” Noah drawled, “That was evidence from day one, Lahey. We’ve got months in this file. All I’m doing is giving you one last chance to confess.”

“You think anyone’s gonna listen to your son?” Lahey almost laughed, “Your son who you’ve just locked up in holding?”

Noah’s eyes sharpened, something stabbing at his heart.

Lahey nodded, “Yeah, I’m not blind. I watched it happen. Your son’s a fucking psycho, and he had to get it from somewhere. Who’s to say you’re not just making it up to keep my son as a replacement for the mess that you made?”

Noah stared at him. He sat back in his chair. Lahey glared right back.

“This doesn’t look good for you, Lahey,” Noah murmured, “Your character isn’t something you hide well. And it doesn’t scream father of the year to me.”

Lahey made a low noise, tearing his glasses off to wipe at his face and rub at his eyes, before he huffed, so violently, “I need to go to the bathroom.”

Noah tilted his head, “Alright. The deputies outside’ll escort you.” He rose from his seat and passed by Lahey, heading to the door and knocking twice. The door opened, and Deputy Clark’s face peeked in. Noah nodded, “Lahey needs to take a leak.”

Clark’s eyes darted past the Sheriff’s shoulder, then back, “Alright.” She opened the door further, and nodded outward, “Come on.”

“Thank you,” Lahey snarled. Noah watched the two of them leave, and turned his gaze back to the file on the table. 

His hands reached, eyes flickering critically over each statement and report and photograph. How horribly familiar it was. He had never reported his own father, just as Isaac had not wanted to, but for far from the same reasons. Isaac thought he deserved it. He didn’t want to lose the only family he had left. Because he knew that, no matter how this case went, he wouldn’t be with his father when it ended. Noah had simply understood that it would not work. He would be right back where it started, and it all would be so much worse. And his dad had never locked him in a freezer. 

He would do anything to save this kid. Maybe there was something deeper than his own childhood pushing him to. Maybe, sometimes, Lahey had a point. 

There came a ruckus from down the hall. Shouting, clanging, screaming. Noah raced out of the room without a second thought. Parrish was racing over, too, both of them reaching for their guns as they exchanged the same tight-browed looks. 

The chaos was coming from the room Isaac was waiting in. 

Another fly buzzed by his ear. Noah ignored it; he felt the buzz of fear far stronger through his bones than he heard it beside him. He held his gun high. 

Bang, bang.

Someone shot. Not him. Clark came stumbling out of the room – the poor rookie turning to him with wide eyes as he ran forward. His gun turned into the room before he did. His eyes passed over what was inside at lightning speed. Two other deputies down, on the floor, blood pooling. 

Isaac holding a gun to his father. 

“Isaac,” Noah said gently, trying to ignore the metallic smell of blood hitting him too hard, “Put the gun down.”

Isaac just took in a shaky breath, wide eyes staring straight at his dad – his sleeves still covering his fingers as they wrapped tight around the gun, “Not my dad. Not Stiles. Not my dad. Not Stiles.”

“Take the shot,” Lahey’s voice drawled.

Noah’s brows met, and he almost lost his words, “Lahey, get the Hell back.”

“I didn’t raise a pussy, Isaac,” the man said, “Shoot me. Pull the trigger.”

“Not my dad,” Isaac mumbled again, “You’re not my dad.”

“Shoot me!! ” Lahey roared, racing forward, and Noah didn’t think.

He pulled the trigger. Isaac screamed, falling back into the wall as Lahey stumbled, and a second shot rang out, an accident, ricocheting off of the metal table and landing in the wall to Noah’s right. He pulled the trigger again, shooting right through Lahey’s spine. The man collapsed to the floor. 

Isaac stared down at his dad, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, and shaking. Parrish was yelling by Noah’s side – screaming for Isaac to drop the gun and put his hands up. Noah’s ears were ringing. 

Buzzing. They were buzzing. 

He shook his head, “Parrish, that’s enough.” He waited for Isaac’s frantic eyes to meet his, “Put the gun down. It’s okay.” He nodded, “It’s over.”

Isaac’s eyes fluttered, brows twitching, “That wasn’t my dad.”

Noah winced, “Isaac.” He reached a hand out and lowered his gun to holster it. 

That fly passed by him one final time. He heard its buzz grow faint as it left.

The adrenaline started to fade, for both of them, and Isaac almost dropped the gun. Parrish jumped, reaching out to coax him to place it on the floor. He’d already fired accidentally once. Parrish led him out of the room, away from his father’s dead, or dying, body, and down the hall. 

Noah pressed his eyes shut. This was going to need so much paperwork. 

He could not wait to see his wife when he got home.

But, of all the thoughts lingering in his mind – thoughts of his father, of Isaac, Claudia, Lahey, the impending investigation, and the 911 call he had to make – there were a few things that stuck out. Isaac saying it was not his dad. And Derek, a hot minute ago now, telling him how you stop a Nogitsune. He was starting to catch up, by no help of the people around him, and it started to make sense. Started to. 

He turned to Clark, who had been staring in silence for the better part of a minute, “Call 911. I need to go check on something.”

She nodded vacantly – he’d set her up with the station counsellor later – and he left her. He raced down corridors and past concerned deputies, straight to the holding cells. His fingers itched to reach for his gun again. 

Stiles was laying on the floor. Utterly still. Not breathing, not moving. 

“Stop faking it,” Noah snapped, “Get up. Was that you?”

The body stayed as it was.

Noah felt the rage bubble in his throat, “Hey! Don’t think I believe for a second you’re not alive in there.”

Nothing. 

He reached for the keycard in his pocket out of some sort of primal reflex. That was his son on the floor. No matter who was controlling his body. And the terror it brought, seeing him still like that, like he was dead, was enough to break through all logic. The lock buzzed, loud, and Noah slipped inside. 

That buzzing came back.

“Stiles?” He asked, moving forward and dropping down to touch his shoulders, to turn him onto his back. His eyes were empty, staring up at nothing at all. His heart began to race, faster than a Damned motor, “Stiles. Stiles, look at me.”

He grabbed at his cheeks, eyes flickering down his limp body as the buzzing got louder, moving around him, to his right, to his left, right, left, front, back, right, right. He felt the thing brush his hand and he flinched back, cursing under his breath.

“This isn’t fucking funny,” he snarled, “Stiles!! ”

Those eyes snapped to him. He still wasn’t breathing. He grinned, too wide. Too wide. 

Noah stared back.

“Thanks, Sheriff,” a deep, demonic voice drawled. 

A hand swung up. The world tilted on its axis. Noah felt a sharp pain through the side of his head, spinning, spinning. 

Not his son. Not Stiles.

 

-

 

His house was silent. Stiles’ mind was silent.

Faint plans were beginning to weave themselves like webs around his brain, all-consuming and distracting. Find Noshiko, bring the Oni, fight like hell. Use the grimoire. Find a spell to bring Claudia back. Go back in time again. Find a way to go back in time without creating a new timeline. How hard could that be? You’ve done it before.  

He dropped into his couch. His eyes wouldn’t break from a relentless staring into the kitchen, at where he knew his whiskey was. He was too weak to pour a glass. His hand was barely even a hand.

He had to heal. 

Peter and Derek were hovering by him, speaking to each other in hushed voices, muted by the silence in Stiles’ head. He placed the book in his lap and turned to the first page. The tears came back. He didn’t let them fall. He couldn’t ruin the paper.

‘This catalogue of spells, enchantments, tidbits, and rituals, should it be found out of the author's hands, is to be left in the sole care of her Mischief, and no other. If she is not there to bestow it, may the laws of the universe find her Mischief themselves.’

The laws of the universe. He had just punched through solid concrete. It was far from divine. He turned the page – the same exact page he’d been given years ago, he was sure of it – to find the next, to flick through pages until a healing spell, or potion, or thought could flash before his eyes and give him anything inside of his mind besides silence. A vision, a voice. He would kill anyone else to hear her voice again. 

Her grimoire was disorganised, and his hand was still shaking. He had to force his right hand away, blood smearing every time it touched anything, throbbing with pain at the slightest movement. His left hand was too uncoordinated to be helpful. The moment he found an incantation to heal him, he was able to focus. For as long as those words took, he could focus. Maybe the hell that was his own mind was a better anchor than any visualisation he could do when he was properly aware. Conscious. Maybe he could find some optimism.

She let him find her grimoire and he could feel her. He could feel the Nemeton, miles away from where he was sure it would be right now. She was gone, but she was still there. 

He watched in morbid fascination as his hand cracked and shifted back into place. The bones snapping themselves whole again. The skin morphing back together and the blood slipping back into his veins. He flexed his fingers. That pain shot up his arm once again. Meaningless in comparison.

Peter and Derek had stopped talking.

Stiles kept flicking through pages, going slow as to not tear or crease the paper, until he found a spell for healing burns. An incantation he could loosely translate to something about water and ice. His lip quivered as he whispered in broken Latin to himself. A chill passed down his spine at the familiar sound of his voice whispering those words. Memories of the first time he’d met Him.

How bad had He really been? Right now, He felt like a saint. 

“Stiles,” Peter’s voice came, reluctant as it always sounded, “I have something I’d like to propose.”

Stiles turned his gaze to him.

The older man sighed at whatever look he saw on Stiles’ face, his own features scrunching up, “You still want to help, don’t you?”

Stiles blinked slowly, “Do you need me to say it?”

Peter tilted his head, “Would it help you if I took some of your memories?”

The question wasn’t much of one at all. 

“Which memories?” Stiles’ eyelids fluttered.

“Gerard,” Peter answered, “It won’t help to forget what you need to do, unless you want to, but what got you here…” He gritted his teeth, “The thing that hurt you enough to let the Nogitsune in was Gerard. I can take your memories of what he did to you away. I wanted to, to stop this from happening, but it… I think it could help you, Stiles. Whether it makes this part easier, or not. You don’t need those memories.”

Stiles stared blankly at him for a moment. The notion just brought the memories back. He hadn’t been thinking of it, not since the day he got them back. He’d tried to kill himself barely hours later. He had killed himself. And he had let the Nogitsune in. But, sitting there, he could feel the ache of his arms and feel them chained above his head. He could feel every touch and cut and burn and press against his skin. He could feel his clothes weighed down with water, the sting of a salted wound. How he’d seriously believed to the core of his being that he was dead. How it had been endless. And those memories would be. 

But they didn’t have to.

“Why the hell not?” He murmured, “Take whatever you want. I don’t want any of it.”

Nothing since then, or before it. He didn’t want to even remember how he got to this timeline. He didn’t want to remember ever having his mother back. He knew Peter wouldn’t take that from him, and he wouldn’t ask. Because he just might. And Stiles wouldn’t know it, but he would miss it. The confusion would not be worth it. He’d watched Peter try to remember his daughter, the rage at having those memories taken from him. 

Already, though, Stiles could feel a weight lifting from his shoulders, “Take Gerard. Please.”

“You won’t remember how the Nogitsune came back,” Derek said softly, “You will be confused, Stiles.”

“Being confused will be better than this,” he whispered, “Just tell me that Gerard read out the words on the front of the grimoire and set it on fire. That’s all I need to know.”

Derek moved to sit next to him, watching him in silence for a moment as Peter came to stand in front of them. The younger wolf stared, green eyes dimmer than usual, as he took in all of him. Stiles’ hands clenched the grimoire in his lap tighter. Derek took his left hand in both of his, squeezing tight. He was already taking the pain from his arms before both hands were fully touching him.

“If you ask about your scars,” Derek asked gently, “what do you want us to say?”

Stiles licked his lips, “I don’t care. Just don’t make it boring.”

Derek’s brows quirked up, and he nodded, “Don’t die.”

Peter unsheathed his claws.

Stiles quirked his brows right back, “You honestly think I can?”

 

-

 

Kira was pretty sure that if Stiles was a crackhead, it would be significantly better than this. Well, she wouldn’t say this is bad. Just. Um. Well, there wasn’t really a word for it, was there?

She called her mom the second Stiles left. Not because she understood a word he said, or believed any of it, but when a man acts like that while insisting your mom is about to be murdered, you tend to listen. Her mom listened to her too quickly. Asked where she was, who told her that, who was possessed.

And, damn.

He was for real. 

“Wait, so, I’m a…” She looked over at Allison’s pitiful wince, practically hearing the quiet exhaustion in her mom’s face through her phone, “A kitsune?”

“We will talk about this when I get there, honey,” her mom’s voice said oh-so calmly, as it always was, “I’m going to hang up now.”

“Yeah, right, or, you could, I don’t know,” Kira murmured, “Just tell me everything about it entirely right now because somehow I’ve lived sixteen years without hearing a single thing about it at all.”

The other line went quiet, then, “It will be easier in person. I’ll be there as soon as possible.”

“Mom–” She tried. The call ended with a beep. She pressed her lips tightly together. 

“Well,” Lydia drawled, “Of all the ways to find out you’re not human, that’s not the worst I’ve seen.”

Kira blinked a few times, feeling her eyes drag over to the girl, “Wait. So, this is, like… a thing?”

“Oh, babe,” Lydia put a hand to her chest, “This is most definitely a thing. Welcome to Beacon Hills.”

“I do wonder what the odds of you becoming friends with us specifically were,” Allison murmured from beside her, making Kira’s eyes snap back to her, “Some sort of freaky universe thing, probably. Stiles would know.”

“Right,” Kira nodded, “And Stiles… What the hell is Stiles?”

Cora and Laura gave identical sighs, and Jackson hummed out a laugh, “He’s a maniac.”

“I gathered that. I meant more in the supernatural sense.”

Jackson pulled a face, “He’s… I don’t actually know. I don’t really listen to him. I just know he’s the Alpha. And he time travels. Or, did. At least once. And the him from this timeline was murdered when he was ten. And now he has, apparently, murdered his mom.”

Kira nodded, “Right.”

“He’s possessed,” Erica grumbled, “He didn’t murder her. The… Oh, my god. Claudia’s…” She took in a deep breath, “Holy shit.”

A solemn silence filled the room. Kira swallowed down the rest of her questions. She turned her gaze to the hole in the floor, where Stiles had broken through solid wood and concrete to dig a book out of the dirt and cry out for his mom. Kira had never met her. She’d only met Stiles three times, including five minutes ago, and his dad once. The Sheriff was a kind man. He got her away from Stiles while he was trying to kill them all. But she never got to meet his mom. And from the looks on these people’s faces, that was her loss. Allison’s dad’s skin had paled. She wondered how long they all had known each other. It made her want to cry. 

But then her phone was buzzing. She didn’t know how long she’d sat there in silence. The texts coming through made her heart begin to race. 

“Change of plans.”

“Send Stiles’ pack to the school, I think I found the Nogitsune. Stay at the house with somebody who can protect you there. I will send something else to protect you when the sun’s down.”

“Um,” Kira squeaked, “Guys.” Eyes turned to her. She swallowed and turned her phone around to show Allison her screen, “I think we should leave.”

 

-

 

Allison was driven by her dad, sat in the passenger’s seat, fidgetting with her arrows in their quiver, resting on the floor between her legs. She looked up at the reflection of Kira in the rearview mirror and felt the frown grow on her face. She’d given up on trying to convince Kira not to come. Learning your mother is someone you didn’t think she was was something Allison could empathise with, anyway. So was a deep fear of Stiles Stilinski. She only worried that Kira’s mother, whatever she was, was more interested in hurting Stiles than saving him. She didn’t know which version of him they were about to find. She did know that their Stiles was not going to back down from this. 

It hurt to see him go through this again. And it did something entirely other than hurt her to know that this was what had killed her somewhere else. It terrified her. It irked her on. It made her want to burn the thing alive. Because she was not going to die. She refused to. 

It was late at night, too late, hours after their impromptu meeting was meant to end, and Allison hadn’t seen the school like this since the day Erica got turned and Stiles snapped Peter’s neck. That place hadn’t ever quite been the same.

This time, Stiles was rushing out of the building, not in. 

“You guys!” He cried out, “Thank God you’re here! Listen, we have got to get inside. I need you where I can see you, okay? That thing… The Nogitsune is coming.”

Allison’s eyes fell to his hands. Healed. She turned to her right, following the sound of footsteps as the wolves finally made it there, too. Her quiver felt heavy against her shoulder. She tightened the grip on her bow. 

“Inside,” Stiles stressed, “Now.”

“Where is my mom?” Kira asked, voice shaking only a little. 

Stiles licked his lips. And then his dark eyes darted away. 

A chill came down Allison’s spine. Crawling like a thousand spiders, making her shoulders creep upward. Her heart began to race. Her skin started to tingle. She followed his gaze, one slow craning of her neck to see what behind them he had noticed. Her hair fell to her back as she turned her head over her shoulder, feeling her brows draw close at the sight. 

“What the fuck are those?” Laura growled. 

“Oni,” Stiles answered. His voice, at least. Allison squinted at her reflection in the metallic mask before her. Her father’s hand was wrapping tight around her arm, past the leather of her jacket. “You can’t let them kill me,” Stiles whimpered. 

Someone growled – Erica. It was Erica – and she was pouncing, setting the rest of them off like a bomb. Gunshots, and claws, and teeth, all flying out while Kira screamed and Allison tried to nock an arrow while her dad manhandled her behind him. 

“Dad!” She yelled, “You’re gonna get me killed!!”

“I’m planning on the opposite,” he snarled back, “Do you have any silver arrows, Allison?”

“No?!” She yelled again, “You told me I could make some when I turn eighteen!”

Her dad made a low growling noise, “Where the fuck is Peter?” 

He shot his gun again. Allison breathed out hard through her nose, pressing her eyes shut as she finally got her arrow where she needed it, turned to the side and tried to find somewhere to aim. One of those creatures – the Oni? Had Scott mentioned them before? – had its arm in the air, sword in hand, ready to bring it down on Laura. She aimed. She drew. She fired. 

The arrow embedded deep into the Oni’s arm. It looked down, then, slowly, torturously slow, turned its gaze to her. It stood up straight. Moving like a soldier, deliberate and disciplined. 

And it vanished into smoke. 

She blinked, chest releasing the heaviest of breaths, “… Did I… Did I kill it?”

“No,” a voice boomed. Stumbling bodies came to a confused halt. Eyes turned to where those creatures stood now. They were behind a woman, nine Oni – Onis? Oni? Onises? Onu?? – backing her in a triangular formation. She held a sword in her hand, and, in the dim light, had one of the most terrifying faces Allison had ever seen. 

“Mom??” Kira’s voice called out. 

“Kira,” the woman said, pronouncing the girl’s name in a way Allison hadn’t even heard her own father use, and speaking so formally it almost threw her, “I thought I told you to stay at the Hale House.”

“What is going on?” Kira cried, “This is crazy!”

“I need you to come here,” her mom said slowly, “Get away from Stiles.”

“No,” Stiles’ voice broke, “No. No, she’s trying to kill me.”

Allison turned back to watch the way his face scrunched up. His eyes filled with tears. Near her, Lydia was starting to inch toward him. Allison watched as her father turned away from him, facing Kira’s mother and her army instead. He held his gun high. She stared at his back for a long moment.

Her bow seemed to draw itself. 

“That is not Stiles,” Kira’s mother said, “I don’t want to hurt any of you. But don’t think I won’t just because you are young, or innocent.”

“Mom,” Kira begged.

The woman kept her solid gaze on Stiles, unmoving, “You are a coward to hide behind these children, you know.”

“And here you are, again, ruining my fun,” Stiles’ voice drawled. 

That was all the confirmation Allison needed. She pulled her bow up. And she fired. Stiles’ arm snapped up, catching the arrow in mid-air right before it pierced through his shoulder. And he smiled. 

His empty eyes found her, “How do you think that’s gonna end for you, Allison?”

“Oh, don’t you fucking dare,” her dad roared, whirling around and pulling the trigger on his gun.

It was a lost cause. They had forgotten who this was. What this was. Allison was swiftly remembering that this was not some random nineteen-year-old human the Nogitsune had possessed. There was too much power there. And some things could certainly remind a girl of that. Like, you know, the thing moving forward so fast she could only catch a flash of red before she was hitting the ground and gravel was tearing up her arms. 

Everything pretty much went black.

The groan coming from her throat was the only thing she could hear. Had she hit her head? She couldn’t feel any pain. It was mostly just ringing, in her ears. Confusion. She couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed. It was so dark, it could’ve been either. 

There was shouting.

Her arms ached.

Something hit her in the stomach.

A wave of nausea came over her. It felt like she was spinning. Like she couldn’t breathe.

There was a voice in her ear.

“Allison?” It said. Was it Scott? Or, was it Lydia? “Allison, you’re gonna be okay. Just keep breathing, okay? Stay with me.”

What had happened to her stomach?

Everything was warm. Her stomach was warm. Her fingers were starting to grow cold. Her cheeks, her toes. She kept breathing. 

“Allison, can you hear me? Say something, if you can hear me.”

She didn’t even know who was asking. All she knew was she wanted to move toward the voice. She wanted it close.

“We don’t have time for that, just do it!”

Stiles. Stiles?

That got her to move. The fog cleared, and she opened her eyes. Her heart started to beat fast enough to almost bring her to life, but voices around her were crying out. 

She had to get away from him.

“Allison, stop fucking moving, or you’re going to die,” Stiles snarled into her ear, “Bite her! Now!”

Her arm snapped, clasped in something horrible, tearing a scream from her chest and forcing her eyes wide open. She almost threw up, throat burning, feeling the world spin around and around, around her. Those wide eyes snapped to her arm, to the familiar face latched onto her. Some confused plea tore out of her, red eyes staring up in panic, or annoyance, or glee, she couldn’t tell. 

When Aiden pulled his teeth back, tugging on her skin as the blood stuck to his teeth, she felt the nausea hit again. The dizziness, the pull of the earth yanking her head back to slam into whatever solid surface was beneath her now. Hands were pressing against her hair. Everything was burning. Buzzing. 

Stiles snarled again above her, “Alright. I’ll be back. If she still somehow dies, Lydia’s scream’ll tell me. Don’t distract me again.”

What. The. Fuck. 

 

-

 

The Nogitsune had taken the Oni by the time Stiles got there.

Whatever Gerard had done to him, it had really fucked him up, hadn’t it? Twenty minutes without those memories and barely understanding that he’d been kidnapped at all, and he felt better than he had in months. Like he was back to drowning in mild, measurable problems, and acting as if that was the worst thing in the world. His shoulders were light. He could breathe. He could think.

The Nogitsune was not as smart as it thought. People gave too much merit to its chaos. It was not hard to think like the Nogitsune. All you have to do is believe you are smarter. You probably are. 

Somehow it got away with hiding the Argents’ silver in Stiles’ own bedroom. It was too obvious. That was how it worked so well. He still hadn’t found the wolfsbane. Maybe that was for the best. Nobody needed to know where that stuff was. He hoped, though, that Chris would forgive him for taking his silver bullets. He remembered those being special to the Argents. Really, if Chris was going to hate him for anything, this was not going to be it. 

Watching the bullet fly through the smoke and make it shatter into gold was pretty much orgasmic. 

A firefly fluttered to the ground and died. 

Noshiko looked up at him from the floor, beyond where that Oni had stood, clutching her stomach and blinking past her toussled hair. Her mouth fell open.

Stiles lowered his gun. 

Allison was on the floor, out cold. The Nogitsune was there. Right in front of him. Wearing his body and surrounded by the remaining eight Oni. 

“Stiles,” the Nogitsune said, “I don’t think you want to be here for this.”

Hate. All he felt for this thing was hate. It burned. It hurt. 

“Yeah, neither do you.”

He moved before he thought, running on pure instinct, on disgust and the need to kill, irked on by the lingering knowledge that his mother would do exactly the same. Her grimoire was resting in the back seat of her Jeep, and Stiles was lifting his gun again to shoot straight at the mask materialising in front of him. The mask shattered, and another appeared to his right. He turned his gun to them. He fired. They blocked the bullet with their blade, and Stiles did not flinch as it ricocheted. 

He grabbed the blade with his left hand, yanked it toward himself, and shot its mask point-blank over its arm. When it shattered into golden light, and the firefly fell to the ground, Stiles was still holding the blade of its sword. He tossed it upward just enough to wrap his bloodied, stinging palm around the handle, and stab straight through the chest of the next one. 

Swords slashed at his arms, and his waist, and he did not care. He didn’t stop until all of them were gone. He’d apologise to Noshiko later. But, for now, this thing had killed his mom. This thing had hurt Derek. It had hurt Peter, and Laura, and terrorised those kids, and if it dared to—

His body was limp on the floor. The Nogitsune was not inside of it. 

His brows twitched, absentmindedly shooting at the bodies in his peripheral vision, dodging swords and ignoring the pain as he tried to understand why. And where. And what. And how. And, really, most importantly, who.

When he saw Allison start to rise to her feet, it didn’t take long for his brain to catch up. She grinned – not Allison at all, and how familiar was that.

Memories. So many memories. He’d forgotten how little Peter had taken. He still remembered so many horrible things. He still remembered the terror of realising the Nogitsune was back, realising it was her. How cruel it had been. Now, it was almost funny. There was very little the Nogitsune could do to him right now to truly disturb him. He hated it far more than he feared what might happen to Allison – maybe only because it normally held a face that he found so easy to hate. 

“Kira!” Noshiko was yelling, “Come here!”

Allison reached for her bow, laying on the floor, watched slowly by Chris from a ways away. His eyes were wide. His hands were shaking around his lowered gun. Stiles sighed again. Then Allison drew her bow and fired.

Stiles knew he was going to make it out of this alive. As little as he might have wanted to, he knew he would. He knew an arrow wouldn’t take him out. 

He thought that understanding might have made the arrow freeze in midair. Maybe surround it with a pretty red mist. Something mystical. You can’t fault a guy for trying.

Instead, he was met with metal implanting itself in his upper arm, twisting his body to the side. His jaw fell open, eyes squeezing shut at the sudden pain joining the ache of his arms. He breathed through his nose, firm and steady, pressing his mouth shut as he heard the string of her bow be pulled taut again. 

He rolled his neck, “God, this is gonna suck.”

He threw the gun to the ground, and brought the sword to his right hand, his good arm, and he started to run toward her. He watched as the entertained look in her eyes turned to annoyance – he wasn’t following her script. He was doing the one thing he’d told himself he would never do (untrue, he had told himself he would never do many things, and he wasn’t certain this was even one of them. Maybe it was. Maybe he had told Allison he would never do it).

The sword plunged into Allison’s stomach.

Stiles didn’t look down.

The Nogitsune’s face scrunched up, firing the arrow God knows where, and dropping the bow to the floor. It almost started to convulse. 

“Let it out,” Stiles forced himself to say, through the cloud of searing pain radiating across his body, “Let her go.”

Allison’s cracked lips parted, and out came that fly. The worst thing Stiles had ever seen, so small and pathetic, and he could swat it if he had and hands free.

“Derek!” He called out, “The box!”

No voice answered him. He watched the fly buzz away, in weak, desperate flutters. He watched the life leave Allison’s eyes. And he watched it flicker back. 

“You have got to be kidding me,” he muttered. His chest grew heavy. He reached out to grab her shoulder as her body started to slump, trying to hold her up as well as he could with an arrow sticking out of that arm. He gave it a glance and tried to weigh up the odds of that arrow being embedded into an artery. If he didn’t take it out, and it wasn’t touching one, it could sure as hell move and nick one. He didn’t know the odds. He did know he could heal if it got to it. So, he reached over, tore the object out, gritted his teeth and wrapped his arm around Allison’s back, “Someone help me lie her down.”

“Stiles,” Chris snarled, close by now, “What did you just do?”

“Cool it, Christopher,” Stiles snarled, “She’s not going to die. I’m not letting her die.”

He met those blue eyes. Almost grey in this darkness, like steel. Murderous. Stiles was not scared of him. It took a lot to scare Stiles. These people weren’t even close. 

“Are you going to help me?” He asked. 

Chris barely glanced at his daughter before he broke. She was lying on the floor within seconds, flat on her back with that sword sticking up out of her. Stiles wrapped his hand around the blade once more, ignoring the way a small crowd began to form around them. 

“Don’t hurt her,” Chris begged.

Stiles blinked up at him – where the fuck was Derek? – and he raised a brow, “I think that ship has sailed.”

He slid the weapon out of her in one swift movement. The blood began to seep out, soaking her clothes, staining Stiles’ mind and painting images he knew were not going to go away easily. Maybe he would ask Peter to erase this, too. 

When he pressed his hand against her stomach and willed it to heal, he thought it would work. Why would it not work? When had it ever not worked? Besides that time that Erica had died. Why the fuck hadn’t it worked then, and why was it not fucking working now?

“Your spark won’t heal a wound from an Oni’s sword!” Noshiko’s voice called out, fractured. Stiles felt his whole body freeze. “You cannot fight their magic with your own!”

His neck creaked as he turned his head to find her, “What?”

“Why do you think I would use them to kill you?!” She screamed, “You cannot heal their wounds!”

Stiles’ brows drew together, again, only able to ask one single thing, “What?” 

Now, he was afraid. Scared. Terrified. Petrified. Allison was still taking in shuddering little breaths and Scott was crashing to his knees by her side. Chris was staring down at her like he was about to lose everything and no.

Absolutely not. 

“Allison?” Scott whimpered, “Allison, you’re gonna be okay. Just keep breathing, okay? Stay with me.”

This was not happening. This was fine. One deep breath, and it was going to be fine. 

His arms hurt. 

All of him hurt, of course, it did, but this was going to be fine. Not in the way he’d expected it to be, but it would. Peter would be here soon, with the one thing Stiles had thought he needed to make his body uninhabitable. 

Thundering footsteps. Echoing roars, a warning. 

Peter did always have excellent timing. 

“Hey!!” Stiles yelled, so loud it made his throat ache, “Pretty boy! Aiden!! You ever want to turn an Argent?!”

Chris’ head snapped up, “What?!”

Aiden slowed to a jog as the two of them finally got close enough to, “Yeah, what?? I thought you were the possessed one?”

“I am,” Stiles grumbled, “Was. But I can’t heal Allison, and we can’t get her to the hospital, and no one even thought to suggest it at all, and now it’s definitely too late, so you have to turn her. It will buy us time, at the very least. Wolves can heal Oni wounds, right?!”

“Yes,” Noshiko yelled, “Well, mostly!”

Stiles rolled his eyes so hard it made him dizzy, “I’ll take it. Aiden, do it.”

“I don’t…” Aiden shook his head, “I’ve never—”

“It’s either she dies from the bite,” Stiles snapped, “Or she dies because you didn’t try, or you grow some balls and she lives because of it. Odds are in your favour, princess.”

“Allison, can you hear me?” Chris tried, “Say something, if you can hear me.”

Stiles rolled his eyes again, “We don’t have time for that, just do it!”

Allison jumped, making more blood pour out of her, moving away from him and toward her dad. Her eyes snapped open, looking everywhere but towards anybody. Aiden sheepishly came down beside her. The blood just kept. Pouring. Out.

“Allison, stop fucking moving, or you’re going to die,” Stiles snarled into her ear, “Bite her! Now!”

He grabbed her arm, latched his teeth in, and Allison screamed. Good. Only alive, responsive people scream. Only alive, responsive people open their eyes, too, but still. Stiles rose to his feet. The look on Peter’s face was one he wanted to frame, but who had time for that? Not Stiles.

Stiles had to kill God, “Alright. I’ll be back. If she still somehow dies, Lydia’s scream’ll tell me. Don’t distract me again.”

His body was gone. His gun wasn’t. He picked up that bloodied sword first. Something the Nogitsune couldn’t heal from. More than perfect. When he picked the revolver up, he checked the cylinder. He’d expected the bullets to be gone. Whether he’d used them up, or the Nogitsune took them before he left, it didn’t matter.

“Chris, can I borrow some bullets?” He asked.

“What??”

He shook his head, looking to the school – if he ever had to come back here, he’d end it all, he swore, “Forget it.” He tossed the gun to the floor and brought the sword back to his right hand once more, passing by Kira and Noshiko and giving the mother a look, “Where did it go?”

“Inside,” Noshiko answered, somewhat reluctantly.

Stiles nodded, “Sorry about your Oni.” And he was running up the stairs. Pushing the doors open made his arms burn. Voices followed him, calling out questions that he did not have time to answer. He had to kill this thing. He would do it with his bare hands if he had to. It might even feel good. 

He ran aimlessly through the halls of that building for so long. Too long. Lungs burning. Arms aching. Heart wrenching. 

A voice crawled through the walls, taunting, “Is Erica there?”

Stiles’ hand tightened so hard around the sword’s handle, his nails began to dig into his palm. 

That voice giggled, dark, dying, “I could take one last taste. You bring such delicious fear, Stiles.”

He rounded a corner, and it was there. He was there. The thing that killed Stiles’ mother. The Nogitsune. In his body. Again. Trying to, what, drive him crazy? He was already there. The Nogitsune wasn’t doing anything. And unless it could feed off of pure rage, it wasn’t getting anything out of him tonight. Not when all of him was singing the same tune. 

“This whole time,” Stiles drawled, “You really thought you could outsmart me? I’ve beaten you twice already.”

His face, that face, twisted into a grin, “I remember those times just as well as you do, Mischief. And you know what they say about a losing game?” He scrunched up his nose, “Third time’s the charm.”

Stiles cringed, “Cute. I won’t argue with that.” The words devolved into a growl, as Stiles broke into a sprint, racing forward and slashing that sword to cut into the Nogitsune’s reaching hand. Each grab of its stolen fingers was met with a cut, a pull, a punch, anything Stiles could manage. 

That thing thought it was stronger than him. Him. Nothing was stronger than him. Not when he was so blinded by rage he couldn’t even see what he was fighting anymore. There were flashes of his face, of bright, flaming red. All it did was remind him of the Other Stiles. All it did was make him angrier. 

Eventually, the Nogitsune pried him off, throwing him across the hall to slam into a locker. A blink later, he was on the floor, swaying, stumbling to his hands and knees as the hallway spun around him. His stomach lurched, and he gagged. His right hand reached up for the wall, feeling up, up, up, until his fingers brushed the locker he’d slammed into, all dented metal. He wrapped his hand around and pulled, as hard as he could. 

His hand slammed down and his body twisted onto its back, falling hard onto his shoulder blades and knocking a groan out of him; the locker door in his hand threw the Nogitsune away. He breathed until his body caught back up. 

Weight, on his stomach. His eyes blinked open. All he could see was the Other Stiles. All he could see was himself. 

That face, so familiar and so unrecognisable, stared down at him with nothing behind its eyes. Void. 

It raised the sword in its hands, voice gravelled, rotting, “Funny. Right?”

Stiles got it. How many times had he put another man in this position? Last time, it had looked just like this, hadn’t it? Only he hadn’t been the one with grown-out hair and stubble and empty eyes. He had been the one holding the sword. It had not been so dark. 

It came down, cutting swiftly through the air. 

The sound of steel cutting through flesh screamed out so loud in the silence.

Stiles stared at the blade pierced through his hand. He stared for as long as it took to understand what he’d just done. The ache in his arm from it being held up in the air for so long, the throbbing pain through his hand, the distantly joyful look in the Nogitsune’s eyes. The black ran through the thing’s veins.

The steel shifted within his palm, and Stiles snapped back. He pulled that arm to the side, screaming through the pain, and slamming his other fist into the Nogitsune’s arm. It released its grip on the sword with a growl, thrown away with a thudding kick and the strongest pulse of energy Stiles was able to muster. It was not that strong. He rolled onto his knees again, stared down at the sword sticking through his hand and weighing it down. He stared for a moment. Just stared. 

His blood dripped down onto the linoleum. 

“Why are you bothering with this, Stiles?” That rotted voice croaked out, “All you’re doing is feeding me more pain than you can imagine. You can’t kill me.”

Stiles took one more deep breath, and he tilted his head, “Yeah, I’ve heard.”

He pulled the sword out in two jagged yanks. Two ruined hands, still wrapping around that sword. He rose to his feet seconds before he spun around to slash at the Nogitsune again. It took steady steps back, just barely avoiding each swipe, and all it did was make him angrier. All it ever did was make him angrier. Any fear just morphed into rage. He didn’t have space inside him for any other feeling. And he knew what the Nogitsune meant when he said it was making it stronger. It was making Stiles stronger, too.

Red.

Everything, glowing. 

His feet lifted off the ground with the speed that he raced forward. The sword plunged deep into the Nogitsune’s body, through the doors they burst past, coming out the other side and sending blood past its lips. Stiles’ knees slammed against the floor, dragging against whatever it was they’d landed in – dirt? Rocks? Gravel – as he righted himself again.

He pulled the sword out.

He stabbed it back in again. 

Out.

In.

Out.

In.

Blood flew. Splattered. Dripped, poured, oozed. Warm, wetting Stiles’ thighs and cheeks and chest. The Nogitsune’s eyes were still staring right at him. Its mouth twisted into a smile.

There was nothing within Stiles. There was no hate left. It seeped out of him with each stab, until he was staring back at himself with no rage to hide behind. He did not want to look at that face anymore. 

He brought the sword higher, and brought it down onto that face as hard as he could make his arms do anything now. With the adrenaline wearing off, his body was realising how close to dead it was. 

Then a hand grabbed at his knee. His heart caught in his throat. 

Fear.

Stiles screamed, bringing the sword up and down and up and down until he couldn’t see past the blur. Until the hand went limp and fell from his leg. Until a tiny voice broke out from somewhere far away.

“Stiles?”

He swallowed. Gulped, really. Tried to choke down whatever mess of emotion was rising to his throat. Maybe it was vomit. 

All he saw was red.

He lifted his head to find him. Derek. Staring back at him from the grass. Outside. They were outside. In his hands rested a wooden jar. When is a door not a door?

Stiles held his hand out – he couldn’t see where the wound was past the blood gushing out of it, “Give me that.” 

Buzzing. He heard it buzzing.

“Derek, come here,” he snapped.

The wolf slowly walked toward him as Stiles switched which hand he held out. The ache was too strong. He couldn’t quite close his right hand all the way anymore. The second the jar was in his hands, Stiles had it open, looking frantically for the fly he could hear buzzing. 

It was crawling along the floor, barely reflecting some light from somewhere, broken wings fluttering desperately as it failed to get off the ground. Stiles scooped it into the jar using its lid and slammed it shut before the thing could vanish, or explode, or duplicate. He locked it away. 

It was gone.

It was over. 

Derek was here.

Stiles wanted nothing more than to sob his heart out.

He rose to his feet, not looking back at his dead body, never looking back. His hand – the one bearing a gaping wound – reached up to turn Derek around.

“Don’t look,” he murmured. Derek listened. Stiles’ head dropped to rest against his shoulder as they walked, as uncomfortable as it was. He could feel the pain seeping out of him and see how it hurt the wolf. He shook his head, “Don’t take it. I’m okay.”

“Stiles,” Derek whispered.

“Is Allison okay?”

Derek nodded, “Allison’s okay.”

Stiles nodded back, pressing his pulsing forehead into his boyfriend’s shoulder, “Then I’m okay.”

Derek’s voice shook, “What do we do with… the jar?”

Stiles stumbled, and stopped for a moment. Derek stopped, too, looking, so carefully, back at him. 

The spark licked his lips, how dry and cracked they were, still covered in part with his own blood. He shrugged his shoulders. Surely, he was seconds away from passing out. Everything began to spin.

“We cover it in cement and dump it in the fucking ocean.”

Notes:

FINALLY. FUCKING FINAKKY. GOD. OHH IM ALL ANGSTED OUT. THIS SHITS ABOUT TO GET SOOO FLUFFY BRO. I CANT TAKE IT ANYMORE. I'm fine

see u in 2 weeks for the flumpiest fluffy floafuf fluff omg guys its almost s4 omg guys

it took me. four months. MORE than four months. to write this season. and it felt like having my skin slowly torn off of my body millimetre by millimetre. i have never been so relieved that something is over. love this fic. HATE this fic. such an evil little worm in my brain like get out bro omg why do I have to write it down to free myself from its evil poisonous wiggling grasp this has been the most stressful year of my life and its not even the end of February I HAVE RAN OUTOF WORDS. 'ONE MORE DEEP BREATH' 'ALL OF HIM HURT' SHUT THE FUCK UP and ALSO why did I talk about concrete so much in this chapter??????????

thank u so much for reading my oopie goopie babies ur all my best friends and I love u take care kisses mwuah

Chapter 14: Interlude: I Am Terrified of the Ocean, Dude. She Knows Too Much.

Summary:

Stiles is so back.

Notes:

shoutout to LadyCristal for like the entire second half of this. i also need a cruise vacation

It had been twenty days since Stiles had Peter rent a yacht and take him deep into the Pacific to dump the Nogitsune in the deepest water possible. Twenty days since he’d taken in the terror and hatred in Derek’s eyes as that concrete cube sank below the surface, and watched the relief fall onto him as it vanished from sight. Twenty days of nightmares the few times he slept long enough to dream. Twenty days of not telling Noah Stilinski where his wife was. More importantly, it was his birthday tomorrow. His twentieth. How funny.

Stiles had spent those twenty days largely just staring at his ceiling, walking downstairs, staring at the fridge, going back upstairs, and staring at his ceiling again. 

He had never gotten this far. It was making him fidgety. Well, he was always fidgety. It came with the ADHD diagnosis. Fidgeting was not an unusual thing for him. There was a certain discomfort, though, that came with the acknowledgement that he was now living in a copy of his own body. He wasn’t really him anymore. And he had a hole in his right hand and a gash in his left and he was largely a useless lump of a human being while he waited for himself to heal. He’d almost forgotten how fucking annoying it was. 

It had been months since he’d shown up to work. He’d assumed he’d just be fired by default. Then Lydia had shown up with his favourite coffee order and a cinnamon roll and told him he had a shift the next day. She’d said she knew he needed to get out of the house. Stiles was sure she did know. And, as always, she was right. If there was anywhere else he could go, he’d go there. But just as much as he wanted to avoid him, he couldn’t abandon his dad. So he stayed at home. 

Until the twentieth day, the day before his twentieth birthday, when he got a text from Derek. A pin-drop. Not something Derek usually texted him. Normally, he would text something like ‘should we have pasta or pasta tonight’ or ‘Laura said Star Wars is bad thought u should know’ or ‘hey does ur intuition say that Cora is dying’ immediately followed by ‘soz was meant 4 lydia. Cora is just on her period apperranltrtty’.   

He should have been in more mental distress than he seemed to be. It was the therapy, probably. Stiles was fine if Derek was. Maybe he should try therapy, too. 

Stiles took the bus into town to find whatever Derek was leading him to. A large part of him thought he was dying, or about to be dying, or was about to kill Stiles, or someone else was dying, and you get the point, but everything was such a foggy blur in his mind that he didn’t quite care. He’d lingered in the hallway too long before he left his house, staring out into the kitchen at the half-drunken bottle of whiskey and remembering. He did a lot of the same when he stepped out onto his driveway and saw the Jeep. Remembering. His heart was racing, his leg was bouncing, and he thought he might puke all over the bus floor.

It was fine. 

The location Derek had given him ended up being an apartment building. A tall, pretty apartment building. Stiles was less convinced someone was dying. But he was far more confused. 

In the Spring sun, the place was almost glowing. All white, painted wood panelling and sage green accents. It looked a little like a fancy private dentist lobby, actually. Were there dentist monsters? He was sure there were not dentist monsters because that was the dumbest thing he had ever thought of, but Stiles had no damn idea what was waiting for him anymore. He hardly remembered what life had been like after the Nogitsune the first time. God knows what it would be like here. But if, here, it was white wood panelling and clean windows and indoor plants, he could so be cool with that. 

Totally cool.

Another text. 

‘4th floor. Apartment 20. :)))’

So, he was probably not dying. Probably.

He took the elevator up to the fourth floor, still buzzing with anxiety and too aware of how shit at protecting himself he would be right now if something happened. Two fucked up hands, two barely functioning legs, and pain all over him so frustratingly loud that he could barely think. Not exactly a fighting state. If he could bear to touch his mom’s grimoire long enough to let it into his skin, maybe he’d be suffering a little less. 

He knocked on door twenty with his left hand. His strongest at the moment. What was it with the number twenty today? 

The door opened to Derek’s face. Beard trimmed to perfection, eyes bright, hair done. He was wearing his good henley. Stiles’ eyes narrowed. 

“Hi,” he said.

Derek grinned all goofy, “Hi.”

Stiles raised a brow, God, he loved him, “What’s up?”

Derek forced his lips into a bemused frown, shrugging his shoulders high and looking away, “Just thought you should see the new place.” And he stepped away from the door. 

Stiles stammered, still not catching up, as he followed him in. The place was nice, darker than the building it was in, but only somewhat. Covered in blues and light greys, with a fancy kitchen and a statement rug and throw pillows and a blanket on the damn-comfy-looking couch. An apartment. A very Derek-ish apartment. 

The spark stared at him for a while, watching the way the corners of Derek’s eyes slowly lifted up, and his arm did the same. In his hand, a key. 

“You…” Stiles blinked, “You bought an apartment?”

Derek gave him that little twitch of his head, the tiny quirk and glance away, that brought back all kinds of fuzzy feelings and swiftly swallowed him up, “I bought us an apartment.”

And maybe Stiles’ mind broke. 

“What?” He tried to ask, though it was more a mangled whisper than a question. Derek almost laughed in his face, holding that key out to him. Stiles’ lip began to quiver, “You did what? Why would you do that? I thought you didn’t have money here, you don’t… The Hales… You’re…”

“Don’t worry about that,” Derek said softly, “I decided it wasn’t doing you any good being stuck in the same place. So I got you a new one. Somewhere with no memories.”

“What the fuck,” Stiles almost wept. 

“I figured, here, we could make new memories,” the wolf said, sheepish.

Stiles’ brows ached from how tight together they were, “Did you figure that, or did your therapist?”

Derek’s eyes snapped back down to his, nodding his head, “It was a team effort.”

Stiles snorted, and yanked the other man into a hug, feeling the pain start to seep out of him, “Oh, fuck you. I love you. So much.”

Derek’s arms wrapped back around his body, as tight as ever, and his face tucked deep into Stiles’ shoulder, “I love you, too.”

“So much?”

“I just bought you an apartment, Stiles.”

“Oh, so, so much.”

 

-

 

Forget being fine. Stiles was more than fine. Stiles was living it up. Stiles was glowing. He was flying. He was up.  

On the first night in their new apartment, Stiles had tried to make popcorn in the microwave. He had burned the popcorn due to a deep lack of understanding how that microwave fucking worked, Derek, it only needs two buttons: start and stop— and the smell of smoke made his entire body shut down. He did not remember what happened after that, only that he somehow ended up rewatching Star Wars: Episode IV – A New Hope under a blanket he had never seen before and Derek’s solid, heavy arm. 

It was his birthday, and his pack was visiting at his new apartment, where he’d woken up next to his boyfriend, in their bed, in their bedroom, in their home, wearing their clothes, and brushing their teeth with their toothbrushes, and using their shower, and eating their food, and resting on their couch, watching their TV, and holy shit. Stiles was back. Stiles had not seen his dad in twenty-four hours. Stiles was the happiest he’d been in months. And now it was his birthday. 

Twenty years old. Twenty. 

Whoof.

Banners and streamers hung from the ceiling of their apartment (still a mind-fuck (the best of mind-fucks)) and the pack was there. His pack was there. All of them. 

Wow, his arms hurt. 

“So, Allison,” he said across his kitchen island, “How’s the werewolf thing going?”

She stared at him so blankly, then she blinked her over-mascara’d eyes and shrugged, “My mom still hasn’t figured it out, so that’s good.”

“That is good,” Stiles nodded grandly, “She would try to get you to kill yourself.”

Allison smiled back at him, utterly apathetic, “Yeah. Looking forward to it.” And she took a sip of her Coke. Stiles glanced down at the cup, then back up.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted out, maybe too loudly, but the words seemed to entirely force themselves out of him against his will, “I didn’t think it would happen like that. I thought you’d end up with a scar, at worst. Really, this is the best outcome, cause you got healed and didn’t get a scar. I have one, right in the same place, and, lemme tell you, that shit sucks ass.”

Allison’s brows crept up, as a smile did the same to her lips, “Right.”

“You do know Stiles can just turn you back, right?” Derek asked, appearing out of nowhere and making Stiles jump at least one real inch off the ground, throwing himself back from the counter. The wolf pressed a steadying hand to the small of his back. 

“Wait, what?” Allison’s mouth fell open, “You can?”

Stiles’ eyes squinted, flickering between the wolf and the hunter-wolf-woman, “I mean. Technically.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” She stepped back from the counter, too, “I can’t stay like this. No offence.” Her wide-eyed look to Derek was answered with an indifferent shrug.

“As much as I would love to,” Stiles said, “That entirely depends on how soon I can touch my, um. Grimoire. Again.”

Allison’s eyes softened, “Oh. That’s okay.”

Stiles stared into those eyes, “Don’t do that.”

She frowned, “Do what?”

“Treat me like I’m fragile,” he grumbled, “I’m fine. I’ll do it. You need it, I’ll do it. Obviously. I love you. I’d die for you. God damn.”

He ignored Derek gently calling his name as he walked away. He ignored it all. He was fine. He was. 

He threw his hands up at the sight of Erica and cheered her name. She grinned wide enough to show all of her teeth and cheered right back. She scooted over on the couch and Stiles dropped down beside her. Jackson had yet to give him anything more than a judgemental glance. Somehow, Allison had been one of the first to warm back up to him. ‘I don’t know. I pulled a bullet out of you, you pulled a sword out of me. I’d say we’re even. You better not do it again, or the next time I shoot an arrow at you, I’ll make sure you can’t catch it,’ she’d said. Maniac. Hadn’t she been the one telling everyone else not to trust him? Maybe it was because she knew what it meant that she’d lived. Maybe she was hiding whatever she really felt from him. He wished she wouldn’t.

It was her, then Lydia – Erica never needed to warm back up because she was some sort of brainwashed into loving him way too much – Scott was fine pretty fast, too. Cora and Laura were nowhere near chill with him. Boyd was about as fine with him as Jackson, being as protective over Erica now as the wolf was over Lydia. It was sweet. Kira had her own shit going on. His dad was… His dad was just sad. Isaac, too. Stiles had heard what happened to Lahey. He got it. Isaac knew he got it. He was brought into the loop pretty quickly. But, twenty-one days since Stiles split from the Nogitsune and dumped it in the ocean, most of them had largely moved on. Stiles was pretty sure Derek’s therapist was making him recommend her to everyone. He was sure as hell recommending her to Stiles. ‘You literally committed suicide, Stiles,’ he’d say, ‘People who don’t need therapy don’t do that’. Shah. 

Therapy wasn’t Stiles’ thing. He’d had one too many run-ins with evil therapists to bother anymore. And he didn’t need someone to tell him how he was feeling. He knew how he was feeling.

He was feeling fine.

Because he wasn’t dying, or under threat of dying, and the anxiety was just a thing he’d been born with. Nothing you can do about that. He hadn’t needed a therapist to tell him he had ADHD and he doesn’t need one to tell him that he’s been through some shit. He knew that. He was there, believe it or not. Crazy, I know. And if last night was the first night he’d slept without any nightmares, then he knew that meant that he should’ve moved out with Derek sooner. Derek was safe. His house wasn’t. Easy. It didn’t need to go deeper than that. 

Nobody tell him that the therapist was able to get him to a psychiatrist to medicate him. He just might start understanding there’s more to it than talking. 

Stiles liked parties. And he liked his pack. He liked to forget that they weren’t the same people he remembered them as. He liked to think they’d forgotten everything he’d done here. They’d seen the absolute worst of him, the version of him that had haunted his nightmares since before this timeline’s Stiles had been shot and killed. Sometimes, it felt like a few of them truly did. Forget, that is. Like Derek. Derek could still forgive and forget as if his life depended on it. Maybe it did. Stiles tried not to think long or hard enough to decide whether that was accurate or not. 

His birthday cake had twenty candles on it. He stared at the fire until the singing grated on his ears enough to bring him back to reality, and away from the hypnotising sway of the flames. The glow. Orange.

His dad was hovering over his shoulder, rubbing at his back. 

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

No. 

As he blew the candles out, he wished for the same thing he wished on every fallen eyelash. 

A good day.

 

-

 

Stiles bought a new crime board. This one was fun. It was familiar. 

He had to stand back to take it all in. Every blurry photo printed with a dying printer, the tape keeping it all together, the white, erasable ink against the plexiglass. Identical to the one he’d had before this all started. A seethrough glorified whiteboard should not feel like a hug, but it did. It felt like home. And Stiles had spent the better part of a week making it perfect.

Everything was planned out, if that was the way he should put it. He spend several nights pissing Derek way off with his typing and bright laptop screen in their bed, but he’d managed to find and print out images of everything he could remember. Just as he had done the first time. It was better now. The Alphas were still there – Stiles had no clue whether they were even still in Beacon Hills. Did Aiden consider Allison his beta? Were he and Ethan both her Alphas? He didn’t understand, but it wouldn’t matter soon enough, anyway. He doubted most of it would happen again, but it felt good to remember. Things had been awfully simple back then, for as complicated as it had felt. 

“So…” Derek murmured, gesturing vaguely in Stiles’ direction, making the sheets shuffle loudly around him, “What’s up with the thing with no mouth?”

“Oh, that guy?” Stiles nodded, “That’s the Mute. He’s a bounty hunter. I don’t think we have to worry about him,” he pointed at the yellow tape over his drawing of it, definitely less accurate than his first one, “hence the yellow. We might have to worry, though, since I… can’t go back in time and read Peter’s mind. Hence… the yellow.”

Derek nodded slowly, “So… the green tape over that photo of Kate means…?”

“Not happening at all,” Stiles nodded, “Green means good.”

Derek sniffled. Then he rubbed at his face, swiping his hand all over the place before he grumbled into his palm, “Why isn’t it red? For, like… no?”

“Because it’s my board, genius,” Stiles snapped, “Go back to sleep, you look exhausted.”

“Rude,” the wolf murmured, “You’re the one who hasn’t slept in five nights.”

“And I look great,” Stiles mumbled, “You don’t normally rub your face that much. You don’t have anything to get up for, you can sleep in, big guy. I’ll make you breakfast.”

“M’kay, but you burn everything you cook,” Derek slurred, the sound of him slumping back down and pulling the duvet over himself so, so loud, “Love you.”

“Love you, too, goofus,” Stiles pressed back down on the piece of green tape over the most embarrassing photo of Liam Dunbar he could find, right next to the same tape covering the name Theo Raeken on a piece of scrap paper. Call it manifestation. 

If he was right, none of it would even start to come for a whole other year but, oh, how Stiles could not wait. 

 

-

 

Peter showed up at his door one day, months later, when Stiles was in the middle of wrestling with his AC unit and losing that battle, waving two tickets back and forth like a pendulum. Stiles watched them sway for a minute before he gave Peter a look – a prompt, a clear one. 

The wolf grinned so impossibly wide, “Tell me, Stiles. How do you feel about a long weekend on an all-inclusive, five-star cruise vacation?”

And Stiles had slammed the door in his face without a word. 

“Hey!” Peter called through the door, “Stiles! Don’t be like that! These are expensive, and I’m not giving my last ticket to Victoria instead!”

“I’m not going on a boat with you ever again!” Stiles called back, “I have issues now, man! Boat issues! It’s not happening!”

“My god,” Peter drawled, “You people can’t do anything.”

And Stiles whirled right back around to yank the door open again and stare at him some more. Peter raised a thoroughly unimpressed brow and then raised the tickets again. He wiggled them a little. Like waving a treat in front of a dog’s nose. Stiles’ eyes narrowed.

“Five-star suites,” Peter said slowly, “Free room service. Twenty-four-hour pool. Endless activities. No supernatural… whatevers.” He tilted his head, “Complimentary drinks.”

Stiles forced down the way his whole body lit up at that thought, “Why do you want me on a cruise with you so badly?”

“Because I like you, Stiles, how many times do I have to say it?” Peter rolled his eyes grandly, “Even despite all the completely ridiculous things you’ve put me through. We are bonded. And, anyway, it’s not just you. It’s all of us.” He held out the tickets, extended toward Stiles like a Holy Grail, “These are just yours and Derek’s. Your pack is a mess, Stiles. They practically only follow you because they’re afraid you’ll kill yourself if they don’t.”

“I mean, they’re not wrong,” Stiles murmured, “Also, rude.”

The wolf hummed out a laugh, “You need to spend time with them. Stress-free, un-supernatural time. Make them actually like you. And each other.”

Stiles stared at him, still, for what felt like an age but was probably barely five seconds, “Yeah, no offence, but should I really be taking Alpha advice from you? ”

“I truly do not care,” Peter shrugged, “Take the free cruise tickets or don’t. It has little to no effect on me either way.” 

He waited until Stiles snatched the two little slips of paper from his grip, and then he vanished with no more than a polite smile. Weird. Strange. Oddly enough, it circled back to believable. And, really, Stiles’ life had been so insufferably boring since the Nogitsune that he was almost getting to a point where he wanted someone to die just to spice things up. So, hey, a cruise trip – a free cruise trip! In this economy?! – was practically a gift from God. But, no. It was a gift from Peter. Or, an excuse to bring them all to a remote location, kill them all, and dump their bodies in the ocean. From Peter. Really, in either case, winner, winner, chicken dinner. Oh, he could go for some fried chicken right now. His dad had better not be eating any fried chicken while he wasn’t watching over him. 

 

-

 

“So, where exactly is this cruise going?” 

“Erica, how did your mom agree to this if you don’t even know where you’re going?”

“How did your mom agree to this if you’re here with Stiles’ pack of werewolves, including your secretly werewolf self, Allison? ”

“She didn’t,” Allison said primly, “She agreed to me going on a hunter training weekend with my dad.”

Erica fake gasped, “Lying to your mother? What’s next, adultery?”

Allison frowned at her for a second, “… You are so strange.”

Erica beamed, fighting with the blazing sun for brightest thing on the dock and almost winning, “Thank you, gorgeous.” And she wiggled her shoulders very strangely before she floundered off with her boyfriend, latching onto his arm and making her big blonde curls bounce around as she looked up at him. Boyd gave her a bemused little smile, all love-struck and gross as she said something to him Stiles couldn’t hear. 

As he looked over at Derek, he knew he had the same bemused, love-struck, gross look on his face, watching the wolf hike a fifth bag onto his shoulders, “You know you can say no to them, right?”

Derek frowned, like it was a crazy thing to say, “I can help. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Because they don’t need it, and they’re taking advantage of your kind, beautiful heart?” Stiles shrugged. He needed to reapply his sunscreen. It was too damn hot on the coast.

“I like helping,” Derek outright whined. 

Stiles guffawed, holding his free hand out, his right, “Give me one.”

“No,” Derek grumbled, “I won’t take advantage of your kind, beautiful heart.”

“Derek, shut the fuck up.”

“Also, I’m kinda scared your hand will…” his face twisted up in what Stiles thought was disgust, before it morphed far more clearly into curiosity – the soft downturn of his eyes, the stern line of his brows, “Open?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, opening and closing his fingers, beckoning, “Gimme.”

“You can take this one,” Lydia’s voice cut in, as a bag was placed down in his palm and yanked his hand down toward the deck. A noise was yanked out of his throat, the spark flailing to keep himself from dropping whatever thousand-tonne piece of luggage she’d just given him, or the two bags of his own he had on his left shoulder and held in his left hand.

“What the hell is in this??” He cried.

“Shoes,” Lydia mused, “Accessories. Basically whatever I couldn’t fit in these.” She nodded her head, a motion Stiles’ eyes followed to take in the gargantuan collection of bags and suitcases she had on and around her. Like something out of a crappy TV show about rich, popular girls. You know, not all that shocking when he actually thought about it.

“You do know this cruise is only four days, right?” Derek asked lowly. 

Lydia gave him a look, “I’m not stupid. I like to be prepared.”

And she strutted off. Stiles kind of wanted one of her heels to get lodged between two boards as she walked. Her rage would’ve been so good. Instead, she practically danced over to where the rest of them were, trailing after Peter and Chris – how in God’s name Peter had gotten him to come was absolutely beyond Stiles, and he was, honestly, too scared to ask, and didn’t really want to know – and smoothly latching arms with Allison. And all of them were there. Here. Allison, Lydia, Erica, Boyd, Kira, Peter, Chris, Cora, Laura, Scott, Isaac, Jackson, Malia. That was new.

Stiles’ dad had been invited. He’d declined. He’d said he needed to be at home if Claudia came back. 

Stiles had just nodded and walked away. 

“I love them,” Stiles murmured. The words pressed his mouth into a frown; made his heart kind of ache. In a good way. Like it was overwhelmed, so nicely. 

Derek hummed, “Me, too.” Stiles caught the way he tilted his head, barely visible in his peripheral, “How long d’you think Malia’s gonna last on a cruise ship before she either almost dies or tries to kill someone else?”

“I’m already worried about her just getting onto the boat, man,” Stiles shook his head, “I really doubt her dads have been educating her about the ocean. Or drowning. Or getting obliterated by boat motors. Or do you learn that stuff in grade school?”

“Don’t say ‘dads’, it makes it sound like they’re lovers,” Derek said through a laugh, finally starting to walk again.

Stiles gave his mound of bags a funny glance, “You can’t prove they’re not.” He snorted, “And who says ‘lovers’? ”

 

-

 

Before he found out about the supernatural, Stiles wasn’t scared of the water. After, he wasn’t really scared, either. Sure, he distantly acknowledged the possibility of eldritch horrors beyond his comprehension waiting below the surface, but that had always been a possibility. He used to daydream about spending weekends at Lydia’s mom’s lakehouse, out on the water in some speedboat, or yacht, or any other floating device that he could impress her by backflipping off of. Until recently, his biggest fears regarding water were A: contracting a deadly waterborne disease, and B: drowning. 

And, well.

Drowning was not any lower on his list of water-related dislikes nowadays. Was it better or worse now that he knew how it actually felt? Intimately? No comment. Really, no answer. Stiles tried not to think about it.

It was hard not to think about it when he was several miles deep into the ocean. It was also hard not to think about how he might be right above the Nogitsune. How it might be able to find him. He knew it was contained in an impenetrable magic jar and encased in solid concrete, chilling on the seabed and being shat on by fish but, still. It was down there. And he couldn’t see it. And what the hell else was down there, huh? The Kraken? Cthulu?? Stiles couldn’t fight Cthulu! Oh, my God, Cthulu would beat his ass, man. Fuck. Cthulu was gonna kill him.

“If you’re that scared of the water,” Peter drawled from his right, “Maybe you shouldn’t be leaning over the edge.”

“Oh! My God!” Stiles breathed deep to slow his heart, glaring over at him and trying his best to pretend Peter hadn’t caught him off-guard – he had a reputation to uphold, people, “Peter. Do not sneak up on me, man.”

“Sorry,” Peter drawled, very clearly not sorry at all, “Old habits die mangled.”

Stiles squinted, “Sure.”

“Laura’s at the bar,” the wolf said, awfully sudden, more abrupt than he usually said anything – no sign of that usual forced nonchalance. 

Stiles nodded, “Cool. That’s legal. Good for her.”

“Derek doesn’t like when you two fight.”

Stiles watched him for a moment. The sun had just finished setting, giving way to the prettiest of dusks, and casting unfightable dark onto all of them. Peter’s hair fell five shades deeper, and his lashes had grown from the shadows. He wore the face of someone who cared more than they wanted to. Stiles had seen that face on Derek a few times. In this light, they looked so very similar. 

“You want me to make up with Laura?” He asked.

Peter tilted his head, “You can do whatever you want, Stiles. You’re a grownup.”

But then he turned on his heel and walked away. Peter was not as good of a manipulator as he clearly seemed to believe – at least, not when it came to Stiles. He knew Stiles too well, and Stiles knew him just the same. They could talk in circles about it forever, trying to prove one had the upper hand. Stiles didn’t really want it, anyway. 

He found Laura in the bar on the main deck. They didn’t card him at the door, thank God, but the bartender had done a double-take as he came over to her. He wasn’t entirely sure if that was bad or good. He slid onto the stool beside her, and the bartender came up, resting her arms against the counter.

“Hey,” she said, sly smile on her lips, “You want anything?”

Stiles’ eyes twitched, “Can I get an espresso martini?”

“Sure thing, handsome,” the girl nodded to Laura, “You want another, gorgeous?”

She gave her a small scrunch of her nose, yet to acknowledge Stiles’ existence, and gave the bartender a small shake of her head, “I’m alright.”

“Alright, say no more,” then, turning back to Stiles, “Y’all on the same tab?”

Stiles nodded.

“What’s the last name, if you don’t mind, pretty,” the woman said, turning around to start mixing his drink.

“Hale,” Stiles answered.

“Per-fect,” the girl sang.

Stiles stared in bewilderment as she worked. It was kind of hypnotising. How her hands shot to each bottle and finessed her tools so effortlessly. Stiles should be a bartender. Being a bartender would be badass.

“What are you doing here, Stiles?” Laura’s voice cut through him, straight to the bone. He sucked in a breath.

He’d thought about this, you know. Rehearsed it in his head over and over to the point of perfection. Just like every other time he’d rehearsed a conversation and it totally worked and didn’t end up going somewhere else entirely. This would go so well.

“I remember,” he started, trying desperately to not look like he’d been practicing this sentence, “when I was… void. Before I realised that was what it was. I said something… about how you never thanked me for bringing you back.”

Laura stared straight ahead. No reaction.

Stiles bit his cheek, “I don’t expect you to thank me for coming in and changing your lives. Not at all. And if I could give you this power back, I would. But I don’t regret any of it.”

That made her look. Still, even in the most gentle, warmest light, there was nothing but sharpness to her. Cold. 

“I know you don’t remember Derek being your brother,” Stiles said softly, “I can’t forget that. But he does. He remembers. And I’m not doing this for you, Laura. I’m doing it for him.”

Miniscule amounts of coldness began to thaw from her eyes, he swore it did. Then again, it wasn’t often that the things he saw were really the way he saw them.

“I don’t remember him,” she said softly, “and I know he remembers me. Even if I’m not the sister he lost. We talk.”

Stiles kept his mouth firmly shut. Because this was going significantly better than he’d imagined. For starters, she hadn’t lunged out and tried to maim him yet. Don’t jinx it, Stiles.

“It doesn’t mean I don’t love him like a brother,” she said, “I can feel it, you know. He’s family. He’s pack. And I—”

“One espresso martini?”

Stiles turned to the bartender, and felt his mouth warp around until it found the shape of an awkward smile, “Thanks.”

The bartender raised a brow, “You Californians are strange. I love it. Pack… What even…” Her voice faded as she stalked over to the other end of the bar to take some old man’s order. 

Stiles turned back to Laura. She had her lips pressed into a thin line. Fighting a smile. He let his break out. 

“I, yeah,” she shook her head, “I know you’re trying to help him get something back. I just feel like, sometimes, you do more damage than you think.”

“Oh, I know how much damage I do,” Stiles shrugged, “Why do you think I haven’t slept more than an hour at a time sober since I got kidnapped.”

“You were possessed,” Laura drawled, “I can excuse that stuff. It’s the…” She trailed off into a sigh.

“It’s what?”

She ground her teeth, “It’s none of my business. I’m just being an older sister. Derek’s happy. He loves you. I can tell you love him. You’re doing better recently. It’s whatever.”

“Well,” Stiles murmured, “I’m sorry. For everything. Even if it was a fox demon doing it, I’m still sorry. And I’m really happy you’re here for Derek.”

She nodded, “I’m happy, too.” Then she nodded down at the bar, “You gonna drink that?”

“Oh, fuck yeah.”

“Don’t you have ADHD? Isn’t caffeine, like, the opposite of caffeine for you?”

“I just told you I haven’t gotten more than an hour’s sleep at a time for a long while. This’ll do the job real good.”

 

-

 

Summer had always been Stiles’ favourite season. He liked wearing shorts, and shooting people with water guns, and floating around in Lydia’s pool, and driving through deserts and praying to some higher being that Roscoe didn’t get destroyed by all the sand in her system. He liked having no school. He liked showing up to wherever Derek was living at that point and annoying him until he got kicked out. Hell, he’d spent his first post-werewolf-reveal summer pretty much living in the burned down remains of the Hale House with Derek, trying to find Erica and Boyd. He’d painted his door there, too. His second summer had been a blur of Malia and texting Braeden and annoying Lydia and lacrosse practice with Scott and Liam and pretending he didn’t miss Derek so bad it was killing him. 

Then he went back in time.

In the second timeline, he had spend the best summer of his life. Derek didn’t kick him out. He still floated in Lydia’s pool. He had so much sex. There was not a single day where he hadn’t felt such a strong joy it made him dizzy. Then Erica died, and he did not reach that high ever again in that timeline. Then he went back, again, and everything got worse. And worse. And he’d gone from one winter into another and it had been months. It had been centuries. 

But, right then, in that moment, he felt the high again. The joy. He had them all, still. He had not made anything worse than before he came. Peter kept ordering drinks for Chris and sneaking alcohol into the kids’ rooms, Derek had read about seven books since they got there. It had been three and a half days. Laura and Cora would force him into the pool at least once a day and, one time, Laura even offered him her sunscreen. He’d asked her why the hell she needed sunscreen when her skin is constantly healing itself. She’d looked pointedly over at Isaac, Boyd, Kira, and Lydia, playing some nonsensical card game at their chairs, and Stiles had ‘aah’d. Peter was right, as usual. Old habits die mangled. Particularly habits of an Alpha. He’d taken her sunscreen, only after Peter started monologuing about skin and burns and scars and sun damage and cancer. That freak was so weird about that stuff.

Stiles had not stopped smiling since day two. He also had not really stopped drinking since he got there. Where he’s not carded, he’s ordering, it’s not rocket science. So, one late evening, covered in sunset purples, he was giggling away in his deck chair and revelling in the feeling of drying water on his skin. The deck was near empty, almost everyone having left as the pool closed. Peter’s money went very far in this place. Stiles’ mind flickered to the Deadpool. Not here. Surely, not here. 

Sun on his skin. Cool breeze. Head heavy.

“So,” Allison’s voice came from the pool, followed by a gentle shifting of water, “Stiles. Um. Some of us have been wondering…”

He opened just one eye, and found her, arms crossed against the coping, hair tied up in a bun to keep it dry, and lashes batting, “Mhm?”

“You don’t have to, if you don’t want to,” she said swiftly, “but. Would you tell us more about… the place you came from? Besides, you know… the kind of shitty stuff you’ve told us… before.”

“Oh, yes,” Stiles said slowly, “My home planet was a blooming utopia. Millions of lightyears away. Flora and fauna, the likes of which you could never imagine—”

A flurry of groans shut him up. The cackle he let out was a tiny bit too honest. Maybe he should’ve had one fewer… whatever he had. Something liquor-adjacent.

“Come on,” Kira groaned, “All I’ve heard is horror stories.”

“Oh, don’t get me started,” Erica grumbled, “You’re not one of the dead ones.”

“You don’t know that,” Stiles grinned. Peter hummed out a laugh beside him. 

Allison whined, “Stop, that’s not funny.”

“It’s a little bit funny,” Peter murmured. 

“See?” Stiles pointed at him, “I’m a little bit funny.”

“Tell us!” Lydia snapped, “Tell us, tell us!”

“Oh, my God, are you five?”

But the chant of ‘tell us, tell us, tell us’ only grew, until Stiles’ fondness wasn’t strong enough to keep him quiet, and Chris was hissing at them to shut up. Stiles gave his donut floaty, and the silent mirror image that was Malia on her giant unicorn, a sideways look, and rolled his eyes.

“Okay, fine,” he groaned, “What do you want to know?”

“Top ten best moments,” Boyd answered, “go.”

Stiles puffed up his cheeks, “Dude, I barely remember the last week, but okay. Uh.” He giggled, raising a hand to count on his fingers, “In no particular order, I’m just gonna say stuff as it comes to me. Dancing with Lydia at the winter formal in my Sophomore year, most moments with Malia, and Scott, and Liam, bowling in the second timeline– does that count?”

“Who cares, keep going.”

Who cared who said that, either, “Mkay, uh…” The air caught in his throat for a second, “Derek’s housewarming party in the second timeline. That was, um… a good day.” He finally opened his eyes, turning his gaze to the sky. All deep purples and oranges and maroons. A faint pink glow. He took a deep breath, “I should not be struggling right now. There were so many good times in the first– Oh, shit!” He sat up, “Driving teenage Derek back to Beacon Hills from Mexico! That was so much fun!”

“Excuse me?” Derek murmured. Stiles laughed, a little nauseous now. Peter snorted.

“That was a terrible day.”

“Oh, yeah, the whole situation was beyond fucked up,” Stiles nodded earnestly enough to make everything spin, “But I played 1989 the entire drive back and the first time Shake It Off played, he got so annoyed by my singing he grabbed the wheel and almost ran us off the road and wrecked my car in the middle of the desert. Top ten day. I thought I was gonna die.” He tilted his head, “But, you know, I was still riding the high of finding out Derek wasn’t dead, and was instead now the same age as me. That was fun. He slammed me up against a wall and pulled my hair.” 

About six people cried out in varying levels of disturbance. 

Peter gave him a bemused eyebrow raise, “What?”

“You don’t get to have an opinion on any of the teenage Derek stuff, Peter,” Stiles spat, “You were actively helping her.”

And the wolf gave him a diplomatic nod, “Fair enough.”

“Her?” Derek said.

Stiles blinked, then looked away, “So, another good moment was when I got to beat up Theo Raeken. It was less good because he wanted it, but.”

“Who?” Chris’ voice mumbled.

“Elaborate on him wanting it,” Erica said. Because of course she did. 

Stiles just shook his head, “Nope to both of you. Only talking about the good parts. I don’t know if I’d count it as a good part but, one time, Derek and I got paralyzed on top of each other?”

“Huh??” 

Stiles gave Derek a look, “It was when Jackson was the Kanima the first time. Have I not told you that before? I feel like I’ve told you that before.” He also felt like he was slurring his words. It was making him want to scream.

Peter giggled, “That was a good day.”

Stiles pulled a face, “Well. It gave me a lifelong fear of drowning. So.”

“That didn’t start when you held Derek’s lifeless body above water in a pool for two hours?”

He turned to him with furrowed brows, “Why do you know how long it took? You were dead when that happened. But that’s a good point, it could have been that.”

“Derek talked to me sometimes, you know,” Peter mumbled indignantly. 

He could still feel Derek’s eyes burning into him. A difficult thing to ignore, though far from impossible.

“Good times with original Derek,” Stiles nodded, “Good times, indeed. That poor guy didn’t know a moment of peace until the day he left. Christ. Anyway! Any more questions?”

“I don’t think you named ten things,” Laura called out.

Erica butted in, sharp-eyed, and wet haired, to ask, “There didn’t happen to be any… scandalous romances between people in that timeline? Maybe between you and previous versions of us. Or anyone in the general area.”

Stiles pretended he did not know what she was actually asking, because entertaining the idea of a scandalous romance between him and that Derek was not something he needed to deal with this many drinks in, “I mean, I lost my virginity to Malia and dated her for, like, a year.”

“What???” Scott cried out.

“I thought you were gay,” Isaac drawled.

“I’m bi,” Stiles said, shrill, “Guys. It’s 2013. Get with the times. You know, it’s legal now. As of, like, last week. Jesus, why was gay marriage illegal for so long? 2015 was so much cooler than this.”

“You did what with me?” Malia asked.

Stiles shrugged, “What? It wasn’t you. We were both patients in a terrible psychiatric facility. I was temporarily un-possessed. She punched me, and we solved crime together. We were a good duo, we are very similar. Maybe too similar.”

“Why’d you break up?” Erica asked.

Stiles gave her a look, “Why is this what you want to know about the first timeline? What, you want me to tell you all about you and Boyd?”

She grinned wide, “Maybe.”

“Well, I can’t,” Stiles pursed his lips, “I was not close with you guys there. But I did help you through a seizure once and you said I made a good Batman. So. Thank you for that. And you told me you had a crush on me, that might be more relevant to your question.”

“The batman thing doesn’t even make sense,” Cora drawled.

“You are such a debbie downer,” Lydia drawled back. Cora pulled a face. 

Stiles snickered, revelling in the steady burn of alcohol through his chest, “I mean, if you want to know all the juicy deets, you can have ‘em. They’re useless to me. Allison and Isaac dated. Scott and Kira dated. Scott and Lydia made out. Scott, you were kind of a whore.”

He whined again, “What the hell?”

Stiles cackled again, “I’m kidding. Cora and I had a weird tension situation, I obviously dated Malia, I was head over heels in love with Lydia for donkey’s years, ‘n’ then I decided it wasn’t ever gonna happen and we actually got close and, so much for that, ‘cause the last thing I ever did in that timeline was confess my love to her.”

A silence fell upon the place. Water rippled. 

Derek’s voice broke it, “You what?”

Stiles finally looked back at him, “Then I woke up in my Sophomore year again, and she was very much fifteen, and I was very much an adult, and I have never even felt a morsel of those emotions since. ‘N’ then I caught the feels for you.” He raised his empty glass to point it in Derek’s direction. The wolf’s shoulders only barely relaxed. Stiles smiled, “No offence to Lydia, but she can’t compare.”

Lydia scoffed, “Whatever you say, liar.”

“All this to say!” Stiles roared, sudden even to himself, “This Sisyphean nightmare is almost over! We have passed the harshest of trials, the worst of it all, kinda, and soon! We kidnap Liam Dunbar! And we raise him as our own!!”

He slammed his glass onto the floor, throwing his hands in the air to cheer loud enough to make his throat raw. Enough people cheered along with him, no matter how confused they sounded, to make his drunken brain absolutely sure that this was not embarrassing at all. And as the staff came out onto the deck to finally force them to leave the pool, glaring daggers at Stiles’ back as they started to clean up the glass, he didn’t care in the slightest. He looped his arm tight around Derek’s and rested his head right on his shoulder, and let the wolf lead him back to their room. 

He woke the next morning with one leg off the bed, a pounding headache, the deep need to puke, and Derek’s body warm and safe around him. He had to leave, unless he wanted the staff’s wrath to be Derek’s wrath, too, after he puked all over him and their bed, but, until he was heaving, he could stay. He could force his hand through the tiny gap between Derek’s bicep and his ribs, feel Derek’s sleeping body move to accommodate him, and wrap his arm as tightly around Derek as the wolf was wrapped around him. He could listen to him breathe, feel the tickle of air across his forehead, and snuggle into the curve of his neck. When he got up to empty his stomach, he would crawl right back into bed and let Derek take his pain. He would stay there as long as he could, because he could. And he could feel the thudding of his heart, as fast as it had been for a while now, in this never-ending joy. A tiny piece of heaven, floating in the middle of the Pacific ocean on its way to Fiji. A reminder of the home Stiles would return to. The bed he would wake up beside Derek in. The pack they’d be bringing back with them. 

Ten points to Peter Hale. 

(As he remembered everything he’d said the night before, he took that right back. Peter needed to stop paying for his drinks.)

Notes:

GUYYSSSSS IM SO EXCITED IM WRITING S4 FUCKING FINALLY AND ITS SO SILLY. ITS SOFUN. IT FEELS LIKE IM WRITING TWICE AND FOR ALL AGAIN AND IM SO SO EEEEEEEEEEEEK MY LOVE CAME BACK FROM THE WAR. THATS HOW IT FEELS. IM SO HAPPY

see u on April 3rddddddd!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

edit: fuck it. might take a little hiatus for a moment. there will either be a chapter on April 3rd or there will not be a chapter for maybe another month or two. i finish college in about a month and a half so will hopefully be no longer fucking mental by then but I cant do this rn. i need to stop priding myself on churning out mediocre work to arbitrary deadlines when I have actual work to be doing that's vital to my future and this is just making me hate writing. i am NOT abandoning this bcz I need to see it finished like I need air but I might not update for a second. i won't write until it makes me happy to do so. I'm doing this for me and me is not luvin it rn

sorry not sorry for the 180 in this note. if anyone is even reading this 🌝 love

Chapter 15: Ten Thousand Toddlers

Summary:

Season 4: 'Secrets'

Stiles has never gotten this far. Nostalgia is a smothering thing.

Notes:

when i told my now-ex partner a month or so ago that I was taking a break from writing this, they responded 'you've finally given up on that, have you?'. Fuck that bitch. happy late birthday to stiles stilinski. Idk when I'm posting this but I hope you LIKE IT because I AM NOT A QUITTER

I'm excited for this season :) the next chapter was the thing that made this fic a two-parter :)) (I think I've said that about like 4 parts of this fic already. real)

(ew to the embarrassing losers that scraped this site for their AI. Sooo lame lmfao I don't really care cause whats done is done but goddd that's how you decide to spend your only life on earth? dude go watch a sunset. hold a baby. take a class. get a pet. get a JOB) (if you use generative AI for anything, especially participating in fandom (art, fic, anything at all), then close the tab. just close it. i don't want you here. you should know better by now.)

Wrong. Stiles was wrong. About a lot of things. Odd, considering he should know… better? 

The problem with spending ten months in a little utopia of magic and avoiding your problems and physiotherapy and Derek and throw pillows and neighbours in so many directions was that you tend to forget about the horrors. Just, in general. How did he forget? Beats me. He was the one having a woman massage his hands twice a week and make him squeeze a ball and sit there lifting a tiny weight with his wrists, rotating up and down, over and over, for thirty minutes on each side and, holy God, you do not understand how badly that shit hurt. It was bad. And he’d died. At least twice. 

And now he was about to die again, damn it. 

“I swear to fucking God,” he snarled to himself, because who cares about making too much noise, he’s going to die either way, “I stay at my dad’s for one night! ”

The axe’s blade broke through the white, painted wood of his old bathroom door and he swore to himself, grumbling past a curled lip as his mind began to race. Too fast. 

The Mute. 

In his dad’s house.

The bounty hunter.

Chasing a bounty.

On him.

Deadpool.

Bounty.

Hunter.

Peter.

Fucking.

Hale.

“I’m going to kill myself!” He shouted, “Don’t even try!!” But, still, he waited until the thing finished breaking down the door. It stared at him. He stared at it. Him? What were the mouthless murderer thing’s pronouns, exactly?

It reached down, toward its wrist, and, slowly, a robotic voice began to speak. Each word made Stiles’ muscles tense.

“You’re unlucky,” that fake voice said, “that your price is so high.”

Stiles’ brows rose, “Nice to hear someone wants me. Where’d you get the axe?” He nodded, “I’ve been wanting one lately.”

That axe spun through the air and shattered a hole in his bathtub as he threw himself out of the way, slipping on his feet and smacking his head into the wall before he caught his balance and rose to his feet. Stiles thought for approximately nought-point-two seconds before he scrambled to grab that axe and swing his arm back around. 

The thing stared at him.

God, just grow a mouth. It really, really needed to grow a mouth. Somehow. Desperately. Stiles was trying not to gag. 

Holding things in his right hand wasn’t as difficult anymore. It brought an odd strain, through his fingers, but the physio had helped his tendonitis (it was still appalling to him that his tendons were the things fucking him up the worst rather than, you know, the aforementioned horrors) and he was far more confident now, compared to nine months ago, that he wasn’t about to drop the axe and impale his foot. Still, his hand shook when it had to hold things heavy like this. How the fuck had this guy thrown it like it weighed nothing? Axes were heavy, man.

“Thanks,” Stiles said blandly, “You know what, don’t worry about the axe recommendations. I think I’ll just keep this one. ‘S nice.”

The two of them stared at each other for a moment.

Stiles swallowed, “So, did you buy it with… bounty? Or?”

The Mute was moving. Fast. Stiles cried out, swinging the axe wildly as he slipped out past it. The thing practically punched a hole in his wall. Jesus. 

Maybe Stiles was out of practice. Just a little bit. Maybe, at pack training sessions, he would just sit on the no-longer-new porch of the Hale House and cheer the wolves on as they battled it out and Allison inevitably beat all of their asses without breaking a sweat. It made Derek just as mad every single time and it was adorable. She was awesome, they all sucked, and Peter loudly agreed from his spot lingering right next to Stiles. Peter, whose fault it was entirely that Stiles was now being hunted for money. Still, it was a fun system. Less fun when Stiles was wrong about not needing to fight for his life for a little while longer. 

He couldn’t die. He still hadn’t gotten Allison her eighteenth birthday present. And her birthday was a month ago.

He had been preoccupied with sobbing hysterically at the realisation that she had, finally, turned eighteen.

At least, in this (absolutely pathetic) fight with one of the most aggressive human(?) beings Stiles had ever met, he seemed to be coming out of it with more bruises than gaping wounds. That was good. He couldn’t face the smell of blood ever again. 

The front door opened with a click. 

The both of them froze. Stiles’ head hung over the top of the stairs, looking down at the door. There was a shuffling of fabric. He tightened his grip on his stolen axe. Borrowed. 

Daddy’s home.

He screamed, slashing through the air with the axe and pushing himself backwards, allowing himself to tumble horribly, halfway down the stairs, as his dad’s voice began to call out from all the way down them.

“Stiles?!” He yelled, “What in the—”

In a dizzy, wrong-way-up flash of vision, Stiles watched him unholster his Glock and lift it above the both of them. Stiles grinned back at the blackened silhouette of that fucking freak.

“Ha!” He pointed at him with the axe, flipping him off as well as he could with his fingers only half working and entirely wrapped around the handle, “Get Sheriffed!!”

One shot burst out. 

The Mute vanished back up the stairs, followed by another two deafening pops. 

Stiles didn’t like that sound. 

He took in a deep breath. Upside-down. He was upside-down. His elbow slammed into the wall, right on his funny bone, as he started to right himself, of course, it did. The world seemed so much smaller when he was the right way up. That staircase was tiny. He felt caged. Trapped. 

That was fine. 

“Stiles??” Noah’s voice cried out, “What the shit just happened?!”

“Language,” Stiles muttered back.

“Don’t—” Noah shook his head furiously, tucking his gun away and moving toward his son, “Who was that?”

Stiles blinked down at him, still sat halfway up the stairs, “The Mute?”

His dad’s face slowly scrunched up, “What in the Hell are you talking about?”

“He’s a bounty hunter,” Stiles swallowed, “Thanks for the backup.”

“A bounty hunter,” Noah echoed slowly.

Stiles stared blankly at him, and eventually felt his mouth twist into a sorry grimace, “This is gonna be fun?”

“Stiles, don’t joke about this,” the Sheriff almost shouted, and Stiles wanted the stairs to swallow him whole, “I can’t… I can’t lose you, okay?”

He liked seeing his dad in the darkness, like this. He couldn’t tell that his face was pale, and his eye bags were deep and terrible, and his stubble was thicker than ever when he couldn’t actually see his face. He could pretend his dad was fine, just like he pretended he was.

“Not before I find your mom.”

Yeah.

Stiles nodded slowly, “I know.”

Oh, but it was fine. Stop fucking asking.

 

-

 

Stiles had a lot of things to talk about, with a lot of different people. He had to talk to Peter about how his deadpool apparently still exists here, whatever, that was fine; he had to talk to Lydia about how her grandma was a banshee and he needed to destroy her mom’s lakehouse to put an end to the afformentioned evil deadpool; he had to not talk to his dad about his mom – he’d lasted almost a year, he could last a while longer; he had to talk to Derek, just, to talk to Derek. He liked talking to Derek. 

He did not have to talk to Beacon Hills High School Lacrosse Coach and Economics Teacher Bobby Finstock. 

“Stilinski!!! ” He roared, after gawking at Stiles for a full two minutes. He stammered, gesturing wildly at the coffee Stiles had just handed to him, and the coffee shop they were stood in, and Stiles, “Where the bloody hell have you been?? Wh— I know the Sheriff’s department’s had some budget cuts but it is not bad enough for you to be working at the mall instead of at school!! ”

Stiles stared blankly at him for a moment, “Why are you at the mall instead of at school?”

Finstock raised a brow, “None of your damn business. Listen, I expect to see you at practice tomorrow. I’ll excuse your absences, whatever, I don’t care, you’re a talent I’d risk my job for.” He took a sip of his drink, and both brows fell, “And I doubt you’re gonna go far as a barista.”

Stiles squinted, “Kind words as always, Coach.”

The man reached out to clap him on the shoulder, “If I don’t see you out on the field, I’m writing as many terrible online reviews as it takes to get you booted right out of this place.”

“You know, I don’t doubt that you will.”

“You better not,” the man said like he meant it from his soul, “I’m a man of my word. Take care, Stilinski.” He took another sip, and his nose scrunched up, “Seriously, stick to lacrosse.”

 

-

 

They’d renovated the school in the time he’d been anywhere other than there. They always did, over the summer between his Sophomore and Junior years. This time, he was pretty sure it was because of the mess they’d made of it the last time he’d dropped by. He couldn’t really remember it, not in the same way he couldn’t remember those three days he’d spent with Gerard, which was only slightly giving him a headache, but more in the way that it was such a horrifying, rushed blur he couldn’t possibly remember it unless he tried. Which he did not want to. When he mentioned that to Derek, the wolf would stare at him for a moment, then raise his brows and shoot another ‘And you’re sure you don’t need therapy?’. Stiles really only refused because he’d already been refusing for so long. 

The place looked too… familiar. In a bad way. And a good way. It’s just that Stiles liked going back to the way it had been in his Freshman and Sophomore years, you know? Things had been so easy back then, especially his Freshman year. It felt like such a distant memory now – life before werewolves. He’d spent every waking moment thinking about Lydia, or playing video games, or watching movies, and always procrastinating his homework. Life had been him and Scott and a parasocial relationship with Lydia Martin. 

If he could tell his fourteen-year-old self one thing, it would be to graduate early. 

Technically speaking, Stiles was repeating his Sophomore year again. Well, for the first time to them. Because he’d, you know, not been there for more than maybe a total of seven days. Actually, there had been a week where Stiles had been bouncing off the walls and had barely been on the schedule at work, so he’d hung out for the whole five days. Then, he’d crashed at the end and had barely left his and Derek’s room the whole next week. 

Stiles was fidgeting with his gloves, high again, ready to be out and about, heart pounding in his chest, when he’d seen him. The world had stopped.

Liam Dunbar was so young. He was a baby. The little cocky smirk on his face as he got another goal, it made Stiles want to cry. He was so little. So short, so small, so innocent. And, above all, most importantly, the part that made Stiles’ heart damn-near tear out of his own chest: he was Liam Dunbar. And he was here.

A strangled sort of noise made its way out of Stiles’ throat. Isaac and Jackson turned their heads, a ways down the field from him, to give him a look. Stiles took a deep breath. A shaky, overexcited, deep breath.

Time was moving forward. 

“He-e-ey, Coach,” he said around a cheek-aching grin. The man gave him a brief glance.

“Stilinski,” he said, full of gravitas, as always, “You ready to do your best today? You know, I don’t expect any less. Spending a year making sub-par lattés instead of practicing isn’t an excuse.”

Stiles ignored all of that, “What do you think of the little guy?”

“What little guy?” Coach said, “They’re all little. Apart from Danny. He is freakishly tall. And you.” He gave Stiles a slightly too intense look, “You’re almost as tall as him.”

“Okay,” Stiles said slowly, “I meant the new kid. Dunbar.”

“Oh, Dunbar??” Coach’s face shifted into one of pride, of disbelief, “That kid is the best thing to ever happen to this team. No offence.”

“None taken,” Stiles said with a grin, “He’s good, huh?”

“The best,” Coach snapped, “He puts Jackson Whittemore to shame. You people need to shape up.”

Stiles giggled, “Sure thing, Coach.”

“This is no laughing matter, Stilinski,” Coach snarled, and Stiles started to walk off. His voice followed him, bellowing, “Get back on the grind!!”

Liam was his little brother. Stiles had no idea what to do about him now. They hadn’t had a choice, last time. Scott had turned him to save his life, and they’d all freaked the fuck out about it, and he caused enough chaos to make the Nogitsune jealous (Stiles can joke about these things, but if anyone else does, he contemplates drowning himself again), and, eventually, he had ended up relatively stable. None of it was anyone’s fault besides the bounty hunters and that one wendigo kid. Liam had come out the other end better for it, but, God, the start had been rough. He could hardly control his anger issues as a normal person, and then they turned him into something that manifested his rage with claws and fangs and fur and glowing eyes. 

It’s not like Stiles could turn him himself. He could absolutely annoy the hell out of him, though.

“Liam Dunbar,” he declared, still grinning wide enough to permanently alter his jaw.

The kid gave him a sideways look, “Can I help you?”

“Oh, my God,” Stiles almost squealed. His eyes were so wide open they started to water. 

Liam’s eyes were darting, “Are you… Are you good, man?”

Stiles nodded, “Mhm. Absolutely. So good. You are actually Liam.”

Liam’s brows tilted upward, and his mouth twisted into a grimace, “I… I’m sorry, how old are you? Do you go here?”

Somehow, Stiles’ eyes widened even more, “Ha! Throwback.”

“What??”

“You enjoying Beacon Hills so far?” Stiles crossed his arms over his chest, sun beating down on the back of his neck; the kid’s hair was golden in this light, like a damn newborn, “Pretty different to Devenford, huh?”

“How did…” Liam’s face turned solemn, “Who the fuck are you?”

Stiles’ brows rose, “Don’t get mad, we don’t have the budget to replace anything you break.”

Liam’s brows rose, lip curling, “What the fuck did you just say to me?”

Stiles felt himself wince, a miniscule apology swallowed back down with a gulp, as Scott appeared out of nowhere to grab Stiles by the shoulder.

“Stiles!” He cheered, awfully fake, “You… You met our newest player!”

Stiles turned to him, still wide-eyed. Scott’s brows twitched at the sight. He wasn’t good at reading people. Stiles was sure this entire interaction had been doomed from the start. It was not about to be saved by Scott McCall.

“Stiles!” Jackson shouted, “Stop scaring the kid! You’re already freaky enough to the rest of us, you gotta ease the newbies into your bullshit.”

Stiles turned to gawk over his shoulder, “Hey!”

“What, this is normal for you people?” Liam drawled.

Stiles choked on a laugh, “Oh, my God, I forgot how mean you were. Jesus.”

Scott’s hand tensed on his shoulder. Liam’s face grew even more disturbed. 

Isaac’s voice called out from a few yards away, “How have you gotten worse at this?!”

“Is this… some sort of hazing thing?” Liam asked, looking around blindly for support, “Or did Brett put you up to this? You trying to confuse me before practice to make me play worse? ‘Cause it’s not gonna work. I’m good, man. You can’t throw me off.”

“Sure, I can,” Stiles said simply, “but that won’t help me. I’m only here ‘cause Coach ran into me at work today and got very upset about me not prioritising lacrosse. I don’t think he gets that I don’t want to be here anymore. Or that I never did.”

“That is a little more than he needs to know about you, I think, maybe,” Scott said quietly.

“What, he’s a lacrosse prodigy,” Stiles murmured, “maybe if he knows Coach keeps begging for me to come back even when I have no grades at all, he’ll respect me a little more.”

“Stiles,” Scott hissed, right into his ear, “How about we leave the kid alone.”

Stiles groaned, too loud and too overdramatic, “Fine.” He rolled his eyes, turning on his heel and searching through the faces in the field, “See you round, Liam. I’d tell you to kick ass but I know you will.”

“You don’t know me,” Liam’s voice snapped. One final thing.

Stiles gave him the briefest of glances, “Sure, I don’t.”

The second he was out of earshot, Jackson was all in his face, as angry-looking as ever, nose scrunched up, eyes sharp, jaw set, snarling, “You have really got to find a new approach for when you run into someone you think you know.”

“I know I know him,” Stiles muttered indignantly, “He’s basically Scott and I’s adoptive son.”

“I don’t think he is?” Scott murmured. 

“Oh, Liam,” Stiles pouted, “That’s my boy. My homeslice. My day… 2. Oh, my God, I’ve missed him so bad, guys, it’s been years.” He ended up with his hands fisted in Jackson’s vest, knuckles slapped at half-heartedly like they were pests as Stiles gave into the melodrama.

“Get the hell off me,” Jackson grumbled as he gave up. 

Stiles’ forehead thudded into the wolf’s chest, “My boy.”

Jackson slapped him on the arm, knocking him off-balance, “Ew, oh, my God.”

A shrill whistle rang out across the field. 

“Alright, you useless sacks of teenage hormones!!” Coach cried out, “We’re doing catch drills! Get into pairs! And if you can’t find a pair, then you can work on becoming likeable!… I’m looking at you, Greenberg.”

“Maybe you should try that,” Isaac murmured. 

Stiles frowned at him, open-mouthed, and finally standing up straight, “You can’t be mean to me, or I’ll make my dad let the foster care system take you.”

Isaac’s face crumpled, “What??”

“Now shush,” Stiles stepped back, “I need to make Liam my partner. This is prime bonding time.”

Scott’s hushed ‘I don’t think it is’ followed him as he darted off, a negativity Stiles refused to carry with him. But whether Scott’s words actually held power, or Liam just did not want to be around him, or the stars were not aligning (wow, which of those was more likely?), Liam was snatched into partnering with some random Sophomore, and Stiles’ shoulder was grabbed by somebody.

He knew that face. 

“Hey, man,” Garrett said, “You need a partner?”

Oh, for God’s sake.

Stiles’ eyes trailed down to his lacrosse stick. Personal. Customised. Previously stabbed – or was it slashed? – into Liam, hidden blade laced with wolfsbane. His eyes trailed back up. That mop of blonde hair, too clean. The picture of the perfect kid. The watchful eye over his shoulder of his girlfriend sat on the bleachers. He’d forgotten this was still going on.

It was a beautiful day for bounty hunting, huh?

“… Sure, Garrett,” Stiles said with a smile. If the kid was shocked Stiles knew his name, he should know that Stiles was probably more surprised. He’d only had to deal with them for, like, ten seconds before Scott beat their asses and they ultimately got murdered by Berserkers, or something. They still made it onto his board. You know, this would probably be the easiest thing in the world without Kate’s zombie ass screwing it all up. And Liam wouldn’t be on the Deadpool. Neither would Scott. What a great day for Stiles this was shaping out to be!

All things considered, Garrett and Violet were kind of… sad. Their whole schtick was that they were orphans, and they made a living by murdering people. Like they were in some sort of DC comic. Tragic. And, honestly, so embarrassing. Just be sad like normal people, you don’t have to join a gang and become an assassin about it. Then again, Stiles had always dreamt of being in a DC comic. Who was he to judge? He’d’ve killed way more people if he was getting paid for it. 

The hour passed by torturously slow. Maybe his mind racing was making it all seem slower than it really was. All of him was racing. Not just his mind. His heart, his body. Everything was going into overdrive. It was the excitement. The fear. The anticipation. 

Liam fucking Dunbar, man.

And the Deadpool. How much was he worth? How much were his pack? Derek was worth a good few million last time, and Scott had been worth twenty-five and Lydia was worth twenty, that much Stiles remembered. Liam was in the millions, too, most of them were. What the fuck would Allison be worth? Were the Alphas still around? The ones alive, that is. Oh, shit, what would the Hales be worth? Besides Peter, obviously, he wasn’t gonna be on there. Bitch. He seemed to remember Kira being worth more than her mom. That didn’t really make a whole lot of sense to him. And, you know, he came to find out about a good few supernaturals who weren’t even on the list. He’d be kinda pissed, if he were them. 

He left practice a few minutes early, slipping off of the field before Coach noticed. This was fun, sure, but he needed to get to Peter. He needed to take care of this Deadpool shit before it had a chance to stop being a silly joke to him. He could not let it stop being funny. Because if it stopped being funny, then Stiles would probably lose his shit. And he only just got it back. Losing his shit would not be fucking funny.

Somehow, Stiles was still an idiot after all these years. He could excuse the overwhelming amount of eyes on them as good enough reason to leave his betas with two bounty-hunting psycho children, but, really, it was a dumbass thing to do to leave them just to isolate himself. In a room with one way out. And the smallest windows anyone has ever seen.

There was a blissful moment where the setting sun was shining right through those tiny slivers of glass. They caught the dust and shot beams of light through the room. For a second, the place looked nice. Stiles’ heart was so full. 

And then the door opened, and shut. 

“You know what’s about to happen, don’t you?” Garrett’s voice came. Stony. Like he really thought he was scary.

“Not at all,” Stiles said, “But I am curious what I’m worth if you’d risk doing something so stupid in a place this obvious.” He pulled his shirt back down his chest, giving up on changing, to turn and face the kid, “Or are you just… stupid anyway?”

Garrett huffed out a laugh – what a stupid name, Garrett, “You’re worth enough.”

“The anticipation is killing me,” Stiles deadpanned, “Are you gonna try to actually kill me, or what? You could probably bore me to death, if you keep this up. You wanna try that?”

“You don’t heal,” Garrett said, eyes practically glowing but, no, only one of them could do that, “This’ll be too easy.”

Stiles’ entire face took part in the frown he gave, and maybe he could’ve put that effort into bracing for the lacrosse stick Garrett was suddenly swinging at him. 

Some sort of bone-deep reflex kicked in, one born from the endless years of having shit swung at him, that had him dodging back and arcing his hand up to block the stick. A small noise slipped past his lips at the tug of his scars, the lingering discomfort of having your hand impaled that no physiotherapist could fix. His hand spasmed, losing its grip and allowing Garrett to jab forward, sending Stiles slipping on some asshole’s t-shirt. He landed right on his tailbone, slamming into a bench. 

“Oh, fuck,” he whined, “Jesus, man.”

The kid laughed – fucking laughed – and Stiles just tried to push the pain out of him. It wasn’t working. 

A blade struck down toward him. One blurred motion. Hands raised above him. His jaw set. His heart stopped.

That face, so familiar and so unrecognisable, stared down at him with nothing behind its eyes. Void. 

It raised the sword in its hands, voice gravelled, rotting, “Funny. Right?”

“No!! ” Stiles boomed, a sound so perilously loud, torn from his chest like his own beating heart was coughed out through his throat. 

Garrett froze. 

His brows tightened. 

Stiles stared at the tiny blade. At the base of the lacrosse stick, suspended in the air and held there with pure desperation. The red glow was downright taunting him. His hands were shaking, pressed against the edge of the bench. Shaking so much he almost crumbled.

“I said no,” Stiles’ voice was just as shaky, buried down with a thick swallow. He looked up past his brows at the frustration in the boy’s face, “You know what that word means, Garrett? Or should I go grab you a dictionary?”

“I don’t generally get consent before I kill people,” Garrett snarled back.

Stiles tilted his head, and the door slammed open. 

He turned as Garrett did. He felt a tug in his chest as the light vanished and the lacrosse stick clattered to the ground. Whether that tug was the magic dissipating or the horror at the sight of the kid in the doorway, Stiles was not sure.

Liam gawked at the both of them. 

Stiles pursed his lips, swallowing again, “‘Sup.”

The boy gawked for a while longer, “Is that… Do you—”

“Get out of here, new kid,” Garrett snarled, “This doesn’t concern you.”

He reached for the lacrosse stick again, and Stiles stretched his leg out to swipe it out from under him. It slid across the floor, a scraping, ear-bleeding sound cutting through the air as it made its way to clatter into a wall of lockers. 

“He has a point,” Stiles snapped, “Liam, go.”

There had to be something wrong with Garrett’s brain. A normal person, a smart person, would not try to attack him again in front of a witness, without his only fucking weapon. And, clearly, there was something wrong with Liam’s brain, bless his little cotton socks, because no sane teenage boy just throws themselves into a fight after they see one of the people fighting use magic.

But, whether it was sane or not, and whether Stiles needed his help or not (he absolutely didn’t), Liam still threw himself across the room to tackle Garrett to the ground. Stiles could only stare in horror for a short moment before he remembered that this Liam would not heal from anything this (mildly) experienced actual and literal bounty hunter did to him.

“Liam, what the shit do you think you’re doing?!” He screeched.

“I don’t know what you just did,” Liam snarled back, holding Garrett down on the ground in a headlock, ignoring the blunt nails scratching at his forearm, “But I don’t like bullies.”

“This isn’t the Disney Channel!” Stiles cried out, as Garrett contorted his body to slam an elbow into Liam’s jaw. 

Liam let him go with a yell, scrambling after him as the blond started to move away. Stiles just watched in horror as they fought, two idiots with no technique throwing hands in a mess of limbs, banging into everything around them. He wanted to kill the both of them. 

Instead, he did what any responsible adult would do, and went to fetch Garrett’s lacrosse stick. It took a second to get his hand to hold it comfortably, but he didn’t really care. 

Clang.

It sounded like hitting a metal water bottle against a marble counter, smacking Garrett over the head with that thing. He crumpled to the floor like a ragdoll. Stiles stared at his lifeless body until he was sure he saw his chest rise and fall at least once, then turned his gaze back to Liam.

The kid was sat on the floor, back resting against a locker, staring right back up at him.

“That was dangerous,” Stiles said, “Don’t pull that again. You’re not a good fighter.”

“What??” Liam spat, “I got him off you! I saved your life!”

“He would’ve killed you,” Liam frowned, “I saved your life, genius. You’re strong and angry, yeah, great, but you don’t know how to fight. That guy does. Probably. I don’t know. He’s an idiot. And so are you.”

“Well, what just happened, huh?” Liam asked, chest rising and falling too fast, “Why was he attacking you? What was that… light?”

“What light?” Stiles pulled his brows together, “Are you okay? I think you hit your head, man.”

Liam’s jaw dropped, “No. I know what I saw—”

“Clearly not, buddy.”

“Stop it!” The kid hissed. 

Stiles was forcing down a smile when his stomach dropped. Not for any particular reason. The unease it sent pulsing through him, it made his hands start to shake again. His scars itched. Then the ground shook beneath him with a hearty rumble. A sound that reached up through his entire central nervous system and slapped him twice around the face. 

Derek.

Squeaking shoes snapped him back, drawing closer. His eyes flickered down to the weapon in his hand, the teenage hunter lying limp on the floor, and Liam’s big eyes. 

Not the best way to be found, for sure. 

But then Jackson and Isaac were in the doorway, and Jackson was growling, “Stiles, your boyfriend’s gotten himself in some trouble.”

Stiles looked back at the two kids, and sighed until his lungs were empty.

 

-

 

“You’re not coming with me,” Stiles said firmly, “I will drive you home when I’m done. Okay??”

Liam glared at him from the passenger’s seat, face not at all dissimilar to the look he’d had after Scott kidnapped him last time – oh, those were good times. “You stopped a knife in mid-air with glowing red magic,” the kid seethed, “I don’t want you knowing where I live, let alone being anywhere near it.”

“You did… what,” Jackson snapped from outside the car. Isaac’s voice murmured a ‘why is this tiny child still here?’ and Scott stomped on his shoe. Loud. They were all so very loud. 

Stiles blinked at him, stared as blankly as his mind felt, “Then why the hell did you get in my car?” Liam stared back, wide-eyed, fists clenched. Stiles felt his mouth twist into a sneer. “And I already know where you live.”

It was almost impressive how still Liam got. Stiles held it together for maybe four seconds before a laugh tore out of him. The kid barely relaxed, going a little red in the face. Stiles wacked him on the arm – why the fuck is a kid that small so solid? Freak. 

Stiles hummed, “Welp. I’ve gotta go. The hubby can’t die without me.” He scrunched up his nose, “Don’t touch anything, or I’ll rip your throat out.”

Liam blinked up at him. Stiles smiled.

“And I’ll know if you do.” 

Shit was going down at the hospital. Of course, it was. It always was. They should’ve thought to build the thing somewhere else – surely, Stiles wasn’t the only person one-hundred percent sure the whole plot of land was cursed down to the bedrock. Maybe it was a convergence of ley lines, like the high school. Whatever it was, they could’ve just not built hospitals there anymore. That’s the kind of sensitive, important establishment that one might want to not have riddled with death and destruction. Was it not… It looked the same. Had Stiles not destroyed this hospital? When did… When did he blow up the hospital? Was that not…

Derek was in trouble. That was the point. Of this. Not whether or not this was the same exact building that everything had happened in before, not even whether or not Melissa had called out to him as he sprinted toward the elevator. Did he know where Derek was? No. But Jackson, Scott, and Isaac ran to those metal doors fast enough to remind him that one of them did. 

“Stiles!” A voice called out – Allison. He turned back, looking over his shoulder; the long-forgotten scars of Peter’s claws yanked at his neck. She was jogging up to him, face scrunched up, “What is happening?”

“You didn’t hear?” Stiles asked.

“Yeah, I did,” Allison snapped back, glancing down at his chest, “The whole town did. That’s kind of the problem. Are you okay?”

Stiles’ heart was beating a little fast, sure, but she didn’t need to have that look on her face about it – like he’s actually concerning her, ugh, “I’m fine. Your parents didn’t…”

“They did,” she said with a firm nod, “Luckily I can run faster than they can drive.” Some guy with a broken, bleeding nose gave her a look as he passed by. Stiles just smiled and waved. Allison’s cheeks pinked and she swallowed, blinking at him with her fluttering lashes.

“Where’s Derek?” Stiles asked.

Her brows scrunched up and her lips pouted, “The… fourth floor. Jackson and Isaac just got there. They’re fighting someone in one of the rooms…” Her eyes snapped back from their vacancy, expression suddenly awfully dire, “Security just got called.”

Stiles huffed, “Well, we don’t have time for that.”

Melissa was coming toward them, racing down the hall. Stiles clicked his tongue.

“Definitely don’t have time for that,” he murmured.

Allison glanced over her shoulder, “I got it. You go.”

Stiles sighed, “I love you, Allison.”

“Love you too, Stiles,” she nodded, “Melissa! Hi! How have you been?” 

Stiles spun on his heel so fast the soles of his shoes made a squeak loud enough to drown out all the noise in the hospital. He ran.

“Hi, Allison,” Melissa’s voice began to fade into the distance, “I– Did you see Stiles? Just now?”

“Stiles? No, why, is he okay? What’s he doing here?”

Elevators were a waste of time. He wasn’t waiting for the thing to come back down after going up to the fourth floor. He took the stairs. His thighs burned, and his feet ached, but he did it anyway. 

It wasn’t hard to figure out which room they were fighting in. Not when a man in a leather jacket was being thrown out into the hallway, bursting through the door and sending wood shattering outward. The man groaned, rolling to the side and stretching his back. Stiles watched, horrified, as Derek stormed out of the room, wide-eyed, debauched, and downright furious.

“You need a hand?” Stiles asked mildly.

Derek snarled, “What makes you think that—?” And then a woman, with a head of damn near perfect hair (he should know, he’s heard Erica complaining about the topic in relation to their perfectly hairy girl friends enough to be an expert by proxy), was lunging at him, wrapping around his body like a koala, and swinging an arm through the air to hit him with something when Derek- What even was going on? It was just a blurred mess of arms and legs swinging around – had Stiles always been this terrible at following what was happening in fights? – and then Derek had the girl by the neck, held in his right hand, at arms length, suspended in the air, legs flailing. She gave out a choked gasp, swung her arm again, and Derek pulled her in closer.  

He roared as he launched the girl down the hall, into the elevator at the other end. She bounced off the metal and fell to the floor, still. 

Stiles crossed his arms over his chest. Derek rolled his shoulders, then his neck, and huffed before turning back to his boyfriend, “Thanks for the hand, Stiles.”

Stiles frowned, “I think you had that one.”

“Well—” Derek was cut off again, this time by the man from before, and, finally, Stiles could see what they were swinging at him.

Syringes.

Syringes filled with dark purple liquid. 

A word, though Stiles could not be sure what word exactly, burst out of him as he finally started moving, sliding on debris on the floor as he threw himself toward the two men. There was no finesse, or technique, or skill in the way he took the man down. Just brute force, and a fresh, pulsing pain his right wrist as the both of them slammed to the floor. The syringe in his hand clattered to the ground and rolled away, and Stiles barely had a second to recalibrate before the man’s fist collided with his cheek.

His head span a little, and his mouth filled with blood as pain radiated out through the point he’d been hit. Stiles groaned, righting himself in time to catch the man’s fist as he swung again. He held it there. The man’s eyes widened. 

Stiles squinted as familiarity washed over him, “Do I know you from somewhere?”

But then the man was twisting around under him, reaching for his pocket, and the fun was over. Stiles tightened his grip and barely thought twice about letting the energy burn through him. He liked to call it his ‘razzle-dazzle’, these days. It made it easier to quite literally electrocute people with his spark when he called it that. It also made him feel like an idiot. The pack were less afraid of him when they could agree that he was an idiot. 

Still, he watched the man convulse for a short moment before the energy dissipated and his body fell limp, the slight smell of burning in the air. There was still clattering and snarling in the room. 

Stiles sat there – hovered there, really – on his hands and knees over this man, eyes raking over his features, trying desperately to place where the fuck he knew him from. Because he did. Stiles knew a lot of people, and this syringe-wielding, leather-jacket-wearing, unconscious moron was one of them. 

He had a headache. 

His inner cheek was pulsing, stinging, aching, and he had to lean over to spit the blood out of his mouth. His eyes found Derek, tracing up the man’s body to reach the high-browed look upon his face. Derek’s body was still tense, ready to charge. He looked so effing good today, fuck, man.

“The guy can punch, I’ll tell you that,” Stiles groaned, “Are there more in there?”

“That’s the problem,” Derek sighed heavily, “It’s not the hunters. It’s what they’re hunting.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, but a violent roar smothered the words on his tongue. Scott cried out, and ducked out of the room, slipping on a piece of wood just as Stiles had, and hiding behind Derek. Isaac and Jackson were shouting at each other.

“Just hold him down!!” 

“What does it look like I’m doing!?!”

“I don’t know, but you could try using your fucking werewolf strength, maybe!!”

“I’m going to kill you!!! ”

“What is it?” Stiles snapped, “Goliath??”

Derek growled, deep in his chest, as he answered, “It’s an Alpha.”

Stiles blinked, and shook his head, “Okay??”

“He’s sick,” Scott croaked.

“People in hospitals tend to be,” Stiles muttered to himself, but the words were swallowed up by the commotion inside. He made a small, aborted sound, as he rose to his feet, locking his mouth shut as it kept aching. He must’ve bitten it, torn right through the skin. It stung like a bitch and it was bleeding too damn much. 

Peeking into the room, he didn’t quite know what to expect. A rabid wolf? Someone in the full shift, evolved and all? A giant, six-foot-something monster of a man? Any relatively scary person-slash-creature at all?

No. No, of course not. Why would it be something that made sense? Something Stiles expected? No, of course, it had to be this. Stiles’s brows fell lower than they ever had, and his eyes squinted so close together he couldn’t quite see at all as the thing writhed and snarled and swiped.

A child. No older than maybe six. Writhing, snarling, swiping, and red-eyed, yes, but its limbs were so tiny Stiles didn’t quite know what to do with himself. So he just stared. 

“Yeah,” Derek growled.

“That thing is evil,” Scott squeaked, “I’m not screwing around with that dude.”

Stiles frowned even deeper, “‘That dude’ is, like, four months old, Scott.”

“Four months of pure evil!”

“He’s a baby!”

“A baby who is pure evil!!” Jackson roared.

Isaac looked ten seconds away from killing himself or the baby, “Stiles, you have got to get this kid under control.”

Stiles’ frown, somehow, amazingly, grew deeper yet, “How the fuck am I supposed to do that?”

“I don’t know, but you gotta do it quick!” Jackson barked.

 “Security’s coming,” Derek grumbled behind him, as the footsteps started to reach his ears, and Stiles groaned loud enough to momentarily deafen himself. But one step into the room, the kid was twisting around to latch its mouth onto Jackson’s forearm. The teenager cried out, yanking his arm back and taking the child with him. The combined force made the restrictive bands around his wrists snap and tear, and in a frantic, bloody blur, the kid was up on his feet. 

Stiles didn’t realise where it was speeding off to until the window shattered. 

He just stared, watching Jackson race over to the hole in the wall and lean out. Words failed him. Truly. 

“That’s not good,” Isaac drawled.

Jackson reversed back into the room to give him the most horrified stare Stiles had seen on his face to date, “God, when’d you get so observant, Lahey??”

“Shut up!” Derek snapped, “We need to get the kid. And not get caught like this. Let’s go.”

Stiles let Jackson slip out past him and vanish with Derek in a blur of their own, and crept into the room. He leant out of the shattered window, staring down at the horrified public and their blaring car alarms as a tiny wolf cub skittered out through the parking lot. He turned back to give Isaac and Scott a look. The teenagers stared back at him in horror. Isaac brought a hand up to scratch at the back of his neck. 

“Baby Alpha?” Stiles hissed.

Isaac winced, and let his elbow drop, “Baby Alpha.”

Stiles’ dad was the one in charge of wiping security footage. Something this ridiculous would go straight to him, anyway, so it wasn’t that high on Stiles’ list of current problems, but the list itself had about fifty different items, so, did he count it as a win? Not exactly. 

He left Liam in the car a second time, after chasing Jackson through the streets like he was in a damn James Bond movie, and surely earning himself enough speeding tickets for even his father to be incapable of talking him out of. Liam had shouted through the windshield, just as he’d shouted into his ear the entire Mad Max drive into the preserve, and Stiles had ignored him just as resolutely the entire time. Stopping a tiny rabid alpha werewolf from turning half the town and/or getting everybody killed was more important than the level at which that kid felt heard. 

Also. This was ridiculous, and stupid, and outrageous, and Stiles was going to burn this town to the ground. 

Too soon?

Derek’s voice was shouting, somewhere past the foliage, as Stiles broke out into a sprint. His plan, you ask? There wasn’t one. And ‘don’t die’ stopped being a funny substitute for a solid plan a long time ago. He couldn’t kill a kid. And he didn’t know how to help it. And they couldn’t stop it – the child was an Alpha; none of Stiles’ wolves had any leverage over it. Stiles sure as shit didn’t. He couldn’t communicate with it, but they were trying to save it, right? So, he couldn’t just kill it. 

Not that he would. It was a kid. Stiles didn’t kill kids. Surely, he had to draw the line somewhere. Right? Right. 

… Right. 

A flash of red lit up in his peripheral, and Stiles was turning on his heel fast enough to almost twist an ankle. He sped up as well as he could, using a little burst of power to throw himself forward and tackle that tiny body to the floor. He heard something crack as they landed, rolling across the grass. 

Stiles’ head was pounding. 

The kid wormed out of his hold too easily – slippery little furry asshole. Stiles just about grabbed its right hind leg (fucking wolves, man) before it could sprint off again, and it twisted back around, curling in on itself, to slash at him with its tiny claws. Tiny, sharp claws. Tiny razor blades on each of his little tiny baby paws, and it would’ve been cute if it didn’t keep catching on his skin—

“Stiles!!”

“Hey, kid, no!!”

Stiles’ head snapped over, finding Derek’s horrified face as another body slammed into the cub and tore its claws out of his wrist. He turned his head upward, hair rubbing into the roughage and sticks and dirt, to gawk at the sight himself. 

“Liam Eugene Dunbar, ” he roared, “I thought I told you to wait in the car!!! ”

Liam’s wide baby blue eyes flickered back to him right as the sound of bone snapping filled the air. The kid – Liam, not the wolf – cried out and collapsed to the floor, laying on his back and just screaming. Stiles scrambled on his hands and knees up the few yards Liam had travelled, just far enough to grab hold of that leg again and send one last shock through it. A tiny baby shock for a tiny baby. 

Liam yelled again, or just yelled louder, as the shock passed through to him. But then the wolf was still, limp and its teeth were breaking out of Liam’s upper arm, where they’d latched on. Stiles stared as the blood gushed. Dark, and thick. Skin torn and bright pink. His cheeks began to burn, and his stomach ached. 

“God, that’s bad,” he whimpered, turning his gaze away, “Bad, bad, bad. All bad.”

“Oh, my God,” Liam squeaked, “Oh, my God.”

“What are you doing here?? ” Stiles squawked, “You dumb, stupid, dumb little— dumbass!!”

Derek’s voice came once more, “Stiles. We need to get these two to Deaton.”

“Yeah,” Stiles’ eyes flicked back over them both – the blood, the tiny wolf’s body, the teenager staring down at his wrist, pale in the face, and terrified. He swallowed, so thickly, “Jesus Christ.”

“Hey,” Jackson’s voice cut in, “Can you hear that?”

Derek growled a little, “Yeah, I can hear it.”

“Hear what?” Stiles groaned, searching for Derek’s eyes again and finding them sharp, and calculating.

“Hunters,” he answered.

Stiles felt a little more sick, “… Like. Normal ones?”

Derek’s brows twitched, “Werewolf ones.”

“Ah.”

“What??” Liam screeched, “Werewolf?!? What the shit are you—”

“Language.”

“No! Shut up!” He yelled, “What the fuck are you talking about?!”

“Stiles, tell your new kid to be quiet,” Derek grumbled. 

“Seconded,” Jackson moaned. 

Stiles blustered, “What?? He’s not my responsibility, he can be as loud and annoying as he wants!”

“Sure, if you want the Argents to cut him in half if the bite turns him.”

“What?!”

“They won’t…” Stiles tried. The words withered up and died right there on his tongue, and all he could do was drop his head and curse into the grass. Liam was still pleading for answers, voice cracking and so, so young. Stiles had to remind himself that Liam could take the bite. It would not kill him, for better or for worse, and he would learn to control the shift. To control himself. And the Argents don’t kill kids. Like him, they had to draw the line somewhere. It would be okay. It would be okay. It would be okay. 

He could hear the cars coming – tires crunching against the foliage. All he could do to calm himself was imagine the inevitable if they attacked. The hunters would lose. Blood would seep into the dirt. Stiles would sleep so damn good. 

What happened was somewhat confusing. Stiles was a little disorientated from having his head against the floor for so long, the blood rushing to his brain as well as out of the little puncture wounds in his arms, but he rarely followed the bullshit the Argents got up to on a good day. It was better to pretend they didn’t exist. That way, he wouldn’t slip up and out Allison as a fully-fledged werewolf to her psychotic werewolf hunter mother. He was ninety percent sure the red hair dye was rotting her brain. 

The well-known clicking of semi-automatics filled the air, and Derek’s low growl fought to drown it out. Stiles lifted his head only enough to meet Victoria’s eyes with enough fury to get the point across:

Do anything and I won’t hesitate. 

She gave him her usual wide-eyed stare – did they not dry out? He didn’t think he’d ever seen her blink – and stood before her fellow hunters. The matriarch. The leader. Of all people, it boggled his mind that they would choose her. The girls would say it was unfeminist of him to say, but the only word he could think to describe her with was hideous. In all ways. Inside and out. It was infectious.

Derek was saying something to them, pleading with them not to hurt the cub, diplomatic and focused and oozing with sincerity. Displaying a myriad of leadership qualities Stiles could truly only dream of. Fuck, Derek deserved his eyes so much more than he did. So much more. 

He did not look down at the black lines beneath his skin, nor the warm, near imperceptible trickle of blood down his wrists. 

Yikes. 

This was not how he’d thought his first day with Liam Dunbar would go. He kept his eyes on the boy, watching the fear grow with each passing second, feeling the way he was fighting the urge to run. Liam was pinned in place, frozen still. Stiles only moved to put him at ease. Stretched his legs to bring them out beneath him and sat himself down properly. Liam’s horrified stare snapped to him. Stiles breathed in deep and leaned back against his hands. 

“You’re seriously gonna slaughter a child?” He drawled, finally looking back to the Argents. Allison was there. How the fuck had Victoria made Allison? He shook the thought away, “And I’m not talking teenagers. That kid probably can’t even read yet. I’d say he probably just wants his mom, and I’d be right, but I’ve got a sneaking suspicion he doesn’t even have one anymore—”

“Do you know what that monster did?” Victoria cut him off. He raised a brow. Liam flinched at the sound of her voice. “Not only did it pretty much alert the entire town to the existence of the supernatural, do you know how many people it has killed?”

“That’s not his fault,” Stiles snapped, “Look at him! He’s rabid! A little kid isn’t gonna accidentally murder his own Alpha, alright? My money’s on a pack of hunters a lot like you assholes wiping out his family and driving him to this.”

“I don’t think it matters why a murder has been committed when it is still murder,” she said, with a poignancy that did not need to be explained, “Although, I suppose, blaming murder on outside forces is always a comfortable get out for you, isn’t it, Stiles?”

Discomfort, for lack of a better word that didn’t make Stiles want to claw his own heart out of his chest, bare-handed and wet, burst through his ribs like fire. Not fire. Fuck. Like. Like. 

“What did you just say to me?” 

Victoria’s thin lips pursed into the coldest of grimaces, “The wolf needs to be taken out.”

Stiles rose to his feet. Slowly but surely. 

“You know I can’t let you do that.”

Chris sighed by her side, “Stiles. He’s a danger to all of us. He tried to kill you.”

Stiles shrugged, “I’ve tried to kill me. That’s not grounds for you to get a shot at me, too, is it, smartass?”

“Stiles,” Allison said, so gently, from behind her parents. 

He barely spared her a glance, tilting his head to work out a kink in his neck, “I’m sorry, but you’re gonna have to go through me if you wanna get to the kid.”

Victoria’s eyes almost glowed. Chris’ dimmed. 

A wicked grin spread across the huntress’ lips, as she spat, “Works for me.”

Notes:

We r SO back

Chapter 16: La Iglesia

Summary:

Stiles sees a ghost.

Notes:

AAAAA!!!!!!

crazy chapter tbf. this feels like a crossover event

Hate is an inherently intelligent trait. Wolves do not hate. They run on instinct, Stiles knew that. He wasn’t stupid. Alright? Contrary to popular belief, apparently. Hate, malice, evil – that was restricted to intelligent lifeforms. Like humans. And dolphins. Very malicious creatures, dolphins. Stiles would be happy to never, ever meet a dolphin. Unfortunately, he had no choice about meeting humans instead. And, unfortunately, something very interesting happens when you combine human hatred and wolven instinct.

Bitches go berzerk. 

Not in the derogatory dog joke way, nor the Berzerkers way, but it is exactly what painted the picture that werewolves are dangerous, rabid animals. Walking murder. It’s the fact that caused the apparent need for hunters like the Argents. When you have the ability to hate, and the unshakeable instinct to kill, it will be difficult to play nice. 

Stiles had believed Allison would be better at it than this. She had been, in training. She’d been miles more controlled than any of the other wolves – better than Cora, even, and she’d learned to control the shift when she was ten years old. He’d heard all about it while Laura was making fun of her after Allison beat her ass by making her lose control. Allison hadn’t exactly always been a brilliant example of sound mind, at least not in the other timelines, but something about her here was different. At least, he thought. He had not yet been anywhere near her at the same time as her parents (correction: her mother. Chris was fine and dandy. We all know where he stands on the werewolf thing in comparison to his wife (yikes)). Well, he’d seen it now. And her parents had sure seen it, too. 

Somewhere between the Argents showing their faces and Stiles daring them to do something and Victoria raising her gun, Allison had shifted. And she’d fought her mother. She’d wrestled the gun out of her hands, and Derek had barked at Jackson to take the cub to Deaton, and Liam had scampered off to God knows where and Stiles. Stiles just sat there. Slack-jawed. Horrified. Actually surprised for the first time in a long time.

It’s not every day you get to see Victoria Argent thrown to the ground by Allison Argent with fur sprouting from her face. Guns firing into the nothingness and Derek disarming people with a speed and furocity Stiles had not seen from him in a long time. Dizzying was what it was. Dooming.

It had ended as messily as it had began. Maybe with less bloodshed. It had ended with the shrill, grating sound that was Victoria’s voice. 

“The code,” she cried out, as if it hurt to say it, “If one of ours is turned—”

“You cannot be serious,” Chris boomed. 

Victoria had turned her mad gaze to him, “I am deadly serious.”

Stiles had kept his mouth firmly shut. He had watched. Chris’ face was twisting up in horror, hatred, disgust, and Allison was staring back at him like she thought that face was meant for her. With her brows vanished, migrated into the thick patch of fur along her jaw. The golden glow of her eyes, the smooth folding of her nose. 

“You wouldn’t…” Chris tried. Stiles hadn’t heard his voice that small since he knew him as a widower with a dead daughter. 

“What, now you’re surprised that your family is evil?” Derek grumbled from somewhere nearby, and Stiles felt sick. He felt so, so sick.

“Are you trying to tell my daughter to kill herself?” Chris snapped, ignoring Derek entirely, and Allison’s eyes widened even further. Her face began to shift back into place, and the way Victoria gagged and turned away just made the rage, the hatred, the malice burn through Stiles even louder. 

“Our daughter,” Victoria cried, “is already dead.” Her head snapped to him – to Stiles – so fast it almost made him flinch, “Did you do this? First you kill my sister-in-law, and now my daughter??” 

“Funny you ask that—” Stiles slammed his mouth shut before the sentence could get worse, but too late to suck it back in.

“You…” the woman spoke like a damn Disney villain, reaching for her discarded gun, and staring straight into Stiles’ soul, “You are going to—”

“He can change her back!” Derek called out. Victoria froze. Stiles’ mouth fell open again.

“Is that true?” Victoria squeaked.

Allison’s shoulders relaxed so intensely, “Stiles.”

Mouth dry, he gave a passing glance to the man by his side, then turned back to Victoria, “I… Yeah. I can change Allison back.”

“Then what are you waiting for?” Gun trained on him once again, her terrifying eyes grew even more terrifying, “Chop, chop.”

 

-

 

He couldn’t do it. The Jeep had only been parked at their apartment complex for maybe two and a half of the ten months they’d lived there so far because Stiles hadn’t been able to even go back to the school in fear of seeing it, let alone driving it. Now, in the backseat, exactly as it had been ten months ago, the grimoire sat abandoned. Untouched. Unmoved. It was the one thing Stiles could admit was not fine. What had happened to his mom. How he was handling it. How it had happened. None of it was fine. And guilt was far from unfamiliar to him, but it was so smothering and loud whenever he looked at that book, that car, anything to do with her at all, that he couldn’t hear himself think. All he could do was mourn her voice in his head, and her cruelty, and love.

That grimoire was not something he could touch. Not yet. 

So, they called Scott.

Such a sweet thing was Scott. A brilliant reminder of the past. Fluffy-haired and pink-cheeked, somehow still starry-eyed after everything and so full of magic. It shouldn’t have been as surprising as it was. Stiles hadn’t thought Scott had any sort of spark but, then again, he was a True Alpha somewhere else. That was more magic than Stiles was capable of. It was good magic. Stiles’ power, his very heart, was born from chaos, wasn’t it? Scott’s was born from goodness. He’d followed Stiles into the woods out of goodness, he’d never taken a life out of goodness, he’d grown his power out of goodness. And, here, he was a vision of what that Scott could’ve been if Stiles hadn’t brought his chaos into his life. He was still joyful, and youthful, and living as loudly and happily as he possibly could. Like he was still a child. And he was. Allison may have just turned eighteen, but she was a year older. Scott was only barely seventeen. He was a child. Stiles had taken that from the both of them, a long time ago. But not here.

Here, Stiles had done good. 

Here, Scott and Allison were still alive and disgustingly in love with the Nogitsune swimming around the Bermuda Triangle or the wreck of the Titanic. Now, he got to stand back one more time to let Scott save the day, and save her.  

It had been far more than ten months of pretending Derek’s face didn’t trip him up with just as much nostalgia as the rest of them. It was still different. But it still happened. And, now, with the Deadpool and Liam Dunbar creeping back up on him like a mouthless bounty hunter with an axe, stood in those woods, looking right at Derek, he could remember him so clearly. He could remember what the Deadpool had ultimately meant for him. Peter, and Kate, and La Iglesia, and Braeden, and control, and evolution, and walking away. 

A knot formed in his throat. He swallowed it down. And, as Derek turned his head to give him a small smile, Stiles had to look away, back at Allison and Scott holding hands across the Nemeton.

He wasn’t sure when it happened – a bad, terrible, horrible thing – but he had a sneaking suspicion it had something to do with Derek’s hand finding its way to his shoulder and squeezing. That weight. The memories of resting his own hand on that Derek’s shoulder, of squeezing his arm tight as Liam almost killed them both in the back of the prison van Braeden was driving, of holding his face in his hands as Kate’s wolfsbane bullet almost killed him, of teasing, joking, flirting—

A damned hand on his shoulder was enough to break the universe. 

Well over a year ago, Stiles was still violet. He was lavender. Periwinkle. Orchid. Amethyst. He’d ran through the rain for miles, racing through the preserve on aching feet and shaking with rage, fear, hatred, determination. He’d slammed the grimoire down on the Nemeton the second he saw it, flipped through soaked pages until he found the one He had pressed against his chest. Derek had shown up just as he finished the incantation, caught up in some insane love-blind moment of psychopathy. At least it’d seemed like it at the time; maybe he had a little bit of sense, but he still left his entire life behind to follow Stiles to the lowest point of said life. Dumb. Stupid. A tear falling to the Nemeton had been the final piece of connection it had needed to do its job. All the violet and lavender and periwinkle and orchid and amethyst had been so blinding, Stiles almost hadn’t noticed Derek throwing himself into it. Then Kate had been there. And it had all gone horribly, horribly wrong. 

It looked similar when it went wrong this time. Though wrong in a different way. Not too different. Scott leant back, still holding Allison’s hands, twisting his face up in confusion and turning to Stiles as the place was swallowed up by a bright red light. Flickers – shimmers, almost – of sharp violet bursting through like sunlight through frosted glass, reaching out, consuming.

Stiles had yet to learn to think before throwing himself into potentially life-threatening situations. In his defence, Derek did it, too. 

He couldn’t tell when, exactly, it happened. Not any better than he could tell when he made it happen. If he did. Someone did, and all signs point to Stiles Stilinski, so who is he to tell them no? It’s not like it’s out of character for him to be to blame for some bullshit like this. But when or what or how or any other ‘W’ word was irrelevant. The fact was Stiles was caught in a tangle of limbs and pulling scars and heartwood burning his palms. The fact was Allison’s parents had called out as he fell into the light, and their voices had cut off just as fast. 

The silence was heavy. Smothering. Not quite silence, really, but quiet. Leaves rustled in the wind, gently. Somewhere, a bird sang. Stiles took a slow breath. And then he heard it. 

A chittering-like sound. Bone clicking against itself. A sound that made Stiles’ hair stand on end. It was familiar, distracting, in a way that made him reach out to grab at the body that started to move away. Scott’s eyes stared at him, mouth agape, and Stiles’ grip tightened.

“Stiles, stop,” Scott whispered, flinching, “you’re hurting me.”

He didn’t let go, just rose to his knees to look around them. Chris and Victoria were gone. But something was there. Something. He reached over to where Allison was hunched over. 

“What the hell is that?” Derek’s voice asked, low and scratchy, “Why does it smell like death??”

Stiles swallowed. 

“Where are we?” Allison squeaked. 

The form drew nearer, cluttering still, and, as a face was put to the sound, Stiles felt his stomach turn. He dragged in a sharp breath. Derek was staring over his shoulder at the creature, too, and Stiles could see the way his shoulders tensed. 

“Stiles,” he said slowly, “What the fuck.”

The bone-covered giant stopped at the edge of the small clearing, with one last thundering stomp. Memories blinded him for a moment – flashes of Scott’s eyes through the mask, of Derek dying in the sand – before he forced himself back to reality. He didn’t know where Chris and Victoria went. He didn’t know where they were now. He couldn’t let his thoughts wander too far, to life-altering extremes. He didn’t know.

“Run,” he said suddenly, “We need to run.”

“Stiles, what is that?!” Scott barked.

“It will kill you,” Stiles snapped back, “if you don’t start running right fucking now.” He whirled back around, shoving him and Allison away, “Both of you, go.”

Derek growled behind him. 

Stiles’ eyes sharpened, “Derek!! No! I’m not kidding, don’t fight this thing!!”

Derek was shifted when he looked back, face morphed in concern. He didn’t say anything, just watched him with wide, blue-lit eyes. 

“All of you,” Stiles said, as stern as he could manage, feeling the words claw at his throat as they fought their way out, “Go. Now.”

He almost had to drag Derek out of the way, forcing him to follow the kids as they finally started to move. His eyes fell on the grimoire, still laid down atop the Nemeton. Its pages did not move in the wind. It stayed, just as it was. And Stiles was frozen. The nausea only grew, worming its way up from his stomach, through his chest, out to his cheeks. He caught the word ‘time’ in his mother’s handwriting and turned his gaze away.

Thundering footsteps passed by him, and Stiles snapped out of it. The Berzerker stormed past him, ignoring his presence entirely as it followed after the others. Again, Stiles moved without thinking. He shouted (not a word, more of a desperate sound) as he threw himself at it, grabbing on and forcing a pulse out through his palms. The Berzerker froze, with Stiles hanging off of it like a petrified koala, as its head slowly turned to the side. Bone clanked against itself, hanging off of its solid body just as Stiles was, filling the gentle silence of the forest with trepidation. 

Stiles could feel his ribs crack when that elbow slammed back into him. He was weightless, for a second, unable to breathe, before his back collided with something solid and he crashed down onto the floor. There was dirt in his eyes, his chest was on fire, he couldn’t get any air in his lungs, and Derek was roaring. 

If they were allowed to expose the supernatural, someone should give Stiles a reality TV show. Or a documentary. If he had a camera crew following him around at all times, maybe watching his life back would make it all seem less terrible. More ridiculous, for sure, but far less terrible. It could even be funny that a Berzerker just broke his ribs, when he doesn’t know where he is, and Allison’s a werewolf still, and Scott’s only human, and Derek is about to get himself killed. He’d be able to see everything he was missing when the pain clouded his vision and made his ears ring so loud he couldn’t discern growls from footsteps, or screaming from birdsong. 

Pressure against his chest made him groan. Making noise made the pain worse. But then a warmth spread through him, tickling his bones and bringing the air back into his lungs. Slowly, but surely. He blinked his eyes open.

A blurry Scott was crouched above him, still wide-eyed and shaking, “Stiles?”

Stiles groaned again.

Scott almost looked like he was hyperventilating, “Stiles, it took them.”

He froze at that. He swallowed. His vision was spinning.

“What?”

“Allison and Derek,” Scott said, looking like he was about to puke, so pale and so shaky, “That thing took them.”

And Stiles decided, then and there, that he was done with Beacon Hills.

 

-

 

This piece of shit town had done enough already. Stiles couldn’t fucking stand it. Now, all he had was Scott, a grimoire he couldn’t bear to look at, aching, barely healed ribs, and a faint idea of where he was that he refused to accept. 

“Where are we going??” Scott cried out, trailing after him, not fast enough to keep up without jogging every few minutes. Stiles had heard him take a puff of his inhaler at least four times already.

“To the Hale House,” Stiles growled.

“Is that where that thing took them??”

Stiles took a deep breath, blinking hard enough to see stars, “No. I need to check something.”

“Check what??” Scott snapped, “Where did it take Allison?!”

“We can figure that out,” Stiles grumbled back, stepping a little too hard onto a twig, feeling the crack reverberate through his foot, “When I find the house.”

Scott fell silent. His huffing breaths followed Stiles as he sped through the woods. His skin was buzzing. In that tingly, fidgety, anxiety-ridden, give-me-my-boyfriend-back kind of way. He could feel the earth screaming out to him, fighting for his attention. He couldn’t give it. Not yet. Not until he knew. Not until he saw.

The Hale House, in their timeline, was whole again. It was alive. Filled with laughter and life and too many teenagers. Never was it empty. It no longer stank of fire and ash and death. It was a home again. 

This was not their timeline. And all Stiles could do was look out on the near-empty, gated-off plot of land – a hideous pile of concrete – with pure apathy in his heart. Scott was stammering behind him, asking questions, all of it was just noise. Stiles let his eyes trace over every inch of grey, feeling his jaw tense and his brows knit together. He remembered the day they did this. He was sixteen. Derek had only been living in the loft for a few months when the state reclaimed the land. He hadn’t fought it. Stiles hadn’t thought it was his place to tell him to. 

They had bigger problems to deal with, then. They sure as hell still did.

“Stiles!” Scott’s voice broke through the fog, “Where are we?!”

This was not their timeline.

It was his.

Stiles swallowed thickly, as the weight of it all finally rested upon his shoulders, pressing the air right out of him, “Home.”

Scott paused, “What?”

He hadn’t thought this place still existed. He thought it was erased along with him. But it was real, for sure,  and the silence in the air was so heavy. Stiles wanted to cry. No tears came to him. Just that relentless heaviness.

“Kate has them.”

“What?!” Scott shouted, “Wh— Kate’s dead, Stiles. You shot her! Like, two years ago!”

“Not here,” Stiles said slowly, “Things aren’t that simple here. I think she might be bulletproof, honestly.” His eyes narrowed, “This is frustrating.”

“Stiles, what is going on?” Scott’s hand fell to his shoulder, forcing him to turn around. He wouldn’t’ve been able to make him budge if Stiles was even a little bit present inside his own body right now. How could he be? If he let any of this feel real, the simple knowledge that Kate Argent was alive would throw him over the edge. Forget the fact that her Berzerker search party had just taken Derek and Allison. Stiles couldn’t care. He’d break down again. They didn’t ever need Stiles to break down again. Ever, ever, ever. 

“I think…” He said slowly, “I took us back to… the place I came from. With Peter.”

Scott gawked at him. Stiles blinked back.

“And, here, now,” he said, “Kate is alive. And wants to kill Derek. And you. And she controls the Berzerkers.”

Scott waited for him to keep talking and, when he didn’t, asked, “What the fuck is a Berzerker??”

Stiles shrugged, “I don’t know.”

“Why are you so calm right now??”

Stiles hummed, “I don’t know. You remember the last time I freaked out. It wasn’t pretty.”

“I don’t know, man,” Scott shook his head, “You were pretty good at killing the problem when you were freaking out!!”

“I thought you were anti-killing.”

“Stiles!!” Scott shouted. Stiles flinched back. He swallowed thickly. Scott shook his head, “Whatever’s going on in there, you gotta snap out of it, man. Derek has been taken by Kate! Kate Argent!! Again!”

Stiles’ heart was burning, “I know.”

“Do you know where to??”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “I think so.”

“Where?!”

Stiles opened his mouth, then closed it again, and frowned, “How are we gonna get to Mexico? ”

 

-

 

Derek couldn’t wait for it to be over. Kate, the Berzerkers, the Deadpool, being human. He just couldn’t believe he had to babysit Scott’s cub on the way to the end. And Liam. Hah. That was a good one. 

“The hell are you smiling about?” Stiles’ voice split the rumbling quiet like a knife. Derek turned to him. Stiles was squinting – he was always squinting, maybe he just needed glasses – with that little pursed smile-frown. The desert sun was shining in through that little grated window, and the gold almost made Stiles’ perpetually squinted eyes begin to glow. He’d changed so much from the kid Derek met in the woods. He really wasn’t a ‘cub’ anymore. Scott sure as hell wasn’t. Neither of them had been, for a long time. It was so unfair. Something Derek would never forgive himself for taking from them.

Stiles raised his brows, tilting his head in question, and Derek clicked his tongue, “Just thinking about how Scott still must hate me, since he’s locked me in here with you two.”

Stiles’ eyes turned up at the outer corners, his lips doing the same, “Sure, you are, asshole.” He scrunched up his nose, “You know you love me.”

Derek raised a brow, silently wishing, with the same practised impartiality he’d upheld for the past few months, that he could hear Stiles’ heart, “Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

Liam’s long, high groan pulled him back to reality, “Are we nearly there yet??”

“Liam, shut the hell up.”

“We’ve been driving for hours!”

“Yeah, dumbass, that’s what happens when you drive to a whole other country. We didn’t force you to come.”

“Don’t be mean to me, or I’ll rip your face off.”

Stiles scoffed, “Good luck with that, tiny man. This guy over here won’t let that happen.”

“Yes, I will,” Derek murmured.

Stiles whirled around to glare at him, hissing out, “Hey! You’re supposed to be on my side!”

Derek just shrugged, “We’ve been driving a long time. I’m getting hungry.”

Stiles gawked at him for a moment, “Okay, the big bad wolf jokes got old about a billion years ago, Derek. You’re not allowed to eat me. Scott would be sad. And none of us want Scott to be sad. Or are you gonna commit to the contrarian thing that hard?”

Derek pursed his lips and turned his gaze to the ceiling as the van continued to bounce along the road, “Mmm. I don’t know. Would it piss you off more if I kept it up?”

“Yes. Or. No. Stop it.”

Derek turned back to grin at Stiles’ scrunched-up face, “You’d taste bad, anyway.”

Stiles’ face fell, appalled, and he broke out into an endless stream of berating arguments – ‘I taste amazing!!’, ‘I’d be, like, a five-star meal, you jackass!’, and ‘Yeah, sure, maybe I don’t have a whole lot of skin on my bones, but at least I wouldn’t be fatty! This is pure muscle, dipshit! I’m the juiciest steak you wish you could eat!!’ – enough to waste a solid half-hour. He wondered if Braeden could hear this through the grate. She’d sure as hell find it hilarious.

Derek had an understanding that today would change his life forever. There wasn’t any real reason to believe that, but he did. He could feel it in the air. The gentle buzz of anticipation. A yearning feeling in the deepest pits of his heart. Like he’d be going home soon. He didn’t want to leave them – Stiles, and Braeden, and Scott, and Liam. Malia. Peter, maybe, he could do without. But he did want to rest. He wanted peace. He wanted it to end. 

The sun was setting, and Stiles’ golden-brown eyes were growing tired. 

It’ll end, somehow. It always does. 

 

-

 

Everywhere Stiles turned, there was a memory. It was staggering. Smothering. Suffocating. Scott might’ve been the one with asthma, but Stiles couldn’t fucking breathe. It was one thing to see it all reset, going back in time to a world where nothing had happened, and a whole other to see it after everything you remembered. To walk through a parking lot knowing that Jennifer Blake sacrificed a man right there. Knowing that this was the exact place where his Jeep was flipped and set on fire with him inside. Knowing that this is the same place where he lost Scott to Theo Raeken. Knowing that this is the same place where he died for the first time. Where he got possessed for the first time. Where he stabbed Scott, where they saved Derek’s life, where he was told about his spark. Not just the same building. But the building. Capital T. The. 

Stiles wanted so badly for Scott to doubt this. For him to ask if this is really a good idea, so Stiles could say ‘you know what? Maybe not. Let’s just go home. Derek and Allison can find their own way back’. But no. Neither of them would do either of those things because this was a good idea – or, the best they had right now – and Stiles wasn’t so much of a dick that he’d actually leave them here. He’d rather die. But this. This didn’t feel much better. 

The bell above the door chimed as he walked in, and Deaton was peaking out of his door in an instant.

He stared. 

Stiles stared back. 

“You’re not my next appointment,” Deaton said carefully. 

Stiles ground his teeth, “Hey, Deaton.”

This place was haunted. This whole town was. Allison had died in this room, long before she died forever and fuck. This was a mess. Deaton was looking at him, now stood on the opposite side of that metal examination table, with that gentle, inquisitive stare. Here, Deaton trusted him. Here, he wasn’t fucked beyond repair.

“What exactly has happened here, Stiles?” Deaton asked softly, “Excuse my asking, but you’re certainly not the same boy I saw earlier today.”

“I made a mistake,” Stiles answered. Scott hovered by his side uncomfortably. Deaton glanced at him, then back at the spark.

“Today?” He asked, “In Mexico?”

“No,” Stiles said, but his eyes sharpened, “That’s today? They’re going to La Iglesia? ”

Deaton nodded, “That’s not why you’re here?”

Stiles licked his lips – he was sick, “No, I… I didn’t mean to come here. I would’ve gone straight back, but my… Our friends got taken by one of Kate’s Berzerkers. I need to get them back.”

“Who?” Deaton asked.

“Does it matter?”

Deaton’s brows twitched, “No. I’m just curious. But if you know where Kate’s Berzerkers are going to take them, why do you need my help?”

“Because I can’t get to Mexico if I’m already there,” Stiles said sternly, “with my passport.”

Deaton nodded slowly, then turned back to Scott, “You’re not my Scott, either.”

Scott frantically shook his head, “No. And I don’t know what the hell is going on, so I’m just gonna stay out of it.”

“Please do,” Stiles almost begged, “I don’t need to explain both of our existences if I run into any of them. And I sure as hell don’t need Kate Argent knowing there’s a human Scott McCall running around.”

“Yeah,” Scott agreed, surprisingly reasonably, “not any more than she needs to know about Derek and Allison.” And there went the reasonability. Stiles’ breath caught in his throat.

Deaton’s brow slowly rose, “Allison?”

Stiles just kept his narrowed eyes on Scott, watching the realisation dawn on him, “Yeah, how about I do the talking, Scott?” The teenager nodded minutely. 

“How is Allison…?”

Stiles closed his eyes, “We don’t have time, Deaton. I need to get them back before anything happens to them. Okay? How am I getting to Mexico?”

Deaton watched him for a moment. Calculating. Far more familiar than the warmth from before, “You won’t be able to take your Jeep, which is probably for the best. There are ways to hide you with magic, but without a reliable spark—”

“I can do it,” Stiles said quickly, “Sparks are my thing. That’s, like, all I do. That’s how we got here. Alright? Spark me up, what’s the spell?”

Deaton blinked at him, “You know how to use your spark?”

Stiles’ brows shot up, “Deaton, you’ve gotta be kidding. Look at me, man. I’ve travelled in time and brought a human Scott McCall carrying my m—” He squinted, pointing at the book in Scott’s hand, “Grimoire!!” 

Deaton’s eyes were wide in fascination, “Is that…?”

“My mom’s? Yeah,” Stiles squinted, “It’s a source of a lot of my problems. And magic. And you should be a source of my magical solutions, Deaton, come on!”

“Don’t rush me, Stiles,” Deaton frowned.

“What is the spell?” Stiles snapped.

Deaton gave him a harsh look, then turned to Scott, “Can I see that?” 

Scott nodded, and handed the book to him. Stiles’ eyes latched onto it, watching like a hawk as Deaton opened his mother’s grimoire and began to flip through it. His mouth was dry again. There were few good things about this timeline. Derek was a good thing. True Alpha Scott McCall was a very good thing. Dead Victoria Argent was a good thing. His dad was a good thing. Malia was a good thing. Lydia was a good thing. That was about it, really. Everything else was fucked up. And he missed it so much. And the universe was so cruel that it would hang it right before his eyes when he knows he can never have it back.  

“This could work,” Deaton said suddenly, “This could definitely work!”

“What?” Scott asked, eyes almost rid of the horror they’d been glowing with.

Deaton placed the book down on the table and turned it around for them to see, pointing at a page Stiles had scoffed at several times. His eyes narrowed.

“Invisibility?” He drawled, “Are you kidding?”

“Time travel?” Deaton asked, surprisingly snarky, “Are you kidding? Besides, it’s not literal. You won’t be seen by anyone else. You won’t really be invisible, they just won’t notice you.”

Stiles blinked at him, the words dead on his tongue for a while before he gave in, “Jesus Christ, what the hell.” He threw his hands in the air, “It can’t get any fucking worse, can it?”

 

-

 

Spinning. Everything was spinning. Allison’s skull was pounding, and there was no up or down. A hand found her wrist. Dry, calloused fingertips rubbing back and forth over her pulse point. Her teeth smoothed back down to dull points. There was a sour smell in the air, like rotting fruit. 

“You’re okay,” Derek’s voice said lowly, gently, “I’m here.”

“Derek,” she whispered, voice catching on a knot in her throat. Her brows hurt from how tightly they bunched together, teeth gritting at the harrowing embarrassment of how weak she felt, “Where are we?”

“I don’t know,” Derek answered. 

Allison swallowed, a hiccup skipping out of her mouth. She focused on the lingering scent of Scott on her clothes and the weight of her body. She was alive, she was unharmed, and she was not alone. Scott still had the grimoire, and he had Stiles – he had to. He had to be okay. She had to believe he was. If she didn’t, she’d lose it, and she wasn’t any better when she lost control than Stiles was. 

Her head was still pounding so loudly when she finally lifted it. Dust was itching her skin, and her mouth was so dry. Everything was dark, except the tiny sliver of light through what looked like a stained glass window. Even then, the dust was so thick it almost blocked the light. It kept it constrained to one thin beam. 

Derek was breathing heavily by her side. Slowly, as if not to alarm her, but the weight was so clear. She could barely see his face in the dimness, but what she could see was the whites of his wide eyes, and the gentle blue glow of his irises. 

“Are you okay?” She whispered. Derek’s head turned toward her, eyes flickering, and she finally caught the scent. 

Kate.

A lump grew in Allison’s throat. She finally could place that smell. It was fear. Derek’s fear. She’d never smelled it on anyone before. Not like this. Not beyond a swiftly fading sharp pang at something Stiles had said, or a threat that he’d eliminated as fast as he’d pointed it out. Maybe she would’ve smelled this same fear if she’d been able to back when Stiles was Void, or when Kate kidnapped Derek and their friends at the formal. Maybe it would’ve seeped up through the floorboards and set Allison off into a murderous frenzy. Stiles would’ve knocked her out so he could still be the one to kill Kate. Maybe if she’d killed her, instead, they wouldn’t be here. 

She knew how Stiles was about his prophesies. How he knew he’d be the Alpha. How he knew he’d be the one to kill Kate. She didn’t need enhanced senses to feel how much his future terrified him. At least, it used to. But she was sure his fear was never this. 

Allison’s head hurt more when she tried to focus her hearing, to search for any signs of life around them; any evidence of Kate beyond her lingering scent in the dust beneath their bodies. What she found made her body tense.

“Derek,” she whispered, bitten.

The wolf by her side said nothing.

“Derek,” she tried again, “Why can I hear your voice?”

Derek froze, just as she had, and looked back at her again, “What?”

She just raised her brows, and waited for him to hear it, too. 

“I’m fine, I’m fine,” the voice groaned, distant and muffled, “Just get to Scott.”

Derek’s stare turned distant. Allison kept listening, past the drumming of Derek’s heart and the dizzying waves of overwhelming distress.

“Just find ‘im,” Derek’s voice stressed, “We’ll be right behind you. Go.”

There was silence. Or, as close to silence as there can be when Derek was gasping for air between words.

“Go!”

There was more gasp-filled silence, then the sounds of feet crunching against gravel or sand. More than two pairs of feet, but Allison couldn’t tell exactly how many. 

“Hey– hey,” Derek’s voice stumbled. The ground crunched again, one aborted sound. “Save him.”

There was another moment of quiet. That last pair of feet scratched against the ground, and Allison knew that heartbeat. She’d heard that same flicker of terror, that ache of fear, even without her being this way while he was Void.

She knew Stiles.

“Am I going crazy, or—”

“No,” Derek grunted, “That was me.”

“And Stiles,” Allison sort-of-asked.

“And Stiles.”

“And…” Her brows furrowed, “How does Scott fit into that?”

Derek’s mouth fell open, then shut again, “I don’t think that’s our Scott.”

Allison fell back to sit on her heels, wincing at the discomfort and shifting over to sit flat on the floor. Derek was still almost on his hands and knees, hunched over. He wasn’t looking at her anymore. He didn’t seem to be looking at much of anything.

The girl swallowed harshly, throat still too dry, “Derek, you’re dying out there.”

Derek’s head turned away, shoulders hunched, “That’s not me.”

“Are we—” Allison swallowed again, “Are we in the future? Did Scott do something? He didn’t turn me back—”

“You need to stop talking,” Derek growled.

Allison felt her eyes narrow, “Why? We need to figure out what is going on—”

“No, we don’t,” Derek finally looked at her again, eyes the brightest blue she’d ever seen on him. His voice fell to a rough whisper as he said, “Leave the timeline meddling to Stiles. These people can’t know we’re here. So zip it.”

Allison frowned, whispering back, “I liked you better five minutes ago.”

Derek just raised a brow and kept his mouth shut. So Allison did the same. He knew something. She could tell that much. But she didn’t know nearly as much about time travel as Derek did. Stiles didn’t talk about it with them like he did with him. If that’s what’s happened. It had to be, right? They’d ended up in the future, or something, with Kate somehow back to life and Derek dying at the hands of her fuckass bone-monster henchmen? 

She tried to listen to him closer, as if she could hear his thoughts through his bloodstream if she focused hard enough. She didn’t want to. Any thoughts Derek might be having when faced with Kate were entirely none of her business, and not her place to intrude on. But she had thoughts of her own, you know. Fears. If her own mom reacted like that to her being turned, then what would Kate do? She’d barely come to terms with the fact that her aunt wasn’t the person she thought she was – she didn’t need the real her to come back. The Kate who wanted her friends dead. The Kate who made Derek Hale this afraid. 

She wanted Stiles. She wanted Scott, moreover, and he was right there, she could smell him, but it wasn’t… her Scott. She could hear the bones clicking as he moved. She could feel his fear, his rage, his distress. She could feel his power. She could smell blood, hear screams, taste hate. The Hales had told her countless times that scenting people as intensely as she did was intrusive and disrespectful, but this was Scott. This was a Scott whose bones sang a song of mourning; whose heart was as steady as it was aching. But Derek was right. They couldn’t meddle. So, she brought her knees to her chin, wrapped her arms tight around her legs, and sat in silence.

Stiles had to find them soon. He always knew what to do. He always knew how to fix everything. It was the only thing that gave him any sense of control – of self. It was something that Laura had gone off on a tangent about for two straight hours once: Stiles’ lack of identity. She’d said he was – quote – ‘just a ball of grief with nothing going for him besides saving everyone else’ and that ‘once time catches up with him, they’ll all be fucked’. She’d also gone on a side tangent about how he just keeps traumatising everyone even worse when she was sure there were better ways to solve the problems that kept coming up, but Allison didn’t think she was right about that. They didn’t know how bad it was before he went back. 

Maybe she had some idea, now, from the focused furrow of Derek’s brow, and the sound of Stiles’ voice, and the distinct lack of that smokiness to his scent. His spark. 

This wasn’t the future. This was Stiles’ past. Here, Kate was still alive. Here, Derek was dying – his heartbeat was nearly gone, now – and Kira had just stopped dying, and Scott was about to be dying, and Peter was telling his daughter to kill him, and Stiles— 

“No, wait, wait!” His voice shouted, echoing off the walls, “Malia, wait!!” They all kept shouting, as they realised what was going on, trying desperately to bring Scott back. How had he been turned into one of them? How was that possible?

All Allison could do was watch Derek, and try, albeit desperately, to remember that she was not the only one terrified and confused and entirely out of their depths. He was not the only dead man walking. 

The dirt irritated her hands as she moved out of her seated, curled-up position to crawl over to him. The scent of Kate was so heavy, almost as bad as his own horror, and it made her sick to her stomach. She reached a careful hand out and placed it on his cheek. His eyes flared again, snapping open as he flinched back. She gave him a look, hoping her eyes flashed gold in a more comforting way than his blue ones did. He stopped. And she brought her hand back, in the same way her and the rest of the pack always did, to scent mark him. To cover up the smell of Kate Argent with something (hopefully) better. Something that didn’t bring him back there. And as she felt her scent cover Kate’s, she saw the way Derek’s eyes softened. How they drooped shut. How his body began to slump with exhaustion, until his head was resting on her shoulder. She brought her arms up to wrap around him and just hold him there. Derek sniffled against her shirt. 

“You’re okay,” she said, as softly as she could, almost inaudible, “You’re safe. I’m here.”

Derek just breathed into her shoulder, slow and steady.

“You,” Scott’s voice echoed over to them, “The only one who knew as much as Argent about Berserkers. About the Nagual.” None of it meant anything to her, but the sound of his voice was enough to soothe Allison back to centre. He was okay. “You taught Kate. You helped her. All for power.”

Derek’s heart was still uneasy. She kept her hold around him as firm as she could. 

Then another voice she knew broke out through the walls, “For my family's power,”  

Derek froze again. Allison was sure she did the same.

Peter’s voice growled onward, “To be rightfully inherited by me. Not usurped by some idiot teenage boy, so incorruptible, he won't shed the blood of his enemies even when justified.” His voice changed, then, overtaken by his shift, “You don’t deserve your power. Not power like this.” There was a roar, then a bellowing crash, and then Peter’s voice was back, haunting, drawling, “Oh, I’m sorry, sweetheart. We’ll talk about this later.”

It wasn’t anything she’d ever heard from him. Hatred, like this. This was the same man who’d begged Stiles to kill him – to take the same power he was trying to kill Scott for, now. This was the same man who almost lost his mind trying to find Stiles when he was taken by Gerard. This was the same man who took them all on that cruise, who picked out almost all the furniture at the Hale House, who she could smell the yearning on at all times but especially when he was around his family, or her dad (which she knew was none of her business, but it was absolutely not something she would ignore. The first (and last) time she brought it up was the first (and last) time he bared his teeth at her). This Peter sounded like Void Stiles. 

This place. This tiny flicker of Stiles’ past (of Peter’s past, she has to acknowledge. This was him. They had the same memories, didn’t they?) had shocked Allison and Derek into silence. Still. It was eating away at her soul, hearing Scott and Peter do this, to know that Peter had helped Kate do whatever this was. Derek was dead.  

And, Jesus Christ, Allison was never going to be mean to Stiles ever again. 

 

-

 

The grimoire rested, safe, hidden away, in a satchel hung across Stiles’ body. It had been a little bit humiliating having to ask for it, but Stiles would rather have to carry around a stupid bag than touch that thing, or, God forbid, let it back into his skin. 

If it came down to it, he was going to kill Kate again. The almost-set sun was warming his skin through the windshield, and the knowledge that they all could be waiting for him was making his bones itch. Whatever the hell that means. The sun wasn’t yet setting when they left Beacon Hills back then, so there wasn’t a chance in hell Stiles was gonna beat them there, having left as the sky turned pink and gold. But he could try. And he could speed. And he could avoid traffic like it was nobody’s business. Because nobody would notice. Not unless he was touched by another person. Which was pretty unlikely while inside of a vehicle. 

Deaton was a fucking legend. 

Stiles felt like he’d been driving for years. It didn’t help that he hadn’t driven in months, aside from borrowing Derek’s car maybe twice. This rental was the jankiest piece of shit he’d ever seen and Stiles drove a 1980 Jeep CJ5. Nobody has even heard of a CJ5. And he’d almost died for it. Several times. Still, driving that bundle of duct tape through a desert was even smoother than driving this pile of garbage through suburban California. Roscoe had never failed him (except for the many times she had, in fact, failed him), but this thing. This was the Jackson Whittemore of cars. And he had to take it off-road for hours. His whole body was aching, he was beyond exhausted, and he could handle it. He had to. He was going to get Derek and Allison home, even if it killed him. 

By the time the town peeked out over the horizon, the sun was beginning to rise. There were bodies. People. Cars. The place wasn’t empty. He hadn’t driven past anyone on the way here. He was going to see them. He was going to see them.

And they wouldn’t even know.

He blacked out the rest of the way there. He parked his shitty car at the back of the crowd of vehicles, barely even put the car in park at all in his anxiety-clouded haze, let his heart pounding in his ears drown out any signs of life around him, and stormed ahead. They had to be inside. And inside was behind a closed door. So Stiles went to the door. 

It opened. 

And Stiles was face to face with Scott McCall. 

True Alpha Scott McCall – his Scott McCall – staring straight through him with that wistful look in his eyes that Stiles was repressing his understanding of. And Stiles was frozen. Bolted to the sandstone beneath his feet like a deer in headlights. 

The last time they saw each other, his words had gotten stuck in his throat and Scott had told him to tell him later. He’d forgotten, now, what he’d even wanted to say. It didn’t matter. Scott wouldn’t’ve remembered, either. 

He snapped back at the sight of his own tired eyes. The group – the pack, his old pack – stepped away from the building, untethered, heads turning to that Stiles, then to each other, then straight through him. 

Then, as he started to move forward, Scott’s body nudged him to the side.

Stiles ran on reflex most of the time. He only really worked well under pressure, and this was the worst he’d ever felt. It shouldn’t have been. It really shouldn’t have. But it felt that way as his Scott barely knocked him in the shoulder as he passed by, and his own eyes were suddenly snapping toward him, and he was yelping as he lunged forward and covered his own eyes. He regretted using his spark before he even did it. 

Stiles – the other Stiles – fell to the floor with a trail of red, and Stiles – the… main… Stiles – was left standing before his body. There was a moment of silence. Too silent for a place with this many people in it. Stiles took a deep breath.

He could just go. Cast his spell again, get in, find Derek and Allison, hide them, too, get out, and fuck off back to the Nemeton. But he didn’t remember this. And that was freaking him the fuck out. 

“Stiles?” 

Ice flooded through his veins. The satchel’s strap hung heavy on Peter’s claw marks. His fingertips were numb with static-like fizz. Nausea bloomed in his chest. 

… Derek.

He turned. His scars tugged, as they always did, with every shift of muscle. But the pain of scar tissue was nothing compared to this. None of those injuries made him homesick. None of those injuries broke his heart. None of those injuries reminded him of the person who haunted his good dreams.

Derek. 

It was like he was underwater, the way everything was drowned out. How all the murmurs turned to watered-down silence. It was just… Derek. His Derek. Wearing that perfectly-fitted blue shirt, glowing in Kate’s absence, alive, and happy. His stubble was dark, and his eyes were bright. Healed. Right in front of him, impossible to tear his eyes away from, but he had to, to look down at his fingers and count. 

One, two, three, four, five.

Stiles swallowed. There was sand in his eyes. That’s why they burned. In his lungs, too, that’s why he couldn’t quite breathe properly. He swallowed again as the nausea crept back up on him. Looking up, Derek was still there, and this wasn’t a dream. Or a nightmare. 

“Derek,” he said despite himself. The werewolf’s eyes softened. 

Stiles could hardly think past the hurricane of nonsense in his mind. His whole body was buzzing. And not in the good, problem-solving, magical way. 

Problem-solving. 

Fuck.

“Derek!” Stiles blurted, eyes darting around as he snapped out of his trance. He looked back, down at his seventeen-year-old self’s unconscious body, and he winced. He couldn’t remember this. But, really, he couldn’t remember anything after realising Derek was leaving. It was all just a blacked-out nothingness, and, fuck.

This was always going to happen.

All of it.

The grimoire pulled down heavily on his shoulder. An impossible weight.

“Hey– hey,” Derek had stammered, a long, long time ago, searching helplessly for Stiles’ eyes in the dark moonlight, and tearing his heart straight out of his chest, “Save him.”

Stiles’ heart broke just as much at the memory, “Save him,” he muttered to himself, distinctly aware of how fucking insane he must sound, “Save him.”

“That is what Scott is going to cause? Just let me decimate him and take my power back, and none of that bullshit’ll happen.” A voice grumbled – almost slurred – from so far away, barely audible, and Stiles’ head snapped back to find him. 

Some sort of switch flipped in his brain. 

Peter.  

The sight made a grin split across Stiles’ face; made the horror subside for just a moment as he got to see that fucking face twisted up in perplexion. A small laugh wormed out of him. He thought he could prevent this. Peter. Peter.

This is his Peter.

Stiles snorted at the thought, as the memories started to creep in past his lowered defenses, of his hideous beta shift, and Scott’s badass takedown, and everything that had happened since the Ghost Riders took him, “God, I cannot believe you’re family, you sack of shit.” He turned back around, reaching down to snap open the clasp of his satchel as he started to walk toward those doors. 

“What the fuck?” Liam’s voice cracked out. 

“What?” Peter’s distant voice murmured. 

“I’ll see you real soon, Peter!” Stiles called out, reaching for the door’s giant handle and pulling. Compartmentalising. Prioritising. Problem-solving. Allison would be so proud when he got her out. His old pack might not be so thrilled. And there was a passing thought that this was Stiles’ only chance to speak to Peter before he drags him back to paralysis and makes him kill his own niece again, and so he added, fruitlessly, “And stop– biting people. Please.” 

“Did he bite you?? ” Scott squeaked, a small ways away, and Stiles could not believe that was the first thing he’d said to him in almost four years. His forearm started to itch, anyhow.

“What’s done is done. Don’t have time for this,” Stiles shook his head, “Busy saving him.”

“Saving who??” 

Stiles stopped, looking back again at Derek without thinking, and incapable of turning away again, “My… My Derek.” Then he frowned, “Well. Technically, you’re my Derek. But you’re—” He pointed down at his own unconscious body, “—his Derek. But he is me. So you are my Derek.” His brows met in the middle, watching with narrowed eyes as Derek’s did the exact same, “But my Derek’s not anyone else’s Derek, so he’s definitely mine, so I guess you’d be Braeden’s Derek—?”

“It’s between me being Braeden’s or yours?” Derek said blankly.

Stiles frowned even deeper, “You’re misunderstanding me. And I still don’t have time. Duty calls! Dereks to save, Kates to pray I avoid, lest I blow their brains out again. You know the drill.”

He slammed the door behind him just as someone called out, ‘Again?’. His head fell to rest against the dry, rotting wood as a heavy sigh escaped him. They could all hear him. He knew that. So he kept his mouth shut, kept his desperate, reaching thoughts about how badly he missed these people, and he needed to learn to shut the fuck up, and Peter was such a dumbass, and he loved them all so much, and this was all so terrible, to himself. 

His racing thoughts fell to silence. 

Focus.

“Time,” he snarled, instead, “Time, time, time— It’s always more time. Always running out of time, fucking God.” He pushed away from the door and stormed deeper into the building. Then, face scrunching up, said, “Shouldn’t use the Lord’s name in vain in a church. Sorry, God.”

Beside him, Scott was throwing Liam into a wall. Malia was trying to stab Scott to death with a claw. Kira was bleeding out. Peter was betraying them all again. That had been the most ridiculous thing. Stiles had called it, as per usual, and who had listened? Nobody. Because, back then, Stiles was just the little human boy who could barely string together a coherent sentence without a punchline. But you’d think his best friend would value his opinion beyond reluctant humouring. Whatever. It was over. It was the past. They were all going to forget he ever existed, and he was going to vanish into obscurity while his real life began. 

… He’d never thought of it like that before. 

“Derek,” he called out, voice a little hoarse now, “If you’re not here, I’m gonna kill myself. And you know I’m not kidding.”

He was in some dark, cobweb-ruined hallway, stepping up onto a piece of rubble, when a weight dropped onto his shoulder. And Stiles – creature of reflex, Stiles – did what all Stileses do when they are approached from behind. When they’re in a dark, too-familiar place, haunted by memories, and a hand falls onto their scars. 

They whirl around and hit the other person with as much magic as they can build up in a fraction of a second. They only snap out of it when they hear the body slam into whatever surface is nearest. 

Stiles’ eyes were sharp, focused on Derek’s body, rising to his hands and knees, in an instant. His stomach dropped, heart twisting, “Shit. Derek, I’m so—”

Blue. Bared teeth and razor-sharp claws. Derek lunged forward with a roar, and the image of Derek attacking him froze him still. Seeing the man he loved so deeply it was part of his biology come at him with murder in his eyes. He was helpless to stop him. So unlike him, allowing someone to grab him, to stab into his skin with their claws, to slam him into a shattered wall and hold him there with blade-tipped fingers pressed to his throat. 

He couldn’t tell which Derek he was even looking at until he spoke. And that fact made his heart ache.

“Who are you?” He snarled, eyes still glowing electric blue, barely inches from his face. 

Stiles’ mouth fell open, chest heavy. As he swallowed, dry lips pressing together, he felt the wolf’s claws press harder against his skin. It wasn’t often he found himself speechless but, right now, words were lost on him. 

How could it be right that he’d spent so long fending off thoughts of this Derek with every brush of another man’s hands, but now he was the wrong one. Stiles had almost driven himself mad with guilt over misplacing his feelings, but now the one he thought he might have loved was actually here, in front of him, touching him, and it was all wrong. Not just because of the rage, or distrust, or fear, or whatever the hell this was. Because this wasn’t his Derek. His Derek needed him. This one didn’t. He was one of his best friends, the only person who he could trust would listen to him, but he’d never been more than that. He never could’ve. 

He was not his Derek.

He was not his.

“You’re not Stiles,” Derek growled, in the silence Stiles had left, “So who the hell are you?”

“Why do you think I’m not Stiles?” He asked softly. His heart was about to pound out of his chest at the memories this brought back. 

I'm not, but you should feel how terrified he is right now.

Sickness.

Derek’s eyes sharpened, somehow, beyond the harsh lines they already were, “I know what Stiles smells like. You’re not him.”

“What’s different?” Stiles couldn’t raise his voice beyond the gentlest of murmurs, “Do I not smell like Malia? Or, is it the spark? Derek said it smelled like I was a smoker when he first met me.” He watched the tension in Derek’s stare change, little by little, as the confusion overtook the deep-rooted distrust. Stiles didn’t let his eyes leave Derek’s. “Do I smell like something else I shouldn’t? Or someone else?”

Derek’s growl was the unintentional kind, one Stiles knew well, “You smell like me.”

“Well,” Stiles felt his cheeks heat up, “We do live together. It’s probably the shared detergent you’re smelling.”

Derek’s left brow rose so slowly, “I can hear your heartbeat, Stiles.”

“I know,” Stiles sighed, almost weak, “I’ve missed you, man.” He swallowed again, “But you gotta get out of my way.”

“Why?” Derek grumbled, “What are you doing here? You’re always making trouble, but time travel is a bit much, even for you.”

Stiles pursed his lips and squinted, “It’s kind of my thing, these days, actually.” He squinted a little harder, “‘These days’ meaning… like… a month ago, but also four years into the future. Kind of.”

Derek stared at him.

“I was nineteen for a long time,” Stiles murmured, “I’ve sort of lost track of how long it’s been.”

“Stiles, why are you here? ”

Stiles blinked. He grabbed Derek’s wrist, finally pulling him off of his throat, “Stop distracting me. You do it enough when you’re not even there.”

He barely caught the bewildered stare, blinking down at his own hand, as Stiles let go and turned away. The sand and dust crunched beneath his feet as he stormed away. 

“How…” Derek’s voice trailed off, then came back louder, echoing off the walls, “Stiles, you can’t find him!”

“No,” Stiles said back, “But he can find me.”

“So can Kate!” 

Stiles froze. Again. An utterly involuntary locking of every joint in his body, as the rage burned through his chest and settled deep in his heart. It was a fire he’d put out a long time, with a bullet to the head, but here. Here, people were too nice. People were too fucking merciful. 

Kate never afforded anybody mercy. What earned her the right to be afforded it. 

“You know, I hope she does,” Stiles’ voice snarled before the thought had lingered long enough to fend off, “I didn’t get to take my time before.” He looked back over his shoulder, watching Derek round a corner and come back into view. His chest was still heavy, his hands still itching to reach out for him. His friend. “You should go, Derek. Braeden’s waiting for you.” If his lip quivered, he would not admit it, “And I really don’t want to spend any more time with you when I know I can’t stay.”

“Stiles.”

A rough voice, coming from behind him. Derek’s brows fell, as his eyes darted away. Stiles’ heart softened again.

“Derek,” he said, mortifyingly soft, as he turned back. His feet were racing across the sand and dust and debris before he could take in the look on his face, pulling him into a crushing hug before his mind could catch up to the darkness in his stare. Derek’s arms wrapped around him just as tight, anyway.

“Reluctant allies, huh?” 

Stiles blinked over his shoulder,  “… How about we focus on getting home, big guy?”

Derek huffed, eyes staring right past him when Stiles pulled back to meet his eyes. Stiles ducked to the side to force him to, cutting through his eyeline and watching, with mild irritation, as Derek’s eyes finally flickered back to him. 

“Is this how it felt when you met the other you?” He asked lowly.

Stiles quirked his head, “It’s probably closer to how that guy’s feeling.” Then he clapped Derek on the shoulder, making him wobble on his feet, and nodded, “We gotta go, though, man. We seriously cannot stay here.”

“Yeah, I’m not in any rush to stick around,” Derek grumbled, “but I don’t know about you.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, heart picking up just a little, “What are you… Can we not do this right now? We need to get—”

“He can’t see her,” Derek snarled. 

Stiles paused. He glanced back over his shoulder at the other Derek, watching with that focused furrow to his brow – how alike they both were – and he understood. Allison. Even if this Derek liked her, or just tolerated her, she was dead here. She was scattered ashes. 

“What did you do, Stiles?” Derek, his Derek, asked. Not softly. But quietly. Like a gentle warning wind before a storm. 

Stiles just stared at him, unable to find any answer to that question that wouldn’t end horribly for him, “We need to find her before Kate realises what’s going on. I don’t know where she is or what she’ll do if she finds her. She’s not human here, Derek.”

“I know,” Derek said, as plainly as before, “You’ve told me that before. I remember the things you say, Stiles.”

Unease was pulsing through Stiles’ veins, “Right.” His chest hurt. His cheeks burned. He took a shallow breath, “I’m so sorry, Derek.”

Derek’s eyes softened. He nodded, looking back, “Hey. We need to go.”

Allison’s head peeked around a corner before the rest of her came out, with a near-identical look in her eyes to Derek’s. The thought had Stiles’ lip quirking up. He was good at this. He’d saved her. 

And his friends were left behind with nothing. Trying to put broken pieces together, with half of them gone. 

And he couldn’t stay.

“What?” Derek’s voice whispered from behind them, “How? That doesn’t—”

“Keep your voice down,” Stiles’ Derek growled back. 

“Yeah,” that Derek spat, “You don’t say. How are you gonna…? Scott cannot know about… whatever this is.”

“He won’t,” Stiles said. He pulled the satchel open and slid the grimoire out. Derek’s eyes snapped down to his hands, his expression suddenly filled with worry, and he furiously pretended this was fine. His hands didn’t burn as he opened the book, they didn’t sting as he turned the pages. He found the tab Deaton had left for him, and he stared down at the words. 

Allison’s eyes held such concern when he met them. He smiled, hoping to settle her, even just a little. 

“Nobody will be able to notice you when I’ve done this, okay?” He said, “Not even me. Not until somebody touches you, or you touch them. It’s how I got here, alright?”

Allison opened her mouth to speak, and Derek reached back to cover it with a clap.  

“Don’t,” he said. She glared at the side of his head. Gold shimmered in her eyes. 

Stiles smiled to himself, sighing down at his shaking hands, “Okay. Let’s do this.”

 

-

 

Allison was worried about Stiles. Somehow, through all the problems of right now, that was the one fighting its way to the forefront of her mind. She was so incredibly worried about Stiles. His hands had not stopped shaking since he pulled the grimoire out of that bag, even once it was tucked back away and the bag had been handed resolutely to Derek, who hung it on his shoulder without the barest of thoughts. Now, Stiles’ eyes were darting around, looking straight past her, and she could see, properly, the exhaustion. She didn’t know what he did to bring them here, but it was unnecessary. Stiles didn’t need anything new to deal with. Not when they were about to go home to something already so overwhelming. 

She didn’t know why Derek stank of sadness. Their Derek, that is. The one from this timeline smelled a little like death, and a lot like distress. There was something to his scent that Allison didn’t recognise, sweet and flowery. There was gunpowder. Their Derek just smelled sad. He no longer smelled like Kate, or bone marrow. He smelled as strongly of Stiles as he always did, and strongly of her, but he reeked of sadness. 

Then they were out of the building, and she could finally start to understand what was going on. They’d been inside of a church – old, wrecked, forgotten. Stiles was speeding over to a body on the floor and lifting it up into his arms. 

“Stiles,” Scott’s voice said, “What the hell is happening?” 

“You left me lying in the sand that whole time,” Stiles grumbled back, “That’s fucked up, man.” Then he muttered under his breath, “Who could’ve seen that coming?”

Allison came to stand by Derek, looking up at him. His eyes were tracking over the small crowd. All faces Allison knew – Scott, Kira, Malia, Derek, that kid who got bit earlier, Liam, was it? – and some she didn’t. There was a woman leaning against a truck, arms crossed over her chest, staring right at their Derek with the only smile anyone there was wearing. Allison had never seen that woman before, but she knew what love smelled like. She knew what it looked like even better.

Scott was someone entirely different here. He was dressed in torn-up clothes, almost rags, with two bands on his left arm. A tattoo. Her Scott would be so jealous. This guy was cool. This guy was a wolf. He was an Alpha. A true Alpha. 

But he wasn’t her Scott. Still, he was a nice sight. Easy on the eyes. She needed to convince Scott to cut his hair again. 

It shouldn’t have warmed her heart to know how much they all had changed without her. 

Stiles stormed back over to them, “My car’s at the back.”

Derek nodded.

“Stiles!!” Scott shouted, “You’re coming from the future and you expect us all to just ignore it?! Who are you hiding from us?? How did you get here???”

Stiles pressed his eyes shut, and sighed for maybe ten whole seconds, giving off pure rage in heavy, billowing waves, “Scott. All I have to say to you is that if any of you tell that version of me a single thing about this, and I suddenly cease to exist, I will find my way back to existence just to be the one to kill you. I know you won’t because you never did, but still.”

Across the way, Scott’s brows were high on his face. 

Stiles looked over his shoulder, face out of her view, as he said, “I can’t believe I want you to forget me right now. None of you speak of this, ever again. We were never here.” His arm raised to point, “Derek, Braeden, enjoy North Carolina, or wherever the fuck you’re going. Braeden, I’ll see you in November. Love you. The rest of you… Bye.”

It wasn’t rage. It was something else. 

“Sorry to make the worst day of some of your lives even worse,” he growled, turning back as he grabbed Derek’s arm and led him away. Allison sped up to walk alongside them. “It’s a bad habit of mine. The pendulum swings straight to shit with me. But, hey! I’ve done worse!” His eyes were flashing red, “You caught me on a good day.”

Scott’s voice cracked as it broke out across the sands, “Stiles. What are you talking about?”

The spark stopped. Allison watched as his eyes went vacant. Completely blank, staring into nothingness. She’d been right to worry. Watching what they’d been thrown into the middle of, as a complete outsider, had been horrifying. Being dragged back into it, when this was already a probably torturous memory, had to be just that. Torture. 

His hand released Derek’s arm, “The shitty, rundown cruiser at the back.” He reached into his pocket and pulled out some keys. He placed them into Derek’s waiting hand, and let the touch linger for a second. Then he was storming off again.

Allison stood and watched. She couldn’t do much else. Derek did, too, for a moment, before awkwardly walking off. The sadness was still filling the air so strongly. It was coming from Stiles, now. It was sadness, and anger, and… She didn’t know. But it was so Stiles she almost couldn’t differentiate it from his own scent. The difference was practically imperceptible.

She watched as Stiles almost knocked Scott over with the force of his hug. She listened to the almost inaudible whispers he fed into Scott’s ears as the wolf hesitantly held him back.

“You’re gonna be okay, Scott,” he said, voice wet, “Alright? No matter what happens, I swear to you, you’ll be okay. Trust me, I know. And I’ll always forgive you. And you’re a fucking idiot.” 

Something changed in the air. Allison didn’t know what.

He pulled back, and whispered, “And it really sucks major dick that you won’t miss me.”

Scott’s voice, gentle, asked, “What do you mean?”

Stiles shook his head, “It’ll be fine. Everything’ll work out in the end, won’t it?” He took several steps back, breathing deep, “I think I ended up with the better end of the deal.” 

He turned away, walking back to where Allison stood, each step barely less hesitant than the last.

He couldn’t see the look on that Derek’s face. The gentle concern. The care. 

“God, I need a drink,” he muttered, as bitter as ever, as he brought a shaking hand up to press against his left shoulder and roll it. 

“Hey!” Malia called out, “Why don’t you smell like me?”

Stiles stopped again, brows falling and face scrunching up in confusion for just a moment, before his eyes widened and his mouth fell open. He shook his head and sped up, finally steady on his feet, as he practically ran away. He didn’t answer her. Allison followed after him to the car. She opened the side door to sit in the back, staring at the bag, containing Claudia’s grimoire, that Derek had thrown there. She brought her feet up onto the seat to rest her chin on her knees again.

“Home,” Stiles sighed as he slid into the passenger’s seat, “Please, God, let us just make it home.”

Notes:

Lmfao guys ive only written 3.6k of the next chapter. I’m three scenes in. Uhhhhhhh I won’t skip next update Thursday I swear. But. Maybe I will still be writing it on the day. And then god knows what’s gonna happen for the one after that omg guys pray 4 me

I’ve finished my course but they still won’t let me LEAVE and I don’t have TIME oh my GOD

Chapter 17: Homesick

Summary:

Stiles is living in a very different genre to the rest of them. For the most part, at least.

Notes:

hell yea allison u da goat!

so much hale fam realness in this one. love them deep

I have a song rec for u. Unreleased song. ‘the simulation is failing’ by Jessica Mazin. God. It’s a masterpiece. Her first demo on TikTok got me obsessed w her immediately but there’s a full acoustic demo on soundcloud if u that tickles ur fancy. She was on the TLOU OST! She has a few songs officially out on spotify but this unreleased baddie is my fav. I luv her. She replied to my comment <333333 EEHEHEHEEEEEE

Hope u enjoy the chapter I wrote all 14k words in like four days <3

Stiles passed out the moment that town dipped out of sight in the rearview mirror. He’d been awake for close to thirty hours, and the exhaustion had only caught up to him when he let the wall of stress and focus and anger fall, and he gave in. When he stopped pretending to be inconvenienced by it all. When he let himself feel. And, now, they were gone again. 

It wasn’t quite okay yet. 

When he woke, it felt like no time had passed, his tongue tasted foul, and his skull was pounding. He was soaked with sweat and overheating. His eyes were crusted over with sleep and all he did was make them burn with the sand beneath his nails as he tried to pick it away. He was grateful for the small mercy that was the sun being high enough not to blind him once his eyes could open again. 

Something within him was unbalanced. Like coming back here broke him, somehow, someway, deep in his soul. It was a gentle discomfort in his stomach, coming up to his jaw. As if someone was plucking his tendons like guitar strings. They were out of tune, and his ears were ringing with it. 

In six months, Theo Raeken would find his way to Beacon Hills. And he didn’t tell them. 

Was that what he was supposed to do? At least this way, he knew what would happen. Theo would get his claws in their pack, but they’d beat him eventually. They’d send him to hell, Scott would live, and they’d forget about him just like they’d forget about Stiles. But Stiles had learned, a long, long time ago, that the smallest things are what make the worst differences. The universe will do the opposite of whatever you want it to do. What if telling Scott he would be okay would ruin everything, and he’d wake up tomorrow with memories of Scott McCall’s funeral? He couldn’t be responsible for another death here. He was fine with the lives he’d taken since – they deserved it – but not here. Not Allison. Not those deputies. Not even Donovan. That was all Theo.

It was all Theo. 

(Theo killed none of those people. Stiles barely even killed most of them. He had a very skewed perception of ‘fault’ those days.)

As the car pulled into a motel parking lot, Stiles’ phone began to buzz. The vibrations tickled his thigh, waking him up enough to pull the phone out of his pocket and glare down at the caller ID.

‘The Worst Hale’.

His brows furrowed, answering the call and bringing the phone to his ear, “Peter?”

“Stiles!” Peter’s voice came through the speaker, a little gravelly, “I don’t suppose we can convince you to grace us with your magnetic presence right now? Where the everloving hell are you.”

Stiles’ eyes darted to Derek, then to the motel’s big, rectangular sign, then to his knees, “Mexico. You’ll never guess who we just ran into.”

The other line went quiet for a moment. Stiles’ lips curved up into a tired smile. 

“You really were a bitch back then, you know that?” He murmured.

Peter’s scoff came through broken, “Yeah, well. Scott McCall was the most insufferable creature on Earth. I’d do it again.”

“Sure, you would,” Stiles said, as Derek slipped out of the car and slammed the door behind him, “Listen, Peter, I might have to call you back.”

“Wait,” Peter rushed, “Stiles. The deadpool is happening again.”

“I know. The Mute and Garrett both already tried to kill me. Losers. You know Liam got bit by a tiny Alpha? Crazy.”

Peter was silent for a moment, “When are you coming back? I don’t know how to fix this.”

Stiles rested his temple against the warm glass beside him, “It’s your deadpool, Peter. What’s so hard?”

“I don’t know how, Stiles,” Peter growled, “I was kind of focused on Scott, Last Time.”

Stiles smiled again, “You just need to find the key. Take Lydia to the lakehouse. Talk to Meredith. You’ll be fine. We’ll be there soon, alright? Just… focus on keeping the kids alive, before trying to stop the deadpool, how about that?”

“How am I supposed to do that if I don’t even know who’s on the list??” Peter hissed.

Stiles’ head hurt again, “I don’t care, man? Get Lydia to find the passkeys if you want to know so badly. I mean,” he frowned, “You don’t even need her for the first two. It’s just someone who’s died. The second one was Aiden , wasn’t it? Allison, Aiden, Derek?” His brows furrowed, “Or was it Allison, Derek, Aiden?” He shrugged, “I don’t remember. If you really can’t figure it out, this time, just… read Meredith’s memories.”

Peter grumbled unintelligibly on the other line.

“But it’s not hard to figure out,” Stiles mumbled, “You’re not on it, every other person in the pack is. Scott won’t be. Or, shouldn’t be.” He frowned even deeper, “Yeah, actually, you gotta figure that out. I’ll stop it when I get back. We’ll be back tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Peter said around a sigh.

“Keep me updated,” Stiles mumbled, then paused, “How did you call me across timelines??”

“I don’t know, Stiles,” he hissed back, “If I die to these bounty hunters, you better resurrect me.”

“I mean, I’ll think about it,” Stiles smiled, once more, as Peter cursed through the speaker, and the call ended with a beep. He waited there for a second, still resting his head against the warm glass, until he finally brought his phone back down to watch the ‘call ended’ screen fade to black. He’d managed to get a photo of Peter, a while back, when they’d gone out drinking with Laura and Derek, and Peter had passed out on the stairs up to Stiles and Derek’s apartment. He still didn’t know about it, but it was the only photo Stiles had of him, so it ended up as his contact photo. And the image of Peter, almost upside-down, sleeping like a baby, on a staircase was maybe the funniest thing Stiles had seen in years.

Derek was his best friend in a love-of-my-life, I’d-choose-you-over-anyone kind of way. But Peter was his best friend. And, even after the not-so-gentle reminder of who Peter used to be, he still wanted little more than to go to him to vent about all of this Derek bullshit. And it should’ve felt a lot stranger than it did. 

“Derek’s got us three rooms,” Allison said gently behind him. His brows struck together, bolting up in his seat and watching as Derek started to make his way back toward the car.

“Three?” Stiles asked, “Like, separately??”

Allison made a small noise in answer, a hum of affirmation. 

He wanted to look back at her, but his eyes couldn’t move away from Derek, “Is he… Is he mad at me?”

Allison’s silence went on for a second too long, “I don’t know.”

And Stiles didn’t know what to say to that. He felt a little sick. Like he was back in the second-to-last time Kate was anywhere near them. Like Derek was about to leave and Stiles would die at just the thought. He was more stable, now, than back then. Not by much. But by enough. 

And this was far easier to fix than Kate. 

 

-

 

Erica was kept too far out of the loop, actually. One minute she was at the rink, scarfing down noodles with Vernon on his break, and the next she was staring down at the little teenage boy duct-taped-up in Jackson’s bathtub. He was staring right back, blinking up at her with watery, wide eyes. She pouted her lips. 

“Jackson,” she said slowly, “Why did you decide to turn me into an accomplice to your kidnapping?”

“I didn’t kidnap him!!” Jackson screeched, “I caught him!”

Vernon scoffed a little ways away, “The hell?”

“Leave me alone!” Jackson cried, “I’m trying my best!”

“He’s a wolf?” Erica drawled, crossing her arms, “A puppy, really.” It was a cute thought. This little guy flouncing around, all tail-wags and happy yips. He was glaring at her like he wanted to tear her apart. “He doesn’t even realise he can just break himself free.”

“He was bitten, like, two hours ago!”

“Stop yelling, dude,” Vernon murmured, “Where’s Stiles?”

“I don’t fucking know,” Jackson growled, “But he wasn’t being very helpful. He was just tweaking out over this kid being on the team cause he knew him before.”

The kid started flailing, sort of, as he tried to speak through the tape over his mouth. Erica sighed, bending forward and resting her left hand on the edge of the tub so she could reach over and tear the tape from his skin. He gasped, squeezing his eyes shut and flexing his mouth. 

“Ow!” He whined. 

“Who are you?” Erica asked, staying right where she was, leant over him. The kid blinked up at her with those wide, blue eyes. A pang of fear shot off of him.

“Liam,” he said swiftly, “My name’s Liam. Please don’t hurt me.”

Erica’s brows twitched – had Stiles ever mentioned a Liam? It vaguely rang a bell. 

“Listen, I– I don’t want any trouble,” the kid – Liam – squeaked, “I was just trying to help him out, okay? I– I won’t tell anyone what I saw! I swear!”

Erica’s eyes narrowed, “What did you see?”

He slammed his mouth shut. His shoulders crept up, head shaking minutely as his brows quirked down, then back up. He was terrified. Petrified. Erica grinned.

“Stiles has given us a new plaything,” she sang, “This’ll be fun!”

Liam’s face went deathly pale, swallowing loudly, “What?”

Erica giggled, leaning back to look over at Jackson, who was watching with the most Jackson scowl she’d seen in a while. He gave her a look, the kind of look that said This Is Batshit Insane, You Know That, Right? Erica just grinned at him.

“What?” She clapped her hands together, “The more the merrier! Training Allison was boring, at least this one is starting from scratch!”

A growl came from behind her. She blinked, turning back to see the kid turned over, facing the wall, and scenting the far-too-strong waves of terror and anger and oh, no. Jackson growled behind her – gentle, a warning. Erica blinked. She was wearing one of her best outfits. This baby wolf was not about to ruin it. 

But he was. He tore through the tape, ripping it apart with an air-cutting sound, and a riotous roar. Then he was moving. So afraid, and so angry. She barely had time to shift, grabbing at his wrists, trying to pull him back as he rushed to the door. He slashed across her cheek and, in the brief moment of shocked stillness, tore out of her hold and threw her to the side. She slammed back into Jackson’s sink, blinking the shock out of her vision as her belt dug into the marble. 

Liam barrelled straight through Jackson, caught by Vernon before he threw the human off, too. Jackson scrambled back to his feet, yelling some unintelligible bullshit ending with ‘Boyd help!!’ and then the both of them were running out of Jackson’s bedroom and crashing down the stairs so loudly she didn’t need to see to know what had happened. 

Warm blood was dripping down her cheek, though the cut had healed almost as fast as it had come. She wiped it off her jaw and flicked it away.

Out in the hall, she could see them at the bottom of the stairs. Such a grandiose, overly large staircase, with a pile of teenage boys writhing at the bottom of it. Erica snorted at the sight. 

“Hey!” She boomed, “Don’t leave me out of all the fun!”

Liam’s head peaked out of the chaos, bright golden eyes and freakish fangs. She beamed. Then Vernon’s arm wrapped around the kid’s neck, and she snapped back to reality. Just a little. Because, oh, no. Not her boyfriend, thank you very much. 

She was throwing herself down the stairs without a second thought. 

This was gonna be fun.

 

-

 

Peter Hale was an idiot. My God, he was such an idiot. Was. Now, he wasn’t an idiot. But he used to be. To an egregious degree. I mean, for Christ’s sake, he used to think him and Chris Argent would end up living happily ever after. Peter Hale used to be an absolute dumbass. And now he was reaping what he’d sown.

You know, this whole deadpool thing had been frustrating enough the first time. And now, he couldn’t just skip town and pretend to have nothing to do with it. Now, he had responsibilities. Now, he had family to take care of. He had people he loved. It was horrifying, and even more annoying than the deadpool itself. Because if Laura, or Cora, or Malia, or anyone else whose name rhymed with theirs, ended up dead or dying because of the delirious unconscious ramblings of a madman, he would force Stiles to take him back in time again to kill Meredith Walker himself. It wouldn’t work, but it would let out some steam. 

It was worse this time. 

At least, back then, he only had to worry about Malia. Now, Laura was sitting on her bathroom floor, gasping for air after puking her stomach into her toilet. Cora was at her side, rubbing her back, and Malia was a few doors down, vomiting in the off-cycle. His jaw was starting to ache from how hard his teeth were grinding against each other.

“Why can’t they try to kill me in a less embarrassing way??” She growled, sucking in a sharp breath, “This is so undignified.”

Peter’s lips almost curved into a smile, “This is why I press my own coffee.”

Laura’s glare was so dark it made his heart swell with pride just as much as it clenched up in remorse, “You’re not funny, Peter.”

The man hummed, “Well. I won’t say this is karma for helping my daughter skip school, but…”

“God forbid I want to take my cousin out for coffee,” Laura grumbled, leaning over to rest her head on the toilet seat again with a clank.

Cora shrugged her shoulders, fixing the sleeve of her jean jacket before she resumed her back-rubbing, “Maybe it’s karma for not bringing your sister with you.”

“You should be grateful, bitch,” Laura snarled, “I value your education. Malia’s not learning jack shit, anyway.” Then Cora pinched her and she yelped.

“Screw you and your coffee!!” Malia’s voice came through the walls, followed by a sickening gag. Peter closed his eyes and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. It didn’t help his headache. Henry was going to kill him if their daughter died today. 

“Okay. Cora, can you call your girlfriend?”

He opened his eyes to catch the moment her head snapped to him, “I don’t know what you’re—”

“I don’t care about your pathetic little teenage love affairs, sweetheart,” Peter drawled, “I need her to predict some deaths for me.”

“You think we’re actually gonna die?” Laura groaned.

“No,” Peter said, bitten. She rolled her head to the side to squint at him. He pursed his lips, “Well. You are notoriously easy to kill, Laura.”

“You’re a bitch, Peter.”

“Get a new name to call people, how about that,” Peter murmured, “Cora?”

Cora glared at him for a moment, indignantly jutting out her bottom lip, and rolling her tongue along the inside of her mouth for a moment, before she looked away, “I’ll text her. But she’s not my girlfriend!”

Laura snickered against the porcelain, “Yeah, you’d need any game at all for that to happen.” And Cora smacked her across the head. 

 

-

 

“Derek!” Stiles called out, “Hey! Are you mad at me?”

Derek stopped where he stood, hand resting against his room’s door handle. His shirt was just tight enough to catch the tension of his muscles, apprehensive in the smallest act of turning just his gaze to Stiles’ face. 

“It’s fine,” he said, “Get some sleep.”

“Yeah, if you think I can sleep knowing you’re upset, then you don’t really know me that well,” Stiles snapped back, stepping closer to him over suspiciously stained concrete. Some things are universal. Shitty motels are one of them. 

He watched Derek’s throat shift as he swallowed, and his tongue darted out to wet his lips, “I just want to lie down, Stiles. It’s been a long day.”

“We can’t rest together?” Stiles walked closer, “You spent triple the money on a night here just to avoid me.”

“And yet you can’t take the hint,” Derek snapped.

Stiles froze. The sun was beating down on the back of his neck and his clothes were damp with sweat. If there was any rational part of his brain left, he’d drop it, go to his own room, shower, and lie around naked until the sun set and the heat let up enough to put some clothes on again. Stiles did not have much rationality left. Not when Derek was asking him to leave. 

“Hey,” he said, gentler now, “Did something happen at La Iglesia?” His reaching hand was met with a sigh, and distant eyes looking away.

“Stiles,” Derek murmured, opening his door, “I want to sleep alone tonight.”

The spark’s head was spinning, the word almost refusing to leave his mouth, “Okay.”

Derek nodded, pushing the door open more and stepping inside.

Stiles’ mouth was so dry, “Are you gonna get food with us?”

“I’m not hungry.”

Bursts of distress were sparking up in his chest, saying, again, “Okay.” He nodded, uneven. Derek tilted his head and walked through the doorway. Stiles’ heart was hammering in his chest, “I love you.”

Derek scoffed as he started closing the door behind him, “Oh, do you, now?”

Stiles watched the door slam shut with an open mouth and narrowed eyes. What. What kind of question was that? Stiles had just driven fifteen hours – all night – through an unfamiliar desert to save him. He’d do it again without a second thought. As if it mattered. He didn’t need to prove it. Stiles did love him. It was one of the few things he knew as fact: Stiles Stilinski is helplessly, pathetically, world-endingly in love with Derek Hale. It was the whole problem. It was why they were here right now. He was too in love with him. He wanted to spend the rest of eternity waking up beside him, cooking with him, wasting away in their little apartment, hanging out with their friends, and kissing every inch of his skin. He loved the very fabric of his being. It’s where the confusion was coming from. The unshakable sadness. 

Derek knew that. He could smell it on him. He could feel it. So, where the fuck was he getting this?

“Stiles,” Allison’s voice came from behind him, bold and proud. His hand was halfway to knocking on Derek’s door, frozen in the air. He turned back to her. Allison’s arms were crossed over her chest, her bracelets clattering against her necklaces, “We’re getting food.”

Stiles frowned deep, as his stomach began to ache and rumble with a suddenness that was close to hilarious. She gave him a look. He sighed and stepped away from the door. 

“Fine, but I’m bringing back some for Derek,” he grumbled.

Allison pouted, “Never doubted it.”

 

-

 

“You do know I’m not a psychic, right?”

Peter wanted to kill her, “I am under strict instruction from Stiles to use you for this, okay? If I had any say, you wouldn’t be anywhere near me.”

Lydia glared right at him, arms crossed firmly over themselves. Her narrowed eyes held a sharpness, a blade-like piercing through Peter’s very being. She made him wildly uncomfortable. Maybe he should’ve killed her, rather than just bitten her. Stiles would’ve snapped his neck, either way. They’d still have ended up here. Though Void Stiles 2.0 probably would’ve been a different story if Stiles had a real reason to hate him. For better or for worse, they were where they are. There was no changing it. 

“And where is Stiles?” Peter turned his gaze to the man speaking, with his calloused hands resting against the edge of the dining table, “He’s got my daughter.”

Peter blinked, “How should I know? I’m not a psychic either, Christopher.”

Chris raised a brow.

“What are you even doing here?” Peter spat, “I told Cora to text Lydia, not you.”

“I don’t like being alone with you,” Lydia said plainly, “And Chris was giving me the Allison-vanished-into-thin-air rundown when I got the text.”

Peter’s lashes fluttered, his hand rising to his chest, “What have I ever done to deserve that, Lydia?”

“You bit me,” she snarled, “Mauled, really.”

“Hm,” Peter smiled, “Mauled at the mall. It’s almost genius.”

“Peter,” Chris snarled, “You’re gonna start talking, or I’m gonna make you.”

Peter pulled a face, “Wow. And they say I’m the drama queen.” He turned away from Chris’ animalistic glare, giving Lydia a far kinder look, “How about you start spewing out dead people, huh?”

“For someone with as many memories as Stiles, you seem to understand how this works a whole lot less than he does,” Lydia murmured. 

Peter’s brow twitched, “I’m the reason you have these abilities, Lydia. I understand perfectly well. And you’ve done this before.” He slid the piece of paper on the table closer to her, feeling the wolf curl in his chest as his vision flared, “Give me the passwords.”

Lydia’s brows creased, “Passwords to what?”

And Peter paused. He hummed. 

“Good point,” he murmured, “I have no idea.” He patted the paper with an open palm, “Make the thing to find the passwords to!”

“Peter,” Chris growled. The wolf turned his gaze back to him. Those sharp blue eyes were, well, sharp, “A word.”

Peter watched as he stormed past him, nudging him in the shoulder as he did. It made that familiar fire burn through his chest – equal parts carnal yearning and primal rage. He answered Lydia’s judgmental stare with a smile, and spun on his heel. 

Chris was waiting for him outside the dining room with the darkest of scowls on his face. Peter’s cheeks fought the genuine smile back down. 

“You’re going to tell me where my daughter is, Hale,” Chris snarled, “Or, I swear to God, I’ll cut you in half.”

Peter whistled, “You flirt.”

Then Chris’ hands were fisted in his shirt, and his shoulder blades were slammed against a wall, the hunter snarling bare inches from his face, “Don’t fuck with me, Peter. This isn’t funny. I don’t fuck around when it comes to my daughter.”

Peter’s lip curled in distaste, “She’s perfectly fine, Chris.”

“Where is she?”

He took in a slow breath, “She’s with Stiles.”

Chris’ hands tightened around the fabric, “Where? ”

“You’re going to crease my shirt, Chris,” Peter murmured, “You better believe I’ll make you steam it if you do.”

“Peter.”

Something about the way he said his name made him pause. It was almost soft. Pleading. It was uncomfortably, unfamiliarly familiar. It made his teeth grind and his hands curl into sharp fists. Chris’ eyes were still sharp, but they were desperate. They were begging. But Chris would never beg. He didn’t even beg when Peter had sewage-covered rebar impaled through his stomach. 

The thought did not make Peter sick, “They’re in another timeline. They’re safe. They’ll be home by tomorrow.”

“Are you sure?” Chris asked, with a roughness to his voice that was not violent as much as it was desperate. 

And Peter nodded, “I was there, Chris. And they all still have working phones, you know.”

“Allison left hers at home,” Chris said gravely.

“I don’t care,” Peter said gently, nodding, “Not even a little. Okay?”

Chris just glared at him. Peter smiled.

“Now, can we deal with the supernatural deadpool, please?” He asked, gesturing down the hallway, “I kind of need to know who in my family is most at risk of murder attempts.” He tilted his head, “Besides the two they’ve already taken a swing at.” He paused, “And Stiles. We can all guess Stiles.”

It took forty-five minutes for Lydia to even start doing anything banshee-like. This Lydia was useless. Actually. Of all the Lydias Peter had met, this was the singularly most useless one. The first Lydia, bless her heart, got the job done with minimal pushback every time, if you pressed the right buttons. The second Lydia would roll her eyes and get on with it, if Stiles was the one asking, at least. Or, more realistically, if Derek was asking and Stiles was there bouncing around like a maniac, frantic enough to make her desperate to force him to chill out. But this Lydia. This Lydia neither wanted to listen, nor knew how to. This Lydia hadn’t been manhandled into a banshee crash-course by Jennifer Blake. This Lydia was too focused on her study dates with Cora to get anything done. 

It took forty-five minutes for Lydia to be helpful. And she only did because Cora showed up. 

She held a notebook in her hands, waving it back and forth, “Hey. I think I found a banshee thing.”

Peter blinked over at her, as Lydia gave her a devastating glare. Sometimes, he did like her.

“Cora,” she said blankly, “Just because you are helpless at algebra does not mean my notes are magic.”

Cora growled, a true, wolven growl, “This—” She pulled the notebook open to show off lines and lines of random numbers and letters, flicking through endless pages, “—is not fucking algebra, Lydia.”

Lydia pouted. She hummed. Cora stared at her like she wanted her dead. 

They were so helplessly in like with each other. It was echoing through the walls – the synchronised skips of their heartbeats. Peter pursed his lips to keep himself from smiling again. Stiles had really done a bang-up job with these idiot kids. 

 

-

 

They were in the middle of nowhere. The only buildings within miles were the motel they were staying at and the diner across the road. Was it a diner? It served food. That’s all that mattered. It served edible food, which was impressive for the middle of nowhere. It served burgers. And Stiles did burgers. He’d do an inedible burger, even, right now. 

He was stuffing his face. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was, and every bite made him a little nauseous but the pain in his stomach was paradoxical and he refused to care unless it made him puke. He’d cross that bridge when he got to it. Allison was doing the exact same thing across from him – stuffing her face. In true wolven rapid metabolism fashion. Stiles snorted at the mustard smudged on her chin.

As he passed her a napkin, she started to speak, “So. What’s up with you and Derek?”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “I don’t know.” He shoved a fry in his mouth.

Allison frowned at him, “Has he ever done this before?”

“Never,” Stiles said around a sigh, “I’ve had to beg him to get mad at me other times. And, even then, it was… worse than this.”

“So, there’s a ‘this’,” Allison prompted, “Spit it out, what’s happened?”

“Nothing happened,” Stiles grumbled, “I think… He’s just confused.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m confused,” Stiles blinked, “Or, I was. For a while. But I’m not confused anymore.”

Allison squinted, “… About?”

“The other Derek,” Stiles said. 

Allison tilted her head, “He’s jealous of himself?”

“No,” Stiles grumbled, “I’m just a dumbass.”

“You’re not a dumbass,” Allison said gently. Stiles blinked up at her. She smiled, bittersweet in the way her lips folded, “You’ve been through some wild shit, dude. You can’t be so hard on yourself.”

“I knew Derek for three years before I met him,” he said blankly, “I think I might’ve fell in love with him twice. I also think our Derek doesn’t think I love him.”

“There’s a lot of ‘I think’ statements, there,” she said slowly, “Do you have any facts?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “I mean. No. I’ve never… talked about it. Not since… Not since I went back to 2006.”

“It’s been a year and a half!” Allison cried, “You’ve been thinking about this for a year and a half?!”

“Yeah,” Stiles said around yet another sigh, “Well, that was when I first started thinking that I might’ve been in love with Derek before the first time travel thing. Like, this Derek. In this timeline. The original one.”

Allison’s brows were low on her face as she swallowed the pickle slice she’d just shoved in her mouth, “You didn’t realise that before you went back in time?”

“No!” Stiles shook his head, “And that’s the thing! I don’t think I ever was in love with that version of him! I think I just… reverse-psychology’d myself into thinking I was because I’m so in love with our Derek – my Derek – and there’s no way I hadn’t fallen for him already if he’s this perfect!” 

Allison watched him carefully. The attentiveness to her stare was straight-up harrowing. 

“I was never in love with that version of him!” Stiles stressed, “He was, like, my best friend, and he left us, and it hurt so bad because I was so used to him being there. And I love Scott, don’t get me wrong, but he’s a fucking idiot and every time… something went wrong, I was just so overwhelmed with the need to go to Derek about it because Scott is a dumbass, but Derek listens. You know?” Allison nodded gently. Stiles nodded back, “He’s Derek! And that… memory. Paired with how I feel about my Derek, who is so very much a different person but still so the same, it… confused the shit out of me. And I felt so guilty, ‘cause I felt like I was… cheating on him with the memory of that Derek but he’s not got shit on my boyfriend. I just got in my own head about how this Derek could technically have been capable of falling in love with me. But he didn’t. And that’s a damn good thing, too.” Allison tilted her head. Stiles nodded again, “‘Cause that would mean Derek is a creep. And my feeble little heart wouldn’t be able to take that. I’d have to have him shot.”

Allison’s brows fell, and her eyes squinted, “Right.”

“But, I don’t know…” Stiles sat back, “Seeing him again. It smacked some sense back into me. Eventually.” He ground his teeth together, “I miss him. Like I miss all of them.” His brows ached, “I… I can’t believe I managed to walk away.”

Allison just kept watching him. She didn’t have a word to cut him off with, apparently. He wished she did, just a little.

“I guess that’s a testament to how much I love him, huh?” Stiles murmured, “I’ve spent the last four years missing this place like nothing else, and I’m gonna give it up by choice. To stay with him.”

“Are you?” Allison asked, “You don’t… You don’t technically have to.”

Stiles’ face scrunched up, “What the fuck are you talking about? I don’t care if I have to, I’m going to. I’m staying with him. I love him, and I’m not letting him get rid of me that easily.” He dragged his beer bottle over to himself, bringing it to his lips, “God, that feels good to sort out. When I brought it up to Peter, before the 2006 thing, he was wildly unhelpful.” He took a swig.

“Why the hell would you talk to Peter about love?” Allison murmured, “… No wonder that didn’t work.”

“Oh, no,” Stiles scoffed, “Peter’s had his fair share of romantic craziness. But, yeah, no, he’s a terrible pick. It was just ‘cause he’s the only other person who knew me back then. Knew us. So, I asked if he thought I was in love with him before I went back in time, and he basically just called me a dumbass for freaking out over being in love with the man I’m in love with.” Stiles frowned, “I don’t think he got it.”

Allison suddenly blinked a little too fast, humming as she sat up in her seat, “Well. Um. Thoughts on talking about it with someone else who remembers?”

Stiles sat up, too, so fast it almost gave him whiplash, “What? What the fuck, do you remember??”

“No,” Allison said swiftly, eyes sharp and darting away as her hand rose to point, “But he does.”

Stiles’ head snapped to the side, staring blankly up at the couple stood by their table. Derek’s brows were curved upward in that gently curious way. Braeden was staring down at them with her arms crossed and her chin high. She wasn’t covering her smile very well. Stiles narrowed his eyes.

He was so un-used to Derek Hale appearing out of thin air. 

“You’re in love with me?” Derek asked plainly.

Stiles blinked, “No.” He tilted his head, “Were you even listening? That was the whole… Where the hell did you come from?”

Derek glanced down at Stiles’ hand, now sticking the bottle out to point in his direction, “We followed you.”

“What the fuck?” Stiles took another sip of his beer, then slammed the bottle back down, “Why.”

Derek gave him a look of pure scrutiny, “I was concerned about you. That shouldn’t be crazy, by the looks of things.”

Stiles grumbled unintelligibly to himself, “Not… exactly. I don’t know, I didn’t expect you to show up again. You’re like a virus, man.”

Derek blinked, visually stunned, and Stiles’ cheeks flushed with the sudden need to take that the fuck back, “Huh.”

Braeden snickered beside him, nodding to Stiles, “Shuffle over, kid.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, doing what she said without the slightest question, “Kid?”

“You’re always gonna be a kid to me,” Braeden said matter-of-factly as she slid into the space he left, “No tattoos or scars are gonna change that.” She stole two of his fries and tossed them in her open mouth. 

Stiles sighed, “You’re my favourite. You know that?”

She winked at him, “Of course, I am.”

“How am I not your favourite?” Derek grumbled from the end of the table, “You’re in love with me.”

“Stop saying that,” Stiles hissed.

“Sit down, zombie boy,” Braeden grumbled, talking over him. Stiles ran his tongue over his teeth. 

This was a fucking nightmare. He was just starting to get over it, too. You know. The fact that he had to leave. That they all would forget him. That this was the best and worst place in the entire universe and the only other place Stiles wanted to be was behind a locked door and refusing to talk to him. Stiles would take The Nogitsune, Act Three over this. 

Lie. 

That was a bald-faced lie. 

But this felt about half as bad. Seeing Derek again back there had felt like having his heart torn out of his chest, thrown to the floor, and stomped all over. Having him stand around like this wasn’t insane to him, too, was like having that trampled heart thrown in his face and tasting his own blood on his tongue. 

“How are you…” Derek’s voice started, then stopped. 

Allison’s lashes fluttered as she looked up to him, “How am I… alive?” She half-grinned, “Or how am I a werewolf?”

Derek had a small smile on his face, “Either-or.”

Stiles blinked so hard it temporarily blinded him, “That is too long of a story.”

Derek dropped to sit in the space beside Allison, hands laced together on the table and face gently morphed in curiosity, “We have time.”

A disbelieving laugh forced its way out of Stiles’ chest, “Do we?”

“I mean, yeah,” Braeden drawled, “If you can bring people back from the dead, we have all the time in the world.”

Stiles barely glanced at her, “My ability to bring people back from the dead has nothing to do with Allison.”

The girl gave him a look, “It has a little to do with it.”

“Everything has a little to do with everything,” Stiles spat, “Peter Hale has more to do with you being a werewolf than my half-assed necromancy.” He frowned, “Actually, yeah. He was literally the reason you got turned. I was going for more of a… he was the one who gave me the grimoire… he kind of started the butterfly effect of all of our lives… kind of way.” 

The table fell to a gentle quiet. 

“I didn’t know he gave you the grimoire,” Allison said.

Stiles nodded, staring resolutely at the empty plate in front of him, “That was so long ago. I think that was the first time he helped me with something, ever. If you can call it that.”

“And look at you two now,” Allison mused.

Stiles’ lips quirked up, a snort bursting out of him, “Don’t even. Oh, my God, that dumbass. He’s gonna get everyone killed back home.”

Derek’s eyes moved away from where they’d been holding their stare, in Braeden’s direction, to Stiles’.

Allison tilted her head, “I don’t think so. If he does, you’ll kill him again.”

“Dude, he’d love that,” Stiles deplored, “I think he thinks of death as a vacation, honestly.”

“You killed Peter Hale?” Braeden’s voice cut in.

Stiles gave her a side-eyed look, “Yeah. It’s how I became the Alpha. Snapped his neck.” 

His foot began to tap against the floor. Braeden’s eyes were almost glowing.

“Badass, dude,” she said, lips lifting up at one side, “Wish I could do the same.”

And Stiles’ chest burned, “Shut up. For your own sake. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Her brows rose, taking a moment before she nodded, “Alright. You two’re close now?”

Stiles gave her a once-over, kissing his teeth, “Sure.”

“They’re best friends,” Allison said, taking a long sip of her iced tea, avoiding Stiles’ withering stare, then, “Well. Peter is Stiles’ best friend. I don’t think Peter believes in friendship. Or happiness.”

Stiles tilted his head, rolling his eyes, “That’s more accurate.”

“Peter?” Braeden asked, “Hale? Like, the same Peter that just tried to murder Scott?”

The spark’s head ached, so bad, “That’s the one. For the record, this Allison—” He pointed to her, “—is not your Allison, and my Derek is not you. I haven’t met the next Braeden, yet. But, yeah, our Peter is that Peter. I… can’t quite believe it, either.”

Braeden’s eyes were glittering with delight, “How the fuck is that possible?”

Stiles just sighed, “When I was eighteen, I went back in time to the day Scott got bit, ‘cause I was taken by the Wild Hunt. My spark fucked with their magic. Turns out the fates hate me, and Peter had been taken, too. It wasn’t pretty for a long time.”

He took another long sip of his beer. Braeden just watched him with stars in her eyes.

“But now look at me,” Stiles said, voice dripping with fresh sarcasm, “Fresh as a daisy. As bright as the morning sun.”

“But that’s home,” Derek said, slowly. Stiles blinked over at him. His eyes darted around his face, at every identical little detail, down to the exact point his beard stopped growing. Down to each brow hair. Each eyelash. Each inch of flesh that Stiles had (not) kissed. 

His head still hurt. 

“That place,” Derek continued, “That’s home to you.”

Stiles slowed, sinking down a little in his seat, “Duh.” He shook his head, “He’s there.”

There was a moment of silence, then Braeden asked, “Who??”

“Derek,” Stiles said, simply, plain as day, “He’s…”

He’s home.  

But Stiles couldn’t say that. That was mortifyingly sappy. That was Scott McCall level lovey-dovey bullshit. And it was the most obvious truth of all. Derek was home. He’d been home back when they met, and he was home now. He was everything, and Stiles wasn’t letting him think he felt any different for any fucking longer.

“He’s literally the owner of my house,” Stiles mumbled, shrugging his shoulders up to his ears and taking one last sip before he motioned for Braeden to move, “And I owe him some fries.”

 

-

 

Peter was grinning down at his laptop like a madman, he was sure. This code. It was familiar. They were getting somewhere. It had only taken a solid few hours of endless typing and Lydia forcing Chris to bring her tea.

“Alright,” he said, a drawn-out sound, drawled, almost sang, “First password’s easy.” He clicked on the input box, letting his hands hover over the keyboard, “Someone who’s already dead.” He rolled his shoulders, and began to type.

‘Kate’.

He hit Enter.

Nothing. The box turned blank, again. No names formed any lists. He frowned.

‘Katherine’.

Nothing.

‘Kate Argent’.

“Maybe it’s not Kate,” Chris said through gritted teeth, “Let’s move on. Yeah?”

Peter huffed, “I haven’t tried Katherine Argent yet.”

“What, is it only full names?” Cora asked.

Peter frowned, “Well. No.”

“Try the names it used before,” Lydia said. Peter glanced to her, out of the corner of his eye, and pursed his lips. Everyone stood stagnant for a moment. Peter considered Chris, hovering over his shoulder, and how much he knew about the other timelines. Did he want to be the one to break this news?

He wasn’t sure enough that he cared to keep thinking about it. 

‘Allison’.

The box turned back to blank. 

The room was silent. 

Peter could hear the way Chris’ heart sped up. How his hands curled into tight fists, once again. That had been a sad day. He could admit that. Knowing Chris had just lost the last of his family. The only semi-decent one of them. Still, back there, Allison was more irritating than she was worth. In Peter’s eyes, at least. There was something about the Argent women. He wondered, sometimes, if they were cursed. 

Anyhow. He had to keep typing.

‘Aiden’.

Nothing. Lydia swallowed beside him. 

‘Derek’.

Nothing. 

He blinked, “Not the original passwords, then.”

“Derek died there?” Cora cried, “And who’s Aiden?”

“The Alpha that bit Allison,” Lydia’s voice murmured, “Derek… died?”

“Yes, it was all very sad,” Peter said calmly, “But Derek didn’t die. Well. He did. For a minute. That was… The first two passwords were people who’d died – Allison and Aiden,” his hand waved in the air, “And the third was someone who was going to die. That’s why the first two are easy. We know everyone who’s dead.”

“What if it’s…” Lydia sighed, “What if it’s not to do with us, though? What if it’s anyone across any of the timelines you’ve experienced?”

Peter rolled his eyes, “Well, then we’d be here for a while, and we don’t really have time for that, so, I reject the notion entirely.”

“Well, try some,” Cora said, “How many people could’ve possibly—”

Peter growled.

‘Jennifer’.

‘Peter’.

‘Erica’.

‘Boyd’.

‘Ennis’.

‘Ethan’.

‘Gerard’.

‘Victoria’.

“What?!” Chris barked. Peter shushed him. His eye began to twitch.

‘Deucalion’.

Nothing.

“Jesus Christ,” Peter snarled, “Okay, this isn’t working.”

‘Stiles’.

Nothing.

‘Talia’.

Nothing.

‘Laura’.

Nothing.

Peter’s heart burned. 

‘Claudia’.

He blinked down at the screen. It bloomed to life, and the garbled text decrypted itself to a string of names, in flickering flutters. Every new name, and its adjacent number, sent a new wave of dread through Peter’s bones. He tried to swallow it down, but it was relentless. The fear made his body stiffen. Not because he was afraid. Because it was infuriating. The screen was so bright, it burned his eyes. Maybe the words would end up burned, too, into his retinas. He never had a good track record with burning.

The names stopped coming with the twelfth. The endless gibberish remained beneath the point they’d decrypted, with a new input box waiting for a passkey.

‘Lydia Martin 15

Stiles Stilinski 25

Demarco Montana 250

Allison Argent 10

Carrie Hudson 500

Kayleen Bettcher 250

Erica Reyes 2

Cora Hale 2

Laura Hale 10

Jack Marsland 250

Jackson Whittemore 2

Elias Town 250’

They stood there in silence for a while too long. Peter’s ears rang with the racing heartbeats all around him. 

“What are the numbers?” Cora asked softly.

Peter’s eyes stayed glued to the screen, “How much you’re worth.”

“I’m worth two dollars??” Cora growled. 

“Million,” Peter murmured, “Two million. Of our own money, I’d like to add.”

“What do you mean ‘how much they’re worth’ ?” 

Peter tore his gaze away from the tiny black typeface, “Their bodies, Argent. It’s a deadpool. They’re the prices the benefactor is paying for each dead body.”

Chris’ pupils were constricted, tiny pin-points in the centre of his wide, blue eyes, “They’ll pay ten million for my daughter?”

“Why the fuck am I only worth two??” Cora cried. Lydia hit her. She guffawed, “Some random guy called Elias is worth two-hundred-and-fifty!”

“Thousand,” Peter murmured, “The hundreds are hundreds of thousands. The big numbers don’t matter.” He held Chris’ gaze, just as intense as the hunter, “Nothing will happen to Allison. This’ll be over soon. I just need to know who the hunters will be after, until Stiles can stop it.”

“And how’s he gonna do that?” Chris asked, voice all deep and serious, “The dumbass got my only daughter turned into a werewolf to ‘stop’ the Nogitsune. You really trust his insane ass to fix anything—?”

“Watch it, Argent,” Peter growled, as his wolf fought to break through, “You have no idea what you’re talking about. Okay? So, let’s keep our mouths shut, and figure out the next password, huh?”

“Stiles is worth twenty-three million dollars more than me.”

“He’s a time traveller. And a spark. And an Alpha. You should be glad they won’t want to kill you. I’m worth fifteen million and I can’t even defend myself!”

“I’ll defend you,” Cora grumbled, “That’s not the problem. It’s the principle of the situation. Stiles stinks.”

Lydia hummed, “I just hope they go for him before they go for me.”

“Children,” Peter growled, “Now’s not the time for fun and games. It’s going to start getting serious now. Lydia.”

Her eyes were fearful, and her scent just the same, when she turned her gaze to him. It wasn’t as fun as it might have been in another time, to watch them all squirm. Part of him wished he could go back to that. To being a lone wolf. Because, back then, he wouldn’t be at all afraid, in the all-consuming, skin-crawling way that he is now, of losing them. Any of them. All of them. 

Stiles had better be back soon. And he’d better be ready to get this sack of horseshit finished. And to get Peter’s fucking money back.

“What’s the next password meant to be?” Lydia asked gently, “It was Aiden, before. Maybe… Try that again?”

Peter’s eyes fell to the screen again, and the new input box and its blinking cursor. His molars made a low sound as they ground together in the back of his mouth. 

“Is that your intuition speaking?” He murmured, hands rising back to the keyboard, “Or, just you?”

Lydia swallowed, heart fluttering, nerves, “Just me.”

Peter’s lip curled, “Then get intuitive.”

 

-

 

The plastic bag in Stiles’ hand weighed a ton. He brought his right hand, empty, light, up to knock once against the door with the side of his palm. The curl of his pinky finger. Just one knock. More of a thud, really. As his hand, open, rested against the cheap paint, his pointer finger lifted to tap. 

“Derek,” he said softly, “Can we talk?”

Only the gentle, warm breeze answered him. His hair fell into his eye. He shook it away.

“Dude, if you don’t open the door, I’m breaking it down.”

There came a click. Then the door dragged open, hinges creaking, and Derek’s face was glowering at him. How strange – the heat creeping up Stiles’ neck. Not from the setting sun, or the humidity, but from how distinctly Derek that glare was, and how long it had been since he’d seen it. 

He lifted the bag, holding it out with two fingers. His scar – the slash across his left palm – did something weird that made his thumb twitch. 

“I brought you food,” he said, “You haven’t eaten in over twenty-four hours.”

Derek’s brows twitched, his eyes flickering down, then back up. The barest of tensions relaxed within him – a millimetre less of a frown, a fraction more softness in his stare – and he stepped back out of the doorway. Stiles let his own tension release in his shoulders, walking into the room and dropping his hand back to his side. The door clicked shut again. The TV was on, playing some perplexing infomercial, and Stiles turned back to Derek. The wolf had crossed his arms over his chest, and was staring down at the floor. 

Stiles let the bag, and the take-out box of fries inside, fall to the floor. 

“I love you,” he said.

Derek huffed.

“No, shut up,” Stiles shook his head, stepping forward as Derek blinked up at him, “I love you. You. Okay?”

Derek’s brows turned up at the point just above his nose. He didn’t say a thing. But his pupils were blown and his eyes were darting. Stiles tilted his head. They were barely a foot apart now. 

“I loved this place,” Stiles said, nodding, “But it’s not mine. It’s… I was gonna say a fond memory, but that would be a lie. It’s a memory, that’s for sure. And I spent a long time thinking of it as the home I could never return to, or whatever…” He sighed, “But it’s not, anymore. Those people hardly know me. They’ll always be precious to me, but they’re not even a little bit comparable to what I have now. What we have.”

Derek watched him. Silent.

“My home is with you, Derek,” Stiles said, as his heart beat slowly in his chest, “You are my home. And they’re all gonna forget I ever existed, anyway.”

“Were you ever in love with him?” 

Stiles blinked. He licked his lips, “No.” He shook his head, and the answer finally felt right, “No, I wasn’t.”

Derek sighed, arms shifting uncomfortably, “So, when you met me, you didn’t… You didn’t plan on us getting together?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “What?”

“You didn’t…” Derek closed his eyes, collecting himself for a moment before he opened them again and continued to speak, “You didn’t use me as a replacement?”

Stiles’ heart plummeted to his stomach, “No! Derek! What??” He almost couldn’t breathe, reaching out to cup Derek’s face and pull him closer, “Derek. You’re not him. I know that. I fell in love with you for you, not for someone you share a face with. Okay?”

Derek’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. He nodded, just a little bit.

“I’m so sorry I made you feel like that,” Stiles said softly. He almost couldn’t get the words out. He’d never been good at apologies. 

“You didn’t,” Derek shook his head, “I just… I was overthinking.” Stiles rubbed his thumb over the wolf’s right cheekbone and felt him lean into the touch. Derek’s lashes fluttered, “It was just… hearing your heartbeat– the– you from this… The you from the past had a lot of feelings about me… him… dying. And then you couldn’t seem to figure out if he was yours, or I was.”

“I know,” Stiles licked his lips, “It’s confusing to see the love of your life not be the love of your life but also still be wicked important to you.”

Derek’s lip quirked up into half a smile, “I’m the love of your life?”

Stiles blinked, “Well, yeah. I’m gonna marry you, you haven’t forgotten that, right?”

Derek’s smile grew, “It’s an easy thing to forget.” And Stiles rolled his eyes. 

He just stared, for a moment, before his arms unfolded and he reached a hand up to rest over Stiles’ left. Just for a moment. Their skin barely brushed. Then Derek was moving forward, arms wrapping around Stiles’ body to pull him into an embrace. Warm. Too warm, really, in the thick humidity of that room. But Stiles didn’t hesitate to lock his arms right back around him, holding his head in the crook of his neck and resting his chin over Derek’s ear. 

Some balance was restored in his core. Derek’s heart was beating against his, slow and steady, and their chests were rising and falling in time. 

“I love you,” Derek sighed into his shoulder. 

Stiles smiled, and his lips cracked as he did, “I know.”

“And I’m sorry,” the wolf murmured.

“Don’t,” Stiles shook his head, “You have nothing to be sorry for. But those fries are gonna go cold and I will be expecting an apology if I have to buy you more. I only have two dollars left on me.”

Derek laughed into his skin, “I’ll pay for the fries, Stiles.”

“What, you’re expecting them to go cold?” Stiles ran his nails along Derek’s spine, and the wolf grinned against him, “You’ve already paid for three motel rooms.”

“And gas,” Derek mused, “We stopped at three different gas stations while you were asleep.”

“Then Allison can pay for my replacement fries, “ Stiles mumbled, “Or, I don’t know, the millionaires she’s hanging out with across the street can pay.”

Derek froze, a little, before he pulled back to look Stiles in the eye, cheeks flushed and hair tousled – beautiful, “What?”

 

-

 

Noah Stilinski had not slept well for ten months. Coming up on eleven. Whatever nights he wasn’t hauling through a shift, or kept awake by his nausea, his dreams were too vivid to give him any rest anyway. He’d wake up more tired than he’d fallen asleep. And now his sheets were permanently stretched out from the tossing and turning, and his mattress was pilling at the points where his feet would kick as he flailed for purchase during the particularly violent nightmares. Not that every dream was a nightmare, or violent. But they were too much. And they were all about Claudia.

It had been ten months since his wife went missing. It weighed down on him in a way he was well-acquainted with – the heaviness pulling all of him down to the ground and further down. The all-too-empty bed. The too-quiet mornings. The full bottles of her body wash and conditioner. The favourite mug, unused, unmoved, in the cupboard – its scary dog face decal mocking with every accidental locking of fake eyes through that frosted glass door. She was in every corner of their home, and she was nowhere. And that home was beyond empty. 

Since Stiles left, he’d been happier. He’d been able to look him in the eye again, what few times they saw each other. He’d found his own place, his own life beyond his childhood home and his parents and all the horrible things he carried with him. Noah wished, sometimes, that he could leave, too. Maybe it would do him the same good. But he couldn’t. Not until he found her. Because he would find her. He could feel it in his gut. His bones. Whatever the Hell it was, he could feel it. He could hear it in whispers at the edge of restless dreams. She wasn’t far. They would find her. 

He’d mourned them all too many times, now. He refused to do it again.

Every day had fallen to monotony. The pitiful well-wishes, from those who hadn’t gotten the memo that people were supposed to drop the subject months ago, stung like fresh wounds. It’s not that he wanted people to forget. He just wanted people to be helpful about it, not fake-empathetic. They weren’t getting any brownie points from him. Just self-gratification. But, aside from the occasional distance from reality when Claudia was brought up, every day looked largely the same. He’d wake up. He’d go to work. He’d get those sad stares. He’d come home. He’d drink. He’d sleep. And so it went.

Then his deputy was set on fire.

It had been chaos, in a way that made his whole nervous system flare up in panic. Unease. It was probably for the best that he was out on patrol when it happened, and not sat in his office staring blankly at paperwork as the words shifted and morphed into illegible blurs. But hearing through his radio the frantic, garbled, broken pleas for aid didn’t feel any better than he figured seeing it himself would. 

By the time he got back, slamming his cruiser door shut so hard the whole car might’ve lifted off its left wheels, there was no fire. But there was a familiar face. A grave, glaring face.

Peter Hale. 

He gave his best, most blatantly fake, smile, and tilted his head, “Nice of you to join us, Sheriff. You just missed all the fun!”

He’d been sitting on the curb by the front doors, hands laced together, elbows resting on his knees. He rose to his feet as Noah slowly came up to him. 

“What the hell happened to Parrish?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, “He’s fine.” His head bobbed, “I do find it almost impressive that your deputy chose the one way you can’t certainly can’t kill him, to kill him.”

“My…” Noah squinted, “What happened here, Hale?”

The wolf’s false smile turned just a bit too true, “Deputy Haigh set Deputy Parrish on fire. You know, infighting can be easily prevented if you just—”

Noah rushed past him, through the double glass doors and into the station. He shouted to the first deputy he saw, asking where the two men were now, and he got his answer through stammers – the hospital, and the interrogation room. He didn’t hesitate before he ran right to the latter. 

Deputy Haigh was slouched in the metal chair, wrists cuffed to the bar on the table. He gave Noah such a disinterested look, the Sheriff wanted to slam his skull into the table already.

“What the fuck is going on?” He snarled, “You set a man on fire??”

“I set a car on fire,” Haigh mumbled, “It’s just bad luck that he was inside.”

Noah slammed his open palm onto the table, to which Haigh barely flinched, “Don’t—” He exhaled through his nose, hard, “What the hell were you thinking? What, were you trying to make a quick buck off of our insurance?? A man could’ve died—”

“No, that was what I was going for,” Haigh said.

Noah stared at him, “You’re just gonna admit that? To me?”

“Why lie?” Haigh rolled his eyes, “I’ve already gotten caught.”

And Noah pulled back, brows low, “Why did you do it?”

To which Haigh frowned, “You’ve refused me a raise four times in a row.”

Noah’s eyes darted across his face, “Yeah, well. You’re sure as hell not getting one, now. And you’re not getting any special treatment in prison, either.”

A pounding knocking came through the door, before a head peeked in, “Sheriff, there’s someone here who really needs to talk to you.”

“Who?” Noah growled.

“He said his name’s Peter Hale?” The young deputy said. 

Now, it was Noah’s turn to roll his eyes, “Yeah, I know. I’ll be out in a minute.”

The deputy nodded, not sparing so much as a glance to Haigh, then vanished again. The door clicked shut. If this had anything to do with Peter, he’d kill him. Honest to God, this was the last thing he needed right now and, truly, he would kill him.

“You know, Sheriff,” Haigh said, “There’s a lot that happens in this town that you don’t know about.”

Noah would kill him, too. 

“Things like Parrish,” the man had no idea, “Sometimes you have to take matters into your own hands.”

Noah didn’t look back as he left the room, “You have fun with that.”

Peter was waiting at reception when he got there, leant against the desk, hands in his pockets. Noah might’ve swung on him if he weren’t exhausted down to the very pits of his soul. 

“My office,” he snapped, “Now.”

Peter’s eyes sparkled as he listened, though he lagged behind with his incessant need to seem nonchalant at all times. He had to saunter everywhere, no matter how little time they had. Peter Hale did not rush. It was ridiculous. 

“What do you want, Hale?” Noah snarled, as soon as the door to his office was shut behind the wolf, “Why are you here?”

“Because Parrish is not the first, nor the last,” Peter said plainly. 

“Stop speaking in riddles before I shoot you in the mouth.”

Peter blinked. His mouth split into the slightest smile, and he pulled his hands out of his pockets. In his left, he held a folded piece of paper, a harsh, bright white against the dark browns of that room. As he unfolded the page, Noah felt the lingering unease of the last few months grow. Foreboding. Fear. 

“When I was burned alive,” Peter said, “I was… angry. Understandably, of course. And I may have come up with some plans. In my head. That may have been overheard by a, uh… more than natural roommate of mine.”

Noah lifted a brow, “Go on.”

“She’s taken it upon herself to pay bounty hunters to kill people like me,” Peter said, “She’s made a deadpool.”

Noah stared at him for a while, “Your evil plan was to kill supernatural creatures? Why?”

“My plan was to frame the Argents,” Peter said with the blankest of looks, “Well, Kate. But she’s, you know. Dead.” He held the paper out, “You’re gonna need to keep an eye out for these people. I can’t save them all, like I saved your deputy.”

Noah took the page. It was an interesting development. Peter saving people. Then he looked down at the paper, eyes locked on the name at the top, and he couldn’t move. 

‘CLAUDIA’.

Bold, black, capital letters. His stomach turned. His hands began to shake. His heart ached. He read, kind of, the rest of the list. Really, all he did was notice the one detail he cared about.

“Why is her name different?” He asked softly, “What is…”

There were three lists. Each led with a different name. And each one was fighting to make his mind race faster than the last. 

 

‘CLAUDIA

Lydia Martin 15

Stiles Stilinski 25

Demarco Montana 250

Allison Argent 10

Carrie Hudson 500

Kayleen Bettcher 250

Erica Reyes 2

Cora Hale 2

Laura Hale 10

Jack Marsland 250

Jackson Whittemore 2

Elias Town 250

 

MISCHIEF

Noshiko Yukimura 3

Kira Yukimura 4

Joanne McLaughlin 250

Steve Grace 250

Tom Hill 250

Brett Talbot 250

Derek Hale 15

Reed Schall 250

Richard Benefield 250

Joy Waldrop 250

Cheryl Calix 250

Jordan Parrish 5

 

DEREK

Satomi Ito 10

Malia Hale 4

Liam Dunbar 3

Meredith Walker 1

Liz Moore 1

Patrick Clark 1

Bree Leverett 250

Kaitlyn Scharr 250

Genevive Cary 250

Angelique Fain 250

Lorilee Rohr 250

Brittany Kegley 250’

 

Any words were dead on Noah’s tongue for a long time. All the questions, too many. Why these names? What did the numbers mean? Why were his wife, his son, and Derek – arguably, also his son – separate from the rest? Why were Stiles and Derek mentioned twice, but his wife only once? Why would they call him Mischief?  

“What is this?” He forced himself to ask. When he looked up, Peter’s gaze was darker. 

“The deadpool,” he said, empty, “The numbers are the price they’ll pay for their bodies. The smaller numbers are millions, triple digits are thousands.”

“Someone wants to pay twenty-five million for my son’s head?” Noah snarled, “And you… This was your idea?” His lashes fluttered, as Peter’s stare remained largely impartial, albeit too sinister for his comfort, “Why is Claudia not on there? She… She’s the same as Stiles, why isn’t…”

Peter said nothing. 

Noah’s vision turned foggy, nausea springing up within him as an answer, true or not, flooded into his mind. He bit at the inside of his cheek, almost gnawing his flesh apart, as his chest constricted. He shook his head. 

Still, Peter said nothing. Some tiny flicker dimmed in his eyes, though. Some low bloom of realisation, making his face fall just enough for Noah to notice. 

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Noah whispered. 

Peter shrugged, ever so slightly, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t you lie to me,” Noah’s voice was thick, horrifyingly so. 

The sky falling would hurt less. 

Peter’s eyes were sharp, calculating even now, “Noah.”

He flinched back, nose scrunching up as tears began to fill his sinuses, “No.” 

The wolf’s mouth slowly fell shut. He gave Noah the single most pitiful look he’d ever seen on that man’s face, the closest to sympathy he’d ever worn. 

Peter nodded.

And Noah crumbled. He fell back into his chair, dropping the page to the floor and bringing his shaking hands to his face. Everything was noise. Everything was nothingness. 

“No,” he choked out, “No, that’s not possible, Peter. She’s not—” He shook his head, eyes squeezed shut so tightly they burned, “She’s not dead.”

“It’s how the passwords worked last time—”

“Well, this isn’t last time!!” Noah roared, rising to stand, “We’re in my timeline, Hale. Claudia’s not— She’s not—…” His voice cracked before it faded out, “She can’t be.”

“Noah,” Peter said, “You need to put this aside—”

“Put it aside?!” Noah’s throat burned, “My wife is— My wife is dead! ”

Peter kept his gaze steely, “And more people will die if you don’t get it together.”

“What do their names mean?!” Noah boomed, “Claudia, Stiles, Derek— Who the Hell knows the name Mischief?? ”

“A banshee,” Peter answered around a heavy sigh, “She’s made the deadpool to appease the… voices in her head, or whatever. I don’t know.”

“Why them??” Noah outright sobbed.

Peter sighed again, “Because they’re dead.”

Noah’s wet eyes narrowed, “Derek isn’t dead.”

“Not yet.”

Wrong. This was all wrong. 

“And Stiles… isn’t,” Noah tried.

Peter gave him a scrutinising stare, “Noah, you held a funeral for him. I was there. Mischief is dead.”

Noah did sob, then, “Then how are you so calm?!”

And Peter said nothing. Noah dropped back into his chair, knees almost giving out. It was ringing so loudly in his mind, as if someone else was screaming it at him. He’d lost his son. He’d lost his wife. And, now, he was losing them again. His wife was gone. Jordan Parrish had just been almost burned alive for five million and Stiles was worth five times as much. 

The list glared up at him from the floor. Creased paper crinkling beneath his boot.

When had he lost her? 

Noah’s throat clicked as he swallowed, and his hands shook in his lap, “Do you know how it happened?”

Peter was still looking right at him when he looked back. The wolf’s jaw worked for a second, then he shook his head.

Noah didn’t believe him, “What’s gonna happen to Derek?”

“I don’t know,” Peter said, almost curious in the way his voice picked up. He tilted his head, “He’s going to burn.”

Noah’s brows rose, “What?”

“That’s what Lydia said,” Peter said. Noah figured it wasn’t curiosity, as much as it was the final defence before terror crept up on him, “‘He’s gonna burn’. I figured she meant Parrish. But ‘Derek’ worked again. I think he’ll be fine.”

Noah just stared at him.

“I’ve been burned a few times,” Peter said mildly, “And I made it out just fine. He’s a Hale. We’re stubborn creatures. Cockroaches, really.”

Stilinskis weren’t. Stilinskis died. Stilinskis didn’t bounce back from gunshots to the head or burning alive or poison or drowning or any other horrible ways people can be killed. They were human. They weren’t supernaturally-healing, God-challenging freaks of nature. If you were to counter that by saying that Stiles tended to hold more of those traits than not, Noah would give you a sad smile and respond that Stiles was always more of a Hale, anyway. And Claudia had been, too. Had been.

Noah’s throat locked. Closed up. 

Claudia was gone. And he still didn’t know where she went. 

 

-

 

“The pool!”

“Mhm.”

“And the Sheriff’s station!!”

“When we were paralysed, when I was seventeen, or when you blew it up?”

“Oh, my God! And– Oh! When Liam almost wolfed out in the back of the van and we had to teach him to control the shift?! And the triskele didn’t work!”

Derek raised a brow, “Well, that happened less than twenty-four hours ago, so yeah. I remember that, too.”

Stiles’ grin was burning his cheeks, and his excited taps on the table were starting to hurt his hands, “Now, you go!! Tell me a memory!”

When his Derek had understood what Stiles meant, he’d told him he could go back – ‘go to him’ he’d said, because Derek thinks he’s so funny – but that he wouldn’t go with him. Stiles got it. He didn’t like interacting with the Other Stiles even at the best of times, and he was ten years older than him. Not anymore. He’d only be eight years off, now. Bitch. But still, speaking to someone who is you but not quite. It’s strange. It’s very fucking strange. 

Derek crossed his arms, sat across from Stiles and Allison now, having moved around to sit with Braeden instead, “I remember… Last summer. You wouldn’t leave my house. And you painted my door.”

Stiles’ face flickered through a few different expressions before they rested back on a smile, “Well, yeah, you were all alone. I’m not a jackass. And I got you addicted to curly fries, so, you’re welcome.” Then he blinked, “I painted my Derek’s door, too. But, there’s where you’re different because my Derek helped, instead of using me as free labour.”

Derek shrugged, “I’d do it again.”

Allison hummed out a laugh beside him, stealing another one of Stiles’ fries. And he remembered something. A conversation with his mother. The thought made his chest ache, a little, a lot, and he couldn’t pretend not to notice how Allison and Derek both sharpened their stares. Even with Allison’s face barely visible in his peripheral. 

Their Allison was going to come back. So was Stiles. He’d gotten in his own head about them all forgetting about him, but some version of him was still here. Some versions of all of them were still here. He never got to see the good part. That’s what Claudia had said.

Claudia. 

Stiles pushed the thought away with a heavy breath, “Allison’s gonna come back to life.”

Derek and Braeden blinked in unison, shared a glance, and Derek tilted his head, “What?”

“Yeah, what?” Allison murmured, “I’m dead here. Like super dead.”

Stiles glanced to her, then away, “For now. I don’t know how it happens, but it does. It will.”

“How do you know?” Braeden asked, “You’re a psychic, too?”

The spark gave her a weak laugh, “Not me.” He licked his lips, “How’re you feeling about your last twenty-four hours as a werewolf, Allison?”

She squinted at him when he turned back to her, “It would be better if I wasn’t doing it with the memory of my mother telling me to kill myself, but, you know. It’s been nice being able to read your mind.” She smiled, “You’re not half as terrifying when I can smell how terrified you are.”

Stiles grinned again, “God, you were horrified by me.”

“We all were!” Allison cried, “Look at you!! You’re ninety-nine percent scar tissue and kept telling us all we were gonna die! Not to mention we all watched you snap a grown man’s neck like it was nothing.”

Stiles snorted, “Yeah.”

“What is with the scars?” Derek asked mildly, “You’ve been out of this timeline as long as you were here, and you had no scars at all, last I checked.”

Stiles tilted his head, “I didn’t really do anything back then. I googled shit. I hit people with baseball bats. I stole way too much government property. But I didn’t really fight anyone. And no one cared enough about me to attack me, anyway.”

“So, did Peter bite you?” Braeden asked. 

Stiles sighed, “Yeah. It wasn’t his fault, not like the claw marks. I went back to the day Scott got bit again, he was feral and trying to build his pack, and probably real mad at me. Thank the Lord I can’t be turned, though, Hallelujah!”

He resolutely did not mention Laura. He didn’t need to know. If he couldn’t already smell her, that is. 

“Why was he mad?” Derek asked.

Braeden blinked, “You went back twice??”

“Yes,” Stiles nodded, “And he was mad ‘cause I didn’t manage to stop Kate from burning the Hale House down.”

Allison put a fry back down, “That’s why she shot you??”

“Yeah,” Stiles grumbled, “I don’t know why I didn’t just go to the day that she did it and camp out until she gave up. Well,” he rolled his eyes, “there was no stopping it, anyway. She…” 

Claudia would’ve done it no matter what. 

Stiles closed his eyes, “It’s in the past, now.” A laugh bubbled out of his chest, “Funny. Still, Kate was real stupid to shoot little me. R.I.P.”

“So… You shot Kate?” Stiles blinked up at him. Derek’s brows were as low as they were arched. 

“In the head, yeah,” he said lightly, “She kidnapped you, and I was over it.” Then, at Derek’s entirely blank stare, he leant forward and pointed to the two of them, “I don’t know why nobody in this timeline stays dead, man. It’s not that hard to kill people.”

“That was a bad day,” Allison said mildly. Stiles gave her a glance. 

“Did I thank you for the silver bullet you gave me?” He murmured.

She nodded, “I think so.”

Stiles nodded back, “Kay.”

“You killed Kate Argent with a silver bullet?” Braeden said around a laugh, “Oh, my God, I love this kid.”

Stiles fluttered his lashes and shrugged, “I know, right. Aren’t I darling?”

Allison groaned, “Ew.”

“Okay, you’ve been hanging out with Cora too much,” Stiles spat, bringing his shoulders back down, “I don’t need more haters.”

“I was your hater way before Cora,” Allison grumbled, reaching for another fry and pulling back to glower at him when he slapped her hand away, “I paid!”

“And you couldn’t’ve paid if I hadn’t saved your life at the high school.”

“You stabbed me!!”

“You don’t even remember it!” Stiles hissed, “You healed!”

“You don’t remember a lot of things, Stiles,” Allison spat back, “And they still fuck you up. But I sure as hell remember the horror of you shouting at me to stop moving, or I’d die, so give me a fry!”

“That rhymed,” Stiles grumbled as he shoved the plate in her direction. She snatched a handful of fries and shoved them in her mouth, as Stiles watched in mild disturbance. He shook his head, “I can’t wait for you to stop being able to smell me, you freak.”

She gave him a look, “Don’t worry. Jackson’ll keep me up to speed.”

Stiles groaned, “No.”

“Or Erica.”

“What?”

Stiles stopped, but Allison might’ve been even more still than him. He considered, with dull surprise, how he’d forgotten. He hadn’t lost Erica only once. His Erica wasn’t from here, but she was second to go. And he’d taken for granted, so far, the life he’d saved. He’d been destroyed by that loss, before, but Derek had been destroyed by it first. 

“She’s…” Derek asked, suddenly appearing so unbelievably small, “You… saved her, too?”

Stiles licked his lips, “I did. This time.”

Derek’s eyes flickered, darted. 

“I’m sorry,” Allison said, voice as small as Derek looked, “I forgot she… I’m sorry.”

Derek nodded, uneven, “It’s okay.”

Stiles reached over to pat her on the knee, giving Derek a soft look – or as soft as he could manage, at least, “I lost her the first time. When I went back.”

Derek’s brows just twitched like he didn’t understand.

Stiles swallowed, “Just… It wasn’t you. I had all the foresight in the world and I still lost her in the same exact way.” 

Something in Derek’s posture grew softer, more relaxed, “Really?”

The spark nodded, “Yeah.”

“How did you save her?” Derek asked, sounding so much like his own Derek it made Stiles sick, “In the end?”

Stiles pursed his lips, “The… Uh. The Nogitsune… found her more… useful alive than dead. So it let me save her.”

Derek’s brows tensed, and his eyes sharpened, “You went void? Again?”

Allison continued sitting in silence beside him. They didn’t talk about it. He didn’t talk about it. The… None of that was ever up for discussion. The second that jar sunk out of sight, it was over and Stiles was never so much as thinking about it again. 

But they were talking about it now.

So, Stiles nodded, the barest tilt of his head, only enough to get the point across, “Almost a year ago.”

“How…” Derek’s voice was so quiet, “Did… Did Jennifer—”

“No,” Stiles said, too loud. Derek nodded, slow, as he rested back against his seat. Stiles caught the shift in Braeden’s posture as she moved to hold his hand under the table. It made his heart beat that much easier. 

Derek’s eyes darted down, then back up, “Then how?”

Stiles opened his mouth and closed it again, only a few times, “I don’t remember.”

Derek’s stare softened in pity, Stiles’ heart twisted in sorrow, and then the conversation shifted. Allison and Braeden somehow managed to move onto the topic of automatic rifles, much to their mutual delight. Derek watched Braeden talk with the softest eyes. Stiles just let the drone of conversation wash over him. He let the gentle, bizarre comfortability seep into his skin until the unease shifted to indifference; to thoughts of his Derek, of rest, of his apartment and the leaky tap in the bathroom that wouldn’t stop dripping. Here was fine. But he wanted to be there far more.

“Allison,” he said, gentle. She stopped, mid-sentence, to give him a dimpled, closed-lipped smile, humming in question. Stiles licked his lips, “I’m… gonna go. You gonna stay, or?”

“I, uh…” Allison’s eyes darted to the couple, lips breaking into a small grin, “I think I’ll stay. If that’s cool with you.”

Braeden shrugged and nodded, “You’re cool. I’m cool with it.” 

Allison practically glowed. 

Derek gave her a soft little look, “Of course.”

Stiles nodded, “Alright. Well. You two can have our third room, I guess. If you’re gonna stay the night.” He slipped out of their little booth, scratching at his neck, and slowly started to inch away. He caught Derek’s eye, the soft care of that look, and smiled, “You won’t see me ever again, you know. Any version of me. Don’t miss me too much.”

Derek gave him a grave look, nose scrunched and brows low, “That won’t be hard.”

Stiles guffawed, flipped him off, and walked away. 

He pushed through the door, out into the cool, dusk air, just as the table’s conversation burst to life again. That is, Allison and Braeden’s conversation. They’d never met before. Stiles hadn’t ever considered that they might get along. It made sense, though. They weren’t quite hunters, but both toed the line. Who knew guns could be such a good conversation starter? He really should have known something like that. It seemed a little obvious, now.  

It had been so easy to walk away that time. He almost felt guilty. Like he was betraying that version of him who wanted little else than another five minutes of annoying the fangs out of Derek Hale. But he wasn’t him anymore. And he wanted far more. 

His Derek answered before he even had a chance to knock. 

“You okay?” He asked.

Stiles nodded, and he meant it when he answered, “Never been better.”

And Derek looked him up and down before he moved out of the doorway. Stiles stepped inside, and Derek closed the door behind him. He’d meant it. He had never been better. He’d never had this. He’d never had the past back in his hands, and let its sands pass through his fingers of his own accord. He’d never known that the world he was going to go to next would be so much kinder than this one. 

“Allison and Braeden get along freakishly well,” he said, “I feel like I just watched my daughter befriend, like… I don’t know what but she’s too cool, it’s almost terrif—”

One hand pulled him around by his arm, as the other guided his face, and then Derek’s lips were catching onto his. It was second nature to give as he was given, letting his eyes fall shut and breathing into him as he molded their lips together. Derek kissed him once, twice, three times, then stopped, knocking their heads together as he breathed him in. Stiles’ eyes fluttered back open to stare at his face, at his lashes fanning out, casting little shadows on his sharp cheeks. He had the sweetest little grin on his face, and Stiles was so unbelievably in love.

“I hadn’t kissed you in over a day,” Derek said softly, “I didn’t like it.”

Stiles snorted, “You dork.” He caught his lips in one more soft little kiss, and Derek’s body leant further against him. Stiles pulled back to mess up his hair and grin at the scrunch of his nose, “It’s bedtime, Wolfman.”

Derek huffed against his lips, “You just slept for seven hours.”

“What, would you rather I did something else?” Stiles gave him a wide smile, open-mouthed and bright-eyed. Derek gave him a look. A plain, high-browed look. 

“Duh,” he said.

Stiles cackled, and started to walk back, dragging Derek along by the front of his shirt, as the wolf’s hands found his waist, “Us and motels. We really have a great track record.” 

Derek’s eyes were trained on his lips as the backs of his knees finally met the edge of the bed, moments away from devouring him entirely, wholly, sighing against his lips in the seconds before, “The greatest.”

 

-

 

That piece of shit rental car was still just as much of a piece of shit when Stiles wasn’t prepared to jump off a bridge. But, now, he could listen to the playlist on Allison’s iPod, and rest his feet on the dash, and know that Allison had gone for a run with Derek. She’d gushed about his shift for the first hour and a half of the drive, starting right after Stiles got the text.

‘Allison gave me ur number. Said Peter could call across timelines. Wanted 2 try.’

He’d snorted, turned back to see Allison’s smiling face in the backseat, and looked down at his phone again. He’d typed out his reply almost instantly.

‘im not there yet.’

‘if this works, i probs wont leave u alone.’

‘heads up’

‘Yikes. Regretting this already.’

‘Don’t u have ur own Derek to not leave alone?’

‘yh but i can bug u about ur memories’

‘and ive missed my friend’

‘no homo’

‘Haha.’

‘:)’

Stiles tucked his phone back in his pocket when no further replies came. Derek’s fingers were tapping rhythmically on the steering wheel, barely following the tune of the song that was playing – some slow indie song with too many metaphors for Stiles to entertain – and making his eye twitch. 

It was a long drive. It felt short. Something about the company, he figured. The softness of thoughtless staring out onto miles and miles of nothingness, and grass, and roads. Then, they reached the border. Just about. And Stiles had to cast his spell, again. Allison passed him the grimoire, a heavy weight in his hands, still so wrong to hold. It was like it was reaching out to him. He didn’t want it. As simple as that. He didn’t fucking want it. 

But he needed it. And he would use it. 

“You good?” Derek asked lowly, eyes darting up to the rearview mirror, then back to the road.

Stiles hummed. That tabbed page was the only one he turned to. No distractions. No time wasted. No unnecessary seconds holding that thing. Reading her words. Touching the pages she made. 

He cast the spell just as easily as he did the first time. It wasn’t hard. The intention was so desperate, he could’ve done it unintentionally.

He lifted it once they were back in California. Then he handed the book back to Allison, turned to Derek and asked if he could take over the driving. Derek barely glanced over at him before he’d pulled over and almost begged him to. The car was a piece of shit, and Stiles regretted it instantly. 

But, for once, nothing bad happened. Everything was fine. Or, fine-adjacent. They passed the ‘You Are Now Entering Beacon Hills’ sign without any blood shed, or tires popped, or guns fired. This detour had been entirely ridiculous, but it was fine. Stiles got to see them all again. He got to come home again. And now, he got to go home one more time. When the roads started to look familiar, he felt the air grow clearer. From there, everything was easy. 

They stopped at the clinic to pick Scott back up – his hair was a mess and his eyes were wide and stressed, but he’d downright melted into Allison’s arms like everything was perfect. Stiles caught Deaton’s eye over their shoulders, stalling a little at the gentle grief in his eyes. He nodded. Stiles nodded back. The kids climbed into the back of the car together, bringing flashes of a time Stiles had truly forgotten, of Skinwalkers and Kira and New Mexico. Scott was as lucky as he wasn’t, when it came to love. Stiles hesitated before he got back into the driver’s seat. 

He made his way to Deaton, ignored his questions, and wrapped his arms tight around him. Deaton hugged him back, sighing as Stiles patted him on the shoulder. 

“Thanks for the assist, Deaton.”

The druid had a small sparkle in his eye when he pulled back, “Any time, Stiles. You’re always welcome here.”

Stiles smiled, “I don’t think I’ll be back. But thanks. You’re my favourite version of you.”

Deaton gave him a funny look, “I’ll take it. But never say never, Stiles.”

He tilted his head, and he said nothing. One last pat on Deaton’s shoulder, and he was gone. One last drive, and he’d be out of that hellhole. And if the Nemeton dared to pull any fucking tricks on him, he’d burn the whole forest to the ground.

He just wanted his bed. And a proper meal. And a shower. And, like. A glass of water. God, he wanted a glass of water. 

Something was different about the earth here. It was weaker. Disconnected. It didn’t scream out to him like it did where they came from. That felt… wrong. Somehow. This was where he came from. This earth, this time, should scream out to him far louder than a stolen one, shouldn’t it? 

But it didn’t. As he sat the four of them down on the Nemeton, slipped the grimoire back out of his satchel and thought. 

There was no spell for this - hopping timelines. Yet he knew how to find his way back. The instructions were written in his blood. He just had to find the world that wanted him. The one that was a part of him. Not here, not anymore. He slammed the book shut again and tossed it aside, to rest against Scott’s knee. He took it into his lap, but Stiles didn’t care.

All he had to do was follow his intuition. It was to bite down into the flesh of his hand until he drew blood. It was to meet Derek’s panicked eyes as he shouted. It was to reminisce. 

When you look up at the stars, you watch the glow of something from long, long before you’re seeing it. You stare up into the past and marvel at sparks, but that beauty is not there now. That beauty was there then. You’re seeing the illusion of time. Of alternate states of being; of perception. That, Stiles supposed, was exactly what Derek was. A star perceived in the wrong time. 

Not his Derek. He and his Derek were going back to the time they belonged to. 

So mote it be.  

He wiped the fresh blood from his palm, swiping it across the centre of the Nemeton and believing, so desperately that it would work. And, so, it did. The light beamed up, just as red as his own flesh, and swallowed them all whole. 

There was a moment, then, where something happened. 

One small moment. A fraction of a second. Less than that. 

Violet bursts out before his eyes. 

And a voice whispered. 

“Mieczysław.”

His body seized up. 

He almost didn’t catch it. 

“What did you do?”

Notes:

ur fucking baby's gonna burn 😛

This season BARELY has an overarching plot but it DOES have an overarching THEME. so. Tempted to change the season name to Secrets instead of the ode to Mitski it currently is

I might add another canon Derek pov to this… I’ll lyk……… hmm…… that’s litch my wife

Chapter 18: Priceless

Summary:

Stiles doesn't go hunting. He swears he doesn't.

Notes:

bcz stiles from other ppls povs is my not-guilty pleasure

edit; this chapter was not beta read until after it was published for. reasons. that was NOT good. erm. fingers crossed ive fixed everything (just minor typos and sentences that made no fucking sense <3)

It wasn’t supposed to be this way. Beacon Hills High School was supposed to be a fresh start. He was meant to be able to hang out with Mason and play lacrosse, and the biggest problem in his life was supposed to be the possibility of people finding out that he hadn’t just transferred, but, now, everything was insane. Everything was wrong. Everything was terrible. And Liam Dunbar didn’t know what the fuck was going on. 

Mason sat criss-cross-apple-sauce on his floor, button-mashing, and ignoring the abandoned AP Bio textbook lying open in his lap. Every grunt and groan from either of their characters, the clicking of buttons beneath both their fingers, and the slashes and thuds were just white noise. Liam’s mind was racing. And when his mind used to race, he’d get angry. Now, when he got angry, his teeth turned to fangs. His nails turned to claws. He turned to a bloodthirsty monster, and Mason was so going to die, oh, my God. 

“Hey, man, are you okay?” He asked. 

Liam startled, sucking in a sharp breath and frantically dotting his gaze around the room – to old band posters and lacrosse sticks and gaming consoles, “Yeah! Yeah, I’m– I’m fine, man. Never been better! Why? Do I not look fine? Did you see something—”

Mason gave him the funniest of looks, “Dude. I’ve beaten you ten times in a row today. You’re crap at this game, but not normally this crap. And that was the worst attempt at a lie I’ve ever seen.” He raised an unimpressed brow, “What’s going on with you?”

“Nothing!” Liam shook his head, forcing his lips into a grin, like baring teeth, and he felt sick, “Nothing’s going on!”

“You’re an even worse liar than I thought,” Mason mumbled affectionately, “This is almost embarrassing for you.”

And Liam swallowed, “Yeah. I know.”

He hadn’t believed it was actually happening, even a little bit. Not even when his nails protruded out and stabbed into his own hands, or his teeth cut through his lips. Because werewolves weren’t real. He was just losing it. He was infected and having some horrible dream, or something. He had to be. His anger was a big enough problem already, he didn’t need it to get worse. He didn’t need more secrets to hide. He didn’t need secrets to keep from Mason.  

He’d only hurt Mason once. Physically, at least. He’d shouted, more times than he could count. Said some things neither of them forgot, but Mason forgave. Because Mason was a Saint on Earth and Liam was the luckiest unlucky piece of garbage to have him as his best friend. But, only once, he hurt him. He couldn’t even remember what set him off – something embarrassingly small in hindsight, like it always was – but Liam had shoved him backwards, and Mason had slammed his head against the kitchen counter. There’d been so much blood, and shouting, and he’d had a concussion for three days after. It was all a blur, now, but Liam remembered the fear. The shame. The dread pooling in his stomach at the thought of losing him. And, yet, he still almost couldn’t bring himself to apologise. 

If he could do that to him at fourteen, as a normal kid, then what the fuck could he do to him, now?

The Juniors, the wolves, Stiles’ betas, tried to help. They tried to force him to control it, but once he shifted, there was little they could do until he passed out from exhaustion, or they knocked him out themselves. At least the headaches healed fast enough for it to feel efficient. Erica and Boyd kept joking about adopting him, but Boyd wasn’t even a werewolf. Somehow, he was almost as strong as them. But he didn’t do much other than laugh at Erica’s jokes, smack Jackson over the head every five minutes, or buy them food. Liam quite liked him, actually. He kept the scary ones in check. But, still, none of them could calm him down. Or ‘anchor’ him, as they called it. Whatever the hell that meant. 

They’d ended up dragging him to the ‘Hale House’ – what the fuck? – to talk to Laura – who the fuck? – when he first saw Stiles again. His eyes were distant, staring off into nothingness as he followed some ridiculously gorgeous man in, trailed by Scott and a brunette with really long lashes and an insane jawline. Every one of the people in this pack were so pretty it made him mad. Not mad mad. But frustrated. 

The look on Stiles’ face, the vacant stare, was nothing like the frantic, half-terrifying man he’d met the other day. It was miles away from the way he’d grinned like a madman at the sight of him, or the rage in his eyes when he’d fought that other kid.

“Stiles!” Jackson barked, “What did you do?!”

The man flinched, blinking, as a strange scent hit Liam’s nose – like sour fruit, “What?”

Jackson stormed up to him, “We’ve been babysitting this dumbass for, like, two days! Where were you?!”

Stiles’ frown lifted into a small smirk, “Where’s Peter? Did he figure out the passwords?”

“What?” Jackson spat.

“Yup,” the girl on the couch said, “Well, Lydia did all the work. Did you turn Allison into a real boy?”

Stiles raised his brows, “Did you magically lose your wolf, too, or are you just not scenting for the sake of doubting me?”

The girl turned to him, looking away from her phone, “I don’t know why I asked.”

Stiles gave her a sarcastic smile, and turned back to Liam. He froze under his gaze, entirely involuntary. It was something about the tired downturn of his eyes. The age in his stare. Some sort of all-knowing glint. The scars across his cheek and nose, the bite mark and countless slashes over his arms, the remnants of a literal hole in his hand, the tattoos.  

Liam swallowed thickly. 

“How’re you feeling, Liam?” He asked, so gentle it made the little wolf grimace. 

“I’m fine,” he grumbled. 

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, still soft, as they moved past Liam’s shoulder, to where Erica was hovering (too close), “Has he controlled the shift yet?”

“No,” Erica grumbled, “The dumbass can’t figure out an anchor that works. I’ve never knocked someone out so many times in forty-eight hours.”

Stiles snorted, “Yeah. His anchor’s not like yours. It’s not a person.” His eyes practically glowed, “It’s a token.”

“Oh, God, not that again,” a voice droned, footsteps falling down the stairs, until a man appeared wearing the worst fleece-lined coat Liam had ever seen, “Stiles. Don’t do that again.”

“If it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” Stiles said lowly, eyes turning up and the age suddenly vanishing from his tired face, “Good to see you, Peter. You look particularly sane, today.”

Peter, apparently, grimaced, “Don’t rub it in.”

Liam’s head was hurting, all magical healing qualities be damned, “What??”

Jackson just shook his head beside him, “Don’t even ask.” He growled, a little, “Those two don’t ever say anything helpful.”

“I have been so helpful, Jackass,” Stiles spat, “You just don’t ask the right questions.”

“How’s this for a question?” Boyd grumbled, “Why does this idiot have no control? Erica was fine, Allison was fine, why is this kid so crazy?”

“Intermittent Explosive Disorder,” Stiles answered. Liam’s heart dropped.

His lip curled, “How do you—”

“I told you, Liam,” Stiles said simply, “I know a lot of things.”

“What the hell is that?” Erica mumbled, resting her elbow on Liam’s shoulder, and ignoring his glare. 

“Anger issues,” Liam grumbled, “I have anger issues.”

Erica turned to him slowly. Boyd did, too. Jackson’s jaw fell slack. 

“No,” he said, shaking his head, “Stiles, you’re turning him back.”

“You can do that??”

“I’m not turning him back,” Stiles said, “He’s fine. This’ll be good for him. He’s not just controlling his anger, now. He’s controlling the shift. It’s like… whenever I want to electrocute Jackson to death—” The wolf guffawed. “—it’s easier to stop the sparks than the urge to kill him. Then I don’t kill him ‘cause I was focused enough to stop the sparks. Booyah.”

Liam was sure the face he was pulling was borderline inhuman, “… What??”

“Derek,” Stiles sang, turning to the guy with the pretty eyes, who had watched that whole thing with a gentle smile on his face, “Can you take little Liam to the vault?”

“What?!” Liam cried, “What the fuck is the vault?!”

“Don’t let your heartbeat rise like that,” the other guy – Derek – hissed, turning to glare at him, then turning back to frown at Stiles, “Why?”

“He needs the triskele,” Stiles said with a smile. 

The brunette girl behind him poked him in the shoulder, “Didn’t you say—”

Stiles’ grin turned sharp, reaching back to slap her hand away, “I know what I said.” And she raised her hands in surrender. 

“Stiles!!” A voice boomed, a crescendo of thuds racing down the stairs so loud it was almost deafening. A girl appeared – a woman – with her eyes glowing bright yellow and her hair a mess. She smelled faintly of puke. “You’ve got a lot of explaining to do!!”

Stiles frowned, “I do?” 

“Why are these bounty hunters trying to kill us?” The woman growled, “What did you do?! ”

Stiles froze again. That sour smell filled the air. Liam didn’t know what it was, but it made his skin crawl. It made his heart tick up again, in a way that had Derek flashing blue eyes at him – blue? Why were his eyes blue?

Stiles swallowed audibly, so loud Liam could hear the click of his throat from across the room, though, he wasn’t the best judge of volume anymore, “The deadpool is technically Peter’s fault.” He tilted his head, all smiles again, “Thanks for that, Peter.”

“It wasn’t intentional,” Peter snarled, “How was I supposed to know that I was lying next to a mind reader.”

Liam’s desperate questions were swallowed up by a sudden burst of conversation, overlapping yells and grumbles. So loud. Everything was so loud. And none of it made sense – like Liam knew the words they were using but he’d never heard them in that order. He was trapped in this house full of crazy people and no one could help him and he was gonna lose control and hurt someone. Kill someone. He was terrified. He was fucking terrified. And everything was screams, and his heart was pounding in his ears, and he needed to run—

“Liam.”

His chest was heaving, eyes flickering, vision blurred, but Stiles was there. In front of him. Staring. Then they were moving. 

He hated this. Losing control. He hated how it had a sound, now. A face. 

They turned him into a monster.

“Liam, listen to me,” Stiles said, grabbing at his wrists so tight Liam couldn’t pull away. It made his body flare up in panic, that sour smell filling the air again, from him now. Fear. It was fear. “Hey. Focus on my voice.”

He tried. But he couldn’t focus on anything besides the fear and rage wrestling for control of his mind; his body. It was dizzying, maddening. It was so, so terrifying. 

“I’m—” he said, freezing at the growl overtaking his voice, “Get away from me.”

“No,” Stiles said sternly, “You’re not going to hurt me.”

Liam growled, again. Wild. Feral.

“I’m not scared of you, Liam.”

His voice was fading. Why was this happening? Nothing was… This was so fucking embarrassing. Liam’s fangs cut through his own gums. He couldn’t breathe.

“The sun,” Stiles’ voice cut through the fog, “The moon. The truth.”

Liam’s hands shook, confusion overtaking anything else, growling through his teeth. 

“The sun. The moon. The truth.”

He didn’t understand. But Stiles just kept repeating it. The sun. The moon. The truth. Over and over, like it meant something. 

“Say it,” Stiles said, “Say it with me. The sun. The moon. The truth.”

Liam caught on, murmuring the words around the obstructions in his mouth. And, somehow, the repetition was so distracting, so confusing, that his mind slowed enough to bring his vision back. His teeth settled back to dull points, freeing up the space in his mouth he needed to breathe. The pain in his palms slowly eased. 

The sun. 

A breath.

The moon. 

Another breath.

The truth.

He blinked up at Stiles, still barely catching air, “What did… What the hell does that mean?”

Stiles was watching him with such kind eyes – where had he gone? “Three things that cannot long be hidden.”

And Liam just stared, “What?”

Stiles smiled, “You controlled your first shift. Who cares what it means?”

Liam blinked, looking down at his bloody palms, wrists still held tight in Stiles’ grip, “I did?”

“You did,” Stiles pulled back, releasing his hold on him and rising to his feet. Liam swallowed as he regained his bearings. They were in a bathroom. A tiny one, with just a toilet and a sink. He was sat on the floor with his back to the wall, inches away from the pipes leading out from the bottom of the sink basin. Stiles moved to the door, barely a foot away, “I told you, you’ll be fine. No one died. You coming?”

Liam looked up at him, swallowing, hands still shaking, “I… I’m gonna stay here for a sec. I think.”

And Stiles nodded, “Sure thing, Scotty—” He froze. Liam’s brows furrowed. Stiles’ fell, head nodding as he corrected himself, “Liam. Sure thing. Liam.” He squinted, flattening his mouth into a thin line as he patted the doorframe and slipped out of the room.

He left him there, on that bathroom floor, with his own blood on his hands and the lingering feeling that he’d seen something he hadn’t. Like he’d intruded. The bathroom floor was cold. He could still hear them talking outside, through the thin crack in the door. 

The sun. 

The moon. 

The truth. 

 

-

 

‘What did you do?’

Four words. Haunting. 

Stiles had frozen, so still, too petrified to even breathe, when the light faded. Derek was staring at him like he’d lost his mind, eyes darting down to the fresh wound on his hand, then back up. Allison and Scott were holding hands, tight, sat so close together they might as well have melded into one person. They were home. He was sure of it. No evidence needed, beyond the way the ground beneath them was singing out to him. A chorus through his bones, reverberating through the marrow. Just like that voice. 

And Stiles blinked, eyes snapping to the grimoire in Scott’s lap. 

‘Mieczysław.’ 

The memory, as clear as the voice had been. A whisper. So faint. Nestling into his chest and burrowing in, so deep.

Her voice. 

He’d looked to Scott’s watchful eyes, then, swallowing it all down, “Well. Why don’t you try that one again, huh, Scott?”

He didn’t touch it. Scott performed the spell, with Derek and Stiles watching from the sidelines, as flawless as it should’ve been the first time. Stiles didn’t say a thing. Scott placed the grimoire back in the satchel. Stiles smiled, and ruffled his hair. Allison gave him a narrow-eyed look. 

“I already miss it,” she murmured. 

Stiles scrunched up his nose, “The prices we pay, Allison.”

She gave him a high-browed eye-roll, or something like it, “If I miss it too bad, I’ll go find Aiden again.”

Derek frowned, “I don’t think your mom would appreciate that.”

And Stiles shut up again. 

He didn’t tell anyone. Not even Derek. He’d finally found some semblance of peace in this. He got to go home. He got to know that he was where he really wanted to be. Where he belonged. And he didn’t need this. He didn’t need her coming back when he’d only just started to move on. Acceptance was not something he was awfully familiar with, you know. It wasn’t something he was going to take for granted. He was going to keep it. And this was not going to be something he dealt with now. There were bigger problems. Bigger fish to fry. Bigger wolves to tame. Bigger men to hunt. 

When he left Liam in that bathroom, that day, only hours after they’d come back, he was far more steady. He was back where he needed to be, where they needed him to be. His pack. No matter how many sharp glares Laura shot his way, or eye rolls from Cora, or grumbles from any of the other ungrateful freaks he called his friends – family, really. They needed him just as much as he needed them. And, boy, did they need him right now. 

“Stiles.” 

There was Peter. Looking a whole lot less grumpy than he had a few minutes ago. Stiles crossed his arms. 

“Peter,” he said. 

He’d wanted to visit him in Eichen House before they left. Maybe to be a bitch. To gloat. Maybe to remind him that he’d forgive him one day. That they were friends. Whether it would’ve fucked up the timeline or not, Stiles never found out. The last time he’d been to Eichen – that Eichen, specifically – Lydia had almost deafened him after they lobotomised her. He didn’t need to go back there. If they didn’t kidnap him the second he stepped through the front gate.

“The deadpool,” Peter started, trailing off a little as he seemed to lose his words, “It’s… We decoded it.” He rolled his eyes, then, “ Lydia decoded it. Actually, no, I did the first part. Then, she largely took over.”

Stiles blinked, “Okay?”

And Peter’s head twitched, “Listen. You’re…” He sighed, “You’re a little pricey.”

Stiles shrugged, “Yeah, I’ve heard. How much?” He grinned, “We talking millions?”

“Twenty five,” Peter over-enunciated, “million dollars.” Then, adding swiftly, “Of my money.”

Stiles frowned, “Wouldn’t Laura have inherit—”

Peter’s glare shut him up. He nodded, letting the words actually set in. It was… weirdly gratifying.

He grinned, “Wait, I’m worth twenty-five million dollars? Like, US dollars?” Peter just stared at him. Stiles pouted, “Aw. Don’t be jealous, I’m sure they’d pay so much for you if they were able to.”

“Stiles,” Peter grumbled, “Allison is on the list.”

He paused, “Oh… How much?”

“Ten,” Peter spat, “Still millions.”

Stiles blinked, hard, “Damn. Your boyfriend’s not gonna like that.” Peter snarled, honest-to-God bared his teeth, and flashed his eyes. Stiles’ brows shot up, “Jesus.” He shrugged, “She’s not even a wolf anymore. Shouldn’t Meredith have known that?” 

Peter gave him a look, like he was stupid, “How should I know?”

Stiles squinted, “Where’s the list?”

At that, Peter hesitated again, readjusting his posture as his eyes fell, “That… Your father has it. I told him to… send some deputies out to keep an eye on the people on it, or something. I was trying to be helpful.”

Stiles frowned at that, “Sounds like you were.”

Peter gave him a strangely grave look. Weirdly heavy. Stiles pursed his lips and patted him on the shoulder. 

“Thanks, Peter,” he said, “You’re a good guy, you know. What you did in another timeline isn’t who you are.” 

It was a shot in the dark, and whether he hit the mark or not, Peter’s gaze did shift. He hit something. Either a bullseye or a major artery. Maybe too much of a toss-up to be comfortable with.

“Don’t speak so soon, Stiles,” Peter said lowly. 

Stiles’ brows fell, “Right.” He went to take his hand back, “I guess I’ll go see my dad, then—”

“Stiles,” Peter’s hand shot up to grab at his wrist. So tight of a grip, it hurt. Stiles didn’t flinch, but his gaze did sharpen. Peter looked so much like a Hale, in the way his brows tilted upward and his eyes grew so grave, flickering away as he seemed to have to force the words out of him, “I’m sorry.”

That was strange. Undeniably, insanely strange. Had he apologised to Stiles for anything? Ever? If he had, he wouldn’t have done so without Stiles berating him for the thing for at least ten minutes before he cracked. Not like this. Not when Stiles didn’t even know what exactly he was apologising for. La Iglesia? The deadpool? 

He didn’t ask. Peter let go of his wrist, and Stiles walked away. 

He didn’t ask, and he didn’t make it to the Sheriff’s station. He barely even made it to the Jeep, before his phone was blowing up with ‘SOS’ texts from Kira’s number. His hand tightened around the device, and he sighed a sigh so heavy it almost felt like his whole body turned up empty. And he was off, again.

It was a lot. He’d taken the quiet for granted, you know. It was the only break he’d seem to get until the deadpool was done and dusted. And then it would be months of waiting.

Would he hear that voice again? 

It was an uncomfortable distraction. Pangs of fear sparking up in his chest, like they often did. She couldn’t come back. She couldn’t make him face what he’d… What had happened. But not right now. He had to save Kira. Kira, who he wasn’t sure if he’d had more than five conversations with here. Or anywhere else, actually. 

She was at the school. It was always something with the fucking school. Stiles hated that place with the very fabric of his being. He hated a lot of things that much. It probably wasn’t good for his health. 

“Stiles!” Kira cried out, sprinting over to him as soon as he passed through the main doors, “Thank God you’re here!!” He blinked down at her as she stopped right before his face, all petrified and wide-eyed and frantic, “I thought— I was meant to meet my mom— Did you not bring anyone else—?”

“Slow down,” Stiles said, “What is going on?”

Kira sucked in a breath, blowing up her cheeks before she started to speak again with a puff of air, “My mom’s been doing training exercises with me. And this… I thought was gonna be another one of those. But it is not. ”

Footsteps came, coming down the hall at the end of theirs. Stiles’ jaw set. He recognised those slow, heavy steps. 

“Yeah, he’s an old friend of mine,” he grumbled, guiding Kira to stand behind him. 

“What?” She squeaked.

“Stay there,” he growled back. And he took off. Kira shouted after him, but he was gone. Running. Feet squeaking against the linoleum flooring. He slid to a stop at the end of the hall, turning to stare at his mouthless face. 

The Mute stared right back. Hatchet in hand. 

Stiles grinned, “Not gonna say hi?”

Its eyes sharpened, and its hand pulled back. Stiles lunged forward. 

This timeline liked him. To an extent. It liked his power. Even through the school’s foundations, the basement, the floor beneath him, this town’s energy – the Nemeton’s energy – was still reaching out to him. 

Maybe it wasn’t for the best. Because his fight with the Mute was a short one. The hatchet in its hand was gone almost immediately, dropped to the floor and spinning out of reach before Stiles could even land his first punch. But then they were fighting with fists, like God intended. Throwing hits, kicks, swings. Slamming each other into walls and trying desperately to be the last one standing. Until the earth started calling too loud.

Until the call sounded like whispers. 

And Stiles froze. 

There were no words. There was no voice. Just a feeling. A chill up his spine. And it was petrifying.

He was knocked off his feet in an instant, slamming his head back against the floor as he landed too hard. It snapped him back, at least, groaning and reaching for his head. He looked up to see the Mute, standing over him, ready to strike, with another fucking hatchet in its hand. 

He took in a breath, ready to shout, or move, or do something—

A slash. Metal cutting through air, then fabric, then flesh. The Mute’s eyes widened just as Stiles’ did, snapping from his face, to his arm, to the sword, and, finally, to Kira. Her face was contorted in horror. Her own eyes darted just as Stiles’ had. He blinked.

Then, he did move. He scrambled back, turning around despite the pounding in his skull to reach for the first hatchet, abandoned on the floor. His fingers wrapped around it. He turned back. 

The Mute’s gaze was locked on Kira. She was staring back, horrified, tugging helplessly at the sword, stuck in his wrist. 

He pulled his arm back, swung it forward, and he let go. 

The hatchet spun three times before it embedded in his skull. 

Kira yelled. She let go of the sword to cover her mouth with cupped hands. The Mute stumbled back one, two, three steps. Then he fell to the floor with a clatter. 

Stiles swallowed. He tentatively met Kira’s eyes. She pulled her hands away to stare back at him, slack-jawed.

Damn. 

Stiles didn’t see his dad that day. Or the next. Every time he tried, some other bounty hunter would pop up, trying to kill another one of his betas or, God forbid, kill him. The poor souls who tried to catch him when he was alone were dealt with with far less care than the ones who had witnesses. It’s not to say he slaughtered them. He didn’t mean to kill them. And he didn’t kill most of them. But the ones he didn’t kill always came back. Because all of those hunters had egos the size of a house. They couldn’t let someone they saw as sub-human beat them. But Stiles wasn’t sub-human. He was super-human. In a weird, twitchy sort of way. And, slowly, they were learning that. 

There was the second, third, and fourth time that Garrett tried it – first, directly outside Stiles’ apartment, before he could even make it to the car, to which he immediately had Scott put runes up around their place to keep people from finding it. His girlfriend had dragged him away before it could get too ugly. That time, he got lucky. The next time, however, he caught Stiles and Derek on their way out of the café down the street from their apartment – the one that sold the good chocolate croissants – and neither of them were putting up with any of it. Garrett had ended up being taken away by an ambulance, with a broken arm and a punctured lung. Stiles wouldn’t’ve called one, but he knew he’d have to pay a good couple of grand for it, and Garrett was pissing him the fuck off. Derek had appreciated his spite, at least. The next, and last time, it’d been him and his girlfriend. They’d cornered him after another Coach-enforced lacrosse practice, paralysed him with kanima venom, and gotten themselves thrown through a wall by Liam, who had then been thrown into a wall of his own by Jackson when he couldn’t anchor the shift. Stiles didn’t like being paralysed any more than he had years ago. But those two kids were lucky. They were the only ones he didn’t feel like killing. 

The two from the hospital were an entirely different story. Stiles didn’t care about why they were hunting him (Money. It was money. No amount of crazy lore would change the fact that they wanted the money.) or how they met or how many bullets he put in that dude’s body— Whatever, man. Guns are made to be shot. Maybe next time don’t choose a profession that forces you to face-off with people who find it a whole lot easier to kill you than you do to kill them. Maybe don’t work with Kate Argent. And Stiles told him as much. Then blasted him forty feet away. The magic whispered. His body hit a tree, and folded like jelly. Stiles didn’t stop throwing up into his toilet for two more days. And he still didn’t make it to the Sheriff’s station. 

That Chemist guy didn’t even stand a chance. Stiles recognised his face in the school parking lot when he was picking Boyd and Isaac up one day. Or, sorry. Giving them a ride. Because they ‘weren’t children’ and ‘didn’t get picked up like five-year-olds’. Sure. Anyway. The guy had tried to stab Stiles with some sort of syringe the moment he realised what was going on, and Stiles had snapped his wrist like a twig. But, like most animals, that only made him angrier. And he (stupidly) tried to fight Stiles with his bare hands. He didn’t get very far. 

(It was exhausting, and it wouldn’t let him sleep. Not the fear. Just the memories. The knowledge of the things that he was doing – the things he deemed necessary. It kept him insufferably awake. And no amount of gentle affection from Derek, or fingers of whiskey, could knock him out anymore.)

(When people asked him why he was being so slow, these days. So calm. He’d just smile and say, “I got to go home. I’m doing better, now.”)

(It was true.)

(Except for when it wasn’t.)

He wasn’t hunting people, at least. He was just beating them. And he wouldn’t have had to if Lydia would just let him go to the damn lakehouse. 

“I’ve told you this enough times, Stiles!” She hissed one day, when he was trying to teach her to fight, in the backyard of the Hale House – granted, the entire forest was their backyard, but the particularly empty patch of grass right behind the house was reserved that title, “My mom has been renting it out. We cannot, under any circumstances, go to the lakehouse. Let alone destroy it. Who do you think I am??”

Stiles almost tore the red hair out of her head, “Lydia. I can’t keep killing these people. It’s exhausting.”

“Then stop killing them,” Lydia drawled back, dead-eyed, “Just knock them out like the rest of us.”

“They keep coming back!!” Stiles snapped, “They’re like pests. Tiny little pest idiots! They want me to kill them!! Idiots. Idiots!!!”

“Oh, my God,” Cora groaned, “Get a grip.”

“You’re worth pennies, Cora,” Stiles snarled back, “You don’t get it!”

The look on her face was pure murder, but it was thrown out of the window when Erica came bounding out of the house, Liam in tow. 

“Stiles!” She cried out, “Liam’s scared he’s gonna kill somebody.”

Stiles squinted his eyes, “Okay? That’s great.”

She gave him a look, “Tell him it’s okay.”

Stiles turned to Liam, who looked like he wanted to kill himself more than anyone else, then back to an expectant Erica, “I’m not telling a fifteen-year-old boy that murder is okay.”

“I know murder isn’t okay!” Liam snapped, “That’s the problem! What if I— What if I hurt Mason? He can’t even know about any of this!” 

Stiles frowned, “Why not?”

Liam blinked, “What?”

Erica pouted her lips, “Who’s Mason?”

Liam gave her the same grave look that Stiles was sure he was wearing. He shook his head as he said, “My best friend.”

“I like Mason,” Stiles said simply, “He was kind of annoying. But we were, like, almost too similar, so that just means I’m annoying. He’s like me if I had no magic and was still… sane. He’s me when I was fifteen.” He paused, “He’s me at my peak. Also, he is, like, twelve. So. Can’t be too mean, or Derek will get mad.”

Liam stared at him, with that open book face of his, so horrified for some reason.

Stiles shrugged, “He doesn’t like it when people are mean about kids.” He squinted, “Which is weird, because he was so mean about me when… Never mind. It’s complicated. Forget I said anything. Of course, Mason can know. Lydia—!”

“I will talk to my mom,” she stressed, eyes wide, “Will you drop it if I say that? If I say I’ll talk to her?”

Stiles frowned, “Only if you pinky swear.”

Lydia’s face fell, “How the hell are you the oldest person here.”

“My whimsy keeps me young.”

“Stiles!” Liam snapped, “Can we get back to my problem?!”

The spark groaned, “Your problem’s barely even a problem, Liam. You’re not gonna kill Mason.”

“How do you know?!”

Stiles shrugged again, “Mother’s intuition.”

Liam’s face twisted back up, “You are not my mom, Stiles.”

And now it was Stiles’ turn for his face to fall, “Well, yeah. Duh. God, this is what I’m saying. Serious lack of whimsy in this backyard, right now.”

“I mean, where I’m at is,” Erica started to say, leaning against the post at the top of the steps, “you kill people. A lot. So, surely… we can, too.”

“No, you cannot!!” Stiles cried, horrified, “Oh, my God!”

“Why not?” Cora drawled.

Stiles turned to glare at her again, “You’re not a part of this, Cora.”

She made a heart with her hands and blew him a kiss. Stiles rolled his eyes so hard he saw stars. 

“She’s got a point,” Lydia sang, “If you can kill people, why can’t we?”

“Because!!” Stiles yelled, “I’m… a bad example of how people should act. Okay?”

“It sounds to me like you’re a hypocrite.”

“You don’t want to kill people,” Stiles growled, holding a hand out to Liam, “And you won’t.” He kept his gaze stern. And it felt weird. It felt too authoritative. Too parental. “But I am your Alpha. And, sometimes, I do bad things to keep you guys safe. That doesn’t mean you should – or will – follow in my footsteps. You should always try to be better people than me. Okay? It is not that hard.”

The girls, and Liam, stared at him for a while. He chewed at his lip, feeling the tension in his brow begin to turn into an ache – a pain that rarely left him, these days, with the infrequent and shitty sleep, and inability to take care of himself like a functioning adult. 

Then Lydia raised a perfectly plucked brow, and asked, “Do you know many bodies I’ve woken up standing in front of since this deadpool business started?”

Stiles blinked at her, “… What?”

“Eight,” she said, “Five of which were supers. Three were hunters you killed.”

“I wouldn’t’ve had to if they didn’t try to kill me first,” Stiles spat. She didn’t look awfully impressed.

Someone seemed to almost gasp, over by the porch, before Liam’s voice softly called out, “Wait, are you, like… a hunter of hunters?”

“That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard, Liam,” the wolf pulled back, flattening his mouth into a thin line and nodding, as Stiles snapped his glare back to Lydia, “You know how you can stop the bodies from dropping? Let me wreck your lakehouse! ” 

“Jesus Christ!”

“Go call your mom!! ”

 

-

 

It didn’t take long for Stiles to crack. If he hadn’t already. 

That hunter, the girl from the hospital, the one whose friend he’d apparently shot five times with a semi-automatic on the school field right before Kate shot him and took Derek and the betas – it felt like years ago, that night – and then thrown into a tree and internally bifurcated. The girl had left that night alive. And angry. Very fucking angry. 

It was bad. She was the first one who seemed to know what she was doing. Well, they all did – most of them did. But Stiles knew what they were doing better than they did. Not her. 

He didn’t know her.  

This woman, with her perfect red hair, and tight, plain clothes, and the mask over her face. Stiles had never seen her before. As if he was seeing much, now. She was new. And she was too smart for her own good. 

She had something – a necklace, maybe – lined with tiny shimmering dots. Diamonds. He saw them before he saw her, dropping past his vision in a wall of blinding shine, then pulling back to slam against his throat. He gasped, choked, reaching up to grab at the string, but it was pulled further back, tighter. When the pressure released, he yanked. As hard as he could. 

It wouldn’t break.

A heavy weight against his back threw him forward, to his stomach. His hands slapped down against the ground – wet, tiny pieces of debris stabbing into his stinging palms. He needed to stop taking shortcuts through alleys. Those palms refused to glow. The ground beneath him had nothing to call out to him besides apathy. It was a blissful silence. And it was surprising.

Stiles wasn’t easy to surprise, anymore. Especially not by these bounty hunters. The only other thing he figured could surprise him would be if Braeden took a shot at him here. Only because she wouldn’t. She didn’t fight for her bounties. She was the one who was fought over. 

But this girl. Stiles couldn’t see any of her face in the dim light of that alley, glaring back over his shoulder, but he could see the gun she was raising to his head. And he did something he’d never done before.

He ran. 

He didn’t fight. He didn’t even try to get the gun out of her hands. Normally, he’d do that, take the gun for himself, and shoot her in the head before he could stop to think about it. But he didn’t have his spark. He didn’t have anything. Not even the false whispers in his head. It had been so easy for her. And maybe that’s why he ran. Why he let his shoulder clip the corner of the building as he sped away, his palms still stinging and an angry red, and his feet slipping on the wet ground. 

Muffled shots came from behind him. Faint pops, fainter from the distance. There was a click, then the shots paused. Stiles looked back over his shoulder, maybe the dumbest thing he could’ve done, to see her look down at her gun, fix the jam in barely a second, and raise the gun again. 

“The fuck— ”

A hand wrapped around his arm and yanked. He lost balance, stumbling over his own two feet like a newborn giraffe, until he landed face-first in someone’s chest. He groaned, heart lighting up in embarrassment, then fear, then…

“Are you okay?”

Calm. He stepped back, regaining his footing, and rising to his full height, level with Derek’s. 

He met those searching eyes, and nodded, “We gotta run.”

“The car’s two blocks away.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

They only saw her one more time before she was gone into the night. She walked out of the alley, the one Derek had dragged Stiles through to get to his car. Walked. As calm as anything. She didn’t raise her gun again. Just stared. The only part of her face he could see was the white of her eyes. Nothing else. Nothing. 

Derek was driving before Stiles could even shut the door behind him. 

“What was that??” Derek asked, not yelling, but beyond inside voices, “Why weren’t you…” He turned to stare at Stiles’ neck.

“Eyes on the road, Der,” Stiles murmured, reaching up to brush his fingers against the little crystals. He stayed like that. Still, no seatbelt, hand clutching his pearls, because it had been so easy. If he’d’ve hesitated a second longer, he’d be dead. If he hadn’t ran into Derek, he’d be dead. All it took was that necklace, and he was helpless. He was dead. 

His fingers shook as his hands snapped up, reaching for the back of his neck and feeling around for the clasp and feeling his vision blur. His thumb pressed against the hook of the clasp, a sharp, burning pressure, and kept slipping just when it started to open. Again and again. And his arms started to ache from being raised for so long, and something about that was making his whole body hot and shaky, and it was infuriating, and he twisted the whole necklace around to try and unclasp it from the front, but he still couldn’t see the clasp in front of him because the chain was too short, and he couldn’t breathe, and he needed the fucking thing off—

But the whispers had stopped. 

It was quiet. 

Silent, he’d like to say, because it was always quiet. But it still wasn’t silent, with the car’s engine gently rumbling, and the car’s turn signal clicking, and the wheels rolling along the tarmac. Stiles could hear his heartbeat. His breathing. Every shift of his clothes. 

He swallowed, caught his breath, and let the necklace rest against his collarbone. He brought his feet up onto the seat, wrapped his arms around them, and buried his face in his knees. His head smacked against the bone with every bump in the road, but he didn’t care. He just wanted to go home. 

He wanted the silence to stay.

Derek was quiet when they got to the apartment. He dropped his keys in the little trinket bowl by the door, and didn’t say a thing as Stiles made his way to the bathroom. He ran the tap, if only to stop it from dripping for just a minute, and held his stinging palms under the water. Most of the little stones and bits of dirt didn’t budge on their own. His thumb brushing them away made the burn spark up with each gentle contact. Stiles licked his lips. 

The mirror above their bathroom sink held as familiar a sight as any. His own face. It was a force of habit, now, to light his own eyes up whenever he could see them. To remind himself of something. At first, of what he’d done to Peter. Of who he’d become. Then, just for Peter. Then, of autonomy, of the fact that he was the one in control. No demons. Or ghosts. Nowadays, it was just habit. For the last week, though, it had become a reminder again. That he wasn’t the Stiles he used to be. The one who almost lost it when he took one life by mistake, who almost lost everyone because he couldn’t get the words out to admit what he’d done. 

Right now, he couldn’t prove it. He could pretend, if he wanted, that he was him again. So jaded for someone who had no idea how bad things could really get. He could be the him that never heard whispers. 

“Do you need help?” Derek’s voice came gently, coaxing, from the doorway. 

Stiles blinked up at his reflection, caught at the very edge of the mirror, “No, it’s…” He reached for the tap, turning the water off and shaking his head, “I’m fine.”

Derek gave him a look, “You’re gonna keep it on?”

Stiles quirked his head, pouting his lips, as he turned around to look Derek head-on, “You don’t like it? I’m blinged up.”

“Don’t ever say that again,” Dererk murmured, eyes trained on the spark’s hands, “You can’t heal with that on.”

“I can barely heal without it, Derek.”

The wolf’s gaze lifted. His brows followed, as he took slow, heavy steps toward him. Stiles stayed put, watching him carefully as Derek’s hands reached out to him. They found his waist, pulling the spark with no fight toward him. Stiles’ teeth were grinding.

“Talk to me, Stiles,” Derek said softly, “What’s happening?”

It didn’t take long for Stiles to crack. If he hadn’t already.

He sighed, almost a whimper, and dropped his head to rest against Derek’s shoulder, squeezing his eyes shut as the wolf’s hand came up to run his fingers through his hair, “I heard her again.”

His voice was barely a squeak. Derek’s hand didn’t falter. Didn’t stop. Didn’t stutter. His other one wrapped around him tighter, his whole arm holding his waist properly.

Derek was calm as he asked, “Who?”

Stiles sucked in a breath. His lip quivered. He chewed on his cheek.

“My mom.”

Derek took a slow inhale, and let it go just the same. His hand didn’t stop its gentle stroking through Stiles’ hair. His grip on his waist didn’t change. Stiles tucked his head into the crook of his shoulder, properly. He held him back.

“When we came back,” he whispered, “Through the Nemeton. Right as we passed through, I… I heard her.”

“Okay,” Derek said, after Stiles went quiet for too long. 

He almost thought that would be the end of it.

“What did she say?”

Stiles shrugged his shoulders, feeling the weight of exhaustion finally start to hit, “Mieczysław. What did you do.” His voice cracked over the ‘do’. He swallowed. His cheeks flushed. 

Derek said nothing. 

“And I…” Stiles forced in another breath, “It was barely a whisper. But, now, whenever I use my spark, I can… I can feel the whispers again. And I know it sounds crazy, but I’m really liking not being able to hear anything right now. Even if it almost killed me.” He rolled his shut eyes, for absolutely no one, “Even if that hunter probably has a tracker in this stupid necklace and it’s gonna render Scott’s runes redundant. I don’t care. She can’t kill me, anyway. No one can.”

Derek said nothing. 

“Not yet, anyway,” Stiles murmured, “I just really wish they’d stop fucking trying. ‘Cause I can’t… I can’t keep doing this. I’m so tired, Derek.” He held on tighter. “And I haven’t even gotten to see my dad, ‘cause every time I leave the house someone’s trying to put my head on a stick, so I have no idea who else is on the list, and Peter…” His brows knitted together, pressed flush against Derek’s traps, “Peter said sorry.”

Derek said something to that, “What? When? Why?”

“When we came back,” Stiles murmured, “At the Hale House, after I said I’d go see my dad. And, now, whenever we see him, he just stares at me like he’s waiting for me to lunge at him. That’s fucking freaky. I don’t think Peter has ever apologised before. To anyone. And I still don’t know what for.” He pulled back, finally looking Derek in the eye again. The wolf’s stare was just a fraction too sharp. Stiles swallowed, “I need to see my dad, don’t I?”

“You might not have to,” Derek said softly, “I talked to Lydia.”

Stiles’ eyes widened, hand slapping at Derek’s chest so suddenly the wolf jumped, “You’re kidding!!”

Derek smiled, eyes almost glowing, “The renters’ lease is up the Friday before Lydia’s birthday. She’s gonna host it there, for you.”

“Oh, I could kiss you,” Stiles groaned.

Derek’s eyes narrowed, lips curving up in amusement, “You can, Stiles.”

Stiles nodded vigorously, “I can!!” He grabbed Derek’s face, palms stinging far worse from the stubble than they had from the air, but planting a kiss on his lips nonetheless. Once, twice, three times. Derek smiled into the contact, taking his pain straight through his cheeks as Stiles frowned, “Wait. Her birthday?”

Derek’s eyes fluttered back open as Stiles pulled away. He hummed a ‘yes’.

Stiles’ shoulders sagged again, “That’s weeks away.”

“Only two.”

“Derek,” Stiles stressed, “It’s only been a week. I can’t… I can’t wait that long.”

Derek glanced down, then back up, “Then we’ll see your dad, and get the list. First thing in the morning. Okay?”

Stiles nodded meekly, “Okay.”

“Okay,” Derek smiled, “But, now. You’re letting me take a real good look at that necklace, hopefully taking it off, and we’re watching Star Wars. I already got the popcorn out.”

Stiles couldn’t fight the smile spreading across his lips, kissing him again, “Sweet and salty?”

“Of course.”

“Fan-fucking-tastic.”

 

-

 

Stiles wasn’t sure how he managed to not hear so much as a mutter from his father since he went back to the other timeline. He’d heard more from the other Derek than his own dad. It was the kind of radio silence that did nothing but put him on edge. And then Stiles would remember what the whispers meant, and whose voice had broken through, and who his dad was still waiting for, and the worst of fears started to creep in. The fear of his father figuring out what he’d… 

No. Nobody had blabbed for eleven months. They wouldn’t now. They hadn’t.

The one time Stiles wished to be interrupted by a murder attempt, he wasn’t. He made it to the Sheriff’s station in one piece, with the grimoire as untouched in the back of the Jeep as it had been for months before that spell went so wrong. One step forward, two steps back. 

Tara gave him an odd sort of look from behind the front desk. Apprehensive. Almost pitiful.

He smiled, “Hey. My dad in?”

She looked down, then back up, nodding ‘yes’ and reaching for a pen. Stiles patted the desk, palm still wearing a lingering sting, and nodded back, a hefty ducking of his neck. 

He’d ditched the necklace. Not ‘cause he wanted to. Far from it. He’d just known that, necklace or no necklace, he was the man he was. He was wanted for too much money. And they would keep trying. And whether or not he could actually die, he could get pretty badly injured. Grazed palms were somehow more troublesome than a hole pierced through them. He couldn’t risk it. And he sure as hell couldn’t risk his friends getting hurt far worse than him because he couldn’t protect them. So, he left the necklace on the nightstand on his side of the bed. 

The whispers hadn’t come back, at least. They still hadn’t formed any words, not since the Nemeton. They were hardly a voice. Just noise. Like the rustling of leaves. The whistling of wind. 

His dad was sat at his desk, in his office. His right hand was resting across his face, fingers splayed, pressed hard against his skin. Molding and creasing. Stiles rapped on the glass door as he gently pushed it open. The Sheriff flinched, eyes blinking wide open, hand falling. 

He looked downright devastated, “Stiles?”

“Hey, Pops,” Stiles let the door fall closed behind him, “Peter said you have the list.”

Noah’s mouth slammed shut. Stiles could see his throat shift as he swallowed, hands shifting uncomfortably over the face of his desk. Shaking. He looked away from Stiles’ eyes, searching for something, and pausing every few moments to just stare. Stiles watched him, silent, until he eventually pulled open a drawer behind his desk and slipped a piece of paper out of it. Stiles’ heart was ticking up, hands tapping at his thighs. 

The Sheriff rose to his feet. He rounded the desk, glacial. His grip on the paper was creasing it worse than it already was. 

“Stiles…” Noah said, “Do you remember what the passwords meant before?”

Stiles’ brows twitched, a question muttered past his lips as he grabbed at the paper, turning it toward him. His eyes had snapped straight to the final twelve. To that password, the prediction, the premonition. The future. 

Derek.

His chest fell with a thud, a sudden dropping of his heart, “Derek’s… Again—?”

Then his eyes flickered upward, and he froze. 

He swallowed down the bile that rose to his throat. 

His fingers tightened around the page, just as his father’s had. When he turned his wide-eyed stare back to his dad, the man was looking back at him with misty eyes. 

“I…” the Sheriff tried, “I didn’t want you to find out like this.”

Stiles took in a shallow breath, “What… What do you…”

‘What do you know?’ He’d meant to ask. But the words couldn’t come out. His throat closed up before he could finish the sentence.

Noah just shook his head and reached out, grabbing the back of Stiles’ head and pulling him into a hug. A tight, dad hug. Stiles just stared down at the page, over his shoulder, with burning eyes. 

‘CLAUDIA’.

“I’m so sorry,” Noah whispered, voice wet. 

Stiles couldn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he would say if he could force the words out, but he couldn’t, either way. All he could do was stare. 

His mom was dead. He knew that.

But, now, Derek was going to be.

“You still got me, kid,” his dad said, stroking his hair, and oh. Stiles had forced those memories away. He’d manhandled them to the furthest pits of his mind. The kinds of memories that didn’t even resurface in his darkest moments because they were too terrible. “You still got me.”

Stiles’ eyes burned. They burned. 

“Do you know what happened?” He asked, when the words finally came to him.

His dad slowly shook his head against his shoulder, “No. I… I asked Peter—”

Stiles’ grip on the paper tightened even more. 

“—but he said he didn’t know,” the Sheriff sighed, “I don’t know if I believe him.”

Stiles swallowed, fighting to push him away – he couldn’t breathe, “You talked to Peter?”

Noah nodded, digging his chin into Stiles’ shoulder, right over the scar of Peter’s claws, “He’s the one who gave me the list.”

Stiles knew that. He knew that. And he knew what happened to his mom. And he knew that his dad had to figure it out at some point. He had to. 

He was going to be sick. 

“I need to…” Stiles took in a shaky breath, “I need to, um—”

“I’m so sorry you had to lose her, again.”

Stiles exhaled through his nose, hard, “It’s fine. I’m fine, dad.” He pulled back, finally, needing to run, needing to be anywhere but here, “Are you… Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Noah said, so unconvincing, “I’ll be better when I… when I know what happened, you know?” 

Stiles was frozen.

“Don’t worry about that, though,” Noah said softly, “Don’t worry about anything, Stiles. Just… I love you.”

Stiles stared at him. 

“I…”

‘I killed her.’

Just say it.  

Tell him. 

“I love you, too, Dad.”

 

-

 

It was… suboptimal. But, it could’ve been worse. Stiles could still be the one to tell him. He could control how it got out, at least. Peter hadn’t told him. But, fuck, Peter had told him too much. He didn’t need to know what the passwords meant. He didn’t.

And now Derek was going to die. And Stiles didn’t know how. Or when. Or where. He held him extra tight that night; tucked his head right into the crook of his neck, cuddled up in their bed. The softness of their blankets meant very little when Stiles’ skin felt so rough. Ice cold. Derek had huffed out a small laugh, ducking his head to press a kiss against Stiles’ forehead as his nails started to trace steady lines back and forth across his arm. It should’ve been comforting, and usually it was. Not that night. Not when Stiles suddenly had something he didn’t know. 

“I can’t die, though, can I?” Derek asked off-handedly the next morning, over coffee. 

Stiles blinked lazily up at him, staring past his lashes at the curious tilt of Derek’s head, “Everyone can die, Derek.”

“You can’t,” the wolf murmured, “And my future’s as sure as yours.”

Stiles’s eyes flickered down to his breakfast burrito, “I did die, Derek. You were there.” 

It wasn’t the only problem. Neither was the little flinch Derek gave. The subtle readjustment of his posture. The covering-up of whatever was happening in his mind at the memory. 

“And that’s what I don’t want,” Stiles murmured, “Whether it’s permanent or not. We don’t need anyone else traumatised by seeing the people they love in a situation like that. I don’t need to be the one who cracks your ribs to get your heart to start again.” 

Derek’s hands tightened around the mug.

“I don’t care if it doesn’t actually kill you,” Stiles said softly, “I don’t want you to get hurt.”

And he didn’t know what would actually happen. He didn’t know what about his future was sure. Because if the Other Stiles could fake an entire concentration camp, and perfectly falsify every move the Oni had to make to have their fights make sense, and make a fake Scott and fake kill him – faking a phone call wouldn’t be hard. Lying would be child's play. A house, a doll, a highchair, a wedding ring. It was all as real to him as Scott’s dead body at his feet. 

He would never know what was real until it happened. And it was nothing short of infuriating. 

But, here and now, Derek was bringing his hand over to squeeze Stiles’ thigh, and smiling at him so kindly. He did everything so kindly. And Stiles outright refused to let anything happen to him. Timeline be damned. Let him vanish into stardust, or cease to exist entirely. Derek Hale was not going to die. 

 

-

 

Victoria Argent was a raging sociopath. This much was obvious. Always had been. Stiles didn’t even need to say it. It was common knowledge.

Stiles had just wanted a gun. 

Not this. 

Literally anything but this.

“So,” Victoria’s insanely jarring voice cut through the air like a knife, just as sharp, “Stiles. Enlighten me.”

He raised his stare from the too-fancy meal in front of him to Allison. A desperate plea. A silent prayer. She answered with a near-identical look of her own. His eye twitched. 

“Why is it that even now she’s been… fixed,” Victoria looked like she was about to pop a vein, “She still seems to spend all of her time at your little wolf den?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, staring over at the woman, “You mean the Hale House?”

Her own eyes were so wide, he was sure it must be painful, “I suppose!”

He gave her a look, “… You know she’s… got friends. Right?” He blinked, “She was a werewolf for almost a year before you found out and told her to kill herself.”

Victoria made a weird fucking noise. Real weird. Just for the sake of cutting him off. 

“I didn’t tell her to kill herself.”

“Yeah, you did. I was there, dude.”

“Do not call me dude!” She outright screeched. Allison stared into space, the face of a woman who would kill herself, right here, right now. Chris sighed heavily to Stiles’ right. Stiles could see him rubbing at his mouth in his peripheral. He could see his free hand clenching against the table. Victoria grinned, wide, “We function under a philosophy of mutual respect in this house, Stiles. I call you by your name, you call me by mine. Is that okay with you?”

He just stared at her, “Sure, but we do not respect each other, so that’s a little redundant, don’t you think?”

He was just glad Kate wasn’t here this time. See? He could be optimistic.

“Stiles,” Chris muttered by his side, shaking his head, “Just…”

Stiles put his hands up in surrender, “Statement retracted. But… You did tell her to kill herself.” Victoria’s eye twitched that time. Stiles tuned her out as she continued to speak, slipping his phone out of his pocket and shooting Derek a text, almost sending it to the wrong number before he caught himself. Not so much of an ‘SOS’, but more of a ‘Dear God Please Come Pick Me Up’. A ‘DGPCPMU’. Really rolls off the tongue. 

Then Victoria slammed her closed fist onto the table. Cutlery clattered. Allison’s hand flinched out to catch her jumping glass of water. Chris’ own hands relaxed against the table. Like that hadn’t caught all of them off-guard.

“Answer me, Stiles,” the woman hissed.

Stiles blinked slowly up at her, “Huh?”

“Where was she?” She snarled, “What did you do?”

Stiles stared as blankly as he had before. The room fell to whisper-less silence. His eyes darted to Allison’s concerned little face, then back to her mother.

“We were in the past,” Stiles said slowly, “Where I’m from.”

Victoria’s left hand was clenched so tightly around her fork, knuckles sheer white, “Was she in danger?”

“Not in any more danger than she was when you were hellbent on her killing herself if the spell didn’t work.”

Stiles blinked. I mean, he would’ve said just that. But he hadn’t. Hesitantly turning his head to the side, he gave Chris’ indifferent profile an open-mouthed stare.

Chris kept his steely gaze on his wife, “You really think you weren’t wrong to do that?”

“Do what?” Victoria hissed, “I wasn’t going to do anything. She was going to honor her family and follow our code—”

“Yeah, no,” Chris drawled, “We’re not doing that.”

Victoria pursed her lips, eyes so sharp Stiles could feel the weight of her stare even more than he had when it was trained on him, “Chris. What are you saying?”

“I’d rather not talk about this in front of our daughter,” Chris said simply, “And certainly not in front of our guest.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, watching, now, as Allison’s eyes darted between her parents. She slowly placed her glass back on the table. She didn’t pick her knife and fork back up. She just sat and watched. Her face grew paler with every word.

“Talk about what?”

“Not. Now.”

“Would you just spit it out, Christopher?”

“I want a divorce.”

Stiles slapped his hand over his mouth, cheeks puffing up with an aborted exhale. Victoria froze perfectly still. Stiles kept his widened eyes locked onto his full plate. All of the air in the room had been sucked out. It was completely, utterly, pin-drop silent. A part of Stiles’ mind was lighting up with pride, actually. 

There was a small clatter, then a slight intake of breath. 

Stiles’ phone buzzed in his lap. He tilted his head the slightest bit, looking down to see Derek’s reply. 

‘outside.’

And he pushed his chair back with his feet, “Well. Uh. I think it’s about time I head on out.”

“I think that sounds reasonable,” Chris grumbled, rising to stand as Stiles did, “I’ll walk you out.”

“That’s okay,” Stiles said, bitten, “I’ll see myself out. I think you’ve got some stuff to talk about.” 

Allison was staring up at him with pleading eyes when he looked back to her. He swallowed, nodding gently, mouthing an ‘I’ll call you later, okay?’. She nodded shakily. Then her stare turned vacant again. As much as he respected Chris, right now, and as delighted as he was to see actual distress in Victoria’s eyes, there was a lingering guilt. This was his fault. The good and the bad. He got her turned, he messed up the spell, after he refused to use it for too damn long. 

Damn.

He didn’t even get the gun in the end. That had been the entire point. He’d showed up, asked for a gun, had Chris raise a sharp brow at him, lead him to their gun locker in the garage, tell him exactly how many hundreds of dollars he’d expect him to pay – in cash, because Stiles sure as hell didn’t have a license to carry and Chris didn’t need any future arrests being tracked back to him with any ease. Then, as Stiles pondered on just how little he knew about guns, Victoria had come in. And she’d dragged them away, insisting on Stiles joining them for dinner. 

And now here they were. Stiles, destroying nuclear families one marriage at a time.

Outside, he couldn’t hear the stilted conversation, but he could see the look on Derek’s face. A look that begged for an in-depth debrief the second they got back home. 

It would be a while before that happened. 

Derek realised something was wrong before Stiles did. Heightened senses tended to help with that sort of thing. Noticing. Hearing a footstep, or the cocking of a silenced gun, or scenting the same woman who almost killed your boyfriend two days ago. Whatever it was that tipped him off, one moment he was staring wide-eyed and whispering, and the next those eyes flashed blue, his face fell, and he was dragging Stiles off to the side. 

“Woah!!” Stiles barked, batting his grabbing hands away, “What have I said about manhandling, Derek! That is a bedroom exclusive!”

“It’s her!” Derek snarled back, “The girl with the necklace!”

And Stiles’ face fell, “Oh. That’s not good.”

Derek glared at him, eyes sharp with scrutiny, “Run!!”

“Car??” Stiles blurted out, leaning over to blink past Derek’s body and stare blankly at the woman storming toward them – very much in the way of Derek’s car. He swallowed, “No, yeah. Running.”

That night was colder than usual. They’d been in a bit of a sunny spell until the last few days. There’d been rain, and wind, and it made Stiles uneasy in the way almost everything did. It was just too easy to make everything about him. Even the weather. But some things were about him – not just chance, or the unfolding of regular weather cycles, and the fact that it was the middle of March – like the fact that this woman very much wanted him dead. 

How did she keep finding him? Or was she looking for Allison? Was she still in danger? Would her family be able to get it together to protect her? Would her mom even try? Fuck, this was fucking fucked, for fuck’s sake—

When they were just about a block away, Stiles looked back over his shoulder. It was a bad habit, one that just about every Hale had smacked him over the head for doing during training. He was curious, okay? Sue him for wanting to know where his opponent was when he can’t smell them, or hear them, or taste them— Whatever. Point is, Stiles was a chronic shoulder-checker. And, you know what? Sometimes it was a good thing. Sometimes it reminded him of the eldritch horror closing in on him. Sometimes it made him far faster than the hesitation could slow him down. Sometimes, it made him stop.

Because, sometimes, there was nothing there. No one. Nobody. Just empty, lamp-lit street. 

“Huh?” He heard his voice mutter. 

Then Derek was grabbing at his elbow, hissing, “Stiles.”

A door clicked open, then slammed shut. Footsteps made their way toward them, as Stiles turned around to meet Derek’s sharp eyes. Another door did the same. 

“Stiles Stilinski?” A voice called out. A familiar voice. Stiles turned, just a little further, to see his face. And his mouth split into a grimace. Scott’s dad was storming up to him, “My name is Special Agent McCall. I’m with the Federal Bureau of Investigation.” 

Stiles could’ve punched him in the face. Not for any particular reason. 

Then he kept talking, still walking with a little too much purpose, and said, “You’re under arrest.”

And Stiles’ brain short-circuited. Only a little. Enough to make him second-guess any punches to the face. Rafael still very much deserved it. But. What?

Then his head turned back to the empty street, and his grimace morphed into a grin.

Oh, Rafael, you crazy genius. 

“You have the right to remain silent—”

“Yeah, yeah,” Stiles shook his head, waving his hands in front of him, “Whatever. Let’s go!”

Rafael startled, his face flickering through about twelve different reactions as Stiles patted him with both hands on his right shoulder like a drum, then bounded off toward the van he’d come from. 

“Stiles!” Derek’s voice called out, “What—”

“Just go with it!” Stiles yelled back, pulling the back door to the van open and beaming up at the agent frowning at him from past the grate, “She can’t get us if we’re with the FBI!”

The agent just watched him climb in, sitting himself down on the bench, and looking down at the chain on the floor. Just like the police vans he’d stolen in the past. That memory should have reminded him of how terrible his judgment was, maybe made him think twice about willingly going with the FBI, even if the alternative was facing off with the most determined hunter he’d seen since Braeden. But it didn’t. Not yet. 

It wasn’t until Rafael climbed into the back with him, closing the doors behind him, and leaving them alone. Together. 

“You know, sometimes you’re a pretty stand-up guy, Rafael.”

Rafael didn’t respond. He locked the doors. 

Stiles’ brows twitched, “Where’s Derek?”

Rafael met his gaze, “In another van. Don’t worry, he’ll be fine. You’re both going to the same place.”

The car started, shifting over the tarmac with as much smoothness as any vehicle. Stiles leant back against the wall as Rafael started reading him his rights again. An endless monologue, perfectly rehearsed. And this was for real. 

Stiles was under arrest.

Stiles was in an unmarked FBI van. 

Under arrest. 

As if he needed any more bullshit to put up with.

“Rafael,” Stiles grumbled, “Are you serious?”

The agent kept his gaze so infuriatingly impartial, “I don’t know. Should I be?”

“Why??” Stiles hissed, “I didn’t do anyth…” He pursed his lips, “What do you think I did?”

Rafael raised a brow, “We’ll get into that at the bureau. Unless there’s anything you want to tell me now?” He paused, a little too long, “… Stiles?”

And Stiles could do nothing more than bare his teeth, cross his arms, and growl, “No wonder Melissa left you.”

Notes:

Uhhhhh I’ve written half of one scene for the next one.um I’ll find a way. #velieve in ur self

I don’t know who this hunter is. But I’m enamoured with her.

Chapter 19: Mexicana Part I

Summary:

Derek gets lost. Stiles gambles.

Notes:

its a miracle from god that i finished this. technically i didnt i just gave up and managed to justify moving some of it to part 2. but hey. thats what part 2s are FOR.

and guess who GRADUAAATEDDDDDD now i have so much time to write gay fanfiction! SO much time!!! eye twitches

is this the first chapter with no derek since tafa... hhrhrr,,mmm

(This was not as beta-read as some chapters have been. If that’s what I should even call what we do. 11k words of it have but 4k havent. In no particular order. Shrugs have fun!!)

Surprise was a novelty to Stiles Stilinski. Rage was not. Of the limited emotional range he allowed himself, rage was quick to take the mantle. It was easy. It wasn’t as messy as sadness, as vulnerable as grief, as annoying as joy. And, quite frankly, everyone around him was just a whole lot better at pissing him off than anything else. 

Especially Rafael fucking McCall. 

Stiles’ hands were laid on top of each other, just above the point his forehead was resting against that cold metal table. He stared down at his scuffed (destroyed beyond repair, really) old, red converse – the same shoes he’d worn every day since he was, what, fourteen? Timeline complications notwithstanding – now tapping against the floor of an FBI interrogation room. 

Sounds about right. 

He didn’t know where he was. That was problem number one. He didn’t know where Derek was, by extension. And he didn’t know where the grimoire was, that part was really taking up too much space in his mind considering it was fine and he didn’t want to be near it anyway, and the whispers had stopped now. But still. He didn’t know where him and Derek were. Or if Derek was in the same place as him at all. Or where that place was. Or why he was there. Or why Derek was there. Because, yeah, sure, Stiles had committed a few crimes, a few felonies, even, but not Derek. Derek didn’t do anything illegal. Derek was a Saint. Derek was literally perfection incarnate and had no business being arrested by the FBI and taken away from Stiles by complete strangers when he was going to fucking die.  

The door’s lock clicked before it dragged open. Stiles didn’t lift his head as soft footsteps inched nearer, and the chair across the table was dragged out across the floor with a scratchy, spine-crawling, screeching cry.

He didn’t say a thing. His left knee just kept bouncing.

“We exhumed the grave, Stiles,” Rafael’s voice said. 

Stiles’ knee slowed to a halt. His brows furrowed. And, when he lifted his head, he was sure his hair was a mess and his eyes were too tired to look any kind of innocent.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

Rafael was sat there, with a small file in front of him, and his hands laced together on top, “Your grave.” He nodded, “We exhumed your grave, Stiles.”

He blinked, staring as blankly as ever, “You dug my grave up?”

The agent’s brows rose, “That is what that means.” He stared at him for a moment, silent, unblinking, “Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?”

“My dad let you dig up my grave?”

Something like a smile, but not quite, spread across Rafael’s face, “Was it yours?”

“You tell me,” Stiles murmured, “You’re the one who dug it up.”

The not-smile flattened a little, “Well. That’s where the questions come in.”

“Shocker.”

“When you…” his head tilted, “Came back. You had your blood taken at the hospital, correct?”

Stiles shrugged. He brought his hands closer to himself, tucking them in to cross his arms over his chest. Rafael’s eyes darted down, like they were assessing him. Like he had a clue what was going on. This dumb, stupid, dumb bitch.

“Well, we compared the DNA samples,” Rafael said softly, “And you know how it is with paperwork and everywhere being chronically understaffed. It took a while.” His smile was fake, and Stiles didn’t care to give into his false casual bullshit. “But, that gave us a pretty curious result, because, Stiles…” He nodded, “You’ve been dead for six years.”

“You think that’s the first time I’ve heard that?” Stiles grumbled, “Where is Derek?”

Rafael sighed, “Stiles.” He shook his head, “ Who is Derek?”

Stiles lifted a brow, “ Why is Derek.”

“I’m asking genuinely, Stiles,” Rafael said tersely, “Because, while your death certificate is a cause of many of my headaches, there is no documentation in the world that suggests that Derek Hale even exists. At all.” 

Stiles kept his mouth shut, because Stiles had some semblance of control. In any case, his spite was strong enough to stop him from helping Rafael McCall with anything and everything, especially if it meant exposing him to the supernatural. Still, the reminder of every confused twitch of Laura’s brow and subdued smile from Cora whenever Derek made  a joke they didn’t get, or got just that bit too close, or knew just that bit too much, was a kick in the balls. 

Rafael was better at his job, here. He was better at not losing his shit over Stiles’ inability to answer questions, that is.

He sighed, “Here’s where I’m at, Stiles. Because you are Stiles. That much is evident. The thing is, the only way that is possible – you being Stiles, and Stiles being dead – is some sort of… secret twin situation, and we can’t ask your mother about that—” Stiles went just a hint too still “—since she’s been missing for eleven months.”

Stiles clenched his mouth shut so tight his teeth ached.

“So,” Rafael shrugged, splaying his fingers out, “What happened?”

His heart was about to come up out of his mouth.

Rafael’s eyes sharpened, “Where were you for the last six years, Stiles?”

His teeth almost cut his tongue, “Narnia.” His lip curled, “Sorry, I should’ve brought you back some turkish delight.”

Rafael’s laugh was blatantly fake, “You’re really not gonna talk?”

“Not to you.”

“Then to who, Stiles?”

He shrugged, “My dad? Derek? Literally anyone else?”

“How about the director of the FBI?” Rafael tilted his head, “Or the warden of a supermax?”

Stiles’ eyes sharpened, “You’re not gonna put me in prison.”

“Won’t I?” The agent gave him a look, “‘Cause, from where I’m standing, this looks a lot like identity fraud. On some new, transcending level. And, fun fact, as the son of a Sheriff should know, identity fraud is a crime, Stiles. A felony.”

“I’m—” Stiles’ eye twitched, “I’m not committing identity fraud against myself, am I.”

“Are you?”

“Do you hear yourself when you talk? ”

Rafael seemed to force back a grimace, as he took in a bated breath, “There’s an answer here, Stiles. An answer that you know. And you aren’t telling me.”

Silence.

Rafael’s eyes were unsettling. The dark brown. Almost black. Tiny little pools of ink, ready to write out whatever stories he had to to get Stiles put away. What justice did he think he was serving? Stiles hadn’t done anything wrong. 

Well.

This was not something he had done wrong. 

All things considered, interrogation tactics usually didn’t work this well on him. Maybe it was because, normally, when Stiles was interrogated by his dad or his deputies, or teachers, or Melissa, or, now, Laura, they tended not to have any sort of upper hand. This situation should not have been any different. But Rafael was hitting buttons he didn’t even know about. That wasn’t fair. 

Nothing was fair. Most of the time. It shouldn’t be news.

They sat in the most uncomfortable of silences, for entirely too long. Every crinkle of fabric or squeak of shoe soles like radio static, in sudden busts, distracting. Stiles couldn’t look at him anymore. Those eyes, that stare, it was too piercing. It made his heart twist with guilt over something he hadn’t even done. He had real things to be guilty about. This was a waste of time. This was keeping him away from Derek. This was hell.

A knock, muffled, came from somewhere Stiles couldn’t place. Rafael’s shoulders rolled, and he slowly rose to stand.

“I’ll be right back,” he said, “Don’t go anywhere.”

“Ha, ha.”

And he left him.

Stiles’ chest fell with the weight of his exhale, the second the door clicked shut. He leant forward, brought his head back to the edge of the table, and closed his eyes. His hands were laced so tightly together; thumbs squeezed to the point of numbness. His chest ached. 

It was too quiet in that room.

Stiles missed the whispers. 

He didn’t know how long he sat there for. Waiting. He might’ve fallen asleep, just for a moment, before Rafael came back – no longer the calm, authoritative presence he had been, storming in and slamming down on the table.

Stiles jumped up, blinking hard in his now blue-ish vision, brows falling so low his eyes almost closed. He looked down at Rafael’s hand, and the piece of paper pinned beneath it.

“Does this symbol mean anything to you?”

Printed on that paper was a photo of a bullet. Stiles had seen more than enough of those. Bullets, and the particular kind that image was showing. 

His eyes rose back to meet the agent’s, “Why?”

“That’s for me to know and for you to postulate over,” Rafael snapped, “Who does that symbol belong to?”

Stiles licked his lips, “That’s for me to know and for you to postulate over.”

Rafael slammed his hand down again, “Stiles! We don’t have time for this!” And he just kept talking. White noise. It was all white noise. Stiles stared down at the paper until the image started to blur. 

The engraved outline of the skull stared back.

Stiles’ teeth ground together, as Rafael’s voice faded back in.

“—Derek!”

He looked up, “What?”

Rafael tilted his head, eyes burning straight through him, “Yeah.”

“What about Derek?” Stiles spat.

Rafael raised his brows, saying, as if he’d said it already, “His van was late. They found it, off-road, empty. This bullet—” He pointed at the photo, “Was the only identifiable piece of evidence there.”

“Was there blood?”

Rafael’s stare was solemn, “A little. That bullet was the only one with its casing still on. So, if you know who this belongs to, you’d better start talking.”

“No,” Stiles snarled, standing from his seat and letting the screech of metal-on-metal burn his ears, “I’m not letting you keep me locked up here while you go off and get him killed because you don’t understand what you’re dealing with. I’ll talk.”

Rafael stepped back, resting his hands in his pockets, and staring at him too much like the way he used to look at Scott. Begrudgingly. 

“But only if I take you with me,” the agent finished for him, speaking around a sigh. 

Stiles flexed his brows, “Bingo.”

Rafael gave him another Scott look, more concerned than anything – more of a face that Scott himself would make, “You know I can’t do that.”

“Well,” Stiles shrugged his shoulders up to his ears, “You haven’t got a choice, Rafael.”

The agent stared for a moment, then sighed all of his perceived rage right out of him. His mouth twitched in a weird little way, and he shrugged right back. 

“No. I don’t.” 

 

-

 

Stiles had snatched his phone out of Rafael’s hands when he was offered it back so fast he almost dropped it. The first person he called was obvious. It was Derek. Of course, it was Derek. The phone only rang two times before it was answered.

“Hello?”

“Derek!” Stiles hissed, running a hand through his hair, “What the fuck— Are you okay?? Where are you?”

The other line went quiet for a second, then came a rustling, “What?? Stiles, what are you talking about?”

“You—” His face contorted in disturbance, “You were just fucking kidnapped – again – what do you mean ‘what am I talking about’?? ” He gawked over at Rafael, whose face was just as pinched as his own.

There was a soft, buzzing silence on the other line, before Derek’s voice said, “Stiles. I think you have the wrong number.”

Stiles blinked.

“Wrong Derek.”

He licked his lips, “Right. Sorry. I’m… Bye.” The call was ended within the second, Stiles slamming his thumb down onto the other Derek contact in his phone. It didn’t even ring.

“You’ve reached Derek Hale. Leave a message.”

Stiles kissed his teeth, “Yeah, I don’t know why I thought he would’ve picked up.”

Something in his chest was still heavy – either the embarrassment or the fear, he couldn’t really tell, it all made his heart race the same – as Rafael shook his head and ushered him away. The place was busy, bursting with life, people milling about, talking on phones, carrying boxes and boxes of folders and files. Had they not automated that stuff yet? Surely, there was an easier way to go about that sort of thing. The carpets were blue and barely cushioned, and there was far too much glass for a place built on confidentiality. 

Stiles stared down at his phone as he walked, scrolling back and forth through his contacts. His eyes flickered through the profile pictures he’d taken, half adorable and half hilarious. Only a few blank – people like ‘Jeff - Bitch Neighbour (D21)’ and ‘Sammi Physio’. He didn’t know who to call. Well. Not Jeff or Sammi. Obviously. Not his dad, not after their last conversation. Laura didn’t like him. Scott couldn’t help him.

Really, he did know. But he wasn’t happy about it.  

The phone rang twice, again, before he answered the call.

“Stiles,” Peter’s voice said. As apprehensive as he should’ve damn well been.

“Peter,” he replied, voice far lower now, “Derek’s been taken. I’m at the FBI.”

There was a moment of silence then, “What do you mean you’re at the FBI? ”

“I don’t know,” Stiles snarled, “Rafael arrested me for identity fraud cause he dug up my dead body and wants to know how it’s possible that I am me if me is dead, and he arrested Derek, too, but his van got fucking intercepted and he got taken. I’m having a really fucking bad day, okay? I need your help.” He swallowed, voice shaking, “I didn’t know who else to call.”

“I…” Peter’s voice trailed off, going quiet as if he’d moved away from the microphone. When he came back, he asked, “What do you need us to do?”

He swallowed again, raising his voice and tilting the phone away from his mouth to call out to Rafael, a ways ahead of him, “How far from Beacon Hills are we?”

Rafael looked back over his shoulder as he pushed open a pair of double doors and held the right one still, “An hour.”

Stiles ground his teeth, bringing the phone back as he followed Rafael through those doors and out into a massive foyer, “Meet us at the old warehouse in an hour. Derek’s one.”

“Are you sure?” Peter’s voice asked, tentative, “I mean. Nowhere else you’d rather go?”

“I’m not letting this asshole know anything about my life that he doesn’t already,” Stiles grumbled, “I don’t know anywhere else.”

“Who should I bring?” 

Stiles swallowed, “I don’t know. Your call. But get Lydia to talk to her mom ASAP. If this has anything to do with…” Rafael’s head tilted to the side, just the barest amount. Stiles curled his lip, “… the current situation, we need to cut it off right fucking now.”

“Who took Derek?” Peter asked, instead of acknowledging anything he’d just said, “Do you know?”

Stiles ground his teeth, “I’ll tell you when I see you. I can’t talk about it yet. Not here.”

Peter was quiet for a moment, then, “Okay.” Another moment of silence, “Did you talk to your dad?”

He blinked, hard, finally stepping into the darkness of the parking lot, and the chillest air, “I’ll tell you when I see you.” 

Peter went quiet again. Stiles followed Rafael to a sleek black SUV. The agent gave him a pointed look and slipped into the car.

His jaw twitched, head shaking, “I gotta go. Bring the grimoire.”

His hand flexed around the phone.

“You should’ve told me.” 

And, in Peter’s resolute silence, he hung up and got in the car. It had that new car smell, the kind that made him dizzy, and a little nauseous, and he was suddenly dreading this hour car ride just too much. But, fuck. Derek was missing. Derek was kidnapped, as per fucking usual, and this time by people who knew what they were doing. 

He’d met the Calaveras before. A few times. Derek had been taken, then, too. He’d been so young, playing pretend as some sort of spy, or something. Acting like they were at all intimidated by him taking money off the board. As if he wasn’t barely seventeen, and his hair looked like he’d been truck by lightning on a good day. He was too little to be doing things like that. Still, he was glad he did. They got to Derek eventually. Even if he wasn’t there. They’d been able to help him. Little him. 

It had been so cruel. 

Now, he could see the Derek they’d find. Cold and still. Covered in blood, or poisoned. He’d’ve died terrified. And Stiles wouldn’t’ve been there to save him, because this fucking asshole was asking too many questions.

His body was buzzing.

He wasn’t sure how long they’d been driving before Rafael spoke again, “I’m not going into this blind, Stiles. Where are we going? Who took him?”

Stiles rolled his skull against the headrest, turning to look at Rafael’s frowning profile, “No one can hear us, right?”

Rafael sighed, “No.”

Stiles blinked slowly, “If you’re lying, I’ll crash this car.”

Rafael glanced over to him, then away, “What?”

“If someone is listening in,” Stiles said slowly, “I will kill you. Rafael.” He shrugged, “Which’ll be pretty unfortunate, ‘cause you’re my only ride. And without you, I’ll have to save Derek on my own. Again. It gets old, you know.”

It didn’t. He would always save him. He’d drive through desert, dig through mud with his bare hands, walk through fire, take a wall of bullets – hell, he’d kill himself to save him. And he’d do it over and over again. Forever, if he had to. As long as it meant that Derek was okay. 

And Rafael McCall was not going to fuck it up for him. 

“So…” Stiles laced his fingers together in his lap, tapping his right fingertips against his knuckles – one, two, three, four, “It’s just us, right?”

Rafael sighed, and nodded, “It’s just us.”

“Okay,” Stiles smiled, “Look at me.”

Rafael hesitated before he turned his head in a slow, jerky movement. Stiles felt the faint power glow through him, reaching up from his hands, through his arms, his shoulders, his chest, his neck, then his cheeks and just a bit higher. The same sensation as every reflection-catching flash of red eyes. 

The car swerved.

 

-

 

Peter was not the best choice of person to rally the troops. At least here they didn’t all despise him. Some of the kids were… less than friendly. Jackson seemed to want to slash his throat open if he so much as breathed near him, which, honestly, was ridiculous. He was holding that grudge for far too long. Peter bit Lydia so long ago. He should be over it by now. And he wasn’t even the one who got bit. 

His pack members of choice were dotted around the warehouse, bored out of their minds or exhausted or bending over laughing at each other. Erica and Boyd (Who Peter had not even asked to come – he wasn’t even a werewolf, and if he got hurt, Erica would slaughter Peter herself. Terrible idea.) had somehow climbed up onto the top of the old train carriage and were just about dozing off together. Jackson was making his way up to them. Laura and Lydia were watching the three of them with sharp eyes. Cora was draping chains over Malia, who looked oh-so unimpressed – a face he’d never seen on her before – while Kira watched and laughed as she filmed it with her phone. When the hell did phones start having cameras?

Chris was stood by the stairs. He was leant back against the wall, eyes closed, head tilted up to the metal-panelled ceiling. Peter hadn’t expected him to answer his call. His voice had been scratchy and low as he did. He sounded so tired. Now, Allison was hovering by his side, eyes flickering to him, then to the floor, then back again, as she worried her bottom lip with her teeth. They were both dressed in their hunting clothes – all dark browns, and greys, and blacks. Real leather and denim. Boots, laced up all the way with near-military precision. Allison’s hair was tied into a braid, and loose hairs were falling looser with each nervous adjustment. Each tuck behind her ears. 

Peter had not called Noah. Or Liam. Absolutely not. He was still debating calling Scott. What was his purpose, here, anyway? An emissary? Their Alpha was the emissary. Come on. No one could do magic quite like Stiles could. And Scott sure as hell was not helping with any pack relations. And he was still, like, five. They were all children. And Peter was so deeply frustrated that he had to put any of them in danger, now. 

When he heard the rolling of tires over uneven ground, he stood up straighter. The other wolves did the same. And when he looked at Chris again, the man was already looking right back at him. 

The doors scraped open. Stiles’ racing heartbeat, his fear, his anger, that same smoky scent that he’d had since the day he was born, such a tiny thing, all flooded into the room. Peter watched his eyes flicker over the room, jaw set, as he stormed in. Peter braced himself, but Stiles just went straight to Allison. 

“Hey,” he breathed out, barely reaching out to her before she wrapped her arms around his neck like a vice, and buried her face in his shoulder. Stiles’ hands rubbed hard against her back, making her leather jacket creak and warble. “You okay?”

Allison nodded firmly into his shoulder, then pulled back, swallowing and smiling, but the smell of stress was overwhelming, “I’m okay. Are you okay?”

Stiles ground his teeth together so hard Peter was fairly sure he could’ve heard it even without his ears, “I’m fine.” He looked to Chris, clapped him on the shoulder, and turned back to Peter. The wolf readied himself. 

Then the other heartbeat by the door finally started to talk, “You were a werewolf the whole damn time?”

Peter’s brows rose, head turning to stare at Rafael, who stood gawking in the doorway. He forgot how annoying that guy was.

“You know him?” Stiles asked.

Rafael glanced to him, “We went to high school together. With your mom.”

Fear shot out across the room in a sharp pang. Then Stiles sighed, “Jesus. Why did everyone go to high school together??”

“Stiles,” Rafael grumbled, “That’s not the point. I’ve got a missing suspect and a missing agent, and you still haven’t told me what that symbol means.”

“Oh, so you can get distracted by Peter being a werewolf but I can’t get distracted by the insanity that was the class of two-thousand BC?”

“It’s not my boyfriend who’s been kidnapped, Stiles!”

Stiles shut his mouth. He blinked, and his eyes found Peter’s again. 

“Who was it?” Peter asked, when he finally found his voice. 

Stiles licked his lips, “The Calaveras.”

Peter almost flinched, forcing his expression back to being as impartial as possible after his eyes widened just a bit too much, “We have to go to Mexico? Again??”

“What are the Calaveras??” 

Stiles didn’t look back at Allison when she spoke, just answered straight ahead, “Hunters.” His stare turned distant, “They took Derek. He’s gonna die.”

“Woah,” Lydia’s voice cut in, “That’s my thing. And my thing says he’s fine.” She rose to stand, leaving Laura sitting back against a metal wall, watching her with a small frown on her face. Lydia shook her head, “He’s not gonna die.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Not yet?”

Lydia huffed. She crossed her arms over her chest, and Peter was fairly sure that brown coat belonged to Allison. Stiles’ eyes went somewhere else, again. It was like watching his thoughts play out in script, how clearly they showed on his face. His eyes darted, his teeth clashed, his jaw worked as words almost came out but stopped just before they could. 

Then he took in a deep breath, and he went off, “We’re going to Mexico City. I remember the club they operate from. I remember how to get in. Even if we can’t get in the right way, they should know about me by now. They knew about Scott. They’ll talk to me, that’s for sure. Even if it’s while I’m strapped to a torture device.” He turned, speaking into the room, “Lydia, we need this deadpool stopped now. ”

“Stiles, I can’t—”

“Forget the birthday party,” he snapped, “Just… Show up, say you’re just dropping by to hang out, distract them while someone else goes and gets the key and turns the fucking computer off. If this has anything to do with the deadpool, then cutting it off will make them far less likely to kill him. If it doesn’t, we’ll still have one less deadpool. Everyone wins! Except for Derek. Who’s still in Mexico.” He sighed, “Chris, Peter, Laura, we’re going.”

“What?!” Erica cried from atop the train, “What about me??”

“Yeah, what the hell?” Jackson growled.

“You’re not coming,” Stiles spat, “I’m not dragging any children into that place. They follow the code, so they won’t kill kids, but they also won’t make your visit sunshine and rainbows, alright? They tortured Scott when we tried to find Derek there once, just to prove that he was a good Alpha, and the second he accidentally turned Liam, they were trying to kill him. You’ve got blue eyes – you’re dead. You’ve turned anyone – you’re dead. Scott got lucky, and yet he still got tortured. And the rest of us were locked up and poisoned. So, yeah. You kids are staying the fuck here.” His voice was rough, and so stern, and Peter almost didn’t recognise him. “We’re not taking a vacation. We’re saving Derek. Who, in case you missed it, does have blue eyes. He has killed people. And whether they remember who he is, or not – especially if they don’t, actually –  he’s gonna be a rotting corpse in a ditch before I can—”

He slammed his mouth shut. 

Chris stepped away from the wall, debris crunching beneath his boots, “Let’s go then. No time to waste.”

Stiles sighed, “Chris, are you sure you can—?”

The hunter didn’t even react to the question, “I’m going.” And he started walking to the stairs, “It’s been a while since I saw Araya, anyway.”

“We can take a jet,” Rafael said, then, “It’ll get us there faster than whoever took him. We’ll have a good few hours on ‘em to sort out a proper plan. Or stop them entirely. I’ll authorise it.”

“How are you meant to authorise an international flight?” Stiles snapped.

“I’ll lie,” Rafael shrugged, “Seems like I’m gonna have to do a fair bit of it from now on. I mean, really. Time travel?”

Stiles shrugged, “You shouldn’t’ve arrested me. Not my problem.”

“What??” Boyd piped up.

“You get to fly in a private jet and you’re still saying this isn’t a vacation,” Cora murmured. 

“I’m flying to go watch the love of my life probably die, Cora,” Stiles growled, “Fuck you. Everyone, do what I told you. Stop the deadpool. If it’s still going on when I get back and anyone has gotten hurt because of it, I’m killing you all and claiming the money for myself. Peter, Laura, Chris, let’s go.”

They listened, with very little protest. Only a silent frown from Laura as she adjusted the collar of her leather jacket.

“How do we stop it??” Lydia called out, as they all reached the doorway. 

Stiles looked over his shoulder, “There’s a key inside one of the wine bottles. If you take down the wall behind the record player, there’s a computer, and there’s a keyhole. Put the key. In the keyhole. Turn the key. That’s it. Simple.”

He stormed out. 

Peter hesitated before he followed him. Just for a moment. Until Chris looked back and found his eyes. His heart picked up. Peter could’ve sworn it did. Delusion would do him no good, especially given how many years it had been, and he would blame the multitude of battling heartbeats in that room for confusing him, but they hadn’t. He could pick Chris’ heartbeat out in a crowd of millions. 

His gaze fell.

“Allison, you’re in charge.”

 

-

 

They had to drive the hour back down to Sacramento to take the jet. Stiles passed out as soon as they hit the freeway. It was well past midnight already, and it would be early morning by the time they landed. The club wouldn’t open until late and, by that point, their time advantage would be meaningless. And who knew what they could’ve done to him in the time it took to get there? It wasn’t a short drive from Beacon Hills to Mexico City. Not at all. 

Stiles walked up the stairs onto the jet, one hour later, with his feet like lead. His mouth was dry, and his hands wouldn’t stop shaking. And, once they were settled, he looked to Peter. The wolf turned to him as he did.

“Give me the grimoire.” 

Peter’s lips pursed, and he nodded, pulling the satchel off his shoulder and handing it across the aisle to him. Stiles took it into his lap, undid the clasp, opened the bag, and pulled the book out. The leather was rough beneath his fingertips, and its energy was flowing straight into them. 

The pages whispered. He pretended he couldn’t hear it. 

As he turned to the page he wanted, the whispers turned to murmurs. Just as unintelligible, like a low humming in his brain. Droning. Louder than the sound of the plane’s engine. He didn’t have the Nemeton. But he did have the book. And if he had to use his mother’s magic for this, instead of the beacon’s, then that’s what he’d have to do. This was maybe the only situation where he could be compelled to do so.

All the words she’d written. The drawings, the scribbled corrections, the love and time she’d poured into this. His hands shook. Feeble. 

“Explico,” he mumbled, eyes falling shut as it all bloomed to life in his chest. The droning hums grew louder, drowning out everything else, near-deafening until—

The back of a van. Bumps in the road. Bound hands. The burn, the bitter spite of wolfsbane flowers. Steady breaths. The smell of… overcooked dessert. Sweet, like an apple and blackberry crumble. Left too long in the oven. Almost comforting. But then he smelled the gunpowder, and saw the bloodstains on the floor, and that was gone. But, still. Derek was alive. 

Derek was alive. 

The jet was ridiculous. With its cream, leather, recliner seats and rich brown panelling. Stiles hoped they’d crash, if just out of spite for the situation they were in. Flying private could’ve been fun. Not like this. Stiles’ eyes burned when they opened again. He slammed the grimoire shut and shoved it back into the bag. His feet rose to the edge of his seat, knees finding his chin, and he turned to look out of the window. Staring down onto city lights. Golden, flickering. 

Someone sighed, then there was a creaking of leather on leather before Laura’s voice grumbled, “Wake me up when we land.”

Someone else dropped into the seat in front of his, and Stiles refused to look away from the window as Rafael started to speak, “So… You can do magic.”

Stiles sighed.

“… Does your dad know you’re not really his son?”

He blinked, “Yes. Not that it’s any of your business.”

“It kind of is,” Rafael drawled, “I have to tell the Bureau something—”

“No, you don’t,” Chris’ voice barked out, “What you’re gonna do is tell them you were wrong about whatever you thought was going on. You’re gonna get rid of all of your files. And you’re never coming back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles turned his head, slowly tearing his eyes away from the view below, to consider Chris’ firm glare, pointed at Rafael. 

“Why do you care so much?” Rafael murmured, “You’re not supernatural.”

“No,” Chris growled back, “But the secret cannot get out. Especially not to the government.” He sat back in his seat and shook his head, “You’re not putting my family in danger.”

Rafael tilted his head, “… Oh.” His brows rose a little, “You and Peter…?”

Chris’ body stiffened.

Peter snorted, grinning wide, “He wishes.”

The cabin fell to a rumbling silence. Chris stared at Peter for a second – didn’t say a thing, just stared – until he turned his head to stare out of the window beside him. Peter’s eyes flickered down, or Stiles thought they did, from what of his face he could see from where he was sitting. He didn’t say anything, either. Stiles didn’t really care about that right now. 

His arms wrapped around his shins, “If we get there and Derek’s dead… What do we do?”

“You bring him back,” Peter said simply, “You know how.” Stiles caught his pointed look in Laura’s direction, already fast asleep, curled up in her seat, back to Peter’s. 

Stiles blinked, and sighed into the gap between his knees, “I’m gonna kill myself. Again.” His brows furrowed, “This dick needs to stop getting kidnapped.”

“If it’s this much trouble,” Rafael grumbled, “Why don’t you just leave?”

Stiles lifted his gaze, and his left brow, as his lips curled, “Excuse me?”

“You won’t have to deal with it if you’re not… the pack alpha or whatever,” Rafael shrugged, “Or if you weren’t dating Derek. Or living in Beacon Hills. You don’t have to be, do you?”

Stiles’ heart was pounding in his chest, voice coming out as a snarl, “Don’t speak that into the universe, you runaway manwhore alcoholic coward.” Rafael’s brows rose. Stiles shook his head, “Not everyone wants to turn tail at the slightest hardship. I don’t abandon the people I love.”

Rafael shut up. Thank God for that. But, left to stew in his rage, and terror, and the memory of that sweet burning smell, Stiles was left unbalanced again. Without his other half. Derek really was so intrinsically part of him. Somewhere along the way, the lines had blurred. Now, every time he was gone, or hurt, or in danger, it was Stiles whose instincts were going into overdrive. Like he was the one fighting for his life. He wasn’t. He was in a private jet, in a cream leather reclining chair, staring out at the city lights. Derek was the one in danger. And Stiles was going to lock him in their bedroom and never let him leave. They’d never go outside again. Nothing bad would happen to them. No one would get hurt. 

Stiles was no surer of that than he was of any visions of the future. 

He just wanted to go home.

 

-

 

Lydia had never been Stiles’ biggest fan. But she’d never had a problem with Derek. Far from it, actually. He’d always been kind to her, gentle in a way that Stiles never was. He was like a live round, ready to blow at any moment and take them all out with him. Derek was just… a man. And he loved Stiles like his life depended on it. So they all, even the ones who weren’t too keen on Stiles, went with him. Because if Derek trusted him, they did, too. 

One day, last year, Lydia’s dad had come over to visit her. It hadn’t taken long for him and her mom to do what they did best and get into a screaming match, and Lydia was so unbelievably done with it. She was stressed, and scared, and angry, and something in her heart was yearning so strongly for something and she couldn’t have it back. Nobody was free that day. Not Jackson, not Allison, not Cora, nobody. Not even Stiles. No one but Derek. Derek, who she almost didn’t text at all until the desperation got just too strong. Derek, who let her choose the music they listened to as they baked together in his kitchen. Derek, who needed his workspace just as precise and organised as she did. Derek, who showed her an old family recipe for jam-filled sugar cookies. Derek, who let her talk about her dad and her nightmares and her fears, and just listened. Derek, who also let her gossip about the rest of the pack with near-malicious levels of detail, and didn’t judge her for a second. Derek, who drove her home that night and waited until she was safe and behind closed doors before he drove off. 

The thought of him getting hurt was almost incomprehensible. Lydia hadn’t realised how serious this was. Her friends had been fine, and now she was starting to realise how much of a hand in that Stiles had had. Now, it was her turn to help. But, now, right now, she couldn’t do a thing.

“We’re sitting ducks,” Cora grumbled from beside her, “You know that?”

Lydia’s eyes traced along the grey, dust-covered floor, until they found Cora’s black Converse, following the line of her jean-covered legs up to her flannel jacket, then to her watchful, brown eyes. Her hair had grown so long since they’d gotten close. It almost reached her waist now. Its waves, so gentle. The prettiest dark brown Lydia had seen since her eyes. 

“I know,” she said back, “But we can’t exactly show up at the lakehouse at three in the morning. It would be the opposite of inconspicuous. Especially if we want to be invited in.” She brought a French-tipped hand up to scratch at her forearms, through the soft cotton of her cardigan. Cora just sighed and tipped her head back to thud against the wall behind them. Her tired eyes fell almost shut, long lashes fanned out, brown eyeshadow matching her freckles, and Lydia really needed to focus. She pulled her sleeves further down her hands, “No one’ll come. We’re all fine.”

“That your intuition speaking?” Cora murmured, “Or just you?”

“I fail to see the difference,” Lydia said, maybe a bit too forcibly, “You sound like Peter.”

Cora nudged her with her shoe, “Shut up.”

“We’ll go late morning,” Allison said from across the room, so sudden, booming, as she rose to her feet, having sat on the stairs, typing on her phone for so, very long. Lydia’s heart picked up, twisting in concern, at just the sound of her voice. She’d been at her house before Peter called. This really wasn’t a good time to force her into a position of authority. Still, Allison nodded (to nobody but herself) and straightened her back, “Erica and Boyd can come with me to keep an eye on Liam. Lydia, Cora, Jackson, you go to the lakehouse. Scott’ll meet you there. Kira, Malia, you go with them. You’ll be backup. Kira, bring your sword.” 

“Shouldn’t we call the Sheriff?” Jackson murmured, “I mean… all the other adults are gone.”

“I already told him what’s going on,” Allison answered, “Now, you guys need to figure out what you’re gonna say to the people at the house. Best behaviour, Jackson.” She turned on her heel, nodding to the couple sat up on top of the train carriage – Erica beaming and Boyd smiling, high-browed, “Let’s go. The kid isn’t gonna babysit himself.” The two jumped down (Erica jumped, Boyd climbed down slowly and intentionally) and she looked back over her leather-clad shoulder right before she left, hair picking up gently in the wind, “Call if you need us.”

 

-

 

That pseudo-invisibility spell was Stiles’ saving grace. And it was a damn blessing that he only had to use it once for it to stick, because his mind was far too swamped to be focussing on upholding a spell for five people. Maybe he shouldn’t’ve brought them all. Maybe he only should’ve brought Peter. But Chris was a human – a hunter, at that – and Laura might not have remembered Derek as her brother, but she’d said enough times how that didn’t matter to her. Stiles knew Derek would want to see her. Really, out of all of them, Peter should’ve been the one he left behind. 

He really wished he had, right now.

“Stiles,” he was saying, low, as if anyone else could’ve heard him anyway. 

Stiles just kept staring at the front desk of the hotel, watching the receptionist dip in and out of phone calls. His eyes were locked on her dark brown hair, her tan skin, her beige uniform, his ears focusing on the sound of Laura’s claw picking the lock down the hall – literally anything other than Peter Hale’s voice.

“Can we talk about what happened?” He asked, “With your dad?”

“What else is there to say?” Stiles grumbled back, “You should’ve told me. That’s it.”

Peter huffed out a sigh, “I didn’t want to be the one to tell you.”

“Having a hint of a warning before going to speak to my dad that he’d been told that my mom is dead would’ve been nice, Peter,” Stiles snarled, “That’s not rocket science.”

Peter went quiet.

Then he murmured, “You’re right.”

Stiles started, head snapping back to frown at him, “What?”

Peter’s face was solemn, sorry, as he nodded, “You’re right. I should’ve told you.” He shrugged his gigantic shoulders, “I… don’t think I have the best judgement when it comes to Claudia things.”

Stiles pressed his eyes shut and nodded, too, “That… Don’t worry about it.” He turned away again, “No hard feelings.”

“No, you can’t stay mad at your favourite uncle, can you?” Peter’s voice turned lighter as he spoke. 

Stiles opened his eyes just to roll them, “Watch it.”

A little cheer came from down the hall as a door hinge creaked. Stiles watched the receptionist look in their direction, almost, and stare for a moment before her mouth widened in a yawn. She turned back to her phone as it started to ring again. Stiles swallowed. 

“Bedtime,” Peter murmured, stepping away to walk down the hall. 

Stiles sent up a silent prayer for peace. Up where? He wasn’t sure. But sharing a single stolen hotel room with Peter Hale, Chris Argent, Laura Hale, and Rafael McCall sounded like something straight out of the ninth circle of Hell. The things Stiles would do for Derek. Seriously.

He wasn’t in there for long. Even if he wanted to sleep, it wasn’t gonna come easy. Not when every time he closed his eyes, all he could see was the millions of ways Derek could die today. Or tomorrow. Fuck, if he wasn’t there, what were they gonna do? How long would it take to find him? Stiles couldn’t stay here. He couldn’t wait. He was damn near losing his mind already, and it had barely been five hours. They wouldn’t even be at the border yet. 

They were so far away. 

Shit, should they have driven instead? As small as the chances were, the Calaveras’ truck could’ve broken down, or something, slowed them down. They could’ve spotted them at a rest stop. They could’ve caught his scent. Anything. 

Instead, Stiles was waiting to shower after Scott’s asshole dad and fighting the urge to take his abandoned gun and turn it on himself. How’s that for shitty paperwork?

So, no. Stiles didn’t sleep. And, as soon as the sun rose, he was out of the building. 

This city was beautiful, he’d give it that. He just wished he could’ve ever come here under different, less life-threatening circumstances. Now, as the sun shifted past early morning pinks and purples, and into golds and blues, he had to people-watch with a venomous attention for detail, rather than frivolous curiosity. He had to find a way into that club. He had to find someone, somehow, in a sea of strangers, who would be able to get him in. And, if all else failed, he’d just show up at the door, hold up as crudely drawn of a candy skull he could muster, with a note above it reading ‘Fuck You Let Me In’ and hope the pure murder on his face was enough. 

He’d used that revealing spell at least a dozen times already, and either that was draining something from him, or the fact that he hadn’t slept in over twenty-four hours was finally catching up. There was only so much entertainment he could get out of watching little kids run out of their houses or hearing mothers call out through the doors. Maybe not much entertainment at all. 

Somehow, he spent a whole day doing it, though. Walking around aimlessly, zombielike, vision steadily blurring and body aching. Everyone had stared straight through him, and he could almost get used to it. The hours passed torturously, without a single helpful face looking right past his eyes, and the sun had almost begun to set again by the time Peter found him. His hand tapped him on the shoulder, and Stiles jumped up, knocking his elbow against the roughness of a brick wall, scraping his skin and sending a rush down his spine.

“Jesus—” Stiles lowered his voice, as heads started to turn toward him, properly, “—Christ.” He turned around, squinting at the older man, whose face had been entirely too kind lately. 

In his hand, he held out a burrito, “Not exactly local cuisine, but you need to eat, Stiles.”

Sitles blinked down at it, taking it into his grip, “How is a burrito not local cuisine? We’re in Mexico.”

Peter gave him a look like he was stupid, then turned his gaze away, “Sun’s going down soon. We’re gonna start getting ready for this club.” When he turned back, he looked far more Peter-ish – bored, “Don’t suppose your mindless stalking has gotten you anywhere?”

Stiles frowned, and took a sizeable bite of his burrito, speaking around the food as he turned it to mush, “No. Fuck, this is good.”

“I know,” Peter’s eyes smiled, “I have great taste.”

Stiles huffed, voice muffled, “In burritos, maybe.” He kept eating, following Peter as he rolled his eyes and started to lead them away, vaguely in a direction Stiles recognised. He wasn’t actually sure of where they were until they got back to the hotel. 

“Spell, again, please?” Peter said, sing-song-like. Stiles reached his spare hand to the grimoire hanging from his shoulder, dragging it out of the satchel and turning to the page as well as he could with one hand. A few spare pages almost slipped out, and Stiles had to contort his body to hold the book between his forearm and stomach to keep it all in. 

So much effort. Too much effort. 

He was gonna pass out. 

And he did. Almost immediately after getting into that tiny, shitty, dirty, broken-into hotel room. This hotel was beautiful – Peter wouldn’t allow them to stay anywhere less than – but this room had been closed for deep-cleaning after some undisclosed happenstance left it ransacked. It wasn’t the best option. And if it weren’t for the deadpool, and the Calaveras, Peter would’ve gotten them one of this place’s top suites. Honestly, he seemed to be willing to risk their lives for fancy sheets, anyway. Stiles kind of got it. But, famously, Stiles could sleep anywhere. Especially when he hadn’t slept in thirty-eight hours, and every waking moment had been horrifically exhausting.

So, he passed out. Not for long but, when he woke, the sun had long set, and everyone else was wearing new clothes. He almost thought he’d slipped into another dimension, where everyone wore suits all the time and smoked indoors. 

“Stiles,” Rafael nodded, “Your clothes are on the desk.”

Stiles lifted his head, blinking blearily at the pile of black, sleek fabric, “We’re going to a club, not a funeral.”

“Don’t speak so soon,” Laura grumbled.

Stiles dropped his head back against the bed. He stared up at the stripped-back ceiling – what the hell had happened in this room?? – and sighed until his lungs were empty. His stomach grumbled. He lifted his legs, slammed them back down, and let the momentum rock him up onto his ass. He had no time to waste. Even if they were going to be the most obvious narcs that club had ever seen.

Ten minutes later, he was staring into the mirror on the back of the bathroom door with as much apathy as anyone should’ve expected. Especially Peter. 

“Who picked this shit out?” Stiles spat.

“I did,” Rafael answered, “You’re welcome. Your clothes stank.”

Stiles pressed his eyes shut, “I’m gonna fucking kill you, Rafael.”

There was a creak of floorboards beneath the carpet, then Peter made a funny noise, “Oh, that’s unfortunate.”

Stiles opened his eyes to glare at him, but they caught on the suit again. All black. Almost silky. An absolute fucking joke.

“You actually can’t be serious,” he muttered to himself, staring into his own eyes and resolutely forcing down the urge to flash the red at himself. It was some sort of cosmic joke, surely. This suit. The one he wore to the formal had been ruined with blood and sweat and bullet holes and dumped in some random’s trash in the middle of the night – he’d never, ever wanted to replace it. Not at all. Because fuck the notion that the Other Stiles was innocent. What difference did it make if the murder was fake? The horror was real. The rage was real. Trying to stab himself through the heart was real. 

If Stiles wasn’t back at home by tomorrow, he’d burn the world to the ground. Just fucking watch him. 

 

-

 

Lydia liked to think she was good with people. That’s what everyone always told her, at least. She was a ‘natural-born leader’. A ‘people person’. She really wasn’t that keen on most people. She knew how to do conversation, sure, and, yes, she could get what she wanted by barely batting her lashes, but she didn’t know how much of that was her, and how much was the persona she’d crafted for herself. She liked hanging out with Allison, and Malia, and Kira, and Jackson, of course, and the rest of them were fine. She pitied them all enough to put up with them. But she didn’t really know who she was when she was alone. And that was… troublesome. 

But not now. Now, that was perfect. And perfect was exactly what she needed to be for this to work.

She had her best, most prim, adult-placating face on, when the door clicked open. 

“Hi!” She said around a grin, as the face on the other side turned to a frown, looking out across the little crowd of them, “Sorry to drop in unannounced, I know it’s…”

“No,” Alene – one of two women who had been living there – said, as polite as Lydia knew she’d feel forced to be, “It’s not a problem. Um. What can I help you with?”

“God,” Lydia sighed, “It’s a long story. Listen, my birthday’s in two weeks, and—”

“I know,” Alene nodded, “I talked to your mom. We’ll be gone by then.”

“It’s not that,” Lydia shook her head, “God, no. I don’t want you to go, you guys are the best. Just, um, I was wondering if my friends and I could take a look around?” Alene’s mouth opened, a clear refusal glowing through her eyes. Lydia’s hands shot out, “Just for, like, five minutes. I need to order decorations, and plan out food and drinks, and I just need a refresher on how many people I’ll be able to fit in here. I swear, we won’t get in the way.” She pressed her hands together, a plea. And she did bat her lashes. 

Alene sighed, and rolled her head around, “Alright. Five minutes.”

“Great!” Lydia deplored, reaching back to grab Jackson’s wrist and tug him forward. Cora sighed behind her, and Scott squeaked out a ‘thank you!’ as he stumbled in behind them. Lydia turned back to give him a look, and he paused.

He swallowed, eyes passing over the room, before he cried out, “Woah! Is this real?” And moved over to gawk at some painting. Alene gave him a weird stare, and shrugged.

“I don’t know, we rent,” she said mildly, “That was there when we got here.”

Scott nodded, “Huh. So pretty. You don’t like art?”

“I don’t…” Alene frowned, “My wife does.”

Scott’s face lit up, “Really?”

Lydia smiled to herself as she started to follow Jackson and Cora up the stairs, as Scott went on to blab relentlessly. Perfect. Once he’d managed to get her out into the living room, Lydia stopped. 

She grabbed Jackson’s arm, hissing his name, “Jackson. Go to the wine cellar. Get the key.”

He stumbled back, frowning, “Why me?”

Lydia squinted at him, “Because you know where you’re going. Cora’s never been here before, genius. And Scott can’t tell a Pinot Noir from a Sauvignon Blanc.”

Jackson blinked, “True.”

She hummed primly, and he turned around and passed by, moving so fast it almost gave her a heart attack. She turned back to Cora, waiting at the top of the stairs with a watchful stare. Lydia licked her lips, and kept moving.

That room had always seemed strange to her, she had to admit. With just two chairs, a bright red record player, and pure white carpeting. It was rather hideous, actually. But, what’s a girl to do? 

She made her way to the record player, sat stagnant, empty, turned off. She looked around it.

“It’s that wall, isn’t it?” Cora’s voice asked. 

Lydia hummed, “Must be. It’s the only one thick enough to keep a whole computer inside. This place is pretty much made of cardboard.”

Cora made a small noise. Lydia leant around, eyeing the wire vanishing into the drywall. She hummed and reached out to it, tugging. It didn’t budge. Cora’s foot was tapping against the carpet, irritating, continuous, and Lydia had to look over her shoulder to hiss at her to stop. 

“You’re sure it’s that wall?” She asked.

“Yes,” Lydia sighed, “I’m sure.”

Cora nodded, “Alright. Well, if you’re wrong, it’s your fault, not mine.” Then she stormed forward, and slammed her fist through the wall. 

Lydia screamed, slamming her hand over her mouth when the sound was just a hint too unnatural. Cora grabbed the edge of the hole she’d made, tearing a chunk of drywall back until it folded at the end and stopped. 

They both just stared.

The hole went straight through to the other side of the wall, past wooden supports and insulation. 

There was nothing on the other side. 

Lydia met Cora’s sharp eyes.

“Wrong wall?” 

Lydia swallowed, “Something’s wrong.”

“Call Stiles?”

“Call Stiles.”

Footsteps stormed up the stairs, growing louder and louder until Alene was standing in the doorway, wide-eyed, slack-jawed, and seething.

“What the fuck, Lydia?!” She yelled.

She swallowed, “Hi, Alene! I, uh—”

“Out!!” The woman boomed, “All of you, out!!!”

Lydia’s chest burned with mortification, cheeks flushing as Cora grabbed her arm and practically dragged her out of the room and down the stairs. Jackson was already outside by the time they got to the door, and Scott was spewing apologies like he was Eminem, and, oh, good God. This was not how this was supposed to go. This was not perfect.

The gravel crunched under Lydia’s heels as she sped away. Malia and Kira both were on high alert once they got back to the car, Lydia shaking her head at them right away.

“We gotta call Stiles,” she said.

“Why?” Jackson grumbled behind them, “What happened? I barely got to look at the wine—”

“There is no computer,” Lydia said, words weirdly stressed. 

Jackson blinked at her. Kira and Malia exchanged a tense look. 

“What do you mean there’s no computer?” Malia asked.

Kira’s brows shifted upwards, “Lydia.”

She shrugged, “No computer. Probably no key. We need to call Stiles.”

“Then call him,” Jackson grumbled, eyes flickering to Scott’s worried little face with a near-pathological repetition. Lydia almost scowled at the sight. Seriously. Get up, Jackson.

Lydia huffed, reached into her purse, and pulled her phone out, “Maybe we should get in the car bef—”

Her phone pinged with a text notification. Her mother’s contact name stared back at her. ‘Mommy Dearest’, pink flower, lipstick, star. 

‘Get home now.’

‘I know…’

“Does she always text so ominously?” Cora’s voice murmured so close to her ear, she felt her breath brush her cheek. Lydia flinched back, glaring at her before she swiped the notifications away.

“Get in the car.”

She looked down at her phone again, frowning at the most recent text between her and Stiles, saved as ‘Freak’, shooting star, clock, wizard. Three days ago. 

‘gtg foods ready & derek is getting pissy. lmk if u & laura start greys nights. might pull up’

Upside-down smiley face. 

Lydia swallowed and looked at the most recent text in her phone. From ‘Peter Hale’.  

‘Derek’s been taken. Be here. Stiles is on his way back into town.’

And then a pin-drop. It had been sent out to all of them. A copy-and-paste. She slipped into the front passenger’s seat, handed Jackson her keys, and made possibly the weirder choice. She clicked on the profile, found the call button, and hit it before she could second-guess herself. Maybe she should’ve. Maybe.

It rang a few times, maybe four, before he picked up.

“Hello??” Peter’s voice cut through, “What the hell are you calling me for?”

Yeah. She should’ve.

“There’s no computer,” Lydia said simply, sighing, “And I think I’m about to be grounded for life the second I walk through my front door, so any answers would be much appreciated.”

Peter went quiet for a moment, then snapped, “Why are you calling me?”

Lydia rolled her eyes, not that he could see, “Maybe because it’s your deadpool?”

“My dead—” Peter scoffed, “Why didn’t you call Stiles? He’s the one who was actually involved with the damn thing.”

“Well,” Lydia growled, “I didn’t call Stiles. I called you.”

“Why??”

“I don’t know!” She cried, “Gut feeling? Divine intervention? You’re really making me regret it.”

“I…” he sighed, “What do you mean there’s no computer?”

“Cora wrecked the wall, and there was nothing there,” she growled, “So, how do we stop it?”

The line went silent. Lydia pulled the phone away from her ear, half-expecting to see he’d hung up on her, only to put it back.

“Hello?”

“Hold on,” Peter grumbled, “I’m trying to steal some food right now.”

“What?” 

Then, a few moments later, Peter’s voice came back, muffled, “Alright. This is terrible. Fuck, am I gonna have to fly back to save you idiot children? Really, this is not ideal.”

“You’re telling me?”

“You have to go to Eichen House,” he grumbled.

Lydia blinked, turning to stare at Jackson, whose face was pinched beside her, focused on the road, “The mental institution?”

“The torture house, yes,” Peter murmured, “You know, maybe it’s for the best that I’m not there. You’ll have to suffer through that alone. Shame.”

“Your daughter is right here, Peter,” Lydia mumbled, “You want her to suffer through it, too?”

Peter snarled, “No. No weres can go. Only you, maybe, and Scott. And Allison.” Someone said something, too distant to make out, and Peter sighed, “No, she’ll be fine. She’s mentally stable, isn’t she?” There was a moment of silence. Then Peter’s tongue clicked, “Yeah, go figure.” Then his voice went muffled again, this time behind crunches, “Just go in, ask to visit Meredith Walker, and she’ll talk to you. She always did. Say Peter sent you, maybe that’ll get her to budge.” Peter sighed, “But don’t make her budge too much. She’ll scream.”

Lydia’s face had scrunched all the way up, “You want me to talk to a crazy person in an insane asylum to fix this?”

“You’re already talking to a crazy person to fix this,” Peter said, and she could hear the self-aggrandising smirk, “And I’m only here because I broke out of that insane asylum. Good luck.” 

Lydia spluttered, and her phone beeped. She pulled it away from her ear, staring down at the ‘call ended’ screen and forcing down a scream of her own. Fucking Peter Hale.

 

-

 

The square looked exactly the same, down to the inch. Chairs and tables sat exactly where they had before, out front of their respective restaurants, Stiles was pretty sure he’d even seen the same people eating at them. The air smelled of gas and frying oil and someone’s lingering flowery perfume. It was all exactly the same. Stiles remembered the intricate way Lydia had braided her hair, bored out of her mind during hour ten of the drive down. She’d braided everyone else's, too, but hers had been the only one to stay in. Malia had torn hers out almost instantaneously. Kira had taken enough photos to fill an entire scrapbook front to back before she took hers out, only because they were uncomfortable against the headrest. Stiles had yelled at her enough times to stop using the flash. 

Things were less light, now. Stiles could only pray they wouldn’t make it back with a terrified seventeen-year-old instead of his boyfriend.

Stiles found that closed door, as familiar as anything, with its camera tucked in the top corner. They hadn’t found an invitation. All Stiles had was the hope that they knew him already. What a terrible hope that was.

There was a breeze, gently nudging his hair out of place, and he felt disgusting. His three-minute shower hadn’t done much for him. This suit was hate, draped over his skin and seeping in, and he was sure the burning in his chest came out through his stare. 

His left hand held tight around the strap of his bag. 

And he stared up into that blinking camera. 

The lock clicked. The door opened. Two gigantic, very mean-looking bouncers, with guns in holsters on their hips, stared down at him. 

Stiles grinned, “Howdy.”

The fact that they let them in was not necessarily good. It didn’t mean that Derek was really here. Just that they knew Stiles. And they found it worth the risk to let them all in – well, all of the people they knew were there. Rafael had stayed back, when Stiles assured him through gritted teeth that nobody was going to believe he wasn’t a fed. He did feel a little like a mafia boss, having a door open with the slightest eye contact with a camera. It might’ve been fun, in another lifetime. Not now. Fuck. 

Stiles didn’t recognise the song that was playing, and he was at the bar before anyone could stop him, resting his forearms and catching the bartender’s eye, “Whiskey. Neat.”

The man nodded, looking away, speaking back with only a faint accent, “Two hundred Pesos.”

Stiles pouted his lips, looking over his shoulder at Peter, whose stare turned awfully dead when he met it. The wolf sighed, rolled his eyes, and reached into his back pocket. Chris watched with the slightest entertainment. Laura snickered, turning around to look over the crowd.

As Peter handed the notes over, she spoke, “So, what are we doing here? Where is he?”

Stiles shrugged, “We made the first move. Now it’s Araya’s turn.”

Laura huffed, and Stiles turned back at the soft thud of glass on wood. In his whiskey sat a bullet. Of course, it did. The little candy skull – the calavera – engraved in its surface. Stiles reached for the glass with burning hands.

“The owner wants to see you,” the bartender said, then, nodding somewhere behind them.

Stiles barely glanced at him, picking the bullet up and pocketing it, “No shit.” And he downed the shallow glass of whiskey, trained, now, not to react to the foul taste or the burn – it wasn’t nearly as bad anymore. He liked it, now. Some sort of Stockholm syndrome. He rolled his head on his shoulders until his neck popped, and turned back to the people he was with. To the bouncers, now waiting with high-crossed arms and harrowing stares. A soft sigh passed his lips, “Well?” 

Peter’s hand was barely reaching for his niece. 

“Lead the way,” Stiles said, swinging his arm outward. 

And they did. Stiles was at the front of them, trailing behind the shorter of the two bouncers – 'shorter' maybe not being the right word, considering he was well over six feet. ‘Less tall’, maybe – as they led them through dimly lit brick corridors, which slowly changed into dimly lit concrete corridors, and then, eventually, to a room with beads hanging in the doorway. When that leading man pushed the beads out of the way, Stiles saw a familiar head of short red hair smiling over from behind a table. 

And suddenly his heart was on fire. 

“Where is he?” His voice snarled, words wrestling past his teeth, baring their own. 

Araya’s eyes sharpened, quirking up in entertainment, “Where is who, Stiles? Have a seat—”

He lunged forward, grabbing the back of that bouncer's neck and sending just enough of a pulse through him to keep him shocked still as he slipped the gun out of his holster and brought it to his head. He twisted them both around, back to the wall, bouncer between him and everyone else, and he turned his head back to stare at the older woman.

“Give me Derek,” he snarled, “Or I ruin your pretty rugs with this bastard’s brain matter.”

Araya’s brows rose slowly, speaking with a thicker accent than the bartender had, “And if I don’t have him? What then?” 

“Well, then we’d both be down a guy,” Stiles shrugged, “I won’t be losing anything I haven’t already.”

Araya sighed, reached under her desk, and then lifted her arm. Stiles barely registered the gun in her hand before the trigger was pulled, and the man in front of him was ragdolling to the floor. He blinked, glancing over at the blood splattered across his bare wrist and the stolen gun he held. 

He laid limp before Stiles’ feet. Blood pooled out beneath him, pouring out so fast, right onto the rug he stood on. 

“I really liked that one,” Araya mused, “But… that’s life. Or, death.” She smiled, sharp and sinister, “Take a seat, Stiles. All of you, please sit. I insist.”

“Nice one,” Laura’s voice snarked, faint, but loud enough to make Stiles’ eye twitch. 

He rolled his neck again, and stepped around that man’s frankly massive body. Christ. Who needed to be that tall? It just makes you a bigger target. He dropped into the seat in front of her, still holding that gun in his lap. She smiled, sitting back and waiting as the others came and sat beside him. Stiles slumped back, sighing into the warm air as the whiskey started to settle in his stomach – warmer. 

“Just tell me where he is,” Stiles said, “I don’t want to give your hunters a reason to come after me.”

Araya pursed her lips, empty hands lacing together atop the table as she leant forward, “Mijo…” She sighed, “Why do you think I have him?”

“You know who he is,” Stiles snapped, “That’s a start. And your bullet was the only thing found where he was taken from. So where the fuck is he?”

“I don’t know who that is,” she said softly, “But I can tell he’s important.” She went quiet for a moment, eyes flickering away and suddenly softening, “Christopher.” She smiled, “You run with wolves now?”

“No,” Chris grumbled, “I’m here for Stiles. And he’s definitely not a wolf.”

Araya’s eyes darted to Stiles, then down to his lap, making his hands itch with the urge to cover the bite scar on his arm, before she hummed, “I see.” She tilted her head, “You’re certainly the most interesting Alpha I’ve met, Rojito.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “What did you just call me?”

“But, we didn’t take your boy,” Araya shook her head, “And if someone’s implicating me in something like that, then I think we both want the same thing.”

Fuck. 

Fuck.

Stiles ground his jaw, “And what is that?”

Araya gave him a blank look, dead-eyed, “Their head in a box on their mother’s front porch.”

Stiles blinked, head rolling to the side a little as he nodded, “Okay, maybe we do agree.”

The woman hummed, almost a laugh – or it would be if there was any humour in her soul, at all, “Unfortunately, that’s not how this works. I don’t ‘team up’ and I certainly don’t do so with… people like you. So!” Her voice rose so suddenly. Stiles’ grip tightened on his gun. “I’ll need some convincing.”

Stiles glanced to the side, watching Peter’s steely glare not moving from the hunter in front of them. He turned back to her, moving his trigger finger back into place. Waiting. Then another idea formed. A risky one. But the best he could do right now. He moved the gun behind him, shifting to tuck it into his waistband, and slipping his phone out of his back pocket as he did. 

“But let’s make it fun,” Araya drawled, “Let’s play a game. If you win, maybe I’ll let you go.”

“Maybe?” Chris snarled.

Stiles hid his phone under his right thigh once he got the contact open. He started to type. Blind. 

“Not you,” Araya sang, “Just the others.”

Stiles shook his head, sitting up, barely paying attention, thumb pausing, “Wait. What? Why wouldn’t you let us go?”

“Mijo, don’t play dumb, now,” Araya’s tone turned darker, something close to disgust lacing her features, “You know what you and your pack are. And you know what I am.”

“They haven’t killed anyone.”

“That one has blue eyes,” she said, nodding to Peter, “Are you sure about that?”

Stiles blinked, hard, “Yeah, ‘cause he killed the woman sat next to him. Clearly, that worked out pretty decently, you’re welcome, so he technically never killed anyone.”

“And you?” Araya asked with a tilt of her head, “How did you get your eyes, Rojito?”

“Stop calling him that,” Peter grumbled.

“What is she calling me??” Stiles muttered.

“Little Red,” Chris snarled. 

Stiles shut his mouth. His fingers finished typing under his thigh. 

He shrugged, nodding his head to Peter, “This guy came back from the dead, too. No harm, no foul.”

“And how did you anger whoever framed me?” 

Stiles’ mouth fell open. It clicked when he shut it.

“So, accept my mercy, or don’t,” Araya said slowly, “Makes no difference to me. You should’ve picked your friends better.” 

Huh.

He was never gonna see Derek again, was he?

Something nagging in the back of his mind reprimanded the thought. Optimism, Stiles. Optimism.

His grimoire hung limp in the bag, digging into his shoulder, over Peter’s claws, over Laura’s bite. The point on his shoulder where Derek loved to rest his head the most. He wanted to cry. He wanted to lunge out and snap this old bitch’s neck. He wanted to turn his stolen gun on himself, just as he had wanted to that morning. Then he’d sure as hell not be seeing Derek again.

Araya reached to the side, pulling a box toward her and opening the lid, pouring a deck of cards into her waiting hand. She laid them out, spreading them across the table, and, fuck, Stiles was terrible at card games. So terrible.

Yeah, no, he was right. He was done for.

“We’ll play…” Araya tilted her head, considering, eyes almost glittering, “Blackjack. Not unfamiliar to you all, I suppose?”

Stiles winced – as if a game of luck was any better. 

“You know the rules,” Araya said, “Get as close to twenty-one as you can. Get a higher score than me. Any higher than twenty-one, you bust.” Her eyes were glowing, “Shall we?”

“Go ahead,” Chris said immediately, “Deal.”

Araya grinned, “Ah, Christopher. Always the bold one.”

She dragged the cards back into a pile, brought them to her hands and split the deck in half. She placed both halves on the table, face down, lifted the centre-most faces and fanned them down over each other. She consolidated the two piles into one and repeated the motion one more time. She pushed the pile toward Stiles.

“Split the deck, please, Stiles,” she said. 

His gaze flickered between her and the cards, before he reached forward and lifted the top half, placing it to the right. She hummed, shuffled again, and tapped the cards down on the table. She placed the top card in front of herself, face-up, then did the same for all of them. She then gave them each a second card, still face-up, and gave herself a second card, face-down.

Stiles stared down at his hand. What the fuck was a Jack worth, again?

“I’ll be nice, since Stiles so duly pointed out all of your apparent innocence,” Araya smiled, lacing her hands together, just above her Queen, “Only one has to win for all of you to go home tonight. So. Christopher, what will you do?”

“Hit,” he said lowly. Araya placed the top card on his pile, face-up, and tsk’d.

“Unlucky,” she said, “Bust.”

Chris sighed heavily, shoving his cards away – a seven of hearts, a five of spades, and a ten of clubs. 

Araya’s eyes were glowing, brows high, “Stiles?”

His brows furrowed, gaze turning down to the cards in front of him. A Jack and a three of diamonds. What was a Jack worth?  

“You should hit,” Peter said softly beside him, “Those are good odds. Good enough, at least.”

Stiles blinked, “Hit.”

Araya slowly lifted the top card from the deck, turned it over and revealed the nine of spades. 

She hummed, “Bust.”

Stiles swallowed. His phone buzzed in his pocket. Araya’s eyes darted downward. She tossed the card to rest with his others. Beside him, Peter had a four of hearts and a two of spades. To his left, Laura sat with an Ace and a nine of clubs.

“Hit,” Peter snapped before Araya could even ask. She dealt him his card. A seven of hearts. He smiled. 

“Laura?” Araya asked. Stiles didn’t like how she knew their names. Not one bit. 

Laura nodded, “Hit.”

Araya made a low noise, “Risky.” 

She took the top card, turned it over, and placed it before her. A nine of diamonds. 

“Bu—”

“My Ace is worth one,” Laura said plainly, “I’m at nineteen. It’s Peter’s turn.”

Peter crossed his arms, “Hit.”

Araya considered him for just a moment.

She dealt the card.

King.

“Fuck.”

“Bust,” Araya said, almost glowing, “Laura? Feeling brave, again?” She shrugged, “There are four twos. And four ones.”

Laura went quiet for a moment. Stiles leant forward just enough to see her eyes dart across the table. Her arms were crossed at the edge of it, fingers tense against her sleeves.

She shook her head, “I’ll stand.”

“Nineteen,” Araya sang, leaning back, nodding, “Pretty good.”

She reached for her second card.

She turned it over. 

Laura let out a sound he’d never heard from her before. Almost a sigh, almost a whine. She dropped her head, and that sound turned to a growl.

Araya beamed, “But not good enough. My Ace is worth eleven.”

Chris brought his hand to his mouth, rubbing at his stubble. Peter didn’t move an inch. 

“Blackjack,” Araya said, “I win.”

Stiles’ heart fell to his stomach. But this was fine. His phone was buzzing under his thigh, and someone had to know by now what was going on, whether his texts were legible or not. This was just a minor setback. He’d make it to Derek. He would save him. He would. 

Fuck.

Fuck.

“So, what to do with you guys,” Araya sang.

Fuck.

 

-

 

It shouldn’t’ve been so easy. Stiles should’ve learned by now that it was.  

He wasn’t strong. He was a flailing, human idiot. He was still the same idiot kid who’d almost get himself killed trying to save Lydia from some invulnerable monster, with nothing but a baseball bat, a handful of Adderall, and a dream. He wasn’t any quicker, or stronger, or meaner. He was exactly the same. Only, since he was dragged back in time, he’d been using up stolen power. He’d been playing pretend. But it was just as easy to kill him now as it had always been, because Stiles wasn’t them. He was still human. He was still a burden. He was still getting them into trouble they couldn’t get out of, and blindly throwing punches until he could pretend he’d solved it. 

Not this time. 

Just some puffs of wolfsbane and a thud to the back of the head, that was all it took. Peter tried to fight back. Stiles did, too. Just barely. Then his head was slammed into a wall, instead, and he was down for the count. 

He came to just as Araya was dragging a door shut. His eyes burned, and he couldn’t quite see, and everything kept fading to black, and something was tied tight around his wrists, burning his skin. 

“Araya,” his voice croaked, separate from his body entirely, “Don’t.”

Someone was groaning nearby. 

Stiles’ lip quivered, “Fuck you, don’t— Don’t do this.”

She paused, head tilting. Her short, ginger hair didn’t move an inch. Stiles’ blurred vision fell, eyes dropping to her hands, to the satchel held tight in her grip.

“No…” he shook his head, “Araya, please. I need… I need to get to him.”

His head fell, suddenly hitting right into the concrete below him.

“I need to find him,” Stiles growled, straight into the ground, his own voice sounding miles away, “I need to get to him, Araya.”

“I’ll let you know if we find him,” her voice drawled back, “or whatever’s left.”

Stiles laughed. He laughed, a hearty laugh. He shook his head against the concrete, hair dragging. Derek was dead. He was so fucking dead. And Stiles had no way of knowing. 

Everything was empty from thereon out. Black, nothing, silence. The dizziness got too much, and as soon as the door boomed shut, Stiles gave up, and he gave in. Would Derek forgive him if he didn’t make it out? Would he know that Stiles had fought just as hard to save him as he always did? He had to. Derek always forgave. He always understood. 

Stiles was just so sick of being forgiven.

 

-

 

Stiles had been so little as a baby. Peter remembered the first time he held him. He’d been scared he’d shatter in his hands. So tiny. So light. A weightless, wriggly little thing. Peter had ground his jaw to bite back the tears, because he had Claudia’s eyes. The same eyes that were smiling up at him from a hospital bed, leaning over and staring up at him. ‘I know,’ they’d said. She looked so exhausted. Then Stiles’ toothless mouth had widened into a cry and his tiny hand had flailed over, smacking Peter’s wrist and shocking him. He’d flinched, almost lost his balance, and Noah had made a low noise as he rushed over to brace his hands under Peter’s. 

“I got him,” Peter murmured, as his heart pounded, “It was just a… static shock.”

He’d given Claudia a look, and she’d blinked up at him with pursed lips. 

Noah just sighed, “I think I’ll take him back now.”

“Hey, my nephew,” Peter whined. 

Noah had given him a look, far more intense, and Peter had obliged. He wouldn’t be seeing the baby if the daddy didn’t like him. So, he handed tiny Stiles over to his father and sat back on the edge of the bed, reaching over to stroke Claudia’s head. She’d snorted. 

“Now you’ve got two of both,” she’d said.

He’d tilted his head, “Excuse me?”

“Nieces and nephews,” Claudia hummed, “You’re going two for two.”

Peter hummed back, as something melancholy nestled in his chest. It seriously wasn’t good for him to be around this many children. He wasn’t a good influence. He knew that. He never had been. He was violent, and irrational, and emotional, and loyal to the point that he held no real loyalties. Maybe it would’ve been better if Noah had forbidden him from spending time with that baby. But those months had been his favourite. A reminder of the innocence of the young. Of how simple life really was. All Stiles needed was food, and sleep, and someone incessantly talking in his ear, and every storybook murmured into the dim light as he rocked Stiles’ cradle as gently as he could all made him wonder. It made him think of Christopher, and Victoria, and their little one. Allison. Which of them read stories? Who rocked her to sleep? Now, who was feeding her at her highchair, and who was reading bedtime stories about the things that go bump in the night, waiting for the day they can put a gun in her hand and make her end one. And who would they all become? This next generation of kids – Laura, Derek, Allison, Cora, Stiles. Peter would stare at their sleeping faces, or those that he could, and pray that nothing bad would happen to them. They would never know pain. His life would be only his. And no one would ever be even a little bit like him. 

And what if it all had been different? What if Chris hadn’t left? What if he’d made Peter stay after the wedding? What if they could’ve ran away together, and Allison would have just been an idea in Victoria’s mind? What if Peter had never been there to ask Claudia to look into the future? Would it not have happened the same way? Would she never have left? And who would Stiles have become? If Peter wasn’t in the house when it burned down, then Scott would’ve never been turned. Stiles wouldn’t know a thing. 

He wouldn’t be here, now, crystals and wolfsbane locked around his right ankle, as Peter could do nothing but watch him as he sobbed into the concrete floor. His throat clogged with an inconsolable sadness, and he wanted to look away. He needed to. But, above all else, he needed Stiles to be okay. He needed to protect him, didn’t he? He hadn’t promised but he’d wanted to. Oh, how he’d wanted to.

He could take as many of Stiles’ bad memories as he wanted, but they’d always come back. Just from someone new. And all it did was leave Peter with the fears Stiles had forgotten. He didn’t mind. Not anymore.

“Are you okay?”

Christopher. They could’ve been good. Great, even. Peter still didn’t know why he left. Why he did what he did. But they were just kids, and Peter was far beyond hating him, now. He looked good in this suit. The button-up was an off-white. He’d lost a few buttons in the scuffle, and Peter could see the little scars above his left collarbone. His hands drew inward, resting, as uncaringly as he could force, in his lap.

“What are you thinking about?” The hunter asked. His voice was so soft, it made Peter want to sob in the same hair-raising, alarm-blaring way that Stiles was, now.

“I should’ve torn your throat out with my teeth, instead.”

Chris went quiet. 

Stiles didn’t. The sound of him begging Araya before she left had been unbearable. Just as his cries had been all those years ago. Peter would brave them, then, suffer through the noise, even as it grated on his bones and made his heart panic to the furthest extremes, because Claudia couldn’t. She’d go away and throw ice into her bathtub to soothe the rage, as Peter soothed the baby. And, now, he had to. He just had to. He couldn’t listen to him cry without doing anything. He never could. 

His shoes scraped against the blood-stained concrete as he rose to them, and the little room only allowed him maybe six steps before he was standing at Stiles’ bowed head. He slowly dropped to his knees, and coaxed Stiles up to sit just high enough to wrap his arms around him. Tight, squeezing, the pressure he’d needed to settle as a kid. Some sort of sensory thing, Peter didn’t know. Noah tried explaining it once, but Peter didn’t care. It worked. It always worked.

Stiles just sobbed as he brought his shaking hands to hold him back. Peter rubbed his back, and Stiles wept. Pain seeped in through Peter’s hands, and came up as an ache in his head. So strong it almost blinded him.

“Derek—” Stiles hiccoughed, “Derek’s gonna– He’s gonna—”

“No,” Peter said, forcing his voice steady, “Everything’s going to be okay, Stiles.”

Stiles shook his head so hard, “ No! No, you don’t know– You don’t know that.”

“You’ve been to the future,” Peter said, “You’ve seen it. We all have.”

“You don’t know what you saw, Peter!” Stiles’ cries turned to bitter laughs, almost gasps, “Lydia said… Lydia said he—”

“Fuck what Lydia says,” Peter snapped, “She said he’d die before, didn’t she? And he was fine.”

“He did die,” Stiles croaked.

Peter sighed, and just kept squeezing, “I know.”

“And you were helping Kate.”

Peter swallowed, “I know.”

Stiles’ breathing slowed, gasping laughs still slipping out, “I just… I don’t want him to be scared. Even if… Even if he comes back, I don’t want him to get hurt.” He sniffled, “And I can’t… I can’t even see him. And what if he doesn’t come— come back.”

Something like a growl came from someone. Peter couldn’t tell if it was him, or Stiles, or Laura across the room. 

“Stiles,” Peter said, “You know how to fix that.”

“Not without the…” Stiles made a strange noise, strangled, choked, “Not without the grimoire. And not if he’s been… cut in half. Or burned. Or, fuck, even if he’s just been shot in the head. My mom couldn’t bring me back from that. And she was my mom. She was– She was—”

He yanked back, forcing himself out of Peter’s grip and stumbling over his own two legs to slam against the wall. His hands wiped at his face, swiping the tears off of his bright red cheeks, and the snot from his nose. His eyes darted, and Peter watched them find the chains around his ankle. Stiles’ right hand fell, grabbing at the metal, the wolfsbane laced through, the crystals embedded. He tugged at it, fruitlessly, until he gave up and tossed the links away. They crashed to the floor with a bellowing clang. Stiles slammed back against the wall, again. He breathed in, shaky. 

Peter sat back on his heels.

It was one thing to see a friend like this. A best friend, even, though Peter would never call him that. He wasn’t a twelve-year-old girl. 

It was a whole other thing to see your kid like this.

And he didn’t want to think of how they would find Derek.

Notes:

thats literally his son he birthed him im sick. anwyway. two chapters left until The Moment I Have Been Waiting For (one of eight billion) im so so so hyped. i love it here i swear

Miiiight edit this two-parter between now and next update. We will see how I feel. I’ll lyk if anything changes 🥸

Chapter 20: Mexicana Part II

Summary:

The Gang is Still in Mexico. Two genius redheads walk into a bar. Stiles makes a mistake.

Notes:

i wrtoe. most of this. today. in one sitting. here. on update thursday. it took me. ten hours. um. im sick. i have a fever. it is the hottest day of the year so far where i am. and uh. we arent built for heat over here. aso. none of htis is beta read. i am so delirious i ammouthingalong with everything i type. im sorry. uh. see you in three weeks. for the next interlude wheere stiles goes to therapy. ghahah not kidding im dead serious

the goodparts that i wrote while like. sane. um. they made me cry at leaart the first scene did. listen to nettles by ethel cain,

this chapter is FCUKED upim soooo so so sorry

THIS FIC IS OFFICIALLY 10K WORDS LONGER THAN TWICE AND FOR ALL. AND WE ARE (IN MY EYES) HALF WAY THERE BABY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! ONLY S5-6B LEFT FUCCCCK YES. AND THEN LIKE. THE EPILOGUE SEASON. OR WHATEVR. WHO CAARES WE.R ALLMOSET THEEERRE

“Did I ever tell you about Paige?” 

It had been late. Dark out. Just about time for them to go to bed. Derek had looked so unbelievably handsome – his hair growing out long, and his stubble doing the very same. Stiles almost hadn’t registered what he’d said. But, when he did, his hands stilled where they were, running through Derek’s hair in his lap. The end credits of Star Wars: Episode V – The Empire Strikes Back was droning on in the background, and Stiles‘ chest felt too heavy. His eyes flicked down to Derek’s green eyes, then back to his own hands, as he kept lacing his fingers through the strands of hair.

“No,” Stiles said gently, licking his lips, “Do you want to?”

Derek nodded against his thigh. 

Stiles nodded back, “Okay.” He took a breath and tried his best for it not to seem too desperate, “Tell me about her.”

Derek’s eyes darted down, and he licked his lips, “She was… my first love.”

Stiles nodded.

He knew this. Peter and Cora had told him the story. He met her in Sophomore year, she died, Kate swept in, Derek ended up with blue eyes and almost no family. What a pleasant tale. It hadn’t been nice to hear about second-hand after Derek had to kill his own pseudo-son and vanished off the face of the Earth. Stiles didn’t really want to hear about it now. Because it was going to make Derek sad. And Stiles didn’t like it when Derek was sad.

But he did like it when Derek was honest. And he never, ever talked about Paige. And if he wanted to talk about Paige, then he could talk about Paige until the day he died. Stiles would listen until he did. 

“She…” Derek’s eyes squinted, in a twitchy way that was all-too familiar, before they landed back on Stiles’ face, “You remind me of her sometimes. Kind of a lot of the time, actually. You look like her. A little.”

Stiles didn’t know what to say to that. Peter hadn’t mentioned that part. 

To Stiles’ blank stare, Derek continued, swallowing, “She was… stubborn. And opinionated. And she had… brown eyes, and a mole right under her left one. She thought I was an asshole, but… she was right. I was.” His eyes had turned distant. Misty. “I thought I was gonna marry her one day.”

Stiles couldn’t cry. This wasn’t his thing to cry over. So, instead he reached over to find Derek’s hand and bring it to the older man’s chest, intertwined with his. Derek smiled, a small smile. 

“I would’ve, if…” his brows twitched, “If I hadn’t lost her.”

Stiles nodded, “Yeah?”

Derek nodded back, swallowing again, “Yeah.” His voice was wet when he said it, voice clicking, “We used to talk about it. As if it was reasonable, I mean, I was fifteen. We both were.” He shook his head, “And I was so scared… of losing her. I couldn’t think about anything else. And Deucalion was trying to wage war on the hunters, and…” He pursed his lips, “Trying to save her. I ended up being the one who killed her.”

Stiles’ grip tightened around his hand, “No, you—”

“My eyes turned blue, Stiles,” Derek cut him off, so horribly gentle, and so sad, “I killed her. It’s okay.” He rolled his wet eyes, “Well, it’s not okay. It haunts me and I don’t think I will ever be okay, but. You get what I mean.”

“I do,” Stiles said, “I really do.”

Derek smiled. He turned his head, just barely, “Is that weird? The fact that you remind me of her?”

Stiles shook his head, “No. I remind people of a lot of people. So do you.”

Derek gave him a look. Stiles frowned.

“Is that…” He tilted his head, “Derek. Me reminding you of your first love who died tragically in your arms is not the same as you reminding me of another version of you, who I wasn’t in love with at all.”

“Exactly,” Derek’s brows were tense, now, “It’s worse. And I never told you how she died.”

Stiles winced, eyes darting away, then back, “You didn’t. Peter did.”

Derek’s eyes sharpened, “When?”

Stiles pursed his lips, “After you killed Boyd, you went MIA. He told me how you got blue eyes, and what they meant. Cora did, too.”

“Why?” Derek’s eyes looked like they were burning, “It was his idea.” 

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “Turning her?”

Derek nodded, those burning eyes flitting around, “He suggested it. I was desperate, so I agreed. Then she died, and Jennifer told me… She told me that virgin sacrifice was what kept her alive. And then what happened because she lived?” He was almost gasping now, sitting up and breaking out of Stiles’ gentle hold, “You went void. And Allison died. And my entire family was burned alive. And—”

“Derek.”

The man stopped, breathing slowly, shoulders rising and falling. Stiles’ hand brushed his back as he reached for his shoulder. Derek barely turned back to look at him.

“None of that was your fault,” he said. 

“You’re just saying that.”

“Do you know how many things I could take the blame for?” Stiles asked, “I took Scott into the woods that night. And I didn’t know. You didn’t know, either. We were both naïve fifteen-year-old kids. So, if it’s not my fault that I went void, and that Allison died, and every other bullshit thing that happened because Scott got turned, then none of it is your fault, either.” 

Derek did look at him, then. His cheeks were pink, and his eyes were glassy, and Stiles just sighed, as he brought his legs around to sit sideways on the couch and wrap his arms around Derek’s shoulders. He dug his chin into his shoulder, huffing as the wolf leant back into his touch.

“No one else blames you,” he said, “Nobody. Okay?” 

Derek nodded weakly.

“Say it,” Stiles leant back to look at him, and Derek’s glittery eyes found his, “Say it wasn’t your fault.”

Derek just huffed out a laugh and shook his head.

“Just try.”

He paused, licked his lips, and looked away, “… It… wasn’t my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t,” Stiles squeezed his arms, and pulled his own back, smiling softly at Derek’s sad eyes, “You know, I think Paige and I would’ve been friends.”

His brows quirked up, lips doing the same as he nodded, “You would’ve.” He sniffled, “I love you.”

“I love you, too,” Stiles smiled, a sadder smile than before, “I’m really sorry you lost her.”

Derek nodded. 

Maybe sometimes things happen for a reason, Stiles wanted to say. But the words set off alarms in his head before they could leave his mouth. Maybe you shouldn’t tell someone that their first love dying was a good thing, because they had you, now. Maybe this had nothing to do with Stiles, and he should keep his mouth shut. 

So, he just stroked Derek’s arm, and leant back, “Let’s go to bed. Yeah?”

Derek nodded. His eyes fell. 

And maybe Stiles didn’t fall asleep that night. 

Maybe all he could think about was Derek asking if he was using him as a replacement. 

Maybe he was just thinking too much.

It’s all he ever did, anyway.

 

-

 

Liam hadn’t stopped thinking about that slip-up from last week, not for a second. He should’ve. It wasn’t that deep. He called him the wrong name, big whoop. It shouldn’t’ve stuck so much. But, it’s just… why Scott?

Scott was just some guy. And he was nice, but he was terrible at lacrosse, and about as close to a human-sized puppy as someone can get without being a werewolf, and, seriously, Liam was at a loss. Mason was over, as per usual, lounging on his bed like he owned the place, resting on his stomach as he typed on his laptop – he was working on some essay for AP English, and Liam was just sat on his floor, twirling his lacrosse stick around, and staring into space. 

What was it that reminded him of Scott?

“Is it effect or affect? ” Mason muttered to himself, “I’ve gotten them mixed up again.”

Liam’s brows fell together, “I have no clue, man.”

“Yeah. It’s always comforting to know we’re both dumbasses,” Mason murmured. Liam could hear his nails breaking as he chewed them, he could hear his feet tapping against the covers, he could hear his heart beating, he could hear every breath he took. Seriously, freakish. At least, now, it was moving slowly toward comforting. He could hear everything. He could focus it, now. He could hear the computer’s fans whirring. He could hear the rustling of the trees outside. He could hear cars rumbling. It wasn’t overwhelming, anymore. Just a reminder of the quiet. Of how Mason was okay. And Liam wasn’t going to hurt him. He wasn’t.

But when he could hear something else. And he could smell Erica. And Boyd. He didn’t know many scents by memory, but he knew theirs. And Jackson’s. And he did not need them to be here. Not right now. Not when Mason was here.

Then Erica was in his window, beaming, tapping on the glass, and Mason was flinching back and screaming.

Liam hissed, shushing him, flailing up onto his feet and scrambling over Mason’s also-flailing body to get to the window and yank it open. 

“What are you doing here?!” He whisper-yelled, “You cannot be here!!”

“Who are you?!” Mason cried.

“Sorry,” Erica shrugged, “Captain’s orders.”

Liam frowned, “Stiles sent you??”

“No,” Erica blinked, looking back over her shoulder and pointing to the ground, twelve feet below her, “She did.”

Liam leant out of the window, staring down at the people below. Boyd was there, yes, but he was with someone Liam had only seen a few times. The first had been the day he was turned – she’d been a wolf, then – and the second had been the day Stiles came back from… wherever he was. She was human from thereon out. And she was dating Scott. He could smell that. Unfortunately. And, the few other times he’d seen her, had almost entirely been during or after lacrosse practice, when she’d been cheering Scott on or coming over to antagonize Jackson. 

He and Allison were not close. But he did respect her. As he respected all of them, by fear of relentless punishment during training. They were very mean. And strong. And he was just a little guy, okay? And just ‘cause he could heal didn’t mean they should be beating him up that badly. 

Also, Allison was gorgeous. As they all were. It added to his inherent need to do whatever they all told him to. It was very intimidating. 

Liam’s lip curled, and he turned back to a smirking Erica, “Use the front door.”

And he pulled the window down to slam onto her fingers. She yelped, muffled through the glass but clear as day to him, and pulled back, losing her purchase on the gutter and falling down with a shout. Liam huffed, leaning back, digging his knee into something and hearing Mason whine.

“My fucking leg, man, get off,” he cried. 

Liam slipped, tripping over his own two legs, and Mason’s, as he tried to get himself back to sitting like a normal person. And, when he did, Mason was staring at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Dude,” he said, looking downright devastated, “You got a girlfriend and you didn’t tell me??”

Liam’s face fell, twisting up, “Ew!! Gross!! No, man, absolutely not!!”

He could hear Erica cackling, and Boyd asking her what she was laughing at, and Allison sighing, forlorn. Liam crawled back on his hands, reaching the edge of the bed and almost falling off.

“I gotta get the door,” he grumbled, “Don’t go anywhere.”

He stumbled to his feet and started storming across the room.

“Are you in a gang??”

“No!!”

“Are you in a cult? ”

“Mason! Shut up!”

As he sped towards the stairs, his mom popped out of her room, rubbing at her eyes, hair-tousled, “Liam, what the hell is going on?”

He skidded to a stop, sock-covered feet slipping against the hardwood floor, “Uh, just… getting a midnight snack?”

“Liam,” she said, terse, “I heard Mason screaming.”

He swallowed, “I kicked him.” She raised a brow. He puffed up his cheeks, “Really hard?”

She shook her head, rolling her eyes, “Both of you just go to bed. I have to go to the store in the morning, and it’s hard enough on a full night’s sleep.” She turned away, reaching out to ruffle his hair, “You need rest to grow, you know.”

Liam squinted, “Funny.”

“I know,” she said, drawn-out and almost musical, “It skipped a generation.” Liam huffed and turned away as she called out, “Love you, baby!”

“Love you, Mom!” He called back, rushing down the stairs as fast as his feet could take him. Then his lock was undone, and his front door was open, and Erica was there, hand braced against the side window, batting her lashes and contorting her body so weirdly. Her tank top was low cut, and Liam was glaring at her fluttering eyes.

“Hey,” she drawled, grinning, “Heard there was a party.”

Liam frowned, “You’re such a freak. What the hell are you doing here?” He turned to Boyd, but Allison was the one who answered.

“Derek’s been taken,” she said, “Stiles, my dad, Laura, and Peter have gone to find him. We’re here to make sure no hunters kill you in your sleep.” Her eyes darted down, that stoney expression vanishing, so suddenly, as her eyes creased, and her lips pressed into a fought-back smile, “Nice pyjamas.” 

Boyd snorted, and Liam stared down at the Superman logo on his chest. His mouth fell open, stammering, “Superman… is cool.”

“Hey,” Erica said, “At least it’s not Iron Man.” She winced, “I’d have to disown him.”

“You and Stiles are, like, the same person, are you aware of that?” Allison asked mildly. 

Erica smiled, “So I’ve heard. And says you, Little Miss Mommy Issues Gun Nut.”

Allison’s smile fell, “Stiles doesn’t know anything about guns.”

“Can we please go inside? I’m freezing.”

Allison and Erica turned to Boyd, and frowned the same frown. Liam’s eye twitched. 

Then Erica started beaming again, “In we go! I’ve been wanting to meet Mason. Outta the way, Liam.”

She started to push past him, to which he hissed, as low as he could, “Okay, but be quiet!! My mom doesn’t know you’re here!”

“I’ll be so-o-o quiet,” Erica whispered back, before speeding up the stairs. Liam’s heart hurt. This was a mess. This was terrible.

“Guess the secret’s gonna come out,” Allison murmured, slipping past him, too, as Boyd did the same. The man patted him on the shoulder. Liam whined.

They were so screwed. Forget bounty hunters and rabid baby werewolves. His mom was gonna kill them all. And, you know what, maybe Mason would. Because the look in his eyes when Liam made it to his room to see Erica spinning in his desk chair, Allison sitting on the floor on her phone, and Boyd settling himself down on the bed, was harrowing. The look of a man who was ready to waterboard this story out of him. But Liam wasn’t ready to tell him. He was so not fucking ready. 

 

-

 

She had the kind of face that makes you want to look away, because whatever reaction your body is having is making you realise you’re not as good a person as you like to believe. And Lydia did not like looking inward. She liked pretending there was no darkness around her, or in her, or on her. She liked preparing her MIT early application, she liked doing her makeup, and her hair, and shopping, and eating cinnamon rolls, and drinking fruity cocktails with her mom, and pretending she was a normal teenage girl. She didn’t like this. This dingy, damp-smelling institution. She didn’t like the fact that she knew exactly what it was that was making her skin crawl – the death in the air. 

She didn’t like this girl’s face.

“You’re like me,” Meredith said, voice shaky and inconsistent, “Aren’t you?”

Lydia ran her lips over eachother, hard, before she clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth, wide-eyes still not meeting the girl’s face, “I don’t know. What are you?” Then, like magnets to iron, her eyes snapped up to meet the other girl’s.

Meredith nodded, wary, “You hear them, don’t you?”

Lydia swallowed. Scott shifted uneasily beside her. 

Her throat twinged, “Hear what?”

“The voices,” Meredith nodded, “You hear them, too.”

Lydia’s brows twitched, head tilting down, “I don’t… hear voices.”

“Yes, you do,” Meredith said, sounding so desperate, “You hear them. You do.”

“Okay, I do,” Lydia said on an exhale, eyes locked on the girl’s hands, picking at her own skin and shaking. Don’t make her budge too much.

Her eyes flickered back up. Meredith’s own eyes were almost bulging out of her head.

She’ll scream.

Lydia’s mouth clicked when she opened it again, “I need your help, Meredith.”

“He hears it, too,” Meredith said, smiling, “The voices.”

Lydia shook her head a little, barely glancing over at Scott, who was frowning at her before she’d even thought to look, “Who?”

“Mischief,” Meredith nodded, “That’s… why you’re here, right?”

Lydia’s lips pressed into a frown, “I… No. I’m here… because Peter Hale sent me.”

Meredith’s eyes darted away, shoulders hunching up, “I don’t know who that is.”

“Meredith—”

“I said I don’t know!” She repeated, voice picking up.

“Okay,” Lydia nodded weakly, “I believe you. You don’t know him. That’s fine.”

Meredith looked up at her, head tilted down so low her chin was digging into her throat. Lydia swallowed reflexively, tapping her hands on her bare knees. Her heels dragged across the hard flooring, and her mouth felt so dry. 

“Who is Mischief?” She asked, trying with everything she had to keep her voice impartial. 

Meredith’s lashes fluttered, as she scratched at her right arm, “He’s the son. The Alpha.” She frowned, “I don’t know why he won’t listen.”

“To… the voices?” Lydia prompted. 

Meredith nodded slowly. 

Lydia nodded back, “And whose voices… is he not listening to?”

Meredith’s lips curved into a smile, a proud one, “The mother.”

Lydia’s eyes darted over her, “Claudia?”

Meredith nodded again, faster. Scott shifted at Lydia’s side. Uncomfortable. She knew that all too well.

But her eyes narrowed, as the curiosity took over, “Can you hear her?”

Meredith shrugged, “Sometimes. If I listen. But she’s not… talking to me.”

“Is that why you made her name the first password?”

Meredith’s smile faded. Her stare turned cold. And that made Lydia want to look away for a whole new reason. Not because of herself, or her own prejudices. Because this woman’s stare looked like she could see right through her. Like letting her look her in the eye was opening some sort of gateway, and she would turn to stone, or drop dead, or—

“I just wrote what I heard,” she said. 

“How do we stop it?” Scott’s voice asked. Lydia’s head snapped in his direction, eyes wide and mouth pressed firmly shut. He didn’t look at her. 

Meredith was almost glaring at him when Lydia looked back. Her stare turned distant, eyes flickering to the radio on her shared bedside table. Lydia tried not to let her eyes linger on the restraints tied to her bed. This place was demonstrably horrible. Meredith was silent. And Scott was leaning forward.

She tilted her head, and then she spoke, “The mother.”

Lydia’s brows furrowed, “Claudia.”

Meredith nodded slowly, “You will stop it. If you find her.”

Lydia’s mouth fell open, “What.”

“How are we meant to find a dead woman??” Scott cried.

Meredith’s eyes darted, “That’s not what it means.”

“Then tell us what it means,” Lydia said, smiling softly, “It’s okay. You can tell us.”

“Why can’t you stop it?” Scott asked, barelling over her, “You’re the one running it. How are you doing that from in here, anyway?” Meredith sat up straighter, staring blankly at him as he spoke. Lydia tugged at his shirt, praying he’d get the memo and shut the hell up, but he just kept talking, “Tell us what to do. People are dying, Meredith.”

“I told you what to do,” she said sternly, “Now, you’re making me uncomfortable. Please leave.”

“Why did you make it?” He asked.

“Scott,” Lydia hissed.

He ignored her, “Why did you make Allison worth so much, if you can predict the future? If you knew she wouldn’t be a wolf for much longer, why choose her? Why choose those passwords? Claudia, Mischief, Derek— Why them?”

Meredith stared at him, blank-faced, for a long time. Lydia was just waiting for it – the moment where she loses it. Where she screams, and someone gets hurt, and it’s all over. 

“Scott, settle down,” she growled into his ear. He glanced over at her, brows pinched, the angriest she’d ever seen him, which wasn’t exactly a hard mantle to steal. 

“You don’t understand,” Meredith said. Lydia looked away from Scott, expecting to see a fierce glare pointed at him, not at her. She hadn’t prepared for those eyes to pierce straight through her again. For them to root her right into place, on the edge of that horrible, grey bed, petrified and confused. “You don’t understand what you saw.”

She frowned, “What?”

“You don’t know what you’re predicting,” Meredith shook her head, “You don’t know.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott growled.

“The fire,” Meredith spat, still staring right into Lydia’s eyes. She swallowed. Meredith leant forward, “You don’t understand what you saw.” Her head tilted, “I am doing what I’m told. But you can’t comprehend what they’re telling you, can you, Lydia? Like Stiles. Mischief.” Her eyes flickered away, “He doesn’t understand, either. You lied to him. You lied.”

“I didn’t lie,” Lydia whispered. Her heart was pounding in her chest – how was this girl so terrifying? 

“No, you lied,” the girl said, voice burning into her, “Why would you tell them he would burn?”

Lydia’s eyes sharpened, stinging, “Because that’s what I saw.”

“Lydia, we should go,” Scott muttered.

“No,” Meredith snapped, “You don’t listen. Just like he doesn’t listen. He never listens. Not to her. Not to you. Not to Derek. None of you will listen to him. He never listens. How does he never listen? Can’t he hear it?” 

Her voice just kept growing louder, and louder.

“How can he not hear it?!” She shouted, chest rising and falling, “It’s so loud!! ”

Her shaking hands shot up to her ears. She kept screaming the same words over and over again. 

It’s so loud. It’s so loud. It’s so loud. 

The lock on the door buzzed open, metal dragging along the floor. 

Workers filed in.

They held her down as she writhed. 

Lydia and Scott were guided out by grabbing hands and booming voices.

“The train!!” Meredith wailed, as the door dragged shut, “ Can’t you hear the train is coming?! ”

 

-

 

She just wasn’t gonna think about it. Any of it. You know. Probably not even important. Lydia had other, real things to worry about, beyond the deranged cries of a woman in a mental institution. No matter how desperate and honest they’d felt, or how they’d burrowed under her skin and her heart had cried out as if she knew exactly what she was talking about. 

But she didn’t. So, away the memories went. 

Claudia. It had been a bitter pill to swallow when she died. When she was killed, more like. She’d been the reason Peter bit her – or, his hatred of her had been the reason. His need for revenge. Lydia had watched her eyes darken as Stiles snapped Peter’s neck in the gym. She’d brought them all hot chocolate after the betas had been kidnapped by Kate. She’d given Lydia the very heels she was wearing now as a Christmas gift. She’d sing with her in their kitchen, and would watch TV with her when she went to Stiles’ place. They’d all been closer before they went back to school this year. After summer ended, they largely split off into teenagers and adults, and going over to Stiles’ apartment was too much effort to show up and realise Derek was at peak housewife and baking his fourth batch of muffins, and Stiles had been at work for the last four hours and wasn’t getting home until ten. Still, she’d set up her laptop and settle in anyway, and Allison, or Erica, or Scott, or Isaac, or any of the others who might’ve come with her to see Derek would do the same, because hanging out with Derek without Stiles meant getting first dibs on whatever he was cooking. It meant free food. And hungry, exhausted, broke teenagers liked free food. 

Lydia wasn’t broke. But that was besides the point. When Claudia was still here, they all were still one unit. She made Stiles act younger than he was. Derek, too. Like they were both still lovesick teenagers. Lydia liked her. And it hurt like a bitch to know she’d never be coming back. And to see Stiles in the state that he was. And to have to keep it a secret from the Sheriff. They didn’t cross paths often, but it just felt wrong. He had a right to know what happened to his wife.

But no one actually did. 

No one but Stiles. 

Well, Stiles, Peter, and Derek. And one of them was kidnapped, one was almost definitely having a mental breakdown, and one was Peter. 

God, she hated Peter.

She wanted to solve this on her own. Save the others the trouble. As if there was a real answer, anyway. Lydia didn’t know where people went when they died. And Meredith didn’t seem to know what the hell she was even talking about. 

Scott jogged to keep up as Lydia stormed through the gates of Eichen, heels clacking against the cracked ground. 

“It has to be somewhere with electricity,” she mused, after a swift inhale, “and she never had a funeral. She was never buried. So it can’t be the Nemeton, or the graveyard.”

Scott’s voice was close, but quiet, “Lydia, we need to call Stiles.”

“No, we don’t,” she said primly.

“Why not?” Scott hissed.

“Because,” Lydia said pointedly, “He never listens, remember? And if it’s all wrong, what good are his memories?”

“But he was the one who killed her,” Scott stressed, “I hate…” She turned back, swift, making her hair fly out before it rested back on her shoulders. Scott looked almost helpless, “I hate it, but he did it. And we don’t even know how.” He nodded, “We need to call him.”

Lydia clicked her tongue, “Well. Maybe I just need to start listening.”

Scott shook his head, “What?”

“Get in the car,” she said, eyes trailing along the big metal lettering above them, “And be quiet.”

Scott pouted, “Where are we going?”

“I don’t know,” Lydia said, shrugging her shoulders up to her ears, “I’m gonna listen. And we’ll find out when we get there.”

He just stared at her. She stared back. Then, she spun on her heels and strutted over to her car, keys swinging in her hold as she did.

“Hurry up, Scotty!” She called out, “I’m not staying in this hell hole for a second longer. Not even for you.”

 

-

 

Using her power was strange – if you could even call it her power. When anyone else did, it was a tangible thing. It was real. It was blowing stuff up, or bringing people back from the dead, or sprouting claws and fangs and fur. With her, it was vanishing into herself and waking up to see whatever the deepest parts of her subconscious had to tell her. She didn’t understand it. No one ever explained. Peter dragged her behind a mall, mauled her, and now this was her life. Whatever ‘this’ was. 

Sometimes it was staring into a flame and writing. Sometimes it was going to sleep and waking up on the opposite side of town, staring down at a dead body. Sometimes it was hovering her hands over a keyboard and waiting. 

Sometimes it was getting in her car and just driving.

And it was always terrifying. 

Her autonomy was wrestled away from her with absolutely no fight. Something else took over and exposed her to something she should never have seen. And maybe it was why she didn’t like Stiles. It was where the resentment was coming from. Knowing that if he hadn’t come here, this would’ve never happened to her. She would still be spending her free time studying and learning languages and planning her seventeenth birthday party, not trying to stop a deadpool of supernatural creatures and getting screamed at by twitchy teenagers in mental institutions because she isn’t listening to the voices in her head properly.  

It was his fault. 

He had to know it. 

This was all his fault.

If he had never shown up, Jackson probably would’ve moved away. Ran off to Europe, or something, the second his parents realised anything was wrong with him. That he was in danger. That werewolves were real and some psychotic one had turned him. She would’ve never realised he’d been turned at all. And if she was still friends with Allison, she would’ve moved, too, once her dad found out about this deadpool. They wouldn’t be getting a divorce. Allison would’ve never been turned. Lydia would still be popular. She would’ve dated whoever replaced Jackson as lacrosse captain, and stared out mournfully at Cora whenever she showed up to a game. If Cora would’ve even stayed. Maybe she would’ve become the Alpha after slaughtering Peter once she figured out he was the one who killed Laura. And with no Stiles to convince to kill him, instead, Lydia would’ve been left out of it. She would have nothing to do with these people. She wouldn’t be going on wild goose chases trying to find Stiles’ dead mom – whatever that meant. She wouldn’t even be dead. She would be the psycho in the mental institution, still waiting for her son to come back to life. And he wouldn’t. And Lydia would be happy. And she would sleep through the night. 

And she wouldn’t be here, staring up out of her windshield at the burned down remains of a house. Caved in. Just a spikey pile of blackened wood and char and ash. 

This was his fault, too. 

He killed Kate, he killed Gerard, he killed himself, he killed Claudia. And what a way to do it.

Lydia’s chest burned, reaching over to turn off the ignition, saying softly, “Stay in the car.”

“Are you sure?” Scott asked. 

She nodded, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.” And she slipped out of the car. 

The thing is, she didn’t hear voices. Not in the way Meredith was acting like she did. She’d hear whispers, sometimes, but not anything real. Nothing spoke to her. No one spoke to her. She got nudges, feelings, all subconscious hints of what she was meant to do. That’s what she was listening to. Not a person speaking through her. It was the urge to walk to what should’ve been the front door of this home, and to step past the threshold. 

Then she heard it. 

A hum-like sound. An indistinct one. Not words, not at all. But a voice. It made Lydia’s chest tighten, made a flare of anxiety rush through her. The discomfort of the unknown. But she turned her head to where the sound had come from, anyway. Because when someone screams, you listen. And Meredith had a level of irrationality that circled back the other way. And maybe Lydia wouldn’t end up like her if she was careful enough. If she listened.  

The pile of charred wood beneath her feet was uneasy, hard to balance on, especially in her heels. She had to catch herself on her hands when she stumbled, nauseous from the understanding that this had been someone’s home, skin crawling with the feeling of being watched. It was terrifying. This was the first time it had been tangible. More than just closing her eyes and letting it happen. She was the one doing it now. Listening. Looking. Feeling. 

When her eyes locked on the light – caught on steel, and shimmering. She bent down, reaching a hand out to lift a piece of wood – shattered to a point, destroyed – and toss it aside. And, underneath, laid a set of keys. House keys. Attached to a keychain, a small, silver one with a lime green bottle-opener and little brownish-grey charm, both warped from the heat and black at the edges, and the former only recognisable because Lydia had seen it before. It was Stiles’. He had the very same hideous green eyesore on his car keys. And, even if she didn’t know it from that, she would’ve from the way her mind went completely and utterly silent at the sight. 

She had listened. And this near-empty lot, with its pile of rubble and wreckage, was now silent. There was nothing else here. She wasn’t done. 

Her own keys were turning the car back on before she could think about it, and before her door was even fully shut. Her hair was out of sorts, catching on her glossed lips, and her hands were frantic as they forced her seatbelt into place and yanked the stick into drive. 

“Lydia what—” Scott spluttered, “What did you find?”

“The key,” she said sternly, “We need to keep going.”

“Where??” 

“I don’t know yet. But you know the drill. I just need to drive.”

“Lyd—” Scott cut himself off with a wordless whine, reaching over to wrestle the keys out of her grip, pressed against the steering wheel. She barely fought back.

“Careful with those,” she grumbled.

He ignored her, staring down at them, silent. She just sighed and kept her eyes on the road. She just needed to zone out. Disassociate. Separate herself, again. There was nothing to listen to now. Nothing real. 

How could Stiles be ignoring it? She’d only heard it once, and it chilled her to the bone. That voice. Whosever it was. How could he not listen to it? 

“The hospital,” she said softly, so suddenly it almost made her flinch.

Scott’s head turned to her, “What?”

“The deadpool,” she said, dazed-sounding, “They’re running it from the hospital.”

“How do you know?”

She shook her head, “I don’t. I don’t know why I said that.”

“Lydia—”

“What do we have to lose if I’m wrong, huh?” She asked, voice regaining its strength as the idea settled within her beyond a blurting of words, “We’ll check. No shame in wasting some time if I’m wrong. And, hey. I’ll drive somewhere else entirely if that’s what I’m meant to do. I need to listen, remember?”

Scott stared at her in her peripheral for a while before he said, “Okay. I trust you.” 

She turned to him, lips pressed tightly together. He gave her a small smile, gentle, sincere, and tilted his head down in the slightest of nods. She smiled back, chest falling a little as some sort of pressure held it down. Her head barely nodded, and she turned back to the road. Her hands tightened around the steering wheel. Her own voice was the one she had to listen to. And she wouldn’t make the mistake of ignoring it.

 

-

 

Isaac was having a panic attack when Noah got home. He didn’t know what to do. 

He’d had a nightmare. They only figured that out once they’d been in the ER for twenty minutes and Melissa had calmed him down enough for him to be able to speak again. She was a Godsend, it was true, but the fact that they had to be here was making Noah want to rip his hair out. Isaac was a good kid. The best kid, really. He didn’t deserve to go through something like this. Nobody did. To be hurt by someone who was supposed to love and care for you unconditionally, and to have to lose everyone who could’ve protected you. And Noah was trying. He was trying to be someone Isaac could trust. 

He wasn’t replacing his son. He could never do that. He still had him, anyway. Maybe that was the only reason Noah had not yet had to learn how to stop an attack like this. He still had Stiles, so he’d never reached a point where he learned how it felt. And when he thought he’d lost him, he still had Claudia. He was never truly alone. And now, when it felt like he was inching closer by the day, he had others. He had Isaac. He had Melissa. He had his deputies. There was still life. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened in the nightmare?” Melissa asked softly, crouched at the side of the bed Isaac was sitting on, with Noah by his side. 

Isaac shook his head – all of him shook, “No. It’s fine. It was just a dream.”

Melissa nodded warily, “Okay. But it might help to talk about it.”

“You’re not a therapist,” Isaac said, brows coming together, head tilting, “You think I’ll talk about it with you?”

“Isaac,” Noah hissed. The kid glanced at him, almost vanishing into himself, shrinking down – somehow getting even smaller than the impossibly small way he’d already looked.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, eyes flickering over to Melissa, whose caring smile hadn’t waved for a moment.

“It’s okay,” she said, “You can take as long as you need in here. I’ll head out.” She rose to stand, giving Isaac a far more stern look, “Maybe we can talk about signing you up for a few sessions with an actual councillor.”

Isaac’s eyes darted up to her, then away, “I don’t think most therapists would get what I need to talk about.”

Melissa let out a soft sigh, “Don’t sell ‘em short.” She nodded to Noah, meeting his watchful eyes, “I’ll be at reception if you need to talk to me.” And, as she started to make her way past them, heading to the door, she said, “You can always call if you need anything, Noah. I’ll always be there.”

He nodded, swallowed down the slew of curses, screams, pleas for people to stop treating him like glass because he still had a sliver of rationality. He knew they all just meant well. But it made it all come back to him, the understanding that they’re doing it because she’s gone, and it was just… 

“It was about my dad.”

Isaac’s voice was so small. He’d grown into himself in the year or so since what happened with his father – the case, the interview, Noah killing him. They didn’t talk about it. The paperwork was filed, the investigation came and went, and everything was over. Lahey was gone, Isaac was under Noah’s care, and he liked to try and forget any of it ever happened.

“I know,” he said, low, rubbing at the kid’s back, “I figured. What happened?”

Isaac shook his head, “We were just… having dinner.” He chewed at his cheek a bit, “Nothing really happened, it just… I was so scared it was going to. And then I woke up and I couldn’t breathe. And then I… I panicked.” He sniffled, “I thought if I died, I might have to see him again.”

“Oh, no, kid,” Noah shook his head, “You are not going to end up in the same place as him, I can tell you that much.”

Isaac’s lip quivered, turning away. Something like a laugh, a muted sound, came out of him, and he let out a long breath. Noah watched the back of his head for a while, still stroking his spine, praying to offer just the slightest bit of comfort. Sometimes he didn’t understand Isaac. He wondered if it was something about him that made all the kids he cared for turn into wall-punching men running on operating systems of pure sarcasm and sass. He always thought he hid those parts of him well enough for them to not get adopted by anyone else but, hey. Here they still were. Two not-technically-his kids later, clearly not doing a good enough job of it.

“Well,” Isaac said suddenly, lifting his shoulders and hopping up onto his own two feet, “Could’ve been worse. I could’ve woken up in a freezer.” He was smiling, eyes blank, when he turned around. He grabbed his cardigan from the bed, shrugging it onto his shoulders, “I could really go for an iced coffee right now.”

The way he strutted out of the room reminded him too much of Peter Hale. Huh. Maybe he wasn’t the one his not-technically-his kids were taking after. Jesus Christ, as if the world needed more Peter Hales. 

Noah sighed, pressing his fingers to the bridge of his nose to lift the pressure that was starting to build, blinking hard as he rose to his feet, too, and followed the teenager out into the hall. The hospital was busy, but not overly crowded. Still, in his eyes, too much stimulation for a kid who just barely got over a panic attack that sent him to the Goddamn ER. 

When they got out into the main waiting room, where reception was, with Melissa smiling from behind the desk, doing something he couldn’t see on a clipboard. And, a few yards away, speed-walking through the front doors, came Lydia and Scott. They had dark circles beneath their eyes, Lydia’s hands dirty and knees almost black, Scott’s brows worried as if something was actually going on. And with these damn kids, that meant something serious. And to think Noah woke up this morning looking forward to his day off. 

“Scott? Lydia?” He called out, “What the Hell are you doing here?”

“Scott!” Isaac cheered, throwing his hands in the air to drag Scott into a tight hug. The kid blinked over his shoulder, staring wide-eyed and concerned at the Sheriff. 

Noah gave him a look. 

“What are you guys doing here?” He asked, looking to Isaac as the teenager let him go, clapping him on the shoulder and grinning at Lydia, who stared so blankly back at him. 

“Great to see you, too, Lydia,” and he shrugged at Scott, “It’d be rude not to visit your mom after she treated me so well last night, wouldn’t it?”

Scott shoved him, making a low, offended noise over Isaac’s laugh. Noah just watched in mild horror. This kid needed to go home. He needed some food, water, a proper hug, a real conversation about what he’d been through. 

“So, why are you two freaks here?” Isaac asked, his smile only barely reaching his eyes.

Lydia looked him up and down, then glanced at Noah, meeting his eyes with a start. She straightened up, clenching her hand tighter around whatever it was holding. She sighed. Scott glanced at her, his mouth bobbing open and shut, hesitant. Then Melissa’s voice was calling out his name, foosteps coming closer, and Scott somehow looked even more horrified than before. 

“What are you two doing here?” Melissa asked, with the smile so clear in her voice, as she pulled Scott into a hug of her own and reached out to stroke Lydia on the arm, “Are you hurt?”

“Yeah,” Noah grumbled, “What are you two doing here?”

Lydia considered them both for a while, turning to Scott with the harshest look he’d seen in her eyes, and that was saying something. He looked back at her, nothing short of desperate, and Melissa’s head tilted. 

“Kids,” she said, stern as all Hell, “What is going on?”

Lydia sighed, “Scott. We have to tell her.”

“No we don’t,” he said quickly.

“I think you might,” Melissa snapped, stepping back.

Isaac pouted, sparing a glance back at Noah, “Uh. Well, you guys have fun with that.” 

And Scott grabbed his arm, “Do not leave me here with them.”

“Scott,” Lydia almost snarled, “It’s your call.”

He blinked at her, mouth falling open again, “What? Why??”

Lydia’s tongue clicked as she spoke, “Which one of us is in charge of…” Her eyes moved slowly to Melissa, then back to Scott, speaking just as slowly, “Family relations?”

Scott almost whined, looking to every single person before he looked at his mom again, whining once more, “Why the hell did Stiles have to leave?”

“What?” Noah piped up, “Where is Stiles?”

“Yeah, what?” Isaac grumbled, “Why do you people leave me out of everything?”

“We didn’t leave you out,” Lydia spat, “You just didn’t have a lot to offer in that particular situation, Isaac.”

He frowned. And Noah got it. 

“You…” Noah shook his head, “Is this to do with the deadpool?”

“The what? ” Melissa shouted.

Isaac’s brows rose, “That’s not great.”

Lydia frowned so hard it looked painful, “Melissa. We need to talk to you. In private. We need your help.”

Scott turned to her, “Lydia.”

“Scott,” she snapped, “We don’t have a choice. No one else will know where to go from here.”

“But…” Scott made a small noise, holding his hand out, “My mom. ”

“Yes, well,” Lydia’s prim voice picked up, “People are dying. So. Pick your problem, Scott.”

Scott’s eyes met Noah’s. Helpless. Tired. And the Sheriff nodded without a single thought. 

“She needs to know, kid,” he said.

Melissa turned back to give him the fiercest of glares, “You actually know what’s going on here? And you haven’t told me??”

Noah sighed, “Is the room we were in still free?”

Her eyes twitched, and she nodded firmly, barking, “Let’s go. Now. Kids, come on.”

Lydia followed her the closest, dragging the two boys along with only a sharp stare and nothing more. Isaac gave Noah a look as he passed, and he felt himself sigh. Whatever was happening, it had to be serious. Stiles didn’t send people to do things for him. He was the one who knew how to do it all. He didn’t trust anyone else not to screw it up. Which was fair enough, since almost everyone he knew was a minor. And very much less in-the-know than him. It was unsettling, more than some of the time, when he knew things. But, you know. When you’re looking in your dead son’s eyes – your dead wife’s eyes – anything is unsettling. 

His heart ached. His throat tied in a knot. He swallowed it down, and he followed the kids. 

He closed the door behind him when he stepped inside. Melissa was standing there, arms crossed tightly over her chest, deep in mom mode. Claudia used to give Stiles that exact same look. 

His heart ached. 

Lydia stared at the side of Scott’s face, drowning in the silence, until he could build up the courage to finally, finally blurt out, “Werewolves.”

Melissa blinked – one hard, slow, blink, “Scott, you’re gonna wanna be real careful with your next words. Are you on drugs?” She looked across the kids, pointing to them, “Are you all on drugs?” Her eyes met Noah’s, hand raising to point at him instead, “Are you running a drug ring??”

“No, Melissa,” Noah said with a nod, “I am not running a secret drug ring. I’m hardly even running the Sheriff’s station.”

Melissa tilted her head, and Lydia finally piped up, “It’s unfortunate that you’re finding this out with most of the few people who aren’t werewolves in this situation, but, no, Scott is not on drugs, werewolves are real, and I need to know where in this hospital someone would be able to hide a computer the size of a wall.”

The nurse could do nothing but stare. Then her perplexed eyes found Noah’s again and he could do nothing but shrug.

“You believe this??” She snapped.

Noah sighed, “My son came back from the dead. It didn’t take me long to figure it out.”

“Oh, my God,” Melissa took a small step back, blinking furiously as her eyes shot to the ground, “What? What the f—” She pressed her mouth shut, bringing two hands up to rub at her face, “What does that even mean???”

“Time travel,” Noah said dumbly, “My son is…” Complicated, he’d wanted to say, “… not my son.” 

Melissa’s eyes were wide when he saw them again, “How? How is that possible?”

“Claudia had magic,” he said.

She paused at that, hands falling, mouth pressing shut, and suddenly that look was so apprehensive, so calculating, “Noah…”

“We can debate the reality of the situation,” Lydia snarled, holding her hands out, “when the situation is no longer dire.” She gave Melissa a look that Noah was sure would be shattering if he could see her face, and not just her red hair, “Melissa. People are dying. And we can stop it, if you focus and tell us where that computer could be.”

Melissa shook her head, “What computer?”

“The one that keeps the deadpool running,” Scott said meekly, fidgeting with his hands, “It was meant to be at Lydia’s mom’s lakehouse, but it wasn’t, so we called Peter and he told us to talk to Meredith, who’s in Eichen House, and she told us to find Claudia, and Lydia drove to a house and found Claudia’s keys, and then she said we had to come here, so we’re here.” He swallowed so loudly even Noah heard it. “She’s a banshee… by the way.”

Then Noah’s chest grew heavy, “Wait. Claudia… what?”

Lydia turned to him, barely, eyes flickering as she drifted off into thought for just a moment. Then she brought her hand up, and out, and a keychain was hanging out of it. Claudia’s. Now Stiles’. 

His heart ached.

“Where did you find those?” 

Lydia licked her lips, “I don’t know. I just drove. It was… a house. Or what was left of it.”

“What?” Noah swallowed, “What do you mean?”

He stepped forward. A shaky, hesitant step. 

His heart ached.

Lydia gave Scott a strange look, and gave Isaac a similar one, then turned properly to hold the keys out to him, “It had been burned down. Collapsed.”

Noah didn’t even have the energy to question that look she’d given, barely able to reach out and take the damn thing from her hand. The metal was cold in his hands. Freezing. The bottle-opener, one he’d seen put to use and used himself countless times since college, was warped, melted, charred, wrong.

His heart ached.

And he knew those keys. They’d held up so strangely well. Their front door, their back door, the Jeep, her childhood home, the old Hale House, and… That should’ve been it. But there was one more. Bronze, gold-like, not the same stoney grey steel as the others. 

“It’s the key to the computer,” Lydia said softly, “It’s how we can stop it.”

He swallowed it all down, kept his eyes away from Isaac’s watchful stare, and straightened his back, “This? It can stop the deadpool?”

Lydia nodded, “No one else has to die.” She turned to Melissa, “If you tell us where to go.”

“Why can’t you just…” she shook her head, “Go there? Like you did with the place that… Claudia… Oh, my God.” Her shaking hands rose to her mouth again. 

Noah wasn’t really listening. He couldn’t really breathe, either.

His heart ached. 

“Mom,” Scott said softly, “Please.”

Her eyes darted to him, hands falling, “Okay. Um. There’s a server room in the basement. But I don’t… I don’t know if there’s gonna be anything there.”

“Lead the way,” Lydia said. And Melissa nodded. 

“Okay,” she said around sharp breaths, steadying herself, “Okay. What? Okay.” She blinked frantically, stepping out past them as she headed for the door, “Holy crap, this is ridiculous.”

Noah’s hand tightened around the keys. White-knuckled. Isaac’s hands still had not stopped shaking, barely hidden beneath the sleeves of his cardigan. 

His heart ached.

 

-

 

There was something. Lydia really wasn’t used to feeling this much. 

Was it because she talked to Meredith? Was the intensity of everything she heard rubbing off on her? Were banshee abilities contagious? Or was it like being in an echo chamber, or something, and it was all bouncing off of Meredith and going straight to Lydia – whatever ‘it’ was. Because Lydia did not believe in ghosts. This was not Claudia. It couldn’t be. 

But she couldn’t deny that it was something. Honestly, seeing that ancient-looking computer and the look on Melissa’s face was enough to make her believe that she was a psychic. Forget every time she’d denied it. Forget technicalities. This was the type of bullcrap only a psychic could pull. 

It looked like something straight out of the 1940s. Spinning wheels and bright, glowing buttons and muted beige colours. She’d never seen anything like it outside of history textbooks. And it had absolutely no place among the sleek black server boxes around it. Melissa looked so thoroughly confused, so overwhelmed; Isaac was looking around the room with the same practiced indifference he did most things with these days; Scott looked like he might pass out, either from exhaustion or horror; Noah was just staring. There was almost no colour left in his face. The keys were held so tightly in his hands Lydia worried he might hurt himself. 

When her eyes found the keyhole, her voice found itself, “Sheriff. I need that key.”

She could hear his feet shuffling against the ground. 

“I just…” Scott’s voice said quietly, almost inaudible over the drone of electricity, “I don’t get why she would help us.”

“Did she help us?” Lydia murmured back.

“She could’ve said nothing. She could’ve forced us to leave, or just started screaming.”

“She did do both of those things, Scott.”

“You know what I mean,” he said, “It just feels too easy. Nothing is ever this easy.”

Lydia sighed, as Noah passed by her, hand shaking around the keys it held, “I know. But I’m not gonna look a gift horse in the mouth.”

“What does that saying even mean?” Isaac grumbled, “Why would you look at the horse’s mouth?”

Lydia turned to him. Scott did the same. This was why she didn’t hang out with Isaac. Strange. He was just strange. Though, she could sympathise in those moments where Stiles went too far, and got just a bit too distasteful, and hit a weak spot he shouldn’t have. He could be insensitive, sometimes. And, really, when you’re the only person making jokes about a guy’s dead abusive father, and you’re not the guy whose abusive father is dead, maybe you should take the hint that nobody should be.

“Noah,” Melissa’s voice said softly, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he said back, shaking his head, “I just gotta… put the key in? And this’ll all be over?”

“I guess,” Lydia said mildly, “That’s what Stiles said.”

Noah sighed, “That’s what Stiles said. Okay.” 

There was a jangle, a clinking of metal, and then the click of the key being inserted into the hole. Another click, another jangle, and the spinning wheels stopped spinning.

The lights died. 

Everything stopped. 

Maybe Scott was right. It did feel far too easy. 

“That’s it?” The Sheriff asked softly.

Lydia hummed, “I guess. I mean. How do we check?”

“I don’t know, but if whatever this is is over,” Melissa stressed, “How about you all start explaining what exactly is going on. From the beginning.”

Lydia gave Scott a look. His eyes were wide, terrified. She shrugged. This wasn’t her problem. Not anymore. 

“Pack relations, Scott,” she said with a smile, “You signed up for this, remember.”

He whimpered, eyes flickering to his mom, then to the floor, “I know.”

Lydia sighed at the pitiful sight – a tiny, helpless puppy of a man, he was, “I’ll go call Peter. Let him know.”

“Why Peter?” Isaac asked, “Not Stiles? Peter’s a dick.”

Lydia tried not to meet Noah’s sharp eyes when he turned around, her head shaking, “Does it matter? They’re together right now, it makes no difference.”

“Where are they?” 

At Noah’s question, Lydia took a loud step back, “Mexico.”

The Sheriff’s face fell, “What? Why? How? I— And none of you were gonna tell me??”

“Well, it’s been a busy day,” Lydia grumbled, “I haven’t slept in over thirty hours because Allison’s parents are getting a divorce, her dad’s now gone to Mexico with Peter, Laura, and Stiles, and Scott’s dad, and Derek is missing, and this part of it is finally over, and I would like to let somebody know so I can go and take a nap. ”

“I’m sorry, Scott’s what?” Melissa snapped, “What does he have to do with this? He’s… I… What??”

Lydia huffed, “Explaining these things is normally Stiles’ job. He’s a lot more concise with it.”

“Derek is missing?” Isaac asked.

Lydia sighed, “Yeah. What else is new?” And as she threw her arms out, “Nothing we can do from a whole other country. All we can do is wait.”

“Is he still fine?” Scott asked softly, “Derek?”

“Yes,” Lydia said, no thought about it, “Yes, he’s still fine.”

“Is Stiles fine?” Noah asked.

Lydia swallowed. 

Nothing came to her. At all.

She licked her lips, “I don’t… know.”

Noah’s eyes narrowed, and he took a huffing breath, the kind that always geared him up for something intense, then Melissa grabbed his arm. She shook her head, eyes still darting around, so clearly confused. Lydia was exhausted. Truly exhausted. These people didn’t seem to get that she’d been going and going nonstop since yesterday morning, and this was the first hint of a break coming her way, and they were trying to get her going again.

“I am going,” she said sternly, “I will let them know that we think we stopped it. And I will no longer be involved.” She took a few more loud steps back, feet beyond aching now, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be at Allison’s, making sure her mom doesn’t try to kill her.”

Scott’s face fell, horrified, “You think Allison’s gonna—?”

“No!” Lydia snapped, “I don’t think anything! I have no thoughts. I’ve done all my thinking for the day, thank you very much. Goodbye all of you. Melissa, I am very sorry we have thrown off your day like this. Take care.”

She turned on her heel and stormed away. Low voices followed her out along the chill air, over the droning of electricity. That room was freezing, ventilated to high heaven to keep the servers from overheating, she understood that. But still. Every inch of hair on her body was standing on end, her bare legs were covered in goosebumps, and her cardigan was doing very little to protect her from the cold. And maybe all of that, and the chill down her spine, was something else. Maybe. But maybe she was done with this. She was done listening. This was not her problem anymore. She didn’t need to be used as a tool to solve Stiles’ problems. Or Peter’s. Especially not fucking Peter’s. Not when it was their damn fault she had anything to do with it at all. That she could feel it all. Hear it all. Know it all. 

She didn’t know a thing. She really didn’t.

She would get the call in ten hours. 

 

-

 

Mason still did not know. Not until that night.

The others got the call at eleven. Liam didn’t get one. Not a phone call, anyway.

Mason wasn’t meant to come with him. But when they both got back to Liam’s house, he could already hear Erica waiting in his bedroom, and his reluctance to go upstairs only made Mason want to go up more. He knew him too well, and he was too sick of Liam not telling him what was going on, and he knew that. So they went up. And Liam’s heart fell at the sight. Right to his stomach. It almost made him panic, made the urge to shift flare up in his chest, flooding over him, and Erica rose to her feet. 

“It went wrong,” she said, “They’re still alive, but they’re in danger. We need to go.”

Liam froze. 

“What?”

He felt sick. 

“What went wrong?” Mason’s voice went on. Liam sucked in a sharp breath. He shook his head, and Erica just kept staring at him. He’d never seen her with a straight face before. She didn’t get serious. Not ever. “Okay, Liam, you need to tell me what’s going on.”

His hand thudded against Liam’s back, still gentle despite it all, and Liam almost couldn’t breathe when he turned to look at him.

Mason’s eyes were wide, concerned, so kind, and so serious, and he didn’t want to see that look. He never had. 

“Liam,” Erica said lowly, “Tell him, or don’t. We have to go.”

“Go where?” Mason asked, eyes darting between Liam, and the woman behind him. 

Liam’s next exhale came out with a growl. Mason took a small step back, a flinch. Liam shook his head. He couldn’t breathe. 

He couldn’t breathe.

“I can’t—” he choked on his own words, “N–o.” He shook his head again, stepping backwards, walking away, and Mason tried to follow. Liam just tried to breathe, “The sun, the moon, the truth.”

“What??” Mason’s brows furrowed, “What are you saying?”

“The sun, the moon, the truth,” he kept whispering, “The sun, the moon—”

“Oh, for God’s sakes,” Erica growled, “Mason, just come with us.”

“The—” Liam shook his head harder that time, as someone – Erica – grabbed at his wrist, “No, he can’t!”

“Yes, he can,” Erica stressed, “Stiles said he could.”

“Liam,” Mason’s eyes were darting, “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine!” He snapped. His hands were inching for something to hit – for a wall to punch through, and, God, why did they have to do this to him? “I just… What happened?” He turned back, still short of breath, still muttering every few moments, as Erica looked him up and down.

“We don’t know for sure,” she said slowly, “But they others are waiting at the house. And I’m going with them. So, you need to decide what you’re gonna do.” 

“Since when were you the voice of reason??” Liam snarled.

Erica shrugged, looking almost bored now, “Choose.”

“If we go,” Mason snarled, “Is someone gonna finally explain to me what is going on?”

Erica’s eyes darted past Liam, to the teenager stood behind him, and she nodded, “Sure will.”

“Then we’re going.”

Liam whined, turning back to him, “Mason—”

“No,” Mason snapped, “Liam, dude, I love you, and I trust you, but not with this. I’m not letting you go anywhere alone with these people.” His frown grew as his eyes darted to Erica, “No offence.”

“None taken,” Erica murmured, “You’ve got a good friend, here, Liam. Don’t ruin that by keeping useless secrets.”

“Seriously,” Liam hissed, “where is all this wisdom coming from??”

“Liam,” Erica growled, “My Alpha could be dying right now. Get it together. We need to fucking go.”

“Alpha??” Mason squeaked, “What the f—”

“Fine!” Liam cried, “Let’s just… Let’s go. God. What happened to him?” He felt so small, and ridiculous, and useless, and Erica was looking at him like he was a lost child, “He didn’t find Derek?”

“I don’t know,” Erica said, “I ran here, any chance Mason can drive?”

“You r…” Mason fell quiet, “Oh, my God.”

Liam couldn’t look at him. This was terrible. This was all fucking terrible. 

Mason’s brows rocketed up, “Werewolves.”

Oh, what the hell?

“How did—” Liam stepped back, “What is happening??”

“And he’s smart, too,” Erica said, and Liam could hear the smile in her voice, “I like this kid. You can talk in the car. Let’s go.”

“Yeah,” Mason said, brows falling again, “Let’s.” 

Erica slipped past them, calling out, beckoning. Liam just stared at his best friend. Helpless. Still frozen. Mason gave a small huff, disbelief, turning on his heel and walking out of the room. Liam wanted to hide. He wanted to lock himself in his bathroom and wait for that moment they’d warned him about, when a member of the pack is hurt, or killed. The second where his heart would shatter and a howl would tear its own way out of his body. He’d lose control and probably kill everyone around him, and it would all be over. They’d put him down like a dog. 

And fuck.

What the hell had happened to Stiles?

 

-

 

Stiles hadn’t meant to fall asleep. Maybe the nap before they left hadn’t really been good enough. And maybe the stress of it all – not knowing where Derek was, waiting for someone to come and kill them all, crying so hard his skull felt like it might explode all over Peter’s chest, which would’ve been so damn embarrassing – had gotten too much. Maybe he hadn’t fallen asleep so much as he’d passed out. It didn’t matter. 

When he woke, his face was pressed into something coarse but soft, and shifting. He had a twinge in his neck, a ceaseless pain, forcing him awake and aware enough to lift his head and see what was going on. Where he was. As if there was any chance he might not be where he last remembered. That Araya had given them mercy, and he would be back in that jet, making his way home with Derek by his side. 

Not Derek. But a wolf. Lifting his head hurt, but he had to to find its eyes. They blinked open – light blue, bored. And something moved against Stiles’ back (he was so warm, almost too warm), and his aching body twisted to look there, too. Another wolf, just barely smaller than the first, but still ridiculously massive, lying behind him. Its head lifted, tired brown eyes flashing a low gold, and Stiles breathed steadier. Laura’s snout came over to nudge his shoulder, pushing him back onto his side and resting her jaw on top of his arm. She huffed, and Peter shifted beneath Stiles’ head. He curled in tighter. And when Stiles met his blue eyes again, the wolf shot forward – a slimy, wet pressure leaving Stiles’ cheek cold after he’d licked it. Something that should’ve made him flail back, cry out in disgust, rub at his skin until it was red and he was sure the wolf’s saliva was gone. But he didn’t. He couldn’t. He just closed his eyes, buried his face in Peter’s fur, let Laura put too much weight on him as she reached over to sniff his face, and let the exhaustion take him again. 

There wasn’t much of a sense of time in that room from then on. The next time Stiles woke up, it was because the others made him. They had sandwiches, and bottled water, and Stiles’ vision was fuzzy. Things were fading in and out of cohesion, even as Stiles tried to focus, and eat and drink. The hunger was making him nauseous. 

He really was just as weak as he’d always been. 

They were talking. The others. Peter and Laura were no longer shifted – Stiles wondered if that had even been real at all – and he was only following bits and pieces of the conversation. It was all so casual. Like this wasn’t a life or death situation. Like Derek wasn’t missing. Like Stiles didn’t feel like he was actively dying. Like they didn’t all hate each other. They were talking about groceries. About their weekly essentials. Laura was talking about what the betas like to eat when they’re at the house, Peter was talking about some fancy bullshit – not caviar, but it sounded like it – and Chris was vaguely agreeing with both of them. 

“Come on, Chris,” Peter drawled, “What’s the staple on your side of the fence, huh? What’s Allison into these days? And your wife?”

Stiles met Chris’ eyes, then. They were indifferent, almost blank, shifting down to the concrete floor without an answer. He took another sip of his water. Peter tilted his head, lips splitting into a grin. Predatory.

“Ohh,” he almost growled, “trouble in paradise?” 

Chris still didn’t look at him.

“Figures,” Peter shrugged, looking away, “That’s what you get for marrying a sociopath. It was only a matter of time.” He hummed out a laugh, quiet, just for himself. Stiles watched Chris’ eyes dart to the side of Peter’s face.

“I would’ve married a sociopath either way.”

Peter’s brows twitched. His stare remained as blank as it had been. Just for a moment. Then something cracked, something changed, in that same unidentifiable way as it had when Stiles told him he was good.  

“You made your choice, Christopher,” Peter said slowly, “You married who you married. Own it.”

“Yeah, well, you did what you did after the wedding, too,” Chris said back, “You never owned that.” Stiles’ brows furrowed. He took another bite of his sandwich. Cheese. Miserable. Peter let out the strangest exhale. His brows shot up, finally turning to look Chris in the eye. And they just stared at each other. Silent. 

Then Laura groaned, sprawled out across the floor with her water bottle held to her forehead, “Keep it in your pants, Peter. None of us can leave you two alone in here.”

Stiles snorted, bringing his sandwich back to his mouth to bite through the stale bread again, as Peter shot a slow, glowing, blue glare at his niece. She grinned at him, wide and toothy, and Stiles felt his body steady. If they were gonna be there for a while, at least he seemed to be trapped with a half-decent group of people. Good entertainment, if nothing else. 

“He took my dad’s gun,” he felt himself say. All those eyes turned to him. Chris’ took a second to catch up. 

“What?” Peter asked, looking bored out of his mind again, “Who?”

“Chris,” Stiles nodded, looking down at his thoroughly disappointing sandwich, “He took my dad’s gun to go save you when Allison trapped you in Eichen House, or whatever.”

“Allison did what?” Chris grumbled.

Stiles glanced up at him, humming, “You were all ‘give me your gun, it’ll be the last time, I swear’ and my dad was all like ‘no, it won’t’, and he gave you the gun, and you left, and Derek and I were horrified. You…” Stiles squinted at him, “Actually, no. Never mind. I’m not surprised.”

“Surprised by what?” Chris grumbled, “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Stiles shrugged, “Having a type isn’t anything to be ashamed of. Heaven knows I’ve got one.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you show attraction to anyone but Derek,” Laura mused, “What the hell is your type? Him?”

Stiles glanced over at her, “Well, I am a beacon of loyalty. But, yeah. I tend to fall for people who are mean to me. It’s an unsettling pattern, actually.”

“When the hell has Derek ever been mean to you?” Laura murmured. 

Stiles smiled, “You weren’t there when we met.” His smile wavered, ignoring the way that Chris’ shoulders relaxed as the attention moved away from him, and how Peter’s eyes narrowed at him. His chest ached, “Do you think he’s okay?”

“He’s alive,” Peter said swiftly, “We would know if he was dead.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Stiles licked his lips, lashes fluttering. He put his sandwich down on the floor, on top of the cheap plastic wrapper it had come in, and reaching for his water, “You think he’s got food and water? People to talk to? You think they’re torturing him with grey walls and—” He tugged at the chain around his ankle, rough enough to ache. “—pathetic restraints?” He shook his head, “We don’t even know who has him. This… This never happened before. It’s my fault, isn’t it?”

“No,” Laura said, eyes sharp when he met them, “You aren’t the one who kidnapped him. It’s not your fault, Stiles.”

“Maybe it is,” Peter drawled. 

Stiles’ chest panged up in something close to anxiety. Something painful. And nauseating. 

His head hurt, “What?”

Peter shrugged so uncaringly, “Maybe it is. Who cares? Wallowing won’t get you to him. You know what I do when I think something is my fault?” He shook his head, “I suck it up. Because the world doesn’t actually revolve around me. Or you. Or anyone. And all you can do once you’ve started something is finish it.” He gave Stiles a look, like it was simple, “That’s how you’ll get through this, Stiles. You’ll get us out, you’ll find him – and, by extension, whoever took him – and you’ll get your revenge.” He smiled, “Works every time.”

Stiles leant back, pressing himself flush against the wall, from head to tailbone, “I… Don’t say it like that.”

“Like what?” He grumbled, “The way it is?”

“Like you just bit Lydia to get me to tell you where Derek is,” Stiles snarled, “Or like Scott just exposed you for helping Kate.”

Peter’s eyes did the thing again. What was that? Vulnerability? Regret? Heartbreak? Some new version of anger? Stiles couldn’t look at him. It was too easy to believe that he’d changed. That he wasn’t that monster anymore. But maybe he just helped Stiles to make himself feel like he had changed. Maybe their friendship was just as selfish as everything else he’d ever done. Forget the fact that he’d apologised for the first time, and dropped everything to leave the country to help him. Peter’s need for power and control was pathological. Stiles wasn’t going to let him get it through him anymore. 

“Don’t say that,” Peter’s voice whispered. The fragility in his voice was so real Stiles couldn’t’ve stopped himself from looking up even if he tried. “I was sick.”

“Yeah,” Stiles nodded, “You were. I wouldn’t let Kate use that excuse any more than I’ll let you.”

“Kate wasn’t sick,” Peter snarled, “She was a monster. A real one.”

“Monsters don’t have one look, Peter,” Stiles sighed, looking back down at his bottle as he twisted the lid open and shut. Again and again. 

“Then what kind of monster are you?” 

“Peter,” Chris spat, “Stop.”

A hum of a laugh burned through Stiles, head shaking as the anger started to boil, properly, deep in his stomach. He closed his eyes, felt his foot begin to tap, the chain clanging incessantly as it did. 

“I’m sorry,” Peter spat back, sarcastic as all Hell, “But no matter how important he is to me, I’m gonna give as good as I get, Christopher. I’m not gonna sit here and take that.”

“Well, learn to,” Chris snarled, “He’s a kid. He’s in distress. He’s gonna say shit he doesn’t mean.”

“You don’t know how well he means it. And he’s not a kid.”

“Let’s just drop it!” Laura’s voice was too loud. It made Stiles’ body freeze. Made him still like he’d been shocked. He looked over to see her sat up now, hands in the air, “This is what they want. If we rip each others’ throats out, they don’t have to waste time and energy doing it themselves. Fighting won’t find Derek, or get us out.” She shot a fierce look in Peter’s direction, “You remember when Stiles was missing? When Gerard had him?”

“Yes,” Peter snarled, “I remember that from both sides. It’s great fun. I’m particularly loving it here, in this grey room, after being kidnapped.”

Laura’s brows twitched, “You remember how Derek was during it?”

Stiles’ heart panged. Laura’s eyes glanced at him, then away. 

“And you?” Laura nodded, “If Stiles hadn’t killed him, you would’ve. And Derek would’ve killed himself if we hadn’t found Stiles. It’s happening again. You see it, right?”

Stiles couldn’t look away. He didn’t understand.

“Derek…” Laura sighed, “I talked to him one night during it. He was… He was terrified, yeah, but not over Stiles dying. He literally said ‘Stiles doesn’t die’ and I thought he was losing his mind.” She shrugged, “He wasn’t scared that Stiles was gonna die, he was scared he’d lose him after. That he’d be so damaged he’d be someone else entirely.”

“What?” Stiles heard himself ask. 

Laura barely glanced at him, “I don’t know why I’m even telling you this, but my point is, Stiles doesn’t die, and neither does Derek. Okay? Somehow, he was erased from my memories entirely and he still found his way back. Hales are cockroaches. We don’t die. Derek is fine, and we need to focus, and get out before he’s the one so damaged that he cuts someone in half and drowns himself in a bathtub.”

Stiles swallowed. Throat already dry. The water was useless. 

Laura nodded to him, “I get it. I do. Kind of. But, seriously, you two need to get it together.” Her eyes flared gold, “You’re family.” 

Stiles felt his chest hiccup. He pressed his lips hard together, feeling the backs of them against his teeth. He could see Derek’s face in Laura’s. There wasn’t anything specific about it, but he could. They didn’t have the same eyes, barely had the same nose, not the same lips, or bone structure. He wondered who looked more like which parent. His eyes burned at the thought.

“I’m sorry,” he said, barely audible even to himself. 

There was a shuffling of clothes, and he watched Laura sit back, nodding gently. Then a bigger movement caught Stiles’ eye, and Peter was rising to his feet. He crossed the room, moving from the wall he’d been leaning against, the same as Chris, to Stiles’. The spark didn’t move an inch as Peter dropped down to sit beside him, rolling his shoulders and clasping his hands in his lap.

“I am…” Stiles watched him roll his eyes, “Sorry, too.”

He squinted, “Convincing.”

Peter turned to look at him. Stiles caught the exhaustion in his eyes. The darkness beneath them. The stubble turning to proper facial hair, the extra wrinkle he was sure Peter would lose his mind over once he gained access to a mirror. 

“You were right,” he murmured, “It was my fault. It is. And you don’t have to tell me to get revenge. I can do that on my own.”

“I know,” Peter said softly, “It’s what makes us so similar.” He nudged Stiles shoulder with his own. 

The spark’s brows furrowed, chest flaring in anger again, “Don’t ever compare me to Kate again. Not even under a thousand layers of vague bullshit.”

Peter almost flinched – almost, just in the eyes, “That’s… I didn’t mean it like that.”

“Sure.”

“Stiles.”

He huffed, meeting Peter’s stare with the kind of indignance that made himself want to shrink in embarrassment at the understanding that he absolutely looked like a petulant child being scolded by his father. Peter wasn’t his father. His father was thousands of miles away, with no idea where he was. His father wasn’t even his real father. But Peter looked at him the way he wished his dad would. Like he cared. Like he wanted what was best for him, in the sternest, most loving ways. Peter Hale wasn’t loving. He wasn’t caring. And it was fucked up that Stiles had to care for him. To find kinship with him. Friendship. To see him as a safe space, when he probably still wouldn’t hesitate to throw Stiles into danger if it saved his own ass.

He wouldn’t. Stiles knew that. He’d stayed here, hadn’t he? He’d held him while he cried and woke him when the food and water was dropped off. He’d saved him from Jennifer, and too many other assholes to count, now. He never had to do any of it. If he was half as selfish as Stiles wanted to believe he was, he’d be off in Greece, or something, sipping a wolfsbane-spiked cocktail on a beach. And he knew if anyone else tried to call him selfish, or cruel, or monstrous, Stiles would shut them up a little too violently. 

“Derek’s gonna be fine,” Peter said gently, “He has to be. Or else I can’t make you two’s wedding all about me.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh, a little too wet of a sound, looking back down at the bottle in his hands, “You do that with everyone’s weddings?”

“Sure do,” Peter said primly, “Did it with Chris’. Gonna do it with yours.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “I don’t think I want that.”

Peter nudged him with his shoulder again, “Don’t be crass.” He went quiet for a moment, Stiles meeting Chris’ eyes across the room as he did. The older man had that unimpressed high-browed look. The kind he would give Stiles whenever he made a shitty joke, or when Scott would fumble over his words while pretending him and Allison weren’t overly sexually active while under his roof. Peter’s fingers fidgeted with themselves for a second before he spoke again, “I did it at your parents’ wedding, too.”

Stiles’ jaw clenched shut. 

“Hey, there’s something to do,” Laura said, rising to her feet to cross the room, too. She dropped down on Stiles’ right, shimmying her shoulders as if she could be getting any more comfortable than not comfortable at all in that fucking place, smiling at Stiles softly, “Wedding planning.”

“This sounds like something Lydia would do to me,” Stiles grumbled, “You’re not usually the type to use this kind of torture.”

“How is it torture?” Peter grumbled, “You’ve actually been tortured.” Then, when Stiles turned to glare at him, he tilted his head, “Oh, wait, you don’t remember most of it. Guess who does, asshole.”

Stiles squinted at him, “You have the emotional regulation skills of a toddler, you know that? It was your idea for you to take my memor—”

“Wedding plans!!” Laura barked, a growl to her voice, “Spill.”

“I don’t have any,” Stiles growled right back, “I’ve never thought about it.”

She frowned, brows scrunching, “You haven’t? Derek has.”

And Stiles didn’t know his heart could break so many times in so little of it, shrinking back in on himself as he asked, “He has?”

Laura nodded, contemplative, “His playlist has too much Taylor Swift on it. He’s such a fucking nerd, I really cannot believe he’s meant to be related to me.”

“He made a playlist?” Stiles murmured. It made something stir in him. Something horrid, and sickening, and quick to make tears build in his eyes. His head still ached, his whole body did, his neck sure as hell did, too, and he just. He couldn’t. He couldn’t do this anymore. 

“He’s already picked out my bridesmaid’s dress,” Laura said lowly, “And I know you two aren’t actually engaged, but I figured, if he’s doing it, you might’ve done it, too—”

Stiles sniffled. Laura stopped. Her eyes darted down, then up. 

“What?” She asked, “Why are you upset?”

“He loves me,” Stiles whimpered. 

Pathetic. He was pathetic.

“And I’m stuck here and I can’t get to him,” he hissed in a breath, “He’s probably so scared. I– I need to get to him.”

“You will,” Peter said sternly, a hand coming up to hold his left shoulder, wrapping around his back, “We all will. Don’t get all sappy on us now.”

Laura’s left brow barely moved, but the shift in tension meant something. Something he didn’t know. Then Peter was dragging him in, pulling his head to his shoulder and, fuck, his neck hurt, and Laura was joining the hug, wrapping around his back and,God, Stiles was fucking useless. He couldn’t do this. Derek could be anywhere, going through anything, and he’d been spending his time dreaming about a wedding. He didn’t deserve this. Stiles didn’t even know if he was really gonna live to see tomorrow. Was he thinking about it now? Could that keep him alive? And sane? Focussing on that fantasy? Would he think about getting ready in the morning, with his sisters, and his pack? Or the ceremony? Was it Stiles he wanted, or the wedding itself? Was it the same wedding he’d wanted with Paige? What was Stiles doing here?

“Come on, Chris,” Peter grumbled, “Join the fun. Comfort the kid.” There was more shuffling, then a small thud. 

Stiles just kept his hands on his bottle of water. 

 

-

 

The sadness, the delirious angst, fell to the back of his mind eventually. He started planning. Scheming, plotting, the works. It was what he did. And, as he always said, they called them Stiles Plans for a reason. Not a very creative reason. But Derek wasn’t awfully creative. Stiles couldn’t blame him. It was gonna be so good when he saw him. He’d climb him like a tree. God, Derek was gorgeous. And sweet. And brave. And loving. And hot. And kind. And funny. And Stiles needed to be right next to him right now or he might shrivel up and die—

He slammed into the floor, yelping, groaning as his elbow thudded against the concrete. His ankle throbbed. He whined, rolling onto his back and staring up at the ceiling, eyes trailing down to his chained ankle, then to the hand over the links. 

Laura’s bright gold eyes stared straight to his soul, “If you don’t stop pacing, I will tear you to fucking pieces.” 

Her hair was greasy, so fucking greasy. Flat, and dark, and you could see just about every strand. There was a pimple on her jaw, right by a patch of freckles, which Stiles had watched appear, and grow, and burst, and now slowly start to settle over the course of… however long that had taken. 

“I thought we were in this together, Sharpay Evans,” Stiles murmured, “You know, I’ve never actually seen that movie. Movies? There were multiple, right? I mean, I know the songs. Or, most of them. I think. I almost did back when Scott got turned the first time, ‘cause I went to the Blockbuster’s and asked for movies about people finding their true selves and the guy told me to rent it, but I only had, like, ten bucks, and had already picked out ten movies. He didn’t end up watching any of them. I watched The Devil Wears Prada alone, though. I don’t think that Blockbuster guy really got what I was looking for—”

“Shut up,” Laura growled, “I am begging you. Please. Shut the hell up.”

“You know, I thought we were really bonding,” Stiles shook his head, still lying on the floor – it was almost comfortable now, “We all had that group hug. Really comforting. Made leaps and bounds towards finding our way out.” He lifted a hand, “I’ve had a few ideas—”

“How do you have… this much in you?” Laura sounded actually scared, “What is wrong with you?”

“—but I don’t know how good they really are,” he hummed, “Like, yeah, sure the classic fake an emergency and take them out when they come in to check on us but one, they want us dead, and two, they’ll have backup. Same goes for attacking when they come with the food and water. And we’re not on top form since we’re all fucking starving—”

“I could eat you,” she said. Serious. “I might. It’d get you to shut up.”

Stiles held out a finger, “Don’t say that, I have cannibal trauma.”

“Of course, you do.”

“I do, a kid’s last words before I impaled him with a beam were ‘I don’t want to kill you, Stiles, I just want to eat your legs’, ” he stared up at the grey, hands hovering awkwardly in the air where his air-quotes had been, “I never really worked through that as well as I should’ve. I didn’t mean to kill him. I thought they’d just slow him down. Not stab straight through him. Then Theo…” His words trailed off into a laugh. A low, bitter, burning laugh, “Theo fucking Raeken took the blame in front of my father, then told Scott I beat him to death with a wrench instead, and nobody questioned any of it, and then he killed Scott, and my dad almost died, and f-f-fuck, ” he hissed, drawing out the ‘f’, “I hate him. I fucking hate him. He better pray I don’t make it home. And that he never sees my face.” His arm fell back to the floor. His heart was pounding in his chest. His stomach, his throat, his lungs, all of him was aching with hunger. He blinked, “We could just kill each other and give up. And water and cheese sandwiches don’t make a good substitute for Adderall, Laura. That’s why I have so much this in me.” 

“If you don’t shut up about the Adderall,” Laura snarled, “I will turn you into Adderall.”

Stiles’ face scrunched up, “That doesn’t even make any sense.”

“Play nice, Laura,” Peter grumbled from somewhere. Chris chuffed from somewhere else. They hadn’t been so much as on the same half of the room since Stiles lost it over Derek’s wedding plans. That was ten sandwich-and-water-bottle drop-offs ago. 

If he could get this chain off, they wouldn’t have to worry about anything. It would be over in a split second. They’d tried – Peter and Laura, even Chris, once – but they’d burned their hands, and Chris had given up almost immediately. He only agreed to try because they’d started chanting it at him. Stiles was helpless to the diamonds. And he really was still the same kid. But that kid was smart. And his plans were stupid, and shouldn’t have worked, but they did. And he was going to make it work again. He was going to get to Derek. He was going to get his wedding. He was going to make it home alive. He was going to destroy the Calaveras one redhead at a fucking time. And he’d like to see them try and stop him.

 

-

 

That ADHD-induced determination slipped away when the hunger got too heavy. When he was left unable to sleep, no matter how much pain was taken from him. When Chris had been sitting in one place for as long as he could remember, and Peter and Laura were huddling too close together again, and there was fear in the air. It was the least putrid smell there, at least.

How long had they been there? How long had Derek been alone?

What would be happening now if his mom was still here?

She was magic. She didn’t just have it. It was her. Her words, her writing, her touch. It was the smell of her cooking, her perfume, her shampoo. It was the look on her face when she heard someone else speak Polish when they were out together. It was the stolen spoonfuls of whipped cream from Stiles’ hot chocolate. It was pop music and loud laughter and action movies with live commentary. It was being carried in, fake-asleep, from the driveway, getting tucked into bed, and feeling the ghost of her kiss on his forehead before she crept out of the room. She knew he was faking it. Of course, she knew. She was his mother. She was. 

When Peter said eventually through inaudible, exhausted mumbles, the truth of it all, the stupid confession, “I miss your mom, Stiles. I miss Claudia.” Chris had brought his own tired hands to his face on the other side of the room, right beside the door, and started to laugh. When he said it, Stiles had been so confused. All he’d thought of was what her magic had meant to him for too long now. The version of her that he’d watched burn. 

He knew how her fists felt pelting into him like bullets. What it looked like when she let it all go because she believed he was a real threat. The way her eyes filled with that electric purple, with no iris or pupil or white left. His didn’t do that. He didn’t think it did. 

She shouldn’t have died. It was not necessary. It was just the Nogitsune’s last ditch attempt at ruining Stiles enough to take his body forever. And it would’ve worked if Peter hadn’t gone into his brain and forced it out. But the damage was done. Claudia was gone. His mom. His twin. And how similar they were. Not just for their eyes, or their moles, or their hair colour. Not even their magic. They had the same voice. The same laugh. The same jokes. The same tastes. The same horrible ability to do the worst things. To burn. 

But she didn’t stop it. She knew it was going to happen. It was why she went on the defense for so long, why she ran. Why the grimoire was no longer in his skin in the first place. Somewhere along the way, she’d stopped running. She’d let it happen. Let him kill her. Why? Why would she do that? It was so stupid. She didn’t have to. She never had to. As much as the concept of necessity made Stiles want to tear his fucking hair out, it mattered now. Her death, and everything that had happened since, was so deeply, truly, madly unnecessary. And, if she hadn’t, would they be here now? Because she was magic. She was power. She was strength. And she was madness, enough to throw caution to the wind and blow enough shit to Hell to save Derek. She would’ve done it all wrong, and Stiles would’ve hated the very sight of her, but she would be there. He wouldn't have to miss her again.

That was when he heard it.

A whisper. A voice. 

“Mischief,” it said, “Not the best of times, huh?”

His bleary eyes found his ankle, the chains still clasped tight around him. His skin rubbed red raw beneath. Diamonds glistening.

“You’re not real,” he murmured back, voice scratching against his dry throat, “You can’t be.”

“Does it make a difference? I’m a voice in your head either way. Maybe you’ve always been crazy.”

Stiles sighed heavily, “Maybe.”

Someone murmured somewhere. 

“It’s not looking good, Mischief.”

He just breathed.

“You need to get out of here.”

In, and out. 

“Stiles.”

He blinked his eyes open. When had he closed them? When had that voice come – when had Derek gotten here?

His lip quivered as he spoke, “Derek?”

He was there. He was.

“Stiles. You need to get out.”

Stiles nodded, “I know. I know. I… It’s okay.”

Derek was giving him one of those stern looks, the too-familial one, “Stiles. Go.” The wolf nodded, and Stiles was reaching out to him.

He couldn’t touch. 

He couldn’t.

Touch.

“Do what you have to, Stiles, but you have to get out. You have to get us home.”

Stiles nodded, “Home.”

“Come home.”

Derek’s eyes were so beautiful when they weren’t sad. His eyes looked too sad too often. 

Why couldn’t he touch him?

“Do whatever’s necessary, Stiles.”

“I want my groomsmen to wear purple. I decided that.”

He smiled. 

They smiled.

“Do what is necessary.”

The door dragged open, and Derek was gone. His heart reached out for him more than his hands did. Stiles’ burning eyes blinked, darting, aching. It was more than when they’d drop in the water and those pathetic sandwiches. Not enough. Not nearly enough. Stiles couldn’t fucking breathe. 

Araya was right there. And she was stepping past the mountain ash. 

Stiles couldn’t move. He couldn’t sit up. He could hardly lift his head. He wanted to fight, as Araya came closer. So smug. So strong. So unfazed. 

Someone growled, and Peter lunged at her, and her arm struck out to the side. There was a buzz, and a bright blue flash, and Stiles almost thought she’d gotten something she shouldn’t have. A spark. A spell. But no. It was a taser. He knew tasers. It was okay. Peter was okay. And Araya was still walking toward him. Laura was in front of him – only identifiable because nobody else had long enough hair, not even Peter or Stiles, who he was pretty sure were both catching up to her. She growled. Weak. Unthreatening. Stiles pressed his eyes shut to keep the sight of her convulsing body from hitting them when the buzzing started again. It was quick, at least. Nonlethal. 

What did she want with him?

He couldn’t die. 

Do what is necessary.

Araya was too close, he could feel her over him; hear the far away murmurs of her voice. Something tugged against the near-numb point where his foot was chained, and then it all changed.

Then, there was noise. 

Then, there was strength.

Then, there was the urge to reach out and blast this bitch to scorched dust. 

Then, there was a cold and heavy pressure against his temple, “Try anything, and we put your little friends down.”

His eyes fell open. He took another deep breath. The nausea was still too strong, the hunger blaring too loudly within him. But he could feel the spark burning beneath his skin. He had time. What would Claudia do?

“Okay,” he said weakly, grovelled, “Okay.”

“Good,” Araya said, “On your feet. You’re coming with me.”

She grabbed at his arm, yanking him upward, but as soon as he was on his feet, his legs were giving out beneath him. He groaned, swallowing down the flare of panic at his body not listening, as Araya growled out some unintelligible orders and kept dragging him forward. He just about forced his legs to stay solid by the time they reached the door. Whether it was intentional or not, his feet – shoes long-abandoned – scuffed the mountain ash line as he passed it. Any hope of escape for the others wilted away as he caught the blurry form of someone fixing it. 

Fuck. 

Whatever. Whatever. He could walk now, even though his right knee kept dipping too low from the numbness of his leg and his foot, and the pins and needles slowly lighting up through his muscles. He was out. He was out of that fucking room, and he couldn’t even do anything. He could barely walk. And Peter and Laura were still there with fucking werewolf hunters and Chris was far too out of it to help and, damn. This was fucked. They were fucked. 

It felt like he’d teleported. Just a blink, and they were miles away, in some place he’d never seen before. Not miles. It couldn’t’ve been miles. 

He was dropped into a solidness. A seat. He muffled another groan, reaching down to paw uselessly at his leg as the stabbing pains got too strong. His vision was slowly clearing. 

“So,” Araya’s voice felt too loud, “It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

“How… long,” Stiles croaked.

She was there, in front of him, looking down at him, smiling, “Thirteen days.”

Everything felt so heavy, he couldn’t tell if his face had fallen or if it had just never lifted, “Thirteen?”

“You don’t look your best,” Araya tilted her head, “I thought you might be dead by now, especially once we stopped the food and water, so…” She shrugged, “I suppose you’re not doing too bad.”

“Why am I here?” The words were cracked and growled. Araya took a small step back, turning away. His eyes started to scan over the room. It didn’t take long to figure out what this place was for. The pliers, lighters, ropes and chains, knobs and wires – most things he couldn’t even recognise, let alone tell what they were used for. Nothing good, he was sure of that. Not where he wanted to be. Not at all. 

“We’re looking for someone,” Araya said, “And she just so happens to be looking for you.” He could hear the smile in her voice, “Why waste our energy when we could make her do it instead?”

Stiles’ eyes fell shut, a hefty breath plowing through the stale air, “I’m the bait?”

Araya hummed shortly, “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Who…” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut tighter, shaking his head, fighting the pounding in his skull and the nausea and the buzzing of his bones, “Who’s looking?”

There were footsteps, and soft clacks, and Stiles just dropped his head. Nobody answered him. He shouldn’t’ve expected them to. He hadn’t expected, though, to open his eyes and lift his head, and find himself staring down the lens of a camera. Araya was stood over a man’s shoulder. She met his eyes after a minute, and he had no fucking idea what was going on. 

She smiled, “Who’s watching, you mean.”

He shook his head, “What?”

She just looked away, walking off to a table of tools, or something, and the man behind the camera gave her a silent thumbs up when she looked back. Stiles looked to the lens again. He stayed as still as he could. 

Do what is necessary.

He listened to her shifting things around, mindlessly murmuring and taunting, threatening – ‘Do you know how many teeth you have, Stiles?’, ‘Which hand would you say is your favourite?’, ‘Do you still have both kidneys, Rojito?’ – and, really, it was fine background noise. Good ideas. Decent, at least. Not very creative. And, really. Unnecessary. Stiles swallowed, throat still dry as sandpaper, but body far from as weak as it had been. Why wouldn’t she chain him up again? 

It would be easy. Too easy. As if he would complain. Stiles could so go for easy right now. Easy peasy, lemon squeezy. Blow her to smithereens. Shatter that fucking camera. Take the SD card. And run. Pray that they didn’t notice, and pray that his friends haven’t paid the price for it. He wasn’t gonna lose Peter again. Not like this. 

He made his mind up when Araya turned around and he saw the pliers in her hand. 

Do what is necessary. 

It all happened too fast. It had been too long since he felt it. Used it. Since the sparks burned in his chest and engulfed his heart, and he couldn’t think of anything but surviving. Not Derek. Not his mom. Not the people he’d left behind in that horrible concrete room. Not the weakness in his knees and the ache in his back. None of it mattered. All that mattered was getting away. 

He lunged at her as soon as the light caught that metal tool. The red was too bright. Too loud. Too strong. He didn’t even know where it was coming from – how was he doing that now? He could barely walk alone but, with that light, he could throw the wooden chair he sat on across the room and hear it shatter on impact. He could grab Araya’s wrinkled, sun spot-covered skin and send a pulse strong enough to make it worth it when she wrestled his too-weak body around and slammed him back into that table. Something stung, and all of it was freezing, the cold cut of metal, as it all fell to the floor. 

Araya stumbled away, spitting something in Spanish that Stiles didn’t need an AP language class to know was not safe for work. He breathed in slow, and deep, and he couldn’t sit up for a while because his head was spinning so bad he was sure it had to be the room turning on its side. That moment to collect himself might not have been the best. The camera guy seemed to think it was. So, Stiles reached a screaming arm over and back to feel at the pile of metal bullshit until he could get a hold of something, without a clue what it was, and bring it around swinging. The clunk of it thudding into his skull sent a gratified lightness through him. Happiness. Ease. Because the man toppled over so uselessly, just as the object did, and Stiles was still standing. Or lying. 

It took too much effort to get up. He was sluggish, and weak, and enraged by it all. Less the situation, and more the fact that he was still, even with his spark back, relatively fucking useless.  

Derek would tell him off for thinking like that.

Derek. 

He had to get to Derek.

And when he saw the meat cleaver on the floor, it didn’t take any thought at all for him to grab it. Somehow just a knife was almost too much weight for him to carry. Pathetic. Ridiculous. 

These people did this to him. He hated them. He hated them. He was burning with it. 

The camera still stood in the middle of the room – unphased, unmoved. Stiles stared down into the lens for a moment, no longer eye-level with it. Araya was snarling somewhere across the room, hissing between words. He’d gotten her good. He looked over to see her reaching for a black box on another table, something he couldn’t identify until he saw the antenna. 

His arm shot up and out, dragging the energy right from the ground beneath them and through himself. It burned on the way out, left his hand fuzzy, tingling. The sparks rushed out like lightning – such a deep, bright red – right into her hand. She shouted, dropped the radio and stumbled backward. The little black box started to smoke, and she turned her back to him, folded over, arms brought inward. Stiles wanted to burn her alive. 

But he just looked back at the camera, brought his heavy arm up, and back, and swung down as he threw the knife with as much force as he could muster. The thing clattered to the ground, with the comically large blade stuck out of it like a mean splinter, and Stiles stormed over. He bent down, knees giving out as he did, slamming into the pile of plastic and metal and fuck that hurt, and his fingers were shaky and weak and inaccurate as he unplugged the seemingly endless amount of wires and tried to find the SD card. When he found the sliding face he knew it would be behind, he couldn’t get it open. Whether that was because he was so out of it he could hardly get his hands to do what he wanted, or because it was stuck, or it wasn’t even the right thing, it was still pissing him off just as badly.

Araya was still huffing, cursing, licking her own wounds on the other side of the room. Her breaths turned to something too close to a laugh. 

Stiles didn’t care.

“Did you find him?” He growled.

Araya’s shoulders fell, “Who, Derek? You think I’ll tell you that?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles said, and it didn’t hurt to speak anymore, “But I do know he’s still alive.”

She hummed, “What makes you think that?”

“You would’ve come running the second you found out,” Stiles said, “And you would’ve found out. So, he’s alive. And you know exactly where he is.” He rose to his feet, moving across the room, “And you’re gonna tell me.”

She laughed at that, “Rojito.” She turned around, cradling her hand, eyes sharp and too full of light, “You think I will tell you anything?” She shook her head, “I take my loyalties very seriously, Mijo. You’re not getting anything out of me.”

“Alright,” Stiles nodded, “So… you have no use to me.”

Her eyes sharpened, “Oh, I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

Do what is necessary.

He pursed his lips, “Well, if you insist.”

He stepped back, leant forward, and yanked the knife back out from the wreckage of the camera. He blinked the spots out of his vision. He rose to his full height. And he let the whispers hiss straight into his ears as the sparks flickered out. They kept him up, kept his feet moving, powered him on. If the whispers formed real words, he didn’t listen. He didn’t hear. He just kept going. He didn’t have time to listen. 

Araya barely leant away from him, not taking a full step back, but showing some sort of hesitation. Enough. As if she thought Stiles would stop before he got to her. 

Wrong.

She was so ridiculously wrong about him. 

That cleaver was pressed against her throat, with her back to the wall and a flashing hand hovering over her chin before Stiles could stop himself. It was necessary. It was.

“Tell me where he is,” Stiles said slowly, “Or I render you braindead.”

Araya just stared at him. Unfazed. Unimpressed.

“If you do, my men will kill yours,” she said simply, “And you’ll never find him. Is that what you want? To go home with even more blood on your hands, alone?”

“You were gonna kill them anyway,” Stiles snarled, “Start. Talking.”

Her eyes sharpened, and her smile widened, pulling at her skin – smile lines so pronounced, “You’d really give them all up for him? For some wolf with no purpose and killers’ eyes?”

Stiles’ heart didn’t stutter – do what is necessary, “Tell me.” He pressed harder, watching little dots of blood start to line the top of the blade. She took in a slow breath through her nose, and pressed her mouth firmly shut. Her smile was so smug. So self-righteous. Stiles’ fingers itched with the urge to just press on and swing – slash her throat open and watch her voice box flex as she tried and failed to cry out for help. Would she cry? Or would she die in silence?

“If it’s his plan for me that you’ll do this today,” she said calmly, “Then may God tear my throat open himself.”

“I don’t believe in God,” Stiles murmured back.

Her brows twitched upward, “No? Well. There’s still time to repent, mijo.”

“You think he forgives you?” Stiles tilted his head, “All the lives you’ve taken, you think anyone would? You need him to be real. No person could forgive you the way he can, you know that?”

She smiled at that, properly, “Hate the sin, love the sinner.”

And Siles grabbed her jaw. The red glow of his palm was lighting up her skin, glowing through her in a distinctly unique colour. Blood orange. 

She shook. 

Her lip curled. 

Her eyes squeezed shut.

He took a breath in, ready to let it all go on the exhale, blow her skull up, or fry it. She deserved it. By God, she did.

Then he heard it.

He heard them. 

He heard the wail of a banshee. 

Lydia. How had they… It took them thirteen days to find him? Thirteen fucking days? He found this place in less than forty-eight hours the first time he thought Derek was here. And he was human. He was useless, and still not as useless as these fucking people. His pack was so helpless without him it was a damn shock they’d even lived long enough to find him at all. And if the anger made the sparks flash brighter, and the understanding of what was going on made him pull back, well, whatever state that left Araya in was not one he stuck around to see. 

He stormed out, past the grated door, so easy to get out of, really, who did they think he was? He was the damned Alpha of Beacon Hills. He was the most powerful spark these fuckers had ever seen, he could guess that much. What, did they think he wouldn’t fight back just because he was a little hungry? A little parched? A little sleepy? There was no way they were that stupid. No fucking way. 

When he reached Araya’s office, his hands were flexing open and shut over and over by his sides. They were shaking so furiously. He felt like he was on cocaine or something, the way his mind was racing. Having his spark back was a high, sure. Something like that. 

It was a wordless nudge that made him go in. A feeling. An urge. Like a shove to the back. And the whispers were so… so…

His grimoire. There, hung on the side of a bookshelf in the satchel he’d gotten too used to keeping it in. His mother’s grimoire. His feet were rushing again, and there was someone in the room, and he didn’t care, and they were reaching for a gun, and he saw it, and he didn’t care, and then a shot was ringing out.

He still didn’t care. But it was neat that he wasn’t the one getting shot. He glanced over as the gunman fell to the floor, clutching at his ribs, and he just kept going. He just had to keep going. And he did. And the bag was hanging across his chest in a second, and it felt like it weighed a thousand tons, and it was back.

The whispers were so loud. 

Don’t listen.

Do what is necessary.

“Stiles!” A voice was growing nearer, clearer, “Stiles!!”

He didn’t turn around. It was the hands grabbing his shoulders that made him. And the face he was met with didn’t give him much to celebrate. Not even as it softened in concern and dragged him into a smothering hug.

Not here. Not now.

“Dad?” Stiles heard his own voice ask, “You… You can’t be here.”

“It’s okay,” the Sheriff nodded, pulling away, still holding Stiles by the shoulders, “We got the others out. We gotta go meet them.”

“Did you…” Stiles shook his head, “Where’s Derek?”

Noah paused, brows twitching downward, “He’s not… He’s not with you?”

And Stiles took in a deep breath, “Alright, what took you so fucking long, then? Huh? Two fucking weeks of us rotting and you didn’t even find him? You people—” He couldn’t breathe, “I need to get to him.”

“How are you going to do that?” Noah hissed, “Is he here?”

“No,” Stiles’ throat was closing up, “Maybe? I don’t… I…”

His eyes darted down to the satchel. 

Maybe he ought to stop moving without thinking. Surely, it’d fuck him up sooner or later. But, right now, Stiles had no space for rationality. Just necessity. And his father was here – why was he here? – and Derek was not, and anything could have happened to him in two damn weeks. 

Stiles spat the spell like a curse, “Explico.” And, really, it shouldn’t have worked. Not with that much malice around him. Not when he was that weak – he could pretend he wasn’t, but his father’s hands were practically holding him up, even if the sensation had so-suddenly vanished.

It flashed before his eyes like a shitty action movie. Or a horror. Far more horror. Derek, in a dark room with brick walls. The tiny sliver of light from the gated window by the ceiling. Like a damn jail cell. He wasn’t tortured. He was fed – more than Stiles, at least – and given enough water to actually stay hydrated. Still, he had no bed. But he was alive. And he was safe. Relatively. And, then, the door was opening, and a woman was walking in.

Stiles’ eyes snapped back open with the sight of long, red hair burned into his retinas. 

“Hello??” Noah was shouting in his face, “Stiles, what the hell was that?! You look like you’re about to drop dead.”

“She took him,” Stiles muttered, “That bitch took him.”

“Who?” Noah’s face was scrunched up, “Stiles, we have to go. ”

He ran his tongue over his teeth and nodded, “Yeah. We do have to go.”

He still didn’t know where he was. Stiles would be damn impressed if he made it home without killing anybody. What’s one more body anyway.

His dad just kept talking, ushering him away, walking through the halls like he knew where he was going, and maybe he did. Stiles didn’t know. He didn’t know what took them so long. Or how they got in. Or who came. Or where Derek was. And somehow he hadn’t keeled over and died from exhaustion yet. He hadn’t slept in days, apparently, if they were only getting one bottle and one sandwich per twenty-four hours, and he’d been awake and staring at the door for the last four of them. It felt like time was skipping with every too-long blink of his eyes. 

Music was blaring, and everyone was there. Or something. Lydia was there. He noticed that. And he noticed Liam, and Mason, for some reason – that kid had no business being here, he was gonna get his face blown off by a hunter who didn’t know who he was – and Scott. And… others. Probably. None of it was going into his head. It was all just useless information, entering his brain and leaving just as fast. None of them were Derek. And he was so, so tired.

He just kept walking. And walking. And people were talking, shouting, grabbing, and the music was just so loud.

Red hair.

Stiles stopped dead in his tracks. The stillness made him sway, head still spinning a little bit. That red hair, darker than Lydia’s strawberry blonde, closer to brown than red. That face, looking over her shoulder, smiling and raising her brows as if to say ‘Oh, there you are.’ before she kept walking and vanished past towards the entrance.

He saw red.

It had all been a blur already, and it did not get any clearer from then on. It was him sprinting out of the club, slamming into walls, chased closely behind by whatever people from his pack had come down to find him, and stumbling out into the square. The sun burned his eyes, and he could see Allison shutting the doors to a van, and another speeding out onto the street.

“Follow her,” he growled, raising his voice as he ran out across the road to get to Allison, “Follow that fucking van!!”

“What?” Allison, “Stiles—”

“Just do it!!” He cried, rounding the vehicle and clambering into the passenger’s seat as Allison climbed into the driver’s.

“The others are—”

“Leave them,” Stiles snarled, “Start driving, or I’ll tear your head clean off your shoulders.”

Allison just sighed, and started the car. At least someone had a sense of urgency in this pack. Allison got it. She was smart. She was strong. She was capable. This is why they left her in charge, right? There was movement in the back of the van, and Stiles looked past the grate – was this a police van? Again, seriously? – to see Peter, and Chris, and Laura all half-dead on the other side. He took in a shaky breath, and let it go just as shakily. They were only half-dead. The Calaveras hadn’t hurt them. Good. He was going towards Derek. Good. He was out of that place. Good.

And he promptly passed out. 

He woke, some amount of time later, with his stomach aching so bad he could feel it in his throat. His throat was back to being bone-dry. He felt like walking death. Or, sitting death. Whatever. 

“Why’d we stop?” He slurred, voice scratchy and painful. God, he’d just gotten over that.

“‘Cause she stopped,” Allison’s voice answered.

Stiles sighed, sat up, and reached for his seatbelt. His movements were sluggish. And he couldn’t breathe. But he had to go. This was it. The end. He’d get Derek, and it would be over.

“Stiles,” she said softly, reaching over to grab his hand. He looked up at her. She craned her neck down to meet his eyes, “You should stay here and rest. The others won’t be far behind, okay? We can handle this.”

He just shook his head, “No. He’s my responsibility. It’s my fault this happened.”

Allison just stared at him, “Stiles.”

He shrugged his shoulders, and tossed the seatbelt away, “Love you, Allison. Wait for the others, yeah?”

She called out as he forced the door open, shouting into the dust as he stormed off. She’d better wait. Her ability to listen to instructions was nothing short of inconsistent. But, right now, she had to listen. She just had to. Stiles wasn’t putting anyone else in danger for something he started. He was going to end it himself. 

The grimoire hung heavy on his aching shoulders. 

He was going to do what was necessary. 

They’d parked outside of a motel. Abandoned. Only one other car in the lot – that woman’s van. The motel was so unbelievably familiar. But all motels looked the same, anyway. And the understanding that this woman absolutely led them here on purpose made his skin crawl, but so did the fact that he felt like he was going to freeze to death when the sun was still glaring down on him. Setting now. But still. He’d probably be the one to die today, with the way things were looking. 

The problem with motels, though, was that any room could be the one he wanted. And none of them looked like prison cells. 

Stiles’ hand tightened around the bag’s strap.

Explico.

The whispers walked him through it. The blurred vision of Derek’s hands his torn-up jeans, his stumbling feet over stained concrete. Of the door three away from the right, on the ground floor. Room number eight.

This place was so familiar. But, hey. Shitty motels are universal.

Stiles stared at that door for a long moment, when he snapped back. He had to count his fingers to be sure he even had. Maybe he should stop using that spell. It was far too Harry Potter, anyway. I mean, if he shouted Avada Kedavra as he murdered this woman, would it make it less horrible? Maybe not. He couldn’t blame being the Chosen One. But this had to end. Now. 

His hand rose, ready to blast the door straight off its hinges, and then it swung open. 

Stiles had gotten too comfortable with staring down the barrel of a gun. 

“Stiles,” she said. He’d never heard her voice before. It wasn’t anything special. The woman tilted her head, “Glad you could join us.”

His eyes flickered past her, to glaringly familiar shoes peaking out from behind a bed. 

Derek. 

Derek.

Stiles’ eyes snapped back to her, gun erased from his field of vision entirely. And, again, he moved without thinking. He shot forward, threw the both of them to the floor, let the shots ring out above him. His ears rang as the gun went off right beside it, downright deafening him, but he didn’t care. He did not care. There was a flash of shining silver, glimmering crystals, and Stiles didn’t care.  

“You took him,” he snarled into her ear, wrestling to keep her pressed down against the floor, “You took him. And you really thought this would end well for you?” He pulled back to look her in the eye, glaring down at the dark indifference in her stare, “You shouldn’t’ve brought me here.”

She didn’t let him get another word out, “I don’t care if you kill me. I hope you do.” She nodded, “But not before I take from you what you took from me.”

Her arm arced around, lay flat on the ground, and the gun was pointed right at Derek. Stiles could see his face now, eyes squinted, dark circles so bold beneath them. Beard and hair the longest he’d ever seen. He was sure he looked the same. Insane, that is. Still so perfect. And alive. And right in front of him. And not a hallucination. 

“Stiles,” he growled. A helpless, desperate sort of growl.

He was alive.  

And he would not die. 

Stiles moved impossibly fast, even by his standards, as he brought his hand up and over to slam his closed fist into her arm. She cried out, and the gun fired, and Derek howled. Stiles cursed, reaching for the gun as she let go, screaming and pulling her arm in towards herself. Broken. He felt the bone snap beneath his hand. And his finger was pulsing, aching so badly, as if it had its own heartbeat. It was fine. Derek was not. Stiles scrambled over to him, as the woman rolled away. 

“Stiles,” Derek whimpered. 

“Derek,” he breathed out, “Hey. Hey, you’re okay. Where were you hit?”

“Leg,” Derek grunted out, “Fuck.”

Stiles yanked the satchel up into his lap, pulling the grimoire out and ignoring the whispers, “You’re okay. You’re gonna be fine.” If his words were slurred, he couldn’t tell. And if the words were swimming on the page, he couldn’t tell, either. How stupid that he’d memorised that bullshit revealing spell, and not the most simple of healing ones?

“Wolfsbane, right?” Stiles asked. He looked up to see Derek nodding. 

The wolf sighed, “Are you real?”

Stiles laughed, “I was thinking the same thing, big guy. I’m real.”

Derek huffed, “Sounds like something a hallucination would say.”

Stiles laughed, again, more bitter than before, and when he looked up again, Derek’s eyes flashed.

Gold.

He paused, “What.”

Derek’s brows furrowed, “What?”

“Nothing,” Stiles said lowly. Maybe this wasn’t real, after all. Maybe that, alone, was a hallucination. Maybe Stiles was actually dyslexic, because he couldn’t read the words on this fucking page. There was no purple smoke rising from the wound. Derek’s eyes were gold, and he wasn’t healing. Not quickly, anyway. He forced his foot up into the air to look for an exit wound, and sighed with relief at the sight of one.

He couldn’t deal with this right now. Not if he also had to dig a bullet out of his boyfriend’s thigh.

He couldn’t go through this again. God. God.

Stiles glared down at the page until the words made enough sense to read out loud, and willed the wound shut, all the way through, until he was sure it had healed. He swallowed thickly, and Derek sighed with relief, and Stiles stared down at the scar until his vision started to blur again. 

“I love you,” Derek said, so weakly, “Where were you?”

“Nowhere fun, I’ll tell you that,” Stiles murmured back, “I’m so sorry. I should’ve been with you.”

Derek was shaking his head, “It’s okay. I shouldn’t’ve let you get in that van.”

Stiles laughed, “That fucking van. God, I’m gonna kill Rafael when we get back.” 

Derek laughed, only a little. Then his eyes darted away, and they sharpened, and Stiles could’ve shot himself in the head. There were cars pulling up, engines roaring, and there was shouting, and gunfire, and Stiles looked over his shoulder to see that Godforsaken woman again.

“Hey, Derek,” he snarled, clapping the grimoire shut, “What’s Spanish for ‘I’m going to kill this bitch right now’? ”

 

-

 

Peter thought they were gonna die there. Honest to God. And he didn’t even believe in God. He considered it, once they got to day Whatever The Fuck of captivity, and Chris was starting to look like a decent choice of pillow. It was a mess. And the man kept droning on and on about his daughter and, please. Being in that room was torture enough. He didn’t need that, too. So, when Lydia’s scream rang out loud enough to pierce through the concrete, right after Stiles had been dragged out by Araya herself, Peter did think for a moment that it was the first trumpet signaling the end times. Or a demon coming to drag him to hell. Something colourful and bright like that. But, no. It was the pack. Stiles’ pack. And Stiles was alive, too, somehow, and Chris was smiling like he’d seen Heaven and hm. It was shaping out to be quite the (apparently) thirteen-day-long vacation. 

He liked to think he was an adaptable guy. And, as high-maintenance as he’d admit he was, when it came down to it, he was a wolf. He was an animal. He could push through all that bullshit, and a nap in the back of a police van for however many hours would have him back on his feet. Laura was the same. Moreso, even. Don’t even get him started on Stiles. But Chris was not. He was a tough guy, okay, but he was just a guy. He’d needed food, and water, and couldn’t quite fall asleep in the car, and the exhaustion coming off of him, and the irregularity of his heart, the stench of pain and hunger, it was all too much. It wasn’t fair. 

So, when they got to that motel, and the Calaveras had soon followed, he had not expected Chris to join the fight. 

It had gotten out of hand quick, and Peter had still been asleep when the gunshots started. Chris had wrangled Allison into the back of the van, and barked at Laura to keep her there, and Peter had just about done the exact same thing, albeit the other way around. It was like warfare out there. Peter wasn’t sure where exactly Stiles was, but he could hear his heartbeat. And he could smell Derek. Pungent was the only way he could describe the way they all smelled, now. 

“Hey, Chris!” He called out, back against the side of the van, listening to the shots and the shattering windows and the roars of wolves, “How d’you bet your wife’s gonna be when you get home? Two weeks away, dragging your daughter out here?” He kissed his teeth, singing, “She won’t be happy.”

Chris looked like he wanted him dead, “I’m divorcing her, Peter. I don’t care what she thinks.” 

The wolf froze. The fighting didn’t. Chris didn’t, leaning around the van periodically to shoot, then hide again.

He hadn’t seen that coming

Peter licked his lips, huffing out a laugh, “Do you ever go through with anything?”

And Chris laughed. A disbelieving, loud, sincere laugh. The kind that can only be punched out of you. And Peter’s stomach fell. Chris’ eyes were so soft, and crinkled at the edges, and they barely sharpened over Peter’s shoulder before his hand was raised and one singular shot was piercing through the air. Peter turned back to watch the body fall to the floor, limp as anything, and this was his worst nightmare. 

He really did still love this guy.

Not right now. Not right now, Peter. People were dying. Stiles was somewhere, and the person who took Derek was God knows where, and, really, there was no good time for this at all, but it was not now. 

They were getting a divorce. 

He’d just spent thirteen days locked in a room, thinking Chris was in love with someone else, and they were getting a divorce.

He was going to lose his mind. Which was a redundant statement. He’d lost it a long time ago. 

The front of one of the motel rooms burst open with a spark-laced explosion with absolutely no forewarning. Peter flinched so hard he almost pulled a muscle. Chris did the same, raising his arms to cover his head. The dust settled fast enough, though the rubble must’ve hit at least somebody. 

Then a woman was rising from the floor, groaning down at the concrete. Peter shared a hesitant glance with the hunter by his side. Chris was back into that zone, the gun-slinging, no-funny-business zone. Hot. Peter needed to get it together. Seriously. 

Stiles was walking out from the open wall, with Derek behind him, grimoire in hand and eyes glowing a furious red. 

“You guys want the girl who framed you?” He barked out, “Have her.” 

The silence only lasted a second. Then guns were going off again, and this time Stiles was in their line of fire, and Peter wasn’t going to let that happen. 

He lost track of him almost immediately, beyond the faint, steady but fast, pulse of his heartbeat beneath the wall of gunfire. He got hit, a few times, and at least two of those shots were taken in Derek’s place. He’d pay him back, preferably with real money. But he was fine with this. Until it got too tiresome to be this human about it.

The shift came easy. The knowledge that he’d have to stay like this or go home naked did not. But all thoughts largely left when he shifted. It was nice. 

It was primal. 

He could tear through the hunters with absolutely no remorse. It wasn’t in him anymore to feel it. Just the urge to maim, and protect, and run. And that’s all he knew, for a while. A seemingly infinitely long while.

Bite. 

Tear. 

Claw.

Mindless, efficient, invigorating, really.

For all the ways he expected to see Stiles again, it was not at all what actually happened. He thought he’d have to pounce, wrestle someone off of him, or see him fire a gun at someone else or blow something else up, or watch him drag Derek back to the van. Maybe they wouldn’t see each other until everyone was on their way home. Not this. Absolutely not this. 

Not stood, still as he could, with a knife held to his throat. 

“Choose, Stiles,” the woman with the knife said, poignant, “Your life, or your pack’s.”

“Stiles!” Lydia called out, as the gunfire started to slow. Not quite cease. But slow. Her voice was thick with grief, and Peter felt his claws dig into the ground beneath them. His vision was solid red. Stiles’ heartbeat was too faint. Lydia cried out, “You have to listen!” 

Stiles’ eyes slowly moved to her. 

“Listen to her!” She wailed, “Listen to the voice!!”

Then, the gunshots stopped. 

The lot fell to silence. 

Peter could hear every minuscule movement. Every single one.

Stiles’ jaw tightened, Derek’s heart rocketed up, and the spark leant forward into the blade, “I am listening.” His open mouth closed into a grin, and his left eye twitched when they found Peter’s. 

A fucking wink?

The growl came out of him without intention. This was wrong. 

Wrong. 

Wrong. 

Wrong.

“Do it,” Stiles said plainly. 

The woman’s hand tightened around the blade, and then her arm was swinging out in a blood-painted arc. Peter roared, the metallic, horrid scent hitting his nose in the instant, and the sight of Stiles’ throat open was not leaving him any time soon. He heard Derek’s own howl before he saw him, sprinting in without any care as the blood continued to flow. 

Stiles met Peter’s eyes again. And his lips mouthed the words, silent, gasping, gurgling, ‘a deal’s a deal’. Peter stood still, tail between his legs. Petrified. He wanted to run. To Stiles, or out onto the road. 

Then Chris’ voice was booming, over the desperate cries of the too-many teenagers around them, “You got what you wanted!! A deal’s a deal, huh?!” He was raising his gun to the hunters, eyes so dark they didn’t look blue anymore. Murderous. “Go. And if we ever see your faces again, you’ll be shipped home without recognisable ones.”

Peter didn’t watch them. Didn’t listen to them. Just listened to Stiles’ heartbeat. So fast. So, so fast. And he was propped up on Derek’s knee, held tight in his bloodied hands, pressing down on the wound. Stiles just stared up at him, with wide eyes. Claudia’s eyes. 

Dying. 

He did hear it when the cars started to leave. The tires rolled over gravel like tiny gunshots of their own. Each one struck him right in the heart. He’d never been paralysed like this. 

The stench of guilt was so heavy. 

This wasn’t right. This couldn’t be right. 

“Hey,” Derek was whispering, “Hey, hey, you’re okay.” His voice was so thick with terror. His eyes. His eyes. “You can’t do this to me again, Stiles,” he growled. And his eyes were darting over the rubble of that room’s wall, “Where’s… Where is your grimoire? Stiles, where is it? We can fix this.”

Stiles just shook his head, “Sorry,” he said, “I had to.”

“What?” Derek whispered, stroking the hair from his face, “Don’t talk.”

Peter’s skin crawled. His hackles raised. His next breath came as the deepest of growls. Because this wasn’t fair. Derek didn’t deserve to live through this again. It wasn’t fair. It was cruel. And unnecessary. And the Calaveras’ vans were vanishing over the horizon, and Stiles was glowing. 

How low do you have to go for Peter Hale to think you’ve gone too far?

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t think his throat would actually get slit. 

Not when it was all an illusion.

As he watched that huntress hold the knife to his throat, focusing with all the energy he had left to not have that fake him vanish into thin air, and to move when he was supposed to, and to react to the people yelling at him, he thought he might just drop dead. But he’d stared in horror at this spell enough times. More than the runes, or the healing spells, or anything else in that damn book. He knew he could do it. He already had, hadn’t he? 

If he wanted the Calaveras to leave him alone, he had to do it. 

He had to do what was necessary. 

“Stiles!!” Lydia’s voice cried out, “You have to listen! Listen to her!! ”

The book was too heavy.

The whispers were too loud.

“Listen to the voice!!”

And his voice came through the way he intended it to, “I am listening.”

A lie. 

A blatant, bald-faced lie.

“Do it.”

But then the knife slashed, and Stiles was now so focused on the way the blood should spray, that he didn’t notice the warmth down his chest. He didn’t notice the pain. And, when he did, he couldn’t focus on that. He had to make sure it worked. He had to get the hunters away from his pack. He had to make sure someone knew what to say, when there was no way Stiles could be the one saying it. 

He had to finish it. 

It. Was. Necessary. 

His hand came up to his throat, anyway, the air fighting to get into his lungs around the blood, and fuck. Fuck. Fuck. This was real. This wasn’t an illusion. 

That was not supposed to happen.

Was it?

He stumbled back.

Derek’s voice was so faint, and, fuck, this wasn’t right. He should’ve let himself bleed out in that room, and let the confusion make it all worse when they had to watch him die twice. Derek. He didn’t think about Derek. He’d lost him in the chaos, and he thought he’d be far enough away. That he wouldn’t see this. He didn’t have to. That. That was unnecessary.

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath.

“Sorry,” he gasped, “I had to.”

Then it was too real. 

He was seeing spots. He was faint. He was freezing – so fucking cold. And he… he…

He let the grimoire back in. 

His arms lit up, flooding in red as the book melted into his palms, glistening. He gasped as his throat healed, reaching up to grab at the uneven scar tissue beneath his fingers, a line right across the centre of his throat. He couldn’t stop shaking. 

What the fuck had he done?

Everything was quiet.

Then someone breathed, and how quiet did it have to be for Stiles to hear a breath?

“What…” Derek’s watery voice croaked, “Are you… You can’t be ser…”

Anger.

He could taste it. 

“Stiles?” Allison’s voice called out. 

Who was he. This wasn’t Stiles. He had to be able to blame it on the hunger. The exhaustion. The dehydration. Being locked in a room, desperately praying that everyone would be okay for so damn long. There had to be some reason why he just did that. Why he didn’t just blow them all up and…

No. 

This way, they wouldn’t follow them home. This way, Araya couldn’t get even. You can’t get even with a dead man.

And, God, was Stiles a dead man now.

He stepped out of the bathroom, with the blood drenched through his button-up shirt, soaking. Cold, again, from the breeze hitting the wet fabric. All eyes were on him. Instant. Lydia, Liam, Mason, Malia, Erica, Scott, Laura. Chris and Allison. Peter. Shifted. His eyes were the brightest, angriest blue Stiles had ever seen. All eyes, as angry as they were. On him.

Not Derek’s. 

Derek, who was kneeling in the rubble, with his back slowly rising and falling. Not moving an inch. 

That woman, the redhead, the one who brought them all here. She was still there. She was sat on her ass, hands braced behind her, eyes wide, locked onto him. 

He swallowed. It hurt.

“I…” he tried. He couldn’t. 

“Let’s go,” Allison said faintly, “We should go. Home.”

Chris nodded slowly beside her, “Yeah. Let’s go.”

Everyone hesitated. Everybody. But Lydia grabbed at Liam’s arm and tugged him away, and the rest of them followed. Erica and Allison were the last to go. Besides Peter. And Derek. And that redhead. 

Stiles walked to her, slow, unsure, dizzy, and seconds away from passing out again. 

“You,” he snarled when he was close enough to be sure she could hear his low voice, “Just go.”

She stared up at him, “What?”

“Go,” he spat, “If I ever see you again, I will kill you. Don’t ever forget that. But I won’t today.” He sucked in a shallow breath, swallowing as his throat ached, “And don’t forget that mercy. Ever. If I hear you’ve stepped foot in Beacon Hills, and I will hear, you will be dead before the end of the day. And I will make it slow. And torturous. For everything you’ve done to me. To Derek.” He shook his head, “But he’d let you live. So, so will I. This time.”

“I won’t thank you if that’s what you’re looking for,” she said.

Stiles took a slow breath, “I’m sorry for your loss. I really am.”

And he turned on his heel. He watched Derek climb into the back of that van, and the door was left open. The other van started to drive. 

Stiles’ feet were dragging over the gravel as he made his way there. He wasn’t wearing shoes, still. And maybe the pain was intentional. Self-punishment. Maybe. But he didn’t have to punish himself. Not when he climbed into the back of the second van to see the only empty space, beside Derek. And he settled into it, door slamming shut behind him. And all of him ached. Every inch. It all burned with the need to rest. And his arms were so bright. The cruelest of reds. And the whispers had stopped. 

And Derek did not lean against him. Did not look at him. Did not reach over to hold his hand, or press their thighs together. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. 

He wished it. That he’d stop forgiving. 

He was right to.

But, fuck. It hurt. Like having your throat cut wide open.

And Stiles’ brain had just about shut down, his whole body going into overdrive, his heart beating too heavy, and his lungs not getting enough air to catch up, and every atom of his being, overtired, when he heard it.

He heard it again. Loud, and real.

And it was so much worse.

“Mieczysław” she said.

Derek’s throat clicked as he opened his mouth, and he couldn’t have known that they both asked it together, “What did you do?”

Notes:

jesus fuccking christ.

therapy time. soon. i he really need s it. so bad. theyre upsettingme but heeyy mama claudiaaaaaaNOOO PETERRRR I DONTW ANT HIM TO BE AN OPP IM GONNA CRY

Chapter 21: Interlude: Doctor, Doctor. (Twenty-One)

Summary:

Stiles goes to therapy.

Notes:

warning for some mentions of suicide/suicidal thoughts, but if you're here still i doubt that'll mess you up any more than him actually doing it a season ago. still. tread with caution.

ts stresses me out WHY IS IT SO LONG????? anyway. had a blast writing this chapter. erica is actually my wife. honestly feel like ive brojen my leg from the way ive been sitting while writing this oops. this chapter bounces around thru time a bit but i think it shouldnt be too hard to follow. it only covers like six days worth of stuff. love ya!!!

(This chapter is not beta read AT ALL I’m quaking in my boots)

guys squid game s3 was so wack i cant even.

“So. Stiles. Is this your first time seeing a therapist?”

The place was weird. This therapist, Dr. Senta, had that clinically kind look on her face that every medical practitioner other than Melissa McCall had never seemed to master. It was never really sincere. And Stiles didn’t do well around new people, trust earned by proxy or not, especially so, actually, if the trust earner was Scott or Liam or any of the other men (boys) he knew. But this woman had gentle, dark brown eyes, and there were enough hairs out of place for Stiles to not feel like he was talking to a robot. But this room was too neutral, and the (probably fake) plants weren’t doing much to help.

He ground his teeth together, a terrible habit he’d gotten into, and answered, “No.”

Her head tilted in intrigue, brows lifting slightly, “Okay. Why did you go before?”

“I have ADHD,” Stiles answered, “I had to get diagnosed somehow. And my mom died when I was ten. In front of me. And my dad wasn’t there, and then promptly fell into alcoholism. I was in therapy for a good chunk of my childhood. Not a big fan.”

She stared at him for a moment. 

Hah. So much for being able to handle anything. 

“Why didn’t you like it?” She asked. Stiles’ brows twitched. He’d expected something else. A question about his dad, or his mom, or his ADHD. Anything. 

He shrugged, “I don’t like it when people act like they know my brain better than I do. I live here. I know what’s going on upstairs.”

“Then why did you make this appointment, Stiles?” 

He gnawed at his cheek with blunt, ground-down teeth. The couch was beyond comfortable; he’d give her that. Easy as anything to sink into. But, still, his heart ached, and his hands started to fidget. 

“I promised…” he looked away from her, “I promised my boyfriend that I would.”

And she nodded, and started writing in her notebook. He glared at her downturned eyes as if he could will her to acknowledge the elephant in the room. What she knew about him.

She was Derek’s therapist first.

 

-

 

Stiles had never felt worse. It was… impressive. Almost.

Physically, he’d never been this tired. This hungry, this thirsty. This in need of a shower, and a hug, and clean sheets and clean clothes. He’d been kidnapped before, sure – tortured, even – but this was… different. This was them making his own body do the damage. And his spark, the strange glow beneath his skin, could only fix so much on its own. Still. How it glowed. 

And how silent it had been.

Mentally, he’d never wanted to kill himself so badly. And he’d done it before. He’d stayed overnight at a motel that made you want to kill yourself and only stopped when you got hurt enough to snap out of it. He knew that feeling. But this. This was just guilt. And the furious sting of Derek’s cold stares. It was new. And he hated it. He hated it so, so much. And he didn’t know if he could attribute the nausea to that, or the hunger, or the fact that he could smell himself, or a culmination of all of it. 

Every swallow made the new scar across his throat tug. 

He hadn’t seen it, yet. Not beyond murky reflections in window panes. 

He didn’t want to. 

“Why did you do that?” Derek’s voice asked. It cut through the silence just like every word he’d spat that day. It had been such a sudden journey home. And the lingering uncertainty that he might not want him in their home had been so suffocating. It was a little mercy that he did. And that they were there now. With the tap dripping beyond the bathroom door, and Derek’s keys in the trinket bowl by the door.

It was how things should be. 

Stiles’ mouth was so dry that every slight movement of his tongue made the loudest sounds, “I… I needed them to… believe I was… dead.”

Derek nodded – the back of his head, his tense shoulders, Stiles couldn’t do this, “So you had to. It was necessary, was it?”

“Don’t…” Stiles huffed, “Don’t do that.”

“Do what, Stiles?” Derek snarled, turning to finally look him in the eye for what felt like the first time in years. 

This wasn’t how their reunion was supposed to go. 

“Don’t bring him up,” Stiles said, all too aware of how desperate he sounded, pleading, “Just… please.”

“Don’t bring who up?” Derek growled, “You? Because that’s who I’m talking about. You. It’s all you, Stiles.”

His brows twitched, and his stomach turned, “Well… What is that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Derek spat, “You knew what that would do to me. What… what that meant. You know what I’ve been through. You can’t just do that— pretend to die in my arms. That’s… There will never be a time when that is necessary, Stiles.”

“You weren’t meant to be there,” Stiles said, still about to keel over despite the cushy private plane reclining seats, and the food, and the hot towel over his eyes, in the row of seats that he’d occupied alone, “I swear to God, Derek, I would never have done that if I knew.” He stepped forward, and reached out, fighting back against Derek’s flinch to take hold of his hand and press it to his blood-stained chest. Derek’s face twitched, fighting back some horrible look. He took a deep breath in, “Feel my heartbeat. Okay?”

Derek’s eyes sharpened. His brows fell.

“Can you feel it?”

He nodded.

“I. Did not. Do that. To hurt you,” Stiles said slowly, “I did it to protect you. And if I knew you would see it happen, let alone be there, I would’ve found another way. It slit my throat for real, man, I didn’t want that.”

Derek gave him a warning kind of look.

Stiles took in a breath, “Sorry. I’m… I am so sorry. I swear to you, Derek, I didn’t mean to hurt you. Or scare you. Or… remind you of anything. I never…” His jaw clenched, “I never want to remind you of anything.” He swallowed, painfully, “Not anything bad, at least. Only good things.”

Derek met his eyes. And he stared, silent, tight-jawed, for a while. Stiles rubbed his thumb across the side of Derek’s hand, felt the way the fingers twitched as he did. It was the worst stand-off of his life. He’d come a long way in his dependency on Derek Hale but, especially right now, the thought of him leaving. The thought of him gone. It was the kind of thing that had him waking up in a cold sweat. It was the thing that kept him up all of the flight home, even when he hadn’t slept in a bed for two weeks, and the only time he’d slept in the last four days had been entirely unintentional, and dreamless, in the passenger’s seat of a car, while trying to get to him. He didn’t think Derek even knew what they’d gone through to get to him. 

The wolf’s eyes darted down, and he stiffly, slowly nodded, speaking gently, “Okay.”

Stiles’ next breath felt so desperate, too, “Okay! Okay.” His lips pressed over each other, before he sucked in another breath, “Are you okay? Or… a little better?”

Derek’s eyes softened at that, thank God, holy shit, “I will be.” He nodded, “I definitely need to call my therapist, though. You don’t need to… hear about it. You’ve got a lot going on already.”

“Derek, I fucked you up,” Stiles snapped, chest aching at the way Derek’s eyes sharpened, “The least I could do is listen to you about it.”

And Derek smiled. For the first time in forty-eight hours.

“Okay,” he nodded again, “Then you’ll finally listen to me when I tell you to book an appointment with her.”

Stiles frowned, “With who?”

“Dr. Senta,” Derek said pointedly, “I can’t be the only one working on himself, here, Stiles.”

The spark swallowed, still painful, “I can work on myself by myself.”

“Yeah, because that’s worked so well,” Derek snarked, and Stiles had never been so happy to hear it, “It’s not like you just slashed your own throat open with no thought for your own safety, like, yesterday. After being…” He quirked his head, “Missing for two weeks.”

“Where were you?” Stiles blurted out, “I… I couldn’t see you while I was locked in, but I saw you on the way there… and when she came to let you out. Where… Where was it?”

Derek’s brows furrowed, “I don’t know. Where were you?”

“Calavera holding cell thing,” Stiles murmured, “Laura got sick of me real fast. I cried an embarrassing amount the first two days. I… I really wanted to get to you.” His words trailed off into a self-pitying laugh. Derek’s eyes held that same sentiment. 

His hand moved, breaking out of Stiles’ hold to pull him into a hug. Hesitant at first, but the second their chests met, they both were squeezing so impossibly tight. Stiles pressed his face into the crook of Derek’s neck hard enough he thought he might melt into his skin, sucking in a deep breath and letting the raw smell of Derek rush into him. He wanted to cry. He wanted to sob. To wail. 

“Thank you,” he whispered.

Derek’s chin pressed against his left trap, “For what?”

“I don’t know what I’d do if you hated me,” Stiles confessed. He could feel Derek’s swallow. He sniffled, “It’s okay if you don’t forgive me. Just… please never hate me.”

“I don’t think that’s possible, Stiles,” Derek said softly, “I don’t have it in me to hate you.”

“Well, that’s good,” Stiles murmured straight into his skin, “Good to hear.” He clapped him on the back and Derek tried to move back, taking that as a signal Stiles had not meant to give. He held on tighter, “Wait. Just. One more minute. Please.”

And Derek’s arms wrapped back around just as tight, “As long as you need, Stiles. But you do smell so bad.”

“I know,” Stiles breathed out, “It’s, like, an hour-long shower situation. It’s a lot of blood.”

“It is,” Derek murmured, “It’s more… the guilt.”

Stiles paused.

“What?”

“You smell like it a lot,” the wolf clarified, “Guilt, and grief. I think some of the betas think that’s just… your scent.”

Stiles blinked. 

“What.”

Derek sighed as he said, “Please promise me you’ll see Dr. Senta. Just one session, and you can say you hate it, but you have to promise me you’ll try.” He pulled back. Stiles blinked at him just as blankly as he’d blinked over his shoulder. Derek’s eyes were caring again. Loving. He licked his lips, “I love you, Stiles.”

And Stiles rolled his eyes, if only to fend off the tears, “Yeah, right. Bribery.” He rolled his shoulders, no longer aching, nodding weakly, “Alright. I love you, too, and I promise. One session. And can we please… order in? I am… so unbelievably hungry.” 

Derek nodded gently, “Anything you want. No Mexican, though.”

Stiles honest-to-God shivered, “God, no. So good, but… too soon.”

The wolf laughed. Barely. More of a huff, a breath. But Stiles felt a weight lift from his shoulders. Only a little. It wasn’t gone entirely. Far from it. He still needed to make sure everyone else didn’t see him as the literal Devil after that. It sure felt like they did. 

But, right now, Stiles had to shower. In his own bathroom. And change into his own clothes. And sleep in a bed. With his boyfriend. And get a kiss goodnight. And make a therapy appointment and a Chinese takeout order. 

He might be okay. As long as he didn’t look in the mirror. 

 

-

 

“Okay, well, tell me what changed,” She said. Stiles’ eyes moved back from where they’d been locked – on an abstract painting of either a mermaid or the sheer concept of confusion – to her brown-eyed stare.

“What do you mean?” He asked.

“Why did you have to promise to come here?” Dr. Senta clarified, nodding gently, “What inspired that conversation?”

Stiles swallowed.

“I don’t know,” he murmured, “He’s been trying to convince me to go for a while.” Dr. Senta just watched him. So carefully. She didn’t ask anything else. Just stared. It was so deeply uncomfortable, in the weirdest way. It wasn’t hostile. Just. Persistent. His eyes darted away, “I mean, I get it. I probably should. Like, if you put me in front of a Judge, they’d send me here on a court mandate. Just… didn’t want to. I don’t see the point in talking about the bad shit that’s happened to me. Why bring it back up? It won’t change it. And, trust me, I’ve tried.”

She tilted her head, nodding slightly, “Right. The time travel.”

Stiles hummed, smiling bitterly, “Bet you were thrown for a loop when you saw that one on the intake form.”

Dr. Senta smiled back, “I’ve seen stranger things.”

“Really??” Stiles squinted, “How??”

“I’m afraid I can’t disclose that information, Stiles.”

“Yeah, okay, sure,” he murmured, “I think you’re just a liar.”

“I assure you,” Dr. Senta said, “nothing you can say will surprise me. In this field of work, you see a lot.”

Stiles pursed his lips, “I mean, yeah, a supernatural therapist has got to have some stories.”

“And so has a time traveller,” she said, almost smug, “Which story is the one that ends in you finally caving and making this appointment?”

Stiles fell silent again. 

He saw diamond-encrusted chains. He tasted stale bread and bottled water. He felt the warm sun, and his throat, carved open. Blood pouring. Heavy limbs. Crying until his head pounded and his mouth ached. Derek’s cold stare. Araya’s eyes before he left her. The red lines beneath his skin. The scar across his neck. The man in the mirror, with his ruby eyes and brown waves, curling at his ears and the base of his neck, and his black suit, and I did what was necessary. 

Stiles tasted rage on his tongue. Words couldn’t really form – not sentences, at least. Where could he start? With the deadpool? That redheaded hunter and her friend whose spine Stiles shattered in the woods that day? The countless other people he’d taken away? The day he became the Alpha? The first deadpool, the first time he met the Calaveras, the first time Derek was taken to Mexico? The First Time? The Other Stiles? 

No. Absolutely not.

He shrugged, weak and lacklustre, “I know Derek told you.”

“I want to hear it from you,” she said, not denying it, not at all, “This session is about you, after all. Not Derek.”

“But it is all about Derek,” Stiles said lowly, “I am here for him. I was there for him. I’m only in this timeline for him– I’m only still alive because of him.”

And she did that thing again. Staring. Not asking. Just waiting for him to keep spilling his guts out to her. And the worst part was that it was working. Because Stiles liked to talk, and he did not like silence. This silence was something beyond silent. It was penetrative. It was stomach-turning. It was terrible. 

Stiles felt sick. 

He knew he shouldn’t have done this. He’d been right about it the whole time. Like he always was. Maybe Derek would finally listen to him if this bullshit therapy session sent him into a full-blown mental breakdown. As long as they didn’t send him to Eichen, he didn’t care. 

He shook his head, “I made a mistake. Mistakes. That’s the story.”

 

-

 

As if Peter Hale got to tell him he was wrong for what he did. Peter Hale, who worked with Kate Argent to try and kill Scott after she turned his nephew back into a seventeen-year-old to seduce and manipulate him again. Peter Hale, who mauled Lydia three damn times, traumatising her in new weird and wonderful ways every time in order to bring him back to life (granted, he didn’t do that the third time, but that’s only because he didn’t want to come back at all). Peter Hale, who ruined Scott’s life. Peter Hale, who started it.  

Stiles wanted to stop the blame game. But if the boot fits. 

It was a weird night. Every night had been weird since they got home, actually. It was weird to sleep in his own bed. It was weird to eat proper food. It was weird to see Derek, and to talk to him, and to touch him. It was weird to pass Chris Argent in the street and have to pretend he hadn’t been part of that stilted group hug, trying to comfort Stiles while he sobbed like a baby. That he had never seen him beg for his daughter. He had to pretend he hadn’t seen all three of them at their lowest. Their breaking points. Starved, sleep-deprived, and thirsty. Losing their minds. Together. Which was the point of that particular night. It had been Derek’s idea. Because, of course, it had. 

Derek’s relentless forgiveness, his ability to move on, was making Stiles start to wonder if he was related to Peter at all. 

He’d had to convince Laura, first. Then she was the one who told Peter and Chris. Stiles was just glad he wasn’t there for any of those conversations. The Laura one above all. Because, ‘Oh, please, my dear sister who doesn’t remember me before a year and a half ago, forgive my boyfriend who faked his death and made me watch! Didn’t you bond while you were locked up together? It was necessary, didn’t you hear? Just meet up with him and everyone else you were locked up with, just the one time! It’ll be fun!’ sure sounded great.

Stiles begged to be put out of his misery.  

Peter chose the bar. Laura chose the time. Chris simply said he’d be there. Stiles heard it all through Derek. Derek, who’d insisted he go alone. That he was only one call away. That they had to move on from what happened, and they couldn’t stay glued to each other’s sides, or they’d never recover at all. Stiles had told him that was stupid therapy speak, and he sounded like True Alpha Scott McCall, and he didn’t need to recover. Derek had narrowed his eyes, told him to stop acting like a child, and turned back to his pasta. 

So now Stiles was here. Sat at a bar with Peter to his left and Laura off playing darts against Chris fucking Argent. 

“It was too far, Stiles,” Peter had just said. 

Stiles almost shattered the glass in his hand, “I didn’t have a choice.”

“I know,” Peter’s eyes had never stared at him so darkly. Like he’d surpassed anger and reached a level of apathy only reserved for the people he had cut out of his life entirely. It made Stiles want to throw up the two drinks and singular meal he’d had that day. Then Peter’s brows twitched upward, and he looked away. “I’m proud of you.”

Stiles’ head whipped over to him, “What?”

“I cannot believe you let that woman go after what she did, though,” Peter barreled on, staring down at his glass of spiked whiskey, swirling it slowly, “She’ll blab. They always do. She’ll get cocky and go around telling everyone that she outlasted the immortal Alpha Spark of Beacon Hills.”

“She…” Stiles’ rebuttal would’ve been weak, and probably wrong, and he gave up just as he started. He dropped his glass onto the bar with a thunk and closed his eyes. “Fuck.”

“Hey,” Peter said, as something tapped him on the chin, “Head up, Stiles.” 

He turned back to him. Eyes barely opening. The weight of exhaustion made his stomach turn again. Maybe he would throw up, after all. 

“Own it,” Peter enunciated, head tilted down to look up at Stiles through his brows. The spark’s lip curled in a frown. “If it comes down to it, you’ll finish it. Right?”

“Of course, I will. Easily.”

And Peter smiled. He leant back, eyes turning soft. Melting down from high-guarded indifference to something nicer. Pride. 

“There he is,” he said, lifting a finger to tap Stiles on the nose, “That’s the kid I raised.”

Stiles’ brows warped upward, “You did not raise me.”

“Could have,” Peter muttered lightly, looking away to take another sip of his whiskey. Stiles’ hand instinctively found his own glass again. “God knows our memories aren’t to be trusted.”

“You don’t believe in God.”

“Who does?”

Stiles closed his mouth. Conversation buzzed around them, loud in the dim light. They’d been to this bar before – Peter and Stiles. A handful of times. The drinks were strong, here, and cheaper than a lot of the other places in Beacon Hills. There wasn’t much of a middle ground. It was either fancy, over-the-top expensive, and miserable, or dirt-cheap, peeling-at-the-walls, loud, and miserable. This place was a hidden gem, for sure. But it was on the other side of town, and Stiles couldn’t keep buying them Ubers and listening to Peter’s mumbled accusations of hunters driving them around with Stiles’ bank details. He’d just tell him he could order them, instead, if he was aware enough to complain. Peter would usually just bare his blunt teeth at him and start irritating the driver instead. 

Stiles could see Laura pointing and laughing at Chris, whose tired eyes were barely tilted up at the outer corners. He was shaking his head, and looking down at his dart-filled left hand, picking one up with his right and barely laughing, too, as he got ready to throw again. Laura was wiping at her eyes. She’d cut her hair. It was the first thing Stiles noticed when he got here. It was shorter than it had ever been – always down to her ribs, with those dark honey highlights and gentle waves. Sometimes she’d curl it more. Now, it was short. Which was weird because, on Stiles, it was exactly what his hair looked like when it was too long. He’d cut it, too, once they’d settled back home. Or, well. Derek had cut it. He was getting better at it, now. And he didn’t charge for it. But Laura’s new hair suited her. She looked like Corky from Bound. Stiles barely remembered that movie, but he remembered Laura had loved it. It was Cora’s pick, the fourth time they had tried to have a movie night the previous summer. They only had one more. They chose a horror movie, and Boyd got there late, and Erica had told him to bang on the window when he got there, right as they were waiting for some sort of horrible jumpscare, and Isaac had cried. Horror movies had not been banned that night, but they had been when Boyd was told to do the same thing by Jackson the next week. Stiles had just about lost it both times, Erica in tears laughing with him. 

None of them had spoken to him since they landed back in Sacramento. Rafael had driven him, Derek, Laura, and Peter back to town in silence. He was just glad he didn’t get interviewed in an interrogation room again. He could see it in Rafael’s eyes how badly he wanted to, though.

“You’re really proud of me?” Stiles whispered. 

Peter blinked slowly over at him. His brows furrowed, “Of course, I am. It was badass. And you got us all back home. I do want to smack you over the head for hurting Derek’s feelings, but who am I to judge?”

“Yeah, I wasn’t gonna say it, but…” Stiles murmured.

Peter’s smile finally reached his eyes, properly, “God, I love you, kid.”

He didn’t sound at all like himself. Not his sober self. He sounded exactly like another type of Peter Hale, though. 

“You’ve had too much.”

“I’ve had three drinks, Stiles,” Peter grumbled, “God forbid a man expresses his emotions. It’s 2014, Stiles, seriously.”

Stiles snorted, taking another sip of his vodka soda. He stared down at a ring of condensation left on the bar, beside the coaster his glass rested on. His chest felt heavy. It always did. 

“I have got to say, though,” Peter’s voice was thick, “If you ever do that again. I will slit your throat myself.”

“Do what,” Stiles’ brows furrowed, “specifically?”

“Scare me like that,” Peter growled. Stiles turned to him. The tiredness was something Stiles could pinpoint in seconds on anyone, now. It always looked the same. Skin turned paler, and eyes turned darker. It made Stiles’ bones ache with empathy. Seeing it on other people just made him worse. He swallowed, as Peter sighed, and said, “We’ve been through too much for me to lose you now.”

He remembered just how desperate Peter had sounded, how helpless, when he told him he missed her. Stiles did not hear her voice.

It wouldn’t shut up. 

It wouldn’t stop.

He didn’t listen.

His eyes burned, cheek twitching, “Ditto.”

The wolf smiled again, so tired, and reached around to clap Stiles on the back. His hand stayed there; rubbed firmly along the middle of his spine before he moved back into his own space. God, Stiles wanted a massage. That gentle pressure against his bones, his muscles. His body still hadn’t recovered from that room. No matter how he slept, it hurt him. At least Peter and Laura could shift. They could curl up, and stretch, and move their bodies around the room wherever they wanted. Stiles couldn’t. And he was in too much of a weird spot with his boss to start spending money on physio again. It was fine. Whenever it got bad, it healed again. It was the one upside to having the grimoire back. 

The constant, never-ending, unshakeable noise in his head was not as fun. 

If he kept ignoring it, it would go away. 

So, forget what it was saying. Stiles wasn’t listening, anyway. He hadn’t been this whole time.

Laura came bounding up, grinning wide, shouting in that scratchy voice, “I won!! You guys’ turn!” As she dumped a pile of darts down on the bar between them, “We’re going tournament style. Chris owes us all a round. Winner goes against me, loser goes against Chris, final loser covers the tab for the rest of the night.”

Peter barked out a laugh, “Oh, Stiles, you’re so dead.”

“You’ve never actually beaten me,” Stiles said back, slipping off his barstool and grabbing the yellow darts as Peter scooped up the red. 

“That’s only because you accuse me of cheating every time.”

“That’s because you do cheat every time.”

“How does one cheat at darts, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged, shoving him out of the way as he made his way across the bar, his glass in his right hand and his three darts in his left. He dropped them both on a high table by the dart board. Then two hands were grabbing at his shoulders, fighting back against the way his whole body tensed, as they squeezed at his traps. Massaging.

“You gotta win, Stiles,” Laura said lowly into his ear, “Keep your head in the game.”

“You just want to force me to pay,” Stiles said, leaning back into the touch, huffing. 

Laura’s hands moved, Stiles thought she shrugged, “Well. It’s a bonus. I just don’t wanna play against Peter. I’m scared he might throw the darts at me instead and pretend it was an accident.”

“Don’t give me any ideas,” Peter said around a grin, “Who’s starting, Stiles?”

“Ladies first,” Stiles answered. He gave Peter a smile, as Laura laughed behind him. Her hands vanished, and he stumbled back just a little. God. He hadn’t had that much to drink. Peter rolled his eyes, though they darted to Chris as the hunter hummed out a laugh of his own. 

“Who would you rather play against?” Peter asked as he raised a dart to the air, “Laura or Chris? Previous Alpha werewolf, or man trained in long-range combat?” He threw the dart. It landed just to the right of the bullseye. 

“Thirteen,” Stiles murmured, reaching for a yellow dart, “I don’t know, which would you rather play against? Your niece, who you killed several times, or your…” Stiles tilted his head, “Chris.”

Peter’s smile didn’t waver, “It’s whom.”

Stiles gave him a sideways glare and tossed his dart. He watched Peter’s face fall, shoulders dropping as he cried out in distaste. Stiles grinned over at the board, throwing his hands up as someone at a nearby table whooped.

“That’s what I’m talkin’ about!!” Stiles shouted, dropping his hands to point with both at the bullseye he’d just gotten – fuck yes, “That’s how the Stilisnkis do it!! Suck it, Hale!”

Laura barked out a laugh, as Chris’ voice called out from a small ways away, “You gonna take that, Peter?”

“I’ll show you what I can take,” Peter grumbled, to which Stiles’ face scrunched up, leaning back as Laura smacked him on the arm, giggling more than Stiles had ever heard from her – deep, manly chortles. It made him laugh, too, almost wheezing, and setting her off even more, until both of them were pointing and silently gasping at each other’s faces. Stiles’ stomach ached, and he couldn’t breathe, and it didn’t matter who lost, or who paid, or how late it got, because Stiles finally felt like he was with family again. It had been a long, long time since he felt that. The comfort, the ease, the understanding that the love (or tolerance, at least) was as close to unconditional as he was ever going to get. 

In the end, Peter was gently telling Chris he would cover his part of the tab, once the hunter lost again, and Chris was giving him the strangest of looks. Soft. Apprehensive. Sorry. Peter was giving him a strange look of his own – a ‘what?’ sort of look. There was something too intimate about it. Stiles had to look away. It was like seeing your parents kiss. Strange, and gross, and utterly uncouth. Maybe that was just because, to Stiles, seeing his parents kiss was like seeing his father kiss her corpse. 

He wasn’t sure if the voice had actually stopped, or if he was just so good at drowning it out that he really couldn’t hear it any more.

 

-

 

“Tell me about your mother, Stiles.”

“Some lazy psychiatry, Doctor Lecter.”

Dr. Senta gave him a look, then paused, “Do you often use humour to deflect?”

Stiles’ eyes flickered away, “It wasn’t deflecting. It was just a reference.”

“Okay,” she said softly, “Then tell me about your mom.”

No, Stiles wanted to say. To shout, even. Because he didn’t need therapy. And he didn’t need to talk about his mom. And he didn’t want to. And this was stupid, and she couldn’t be on his case five damn minutes into meeting him. Then again, she was Derek’s therapist. Derek, who’d certainly spoken about Stiles to her at least a handful of times. For better or for worse.

His eyes narrowed, “Has Derek not told you everything you need to know about my mother?”

She didn’t react, “I cannot discuss any other clients with you, Stiles.”

“He’s my boyfriend,” Stiles grumbled, “We don’t exactly have secrets. And you’re not talking about him, you’re talking about my mom.”

Dr. Senta glanced down at her lap and took some more notes. His brows furrowed.

“What?” He spat, “What are you writing?”

“I will take notes throughout the session for a number of reasons, Stiles,” she said kindly – he still wanted to lunge over and tear the paper out of her hands, anyway, “Don’t worry. It’s just to help me stay on top of things throughout future sessions and to organise my thoughts.” She smiled up at him, and Stiles felt his hands tighten their grips, folded over each other.

“There won’t be any future sessions.”

“Well, then,” she said easily, “just to organise my thoughts.”

“And what thoughts have you had so far?” Stiles wanted to resist the urge to relax back into that couch. He couldn’t. 

She just licked her lips, “What would you like to talk about, Stiles?”

“What you’ve written down. I feel like that was pretty clear.”

She almost laughed, “Okay. Well, to summarise, I think that promising to attend this session was relatively pointless if you aren’t going to use it.” Stiles blinked. She sat back in her seat, fingers still laced comfortably together atop her notebook, “You’ve tried to appease him by showing up here, but you aren’t showing up. You’re just playing pretend. And badly, at that. You’re sitting there, avoiding every question I ask you.”

“Not every question,” Stiles said, “I answered the first few.”

“Yes,” she nodded, “But none of the hard ones.”

Stiles huffed out a breath, feeling his mouth dry out and the tips of his ears begin to burn, “Fine, you want me to talk about my mom? Okay. Sure. Let’s talk about my mom.” His voice was raw, he knew it was, he could feel it clawing at his throat, “I had to watch her forget who I was, try to kill me periodically, and eventually just wither away and die before my very eyes when I was ten years old. I’ve had her voice in my head since I was eighteen. Everyone who knew her looks at me like I’m haunting them because I look like her, and I burned her alive a year ago after going back in time to save my boyfriend’s family and learning she helped kill them.” He stared at Dr. Senta’s blank face, with his heart pounding in his chest, “Oh, and now her voice is back and she’s literally under my skin. So. Happy birthday to me.”

She didn’t react. At all. Just nodded gently, glanced down at her notebook with those dark brown eyes, and tilted her head. 

“How did that feel?” She asked, “Saying that out loud?”

“Better than sex.”

She laughed, a small hum, “Funny. That was a good one. But we’re answering questions, remember?”

He rolled his eyes, “It felt like…” Like a weight on his chest. Like someone was watching him. “It didn’t feel great.”

She nodded, “And how did it feel when you saw her again?” Stiles just kept his eyes firmly locked on one slightly frizzy part of her black, wavy hair. It blurred out into the pale blue wall behind her.

He shrugged, “Like… Like seeing a ghost. Terrifying. Confusing. And infuriating.”

“Infuriating?”

“Yeah, if you’ve been living with the belief that ghosts didn’t exist,” Stiles spat, “when you really wanted them to, and it turned out they only didn’t exist because you had to be put through hell for the greater good of the universe… you’d be pissed, too.”

Dr. Senta stared with the softest eyes, and then she said, “That sounds really hard, Stiles. I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

Stiles felt his hands squeeze, “Yeah. It’s whatever. What’s done is done.”

Her head tilted, “Is that how it feels every time you meet someone you knew?”

He swallowed, still unable to meet her eyes properly, “Uh. Sometimes. Not so much now. They aren’t, um… The people I’ve met recently weren’t as bad. Before.”

There was a rustling of paper, then a gentle sigh, “That must be exhausting.” Stiles glanced down at his hands, then looked away as the red lines along his forearms burned his eyes. Dr. Sentas sat back in her chair again, “How do you deal with that overwhelm, would you say?”

And Stiles grinned achingly wide, “Perfectly.”

 

-

 

Lydia’s belated birthday celebration had been a strange one. 

She threw her party at the lakehouse, as she’d wanted to before. As she had, this time two worlds ago. She knew herself well when it came to dressing up. Every time, she followed the same formula. A tight dress down to her mid-thigh, dark-ish colours, usually greens or blues, and exposed shoulders. Her hair was always down, tidied into the most effortless, soft waves. It always took her forty minutes from towel drying to curling the last pieces. She always had the same perplexing way of not going over-the-top, yet firmly staying as the centre of attention – the prettiest girl at the party. This time, though, Erica had gotten her a sash that read ‘Birthday Girl’ in a hideous font, and any nonchalance was thrown out of the window, along with Lydia’s ability to smile all the way to her eyes. 

“It’s tacky,” she snapped to Derek, looking up past her brows, lips curled back to expose angry teeth, “I look like a five-year-old.”

Derek hummed, smiling, all the sharp corners of his face turning soft, “Yeah. You really do.” Lydia groaned, reaching for the sash, as Derek looked down, “Wait.” 

“What?”

There was a beep, then Derek lifted a camera to his face, angled it down, and a shutter sound rang out as a flash lit up that tiny part of the room. Lydia groaned, stepping back, closing her eyes and finally tearing the sash off – another flash went off as she was in the middle of doing so. 

“Derek!” She hissed, “Stop!” 

Another flash, and she reached out to bat the camera away. Derek laughed, low and calm.

“You told me to take photos,” he said, “I’m doing my job.”

“Take photos when I look good! ” Lydia snapped.

“I mean, if you want me to not take any,” Derek murmured.

Lydia rolled her eyes, “Okay, dick.”

Derek grinned, “The sash is sweet. And Erica paid for it. You should wear it.”

“Maybe when I’m a few more drinks in, I’ll think about it,” she grumbled, “I can’t have Cora thinking I’m even more self-centred than she already does.”

“It’s your birthday,” Derek said, “This is the one day you’re meant to be self-centred.” Then his eyes lit up, “I’m gonna get so many photos of you two.”

“Don’t be weird,” Lydia hissed, “Or obvious.” Then her brows furrowed, “You want any of you and Stiles?”

Derek shrugged mildly, head turning a little to meet Stiles’ eyes. Stiles waved as he did, a small wiggle of his fingers. Derek smiled. Lydia watched him with a strange look in her eyes. Calculating. Stiles didn’t think they knew he could hear them. 

“Later,” Derek said. He looked back to Lydia, “Can you get some of me and my sisters, though?”

Lydia didn’t answer right away, just kept staring up at him with narrowed eyes, “Of course. But get your photos with Stiles ASAP, because my tolerance for him is swiftly dwindling and if I have to put those photos on my laptop and see too many of him, I might break the thing in half.”

Derek sighed, “Lydia. Stiles is—”

“I know,” she said swiftly, “You’ve forgiven him – like you always do – but I haven’t.”

“Lydia.”

“Nope,” she shook her head, “You cannot change my mind. He hurt you. And you’re in love with him, and want to stay with him forever and ever, so you get to forgive and forget, or whatever, but I don’t. I will take this grudge to the grave.”

Derek’s stare was so desperate. Stiles felt sick. He couldn’t look away.

“Lydia, it’s fine,” he said solemnly, “You can’t hate him just because I have issues.”

“Um, yes I can,” she said plainly, “That’s what friends are for, Derek.” She nodded, “And I am really good at hating people. It comes easily to me. Like most things, actually.”

Derek’s face turned pinched, “Sure, Lydia.”

Stiles stopped listening in, then. He stopped watching. He’d really wanted him and Lydia to be close, here, like they had been Last Time. But you can’t win ‘em all. And maybe he’d been an idiot with the way he acted around all of them back then. But it was the oldest he’d ever been, and the youngest, and everything was wrong, and he didn’t have a clue what he was doing, or who he was. Now, he knew. Now, he got to hate it all. Not blindly, anymore. Now, he saw. 

It was raining, that night. Lydia had complained, as outspoken as ever, as Cora pouted and mocked her, smiling softly behind her back as she went out to put the covers on the deck seating. Lydia didn’t even have to ask. Stiles had grinned at the sight. 

Even if they didn’t all like him, they all liked each other. 

He could see that, too. 

This party was huge. Too huge, he thought, for a house that Lydia had only just about convinced her mother to let her use, especially when her dad was still disputing whether it belonged to him, instead, and wanted to sell it, and it was all so, so similar. Stiles just hadn’t heard it first-hand, here. It was the little things that got under his skin, like that. The bits that he was left out of, now. Too old to see Malia and Kira build their relationships within the pack, too young to be in the know about Peter and Chris. Too old too stay at home with his dad, and too young to not have Liam look at him like he was crazy whenever he said he was like a son to him. It was all so uncomfortable. So confusing. 

He wasn’t afraid of storms, anymore. He could remember too many restless nights when this all began. The paralysing fear of the Hunt coming for him again. Somewhere along the way, it had stopped. Maybe it was when lightning started to mean something new to him. 

The rain was heavy, but not torrential. Just enough to feel the weight of the droplets properly, gentle thuds, taps, on his skin as he stepped out from under the back porch roof and onto the dock. It was so loud, out here. The rain. Each splash against the lake’s surface the cutting of a knife; each bang against the dock a gunshot. But it was louder inside. The laughter. The music. The conversation, the periodic shrieks and the immediate hushing and murmurs of judgement. It all melted out through the walls, anyway. 

But, out here, all there was was quiet, faint sound, the thundering of rain, the cold of it all, and the burning in his chest from whatever he’d had to drink. Not as much as he usually would’ve. He could feel Lydia’s eyes boring into him every time he gravitated back to the kitchen. Somehow, that did more to deter him than Derek’s yanking hands ever had. Still, he hadn’t drunk nothing. 

He’d drunk enough to sit on the soaked-dark end of the dock, peel his dripping Converse and old socks off, roll his jeans up, and dangle his feet off the edge to wade through the water, anyway. It was freezing. Beyond that. There was a passing thought that this could seriously hurt him. He ignored it. He would heal, anyway. And his shoulders sank, eyes slipping shut, with the rain dripping from his nose and his jaw, pressing his hair down over his eyes just barely. Strands stabbed into them when they opened. 

The glow of his arms looked different, refracting through water droplets. 

His mom had loved the rain. She used to watch it with him, race against him on windows to see whose trail would reach the bottom of the pane first. She always won. Stiles could never figure out how. 

The sliding back door opened with a soft swiping sound. 

“Stiles?!” A voice boomed, so familiar. His heart ticked up. A threat. His back straightened, head turning to look over his shoulder, as Erica stepped out onto the porch, grinning, “Stiles!!”

She sped out onto the wooden decking, feet plapping beneath her, heels held high in the air with one hand and a laughably classic red solo cup with the other. Hair styled to near-perfection, messed up despite the fact, too windswept looking for a girl who had spent the whole night inside, even since before the storm had started. Her dress was black, but sequinned. Or something like it. It shimmered, like the water of the lake did when it wasn’t the darkest of nights. 

The bold, softly singing ‘Y’ of her made its way over to the dock, watching her feet as she went. Once out from under the porch roof, the rain was quick to attack her hair, but her grin never faltered. She just swept it out of her face as it flattened and forced her real curls to begin to spring back. 

“You okay?” She asked lightly as she crouched, then flopped onto her butt. She huffed, and snorted at herself. Stiles’ brows rose. 

“Are you drunk?” He could smell the alcohol in her cup, and on her breath, and the scent of wolfsbane was finally one he could recognise since peeking into Derek’s eyes and body those times, two weeks ago. Two weeks and six days. 

“No,” Erica said loudly, “I’m not drunk. I…” She covered her mouth, eyes widening, then narrowing as her hidden grin forced them to, “Oh, no-o-o!” She burst out into a flurry of laughter, head falling forward to thunk against Stiles’ shoulder, then swiftly, and unevenly, pull back, “I’m sorry.” She spoke like the words took effort to say. 

Stiles smiled, “You’re good. Careful of the water.” 

She looked down, then pulled a face, shuffling away from the edge, “Ew. No. That’s scary.”

“What’s scary?” Another voice asked, quieter than Erica’s had been. He looked over, again, to the other end of the decking. Allison was stepping out of the door, closing it behind her with a lower hum than it opened with. She had a cup of her own in her left hand, and still had her shoes on. Good for her. 

“The water,” Erica replied, words still all weird in the way they were too slow and too quick at the same time, “It’s so dark. You think there’re monsters in there?”

“There are no monsters in the lake, Erica,” Stiles said simply, looking back at her. 

She stared at him for a moment – wet, blonde waves sticking to her forehead – before she leant to the side, ignoring Stiles’ hands shooting out to steady her as she bent all the way over to dip a finger in the water. She grinned wide. She’d gone almost dead weight, and Stiles wasn’t struggling to keep her up, but he was damn alarmed by it, anyway. 

“Erica—”

“Now, there is,” she said around a chortle, arm lifting only slightly as Stiles dragged her back to the right and forced her to sit up straight. 

“Stay,” he spat.

“It’s cold,” she murmured, squinting, “Aren’t your feet cold?”

He blinked at her, “I’m fine.”

“M’kay…” she didn’t sound convinced. But her eyes slowly drifted to the side, then her head followed, and her mouth split into another wide, sparkling grin – her teeth just slightly too sharp, “Ally-y-y! Come on! ” She started to bounce in place, “Join us! Join us! Lake! Lake!”

Allison shushed her, which Erica dutifully ignored. He listened to the soft sounds of Allison’s boot soles on the dry wood before she stopped at the edge of the porch. Then he looked over. She stared down at the floor, at the line where the wood turned darker and the rain pelted at the tips of her leather boots. She took a slow sip of her drink, pouted her lips, looked just slightly higher, then shrugged. Her curled hair swiftly dampened, too, the weight turning the curls straight, not instantly, but fast. Her white dress began to cling to her skin, and the frills turned flat. She moved with the gentle clinking and clanking of her jewellery – layered bracelets and necklaces and rings. Stiles could never figure out how she chose which ones went with what. She came and sat on his left, with far more grace than Erica had on his right. 

“Hi, Stiles,” she said softly, smiling up through her clumpy lashes as he smiled back down at her. 

“Hey, Allison,” he greeted back. 

“You okay?” She asked.

Stiles’ brows furrowed, hand coming up to swipe the hair out of his eyes, “Still as fine as I was when Erica asked. Why? What’re you two doing out here?”

“Wanted to find you,” Allison answered.

Erica yawned, then, loud, “Yeah. Missed you. We’re worried about you. ‘Cause we love you.” And there the words went, just as rushed as they were fighting to catch up, “We love you so much, Stiles. Like. Oh, my God.” He turned to look at her, his heart aching as she went on and on, “You’re so much fun. And you’re so funny. And kind. And. You… I’d be dead without you. Like, seriously. And so would Allison. Like. Like. Actually, not even just…” She burped, or something, bringing her wrist up to cover her mouth momentarily, and Stiles could see something written along her arm in pen, smudged, dripping from the rain, “Not even just because, like, I died, or whatever. I mean. I could’ve died having a seizure,” she nodded, and Stiles could either see tears in her eyes or he was imagining it, “I could’ve… I might’ve… If I hadn’t met you, and the others. I was so lonely before you, Stiles. And I… I…” She licked up the rain dripping over her lips, and her nose scrunched up, and her face turned red, and, oh, no, “I was so scared I’d lost you.” She sniffled, and, okay, she was crying. Stiles hadn’t ever seen Erica cry before. This was strange. This was very strange. She sobbed, “We were so scared.” 

“Hey,” Stiles said, hushed, reaching forward to pull her into a hug. She clung onto him like a koala. He looked back over his shoulder, hoping to see something helpful on Allison’s face, but she was just staring at him with a quivering lip and wet eyes and mascara smudged beneath her bottom lid. 

He let a breath go, eyes squinting, right hand rubbing firmly against Erica’s back as she sobbed into his already-soaked shirt. He shifted backwards, the hem of his t-shirt catching on the wood they sat on, tugging at his neck and making him have to stop to readjust. It took him a second to sit back, comfortable, with his freezing cold, soaked feet up on the deck again, and Allison tucked under his left arm as Erica was under his right. 

“I’m not going anywhere, okay?” He said gently, “I’m really sorry I scared you both.” And maybe the rain and the cold and the confusion hadn’t done a good enough job at sobering him up, and maybe he had drunk more than he thought, and maybe his judgement of how much was too much was skewed by how often it happened, because the words were flowing just as Erica’s had. His weren’t slurred, though. Never. He held his liquor better than that. “Sometimes I get too focused on the job. Or. The timeline. And fixing stuff. Or whatever. I forget you’re all people. Not just memories. Not that I don’t think you’re people, or know that you’re people, I do, you just…” He looked down as Erica looked up, makeup smudged and hair all over the place and dripping, “I get distracted, sometimes. I can fix that.”

“If someone with Kate’s face and none of her memories was running around, I’d get distracted, too,” Allison said mildly, “I get it.”

“Well,” Stiles’ brows furrowed, “I wouldn’t use that specific comparison.”

“I haven’t lost a lot of people I like,” Allison murmured back. Stiles blinked, as her head tilted up to meet his eyes, “That’s because of you, you know.”

Stiles’ lip quirked up, “I guess.”

Then Erica sniffled again, “I love you guys.” She reached an arm over, arcing widely, to drag Allison into some sort of a group hug. Stiles snickered as she did, pouting and blinking up at her friend like a wet dog. Allison huffed, reaching up to hold her arm and rub at her wet skin with her thumb. 

“Love you, too, Erica,” she said mildly, “You are absolutely wasted.”

“I know,” Erica said, almost breathless, “It’s great.”

“It might not be so great later,” Stiles murmured, “Make sure you eat before you go to bed, okay?”

She grinned, snorting, pulling back and swaying where she sat, falling forward again to smush her face into his shoulder. She wiped at her face, deep red nails standing out so harshly against her pale skin. 

“Sure thing, Dad,” she snarked, settling in, spreading her legs out beneath her. She sniffled.

Plop.

She barely sat up, “Oh, shit.”

Allison leant forward, “Fuck!”

Erica laughed a deep, bubbly laugh. Allison sat up straight, eyes wide and mouth open just the same.

“What?” Stiles looked between them, and around them, “What happened.”

Erica kept going, the sound dissolving into silent laughs – clicking sounds at the back of her throat – as she shifted to reach for something, pulling, out of the darkness, a heel. Her grin was so wide, her eyes so wet. She kept almost rocking back and forth. 

“My heel— fell in the lake,” she said around the laughs. 

“Erica!” Allison mourned, “Oh, my God, no. Are you… That shoe was so nice!”

Erica shrugged largely, “Welp! Was. ” And she set herself off into another fit of giggles. She fell back, slamming her head into the decking, eyes squeezing shut as the rain continued to fall. Allison moved away from Stiles, half-crawling over to the other girl. She was laughing a little, too.

“Erica!” She chastised, smacking her on the arm, “It’s gone!”

“What am I supposed to do about that??” Erica giggled, “I’m not going in the water.”

Stiles’ eyes darted down to the dark blueish-grey of the lake. He dipped his left foot back in. It really was dark. Even in daylight, the lake was never exactly clear. It was murky water. But it was safe. Unless you’re scared of salmon, there wasn’t anything to be afraid of in there. If there was, Stiles would’ve heard about it a long time ago. He could faintly see a small outline of something, shiny, beneath the surface, sinking. 

He reached a glowing arm out, leant forward, and jumped in. 

Not, like, a dive. More like sliding off the edge and plopping in. Just enough for his head to dip beneath the surface, as his right hand kept its grip on the edge of the dock and his left reached out for the shoe. The red glow of his arm didn’t do much, but it did something. And Erica and Allison were shouting, shrieking with laughter above him, and he wasn’t scared of the water. Never had been. Never would be. He found the solidness of the heel and grabbed on, pulling his arm up to drop it on the dock, and bracing his hand on the wood. He pushed up, bringing his stomach to the edge of the surface, then his hips, then his right knee, then the rest of his body. 

And, holy God. 

It was cold. 

He was drenched properly, now, dripping, soaked to the bone. And the rain was only getting heavier. He shook his head furiously, ignoring Erica’s whoops and cheers and claps as Allison’s face came into view. 

She laughed, “Dude, you need to dry off.”

He huffed, “You’re welcome, Erica.”

“Thank you-u-u!!” She sang, giggling as she dragged the heel over to herself, tried to put it on her foot, then shook her head, “Woah, no. I need to dry everything, too.”

Allison sat back on her heels, bringing her feet around to have her knees rest just below her chin, “You’re insane, Stiles.”

“She lost her shoe,” Stiles muttered, rolling over onto his ass again, “And she was just very nice to me.”

“You’re the nice one, Stiles,” Erica said, and she sounded far more like herself now, coming over to rest back against his shoulder. 

Light flashed over them. 

Stiles blinked. 

“Oh, woah, was that lightning??” Erica gushed. 

“No,” Allison said, and Stiles glanced at her, following her gaze, past his shoulder, to the other end of the deck. 

There was Derek, camera in hand, smile on his face. 

“Say cheese,” he said, and Erica’s head whipped around, smacking Stiles in the face with her hair as the flash filled the darkness again. He guffawed, pulling back, turning to Derek as she threw out a hand in some sort of a pose, pouting her lips. 

Another flash and shutter-click.

“Okay,” Derek said softly, “Now get the hell inside. You’re not dying of hypothermia tonight.”

“Good call,” Stiles sighed, wiping uselessly at his face one last time before he clambered onto his feet and turned back to help Erica to hers. He grabbed her heels and his shoes, and glanced back over his shoulder, “Allison, can you get—”

“Cups, got it,” she said before he could even ask. 

“No littering,” Erica said, sniggering to herself again as she wobbled in Stiles’ hands. 

“Jesus,” Derek’s voice drawled, coming closer, as they passed under the porch roof – finally, “How much have you had??”

“I dunno, man,” Erica shook her head, stepping out of Stiles’ grip as she shook it harder, making her hair fly out and spray the three of them with even more rain – Stiles cried out, groaned, covered his eyes, and Derek and Allison whined in their own ways – before she almost toppled over, all without making a sound. Stiles stared up, mortified, at Derek as he reached down for her. The wolf’s shoulders shook with a laugh, tiny droplets of water on the camera in his hands, as he lifted the thing and pressed that Goddamn button again. Stiles’ eye twitched as the flash almost blinded him.

“Okay, come on,” Allison said lightly, bending down to wrap Erica’s arm around her shoulders, “Up we get, wolfy girl.”

“Allison!” Erica sang, letting the other girl force her up onto her feet again, leaning her whole weight onto her, “I love you-u-u!”

“I love you, too, gorgeous,” Allison said back primly, “Can you walk without breaking anything?”

Erica nodded excitedly, “Yes! I’m not a baby, you fucking bitch.”

Allison grinned down at her, “Aw, I hate you, and you’re insufferable when you’re drunk. Bitch.”

“Bitch,” Erica leant her head back on her shoulder, snuggling into her neck and wrapping her arms around her shoulders. Allison laughed, patting her on the back as they slowly made their way to the back door. Allison greeted Derek gently as she passed him, and he smiled back at her. Erica tripped on the bottom of the sliding doors, and Allison cursed as she stabilised the both of them.

“Upstairs,” Allison said – grunted, really, “We gotta go get changed.”

“Upstairs,” Erica echoed, “I want to steal Lydia’s MIT hoodie.”

“That’s not happening.”

“You can’t stop me.”

As Allison’s voice began to fade, Stiles only just caught her say, “You’ve got werewolf whiskey dick. You’re not doing anything to me.”

And Erica said back, “I love you, oh, my God.”

And then they were gone. Stiles looked over at Derek. The wolf was already watching him.

“You enjoying the party?” He asked gently.

Stiles shrugged, “Something like that. You get any good photos?”

Derek grinned, wide and toothy, “I think so.”

“Can I see?” Stiles asked, walking toward him, as Derek took a small step forward of his own, humming.

“When you’re not covered in lake water,” he answered softly. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, settling them on Derek’s hands, “How are you doing?”

“Okay,” Derek answered, “I never like being around drunk people, let alone drunk teenagers, but—”

“I mean since we got back.”

Derek blinked. His eyes darted away. Stiles watched, so carefully, as his thick brows just slightly twitched, his throat bobbed, his head tilted barely to the left – Stiles’ left. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, “I’m okay.”

It made Stiles smile, “Good.”

Derek met his eyes again, “Are you?”

Stiles scrunched up his nose, “No. But I will be.” His smile stayed firmly as it was, “We’ve got a teenage werewolf to rangle into clean clothes.”

“And I’ve got a stubborn boyfriend to do the same to,” Derek murmured. 

Stiles smiled, moving forward to gently hold Derek’s arm and start to turn him toward the door, “Allison can sort herself out.”

They walked in, and shut the door behind them. The rain turned muted. Still thudding down on the porch. Not ringing in his ears anymore. Derek fiddled with the camera in his hands, taking one photo of the living room as they passed, all shifting purple lights and moving bodies.

“She’s a very independent woman,” he said.

Stiles snorted, “Of course.”

 

-

 

Stiles’ stomach ached. A clock was ticking, endlessly and insufferably. He just wanted this to be over. They were barely thirty minutes into the session. Jesus.

“You said you’re only still alive because of Derek,” Dr. Senta said slowly, pausing for a moment, “Could you elaborate on that?”

The room suddenly felt too small. Too dark. It was something Stiles didn’t like to talk about, and neither did anyone else. Especially Derek. It was the first thing that got Derek to start begging him to go to therapy. It should’ve, really, been the thing that finally made him scared of water. He was. Sometimes. But it hadn’t been the first time he did it. 

It’s not like he remembered it, anyway. He was unconscious the moment his head went under. 

“He resuscitated me after I drowned myself last year.”

Dr. Senta’s stare didn’t change. She nodded slowly, looked down at her lap, and started to write again. Just a few words. Then she put her pen back down and looked up at him. 

“You attempted suicide,” she said, “is that what you’re saying?”

Stiles stared down at the paper in her lap, “It wasn’t an attempt. I died.” His brows furrowed, “And it wasn’t because I wanted to die. It wasn’t suicide. I had to. It just… didn’t work how it was meant to.” He swallowed, “Because Derek saved me.”

Dr. Senta didn’t even ask about what was meant to happen, about Stiles’ plan, about the possession, the Nogitsune, everything that happened after that – she knew those things, “Have you ever had suicidal thoughts before then? Or since?”

“I…” Stiles sighed softly, “Maybe.”

“Maybe?”

“I wouldn’t do it,” he said firmly, “I’m not going to.”

He could see her nodding out of the corner of his eye, “But you’ve thought about it?”

Stiles swallowed. Of course, he had. He’d thought about it while he was starved and dying in that concrete hellhole. He’d thought about it whenever a bounty hunter tried to kill him to get their twenty-five million. He’d thought about it when he’d killed his mom. He’d thought about it when Erica had died, and again when he’d realised that timeline hadn’t gone anywhere and she was always going to be dead. He’d thought about it when his dad had found out his mom was dead. He’d thought about it after he snapped Peter’s neck. He’d thought about it when the Nogitsune came back the first time. He’d thought about it…

He had thought about it.

“I can’t die,” he said, “Physically. I can’t. I won’t. And I… I need to stay. For the people who need me.”

“Have you ever had thoughts of harming yourself?”

Stiles felt the urge to move, to fidget, to shift, “No.”

A short moment, then Dr. Senta spoke again, “Okay. Tell me about the people who make you want to stay.”

Stiles blinked. His eyes darted up. Dr. Senta’s stare as kind and as calm as it had been the whole time. As unphased. As genuine. He got why Derek liked her so much. Why he wanted Stiles to talk to her. Just one time. Because, damn it, this was horrifying. This was uncomfortable and nauseating and still, somehow, that look in her eyes was making Stiles want to talk and talk and talk. It made everything feel so simple. 

“Derek’s a pretty obvious one,” he said, “And Erica and Allison. Scott. Liam. My dad.” He quirked his head, “Peter.”

And when he didn’t say anything more, Dr. Senta asked another question, “And who are they to you? Well, besides Derek and your father.”

Stiles licked his lips, “Erica and Allison are… my best friends. Scott and Liam are kind of like brothers to me. I don’t know if either of them would agree with that, though.” He smiled to himself, “And Peter’s… Peter is just Peter.”

Dr. Senta gave him a narrow-eyed look, “I might need a little more than that.”

Stiles nodded, “He’s… He’s from that first timeline. I went back twice. He’s from the same place I am. He went back with me the first time, and… my mom gave him his memories back, here. He… He knows me better than anyone. He’s also my best friend at this point. But it’s not… We aren’t really friendly. He’s more like family.” 

Dr. Senta was smiling, “You two must have been through a lot together.”

“We all have,” Stiles said softly, “And I have to take the blame for a lot of it. Really, anything that wasn’t Peter’s fault is mine. I have to keep those kids safe. And Derek…”

His throat felt dry. His hands were tingling. 

“I have to keep Derek alive.”

Dr. Senta’s brows furrowed, “Is he in danger?”

Stiles’ eyes darted back down, “It’s fine. I’m going to stop it. He won’t die.”

 

-

 

The plan had always been for the pack to sleep over after the party. That way, they could all get as wasted as they so wished, and Lydia didn’t have to worry about any dumbasses drunk driving and getting someone hurt, or sorting out designated drivers, or listening to people complain about paying for Ubers when they already spent all their money on her gifts. Stiles hadn’t. Spent all of his money on her gifts, that is. Not his fault. He’d been kidnapped for two weeks leading up to it, and only just had his first nightmare-free sleep between 2 and 4 AM that morning. He wasn’t buying anyone anything. Or planning things. Absolutely not.

Erica left a wet patch on the dark blue accent wall behind her, cozied up in a grey crewneck sweatshirt too big for her, feet tucked into some comically large fluffy socks she’d pulled out of her bag, and her little pyjama shorts hidden by the hem of her sweatshirt – Boyd’s, actually. The dampened smudge of darker blue trailed behind her head as she snuggled into Allison’s side, as the brunette leant her own head on top of Erica’s. They were both tangled up in blankets, Allison typing on her phone as Erica talked and talked into her ear. 

Stiles couldn’t quite hear her over the towel scrubbing at his hair. 

It was loving, but a tad too aggressive, rubbing the thick fibres over his head and ears. Derek’s hands were big enough to cover his entire scalp. The towel was blinding, and deafening, and knocking his head around. When the torment was over, Erica’s eyes met his, and she burst out into near-hysterical laughter. 

“What?” Stiles grumbled.

Allison looked up, and pressed her mouth into a thin line, suppressing a laugh of her own, nodding, “That’s a good look on you.”

“What??” 

A click, a flash. 

Stiles’ face fell, “Derek, if you don’t put that camera away, I swear to God.”

Derek ignored him, barking out a delighted laugh, and leaning over to show the camera’s screen to the girls, sending Erica into another fit of cry-laughter, and making Allison’s face pinch up in something like pity. 

“Oh, Stiles,” she pouted, “You are so cute.”

“What?” Stiles said, for the umpteenth time, “Derek!!” He snapped, throwing himself forward to grab the man’s hand and wrestle his arm and the camera into his lap, grimacing at the soft glimmers of affection lighting up through his body with every gentle laugh Derek fed into his ear. On the little rectangular screen was a grainy, pixelated image of his profile, with half of his hair sticking up and out and the other half flat on his head. He looked like a rhino. “Delete that.”

“Nope,” Derek said lowly. Stiles turned to him, their faces inches apart. He narrowed his eyes, furrowed his brows, gave his most pathetic attempt at appearing intimidating. Derek’s eyes darted down before his grin fell and he leant in. It was all so natural, letting his eyes fall shut and returning the kiss as he saw it coming. Just as natural to pretend to still be at all frustrated with him after. As if nothing had happened at all. 

As if that wasn’t the first time Derek had kissed him since Mexico. 

“I’m keeping it,” he said, grinning again, “Sorry not sorry.”

Stiles squinted at him, then nudged him on the shoulder, “Show me the rest.”

Derek’s eyes lit up, and he shuffled in closer, resting his left hand on the bed, behind Stiles’ back, as he turned his eyes back down to the camera and started cycling back through the gallery. Stiles watched as he did, smiling down at the pictures he’d taken. Jackson and Lydia posing with a bottle of vodka. Cora tangled up in Lydia’s birthday balloons. Every single person down there wearing that sash. Stiles, Erica, and Allison on the deck – Stiles was blurry and pulling a weird-ass face in the one where Erica’s hair hit him in the face. Liam and Mason arm wrestling. Isaac, Jackson, and Scott posing together, flexing their arms. Cora and Lydia sharing a drink, some sort of pinky-orange cocktail, with two straws. Laura’s face half-covered by a hand of Uno cards. Two random guys Stiles didn’t recognise lounging on a couch with Kira, Malia, and another girl Stiles didn’t recognise either. There were a few photos of the crowd in the main room, one of a couple coming in through the door, handing their gifts to Lydia, smiling wide and bright. There were too many photos, honestly. They went on forever, and ever, and ever, and Stiles wondered how long they’d actually been at this party for him to have taken so many pictures. There were some of Derek, not taken by him. One of him smiling with his sisters, eyes closed; one of him talking with Scott and Isaac, as relentlessly gorgeous as ever in the dim lighting. There was one of him wearing the sash, too, pink in the cheeks, looking at the camera as the flare covered his eyes. Another of Cora grabbing his face and pretending to be about to take a bite out of his head. His eyes were squeezed shut, head tilted back, mouth wide with laughter. He was happy. Or, at least, he looked it. So carefree, so comfortable. Like life was still easy for him. And Stiles guessed it must be, when he isn’t there to drag the mood down. 

He hadn’t expected Derek’s eyes to still flare in photos. 

He watched him join Allison and Erica’s conversation, still holding the camera but not looking at it anymore. 

“Allison, can I ask you something?” Erica said, receiving an affirmative hum from the other girl. The wolf took in a breath, “Does your mom know your dad’s, like, totally gay?”

Stiles blinked, meeting Allison’s wide eyes as they passed over the room, eventually turning her head to Erica and frowning at her, “My dad’s not gay.”

Erica gave her a look, smushing her chin into her neck, “Allison, come on… Peter… They want to fuck each other so bad—”

“Oh, my God,” Derek cried, “Erica!”

Allison looked like she wanted to kill herself, “She’s not wrong.”

“She’s really not,” Stiles murmured. 

“But my dad’s not gay,” Allison said plainly, “Trust me. I am sure of that. Him and my mom were disgusting when I was little.”

“Yeah, but, like…” Erica had a look on her face Stiles had literally never seen before – he didn’t know her eyes could even do that, whatever that was, “Peter. He’s actually kind of really hot.”

“Erica, what the hell?” Stiles spat. Derek whined by his side. 

Allison gave her a look, “You’re such a freak.”

“It’s not my fault!!” Erica cried, “He’s, like… scary-hot.” She had a little smirk on her face, “And he’s older. And he’s big.”

“I really want to leave this room,” Stiles murmured.

“Me, too,” Derek grumbled. 

“Yeah, come on, Erica,” Allison smacked her with the back of her hand, “That’s their, like, adoptive-dad-father-in-law-uncle-friend-thing you’re talking about. Have some class.” She scrunched up her nose, “And he bit you.”

“And I’d let him bite me some more if you know what I’m sayin’—”

“I’m telling Boyd!” Derek snapped. 

Erica flailed, laughing again, “No!! I was joking! Come on!”

Allison gave her a look, as Erica settled and snorted at her. The brunette winked a little. Erica snickered into her shoulder. 

“Anyway, my point was,” Erica said loudly, “How come they let you come out tonight? Isn’t your mom, like, violently anti-supernatural? We… We are that.”

“They didn’t let me,” Allison shrugged, “I snuck out.”

Erica gave her a high-browed look, then her mouth split back into a grin, “I am so fucking hungry, I think I might puke.”

“Okay, Erica,” Allison murmured, “Just don’t do it on me.” She lifted a hand to point, “Throw up on Derek.”

Derek growled. Stiles just shook his head and looked back down at the camera. He’d scrolled back to the very start of the night, to Lydia setting up the house and mixing drinks, and Jackson sipping a spiked mojito and Stiles lounging on the deck before the rain had started, when the sky was still clear and the water was still blue. He’d seen the photos Derek took of Lydia throwing her fit over the sash, and the one of Erica proudly showing it off. Derek had left the camera entirely in his hands, now. He went further back. It jumped in time, a massive skip back, that maybe he wouldn’t have noticed right away if it weren’t for the fact that the school didn’t look like that anymore. It was a photo of Allison, with her hair long, barely curled, side bangs in full swing. Her lips were pouted, and she was holding up a binder stuffed to the brim, with some ink smudged along her jaw line. Stiles stared at her dimples for a moment. Cute. He went to the photo before it, skipped a few as they were almost entirely selfies Lydia had taken, then slowed down when he got to a photo of Cora, taken from behind, at the ice rink. Her face was only in view enough for Stiles to be able to tell it was her, as she tied the laces on her skates. Before that, one of Boyd giving Erica a piggyback. Before that, Scott and Allison sharing a milkshake at a diner. Before that, Lydia and Jackson doing the same on the opposite side of the booth. Malia and Kira asleep on a couch, almost falling off. Cora and Isaac relaxing poolside on sun loungers. That cruise they went on. Allison sat cross-legged on a pristine white bed, eating breakfast on a tray. Lydia in an egregiously large sunhat at the edge of the boat, posing with her hair flowing in the wind. About five others that looked vaguely identical. Stiles and Derek at the edge of the pool. Further and further back he went, until he found a photo that made him freeze. 

His mom – smiling softly, head tilted to the side, with her Christmas sweater on, the one she’d worn every year of Stiles’ childhood. She was mixing something in a mug, with five others around it. Hot chocolate. It had to be. Behind her, blurred, his dad was laughing, hand frozen just before it would’ve hit Derek on the arm – the wolf’s eyes were closed as he laughed with him. Stiles was barely visible behind his mother, stuffing his face with roast potatoes from the centre of the table. Every other plate was left abandoned, broken Christmas crackers left on top of and beside them. God knows what anyone won from them. Derek and Noah were wearing their colourful tissue paper crowns. Stiles was not. 

Claudia was. Hers was purple. Skewed on her head, slightly too big. There was the softest violet glimmer in her eyes. 

And she was alive. 

Stiles’ eyes burned, his throat fell dry. He’d never seen this photo before. He hadn’t seen any photos of her here, at all. Alive. Older. With those lines by her eyes and her highlights so outgrown. 

He couldn’t hear her now. Not over the sounds of Erica’s laughter and Derek and Allison’s voices, not quite shouting but past inside voices. He couldn’t hear her. 

She was gone, either way. He didn’t want her back. The nice memories were nice, but he remembered just as well how she’d looked at him barely thirty minutes before, when Cora had brought up Peter. He did not want her back. But Derek, that little blur in the background of those photos, laughing and smiling and living, too. He didn’t want to lose him. He couldn’t lose him. Not even for a moment. Not when they’d come this far, and Stiles had already done more than enough to push him away. He didn’t need to die, too.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice came, quiet, gentle.

He swallowed, hummed, and turned to him. Derek’s eyes were just as soft as his voice, glancing down at the camera in his hand and moving to slowly take it from him. 

“Are you okay?” The wolf asked, looking back up as he turned the camera off. 

Stiles just stared, for a moment. He was a selfish man. He’d keep Derek as close as he could for as long as he could, even if it killed the both of them. 

“I need to talk to Lydia.”

Derek nodded, “Okay. You good?”

“I’m fine,” Stiles nodded back, “Just need to ask her about something.”

“Okay,” Derek said hesitantly, “Do you want me to come with you?”

“No,” Stiles shook his head, “It’s fine. I’ll be quick.” He shuffled away, scooting off the bed as Erica called out to him and reached out with grabby hands. Allison laughed at her, but Stiles wasn’t listening to any of their voices. Nor the ones in his head. 

At least he knew this house well. He’d spent so many horrible, terrified moments here, and those memories mapped the place out so clearly in his mind. He could navigate it with his eyes closed. So, it was easy to guess where Lydia was – wherever was loudest – and to find it. To find her. 

Those purple lights were blinding when he found her. And she did look gorgeous. She always did. Closer to how he remembered her, the version of her she should’ve been, the woman he had been helplessly in love with. It didn’t matter now. That life ended a long time ago, and he was never going back. He didn’t want to. For once, the present, the future he could almost taste, was better than what he’d left behind. Allison and Erica were safe upstairs with Derek, and everything was better now. He would do anything to keep it that way. Anything.

“Lydia!” He shouted over the music – a pop song that, for the first time in a long time, Stiles had never heard before – as he found her, hand wrapped around her arm, “Lydia, I need to talk to you!”

She turned to him, and her eyes bored right through him. That rich green stare, rife with hate. With irritation.

“What?” She asked. Not much of a question.

Stiles’ eyes panned across the crowd of teenagers – he really needed to find more friends his age, didn’t he? “It’s about the deadpool. The password.”

Lydia just stared up at him. Her face was almost blank, nearly unreadable. If not for the dark look in her eyes, Stiles wouldn’t be able to tell what she was thinking. Luckily, Stiles had been training himself in the art of Lydia Martin since he was eight years old. 

“Your prediction,” Stiles said pointedly, waiting a moment for her to say anything back, only to be answered with pounding music and someone slamming into his slide. His brows furrowed, “Can we talk? Somewhere?”

Lydia’s lips dragged over each other, then swiftly opened, “Yeah. Let’s.”

And she tore his hand off of her arm, kept his glowing wrist wrapped in tight, acrylic-worn fingers, and pulled him back out the way he came. Stiles’ eyes darted between her red hair and the conspiratorial, curious glances shared by everyone they passed. Stiles really didn’t want to be the drama of the night. He didn’t need people gossiping. He didn’t need people acknowledging his existence outside of lacrosse games. 

It was strange how much he’d changed. He could faintly remember a time where all he wanted was to be known. To be seen with Lydia Martin, to have any sort of rumour about them, no matter how true. Maybe, somewhere else, it could’ve been that simple. Maybe, somewhere, the Hale House never burned down, or Stiles never took Scott into the woods, or Peter was never the Alpha, and their lives were normal. Stiles wouldn’t be here, with Peter Hale’s forgotten spark glowing out through his arms, with Lydia’s hand dragging him out to the back porch of her lakehouse. He wouldn’t need to beg for the way that Derek Hale would die. They would never have even met. Maybe it would be easier that way. 

Stiles didn’t want easy. Stiles wanted answers, and he wanted Derek, and he wanted him alive.

Lydia slammed the sliding door shut behind them. Her heels thudded against the wood. Stiles felt a chill pass over him as the freezing air hit him. His hair was still wet. He couldn’t stop himself from shivering. 

“How is he going to die?” He asked.

Something like a laugh burned out of her as she turned around, “It’s my birthday, Stiles.”

His brows twitched, “I know.”

“It is my birthday,” she said again, staring up at him with a true fire behind her eyes, “and you want to pull me aside to ask me when my friend is going to die.”

He watched her take a slow step toward him. His stomach ached. 

“Can I not have five fucking minutes where I’m not living your life, Stiles?” She blinked furiously. The rain was still bucketing down. Stiles was frozen. Lydia shook her head, “I’m not letting you ruin my night, again. Okay? You can wait a few goddamn days before you come back to me begging for some bullshit I shouldn’t have to do. I don’t even know how— You never told me how to do this!!” Her lips were quivering, her hands moving around furiously with every word, “And according to Meredith, I can’t even do it correctly! So, if Derek even is going to die, I definitely don’t know how.”

“He was the last password,” Stiles said firmly, “He has to. That’s the point.”

“Well!” Lydia threw her hands up in the air and dropped them again, “How about you talk to a banshee who actually hears things, instead of trying to make me do it. I’m not a tool for you to use whenever it’s convenient for you, Stiles. And I’m not doing it if it makes me turn out like her.” She took a step back, “Something about her endless screaming really feels like she gets it, don’t you think?” And, as she turned away to grab at the door’s handle, a concave lip in the edge of it, she shook her head, “She had a lot to say about you. More than she did about Derek, and much more than she did about the deadpool.”

She pulled the door open. Stiles swallowed. 

“If it helps,” she hissed, looking back over her shoulder as she stepped over the base of the door, “she wants you to start listening to your mother.” 

Stiles’ jaw tightened. 

“Whatever that means,” Lydia said with a roll of her eyes, looking away. She stepped through the door, then paused. Her voice turned thoughtful, “Oh, that, too.”

“What?” Stiles barely forced out.

Lydia looked back one final time as she said, “‘Can’t you hear the train is coming?’ ” Her brows rose, “That was a pretty big one for her.”

“What?” Stiles asked again, just above a whisper, voice rising, “What does that mean?”

The rain was so loud. It could’ve drained it all out if Stiles wanted it to. He could’ve pretended not to hear her, just like he would still pretend not to hear Claudia. He wondered if she could’ve heard it on the rain if she tried. Derek’s death. It didn’t make any sense for it to not happen, for her to have been wrong. Because she wasn’t. The password worked. They were stood here, under the thundering of rain against the porch roof, because she was right. Everything Stiles had done to keep Derek alive. Everything she had made necessary. It was because it was all exactly what it looked like. Derek was going to die. Somehow, he was going to. She saw it. So, why the hell wouldn’t she just spit it out?

“I don’t know,” Lydia said primly, venomous, “Why don’t you ask her. Now, if you don’t mind, oh, Alpha, my Alpha,” she turned away again, “I have a birthday to celebrate.”

 

-

 

Stiles’ therapy appointment was four days after Lydia’s party. The day before his twenty-first birthday. It wasn’t how he’d expected that day to go. Not ever. 

In his fantasies, his teenaged daydreams, his twenty-first would’ve started with him cutting up his fake ID. He would’ve dragged Scott downtown, made him barcrawl until crawling was the only way they could even think of reaching the next stop. He would’ve gotten with some hot girl, done something horrendously stupid. Now, his plans for his twenty-first were to share a glass of whiskey with his dad, pretend no one had told him Erica was baking him cupcakes when she and Allison showed up to give them to him, and stuff his face while watching his Lord of the Rings trilogy boxset back to front (extended editions, obviously) with Derek. For maybe the fifth time. But Derek couldn’t complain this time, because it was his birthday. It would all be sickeningly sweet, and neither of them would talk about how Derek’s eyes had changed colour, or how Stiles would find himself brushing his fingers across his throat. 

That appointment, though, had taken up far more space in his mind than his birthday. It had left him uneasy, anxious, afraid of the things he might have to say. What he might have to lie about. What she might think of him after only hearing Derek’s side of everything. Because he knew what he was like. He knew he had hurt him. More than once. And he knew he was living on borrowed time, with this pack. 

“Do you feel like time is moving faster than usual, lately?” He asked, as Dr. Senta was halfway through asking her millionth question about his pack. 

She blinked, “I don’t know. Why? Do you?”

“I feel like it was my twentieth birthday, like, six days ago,” Stiles muttered. He sat back in that comfy chair. “Everything’s happened so fast. Like, Liam – the kid – he’s been a werewolf for, what, seven months, now? It’s been almost two years since I came to this timeline. Two years.” He shook his head, “I’ve almost caught up to the point I left the first timeline. That’s a year away, like, exactly. Maybe a week more.”

He swallowed. Dr. Senta just watched him. 

“I don’t know if I…” he sighed, “If that happens again, I don’t know if I’ll be able to handle it.”

“If what happens?” Dr. Senta asked, “You getting sent back in time?”

“No, that would be easy,” Stiles shook his head, “I know how to get back. I mean everyone forgetting me.” He licked his lips, “That, I couldn’t fucking take.”

“Right,” Dr. Senta said, sounding genuinely curious for the first time that hour, “I’ve never heard of anyone who met the Wild Hunt and was able to tell the tale. Besides banshees.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “Yeah.”

Dr. Senta tilted her head, “Can I tell you what I’ve gathered today, as we’re coming to the end of our session?”

He barely moved, “Knock yourself out.”

“I think you have a very fragile sense of self, Stiles,” she said. He blinked up at her. “Or, more… Self-worth. You think you’re only worth as much as the things you do for other people, and you don’t think you do enough.” 

Stiles felt that unease grow. Like the feeling of being watched. Her eyes were so intense, now.

“You’ve been through things none of your friends could ever understand,” she said with a shake of her head, “But some of them can. Like Peter. He sounds like someone you should lean on.” She tucked her pen onto the top of her page, “I think we should spend the last few minutes of this session discussing some methods you could use to help remind yourself that it’s okay to not… be a god. You’re just a man, Stiles.” She nodded, clasping her hands over each other, “You are allowed to make mistakes. As long as you take accountability and grow from them. Your friends will understand that, if they’re good for you.”

Stiles licked his lips. He didn’t have anything to say. He couldn’t speak.

“Not everything is your responsibility,” she said, “Again, you’re not a god. You don’t choose who lives or dies. You don’t need to give up your own life to save anyone else.”

“I do, though,” he said weakly, “It’s my fault they’re going to be in those situations.”

“Regardless,” Dr. Senta shook her head, “Sometimes, people have to be selfish. You’re killing yourself with the way you’re functioning now. Something has to change.”

His eyes fell from hers. They rested on his hands. On the red glow past his sleeves. He felt sick. 

“So, I’d like to run you through some resources I’ve got, here,” she said softly, “and once we’ve gone over that, we can talk about maybe booking another session?”

Stiles stared down at the red, gnawing at his cheek for just a moment, “Yeah. Okay.”

 

-

 

Stiles did not like Eichen House. Of course, he didn’t fucking like it. 

The sight of that place, the roads leading up to it, the fact that he had to pull his sleeves so far down his hands to keep the guards from realising there was anything other than natural about him, the rib-curling memories each second spent in that place gave him. None of it was good. All of it made his hands shake, made his stomach turn, made the nausea and panic and terror and need to run grow in him until there was no space for it to get any worse.

“Stiles Stilinski,” he said when that fucking guard – worker, nurse, whatever he was – Schrader asked for his name. The man looked up past his brows, past the strands of grease-soaked hair sticking to his forehead. The pause made him narrow his eyes and shake his head, the anxiety steadily brewing in his stomach, “Is there a problem?”

“That name,” Schrader drawled, staring up at him, straightening his back as his brows rose, “What, does insanity run in the family? You’re here to check in, or what?”

Killing this man would do nothing more than get him stuck here. So Stiles just kissed his teeth and nodded. 

“I’m here to visit a patient.”

Schrader did a strange thing with his face, a disbelieving, indifferent sort of a shrug with only his features, as he pushed that plastic tub over toward him.

“Empty your pockets into here,” he said, “No weapons, no electronics, no nothing is coming with you through that door.”

“You got it, boss,” Stiles spat, reaching into his pockets to pull out his wallet, phone, and keys, and dump them in the plastic box. Schrader pulled his back to his side of the desk and tucked it underneath, walking out to the side door to reach Stiles’ side. 

“Who’re you here to visit?” He drawled, “Claudia Stilinski left a good few years ago, if that’s what you’re after.”

Stiles stared at the door past the man’s shoulder, “Meredith Walker.”

Schrader’s face twisted up again, “Well. Why the hell not?” He turned around, “She’s a difficult one, fair warning. Don’t know what you want with her.” He pushed through that door, and Stiles followed closely behind. 

It all looked exactly like he had when he was a patient here. If that’s what you could even call it. How damn lucky had he been that they hadn’t realised what was happening? That Deaton’s sister was his therapist? If anyone else – anyone, at all, especially Schrader or Fenris – had figured out that he was possessed by a fucking Nogitsune, he would’ve been dissected and tortured and locked away until his body rotted away and the Nogitsune could slip through the crack in his door and take someone else. These concrete paths and brick walls would’ve been lost to its chaos. 

He could still see Malia’s fist flying at his face. The shyness in her eyes after that first kiss. 

That had been so reckless. Stupid. 

“What happened to Claudia, anyway?” Schrader drawled, “You do know her, right? What, are you a cousin, or something?”

Stiles didn’t look at him. Oliver was sat on a bench a small ways away. He was picking at his nails. Stiles hadn’t thought about him in a long time. His old roommate. He looked away. 

“No,” he said lowly, “I don’t know her.”

“Oh,” Schrader glanced back over his shoulder, as Stiles stared at his back, “You’ve got the same name. I could’ve sworn the shit she would mumble about was something to do with a Stiles.”

Stiles said nothing. He tugged his sleeves just a little bit further down his hands. 

Then Schrader shrugged, “She was always fuckin’ talking. I was never listening, anyway.”

Maybe he was going to throw up, actually. He’d been holding it down, but it was getting real fucking close. His head was spinning. This place was evil. It was haunted. It was terrible in every fucking way. 

“Alright,” Schrader said, “Meredith’s in there. If you need us, there’s an emergency call button by the door. But, uh… I’m really busy.” Stiles met his blank, dead eyes. 

He raised his brows, “Better get back to work, then.”

Schrader huffed, “Better. You’ve got thirty minutes.”

Stiles hummed, and watched as Schrader scanned his ID badge beside the door and pulled it open right after the buzz. That sound. Stiles ground his teeth, and let Schrader hold the door open. 

He stepped inside. 

Meredith sat at the edge of a bed, hands clasped in her lap, wide eyes staring up at him. Her lips split into a coy smile. 

“I knew you were coming.”

The door slammed shut behind him. Stiles flinched at the sound. He pressed his eyes shut. 

He was about to pass out.

“Of course you did,” he said, whispered, “It’s your thing.”

Meredith seemed to laugh, “Oh, wow. You’re different than I thought you’d be.”

He forced his eyes open, stepping back to lean against the door. Her eyes were boring right into him. Burning holes through him, every point she stared at. He pitied her. But she was scary. In her own way. She was unpredictable. And she was a banshee. Stiles knew not to underestimate banshees, especially this one. Her screams had killed, hadn’t they? That was why she was here. 

“If you knew I was coming,” Stiles said, “Then you know what I want to ask you.”

Meredith’s little smile came back, neck craning deep to nod right into her neck. He nodded back.

“Why was Derek the last password?” He asked. Her eyes flickered down, then to her right, then back to him. “How is he going to die.”

Meredith’s head tilted, “That depends.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed. He watched her eyes fall again, stare turning distant. 

“Lydia didn’t see the right thing,” she said mildly, “It was just lucky that the name was the same.”

“If Derek’s not going to die, then just say that,” Stiles hissed, “so I can get the hell out of this place.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Meredith snapped. Stiles watched her stare at her hands. Just sitting, still as anything. Eyes wide. Brows high. He couldn’t breathe. “Derek is going to die.” Her eyes slowly dragged across the floor, reaching him, but not rising beyond his chest. “It has to happen.”

“Why?” Stiles snarled, “How?”

She stared for entirely too long before her eyes snapped up to meet his, “Did you hear that?”

Stiles’ chest ached, forcing himself to push off of the door and step into the room. He dropped down onto the bed across from her. The mattress held all the softness of a concrete slab. He laced his fingers together, and her eyes snapped down to them. He stared into the whites of them.

“Meredith,” he said, “You need to tell me what’s going to happen to him.”

“It’s already happening,” she said, “You know that.” Her eyes snapped back up, “You know it.”

He swallowed, “He’s evolving.”

She nodded, “He has to die. To live.”

“But when,” Stiles snapped, “And how.”

Meredith just tilted her head. Her mouth slammed shut. Stiles could’ve killed her. 

“Derek isn’t what you should be afraid of.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “What?”

Meredith’s eyes stayed firmly locked on his hands, “You won’t be there when it happens, anyway. You can’t stop it.”

“Meredith,” Stiles said, and any patience he could’ve had barely came with him through that gate, and what little did make it through had swiftly wilted away, “You need to tell me what you’ve heard. Seen. Felt. Fucking anything, okay? Let me be there. I need to be there.”

“You’re not the same person you are now,” she said, “when he changes.” Her voice was dazed, and that had to mean something helpful, “You will both be changed.”

“By what?” Stiles asked, firm and stern.

She took in a shallow breath, “I… He…”

“Meredith, focus,” Stiles snapped, “Tell me what I need to know.”

“You’ve already been told,” she cried, eyes still locked onto him, though her head was shaking back and forth, “He told you already.”

“Who?” Stiles leant forward, “Who told me what?”

“You did,” she said.

“… What?”

“You don’t have to keep running,” she said, voice so small, “You can’t run from the future, anyway. It’s always going to be ahead of you.”

Stiles’ body outright rejected the sound. Those words. They crawled beneath his skin and burned him, just as they had the first time he heard them.

“Don’t leave him behind.”

His arms. The red. His fingers, clenched so tightly in his lap. Meredith’s eyes locked onto them. 

When those eyes finally, finally, met his, they were grave, dark, cruel, “Blind faith is the killer of devotion.”

Stiles’ body felt just as weightless as it did lead-laced. Like he’d been split in two and one half was about to run for the hills, while the other couldn’t move for anything. His vision split in that same way, for just a second, before he forced himself back to lucidity. To focus. To swallowing down the saliva in his mouth, and the nausea in his… everywhere. He carried the terror in his ribs. 

“What does that mean?” He whispered, “He never told me what that meant. He just left.”

“He?” Meredith blinked, “He is you, Stiles.” Her lips quirked up, chin tilted all the way down again, digging into her own throat in a way that looked painful, “You know what haunts you. You know it will come back. They all will.”

Stiles’ mouth was so dry, now, in a way that licking his lips only made worse, “Who? The Other Stiles?”

Meredith tilted her head, “That’s up to you. But it’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” Stiles snarled, “Tell me straight up. What is coming, Meredith?” His eyes darted down her grey-covered body, the ashiness of all of her, the emptiness, “What is the train?”

Her back curled in tighter over itself, “I don’t want to talk about that.”

“Tell me.”

“No,” she shook her head, the word an indignant sound, childlike, “It’s too loud. I don’t want to.”

“Well, too bad,” Stiles snapped. Her eyes were so wide. So afraid. “You shouldn’t’ve brought it up if you didn’t want to talk. You knew I was coming, Meredith, so spit it out.”

“If you listened yourself,” Meredith said, voice dragging, grave, “You would know. She can see more than I can, why won’t you just listen?!”

“To who?!” Stiles shouted. 

“To Claudia!! ”

Stiles just shook his head, voice cracking when he spoke again, “No.”

“She’s so loud,” Meredith wailed, “How can you not listen?!”

“Stop it.”

“She could’ve saved you!” The banshee cried, “But you won’t let her!”

Stiles couldn’t breathe, again, “You can. You can help me, Meredith.” 

She shook her head – solid, almost painful-looking, violent shakes back and forth, “When you listen… Too late. It’s too late.”

“Meredith.”

“It’s too late. It’s too late.”

Stiles moved off the bed, dropping to crouch in front of her, fighting to meet her darting, frantic eyes, “Meredith. Come back.”

“It’s too late,” she cried, shaking her head faster now, “You can’t stop it! You can’t stop it!! The train is coming! ” 

“What does that mean?! ”

“Derek can’t save you,” she squeezed her eyes shut, “No one is coming to save you.”

“Save me from what?” Stiles grabbed at her shoulders, fighting back as she tried to pull away, almost flailing, “Meredith, please. I’m begging you.”

“He’s going to take everything from you.”

Stiles couldn’t… he just couldn’t, “Slow down. Tell me who. Give me a name.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore.”

“Meredith.”

“I don’t want to talk to you anymore!!” She roared, shaking with the effort. She pulled back, flinching at her own volume, “It’s so horrible. You are so…” Her eyes were wet, “When you’ve lost it all, Stiles… Don’t…”

He just stared. 

“Don’t…” she trailed off again. Her eyes widened, somehow, even further. 

He didn’t know exactly what told him what she was about to do. Maybe it was the breath she took in. Maybe it was the way she pulled back from him. Maybe it was the fear in her eyes. 

(It was the nudge of his body. The urge to move. A whisper, a wordless shout, an unshakeable need to get away. It was her.)

Stiles was on his feet and running before he could think. The door was open within seconds. He was on the other side just as the scream tore through the air. A cry. A wail. It made the hallway fall silent in its wake. It left the building as quiet as it could ever be, beyond the whispers of the ghosts it kept there. 

That scream had carried a name with it, a wavering, helpless sound, three syllables clinging to her voice. 

‘Claudia,’ she had screamed. 

Stiles didn’t wait for anyone to escort him back to the foyer. He just left. With his feet heavy, and countless eyes staring with each person he passed. He tugged at his sleeves. He felt his hoodie press too heavily against his throat. He wiped at his eyes, and he kept moving.

He focused on the silence. He heard nothing more. 

He was not looking forward to his first therapy appointment.

Notes:

ohhh babyyy i am SOOO excited for this next season oohohOHOHHHHHH U DONT EVEN KNOWWWWWWW im genuinely gonna have to beg for forgiveness for what im about to do

lydia slander is NOT permitted in this household btw she is so real i love her if someone made me start hearing voices and predicting deaths and turned my best friend itno a werewolf and killed his own mother i would also lowkey not fw him

Chapter 22: The First Chimera

Summary:

Season 5: 'Glory (Am I Making You Feel Sick?)'

Beacon Hills welcomes a very, very familiar face. Stiles loses his fucking mind. Lydia gets into acrylic on canvas.

Notes:

Ohh baby. OHH. BAAAYYBEEEEE. Holy CRAP it’s happening

This season includes alcohol abuse/addiction, suicide attempts/discussion of suicide, self-harm (to a degree), so much violence, and a general air of helplessness. Heed this warning. And prepare for levels of Unreliable Narration the world has never before seen.

I have been looking forward to this season for actual real years. I'm sorry in advance.

Also. I might have made my fav a little too gay. But i stand by it.

This was not beta read even a little <333

Theodore Karl Raeken was last seen on the fifteenth of December, 2005. His parents, his sister, him. All gone overnight. As if they had never existed. 

Though there was no trace of them in their empty home, no car left in the driveway, no food left in their fridge, they were not forgotten. They were the talk of the town for months, the Raekens. Stiles would catch murmurs in store lines, at nearby tables in cafés, while his mother sipped her hot chocolate across from him. None of them knew him. None of them had lost anything. None of them had any right to talk about what nobody understood if they weren’t going to help. They all moved on once the Hale House burned down, clinging to the newest town gossip, the latest way to claim tragedy in their boring, normal lives. They all forgot about the Raekens. About Theo. 

Stiles didn’t.

And maybe if his mom hadn’t gotten sick, he could’ve figured it out. Learned what he did to his sister; found him. But his best friend’s disappearance stopped being the craziest thing to happen to him, the most important, when his mother died. That was when his life turned dark. When the fun stopped. When he met Scott and tried to be the person he knew he used to be: the fun, sarcastic, outgoing, energetic one. He could pretend, when he could forget he’d lost her. But he had never been the same, not really. Not after the things she’d said to him as her mind rotted. The things she did. 

But thirteen years ago (or nine, what difference would it make?), none of that had happened yet. Stiles Stilinski had never felt true fear. Or rage. Or sadness. Theo Raeken had never hurt anyone. 

It was the summer of 2005, and Stiles and Theo were playing on the swingset in the playground by Theo’s house. Claudia was alive. Tara was alive. Theo had not been diagnosed with the heart problems that destroyed everything. And summer had only just begun. 

“It’s not just because she’s pretty,” Stiles gushed, digging his feet into the seat below him and making his legs fly out backwards as the thing swung back, “She’s so smart, Theo.”

“Uh-huh,” Theo murmured. He was actually sat in his swing, the way Stiles probably should have been if he didn’t want to break any bones today. He didn’t really care. If he broke something, he could get Lydia to sign the cast. Oh, woah, there’s an idea. 

“We should break a bone together!” He cried, looking down to his left at the top of Theo’s head as the other kid looked up at him. Theo’s face was twisted up in concern.

“I don’t wanna break a bone!” He cried back, “That shit would hurt!”

Stiles swung harder, sending his feet flying out in front of him as he clung onto the chain of the swing, burning hot from the sun, “Language.”

“Shut up, Stiles.”

He swung back.

“Rude,” Stiles grumbled, “Don’t be mean.”

He swung forward.

“Think about it,” he said proudly, “Lydia could sign my cast. Some other girl could sign yours. Seriously, dude, we could get so much attention. It’d be so badass. You know, I really don’t get how you don’t like any of the girls in our class. Like, dude, Lydia is right there. But, also, yeah, I don’t want any competition. Or any more competition. I think Matt might like her, too. You know, I heard that Tracy has a crush on you. You should ask her out.”

“I’m not gonna break a bone so you can get Lydia Martin to sign your cast,” Theo grumbled, ignoring everything else he’d said entirely, “Why don’t you just talk to her? Like a human?”

“Because!” Stiles spluttered, “I— That— Shut up! I so could. Dare me to.”

Theo’s eyes were playful when he met them, blurry and unfocused as Stiles kept swinging back and forth, “You won’t.”

“Will too!” 

“Won’t… too,” Theo’s brows furrowed.

“You sound like a baby,” Stiles snapped, swinging harder, “Wanna see who can go the highest??”

“Not if I’m gonna break a bone,” Theo said around a grin.

Stiles rolled his eyes, hair flopping into them from the wind and the swinging, “Yeah, ‘cause you are a baby. You cried the last time you got a paper cut.”

“Did not!!”

“I’m not even gonna dignify that with a response.”

When he looked back over, Theo was staring at him with narrowed, confused eyes. Then he pushed off the ground with the heels of his feet and swung backwards, as Stiles went forward, and swiftly fell into pace with him. The wind carried Stiles’ loud shrieks of laughter, his fake-deep exclamations as he went too high and his stomach dropped. Theo made wary noises of his own, hesitant laughs, swallowed up by the wind whistling in Stiles’ ears. The chain of his swing would fall back on itself when he reached the top, making it pull taught whenever he swung back the other way, and it made his body unsteady. He almost fell out of the swing a good few times, swearing on his life he’d gone upside down at one point.

“I’m gonna jump!” He shouted.

Theo barked out a laugh, “Don’t die!”

“No promises!”

And as Stiles reached the top, and the chain fell back on itself, he let go. That moment of weightlessness, probably less than a second, felt like an eternity. Like he’d fallen stories, not jumped from two metres in the air. 

He ended up sobbing in his mom’s arms as Theo rubbed his back, with his twisted ankle clenched tight in his hands and the worst pain he’d felt in his life. He didn’t even get a cast for Lydia to sign. What a waste. 

 

-

 

Stiles had never had any siblings. Let alone a sister. But he did have Erica. And he did have Allison.

He’d been doing a load of laundry when he found it – bundled up in an old plaid button-up shirt, the kind he hadn’t worn in a good year. It had fallen out, landed on the floor in a small tangle of muted, muddied colour. 

A bracelet.

One he’d replicated with uneasy fingers and fraying thread a long time ago. Erica hadn’t trusted a hair on his head when she took it from him. She still didn’t understand what she meant to him. He’d never told her what the bracelet meant, had he? Who he’d gotten his from, which member of their pack had never gotten one of her own?

Derek still wore his. Right below the watch he’d kept for all these years. Stiles didn’t know where that watch came from, why this version of Derek wore it and the first never had. He didn’t ever ask. It wasn’t something that stuck out to him anymore. He’d take the watch and the bracelet off every morning before his shower, and put them both back on once he was dry. Stiles had lost his bracelet. Or, he thought he had. 

Now, it was a tiny bundle of yellow and blue and purple, resting by Stiles’ left foot. He straightened his back, adjusted his arms, wrapped around the pile of bedding, and stared for a moment. The grey tile was barely any more dull than those colours, worn of all vibrancy from the dirt and blood and sweat and life he’d lived with it on his wrist. He stared at it. Yellow. Blue. Purple.

He walked away. 

Dr. Senta’s voice had found itself a noble place in his mind, by now. It had started after the third, maybe the fourth session. He’d tried to get Derek’s attention at a pack meeting or a party or at the store, something like that, and when the wolf hadn’t reacted, he’d felt the flood of ice through his veins. He’d sworn that Derek had glanced back at him with an even colder look in his eyes, and his brain had done that thing again. Imagining how it would end. Envisioning all the thoughts Derek could be having, every way he cursed him in his mind. Then Dr. Senta came through. 

“What’s your evidence?” She’d say, “People show their true feelings in their actions. What actions are you actually seeing, here?”

Derek had turned back to him properly, a few moments later, eyes lighting up as he moved to show him something on his phone. He’d crowded into Stiles’ personal space to watch his reaction, eyes flickering between his face and the screen, and Stiles’ veins had warmed again. He’d snapped out of it. 

Now, as he stepped back into the bathroom, with his freshly dried bedding dumped back in their room, her voice was still a steady sound in his brain, saying, “What do we always say?”

“Past is past,” he said lowly to himself as he stopped right where that bracelet lay, “All that’s left is feeling.” He took a deep breath, “Feel it.”

It was a hard thing to feel. With that first timeline, he’d felt that feeling, the homesick mourning, the what-ifs, all of it, but he could go back. He shouldn’t, but he could. Derek’s number was in his phone. Everything ended up okay for them, in the end. He knew that. It was a distant comfort in the midst of everything else. 

But the second timeline was something different. 

He’d left them without a second thought. Without any care for what he was leaving behind. His father had no family there anymore. His pack had no Alpha. Cora had no family, either. Well, she had Malia. Did she have Peter? Stiles wasn’t sure. But Dr. Senta would tell him that there was no way of knowing. And when problems have no solutions, it’s best to try to move on. He would smile and nod. But she didn’t get it. She’d never travelled back in time. She’d never changed the world as we know it. She’d never been the one to blame for anything. 

That world was not something he could move on from. As horrible as it had been, it was his. It wasn’t his fault that it was created. He was a tool for something bigger than him, or some bullshit like that. But every good part of that timeline had left when Erica did. 

Did they miss him, there? Or were they glad he left?

Surely, it was calmer without him. Safer. If Peter was still there, or some version of him, at least someone would know how to stop the deadpool. He wouldn’t be the same there, though, would he? He’d changed a lot over the years. A lot. And most of that change had happened there, sure, but the Peter he hugged goodbye in that hallway wouldn’t have let him use him as a pillow if they were both kidnapped. He’d kick him in the face and leave to sulk in a corner over how his skincare routine wouldn’t get completed that night. He wouldn’t hug him. He wouldn’t go drinking with him. He wouldn’t look at him like a proud father. 

What he felt for that timeline wasn’t the same as the first. He missed it, yes, but only really because of Lydia. And his dad. And the naïve easiness of him and Derek. They’d been so good, there. He’d been so good. What was the worst thing he’d even done? Trying to kill Deucalion after Erica died? Killing Jennifer by dropping a hospital on her? 

At least, there, people understood what was justified. There, people didn’t treat him as something inhuman. Something so far above them that any bad choice sent him rocketing below. Because he should be better. He knew better. 

Stiles didn’t know a damn thing. 

He slid the bracelet over his hand, forced it over the little jut at the base of his thumb despite the firm lack of stretch in the thread, and let it rest over the red glowing lines. A small smile lifted the corners of his mouth. That version of him would hate this. 

Stiles still did not look in the mirror as he left. Because Stiles was not as different as he liked to think he was. No stronger. No wiser. And every passing sight of himself in the mirror made him just as sick as seeing him walk into that living room. 

He almost couldn’t tell them apart anymore. 

Erica and Allison were meant to be here ten minutes ago. They were late. 

From Erica, that’s to be expected. But not Allison. And not anyone else, if Allison is involved. She’s punctual. Disciplined. As close to a military daughter as she could be with no military parent. Arms dealers had to be close enough. Hunters, moreso. She was as bad as Lydia with the anal way she refused to be late, only far less vocal about how much she hated it. She saw it as disrespect. As a slight. 

So where the fuck were they?

He was sat on his couch, right ankle rested on left knee, spinning the bracelet around his wrist and feeling the satisfying repetition of knuckles rolling along skin when the buzzer rang out. He glanced over, for just a moment, to the analogue clock Derek had hung up a few months ago (Something he’d relentlessly refused to accept because come on, Derek, we have phones for a reason! You have a watch you never take off!! The ticking won’t stop. It won’t stop, Derek.) to see the time. Twenty minutes late, now. 

It had started to rain. 

Stiles’ stomach had turned at the sound. 

He crossed the room, pulled his sleeves back down his arms, buzzed the girls in the moment their loud voices broke through the speaker, and stepped away to head to the kitchen. Not a far trek, by any means. This apartment wasn’t that egregious. The kitchen and livingroom were one open space, and the bathroom and bedroom both branched out from there and connected to each other. It wasn’t massive, not room-number-wise. But it was perfect. It was home. It was theirs. 

Claudia Stilinski made hot chocolate in a very particular way. Stiles had it memorised since he was six years old. Fill a mug almost all the way with milk and microwave for one minute. Take it out and put in four teaspoons of hot chocolate powder (and an extra half spoon for good luck) and stir. Try not to get it all over the countertop. Fail. Stir until it’s mostly no longer just powder. Microwave for another minute. Stir again. Lick up the powder left on the rim of the mug, then enjoy. It will burn. She was impartial to whipped cream and marshmallows, absolutely never having marshmallows on her own, but putting far too many in Stiles’ whenever he asked. He made Erica’s the same way. 

Allison only took whipped cream, and cocoa powder on top if they had it. Not today. He’d spent the summer making iced coffees for them – for everyone, really – and he’d been looking forward to their first hot chocolates of the Fall. It was the first day of school tomorrow. Senior year. 

Stiles had slaved through Summer School for this. For them. Letting Malia borrow his notes and practising lacrosse with Liam. Tonight was Senior Scribe.

He remembered tonight better than almost anything.

The girls came through the open door as Stiles was putting the mugs back in for microwave round two, Stiles’ brows furrowing as the smell of rain hit his nose, “Erica, don’t you dare shake the water off in here.”

There was a sudden silence, then Erica’s voice said lowly, “I so was not gonna do that…”

Allison made a small noise, and Stiles shut the microwave door. He turned around when he realised no one had moved away from the door. No one had taken off their shoes. Their coats. Nothing. The girls just stared at him from across the room with worried eyes and wet hair. 

“What?” He asked, “Why do you two look like that?”

Allison licked her lips, but Erica spoke first, “Lydia needs to see you.”

His eyes narrowed, “Why?”

“It’s about Derek,” Allison said, “She doesn’t want to see you, but I think you should really see her.” 

“Derek?” Stiles shook his head, “She’s… Today?”

The girls exchanged a mild look. A question. 

He swallowed, “She’s started seeing it? Today?”

Allison nodded, “Yeah. Why? Is today important?”

Stiles pressed his eyes shut, took a deep breath, braced his hands against the kitchen island and leant forward. The most bitter, spiteful smile wormed its way onto his face. He nodded. He nodded, and nodded. 

“Do you two trust me?” He asked. 

“Yeah,” Erica said swiftly, “Duh.”

“Of course, Stiles,” Allison said, “What’s going on?”

“After Senior Scribe,” Stiles said, pulling back, meeting their eyes as firmly as he could, “Do not go outside. You stay in the library, you understand me?”

Erica’s brows furrowed, “What’s happening tonight, Stiles?”

He shook his head, “I’ll handle it.”

“We’ll be less freaked out if you tell us, Stiles,” Allison stressed, “Is there something we should be preparing for?”

Stiles just smiled, “You can’t.” His smile turned into a pursing of lips, as the microwave beeped, “Let’s go see what Lydia needs me to prepare for, instead, huh?”

 

-

 

It had rained just as heavily the first time. One thing Stiles could not change was the weather, it seemed.

And one person he could not save was Derek Hale. He’d accepted it a long time ago. As had Derek. After that training session where Cora accidentally broke his arm and it took three days to heal, they’d all properly gotten it into their heads that everything was changing. Too fast, too. Derek couldn’t shift anymore. He could only barely get his claws out, and flash his eyes, maybe bare his fangs, but nothing more. He took two weeks to heal a bad bruise. Four to heal a small-ish wound. Stiles had never been so paranoid about someone getting hurt before. Not his betas, not the actual human people who ran with them, certainly not himself. 

But he knew he would. Derek was going to die. It was just a matter of when. Of how. 

Lydia was in her bedroom, sat cross-legged on her bed, staring into space, when her mother let them in. 

“The painting,” Allison said softly into his ear, eyes gentle with sympathy as he turned away to follow Lydia’s gaze across the room.

On an easel, in between her vanity and her chest of drawers, was a canvas. It was too dark to make out the forms, at first. But, when Stiles stepped forward, it all came out clearer. The shades differentiated in his mind and the two sets of golden eyes made his jaw tighten.

“I see,” he said simply, staring at the two people in the painting. The blood. The claws. 

On the floor, surrounding his feet, were countless pieces of paper, scribbles of the same thing, of Derek’s name, incoherent shapes. Most of them were torn or pierced from the pressure of her pen. He couldn’t look at the painting anymore, anyway. His chest was burning, his mind a silent buzzing of unintelligible rage. The closest to silence it had been in months. Six of them, to be exact.

“Do you know who that is?” Allison asked.

Stiles took a sharp breath in through his nose, and turned away from the easel, “Of course, I do. He’s an old friend.”

“Uh,” Erica’s voice was a little scratchy, now, “Like, in a sarcastic way or a serious way?”

He ignored her, and Allison’s follow-up questions, to crawl onto the bed and hold Lydia’s hands in his, sitting down in front of her. Her eyes slowly dragged up until they locked onto his. Her mouth slightly opened.

“Lydia,” he said firmly, “He’s going to be fine. Are you okay?”

Her brows barely fell, her eyes narrowing near imperceptibly, “It’s because of—” 

She slammed her mouth shut, bringing her right hand out of his hold and up to cover her lips with the back of her palm, eyes darting as she took in a hearty breath. She leant back into her millions of pink decorative pillows. Stiles just stared at her.

“We have to go to Senior Scribe,” he said slowly, “Are you okay to go?”

“If something’s going to happen, shouldn’t we stay here?” Allison asked, “Or at the Hale House? Anywhere but… there?”

“I’m not letting you throw your lives away just to keep yourselves alive,” Stiles said, “I’ll keep it under control at the school, you won’t even know anything’s happening.” He met Allison’s eyes, “This is a big deal.” He nodded to Erica, “You’ve been waiting for this all summer.”

Erica just crossed her arms, frowning deep, still wet from the rain, with her two French braids soaked dark, “Yeah, but… Is Derek…?”

“Not tonight,” Lydia said faintly, “It doesn’t happen tonight.”

Stiles nodded to her, “Yeah, see? You guys go be teenagers. I’ll handle everything else.” 

Lydia nodded warily, slowly dragging herself off her bed, still wide-eyed and unfocused. Allison had an arm around her right away, guiding her out of the room as Erica followed, rubbing at Lydia’s right sleeve. 

When the blonde looked back at Stiles, he smiled and nodded, “I’ll be right behind you. Just need to check something real quick.” And when she hesitated a moment longer, he blinked, “Go, Erica.”

The wolf huffed, and turned away. He listened to their soft footsteps creaking the floorboards until they faded to silence. His shoulders relaxed. 

His mind was just as empty as he reached for his left arm, pulling his sleeve up his wrist just enough to stare at the little braid of gold and violet and blue there, the colours dampened by the brightness of his red lines. His mind was empty but, for the first time, he was the one looking for a voice. An answer. He was the one wordlessly reaching for her. 

It wasn’t much of a question, but it was an exchange. One answered with a soft warmth through his body, a silent shimmer of something through his arms as the glow grew too bright. Blinding. He let his burning eyes fall shut. 

The weight in his hand felt impossible to carry, when it came. 

And, for the first time in six months, his mind was silent. 

He blinked down at the grimoire in his left hand, shut, held that way by his thumb. He turned it to stare down at the cover. This was just a precaution. This was insurance. 

He crossed the room to find Lydia’s desk, her paint pallet covered in splotches, her brushes caked in dried acrylic, solid brick at this point. He yanked a drawer open and dug around until he found it. A box cutter. He slid the cap off and placed the book down on the desk. 

Those words, embossed into the leather, were slashed apart, turned to illegible lines, within seconds. Something he should’ve done years ago. He didn’t know if she’d want to go under his skin again, if the book would come back. He didn’t know if he should bother to try. Not tonight. Once tonight was over, he would try again. Maybe. He still didn’t want it. 

His mind was quiet, now. With no one to control him but him. No wordless nudges. No hunches. No whispers. No screams. No voices. 

He hid the grimoire under Lydia’s mattress. He would’ve put the box cutter back, but his fingers clenched tighter around it right as he wanted to let go. And he looked back at the painting. 

It was like he was magnetised, pulled to it against his will. His feet dragged along Lydia’s fluffy, bright white rug. His hand tightened even more around that little blade. 

Lydia was more into drawing landscapes than portraits. Always had been. The last time a premonition had come through art, it had been drawings of tree roots two timelines ago. This was new. This was clearer. 

This was Derek’s terrified, betrayed, golden eyes. 

This was the crystal-clear image of Theo Raeken. 

This was blood-covered claws and open wounds. 

This was Stiles plunging that blade into his face and dragging down. Tearing. Burning rage. Hate like he hadn’t felt in years. 

He threw the blade to the floor and turned back around. 

He’d been waiting for this. 

And he’d never been so ready. 

 

-

 

Peter left town a week ago. Some vacation abroad he’d been bragging about so much Stiles had tuned it out beyond recollection. He didn’t know how long he’d be gone for, but part of him was glad he was. He wouldn’t have to see what Stiles was going to do tonight. He didn’t need to slip from the idea Peter had built for him like last time. That had been terrifying. But Peter wouldn’t care about this. None of them would. This was him. If anyone deserved this…

Stiles did take part in Senior Scribe. Again. He watched Allison sign her initials first. Then Scott, beaming over at her and sneaking a kiss as they moved off to the side. Erica and Boyd went next, the girl squealing as Boyd laughed along. Then Isaac. Then Cora. Malia. Kira. Jackson. Lydia. 

Stiles went last. He couldn’t fight the smile his mouth wore at the sight of their initials. At the ‘A.A’ and ‘S.M’ with a heart around them. ‘E.R’ and ‘V.B’. Even the ‘J.W’ diagonal to the ‘I.L’. These people he’s gotten to keep. He will keep them for as long as he can. 

His hand hovered above the shelf for a long, drawn-out moment. Those initials caught his eye, again, the ‘D.H’ on the shelf below. Not Derek’s initials, Stiles knew that. He didn’t do his senior year here. Still. How those letters had fucked him up, once. 

The marker felt too heavy in his hand, and he was taking too long. But this choice had been hard enough the first time. It felt worse, now.

What name should he sign with?

Stiles was his name. Stiles was what everyone called him. What he answered to. What he’d chosen to go by, not even remembering who had given him that name. But it wasn’t… his name. Mieczysław was. It didn’t put such a sour taste in his mouth the last time he had to sign this thing. Mischief always had. Not a name, anyway. 

He swallowed, and he put his pen to the shelf, right between Allison and Erica’s initials, to write his own. 

‘S.S’

He dropped the pen for the next person to use, right as Kira pushed past him to put something down by her and Malia’s. A sticker, he realised as she pulled back. A lotus flower. He huffed out a confused laugh, and moved out of the way of the girl behind him. 

The rain was thundering down on the windows, on the roof. It was always amazing how loud rain could be. How it could demand attention so boldly. Stiles had something to be doing in that rain, very soon. He had someone to meet. 

The wolves, and Malia, were exchanging looks when they made their way back down to the tables. 

“Something wrong?” Stiles asked. 

Cora turned to him, “Something’s… here.”

“Okay,” he said, “I’ll be right back.”

“What?” Malia snapped, “Why? What is it?”

“It’s supernatural, right?”

“Yeah,” Cora grumbled, “But what is it?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles said a little louder as he started walking away. 

“Stiles!” Erica called out.

“I’ve got a date to catch!” He called back, huffing to himself at how fucking ridiculous of a joke that was, “Don’t wait up.”

The rain was louder outside. Unavoidable. Soaking him to the bone right away, almost blinding him. He didn’t need to see, anyway. He knew where he was going. 

That underpass had always been bad luck. The whole school had. They had the leylines to thank for that. The fact that the Doctors would be coming back made Stiles’ skin crawl, and he’d be lying if he said he knew how to stop them. Stiles had been trying not to get murdered by Malia’s mom when they did. That wasn’t his problem, not after they all realised he’d been right all along. That Theo was exactly who he always knew he was. 

He almost couldn’t wait.

The Belasko was one of the least formidable-looking things they’d ever fought. Or, that Stiles had ever fought. For something with its own name, its own abilities, its own entirely unique existence… right now, he looked an awful lot like just some guy. 

“You’re here for me, aren’t you?” Stiles called out. 

The man just grinned, or Stiles felt like he did – entirely backlit, face shrouded in shadow by the giant concrete ceiling over them. 

“Why?” Stiles asked. 

The Belasko didn’t answer. If he even could. He just ran. With his claws glowing bright blue, so harsh they left swiping lines in the air with each swing of his hands. And Stiles had expected to fight. Stiles had expected all of it. 

He was ready, after all. 

Fighting was easier than it ever had been. He’d been training every day, with different pack members coming and going, swearing to the Heavens and his therapist alike that he was doing it for fun, not for any other reason. Not to hurt them, or himself. Not to satisfy the itch that screamed that they needed to be able to survive without him. Like something might happen. 

That itch was gone now. His mind was silent. And all he felt was confidence. Confidence, and rage. 

Of course. 

It was going so well. Stiles was hitting his punches. He was dodging the Belasko’s swipes. He was so, so aware of his claws and everything they could do to him, and then.  

“What the fuck is that?!” 

Stiles froze. As he always did, at the worst possible time.

“Erica,” he growled, turning over his shoulder, catching her slack-jawed form, stood in the rain, “Erica, stay there!!

And it came like a firm pressure. Then stinging. In both sides of his waist. A nauseating pain. One that made Erica’s roar sound miles away. 

“Don’t,” he grunted out, gritting his teeth as he brought two weak arms to grab at the Belaskos’s wrists. As he felt his body failing on him. As the panic began. 

Not what he needed. 

Not what he wanted. 

Not right. 

“N–o,” he forced out, a dark sound, one torn from deep in his throat. 

He couldn’t breathe. He could barely raise his head from staring at those glowing claws embedded in his flesh to meet his stare. 

The Belasko’s eyes flared back red.

As those claws tore from his body, he screamed. The effort made his head spin, made it all turn blurry. But no. This could not happen. This couldn’t fucking happen. 

Footsteps were coming closer, splashing through deep puddles, and someone was fighting with someone else. 

“Don’t let him…” Stiles breathed heavily, stomach wet and warm and terrible, and he was going to be sick, “Oh, holy God.”

He readied himself, forced himself steady, looked over his shoulder, and found the rest of them – or what of them were here, tonight. He saw Kira. He saw her sword. 

And he stood up. He ran to her. She was yelling at him, screaming, fighting back as he grabbed at the weapon. 

“Kira,” he boomed, “Give me your sword.”

“You’re bleeding!!” She cried. 

He glared down at her, felt the glow through his body so faint but still there, and she froze. Her grip loosened on the handle. He took it. 

Turning around, he didn’t dare to differentiate the bodies before him. Not beyond soloing out Erica’s blonde hair laying on the floor, and the glowing claws of one of the men there. He moved. He ran. It hurt like hellfire burning him from the inside out, but he kept going. And he held the sword as tightly as he had held any – a stolen Oni’s, or a stolen Kitsune’s, it all stabbed the same – as he brought it down to pierce through the Belasko’s throat. 

Swift. And easy. 

He stared down with glassy eyes, watching the red light dim from its eyes. Watching the hovering, clawed hands before him. Not the Belasko’s. No. 

Stiles was bleeding.

And he would not heal. 

But, for just a moment, he felt the rage and the hate bring him back. He felt a power, maybe not his, certainly not Peter’s – gone, now, he’d assume. Had to be. The Belasko’s claws stole power, not Kira’s sword.

Not him.

Stiles turned his head, just enough to meet those eyes.

Theo Raeken stared back.

Real.

There.

And he almost looked innocent. Wide-eyed and surprised. Like he was still the kid Stiles barely remembered. Like he was the kid he was pretending to be – a helpless seventeen-year-old werewolf with no pack, desperate for help and companionship and kindness.

Like he didn’t do this. 

Like he wasn’t the reason Stiles’ guts were almost spilling out. 

“Theo,” Stiles heard his voice say. He hadn’t meant to speak. He didn’t think he even could anymore. It didn’t sound like his voice, anyway. It was something crueller. 

Theo’s brows inched upward, the corners of his mouth doing the same, “You remember me?”

Stiles blinked, head nodding as well as it could, eye twitching, “Oh, yeah. I remember you.” 

He moved to stand up straighter, as the hate burned so loudly he could hear it. It was the pulsing in his head. It was the thudding of the rain. It was Erica coughing somewhere near.

“You’re gonna have to try again,” Stiles said breathily, feeling the air grow thin, and his knees get weak, “It’s not that easy to beat me.”

He took a shaky step back, his left hand coming up to clutch at his stomach, at his side, the warmth, and the cold, and the rain water, and the blood. He felt his throat start to close up.

“Better luck next time, huh?” He growled. 

Theo’s face dared to twist up in concern, to have his eyes dart up and down, “I think you need help. You sound delirious, Stiles. You’re losing blood.”

“You’re such a fucking bitch,” Stiles snarled, the sword made a piercing sound as it fell to the floor, and he lost consciousness right before he joined it there on the blood-soaked concrete. 

He was back. 

He was back.

He was finally back

 

-

 

Rain was one of Stiles’ favourite smells. The kind that made him wish he had the same senses as wolves. It was one of those smells that took him back to the most tender of memories. Like cinnamon, or lilac, or new books. Like the specific scent of his childhood bedsheets. 

Rain didn’t have any one moment tied to it. Just the feeling of safety. Of sitting by an open window and listening to the rain hitting the glass as that smell wormed its way in. It was leaving for school in the morning after a storm and having the grass smell so strongly of it. It was watching the pavement glitter from the moisture. It was staring up in awe at a raincloud just beyond them, while the sun still beamed where they were. It was rainbows and warm blankets and comfort. 

Sometimes, it was summer camp, ‘04. Camp Coyote. 

It had been sunny for the most part. But, for two days, it rained. And rained. And the camp counsellors all looked like they wanted to stab the next kid to ask when they could go outside. It was a dangerous sort of rain. The kind that made the lake and the creek both too unstable to visit, that made mud a risk for broken bones, that made the decks alone too slippery for the kids to walk on. The counsellors still had to trek through it all to get from their cabins to the kids’ both mornings. Stiles had just laughed at the scowl on his counsellor’s face and his black hair stuck flat on his forehead. 

Theo was scared of storms. Couldn’t sleep through them, not ever. So, that night, between days one and two of the storm, Stiles let him share his bed. They’d stayed up all night reading Theo’s massive hardcover book on dinosaurs, and then two of the Batman comics Stiles had brought for Theo to borrow, with Theo’s cheap flashlight for vision, under Stiles’ covers. It might have been the most cliché thing Stiles ever did as a kid. 

Their giggles and hushed whispers had settled into the wood of those cabin walls and were seeping out as the rain soaked through ‘til morning. Theo was shaking when Stiles woke up – his right arm was asleep, tingling with pins and needles, from the position he’d ended up in after falling off the bed in his sleep and not bothering to get back up again – with his bottom lip quivering and his brows twitching together and apart. Stiles had shaken him awake and brought him brownies his mom had made and hidden in a ziplock baggie in his rucksack when the other boy still wouldn’t calm down. He’d wanted to keep them a secret. But, for Theo, he’d share. Because that’s what best friends do. 

“You wanna race with the rain?” Stiles asked, as Theo frowned down at his half-eaten sweet. 

“What does that mean?” Theo asked, voice as small and high as Stiles’. 

Stiles shuffled closer to Theo, and closer to the window, “Choose a raindrop. Whoever’s raindrop gets to the bottom first wins. I play this with my mom, it’s fun!” He frowned, “But I always lose.”

Theo snickered, “But you think you’ll win against me?”

“I always win against you,” Stiles blinked, “You’re a loser.”

Theo stared at him for a moment, then hit him on the shoulder, “If I’m a loser, what are you?”

“Stubborn,” Stiles beamed. 

Theo smiled back, took another bite of his brownie, and turned his head to the window beside them, pointing at a big droplet near the top, “I choose that one.”

“Hey! No fair! I was gonna pick that one!”

“Liar, liar, pants on fire, no you weren’t.”

“Blah, blah, whatever!!”

 

-

 

Theodore Karl Raeken came home on the fourth of September, 2014. Everyone had forgotten he ever went missing. Stiles had not. Stiles did not forget a thing. Especially not when it came to Theo Raeken. 

It had been the Belasko then, too. Trying, and failing, to take a True Alpha’s power, and ending up as a meaningless way to get into the pack’s good books by ‘saving him’. It should’ve been that, anyway. That, and a way to take Scott’s power without taking it himself. Because he couldn’t. Because Theo Raeken could never do anything right. He was pathetic. And useless. And incapable of getting any job done.

Lying in a hospital bed, with a sandpaper throat and almost no sensation in his body, Stiles knew that for a fact. But he always had. This was just a nice reminder. Convenient. But the hospital sheets were the kind that felt like they stuck to his skin, dragged at it, stung. They made him want to claw that skin right off. And the pillows were thin and cheap, and covered in paper, and Stiles hated this place. He hated it. He hated it. 

Theo was blinking awake in a chair when Stiles saw him. He looked exactly the same. Stiles got fuzzy with the way everyone else looked, back then, and maybe it was because Theo had only been there once, and had never changed, but he was the only person Stiles recognised properly the first time they met. ‘The first time’. Right. His hair was the same length. The same style. He wore the same style of sweater, too. Those crew-necks with the little crossing lines. This one was pink. Fucking pink.

Like wearing yellow to a funeral. 

“Hey,” he said softly, rising to stand, blinking the sleep out of his eyes – Stiles doubted he’d been sleeping at all – as he came over to the side of the bed, “You gave us a scare, there.”

Stiles kept his mouth shut. He just stared. 

Theo licked his lips, eyes passing over his body, shaking his head as he said, “I really didn’t expect to see you almost die so soon after finding out you’ve been alive this whole time.”

Stiles couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. Because, if he did, he’d either kill this man right now, absolutely get caught, and go to prison, or he’d just start screaming. Getting committed to Eichen House wouldn’t be any better than a normal prison, that’s for fucking sure. So he just stared. At Theo’s green eyes. At how fake-sincere their stare was. At the soft contours of his nose. At the softer smile on his lips. At his plucked eyebrows and spikey hair. Stiles’ jaw was clenched so tight he was sure he’d break a tooth. 

“Stiles?” Theo asked, brows doing something extravagant, “Can you hear me?”

“Where is my pack?” Stiles would like to say he asked evenly. Calmly. He did not. 

Theo’s smile showed teeth then, “It’s one in the morning, Stiles. They got kicked out.”

“But you’re still here,” he couldn’t even pretend he said that nicely. 

Theo nodded slowly, eyes lifting, “And so’s he.” 

Stiles hesitated before he followed his gaze, scared – not scared, wary – to let Theo out of his sight. But there, on his other side, curled up in a weird looking chair, was Derek. Fast asleep. Face scrunched up. Brow furrowed as deeply as Stiles had ever seen on him. Hair a mess. Arms crossed over his chest. Stiles let out a shaky breath at the sight, leaning back into those terrible pillows as he watched him breathe for a moment. 

Theo was going to kill him. 

Stiles’ vision was going cloudy again, ignoring every feverish attempt to clear it with blinks and presses of his fingertips.

“I need to go,” he murmured, chest tight, sitting up just a little and feeling his skin burn where Theo touched it, “Derek! Wake the fuck up!!”

The man startled, blinking awake as Stiles looked away to reach for the IV in his hand. 

“Woah!” Derek’s voice barked, “Hey, Stiles, no.”

Then two hands were grabbing at his wrists and holding them in front of him, and Stiles couldn’t do this. He couldn’t see Theo’s curious eyes as he stepped back. He couldn’t see the fear in Derek’s. 

“Stiles,” the wolf said firmly, leaning forward to force Stiles to meet his stare, “You need to stay still. Okay?”

“No, I need Scott,” Stiles snarled. 

“Scott can come here in the morning,” Derek said, “But, right now, you need these pain meds, and you need to rest.”

Stiles licked his lips, “You…” He shut his mouth. No one here could take his pain, could they? Derek was barely a werewolf anymore, and Theo was barely half of one. A fraud. A failure. A botched science experiment, who deserved nothing more than to get his throat slit open by the needle in the back of Stiles’ hand. He took in a shaky breath, “You need to go, Derek.”

“No,” Derek said hesitantly, “Why would I go?” 

“You need to,” Stiles snapped, “Come back in the morning. With Scott.” He blinked, “Is Erica okay?”

Derek nodded, “Yeah. She just hit her head. She was fine by the time you got here. Like it never even happened. But you just had your stomach stabbed on both sides with four claws each way.” Derek gave him a look, “And you aren’t healing.”

“I had to,” Stiles shook his head, “I had to hide it.”

“The book?” Derek asked, “Why did you… How did you…”

The room fell to silence. Stiles could tell him. Had to, really. What good was he without that grimoire? Fuck, would it even work, now? It had to, right? What had he taken from him? How much? 

Neither man spoke. Derek didn’t look at Theo for even a second. Just Stiles. And the spark was… Was he one?

Stiles licked his lips, “The Belasko took my power. Didn’t it.”

Derek swallowed, Stiles watched his throat bob, and he nodded the smallest of nods, “I… I think so. Kira said…” His frown grew, “It’s fine, Stiles. You can get it back, right? You know how?”

Stiles’ lashes fluttered in a blink, eyes darting to Theo for one short second, “You should go, Derek. Tell them I woke up. That I’m fine.” He ground his teeth, “Tell them Theo stayed behind with me.”

Derek finally looked at the other man then – the boy, even – and his brows tightened again, “That’s… Your name is Theo?”

“Uh, yeah,” Theo said hesitantly, “Theo Raeken.” Stiles watched Derek’s eyes glance over him, tense, and knowing, “What, did Stiles tell you about me?”

“You could say that,” Derek answered. 

“Derek, go,” Stiles said firmly, “I’ll be fine with him.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep him safe,” Theo said, too quick, “I promise. You have my word.”

Derek leant back, “I’m sure I do.” He looked back at Stiles, “You don’t have your power.”

“Exactly,” Stiles huffed, “I’m worthless. Useless. Score.”

“Stiles, that’s not—”

“No, Derek,” Stiles said pointedly, a small smile aching the corners of his mouth, “Trust me. This is the best-case scenario. Go get the others. Get some rest. I’ll be here when you get back.”

Derek stared at him, for a long while. Then his shoulders sagged, and his hand rose to cup the back of Stiles’ neck. He leant in, pressing their foreheads together so firmly, as Stiles squeezed his eyes shut and pressed back. 

“Don’t die,” he whispered into his skin, leaning in further to get as close to hugging him as he could while Stiles was laying, propped up, flat against a bed. Stiles rubbed his right hand along the wolf’s side. 

“No promises,” he murmured back just as Derek pressed a feather-light kiss to the base of his jaw, and pulled back. Derek gave him a grave look and glanced at Theo as he turned to leave. 

“I’ll be back at six,” he said firmly, “I’ll see you both then.”

“See ya, sweetcheeks,” Stiles called out, grinning wide as Derek shot a panicked look over his shoulder right as he left. The wolf chuffed. 

The door clicked shut behind him. 

Stiles’ smile fell.

A brief second passed, then he sat up. He felt the yank, the tug of torn, steady-healing flesh, as he pulled the sheets down just enough to look at the dressings on his sides. They were the kind with the mesh-like adhesives on the outer edges at the plush centre that buckled when you moved. Stiles always found those strange. They were the same ones Scott had over his bite before it all changed. He changed. 

“So…” Theo’s voice drawled, “… Boyfriend?”

Stiles didn’t even look at him, humming in affirmation, “Yeah, why, you jealous?”

Theo huffed, “A little.”

That got Stiles to look, eyes narrowing, “What.”

Theo was sat back in his chair again, shrugging and looking away, as his brows scrunched up, “How old is that guy?”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed even further – how old do you think I am? “Oh, yeah, he’s a total creep. We all know. Everyone gets off on it.”

Theo’s brows rose, then, eyes widening. He didn’t say a thing.

Stiles stared back. 

“He’s also my cousin. First cousins. Blood relatives.”

“Okay, Stiles, shut up, I get it,” Theo crossed his arms over his chest. And Stiles looked away again. 

He pressed his hand against the dressing on his left, only a little bit surprised that there was no blood seeping through it. Either it was fresh, or the wounds weren’t bleeding as much anymore. Stiles hoped it was the latter. His heartbeat was just fine on the monitor, albeit annoying. 

“What was that thing?” Theo asked. Stiles froze. His voice, it was doing something absolutely insane to Stiles’ nervous system. He felt like he might burst into flames. “The thing that… took your…”

Who was he performing for? Stiles hadn’t exactly been subtle in the underpass. He had to know that Stiles knew. No one here was under the impression that either of them were clueless about anything. But if Theo still wanted to play pretend, then fuck it. Stiles would, too.

“The Belasko,” he answered plainly.

He could hear Theo gulp – what a joke, “And it… What did it take from you?”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, hands stilling before they moved out in front of him, black lines under his skin staring back, and he answered honestly, “I don’t know.” He quirked a brow, “But I think Peter’s gonna be pissed.”

“Who?” Theo asked lightly, “I… Sorry, your life is… so different to when we were kids.”

Stiles blinked slowly.

So is yours.

“I mean, no offence, but I never really pegged you as the Alpha type,” Theo said, “And… weren’t you obsessed with Lydia Martin? For years? She’s your friend now?”

Stiles watched his fingers almost shake as he tried to bring the light through. The red glow. It wasn’t hard. It never was. It was the easiest thing in the world, it was the only thing Stiles could do. But it wasn’t happening. Nothing was happening.

“How did you…” Theo trailed off, then found his words again, “How did you come back from the dead?”

“I’m not the Alpha type,” Stiles said softly, “Look how easily it was taken from me.”

That made Theo quiet. Finally. He wasn’t here to chitchat, anyway. To catch up. They weren’t old friends. Theo was nothing more than the wannabe monster who killed Scott McCall. The tryhard whose eyes couldn’t even turn blue.  

And Stiles…

Stiles wasn’t the Alpha anymore. He wasn’t anything. His sparks were gone. His spark was gone. The voice in his head was gone. All of the things he’d taken as part of him, gone. Stolen. Like a hole had been carved through his chest, just as the eight other holes had been pierced through his torso. 

He didn’t feel sad. Not mournful. Not afraid. 

It was just rage. 

It was all just rage. 

“I’ve missed you,” Theo said, voice too tender, “It feels… It feels really good to see a familiar face.”

Stiles’ head turned to the side so slowly he could hear his neck creak. Theo’s fingers were laced together in his lap, and his eyes were wary. 

“Maybe not the best circumstances, but,” he licked his lips, nodding, “I’m finally home.”

Every word was empty. Lies. Pathetic fabrications for the sake of it. To take whatever he can weasel out of everyone else. Information, trust, power. He was a manipulative snake. He was lucky the Dread Doctors chose him. If he ever got turned by a real wolf, the shift wouldn’t be anything he’d expected. But he’d loved stealing Tracy’s power, anyway, hadn’t he?

“What happened to you?” Stiles asked, horrified by the weakness in his voice, “Where did you go? I…” His upper lip twitched, “I worried about you for years, you know.”

Theo nodded, “Do you want to know?”

“Do you want to tell me?” 

Those green eyes looked just like they had when they were kids, only slightly more tired, more weary, “My sister died. That’s why we left. I ended up moving around with my parents. I ran away a few years back. Ended up getting bitten by an Alpha. He died before my first full moon. So, that was fun.” He looked away, lashes fluttering, “Then I heard…” His head tilted, “Or, saw, that you were alive. And an Alpha. And I thought… I thought you might let me join your pack.”

“Well,” Stiles said blankly, “Guess that didn’t work out great for you.”

Theo almost laughed, “Yeah, what else is new?”

Stiles didn’t laugh with him, “How did you find out about me?”

That made something shift in Theo’s eyes, something closed off, and his mouth clicked as it opened, “Your mothers obituary. In a newspaper.” He tilted his head, “‘She leaves behind her husband, Noah Stilinski, and son, Mieczysław ‘Stiles’ Stilisnki.’ ” 

Hearing that name from his mouth made the discomfort and horror bloom in Stiles’ chest, almost resting in his jaw. The flawless pronunciation of someone who learned it so young. The fact that Theo was here, in front of him, after all these years of wallowing in his hatred and waiting and waiting and waiting. 

He could finally be the one to kill him. 

So, why wasn’t he?

“What happened to her?” Theo asked, soft. 

“I don’t know,” Stiles answered, in the same practiced way he always did. Theo’s eyes stared at his chest for a second. Stiles could’ve torn his own heart out just to stop him from hearing it. “How’d you find out I was an Alpha?”

Theo blinked, and met his eyes again, “A video on the internet.”

Stiles couldn’t even, “Seriously? A YouTube video? Jesus.”

“Not YouTube,” Theo said mildly, “But yeah.” Stiles looked away. He leant back into those paper pillows, and pressed his eyes shut. “How have you changed so much, Stiles?”

“It’s been ten years, Theo,” Stiles grumbled, “A lot has happened.”

He was human. He was injured. He held no power – not figurative, nor literal. 

It had barely been three hours, and Theo Raeken had already taken too much. 

 

-

 

“You should leave town,” Stiles said into the silence, several hours of stillness later.

Theo barely reacted, making a small sound from the chair he was sat sideways on, half asleep. Stiles forced his tired eyes open. He ground his jaw.

“Theo,” he said, louder, “Did you hear what I said?”

Theo made a low noise, slowly opening his eyes and looking over at him, “What?”

“You should leave town,” Stiles repeated, firmer that time, “Real fast.”

Theo slightly sat up, “Why?”

“Because I am going to kill you if you stay,” he said, “and I don’t need any more blood on my hands, Theo. I don’t. So leave.”

“Stiles,” Theo said, rising from his chair and coming over, “What are you talking about?”

“I know you’re…” Stiles huffed, “I mean, if you try to kill me, I honestly won’t stop you, but you won’t get much out of it. Don’t tell my therapist.”

“You’re in therapy?” 

Stiles gave him a sharp-eyed look, “Theo. Leave. I am telling you to leave. And don’t come back.”

“Stiles,” Theo said, a little too loudly, “I just got you back, I can’t just leave you again.”

“You don’t have me, Theo.”

A sharp knock cut the conversation short. There, in the open door, stood Derek. His face was stoney. His eyes sharp. 

“Am I interrupting something?” 

Stiles huffed, as Theo moved backwards, “I was just telling our new friend that he should skip town before I snap his neck like a twig.”

“I don’t…” Theo sighed, “Derek, I don’t know what you think I’ve done to him, but I think I should go.”

“Yes!” Stiles cried, falling back into the pillows, “Leave! Go!”

Theo sighed, ignoring him as he walked over to the door, “I’ll be back when he stops talking crazy. You should know I just want my friend back. I’m sorry if I overstepped.”

Derek’s brows twitched, and Theo passed by him, slipping out of the room and finally, finally leaving Stiles alone. The room felt no lighter. Breathing felt no easier. It was all just as horrible. Because even if Theo was on the other side of the country, he was still there. He existed. Again. Tangibly. And he was already lying through his teeth. Stiles was just impressed neither of them did kill each other in those silent hours alone together.

“Stiles?” Derek’s voice was far lighter now, coaxing, enough for Stiles to blink his eyes open again without fear of that fucking face staring at him, “You’ve got some people here to see you.”

His mouth split into a grin, “I do?”

Erica’s voice hit him almost instantaneously, her wild curls swept to one side and wearing a familiar grey crewneck, “Stiles! What the fuck?! ”

“Erica, what the fuck,” Stiles grumbled back, reaching out to hold her back as she threw herself down to half-hug him, “I told you to stay in the library.”

“And I told you to tell me what I was hiding from,” Erica spat back. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Well. We know now, don’t we? And could we have prepared?” He shook his head, “Not really.”

“Why not?” Erica snapped, pulling back, “That guy– He’s our age! He’s a kid! Why are you so scared of him? It’s the glowing claws dude I’m freaked out about!”

“Theo’s not a kid,” Stiles said steadily, “He’s not even a human being.”

More people had funnelled in while he and Erica spoke. Quite the crowd, they made. All of his stupid friends who hadn’t listened. But had they ever? Would they ever? Unlikely. He never had when he was their age, either. And no one had listened to him any better.

He sighed, “The man in the painting. That’s him.”

And Allison tilted her head, “What painting?”

Stiles squinted his eyes at her, and his head began to pound, “Lydia’s painting, what else?”

“I don’t paint,” Lydia spat. 

Stiles could’ve shot himself, right there, in front of everyone, and, God, he needed to call Dr. Senta, “You forgot?”

“I think I would remember if i magically started painting men I’ve never met before,” Lydia drawled.

“Of fucking course,” Stiles squeezed his eyes shut again, pressing the heels of his palms to his closed eyelids and watching his blackened vision turn red. He took in a shaky, deep breath, “Great. Great.”

“Stiles,” Derek said, then, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just the polycule.”

Jackson spoke up that time, “What the fuck is he talking about now??”

“Theo’s parents, or whatever they are,” his face scrunched up behind his hands, “His captors? Teacher’s?? Surgeons? Well, only one of them’s a surgeon. Whatever—” He waved his hands in the air, “—that’s not the point. The point is, I need him gone.”

“Who is he?” Allison asked gently. 

Stiles’ eyes darted to Scott, then to Derek, “I’d rather get out of this hospital before I start talking about that. Scott. Please.” 

The teenager – an adult, soon, only days away from his eighteenth – stumbled forward fast, coming to the side of Stiles’ bed right next to Erica, “Yeah, totally. I’m a healing legend, now. Been practising on the dogs at the clinic.”

Stiles’ face was surely pinched, “Great.”

“You…” Scott swallowed, “You really can’t heal yourself?”

Stiles met his eyes. Those sweet, brown puppy eyes. How Scott had managed to say the same was beyond him – Stiles was not the crazy one for changing. Maybe it was a testament to how well he’d protected them. Despite his frequent bouts of apathy, of pessimism towards the way he’d affected these kids, there had to be a reason they all were exactly the same. Why none of them had changed for the worse. There were no psychotic breaks from Allison. No runaway stints from Erica or Boyd or Isaac. 

Maybe, this time, their pack would be okay. 

“Take it away, Scotty.”

 

-

 

Maybe one hour later, he was pacing in the living room of the Hale House, with his hands on his hips, his thumbs tracing back and forth over fresh, tight, scar tissue. The floorboards didn’t creak as he walked, but they did squeak, just slightly. No one spoke. No one relaxed. Derek did not stop Stiles’ pacing, and Erica did not look away from his stomach. 

This house was a place Stiles knew well. It was safe. It was where he spent most days that summer, roughhousing with the betas and making sure that they would be ready for this. For all of it. Not just Theo. Theo was… Theo was bad. Theo was something Stiles had not stopped thinking about since he first felt the buzzcut beneath his palm and saw the ‘2012’ on his calendar. Something he’d dreaded.

It should not have been so that Stiles wanted only to destroy Theo. That nothing else was slipping through the cracks of his mind. It was just him. Him, him, him. Not the Doctors. Not the Beast. Not Parrish. Not the other Chimeras. All of the things his pack would actually have to deal with. Theo should not have been all he could focus on. 

But he was. 

He always was. 

“Okay,” he said, swiping at his mouth with his right hand before he turned to face the small army of teenagers before him, “We have no Alpha. We are vulnerable.”

Erica shook her head, “Stiles, you’re—”

“Barely even a spark, anymore,” Stiles grumbled back, “The Alpha part is entirely… He… He took…” He ran his tongue over his teeth, “What happened to the Belasko?”

No one answered. Some glances were exchanged.

“Great,” Stiles sighed, “So, my spark is just somewhere and we don’t know where. Cool.”

“So, you can get it back?” Derek asked, “If we find the Belasko?”

“Or his claws,” Stiles said, nodding, “I should be able to get it back. Somehow. Fuck.” He squeezed his eyes shut, “This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. God. Fuck. Fuck.”

“Who was that guy, Stiles?” Allison asked. 

Stiles just stared at them. He stared at Liam’s worried eyes. He stared at Jackson’s fake-confident scowl. He stared at that wolf’s shaking hands. He stared at Erica and Allison’s arms pressed firmly against each other. He stared at Lydia’s hand wrapped around Allison’s. He stared at the knowing look in Derek’s eyes.

Who was he, indeed.

His mouth clicked as it opened, “In the timeline I’m from… he came to Beacon Hills the same way. Only it was Scott who got stabbed with those claws.”

The teenager sat up straighter, exchanging a wary look with Allison and not noticing the way Liam turned to stare at him.

“It didn’t work on Scott,” Stiles said slowly, pointedly, maybe too bitter, “because Scott was a True Alpha. One whose power was born out of sheer force of will, not stolen. Like mine.” He shook his head, “If Theo… If he takes Peter’s power, we’re all fucked.”

“Is he bad?” Liam asked suddenly, “Who is he?”

Stiles glanced over at him, “I meant more because Peter will go on a rampage, but, when the Belasko didn’t take Scott’s power and Theo killing it didn’t then give that power to him, he took a hot minute sowing his bullshit seeds of deceit and distrust until he could get you to kill Scott instead. So he could kill you. And take that stolen power. So, yeah, he’s bad.” He smiled, “The joys of being a True Alpha’s only True Beta, right?” 

Liam’s mouth slowly fell open, brows morphing in a way that seemed painful, and eyes impossibly wide, squeaking out, “Oh, okay.”

“I’m sorry, what?!” Mason shouted, and Stiles hadn’t even noticed him. He was so quiet. He was never normally quiet. “He made Liam kill Scott?! And killed him?!”

“No,” Stiles said, “He tried. Then he killed Scott himself… just to… prove a point, I guess? I don’t know, I wasn’t there.”

“Then where were you??” Scott cried. 

Stiles’ face remained straight, now, “In the hospital, by my dad’s bedside. Because Theo was slowly killing him, too. And you had just essentially booted me from the pack ‘cause of a lie he told you.” He blinked, “I don’t like Theo.”

“What lie could he tell to get Scott to hate you?” Lydia shook her head, “You’re a murderer, and he still loves you.”

Stiles raised a brow, “Funny. That was the lie.”

“What??” Lydia asked, exasperated. 

Stiles didn’t want to talk about it any more than she fucking did, thank you very much, “He lied about how Donovan died.”

Boyd’s head tilted to one side, “Who?”

“A guy who wanted my dad’s head on a stick and my legs in his mouth,” Stiles shook his head, “That didn’t come out right. I mean he was a cannibal and his last words were ‘I don’t want to kill you, Stiles, I just want to eat your legs’.” He blinked, “I think I was justified in accidentally impaling him.”

“Accidentally?”

He frowned, “Accidentally. I did not – as Theo so lovingly told Scott—” He raised his brows, eyes turning up to the ceiling as he spoke. “—bludgeon him to death with a wrench as Theo watched. I pulled a pin, and the scaffolding fell, and it just so happened that the fates wanted him pierced through the stomach in midair. Not my fucking problem.” If his voice was shaking by the time he shut up, he knew he couldn’t hide that. He didn’t really care anymore. He shook his head, “And after he lied about that shit to Scott, he told my dad that he was the one who killed Donovan in the way that I did. What the fuck was up with that? I hate him. I hate him so much.” He blinked, furious and swift, to look over his pack again, “And I knew he was gonna destroy us. And no one believed me. Even Malia, who I was dating at the time, not for long with him around, was convinced I was just jealous of him because he’s hot!” He shook his head, “What does him being hot have to do with him absolutely being evil?!”

“I mean,” Malia murmured, “He is hot.”

“Unfortunately, she’s right,” Erica mumbled.

“Yeah, he is hot!” Stiles snapped, “That’s not— That’s how he gets you!! He’s a manipulative supervillain who wants nothing more than power, no matter how many people he hurts or people he leaves dead and bloodied along the way!!” He threw his hands in the air, “It’s how he killed Tracy, for fuck’s sake!!”

“Wait—” Lydia cut in, “Tracy like… Tracy Stewart, Tracy? Tracy, we’ve known since grade school, Tracy??”

Stiles nodded emphatically, “Yes!!”

Then Lydia sat back, “Wait, do I know Theo?”

“Yes,” Stiles nodded again, “But you also knew me, and we all know you don’t have the greatest human identification abilities when it comes to the losers you knew as a fabulous, uber-popular fetus.”

Lydia’s brows furrowed, “Did you know him?”

Stiles huffed out a sigh so heavy it ached, “Yes. Obviously. I knew… I knew him. He was my best friend up until the day he went missing, which, might I add, was because he killed his sister and left town with a bunch of immortal doctors who stole her heart to give to him. He’s not…” Stiles swallowed, “He’s not that Theo anymore. It wouldn’t matter even if you did remember him.” He shook his head, “That Theo died in that creek with Tara. Or, Hell, probably a long time before that. If ‘that Theo’ ever existed. Some people are just born evil.”

Derek’s face caught his eye then. There was something about it that looked like holding back. A tension in his mouth. A flicker of his eyes. 

The room fell silent again. For a long time. A heavy silence. Like hands holding your body underwater. Stiles was drowning in it. 

“This is going to be bad,” he said simply, “Theo’s here, and that means the Doctors are, too. That means the Beast will be. That means Deputy Parrish will be setting shit on fire, and Mason will be turned into a white man, or whatever was going on that day, I don’t know, I was bleeding out in the middle of a shootout with Malia’s mom.”

“My mom shot you?!”

“A white man?!”

“What the fuck is Parrish gonna set on fire?”

Stiles shook his head, “No, your mom didn’t shoot me, I just fell into a glass table. Not my most badass moment.”

Mason’s voice cracked as he shouted, again, “A white man?! How??”

Stiles shrugged, “Dude, I was not there. I mentally tapped out after everyone caught onto Theo being evil, and once Liam’s girlfriend, like, died, or something, and Scott’s mom resuscitated him, and my dad got better. The Doctors were only my problem as much as Lydia was. I did have to break her out of Eichen House, though.”

Horrified stares answered him.

He blinked, “I told you. This is going to be bad. And Theo needs to get as far away from me as he can before I ruin you all even more by murdering another person in front of you.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice came, as the wolf moved to walk toward him, “I think we should go for a walk.”

It was a stilted moment. One that Stiles did not entirely understand. But there was a seriousness to that stare that he couldn’t shake. Something making his skin crawl and his hands clench.

“Okay,” he said, nodding, “Sure.” And as Derek started to guide him through the house, toward the back, he called out, “But keep in mind we only stopped this asshole through Kira sending him to literal Hell! So, get brainstorming, or start getting used to that idea!”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed, “Shut up and keep walking.”

He only really shut up out of confusion. So, with nothing more than a muted agreement, he followed Derek out back, and kept going. It was cloudy, that day, not yet cleared from the storm of the night before. No birds were singing. The air was still. 

Stiles’ hands found his sides again as they walked. The tug with each step. The yanking of his flesh. The only way this would be worse was if Theo’s claws had done it. For him to have a tangible mark on Stiles beyond the way his voice echoed in his head – he couldn’t take that. And, looking over his shoulder at the steadily vanishing shape of the Hale House, the discomfort was only growing. He had too much to lose now. Forget that power, he hadn’t wanted it. But his pack. His family. His friends. Theo couldn’t take that from him.

His fingertips pressed into the scars. Eight fingers for eight deep stabs. He could still feel the solid shape of those claws between the soft shift of his muscles. He needed it back. The grimoire. 

He didn’t want to think of what colour the lines would be.

Fuck. 

Fuck.

“Are you sure this is how you want to do this?” 

Stiles blinked. Derek was looking at him, straight-faced, no longer a plain back and hunched shoulders walking into the trees ahead of him. 

“What do you mean?” 

Derek’s brows barely rose, “Killing Theo. You know he hasn’t done anything yet, right?”

“Kate didn’t even know who you were, and I still put a bullet in her head.”

“She’d kidnapped me,” Derek’s eyes were dark, now, “And you know that’s not the same. She’d burned my entire family alive and killed you. This kid…” Derek shook his head, “He’s not done anything.”

“Yeah, well, he’s gonna kill you,” Stiles snapped, “And I don’t want that to happen.”

Derek’s brows furrowed, “Why do you think that?”

“Because Lydia predicted it,” Stiles nodded, stepping forward – a twig snapped beneath his foot, “She painted it, and I’m not making that shit up. It’s the Dread Doctors. They erase memories, hide them, it has to be them that’s made the others forget.” And at Derek’s perplexed stare, Stiles felt his chest ache, “I’m not crazy, I just saw it last night! Allison and Erica came to ours, and they were all shaken up, and they took me to Lydia’s to see it, I can prove it! I left the grimoire there!”

“Stiles,” Derek said softly, “I believe you.”

A breath was punched out of him, as Stiles nodded, weak, “You do?”

Derek’s face scrunched up in concern, stepping closer, hands coming up to cup his arms, “Of course, I do. I’ll always believe you over anyone else, you know that.”

Stiles swallowed, staring into those green eyes – so familiar, “You promise?”

“I promise,” Derek said, so sincere it shot straight through him, as his firm hands rubbed up and down his arms, bunching his hoodie sleeves as he did, “Always. I’ll always believe you, Stiles.”

And that. Those words. They pierced him through his throat and sealed it, choked him up as the chasing fear, and the weight of it all, welled up in his eyes and pressed his mouth tightly shut. Stiles’ body ached from his head to his toes – he swore to God he could feel it in the hairs on his arms. It was too much. Too fucking much. 

He leant forward, letting Derek wrap those arms tight around him, tucking his face into the familiar crook of his neck. He smelled like home. Like trust. 

The preserve smelled like rain. Stiles’ Converse had soaked through on the sides from the wet grass they’d walked through, and the slight sogginess of his socks was enough to make him want to tear his hair from his scalp and drag his blunt, bitten fingernails across the empty space until it bled. To have his own blood caked into his nail beds for a change. 

“I don’t want him to hurt you,” Stiles whispered into the warm skin of his neck. Into tiny, fuzzy hairs, standing on end.

“I know,” Derek softly said back. The unspoken ‘he will, anyway’ felt like… Well, like claws to the stomach. 

“I can’t stop it,” Stiles choked out, “Not unless I kill him.”

Derek’s hands paused where they had been slowly stroking back and forth, to press firmly against Stiles’ spine, “What would do it instead?”

Stiles blinked into the horizon – a crow, the rudest of things to see now, why now? – stood in the dirt just beyond him. It tilted its head. And death flapped its wings as it hopped away. 

“I have to die somehow, Stiles,” Derek said, “There’s no way to make it any easier.”

“What if I did it?” 

Derek’s shoulders sagged, “Stiles.”

“No, seriously,” Stiles said, pulling back, bracing a hand against Derek’s shoulder, where his head had rested, “What if I did it? You’d evolve, and you’d be able to heal again, and we would’t both be useless and basically human.”

Derek’s stare was worried. Concerned. His brows were tense where they met, and his eyes barely moved. They flickered between Stiles’ only the slightest bit. Stiles did not want to watch the light leave those green eyes, but he would rather die than let Theo see it happen, instead. No one had any right to hurt Derek, nobody. If someone had to, it should be Stiles. Someone Derek trusts. Someone Derek can be sure isn’t doing it to hurt him, but to heal. Stiles didn’t want to hurt him. He didn’t. He didn’t.

And what was more romantic than dying in someone’s arms?

But Derek’s head shook, softly, side to side, “I don’t think you can hurt me that way, Stiles. You don’t have it in you.”

Stiles’ lashes fluttered, “I could. If it meant Theo couldn’t, then I could.”

“Stiles,” Derek stopped suddenly, teeth grinding hard enough for Stiles to hear, “Don’t you think you should try a non-lethal approach first? Just this once?”

“Why should I?” Stiles hissed, “Violence is the only language he understands—”

“He’s young, Stiles,” the wolf said steadily, “You said this… This started in grade school? When he killed his sister?”

“Yeah,” Stiles said slowly, “He watched her slowly die of hypothermia so he could tear her heart out and keep it for himself. No normal kid does that.”

“Why did he?”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “What does it matter? I can’t name a single other person who would be deranged enough to do something like that, even as a kid, even if someone else came up with it. Can you?”

Derek said nothing. He stared. And stared. And Stiles huffed.

“He was born evil, Derek,” he said, “All he’ll do if he stays is poison us.”

Derek’s eyes were tired, “And there’s no other way to get him to leave?”

Stiles shook his head, “He’s not the one calling the shots. It’s the Doctors. They won’t leave until they’ve gotten their science experiment right. And Theo was not that. He’s a botched failure, a wannabe werewolf.” His lip curled, “He acts so high and mighty just because his eyes are gold— They wouldn’t turn blue even if he choked a newborn baby to death. He’s a fake. And he’s a liar. And I swear to God, the next time I see his ass, he’s walking away with a broken bone.”

“Even though he hasn’t hurt us?” 

Stiles’ eyes burned, “The last time I waited for permission, Heather was murdered. For nothing. If I wait this time, who’s it gonna be?” He tilted his head, “Erica? Laura?”

“Stiles,” Derek said firmly, “I can’t let you murder a child.”

“Then don’t,” Stiles spat, “I don’t need your permission, Derek. You’re not my husband, and I’m not a housewife in 1955.”

And that struck a nerve. Stiles wanted to take the words back the second they passed his lips.

Derek bit his cheek, and raised his brows as he nodded, “Alright. Fine.” 

And he left. He walked past Stiles, left staring, tight-chested, with an open mouth. An apology heavy on his tongue and refusing to pass his teeth. He watched him leave, and he said nothing. Just stared at his back, at his hands in his pockets, at the dying leaves around his heavy feet. He vanished into the trees. And Stiles did not follow him.

But a sound came to him. A click. A snap. A rustle. 

He blinked twice before he turned to look. 

A black wolf, smaller than most, stared from a gap between two redwood trees. It took a slow step back with its front right paw. 

Golden eyes flickered. 

He was lucky Stiles knew he couldn’t catch him.

 

-

 

It was an emergency session. Full price plus thirty percent. Stiles outright refused to use them, for the sake of his pockets. Phone calls were free, anyway. Why pay to see her in person?

Stiles had not been in this type of situation since he started seeing Dr. Senta. He got it now. He really did. As his legs ached from sprinting through the woods, then walking back to the Hale house, then running around Lydia’s bedroom, trashing the place to try and… 

Fuck.

Fuck it all.

“He took the grimoire,” Stiles snarled into his interlocked hands, “And I think I am going to commit a serious crime. And my pack won’t forgive me for it.”

Lydia’s bedroom had almost no evidence that Stiles had even been there yesterday, besides the box cutter without a cap lying abandoned on her floor, and not neatly tucked away in her desk drawer. Beneath her mattress, there was no book. There were no pieces of A4 paper with Derek’s name on, no cut-up canvas. Just an empty easel, a box cutter, and an unmade bed. 

Stiles felt like he was losing his mind. And Dr. Senta making him wait outside for an extra five minutes because ‘my notes are a mess, one moment!’ hadn’t helped.

“Well,” Dr. Senta said slowly, “Unfortunately, as much as I value confidentiality, if you express intent to harm yourself or others, I am required to report that to the relevant authorities.”

“God!” Stiles cried, slamming his hands down on his aching knees, “You too?!”

“You’ve told me enough about this kid,” she said, “I know how terrified you were for him to come back. I won’t… say anything to endorse any violence, however.”

Stiles wanted to shoot himself in the head. He couldn’t say that, though, because apparently she’d send him to fucking Eichen, and Theo would win without even trying. No. No, that wouldn’t fly. He had to work for it. 

“How about, instead,” Dr. Senta said, crossing her arms and glancing down momentarily at her gold-plated watch, “we think about some preventative measures we can realistically take without harming ourselves or anyone else. How about that?”

“Preventative measures?” Stiles growled.

“Protection spells,” Dr. Senta tilted her head one way, then the next, “Defensive runes. Protection matrix. Stiles, you have plenty of tools at your disposal. Have you warned your friends?”

“Yes,” Stiles snarled, “But they don’t want to do anything because he’s a kid, apparently.”

“Well,” she shrugged, “Then there’s no harm in adding a few extra layers of safety, if you can’t hurt him.”

“I could,” he snapped, eyes flitting up to meet her sharp stare, “Hypothetically. I mean. It’s physically possible.”

“I’m not even going to respond to that.”

“You just did.”

It was stupid. He should be able to slit his throat or put a gun to his temple and have it be done with. But, staring again into the red of his eyelids, blinking open to see the world tinted blue, watching that friendship bracelet slide down his wrist, something happened. Some sort of an idea formed in his mind. It surely wouldn’t work, not on Theo. He would play along for a second, and tear it off as soon as their backs were turned. But the pack would listen. 

The pack would love it.  

“Dr. Senta, I could marry you.”

“That would be an incredibly unhealthy relationship, Stiles.”

 

-

 

Beacon Hills High School started classes on the fifth of September that year. Stiles was discharged from Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital at 6:07 that morning. He left Dr. Senta’s office building two hours later. And, having missed first period, and second, and probably third, Stiles was sure his teachers would be oh-so delighted to see him. They always were. Of course, they didn’t stare at him in confusion for a moment, searching for a ‘Visitor’ sticker on his chest, and they certainly never asked if he was meant to be shadowing them for the day, and absolutely none of them had ever called security on him. Because Stiles’ life was perfect. And the citizens of Beacon Hills were all flawlessly attuned to the frequencies he needed them to be at. They were all totally on the same wavelength. Absolutely. 

It was a testament to Stiles’ God-given promise of eternal luck that Coach was his teacher for this period. That he was greeted with a scowl and a ‘Stilinski?! I thought you’d dropped dead again. Sit the hell down, or I make you do Suicides all of practice. Pens out. Listen up!!’ and not a terrified silence. 

Theo Raeken sat at the back of the class. He blinked up from his notebook, and his brows furrowed. Concern. A mask. A lie.

Scott was sat right beside him. His eyes darted so quickly between Theo and Stiles, back and forth, without his head moving so much as an inch, and Stiles was waiting for him to start complaining about the headache when it hit. 

So Stiles smiled, stomach churning with that well-known nausea, as he found an empty seat in front of Theo. The effort it took to actually sit down, to force his body to turn its back to him, to relax his shoulders and keep his eyes to the front, it hurt. Every inch of him was fighting against it, some distant voice in his head that sounded only like his own, begging for him to just take his pen, turn around, and stab Theo in the eye. He didn’t. Because there would be no more Theo. But there would also be no more Derek. 

The scales weighing that up in his mind were gold-plated. Stiles wondered if Tara’s heart was lighter than a feather. He wondered if Theo’s was in a jar, somewhere. If the Doctors kept it. Stiles wanted to feel it in his hands. The heart that Theo lost. What would that heart’s sins weigh?

(Stiles did not believe in sin. If he did, he would have to resign himself to the same eternal damnation he would give to Theo.)

When a hand tapped his shoulder, the silent understanding that it was his turned the touch to the slicing of a sharpened blade, and Stiles only turned his head enough to get Theo to take his fucking hand back. He didn’t. It stayed on Stiles’ shoulder. How uncomfortable it had to be to reach that far forward. 

He could feel it, couldn’t he? The discomfort, the hate. He probably fed off of it.

“Stiles,” Theo’s voice whispered, “Can we talk? At lunch?”

“Sure,” Stiles drawled back, “Why don’t you sit with us?” He turned properly, glancing down at that hand and watching it pull back. Theo’s brows arched upward, and Scott’s pale face was contorted in horror in the corner of his eye.

Theo blinked, “Really?”

“Of course,” Stiles said, “You have no friends. It’s kind of pathetic. The least I could do is some charity.”

“I thought you wanted to literally kill me.”

“Well, it turns out that’s illegal, so,” Stiles’ smile could surely not be misconstrued as sincere even by someone who’d never seen a smile before, “You’ll live to see tomorrow, if the fates keep this up.” He slowly started to turn back around, “Good for you. It’s practically Christmas.”

“I don’t celebrate Christmas,” Theo murmured.

“And I didn’t ask,” Stiles spat back, staring down at his empty notebook. Coach’s voice picked up as he started talking about class expectations and something about choking himself out with a bungee line. Stiles largely agreed with the sentiment. 

Theo took the grimoire. 

That grimoire, with entirely reckless, dangerous spells, ways to kill them all, ways to change the world as we know it and get into the minds of his pack, was in Theo’s hands. Theo’s.

But Stiles would find it. 

He’d find it the second Theo sat down at that lunch table. He swore it. Like a mantra in his head, repeating it over and over, because he had to. And he would. This Stiles Plan was a good one. One without any bullshit side effects. One where keeping it to himself wouldn’t end up with Derek looking at him like he didn’t know who he was anymore. One that wouldn’t leave him utterly alone.

He’d been to the clinic before he came to the school. A necessary pit stop. Who cares if he was starting the year with an attendance below fifty percent. Better that than let his friends all die at that monster’s hands. ‘Monster’ was too generous. He was a brat. Nothing more. 

Stiles just needed to find an easy protection rune to cover the betas. Nothing Claudia-level. Nothing special, or flashy, or needing a spark bigger than the average human. Because being a spark was different to having one. And if Stiles had no glow, no magic, that meant nothing of his ability to borrow the universe’s energy. Just for a bit. Just until Theo went away. He’d take every hit for them, if that’s what he had to do to keep it balanced. 

But there was no harm in checking.

There had really been no harm in bringing that scalpel to the base of his wrist and slowly, firmly, dragging the blade across his skin and staring down at the burning pink of it slowly turning red; at the dark blood forming little near-black orbs against his pale skin. There was no harm in turning to that borrowed book’s page on healing charms, and forcing the doubt out of his mind so desperately that it actually worked. There was no harm in gaining one more scar. For science. To be sure that he could protect them, even if it wore him out so badly he almost couldn’t hate anymore. 

The power wasn’t really needed for those protection runes. They were rudimentary. Little charms he carved into with that same scalpel and filled the gaps with mountain ash, and covered with name tag stickers from the dog kennels. It wasn’t meant to be a joke. Stiles was just effortlessly hilarious like that, or something. Sure. 

The idea that he had actually outgrown dog jokes was actually slightly horrifying. 

The power was not for the runes. It was for Theo. Because Stiles did not want to protect him. Wasting time on a defence charm with the opposite intention would be the dumbest thing he’d done yet. No, that was not what Theo Raeken was receiving. 

It was identical to the rest, with the same gold, the same violet, the same blue woven together in progressively neater lines of knots, but the sigil beneath the tag was not infused with the energy of protection, or love, or care, or even worry. Every hate-fueled slice of that blunting scalpel through the soft metal he’d found, the shape they formed, all jagged lines and violence, had only one purpose. One forceful reason. 

Sitting there, finally in the school’s courtyard with the name no one could pronounce, and Stiles did not remember, he reached down for his bag, under the round picnic table they had found themselves at. The hesitant glances from the betas toward Theo, and the self-pitying frown on his face and hunching of his shoulders, all made Stiles’ heart swell. Seeing him uncomfortable, however fake, made it all so much lighter. He wanted to make it so much worse for him. And he would.

“Guys,” he said, over the quiet conversation between Mason and Liam, and the tense silence of everyone else, “I have something to give you all.” He pulled the huge tangle of bracelets out, dumping them on the table, and tucking them within his hands. He caught Erica’s eye across the table, seeing the way they lit up in recognition, then darted to his wrist. 

“You’re wearing the bracelet,” she said, “You made more bracelets?”

Stiles’ eyes lifted at the corners, “I did, indeed.” He picked one up – Lydia’s, as the initial written on the label dictated – and held it, stretched over his pointer and middle fingers, spread apart, “A long time ago… a good friend made our pack bracelets just like these. She used the colours of the pack’s eyes. I wanted to make them for us, too.”

“There’s no red,” Theo’s voice said slowly, always needing to be the centre of attention, “You didn’t have an alpha then, either?”

Stiles slowly turned to him, perpendicular, with a pronounced gap between him and the two people at his sides, Jackson and Boyd, and his chest burned every single time he looked at that face, “No,” Stiles said, “We didn’t.” He held the bracelet out to Lydia, as the girl’s soft cotton-clad shoulders straightened, “For you.”

She reached out, and slowly took it from him.

“Put it on,” he said, reaching back for the pile, “Erica, you want one that isn’t hideous?”

“Mine has character!” She said cheerily, “But fuck yes, thank you.” She snatched the bracelet from his hand and slid it over her hand almost too fast. Boyd grinned down at her as he took his own from Stiles’ newly returned waiting hand. 

And, when all of them had a bracelet with their initial and that rune hanging tightly from their wrist, there was only one left. Stiles held it in his hands for just a moment.

“Theo,” he said. 

The soft buzz of conversation stopped again. The bumping shoulders, the smiles, the boys comparing whose was tied better and debating over when or if they should take them off. They shut their mouths awfully fast. 

Stiles arced his arm out, holding that bracelet loosely from the tips of his right hand’s pointer and middle fingers, again. The chimera’s brows twitched.

“Why…” he tilted his head, just a little, “You made me one?”

“Take it,” Stiles said, smiling, almost sincere, but not happy. Righteous. Excited. Expectant. “I spent a long time on this one.”

Theo’s hand was almost shaking as he took it, the closest to a good performance Stiles had seen from him, “You mean it?”

Stiles tilted his head down, “You’ve known me longer than anyone else here, haven’t you? Surely, you can tell when I’m lying.”

Theo’s eyes were so clearly distrusting, so sharp, so blatant, it was appalling anyone fell for his bullshit anywhere else. Forget the way he tentatively licked his lips, the way his mouth broke into a gentle smile as that disbelieving, relieved little laugh broke past them and he brought the thread over his knuckles, staring attentively down at it as he rolled it over his hand and onto his wrist. 

As he flexed his hand, he turned those curious eyes back up to Stiles, “So… you want me in the pack? After… all that, before?”

Stiles crossed his arms against the table, and he couldn’t fight back the grin even if he wanted to, “Well, I’m crazy. Everyone here knows it. Right guys?”

He turned to look over them. At the wide-eyed, low-browed confusion of them all. 

And, receiving no response, he felt his grin turn to bared teeth, looking back to that haunting face, “There was no painting. There is no grimoire.” He blinked, “Where’s my grimoire, Theo?”

At that, the man’s eyes narrowed, and his brows twitched, a flicker of a smile passing over his mouth as he quirked his head, half a disbelieving shake, “What?”

“My grimoire,” Stiles said slowly, “I left it under Lydia’s bed.” He stared down at the ink-black lines beneath his skin, running a hand along his left arm, “And I told Derek about it while you were eavesdropping in the woods. Then it was gone after I lost you. So,” he raised his brows, staring deep into those unflinching eyes, “where is it?”

“I don’t know,” Theo said.

Stiles’ brows furrowed, his eyes sharpened, “You don’t know.”

“No,” Theo tilted his head down, “I don’t.”

“Did you know I had a grimoire?” Stiles asked.

And instantly, Theo answered, “Yes.”

That was when the panic started to show. Just flickers of it, in the backs of his eyes. In the way he slowly looked down, then back up to Stiles. How his eyes lingered on the side of his face before they met his. 

A good charm to use on a liar, a truth hex. And if Stiles was mixing up spell types, well, he wasn’t their emissary, was he?

Stiles slowly nodded, “Okay. Well. Heads up, then, the grimoire is entirely lost!” Stiles’ chest felt tight, “This is somehow worse than Theo having it! How the hell has this happened. Haha. Lydia,” he turned to her, again, still baring teeth, “Do you know where my grimoire is?”

She blinked, and blinked, “I have a feeling I might have to figure it out.”

Stiles huffed, and he couldn’t breathe back in properly afterward, “See? Your intuition’s getting better by the day.”

 

-

 

Stiles kept his eyes closed. The glass was warm from the heat of his hand, even in the sharp assault of an early Fall evening’s wind. The earth was steady beneath him, soft grass holding the weight of his feet, his legs bent at the knee, his back resting against the stone. 

Death was far from permanent. What would be wrong with giving Theo a taste? It was too late to bring Tara back. He should know what he did to her. 

The panic attacks started after his mom died. But that was only when they were identifiable. Something more like this was a common occurrence to Stiles a long time before she gave in. He could still see how still she was. He could still feel the crawling sensation, the weight of understanding. The alien feeling of staring at a body, now empty. He could still hear the rattle of fluid in her lungs after she stopped breathing. And he knew that weight over him, the way the world felt miles away just as it felt too close, meant that the world was exactly what he should focus on. Dr. Senta called it ‘dissociation’. A method of self-preservation the brain uses in triggering or dangerous situations, to protect itself from any further harm. 

Stiles could trace the words against his back with his mind if he wanted to. He could feel every contour through his hoodie, and his shirt, and the scar tissue littered over his back. Did all the damage make him something else? If there was nothing left but scars, would his body not be the same one that got hurt?

He had always hated liars. Secrets. Every time Scott kept them, back then, it would make his whole body grow uneven. Maybe it was just the betrayal of the closeness they used to have, before this. Before Stiles took him into the woods, hoping to get them both hurt. He just wanted a good story, a rush of adrenaline. Something to casually mention over a barbecue one day to watch his kids stare in horror and awe. Not this. 

Their pack was in danger. They couldn’t create a replacement. Laura would step into the role, Stiles was sure of it, but he wasn’t ready to give it up. He wasn’t meant to. He was meant to stay the terrible, red-stained, lying murderer with the scar across his throat and the ring on his finger.

Derek was dying. He was leaving. And that was one thing Stiles couldn’t lose to this. He was getting sick of saying it. But if there was ever a night where he didn’t wake up to Derek’s warm hands on him, or his happily tired eyes staring, waiting, he wouldn’t live to see the end of that day. And he knew Theo wanted that. He just knew. 

He thought he was imagining the footsteps until he saw the shoes peek into his vision. It was blurred at the edges. They just looked like unidentifiable shapes until he looked up.

Of course, Theo was the one staring down at him. Stiles should’ve know. No one else was dumb enough to think Vans were decent shoes. 

That evening, Lydia had reluctantly agreed to look for the grimoire. Only after Stiles told her too much of what was inside. Of the runes that killed the Hales. Of the spell that created this timeline. Of bringing hospitals down on top of witches, and suicide, and possession. She’d put on a brave face as she nodded in agreement. Stiles had gotten good at recognising fear in people’s eyes. Isolated, it looked like death. 

Theo didn’t ask before he dropped to sit beside him.

“Can I have a sip?” He asked. 

Stiles’ thumb rubbed over the neck of that beer bottle, “Even if that was legal, it won’t do anything to you.”

“Is it legal for you to drink it?” 

“Legally, I’m not even alive,” Stiles drawled, and his head rolled against the top of his gravestone as he turned to look at Theo Raeken. To properly look at him. Most people looked like themselves, even as kids. You don’t change as much as you think. You just lose the baby fat, or grow more eyebrows, or have your eyes sink a little into your face. Noses and ears keep steadily growing until the day you drop dead. The rest mostly stays the same. 

Theo looked nothing like he did in the fourth grade. 

“Did they do something to your face, too?” Stiles tilted his head a little further, “I always thought your bone structure was different. Just in the cheeks, maybe the jaw. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like yourself. It makes you look different.”

Theo blinked slowly back at him, and he swallowed before he asked, “Are you drunk?”

Stiles brought the bottle to his mouth instinctively, “I don’t get drunk off of beer. I’m not twelve.”

“How old… are you?”

Stiles stared down at his hands, as the left came to meet the right, loosely holding that near-empty bottle and watching the moonlight catch the glass. Lydia would call him if she found anything. She promised. Derek said he’d go with her, and he’d call if anything else happened. He hadn’t even texted. 

The bottle made a horrible screeching noise as Stiles dragged his thumbnail down the side, “Why’re you here, Theo?”

Theo’s jacket shuffled as he leaned forward, “I was looking for that.”

Stiles turned to see his eyes locked onto the stone behind him. The bitter taste in his mouth got worse by the second, but his lips quirked up into a smile, anyway. For something.

He hummed, leaning away to stare at the words engraved into the grey – ‘A spark snuffed out too soon’, “Yeah, my mom was funny. Too bad she’s dead.” And he turned back around, leaning his spine softly against the marker, again, as he brought the bottle to his mouth for one last swig. 

His own body was rotting right where they sat. Bones, and all. Stiles wondered where Tara’s body was. Were they bones together?

What had happened to his mother?

“What happened to her?” Theo asked. Stiles froze. It made his spine crawl against his name, etched, honest and unchanged, down to the accent through the ‘ł’.  

Stiles clicked his tongue, maybe the nausea was just hunger, or the shitty beer, “That’s none of your business, Theo.”

“So you know?”

He turned to him again, and his brows rose, “Everyone knows. But they won’t tell you, because I told them everything. About you. Your little plan to take over the pack, or whatever it is you’re doing.”

“If you think that’s what I’m doing,” Theo said, “then why are you talking to me?”

Stiles’ lids felt so heavy, “I don’t know. You’re the one who interrupted my alone time. Might as well talk. God knows sitting in silence with you never ends well.”

Theo’s brows twitched, “What does that mean?”

“Do you think only asking questions will make it so that you don’t have to tell the truth?” 

Theo’s brows twitched again, then he slowly nodded, “I knew you did something to me.”

“Of course, I did,” Stiles huffed, “You knew… You think you know everything.” He brought the bottle up to tap the top against Theo’s forehead, earning an indifferent blink and very little else, besides the clenching of his hands. Stiles almost wanted him to do something. To hit him. To hurt him. It would be interesting. And it would mean him caving in record time. He smiled, “You don’t even know what the Dread Doctors are doing here, and you think you know everything?”

Theo’s eyes finally turned to something recognisable. And it was almost special, the way that Stiles was the only one who knew who he was beyond cursed warnings and anecdotes from a rambling, crazy-sounding ex-Alpha. He knew him. 

“The who?” Theo asked, glancing away as if it made it more believable.

“You don’t need to pretend, Theo, the damage’s already been done,” Stiles said, leaning forward just a drop, “It’s just you and me here, Teddy.”

And Stiles watched the mask drop. He saw it in the relaxing of his eyebrows. The dying of his eyes, all light vanishing so fast, blink-and-you-miss. His lips falling into a lazy frown. The strange tension in his jaw, and his cheeks, the wrongness of his bone structure correcting itself as he actually rested his face. And he looked as murderous as Stiles knew he was. 

“How do you know what the Doctors are doing?” He asked.

And Stiles’ smile was no less bitter, “Because I do know everything.” He started to swing the bottle back and forth between his fingers, “You’re not gonna win, here, Theo. Whatever you’re after, you’re not getting it. There’s no Alpha to take the place of. You’re younger than half of my pack and don’t know them. They won’t follow you.” He gave him a look, “You’re just not the Alpha type. Alright?” He pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, “You’re meant to scurry around and forage for food and beg and plead and cry. Like a rat. Or a very weird child.”

The chimera’s lips twisted into a sneer, “Oh, yeah?”

“I don’t like you, Theo,” Stiles said plainly, “I hate you, actually. A lot. So much that it feels like I’m at risk of a heart attack every time I have to see your fucking face, so I’m going to tell you straight-up, right now.” He rested his left hand in the dirt, leaning forward to make sure that no word, no intention, nothing was lost as he said straight to him, “If you hurt a single member of my pack. If you twist any truths to tear anyone apart, if you cause any rifts, if you so much as give a paper cut to one of those kids,” he nodded, “I will burn you alive. I’ll skin you. I’ll sell whatever functioning organs you have left in that broken body of yours for pennies, and I’ll throw those pennies in a wishing well, and wish on those pennies that your soul has descended to the deepest depths of Hell, and your dead sister is tearing your heart out over and over until the end of time.”

Theo’s brows slowly crept up, lips forming a thin line for a moment, before they fell open, “… Are you done?”

“Not quite,” Stiles shook his head, “Almost. I just want to know what the hell you want from us? From me? Like, what, do you want me on my knees for you? Is that it?” His lip curled at the way Theo’s eyes darted down, then up again, “You want me to bow down and cower and beg?”

Theo’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, “… Well, I wouldn’t be opposed.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, and his head shook side to side as he leant back again, “I’m not gonna give up, Theo. I won’t exist in a Beacon Hills that has you in any position of power.”

“That’s not what I want,” Theo said, too fast. 

Stiles felt his brows tighten, “Then what? If not power, then what? There’s nothing else for you. And I know you don’t want community. A pack. That’s not how you work.”

“That’s true,” Theo said, jaw clenching, and eyes rolling, “What I want has nothing to do with you.”

“Oh, cute,” Stiles drawled, “You found a new way to avoid telling the truth. Lies of omission are still lies, Theodore.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“I just said, I—”

“No,” Stiles growled, “Why are you making me have to talk to you right now?”

Theo looked up at him through his lashes, hesitating, bringing an arm up to run his fingers through his hair. His sleeve slid down just enough to expose his bare wrist, “You don’t have to stay.”

“Thank God for that,” Stiles snapped, and he rose to his feet with his legs still aching from that morning. He looked back at the gravestone, and glanced over at the drops left in his beer bottle. 

He dumped the droplets out onto the grass. 

Theo gave him a raised brow. 

“What?” Stiles shrugged, “I’d drunk beer by the time I died. I’m sure he’s overjoyed.” Then he ran his tongue over his teeth, “If I find out you did anything to this grave, or my body, I’m smashing this bottle over your head. I’ll slit your throat with a shard if that doesn’t do the job well enough.”

Theo’s stare was almost entertained, “Sounds like a good time.”

Stiles sneered right back, “I’m sure it does.” He turned on his heel, “Have fun with the honesty! I hear it has a habit of sticking. You won’t shake it by not wearing that bracelet. Nice try, though” He scrunched his nose up as he glanced over his shoulder, a good few feet away now, “I can’t wait to see how you keep the act up. Maybe I’ll join in.”

Theo was just staring up at him, with some sort of a fire burning behind his eyes, and saying nothing. The smirk on his face was downright insufferable. So Stiles shook his head one last time and walked away. 

It was a long walk home. Dangerous, too, probably. Worse now that he was most likely metres away from a teenager’s weird vertical incubation grave at any given moment. What torment it had to be to have your body stolen from you. Hijacked, without any say. Going to sleep one night after finally getting that surgery you’d needed for so long, and waking up in someone else’s body. A mosaic of monsters. And you’re dying. Again. You just got your life back, and you’re dying again because those Doctors felt that their eternal life and their mission were both worth more than you. That you’re expendable. 

They’re people.

They’re children.

If anyone else were whispering in Stiles’ ear, they might accuse him of hypocrisy. Of self-contradiction. But Theo wasn’t a victim of them. He was an enabler. He helped them kill her to get that heart. They did the surgery themselves, in some dingy, disgusting basement, after Theo murdered his own sister. And here he was, still walking alongside them. Helping them. All he did, all he does, is take. Nothing belongs to anyone, and everything is deserved by Theo. The power. The reverence. The control. The pack.

There was a hole in Stiles’ chest. A gaping, heavy, empty hole. Right below his heart, where his ribs met in the centre, surrounded by cartilage. The place where his spark used to rest, he thought. Maybe that was why his chest was always burning, why his passions and his rages came so strong. It was where it all poured out to reach his eyes, his fingertips. There was an itch he needed to scratch. Somewhere too deep inside to reach. 

He didn’t recognise this empty feeling. 

He wouldn’t ever know how long it took him to get back home. To step into the elevator, lean over to press their floor’s button, a sleek, round, silver circle that lit up blue when pressed, and look over at the mirror and see someone unfamiliar staring back. Or maybe it was the familiarity that his body was hating so much. 

He looked into his reflection, and he saw the moment the red faded from the Other Stiles’ eyes as he fought to gather the air back into his lungs. He saw the hate in those eyes. There was no hiding from that particular scar, not like the others. Maybe it would be less hard if he hadn’t latched onto it so much, all those years ago. 

Maybe he should stop saying ‘maybe’.

His door opened right as his key slotted into the lock. 

Derek stared out at him.

Stiles felt the emptiness fill out. And it was overwhelming – his love for him. So strong a feeling – the wholeness, the pull – that there wasn’t any other fucking word for it. And whatever words Derek was just starting to say were swallowed up by Stiles grabbing his face and lunging forward. 

The kisses were biting, burning, returned by Derek with the same electric fury – all that sparks flying bullshit. Hands were grabbing at clothes, backs were slammed against doors, fingertips were dragging flame-ridden lines along warm skin, and Derek was pulling back to breathe into Stiles’ jaw.

“You left your key in the door,” he said breathlessly into the skin, kissing along that line of moles that led to just behind Stiles’ ear.

“I don’t care,” Stiles growled back, grabbing the back of his neck to coax him into another kiss, “I love you.” And another. “I love you.”

Derek nodded against him, “I love you, too.”

“I’m sorry,” Stiles sighed, “for what I said this morning. I didn’t mean it.”

He felt Derek’s smile rather than seeing it, “I know.”

“I’d let him live here if it made you happy, okay?” 

Derek couldn’t hear his heartbeat. 

“I won’t hurt him if that’s what you want.” 

He’d never hear the lie.

Stiles finally caught his eyes, that worship-filled, honey-moss stare, “I’ll always choose you. Okay?”

Derek just stared the most piercing of stares, still breathless, so human, for about a million years. When his eyes finally darted down, whatever words were about to come out gave up on themselves. And he just smiled.

But when he still didn’t move, Stiles found his head tilting, “Do you wanna keep talking about Theo, or do you wanna take my clothes off?”

And Derek’s snort bubbled into a cackle that he didn’t calm down from for ten straight minutes. It was the first time Stiles wasn’t horrified by being laughed at. 

 

-

 

Every little boy play-fights in one way or another. Playground WWE, taking part in an actual martial art, playing pirates, lightsaber fights with those cheap, plastic, retractable toys of pure tween joy, water fights, wrestling with siblings over the remote control, or the last chip, or the last slice of pizza, or whose turn it was on the DS, or any other thing a young boy can get territorial and greedy over. Stiles did all of those things. But Stiles did not have siblings. 

No, he did not have siblings. But he did have Theo. And Theo was the only other kid in their class who loved Star Wars as much as Stiles did. 

Claudia had bought Stiles two toy lightsabers for his eighth birthday. One red and one blue. Stiles had invited Theo over after school every single day for the four weeks after, just to play with them. They’d alternate who was the Jedi and who was the Sith. Stiles liked them both equally. Theo always whined about being the Sith, but would go along with it for the sake of fairness. And to make Stiles happy. 

Stiles got too overexcited sometimes. He didn’t really know his limits. He liked having scraped knees and battle scars, he liked having his mother fuss over him and make his wounds stop hurting with her magic kiss. And he never really got it when other kids would run crying with the slightest bump. 

Granted, this was not a slight bump. 

They’d been playing as usual, all dramatic monologues and practised poses, running around and swinging their toys in circles and making sound effects out of the corners of their mouths. It had been maybe twenty minutes they’d spent out on the street. Then Theo vanished behind a parked car. And Stiles was ready for a dramatic ending to their little storyline. A moment where he’d triumph over the Sith and restore peace to the galaxy.

But his hands stopped in the air when he realised what he was hearing. Crying. 

Behind the car, Theo was hunched over, shaking, sobbing. Stiles dropped to his knees fast enough to hurt bad, reaching out to rub his back.

“Theo, are you—”

“Please get your mom,” Theo said swiftly, “Please. Please. Get your mom.”

Stiles blinked, “What? What’s— Mom!!”

He kept shouting her name until he saw his front door swing open a few houses down, and the woman sped down their old concrete steps. 

“What’s happening?!” She called out over the slapping of her slide-on shoes against the sidewalk.

“I don’t know!” Stiles shouted back, “Help!”

“It’s my heart,” Theo sobbed, “Something’s wrong with my heart.”

But then Claudia was there, and she was firmly telling Stiles to step back. So he did. And he didn’t see what happened after that. But his mom called Theo’s mom, and he didn’t see him for a few days after that. 

Theo never told him what they diagnosed him with. Stiles never asked. But they couldn’t play like they used to after that. And every day, after school, Theo would get picked up by his parents and his sister. He remembered watching Theo’s lunches get smaller and smaller as the family spent all their money on treatments and specialists. He didn’t think he’d lose him. 

He never once believed that he was dead, when they all left.

Stiles had always had a strong intuition, hadn’t he?

Notes:

lydia's friendship bracelet is the real MVP of this season on god

EEEAAHGAGHGAHGGGAGGAGAGAG god im hyped. Pretty much every line of this fic has been foreshadowing at least one event in this season and I am so so so so so excitedEEEEKEEKKEKEKE

Chapter 23: Bait (Beware the Ides)

Summary:

Theo tells the truth.

Notes:

We are officially half way there. But spiritually, we are almost done. Freakishly close to done, we are. I’m scared. I really am. Also unrelated but my hair straightener died and I think a piece of me died with it I can’t live like this

A cold breeze cooled his skin, and the flickering gold caught his eye. Every flash of shifted eyes, even the warm near-orange of Kira’s, if they set her off too much. Maybe it was because Malia was sat on the porch next to him, but Stiles had never realised it before. How golden they were. How innocent this pack was. Supernaturally vetted innocence was nothing cheap. The occasional flare of Derek’s golden eyes warmed his heart, too. He deserved that token of innocence as much as any of them. 

That past week had dragged on relentlessly slow. He hadn’t seen Theo since the graveyard. And that wasn’t because he was refusing to go to school again (he wanted to, he really fucking wanted to) but because Theo had vanished. No one else had seen him, either. 

Stiles was not so naïve as to believe he’d actually left. Not when the other chimeras were coming along just as fast as they always had. He was waiting patiently for Theo Raeken to come back. He knew he would.

And he was not obsessed. And no one thought he was. 

Derek had not stared at him from their bed as if he’d grown a second head as Stiles stuck another note to his whiteboard. Clear-board? Didn’t matter. Board. 

“Why do I have to see it from our bed, though,” Derek said slowly.

Stiles scratched beside his nose, “It’s easier that way. If I have a prophetic dream, or a thought in the middle of the night, I can add it way faster. And guests won’t see it.” He glanced over at the note about his blood type, and its colour – for forensic reasons, this is simple, Derek – and licked his lips, “I know what he tastes like.”

There was a harsh silence, then a terse, “What?”

“His blood,” Stiles muttered, unfocused, “I know what his blood tastes like. In my mouth.”

Another momentary silence, “Why?”

“Parrish sucker-punched him and he spat his blood all over my face,” Stiles murmured, “Then Parrish flipped my Jeep with me in it and set it on fire. I don’t really know how to prevent the Parrish thing. I think we just have to let him get it all out. Like a temper tantrum.”

Another silence, then a sigh, “Right. I’m going to bed. Can you just keep the Theo board in the closet, or something? Turn it to the other side? Anything?”

“There’s stuff on both sides,” Stiles said, uncapping his white marker and drawing an arrow toward the blood post-it, writing ‘tastes like blood’ at the other end, “And this won’t fit in the closet.”

“I’ll fit you in a closet.”

“Go to bed, Derek.”

“You’re obsessed,” Derek whined.

Stiles rolled his eyes, aware of the way he may have sounded slightly nutty as he spat back, “I’m not obsessed, I’m rightfully cautious.”

“Obsessed,” Derek grumbled, “I thought you said you’d always choose me. Me wants you to come to bed.”

“Five more minutes,” Stiles mumbled back, and Derek answered with nothing more than an unintelligible grumble and the rustling of sheets. 

He was not obsessed. He was only still thinking about him while he should have been watching his teenage betas train because he had to. It was him being aware. And ready. Not obsessive. 

He watched their golden eyes bob in and out of sight, and the fact he’d lost his red seemed entirely irrelevant. So what if he was violet again? He didn’t associate it with much good, but it wasn’t bad, either. And so what if that grimoire he hated was missing? And so what if anyone could be using his power, unchecked, anywhere at all? 

So what?

Something bad was coming. Stiles knew it was. It was a feeling travelling on the wind, or something. He felt it with every cold cup of coffee he forgot about. He felt it with every dazed stare from Lydia. He felt it in that hole his spark had left. More children were being turned into tools for something Stiles could skip to the solution of. But he couldn’t give up Mason as a sacrificial lamb. He’d do it, of course. He’d volunteer if Stiles explained it to him. But Liam would never forgive him for even thinking of it. For letting it happen. None of them would. The Beast of Gevaudan taking over Mason’s body was a level of hijacking that Stiles understood. It was the Nogitsune if he were a twenty-something-foot monster. 

The fact that Stiles scratched out that incantation was probably the only reason he hadn’t lost his mind over it yet. 

Something terrible was coming.

And Stiles was terrified of what he might lose. 

 

-

 

Three days later, Lydia walked out onto the back porch of the Hale House, and her stare was real. Not hidden behind eighteen layers of haze. She was awake. And Stiles found his back straightening for the first time in a week and a half. 

“Lydia?” He called out, “Did you find it?”

Those eyes snapped over to him, not dragging slowly as they had been this whole time, “I found something.”

His brows furrowed as Malia broke free from where she’d been holding Erica in a headlock, ignoring her tapping out, “Why the fuck is he here?”

Stiles’ neck creaked as he turned properly to watch the door slide open again, and to watch Theo slowly step out. Huh. Huh?

“Oh, no,” Derek muttered, probably to himself. 

“Good question, Malia,” he tilted his head, squinting over at Lydia, “Why the fuck is he here?”

“I have to admit,” Theo started, loudly filling the silence, “that I did spend the last week or so trying to break whatever spell Stiles put on me. But it… didn’t work.”

Stiles scrunched his nose up, rising to his feet and stepping up the wooden stairs to stand in front of Theo and Lydia, “Alright, buddy, believing that would be like believing the knight when it tells you it’s the honest one.”

Theo just pulled a tired sort of face, “… What?”

“You put a spell on him??” Derek’s voice called out, “Stiles, what? How??”

He shrugged, “What? So I put a truth hex on the pathological liar, whoop-dee-doo! Sue me.” And he kept glaring right into Theo’s eyes, “Why are you here. I’m not breaking that hex.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” Theo said, and the reluctance with which he looked up at Stiles felt so sweet, “You already know all I want is a pack. I can’t stay with… them anymore. I can’t take it.”

There was no way he hadn’t lifted the spell. No fucking way.

“Being essentially raised by three people who never show their faces or speak in sentences longer than two words,” the chimera continued, shaking his head, “that was bad enough. But they’re… They promised me a pack if I helped them. That’s how bad I want this. Please.”

Stiles’ brows met in the middle. He watched him. He watched. And watched. 

“Just let me get away from that for an afternoon,” Theo’s lashes fluttered, and Stiles could still see the emptiness in his eyes. He was lying. He had to be. “I can’t stay in that sewer anymore.”

Stiles’ head began to shake, side to side, “I don’t belie—”

“Of course, you can,” Derek’s voice cut him off. Stiles froze for just a second before he turned to watch his boyfriend step into view. Derek was smiling, soft and encouraging, “You want to spar?”

“I…” Theo tilted his head, “I’m fine to just watch.”

“No,” Stiles said swiftly, “No, you’re not watching anything. You can fight me, though!”

Theo gave him a look, “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Derek echoed, “What are you talking about? You can’t heal.”

“Neither can Allison,” Stiles glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, “Neither can you.” He tilted his head, “And I couldn’t heal when I started being their Alpha in law, could I?”

“I…” Derek sighed, “I guess not.”

“Great!” Stiles clapped his hands together, “So, it’s decided. Theo. Let’s go beat the shit out of you.”

“I don’t think that’s gonna be how that goes,” Theo murmured, “And I don’t want to hurt you, Stiles.”

He barked out a laugh, “Oh, now I know you’re lying. Fuck it, come on. Fight me like a real man. A real wolf.” He tilted his head as he started to walk back down the stairs, “I said I’d join in if you wanted to keep playing pretend. Play with me, Theo.”

Derek’s brows furrowed as Theo’s rose. The two of them exchanged a look, as Derek’s mouth fell into a frown and Theo’s flitted up into a smirk. 

The chimera shrugged his shoulders and looked away, “I can’t say no to that.”

“‘Course not,” Stiles held his arms out, “Come at me, Theo. Don’t go easy on me. I won’t either.”

Theo laughed, breathy, and Derek was watching from Lydia’s side as he slowly made his way down the porch steps. The redhead gave Derek a knowing look. The wolf just shook his head. 

Stiles kept his eyes firmly on Theo, watching the chimera walk out onto the grass, as the betas made space for them, moving over to wait by the deck’s ledge. Erica was rubbing weakly at her neck and glaring at Malia, still. Theo was looking up through his brows. 

“You sure about this?” He asked. 

Stiles shrugged, “About as sure as I am that you’re still lying.”

Theo shook his head, “You’re never gonna trust me, are you?”

“Nope,” Stiles spat, “But I’m glad we’re on the same page. Now, come on. You wanna pretend you’re a real werewolf, then pretend.”

The look on Theo’s face was, once again, finally recognisable. That angry glimmer in his eyes. That smirk. He was always so cocky. Stiles couldn’t wait to bash his fucking skull in. To snap his bones. To choke him out until his fake golden eyes rolled into the back of his head and he shut the hell up for once. 

Stiles hadn’t felt so violent since Mexico. 

His heart was pounding in his ears as it started. Theo’s claws broke free – those claws killed Scott – his fangs came out with a low growl, and Stiles let him strike first. The swipe of his hands was swift, but Stiles grabbed at his wrist as it came close, yanking it to his right as he swung his left leg around to slam his knee into the back of Theo’s. He lost balance, just barely, before he swung that leg around to catch himself. Stiles shouldn’t have smiled at that. He was fast. It was impressive. 

Then Theo’s hand swung back to grab at Stiles’ ankle and pull it forward. He swore as he was pulled off his feet and slammed onto his back, head thudding against the kicked-up grass. Theo’s blurry form was lunging toward him, and Stiles barely regained his barings in time to catch his reaching arms and pull them upward. He hiked his knees up to his chest and kicked his feet out against Theo’s stomach. 

He heard him land a few feet away. 

Stiles glared up at the sky for a moment, as his feet slammed back onto the dirt, before he rose to sit, then to crouch, then to stand. There was a twinge in his back, one he rolled out with a swinging of his arms, and he could hear Theo moving behind him. He looked before he turned around, watching him bring his knees up under him to rise up onto all fours. 

“Poor Theo Raeken,” Stiles spat, “He killed his sister, and had to deal with the consequences.” 

Theo looked back over his shoulder. The gold of his eyes was so bright. So angry. 

“You think we’ll let you stay here?” He said, “After what you did? You took my power, Theo. Just because you don’t have it doesn’t change that. You failed, but you tried. And you always fail. It’s almost impressive. You are a failure. A failed science experiment. You know why it didn’t work, Theo?”

The glow of his eyes dimmed. His arms shook where they were holding him up.

“Because, even when you were an eight-year-old boy,” Stiles spat, and the words were just the hate spilling out through his mouth. It was burning his tongue. “You were evil. You weren’t good enough. You weren’t even useful. Refusing to die doesn’t make you worth anything. But nice try,” Stiles snarked, clapping his hands together again, once, twice, “I won’t let you hurt my pack.”

“Yeah,” Theo said weakly, “I’ve heard. You think I don’t remember what you said at the graveyard last week?” He didn’t move, though, still on his hands and knees, looking back over his shoulder, “I’m not exactly interested in you burning me alive, or skinning me, or slitting my throat with shards of beer bottles. I’m not stupid, Stiles.” His voice shook, “I just… I just don’t want to be alone anymore.”

“I—” Stiles said slowly, stepping toward him, “—don’t—” He crouched down to meet his eye level, “— believe you.”

Theo watched him. And he was getting better. He had to be. Because Stiles almost couldn’t see the evil behind his stare anymore. 

“I never wanted what happened,” he said softly, “to Tara. What I did to her. I was eight years old, Stiles, you think I understood what was going on when three people in masks told me they could heal my heart if I did what they told me to? When they lied and said it was what she wanted for me?”

“I’ve had this conversation with you already, Theo,” Stiles snapped, “I haven’t changed my mind. I still think you pushed her. And I still think you liked it.”

Theo barely shook his head. 

“Stay away from my pack,” Stiles said simply, “Derek can only stop me from killing you for so long.” He looked him up and down, “If you really want to get away from the Doctors, then find another pack to pity you. This one won’t.”

Theo turned away. Stiles watched his head bob. He watched him slowly rise to his feet. He watched him glance over at the others, grabbing at his left arm and rolling his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry,” he said, so quiet Stiles almost didn’t hear it, “I won’t bother you again.”

He didn’t believe it. He watched Theo walk off into the woods and waited for a little black wolf to come back out and do what he really wanted. But it didn’t. Theo left. And the pack was silent. 

It was a great show of self-restraint. Stiles had hardly done anything. Neither of them had bled. No one had died. 

Nothing about that changed the way that the pack were looking at Stiles like he had done something wrong. As if he hadn’t just saved all of their lives by forcing that monster to accept that he wasn’t going to win them. This pack was Stiles’, and he was no good at sharing. 

There was no way he could lose them to Theo. Not when they knew exactly what he’d done to him, and to his sister. Not when letting him in meant killing Derek, risking everyone else’s lives, giving the Doctors an open door and waving their arms happily to welcome them to kill everybody, too. 

But it was itching at him. Meredith’s voice was ringing in his head. Six months ago, she’d screamed Claudia’s name, she’d begged him to listen, she’d told him, plain and simple, what would happen. 

‘He’s going to take everything from you. No one is coming to save you.’

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t know how to stop the Dread Doctors. He didn’t know how to stop his pack from giving him sideways looks as he passed them in hallways or spoke to them at the house. He didn’t know how to stop Parrish, or protect Mason. 

Maybe he shouldn’t. Maybe he should just let it happen. He wasn’t the Alpha anymore, was he? It wasn’t his problem. He had enough going on without the resurrection of the Beast looming over him. He wondered if the Desert Wolf would come back, too. 

He wanted Peter to come home. 

Peter wouldn’t look at him like he was cruel for telling the truth. 

Because this wasn’t new, was it? Them distrusting him. Stiles had done things worthy of distrust before. He had hurt them. He’d practically been the reason Lydia gained these abilities she hated so much. He’d been a twitchy fucking maniac, yelling at Kira to call her mother so they could kill a demon together after Claudia had gone up in flames. 

He’d never told his dad what happened to her. 

“We need to kill the Doctors,” he said to Derek across their kitchen island one night. 

The wolf hummed, “Wow, how’d you come up with that?”

Stiles rolled his eyes, “Okay, smartass. I mean we need to come up with a plan and actually do it.”

“No one’s even seen them before, Stiles,” Derek shook his head, turning to look over his shoulder as he kept stirring his pasta in the pot on the stove, “How are we meant to kill them, exactly?”

“That’s part of the problem,” Stiles muttered, “If you have seen them, they’ve erased your memories. It’s how they keep their existence a secret. And they’re damn annoying with their frequency bullshit.”

“Frequency?”

“They use frequencies to obscure themselves,” Stiles said, “Magnetic fields and shit. They speak through radios. They teleport. I think. Maybe it’s all an illusion, I don’t know.”

Derek was silent for a moment, then, “And you really think it’s Theo’s fault he’s following them?”

Stiles squinted at him, “You’re seriously asking me that?’

“I mean,” Derek rolled his head on his shoulders, “If they can do all that, what do you think they could do to a child’s mind, Stiles? Manipulation isn’t easy to understand from the outside. Trust me, I know that very well.”

Stiles scoffed, “Okay, the Dread Doctors and Theo are nothing like you and Kate.”

Derek’s shoulders barely shrugged up, “I don’t know. Grooming to kill is still grooming.”

“It wasn’t grooming,” Stiles shook his head, “Why are you always taking his side? Why do you think that people magically gain the capacity for evil when they turn eighteen? As if being able to legally have sex, and get married, and vote, makes you a different person than you were two seconds ago before the clock struck midnight. He’s always been the same person, Derek.”

“If you don’t believe people can change, then what do we do with Peter?” 

Stiles blinked, stunned. He slammed his mouth shut. 

“Peter worked with Kate, once,” Derek said, with a bite to his voice, “He assaulted Lydia. He’d manipulated her into bringing him back to life. Twice. Against her will. He tried to kill Scott once, too. He killed my sister. You burned him alive for it all. But he can change? He can be your bestest friend now?”

“You like Peter,” Stiles spat, “He’s your family. You love him.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t hang out with him,” Derek spat back, “I’m not his friend. I’m his nephew. I try to pretend he’s still the same guy who used to cuddle me to sleep when I had a nightmare, because I know he has changed. Because people can. And we can’t read minds. So why won’t you give Theo that same chance?”

“Because Theo can’t change,” Stiles hissed, “It wasn’t me who sent him to Hell, Last Time, it was Scott. It was Kira plunging her sword into the ground so it could open up, and his dead sister could drag him down. And if Scott McCall can consider someone irredeemable, then maybe we should all listen before he kills you! ”

“He’s not going to kill me!” Derek roared, turning away from the stove to stick his hands out, “You are!!”

“That’s not nice, Derek,” Stiles spat.

“I’m not being mean,” Derek snarled, “I’m being serious. Lydia was looking for your grimoire. She looked for a long fucking time, with nothing happening, and I had to watch her start to lose her mind because she was listening so intently that she was hearing shit she couldn’t shut up. Deaths, miles away. She had to move it all to the lakehouse so people couldn’t hear her endless wailing, Stiles. And you know what she found in the end? The only thing she found that had anything to do with you?”

Stiles couldn’t speak. 

Derek didn’t wait for him to, “She picked up a paintbrush. And she made that painting. And it was you standing over me.”

He was shaking. Derek was shaking. And Stiles couldn’t tell if it was fear, or rage, but it was because of him. It made the sickness bloom in his stomach. It made the hole bore deeper in his chest. And the emptiness was harrowing. It was dizzying. It made him want to run. 

Stiles swallowed thickly, speaking so unevenly, “We need to stop the Doctors. It’ll all be okay if we can just do that.”

Derek huffed out a bitter laugh, and turned back around. 

He said nothing more. 

So neither did Stiles. 

 

-

 

He came up with a plan. It had no silly name. No inside joke. It was just a plan. And it was just as likely to fail as the first time they came up with it. Stiles figured that meant his hopes wouldn’t get too high. He really doubted they would. Hope wasn’t something he had in abundance. Never had been. 

Theo brought out the worst in him. This was not news. But it was worrying. Because Stiles was only getting worse. 

“Should I be here?” Mason asked into the silence, his words echoing a little through the near-empty changing room, “I don’t know if this is a really good idea.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles said simply, “Trust me.”

Mason wasn’t bait. He was… collateral. Something the Doctors didn’t know about, but Stiles might be compelled to tell them if it meant keeping the rest of them safe. Mason would be fine in the end, anyway. He’d refer him to Dr. Senta. He’d be okay. He was young, anyway. Young minds were easy to hurt – surely they’d be just as easy to fix.

“Why am I here?” Hayden asked. Stiles barely glanced over at her.

“You’re the bait.”

“What?!” She cried, “Wh— For the Doctors?!”

Stiles had never really spoken to Hayden. They’d never even met in this timeline until today. Liam was staring at him like he’d gone crazy. He often did. 

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I’m sure Liam will protect you. You’ll be fine.”

He tuned it all out after that. 

People were dying. Stiles had to put his ego aside and do what he had to. He had to do what was necessary. Or else. Because his eyes might not be red, and these people might not want to listen half as much as they used to, but the land beneath them was his. It wasn’t anyone else's. And every body buried within it was a personal slight against him. It was all happening in the background, but he had to focus. He had to pretend that he was still good. 

The baseball bat in his hand was mocking him. 

How silly to think he’d been anything like he used to, before. If he knew he’d be luring monsters to the school with nothing but a bat in his hands, he’d’ve used his power every second of every day. He’d find a way to use it to float, just so he didn’t have to walk anywhere. He’d make the most of every drop of stolen power – his mother’s, Peter’s. 

He wondered what Theo even wanted with his pack. None of them were the people they were in that first timeline. Kira wasn’t consumed by darkness, or whatever. Liam had control. Malia only ever went full-shift to get ear scratches. Lydia was more traumatised than dangerous. The Hales all just wanted to live in their house and keep their territory safe. Jackson and Isaac and Boyd and Erica were all entirely harmless, unless they were playing any sort of competitive game. Allison had never landed a fatal shot. None of them had killed but Malia and Derek. And Theo had never met Peter. So what did he expect them to do? Did he think he’d be the one to corrupt them? Did he think he could ruin this world Stiles had built? 

No. 

He wouldn’t let that happen.

He couldn’t. 

It would work this time. The frequency jammers would stop them. At least for a moment. Surely. 

“Someone’s here,” Malia said lowly, “I… It’s not the Doctors.”

“How do you know?” Hayden croaked out.

“I know that scent,” she said. Stiles watched her lock eyes with Liam. Hayden glanced between the two of them.

“Who is it?” Stiles asked.

Malia barely glanced at him, “You won’t like it.”

“If it’s Theo, I’ll kill myself right in front of you.”

“I…” Malia’s brows furrowed. 

Liam’s face pinched, “Please don’t do that.”

“Why would Theo be here?” Mason asked.

Malia shrugged, “How should I know?”

And Stiles was up. He stormed out of the room, listened out for the footsteps Malia must have heard. And, when he found them, he followed the sound. Sure enough, he was there. Walking through a hallway. Shrouded in darkness.

“Theo,” Stiles snarled, “I thought I told you to stay away from us.”

The chimera stared at him silently for a long while, letting the squeaking of shoes draw nearer, “Stiles. How did you come back from the dead.”

“What?” 

He blinked. 

He shook his head, “What are you talking about?”

“Why do you hate me so much?” Theo asked, “How did you know about the Doctors? About me? It doesn’t make any sense.”

And Stiles took a small step back, “… You don’t know?”

“Obviously not,” Theo spat, “How did you come back?! You didn’t have… I… Did the Doctors take you, too? And I didn’t know? How was your grave not empty? ”

“Theo,” Stiles said slowly, “I never came back. He is dead.”

“He??” Theo shook his head, “He’s you! ”

“No, he’s not,” Stiles squinted, “You seriously don’t know?” He tilted his head, “I knew you knew less than you thought, but this is just embarrassing.”

“Would you just spit it out?!”

“You came all the way here just to ask me that?” Stiles’ mouth felt dry, “What do you want with me, Theo?”

“I want you to tell me how the fuck you aren’t dead,” Theo roared. 

“Oh,” Stiles pulled back a little, “There’s the Theo I know.”

Theo scoffed, “Stop playing around, Stiles. Tell me.”

“He’s a time traveller,” Malia’s voice called out, “There’s your answer! Now scram. We have a plan going on here that you don’t need to mess up.”

Stiles’ heart picked up, turning back to glare at her, “Malia.”

“What?” She looked over him, “You’re welcome. You should be more honest, Stiles. Practice what you preach.”

Stiles gawked as she vanished back where they came from. The hole grew, just a little. As his stomach slowly dropped. The empty feeling. It was distracting.

Theo was staring at him so darkly when he looked back at him, “Time travel… is real?”

“Don’t get any ideas.”

“Why don’t you trust me?” Theo hissed, “Who cares if another version of me hurt you somewhere else, I am my own person!”

“You don’t even have your own heart,” Stiles snarled.

“Yeah, well, my eyes aren’t blue!” He snarled back, eyes flaring that dangerous gold as he did, as if to prove his point, “So, I guess it’s not my fault, is it?!”

“Your eyes aren’t blue,” Stiles stepped forward – one, two, three, four, “because you aren’t a real werewolf. You don’t follow the same rules!!”

“Then why are yours blue?!” Theo cried, “What innocent person did you kill?!”

And Stiles’ blood turned to ice. 

“They’re not…” he blinked, “They’re not blue.”

Theo nodded, “Yeah, they are, tough guy. I saw them with my own eyes after you stabbed the Belasko through the throat. Your eyes are blue, so I guess that makes you worse than me, huh?”

And Stiles moved too fast. It wasn’t the Other Stiles’ voice echoing in his head as he slammed Theo into a wall of lockers. It was not the boastful snarl of that mouth asking, ‘Why are you surprised?’. It wasn’t even Theo’s snarling as Stiles held him there by the throat. He wasn’t snarling. He didn’t even struggle.

“You think those radio jammers’ll stop them??” Theo spat, “Your friends are all in danger. Get them out of here before it’s too late.”

“Telling me to save them doesn’t change how badly you want them dead,” Stiles spat back, “You can’t fool me.”

Theo’s mouth split into a grin, and his brows quirked up, “I’m not trying to fool you, Stiles. I’m trying to save you a headache.” He shrugged, “But have it your way.”

Stiles could feel his throat move beneath his hands as he breathed, and something almost passed his lips – a curse, or something similar – when the ringing assaulted his ears like a bullet passing through. He fell back, eyes squeezing tightly shut, as the piercing sound turned to piercing pain. He cupped his hands over his ears. Nothing helped. Nothing stopped it. It was so loud. So loud.

“Sorry,” Theo’s voice drawled, distant and faint, like travelling through water, “I tried to warn you, Stiles.”

Stiles was sure he swore at that, but he couldn’t hear his own voice. Nothing but that ringing. 

It was so loud. 

It was so fucking loud. 

And everything went white. 

The ringing stopped. 

Stiles gasped. He was sure he did. But he couldn’t see his own hands. He couldn’t see anything. Just whiteness. Emptiness. 

“I raised you better than this, Mieczysław.”

There were flashes. Visions. Things Stiles couldn’t understand, but felt bore into him anyway. The terror picked at his heart, and dragged it down to his stomach. 

A roaring flame. 

A scream.

Derek’s body left alone somewhere damp. 

“You cannot stop us.”

“No.”

“You will not stop us.”

“Stop it.”

“Perigee Syzygy.”

Stiles felt a breath catch in his throat.

“What?”

“Perigee Syzygy.” 

The voice was not coming from his own head. Not like Claudia’s had. And it didn’t sound like her. It didn’t. Not at all. This wasn’t her, and Stiles was not in the void where he’d seen her all those years ago. His magic was not light with her violet, her purple. She wasn’t here, anymore. She would never be here again. She was not here anymore. She was gone. She was gone. She was gone.

“It is inevitable.”

It all came back with a thundering clap, with a cry of pain as his skull felt like it split from the force. There were hands on him, burning touches all over his arms and his face, and the slightest brush against his throat made it feel like his scar was tightening and closing it up.

He couldn’t breathe. 

His breaths were coming in shallow inhales and swift exhales, making his chest rise and fall too dramatically, and his arms were aching. Someone was tearing his hands from his ears, and he swore to God, when they spoke, he heard his mother’s voice. 

“Stiles,” whoever it was, he wanted them to go away, “Stiles, we need to go. Hey, breathe.”

That was not her. That wasn’t a woman at all. Nor a man. It was a piece of shit little boy. A meddling child. The same brat he’d always been.

Stiles stared up at Theo, and something like a groan came out in place of words. A snarl. 

“Stiles,” Theo said pointedly, pressing a hand to his chest, “Breathe.”

Stiles grabbed him so fast, without a single thought. Reflex. He wrapped his hand around his wrist, pressing tighter and tighter until Theo’s face began to contort in concern.

“Stiles, you’re hurting me,” he said weakly.

“Stiles, let him go!” Noah’s voice came. Noah. Dad.

Stiles looked up at him, breathing faster now, forcing the name out, “Dad?”

“Hey, kiddo,” Noah nodded, “We gotta go. Okay? Can you stand for me?”

“And can you maybe let go of me,” Theo muttered, and Stiles heard the distaste in his voice. He blinked slow, and hard. 

“Why are you here?” He asked, still staring up at his dad.

The Sheriff shook his head, “Don’t worry about that, kid, alright? Let’s just get you to the station.”

“The station?” Stiles squinted, “Why?”

Noah glanced away before he looked back at him, “There were some damages. You’re a witness. You know I’ll need a statement, even if it’s all lies.” He tapped the side of his nose, “You know the drill.”

Stiles felt his eyes begin to burn, “Damages?”

“The Doctors,” Theo said slowly, “We got into a bit of a fight.”

“We?” Stiles snarled. His breathing was slowly steadying.

“The betas,” Theo clarified, “And me.”

Stiles scoffed, and let go of his wrist. He rose to his feet, muttered to his dad to just walk, and pretended to ignore Theo following closely behind. Pretended to ignore how the entire pack was gone, and he didn’t know where. He pretended. It’s all he could do.

 

-

 

Derek met them at the station. Stiles hadn’t called him, and he didn’t ask who had. He just rushed over to him and wrapped his arms around his neck. Derek held him back like he always did, like second nature. He rested his hands on Stiles’ waist when the younger man pulled back. 

“Are you okay?” He asked, “Theo said you had a panic attack.”

Stiles blinked, “Theo said?”

Derek glanced down, then up again, shrugging, “He’s the one who called me.”

“Theo has your number?” 

“Stiles, you could’ve gotten hurt,” Derek stressed, “What the hell happened? Why didn’t you tell me about your plan?”

“I…” Stiles shrugged, “I don’t know. It just… It happened really fast.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed, but a sudden commotion cut the conversation short. Some deputies were yelling, and there was a kid shrugging them off as he backed away.

“Get the fuck off me!!” The kid shouted. 

And Stiles knew that voice.

It had been nice while it was forgotten. 

Donovan was wrestling himself away from the deputies, hands locked in cuffs, throwing out swears and insults like he’d been cursed to not speak any other words. His murderous eyes met Stiles’. And he did feel sick. He did feel dizzy. He did wonder, for a split second, if he was going to throw up, or pass out, or if this all really was just a nightmare. Every other time he’d seen that face, it had been one. It had been a flash of a dead body before Stiles woke up screaming. It had been a hallucination through a creature that showed you the souls tied to you. 

Maybe it was Donovan’s vengeful ghost that was doing this to him. He was haunted, and none of the horrible things had been his fault. It had just been punishment for something he didn’t deserve punishment for. 

Was Donovan the one who turned his eyes blue? This angry kid, a creature of bloodthirst, a half-wendigo with the need to consume and kill and destroy. Was that the ‘innocent’ life he’d taken? 

Is it really about fault? 

Or is it about guilt?

Stiles knew he felt guilty enough about Donovan. About Allison. About his mother. Even when he had no idea just how much he had to do with it, he’d felt as though he’d killed her. Had his magic been blue since the day she died? Had he walked into those woods blue-eyed as well as ignorant?

Donovan was dragged back to the holding cells after the Sheriff barked at him to shut up. The kid swore to kill him on his way out. 

Stiles felt a hand press against his shoulder, Derek’s face waiting when he turned back, “Are you okay?”

Stiles nodded, “I’m fine.”

“Let’s step into my office,” Noah growled as he came over to them, “Since the rest of this station has apparently turned into a damn circus since yesterday.”

“What happened yesterday?” Stiles asked, maybe a bit too quick, if the strange look on Noah’s face was anything to go by.

“Nothing,” he said, lowering his brows and tilting his head, “Eh– It’s just a… figure of speech. Come on, now, get your asses in here.”

So they followed. All of them. Stiles, Derek, and Theo. A trio that Stiles was swiftly getting fucking sick of. 

How did Derek not get it? He knew exactly how much Stiles hated him, and he didn’t seem to care. What difference did it make if he was seventeen? He was evil. He was a half-decent liar, and nothing else. If he’d just been a bit of a bitch, Derek would hate him more than he did knowing he killed Scott.  

Derek Hale was the most forgiving man on Earth. And it was just annoying. 

It was like having that version of Scott back, begging for his forgiveness on the drive to New Mexico, trying to explain why he believed Theo Raeken – a stranger, someone who he had almost no reason to trust – over his best friend of eight years. The man who’d saved his life, countless times. Who’d risked his own to do it. 

It was a joke. And it was not funny. Maybe Theo would laugh. 

It was late, and the lights in the Sheriff’s office had always been dim. Warm. Stiles couldn’t believe he got any work done in lighting like that. It always sent him right to sleep when he stayed late at the station as a kid. The file boxes only kept him entertained for so long. His dad would wake him with a sorry smile, and carry him to the cruiser when he pretended to still be asleep. He’d do the same to bring him to bed and tuck him in. The kiss to his forehead was different to his mom’s. Less soft. Somehow more loving. It would leave him crying silently into his pillow when his door finally clicked shut, and the hall light was flicked off. 

The knot in his throat as he cried was still there, today. Too tight a tangle to undo. 

Stiles sat on the couch by the blind-covered window, and interlocked his hands. He squeezed. He breathed in. He relaxed. He breathed out. Slow, and steady. So dutifully rehearsed over the years, it hardly felt like it worked anymore. 

“Alright,” Noah said, a long sound, with the rustling of paper and the clicking of a pen, “Do you not remember anything?”

Stiles gritted his teeth, “No. They did something to my head. I wasn’t… there.”

He could feel heavy eyes on him. Derek dropped to sit beside him, and pressed their legs firmly together. He didn’t take his hand. Stiles pressed his eyes shut. 

Perigee Syzygy.

What in the everloving fuck was a Perigee Syzygy?

“Right,” Noah said again, “I’ll just say you were locked in a closet, or something.” He sucked in a breath, “What exactly are these things? ‘Cause this is a step up from werewolves and bounty hunters and demons.”

“Yeah,” Theo said easily, “I, uh. I’m sorry for your loss, by the way, Sheriff.”

The room fell silent.

Stiles’ chest bloomed with a dark feeling. A heart-skipping fear. He lifted his head as his eyes snapped open.

“Please, Theo,” the Sheriff shook his head, “Noah’s fine. You know me. And thank you.”

“I can’t imagine losing your wife that way,” Theo said just as easily as before, shaking his head pitifully as he kept his eyes on the Sheriff, whose brows were slowly furrowing, “I mean, burning alive is one thing. But the fact your own son did it, it’s just… That must’ve been impossible.”

Stiles’ heart couldn’t drop. But his lips did fall open. 

There was no way. There was no fucking way. 

“What?” Noah’s voice was stable as his gaze flickered to Stiles.

“I know he was possessed,” Theo shook his head again, “but, still. God, I’ve said too much, I’m sorry, that was really rude of me. I’ll shut up.”

“Yeah, I think you should,” Stiles snarled. 

“Stiles,” Noah spat, “What the fuck is he talking about?”

Theo blinked, turning back to Stiles. He had to audacity to look confused. Stiles could burn him alive, here and now. 

Derek was tense at his side.

“Don’t listen to him,” Stiles snapped, “He’s lying.”

“I– What?” Theo looked back at Noah, “Did you… not know?”

“No, I didn’t know,” Noah snarled back, his eyes shifting to the side, “Derek. Is he lying?”

“Why are you asking him?!” Stiles cried, rising from the couch and pointing a desperate hand at his chest, “Dad, listen to me! Trust me! I’m your son, I wouldn’t lie to—”

“No, you’re not!! ” Noah’s voice boomed through the little room. It was deafening. Stiles flinched back bodily at the sound, the volume. Every instinct he had was telling him that he would do something. That his dad would throw a glass or a bottle, and he had to protect himself from the shards before it was too late. 

But he didn’t.

And no one moved.

“You killed her?” His dad’s voice was unrecognisable, “And you didn’t tell me?”

“Dad, I—”

“Don’t call me that!” He shouted. He rose from his seat. Stiles took a small step back. “Do you know how long I waited? How many nights I drank myself stupid waiting for her to come back? And the whole entire time you let me. You watched me. And you were the one who fucking killed her? ”

“It wasn’t him,” Derek tried, voice small, “It wasn’t his fault—”

“I don’t want to hear it, Derek,” Noah snarled, “You’re not a part of this.” But he did a double-take, eyes latching onto him anyway, “Why would you keep it from me, too?”

“I…” Derek tried, “Because… Because I love him.”

Theo made a small noise, like a sigh, “Come on, Derek. You know, I heard something somewhere that might be helpful to you. A saying.”

Stiles shut his eyes for just a moment, “Shut the fuck up, Theo.”

“‘Blind faith is the killer of devotion.’ ”

And that did make Stiles’ heart drop, it knocked the air straight out of his lungs, and he could do little other than turn his narrowed eyes to Theo and whisper, “ … What?” And when Theo looked back at him with genuine confusion, he felt his lip curl, “What did you just say?”

“Oh, who the Hell gives a Damn?!” Noah shouted, all words that Stiles wasn’t listening to. Just noise, now. 

His eyes burned, “What did you just say, Theo.”

“What is wrong with you?” The chimera’s face was contorted in indifference, almost disgust. His words were genuine. He really didn’t know. 

There was no way he didn’t know.

How did he know about Claudia?

“Stiles!” Noah spat, so loud he couldn’t not hear it, and the name pierced through his chest so sharply, “Get out.”

He blinked over at him, “What?”

“Get out,” his dad snarled, “before I do something I sincerely regret.”

He’d only heard that tone a few times before. And it was always when Claudia was involved. It was the tone that he cursed him with, slurring over an empty glass of whiskey in their kitchen, beneath a flickering white light. 

What had Theo done?

Stiles’ whole body was weak as he turned to leave. He met Derek’s eyes, found the desperation there and left it. He didn’t look at Theo. He couldn’t kill a man in front of his dad. Not now. Not when he’d just looked him in the eye and told him he was not his son. 

He wouldn’t get any pardons. He wouldn’t get any care. Any forgiveness. Any mercy. 

He ran. He pushed through the door to the office, and ignored Jordan Parrish and Lydia Martin, and he ran. And ran. And ran. 

His arms ached, his legs ached, his lungs, his teeth. Every inch of him burned. And it only made him run faster. The cold air was cutting. Each breath came out with a puff of mist, and he couldn’t stop. His feet just kept slamming into the sidewalks, the roads, gravel, concrete, tarmac. 

He didn’t know where he was running. 

If he ended up sobbing as he dry-heaved and begged for forgiveness into the dirt of his mom’s empty grave, then he would take that secret to his own.

 

-

 

What good was his promise not to kill him, anyway? I mean, really, what’s one more broken promise between maybe-not-so-destined husbands, right? Surely, that’s a saying somewhere.

Stiles was damn near losing his mind. At this rate, getting rid of Theo felt worth it. He’d kiss Derek goodbye and watch him leave pretty damn happily if Theo was choking on his own blood while it happened. It was a small comfort to know that Stiles had not grown any more morbid since this all started. It felt like being his real self. 

He wasn’t sure who that was, anymore. Himself.

He’d stared into his reflection, that morning, desperately trying to bring some sort of energy through him. To see so much as a glimmer come through his eyes. Blue, purple, anything. He’d even take gold. He’d definitely take gold. It would never happen, but you can’t fault him for thinking about it. 

It didn’t work. And Stiles’ hands left no cracks in the marble countertop he clenched so tightly. 

He ended up sat on his couch, feet up, still in his pyjamas, at four o’clock the next afternoon. He hadn’t eaten all day, and he wasn’t sure if the stomachache was due to that, or the same stomachache he’d had since he heard the words start to flow from Theo’s mouth like molten rock. He’d had four canned G&Ts. They never really did anything, but the soft warmth of the alcohol was enough of a comfort. On an empty stomach, they almost did enough. But those purple-wrapped cans sat proudly on his coffee table, and the string of his plaid pyjama pants twirling between his fingers, and his old, hole-covered socks, and the too-big Batman t-shirt he kept smelling the collar of just to get a hint of Derek where mind-numbing company. 

He hadn’t come home. 

The faucet dripping a wall away sounded like Derek’s aggravated grumbles over it.

Stiles felt utterly pathetic. 

But then his intercom buzzer rang out. That ear-scraping, unignorable sound. He ran a hand through his unwashed hair, roughing it up just for a way to get the sudden burst of irritation out of his hands, and swung his legs off the couch. He crossed the room with a padding of feet, and slammed his thumb into the intercom button.

His voice was rough as he spoke, “Hello?”

“Stiles!” A soft voice came through, one that was always distorted by the intercom in that same fuzzy way, “It’s Allison. Erica’s here. Can we come up? We know it’s short notice.”

“More like no notice,” Stiles grumbled, “Of course, you can.”

He pressed the button to open the entrance, and let the intercom cut off. He unlocked the door from the inside, and moved back over to the couch. He sat right where he had before. Somehow, it felt far less comfortable. But he forced himself to sink into the cushions, and just… be.

It wasn’t long before the girls were slipping in through the door, closing it behind themselves and making their way across the room. Stiles frowned at the thuds of their feet.

“Shoes,” he said simply. 

There was quiet, and then there were zips unzipped, and boots dropped to the hardwood. He smiled a little to himself, and looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you,” he said, “What brings you lovely girls here?”

“You look like shit,” Erica said, freshly plucked brows high on her forehead. Stiles glanced at the wrinkles that face made, and shrugged. 

“I feel like shit.”

The girls exchanged a glance. 

Stiles squeezed his eyes shut as he turned his head straight again, “Please don’t be here with bad news.”

“With Theo here, is any news good?” Allison asked mildly. Stiles shook his head furiously, and there was no laugh as the girls came over to the couch. 

“You don’t like him?” He asked, tucking his feet into himself to make room. He opened his eyes again.

Allison was pulling a contemplative face, “I think he wants to steal my boyfriend.”

“It’s so fucking funny,” Erica chortled, “Scott doesn’t see it at all.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, “Really? Scott?” He tilted his head, “Theo’s gay?”

They both turned to him, blank-faced. Allison gave him a look and Erica burst out laughing.

“For a man with a boyfriend of however many years,” Allison said slowly, “you’re not really good at the whole gaydar thing.”

“I have perfect gaydar!” Stiles spat, “Theo’s just living a lie so much I’m pretty sure only God knows what he’s really into. Besides pain. I know he’s into pain.”

“What a guy,” Erica said dreamily, “I hope he rots.”

“You guys really don’t like him?” Stiles leant forward, “Like seriously?”

“He killed my boyfriend in another universe,” Allison drawled, “I will never like him.”

“Yeah,” Erica hissed, “He’s way too pathetic, too.”

“He’s not pathetic in the way he keeps acting like he is,” Stiles snarled, “His sob story’s all bullshit. He—” He ran his tongue over his teeth, “He told my dad about what happened to my mom.”

The girls fell silent for a moment. Stiles went back to playing with his drawstring.

“Oh, shit,” Allison said softly.

“What the fuck is his problem?” Erica spat, turning to Allison, sharp-eyed, “Actually? He tells the Sheriff about that, and then the bullshit from today? What is his issue with you, Stiles?”

“What bullshit from today?” 

The girls turned to him. They sighed together, so attuned to each other, the kind of friends who’d say the same exact thing with the same exact expression at the same exact moment, then react in the exact same way. Stiles mourned for the other versions of them, that never got to have this. They had nothing. They were nothing. Peaceful, he imagined it would be. Neither of them ever had to deal with Theo Raeken. 

Allison turned the phone in her lap upright as she brought it up to her face, tapping and swiping for just a moment before she held it out to him. He took it. Looking down at an email from the student address ‘[email protected]’. The contents were a link. The subject line read: ‘El Rojo De La Estrella’ .

“The fuck is this?” Stiles spat, looking up at them through his lashes.

“Just watch it,” Allison said softly, as Erica gritted her teeth beside her.

So Stiles clicked the link. It looked as dodgy as any link sent out via mass email – the ‘sent to: all’ at the top of the page wasn’t at all comforting – with no recognisable address. It wasn’t YouTube, that’s for sure. 

It took a second to load, but when it did, Stiles was glad he hadn’t eaten. He couldn’t throw up nothing. 

It was him. The camera quality was nothing to write home about, but he knew what he looked like. He remembered this happening. How the fuck could he not?

The camera clicked as it readjusted. It zoomed in, just a touch. Stiles could hear footsteps. He could hear heavy breathing. He watched his own chest rise and fall with the sound. His head was drooping, only the top of it, his sweat-soaked, grease-covered hair, outgrown and knotted. He was grabbing at his leg. 

That ricketty wooden chair. That dingy room. 

“So,” Araya’s voice came through. That accent. The pitch, the tone. It made Stiles flinch. Here, now. Not in the video. “It’s been a while since we last spoke.”

In the video, Stiles’ voice croaked back slowly, “How… long.”

A body stepped in front of the camera, the breathing filling the silence loud enough to not even call it that, until Araya answered, “Thirteen days.”

A few breaths later, Stiles’ voice asked, “Thirteen?”

“You don’t look your best,” Araya drawled, and her head tilted to the side, “I thought you’d be dead by now, especially since we stopped the food and water. So…” Her shoulders shrugged. Stiles watched the back of her blouse fold. “I suppose you’re not doing too bad.”

“Why am I here?”

Stiles didn’t recognise that voice, for a second. Thought it might have been someone else’s. That he’d been in there with another person and forgotten all about it. Most of that time had been blocked from his mind, he wouldn’t be shocked. But, no. Those hateful, growled words, the sound of spit behind the cracking of a dry throat. That was him.

Araya took a small step back, turned to the side.

“We’re looking for someone. And she just so happens to be looking for you.” She sounded as chipper as Stiles didn’t remember. “Why waste our energy when we could make her do it instead?”

Another heavy breath, “I’m the bait?”

A soft hum, “If that’s what you want to call it.”

“Who… Who’s looking?”

Araya stepped out of view of the camera. There was more clicking as the focus was readjusted. As it got used to the brighter light on Stiles that hadn’t shone on Araya. His eyes were squeezed shut, but his head wasn’t hanging so low. It took a while for him to lift his head properly, and to open his eyes. The dark circles almost swallowed them whole. The whites looked wholly unnatural. He stared straight into the camera. 

That stare. 

Stiles’ chest twisted with remorse.

The girls were saying something. Allison was reaching for the phone. Stiles pushed her hand away, and held it there. She squeezed his fingers.

“Who’s watching, you mean,” Araya’s voice chirped.

In the video, Stiles shook his head, “What?”

“Do you know how many teeth you have, Stiles?” Araya asked, as a clang sounded out. Stiles was perfectly still. Doing nothing but breathing. “The average adult has thirty-two. Really, less, considering how many get their wisdom teeth taken out. Have you?” Stiles just kept staring. 

He didn’t remember this part.

“Shall we find out together?” Araya asked. She laughed, a little, “Or, maybe not. Which hand would you say is your favourite, hm? Which one does your boyfriend like the best?”

Had she really said all this?

“Extremities can get a little boring, though,” she mused, “Too easy to fix. More fun to have permanently ruined, though. All those pretty scars you have. Giving you more might be nice. Maybe we could mark you. Brand you. I’m sure the wolves back home would react so sweetly to their darling Alpha coming home with the symbol of the Calavera worn proudly on his skin.” 

He really didn’t remember any of it. But his body did. His heart did.

It was petrified.

“Do you still have both kidneys, Rojito?” She asked, “We’ve been looking for one, recently. It might not be working so well after the last few weeks. I am so terribly sorry.” The pout in her voice was laughable. 

In the video, Stiles’ head slowly turned to the side. The shadows of his lashes fluttered downward, just the slightest bit. And Stiles remembered this part. 

He roared as the red burst out of him, as the chair shot out of view of the camera and so did Stiles, in a blur of blinding light. Stiles watched with an aching chest. That power. The glow. The things he missed so terribly, and hated to see more than fucking anything. It was just sound. It was clattering metal and the thudding of bodies. 

Araya’s voice spat, “Hijo de puta.” So faintly he almost didn’t catch it. 

There was quiet, and then footsteps. A sudden thud, a groan, and Stiles’ body slowly coming back into view. He stumbled. Limped, barely moving from that same spot, with his filthy suit torn and dusty. His arm was bleeding. He bent down, and rose back to his feet with that meat cleaver in his hands. He turned around. Painfully slow. Like everything he did took every ounce of energy. Like just standing up straight might kill him.

It had taken that much. 

Stiles knew it had. 

He remembered how it had.

His eyes were filled out red as they stared down into the camera. Small, angry sparks bit at his arms. Araya’s muttering was even less intelligible over this camera’s audio quality than it had been in real life. 

Stiles looked like walking death. 

He looked away from the camera as he lifted his other arm – as a flash of red light shot out of that palm so fast. Blinding.

And, slowly, with his face entirely blank, and his mouth the slightest bit open as he fought to catch his breath, he lifted the cleaver into the air. Stiles hadn’t realised how painstakingly slowly he did it. How it looked like he was savouring it. 

The arm fell down impossibly fast, and Stiles wished the blur of the blade flying toward the lens had hidden the look on his face. The red eyes. The bared teeth. The deadly stare.

All he needed was the glow carrying through his arms. The scar on his throat. Rain in his hair, not grease or sweat. To not have been starved for weeks. A ring, and a tattoo of Derek’s name at the nape of his neck. 

Even without it, he looked more like Him than even He ever had. He was what Stiles believed He was. This was the illusion the Other Stiles cast.

And that was him.

He was already here.

The video ended. Erica’s dark red nails slowly pulled the phone out of his limp hand. 

“Everyone saw that?” His voice asked, low and soft. He didn’t want to say weak. But not wanting to say something and it not being true were two very different things. 

“It’s okay,” Allison said softly, “I think it… It just shows how much you went through to get to us. To Derek, even.”

“I look like a serial killer,” Stiles spat, “I look like a monster.”

He did not say he looked like Him. They wouldn’t know what he meant, even if he wanted to admit it. 

“You look like you’ve been held hostage for two weeks,” Erica said plainly.

“Then why are you the only ones here,” Stiles drawled, “And not the people who don’t already like me.” He looked up, finally, to meet those sorry eyes. “Theo got what he wanted from this, too, didn’t he.”

“It’s not…” Allison tried.

“You should just talk to them,” Erica said, “And not spend every word going on and on about how you want to kill Theo Raeken. And maybe defend yourself for once.”

“I shouldn’t have to defend myself,” Stiles’ voice felt too dark, “I did enough of that in Mexico. And every damn second of the years leading up to it.”

“We know,” Allison said, so sincere, “But… the others don’t… exactly.”

“You haven’t been the most palatable guy lately,” Erica said plainly, “And it doesn’t help that we don’t feel any pull to submit to you anymore. Now the magic’s gone. And it’s not like he’s lying about you, which makes it worse for the others, I guess. He’s never exactly wrong about you. I say that with love.”

Stiles had nothing to say to that. To any of it. 

They kept going, Stiles noncommittally responding to whatever they were saying. He wasn’t actually listening. He was thinking about what he’d drink tonight. He was feeling like vodka. A vodka cranberry, or Redbull, or Coke. He needed something that tasted good, and that he could just keep drinking, and drinking, until he didn’t even remember who Theo Raeken was. Until he forgot how it felt to be so hungry, and so desperate, and so angry. 

He sat and pretended to listen for hours. 

Derek still never came home.

 

-

 

Six double vodka Cokes and about a billion dollars later, Stiles was sat in an alley behind a bar, with his phone lazily pressed to his ear. He was caught between loving the dumbness, and being helplessly irritated by the way his body wouldn’t do what he fucking wanted it to. He was sluggish, and uneven, and his arm just wanted to lay limp by his side, not hold a phone up. Too bad, arm. Stiles was in control today. Stiles! Stiles! Stiles! The crowd goes wild.

“Hello?” Peter’s voice came through the other line, a hundred miles away.

“Pete-e-er!!” Stiles slurred into the screen, sliding it out in front of him instead of to his ear, “Peter, oh, m–y God, I’ve missed you! So much.” He felt out of breath from just that.

Peter groaned, or Stiles thought he did. He couldn’t hear what he was saying.

“Where did you go?” Stiles murmured, leaning closer to the phone, “I c–an’t hear you. Am I hearing you-u from all the way in… away? No, that’s dumb.”

Stiles frowned at the screen, with the time slowly ticking up and Peter’s unconscious face in that contact photo. He looked over the buttons, and sniffled. Something bloomed in the back of his throat.

He groaned, a small sound, “I think I’m gonna puke.”

“Please for the love of God throw up!!” Peter’s voice was loud enough to hear now, only barely, “Throw up right now!!”

“I don’t listen to you,” Stiles muttered back, snorting to himself as he glared down at the blurry buttons and felt the nausea get worse. And worse. Why did he call Peter? He pressed the speaker button, and flinched as his voice cut through the air so loudly.

“Where are you?” Peter snapped, “Where is Derek? Call Derek!”

“Derek won’t come,” Stiles said slowly. His breathing hitched. He felt his eyes begin to water, and the frustration and anger and disappointment hit him tenfold. He sucked in a shallow breath, “Peter, please come home.” He wiped at his eyes, and felt the tears kept building and building, until they started to fall, “Why the f–uck am I crying? This is so pathetic.” His body folded forward as he said it, letting the alcohol drag him to the filthy floor as he clutched the phone in his hands as tightly as he could. “Peter, come get me.”

“Stiles, I’m five thousand miles away,” Peter hissed, “I can’t come get you! You need to call an Uber, or a taxi, or a friend, or something, Stiles, you need to get yourself home. I’m calling Derek—”

“Don’t call Derek,” Stiles shook his head, hair scratching against the ground, “He won’t… Don’t make him see me like this when he already hates me.”

“He doesn’t hate you, Stiles,” Peter tried, “What the hell is going on? What happened??”

“He came back,” Stiles croaked, “He came back and he… He’s… If you killed him, nobody would care. Please, kill him. Please.”

“Kill who?! ”

“The Other Stiles,” his throat burned, and his body felt like it was floating. His head was spinning.

The call went quiet for a moment. Stiles blinked glassy eyes open to stare at the screen. Still lit up. Still going.

“He came back?” Peter’s voice was soft, “When?”

“No,” Stiles cried, “He’s not… He’s gone.” He nodded against the floor, “He’s gone. They took the magic. He’s gone. I can’t be… I can’t be him anymore.”

“Stiles, you need to tell me what is happening.”

“The-e-o,” Stiles almost sang, still sniffling, still speaking through laboured breaths, “Theo told my dad. About the fire. And he… They recorded me… In Mexico.”

“Stiles…”

“He showed…” Stiles took in a steady breath, “He showed them all. And I… I’m a bad, bad person. Dad. Just come get me.”

“Stiles,” Peter’s voice was steadier than Stiles could even imagine his own being, “I’m texting Allison. Can I send Allison?”

“I guess,” Stiles hissed, “But, f–uck, I’ll just… I’ll do something to make her hate me, too. You—” He sat up too fast, gasping, head spinning so sharply, the nausea lurching at his stomach. He swallowed down the gag. “You need to come. You need to get the claws. The Belasko’s. They took the… I’m not the Alpha anymore, Peter. I’m nothing. I can’t… I can’t… I don’t know where the grimoire is. I don’t know what to do, Peter.” He sniffled again, and his vision was almost turning back, his words more slurred by the minute, “Come get me. Please.”

“Stiles, I will fly out first thing tomorrow,” Peter said swiftly, and Stiles stopped listening.

“Okay,” he hiccupped, “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Peter was shouting something about an address when Stiles hung up the call. He brought a shaking hand up to cover his mouth. He should throw up. He knew he should. It would sober him up, at least a little. But he just couldn’t. He didn’t want to. 

It was all flickering away. His vision, all sensation in his body. The cold air was doing nothing. 

Stiles blinked, and fifteen minutes had passed. 

Maybe he could spend the whole night right there. That would be a new low. Sleeping in an alley behind a bar, out of his mind vodka-drunk, and not even having fun. He drank alone, he’d sleep alone, and he’d wake up alone. 

Something grabbed at his arm, a groan slipping from his mouth as he shook his head, “F–uck off. Just leave me alone.”

“Get up, Stiles,” a voice snarled back through the fog, “You look pathetic.”

“Hey, that’s what I said!” Stiles grinned, slowly blinking his eyes open to squint up through the darkness at whoever was grabbing him, “Who the hell are you?”

He couldn’t see straight, but he could tell it was a man, “Just get up.”

“Whoever you are, I think we’d really get along,” Stiles slurred, letting the guy yank him up to his feet and swaying where he stood as he refused to let him rest his weight on his shoulder, “Great minds think alike. How d’you kn–ow my name?”

“God, you’re the most insufferable alcoholic I’ve ever met.”

“I’m not an alcoholic,” Stiles spat. He swung his hands up to grab at the man’s face, dragging him into focus – he was shorter than Stiles, so the man had to bend down to see him properly. He blinked at the face before him. Slowly. “Theo?”

The chimera snatched his hands away, “Keep walking, Stiles.”

“Why are you here?” Stiles snarled, stumbling over his own feet, too weak to fight back against the hands dragging him down the alley, “S–low down, I’m gonna chuck.”

“God, you’re impossible. Just hold it in.”

“I’m g’na throw up on your face, Tedster,” a cackle slipped out of him, putting too much pressure on his stomach and making him stop and crouch down. Theo’s hands were still pulling, trying to force him to his feet. Until they stopped. Stiles hummed, and dropped to sit down, then lie down. He curled up into a ball and nuzzled his cheek against whatever gravelly surface he was on, “I’m gonna go to slee-e-ep now. G’night, Theo.”

“Sure,” Theo’s distant voice said slowly, “You do that.”

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t remember falling asleep. He didn’t remember much of anything after his fifth drink, actually. But he must have gone to sleep at some point. Because he’d just woken up again.

It was the dripping that woke him. The tap, tap, tap of something. Like the leaky faucet of his apartment. Faster, though. The faucet would drip, then do nothing for a solid minute, then drip again. It was almost worse than this incessant sound. 

He still felt like he was seconds away from vomiting. ‘Still’. He didn’t remember when it started. Part of him almost felt like he’d been sick since the day he was born. 

His eyelids were nearly too heavy to open. He forced them to. It took just a second of vision to understand exactly what was happening. Where he was. 

He knew this place.

He knew that metal surgery table. He knew those tubes and wires and that freakish vat of glowing green liquid, and the body floating inside. He knew the pipes. He knew the stench of death and disease and bodily fluids. He knew the whirring of a fan, somewhere nearby. He knew the pattern of Theo Raeken’s footsteps as he walked over to him. He knew the ache of having his wrists tied above his head. 

“Seriously?” He snarled, though his voice was too weak to pack any punch, “Kidnapping me? That’s what we’re doing now?”

“Well,” Theo drawled back, stepping into sight with a beige file open in his hands and an indifferent brow,  “I was gonna drop you home and play the hero while everyone saw you stumbling around and swiftly lost any faith they had left in you, but… That wouldn’t get me any one-on-one time with you. And I’ve got some questions.”

“You have questions?” Stiles hissed, baring his teeth, “How’s this for a question? When, exactly, do you give up and decide to go rot in a hole??”

“That…” Theo blinked, stunned, “Wow! Wow, that was…” He shook his head, and huffed out a laugh, “That was the best joke I think you’ve ever told.” He stared up at Stiles with the blankest eyes he’d ever seen – no life, no care. Nothing. A void. 

Stiles barely registered the building of saliva in his mouth before he spat it out. Theo blinked. His brows quirked up, and he slowly brought a hand up to wipe the spit from his face. A small smile bloomed on his lips. 

“Cute,” Theo nodded, “Did you get it all out? You done now?”

“You…” Stiles’ chest was burning with that rage, brighter than it had with anyone else. Nobody did this to him. Nobody. “You aren’t something because you’re doing this, Theo. It’s pathetic. You’re so unlikeable that you had to steal what’s mine, like some petulant brat on a playground.”

Theo’s smile widened, “Stiles. You did this all to yourself, you know that?” He dropped the file onto the table behind him as he leant against it, lacing his fingers together in front of him, “You killed your mom. You didn’t tell your father. You have ran around coating your hands in blood relentlessly and uselessly this whole time, you think I’m the evil one for opening their eyes?” 

Stiles’ mouth stayed firmly shut.

Theo took a small step forward, shrugging his shoulders and shaking his head, “You’re a person people are better off without.”

The words struck hard, and deep. The claws of them dug in and twisted; mangled him relentlessly. It wasn’t fair. It wasn’t true. 

Of course, it was.

“That’s not on me.” 

The smile in Theo’s eyes made Stiles want to rip them straight from his skull.

“And, as for your pack,” Theo scoffed, so pompous and proud, “None of them like you. Allison and Erica are tougher cookies to crack, you’ve got them good, but the others? The Hale sisters? They hate you. Laura’s a little nicer, but still. After everything you’ve put Derek through? Lydia would sell you for a headband. Kira and Malia barely know you and aren’t all that fond. Isaac is terrified of you, and Boyd wouldn’t care if you fell into incoming traffic.” He tilted his head, “How ungrateful of them, right? You gave them a family, and this is how they treat you?”

“This isn’t gonna work, Theo,” Stiles muttered, his voice barely above a whisper, “You can’t get in my head.”

And Theo’s smile only grew, “Oh, Stiles. Sweet little Mischief.”

The ice in his veins was burning him as much as the fire in his heart. It was cruelty. 

“I already have,” Theo said simply. His eyes flitted away, then came back so softly, “I just can’t believe you honestly thought they liked you. Ever. Any of them. I mean, come on. You have to know that Derek’s only with you because he’s scared to be alone. Not because he wants you. Right?” 

How was Stiles letting this happen? How had this… How…

Theo’s brows rose, “You seriously haven’t realised that? God. You’re even dumber than I thought. How you stayed the Alpha so long is beyond me.” 

“Stop,” Stiles tried, “Just stop.”

“Stiles—”

“I’ll beg,” he said. Theo paused. Stiles swallowed, “I swear to God, Theo. I’ll beg, if that’s what you want. Just… stop.”

Theo’s grin came back tenfold, “As much as I would love to see that. And I really would. No.” He shook his head, “That’s not what I want. What I want,” he said slowly, turning back to that file, “is for you to tell me how to bring her back.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, “What? Who?”

“My sister,” Theo said, his voice dark and the smile wiped from his face, “How do I bring her back?”

“You…” Stiles shook his head, his wrists beginning to ache, “You can’t.”

“Sure, I can,” Theo drawled, “You brought Laura back. Your mom brought Peter back. So, I can bring Tara back.”

Stiles shook his head the whole way through it, and kept going, “Theo. She’s been dead for a decade. You took her heart.” He blinked furiously, “My mom couldn’t even bring me back from a gunshot to the head, you think you can bring back a fully decomposed body without one of the two organs it needs the most??”

Theo stared at him for a while. His jaw tightened. His eyes flared, only slightly. 

“How do you know all this?” Stiles whispered, “How the fuck…” He glared down at that file, “My mom, Laura… How do you… The only people who knew how it happened were Derek and Peter.”

Theo shrugged, “They weren’t the only ones.”

Stiles blinked, “Who? Who told you??”

“No one had to tell me,” Theo said as if it were obvious, “Your darling doctor doesn’t lock her windows. And she writes everything down.”

He opened the file again. Stiles almost laughed. 

“Are you fucking kidding?” He spat, “You stole my therapy notes?”

“Well, they’re a good read,” Theo replied mildly, “‘Mild to severe childhood trauma’, ‘refuses to acknowledge drinking habits’, ‘dependence on partner leading to self-destructive tendencies’.” His brows rose, “‘Suicidal ideation’. ‘Does not recognise excessive drinking as self-harm, claims to never have done what he perceives as self-harm,’ parentheses, ‘cutting, burning, etc. Visible scars say otherwise.’ ” He turned his gaze up to meet Stiles’, “Well, that’s unhealthy.”

“That’s none of your business, Theo,” he forced out. 

Theo’s smile slowly came back as he looked back down, reading still, “‘Patient’s continuous trauma and stress over the years has led to a multitude of problems. Suspected manic-depressive episodes, nightmares, and unhealthy attachment styles. The nature of Stiles’ all-or-nothing relationships may be cause for concern. Consult specialist. BPD unlikely, but due to the complicated nature of his past, ruling it out is not something I can do with confidence. An eventual assessment for Bipolar 2 is recommended. With supernatural patients, it is important to remember how extreme circumstances can result in similar symptoms to psychological disorders, but not necessarily warrant diagnosis. Need to see Stiles in a steadier place to be sure. Patient is open to talking about most things, but will not discuss his childhood beyond empty jokes. Needs more time to break down those walls.’ ” Theo quirked his head, “Shocker.” 

“Theo.”

“Hang on, this is my favourite part,” Theo smiled, “‘Stiles lacks any real identity. His sense of self is built around the people in his life, and his place in theirs. He describes his pack as ‘the only thing keeping him alive’, and I worry for his safety if anything were to happen. Need to work on life-building. Will suggest picking up knitting next session.’ ” Theo held up a finger, “And it gets better,” he grinned wider, “‘All details align with Derek Hale’s own concerns shared throughout his sessions. I would suggest bringing the relationship to a close, if I weren’t sure that Stiles would hurt himself and possibly others if they did. Consider referral to an out-of-state inpatient facility part-time.’ ” And Theo damn near laughed, “Now, that’s rough. Out-of-state, too?” He shook his head, hissed through his teeth, “She really wants you gone.”

“That’s not…” Stiles shook his head, “You’re lying.”

“Am I?” Theo’s eyes dragged back up to him, “How could I be? There’s absolutely no chance your spell didn’t work. After all, you’re so, so powerful, Stiles.” 

He just wanted to go back to sleep. “Just stop, Theo.”

“Alright,” he held his hands up, one still holding the file, and ducked his head, “I’ll stop. But it won’t bring your pack back.” 

He just wanted to rest.

“So,” Theo said slowly, “How about we make a deal?”

“I don’t care. What.”

“Show me how to save her,” Theo said. Stiles met his eyes, so tired. So done. And Theo looked ready to kill, “And I get everyone to love you again.”

“I thought they never did,” Stiles said lowly, “Or can you still not get your stories straight?”

Theo laughed a bitter laugh, “Stiles. You’re gonna show me how to do whatever you did. Even if I’ve gotta go back in time to do it. You’re helping me save her. You don’t have a choice.”

“Well, then, I’m screwed,” Stiles said plainly, “And so are you. And Tara. ‘Cause that’s not how that works.”

“How is it not how it works?” Theo growled, “You did it! Your mom was meant to be dead in your place, wasn’t she? But you went back, and she lived.”

“Theo,” Stiles wanted to do something drastic, “I’m telling you the truth. Going back won’t fix anything. Your Tara will always be dead. Just like my mom is.” Theo just stared. And Stiles was so happy that he finally shut up. “If you even could go back. You won’t save her. You’ll start a new timeline, at best, and the version of you from that place will be the one whose sister lives.”

“I’d kill him and take his place,” Theo spat, “It wouldn’t be hard. Just scare him, and his heart would stop.”

“Theo,” Stiles shook his head, “She’s gone. And there’s no telling what would happen if you changed that. Who knows who would die so the universe could balance itself? It’s not… It’s not that simple.”

“Then I’ll make it that simple,” Theo snarled, slamming the file down on the table as he stormed away, moving over to a dingy old desk, dark, rotting wood, yanking a drawer open and pulling something out. The ground splashed beneath his feet. Stiles was sure none of the liquid beneath them was just water. It was blood. It was mucus. It was sewage. 

Walking back, he was holding the grimoire. 

Of course, he was. 

Sitles’ throat was closing up. He forced the burn away from his eyes. He forced them dry. 

He hated Theo Raeken. And he couldn’t even blame him anymore. The truth was worse than any lies he could’ve told. And what did that say about Stiles?

“You idiot,” Stiles hissed, “You can’t… Theo. It’s not gonna work.”

“We’ll see,” Theo said lowly. He opened the book, and held it as gracefully and intentionally as he did everything. Easily keeping in the stray pages Stiles dropped every time. Turning through them as if it were practised. He did everything with such ease. Stiles almost wanted it to work. To see who Theo could have been if none of this had happened. Who both of them could be. 

It would never happen. Stiles was already exactly who he was. There was no undoing it.

He watched Theo’s eyes run over the pages. He watched him turn his back to him, and start to mutter to himself. And Stiles didn’t stop him. He didn’t speak, he didn’t move. He couldn’t move, anyway. There was nothing in him. No fight. No bark, no bite. 

He was sick of this place. 

This town. 

He wanted to go home. 

He could hear Theo growing increasingly frustrated. It wasn’t working. Stiles wasn’t surprised. Magic wasn’t an easy thing to pick up. Even if Theo had a spark, he wouldn’t be time-travelling overnight. Stiles had been the most powerful person he knew, and even he barely knew how to do it properly. Theo didn’t stand a chance. Theo had no power. 

Stiles could do nothing but pray that he didn’t find Stiles’.

Really, though. What difference would it make? His pack would still be gone from him. Theo wouldn’t be here anymore, if he got what he wanted. It was almost a win-win situation. Everything in Stiles besides his mind was fighting back against that idea, pleaing for him to just do something. To stop him.

He didn’t.

He let it happen.

He closed his eyes, and he went away.

It wasn’t giving up. It was giving in. 

 

-

 

Stiles was woken up by his phone ringing. It buzzed endlessly in his pocket, the sound assaulting his ears so sharply and, fuck, he must’ve still been drunk that whole time ‘cause the aftermath was only just starting to hit. He couldn’t be hungover in a fucking sewer. That was too much, even for him. 

It must have been years before the ringing stopped, and splashing footsteps took over. Stiles blinked his eyes open, staring out into the empty room. No Theo. No Files. No grimoire.

Had he done it?

“Stiles!!” Allison’s voice called out. Allison?

Something of a question slipped out of him, watching as she skidded to a stop in the doorway – the opening – on the left side of the room. Her wide eyes ran over him, and the room, and she tightened her square jaw. She nocked an arrow into her bow, and nodded.

“Hold still,” she said, as she swiftly lifted that bow, aimed, and fired.

Stiles flinched at the sound of metal hitting metal, feeling his arms fall, and his knees give out. He swore as he tried to catch himself, rubbing fruitlessly at his burning wrists and hissing through the ache in his shoulders.

“What happened??” Allison cried, the ground splashing as she rushed over to him, “Stiles, what… Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” he spat, “Why are you here? How are you here?”

“Peter called me,” she said, “It was… a weird thing to wake up to. I had to trace your phone’s GPS to find you and figuring out you were under me wasn’t exactly obvious. Are you okay? How did you end up here?” She turned away, looking around, “Where is here?”

Stiles just watched the scrunch of her brows, and the darting of her brown eyes. And he shook his head.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I had too much. It’s fine.”

Allison swallowed, “Are you sure?” She looked over at the vat of something – the one with the man inside, and she frowned, “What is that?”

“I don’t know,” Stiles shook his head, truthful, “It doesn’t matter.”

Allison watched him for a moment, then nodded, “We’ll talk about it in the morning, how about that? Let’s get you home. And get you some food, and water, and a cold shower—”

“I’m not going home.”

She blinked, “What do you mean?”

Stiles took her hovering, concerned hand, and smiled, “Thank you for being on my side, Allison. I really don’t deserve it.”

Her brows bunched up even tighter, “Stiles, what are you—”

“I’m done,” Stiles said simply, “I’m leaving.”

“Leaving… what?” Allison shook her head, “Leaving town?”

Stiles just smiled. The fact that she’d come for him. That Peter had gotten him help. That was nice. But Stiles didn’t deserve nice. Stiles had pierced Allison through the stomach with a blade not only once. He’d snapped Peter’s neck, burned him alive, tried to stab him through the heart with a chunk of his own burning home. 

And, all the while, he’d made Derek watch.

He’d let him forgive him.

Not this time.

“Where are you gonna go?” Allison asked softly. 

Stiles blinked down at her. He let her hand go. He shook his head.

“Stiles,” she said swiftly, “if something happens, I need to know where you are. I can’t just be here worrying about you. If you need to do something good, then tell me where you’re going.”

“You won’t like it.”

“Then you really have to tell me.”

Stiles ground his teeth, only for a second, then said, as dry as his throat, as empty as his chest, “I was thinking Mexico City.”

Notes:

oh thats my opp fr theo WATCH ur back but omgggg the fic description is finally not just some sort of a hallucination omg omg it’s REAL!!! Theo’s diabolical reads r CANON

I bring a certain 'has never stepped foot in mexico & does not speak a word of spanish' energy to insisting on sending stiles to mexico that people expecting accuracy and detail don't really like (but also... this fic is set in america. where i have also never stepped foot. so. heyo!!!)

Chapter 24: Cuando el Gato Duerme, Bailan los Ratons

Summary:

Magic isn't for everyone.

Notes:

no waayyayayay.

the first chapter to have no stiles at all. there will only be one other like it. im freaking Out.

Theo hadn’t gotten it right. He hadn’t succeeded. He hadn’t even been able to heal the damn wound left over from dragging that scalpel across the forearm of Hayden’s unconscious body on that surgery table. This grimoire was fucking useless. And, if Stiles were still around, he would’ve called Theo just that. 

He wouldn’t take it. 

It was just a matter of perseverance. And if Theo Raeken could spend this many years with the Doctors, then he could wait until this book started doing its job.

It was a mess. Disorganised, heavy, nothing was taped down; it seemed to be falling apart at the seams. How Stiles ever got any use out of it was beyond him. That man was an enigma. He should’ve killed himself years ago. Theo sure as hell would’ve if he were him. That being said, Theo Raeken didn’t believe in hell. Or heaven. Or god. Or belief. 

And it was the most unfortunate thing that Theo Raeken would never realise that belief was half of the deal – that power only got you so far, that a man whose only religion was science would never be able to have enough faith in magic to use it. 

No one would tell him, either, that any spark he may have had was left to rot in the heart torn from his chest.

So, Theo was left to curse at Hayden’s unconscious body until the wound healed itself. The Doctors droned something about how her  ‘condition improves’, and Theo blocked it all out with bared teeth and claws piercing through his palms. 

He was not under any illusion that he was a good person. That he was better than Stiles. Saving his sister was no less selfish than killing her. He wasn’t trying to be better. Far from it. That would be a waste of time – trying to fix whatever was broken about him, for what? To open himself up, to trust again, and have his heart torn out some other way? Yeah. Nah. 

Theo wasn’t a pack animal. He just needed the power. And it was funny, almost, how Stiles had him down so well. Theo wished he could see that other timeline; see Stiles’ memories. Whatever he did to them, there. It must’ve been good. But this place was enough. Watching the light slowly leave Stiles’ eyes with every word from his mouth. Seeing the exact moment he snapped. It was finding out how Derek really felt. How much he’d hurt him. Even without specifics, that had broken him. And wasn’t it glorious?

The fondness of that memory didn’t sweeten the frustration, however. 

Theo Raeken could not use magic.

And he was about to straight-up kill somebody.

“You promised me,” he snarled to the Doctors one night, running on twenty minutes of sleep and a half-pack of Redbull, ignored by their twitching flickers and resolute focus, “that I would get what I wanted. This—” He slammed that piece of shit book onto the table and watched the loose pages spin out, “—isn’t that.” 

They didn’t even look at him.

He got nothing back.

“Are you gonna do it yourselves?!” He shouted, “If you can make supernatural creatures with your experiments, surely you can do magic! There has to be a frequency that can get me to her– You people have to be useful for something!!”

The Surgeon was in front of him with a shrill buzz. The chittering of its super-Earthly state, whatever the fuck it was, made Theo’s skin crawl at the best of times.

“Your want,” it said, as plainly as it always did – less of a voice and more of a noise, piercing straight through to Theo’s fucking brain stem, “is not our concern.”

Theo ran his lips over each other, “You promised it to me.”

“When our mission is complete,” it said, “you will get what you want.”

“Yeah, well, last time I asked it was ‘When we get to Beacon Hills’!” Theo boomed, stepping forward, “How should I believe you’ll keep your word?!”

A hand moved, and Theo flinched back. The embarrassment hit the second he realised he had. 

“Perigee Syzygy.”

“The Supermoon isn’t for another month,” Theo spat, “You expect me to wait?”

“We didn’t create something impatient,” the Surgeon said slowly, as it turned around, “We will not help something like that.”

Theo scoffed, stumbling back now that the piercing stare of those obscured eyes was lifted from him. He waited until the Surgeon was back with the others before he moved to round up those pages and shove them back inside the book. He turned on his heel and he left. 

He had to be right. Didn’t he? They could teleport, they could alter memories, they could change the very fabric of reality. They had to be able to alter time. There was no way that Stiles Stilinski was stronger than the Dread Doctors. Or whatever power the Belasko had taken was, anyway. 

He needed that power. 

He needed it bad.

 

-

 

All Peter Hale knew about Theo Raeken was that he liked Void Stiles, and Scott McCall once sent him to Hell. Both things had been points Stiles made to draw comparisons between them, and maybe that was the most damning of it all. Because having anything in common with Peter Hale was rarely a compliment. And he should know. 

Something was wrong with the pack. He didn’t need the heads up to see that. 

Erica and Allison looked about ready to choke someone out, for a start. Specifically, the short boy with the perfectly plucked brows and the neatly styled (albeit unflattering) hair. They all looked at him with pity, with apprehension. But they’d let him into Peter’s home. And it took him a second to realise who, exactly, the boy staring straight through his soul was. And why his heart sounded so wrong.

“Peter!” Allison called out the second she saw him, running over and coming to a sudden halt as she did, looking around his shoulder, “Dad?” Her brows seemed to frown, somehow, “I thought you weren’t coming back from Canada for, like, a month?”

Right.

Peter glanced back over his shoulder, meeting the faint glance from Chris as the hunter shook his head, “I heard it didn’t look good down here. You should’ve called me.”

“Your work sounded important,” Allison shook her head, “I didn’t want you to worry.”

Chris huffed, “Not that important.”

And Peter swallowed down the rebuttal. Sure. It hadn’t been that important. But it also hadn’t been Canada. Or work. Unless you counted the calories Chris Argent had burned all the nights they spent in their hotel room in Fiji as the outcome of a workout, then, well. They could agree to disagree.

“Yes, yes, it’s great to see the both of us,” Peter’s gaze kept falling on that kid, “I hear tell of many horrible things. Where is Stiles?”

Allison’s cheeks slowly pinked. She took a small step backward, and just slightly shook her head. Peter felt a brow rise on his forehead. The room fell awfully quiet. Something angry, verging on fearful, began to bloom in his chest.

Peter’s mouth clicked as it opened, “What is that supposed to mean?”

“He’s fine,” Allison said firmly.

“She won’t tell any of us where he is,” Derek said lowly from where he sat, leant against the arm of the couch, arms crossed and cheeks sunken. There were dark circles beneath his eyes. Peter had a feeling nothing about his evolution had gotten any better since they last saw each other.

“Yeah, well, I’m not just anyone,” Peter snapped, “Allison, I sent you after him because I trusted you to get him home. So, unless he’s dead, you’re gonna tell me where he is.”

Allison just swallowed. She shook her head again.

“Who are you?” That kid spoke. Peter turned to him without a thought. 

“Our uncle,” Cora answered, “Peter.”

“Stiles’ Peter?” The kid asked. The look of curiosity, of entertainment, on his face was something interesting. He smelled like deceit. Something about his heart wouldn’t get out of Peter’s head. 

“The one and only,” Derek said slowly. 

“The fuck happened to you?” Peter snapped, turning to his nephew and watching his eyes drag upward. 

Derek just shrugged, and gave him a look so dark it felt like he’d been dragged back centuries, to a time where Derek would happily take a blowtorch to his skin, or give him up to a pack of Alphas if given the chance, as he said, “It’s not been a particularly fun few weeks.”

He didn’t look toward the kid, but the generalised stiffness of everyone around him was clear enough. As was the way his right eye twitched upward. Satisfaction. That was the moment when the penny dropped.

“You’re Theo,” he said, watching the kid’s eyes snap back to him, “aren’t you?”

The kid almost smiled, “What, has every single person in this town heard about me?”

“No,” Peter said fast enough, feeling his head tilt, “Just the important ones.”

He could’ve killed him, right then and there. He should’ve, probably. Stiles had asked him to and, even if he hadn’t, the smug little self-righteous look in his eyes could’ve compelled him all on its own. But Peter Hale was a beacon of self-control. An absolute icon. An emblem. A symbol of it. So he smiled, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“So, what’s all this I’ve heard is happening in town in my absence?” He stepped deeper into the room, glancing over the familiar, youthful faces, “I’m gone all of five seconds and the place falls apart.”

“You don’t remember this?” Laura asked, “I thought you were… like Stiles.”

“Well,” Peter said tersely, “If you must know, this time two timelines ago, I was a happy resident of Eichen. So. No. I was not in the loop for… whatever this is. I know Malia, at least, ended up there at some point. During the blackout in which I escaped. Is that helpful?”

“No,” several people answered. 

Theo’s eyes were practically glowing. 

And Peter shrugged, “Well then. Start talking.”

 

-

 

Something was wrong with all of them. But Derek looked like he was seconds away from dropping dead. And Peter had already heard enough about him from Stiles to know that something was truly wrong. 

He didn’t get a moment alone with him until late that evening, after putting the pin into the box out front of their apartment building and letting himself in. His knock on the two of them’s door was answered quickly enough. The smell of chicken soup almost smothered the stench of pure angst. Almost. 

Peter just arched a brow, and Derek stepped out of his way. 

He could smell Stiles in the air, and sadness, and terror. Real, true fear. The kind that left you with chipped teeth and torn nailbeds. 

“You’re lucky your senses are so weak,” Peter drawled, “It’s not pretty in here.” He turned to his nephew, and met that silent, tired stare, “What did you do? Why does Stiles think you hate him?”

Derek’s brows flitted upward, and his eyes softened, “What? I… I don’t hate him.”

His heart was steady. As tired as his eyes. 

“You talked to him?” He asked weakly, “When?”

“Last night,” Peter answered, “This morning, technically.”

“He was here this morning?”

Peter watched him for a moment, then. The sorry look in his eyes. The exhaustion. The weight of the air, the darkness of it all. He’d never seen Derek quite like this. And he didn’t know exactly where to go from here.

“He was wasted,” Peter said. Derek’s jaw tightened, and his eyes flickered away. “And I told him to call you to pick him up, despite him begging me to, because I was in Fiji, and he told me you couldn’t see him like that, and that you already hated him.”

Derek shook his head, “I don’t—”

“It doesn’t matter if you do, Derek,” Peter said firmly. The man’s eyes flitted back to his. “You need to tell me what, exactly, led to him sobbing into the phone, drunk out of his mind and begging me to kill him.”

Derek’s sigh was so heavy, his hands coming up to cover his face, shaking his head back and forth, “Fuck. I should’ve been there. I should’ve come home.”

“Well, why didn’t you?”

“Because—” Derek pulled his hands away, lips pressed into a thin line as his eyes glared off into the middle distance, “Because he’s going to kill me.”

Peter rolled his eyes, “God, all the kid needs is a hug and some positive affirmations, it can’t be that hard—”

“No. Peter,” Derek’s hands curled into fists, “I mean Lydia predicted my death, and it’s Stiles who kills me.”

And that did catch Peter off guard. It didn’t surprise him, necessarily, that Stiles might kill him. Stiles and killing were good friends, anyway, but it was just… Derek. Stiles nearly killed himself every time he so much as hurt the guy, and he never hurt him physically. His mental state was almost directly linked to Derek’s; it was a concerningly symbiotic relationship, and Peter tried to stay as far out of it as possible. But, right now, it seemed like he didn’t have a choice.

“Are you sure?” He asked. 

And Derek’s eyes were dark, again, “I can show you.”

 

-

 

Peter Hale was not an art connoisseur. But even he knew something was off about that painting. 

His messages to Stiles had gone unanswered, his calls ignored. He’d given up fast enough. He knew when he wasn’t wanted. But, by god, did he hate it. He needed that kid to be okay. Like he needed money, and attention, and food and water. The latter really being more on the unimportant side. Peter couldn’t just sit by and watch Stiles destroy himself. He couldn’t watch the rest of them let this happen.

“You really believe this?” He asked, eyes tracing over the thick acrylic, light catching the ridges and bumps and casting bright. 

“Lydia doesn’t tend to get things wrong,” Derek’s empty voice answered.

In the painting, Stiles held a sword in his hands. Kira’s, Peter was pretty sure. He recognised the ridges that allowed it to fold into a belt. Surely, that did nothing good for her belt loops. He couldn’t imagine sitting down with blades wrapped around your stomach willingly. In the painting, Stiles held her sword, and he stared down at Derek’s lifeless body with no whites to his eyes. 

It was all blue. 

Peter’s eyes caught the glow of the patterns across his arms, above everything else. They caught the storm clouds in the distance, so dark and so angry. 

“I must say, her use of pathetic fallacy is quite powerful.”

“Peter,” Derek growled.

Stiles had to get the grimoire back, somehow, for this to happen. 

And it had to return to his skin without Claudia. 

Peter felt his head tilt to one side, a habit he tried his best to fight. It made him feel too much like a dumb animal. Like he was doing something cute.

“You say Lydia doesn’t tend to be wrong, but she was,” Peter said simply.

“What do you mean?”

“Her original story was that you would die in a fire,” Peter shrugged, “I don’t buy whatever this is. It wouldn’t sell for much, anyway. It’s contemporary slop.”

“Yeah, well, Lydia’s a Senior who barely draws outside of her AP art classes,” Derek’s voice had too much bite to it for a conversation about painting, “She’s not Picasso.”

Peter turned to him, “Nor is she Apollo. The girl does not have the gift of prophecy.” He stepped forward, as Derek’s eyes darkened, “She warns of death, and that has nothing to do with how permanent the event is. You can choose to die whenever you want and finish the process yourself, you know.”

“Are you telling me to kill myself?”

“No,” Peter snapped, “I’m making a point.”

Derek glared for a moment, narrow-eyed and just reeking of exhaustion, until his brows furrowed and he asked, “What do you mean she said I’d die in a fire?”

Peter shrugged, “How should I know? She’s the one with the perfectly accurate visions, is she not?” He watched the gears slowly turn in Derek’s silly little head, and the second-hand rage for Stiles sparked alight again, “What happened to the Derek who’d turn this town on its head looking for Stiles right now? I was gone for barely three weeks. You can’t have changed that much.”

“I have been saving him,” Derek said, slowly, intentionally, though his eyes snapped away from Peter’s and never quite met them again, “for years. Every time he gets worse, it’s on me to be the crutch for him to lean on, and I’m… I’m tired, Peter. He’s an adult. He can save himself for once. And if leaving him to figure it out alone means he runs away, then,” the wolf shrugged, “That’s his choice.”

And if that wasn’t the dumbest, most un-Hale-like thing Peter had ever heard. And he was the worst of them. 

“What has gotten into you?” He snapped. Derek’s eyes met his, then. He raised a brow. Like a petulant child. Peter stepped forward, tilting his neck down as far as he could, “I don’t need to remind you of the relationship you two have. Have you forgotten every time he’s saved you? It’s not a one-sided thing, Derek,” he spat, “if you’re going to marry him, you’re going to have to be there for better or for worse. It’s literally the absolute basics!”

Derek just sighed, “You don’t get it.”

“No, I don’t!” Peter cried, “That kid is the best thing that ever happened to you, and you’re letting him run off to who knows where, probably getting himself into all sorts of trouble he can’t heal or protect himself from—” He shook his head. This was ridiculous. “Talia raised you better than this.” 

Derek’s brows slowly rose. Any hesitation melted from his glare. 

“And I am getting quite sick of parenting you both—”

“You’re not my dad, Peter,” Derek spat. The venom in his voice was chillingly familiar. “My dad is dead. And so is Mom. And you didn’t raise me for a single second. Alright?”

Peter’s jaw tightened as the words settled in his chest. 

Whatever.

“Are you going to push everyone away,” Peter asked slowly, “or is there a limit to how alone you’re willing to make yourself?”

“I’m not alone,” Derek snapped, turning on his heel and storming away, feet thudding against carpet as he shook his head, “Everything would’ve been so much easier if you never came back into my life in the first place.”

And Peter let him go. 

It always hurt when Derek treated him this way. Peter was not so unaware as to tell himself it didn’t. But Derek always got over it, whether he wanted to or not. And Peter deserved it, anyway. He’d resigned himself to the fact, a long time ago. It wasn’t necessarily his fault, what happened to Laura. But he did it. And Derek had to carry her bifurcated body back to the charred remains of their home and bury her himself. It happened. And actions have consequences.

Whatever Stiles had done to deserve it, though, Peter could not imagine. He was usually put up on such a pedestal in Derek’s eyes. No matter what, he was forgiven. He was good. He was, no matter what, the man Derek would marry, and that was that. He loved him, and he always would. It was sappy, and strange, and Peter had accepted it as one of many facts of life. Derek and Stiles would forever be Derek and Stiles.

This was never even a possibility. Whatever ‘this’ was. 

Something about that painting kept drawing him back in. It was the thickness of it. The layers of paint on top of paint. Sure, she was an amateur, but could a banshee hypno-state, or whatever the fuck that was called, last long enough for someone to paint like that? Did the voices in her head just have a really strong attention to detail?

She would have painted until the point was gotten across. Not until the contours of Derek’s face and the blunt points of his features were perfectly true-to-life.

Peter was a creature of habit, and a creature of instinct. And his instincts told him something was wrong. His instincts unsheathed his claws, forgot all about Derek tossing him aside, and brought the point of a bladed finger to the canvas. 

He carved in slowly, gently. Only trying to uncover that top layer of paint. Because his gut, and the scent of varnish, and focus, and confusion, all were telling him one thing:

This was not as it seemed. 

Stiles Stilinski would never in a million years kill Derek Hale.

As he pulled the paint back, the layer underneath did little more than remind him that he was always right, and nobody should ever doubt him, and his word was gospel. He was practically two steps away from God.

Because Derek Hale was not the one Stiles was killing. And the sight of that blade pierced through Theo Raeken’s stomach was enough to remind him, also, of why he loved Stiles Stilinski as much as he did. 

It was with an unshakeably proud smile that he received the last text he would from Stiles, for a long time. 

“In the sewers, find the ouroboros on the wall. The Doctors stay on the other side of it. The grimoire should be there. The Belasko should be in the abandoned house on that rich street uptown, where the wendigos lived. Keep the book safe. Do not let my dad get hurt.”

He did not respond.

 

-

 

Since Stiles left, the pack was different. Quieter. Distant. Liam hated every second of it. 

Maybe it wasn’t so much to do with Stiles leaving as it was the events around it. It was just poor timing. It was the fact that Liam’s wolf was twitchy and jumpy and untethered with no Alpha to call his own, and the fact that every new friend he made ended up going missing for days and coming back… changed. 

The way Hayden had looked at him at the school was enough to change Liam, too. 

He’d always liked her. And she’d always hated him. It was a fun little way to live. Not totally gut-wrenching, at all. He didn’t lay awake at night thinking about their matching broken noses. Don’t be silly. That would be lame. And creepy. And Liam Dunbar was not lame or creepy, okay? Stop bullying him.

The point is, he’d noticed the change almost immediately. His wolf had perked up at the similar scent, the kindred feeling of another wolf, and his eyes had not rested on one of his pack members, but, instead, on Hayden Romero, a long way across the field, doing drills with her soccer team. The focused scrunch of her brow, and the glances over at him, and the clenching fists, the swiftness of her movements and the impossibility of her reflexes. It all slotted together pretty fast, the puzzle pieces. He’d sucked in a breath so deep it made him lightheaded, and nearly broke his neck turning to Mason. 

“Mase!!” He hissed, grabbing at his arm with one hand and gripping his lacrosse stick tighter with the other, “Mason, she’s been turned!”

His best friend had given him an incredulous look, almost blank-faced, “You are gonna need to be… way more specific.”

Liam had whimpered and ducked his shoulders, “Hayden! She’s a werewolf!”

Mason blinked, turning to look at her, flinching away as Liam hit him and hissed at him not to, “You’re sure? How d’you know?” Then his voice fell as he leant in, face pinched, “Do you think she’s… one of them?”

Liam shrugged, “There’s not exactly any Alphas around to turn her normally, are there??”

“What the hell are you freaks whispering about?” 

Liam yelped as he jumped back, held up on the bench by Mason yanking at his sleeve and a half-flailing of his legs. 

“Nothing!” He said swiftly, not at all squeaking it out, “Nothing at all.”

“Totally,” Mason grunted, “Not a thing.”

Hayden stared down at them, one hand on her hip, the other holding her soccer ball, tucked against her side. Her stare was withering. The thought of her having claws, and fangs, and piercing gold eyes…

Liam needed her so bad it wasn’t even funny. 

The girl slowly turned her head to the side, eyes darting away, before they locked back onto Liam’s, “You shouldn’t speak about people behind their backs. It’s small dick behaviour.” Then she looked him up and down, and Liam’s jaw fell open. 

The next time he saw her, it was after Stiles told him to bring her to the high school at midnight, days later. That night had been ugly. Theo had shown up, and Liam hadn’t understood his conversation with Stiles, but it hadn’t felt good. Then the Doctors had come, and it all got so much worse. They were unstoppable. Simply unbeatable. They threw Theo, someone they all knew was a friend of theirs, so hard into a wall of lockers that he was knocked unconscious for five straight minutes. Liam counted. Because Hayden insisted on staying with him, even as the Doctors were trying to get to her, and Malia’s claws were doing nothing to them. 

Liam didn’t like Theo. He’d do shit to try and subtly piss him off on purpose, just to trigger an episode. Liam was sure he did. No normal person steps on the back of your shoes, or hovers around the girl you like and smirks at you, or acts like they don’t know you have a diagnosed emotional regulation disorder while they say you’re just a bit ‘nippy’ that much. ‘An angry little puppy,’ he’d called him once. Liam had had to pretend Stiles was still red-eyed and firmly grabbing his wrists as he repeated his mantra into the tiles of the Hales’ downstairs bathroom. Because Theo couldn’t win. Liam couldn’t be the guy he kept insisting he was.

He missed Stiles. A lot. More, now that he understood what the deal really was with him and Scott. Liam and Scott, that is. What Stiles saw in Liam that reminded him of Scott. Liam hadn’t realised he’d been a werewolf, somewhere else. Let alone Stiles’ Alpha. His best friend. He hadn’t known that Stiles was the one who taught Scott, the most powerful person Liam’s most powerful person knew, how to control the shift. That he really might have liked helping them learn. And grow. He’d always seemed so indifferent about it. Bored, almost. Upset. With every violent training session and every wolf’s broken bone, he’d wince before the pride overtook his face. He’d watch whoever won just that much closer for the rest of the day, and he’d be so careful to not let them get too violent. 

Liam wanted to know everything Stiles knew. What it was that made him so afraid. He just wanted Stiles to come back. He wanted things the way they used to be. He didn’t want Hayden to go missing, or Theo to weasel his way into their pack, or some sort of massive monster to come out of nowhere. 

No one had any clue what it was.

Stiles would. 

Stiles always knew. And he always fixed it. Come rain or slashed throats, Stiles fixed these sorts of things. Because he cared. And he loved them. And he could. And Liam wanted to wring Theo’s neck for screwing it all up. Just when he was finally comfortable, damn it.

It had been forty-eight hours since anyone had seen Hayden Romero. Her sister was just about losing it, now. There were missing posters, and other people were vanishing, too, and the blank stare on Theo’s face at all times had to mean something. He wasn’t insufferably smirking to himself anymore. He wasn’t faking sympathetic at all. He was just… unimpressed.

“What are you getting out of this?” Liam spat across the aisle one biology lesson, thinking back vaguely on that short moment of time where his biggest question was why are you in my class, I’m a year younger than you, “You aren’t gaining anything from following us around like a lost puppy, you know?”

Theo just lazily looked over at him, and blinked slowly, so uninterested, “Do you think I’ll take offence to that?” He gave him a once-over, “If anyone’s a lost puppy, it’s you. You’re the size of one.”

“Oh, real mature,” Liam hissed, face falling, “You’re, like, two inches taller than me!”

Theo’s brows quirked up, “Two inches can make a big difference, I’ve heard.”

And there was that smirk again.

Liam wanted to punch him in the face. With a knife. But that would just get him a detention. And get him sent to a detention centre. And then who would be protecting the others from this insufferable bag of dicks? Stiles would be proud of him, either way. That was a small comfort. Kind of.

The werewolf bared his teeth and leant further forward, “Where is Hayden?”

Theo’s brows fell. The light dimmed, and he turned away.

“Trust me,” he said, “You don’t want to know.”

“Well, news flash, genius, I don’t trust you,” Liam tilted his head as the slightest of smiles tugged at Theo’s lips, “So I think I do wanna know.”

Theo just shook his head, “I think I’m good. I’m not interested in exposing the world to the supernatural because of your reaction.” Then his smile grew, a little, and Liam could see the bitterness, “Why don’t you ask Lydia?”

Liam paused at that, “What?”

Theo said nothing more. He turned to his textbook as Ms. K told them to turn to page forty-two, and Liam’s hands didn’t move. 

“Lydia?” Liam hissed, “Why Lydia?” 

Theo, still, said nothing.

Liam felt his heart begin to tick up. The self-righteous smirk on the chimera’s lips didn’t calm him down. It didn’t make him start to rationalise and think that he was probably lying. Bluffing. Trying to throw him off. But his heartbeat was as steady as it always was. And Liam had to get out of that classroom. He had to get out, now.

 

-

 

No one was unaware of what Theo was. Liam was pretty sure that’s how he managed to get them to like him.

It was pity.

They’d all smelled the shame and the hurt after that fight with Stiles. If you could even call it that. Liam had never seen Stiles hate touching someone so much he refused to even fight them properly. But maybe it was because the magic was gone. He couldn’t fight him even if he wanted to. But the things he said – the accusations, the insults, the terrible things Theo admitted to as he begged for a place to go. Stiles had turned him away. And the pack had all thought he was wrong. 

Because Theo was a good liar. He was a good liar, but a terrible actor. And Liam wasn’t the best at a lot of things, but he had eyes. He could see the little slip-ups and the way he watched all of them. And now that he’d seen him fight and watched him train, he got why Stiles didn’t want him doing it with anyone but him. Theo played dirty. And he learned too fast. 

Liam felt like he was going crazy, hating him. Wanting Stiles back. The only people that got it were Erica and Allison. 

Erica’s hair had gradually gotten less well-cared-for every second Theo had been around their pack – whether he was in it was still up for debate, and those debates got nasty fast – and Allison’s braids grew tighter and tighter. It was a nervous habit, he found. She’d plait when she was stressed, and Erica would run her hands through her hair. It made her curls separate and frizz up, and the both of them… didn’t look their best. 

Liam was sat out on the deck the first time they ever said it out loud. 

“I hate him!!” It was Erica, storming out with thundering footsteps, a growl on her voice, and something in her hands that she threw out into the clearing and watched fall apart. Liam flinched back as the wood splintered and collapsed. It looked like it had once been a chair, in some distant lifetime. Then two clawed hands were grabbing at his collar, and Erica’s shifted face was in front of his and she was growling past her teeth, “Liam, let me beat you up.”

“What??” He hissed, pulling back, “I think I’m good.”

She roared, and Liam felt his whole body shrink in on itself – he would’ve pissed himself if he didn’t know her well enough to know she wouldn’t hurt him – as Allison stepped out onto the porch, with her face swallowed by ring-covered hands. 

The brunette sighed heavily enough to leave her short of breath, while Erica left claw-holes pierced through Liam’s shirt as she let go and stormed away. 

“I can’t take this anymore,” Allison muttered, “It’s not fair.”

“What happened to you two??” Liam squeaked, listening into the house and hearing a whole lot of nothing, besides the Hales fighting over some sort of food.

“Theo happened!” Erica snarled, “He took Stiles from me! That fugly bitch!” And she roared again as she pierced a fist through the steps beneath them. Liam tucked his feet up under himself as he watched. 

“What’d he do this time?” Liam grumbled. At Erica’s sudden golden stare, he put his hands up, “I don’t like him either! I swear!”

Her glare turned narrow, as Allison finally pulled her hands away from her face and dropped to sit beside him, “He was talking about Stiles again.”

“It’s so obvious when he’s lying!” Erica snarled, “He’s all ‘oh, I don’t blame him!’” She batted her eyelids, holding her hands up at the side of her face like a tortured princess, “‘He has the right to be wary of me, I can’t even imagine the types of threats you all have had to deal with, and the things he’s seen! I mean, really, time travel?’ I’m going to maul you to death.” 

Erica flopped out onto the grass, one foot still on the steps as the other stuck out awkwardly into the air. She screamed into the dirt. It didn’t muffle the sound.

Liam turned his wide eyes to Allison. The girl bit her lip as she turned to him. Liam’s body still wasn’t sure whether to be more or less afraid of her when she looked like she was on the verge of psychosis. 

“You shouldn’t worry about this, Liam,” she said softly, though the bite to her voice was still fighting for release, “We’ll take care of it.”

Liam blinked, “Can you… Can you tell me what happened to Stiles?” 

Her stare hardened, “Liam, we’ve gone over this. I’m not telling anyone.”

“Please?” Liam rolled his shoulders, “I just… I need to know he’s somewhere. Right now, it’s like he just… vanished. We woke up and he was gone. No goodbye, no nothing. And I… I miss him. I’m worried about him.”

Allison looked away. Her square jaw shifted as she thought, hands finding the end of her braid, and running the bunch of hair there against her left hand’s knuckles like a paintbrush. Erica rolled onto her back, staring up at the two of them with furrowed brows and desperate eyes, silent. Liam couldn’t believe Allison had kept this a secret, even from Erica. From Scott.  

“Why don’t you want to say?” He asked, “Is it bad?”

She licked her lips, “It’s worse than bad. But if anyone follows him, it’ll just make everything even worse than ‘worse than bad’.”

“Is he in danger?” Erica asked, rising to sit up, face and chest covered in dry dirt and grass stains.

Allison shrugged, sighing, “Most definitely.”

“Then we need to go get him!” Liam cried, “Screw Theo! Stiles is our Alpha, the colour of his eyes doesn’t matter!”

That put a smile on Allison’s face, a gentle, sincere one. She nodded softly, “Yeah.”

“Allison,” Erica said sharply, “Just tell us.”

Allison just bit her cheek and said, “The last time we ‘got him’ from there, he slit his own throat. I’m just saying we should proceed with caution.”

There was a moment of quiet, then Erica shrieked, “He’s in Mexico again?!!”

Allison shrugged, though her eyes danced in the blankness, “I didn’t say that.”

“Why would he go back to Mexico??” Liam hissed, only a little alarmed by the sudden silence in the house behind them. “That place was the only thing to finally get him to go to therapy! Why not just… go to therapy again instead of… Mexico??”

“Well,” Allison tilted her head, “He had just been kidnapped by Theo and presumably left for dead when I found him. And he stunk of alcohol. Seemed to be a pretty bad night for him.”

“And you let him go?!” Erica boomed, “Allison, what the fuck?! He needed help, not radical acceptance— When have you ever just let Stiles do things?!”

“You weren’t there,” Allison said, low, staring down at her hands, “He’d completely given up. He wouldn’t have listened. And if I tried to stop him, he would’ve just hurt himself. And what was I meant to do?” She looked away properly, “I couldn’t take him to my mom’s house. My dad was in Canada. Peter had called me to go find him because Stiles called him, begging him to take him home, and he was in Fiji. And Derek…” She put her head in her hands, “Fuck. I should’ve just taken him here.”

Liam shrugged a little, “I mean, maybe.”

Erica was there, then, slapping him on the leg and taking Allison’s hands away from her face, “Hey. Maybe, yeah, you should’ve, but you didn’t. And there’s no going back. Okay? You can’t change the past. But we can go and get him now and stop things from getting any worse.”

“Erica, you have to resit the SAT in, like, two weeks,” Allison stressed, “You can’t be going on a wild goose chase looking for a man who doesn’t want to be found. In another country.”

Erica just groaned, “I miss my Stiles, man. Can we just kill Theo? If you do it, your eyes won’t change colour, no one’ll even know.” 

“We don’t kill people, Erica,” Allison snapped, “That was Stiles’ job, remember? He was the one who did the terrible things to keep us safe, so we didn’t have to. If we start trying to fill his shoes, then everything he’s gone through for us becomes meaningless.”

“Well,” Erica said, rising to her feet, “I’m not letting him go through anything more without trying to help.”

“Yes, you are,” a voice spat. 

The three of them froze. Liam swallowed down the horror, as they turned back to the doorway to stare at the glowering face of Derek Hale. His stubble was unkempt, and his hair had grown just an inch too long for comfort. Liam momentarily didn’t understand how it was possible that he even had dark circles, but then the understanding that he wasn’t really a wolf anymore hit him again.

“Derek, what the hell?” Erica hissed, “You, of all people, should want to save him.”

Derek just stared, “Stiles made his choice. He won’t be gone for long.” Something in his stare turned utterly unrecognisable, “He always comes back. Trust me.”

And Liam did trust Derek. Everyone trusted Derek. He was often the only voice of reason – a calm balance between too-gentle positivity and bloodthirsty vengeance. He was logic, and kindness, and firm realism. But Liam didn’t know Stiles without his spark. He didn’t ever get to test him, to train against a version of Stiles who couldn’t miraculously heal or throw someone off with a burst of red magic— hell, he didn’t even know a Stiles who wasn’t the Alpha. These people all knew better than him how Stiles would be handling this right now. But Liam couldn’t shake the feeling that they all, even the man who knew him better than any of them, were wrong.

Stiles was dying out there.

Liam could feel his wolf whine as he slowly inched away. 

 

-

 

Okay, maybe Mason wasn’t the bestest best friend in the world. Maybe he was a stupid little bitch, and Liam should kick him in the balls repeatedly until he can’t have children. Not that he would be able to anyway. Men can’t get pregnant. Can they? Holy shit, could the Dread Doctors make it possible for men to get pregnant? Maybe Liam really should kick Mason in the balls to the point of infertility. 

The concept of an all-ages club was already horrifying enough. He hadn’t expected it to be this terrible in reality. 

Mason practically had to drag him there, insisting that they ‘couldn’t put their lives on hold’ and that he’d love it, and it was only one night. And Liam had barely agreed.

He only came because Hayden used to work here. He still didn’t know what had happened to her. He didn’t know what Theo had to do with it. He didn’t know when or if they’d ever go to get Stiles, and put an end to all of this, and let him save the day like he was supposed to. For now, he held no power. He was the youngest of them all, the smallest, the most unstable. He was a liability. 

And Mason was abandoning him to dance with some stranger. Liam faintly recognised him – a face he’d passed in the halls at school once or twice, or seen at the store with his mom. He was a friendly face, a stable heartbeat, the scent of something just off-putting enough to have Liam on edge, but not bad enough to have him afraid. It was a good thing, too. A raised heart rate was not something Liam needed now, around this many people. 

He wished there was a place he didn’t have to worry. Somewhere for supernaturals, where the drinks were infused, not spiked. Where he didn’t have to worry about his eyes catching the light, or losing control. 

He was real close to losing it, now. 

Brett Talbot made him want to claw his own skin off at the best of times. The dickhead who made his life hell at Devenfort, the one who always got away with it, the untouchable, perfect, model child. Just because his parents were dead, he got whatever the fuck he wanted. As if tragedy hadn’t made the people around Liam so much kinder. Brett had no excuse. And Liam wanted to snap his fucking neck.

So, seeing him now, dancing with some girl, and then with some guy, without a care in the world and flashing gold eyes… Liam had to leave. He couldn’t be in this place, with the faint scent of Hayden beneath the sweat and sweet drinks, the pounding music, the near-unbarable flickering of the projectors. He had to go. Or he might kill somebody. 

Outside, the air was crisp and unforgiving, even through the leather of Liam’s jacket. Mason had forced him to wear it, something Liam had agreed to as reluctantly as he had this whole night. The point of ‘if you don’t wear it now, you never will’ was at least somewhat logical. Liam felt like an idiot. And it was barely even working as a jacket in the first place. It was a waste of thirty-six bucks. He might as well have lit that money on fire. 

Liam was leant against a chain-link fence when he heard a voice incapable of keeping him calm. It was a match lit of its own striking, and the unavoidable burning of Liam’s anger was almost drawn to the heat as much as it wanted to turn tail and run from it. 

“It’s probably not the best idea to leave your human best friend alone at a time like this,” Theo said. 

He was slammed back against the opposite wall in less than a second. Liam hadn’t opened his eyes as he started to move – he just listened to the slow thumping of Theo’s heart and the shifting of his feet and he pounced. Any calculations of space and speed were just guesses. Liam’s shoulders were tense, and his fists were curled tight enough around Theo’s jacket to leave his knuckles a sheer white. 

“You better back the fuck away from me, Theo,” he snarled, looking up the small amount he had to to meet the chimera’s eyes, and burning steadily from the rage at that unbothered stare of his. 

Theo’s brows twitched, “You’re holding me against a wall, Liam. Not sure how you expect me to back away, here.”

Liam’s hands ached to wrap around his stupid fucking throat and choke him out. To watch the life drain from his eyes and feel it seep out into the universe. There was truly no one out there more annoying than this fucking guy. Not Victoria Argent. Not the Calaveras. Not even Brett.  

“What do you want?” Liam spat, “Why are you here?” 

“I feel bad,” Theo said slowly, eyes flickering up and down.

“For what??”

“They’re always holding you back,” Theo blinked lightly as he met his eyes again, head tilting to one side, “You wouldn’t be doing this if Derek was here, would you?”

Liam’s face scrunched up, “What the hell are you talking about?”

Theo’s little smile showed teeth, “Your anger isn’t a flaw, Liam. If you gave in to it, do you have any idea how powerful you could be?”

And that just didn’t make any sense. It came out of nowhere. It meant nothing,

“I’m just saying,” Theo shrugged against that solid concrete wall, jacket scratching and dragging, “You should let loose more often. It’s a good look on you.”

“Shut the fuck up,” Liam snapped. 

Theo’s grin widened, “What? I’m being nice.”

“You’re trying to get in my head,” Liam growled, “And it’s not gonna work. Alright?”

That had Theo’s expression sobering, a little. The smile turned smaller. More smug. More quiet, as if the petulance wasn’t screaming through his eyes loud enough for the both of them. 

“You found Hayden yet?” He asked. His eyes flickered down again, no doubt catching the twist of Liam’s heart, before they turned toward the entrance of the club, “Doubt you’ll find her in there. She hasn’t worked at Sinema for a while, I think you know that as well as I do.”

“You know, sometimes you really make me contemplate turning my eyes blue,” Liam’s voice rocketed ahead of him, so aware of the entertainment glittering in Theo’s eyes, “But, nah. It’d be a waste of energy. You’re not worth it.”

And he tore his hands back as something in those green eyes shifted. That light colour darkened, and the sick satisfaction of hitting a nerve washed over Liam like crowds were cheering his name. It didn’t dampen the rage, but something about it dragged him back from the edge. Grounded him. It let him turn on his heel and storm back into the club without so much as a glance over his shoulder, slipping past the bouncer with a flash of the stamp on the back of his hand, and leaving Theo behind. 

He didn’t need his anger to be strong. Nor to win. Theo would find that out soon enough.

 

-

 

None of them understood. To them, it was all ‘What has Stiles done to us?’ and ‘What is Theo planning?’ and ‘Where did Stiles go?’ and ‘How do we stop the Doctors?’ and ‘Where are the missing kids?’. All important, sure. But not the point.  

Lydia was living in an entirely different world to those people. It wasn’t about Stiles, or Theo, or even the Doctors. It was all so much worse. It was the endless screams of countless deaths, the ringing of deafening cries in her ears, the roaring of actual, literal Hellfire. 

This was what these people had done to her. It was a petty thought that crossed her mind too often. She knew how fate worked. She knew certain things could not be helped, not even with time travel and the most flawless plan possible. Certain people were always going to die. Certain lives were always going to be ruined. That didn’t stop the burning jealousy rising in her chest every time she remembered how much better everyone else had it here than in other timelines. All she had to distinguish herself from the other Lydias she’d heard of was… Cora. And even that was less than what Derek said they’d had ‘Last Time’.  

It was frustrating.

And it was far from her biggest problem right now.

It had taken three consecutive nights of the same nightmare to realise what she was seeing. She thought it was Derek. The fire. She thought it was the burning she’d seen so long ago and so badly misconstrued, the death she still didn’t understand. She’d seen it. It had worked. But it wasn’t that.

This man was burning, yes, but he wasn’t burned.

She’d gone to Deaton as soon as she realised it. He’d recognised it before she even got halfway through the dream – the burning man carrying the body to the Nemeton, placing it down atop the steadily growing pile. 

A Hellhound. 

He told her it was a harbinger of death, like her. That it must be that connection allowing her to see this. That it wouldn’t be easy to find him. That he wasn’t sure if she was strong enough to do that, yet.

Deaton hardly knew her. 

But it wasn’t long before Lydia knew who she was looking for. The recognition came with a steady thrum of unease through her bones. It came in waves, but it never really left. Something about it felt a little bit like seeing long-forgotten family. Your body remembers them, but it takes a second for your mind to remember where from. They held you once. Someplace else.

She could tell he felt it, too. He seemed to like it about as well as she did. 

It took two weeks to convince him she wasn’t a mind-reader, or a stalker, or on drugs, when she asked about the Nemeton. About what he was. Because the guy didn’t have a clue. At all. But he did have dreams. And that was good enough. 

There was only one meeting with Parrish that was not full of quiet focus and meditation and sceptical looks from that Sheriff’s Deputy. It was the one that was interrupted by the Sheriff’s shouting, and Stiles sprinting out of the station like something was chasing him. No one followed after him. Derek came to the open door, stared out toward the entrance in silent shock, and slowly found her eyes. 

Lydia felt so bad for him. She’d watched Jackson lose himself when he found out about the adoption. She knew what it felt like to realise someone you loved was different than you remembered. She hadn’t loved Jackson that way, but the sentiment felt just as heavy. At least Jackson had focused his rage into contact sports, not murder. Or suicide. Or alcohol. At least Jackson has gotten better. 

Derek shut the door again. 

Lydia swallowed and turned back to Parrish, raising the lighter to his eyes again, “You want to try again?”

Parrish made a weak little sound, “Not really.”

She hummed, and Parrish brought his hand to the hover above the flame, anyway. 

They needed to work together to find the Nemeton. Stiles was the only person who’d ever been able to consistently find the thing. The Hales were meant to have a special link to it, but all of them had tried and failed. It was Parrish who was taking the bodies there. It had to be him who would find it. 

Lydia would stop the bodies from piling any higher. 

She just hoped her dreams of the mural behind cracked concrete were less prophetic. 

 

-

 

It took four weeks for the Nemeton to reveal itself. 

It was seven days before the Supermoon. The Perigee Syzygy.

Lydia and Parrish had found it first. She’d been ready to give up, and Parrish’s ever-patient words of affirmation were meaningless when he kept snapping into that… otherness. The Hellhound would stare at her for a moment, then turn and walk away. If she followed, it would blind her, or attack her, just enough to keep her far enough behind to not know where it was going. Sometimes she beat him to it. She’d find herself standing before a body and just stare until the flickering of flames came to her. By the third week, she’d stopped chasing entirely. In that state, he was someone else. Something else. 

But, one day, she’d managed to force him to toe the line without falling to either side. And Parrish had pushed through the brush and it had just… been right there. Right before their eyes. 

And the bodies. 

The bodies were…

There came a sharp gasp, then stumbling footsteps through the dead leaves and snapping twigs.

 

-

 

Liam Dunbar found it third. Technically, he found Lydia. It was all he had been doing for those four weeks. Following her, and praying to some higher being that Hayden was still okay. She wouldn’t bat an eyelid if this happened to him, but she was lucky, then, that he was not her. He didn’t turn a blind eye to things like this. He couldn’t. He was proud of that. 

But maybe he should have ignored it. Maybe he should’ve moved on and forgotten his one-sided crush and pretended he never even knew she was involved in any of this. Because there, resting against a gigantic tree stump, she was. 

Hayden was dead. And she was right in front of him.

Lydia’s impossibly wide eyes found him as she turned back over her shoulder, the older man she was with stepping in front of him and grabbing at his shoulders.

“Kid,” he said, “You need to step back. Come with me. Okay?”

“Hayden…” Liam tried. His voice was rough. He couldn’t… He couldn’t breathe properly, “She…”

The rage consumed the fear so fast he barely even realised it had happened.

Fangs and claws were out, and aching, furred hands were pulling that man’s off of his shoulders, and Liam was running. He was running. And running. And if he caught so much as a hint of Theo’s scent, the piece of shit was as good as dust.

 

-

 

Theo was the fourth to find the Nemeton, several hours after the first three. It wasn’t hard. It hid itself, yes, but it hardly moved. It worked under the same elusive nature as the Doctors, always resting on the same ley line, and Theo, quite frankly, wasn’t impressed.

He was impressed, however, by the Doctors finally doing something helpful. 

This tool in his hands, the unknowable liquid inside, the science behind the magic, the comically large needle. It was exactly what he needed. And maybe they’d been right to tell him to be patient. It was a virtue, wasn’t it? And Theo Raeken was nothing but virtuous. Of course.

To see those particular bodies brought a smile to his face. A genuine one. Albeit the genuine happiness was born from what he could gain, the collateral, the power. It didn’t make it any less real, did it?

He stuck that needle into Hayden’s neck first. She’d been gone for the shortest amount of time. Lasted a long while in that cell, she did. She was tough. She had bite. And Theo could do with some of that. It helped that Liam would find him less easy to hate. The kid’s attitude wasn’t half as pretty as his face, even if Theo did get a kick out of every violent threat. Every positive feeling he could drag out of those people was another droplet of power he could use. It was a shame making people happy was such a fucking drag.

Corey was saved second. He’d been gone a little longer than Hayden. Not so long as to be beyond returning, though. His body was fine. And invisibility was a brilliant ability. Unique. Overpowered, honestly. 

Theo felt like he was Christmas shopping.

Tracy was next. Less for her power, more for her trust. If he had no one else to feed off of, she’d still stay. She liked him. For some ungodly reason, she did. 

Last, he did not bring back a teenager. Not anyone who had given in within the last few days. 

He brought back someone who’d died over five weeks ago. Someone no one noticed had been brought here, not even Parrish himself. 

His claws didn’t glow without life in them. 

So, Theo gave it back. 

The Belasko was little less than hollowed out skin and bone. Its flesh had turned black, rotted unrecognisable. The only thing Theo knew it by was those talons. They were unforgettable. And irreplaceable. 

The needle pierced into its flesh, and Theo pushed the plunger. Something oozed, something excreted, and Theo almost feared it wouldn’t work at all when—

A slow blue glow began to flow through those talons. 

It had no eyes, now, but Theo knew they would glow red if they could. 

Something more oozed, and the glow started to flicker. Theo’s hands lunged forward to tear those claws from its nailbeds, and they slid out with no resistance, just a smooth squelching sound. Theo’s face twisted up in distaste at the sight, as that body fell still again.

“What…” A girl’s voice started, low and afraid, “The fuck. Is going on.”

Theo turned to look, seeing Hayden stood there, left hand holding her right arm, as she seemed to be limping. He gave her a once-over, and she was fine. Drama queen.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” Theo drawled in response, “You’re welcome.”

“What did you do?” Corey snarled. 

Theo almost smiled, “I brought you back from the dead. Can we all agree that you each owe me a fair amount for that?”

The frightened, the angry, the tired stares. Theo revelled in all of it. 

“I guess we’re pack now, huh?” He asked, biting back a grin, “Guess that makes me your Alpha.” He held up the talons in his hands, as a chilling breeze passed through that little clearing, making bare branches rustle so loudly, “And it’s about time I made that official.”

 

-

 

Peter found the ouroboros. He found the grimoire. He found the house. 

Unbeknownst to him, Parrish had beat him to the Belasko. That house was empty from attic to basement, through all the lavish halls and abandoned rooms. There was nothing but a hole in a wall and the thick stench of anger and the lingering smell of smoke. 

He’d only heard rumours of a creature like this. A man with harpy eagle talons created only for him to take whatever power he wanted. It was so ridiculous and so specific that Peter had been sure it was a lie. He wasn’t even in the beastiary. Because he wasn’t a species. Belaskos weren’t a thing – this was one man. One unique ability that no one could take from him.

Peter had slaved over that beastiary for weeks, now. Because something giant had been ravaging the town. And Peter was in way above his head. He knew the thing back to front, in three different languages, and was still no closer to figuring it out. And no closer to seeing it with his own eyes. 

Holding that book in his own two hands felt so wrong. Like theft. Like being handed a ticking time bomb. He’d been there for every step of its creation – the filling of every page, the completion of every illustration, the creating of each spell and hex and curse and rune and—

There was one note tucked into the back of the book. Hardly a page. Just beyond a post-it. 

A spell. Of course. 

Peter wondered if he thought back hard enough, maybe he could pinpoint the moment she cast it upon him. When, exactly, had Claudia damned him to live on without the rest of them? When had she cursed him with the inability to burn through? How could she ever think that had saved him?

He missed the simple times, these days. He stared into Chris’ eyes, and, before he remembered, wondered when he’d next see her, too. When they’d all be together again. 

It could never be. 

Never again would he be young, and stupid, and happy. It was just the way of the world. Aging. Like the redwood and oak and rowan of their preserve, and the youth of those he used to consider kids. Everything ages. Everything changes. Everything dies. 

Stiles had still not said a thing beyond what he had those weeks ago. The time had passed strangely fast, actually. Maybe it was all the time he’d spent reading. Normally, Peter was relishing the seconds, wasting the day away in spas or fancy restaurants, and being shocked when sitting there doing nothing only took ten minutes. Actually having things to do took up an astonishing amount of time.

Stiles owed him a drink for this. And a damn strong one. 

Because Peter Hale was the fifth to find the Nemeton, and he hadn’t had the privilege of finding it alone. 

Theo Raeken held those claws in the air like a damn trophy, and suddenly Peter’s whole world shrank to the size of those talons. That was his power. It was Stiles’, and Theo had no claim over it. Maybe if he took it instead of the Belasko, he’d die the same way he would if he used those claws to take someone else’s. Maybe he should let him. 

Or maybe he should’ve just killed him then and there, tender throat crushed between his jaws. It had been too long since Peter got to kill someone. He deserved a treat for all this, didn’t he?

The grimoire barely fit in the inside pocket of his coat. It made the fabric bulge, but it wouldn’t be exposed. Peter didn’t have time to put it anywhere else.

There was one short moment where he weighed his options. Take the claws now, get them to Stiles, deal with Theo later. Or let him take them, watch him try to use them, and let Theo kill himself. Two birds with one stone. And maybe Derek would give him the silent treatment for a while but, fuck it. Peter had honestly never cared less. And he had, on multiple occasions, tried to kill Derek himself. 

This bullshit had dragged him away from a perfectly good vacation. From the first peace he’d known in years. From Christopher. Fucking. Argent. From fucking Argent, as a matter of fact. And that was unforgivable. Theo had to die. Shame. 

But the image of Stiles stood over him, sword in hand, glowing so blue he was unrecognisable, with Theo helpless beneath him, struck so loudly through his mind.

Fate was a curious thing. 

And, oh, how Peter loved to test it. 

He shrugged off his jacket and tucked it tight against the base of a tree. 

He gave no warning before he leapt out and let the shift take over him. As his bones rearranged themselves and the horrid discomfort melted away to the tingling of sprouting fur. It was fast, and it was deadly, and so was he. Clothes were left behind, ragged and torn. Padded paws collided against the dry dirt with hefty thuds, and claws dug into the ground for purchase as he roared. 

Everything was red. Those claws glowed so steadily, sharp, piercing blue, a perfect target, and Peter’s wolf wanted nothing more than to fetch.  

His teeth pierced through Theo’s hand as they wrapped around the talons. The chimera cried out, cursing, baring his fangs and wrestling his arm out of Peter’s grip as the both of them were thrown to the floor. Against Peter’s fur, the rough ground was nothing. All he cared about were those talons. Those talons, and the swift cut of flesh beneath his teeth and claws, and the taste of Theo’s blood on his tongue. 

Theo roared as his own claws pierced into Peter’s back, trying and failing to drag him off. His jaw was locked firmly around his hand, relentless and unmoving as Theo dragged him around, pulled and kicked and slashed at his muzzle. 

“Oh, for—” Theo snarled, growling to himself as he leant away, “Tracy!! How about you make yourself useful for once?!”

“What??” A voice shouted back. 

“Cut him!!” Theo boomed back, that growl so thick through his words. Peter felt his hackles rise, his eyes darting up to the distorted blur of that kid’s face. He was just gold, and teeth, and shouting.

Then came a hiss. And the sting of a fresh wound.

Peter waited for it to heal, for a short moment.

It did not. The stinging persisted. The burn. He was sure his eyes were flaring as they turned back to Theo’s face, watching the grimace turn to a sour grin. 

His legs were the first to go. The rest of him followed close behind. Paralysed. Still. Collapsing as his numb legs gave in, leaving him lying helplessly across the dirt. 

Helpless? Peter Hale was not helpless.  

How the hell had he not realised they had a fucking Kanima?

He could do nothing but growl as Theo tore his teeth from his flesh, wrestling his jaw wide open and ripping his hand away. He hissed as he did it, moving away from Peter’s desperately hateful stare. This could very well drive him insane. This paralysis. Like being trapped in your body and burning from the inside out. Unbearable. 

A bitter laugh spilled from Theo’s lips, left hand holding his right wrist as the punctures and tears slowly healed, just like the ones beneath his torn shirt. There was no humour in his eyes. There was nothing. 

He slowly shook his head, something like a smile growing across his face – something too cruel to count, “You’re gonna have to try again,” he said, and that smile grew, head quirking almost playfully, “It’s not that easy to beat me.”

Peter watched. He couldn’t stop him. He could do nothing as Theo took those glowing talons to the Nemeton. As he stepped up onto the wood and knelt down to place the tips of the claws into the curves and knots of ancient rowan. He could barely see past the curve of his thigh, knelt in his way, too high up. 

Peter could only watch. 

It was almost all he could do. 

Theo growled and lifted his hands, and the roaring sound from Peter’s throat, ground-shaking, drowned out the sound of those talons piercing into his fingertips. 

It lingered, that roar. It carried out through the trees and the dirt – it carried out through Peter’s land. The girls must have felt it; they would have. They would be here in minutes. It was over for Theo Raeken. It had to be.

Red covered Peter’s vision for a fraction of a second, and a sudden chill passed down his spine. A wrongness. Something Stiles had explained to him many a time, a thing he’d brushed off as more Stiles weirdness. But this was real. This was beyond a bad feeling, or a shift in the air. This was the earth answering his call with a plea for help of its own. 

He still could hardly see, as Theo rose to his full height once again. As he brought those glowing claws in front of him.

As those sparks flowed out and up his forearms. 

If Peter’s chest could move at all, he’d be gasping for air. 

Something violet, a bright purple, split off from him and flittered in the air like it was panicked. It held no form, no shape. Just energy. Peter blinked, and it was gone. 

Theo laughed. Like some sort of cartoon villain, the sound low and almost surprised. 

God. Stiles was going to kill Peter for this. He was gonna kill both of them for it. 

What Peter didn’t expect, though maybe he should have, was for Stiles’ spark to be as unpredictable as it was. He always had such control over it. Even before he knew what it was, or how to use it, he was able to channel it through a baseball bat and focus it into Peter’s body enough to take him back to the good old days of roaring fire and mortality. So, this. This was not something Peter had expected. 

Stiles’ spark had never been gold. 

Not since his spark was nothing more than accidental flare-ups during hungry cries, ones that Claudia scared out of him fast enough for Peter to have only seen maybe once or twice. He had forgotten that sparks could be gold. That maybe they were meant to be. That Stiles’ blue was the same as his. And Derek’s. And Malia’s. 

He didn’t understand how Theo could be so innocent that he’d bring Stiles’ magic back to that. 

Or maybe it was the nothingness.

Theo Raeken had nothing to him. No guilt. No power. Nothing. He was nothing.

Peter could hear the faint call of Laura’s roar, just as Theo’s head turned to the side. Everything in him was itching to move. To look. But this pewny little asshole had different plans, apparently. So Peter, still, could only watch.

It was a nice thing to watch, though, as Theo brought those golden sparks out through his palms and instantly stopped to shake his hands out, groaning through some sort of pain as his self-aggrandising laugh turned to huffs. 

“What?” He hissed.

“What’s happening?” A girl asked, “What did you do?”

“Be quiet,” he snarled back, “Shut up. For five fucking seconds.”

His feet thudded against the wood as he came to the edge, storming down onto the dirt to bend down and grab at Peter’s muzzle with those talon-tipped fingers. He wasn’t used to them, moving his hands like a straight man wearing false nails and trying to adjust his hair. He angled Peter’s eyes upward, glaring down at them with bared teeth.

“How does he stop the burning?” He snarled, eyes flaring as he sucked in a sharp breath with each tiny flicker of gold magic through his palms, “What is this??”

Peter just blinked at him.

“He can’t exactly speak,” some soft-ish voice spoke, a boy, “he’s… a wolf, Theo.”

Theo outright roared at that, “I know that, Corey!!” His eyes were impossibly wide, “God, you’re all insufferable.”

“You’re the one who brought us back from the dead,” the kid – Corey – said lowly.

Theo slowly turned to him. He nodded. That sharp smile slid across his mouth again. 

“Yeah, I guess I did,” he said. Peter watched, and watched, and watched, as Theo’s nose scrunched up, “So, you can do me a favour. And you can find out exactly what I need to do to stop this.”

“To stop what??” A different girl from the last one, one who, now that he had nothing to do but notice, smelled too clearly of venom, “Theo, what did those claws do? What is that… gold stuff?”

“It’s magic,” the other girl said, “He took Stiles’ spark.”

“Who?” The boy asked mildly.

“Stiles Stilinski? ” The kanima’s voice hitched up.

“He’s gone,” Theo spat, “Forget Stiles. All that matters is this spark. And if I can’t use it without burning myself alive, we’re gonna need to fix that. You guys are gonna get me my answer.”

“You can’t get it yourself?” The other girl – a wolf, if Peter’s nose was correct, though the scent was muddled and wrong – said, so indifferent it almost made him proud of the stranger.

Theo just smiled again, “I’ve got another angle to try.” 

He tossed Peter’s head back to the dirt, and those hurried footsteps were coming so fast.

“I’ll see you all when you’ve got my answer,” the chimera snarled, and he was gone.

Peter was going to kill him. Fuck the fates. 

 

-

 

It was already bad enough. The burning through his body, the endless searing pain, the fact that he still, somehow, wasn’t a damn Alpha. It all came to a precipice when he got to the lab in the sewers and could smell that fucking wolf. Whoever that was, it was a scent he recognised. They’d met, for sure. Theo didn’t really give a damn about people outside of the immediate pack, and he was sure this guy wasn’t one of them. He’d be able to put a face to the smell. Or to the wolf. Whoever he was, he wasn’t really pack. But he didn’t like Theo. And his call had been answered by Laura, of all people. 

Whoever he was, he’d taken the grimoire. And he’d tried to take the talons. 

That wolf was on Stiles’ side. 

So, Theo was left with no red eyes, no way of safely using this power, no spell to follow, and no one under his command. Nothing he’d been promised. Nothing he rightly deserved after all the bullshit he’d been put through. 

Those talons had pierced through his nail beds, and the healed wounds were torn back open as he ripped them out to throw them to that metal table. They clattered against the surface, unforgiving. Across the room, the Pathologist was tinkering with something. Always working. Always, so uselessly, trying to complete this ridiculous spectacle of magic-meeting-science. Bringing back the dead. The forgotten. 

Theo wished he could damnatio memoriae Stiles fucking Stilinski. 

“Why is his spark burning me?” He snarled. 

The Surgeon turned to him slowly, chittering, almost glitching. The Pathologist kept working beside him. Theo’s jaw was clenched tight, his hands curling in and out of fists, his burning, stinging nails slowly healing themselves alongside each little burn. 

“We made no flaws in your design,” the Surgeon through his mask, with that falsified voice, “You are just not designed for it.”

“Well, that’s just not good enough, is it?” Theo spat, “What good is that? You promised me—”

“You were a failure. Our mission is our promise.”

The Surgeon turned back around. Theo just glared at his back, stewing in the same resentment he’d been fostering for a decade. The audacity of these pathetic nerds, ruining his life for a chance at bringing something back that no one wanted. They took everything from him. His humanity, his sister, his parents, his childhood, his heart. And what did he get in return? 

“If you would like us to kill you like the other failures, we would waste no time. You are nothing.”

He got the stench of sewage and bloodthirst. Golden sparks burning every inch of his skin with every passing second. A twitchy way of flinching away from something that was inside of him, something that did nothing but made him feel like he was playing Doctor. Like he was flitting between frequencies. 

Forget them.

Forget their mission.

Fuck it.

Theo had always been too independent for his own good, anyway. 

He was swallowed up by the burning, the rage it brought out, and the unshakable belief that he was indestructible, that his flawless design would not fail him now, as he tossed all logic to the wind and lunged over to snatch one of those talons from the table, hold it tight in his hand, and nearly sprint the few metres between him and the Surgeon. He roared as he brought that talon down, splitting the air, sending it straight into the thing’s shoulder blades.

He fell forward into empty space, blinking hard at the desk his empty hand braced against. The chittering was so loud. 

Theo could feel the eyes on him as he curled his fingers tight enough to crush the rotting wood beneath him, watching as the smoke rose and his palm stung, burned. Unbearable. 

The modulator in the Surgeon’s mask barely got a syllable out before Theo fell back to swing again. Again, the bastard vanished, clipping out of reality with its ridiculous, head-spinning flickers. His skull was pounding.

“Oh, come on!!” He roared, looking around himself. They were all gone. The Surgeon, the Pathologist, the Geneticist. The muggy green room, with its thick stench of disease and bodily fluids and fear. “Yeah. Run away. Not surprising you’re all cowards. That’s why you want to bring it back, huh? ‘Cause none of you are strong enough on your own?!” He spat out a laugh, knowing they had to come back, they had to hear him, they had to take the bait, “That’s right. Run away from the failure. Even I could beat all of your asses, and you know it—”

A sudden pressure knocked the air out of his lungs just as he was knocked through the far stuffier air of that dingy room. He collided against a wall, and the burning of his hands was loud enough to almost distract from the cracking of his ribs. Pain. He caught his breath, forced the life back into his aching lungs, and let the overwhelmingly horrible sensations ground him. 

Burning.

Stinging.

Aching. 

Chittering. 

Exhaustion. 

That flickering face was right before his, swallowed in the blur of skull-smashing disorientation. 

“Wasted time will not be tolerated.”

Theo needed to run. 

He needed a way out of this place.

“The next step out of line will be your last.”

Tara’s heart was pounding in his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, and focused everything on the stinging of his palms. On the hate. On Stiles’ voice ringing in his head. 

‘Poor Theo Raeken. He killed his sister, and had to deal with the consequences. You think we’ll let you stay here? After what you did? You took my power, Theo. Just because you don’t have it doesn’t change that. You failed, but you tried. And you always fail. It’s almost impressive. You are a failure. A failed science experiment. You know why it didn’t work, Theo? Because, even when you were an eight-year-old boy, you were evil. You weren’t good enough. You weren’t even useful. Refusing to die doesn’t make you worth anything.’

How did they get here? How did Stiles become this… ruthless, spiteful man? Even his magic, untethered from him, completely independently, hated Theo enough to just burn, and burn, and burn. 

The kid who shared his brownies, and played Jedis, and read comics by flashlight under thin sheets was gone. And he blamed Theo for that. As if Theo wasn’t the one lost. Stiles had been fine. Well. Fine enough. 

Theo didn’t even know he’d died until he saw that livestream. An admittedly overly edgy pastime he’d gotten bored of a while ago, watching streams on illegal sites, seeing the furthest edges of humanity. How far people could go. Considering how easy it had been to survive what he’d been through, and how weak everyone else must be in comparison. How much better he was. He hadn’t expected, however, to see a familiar face. They were hard to come by in any context. Let alone that one. It had taken him a long moment to place the familiarity, to understand what about that man was so… recognisable. The moment he looked into the camera, it came to him. Those eyes had always stood out. They’d been too distracting, even as a kid. They brought out a feeling in him that he hadn’t been able to place any better than that face, until he was a lot older. Understanding that feeling hadn’t ended well, either. More failures. More mercury. 

He’d googled Stiles’ name the second the video ended, with Stiles’ eyes so bright red, his expression so blankly murderous. The first thing that came up was an article – ‘Miracle Boy found alive five years after fatal alleyway shooting’. It had all spiralled out from there. His plan. Realising the Doctors were headed to Beacon Hills was just the cherry on top. 

Now, he was blinking out into an empty room, sat on a damp floor, one burning hand hovering just above his stomach, too afraid to make the burning worse by touching anything. He should’ve never come back to this piece of shit town. Without the grimoire, there was no chance. He couldn’t even try to redeem himself, not through selfishness, not through honesty. When honesty got involved, all Theo could think to say was that Stiles was right about him. He was a failure. He was useless. And he was not good.

No point in trying to change it. 

Theo Raeken was no good. 

He might as well get worse. 

 

-

 

Theo was not at the school when the Beast came. He did not know that the Doctors had succeeded. That it had ravaged the place, wrecked it beyond recognition. That Liam had gotten his chest clawed open, and that Hayden had taken his pain. That Erica and Cora had both been knocked unconscious twice. That Kira had lit up the field with the brightest of fires as she nearly flew across it, her sword raised high. 

He pressed a finger, caked in dry blood, tight and cracking, against a grey button beside a worn-down, white sticker. ‘20 – Hale’.  

He had never seen the Beast. Not in illustrations, not in any way. He did not know a thing about the thick fog, the deep blue eyes, nearly electric. The rows of teeth. The almost catlike appearance of its face. It was a wolf, in some stretch of the word. Like Peter had once been, not that Theo would know. A monstrous reflection of the evil within. The absence of humanity. 

The intercom fizzled to life, “Hello?”

It moved without remorse. Without thought. It was a rabid animal, and its only instinct was to kill. To hunt. To maim, and to destroy. It was insatiable. And it was real. The only person who could tell the betas what was trying to kill them had been gone for four weeks. They had no one to save them. Not even an unresponsive, murder-focused, flame-covered Jordan Parrish.

“Derek,” Theo said into the speaker, “I… It’s Theo. Can I… Can I come in?”

Theo was not at the school when the Desert Wolf came. Peter was. He had spent the last thirty minutes growling to himself and rambling at his oldest niece as the tingling in his body slowly wore off, cursing Theo’s name. Laura had watched with pursed lips and low eyes. He’d answered Cora’s roar with Laura by his side, and he’d left his coat at home, with the grimoire tucked safely away. It started to rain when they headed out. The dirt of the lacrosse field was quick to break beneath their feet, to squelch and fly through the air. To mix with warm blood and stick to fur and bury beneath claws. Then shots rang out, unaccounted for, and Peter looked over his shoulder to stare into two horrifically familiar eyes. Malia’s mother. One of many drunken one-night-stands below the border, the worst of all lapses in judgement. He’d frozen. Corinne had grinned wide. And the next shot had been to his stomach. 

There was a moment of fuzzy silence, then Derek’s voice answered, “Yeah. Come up.”

Scott and Allison were the only ones who saw the Beast leave. It had been because of them. It barely fit inside the halls of the school. Its head scraped the ceiling and the restriction caused a frustration so clearly enraging. But it had tried, still, to chase Scott through them. It had managed, nearly, to catch him. But Allison had cut it off. Bow drawn, held high, arms steady as they ever were. She stared into those blue eyes, and the Beast froze. And, for the first time, Allison hesitated. 

Theo watched the entryway click open as the intercom buzzed. He yanked the door open, and slipped inside.

Corinne had been dealt with fast enough. She was weak without her gun, and turned tail once she realised how outnumbered she was. It hadn’t stopped her stare from piercing straight through Malia. The Beast left enough destruction in its wake, but the only remnants of its body left behind were the shifting of paws to bloody footprints. Neither Allison nor Scott had seen where it went.

He knocked on Derek’s door with those bloody, burned hands.

Peter had returned to the pack, congregating in front of the school – clothes all torn and bloody, some injured, some already healed – with a hand over his bloody stomach and a dazed stare. He did not say a thing. He didn’t even wince, back at the Hale House, as Laura pulled the bullet from his abdomen. He watched her, though. He watched them all so carefully. The storm grew heavier outside. Heavier, and heavier. And he was silent. 

The door clicked open right as thunder boomed above the apartment building, and flitted out into the distance. Theo blinked up at Derek’s tired eyes. 

Isaac Lahey, a kid Theo hardly knew at all, was sat on his couch with a bowl of noodles in his hands. He looked Theo up and down, then turned back to his food. He slurped loudly. Theo squinted. 

He licked his lips, “I think the Doctors are gonna kill me. If Stiles’ spark doesn’t kill me first.”

Derek stared. Theo could smell the grief, the fear. He could see the pang of sympathy in his eyes. How the hell had Stiles ended up with somebody like that? Did the relentless apathy balance them out? Like, seriously. That fucking asshole. He didn’t deserve kindness like Derek’s. It was a miracle Stiles’ anger hadn’t rubbed off on him. 

“Come in,” Derek said, nodding behind him, “I’ll get you a wet towel.”

“A towel?”

“You’re covered in blood, Theo,” Derek said as he started to walk away, “And I can smell the burning even without my senses.”

He vanished into another room, and there was shuffling, and the hiss of a faucet. Theo stepped into the apartment and shut the door behind him. It didn’t creak. 

Isaac didn’t look up as he spoke around the noodles in his mouth, “How d’you have Stiles’ spark?” 

Theo shrugged, “Stole it.”

Isaac nodded, “Fair enough.” And he went back to slurping. 

Theo watched him. He was tiny. He looked tall, sure, but he was skinny as anything. Like the wind would knock him on his ass. Wasn’t he on the lacrosse team? How? Granted, it was the same team that had Scott McCall for several years in a row and he couldn’t even get through the first five minutes of practice without an asthma attack. Theo would know. He watched their practices often. It was a stupid game. 

Derek came back out of that room with a towel dripping onto the floor and down his arm. Theo took it as it was handed to him, feeling the coldness grant a relief so sudden it shocked him. He hadn’t realised he’d needed it. But that cold steadied the relentless heat of his palms, and he could finally breathe. He scrubbed weakly at his fingertips, and he wondered how much of this was an act. Whether it was intentional, or not. It was who he was. A liar.

“I didn’t mean to…” he started, a fresh lie half-baked on his tongue, rising steadily, “I just wanted to bring her back.”

Derek looked down at him like he understood, “Your sister?”

Theo nodded. A bitter smile lifted the corners of his lips, “You’re lucky. If Stiles came back—”

Derek sighed, “Theo.” His brows quirked up, “I– Yeah, I am. Lucky. But… Laura’s not my sister.”

The cold, wet towel in Theo’s hands was swiftly warming. Steaming.

“What are you talking about?” His voice was only just too sharp, and he had to force himself to bring it back to pitiful, “Yes, she is. She’s your sister, your older sister. You’re best friends. And Stiles brought her back from the dead.”

“She doesn’t even remember having a brother, Theo.”

Theo’s eyes narrowed. He felt like he was going fucking crazy. 

“What does that mean?”

“My sister is still dead,” Derek said, “She has been since I was twenty-two. Since September seventh, 2012.” He swallowed, and the grief was exhausting to be around, even for the briefest of minutes, and that didn’t make sense. What was he grieving? He had her back. “Stiles was able to resuscitate this version of her, but the… the ‘me’ from this timeline… he was forgotten.”

“The fuck do you mean ‘forgotten’ ?” Theo spat.

“That doesn’t matter,” Derek shook his head, just a little, his arms now crossed over his chest, “My point is, these things are messy. And whatever you do, you aren’t changing the past. It’s still going to stay the same. You’ll just be lost in a timeline you don’t belong in.” 

He reached a hand out to hold Theo’s shoulder. His body chilled at the touch. Too familial. Too kind. 

“You’re not going to bring anyone back, Theo,” and there was that pity again, “Not even with Stiles’ spark. Some things just… aren’t possible.”

Theo almost growled as he slapped Derek’s hand away, “Alright, I didn’t take that as an answer from Stiles, I’m not taking it from you. And he was a rambling, drunk mess. How the fuck are you making even less sense sober??”

Something in Derek’s stare darkened. Only slightly. It had Theo backing away.

“I’m bringing her back,” Theo snarled, “Even if I have to track Stiles down and kill him to make it happen.”

Derek’s right brow barely rose, “Excuse me?”

“What?” Theo’s face scrunched up as he shrugged, “Some drunken bum who nobody’s cared to look for for four weeks means a whole lot less than my sister. She didn’t deserve it. She hadn’t done anything wrong. Stiles has.”

“Theo,” Derek said lowly, swallowing, and the conflict in his chemosignals was distracting – the flickering between rage and fear and sadness, the longing, “You don’t understand what you’re saying.”

“Oh, no, I do,” Theo nodded, “I really do. If it’s what it takes to make his spark stop burning me alive, then piercing my claws into his flesh will do nothing but make my day.”

“It won’t,” Derek shook his head, “You can’t… Goddamn it, Theo.”

Theo tilted his head, “What? Oh, are you sad you were wrong about me? You sad Stiles was right?”

He stepped forward. His claws burned as they slipped out of his fingertips. Derek’s eyes flickered down. A hefty sigh broke from his lips, his chest falling so deep.

“I am sick of this,” Theo snarled, “Sick of him. Sick of this town, and his horseshit, useless, pathetic excuse for a pack.” His chest burned, and he couldn’t tell the difference between the remnants of that spark and the rage, “Maybe if you’re bleeding out in a ditch, he’ll crawl home to you all by himself.”

There was only a split second where Derek seemed to brace himself, readying for the way it would feel when Theo’s claws plunged deep into him and dragged back out to let the blood and tissue and organs spill out. But as Theo’s hands cut through the air, and he shot forward, something slammed into his head, and then there was heat. 

Burning, scolding heat. In his eyes, his ears, sticking to his hair. He shook it off as it started to cool. Water. And the stench of chicken broth. 

Theo was rubbing at his eyes, trying to wipe the liquid out and scratching at his eyelids as he growled, barely able to form the words, “Isaac, I swear to—”

He roared as the spark burned his cheeks and his hands and, Jesus fucking Christ, this was ridiculous. Derek was speaking, and Theo wasn’t listening, and as soon as he could see again, he was lunging at him. Isaac shouted, but stayed out of it, and Theo was glad. His elbows had clashed against the hardwood floors as they landed, and Derek had groaned as his head hit the floor. 

Theo was backing up, with his hand raised to the Heavens, his claws shining and his palms glowing that horrible spiteful gold. Derek blinked up at him, wide-eyed, and there was a click. Thudding footsteps. 

You know what, Theo might just off himself, instead. 

It was one of the few thoughts in his mind as a roar cut through the air, far louder than any he could create, and Derek’s eyes snapped down towards the front door. 

A growl was still fresh in Theo’s throat as he spat, “We’re a little busy. Do you mind?”

“Yeah, good for you,” a voice drawled back, and Theo listened closely to that panicked heartbeat. Familiar. But not one he knew. Nothing special. He looked over his shoulder. 

Someone new stood in the doorway. A man. Presumably mid-forties. A werewolf. Wearing a ridiculous, fleece-lined coat, ruined by the rain just as his dark hair had been.

“Get off of my nephew,” he snarled, “or I tear your hand apart again.”

Theo’s brows drew together, glancing over at a pale Isaac, then back to the stranger in the doorway, “… Do I know you? How did you get in here??”

The stranger clamped his jaw tightly shut. The panic of his heart got so much louder.

He felt Derek’s gaze shift to him, glancing down at that confused stare for just a moment before the stranger let out another roar, and Theo was lifted from the ground. He slammed into a wall after a brief second of weightlessness, and Derek was crying out. Theo groaned as he tried to blink away the ringing in his ears.

“Peter!” Derek cried, “What— My wall!”

“We don’t have time,” Peter, apparently – a name Theo had never heard in this town, he swore it. Not at the Hale House, not at the school, not from Derek’s mouth, nor anyone else’s – snarled back, “We seriously are running out of time. We’re getting Stiles. Right now. Get your head out of your ass and get a change of clothes.” 

He watched through bleary eyes as Derek slowly rose to his feet.

“Peter…”

“Yeah, keep that energy going,” the stranger snarled, turning on his heel and storming back out of the door, “Peter, Peter, Peter. Keep up the good work. Now ¡Vamos!”

“Wh—” Derek spluttered, “I’m not leaving him alone with Isaac!”

“Then drag him out with you!!” Peter shouted from beyond the walls, already a ways down the hall, “I do not care. Time is fleeting, Derek! And I need to outrun this goddamn storm, too, now, for fuck’s—” Then, far quieter now, “I’m going with or without you! I can’t waste any more—”

And his voice was gone. 

Time.

Theo curled his burning hands into fists. Time. That unruly bastard time. How hard could it be for it to give him what he wanted? For once? He let Derek and Isaac drag him out of the apartment, Isaac slapping Derek on the arm and shouting something about Stiles, and Derek swallowing as he blinked up at him – he really was as freakishly tall as Theo expected. They left him in the hallway, outside of Derek’s locked apartment, soaked, burned, and seething. 

They’d bring Stiles straight to him.

All he had to do was wait. The clock was ticking on the other side of the wall. The time would pass, anyway. Theo would make the absolute most of it.

Notes:

thiam canon 2k25??? ok i guess. PETER DONT DO THIS TO ME RIGHT NOW.

honestly you should start preparing for the next chapter now. like. emotionally. get ready for. somehting. dw about what. but um. wowie! everything will be fine. everything is fine. its fine. its fine. guys you know me. you KNOW me. you can trust me. yeah?? yeah???? you like it when i make you sad you LOVE it.

immm sccaarrreddddddddddduh HEYYYY the pendulums gotta swing BABY

Chapter 25: El Rojo

Summary:

Stiles has never had a track record of healthy coping mechanisms. Derek tries to save him.

Can't you hear the train is coming?

Notes:

i can't quite believe i'm editing this to post right now. im genuinely really sorry for what you're about to read.

stiles is very clearly at the lowest of lows in this chapter. there is a lot of alcohol abuse and passive suicidal ideation.

i am seriously. so. sorry. everything will be fine. im cradling your face and looking you in the eyes. its going to be okay. i am SORRY. do not hate me. trust me. trusttttt me. its fine. its FINE. IM SORRY. this hurts me more than it will hurt you and i can assure you of that. it was necessary. IT. WAS. NECESSARY.

AHAHAAAHAAAAAAAAAA

(i apologise for any potential butchering of the spanish language and/or literally every aspect of mexico city. google can only take a girl so far.)

... omg u guys r actually gonna hate me

“The first kill is the hardest.”

Stiles hated having to lick the rain from his top lip. It had hardly stopped raining since he came to town. Like he brought the storm with him, or something. Theo Raeken was a storm in and of himself. He was unpredictable, and uncaring, and a simple force of nature. Unstoppable. But if Theo was a storm, then Stiles was the only person under the awning, and the rain was so loud that no one else could hear him.

It wasn’t raining, then. But there was fog. There was icy cold. There, still, was Theo.

He was walking away from him, holding that stupid fucking ID badge, as he spoke, “Your dad was looking for you, Stiles. He found me instead.”

“Where is he?” Stiles asked. His voice raised over the pelting of raindrops. 

“I covered for you,” Theo said, squinting, face scrunched up as if he’d been inconvenienced by all this, “This was taken care of. If Melissa didn't find it at the hospital— I guess even the son of a cop can make mistakes.” He sounded so angry that it felt like the first moment of honesty Stiles had seen from him. At least since he came back. 

“Did you hurt him?”

That got Theo to look at him. To stop and turn. And he stared, for just a moment.

“I never lied about why I came to Beacon Hills,” he said, eyes narrowed. Stiles didn’t believe him. “I'm here for a pack. I came for the werecoyote.” And he was fucking pacing again. Circling Stiles like a vulture. “The one whose first instinct is to kill. I came for the Banshee, the girl surrounded by death. I came for the dark Kitsune, the Beta with anger issues— I came for Void Stiles. That's the pack I want.”

Stiles could’ve killed him. Right then and there. Acquittal be damned. Self-defence could jump off a fucking bridge.

“Unfortunately, it doesn't include Scott,” Theo said. 

Stiles ran his lips over each other, as his body lit up. A fire. A burning need to fuck this guy up. Theo’s brows rose. And he looked so damn pleased. 

“Your heartbeat's rising, Stiles,” his mouth twisted into a slick grin, head quirking to the side, “It's not because you're afraid.”

No, Stiles knew that well enough. He didn’t need this fucking guy to tell him. 

“Nogitsune’s gone,” he said. Words Stiles would not forget, not even with everything else erased. These words would stay. “But you've still got more blood on your hands than any of us.”

But, back then, Stiles didn’t know a thing about the future. All he knew was the rage those words birthed. The all-consuming need to beat the shit out of him.

He nodded, “I'm about to get more.”

“I'll tell you where your dad is,” Theo said, turning his back to him without a care in the world to put that ID onto the hood of his car, “if you promise not to help Scott.”

Stiles’ fist swung, his arm arcing out to plant his knuckles full-force against Theo’s cheek. The chimera stumbled to the side, reaching up to rub at his cheek as Stiles’ knuckles ached. His whole hand had felt the recoil. 

Then Theo laughed. 

He laughed.

“There he is!” He almost snarled, so vindicated, pointing his finger, “That's Void Stiles.” He nodded, and that grin was so… “It felt good, didn't it?”

He threw another punch. And Theo was on the floor, crashing against the gravel as his feet slipped. He was wincing, and he was spitting blood out onto the rocks.

“We won't tell Scott,” Theo was gasping, “'Cause you can't lose your best friend, right? Even though we both know, you never needed him.”

And Stiles went down with him. He grabbed the collar of his hoodie. And he held back. Because Theo wasn’t right. He couldn’t be.

But if Stiles just kept hitting, then Theo would shut up. Forever, maybe. He’d stop. He’d leave him alone. He’d go, and everything would be normal again.

Theo was still breathing steadily, even with blood running from his lips, snarling, “You hate me now, but you'll get it eventually. This is the hard part. 'Cause you can't help Scott and save your dad's life.”

He wouldn’t stop smiling.

“You've still got time, Stiles,” he said like it was the absolute truth. 

Stiles couldn’t breathe.

“You've still got time.”

“But the second is—”

Two shots rang out. Stiles’ wrist took the brunt of the recoil, and he was used to this. All the guns he’d fired, the shots he’d landed. The lives he’d taken.

Two shots, and two bodies thudding to the floor. Four eyes turning lifeless. Like a doll’s eyes. Like a bad painting. An imitation of life. Stiles blinked down at them, one man and one woman. Two shots, two bodies, two bullet holes, two empty casings on the floor by his feet. It was a man and a woman. Two nobodies. Stiles couldn’t think about who they were. That would get him nowhere helpful. He’d end up in a grave like theirs. 

Theo would be so proud. 

The gun in his hand was as heavy as death, a steady weight as he lowered it, holding it out by the barrel to the woman by his side. Brown eyes, wrinkled and old, fried red hair, and a tired smile. The light of her eyes really had no business being more than those bodies on the floor. 

Araya took the gun as he handed it to her.

“I think we’re past that,” he said. She quirked her brows beneath her thin bangs, and quirked her head. As if she didn’t know that already. Stiles raised a brow right back, “Now what?” He asked, “Is this the part where I find out they were on your side, and you finally put me out of my fucking misery?”

Araya’s smile grew into a grin, “Our side, Mijo,” she said, reaching a hand out to bring Stiles’ back on top of the gun. His fingers wrapped around it out of nothing but instinct. And she leant in closer, “Bienvenido a la familia.”

 

-

 

It had been a long four weeks. 

Stiles didn’t know who he was. He was trying to find it. 

When he got to Mexico, he’d spent the first few days in Guadalajara. That was after the first two-and-a-bit days of driving to get there in the first place. He went to that cathedral, he walked around aimlessly. For hours, and hours. He drank. He went to the zoo. He hadn’t been to a zoo since he was a child. And, even then, they’d left almost immediately because the monkeys threw a banana at the glass by his head and he couldn’t stop crying. 

He felt relentlessly normal for those few days. Normal, and lonely. He’d drop into a corner store to buy a bottle of water with what little cash he had, and think endlessly about how none of them knew. 

He couldn’t believe he actually left. 

When he got to Mexico City, however, it was barely two days before the Calaveras found him. And he was known, again. 

He had not intended to become a Calavera. Believe me, that was not what he was trying to do when he accepted their invitation. He had not walked into that club with a single bone in his body believing he’d walk back out. Ever. Because, in his mind, his future was done for. He’d thrown it all away, and he was going to die. Finally. He was going to die. 

They’d taken him to that room again. Past those beads, into the smell of just-covered death. Of old blood. 

Araya had just stared at him, for a long time. Leant back in her chair, one hand rested lazily by her chin. She looked better than he’d expected. Most people don’t bounce back easily from electrocution.

“You…” she said slowly, breathily, “You are quite the cockroach, hm?”

Like a Hale. He didn’t deserve to be compared to them. 

Stiles barely closed his eyes, pressing his lips into a smile and shrugging, “It’s one of many compliments I’m afforded on a semi-regular basis.” He blinked over at her, “You look great.”

She hummed, “The new scar suits you.”

Stiles tongued the inside of his cheek for a moment. He barely nodded. The next swallow felt like downing liquid sandpaper. Or would that just be sand? Stiles’ face scrunched up as he sank back into the chair, elbows knocked into the arms of the seat, and his mouth and nose tucked into his left hand’s knuckles. 

“You gonna kill me?” He asked, “We can make a game out of it, if that’s more enjoyable for you. I doubt I’ve gotten any luckier, if Blackjack’s still on the table.”

“Where is your pack?” Araya asked right back, tilting her head the other way, now. 

Stiles just rolled his eyes, “I don’t really have one anymore. You gonna kill me, or what?”

“You’re a lone Alpha?” She shook her head, “And you came back to Mexico, alone?”

“Not an Alpha,” he corrected through gritted teeth, “And, yes, alone.”

She scoffed, “How?”

Stiles quirked his brows up, flicking his fingers out, “The Belasko. He did a number on me.”

“The Belasko?” Araya’s voice went up just a little at the end, and some sort of light came back to her eyes, “You… You should’ve said sooner.”

Stiles’ brows met, “What?”

“You’re not just no longer an Alpha,” she shook her head, “Mijo, you’re no longer a spark. You are human.” Her wrinkled mouth split into a grin, and it was almost comforting, like the smile of a long-lost aunt. Someone you have no real connection to, but they’re family, nonetheless. Araya didn’t really fit the bill for that. 

“I guess so.”

“Well, I don’t suppose you need somewhere to stay, cucaracha?” Araya’s grin didn’t falter, “I have a feeling our family could use someone as stubborn as you.”

“I swear to God, if you just called me ‘cockroach’,” Stiles pressed his eyes shut. Then he shook his head, sitting up with a start, “Wait, what?” He blinked, “You…” His brows fell, “Araya, you can hear what I’m saying, right? Kill me. Just kill me. I— Morte?? No, that’s French… Muerte—! ”

“I don’t want you dead, Mijo,” she said softly, “Not when you’re no longer one of them. You have no business dying at my hand, now. So take the offer, or leave. I don’t care too much either way.”

“You…” he was almost lost for words, but it was nearly impossible to make Stiles Stilisnki speechless, “Like… A room? For free?”

Araya shrugged, “It’s what family does, no?”

And Stiles had gotten just sick enough of sleeping in his Jeep to agree. He hadn’t realised what, exactly, he was agreeing to until the tests started.

For a brief while, he was fine. His room was small, and unkempt, but it had four walls and a roof and a gated window with floral curtains and a bed and, slowly but surely, Stiles was getting used to it. He didn’t know how long he’d stay out here. If he’d go home. If anyone would come for him. He would not admit the way his throat would catch at the sight of wavy blonde hair, or brunette plaits, or broad shoulders and leather. After a while, it stopped. His eyes moved on just as easily as they would if he’d never known them. As if they would’ve made it here without him hearing about it, anyway, with Araya smirking over at him constantly. 

Every glass of whiskey tasted like shame. It tasted like Theo’s name on his lips and glaring golden eyes. Gloating smiles and Derek’s disappointment. It didn’t stop him, though. He couldn’t stop. 

He’d never felt as weak as he did those first few days. 

Araya had a weird way of remedying that.

He’d been at the club, lazily entertaining the bartender’s small talk, the same one who served him that Spring with a silver bullet in his whiskey, when a group of men had wandered in. Nothing special. Nothing new. Stiles was still learning the faces of the regulars, only just getting into the levels of people watching he knew he could achieve in a place like this. Because here, he wasn’t special. He was just a human. One perpetually on thin ice, admittedly. He’d been hunted by the Calaveras once before. He’d been caught. And he’d tricked them. They didn’t treat him too kindly. 

Except for that bartender. Emphasis on the ‘too’. Stiles desperately wanted him to back the fuck up. 

He barely registered the people behind him until the bartender looked up. 

“El Rojo,” a voice said, low and deep. 

Stiles blinked. He met the bartender’s eyes. The guy pursed his lips and turned away to start wiping down the bar a metre or two away. This fickle asshole. 

Stiles turned back over his shoulder, blinking up at the unreasonably huge man behind him. His eyes darted around them for a moment, and, yeah, that guy was looking at him. Talking to him. The first person since Araya or this insufferable bartender to do so in a long time.

“Say what?” He muttered, as his eyes caught a particularly gnarly scar above the man’s eyebrow. 

“El Rojo,” the man said, nodding slowly, “You shouldn’t be here.”

Stiles squinted for a second before his eyes rolled, “Fuck off, man. I’m just tryna have a drink, alright—?”

He watched as his drink was torn from his hands and tossed to the floor. The glass shattered, and whiskey spilled, and Stiles stared for a moment, hand hovering in the air. His teeth clashed. And he took a slow breath.

“I was drinking that,” he said mildly. 

“Supernatural scum aren’t allowed around here, El Rojo,” that voice drawled. Stiles just bit at his cheek for a moment. 

His lips pursed, turning back to the man, “Yeah? What’re you gonna do about it, huh, big guy?”

There was a sharp smile, and then a fist was swinging. Stiles grabbed that thick, hard wrist, yanking it down to force the man’s momentum forward, slamming his skull into the bar and almost wincing at the thunk. The man stayed there, slumped, knees against the floor, and Stiles had only a brief second to wonder how weak he had to be to already be out cold.

But the man wasn’t alone. And Stiles was. 

Maybe today, he’d finally die. 

He choked as someone yanked his collar back, dragging him off the bar stool as his feet kicked out beneath him. He reached up, blindly swinging, hooking his fingers in the guy’s mouth and yanking down. That mouth slammed shut, teeth clenching down onto stiles’ knuckles, and he shouted as he swung his foot back to force his heel into the other man’s shin. He stumbled, and as he opened his mouth to groan, Stiles pulled his hand back. The hold on his shirt loosened, and Stiles leapt forward to grab the stool he’d been sat on. 

The wood shattered and splintered as he swung around to smash it against the man’s skull. 

He laid still. 

And then there was one. 

And then there was a gun, pointed at Stiles’ head, at eye-level. And even while waiting for the world to swallow him whole, Stiles couldn’t stop himself. 

Disarming people was something he’d practised almost too often, if the way he didn’t even think about it was anything to go by. He grabbed the barrel, shoved it upward and grabbed the back of the gun to swing it down, listening for the snap as the man’s finger fractured under the pressure, dropping the gun to the floor and almost howling in pain. Stiles rolled his eyes as he yanked him closer, tugging at his ear to look behind it. 

The candy skull tattooed there was bold. New. But real. And so Stiles let go. He shoved him backwards, sending him stumbling to the floor. He watched the man clutch at his hand, face scrunched up as he groaned and groaned. 

Stiles was tired. 

He dragged a new stool over to replace his old one, a shattered mess of wood at his feet, and lifted himself into the seat. 

“Another whiskey, please.”

“Shot?”

“Glass. Neat. Fill that shit to the brim.”

The bartender had a bitten smile on his face as he poured the drink, slid it toward him, and watched Stiles cheers the unconscious body resting against the bar beside him. He downed it in one.

Araya watched him with too much pride from that back door.

From that day on, the name stuck. ‘El Rojo’. Stiles thought it was pretentious and inaccurate. It just reminded him of that damn video. Stiles was not red, anymore. It didn’t count. Araya told him to just grin and bear it. At least, he was pretty sure that’s what she said. He couldn’t understand her when she spoke Spanish. It was another thing she snapped at him to get over. ‘Learn the language, or learn to be confused’, she’d said. Stiles had nodded as he shut the fuck up. 

It was weird, the conflict in his body. Flitting between helpless, ordinary human – the boy he’d been for so long – and… this. Being just as capable of violence, of murder, of terror, as the monsters he was so terrified of becoming. Remaining, even. The becoming had happened a long time ago. 

When had it happened? Was it when the blade pierced through Scott’s stomach? Was it when he snapped Peter’s neck, and his mother’s violet turned to that gorish red? Was it when he drowned himself, long-since unconscious, for Derek to find? Was it when he cut Deucalion in half; when he burned his mother alive? Was it when he made Derek watch him bleed out in his arms?

Theo had taken too much from him. Stiles could not think of anything else. His magic, his power, his place in that town, Derek, his own fucking father. It was one of the few things that kept Stiles going; stopped him from just putting a gun to his temple and ending it then and there: Theo Raeken was still alive. And Stiles hadn’t killed him, yet. 

Killing Theo was the only thing that could drag Stiles back to that town. That, and Derek himself. But Stiles had not received so much as a text. No calls. No word of mouth. Nothing. 

It was over. Wasn’t it.

Maybe he would still become Him, but he would be an even better liar than he thought. And it was with that thought that Stiles drank himself stupid more often than not. 

He didn’t know why he drank. It was just a habit, now. Something his mind reached for with every minor inconvenience. Something his hands just did when he wasn’t even thinking. It never tasted particularly good, not the whiskey he drank most often, and it hardly felt good to be as wasted as he would get. To be flitting in and out of consciousness with his cheek smushed against the cold lid of a toilet bowl. But he couldn’t stop. Somehow, it made him feel better. Somehow, it felt like going home. 

Sitting in a dark corner of the club, blinking slowly at whoever was talking his ear off, trying to touch and feel while he shrugged their hands off. He was spoken for, he’d tell them. They’d pout and back off. Most of the time, at least. When they didn’t, he’d give a warning look to the nearest security guard before he smashed the nearest glass over the asshole’s head. Man, or woman. He wasn’t picky. And he wasn’t under any false belief that women were weaker. He knew the strongest of them. 

It shouldn’t have been so fun. It was not supposed to be. And, really, it wasn’t. Stiles didn’t feel much of anything there. But his skin buzzed, and his ears rang, and whenever he wasn’t passed out or puking, he felt more alive than he had in years. The understanding that, at any moment, someone could try to hurt him, that he could do whatever he wanted to stop them, that there were no rules here. They wanted him dead. And that was something he could never be. It was a fascinating thing to get to know. 

Stiles Stilinski was not immortal. But he was pretty damn close. 

For three weeks, he was being tested. Toyed with. Pushed to the brink. If he didn’t listen, he’d be thrown to the streets and the ‘real enemy’ could have their way with him. There was no face to that enemy. No symbol. No infamous name. But Araya had looked as grave as ever as she told him all about the way his video had spread. The rumours that had travelled about ‘El Rojo’. He was sure the smug look on her face only came about because she realised how fast he lost his appetite. 

He hated her. 

He hated all of them. 

They killed people like his friends. They tried to actually kill his friends. And somehow they’d deluded themselves into believing he wanted nothing to do with those friends. He wanted nothing to do with Theo Raeken, and that was it. It just happened to be that Theo was right about one thing. His friends were better off without him. 

He was sure of that when a new name popped up in the loud chatter of drunken hunters, over popping champagne bottles and booming EDM. It was all terrible. Stiles had sunken deeper into his booth seat and closed his eyes, for just a moment of freedom from the flashing lights.

“They’re calling him the Hunter of Hunters,” someone shouted, “The fucker’s been running around executing people. Human people.”

Stiles’ jaw clenched, only a little. Only for a moment.

“Araya’s got us on alert,” that same person continued, over the outraged cries of the others, “Any leads, and we bring them straight to her.”

Someone said something in Spanish, and he replied just so. 

Stiles took another sip of his champagne. And he did not think about the blood he’d scrubbed off his hands that evening. He did not think about the inebriated rage, the lack of control. He did not think about the execution.

He was not hunting. He was not a hunter. But the hate was pretty compelling, especially paired with familiar faces. Like the hunters who’d shot at his pack, the man who’d tried to torture him that Spring, the one who’d electrocuted Scott a million lifetimes ago. He recognised some faces from La Iglesia. Those ones got a free pass. They had a common enemy, back then. 

Most of the time, Stiles would just have one drink too many and wake up with an ache in his shoulder, blood on his skin, and a raging headache. It was like being Void again. At least that was familiar. 

He had never been so unsure of who he was. It was terrifying.

But ‘El Rojo’ was something. He was the terrifying one. He was merciless, so terrible he’d managed to get Araya to want him bad enough to forget everything he’d sworn himself to for so long. He was an impulsive, cruel thing. ‘The Hunter of Hunters’ was even easier to place. It was a role. A code to follow. It was some sort of morality. Vengeance. 

Every moment Stiles caught a glimpse of his reflection, he was met with more confusion than anything. He didn’t recognise himself. The long hair, the dark circles beneath his eyes, the bruises and scratches, the build-up of muscle beneath his clothes, and the constant, angry furrow of his brow. This life was wearing him down, and building him up, both in the worst of ways. 

He hadn’t thought he could get worse. 

He wouldn’t bet on getting any better. 

When Araya called him to that room – the grey, horrible place he’d prayed he’d never see again – he thought he’d been caught. He’d expected, with tight fists and sharp eyes, that the gun in Araya’s hand would be raised to his forehead without question. But it was not. There were two people, knelt on the floor, a black man with buzzed hair, and a blonde woman with wide, brown eyes. So close, but so far. The man was too slender, and the woman too old. 

Araya handed that gun to him, and spoke so simply, “Kill them.”

Stiles looked down at the little silver weapon. He slowly slid it from her hold. He felt the weight, the cold metal. Turning it over in his hands for a second, he met her eyes again. She just nodded to him. 

He clicked off the safety. He rested his finger against the trigger. 

Araya smiled, and said, “The first kill is the hardest.”

But Stiles had more blood on his hands than the rest of them. And there was no going back.

 

-

 

He missed Derek. More than anything. He missed talking to him, and kissing him, and holding him, and knowing he would always be there. To save him, to fix him, to laugh with him. He missed Star Wars movie marathons and violent arguments over DC characters. He missed the kindest man he’d ever met. He missed his partner.  

This break had gone on for too long. The hatred could only keep him going for so long, and he could feel his limit growing closer. And closer. 

But, still, no one had come. They’d texted. Some of them. Erica had done enough for the rest of them, honestly. He just couldn’t bring himself to answer her. Peter was the only one he did. And he only answered him once. He told him what he needed to know, and Peter asked no further questions.

He could only pray Theo hadn’t done anything.

What if that was why no one had come? They were all already gone?

He scowled into his glass as he took another lazy sip.

“You’re gonna kill yourself if you keep that up,” a voice said.

Stiles would’ve frozen still if he could stop swaying. His heart almost stopped, though. And his stomach ached, and his blood turned to ice, and he looked to his right. He was all too aware of the slowness of his body, the way the earth was trying to pull him down through the scuffed bar beneath his elbows. He was in no position to be seeing this woman again.

That hunter, a girl whose name he’d never learned, with her fiery red hair and dead eyes, sat beside him, nursing a beer. 

Stiles blinked once, then twice, “Should you be here?”

“Should you?” She countered, taking a small sip. 

“You framed them,” Stiles said, eyes narrowed, “That was you, right?”

The woman gave him an incredulous look, “God, you need some coffee, or something. Yes, that was me. They got me back for it. At least I’m human. The hell are you doing here?”

Stiles just tapped the spot behind his ear, sniffling absentmindedly as she shifted to look. Her brows slowly rose, darker than her red hair, though it was the darkest red he’d seen that still looked natural. Not that he could really tell the difference. 

Those brows furrowed, “What?” 

Stiles shook his head, pointing at that spot again, the spot where he’d swallowed down the nausea as that buzzing tattoo gun was brought to his skin and the tiny grabbing stabs began, “Calavera. I am one now.”

“Yeah, I see that, smartass, how?” Her face was scrunched up, and she leant forward, “You faked your death after you beat the shit out of Araya. You’re not human.”

Stiles burped, lifting that finger to point at the ceiling, “Correction, was not human.” He swept that hand out, “I’m all-natural these days.” He sniffled again, his chin tilting down, “The hell have you been up to?”

She shrugged, “Got tortured for a bit. Been moving around a little. Just… surviving.”

Stiles barked out a laugh, “I hear that.” And he swallowed, dry, looking down at his near-empty glass, “I’m sorry about your… friend. It was self-defence. I’m not proud of it. Never was.”

She was quiet for a moment, before she said, “I know. I don’t want to kill you back, anymore, if it helps.”

“You never did,” Stiles muttered, “You wanted to kill Derek.”

He should’ve killed her now. It was her fault Derek was in danger. That he had to die. It was her fault he had that scar across his throat, her fault he met Araya here, her fault he was kept in a room only meters away for weeks, that he came back here to die. 

He should’ve killed her in that parking lot when he had the chance. 

“Where, um…” she trailed off for a moment, “Where is he?”

Stiles just shrugged, “Dunno. Home. He’s either fine, or dead, or dying, or curled up, happy as a clam, full wolf style.” He pressed his lips into a thin line as he turned back to her. 

She almost pouted, “Shame. I liked him. He was nice.”

“He is.”

And they fell to silence. Only them. The rest of the club was still blaring, shouting, grinding, singing along to shitty music Stiles still hadn’t grown to like. He sat there, tapping with rough fingers against the sides of his glass, staring. Neither spoke for a long, long time.

Stiles just wanted to see Derek. 

“Have you ever…” the woman started, “Have you ever had someone say something to you that you later… You later felt like it was meant for you now, more than when they said it?”

Stiles blinked over at her, squinting as he muttered, “Okay, either I’m too drunk, or that made no fucking sense.”

“I mean when you…” she sighed, “When you let me live. You said that Derek would’ve let me go, and that’s why you did it.”

It put a bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth, worse than the aftertaste of the whiskey, “Yeah, I do that a lot.”

“It made me a lot more… merciful,” she said softly, looking over at him. He blinked back. She smiled, in an upside-down sort of way. A bittersweet almost-frown. “I don’t have anyone in my life to push me to be better. So, I try to be that person.”

“That’s great,” Stiles said plainly, “Wonderful. Magical, even. Why the fuck are you telling me this? Why are you here?”

“I got a new gig,” she said, “Hunting, still, but more… finding.” She reached into her pocket, pulled something out, something thin and rectangular and placed it on the table. She slid it across to him. “We’re always looking for new talent. And I can’t keep watching these murders get more violent.”

Stiles shook his head, “What murders?”

“The Calaveras,” she said simply, looking down at her beer, and glancing around herself only a little, “I didn’t peg you for a hunter, but I guess it makes sense. I’d be angry, too.”

Stiles huffed out a laugh, leaving the card where it was, a little black shape against the dark brown of the bar, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Sure, you don’t,” she slid off the chair, sighing, tapping the card with her nails, “Just take it. Call, or don’t. Makes no difference to me.” She smiled up at him, that side-swept red hair barely moving as she nodded to the side, “Wanna dance?”

He frowned down at the card, taking it into his hands, “I’m good. I think I’m gonna go for a walk.”

She clapped him on the shoulder, “Alright, Rojo. Don’t die. You could be really good.”

He said nothing as she walked away. He hadn’t expected that. Any of it. Not the card, with a phone number printed in white and nothing else, not her, whose name he still hadn’t gotten, not the recognition of someone who knew him beyond this place. Someone who’d tried to kill him in his own town. Someone who almost did.  

His stool scraped against the floor as he stepped down to the floor. He didn’t look back as he slipped through the crowd to the club’s entrance, his exit, and nodded goodbye to the bouncer. He’d snatched a bottle from a table he passed on his way out. He didn’t check what it was. 

The narrow streets were dark. It was long past midnight, closer to morning, now, and the city was mostly asleep. A few night shift workers milling about, a drunken group of friends here and there. For the most part, it was quiet. And cool. And Stiles could breathe.

There was a lingering feeling that he was being watched. 

Stiles ignored it. 

He walked, and he walked, as he did most days, utterly aimless. 

He wanted to go home. Home just wasn’t so simple anymore. His body couldn’t tell the difference between wanting to go back to Derek, or their apartment, or to some distinct moment of his childhood that he could never get back. Like he’d tried to tell Theo, you can’t change the past.

And you can’t run from the future. It’s always going to be ahead of you. He shouldn’t have left Derek behind. And blind faith is, with bitter malice, the killer of devotion. 

It wasn’t his fault Derek had been so devoted.

But he’d given up on trying to stop it, hadn’t he. He’d stopped begging him to leave, when the thought of being without him grew impossible to face. And maybe he’d always known how terrible he was for him. How badly he hurt him. He’d burned down his childhood home in front of him, burned his uncle alive, taken him back to the most sensitive part of his past, dragged him away from everything he knew, killed himself, some of Kate Argent’s last words were her saying how alike they were. 

Derek deserved better than him. 

They all did. 

Maybe, without him, something special would happen. Maybe Derek would become a True Alpha, and they’d get the leader they deserved. An honest, forgiving, earnest man who loved. Not Stiles. A liar, a man so filled with hate, a murderer. 

It had never been necessary. 

Maybe Derek could be like Scott. He could figure it out. He could find a way. He could save them.

Stiles’ eyelids were growing heavy, and the ground beneath his feet had not been paved for a long time. It was thick rocks and dry dirt. It was metal. His foot caught on something solid, and he tumbled to the floor. 

That stolen bottle was nearly empty now. Stiles hated feeling so heavy. But he was too tired to care. His eyes couldn’t stay open. But he felt his fingers tapping.

One, two, three, four, five.

On his wrist, that bracelet still sat. Its knot tied tight. Unmoving.

Stiles took a moment to breathe. Heat rose to his cheeks, not for any particular reason. Maybe heat from the alcohol, maybe something else. Bodies were weird. He knew that. 

It was like the ground beneath him was unstable. It was digging into him, sending out dull throbs of pain from where he’d landed when he fell. He didn’t know how long he’d been there. 

There is a world, somewhere else, where this all never happened. Stiles wanted to visit. He’d find himself, and the envy would expel green bile from his throat, and his own blood would paint the world black. Something else would’ve happened to him, then. It still would not be this. He couldn’t choke on his own tears if he was dead. This black suit would never be worn, and he wouldn’t have had a chance to learn what loss was.

There was a distant sound. Like a trumpet. 

It was getting closer. 

Stiles tried not to listen. He didn’t know what it was. 

There was a strange sensation through his body. A tension, buried deep beneath the alcohol-induced looseness, like he was waiting for something.

He wasn’t waiting.

But the light caught his attention. That trumpetting sound, so obnoxious, cutting through the haze like the rocks against his scarred back through the black fabric. He turned to that light, squinting at the burn, considering. Why was it getting closer? 

The ground was rumbling, and the light was getting closer, and the sound was getting louder, and higher, and Stiles’ temple rested back on cold metal. 

He heard a whisper over the sound. 

And he was aware. Too aware. Of the train coming toward him, the tracks he was laid across, the weight of his body and the sheer lack of a will to move. He could hear thudding, and the crunching of stone, and someone calling out his name. He couldn’t tell what was real. He just stared into that light. Golden-white. His hands no longer shrouded in darkness, the lines of black running up into his badly-folded sleeves. 

What would remai—

His body was dragged across the rocks, pulled up by his shoulders, dragging at his clothes, and almost throwing him to the floor. His hands clashed against stone, cut with little sharp edges, and that trumpeting sound got so high, and so loud, before it started to fade. The train rumbled like the heaviest of thunders as it passed. It left with the harshest of winds.

Stiles was gasping. His heart pounding in his chest. 

That was one way to sober up. 

A hand was touching his cheek, calloused fingers brushing against his skin, and Stiles moved back as he tried to steady himself on his hands. He blinked hard and fast as he looked up into the new darkness, the train long gone.

Derek stared back at him. Horrified. 

The sight hit Stiles like an electric shock, a sinking feeling deep in his chest, “Derek.”

The man’s face contorted in anger, then, a spiteful curl of lip and furrowed brow, “Stiles. What the hell were you thinking?!” He roared, smacking Stiles on the shoulder. He almost fell to the side. Derek looked down, for a split second, then back up, “You could’ve died!”

And Stiles could’ve sobbed, hearing his name for the first time in weeks.

Instead, he steeled himself, swallowed down the bile and shrugged his uneven shoulders, “I don’t die. But thanks.” He pressed his eyes shut, shaking his head as he nudged Derek away, “My knight in shining armour.”

Derek was quiet, after that. For a long while. Stiles rolled to his side, sitting on the rocks, feeling bad for himself. This was ridiculous. This couldn’t be happening.

“Are you real?” He asked weakly as he looked over at the wolf. Derek’s jaw was clenched tightly shut. 

“Stiles, we should go,” he said in lieu of an answer, reaching over to pull at Stiles’ wrist. Stiles fell into the touch too much, still just as weightless as he had been. The alcohol had been forced out of his brain, but his body wasn’t catching up. He got to be aware of every stupidly embarrassing loss of autonomy. Yippee.  

“You really came?” Stiles whimpered, feeling his eyes start to burn, “You came to get me?”

Derek’s brows curved, that sorry little look, meaningless after four weeks of fucking nothing, “How much have you had, Stiles?”

And that left him speechless. That was as nothing as the rest of it. It was the first time they’d seen each other in a month, and it was nothing. The train was gone, and Stiles was cold, and Derek Hale had nothing more to say to him than to ask how much he’d had to drink. 

There was nothing.

Stiles’ eyes narrowed, his head shaking lazily, “Just go home. I don’t need this.”

“No,” Derek snapped, “I came all this way, I’m not going back without you.” And his hands were pulling at Stiles’ arms again, trying to force him to stand. He couldn’t.

“I don’t want to go back there,” Stiles whispered into the breeze. 

Derek’s hands tightened, “We need you, Stiles.”

He just shook his head. It probably could’ve worked, if Derek had said it before he left. If he’d said anything, not left him alone in their empty apartment with nothing but a dripping faucet and a multipack of Gin & Tonic cans for company. He left him to get blackout drunk alone at some bar he’d never been to before. He let Theo take him. 

Stiles didn’t want to consider that Theo might’ve been right about Derek. But he… He just…

“Theo needs you, Stiles,” he said.

And Stiles almost couldn’t look at him. In the same way, he couldn’t look away. 

“Is there something wrong with your brain, Derek?” He spat, venom spitting past his lips with no way of stopping it, “I’ve spent the last month here, alone, for a reason, smartass. The things I’ve done… Are you okay? Did you hit your head when you dragged me off the tracks, or what?”

 “He tried to kill me,” Derek said quickly. Like it hurt him. It probably did. Derek was never good at admitting he was wrong. Mostly because he never was. 

Stiles just shrugged, “Cool. Not really wanting to help him any more than I did five seconds ago.”

“If you give him what he wants,” Derek said slowly, “If you let him go back in time, he’ll be gone. I won’t have to watch you kill a child, and you won’t have to get your hands any bloodier.”

“My hands,” Stiles spoke slowly, too, slower than Derek with the amount of alcohol in his system that he had – near-death-experiences be damned, it wasn’t an IV drip or a burrito the size of a horse, “can’t help him. Not without my spark. Or my grimoire.” It felt too hard to breathe, now, and the sickness was starting to take over the emptiness, “I don’t wanna fucking talk about this, Derek, I just almost got hit by a train. Can’t you at least pretend to care? About me, and not Theo fucking Raeken??”

Derek’s face scrunched up as if he were actually confused, “You think I don’t…”

Stiles licked his lips, watching Derek watch him. He felt his eyelids droop shut again, his head falling, “Just go. I want to sleep.”

“I… You’re not sleeping here,” Derek said firmly, “Where can I take you? Do you… Do you have somewhere to go?”

Stiles’ eyes shut tighter, as his cheeks lifted with his smile, “I don’t know if they’d let you in, Derek.” Then his brows furrowed, and he shook his head, slow and lazy, “No. No, you can’t take me home. They’ll… They’ll hurt you.”

“Who?”

He kept shaking his head. His throat held that well-known knot. 

“Stiles, who is going to hurt me?”

He couldn’t say it out loud. He couldn’t admit what he’d done. The lows he’d stooped to so quickly, with absolutely no resistance. An offer of a bed and free drinks, and Stiles had thrown out every moral standing he’d ever carried. At sixteen, he’d had a stronger backbone than this. It was terrible. He was terrible.

Those calloused fingertips brushed the dirty hair behind Stiles’ ear. His head was tilted, just so, to the side, as he tried fruitlessly to pull back. He heard the sharp breath. He felt Derek’s eyes drilling into him. He just kept his closed eyes staring down at the ground. 

The things he’d done. The person he’d become. It was all as nothing as what Derek was doing for him, now. 

But Derek didn’t say anything about his tattoo, or the shattered bottle on the tracks, just pulled him bodily to his feet and let Stiles rest his full weight on his arm. Stiles was dead on his feet, so swamped with exhaustion that he almost passed out standing up. He was only faintly aware of his feet moving along the ground, of the gravel and stone turning to solid, smooth paving. The occasional crack beneath him. 

His throat felt so thick. His body felt so heavy. 

“I love you,” he heard himself say, a crack-filled little whimper. Derek’s arm tightened around him. “I’m sorry I made you hate me.”

“I…” Derek’s voice was so far away, a tiny sigh, “I wish I could hate you, Stiles.”

“You love me?” He hiccuped, “Still?”

Derek just held him tighter. Kept him upright. 

It felt like something so terrible when Derek answered so sadly, “Always.”

 

-

 

They barely made it home, with Stiles resolutely shaking his head ‘no’ every time Derek asked for directions, hiding his face in the older man’s neck to avoid the frustration in his eyes. He was angry – the tight curl of his fingers and the stiffness of his stare was enough evidence to be sure of that. Stiles had pissed him off again. They’d barely been back together for half an hour, and Stiles had already screwed up. 

No one was by the door when they got there. It was about a fifty-fifty chance – not a matter of timing of shifts, just luck. There was either someone there, or there wasn’t. It wasn’t security, just a presence. Stiles stumbled up the old, beige stairs, passed the big hole in the paint job at the top of his flight, the crack in the wall by his door, and he moved to pat his pockets, feeling for his keys.

There was nothing. So Stiles blinked lazily at the handle for a moment, before he brought his leg up and slammed it forward. 

The door splintered and cracked at the lock, thrown open, and Stiles fell in, bracing himself against a sharp piece of exposed wood in the doorframe. His head was pounding. He was dizzy, and nauseous, and moments away from falling into a twelve-hour sleep that would end as he woke with a start and had to rush to the toilet bowl. It always did. 

Then hands were on him, again, guiding him into the room, that low voice muttering encouragements in his ear. His bedsheets were practically screaming at him, calling him in. It didn’t take much for him to start swaying toward them.

“No, hey,” Derek said, “Bathroom.”

Stiles shook his head, eyes slipping shut again, “Bed.”

“You need to puke, Stiles,” Derek said, “And you need water. You need to sober up.”

“I need to rest,” Stiles said, so weak now, “I can puke and drink water in bed. That’s what the lavandería’s for.”

“I’m not letting you sleep in a pool of your own vomit, Stiles.”

After a moment, he sighed, and shrugged, “Wouldn’t be my worst night’s sleep here.”

And then Derek was pulling him toward the little bathroom attached to his room. He winced as the wolf flipped the big light on, all harsh yellow light. It was too late for the big light. His hands were sloppy as they wiped at his eyes. 

Then came the sound of running water. At least Derek wasn’t waterboarding him with it, this time. That had been a bad, bad day. 

He’d taken that bad day for granted. Who cared if his mom was a little scary? He still had her. He had his parents, and they were in love, and they didn’t hate him, and they were both alive. What did a threatening hand on the shoulder matter? She was there to do it. That was what mattered. 

Stiles had ruined everything.

He didn’t realise he was crying until Derek was wiping the tears away. 

“Come on,” the man said softly, “Shower. Clothes off.”

Stiles sniffled, “At least take me out to dinner first.”

“I would if I didn’t know you’d just throw it all up.”

Stiles just huffed, and fell forward. His head slammed into something – a stomach? A chest? – and he still didn’t open his eyes. 

“You love me,” he said, slurred, and he could recognise that. He wasn’t stupid enough not to notice the way Derek had always looked at him differently when he was drunk. Even when he was just a little tipsy. Especially then, actually. Because, then, he was just louder, and laughed more, and didn’t really understand personal space, and something about it seemed to make Derek want to run away every time. At least, now, wasted beyond all hope, Derek had something to do. He had someone to save. He was always fucking saving him. Stiles’ lip curled into a frown, “And I love you, too.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice was downright desperate, now, “Please. Just get in the shower.”

And his heart ached. He sounded sad. And Stiles couldn’t bear making Derek sad. That wasn’t right. That wasn’t what he did. Or, what he was meant to do, at least. He’d made Derek sad, in reality, more times than he could count. Some of it wasn’t his fault, some of it certainly was. He deserved none of it.

He deserved better than dragging a helpless Stiles around a bathroom in a shitty studio apartment in a comparatively beautiful part of Mexico City. 

Stiles was hardly conscious until the water hit his face. He didn’t remember taking his clothes off. He just let go. Let the cold water snap him back, let it force his mind to reality even if it did nothing to change how death-like he’d feel when he woke up tomorrow. He needed food. He really needed food. 

Derek was a perfectly capable man. He didn’t need help, he didn’t need Stiles to tell him where he kept his clothes, or what he needed. He was smart, and he knew how to live alone in all the ways Stiles had barely caught up to in that past month. Derek was soft, like the fabric he was pulling up Stiles’ hips and down over his head and chest. He was gentle, like the way he laid Stiles down on his bed, and moved to leave.

Stiles was as harsh as the way he grabbed his collar to stop him. Stiles was as desperate as the kiss he pulled him into. He was as pathetic as the whine he let out when Derek pulled back and shook his head.

“You’re drunk, Stiles,” Derek said, as if he didn’t already know that, but he laid down beside him instead of walking away, wrapping him tight in his arms and letting Stiles hold him back. “Go to sleep.”

And Stiles was already gone.

 

-

 

The next day – the same day, around five PM that afternoon – Stiles’ eyes dragged open, aching, to stare over at his shattered front door. He groaned, entirely to himself, and shoved his face further into his tattered pillow. Moving did nothing more than let his body know he was awake and ready to be tortured, though, and the nausea hit him almost instantly. There was a split second where he genuinely considered just letting it all out on the sheets. But then someone was talking, pulling him out of bed, ushering him to the bathroom, and catching him as his knees slammed into the tile beneath the toilet. 

His throat burned as he expelled pure liquid. As he gasped for air, cleared that burning throat, and felt his stomach clench before it started up again. 

A hand rubbed gently up and down his spine as the other held his hair back from his face, not saying a word until Stiles had stopped. His stomach settled. His mouth tasted like death, and rubbing alcohol. His nose was almost running. He reached over for a piece of toilet paper, blew his nose, tossed the paper in the toilet, grabbed another to wipe his mouth, did the same, spat one last time, and flushed it all away. 

When he sat back, he could see Derek sat beside him. Those seaglass eyes were not as patient as his comforting hands had been.

Derek’s mouth fell open for a short moment, then slammed shut before it opened to allow the question to slip past his lips – harsh and demanding, “You joined the Calaveras?”

Stiles’ eyes twitched, “And here I was thinking you stayed because you care about me.”

“Stiles,” Derek snarled, “I’m asking because I care. You’re going to get yourself killed.”

“Yeah, well, maybe that’s the point.”

Derek’s face didn’t change. He showed no concern, no fear. Just frustration. And the slow breaths of a man holding back. 

“I’m done, Derek,” Stiles shook his head, “There’s nothing for me there. Okay?” He swallowed, “You’re all better off without me. If I die here, then I die here.”

“I thought we agreed no dying,” Derek tilted his head, “I thought you couldn’t die.”

“And I thought I was the Alpha,” Stiles countered. He ran his tongue over his teeth, the sleep and sick and alcohol so horrid-tasting, “And I thought I was someone who was worthy of someone like you. I mean, look at me.” He met Derek’s too-intense stare, “Am I really someone you want to marry, right now?”

“No.”

Stiles blinked.

Derek shrugged, saying plainly, “You’re not. But you can be. You have been. You will be. So get it together, and be the guy we both know you are. Because this isn’t you, and it’s getting old now.”

Somehow, that brought a smile to Stiles’ face, despite the sickness, “Hm. You almost sound like you used to. When we were younger. You were so angry.”

“Well, funnily enough, I’m angry now,” Derek snarled, “I’m angry, because my boyfriend up and left without so much as a note. A text, a call, anything—”

“You didn’t text or call, either.”

“Yeah, well, I’m not the one branded by hunters now,” Derek snapped. Too loud. They— He didn’t even have a door. Someone would hear this. 

So Stiles swallowed whatever he wanted to say down – as if there was anything, at all – to say, instead, “Yeah. So you really shouldn’t get your hopes up. Blind faith, Derek.” He gave him a high-browed look, “It doesn’t have the best reputation, I hear.”

Derek’s brows met, “Is that why you left? Because Theo said—” He pressed his eyes shut for a moment, blinking them open to stare off into space, that frustrated squint of his eyes seeming awfully permanent, now, “Jesus Christ, Stiles.”

“No, I left because Theo kidnapped me,” Stiles said slowly, “and read all of Dr. Senta’s notes about me. And about you. And us.” Derek’s eyes began to dart. Stiles’ narrowed, “I left because he took my spark, my grimoire, and my pack, and you, and my dad. I’m done. And I couldn’t help him even if I wanted to. So, seriously, Derek. You should go home.”

“Without you?”

Stiles licked his lips, “You lasted four weeks, didn’t you?” He tilted his head to the side, “And I don’t see a whole lot of people joining you in the fight to bring me home.”

Derek said nothing to that, for a while, before he huffed out – so quiet Stiles could barely make it out over the pounding of his head, “This was easier when I could blame it on a demon.”

Something, somewhere, creaked.

“What?”

“Trying to kill yourself,” Derek said, voice just as low, not from any sort of shyness, more from distaste, or something like it, “The violence, the drinking, the…” His jaw worked for a moment, then, “When I was looking for you, I heard some… The Calaveras were talking about a hunter… Someone killing other hunters.” Derek’s eyes met Stiles’. 

He showed no reaction. He made sure of it. If his heart did anything, Derek wouldn’t know. It was fine. He didn’t really care, either way.

Maybe Derek would finally understand who he was, now. 

“Tell me that’s not you,” Derek said. Almost desperate. 

“Would it matter?” Stiles asked, shrugging, tipping his head back to rest against the wall as he shuffled back to sit against it, “Is it any different to what we were doing before we were both taken? During the Deadpool?” He watched the dread fill Derek’s stare, “It’s not like I’m killing people. Just hunters.”

And Derek took a deep breath. He schooled his features back to something neutral, but Stiles could see the tension behind it all. He could taste it. It was disgusting.

“But, yeah,” Stiles drawled, “Sorry to disappoint. Not possessed this time. It’s all me.”

Sat on the floor of his shitty bathroom, in that shitty apartment, with a shitty taste in his mouth, Stiles cemented himself as a shitty boyfriend. He had been for a long time. He’d begged Derek to leave if he ever was, hadn’t he? 

Maybe he’d just spoken it into the universe. 

Or, maybe, having a future self who had no issue with throwing the love of his life into a solid metal wall was telling enough. 

 

-

 

Derek always refused to leave. Always. He was happy to be left. But it was like pulling teeth trying to get him to be the one to do it. 

It was strange, considering where they’d started. Derek had left Beacon Hills, he’d been gone for five years. Then he’d left it all behind in New York to come back. In another life, he’d left Mexico to go somewhere Stiles honestly didn’t remember anymore, with Braeden, and had never stepped foot back in Beacon Hills. Not that he was there to see, anyway. He ran after Boyd died, and he pushed people away like it was an art. 

Was it better or worse that Derek refused to leave, now?

Stiles probably should not have drunk again, that night. 

He didn’t drink whiskey. He had just about anything but whiskey. Not for any particular reason. It’s not like he’d be taking Derek back to his room again. That place was not fit for sex, not without a door. He doubted Derek would want that, anyway. Not when they were like this. 

It didn’t change the fact that Derek never left. He didn’t leave the apartment, he didn’t leave Stiles’ side even as he nodded up to the camera by the door of the club and watched it pull open. As he nodded to the bouncer – one of many very familiar faces he could not put a name to – and sped straight to the bar. 

“Woah,” the bartender said as he got there, his accent still just as thick. Stiles had tried to speak in Spanish with him maybe three times. Never had it gone well. “Who’s your friend, Rojo?”

“Nobody,” Stiles answered, looking back at the older man as he leant against the bar, “You want anything?”

Derek’s eyes did nothing. But his brows slightly rose. A ‘no’. Either he didn’t realise he could get drunk now, as human as he was, or he wasn’t interested. Either way. Stiles knew how to take that answer.

He turned back, “Rum and Coke.” 

“Still not saying please?” The bartender teased. 

Stiles just stared at him until he smirked and moved to start making his drink. He stood in silence until the glass was in front of him, clunking against the wood. 

He met the bartender’s eyes pointedly as he said, “Thank you.”

“Wow,” the bartender said, feigning amazement, “It’s like you’re a whole new person.” His eyes darted past Stiles’ shoulder, to the wall-of-a-man stood behind him, so pleased with himself as he said, “Is this what you’re like when you’re getting laid?”

“Sure, buddy,” Stiles said as he took the glass and turned away, grabbing Derek’s wrist as he led him through the slowly growing crowd. They hadn’t said a word to each other since that conversation on the bathroom floor. Just silent, blind following, on Derek’s part. 

Classic. 

“Rojo?” Derek muttered into his ear as they walked. Stiles hummed. He didn’t look back. 

But then Derek was grabbing him, forcing him to turn around, making his arm swing out and his drink spill, and he stared at the little puddle on the floor for a moment. The liquid dripping from his hands. He swallowed down the annoyance like a thick pill. 

“Stiles, you cannot possibly want to live like this,” Derek hissed. 

Stiles looked straight at him, “What I want is to live in a little house with a picket fence, with you and our betas, and a glass of whiskey, and a cigarette. But I have no betas, and I live in an apartment in Mexico, and now I have half as much of a drink as I did before, and it’s not whiskey, and I don’t even really smoke. So.” He shrugged, “We can’t all get what we want.” 

But when he looked up, Derek wasn’t sorry. He wasn’t even looking at him. His eyes were darting. His shoulders were squared. He was really starting to piss Stiles off. 

“What?” He asked, “What’s wrong?” 

“It feels like…” Derek ground his teeth, still not looking at him, “It just feels like someone’s watching me.” 

“Well, you are standing completely still, with no drink, in the middle of a club, at midnight,” Stiles said slowly, “And no one here knows who the hell you are, so.” He shrugged, “That, or Araya’s staring at me again. She does that a lot.”

“Stiles,” Derek hissed, crowding in closer, “I’m the only wolf in a room full of hunters. Why did we have to come here??”

“You didn’t have to come anywhere,” Stiles said simply, taking a short sip of his drink, as sweet as ever, “But they’re not looking at you. You’re hardly even a wolf. And you are gorgeous.” He nodded, leaning in to press a kiss to the corner of Derek’s stiff mouth, “But you’re not me.”

Derek’s brows furrowed.

“I’m a little infamous around here,” Stiles said with a nod, “for not having any friends, or acquaintances, or hookups, or… anything. So. Either you can look a little less like a Fed I’ve dragged in here to take the operation down, or you can go home.” 

Derek just kept staring blankly at him. 

Stiles stared dumbly back, appalled, for only a moment, before he shook his head, “Dance with me, dumbass. You’re at a club. Act like it.” And he wrapped an arm around his boyfriend’s neck. It was hardly getting him to leave. But putting Derek through this place alone would be digging his grave, and Stiles couldn’t do that to him. 

This was ridiculous. 

Derek got the hint fast enough, huffing indignantly as he started to dance with him. And they were like that, for a long while, dancing in the most muted of sways and bounces, the only way you really can dance to music like that club played. Stiltedly. Unless you’re grinding. And that was most clearly not what Stiles and Derek were doing tonight. It made an unhappy knot build in Stiles’ stomach. A tangle of all the horrible thoughts, and feelings, and the understanding of just how final this was. He wasn’t going home with Derek. And Derek wasn’t staying here with him. He had to leave, whether he liked it or not. 

For a last dance, this sure was unemotional. 

And maybe it was the alcohol – a flimsy excuse, considering the pathetic amount left in his cup, and how little it would’ve done even if he had the whole thing – or maybe it was just the fact that Stiles wanted Derek with everything in him. He always had. And he always would. And, right now, he had him. And Derek was looking at him, and he was the only person in this room who knew his name. He knew his real name. He knew him. 

So Stiles kissed him. This time, Derek did not pull away. He didn’t shake his head and tell him to go to sleep. He kissed back, so desperate Stiles almost dropped his glass. Derek’s hand slid up to grab at the back of his head, holding him there, pulling him in, and Stiles didn’t care if his drink spilled anymore. He had Derek. Their lips were pulling, and each kiss made little sounds, the clicks of flesh separating, muted by the blaring music, and this was just for them. This, Theo Raeken could not take away. The way they needed each other. The way they wanted each other. He was wrong about Derek. 

That made it so much worse. 

God only knows how long they stood there, kissing, leaning against each other, until a wolf whistle snapped Stiles out of it. He pulled back, breath caught from breathing through his nose so heavily for so long, and felt his cheeks pink. Derek was looking at him so softly, again. Wanting. This wasn’t whoever he’d been while he was here. This wasn’t El Rojo. 

What a pretentious fucking name. 

God, Stiles wanted these people to burn. 

He huffed as someone, whoever’d whistled, started to speak, all Spanish, words Stiles didn’t know, and Derek spoke back, tight-browed and tense. The only words Stiles caught were ‘El Rojo’. Not very helpful, in any case. Then the guy said something that made Derek’s face contort into a frown, and he reached for the glass in Stiles’ hand, bringing it to his own mouth and downing what was left of it. He grabbed Stiles’ hand and tugged him away, slamming the glass down on the bar as they passed by. 

“We’re leaving,” he said plainly.

“Already??” Stiles whined, “Der— I only just got to hear you speak Spanish!”

Derek gave him an entirely human glare in response, and he grinned back. 

It was so easy. Always was. 

A million years ago, Stiles hadn’t wanted this. He’d taken one look at his future self and known he didn’t want Derek if it meant he’d become someone who could hurt him. He’d been so good. So naive. So simple, so morally firm. 

Looking back, he was right. 

If he’d had any idea what he was getting into when Derek shot Kate in his kitchen, he would’ve saved himself a whole lot of trouble by not throwing himself at him one floor away. He’d had a whole different life back then, when he was eighteen. He was just a kid, he realised now. Watching the betas grow up, it was so astutely clear to him just how young he’d been back when he thought it was his job to save everybody. He still did, but at least now he wasn’t essentially still a high schooler. He never even graduated. Now, he watched Allison – nineteen, now, older than he’d been when he was helping Derek train the betas, treating them like his kids when he was only three years older, at most, simply because those three years had been the longest of his life – and thought of how sweet she was. How young. How impressive she was for her age. An independent, capable, young woman. It never occurred to him, until very recently, with Allison miles and miles away, and the crawling feeling of Derek insisting Theo was ‘just a kid’ when he’d always been older than Stiles, that this life should never have been his. Not so quickly. 

It’s not like he had any say in it, for as much say as he had. He was just living out a prophecy. Tailing behind fate like a lost child in a grocery store. He’d known – even as what he would now consider far too young – that Derek was too good to be his. But Stiles loved him like he was born to do it. Maybe he was. 

Watching him now, huffing into the dim streetlamp-lit streets, storming back the familiar (to Stiles, at least) way to Stiles’ apartment building, if you could call it that, Stiles almost forgot everything that had happened. He almost forgot Theo reading out every scathing word Dr. Senta had written. He almost forgot calling Peter and begging him to save him. He almost forgot the millions of terrible moments they’d survived, together. Because they were together now. 

It was one last shot at kindness, of self-love, that moved Stiles to forget. Just for that night. 

He followed Derek as he stormed up the empty stairway, as he stared in bewilderment at Stiles’ seemingly magically repaired front door (As if the Calaveras would let one of theirs live without a front door. They didn’t care about him, but they did care about the sanctity of their operation. About safety, and about people noticing.) until Stiles let the both of them in. 

They were silent for a moment. Stiles waiting for Derek to explain why they’d had to leave, what that man had said, anything. 

When he didn’t do it himself, Stiles had to, “What the hell was that?”

The bite of his voice was not something he could forget. But Stiles’ memories, everything beyond the last half hour, were blacked out. All that he kept were the sound of Derek gasping beneath him, the look in his eyes a million years ago when Stiles scented him the first time, Derek’s dragging kiss before they fought the Oni at Oak Creek, the bright smile on his face as he told Stiles that he wasn’t blind, the way he’d handed him the keys to their apartment, his adorable scrapbooking hobby he’d picked up since he got into photography, the sweetness of his kisses, and his words, and his self – his memories were not Derek’s desperate stare as Stiles told him, plainly and firmly, that if he ever reminded him of Kate, if he ever hurt him, he had to promise to leave. They were not the Hale House burning around him, or his mother doing the same, or Derek’s terrified stare and trembling lip when Stiles came home smelling of Kate. They were not Derek, unable to look at him, spitting out the question ‘What did you do?’

Now, Derek was turning to him, looking at him, “He insulted you.”

Stiles tilted his head, “Really?”

Derek’s tongue poked at his cheek, his brows quirking up as he nodded, eyes falling. Stiles watched his hands clench at his sides. 

It was nice, seeing he still cared. That he’d still protect him. Stiles didn’t have many doubts. 

“What’d he say?” He asked. 

Derek’s eyes almost closed, wincing, his cheek quirking up in a frustrated half-smile, “Some homophobic bullshit.” His eyes still didn’t meet Stiles’. “Then he…” He scoffed, almost a laugh, “He asked if we were looking for a third.”

That made Stiles’ mouth quirk up, “Aw, and you said no?”

And Derek finally looked at him, “I’m not sharing you.”

Stiles watched his throat bob. 

The burning in Stiles’ stomach could’ve been a hundred different things. But he knew what he wanted it to be. So he took it. 

He needed him back on his lips. 

Derek moved first, with darkened eyes and a thoroughly human sound from the back of his throat, reaching out for Stiles’ jaw, whispering something close to his name. And Stiles couldn’t have held back even if he wanted to. The sheer neediness, the deep longing in his stomach, in his chest, the way his soul was fucking screaming for him. It was as desperate as the kisses they shared. Frantic, almost, pulling and pushing. The ever-strange wetness of tongues delicately overlapping. Hands grabbing, feeling, remembering skin left untouched for so long, sneaking up past shirt hems and below belts. Stiles was dizzy with it. 

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been kissed, until tonight.  

They were just as out of practice as it was muscle memory. Letting Derek lead him backwards to the bed, tripping over the other man’s feet for the first time in years in the same breath as he canted his hips up to drag that sound from Derek’s throat he felt was his birthright. Lowering the both of them to the mattress, pulling away just to shuffle himself higher, head against the pillows, as he pulled Derek back in. 

One last selfish choice. 

He pulled Derek’s Henley up off his body as he breathed him in. His muscles were harder than Stiles remembered. 

One last night with Derek.

His thumb grazed the old bullet hole scar on the side of Derek’s stomach as the man pressed him down, as he smothered him with his weight. Stiles grinned into his next slow kiss. 

Then it would be over.

He needed to remember every second of this.

Stiles had decided it before the door even shut behind them. 

 

-

 

For the first time, Stiles left marks. And Derek didn’t heal. It was the first thing he noticed when Derek started pulling his clothes back on. His boxers, then his jeans. Turned away from Stiles, stood on the opposite side of the bed, with his back curved as he got his Henley the right way around again. On either side of that triskele tattoo sat a healthy number of bright pink scratches. He had one or two trailing down his side, too. He knew what those marks felt like. As faint as the feeling was. He was no stranger to blunt nails dragging down his back.  

He pressed his cheek deeper into the pillow as he watched Derek mess with the fabric. It took a second for him to start pulling it over his arms, then his head, then his torso. And the marks were gone. 

“You’re leaving,” Stiles said into the quiet shuffling. Not asking. 

Derek barely looked over his shoulder, sniffling, “We’re leaving.”

Stiles closed his eyes, breathing slowly, waking up for the first time in weeks with no nausea, with no headache, with nothing but the steady tiredness of his body, a gentle ache of good loving, “What time is it?”

“Two-thirty,” Derek’s voice answered after a short moment, “We can make it back home before Wednesday if we leave now. Where did you park the Jeep?”

And Stiles kept breathing as he let his mouth twist into a smile, his voice a sorry sound, “Derek.”

“No.”

He opened his eyes to see Derek scowling down at him. His eyes were just as terrified as they were angry. Almost rooting Stiles to the spot. But he was well used to fear. He was used to ignoring it. He had a purplish-brown hickey at the base of his throat. Stiles’ eyes lingered there, instead of on those eyes. Too much.

“No, you’re not doing that,” Derek snapped, “You can’t… You can’t pretend that we can be us again, and then ditch me.”

Stiles considered him for a moment. He was too tired for this. And too naked. And he was leaning over the edge of the bed, the opposite side to where Derek was standing. He reached over for his underwear, shifted around until he could pull the boxers over his feet and up his legs, shaking his head as he did the same with his pants and that stupid black button-up. One of millions they’d given him, here. 

Classic, honestly. 

He was halfway buttoned when Derek spoke again, just as loud, “Stiles. Say something!”

“It’s weird,” Stiles said, musing, forcing his brain everywhere he’d hidden before, stuck on the terrible, and the sad, and the haunting, “becoming him.”

Derek went quiet. 

Stiles sniffled as he kept buttoning up the shirt, “I knew I would. Obviously. Just never thought I’d miss when it happened. Still can’t quite figure it out.” He shrugged as he considered himself covered, enough. As close to dignified as he could be. He felt the weight of Derek’s stare on his shoulders as he rose from the bed, crossing the room to yank open the door of his mini fridge and drag out a bottle of beer. Derek made something of a sound at that. Stiles just smiled to himself as he spotted his keys on the counter, the ones he’d forgotten the other night, the ones that got his door kicked in. He wrapped a hand around the lime green bottle opener, pressed it to the lip of the bottle cap, and pulled. The cap folded into a right angle, clicking off, and Stiles tossed it to the counter with the keys. He brought the bottle to his lips and took a long sip. Cold. As unimpressive a taste as any beer. He tilted his head, “I don’t know what it means that I’m not red anymore, though.”

“The colour of your eyes doesn’t change anything, Stiles.”

That bitter smile grew, “So, you agree. It happened, somehow. I am the thing I hate the most.”

“I don’t care,” Derek said, almost choked. Stiles couldn’t look at him. “I don’t care if you think that’s what’s happened. You are you, and I love you for a reason. You know he wasn’t half as bad as you always thought he was—”

“Why do you always forgive me, Derek?” Stiles spat. He turned, more to make a point than to look Derek in the eye. It hurt. It was like hands wrapping around his throat and forcing the life out of him. The fear. Stiles swallowed, “For burning down the Hale House. For every single person I’ve killed. For everything that happened with Kate. And the Nogitsune.” Derek was silent as he shook his head. A small, desperate motion. Stiles kept going, “For getting you kidnapped by that– fucking… For joining the fucking Calaveras. For slitting my own throat.”

Derek swallowed. 

Stiles tilted his head, slow, feeling a rage grow in his chest that he’d tried, for a long time now, to bury, to ignore – it was irrational, it was petty, it was selfish, it was so like him, “Is it the eyes?” He asked. Derek’s brows furrowed. Stiles’ eyes narrowed, “Or the moles? Or the fact that I won’t die like she did.”

And that did it. Derek’s posture straightened. His face turned blank, so uncaring it was like he’d forgotten who Stiles was. Like he was staring at a stranger. And maybe he was.

“You’re being ridiculous, Stiles,” Derek said plainly, “You know that, right?”

“No, you know what is ridiculous??” Stiles spat, not waiting for an answer, stepping forward to an unmoving man, “The fact that I told you for years exactly who Theo Raeken is and you still chose him over me. Is it payback? For what I did? For the illusion?”

Derek said nothing.

“I did that knowing what it would do to you, and you know exactly what Theo does to me, and you’re still taking his side!” His voice was raised far too loud. Someone would hear. Someone would hear. And Stiles didn’t give a shit, “You chose some bratty seventeen-year-old over me!” And his lip curled, “Is that what you’re into??”

Derek’s eyes darkened.

“Guess it makes sense,” Stiles spat, “I looked real young when you met me, didn’t I?!”

“I chose me over you, Stiles.”

The man blinked. Derek’s eyes weren’t hiding the hurt anymore. And Stiles couldn’t take any of that back.

“Not Theo,” the name was like a curse on his lips as Derek went on, “I know perfectly well what he’s done to you – to Scott. I know how much you hate him, and I watched him try to kill me in my own home. Trust me, I know.” His brows twitched, “But Theo lying, and killing Scott, and tricking people, and stopping at nothing to go back in time and save his family…” He shook his head, “That’s why you hate Theo so much. Not because of what he’s done, or who he’s killed. He’s done everything you’ve done, you’re just mad that he did it better.” He shrugged, “He’s smarter than you. He outsmarted you. Two timelines in a row. This is an ego thing, isn’t it? You want to literally send him to Hell for eternity because he beat you.”

Stiles paused. And a laugh was knocked out of him. A sharp, short, disbelieving laugh. 

“God, you really are shockingly easy to manipulate, Derek,” he blinked, hard, “Jesus Christ.”

Derek’s face scrunched up, “Oh, God forbid you actually acknowledge when you’re being a shitty person. You only do that when you can make me the problem for forgiving it, huh?”

Stiles laughed again, “Wow.”

And Derek made a small noise, something punched out of his throat, like a desperate sigh, “I don’t even recognise you right now, Stiles.”

The other man raised a brow, “You think that makes you special? Join the club.”

“You need help,” Derek said. Almost breathless.

Stiles swallowed, “You—”

“And I can’t give it to you.” Derek licked his lips, “I can’t save you, Stiles. Not from yourself. I can’t keep… I can’t…” He swallowed, “Just please. Come home. We can fix this.” But there was a tension to his jaw, a force to his words. 

Stiles’ heart was pounding in his chest. Breaking. 

He was lucky Derek couldn’t hear it. He might have realised Stiles didn’t actually want to do this. 

Derek still wasn’t doing it. Derek still thought he’d get the wedding he’d been planning for years, without any rings on either of their fingers. Stiles was impartial about diamonds, anyway. Derek still was trying to reason with him. Derek still was patient. Derek still was angry. And Derek still was letting Stiles stay. 

Stiles took another swig of his beer. Derek followed the motion with red-rimmed eyes. 

The weight of his heart pulled him to the floor, along with the sight of the black button-down and dress pants he wore. The knot in his throat, so tight, as he leant his head back against the edge of the bed and squeezed his eyes shut. 

“You deserve so much better than me,” he said.

Derek took in a steady breath, “No one’s perfect, Stiles.”

And Stiles shook his head, “No. You are.”

The apartment fell to silence. Stifling, suffocating silence. Stiles’ grip so tight around the neck of his bottle, he feared it might burst. He kept his eyes firmly shut.

“Blind faith is the killer of devotion,” he said. Almost to himself. The words made his chest tighten, as he pushed away the memory of Derek kissing him right after they first heard them, of the first time he ever said he loved him. “Theo was right about that.” He swallowed, “And you might not trust me. Or Theo. But you trust him.” His brows quirked up, a bitter amusement, “Because he’s me, right?” And he sobered, “So, let me be selfless. And let yourself be selfish. For once. And please… leave.” He swallowed, “Stop hurting yourself for me. I can’t take it anymore.”

It was a lie. He could take it. But Derek could not. 

It was all for him. 

To save him. 

He had to go.

And he finally opened his eyes to look up at him. At Derek, stood before him, staring down, brows furrowed. So many kisses Stiles had pressed to that furrowed brow.

“Stiles, what are you—”

“We should break up.”

Something seemed to settle. A tension released from Derek’s shoulders. A crease smoothed on his face. 

He licked his lips, took a slow breath, and nodded, “Yeah. Maybe we should.”

Stiles’ eyes narrowed despite himself, despite all of it, because what the fuck, “You should be a little more distraught about that.”

And Derek just shook his head, backing toward the door, reaching for the handle and tugging it open, “Goodbye, Stiles.” He still kept his gaze on him for as long as possible, lingering in that doorway for far too long for a man who wanted to leave, and said, “Get help.”

Stiles blinked into the empty doorway and listened to Derek’s feet retreating down the stairs. And, for the first time, he cried with no alcohol to blame. Not the two sips of beer. Not the third of a rum and Coke from last night. He cried, gasping through choked sobs, trembling lip pressed to warm glass, because of himself. And because he was so helplessly in love with Derek. And because he couldn’t have him. 

He was going to protect Derek from him. No matter what that broke. It was his pain, alone, to deal with. 

 

-

 

Stiles didn’t know how long he cried for. But it was long enough for it to properly set in that he had nothing.  

His dad despised him, Derek was gone, his pack was as good as Theo’s, and as good as dead once the Beast got involved. All he had was that stupid club, the bullshit tattoo behind his ear, the beer bottles in his fridge, a gun tucked under his mattress, and his mother’s Jeep, locked in a garage some miles away. 

And it was all, really, his own fault. He let it happen. He should’ve killed Theo and let Derek forgive him again. 

He hadn’t checked his phone in almost two weeks. 

It wasn’t really the smartest idea, wet-cheeked and exhausted, at just past 3 AM, to finally do so. 

Almost every notification was from Erica. Some from Allison, far less frantic, with no typos, unlike Erica’s messy strings of unintelligible letters and numbers. Liam had called once, and texted twice. Scott had called twelve times. Laura had called thirteen. 

He scrolled and scrolled, not looking past most recent messages and unread text counts, and call logs, and the bright white of his screen was blinding in the darkness of that room. That stupid fucking room. Given to him by those stupid fucking hunters. Who gave him that stupid fucking tattoo. His first. And the worst he could’ve possibly gotten.

What the fuck was wrong with him?

What was he doing?

It was then that the need hit him like a truck. The need for his dad. For a firm hand on his shoulder, a stern telling off. Knowing that someone understood how bad this was, and would still hug him just as tight anyway. That he’d still have clean sheets waiting for him upstairs, and he could have whatever he wanted for breakfast, and the liquor cabinet was locked. Because that was his dad’s devil, not his. And his dad refused to let Stiles take after him in any way that wasn’t worse than an unruly curiosity. 

He hadn’t seen his dad since he was eighteen.

He hadn’t known who he was. 

There was only one number Stiles wanted to call – not Derek, not his dad, not Peter, not even Erica or Allison or Scott – and his thumb found the contact before he could even think. 

He brought the phone to his ear as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

It rang for maybe six seconds. 

Too long.

Then, “Stiles?”

Derek’s voice. Technically. Not him, but the technicality didn’t change the way Stiles’ heart broke all over again at the sound – he could feel it. It hurt.

He sniffled, croaking through a sob-rough throat, “Derek.”

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice had grown in alarm so fast, “Are you okay?”

“No,” Stiles said wetly, laughing at himself now, “No. Fuck no. But that’s not… You can’t fix that. I just… Are you in Beacon Hills?”

There was a moment of sniffle-filled quiet, then Derek answered, “No. I’m not. Why?”

And Stiles just huffed, “Forget it.” He sniffled again, his throat clicking, “I just wanted to talk to my…” He felt his throat close up. And the tears welled again. He blinked them away, staring up at the crack in the ceiling like it could save him, “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“Stiles…”

“Sorry to bother you, Derek,” he said, and his stomach churned, “How are you doing? You all good?”

“Yeah… I…” Derek sighed a little, “Stiles, are you crying? What is going on?”

“Nothing,” Stiles answered on a whisper. They would be fighting Theo, too. There. His dad would be dying in a hospital bed anyway. And he couldn’t ever hear those horrid words come from his mouth ever again. The most twisted of comforts.

‘You still got me.’

He didn’t. 

He didn’t. 

“I’ll leave you to, um,” he swallowed, “Whatever you’re doing.”

“Stiles—”

“Sorry to call you in the middle of the night,” he didn’t ask why Derek hadn’t sounded the slightest bit tired. He’d answered. And that was enough. “Bye.”

“Stiles, what are you—”

And he hung up. He took in a breath so deep it made him lightheaded, and let it go fast enough to make him feel sick. Sicker, at least. That was stupid. That was incredibly fucking dumb. He needed to be shot. 

He needed to be ten years old again. He needed to forget. And, if he forgot, he couldn’t prevent it, and he couldn’t know to savour it all, but at least he’d be there. He’d have his mom, and his dad, and his comic books, and Scott, and Lydia, and humanity. Innocence. He would not be afraid of the woods. Or of water. He would not know the smell of a hospital, or of death, or of sickness, or of blood. He would hold no meaning in a dripping faucet, or a creaking door, or the fingers he traced around for school art projects. He would flail through the last of his Little League tournaments, and he would have no idea. His mother would sing in the kitchen, and his dad would not drink. 

Five minutes after he hung up on another Derek, probably up late with Braeden when he did, still sending too many follow-up texts despite the fact, Stiles received a phone call. Not from that number, saved as ‘Not My Derek (???)’ just about seven months ago. This number wasn’t saved at all. But he knew it. He had to. 

He didn’t pick up. But he did take the gun out from under his mattress. He did count the six wolfsbane bullets in the magazine. He did slip on his shoes and wash his face, haphazardly, getting water more down his arms, tracing gentle tickling lines down the black patterns there, than his tearstained cheeks. He did pray, with everything in him, that this would not end how he thought it might. 

He took his keys. He left his buzzing phone on his bed. He locked his door behind him and turned left at the bottom of the stairs, out on dimly lit cobbled streets. He headed straight for the club. 

He did not cry again. 

 

-

 

It was only a matter of time. Stiles had never been particularly careful with the people he hunted. It wasn’t worth pretending he did anything but that, anymore. He hunted them. He killed them. And if he remembered most of it, he was sure he would’ve liked doing it. He’d never been a fan of violence, but it had always been his nature. He’d been raised by it. 

Feeling anything other than weak was something he’d take. Even if that feeling was killing him. Ironically, it might have been what had kept him alive this long. He’d abandoned the notion of goodness a long time ago, anyway. 

Better, he could think about. Good? No. Not him. Not here.

Not beyond the armed bouncer of the club, the knowing stare of the bartender Stiles wanted to skin alive, the bodies bumping into him as he stormed through the club, the weight of the gun in the back of his waistband. Not beyond brick, and plaster, and concrete, and gently clacking beads hanging from a doorway. 

Not when Derek barely glanced at him, bloody and bruised, a burst blood vessel in his left eye, shutting both with a hefty sigh before he tilted his head back to frown at the ceiling. Silent. Breathing heavily. Tied to a wooden chair, on the left side of the room. 

Not when Araya was sat at her desk, maybe a meter and a half away, hands laced together atop a semi-automatic handgun. 

Stiles’ eyes stayed locked on her. 

Derek was there. With Araya. Bleeding. Hurt. And if Stiles looked at him for another split second, he’d do something incredibly stupid. They would do no one any good if they were both dead. So he slowly made his way to the chair across from Araya, one he knew so well, and sat back. He tilted his head.

“You called?”

Araya’s eyes quirked up, “It’s been a while since we played a game, Stiles. For real stakes.”

His real name. 

That was new.

He hummed, “What do you want, Araya? I was sleeping.”

“No, you weren’t,” Araya said easily, unfolding her hands to pick up the gun, “You left some pretty marks on this one, Mijo. And then you left him wandering the streets all alone…” she shook her head solemnly, tutting, “He wouldn’t even give up your name. That’s not how we treat our lovers in this family, Stiles.”

He blinked, “Well, how about we put our thinking caps on, then.” He raised his brows, leaning forward just an inch, “He’s not my ‘lover’. I told you my pack wasn’t mine anymore, and I meant it.”

Araya tilted her head, feigning curiosity, “Really?” She hummed, just a little, as she sat back, bringing that gun into her hand properly and placing her finger over the trigger, “Then, I suppose, you won’t mind if I do this.”

And Stiles could do nothing but seize up as she turned her arm out and that deafening bang filled the room. His dry, burning eyes snapped to Derek, watching the wolf gasp for air. No casing hit the floor. No bullet hole split Derek’s flesh. 

A blank.

Stiles pressed his eyes tightly shut, and shook his head, “He’s not a wolf, Araya. You can’t hurt him.” 

“What do you care?” She asked, “He’s not yours.”

“He’s innocent,” Stiles snarled back. 

And when he opened his eyes, she was smiling. And if Stiles wasn’t fucked already, he really was now. 

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice came, scratchy, low, still too close to angry, “Just—”

“Shut the fuck up, Derek,” Stiles said with a shake of his head. And Derek listened. Thank God for that.

“Let’s play a game,” Araya said again. That smile, ever-present, so chilling, so fucking horrible. “There are three more blanks. And one bullet. It’s an easy game, a classic.” The smile widened, as Stiles almost held his breath, “We’ll play for Derek Hale’s life.”

“What?” Stiles whispered, “What the fuck… Why?”

“For the lives you’ve taken, Stiles,” she answered, and the smile fell, “You have brought great shame to this family. You have hurt us. And I can only hope that I lose this game, because living with the knowledge that I brought you into this, that I gave you our mark, and you killed twenty-seven of my men.” She shook her head, “The only other option is taking you out instead. So let’s leave it up to fate, hm? Winner keeps Derek.”

She pressed the gun to her temple. 

Stiles’ stomach turned, “Araya, I don’t know what you’re—”

The bang sounded. She barely flinched, just a soft closing of her eyes. And when she pulled the gun away, her hair was smoking from that little explosion. 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Araya, I swear to God.”

“Then He’d better have mercy on you,” she said, and turned the gun on him. 

Bang.

Stiles flinched, again, eyes snapping shut at the sudden light, at the heat, at the sound. He breathed heavily in the aftermath. Still no bullet. Fucking God. 

She hummed, “Maybe you are telling the truth.”

He opened his eyes as slowly as he breathed, “So, you’re gonna stop whatever the fuck this is?”

Araya made another humming sound, and she shrugged, “Why stop now?”

Another blank fired at her own skull. Stiles’ heart was about to explode, beating so fast he worried he might pass out. But he couldn’t. Not here. But there were no more blanks. And it was his turn. 

“This hardly feels fair,” he said, too soft.

“The existence of the supernatural isn’t fair,” she said back. And that smile had returned, “You know, the girl we both wanted dead? She was the one who gave you away. Talking so loudly at the bar the other night.” She hissed, “Your little friends. Such talkers. Cisco has always been a reliable tattle. You hear a lot from behind the bar.”

And the pit grew deeper in Stiles’ stomach.

He really should’ve kept his promise. He should’ve killed that redheaded bitch in that parking lot. What redemption did that mercy get him, anyway?

Araya’s eyes turned up at the corners, lazily pointing the gun at him once again, “You really thought you’d get away with it? You think I’m that dumb?”

He licked his lips, and he’d almost forgotten that nervous habit until the last few days, “Well, if you’re leaving me on my deathbed, I might as well be honest.” And he nodded, “Yeah. I do think you’re that dumb.” He leant forward, his heart pounding in his ears, Derek making little sounds a ways away and making his skin prick with terror, and unease, and the need to just shut his mouth and get Derek out of here, “I think you have to be a special kind of stupid to let even an ex-Alpha into whatever this is, no matter how human. No matter how jaded. I think you have to be impossibly dense to use a life like his—” He nodded to Derek’s tied-up body. “—as leverage. ‘Cause the thing with me is I don’t die.” He grabbed the barrel of the gun, watching her hands tense around it, and pressed it to his forehead. Left staring at her hand, hearing Derek’s sounds turn to words, barked orders to stop, he licked his lips again – so dry, so close to dying from a heart attack anyway. “Not for anything. Not for anyone.”

He wasn’t scared to die.

He was scared to make Derek watch.

“Do it,” he said, “Or do you want me to do it for you?” He squinted at her scarred knuckles, his teeth bared and his voice gravelled, “Pull the fucking trigger—”

It was loud. 

Louder than Derek’s shout. Loud enough that Stiles couldn’t even make out what he said. And his eyes squeezed shut at the sound, but there was no light. Not like there should’ve been, as the gunpowder ignited right above his eyes and the bullet was shot straight through his ridiculously fragile skull. 

No. 

There was a bang, and a searing pain through his hand, holding the barrel, and he pulled back as fast as the shot rang out. 

And Araya was screaming. Low, and gutteral. She was pulling back, hands stuck in the air, the gun dropped to the table. She was stuck, her face scrunched up.

Her eye was swiftly bleeding. Or, the space around it. The gun was almost shattered on the table. And her hand was red, too. The way she hovered there, as if she didn’t know which injury to cradle, it froze Stiles for just a split second.

The gun backfired.

He wasn’t shot.

He wasn’t dead.

The pang of disappointment was shaken off as soon as Derek’s voice broke through again.

“Stiles!” He barked out, voice so rough, “Help me!!”

And there was no timeline in the endless non-limits of the universe where Stiles wouldn’t. He knew that. He pushed up out of that chair on uneven legs. Araya was still gutturally screaming, almost animalistic, so close to a growl, as Stiles made his way over to that chair and tugged at the ropes. They didn’t budge. And he was about to fucking kill himself.

“Hold still,” he snarled as he pulled the black pistol from his waistband, identical to Araya’s, and pressed it to the gap between Derek’s bound wrists. He steadied his hands as well as he could, and he pulled the trigger. The rope fell apart, and Derek’s arms swung away, in front of himself, and he was yanking the rope from his ankles with far less struggle. He gave the barest bloodied glance to Stiles, the black eye swiftly growing angrier and darker with every passing minute, and Stiles nodded, “Follow me.”

He kept the gun in his firm grip as he stormed out through those ungodly beads, down too-empty hallways, with Derek huffing close behind him. His hand was burning, and raw, and red, and he didn’t really care. Derek needed to get out of this place alive. They could slam the door shut behind him and execute Stiles right then and there, for all he cared, but Derek couldn’t get hurt tonight. Any more than he already had, anyway.

Stiles’ heart ached so badly he thought he might throw it up. 

Later, he would be sure he’d fired more than two bullets, with his magazine no longer full with the six he always had on hand when he would check. But the first and the last were the only shots he remembered. Breaking Derek out of his binds, and raising his gun just as they reached the exit. It was chaos, at that point. Screaming and shouting and pops and flashes.

He stared straight through the frantic crowd, and levelled that gun at the motherfucker behind the bar. He didn’t remember what name Araya gave him. He didn’t care.

Nobodies. That’s what they were. Hunters, not people. Bodies. 

He fired, and those wide eyes flinched shut, and the asshole fell behind the dark brown wall between them, and Stiles turned on his heel. 

They ran. Derek, too slow, hobbling on what looked like a bad ankle, but fast enough in a pinch, maybe only because Stiles knew the shortcuts he didn’t. They didn’t stop until the soles of Stiles’ feet were aching and his lungs were burning. His legs felt like they might shatter. It had been too long of a night. Too long.

They stopped in the careful cover of a side alley, too small to stand shoulder-to-shoulder. So Stiles grabbed Derek’s shoulder to pull him around, too aware of the older man’s heavy wince, his gritted teeth, his panicked eyes. He stared at that growing bruise above his left, and the red filling the whites there. It was too dark to see properly – all the reds looking purplish-brown, and the yellow of the bruise looking green. He swallowed. 

His hand rose without a thought, and Derek’s own was snapped around his wrist just as fast. 

And they stood like that – aching, tired, terrified, with Stiles’ wrist held tight in Derek’s grip.

His lashes fluttered, “Are you okay?”

Somehow, Derek’s jaw tightened even more, the slightest of nods tilting his chin down.

And some tiny weight was lifted from the megatonne on Stiles’ chest, a sigh forced out of him, “I shouldn’t’ve… If I knew she… I wouldn’t’ve…”

Derek just stared at him. 

Stiles could fix it. He could apologise right now, and Derek would forgive him. It’s what he does. 

But Stiles was stubborn. And he’d made up his mind. 

He would not let him.

“How are you getting home?” He asked. 

A little light, the slightest glimmer, died from Derek’s eyes that Stiles had not noticed was there – he prayed it wasn’t hope, “I’ll figure it out.” 

And Derek seemed to crumble, as if Stiles had said something in response. He hadn’t. He hadn’t said a word. But, for the first time that night, he saw something close to tears in Derek’s eyes.

“You’re seriously just gonna die here?” He whispered, “You’re just giving up?”

Stiles’ mouth was dry again. 

Derek pulled away, stepped back, further into the dark of that alley, but headed toward the light at the exit, “You’re gonna let our pack lose?”

“It’s not ours anymore,” Stiles answered. 

And Derek stared, again. Like committing Stiles to memory. And he looked so wrong, all bloodied and bruised. It didn’t make the green of his eyes any less kind as they slowly fell closed from the exhaustion, or the upset, or anything that could’ve made him want to stop looking.

Derek sucked in a breath, and whispered, so broken, so shaky, “I hate you.”

He’d always been a bad liar.

So Stiles did not cry. 

He just nodded, “Good.”

And Derek’s lips pressed hard together, a thin line, a wince as it tugged at his bleeding cheek. And he slowly took his fingers away from Stiles’ wrist. They dragged along the skin, the touch lingered, and the feeling stuck like a scar. 

Derek walked away. As simple as that. No more goodbyes. 

Stiles did not cry.

But Stiles had always lied far more than Derek Hale.

Notes:

this is sooo sad alexa play the smallest man who ever lived by taylor swift alexa play knuckle velvet by ethel cain on a loop for ten hours alexa play vodka cranberry by conan gray alexa send out my funeral invites

i fear this season has ruined me but GUYS dont even WORRRYYY haahahaa its its fine its like literally so fine its fffffiiiiiiiiine theyre so in love theyre still fighting about batman v superman and cooking together and cuddling and parenting and doing laundry and arguing over lost socks and everythings fine. everythings fine. im NOT spiralling.

blink blink

i cant wait for this arc to be over good lord

"you love me? still?" "always." FUCK YOU

feel free to (PLEASE) come yell at me on my tumblr i am so distraught over this

(ethel cain's album 'Willoughby Tucker, I WIll Always Love You' coming out while i was writing this was actually fucked up btw. 'i never meant to hurt you/but somehow i knew i would/will it feel like this forever?/i'd reach into your body/and fix you if i could/will i feel like this forever?/are you angry?/do you hate me?/darling, time may forgive me/but i won't.' -- Waco, Texas I HATE YOU I HATE YOUO ETHEL WTF WRTF WTF YOU KNOW ID DOOOO OANYYTTTHINGG FORR YOUUUUU)

I’m having a great time actually

Chapter 26: Sunday Morning; Can You Hear Them?

Summary:

No one is coming to save you.

Notes:

trigger warning for suicide. it's right off the bat so like. AAA. tread tlightly.

this one made me real sad. its delicious. and fucked up. its soo so fucked up. anyway. shoutout to God for this one wouldnt be possible without u. in at least some stretch of the word.

this chapter pairs delightfully with both Tempest and Nettles from WTIWALY in that order, and i pretty much exclusively listened to miracle musical's hawaii part II while writing this for some reason. labyrinth is really starting to hit too close to home. do with that what you will. also. noah kahan. so much noah kahan. ill call yo mama LOL

i feel genuine guilt over writing this season imsroryy

It was a long way down. 

Stiles was already dead. The Calaveras would have a bounty out on his head by the end of the hour – probably already did – and odds were Derek would be dead before he left the city. Stiles hoped his prayers held any weight at all. If that’s what he should call them. They weren’t pleas to some all-loving God. They weren’t pleas, at all, in a literal sense. There were no words. Just a desperate feeling in his chest, an aching begging that the Earth would keep Derek safe, that the universe would keep needing him alive just as it had until today.

No one was praying for Stiles. 

It was cold, there. Coming out of the wet season, a decent enough temperature if you weren’t so high up. If the winds weren’t so strong. It was unusual, the first time Stiles had felt any wind of real notice beyond a slight breeze. Still, it hadn’t been so different here than in Beacon Hills. Not in early October. It was barely warmer, barely lighter. He knew if he stuck around, he’d get to see the dry season and the heat it would bring. 

He wasn’t going to stay. 

He couldn’t. 

This hopelessness was too heavy. Like the weight of that black suit, like his too-long hair, like the ink beneath his skin and the lines that faked it. He brushed a thumb over one, right at the base of his wrist, above that thin scar, near old puncture marks from Erica’s claws. The thread of that bracelet, still tied tight around his arm, caught his thumb. He let his jaw clench as tight as it could. His teeth didn’t matter anymore. 

The water was so loud beneath him. A violent rush. 

He considered untying the bracelet for a moment, his fingers clinging to it too tight. But he couldn’t. They had been everything to him. That pack. If they could see him now, the shock would only last for a moment. They wouldn’t know his eyes had ever been red. They would help. 

But they couldn’t. Stiles had no way out. The Calaveras would kill him, if he didn’t do it himself. And Stiles didn’t know what would happen if they tried. Either of them. 

He just wanted his home back. He wanted to go home. 

Not back to Beacon Hills, miles away, with his mother’s charred body still missing and her gave empty, six feet down. Not the town with the graveyard where, beside her empty one, his own grave sat with her bad joke engraved. Not his apartment with the leaky faucet. Not his dad’s house, where he had drowned in a bathtub, alone and terrified.

Not even to the last timeline. The place where he and Derek fell in love. Where Erica died in his arms. Where those arms were first covered with these patterns, with his mother’s power flowing through and out of him. Where he’d learned to use his spark. Where he’d met the Other Stiles. Where Lydia had smacked him with her purse before she gave him that bracelet. Where he’d watched himself stab straight through Scott’s stomach. 

It didn’t make any sense. And, really, maybe Stiles should’ve moved on from it by now. His obsession with not becoming the Other Stiles. And he would have, probably, if he wasn’t so close. 

He was not the Alpha. He didn’t have the grimoire. He didn’t have Derek. He didn’t have the Hale House, the ring, the kids, the tattoo on the back of his neck. With the way things were going, he never would. He wouldn’t become him without Derek. 

So maybe it was selfish. 

And maybe he did hear Araya’s voice a little too loud over the whistling of the wind, carrying spiteful words of ‘There’s still time to repent, Mijo.’

Unbelievable for such a hateful woman to accept forgiveness like that. 

But Stiles hoped, maybe, he’d be given it, too. Whether or not he believed in God was up for debate, but if there was someone, or something, out there waiting when he hit the ground, he wanted them to be merciful. To know he regretted it all. To know he just wanted to go home.

To the place he was from, the place he was forgotten. To a stilted, uncomfortable, mostly-amicable relationship with Malia Tate, to not even remembering Peter Hale, to following Scott to the ends of the Earth, to Lydia, and Liam, and Dad.

He knew he wouldn’t die. The Other Stiles was just as clear in his memory as he always had been. Taking up space, pushing through everything, always holding Stiles by the jaw and forcing him to look at everything he’d done and know that it was always inevitable. That there was nothing he could do. But if Derek could be a part of his lies. His act. Then Stiles would have to be okay with that. He’d have to accept that he had no idea why the Other Stiles would do that. Why he would lie, just so Derek could shoot Kate, so he could have those years of pure joy and comfort and love, only to lose it all. 

It didn’t make sense.

But neither did time travel. Or magic. Life, death. Nothing made sense.  

Stiles’ feet swung out beneath him. Hanging in empty air. The wind was settling a little, now. 

It was a long way down from the Mezcala Bridge to the Balsas River. 

This was stupid. He knew it was fucking stupid. It wasn’t gonna work. And it was ridiculous that he was trying. For what? To make himself feel better? To make himself feel worse? A last-ditch attempt at regaining control? Some sort of self-punishment for hurting Derek and ruining everything? 

He regretted it. So badly. If he could justify taking it all back, he’d do it in a heartbeat. He’d crawl back to Derek and beg on his hands and knees for forgiveness if he had to, and he knew that Derek wouldn’t make him. He’d give him a firm glare and tell him to call Dr. Senta, and they’d go to bed. Together. And he wouldn’t leave. He wouldn’t even flinch when Derek kissed the scar on his throat. 

Maybe he should call her. But he couldn’t. Not with his phone locked in his apartment, God knows how far away. As if she could help. 

Past is past. All that’s left is feeling. Feel it.

It was over. 

It was a long way down. 

And no one was coming to save him.

He didn’t jump. He pushed. And he fell. 

That stomach-dropping, weightless feeling was the same as slipping through time. He’d felt it, all that time ago, as Lydia’s eyes widened in horror and her mouth opened to call out words he would never hear. He’d felt it as he tried, desperately, to go back and undo everything he’d done to Scott. He’d felt it less than half an hour later when the Other Stiles sent him back. He’d felt it, choking on his own tears, horrified by just how badly he loved Derek, his future be damned, and again the next day before they found out it had all been for nothing. He’d felt it when he looked into Derek’s eyes and missed home so much he sent them back with no incantation, no intention, no contact with the Nemeton. He’d felt it when they came back. Home. 

As the brown water – black in the early morning darkness, no sun above his head, no moon in the sky – grew closer, it clicked. 

How dumb was he? Throwing it all away? 

Theo had hardly done anything, it was just Stiles’ own fear, his insecurity, his grief, his shame pushing everyone away all on its own. He had always been just two sentences away from their understanding. And he’d given up the thing he loved the most. The place he loved the most.

He adored that leaky tap. It was his. It was his and Derek’s. Theirs. Like that pack. Like Erica, and Allison, and Peter were his best friends. Like Liam was his beta. Like the Sheriff was his dad. Like his mother’s death was—

I love you. And I can never tell you how sorry I am. And this isn’t your fault.

And the last thing he said before he hit the water was a broken, shattered, wind-choked cry. 

He called out her name.

 

-

 

Mason went missing Saturday night. He was found Sunday morning.

There was something wrong with the land – Laura was always the first to notice these things. It had driven her wolf crazy until she finally gave into the shift and let her wolf lead her where she needed to go. The preserve was crying out, the woods were in mourning. And her wolf was panicked, either from the thick scents of blood, or death, or burning, or the fact that it felt as though her territory was the thing in pain. Not the people in it. She felt it in her bones, in her heart, her soul. And it was terrifying. It was confusing. 

Until she found the Nemeton.

It was empty, now. Those bodies had been cleared away, identified, and sent to their rightful places. To be buried, or cremated, or… taxidermied? The Sheriff had thankfully talked that particular parent out of it. When they started shouting, asking about his son, telling him he didn’t understand losing something permanently, he didn’t fall for the bait. He let them let it out. But Laura could smell his grief even clearer than the taxidermist’s.

The lingering fear and death were not the problem. 

It was the Nemeton itself.

It was grieving. It was angry, and bursting with sadness, and fear, and it dragged a whine from Laura’s chest she’d never heard before. It turned to a mournful howl soon enough. She didn’t even know what she was mourning. But she could feel it, tearing from her, unravelling a thread, pulling until it split and frayed. Like drawing tendons apart. 

Lydia’s scream cut through the air like she was only a foot away. 

Laura only had half the mind to be human and dressed before she went to find them. And, in the deepest depths of the sewers, fighting to follow scents so thickly covered with shit and piss and disease and old food and rats, she did find them. Some of them. She found Liam, and Hayden, and no Lydia. 

The kids stunk of anxiety, and their eyes were so impossibly wide as they met hers.

The only explanation she received was Liam’s high-pitched croak, “I don’t think Corey’s gonna like this.”

It was early on Sunday morning, and Derek had been gone for five days. He’d texted, even earlier that morning, around 3 AM, just after, maybe quarter-to-four. 

‘Coming home. Stiles isn’t.’

The sour taste in her mouth hadn’t left in the hours since. And, now, staring into that foul-smelling room, with blood pooled on the floor that stank of Mason, and the fear of those two children, there was no news that could’ve been worse. She’d seen him in that place. That city. She’d watched his light and his fight both die over the course of thirteen unbelievably hungry days. She loved that kid like a brother. Like Derek. Like he was family she’d forgotten. And this, watching him destroy himself, even from so many miles away and no idea what had actually happened, was slowly killing her, too. It took a long time for her to warm up to Stiles’ eccentricity, the way he shot first and asked questions later, the unpredictable nature of everything about him. But, after so long watching him wither away at the fear of what could happen to Derek, there was no going back. He was pack. Family. As close to blood as he could be when he wasn’t.

And he knew how to stop this. 

And he wasn’t here. 

That mourning feeling wouldn’t shake. Not even as the sun rose and the things that went bump in the night fell silent. Laura’s skin kept crawling, her jaw stayed tight. The earth was screaming at her, and she didn’t understand why. 

Something had been taken from her. And she needed to find out what. 

 

-

 

Stiles Stilinski should have died. He would never be sure if he did, or not. 

For a second, there was nothing but fear. There was no beating of his heart, no pounding sound in his ears. Just fear. His body had nothing to do with it. Which was weird, right? Such a bodily thing was fear. A physical instinct, an evolved self-defence tactic. It was a raised heartbeat and sweat and adrenaline; speed and strength. Fight or flight, fawn or freeze. Ways the body reacts to a threat. But this threat wasn’t physical. Neither was the feeling. 

It was like his soul was rotting.

And it was cold. 

And there was nothing. Forgotten, in an instant. His brain filling in the gaps with things it understood. Non-existence was not one of those things. 

A white void was.

That voice was.

“Mischief,” she said. Like she was testing the name on her tongue. 

And Stiles had a body again. His fear was real. And it was shattering, just as fast, to give way to the most debilitating grief he’d ever felt. His heart melting out beneath him – wherever beneath him was – as if it had been burned. What had happened to her heart in the roar of the fire?

“Stiles?” 

He felt his lip quiver as the sight of his body beneath him finally came. The void was still empty. That voice was not echoing, though. 

Neither was his.

“Mom?”

Reality slowly pieced itself together, as well as it could. The gentle violet glimmers of the empty white painstakingly started to make sense to his eyes. He could see the moment his brain re-interpreted the upside-down data input. Light shouldn’t be able to travel in a void. How strange. 

For the first time in one year, seven months, and twenty-three days, Stiles looked his mother in the eye. And she smiled. 

“Fancy meeting you here,” she said, with a knowing sparkle in her eye. 

And Stiles wasn’t sure what to make of the knot in his throat anymore, “You’re dead.”

Claudia just huffed, shaking her head fondly, “Let’s not do that again.”

Stillness. Impossible stillness. The kind only possible in a place full of nothing. There was no wind, no weight, no sensation beyond the barest of feeling. Knowing that he was wearing clothes. That his hair should be soaked with river water, and his bones should be broken. His lungs should be filled with dirt. But, instead there was nothing. 

Still, there was Claudia. 

There was Mom.

And Stiles’ throat closed up properly as the tears sprang to his eyes. He moved through sheer force of will, without a clue how to actually do it, not knowing whether there was anything beneath his feet at all. He moved. He ran. He wrapped his arms tight around her neck and buried his face in her shoulder. 

He sobbed. 

“I’m sorry,” he wept into her shirt, as her hands wrapped right back around him, just as warm as they were always meant to be, “I’m so— I’m so, so, s–orry.”

She nodded against him, placing a dry kiss to the side of his head, “I know, kochanie. Baby, I know.”

He felt like his knees might give in, like he might crumble to the floor – he wondered if he’d just keep falling, “I’m so sorry.”

“It’s not your fault,” she said easily, voice airy, “It was—…” 

She fell quiet. 

His grip tightened. He could smell her. He could smell rain, and rosemary, and new books, and Mom. He could smell a mug of hot chocolate being passed to his hands, a little spilling over the rim as he took it. He could smell a blanket being wrapped around his shoulders. A hand pushing him on the swings. A fist slamming into his cheek. Lips pressed to his forehead as he pretended to sleep. Screaming. Dancing in the kitchen. Running into her waiting arms after camp ended, clinging on for too long. 

He still didn’t want to let go. 

“It was predetermined, sweetheart,” she said softly, “I never hated you for a second. It wasn’t you.” And she pulled back, fighting so effortlessly against his attempts to keep her there, moving to cup his face as she smiled right at him, “Stiles. You can’t stay here.”

“Why not?”

“You’re not done yet,” she said pointedly, tilting her head down to look up past her brows, just a little. Firm. Serious. “You can’t stay with me. Or in Mexico. Or in the water.”

And Stiles’ jaw tightened to the point of pain, forcing out, again, “I’m sorry.”

She shook her head ‘no’ once more, “Don’t apologise. That’s not what I want you to do. Okay?”

He nodded shakily. 

She nodded back, “I want you to get up. Dust yourself off. And remember who the hell you are. Okay?”

Stiles let out a wet sound, something like a laugh, tear-stained as his cheeks beneath her thumbs, “What does that even… I don’t…”

“You’re Mieczysław Genim ‘Stiles’ motherfucking Stilinski,” Claudia said, furrowing her brows, “You are my son.” The knot in his throat came back. “You are the most powerful spark the world has ever seen. You are brave, and you are kind, and you are so incredibly smart, and I raised you better than this.” 

As he tried to pull away, she held him tighter. 

“I did not raise you to think so lowly of yourself,” she said sharply. 

And he almost laughed again, “Didn’t you?”

Her eyes turned sad, low-lidded, “Get back up, Stiles. I know you think things can only get worse, but let’s not forget which one of us can see the future.”

Stiles’ lip just quirked up, a self-pitying smile, “It’s over, Mom. I left… I left everyone. I left Derek. I left…”

“And you think time stops here?” She spat, shaking her head, “Stiles. You are smarter than this.” He just stared at her. She was here. So clear, clearer than his foggy memories of her. That dent in the tip of his nose, he got it from her. His eyes, his lashes, his lips, his moles. All hers. He could see them so clearly now. “You really misunderstand me whenever I talk about your future, don’t you?”

He blinked slowly. 

“I should’ve never told you he was a brilliant liar,” she said mildly, “You’ve held that with you for far too long.” Her brows furrowed, “You know I only said that so you’d freak out a little less about the Scott thing, right? And it didn’t even help.”

Stiles licked his lips, shaking his head, “I don’t care. That’s not… That’s not why I left. He isn’t why I left.”

“Then why?”

“I already am someone who’s hurting people,” Stiles said, his throat aching, “That’s already happened. I’m not… I’m not him, I’m worse. Alright?” Claudia’s eyes were calculating. Careful. “I can’t make them stick around for this.”

“If you think you’re so bad,” Claudia said, “Then be better.”

Stiles’ took a deep breath, “Mom. It’s over. There’s no going back. The things I’ve done, the things I’ve said—”

“You forgave me,” she said as she tilted her head, her thumb brushing over the scar on Stiles’ cheek as her eyes went vacant for a split moment, “You forgave Peter.” Her lips quirked up again, “You have no idea what people can come back from.”

“I just jumped off a bridge,” Stiles said weakly. More to himself, than to her. 

“I know,” Claudia said back, “I was trying to tell you not to. You didn’t listen.”

He took a slow breath. She smiled properly.

“So listen to me now,” she said, “And get up. You’ve got someone to meet.” That smile turned so soft, “It is so good to see you, Stiles. And, if just to make myself feel better, I’ll leave you with some advice.”

“Mom.”

“You really can’t run from the future, dumbass,” she said plainly as Stiles’ heart dropped to his stomach, “It is always ahead of you. It’s not going anywhere. You can, however, run from the storm. For a time, anyway. And isn’t time just brilliant?” She brushed at his cheek once more, “As long as you come home in the end, everything will be okay. Okay?” 

“I don’t wanna go,” he said, voice so small it shocked him still, “I don’t wanna leave you. Mom, please.”

“You have to,” she said simply, nodding as she pulled her hands away, giving him a look as he reached out to try and put them back. 

“Mom, I can’t—”

“Of course, you can,” Claudia whispered, “You can handle this, Stiles. I mean—” Her smile turned so conspiratory, like sharing an inside joke instead of piercing a knife through his chest. “—You already did.”

And Stiles’ next blink had him staring at wooden panels. Sanded down carelessly, light brown, oak planks. There were gaps between them, beneath Stiles’ burning hands. Tiny slivers of dark. 

His apartment floor. 

There was a moment where nothing made sense, again. Where up was down and space was empty and Stiles wasn’t real and he was dead. He was a corpse crushed by the furious waters of the Balsas River, sent down the stream to eventually wash up on some bank somewhere, unidentifiable and long-forgotten, with strange lines along his skin, and a gang symbol tattooed behind his ear, and the agreed-upon understanding of everyone investigating his closed cold case that whatever got him there was his fault.

But he wasn’t dead. 

And the lines beneath his skin were shimmering. Not glowing, not filled with colour, not the purple or red he used to know. It was like flowing water, like lapping waves, passing over with the strangest shade Stiles had ever seen. Something between blue and purple, too light for indigo, too particular for anything else. Maybe it was because it kept coming and going, glowing and fading, that Stiles couldn’t place it. 

He took in a deep breath. The air filled his lungs wide, stretched his diaphragm out, and he could feel the energy beneath his skin, old and new at the same time, and he…

He slammed his forehead down into the wood and cried. 

For too long, he cried, leaving dull grey-brown splotches where the tears wetted the old, dry wood. He didn’t even know what he was crying for. His mom, or the lingering fear of dropping to his death, and the split second after, or for Derek, or his pack, or himself. It didn’t matter. It all melted into one, and he was still gasping through his tears as he finally forced himself up onto his feet.

His left leg almost gave in under him, weak, an uncomfortable twinge shooting up through his knee, and the weight of his clothes became impossible to ignore. The wet patch his body had left behind, the fabric clinging tight to his skin, the shine over the black. He swallowed so thickly as he started to unbutton his shirt. 

It wasn’t easy to drag the fabric off of him, as stubborn as it was. It dropped to the floor in a sopping wet pile, along with his pants, and his socks, and his underwear. And Stiles got it together. And he ran a shower. 

His mother’s voice was still warm in his mind. Her touch was still lingering over his cheeks. His back. Her kiss to his head still stayed right there. The water couldn’t wash that away. 

Stiles wondered how he’d gotten back. If she’d taken over. Taken him home. 

This wasn’t home.

He found a new scar on his leg. One beneath his knee. A jagged line, like torn flesh. That scar, and the water soaked through his suit, and the slow pulsing of energy through his arms, were all the only evidence anything had even happened. That he hadn’t just gotten blackout drunk and passed out on his floor like every other night. 

When he was dry, he pulled a long-forgotten duffel bag out from under his bed and pulled out the clothes he’d gotten here in. An old zip-up hoodie, a jacket, a plain t-shirt, jeans. His damn converse. He got dressed in resolute silence. He didn’t let the tears fall again. He had better things to do. 

He shoved the wet clothes in the duffel after slipping his keys out of the back pocket. He slung the bag over his shoulder. 

The faucet dripped in the bathroom.

Stiles grabbed his phone from the bed. He slipped a beer bottle out of the fridge. And he left. 

His hood was pulled over his head before he reached the bottom of the stairs, his wet hair hanging to his lashes and covering his ears. It soaked the collar of his shirt where it dripped from his neck, and he plainly ignored it. Discomfort was the least of his problems – he died less than half an hour ago. For him, at least. 

This city was alive, though. Its people didn’t know what happened in the shadows; what kinds of things lived among them. The most gentle of wolves, and the cruellest of people. A cat rolled slowly onto his back, moving into the sun as it stretched its front paws out lazily above its head. A little girl tugged her mom toward a fancy clothes store down the street, while her sister tried to drag her back to the store with all the good video games. Two boys raced on their bikes, dressed in their school uniforms, shouting at each other with wide grins on their faces and wind in their hair. An old man served an old friend at his restaurant, laughing deep and smiling wide as he hugged him ‘hello’.

These people had no idea. Stiles had never been so jealous. 

His Jeep was kept safe, locked in a rented garage on the outskirts of the city, owned by a man with a beer belly and kind, downturned eyes. Stiles had no issue getting there. It was all main streets and busyness. The sun had long-risen. 

It was Sunday morning, and the only thing that stopped Stiles on his way there was a church. 

A small, local church. A building made of bricks, with crosses in the windows and rotting wood panelling around them.

Araya’s voice swallowed his mothers, for only a moment. Her promises of repentance, albeit just bitter taunts at the time, made him think of Theo. Of faith, and science, and that voice spitting ‘You’ve still got time’. Rough ground scratching the soles of his shoes. Hands fisted in hoodies. 

Stiles’ jaw clenched tighter than it already had. 

It was empty, in that church. And it looked like any other. Rows of reddish wooden pews, high ceilings, and light streaming in. A statue of Jesus on the cross at the top of the room, behind the pulpit. A corner with a confession booth, both doors wide open, adorned with those same cross patterns. Stiles stepped in further. 

The floor creaked beneath him as he walked, only a little. It was the kind of church his dad would love to attend. Small, personal, but not too personal. Empty enough to get some privacy as he knelt at the altar and prayed for his wife. It wasn’t flashy, or commercialised, like most American churches those days. It was honest. And even Stiles felt like he might want to kneel. Just to give it a shot. Maybe if he told his dad, he’d forgive him. He’d remember his faith, and he would act on it. 

Stiles did not kneel. But he did sit in a pew, leaning back heavily against the solid, flat wood, and turned his gaze heavenward. The ceiling, with its pointed peak, was ultimately unimpressive. No paintings, no statues, no engravings. But Stiles couldn’t look away. 

Was she up there?

Is that where he was that morning?

And it still wasn’t right in his mind. It wasn’t making sense. Or setting in. Something like that. The fact that he’d seen her. He’d spoken to her, touched her. And she’d been so real. But then he remembered he’d heard her, a long time ago, for endless days and weeks and months. He’d ignored her then. Her ceaseless chattering, her whispers. He’d been too scared to face it. 

His mom did not hate him. She forgave. She didn’t blame him. 

Suddenly breathing was so much easier. 

The church’s door opening was taken as Stiles’ sign to leave. But he stayed, for a moment, staring up at the peak of the ceiling and just breathing. Footsteps came closer, creaking just as his own had. They clicked, a fancy sort of click, one of solid shoe soles, expensive. 

Stiles barely blinked as a body came to sit beside him. As shoulders rolled and a man sighed. 

“I thought you didn’t believe in God,” Peter Hale’s voice drawled. 

Stiles’ head snapped to the side so fast it almost hurt. Staring, wide-eyed and frozen at Peter’s smiling face. The wolf’s hands were clasped together in his lap. His eyes were upturned at the corners, no matter how tired they looked. He sat with the same perfectly practised nonchalance that he did everything with. Peter. 

The spark’s voice was low and weak as he forced out, “You came?”

Peter’s brows quirked down, as if to say ‘of course’, “You called.” Stiles was barely shaking his head when the wolf continued, “You told me to take you home. That’s what I’m doing.” 

Stiles really could’ve cried again. It was a testament to some strength left over that he didn’t.

“Sorry I’m late,” Peter said. 

Stiles just shook his head, swallowing it down, “Nah. You’re right on time.”

The sudden softness of Peter’s eyes was all too much. The first genuine, gentle care Stiles had seen in anyone’s eyes in too long. Until his mom. Derek had been too afraid, and too angry, and too intense. This wasn’t the messy, complicated bullshit that was love. It was the messy, complicated bullshit that was family. 

Understanding that his dad hated him and his mom was dead made that comfort wilt away awfully fast. The softness became unbearable, and Stiles had to look away. 

Peter spoke after a long moment, “Show me your eyes, Stiles.”

A weak sigh passed his lips. He pressed his eyes shut for a second, catching his breath, as he slowly turned to Peter. The wolf was still watching him, as patient and calm as he had been this whole time, and Stiles finally was able to feel the power shift through his body – the little sparkly feeling rising warmly through his skin, travelling up his arms and his shoulders and his neck and his jaw and his cheeks. 

He only knew his eyes flashed because Peter’s chin rose. He took in a slow breath. And then his brows fell.

Some pitiful thing passed his lips, a little whisper of ‘oh, Stiles’, and he reached his right arm up to wrap around Stiles’ shoulders, pulling the spark with no resistance into the curve of his shoulder. It was getting harder by the second to swallow those tears down. Especially with Peter rubbing his arm like his dad used to do, and his body finally letting itself out of the constant state of fight-or-flight he’d been stuck in for weeks. Here was safe. Peter had come to get him. 

“I broke up with Derek,” Stiles whispered. He sighed as Peter’s hand slowed its comforting strokes, “And then I jumped off a bridge.” He rolled his eyes as a bitter scoff burst out of him, “What the fuck is wrong with me? I let him walk off and he got kidnapped and tortured and then he watched me put a loaded gun to my head, and then he left, and then I jumped off a fucking bridge??”

Peter just hummed, “It could’ve been worse.” Stiles’ brows furrowed. “You could’ve bitten him at his wedding. Or impaled him with a piece of dirty rebar in a sewer and left him for dead.”

Slowly, he pulled back to look at the wolf, squinting at the impartial stare he got back, “Did you do that to Chris?”

Peter hummed again.

“His wedding??” Stiles hissed.

“After the wedding,” Peter nodded, “We made out in the priest’s office and I bit him.”

Stiles’ jaw fell open, and he couldn’t fight back the laugh. Peter smiled wide, gloating. Of course, he did. 

“You’re insane,” Stiles muttered.

Peter gave him a look, “Well, yeah. What else is new?”

Another soft huff of a laugh. Then silence. The wood of the pew beneath them creaked under their weight, but there was nothing else. Not for a long time. Stiles stared at his feet, at the duffel bag beside them, until he couldn’t bear the silence anymore.

“Do you think it was all for nothing?”

He felt Peter turn back to him, “What?”

“Trying to stop the Hale House Fire,” Stiles said softly, “Creating this new timeline.” He moved to bite at the inside of his cheek, “Do you think it was pointless?”

Peter was quiet for a moment too long, really, before he answered, “No.”

Stiles sighed, glancing at him, “Seriously? I mean, come on. Everything I gained, I’ve lost. My mom’s still dead. Everyone might as well have forgotten me again—” Peter almost seemed to flinch. “—and Laura doesn’t even remember Derek exists, so what good did I do bringing her back?”

“You gave me Laura,” Peter said simply, “You gave Cora her sister, even if she didn’t really experience losing her. You gave me Chris. And Malia. Cora, even. Derek, on a good day.”

Stiles just stared.

“My family was all I ever wanted, Stiles,” Peter said, and his voice seemed weaker, now, “And you gave me it back. You gave me everything I ever wanted.” 

His cheek twitched, and Stiles watched him, silent. Peter blinked a little harder, like fighting back tears. Something he’d never seen before. Peter looking vulnerable. Even when they were helpless and stuck in this stupid city that Spring, Peter’s weakest moments had been hidden behind Stiles’ inability to keep his eyes open, and his need to keep his forehead pressed against the concrete. 

But Peter sounded almost mournful as he said, “I just can’t believe it’s all going to go away like this.”

Stiles’ brows twitched, “What?”

“Not in a blaze of glory, but…” Peter’s eyes stared off into the middle-distance, darker now, his voice carrying the most bitter of spites, “A pathetic little rainstorm.” 

His brows properly met at that.

Stiles’ echo of his question was ignored as plainly as the first time he asked, as Peter shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut, “Fuck. I should’ve been here.”

“What do you mean it’s all gonna go away?” Stiles asked, more firm that time. 

Peter rubbed at his jaw as he turned to him, shaking his head, “Forget it.” And his eyes creased at the corners again, a hum of a laugh passing through the air, “I really am hilarious.”

“What?”

The wolf stayed like that, elbows braced against his knees, one hand scratching at his beard, staring at Stiles like he was sorry, until he finally looked away and sat up straight, “We’ve been through so much, haven’t we, Stiles?”

Stiles’ brows stayed as strained as they were, “You getting sentimental on me, Peter?”

“Extremely,” the wolf said as he nodded. Stiles watched his profile as his smile grew bittersweet, his eyes locked onto his hands, now laced together in his lap. Something in the air grew heavy. “You were tiny as a baby, you know that?”

Stiles pursed his lips, brows relaxing only a little, “Yeah. My dad’s told me.”

“You shocked me the first time I held you,” Peter’s voice was so soft. Reminiscing. “Your tiny little fist swung around and hit my wrist and you shocked me. I knew, then and there, you’d be just as strong as your mom.” His smile didn’t waver, “It wasn’t surprising that you ended up stronger.”

“I’m not,” Stiles whispered, “I’m really not.”

Peter gave him another look, “Sure, you are. Even when you were a lanky fifteen-year-old nerd, with no clue what you were capable of, you were brave enough to run head-first into danger. You tried to burn me alive with a Molotov Cocktail, you remember that?”

Stiles’ smile didn’t grow, and his heart did ache, “I do. You deserved it.”

Peter nodded, “Oh, for sure. But your mom never fought. Not without her magic. You were braver than her when you thought you were the weakest of us all.” His throat seemed to tighten, “That’s strength, Stiles.”

“Why are you being so nice?” Stiles heard himself ask. 

Those blue eyes did not answer, and Peter took a moment before he said anything back at all, “I wonder…” His mouth clacked shut, then opened again, “I always thought that it was wrong that Beacon Hills had an Alpha who wasn’t a Hale. Until you.”

“This is getting unsettling now, dude.”

“Shut up,” Peter said easily, “I don’t care. I’m going to be nice, and you are going to sit there and take it.”

Stiles’ face scrunched up. But he shut his mouth, and he listened.

“There was no one I’d rather have taken my power,” Peter went on, “I meant it, though, back when I told you that your ability to kill had nothing to do with how similar you and Scott are.” He nodded, “You are an Alpha, Stiles. You’re a leader. You’re powerful. You see those kids back home as your own, and you would die for them.” His jaw tightened, then relaxed, “Theo took your power. But he didn’t turn red.”

Stiles just stared. 

“And I know that’s because he is a pathetic excuse for a real person,” Peter said with a roll of his eyes, gaining a small smile from Stiles, “but it just reminded me… of how irreplaceable you are.”

“That’s…” Stiles winced, “Peter, I’m not—”

“You’re maybe a bit too important to me,” Peter said pensively, “Considering I have a child of my own. Who is not you.” Stiles almost flinched. “But, alas. Here we are. I drove two thousand miles to come get you, and I didn’t want to turn back around for a single second. And I’m gonna drive right back.” He smiled, once again, “It is special, though, isn’t it?”

When he paused for long enough, Stiles asked, “What?”

Peter met his eyes and answered, “The fact that we both remember things no one else does. It’s special.”

Stiles swallowed, “Yeah. It is.”

And Peter’s smile stayed as resolute, “It did feel good to be remembered.”

Stiles’ head shook, “Peter, why are you being so weird—”

“Theo took your magic,” he interrupted, voice louder, steadier, as he straightened his back once again, reaching for his coat’s inner pocket, “But he didn’t take this.”

And Claudia’s grimoire was there. In front of Stiles’ eyes. His to take. Safe. Unharmed, unchanged. And he was frozen.

“Your spark is burning him from the inside out,” Peter said, and Stiles’ eyes were locked on that book, but he could hear the grin, “It’s doing good work, that’s for sure. But it’s not killing him. I went through a lot to get this, Stiles.” 

He moved the book closer, urging Stiles to take it. He did. 

It felt as heavy in his hands as he remembered. He lifted the cover to stare down at the words on that first page. Claudia’s decree. 

‘This catalogue of spells, enchantments, tidbits, and rituals, should it be found out of the author’s hands, is to be left in the sole care of her Mischief, and no other. If she is not there to bestow it, may the laws of the universe find her Mischief themselves.’

He turned his gaze back to Peter’s watchful eyes. He was more of a freak of nature than a law of the universe. It didn’t stop the aching of Stiles’ heart. 

“Thank you,” he forced out. And, at Peter’s smug smirk, the words fell out, “I love you, man.”

That made the smugness waver, and Peter’s response was weaker than whatever he’d been trying to force himself to act like just now, “Love you, too, kid.” 

Too honest. Unnervingly so. 

Something was wrong.

Stiles smiled anyway.

Peter looked away as he clapped him on the shoulder, “How about we go kill Theo, now, hm? It’s long overdue.”

“Wait, did you say my spark is burning him alive??”

 

-

 

The pack had not seen Theo in days. He was sure they’d all heard of Isaac Lahey’s ridiculously simple bowl-of-noodles play, and the way Theo had been thrown across the room by… something. Someone, probably, but, to be perfectly candid, Theo was almost certain that ‘humanity’ was just a ploy. A way to keep our sanity when it came down to questions like ‘what makes us different from animals?’ and ‘what makes me better than you?’. The real answer was nothing.  

This was what he told himself to distract from the confusion of not really remembering what happened that night. 

It’s not like it was hard to distract himself, with the constant burning across his skin. It was the worst on his hands, and up his forearms. Rarely did it spread anywhere else. But even that tiny area was unbearable, because it would flare up, and then it would heal, and the pain would be forgotten long enough for him to feel the full brunt of it all over again. It was like Stiles was fucking haunting him. The worst part was he would.  

The second worst part was it was not meant to go like this. Taking the power from Stiles had always been an option, an attractive one at that, but only once he knew how he did it. He would bring back Tara, and he would fix everything, and he would forget how it felt to have his chest cut open and his heart torn out of him as he was forced awake. But no. Stiles had to make it complicated. He had to be more than just some red-eyed necromancer. Time travel had to be real. 

What the fuck.

Seriously.

God forbid the secret be a spell, or a fountain of youth, or an old friend Theo could torture into submission. It just had to be impossible. Something Stiles, alone, could do, and he could never do without the power Theo had taken. And now it was useless. And it was torturing him, instead. 

He tried to tell himself it wasn’t pathetic, the way he’d hidden to lick his own wounds. That it was really taking a step back to strategize, to reassess. Not turning tail. 

The shift didn’t help. It just made the sparks angrier. And he healed worse under his fur than without it. So, Theo was left to sulk in the damn sewers, entirely human, feeling his sanity get chipped away with every glimmer of gold. 

It didn’t make sense. He should’ve become the Alpha. Even if an Alpha spark would be killing him worse than this, that’s what it should’ve been. Not gold. Not blue. Red. Violent, angry, powerful red. Because things like that didn’t just disappear. Nothing did. That wasn’t how the world worked. The universe, even. It was the first thing the Doctors drilled into his head once they were sure he would live, and it wouldn’t be a waste of their oh-so-precious time to tell him anything at all. 

The universe always finds balance. In power, in life, in death. Energy cannot be created or destroyed. Only transferred. Changed. 

The red was in there somewhere. 

It had to be. 

Unfortunately, that meant nothing if there was no one to be the Alpha of. No one to Lord over. And, if the Doctors got what they wanted, that’s what he’d end up with. A ghost town, stolen, suicidal magic, and no pack. No power. And that just wouldn’t fly. The Beast couldn’t do any more damage than it already had. Not if Theo was gonna get what he was promised. 

But then, there was something else. Other stories he’d heard in passing, of stolen power, of wiping out entire packs and walking away with the strength of one. 

That was what he needed. 

Take power. Build power. Become the Alpha like he was meant to. That was how he would get what he deserved. 

 

-

 

That card felt so heavy in Stiles’ hands, sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep. It felt enough like going home, already, just sitting in that car. But that card – the one that nameless hunter gave him before his new life got turned on its head and shot eighty-seven times in the dick – with its nothingness and its simple font, white numbers, it was just… He was too curious, now. 

But they didn’t have time. Not if Derek was still yet to die. Not if Stiles was going to do anything to save them back home. 

It was really impossible to ignore, now that he’d finally been around two of the wolves he cared the most about, what, exactly, he’d done while he was here. The things Araya had made him do, the ways she sought to assure his devotion to them. The wolfsbane he’d pressed into wounds, the roars and snarls he’d ignored, the blue eyes he’d stared into as they dimmed and died. Derek didn’t know. Peter didn’t know. 

He couldn’t take it back. And it was not something that should be forgiven. 

Peter climbed into the passenger seat, and Stiles almost couldn’t look at him. Knowing he had the very eyes Stiles had killed strangers for, probably far more innocent than Peter Hale, for the promise of nothing more than a flimsy roof and whiskey. The thought made him sick. Actually sick. But Peter was looking at him, assessing, and he couldn’t feel that right now. He’d ignore it until he was safe. Not in his car. Not in Mexico. Not awaiting the havoc of the Beast of fucking Gevaudan, and the Dread Doctors, and Parrish, and Theo. 

Stiles didn’t know what would happen next.

He’d never gotten that far before. Next April, he would be the oldest he’d ever been, and the youngest he’d ever lived through… whatever came after this. 

He had no idea.

And it was paralysing.

“We should really get a move on,” Peter said mildly, that curiosity thinly veiled with his ever-present nonchalance, “Theo’s not going to kill himself.”

“A man can hope.”

Peter hummed out a laugh, and Stiles tucked that little card back into his pocket. They didn’t have time. He didn’t want any part in it, anyway. Not if that fucking woman thought it was worth anything.

So he swallowed it all down, turned his key in the ignition, and took the car into reverse. It was a long way to Beacon Hills, and Stiles had no time left to lose. 

Those streets looked different from inside the Jeep. Less familiar. It’s not like he ventured very far, those past few weeks. He really would just go wherever Araya told him to, and he would always end up at the club, and he would always wake up somewhere. Occasionally his bed. Often his floor. A lot of the time his bathroom tiles. Most often, the middle of nowhere. He’d have to call that memorised number and wait for Araya to come get him. Another favour he’d owe. Another terrible thing he was forced into. He’d really lost his grip on things, hadn’t he? 

He got it, though. Why the Other Stiles had treated him the way he did. If he could go back, and he would, he would want nothing more than to change it. To save himself. 

He couldn’t.

Neither could Theo. 

But he could change it, now. He could save himself, now. In the present. With no meddling with time, no unforeseen consequences, no backfiring. Because he didn’t even know what was meant to happen. It would just be. And Stiles could make it as good as possible. 

Maybe not good.

Better. 

The same brand new black Jeep Grand Cherokee had been following them for an hour. He wasn’t stupid. And, sure, there was a cherry-red little Mini Cooper that had been going the same route, too, but at least they dipped out of view every once in a while. This Jeep wasn’t even being subtle. And Stiles could see the elderly couple inside the Mini. The Jeep’s windows were tinted damn-near illegally. 

He didn’t have time for this.

“Peter,” he said, taking the grimoire from his lap and passing it to Peter, “Find that perception spell for me.”

He could feel the wolf’s eyes on him as he took the book, “You think you can do it?”

“I broke my leg when I jumped,” Stiles answered, suddenly too aware of the fabric of his jeans, and the pedal beneath his right foot, “And my arms are almost glowing. I flashed my eyes earlier. I think I’ll manage.”

But, still, he wondered. He listened to the pages turning, and didn’t take his eyes off the road as he let the sparks warm him. He let the heat build through his arms, flowing out into his palms, the sweetest of comforts, like a nearby fireplace, like a fucking hearth, and he smelled it before he saw it. The smoke. 

He let up. And, when he moved his hands from ten and two to nine and three, two hefty scorch marks awaited his brief glance. 

“Yeah,” he said softly, the slightest tightness in his throat, “I’ll be just fine.”

And he took the next exit. 

The black Jeep followed. The cherry red Mini vanished. Stiles missed it already. Cherry-Red Mini was his friend. Black Jeep With Tinted Windows was not. And the roads were only getting more remote, the city long-gone behind them. 

Stiles almost missed his little apartment. He wondered how long it would take for someone to replace him. If they’d last longer than he did. If they had anyone coming to save them. 

He should’ve killed Araya. He had more than enough bullets.

He was getting sloppy.

In the back of his mind, the beer bottle in his duffel bag was screaming for him. Peter would take over the driving eventually. It was only fair. He could have a drink then. 

A thought crept in, with that – with the thought that he shouldn’t get pulled over and arrested and given a DUI or, God forbid, crash this car. 

Peter Hale had nothing to do with the Other Stiles. He didn’t mention him, give any hints that he was a part of Stiles’ life at that point. If he really hadn’t lied about it, like Claudia had seemed to want to say, then he had Derek. He had Scott. He had two kids. And the Other Stiles had been so ridiculously happy to see Peter. Well. It was greeting an old friend, that’s for sure. It was something he afforded to no one else – that grand hello. No one got a cheer, a painfully wide smile, and a hug, not even Stiles’ dad. That was a hug he’d give. That was something that made sense. That was someone he missed. His dad was not one of two people who would actually stay.

It wasn’t mournful. That hello.

But it was something.

And Stiles couldn’t shake it.  

Around and around, that thought ran through his mind, for hours. Until the city turned to small towns, and they passed through Guadalajara, and eventually, towns turned to houses, and houses turned to tree-lined, mountainous roads, and dying grass. It was too remote. And that fucking Jeep was still following them. 

“Peter, you have to have found that Godforsaken spell, it’s not that hard—”

“I am trying, but reading in a moving vehicle gives me headaches.”

“Suck it up!”

The Jeep was getting closer.

“We’re running out of time,” Stiles spat.

“You have no idea,” Peter grumbled back. There was a growl to his words, “This was so not how I saw the last day of my life panning out.”

“Your…” Stiles’ head snapped to the side, blatantly ignoring the road, “Your what?!”

Then Peter’s eyes widened as they shot upward, a hand shooting out, “Stiles! Eyes on the road!!”

He looked back, cursing as he swerved back, away from the edge of the road he was too close to, and rocking in his seat. His heart was pounding, and he was about to kill somebody.

“Peter,” he seethed, “What the fuck do you mean the ‘last day of your life’?? ”

Peter just huffed and said nothing. 

Stiles’ hands somehow tightened around the wheel even more, a million-and-one extremely fucking valid questions right on the tip of his tongue when something clanged. And a gunshot rang out. An unmistakable, echoing sound. And, for some damn reason, Stiles just slammed his mouth shut, and slammed on the brakes. 

“Stiles,” Peter said just as fast, turning to him, “What.”

He watched Black Jeep With Tinted Windows slip its faceless hand back into the window, the gun vanishing from sight, as the car stopped behind them.

“Stiles.”

“Shut up, Peter,” he snarled, unclasping his seatbelt, “I’m gonna take care of it. Keep looking for that spell. It’s near the middle. Reading isn’t that fucking hard.”

“Stiles!”

He ignored him as he shoved his door open, slipping out of the car and storming the few metres between the two Jeeps, hands clenching and unclenching, scars tugging as they always did, relentlessly. Peter kept shouting after him. Stiles just breathed deep as the other car’s door opened. 

He saw the shotgun first. 

Then he saw the woman holding it.

And he honest-to-God beamed, “Holy shit!!” No matter the gun trained on him, nor the blank stare, nothing dampened the actual, real delight at the sight of her, “Braeden?!”

“Oh, you’ve heard of me,” she said, and cocked the gun. 

“Hey, come on,” Stiles grinned wide, cheeks burning, hands raised in surrender, “Don’t do this, Braeden. We have too much in common for you to kill me. We even have the same taste in men—”

He dropped down as she brought her finger to the trigger and fired. Something like a laugh was punched out of him as he caught himself with a hand against the dirt road beneath them, staring up as she lowered the gun to point at him, cocking it again. 

“Hey!!” He quirked his head, “Not cool.”

She just narrowed her eyes, “God, you’re annoying.” 

And the next shot had him stumbling back, staring down at the bullet lodged in the ground where he’d knelt. He listened to her cocking the gun again, frowning down at his right hand as he eyed the scorch mark beneath it. He slowly started to move backwards. 

It felt too good to have his power back. Or to have some sort of power, anyway. 

“How much’re the Calaveras paying you, then?” He asked, looking up at her, brows rising, “Doubt it’s more than twenty-five million.”

She hesitated, then, resting her weight on one leg and popping her hip as she stared down at him, “That what you want your last words to be?”

“No,” Stiles smiled, “But you can’t fault a guy for trying to chat with an old pal.”

“I don’t know you.”

“Nah,” his smile widened, and he shrugged, “That’ll make this easier, I guess.” 

He was off his ass in a second – less than that – and Braeden was tackled to the floor only a little bit slower. She swore as they hit the dirt, little dust clouds picking up with every movement, Stiles wrestling the shotgun out of her hands and wondering passively why the hell she’d pick that as her weapon of choice. Shotguns were powerful, sure, but annoying as hell. One shot at a time. Too slow. Too likely to break. 

But with the gun out of her hands and tossed across the dry dirt, he should’ve seen the knife coming. Faster than he did, at least. His guarding hand was sloppy, and the blade caught his finger as he reached out to stop it. He didn’t feel sorry at all as the energy burned through his palm, and she yanked her hand back, dropping the knife to the floor and letting Stiles grab it and throw it away, too. 

“I don’t want to hurt you!” He shouted, unnecessary when he was literally on top of her. 

Braeden just raised a brow as she swung her leg up, hitting him in the side as she grabbed his hand and tugged, rolling the both of them to the side and ignoring Stiles’ groans as she pinned him down. This just in, Stiles did not like having his hair pulled like that. 

“Shame,” she said, “‘Cause I really wanna hurt you.” Her lips almost quirked into a smile, “That could’ve been another thing we have in common.”

 “Oh, my God,” Stiles beamed again, despite the way she was totally reaching for another knife in her other boot, “are we bonding right now?”

“Stiles!” Peter’s voice called out, “I found it!!”

And the spark blinked. Braeden paused. 

He grinned, “Sorry, pretty. Gotta run.” 

She grunted as he slammed a fist up into her stomach, freeing up just enough space to fold his leg up and slam it into her abdomen. He let her fall back, regaining her footing fast enough, as he rolled to his hands and knees to rise to his feet again. 

And then he was running. 

“Tell Araya ‘fuck you’ for me, okay?!” He shouted over his shoulder, grinning still as Braeden clutched at her stomach for a moment. She rolled her eyes before she started storming off toward the abandoned shotgun, and Stiles hurried the hell up. 

Peter was holding the grimoire out across the console, open to the page he’d needed, thank fuck, and he snatched it from his hands fast enough.

He looked back at Braeden, rising to stand, with the shotgun steady in her hands, raised, ready to aim. The steady breeze moved her hair like a shot from an action film, perfect even as it barely covered her face. Her finger rested on the trigger.

“Now you see me,” he was practically buzzing. He was buzzing. 

The words passed his lips like frosted air, his eyes locked onto the page, letting his mother’s handwriting seep into him, and her words fall out. 

And he could feel it. The magic. The spark. It was warmth, and it was power. It was flowing through his blood and whole in his bones and it was blinding, flowing through the lines beneath his skin, some entirely new shade of blue, as he finished the spell and looked up to see the confusion and anger pass over Braeden’s eyes. 

Then, bang.  

She fired anyway. Stiles swore as the bullet grazed him, freezing up, bracing his hand against the door of his Jeep as he watched, again, for a reaction. 

Just another curled lip, more darting, confused eyes, and another cock of the gun. He licked his lips. He slipped back into the car. He tossed the book into Peter’s lap. He slammed the door shut. He winced at the little cut on his side as it tugged, and the one on his hand as it hit the wheel. He took the car out of park.

He watched Braeden shout into the empty road as they turned out of view.

“Stiles—”

“Shut up.”

“… Okay.”

 

-

 

Peter did not speak a word while he was driving, after they switched sides about three hours later. He left Stiles to sip his warm beer and glare out at the horizon in utter silence, just stewing. 

It wasn’t an angry silence. Not exactly. But it was something bitter. It was Stiles’ frustration and Peter’s stubbornness. It was his fault for saying it in the first place. ‘The last day of my life’ – what the hell was that even supposed to mean? If he thought he was going to die, he would’ve said it. He would be complaining, and running for the hills, and doing everything in his power to stop it. Like he always did. He was a runner. He was a leaver. If shit hit the fan, he wasn’t about to get sprayed by it. His outfit was too expensive and his skin too squeaky-clean.

They took one motel pit-stop while below the border. A bag of chips from the vending machine there was the first thing Stiles had eaten in over twenty-four hours. It just made him feel sick. 

“You’ve got a big two days ahead of you, Stiles,” Peter drawled, speaking for the first time in a solid fourteen hours, “You might want to eat a little more than that.”

Stiles had stared down at the empty bag in his hands, crumpled in his grip into a small sphere, “I’m fine.”

Peter gave him a look, nodding into the darkness, “There’s a gas station over there. I’ll get you some food. I’m not letting you starve.”

“Why not?” Stiles asked as Peter turned on his heel and started to walk off, well aware that the asshole had both of their room keys and Stiles really shouldn’t piss him off, “You need me to be at full strength when you die?”

The wolf stopped, slowly looked over his shoulder, and said, “I need you to be at full strength when you destroy Theo Raeken.” He turned away again and kept walking, “Keep up.”

Stiles stood there for a long moment, watching him walk off. It took too long to get his feet to work again. They’d been sitting in that Jeep for so long, in its old-ass chairs, Peter being pretty much invulnerable when it came to cramps, while Stiles very much wasn’t. He’d practically lost all feeling in his ass by the time they got to this motel. But that didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

Gravel crunched beneath his shoes as he moved to start catching up.

How long did he have left with him? His best friend, the biggest pain in his ass, his family? The only person who knew him? No one else could tell Stiles what he was like at fifteen. No one else could tell him real stories about his mom. No one else could tell him he’d had this spark as a baby. No one else could explain how he got where he was now. No one else was important in the way that Peter was. He couldn’t leave. It wasn’t fair. 

Stiles wouldn’t exist without Peter. Whether that was a good thing or not, it just was. 

Stiles kept his mouth shut until they got back to the motel, one plastic bag of random gas station crap each, at which point he stared at the key held out in Peter’s waiting hand and said, “You’re the reason Derek came to get me, aren’t you?”

Nothing changed in Peter’s blank stare.

“You convinced him to come,” Stiles said, “You did, didn’t you.”

Then Peter tilted his head, “He chose to go ahead of me. I just made him get his head out of his ass and got him in his car.” 

Stiles’ chest ached. He had to bite the inside of his lip to stop it from quivering as that terrible sadness threatened to rear its fugly head. 

Peter’s eyes softened, “He doesn’t hate you, Stiles. You can still fix things.”

“I know,” Stiles muttered, reaching out to take that key from the wolf’s hand. He licked his lips, and swallowed, “But we shouldn’t.” He shook his head, “Not until I’ve got my shit together.”

It looked like Peter’s lip quirked up, when Stiles looked back at him, “Smart. But pain shared is pain halved, Stiles. One fight shouldn’t destroy what you two have built together. Even I think it’s sweet.”

“Well,” Stiles shrugged, “it was. If Derek wants to wait for me, then he will. But I don’t think he should.”

“You always have been surprisingly slow,” Peter drawled. Stiles gave him a warning glare. The wolf smiled, “Goodnight, Stiles. We leave before sunrise. Get some sleep.”

He did not. Stiles tossed and turned, and stared up at the ceiling with no thoughts but an old Taylor Swift song playing on loop. Sometimes it would fade into some track from a musical Laura had been humming under her breath for two straight weeks that summer. He missed them insufferably. The thought of their reactions to where he’d gone, to what he’d done, to the mark he wore and the still-warm blood on his hands, it was petrifying. It was unbearable. 

But he’d done it to himself. And actions have consequences. He was a grown man. He could fucking handle it. 

 

-

 

Stiles had spent his whole life searching for blame. He’d knelt at his bedside as a child and prayed to God, asking why He’d take his mom from him; why she had to do what she did to him on her way out, as the love was stripped from her day by day. It wasn’t fair, and someone had to be to blame. It couldn’t just be fate, or chance, or genetics. That didn’t make sense. Because why Stiles? Why Noah? If God was out there, why would He do that to them? To a man as devout as he could be, and his ten-year-old son who didn’t do anything besides play video games, read comic books, talk to strangers on the family computer, and think about Lydia Martin? All perfectly good Christian things to do, thank you very much. So why weren’t they safe? Why did they deserve that?

Well, it wasn’t God’s fault. It was Claudia’s. That was one blame Stiles could confidently place. 

Maybe. 

He’d been searching for blame endlessly, for years and years and years. Trying to find sense in all of it. In Scott being turned into a werewolf  – was that his fault, or Peter’s, or the Argent’s, or the website Stiles got his police scanner from? In Allison’s death – was it Stiles, or the Nogitsune, or Jennifer Blake, or the Nemeton, or the Oni, or Derek, or Ennis, or Peter, or Noshiko? There had to be something, some place or person or thing that Stiles could rest his grief on. Without one, where would he put it? It would fester and grow into something hideous, and everyone would be worse off for it. 

It wasn’t Stiles’ fault that they were here now. As much as he tended to find himself there, in that belief, it wasn’t entirely true. A little. But not entirely.

Funny how he’d forgotten what it was that started this. 

They weren’t far from the border when they stopped at that motel. Not as far as they had been, anyway, a good twenty hours into a thirty-seven-hour drive. Stiles noticed it right away. The tenseness in Peter’s hands, the grief in his stare. It didn’t make sense. It just kept growing. Getting worse. He’d been fine, almost, when he showed up at the church. Strange, weirdly nostalgic, but not… scared. 

He’d dumped a loudly clanking plastic bag in the back of the Jeep as they hopped in that morning, slipping into the passenger’s seat and saying directly to the dashboard, “I don’t want you to keep it up, but if you’ve been constantly getting as wasted as you were the night you called me, you really shouldn’t go cold turkey. You could get sick. Just… slow down.” He glanced at him out of the corner of his eye, “Okay?” 

Stiles watched him. Peter’s brows furrowed, and he sat up straighter. 

“Ditch the whiskey,” he said, his jaw clenching, “It really is one of the worst smells in the world.”

“Worse than a dead body?”

“You know I’m being hyperbolic, Stiles,” Peter’s eyes sharpened, “I said ‘one of’. Just shut up and drive.”

Stiles’ hands tightened around the wheel for just a split second before breaking away to tuck his hair behind his ears, “Say no more, Uncle Peter.” And he did keep watching to see the way the wolf’s stare softened, and how he looked away as his face fell. The sky had to be about to fall for Peter Hale to show so much emotion. It was terrifying. 

He didn’t mention it as he took the car out of park. 

It was probably the most horribly tense drive to ever have a soundtrack of contemporary pop music. Peter didn’t even try to shut it off like he had on the drive the day before, every single time Stiles tried to put anything on. Even the niche stuff that he had no reason to hate, it was turned off in an instant. It had been Stiles’ only source of entertainment on that terrible drive. Trying to move faster than an impossibly quick hand. It didn’t work. But sometimes he’d zap him, and he’d almost get somewhere. Then Peter would threaten to crash the car and Stiles would give up. For at least ten minutes. 

He should’ve known what was wrong. It shouldn’t have shocked him like it did. It shouldn’t have been so terrible.

But Peter should’ve fucking told him sooner. He could’ve done something. Or at least mentally prepared for it, for fuck’s sake. 

Not that there was anything to prepare for. 

There was nothing he could do. 

They’d been maybe twenty-five minutes away from the border, with that same pseudo-invisibility spell ready in Stiles’ lap, when Peter finally cracked. There was a storm on the horizon, right in their path, just beyond the actual border in the distance and the checkpoints of cars waiting to cross. 

“Erica and Allison are waiting at a motel just over the border,” Peter said, voice as weak as it had been this whole time, as he reached for Stiles’ phone, still blaring music, “I’ll put the address in here. Just follow the instructions.”

Stiles glanced at him from the corner of his eye, “I know how a GPS works.”

“Yes, well,” Peter sighed a little, “I won’t be here to tell you where to go. I’m trusting you’ll figure it out.” His brows furrowed, “Actually.” And Stiles watched him open the messages app and pull up Erica’s contact, not even blinking at the ‘99+ unread’ by her name. 

“Peter,” Stiles said lowly, his hands clenched around the steering wheel, “Please.”

The wolf turned to him.

“Tell me what’s going on,” Stiles knew the crackle of his voice sounded like begging. It almost was. It very well could be, if Peter didn’t spit it out soon. 

Peter’s eyes were honest-to-God petrified, the type of fear that ruins a man, as he swallowed and said, “We’ve been here before, Stiles. Just not together.”

“What? What the fuck does that mean.”

“You remember,” Peter’s mouth moved in the weirdest way, sort of twitching, like he didn’t know what emotion to feel first, “Or, you don’t. That’s the point. You’re going to…” He huffed as he turned to look out of the window. Stiles had given up on watching the road at that point. It was just desert, anyway. But Peter’s hands shook around Stiles’ phone as he looked down to keep typing, “You won’t remember me by the time we get back to Beacon Hills.”

Stiles’ brows twitched, “Why wouldn’t I…”

But the understanding crept in along with the fear and all its memories. Something Stiles had never seen, but something only he could understand. Of the way rain had left him paralysed for so long when this all began, and how the rustling of leaves in the wind sent a chill down his spine that he couldn’t shake. That chill had changed to a deep pit in his stomach, now. 

He watched Peter’s left eye twitch, a poorly suppressed wince. 

That couldn’t be right. 

He couldn’t be taken.

Peter Hale could not be erased by the Wild Hunt again. 

“I don’t want to forget you,” Stiles heard himself whisper, “I don’t want…”

The wolf pulled a face, like he’d eaten something sour, “We’re headed straight for the storm, Stiles. I already saw them. Nothing you can do.”

“No,” Stiles’ throat was closing up, his head shaking back and forth, “I can… I can fix it— I can go back, again, or… or…”

“You couldn’t even if you wanted to,” Peter said.

“Then I won’t go to the storm,” Stiles said firmly, his grip on the wheel impossibly tight now, “I’ll turn back around right now—”

“You are going home,” Peter snarled, “if it’s the last thing I make you do.”

Stiles couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t see, he couldn’t feel a thing, “It will be. Why does it have to be??”

“You can’t fight the Hunt, Stiles,” Peter snapped, “They’re taking me. I’m gone. Back home, they don’t know me anymore. Alright?” 

Stiles just kept shaking his head ‘no’. Anything could be true if he believed it hard enough – this had to as well. Peter couldn’t leave. He couldn’t forget him. There wasn’t… Stiles didn’t know how to live without that asshole. Not anymore. He was too important. He wasn’t allowed to leave, that wasn’t fair.

The Wild Hunt had taken an entire lifetime from Stiles, once. 

“You won’t ever come back,” Stiles choked out, “There… You won’t ever have existed. Unless I drag you back in time again, you’re gone.”

Peter was quiet. 

“I don’t even know how I did that, Peter,” Stiles hissed, “If I don’t get taken, too, then you’re done.”

“I know,” he said softly. 

Stiles hadn’t stopped driving. He was still going. The storm clouds were getting closer. And closer. 

He took in a shaky breath, feeling the pit grow in his stomach as he admitted, “I’m scared.”

“I know,” Peter said again, “but you won’t be.”

Stiles glanced over at him, then looked back to the thick darkness ahead of them, “Peter…”

“You won’t know anything happened at all,” the wolf said, “It’ll just be a bad storm.”

Stiles’ right thumb began to tap against the wheel, incessant, and he had nothing more to say. All he could do was remember. All he could do was grasp at every memory he could find – that concrete room, their favourite bar downtown, that free cruise, last Christmas, darts with Laura and Chris. This man had been his mother’s ‘Man of Honor’ at her wedding, and now no one else would remember her the way that Peter did. 

Who was Stiles supposed to call when he needed help? Who was going to get his jokes about the other timeline? Who would help him plan for the unstoppable, stupid, ridiculous threats back home? Peter was meant to make his wedding all about him, they were meant to stick together, he was— Peter was all he had right now. He'd saved him. He'd gotten him to go home. No one else had. No one else was Peter Hale. 

It was a heavy silence that Peter broke as he held the book out to Stiles – the book he’d given him, every single time, “Get your head in the game, Stiles. You won’t stop Theo with your mind so all over the place.” But his voice was so gentle it didn’t even sound like him. 

He was right. 

Stiles didn’t really care. 

“I’ll find you,” he said as he took the book, looking over at him, “I’ll save you.”

Peter shook his head, “I don’t think you will, Stiles.”

“Well, I don’t give a shit what you think,” Stiles spat, “I’ll… I’ll find some way to remember you, it can’t be that hard, you’re fucking everywhere.”

Peter huffed, “Stiles—”

“I will remember you,” Stiles said pointedly, and he felt the words settle in his chest, “I promise.”

“Don’t promise something like that, Stiles,” Peter whispered. And Stiles didn’t know what to say to that. Not really.

But he meant it. He did. Even if Stiles was really no good at keeping his promises, he meant it. Even if being taken by them had meant the end of everything, it hadn’t. His mom had said it hadn’t. And maybe he’d changed something when his spark messed everything up but if, in some stretch of reality, they could save him from the Wild Hunt, then Stiles could save Peter, damn it. It wasn’t the end. It couldn’t be. He’d fix it. He’d remember him.

Even if he didn’t remember promising to, at all.

He cast the spell, and they drove around the waiting cars and straight through the border checkpoint. Stiles couldn’t look away from the clouds, and the thick wall of rain they were headed into. He couldn’t stop. It was like he was driving faster.  

If he didn’t stop driving, they couldn’t get him. The monsters Stiles couldn’t even see. And the creeping terror of not remembering what memories, exactly, he’d been thinking of earlier, well, that was fine. Because he knew he had to remember, at least. But he didn’t think it would happen so fast. 

Peter put his phone back on the dash. Stiles’ eyes blocked out the reflection in the windshield.

He couldn’t do this without him. 

It was really starting to set in that he didn’t have a choice. 

Peter didn’t have to come home with him. He didn’t have to go with him on this drive, to make sure he made it back safe, to keep an eye on what he was drinking and get him food and water and a motel room for the night. He didn’t have to do any of it. He could’ve stayed in Mexico, where the Wild Hunt didn’t bother to tread. At least not today. 

He didn’t have to do any of it. But he did. 

And he was swallowing thickly before he said, “I don’t… I don’t want to go.”

Stiles couldn’t take this. Peter had a pained smile on his face, as if he were having to talk to someone he utterly despised, the same smile he gave Victoria every single time, only now it wasn’t reaching his eyes. Those eyes looked as scared as Stiles had ever seen them. 

There was nothing after this. For Peter. Not until Stiles made it right. 

Maybe he could follow him. Maybe he could go, too, and they’d mess everything up and start a new timeline and Stiles wouldn’t even care. He’d let Peter heal and take them both home before anyone even knew anything had changed. 

Rain pummelled against the windshield, against the windows and the roof. It yelled louder than the thunder. And it was so dark. 

Stiles’ sleeves were thick, but the chill in the air cut straight through the car around them. His heart was about to burst out of his chest. He’d throw it up and cough and splutter and his blood wouldn’t even be warm. 

Peter’s eyes were desperate as he shook his head, “Stop the car.”

“No,” Stiles spoke before he could even think, “No, I’m not doing that.”

“Stop the car.”

“Peter.”

“Stiles,” the tone actually got him to falter on the gas. His hand didn’t reach for the stick, though. Peter’s stare wasn’t scared anymore. It was more… defeated. He nodded, and Stiles felt a part of him wilt away in real-time. It was slow, and torturous, and it rotted and cracked as Stiles’s foot let up. 

The car slowed, and each shift in gear felt like a step toward the edge of a cliff. Stiles knew what it felt like to look down at your death. He just prayed that this wasn’t what it was. 

“It is weird,” Peter said softly as the car came close to stopping, “to not know if I’ll make it to the other side. If there is one.” He took in a deep breath, and Stiles heard it shake, “I do hope you make good on your promise.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed, and a sickness bloomed in his stomach, “What… What promise?”

Peter nodded as he looked away, “Get home safe. Okay?”

He reached for the door handle, and Stiles’ chest lurched as it clicked open. The wind yanked it to its limits, slamming against its own hinges, and Stiles’ seatbelt was pulled off in the same split second that the other man stepped out of the car. The grimoire fell to the car floor, and Stiles fell down to the wet dirt of the road beneath them, squelching beneath his Converse. 

The rain was drenching him almost instantly, and the wind could’ve knocked him on his ass, but he rounded the car as fast as he could. He couldn’t hear a thing over the whistling of the winds, and it almost swallowed his own voice as he shouted out, “Peter!!”

The man was frozen, staring at something, until he looked back over his shoulder. Petrified. And Stiles hardly even knew why he was calling out for him, but the man turned on his heel and ran straight for him. 

His arms were impossibly strong when they locked around him, cutting through the wind and holding him up. A vice-like grip, tight and firm and making Stiles want to sob for some reason. He didn’t know why. He didn’t have a clue. 

It felt like the hugs his dad used to give him, though. 

So he hugged the man back. 

And the man’s whisper was as good as nothing with the wind and rain and thunder clapping so loud as he said, “Please don’t forget—”

The wind sang as it passed by.

Rain water dripped down Stiles’ face, traced that tattoo behind his ear, tickled his neck on the way down to his shirt collar. He ran a hand through his wet hair, and felt the heaviness in his chest with a solemn confusion. 

Stiles stood alone, by the side of a dirt road in Southern California. 

Less than thirty seconds were spent still standing in the rain before he snapped himself out of whatever trance was holding him there and rounded the car to step back inside. Why, exactly, he’d stopped to stand out in the rain was beyond him. It didn’t even really occur to him to think about it. He spared a brief glance at the empty passenger side of his car, then at his phone. 

“Continue straight for thirty-point-two miles,” the female voice of the GPS called out, and Stiles swore the instructions had been exactly the same for the last hour and a half. At the bottom of the screen, opposite her latest instruction, sat an ETA of fourteen hours from then. 11PM. 

A text notification popped up, from Allison. Then another. Then another. His brows furrowed as he read. 

‘All ready for you.’

‘How’d you know we were waiting? Erica’s freaked.’

‘Love you, Stiles. See you soon :)’

Stiles sighed his lungs empty as he reached up to rub at closed eyes. A car sped past as he started to blink the dots out of his vision. 

Nothing was special. Nothing but the water dripping from his drenched, too-long hair. 

Everything was as it was meant to be. 

“Fuck,” he grumbled to absolutely no one as he brought one hand back to the wheel and the other to his gearshift, “This drive’s gonna take a decade.”

Notes:

Peter Hale, I Will Always Love You

Chapter 27: Thunder Bringer

Summary:

Stiles goes back to his roots. Derek moves forward.

Notes:

guysss this season was the most fun i've had writing literally in YEARS i had the time of my LIFE and i am so so so so so uuugGUGHUGHGH. i dont care if it doesnt really make sense or if the dread doctors/the beast are such a violent B plot that i didnt even bother to try and remember the canon story let alone resolve it. i had os much fun. and i love angst. and i love this fic. and i care so much about this story. and im so grateful that there are people reading this and caring about it with me. i love you all so so so much

(just as with spanish, i do not speak french. but i at least have been to france. many times. and studied french for like four years. so maybe that just means any mistakes are way more embarrassing than if i made them in spanish. so im double sorry if i did.)

also. just realised i COMPLETELY forgot that parrish exists???????? oops. there are too many characters in this fic rn its not my fault ill fix it next season its fine its fine its fieensfkeokakend

Derek died at midnight. He did not die alone. 

The storm had not yet reached Beacon Hills when Isaac met the group at the Hale House. It was a safe place. Always. Come rain or shine, barbeques or weighted blankets and hot chocolate, that house was everything. Isaac spent most nights at the Sheriff’s for the better part of a year, but lately he’d been at the Hale House more often than not. Mostly because Derek was there. He was a good guy. Always had been. And he made a damn good lasagna. 

Life was easy, now. Maybe that was just because Isaac wasn’t like the rest of them. He didn’t have claws, or go feral on a full moon, he wasn’t able to scent emotions and territory and feel disturbances in the force or whatever the hell his friends did. Stiles wasn’t maniacally pacing like a caged animal or threatening to kill someone or preparing for someone else to kill someone. And life was easy. That month was deliciously peaceful. Technically, Isaac was meant to be playing in the lacrosse game against Devenford Prep that night. If bench-warming counted as playing. Stiles always said it did. ‘The great minds get to sit on the bench. It’s an honor, really. If you think about it. Where would they be without my level-headed strategy?’ He’d say, eyes squinting rapidly. Isaac had never seen a game where he was benched. Never. 

He did not know that Stiles was coming back to town that night. 

He doubted Theo did, either. 

Derek had tried to bring him back, bless his sweet little tortured heart, and failed abysmally by the looks of it. At least his mutilated face was slowly becoming less disturbing to look at the longer Isaac did. He was there, now, sulking in the kitchen as he furiously mixed the batter of his third batch of cupcakes. Isaac watched him with narrowed eyes. 

“Maybe it’s for the best,” Lydia said softly, sat beside Isaac at the kitchen island, and he didn’t need werewolf senses to know she was down-playing the jubilance. “He made you sad, Derek. Too damn often.”

“I don’t care,” the sort-of-a-wolf snapped, stirring harder, “I… I want him to stay.”

“Well, he’s staying somewhere, ” Isaac murmured. Derek gave him a harsh look. Isaac put his hands up in surrender and looked away as he locked them together in front of his mouth. His elbows rolled uncomfortably through his cardigan sleeves against the marble countertop as he turned back to Lydia. 

She had the same pity-drenched look on her face as she’d had since Derek got home more-or-less five hours ago. 

“You don’t get it,” Derek said weakly, “He just needs help.”

“But you chose not to help him,” Lydia shrugged, “And that’s not a bad thing.”

“Maybe it is,” Derek said, dropping the bowl onto the counter and swallowing thickly, “Maybe… Maybe I’m expecting him to stay through everything, and I should… I should be staying, too.”

“He’s an alcoholic mass-murderer who literally hunts people for being like you,” Isaac drawled, watching Derek’s shoulders droop, “I don’t think most people would stay, in your position. I know I wouldn’t.” He reached for the bowl as he spoke, aiming for a finger-full of raw cake batter and getting nothing more than a harsh slap on his wrist. 

“He joined the Calaveras because he thought they’d kill him.”

Isaac pulled a face, “Is that better? ”

“It’s…” Derek’s face was pinched, “more… forgivable.”

“Everything Stiles does is forgivable to you,” Lydia said, “That’s the whole problem.”

Derek glared at her as he crossed his arms over his chest, “I am aware.” And Isaac watched silently as his face shifted, as thoughts flickered past his eyes and they fell to the countertop. He ground his jaw for a moment, then relaxed. He shrugged, “We’ve seen his future, though. Our future. I’m gonna marry him, anyway.”

Lydia made a small, pitiful noise, “That doesn’t terrify you?”

Derek’s eyes rose again to meet hers, “No. Not at all. Never has.” He shrugged again, “Now he’s… He’s a lot less… unstable, in the future.” Then his eyes squinted momentarily in a way that Isaac swore had Stiles’ face overtaking his. “But, right now, he’s pissing me the fuck off. The things he said—… I still… I still think I should’ve stayed. Should’ve made him come home. Dragged him back by his ankles, or something. Sent him to rehab. Been more… patient.”

“He needs to learn you’re not his knight in shining armour,” Lydia drawled, and Derek’s body seemed to freeze. His eyes fluttered over her, and his jaw tightened again. Lydia gave him a look, “He’s a grown-ass man. And he needs to get his shit together.”

Derek’s bruised eyes were just as devastated as they had been that whole evening, “Everyone needs help sometimes. Especially people who think they have no one.” 

Isaac watched his brows knit together as he took a step back from the bowl of cake batter between them all. He didn’t know a whole lot about those two. He could still vividly remember how odd he’d thought they both were when they rocked up. Terrifying, even. Derek looked like a serial killer, and Stiles acted like one, and having two strangers pull into town, one of which being a literal zombie boy, and both of them being strangely interested in you being their friend. It was deeply disconcerting. 

Stiles had meant a lot to Isaac, for a time. It got soured irreversibly when he went void. Void Stiles did nothing but bring up memories of Dad. And memories of him were not pleasant. He knew it wasn’t actually Stiles. Of course, he did. But his face had new memories of its own, now, and those memories just made the other ones come up so much more frequently. Isaac did miss that safe space in Stiles. But he had new ones, now. More of them. Stronger, too. Life was moving on, and he couldn’t wait for senior year to be over. He’d be out of this town before his diploma was even printed out. The only thing he’d miss would be this house. 

All three of them turned to the door as a knock sounded out. 

Isaac gave a passive glance to Derek. The wolf gave him a harsh look before giving the same look to his apron – bright pink and covered in hearts, technically Kira’s, but she’d left it behind the last time she and Malia had a bake-off. Isaac snorted, and turned to Lydia. 

The girl rolled her eyes so extravagantly he worried she might lose an eyelash as she slipped out of her stool and strutted off, “I am surrounded by manchildren.”

Her bare feet padded against the hardwood floor as she walked, the sound turning distant so fast, but the click of the front door was as loud as if they were right there with her. Her voice was low and harsh as she spoke, but Isaac couldn’t make out the words. He heard that name, though. 

Then came Lydia’s first scream. 

Derek and Isaac were out of the kitchen in less than a second. It felt like it, at least. But even with the sudden pounding of his heart, Isaac couldn’t do anything to help. Not really. Not as he came out into the hallway to see Theo Raeken standing over Lydia’s body, his face just as confused as it was enraged.

“I swear to…” the chimera’s words trailed off into a bitter scoffing laugh, as Lydia crawled backwards on her hands. She looked fine. She wasn’t bleeding. But she was shaky, and looking back at him and Derek with wide, horrified eyes. “You people just can’t make anything easy for me, can you?”

“What are you doing here?” Derek snarled. 

Theo met his stare, so bored-looking, “I was hoping there’d be something useful here. Like a kitsune. Or a werewcoyote.” His eyes flickered down to Lydia, now scrambling to her feet. “Or a banshee.” 

“‘Useful’?” Isaac echoed.

Theo’s eyes lit up, his mouth splitting into a grin, “I’m window-shopping.”

And when the claws protruded from his fingertips, they dripped with something. 

Derek swallowed by Isaac’s side as he hid Lydia behind him, “Theo. There’s nothing you can take here. You can’t steal Lydia’s power. And Isaac and I have none to give.”

The chimera looked downright delighted, “No.” He nodded, “But you’re my golden ticket, either way, Derek.”

Isaac watched with wide eyes as Derek’s brows fell, “What?”

And Theo was lunging forward. Claws slicing through the air. 

Isaac didn’t think. 

He was between Derek and Theo in a split second, mindlessly putting his body in the way of the danger. Some unconscious reaction to a threat that Isaac had never, ever had before. He didn’t fight. He froze. He ran, and he hid, and he cowered. 

Not then. 

Then, he stood, and he watched Theo’s hand collide with something. A wall, almost. Shimmering a pulsing blue-ish colour, then fading to nothing. A split second passed, and Isaac wondered if that was his doing. It clicked pretty fast, though. Magic wasn’t his thing. But it was someone’s.

Lydia screamed for a second time as it happened.

He watched Theo’s eyes fill with a rage he’d never seen on anybody before. A murderous anger. One that he really thought could hurt him if he didn’t look away.

The chimera’s grin turned to something far more like a sneer, and he looked straight past Isaac. Through him, almost. 

A brow raised, “Interesting.”

“Isaac,” Derek was saying lowly behind him, “Get Lydia to the—”

Theo moved impossibly fast, and the golden light blinded Isaac enough to leave him flinching back absolutely uselessly. His eyes burned, and his hands did nothing to shield the light, and—

He was on the floor. Skidding to a stop in the middle of a doorway, blinking the confusion away as he caught his breath. His clothes had ridden down from the friction, and his wrist felt just light enough to catch his attention. He spared a glance down at it, and his eyes narrowed at the missing charm. 

Oh.

You know, he was real glad he decided not to stop wearing that thing. 

“His fucking charms,” Theo snarled to himself, eyes rolling hard enough for Isaac to see from down the hall, “Everything that psycho does is just so unbelievably annoyi—”

He was cut off by a body slamming into him. Theo grunted as he was knocked back onto the porch of the house, legs kicking and arms grabbing. Derek almost roared as the claws pierced into him. 

Isaac could do nothing but watch. Clutching his wrist, feeling the point where that charm used to hang, not even knowing what it had done, but Theo destroyed it anyway. It had saved him.

And Derek didn’t have one. 

They fought so closely, more Derek trying to hold Theo’s arms away from himself, knowing full-well he couldn’t heal, than actually trying to hurt him. And, really, Isaac could do something. If Derek could, so could he. But Derek was bigger than him. And he still wasn’t a wolf. And Theo was going to win no matter what. 

Lydia’s final scream was distant. Not a wailing sound. Not a cry. 

A name. 

Right as Theo rolled them both over, and they tumbled down the steps onto the grass before the front porch. Isaac clambered onto his feet as they vanished from view, rushing over to the open doorway to stare, wide-eyed, down at them. 

His heart dropped further than it ever had as Lydia’s scream rang out. 

And Theo plunged his claws deep into Derek’s stomach. 

His breathing changed. Derek’s. It moved to his chest rather than his stomach, like he was trying to move as little as possible. And his eyes flickered up to Theo’s face, impossibly wide. Isaac half expected them to glow again. 

They didn’t.

But Theo’s did. They glowed a furious gold, and his mouth twisted up into a real grin again. 

“There you go,” he snarled, “Just let it happen, Derek.”

Derek grunted a little. A pained sound. 

Isaac was struck with the need to run away but he was rooted in place. Freezing again. Heart pounding in his chest and hands shaking so furiously he couldn’t have helped even if he could get his legs to move.

“Theo,” Derek gasped out, “Theo, stop.”

Theo’s smile only widened, “If you insist.”

There was a nauseating squelch as he pulled his claws out of Derek’s abdomen, swallowed up by Derek’s pained cry. 

Isaac couldn’t listen to this. 

Theo rose to his feet again, staring down at Derek’s still, gasping, bleeding body, with his claws dripping wet, dark blood onto the grass, and still smiling. Isaac was not so proud that he would deny the tears that welled in his eyes, or the terror closing up his lungs and tightening his chest, leaving his cries choked and suffocating. He was panicking. And Derek was dying. And Lydia was silent. 

“I’ll be waiting for your man, Derek,” Theo said around his grin, “You got anything you want me to tell him? I’m happy to pass on a message.”

Derek just gritted his teeth and shook his head, “We could’ve— We could’ve helped you.”

“Aw,” Theo drawled, “You’re a good guy, Derek. I’m almost sad to see you go.” He hummed, “Too bad. Say ‘hi’ to your family when you get there.”

His eyes passed over the porch, meeting Isaac’s through the doorway, and his smile didn’t falter. He didn’t come back for more. He turned on his heel, and he walked away. Like there was nothing to see. And Isaac didn’t… He didn’t know what…

Slowly, he regained control of his body. Just enough to take the shakiest of steps out onto the scuffed wood of the porch, past the bench swing and down the creaky stairs. Derek blinked up at him in the dark. He was still blinking. Isaac had the mind to notice that, at least. 

It had been so fast. 

Too fast. 

“Derek?” He choked out, bending down to kneel beside him. The man winced.

“Isaac,” he could see the force it took to speak, “I can’t… You need to call for help.”

Isaac’s eyes passed over him his hand rising to hover over his drenched black abdomen, “Are you okay?”

“I can’t move,” Derek grunted, “Call somebody. Call Laura.”

“Derek—”

“I’m gonna pass out,” Derek said, looking like he was trying to nod, “Okay. Don’t… Don’t panic. I’m gonna be… I’m gonna be fine. I’m gonna…”

“Derek, I don’t think…” Isaac tried. But Derek’s eyes were closing. “Hey.” He grabbed at his shoulder, and he shoved. The man showed no reaction. “Hey. Derek. Derek?” 

His chest was still rising. Shallow, but moving. 

Sort of.

A little. 

“Derek, you’re scaring me,” Isaac snapped, looking back to the house, “Lydia!!”

No response.

“Lydia, call Laura!!” 

Nothing. 

The teenager’s voice cracked as he screamed out toward the silent house, “Can someone say something?!”

“Where is he?”

Each word came like a punch. Harsh, and fast, and pointed. Isaac swallowed before he turned back, staring out across the clearing as the man came into view. More of a glow than a person for a long moment. 

Stiles was almost unrecognisable. 

In the dark, he looked like something villainous. Shrouded in shadow, slowly crossing the clearing with his arms glowing the brightest of blues. Neon, almost. In his right hand, clenched tight in a fist, he held Kira’s katana. In the month he’d been gone, his hair had grown to frame his face and hug his neck, and Isaac swore he’d gotten bigger. In that short-sleeve t-shirt, even in the barely moonlit night, he could tell. 

“When did…” Isaac’s brows twitched, “When did you get here?”

Stiles wasn’t looking at him. He was staring right at Derek’s body. Still. Utterly still. And his free hand was clenched just as tight as the one holding the sword as he came to a halt before them. 

“He’s… He’s dying,” Isaac said. 

Stiles nodded slowly. 

He said nothing. 

“Lydia’s not answering me,” Isaac tried, “Derek said to call Laura.”

“He’ll be fine,” Stiles said, finally, “She’s meeting us at the clinic. Stay here.”

He slid the sword through the belt loops of his jeans, still staring blankly at Derek’s body. Something about him had Isaac bolted to the spot again. Even with that stare not pointed at him, it was petrifying. Up close, he could see how the blue wasn’t quite so. 

“What happened?” Isaac spat, despite himself, “Stiles, what is…”

Stiles ignored him as he bent down to press two fingers to Derek’s neck. His pulse point. Stiles’ eyes fluttered shut for a moment before he sucked in a deep nasal breath. He shook his head and moved to scoop Derek’s body into his arms. His knees hung over his right, as his head dipped backwards, utterly limp, to the left. 

It was such a wrong thing. Derek so… lifeless. Derek dead.

He could taste Stiles’ grief on his tongue, and he could feel the rage seeping in through his skin, all from several feet away. He couldn’t imagine what it really was firsthand. 

Derek was dead. And Stiles was home. 

“You’ve missed a lot, Isaac,” Stiles said stonily, looking at him for the first time, eyes filling for a moment pure blue, “Where is Theo?”

 

-

 

Ten hours before Derek Hale died, Stiles Stilinski saw his girls for the first time in thirty days. Erica sprinted to him at stupidly wolf-like speeds, and Stiles almost had the air knocked out of his lungs as they both slammed into the floor. Still, a laugh was punched out with the air, and he held her back just as tight. Erica smushed her face right into his neck, almost whining, and he could do nothing but pat her on the back.

“Good to see you, too, Erica,” he huffed into the mess of blonde hair covering his face, spluttering as a bunch stuck to his tongue. 

She sat back, whipping her hair away and wiping it from her own face, beaming down at him, “Oh, my God. You’re actually alive.” Then her face fell, “Dude. We have to kill Theo.”

Stiles nodded slowly, “Yeah.” His brows furrowed as he looked past her to a waiting Allison, arms crossed over her chest and smile small but true, “Don’t you two have to be in school right now?”

“Don’t you?” Allison said around a slowly growing grin. 

Stiles pulled a face, “Fuck off.”

“You really nailed the attendance thing,” she nodded, “You went to… one? Day of school?”

“I…” Stiles squinted, “…went to more than that. And that’s already too much high school for a twenty-one-year-old man. Alright?”

Allison’s smile sobered a little, “Alright. Erica, get off the poor guy.”

Erica groaned, and slowly clambered to her feet, holding out a hand to yank Stiles to join her. He looked down at her once he was at his full height. She hadn’t stopped smiling. 

They were actually happy to see him. Seriously. 

“Nine more hours to Beacon Hills,” Stiles said softly, trying desperately to push that thought back, lest he burst into furious bouts of hysterical tears, “You two ready for that?”

“As long as you get me Burger King at some point,” Erica smiled, turning on her heel, then stopping, “Wait. Who’s riding with who?”

Allison gave her a gentle look, “I’ll take mine. You can ride with Stiles.”

He couldn’t see Erica’s face, but he watched the tilting of her head and the hiking of her shoulders, “You sure?”

Allison nodded, “We’ll have plenty of time to catch up when this is all over. Come on.” She nodded to the Jeep behind them, “We’re on a tight deadline.”

“Ain’t that the truth,” Stiles muttered, smiling again at Erica as she practically skipped to the car. He stood still for a moment. Gravel beneath his feet and a gentle pain in his arms and back from the fall. Allison watched, as the Jeep door slammed behind Erica, hesitating at her own car. She gave him a concerned nod. He nodded back, let the calm wash over him, and turned back to the Jeep. 

It was time to go home. And, finally, he was ready for it. 

Those nine hours were the longest of his life. Knowing – or thinking he knew – what he was going home to was stifling. Even with Erica belting along to the shitty pop music he was playing, and her eventually starting to root around the glove compartment to shift through his CDs, putting in Fearless with a sly smile and knowing he wouldn’t be able to resist singing along, even with the gentlest of hums. She giggled as she stroked his face during a line at the start of ‘Forever & Always’, and Stiles shook his head as he kept his eyes on the road. 

He didn’t know what he would do when he saw Derek again. He didn’t know when it would happen, or where, or why, or how. It was horrifying. Because that was the only reason he was even coming home. Wasn’t it? He was coming back to Beacon Hills for Derek. To say sorry and let Derek call the shots and tear Theo’s head from his shoulders and wait for an answer. Because, as selfish as he knew it was, and as terrible as it felt right now, he still wanted it. All of it. He wanted the wedding he didn’t know the details of. He wanted the groomsmen in lilac or plum, he wanted Lydia scathingly insulting his ideas and making them so much better through brute force alone. Someone would make it all about themselves, and somehow it would make the whole night. 

It felt so childish to dream of a wedding. It was funny to know that Lydia had been the one planning it in every dream he’d had since he was just a child. 

Erica got her Burger King. Allison’s red car followed closely the whole way back. No one spoke about how he’d left. Or why. Or what he’d done. Stiles ignored the memories of every body that looked just like them. He did not move his hair from his neck. He did not speak unless spoken to. 

Stiles felt sick by the time they passed that sign.

‘You are now entering Beacon Hills, home of the Hale Preserve.’

He did feel sick. Too sick. Sick enough to almost let Erica Reyes of all people take over the driving. Almost. Instead, he directed her to the plastic bag of beer bottles in the backseat, and answered her disagreeing look with, “I won’t go over the legal limit. It’s fine. Gimme.”

The sun had set long before they reached town. That sign had been lit by Stiles’ headlights, and he’d felt the moment they passed into the territory more than he acknowledged the signage. It was a few moments later, a handful of yards further down the tree-lined road. It passed over him like grief. A pull. 

Home. 

His left hand clenched around the scorch marks on his steering wheel as his right held his bottle tight. It would be empty before they got off the highway. Stiles could chug it right now, if he wanted to, but drinking it was settling his stomach and he didn’t really want to stop. Erica had been flitting in and out of sleep for the last two hours, and Stiles just wanted to get her home. Even if it meant driving down roads he hated the most. 

The beer was gone by the time they actually got to town. To the very edge of the suburbs, past the dingy gas station that served anyone who could form a complete sentence, and the old park where the edgy kids would go to smoke. They passed houses that Stiles vaguely knew – some that he’d been to once or twice for a group project he didn’t remember anymore, others that had hosted parties vaguely aligned with the lacrosse season that year – but every house in that part of town looked exactly the same. 

Stiles missed his house. His dad’s house. It used to be theirs. He didn’t really know where to go, now, though. He didn’t really want to go back to his apartment. But his dad wouldn’t want to see him. There wasn’t anywhere else. There was no place for him at the Hale House. Not tonight. 

Tonight, he needed to find Theo. 

He couldn’t really find the rage, now. The urge to kill him. He’d carried it so close for so long, but it wasn’t real anymore. Not now that he was so sure that more of it had been his own fault than Theo’s. He was a self-fulfilling prophecy, and all he ever did was give Theo exactly what he wanted with every growing belief of his own evil.

But it wasn’t just a belief, was it?

He did it all. It was real. It happened. And who was to blame for that? 

He found himself parking in his spot in the lot of their apartment anyway. It was home. It would always be the place he ran to, for as long as it was where he thought Derek might be. 

The girls came up with him. As foreign as it felt to walk up clean stairs and put his key in a door he paid for with money and not favours. The walls were painted with Derek’s choice of soft blue paint and not blood. He was back home. And he took a deep breath. And he stayed focused. 

He needed a shower. And to sleep. And a change of clothes. 

“Oh, fuck,” Allison spat as she passed through the door, “I left my phone in the car.” She blinked hard, then shook her head, “I’ll be right back, buzz me in?”

Stiles nodded, and Erica just made a soft groaning noise as she slowly reclined on the couch. She stretched her limbs out, more catlike than anything, and nuzzled her face into the throw pillow beneath it.

“Goodnight, Erica,” Stiles said, hoping the mocking came across properly. 

She just smiled into the cushion, “Night.”

Stiles just stood there, in the middle of the living room, his keys still in his hand and not the trinket bowl they lived in, feeling the most lost he ever had. 

He was home. He should feel like it. 

It just felt like he’d broken into someone else’s house. The clean dishes not yet put away were taunting him, and the open bedroom door was pushing him off a cliff. He knew how it felt to fall. It felt a lot like this. 

Erica sat up with a start, eyes blooming up gold, and Stiles would’ve flinched if he could be bothered to, “Allison!!”

His brows furrowed, “What?”

“Shit!” Erica snapped, practically falling off the couch in her hurry, “Allison’s in trouble, we need to go!”

“What?” Stiles’ racing heart was almost spiteful, “Come on, we just got home.”

“Stiles!” Erica hissed, flashing her eyes at him, and he shut his mouth. His head twitched to the side, and he ground his teeth together. 

Five minutes. They lasted five minutes. 

Stiles hated this town. 

It became glaringly obvious what was wrong from the moment they left the building. It was hard to miss the six-foot-something steampunk people glitching in and out of reality, crowded around an Argent. There were arrows, and the slicing of blades, and the grabbing of hands, and Stiles didn’t get involved. He gave Erica a nod before she broke out into a sprint, fangs protruding as her claws did the same. Stiles went straight to the Jeep.

On the floor, beneath the clutch, the grimoire had sat unmoved for the last eleven hours. He cast that spell when he got away from Braeden, and he hadn’t touched it since. 

It was whispering when he picked it back up. He fought back a smile. 

Maybe it was reckless of him to choose the spell he did, but the Doctors had no weakness. Not that he knew of. It was a spell he’d only used one other time. And he didn’t take it lightly. Why, exactly, he decided to use it, or how he even found the page in the chaos of that evening, he had no fucking clue. But he did it. And he’d do it again. 

‘Indirect Detonation’, the title read. 

Stiles’ grin nearly swallowed up the words as he spat them, moreso from the memory of the hospital coming down on Jennifer than anything else. His hand rose as he spoke, his voice loud enough to nearly echo, and he watched with nothing short of glee as the energy burst out of his palm – a beam of blue, the flickers of purple – and the Doctor with the monocle and the blade turned to watch the power shoot right at him. 

And the Doctor rose a hand, too. 

Its glove crackled as the spell shot straight into it. And stayed there. Absorbed, turned to nothing but muted blue plasma, spindling lightning reaching between its padded fingertips. 

Stiles blinked. His smile wavered. 

One crackling glitch later, the Doctor was in front of him – teleported. A masked face swallowing up Stiles’ vision, and a buzzing voice speaking through him. Either Stiles was too afraid, or just too stunned to react. But he wasn’t quick enough. The ‘why’ didn’t matter.

“Your condition is promising,” it said. Stiles’ brows furrowed. He blinked. “And your existence is imperilled. This is optimal.”

Stiles barely spat out a ‘what the fuck?’ before that gloved hand was reaching forward, and his vision was swallowed whole and his consciounce turned to nothing. To black. 

Somehow, his soul was still cursing.

 

-

 

The first thing Stiles’ blurred vision focused on was a pair of pacing vans. That, alone, was enough to send a pang of hate through his aching ribs so strong it almost woke him right up. That, and the foul stench of sewage. There was blue, and green, and a snarling voice, and Stiles’ ears were ringing. 

For the first time in years, that voice came through louder than a whisper, and Stiles listened.

“Mieczysław.”

He pressed his unfocused eyes shut. Mom. His face was pressed against something cold and wet and rough, and he knew where he was. He’d been here before. He’d been everywhere before, hadn’t he. 

The notion of time travel was really not as exciting as Theo seemed to believe it was. 

“Stiles, can you hear me?”

“Loud and clear,” Stiles whispered into the ground, and he heard those pacing feet stop. His heart picked up enough to make his stomach flip as the thudding footsteps raced to him, and a hand was grabbing at his face, yanking him up and forward. He barely opened his eyes. 

“Hey, there, sleeping beauty,” Theo said, no humour to his voice, just a vengeful snarl, “Nice of you to join us.”

Stiles quirked a brow, “Miss me?”

Theo’s laugh was as humourless as his words, “I am really getting sick of you. You know that?”

“I tend to have that effect on people,” Stiles murmured, squinting as his vision slowly started to clear, “Did you do something different with your hair?”

“Where is the grimoire,” Theo snapped.

Stiles blinked. His brows furrowed, “What are you talking about?”

“Where is it??” The chimera’s eyes flickered gold, and Stiles glanced down as sparks of the same colour lit up his wrist, leaving tiny red marks behind as they dissipated. 

He huffed, “It was in my hand, smartass. You don’t have it?”

“Obviously not.”

Stiles squinted again, “Well. You’re doing great, sweetie.”

Theo’s grip on his face tightened, tiny dots of pressure starting to build on his cheeks, “If you don’t shut the hell up, I’ll paralyse you and leave you here for dead.”

“You’ll do that whether I shut up or not,” Stiles murmured back, “Don’t threaten me with a good time.” 

Tracy was dead, if Theo had her power. However that worked. He never really did follow the rules, did he? The benefits of already being a mutt, Stiles supposed. A freak of nature. 

Huh. 

Theo Raeken was right in front of him. With his power. Or something like it. In his face. Taunting him. Needing something that only Stiles could give him. 

The rush of power, the feeling of control, washed over him like an electric shock, fast and burning, and Stiles’ lips split into a grin, “Hey, Theo?”

“What,” the chimera spat.

Stiles scrunched up his nose, “Duck.”

Theo shook his head, “ What? ”

A high voice cried out as Stiles lunged forward. Theo cried out as his elbow slammed into the floor, and suddenly Stiles was having fun. Maybe it was because Theo was punching him, and the blooming pain was healing as fast as it came, and Stiles was all too sure of where, exactly, the grimoire was, and just how unlikely it was that Theo’s grimy sewer water hands would get a hold of it. He was literally unbeatable. And it was invigorating. Electrifying, even. 

The thought had a laugh bursting out of him, rage lighting up Theo’s eyes either from that or the burns littered along his forearms, and Stiles was having the time of his life. With the chimera pinned to the floor, claws hands out of reach and snarling mouth unable to get high enough to do any damage, Stiles stopped to stare.

The happiness was making his stomach ache. 

“Do you ever get tired of failing, Theo?” He asked. Theo breathed hard and heavy, pinned beneath Stiles’ knee. “I haven’t slept in two days and I beat you in, like, ten seconds flat.” He scoffed a laugh, and Theo looked downright murderous, “But you were so clever when you took my power, right?”

Theo’s eyes darkened, “Something like that.” Then those eyes darted away, then back again, and his mouth split into a grin, “Hey, Stiles?”

The spark tilted his head, “What?”

That grin widened, “Duck.”

“Oh, real original—”

He was weightless for a split second. It was too long. Even with his back slamming into something, and his whole body hitting the floor with the weight of a thousand suns, that moment of flight set Stiles’ brain on fire. His body was falling from a bridge, and the wind was strong and ice cold, and his leg was broken, and he was screaming his mom’s name, and everything was over—

He couldn’t breathe. 

Theo’s taunting voice didn’t come, though. It didn’t speak about the violent shaking of Stiles’ arms, trying and failing to hold him up. Nor the gasping breaths he was trying to force into himself. This wasn’t good. This heat, the sweat, the air feeling impossibly thin and absolutely reeking either way, and the swift pooling of nausea in his stomach. Fuck.  

He wasn’t there. He wasn’t doing that. 

He was fine.

He made it out alive. He always did. He was fine. Derek was fine. The girls were fine. It was fine. 

That strange voice, modulated and altered and filtered, spoke past a distant dripping sound – one that made Stiles’ skin crawl all by itself, “The storm is coming.”

Stiles’ brows furrowed. He stared down at the floor beneath him, at the spit dripping from his mouth. Sick. He felt sick. 

“We must leave before it comes,” that voice said. 

“What?” Theo spat, “No. I’m not done yet.”

“With or without you,” the voice said, “We finish everything tonight. Or never. You will make the right choice, Theo.”

“God, you’ve said more words in the last month than the last decade, and they’ve all been fucking meaningless,” Theo snarled, “I need that grimoire.”

“Our mission is more important than yours,” the voice said, “Yours is childish. Yours is easy. You are just too weak to manage it.”

“Your golden ticket was a sixteen-year-old who can barely tie his own laces,” Theo spat, “How’s that for childish?”

“It ends tonight,” the voice said, ignoring the insult entirely, “With the Perigee Syzygy.”

Theo fell quiet at that. Nothing but huffing breaths. And Stiles could hear Allison’s voice – Allison, of all people, in this fucking sewer – lowly calling out to him, all hushed whisper-yells. He just shook his head. ‘I’m fine,’ he wanted to say. The words wouldn’t come out. 

Allison was here. 

Allison was in danger. She was. In a room with Theo Raeken and the Dread Doctors, she had to be in danger. If she hadn’t gotten them all out of it by now, that meant she couldn’t. She could’ve taken Theo out in seconds. 

Come to think of it, Stiles didn’t know what the fuck was going on. And he was still panicking. But, fuck it. If there was anyone who could beat ass while being seconds away from keeling over and puking all over his shoes, it was Stiles Stilinski. Even when he was a lanky fifteen-year-old nerd, with no clue what he was capable of, he was brave enough to run head-first into danger. 

His heart ached, for some reason. It was probably the fear. 

But, honestly, fuck fear. And fuck Theo Raeken. And fuck the Dread Doctors and their glorified guard dog. Fuck Beacon Hills, and fuck the Nemeton, and fuck morality. Stiles wasn’t staying in this goddamn sewer any longer. He was sick of this shit. And he was ending it. Now. 

Something about that room dampened his magic. He couldn’t ignore that. It didn’t help that it wasn’t quite the same, anymore, and it pulsed through him with more energy than before. It had always been a calmness, something he’d found so strange for a thing of pure sparking lightning, but it just was. Not now. Now, it was tingling and numbing and strange and Stiles tried to ignore it as well as he could when the energy was almost entirely being dragged out through the earth around them, in all directions. It was overwhelming. 

He rose to his feet despite it all. He didn’t wait for a reaction. He just moved. 

The Doctors always seemed to be able to premeditate everything. And they still could. They still flickered in and out of existence around him, but some strange inspiration struck him when a hand grazed the scar across his throat. 

Did he know the spell?

No.

Did he believe it would work? 

Yes. 

And that was all he needed. That, and the faint ringing in his ears, and his mother’s voice humming a distant laugh. 

The illusion was messy, for a moment, flickering like the Doctors did, but it worked. It worked, and with every second it worked, it got more real. Stiles’ own face, staring back at him, in the very same month-old jeans and shirt and hoodie, and those scuffed-to-high-heaven converse, with his hair down to his chin and his eyes glowing a piercing blue. He laughed – the most uncanny of sounds – as he slipped past the Doctors and around Theo’s kanima claws. 

Stiles didn’t wait another second. He shot forward, staring at the back of one of the Doctors as he wrapped both arms around its neck and grabbed at the bottom of its mask. His fingertips latched onto it, and they pulled up as hard and fast as he could manage, shooting a burst of hateful, confused magic, straight through the thing’s spine. 

It shouted, and the modulation of its voice cracked out to a gurgling sort of sound as the mask slipped off. Once it was far enough from its face to tell the difference, a deep blue, almost purple, not the same as Stiles’ but a similar vein, crackled in the space between. And then Stiles was thrown back again.

With the mask still in his hand. 

He caught himself, that time. Stumbling over his own two feet as the illusion faded out into blueish light. Shimmering. Theo blinked, there, for a moment. 

Then the Doctor started to wail. A muffled, gurgled wail. Like choking on your own blood. And Stiles couldn’t see its face, but he knew his own was contorted into something ugly from the disgust. There was an even fouler stench in the air than the sewage, and Stiles knew well what death smelled like. It burned his eyes and his nose, like poison. He only just suppressed the gag, and not without birthing a potent ache in his throat. 

He couldn’t tell quite what happened, then. Honestly, this place lost the rights to Stiles’ attention when lizard people became commonplace and the concept of ‘self’ became so misconstrued that it wasn’t worth thinking about. So whatever it was that made that thing melt into nothing right before his eyes, he didn’t care. Not more than he cared about Allison cowering in a corner and staring at him like a lost child. 

She was. 

It was about time Stiles grew up. He’d been an adult for far too long. It was time to start acting like it. 

There was no lie in saying that he was going to give Theo a chance, right then. In that moment. He was going to swallow his pride and his pettiness, like a rabid dog swallowing its saliva (which is to say with very little success), and try to reason with him. To tell him that he wouldn’t be happy even if he got what he wanted. He wouldn’t listen, but it would be far from Stiles’ fault when he was right. ‘I told you so,’ he would (not) say to the man who had no way of getting back here. Life would be calm again. Peaceful. And Stiles would wait for the next that he didn’t know of. He’d stare at the future and tilt his head and, for once, he would be surprised.

He wasn’t surprised, however, when Theo didn’t even let him try to be the bigger person. 

He wasn’t surprised by his golden eyes, or the mania they held. 

He wasn’t surprised by his clawed hands grabbing.

He was a little bit surprised, though, by what he did with them. By the pulling and pushing of the mask in his hands, and the sheer strength behind it. How lucky for him that Stiles was shocked enough not to react right away, not beyond a vague flinching back. How unlucky for Stiles all the same. 

Stiles only realised what was going on when the mask started to cover his eyes. He really started to fight back, feeling it surround his head and brush against his ears, and no amount of struggling was stopping the furious desperation of the man trying his damndest to do something to him. 

A panic like certain death struck him in the split second before it covered his face.

Everything was swallowed by a deafening buzzing almost instantly. 

Stiles was hit with the weight of the entire universe. Chaos, and stillness, all at once. Nothing and everything. Piercing, fiery pain, and absolute ease. Flickerings of images of blood and open bodies, warm, flowing blood, and stretched-out skin. Screaming. So much screaming. 

Theo. 

Crying. Not even ten years old. His chest clamped open, his ribs exposed, his mouth open in a soundless scream. Nothing more than dry-throated scratching. Suffocating. It was soundless, but not wordless. Stiles could read his lips, staring down at him through someone else’s eyes, scalpel in hand. 

He was crying out for his mom. Somehow, Stiles knew she wasn’t coming to get him any time soon. 

He could feel himself screaming, somewhere. He could feel the burn of his throat, the tightness, the shaking of his uvula, the pressure almost making him dry-heave. Hands clamping his oesophagus closed from the inside. 

His nails were clawing at something, and his knees were aching. Rolling against something through the worn denim. His nailbeds were stinging and something was making his dragging turn slippery. 

Visions didn’t stop coming. Other children, endless children, ranging from the smallest of helpless, innocent newborns in NICU beds, to teenagers like Tracy, and Hayden, and Mason. Bodies upon bodies upon bodies, innocence being cut away with each cut of a scalpel, failures buried once, then twice. Time rewinding and fast-forwarding, bayonets and shotguns and spears, and the chittering was pulling the veins out of Stiles’ skin and burning him alive, and it wouldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop. 

Until it did.

It stopped with her voice. 

“I told you to get up, Stiles.”

He could still see the woman at the base of the spear. He could still see her. 

“You need to get up. Right now.”

It was Allison.  

And Allison still needed him. Now. In reality. And he hadn’t actually lived three-hundred years. And he hadn’t cut out Theo Raeken’s heart. And he was stronger than a stupid magical mask. And he intended to move his arms more than he really believed he had, but if he could create an illusion of himself on a whim, then he could take off a damn Halloween mask. It wasn’t hard. He killed himself yesterday morning. Nothing was impressive anymore. Nothing was scary. 

These Doctors were absolute children. And Theo had no idea what he just did. 

It was breaking the surface after holding your breath until the point of unconsciousness, tearing that mask off of his head. He gasped into the concrete beneath him for what felt like fucking hours, making sounds like he’d been really drowning, swallowing giant bouts of air like he was starved of it. 

If his hands flickered beneath him, he could not be sure it wasn’t a hallucination. 

He sucked in one last breath, “You’re not getting that grimoire.”

His voice sounded wrong. Raw. He felt every syllable fight its way out of his aching throat, and felt the skin around his eyes sting as he turned his gaze upward. Theo stared down at him with some sort of disturbed fascination. Something apprehensive. 

Stiles’ pity was swiftly dying as the memory of reality came back. He wasn’t that scared kid anymore. He knew damn-well what he was doing. He acted with no remorse, no empathy. The price to pay for losing your heart, maybe. Or just something he was born with. The reason he made it out of everything alive. The thing that let him sleep at night.

“Tara would hate you,” Stiles spat, rising to his feet as the hate finally began to settle in his aching bones, “you know that?”

Theo stared back with the same burning rage that Stiles felt right in the centre of his chest. He tilted his head. 

“I’m doing you a favour, really,” Stiles said, “Not letting you do what you want to. Letting you stay with the fantasy of her being your sister again. She never will.” He nodded, “You killed her. She’s not coming back. And she hated you just as much in the moment she died as she would if you made a new timeline just to kill some version of you who actually deserved a family.”

He expected Theo to lunge at him. To close the gap Stiles was too shaken-up to move through. He’d knock him out before the chimera could even try to hurt him, and he and Allison would be out of that place within minutes. 

Instead, Theo just smiled and said, “I’ll tell Derek you said ‘hi’, then.” He tilted his head as Stiles’ stomach turned, “Or, maybe I’ll talk to Erica first.”

Stiles’ voice burst out, the loudest it had been all day, “ Don’t you fucking dare— ”

The chimera’s smile turned to the widest of grins, and he was gone. Inhumanly fast. In four weeks, Stiles had almost forgotten what that looked like. The gust of wind they generated. The instinctual flinch at the sight, the vague distortion of human behaviour. The impossible. 

He remembered with no haze exactly how Erica died. Every second leading up to it, every torturous hour spent searching for them, thinking they would be fast enough, how alone he’d felt with no one to understand what he was so scared of. Her little voice counting down, trying to keep herself awake. His magic being so useless. Her body so frail and cold in his arms. Sobbing, screaming into Derek’s chest as he held him there. 

If he’d had the grimoire. If he could’ve taken it out of his skin, she would’ve made it out. 

Things were different now. If Theo had made that threat to him back then, when he was an impulsive nineteen-year-old who would take any beating he could get just to prove he could heal, it would be an entirely different story. He would do something rash, and stupid, and probably get Erica killed all by himself in his panic. And maybe Stiles had change for the worse, but he had changed, anyway.

Derek was the next person to die. Stiles knew that. 

Erica would not be after him. Not if Stiles had anything to say about it. Not if Stiles had spent the last four weeks killing and torturing and staring the most horrible things in the eye without so much as a blink. 

Theo’s pride would be the death of him. Stiles was more than ready to destroy it along with him. 

When his body stopped feeling like this, at least. He could see Allison in front of him – how strange that vision had been, of her in old, historic clothing, her voice coming out in unintelligible French, the spear that Stiles watched be melted and reforged and melted and reforged, and where had the Dread Doctors gone? – and she was rubbing at his arms, trying to pull him to his feet, kicking that mask as far away as she could. 

Stiles watched it go. His whole body seized up with some fucked up combination of nausea and cramping, and his eyes slammed shut, a wobbly curse slipping past his lips. 

“Stiles, are you okay?” Allison’s panicked voice asked, “What the hell was that?”

“I saw…” Stiles’ throat relaxed then. The rawness healed, and he felt the air come easy, “I saw.”

The spear. The pike. La Bête, and Marcel, the Argents, the Valets. Damnatio Memoriae. 

“Is there…” Stiles shook his head, “Is there an event? In town? Tonight?”

Allison swallowed, “Uh. I don’t know—”

“Is there any big gathering of people,” Stiles stressed, “Something where the casualties would be high if a giant monster were to rampage through with the intention of killing everyone.”

Allison’s already pale face seemed to turn paper-white, “The school. There’s a lacrosse game tonight. A big one.”

Stiles just nodded, “I know how to stop the Beast. But we need the Doctors. And we need Lydia.”

“You are not getting Lydia to do anything,” Allison stressed.

“No,” Stiles shook his head, “You are.”

Allison steadied, then nodded slowly, “Okay. But Stiles,” she leant forward, “Something is wrong with you.”

“Shocker.”

“No, I mean you’re, like…” she pulled a face, something stressed and disturbed, brows furrowed and lips tense, “You’re… glitching.”

Stiles’ gaze flickered to that mask. Just a pile of leather and rusted metal, now. An old gas mask, or something. Those scientists thought they were really immortal. Immortality was not something you could forge. Neither was magic, or the supernatural, or power. It was all ways of the universe, forces of nature they should never have messed with. The pendulum would swing right into them, full speed, full force, and their remains would be unidentifiable. If there even were any. 

Why did they have to drag him into it?

He quirked a brow, muttering drily, “Interesting. We’re losing time. Text the pack, tell them to protect Erica with their lives, or I’ll kill them all myself and bring them back wrong.”

Rising to his feet was deceptively easy. 

But something was very wrong. Allison was right. Something in the deepest pits of his chest was snapping and nipping like an angry dog, and he was feeling the energy flashing through him too consciously. When he wasn’t using it, it would fade into the background and he could forget he even had it. That’s what it was supposed to do. But, now, standing completely still, in that damp room, he could feel every inch of his body burning up. Only slightly. In the way of his heart racing, and the blood carrying his spark through his veins and letting it buzz all the way around. 

It was dizzying. But Stiles didn’t have time for dizziness, or wrongness, or mistakes. He had lives to save. Things to make right. People to send to the deepest pits of Hell. 

It was ending tonight, whether he liked it or not. It was all ending tonight. 

 

-

 

One last ‘Stiles Plan’ to end them all. The least specific of all of them, with each step to be carried out if and when possible, in any order, at any time, as long as it happened.  

Kill the other Doctors – remove their masks and watch them melt on the spot like the Wicked Witches of the West. Take the Surgeon’s cane. Find the Beast. Beat its ass. Force it to remember who it really is, and bring Mason back. Stab the bastard in the face. Damnatio me– fucking –moriae. Send Theo to Hell, or, if that’s not possible without Kira joining the Skinwalkers, just kill him. Make sure Derek makes it back safe when it all goes wrong for him. Try not to believe too hard that you let him die. 

It started with the school, as it always did. The most cursed place in that cursed town, the carrier of more lost souls than their graveyard, the first place Stiles ever used his spark as he knew it. He’d use it damn well tonight. Well, he’d like to. 

In reality, as he realised pulling up to the place, there were too many witnesses. Too many humans. People who knew nothing. It had to stay that way. He didn’t need to know exactly how the other side operated to know that exposing the supernatural to those who didn’t understand it was the worst idea imaginable. 

The Beast would come, either way. 

Stiles didn’t have to do what he did. To hide the magic. But his sleeves were still down to his hands and the back of his Jeep still held everything he needed to take care of things. 

Hunting a werewolf was easy. Wolfsbane is impossible to heal from if they are alone, or the strand is rare enough. If your bullet hits its mark first try, they won’t get another to take the poison from and heal themselves. Unless they cut the limb off. Stiles was still unsure if that would even work. Maybe. Probably. It could’ve worked for Derek, in the clinic, if Stiles had sucked it up and gotten the job done. Bullets are easy to use, but so is removing them. Arrows are only so popular because a wolf can’t heal until the foreign object is taken out. A wolfsbane-laced arrow is harder to remove. A mountain ash arrow is impossible, unless ripped out by a human pack member. It’s why omegas are so unbelievably weak. They have no help. They have no power. They’re cheap meat. 

The Beast of Gévaudan was an omega. A violent one, too. It would’ve been put down by the end of the week if Sebastien Valet was turned in their time. 

Stiles had missed a lot. He’d missed Mason being taken, and the Beast finally returning, its memories coming back, Sebastien completely overriding Mason’s existence, whatever the fuck was going on there. He was about seven ‘Explico’s into the night, and his head was starting to pulse. There was only so much checking on the pack, and watching Theo get closer to the school, and seeing the Beast inch through the woods that he could take. 

Derek was still alive. Erica was still alive. And Stiles was slipping a beer out of his car along with his handgun, and this really wasn’t how he expected this to go. 

He stormed up to the field with a near-empty beer in-hand, and his gun in his waistband – he didn’t remember the name of the strand of wolfsbane in his bullets, just the pleased look in Araya’s eyes when he chose them. Coach found him in a split second, huffing clouds into the cold air and sweating profusely. 

“ Stilinski!! ” He boomed, loud enough to drown out the crowds and the whistles and the thundering of footsteps. Every face Stiles recognised turned to them, no matter how far away. He barely watched Jackson’s eyes widen past the cage of his helmet before he flipped it up. “What in tarnation do you think you’re doing showing your face here?!”

Stiles squinted at the man, “God forbid I come to see my favourite coach.”

Finstock scoffed, stammered, and gestured a cold-burnt red hand in the direction of his bottle, “What the f—arouche is that?!”

Stiles frowned, downed the rest of the warm-ish drink, and tossed it to the grass beside him, mouth twitching at the shit flavour, “An empty glass bottle. Coach, you need to call off the game.”

“Oh, you are—” The man brought a hand to his mouth, curling into a fist, his eyes sharp and mad, “Stilinski, I swear to God, you would be of more use to me if I skinned you and turned you into a pair of custom-fit leather boots.”

“You paint the most colourful images, you really do,” Stiles said around a terse smile, “How about you try this one on for size? Everyone on this field will be guts and bone and blood, all over your precious grass, if you don’t stop the game right now.” At the blank stare he got, Stiles rolled his eyes, “God, okay. If I say the word ‘werewolf’, does that mean anything of substance to you?”

Coach stared, still, for a long moment, “What the hell are you talking about? Are you on drugs?? I don’t have time for this.”

Any bubbling, furious frustration was swiftly vanished, though. Stiles’ stare flickered away, looking out through the crowds onto the bleachers and finding her, staring back at him with low brows as Boyd leant over the edge and kept talking to her. Scott was coming up behind her, tapping her on the shoulder, and Erica was… there. And she was fine. And Allison was speeding over to her, having left Stiles when he was going through the trunk of his car. And Stiles didn’t have any time to waste. He wasn’t about to gamble these people’s lives. 

“Did Allison text you?” Stiles asked. 

“What?” Coach spat, “Stilinski, go the hell home.”

But Erica, whom he was actually talking to, nodded shakily, mouthing – or maybe saying out loud, not that Stiles could hear – ‘are you okay?’. Stiles nodded back. 

“Cover your ears,” he said, “All of you.”

Slowly, Erica listened, and shook her head at whatever Scott asked. Then Liam was bounding over. And Erica was pointing somewhere. And Allison was making a cutting motion by her neck. 

So young. They were all so young. 

“Okay, now I’m sure you’re on drugs. Stilinski, you know… there’s people who want to help you—”

Before he could end the sentence, Stiles had pulled the gun from his waistband, aimed for the sky, and fired once. The shot popped, and the people around him flinched. Someone screamed. Finstock jumped back, hands shooting out in front of him, and more people started to scream. And run. And more. And more. 

“Stop the game,” Stiles said slowly, “Or I fire another.” He nodded, “And I don’t like to waste bullets, Coach.”

“Alright,” Finstock said softly, nodding, “Alright, kid. You’re okay.”

Stiles just rolled his eyes, “Get on with it, people!” He sped past him, slipping around the people running, sprinting with no direction, smacking into his shoulders if they hadn’t realised who fired the shot, and running the complete opposite direction if they had. His dad would hear about this. He wouldn’t be happy. But, hey. What else was new. 

The pack were more-or-less all together when he got to them. Most of them were there. Kira, Liam, Scott, Jackson, all in lacrosse uniforms. No Isaac. Malia and Boyd and Cora and Laura and Allison. Most of them were looking at him like they’d never seen him before. Stiles wasn’t phased anymore. He could be horrified by it later. He could take the time to feel each stare like a bullet to the heart when he had time. Not now. 

“Where’s Derek?” He asked lowly.

They all stared – gawked, really – at him until Scott spoke up, “With… With Isaac. And Lydia. They’re home.”

“Home where?” Stiles spat, turning his gaze to him. Scott, the sweetest man alive, the most darling, the bravest, really, the most human of any of them, just furrowed his brows. 

“Stiles, I don’t think you should…” Laura started, stepping out in front of the others, “I think we should take you to see your dad.”

“Fuck no,” Stiles spat, jabbing a finger out, then realising that hand also held a loaded pistol he’d just fired, and taking it back, “I’m not seeing him.” It hurt to get the words out, worse than most, “Not after what Theo…”

Hesitant eyes started to glance behind him. Allison and Laura’s bodies both shifted to cover Erica, hiding her from view, and Stiles understood. As long as he wasn’t wherever Derek was, Stiles didn’t care. He really didn’t. 

He’d had enough now. 

“God,” Theo’s voice called out, all false nonchalance, and it made something in Stiles pang up in distaste, like a burn, like disrespect, “You’re really never going to start taking responsibility for your actions, are you, Stiles? I didn’t burn your mother alive. That was all you.”

He acknowledged the faint but firm shake of Laura’s head. Acknowledging is not the same as listening to. 

Turning back, he brought his finger to the trigger. Theo was walking slowly over, the tiny golden sparks still burning at his forearms, and Stiles hated him. He hated everything about him. For the things he’d taken, and the peace he’d destroyed. This was Stiles’ home. His life. This was everything, and Theo smashed it to pieces with a wrench meant for gently interrupting the works. And, fuck it, there was nowhere further down to go. Stiles had hit rock bottom with that final push off the Mezcala Bridge. He’d hit the water, and there was nowhere lower. 

His self-healed broken leg did not hurt. But he’d make sure Theo felt it, anyway. 

That stupid fucking face and its stupid fucking condescending-ass smile, the nod of his head and the scrunch of his nose as he said, “Responsibility. It starts with you.”

“You threatened Erica’s life,” Stiles said, slipping the loaded gun back into his waistband, “And you threatened Derek’s.” He nodded, “I’m going to kill you.”

And Theo laughed in his face. Almost. He was just far enough away for plausible deniability. But Stiles’ sparks could reach pretty damn far. He was sure he could make do with what magic he had right now. 

The field was empty. Just one or two stragglers, a handful of petrified teenagers peeking around corners. A distant voice yelling into a phone. 

“With what magic?” Theo’s voice snarled, “Because you can fire all the bullets you want, but they won’t kill me. Wolfsbane, mountain ash— Your little Calavera party tricks don’t work on me.”

Stiles tilted his head, “You want to see a party trick?” He smiled, “This one killed Jennifer Blake.” And he held up his hand, splitting his pointer and middle fingers into two, “The second time.”

And it was the simplest thing in the world to bring that book out into his waiting palm, falling open to familiar pages, ones he’d read back to front, upside down, spells he’d screamed and spells he’d choked out through wrecked sobs, his grimoire. His magic. Not Theo’s, not anyone's. His.

Watching the life fade from Jennifer’s face was a shamefully fond memory. It wouldn’t be the same now.

“Ante hanc horam—” he almost shouted the words, reaching that empty hand out, looking up from the page to watch. And watch. And feel the grin widen on his cracked lips. 

Theo’s stare was downright furious, his stilted steps taking him nowhere useful, as those perfect golden sparks began to slip past his fingertips. So much work, poor boy, for absolutely nothing. Stiles could feel his outrage, his confusion, as if it were being torn right out of him along with the magic. 

“What the fuck are you doing?!”

“—eam potestatem mihi.”

There was so much of it. So bright. A furious yellow, somewhere between striking lightning and molten gold. Magma. That’s what lightning is, isn’t it? Magma? The thought made a spiteful laugh bubble out. 

“Ante hanc horam—” 

One more time. One more. 

The spark hit a point, somewhere, in which it was no longer Theo’s, if it ever was. Stiles watched, a bitter taste on his tongue, as it happened. The change. Gold melted into a sheer blue, angrier, biting out with tiny bursts, flickering and vengeful. 

Stiles’ chest grew heavy. 

Theo was still biting out questions, and trying to stumble back. It didn’t help him.

“—eam potestatem mihi.”

The second the magic hit Stiles’ hand, all theatrics came to a halt. It funnelled right into him, burning for a split second like his blood was boiling him alive from the inside, before it settled out into calm. Wholeness. Warmth, and empty space, and darkness. 

He was right again. 

A chill passed over them. A harsh, icy wind. 

Stiles met Theo’s flaring, flickering, golden eyes. And he shrugged.

A pout, “It was mine first.”

His name carried on that cold wind as he felt the book melt right back into his skin, and shot out without any thought at all. No plan. Nothing but kill, kill, kill. The feeling of it, having that power back and already almost forgetting how it felt to be without it, it was close to too much. But feeling it throw him forward, the speed, the shock in Theo’s eyes right before they squeezed shut and the both of them slammed into the grass. That was worth everything. 

It was unfair. Stiles was using too much power against a man with so little. It was unfair as he sent the harshest of pulses through him and watched his eyes turn white as they rolled back for just a split second, braving the shock, healing fast enough not to really take any damage. It was unfair how he felt bones snap beneath his hands. It was fair, though, that he took his power back. That Theo had to feel what he’d taken properly. 

And it was fair that Theo’s snarling face turned to one of fur and his body twisted away as he shifted, those cracked bones shifting around themselves, rearranging and popping as the fur covered his body and his clothes slipped off of his body. 

The little black wolf left behind was baring its teeth and snapping. It moved too fast. Its claws tore through Stiles’ sleeves as he brought his arms up in defence, the two of them tumbling, and voices shouting, yelling, roaring a million miles away. 

Stiles could’ve killed him. He would’ve killed him. It would’ve been easy. Snap his neck, keep the spark pulsing through him until his heart stops, rip him in half, bludgeon him with a piece of the bleachers, shoot him in the skull, shoot him in the heart, shoot him in the stomach, shoot him anywhere. It would be over. As easy as killing anyone else. As easy as killing Allison, or Donovan, or his mom, or Kate, or Jennifer, or Deucalion, or whoever invented the notion of listing, whom Stiles was certain he could kill with even more efficiency than those other people and all twenty-seven Calaveras he hardly remembered killing combined. 

He didn’t get the chance. The problem with a plan built on opportunity was that some may trample others. Some chances will arise, and they won’t be timed perfectly, but they will be fleeting. And you will have to take them. 

Right then, the opportunity he had to take was not the chance to kill Theo. It was the distant growl he heard before the whines of the kids started to make sense. The chill of the mid-October air. The snapping of twigs, and the low huffing of breath. Slow, heavy thuds. 

It was the stolen memory of Marie-Jean Valet piercing her spear through the stomach of La Bête. That, and the wholly honest memory of the creature that destroyed the town and shut down Stiles’ school for repairs until Spring Break of his Senior year. 

The Beast of Gévaudan. Arguably the most ridiculous monster they had ever faced back then. For the result of a science experiment, that creature had no true basis in reality. And it was so… dumb. For such a smart thing. 

It was there, creeping out of the woods, surrounded by smoke, or mist, or something like it, some ghost-like air. As much of a freak of nature as the rest of the Doctors’ experiments. Success seemed to mean something different to them. Because this thing, all ten feet of it, solid muscle, almost no fur at all, some perversion of the concept of lycanthropy. It was no man, and it was no wolf. It really was a beast. A monster. A thing. A killing machine with no inclination toward pack or power. Just blood. 

And it was running straight for his pack. 

And Stiles didn’t care about Theo anymore. 

He pulled his arms back, his torn-up sleeves hanging loosely from his glowing skin, and he rose to his feet. 

“Not again,” Liam whined. 

“Get Lydia here,” Stiles spat, “I’ll wear it down. But I need her.” He walked, firm and fast, grabbing the gun from his waistband one final time and raising it up, “She’s the only one loud enough to get through to Mason.” His hands were steady. The Beast was slowing. It was just another monster. He’d shot more innocent with less hesitation, “All of you, get somewhere safe. I’ve got this.”

“Stiles—” Laura’s voice called out.

“Get the kids out of here. Don’t let Erica out of your sight.”

And he fired. Once, twice, three times. The Beast took a slow step back. All three wounds steamed, just as they ought to, the purple smoke twining around the black the creature gave off by itself. Stiles adjusted his wrist, just the slightest tilt upward.

The Beast barely braced itself before it fell forward in a furious roar. Stiles’ shot would’ve hit it right between the eyes if it hadn’t moved. He heard the distant splitting of wood over the echo of its howl, and his bullets weren’t doing a thing. 

It was coming at him. And he didn’t have much of a choice. He tucked the gun away, and he tore the hoodie from his shoulders, yanked the fucked up fabric from his arms, and tossed it to the dirt. The chill air stung his arms. But the glow warmed it just enough. 

“Didn’t like that,” he found himself muttering, some faint amusement dancing at the base of his skull, “did you?”

The Beast was still running. Slow, in its gigantic size. 

Stiles was ready for it. Unbelievably ready. Moving with some sort of innate muscle memory, something written into his bones, his blood, something lit up bright with the blue-ish shades of his magic, as he shot forward, too. Far faster than that monster. Far smarter. Far better, as his hand grabbed onto the fur of its shoulder and hoisted himself up and around. His chest thudded against its back. The magic sparking up around his arms was blinding, even for less sensitive eyes such as his own. It had better fuck the monster up. He could hope. 

Being so close made his body want to stop. It made him want to freeze. Because a part of him, really, was rational. It was human. And when a rational human saw a creature so large, it stopped. It ran. And, eventually, it considered which of them was most likely to win the fight. It sharpened its spears. And it hunted. 

Stiles was not only human. But he was something like it. Something less rational, maybe.

His left hand shot out just as the Beast swung back to grab at him, feeling the magic burn straight through him and into the monster’s wrist, as it pulsed, just as strong, through its shoulders, its neck, its back. The thing roared again, louder that time, and Stiles felt his teeth grind as the blue swallowed him up. 

In one fleeting moment, there came a dimness in the light. Just enough for the spots in Stiles’ vision to shift out of the way and let him see them. The pack. They weren’t leaving. They weren’t running. Well, yes, they were. Just not where Stiles had told them to. 

They were running right toward Stiles and the Beast. 

And Stiles felt something change within him. Something clicked. Whether it was what the pack was thinking or not, Stiles looked at them and all he could see was something that was his. They were rallying behind him. They weren’t leaving him behind. And maybe they just wanted to stop the Beast, and Stiles being there had nothing to do with it, but whether he was doing this, blinded by blue or by red, they were his pack. And he would do anything for them. Anything at all. 

He would die. He would kill. Maybe the most important of all, he would live.

It was with the Beast’s next roar that his magic reached a tipping point, and he couldn’t hold it anymore. He was thrown to the dirt, either by the writhing of the monster, or the sudden uncontrollable burst of his spark.

He shook it off. Of course, he did. But he laid there, in the dirt, for a while. Wetness slipping beneath his palms and cold seeping in through his clothes. He watched them fight. 

The smoke was almost too dense to see what was happening to the beast itself, but he could see the rest of them. He could see Malia, in her full shift, eyes glowing the brightest of blues, teeth latched into the back of the Beast’s ankles, and Cora slashing around her maw. Laura barking orders as Kira brandished her katana. Her slashes healed no faster than the wolves’. Erica and Jackson both attacked from either side, moving so identically it was uncanny. Liam climbed onto its back, just as Stiles had, and he watched the monster’s arms reach up to grab at him. The beta growled as its claws broke skin, and Stiles couldn’t see what it did, or what Liam did, or anything, really, from behind them all, but the Beast threw Liam off. So far. He crash-landed too far away, rolling, groaning so faintly. 

Stiles finally got up. 

He felt the grimoire slip out, the warmth of his spark dwindling only just, the weight in his hand. 

“Scott!” He shouted across the field, past the snarling and the slashing and the giant body moving so slowly as it near-effortlessly held its own.

The teenager came out into view. 

Stiles nodded, lifted the grimoire into the air, and screamed, “Catch!!”

He pulled back, and swung his arm forward, letting go to watch the book fly through the air. It was a miracle, really, that only one page fell loose, stamped down into the mud almost immediately by Laura as she regained her footing. Scott caught it with two hands, clapping around both covers and snapping it shut where it had started to fan open. He stumbled back maybe half a step. 

His eyes were wide when they met Stiles’ again, “What do you need me to do??”

Stiles just quirked his head, “Whatever the hell you want.”

Scott’s head snapped to Liam, then to the book, and then he was running to him. Stiles didn’t wait to watch. 

A shrill scream rang out as a uniformed body was thrown to the ground. A mess of wavy black hair slowly fell from her shoulders as she kept screaming into the dirt, a muddied hand clutching at her stomach. Her sword lay abandoned some feet away from her. Someone swore. Someone roared. 

Kira was writhing in pain, and not all of them could heal. Stiles knew that well. He could only faintly remember the first, and maybe only, time she had healed herself, back at La Iglesia. He wasn’t even sure if he’d been there, if it had been told to him, or if it had happened at all, but he remembered something like it. Kira wasn’t as strong here. Stiles figured that was for the best. The fox couldn’t take control if it was too weak. She could hold her own, and that’s what mattered. And her mom could more than afford the hospital stay. 

Stiles’ feet moved as fast as anyone’s, as fast as Malia’s paws and Laura’s sprint. His knees were in the dirt, his hand pushing away Malia’s muzzle, her whining mouth, the nose pressing against the bloodied fabric of Kira’s jersey as Stiles grabbed the girl’s shoulder to push her onto her back. 

“Shit,” Laura hissed, “Kira, are you okay?”

“She’s fine,” Stiles said, hovering a hand over the wound, his eyes staring anywhere but the yellow fat tissue exposed there, and the blood spurting out. Kira was screaming, her voice cracking from the force, and Stiles took in a slow breath. 

Healing was as easy as hurting. It all came from the same place. From belief, and intention, and feeling. Healing Kira was not something difficult on its own. Or, it shouldn’t have been. 

Something was blocking him. Something warm and too similar to his own lightning. 

Stiles swallowed, his eyes darting to Laura, “Call her mom.”

“What?” Laura’s brows furrowed, “Why? What’s happening?”

“I don’t mess with kitsune shit, Laura,” Stiles grumbled back, “I can’t help her. Noshiko can.”

“Stiles—” Kira gasped out, “What— What’s happening?” He tried to move away, and her hand shot out to grab his wrist, her head shaking furiously, “No. Do not leave me.” Malia whined as her teeth started to tug at Kira’s jersey. The girl’s eyes were wide, and panicked, and Stiles could see her lip quiver.

“You’re okay,” Stiles said slowly, “Your mom’s coming.” He gave a pointed look to Laura, who was already pulling the phone from her pocket. Stiles turned back to Kira and smiled as well as he could, “She’ll be right her. And Malia’s here, too. You’re okay. Try to stay still.”

“Yeah, I’m not— running laps, right now,” Kira grunted. Her face scrunched up in another half-weep, her mouth pressing into the deepest frown Stiles had ever seen before it fell open again.

Stiles quirked his head, “You’re still joking. So you’re fine.” He nodded as his hand moved out to brush some wayward hair from her face, followed near-instantly by the skittish form of Malia’s coyote. “Don’t move.” He nodded to Laura, who was speaking into her phone, “Keep pressure on it. Direct pressure…”

His words trailed off as he looked back over at the fight. If that’s what you would call a situation in which nobody was actually fighting. Almost everyone was on the floor, and those who weren’t were clutching wounds anyway, and limping, and snarling. And then there was her. 

Allison. As still and steady as ever, holding her bow high, string drawn, arrow nocked. Her composure was without fault, always, and now. When the Beast lowered its head, she lowered her bow to follow it. Stiles could see the tension in her wrist where she held the string back. 

Her chest rose with a slow breath as the smoke swallowed the monster whole. A thick cloud, no visibility. No clean shot, that much was sure. Her stare stayed just as steady as her hands. 

The form of the Beast grew so illogically small as the smoke cleared. In its wake stood a man. Tall, sure, but not ten feet. Not a monster. Just a man. 

He took a slow breath, and said on his exhale, head tilting forward, “Marie-Jean?”

And Allison – clever, capable, potentially all-knowing Allison – barely reacted, “The family resemblance is that strong, is it?”

Sebastien might have taken less than a step forward, mud squelching beneath his no-doubt-stolen shoes, when the air turned static-y and the hairs stood up on the back of Stiles’ neck. ‘Don’t shoot’, he wanted to shout, but the words were stuck, ‘you won’t ever get Mason back if you kill him.’ He didn’t say a thing. Not as the electricity in the air grew stifling, and his skin crawling began to feel like it was peeling back from the muscle. 

There was something in that static that pierced Stiles right down to the bone as the Doctors’ reality aligned with the rest of them. As the frequencies steadied, and their forms became solid. Real. 

Something astutely familiar flashed across Sebastien’s face as his brows rose, right before he turned to his right and Stiles couldn’t see his face anymore. 

Erica’s growl was swallowed by the hissing of an arrow cutting through the air, the blurred shot passing right by her face, making her jump back. Her hair-flip and accusatory stare was answered by a muted shake of Allison’s head as she reached for her quiver again. Sebastien laughed a bitter laugh. 

His accent was thick as he spoke – Stiles didn’t understand how he could speak modern English at all, as a creature forgotten by the Frenchmen of the 1700s, “You worked for so long. For this?” He shook his head, as the Doctors both just stared. “To bring me to this place?”

Stiles tuned it all out. 

In the Surgeon’s hand, he held that cane. The thing they needed to kill the Beast. The answer to this entire bullshit problem. They kill the Beast, they save Mason, and then Stiles can do whatever the hell he wants until it's over and Theo is gone and he can start picking up the pieces again. He was so close. So unbelievably close. 

He’d taken a mask already. It wasn’t hard. Well, it wasn’t exactly easy, either. But it was possible. Marcel would melt to slush just as the other one had. With a stench, and dizzying confusion. 

One thing he did not expect was for Sebastien to step closer to the Surgeon, some tangent still spilling from his lips, all in French now, barely any of it ringing out as real words to him – ‘loup-garou’, ‘Argent’, ‘morte’, ‘temps’, ‘parce que’, Stiles was particularly proud of that, because it was an actually useful French phrase to know, ‘copain’ – and then he was doing exactly what Stiles needed to. He was pulling the mask from the Surgeon’s head. 

The surgeon was letting him. That was maybe the strangest part. But Stiles didn’t know what Sebastien knew, or what he wanted, or what would happen, and he was moving so impossibly fast, the split second he saw that gloved hand tighten around the cane it held. And by ‘impossibly fast’ he meant that Laura swore as he leapt forward, and he felt no contact with the ground at all before he was yanking the thing from the Surgeon’s hand.

The sound it let out was weaker than the first. Something passing its lips, if that’s what you could even call that part of its inhuman face – real words, ‘pour toi’.  

‘For you,’ he said. And Stiles could finally see Sebastien’s face as the amused look in his eyes shifted away from his old friend to him. He didn’t watch the body fall at his feet. Stiles didn’t either. 

His mouth quirked up, as his eyes dragged down. 

“Are you going to use that,” he asked slowly, the words thick, “on me?”

Stiles just tightened his grip and watched the final Doctor begin to take small steps away. Tiny flickers in their form, disorienting them for tiny split seconds. Sebastien’s eyes were barely rolling before his arm snapped out, fast as anything, and that third Doctor’s mask slipped off without even the fanfare of lightning the others had had. 

In less than five minutes, the Dread Doctors were dead. Gone. Finished. Fini, if you will, though Stiles really wouldn’t, and something was heavy within him. Something was pulling on the cartilage of his ribs and drawing down into the depths of his stomach. 

It tickled, actually. 

“Vous courez avec eux?” Sebastien asked lowly, his gaze slipping away from Stiles. That annoyed twinge in his brow was gone, “Les loups?”

Stiles’ frown was ignored by Allison’s steady voice cutting through the air from just behind him, “Oui.”

Sebastien laughed a short laugh, and gave her the most patronising of looks, “Vous ne me ferez rien, Argent.” Then his eyes met Stiles’ again, and they turned downright mocking, “And neither will you.”

And Stiles would’ve bristled at that, no matter how little he understood what the man had just said beyond ‘rien’ – ‘nothing’, he was kind of sure – and ‘Argent’ – come on, now – and ‘loups’ – ‘wolves’ – but any amount of affronting was cut unceremoniously short by the voice suddenly booming in his head. Loud, and focused, and intentional in its audience. 

“Miecysław, you have to go. You have to go.”

In that same second, every single wolf – and Stiles means every single one, and Malia, and he swore to God even Boyd, who was not a part of that crew in any biological way, with the broken lacrosse stick brandished in his hands and nothing but a growing bruise on his face to show for it – turned their heads in the same direction. Out into the woods. Sebastien had less panic, none at all, but his head turned, too. 

Then the sound reached Stiles. 

A high, long scream. A cry. A wail. 

Stiles could feel the life drain out of him as his eyes passed over the faces. Erica was still here. Allison was still behind him. The scream would have come sooner if it were for the Doctors, and Sebastien would not look so entertained if it were for him. So the life drained quick. And Stiles took one step back. 

He handed the cane to Allison. He did not look at her. 

All eyes turned to him. 

“Stiles,” Laura’s voice croaked. Someone howled.

Sebastien just tilted his head, gave one last impartial glance around himself, and smirked the most self-aggrandising smirk Stiles had ever seen on anyone. And in another billowing cloud of smoke, the Beast was back. Bigger, Stiles swore. Meaner. And the one person they needed was crying out in mourning somewhere else entirely and this… this was bad. 

“Don’t kill him,” Stiles forced out, “Do not kill the Beast.”

“Why not?” Allison snapped. 

Stiles walked back, reaching out to grab her as he did, “We can’t.”

The Beast roared, and Stiles swore its cat-like face smiled, and it leapt straight over them as it ran.

There was only one person not accounted for, now. One person who had been here and no longer was. Only one person Lydia’s predictions had brought anything back to at all. He was gone. Theo was gone. 

This could not be happening. Not like this. 

It was a blur, really, as Stiles turned back to watch the Beast run. To see its strange, huge body storm across the field, to see Liam roar as he ran out to fight, and to see the mountain ash Scott was throwing right at it, and to know nothing of what would happen to the Beast, or who it might kill before they could get Lydia to save Mason and separate the Beast’s soul from its body. He knew nothing about what the masks had done that kept the Doctors alive, or what wearing one for that short moment had done to him. He knew nothing about any of that. 

But he knew one thing. Two, at a stretch. 

Derek was dead. 

And Theo was next. 

In the same way he didn’t remember the moments between kneeling at Kira’s side and pulling the cane from the Surgeon’s hand, he didn’t remember how he got to Scott’s side. But he was grabbing the man’s shoulders and staring him straight in the eye, and Scott was yelling at him, and he couldn’t hear a thing.

“Give me the grimoire.” 

The only part of Scott that moved an inch was his hand, passing the book so slowly back to Stiles, and blinking after him in the split second Stiles was still looking at him. Reality was still flickering in and out, and keeping track of time was nowhere near worth his, and he only would remember two more things before he left the field, and the booms and screams were too far to have to ignore anymore. 

First, Kira’s sword. Her katana. Abandoned in the patchy grass, half buried beneath a clump of unearthed soil. Filthy. Glimmering like diamonds. Stiles couldn’t even feel the weight of it in his hand as he brought it into his grip, sliding it out across the dirt as he righted the blade. She was still whimpering on the ground, and Laura was at her side. 

It was their conversation that he barely stayed conscious for. 

“Where is he?” He asked. 

Laura looked downright haunted, with her jaw and her throat and her collarbones moving in ways he’d never seen before, “The… The house. Our house. The Hale House.”

Stiles nodded, and he didn’t know if she was even looking at him anymore as he passed by her, “Meet me at Deaton’s clinic in ten.”

“It’s half an hour away. From here.”

“Ten. Minutes,” he said, far too dazed now, everything slipping away from him too fast, “Lydia has to scream Mason’s name at the Beast. Properly scream. Banshee scream. Then you stab the smoke thing with the sword in the cane. Then it’s over. I’ll see you at the clinic, Laura.”

The unspoken name of the dead was heavy enough to let it all fall down from there. 

The distinct feeling of your worst fear coming true was one Stiles was strangely familiar with. He’d felt it when he blinked awake to the sound of his mom flatlining, and at her funeral, staring down at the casket in her open grave. So far away. He’d felt it when he found his dad in that house, and when he saw him in that hospital bed, looking so impossibly small. He’d felt something so close when Erica died in his arms, and something closer when Derek walked away. 

He wasn’t scared of much, but everything he’d feared seemed to be laughing in his face as it came all at once. It was fixable. But the terrible suffocating feeling didn’t know that. 

It was like his brain wasn’t even trying to keep him in the present. As if short-term memory was just a suggestion. Because Stiles didn’t remember the walk to the Hale House, straight through the woods, a walk that should have taken at least an hour. But Stiles’ lungs were burning and his legs were, too, and he came out into the clearing with a jaw so tight he felt something pop. 

Stiles was almost confused by the composure he kept as he walked. As the air grew colder around him. As he stared down at a man who held too much of his heart, knowing that his was stopping. 

Derek was perfectly still. No matter the nudges of Isaac’s hands. His chest was still. His face was still. Stiles watched it happen. The moment it ended. When the stillness turned to something else. To a dying right to the soul. And there are certain things you should never see. Or hear. Like a last breath. Fluid in his lungs. Blood all over the sweetest apron Stiles had ever seen. 

He’d just wanted to help. In Mexico. And he’d shown up at the worst possible time. And if Stiles wasn’t so in his own head about how much he hated himself, and how deeply he was sure that everyone felt exactly the same way, it could’ve been fine. He could have been here. This wouldn’t have happened.

But it did. 

As cathartic as it would be to remember every moment where Derek had denied this exact thing, every insistence that Theo just needed help and he could be good if they tried and he hadn’t actually done anything yet, Stiles had no space for thoughts like that. He had no space for memory. For catharsis of any kind besides pure, bloody, real revenge. Theo was done. It was over now. By the swelling ache of Stiles’ heart and the whole-body sadness, pulling him down from the inside. 

“Derek, you’re scaring me,” Isaac snapped, looking back to the house, “Lydia!!”

Derek was dead. Stiles’ Derek was dead. 

“Lydia, call Laura!!” 

He loved him. With everything, he loved him. That love had only one way to show itself right now…

The teenager’s voice cracked as he screamed out toward the deathly silent house, “Can someone say something?! ”

… Through hate.

“Where is he?” He forced out. 

Isaac’s head snapped to him. His eyes darted, narrowed, and his hands were shaking so furiously over Derek’s body, hovering now like he was too scared to touch. Like he might hurt him. Derek couldn’t feel a thing. That was good, at least. He couldn't feel it anymore. And he’d feel better later. Even if it all was wrong, and Stiles had to go to Heaven himself to drag him back down to their level just to keep him. Even if he wasn’t his to keep anymore. 

Stiles’ chest ached. A sorry sort of feeling. 

It would feel better when Theo was gone. 

“When did…” Isaac tried, “When did you get here?”

He was so tired. He’d been through too fucking much, whether or not it was his fault. It didn’t change what it was doing to him. He’d seen too much in Mexico. He’d done too much in Mexico. Every single second of it was replaying in his mind with every blink, every flutter of his eyelashes, every tightening of his fists. And the sword weighed as heavy as the thought of what he might have to do with it. He wasn’t the only one who had suffered. Theo was there, too, with every flash of dead eyes and blood pools, screaming for his mom as the Doctors cut him open and ruined him. He hadn’t deserved what they did to him.

Derek deserved this far less than Theo or Stiles deserved anything else. 

Stiles could hardly breathe. 

“He’s…” Isaac said, “He’s dying.”

‘He’s dead,’ Stiles wanted to say. All he could do was nod. 

“Lydia’s not answering me,” Isaac croaked, “Derek said to call Laura.”

Stiles blinked, finding the words right beside the hole in his chest, “He’ll be fine.” He said it more to convince himself than Isaac, but the lingering understanding that the only other person Isaac had ever seen die was his father, years ago, was still hanging over him. “She’s meeting us at the clinic,” he said, “Stay here.”

It was the best thing he could think to say. The best thing for Isaac to do. Stay at the Hale House, where it’s safe, stay away from all this. 

The sword snagged the belt loop on his right side as he slid it through and the thing deconstructed itself. How that worked was beyond him. But his hands were free, and his arms were glowing, and the wind was cold, and Derek was lying right at his feet. 

“What happened?” Isaac spat, then, “Stiles, what is…”

Derek’s face. He didn’t look peaceful at all. Not beyond the swell of his old black eye, and the split lip, and the bruises and cuts, and Stiles just wanted to kiss it all better, but he couldn’t. His hands were numb as his right reached out to press two fingers to his pulse point, one part of his neck so familiar Stiles didn’t really know what to do with himself, having to use it for its real purpose and not to kiss. 

There was nothing. No movement, no shifting of blood through his veins. He was dead. Derek wasn’t breathing, and Stiles was fairly sure he wasn’t, either. 

Carrying the dead weight of the person you love the most in the world is not something you can shrug off. Of all the things Stiles had done, and seen, the things he’d been through and the people he’d lost, nothing had ever felt like that. Like needles piercing through him everywhere, leaving him utterly numb, and the tangle in his throat like his own tongue had been swallowed down and tied itself into a knot. Derek’s body was so heavy. And Stiles would carry him for miles if he had to. 

It felt wrong to call that body Derek. He was gone. 

Isaac was looking up at him like a lost child, and Stiles didn’t really know what to say to him. What to do. 

“You’ve missed a lot, Isaac,” was all he could come up with, and a fresh rage burst out of his chest, a flurry of memory, of understanding, and he felt the rage burn hot as he asked again, “Where is Theo?”

 

-

 

Derek Hale’s dead body was laid out on a metal table, and Stiles was nursing a beer. 

Deaton had listened as Stiles told him Derek would be fine. That he’d come back. He should do it on his own. They just had to wait. He’d understood. He knew how those things went, and he restrained himself from asking the questions Stiles could read on his eyes. Where did you go? What did you do? 

It didn’t matter. 

Stiles waited, staring at the side of Derek’s face, at how soft his features were. He had never had a face committed to memory quite like his. He had never had anyone like him. A partner. The only person who knew exactly how to get under his skin, how to hurt him the worst, and who never would. Stiles had not been wrong to make him leave. He hadn’t been. He refused to be. Because if this was for nothing, if this was the wrong thing to do, if he had done something wrong again, he wouldn’t be able to take that. They could be better once Stiles was better. He just had to… get there. Somehow. 

And he had to destroy Theo Raeken. That much was clear. How anyone could look at Derek Hale and decide ‘Yes. I want to hurt that.’ Stiles didn’t understand. But he understood revenge very well. He understood that Derek had told him, well and clear, that Theo was innocent until he did something bad. And he had. He was fair game. He was as dead as Derek was. 

“Are you drinking right now?” Laura’s voice cut through, and Stiles barely blinked down at the bottle. He hadn’t even realised he was drinking from it. 

It took too much effort to drag his eyes away from Derek’s face to say, “Does it bother you?”

Laura squinted so familiarly as she shook her head, stepping out of the doorway and turning back to usher two more people in. In came Kira, clutching her stomach and limping, followed close by her mother. Noshiko’s eyes softened when they landed on Derek, and Stiles had to look away. 

He didn’t watch Laura walk up to his side. He didn’t listen to her words, whispered down to her little brother. He didn’t wonder if their memories of each other mattered. He knew they didn’t. This was a girl seeing her brother dead in front of her, her only brother, and it was all wrong. 

“Is Kira okay?” He asked softly. 

“I’m fine,” Kira’s voice said, high but still somewhat bitten, still cut off with a little hiss of pain as she moved the wrong way and her mother had to coax her to sit up on the counter like a little girl. 

Stiles’ whole body ached. There was too much in this room. Too much he cared about. Too much family. Too much fragility. 

“Noshiko,” he said slowly, “Can I ask you something?”

The woman turned back to him, eyes more patient than he expected, given the distress her daughter had to be in. She didn’t ask what. But he kept talking anyway.

“How would I send someone down to the skinwalkers?”

She tensed up at that, a full-body freeze that was utterly unlike her, “Well. Saying their name is a good start.”

“You…” Laura’s voice came, “You’re gonna get him taken by… Stiles, what?”

“He killed Derek,” Stiles said simply, “I can do whatever I want to him.”

When he looked at her, she looked so tired, and her brows arched upward, “Believe me, I get it. I want to tear the little bastard’s head right off his shoulders, but why that?”

“Because having the skinwalkers send his sister to drag him straight to Hell is the only punishment that fits him. I’m not doing anything less.”

“And if you can’t do that?”

“Then I’ll kill him myself,” Stiles said, “Slowly. And violently. I’ll use all my best Calavera party tricks.” He paused, turning his gaze to the ceiling, “Surprisingly, sending him to Hell might be the easier pill for Derek to swallow when he gets back.” He swallowed, “Noshiko. If I use Kira’s sword, will it work?”

“I’d have to tell them,” Noshiko said slowly, “But I’m not cashing in my favour for a man I don’t know.”

Stiles just kept staring at the ceiling. Kira would occasionally wince, and make a little noise of discomfort. He could hear every breath Laura took, and every shift of Noshiko’s feet. Deaton was doing something in the dog kennels. And Derek was silent. 

“Fair enough, then,” he glanced over at Derek, “I tried.”

He wanted so badly to get close to him. To speak to him. To see those eyes open and looking at him and to watch him breathe and to know that no one was hurting him anymore. Not even himself. To just know that Derek was okay. That was all he wanted. Even if he couldn’t be there for it.

If he thought about that too hard, he would break down entirely, and he didn’t have time for that. So he didn’t touch him. Or speak to him. Or look at him. 

He turned to the door, he began to walk out, and he did not flinch when two arms grabbed him and twisted him around to pull him into the tightest hug. Laura’s short hair tickled his ear, too close to the tattoo he didn’t want her to see but knew she’d know about by now. She held him close, and tight, and Stiles couldn’t bring himself to hold her back. He’d never let go if he did. 

“I’m really glad you’re home, Stiles,” she whispered into his hair.

Stiles barely nodded against her, “Stay with him. He’ll want you here when he wakes up.”

“He’ll want you, too.”

“No, he won’t.”

Stiles’ throat caught over the words, but Laura said nothing back. She just gave him a soft, near-concerned look as she pulled back, and Stiles smiled the most restrained of smiles as he did the same. 

He left. And he did not look back. 

 

-

 

This was the last enemy Stiles would take on with any memory, any foresight, any understanding of what was to come and what caused it. This was the last time Stiles would win, and know he was always going to. This was the last time Stiles would fight Theo Raeken. He did not know it was not the last time he’d see him, though. He did not know a lot of things. Stiles’ knowledge was something he held too high. It was far less extensive than he thought it was. But if he knew that, then, well. Maybe he’d know enough to be right. 

After all, he did know where Theo was. He knew how to get there. He knew the spells to make it all so ridiculously easy. He knew the curve of those shoulders and skull. He knew Theo. Always had. For as long as he could remember. 

Something was dripping, somewhere, as Stiles’ first-ever friend turned back to smirk at him. 

They’d never been allowed to go into the woods alone together. Their parents had agreed that it wasn’t safe for two eight-year-old boys to go alone any further than the playground a block away from both of their houses, right in the middle of them. They’d still go, anyway. Theo would jump at every little sound, and Stiles would laugh and call him a scaredy-cat. 

Back then, they would’ve thought the Nemeton was just a cool tree stump. A place to play. They wouldn't have known that Stiles’ mom had a perfectly good reason to not want them out there, and that Cora’s scary mom would’ve been there to send them straight home if she ever caught them.

Now, the Nemeton was singing right in Stiles’ ears, on every whistle of the wind, every whisper of dying leaves. Theo Raeken was smiling, he was not afraid of the woods, or the things within it, and Stiles was reaching for his weapon. 

“There’s only one thing to do now,” Theo said, raising his arms out, “Give me what I want, and I leave your pack alone.”

The fake buckle unclasped in Stiles’ hand, his body so calm, his heart so slow, as he stared the other man in the eye, “You killed Derek.”

Theo rolled those green eyes, “I did him a favour. And now you owe me.”

“You killed Derek,” Stiles repeated, slower that time, the anger flaring up in his heart, “And that might be the dumbest thing you have ever done. Because he was the only person keeping me from killing you.” He watched Theo scoff, so… self-righteous. So cocky. He nodded, “Now I can really put my heart into it.”

He pulled the sword out from his belt loops so fast it cut straight through almost all of them, straightening out into a whole blade barely before Stiles broke forward. Theo moved, but not fast enough – never fast enough – and the blade thudded as it struck down into the flesh of his upper arm and sliced right through the fabric of his sleeve. He roared, oh, how he roared, as Stiles slashed downward and pulled the blade from his body. 

Theo’s arm swung out, venom-tipped claws slashing, and Stiles grabbed his wrist with his right hand, yanking his body to the right as his left hand brought that sword around again to cut right through his stomach. The angle was off, and the cut wasn’t as deep as Stiles wanted. He wanted it to scar. Against all mutant biology. No matter how he thought he’d never see him again. How he was sure Theo would die. He wanted to leave marks. 

He really was too fast, Stiles. 

That mask. It had done something.

But who was he to complain?

Theo couldn’t get a single hit in edgewise; he couldn’t use those Godforsaken claws, that stolen ability. He didn’t have a single formidable thing about him that wasn’t gentrified. He was a con. And not even a good one. 

He had plunged those claws into Derek’s stomach and watched the life drain from his eyes, hadn’t he? He’d paralysed him and watched him suffer. Had Derek begged? Had he still been kind even then? 

Stiles’ rage grew too strong to hold. And maybe it was being so close to the Nemeton, or simply the fact that he now had too much power than he knew what to do with, and too much murder he wanted to commit, and something darker than dark was settling in his heart, but it didn’t really matter why. Or how. Nothing in this town made sense. Magic didn’t make sense. But the feeling did. 

The welcoming of the clouds. The darkness growing darker everywhere outside, too. The rain that began to spit on his face. Theo’s blood in the grass, and the hairs standing on end across Stiles’ entire body. The goosebumps beneath the blaring, blue lines across his skin. He could feel the rumbling of thunder through his chest before it burst through the air, a violent, spiteful sound. 

It was hate. 

And Stiles felt like he was bringing the rain himself as it began to pour. 

Theo was crawling. On his hands and knees, clawing the dirt. A coward. He could dish it out, but he couldn’t take it. Stiles’ tongue darted out to catch a raindrop wetting his lip, and he let every ounce of hatred, and disgust, and vengeance burst right out of him. 

It was impossibly bright. It was a burning fire, it was power from the earth beneath him and the sky above him, it was a lightning strike and a gunshot to the head, and the rain only grew stronger as Stiles shot forward to drag Theo to his feet, turn him around and pierce that sword right through his stomach and straight into the bark behind him. 

Theo cried out, a choked sort of roar. That roar turned to a laugh. A cackle. 

“That’s it?!” The chimera cried out, his clawed hands clasping the blade embedded in his stomach, the blood cleaned by the rain as fast as it was shed, “That’s how you do it? You’re gonna kill me like this?!”

Stiles blinked. 

He smiled. 

“No,” he said, “We’re not done yet.”

He gathered Theo’s wrists with one hand, the other still wrapped around the handle of the katana. And slowly, he pulled the blade out. He watched his magic flow over the blade and into the opening wound, the sparks leaving scar tissue in the sword’s wake. Stiles kept smiling, staring down at the bloodstained fabric across his stomach, the wound from before still wide open, with its centre point sealed shut. 

He let go of his wrists to grab his jaw, forcing those eyes to meet his, “We’re just getting started, Teddy.”

And the next burst of energy shot straight through Theo as it sent him flying into the now-shattered remains of the tree behind him. Right into a clearing, writhing and bleeding among the rubble. Behind him, the Hale House stood tall. 

“Do you know how many people want to change their pasts, Theo?” Stiles drawled. The chimera just kept his eyes firmly shut, his teeth bared, gritted, his hand over his bloodied stomach. “You think of all the people who’ve lost sisters, and brothers, and parents, and partners, and friends, that you should be the exception? You think you deserve it? You? ”

Theo just laid there. 

Stiles huffed, “And you killed Derek. The one person who actually vouched for you.” Theo’s mouth pressed shut. He still didn’t open his eyes. “The only person who cared, who thought you were worth something. Worth saving. He wanted me to give you what you asked for. And you killed him. For nothing.”

Slowly, Theo’s mouth opened again, and his lips forced themselves into the weakest sneer Stiles had seen, “You shouldn’t worry so much. He’s doing just fine.”

“He died,” Stiles spat, “Whether or not he’s fine now doesn’t fucking matter. You killed my…” 

What. His what. Not his boyfriend. Not his husband. His person? His Derek? His friend? His whole goddamn heart and soul and his nothing.

Theo’s eyes peeled open, and they almost lit up, a sharp laugh forcing its way out and a wince swallowing it on the way, “He finally broke it off, did he?”

Stiles was stuck there for a moment. Still. Rooted to the ground, that time, by the hate that filled him. Maybe it was the guilt it was laced with.

“No,” he said, a little too soft, “No, Derek’s too nice. I’m the mean one. Remember?” His chest grew heavier, as Theo’s eyes grew lighter, and he raised the katana again, “Let me remind you—”

“Stiles!”

His heart stopped just as fast as it started again. His stomach thrown for a loop, his broken heart skipping. That voice shouting his name over the rain and the wind. The man standing in the doorway of the Hale House, with those seaglass eyes, and clothes not torn or bloodstained. Alive. Talking, looking, breathing, standing. 

Derek. 

He was walking, and Stiles was utterly still. He couldn’t read the look on Derek’s face, not really, but it wasn’t good. It wasn’t bad. And it was far from neutral. 

“Stiles,” he said, “just let him go. You got him back for it already. I’m fine.”

Derek was alive again. Stiles just needed him to flare his eyes. That’s all he needed to know that it was over, and he would always be fine, and he was right. He made it out. He evolved. It didn’t go wrong. 

“You died,” Stiles felt himself say, “I carried your… dead body… in my arms.”

“Stiles, everything is fine,” Derek stressed, stepping out into the rain, getting steadily soaked. Stiles’ eyes couldn’t stop darting over him, checking for any blood at all, any wounds hesitant to heal. He found nothing. Derek shouldn’t be here. Talking to him. He should be running. “Just let him go.”

“I’m not doing that,” Stiles almost whispered, shaking his head, “You know I’m not doing that.” A tiny movement caught his eye, and Stiles snapped over to point the katana back at Theo’s shaking body, “Don’t you fucking move.”

“Stiles!” Derek snapped, right in front of him now, so close Stiles could touch. He was in the way, though. His back to Theo. It was a bad idea. His eyes were angry, now, Stiles could tell that damn much, “He is just a kid.”

And it struck a nerve so hard Stiles felt it in his skull, stepping forward to lean into Derek’s space and spit back, “So. Was. Scott.”

Derek blinked, only once. Then his face seemed to melt. His face, healed. The wounds Araya gave him, gone. Just a distant memory. Stiles could pretend they were never there, if he wanted. He didn’t. Just as he didn’t want to acknowledge how the bruise he left at the base of Derek’s throat was gone, too. 

He looked so small. So betrayed. So confused. And Stiles just wouldn’t take that. He couldn’t. 

He shook his head, “Don’t look at me like that.”

The wolf took a deep breath. He swallowed. Stiles raised his brows. 

He wanted him back. So fucking badly. He wanted to know that when this was over, he would go home, and Derek would be there. But he wouldn’t. 

“I haven’t changed at all, Derek,” he said. Because he did know what that look meant. Not because he’d seen it before. But exactly because he hadn’t. It was a look that said ‘I don’t know you’. It was a look that ended with ‘anymore’.  

Their shoulders brushed as Stiles passed him, pushing just enough to move Derek out of the way as he brought the sword into both hands, staring down at Theo’s glowing, boastful little fucking face, the rage not even aimed at the kid anymore. His sparks shone out bright blue. His body ached. He was so full of hate, yes, but, but almost none of it was for Theo. Even as he swung the katana up into the air, especially as the burst of light shot out, and Stiles felt the power grow too strong. 

That next clap of thunder was loud enough to burst eardrums. Stiles was sure. But the strike had either come from him, or hit him, or both, and all he wanted was to swing that sword down and slice right through that stupid, smug smile. 

But lightning struck again, maybe ten yards away. At the edge of the clearing. Thunder clapped a few moments later. 

And Stiles felt a dread he’d never felt. He felt it in his jaw, seeping down like hot blood leaving nothing but freezing cold. He couldn’t move. Not in the way he normally froze, where he was almost flinching into stillness. He just. Couldn’t. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t blink. He would stop his own heart from beating if he could. 

There was quiet. 

Ear-ringing silence. 

All he could hear was the thumping of his own heart in his ears. The rain was cutting through him cold, each droplet a stab right through his skin, and it was nothing compared to the fear. He hadn’t felt it – fear, like that – in years. Specifically, he hadn’t felt it since he opened the door of his Jeep and woke up in his bed three years in the past. He hadn’t felt it since the last time he saw that face. 

There was a horse. And a man. His eyes were black holes, and the clothes he wore were filthy and ratty. He didn’t exactly have eyes, actually. Or a mouth. Or a nose. 

Thunder rumbled gently somewhere far away. 

A Ghost Rider stood at the edge of the clearing, atop his horse. Slowly, he pulled on the reigns, and he broke the piercing eye contact that had bolted Stiles to the dirt beneath his feet. The horse slowly began to turn. 

All Stiles’ mind could muster was ‘no’.

They couldn’t forget him. He couldn’t start over. This couldn’t all be for fucking nothing.

A body thudded into his, throwing him to the ground, as close to snapping him out of it as anything could get. Stiles barely caught a glimpse of the blur of Theo’s face, the boastful sneer, before his mind caught up and the need to keep his claws off hit him hard enough to bring him back. 

“You won’t help me?” Theo was snarling, “Then I guess you’re just as worthless to me alive as—”

Stiles was barely even aware of the ache in his back when a roar was cutting through the air, and a furred body was slamming into Theo in the same way he’d slammed into Stiles. He didn’t even watch. He stared up into the rain, eyes burning, hair soaked, and all of him covered in mud, and blood, and water. 

This couldn’t be how it ended. That didn’t make sense. 

He was meant to be planning his wedding by now. He never got to tell Derek about the purple ties he wanted his groomsmen to wear, or the dresses he’d found with Erica. Derek wasn’t even his anymore. 

He couldn’t forget him. 

Stiles was drowning. His hand found the handle of Kira’s katana. It only fell a little ways away when he was knocked down. He forced his hands back into the dirt, and he hiked himself up onto his feet. He stood. And he watched Derek hold Theo down, teeth embedded in his flesh, eyes glowing the brightest blue. The only wolf with eyes like those. 

“Derek,” Stiles said – this was all wrong, this wasn’t fair, this wasn’t fucking fair – as he let the energy flow out of him again. He let it light up the metal of the blade. “Let him get up.”

Those blue eyes moved to look at him. And slowly, Derek pulled his teeth back. And he backed away. 

He tried to save Stiles, still. He hurt Theo. Derek, of all people. After everything Stiles had done to him. 

And it was for nothing. 

Maybe he’d imagined it. Maybe there hadn’t been anything at the edge of the clearing. Maybe lightning had never struck and thunder had never boomed, and this storm he brought had not carried the Riders. Maybe he would be fine. 

It didn’t change the panic, or the hate, or the lingering bone-deep, earth-shattering terror, as Stiles’ eyes met Theo’s again, and his voice was saying, “You better not forget me, Theo. Ever.”

The chimera’s pained frown was more of a baring of teeth, his voice spitting, “What?”

Derek took a few hesitant steps back on pawed feet. 

Stiles swallowed, “Remember me. For eternity. Every second that you’re with her.” His whole body felt so heavy. His spark wasn’t doing anything to lift him up. The rain was just pelting and pelting, punching him down, and every shadow looked like something terrible, and all he could do was keep forcing it out in the only way he knew how, “You were only as strong as my worst insecurities, Theo. You are nothing.” He shook his head, “You meant nothing to anyone here. And none of them will miss you for one single second after you did nothing but ruin their lives.” His throat was closing, “None of them will miss you. No one will.” He pressed his lips together, hard, and felt the rain run over them as he did, “No one is coming to save you.”

And Theo just raised a brow, so steady now, the wounds all slowly healing, “You talking to me? Or yourself?” He tilted his head, “What’s got you so scared, Stiles? We can all smell it on you.”

“Tell your sister ‘hi’ from me,” Stiles said softly, bracing that sword in his hands, the rage overtaking the fear for just one split second, “It’s been a while.”

This wasn’t even Theo’s fault. 

None of it was. 

He should’ve just let him make a new timeline to ruin. It’s not like he’d have any way of getting back. 

Stiles was a fucking idiot.

But he never got to slice through the other man. He never got to kill him. He never got to put all of the horrible, overwhelming feelings anywhere. He was left to let his spark fizzle out as a voice shouted out into the rain, and Noshiko came out from the trees. She stormed up like a woman on a mission. Her hair was rain-soaked, and there was lightning just as Stiles’ own, shooting off of the blade in her own hand. 

“Get out of the way,” she boomed. 

Stiles blinked at her, “What??”

“I’m not doing it for a man I don’t know,” she said, “but I will do it for my daughter.”

She braced that sword in her hands, and Theo had never looked so confused. Stiles understood. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, either. There was no way. How did she get here? Why? For Derek? For Kira? 

Stiles listened, though. He stepped back, glanced warily over at Derek, who was staring right at him, his face truly unreadable when it was covered in fur and he was a literal, actual, almost-as-tall-as-Stiles–even-while-on-all-fours wolf. 

“Theodore Karl Raeken,” Noshiko said. Something wrong sung out in Stiles’ heart. Something nostalgic. It was worthless to him now. She nodded as she spoke, hands wrapped around the blade’s handle, pointing it straight down between her feet, “Your sister wants to see you.”

Theo was almost crawling backward, his brows furrowed, a question barely making its way out. Did he even know who Noshiko was? He had to. He knew about everyone in this town. It’s why he came. How he thought he could win. 

Noshiko’s sword pierced into the mud, and the Earth seemed to split open. In a winding line, out from her blade, right toward him, and Stiles hadn’t been there for that part. He didn’t know. 

If he had, would he have wanted to do it as badly?

Maybe. 

Because they saw her, and Stiles was almost afraid again. Tara came out from the ground, clawing her way toward him, like the girl from the fucking Ring. Wet, matted, dark hair, a vengeful snarl, too much of a family resemblance for Stiles to not feel sick to his stomach. 

And Theo was screaming. A real, raw, terrified scream. Afraid for the first time. Scrambling backwards, feet kicking, flailing, and he looked so young all of a sudden. 

He was just a kid. 

She grabbed his ankle, and he was crying out. For Derek. For Stiles. She was pulling him under, and Derek was moving as if he wanted to help but didn’t know how, or if he should, or if he could, and Stiles swore to God that as Theo’s hands clawed at the dirt, entirely human, and his face just almost dipped out of view, he cried out for her again. For his mom. 

The ground sealed shut. 

The clearing was silent again.

The hole in Stiles’ chest only grew larger. 

This was all wrong. And it meant nothing. And they were all going to forget him, weren’t they? What did he have left? Days? A week, at best? It wasn’t even something he thought was possible. It wasn’t something he thought about. How funny that he could have forgotten about it. 

He wanted to cry. His burning eyes slid back to Derek, his fur clumping together with the rain, the coarseness Stiles was sure he had only barely protecting him from the wet. His ears were low, and a small growl huffed out of him as he turned back toward the house. He didn’t look at Stiles. He padded up the porch stairs, shook off under the awning, and vanished through the front door. 

Stiles looked back at Noshiko. She nodded, sort of, a sideways tilt of her head. And she turned on her heel. 

Great. Stiles got what he wanted. Didn’t he.

Theo Raeken was in Hell. Derek wasn’t forgiving him. Lydia was somewhere, and there were no solemn, mournful howls, or banshee wails, so surely nothing had gone terribly wrong. They knew how to stop the Beast. The Doctors were gone.

But it was all for nothing. For him, at least. 

For them, this would all come together, wrapped in a neat little bow, finished so perfectly. They wouldn’t remember the spite that Stiles had led with. Derek wouldn’t remember the heartbreak, or the love. None of them were losing anything. And it would all be so much easier to deal with if Stiles wasn’t there, in retrospect, fucking everything up. 

The pack really would be happier. They wouldn’t even know they’d lost anything at all. 

That was how it worked, wasn’t it? 

It’s not like Stiles had ever lost anyone to the Hunt. How should he know?

“Stiles,” Derek’s voice called, one last time, over the rain. 

Stiles looked back. He was changed again. In clean, dry clothes. His hair damp. His eyes still darting to the exact point in the dirt where Theo had been swallowed whole. Stiles could see his jaw working as he swallowed, and his brows quirked upward. 

Softness. 

“Do you want to come in?” 

Stiles felt little burning tears spring to his eyes, and the wetness of his face could’ve been from anything. He didn’t even know what part of it was making him cry. 

“I’m sorry,” he forced out. Derek’s brows twitched. Stiles couldn’t smile the way he wanted to, “For everything.” He nodded, throat tight, “I really am. I am. I’m so sor—…”

He swallowed. He choked on his words. 

Derek wouldn’t remember them, anyway. Stiles blinked up at the blackened sky. This place was gone for him. It was over. 

This was the end. It really was. 

But how long could Stiles fight it? Outrun the storm, and get better, and find something – some way out of it. He had to try. He had to. Derek was still looking at him so softly. Even after everything. And Stiles didn’t care about the laws of the universe. About the magic of the Wild Hunt. About reality. He would get that wedding even if he had to turn the planet inside-out to do it. So mote it fucking be.

Somehow. 

All the people he'd saved. They could return the favour. They'd saved him from this somewhere else, hadn't they? 

Notes:

yeah how about you make that ending a little more vague jackass what is wrong with you AY AY AY DONT BE MEAN TO MY GUY BACK UP we are so back and it is so over. next season is PEAK next interlude is PEAK everything is amaazing we are so up

i am so hyped for the joy that is the next interlude OH BOY!!!!!!! had a grand old time writing it. posting her on september 25th!!

farewell, season 5, i loved you like a son.

Series this work belongs to:

• Part 3 of The Hunter of Hunters (Twice And For All)