Chapter Text
Stiles groans, rubbing his eyes as he sits up. Riot gives a knowing glance, tail flicking. The fox jumps up onto the counter as Stiles shuffles into the kitchen, still groggy from sleep. Riot follows, a small purr like sound in his throat as he changes to a more playful size, leaping from the counter to Stiles' shoulders with ease.
“Morning, Riot,” Stiles mutters, reaching for the coffee pot. The fox curls into the crook of his neck as Stiles fills the mug, the warm scent of coffee filling the air. Riot nips at Stiles’ ear affectionately, drawing a small laugh from him. The fox has been with him through everything, never leaving his side since that first case together.
As Stiles stirs his coffee, he glances down at his arm, where the latest tattoo sits - dark, intricate lines that twist around his wrist and up his forearm. It’s a vampire motif, a mark of a hard fought victory against a creature that almost got the better of him. He still doesn’t fully understand how it works, how each new supernatural enemy he defeats leaves its mark on his skin, but he’s not complaining. The tattoos have become a part of who he is, a history of the battles he’s fought.
Riot nuzzles against Stiles’ cheek, and he laughs, scratching the fox’s chin. “You’re the only one who knows all the details, huh?”
The fox chirps softly in response, hopping down to the table, where Stiles sets his coffee mug. Riot’s tail flicks with interest as Stiles traces the edges of the tattoo with his fingers.
The morning moves on quietly. Stiles has nowhere to be; he’s on sabbatical after the particularly dangerous case, the first break he’s had in years. It’s strange, but in a good way. He’s not lonely. He’s never been more content in his life. He has his work, his magic, and Riot by his side. And for the first time in a while, he’s allowed himself to just breathe.
After finishing his coffee, Stiles stands, stretching with a groan. Riot follows him to the window, perched on the sill, as Stiles looks out over the small town. The peacefulness is almost too much to handle after the chaos of his life before; the supernatural, before everything went wrong with Beacon Hills. But right now, it’s all he wants.
A soft ding from his phone cuts through the silence, and Stiles glances down at the screen. The name that flashes up isn’t one he’s seen in a while. Peter Hale. His fingers hover over the screen for a moment before he swipes to answer, setting the phone to his ear.
“Peter,” he says, voice low. “What’s up?”
Riot shifts on the windowsill, his sharp eyes following Stiles’ every movement. Something is coming, and Stiles can feel it already.
Stiles clenches his jaw as Peter's voice crackles through the phone.
“Stiles, we’ve got a problem,” Peter begins, his voice clipped, with just a hint of tension beneath the surface. “The Nogitsune is back, and this time, it’s targeting Eli.”
Stiles freezes, the blood draining from his face. Eli. Derek’s son. The person who Stiles has only heard about through Peter's cryptic conversations and his few contacts left in Beacon Hills, but never met. His grip on the phone tightens, a flash of something dangerous passing through his chest. His heart races, a mix of anger and fear.
“The Nogitsune?” Stiles repeats, voice tight. "How the hell is that even possible? I thought we-”
"I thought so too," Peter interrupts, his tone heavy. “But I just found out. The McCall pack is back together, and they’ve unanimously decided not to call you.”
The words hit Stiles like a punch to the gut. His anger boils over, and he grips the phone so tightly his knuckles turn white.
“What? Are you serious?” Stiles’ voice shakes with fury. “You’re telling me, after everything, after all the shit we've been through, they just decide not to call me? And you’re only telling me now? After Eli is in danger?”
Peter sighs, the sound carrying a quiet understanding, but there’s still the unmistakable edge of frustration in his voice. "Stiles, I don’t agree with their decision, but they’ve made it. The pack doesn’t trust you apparently. And it's not like you and Derek are even friends anymore."
The last words hit Stiles like a slap, and for a moment, he's silent. He didn’t expect Peter to bring that up now, especially with everything at stake. His breath is ragged as he stares at nothing, the memories of Derek; the bitter anger, the abandoned feelings, the years of silence flooding him in an overwhelming rush.
“I don’t need their trust,” Stiles finally mutters, his words sharp with resentment. “You could’ve called me sooner, Peter. I’ve been doing my own thing for years, and this...this is what you call me for?”
Peter’s voice softens, though there’s no disguising the urgency now. “I know, Stiles. I’m sorry. But I’m telling you now because you need to be ready. Eli is caught in the crossfire. You’re the only one who might be able to stop it, and that’s why I called you. Not the pack. Me.”
Stiles stares at the wall, his pulse pounding in his ears. A mix of anger and determination roils inside him. He hasn’t had any contact with anyone in the pack in years. It stings more than he cares to admit, but right now, he can’t afford to dwell on that.
“Fine,” Stiles says, his voice clipped, though there's still a deep simmer of fury beneath it. “You want me to help? I’ll help. But don't expect me to just fall back into the fold with the pack. They can rot for all I care.”
Peter doesn’t argue. He doesn’t need to. “I never expected you to. Just get to Beacon Hills when you can. And Stiles… be careful. The Nogitsune is worse than ever. If you can’t handle it…”
Stiles cuts him off, determination rising in his chest. “I’ve handled worse. I’ll handle this.”
With that, he hangs up, tossing the phone aside, his eyes blazing with a mix of old rage and newfound purpose. Riot, sensing the change in Stiles, hops up onto the counter, now about the size of a housecat, his tail flicking with interest as Stiles runs a hand through his hair.
“Looks like we’ve got a trip to make, Riot,” Stiles mutters to the fox, who gives a small, almost comforting yip in response. He stands up from the kitchen counter, his mind racing as he prepares for what’s coming next.
He doesn’t need the pack. He doesn’t need their approval. He’ll handle this on his own; just like he’s always done.
Stiles moves through his small apartment with methodical precision, his fingers grazing over the worn spines of old tomes and books that line the shelves. He’s collected these over the years; arcane volumes on magic, dark arts, ancient spells, and supernatural creatures. Some were passed down from trusted contacts, others he stumbled upon during cases. They’re not just books; they’re his lifeline, his key to surviving this twisted world that seems to always be teetering on the edge of chaos.
His fingers trace over the pages of a thick, dusty tome with worn edges. His eyes skim over the ancient incantation, something he’s been preparing for, though he wishes he didn’t have to. The thought of using this particular spell makes a cold shiver run through his spine. it’s not something anyone should want to do, especially against something like the Nogitsune. But it’s the only way to make sure the demon is gone for good.
The ritual is dangerous, a push of magic that’ll rip through him, leaving him vulnerable. He can already feel the weight of the decision, the familiar heaviness in his chest. This will cost him. It always does. But it’s a price he’s willing to pay.
Stiles flips through the book until he finds what he’s looking for. The spell is old, complicated. He knows it’ll hurt. The magic will sear through him like fire, twisting his insides and challenging everything he’s worked to master. And yet, he knows that if he doesn’t do this, if he doesn’t end it now, the Nogitsune will never stop. He’ll never stop. He remembers the pain, the agony of that thing’s influence, and the havoc it wreaked on those he loved. He can't let that happen to Eli.
He gathers the supplies: enchanted herbs, rare crystals, chalk for the circle, and other talismans. He packs them all carefully, his hands steady despite the tremor in his chest. He pulls on his leather jacket, tucking the essentials into the inside pocket, making sure nothing important is left behind. Riot, sensing the change in the atmosphere, jumps up onto the counter, nudging Stiles' leg with a soft, comforting mewl. Stiles gives the fox a brief, affectionate scratch behind the ears.
“Don’t worry, Riot. We’ve got this,” he murmurs, voice soft but resolute. Riot curls up in his arms as Stiles finishes packing, his eyes bright with trust and understanding. Riot’s presence is grounding, like an anchor keeping Stiles steady when everything inside him wants to spin out of control.
Stiles takes a deep breath, his eyes falling on the collection of tattoos across his arms. His magic, his powers, they’ve grown since he left Beacon Hills. He’s learned to control the chaos, to bend it to his will. But this? This spell will be different. He knows it will leave him scarred; physically, mentally, and emotionally. The tattoos will be proof of that. They’ll mark him. But there’s no other way.
With everything packed, Stiles closes the bag and walks to the center of the room. He closes his eyes and, with a focused thought, begins to concentrate on the magic, calling forth the power within him. The air crackles, sharp with energy as the room blurs around him. In an instant, the space around him warps, and before he knows it, he’s standing in front of Peter's location, the shift in space barely leaving a trace.
Peter stands frozen in the middle of the room, his expression a mix of shock and disbelief. His eyes widen when Stiles appears out of thin air, Riot tucked into his arms like a cat that’s seen far too much magic for one lifetime.
“Stiles, what the fuck,” Peter breathes, his voice carrying the weight of someone who’s just witnessed a kind of sorcery they never expected.
Stiles quirks a brow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he glances around, unfazed. “What? You made it sound urgent.”
Peter blinks at him, still processing. “You can teleport now?” he asks, a little more stunned than he’d like to admit.
Stiles shrugs nonchalantly, crossing his arms, but there’s an edge to his voice. “Oh, there’s so much I can do now.”
Peter’s gaze flickers to Riot, who curls up in Stiles’ arms like he’s just another pet, as if the entire situation is perfectly normal. The shock doesn’t wear off easily, but Peter doesn’t have time to comment on it. The urgency has shifted from confusion to something darker.
“Did you bring what you need?” Peter asks, his tone suddenly more serious.
Stiles nods, his jaw set firmly. “Yeah, I’ve got it. We’re going to end this.”
~~~~
Stiles, with Riot tucked into his lap, sits quietly in the passenger seat of Peter’s car as they drive down the familiar roads towards Derek's house. The air outside is thick with tension, but inside the car, it's like a pressure cooker ready to explode. Riot rests contentedly, the small red fox unbothered by the journey, eyes half closed in a comfortable daze.
Peter keeps his eyes on the road, his hands tight on the wheel. He knows what’s coming. He knows the storm that Stiles is about to unleash on Derek. And honestly? He’s not sure if he should brace for impact or sit back and watch the firework show.
“Damn, kid’s got some energy,” Peter mutters, flicking a glance at Stiles, who’s staring out the window with a quiet, simmering rage.
“I’m gonna make them all feel it, Peter,” Stiles murmurs, eyes narrowing. “I’m done being the afterthought.”
Peter stays silent, choosing not to engage. He knows better.
When they pull into the driveway of Derek’s house, Eli is just walking up the front steps, freshly showered, carrying a lacrosse bag over his shoulder. The sight of the young man seems to ground Stiles for a split second, but it doesn’t last long. The anger burns hotter, sharper, because of what the Nogitsune could do to Eli.
Eli pauses when he sees Peter’s car, confused by the unfamiliar presence in the passenger seat. He stops at the top of the stairs, squinting through the growing shadows of the evening as Stiles steps out of the car.
“Uh, Uncle Peter? Who is this?” Eli asks, looking at Stiles with a raised brow, his voice laced with curiosity and just a hint of unease.
Peter’s mouth tightens, but he doesn’t hesitate to respond. “Friend of mine. He’s here to help me with something.”
Stiles flashes a grin, albeit a tense one. “Damn good to meet you, kid,” he says, his eyes running over Eli with a new assessment. There’s something in his gaze, respect, maybe, but it’s hard to read. It’s clear, though, that he’s here to do something far bigger than meet Derek’s son.
Eli, a little surprised, tilts his head. “Wait, you’re the sheriff’s son. Stiles. Dad’s told me about you.”
Stiles freezes. His eyes flicker back to Eli, but his mouth tugs into a grim line. “Well, that’s a fucking shock. I thought Derek liked to pretend I didn't exist.”
The words hang in the air like a challenge, and Stiles doesn't even try to soften them. He’s already bracing himself for the conversation with Derek, but hearing it come from Eli’s lips only sharpens the ache.
Eli shifts uncomfortably, clearly unsure of how to react to the tension in the air. “That sounds like something I don’t want to get in the middle of,” he says, a small laugh escaping him, but it’s awkward, like a plea for peace. “Dad’s inside. You should go talk to him.”
Stiles doesn’t miss a beat. His lips curl into a bitter smile as he steps closer, hands tucked into the pockets of his jacket, still holding Riot in one arm. “Oh, he already knows I’m here. I can feel his presence from the room just inside the door. He can hear me, and he’s being a fucking coward and won’t come out.”
Peter watches from the side, hands jammed into his coat pockets, his face impassive, but there’s a flicker of something at the intensity of Stiles’ words.
Stiles’ chest heaves as he shoves the words out like they’ve been stuck in his throat for years. “Come on, Derek. I won’t make it hurt much. One punch and I’ll feel so much fucking better ABOUT YOU NOT CALLING ME WHEN THE FUCKING NOGITSUNE CAME BACK!”
His voice echoes across the yard, defiant, raw, and full of the kind of rage that Stiles has been holding onto for far too long. Riot’s ears perk up at the sudden outburst, but the fox doesn’t flee. Instead, Riot’s eyes glint, as if understanding the storm brewing around them.
Inside, Derek is standing just out of sight, a mixture of guilt and frustration tightening his jaw. But Stiles knows that. Knows him. And as much as Derek wants to hide, Stiles is here now, and he’s not going anywhere until it’s all out in the open.
Derek opens the door, and Stiles can feel the weight of his presence, even before the man steps into view. When he does, Stiles is hit with an unexpected wave of shock. Derek looks different - thinner, older, and with streaks of gray running through his hair, but still undeniably Derek. God, he looks good. The sharp angles of his face have softened slightly with time, and the same intense, brooding presence that Stiles had once been drawn to is still there, though it’s been muted, like everything else in this town.
But it’s all overshadowed by the seething rage building inside Stiles. His heart pounds as he looks Derek up and down, his hands clenching at his sides.
"Who the fuck do you think you are? Not calling me?" Stiles explodes, stepping forward, ignoring the way his voice shakes with anger. "What, Scott gets to make all the decisions? You have no fucking opinion of your own? Or do you think Scott can save you? Save your son?" His voice cracks as the weight of it all crashes down on him. "Why did Peter call me and not you? Goddamn it, Derek!"
Derek’s eyes narrow, but there’s something in his gaze, something that Stiles can’t quite place. Instead of addressing anything Stiles has just shouted at him, Derek simply says, “Why would I call you? Why would I make you relive that?”
It’s like a punch to the gut. The words hit harder than Stiles was prepared for. His hands tremble at his sides, but he takes another step forward, voice rising.
"Because I'm the only one who can get rid of it! I'm the only one who can extinguish the motherfucker for good. You either don’t care about me, or you don’t care about your own fucking son, and that’s why you didn’t call!"
The air between them crackles, charged with so much fury that Stiles can barely contain it. His breath is ragged, and for a second, the world feels like it's narrowing down to just this; Derek, standing in front of him like a brick wall, and Stiles, ready to tear through it.
Derek’s eyes flash an electric blue, his power surging as he takes a threatening step toward Stiles. Stiles bristles at the motion, but before he can react, Riot does it for him.
The small red fox, who had been nestled in Stiles’ arms moments before, shifts. In an instant, Riot grows into a mastiff sized creature, fur bristling, teeth bared, and a deep growl rumbling from his chest. The massive fox stands between Stiles and Derek, blocking the man’s path and giving a low, threatening snarl.
Derek freezes, caught off guard by the size and ferocity of Riot’s sudden transformation. His eyes flicker back to Stiles, a mixture of surprise and wariness in them. Stiles, still fuming, watches the standoff for a moment before he lets out a shaky breath and steps forward, placing a hand on Riot’s head.
"Riot, no," Stiles commands softly, and the fox immediately shrinks back down to his usual size, not losing any of his intensity but obeying Stiles without question.
The change in the air is palpable. Derek’s posture stiffens as he watches Riot return to his housecat sized form, now resting calmly at Stiles' feet. Stiles glances at the fox briefly before his gaze locks onto Derek again, the anger still boiling inside of him.
"Look, I get it," Stiles says, voice low and simmering with frustration. "You’re trying to protect your kid, protect yourself, and yeah, maybe you don’t want to drag me into this fucking mess again. But it’s not a fucking choice, Derek. The Nogitsune is coming for you. For Eli. And you didn’t call me. You didn’t even think to reach out, so fuck you for that."
Stiles stands his ground, chest heaving with every word, but there’s something else now too, something deeper, more vulnerable beneath the surface. This isn’t just about the Nogitsune. It’s about everything. About Derek. About the years Stiles spent waiting for someone to call him when it mattered, only to be left in the dark.
Riot lets out a soft, comforting chuff at Stiles' side, grounding him. Stiles reaches down, stroking the fox’s fur with a quiet sigh, trying to calm the storm inside him. But it’s Derek’s next words that get through.
"I’m sorry," Derek says, his voice low and rough, almost unwilling to admit it. "I should’ve called. I didn’t… I didn’t know what to do."
Stiles flinches at the apology, a strange mix of anger and relief flooding him. His throat tightens, but he doesn't let it break him. Instead, he nods stiffly, finally letting the silence fill the gap between them.
"Yeah, well, now you know.”
Derek steps aside, gesturing for Stiles to come inside. The tension is still thick in the air, but the door opens wide, and the familiar scent of Derek’s house; wood, musk, and a bit of that ever present werewolf tang, fills Stiles’ senses. He doesn’t hesitate, stepping over the threshold with Riot still nestled at his feet.
Peter trails behind, raising an eyebrow as he takes in Stiles’ presence in the house. Stiles sheds his jacket once inside, the movement fluid, his muscles flexing beneath the layers of fabric as the weight of his magic and emotions lingers like an unspoken challenge in the air.
As soon as Stiles removes the jacket, his tattoos are in full view; an intricate array of symbols and designs that ripple over his skin like living art. The tattoos are an odd mix of delicate and fierce, a clear testament to the battles Stiles has faced.
Peter’s eyes flick over Stiles' body with a mixture of shock and interest, his brows furrowing. “Last time I saw you, you didn’t have any of those,” he comments dryly, clearly surprised by the sheer number of them. “You were… clean.”
Stiles shrugs as he takes a seat at the small table in the living room. "Got a new job a few years ago," he says, his tone nonchalant as he leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "These are the aftereffects of magic. Every time I take down a supernatural creature, a tattoo shows up. It’s like… my reward, I guess, for surviving."
Eli, who has been standing by the doorway, eyes wide and absolutely fascinated, takes a step forward. "What do you do now?" he asks, his voice filled with curiosity.
Stiles chuckles, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. "I'm an FBI agent, but…" He pauses, glancing at Peter before continuing, "for a division that, like… technically doesn’t exist. It’s hard to explain. I guess you could say I'm a hunter ish type of person."
"Wait, wait," Eli cuts in, clearly intrigued. "You’re like a bounty hunter?"
Stiles smirks, appreciating the comparison. "Sort of, yeah. A bit more supernatural, though." He pulls up his sleeve to reveal the newest tattoo; a dark, ornate motif that looks like a vampire’s fang curling into a snake. "Two days ago, I took down a coven of vampires. That’s where this tattoo comes from."
Eli leans in closer, eyes widening at the vampire symbol on Stiles’ arm. His fingers twitch with the urge to reach out and touch it, but he holds himself back.
Stiles sees the curiosity radiating off Eli and grins. "Yeah, I absorb some of the powers of the creature that dies. For a short time, at least. And with each kill, the tattoos show up and they strengthen my magic inside me."
Peter’s eyes narrow slightly as he watches Stiles explain, but the intrigue in his expression is unmistakable. Eli, on the other hand, is practically bouncing on his heels.
"Can you show us more?" Eli asks eagerly, almost pleading with Stiles. "I’ve never seen anything like it!"
Stiles laughs, shaking his head. "Sure, kid, why not?" He stands up, rolling his shoulders before slowly lifting his shirt over his head, revealing a canvas of tattoos covering his torso and back.
The intricate designs cover nearly every inch of skin. some are geometric, others abstract, and still more are creatures or symbols that seem to pulse with energy, almost as if they’re alive. A jagged wolf symbol on his shoulder blade, a phoenix on his ribs, and a twisting serpent running down his back, each tattoo telling the story of a different creature, a different fight.
Eli’s eyes are wide, his mouth open in awe as he steps closer to inspect the tattoos, tracing the lines with his gaze. "This is… this is insane. It’s like you’ve fought everything!"
Stiles nods, a bit of pride in his smile. "Pretty much. Every supernatural creature that’s ever crossed my path, I've dealt with." He turns slightly to give Eli a better view of the tattoos on his back. "These aren’t just for show, either. They give me access to some of the powers. The wolf one is from a werewolf I took down a while ago, used to boost my speed and senses for a while. And this one" - he points to a serpent that coils around his spine - "was from a snake shifter. That one’s been useful."
Peter watches the whole exchange in silence, his usual sarcasm gone for once. It’s clear he’s still absorbing what Stiles has become, and there’s something unspoken between them, something Stiles doesn’t want to deal with just yet.
"Can you ever stop?" Peter asks suddenly, his voice laced with an edge of concern. "Like, can you just… quit?"
Stiles looks at him, his expression darkening. "I don't have a choice, Peter. If I stop, things die. People die." He turns to look at Eli, his tone softening. "I can’t afford to stop. Not when sometimes I’m the only one who can stop them."
Eli watches him for a long moment before nodding, seeming to understand, but there’s a sadness behind his eyes as he takes in the weight of what Stiles carries.
"You’ll help us, right?" Eli asks quietly, almost like an afterthought.
Stiles gives him a tight smile, nodding. "Yeah. I’m here to help. But don’t expect this to be easy. It’s going to hurt, and it’s not going to be pretty." He glances back at Peter. "But we’ll get rid of the Nogitsune. For good.”
Derek's eyes darken as he steps forward, arms crossing tightly over his chest. "Who is it going to hurt?" His voice is steady, but there's something raw in his tone.
Stiles meets his gaze without hesitation. "If it goes according to plan, it'll only hurt me." His tone is too casual, too matter of fact, like he’s discussing a grocery list instead of an impending battle against a nightmare from their past.
Peter scoffs, shaking his head. "Yeah, no. Not okay with that." His blue eyes flash, sharp and calculating. "Find another way."
Stiles tilts his head, giving Peter a look that’s more exasperation than anything else. "Then you shouldn't have called me." His voice is clipped, his patience thinning. "I'm going to do this my way because it’s the only way. Unless, of course, you’ve got another magic wielder in your little fucking ragtag pack?" He lets the question hang in the air, knowing damn well they don’t.
Silence settles over the room.
Then, Derek, his face unreadable, says, "You’re pack."
It’s quiet but firm, like it’s a truth Stiles should have already known.
Stiles stares at him for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he exhales a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "I stopped being pack the second you were no longer an alpha."
Derek flinches like the words physically hit him. His lips press into a thin line, and for the first time in years, he looks genuinely stunned; speechless, even.
Stiles doesn’t let the silence linger. He turns to Peter and Eli, his stance unwavering. "Now, are we going to stand around rehashing old wounds, or are we going to deal with the thing that actually matters?”
Derek rubs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. "There's something else you need to know."
Stiles arches an eyebrow. "Oh, good. Because this day wasn’t already a shitstorm."
Derek doesn't react to the sarcasm. He just says it. "Allison’s back."
Stiles blinks. "Back? As in, back back?"
Derek nods. "She doesn't remember dying. She attacked me the first time she saw me. thought it was still senior year."
Stiles stares at him for a long moment, processing, before he finally sighs, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. That’s exactly what I fucking needed today. Resurrected ex girlfriends and a vengeful fox spirit. Awesome. Just fucking awesome."
Peter smirks, watching Stiles with something like amusement. "Still as dramatic as ever, I see."
"Eat shit, Peter," Stiles shoots back as he drops his bag onto the nearest surface, already rummaging through it.
He pulls out a heavy, leather bound tome, flipping through the yellowed pages until he finds what he’s looking for. He taps the page once before looking up at Derek. "It'll take a few days to get everything together, but I know exactly how to get rid of the spirit."
"And how's that?" Peter asks, arms crossed.
Stiles doesn't hesitate. "I'm going to invite him in."
For a second, there’s absolute silence.
Then, Derek and Peter lose their shit.
"Are you insane?" Derek’s voice is sharp, his hands clenched into fists at his sides.
"Absolutely fucking not," Peter snaps, stepping closer, his expression deadly serious. "You're not giving that thing a free pass into your body. That’s a terrible idea. That’s beyond a terrible idea."
Stiles just shrugs. "Eh. I’ve had worse."
Peter makes a frustrated noise, looking ready to strangle him. "Stiles-"
"Dude. I know what I’m doing," Stiles interrupts, tone steady, unshakable. "I have more control over my magic than I’ve ever had in my life. And this? This is the only way to make sure it never comes back."
Derek shakes his head. "There has to be another way."
"Well, unless you’ve been secretly training in dark magic in your free time, we don’t have another way," Stiles tells him, snapping the book shut. "So, unless one of you is suddenly an expert in dealing with malevolent, centuries old trickster spirits, we’re doing it my way.”
Eli, who had been quiet up until now, finally steps forward, his arms crossed as he looks between his dad and Stiles. “Dad,” he says slowly, deliberately. “Maybe you should just listen to Stiles.”
Derek whips around to face his son, eyebrows knitting together. “Eli-”
“I mean, look at him,” Eli continues, undeterred. He gestures toward Stiles, toward the ink covering his arms, his shoulders, the edges of tattoos peeking from under his collar. “You keep acting like he’s the same guy you used to know, but he’s literally wearing proof of his power on his skin. Maybe instead of arguing, you should just trust that he knows what he’s doing.”
Stiles lets out a delighted, sharp laugh and points at Eli. “Oh, I like you.” He claps a hand on the kid’s shoulder, grinning. “Congratulations, you’re officially my favorite Hale.”
Peter makes an offended noise, placing a hand on his chest. “Excuse me?”
Stiles smirks. “You heard me.”
Peter scowls. “I kept you in the loop. I called you.”
“And you get points for that,” Stiles agrees easily, then looks back at Eli. “But this kid? This kid just hit me with logic and reason? In this family? Absolute unicorn. He wins.”
Eli grins, clearly pleased with himself.
Derek, however, is not amused. He exhales sharply and looks at his son. “It’s not that simple, Eli.”
Eli raises an eyebrow. “Sounds like it is.”
Derek clenches his jaw, frustrated. “You don’t understand-”
“No, I do,” Eli interrupts. “I get that you and Stiles have history, I get that you don’t trust easily, but he isn’t just talking out of his ass. He’s showing up with literal receipts in the form of his magic tattoos. You’re acting like he’s some reckless idiot, but he’s been doing this without any of you. And he’s still here.”
Derek’s shoulders tense, his face unreadable, but he doesn’t argue.
Stiles watches the whole exchange, tilting his head. “Damn, kid. When did you get all insightful? You sure you’re not a Stilinski?”
Eli smirks. “I think I’d know if I was.”
Peter sighs dramatically. “This is ridiculous. I refuse to accept second place.”
Stiles grins. “You’ll survive.”
Derek’s expression tightens, the frustration radiating from him. He’s trying to keep his composure, but it’s obvious that Stiles’ refusal to explain is pushing him to his limits. His eyes narrow, and his voice is tight when he speaks. “I need more information, Stiles. What exactly is this ritual? How does it work? If you’re going to do this, I need to know what’s at stake. What could go wrong?”
Stiles stands there, arms crossed, eyes dark with the weight of his frustration and the depth of his anger. “You just have to trust me, Derek. I’ve got it covered. I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t know what I’m doing.”
Derek isn’t satisfied with that answer. He presses, a slight growl in his voice. “I can’t just trust you without knowing the consequences. You’re talking about a ritual that could have huge risks. I need to know more than just ‘trust me.’”
Stiles’ jaw tightens as he looks Derek dead in the eye. “I’m not explaining it to you. You want to help, you’ll just have to trust me. That’s the way it’s going to be.”
Peter watches the two of them, a raised eyebrow the only sign of his amusement at the tension.
Derek exhales sharply, clearly fighting the urge to press harder. Finally, he sighs, giving up on getting any more details out of Stiles. “Fine. But I’m still taking this to Scott’s pack. We’re not handling this alone.”
Stiles scoffs loudly, the anger in his voice unmistakable. “You don’t have to do shit, Derek. You don’t owe Scott anything, and it sounds like he’s got enough fucking problems with his zombie girlfriend, right? Why are you even thinking about bringing them into this?”
Derek’s brows furrow, and he looks at Stiles with a mix of confusion and frustration. “Everyone’s here, Stiles. Jackson, Ethan, Parrish, Malia, Lydia… they’ve all come together to help.”
Stiles’ eyes flash with anger, and the words burst out of him before he can stop them. “You act like I should give a fuck that any of those people showed up. Let’s not forget, THEY DIDN’T CALL ME EITHER,” he yells, his voice sharp with emotion.
The words hang in the air, thick with the tension between them. Derek falters, visibly taken aback by the raw pain in Stiles' voice, but he doesn’t back down. “I… I didn’t think you wanted to be involved.”
Stiles snorts bitterly. “Yeah, well, you didn’t think much of me when you made the decision to cut me out of all this, did you?” His tone is ice cold now, a clear barrier between him and Derek, and he turns away to start preparing what he needs for the ritual. “I’m doing this alone, Derek. I'll need you guys there as support but nothing more.”
Derek stands there, a mix of guilt, frustration, and confusion fighting for dominance in his chest. He opens his mouth to say something, but words fail him.
Stiles mutters to himself under his breath as he gathers his things, frustration clear in his voice. "Stupid werewolves. Always think they know best." He shakes his head, grabbing a few last items from the table, his focus on the ritual. But before anyone can register what happens, in a blink of an eye, Stiles and Riot are gone. The living room is suddenly empty.
Derek freezes for a second, his brows furrowing in confusion, his voice a low growl. "Where the fuck did he go?"
He scans the room quickly, eyes darting across the space. His gaze lands on the empty spot where Stiles had been standing just a moment ago, his heart rate spiking. "What the hell?" he mutters under his breath, still looking for any sign of him.
Peter leans back against the wall with a smirk, clearly unfazed. "Who knows. Imagine my surprise when he teleported into my apartment earlier. I literally called him like five hours ago, and he just showed up. Scared the fuck out of me."
Derek’s head snaps toward Peter, disbelief coloring his features. "He just appeared?"
Peter shrugs nonchalantly. "Yup. Poof. One second, I’m sitting there, and the next, bam. Stiles, looking like he was ready to punch me in the face." He chuckles at the memory, clearly more entertained than worried.
Eli, still processing everything that just happened, looks up in awe at the spot where Stiles had been. "Stiles is literally the coolest person I’ve ever seen in my life." His voice is filled with a kind of admiration that Derek isn’t sure how to handle.
"Yeah, well, don’t get too attached," Derek mutters, rubbing the back of his neck and glancing over at Eli. "He won’t stick around."
Eli raises an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. "Why not? He seems like he’s got your back."
Peter smirks, eyes glinting with that familiar sharpness. "Let’s not forget, it was you who left, Derek. Don’t fill Eli’s head with shit that’s not right. You ran first, why would Stiles stick around here?"
Derek scowls at Peter, the old frustration simmering back up to the surface. "You’re so not helping," he mutters through clenched teeth, not sure if he wants to snap at his uncle or let it go.
Peter only grins wider, clearly enjoying this moment of disruption. "Good thing that wasn’t my intention, huh?"
Eli looks between the two, sensing the tension but also the underlying warmth in their banter. His mind is elsewhere, though, still thinking about Stiles. "Do you think Stiles will come back?" he asks, voice softer now, his curiosity getting the better of him.
Derek's gaze flicks toward the couch, where Stiles’ jacket and a few of his things are still draped across the cushions, untouched. His stomach tightens, an odd feeling settling deep within him. He looks back at Eli, his voice quieter now, almost reluctant. "Yeah. He’ll be back. Just didn't know how long he'll be back for."
“The long haul I'd assume.” Peter says most helpfully.
Eli smiles a little, reassured by his dad's words, but there’s a hint of sadness in the air.
Derek can’t help but wonder, though, if Stiles will come back in the same way he left; full of anger and frustration, or with something else.