Shattered and Bound

by DaisyBeats

Summary:

After losing Derek and his father to a feral Scott in the aftermath of the Nogitsune, a shattered Stiles kills his former best friend and is left drowning in guilt and grief.

Unable to live in a world where everyone he loves is gone, he casts a one way time travel spell meant to rewrite it all - only to wake up years earlier than expected, in a peaceful dimension where he never existed and the Hales are still alive.

Haunted by trauma and drawn to a younger, unbroken Derek, Stiles must navigate healing, fate, and love in a world that was never meant to be his.

Chapter 1: It happened too fast

The air still hums with the last sparks of supernatural chaos, thick with blood and panic. The Nogitsune is gone. The Oni are gone. But the silence that follows is heavier than the storm.

Allison’s body lies sprawled on the cold cement, her eyes open, unseeing. Scott kneels beside her, a keening noise tearing from his throat - somewhere between a sob and a snarl. Stiles doesn’t move. He can’t. His lungs are locked in his chest, his heart somewhere shattered between his ribs. Allison is dead. And this is supposed to be the end.

Then something shifts.

Scott lifts his head, his eyes, once a steady red Alpha glow, flare wild, untethered. There’s no control left in him, no reason. Just pain, rage, and a grief too large to bear. His claws unsheath like a reflex.

“Scott,” Derek says cautiously, stepping forward, hands raised, voice low. “You need to breathe. She’s gone, but-”

It happens too fast.

A blur of motion. A guttural roar. Derek barely has time to blink before Scott is on him, claws tearing through flesh and muscle like paper. Derek gasps, chokes, his eyes wide in shock as Scott slams him into the ground, throat torn open. There’s blood. So much blood.

Stiles screams. But it’s already done.

“No. NO!”

And then another voice - rough, familiar, commanding: “Scott, stop!”

Noah Stilinski, badge still clipped to his belt, gun drawn, eyes locked on the nightmare unfolding.

Scott turns. Eyes glowing. A beast wearing his best friend’s face.

“Scott, don’t do this,” the sheriff pleads. “You don’t want to-”

A blur again. A sound like tearing fabric and a wet thud.

Stiles watches his father’s body crumple like it’s boneless. There’s blood on the concrete. Red soaking into tan uniform. Red on Scott’s claws.

Time stops.

Something breaks inside Stiles, something permanent.

He doesn’t remember pulling the gun from his dad’s holster. Doesn’t remember aiming. All he knows is that he sees Scott, eyes still wild, panting, covered in blood - Derek’s blood, his dad’s blood - and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, voice shaking but steady enough.

The shot cracks like thunder through the courtyard. One after another after another, straight to his friend's skull.

Scott falls.

And just like that, it’s over.

Except it’s not. Not really.

Stiles drops the gun.

His knees hit the ground.

The silence rushes back in, choking and full of ghosts.

He crawls to his father first. Presses shaking hands to the blood, to the cooling skin, to the shirt Stiles ironed for him just this morning. “Dad… Dad, no. Please. Please…”

But there’s no heartbeat.

And Derek. Derek’s body is lying just feet away, eyes still half open like he didn’t believe it could happen. Like it didn’t make sense. Like he was still waiting for the next move.

Stiles tries to stand. He can’t. The weight is too much.

He screams. Not words, just raw sound, pulled from the gut, from the grief split core of him. His throat burns, but he keeps screaming until his voice is gone, until there’s blood in his mouth, until his body gives out and he curls into himself in the middle of the carnage.

He is seventeen years old.

And utterly, completely alone.
~~~~

It's been two days.

The house doesn’t feel like home anymore.

It doesn’t feel like anything.

Stiles sits in the middle of the living room, knees drawn to his chest on the old couch that still smells like his dad’s aftershave and coffee. His hands are raw, torn in places from clenched fists and nail marks. He doesn’t remember making them. He doesn’t remember much.

The lights are off. The curtains drawn. It’s too quiet.

Derek is dead. His dad is dead. Scott is dead.

And Stiles is breathing.

He doesn’t know how to stop.

His eyes are open, but he’s not looking at anything. Just the spot on the carpet where a piece of broken picture frame glints dully in the pale light. The glass has blood on it, he thinks it’s his. He doesn’t care.

He hasn’t spoken since the courtyard.

He hasn’t moved, not really, since Peter dragged him out of the blood soaked parking lot, since Cora snapped at someone to get his dad’s body away from the open air, since the world started pretending it could still turn.

Peter is somewhere in the house. Maybe. He comes and goes. Always quiet. Always angry. But not at Stiles; not the way he should be.

Melissa came once.

Stiles remembers the sound of her voice breaking when she saw the blood on his hands. He remembers her reaching out. He remembers Cora throwing her against the wall with her eyes glowing and Peter stepping between them with his fangs bared.

“Your son was a murderer,” Peter growled. “You don’t get to show your face here. Not now. Not ever.”

Melissa had cried. Screamed back. Tried to explain. Tried to reason.

Stiles didn’t move. He just sat there.

Because they were wrong.

Every single one of them.

This is his fault.

He was supposed to be the smart one. The planner. The backup. The human. The one who holds the line when everything goes to shit.

But he couldn’t keep the fox out. He couldn’t save Allison. He couldn’t stop Scott. He couldn’t protect Derek. Couldn’t shield his dad.

He was supposed to be enough.

And he wasn’t.

His body aches from not eating, not sleeping, not moving. But his mind is worse. Hollowed out. Shut down. Curled in on itself like a dying star.

Grief doesn’t live on the surface. It’s not loud anymore. It’s a dull pressure in his chest. A numbness under his skin. It’s the constant knowing:

That he failed.

That they're gone.

That he let it happen.

And the silence stretches on.

Because Stiles doesn’t speak.

There’s nothing left to say.
~~~~

The shadows stretch long now.

Night passes into morning, into afternoon, into night again, and Stiles doesn’t mark the time. The world outside the window exists in flickers - cloudy sky, sun that doesn’t warm, a streetlight that buzzes and hums like it’s screaming just out of reach. But none of it touches him. Not really.

The house breathes around him. Floorboards creak like memories trying to walk again. The heater kicks on like his dad used to do when the temperature dropped at night. The silence makes everything louder.

He hasn’t moved from the couch.

His phone is still in his pocket, long since dead. He thinks Peter tried to plug it in once, but Stiles never moved to let Peter get it out. What’s the point? There’s no one left to call. No one left to answer.

Peter brings food sometimes. Sets it down without a word. Always something warm, something easy. But Stiles doesn’t eat it. The plates pile up. Not because he wants to starve - he just forgets. He forgets what hunger feels like. Forgets that he should care.

He’s still wearing the clothes from that night. Dried blood at the collar. Dust and ash crusted in the fibers. His dad’s jacket draped over his shoulders like armor. Like penance.

The house smells like grief. Like quiet rage. Like Derek’s scent still clinging to the hallway, to the bedroom door that Stiles hasn’t opened. Like the faint ghost of his dad’s cologne that no amount of laundry could ever scrub out of the walls.

Sometimes, at night, he thinks he hears his name.

Not the whispered one that used to follow him from Derek’s mouth, or the tired drawl of his dad’s voice from the kitchen. No, this is quieter. A curl of thought in the back of his mind. A suggestion.

Stiles.

A reminder.

He did this.

He let it all happen.

His eyes never stop burning, but he hasn’t cried since the courtyard. There’s nothing left in him to pour out.

He doesn't dream when he sleeps; on the rare, accidental occasions when he passes out where he sits. His body locks up and his brain refuses to follow. No memories. No monsters. Just blankness. And then the world again, exactly as broken as he left it.

Sometimes, he wishes Scott had killed him too.

But he doesn’t get that ending. He gets this.

Breathing in a house full of ghosts. Staring at the place on the wall where a family photo used to hang. Listening to Peter and Cora argue in the kitchen, low and urgent and scared.

And he just… exists.

Because that’s all he can do.

Until something breaks.

And even then, he won’t notice.

Not right away.
~~~~

It starts with sound.

A spoon clinks against a bowl in the kitchen. The heater wheezes. Cora’s footfalls creak down the stairs. Something thuds against the fridge.

And then it’s the silence again. Thick and choking.

Stiles hasn’t moved.

But something inside him has.

A tightness, a whisper of pressure behind his ribs. A tremor in his spine that doesn't go away. Like the world is holding its breath and he’s the only one who forgot how.

His vision blurs, not with tears - those won’t come - but with the weight of existing. His chest stutters. Breath in, breath out, breath in, but it’s too shallow. Too fast. Too wrong.

His fingers twitch.

He blinks, and suddenly his hands are shaking. He doesn’t remember telling them to move. But they won’t stop. His palms are slick with sweat and something clicks in his brain that hadn’t clicked before:

He’s still here.

But his dad is not.

Derek is not.

And the room tilts.

The couch breathes under him. Or maybe he’s just swaying. He clutches the armrest, nails digging into the threadbare fabric. His jaw clenches so hard it aches. His whole body hums like it’s made of static and frayed nerves.

He gasps, sharp and ragged and real.

And then again.

He doesn’t cry. Not really. His throat closes up before it can get that far.

He just panics.

The kind of panic that lives under the skin. Silent. Brutal. Unseen.

His feet hit the floor and he’s standing without remembering how. The room swims. His heart beats so loudly he thinks it might stop altogether. He grips the wall. The mantle. The back of a chair.

And then he sees it.

His dad’s badge.

Still sitting on the end table, just where someone, Peter, maybe, had laid it after collecting his effects. It shines in the weak light, polished and perfect and so, so wrong.

Stiles touches it.

And collapses.

Not to the floor; his legs don’t give out. He just folds in on himself, right there in the living room. Fingers curled around cool metal, body shaking like he’s freezing.

His first sound in four days is a strangled inhale that never makes it to exhale.

He doesn’t scream. He doesn’t sob.

He splinters.

Wordless, breathless, broken.

When Peter finds him; twenty minutes later, unmoving, clinging to the badge like a lifeline, he doesn’t speak. He just kneels beside him and presses a hand to the back of his neck, grounding, not comforting.

Stiles doesn’t look at him.

He just whispers, hoarse and quiet:

"I let them die."

Peter says nothing.

And the silence swallows them both.

Chapter 2: Then take it... Take it all

The house is too quiet.

Too full of silence.

Every tick of the clock is a scream in Stiles’ ears, every creak in the walls a whisper he can’t quite catch. The badge is still clutched in his fist. His knees hurt from sitting on the hardwood for so long, but he doesn’t move.

Can’t.

His breath rasps in and out of his lungs, shallow and uneven.

And then he heard it.

“I love you, you know.”

The voice is warm. Familiar. Rough like gravel but steady. A voice he’s heard countless times behind clenched teeth and quiet moments. A voice he thought he’d never hear again.

Derek.

Stiles lifts his head slowly.

No one is there.

But the voice lingers, like Derek had just stepped out of the room and left the echo behind. It curls around him, soft and unbearable.

“You saved me more times than I can count.”

He squeezes his eyes shut, fingers digging into his scalp like he can rip the voice out of his head.

But then another one joins it.

“I’m proud of you, son.”

His father. Kind. Steady. Unshakable.

“You’ve made mistakes like everyone else. But you always fight to make things right. You always get back up.”

A sob tears out of Stiles before he can stop it. It sounds broken. Foreign. The sound of something cracking at the base.

He crawls backwards until his shoulders hit the wall, eyes wide, breath stuttering, chest heaving.

“No,” he whispers. “No, you’re not here. You’re dead. I watched you-” His voice breaks off.

But the voices don’t.

They multiply.

A chorus of ghosts.

Of memories.

Of grief.

But then, the worst one comes next.

She speaks and Stiles pushes his hands over his ears.

Soft. Firm. Bright like sunlight behind his eyelids.

“Get off the floor, baby.”

His heart stops.

“Get up. You can fix this.”

His mother.

She died when he was little. That voice has been gone for years. But he knows it instantly. In his marrow. In his blood.

His eyes flood with tears, but his hands are steady now.

“Your spark is too bright to die here. Not like this.”

And he believes her.

For the first time since the courtyard, since blood stained his shoes and his hands and his soul, he believes something might still be possible.

He looks down at his hands. Pale. Trembling. Still alive.

Still powerful.

The air around him shifts. Hums. The lightbulb above his head flickers. And deep in the walls of the house, something responds to him.

Magic.

It’s always been there. Dormant. Wild. Hungry.

And now it feels like it’s listening.

Stiles stands. Slowly. Like the air’s heavier than it was before. His legs ache. His spine cracks.

But he stands.

And in the silence, he hears her again.

“Fix it.”

He wipes the tears off his face with the sleeve of his dad’s jacket. Walks upstairs. Opens the closet. Pulls out the trunk hidden in the back, the one his mother left behind with her journals and old spellwork.

He sets it on the floor.

Opens it with shaking fingers.

And begins to read.
~~~~

The floorboards creak just enough to let him know he’s not alone.

Stiles doesn’t look up. He’s cross-legged on the living room floor, surrounded by a chaotic sea of old notebooks, yellowing pages, ink stained printouts, and one leather bound grimoire with the scent of lavender and ash. His fingers tremble as they sketch an intricate sigil into the corner of the page.

“Cora,” Peter’s voice is sharp and low behind him, already taut with warning. “Stay behind me.”

But Cora doesn’t listen, of course she doesn’t, and in seconds she’s stepping into the low glow of the single lamp, her wide eyes sweeping over the mess and the boy in the center of it.

He hasn’t eaten. He hasn’t slept. His cheeks are sunken in, his mouth dry and cracked, and his nails are rimmed with ink and blood.

Peter steps forward slowly, eyes flickering, reading the room like a battlefield.

“Stiles,” he says softly.

Stiles keeps writing. Doesn’t respond.

Peter crouches just far enough to see his face, and something in his own expression falters. “You’re buzzing with power. That’s new.”

Stiles’ hand pauses mid stroke.

“I don’t have time to explain,” he whispers, hoarse from disuse.

Peter hums. “I think you do. Because if you go down this road half cocked, you’ll destroy yourself and whatever you’re trying to bring back.”

Stiles flinches.

Cora steps closer, folding her arms. Her voice is softer. “We’re not here to stop you. We’re here because you’re scaring the hell out of us.”

“I don’t want to give you hope,” Stiles says without looking up. “I’m not - this isn’t guaranteed. It’s not even realistic. It’s probably a fool’s errand, but if I can’t try, if I don’t do something, I’ll-”

He swallows hard, finally lifting his eyes.

“I’ll die too.”

Peter looks at him for a long, still moment. Then he nods once, decisive. “Okay. Then we’re doing this properly.”

Stiles stares, blinking.

“You’re... not telling me I’m crazy?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Oh, you’re absolutely crazy. But not for this.”

And then, Peter huffs a sharp breath, eyes scanning the clutter and the boy drowning in it.

“Shower. Now.”

“What, no, I don’t-”

Peter holds up a hand, fingers tipped in faint claws. “I will throw you into that goddamn bathroom if I have to. You smell like rot and regret. Go. Now. You’re no use to magic or me like this.”

Cora sighs and gently pushes him toward the stairs. “He’s right. You’re starting to look like a lich. Go rinse off the apocalypse.”

Stiles hesitates, eyes darting to the notebooks spread around the floor, like if he leaves, even for a minute, it’ll all disappear.

Peter catches the look. “We won’t touch anything.”

“But you’ll stay,” Stiles says, voice quiet and young.

Peter’s expression softens just enough to be real. “Of course we’ll stay.”

Cora nods. “We’re here, Stiles. We want to be.”

That breaks something in him.

So he nods. Staggers to his feet. Each step to the bathroom feels heavier than the last.

He turns on the shower, strips off his ruined clothes, and steps into the spray with the door wide open, water hot enough to sear. He tilts his head back and listens.

Downstairs, he hears Peter carefully turning pages, Cora softly muttering to herself as she organizes the notes. He almost laughs, because of course they're touching the stuff they said they wouldn't.

But more than all that, he hears life.

And for the first time in four days, Stiles lets himself believe this might be possible.

He washes off the blood. The grief stays.

But hope, hope roots itself dangerously in his bones.
~~~~

The world has narrowed to ink and breath.

The first two days of research had been frantic - desperate, almost feral in the way Stiles tore through pages, muttering to himself, discarding entire schools of magic with a flick of his shaking fingers. Latin texts bled into Slavic grimoires, Celtic runes into obscure Polish family journals passed down in secret.

And then, on the third day of this new kind of madness, he found it.

A convergence spell. Time-altering. Soul tethered. Irreversible.

At first, it felt like a myth, too neat to be real. But as he read deeper, parsed the language between the language, Stiles realized it wasn’t just real.

It was possible.

His heartbeat kicked up. His fingers shook as he traced the edge of the page. He had a way.

But with every page he turned, every old rite deciphered and adapted, the euphoria dulled under a growing pressure, like the air around him recognized what he was preparing to do and had started to mourn him for it.

Because this spell wasn’t a doorway. It was a price.

He’d have to give everything.

He read the cost three times.

The caster’s spark will diminish by the magnitude of the shift. Anchors must be carved - physical, permanent. Without them, the soul will unravel.

He sat back on his heels, blinking through the film over his eyes.

He could still feel Derek’s last breath. His dad’s blood on his hands.

“Then take it,” he whispered to no one. “Take it all.”

The spell would require runes, symbols that grounded him, that tied him body and soul to those he meant to protect.

He thought for hours, quietly, methodically, feeling each idea like a bruise pressed too hard. And finally, he knew.

On his left side, over his heart, he’d ink the Hale triskelion - in deep red. For strength. For love. For Derek.

On the right, just along the ribcage, where breath became life, he would mark a triquetra, the symbol of unity, eternity, and protection. It was old Polish magic, buried in family stories his grandmother told in a voice soft and full of mystery. His lineage. His magic. His life.

Peter, reading in the corner, hadn’t said a word during the last two hours of Stiles’ silence. But now he glanced up, sensing the shift in the air.

“You found it,” he said quietly.

Stiles nodded, jaw tight. “I can go back. I can stop it.”

Peter tilted his head. “What’s the catch?”

Stiles looked down at his hands, his cracked knuckles, the ink staining his fingertips like blood. “I’ll burn out most of my magic. Maybe all of it. It won’t kill me, but it’ll… change me.”

Peter’s brows twitched. “And the markings?”

Stiles swallowed. “Runes. Permanent. They’re the only thing that’ll keep me from unraveling once I land.”

“And you’ll land when?” Peter asked.

Stiles took a breath. “The day after Scott gets bitten. I’m not trying to save him. I’m trying to save my dad. And Derek. That’s it.”

There was a long silence before Peter spoke again.

“Red would you,” he said simply.

Stiles blinked, wondering if he'd spoken his thoughts out loud. “What?”

“The triskelion. In red. You’ve earned it.”

Stiles choked on something between a laugh and a breathless sob.

For the first time, Peter crossed the room and placed a hand on his shoulder. It wasn’t comforting. It was grounding.

Cora, from the hallway, called softly, “We know someone to ink the runes. Quiet guy. Owes Peter a favor.”

Stiles didn’t move. Just nodded.

The fire in him was bright now. Focused. Determined.

He would not let that final day define the rest of his existence.

He would carve new meaning into his skin.

And he would fix this, even if he burned out doing it.
~~~~

The garage reeked of sage, iron, and antiseptic.

Plastic drop cloths lined the floor, taped to the walls to keep the spellwork contained. Runes were chalked in a tight circle, scrawled with a mix of Latin incantations and old Polish markings only Stiles could decipher. Candles flickered low, their flames hissing every time the wind brushed in through the cracked windows.

The man Peter had found said nothing as he set up. He was all shadows and scars, gray at the temples, inked from the jaw down. He didn’t smile. Didn’t ask questions. He simply laid out his tools, none of which resembled a standard tattoo gun.

These were blades.

Not sharp like scalpels, but hooked, like carving knives used to hollow out bone.

Stiles sat shirtless in the center of the circle, his skin already marked with charcoal outlines. His breath was thin, chest too tight, but he didn’t back out. He had been carved up before - by grief, by possession, by loss. This was just the outside catching up.

Cora sat at his back, her palm pressed against the base of his spine. Grounding him.

Peter stood watch like a sentry, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

The artist dipped his first blade into the crimson ink, thickened with bloodroot and something darker, an old magic agent Stiles had helped mix himself. It smelled like metal and soil, like graves and fire.

"Start with the triskelion," Stiles rasped, voice steady despite everything. "Over the heart."

The man nodded once.

And then he began.

The first drag of the blade was a scream that never left Stiles’ throat. It wasn’t a slice; it was a gouge, dragging through flesh like it meant to stay there. The skin peeled back in thin, glistening strips. Blood welled up immediately, but the man moved with purpose, catching it, mixing it, sealing it back into the red ink before pressing it deeper into the wound.

Not a tattoo.

A binding.

Each stroke of the triskelion felt like a vow carved into bone. Strength. Duty. Fire. It was Derek’s family sigil, now it was Stiles’ too.

He clenched his jaw so hard his teeth ached, blinking back tears as the second spiral met the first. Blood ran in rivulets down his chest, pooling into the grooves drawn into the floor beneath him.

Cora whispered steady words in Spanish against his spine, words the Hale grandmother used during storm season, words for protection and endurance. Stiles didn't understand a single word.

When the last edge of the triskelion was inked and pulsing, the man leaned back and exhaled like he’d just finished a holy rite.

Stiles couldn’t move. He could feel every beat of his heart pounding through the fresh wound.

“Next,” he said hoarsely, “the triquetra.”

He turned with Peter’s help, lying on his side, baring his ribs.

This one was gentler, but no less brutal. The blade slipped closer to bone, the curves of the symbol arching over each rib with intimate cruelty. The triquetra wasn’t just protection, it was a map of his magic, an ancestral binding. Polish blood. Spark born. He could feel it activating even before the final ink set in, like the lungs beneath it recognized the mark and breathed fuller for it.

He blacked out near the end, just briefly, but Peter caught him, fingers gripping the back of his neck hard enough to hurt.

“Stay awake,” Peter growled, but not angry. “This isn’t just carving. This is claiming. You have to be here.”

Stiles gasped, shuddered, nodded.

When the man finally stood back, both marks bleeding, raw, and alive with humming energy, no one spoke.

The air was different.

He was different.

He could feel the symbols burned into him, already stitching into his soul. He wouldn’t heal fast. He wouldn’t heal clean. But that was never the point.

He sat up slowly, ribs screaming, chest hot and swollen, and stared at Peter.

“It’s time,” he whispered.

Peter’s eyes flicked down to the violent carvings and back up, and, for the first time, he looked almost reverent.

“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
~~~~

The Stilinski house was quiet, too quiet. Not the kind of quiet that felt peaceful, but the kind that settled heavy in the bones, thick with finality and unspoken truths.

Stiles moved slowly through the living room, barefoot on cold hardwood, every breath deliberate. His chest still ached from the ritual tattoos, both wounds still wrapped in gauze and humming with energy beneath his hoodie. Each movement pulled at the marks, reminders of what he was willing to give, what he was already losing.

The runes were drawn in chalk and ash across the floor, stretching from the fireplace to the old sofa. Polish scripts intertwined with Latin, and everywhere in the pattern were threads of red twine soaked in his own blood. He'd spent three days assembling it all, making sure it was perfect. There was no room for error. Not for this.

Salt at each corner of the house. Moon water in jars lined along the windowsills. A mirror cracked seven times to reflect the paths not taken. It wasn’t just a time travel spell; it was a rewriting. A tether. A hope, sharp and trembling.

Peter and Cora had helped with the preparations, but they'd left him alone tonight, sensing he needed it. They didn’t know all of it. Couldn’t. Stiles had made sure of that.

He walked to the kitchen and pulled a small folded paper from the inside pocket of his hoodie. It was worn, soft at the edges, the ink smudged from being handled too often. He placed it gently on the table, just beside the old fruit bowl that hadn’t held fruit in weeks.

"Cora & Peter" was written in clean, precise script across the front. The rest was in Polish, not to be secretive, but because they wouldn’t read it. Not unless they really wanted to. Not unless they were desperate for answers.

And by then, he wouldn’t be here to give them.

Inside the letter read:

You’ll wonder. I know you will. I wish I had the words to explain it all, but some things can’t be said out loud, not without unraveling the fragile hope I have left.

I probably won’t come back. Not because I don’t want to, but because if this works, I won’t be able to. I’ll be different. The world will be different. This version of me will cease to exist in the way you knew me. That’s the cost.

And if it doesn’t work… well. I won’t survive doing this a second time. Not with what it takes from me.

I’m sorry for not saying goodbye properly. I’m sorry for the grief this will cause you. But I couldn’t let their deaths be the end. Not when there’s still a chance to stop it.

Peter, you were always more than anyone gave you credit for. Thank you for seeing me when I stopped seeing myself.

Cora, you’re the closest thing I’ve had to a sibling. You never gave up on me, and I love you for that.

I hope you both build something good here. I hope you find peace. Don’t look for me. I’m where I need to be.

Tell them I tried.

~Stiles

He stared at it for a long time after setting it down, heart aching. He wanted to stay. God, he kind of wanted to. But the echoes of Derek’s scream, the thud of his dad’s body hitting the floor, they were louder than anything else.

He knelt at the edge of the chalk circle. His fingers trembled as he lit the final candle.

The magic surged to life like a breath drawn through the centuries.

The air changed.

Stiles felt it the moment the final candle ignited, not like before, not like when he'd summoned protective wards or opened a circle for scrying. This was ancient, older than language, heavier than grief. It pressed down on him like the weight of an ocean, like every molecule in his body was being crushed into stardust and rewritten by the void.

He didn’t panic.

He couldn’t.

His breath was caught somewhere between his lungs and his throat, a thin thread of awareness holding him in place while everything around him fractured. Light bled from the runes in sudden bursts, red from the triskelion, silver from the triquetra, gold from the runes painted in blood. It wasn’t beautiful.

It was violent. Raw. Terrifying.

The circle flared.

The world screamed.

His soul tore sideways through time.

And then he fell.

Not physically, there was no sense of gravity, no floor or sky. Just an endless, spinning freefall through memory and blood and the sound of his mother’s voice whispering get up, baby, get up, you’re not done yet.

He saw flashes as he spiraled: Derek smiling for the first time, Noah drinking coffee on the porch, Peter rolling his eyes and saying fondly you’re too stubborn to die properly, brat.

Then something snapped.

Not the ritual. Not the spell.

Something else.

Like a door slamming shut.

Stiles hit the ground with a force that knocked the breath from his lungs. Cold dirt. Leaves. Earth and pine and… night?

He rolled to his side and coughed, throat raw, chest burning. The tattoos flared under his skin, searing for a second before dimming to a throb. His fingers dug into the soil - wet, real. His body hurt in a way that made him want to scream, but the silence around him was total.

No more magic.

No more screaming.

Just the hush of a still forest and his pulse thundering in his ears.

Something felt wrong.

He sat up slowly, wiping blood from his nose, and blinked at the darkness. The Preserve. He knew it by instinct, by the smell of it. But the air was cleaner somehow, untouched. There was no echo of recent hunts, no psychic residue of death and battle and trauma carved into the trees.

It felt too new.

Too calm.

He frowned, chest tightening. The magic hadn’t just pulled him back - something had shifted sideways. He could feel it. Deep in his bones, his spark flickered and sputtered, straining to adjust to the unfamiliar weave of this world’s ley lines. The spark almost completely snuffed out.

The spell had worked.

But he didn't think it was the way he planned.

And he wasn't alone.

Leaves rustled. A presence loomed.

“Hey!” A voice. Sharp. Young. Familiar.

Stiles turned toward it just as a beam of flashlight caught his face, and the breath punched out of him.

A boy, sixteen, maybe seventeen. Wide shoulders. Messy hair. Worried eyes that burned with gold.

Derek.

Healthy.

Whole.

Alive.

And substantially younger than Stiles had anticipated.

Stiles stared, frozen.

Derek took a cautious step forward. “Are you okay? You’re bleeding.”

Stiles opened his mouth to speak, not knowing what he would even say. And then promptly passed out.

Chapter 3: Everything was wrong... Everything was right

Stiles’ eyes rolled back, and he collapsed into the dirt.

Derek flinched as the stranger crumpled without a sound, hitting the forest floor like a marionette with cut strings. For a moment, all Derek could do was stare. His heart was racing, blood humming under his skin. His claws threatened to push out - not from threat, but instinct, something primal telling him this wasn’t right. This kid, because that’s what he was, barely older than Derek himself if he had to guess, was too still.

But he wasn’t dead.

Derek could hear it. The rapid, frantic drum of a heartbeat beating so fast it almost sounded like a trapped bird against a windowpane. Not dying. Not gone. Just shattered.

He took a hesitant step forward, crouching low, unsure whether to touch or back off. The boy smelled wrong. Wrong in a way Derek didn’t have words for. Like blood and ash and burnt out magic. Like grief that had sunk deep enough into the bones to stain them. His hoodie was ripped at the cuff, his palms scraped raw, and there was a dried trail of blood down from one nostril.

He didn’t look dangerous.

He looked like he had been destroyed.

Derek leaned in, close enough to hear the boy’s breath catch on a broken inhale, and hear him faintly mumbling.

“Mmn…Derek…”

Derek froze.

The voice was hoarse, barely a whisper, but unmistakable. His name. Clear as day.

And then the boy continued.

“…Peter…don’t leave…”

Derek’s heart jolted sideways.

What the hell?

He stumbled back a step, blinking at the boy like that would explain it. His scent hadn’t changed; still full of pain, but now tinged with something else. Familiarity. Something that felt like pack, but deeper. Twisted.

He should call his mom. Talia would know what to do. This was her territory, her domain. They had rules about this kind of thing. Strangers in the preserve didn’t go unnoticed, especially not ones who smelled like magic and misery and said his name in their sleep.

But instead, Derek reached for the phone in his back pocket, fingers fumbling from nerves.

He pressed the first speed dial.

Peter answered on the second ring.

“Isn’t it a bit late to be-”

“There’s someone in the preserve.” Derek’s voice shook. “He passed out. He… He said my name. And yours. I don’t know who he is, but…he knows us. Peter, he said your name in his sleep.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Peter’s voice, sharp and focused. “Don’t touch him. I’m on my way.”

Derek ended the call and sank back into a crouch beside the boy again, who hadn’t stirred. The night seemed to hush around them. The trees whispered overhead. Every instinct in Derek’s body screamed that something massive had just shifted in his world, but he didn’t know what.

He didn’t know yet that this boy had come back from the end of everything, carrying the ghosts of a ruined timeline.

Derek stayed crouched next to the boy, hands curled into fists against the damp earth. He didn’t dare touch him. The wrongness in the air felt sacred - like approaching a grave that hadn’t been filled in yet. But he watched, because he couldn’t not. And what he saw started tearing him open from the inside.

The boy began to cry.

It was subtle at first; a faint tremble in his lower lip, a crease forming between his brows. Then the tears came, slow and silent, sliding from the corners of his eyes to disappear into the matted fringe of his hairline. His breath stuttered, sharp and caught, like each inhale had to claw its way past pain. Still asleep. Still lost somewhere deep and terrible. And there was nothing Derek could do.

He wanted to reach out, but his hands felt useless.

The sound of approaching footsteps drew his attention, and Peter emerged from between the trees, wearing a tight black jacket and the look of someone deeply annoyed to be called into the woods late at night; but that expression faltered the second he saw Derek’s face.

“What happened?” Peter asked, stepping closer without hesitation. He scanned the area, then zeroed in on the boy lying prone in the leaves, taking in the way his fists were curled against his chest and the wet streaks on his face. “Who is he?”

Derek shook his head, eyes wide. “I don’t know. He came out of nowhere. Smelled like magic and…pain. He passed out, and he said both of our names.”

Peter blinked, then huffed a breath. “Well. That’s not ominous at all.”

Without waiting for permission, Peter knelt beside the boy and reached out, fingers surprisingly gentle as he brushed a hand down the kid’s arm. “Hey,” he said, low and smooth. “Come on now. Time to wake up.”

The boy flinched, eyes snapping open.

And immediately filled with fresh tears.

For a moment, all he could do was stare. First at Peter, then at Derek, and back again. His gaze lingered on Peter's face, wide and disbelieving, like he was seeing a ghost. Then his eyes fell to Derek’s.

He nearly laughed. Derek saw it in the twitch of his mouth, the way his chest hitched like something hysterical was trying to crawl out of him.

But instead of laughter, he cried.

Harder now.

Silent.

His shoulders shook violently, but he made no sound. No sob, no scream. Just tears pouring from his eyes and breath hitching like each one might be the last. He looked broken, shattered, and even Peter was struck speechless for a beat, something like alarm flashing across his usually unreadable features.

Derek swallowed around the lump in his throat. “He doesn’t… He hasn’t really spoken yet, but he’d been passed out basically since I came across him..”

Peter nodded slowly, then knelt closer. “We need to get him somewhere safe. He’s not severely physically injured from what I can tell, but he’s clearly not okay.” His voice lowered. “I don’t know what this is, but I want to.”

The boy let Peter help him sit up, but flinched at every touch. His eyes never left their faces, like he was memorizing every line, every expression, as though he thought they might disappear if he looked away.

He pressed his palms into his eyes, trying to stem the tears, but they didn’t stop.

And Derek… just knelt there.

Frozen in place.

Because the grief pouring off this stranger didn’t feel like a stranger’s grief at all. It felt personal.
~~~~

The walk to the edge of the preserve felt like wading through a dream. Or maybe a memory. Or maybe something worse; hope masquerading as hallucination. Stiles wasn’t sure. His legs moved because Peter gently steered him, a hand just hovering at his back like the ghost of concern. But his mind wasn’t on the trees or the path or the faint rustle of wind through leaves.

It was on Derek.

He couldn’t stop looking at him.

It was Derek, but not his Derek. This one looked younger than him, maybe sixteen. His jaw was clean shaven, free of the scruff Stiles used to complain about in the mornings, but loved nevertheless. His eyes were still the same impossible green-gold, but they didn’t carry the weight yet. Not the guilt. Not the regret. This Derek stood tall without the careful coil of tension, without the haunted flick of his eyes toward shadows. There were no fresh scars on his hands. No stiffness in his shoulders from wounds that never quite healed right.

He looked… young.

And happy.

Or at least, untouched by all the things that would one day steal his happiness.

Stiles dragged in a breath through his nose and bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste copper. He kept walking. Step after step. One foot in front of the other. But his gaze flicked to Derek again. And again. Just to make sure he was real.

Derek noticed. Of course he did; wolf senses, hyper awareness, all that. But he didn’t say anything. He just kept walking a pace ahead, glancing back every so often like he wasn’t sure if Stiles would actually follow through.

Stiles wanted to speak. He ached to say something. But the words tangled in his throat, knotted by grief and disbelief. How could he explain the thousand memories clashing in his chest? How could he tell this Derek that he’d died screaming, and that Stiles had pulled the trigger on someone they once called a friend?

He couldn’t.

So he just kept walking.

Watching.

And in the space between breaths, between steps, Stiles felt something dangerous unfurling in his chest, something relentless.

Hope.

God help him, it hurt more than anything else.
~~~~

The ride through Beacon Hills was like drifting through a fever dream.

From the passenger seat of Peter’s sleek black car, too new for the man Stiles remembered, he sat hunched against the door, temple pressed to the cool glass, eyes flicking over a world he knew too well and not at all. The tires hummed against the pavement like a lullaby wrapped in static, but Stiles was wide awake, every nerve lit up like wire pulled too tight.

It was the same town.

The same curves of the road.

The same sidewalks he’d run across with a baseball glove too big for his hand and skinned knees stinging in the summer sun.

But it wasn’t the same.

Where the faded blue laundromat used to sit was a fresh corner store, bright and bustling. The bookstore he and his dad had ducked into during a thunderstorm was now a bank. His heart clenched at the sight of it. So much of this town had survived and changed - cleaner, calmer, softer - and it was wrong. Like looking at a dream someone else had about his life.

Then they turned onto Main Street, and Stiles felt the bottom drop out of his stomach.

Where the Starbucks used to be, his sanctuary, his haunt, where he’d practically inhaled mochas during stakeouts and homework marathons, stood a cozy little diner. Painted cream and red with big bay windows and flower boxes in full bloom. The kind of place that smelled like cinnamon toast and felt like family.

He blinked hard, a weight pressing behind his eyes.

“Why is everything nicer?” he whispered, but no one answered.

The drive kept going. Familiar houses blinked past. Trees that had once been charred from a summer wildfire stood tall and healthy. They crossed the intersection where, in another life, Stiles had been nearly T-boned chasing Scott after a shift gone wrong. The roads were quiet now, untouched by sirens or chaos.

He didn’t notice the turn they took until it was too late.

The industrial slope of the street gave it away. The long stretch of red brick buildings. The way the hills loomed just behind. And then…the loft. Not abandoned or half rebuilt. Not forgotten.

Intact.

His breath hitched in his throat.

The loft was standing whole, wide windows catching the last pink blush of the sunset. There were flowerpots out front. Fucking flowerpots.

His body went rigid.

“Hey.”

It was Derek’s soft voice, unsure, worried. Stiles flinched, fingers digging into the fabric of his hoodie, nails biting skin.

“Are you okay?”

He didn’t answer.

He couldn’t.

He just shook his head once; sharp and tight, like maybe if he moved any more, he’d fall apart.

Peter said nothing, just flicked his eyes to Derek and parked the car in silence. Stiles sat frozen, the air too loud, too still. His heartbeat was a frantic flutter, a trapped bird slamming against his ribs.

Everything was wrong. Everything was right.

And he didn’t know how to survive it.

“This isn’t the pack house,” he said, glancing over his shoulder at Stiles. His voice was calm, but there was a weight to it, a low hum of reassurance beneath the words. “This is the apartment building my family owns. We use it when we need space.”

Stiles turned slowly to look at him, still half lost in the echoing dissonance of a world both familiar and alien. Derek's face was cast in the moonlight, silver at the edges, boyish and soft, but his eyes were steady. Grounded. Kind in a way that stung.

“I figured it’d be better to bring you here,” Derek continued. “Too many people might not be good right now. For you.”

Too many people.

The Hale pack.

He said it so casually, like it was second nature. Like Stiles wasn’t a stranger. Like it wasn’t some closely guarded secret.

And that’s when it hit Stiles; Derek wasn’t hiding what he was. He wasn’t skirting around it or watching him out of the corner of his eye for a reaction. He was being open. Honest. Transparent in a way that made Stiles’ chest ache.

Because this Derek had no reason to fear him. Had never been hunted. Had never bled out in the courtyard of his highschool. Had never had to question every alliance with claws half bared.

This Derek trusted him without even realizing it.

And Stiles didn’t know what to do with that.

He stared at him, barely blinking, the air catching thick and clotted in his throat. Something unspoken passed between them, just for a second, before Peter opened his door and the spell broke.

“Come on,” the older man said briskly, already climbing out. “Let’s get you inside before you start shivering.”

Stiles didn’t move right away.

His hand gripped the door handle, white-knuckled.

And still, he was thinking about how Derek had used we - not “me,” not “I” - we, like Stiles was already someone who belonged.

It was the most dangerous kind of kindness. And it was already beginning to undo him.

The moment Stiles stepped through the door, he stopped breathing.

It wasn’t just because of the sight of the spiral staircase, though there it was, curling up like a polished spine of metal and wood, a structure he knew so well he could walk it blindfolded. It wasn’t because of the smooth brick walls, warm and golden in the light instead of cracked and water stained. And it wasn’t even because the room smelled like sandalwood and something citrusy instead of iron and mildew and loss.

It was because it felt like a home.

Not the sterile bachelor cavern where Derek had once curled into himself after every loss. Not the shell of a refuge where Stiles had screamed himself hoarse with a fox in his head. Not the echo chamber of guilt and rot and blood.

It was warm here.

There were soft rugs layered on the hardwood floor, art on the walls that wasn’t just there to cover damage, books stacked messily on the coffee table like someone actually read them for fun. There were throw pillows that didn’t match and a half knit blanket draped over the arm of the couch. A mug with a chipped rim sat on a windowsill next to a small potted plant.

Alive.

That’s what this place was.

It’s alive.

And that realization hit Stiles like a punch.

The loft he knew had been a tomb. It reeked of failure and fear and death. It carried the ghost of Boyd’s last moments, of Erica’s laughter echoing in absence, of Derek’s guilt lining every breath he took. It had never felt safe, even when they’d tried to make it so.

But here? This wasn’t just Derek’s space. It was his life. A life that hadn’t been gutted.

His knees went soft for a second, and he had to blink rapidly to stop from crumbling right there in the doorway.

Peter moved past him, calm but observant, as always. Derek followed with hesitant steps, reaching out to nudge the door shut behind them. The soft click of the latch sent a spike through Stiles’ chest.

He hadn’t realized how badly he was braced for ghosts.

He waited for the smell of blood that never came. Waited for the breathless chill of Derek's nightmares, for the darkness that usually seeped out of the walls like mold.

But instead there was light.

And warmth.

And Derek, standing a few feet away, looking at him like he was a puzzle worth solving, not a time bomb.

Stiles blinked again, throat tight and burning. His fingers dug into his hoodie sleeve, grounding himself.

He had come to fix the future. But now he was standing in something different. Not broken - whole.

And the weight of what he was about to risk by trying to change it hit him full force.

He wanted to cry. Or scream. Or sit in the corner and press his forehead to the floor until everything made sense again.

But instead, he did what he always did.

He swallowed it down.

He took another step inside.
~~~~

They'd been sitting in silence for a while, the kind that wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but not peaceful either. Stiles was perched stiffly on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched, hands clenched between his knees. His eyes roamed the apartment like they were trying to memorize it or maybe trying to prove it was real. Derek watched from a distance, leaning against the kitchen counter, arms crossed but not in that defensive way Stiles remembered from the past - no, this Derek was still guarded, but not hostile. Just wary.

Finally, Derek spoke.

“So…” His voice was careful. Low, but not unfriendly. “What’s your name?”

Stiles blinked, slowly turning toward him. His mouth opened, but nothing came out for a few seconds. He looked down, lips pressed into a thin line, considering. He could lie. He probably should lie.

But he was tired.

So tired.

“…Stiles,” he finally said, barely more than a whisper.

Derek’s brows lifted. “What the hell is a Stiles?”

It was so automatic, so familiar, that Stiles couldn’t help the sound that escaped him, a laugh. Broken, sharp, and too loud in the quiet space. It burst from him like something torn loose, but it died just as fast, collapsing into a grimace as his entire body tensed.

Pain crackled through his nerves like fire. The tattoos, brands, really, on his ribs and chest yanked tight under his skin, burning like the magic was still fresh, like the ink was still settling inside the scars.

He folded in on himself instinctively, one arm wrapping across his stomach, the other braced on the couch to keep him upright.

Derek straightened immediately, taking a half step forward. His eyes narrowed, shifting faintly gold as his nose twitched.

“There’s blood,” he said. “Where is it coming from?”

“I can handle it,” Stiles mumbled, not meeting his eyes.

“You’re lying,” Derek said flatly. “Your heartbeat jumped.”

Stiles flinched.

Of course he’d hear that. Of course.

“I am handling it,” Stiles said, voice tight. “Poorly, but - still.”

He didn’t have the strength to sound convincing. Didn’t have the energy to pretend anymore. His body was shaking with the effort to stay upright, and his breath hitched when he accidentally shifted wrong again.

Derek hesitated, then moved closer, not aggressively, but with purpose. He crouched beside the couch, careful not to crowd him.

“Let me help.”

Stiles looked at him, and for a second, the glassy sheen of pain in his eyes gave way to something older. Deeper. Like he was looking at a ghost.

“No one can,” he whispered.

Derek frowned, gaze dropping to the way Stiles clutched at his ribs. The scent of blood was stronger now. Metallic, laced with magic.

“You’re injured,” he said. “Badly.”

“I carved magic into my own body and then bent time to my will,” Stiles said, the words cracked and brittle. “You don’t walk away from that with just a nosebleed.”

Derek stared at him for a long moment. His wolf was restless under his skin, concerned.

“Then you really need help.”

Stiles didn’t answer.

Didn’t know how.

But the way his eyes didn’t look away this time, that might’ve been answer enough.

The silence after Stiles’ confession wrapped around them like a thick blanket; heavy and stifling. He hadn’t meant to say so much, but it was out there now. His body still ached, the tattoos carved into his skin like burning sigils etched into his soul, but the emotional weight threatened to drown him more than the physical pain ever could.

He shifted slightly on the couch, leaning just enough to look Derek in the eye. There was something raw in his expression; hope mixed with fear, shaken but still standing.

“Do you believe me?” Stiles asked quietly.

Derek didn’t blink. “Yes.”

Stiles let out a breath like he’d been punched.

“Because of my heart rate?” he asked, mouth twisted in something that wasn’t quite a smile.

“Yeah,” Derek said simply. “If you were lying, I’d know.”

There was no hesitation. No suspicion in his tone. Just a quiet certainty that somehow broke something open in Stiles’ chest.

He swallowed hard, voice shaking. “Is that why you haven’t… hidden anything? The werewolf stuff. You and Peter - you haven’t tried to lie, or deflect, or even pretend.”

Derek tilted his head, thinking about it. Then he gave a small shrug, like it was obvious.

“You called out for me in your sleep,” he said. “And Peter. You knew us. Or… knew of us. I figured if you already knew who we were, you probably knew what we were.”

Stiles blinked. His chest tightened. “You just… believed your instincts.”

“My wolf doesn’t see you as a threat,” Derek said quietly, almost more to himself than to Stiles. “And I trust that.”

It hit Stiles like a blow to the ribs, but not the painful kind. The overwhelming kind. The kind that carved through every wall he had left, every fraying defense that had somehow survived his journey through time and grief and impossible magic.

He didn’t think. Couldn’t.

He just moved.

One second he was sitting still and the next, he was across the room and all but launched himself into Derek’s arms, clutching him like he was something holy. His grip was too tight, desperate and shaking. His face buried itself against Derek’s neck, and a broken sound lodged in his throat as he exhaled.

Derek stiffened for half a second as if on reflex, but then his arms came up slowly, cautiously wrapping around Stiles. His hands rested at the center of Stiles’ back, unsure of what to do with this stranger who clung to him like the world was ending.

Across the room, Peter arched a brow but didn’t intervene. Instead, he watched Stiles with uncharacteristic focus, his expression unreadable but not mocking. For once, he looked serious.

Derek cast Peter a helpless look over Stiles’ shoulder, but Peter just shrugged.

“You’re the one he called for,” Peter said mildly. “He came back for something.”

Then, quietly, “I think it might be you.”

Derek’s arms tightened slightly, just enough for Stiles to feel it.

And Stiles…he didn’t let go.

Chapter 4: You let this happen

Stiles stood trembling in Derek’s embrace, clutching at the fabric of the younger man’s shirt like it might anchor him to something real. He wasn’t sure if it was the warmth of Derek’s body or the sheer impossibility of it that made his throat close. Derek was solid in his arms - his chest rising and falling with careful breaths, his arms around Stiles steady but unsure.

Everything about him felt familiar and wrong at the same time.

This Derek was younger; noticeably so. His body was leaner, the harsh muscle of adulthood not yet carved into his frame. His face lacked the sharp edge of bitterness Stiles had come to know, and his skin was smooth where time hadn’t yet sunk its claws. There were no fine lines around his eyes. No permanent tension at his jaw. He hadn’t yet carried the weight of years, of loss, of fire and death and guilt.

His scent was cleaner too - no cloying undertone of blood or anguish. No metallic note of too many fights, of too much loss. This Derek still smelled like woods and wind and something warm. Something like safety.

Stiles tucked his head against Derek’s shoulder, breathing him in, trying to memorize everything. The slope of his neck. The way his heart beat - cautious, confused, steady. The fabric of his shirt was soft against Stiles’ burning skin, too soft, and that small comfort made him want to scream.

He ignored the ache. He ignored the pain in his side, where the triquetra had been burned into his ribs. Ignored the dull throb near his heart, where the Hale triskelion still felt too raw. His back was sore from sitting too long in too much pain, and his legs felt like he’d run for miles with no rest. But it didn’t matter. He wasn’t letting go. Not yet.

He couldn’t.

Across the room, Peter stood still, watchful. Younger too - less scarred, less calculating. His eyes didn’t carry the weight of madness or murder. There was sharpness, of course. There would always be sharpness in Peter. But it wasn’t… bitter. Not yet.

Stiles glanced at him over Derek’s shoulder, and the ache in his chest doubled.

He wasn’t ready.

But he had to be.

Because they deserved to know something; anything. But how did you tell someone you loved that you’d come from a future where everything went wrong? How did you explain grief like a storm that never passed? How did you say I’m here to change everything when you didn’t know if it would even work?

Stiles’ grip tightened for a second, involuntary. Derek tensed beneath his hands but didn’t pull away.

What do I say? Stiles thought, heart beating like a war drum in his ears. Where do I start?

He didn’t know.

But he had to figure it out.

And soon.

It was Peter who finally broke the silence, his voice cutting clean through the fog of stunned stillness that had settled around them.

"Not to be the bearer of bad news," he said, tone dry but not unkind, "but whatever injuries you’re sporting need to be treated, quickly, if you’d prefer they not get infected."

The air in the loft shifted.

Stiles didn’t miss the way both wolves had been subtly reacting to the scent clinging to him - blood, thick and metallic, sharp with pain and the faintest undercurrent of burning magic. It had been cloying at their heightened senses from the second they found him. But neither had said anything. Not until now.

Stiles let out a long, tired sigh, the kind that came from somewhere deep. Then, slowly, reluctantly, he stepped back from Derek’s embrace.

The loss of contact was immediate and cold, but he forced himself not to reach again.

"I don’t know how to explain what you’re about to see," he said, voice low and cautious, eyes flicking between them. “But I need you to let me try…after. Okay?”

Peter’s head tilted, gaze narrowing slightly with intrigue rather than suspicion. Derek, standing just behind him, looked confused, uncertain but open. The contrast between them was striking.

Stiles wrapped his arms around himself for a second, suddenly aware of how exposed he felt even though he was still clothed. His shirt clung to his skin, darkened where the blood had soaked through and dried, and when he reached for the hem, his hands trembled.

“Just…” He swallowed. “Can you promise to let me explain once I show it to you?”

He hated how quiet his voice came out, hated the way it made him sound afraid. But the truth was…he was. Terrified. Not of them hurting him. Not really. But of the look that might enter their eyes when they saw the branded triskelion, still red and raw and angry over his heart. The symbol he had carved into his body to anchor himself to them.

The mark of desperation. Of grief. Of unyielding loyalty they hadn’t yet earned in this time.

Derek’s brow furrowed, and he took a half-step forward, gentle in a way Stiles hadn’t seen in years. “You don’t have to be afraid.”

Peter, surprisingly, didn’t interrupt. He studied Stiles intently, arms crossed, but there was no mocking smile, no sharp edged comment. Just a thoughtful stillness. An almost protective curiosity.

They didn’t promise. Not out loud.

But neither of them said no.

And that was enough for Stiles to take a breath, gather his courage, and begin unbuttoning the shirt.

Stiles moved slowly, every limb shaking, every joint aching like rusted hinges fighting movement. His fingers caught the hem of his hoodie, dragging it upward with trembling insistence. The air was cool against his skin, and goosebumps flared across his arms. Derek and Peter stood close but said nothing, tension thick in the space between them.

When the hoodie dropped to the floor, the white T-shirt beneath was anything but clean.

It was saturated, clinging to him like a second skin, dyed a deep, viscous red from the collar down. The blood had dried in places, dark and cracked, but it was still wet in others - thick enough to glisten faintly in the loft's soft lighting. The sight of it made Derek visibly flinch.

“Jesus Christ,” Derek breathed, his voice sharp with horror, his hands twitching like he wanted to reach out but didn’t know how. “How are you not in pain?”

Stiles laughed, brittle and humorless.

“I’m in more pain than I’ve ever been in in my life,” he admitted, not meeting Derek’s eyes, voice tight and frayed like an over wound string. “But this pain… it’s easier to deal with than… well. Where I was before.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

Gingerly Stiles gripped the hem of his blood heavy shirt, wincing as the dried fabric pulled at his skin. He peeled it up inch by inch, slow enough to keep from tearing open whatever wounds lay beneath. The cloth clung stubbornly in places, stuck to the open sear of magic burned flesh. He grit his teeth against a sound, against the tremble of his arms, and finally, the shirt came free.

And there, on his chest, etched like a brand into skin and soul, was the triskelion, its spiraling arms angry and raw, carved into the skin just over his heart. Not tattooed. Not drawn. Carved and inked in red, still seeping faint traces of blood and the metallic sheen of protective spellwork.

Opposite it, curling along his ribs just beneath the swell of his lungs, was the triquetra. Sleek and ancient and etched with reverence, it shimmered faintly with residual power. It was the shape of lineage and legacy - his own, his mother’s, his people’s - pressed into him like breath.

Derek drew in a sharp breath through his teeth. Stiles saw the way his eyes locked on the triskelion, the symbol of his family, etched into a stranger’s chest. Derek’s confusion was loud and written all over his face - his fear, too, though not of Stiles. Of what this could mean.

Peter, for once, didn’t say anything clever. Instead, he let out a stunned scoff, like the air had been punched out of him. His expression twisted; shock, fascination, and something almost like anger burning behind his eyes.

“You branded yourself,” Peter finally said, voice low and rough, disbelief laced into every syllable. “With our symbol.”

Stiles didn’t speak.

He couldn’t. Not yet.

He just stood there - bare, bleeding, and breaking - waiting to see if this was the moment where they’d turn away.

Peter stepped forward first.

Not with aggression, but with a slow, predatory grace that Stiles remembered too well. His eyes stayed locked on the symbol over Stiles’ heart. He stopped just short of touching him, close enough for Stiles to feel the heat of his body, but kept his hands at his sides.

“This wasn’t done to you,” Peter murmured, voice clinical and edged with tension. “You let this happen.”

Stiles nodded once, tightly.

“I needed it to work,” he whispered, like any louder volume might crack him open completely. “It was the only way. The only thing powerful enough to bind the ritual to me - to tie me to where I needed to go.”

Derek hovered behind Peter, wide eyed and strangely quiet, like he didn’t trust himself to speak. His arms were tense at his sides, fists clenching and unclenching. He looked younger than ever in that moment. Not just in years, but in experience, in softness, in the way his wolf was clearly on edge but not hostile.

“Why our symbol?” Derek asked finally, voice low, hoarse. “Why not… something else?”

Stiles’ gaze slid to him, glassy and raw. “Because your pack was the only one that mattered.”

Peter stiffened.

Derek blinked, caught in a haze of confusion and something else; something deeper.

“I didn’t know where I’d end up,” Stiles went on. “I didn’t even know if I’d survive the jump. But I needed an anchor. Something ancient, something primal, tied to both the land and the bloodlines that still exist here.” He reached out with a shaking hand, brushing his fingertips lightly over the raw lines of the triskelion. “You were the only ones left. You were the ones who… who made me feel safe enough to try.”

A beat of silence.

“I branded myself with the Hale mark,” he said, voice trembling, “because I wanted to come home. To a place where things made sense again.”

Peter turned his head slightly toward Derek. The younger wolf hadn’t moved. His jaw was tight, lips parted like he wanted to say something but didn’t have the words.

Stiles exhaled and took a step back, his legs shaking beneath him. “I know what it looks like. I know it’s insane. I know you have no reason to believe me, but I will explain everything. I promise. Just… please don’t send me away yet.”

Peter let out a low breath through his nose, tilting his head in that eerily perceptive way he had when reading people.

“We’re not sending you anywhere,” he said at last. “Not until we know what you are.”

Stiles looked up, eyes flicking between them. “I’m human,” he said softly. “Just… not the same human I used to be.”

Derek stepped forward then, slower than Peter, eyes on the blood still trailing down Stiles’ torso. He looked… wrecked. Conflicted and concerned and wary, but not afraid.

“I don’t think you’re lying,” Derek said. “But I think you’re hurting. And if you don’t let us help, you’re not going to make it through the night.”

Stiles didn’t have the strength to argue.

He nodded and let Derek and Peter lead him toward the couch, the triskelion searing on his chest like a warning - and a promise.

Derek knelt beside the couch with a stillness that felt reverent, not hesitant. His hands hovered for a moment over Stiles’ bare chest, fingers flexing slightly as he attuned himself to the pain vibrating through the boy’s body like a wire strung too tight. Stiles lay back against the cushions, barely breathing, every twitch of his body revealing how close to the edge he was.

When Derek finally made contact - too soft palms pressed gently to Stiles’ chest and ribs - it was like opening a valve. The pain siphoned out in slow waves, pulsing into Derek's body, and he closed his eyes with a low grunt, jaw locking as he absorbed it.

“Jesus,” he muttered under his breath, barely audible. “How were you even standing?”

Stiles gave a weak smile, eyes wet but grateful. “Stubbornness. And maybe adrenaline.”

Peter, meanwhile, had pulled on gloves and was opening a kit from beneath the stairs - standard first-aid supplies, upgraded for werewolf durability. He returned with antiseptic, clean gauze, and more than enough bandaids. As Derek focused on the pain, Peter leaned in and began to work, brisk but careful. His fingers were practiced and confident - he’d done this before.

It wasn’t until Peter moved to Stiles’ side to begin cleaning the slashed and burned skin along his ribs that he saw the second symbol.

The triquetra.

He froze.

It wasn’t seared in like the triskelion; this one was carved ink, but deep and deliberate. Slightly distorted by swelling and blood, but unmistakable.

Peter stared at it, a flicker of recognition in his sharp eyes.

“Why this?” he asked, voice quiet, almost too casual.

Stiles blinked, then followed his gaze. “Oh,” he whispered, hand twitching like he wanted to cover it. “That’s… it’s for my family.”

Peter tilted his head. “Family?”

Stiles gave a small nod, wincing when Derek’s hand pressed too hard for a moment. “The triquetra’s an old symbol of unity. Of balance. I… I didn’t have much family left. My mom died when I was a kid. My dad… he…” Stiles paused, swallowing thickly. “I needed something to tie me to where I came from. To who I was. And something to keep me connected to him.”

He didn’t look at Derek when he said it, but the implication hung heavy in the air.

Peter said nothing right away.

But Derek looked up, briefly meeting Peter’s eyes over Stiles’ body.

That look said everything.

They knew that symbol. Not just from books or history or vague pagan roots. They knew it because it was the same one worn around the neck of their emissary.

Claudia.

The same Claudia who lit protective wards into the soil behind their building. Who whispered to the mountain ash like it would answer back. Who, for all her power, rarely claimed any part of her own past - and yet wore that triquetra every day as if it was a brand on her soul.

Peter's gaze sharpened, thoughts moving fast.

But he didn’t say any of it.

He simply dipped the clean cloth into antiseptic and began dabbing gently around the edges of the ink, his silence unreadable.

“Interesting choice,” he said instead, voice smooth.

Stiles didn’t notice the edge beneath it.

Derek kept his hand steady on Stiles’ chest, quietly enduring the pain as he took more of it on. He didn’t speak either. But Stiles could feel the tension in him; something like awe, or fear, or quiet recognition.

The symbols on his skin weren’t just magic. They were connections. Threads tying him not only to his purpose; but now, unknowingly, to this version of his world.

To this version of them.

Chapter 5: The silence after that was absolute

Peter’s hands were steady, methodical as he worked. He moved with a kind of quiet intensity - cotton pads soaked in antiseptic, gauze wrapping marred skin with efficient care, tape laid smooth and firm. The wounds around Stiles’ chest and ribs had stopped actively bleeding, but the skin was raw, angry, and seeping in places. Every motion had to be precise.

Derek never moved from his position at Stiles’ side. His hand remained planted over the worst of the burns across Stiles’ chest, heat bleeding from him in gentle pulses as he continued to siphon the boy’s pain. His brows were drawn, jaw clenched, and there was sweat beading at his temples. Not from the effort, but from how much he felt it all. But he didn’t stop. Not even once.

Stiles tried not to flinch under their hands, tried to keep his breaths steady, but the tension in his body said enough. The pain had dulled thanks to Derek, but it was still there, heavy and aching like a shadow behind his ribs. His muscles trembled occasionally, not from fear - but from the emotional strain of being touched gently after the trauma of the last few weeks of his life.

After so much hurt.

Peter finished wrapping the last of the gauze around Stiles’ ribs, his movements brisk but not rushed. He tied off the edge of the wrap with a neat knot, checked it, then gave a small nod of approval. He stood, tugged off his gloves, and tossed them into the trash beside the kitchenette. Then he wiped his hands clean, silently, with a damp towel.

Derek finally pulled his hand away, slowly, as if reluctant to stop the siphon. He gave a soft exhale and leaned back, exhaustion pulling at his shoulders. But his eyes stayed on Stiles, wary but steady.

The silence in the room pressed close.

Then Peter walked over, pulled a chair from the dining table, and turned it to face the couch. He sat down in it backwards, forearms resting across the top. His expression was calm, but his eyes - those sharp, glinting blue eyes - were unreadable.

“All right,” Peter said, voice low but firm. “You’ve had your moment to breathe. Now it’s time to start talking.”

Stiles blinked up at him, lips parted slightly, like he'd forgotten how to speak.

Peter tilted his head slightly. “You show up out of nowhere, bleeding and half dead. You knew both our names. You called to us in your sleep like we were the only things tethering you to this world. You’ve got symbols burned and inked into your skin that most people would be too terrified to touch. And you clearly know more than you’re saying.”

He leaned in, just a bit.

“So. Why don’t you tell us who you really are, and where the hell you came from?”

Stiles’ throat worked around a dry swallow. His heart thudded in his chest - a little too fast, a little too loud - but he didn’t look away. Not from Peter. Not from Derek, whose quiet presence at his side had remained steady through it all.

The moment had come.

No more hiding.

Stiles sat stiffly on the couch, one hand braced over the gauze on his ribs, the other twisted tightly in the fabric of the couch. The pain had ebbed to a dull roar in his body thanks to Derek’s touch, but the ache in his chest - the one that lived beneath the brands and behind his heart - was alive and thrashing.

He kept his eyes fixed on the coffee table, as if the worn wood grain could offer courage. “I’m not from here,” he said finally, voice rough. “I’m not from this time.”

Peter’s brow lifted. “Is that so?” he said dryly, arms still folded across the chairback. “And what time are you from, exactly?”

“The future,” Stiles said quietly. “I’m from the year 2013.”

Peter laughed; short and sharp, a scoff more than anything. “Well, that’s convenient. Considering it’s 2005.”

Derek, standing just behind the couch, frowned and gave a quiet growl. “Peter. Shut up.”

Peter raised his hands in a mocking gesture of peace, but his eyes flicked back to Stiles with a sliver of curiosity beneath the doubt.

Stiles wanted to smile at Derek’s instinctive defense, how familiar that felt, but the weight in his chest was too heavy. So instead, he just nodded, gaze fixed on a scabbed-over crack in the table’s corner.

“I’m a senior in high school,” he continued. “In 2013. I was part of a pack - a real one. Messy, imperfect, but... mine.” His fingers tightened around the hoodie in his lap. “I’d been possessed. By a Nogitsune. I survived it, but I was never the same.”

Neither spoke. Derek had stilled, posture tense but attentive. Peter’s smirk had faded.

Stiles’ voice cracked when he spoke next. “My best friend... he was an alpha. The true kind, apparently. He tried the best he could and did okay…until he lost control. After his girlfriend Allison died, he went feral. And in the span of about two minutes, he killed my dad and my mate.”

The silence after that was absolute.

Peter’s face emptied of all amusement. Derek’s mouth parted slightly, a breath caught in his throat.

“I didn’t have anything left,” Stiles whispered. “No home, no future. Just pain and the help of a couple of my dead mates family members. So I found a spell. One that could take me back - to fix it. Stop it all from happening.”

His throat burned, and not from the injuries.

“It didn’t work right,” he said, shaking his head. “I went back too far. Way too far. I thought I’d end up a few months before everything... but it dropped me here. Eight years too early. In a timeline where none of it’s happened yet. Where you’re all still...” He risked a glance at Derek. “Still whole.”

Derek’s eyes locked on his, unreadable. But his stance didn’t change. He didn’t move away.

Peter, though still tense, leaned slightly forward. “You cast a spell,” he echoed slowly. “You rewrote time.”

Stiles gave a tired shrug, mouth twisted. “More like... tore through it.”

“And it worked,” Peter said, brows narrowing.

Stiles looked up at him. “I didn’t say that.”

Peter frowned.

“I’m here, yeah,” Stiles said, bitter. “But I don’t think I’ll ever get back to my own time. I mean…I knew that would happen, but now it’s real. I came through with half my soul shredded and both the people I loved most gone. And now I’m sitting in a version of the world that feels like a memory I was never meant to hold.”

The air felt heavy again, thick with truth and magic and sorrow. The scent of pain had dulled, but it lingered like smoke.

Stiles met Derek’s gaze fully for the first time in what felt like hours.

“I didn’t come here to hurt anyone,” he said. “I just wanted a chance to undo the worst thing that’s ever happened to me.”

And maybe, just maybe, keep it from happening at all.

Derek didn’t say anything right away after Stiles finished speaking. He didn’t have to. Stiles could feel the subtle shift in the room; like the stillness in the woods before a storm. Derek’s silence wasn’t from disbelief. It was from processing.

Finally, the younger werewolf stepped closer again, posture loose but eyes sharp. He wasn’t staring at Stiles like someone studying a stranger anymore, he was watching him like someone trying to see through him.

“I believe you,” Derek said quietly.

Stiles blinked. “You do?”

Derek gave a small shrug. “My wolf does. You’re... hurting. But everything about what you’re saying, the way you smell, your heartbeat... it’s not lying. I can feel that you mean it.”

Stiles swallowed, throat tightening.

“You’re only a year older than me,” Derek said after a moment, voice rough with something like sadness. “But you seem... older.”

Stiles let out a dry, humorless breath. “I’ve had to be,” he said softly.

Then it hit him.

His heart stuttered, skipping a beat. “Wait... you said you’re sixteen?”

Derek nodded slowly, brows drawing together. “Yeah. Why?”

Stiles sat up straighter, dread slicing through the numbness. “You - Kate. You should’ve met her already.” His voice started to rise in pitch. “You were fifteen when she…when she started... grooming you.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “Kate?”

“You have to stay away from her, Derek.” Stiles surged forward on the couch, eyes wild. “You can’t let her in. She’s not who she says she is. She’s dangerous, she hurts people. She-” his voice broke, “-she destroys families.”

Derek took a small step back, startled by the intensity. “Who are you talking about?”

“Kate Argent,” Stiles said. “Short blonde hair, older than you. She’s a hunter, she-” But the second he said her name, he stopped.

Because Derek was staring at him blankly.

“Who the hell is that?”

The question landed like a punch to the chest.

Stiles froze, mind reeling. “You don’t know her?”

Derek shook his head, frown deepening. “Never heard of her.”

Stiles stared at him, heart thundering. “But she - your family - she burned your house down. She killed them.”

Derek’s expression didn’t change. There was no recognition, no pain, no buried trauma rising to the surface.

Peter looked between them, eyes narrowing in thought, but he didn’t interrupt.

Stiles sat back slowly, breath catching. This wasn’t just a detour in time. This wasn’t just before the tragedies.

This was something else entirely.

Because Derek Hale was sixteen, golden eyed and so alive - and so was his family. And Kate Argent didn’t even exist in his memory.

The timeline hadn’t just shifted.

It had been rewritten.

Stiles inhaled slowly, forcing his pulse to even out, trying to keep from spiraling. He rubbed a hand over his mouth, his mind racing in a thousand directions, then met Derek’s gaze again; more curious now than panicked, though the weight in his chest still hadn’t lifted.

“I’m gonna ask you some questions,” Stiles said softly. “Just to figure out how much is different between your timeline and mine. Is that okay?”

Derek nodded without hesitation. “Okay.”

Stiles shifted slightly on the couch, adjusting the blanket over his lap and exhaling slowly through his nose. “How old is Cora?”

Derek tilted his head like the question was strange. “She’s sixteen. Same as me. We’re twins.”

Stiles blinked. “Twins?”

Derek nodded. “Fraternal. She was born like seven minutes after me.”

Stiles sat back, stunned. “In my time, Cora’s six years younger than you.” His voice was low, nearly reverent. “She was just a kid when the fire happened… when everything fell apart.”

Peter, perched silently nearby, tensed ever so slightly but said nothing.

Stiles looked at Derek again, his voice more cautious now. “Do you know an alpha named Ennis?”

Derek frowned and shook his head. “No. Should I?”

Stiles swallowed. “In my time, he… he was one of the alphas you were connected to. A part of a dangerous alpha pack.”

Derek’s face darkened slightly in concern. “I’ve never met anyone named Ennis.”

Stiles nodded slowly, mentally cataloguing everything, feeling like the floor was crumbling under his feet but also like a tiny, flickering candle had been lit in the dark.

He hesitated before his next question.

“Do you… do you know a girl named Paige?”

Derek blinked at that, then gave a small nod. “Yeah. She’s in my Spanish class.” He paused, then added awkwardly, “She’s nice.”

Stiles’ voice came out small. “Have you dated her?”

Derek's ears flushed red and he looked away slightly. “No. I’ve never dated anyone.”

That landed like a thunderclap. In his world, Paige had been Derek’s first love - his heartbreak. The girl Peter had used to manipulate Derek. The girl whose death had become a cornerstone of his guilt.

But here?

Paige was just a girl in Spanish class. A girl Derek had never even touched.

Stiles’ chest ached, but it wasn’t with sadness this time. It was something else; confusion, maybe. Possibility. Hope, like something sacred was still intact here, something that had been long broken in his time.

He let out a slow breath and murmured, “This world is so different…” more to himself than anyone else.

Peter’s sharp eyes flicked to him at that, but again, he said nothing. He was watching, storing information, waiting.

And Stiles was left staring at the boy in front of him who wore Derek’s face but carried none of the scars, physical or emotional, that the man he loved had borne like armor.

This was a Derek untouched by Kate. Untouched by death. Untouched by the war that had shaped his every breath.

And it broke Stiles’ heart in a whole new way.

Stiles sat frozen on the couch, the weight of what he’d just realized crashing over him like a tidal wave. He wasn’t just out of his own time - he was in a different world. A place that looked familiar but felt alien, like a dream where everything is just slightly off. His chest tightened, the air suddenly feeling too thick, too heavy to pull into his lungs.

His breathing became shallow, rapid. His vision tunneled, colors bleeding at the edges as dizziness swept in like a storm. His heart pounded so hard he could hear it echoing in his ears, a frantic jackrabbit rhythm spiraling out of control.

The room spun. Stiles gripped the edge of the couch, nails digging into the fabric as if holding on would somehow tether him to reality. His hands trembled uncontrollably. A cold sweat broke out across his forehead and back. His mind raced, thoughts tumbling faster than he could catch. What now? What if none of this is even real?

Derek’s voice sliced through the haze, low and steady, but Stiles couldn’t focus on the words. “Hey. Stiles. Look at me.” But his panic cocoon held him tight, shutting out everything but the pounding in his chest and the dizzy whirl of his surroundings.

Without hesitation, Derek moved closer and gently but firmly pulled Stiles into his arms. The solid warmth of Derek’s chest pressed against his back grounded him, but it was the deep, rumbling growl that spilled from Derek’s throat - raw, resonant, vibrating through Stiles’ skin - that seeped deep into his bones. The sound wasn’t just a warning; it was a promise, a shield. It was home.

The vibration rippled through him, a tangible thread pulling him back from the edge. His frantic heartbeat slowed, thudding more steadily beneath his chest. Stiles’ breath hitched, then deepened, the tightness in his ribs easing just enough for air to flood back in.

He clung to Derek, his fingers digging into the older boy’s shirt, grounding himself in the physical presence, the familiar scent, the steady heat. Slowly, the dizziness dulled and the room stopped spinning, the chaos inside his mind quieting to a whisper.

Derek’s arms tightened just a little, protective and unyielding, and Stiles let himself lean into the safety, the comfort of that deep growl echoing against his back; anchoring him when everything else felt like it was slipping away.

Stiles fell asleep not long after the panic passed, his body exhausted from pain, travel, magic, and fear. He didn’t fight it. He barely even noticed it coming. one moment he was pressed against Derek’s side on the couch, breathing through the last wisps of panic, and the next his eyes were closed, his breathing soft and even. He looked young like that, younger than he’d sounded, features slack with exhaustion, his fingers still loosely curled in Derek’s shirt.

Derek didn’t move, not immediately. He let Stiles sleep against him, adjusting them both so the younger man could rest more comfortably. Peter stood nearby, arms folded, watching the boy with a deeply furrowed brow. The silence between the two wolves was heavy, contemplative.

After a while, Derek finally shifted Stiles gently down onto the couch, laying a blanket over him. He stood, rubbing at the back of his neck, gaze flicking back toward Stiles even as he walked into the adjoining kitchen space where Peter waited.

Peter spoke first, his voice low. “He’s going to be a problem.”

“He’s not a threat,” Derek said quickly, with an edge of warning in his tone.

Peter rolled his eyes. “I didn’t say he was a threat. I said he’s a problem. And you’re already half attached.”

Derek’s jaw tightened but he didn’t argue.

“We can’t keep him hidden. You know that, right?” Peter went on. “Talia will smell him on us the second we walk through the door. Not to mention his blood. He reeks of pain and something else - something…wrong.”

Derek looked toward the living room again, eyes softening just a little at the sight of Stiles curled under the blanket. “We’ll take it to the pack.”

Peter raised a brow. “You sure that’s smart?”

“No,” Derek admitted. “But we don’t have a choice.”

Peter let that settle between them for a beat. “He said he’s from the future,” he said, thoughtful now. “From a world where everything is different. Where your life was different. Where mine…” he trailed off with a brief smirk. “Probably wasn’t much better.”

Derek didn’t respond to that.

Peter continued, voice lower. “Did you see the mark on his ribs?”

“The triquetra?” Derek asked, nodding.

Peter gave him a look. “It’s Claudia’s symbol.”

That made Derek pause.

“She’s our emissary now. And he’s branded with her symbol and our family’s triskelion,” Peter said, eyes flicking toward the sleeping boy. “You don’t think that’s strange?”

Derek frowned. “I think everything about him is strange. But I also think he’s telling the truth.”

Peter’s gaze stayed on Derek, sharp and calculating. “You’re trusting your instincts.”

“I’m trusting my wolf,” Derek said simply. “He’s not afraid of him. My wolf trusts him.”

Peter hummed, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. “Then we’d better hope the pack feels the same way.”

They stood in silence again, both watching the too still form on the couch. Stiles shifted once, murmuring something unintelligible in his sleep.

Chapter 6: he’s made damn sure the connection can’t be severed

Peter stepped out onto the narrow balcony just off the loft’s kitchen, closing the door quietly behind him. The early night air was crisp, and the moon hovered high over the horizon, casting long, silver beams across the floor inside. He pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed, holding it to his ear as he glanced back through the glass to where Stiles still slept on the couch, his face pale, body still.

The line clicked after just one ring.

“Peter,” came Talia Hale’s composed, regal voice. No nonsense, even over the phone.

“You need to come to the loft,” Peter said without preamble.

There was a pause. “Is Derek alright?”

“He’s fine. Better than fine.” Another glance inside. “But we’ve had… a development.”

“What kind of development?”

Peter’s tone dipped into serious. “The kind that smells like magic and blood and is branded with our family’s sigil and Claudia’s.”

Another pause. This one longer. “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

Peter didn’t bother saying goodbye.

True to her word, Talia arrived swiftly. Her presence filled the loft the moment she stepped through the door; tall, composed, alpha power humming beneath her skin. Her long dark hair was tied back, her sharp eyes scanning the space as soon as she entered. She saw Derek standing near the couch, tense but steady, and Peter leaning casually against the kitchen island, though his eyes were alert.

And then her gaze landed on the figure curled beneath a blanket on the couch.

“Is that him?” she asked.

Peter nodded. “He’s sleeping. Exhausted.”

“He came through the preserve,” Derek added quietly. “Collapsed near the river. I found him. He… knew our names.”

Talia arched a brow. “Explain.”

They did. Together, Derek and Peter took turns laying out what little they knew. That the boy’s name was Stiles. That he appeared injured and in pain but powerful too, imbued with magic that neither of them fully understood. That he had, while unconscious, called for Peter and Derek both. That he hadn’t hesitated to speak of werewolves, nor shown any fear around them.

And then they told her about the markings.

Peter described the blood soaked shirt. The carved symbols on his chest and ribs. The triskelion over his heart - red, raw, unmistakable - and the triquetra seared into the skin over his ribs.

Talia went still. “Our family’s mark? On his heart?”

“Not tattooed,” Peter said, voice lower now. “Carved. The triskelion is deep. Purposeful.”

“And the triquetra?” she asked.

Peter and Derek shared a look.

“It’s Claudia’s,” Derek said quietly. “The exact same one she uses when she wards the perimeter. Same stroke pattern, same structure. Same as the necklace she wears every day.”

Talia’s eyes sharpened. She moved closer to the couch, slow and quiet, kneeling beside it. She studied Stiles for a moment, her expression unreadable. Her alpha senses took in his scent; pain, yes, but something old and broken threaded through it, ancient and strained. The kind of weariness that didn’t belong on someone who looked barely older than Derek.

“You’re sure he’s human?” she asked.

Peter made a low sound. “Human enough. But not normal. Not by a long shot.”

“He said he’s from the future,” Derek added. “From a version of this world where everything went wrong.”

Talia didn’t flinch. Her gaze remained on Stiles, thoughtful now. “And he’s tied himself to us. Our family. Our emissary.”

“Yes,” Peter said. “And he’s made damn sure the connection can’t be severed.”

Talia was quiet for a moment longer, then stood. Her expression was calm, but her eyes were fierce with thought. “Then we’ll wait until he wakes. And when he does, he’ll tell me everything.” She looked between them. “No lies. No half truths. If he’s anchored himself to this family, then I’ll need to know why.”

Peter smirked slightly, folding his arms. “I thought you might say that.”

Derek’s eyes flicked back to the couch, worry and curiosity still tightly wound behind his calm. “He’s scared,” he said, almost to himself. “Whatever happened to him… it wasn’t just bad. It was unbearable.”

Talia’s voice was soft but strong. “Then we’ll help him bear it.”
~~~~

Stiles stirred slowly, waking in waves. First to the smell of something clean and earthy, then to the muted hum of voices nearby, and finally, to the almost electric sensation that someone was watching him.

His eyes fluttered open, and for a moment, he forgot where, or when, he was.

But then he saw her.

The woman standing at the edge of the couch wasn’t just anyone. She had presence. Authority. Power that shimmered just beneath her skin like a coiled storm. Her hair was long and dark, and her eyes were sharp, intelligent, and impossible to look away from.

He didn’t need to be told who she was. He knew.

“You’re Talia Hale,” he whispered, breath catching like the words were too sacred to say aloud.

Something in his voice made her expression soften. Not surprise, she rarely looked surprised, but there was a gentleness in her features now, something almost maternal.

“I am,” she said.

Stiles sat up slowly, the pain a dull ache in his chest and ribs. Derek hovered nearby, close enough to catch him if he faltered. Peter remained standing, watching closely as always.

“It’s… it’s really nice to meet you,” Stiles said quietly, his throat tightening. “I never got the chance before. In my time… you were already gone.”

Talia said nothing for a moment, but her eyes flickered, just enough that Stiles knew she understood what that meant. She didn’t ask questions, not yet.

He exhaled shakily and began again without Talia needing to ask, voice quiet but steady this time. “I told Peter and Derek already. I’m from the future. The year 2013. I’m seventeen and in my time, things went wrong. I was part of a pack, and we were strong, but I was possessed by something dark, something cruel. A nogitsune.” He looked down for a moment, jaw tight, then back up at her. “And when I finally got free, everything had already fallen apart.”

He didn’t flinch when he said it. “My mate was dead. So was my father.”

There was a long silence, heavy and respectful.

Talia tilted her head slightly, her voice calm but pointed. “You used the word mate. That means you were bonded to a werewolf.”

Stiles nodded. He didn’t elaborate. Didn’t want to.

Derek stiffened almost imperceptibly beside him. Peter’s eyes narrowed just a bit, calculating.

Talia, however, didn’t press him for the name. Her gaze held nothing but solemn understanding.

“I cast a spell,” Stiles continued, voice thickening. “Something desperate. I was trying to go back and stop everything before it started. But I went too far. I ended up here. And… I don’t think this is even my version of the past.”

Talia studied him for a long moment, then finally stepped forward and crouched down to his level, her voice low and even.

“Then we will figure out where you belong,” she said. “But for now, you’re here. And if you carry our mark and our magic, then you are under my protection. Do you understand?”

Stiles stared at her, something breaking quietly behind his eyes. He gave the smallest nod.

“Yes,” he said, voice cracking. “Thank you.”

For the first time since arriving in this world, the coil of tension in his chest loosened, just a little.

The silence that had settled like a held breath was shattered by the soft metallic click of the loft door unlocking, followed by the gentle creak as it opened.

All eyes turned toward it. Talia stood back up.

Stiles was on his feet before he consciously realized he’d moved, driven by instinct so powerful it nearly knocked the air from his lungs.

Two people stepped into the loft. Calm, composed, familiar in a way that made his heart splinter. His mother came in first, a little older than the way he remembered her, but still graceful and striking, still wearing that warm, gentle smile that lived in his deepest memories. Her eyes, the same shade of amber as his, sparkled with curiosity as they scanned the room.

Behind her, his father entered, clad in a Beacon County Sheriff uniform. His shoulders were broad, his stance steady, but his eyes were filled with quiet caution. Not fear. Just the kind of wary awareness that came from walking into a room where something bigger than you was already taking place.

“Hello,” his mother said, stepping forward confidently. “I’m Claudia Stilinski. The Hale Pack’s emissary. I was informed we might have a magic user in our midst.”

Her voice. God, her voice.

Stiles couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t speak. He took one step forward, his lips parting, then his knees nearly buckled from the weight of it all.

“Mom?” he choked out. “Dad?”

The tears came instantly, falling silently down his cheeks even as he stood frozen in place, staring at them like they might vanish if he blinked. They didn’t recognize him. Of course they didn’t. Why would they?

Claudia blinked, startled by the name, by the emotion in it, but her expression didn’t harden. It softened further, if anything. Her brows drew together slightly as she studied him, as if trying to place him.

Beside her, the Sheriff’s posture shifted. He glanced at Claudia, then at Stiles, puzzled but not alarmed. Curious. Concerned.

Stiles didn’t move closer. He didn’t dare.

He just stood there, as the realization hit him in waves. they’re alive. His mom. His dad. And Derek, standing only feet away. They’re all alive.

Something inside him broke. Not a little crack, but a complete collapse.

He fell back to the couch with a choked gasp, like the grief and the joy and the sheer impossibility of it all had pulled the ground from under him. And then he cried as though the dam had finally shattered, as though he’d been holding back the weight of a thousand nightmares and could finally, finally let them go.

The room didn’t move around him. No one rushed to speak. They let it happen, this quiet devastation.

And in that stillness, Derek sat beside him again without a word, solid and steady. A presence. A comfort.

Peter stood near, arms crossed, watching everything unfold with sharp, unreadable eyes.

And Claudia, his mother, looked at him like she was beginning to see something in him. Something strange, something impossible.

But not something dangerous.

Just… something lost.

The silence following Stiles’ breakdown was thick but no longer suffocating. His body sagged into the cushions of the couch, eyes red and swollen, cheeks still damp with tears. Derek remained beside him, quiet and steady.

Talia stood close, hands folded loosely in front of her, her presence commanding yet calm. Alpha, mother, listener. Her eyes met Stiles’ with a gentleness that somehow demanded truth without ever speaking the word harshly.

“Now that you’ve had a moment,” she said softly, her voice steady as stone, “I need the full truth. All of it.”

Stiles blinked slowly. His breath caught in his chest again, but this time it didn’t spiral into panic. Just pain. Honest and deep.

“My name is Mieczyslaw Stilinski,” he said, the name strange and foreign even on his own tongue after all these years of not using it. “But… I go by Stiles. I always have.”

Claudia’s breath hitched faintly at the name, but she said nothing.

“I’m the only child of Claudia and Noah Stilinski,” he went on. “My mom…she died when I was eight. It was… dementia, but not like regular dementia. It was fast, and it was cruel. She lost her mind long before she lost her life.”

Claudia raised a hand to her mouth, her knuckles pale.

“My dad, he was the sheriff of Beacon Hills. Strongest man I ever knew. He held everything together when the world was falling apart.” Stiles swallowed hard, his throat aching. “He was killed… by my best friend. Someone he tried to help. My best friend had become an Alpha, lost control of himself, gave into the wrong instincts and… he tore my dad apart. Right in front of me.”

The loft was dead quiet now. No one breathed. Peter looked pale, his mouth tight. Derek's brows were drawn low, fists clenched at his sides.

“And your mate,” Talia said gently, like a breeze moving across old wounds. “You said you lost your mate?”

Stiles nodded once, not trusting his voice.

“Stiles,” Talia said, kneeling so she was eye level with him. “Who was your mate?”

His eyes lifted slowly. They didn’t search the room. They didn’t look away.

They found Derek.

And stayed there.

His gaze was full of a sorrow so profound it was almost peaceful, resigned. Gentle, even. The way someone might look at a grave that had long been wept over.

Derek’s heart skipped and then stumbled.

His breath caught audibly as his wolf surged beneath his skin, clawing upward in stunned, aching recognition.

“No,” Derek whispered.

But he knew.

He just knew.

He had felt something in Stiles from the beginning, a kind of pull he hadn’t had the words for. He thought it was protectiveness. He thought it was sympathy. He thought it was instinct.

He never imagined it was memory.

In another world, another timeline, another broken future - he had been this boy’s mate.

And he had died.

Violently.

In front of him.

Derek couldn’t speak. He couldn’t even breathe for a moment, not from fear or revulsion, but from the enormity of it. From the grief in Stiles’ eyes. From the confirmation that his death had left someone behind.

Someone who had loved him.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles said quietly. Not for the first time. Maybe not for the last.

Derek said nothing.

But his eyes never left Stiles.

Chapter 7: I forgot for a second...that you're not him

Claudia moved slowly toward him, as though approaching a wounded creature. She was delicate, deliberate. Her presence, already familiar in the deepest parts of him, pulled at something raw inside Stiles, something that ached from being reopened after so many years sealed shut.

She lowered herself beside him on the couch, just enough space left so he wouldn’t feel overwhelmed. Her eyes scanned his face, thoughtful and soft, and her head tilted in quiet wonder.

“The closer I get…” she murmured, her voice light with amazement and sadness all at once, “the more you look like my father. His name was also Mieczyslaw.”

Stiles choked on a sound that was almost a laugh and almost a sob. Tears welled in his eyes again, too quickly, too easily. His voice cracked when he whispered, “I loved Grandpa Mike.”

Claudia’s hand twitched in her lap as if she wanted to reach for him but didn’t yet dare. “So did I,” she said gently. “He had this little furrow in his brow when he concentrated. You seem to do the same thing.”

Stiles smiled through the tears, chest rising with one trembling inhale before the panic caught hold again. His heart stuttered, breath stalling.

“Wait,” he said quickly, looking between her and Noah like he was trying to catch something that might disappear if he blinked. “Wait, wait, do you…do you guys have a son?”

His voice trembled under the weight of hope and fear, desperate and fragile all at once. What would it mean if he existed in this world too? What kind of chaos would that create?

Claudia’s expression shifted, that familiar sadness blooming in her eyes like a storm cloud darkening a summer sky. She glanced at Noah, who looked just as heavy hearted, before turning back to the boy in front of her.

“No,” she said softly. “We weren’t… we weren’t fortunate enough to have children.”

And just like that, something inside Stiles cracked so deeply he could feel the break in his bones. He nodded - once, twice - but his face crumpled and he curled inward, arms wrapped tightly around himself, not because of pain, but because there was nowhere to put the grief inside him. The absence of a life that never had the chance to be lived.

Claudia moved closer then, close enough for her hand to brush gently against his shoulder.

And Stiles didn’t pull away.

Talia stood with quiet command, her posture graceful but firm, the unmistakable air of an Alpha cloaking her like a second skin. She let her gaze sweep over everyone in the loft. Her son, her brother, her emissary and the emissary’s husband… and the broken time-lost boy who looked at all of them with such aching familiarity.

“Until we understand more,” she said, “Stiles will stay here, at the loft. It’s the safest place for him, and he clearly trusts you both.”

There was no room for debate in her tone, and no one tried.

“I’ll stay too,” Derek said immediately, straightening slightly where he stood near the couch. “He shouldn’t be alone.”

Talia arched a brow at her son, but there was no disapproval in her expression. Only quiet understanding. She nodded once, a silent agreement.

“Well,” Peter drawled, shrugging his shoulders with exaggerated drama, “if we’re just turning the loft into a group sleepover, I suppose I might as well stay too. Wouldn’t want to miss the next chapter of our impromptu family reunion.”

Stiles gave a wet little laugh, still wiping at the remnants of tears. His voice was hoarse but clearer now. “Would it be okay if… if Cora came by?”

Talia glanced at him, her eyes narrowing slightly; not in suspicion, but curiosity. “Why?”

Stiles swallowed, sitting up straighter even as the pain of his healing wounds tugged at his body. “In my time… she and Peter were the ones who helped send me back. I didn’t get to say goodbye. Well…I chose not to say goodbye. I didn’t even get to tell her thank you.” His voice cracked again. “I just… I’d really like to see her. Hug her again. If that’s okay.”

“She might punch you in the face if you try to hug her,” Derek muttered, dry but not unkind.

Stiles gave a real, honest laugh - short and sharp and warm. “Yeah. That checks out. At least some things haven’t changed between timelines.”

Talia allowed herself a small smile as she stepped toward the door. “I’ll call her. But if she does punch you, I’m not responsible.”

Stiles grinned despite the hollow ache still in his chest. “Fair enough.”
~~~~

Talia’s voice was gentle but firm as she stepped closer to the group. “Cora isn’t in town right now,” she said. “She’s spending a few days up north with friends and has already left, but I’ll have her come by the loft as soon as she returns - probably within the next couple of days.”

Stiles tried to nod, tried to be okay with that. But a flicker of disappointment crossed his face, something so raw and exposed it quieted the room for a beat.

Claudia, always attuned to emotional undercurrents like a true emissary, stepped forward. She placed a warm hand on Stiles’ shoulder. “You’re exhausted,” she said softly. “You’ve been through… more than any of us can imagine. You need rest, not a room full of people asking questions.”

Talia nodded in agreement. “Peter and Derek will stay with you. You’re safe here, Stiles.”

But as Noah and Claudia moved toward the door, Stiles stiffened. His eyes widened, panic bubbling to the surface faster than he could contain it.

“Wait, wait,” he rasped. “Please don’t go. What if I never see you again?” His voice broke on the last word, trembling and small. “You look like them. You are them.”

The grief in his tone hit like a punch to the gut, and everyone felt it.

Claudia turned at once, crossing back to him and cupping his face with both hands. Her thumbs brushed at the fresh tears threatening to spill again. “Stiles,” she said, voice calm and kind, “I’ll come back soon. I promise. I want to talk with you more. And maybe… you can tell me more about your Grandpa Mike. I’d like to know what kind of grandfather he was to you.”

That gentleness unraveled the panic. Stiles nodded, biting his lower lip to keep it from trembling.

Noah, still uncertain but softening, gave him a small nod as well. “We’ll see you soon, kid.”

And with that, they left, the door closing quietly behind them.

Silence settled again, softer now. Derek moved to sit beside Stiles while Peter busied himself fussing with a fresh set of gauze and salve, mostly for something to do with his hands.
~~~~

Later, Derek stood awkwardly near the bedroom door, one hand running through his hair as he looked at Stiles, who was sagging with exhaustion but trying to hold himself upright.

"You can take my bed," Derek said, voice low but steady. “I’ll sleep on the floor.”

Stiles didn’t argue. Didn’t try to be polite or selfless. He just nodded, because he was too tired to pretend he didn’t need it. The comfort. The stability. The version of Derek who still had his family, who hadn’t been shattered by fire and betrayal.

The second his body hit the mattress, Stiles froze.

The sheets, the scent clinging to the pillows…him. Not just Derek, but his Derek. The same detergent. The same underlying scent of pine and something earthy and safe. It was like walking into a memory he didn’t know he’d been desperate to feel again. It cracked him wide open.

Without warning, the sob tore out of his chest, sharp and agonizing. Then another. And another. He turned his face into the pillow, clutching it like a lifeline as he broke down completely.

Derek didn’t say anything.

He didn’t ask if Stiles was okay, because it was obvious that he wasn’t. No one cried like that unless they were unraveling at the seams.

Instead, Derek just lowered himself to the floor beside the bed, close but not touching. He rested his head back against the wall, knees pulled up loosely to his chest, and listened. Just… listened.

To Stiles sobbing like he’d lost the world. Because, in so many ways, he had.

And Derek stayed there all night, keeping watch like he somehow knew that even silence was a kind of comfort.

Derek didn’t sleep.

He didn’t even try.

Instead, he sat cross legged on the floor beside the bed, eyes fixed on the boy - no, the man - curled beneath his blanket. Stiles had cried himself into a restless, shallow sleep, occasionally twitching or gasping softly like his dreams were full of ghosts. Derek didn’t look away once.

He watched the way Stiles breathed, slow and stuttering. Watched the way his fingers twitched near his face, the way his brow furrowed even in rest, like he was still holding the weight of too many tragedies behind closed eyes.

Derek wondered.

He wondered if the other him, the one Stiles had spoken of with such grief and reverence, ever sat like this. Watching. Guarding. Loving him in a way that was gentle and quiet and constant. Did the other Derek ever run his fingers through Stiles' hair when he couldn't sleep? Did he kiss the tears away when they came without warning? Did he tell him that he was safe now? That he was loved?

Did he deserve him?

Derek looked at Stiles and tried to imagine the grief of losing him. The agony Stiles must have felt, watching his best friend lose control. Watching his mate die. Watching his father fall.

Derek imagined his own home burning. His mother, his sisters, his family…all gone. He thought of Laura’s laugh vanishing from the world. The heat. The flames. The silence after.

And then he imagined someone like Stiles - heart too big for his chest, eyes full of fight - staying. Holding the shattered pieces together. Putting him back together.

His chest ached.

Was the other him worthy of the pain Stiles was shouldering now? Of the madness it must’ve taken to cast a spell so dangerous, to tear himself from time just for a chance to rewrite it?

Derek didn’t know. He might never know.

But as he sat beside the bed, listening to Stiles breathe, watching him tremble through dreams he couldn’t run from.

Peter entered the room just after five in the morning, as quietly as a shadow slipping through the cracks. The floor creaked once beneath his feet, but Derek didn’t look up.

Stiles was still asleep, curled tightly on his side, face blotchy from tears. Derek hadn’t moved all night. He sat with his back against the wall, legs bent, arms resting across his knees, eyes bloodshot but alert.

Peter dropped down beside him with a quiet sigh, settling cross legged on the floor with a fluidity that always made Derek think of wolves ready to spring. He didn’t speak for a moment, just looked at his nephew with something unreadable in his expression.

Then, casually, Peter said, “You know you’re not the one who’s his mate, right?”

Derek didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to. The deep, low growl that rumbled from his chest said enough. A warning. Careful.

But Peter, as always, ignored it.

“I could tell,” he went on, voice low but amused, “the way your brain went into overdrive the second you found out. The little gasp, the twitch of your eye. You don’t hide it as well as you think.”

Derek clenched his jaw, still not speaking. He didn’t trust himself to.

Because Peter wasn’t entirely wrong.

Something had shifted in him the moment he realized that in another world, another version of him had been mated to the boy sleeping inches away. Not just sleeping with him. Not just dating. Mated. A bond so deep, so rare, it practically rewrote your soul.

But it wasn’t that realization alone that had undone him.

It was everything else.

It was the way Stiles had looked at him with hollow reverence, like seeing him alive was both a miracle and a torment. The way he held Derek’s gaze like it hurt, like it healed, like it meant something.

It was how broken Stiles was. And how tightly he held himself together anyway.

Derek didn’t want to possess that. Didn’t want to claim him just because the world said they belonged together somewhere else. That wasn’t love. That wasn’t fair.

“I’m not going to throw myself at him,” Derek said finally, voice low, rough. “He’s traumatized. He lost everything. I’m not-” he cut off, exhaling hard through his nose. “I’m not going to be another complication.”

Peter tilted his head slightly, studying him. “But it shook you.”

Derek closed his eyes. He wouldn’t admit it aloud, but…yeah. It had.

Peter didn’t press further. Instead, he leaned back against the opposite side of the bedframe and sighed.

“Well,” he said dryly, “for what it’s worth, you’re already less of a disaster than your alternate self seemed to be. So. Congratulations.”

Derek didn’t respond, but he did glance at Stiles again.

Then he whispered, “I hope he finds peace here.”
~~~~

It was nearly seven in the morning when Stiles startled awake, sitting up sharply like someone had yanked him from the depths of a nightmare. His heart pounded loud in his ears, chest heaving with short, shallow breaths.

Derek was at his side in an instant.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t ask. He just moved, instinctive and silent, like his body was wired to respond to Stiles before his brain even caught up. One hand hovered near Stiles’s back, not quite touching, waiting for permission.

Stiles’s eyes darted wildly around the unfamiliar room, confusion etched into every twitch of his fingers, every sharp inhale. He looked disoriented and shaken, like he didn’t know if this was real or another cruel twist of dream memory.

Then his gaze landed on Derek.

And for a moment, just one second, everything in Stiles’s body eased. His eyes softened. His shoulders relaxed. His hand even reached out, as if pulled by gravity or instinct; seeking him, seeking comfort.

But it never landed.

He caught himself mid motion and recoiled as if burned, fingers curling into a trembling fist against his thigh. His expression twisted into something pained and bitter and deeply ashamed.

Stiles turned his face away, closing his eyes tightly like maybe if he shut them hard enough, the guilt would go away. Like maybe he could force his body to forget how right it had felt for that brief heartbeat to reach for Derek, even in this younger form.

But it wasn’t his Derek. Not really.

And he wasn’t anyone to this Derek. He was a stranger in his bed.

Stiles bit the inside of his cheek hard enough to taste blood. Stupid. So stupid. He shouldn’t be leaning on this version, shouldn’t be craving that anchor like a lifeline. He was a stranger here. A broken echo of a life this world hadn’t lived, and never would.

He didn’t deserve the familiarity. He hadn’t earned it.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice raw, eyes still shut. “I forgot for a second. That you’re… not him.”

Derek didn’t say anything. Just watched him, eyes dark and unreadable. But there was no judgment in them. No flinch of discomfort or confusion.

Only the smallest tilt of his head.

And a quiet presence that didn’t move away.
~~~~
Stiles was quiet the entire day.

Not the usual kind of quiet that came with nerves or overthinking, but the hollow, echoing silence of someone who had been cracked open and hadn’t yet figured out how to put the pieces back together.

He sat on the couch with his knees drawn up, fingers idly picking at the hem of his sleeve, eyes staring blankly at nothing. He answered when spoken to, nodded when asked questions, even offered a strained smile once or twice; but the light behind his eyes was still gone. Distant. Like the real Stiles was tucked away deep inside, unreachable.

The others noticed, of course. Derek especially. Peter watched him like a puzzle that didn’t make sense. Talia checked in gently before giving him space, and Claudia, ever intuitive, left him a mug of tea he barely touched before sitting beside him in companionable silence. No one pressed him. They didn’t have to. His grief clung to him like smoke.

He hadn’t really slept, not in any restful way.

His dreams had been thick with memory and longing. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw his Derek.

The first night they’d kissed - the hesitant, reverent brush of lips between friends who had bled beside each other for too long to pretend it wasn’t more. Derek had been terrified, but still took the risk.

The way Derek had whispered “I love you” one night while they were lying under a blanket of stars, as if it had always been true and only now had found the courage to take shape in words.

How Derek had risked being shot by the sheriff because he wouldn’t lie about who Stiles was to him. Because he’d said “He’s my mate” and never once backed down from that truth, no matter the danger.

The way Derek held him together when everything else broke. Through war, through death, through the loss of pack and family and innocence. He’d carried Stiles through all of it without ever complaining, without ever walking away.

Stiles had been dreaming of love, true, soul deep, unconditional love, and he’d woken up to a world that would never give it back.

He couldn’t stop thinking about it. Couldn’t stop feeling it. The way Derek’s arms had felt around him. The way his voice sounded when he said Stiles’ name like it was the only one that mattered. The way he looked at him like he was the most sacred thing he’d ever held.

And now…now there was nothing but silence. The ache of everything he’d lost.

He didn’t cry. Not again. There weren’t any tears left after the ones he shed last night. There was only the quiet, and the weight of a love that would never be returned. Not because it wasn’t deserved, but because it no longer existed.

And so Stiles stayed small, stayed quiet.

Carrying a grief no one could see, for a life that didn’t belong to him anymore.

Claudia approached him with the same gentle patience she’d shown since the moment they met. No sudden moves, no assumptions, just calm, quiet presence. Stiles was curled into the corner of the couch, his fingers loosely laced around a mug of tea that had long since gone cold, his gaze unfocused. He didn’t look at her when she sat beside him, but he didn’t flinch away either.

She waited a few moments before speaking, letting the silence settle like soft dust.

“Stiles,” she said softly, her voice careful. “There’s something we need to talk about.”

That got his attention. Slowly, warily, he turned his head to face her. His eyes were red rimmed, heavy with exhaustion and the residue of too many shattered dreams.

“The pack is... curious,” Claudia continued. “And concerned. There’s information they’d like to know. About where you came from. About what happened. About why you were sent here.” She paused, her eyes kind. “But no one is going to force you to talk. No one is going to demand answers you’re not ready to give.”

Stiles looked down again, jaw tight, his grip on the mug a little firmer.

Claudia reached out slowly, placing a hand gently on his forearm. “There is an alternative. A spell. A memory charm.”

His eyes flicked back up to her, wary and sharp.

“I would never suggest it lightly,” she told him. “But it would allow us to see. Not everything, just what’s tied to why you’re here. The relevant pieces. You wouldn’t have to say a single word. You wouldn’t have to relive it out loud.”

Stiles swallowed hard.

“It’s not painful,” Claudia promised. “But it is... invasive. You would be sharing those memories directly. They’d be seen. Felt. Not by everyone - just the people you consent to. But it’s still a lot. And you don’t have to say yes.”

He was quiet for a long time. Thinking. Remembering. Feeling the memories clawing at the back of his mind anyway; sharp, violent, relentless. They were there whether he shared them or not. They haunted him either way.

“I don’t-” he started, then stopped, shaking his head.

Claudia didn’t push.

Finally, he whispered, “Can I think about it?”

“Of course,” she said, giving his arm a soft squeeze. “Take all the time you need. We’ll wait. As long as it takes.”

Then, quieter, with something that almost sounded like sorrow, she added, “You’ve already carried so much. You shouldn’t have to carry this alone, too.”

Stiles didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away. And that, for now, was enough.
~~~~

Stiles didn’t say a word the second morning as he locked himself away in Derek’s bedroom. He just closed the door with a soft click and didn’t come back out. Derek had knocked once a few hours later, a quiet “You good?” offered through the wood, but there was no response. Peter checked in that night, more out of boredom than genuine concern, pressing a cup of water and a sandwich into Stiles’ hands when the door cracked open just an inch. Stiles didn’t say anything, just took the food, nodded once, and closed the door again.

The next day passed much the same. Quiet steps. Shuffling movement. A creaking bed frame. Nothing more.

Derek left a folded blanket outside the door, just in case. Peter muttered something about emotionally constipated time travelers, but even he kept his distance.

It was just past noon on the third day when the door opened.

Stiles padded into the main room barefoot and disheveled, his face pale, his expression unreadable. Derek was at the counter with a coffee cup in hand. Peter had claimed the couch, legs stretched out dramatically.

“I need to talk to both of you,” Stiles said, voice thin but steady.

They both looked up immediately. Peter raised a brow but didn’t quip. Derek set down his mug and gestured toward the kitchen table without a word.

They sat with Stiles curling in on himself a bit, like he was expecting the weight of his own words to crush him.

“I’ve been thinking,” he started, fingers twisting together in his lap. “About the memory charm.”

Derek and Peter exchanged a look but stayed quiet.

“I’m not opposed to it,” Stiles said. “I know it’s probably the only way to explain what happened without falling apart trying to speak it.” His voice shook, just slightly. “But I’m scared of what you’ll see. Not because I’m hiding anything, but because my world... it wasn’t like this. It was chaos. Pain. War. Loss after loss. And this place, this world, it seems calm. You’re all whole here. Safe.”

He looked up at them then, eyes wet and hollow. “I don’t want to ruin that. I don’t want the pack to look at me and see tragedy, or worse.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, watching him with unsettling quiet, but his expression wasn’t mocking, it was thoughtful. Derek, still and tense beside him, looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t quite find the words yet.

“I just…” Stiles swallowed. “I’m afraid that once everyone sees what I’ve been through, it’s going to change the way they see me. Or themselves. Or you. And I’m not sure I can handle that.”

His voice cracked on the last word. He didn’t cry. Not again. But he didn’t look away either.

He’d laid it all bare.

Now it was up to them.

Peter was the first to speak after the silence stretched too long; too heavy and brittle, like the air would shatter if someone breathed wrong.

“Well,” he said, tone deceptively light, “I’ll admit I am curious about what my life looked like in the apocalyptic version of Beacon Hills. Alternate realities, different timelines…it’s hard not to wonder what kind of man I became.”

Stiles flinched, not visibly, but Derek saw it. A flicker in his eyes. A muscle tightening in his jaw.

Stiles didn’t lift his head. He just whispered, “You really shouldn’t be too curious.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, and even Derek tilted his head, gaze sharpening on Stiles.

Stiles finally looked up, meeting Peter’s eyes. There was no accusation in his voice, just sorrowful honesty. “The Peter I knew was a sociopath. A murderer. Manipulative, charming, dangerous as hell. He killed people, used people. Even me, sometimes. He was clever and vicious and cruel.”

Peter’s mouth parted slightly, not in surprise, but something more like dawning awareness.

“And I loved him,” Stiles added, voice breaking slightly around the edges. “Not in the same way I loved Derek, but I did love him. He was family. And I loved him because he never lied to me about what he was. He never pretended to be good. And maybe that’s why it hurt less when he did terrible things; because I knew it was coming.”

Silence rang through the loft like a bell.

Peter looked almost haunted for a second, as if imagining the version of himself that had grown monstrous in a world gone wrong.

Stiles turned his gaze to Derek then. “You and Peter, back in my home, you were both handed the worst possible lives and still tried to find meaning. That deserves compassion. But I don’t want that darkness bleeding over into this world. It’s... clean here.”

Derek looked at him for a long moment, then said, low and steady, “I’m well aware that whatever I see won’t happen here.”

He reached out and placed a hand on the table, palm open between them.

“But it did happen to you. And that shouldn’t be ignored.”

Stiles stared at his hand for a long time, and even though he didn’t reach out, he didn’t pull away either.

Peter, surprisingly quiet, sat back in his chair and murmured, “Well. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough whether I hate the version of me you knew... or just pity him.”
~~~~
Derek sat beside Stiles at the kitchen table, phone in hand, thumb hovering for just a second before pressing the call button. He put it on speaker and set it down between them. Stiles didn’t say a word, eyes locked on his own hands like they might fly away if he didn’t keep watching them.

The phone rang twice before Claudia’s warm voice answered, “Derek?”

“Yeah. You’re on speaker,” Derek said. “With Stiles.”

There was a pause, then a gentle, “Hello, Stiles.”

He nodded, barely whispering, “Hi.”

Derek took a quiet breath and said, “He’s agreed to the memory charm.”

Another pause, this one longer and heavier with meaning. “All right,” Claudia said softly. “Are there specific people he’d like present?”

“Yes,” Derek answered before Stiles had to. “Me, Peter, my mom, you, the sheriff. And Cora, if she’s available.”

“I’ll make sure she is,” Claudia promised. “We’ll come by the loft this evening.”

Stiles glanced up, nervous, but Claudia’s voice came through steady and kind.

“Stiles, I want you to know exactly what to expect. When you drink the tonic, your memories will begin to project externally - sort of like a film reel, visible to everyone you’ve chosen. You’ll remain conscious, completely aware. You control what is shown. No one can access anything you don’t allow. There’s no outside influence, no mental intrusion. Just... your truth, in your time.”

Stiles swallowed hard, nodding. “Okay.”

“It won’t hurt,” Claudia added gently. “It may be exhausting, especially emotionally, but the magic is designed to follow your pace. If you need to stop at any point, we stop.”

Stiles blinked rapidly, and Derek reached out; just resting a hand on the table again, not touching, just there.

“Thank you,” Stiles said finally, voice hoarse. “For explaining. And for not pushing.”

“I told you,” Claudia said, something maternal threading through her words, “we’re here when you’re ready. That doesn’t change, Stiles.”

The call ended a moment later, and Derek turned the phone over, the weight of what was coming settling into the room like fog.

Chapter 8: Memory Charm

Summary:

Reminder that this is not canon memories.

Stiles stood in the middle of the loft, fingers twitching at his sides, while Derek and Peter leaned against the kitchen counter nearby - close, but giving him the room he clearly needed. He looked up at them, eyes dark with exhaustion and something deeper, heavier. Not quite fear. Not quite guilt. Just the tired weight of someone who knew what was coming couldn’t be undone.

“I wanted to talk to you both before the others got here,” Stiles began quietly, voice rough from too many sleepless nights. “Just to say some things before... before all of it’s out there.”

Peter folded his arms, watching Stiles with a rare kind of seriousness. Derek didn’t move.

“In my time, you’re different,” Stiles said, glancing briefly at Peter. “Both of you. Older. Harder. Life’s been... unkind. Especially to you, Peter. You’re not going to recognize yourself, and I don’t think you’ll like what you see.”

Peter arched a brow but didn’t interrupt.

Stiles’ gaze slid to Derek then, and this time, it lingered. “And you-” His voice cracked just a little, but he kept going. “You were everything to me. And you’re going to see that. But you’re also going to see pain. Things that happened to us... things that happened because of us. You’re going to see a version of yourself who loved me. Who died right in front of me.”

Derek’s jaw tensed, but his eyes didn’t leave Stiles’ face.

“I just... I need you to know that I don’t expect anything from you. Not after this. Not friendship. Not forgiveness. Not comfort. Nothing. I know I’m a stranger to you. But this is part of the story. And I’m sorry you’ll have to see it.”

He finally let out a shaky breath, trying to steel himself, then added, voice barely above a whisper, “And I’m sorry if, after today, it’s harder for you to look me in the eye.”

There was a beat of silence. A long one.

Peter didn’t speak, surprisingly. But his expression was unreadable, a rare mask of neutrality that hid more than it revealed.

Derek, though…Derek stepped forward just enough for the sunlight to catch the shadows under his eyes.

“I won’t look away,” he said, voice firm but quiet. “No matter what.”
~~~~

The sound of the loft door sliding open echoed through the quiet space, cutting through the tension that had thickened with each passing minute. Stiles turned sharply at the noise, breath catching in his throat as he saw them step in.

Claudia entered first, her presence as composed and warm as always, flanked by Talia - radiant in that subtle, commanding way she had - and Noah Stilinski out of uniform, but every inch the calm, observant lawman. But it was the fourth figure, slightly behind them, who stole the air right out of Stiles’ lungs.

Cora.

She looked exactly the same.

Younger than when he last saw her, yes, but only by a little. Still sharp eyed and fierce, with her dark hair swept back in a loose braid and an unreadable expression on her face. Of everyone in this world, she was the only one who hadn’t changed much from his time. The same Cora who helped him anchor the spell that tore him through time. The same Cora who had to deal with him vanishing without saying goodbye.

Stiles gasped, a raw, involuntary sound punched out of him from the shock. His feet even moved forward, just one step, instinct overriding logic, but he caught himself before he did anything reckless, like run to her and hug her until the world made sense again.

Cora tilted her head, her brow furrowing in confusion. “Do I... know you?”

“No,” Stiles said softly, backing down. “Not here.”

Claudia, ever gentle, approached with a warm smile and eyes full of knowing. “How are you feeling, Stiles?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he just gave a tired shrug, eyes lingering on Cora before flicking to Talia, then his father - not his father - and then Claudia. His voice, when it came, was quiet and stripped of all pretense.

“I just want to say before we start that I’m sorry.” He looked at each of them in turn. “What you’re about to see... it’s not easy. It’s dark, and it’s messy, and it’s full of pain and grief and things that none of you deserve to carry, even just through memories. But it’s the truth.”

He paused, swallowing hard, hands twisting together in front of him.

“If any of you see it and decide that you don’t want me around after... I get it. I promise I’ll leave peacefully. I just - I hope you’ll understand why I had to show you.”

The room was quiet, heavy with anticipation. No one moved. No one interrupted. They just let his words hang there, honoring the vulnerability it took to say them. Claudia’s gaze softened, and Noah looked at him with something between sadness and curiosity. Talia’s expression remained calm, steady, alpha-like. Cora, still confused, looked like she wanted to ask a thousand questions, but held them in.

Claudia stepped forward gently, the glass vial cradled in her hand catching the light with an eerie shimmer. The liquid inside glowed faintly, a soft, unnatural blue that seemed to pulse with quiet energy. Her expression was calm but kind, her voice steady as she approached Stiles.

“When you drink this, Stiles,” she began, “you’ll need to sit facing the wall. Your eyes-” she offered a faint smile, “-will act as a sort of magical projector. Everything you think of, everything you focus on, will be shown there for us to see. Clear, full memories. Like watching them unfold on film.”

Stiles shifted nervously on his feet, his arms crossing tightly over his chest. She could see the tremor in his fingers, but he said nothing.

“You can go through the memories in order,” Claudia continued, “or let your mind jump around. Either way, you’re in full control of what you show. No one will be able to pull anything from you - you’re the only one guiding what we see.”

Peter raised an eyebrow from his seat at the kitchen table. “So we’re watching a memory reel from inside his head, directed by him. Lovely.”

Claudia ignored him and focused on Stiles.

“If it becomes too much,” she said gently, “just close your eyes for thirty seconds. That’s all it takes. The tonic will break down and purge itself from your system. You’ll come out of it a little groggy, but nothing more.”

Stiles finally looked up, eyes searching hers, as if trying to confirm this wasn’t some kind of trick. She gave him a quiet nod. No games. No pressure. Just choice.

“It won’t hurt?” he asked quietly, voice scratchy.

Claudia shook her head. “Not physically. Emotionally…” she paused, “you already know the answer.”

Stiles gave a tired, humorless laugh. “Yeah. I do.” He glanced toward the wall, then back at everyone assembled. “Okay. Let’s do this before I chicken out.”

Claudia handed him the vial with care. As his fingers brushed hers, she held his gaze one last time.

“We’re with you, Stiles,” she said softly. “No matter what we see.”
~~~~

The moment Stiles opened his eyes, the magic took hold.

A shimmer of light projected outward from him, faint and pulsing like a heartbeat, and then the room fell still as the first image formed against the loft wall - a memory, bright and golden in the morning sun.

The scene unfolded slowly, like watching a home movie. An eight year old Stiles knelt in the dirt of a backyard garden, small hands clumsily pressing a marigold into freshly turned soil. His cheeks were flushed with excitement, hair sticking to his forehead, and his grin was wide and unburdened by the weight of the world.

Beside him knelt his mother - Claudia. Not the same woman who now stood quietly behind him, but younger, softer, her hair wind tousled and her sundress brushing against her ankles. She was laughing, sunlight catching in her brown eyes - the same eyes that shimmered in the older Claudia’s face now.

“Mischief,” Stiles’ mother said fondly, brushing a smear of dirt from little Stiles’ cheek. “You have to talk to the plants, remember? Like I taught you. Plants like to be loved.”

Stiles giggled in the memory and leaned close to whisper to the flower before patting the dirt down like a secret had just been planted along with it.

In the background, Noah Stilinski - looking younger, in jeans and a sheriff’s department t-shirt - pulled weeds along the fence, glancing over occasionally with a tired but fond smile. Every now and then, he’d shake his head with a quiet laugh at the ridiculousness of his wife’s flowerbed lectures, but there was nothing but love in his eyes.

“Why do we do all this again, Mama?” young Stiles asked as he reached for another flower.

“Because when we take care of the earth,” Claudia told him gently, tucking a wild curl behind his ear, “the earth takes care of us right back. Everything’s connected, Mischief. The roots, the water, us. Never forget that.”

The memory shimmered, paused like a breath held in time.

Claudia stood frozen. Her lips were slightly parted, her eyes glossy. One hand had lifted unconsciously to her chest, fingertips pressing over her heart. It was surreal, watching her ‘younger self’ speak with such grace and joy - words she wouldn’’t remember saying but could feel in her bones she had.

Beside her, Noah had gone pale. His hands were clenched at his sides, and his jaw was tight. He didn’t speak, couldn’t, but he stepped forward slightly, instinctively reaching toward the image on the wall, as if he could touch that younger version of himself. As if he could step into the memory and wrap his arms around them both.

The emotion in the room was thick. Even Peter looked off to the side, uncomfortable with the rawness of it all. Talia’s expression was unreadable, though there was something sad in the way she watched Stiles; not the memory, but the boy himself, sitting rigidly, barely breathing.

Stiles, facing the wall, didn’t move.

He didn’t have to. The memory was speaking for him. It was the first glimpse of the life he’d lost - before the dying started. Before the world turned cruel.

Before he had to grow up.

 

The garden faded.

The golden hues dimmed into something colder, darker, and the light on the loft wall shifted, the image warping into a new memory that crackled with tension before it even fully formed.

Now, the house was small and shadowed. The kitchen was dim, cluttered, claustrophobic. Eleven year old Stiles stood barefoot in the doorway, his shoulders hunched, a backpack clutched tightly to his chest like a shield. He was thinner here. Paler. The spark in his eyes, the one so bright in the garden, had dulled to something guarded and wary.

Across the room, his mother stood trembling. Her hands were in fists, knuckles white, her breath coming in shallow gasps. Her hair was unbrushed, eyes wild. The gentle woman who had once whispered about the earth and marigolds was gone.

“You’re not my son,” she spat, voice shrill with panic and fury. “You’re not - you’re a demon! You’ve taken him!”

“Mom,” young Stiles whispered, tears already threatening to fall. “It’s me. It’s just me, I swear-”

“Liar!” she screamed, and the scene jolted as a coffee mug flew across the room and shattered against the wall beside him. Stiles flinched but didn’t run. “You tricked me! You think I don’t see it in your eyes?! You’re not my little boy!”

She grabbed another object, a plate this time, and hurled it. It missed, barely.

“Stop it! Please!” Stiles begged, voice cracking as he dropped his backpack and held up trembling hands. “I’m sorry! I didn’t do anything, I swear!”

In the background, a bottle rolled off the counter and hit the floor with a dull clink. There was a chair knocked over. An open whiskey bottle on the table. The memory trembled slightly, like even it didn’t want to be remembered.

His father wasn’t in the scene. There was no comforting voice, no calm anchor. Just a boy trying to survive his mother’s confusion and fury. A boy who looked so small, so alone.

Claudia gasped behind him. Her knees gave out slightly, and Talia caught her before she could fall. Claudia stared at the wall, horrified, silent tears sliding down her face as she watched her own hands throw things at the little boy. As she watched herself scream words she couldn’t believe someone was ever capable of saying.

Noah turned away completely, his shoulders shaking. He walked a few steps toward the far wall, jaw tight, fists clenched, unable to watch.

And Derek, Derek didn’t take his eyes off the scene. His jaw was clenched tight, chest visibly rising and falling with each breath as he watched young Stiles try not to cry. Try to be strong. Try to understand.

Stiles, the one in the present, sat like a statue. Still facing the wall. Still silent.

But his shoulders had curled inward.

The light shifted again - flickering, sputtering like a candle in wind - as the kitchen reappeared, but this time it was older, dimmer, cluttered in a different way. The walls were the same, but the warmth was gone. The house was quieter. Hollow.

Stiles was older now - maybe twelve, thirteen. His limbs were awkward with growth, knees knobby under too short pajama pants, a fading bruise on his forearm he didn’t seem to notice. He stood on a step stool at the stove, stirring something in a pot with practiced care, one hand holding the handle steady while the other clutched a too large wooden spoon.

A stack of dishes teetered dangerously in the sink behind him. The trash was full. Laundry spilled from a basket onto the floor. A pizza box lay discarded on the counter, and a bottle of whiskey stood like a sentinel beside it.

From the living room came the sound of a television playing static and the unmistakable slosh of a bottle being set down too hard on a table.

“Stiles,” came a slurred voice - Noah’s voice, but worn down, jagged at the edges. “Where the hell’s the remote?”

“In your hand, Dad,” young Stiles called gently. Tired. Not annoyed, not sarcastic, just worn down. “It’s in your hand again.”

A beat.

“Oh,” Noah mumbled from the other room.

Stiles sighed and turned back to the stove. He gave the pot another stir and then reached for the oven mitts. He opened the oven and carefully pulled out a tray of burnt chicken nuggets. His face didn’t even flicker with disappointment. He just muttered, “Food’s done,” to no one in particular and set the tray down.

The scene flickered again, fast, like time jumping - now Stiles was scrubbing a toilet. Then he was dragging a trash bag down the driveway in the rain. Then he was folding laundry while reading a book propped on the arm of the couch. Now he was setting a plate of food next to a passed out Noah, who was snoring on the couch with a half empty bottle still in hand.

Through it all, Stiles never complained. Not once. His face stayed calm, careful, quiet.

But his eyes…his eyes told the story.

They were tired.

They were hurting.

They were too old for his face.

At the memory wall, the real Noah had sat down, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. He looked like the floor had dropped out from under him. Claudia rested a hand on his back, her expression wrecked, helpless.

Derek sat rigid in his chair, fists clenched in his lap, fury simmering just under his skin. He looked like he wanted to shatter the memory with his bare hands.

Peter’s eyes were on Stiles - not the memory, but the real boy still facing the wall, head slightly bowed.

He hadn’t flinched once.

He wasn’t crying.

But he looked… numb.

Like this wasn’t even the worst of it.

Like he’d already made peace with the fact that this had just been his life.

And still, even in the silence, even in the horror of what they’d seen, Stiles hadn’t turned around. Hadn’t asked for comfort.

He just kept showing them.

One memory at a time.

The image shifted again; flickering, then sharpening.

Damp woods bloomed across the wall, pine trees tall and thick, the sky dark with the promise of nightfall. The air was wet with mist and thick with the chirp of insects. A younger Stiles, maybe fifteen, appeared in the beam of a flashlight, crunching through the underbrush with single minded determination. His hoodie sleeves were pushed to his elbows, a scuffed backpack bouncing against his back, and he was muttering under his breath.

“God, Scott, you absolute dumbass. Just leave the damn inhaler, no one cares. You think asthma is gonna be your biggest problem when you've been bitten by a - by whatever the hell that thing was?”

He crouched near a fallen log, scanning the forest floor. The woods around him were quiet…too quiet. The flashlight flickered slightly, and when he hit it against his palm to steady it, a twig snapped behind him.

Stiles froze.

He turned, slowly, shining the light toward the sound - and that’s when he appeared.

A figure stepped into the beam, half shrouded in shadow, the light catching on leather and dark eyes and a scowl that could slice through bone. His posture was rigid, predatory; half wolf, half man, danger coiled in the line of his shoulders.

Stiles flinched back. “Whoa, okay. Stranger danger, I get it, but seriously, personal space.”

The man said nothing. Just stared.

“I’m just…look, I’m looking for an inhaler, alright? Not your weed stash or your weird murder cabin. You can go back to being mysterious now.”

Still, no reply. The man just tilted his head slightly, like he was studying Stiles. Calculating him.

And in that moment, the memory shimmered, because even through the tense, awkward standoff, the Stiles watching this scene unfold, the older one facing the wall, was projecting something else entirely.

Intrigue.

The way his breath hitched when those dark eyes met his. The flicker of something unspoken in his chest. Fear, yes, but also fascination. Curiosity. That strange magnetic pull that made no sense, but settled in his bones like gravity.

The mysterious man took a step forward, and Stiles instinctively took a step back, nearly tripping on a root. “Okay, seriously. You’re not, like, a forest serial killer, right? Because I’d be really disappointed if I died before I lost my virginity.”

That got a flicker of amusement from the man. Barely there, but visible. A twitch of the lips. Not quite a smile. Not quite not.

Then, finally, a voice…low, rough, unwilling: “You should go home.”

And Stiles - fifteen, awkward, talkative Stiles - blinked.

“What?”

The man stepped past him, disappearing into the trees like he was part of them. “It’s not safe out here.”

And then he was gone.

Stiles stood frozen for a moment, his flashlight wobbling, his breath shallow.

The scene faded slowly, the edges dissolving like fog.

Around the kitchen table, no one spoke. No one needed to.

Because even though the memory had been small, just a moment, just a meeting, it felt heavy with something more. A hinge point. The beginning of something they hadn’t seen yet.

Peter was the first to move, eyebrows raised slightly as if he’d noticed it too.

Derek didn’t move at all; but his jaw was tense, his eyes fixed on the now blank wall like he was reliving the moment from the other side, even though it had been another him in another time.

And in front of them all, the real Stiles remained still.

Quiet.

Unmoving.

But the pulse of what that memory had meant, what it would grow into, lingered thick in the air.

Stiles moved for the first time in almost ten minutes as he took a heaving breath and started showing them the next memory.

It was a quick succession of his Derek in the back of a cop car and Stiles asking the man why he murdered his sister. Derek doesn’t speak, but glares at Stiles with all the hatred he can muster, before the Sheriff comes and hauls Stiles out of the car and yells at him to go home.

While it was a short memory, it was still heavily tinged with the same intrigue they’d all witnessed at the first meeting. For all intents and purposes, Stiles should be scared of Derek, especially if he thought the man was a killer, but there were still no negative feelings attached to the memory.

The image shifted - darker now, colder, with the hum of fluorescent lights flickering overhead. They were in the school locker room. The clang of a metal door echoed. Water dripped steadily from a busted showerhead. The atmosphere was charged, pulsing with something primal and dangerous.

Stiles appeared in the memory, younger and slimmer, eyes wide with fear. He was backing up slowly, hands raised. “Scott - Scott, it’s me, okay? Just - just breathe, dude, I know it hurts but you need to breathe.”

Across from him, Scott stood hunched, shoulders shaking, claws extended, eyes glowing a feral gold. His face was already halfway shifted; elongated cheekbones, growing fangs, snarling breath echoing through the room like something out of a nightmare.

In the present, young Derek stiffened where he sat at the table, his knuckles going white as he clenched the armrest. He leaned forward, breath caught in his throat as he watched the wolf in this kid named Scott take over, saw the way Stiles instinctively put himself between danger and reason.

Back in the memory, Scott lunged.

Stiles let out a startled yelp, dodging just in time, skidding across the wet floor and slamming into the lockers. “Scott!” he shouted. “Fight it, dammit! I know you're still in there!”

But Scott wasn’t listening. He prowled closer, growling deep in his throat, movements jerky and uncoordinated, like he was fighting against himself. He pounced again, claws out.

Stiles barely managed to roll out of the way. A deep scratch caught his shoulder, tearing through fabric and skin alike. He let out a sharp cry, clutching at his bleeding arm.

“I’m your best friend,” Stiles choked out, voice shaking. “Please, don’t do this…”

Derek’s golden eyes flickered briefly, as if his wolf had surged forward in instinctive defense. His mouth was tight, jaw clenched. That could’ve been it. That could’ve been the end of Stiles right there.

But then, in the memory, Scott suddenly froze mid lunge, panting hard. His claws retracted slowly. His golden eyes dulled to brown as realization dawned. Horror crossed his face.

“Stiles?” Scott whispered, horrified.

“I’m fine,” Stiles lied, his voice hollow. “Just… maybe stay over there for a second.”

The memory faded out slowly, tension lingering thick in the room.

In the silence, Cora had her hand clamped tightly over her mouth. Peter sat still and quiet, for once without a quip. Talia’s gaze shifted toward her son, noting the subtle way Derek was leaning forward, elbows on his knees, heart breaking at the thought that someone hadn’t been there to stop it.

The next memory flickered to life, the school parking lot coming into sharp focus. It was late afternoon, the sky a bruised shade of purple, and the lot was mostly empty except for a few scattered cars. Stiles was behind the wheel of his old Jeep, nervously gripping the steering wheel, eyes darting around as if the weight of the world was pressing down on him.

Suddenly, a figure stumbled into the lot - limping, staggering, soaked in pain. Derek. His clothes were torn and blood seeped through his shirt, staining dark and ominous.

Stiles slammed on the brakes, the Jeep screeching to a halt just inches from Derek’s path. “Jesus, Derek! What the hell happened to you?” he gasped, panic flooding his voice.

Without waiting for an answer, Stiles flung the door open and helped Derek climb in, his hands shaky but determined. Derek leaned heavily against him, every breath labored and ragged.

“Scott needs to know,” Stiles said quickly, pulling out his phone and dialing. “Scott, it’s Derek…he’s been shot… with wolfsbane. The bullet’s still in him, and the wound’s-” He swallowed hard, grimacing. “The wound’s black, the veins around it too. It smells like - like death.”

Derek groaned low, a sharp pain etched across his face. “I don’t… have much time,” he rasped, voice barely above a whisper.

Stiles felt the weight of it, how serious it was. His jaw clenched as he gripped the steering wheel tighter. “Hold on, Derek. We’ll get you through this. We have to.”

The memory held that raw tension - the urgency, the fear, the helplessness swirling in the thick air.

Stiles' eyes in the present blinked rapidly, the weight of that moment sinking deep into his chest as he watched himself, frantic and desperate, fighting against the inevitable.

The memory shifted quickly - brighter this time. The woods came into view, dappled in golden light, a path winding between towering trees. There was movement: Derek, stepping silently through the brush with a steady, purposeful gait. He wasn’t alone.

Scott was there too; tense, defensive, arms crossed.

“You need to learn control,” Derek said, voice low and even. “You can’t keep shifting every time your heart rate spikes.”

“I don’t need your help,” Scott snapped, turning away. “You’re just trying to use me. I’m not joining your pack.”

Derek sighed but didn’t push it. “Suit yourself,” he muttered before walking away.

The memory flickered, jumping ahead.

A lacrosse field. Night. Derek stood at the edge of the bleachers, watching the game. Stiles jogged over, panting and sweaty, in his lacrosse gear.

“Are you seriously here for Scott again?” Stiles asked, pulling off his helmet.

“I thought maybe he'd listen this time.”

“He won’t,” Stiles replied, tone casual but not cruel. “He’s got it in his head you’re the bad guy. He’s being an idiot.”

Derek gave him a dry look. “You’re supposed to be his best friend.”

“I am,” Stiles said with a shrug, “but I’m not blind.”

The next memory was Derek pulling open the front door of his loft and letting Stiles in. “You said you wanted to learn more about werewolves,” Derek said.

“Yep. And also, I brought pizza.” Stiles held up a greasy cardboard box. “Consider it a peace offering.”

The scene jumped again.

Derek and Stiles sat at the loft table, books and old journals spread out. Derek was explaining pack hierarchy and body language while Stiles took notes, nodding and asking thoughtful questions.

The quiet camaraderie was evident. No tension. No mistrust.

In another memory, Stiles rolled his eyes as Derek handed him a pair of dumbbells. “Why am I lifting weights again?”

“Because your mouth runs faster than your legs. You need both.”

Stiles barked a laugh. “Oh my god, was that a joke?”

A faint smirk touched Derek’s lips. “Maybe.”

Derek blinked, surprised by how easily his other self got along with the boy now. No hesitation, no fear, no coldness. Just something steady and growing.

From across the room, Talia watched her son quietly, taking note of the way Derek reacted. Not with jealousy, but a sort of quiet yearning.

The memory faded, leaving behind a warm sort of melancholy in the loft. A moment of peace in a story that everyone was beginning to realize had very few.

The memory changed with a subtle flicker, and the light dimmed around them. What appeared next wasn’t vibrant like the previous ones - this was muted, full of ash and silence.

The burnt shell of the Hale House filled the screen.

Charred wood groaned underfoot as the older Derek and Stiles stepped carefully through what used to be the living room. Beams had collapsed. The ceiling was open to the gray sky. Nothing remained intact…just ruins and ghosts.

"I shouldn't have brought you here," Derek said, voice hoarse and broken. He wasn’t looking at Stiles, just staring at the blackened floor beneath his boots.

"You don’t have to tell me anything," Stiles offered, soft and gentle. But Derek shook his head.

"I was fifteen," he said. "She was older. She made me think she cared about me. She made me think I was special. And I was stupid and desperate and-"

He cut himself off, choking on the words.

Stiles didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt, just stood close. Let Derek have the silence.

"She asked questions," Derek continued, blinking hard. "She asked about our schedule, about the layout of the house, how many people lived there. I didn’t think anything of it. I thought she just... wanted to know about me."

His voice cracked.

"And then one night-" Derek’s breath stuttered, eyes glassy as he looked at the hollowed-out house, "-she lit the match. Eleven people died. My family. Everyone. Except me. Except Laura. And Peter... Peter was in the house. He’s still alive, but he’s been in a coma ever since."

erek dropped to his knees, fists clenched at his sides, body trembling with a grief too big for him to carry.

Stiles knelt beside him, pulled him into a tight, protective hug. The kind of hug that wasn’t just comfort, it was an act of defiance against the pain. He cradled Derek like he could hold all the broken pieces together. Derek sobbed into his shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” Stiles whispered in the memory, voice heavy with sincerity.

In the present, the loft was deathly still.

Cora’s hand flew to her mouth, eyes wide and wet with tears. "Eleven?" she whispered to herself. "He said eleven."

Peter was stone still, jaw tight. His knuckles whitened where his fists clenched against his knees. "I was in a coma?" he echoed under his breath, numb.

Talia had gone pale. Her fingers curled tightly around the arm of the chair, but she didn’t speak yet. She was staring at the screen like it would disappear if she blinked. She knew she was one of the people who perished in the fire since Stiles said he had never met Talia before.

Derek was staring at the memory on the screen - this man was older, broken, devastated. There was horror in his eyes, but also something deeper. He flinched when he heard the words “fifteen” and “older woman.”

"She used him?" he whispered. "Used him to kill his family?"

His voice cracked in the middle of the sentence, and he looked over at his mother, searching for something solid to anchor him.

Talia finally inhaled sharply, seeming to come back to herself. Her eyes burned with emotion as she turned to look at her son. "That will not happen here," she said, fiercely protective. "I promise you, that will never happen to us, Derek."

Peter still hadn't spoken. He looked haunted.

Stiles’ image faded from the projection, but the pain he’d revealed stayed behind like smoke in the room.

No one said anything for a long time. There was only the sound of Cora’s quiet tears and the distant, rhythmic hum of Stiles’ breath as he waited, facing the wall, still in the spell.

None of them would ever forget what they’d just seen.

The memory shifted again.

This time, the colors were darker. Tense. Nightfall had blanketed Beacon Hills, and Stiles and Derek were in the remains of the Hale House again. The wind whistled low through the broken remains, and their flashlights cut sharp beams through the dust.

Stiles was pacing, agitated, one hand dragging through his hair again and again. Derek stood stock still, a sick look on his face.

“You said Scott was bitten in the woods,” Stiles was saying, voice tense and fast, “same night you found Laura’s body.”

Derek nodded, stiff. “The scent was familiar. I just couldn’t place it.”

“Well, I think I can,” Stiles snapped, then turned and faced him, eyes wide, manic with realization. “You said Laura was clawed apart. But the other killings - Scott’s bite, the bus driver, the deer, all of them…they’re more like maulings. Like something wild.”

Derek didn’t respond.

“Derek,” Stiles said, quieter now. “Think about it. You said it felt wrong. You said it didn’t smell like a stranger.”

There was a beat.

Then Derek closed his eyes and exhaled shakily. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

Stiles watched him, breathing hard.

“But I know that scent. I’ve known it all my life,” Derek whispered. “It’s Peter.”

Silence.

The image blurred and then reformed. Now, the scene was at Beacon Hills Hospital. The lights were bright and sterile. Fluorescent.

Derek pushed the elevator button repeatedly while Stiles practically bounced beside him, adrenaline and fear making him twitchy. When the elevator doors slid open, they hurried down the long hallway toward Peter’s room.

Room 312. They turned the corner.

But the bed was empty.

The machines had been shut off. The tubes were gone. Only a faint indentation remained in the mattress.

“No, no, no-” Stiles muttered, rushing in. “He was still pretending to be in a coma yesterday! He couldn’t - how did he-”

Derek stood in the doorway, face pale, haunted.

“He’s really the alpha,” he said flatly. “He killed Laura to become the alpha.”

“And he bit Scott,” Stiles added, voice faint.

“And he’s out there now,” Derek said, teeth clenched. “Doing God knows what.”

Stiles sank onto the edge of the empty hospital bed, staring at the spot where Peter had been. “This just keeps getting worse,” he murmured.

Claudia reached over and put a gentle hand on Talia’s. Talia didn’t flinch. She just watched her ‘brother’s’ actions unfold on the screen, sadness carved into every line of her face.

Peter remained utterly still, arms crossed, unreadable. But there was a quiet grief in his eyes.

Derek exhaled slowly, barely shaking his head. “He was out of his mind,” he said, not to excuse it…just trying to understand.

Stiles hadn’t turned from the wall. But his fists were tight in his lap, and the weight of the memory hung heavy in the room. No one blamed each other. Not here. Not in this timeline.

But that didn’t make it hurt any less.

The next memory flickered into view - flashing lights, the echo of music thumping from inside the high school gymnasium, and the cool dark of the open lacrosse field just beyond the doors.

Stiles was dressed in a too large suit jacket, hair a mess from dancing, cheeks flushed. He was outside, fumbling with his phone, trying to call Scott, when a low growl cut through the night.

He didn’t even have time to turn around.

One moment he was standing in the open air, and the next, he was tackled to the ground. Wind knocked from his lungs, the world spinning as claws dug into his shoulders.

The memory shimmered as Peter - older, more feral than anyone in the room had ever seen him - snarled down at Stiles, red eyes glowing in the moonlight.

“Where are they?” Peter hissed.

Stiles blinked up at him, heart pounding in his chest. “I…I don’t know-”

“Scott and Derek. You’re their little messenger rat. You always know where they are.”

“I said I don’t know!” Stiles snapped, his fear now laced with defiance. “I don’t keep Scott on a leash, and Derek doesn’t exactly loop me into his daily schedule.”

Peter tilted his head, looking at Stiles like he was something fascinating beneath glass.

“You’ve got fight in you,” he said softly. “Clever. Brave. Loyal. You’d make a good wolf.”

Stiles froze. “What?”

“I could bite you right now,” Peter said, dragging a claw down Stiles' wrist, the tip just barely grazing the skin. “Imagine it. No more fragile bones, no more human limitations. You’d heal. You’d be faster, stronger. You could protect the people you care about. You could matter.”

For a second, just one split second, Stiles’ expression flickered. A tiny flash of temptation. The idea of power. Of being able to do something instead of always being the sidekick.

Peter must have sensed it, because he smiled and leaned down, his teeth brushing against the soft skin of Stiles’ wrist, the warmth of his breath making Stiles shiver.

But then Stiles’ eyes hardened. His lips tightened. He jerked his arm back and spat out, “No.”

Peter pulled back, irritated, almost disappointed. He looked at Stiles like he was a stubborn child refusing a gift.

“You’ll regret that,” he muttered, but didn’t sound like he believed it.

Then, just as suddenly as he’d taken him, Peter let go.

Stiles scrambled back, breathing hard, watching as Peter faded into the shadows of the trees, leaving him shaken and confused but very much alive.

Back in the loft, no one moved.

Peter looked sick. Not embarrassed. Not defensive. Just unsettled. Quiet.

Talia glanced at him, then at Stiles’ still form.

“He could’ve done it,” Claudia murmured aloud, more to herself. “And he didn’t.”

“Not because of mercy,” Stiles said from his place against the wall, his voice hoarse. “Because he wanted me to choose it. Because he wanted the credit. Because he thought I’d make something useful.”

“And you said no,” young Derek added softly.

“Yeah,” Stiles breathed, “I said no. If anyone was going to be my Alpha, it wasn’t Peter.”

The next memory blinked into life with sharp contrast - moonlight pouring in through broken boards, the charred remains of the Hale house casting long, skeletal shadows across the basement floor.

Stiles was breathing hard, frantic. He had blood on his hands - his own, maybe, maybe not - as he rushed through the ruins, calling out, “Derek? Derek!” Panic was woven into every syllable.

There was no answer, just a faint hum of electricity and a strained, pained groan from below.

Stiles followed the sound.

He found the trapdoor to the basement kicked open, the iron smell of burned flesh and scorched concrete rising like a cloud. He climbed down slowly, quietly, flashlight cutting through the dark.

Then he saw him.

Derek was shirtless, chained to the remnants of an old support beam, arms stretched above his head, his body covered in sweat, blood, and bruises. A cruel set of electrical clamps had been fixed to his torso, wired to a grotesquely modern generator. Every few seconds, the machine clicked and Derek’s body arched violently against the restraints with a choked, involuntary scream.

Stiles stopped breathing for a moment.

And then he saw her.

Kate Argent.

She stood in the shadows like a specter, eyes gleaming with sick amusement as she twisted a dial slowly, watching the volts tear through Derek with grim satisfaction.

Stiles didn’t scream. He didn’t announce himself.

He didn’t hesitate.

He raised the gun in his hand - his dad’s personal weapon, the one he never thought he’d have to use but stole anyway - and walked forward with silent steps, each one heavier than the last. He stood behind Kate. Close enough to smell her perfume.

She turned, smug expression already forming

And Stiles pulled the trigger.

One sharp, deafening shot rang out. Kate dropped instantly, lifeless, a stunned look still frozen on her face.

The generator crackled to a stop.

Stiles didn’t look at her again. Didn’t blink. He shoved the gun back into his waistband and rushed to Derek, hands shaking as he unlatched the restraints and guided the broken man down into his arms.

“Derek,” Stiles whispered, voice cracking, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you, okay?”

Derek could barely speak, could barely move, but his eyes locked on Stiles’. Wide, stunned, raw.

“You…” he croaked, “You killed her.”

Stiles nodded, trembling. “Yeah. Yeah, I did.”

“Why?”

The answer came without hesitation.

“Because I’d do anything to protect you.”.

The memory shimmered and faded, but the room it left behind was silent.

Derek sat frozen in place, his breath shallow. The idea that someone, this human, had walked into a deathtrap and killed someone to protect the man… was incomprehensible. He rubbed his palm against the table absently, trying to ground himself.

Talia’s face was unreadable, jaw tight, eyes wet. Peter looked deeply disturbed - not because Kate had died, but because he recognized just how much pain Derek must have been in for Stiles to do what he did.

Cora sat still, arms crossed tightly over her chest.

No one said anything. There was no need.

That memory said everything.

The next memory flickered to life with a heavy stillness, like the weight of inevitability pressing down on the room.

It was nighttime again, the loft cast in deep shadows. Stiles and Derek sat across from each other at the metal table, both looking older, tired - worn down not by time, but by the cost of survival. Derek’s arms were folded on the table, jaw clenched. Stiles sat stiffly, hands gripping a notebook, eyes red-rimmed from lack of sleep or too many regrets.

“We can’t leave him out there,” Stiles said quietly, no venom in his tone. “He’s not going to stop, Derek. He’s killed too many people. He’ll keep killing.”

Derek didn’t look at him at first. “He’s still my uncle.”

“I know,” Stiles said gently, like every syllable cut him open. “But he’s also a monster. And if we don’t stop him… more people will die. Probably people we care about. Probably even us.”

A long silence followed. Derek’s eyes flicked up, full of conflict. “Are you sure?”

“No,” Stiles whispered, voice breaking just slightly. “I’m not sure about anything anymore. But it’s the only way.”

The memory shifted.

Now they were in the burned out remains of the Hale house again. Ghosts of flames and tragedy seemed to hang in the air like smoke.

Peter stood just inside the frame of a broken doorway, smirking, arms spread lazily. “You summoned me?” he asked, voice thick with arrogance.

Stiles stood ten feet away, holding a bottle with a rag stuffed into it. His hands were shaking.

“I’m sorry,” he said softly.

Peter frowned, confusion just beginning to form before-

Whoosh.

The Molotov cocktail burst into flames as it sailed through the air, hitting Peter squarely and igniting him instantly. He let out a guttural scream as flames engulfed him, staggering backward, clawing at his burning skin.

Derek appeared from the shadows behind him.

There was no hesitation.

His claws extended, his eyes glowed blue - and with a single, brutal motion, he slashed Peter’s throat, cutting off the scream. Peter collapsed in a heap, fire still smoldering across his body.

Stiles stood frozen in place, eyes wide, chest heaving. He didn’t move, didn’t speak.

The memory lingered there - on Derek kneeling over Peter’s body, shoulders trembling, and on Stiles, who turned away so he wouldn’t have to watch Derek lose the last of his family.

And then the memory faded.

In the loft, the silence was suffocating.

Talia sat rigid, her hands white knuckled in her lap. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears, but she made no sound.

Cora stared hard at the floor, her jaw locked, processing what she’d just seen.

Derek looked pale, shell-shocked, not at Peter’s death, but at the understanding that a version of himself had agreed to that. Had chosen it. Had carried it out.

And Stiles…

Stiles was still facing the wall, unmoving.

Peter was the only one to speak, voice soft and unnervingly calm. “Well. That’s certainly one way to pass the torch.”

No one laughed.

The next wave of memories hit in a rapid, relentless sequence, no time to breathe between them, no space for processing.

It began with Derek, colder, his eyes a glowing Alpha red, standing before three teenagers in the shadows of an abandoned train station. Jackson, Boyd, and Erica.

The memory flickered, sharp, decisive movements.

Derek’s bite was fast, brutal. Jackson went first, cocky and defiant until the pain hit and he dropped to the floor, convulsing. Boyd was quiet but hopeful, and Erica trembled with a mixture of fear and anticipation. Derek's expression was unreadable throughout, the weight of his new role, Alpha, settling heavier with each second.

Then another flick.

Jackson’s transformation didn’t hold. His body rejected the bite. He didn’t shift, he grew unstable. Strange. His reflection showed slitted eyes and scaly skin. Something was wrong.

The next memory barreled forward.

Stiles yelling at Scott, at the others, trying to make them see. His voice cracked from the strain. “It’s not a werewolf. It’s not. Something’s wrong with him.”

Nobody believed him, except Derek.

A flash, Stiles sitting behind the counter of the mechanic shop, rifling through a book on shapeshifters.

Then everything twisted again.

Darkness.

The clang of a broken chain.

The hiss of a kanima.

Stiles backed away from the slick, scaled figure twisted into a grotesque reptilian shape. It moved fast. Inhuman. Paralyzing venom lanced out from its tail before Stiles could scream. He dropped to the floor, frozen, eyes wide in horror.

Paralyzed, he watched as the mechanic - a middle aged man - ran toward him to help. The kanima lunged. The sound of bones breaking was sickening. Blood sprayed across the floor, warm and bright.

Stiles couldn’t move. Couldn’t scream. His body was locked in place, tears falling helplessly from his eyes as he watched a man die inches away from him.

A crash.

Derek burst through the back of the shop, growling low and furious. The kanima hissed, recoiling, unsure of itself. It backed away through the shadows and vanished into the night.

Derek knelt next to Stiles immediately, his hands gentle even though his chest still heaved from the exertion. His eyes flicked over Stiles’s body, checking for injuries.

“You’re okay,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you.”

But Stiles couldn’t speak. He just blinked slowly, still paralyzed, as silent sobs wracked his frozen body.

The next memory began with blaring chaos - the screech of claws against tile, the slap of water, the dim, echoing acoustics of a darkened indoor pool. Lights flickered above, casting warped shadows across the tiled walls. Derek and Stiles stood at the pool’s edge, both panting, bruised, cornered.

Across from them, the kanima slithered with disturbing grace, eyes flashing, movements jerky and too fast to track. It hissed, tail twitching like a cat ready to pounce.

Then it was in motion.

The kanima lunged.

Stiles flinched backward, off balance on the wet floor.

But Derek moved faster.

He shoved Stiles hard, sending him skidding out of reach, just in time for the kanima’s tail to rake across Derek’s chest.

The paralytic toxin worked instantly. Derek’s limbs locked, his expression twisted in pain, and then he was falling, his weight too much, his body too stiff, and with a splash, he hit the pool.

Stiles screamed.

Without hesitation, he dove in after him.

The water swallowed them both in a heavy rush. The kanima hissed again, but didn't follow. It couldn't swim. Instead, it slunk away into the shadows, bidding its time.

Underwater, Stiles grabbed Derek and hauled him up. He was heavy, deadweight, sinking like stone. Stiles wrapped his arms around Derek’s torso, pulled him to the surface, and with incredible effort, held him afloat.

And there they stayed.

Hours passed. The memory flickered in and out - brief flashes of changing time. Stiles shifting to hold Derek better. Derek’s head slumping against Stiles’s shoulder. The water turning cold. The light outside the windows fading to dark.

Derek’s voice, groggy but dryly annoyed: “You know I weigh, like, two hundred pounds, right?”

“You think I don’t know that?” Stiles muttered, teeth chattering. “You think I’m gonna let you drown?”

There was a long pause. Derek tilted his head just slightly.

“…Why?” he asked finally. “Why do you keep saving me?”

Stiles looked at him; tired, earnest, soaking wet and shivering but utterly sincere. “Because I love you,” he said simply. “Because I’d do anything for you. Because you always think you’re not worth saving and I’m here to prove you wrong. Every time.”

Another beat of silence.

Then Derek whispered, “It’s a bad idea. Me and you.”

“I know,” Stiles answered, voice soft. “But we’re bad idea people.”

Derek’s eyes softened. His lips even twitched into a faint, reluctant smile. “I want to kiss you,” he admitted.

Stiles blinked at him, heart stuttering in his chest. “Yeah?” he said, then added, with a short laugh, “Well, as hot as you look soaking wet and dramatic like this, I’m not kissing you for the first time while you’re paralyzed and can’t even feel it. I want it to count.”

Derek laughed. It was breathy, tired, but real.

The memory ended on that quiet moment, two broken boys clinging to each other in freezing water, surrounded by death and danger, but clinging nonetheless.

In the present,Derek sat frozen in place, eyes wide, lips slightly parted. He didn’t speak. Couldn’t. The intensity of the emotion in that moment hit him like a truck.

He saw the fear in Stiles’s face, the determination, the care.

He saw himself - another version of himself - allowing someone to love him.

Letting someone in.

Being held.

And the quiet ache in his chest wasn’t jealousy or confusion. It was something closer to awe. Longing, maybe.

The next memory began gently, in the golden wash of early evening light filtering through venetian blinds.

Noah Stilinski sat behind his desk in the sheriff’s station, paperwork scattered in front of him, glasses low on his nose. His expression was unreadable as he looked across at Derek, who stood stiffly, hands shoved deep in his pockets.

There was a pause - heavy, almost awkward - until Derek finally broke it.

“I wanted to talk to you before I talked to Stiles,” he said. “About… dating him.”

Noah set his pen down. Slowly removed his glasses. “You know he’s younger than you,” he said; not accusingly, but cautiously.

Derek nodded. “I do.”

“And you know he’s… a lot,” Noah added, mouth twitching.

“I do,” Derek said again, and this time there was a hint of a smile. “He’s also smart, loyal, brave, and he deserves someone who’s going to show up for him.”

That gave Noah pause. He leaned back in his chair, studying Derek carefully. “Are you going to protect him?”

“With my life,” Derek said, instantly. “I already do.”

“And make sure he’s happy?”

“I’m not perfect,” Derek said, voice low. “But I will never hurt him. Not on purpose. And I’ll always try to make him happy. Every day.”

Noah stared at him for a long beat, then exhaled through his nose and leaned forward again.

“You really came here just to tell me that?” he asked.

“I came here because I refuse to let him be a secret,” Derek replied, unwavering. “If I’m with him, the world’s going to know. I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

Noah nodded slowly. Something in his face softened, and the memory version of him gave a small, tired smile. “Then you have my blessing. But if you break his heart, I’m the sheriff and I carry a gun.”

Derek nodded solemnly. “Understood.”

The memory blurred gently, shifting-

-and resolved into the next evening, Stiles fidgeting with his sleeves, practically vibrating with nervous energy as Derek pulled up in the Camaro. Stiles smiled like he hadn’t in weeks when he saw him, and Derek, clearly trying to play it cool, opened the door for him with a tiny smirk.

The next memory moments flickered in montage: dinner at a small diner just outside town, Derek offering his curly fries with a reluctant shrug, Stiles lighting up and stealing half of them. Laughing over milkshakes. Derek looking at Stiles like he was the only star left in the sky.

And finally - the Camaro.

It was parked beneath the trees off a quiet backroad, moonlight shining through the windshield. They were in the front seat, Stiles practically in Derek’s lap, hands tangled in his hair. Derek’s hand gripped Stiles’s waist tightly, like he couldn’t quite believe this was happening. Their kisses were messy, deep, aching with how long they'd waited to finally get to this point.

Stiles pulled back for a breath, forehead resting against Derek’s, both of them panting, grinning like idiots.

“Told you this was a bad idea,” Derek murmured, voice wrecked with affection.

“Yeah,” Stiles whispered. “But it’s the best bad idea we’ve ever had.”

Back in the loft, the room was silent - no one dared interrupt.

Talia looked quietly emotional, though she said nothing. Cora blinked fast like she was trying to understand who these older versions of her ‘brother’ and Stiles even were. Noah and Claudia… just watched, their faces unreadable, still trying to reconcile what they were seeing with the people they actually were.

And Derek?

He stared at the scene, his throat bobbing with a swallow.

His other self had gone to Noah. Had cared what Stiles’s father thought. Had protected Stiles with every breath. Had wanted more than just survival.

He hadn’t just loved Stiles, he’d chosen him.

And Stiles had chosen him right back.

The next memory flickered to life with the snap of a banshee’s scream - sharp and echoing through the shadows of the loft. In the memory, Derek and Stiles were tangled together on the couch, mid makeout, when the sound hit them. They broke apart instantly, both gasping and alert.

Then came the low rumble of something shifting. Power crackling. The sound of bones snapping and flesh reknitting. Something waking up.

And then…Peter.

He stepped out of the shadows like death itself, shirtless, dirty, eyes glowing with that familiar feral light, but steadier than before. Smarter. Saner. Still dangerous, but somehow centered. His smile was like a blade still sharp and mocking.

“Miss me?” he asked, voice raspy but smug.

Derek jumped to his feet, tense and half shifted, ready for a fight. Stiles remained frozen, heart in his throat, unsure whether to run or reach for wolfsbane.

But Peter didn’t lunge.

Instead, he tilted his head and gave them both a once-over, noting the way Derek stepped protectively in front of Stiles. “Huh,” Peter said dryly. “Didn’t expect to come back to this.”

“This is impossible,” Derek said, still in that low alpha growl.

“Apparently not,” Peter answered. “Turns out being tethered to a banshee’s scream has its perks. She needed an anchor. I needed an exit. Here I am.”

Stiles narrowed his eyes. “You’re… not crazy?”

Peter smirked. “Define crazy.”

Derek didn’t relax, but he didn’t attack. “You’re not Alpha anymore.”

Peter bowed slightly, mock formal. “You are. And I’m not fighting you for it.” He looked at Stiles. “And I’m also not stupid. You’re the Alpha Mate. You’re a disaster. But you’re his disaster.”

Stiles blinked, surprised by the acknowledgment. “That almost sounded like respect.”

“Don’t get used to it,” Peter said with a crooked grin. “And for the record - glad I didn’t give you the bite.”

Derek stiffened. “Excuse me?”

Peter looked far too pleased with himself. “Oh, didn’t he tell you? Back when I was Alpha, when I was tracking you down, I offered him the bite. Said it might help. He said no.”

Derek turned sharply to Stiles, eyes wide. “You didn’t tell me.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “It didn’t matter. I didn’t want it. And it’s not like he was in his right mind at the time-”

Peter snorted. “I was lucid enough to know your answer might piss him off.”

“It’s water under the bridge,” Stiles said, waving a hand. “I’m fine.”

Derek stepped forward, crowding into Peter’s space, eyes hard. “If you ever touch him, if you ever offer him anything again, if you even think about him the wrong way - I will put you down for good this time.”

Peter didn’t flinch. He just raised a brow and smiled faintly. “Well. There’s the Alpha.”

The memory began to fade, leaving behind a weighty silence in the loft.

Derek sat still, watching the other him stand between Stiles and Peter like he was born to do it. Watching how his other self had grown into someone willing to fight not just with strength, but with love.

Peter let out a soft huff - equal parts amused and irritated. “At least I came back better looking.”

Talia gave him a pointed look.

Stiles just exhaled shakily, staring down at the floor, knowing that the worst of it was still ahead.

The scene began in a dim, dank room - concrete walls, rusty chains bolted to the floor. Stiles hung from those chains, barely conscious. His face was bruised and bloodied, one eye swollen shut, lips split and bleeding. His breaths were shallow, each inhale a rattling gasp through what was clearly broken ribs.

Gerard Argent loomed in front of him like a specter of cruelty. Calm, methodical, terrifyingly quiet as he wiped the blood from his knuckles with a cloth. “Tell me where he is,” Gerard said flatly. “Tell me about the Alpha.”

Stiles didn’t answer. He just looked up with one good eye, blood running down his jaw, and smiled. A defiant, broken thing. “Go to hell.”

The next strike was brutal. A backhand, then a fist to the stomach. Gerard’s voice was distant now, drowned out by the ringing in Stiles’ ears. But still, Stiles didn’t speak about Derek.

Time skipped in the memory. Flashes of pain. Darkness. More blood.

Then an escape. Fumbling through a fire exit, arm cradled to his side, stumbling into the night.

The memory jumped again.

Now, Stiles was staggering into a warehouse, barely standing. His legs trembled with the effort to stay upright. Blood matted his hair and soaked into his hoodie. He was shaking, pale, but the fury burning in his eyes outshone the pain.

Inside the warehouse stood Scott, facing Derek, who was collapsed on the floor, the veins around his eyes dark with pain. The aftershock of a forced bite.

Gerard was gone, but his damage remained.

“You-” Stiles’ voice cracked as he screamed, staggering forward. “You made Derek bite him? You gave that monster the bite?!”

Scott stepped forward, guilt etched deep into his face. “Stiles, I didn’t have a choice-”

“You always have a choice!” Stiles bellowed, his legs finally giving out. He dropped to his knees, arms wrapped protectively around his ribcage. “You don’t get to violate someone like that. You don’t get to use him like that!”

He broke off with a pained scream, his breath catching, tears of rage and agony streaming down his face.

“You should’ve killed him!” Stiles spat, trembling. “You better have a plan to kill Gerard, Scott because if you don’t, I swear to every god there is, I’ll kill you both.”

Derek was suddenly there, dropping to his knees beside Stiles, catching him before he slumped to the floor entirely. His hands hovered, terrified to touch and cause more pain. “Stiles - Jesus,” his voice cracked.

“Don’t touch me,” Stiles sobbed, not unkindly, more from instinct than anger. “I’m fine, I’m fine, I just - I just need to see you.”

The memory flickered again.

Derek sat frozen, his fists clenched tight, his face ashen. His breathing was ragged. The image of Stiles tortured, bleeding, screaming, broken…it ripped through him like claws to the chest. His eyes were wolf bright, glassy with unshed tears.

“I don’t-” Derek rasped. “I don’t know if I can watch anymore. I-”

But then, for the first time since the memory charm began, Stiles turned to look at him.

His voice was raw, quiet.

“Stay. Please”

It was a plea. It was a thread. A lifeline tossed out to him in the middle of a hurricane of grief and trauma.

Derek swallowed hard and gave the smallest of nods.

And stayed.

The memory shifted again, the harshness of the previous scenes giving way to a quieter, softer kind of intimacy. The lighting changed to dim, golden, the flicker of firelight casting a warm glow against the exposed brick of the loft walls. Rain tapped gently against the windows, muffled and soothing.

Inside, everything felt still.

Stiles and Derek were sitting on the floor of the loft, backs against the couch, a half eaten pizza forgotten on the table nearby. There was laughter still in the air, something about a movie they’d watched, something about how bad the effects were. Stiles was barefoot, legs crossed, wearing one of Derek’s hoodies that hung loose on his frame. Derek sat beside him, long legs stretched out, pinky just brushing against Stiles’ knee.

The tension between them wasn’t sharp or burning - it was soft. Heavy with something unspoken that had finally settled long enough to be noticed.

Derek turned first, eyes catching the side of Stiles’ face. He looked at him like he was memorizing something, like he had all the time in the world to learn every part of this boy who had somehow become his everything.

“Are you okay?” Derek asked, voice a low murmur, like he was afraid to shatter the peace of the moment.

Stiles looked at him, and smiled. It was small and honest, the kind of smile that said yeah, I’m okay - because you’re here.

“I am now,” Stiles said softly.

They leaned in together. No rush. No desperation. Just months of pain and survival melting into something safe. When their lips met, it was careful, reverent. A whisper of a kiss that lingered. Derek’s hand cupped the side of Stiles’ neck, thumb brushing his jaw. Stiles’ fingers tangled in the front of Derek’s shirt like he couldn’t bear the thought of him slipping away.

When they pulled apart, they stayed close, foreheads pressed together.

“Are you sure?” Derek asked, every bit of him trembling with the weight of his restraint.

Stiles didn’t answer right away. He reached up, brushing Derek’s hair off his forehead, and leaned in again, this time a little deeper, more sure.

“I love you,” Stiles said, voice cracking just slightly. “I’ve loved you for so long I don’t even remember when I didn’t.”

Derek closed his eyes and kissed him again. “I love you too,” he whispered against Stiles’ mouth.

The rest of the memory unfolded like a slow song. No sharp edges. Just soft sighs and whispered promises. Hands that moved with care, discovering and cherishing. There was laughter, breathless and quiet, when Derek’s stubble scratched Stiles’ stomach. And there were tears too - not from pain, but from the overwhelming tenderness of being seen and loved.

They didn’t rush. It wasn’t about need, it was about trust. The kind you only give to someone who’s carried your heart through fire and never once flinched.

Derek watched the memory unfold like a secret he was never meant to see - part awe, part ache, part something unnameable blooming in his chest.

Because it wasn’t just about the physical act. It was about love. Safety. Home.

And it hit him harder than anything else they’d seen. Some version of him had been that for Stiles. The idea of being loved like that, of loving back like that, was more overwhelming than all the violence and grief combined.

He didn’t say a word.

But his hands trembled, and his eyes didn’t leave the screen for even a second.

One late afternoon, just as the light softened through the loft’s tall windows, the door creaked open. Standing there was Cora Hale. alive, breathing, real. A ghost made flesh. Everyone who had thought she was lost in the Hale fire couldn’t believe their eyes.

Her clothes were worn and dusty, evidence of a long and hard journey, and her eyes held a tired, wary light. She whispered, almost breathless, “I got away... from an alpha pack. They had me. I didn’t think I’d make it out.”

Derek’s face went pale. Stiles’s eyes widened in shock, his heart pounding like it might burst. Peter, usually so composed, looked stunned; his gaze flickering between disbelief and relief.

Without hesitation, Derek stepped forward, pulling her into a fierce, trembling hug. Stiles and Peter closed in beside them, and soon the four of them were tangled together on Derek’s huge bed, a quiet island of warmth in a world that still felt fragile.

Tears slipped freely - silent at first, then gathering into soft, shared sobs.

“I’m sorry,” Cora whispered, voice cracking. “I thought I’d never see you again. I’m so sorry I left you all.”

“No,” Derek murmured, brushing damp hair from her face. “You survived. That’s all that matters.”

Peter held her hand tightly, the edges of his voice raw with emotion. “We thought you were gone. We missed you so much.”

Stiles reached out, his own voice softer than usual. “You’re home now.”

They stayed like that all day, tangled together, whispering apologies, promises, and everything they couldn’t say before. The weight of years spent apart began to lift, replaced by fragile hope and the simple, undeniable comfort of being together again.

Silence held the room in a chokehold.

The memory of Cora’s return had been a balm, a brief breath of relief, but as the image faded from the wall and the room returned to stillness, it left something heavier behind. Something that settled deep in everyone’s bones.

Talia sat stone straight in her chair, hands knotted tightly in her lap. Her face, usually composed with the grace and poise of an Alpha, was pale and unreadable. But her eyes … her eyes betrayed her. Glassy with unshed tears, they stayed locked on Stiles, as if she couldn’t reconcile the boy in front of her with the bleeding, broken history he’d just shown them.

Noah looked like he might be sick. The moment Stiles’ memories had turned to Claudia’s decline, then his own fall into survival mode, something had shifted in him. Now, he sat hunched forward, elbows on knees, hands over his mouth, staring at the floor as if the weight of every memory he'd never had - and what his counterpart had done - was caving in on him.

Claudia was quietly crying. Not sobbing, just tears, slow and unstoppable. She hadn’t looked away once, hadn’t even blinked when the worst of it played out. But now she had both hands over her heart, like she could hold it steady with just pressure alone.

Peter, normally smug or deflective, hadn’t spoken in over twenty minutes. His expression was tight, jaw clenched, brow furrowed, like he was trying to puzzle together how that version of him - so violent, so lost - had ever been capable of being loved by this boy.

Cora sat frozen, a hand pressed to her mouth. She’d seen things no one had warned her about - seen herself mourned, buried in grief and fury and guilt, and she hadn’t even had time to process her return before learning what life had cost them in another world.

And Derek.

Derek looked wrecked.

He hadn’t said a word since the memory of Gerard. His eyes hadn’t left the scenes once, as if grounding himself in the here and now was the only thing keeping him sane. His knuckles were white from gripping the armrest, chest rising and falling too fast - like he was trying to breathe through someone else’s pain and didn’t know how.

Stiles, still facing the wall, turned slightly toward the group. His voice was soft.

“It’s not over.”

Every gaze in the room snapped to him.

Stiles swallowed hard. “It gets worse.”

And somehow, despite everything they’d already seen, every drop of trauma, every wound laid bare, dread coiled around their ribs like a vice.

Because the boy in front of them had survived a war.

And they weren't even through the battlefield.

Stiles hesitated, still facing the wall. His breathing was slow but unsteady, like he was preparing for impact.

“This part’s going to be… awkward for all of you,” he said, his voice rough and edged with embarrassment. “But I need it. I need to remember one more good thing before everything else. So… if anyone wants to look away, I won’t blame you.”

He didn’t turn around. Didn’t see how Peter’s brows lifted with silent curiosity, how Claudia immediately averted her eyes, how Cora blinked and sat up straighter, unsure, but didn’t look away.

He didn’t see the way Derek’s jaw ticked.

The memory flickered to life on the wall.

It opened in the loft - the same walls, the same warm lighting. But this time, it was bathed in dusk and grief. Stiles was thinner, paler, his movements tentative. Derek looked broken, quieter, darker, like the hope had been hollowed out of him.

It was right after the Darach. Right after Stiles had agreed to die, or pretend to, in order to save lives. Derek had thought he’d lost him. Had held his breath through the ritual, had cradled Stiles’ unconscious body with shaking hands, and had whispered apologies into his skin when he thought no one could hear.

The memory played out with aching tenderness.

Their hands shook as they touched, not from lust but from raw, unfiltered emotion. Derek had pressed his forehead to Stiles’, muttering words too soft to hear, but the memory projected the weight of them nonetheless. I thought I lost you. I can’t lose you. Not you.

Stiles had cried through it. not from pain, not from fear, but from the sheer intensity of Derek’s devotion. From the truth of being wanted that completely. They moved together with reverence, like they were promising something wordless and sacred. Like survival was an act of love.

Their bodies were bare, but what filled the room wasn’t graphic - it was desperate. It was intimate. It was a sanctuary built with mouths and hands and whispered declarations.

And when it ended, Derek wrapped himself around Stiles like he was the only thing keeping him tethered to the world. Stiles buried his face in Derek’s shoulder and whispered, “I’m still here.”

The memory lingered… not in movement, but in stillness. That quiet aftermath. That painful, beautiful relief.

Then, slowly, the light faded from the wall.

No one spoke.

Peter was unreadable. Still, focused, but there was something simmering just beneath the surface, something sharp and surprisingly protective.

Talia’s eyes were wet. Not from judgment, but from something closer to grief. She hadn’t turned away.

Noah looked like he might shatter into dust if anyone breathed wrong. Claudia had her hand pressed hard against her mouth, but there were tears running freely down her face.

Cora had looked. She’d watched every moment with the same haunted weight she’d carried since the memories began… and now, her gaze was on Stiles, and softer than before.

And Derek…Derek looked undone.

Like he’d just glimpsed the echo of something bigger than himself, something made of fire and devotion and unbearable loss.

And Stiles still hadn’t turned around.

He only whispered, “I needed to remember what it felt like. To be loved like that. Just… once more.”

The room fell into a heavy, anticipatory silence as the projection began again, no one sure what to expect, only knowing by Stiles’ warning that it would be worse.

The memory flickered into motion, and the tone shifted instantly. Gone was the soft lighting of the loft, the warmth of love and recovery. Now it was cold. Stark. Unforgiving.

It started with Stiles sitting alone in his room, under the flickering glow of a desk lamp. His hands trembled as he gripped the sides of his head. The bags under his eyes were dark, his skin pale, sickly. He looked thinner, worn down to a thread. The camera of memory flickered and glitched slightly, like the world itself was unstable. Then came a whisper:

“Let me in, Stiles. Let me show you what real power feels like.”

The voice was oily and disembodied. It slithered into the space, even though it came from nowhere. The Nogitsune didn’t have a form yet, but its presence was all consuming.

The next memory struck hard, Stiles appearing at school with no memory of the last two days. His clothes were stained. His knuckles bruised. Derek, who'd been looking for Stiles for two days, tried to stop him in the hallway, concern etched into his every movement, but Stiles flinched away, muttering that he had to go, that something was wrong.

The projection jumped.

Now Stiles was curled on his bedroom floor, clutching his hair, rocking, sobbing.

“You hurt them.” the fox whispered.
“You liked it.”

He screamed, loud and raw throat tearing sobs as he punched the hardwood, as he tried to claw something invisible out of himself.

Derek watched in horror as the Stiles in the memory hurled books across the room, screaming for someone to help him. Screaming for it to stop. Screaming for Derek.

“You’re weak, But I’m not. Let me take the pain away.”

In another jump cut, Stiles stood outside the loft, barefoot in the rain, completely unaware of how he’d gotten there. Derek opened the door in a panic and rushed to him, wrapping a blanket around his shoulders, asking what happened. But Stiles was distant. Gone. A puppet inside his own skin.

Another flicker.

Now he was screaming at Derek. Rageful. Possessed. His eyes were glassy and wrong, his body tense and dangerous. Behind his voice, the fox’s laughter echoed, low and cruel. The words weren’t his, but they came from his mouth:

“You think you love him, but he’s nothing. You’re all nothing. Just chess pieces. Just fuel.”

Stiles cried after that, screamed and sobbed and begged the universe to take it back, to undo whatever happened.

“I don’t want this in me!” he screamed. “I’m not me anymore!”

The projection stuttered again - this time flashing too many quick glimpses: Stiles wandering aimlessly through the forest. Waking up with blood on his hands. Laughing maniacally in front of a destroyed classroom. Falling apart in the loft while Derek tried to hold him, while Peter stood behind them with a grim face, unable to help.

It was chaos. It was pain. It was a haunting unraveling of a young man being possessed by something ancient and malicious - and no one could save him.

And still, the memory didn’t let go. Not until the image showed Derek, broken looking, whispering “I’m still here, Stiles,” while cradling the boy as he sobbed into his chest. Not until the real Stiles closed his eyes, forcing the memory to end.

The room was silent again.

Peter’s expression was unreadable, but his hand was clenched into a tight fist. Claudia looked nauseous. Cora’s hand had moved to her mouth, her other gripped the back of her chair so tightly her knuckles were white.

Noah was crying, tears slipping down his face with no fanfare or denial.

And Derek looked like he’d just had something ripped out of his chest. He stood frozen, jaw clenched, but his eyes shone. He didn’t say anything, but when Stiles opened his eyes and peeked over his shoulder, Derek was still there. Still watching.

Still staying.

The next memory began in quiet desperation.

Stiles was seated on the floor of the loft, surrounded by open books, old bestiaries, broken pencils, and scrawled notes on crumpled pieces of paper. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his eyes sunken, his fingers jittery, and his breath coming in shallow pants. He was unraveling. But this unraveling was frantic with purpose.

“A fox can’t share a body with a wolf,” he whispered aloud, voice ragged. “If I’m bitten…if I take the bite - it’ll drive the fox out. It has to. It won't turn me either.”

Derek’s voice came from off screen, low and terrified. “Stiles, that’s a terrible idea.”

“You don’t have a better one!” Stiles snapped, leaping to his feet. “I can’t keep living like this. Every minute I lose myself, every second I wonder if I’m gonna wake up with someone else’s blood on my hands. Please, Derek. It’s me. Bite me. Get it out.”

Derek stepped forward, face hard with conflict, his hands shaking. “If it kills you-”

“If it kills me, then at least it ends,” Stiles said, and his voice cracked. “Please.”

The memory shifted to the rooftop of the loft. The sun was beginning to rise, soft light casting a golden haze over the two of them. Stiles stood tall, his shirt off, neck exposed. Derek looked gutted.

“I’m sorry,” Derek said softly.

“Don’t be. Just do it.”

The sound of the bite was visceral. Flesh giving way, bones grinding as Derek’s jaw clamped down on Stiles’ shoulder. Stiles gasped, the pain nearly buckling his knees, but he stayed standing.

Then everything went white.

The image exploded in blinding light and then collapsed into a violent ripple of power. A scream tore from Stiles’ throat - not his own - but the Nogitsune’s, a shrill, unearthly sound of rage and pain. Shadows clawed from his back, thrashing and shrieking. The spirit howled as it was forcibly evicted from its host.

The fox’s face, twisted, monstrous, appeared in the light, mouth wide in fury, before disintegrating into ash.

Stiles collapsed.

Derek caught him.

Silence followed. The screen lingered on Stiles lying in Derek’s arms, unconscious but himself for the first time in months. Derek’s eyes were glassy, full of equal parts relief and horror. He whispered “You’re okay. You’re okay.”

But then the memory jerked forward. The quiet was gone.

Screaming. Running. Chaos.

They were outside in the dark. Snow in the air. The sound of Oni whirling through the shadows, smoke like and fast.

And then the moment.

Allison Argent. A flash of silver. A sharp, wet gasp.

A blade plunging into her chest.

Time slowed.

Stiles, still weak but conscious, screamed, his voice breaking in raw anguish.

Scott caught her as she fell. He begged her to stay, to hold on, to breathe - but the light in her eyes faded fast. Derek pulled Stiles back before he could run to them, whispering “Don’t look. Don’t watch.” but Stiles had to. He had to see her.

Scott’s howl of pain echoed into the dark.

“Scott,” Derek says cautiously, stepping forward, hands raised, voice low. “You need to breathe. She’s gone, but-”

It happens too fast.

A blur of motion. A guttural roar. Derek barely has time to blink before Scott is on him, claws tearing through flesh and muscle like paper. Derek gasps, chokes, his eyes wide in shock as Scott slams him into the ground, throat torn open. There’s blood. So much blood.

Stiles screams. But it’s already done.

“No. NO!”

And then another voice - rough, familiar, commanding: “Scott, stop!”

Noah Stilinski, badge still clipped to his belt, gun drawn, eyes locked on the nightmare unfolding.

Scott turns. Eyes glowing. A beast wearing his best friend’s face.

“Scott, don’t do this,” the sheriff pleads. “You don’t want to-”

A blur again. A sound like tearing fabric and a wet thud.

Stiles watches his father’s body crumple like it’s boneless. There’s blood on the concrete. Red soaking into tan uniform. Red on Scott’s claws.

Time stops.

Something breaks inside Stiles, something permanent.

He doesn’t remember pulling the gun from his dad’s holster. Doesn’t remember aiming. All he knows is that he sees Scott, eyes still wild, panting, covered in blood - Derek’s blood, his dad’s blood - and he knows there’s no coming back from this.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, voice shaking but steady enough.

The shot cracks like thunder through the courtyard. One after another after another, straight to his friend's skull.

Scott falls.

And just like that, it’s over.

Stiles’ voice cracked mid sentence, strangled by the sob in his throat.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry - I can't… I can't do this anymore,” he choked out, his voice trembling as the final memory faded from his eyes.

Tears streamed freely down his cheeks as he closed his eyes tight, like shutting them would somehow make everything vanish; erase the grief, the trauma, the pain of reliving every wound in front of people who looked at him like strangers. Because they were. And he couldn’t take it. Not their pity. Not their shock. Not their heartbreak.

He turned slowly, dreading what he'd see, but it was worse than he feared.

They were all staring at him wide eyed, silent, broken in different ways. Claudia looked like she wanted to hold him. Talia’s hand was clenched around her daughter’s. Peter was pale. Cora was crying. Noah was holding a shaking breath. Derek…

Derek looked like someone had torn his soul out.

And that…well that broke him.

Stiles ran.

He bolted from the projector space in the loft, barely registering Peter’s startled call or Cora’s sharp gasp. He nearly tripped over a chair, shoved the loft door open, and disappeared down the stairs.

Derek was on his feet immediately, the chair he was in screeching across the floor.

“I’m going after him,” he said, breathless, already heading for the door.

“Derek-” Claudia’s voice cut through his panic. She stood, calm but firm, stepping between him and the exit. “You need to give him a minute.”

“No,” Derek growled. His voice was tight, desperate. “You saw what he’s been through. I can’t just let him go. What if he doesn’t come back?”

Claudia’s expression softened, though her voice remained steady. “Then that’s a choice he makes, Derek. You can’t force him to stay.”

The words hit like a punch to the gut.

Derek’s breath hitched and his hands curled into fists. His wolf snarled just under his skin- panicked, agitated, howling. Every instinct in him said go after, protect, hold, don't let him go.

But Claudia just looked at him, eyes heavy with understanding and grief. “You saw the same things we did. He’s not running from you, Derek. He’s running from all of it. He definitely needs some time.”

Derek’s jaw clenched, and his eyes flicked to the door again, like he could still catch a glimpse of Stiles if he moved fast enough. His chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow breaths, and for a moment, it looked like he might ignore Claudia entirely.

But he didn’t.

He took one step back. Then another. His hands still trembled with restraint.

“He’s not okay,” he whispered hoarsely. “And if he doesn't come back - if he thinks we’ll look at him like that forever-”

“Then we show him we won’t,” Claudia said gently.

Derek didn’t sit. He couldn’t. He paced, barely holding himself together. His wolf paced with him, wild and anxious and mourning. Because it didn’t matter that this version of Derek wasn’t Stiles’ mate.

Derek’s wolf already knew who he belonged to.

Notes:

I edited for a week, then I edited some more and I don't know if I like it still. If it doesn't come across as genuine or it seems to convoluted, please tell me so I can take it down and edit it more. Thank you!

Chapter 9: It’s the paradox of survivors

The moment Derek steps away from the door, it feels like his entire body is at war with itself.

His wolf howls.

Not metaphorically. Not a whisper of instinct.

A full bodied roar that reverberates through his chest like a struck bell.

Go after him. Protect him.

But Derek stands still.

Every muscle is coiled so tight he feels like he might shatter. His jaw is clenched, his fists trembling at his sides. He’s vibrating with the effort it takes not to shift. Not to chase. Not to track Stiles by scent and haul him back where he belongs - safe, here, with them.

With him.

But that’s the problem, isn’t it?

He’s not his. Not here. Not now. Not in this timeline.

And Derek knows it. He knows it - but his wolf doesn’t care. His wolf only knows what it saw: Stiles, bleeding and broken and loved by a version of him that looked a little older, a little harder… but felt the same in every bone deep way.

That wolf is raging.

Derek moves suddenly, dragging a hand through his hair and knocking over a chair with his hip. He doesn't even register it until the crash echoes through the loft. He stumbles a step back, breath caught in his throat like it’s too big to breathe around.

His claws are out. He doesn’t remember shifting them.

He turns his back on the room, on the weight of the stunned, silent people still processing everything they saw, what Stiles lived through. He presses his palms flat against the nearest wall and leans into it, forehead touching the cool brick as if grounding himself physically can quiet the war inside his chest.

“He’s hurting,” Derek murmurs, voice nearly inaudible. “And I can’t fix it.”

His wolf snarls at that. It doesn’t accept that. Because it saw how Stiles looked at him. How instinctively he turned to Derek, even when he stopped himself. Because Stiles had said he’d do anything for the Derek of his world. Because the love in those memories was too real, too intense to ignore.

He should’ve gone after him.

But would that help Stiles? Or would it just be for him?

That doubt - that sickening, clawing doubt - is the only thing keeping his feet rooted to the floor.

Behind him, no one dares speak. The weight of grief in the loft is thick and still. Talia is sitting with her hands folded tightly. Cora is wiping silent tears. Peter hasn’t moved. Noah is pale. Claudia is watching Derek like she wants to speak, but she doesn’t.

Because Derek isn’t ready for anyone to say anything.

His wolf is pacing.

His hands are shaking.

His eyes are glowing faintly gold in the dim light.

And his heart is breaking.

Because Stiles ran.

Because he let him.

Because he had to.

Because he might not come back.
~~~~

Stiles runs.

Not like someone going for a jog or stretching their legs - he bolts, like something feral, like something hunted. His lungs burn with every breath, but he doesn't slow down. Can’t. The loft door slams behind him, echoing like a gunshot in the silence he left behind.

His feet slap against pavement, gravel, earth - he doesn’t care where he’s going, only that it’s away.

Away from the loft.

Away from the wall of his memories.

Away from the eyes…those eyes.

Eyes that wore the same shapes as the people he loves.

But weren’t them.

He stumbles over a root, catches himself against a chain link fence and nearly retches. His whole body is trembling. His hands grip the cold steel until his fingers ache, until the trembling gets worse and worse and he can’t hold on anymore.

He drops to his knees in a patch of wet grass, breathing so hard it feels like he’s suffocating.

They know.

They saw his mother screaming at him, throwing things. They saw his dad, the man in that room, fall apart into a whiskey soaked ghost of himself. They saw Stiles lie, steal, kill. They saw him possessed, corrupted, hollowed out by something monstrous. They saw his love, his loss, his ache, his everything.

And now they know what he is.

Not who, but what.

Damaged. Fractured. Tainted by grief and rage and desperation.

A boy who murdered. A boy who bled. A boy who failed to save the people who mattered most.

His hands claw into the dirt, and he bows his head as a sob rips from his throat.

They looked at me like I was broken. he thinks to himself.

Even Derek.

Even Peter.

Even Talia - who’d looked at him like her heart was breaking.

He doesn’t blame them. He doesn’t hate them. He just…he can’t breathe with their eyes on him.

With their silence. With their understanding.

It’s worse than blame.

Because now he can’t hide. Not even behind the snark or the wit or the frantic rambling he used to keep people at arm’s length. Now they’ve seen.

The boy who’s lost everything.

The boy who loved too hard, fought too dirty, and survived with scars no one could touch.

And he ran.

Because they might pity him.

Because they might hate him.

Because they might still care.

And that’s what he can’t take.

Stiles curls in on himself, hands over his face, and cries into the grass like the world might split open under him. Because he’s not sure if he wants to go back.

He’s not sure if he deserves to.

The sting hits him first - sharp, hot, dragging.

Stiles hisses through his teeth and lifts a trembling hand to his side.

Warmth coats his fingers. Sticky. Wet.

Blood.

He pulls his hoodie up with clumsy fingers, already knowing what he’ll see. The rune reopened. The angry, carved edges of the triquetra and the triskelion had been healing, but the desperate sprint through woods and fields had ripped the scabs clean off. Blood is soaking through the bandages now, seeping into the fabric of his hoodie, his jeans, the waistband of his boxers. More than last time. A lot more.

His vision wavers.

He staggers backward and nearly falls before collapsing into the cold, dewy grass. His breathing is shallow, chest stuttering with every rise and fall. The adrenaline is burning off, leaving behind nothing but shaking limbs and bone deep exhaustion.

And he’s a lot farther from the loft than he thought.

His feet had carried him miles. Through trees and quiet streets and the dead hush of the day. Through the haze of pain and memories and humiliation. Through guilt. Through grief.

He didn’t mean to end up in a field somewhere on the edge of town. Didn’t mean to get lost.

But he’s so tired.

He presses both hands to the wounds, trying to slow the bleeding, but his fingers are slick and clumsy and weak. His vision blurs again, a haze creeping at the corners. Every breath is harder than the last.

And for a terrifying, fleeting moment… he thinks about letting go.

Just lying back on the grass and waiting. Letting the cold soak into his bones. Letting the sky spin away from him. Letting himself fade.

Maybe that’s what’s best.

Maybe that’s what’s meant to happen.

He came here, tore open the quiet, exposed a world full of pain and death and impossible choices. He dredged up ghosts and laid them at the feet of people who hadn’t earned them, who didn’t ask for them.

And now he’s bleeding out alone, just like he always knew he would.

But then…He thinks of Derek.

Not this Derek. Not the young, confused, quietly kind boy in the loft.

But his Derek.

The man who held him while he cried. The man who stood between him and danger, again and again. The man who never asked him to be anything other than himself.

The man who died for him.

And then he thinks of Peter, his Peter, and how furious he would be to learn that Stiles bled out in a field because he thought dying would be easier than facing people who might care.

He thinks of Claudia. Of Talia. Of Cora. Of Noah.

Of the way they’d looked at him when the memories ended. Not with disgust. Not with hatred.

But with heartbreak.

He can’t do that to them.

He can’t come in, shatter their peace, give them pieces of a world they’ll never live in - and then just die.

That would be cruel.

And Stiles, for all his faults, isn’t cruel.

So with a broken sob and shaking limbs, he pushes himself to his knees.

He clutches his side, teeth gritted against the pain.

And he stands.

He doesn’t know how far he is.

Doesn’t know if he’ll make it.

But he turns back the way he came.

Because someone has to know he didn’t mean for this.

Because someone has to understand that he wants to live.

Because someone might be waiting.
~~~~

The loft is too quiet.

Too still.

Three hours have passed, and every tick of the clock is a nail in Derek’s chest. His knee bounces restlessly, jaw clenched so tight it aches. He hasn't spoken. Hasn't eaten. Barely breathed.

He’s been sitting by the door like a sentry, waiting. Listening for a heartbeat that isn’t coming.

Peter paces nearby, glancing at him now and then, but even Peter doesn’t say much. No one does. The room is heavy with the weight of what they saw, what they learned, but for Derek, that weight is nothing compared to the gaping void where Stiles should be.

His wolf is whining.

Low, mournful, nervous.

The instinct to hunt, to find, is becoming unbearable. It claws beneath his skin, circles in his chest, howls through his bones.

Something is wrong.

He can feel it like a hook in his gut.

He shoots to his feet suddenly, his chair scraping across the floor. Everyone looks at him, startled.

“I have to go,” he says, already grabbing his coat.

“Derek-” Claudia starts, but he growls - not cruelly, just wildly - and she freezes.

“I should’ve gone after him then. I knew.” His eyes flash, bright gold. “I can’t wait anymore.”

No one tries to stop him this time. Even Peter stays silent, lips pressed tight.

Derek’s down the stairs and out the loft in seconds.

The moment he hits the sidewalk, he inhales, and catches the faintest trace of Stiles' scent.

It’s old. Faint. Fading fast. But it’s there.

Vanilla and ozone and that subtle tang of magic.

He takes off at a sprint, no hesitation in his stride. His feet pound the pavement, and then dirt, as the trail pulls him into the woods behind the loft.

His pulse thrums. His breath is ragged. His wolf is right beneath the surface, snarling and restless.

Half a mile in, the scent of blood hits him like a wall.

He stumbles. Skids in the dirt.

“No,” he whispers, voice catching.

The air is thick with it. Fresh. Iron sharp.

Too much.

The world narrows. His claws burst free without permission. His vision shifts, tunnel like, sharpening to predator focus.

He growls, low and guttural, panic climbing fast.

Every instinct screams find him. Now.

He doesn’t walk.

He runs.

Branches whip past him. His boots tear through underbrush. His heart is a jackhammer in his chest. And the closer he gets, the more terrible the scent becomes, blood and pain and Stiles.

His wolf is frantic now, fully risen, howling in his head. There’s fear, yes - but worse, there’s grief. Like the world is trying to prepare him for something unspeakable.

But Derek refuses.

He won’t let that be the end of Stiles’ story. Not like this.

He crashes into the clearing, and the sight nearly brings him to his knees.

Blood soaked grass.

A limp figure staggering forward, barely upright.

“Stiles!” Derek shouts, voice cracking.

Stiles turns slowly, swaying, and then collapses.

And Derek is there in an instant, catching him before he hits the ground.

Stiles crumples into Derek’s arms like a dying flame, flickering and fading fast. His blood is warm and sticky against Derek’s hands, and his skin…his skin is too cold, too pale.

“Don’t,” Stiles mumbles, weakly trying to push at Derek’s chest. “Don’t, Derek. Just… don’t.”

But Derek doesn’t let go. He won’t.

“You shouldn’t…” Stiles chokes, eyes squeezed shut. “You’re only here because you think you have to be. Because of the other you. The one who…who’s my mate in another life.”

His voice breaks on the word mate, and the pain in it nearly shatters Derek.

He swallows thickly. “That’s not why I’m here.”

Stiles doesn’t look at him.

Derek cups his face gently, fingers cradling his jaw. “Look at me, Stiles.”

“Don’t,” Stiles whispers. “Don’t lie to me just to be kind. I can’t-” His eyes flutter open, rimmed red. “I can’t take that.”

“I’m not lying,” Derek says, voice firm but soft. “I won’t pretend this isn’t complicated. That this doesn’t feel impossible. But I didn’t come after you because of him. I came after you because of you.”

Stiles sways again, the exhaustion starting to win, and Derek shifts to support more of his weight, keeping him steady.

“My wolf…” Derek hesitates, then presses his forehead to Stiles’. “He already sees you as his.”

Stiles flinches. “You don’t have to-”

“I know I don’t.” Derek’s voice sharpens. “And I’m still here. I’m terrified. I don’t know what this is or what it means. But my wolf howled when you ran. He howled, Stiles. He’s been pacing in my chest since you left.”

His claws slide free again, half shifted from panic, from need, from instinct.

“I don’t feel obligated,” Derek whispers. “I feel connected. And I don’t know what to do with that yet. But I do know I’m not letting you bleed out in a field alone.”

Then, he tips his head back and howls.

It tears through the trees like a thunderclap. Deep and guttural, mournful and demanding. A call to arms. A cry for help.

Let the others come.

He’ll explain later.

He has to keep Stiles alive long enough for there to be a later.

Stiles blinks up at him, lashes fluttering. “You always did look dramatic when you howled,” he whispers faintly.

Derek huffs a broken laugh, eyes wet. “You’d better live so you can keep making fun of me for it.”

And though Stiles doesn’t say anything more, he shifts minutely closer, head falling against Derek’s shoulder, trusting him to hold on.

So Derek does. With everything he has.

The sound of footsteps crashing through the woods reaches them like distant thunder, branches snapping, dirt shifting under quick strides. Derek doesn’t look up; he stays crouched in the grass, one hand under Stiles’ head and the other pressing against his ribs, trying to slow the bleeding from the reopened triquetra.

Then, a familiar voice breathes, “Oh my god,” and Claudia is there.

She drops to her knees beside them, already reaching for the pouch at her hip. “Don’t move him,” she says quickly, firmly, and Derek nods as the others gather behind her, wide eyed and silent.

Talia is the first to step forward, eyes locked on the deep red soaking through Stiles’ clothes. “How bad?”

“Bad,” Derek murmurs, voice hoarse.

But Claudia doesn’t panic. Her hands glow faintly gold as she begins to whisper low, rhythmic chants in Polish - old, older than any of them. Words meant to knit skin and soothe broken magic.

She moves with confidence and reverence, brushing sweat matted hair from Stiles’ forehead as she lays her hands carefully over his chest. “You’ll feel warm,” she tells him, voice gentle. “It’s going to pull tight, like someone stitching you back together.”

Stiles groans softly, barely coherent. “Better than bleeding out in a field, I guess,” he mutters, voice slurred.

Claudia’s lips curve just slightly, though her eyes shine with emotion. “You’re stronger than anyone should have to be,” she murmurs. “No child should carry the weight you’ve carried.”

She lifts the blood soaked shirt to expose the rune, triquetra dark with dried blood, the edges angry and cracked. The spiral triskelion carved near his heart looks just as raw, angry red and nearly pulsing with pain.

Claudia presses her fingers just outside the wounds, and golden light surges from her palms into the symbols. A spark of something crackles between her hands and Stiles’ skin.

Stiles gasps in pain and arches off Derek’s chest, but Derek doesn’t let go. He holds him through it, whispering calming nonsense, low and steady.

“You’re doing great,” Claudia says, voice unwavering. “Just a little more.”

Peter is behind her now, arms crossed tightly but his expression unreadable. Cora crouches a few feet away, wide eyed and silent, while Talia stands just behind Derek, one steady hand on his shoulder.

Claudia’s magic works in waves - heat blooming under her hands, golden thread like wisps pulling the skin closed, pushing out infection and sealing the damage rune by rune. Sweat beads along her brow, but she doesn’t stop. Not until the bleeding slows. Not until the raw agony on Stiles’ face fades to a manageable ache.

She finally pulls back, breathing hard, and looks down at him. “It’s sealed, but it’ll scar,” she says. “Runes that deep always do. And your magic is still depleted. You need rest. Real rest.”

Stiles nods weakly, eyes fluttering.

But Claudia doesn’t move, not yet.

She watches him with a strange look…half wonder, half sorrow. As if she can still see echoes of a life she never lived with him. A bond that once could have been.

“You look so much like my father,” she says softly. “It’s like seeing a piece of him again.”

Stiles, dazed, gives her a watery smile. “He always said you were the clever one.”

Claudia swallows hard.

“I think,” she whispers, brushing a hand through his hair, “I would’ve been proud to be your mother.”

And Stiles, barely conscious, lets out a broken sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob before the exhaustion pulls him under completely.

Derek shifts him gently against his chest, protective and silent.

The pack stands around them in heavy quiet. Humbled. Shaken.

No one says it out loud, but the truth hangs in the air like thunder:

This boy, this stranger, is already part of them.

And none of them are quite sure what that means yet.
~~~~

Getting Stiles back to the loft is a careful, quiet operation. No one rushes, no one speaks more than they need to. Derek carries him, cradled tightly against his chest, as if the boy might disappear if he lets go. Stiles is still mostly unconscious, drifting in and out, occasionally murmuring nonsense into Derek’s neck - things like “I tried,” and “Don’t leave me again.”

Derek doesn’t answer those words. He just holds him closer.

At the loft, the staircase creaks under Derek’s weight, and his wolf paces inside him, restless and aching. It’s furious that he turns left, toward the spare room, and not right, not toward his bed, where Stiles belongs. But Derek grits his teeth and ignores the urge. The boy isn’t his. Not this version. Not yet. Not ever, maybe. And he’s already been through enough without waking up in unfamiliar sheets and Derek's scent too close to his skin.

The spare room is clean and quiet, and Claudia helps Derek lay him down gently. She rewraps his bandages, whispers another low incantation under her breath, and brushes a few strands of hair back from Stiles’ forehead before standing. Her touch is tender, maternal.

Then they all step back into the main room, where the warm loft light doesn’t feel as comforting as it used to.

The silence stretches until Talia finally speaks. “We need to be careful now.”

Derek stands with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His entire body is pulled taut with instinct, with tension, with the need to go back into that room and watch over Stiles. Guard him.

Peter leans back against the railing, unreadable. Cora’s sitting on the couch, legs curled under her, face pale.

“I don’t want him alone,” Derek says, too sharply.

“No one does,” Claudia agrees, calm but firm. “But we can’t overwhelm him either. His system is already dangerously low - physically, magically, emotionally. If we all hover, it’s only going to make him feel guilty.”

“He already does,” Cora says quietly. “I felt it…when he saw me, when he talked to you all. He feels like he’s breaking something just by being here.”

Peter sighs. “It’s the paradox of survivors. He came back because he wanted to save someone, and now that he’s here, he thinks existing is the damage.”

“That’s not something we can fix by watching him sleep,” Talia says. “He needs quiet. Stability. Familiarity.”

“He needs time,” Claudia says gently. “And he needs to know that this place, this pack, won’t disappear if he leans on us.”

There’s a pause. Then Derek speaks again. “He stays here. With me. And Peter.”

Peter raises an eyebrow but doesn’t object.

Claudia adds, “I’ll come by twice a day to cleanse the wounds and check on the magic draw. If it doesn’t stabilize, I’ll need to do a grounding ritual to restore his core.”

“And if he tries to bolt again?” Derek asks, quieter now.

“We don’t trap him,” Talia answers. “We show him this is a place worth staying.”

They all nod. It’s the only thing they can do.

No more choices forced on him. No more pain added to what already threatens to drown him. Stiles will have to choose to stay.

And all they can do now is give him every reason to.
~~~~

Stiles dreams in technicolor - vibrant, overwhelming, a flood of sensation that wraps around him like summer heat and the scent of Derek’s cologne. They're all his favorite memories played out in his mind.

In the dream, the kitchen is soaked. Soap bubbles cover the floor and cling to every cabinet. Derek is barefoot, shirtless, and soaked from the waist down, holding a broken dishwasher hose with a deadpan look that dares Stiles to laugh. But Stiles is already laughing, doubled over on the countertop, nearly slipping in the suds as Derek tries to keep his balance.

“You said you knew how to fix it,” Derek says, water dripping off his chin.

“I said I’d seen a video on how to fix it,” Stiles corrects between snorts, wiping tears from his eyes.

Derek just groans, but he’s grinning now - open and easy and only for Stiles. And Stiles thinks, this is it. This is everything.

The dream shifts.

It’s quiet now, dim…just the low hum of the loft’s lights. They’re lying on the old leather couch, limbs tangled, Derek’s hand resting over Stiles’ chest like he’s anchoring him. Derek’s voice is soft in the dark.

“I love you,” he says. No fanfare, no hesitation. Just a truth he’s been holding inside too long. “I’ll love you forever, Stiles. In this life and whatever comes next.”

Stiles remembers that moment down to the way the air changed, thick and full and real. He remembers not speaking at first, because words would’ve broken the sacred thing that had just formed between them.

In the dream, he doesn’t speak either. He just touches Derek’s face, memorizing it again.

Then the scene shifts again…light and warm. A dinner table at the loft. The scent of roasted garlic and baked bread. The Sheriff is seated at one end, sleeves rolled up, telling some long winded story about a traffic stop gone wrong. Derek is across from him, rolling his eyes with barely hidden affection. Stiles is perched next to Derek, nudging his arm whenever his dad gets to the punchline.

It’s domestic. It’s soft. It’s home.

The table is full of laughter and clinking glasses and Derek brushing his fingers against Stiles’ knee under the table just because he can. Because they’re not hiding.

It’s the happiest Stiles has ever been.

And even in the dream, part of him knows it’s not real. That this is memory, not present. That he’s lying in a bed in a world where this version of Derek doesn’t exist anymore.

But for now, in the technicolor dreamscape of what was, Stiles lets himself have it. Lets himself live in the warmth a little longer.

Because waking up means letting it go.

Chapter 10: And Derek had no intention of letting go

Derek sat with his back against the wall just outside the spare room door, legs drawn up, arms braced over his knees, head tipped forward like the weight of everything might finally crush him.

The loft was dark and still. Claudia had turned off the lights with a gentle murmur and a lingering glance at the closed bedroom door. Peter had gone upstairs not long after, trailing an unreadable look, but Derek hadn't moved. Not once. Not since they’d gotten Stiles into bed.

The wood floor was cold beneath him, but Derek didn’t feel it. His senses were trained too tightly on the room behind him, on every breath, every shift in heart rate. And it was that - the way Stiles’ heart kept spiking throughout the night, thudding fast and erratic before calming only to rise again - that had Derek clenching his jaw so tightly his molars ached.

But Stiles made no sound. No cries. No sobs. Not even a whisper. Just the pounding of a heart that screamed louder than any words.

Derek’s claws had come out more than once. His wolf, unsettled and raw, paced beneath his skin. Go in. Check. Fix it. Help him.

But Derek stayed still. He’d seen the look in Stiles’ eyes earlier, the one that pleaded please don’t see me like this. And he couldn’t break that, even if it was killing him to stay outside the door.

He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closed, the scent of blood long washed away but seared into memory. His wolf wouldn’t rest. It wouldn’t rest. There was a pull in his chest, sharp and constant. A tether wrapped around Stiles that hadn’t been there before and now wouldn’t loosen.

The sound of footsteps broke the silence, light but purposeful. Peter.

Derek didn’t open his eyes.

“You’re still here,” Peter said softly, more observation than question.

Derek didn’t answer.

Peter stepped closer, bare feet silent on the floor. “You need sleep, Der. He’s not going anywhere.”

“I can’t,” Derek muttered, voice rough and too low.

Peter crouched beside him, looking at him with those sharp eyes. “You can’t, or your wolf won’t let you?”

Derek finally looked at him. “Same thing right now.”

Peter sighed, not annoyed, just… tired too. He rested his hand briefly on Derek’s shoulder. “You’re not helping him like this.”

Derek shook his head. “I’ll be worse if I leave. It’s - he’s not my mate. Not here. Not really. But-” His throat tightened. “Something in me thinks he is. And I’m too tired to fight it tonight.”

Peter looked at him for a long beat, then gave a single nod.

He didn’t push. Just said, “Then stay,” before standing and disappearing back into the shadows.

Derek leaned his head against the doorframe now, close, just close enough that if Stiles cried out, if he called for him, Derek would hear it instantly. He let his fingers curl against the wood.

His wolf settled a little.

And though Derek didn’t sleep, he stayed right there. Guarding the broken boy who didn’t want to be seen, hoping his silent presence was enough to keep the nightmares at bay.

Sometime after three a.m., the loft settled into a deeper quiet - one that felt heavier than sleep, thick with exhaustion and grief. Derek hadn’t moved. Not even to stretch. Every muscle ached, but it was a distant kind of ache, one that barely registered under the raw, gnawing need to stay close.

The scent of Stiles was weaker than it should’ve been, with the door separating them.

Derek’s ears tracked the shifts inside the room. The covers rustled. Stiles’ heart rate stuttered, then jumped again. Still no sound. Not a word. Not a cry.

It made Derek’s own chest feel too small. He pressed his forehead to the door, breath shallow. He could feel the pain bleeding through the walls like fog seeping under a door. Stiles might be asleep, but he wasn’t resting. The boy was lost in memories that didn’t belong to this world, and Derek didn’t know how to reach him without breaking him further.

The door didn’t open. The heart rate never leveled. And Derek stayed.

When the first hint of morning light began bleeding pale and uncertain across the loft windows, Derek still hadn’t slept. He didn’t bother trying. His back ached, his limbs were stiff, and the claw marks he’d left on his own forearms during the worst of the night were finally starting to fade.

Claudia padded in first. Her bare feet whispered across the floor. She took one look at him and didn’t scold, just set a steaming mug beside him and brushed his hair back from his face with a gentleness that made his throat close.

“He made it through the night,” she said softly, crouching beside him. “That’s something.”

Derek didn’t answer. He didn’t trust himself to.

She stood and opened the door just a crack, slipping inside like smoke. He heard the shift of sheets, the low hum of her voice, a rustle as she likely checked the bandages. Magic sparked faintly behind the door - cleansing, steadying. Derek exhaled slowly.

The sound of Peter’s voice came from the kitchen a moment later, too sharp for morning. “If he doesn’t move soon, he’s going to fuse to the damn floor.”

“Let him be,” Talia murmured.

Derek didn’t care that they were talking about him. Didn’t care that his knees throbbed, or that his spine felt like it had splintered in two places.

He only cared about the boy behind the door. The one his wolf had already started calling ours, even if his mind whispered not yet. Not here.

When Claudia emerged some minutes later, her face was a mixture of awe and worry. She sat on the floor beside Derek without a word and pressed a cloth wrapped hand gently to his arm. “He’s asleep again,” she said softly. “Calmer this time. Still hurts, but… I think he felt you out here.”

Derek’s eyes fluttered closed, his jaw clenched tight.

“He might not be your mate in this world,” she continued gently, “but something in him knows who you are. That’s more than magic, Derek. That’s heart.”

Derek nodded once. That was all he could manage.

She squeezed his arm and stood, leaving him in the dim quiet once more.

The sun was rising slowly, casting golden bands across the floor, and still…Derek stayed. The door remained closed, but the tether between them pulled taut and steady, and Derek swore he’d sit there every night for the rest of his life if that’s what it took to make Stiles feel safe again.
~~~~

Stiles woke up disoriented, the last threads of his dream dragging like heavy silk through his mind - images so vivid they felt real. Derek’s hand brushing flour off his cheek in the kitchen, the warmth of laughter in the loft over takeout containers, the low, steady cadence of I love you. I’ll love you forever.

But when his eyes opened, it was to an empty room.

The light was unfamiliar, thin and distant, filtered through industrial windows. The air was too still. The sheets were cold.

The dream had been so warm.

Panic fluttered up from his chest before he could stop it. This wasn’t his loft. These weren’t his sheets. And this Derek…he wasn’t his either.

Stiles curled in on himself instinctively, pressing his face into the pillow to muffle the sound that broke free from his throat. It was pathetic, but he couldn’t help it. The emptiness was cavernous. The weight of being unmoored pressed in on him from all sides, and the ache behind his ribs swelled until it hurt to breathe.

He didn't want to be here. He didn’t want to be now. He wanted the world where Derek burned pancakes and left his leather jacket draped over the kitchen chair, where the sheriff would home by after work with beer and frozen pizza, and they’d all laugh over nothing until midnight.

He wanted to go home. But there was no home anymore.

The tears came hard and fast.

He buried his face deeper, the sobs shaking his thin frame, and didn’t hear the door open until the mattress shifted beneath him.

A hand hovered in the air behind him - he could feel it. The hesitation. Then, gently, it landed on his shoulder. Broad, warm, familiar in a way that made his body seize.

Stiles gasped and curled tighter, his sobs turning jagged. The touch was too much. It was not enough. It was a memory and a wound all at once.

And then the bed dipped again. A solid weight pressed in behind him, and strong arms slid around his waist with agonizing care.

Derek.

His scent was rich and earthy - wolf and wind - and it broke something inside Stiles. He sobbed harder, chest caving as Derek curled around him like a shield.

“I’m here,” Derek whispered, voice rough and low, close against the back of his neck. “I’m here. You’re not alone.”

Stiles couldn’t respond. Couldn’t even turn. He just pressed his fist to his mouth and let himself break.

Derek didn’t speak again. He didn’t try to shush him or stop the flood. He just held him. One hand slid beneath Stiles’ arm and splayed over his chest like a grounding weight, the other cradling his wrist with quiet reverence. Their legs tangled, and Derek’s breath moved slow and deep, a rhythm Stiles’ shattered heart began to follow instinctively.

His wolf was calmer now. Not satisfied - but settled. Because finally, finally, the boy they’d nearly lost was in their arms.

And Derek had no intention of letting go.

The bedroom door creaked open, just barely, soft enough that the breathless quiet of the room held steady. Derek didn’t move. He didn’t need to turn his head to know who it was - her scent arrived before she did. Rainwater, old iron, and the sharp, wild edge of something untamed: Cora.

She stood in the doorway for a long moment, her expression unreadable. Then, without a word, she crossed the room, barefoot and careful, her eyes fixed on Stiles.

He was still curled against Derek, his face blotchy and tear streaked, but quieter now, his breath hiccuping against the slow, calming rhythm of Derek’s chest. When Cora reached the side of the bed, she didn’t speak. She just looked at him.

Her brows pinched tight. Her jaw trembled. She wasn’t the kind of person who cried easily, but tears welled in her eyes anyway, hot and confusing. She pressed a fist to her chest, like something inside her was cracking open.

“I don’t understand why I feel this way,” she whispered. Her voice was small and uncertain. “You’re a stranger to me. And you’re not.”

Her eyes darted to Derek, who was still curled protectively around Stiles’ back. His chin rested in Stiles’ hair, his arms locked around his waist like a fortress. “My wolf recognizes you as family,” she admitted hoarsely. “And I just... I don’t understand.”

She stood there, helpless in the wave of something ancient and bone deep, until Stiles - quiet and trembling - reached an arm out and pulled her gently down beside him.

He didn’t say anything at first. Just guided her in, hand curled over her shoulder, pressing her into his chest. His fingers threaded into her hair, and he buried his nose into the crown of her head like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“You always said I was the brother you always wanted but never got,” Stiles murmured, voice still thick with tears, raw and quiet.

Cora stilled. Her breath hitched in her throat.

Behind him, Derek huffed softly through his nose and muttered, “Well, that’s rude.”

Stiles made a sound that was half a sob, half a wet laugh.

Cora blinked once, then cracked a smile too, just the faintest pull of her mouth. The tension in the air lightened like dawn breaking, a fragile kind of peace settling in the room.

They didn’t speak after that. Words weren’t necessary.

Stiles lay sandwiched between the Hale siblings, Derek’s chest warm and solid against his back, and Cora’s small frame tucked tight to his front. She slipped her arm around his waist and pressed her forehead into his collarbone. Stiles’ hand rubbed slowly across her shoulder, a grounding touch even as his own exhaustion pulled at him.

Their breathing began to sync.

Derek exhaled and finally let his eyes close, his nose pressed to the back of Stiles’ neck, his hand still curled over Stiles’ heart like a sentinel.

Cora’s tears stopped. Her body relaxed.

And for the first time since he fell into this new world, Stiles didn’t feel completely lost.

He wasn’t home.

But he was closer than he’d been since the dream ended.

And wrapped in Derek’s arms, with Cora’s head tucked beneath his chin and her heartbeat echoing softly against his ribs, Stiles let himself drift into sleep.
~~~~

The soft creak of the door made Stiles’s heart flutter in his chest. He opened his eyes slowly to see Talia standing in the doorway, framed by the muted light of early morning. Her gaze swept over the bed, taking in the three figures curled together - Derek and Cora still asleep, wrapped protectively around him like a shield. But it was Stiles’s eyes that held her attention, wide and raw and awake.

He whispered, voice trembling, “I’m sorry.”

Talia’s footsteps were quiet as she crossed the room, settling down on the edge of the bed without disturbing the fragile peace. Her eyes were gentle but sharp, and when she spoke, there was no judgment, only understanding.

“Whatever for?” she asked softly.

Stiles looked down, first at Cora, her breathing even and peaceful, then to Derek, whose chest rose and fell steadily behind him. Then back up at Talia, his gaze faltering under the weight of all he wanted to say but couldn’t.

She smiled sadly, a warmth in her eyes that reached across the room. “You have done nothing to apologize for. Especially not getting comfort when I know you never even asked for it. They’re here because they want to be. And that’s not something you should ever apologize for.”

Talia’s hand reached out, brushing a stray lock of hair from Stiles’s forehead. “You should seek out comfort when you need it, when you can. I know everything is a lot right now, but we’re here for you. For whatever you need.”

Her words wrapped around him like a soft blanket, steadying the storm inside his chest.

Stiles swallowed hard, his throat tight with a mix of gratitude and lingering doubt. He shifted slightly, finally allowing himself to lean back into the warmth surrounding him - Derek’s steady heartbeat behind him, Cora’s quiet presence pressed to his front, and now Talia’s soothing voice.

“I’m scared,” Stiles admitted, his voice barely more than a whisper. “Not just about what I’ve been through... but about what comes next. About whether I belong here. Or if I’m just... broken.”

Talia’s hand lingered on his cheek, gentle and firm. “You’re not broken, Stiles. You’re carrying scars, yes. But scars don’t make us less worthy. They make us survivors. And you belong here, with us, whether you realize it yet or not.”

She looked at Derek and Cora with a soft smile, her eyes glistening. “Your pack is here. And they will help you carry that weight. Just like you’ve carried so much already.”

Derek stirred beside him, eyes fluttering open to find Stiles awake and Talia there too. His gaze softened instantly, and without words, he shifted to tuck closer to Stiles, anchoring him with the quiet promise of presence.

Cora shifted as well, nestling against Stiles’s side, the warmth and the steady breathing of his makeshift family wrapping tighter around him.

For the first time in what felt like forever, Stiles let his guard slip just a little, tears slipping free down his cheeks, but no longer tears of fear or shame. These were the tears of release, of feeling, of beginning to heal.

And as Talia stayed beside them, quiet and steady, Stiles let himself believe, even just for a moment, that maybe this might work.

As the soft creak of the bedroom door signaled Talia’s quiet departure, Cora stirred awake beside Stiles. Her eyes fluttered open, catching the soft morning light filtering through the curtains. Without a word, she leaned in and hugged Stiles tightly, pressing her warmth against him in a silent reassurance.

“You’re a good cuddler,” she whispered softly, voice thick with a mix of affection and gratitude. “I’m definitely sneaking into your bed more often.”

Before Stiles could respond, Derek’s low, playful growl rumbled from the other side of the bed. His arms tightened slightly around Stiles, a possessive yet tender claim that made Stiles’ heart beat a little faster.

Cora chuckled quietly, giving Stiles one last squeeze before slipping out of bed with the stealth of someone who didn’t want to disturb the fragile calm.

Once the door closed behind her, Derek shifted his weight, breaking the silence with a careful apology. “I’m sorry for coming into your bed without asking.”

Stiles turned slightly and looked up at him, searching Derek’s eyes for any sign of anger or frustration. When he found none, he shook his head gently. “No… I’m not mad. It’s… nice. Having someone with me.”

Derek’s expression softened, a rare vulnerability flickering through his usually guarded gaze. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The quiet between them settled comfortably, punctuated only by the steady rhythm of their breaths and the faint morning light that promised a new day - fragile, uncertain, but shared.

The soft murmur of the loft waking up felt distant and gentle as Derek nudged Stiles into getting up and dressed. They didn’t speak much, there wasn’t a need to. The kind of quiet between them was fragile but comforting, the kind that didn’t demand explanations or apologies. Just being was enough.

They padded out into the main room of the loft, both barefoot, Stiles dragging the sleeves of an oversized hoodie over his knuckles and Derek running a hand through sleep mussed hair. The tall ceilings and exposed brick welcomed them with the scent of coffee already brewing, Peter was in the kitchen, leaning against the counter with a mug in hand, his sharp blue eyes fixed on Stiles.

Stiles caught the stare within moments. He tried to ignore it, tried to let it roll off his back like usual, but today he didn’t have the energy for Peter’s quiet intensity. After a few seconds of enduring the silence, Stiles huffed, shoulders sagging slightly as he turned to face him.

“Is there something you want to say, Peter?” he asked, voice flat but not unkind. Just tired. Raw.

Peter’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes seemed to flicker with something unreadable. He held Stiles’ gaze a beat longer, then shrugged one shoulder with infuriating casualness and walked away without a word, his footsteps silent as he disappeared down the hall.

Stiles sighed heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. “That man will never change,” he muttered, a touch of melancholy in his voice.

Derek, standing beside him, didn’t argue. He just looked at Stiles for a long moment and then nudged his arm gently. “Come on,” he said. “You’re gonna help me cook.”

They made their way back into the kitchen, and something shifted. Something quiet and unspoken, like slipping into a rhythm you didn’t know you knew. Stiles didn’t need to ask where things were - somehow, he just knew. Derek handed Stiles eggs before Stiles could even reach for them. Stiles found the pan in the same drawer his Derek kept it. Their bodies moved easily around each other, brushing shoulders and hands in the small kitchen space, never colliding.

Derek cooked the eggs while Stiles sliced fruit. They passed plates and shared utensils, their movements effortless, like they’d done this a hundred times before. Like muscle memory from a life only Stiles remembered.

Derek reached over him to grab the salt and their arms bumped, lingering. Stiles looked up, eyes meeting Derek’s in the quiet morning light, and for a second, neither of them moved.

It wasn’t his Derek.

But he moved the same way, with the same quiet confidence. He looked at Stiles like he mattered. Like he wanted to be here. And Stiles felt his chest ache with something old and familiar, something he wasn’t sure he was ready for, but couldn’t stop from blooming.

They finished cooking in a quiet kind of harmony. When they finally sat down with two plates and shared silence between them, it felt less like a meal and more like a promise.

It didn’t matter that this was the first time for Derek.

It mattered that he was here.

The quiet peace of breakfast lingered in the air long after the dishes were done and rinsed, like a soft afterglow of normalcy in a life that had been anything but. Stiles leaned against the counter, nursing the last sip of coffee, while Derek was methodically wiping down the stove. The loft felt... still. Like maybe, just for a moment, things were okay.

The front door creaked open, and soft footsteps echoed in before a familiar voice called gently, “Stiles?”

He turned, already recognizing the voice of his mother - this version of her - before she stepped into view. Claudia walked in with her long cardigan trailing behind her like a whisper. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, and her eyes held both warmth and clinical intent. She smiled when she saw him, but it was thin, tinged with concern.

“I need to cleanse your wounds again,” she said, voice soft but firm, “and check in on your magic.”

Stiles nodded without hesitation, setting down his mug. “Yeah. Okay.”

He glanced at Derek for a brief second, some silent communication passing between them, and then followed Claudia down the hall to the spare room he’d been using. The space was small but quiet, the faint smell of lavender and sage clinging to the air, softening the edges of what had been a rough night.

Claudia gestured for him to sit on the edge of the bed. “Shirt off, sweetheart.”

Stiles obeyed without comment, peeling off his hoodie and the worn t shirt underneath. Bruises were still blooming purple and yellow across his ribs and shoulder, and a few of the deeper gouges still looked angry and raw. He winced slightly when the cool air hit them, but didn’t complain.

Claudia’s hands were gentle as she worked, fingertips glowing faintly as she moved them over his skin. Her magic was cool, like spring water running over overheated skin, drawing out lingering darkness and flushing his nerves with relief. Stiles closed his eyes and exhaled slowly, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

After a few minutes, she paused, her hand hovering just above his sternum.

“What?” Stiles asked, blinking his eyes open.

She hummed softly. “Your magic is still depleted - but your core is recharging faster than expected. The flare from your travels here should have drained you for at least a month. But already... you’re rebuilding.”

Stiles frowned. “That doesn’t make sense. I haven’t done anything. I’ve barely slept.”

Claudia smiled gently. “You’ve done more than enough. You’re establishing bonds, Stiles. Your core is responding to safety, to the people around you. It’s drawing strength from your connections. From Derek. From Cora. From the pack.”

Stiles looked down at his hands, picking at the edge of a bandage absently. “So... what? My magic’s feeding off them?”

“No,” she said, settling beside him. “It’s feeding with them. There’s a difference. It’s mutual. You’re becoming part of something again, even if you didn’t mean to. And that bond, that energy... it heals.”

Stiles was quiet for a long moment. His throat tightened, and he had to swallow before he spoke. “I don’t know how to feel about that.”

Claudia reached out and brushed her fingers through his hair, soft and affectionate. “You don’t have to know right now. You’ve been through so much, baby. Your magic knows what it needs, even if your heart hasn’t caught up yet.”

Stiles closed his eyes again, a slow breath shuddering out of him hearing his ‘mother's’ voice call him baby.

It was terrifying - to need. To want. To let someone close again.

Stiles sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slightly hunched, still shirtless, with the warmth of Claudia’s magic fading like a distant echo in his skin. He rubbed his hands over his face, dragging his fingers through his hair before letting them drop into his lap.

“Hey,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the floor. “Do you… do you know if Da - Noah. If Noah is going to be around later?”

Claudia paused in the act of packing up her supplies, looking over at him with that same gentle attentiveness she always seemed to carry. “He’s here now, actually,” she said, tying off a small pouch of dried herbs. “He’s just grabbing coffee and catching up with Talia before his night shift starts.”

Stiles hesitated, picking at a thread in the blanket beneath him. “Do you think… he’d be willing to talk to me for a bit?”

Claudia didn’t answer right away. She stepped closer and reached out, brushing his hair back from his temple in a move so familiar it made something ache deep in his chest.

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know he would. I’ll go get him now.”

Stiles nodded once, jaw tightening as he looked away. Claudia gave his shoulder a final squeeze before she slipped quietly out of the room.

The wait felt longer than it probably was. Every second ticked against his nerves, drawing the anxiety tighter in his chest like a slow coil. He was trying to prepare himself, trying to remember that this wasn’t his dad. Not really. This wasn’t the man who’d raised him, who’d taught him to throw a baseball, who’d grounded him for hacking into the sheriff’s records in eighth grade but brought him pie later that night.

Still, when the door creaked open, Stiles’ head snapped up like a reflex.

Noah walked in with slow, steady steps, coffee in hand, dressed in his uniform - though the jacket hung unzipped, a sign he wasn’t quite on duty yet. His expression was calm, warm but cautious, like he already knew this might be hard.

“Hi, Stiles,” he said gently.

Stiles flinched.

It was subtle, barely more than a twitch in his shoulders, but it hit like a thunderclap inside him. That voice, that tone, so achingly familiar. But hearing his first name come from this Noah, this not-dad, it cut in a strange, sharp way. He tried to hide it, bury it under a tight smile and a quick blink, but the damage was already done. He didn’t trust his voice enough to say anything right away.

Noah noticed.

His face softened with understanding, and he didn’t step closer. He just stood there, giving Stiles the space he clearly needed.

“Mind if I sit?” he asked.

Stiles swallowed, throat thick. “Yeah. Sure.”

Noah eased into the armchair across from him, resting his coffee on the side table. His eyes never left Stiles’, but they weren’t intense. Just… patient.

Stiles looked down at his hands again. They were shaking. Not visibly, not quite, but he could feel it, just beneath the surface.

“I, uh… I know you’re not him,” he said eventually, voice barely above a whisper. “But it’s still hard not to see him when I look at you.”

Noah nodded slowly, understanding etched into the lines around his eyes. “I imagine it would be.”

Stiles dared to look up, just once.

And there it was, that same quiet strength, that same unshakable presence. The same eyes that used to track his every move, knowing when something was wrong even before he did.

He swallowed again and looked away.

“I don’t even know what I’m trying to say,” he admitted. “I just… needed to talk. Or something like it.”

Noah didn’t press, didn’t push. He just nodded and leaned back slightly in the chair.

“I’m here,” he said simply. “Take your time.”

Stiles sat stiffly on the edge of the bed, his spine a taut line, knees bouncing as he stared at the floor between them. The silence pressed in heavy, comfortable only in the way it gave him room to breathe, if not think.

Noah didn’t move. He didn’t rush him. He just waited, like he always had back home when Stiles came in at 2 a.m. after a nightmare and didn’t want to say why.

Stiles dragged a hand through his hair, fingers trembling just enough to betray how much he was unraveling.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he said finally, voice thin and fraying. “Like… I really don’t. Everyone keeps acting like I’m supposed to be here, like I’m doing something good by being here, but I-” His voice cracked, and he looked away sharply. “I didn’t plan this. Well…I mean I did, but I wasn’t even trying to stay. And now I can’t go back. I can’t go home.”

Noah’s brows creased slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. His hands remained folded loosely in his lap, his presence steady.

Stiles let out a shaky breath and kept going.

“I keep looking around, thinking maybe this’ll start to feel real. Like maybe one day I’ll wake up and this will all make sense and I’ll know where I belong, but…” His voice went quiet, almost a whisper. “What if I never do?”

He looked up then, meeting Noah’s gaze. His eyes were glossy but stubbornly dry.

“What if I don’t fit here? What if I just made everything worse? What if this was all a mistake?” The last word cracked open something deep in his chest. “How do I live with myself if I ruined something good for people like…like Derek, and Claudia, and Cora? The whole pack. They didn’t ask for this. They didn’t ask for me.”

He let the silence settle after that, like a breath held underwater. It felt dangerous to say more. Like if he did, it would all come spilling out and there’d be no stuffing it back inside again.

Noah exhaled slowly, the sound low and grounding.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he said softly, but with conviction. “You’re not a mistake, Stiles.”

Stiles’ mouth twisted, like he didn’t believe it, but he didn’t argue, not out loud, anyway.

“I know you’re scared,” Noah continued. “You’d be a damn fool if you weren’t. Everything’s changed. You’re in a new world, with new people, new rules. You’re grieving a life you didn’t get to finish living, and the people you lost there. And now you’re trying to survive something that no one could ever be prepared for.”

He leaned forward slightly, resting his forearms on his knees, eyes gentle but sharp.

“But you’re not alone here. You didn’t fall into a vacuum. You’re not some stranger we’re tolerating out of obligation. You are already part of this family, even if it hasn’t fully sunk in yet.”

Stiles blinked hard, jaw clenched. “Why? Because I bled all over their floor and passed out in front of them?”

“No,” Noah said, with a flicker of dry humor. “Though it was a hell of a first impression.”

Stiles huffed something close to a laugh, but it sounded strangled.

Noah’s voice softened. “Because they see you. Because Derek is watching you like he’s waiting for the floor to fall out from under you again, and Cora nearly kicked down my door when she thought you were in pain, and Claudia…Claudia treats you like you’re one of her own. Because you are. And they’ve decided that you belong here. No one’s asking you to prove you’re worth it. Just… let yourself be here.”

Stiles swallowed around the lump in his throat, too overwhelmed to speak. His shoulders shook once and he stared at his hands like he could will them to stop trembling.

Noah leaned back again and reached for his coffee, letting the quiet return, this time without the pressure. Just space. Space to breathe, to sit with the pain, to let it hurt without it swallowing him whole.

After a long stretch, Stiles managed, hoarsely, “Thanks… for not trying to fix it.”

Noah gave him a small smile. “You’re not broken, kid. Just a little lost. Happens to the best of us.”

And for the first time in a long time, Stiles let that truth settle somewhere deep inside and stay.

Chapter 11: Am I dangerous? To myself? To any of you?

The house settled into a rhythm, quiet but never still. In the days that followed Stiles’ conversation with Noah, things didn’t go back to normal - mostly because there was no “normal” to return to. But they did shift, subtly. Gentle, cautious shifts, like the slow creak of a house adjusting to a new weight.

Cora hovered, always nearby but never intrusive. She lingered in doorways, poked her head into rooms Stiles happened to be in, always with some half formed excuse on her lips - looking for her charger, checking the time, wondering aloud whether the laundry was done. Stiles knew better, of course. She wasn’t subtle. But she wasn’t direct, either, and he appreciated that. He didn’t think he could handle direct right now, not from her.

Peter was the same, in his own Peter way - quietly ever present. He never spoke much, never asked questions, but his eyes were sharp, always tracking. Stiles could feel it like a weight against his back, the pressure of being observed, analyzed. But not in the way that used to send chills down his spine back home. There was no malice in it. Just… curiosity. Worry, maybe, but carefully disguised.

Only Claudia and Derek really sought him out.

Claudia came with purpose, always gentle but always focused. She checked his bandages with warm hands and a critical eye, offered herbal infusions for sleep and pain, and gently coaxed him to test the edges of his magic. Her magic danced like moonlight - soft, luminous, impossible to hold - and it made his own feel steadier, more contained.

Derek, though, Derek was another story.

He didn’t hover or loiter or observe from a distance. He gravitated. Like something magnetic was pulling him toward Stiles whether he wanted it or not. He always seemed to be entering the room just as Stiles needed something or brushing past with an almost accidental touch, steadying him, guiding him, reminding him silently that he was there. Always there.

One afternoon, Stiles found him on the balcony, staring out over the stretch of forest that bordered the Hale loft. The trees were tall and golden with the mid afternoon sun, shadows long and flickering. Stiles stepped out quietly, curling his fingers over the railing beside him.

“Hey,” he said.

Derek’s eyes slid over to him, softening instantly. “Hey.”

They stood there for a while, the wind whispering through the branches, the scent of pine and warm wood in the air.

Stiles broke the silence first, voice tentative. “Did your mom… mean it? What she said about the Hales being my pack?”

Derek looked at him, serious now. “Yeah. She meant it.”

There was a pause, and then Derek added, almost reverently, “I can already feel it, a little. The bond forming. Not fully, not yet. But it’s starting. It’s tied to your magic - it’s like it’s waking up, and every time it gets stronger, that thread between us gets thicker. Like it’s weaving you in.”

Stiles let that sit in his chest for a second. It made something ache and flutter all at once.

He swallowed. “It’s coming back, my magic,” he said quietly. “Slowly. It’s… centering me again, I think. Like I’m not unraveling anymore.”

Claudia appeared on the balcony just then, seemingly out of nowhere, as if summoned by the word magic. She smiled, touched his arm. “That’s good, sweetheart. That’s a good sign.”

Stiles nodded but didn’t meet her eyes. “Yeah, but… it’s different.”

Claudia tilted her head slightly. “Different how?”

“I don’t know yet,” he admitted. “It’s just… off. Not bad, just… shifted. I feel like it’s still mine, but it’s wearing someone else’s skin. Like something about this place is changing it. Or like… maybe I changed, and my magic’s just catching up.”

Claudia’s expression was unreadable for a moment, her fingers gently pressing against the pulse point on his wrist where magic tended to collect. “That makes sense,” she said softly. “Magic adapts to the heart that holds it. And you’ve been through a lot. This world, this pack - it’ll leave a mark. But that doesn’t mean it’s wrong. It just means it’s yours now.”

Stiles looked at her, at Derek, then back out toward the trees.

And though the feeling in his chest still fluttered with doubt, something else had taken root beneath it.

Something warm.

Something steady.

Something… starting.
~~~~

That night, the house lay quiet under a heavy veil of darkness, shadows curling around corners like waiting hands. The trees outside rustled in a slow, lazy rhythm, the kind that should have soothed, but in the room where Stiles slept, the air turned restless.

He dreamed.

It started in flashes. Screams that didn’t have faces. Smoke where voices used to be. Then it twisted.

Derek, pale and bloody, crumpling in his arms.
Derek falling from a rooftop.

Derek coughing up blood, reaching for him with trembling fingers.

His father, eyes glassy, his badge clutched in stiff hands.

His father on the stairs, calling for help that never came.

His mother, pale as paper, screaming at him from her hospital bed, spitting words like poison. “This is your fault. I can’t breathe when you’re in the room.”

Her face blurred, flickering between love and hatred.

Stiles thrashed in the bed, fists curling in the sheets, mouth parted in short, pained gasps. He whimpered once - then again, louder.

“Derek…”

From upstairs, Derek sat up so fast the world tilted. His name was echoing faintly through the house. Not shouted, but broken. Pleading.

He didn’t think. Didn’t even stop to throw on a shirt. He was down the stairs in seconds, bare feet silent against the wood, heart pounding like a warning drum in his chest.

He slipped into the room like a shadow, eyes sweeping over the bed - Stiles, tangled in his blankets, breathing hard, sweat clinging to his hairline, face drawn tight with pain.

“Stiles,” Derek breathed, already moving.

He climbed into the bed carefully, but with urgency, pressing himself to Stiles’ back, one arm sliding around his waist. His palm found Stiles’ chest, felt the frantic thrum of his heart beneath his skin. Derek’s nose tucked into the space behind Stiles’ ear, and he let out a quiet sound - half a whisper, half a growl. Calming. Grounding.

“I’ve got you,” he murmured. “You’re okay. I’m here.”

Stiles shuddered once. Then again. His breathing started to slow. His fingers relaxed from their death grip in the sheets. The air shifted again, just slightly, less charged, less sharp.

But Derek didn’t move.

He stayed like that for a long time, body curled around Stiles like a shield, like a promise. He didn’t even notice when his eyes slipped shut, when his breathing matched Stiles’, deep and even.

Until something changed.

The room went warmer. Quieter. The tension in Stiles’ muscles eased further, but not into peace.

His hips shifted slightly, thighs brushing together. A soft sound escaped him - too soft, too intimate. Another followed, breathier this time, almost a whimper. His body arched just the tiniest bit back into Derek’s.

Derek’s eyes flew open.

His wolf responded immediately, a spark igniting deep in his chest. His arms, which had been resting so innocently around Stiles’ waist, suddenly felt too aware of every inch of contact. Stiles sighed again, hips shifting once more, and Derek felt heat flood his own skin. His throat went dry.

“Nope,” he whispered aloud to himself, voice hoarse, almost panicked.

Carefully, painfully, Derek extricated himself. He moved with the patience of a predator retreating from something dangerous, but in this case, the danger was him. One wrong move and he’d embarrass them both, maybe break something neither of them was ready to name.

He stood by the edge of the bed, raking a hand through his hair, exhaling shakily. Stiles made another soft noise behind him, face tucked into the pillow now, mouth parted.

Derek forced his eyes away. He turned and walked out, barefoot and breathless, pacing the hallway just outside the room, his pulse still thrumming hard in his chest.

He stayed close, though.

Close enough to listen.

Close enough to hear if those nightmares came back.

Close enough to run in the second he was needed again.

And when the dreams quieted into nothing but steady breaths, Derek leaned against the wall, head tipped back, and waited for dawn.
~~~~

The morning light was soft when it filtered in through the high windows, pale and drowsy, stretching long fingers of gray across the hardwood floors. The house was quiet, but not in a peaceful way. It was the kind of quiet that came after a hard night - tight lipped and uneasy.

Stiles sat stiffly at the kitchen table, a mug of coffee cradled between both hands. His eyes were fixed on a crack in the woodgrain, his lashes casting shadows down his cheeks. Derek stood by the counter, nursing his own mug, posture tense but trying not to be. The silence between them stretched, thick with unsaid things.

Eventually, Stiles cleared his throat. He didn't look up when he spoke.

“Did you… come into my room last night?”

Derek’s grip tightened around the mug for just a moment, his gaze flicking briefly toward Stiles before lowering to the floor.

“Yeah,” he said after a pause. “You were… having a nightmare. Calling for me…well, calling for him.”

Stiles finally looked up, mouth parted slightly, something vulnerable flickering behind his eyes. “Oh.”

“I didn’t want to wake you,” Derek added quietly. “I just… laid down until it passed.”

Stiles nodded slowly, biting the inside of his cheek. “And then you left again.”

“Yeah.”

The silence returned, but it wasn’t quite the same. Something about it had shifted, more charged now. Their gazes locked for a beat too long, and both of them glanced away almost at the same time. A faint flush climbed up Derek’s neck, settling hot and awkward at the tips of his ears. Stiles wasn’t much better, his own ears were tinged pink, and he wouldn’t stop fiddling with the sleeve of his hoodie.

He didn’t ask what else Derek might’ve heard - or smelled.

Derek didn’t offer.

And neither of them said the word “dreams” again.

Instead, Stiles stood with a quiet grunt and gathered his breakfast dishes from the table. “I’ll wash these,” he mumbled, escaping to the sink. He turned the tap on, and the moment water hit the basin, everything twisted.

The pipe groaned violently. A sudden burst of boiling water hissed from the faucet, so hot it steamed the glass in an instant. Stiles yelped and jerked his hands back, blinking at it in confusion. Then, as if the faucet changed its mind mid flow, the water froze cold, sharp enough to make the metal creak in protest.

Stiles stared, brows furrowed, the dishes half submerged in a pool of fogging half frozen water. “What the hell?”

Derek was already at his side, eyes narrowed at the sink, instinctively putting himself between Stiles and the faucet like it might explode.

“I didn’t touch anything,” Stiles said, voice edged with confusion and alarm. “I swear, I didn’t even try to use magic.”

Derek looked at him. “But you were thinking something?”

“I mean - yeah. I wanted the water hotter ‘cause it was cold, and then it burned me, so I wanted it cooler, but this-” He motioned to the faucet as the water continued freezing as it came out. “-this is not how it usually works.”

The temperature shifted again, freezing one second and hissing the next. The copper pipes let out another deep groan like the whole system was begging for mercy.

Derek reached out and shut the tap off completely. The silence that followed was stark.

Stiles looked up at him, eyes uncertain. “Should we call my - Claudia. Should we call Claudia?”

“Yeah,” Derek said, already moving toward the stairs. “Yeah, we should.”

Stiles stood frozen by the sink, his wet hands dripping into the basin, and for a brief moment, he wondered if he was starting to unravel something - something fragile and dangerous, nested inside his own chest.

Something that could no longer be controlled the way it used to.
~~~~

Claudia came into the kitchen with a kind of calm that felt earned. She didn’t ask what happened - Derek had clearly already filled her in - but her expression was open, warm, and serious. She took one look at the sink, the still thawing faucet, the uneasy set of Stiles’ shoulders, and then gently motioned for them to sit at the table.

She brought a mug of tea with her and slid it across the table toward Stiles. The steam curled up, herbal and grounding, but he didn’t reach for it.

Derek stayed quiet, standing off to the side, his arms crossed but not in a defensive way - more like he was containing something inside himself, something he didn’t want to spill out yet.

“Your spark is manifesting,” Claudia said gently. “That’s what this is. The shift you’re feeling. The magic reacting instinctively to your emotions, your thoughts, your desires. It’s not unusual.”

Stiles blinked. “Yeah, but this-” he motioned vaguely to the kitchen, the memory of the pipes screaming in his ears “-this isn’t how it worked before. It didn’t just do things like this. Especially not without me intending to.”

“That’s because it’s not just your spark anymore,” Claudia said. “It’s your spark within a different network. You’re bonded to this version of the Hale pack now - like roots grafting into unfamiliar soil. Your energy’s trying to sync up. And it’s choosing to express itself in response to that connection.”

Stiles felt his throat close a little. “So… so what, I’m like some kind of living magical barometer now? I feel something and the kitchen explodes?”

“Not explode,” Claudia said, lips twitching slightly. “But you are more reactive now. Your spark’s grown, sweetie. It’s stronger than it was before. And the stronger it gets, the more it reflects who you are and how you feel.”

Stiles rubbed his hands down his thighs, suddenly feeling clammy. “Am I…” He swallowed. “Am I dangerous? To myself? To any of you?”

Claudia looked at him, steady and unflinching. “Do you want to do yourself or us any harm?”

“What? No - what the fuck? Why would you ask me that?”

She tilted her head just slightly. “Because that was a concern of yours. It’s not a question I’m asking of you, it’s one I’m echoing from you.”

Stiles’ mouth opened, then shut again. He slouched back in the chair and stared down at the tea like it might have the answers. “This isn’t how my spark worked before,” he said, quieter now. “It was… it was meaner. Sometimes more malicious. Like it wanted to hurt before it wanted to protect.”

Claudia reached across the table and set her hand over his, warm and firm. “Your spark developed based on your environment, Stiles. It needed to be malicious to help you survive. And it did. You’re here.”

His breath caught in his throat.

“It didn’t make you bad,” she said gently. “It made you resilient. And now, you’re not in survival mode anymore. You’re somewhere safe. It’s only natural that your magic will need time to relearn that.”

Stiles glanced up at Derek - who hadn’t moved, hadn’t said a word - but whose eyes were locked on him, unwavering.

“So it’s not going to just stay like this?” Stiles asked, voice almost too soft to hear.

“No,” Claudia said. “It’s going to become. Like you are. And you won’t be alone through any of it.”

That made something in Stiles' chest loosen. Just a little. Not entirely. But it was something.
~~~~

It was late. Derek moved through the hall with slow, purposeful steps, barefoot, hoodie sleeves pushed up to his forearms. The light from under Stiles’ door was faint, but there. Still on.

He hesitated outside for a second. Just long enough to run a hand through his hair and exhale. Then, two soft knocks.

“Stiles?”

No answer.

He waited, then gently opened the door. The hinges barely creaked.

Stiles was sitting on the edge of the bed, his elbows on his knees, hands clasped in front of his mouth like he was trying to hold himself together with sheer will. He looked up when Derek stepped inside, and his eyes were red-rimmed. Not swollen, not puffy - just tired. Strained.

Derek didn’t ask right away. He just crossed the room and crouched in front of him, not touching, not pushing, just there.

After a long moment, he said, “Are you okay?”

Stiles swallowed hard, then shook his head. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “I really don’t.”

His voice cracked halfway through, and that was it - the first thread pulled too hard. His whole frame crumpled slightly, shoulders curling inward, breath starting to hitch.

“This place is…” He looked around. “It’s different. The Hale pack is different. I feel different. I-” His voice caught, and he pressed his fists to his eyes, trying and failing to stop it.

“I don’t know who I am here,” he admitted. “I don’t know if I fit. Everything’s familiar but wrong and I - I’m trying so hard not to freak out but I can’t even trust my own magic anymore and I just-”

He choked on the rest, the words dissolving into sobs before they could form fully.

Derek moved then, quietly, carefully. He sat beside him on the bed, shoulder to shoulder, and let the silence stretch for a moment as Stiles buried his face in his hands.

“You’re not alone,” Derek said softly, like a promise. “I know it feels like it. I know it’s a lot. But you’re not alone.”

Stiles shook his head again, tears slipping down into the collar of his shirt.

“I don’t even know if I belong here. What if… what if this was all just a huge fucking mistake? What if I came here and ruined everything and I can’t even go back and I don’t belong here and - and I did this to a really good family just because I couldn’t-”

His voice broke again, and Derek finally reached out, wrapping a strong, steady arm around his shoulders. He pulled him in, not forcing, just guiding, and after a beat of resistance, Stiles let himself lean. Let himself be held.

He cried harder after that - sharp and silent, shaking quietly against Derek’s side. And Derek didn’t say anything more. He didn’t offer empty reassurances or try to solve anything. He just held him like he could anchor him in place. Like he wanted to.

Because Stiles felt like he was different here and it's not like Derek had a point of reference to tell him he was wrong.

All Derek could do was try to hold the other boy together and hope that one day he wouldn't feel so lost, so out of place.

Notes:

Next chapter features a time jump to move the story along (not a huge one but noticable)