Chapter Text
The private car service pulled up the winding drive, headlights cutting through the thick Salem fog that always seemed to creep in just before dawn. Their mansion, stately and cold against the night, loomed ahead with its black shutters and ivy-covered brick. Stiles sighed as he stepped out of the sleek town car, tugging his hoodie up against the chill, tropical heat still clinging to his skin. Behind him, Peter emerged in quiet grace, rolling his shoulders like he was shedding the last remnants of vacation.
Peter unlocked the front door with a press of his thumb. The security system chirped softly, acknowledging them with a gentle welcome back, sir
Inside, the lights flickered on in sequence - hallway, entry, kitchen - revealing the modern, high tech warmth of a house clearly lived in and curated by two people who had both taste and far too much money.
"I’m not checking my phone until I’ve had coffee and peeled the humidity off my soul," Stiles muttered.
Peter smirked and walked toward the kitchen. “You say that every time. And every time, your willpower lasts exactly-”
Stiles’ phone buzzed violently to life from where he’d left it on the marble foyer table. Then it buzzed again. And again. Rapid fire. A cascade of vibrations as missed texts, voicemails, encrypted messages, and emergency pings from secure channels poured in all at once.
Peter's own phone, retrieved from the security safe, mirrored the behavior. The air between them changed instantly.
Stiles didn’t speak. He tapped open his messages and scrolled through the flood. Most were from their interagency contacts. Trouble in Beacon Hills. Unexplained surge of Kitsune energy. Warning: Code Red supernatural breach.
Then the personal ones started. Dozens from one contact.
Eli.
Uncle Sti, something’s happening in town. It’s bad.
The Nogitsune is back. It’s really him. I don’t know how.
And someone brought Allison back. Like, Allison Argent. From the dead.
Uncle Stiles, Dad went to fight it.
I think he knew he wouldn’t come back.
He’s gone.
He sacrificed himself to kill it.
Stiles’ breath caught, knees buckling as he gripped the edge of the table for support. Peter was already there, reading over his shoulder, his hand firm on Stiles’ spine.
Then the last message hit, timestamped just hours ago.
Please hurry home. They want me to go with Scott.
I don't want to do that. Please Uncle Sti.
Please come get me.
Please.
~~~~
They didn’t pack.
They didn’t even change out of their clothes.
Peter grabbed the go bag from the front closet - more habit than necessity, since everything they could possibly need already waited on the jet. Stiles was already on the phone, voice low and clipped as he strode through the house.
“This is Agent Stilinski. I’ve just been made aware of an ongoing supernatural breach in Beacon Hills, California. I’m initiating a personal recon and extraction.” A pause. “Yes. I’m bringing my nephew back with me. He’s a werewolf, recently orphaned. No, he will not be staying with McCall. Yes. I’ll file the full report when I return. I’m wheels up in ten.”
He hung up without waiting for confirmation. It was unnecessary. Stiles Stilinski didn’t ask for permission anymore. He gave notice.
Peter was already waiting by the door, jacket in hand, phone pressed to his ear. “It’s time. Salem airfield. Have the Hawker fueled and ready. Ten minutes.” A beat, then a smirk. “No, not twenty. Ten.”
They were moving before the house had even cooled from their arrival.
~~~~
The jet gleamed under the floodlights at the airstrip, sleek and midnight black, their private pilots already running pre flight checks. A staircase rolled out as they approached, the engines humming like a living thing beneath the wings.
Peter boarded first, silent and sharp eyed. Stiles followed, pausing only briefly at the top of the stairs to send a message.
Eli, I’m on my way. Don’t go anywhere with Scott. I don’t care what anyone tells you, you wait for me. We’re bringing you home.
I promise.
He stared at the screen for a second longer, jaw tight. Then he stepped into the cabin, door sealing behind him.
The plane lifted into the night less than seven minutes later.
The cabin lights were dimmed, casting a warm golden glow over the plush interior. Stiles sat stiffly in one of the leather seats, legs bouncing, fingers twitching restlessly against the armrest. He hadn’t stopped moving since they’d taken off - checking his phone, rereading Eli’s messages, refreshing agency alerts like something might change if he just hit the screen hard enough.
Peter sat across from him, calm as ever, a glass of something aged and dark in one hand. But his eyes were on Stiles, sharp and knowing.
“I heard you tell your boss we’re bringing Eli home,” Peter said, voice even, quiet over the soft hum of the jet.
Stiles’s head snapped up. “If you think I’m letting Scott fucking McCall take my nephew anywhere, you are dead fucking wrong, Peter Hale.”
Peter didn’t flinch. Instead, he stood, walked the few steps between them, and leaned down to press a slow kiss just below Stiles’s ear.
“Baby, obviously that’s not what I’m talking about,” he murmured against his skin, hands resting lightly on Stiles’s shoulders. “I just mean at some point we’re going to have to figure out the logistics of it.”
Stiles didn’t respond at first, chest heaving with the weight of too much grief and not enough time. Peter kept speaking, patient and soft.
“He’s in high school. His life’s been in Beacon Hills. He has a room at the estate, sure, but that’s not the same as it being his home. We need to make it his home. Really, truly.”
Stiles swallowed hard, eyes dropping to his hands.
“It is home,” he said finally, voice rough. “Because we’re there. Because we’re family. The rest…” He shook his head, eyes wet. “The rest we can figure out.”
Peter kissed his temple and sat down beside him, lacing their fingers together. Neither of them said anything for a long time after that. The plane flew on, silent and steady, as two grieving men prepared to become someone’s anchor in a world that had just fallen apart.
~~~~
The candy apple red G-Wagon roared down the familiar streets of Beacon Hills like a thunderstorm, its engine snarling through every turn. Stiles was behind the wheel, jaw clenched, eyes dark and glittering with fury. Peter sat silently in the passenger seat, watching him, tense and coiled like a loaded weapon.
The moment they turned onto the Stilinski driveway, Stiles hit the brakes hard enough to screech rubber. He didn’t bother to turn the car off. The G-Wagon - shiny, menacing, and very out of place in the sleepy California suburb - shuddered as he slammed the door behind him and stormed toward the house.
Peter followed at a measured pace, eyes sweeping the scene with predatory precision.
Inside, the house was crowded - somber voices, the low murmur of grief, the scent of coffee and over worn cologne. But Stiles didn’t register any of it.
He heard him.
Scott.
“…I just think it’s what Derek would’ve wanted. He’d be safe in LA with me and Allison. We’ll make sure he finishes school and has stability-”
“Over my dead fucking body are you taking that kid anywhere.”
Stiles’s voice cracked through the house like a lightning strike.
All heads turned. Sheriff Stilinski froze in the kitchen doorway. Melissa dropped the coffee pot mid pour. Scott blinked, mouth parting like he didn’t quite believe what he was seeing.
But Eli…Eli moved first.
The moment he saw them, saw him, he broke away from the crowd and ran.
“Uncle Sti-” His voice cracked halfway through, raw and breaking.
Stiles caught him in a crushing embrace, arms wrapping around the sixteen year old as if he could physically hold him together. Eli sobbed into his chest, trembling like he’d been holding it all in for days.
Peter was there a heartbeat later, wrapping one arm around both of them, his other hand cradling the back of Eli’s head like he had when Eli was five and scared of thunderstorms.
“I’ve got you,” Stiles whispered fiercely into Eli’s hair. “You’re okay. We’re here. We’re not going anywhere.”
Eli shook with sobs but nodded against him, fingers clutching the fabric of Stiles’s jacket like a lifeline.
Peter looked up, eyes meeting Scott’s across the room. They weren’t angry.
They were cold.
And that was worse.
Stiles slowly straightened, one arm still around Eli’s shoulders, the other clenching into a white knuckled fist at his side. His eyes locked on Scott with a fury that could have leveled mountains.
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” he said, voice low and shaking with restrained rage. “You thought, you actually fucking thought, you could just swoop in here and take my nephew?”
Scott looked uncomfortable but held his ground. “Stiles, come on, I’m just trying to do what’s best for him. He’s lost everything-”
“No, he hasn’t,” Stiles snapped, stepping forward, forcing Eli to gently release him. “He still has me. He has Peter. He has a life. He has a place in our home. He has family.”
Scott’s jaw tightened. “And he also needs normalcy. Allison and I can give him a stable environment-”
“You mean a sterile apartment in L.A. where he gets to be your charity project while you play house with your resurrected girlfriend?” Peter cut in, voice velvet wrapped steel, stepping beside Stiles. “How romantic.”
Scott’s mouth dropped open. “That’s not what this is about-”
“No?” Stiles said, stalking closer now, barely keeping himself from shaking. “Then what is it about, Scott? Because I swear to god, if you try, yet again, say it’s what Derek would’ve wanted-”
“It is what Derek would’ve wanted!” Scott snapped, finally cracking. “He trusted me - he would’ve wanted Eli to be safe.”
“You don’t get to speak for him,” Stiles said, voice suddenly deadly quiet. “You rejected him every chance you got. You judged him, used him, and then looked the other way when he was carrying all of us on his goddamn back. Don’t you dare stand there and act like you knew him better than I did.”
The room went silent.
Not even Melissa moved.
Scott looked like he’d been slapped, but Stiles wasn’t done.
“You abandoned him, and you don’t get to make up for that by playing savior now.”
Peter stepped forward, hand on the small of Stiles’s back, calm but radiating menace. “You think you’re the only one who can offer protection? That Eli isn’t safer with two people who actually understand what he’s going through? We’ve buried enough family. We’re not giving up the one we have left.”
Scott looked between them; Stiles, seething and wrecked; Peter, sharp and unreadable; Eli, still trembling behind them with red eyes and tear streaked cheeks.
No one said a word.
Finally, the Sheriff cleared his throat gently. “Scott,” he said, voice heavy with tired authority, “it’s not your decision to make.”
Scott’s shoulders sagged.
Stiles’s eyes locked onto Scott’s with an intensity that made the room go cold. The faint hum of tension rippled through the gathered crowd like electricity, but Stiles barely blinked.
“An agent will be waiting for you at your place in L.A.,” Stiles said, his voice low, measured, and razor sharp. “Someone from my department. They want to speak with you and Allison.”
Scott’s brow furrowed. “What kind of agent?”
“One of my bosses,” Stiles replied smoothly, stepping closer until he was just inches from Scott, every ounce of his presence radiating control and unyielding power. “They want to know exactly what your plans are for your resurrected girlfriend - the one who decided to attack people in the Supernatural community in Beacon Hills the second she came back.”
Stiles’s gaze darkened, the calm slipping into something far more dangerous.
“And I’ll be investigating how the Nogitsune situation was handled. Whether Derek’s sacrifice was really necessary to stop that fox spirit.”
The room grew deathly silent, every eye on the two men as the weight of Stiles’s words settled like a storm cloud.
“You better hope I don’t find out you mishandled things as Alpha of this territory. That this could have been dealt with without the sacrifice of my best friend. Without turning my fucking nephew into an orphan.”
His voice dropped lower, the menace coiling like a predator ready to strike.
“You better hope this investigation comes back clean, that this was the only way. Because I won’t hesitate to put you down. You. And your fucking girlfriend. Both.”
Scott swallowed hard, the color draining from his face as Stiles turned sharply, brushing past him without another word. Peter caught his arm, guiding him away, but Stiles’s gaze never wavered from Scott’s stunned figure.
But the moment they got a bit further away, Scott stepped back towards them.
“Wait…Stiles…just - you have to give me a minute. We need to talk about Eli. He’s still a minor. He-”
Stiles didn’t stop moving. “No. You’re not taking him.”
Scott reached out then, his hand gripping Eli’s forearm. Firm. Insistent.
“Let him go.” Stiles’ voice cracked like a whip.
Scott looked torn - righteousness bleeding into confusion. “He doesn’t know what he wants right now. He’s confused. He just lost his dad-”
“Let. Him. Go.” The air thickened, the weight of something dangerous lacing through Stiles’ voice.
Scott didn’t release him quick enough.
Peter moved.
It was a blur of motion that was elegant, efficient and terrifying. One moment, Scott was holding onto Eli. The next…he was airborne.
Glass shattered behind him as Scott’s body crashed through the back window of Noah’s house, landing hard in the garden. The room erupted in shocked gasps.
Peter turned towards his father in law with a polite smile, like he hadn’t just committed assault in front of a whole group of people; the Sheriff included.
“Apologies, Noah. Clean up’s on me. Catch me later?”
Noah just sighed heavily and rubbed a hand down his face. “I’ll get the broom.”
Before anyone could react, Allison stepped forward.
Her movements were cautious but confident, like she was still riding the high of resurrection. Her eyes flicked to Eli, then Stiles.
“I don’t want to fight you,” she said carefully. “But this…this doesn’t have to be a confrontation. Scott says the boy is coming with us, so he’s coming with us.”
Stiles’ gun was in his hand before she took another step.
He aimed it squarely at her forehead. The room went silent.
“You take one more step,” Stiles said, voice cold and detached, “and you’ll find out just how fucking done I am playing nice with you two.”
She didn’t move. No one did.
Eli gripped Stiles’ arm. Not to stop him, just to stay anchored. Peter stepped beside him, one hand on the small of Stiles’ back.
“I said we’re taking him,” Stiles continued, voice calm. “And I meant it. He’s ours. He’s family. And if you think that you’re going to rip another piece of Derek out of this world, you are out of your goddamn mind.”
Stiles didn’t lower the gun until he and Eli were safely outside, Peter following directly behind them. One then, once the G-Wagon roared to life and the house was behind them, did he let the fury start to bleed into grief.
~~~~
The bright colored car pulled up the long driveway to Derek’s house, quiet in the late afternoon light. Peter opened the back door gently, helping Eli out, who clung tightly to Stiles’s hand like it was the only anchor left in his world. Noah followed, carrying a duffel bag and watching the house with a wary expression.
Inside, the house felt eerily empty, the silence thick with memories Derek had left behind. Stiles didn’t say much, just moved toward Eli’s bedroom. He began gathering clothes and small mementos into a bag, his movements precise but distant.
Noah leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You planning to stay here for a while? Investigate?”
Stiles didn’t look up. “I can investigate from anywhere. It’s not like I need physical evidence. Everything supernatural gets catalogued - precise, detailed. I’ve already gone through the preliminary reports about the hellfire.”
He zipped up the bag and set it down, voice low but firm. “Right now, I just need to get Eli out of this fucking place. The rest, I’ll worry about when we get back to Salem.”
Noah studied him for a beat, then said quietly, “You seem to be taking this well.”
Stiles snapped around, eyes blazing. “No, I’m not. I am not taking Derek’s death well.” His voice cracked, sharp with a pain he barely kept in check. “I’m not happy about having to take in my nephew because he’s an orphan now. I love Eli more than life itself, and would take him in for any reason. But I hate…I fucking hate that he’s coming with us because his goddamn dad needed to be a hero.”
He swallowed hard, then shoved his hands in his pockets, pacing the room in agitation. “But right now, there’s only so much I can focus on. I’m going to fall apart later, much later. So just let me pack Eli’s things without playing psychiatrist, okay?”
Noah’s expression softened, and he nodded slowly, stepping aside as Stiles resumed packing. Peter sat quietly on the edge of the couch, watching both of them with something like sympathy. Eli stood near the window, clutching his own small backpack, lost in thought.
The house felt colder than it should, but for now, this was where they had to be.
~~~~
Eli sat on the edge of his bed, still in the same clothes he’d worn to the memorial, wrinkled and damp at the collar where he’d cried into Stiles’s shoulder. The house felt like a tomb. Derek’s scent still permeated everything, cedarwood and wolf, but it felt like it was fading fast, and Eli hated that he could already feel it slipping away.
He kept his hands clenched tight in his lap until they trembled.
Footsteps padded softly into the room. Stiles crossed the threshold quietly, dropping another folded hoodie into the duffel bag. Peter leaned in the doorway, arms crossed, watching with sharp, unreadable eyes - but not in judgment. Just... guarding.
Eli’s voice came out rough and small. “You guys came back.”
Stiles looked up. “Of course we did.”
“I thought-” Eli broke off, his throat tightening. “I thought I was going to have to go with him.”
Peter stepped into the room and crouched down in front of him. “That was never going to happen, pup.”
Eli blinked hard, tears rising again. “But you were gone on some crazy vacation. And nobody knew how to reach you. And Scott was saying I’d be better off with them. Like... like he had the right.”
Stiles sat beside him, slinging an arm around his shoulders. “You’re ours, Eli. You’ve always been ours. That’s what being a Hale is. Derek would’ve hated the idea of you with Scott and his Frankenstein girlfriend.”
That got a weak, choked laugh out of Eli.
Peter softened, just slightly. “We’re not going to let anyone take you. You’re coming home with us, to Salem. Your room’s still exactly how you left it. All we have to do is stock it with enough snacks to keep a teenage werewolf from starving to death.”
Eli looked between them, his lower lip trembling. “You mean it?”
Stiles nodded firmly. “You're family, kid. There was never another option.”
That cracked whatever was left of Eli’s fragile composure. He burst into tears, full body sobs, and Stiles pulled him in immediately, holding him tight. Peter rested a hand on his back and didn’t let go.
Eli cried until his chest hurt, until the grief, confusion, fear, and loneliness started to break into pieces. But beneath it all was something new - something solid.
Safe.
~~~~
The mansion was quiet except for the faint sound of waves crashing beyond the cliffs and the occasional creak of the old house settling into the night. Eli was asleep upstairs - exhausted, emotionally wrung out, tucked into the bedroom he’d used during summers past. Peter had retired to the library with a glass of wine and a book he wasn’t reading. He knew Stiles wouldn't want his help right now.
Stiles was downstairs, in the war room.
The long mahogany table was strewn with printed files, classified briefings, enchanted paper that shimmered with arcane energy, and his personal laptop wired directly into multiple secured FBI databases. The room glowed faintly in soft golden hues from the low burning sconces, but Stiles’s face was illuminated mostly by the pale, cold light of the screen.
He muttered under his breath as he scrolled through another cross referenced report, fingers flying.
“‘Hostile soul reanimation event coinciding with dimensional bleed - subject identified as Allison Argent.’ Fucking figures.”
He snapped the file closed and picked up another, flipping pages with sharp, angry flicks.
“Activity spike from a dormant fox spirit in the weeks prior. Multiple missing persons, unexplained deaths, all in Beacon Hills radius because why wouldn’t it be Beacon Hills, right? God forbid that town go a decade without a supernatural apocalypse.”
He pulled the next report; Jordan Parrish’s official log of Derek’s death. The hellfire incident. The final confrontation with the Nogitsune. The glowing signature of spectral fox energy. Derek’s physical status marked as ‘disintegrated post contact’.
Stiles’s jaw tightened. He gripped the edge of the table hard enough to make the wood creak.
“You stupid, noble, infuriating, self sacrificing fucking werewolf,” he snapped into the empty room. “Why - why couldn’t you just let someone else do it for once?”
His hand slammed down onto the table. A couple of the files jumped.
“You always had to be the hero, didn’t you? Had to play martyr with your tragic eyes and your broody silence like that made you special. You couldn’t just wait ten fucking minutes for someone else to figure out another way. No. You had to jump headfirst into goddamn hellfire while that walking flashlight lit you up like a fucking torch.”
Stiles stood abruptly, pacing behind his chair now, running his hands through his hair. “And now what? Now your kid gets to grow up without his dad, just like you had to. Now Eli’s got nightmares and barely eats unless Peter bribes him with dumplings and I have to call your name into a report I’ll probably have to redact in seventeen different places. Do you know how hard it is to clean up a kitsune-activated reanimation incident that ends in incineration?”
He was panting now, shaking, his voice raw. “You were supposed to be safe. You were supposed to be - we were supposed to be done with this kind of shit in our backyard.”
A long beat of silence.
Then the soft sound of footsteps behind him. Peter’s voice was quiet but steady.
“He did what he thought he had to do.”
“I know,” Stiles growled. “That’s the problem. He always did.”
Peter crossed the room and gently rested a hand on the back of Stiles’s neck. “You’ll get to the truth. And when you do... we’ll make sure his sacrifice wasn’t wasted. Or misused.”
Stiles nodded stiffly. His eyes burned, but he refused to cry.
“I just want to know that it mattered,” he whispered. “That he didn’t die for nothing.”
“He didn’t,” Peter said. “But if it turns out someone made it worse, or let it happen when it didn’t have to…”
Stiles’s voice was ice. “Then I’ll bury them.”
~~~~
Week One
The first few days are quiet. Eli keeps to himself, drifting from the bedroom to the kitchen to the small courtyard out back where the ocean wind cuts through the salt heavy air. Peter and Stiles don’t push, but they’re present; always in the house, always nearby.
Peter brings tea. Stiles brings takeout.
At night, they leave his door cracked just a little, lights dimmed just enough. Some things you never age out of.
Week Two
It starts with Stiles catching Eli staring at a custom matte black motorcycle on one of his high security monitors. Stiles had left it open while running a trace on Beacon Hills cellphone towers. Eli had wandered in, paused behind the desk, and tilted his head at the screen.
“You into bikes?” Stiles asked casually, eyes flicking up.
Eli gave a shrug. “They’re cool, but I dunno. I always thought it’d be nice to have something… mine. Not something Dad picked out for me because it was safe, or whatever.”
That single sentence sparked a wildfire in Stiles’s chest. The next day, they took a detour out to a private auto concierge service Stiles had on retainer.
“You can have anything,” Stiles told him, tone matter of fact but eyes soft. “Whatever you want. It’s yours.”
Peter, predictably, raised a single brow but didn't disagree. “No limitations, pup.”
Eli spent hours going through catalogs and digital mock ups before finally stopping, eyes lighting up with an almost hesitant kind of excitement.
“I want... this,” he said, pointing to a custom 4-door Jeep Rubicon with black leather interior, winch kit, full off road package, and a glossy metallic pink wrap with gold undertones that shimmered like a sunset dipped in magic.
Stiles whooped. “Hell yes, kid. That’s a statement.”
Peter sighed with mock exasperation but couldn't hide the way his lips twitched upward. “We’re going to be those people now, aren’t we?”
Eli looked sheepish. “Too much?”
Stiles just snorted, looking over at his husband. “Baby, we’re already those people.”
Peter placed a hand on Eli’s shoulder, steady and warm. “If it’s what you want and what makes you feel like yourself, it’s perfect.”
Week Three
The estate staff had already begun making adjustments - Eli’s room expanded and refurnished, wardrobe updated, punching bag installed in the solarium gym. But the biggest change was school.
Stiles handled the paperwork personally, walking Eli into the office of the Headmistress of Blackstone Academy; a prestigious private school tucked behind forested gates just outside Salem proper. The world knew it as elite. The supernatural community knew it as safe.
“He’ll be under full protection,” Stiles told her. “He’s a registered beta, newly orphaned, and he’s ours.”
Peter, beside him in his navy coat and no nonsense stare, added, “If there’s even a whisper of trouble-”
“There won’t be,” the Headmistress assured them. “He’ll have what he needs.”
Eli started classes the following Monday. He didn’t speak much about it, but Stiles caught the way he lingered in the halls after school, how he didn’t rush to climb into the pink Jeep, how his texts started shifting from single words to sentences again.
Week Five
Stiles buried himself in his investigation when Eli was at school, building a digital map of Beacon Hills, time stamping everything from the first Kitsune sighting to the final moments of hellfire. Peter helped when he wasn’t managing house affairs or watching over Eli’s training sessions with quiet, hawk eyed precision.
The evidence didn’t sit right.
The timelines were off. Allison’s “return” read like a ritual gone wrong. And the Nogitsune’s death? Derek’s final stand? It all felt engineered. Clean in the way real chaos never is.
Stiles’s file grew by the day, encrypted and bound in spells that would incinerate it if tampered with. But more than that, it grew more personal everyday.
Late one evening, as the wind howled and rain beat against the mansion’s stone walls, Eli padded into the war room and found his uncles side by side. Peter nursing a glass of blood red wine, Stiles headfirst in a bunch of files.
“Am I... gonna be okay here?” Eli asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Stiles looked up first. “You’re gonna be great here.”
Peter’s answer was quieter, but just as certain. “This is your home, Eli. You’re safe and you’re going to be okay. Maybe not right now, hell, maybe not even anytime soon. But you will be okay. Your uncle Sti and I will make damn sure of it.”
Eli nodded. The storm rolled on outside, but in that moment, the house felt solid. Safe.
~~~~
Stiles is up before the sun, sprawled on a velvet fainting couch in his home office, surrounded by glowing screens and large monitors. He’s sipping black coffee and scowling at encrypted data reports coming in from his private global surveillance network.
That’s when it hits.
A pulse. Not literally, but to Stiles, who’s spent years attuning himself to supernatural resonance, it might as well be a fist through the chest.
One screen flashes a warning:
Beacon Hills | Nemeton Spike | Signature: Unknown | Threat Level: Low
Stiles goes very still.
“No, no, no. What the hell is this?” he mutters, bolting upright and typing with frantic precision. The readout confirms it again: a sudden spike of supernatural energy around the Nemeton. Not dark. Not volatile. Not evil.
Just big.
Within minutes, he’s storming into the kitchen where Eli is halfway through a bowl of cereal and Peter is sipping espresso and reading the New York Times.
“I need to go back,” Stiles says, out of breath and already pulling out his phone to summon the jet. “Something just triggered the Nemeton.”
Peter’s cup clinks against the saucer. “Hostile?”
“No,” Stiles says, shaking his head. “Which is worse. A friendly Nemeton is like a grizzly bear smiling at you - there’s always a reason.”
“I’m coming,” Peter says immediately, folding his paper and standing. “If something is awakening power in that forest, I want to know what it is.”
Eli sets his spoon down slowly. “Then I’m coming too. You think I’m gonna let you two fly into a hellmouth without me?”
Stiles hesitates. Just for a second. But then he sees the steady determination in Eli’s face, so much like Derek’s, it cuts, and nods once.
“Alright. We leave in 30.”
~~~~
The jet is in the air within the hour, slicing through thick clouds as it speeds toward California. Eli is in his seat with a tablet in his lap, fidgeting with maps of the Nemeton’s leyline cross sections. Peter has his laptop open, one hand tracing a familiar pattern on the silver casing - the Hale Triskelion.
Stiles is pacing the length of the cabin, practically vibrating with anxiety.
“Maybe someone messed with the tree again,” Eli offers. “Like that cult three years ago.”
“They’d have had to live to report it,” Peter says. “And the energy wasn’t dark. This isn’t a summoning.”
“Could it be a natural realignment?” Eli tries. “The Nemeton absorbing something from the past - something that was connected to it?”
Stiles pauses.
He doesn’t say it. Neither does Peter.
But they’re all thinking it.
Derek.
The Nemeton was always drawn to sacrifice. Anchors. Loss. Power soaked in pain.
Stiles rakes a hand through his hair. “Maybe it’s just a bleed. A memory echo, something residual from the hellfire.”
“No one’s been near it since,” Peter says quietly. “And the seal I had placed should’ve held. If something stirred it now... it means something changed.”
The silence in the cabin thickens, heavy with everything unsaid.
After a beat, Eli murmurs, “It doesn’t feel bad, though. Right?”
Stiles swallows. “No,” he says softly. “It doesn’t.”
No one says Derek’s name.
But it’s there - in the thrum of tension in Peter’s jaw, in the haunted tightness around Eli’s eyes, in the way Stiles grips the seat every time the jet shifts.
Whatever waits in Beacon Hills, the Nemeton is awake again.
~~~~
The descent into California is smooth, but none of them notice. The sky outside the cabin windows is a sickly, cloud streaked gray that looks too much like smoke from a distance. No one comments on it. Their thoughts are elsewhere, circling like vultures around an idea none of them want to say out loud.
They touch down at Redding Airfield just after noon. The red G-Wagon - gleaming, already gassed up, and detailed by the on call valet crew - waits for them, a surreal splash of color against the somber mood in the air. Eli drives this time, if only because his hands won’t stop shaking otherwise, and driving gives him something to focus on.
Stiles sits in the passenger seat, flicking through more reports on his phone, his jaw locked. Peter’s in the back, quiet and unreadable behind his sunglasses.
They don’t speak until the town’s welcome sign looms into view.
Then Stiles says, “I don’t want to go straight to the Nemeton. We need to stop at Derek’s house. Gear up. Reset.”
Peter nods silently.
Eli doesn’t answer. His grip tightens on the wheel.
~~~~
The house feels wrong when they enter. Like a place paused in time - unlived in, but echoing with presence. Everything is neat, but not Peter’s kind of curated neat. This is the sort of tidy born out of responsibility, not aesthetics. The kitchen still smells like Derek’s soap and cedarwood shampoo. Eli stands in the foyer for a long time, unmoving, before Peter gently nudges him forward.
They move with quiet urgency.
Peter vanishes into the basement to retrieve the locked chests of Hale warding supplies. Stiles heads to Derek’s old office, pulling open the heavy safe behind a framed photo of Eli at age ten. Inside: maps, logs, supernatural field notes - all indexed in Derek’s rigid, careful hand. Stiles lets his hand rest on the top page for a beat too long, then shakes himself and gets to work.
Upstairs, Eli packs supplies like he saw his dad do a hundred times: first-aid kit, salt rounds, a flare, gloves, a blade blessed by three different cultures. He doesn’t cry. Not yet.
When they reconvene in the living room, Stiles has laid everything out on the table.
“There’s no external evidence of tampering,” he says. “The Nemeton’s pulse didn’t coincide with any blood magic, any death, any known ritual calendar.”
Peter studies the readings. “And yet it called.”
Stiles nods grimly. “Which means it wasn’t reacting to something done. It was reacting to something changed. Something new.”
They fall into silence again.
Then Eli whispers, barely audible: “What if it’s him?”
Peter exhales like a man taking a blade to the ribs.
Stiles closes his eyes. “That’s why I didn’t want to say it. Because if I let myself hope- if I let you hope - and we’re wrong…”
“We still go,” Peter says firmly. “No matter what’s at the root of it, we go. We find out.”
Stiles nods. “We move at dusk. I want the cover of shadows. The nemeton’s less reactive to emotional energy at night - less likely to give us a vision we don’t want to see.”
“Do you think it’s a trap?” Eli asks, voice still quiet.
“I think this town hasn’t had a peaceful supernatural event since ever,” Stiles mutters. “So yeah. Could be a trap. Could be a miracle. Could be the beginning of something worse.”
Peter stands, straightens his jacket. “Then let’s go find out.”
~~~~
They park the G-Wagon a quarter mile out, walking the rest of the way under cover of trees. Salem’s forests are cold and dense, but nothing compares to the feeling of being back in these woods. Every crunch of underbrush carries memory: battles, betrayals, bloody oaths, and aching silences.
The Nemeton appears through the clearing like it’s always waiting.
But it looks different.
Alive.
Pale golden light hums softly from its bark. The air is charged, but not hostile - warm, almost. It smells like pine and rain and something older.
Stiles freezes just past the treeline, breathing hard.
“I’ve never seen it like this,” he says, awe warring with fear.
Eli steps beside him. “What do we do?”
Peter doesn’t answer. His head is tilted slightly, his eyes fixed on the roots, narrowing in on a dark, pulsing knot of energy just beneath the surface.
“We listen.” Stiles murmurs. “And we wait.”
They don’t say Derek’s name.
But they're all thinking it.
They didn’t have to wait long.
Less than an hour after they arrived, the air around the Nemeton began to shimmer. The glow that had been softly pulsing from the sacred tree’s bark intensified, casting golden light through the clearing. The temperature shifted, the air no longer cool and damp but warm, comforting. A hush fell over the woods, as if the very world were holding its breath.
Then, without warning, the light twisted upward in a spiral, drawing from the base of the Nemeton like smoke rising from a fire.
From that spiral, a figure began to form, translucent at first, then slowly solidifying. A long white robe, the fabric moving as though caught in a breeze none of them could feel. Bare feet kissed the mossy earth, though they left no print. The figure radiated age - not in wrinkles or weakness, but in presence. Like a star wearing the shape of a person.
The figure raised their head. A cascade of silver blonde hair fell around shoulders that somehow looked both ancient and unyielding. Their eyes glowed like moonlight on still water.
“I am Iskra,” they said, their voice echoing - not loud, not forceful, but felt. Like thunder from beneath your feet.
Stiles stared, stunned. “Iskra?” he whispered. “That means spark in Polish…”
Iskra’s head inclined. “Yes, Mieczysław. I know.”
Stiles’s breath caught in his throat. It wasn’t just that they knew his full name, most supernatural beings worth their salt did, but how they said it. With affection. With weight. With history.
“I was the first of our kind,” Iskra continued, voice weaving into the air like a song. “My spirit was bound to the Nemeton centuries ago. When I first was one with it, the tree flourished. It was a place of balance, of power and peace.”
Peter stood tense, wary. “What happened?”
Iskra’s expression turned mournful. “A dark druid. Power hungry. He severed the tree, corrupted its energy, tried to use it as a weapon. It has taken centuries to recover. And now…” they looked around, their glowing eyes pausing on Eli for a long moment. “Now, the tree called out. And I was finally able to answer.”
Eli, mouth slightly open, shifted closer to Stiles without thinking.
Stiles took a shaky breath. “Why now? Why show yourself now?”
Iskra smiled softly. “Because the balance has been broken again. A soul was lost unjustly. A guardian felled. The Nemeton grieved. And from that grief, a window opened.”
Stiles’s heart twisted in his chest. “Derek.”
Iskra did not confirm it. They didn’t have to.
Peter stepped forward, controlled but sharp. “Are you saying the Nemeton can bring him back?”
Iskra turned to face him fully, their energy brushing against them like wind. “There are forces beyond even your understanding, Peter Hale. What has been taken by fire can sometimes be returned by spark.”
They looked at Stiles again. “That’s why you’re here, Mieczysław. Because you are the last true spark. The inheritor. We may yet reignite what was lost.”
The forest held its breath again.
Stiles swallowed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Then tell me what I have to do.”
Iskra stepped forward, their robes brushing the mossy forest floor though they never seemed to touch it. The shimmer around them grew brighter, curling gently around the base of the Nemeton like fog catching starlight. Their glowing eyes met Stiles’s, and their voice dropped into something quieter - less grand, more personal. A whisper from the roots of the world.
“You must take the Nemeton with you, Mieczysław.”
Stiles blinked, thrown. “Take it?”
Peter stiffened behind him. “You can’t be serious.”
Iskra nodded, serene. “Deadly serious. The Nemeton is not safe here. Not anymore. Not for me, and not for what must come next. These woods… they have soaked in too much blood. Too much rage. Too many bones laid beneath the soil without rest. The Nemeton has grieved for too long.”
Eli, standing between them, shifted closer to the tree, his hand brushing the rough bark like he could soothe it.
Stiles’s brain whirred, calculating, cataloguing. “You want me to move the entire Nemeton? You do realize that’s, like, magically bonded to the ley lines under Beacon Hills? That thing feeds off them.”
Iskra lifted their hand, and the air hummed with ancient power.
“Ley lines are not fixed. They shift over time, like rivers. What was once powerful here has already begun to rot. But in Salem, where your home now rests, there is a convergence point not touched by violence. It sleeps beneath your estate. The tree will thrive there, away from what poisoned it.”
Stiles’s mouth went dry. “Why me?”
“Because you are the Spark,” Iskra said simply. “You are the first to be born of me in centuries who carries both intellect and instinct. Fire and focus. You walk the edge of science and magic and never lose your footing. You are the only one who can carry it without corrupting it.”
Peter folded his arms, voice rough. “You said something could be returned. Someone. Derek.”
Iskra’s face softened. “What was lost can be found once again. But only if the ground it returns to is at peace. The Nemeton has not felt peace since the Hale fire. Since it screamed for help, and no one listened.”
They turned their face to the Nemeton and placed their palm flat to its bark. The shimmer around them quieted.
“If you want the dead to walk again… if you want your family restored… you must first give the Nemeton a new home. One free of ash. One where it can remember what it means to grow, not burn.”
Stiles felt his throat tighten. “And if I do this?”
“Then the balance may be restored,” Iskra whispered. “Then the world may remember that death is not always the end. But only if peace is planted first. Only if you bring it home.”
~~~~
Stiles stood a few yards away from the Nemeton, his back half turned to Peter and Eli, one hand braced on his hip, the other holding his secure satellite phone to his ear.
The line clicked as it connected. “Agent Stilinski,” his handler answered crisply.
“Directive update,” Stiles said, voice sharp and even. “Effective immediately, we’ll be facilitating the relocation of an active Class-A supernatural nexus point. Coordinates will be transmitted shortly. Destination is our primary holding site in Salem.”
A pause. Then, “The Nemeton?”
“Yes.” No hesitation. “Beacon Hills is no longer a viable location. It’s been compromised - emotionally, energetically, historically. We’ve confirmed residual corruption from dark druidic activity, and the ley lines here are degrading.”
His boss didn’t question it. They never did, not when it came to Stiles. Not when he used that voice. That exacting tone, like every syllable had already been run through ten layers of analysis and was now a tactical order.
“Understood,” the handler replied. “Will containment protocols be needed?”
“No.” His fingers flexed where they pressed into his hip. “It will comply.”
There was a longer silence on the line, the kind laced with unspoken curiosity, but even that didn’t crack the surface.
“Do you require support?” the handler finally asked.
“No,” Stiles said again, more firmly this time. “My team will handle it. I’ll initiate the ley line convergence alignment myself once the root system is secured. This isn’t a threat. It’s a relocation.”
He didn’t mention Iskra. Couldn’t. If he did, they'd be flagged - an anomalous sentient entity bound to the Nemeton, likely centuries old and deeply magical. That would mean reclassification. Field studies. Containment procedures. Observation units. And Stiles wasn’t letting anyone touch them.
They weren’t a thing to be dissected. They were a spark that remembered what it meant to bloom.
“Copy that,” his boss said. “We’ll log it as a neutral transport and update satellite monitoring to track the relocation site. Anything else?”
Stiles glanced toward the Nemeton, where the bark now glowed faintly under Iskra’s hand. Peter was standing near Eli, watchful, his expression unreadable.
“Just be advised,” Stiles said quietly, “you’re going to feel a surge once we shift it. Don’t flag it. Don’t ask. Don’t send anyone.”
Another pause. Then: “Understood, Agent Stilinski.”
Stiles hung up without another word and exhaled slowly, phone dropping to his side. He turned back toward the tree, the weight of his choice anchored in his spine.
“They’re not asking questions,” he said aloud.
Peter arched a brow. “They never do.”
“And if they ever do,” Stiles muttered, “I’ll burn every trace of that file before they get close.”
Because some things were worth protecting, not just the tree. Not just Iskra. But whatever fragile, glowing possibility had been whispered into the forest air.
Peace. Restoration. Derek.
~~~~
They didn’t even blink at the cost.
Within hours of making the call, Stiles and Peter had wired an eye watering sum to a private supernatural excavation firm operating under so many layers of anonymity and NDAs that even saying their name aloud was considered a contractual violation. Their clients were the sort of people who didn’t ask how something was done, just that it was, cleanly, quickly, and with no footprints.
Stiles handed over the encrypted coordinates and stood beside the Nemeton as the moon rose and the earth was slowly, reverently, peeled back.
The roots were thick and old and hummed with a strange energy, alive in a way no normal tree should be. Iskra remained with it. Their form visible only to those tied to the supernatural, their white robe trailing over the forest floor as they whispered to the roots like a parent soothing a child mid nightmare.
“Can you leave it?” Stiles had asked, quietly, one last time.
“I am it,” they replied, simply. “We are one.”
~~~~
The jet hummed softly on their flight back to Salem, the luxury cabin bathed in soft gold light. Eli was curled up across a pair of reclining seats, hoodie pulled over his face, sleeping hard after the emotional and magical whirlwind of the last forty eight hours.
Peter was nursing a glass of something expensive and dark, his eyes not on the window or the sky, but on Stiles.
Stiles sat with one ankle balanced on his knee, a tablet in his lap and a headache forming between his brows. He was cycling through schematics of the estate, overlaying magical pathways, ley line proximity maps, and structural integrity reports.
“There’s the east garden,” he murmured to himself, tapping, swiping. “But the light isn’t - no, that would interfere with the scrying well... Maybe the grove on the west side... But then-”
“Stiles,” Peter said gently.
Stiles didn’t look up. “We can’t just drop the Nemeton anywhere, Peter. If it’s not near a natural source of earth fed magic, it won’t root properly. And we can’t just plant it next to the stables or the pool house. There are rituals to perform. Sigils to anchor. The soil has to be-”
“Stiles.”
This time, Stiles paused, stylus stilling in his hand.
Peter set his drink down on the side table and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His voice was low and rough with emotion, but his eyes - blue, clear, knowing - were soft.
“I’m so fucking proud of you.”
That stopped Stiles cold.
Peter continued, voice a whisper under the steady hum of the engine. “You’re doing everything. Everything to keep people safe. To protect Eli. To protect Iskra. To honor Derek. To fix things no one else even knows how to begin to fix. And you haven’t stopped once. Not for sleep. Not for grief. Not for breath.”
Stiles looked down, jaw tight, lashes lowered. The tablet screen dimmed in his lap.
Peter stood, crossed the short space between them, and knelt in front of Stiles, one hand braced against his knee.
“I love you,” he said, fiercely, reverently. “So much. So fucking much.”
The silence between them was soft.
Stiles exhaled, a sound that was almost a sob and almost a laugh, and leaned forward until their foreheads touched.
“I’m tired,” he whispered.
“I know,” Peter murmured, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I’ve got you.”
Outside the window, the clouds stretched endlessly, the stars above them still and waiting.
And behind them, in the cargo hold of the jet surrounded by protective wards and magical sigils, the Nemeton pulsed like a heartbeat, steady and alive.
~~~~
They arrived home just before dawn, the sky over Salem still a deep navy bruised with the early promise of light. The private drive wound through tall, iron wrought gates and past acres of meticulously manicured land, the sprawling estate coming into view like something out of a dream. All sharp lines and old stone, glass that gleamed like starlight, and heavy wooden doors that had weathered centuries of storms and secrets.
But their eyes weren’t on the house.
They were on the land just beyond it.
A few hundred feet from the back patio, past the koi pond and the open air library Peter insisted they keep despite Stiles’s grumbling about moisture damage, the land sloped gently downward into a grove surrounded by ancient, moss draped oaks. There, at the heart of the land’s deepest leyline convergence, the earth pulsed with latent power, soft but sure, old but never forgotten.
Iskra stepped barefoot into the clearing as the sun broke the horizon.
Their long white robe shifted like mist as they turned slowly in a circle, face tilted toward the growing light, eyes closed. A breath - long and deep - and they smiled.
“This,” they said, voice like wind through leaves, “is good. The tree and I will thrive here. We will heal.”
The Nemeton was settled into a deep stone hollow dug by hand, blessed with salt and iron and sacred earth from Beacon Hills, its roots trailing like fingers into new soil. The moment they touched the earth, the tree shivered, a subtle pulse of energy radiating outward like a ripple across still water. The grove brightened. Birds stirred. Flowers, silent all season, opened.
Eli watched in silent awe from the wraparound porch, arms crossed over his chest, shoulders soft for the first time in weeks. Peter stood beside him, sipping black coffee, one hand resting casually on Eli’s back. A silent reassurance.
Stiles stood just at the edge of the grove, a tablet in one hand, his secure satellite phone in the other.
“Yeah, it’s done,” he said into the receiver, voice low, efficient. “New coordinates are locked. The Nemeton has been relocated to our property.”
He paused, eyes flicking toward Iskra, who turned their gaze toward him with an expression somewhere between pride and gentle acceptance.
“No, there’s no sign of any threats,” Stiles continued, choosing every word like a blade, clean and careful. “Energy readings are stabilizing. No hostility detected. I’ll continue to monitor from here.”
Another pause. The faint voice on the other end tried to probe, just a little. But Stiles’s voice dropped, calm and unyielding.
“No, sir. There’s nothing else you need to be concerned with. We’re secure. We’ll keep it that way.”
His boss still didn’t argue.
Stiles ended the call and tucked the phone into his back pocket, sighing as he turned to look at the tree, at them. Iskra stood beside the Nemeton now, their hand resting gently on the bark, hair catching the gold of morning.
They dipped her head to him. “Thank you, Mieczysław.”
Stiles swallowed against the tightness in his throat and gave them a small, tired smile.
“Welcome home.”
~~~~
Life settled in Salem - quiet, constant, and forever changed.
The Nemeton took root in its new home as though it had always belonged there. Its bark grew deeper in color, rich and earthen, and its leaves took on a sheen that shimmered with subtle, otherworldly iridescence when the light hit them just right. Energy thrummed through the grove now, steady and ancient, but no longer heavy with the weight of centuries of pain. The land sighed with relief.
Iskra remained, but they rarely saw them. They were part of the Nemeton in a way that couldn’t be undone. Bound, yes, but also choosing it - healing both themselves and the sacred tree they had once given their soul to protect. Sometimes, Eli would pause by the grove after school, and if he stood still enough, he swore he could feel their presence like a cool breeze brushing against his cheek. They never spoke, but it always felt like they were watching, quietly protective, like the hum of a lullaby.
No one asked about Derek. Not out loud.
But they thought about him. Every day. In the way Peter’s hand sometimes lingered over the kitchen table chair Derek had once sat in during his visits to Salem. In the way Eli’s eyes would flick toward the woods, then quickly away. In how Stiles sometimes came in from a call, briefcase in one hand, shoulders rigid, jaw set, and walk straight past the living room, straight to his bedroom - without saying a word. On those nights, Peter would find him on the floor of their walk in closet, shirt still buttoned, eyes unfocused, and just sit with him. No words. No platitudes. Just shared breath and the silent ache of what might’ve been.
But life went on.
Eli thrived.
The private school was full of secrets beneath its pristine halls and elite academic facade. Only a handful of students knew the truth: that the school sat at the convergence of two minor leylines and that the Headmistress was an old, stoic dryad who hadn’t aged in sixty years. Eli made fast friends with Juno, a sharp witted, lavender haired kitsune who could charm her way out of detention like it was magic, and Cal, a quiet, steady beta werewolf with silver rimmed glasses and a fierce loyalty that reminded Eli of someone he couldn’t bring himself to name. The three of them became inseparable - cutting through the strangeness and grief. Laughing. Living.
Peter found his rhythm in the stillness.
He once again took over running the estate’s daily affairs - staff, security, finances. He replanted the herb garden out back, added a glass greenhouse for more delicate ingredients, and began brewing teas and tinctures again. He cooked elaborate meals when he was bored. Sometimes he sent jars of handmade preserves and oils to the Academy’s staff with perfectly hand written notes, pretending it wasn’t because he liked that Eli was happy there.
Stiles… never stopped.
He woke early, slept late, and in between, juggled a life most people couldn’t even begin to imagine. He mediated territory disputes between a fae court in Portugal and a vampire enclave in Cairo via encrypted call while brushing his teeth. He’d hang up and immediately take another call about a rogue chimera loose in the Australian outback. He coordinated relief for magical wildlife disasters, investigated unauthorized spell rings, and acted as liaison to several international paranormal watchdogs. His office was lined with encrypted monitors, books bound in dragon hide, and a growing stack of files marked with urgent red seals.
But no matter how chaotic it got, he was there.
At dinner. For movie nights. At the Nemeton on Sunday mornings, where Eli sometimes sat and Peter brought tea and none of them spoke. At parent teacher conferences, where he terrified the staff with his charming smile and thousand yard stare. He was everywhere, even when the weight of the world pressed against his spine.
And on some nights, when the air was clear and the grove whispered gently in the wind, Stiles would walk to the tree, stand with his hand pressed against the bark, and ask quietly:
"Did I do it right?"
The tree never answered.
But somewhere in the breeze, he swore he heard the low rumble of a familiar, stubborn voice saying:
"You always do.”
~~~~
Stiles and Peter lay tangled beneath the heavy blankets, the quiet hum of the night wrapped around them like a warm cocoon. Soft kisses trailed along Peter’s jaw, lingering at the sensitive curve of his neck, fingers threading through his dark hair. For a few precious moments, everything was still - just the two of them, a shared breath, the comfort of home.
Then the house shuddered violently.
The bed jolted beneath them, the walls groaning like ancient timber stressed beyond endurance. Objects rattled on shelves; a vase teetered dangerously close to the edge of the dresser. Stiles’s eyes snapped open, heart hammering. Peter was instantly alert, muscles coiled as they both vaulted upright.
“Get Eli,” Stiles said without hesitation, his voice tight.
They moved fast, adrenaline sharpening every step. Down the hall, the soft glow of Eli’s night light flickered as the tremors rippled through the house. Stiles flung open the door to Eli’s room - he was sitting up in bed, wide eyed, clutching the covers.
“What the hell is happening?” Eli’s voice trembled with fear and confusion.
Before either of them could answer, the smooth, measured voice of the house AI cut through the tension, echoing softly but firmly through the smart home speakers.
“Class A magical activity detected at the Nemeton. Large burst of energy registered. Subject reclassification in progress: Alpha werewolf - Derek Hale: alive.”
Stiles’s breath caught in his throat. The words echoed like a bell tolling in the dark. Alive. Derek.
His mind raced back to Iskra’s words, the truth behind the ancient spirit bound to the tree. They had promised, once the Nemeton was at peace, they would return what was lost. Derek was that lost thing.
Peter’s hand found Stiles’s, gripping tightly, steadying both their racing hearts. “We have to get to the Nemeton,” Stiles said, voice raw with a mix of hope, fear, and determination.
Without a second thought, they moved - fast, urgent, propelled by the sudden surge of possibility and the weight of everything they’d lost.
Outside, the night air was electric, charged with the pulse of ancient magic awakening.
And somewhere beneath the earth, the Nemeton waited, ready to bring Derek Hale home.
The forest was alive, humming with power, thrumming with breath, each step they took toward the Nemeton steeped in anticipation. Moonlight threaded through the trees like silver veins, casting dappled shadows on the moss covered ground. The Nemeton pulsed with an ethereal glow now, vibrant and whole in a way it hadn’t been in years.
Stiles, Peter, and Eli broke through the final line of trees - and there he was.
Iskra stood beside the base of the Nemeton, their white robes untouched by dirt or time, their hands hovering just above a figure lying at the foot of the great tree. Derek. His body looked whole but fragile, like something newly mended, glowing faintly under Iskra’s touch as golden threads of healing light seeped into his chest and arms.
Stiles’s breath caught. Peter froze beside him.
But it was Eli who moved first, stumbling forward as if pulled by an invisible force.
Derek’s eyes opened slowly, hazy and unfocused, until they landed on one thing; his son.
His entire body seemed to lurch with recognition.
“Eli?” Derek’s voice was hoarse, cracked with disbelief. His legs trembled as he pushed himself upright, bracing against the Nemeton before standing fully. Iskra took a step back, their work complete, their hands falling away.
Eli didn’t wait. He bolted the last few feet.
And then Derek was there, arms wrapping tightly around the boy who had mourned him, who had grieved and cried and felt hollowed out by his loss. Derek crushed him to his chest, one hand cradling the back of Eli’s head, the other wrapped protectively around his shoulders.
“I’m here. I’m here,” Derek whispered again and again, like a prayer or a vow, his voice breaking as tears fell freely down his cheeks and into his son’s hair. Eli clung to him, sobbing, fingers fisting into the fabric of Derek’s shirt like he might disappear if he let go.
Stiles had seen a lot of things in his life - death, resurrection, war, loss - but nothing compared to this moment. To watching his best friend, the man who had once carried the weight of the world in his silence, holding his son because he’d just been given a second chance at living.
Peter stood beside him, silent, eyes shining with rare emotion.
And for once, the Nemeton pulsed with peace.
Derek finally pulled back just enough to cup Eli’s face in his hands, brushing the boy’s cheeks with calloused thumbs, his expression full of wonder and disbelief. "You’ve grown," he whispered, voice thick, eyes shining.
“I missed you so much, Dad,” Eli choked out.
“I’m so sorry I left you.”
“You came back,” Eli whispered. “That’s all that matters.”
Behind them, the Nemeton stood tall and glowing, its roots humming with quiet magic, its bark gilded with the echo of something ancient and powerful. The clearing shimmered like it existed outside of time, caught between the pulse of magic and something divine.
Stiles stood frozen, his fists clenched, tears on his cheeks. Peter moved first, quietly stepping forward. He didn’t speak, not at first. just reached out and laid a hand gently against Derek’s face. A simple gesture, honest and grounding.
Peter’s voice was low but sure. “Welcome back, nephew.”
Derek turned toward him, eyes wide and full of stunned emotion. They didn’t hug, but Derek leaned into the touch like a man starved for familiarity, and Peter didn’t pull away.
Then it was Stiles.
Derek turned to him last.
Their eyes locked, and time stopped.
And then Stiles launched at him.
“You absolute fucking bastard,” he sobbed, slamming into Derek’s chest with both fists before collapsing into his arms, gripping the back of Derek’s shirt like a lifeline. “You stupid, self sacrificing, asshole. I thought I lost you. We did lose you.”
Derek’s arms wrapped around him with fierce strength. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t want to-”
“Shut up,” Stiles sniffled, pulling back enough to look at him. “You don't get to apologize for dying, okay? Not when you're here. Not when you're here, and alive, and you look like absolute shit but I’ve never been so happy to see someone in my life.”
Derek gave a faint, disbelieving laugh and pulled him into another hug.
Iskra, still bathed in a faint celestial glow, stepped forward. Their eyes shimmered with the ageless depth of the earth, the stars, and everything in between.
“He was brave,” they said, their voice echoing with the weight of lifetimes. “The fire that scorched the soul must also prove its worth in rebirth. His heart - fierce, loyal, burdened - was offered freely. For that, the Nemeton has returned him… not as he was, but as he is meant to be.”
Stiles wiped his face, brow furrowed. “You mean he’s…?”
Iskra nodded, serene. “The Alpha once more. But not by blood. By honor. By sacrifice. By peace.”
Derek blinked, stunned, as a faint red light flickered behind his eyes, slow and steady. It wasn’t the burning ferocity of his past, it was something deeper. Quieter. Whole.
“Lead with grace, Alpha of the flame,” Iskra intoned. “And maybe don’t throw yourself into any more hellfire. It's very dramatic.”
Stiles barked a laugh through his tears, covering his mouth. “Did…did you just?”
Iskra tilted their head, the ghost of a smile tugging at her lips. “Even ancient spirits enjoy a touch of flair, Mieczysław.”
Stiles doubled over, laughing while still crying, and Peter chuckled softly, rolling his eyes. “You would attract a sarcastic god tree spirit.”
“Shut up,” Stiles sniffled, wiping his face. “They're perfect.”
Derek looked at the three of them - his son, his uncle, his best friend - and for the first time in what felt like lifetimes, he felt peace.