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The warehouse still reeked of smoke and sulfur. Sparks flickered from a busted breaker box in the corner, casting shadows that danced along the crumbling walls. Scott’s ears were ringing from the blast that threw him across the room fifteen minutes ago. His shirt was torn, claws retracted, ribs aching.
Across the floor, Lydia sat propped against a broken pillar, cradling her wrist. Kira stood beside her, sword dripping black ichor. Boyd was dragging Erica out from under a collapsed beam, and Isaac was panting hard, bent over his knees.
It was over. Barely.
Scott tried to slow his breathing, tried to listen—but the silence was almost worse than the noise. No snarls. No hissing. No screaming. Just the buzzing aftermath of another night gone sideways.
“What the hell was that thing?” Jackson snapped, pacing restlessly and bleeding from a split lip. “It had like—six mouths and no goddamn eyes. I stabbed it in the stomach and it bled fog. Fog, Scott.”
“I don’t know,” Scott admitted. He hated saying it, but he was too tired to lie. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Kira made a soft noise, almost a whimper, and Lydia reached over to grip her shoulder.
“We didn’t even know how to kill it until halfway through the fight,” Lydia murmured. Her voice was sharper than the pain in her expression. “We were guessing the whole time. Someone could’ve died.”
Scott’s stomach twisted. She wasn’t wrong. He hadn’t even known where to start with the research. Latin incantations, dead languages, elemental triggers—none of it made sense without…
“Stiles would’ve known,” she said, so quietly that only the wolves caught it.
Silence.
Scott turned away from the ruined wall he’d been staring at. The team was scattered—half-bleeding, half-pissed, fully worn down—and no one had a good answer.
Because she was right. Stiles would’ve figured it out before they even left the house. He would’ve found the pattern in the murder locations, deciphered the obscure reference Lydia made about Duma spirits, tracked down the origin of the creature’s sulfur scent.
He would’ve been pacing, talking too fast, gesturing wildly with a whiteboard marker in one hand and a Red Bull in the other. He would’ve texted Scott 19 times before breakfast with everything they needed. He would’ve been there.
But he wasn’t.
He hadn’t been for weeks.
Sure, they saw him at school sometimes—arms full of books, muttering to himself about federal clearance levels or mock trial tournaments or “the metaphysical implications of soul tethers” (whatever that meant). He’d wave, flash that crooked grin, maybe crack a joke in passing.
But when it came to Pack meetings, supernatural threats, late-night research binges and urgent group chats… Stiles was a ghost.
“He’s just busy,” Scott said finally, trying to ignore the way it felt like a lie.
“Too busy to keep us alive?” Jackson said, rolling his eyes.
Scott snapped, “You think this is his fault?”
Jackson raised both hands, but the look on his face wasn’t defensive. It was… uncertain. “I think maybe we got used to him doing everything. And we didn’t notice until he wasn’t.”
No one said anything.
And in the heavy silence, Scott realized something cold and sharp:
He didn’t know what the creature was.
He didn’t know where it came from.
He didn’t know how they’d survived.
He just knew that without Stiles, they were flying blind.
Okay, okay, okay—wait. No, hold on. Yes. Okay. No, now we’re cooking with gas.
Stiles spun in his desk chair so fast the wheels actually skidded against the floor, slammed his Red Bull down next to a stack of flashcards (some blank, some covered in FBI jargon and doodles of angry ghosts), and launched himself across the room to grab a battered folder labeled “ Demonic Intersections: Possibly, Probably, Definitely Real? ” in sharpie.
“Alright, you beautiful bastard,” he muttered, flipping it open. “You wanna tell me why sulfur lines showed up in three locations all outside ley line convergence zones but inside an emotionally charged supernatural radius? No? Didn’t think so.”
He slapped it down on his bed, kicked the rolling chair out of his way (it hit the wall with a dramatic thunk), and darted over to the bulletin board.
Or more accurately: The Wall.
It had grown. What used to be a tidy pinboard above his desk had metastasized into a nightmare of yarn, tacks, printed maps, sigils, old receipts, two receipts he wrote on, a takeout menu from a Himalayan fusion place he’d never eaten at, and what may or may not have once been his ninth grade health class worksheet on venereal diseases (very useful for Banshee biology—long story, don’t ask).
He added a new string—yellow, for unverified leads, which obviously made sense—and connected a photo of a scorched church floor to a printout from a Russian occult blog written entirely in capslock.
“Boom,” Stiles whispered. “Freakin’ nailed it.”
Then he stopped.
Then he did a full 180.
Then he pointed both fingers at a dusty copy of The Encyclopedia of Demonic Entities and Territorial Spirits sitting under a sock on his bookshelf.
“Oh my God, what if it’s a shrike hybrid? Ohhh you thought you were slick, didn’t you, you fog-breathing bastard—”
“Stiles.”
He froze like a raccoon caught in the fridge light.
“Hi, Dad!” he called out before even turning around.
Noah leaned into the doorway with the resigned look of a man who had given up on understanding anything in his house the moment his son learned how to Google “demonic possession symptoms.”
“You’ve slept… when, exactly?”
“I took a power nap at like—two?”
Noah checked his watch. “It’s seven.”
“I didn’t say AM, Dad. It was a power nap. Twenty-three minutes. Textbook. I’m sharp. I could do calculus in reverse right now.”
“Please don’t.”
“I wasn’t gonna.” Stiles paused. “Okay, I was, but I’ll save it for after I update my FBI application portal and finish translating this Latin binding incantation and run a cross-reference on sulfur-breathers and ancient fertility cults.”
Noah just sighed and wandered into the room, stepping carefully over three highlighters, a cracked crystal, and an open can of Monster. He picked up the FBI pamphlet from Stiles’ desk and gave it a once-over.
“You sure you’re gonna make it through this internship alive?”
Stiles grinned, wide and unhinged. “Not only am I gonna make it, I’m gonna dominate. I’m gonna walk in there with enough weird knowledge to make Mulder question his life choices. I’m gonna solve ten cold cases before lunch and then drink another Red Bull and make an entire field office question their career paths.”
Noah put the pamphlet down and studied his son, then looked toward the Chaos Wall™ like it might bite.
“You haven’t been by the station in a while,” he said gently. “Haven’t seen Scott around either.”
Stiles froze just for a second. Just long enough for a thread of guilt to sneak in between the adrenaline and Latin chant transcripts.
“Yeah,” he said, quieter now. “They’ve got it handled.”
“You sure?”
He forced a grin. “C’mon, Pop. They’ve got claws and super-senses and laser swords—”
“Kira has a katana.”
“Laser, katana, semantics.” He waved him off and picked up another folder. “I’m just background support now. I’m Oracle. I’m Q. I’m… the creepy guy in the van except I own it. Besides, I’ve got three mock interviews, one psych profile to fake—I mean fill out honestly—and I’m on a mission to prove that I’m not just some spaz with a bat.”
Noah raised an eyebrow. “You’ve been talking to yourself for thirty-seven straight minutes, Stiles.”
“I’m literally the most productive man in California right now, and I will not apologize for my methods.”
Noah just kissed the top of his head and headed for the door. “Leave a sticky note if you spontaneously combust, okay?”
“I already did!” Stiles shouted after him, holding up a neon green one labeled “ If Dead: It Was Probably A Banshee, Check Lydia’s Texts ”.
The door shut behind his dad.
And then, as if summoned by fate itself, his phone buzzed.
One word from Scott:
Hey
Stiles blinked at the screen, then stared up at the wall of tangled yarn and Post-it doom.
“…Well, shit.”
Scott didn’t know when the Pack meeting turned into a grief circle, but here they were.
Everyone was spread around the McCall living room. Lydia was perched on the arm of the couch like it offended her. Isaac was sprawled out like he lived there. Jackson looked like he had somewhere better to be but didn’t want to miss the drama. Kira was braiding and unbraiding a piece of string. Erica had already finished an entire bag of M&Ms. Boyd was silent but watchful, and Derek—
Derek was doing the thing where he leaned against a wall with his arms crossed, brooding so hard he looked like he belonged in a noir movie.
Peter, unfortunately, was present too. Legs crossed, mug of tea in hand, because he insisted he was “civilized now.”
Scott was the one who called the meeting, which was how he knew he had officially lost control of the situation.
“I’m just saying,” he started again, “things keep going wrong. We used to be better at this.”
“We used to have someone who did all the homework,” Lydia muttered.
“And who thought about traps,” Kira added.
“And backup plans,” said Boyd.
“And bribed the janitor to let us into the boiler room so we could kill that sewer wraith,” said Isaac.
Scott blinked. “Wait, what?”
“Don’t worry about it,” Erica grinned. “Point is, Stiles handled logistics. All of them. Quietly. And you let him.”
Jackson, ever the tactful one, said, “You guys were codependent as hell and now your emotional support gremlin doesn’t come around and we’re all going to die.”
“Can we not call him a gremlin?” Derek growled.
Peter sipped his tea. “I personally prefer demon fox, but sure, why not ruin the mood with accuracy.”
Everyone turned to him. Which, in hindsight, was a mistake.
Peter leaned back with the smug air of a man who’d been waiting for this moment. “You know what the real tragedy here is?” he said, voice dripping with insincerity. “That I didn’t bite Stiles.”
Scott groaned. “Not this again.”
“No, seriously!” Peter put the mug down and stood up, already starting to pace. “I offered! I offered. Hand to God—after he saved all your asses from that bone-witch coven, I looked that boy dead in the eye and said, ‘You should be a wolf.’ Do you know what he did?”
“Let me guess,” Lydia muttered.
Peter held up one finger, beaming like he was about to deliver the punchline of a lifetime. “He pulled out a silver taser, looked me dead in my eye, no, looked me dead in my pupils, and said—get this—‘I bite back, fucker.’ Then he tased me. For like a full minute.”
Jackson snorted. Erica burst out laughing.
Peter looked fond. “Little bastard had it on standby. Just for me. I respected that.”
Scott pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can we focus, please?”
“Scott,” Lydia said gently, “he thinks we don’t need him.”
“But we do,” Isaac said quietly.
Derek finally spoke. “We’ve been flying blind. No intel. No planning. No coordination. We’re reacting instead of preparing.” He paused, jaw clenching. “We’re losing people.”
The room got real quiet. Even Peter didn’t say anything—for a second.
Then he flopped dramatically into the recliner like a Victorian widow. “God. He would’ve made the best wolf.”
“Oh my god,” Scott groaned.
“I’m serious! He’s vicious. He’s smart. He plays the long game. He’s loyal but unafraid to walk away. He’s everything an alpha should be. But nooo,” Peter whined, throwing a hand out like he was performing Shakespeare, “I had to bite you. The friendly asthmatic golden retriever who thinks murder is personal damnation.”
“I was fifteen!” Scott snapped.
“You still are! Emotionally!” Peter threw a pillow at him. “I could’ve had a demon fox! He already had murder boards before he hit puberty! He’s got tactical instincts, chemical warfare knowledge, a morally flexible brain—he would’ve reshaped the supernatural power balance by now!”
Erica leaned into Boyd. “I think he’s crying.”
“I’m not crying,” Peter sniffed. “I’m suffering. It’s different.”
Kira raised her hand hesitantly. “Wait. You said you offered him the Bite?”
Peter waved a hand. “Obviously.”
“And he turned it down?”
“With flair.” Peter sat up straighter, suddenly serious. “And he wasn’t afraid. Not even when I got all up on him. You know how rare that is?”
“Then why isn’t he coming around anymore?” Scott asked, almost desperate now. “Why doesn’t he answer half our texts? Why hasn’t he showed up?”
Peter smirked. “Oh. You think he’s mad at you.”
Everyone went still.
“He’s not?” Scott said, a spark of hope flickering in his voice.
Peter took a long sip of his tea and said absolutely nothing.
“Peter,” Derek warned.
“Oh, he’s definitely pissed. I’m enjoying this.” He stood up, brushing his hands together. “Anyway, while you’ve all been floundering around like puppies in a sink, Stiles has been out there saving the world. Probably caffeinated out of his mind. Possibly feral.” He grinned. “I can’t wait until he shows up and you all cry.”
Then, like the dramatic bastard he was, Peter walked out the front door.
The Pack stared after him in horrified silence.
Scott looked at Derek. “…Do you think he’s right?”
Derek stared at the door a moment longer, then nodded once. “Yeah.” He looked at Scott. “We need to get Stiles back.”
Scott had never felt more like a kindergarten teacher.
He looked around the living room at the collection of supernatural misfits, emotional disasters, and Peter, and rubbed the heel of his palm over his eye like that would help.
“So,” he began, slow and steady, “did anyone successfully reach out to Stiles?”
No one answered.
Peter made a wheezing noise. Scott didn’t look at him.
“I mean it,” Scott said. “We all agreed to talk to him one-on-one. Like—apologize. Reconnect. Something. What happened?”
There was a long, terrible pause.
And then Scott sighed. “Fine. I’ll go first.”
FLASHBACK – Scott & Stiles: The Sleepover That Went Off the Rails
It had started well enough.
Scott had texted:
“Hey, wanna come over? Movie night? Like old times?”
Stiles had replied immediately:
“YES. You had me at ‘like old times’ and also I’ve had 3 hours of sleep in 2 days LET’S GO”
Scott had even stocked up on the good snacks—Cool Ranch Doritos, Reese’s, and the weird soda Stiles liked that tasted like battery acid and nostalgia. They stayed up watching Indiana Jones reruns, and for a few brief hours, everything felt normal.
Until Scott woke up at 3:27 a.m.
The house was silent except for a soft scritch-scritch-scritch coming from the kitchen table. Scott groggily shuffled in to find Stiles, hunched over like Gollum, frantically writing in the margins of a file so thick it had its own gravitational pull.
The cover read:
“ Can’t Catch Me, Darth Vader-Sounding Ass ”
Underneath: alternatively: Fog-Breathing Bastard, Non-Supernatural Ver.
Scott just stood there.
“Stiles?” he whispered.
Stiles didn’t look up. “Did you know sulfur spirits can’t cross running water but can possess certain metal alloys? You’d think I’d remember that, but noooo, here I am re-learning cursed metallurgy at—what time is it? Ugh, never mind. Also, I’m like 70% sure this bitch is a parasite hive mind, and I hate hive minds. Like get your own brain, Brenda, damn.”
Scott blinked. “What—why are you working now?”
Stiles finally looked up, dark circles under his eyes, hair sticking up in wild cowlicks.
“Scott, buddy, love you like a brother, but you invited me over during an active case. This is playtime for me.”
Scott had just…gone back to bed. There wasn’t anything else to do.
Back in the present, Scott rubbed his face again. “Okay, so. That went… fine. Ish.”
“Your standards are so low,” Jackson muttered.
“Your turn, rich boy,” Erica smirked. “You said you dropped something off for him?”
Jackson crossed his arms. “It was tasteful.”
“Explain the part where his dad thought it was a biological attack,” Scott deadpanned.
FLASHBACK – Jackson: What In God’s Name Was That
Jackson had decided on the grand gesture.
“Stiles is a scent-driven creature,” he said in that tone like he was quoting Shakespeare. “He deserves options.”
So he left a basket—no, a crate—of high-end colognes on Stiles’ porch. Thirty-two bottles. Each more expensive than Scott’s car. There was no note. No name.
Just $5,000 worth of spiced citrus and sandalwood simmering in the California spring sun.
Stiles didn’t get home first. His dad did.
Cue: Noah Stilinski, walking onto his porch after a twelve-hour shift, squinting down at a mysterious basket of slick glass bottles labeled things like Vengeance Noire and Amber Rage.
Cue: Noah Stilinski, the cop, deciding not to touch them and calling them in as a potential hazmat scenario.
The bomb squad tested it. The bomb squad cleared it. Eventually. It made its way up all the way to the Beacon Hills branch of homeland security.
By the time Stiles got home, the bottles had cooked in the sun for hours and merged into what he later described via text as:
“An unholy cloud of Gucci-flavored death.”
He never mentioned it again.
Jackson shrugged. “So, it wasn’t the most conventional move.”
Peter howled. He was crying.
“I—I can’t breathe,” Peter gasped, doubled over on the couch. “Chemical warfare! You accidentally—accidentally—gassed the sheriff!”
“Not on purpose!” Jackson snapped. “I thought he’d appreciate variety!”
“Stiles owns a single bottle of Axe, and it’s labeled emergency weapon. He’s not a scent guy,” Scott said.
“Yeah, well—next time I’ll give him a flamethrower,” Jackson muttered.
Peter wiped his eyes. “Please do. But also leave a note that says ‘From Secret Admirer – Not Trying to Kill You .’” He paused. “Unless you are. In which case—points for subtlety.”
Scott looked around the room again, more exhausted than angry now.
“Okay. So that’s… two fails.”
“I wouldn’t call mine a fail,” Jackson sniffed.
“Your ‘gift’ was investigated by Homeland Security.”
“Details.”
Scott sighed. “Alright. Who’s next?” He turned to Lydia and Isaac
“So,” Scott said, already bracing himself, “how’d you two do?”
Lydia’s expression was carefully neutral. Isaac looked vaguely ashamed. Peter perked up, clearly sensing a story.
“I baked,” Lydia said flatly.
“You what?” Jackson snorted.
“I was trying to be thoughtful,” she snapped. “People bake when they feel bad!”
Scott blinked. “You don’t bake. You order from that French place that spells éclair with seven accents.”
“I was tired, okay?” Lydia huffed. “I had finals. I wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“You fucked it up,” Peter guessed, sounding delighted.
“I might have,” Lydia muttered, folding her arms tightly.
FLASHBACK – Lydia: The Cookie Catastrophe
It started off sincere. Lydia showed up at Stiles’ front door with a tupperware of cookies and a pile of color-coded flashcards.
“I figured you’d need help cramming,” she said, trying to sound casual. “And I know your brain melts under pressure, so I brought snacks. Homemade.”
Stiles blinked, surprised but touched. “Dude, thank you. That’s—Lydia Martin, baking for me? Am I dying?”
“You will be if you fail the psych eval,” she said, breezing past him and flopping onto his floor. “Now sit. We’re conquering behavioral profiling.”
Stiles took a cookie, bit in, and paused.
His eyes widened. His soul visibly left his body. But—because he was Stiles—he chewed. Swallowed. Took another. And then a third.
She didn’t notice. She was halfway through explaining the difference between infatuated love and obsessive love when she finally popped a cookie into her mouth.
And immediately spit it out into the nearest folder.
“Oh my God,” she gagged. “What the hell did I—why does it taste like a margarita-flavored salt lick?!”
“You probably accidentally used salt,” Stiles said calmly, already getting her a glass of water. “I thought maybe it was a new… diet choice? Like keto or something.”
She was still gagging. “I tried to kill you. You ate three—Jesus, I’m so sorry—”
“Hey, hey,” Stiles said gently, kneeling beside her. “It’s okay. You’re stressed. You’re tired. You baked for me, which is already insane, and I love you for it.”
“You’re not supposed to love me for poisoning you!”
“I’ve eaten gas station sushi,” he said solemnly. “This isn’t even top ten.”
She just stared at him, utterly mortified, as he rubbed her back and made her tea. It was… horribly sweet. She hated it.
Worse, it made her like him more.
Back in the present, Lydia buried her face in her hands.
“I don’t wanna talk about it.”
Peter was giggling like a middle schooler. “Did you throw up in one of his case files? Please say it was labeled something dramatic.”
“It was titled Murder But Make It Ritualistic. ” Lydia mumbled.
Peter howled.
“Alright,” Scott said quickly, turning to Isaac. “Please, for the love of God, tell me yours went better.”
Isaac looked away. “Define ‘better.’”
Peter clapped his hands like a game show host. “Oh this is gonna be good.”
FLASHBACK – Isaac: Window Delivery Service from Hell
Isaac had been proud of his gift. It was a custom aluminum bat, reinforced with a wolfsbane core, runes carved subtly into the handle, lacquered matte black. It even had “Stilinski” engraved along the side in neat script.
It was cool. It was useful. It was his way of saying:
“You’re still one of us.”
“I see you.”
“I believe in you.”
But instead of giving it to Stiles like a normal, emotionally functional person…
He threw it through Stiles’ bedroom window at 11:41 p.m.
It shattered the glass, skidded across the floor, and thunked into Stiles’ closet.
Inside, Stiles screamed.
Then there was dead silence. Then… chanting.
For twenty minutes.
By the time Isaac peeked back into the yard, the window was boarded up, and Stiles had placed four different sigils on the bat and was dusting it for prints with an actual CSI kit.
He never asked who sent it.
He kept it, though. It sat on his wall like a trophy. He just also scanned it for curses every day.
“I thought it’d be a surprise,” Isaac muttered, arms crossed.
“It was,” Peter wheezed. “You terrorized him with a love bomb disguised as a blunt object!”
“He kept it,” Isaac grumbled.
“He ran a background check on it first,” Lydia said.
“He carved a ward into the grip!” Peter cackled. “Just in case it was haunted! Which it now might be, with how much anxiety he poured into it!”
Scott let his head fall into his hands.
“Okay. So. That’s four failed attempts.”
“He didn’t even know it was me!” Isaac added, offended now.
“No one knows what any of you are doing!” Scott snapped. “We’re trying to show him we miss him, not emotionally confuse him into thinking he’s in a low-budget horror film!”
Peter sprawled over the arm of the couch, positively delighted. “Oh, this is so much better than I hoped.”
Scott knew—knew—the moment Erica and Boyd sat down across from him, looking like they’d aged twenty years, that whatever they had done to Stiles was going to be worse than the salt cookies and the weaponized bat.
They wouldn’t meet his eyes. Erica was chewing the inside of her cheek. Boyd looked like he wanted to dig a hole and lie in it forever.
Peter was already watching them like a cat in a sunbeam, one eyebrow raised, waiting.
“So,” Scott said, slowly. “How’d it go?”
Neither of them answered.
“Erica?” Lydia prompted.
Erica groaned, dropping her head into her hands. “We accidentally propositioned him.”
Scott blinked. “I’m sorry, what?”
Boyd sighed. “It was supposed to be movie night.”
FLASHBACK – Erica & Boyd: The Accidental Threesome Invitation
They’d tried to keep it casual. They really had. Just drop by with popcorn and some DVDs, chill on the couch, make it clear they still liked him.
Erica wore a full beat face. Smokey eyes. Red lips. Black crop top. She hadn’t meant to dress like she was about to film a music video, but nerves made her do things.
Boyd had picked out movies, classic stuff. Horror, action. Easy to talk through.
They showed up at Stiles’ door like the cover of a GQ Halloween special.
“Movie night?” Erica said, leaning in the doorway, casually brushing her hand through Stiles’ hair. “You’ve been working so hard. Thought you deserved a little… distraction.”
Stiles blinked. “Uh. Thanks?”
He let them in.
Ten minutes in, things started going sideways.
Erica was practically curled up in his lap, fiddling with his hoodie strings, fingers brushing against his chest. Boyd had picked the darkest, grittiest film possible, and kept making completely innocent, but horrifyingly suggestive, comments:
“I think we could go all night if we pace ourselves.”
“I love it when it’s super rough.”
“I love when they have such pretty necks.”
“I could ride that all night.”
(For context, the last one while making direct eye contact with Stiles as a motorcycle revved onscreen.)
Stiles, to his credit, tried. He really did. But at one point Erica licked icing off her finger while calling him “sweetheart,” and Boyd adjusted the blanket and brushed his thigh, and—
Stiles very gently paused the movie.
“Hey, so,” he started, voice incredibly calm for a man clearly short-circuiting, “I’m flattered. Really. And I do swing both ways. But I’m kind of a one-at-a-time kinda guy? Like if this is something y’all are doing together, that’s cool, I support you, but maybe next time give a heads-up or a safe word—?”
Erica went pale.
Boyd actually choked.
“No!” Erica blurted. “We’re not—this wasn’t—God, no! I was just—nervous!”
“Yeah, we weren’t trying to—this was not a seduction thing,” Boyd said quickly.
Stiles looked at them, eyebrows raised. “…Y’all are in my personal space, complimenting my neck, and moaning about riding things. What was it supposed to be?”
Boyd turned scarlet.
Erica was trying to sink into the floor.
Stiles, because he was Stiles, just shrugged. “Whatever floats your boat, just not for me personally. I usually prefer, like, dinner first. Or at least a text warning.”
They left in silence.
Back in the present, Erica was hiding behind Boyd’s shoulder. Boyd looked like he wanted to leave the state.
Peter was howling. “Oh my God, you two seduced him by accident!”
“We didn’t!” Erica groaned.
Scott looked at Derek. “If someone came over looking like that, sat that close to me, and whispered ‘pretty neck’—yeah. I’d assume I was being hit on.”
Derek nodded. “Yeah.”
Lydia tilted her head. “It’s literally the intro to a porn scene.”
“THANK YOU! I’ve been invited to threesomes with less than that.” Peter cackled.
“I just wanted to make sure he didn’t hate us,” Erica whined. “I was trying to be nice!”
“And I was trying to be friendly!” Boyd added.
“You sounded like you were narrating an OnlyFans!” Lydia snapped, throwing a pillow at him.
Scott put his head in his hands. “Okay. So, to summarize:
- Me: Loss.
- Jackson: Loss
- Lydia: Loss
- Isaac: Loss
- And you two: THE WORST FAIL YET SOMEHOW.”
Peter wiped a tear from the corner of his eye. “And he still didn’t tell you he wasn’t mad at you. That boy is either a saint, or playing the long game.”
Scott stood. “Okay. Enough. Derek, you’re the last one. Please, please tell me you didn’t do anything insane.”
Derek, stone-faced and brooding, said nothing.
Peter cackled.
Scott watched as Derek and Peter sat across from each other, locked in a silent battle of wills. Neither blinked. Neither moved. Just… staring.
Scott cleared his throat. “Uh. Derek?”
Still nothing.
Peter smiled, slow and evil. “He’s remembering the closet.”
Derek finally broke. With a long, suffering groan, he slumped into the nearest chair, buried his face in his hands, and said:
“…I jumped through his window.”
Silence.
Peter absolutely beamed.
FLASHBACK – Derek: The Worst Ninja in Existence
He didn’t plan it. He just… acted on instinct. Like a true emotionally stunted disaster.
It started with good intentions. He wanted to check on Stiles. Maybe say something real. Something like, “I miss you,” or “You’re important,” or “Please don’t ever stop existing because we’d all definitely die.”
What came out was:
Nothing. Because Derek didn’t say anything. He jumped through the window, landed silently like a creep, and then hid in the closet.
Ten minutes later, Stiles walked in, muttering something about “why does every delivery person act like I’m hiding from the FBI, I’m the one joining them, not fleeing, can we read address numbers—”
He stopped mid-sentence.
Stared at the closed closet door.
Squinted.
“…If this is a ghost thing again, I swear—”
Derek stepped out.
And just stared at him.
“…Dude,” Stiles said finally, blinking like an owl. “I don’t even—what is happening.”
Silence.
“Are you gonna talk? Or murder me? Or both?”
Still silence.
Finally, Stiles gave up. “Okay. Ordering pizza. You’re freaking me out.”
Derek sat on the bed. Didn’t speak. Ate three slices. Never broke eye contact.
Then he stood up. Still silent.
Jumped out the window.
And ran.
Back in the present—
“You stalked him again?” Scott said, aghast. “Again?!”
Peter was wheezing.
“We are so—so screwed,” Scott groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “I got Gollumed. Erica, you and your boyfriend tried to seduce him. Derek, you jumped through a window. Lydia poisoned him. Jackson is definitely on a watchlist now. And Isaac threw a weapon into his house. You people are insane.”
“We tried!” Erica snapped.
“You traumatized him!”
“Okay,” Kira said, holding up a hand. “I’m sorry, but I don’t see why y’all made it a big deal? I gave him a poem.”
Everyone turned to look at her.
“You—what?”
Kira blinked. “Yeah? I wrote him a poem. It had a little doodle of him as Batman in the corner. And I gave him a fox plushie. I think he keeps it in his car. I’m pretty sure the poem’s still in his wallet.”
Silence. Heavy silence.
“You just…” Scott swallowed. “Handed it to him?”
“Well, yeah.” Kira looked around, confused. “He smiled, said ‘this is the best thing anyone’s given me since someone mailed me a box of haunted Victorian teeth,’ and put it in his pocket.”
Scott stood up. “A WIN. That’s a WIN!! PRAISE GOD, WE HAVE A WIIIIIIIN!”
Peter slouched back in his seat, grinning. “The bar is in hell and Kira pole-vaulted over it with a poem and a stuffed animal.”
Scott pointed at everyone like a war general mid-breakdown. “From now on? We do it Kira’s way! No more windows. No more chemical warfare. No more surprise threesomes.”
Erica buried her face in her hands. “We said we’re sorry!”
“I cannot believe the poem worked,” Lydia whispered.
“I can,” Peter said with a dramatic sigh. “Because she didn’t treat him like a cryptid under duress. Unlike all of you.”
Derek, still covering his face, muttered, “I hate it here.”
Scott sat back down, exhausted but energized.
“One success. That’s all we need. It means we’re not out of time. We can fix this.”
Peter grinned slowly. “You say that like you know what you’re fixing.”
Scott frowned. “We’re making it up to him.”
Peter’s grin widened. “Sure, sweetheart. You keep telling yourself that.”
Stiles shoved three curly fries in his mouth at once and gestured wildly with the fourth.
“I’m just saying,” he said around the food, “it’s getting weird, Pop. Like… weirder than normal weird.”
Across the table, Noah raised an eyebrow and sipped his coffee like it was the only thing keeping him alive.
Stiles continued, ticking items off on his fingers. “First, Scott randomly asks if I want to have a sleepover like we’re 12 again. And I was like, okay, nostalgic bonding, whatever—but then I was up working at three like a normal person., and he’s passed out while I’m elbows deep in my file. The one about my bitch of an FBI contact, it’s called Can’t Catch Me, Darth Vader-Sounding Ass, and he’s just watching me like I’m a wildlife documentary.”
“Sounds like a pretty normal night for you two.”
“Oh-ho, I’m not done.”
Stiles picked up another fry. “Then, someone leaves an entire rich guy cologne graveyard on our porch. No note. Just… Cartier, Tom Ford, Dior, everything. I had to move it with barbecue tongs, Dad.”
“Mmhm.”
“You had the bomb squad test it.”
“It was suspicious!”
“It was Jackson, I know it was him. Only he would spend that much money on weaponized scent. Probably thought I’d imprint on him or something.”
Noah tried not to laugh. He failed.
Stiles barreled on. “Then Lydia shows up, looking like an angel with stress bags under her eyes, carrying cookies. They looked normal. They tasted like a salt lick made love to a brick. She didn’t know. She ate one, vomited into my folder, and then I had to hold her hair back while she panicked about accidentally assassinating me via baked goods.”
“She told me about that one,” Noah said, sipping his coffee. “Asked me to never speak of it again.”
“I’m gonna bring it up every birthday for the rest of our lives.”
Noah chuckled into his mug.
Stiles leaned in. “But we’re still going. Because then someone threw a bat through my window. A bat, Dad. My window. Like I’m a Sims character and they misclicked.”
“You sigil-sealed it and ran forensics on it.”
“BECAUSE I LIVE IN BEACON HILLS.”
“…Fair.”
Stiles rubbed his temples. “And then—and then, as if that wasn’t enough—I get ambushed by Boyd and Erica who came over to watch Clue, only Erica was in full vamp-lord makeup and Boyd kept saying things like ‘I like it messy first’—I THOUGHT THEY WERE TRYING TO HAVE A THREESOME WITH ME, DAD.”
Noah choked on his coffee. “You what—”
“I WAS TRAPPED. I PANICKED.”
“Oh my God.”
“They got all flustered and ran out and I don’t even know what the truth was anymore.”
Noah was howling now, covering his face with a napkin. “And you said high school was boring.”
“I haven’t even gotten to the worst one.”
“Worse than the orgy ambush?”
“Derek,” Stiles said flatly. “Jumped. Through. My. Window.”
“Oh God—”
“Hid. In. My. Closet.”
Noah actually giggled.
“And when I found him, he just—stared at me. Didn’t talk. Ate three slices of my pizza. Staring. Then jumped back out the window. No explanation. Nothing. I don’t even know if he was real! I might’ve hallucinated that!”
“You’ve had two hours of sleep and fourteen Red Bulls in three days, son. Anything is possible.”
Stiles flopped back in the booth and stared at the ceiling like it had answers.
“I don’t get it. Why are they all acting like they’re possessed by the ghosts of failed sitcom characters? Is this a prank? Are they dying? Is this Pack Rabies 2.0: Emotional Edition??”
Noah opened his mouth to reply—but then his radio crackled.
“Units respond to 5th and Redmill, multiple individuals—possible trespassing, possible cult activity—description: several young adults, erratic behavior, heading toward Beacon Hills Cemetery—”
Stiles slowly lowered his fry.
Noah looked at him.
Stiles groaned.
“Oh my God, they’re at it again.”
He shoved the rest of the fries in a to-go container, stood up, and kissed his dad on the cheek. “Gotta go bail out the Idiot Brigade.”
Noah sighed, pulling out his wallet. “Just don’t get arrested.”
“I never get arrested. I get invited to press conferences.”
“That’s worse.”
“Yeah, yeah, love you.”
Stiles threw open Roscoe’s door and climbed in, the engine coughing to life like it, too, was tired of this town.
He grabbed the still-rune-scarred wolfsbane bat from under the passenger seat and muttered under his breath:
“I can’t even get one month of peace from these people.”
And with that, he hit the gas.
This was a trap.
Scott knew it the second he saw the flicker of movement—then the second, third, and fourth flickers surrounding them.
The tip had come in on an anonymous line. A “supernatural disturbance in the Beacon Hills cemetery.” A whisper of the same cult that summoned the fog demon from earlier in the year. The Pack hadn’t hesitated.
And now, they were completely surrounded.
Ten to one odds.
Kira had lost her katana, Derek was bleeding from a gash along his ribs, and Peter was down somewhere behind a headstone after catching a hex to the face. Everyone else was bruised, scraped, or just plain exhausted.
This was bad. Really bad.
“We’re not gonna make it,” Isaac muttered, crouched low behind a crumbling angel statue. “I should’ve written a will.”
“Who’s gonna inherit your cologne?” Erica hissed.
“I hate you both,” Lydia said through gritted teeth. “Scott, ideas?!”
Scott tried to rally. “We can—if we spread out—draw them in—maybe—”
Then he heard it.
The unmistakable blare of an engine revving past legal decibel levels, accompanied by the screech of tortured brakes and tires grinding into damp cemetery dirt.
Headlights cut through the fog.
Roscoe.
Roscoe was here.
The Jeep slammed through the wrought-iron cemetery gates like the gates owed it money. Three cultists didn’t move fast enough and got absolutely launched across several headstones.
The Pack froze.
And then—
Stiles exploded out of the driver’s seat like a cryptid fired from a cannon.
“YIPPEE-KI-YAY, MOTHERFUCKERS!!” he screamed, wielding his bat like the goddamn hammer of Thor.
Scott blinked. “Oh my God.”
“IS THAT—?” Lydia gasped.
Stiles charged, swinging Isaac’s wolfsbane-core bat into the nearest cultist with a crack that sounded illegal.
“Stiles?!” Kira shouted from across the clearing.
“IN THE FLESH, BABY!” Stiles called back, flinging something sparkly and hissing into a group. It exploded in a flash of blue flame and threw them backward like rag dolls.
“Was that—what was that?” Jackson yelled, ducking a flying dagger.
“DON’T WORRY ABOUT IT!” Stiles shrieked, pelting a cloaked figure with a vial of something green. The guy started screaming.
Scott’s jaw dropped. “He’s… he’s setting bombs.”
Sure enough—Stiles had started laying down tiny, glowing sigils from his jacket pockets like it was second nature. One lit up, caught a boot, and electrocuted its victim so hard the dude bounced.
Stiles spun, swung the bat, knocked another cultist out cold, and yelled, “I LIVE MY LIFE A QUARTER MILE AT A TIME!”
Boyd, panting, stared. “Is he quoting Fast and the Furious?”
“He does that when he’s excited,” Lydia whispered.
A cultist lunged for him—Stiles ducked, tripped him with his foot, smashed the bat down, and snarled, “Say hello to my little friend!”
“Was that—Scarface?!” Kira wheezed.
Stiles grabbed a small pouch from his belt, tossed it into the air, and yelled, “Catch THIS, you pre-industrial JNCO-wearing rejects!” It exploded into a cloud of pink gas that made two of them start projectile sneezing.
“What the fuck is even happening,” Erica breathed.
“I think,” Scott said, barely able to process it, “we’re being rescued.”
A cultist tried to sneak up behind Stiles—Stiles spun and screamed “NO SOUP FOR YOU!” before kicking him in the shin and zapping him with a handheld taser.
Isaac turned to Scott. “This is the best day of my life.”
Stiles crouched, picked up a fallen cultist’s staff, snapped it over his knee, and yelled, “YEAH, BITCH, SCIENCE!”
Scott finally got his feet under him and ran toward the chaos. “Stiles!! How—how did you—”
Stiles slammed another powder bomb to the ground and yelled, “HEARD DAD’S RADIO PICK Y’ALL UP. SAID ‘POSSIBLE CULT ACTIVITY’ AND I WAS LIKE: YEP THAT’S THEM.”
He knocked a guy out cold with the bat, then turned to Scott with a wild grin.
“Also, why is everyone covered in blood and self-loathing? What’d I miss?!”
Scott was speechless.
In less than four minutes, Stiles had leveled half the playing field and given the Pack a fighting chance.
He was unarmored, under-caffeinated, quoting action movies like a gremlin war general—and still the most dangerous person in the cemetery.
Scott finally managed, “We are so fucking stupid.”
The cemetery was still smoldering.
Half the cult had fled. The other half were either unconscious, coughing up glitter smoke, or zip-tied to random grave markers with enchanted duct tape (where the hell did Stiles even get that??). Kira had her katana back. Peter was upright again—regrettably.
And in the middle of it all stood Stiles.
Hair windblown, hoodie half-unzipped, combat boots scuffed, and absolutely reeked of—
“…Red Bull?” Scott sniffed.
Stiles spun around to face him like a malfunctioning NPC. “Oh hey buddy what’s up you look like you got hit by a bus which makes sense cause that guy had a flail did you see the guy with the flail—”
Scott blinked. “Dude.”
Stiles was already digging through his bag and muttering, “Okay so note to self, write down blue smoke works on this flavor of cultists—might be sulfur based but could be ammonium nitrate, not that I had time to test it, science is trial and error baby, and also I haven’t peed in eleven hours—”
Scott grabbed his shoulders. “Stiles. Bro.”
Stiles froze. His eyes were wide, pupils the size of dinner plates. He looked like he’d snorted a line of espresso grinds and chased it with motor oil.
“Are you okay?” Scott asked.
“I’m great,” Stiles beamed. “I’ve cracked, like, seven cases this week, maybe eight, depends if the Barrow’s house counts—”
Scott narrowed his eyes. He’d known Stiles since they were five. And this? This was not battle adrenaline.
This was the finals week demon.
“Wait a minute,” Scott said, realization hitting like a truck. He turned to the Pack. “He’s not mad at us. He’s just HIGH.”
The others blinked. “What?”
“He’s in a finals bender,” Scott explained. “This is his sleep-deprivation-red-bull-adderall-bulletin-board personality. I’ve only seen it, like, twice—during that 8th grade AP bio exam where our teacher made him memorize every step of protein folding, long story, don't ask, and once during his debate championship ice chip meltdown, longer story, REALLY don't ask. It’s like watching a raccoon invent calculus.”
“I am very smart, thank you,” Stiles said, pulling out a tiny notebook. “Wait, I wrote down what day I took the last nap. Hang on—”
Scott stepped closer. “Stiles. What day do you think it is?”
“Uhhhh…” Stiles tilted his head. “The fifth? Sixth, maybe?”
“…It’s the eighteenth.”
Stiles shrugged. “Cool.”
Kira gasped. Lydia facepalmed. Jackson looked personally offended.
“Do you even know what month it is?” Isaac asked.
Stiles looked at him. “I know I already did my taxes, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
Scott turned to the Pack, arms wide. “You guys. He was never mad. He wasn’t avoiding us. He didn’t hate us. He was literally just over-caffeinated and scheduling himself into a blackout.”
Erica squinted. “Wait. So the whole time—”
“He’s been operating on twelve hours of sleep total, eating dry cereal and stress gummies, and talking to his wall map.”
“I knew I saw a photo of Nixon on his corkboard,” Boyd muttered.
Stiles, now crouched and scribbling in the dirt, muttered, “—okay so if we assume ritual timings are based on lunar phase plus equinox, I’ve got a ten-day window to sabotage their next event…”
And then, of course, Peter opened his mouth.
“Well,” Peter said, sidling up like a cat that definitely shouldn’t be trusted, “you might be running yourself into the ground because you’re still squishy and mortal.”
Scott closed his eyes. “Please no.”
“You know,” Peter continued silkily, “a wolf doesn’t need Adderall or energy drinks. Just imagine what you could do with supernatural reflexes, stamina, instincts…bite strength—”
Stiles didn’t even blink. He just reached into his hoodie and pulled out a silver-plated taser.
Held it up.
And said, “Peter, I will tase you again.”
Peter grinned. “You say that like I don’t enjoy it.”
Stiles narrowed his eyes—and zapped him in the dick. "Pervert."
Peter yelped like a Victorian damsel and dropped to his knees, hands over his groin, gasping, “God, I’ve missed you.”
Derek growled low in his throat. Actual growling. Full, chest-deep, feral “mine” noise.
Peter, still gasping, just grinned up at him. “Oh, relax. He’s not into me.”
“I’m not into you,” Stiles confirmed, pocketing the taser and cracking his neck. “I just think tasering you is a spiritual experience.”
Scott turned back to the group, beyond done. “Okay. New plan. Everyone shut up. Kira’s in charge.”
Kira blinked. “Wait—me?!”
“You’re the only one who didn’t try to seduce, stalk, poison, or emotionally confuse him.” Scott pointed at her. “You win. You’re the alpha now.”
Kira: “What—?”
Peter, still on the ground: “Honestly, fair.”
The end of senior year hit like a truck.
After two weeks of oral exams, three college interviews, four all-nighters, and one minor existential crisis involving a pigeon, Stiles was finally—finally—done.
No more interviews. No more write-ups. No more folders labeled things like “Demonic Rituals and You!” or “Cult Activity: Worst Yelp Reviews.”
Just… peace.
Which, of course, the Pack immediately ruined by showing up at his house like an affectionate SWAT team and dragging him out for a “celebration day.”
They’d done everything—movies, burgers, weird paintball in the woods that Jackson definitely turned into a bloodsport. Kira gave him a new Batman keychain, Erica braided his hair while Boyd awkwardly complimented his spreadsheets, and Isaac kept trying to act cool while very obviously hovering.
Derek gave him a hug.
Not like a bro-pat-on-the-back hug. An actual hug. Arms around him. Gripped him tight. Warm and wordless and a little longer than expected. When they broke apart, Derek wouldn’t meet his eyes.
Stiles might’ve had a moment about that.
Now, hours later, Stiles sat on the back porch of the rebuilt Hale house, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, legs swinging, surrounded by the soft sounds of Pack laughter from inside.
Peter slid into the chair next to him like a very smug ghost.
“Alright,” Stiles said, not even looking at him. “Spill it.”
Peter raised a brow. “Spill what, dear boy?”
“Don’t play dumb, you look like you invented it,” Stiles said. “The Pack’s been acting like I just came back from the dead. Erica and Boyd were offering me a meatball sub like I was Caesar. Scott keeps looking at me like he’s about to cry. Derek hugged me. Hugged me, Peter.”
Peter smiled. “I know. It was disgusting.”
Stiles turned to squint at him. “So. What did you do?”
Peter chuckled, resting his chin on his hand like this was the most entertaining TV drama he’d ever witnessed. “I may have… nudged your absence into a realization.”
“Uh huh.”
“They thought you were mad at them. I told them they were all idiots. Because, of course, they are.”
Stiles blinked. “…That’s it?”
“They forgot what life was like without you,” Peter said simply. “Not on purpose. But when something’s always there, people stop noticing it. Until it’s gone.”
Stiles looked down at his hands. One held Isaac’s slightly dented, still-rune-marked bat. The other rested on the newest research folder labeled “ Unexplained Happenings That Are Definitely Bullshit But Might Be Murder. ”
“And you let them think I hated them?” Stiles asked.
“Oh, absolutely,” Peter said cheerfully. “You should’ve seen the chaos. They were tragic. Derek jumped through a window.”
Stiles snorted. “He's a freak. Didn't even say hi.”
They sat in silence for a second.
Then Peter said, with none of his usual smirking humor, “You know… you’d make a phenomenal wolf.”
Stiles glanced at him.
Peter’s eyes were calm, steady. Not sales-pitch sly, not flirtatious or pushy—just… honest.
“You’ve got the instincts, the rage, the spine. And the Pack listens to you. Even Derek. You’d make an excellent Alpha one day. If you ever wanted it.”
Stiles looked down again.
Then he smiled, soft and crooked.
“I’ve got everything I need right here.”
He held up the bat. Tapped the folder against his thigh.
Peter huffed a laugh, half-impressed, half-disappointed.
“Predictable,” he said.
“You offered,” Stiles said. “I declined. We’re even.”
Peter stood, brushing invisible dust from his lap. “If you ever change your mind…”
“I’ll tase you again,” Stiles said.
Peter grinned. “I live for our talks.”
From inside the house, someone called, “Stiles, get in here! Derek just admitted he owns a Taylor Swift playlist!!”
Stiles lit up. “I knew it!” He hopped to his feet, bat in one hand, folder in the other.
Peter shook his head as he watched him run.
“Stupid, brilliant little fox,” he murmured. “He really does have everything.”
And from the way Derek’s gaze followed Stiles through the doorway—eyes soft, like the kind of moonlight that only belonged to Pack—it was very, very true.