Chapter Text
Scott
Scott had lost track of how long he’d been researching this stupid ritual.
Well, trying to research it anyway.
No matter what he typed in, what websites he landed on, what rabbit holes he went down, he just couldn’t get any solid information. Maybe it just wasn’t very well known. Maybe it wasn’t done much and had been lost to the sands of time. Or maybe it was just utter bullshit. Whatever it was, Scott couldn’t find a thing to help him figure it out. And whatever he ended up finding was pretty unhelpful and sometimes even contradictory.
The Worm Moon grants supernatural beings heightened powers and can allow them to come back from the dead.
A full moon is needed as it is the most powerful lunar phase - so, there will be twelve (sometimes thirteen) opportunities throughout the year to perform the ritual.
Anyone can be brought back from the dead, regardless of any previous or non-existent supernatural ability.
It is believed that only powerful creatures can return to life, as any human being is simply not powerful enough to wrest themselves from death’s clutches.
The blood sacrifice is crucial, and the criteria for whom it must come from is rather specific - it must be from only the most powerful of magical beings.
A blood sacrifice must be made, and it must be from someone of significance in relation to the death of the subject. If they were murdered, for example, their killer would be the ideal sacrifice.
A sigh escaped Scott’s lips.
“Find anything?” Derek asked from the couch. He was leaning back in it comfortably, flicking leisurely through the pages of a large tome. Apparently it was an old Hale family relic, one that Derek thought might have something that could be of use to them.
“No. You?”
“No,” Derek’s reply was monotonous and weary and it made Scott want to shake him. This could be the key to bringing back Allison. That should bring about some sense of urgency! What did Derek not get about that?
He was just about to ask him as much when a small figure appeared in the door.
“Hey,” Kira greeted him nervously. She approached the table he was sitting at, eyes flitting briefly over to Derek (who ignored the interruption) before returning back to Scott, “how are you?”
“Yeah, um… alright,” Scott said uncertainly, “what are you doing here? I mean… are you okay? Has something happened?”
“I’m fine. Lydia messaged me, she said you were here,” Kira explained, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling tightly at him.
Ah. Along with disclosing his location, Lydia must’ve also dropped the bomb about the ritual. Scott shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.
“Listen, Kira, I…” he licked his lips, only now noticing how dry they are, “this whole ritual thing, trying to bring back Allison… I know it’s weird and you’re really new to this whole world so it’s even weirder for you, but-”
Kira gently cut him off, which Scott was pretty glad about because he’s pretty sure his rambling explanation was going nowhere.
“Scott, I’m not bothered by the ritual,” she said. Then, a pause, before, “well… I’m not not bothered by it, but that’s not why I’m here.”
“Then… why are you here?” Scott asked, genuinely confused.
Kira tilted her head, looking at him like the answer was obvious. She walked closer to him until she stood next to him, then crouched down to get on a similar level to him.
“I’m here for you, Scott. I wanted to check if you were okay.”
Scott blinked in surprise at that, her sincerity making it hard to swallow all of a sudden.
“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”
“No one would blame you if you weren’t, you know. After everything that’s happened. Lydia said Stiles got attacked tonight. And after Allison…”
Scott felt his muscles tense at the mention of Allison, as if he were a puppet and the strings controlling his limbs had been pulled taut.
“Yeah, well, luckily, I might have found something that can make at least one of those things better,” Scott said, voice turning to stone as his anger dripped into his veins like a drug. He turned away from Kira, eyes laser focusing on his laptop once again. He’d already wasted some valuable research time in this conversation. Time to get back to work.
Kira, always one to remain amicable until the last possible second, continued prodding him.
“You should get some rest, Scott,” she implored him. He didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge that she had spoken, hoping that if he did so she might just disappear. However, that didn’t happen. It had the opposite effect, even, because a hand reached out and settled on his arm. It felt like a hot brand being pressed into his skin. “Scott, come on-”
Scott jerked away from her touch.
“No! I don’t need rest, Kira! This might not matter to you because you barely knew her, but I loved Allison. And if there’s a chance I could get her back, then I’m not going to rest until I’ve figured it out!”
His outburst was fueled by flames and hot red anger. By the feeling that Kira couldn’t understand and should stop pretending to. Hell, she might even not want Allison to come back. That would just complicate things after all. Those thoughts heated up the irritation burning in him until the friction produced a lightning strike of outrage.
But as he looked at her in the aftermath, the tears in her eyes smoldered any lingering resentment. He shut his eyes, chest sinking with regret.
“Kira, I’m-”
“It’s fine,” she sniffled, eyes glued to the floor. It stung Scott that she couldn’t even look at him. “I’ll leave you to it.”
“No, don’t go, please just-”
But she was already retreating from the loft. Scott stood helplessly, watching her leave. After the door shut, he closed his eyes, zoning his hearing onto the heartbeat beyond the door. It was erratic and jumpy, a loud staccato that soundtracked her sadness. It pierced Scott right in the gut.
“Aren’t you going to go after her?”
Scott had almost forgotten that Derek was there. He felt his cheeks heat up knowing that there was an audience to his overreaction.
The older werewolf brought up a good point. There was still time to make things right. If he ran after her now, he could catch up before she left. Apologise to her, try to explain his actions, pledge to be better. Forgiveness wasn’t guaranteed but Kira was so sweet natured that she’d most likely be understanding.
He could try and make things right, but… his laptop still sat on the desk, glowing invitingly, search bar blank and blinking in anticipation. How could he leave now? He hadn’t gotten any useful information. Allison deserved more of an effort. He had to at least try.
So he stayed, returning slowly to his seat. Residues of guilt remained with him, like mud tracked across a previously unstained floor. Sadness wasn’t good if you wanted to be productive. He’d found that out right after Allison had died, when he could barely bring himself to leave his bed, let alone attempt any of the homework that had begun to accumulate in a mountainous pile on his desk. So, he summoned all the anger he could.
His anger had become his most reliable motivator. A red haloed saviour that dragged him out of the murky depths of his numb depression when no one else could. Anger could be useful. Even Derek used it as his anchor. So, Scott figured, if he was going to be angry, he might as well use it for something good.
“She’ll be fine,” he said in response to Derek’s query. He began typing into his laptop, resuming the search for answers.
The lid of his computer slammed down violently, nearly crushing his fingertips beneath it before he reflexively pulled them away in time.
“What the hell?” Scott glared up at Derek who was scowling at him from the other side of the table, “you could’ve broken my fingers!”
“You need to explain what exactly is going on with you.”
“What are you talking about?” Scott asked, perplexed at this sudden attack.
Derek sighed.
“You’re an alpha, Scott. You’re supposed to keep your pack together, to look out for them. But first you start pushing away Stiles, and now Kira too?”
“I’m not pushing anyone away.”
“Yeah? Cause you reacted really weirdly yesterday when I mentioned bringing Stiles along for patrol. You’ve never not wanted him to be around for something like that, so what’s changed?”
“That’s not…” Scott swallowed. He couldn’t lie to Derek - the man was a walking lie detector, it was impossible. But how could he begin to explain the strange complexities of his feelings towards Stiles at the moment? He couldn’t even understand them himself. They weren’t rational, he knew, but they were just springing up, like a horrible growth slowly infecting him.
Derek must’ve mistook Scott’s hesitance for avoidance because he closed in further, going for the jugular.
“Have you visited Stiles at all these last couple of weeks? Spoken to him? Asked how he was doing? No, you haven’t. You’re meant to be his best friend, his brother, and instead of helping him you’re pushing him away for no reason. How is that helping anyone?”
“I don’t need a lecture,” Scott mumbled. And he really didn’t. He’d already berated himself enough for those mistakes. He didn’t know why he’d become so averse to seeing Stiles, he just… it was so hard after everything. He had to place his grief and anger somewhere. And Stiles wore the face of Allison’s murderer. But it wasn’t Stiles’ fault, Scott knows that… Ugh, his head was starting to hurt. When did things get so complicated?
“It’s not a lecture, it’s a warning,” Derek’s voice was severe and hard, “if you keep doing this you’re not going to have anyone left. Kira is infatuated with you, that much is clear, but if you keep dismissing her like that she’s not going to hang around.”
“I know…” Scott said, defeated. Kira was great. Better than he deserved. And he liked her too! That’s the worst part of all of this. It felt like he’d flipped to the middle of a book when he hadn’t even finished reading the first chapter. His first love story wasn’t meant to be over yet. Him moving on so quickly after Allison’s death would feel like a betrayal of everything they were.
“Scott,” Derek said, his tone surprisingly soft considering his usual gruff demeanour, “I get that things have been hard for you. I know what it’s like to lose the person you love-”
“How could you know what this is like?” Scott snapped. There it is again. That oh so reliable anger, always just bubbling below the surface, ready to erupt at a moment’s notice. “This is such a fucked up, shitty, situation, you do not know shit about what this is like.”
Scott had seen Derek be put through numerous trials and tribulations, and he’d only ever had minor reactions to any of them, his stoicism undying even in fatal situations. But Scott had learned to read the small intricacies of Derek’s expressions, and he could see that his words had hit some nerve. Derek’s eyes widened a fraction, his nostrils flaring. His fists twitched by his sides and Scott could hear his heart jump wildly before it was quickly schooled back into submission. Derek being able to have such practiced control over his reactions only made Scott more irritated, but he held it in, trying to take a leaf out of Derek’s book. Scott could practically feel the steam pouring from his ears.
After a brief standoff between them, Derek walked back to the sofa.
“Go home, Scott,” he called over his shoulder.
Scott didn’t move.
“We have to keep researching.”
“No, we don’t. I’ve made up my mind and the ritual isn’t a good idea,” Derek sounded significantly more weary than he had a few seconds earlier. Perhaps restraining his emotions takes a bit of a toll on him.
“Come on, Derek-”
“Scott, think about it,” Derek said, sitting down on the sofa, “Peter has never been reliable or trustworthy. He only looks out for himself, we should not be blindly following what he’s told us. And if we did, would it even be worth it? Take it from someone who was the blood sacrifice the last time this ritual was done, it’s not a great experience. I felt drained for days afterwards, and I was an alpha at the time. Maybe you would survive it, but what about Stiles? Is it really worth bringing back Allison if you might lose your best friend at the same time?”
That gave Scott pause. It was stupid, but he hadn’t thought of that before. He’d been so determined to just try it at any cost that he hadn’t actually considered what that cost would be. If it was losing Stiles, he wasn’t willing to pay it.
But… Stiles might not die. There’s nothing to suggest that he would. And he probably wanted Allison back just as much as Scott. He’d offered himself up fairly quickly to help, so it must be something he’s eager to do too. Besides, maybe this could repair their friendship. It could wind back time, reset things to how they were before their lives became a mangled mess. It wasn’t just Allison on the line. It was his friendship with Stiles.
“Just…” Scott sighed, “one more hour. Please. I have to try…”
Scott didn’t think Derek would give in so easily. But to his surprise, the werewolf wordlessly picked up the tome and resumed reading it.
Scott’s heart twinged lightly with gratitude. He didn’t need to express it verbally - he knew Derek felt it.
He opened his laptop again and with renewed vigour, continued typing.
Argent
In order to strike true, an arrow must have aim.
That’s what Chris had been told when he was being taught how to handle a crossbow. He’d thought it redundant at the time - obviously in order to hit a target, you need to have precision to guide it where it ought to go. Surely that went without saying.
But as he’d grown older, the words had sprouted roots, taking on a different meaning. He’d realised that the saying was just as relevant for the person behind the arrow as it was for the arrow itself. A hunter must know where he is going, must be driven and controlled, must be led by his instincts and his heart. Only then can he do what is right.
Chris had one aim in his life - to protect his family. And that had steered him down a winding path that admittedly was dark and lonely at times, but ultimately he knew it was the right one. Now, though, that aim was null. He had no family left - none except his slowly dying father, but that old man had lost the right to being Chris’ family long ago. For the first time that he could remember, Chris was aimless.
So, when he got a message earlier in the night from the sheriff asking if Chris could possibly help look for a runaway Stiles, it had sparked something in Chris. Like an engine gradually stuttering and jolting to life after being asleep for a while.
He hadn’t been out hunting in what felt like ages. There hadn’t been much of a point - the threat was gone, the damage done, and nothing he could do would seal the gaping black hole it had left in his life. But walking through the preserve now, inhaling the sharp air tinged with damp, was a welcome change in his routine.
Night was beginning to surrender to the morning as the first golden edges of the sun peeked over the horizon. Chris whipped out his phone, shooting a text to the sheriff:
No sign of him yet. Any luck with you?
The other man responded immediately:
No, nothing on this end. Thanks for trying.
Chris sighed tightly. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to make Stiles take off in the night like that. He’d gotten a vague explanation from the sheriff about them having a fight, but no more than that, and considering what the boy had suffered through recently… It made Chris uneasy to think of him out in the woods alone at night. His chest sank for the sheriff. By no means was he great friends with the man, but he could empathise with that all consuming worry that eats you alive when your kid isn’t safe.
Eventually, Chris made it out of the woods into a clearing and onto a cliff edge that overlooked the entire town. The sun was still climbing slowly into the sky and Chris could spot a few cars down below, people heading off to start a new day. It was a serene sight. Or, it would’ve been if it weren’t for the figure sitting slouched against a rock in front of him.
Stiles was so still he might’ve been sleeping. But, no, his eyes were open, gazing out at the town with a certain lack of focus that made Chris question how much he was actually seeing. A bottle of jack was clutched in his hand, more than half of it gone, the remaining liquid close to spilling out of the tilted bottle.
“Stiles?” Chris called over to the boy. He didn’t respond. Chris walked over hurriedly, crouching down in front of him, “Stiles, are you okay?”
Stiles’ head lolled over as his glazed eyes landed on Chris.
“Mr Argent,” he mumbled, his words slurred together into one. He smiled with what seemed like great effort, holding up the bottle of alcohol, “want some?”
“No, Stiles, I’m alright,” Chris declined politely, trying to remain calm and patient, “can you stand?”
Stiles didn’t reply to that. He didn’t even seem to hear it. His face fell slowly as water began to line his eyes. His lips trembled.
“Mr Argent, I’m…” he inhaled shakily, “I’m so sorry. You must hate me.”
“I don’t hate you Stiles. You’ve had a bit too much to drink, it happens to everyone.”
“No, no,” Stiles shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. A couple of tears ran down his cheeks, “I mean… because of Allison…”
Chris felt like he’d been winded, his lungs punctured like a burst tire, as all the oxygen in his body fled.
“What do you mean, Stiles?” he asked finally, “Why would I hate you because of that?”
Stiles looked at him. And for the first time during this conversation he actually seemed somewhat lucid.
“Because it’s my fault,” He murmured, saying the words as if they were a well known fact “because I… because I killed her… she’s gone-” he choked on a sob, “she’s gone because of me.”
Stiles started to cry, letting his head fall down onto Chris’ chest as the older man reflexively caught him, stunned as he wrapped an arm around the boy. It was messy and heart wrenching. The kind of cries that are usually reserved for privacy, but clearly in his intoxicated state Stiles didn’t think to mask any of his feelings. Chris wondered with a sombre pang how long Stiles had been holding all this in.
“That’s not true, Stiles. Not at all,” Chris assured him, but Stiles didn’t react. Just clutched Chris’ shirt with one hand as more tears soaked into the material. It was clear Stiles was far gone. Trapped by his own grief and guilt.
Chris wanted to stay here for a while. To let Stiles cry as much as he needed until he could convince him that what happened to Allison wasn’t his fault. Because although he didn’t have any children of his own anymore, those fatherly instincts never truly went away. As much as Chris is a hunter, he is a father too, and that’s a part of him that will be in his bones until he dies. And seeing a kid cry like this - not just any kid, but a friend of his daughter’s - will always activate that protective instinct in him.
However, he knew they couldn’t stay here. If Stiles had been out here all night, he could be freezing. And he’d clearly drunk a worrying amount of alcohol. They had to be practical here and getting Stiles somewhere safe and warm as fast as possible needed to be the priority. Getting a grip under his arms, Chris tried to haul Stiles to his feet.
“Stand up with me, Stiles,” he instructed, “come on, I’ve got you.”
It took a lot of coaching but eventually, Stiles was on his feet - well, to be honest, Chris was the one holding up most of his weight, and he was pretty sure if he were to let go Stiles would go careening to the ground, but at least he was up.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles kept mumbling over and over again, his voice growing more and more desperate, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”
Chris keeps assuring him that it’s fine but he knows it's falling on deaf ears.
How did it get like this? Where was the rest of the pack? Why weren’t they here to help their friend? Chris burned for answers. And he was pretty sure where he could get them. Luckily for him, tracking down a pack of werewolves was his specialty. And he knew exactly where to aim in order to get there.