Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“So Laura said that mom said that you said you’re thinking about bringing someone home for the Winter Solstice.” 

Derek sighs. “Hi, Cora.” He pins his phone between his ear and his shoulder as he slips on his shoes at the edge of the hotel bed. “Yes, I’m doing fine, thanks for asking. So nice of you to call me in the middle of the night. Our current case is going well, we’ve got the unsub in our sights—” 

“Yeah, whatever, your job is boring. More importantly, you’ve got a boyfriend? How am I just hearing about this? I thought I was your favorite sister.” 

“I don’t think hunting down serial killers for the FBI can be called boring.” 

“And Laura said he’s human? But she said he knows about werewolves, so like, you told him your big secret.” 

“They make TV shows about my job. That’s how exciting it is.” 

“Which means this is serious, right? If you mentioned it to Mom.” Cora’s tone twists up in amusement. “You wanna bring him home to meet your Alpha; next thing I know you’re gonna start courting him.” 

He checks his pockets for his room card, then grabs the keys to one of the BAU’s rental cars from the side table. “Solstice isn’t for another three months.” 

“That’s not a denial,” Cora sing-songs. “Whatcha gonna start with? Thinking about going old school, dropping a dead deer on his doorstep?” She chuckles, as though she’s imagining her idiot brother killing a deer and leaving it on a human’s doorstep. But then, Stiles isn’t exactly human. Or at least not a normal one. 

Derek glances at the clock next to the bed. It’s almost midnight. His sister is ridiculous, going on about courting. Like that’s a real thing. “You know, that’s not a bad idea.” 

Cora’s laugh cuts off mid-chuckle. “Okay, you’ve gotta know I’m joking. You cannot seriously be that socially inept — there is no way your boyfriend wants a dead deer left outside his fucking DC walkup apartment.”

Derek hums. “You’re probably right. I should at least drop it off inside so he doesn’t have to carry it in himself. That’d be much more considerate.”

“Derek, no—” 

“Although maybe a human corpse would be better?” 

There’s a pregnant pause, then Cora’s voice reaches a new pitch. “Derek —” 

“He did mention that he’s been on the lookout for femurs lately.”

“Derek Anthony Hale, you—” 

“Sorry, Cors, I’m gonna have to let you go — I think there’s a graveyard calling my name. Bet I can find a courting-quality leg bone or two if I dig long enough.” He takes the phone away from his ear, but he can hear her inarticulate shrieks until he ends the call. He slips his phone in his pocket and grins as he stands and heads to the door. 

He wasn’t lying; he is heading to a graveyard tonight, although he won’t be digging up any skeletons. Well, at least not for himself. He might end up wielding a shovel for a bit, depending on how pitiful Stiles decides to be when he begs Derek to help him unearth the corpse he wants to practice with tonight. 

One of the ghosts that Stiles ran into the first night they got to Phoenix indicated to Stiles that she was fine with him desecrating her resting place. A little bit of grave robbery was a perfectly acceptable trade for him helping her find a resolution for her unfinished business. 

Derek closes the door to his hotel room and walks to the elevator. His phone buzzes in his pocket and he covers a yawn with his hand as he presses the down button. Getting used to accompanying his boyfriend on cemetery stakeouts a few times a week has taken some time — and some adjustments to his napping schedule. He texts Stiles back as the elevator brings him to the ground floor. 

omw

Stiles’ response is instantaneous: three heart emoticons, followed by a skull, a zombie, and the party face with confetti. 

Derek rolls his eyes and is grateful he’s alone: the fond grin he can feel stretching across his face is ridiculous. Getting used to Stiles has taken some time, but it’s absolutely been worth it. 

The earth is wet and cold, dense and dark. Worms and other decomposers make their homes in the ground, wriggling their way through decades of detritus. They are facilitators of decay, coordinators of the crumbling of corpses, shredders and scavengers alike of the scraps of life that sink deep, deep, deep below the surface. 

Coffin lids collapse over time, a gradual rotting that varies depending on material. Steel, bronze, and copper last lifetimes; certain woods degrade quicker than others. A veneer will add decades before decomposition sets in; cardboard, raw wood, and wicker allow the hungry earth to grab hold of all that corpses can offer just that much quicker. 

The cool night air sends shivers down a sweat-slicked neck. A low fog roils and writhes, winding around headstones and monoliths and carefully trimmed hedges. Dirt flies through the air, shattering shadows that slither and hiss in complaint. A mound of earth climbs higher and higher as the moon looks on. An owl hoots a low, warning cry as she swoops close then abruptly away: there is no prey here, not now, not tonight. Nothing with a warm, fast-beating heart. Nothing that lives, with blood pumping through its veins, nothing that the owl wants between her talons. 

Everything is dead here, and the owl knows it: she glides over the fence and away to where she can find a life to end to sustain her own. 

Everything is dead here, except for Stiles. 

“I swear to all the demons and gods and angels and shit that if he doesn’t get here soon I’m breaking up with his ass.” 

The ghost of the corpse he’s unearthing watches on in silence. The worst kind of spectator, seriously. Stiles needs some freaking audience engagement, goddamnit. 

 “I think he’s late on purpose,” he speculates, tossing another shovelful of dirt over his shoulder. “I think this is punishment for wanting to do this instead of spending our last night in town making good use of that mattress in the hotel. And like, yeah, sure, it’s a nice mattress — but honestly, the memory foam one I’ve got at my place is just as nice; it’s not my fault he hates going over there. I can’t be held accountable for his high standards of cleanliness. Right? What do you think, is it punishment?” 

The ghost doesn’t respond. She floats over her headstone, eyes drifting around the graveyard. 

After he gets the hang of making ghosts corporeal, he’s absolutely going to figure out how to give them back their freaking personalities. Is it too much to ask that the ghosts he sees can learn how to hold a conversation instead of just droning on about their grievances and final words? Stiles doesn’t think so. 

“Definitely punishment,” Stiles says agreeably. “See, thing is though, if he had just gotten here when I told him to, we totally possibly might have had time for a blowjob before we have to go into the office in a couple hours. But no, he’s got some point to prove—” 

“Oh yeah? What point is that?” 

Stiles spins, clipping his hip on a headstone. “Shit,” he curses, then straightens with a glare. “You’re late.”

Derek saunters closer with his hands in his front pockets.  He stops at the edge of the open grave and peers down. “Am I? I told you when I was on my way.” 

Stiles glares harder. “It took you almost forty-five minutes to get here. It’s a fifteen-minute drive from the hotel.” 

“Is it?” There’s a smirk fighting against the contemplative turn of Derek’s lips. Stiles wants to bite it. Damn him.

“You’re punishing me,” he says, turning away to resist temptation. He stabs the shovel into the ground, stepping on one side to dig it deeper. “This is just because you’re grumpy about not getting to use that bed one more time.” 

“Or maybe I just thought you could do your own digging for once.” 

“You’re the one with werewolf strength!” 

“You’re the one who wants to dig up graves in the middle of the night.” 

“But I’m just a poor, pitiful, puny human. Don’t you feel bad for me?” 

“Not really.” 

Stiles attempts to throw the dirt in the shovel at Derek. He misses by a good three feet. “You suck.” 

"As you've pointed out," Derek drawls, raising an eyebrow, “not tonight.” 

Stiles snorts out an unwilling laugh, then pauses, leaning against his shovel. “Will you please help? You know it’ll go faster if you do.” 

Derek meets his gaze for a moment before relenting with a begrudging sigh, as though his little werewolfy instincts don’t absolutely light up at the opportunity to help Stiles out. Peter hasn’t given him any books on werewolf habits and instincts yet, but Stiles bets when he finally convinces him to, all of his theories will be confirmed. 

Derek sticks out a hand to take the shovel from him. As Stiles begins to step away, Derek reels him in close by the arm. Their bodies press tight together, and Derek lifts his hand to trace over Stiles’ shoulder. His fingers flit up Stiles’ neck, sending goosebumps rippling across his skin. Stiles lets out an involuntary breath.

Derek’s hand settles on the back of his neck, firm and warm. Stiles eases into the comfort, tilts his head. Derek leans into the gesture, pressing his nose into the side of Stiles’ throat. He inhales as his nose runs up a tendon, soft breath puffing out against Stiles’ ear. Stiles can feel his own heart rabbiting against his ribcage as his eyes drift closed. 

Derek inhales, lips tickling his ear, and whispers, “You’re standing in my way.” 

Stiles’ eyes snap open, and he pulls back. “You—” Derek’s smile is blinding. Stiles loves it. “You complete shithead,” he says, but he can hear the fondness in his own voice. There’s no telling what kind of chemosignals he’s sending out, but the way Derek’s eyes crinkle tells him they’ve gotta be good. Stiles leans back in and presses their lips together. 

He can feel Derek’s lips soften from their smile, pressing into the kiss, pulling at Stiles’ bottom lip gently. It’s comfortable, and warm, and right. Stiles is hesitant to pull back, but, “All I need is a finger bone or two, no need to dig up the whole casket or anything.” 

“I was wondering why the hole was so small.” 

“The book says this is all that’s necessary.”

“Easier to fill back in at the end, too.” 

Stiles nods. “I live to make things convenient.” 

Derek pushes out a heavy, disbelieving breath through his nose. “Right.” He kisses Stiles once more, then steps back, hefting the shovel between his hands. As he starts to work on the grave, he asks, “So do you think this is what you need to finally make one visible?” 

“Here’s to hoping,” Stiles says absent-mindedly, walking over to where he put his materials. He flips to the page with the spell in question. Eventually he’ll be able to make ghosts visible and touchable — corporeal — without holding their bones, without even speaking a full spell, but he’s not to that skill level yet. 

This Book of the Dead is a loan from Peter, who had been offended to find out that Stiles hadn’t worked on developing his necromancy beyond speaking to spirits and the manipulation of life force. 

“You can't raise the dead unless you sell your soul to a demon? Eternal damnation?” Peter had asked, brows raised. “You’re not a warlock and this isn’t a roleplaying game. Where did you get your information, a Dungeons and Dragon handbook?”

He left the room without another word when Stiles had guiltily shifted in place. Three days and an excessive amount of judgmental grumbling and side-eye later, he slammed an old, moth-ball-smelling book onto Stiles’ desk at Quantico and told him that shitty results from online research were no excuse. 

And also that if Stiles spilled something on a Hale family heirloom, his body would never be found again. 

Dirt doesn’t count as spilling though, Stiles decides, flipping to another section and ignoring the smear he leaves on the corner of a page. It’s a book on necromancy; dirt comes with the territory. 

Soft blue-grey tendrils drift in front of his vision, and Stiles looks up. “I appreciate you being willing to do this,” he tells the ghost. Susanna Jones, killed by her jealous sister on the eve of her wedding in 1938. After hearing the recounting of her final moments and thoughts the first night they got into Phoenix, he made his way to the local antique store where a locked box of her sister’s possessions contained a letter confessing her guilt. On the way into the station this morning, he’ll swing by and make an anonymous drop on her descendant’s doorstep. 

Susanna doesn’t answer but to murmur a refrain from her dying moments: “I loved you,” she pleads to her long-dead sister. “I loved you.” 

“I’ll take that as a ‘You’re welcome’,” Stiles says. 

Behind him, there’s a crunch, and then Derek speaks up. “Broke through. Tagging you back in.”

Stiles props the book on top of a headstone and turns back to the grave. Derek has dug out a bit of a ramp, so Stiles is able to clamber down on his hands and knees to reach into the broken coffin with one hand. He turns his face to the side so he can root around, his arm submerged to the shoulder. His fingers brush through decaying fabric before striking brittle bone. He feels along its surface for a moment, and yep, that’s a hand. He grasps the wrist and pulls. It breaks off with a brittle snap.

“Gross,” Derek comments as Stiles emerges victorious, skeletal hand held high. 

“Don’t start,” Stiles retorts, even as he rubs grave dirt off his face. “Last month your uncle got pushed down a set of stairs by the unsub and ended up with his tibia sticking out of his skin. You didn’t even bat an eye at that. This is nothing.” 

Derek shrugs. 

Stiles walks back over to the book and takes his mother’s ring out of his pocket, slipping it onto his finger. The ring doesn’t exactly scream necromantic foci, but it’s perfect for him. It’s simple and easily hidden in plain sight on his left pinky finger. He chose something small that could fit in a pocket so he can take it with him everywhere on the off-chance he can’t wear it. It’s unobtrusive and doesn’t look out of place at a crime scene or in the office: they haven’t told Chris and Danny about the whole supernatural powers thing, so a ring it is. 

Besides, all the sources seem to suggest picking a foci that you’re emotionally tied to in some way, and the wedding band Claudia Stilinski wore until the day she died? Yeah, Stiles would say he’s got some emotional investment in that. 

He stands behind the book, twisting the ring around his pinky and lifting the skeleton hand to chest height in front of him. He glances up. “Ready?” 

Derek nods. “Where should I be looking?” 

Stiles juts his chin to where the ghost is floating over the hole in her burial site. “She’s right there. Remember, if you see—” 

“Anything at all, yes, don’t worry, I’ll tell you,” Derek assures. 

“Okay,” Stiles says, then, softer, “Okay.” He breathes in and closes his eyes. 

The air is cool where it brushes past his face. He can feel her near him. If he opens his senses he can feel the other ghosts that rustle through the graveyard, but he pushes them back and focuses on her. She’s sad; betrayed by her family, mournful of a stolen life, forgotten by the man who swore he’d never leave. 

Her sadness is something tangible. It aches where it echoes in Stiles’ chest, sliding through his veins to the ends of his fingers with every pump of his heart. His eyes sting with tears that aren’t his. She has a message, a lesson; her words need to be spoken, and she needs to be heard. 

She needs to be seen. 

Stiles opens his eyes, gaze shooting to the spell in front of him. He reads the Latin written there once. He visualizes her translucent skin growing opaque, blue-grey filling in with life long passed.

He reads the incantation a second time. He thinks about her taking shape in front of Derek, her bare feet pressing into the grass, nightgown brushing her ankles, heart-shaped locket around her neck twisting between the fingers of one hand. 

He reads the incantation a third time, closes his eyes, and focuses. 

The wind blows through the graveyard.

Stiles breathes, and believes. 

Derek draws in a sharp breath. 

Stiles’ eyes snap open and to him. “Yeah?” 

Derek nods, his eyes wide. “For a second — some kind of long dress? No shoes?” 

“Hell yeah!” Stiles drops the ghost’s hand in his excitement, which, whoops, rude, and bounds over to Derek. “A nightgown, but yeah, dress shaped for sure.” 

Derek’s arms are already extended by the time Stiles throws himself into them. “This is good,” he murmurs into Stiles’ ear. 

“Good? This is fucking great,” Stiles corrects, clasping his hands behind Derek’s neck and pulling back. “Dude, I just made it so you could see a dead lady! I am amazing.”  

Derek squeezes him and laughs. “Seeing a dead lady: not usually what a guy wants props for from his boyfriend in the middle of the night, but yeah, you are amazing.” 

Stiles grins at him, then glances at their ghostly guest. “It was really quick though, maybe if I try again I can get it to last longer, or —” 

Derek quickly releases him. “No.” 

“But we’re already here, and —” 

“Another time. You need sleep.” 

“I mean I’m pretty jazzed about this, I don’t know if I’ll be able to sleep.” 

“You just used the word ‘jazzed’ to describe yourself. You need sleep.” 

“Worked up? Is that better?” 

“The only kind of worked up I want you at—,” Derek checks his watch, “—1:30 in the morning has nothing to do with graveyards and dead ladies.” 

“But—” 

“Put the hand back in the grave, Stiles. Chris is expecting us at 7:00 am sharp.” 

Stiles grumbles, but it’s hard to stay irritated when he’s riding a high of success. They make quick work of recovering the grave, and they’re in their respective cars heading back to the hotel before 2:00 am. He follows Derek into his hotel room, manic grin still popping up periodically as he quickly rinses off. He waits in bed as Derek showers, staring up at the ceiling. 

Derek lifts the blankets and slides in five minutes later. “Lights. Why. Turn them off.” 

Stiles leans over to do that, and a comfortable darkness fills the room. 

“Okay, but that was really cool, right?” 

Derek slings a heavy arm across Stiles’ chest, and pulls him closer. “Sleep.” 

“Wasn’t it, though?” 

Derek lets out a long breath, but his voice is as warm as his shower-heated body as he tucks his nose into Stiles’ neck and says, “Yeah, Stiles, it really was.” 

“Too good to be true,” Stiles claims. He slouches down into his seat, crossing his arms resolutely. He changed into his sweats before the plane had even taken off; Derek has been ruing the cruel combination of sweatpants and workplace PDA rules for over an hour. They’re at opposite ends of the plane — Stiles in the front, facing the back where Derek can acceptably ogle him without Chris, seated in the middle, seeing and reprimanding him. “I’ve been lied to before, and I’m not about to get my hopes up now.” 

Chris ignores Stiles’ interruption, continuing to address the rest of the jet. “We’ll be back at Quantico by 6 pm, so you all will have Friday night in addition to the entire weekend off. ” 

“I’m not superstitious,” Danny says, “but I’m with Stiles on this one. I feel like we gotta knock on wood or something — no way did you not just jinx us.” 

“It has been thirteen weeks since the whole team was able to actually enjoy their entire weekend,” Lydia points out. “Statistically speaking, the odds are not in our favor.”  

Stiles splays a hand out as though to say see?  

“We wrapped this case up earlier than expected,” Chris reminds them. “We don’t have anything scheduled because we were supposed to be in Phoenix through Saturday night.” 

“Schedules, schmedules,” Stiles scoffs. “Serial killers don’t care about our schedules.”  

“He’s not wrong,” Peter mutters from behind Chris.

Chris turns to look at him, affecting an expression like he’s been stabbed in the back. “And here I thought my team would be happy about this news.” 

“I’ve been burned before!” Stiles quips dramatically. His eyes catch on Derek’s and his grin widens when he finds him watching. 

Chris shakes his head and lifts up his bag to slip the case folder from this week into it. He levels each member of the team with a look. “Monday morning, 8:00 am, HQ.” 

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” Stiles says. Chris just rolls his eyes and pulls out his headphones, slipping them over his ears. Danny does the same and opens his laptop. Derek has no idea what he does on there half the time.

A few minutes later, after Chris’ head has drifted down against the window,  Stiles jumps up and walks down the aisle to the seat next to Derek, sprawling down into it. He shimmies the armrest between them up and out of the way, immediately squirming into Derek’s side. 

“Don’t we have rules about this?” Lydia asks drily. She doesn’t really mind; her scent is amused as she looks between them. 

“I saw Chris pull up his sleepy-times playlist. Bossman is out for at least the next three hours. You know he’s the only one that cares about PDA while we’re on the clock.” 

“I care,” Peter objects. 

“For all the wrong reasons, creeper,” Stiles shoots back. 

“Who determines what’s right or wrong about a reason?” Peter ponders, extending a leg into the aisle. “Society is so fickle about morality. Who’s to say that I am wrong to care about the —” 

“If you ever catch me stopping something because Peter cares about it,” Derek interrupts, “assume I’ve been replaced by a pod person.” Stiles chuckles, slipping an arm around Derek’s waist. 

“You’re lucky they turned the Body Snatchers into a movie, nephew,” Peter says snidely. “Otherwise there’s no way anyone would ever understand your attempts at making references.” 

Stiles glances up at Derek. “Wait, that’s a literature reference, too?” 

Peter answers before Derek can. “From a novel published in the fifties, long before any of the Invasion of the Body Snatchers movies ever put pod people on the pop culture map.” 

Derek shrugs down at Stiles. A slow grin curves across Stiles’ face, and his scent starts to shift. He winks at Derek, then looks over to Peter. “I don’t know what you’re expecting, man, but telling me that my lit nerd boyfriend is able to reference early sci-fi novels feels like a dangerous thing to do in an enclosed space.” 

Derek can see the moment the scent of Stiles’ emerging arousal hits Peter’s nose. His uncle abruptly stands and strides to the front of the jet towards Stiles’ abandoned seat. “It’s so easy to forget how terrible your standards are,” he tells Stiles as he leaves. 

Stiles cackles into Derek’s shoulder, breath warm and happy against Derek’s neck, amusement and contentment swirling through his scent. 

Lydia rolls her eyes even as she gives a quiet laugh. She opens back up the book she brought to keep her entertained on the flight back. “I’m not moving,” she warns. “Don’t be gross.” 

“Why, I would never—” Stiles starts. 

“Don’t do it,” she repeats.

“Yeah, okay,” Stiles concedes. He’s quiet for a moment before he pokes Derek in the side. “Hey,” he says, “are we gonna be gross at your place or mine this weekend?” 

Stiles does have a better mattress, but on the other hand, the last time Derek stayed over he ended up stepping in a rotting hibiscus plant Stiles had been using for life force manipulation practice. The choice is easy. “Mine,” he answers. 

“Is this about the —” 

“Yes.” 

“You’ve really gotta let that go.” 

“Rotten plant goo, Stiles. Between my toes. I couldn’t get the smell to go away for days.”  

“Fine.”

It’s Sunday morning, and there’s a rib in Derek’s kitchen cabinet, nestled on the spice rack between the coriander and cumin. “Huh,” Derek murmurs. “This is what I get for trying to get Stiles to clean up after himself, isn’t it?” 

The cabinet doesn’t deign to respond. 

Derek shakes his head and pulls out the bone, rotating it in his hands. It’s pretty small; likely not human. At least there’s that. He walks into his bedroom where Stiles is still buried under the covers, definitely not showering like he promised Derek he would if Derek got up to make breakfast. 

“No,” Stiles groans into the pillow when he hears the door close. “That wasn’t long enough for pancakes. I’m getting up, I promise.”  

“It’s only been a minute,” Derek says. “But I’m curious about why I found a rib bone in my spice cabinet.” 

“Too many words,” Stiles mumbles, rubbing his face from side to side. “Wait. A rib bone?” Derek can just make out one pillow-messed eyebrow furrow before Stiles continues, muffled, “Nope. Still doesn’t make sense.” 

Derek sits down on the edge of the bed. “Remember last week when I asked you to clean up the mess you made in the kitchen?” 

“No.” Stiles pauses. “Yes?” 

“What were you working on again?” 

Stiles turns so Derek can see one bleary eye. “That test with all the different mammalian bones to see which worked best for restoration augmentation?” 

“Uh-huh. And remember how you swore you’d be careful with all of it and take it all away because you ‘completely, one hundred percent, why-are-you-doubting-me-Derek’, understood that stumbling upon random fucking animal bones in the middle of my kitchen was something I didn’t want to do?” 

Stiles hides his face back in the pillow. His words, when he finally speaks after a long, drawn-out moment of embarrassed silence, are muffled. “What did I leave and where did I leave it? 

Derek sets the rib down on the nightstand. “On the spice rack. Next to the cumin.” 

“That’s a rabbit rib. I’m surprised it wasn’t next to the dill. Cause, you know, dill makes ranch? And ranch goes with carrots. And, uh — rabbits. What’s up, doc?” 

Derek’s more than a little grateful that Stiles still has his face buried in the pillow, so he can’t see the tiny smile that spreads across his face. It helps him maintain a front of exasperation that he definitely doesn’t feel. He waits Stiles out in silence. 

Stiles squirms. It’s thirty seconds later that he finally mutters,“I mean…whoops?” 

“Yeah, whoops,” Derek says. “You’re ridiculous.” 

“You like that about me though.” 

“Not when it leads to the potential for animal bits getting mixed up in the pancakes I was planning on making for us.” 

“Aw, pancakes, no.” Stiles rolls onto his back, finally facing Derek full-on. The sheets shift as he does, exposing all the smooth, lean lines of his torso, which makes it difficult to focus on the sincerity in his words as he says, “I’m sorry.” 

The sweet, morning-soft scent of him is heavy in Derek’s nose, all blankets and comfort and that scent that’s becoming theirs, becoming just DerekandStiles. Stiles’ hair is mussed — partially from how he sleeps with one hand pressed between face and pillow, partially because of how Derek had yanked at it last night when he’d done that new thing with his tongue. His eyes are sleepy, his lips just barely parted as they tilt down in apology. 

Derek doesn’t like it when Stiles’ lips do that. He leans forward to fix it. He nips gently at Stiles’ bottom lip until they part further on an inhale. Derek deepens the kiss, cradling Stiles’ head with one palm. It’s a reflex for Stiles to kiss back, confident and sweet and sure. 

When Derek pulls away, Stiles blinks slowly at him, an easy smile slipping into place. “Apology accepted?” 

“Yeah,” Derek tells him, then frowns. “Just — really, Stiles? In the cabinet?” 

“I could’ve sworn I got them all packed away! Guess I forgot about the rabbit one, that’s all! Besides,” Stiles grins unrepentantly as he flops into the pillows, “it’s not my fault I don’t know where you keep everything in your kitchen yet. It’s not my kitchen. I don’t understand your organizational system.” 

“Setting aside the fact that rabbit bones don't belong anywhere in anyone’s kitchen — your kitchen doesn’t even have an organizational system.”

“Well now, that's just patently untrue. Wild hare is a delicacy! There are kitchens worldwide that would have rabbit bones aplenty throughout the year.” Stiles chuckles at Derek's unamused look then switches gear. “You're also totally wrong on the second count. My kitchen absolutely has an organizational system." 

Derek lifts an eyebrow. He settles down next to Stiles, propped up onto his forearm. “Is that so?”

“Yeah,” Stiles challenges. “Glasses, mugs, and other drink things near the fridge; easy access for pouring. Pots and pans in the nearest cabinet to the oven, silverware goes in the drawer under the plates, colander under the casserole dish—” 

“You don’t own a casserole dish.” 

“Oh, right.” 

“And assigning the silverware its own specific place implies that you don’t just use plastic sets from takeout places.” 

“Okay so you may be right and it’s possible my kitchen is a mess and it may be the case that I’m just thinking about where my dad keeps everything.” His scent turns sheepish for a moment before brightening. “Hey, you’ll get to see that organization does exist in the Stilinski genes when you go home with me at Christmas.” 

Because that’s a thing they’re doing. They’ve been together for six months now and had decided to mutually bite the meet-the-family bullet. They both talked to their respective parents earlier in the week about visiting in December. As a result, Derek had to block both Cora and Laura’s phone numbers on the way to the graveyard after he hung up on Cora back in Phoenix. He’ll unblock them in a few days. Derek wanted to give his family advance warning because he knows how his sisters get, let alone his mother. It’s only September now; hopefully by the time Solstice celebrations roll around, they’ll have calmed down. 

With their schedules, getting to see family on actual holidays is rare. As a county sheriff, Stiles’ dad is used to taking what he can get, but Derek’s mom had bemoaned that she now had both a brother and a son who might not make it on time. She’d stopped attempting to guilt-trip Derek really quickly once he told her he wanted to bring Stiles with him. 

“So I’ll get to see that you’ve got the ability to be organized, you just choose not to be?” Derek asks. 

Stiles sputters. “Hey, I am a busy guy, okay?” 

“Uh-huh. That’s why—”  

Their phones buzz with a message at the same time. 

Derek grimaces, and Stiles sighs, throwing one arm over his face. “I don’t want to.” 

“Yeah, but…” 

“Fine.” Stiles makes a dramatic show of wiggling to sit up so he can reach his phone. Derek watches as he presses the side button. His scent flicks through disappointment and resolve, and before he speaks Derek knows what’s coming. 

“And so ends our glorious weekend.” 

Derek lets his head fall into the pillow for just one moment, before lifting up and asking: “What’s the M.O.?” 

Stiles sets his phone down and meets Derek’s gaze. 

“Arson.” 

Chapter Text

ONE MONTH AGO

Smoke clogs the air, visceral and thick. The sunrise is mere minutes away, but the house is surrounded by a palpable darkness from which the residents will never emerge. 

She can hear them if she listens closely. Their voices are hard to make out over the roaring of the flames, the hiss of melting plastic, and the creaking of groaning timbers. But if she tries — there, just there — she can hear them. No words; they’re much too far gone for that. It’s just screaming. There’s a banging somewhere from deep within the house. Possibly someone trying to escape, but it could just as easily be the family’s world crumbling down around them. 

The ash that coats her tongue is a bitter medicine — acrid in the moment, but she and the world alike will be better for it in the end. 

The authorities haven’t been alerted yet. The family built their home too far away from town, fools that they were, so she’s able to stay and enjoy this. She doesn’t always get to see the fruits of her labor come to life, but she loves it when she can. 

She smiles. The flames are a balm to her soul. 

The front of the house has a row of windows. Five minutes ago, someone stumbled against one, hands pounding against it. They tried to break out, but they were too weak, and the barrier too strong. Now, she can just make out their slumped figure against the glass. She wonders if it’s hot enough to melt their skin. A pity she can’t get closer to see. 

Six months of her life. She’ll spend another two, three weeks in this town getting her affairs straightened out. It wouldn’t do for her to leave town immediately after and raise suspicions. She’s a professional. 

 A loud crack rends the early morning air like a shot. The chimney tips over, swaying, before crashing through the roof. A giant plume of smoke billows upward. It weaves through the trees, obscuring the last view of the fading moon. Her smile grows. 

Six months of her life and some change. As always, completely worth it. 

She turns to leave, pulling off her gloves as she goes. 

Time to start planning the next one. 

NOW                                                                                                     

“I knew it was too good to be true,” Stiles says as he sits down at the round table in the BAU’s meeting office at headquarters. Danny makes a face in agreement; by the smell wafting off him, Derek can tell he also had staying-in-bed-related plans for the rest of his Sunday. 

Chris doesn’t bother to respond. He launches instead into a description of the case, sliding each team member a folder with copies of the most important information. 

Serial arson. Between four separate instances, 42 people have been killed. The first attack that they can link to this killer happened four years ago; unless they’re missing another fire, the unsub took a year off after the first, and has since completed one attack every nine months or so. The most recent attack happened a month ago, but it was brought to the BAU’s attention this morning. 

When Chris pauses for a breath, Lydia speaks up. “Explain why it is that we’re rushing here? The unsub’s pattern indicates that we’ve got at least eight months before they strike again.” 

Chris concedes this point with a nod, but he already has an answer ready. “Our need for expediency is two-fold. First and foremost, we have access to a witness right now, but won’t for long.” 

“By witness, do you mean the boy?” Peter asks.

Derek frowns; he must not have gotten to that part of the briefing yet. 

“Yes — he’ll be placed with a foster family next week.” 

“At which point we need to let him get comfortable in his new home,” Danny says.

“Exactly,” Chris says. “He’s only fifteen. The past month has been bad for him —” 

Stiles interrupts to mutter, “Understatement.” 

“After his entire family died, he’s spent weeks shuffled from center to center between funerals and investigation. While we technically could speak to him again after he’s placed…” 

“But that would be super shitty of us,” Stiles concludes. “Rocking the boat, uprooting his foundation, etcetera, etcetera.” 

Derek winces internally and scoots Stiles’ coffee closer to his hand. He probably should’ve made sure Stiles finished a full one before they left the apartment. His boyfriend is many things, but tactful before caffeine is not one of them. 

“That’s the first reason,” Lydia says, after narrowing her eyes at Stiles for his insensitivity. She taps her long nails on the front of her folder. “What’s the second?” 

“Our unsub is an organized killer,” Chris states. “Their pattern indicates meticulous planning. All four fires were successful in the murder of every person within the house.” 

“But if there’s a witness —” Danny starts. 

“He wasn’t at home when the fire happened.” Chris flips open the folder in front of him. “Actually, all four fires had at least one survivor.” 

“None of them were home when the fires happened?” Derek asks. 

“Correct.” 

Peter flips between the pages in his folder. “Arson 1: single survivor, 16-year-old Seth Miller. Arson 2: two survivors, siblings, 17 and 18-year-olds Carlos and Casey Romero. Arson 3: two survivors, cousins, 15-year-old Jeremiah and 20-year-old Sara Hooper. The most recent case, arson 4: single survivor, 15-year-old Nicholas Price.” 

“So the common denominator here is teenage boy survivor,” Lydia says with a frown. “Do we have all their statements?” 

“Not quite,” Chris says. “The local PD in charge of the third arson managed to misplace the survivors within the first twenty-four hours after the fire.” 

“Misplace?” Derek asks. He turns to the page in question. There are school photos of the Hooper cousins. One had been a sophomore in high school, the other a junior in college. 

“They ran away,” Lydia guesses. 

“As far as we know. The PD looked into their disappearance for a few weeks, but they lacked the resources to sustain the search.” Chris looks at Danny. “It’s been over a year now, but —” 

“I’ll see what I can find,” Danny confirms. 

Peter asks, “Do we know the whereabouts of the other survivors?” 

Chris grimaces but nods. “The brothers from the second attack are living in Seattle now on their own. The older one was able to get custody of his younger brother.” 

“And the boy from the first? Seth?” Peter follows up.  

“Idaho City Cemetery.” 

The room goes silent. 

Stiles speaks up a moment later. “I’m really hoping you can tell us it was completely unrelated.” 

“I wish I could,” Chris says, “but it’s unclear. He ran away from his first foster home less than a month after the fire. His body was found two weeks later. The quality of his clothes indicated he had been attempting to live in the woods. The police found evidence of him trying to live in the woods.” 

Stiles whistles lowly. 

“Cause of death?” Derek asks. 

“Also unclear.” At everyone’s questioning looks, Chris adds, “Local PD didn’t come to a solid conclusion. Possibly an animal attack, but there haven’t been records of any bears or cougars in the area in years. Since that seems unlikely, they’ve left COD inconclusive. I’ll have them send in the evidence to us this week.” 

Lydia nods and is on to the next order of business. Derek envies her bluntness at times. “Besides the fact that the survivors show a clear pattern — what got this turned over to us? And why now?” 

“Different states, so information wasn’t spread between jurisdictions?” Stiles offers. It’s one of the main reasons interstate serial killers often go undetected. 

“Poor reporting by local departments,” Derek suggests, thinking of how the survivors of the third attack had managed to slip away. What kind of law enforcement agency would leave kids in a situation where they could do that? Were they left alone? Who was watching them? 

Chris nods. “Both of those are reasons why it took so long for it to become a federal concern. Additionally, all four attacks were initially ruled as accidents.” 

“And accidents aren’t flagged for the FBI,” Danny says. 

“What kind of accidental fire could kill all ten family members at once, though?” Stiles asks, referring to the first attack. “How did the fire inspectors justify the fact that nobody in the house escaped?” 

Peter mutters, “Incompetent locals.” 

Chris lifts his hands. “It’s suspicious to say the least.” 

“You said initially,” Lydia points out. “They’re not being called accidents anymore?” 

“That’s where the most recent survivor comes in.” 

“He saw someone,” Stiles ventures. “Or says it was an attack.” 

Chris nods. “The local precinct hasn’t been particularly forthcoming with details.” 

“Which is why we need to talk to him ourselves,” Derek concludes. 

“Sooner, rather than later, before it would be unethical to drag him back through his suffering,” Peter adds. 

“And therefore we’re here at the asscrack of dawn on a Sunday morning,” Stiles grumbles. 

“It’s almost eleven,” Peter points out. 

“Yes, and?” 

“That can hardly be described as dawn.” 

“I’m sorry I had something to do this morning —” 

“Don’t you mean some one—”  

Derek valiantly resists putting his head through the table. 

“Gentlemen,” Chris berates. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says. “Are we rolling out soon?” 

Chris nods. “Wheels up in thirty.” 

Derek sticks close to Stiles when they head to the airstrip, practically stepping on the back of Stiles’ heels. They both have their go-bags slung over their shoulders, necessary suits and blazers permanently hung in the BAU’s jet at Lydia’s insistence. 

“Is this like, a ‘W’ thing?” he asks when Derek presses up tight behind his back in the elevator. “Do you have some kind of protective instinct thing going on?” 

Over his shoulder he can see Derek color slightly, but he notably does not move away. “Yes and no,” he says after a moment, once the doors close and the elevator starts moving down. 

“Words,” Stiles reminds him. “Use them.” 

“It’s… I keep thinking about the first boy.” 

“The one who ran away?” 

Derek nods. “I’m having a hard time not putting myself in his shoes. It’s not the same, and normally I can compartmentalize better, but I can’t stop imagining what it would be like if my entire family was wiped out at once like that.” 

Stiles frowns. “It isn’t the same — you’ve got pack bonds and everything, right? When Peter has talked about it, he’s said that kind of relationship goes way deeper than anything humans can comprehend. Isn’t it a physical thing? Can’t you feel your, uh, pack?” 

“Yeah.” Derek steps to the side when they reach the ground floor. He rubs at his chest under his duffle strap as they move into the hallway. 

Stiles reaches up and grabs his hand, folding it within his own. “It doesn’t do any good to apply the victims’ circumstances to our own.” 

“I know that.” Derek looks slightly chagrined, but he doesn’t take his hand away. 

“Besides,” Stiles says, “if anyone was gonna be driven to the point of making like that dude who tried to live off the land in Alaska, disregarding that his preppy lifestyle had in no way prepared him for the wilderness, it’d be Peter, not you.” 

“Chris McAndless,” Derek comments. 

“I think I’m offended by that statement.” Peter is standing at an intersection in the hallway. He joins them as they continue toward the exit. 

“You would remember his name,” Stiles teases. Then, to Peter, “Good, you should be.” 

“You’re forgetting, of course, what I am,” Peter says. “Just because I appreciate a nice suit and a penthouse apartment doesn’t mean I lack the ability to survive in the woods.” 

“Nope,” Stiles tells him. “I think you’ve forgotten how. Turned your back on years of instincts. You’d flounder, my dude, totally flounder. You’d have to like, kill little bunnies or something.” 

“I am capable of that.” 

“Duh,” Stiles says. “You serial killer in the making, you.” Derek huffs beside him, and Stiles grins, hefting his go-bag higher on his shoulder. “It’s just that you’d, you know, have to kill Thumper with your hands. And then like, not shower after. I think you’d gross yourself out and into an early death before you made it a week.” 

Peter makes a face. “That does sound…unappealing.” 

“Yeah, you’d prefer your murder with a side of fava beans and a nice glass of Chianti, huh?” 

Peter bares his teeth at him, amused, and Stiles laughs. Peter’s a creepy motherfucker, but at least he’s a creepy motherfucker that can appreciate a good Silence of the Lambs reference. 

Derek pushes the exit door open and they step outside. The Virginia air is brisk, an early cool front rolling through. Lydia and Danny are already waiting on the jet, the air-stairs extended down to the tarmac. Before they board, Derek pulls Stiles to the side. 

“Your conversations at what’s left of the Price house might be difficult today.” The scene of the most recent fire will be their first stop when they get to Montana

“It’s just a few more —” Stiles breaks off, considering. “Oh. Yeah.” Eight people died in the fire that took Nicholas Price’s family from him. Two kids under the age of ten. An older sister. Both parents. An aunt, two grandparents. All gone, burned alive in their own home. Stiles shudders. “I’ve never had to speak to someone who was killed in a fire.” 

Derek’s eyes search his and his hands come up to rest gently on Stiles’ shoulders. “I’ll be right there if you need me for anything,” 

Stiles puts on a grateful smile. “Appreciate it, hot stuff.” 

Derek jerks his hands off Stiles’ shoulders. “No.” 

“You can’t nix every nickname, Boo-Bear.” 

Derek’s right eyebrow says, watch me.  

“Shut up.” 

Derek rolls his eyes and starts walking up the air-stairs. “Stop talking to my eyebrows, Stiles.” 

“It’s not my fault your mouth refuses to talk to me.” Stiles jogs after him. “I mean there’s plenty of things your mouth does I can appreciate, but answers when I want them would be nice.” 

From inside the plane, Danny asks, “Seriously, does his brain have absolutely zero filter?” 

“He’s going to be fine,” Peter tells Derek. They’re standing in the burnt-out shell of the Price house later that afternoon. They dropped the rest of the team off at the police department in Hamilton, Montana. Peter glances around the burned room, nose wrinkled in faint disgust. “You can stop worrying about him.” 

“So you’re just ignoring everything you can smell coming off him right now?” Derek doesn’t take his eyes away from where Stiles is crouched in the middle of the Price’s foyer. There’s a charred black stain on the floor — it’s a month old, but Derek can still make out the fact that someone died there, what little flesh remained of their body after the fire nothing but a scorched outline seeped into the floorboards.

Even as pungent as the house is, Derek is having a hard time smelling anything but Stiles’ mess of emotions. After his first conversation with one of the Price ghosts, he had been pale, but waved Derek away when he suggested Stiles take a break. His face continued to lose color over the next ten minutes — apparently the older sister had died in her sleep, but the younger kids, Stiles had muttered, face grey — they died screaming. 

“Yes,” Peter says bluntly. “I can’t do my job if I’m worrying about Stiles right now.” 

Derek jerks his eyes toward him. “But —” 

“This is our job, Derek. It’s terrible. We see terrible things all the time. Last month the unsub skinned his victims. It’s horrific, what we do. But we do it anyway, and we have to be able to push past the horror. You know that.” 

“I do.” Derek shakes his head, grimacing. “I don’t know why this case in particular — why it’s bothering me so much to watch Stiles —” 

“It could have something to do with the message I got from your mother, asking for information about Stiles.” Peter shrugs. “Instincts.” 

“But I’ve never... I’ve always been able to stay objective.” 

“You also haven’t wanted to take someone home to meet your Alpha since high school.” 

“That’s… true,” Derek starts, but before he can say more he’s interrupted. 

Stiles plunks his head against Derek’s back, and says, “Today I learned: death via fire is high up on my top ten ‘Do Not Want to Die This Way’ list.” 

Peter lifts an eyebrow, hands in his pockets. “I’d be curious to know what would rank higher.”

“You know, every time I think you can’t get any more disturbing, you continue to blow my expectations out of the water.” 

“I live to surprise and delight.” 

“Horrify and disgust, more like.” 

Sometimes Derek hates how well Stiles and Peter get along. He turns to face Stiles, who has straightened up and is now staring around the foyer, brow furrowed. “You’re alright?” 

“Peachy as a roadside fruit stand in Georgia in June,” Stiles says, in contradiction to the way his scent is still riddled with revulsion and dismay.  “I think I’m gonna take a break for a sec, write down what I’ve learned so far.” He steps over to the remarkably still-intact stairs and sits down. “Don’t wanna get the details confused with who saw what.” 

“Do you need anything?” 

Stiles pulls out a notebook from his bag. “Nope. Did you guys get what you needed from inside?” 

“Could hardly smell anything over the smoke and rot,” Peter comments. “Which we figured would be the case.” 

Stiles nods. His scent is starting to even out, the acrid odor lessening as he flips open his notebook. “I’ll take ten or so to get down these details before heading to find the other ghosts. You guys can go ahead outside, do your sniffing thing.” 

“It’s not a sniffing thing,” Peter objects. 

“Right, since you’re absolutely not using your nose.” 

“That’s not —” 

Derek breaks in before they can go off on another tangent. “I can stick around if you need me.” 

Stiles waves him away. “Go get your wolf on, man. Cross-reference those smells or whatever. I’m fine.” 

“Okay.” 

Derek turns to leave, even though something inside him feels torn about doing so. He glances backward, but Peter catches him by the arm. “He’s fine,” he reminds him. 

Derek nods. Stiles is fine. There’s nothing to worry about. Stiles just had to listen to the deaths of an entire family and he’s compartmentalizing better than Derek is right now.  His scent is already evening out. There’s no threat. 

Derek’s here to do his job. 

When they reach the perimeter of the crime scene, marked by police tape strung between trees in a circle around the house, they split. Derek goes to the right while Peter goes left. 

It’s been just over a month since the fire; 32 days. It’s rained since then, so they’re not expecting to find much in the way of distinctive scents. Tall trees surround the burnt-out shell of a house, extending for miles in any direction. The forest is filled with pines. It reminds Derek of the forest behind his own family’s home. 

A single road leads to the house: only one way via car to arrive, unless the unsub trekked in by foot. The nearest road is four miles away.

Early fall pine needles crunch under Derek’s feet as he walks. He keeps his eyes on the ground, scanning for anything that might have been left behind. The further away he gets from the road leading to the house, the more likely it is that anything he finds won’t be contaminated by people who came to the scene after the crime. The last hundred yards of the road are a mess of tire prints from cop cars and fire trucks. But as he widens his circle, the ground becomes less and less disturbed. This is where he needs to pay the closest attention. 

A single set of deer hooves press into the mud in a winding path.

A misshapen bush; its cause, once Derek gets closer, a fallen branch. 

Sap smeared at chest height across one tree. 

A flutter of white in the distance; a years-faded plastic wrapper caught between two rocks. 

A passing waft of gasoline. 

Derek stops, turning in place. He closes his eyes and lifts his nose — grateful for the moment that neither Peter nor Stiles are there to see him; the former for his disdain that Derek would need to be so obvious in his scenting, the latter for his amusement at how utterly dog-like Derek’s acting. 

A step in each direction tells Derek where the scent is strongest and he follows. Ten yards away, he finds a cigarette butt at the base of a tree where the smell of gasoline is strongest. There’s another butt on the other side. 

Someone was waiting here. Derek crouches, inhaling deeply. Gasoline. Cigarettes. Smoke. Pine. Everything else is too old, faded after so long exposed to the elements. From this position, he’s less than 200 yards away from the house. He can just make out the side of the house; at night, the light would shine brightly through the now-gone window onto the ground outside. With binoculars, he reasons that a person could watch the activities of the people within the house from here. 

He continues on his circle of the house. Heading in the reverse direction, Peter passes him, but he’s further out than Derek, creating a wider perimeter. 

When they reconvene at the front of the house, Peter has his hands in his pockets. “Did you clock the viewpoint on the south side?” 

Derek nods. “That’s all I found.” 

“Likewise,” Peter agrees. “What do you think, to stake out and prepare, or watch after?” 

Derek shrugs. “Either? Both?” 

Peter hums. “Pre-meditated like this, with at least four homes burned — the unsub probably enjoys watching the fruits of their labor when possible.” 

Derek wrinkles his nose but doesn’t disagree. 

More than half of the cases they work on involve people who take pleasure in their own depraved actions. Derek knows this — he didn’t get into the BAU unaware of the psychological deviances that many of these murderers have. He’s taken courses, studied cases, weighed experience against evidence for years. 

But that doesn’t mean it’s any easier to truly wrap his mind around the fact that someone was able to take pleasure in watching an innocent family burn alive. 

A breeze passes through the trees, and the scent of pine hits him strong. It’s so similar to the smell of the forest back home, surrounding their pack house, that for a moment Derek can’t help but picture his family’s home in place of the burned-out shell in front of him. A weight drops in his stomach — if someone ever, if he was in Nick Price’s place, if he’d lost everyone — 

Derek shakes his head. Peter’s right, and so was Stiles before they boarded the plane. It’s not useful to imagine himself in this situation. 

Stiles comes outside a moment later. “What did you guys sniff up?” 

“One viewer, on the south side,” Derek says, gesturing with his chin. “200 yards away, not visible from the house.” 

Stiles frowns. “That’s — huh.” 

“Did you find something to contradict that?” 

“Yeah, I —” Stiles pulls out his notebook, flipping to a page that’s titled ‘Kid #2’. He turns back to the house, and then looks at Derek. He points in the direction Derek and Peter found the lookout point. “You say they were over there?” 

Derek nods. 

“Huh. Okay.” He turns his body forty-five degrees and then points to the front of the house. “So the second kid died up front, right along that window. You can kinda make out where the flames, uh, surrounded her? Those scorch marks. Anyway,” he shakes himself, “she saw someone before she died.”

“Someone at the viewpoint we noticed definitely would not have been visible from that window,” Peter comments. 

Stiles shakes his head. “No.” 

“And not anyone far away,” Derek adds. 

“With the flames and smoke? No way.”  

“What did her ghost say?” 

Stiles grimaces. “Besides the screaming?” He looks down at his notebook and reads: “An angel — save us, please — help — can she hear me, please — save us.” 

“Anything else?” Peter asks.

“Listen, man, six months ago I was shit out of luck for recent vics if I got to the site more than 24 hours later. This is a lot.” 

“He’s not critiquing,” Derek assures. “He’s just checking.” 

Stiles deflates. “Then yeah, that’s all. Nobody else saw any people, but then, that kid was the only one near a window when they died.” 

“So this angel — a woman, presumably — would have been close enough for her to see,” Peter ponders. 

 “Yeah,” Stiles confirms. “Unless she was just seeing things that weren’t there, but I don’t know, it felt like she really saw someone.” 

“So there were at least two people here,” Derek ventures. 

“Seems like.” 

The wind ruffles Peter’s hair as he turns back to the house, confirming what they’re all thinking. “The unsub doesn’t work alone.” 

Small, spaced-out houses move past the SUV as they head to the police station to meet up with the team. Stiles has his head leaned against the front passenger window while Derek flips through Stiles’ notebook in the backseat, Peter at the wheel. Stiles keeps his eyes trained on the sky as they drive: he’ll take what sunlight he can after the horror that was that house. 

He followed the traces of where the Prices died — smudges, death echoes — to find their final resting place. Some hadn’t moved at all, the only traces of their death echoes on their beds. Others had tried in vain to escape, Stiles tracking their path via smudges down hallways and through doors, until they’d finally succumbed to the fire. 

He can still see the ghost of the kid who’d died pressed against the window in his mind’s eye: her pajamas are smoking around her, her eyes frantic as she pounds at the glass, pleading for someone, anyone — that angel, please — to come and save her. 

“What’s this?” Derek asks, and Stiles blinks out of it. He turns in his seat. Derek’s pointing at some of the dialogue that Stiles picked up from the mother who died in the entry hall. 

Stiles forward leans over the console and tips the notebook towards himself. “That’s the mom.” 

Peter glances behind him as he brings the car to a stop when a light turns red. “What does it say?” 

“Just that they were trapped, mostly,” Stiles recalls. 

“Why — who — we’re trapped, I can’t get out — my babies — who —” Derek reads from Stiles’ notes.

Peter gives a contemplative hum.

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “What am I missing here? Not that I’m an expert on house fires, but I’m pretty sure anyone stuck inside one is gonna feel trapped.” 

“True,” Peter concedes, accelerating, “but wasn’t the door missing?” 

Stiles frowns. “I assumed it was part of what burned, or was kicked in and removed by firefighters when they arrived on scene.” 

Derek shakes his head. “No — it was outside, lying on the ground next to the steps.” 

“Did you get a look at the hinges?” Peter asks.  

“The hinges?” Stiles repeats. 

“I wasn’t checking for that,” Derek answers. 

Stiles glances between them quickly. “Why would the hinges matter?” 

“Could show whether the door had been taken down from the inside or outside,” Peter answers, turning his wheel at a stop sign. 

An idea starts to form in Stiles’ mind. “But if the door was removed from the inside —” 

“Then why did she feel trapped?” Derek finishes. 

“A valid point, nephew. Especially considering that it’s odd that there hasn’t been a single person able to escape from any of the houses,” Peter says. He pulls into the police station parking lot. “One of us can go back and check after our debrief.” 

“Speaking of…” Stiles starts. They need to get their story straight before talking with the rest of the team. “There were at least two people there. How are we manipulating this?” 

Derek considers, “Cigarettes at the first viewpoint, matches at the second?” 

“We bagged the cigarettes for evidence; we would need matches too,” Peter says. 

“And we can’t say there were cigarettes at both, not if the DNA is just going to show up the same,” Stiles points out. “Disturbed ground? We could say that it was a little further back than the person the kid saw — out of the way enough that it wasn’t tampered with when the first responders arrived.” 

“That should work,” Peter confirms. “No prints that we could take or match in a system, not after the rain —” 

“But space cut away from a bush? Paired with scuffs on a tree?” Derek offers. 

“As though someone needed to make room to watch and leaned against the tree a little too hard,” Stiles adds. 

Peter nods his approval, and they get out of the car. 

“Man, I love obfuscating evidence,” Stiles says. “Obstructing reality for the sake of justice.” 

“Just because you’re dating an English nerd doesn’t mean you need to start talking like one,” Peter says drily as he closes the driver’s side door. 

“Yeah but Derek likes it when I go all alliterative,” Stiles says. “Obfuscate, obstruct, obliterate, ooh, nice. Don’tcha like it, honey pie?” He bumps into Derek’s shoulder as they approach the station doors. 

Derek flicks him, presumably for the nickname. Which isn’t surprising. “Do I have the option to not comment?” 

“Unfortunately,” Peter drawls, “your scent does more than enough commenting for you.” 

Stiles laughs as Derek’s ears go pink. 

He’s still laughing at how Derek’s annoyed face pairs wonderfully with his embarrassed ears when they get to the office that the Hamilton, Montana police force set aside for them to use for the few days they’ll be in town. They won’t need to stay as long as they would for an ongoing case, since it’s most likely that the unsub has already moved on to a new town. They’ll get what they need and maintain contact with the office if anything else arises. 

“What’s funny?” Lydia asks from where she’s seated next to Danny, looking for all the world like she could not care less about Stiles’ answer. 

“Nothing,” Derek says. 

“Actually —” Stiles begins, only to be interrupted by Peter. 

“You don’t want to know,” he says as he takes a seat at her side. “Trust me.” 

“Fair,” she allows. 

“But I —” 

Lydia doesn’t turn away from Peter as she says sharply, “Sit, Stilinski.”  

And that’s a side effect of this whole supernatural business that Stiles could not have predicted. Not only has Peter been a useful resource for Stiles to grow in his necromantic powers, but Lydia’s made use of him as well. In the past six months, she’s begun practicing how to access her premonitions and visions via meditation, thanks to books from Peter’s stash. She’s also worked on focusing her premonitions around specific inquiries, instead of being bombarded with deaths of all kinds without filter. What’s more, it’s almost as if she enjoys spending time with Peter. She’s even gotten into the habit of researching with him  — by choice! — when the team is split for duties. 

“I regret this,” Stiles says, looking between the two of them. 

“Regret what?” Danny asks, looking up from his computer. 

“That Peter and Lydia are friends now,” Stiles tells him. 

“We’re hardly friends—” Lydia begins archly. 

“That is not how I’d describe —” Peter starts. 

“You’re taking responsibility for their friendship?” Danny asks. “Why?” 

“Yes, Stiles, why is that?” Peter turns his cool gaze on Stiles. 

Well it’s not like Stiles can tell Danny that he’s the one who spilled the supernatural beans and got them all chummy now, can he? “You’re right, what am I saying?” Stiles leans back in his chair. “I have zero control over anything that those two do.” 

Peter looks slightly mollified; Lydia raises an irritated eyebrow, and beside Stiles, Derek laughs. 

Stiles really likes it when Derek laughs. 

“Sickening,” Danny says, and Stiles quickly wipes what’s surely a goofy smile from his face. 

Derek’s hand slips to Stiles’ knee, squeezing gently, letting him know that his affection is returned. It’s kinda nice to know that even when he’s forced to be a professional or whatever, Derek still gets hints of how he’s really feeling.

The door to the rest of the station opens, and Chris enters, followed by the Hamilton Chief of Police. 

“Team,” Chris says, before introducing the Chief. After the Chief shakes everyone’s hand, Chris asks for the report from the house. 

Peter quickly summarizes the altered evidence to suggest the presence of more than one person on the scene that night. 

“So they’re not working alone,” Lydia concludes. 

At Derek’s head shake, Chris adds, “Possibly a leader and their follower, or multiple followers.” 

“What makes you say that?” asks the Chief. 

“This is a mission-oriented unsub — unidentified subject,” Stiles clarifies. “In situations like these, if there are multiple people involved, it’s common for there to be a leader who can sway other people to their side, convince them that terrible crimes like this are necessary.” 

“They’d be charismatic, outgoing,” Peter adds. 

“Someone that seems friendly and approachable, or who can pull other people close together,” Chris continues. 

“Not a loner,” Lydia contributes. “Which is often what people assume for arson, or serial killers in general.” 

“Not some pyromaniac poster child for the 1980’s moral majority dilemma, with anger issues, black nail polish, and good taste in music and RPGs,” Stiles explains.

“I see,” says the Chief, though he looks like he absolutely does not see at all. Perhaps Stiles should’ve chosen a different loner example. “So, uh, you’re looking for someone who came to town in the past year that was real friendly.” At Chris’ confirming nod, the Chief shrugs. “Well, I can’t quite say I remember anyone like that, but I can have the boys look into it.” 

“Thank you,” Chris replies, but he’s already asking a question with his eyebrows and Danny is responding with a nod: he’ll check into property records during the time frame of when the unsub likely moved to town, which will likely be more useful than whatever ‘the boys’ can come up with. 

“Now you said you were waiting on some of your team to get back before you talked to little Nicky Price?” 

“Yes.” Chris points at Derek and Lydia. “I’ll have Agent Hale and Agent Martin come with you.” He turns to Peter. “You and Stilinski — one of the officers is on hold with the case worker for the brothers from the second fire. She’s gotten ahold of the older brother, and they’ve agreed to speak with us again. Sir,” he turns back to the Chief, “I’ll come with you to meet with your officers.” 

“Sounds good,” the Chief replies. He lifts a hand toward Derek and Lydia, beckoning as he turns to leave. “Now y’all come on, Nick is this way.” 

Derek squeezes Stiles’ leg briefly before standing to follow out of the room. 

Across the table, Peter arches an eyebrow. “Will I need to gag you for this phone call, or will you let me do the talking?” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I haven’t screwed up your interviews in months.”  

“Huh,” Danny says, “Wasn’t it just last week that a witness threw water in Peter’s face because you managed to imply that he was looking up her skirt?” 

“Shut it, Māhealani,” Stiles says. He rubs a hand through Danny’s perfectly gelled hair in retaliation as he passes behind him, dodging out of the way of the arm Danny throws back in response. Naturally, his dodge causes him to slam his hip into the edge of a filing cabinet. “And you, you be quiet,” he snaps at Peter after biting off a yelp. 

Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to sense the smugness rolling off of Peter as he leaves. 

Chapter Text

NOW

As Derek follows Lydia into the room where the police officers have put the kid, he can smell her distaste. They’ve got him in an interrogation cell. Sure, the Hamilton, Montana Police Department isn’t huge, so they probably don’t have many rooms where they can talk privately, but he feels bad for the kid, already traumatized, forced into this sterile, unfriendly room. 

“Hi,” Lydia says as she enters. “I’m Special Agent Martin, and this is my coworker Special Agent Hale.” 

Nicholas Price looks up for a split second before his eyes flit back down to where his hands twist on the steel table in front of him. His voice is small, at odds with the strength of the mess of emotions — anger, despair, sadness, frustration, and a myriad more — that wells in his scent. “Hi.” 

“Thank you for making the time for us, Nick.” Lydia takes a seat across the table from him, Derek sitting beside her. “Is it okay if I call you that? Or would you prefer Nicholas?” 

The kid shrugs. 

Derek pulls out a notebook, propping it between his legs and the edge of the table so Nick can’t see the page. It’s a gamble: sometimes the idea of someone taking notes makes witnesses more guarded, but it’s become their default whenever they split into groups with just one werewolf — notes are a way to silently communicate with their non-were partners about scents, lies, or other things they pick up. “Do you mind if I take notes?” Derek asks. “They won’t be seen by anyone outside of our team.” 

Nick shrugs again. “’S fine.” 

“Thanks,” Derek says as he studies the kid. And that’s what he is — just a kid. Maybe it’s the way his hoodie sleeves are long enough to cover half of his palms or the way his voice still hasn’t gone all the way through puberty, but his youth is all Derek can think about. 

It’s a little strange: Nick chose to come here without an adult present on his behalf. They’re not sure why — his state-appointed case worker had offered to come down from Missoula, but Nick said he’d be fine without her making the hour-and-a-half trip. He’s tense now, shaggy hair falling across his face, half-obscuring his eyes. 

“We wanted to follow up on your statement about the night of the fire,” Lydia begins. 

“I said what I said,” Nick says quickly. “I’m not gonna change it.” 

“We’re not suggesting you do,” Lydia soothes. She taps at the folder she brought in with her. “We have what you said here, we just have a few more questions that the local officers may not have asked.” 

Nick looks up from his hands for a half second, brows furrowed. “Okay,” he says after a moment. 

“You were at a basketball game that night?” 

He shakes his head. “I mean, yeah, but that was a few hours before. I was over at a friend’s house.” He pauses, then says suspiciously, “You should know that.” 

“Yes, that’s right,” Lydia agrees. “We do. I was just starting earlier in the night. I’m not trying to catch you in a lie or anything like that.” 

He frowns, disbelief and frustration rising to the surface of his scent. 

“Here,” Lydia says calmly, switching tactics, “how about I read you what we have and you can correct me if I have anything wrong?” 

“Okay.” 

She flips open the folder and turns to the transcription of his statement. “You had a basketball game that night for your summer league — your parents were there with your siblings. As far as you know, your grandparents and aunt were at home.” 

“They’re — they were — my family was really supportive. We were close.” 

Lydia nods. “It sounds like you were. You saw them after the game?” 

“Yeah. Told them I was going to Carter’s house.” 

Lydia glances at Derek’s notebook, but he hasn’t written anything yet beyond the set of codes he’s added so Nick thinks he’s taking notes. He’ll add marks next to any of the code words if they become relevant. Nick hasn’t told any lies, or given off any of the scents that read suspiciously. Lydia hasn’t taken her questions in a direction that she needs to pull back from, either. 

“Was that a normal occurrence — for you to go over to a friend’s after a game?” 

He shrugs. “Carter’s my best friend. I go over a lot. I’m staying with his family until my, uh, my uncle picks me up to take me to live with him.”

“That’s who you’ve been placed with, correct?” 

Nick nods. It took the state a few weeks to get in contact with Nick’s uncle — there are notes about him living off grid with the family he married into, but apparently he’s been able to prove that he has CPS-approved accommodations since they got ahold of him. From what they have on file for him, he hasn’t come to visit the Prices since he got married and moved out ten years ago. 

Lydia brings the conversation back to the night of the fire. “So when you were hanging out with Carter after the game — you guys did the kind of stuff you mentioned in your statement — order pizza, play video games, that kind of thing?” 

“Yeah. Normal stuff.” 

“And then it says that Carter went to sleep?” 

“Yeah.” 

Lydia stills a moment, and Derek can read her indecision before she says: “In your statement, you said that you were awake when the fire happened.” 

Nick’s scent twists as he shrinks down into his hoodie. “I was.” 

And that’s — that’s not exactly a lie, but — Derek adds a half dash next to the lie code. 

“Did you get a call from someone there?” 

“No,” he says, and it’s another half-truth. 

Lydia raises her eyebrows at her folder as though she’s misread something. “Oh, right, my mistake. Your statement says you didn’t get a phone call. But,” she frowns slightly, then blinks at him in question, “you told the officers that you knew something was wrong?” 

“Yeah.” When Lydia doesn’t say anything, he looks at her quickly, then away. “I could just — I could feel something was wrong.” 

Lydia’s gaze is on Derek’s hands for movement on his notes, but Nick’s words are not a lie. 

“You could feel something,” Lydia repeats. She affects a careful, inquisitive tone. “What do you mean by that?” 

“I just,” Nick’s hand goes to his chest, as though putting pressure on the metaphorical wound Derek can smell in the pain that’s pouring from him. “I could just — I could feel —” he shakes his head. “I don’t wanna talk about this.” 

Lydia lifts her hands up in acquiescence right as Derek starts to circle PB, their code to pull back. “That’s fine, we don’t need to. I apologize for pressing. Would you like some water? A break?” 

Nick shakes his head. “I wanna get this over with.” 

“Of course.” Lydia looks down at his statement. “Now, you mentioned seeing someone? In your statement, you said you drove home when you had that feeling — and then you saw someone when you arrived?” 

Nick gives a short, terse nod, eyes fixed on his hands. He’s picking at one of the cuffs, pulling at a loose thread. 

“But you didn’t recognize them,” Lydia continues. 

“No.” 

Derek adds a solid line next to their code for lies . 

Lydia’s eyes flick to it then back to the kid. “Is there anything you can tell us about who you saw?” 

He shrugs. “I dunno. I could hardly see them.” Another lie. “They weren’t very close to the house.” Another. “I was really distracted.” Truth. 

Lydia nods in understanding, but she’s taken note of each time Derek’s added another dash. “You didn’t see what they looked like at all? What about race or gender — maybe their hair color?” 

“It was dark, okay?” Nick’s gaze flies up to hers, accusatory, but his scent is drenched in equal parts guilt and grief. “I couldn’t see anything.”  

Another lie. 

Lydia leans back in her chair. “And you’re sure there’s nothing more you can tell us that might —” 

“No,” he snaps, and for the briefest second, his eyes flash gold before he turns his glare back to his hands where they’re clasped tightly on the table. “Nothing. I don’t want to talk to you anymore.” 

“Okay, that’s fine.” 

Before she’s even got the words out, Nick is pushing back from the table and stalking out of the room. The door slams against the wall before bouncing back closed. 

Derek and Lydia sit in silence for a moment before she turns to him. “Did I just see —” 

Derek flashes his own eyes in confirmation, careful to keep his head turned from the camera in the corner. “Yeah.” 

She lets out a slow breath. “This could change things.” 

Derek nods. It really could. “We should tell —” 

“On it,” Lydia says, already pulling out her phone and typing away. She glances up at Derek. “Think we can make it to the parking lot without Chris noticing?”

Derek tunes into the movements outside of the interrogation room. “Chris is still with the Chief — up near the reception desk. If we go out the side door, yeah.” 

Lydia nods. “I’ll tell Stiles to take a call out front once they finish with the Romero brothers, and Peter can pretend to go back to the office before slipping out the side.” 

They leave the room quickly, crossing through the bullpen to get to the side exit. Listening carefully for a sign that Chris is coming back into sight, Derek can just make out the sound of a teenager crying in the bathroom. 

He hesitates for a second and Lydia nearly runs into his back. 

She lifts her eyebrows in question, and he says. “That kid — he’s — we should check —” 

She shakes her head. “I’ll text Danny to go after him.” 

Derek nods before pushing out through the exit. Danny will be better with him than either Derek or Lydia could possibly be, after all. He’s more personable than the rest of the team combined.  

Stiles barely registers his phone buzzing in his pocket as he stares across the desk at Peter. The station landline’s dial tone hums between them, an echo of the abrupt end of their phone call with the brothers from the second arson. 

“What the hell?” 

Peter shakes his head. “I know.” 

“We need to tell —” 

“I know.” Peter pulls out his phone. “Lydia’s already called a meeting.” 

“Just the — us? The four of us?” God, they need to figure out a way to refer to themselves. Somehow Stiles doesn’t think either of the Hales will approve of his knee-jerk reaction name: the Supers. And he doesn’t think Lydia will be a fan of his second choice—  ‘the Dream Team’ — what with how her dreams are usually haunted by gory murders. 

Peter nods. “You’re pretending to take a phone call, then leave through the front.” 

“I can do that,” Stiles says, standing and slipping out his own phone. Lydia’s message tells him to meet in the SUV he and the Hales took to the Price’s house earlier in the day. 

“I’d hope so,” Peter says. “You are so very good at running your mouth when no one’s listening, after all.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes, but his mind is still too busy processing what they’d just learned about the brothers for him to come up with a good comeback. 

They leave the room together, Stiles with his phone already pressed to his ear. “One second, lemme get outside,” he says as Peter splits away from him, stepping through the officers’ desks towards the back of the station. Stiles heads in the opposite direction, pausing near a printer to let a worker pass by him. 

“Yeah, I understand this is important,” he says, side-stepping an officer as he walks into the front area. He flashes a quick smile at the receptionist, then tells the phone, “Hold on a sec.” He pulls his phone away from his ear, pressing it against his chest and meeting Chris’ gaze. He points at the phone with his free hand and mouths “Gotta take this.” When Chris nods in understanding, Stiles puts the phone back to his ear and continues out the door. “Yeah, thanks. Okay, now go ahead.” 

Stiles glances around the parking lot when the station door swings closed behind him. He doesn’t see any officers, so he quickens his pace toward the SUV, slipping his phone back in his pocket once he’s far enough away from the door. Peter catches up to him from the side of the building right as he reaches it. Derek and Lydia are already in the back seat, waiting out of view of any passerby. 

Stiles hops into the driver’s seat as Peter gets in on the passenger side. They both slam the doors. Stiles spins around to face them as soon as they’re all closed in, and says, “We think they’re werewolves.” 

“—wolf,” Lydia is saying. 

“Wait, what?” Stiles shoots a look between his two team members. “Did you just say the kid you were talking to is a werewolf?” 

Lydia’s eyebrows raise. “And you just —” 

“Yeah,” Stiles breathes. All three of them? “Wow, this is not a jinx I ever predicted. You owe me like, a 12-pack of soda.” 

Derek looks gut-punched, slumping back against his seat. 

“Well this is… interesting,” Peter says slowly. 

“Jesus Christ, that’s one word for it,” Stiles says. “Another would be fucked up.” 

“That’s two words,” Lydia corrects on habit, but her eyes are distant, concerned. 

There’s silence in the car for a moment before Derek shakes his head to focus. “How did you know?” 

“One of the brothers slipped,” Peter tells them. 

“Carlos,” Stiles adds. “The younger one.”  

“He said ‘their pack,’ when talking about the fire that killed their family,” Peter continues. “I heard his brother punch him in the shoulder over the line, and decided to follow up on what could have otherwise been written off as misspeaking.” 

“What did you ask?” Lydia leans forward, resting her elbows on her knees. 

“If I’d heard correctly. If their entire pack had been wiped out,” Peter says. 

“What did he say?” Derek asks. 

“He didn’t,” Stiles answers before Peter can. “They hung up.” 

“And that could almost be circumstantial,” Lydia says, “but with what Nick Price did…there’s no way.” She and Derek glance at each other. 

“And?” Stiles presses. “What’d he do?” 

Derek meets Stiles’ eyes as he says: “Flashed his eyes. He’s a beta.” 

“Or omega,” Peter offers. 

Derek nods in concession. “Or that.” 

“They’re all werewolves,” Stiles says on a long breath. “Holy fuck.” 

“Indeed,” Peter says. 

“So this— ” Lydia begins, then cuts herself off. 

Derek opens his mouth but doesn’t say anything. 

“So this is like, a hate crime,” Stiles says in their wake. He looks around at his team, then reaches a hand back over the console. Derek takes it. “I mean maybe there’s a different word for it, I don’t know. Is this racism? Xenophobia? No, that’s the national one. Speciesism?” 

Peter shrugs. “Anti-werewolf. I suppose speciesist would be closest.” 

“But we don’t know for sure yet,” Lydia says, an optimism in her voice that her dubious expression belies the truth of. “This is only two of four arsons so far.” 

Derek shakes his head. He rubs his free hand across the stubble along his jaw, grip tightening around Stiles’ hand. “No, think about it. All four families lived in large groups — 11 members in the Miller family, eight for the Prices, nine Romeros, and then 15 Hoopers all lived on that compound on the outskirts of that Utah town.” 

“And that’s another thing.” Peter is looking out the front window as he talks, hands explaining in the air in front of him. “Where they lived. Small towns in Utah, Idaho, Montana, Washington — if we looked closer at a topographic map, I’d bet they’re all near forests.” 

Lydia nods slowly. “I checked the towns’ populations — we’re at the largest now; Hamilton has just under 5,000 residents. Is it incorrect to assume that small towns are…better for packs? Or at least the normal?” 

Derek nods. 

“Our pack’s town has around 3,500 people,” Peter puts in. 

Derek looks at his uncle, then down at where he’s holding Stiles’ hand. Stiles runs his thumb over his knuckles. “We prioritize safety,” he murmurs. “Small communities — forests — pack land — they’re supposed to be safe.” 

Small towns. Big, extended families living together. Secluded areas near forests. Safety in privacy. Werewolves. Shit. 

“Shit,” Lydia whispers in an unknowing echo to Stiles’ thoughts. 

Derek pinches the bridge of his nose, and Peter closes his eyes. 

Stiles looks around. This is not how he anticipated today going. “Okay, I feel like someone has to actually say it.” He pauses, wishing he was in the back with Derek. He can only offer so much comfort through his hand. He takes a breath, steels himself, and says, “The Millers, Romeros, Hoopers, and Prices were all packs. The unsub is targeting werewolf packs.” 

There’s a beat, broken only by a tiny sigh from Lydia. 

Peter opens his eyes. “The unsub,” he says lowly, “is a Hunter.” 

Derek shudders, pulling his hand back. Lydia catches his movement and she glances at Stiles in question. He shrugs. He doesn’t know what Peter’s talking about either. 

 “I’m pretty sure I heard a capital letter there,” Stiles says, when it’s clear that both Hales are lost in their own thoughts. “So that’s a thing? Hunters? As in werewolf hunters? Buffy, but for you guys? Sorry, that was tactless, I just — frame of reference, this is what I’ve got.” 

“Hunters aren’t supposed to be a thing anymore, not really,” Derek says quietly. His arms are crossed over his chest. Stiles really wishes he was back there. 

“They haven’t been particularly active in recent years.” Peter rolls his shoulders back. “The supernatural is such a small subsection of the population, and for the most part we keep ourselves self-contained.” 

“The Council,” Lydia says. 

Peter nods. Not long after their heart-to-heart about the supernatural during the Jennifer Blake case six months ago, he’d sat down with Lydia and Stiles to explain what he knew of the current supernatural order within the United States. Magic users — druids, witches, weirdo necromancers, etc —  like Stiles are rare, though they often align with werewolves and other shifter packs. Banshees, which he believes is what Lydia is, are traditionally loners. Most shifter packs are a part of a loosely connected, self-maintained network. Their network is supported by pack treaties and overseen by a guiding council that meets once every five years to discuss significant changes in population or pack movement. 

“Why do I not know about Hunters?” Stiles questions. “I feel like I should know about them.” 

Derek shrugs. “They’re not active.”  

“Well apparently at least one of them is,” Stiles points out. “So they like, what, hunt supernatural creatures?” 

“In the past, they were exactly what you’re picturing,” Peter explains. “Think archaic weaponry, Van Helsing, defending the poor humans in their villages —” 

“— Causally discriminating against werewolves and other supernatural creatures just trying to live their lives,” Derek adds. 

“Got it,” Stiles says. “Classic prejudice against the things they couldn’t explain and therefore feared.” 

“To be fair, werewolves can be dangerous — omegas especially,” Peter concedes. “But that’s the case with any sentient being, no? Werewolves might have claws, but humans have guns and prejudices and hatred in their hearts.” 

“Killers come in all shapes and sizes, and no particular ‘type’ of person is inherently more likely to kill than any other,” Lydia says, face serious, “as our job has proved time and time again.” 

“Besides,” Peter continues, “omegas have never been common, presuming that’s the Hunters’ excuse, and they’re even less common now. The supernatural population is so low throughout the United States — the last time I heard about active Hunters was in reference to some in Europe.” 

“So this arsonist is really out of the norm,” Stiles says. “They’re just some homicidal bigoted bastard.”

“They’re going after entire families because of what they are,” Derek says curtly. “Yeah, that qualifies as ‘bigoted’.” 

42 fatalities. More than half of those were under 18. The car fills with the weight of that knowledge. 

“So do we —” Lydia shakes her head. “How are we supposed to go about this? We can’t just call the Council, right? This is our case. Even if we can get them involved —” 

“And they’re not a policing force,” Peter inserts. 

“—we’re still responsible for solving this.” 

Right. The team. Which they’re just two thirds of. The team that reports back to the Federal Bureau of Investigations. The team that they’ll need to work with to figure this out. 

Stiles looks at Derek. His expressive eyebrows are furrowed; he’s reached the same conclusion Stiles has. Stiles sets his jaw. “We can’t do this on our own, can we?” 

Lydia understands immediately. “We need to bring in Chris and Danny on the supernatural.”

Stiles lifts his shoulders. “We kind of have to, don’t we? We know the unsub’s exact victimology. We know their motivation. We know the pattern they’re using to find packs. We’ll be able to narrow down our search. Even if the Council can’t get directly involved, we could probably ask for information from them, right? We — we have to. If we have to find a way to lie about this? I don’t know. We’re good, but we’re not that good.” 

“It could make things easier,” Lydia muses. 

“Speed things up on future cases, too,” Derek says. 

Peter looks out the window and sighs. “I trust Chris.” 

“And Danny?” Stiles asks. 

“And Danny,” Peter admits. 

Stiles looks at Derek, then Lydia, then Peter. “So we’re doing this.”

“As much as I hate it, we are doing this,” Peter confirms. 

Heart in his throat, Stiles reaches for the handle. “Okay, let’s do this.” 

He gets as far as one foot out the door before Peter’s yanking him back into his seat. 

“A plan, you idiot,” Lydia chides. “Let’s talk this through first.” 

“Right, yeah, that,” Stiles says sheepishly. “Plans are good.” 

“Exposing someone to the supernatural is a delicate process,” Peter says. “We don’t need you to stick your foot in your mouth and end up with guns drawn before we’ve had the chance to explain.” 

That’s fair. He’s pretty sure the only reason his dad hadn’t shipped him off to therapy back in high school when the whole necromancy thing happened was because Stiles tripped and accidentally killed the oak tree in their backyard while trying to explain what had been going on. “Peter, take the wheel,” Stiles sings. “Take it from my faux pas-filled hands.” 

“Carrie Underwood?” Lydia asks. “Really?” 

“Perfect example of why he’s shutting up now,” Peter says drily. 

Stiles mimes zipping his lips. 

Plans suck. 

Or maybe Derek’s boyfriend is just really bad at them. 

The office is completely silent in the wake of Stiles’ pronouncement. Derek can hear every single word of the conversations happening outside in the bullpen: the five members of his team aren’t saying anything. Danny is staring wide-eyed over the top of his computer. Lydia has her eyes closed, mouth moving like she’s praying for patience. Peter has an exasperated grimace on his face while Chris’ gaze darts around the room, brows furrowed like he’s waiting for someone to shout , “Just kidding!”

Instead, Stiles drops a pen. 

And then he drops himself out of his chair while bending over to reach for it

“Shit,” he mutters next to Derek’s shoe, once his chair has finished toppling over his legs. One of the wheels spins in the air above the table. 

“I’m sorry,” Chris says slowly, “but did Stilinski just ask me what I know about werewolves?” 

“I do believe that’s exactly what he said,” Peter drawls, steepling his hands in front of his chest.

“Werewolves,” Chris repeats. His scent is flat — there’s some surprise, but it’s not shock, not anger, and most surprising to Derek, there’s no disbelief. 

Lydia sighs briskly. “Yes, werewolves.” She leans forward onto her crossed arms on the table. “Chris, Danny, are you aware of the existence of werewolves?” 

Chris frowns slightly, glancing between the Hales. “I —” 

“Oh, so we’re finally talking about this?” Danny asks brightly. He closes his laptop. 

“Finally?” Stiles’ head pops up over the edge of the table, mouth gaping. “Finally?”

“Yeah, the Hales have decided to tell the team that they’re werewolves,” Danny says. “Kind of weird to do it in the middle of a case, but you do you.” 

Peter’s eyelid twitches.

Derek speaks before Peter can decide exactly which affronted, biting remark to use. “How — how long have you known?” 

Danny levels him with a look. “You? Since we previewed your personnel file before you joined the team.” He looks at Peter. “Since the third case we were on together? The one with the fishermen?” 

“That was three years ago,” Peter grits out. 

Danny shrugs. His scent is amused and smugly satisfied. 

“I really shouldn’t be surprised,” Lydia murmurs with an incredulous huff. 

Stiles scrambles up, lifting his chair upright before falling gracelessly into it. Derek reaches out and holds on to the armrest so he doesn’t tip right back over. “Okay, hold up. How do you even — what do you even? How —? Are you some kind of — I mean, what?” 

Danny smirks. “No. But my grandfather’s a hedge witch, and I’ve met a few weres over the years. I know what to look for. And if you know what to look for, it’s not hard to figure out.” 

“That is… distinctly unsettling,” Peter says slowly, and Derek can’t help but agree, especially in light of their current case. 

“And you never said anything?” Stiles’ hands fly outward in flailing disbelief, and Derek only just manages to jerk out of the way to avoid taking a finger to the eye. 

Danny lifts an eyebrow at the quick movement. “I figured as long as it was useful for the BAU, it wasn’t my place to share.” 

“No?” Chris asks, and everyone’s gaze snaps to him. 

“No,” Danny repeats, smirk gone. “Sorry, sir.” 

Chris studies the room for a moment. “To answer your question, Mr. Stilinski, Ms. Martin, I do know that werewolves exist.” He lets them sit in that knowledge for a moment before adding, “I was not aware that the Hales were werewolves. I have, at times, had my suspicions, but never saw fit to confirm them.” 

If he knew about werewolves but wasn’t worried that his team members might be ones — Derek feels a weight lift off his shoulders. 

“Well this is going way easier than I thought it was going to,” Stiles comments bemusedly. 

“Don’t presume,” Peter cautions. He looks scrutinizingly at Chris. “How did you come to be aware of the existence of werewolves?” 

Chris glances away, then meets his gaze and straightens his back. “I take it you haven’t heard of the Argent Hunting clan?” 

And just like that the weight comes crashing back to Derek’s shoulders. 

Peter shakes his head in answer, lips pressed tightly together. 

“Instant regret,” Stiles mutters. “God damn, do I need to learn how to hold my tongue.” 

“I suppose that makes sense,” Chris says. “They’re mostly based in Europe.” 

“Your family are Hunters?” Lydia asks directly. 

“Yes and no,” Chris hedges. “Yes — I was born into a family of Hunters. However, I don’t consider them my family. Not anymore. Not for a long time.” 

“You’re estranged?” Danny asks, muttering under his breath , “Holy shit, this is better than daytime television.”

“And disowned, I’d imagine. I left my family in the middle of a Hunt over a decade ago. It was kids,” he adds belatedly. “My father sent my sister and I after a pair of children. They weren’t even teenagers. I left when I realized what was going on and haven’t been in touch with them since. I moved to the United States from France to get away.  

“My immediate family — my ex-wife, my daughter — neither of them are Hunters. My ex knows; we met before I left the rest of the Argents back in France. My daughter has no idea. She’s a teenager now, but I’ve never seen any reason make her aware of the supernatural world, nor her extended family’s place in it.” 

Derek watches Peter’s face as Chris speaks. His uncle is good at hiding his feelings, but his masks are rarely tested in the way his shock, fear, and mistrust are testing them right now. 

Chris is watching Peter, too. Derek’s been with the BAU for less than a year; Peter has worked at Chris’ side for more than half a decade. He’s got years of evidence to suggest that Chris is trustworthy, but he’s suspicious and cautious to his core.

“He’s not lying,” Derek murmurs. “He’s telling the truth.” 

Peter cuts a glare at him. “I know that,” he snaps, but his body still radiates tension. 

“I’m not — I’m not my family,” Chris says. “I put everything from them behind me. Or their ideologies, at least. I joined the police force after high school, and eventually the Directorate-General for External Security to put space between us, but it wasn’t until that Hunt that I finally broke away completely. The FBI took me on based on recommendations DGSE only weeks after that Hunt — I had the skills, and protecting people seemed like the farthest thing from what my family was doing. It felt like the right way to use what I’d learned from my father.” 

“Skills?” Stiles asks. “Have you had to — have you killed werewolves, or other supernaturals?” 

“Not frequently, and I’ve never sought them out.” Chris shakes his head. “I’m not a Hunter. If something supernatural comes my way, it’s luck more than anything else if I’m able to remember something that will help. Wolfsbane and mountain ash, silver for shapeshifters, nothing supernatural likes electricity — some of the specifics have faded over time, and I don’t have access to my family’s materials. The last supernatural person I came across in my work was almost nine years ago, just before I joined the FBI. A lone wolf, gone feral. And if there has been a supernatural unsub during my time here,” he shrugs, “I didn’t realize.” 

Derek doesn’t detect a single lie.  

“What about supernatural victims?” Lydia asks. 

“Not that I —” Chris breaks off, his gaze sharpening on her. “Is that why we’re talking about this now?” 

Lydia and Stiles both look at Peter. Derek does as well. Watching them, Danny and Chris follow suit. 

Peter’s jaw tightens. He stares at Chris for a long moment and then seems to come to a decision. “Yes.” 

Chris glances around the room. “You talked to the Romeros and the Price teenager — and found out, what, that they’re werewolves?” 

Peter gives a quick, precise nod. “That the unsub is targeting packs.” 

“A supernatural hate crime,” Danny mutters. “Not on my bingo for this year.” 

“That’s what I said,” Stiles exclaims, then crouches low in his seat at Peter’s withering glare. 

“I see.” Chris ignores their interjections. “So they’re likely a Hunter.” 

“We believe so,” Derek says. 

“Okay. Well,” Chris sets his shoulders, “we can work with this. We’ll treat this as any other case. Victimology, MO, unsub classification, patterns — Let’s put it all on the table.” 

“Oh, so does that mean we’re also gonna talk about how Stilinski sees dead people?” 

Stiles whips his head around to gape at Danny. “Well now we are!” 

“Stiles sees dead people?” Chris asks. 

Stiles groans, and Derek’s not quite fast enough this time to avoid getting a flail to the face.

Back at the hotel that night, Stiles sits on the edge of the bed, toweling his hair dry as Derek showers. They left the Hamilton police station an hour ago, stopping for a quick dinner before heading to the hotel. The afternoon had been exhausting, filled with rehashing case information now that everyone was on the same page. 

They have a plan for tomorrow morning: Chris will try to reach out to any contacts he can recall from his Hunting days while most of the team will comb through data. Peter’s been charged with getting ahold of Nick Price’s uncle, who picked him up after he met with Derek and Lydia. They’re assuming he’s a part of a different pack now, which would explain the low contact with the Prices, and why he lives off grid. Stiles, in comparison to the rest of the team, has been instructed to spend the day getting down and dirty with the deceased. 

Literally, though. Stiles predicts a lot of kneeling on the ground with dirt and char ending up on his clothes.  

Apparently, rather than being weirded out by the fact that two of his agents have creepy connections to the afterlife, Chris is irritated that he and Lydia have spent a collective seven years in the BAU ignoring the cultivation of what he feels are sets of incredibly useful skills. Upon finding out that Stiles is currently working on making it so other people can see the ghosts at crime scenes, he instructed Stiles to work on that while the rest of the team completed more standard tasks.  

Chris had narrowed his eyes at Stiles when he asked for Derek to come with him to the Price’s burned home until Lydia verified that yes, in order for Stiles to practice making ghosts corporeal, he needed someone with him who could say whether or not the ghosts were visible. 

The house is far enough away from the rest of town that, unlike their normal trips to public graveyards, they won’t need to visit in the middle of the night. Stiles is cleared to get his magic mojo on in the morning. This means, to Derek’s immense satisfaction, that he can actually force Stiles to sleep until after the sun comes up for once. He’d been annoyingly smug about that on the drive back to the hotel.  

Derek’s phone buzzes on the end table and Stiles glances at the screen. Derek had finally relented and unblocked his sisters’ numbers when they got to the room. Stiles gets it. After the news they received today, he’s not surprised that Derek wants comfort from his family, even though he claims they’re annoying. 

Yeah yeah miss you too. But back to the important things. you were joking about the bones, one message from the contact ‘Cora’ reads.  

Another from Cora replaces the first a moment later. Bc if you weren’t, literally wtf. who the hell are you bringing home with you??? I’m half a mind to fly out to VA this very second to meet him, stg. 

Above Cora’s message, one from Derek’s older sister reads , this is the silent treatment. Grovel, brother. Grovel. 

There’s a missed call from the contact ‘Dad,’ and another from ‘Mom’ — hers is the only contact name that includes an emoji: a cartoon wolf face. 

Stiles grins. Derek is not one for emojis — he hates when Stiles responds without real words — but apparently his Alpha is in a league of her own. 

Maybe Derek has the right idea. He leans forward to grab his own phone from the desk at the end of the bed, scrolling through until he reaches the contact ‘Sheriff Man.’ 

A quick glance at the time says it’s only just past seven — near the Oregon coast, his dad is one hour behind. If he’s on the night shift, he might have already gone into work, but — Stiles presses call just in case.  Then he hustles to find his briefs, because calling his dad without underwear on feels wrong. 

He’s still hopping into them when his dad picks up . “Stiles?”  

“Hold up, one second!” Stiles says loudly, speaking to his phone where he dropped it on the bed. Even two feet away, he can hear his dad’s sigh. Or maybe he’s just imagining it: his dad’s responses to his antics are pretty predictable. He snaps the waistband of his briefs in place and tumbles onto the bed, scrambling to pick up the phone. He hits the speaker button and sets it back down, then lies flat on his stomach behind his phone, chin resting on his folded hands. 

“Hey, Daddio.” Stiles can feel his grin widen across his face. “How’re you doin’? How’s it hanging? Things in Cottage Grove all good, you chillin’ out, maxin’, relaxin’ all cool?” 

“You’re almost thirty years old, son. Why do I feel like I just time-traveled to 2001?” 

“I don’t think I knew all the lyrics to the Fresh Prince of Bel-Air in 2nd grade. No way did I have the attention span for that until at least 5th  grade.”

“I seem to recall you memorizing the entire Morse Code alphabet as a seven-year-old just so you could send messages to the people we had in lock up.” 

Stiles rolls onto his back, squinting up at the ceiling. “Hey, I don’t think anyone ever responded to my knocks on the wall. Did you pay them to ignore me? Let them out early if they left the sheriff’s kid alone?” 

His dad gives a long, beleaguered sigh. “No, Stiles. None of the drunks we kept overnight knew Morse Code.” 

“Oh. Yeah, that makes more sense.” 

“But to get back to why you called, me, yes, I’m doing fine. What’s up?”  

The ceiling of the hotel has that gross, seventies popcorn stuff. Stiles supposes he should be thankful they at least have an overhead fan. “I dunno. I just wanted to talk to you.” 

“We talked on Friday when you were headed over to Derek’s. Did something come up? Is it the case you’re working on?” 

“Can’t a guy just want to talk to his dad?” 

The Sheriff snorts. “Sure. But since when do you call me out of the blue on a Sunday night for no reason?”  

“I could do totally that!” 

“Could. But you’re not. What’s up?”

Stiles groans, one hand coming up to slap over his eyes. “Damn you and your cunning ways,” he says as the shower shuts off in the bathroom. “I’d hate to be on the opposite end of an interrogation room from you.” 

“You had to get it from somewhere, ” his dad chuckles, then his voice softens. “Are you okay, kid?” 

“Yeah, I’m fine. This case — it’s kind of a lot.” 

“Most of them are.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Anything you wanna tell me about? Or can tell me about?” 

Stiles makes a noncommittal noise. “There’s uh — there’s some overlap with real life that makes this one kind of different from normal. Nothing — nothing too bad, not yet,” he adds as his dad starts to speak. “Just — it’s different from normal, is all. Hitting a little close to home.” 

“I see.” 

“Yeah.” 

They’re silent for a moment, his dad waiting him out. Stiles watches the fan blades spin above him. His dad knows about werewolves — that knowledge was surprisingly easy to take after watching his kid accidentally suck all the life out of a 100-year-old oak tree in 10th grade — but Stiles is not sure he wants to tell him that this case is targeting people like his boyfriend, not yet. His dad already worries enough about him as it is. 

After half a minute, his dad speaks. “I’m heading into my shift. Wanna guess what Melissa packed me this week?” 

Something warm blooms in Stiles’ chest. Sometimes his dad knows exactly what he needs. Tonight, it’s just to hear his voice. “Please tell me she’s trying that vegan cheese I told her about.” 

“It doesn’t even smell like cheese, Stiles. It smells like plastic. How am I supposed to eat enchiladas that smell, and probably taste, like plastic?” 

“You’re being dramatic.” 

“There’s no way that you, Stiles Stilinski, are calling me dramatic.” 

“You said it yourself, I have to get it from somewhere!” 

His dad scoffs. “Don’t even. The drama was all your mom.” 

“‘Don’t even’ is a thing teenagers say,” Stiles says, hands making air quotes above him. “Teenagers, and dramatic old men.” 

“Hmph.” 

“Dramatic, crotchety old men.” 

“Just wait until Christmas, I’ll show you old.” 

Stiles flips back onto his stomach. “Oh, that reminds me. Tell Derek that I’m excellent at kitchen organization.” 

From the bathroom, he hears Derek call, “What?” right as his dad says, “Kitchen organization?” 

“Yeah. I was telling Derek that I organized our kitchen, kept it clean. He doesn’t believe me.” 

“Clean is a stretch.” 

“Hey, we only ever had to throw away one Tupperware-turned-science experiment.” 

“Is Derek there with you now?” 

“Uhh — one sec.” Stiles scoots to the corner of the bed nearest the bathroom. “Derrikins? Are you coming out anytime soon?” 

His father’s and Derek’s groans are a harmony of disgust and exasperation. The door to the bathroom opens and Derek sticks his head out to glare at him. His dark hair is plastered to his forehead, and the backlight from the bathroom highlights the shine of the water on his skin. It’s cute, in a bedraggled, angry kitten kind of way. If that angry kitten was unreasonably attractive.  

“No,” Derek adds, in case his glare wasn’t enough. 

Stiles grins unrepentantly. “Come on, Dad’s on the phone right now!” 

Derek’s internal argument is written all over his face: he’s warring between staying in the bathroom and never emerging (a valid option: Derrikins might be the worst nickname yet) or coming out and showing respect to the father of his partner, as urged by his pack-inspired, werewolf-y instincts. 

The respect wins out. Derek stalks out of the bathroom, water still dripping down his chest, which, nice. Stiles watches a droplet slip down the line between his abs before joining with another and running even faster into the roll at the top of the white hotel towel he’s covered with from the hips down.  

“Your angry stalk is significantly less impactful with a towel around your waist,” Stiles tells him. “To be fair, I’m not sure if it would be better or worse without it. I’m up for experimentation, though.”  

“Stiles,” his dad groans as Derek freezes a foot away from the bed. 

“Whoops.” 

 Derek shakes himself and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry for your son, sir.” He then rudely slaps Stiles’ hand away as it drifts towards the hem of his towel. 

“I’ve had the unique pleasure of being scarred by Stiles’ words since the nineties,” his dad says drily. “No apology needed.” 

Stiles pouts at the iron grip Derek has on Stiles’ hand to keep it from sneaking back towards his towel. “Okay, listen. Enough of that sass. Dad. This is important. Tell Derek that I’m great at kitchen organization.” 

“My son knows how to put silverware in the silverware drawer.” 

“Does he really? Evidence legitimately suggests otherwise.” 

“Did you find a knife with the bowls? A case file in the fridge? He did that here once.”  

“The rib bone of a rabbit in my spice cabinet, actually.” 

“Ah, yep, sounds about right.” 

Derek chuckles down at the phone, and Stiles wants to punch something at how freaking warm seeing his boyfriend get along with his dad makes him feel. Or maybe squeeze Derek’s cheeks. Or hug him until he bursts. “I’m feeling some serious cute aggression right now,” he tells them. “Like we’re reaching dangerous levels here.” 

Derek blinks at him. His dad does the audible version of that, which is to say, he says nothing. 

“God, I can’t handle it,” Stiles says. He also can’t handle the way Derek’s cheeks are still flushed from the shower, or the way any slight movement highlights the faint outline of his dick through the towel. “But also, not cool, pops. You’re terrible at talking me up. In fact, you’re fired. You had one job, one job!” 

“Speaking of jobs,” his dad deflects, the bastard, “I just got to the station. I’ll tell Parrish and Tara hello for you.” 

“First you cast aspersions on my good name, defame my honor, besmirch my good habits, then you abandon me to, what is this, your occupation? Have you no love for your — Hey!” 

Derek reaches forward and grabs Stiles’ phone. “It was good to talk to you, sir.” 

“You too. Have a good night, Mr. Hale.” 

Derek hangs up as Stiles lunges towards the phone, a goodbye halfway out of his mouth. Derek holds the phone out away from him and Stiles reaches for it in vain. Derek, the sneaky fucker, takes advantage of Stiles’ stretch across his body to poke him in the side. Stiles jerks, overcorrecting backward, then pinwheeling forward and toppling sideways into Derek. He lands with his cheek smushed against Derek’s towel-covered thigh. 

“Hey,” he complains. “Rude.” Then, lifting his face slightly, because whaddya know, this is a convenient location to be, he purses his lips and repeats, “Hey.” 

Derek looks down at him, one eyebrow raised. “You’re ridiculous.” 

Stiles grins, then drops his leer to Derek’s towel-covered lap. He rubs his cheek against the cloth. And, yeah. This is a good idea. He levers himself up with one hand squeezing Derek’s thigh. 

Then he slips down to the floor and slides onto his knees in the vee of Derek’s legs. He brings his left hand around and slips it under the towel and along Derek’s knee. “Yeah, you always say that,” he says, letting his top teeth pull at his bottom lip before lifting his eyes back up and looking at Derek through his lashes. “But you like that about me, don’t you?” 

“I put up with it.” Derek feigns nonchalance with a lift of an ambivalent eyebrow, but his throat tightens as he swallows. 

“Do you? Is that what you’re doing? Putting up with me?” Stiles ghosts his hand up the inside of Derek’s thigh. “If that’s the case, I guess you wouldn’t mind putting up with me heading back to my room? You know, the one that the FBI still pays for me to have to myself every case.” 

“That’d be fine,” Derek says, but his voice catches mid-word as Stiles’ fingers stroke along the crease of his hip. “I can — I can put up with a lot.” 

“Uh-huh.” Stiles slides his hand up, his wrist dragging along the soft cloth of the towel while he skates his fingers along the base of Derek’s dick. He circles his thumb and forefinger around the base and strokes downward just once before looking up at Derek as he says, “I can put up with a lot, too.” 

It’s a bad line, and they both know it. Derek’s fighting a grin, but his cock twitches in Stiles’ hand, hardening quickly. “Oh yeah, can you?” 

“In multiple ways,” Stiles says. He licks his lips to lean into the bad come-on, and resists the urge to grin when Derek’s gaze tracks the movement. He starts to slowly move his hand, and he inches forward on his knees, leaning forward and urging Derek’s thighs just a little bit wider. “Wanna see?” 

Derek meets Stiles’ gaze before darting back to where Stiles’ hand is moving under the towel. He nods once, quick. “Yeah.” 

Stiles smiles, then wets his lips as he uses his spare hand to pull Derek’s towel out of the way. 

Chapter Text

TWO WEEKS AGO

A cute little sign welcomes her to the town’s historic district, arching over a street lined with quaint retail businesses and bright potted flowers. An American flag blows in the breeze above  a shop that advertises tours of the covered bridges in the area.

Vintage lampposts are hung with cheery fall decorations and an Early Autumn Festival banner is strung across the road just before the main street’s only stop light. She puts her turn signal on and waits as a pair of pedestrians take their sweet time crossing the road. One of them catches her eye and she lifts her hand half off the steering wheel in a casual greeting. He smiles and waves back. So trusting, so friendly.

She wonders how deep the infestation is. How far has the local pack sunk their claws into this town? The bustling, idyllic streets are a facade, hiding a sickness that she’s duty-bound to irradicate. These innocents don’t know what she’s here to protect them from. 

A few blocks away she reaches the outskirts of town and turns into the parking lot of a Relax Inn. It’s a shitty little motel, a basic L shape with one row of rooms, the front office on the short end of the L. But that’s what she can expect in a place like this. It’s a small town — they always are — and this will do for the next week while she settles down roots here. She has a few options: there’s a middle school and a high school, but she pulled that cover the job before last, so she might be better off with the aquatic center a few of the kids use each week, or the senior living home the high schooler volunteers at. The church that some of the pack attends is another option. It wouldn’t be the first time. 

Checking into the motel is quick work — the receptionist doesn’t bat an eye when she hands over one of her fake IDs and cash for the next week. He’s already turned his attention back to the YouTube video on his computer before she’s left the front office. 

The room is adequate. Nothing special, but she doesn’t need it to be. She tosses her bag onto one of the beds — the other bed is a part of the tale she spun about waiting for her travel companion to arrive, a precaution she takes sometimes — and pulls out her laptop. She spends a moment scanning the news from Hamilton and is pleased with what she finds: nothing new about the fire and a very tasteful obituary published for Karen Silva, the local YMCA coordinator who’d been caught in a terrible car accident last week. 

Satisfied, she opens a few tabs to local real estate sites. Time to start anew. 

NOW

“But I don’t wanna be alone.” 

Lydia levels Stiles with a look. And also with her fork, from which a piece of chicken from her salad dangles. “You’re going to be by yourself for all of twenty-four hours. You’ll be fine.” 

“He gets separation anxiety,” Danny says. He’s across from Derek in the diner, eating a sandwich. “Kinda like one of those skinny-snoot dogs that need the little anxiety vests when their owners leave.” 

“Hey!” Stiles objects. “We said no dog jokes.” 

“You’re not a werewolf,” Derek says. He leans over to steal one of Stiles’ fries. “You don’t get to pull that card.” 

 “Fine,” Stiles grumbles. “But I wouldn’t be a whippet or a greyhound, gimme more credit than that.” He crosses his arms, leaning back into the sticky leather of the booth at the diner. It squeaks, a grating sound in Derek’s ears. He bumps his shoulder into Stiles’; he gets where Stiles is coming from — he doesn’t want to leave Stiles here alone either. 

This often happens with cases like this, where there’s no immediate sense of impending danger, months or years between crimes, and hard-to-reach contacts. The team splits to focus on different projects, making sure their services are being put to use as effectively as possible. 

Derek and Peter will be driving to talk to the Romero brothers, who moved to Seattle after their fire. Lydia, Chris, and Danny are taking the jet back to headquarters in Virginia: Lydia’s got a meeting with the Media and Outreach Coordinators from other FBI departments, while Chris will liaise with his supervisor, focus on his contacts, and do a whole bunch of other bureaucratic shit that is way above Derek’s pay grade to think about. Danny will stay at HQ unless they deem his presence at a new location essential: he doesn’t always come into the field with them since he’s able to do most of his work digitally from the comfort — and better technology —  of his own office. 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “Unless Peter and Derek find anything good in Seattle, they’ll be back tomorrow night. You can survive until then.” 

“I shouldn’t be left to my own devices. This is dangerous,” Stiles says. He stabs a fork mutinously into the side salad that Derek forced on him. “Who knows what I’ll get up to when left all alone.” 

“Again with the anxious dog metaphor,” Danny murmurs, tearing up one of his fries like it’s a pillow, and Derek huffs a laugh. 

“Listen, all I’m saying is that you should be grateful you’re staying in Quantico,” Stiles tells him. “Everybody else has to come back to suffer the results of this abandonment.” 

“Terrifying,” Lydia says. “But I’m sure we’ll manage.”  

“That’s what you think,” Stiles mutters, and takes a bite of his burger. 

“How long do you think you and Chris will be gone?” Derek asks. 

Lydia shrugs. It’ll be good for her to be out of the field for a little; just last night she’d been awoken by a vision from three states away. She’s had so much more control over her dreams lately that this one had thrown her off this morning. “My meeting with the other Media and Outreach department members is on Thursday — depending on how quickly Chris can get what he needs, I’m thinking we’ll be back by Friday?” she guesses. “Unless he deems us coming back to Montana unnecessary, and is content with the team working split.” 

If they get information that requires them to move to a new town, it won’t have made sense for Chris and Lydia to fly back to Montana; it might be more cost-effective for them to reconvene at the new location. 

“Think you’ll be alright with both Hales for the better part of a week?” Danny quirks an eyebrow at Stiles over his sandwich. 

“Assuming I survive on my lonesome,” Stiles retorts. “Might’ve driven myself crazy with renditions of Celine’s All By Myself and Akon’s Lonely.” 

“Long as I’m not here to hear them,” Derek mutters, then moves his foot to avoid the kick Stiles aims at him. He’s not quite able to avoid the fingers that jab at his side though. 

“The better question is if Peter will be alright with just the two of them,” Lydia puts in.

“I resent that,” Stiles says. 

“But it’s fair,” Derek points out, nodding tellingly at where Stiles’ jabbing fingers have drifted into a casual stroke along his lower back.

Stiles colors, faint embarrassment tinging his scent, but he doesn’t remove his hand. “You’re… not wrong.”  

“It’ll probably be especially bad if it’s just the three of you for too long, what with the whole Chris and Peter thing.” 

Derek’s brain pulls a record scratch. Stiles and Lydia freeze. 

“The what?” Stiles asks. 

Danny looks at him, then frowns when he realizes Derek and Lydia are staring at him too. “You know, the whole …Chris and Peter thing.” 

“Why yes, those are the exact same words you just said,” Lydia says drily. “How illuminating.”

“I can’t be the only one that sees it.” 

“You don’t mean like, a thing, do you?” Stiles gestures vaguely with the hand holding the last bit of his burger. 

Lydia primly cuts a piece of her chicken. “My team’s vocabulary continues to impress.” 

Danny shoots an incredulous look around the table. “Guys, Chris and Peter are totally into each other.” 

These are words Derek can say with certainty that he has never wanted to hear in his life. 

Stiles drops his burger. “No.” 

Lydia hums. “I can see it.” 

Derek grimaces. “I don’t want to see it.” 

Stiles twists to look at him. “Wait, no, okay, but you should be able to prove that, right?” He pokes Derek’s nose. “With this thing? Arousal, that’s like, a thing you can smell?” 

“I hate to break it to you, but I do my very best not to notice when my uncle is aroused.” 

“Fair.” A look crosses Stiles’ face and he shudders. “God, I don’t wanna think about that.” 

“Why?” Danny asks. He swirls a fry through a pile of ketchup. “I think it’d be hot.” 

Derek puts down his sandwich. It’s suddenly quite unappetizing. 

“By themselves, sure, we’ve all thought about it,” Lydia says. “But together?” She purses her lips, tilting her head. “Hmm.” 

Stiles leans across the table. “Wait, you’ve thought also about —” 

And that’s enough. “Nope, nope, we are not continuing this conversation,” Derek says, slapping a hand over Stiles’ mouth. 

Stiles licks it. 

Derek glares at him, and he smiles unrepentantly back. Derek refuses to think about the last time Stiles had his tongue on Derek’s body. Now is not the time, not with thoughts of Peter and Chris on his mind. He takes his hand back and wipes it pointedly on his jeans.

Danny laughs but holds up his hands in surrender. “Fine, fine, fine. All I’m saying is when we get out to the Price house after lunch, watch their body language.” 

This morning, Chris told Stiles that he wanted a demonstration of his ‘skills’ before the team splits ways later today. Stiles has been fluctuating between nerves, brash confidence, and appreciation that his boss is so instantly willing to learn about his — in his own words — freaky powers of murdery magic. 

Derek, meanwhile, is not looking forward to being used as a test subject. 

As if reading his mind, Stiles knocks against his shoulder. “Finish your food, man, you’re gonna need your energy.” 

Derek frowns but picks his sandwich back up in compliance. There’s a bit of mayo smeared on the top of the bread that he looks at with narrowed eyes. 

“I almost wish that was a sex thing,” Danny says. “But it’s not, is it?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “I wish. Nah, he needs the energy to heal.” He pauses with a fry lifted halfway to his mouth. “Wait, do you think us using Derek’s arm to practice my life force manipulation powers is abuse? Am I abusive?” 

After lunch, they’re heading back to the Price house for Stiles to demonstrate his powers for the team. Derek agreed to be his example for the manipulation of life force – Stiles will use nearby plants to heal him – and then Stiles is planning on showing the team one of the Price ghosts. Peter’s currently on a bone retrieval mission from the graveyard where the Prices are buried. 

Lydia rolls her eyes. “He’s going to be giving himself a paper cut, Stiles.” 

“Oh, right.” 

“Multiple times, though,” Danny says. 

“Don’t encourage him,” Lydia reprimands. 

The mayo continues to taunt Derek, thick and white and much too reminiscent of other viscous liquids and, yeah, nope, he’s done eating for now. “I think I’ll have plenty of energy. For the life force thing.” He puts the sandwich back down and forcibly takes his mind off it. “The plan is to heal me, right? You’re not taking my energy this time.” 

“True,” Stiles says. “Killin’ some plants and shit, then makin’ some ghosts visible, that’s all. Just another day in the life of the modern necromancer.” 

Goosebumps trail down Stiles’ arms as he holds both out in front of him toward where the death echoes of Alaina Price, the mother, taint the entryway. He twists his mom’s ring on his finger, a recently-liberated-from-a-grave phalange bone in his other hand, and shakes his head sharply to focus. He breathes in and closes his eyes. He can picture her ghost. She’s on her hands and knees, one arm outstretched in front of her. 

The hem of her pajama pants is singed; phantom sweat beads along the skin of her arms, drips down her neck. Her hair swings loose around her, whipping back and forth as she turns her head, calling for her children, wailing about being trapped. She shifts forward towards the open doorway before recoiling: it’s an action she’s done three times now. 

Stiles focuses on her and spins the ring. He murmurs the Latin incantation, memorized now, once. 

She reaches behind her, the outline of her body just visible through the ghostly, translucent skin of her hand. 

Stiles murmurs the incantation a second time. 

She tips her head back and yells at the world burning down around her. 

Stiles murmurs — 

Peter coughs. 

“Oh goddamnit,” Stiles says. His eyes fly open. “Does everyone need to be here for this?” 

Chris raises an eyebrow from where he’s standing next to Peter, Danny, and Lydia. “We need to know if this is a transferrable skill, Stiles, to determine if it will be useful to us in the field.” 

Stiles glares. “It will be. Excuse me for being new to something, sheesh. Give a guy performance anxiety.” He breathes in, focusing in on his heart rate, letting the feel of the ring spinning around his finger ground him. He rotates Alaina’s bone in his hand. He glances quickly at Derek, who is standing on the other side of the doorway from the rest of the team. “Is this what superheroes feel like in all the comics when scientist villains capture them and experiment on them? Am I basically Wade Wilson? I feel like I should be objecting to this.” 

“Who’s the one that just spent half an hour being cut open repeatedly to show off ‘how awesome your life-force sucking powers are’?” Derek asks drily. 

“Cut open, so dramatic,” Peter sighs, rolling his eyes. “And you are objecting to this, Stiles. That’s quite literally what your complaining is.” 

Stiles glares at him. “Shut up, you.” 

Peter opens his mouth to respond, but Stiles sees Chris extend a hand to tap a gentle reprimand against Peter’s elbow. He pointedly closes his eyes before he can see whether or not said hand lingers for an extended period of time. He’s sure that Danny will pester Derek about the chemosignals and body language on the drive back into town. 

“Go on,” Chris urges. 

Stiles breathes in. 

Alaina Price reaches back for her children. 

Stiles murmurs the incantation once. 

She crawls forward, fingernails digging into the floorboards. 

Stiles says the incantation again. 

Her hands scramble below, and she calls for her children by name. 

Stiles murmurs the incantation a third time. 

She tips her head back and — 

Lydia gasps. 

“Shit,” Danny whispers. 

“Ah,” Peter says. 

Alaina’s cry is piercing. Stiles has heard it going on twenty times now in the past ten minutes alone, but it still rattles something deep in his chest. 

A flock of birds takes flight from the burned rafters of the house, cawing as they circle into the sky. 

Stiles keeps his eyes on Alaina, thumb pressed tight to the ring. Her ghost flickers out, then pops back up at her starting point halfway through the foyer. 

“Why — who — we’re trapped, I can’t get out,” she gasps in between heaving breaths, her hand out behind her. She crawls forward, and Danny takes a step back, no way of knowing that he’s far from her range of movement. 

She hits the doorway, and Lydia lets out a soft noise as Alaina’s nails dig into the stained grooves in the floorboard. She looks back behind her, her hair flying. “My babies — who —” She pulls her legs beneath her, one knee of her pajama pants catching and tearing on the wood. She tilts her head back, and opens her mouth, and — 

Stiles lets his hands drop, the phalange tumbling out of his fingers, and the conjuring fades away. Derek steps forward immediately, hands coming up to steady him. He pulls him into his arms, tipping Stiles’ head down against his chest. Stiles feels faint, head swimming and energy pulsing in his extremities, but his success fights with the exhaustion, and together they combine to send shivers down his body. Maybe doing this after half an hour of the life force manipulation wasn’t the hottest idea. 

“Well,” Chris says after a moment. 

“That was — Jesus,” Danny says. “Is that what it’s like every time?” 

“First time it’s been so clear, lasted so long,” Stiles says, then repeats himself, because he’s not sure that was loud enough for the non-weres in the space to hear from where he’s speaking into Derek’s pectoral. 

“No, I mean —” Danny breaks off, then adds, “Is it always so vivid for you? Is that the kind of thing you see all the time? At all our crime scenes?” 

Stiles shrugs. “It’s better now. When my powers first started manifesting, I had absolutely zero control over it, and hadn’t developed any way of ignoring what I was seeing.” He chuckles, lightheaded. “Honestly, for a while there my dad wanted me to get tested for Tourette’s, on top of the ADHD. What with the screaming and yelling and involuntary flailing I was doing all over the place.” 

“That’s not funny,” Derek whispers softly in his ear. “Just so you know.” 

“Are you sure?” Stiles asks. He looks up at Derek, peels a single eye open. “Feels funny.” 

“Yeah. Not pleasant to think about that for you, and kind of insensitive too.” 

“Mkay,” Stiles says. “I’ll trust you. You’re my tact-o-meter. Tactometer. Tachometer. But not the kind for cars. The kind for me being an asshole. It’s basically your job: Derek the Decorum Detective, preventer of the impolite palabras. Ooh, do alliterations still count if you have to use multiple languages?” 

Derek rudely doesn’t respond, instead adjusting him in his arms. He looks up at Chris over Stiles’ head, asking, “Thoughts on the visualization?” 

“I can see how this has been useful for him,” Chris muses, “and will be for us.” 

“Next step is full corporeal,” Stiles mutters. He sticks one hand out from around Derek’s waist and waggles his fingers in the air. “Gonna be able to touch ‘em.” 

“I thought you were working on his use of jazz hands at inappropriate times,” Lydia says. 

“Work in progress,” Derek says. Stiles looks up to frown at him, certain he should be offended, to find Derek’s eyebrows furrowed down at him. “Let’s move outside. Get him some fresher air.” 

“There’s no roof,” Stiles points out, because that seems important, but he follows as Derek guides him outside anyway. 

Once there, Derek pulls him down onto a boulder near where they parked the cars and hands him a bottle of water. Stiles takes a drink, content to lean into Derek’s side as the team talks. 

“Could your werewolf senses pick anything up?” Chris asks. He’s come to a stop next to Peter, and Stiles squints. Do they need to stand that close together? 

“No. Maybe if she was physically there, but she gave off no scent, and the only sounds I heard were her voice and the fire around her. It could be different, should a victim be murdered in a more quiet place.” 

Chris nods, then checks for Derek’s confirmation of the same. “Stiles can continue to work on this, but until it’s not such an obvious drain, perhaps it’s best for him to record what he hears and sees. Unless there are times when you feel a second pair of eyes would be useful.” 

“I’m on board with that.” Stiles lifts the bottle in a toast. 

Chris glances around the loose circle the team is standing in. “Anyone notice anything else?” 

Lydia shakes her head. “My powers didn’t pick anything up.” 

“No,” Danny says. “Thought it was kinda weird how abruptly she stopped at the doorway, but you guys are the crime scene analysis ones, not me.” 

“It was strange,” Lydia comments. 

“Mountain ash,” Peter murmurs, and Chris’ perpetual frown deepens. 

“That… makes a lot of sense,” Stiles says, and Lydia nods. 

Danny looks at them blankly. “Care to explain for the odd man out?” 

“Werewolves can’t cross it,” Peter tells him. “It works as a barrier for shifters like us.” 

“So really just further confirmation that it’s someone in the know,” Derek adds. 

Stiles lifts his head to tack on, “A terrible, horrible, no good, very bad Hunter.” 

Chris’ lips quirk, but he agrees, “Most likely.” He lets out a heavy sigh. “That seems like a fitting time to remind everyone that we’ve got places to be. Unless there’s anything else?” 

Everyone shakes their heads, and Derek stands, giving Stiles his hand. “You okay?”  

Stiles sways his head from side to side, closes his eyes, and snaps them open again. No stars appear, and he doesn’t immediately fall over. “Yeah, I’m good.” 

“You sure?” Derek’s gaze is worried. “If you’re not, Peter probably won’t mind if we leave a little later.” 

“I’m fine.” Stiles smiles. “And I’ll be finer after the fifteen minutes it takes for you guys to drop me off at the station.” 

“More fine? Than you already are?” Derek’s eyes flick down his body. “I’m not sure that’s possible.” 

Stiles laughs and punches him lightly on the shoulder. “Oh man, Smooth Move McGee, that was bad.” 

Derek grins, then pushes him towards the car. “Yeah, it was.” 

“So bad you’re not even going to get onto me about what I just called you?” Stiles opens the door to the SUV and slides into the backseat.  

“You get a pass this time,” Derek allows. “But only because I’m ashamed of myself for that line, and I deserve to be punished.” 

“Good god, Stilinski’s lack of filter is contaminating you,” Danny says with a groan. “Keep your kinks out of my airspace.” 

Stiles cackles as Derek’s ears go red. 

Derek slams the door behind him. “Not what I meant.” 

“That’s what they all say,” Danny says sagely. “But since we’re talking sex —” 

“A+ segue,” Lydia says from the driver’s seat. 

“—let’s talk Peter and Chris,” Danny finishes. “Chemosignals, let’s go, wolf man.” 

Stiles laughs so hard he can’t breathe. 

The last vestiges of summer sunlight shine across Derek’s face as he stands outside the Romero’s apartment building just outside of Seattle’s University District the next day. Peter is storming off, already halfway down the street, an angry roil of emotions spreading all around him. Peter hates when potential contacts stonewall him, and that’s exactly what happened when they tried to talk to the Romeros. 

Derek understands where they’re coming from. He can’t imagine what it would be like to have just one sibling left of his entire pack, then be approached by two strange wolves in the place where they’d finally felt safe. Peter, on the other hand, had muttered about unreasonable, unhelpful betas the entire elevator ride. 

The Romero’s apartment door — which was as far as they got — was drenched in the acrid smell of fear, so much so that Derek could hardly smell anything over it. There was anger, too, and grief, and perhaps other emotions that he could have picked out if he’d had longer there, before Casey, the older brother and new Romero Alpha, slammed the door in Peter’s face, and growled that they wouldn’t be answering any questions. 

Derek and Peter had tried to reason with them, standing outside in the hall for almost ten minutes. They told the boys that they weren’t suspects, that there was the safety of other packs at stake, but nothing had gotten through. Before leaving, Derek slipped a business card under the door, telling them that they could call if they decided they wanted to share anything. He’s not sure they ever will, but did at least hear one of the brothers picking the card up as they walked down the hall to the elevator. 

Derek sighs. He sits down on a short brick wall outside the apartment building, watching as Peter’s stalking figure grows smaller in the distance. He’ll let his uncle cool off before trying to get him back into the car. Derek’s not exactly keen on spending the eight-hour drive stewing in the kind of frustration that flooded the elevator. 

He pulls out his phone and sends a message to the team: 

Romeros are a no-go. Left our card, but they’re currently refusing contact. We’ll head back to MT in an hour, eta ~midnight.  

Just as he finishes sending the message, his phone screen fills with a picture of Laura’s face. Frowning, he lifts it to his ear. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Jeez, little brother, do I really call you so little that you think the world is ending whenever I do?”  

“I—” Derek shakes his head. “Sorry, just got out of a, uh, rough meeting with some victims.” 

“I see. I could tell, you know,” Laura says. “My Big Sister Senses were tingling.” 

“I wish you wouldn’t call them that.” 

“If Spider-Man can say it, so can I.” 

“Spider-Man is a comic book character.” 

“And I’m a fairytale creature. I’ve got equal rights to calling my powers whatever I want to, thank you very much.” 

“Your ‘Sister Sense’ is not a real power,” Derek says. 

“That’s what you think. You don’t know. I knew to call you, didn’t I?” 

“You had no way of knowing I had a bad meeting. Why did you really call?” 

“Is it truly so unbelievable that I could sense that I needed to check in on my family?” 

Derek thinks of all of the times growing up when he told his family about something he was struggling with at school or with friends, and Laura responded by making fun of him. So, “Yes. Or at least that you’d care enough to check in on me if I was feeling bad.” 

“Is this about that time in high school when you came back from skipping on a full moon and found out I told your crush you were absent because you had to get herpes treatment? I’m a grown-ass adult now, Derek, entirely full of kindness and love for my baby bro.” 

“And yet you still act like you’re 17 and I’m 14.” 

“I do not!” 

“You mocked my clothing choices when I came home last solstice.” 

“Because your sweater had thumb holes, Derek, thumb holes! It isn’t 2008 anymore!” 

“Why did you really call?” 

“I told you, my Sister Senses were —” 

“Is this about Stiles?” Derek adjusts the phone on his shoulder. “I’m telling you right now, I will pay you to not make any superhero references when Stiles and I come to visit.” 

“I didn’t not call about Stiles,” Laura says slowly.

Derek rolls his eyes. “I knew it.” 

“Come on,” Laura protests . “Der, what do you expect when you drop the bomb on Mom that not only have you been dating someone for six freaking months, but you want to bring him home with you? And that Peter’s known this whole time? You’re lucky none of us have shown up on your doorstep.” 

“If you did, you’d be knocking on an empty apartment.” 

“Wait — are you living with him?” Laura’s voice reaches a pitch that makes Derek wince. “Oh my god. What the fuck, Derek, you cannot just throw that casually out here like it means nothing.”  

“No. I’m just out of town.” 

There’s silence for a moment, and Derek smirks into the open air. 

“You’re the worst. You knew how I would interpret that.” 

“You’re giving me too much credit. Remember, Cora’s the next left hand, not me. I’m not the manipulative one.”  

“Sure, because being a member of the most elite team in the FBI doesn’t require any kind of particular intelligence or anything,” Laura huffs, then gusts out a long breath. “Look, you should just tell me about him.” 

“Should I?” 

“Absolutely. I’ll get Peter to tell me about him otherwise.” 

“He wouldn’t.” 

“I’m his favorite. He absolutely would.” 

Damn, she’s right. Peter might tell her all sorts of shit about Stiles, true or otherwise, just to mess with Derek. And that’s… not a narrative Derek wants Peter to have control over. 

“Fine,” he groans. “What do you want to know?” 

“Uh, everything?” Laura says, excited. 

Derek shakes his head, waving at a passing pedestrian. “Nope. I’ve gotta go soon. You get three questions.” 

“Three? No way. Ten.” 

“Three.” 

“Ten or I’m calling Peter later.” 

“Three or I’m gonna tell Peter what actually happened to his vintage copy of The Art of War in ‘03.” 

Laura humphs. “Fine. Mom said you work with him — how’d you guys end up dating? Seems like workplace romance is the kind of thing the FBI would be not a fan of.” 

“Our boss doesn’t mind. He kind of lets us do our own thing, so long as it doesn’t interfere with the case. And I — we, neither of us are the type to let that happen.” 

“Hmm. That still doesn’t really answer my question.” 

“How does anyone end up dating, Laura? He liked me, I liked him, we decided to do something about it.” 

Laura laughs loudly in his ear. “ ‘We decided?’ Derek, I’ve known you your entire life, and you are the most passive person on the freaking planet when it comes to interpersonal relations. Sounds like Stiles makes up for that?” 

Derek grumbles but concedes the point. “Yeah. He, uh, speaks his mind a lot. And just speaks a lot, actually.” 

“Ooh, an opposites attract situation, I like it. That’s what you need without me and Cors to fill up all your silence.” 

“There’s nothing wrong with being quiet.” 

“Pft. Okay, second question. What does he look like?” 

“Peter hasn’t sent you a picture yet?” 

“Maybe yes, maybe no. I wanna hear your answer. Come on, pretend we’re back in high school, talking about cute boys. I heard you wax poetic about Eduardo in 11 th grade, gimme the good stuff.” 

Derek wrinkles his nose, but complies. “He’s — he’s beautiful, Laura.” 

“Beautiful?” 

Derek shrugs, even though she can’t see. “Yeah. He’s really pale, like, he’s got moonlight skin, and he’s got these moles —  all over, really, moles and freckles —  like reverse stars in a night sky. And his eyes, they’re this gorgeous honey-whiskey when the light catches them just right. They’re like an Old-Fashioned after a long week, perfect to drown your worries in. But so, so mischievous at the same time. They’ve always got a hint of a trick just hidden away in the corner.  Just looking at him makes me feel like I’ve been pulled into a joke I haven’t heard, and then when he smiles — when he smiles it’s like I know he wants me in on it, like he was telling it just for me.” He pauses, then smirks at the silence coming through the phone. “There, poetic enough for you?” 

“Jesus Christ,” Laura breathes . “God, you really are gone on him, aren’t you?” 

Derek can’t help but answer truthfully. “Yeah. And hey, would you look at that, I think that’s three questions.” 

“That doesn’t count, no way.” 

“And you asked me some clarifiers earlier. You’re definitely out.” 

“And to think you tried to say you weren’t clever and manipulative earlier,” Laura accuses, but her tone is fond.  

Derek laughs and she joins in with him after a moment. 

Around him, Seattle pedestrians are making their way home after work, most shrugged into fall jackets, though some are clinging to the pretense of warmth that the watery September setting sun gives them. In the distance, he can just make out Peter heading back his way. “I hope you’re satisfied with what you got,” Derek says. “I’m gonna need to go soon.” 

“Hardly, but I suppose I’ll take it,” Laura sniffs. “But hey, before you go — you are okay, right?” 

He frowns at her serious tone and takes a moment to consider how he feels. “Yeah, I am.” In no small part to their conversation, but he’s not going to tell her that. She doesn’t need the ego boost. 

“Are you sure?” 

He glances up at the building behind him. Losing the Romeros as a potential resource is beyond unfortunate, but they’ve solved cases with less. They can do this. “Yeah. Better now.” 

“Good,” she says, and over the hint of smugness in her voice, he can hear just how genuinely glad she is. 

He smiles, and they say their goodbyes. 

He slips his phone into his pocket and heads to where the SUV is parked on the curb. He’ll start the car and get the heater on — maybe it’ll be one less irritation for Peter to complain about when they start driving. 

He’s wrong, of course. Peter, as it turns out, wants the air conditioning on in the car, and is peeved that his imbecile of a nephew could have thought he’d want anything else. 

“I didn’t realize that Chris gave you permission to put up an evidence wall.” 

Stiles startles up from where he’s lying on the ground of the office in Hamilton. It’s dark outside — when did that happen? “You’re back!” 

“I also didn’t realize I would be greeted so exuberantly,” Peter says as he walks in. 

“You’re not. It’s just what your presence signals.” Stiles stands and pushes past him to find Derek entering just behind his uncle. “I thought you were going to text when you were almost in?” 

Derek steps towards him, expression bemused. “When was the last time you checked your phone?” 

“Recently.” Stiles pats at his pocket, then glances around. “Or maybe not, I don’t know. I’ve been kinda in the zone.” He winces apologetically at Derek, who rolls his eyes, but leans down to kiss him anyway. 

“Clearly…” Peter drawls. “Again, Chris okayed this?”   

“Chris? What Chris?” Stiles widens his eyes dramatically, turning his head from left to right to look around the small room. “Do you see him anywhere? I don’t. Although maybe you’ve got some kind of weird connection to him. Which reminds me, I was meaning to ask, are you and he—” 

“— coordinating about any Hunter families you both know about?” Derek clamps a firm hand around Stiles’ elbow, and Stiles frowns. That’s definitely not what he was going to ask. 

“Didn’t they mention that yesterday?” 

“Did they?” Derek says through gritted teeth. “I must have forgotten.” 

“Yeah, it was a disappointingly short list,” Stiles says. “I put all the names up on the wall anyways, and Chris has sent me a few others today.” He points at them. 

“Well. That’s good then.” 

Stiles looks at him. “Right…It’s good that the team is talking, sharing information. And possibly sharing other things, like saliva—” Derek’s grip tightens, and he glares down at him. “Oh. We’re not talking about that, because awkward.” 

Peter looks between them. “I’ll attribute your strangeness to the late hour.” He shakes his head. “Have you found anything?” 

Stiles gestures at the mess around them. “See for yourself.” 

As Peter walks towards one of the walls, face intent, Stiles looks up at Derek. “Sorry,” he mouths.   

Derek rolls his eyes again, then visibly switches topics. “You know you’re going to have to take all of this down when we leave town.” 

“That’s assuming we ever do.” 

“Don’t be impatient. You know cases like this take time.” 

“There’s only so many times a guy can try to talk to the same seven ghosts without losing his freaking mind, Sweet Cheeks.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Stiles reaches up to grasp at said cheeks. “But they’re so —” He pets at them. “Okay to be fair, Sweet Cheeks evokes the idea of something cuddly and soft, and this stubble is about as far away from that as you could get, but don’t worry, I’ll workshop it.” 

“I’d rather you wouldn’t.” Derek moves his face out of Stiles’ hands  — rude— to look to the wall and asks, “Have you put anything together?” 

Stiles shakes his head. “Not really. But I’m thinking it might be worth it to focus in on the people that were left behind in each instance.” 

Derek glances at the photo of Nick Price, then over to the photo of Seth Miller, who died a month after his family, then to the photos of the missing Hooper cousins, Sara and Jeremiah. “All the teenagers.” 

“But that’s the thing —  not all the teenagers survived from each family, just one or two. There were always more in the family.” Stiles points to the cluster of evidence for the first arson case. “Seth wasn’t the only teenager in his family. He had a 17-year-old sister. And three teenagers died at the compound the Hoopers lived on in Utah.” That had been the biggest body count, with 14 deaths ranging from three to 94 years old. “I know the Romeros refused to talk to you, but —”

Peter interrupts, turning from the wall he’d been studying. “Those ill-mannered, useless Romeros, unable to see reason and unwilling to help. It’s been many years since someone has slammed the door in my face.”

“I kind of find that hard to believe,” Stiles mutters. 

Peter sneers at him but steps beside them anyway. “Utterly useless.” 

“They did lose their entire pack less than a year ago,” Stiles points out. “And you said it looked like they’ve been living on their own — no evidence that they’ve become part of another pack? Makes sense they’d be defensive, wary of other weres.” 

“I so dislike the use of logic to excuse rudeness.” 

“They were scared, Peter,” Derek says softly. 

“Yes, well,” Peter says shortly, but his scowl loosens a little.  

Derek’s eyebrows tilt in a way Stiles has come to recognize as compassion. “Their fear was bitter — I could hardly smell anything else.” 

“But could you?” Stiles asks. When they both look at him, he adds, “Smell anything else, I mean. Danny said they moved in there as soon as they got to Seattle half a year ago. Do scents, I dunno, linger? Is there some kind of pattern or dominating, uh, tone?” 

Peter’s lips thin as he considers the question. “Fear was dominant. But there was anger, too, and grief, of course. And maybe — guilt, from one of them?” 

Derek nods. “Yeah, nothing positive. Frustration?” 

Stiles thinks over those for a moment, but only one sticks out to him as even slightly unexpected. “Guilt? For what?” 

Peter shrugs. “I couldn’t tell you. Survivor’s guilt? Feeling bad because they should have been willing to help us?” 

“Survivor’s guilt would make sense.” Stiles looks at the pictures of the Romeros, the survivors’ photos set apart from the rest of the family. It’s their school photos from the last year they were in the small town of Concrete, Washington. Both boys were smiling. A few inches away is the school photo of their youngest brother. He was only eight at the time of the fire, and had Carlos’ smile, but styled his hair like Casey’s. “That would be really hard.” 

“But what if —” Derek starts, then pauses. 

“What if what, nephew?” Peter asks. 

“What if it was a different kind of guilt?” Derek walks over to stand in front of Nick Price’s picture. “When we interviewed Nick, he smelled guilty too.” 

“When?” Peter asks. “About what?” 

Derek runs a hand over his scruff. “When he was lying about recognizing the arsonist.” 

Stiles scrambles forward to his side, scanning the wall until he reaches the transcription of Nick’s interview and the coded notes Derek had added. He reads through them quickly, then says, “Nick lied about recognizing the arsonist, not being able to see them, and when you asked if they were close to the house.” 

Derek nods, frowning. “So why would he lie? What is he hiding?”  

“Who,” Peter corrects . “Who is he hiding?” 

“It doesn’t make sense,” Stiles says. “Nick was the first survivor that told the police he saw someone there — he’s the reason this case was even passed to us in the first place. Why would he tell the police that, then turn around and hide the fact that he knew who it was?” 

“He could have been threatened,” Derek suggests. “Arsonist came back, told him to keep quiet or they’d kill him too.” 

“Or perhaps he helped them and didn’t want to get in trouble himself.” 

Stiles whips to face Peter. “That’s harsh, even for you.” 

Peter shrugs. “He’s a 15-year-old; they’re hardwired to think about themselves first. Most of their anterior insular and prefrontal cortexes aren’t developed enough for more empathy and caution.” 

“I could buy it if it was just one of them,” Stiles allows, “but not if this theory tracks for the survivors of all four fires.”

Derek looks at him. “You’re thinking they all saw, and all recognized the arsonist?” 

“Getting in close to the family would be dangerous, especially to repeat multiple times,” Peter remarks. 

“But that fits the unsub’s profile, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks. “Based on what you found at the Price’s house, we established that they stayed to watch the fire — they relish in their success. They’re narcissistic; they want to feel the glory of their accomplishments. They’re hateful and ‘mission’ oriented — they don’t believe that werewolves are human and probably believe they should all be killed.” 

“So they want it to hurt,” Derek concludes. “As much as possible.” 

Stiles nods. “They’re willing to take the riskier routes if they know it will hurt the most.” 

“Hunters,” Peter says with derision. His gaze is cold and calculating. “So the arsonist possibly got close to each of the families. They made themselves someone trustworthy. Someone friendly. Someone the family wouldn’t question.” 

“Or that at least one person wouldn’t question,” Derek amends. They all stare at Nick’s picture. “It’s a shame Nick’s new Alpha refused to work with us, too. If we just had one survivor that would, or could, talk to us —” 

“But maybe we do. If I can get to Idaho.” 

Both Peter and Derek look at Stiles. “What?” 

He’s not sure which Hale asks the question, his mind spinning away from the present. Traveling between states. Nearby packs. He traces the path between Hamilton and Idaho City, where the first pack was murdered. 300 miles of wilderness and four years of tragedy separate the towns. “Four years,” he murmurs. 

Idaho City is surrounded by the Boise National Forest. Somewhere in there, Seth Miller ran away, tried to live on his own in the wake of his family’s murder. He died, torn up, just over a month later, his body discovered by the local sheriff’s department. It’s been four years — that’s long enough that Stiles should be able to get real details out of his ghost. The Romeros refuse to talk, Nick Price is out of their reach, and the Hooper cousins are in the wind. Meanwhile, Seth’s corpse is four years buried in the Idaho City Cemetery. He’s not going anywhere. 

“How long is the drive?” Stiles asks. He looks at the photo of Seth, then runs his finger along the red string that connects him to Nick Price. “Five hours? We could get there by morning.” 

“You want to talk to Seth’s ghost,” Derek says. It’s not a question. 

Guilty kids can lie, can hide away, but ghosts, who share their final thoughts and words with Stiles? Ghosts, who can’t help but air their unfinished business with their friendly neighborhood necromancer? Stiles nods, turning around to face them both. “Let’s go find out what he felt guilty about.” 

Disappointingly, Derek manages to convince Stiles that they don’t need to immediately rush off to Idaho City. Something something, already driven eight hours that day, something something, Stiles needs to sleep too, health, responsibility, and ghosts that aren’t going anywhere, whatever. 

Less disappointing are the handjobs Stiles manages to convince Derek to exchange before they pass out for the night. 

“Did you call your dad again while Peter and I were gone?” 

Stiles pauses on his way back from the bathroom. “Weird conversation to start right now, but here’s the hand towel to wipe your come off anyways.” Derek huffs a laugh, catching the damp towel when Stiles throws it. Stiles picks his boxer briefs up from where he dropped them on the floor, slipping them over his hips before sliding into bed next to Derek. “I mean, I did, but why’d you ask?” 

Derek tosses the dirty towel to the ground and then reaches for his own briefs that are balled up at the end of the bed in his jeans. “Just wondering. Talked to Laura earlier. It was… nice.” 

Stiles watches him as he pulls his briefs on. He’ll never get tired of this. He leans over, pressing a soft kiss to Derek’s shoulder, just because he can. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” Derek gives him a small smile. “I was kinda in a funk before she called.” 

Stiles feels himself warm, a smile of his own breaking across his face. “I’m glad she did, then. Man, all I’ve heard about her is how she made your life miserable growing up, but that’s not all, is it?” 

Derek reaches out to turn off the lamp on the bedside table. “No. She’s a good sister. They both are. Little shits, absolutely, but they care.” 

“You know, I bet you could describe me the same way.” 

Derek’s voice is exasperated in the dark. “Which is why I’m dreading when you meet them.” 

Stiles chuckles, rolling closer. He slings an arm across Derek’s chest, nosing forward until he finds his cheek in the darkness. He rubs his face against Derek’s stubble for a moment, then smacks a kiss there. “No, you’re not.” 

Derek shifts until their lips meet. “No, I’m not.” 

Chapter Text

ONE WEEK AGO

The unfortunate thing about this pack is that they’re not all family. Most of them are, which is convenient: the majority live on a single, large plot of land near the outskirts of town. She hasn’t been by yet; the road that leads to the house is conspicuously out of the way, so she won’t risk a trip down it until later. 

The Alpha of this pack is greedy. He’s picked up new betas in the past several years,  two innocents turned into monsters. Two young men in their mid-twenties, the mother of one of them joining the pack by proxy. She wonders if they had a choice. The mother is a nurse; maybe the Alpha turned her son because the pack needed one. Maybe he wanted the boys for some reason. Regardless, it’s despicable, is what it is. 

She laughs to herself as she waits in the parking lot across the street from the clinic where one of the young men works. She’s disgusted by the Alpha turning innocent humans, spreading his plague, but to be honest, the animals do that when they breed, too. It’s why they should all be put down; it’s in their nature to perpetuate their disease however they can.

She checks her files while waiting, thinking about what she’s observed over the past week. The mother and son haven’t moved in with the pack yet, although the other young man has. They still go over frequently, though. She’s got trackers on most of the pack’s cars, which should have gathered enough data for her to discern a pattern soon. 

A minute later, the door to the clinic opens, and her current target walks out. He’s the fourth pack member she’s spent the better part of a day tracking. He might not be her in with the pack, but knowing his habits might end up useful for her. He’s on the phone, speaking loudly without a care in the world. 

“Yeah, Mom, I won’t forget, don’t worry.” He juggles his phone between his shoulder and his hand as he slips a helmet on over his hair. “Come on, that was once! I’m not gonna do it again. Fine. Fine — I promise I’ll get the gifts for them this weekend, even if the party isn’t for a whole month.”  

She narrows her eyes, watching him swing a leg over the seat of the motorcycle. A party? It pings something in her mind and she shuffles through the folders in the foot of the car before pulling one up and flipping it open. 

Twins, Carmen and Leo. They turn seven the second week of October. 

“You’re being ridiculous. I’m an adult! I’m capable of — ha, okay. Fine, fine. I’ll even drop by your house so you can approve it. I gotta go, getting on the bike now. See you after your shift!” 

He hangs up and slips the phone into his jacket pocket. He turns the motorcycle on with a roar and does a cursory check for pedestrians before speeding off. 

She watches him go and lets the night go still around her. 

Birthdays are… convenient. She loves a good family gathering. It’s like shooting fish in a barrel. 

A month might be a quick turnover, but she’s always up for a challenge. 

NOW 

“Why?” 

“Goodnight, honey.”

“On your right — no, your other right, shit —” 

“I told you this is what you should expect. Mama always knows best.” 

“I just wish I had seen her one last time.” 

“It hurts, oh god, it hurts!”  

Tall pine trees stretch up towards the sky in every direction. It’s almost three in the afternoon, and the sunlight is weak as it beats down on the cemetery. Most of the plots here are held by the long-gone dead; spectral forms in Civil War regalia drift up through the ground, and the ghost of a postmaster’s wife picks the dredges of summer weeds at the base of the wrought-iron cross she’s been tethered to since 1843. The northeast corner is new: gravestones are yet to moss over, and most of the dead were buried recently enough that they still have relatives in the area who visit to leave flowers and trinkets. 

This is not the case for the Miller plot. 

The Miller Pack’s death is marked by a single obelisk. It reads the names of all ten people who died in the fire. Seth’s name is chiseled in at the end of the list, added, as Stiles knows, barely a month after the death of the rest of his family. 

“Are they all there?” Derek’s voice breaks through his thoughts. Stiles inhales as his voice cuts in. It’s real, clear, and loud enough to drown out the wind through the trees and the groaning, whispering, crying cacophony of restless voices. The clamor fades, muting into a background murmur.  

Derek and Stiles dropped Peter off at the county sheriff’s office a town over — up here Boise National Forest, one department covers all of the municipalities for 25 square miles. They’ll see what they can get from Seth’s ghost while Peter digs through any physical evidence that the sheriff’s department may have not passed on to the FBI when the case went federal. 

Stiles shifts, eyes flicking at the forms that float around the Miller obelisk. “I think so.” 

“Do you see Seth?” 

Stiles nods. 

Seth’s ghost is hanging back from the rest of his pack. It’s not anything to do with guilt or shame; ghosts as fresh as the Millers, less than five years gone, don’t interact with each other or their surroundings in the same way that older ghosts can. Seth’s actions and body language are simply mirroring what he did and how he felt in the moments before he died. He’s alternatively cowering, his head down, occasionally shaking from side to side, and snapping his teeth, golden eyes flashing as his clawed hands run up and down his arms. His clothes are tattered: boots that were once ready for hard labor or a long day of hiking are worn through, and his pants and shirt are torn at the edges, stained and dirty. 

As Stiles watches, a slash appears across Seth’s chest, followed by two more in quick succession. Phantom blood wells out of the slashes. He stumbles backward, tripping over something Stiles can’t see before falling. One hand comes up in front of his face before slowly lowering as he stares at his death. He nods, and then the corners of his mouth tick upwards. He bares his throat. 

His ghost flashes forward, and starts the cycle anew. 

“He knew he was going to die,” Stiles says slowly. “And he welcomed it.” 

“What?” 

Stiles glances at Derek. “He was fighting someone, but right at the end, when he was down — he nodded, like he was agreeing, and it was like he almost smiled, and—” Stiles narrows his eyes as he watches it play out again, “— he bared his throat at whoever was attacking him.” 

Derek meets his gaze and Stiles can tell he’s thinking the same thing: another werewolf. A pity murder, perhaps, or something more necessary. Seth was out on his own for nearly a month after the murder of his entire pack, if the reports from the county coroner are correct. Who knows what he got up to on his own? Who knows how sane he was in the last moments of his life? 

They talked about it on the drive down this morning. Wolves without packs can go feral. They don’t always, and the majority don’t ever, unlike what Peter said Hunters seem to believe, but the right circumstances can push a lone wolf — an omega — into a state where they lose touch with their own humanity. They give into their base emotions, letting their wolf rule, surrendering to nature’s base instincts of fight, flight, and feed. 

And if losing one’s entire family — and possibly being, or at least feeling, responsible for it — doesn’t qualify as the right circumstances, Stiles doesn’t know what would. 

“Is he saying anything?” Derek asks. 

“Haven’t listened in yet,” Stiles answers. “It’s like a freaking middle school cafeteria in here right now.” The problem isn’t that he can’t hear Seth; it’s that he can hear everyone.  

“Lemme just —” He strides forward, stepping clean through the ghosts of two Miller pack members. He steps directly into what would be Seth’s personal space, if that was a thing ghosts had. “Lemme just focus.” 

He closes his eyes and tries to tune out all of the voices that don’t belong to Seth. He pushes down a conversation between two children, an exchange of Goodnights and Sweet dreams and mutual excitement about the next day. He pushes down the cries of a woman — the Miller’s mother, maybe — who is wailing about her family, apologizing for failing them. He pushes down the tortured screaming that he’s beginning, unfortunately, to recognize as unique to someone who dies by fire. 

“Get away — get away from me! I’ll kill you, I’ve done it before, I —” 

There. 

Seth’s voice is rough, breaking on exhaustion and puberty alike. It shakes even as he shouts. Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to hear his fear. 

Stiles opens his eyes. 

Seth’s ghost has his teeth bared, looking up from where he’s poised in a defensive crouch. His hands run down his arms and his eyes flash as he spits , “Not a lie, I’ve done it, I’ll do it, I did it to my family.” He jerks his head quickly . “No, no, you don’t understand, it was my fault, my fault, my —” He makes an aborted movement and Stiles can’t tell if he’s falling forward or lunging to attack. Either way, immediately after, the first slash opens across his chest and he’s halted mid-step.  

The gasp he makes is choked and his eyes flicker gold again before a second and third blow rip open his shirt and skin and he stumbles backward . “She — she lied, it was me. My fault.” 

“He blames himself,” Stiles murmurs. 

Seth falls down, landing hard on his back and forearms . “Please,” he groans , “Please kill me.” 

Stiles stands directly above Seth. From this angle, it’s as though Seth is looking straight at him when he says, in a mix of his final words and thoughts , “Ms. Allard, she said she loved me, and then she killed them. I killed them. I helped her — she — please. Kill me, please.” His eyes are wide, tears welling at the corners as blood seeps through his shirt. 

“A Ms. Allard.” Stiles breaks eye contact with Seth’s ghost to glance at Derek, who nods and pulls out his phone. 

“Yes, yes, I didn’t want to, I didn’t mean to, I’m sorry, I — yes, thank you, thank you,” Seth is saying when Stiles looks back at him. The gratitude in his eyes sends a sick roll through Stiles’ stomach. 

It only worsens as Seth’s lips quaver up into the barest hint of a smile before his eyes slip closed and he turns his head to one side, neck exposed. 

Stiles half-shuts his eyes preemptively, but he’s spared the worst of the final moment of Seth’s life, his ghost flickering away before the fatal blow slashes across his throat.  

He listens through Seth’s final thoughts and words two more times, jotting them down in a notebook. When he finishes, Derek is frowning down at his phone. 

“Peter find anything on an Allard?” 

“Not yet,” Derek says, “but they don’t have school records at the county office, not for the Idaho City middle and high school.” 

“We can check it out on the way over.” 

Derek nods. “Do you need anything else here? Think any of the other ghosts might know anything?” 

Stiles shrugs. “I’ll listen in.” 

“Sweet dreams!” 

“No, you have sweet dreams!” 

“We can both have sweet dreams!” 

“I’m so sorry — I tried, I tried — please —” 

“It hurts, oh god, it hurts!” 

“Did he make it home? Did he — Seth — he’s not here, he’s not home, he’s safe — I hope he’s— the window’s still open — Why can’t I get out —” 

Stiles cocks his head. 

It’s coming from a teenage girl — Seth’s older sister, he remembers. Seventeen. Kayla. Her ghost stumbles a few feet, leaning up against something, maybe a wall, before she kneels. “— still open.” She leans forward, her hands banging against something invisible. She turns her head back over her shoulder, then coughs . “Why can’t I get out?” she asks before slipping down to the ground.  

Stiles watches her movements play through again, then says, “His sister knew he was gone. She died next to an open window, talking about how she couldn’t get out.” 

“Mountain ash again,” Derek says, and Stiles nods. That’s probable.

“I think Seth snuck out, and his sister knew.  Maybe she covered for him, or at least knew that sneaking out was something he did. She came over to his room to see if he was there, and he wasn’t.” 

“To meet someone?” 

Stiles grimaces. “To meet the Hunter, maybe?” 

“You think he was, what, seeing the Hunter?” 

Stiles thinks back over Seth’s words and thoughts. He can feel his frown deepen. “He said he thought she loved him.” 

Derek’s expression mirrors the sick feeling in Stiles’ stomach. “Are you thinking…” he trails off. 

Stiles turns away, only to catch Seth’s final moment again. That flicker of a smile, that gratitude for death— that guilt. If there was a survivor from each of the fires who felt like this… He jerks his head away, but there’s the two youngest kids, three and four, their ghosts horizontal as they giggle and agree that fine, they can both have sweet dreams. 

Stiles’ breath hitches in his throat, and he stumbles backward. “What am I thinking? I’m thinking—” 

Kayla leans up against an invisible wall an inch away from Stiles’ face . “— not home, he’s safe, I hope he’s —” 

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut. “— I’m thinking that our arsonist is even more of a sick fucker than we thought.” 

“It hurts, oh god, it hurts!” 

 “That she’s seducing fucking teenage pack members so she can get close and find out what she needs before torching their families alive.” 

“Kill me, please.” 

 Stiles backs up further, colliding with and pushing past a tombstone. Shivers race down his spine even as a furious heat boils in his chest. “That she’s making sure her victims survive so that they suffer.” 

“Please.”

 “That she’s getting fucking joy from making these — these children feel guilt about their family’s deaths. That’s — that’s what I’m fucking thinking right now.” He finally stops when his back hits the iron of the fence. His hands are tingling and he clutches at the iron bars on either side of him.

“You’re shouting, Stiles,” Derek says. He’s moved closer, followed him across the graveyard, and his eyes are concerned. 

“Of course I fucking am,” Stiles says. “Because that kid—” he shoots his arm out to point at Seth’s ghost, “was happy to die. And because when he did, he thought he killed his family.” 

“Yeah,” Derek says softly. 

“And that’s just — Derek, that’s so fucked up.” 

“It is.” 

“And I — shit.” Stiles shakes his head. “I can’t. We need to get this, this monster. We can’t let that happen to anyone else.” 

“We will.” Derek takes the final step to come up to him, and Stiles lets him fold his arms around his shoulders. Stiles tilts his head down, dropping his forehead into the crook of Derek’s neck. He breathes out against his collarbone while Derek’s strong arms tighten around him, grounding him, steadying him. There’s a tiny prick of claws at Stiles’ waist, a hint of loss of control that belies the calm Derek’s trying to provide. “We will,” Derek repeats. “We will.” 

They have to. 

The drive back to Hamilton the next day is a somber one. 

Camille Allard was a French teacher who supposedly died over the summer, some six months after the Miller family was killed. Her obituary was brief, barely a full paragraph in the July edition of the local paper. Peter had been able to find her death certificate, though no autopsy had been performed due to her ‘obvious’ demise by car accident. They left the Boise County sheriff’s department with directives to examine any missing person’s cases for women who fit Allard’s body type. They wouldn’t put it past the Hunter to kill an innocent person in order to fake her own death.

Chris and Lydia are flying back to Hamilton and will meet them at the police station in the morning, while Danny stays in DC. Chris is bringing a consolidated list of potential Hunters, and Lydia’s working on an algorithm to determine where the arsonist might strike next. 

Stiles is passed out in the backseat. Even after a night at the bed and breakfast in Idaho City, he’s still mentally and magically exhausted. They had revisited the cemetery with Peter where he performed a spell to make both Seth and his sister’s ghosts visible so that Derek and Peter could check for any clues. They spent hours that night going through all of the records held at the county sheriff’s office, which is where they found Allard’s record of death. Before they left town this morning they were able to stop by the school. There were no photos of Allard on file — they suspect the arsonist was either incredibly careful about missing picture day and avoiding events where she might be photographed, or else was able to hack into the system to remove photographic evidence of her time there. 

They are leaving with a description of her, though, which they’ve passed on to Chris. He was able to cross reference her details — tall (for a woman, close to Peter’s height, the principal guessed, so at least 5’9). Pretty and young (just a year of teaching experience under her belt, but they can’t be picky in rural areas like this, you know). Well-liked by the students (those young ones always are, they’ve got the near-peer experience so they can relate to the teens, her classroom neighbor told them). Excellent at her job (spoke French and Spanish like she was European, you’d never have guessed she was from Connecticut until she told you, the principal recalled in awe). 

“Oh sure,” her neighbor told them, “Camille was great! It was terrible what happened to her. Mountain roads can be tough to adjust to for city folk. I’m just glad it was during the summer. The students would’ve taken that so hard during the year, especially after the Millers.” 

“I think she could’ve taught all the languages, if we offered more than French and Spanish! I had a bit of a crush on her, if I’m honest,” another teacher recalled. He shook his head. “I think about half the staff did, and probably a good bit of the students, too.” 

“Camille had a real… presence,” the principal said after handing over her employee file. “Could just command an entire room. I remember her interview— there I was, fifteen years of teaching and another ten of administration, and in walks this young, feisty, fresh-out-of-college teacher, shook my hand like she was in charge. It wasn’t five minutes before she had the entire interview panel convinced she was the one for the job.” 

They have to disregard many of the more superficial descriptors—  her hair color, her makeup, her choice of attire — as all could be easily changed to suit her character’s persona. They’re pretty sure that descriptions of her personality are accurate, however: they fit the profile they’re developing for her. She’s confident and self-assured, a mission-oriented killer who is self-righteous in her belief that she’s doing the right thing. It’s unlikely that she won’t take that confidence into every role she plays. 

“I got an interesting text message today.” 

Derek glances away from the road, tearing his mind away from the unsub, to look at his uncle in the passenger seat. Peter’s scent is doused in amusement. Derek lifts an eyebrow.

“Unexpected, too, but quite enjoyable. Netted me a rather entertaining distraction from the trials and tribulations of the day.” 

Derek resists the urge to roll his eyes. He also resists prompting Peter further. That would just be giving into what he wants. 

There are twenty seconds of silence. Trees rush passed the car’s windows. 

Peter huffs and his scent turns from exasperated to vindictive and pleased in a half second before he says, “I told Cora you’ve reached the fifth stage in courting and that she should expect you to offer him a mating bite at solstice.” 

Derek’s claws pierce through the steering wheel as he chokes. “You what?” He glances quickly at Stiles, then spares a second to be grateful that Stiles sleeps like the dead. Then he spares another to be thankful he had that thought now, instead of accidentally saying it aloud when Stiles could hear, latch onto the pun, and crow about it for the foreseeable future. He shakes his head and tempers the volume of his voice. “That’s not even — Peter, what the hell do you mean , fifth stage, and — fuck — mating bites.”  

Peter grins smugly at him. “Do you not recognize the signs yourself?” 

“The signs? What signs? What stages?” 

Peter clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth. “Ah, my sister is wonderful, but how she has failed you all. To be in your thirties and not know the traditional stages of courting your potential mate; to not even recognize that you’ve fallen into them. I’d hoped that I was wrong in my assumption of your ignorance, truly, I did.” 

Derek glances over at him, then back to the road. “You’re bullshitting me. Werewolf courting is not a thing. Cora — when she talked to me — she was just joking. That’s not. Not a thing.” He glances back over in time to catch Peter’s shrug. 

“It’s a sad day indeed. What kind of future awaits our pack? Perhaps it’s just you who is so ill-informed, away in New York for so long. Your sisters surely know more than you.” 

“You’re lying,” Derek tries. “You’ve got to be.” 

“Poor Stiles; he could be the recipient of such lovely , proper courting gifts, as he deserves, when instead —” Peter breaks off, shaking his head. “But it is what it is, I suppose. Hopefully you’ll at least ask your mother about the proper way to perform the mating bite.” 

The problem with Peter — well, one of the problems — is that he’s an amazing liar. He’s got it down to an art, obfuscating the truth, avoiding outright lies, training his heartbeat to do the work for him. Derek knows this, logically, knows that Peter’s good at what he does, and that he delights in nothing more than making Derek panic, but all the same, Derek can’t help the way his breath squeezes in his throat as his eyes flash and he grits out a half-formed, “It’s only been six months.” 

Peter grins. “But it will have been nine by Solstice. That’s plenty of time for a bond such as yours, don’t you think?” 

Derek loves Stiles, even if he’s never said as much out loud. He loves everything about who he is, from his irreverence to his skill as a profiler to the way he looks when he wakes up next to Derek in the mornings. Derek loves his passion, and how he has so much of it for everything — for his job, his friends, for the most obscure of topics, for Derek’s body in (and out of) the bedroom. And Peter isn’t wrong: the bond they have is strong, stronger than any Derek has ever formed with a partner before, stronger than he’s likely to with anyone else again. But still, “He hasn’t even met my Alpha.” 

“Like you’d let that change your mind about him,” Peter says drily, which, again, he’s not wrong. “Besides, time was, a pair could meet at a Solstice celebration, receive their Alphas’ approval, and mate within a single day.” 

“Time was.” Derek scoffs. “What, in the 15th century?” 

Peter tsks as though that doesn’t matter. 

Derek shakes his head. “I don’t need you interfering with our relationship.” 

“I’m hardly interfering, merely responding to the questions of my beloved pack.” 

“I also don’t need you egging Cora on. Or Laura.” 

“So I shouldn’t have responded to her text asking for a picture of him?” 

“You didn’t.” 

“Didn’t I?” 

“Peter.” 

“If I sent one, it would have been a completely innocent one, I promise.” 

Derek narrows his eyes and picks through that for the lie. “You didn’t just send one, you sent multiple, didn’t you?” 

“I can neither confirm nor deny. I’m simply incapable. And while we’re speaking of things I’m incapable of, neither can I confirm nor deny that I took a picture of you when you decided to fall into absolutely all of the cliches at the bed and breakfast this morning and feed him a piece of waffle from your plate. Which, if you didn’t know, aligns perfectly with stage four.” 

“You didn’t.”

“Are you not listening? I said I can neither confirm nor deny.” 

If Stiles wasn’t in the backseat right now, Derek is pretty sure that he would be lunging across the center console right now, the cost of a totaled SUV and ensuing injuries be damned. 

Stiles wakes up when Derek pulls the SUV to a stop outside the Hamilton Police Station. It’s dark, the deep night of the Montana wilderness barely broken by the light coming from inside the station. Chris and Lydia landed a few hours ago and have promised to wait until Stiles and the Hales get back before heading to the hotel for the night. Danny is still at HQ where he has access to his computer-nerd lair. He probably won’t join them again until they’re in the same location as the unsub. 

Derek turns around to look at Stiles in the backseat. “You good?” 

Stiles stretches as he sits up, extending his arms to the side, and then forward. He gives Derek a small smile. “Thanks for letting me sleep.” 

“You needed it.” 

“I did.” 

“Yeah.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles echoes, still caught in that hazy, half-asleep state of mind. He can feel his grin widen dopily at the soft expression on Derek’s face. He stretches one of his arms just a little further forward so that his fingertips can sweep across Derek’s cheek. Derek turns into the movement, and his lips brush across Stiles’ palm in the barest suggestion of a kiss. 

Something sweet and soft and huge wells up in Stiles’ chest at the touch. It feels so big that it’s bound to burst out of him, overwhelming, all-encompassing, spreading from his chest and his palm to everywhere beyond and in between. It’s almost like when he does life force magic, only this is a magic that anyone can experience, if they’re lucky enough to find someone that matches them as well as Derek matches Stiles. 

Stiles runs a thumb through Derek’s stubble, smile growing as Derek tilts his head so Stiles can shift his hand down, drag his fingers along his strong neck. 

“Do you think I could convince Chris to give me hazard pay for when I have to travel with the both of you?” Peter interrupts, yanking open his door.  When they both look at him, he sighs dramatically. “Surely this assault on my eyes constitutes workplace harassment. Not to mention the chemosignals. This is chemical warfare, I’m convinced.” 

He slams the door behind him before either of them can respond, but Stiles catches the side of his self-satisfied grin through the windshield as he passes in front of the car. 

Stiles lets out a breath in a puff of a laugh, then meets Derek’s eyes. “If it’s war, I think we’re winning.” 

“He did just flee,” Derek agrees. 

“A not-so-tactical retreat.” Stiles smiles, then tips forward, pressing his lips to Derek’s. He leans into it, catching Derek’s bottom lip with both of his, tugging slightly. He can feel as Derek’s lips curve into a smile before he breaks away, only to rub his cheek against Stiles’. What a wolf, is Stiles’ guy. The scratch of stubble is rough and familiar. When they finally pull away, Derek’s got a pleased expression on his face that Stiles knows is mirrored on his own. Holding gazes with Derek is steadying, grounding. That huge feeling tempers into something that hums under his skin, warm and comforting. 

Everyday magic. 

After a moment, Stiles nods and sits back. “Ready?” 

Derek’s gaze flicks to the station, then back. “As I’ll ever be.” He turns back to face the front and turns the car off before getting out. 

Stiles clambers out of the car, pausing to stretch again before following Derek inside. 

They nod to the receptionist on shift and make their way back to the office. There are only two cops on duty in the bullpen, though the light is still on in the chief’s office. Stiles wonders if there’s a too-grown-up-for-his-age kid waiting for the chief at home, or if that’s just a habit held by his own father. 

Stiles can make out voices as they approach the office, and out of the corner of his eye he can see Derek frowning. Clearly Chris and Lydia haven’t been idly waiting by while they drove back. 

When they walk in, the projector is on with several pictures of the same woman shown on the screen. Peter hasn’t made it far into the room, his body tense as he stares between Chris and the projector. Lydia is sitting across from Chris with a laptop open, which is open to a video call with Danny. 

“— supposed to be in France,” Peter is saying. 

Stiles steps around him, eyes quickly tracking up and down to read his body language. The tight set of his shoulders and lips convey his anger while the positioning near the door shows his need for control and access to a quick exit. Chris, meanwhile, looks torn. He’s a stoic guy, but his facade is currently cracked; he’s weary, apologetic, and frustrated all at the same time. 

Chris puts his palms up helplessly. “The last time I heard from them was ten years ago. I’ve done everything I could to distance myself from them, you know that.”

A muscle twitches in Peter’s jaw. “You should’ve kept an eye on them. It was your responsibility. It doesn’t matter if you wanted to get away. You don’t have the luxury of closing your eyes to their atrocities, you don’t —” 

“I know,” Chris breaks in. “I know. You’re right.” 

As Peter’s fists clench at his sides, Stiles darts a look at Derek, and when he sees no clear answer there, at Lydia. “What’s going on?” he mouths. 

Lydia points one manicured finger at the projector, then at Chris, before grimacing meaningfully. 

Stiles’ brain turns that over. “Family?” he mouths, then “Sister?”  

Lydia nods. 

Shit. 

He makes his way over to the table, taking a seat next to Lydia gingerly. Derek steps closer to Peter, putting a hand on his arm. Peter jerks it away, but moves to the table anyway. 

Once they’re all seated, Stiles breaks the silence. “So…do we know it’s her? Or is she just one of the suspects? Is the band breaking up over speculation or fact?” 

Chris sends him a half-hearted glare, then sighs. “We don’t know for sure if it’s her — Kate, but it’s likely. Based on the profile you were able to pull on Camille Allard in Idaho City, she’s the closest match to any female Hunters that we’ve been able to find evidence of being active in the western half of the US in the past five years.” 

“Nothing concrete yet,” Lydia puts in. “It’s just very likely at this point.” 

“I haven’t been able to find any fingerprints yet,” Danny adds from the computer. It’s dark behind him; most people at HQ have gone home for the night. “Or photographs of her in any of the four towns where packs were attacked. I’ve got a program running on CCTV during the time frame for each, though you guys know footage isn’t going to be the best in most of those small towns, especially the further back it’s from. We do have her in each state within a two-month timeline for each arson though, in nearby bigger cities.” 

It’s almost damning enough. “Have you sent her photo off to the local PDs?” Stiles asks.

Danny nods. “Just an hour ago. Haven’t got anything back yet.” 

To be fair, it is the middle of the night. 

“And if it is her?” Derek asks. He’s sitting next to Peter, eyes flicking between him and Chris. The two of them are locked in on each other, a flurry of nonverbal communication conveyed through tiny changes in their expression. After a few more tense seconds, Peter’s eyebrows narrow and his mouth twists before he nods. Chris sits back with an inaudible sigh, his shoulders falling as pressure flows out of him. 

Peter looks over and meets Derek’s gaze. “Then we’ll find her.”

“And kill her?” Stiles puts in, then shrugs when everyone turns to look at him. “I’m just saying, that’s kind of the vibe I’m getting from everyone. Wouldn’t exactly be a travesty if she happened to get caught in the takedown crossfire. We can just…edit that out of the reports, fudge some of those details.” 

Lydia gives him a wry grin, tilting her head. “We’ll already be altering the files, after all.” At Chris’ questioning look, she levels him with an admonishing expression. “If it’s her we’re not reporting this back to HQ until we’ve got her.” 

“Of course not,” Danny chimes in. 

“You’d be pulled off the case,” Peter says slowly. “Conflict of interest.” 

“Can’t have that for our esteemed capítan,” Stiles points out. He mimes waxing on and off in the air a la Karate Kid. “We better get a’scrubbing.” 

Danny’s already nodding. “Yeah, don’t worry, this call is encrypted as always, and Lyds and I can figure out what to doctor once we’ve got her pinned down. ”   

Chris glances around the room. “You’re sure? You’re all — you’re all sure.” 

Stiles winks at him. “Man, you would not believe how good at making shit up Lydia and I are.” 

“As the person you’ve been reporting to for the past four years, that’s incredibly reassuring,” Chris says, but Stiles can read relief on his face. Chris swallows, then locks eyes with Peter again. “You’re all sure?” he repeats. 

Peter nods. “We trust you,” he says. 

A tentative smile graces Chris’ lips. “Thank you.” Peter smiles back. It’s completely and utterly genuine, not a trace of snark to be found. 

Stiles catches Derek’s gaze and raises his eyebrows, tilting his head towards them in question. 

Derek grimaces, then slowly nods. 

Stiles does his very best to keep himself from cackling. That would be inappropriate. Even he knows that. 

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and when he takes it out, there’s a message from Danny to him, Derek, and Lydia: ????? IF YOU TELL ME THAT’S NOT THE MOST OBVIOUS THING YOU’RE LYING  

Stiles can’t help but snort. 

Lydia kicks him under the table. 

At his yelp, Chris and Peter break their sappy staring contest — really, if Peter’s going to talk about chemosignal warfare, surely Derek has gotta be able to lodge some complaints of his own at this point — and Stiles finds all eyes on him again. “So,” he says, head lying flat on the table so that he can reach his shin to massage it, “let’s confirm that it’s this bitch and get crack-a-lackin’.” 

It’s mid-morning the next day when Lydia finally figures out the adjustments she needs to calculate the estimated location of the next arson. After a few minutes, she’s got everything worked through and into a presentation format. She’s standing at the front of the room with a map projected on the screen. She sighs irritably and directs a pointed look at Stiles, then at Derek.

Derek nudges Stiles’ head up from off his shoulder: he should really stop letting Stiles convince him to use their nights together for extracurriculars when it’s obvious how much he needs the sleep. Stiles frowns at him through slowly blinking eyes, but he takes a begrudging sip of his coffee and focuses in on Lydia. 

Each of the past arsons are circled in red, with lines drawn between that are used for triangulation. The four towns are only in the western half of the United States, and Lydia has explained how they all fall within several miles of a national forest, local preserve, or other similar large tract of forested land. 

“She hasn’t hit any states twice yet, and I doubt she’s going to anytime soon,” Lydia tells them. “There are too many remaining states that fit her parameters to start doubling up yet.” 

“And that is what kept her off our radar until recently,” Chris muses.

“Exactly. And prevented packs from making the connection as well, I assume?” Lydia directs this at Peter, who nods. 

She clicks a button and the map on the projector shifts, showing highlighted tracts of land in various states. “Based on the factors you gave me about preferred pack land, here are the areas that are most likely.” She gestures to the northwest. “Because of the patterns so far, my algorithm predicts that the most likely state she’ll hit next is Oregon.” 

“You’ve noted the towns with the usual population range?” Derek asks. 

Another button click, and dots appear over each town. Of course she’s on top of it. “The problem is that I don’t know which of these towns actually have packs in them. That’s where our connections will come in handy.” Lydia looks between him and Peter. “You’ve mentioned the Council before, and I believe you said there are Alphas responsible for certain regions? Are you able to get in contact with the Alpha that is in charge of this part of Oregon?” 

“Easily,” Peter says. “Seeing as she’s my sister and all.” 

Derek feels his heartbeat freeze. 

“I’m sorry, what?” Stiles says through a mouthful of coffee. He wipes his chin, then clears his throat and puts the mug down to look at Peter disbelievingly. “Your sister is the Alpha we need to talk to? What the hell is this case? We've got sisters everywhere. Is this a Lifetime drama?” 

“The supernatural network is unsurprisingly small,” Peter says dryly. “Besides, my sister is a powerful Alpha. She’s in charge of northern California, western Nevada, and all of Oregon. Can you expect anything less from a family that led to the likes of me?” He stands and tilts his nose up haughtily. “If you’ll excuse me, I have connections to make use of.” He leaves as Lydia sits down. 

Derek stares after him, then shakes his head to try and start processing. Maybe Peter’s right and he should try to remember more about what his mother used to teach him. How did he manage to forget that she had a role on the Council? 

“Thank you,” Chris tells Lydia a moment later, schooling his face after watching Peter leave. 

“First we’ve got a villain in the family, now we need important info from the other side of the family,” Stiles grumbles into his coffee. “If you weren’t a mathematical genius and your prowess unquestionable, I’d be calling coincidence. Correlation not implying causation and all that jazz.” 

“At least you’ve learned not to question your betters,” Lydia says. 

Stiles huffs, but doesn’t argue, his ramble draining him enough so that he slumps back against Derek.

Yeah, Derek should really be more on top of making sure he actually sleeps. What kind of mate is he going to be if he — and nope, he’s stopping that thought right there. He’s not gonna let Peter and his sisters get to him. 

While they wait for Peter to come back into the room, Derek opens his laptop and pulls up the files that Danny sent over from HQ earlier this morning. So far he’s gotten one positive hit on a camera outside a convenience store in Utah that shows Kate Argent in town during the same week as the Hooper arson. He also heard back from the police in Washington and Utah, confirming that someone who matched the photos they sent of Kate had definitely resided in their towns during the years of their respective arson cases. 

Chris took the confirmation of his sister’s role in the fires as stoically as could be expected — although five minutes later, the realization of his sister’s method of worming her way into the families was enough to send him out of the room to regroup. It was one thing to evaluate the evidence Stiles found at the graveyard from an outsider’s perspective, another entirely for him to face when he knew the perpetrator was the woman he once considered family. Peter had followed him from the room, and it was a half hour before the two of them returned, their emotions once again locked down and under control. 

This isn’t the first case they’ve worked on where an unsub used sex or underage manipulation to lure in their victims, but it never gets any easier. This case is starting to hit too close to home for all of them. 

After five minutes, the door opens again, and Peter enters with a chagrined look on his face. 

“Did you get names for the packs in the area?” Chris asks. 

“Not quite.” Peter glares sourly at his phone. “She refused to share what we need over the phone. Sensitive information, she claims.” 

“So we’re…” Stiles trails off. He’s more awake now, and his eyes widen as he connects the dots. “So you need to go visit in person?” 

“Is that really necessary?” Lydia asks. 

Derek snorts, already knowing the answer. Peter scoffs. “Not at all. That’s just the type of person she is.” 

Stiles blinks into full consciousness, and he looks back and forth between Peter and Derek. “Wait, okay, no. Wait. You’re the only one that needs to go, right? She wouldn’t hold this information hostage, would she? She knows this is important. She’s not — no.” 

Derek looks at his uncle, then back to Stiles. He sighs. “She is.” 

Peter smirks. “You’re not getting out of it, unfortunately.” 

“But I — I’m supposed to have three more months! This isn’t fair — it’s too early. I am not prepared for this.” 

“Alpha’s orders,” Peter says. 

Stiles turns frantic eyes on Derek, clutching at his arm. “We had plans for this! Three months! Solstice! Both families at once, mutual biting of bullets, come on.” 

“Trust me, I’m not looking forward to this any more than you are.” 

From the corner of his eye, he sees Chris turn an inquisitive face towards Peter. Peter’s smirk grows as he takes a seat next to Chris. “It seems it’s time for Stiles to meet the family.” 

Across the table, Lydia grins. “If they’re taking the jet, we might as well all go.” 

“No sense in anyone missing the show,” Peter confirms. 

“I hate everything,” Stiles groans. 

Derek doesn’t disagree. 

Chapter Text

TODAY

It’s almost four in the afternoon when Michael Medina rolls to a stop in front of the aquatic center. He’s driving his parents’ old hatchback. It’s tacky, a family car, rusted and dented and a complete lie — Kate knows what their financial records look like, and they can afford so much more than this front they put up for the people of this town. 

He’s here to pick up his younger siblings. Two of them, twins, as these animals so often produce. She’s set her schedule so that she’s on the front desk and pick up line for when he comes to get them after school three times a week. She’ll be inside when he has his own school swim practice there in the mornings, too. 

The first time she did this, back in Idaho, choosing the welp was more happenstance than a plan. He was convenient — the first of the pack to talk to her, and he’d fallen so, so quickly for the flash of a pretty smile. Getting into his school with a forged background was a piece of cake. And after that, it was just so simple. And the strategy hasn’t failed her since. 

Kate taps on the glass of the passenger door, and the kid startles, nearly dropping his phone into his lap. After a moment of scrambling, he rolls the window down. His face flushes, pink highlighting the tips of his cheekbones. 

“Hi there,” she says. She leans against the sill, tracking how his eyes move down, and then snap back to her face. “Are you here for lessons?” 

He shakes his head as his blush spreads. “No, uh — I’m picking up my brother and sister.” 

She smiles. “Mom and Dad making you do their job for them?” 

He smiles back reflexively. “I don’t — I don’t mind too much.” 

“Aw, what a good big brother you are.” She straightens and lifts her clipboard. “Who are you here for?” 

“Carmen and Leo.”

“Ah, the Under-7’s. Looks like their class is almost over. Bummer, I’m not taking over their class until later this week.” 

“Oh,” he says. She waits him out, lets him struggle over his words for a moment. “Are you — are you new here? I recognize most of the instructors; most of them have been here since I was learning.” 

She lets her eyes flick to his arms, then slowly across his chest. “I should’ve known you were a swimmer.” She smiles as he flushes. The hint of a compliment, the flick of a gaze; so easily are her targets’ egos stroked. “But yes, I am, thanks for noticing. I just moved here last month. I’m Kelly.” 

He grins at her, a little nervous, a little flattered, and exactly where she wants him. “Nice to meet you. I’m Michael.” 

“Let me assure you — the pleasure’s all mine.” 

Kate never set out to seduce teenagers. But there’s no easier way to get the information she needs, and as long as her dad never finds out exactly what she does to keep her success rate so high, she’s happy to keep fighting the good fight by whatever means necessary. And if that means winking as Michael drives off, six-year-old brats in the backseat? She doesn’t see anything wrong with it. 

Teenage boys are just so easy. 

NOW 

“But what if I just…die, instead?” 

“Stiles.” 

“Here he goes.” 

“I’m just saying, maybe I could figure out a way to bring myself back. Necromantic powers for the win, here to save the day, death and revival style.” 

“Stiles…” 

“Hey, Peter, you don’t happen to have any more of those books about death and power conveniently in your back pocket that I could look through real quick, do you? I’ve got a solid ten minutes, I bet I could find something.” 

“Doubtful,” Peter says. “Also, no, I don’t.” 

“Stiles,” Derek repeats. 

“Okay, fair, you’re right, maybe I can just figure out how to revive myself from beyond the grave instead. Definitely worth a try. S’long as you guys promise to keep my body safe. Don’t season six Buffy me, okay? Digging out of my own grave sounds distinctly unfun. Alright, what’ll it be, death by claws? No? I’m guessing by your expression it’ll be a no on that front. Fine, fine, I can probably hold my breath long enough. Though I might just pass out. Ooh, I got it — hey, Lyds, is 40 miles per hour long enough to ensure instant death on impact if I throw myself out of this —” 

Derek cuts off Stiles’ words with a hand over his mouth, pulling him close to his body in the backseat of the SUV that they picked up when they landed at the Beacon Hills regional airport this morning. “You are not,” he growls, “throwing yourself out of the car to avoid meeting my family. Or dying in any way, shape, or form.” 

Stiles whines into Derek’s palm. He’s not ashamed. His boyfriend turns into a literal wolf sometimes; he’s allowed to sound a little bit animalistic when he wants to. Derek usually appreciates that, even if he’d prefer Stiles to be making these noises in bed. 

“This is bringing out a whole new side of you,” Peter says delightedly, breaking at a stop light. “I thought I knew the extent of your immaturity, but I didn’t realize you were prone to literal temper tantrums.” 

Stiles pulls down on Derek’s forearm just enough to rip his hand off his mouth and get out, “These are extenuating circumstances.”

“You should just be grateful Chris needed to stay back in Montana,” Lydia informs him from the front passenger seat. “At least it’s just the four of us and you don’t have to worry about embarrassing yourself in front of your boss.” 

Peter scoffs. “Lydia. Stiles has answered the door to Chris exactly four times wearing nothing but his underwear. And twice wearing even less. He has absolutely no room to worry about being embarrassed in front of his boss anymore.” 

Stiles glares mutinously, but he doesn’t have a leg to stand on in this argument. He lost his sense of shame a long, long time ago. If anything, he’s more glad that Danny wasn’t able to fly out from Quantico to meet them – Peter and Lydia will mock him enough for everyone, he’s sure. 

“It’s going to be fine,” Derek tells him as Lydia laughs and responds to Peter’s assertion with another choice memory of something Stiles has done that would’ve sent anyone with a sense of shame fleeing for the hills. Derek tilts Stiles’ chin up with one hand, the arm around his shoulders tightening. “They’re excited to meet you. And you’re excited to meet them. You know you are. You don’t need to get in your head about this.” 

“Need? Pal, you’re talking about this like I have a choice.”  

Stiles knows, logically, that meeting Talia Hale — and whoever else from the pack that she deems necessary to be at the meeting today — is probably going to be okay. He knows a lot about the Hales after working with Peter for years and dating Derek for the past half year. When they had decided to spend the holidays together, Derek even sat through a solid two hours of Stiles quizzing him on all of the things he could think to ask about his sisters. 

He knows Laura’s the most vicious one — the protective, bossy older sister who cares about her family and takes the ‘nobody gets to mess with them but me,’ attitude to an extreme. Derek told him that she’s taken her cues from Peter over the years, though she doesn’t go for the same creep factor that Peter excels in. She just finds joy in terrorizing her family, teasing them relentlessly, and doing whatever she feels is best for everyone, often regardless of anyone’s thoughts on the matter. Future Alpha in the making, or whatever. 

Cora, on the other hand, has apparently also taken after her uncle, insofar as becoming the pack’s next Left Hand. She took over most of those duties for Peter when he moved away from California. She comes across as blunt, Derek has told him, but she takes in more than people often realize, because she usually doesn’t respond outwardly to what she observes. Stiles gets her style: he’s a fan of being underestimated too, and he can dig someone being blunt. He comes by his bluntness and lack of tact naturally, but props to her for developing that as a way to get what she wants. 

He knows a lot about the Hales, sure, but it’s just that this meeting matters.  

Derek rests his palm on Stiles’ chest. It’s probably supposed to be soothing. “Don’t be nervous.” 

“Don’t use your super sniffer on me,” Stiles retorts. 

Derek rolls his eyes. “I don’t need to smell the anxiety flooding off you to know that you’re nervous.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Stiles refutes flippantly. “I’m a steel trap, impenetrable. Except at night, heh— no, no distractions. You can’t read me, you don’t know me, I’m a steel fortress of emotions. I am Superman’s fortress of stoicism.” 

“Pretty sure it’s solitude. And your heartbeat says otherwise.” 

“Don’t use your super ears on me, either.” 

“I can feel your heartbeat through your ribcage.” 

“In another setting, that could almost be romantic. Instead, it’s just you, using your creepy, supernatural, terror of the night powers to learn all of my secrets.” 

Derek doesn’t take the bait. He just quirks an eyebrow, then raises his hand from off Stiles’ chest to hold his jaw gently. “It’s going to go fine. They’re going to like you.” 

“If only my high school tormenters could hear you now. I am an acquired taste, ole buddy ole pal.” 

“That’s another ‘no’ for potential nicknames. And you may be an acquired taste, but it’s a taste that I’ve acquired,” Derek says, then shakes his head. “Mm, no, don’t like how that sounds. Too much room for euphemisms.” Stiles smiles, and Derek continues, “They know that you mean a lot to me. I think they might know more than I’ve told them, if the looks Peter sent me this morning mean anything. They know I’m selective with my…tastes,” he says with another grimace, “so they know you’re something special.” 

“I appreciate you extending the metaphor, and for using so many words just now,” Stiles tells him. “A+ for effort.” He looks down, then meets Derek’s gaze again. “It’s just that that’s a lot of pressure, too. It’s like I’ve surpassed a bar that I didn’t know existed and then they’re gonna meet me and expect me to be able to do flips and shit. Like a little dancing dog. The bar should be lower. I wanna impress them with my ability to sit, maybe lay down. But they’re gonna expect me to be able to bark on command. A poodle, they’re expecting a poodle. Or a border collie. And I’m like, a Boston terrier at best. Neurotic little fuckers, we are.” 

“I’m confused,” Peter interrupts from the front seat. “Is he trying to work in a dog joke here?” 

“I think he does it subconsciously at this point,” Lydia murmurs. 

“We’re having a moment here,” Stiles says, attempting to glare at them both. Damn his boyfriend’s grip. “No comments from the peanut gallery necessary.” 

“Ooh, nice, they’ve got dancing dogs at the circus, which is theater adjacent. I’ll give points for that nuance, assuming he did it intentionally. I’m not entirely sure he did, however.” 

“Shut up,” Derek tells Peter. He keeps his hand on Stiles’ jaw, softening it to rub his thumb gently over the point of Stiles’ chin. “If there’s a bar you’ve set, you’re the one who set it, just by being you. And whatever you do in there will be exactly that — who you are. You’re incapable of being anything else. And that’s what I want.” 

“I am really bad when I try to do anything by other people’s rules, aren’t I?” 

Derek nods. 

“And you like that about me, for some reason.” Stiles tilts his head down to press a quick kiss to the pad of Derek’s thumb.

“I do.” 

“And you’ll continue to like me for that if I insult your mom on accident? Or let something slip I shouldn’t? Or if I—” 

Derek interrupts him. “Yes.” 

“But I haven’t even listed all the ways this could go badly.” 

“As useful as your hypothesizing skills are on the job, your catastrophizing is the opposite.” 

“Valid,” Stiles says. 

And then his heart lurches, because Peter has stopped the car. 

Derek doesn’t have to physically pry Stiles from the rental, but it’s a near thing. His scent is bleeding nerves, and his heart rate is wildly out of control, though it slows a bit when Derek takes his hand. 

Peter leads the way towards the door of the Hale house. Lydia pats Stiles patronizingly on the cheek before falling into step with Peter. 

“Deep breaths,” Derek murmurs. 

“Bold of you to assume I’m breathing at all,” Stiles whispers back furiously. “Now don’t distract me. It’s game time. I gotta focus.” He narrows his gaze. 

Derek rolls his eyes heavenward but doesn’t say anything. At this point he’s done all he can. His words in the car weren’t untrue — he’s mostly sure this is going to go fine. Stiles will likely commit at least three social faux-pas, but he’s like a rubber band, always able to bounce back. Derek’s also pretty sure that Stiles is going to have more than just Derek on his side, should he need extra support against his sisters: Peter, for all his teasing, really does like Stiles. 

Eh, there’s probably about a fifty-fifty chance of Peter deciding to help the girls make Stiles squirm. 

Regardless, Derek will be here for him. Even if it means standing up to his Alpha and his sisters, which he’s never been particularly good at. He’s got Stiles’ back. He’s got Stiles’ hand, right now, and he’ll give him whatever physical or verbal support he needs, even if — 

“Woah, did you know that you’ve got dead people hanging out here? Some little ghostie pals floating around?” 

“We — what?” Derek blinks right as they reach the front step. Stiles is looking off to the side, craning his neck to peer around one of the columns in front of the door. His arm is fully outstretched, grip loosening on Derek’s hand. 

“Like three whole ghosts, man, and that’s just here right now. Damn, these are some active old fuckers. I can’t even see where they’re buried — they must have crazy range!” Stiles drops Derek’s hand to spin around. Derek reaches for his fingertips and misses. Stiles takes a few steps back towards the car, then towards the bushes along the path. “Seriously, nice. These guys have gotta be early settlers, for real. With those clothes? Definitely pre-Gold Rush. I’m surprised this guy even has shoes on!”  

“Is he…?” Lydia asks softly from behind Derek. 

“He absolutely is,” Peter says. 

Derek sighs. He doesn’t bother turning around when he hears the door open behind them both, four familiar heartbeats sounding in his ears for the first time since he last visited.

Stiles tilts his head side-to-side as he evaluates something only he can see in the air in front of him, and then he nods. “Yeah, man, I got you. She buried it with your body — okay, I mean, if you just take me to your body I can probably have my werewolfy boyfriend dig it up for you.” 

“I guess I forgot to mention the family plot out back,” Peter drawls. “How forgetful of me.” 

“Yeah dude, chill, stop repeating yourself at me. I know you’ve been waiting like a zillion years or whatever, but if you could just hang tight for another few minutes —” 

Derek is under no illusion that Peter forgot to mention the burial grounds behind the family house. All Hales have been buried there since they first came to California in the early 1800s. Sure, Derek forgot, but Peter probably planned this. The mirth coming from him — mixed with his family’s confusion — is too strong for this to not be intentional. Derek closes his eyes. 

“I agree, absolutely, it’s a waste to bury wealth with dead people. She knew it was supposed to support the family. Gold doesn’t do anyone any good underground! This isn’t Egypt, am I right? Oh, sorry, you may not know what Egypt is.” 

“Well,” comes his mother’s voice, amusement coloring her tone, “I see your boyfriend has already started to meet the family.” 

“Normally I’d be offended on my Alpha’s behalf, since tradition states she should always be greeted first, but I don’t think the future Alpha handbook has a section on what to do when your baby brother’s boyfriend can talk to your ancestors,” Laura adds. 

“Peter said he was weird,” chimes in Cora, “but like, dude, what the fuck?” 

Derek’s father sighs. “Girls…” 

“And don’t worry, I’ll get to you, too, Miss Petticoats,” Stiles tells the air to his left. He attempts a bow, or at least that’s what Derek thinks he’s going for when he folds himself forward and half-stumbles over absolutely nothing. He straightens with a chuckle. “It’s just that god knows — or would the devil be more appropriate here? I’m not sure — whatever — all-powerful being knows you won’t be going anywhere anytime soon. I’ve got things to do, is all, people to meet, you know, like I —” he freezes suddenly, back still to the porch. “Aw, goddamnit,” he says. 

They watch as a group as he tips his head up to the sky and then squares his shoulders. Derek gives him a weak smile when he finally turns around, which Stiles attempts — very, very poorly — to return. 

“Hi,” he says belatedly, after the four new Hales and his three team members stare at him for a solid thirty seconds. “I’m Stiles.” 

“Yes,” says Talia, “I gathered as much.” 

Things are going okay. 

By which Stiles means things are going amazing.  

Talia is still intimidating as fuck — she’s where Derek gets the eyebrows, and if Stiles thought Derek was good at creating entire sentences with those bushy caterpillars, Talia’s finely-shaped millipedes are like… Yoda level expert. But it turns out that she’s appreciative of being able to find out that several of her deceased relatives have outstanding grudges and wishes that Stiles can help lay to rest. And she’s been pretty professional most of the time so far; it’s clear that she’s used to being the Boss Lady Alpha Chick and keeping meetings on track. 

Besides, she has her daughters to do all of the pestering and embarrassing of her son and his boyfriend for her. 

“Der-bear,” Stiles murmurs, then he repeats himself because this is actual gold right here.  “Der-bear.”  

He shoots a glance at Derek next to him and can read the ‘Oh god, no,’ all over his face.  

Stiles can feel a huge grin spread across his face. He’s not even sorry about it. Talia is seated in the middle chair on one side of the dining room table with Laura on her right and Cora on her left. Andrew, their father, is on a work call, his presence unnecessary for official pack business. Stiles, Peter, and Derek are across from them, while Lydia is seated at the head of the table. Stiles turns back to face Laura. “You’re a genius.”  

She lifts an imperious eyebrow, flipping her hair over her shoulder. “I am.” 

“I can’t believe I’ve been sleeping on Der-Bear for this long. What is wrong with me? It freaking rhymes. How did that never occur to me? I’m a failure.”

“This is exactly why I was dreading this meeting,” Derek mutters into the palm of his hand.

“Oh but this is why I was so looking forward to it,” Peter says from Derek’s other side. 

“Speaking of meetings, I seem to recall that we’re in the middle of one,” Lydia says drily. 

“Come on.” Stiles spreads his hands in front of him. “You can’t honestly expect me to let that go by without comment, can you?” 

“I see the Boston Terrier connection now,” Peter says contemplatively. 

Stiles shoots him a finger gun without looking, and he smiles at Lydia. “You’ve known me for how long?” 

“Too long,” she says with a sigh. “Anyway, Alpha Hale. I believe you were telling us about the packs on Oregon’s coast?” 

“Talia, please,” Talia says, a little distracted as she frowns minutely at Peter’s comment. She clears away her confusion, then says, “But yes. There are three along the coast near or within the towns you have on your map. The next closest pack on the coast is in Washington, which you said was not an option?” 

“Correct. Are there any others who have property within the state borders? Where they’re likely to have addresses or fall under the jurisdiction of Oregon state police?” 

Talia shakes her head. They’ve already gone through the other Oregon regions. “If you’d like, once we finish here, I can create a list for you. Or better yet, Laura —” She glances to her side. “You can create the list with Ms. Martin. You came with me to the last Council meeting and should be able to recall the relevant packs. I’ll check over it once you’re done.” 

Laura straightens and is quick to agree. Her eyes dart towards Lydia before she nods. “Of course.” 

Stiles catches Lydia’s smile, a small, curious thing, before she looks back at Talia and nods. Interesting. “That would be great,” Lydia says. 

“We don’t keep a written record of all pack members for security reasons,” Talia continues, “so I can’t currently identify which packs have someone who fits the, what was it, victimology?” 

“No worries, we’ve got a hacker for that,” Stiles says. At Talia’s hard look, he offers a disarming smile. “He’s government-sanctioned? And uses his powers for good, mostly. If that’s better?” 

“Government-sanctioned hacking,” Cora remarks. “Just what I like to think about when I’m feeling safe and secure in my own home.” 

“What, has an hour spent getting to know the FBI’s best and brightest not already assured you that your government knows what it’s doing?” Stiles says, grinning. 

“Man, I lost my faith in the government when they hired that asshole.” Cora jerks a thumb towards Peter, who frowns. 

“Rude,” Peter says. “Entirely uncalled for. Now when they hired your brother, on the other hand…” 

Both Laura and Cora laugh as Talia admonishes him. “Peter.” 

“Sister,” he says, and even though Derek’s positioning in between them prevents Stiles from seeing him, Stiles is positive Peter’s batting wide, innocent eyes at her. 

“Don’t worry, I think you’re very much the best and brightest,” Stiles says, giving Derek a consoling pat on the arm. He says it jokingly, but he knows his heart beat rings true when he looks across the table to find all three Hale women with varying smiles aimed his way. Even though Cora looks like Stiles has ripped it from her unwillingly. 

“Thanks,” Derek says with feigned exasperation, looking up at the dining room ceiling. He’s looked up there a lot today.  Stiles thinks he might have broken his personal record for the number of eye rolls in a single minute. It’s pretty great. 

“Well, unless there’s any other points you’d like to raise?” Talia brings them back together. 

Stiles leans forward to catch Peter’s gaze, then looks at Lydia. When neither offers anything else, he sits back and shakes his head. “No, I think that’s all, for now.” 

“Wonderful,” Talia says, standing. “Then, since you’ll all need to stay here for a bit while Laura and Lydia continue, I must offer the use of our guest rooms for the evening. It’s tradition,” she adds as Stiles opens his mouth — they have a hotel reserved in Beacon Hills proper. “It would be rude of me to not offer you food and shelter this evening. Especially because of your generous agreement to speak to our ancestors for us. In fact, I think I insist.” 

Stiles is pretty sure that she’s enjoying this. His suspicion is confirmed by the looks Cora and Laura exchange behind Talia’s back. 

“Of course,” Peter answers for them. “We’d be delighted.” 

Two hours ago, Stiles would’ve laughed at the thought of wanting to stay here any longer than absolutely necessary. But now? He finds that Peter’s words aren’t altogether a lie. 

“What he said,” Stiles says, pushing his chair back to stand. He brings his hands together and grins. “Now, I think there’s some graves for me to check out?” 

“You’re not still irritated at Mom for orchestrating this whole thing, are you?” 

Derek turns to find Cora stepping through the sliding glass door to join him on the porch. He shakes his head. “No.”

Inside, the rest of his family and team are spread between the living room and kitchen. Wine — both human-safe and wolfsbane-laced — has made the rounds. Lydia and Laura are seated together on a couch, while Stiles and Peter springboard off each other as they chat with Talia and Andrew, who rejoined them for dinner. Derek can see Stiles through the window now. He’s pink-cheeked with laughter and wine, gesticulating wildly. The last time Derek listened in, Stiles was in the middle of correcting Peter’s retelling of the first case they worked together. 

He had hoped the meeting today would go well. He knew that Stiles would have things in common with his sisters, and that if given the chance, his parents were likely to warm up to him. But it’s even better than he could have possibly anticipated. He stepped out of the kitchen a few minutes ago after a swell of emotion caught Peter’s knowing nose.  

“Just wanted some air,” he tells Cora as she closes the door. 

“Not a lie.” She bumps her shoulder against his, coming to a stop next to him. “You know, she wouldn’t have to manipulate the government into spending tax dollars on flying you guys out here if you ever came home beyond the holidays.” 

Derek gives her a sidelong, narrow-eyed squint. “Careful, you’re sounding like Laura.” 

Cora scoffs. “I’m sorry, am I not allowed to wish my big brother was home more often?” 

Derek immediately feels like an ass. He turns to face her. “Cora, I —” 

She shakes her head, chuckling softly. “It’s okay.” She smirks, then says, “Well, I mean, I’m not lying. It would be nice to see you more often. But I know that your job is important.” 

“Could’ve sworn you called it boring the last time we talked.” 

She rolls her eyes. “In comparison to you being in an established relationship? Everything on the planet pales in comparison.” She shakes her head, and her smirk softens. “I know that you’re busy, and it’s not like they ever give you real holidays like the rest of us working-class citizens. But it might be nice if mom didn’t feel like you only come home when you have to. Last week she told Laura that all her children had gone over to the dark side.”  

“Is that —” Derek takes a second to parse through that. “No. I resent any and all comparison to Peter.” 

“I’ve got his job, Laura’s got his attitude, and apparently you’ve got his familial avoidance. And hey —” She lifts an inquisitive eyebrow. “Since when do you get Star Wars references?” 

“Since when do you think?” 

“So Stilinski’s got more going for him than his ability to see dead people?” 

“Stiles has got a lot going for him,” Derek defends on instinct. “He —” 

“Chill, bro, save your spiel for Laura. I know you like him.” She wrinkles her nose. “It’s sickening.” 

“Whatever. Why are you the one out here, by the way? I was half expecting Laura to come out and pester me.” 

Cora laughs. “Um, yeah, no, I think the only sisterly shovel or approval talk is gonna come from me tonight. You did notice those moon eyes she was making at the ginger chick, right?” 

“No.” 

“Is that a no, you didn’t notice, or a no, you’re in denial?” 

Derek frowns. “Both.” 

Cora laughs again, then nods towards the living room window. “Tell me they need to sit that close on a three-person couch, then try again.” 

Derek does the mature thing and turns back toward the forest instead. Laura and Lydia getting together – in any way – is the last thing he needs to think about.

Cora laughs harder, and Derek resists the urge to smile. He’s missed her, too, even if those exact words have yet to cross her lips. After a moment, Cora’s chuckles subside and she says, “You should be grateful that it’s me and not Laura. She’d be all over you about the courting stages you’ve made it through.” 

“I’m not —” Derek sighs and closes his eyes before gritting out, “I didn’t realize that was actually a thing.” 

“Oh man, Peter wasn’t joking. You really have been away from home for too long. Did you just repress everything that mom explained about your instincts in high school?” 

“I repressed a lot of high school.” 

“Remind me to ask Mom for the home videos before you go to sleep.” 

“Absolutely not.” 

Cora grins, then returns to her more serious conversation. “Derek, courting is a thing. We have books on it — I could get one to you before you leave tomorrow if you want. Then you can avoid more of this kind of conversation.” 

She knows him well. “Would you?” 

“‘Course. Besides, I think he might like it. A full-on werewolf courting.” 

“Yeah?” 

Behind them, the door opens. Cora nods at him, then smirks as they both clock the scent and sound of the person coming out. “I think Stiles is the kind of guy to want the whole enchilada.” 

“I love enchiladas!” Stiles exclaims. He walks — stumbles — over to them, grinning. “I am very full though. Very, very full. Lots of good eating has already occurred this fine evening. Hello, terrifying sister of my most wonderful Der-bear. Der-were; ha, like werewolf. Pare. Fair. Glare — Der-glare, oh my god.”  

“Lots of good drinking, too, huh?” Derek asks. 

Stiles blows a raspberry. Derek’s thankful no one ends up covered in spit. 

“The Der-glare is a classic, we’re all familiar with it. And I appreciate knowing I’ve instilled terror; means I’ve done my job,” Cora says. “I’ll leave you two out here.” She smiles at Derek. “I’ve got things to get.” 

Stiles waves at her, like an absolute dork, and Derek absolutely must kiss him. So he does.

He catches Stiles off guard, his mouth half opening in shock before he gets with the program and kisses back. He meets Derek’s affection eagerly, tilting his head to the side so that they can move familiarly against each other. He leans his hip against the porch railing, letting it take his weight so that Derek can deepen the kiss. 

Derek doesn’t know what kissing as a human is like. But once, when he was in high school, his biology class did a lesson about how taste is impacted by smell. How the signals from the nerves in the nose and the tastebuds integrate when they meet in a person’s brain, how the ability to smell enhances the flavor of food, improves the entire eating experience. He spent the whole lecture thinking about how much more he can smell than humans, and how that might make his experience different from someone else’s. He thinks humans might be missing out. 

Stiles tastes like wine, but he also tastes of the joy that’s flowing around him, intertwined with adoration, amusement, and a deep-set fondness that Derek counts himself lucky to be the recipient of for months now. Derek bites at his lips and relishes in the pure Stiles taste and smell and feel of it, and can’t quite hold back a groan when those bites have the effect of sending a new pulse of lust through the air. 

A loud laugh from inside reminds him of where they are, and he eases off, softening the kiss again. He lets his hands drift down Stiles’ arms in a soothing motion, and presses two quick kisses to his lips. When he finally pulls back, it takes a moment for Stiles to open his eyes. 

Stiles blinks, slow, his mouth curving up in a small, pleased smile. Then he snickers. “Your sister’s not the only one who’s got things to get . I’ve got things to get, too,” he says. “Gotta get —” He pauses, waggling his eyebrows, and an unwilling grin spreads across Derek’s face. “Gotta get lucky.” 

Derek tries to not laugh, really he does. But the warm feeling in his chest refuses to allow him to contain his affection. “Absolutely not happening,” he says, pulling Stiles’ dumb, grinning face into his chest to muffle his cackles. “Not in my parent’s house. No way.” 

He’s able to stand by his assertion that night. Mostly because Stiles trips while trying to take his pants off on the way to the bed, falls half-slumped onto the mattress, and passes out with his pants at his ankles, distracted by comfort mid terribly-executed innuendo. Excess wine and three visibility spells on Hale ancestors make for a hell of an exhausted necromantic boyfriend. 

“And the whole…talking to the dead thing doesn’t, I dunno, weird you out?” 

Stiles frowns, slumping onto the kitchen table behind his morning coffee. “I know you’re not used to keeping secrets in a house where everyone hears everything, but dude, I am sitting right here.” 

Laura glances away from Derek to look down at Stiles. She and Derek are standing in front of the stovetop. She’s been backseat cooking for the past five minutes, which is uncalled for. Derek makes great breakfast food. Stiles can attest to that. Laura lifts a slow eyebrow and shrugs. Then she turns back to Derek. “Cora said you go to graveyards together. That seems like strange date material, even for you, and we thought you were never gonna date anyone.” 

Derek resolutely stirs the eggs in silence. 

“Wow, now I know how my ghosts must feel every day, talking to people who don’t see them,” Stiles huffs. He takes a sip of his coffee. 

“Are you sure you’re not letting your work get to you? I know you see a lot of gross shit on the job, but nobody ever said you had to take the crime scenes home with you.” 

“I’ve been called a disaster before,” Stiles tells the air, since clearly, that’s all that’s listening to him right now, “but never a crime scene. How innovative.” 

“Didn’t you used to be scared of ghosts? What’s changed? Der-bear, you used to be so shy, so innocent. I remember when you crawled into my room after you wet the bed because of a nightmare. What happened to that child?” 

Derek continues to glare at the pan in front of him. Stiles can see his grip tighten on the spatula’s handle, but he doesn’t show any other sign of her getting to him. 

Damn, no wonder he took to Stiles’ humor and… Stilesness so easily. All this time Stiles had thought that he’d simply been working off the foundation Peter built, but it’s clear Derek’s ability to put up with provoking bullshit runs deep.  

“Laura, really, bed-wetting stories?” Talia comes into the room and presses a kiss against both of her children’s cheeks. “Good morning.” 

Laura shrugs unapologetically, but follows her to the table and grins at Stiles as she sits down. “Not my fault that Der was cutest when he was five and in tears over spoiling his Spider-Man sheets.” 

“Morning, Talia,” Stiles greets, then narrows his eyes at Laura. “I bet I was even cuter when I spoiled my Batman sheets at six.” 

“Weird brag, but okay.” 

“Such lovely conversation at seven in the morning,” Talia sighs. 

Stiles grins at her and sits back. “Sorry. You have to meet fire with fire. It’s just something they teach us at FBI school, along with talking down psychopaths and making a fool out of yourself in front of important people.” 

Derek switches off the burner and turns toward them. “And here I thought that was just a you speciality.”  

“Nope. Should the ghosts and bones and grave dirt ever get to be too much for you, there are a couple hundred factory replicas without those unique features available for trade-in value.” 

“If you’re willing to put up with the sideburns and fangs, I suppose I can handle the dirt and ghosts.” 

“Aw, you sweet talker, you.” 

“Disgusting,” Cora coughs as she enters. She shoulders Derek out of the way and scoops up one of the plates he’d set aside earlier, shoveling eggs, bacon, and fruit onto it. 

“You’ve got such perfect timing,” Laura says. “Always make it down just in time for food.” She stands and makes for the stove, trying to step around Derek, who very intentionally steps back in her way. 

Derek only just manages to win the ensuing scuffle over who gets food next, coming out victorious with two plates of food, a smug grin, and a quickly-healing scratch down one cheek. He slides both plates down in front of Stiles and his mom, the perfect son and boyfriend that he is, before returning to get his own. 

The next ten minutes are spent in an unfamiliar, but kind of perfect space filled with banter, two sibling-started and Alpha-ended under-the-table kicking sessions, and way more laughter than Stiles is used to experiencing before the end of his second cup of coffee. He knows that Laura’s an attorney with her own practice, and Cora runs a marketing consulting firm — hell, his boyfriend is an FBI agent — but it’s like all of the Hales have reverted to their teenage selves. It’s pretty amazing. 

Stiles loves his dad, loved his mom, and wouldn’t trade the memories of his childhood for anything, but for a brief moment, he wonders what it would’ve been like to have siblings. 

Stiles’ phone buzzes on the table next to his plate. He glances down, then furrows his brow when he sees that it’s from Danny. Lydia got up early this morning to work with him as soon as he got into the office on East Coast time, coordinating on the information from Talia that she sent over yesterday afternoon. “One second,” he tells Talia. He slides to open the screen. 

It’s a group message to the entire team. We know who the targets are, it reads. Group call in ten? 

Peter, who had left for a visit to his favorite local coffeeshop with Andrew earlier, sends his response as Stiles reads. Make it fifteen. Video? 

Stiles glances up. “Danny’s got the info,” he tells Derek, who left his phone upstairs. He looks at Talia. “Can we use your office for a call with our team?” 

Yesterday, after Stiles did a visibility spell to show Talia her great-grandmother, whose ghost had been hanging around due to a ‘not actually natural causes’ death, Talia let him rest in her office, which doubles as one of the Hale family libraries. Suffice it to say he didn’t stay sitting for nearly as long as Derek would have liked. But in addition to ending up with a few more books to peruse on their next drive, he found out that she soundproofs her office. Even if he only found out because he knocked a paperweight off her desk and wasn’t immediately beset by concerned werewolves.   

Talia nods. “Of course.” 

“Thanks, Mom,” Derek says. 

Stiles offers his thanks and shovels the rest of his food in his mouth.

Stiles sits down on the arm of the chair next to Derek. Or perches, more like, his bony ass balancing carefully. Derek wraps an arm around his waist preemptively. Lydia’s sitting next to them, an expression on her face that Derek can’t quite parse. Her scent is confusing, a mix of relief and worry and — anticipation? 

Peter pulls up the video conferencing app, grumbling as he does. “This better be worth it.” He’d had to order his latte to go, and been unable to take advantage of his favorite shop’s ‘full experience’ that he’d been looking forward to. 

Derek slips his hand under Stiles’ shirt at his waist. He’s practically buzzing in eagerness; Derek is positive his position on the chair is only temporary, and he’ll be up and pacing in moments. 

“Oh, it’s worth it,” Lydia says cryptically. Derek narrows his eyes at her, and she shrugs, tilting her nose toward the computer. “Incoming.” 

The screen fills with Danny’s face, and a moment later splits so that Chris is on the other half, calling in from the Hamilton police department’s office. He won’t need to stay there much longer if they really have identified Kate Argent’s next victims. 

“Good morning, team,” Chris begins. 

“Hey,” Danny greets . “Long time no —” 

“Information, please!” Stiles interrupts. 

Peter rolls his eyes in exasperation. “Crude, but I’m with him. You interrupted what was due to be a very nice morning.” 

“I work with a bunch of heathens,” Danny grumbles. “No respect.” His gaze flits from side to side as he moves things around on his computer. “Lydia, you wanna start?” 

She nods. “There are two packs in Oregon with teenage boys between fourteen and nineteen. The Lowe pack and the Medina pack.” 

“Two doesn’t help us. You said you know who, so —” Stiles says. Derek squeezes his hip to match the reprimanding eyebrows that Lydia and Chris both level at him. 

“As I was saying,” she says. “The Lowes have two boys that fit the victimology, but after some sleuthing—”  

“—a nice euphemism for Instagram stalking,” Danny says with a smirk. 

“— Both are in committed relationships.” 

“Are you sure that’s enough to prevent her from sinking her creepy cougar claws in?” Stiles asks. “Teenagers, hormones, what does commitment even mean at that age?” 

“And they’re both gay,” Danny finishes . “So, there’s that.” 

“Ah. Well. That helps.” 

“Indeed,” Peter says. Derek presses his face into Stiles’ side to hide his amused grin. 

“Alright,” Chris says, focused . “So it’s the Medina pack?” 

Lydia nods. “One teenage son. Michael Medina. Sixteen and, per his socials, not in any relationship.” 

“And we’re sure it’s them?” Stiles asks, glancing around the room. “We’re not about to travel off to another small town only to find out that we’re in the wrong place?” 

“We’re positive,” Danny confirms. “I’ve got her on two traffic cameras on the I-5 within the past three weeks.” 

Peter lets out a low whistle. “Well then.” 

Chris nods decisively . “Good work, Danny, Lydia.”

They know where she is. They know who her target is. If she sticks to her pattern, they’ll have plenty of time to get in and apprehend her before things turn bad for the Medinas. She takes her time to get settled into a place; the spacing between each arson supports that. If they’re lucky, she hasn’t even made contact with the kid yet. 

Beside him, Stiles is nodding determinedly. “Alright, so where are we going, boss? And who’s coming? Does Danny get to join us?” 

“I believe it will be useful to have him able to work with local technology,” Chris answers. “Depending on the town, it may make more sense for you to drive there from Beacon Hills.”  

“Right,” Danny says , “about that.” A smirk spreads across his face, and it matches the sudden ramp in amusement coming from Lydia. “We’re going to Cottage Grove.” 

For a full three seconds, all of the air is sucked out of the room. Then everyone speaks at once. 

Chris: “Okay, which is —” 

Stiles, in a strangled yell: “I’m sorry, we’re going where?”  

Peter, delightedly: “Oh, this is wonderful.”

Danny, slapping his hands against his desk: “I couldn’t make this shit up if I tried.”  

Derek, who feels as though the bottom of his stomach has dropped out: “What.” 

Lydia: well, she doesn’t speak; she just laughs. 

The air comes rushing back into Derek’s lungs all at once as Stiles launches into a rant. “I could have sworn the words ‘Cottage Grove ’ just came out of your mouth. But surely not, I must be hallucinating, because there is no way on this godforsaken earth that Kate fucking Argent is in Cottage fucking Grove right now.” 

“And yet, I did,” Danny says, chortling. “I did say exactly those words.” 

“I’m missing something,” Chris says with a frown. 

“Darling,” Peter drawls. “Are you getting forgetful in your old age?” 

Even through the computer screen, Derek can see the blush that rises to Chris’ cheek, which is really just another thing he doesn’t need to think about right now, especially with — 

“Cottage Grove is where I fucking grew up.” Stiles stands, leaving Derek’s hand hanging off the chair arm. “It’s where my father lives.”  

Chapter Text

 NOW

They leave for Cottage Grove that afternoon. They want to arrive as subtly as possible: Kate Argent is not to be underestimated, and they don’t want to ping any alerts she may have for law enforcement involvement. They doubt that she’s aware they’re on her tail, but someone as professional as her is unlikely to not have a watch out. They haven’t been able to discover any ties the Argents have in law enforcement in the United States, but it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Peter and Derek will need to keep an especially low profile once they arrive: if she’s done her research on packs in the area, she might know who they are. 

Danny and Chris are flying into Portland, which is the closest city they want to risk landing in. The rest of the team makes the drive up in the rental car they got in Beacon Hills. Stiles, in the back seat with Derek, makes good use of the time — the books Talia let him take from her library keep him practically silent the entire four-hour trip, minus the occasional exclamation or absent-minded phrase muttered aloud. 

Derek finds this incredibly inconvenient. Normally Stiles is so good at distracting him from his thoughts. Instead, Derek has been left to brood alone over the prospect of meeting Stiles’ father. It’s not fair. He’s not even able to read the book that Cora gave him on courting traditions — no way is he going to make the mistake of pulling that out. Not with Stiles next to him and Peter only a head turn away from what would undeniably end up as days of vicious mockery. 

Where does meeting your potential mate’s parent fall in the courting timeline? Is he supposed to do that before or after introducing Stiles to his Alpha? Does their day in Beacon Hills count as an official introduction? Oh, God, how the hell is Stiles going to react to Derek using the word mate? Everything is unclear, and Derek does not like it. 

“Careful, nephew, we wouldn’t want your glare to burn a hole in the back of Lydia’s headrest. I don’t think we’d get our deposit back, and you know how accounting hates that.” 

Derek looks up and finds himself unconsciously unfurrowing his brow. Then he refurrows it, this time directed at Peter. 

“Ah yes, the patented Der-glare. It’s been what, a full half-hour since it’s been directed my way? I knew something was off.” 

Of course Peter overheard that last night. Derek doesn’t respond, because the only thing he can think to say right now is ‘shut up,’ and he doubts that will get him any points. 

“Ooh, nice one,” Lydia comments. “It rhymes!” 

Derek is an adult. He shouldn’t have to put up with this. 

“Baby goat sacrifice? Absolutely not worth it,” Stiles mumbles, still looking down. “Not the kids! Not for all the death force enhancement in the world.” 

The three of them look at him. He does not notice. Lydia’s the first to break, an unladylike snort popping out of her mouth. Peter joins her a second later, and even Derek finds a grin tugging at his lips. 

Stiles’ phone buzzes in his pocket and he startles out of his reading trance, frowning slightly when he finds them laughing. He shakes his head and pulls his phone out, then grins. “Hey, Daddio. Got my message?” 

His father’s voice is audible to the werewolves in the car. “I did. What’s your ETA?” 

“About two more hours. What are you thinking for when we need to come by the station?” 

“You really think we can’t just tell the deputies what you’re here for?” 

“Don’t wanna risk it,” Stiles tells him. “We haven’t been able to check for local leaks yet. You can read Parrish in, but nobody else.” 

The sheriff sighs. “If you’re sure. I’ve got a couple cases I can say you’re here to consult for — one that ICE sent over last week, and a few federal cases from the DEA. Shouldn’t raise suspicion.” 

“Email the info and Danny or Chris will let you know ASAP which works best.” 

“Will do. Now, are you looking to get right to work, or do you think you’ll have time for your old man? It’s been so long since I’ve seen you, my poor heart can’t take it.” 

Stiles laughs. “If your poor heart can’t take anything, it’s because Melissa has been letting you eat too much fast food.” 

“Don’t know what you’re talking about,” the sheriff denies. “Speaking of — I could invite the McCalls over. They’d love to see you while you’re in town.”  

“Maybe not tonight. Seeing as we’re here for kind of an important reason.” 

“Fine. No McCalls tonight, but you better bet you’ll be joining me at the dinner table.” 

“Dad—” 

“No buts,” the sheriff says. “And bring Derek along, why don’t you?” 

Stiles shoots panicked eyes at Derek. “I don’t think — there’s really a lot the team needs to do. I can probably get away for an hour, but both of us? I’m not sure that —” 

“You’ve got a team of six. I’m sure they can spare you both. It’s just an hour.”  

In the front seat, Peter’s grin is wide. 

“Dad—” 

“ETA in two? Perfect. Drop the team at the station. Parrish will get them set up, so you can head straight over. I’ll have the grill going by five pm. It’ll be an early dinner. See you and Derek then!” The sheriff hangs up. 

“Oh I like him,” Peter says as Stiles stares down at his phone. 

“You’re already creeping on my work dad, you’re not allowed to also creep on my real dad,” Stiles says on autopilot. While Peter splutters and Lydia laughs, he looks up to Derek, wincing slightly. “Sorry, I tried to make it so that you’d meet in a professional capacity first, really I did.” 

Derek nods. “It’s okay. We’re just… we’re doing this.” 

“Think of it like ripping off a bandaid?” 

“That metaphor doesn’t really work as well for werewolves.” 

“Fine. Like plunging into an ice-cold lake. Getting it over with all at once.” 

“I didn’t mean I didn’t understand the bandaid metaphor.” 

Stiles gives him a deadpan look. “Stop avoiding the question. My dad is cool. He’s a cool dad.” 

“He’s a sheriff.” By definition, Derek’s pretty sure that means he’s uncool. 

“But a cool sheriff. He even covered for me once when I accidentally sucked the life force out of all our neighbor’s rose bushes.” 

“I think that has less to do with being cool and more to do with keeping his kid safe. And also maybe himself from being locked up for insisting that his son has plant-killing powers.” 

“Semantics,” Stiles scoffs. “Look, there’s no need to be intimidated by him.” When Derek just lifts an eyebrow, he continues. “If I can face down your scary Alpha matriarch, queen of all the packs on the West Coast, you can face down my very human, very normal, very not-in-possession-of-wolfsbane father.” 

“He’s got a gun though,” Derek says, a little petulantly. 

“Pft. What’s that gonna do, give you a flesh wound?” 

“Their pep talks are quite different from each other’s, aren’t they?” Peter asks Lydia. 

Well, Derek’s not with Stiles for his sense of decorum. Regardless, Stiles winces. “Whoops. I guess reminding you of your supernatural invincibility isn’t the most compassionate way to support you in this trying time.” 

“Not when you’re talking about your father shooting him, doofus,” Lydia puts in. 

“It’s fine,” Derek says with a shrug, but he’s grateful all the same for the hand Stiles extends a moment later, squeezing gently before going back to his book. It will be fine. He’s talked to John Stilinski before. It’s fine that he’s about to meet the only family of his potential mate. It’s fine that Derek’s historically shit at first impressions. It’s fine that he’s more worried about this than the arsonist terrorizing packs all over the country. He can afford to be worried about this for a little, and get back to his regular, job-oriented concerns tomorrow. 

“Good god, you’re stinking up the car with your anxiety,” Peter says, then proceeds to roll the windows down. 

Sheriff Stilinski answers the door when they arrive two hours later. Sheriff Stilinski, not Stiles’ dad; he’s wearing his full uniform even though Stiles knows he doesn’t usually get changed until right before going in for his shift. His face is solemn, and his service weapon is resting on his hip, one hand hovering just above it with an air of false casualness. 

“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” the sheriff says. He doesn’t move from the doorway, or even — 

“What, no hug for your long-lost prodigal child?” Stiles complains. 

“I wish I’d lost you,” his dad says out of reflex, but clearly remembers whatever bullshit he’s trying to pull because he settles his face and directs his eyes back to Derek. “Mr. Hale.” 

“Mr. — Sheriff Stilinski,” Derek responds. Stiles can feel the tension in his body beside him. 

“And I’m Stiles!” Stiles says. “Great, now we’ve done this totally unnecessary and ridiculous introduction, because you’ve both literally talked on the phone before, so can we come in or are you just going to loom there ominously for another five minutes?” 

His dad ignores him. “I think it’s about time I have a conversation with you about your intentions with my son,” he tells Derek. 

“Dad!” Stiles flails. “Are you serious right now?” 

“I—” 

Stiles interrupts Derek before he can say anything else. “Oh my god, no, we are not doing this.” 

“I think I have a right to know what this man intends to do with my one and only beloved, precious child.” 

“I am twenty-seven years old, you absurd old man.” 

“Still a child,” his dad says. 

“Very much not!” Stiles wonders if the neighbors are getting a show right now. Mrs. Lewis next door is probably living for this. “I am so sorry for this,” he moans into his hands. “Dad, this is the kind of shit you were supposed to do when I was 16, not a grown-ass adult bringing my grown-ass adult, federal-job-having boyfriend home.” 

“It’s not my fault that you robbed me of prime protective father years by being such a loser in high school.” At Stiles’ squawk, his dad snorts an unwilling chuckle before looking away from him and over to Derek again. He wipes away any humor and raises his eyebrows. “So?” 

Stiles glances quickly between both of them. Derek’s eyebrows are furrowed, which is pretty standard — but he’s not one to show his nervousness obviously, so Stiles isn’t sure exactly how to read his expression. “You don’t — he’s just being —” 

Derek looks at him and offers a half-tilt of a grin. “It’s okay.” Then he squares his shoulders and looks back at Stiles’ dad. “My intentions are honorable.” 

“If Peter was here he’d be objecting to that statement,” Stiles mutters. 

Derek ignores him. “I mean to do well by your son, Sheriff. He’s important to me, and I trust him more than anyone else in the world. He is kind —” Stiles snorts, “— clever, and a joy to be around.” 

“Well now I don’t think anyone has ever said that before,” his dad says, which is both rude and probably true. 

Derek shrugs. “He brings me joy. And also infuriates me and everyone around us, but I wouldn’t change that for anything.” 

Stiles scowls. “I don’t know whether to be offended by that or not.” 

“Take the compliments you can get,” his dad tells him, then shifts, his hip leaning against the door frame. “So you’re telling me I don’t need to invest in any of those wolfsbane bullets I’ve heard about?” 

“Dad!” Stiles yelps, and then at the same time Derek says, “Those won’t be necessary,” Stiles asks, “How do you even know what wolfsbane bullets are?” 

“Good, better keep it that way,” his dad tells Derek, stepping back to allow them in. “What, did you think I was going to find out my son was dating a werewolf and not start doing my research?” 

“I see where you get it,” Derek murmurs into his ear as they follow him down the hallway. 

“Besides,” his dad continues, “I’m familiar with the local pack.” 

“You’re what?” 

“I met Alpha Medina a few months ago.” 

Stiles splutters, starting and stopping several sentences before finally getting out, “Why?” 

His dad sends him a brief smirk, the bastard, before pushing open the back door to where he’s got his grill set up. “Well, you know Scott. He always was so bad at keeping secrets.” 

Stiles stops abruptly enough that Derek doesn’t have time to avoid running into him. “What does Scott McCall have to do with the Medina pack?” 

His dad laughs as the screen door swings closed. 

“Dad?” Stiles asks. “Don’t do this to me. He used to be my best friend! I have a right to know!” 

His dad just keeps laughing. 

“I definitely see where you get it now,” Derek repeats. 

After the initial interrogation, dinner goes well. It takes a little while for Derek to get a read on the sheriff, but it’s soon clear that dry wit is his natural state, and that for all his steely front when he greeted them at the door, he’s more than happy to finally be meeting Derek. They had burgers — it’s a fifty-fifty turkey-beef split, get off my case, son — and John was delighted to tease both Derek and Stiles about everything from their job to their supernatural inclinations to the number of times Stiles was mistaken for an intern out on cases. 

They hadn’t discussed the arson case, John ix-naying any conversation about that until they had time for a formal meeting at the station the next day. They’ll all head to the station after dinner, but the sheriff has other duties to attend to and the BAU team will need to reconvene as a whole for the first time since splitting up last week. 

John is currently getting ready to head to work, and Stiles has taken the opportunity to show Derek his old bedroom. And also to complain about how his father refused to say more about how Scott McCall has a connection to the Medina pack.

Derek glances around the room. Band posters from the 2010’s are pinned to the walls and he can’t pick out any true scent of Stiles in the room. It’s been years since he’s stayed here for any length of time. But there are, and least, hints of of the man Stiles would grow up to be everywhere. The bookshelves are filled with crime novels and college-level texts on psychology and criminology, and there’s even a corkboard complete with red string and newspaper clippings about a local homicide in 2011. 

“My father is irritatingly close-lipped. Do you think we could get him charged with obstruction of justice?” 

Derek scoffs and looks at Stiles. He’s standing in the middle of the room, frowning at his old desk. “You’re just annoyed he’s better at keeping secrets than you.” 

“Untrue.” Stiles groans, then collapses face-first onto the twin-sized bed. “Okay, maybe true.” 

“He said he would tell us more tomorrow with the whole team.” 

Stiles rolls over so he can glare balefully at Derek. “This is my childhood best friend he’s keeping secrets about though. I think he’s trying to torture me.” 

Derek shrugs. He gets the feeling that John and Stiles do a lot of mutual torturing of each other. “He might be.” He walks over to the desk and moves some of the papers around, then lifts up a stack that’s stapled together. “You thought this was worth saving?” 

Stiles sits up and grins. “Hell yeah. Best ‘F’ I’ve ever earned. Check that comment from the teacher — he was my lacrosse coach, too, absolutely batshit.” 

Derek looks down, flipping through to the end. Sure enough, “He printed a copy of this to frame in his office?” he reads off the comment. 

“Said that if I’d only managed to tie in the influence of circumcisions on the economy — like increased cost to parents during births, or decline in foreskin-related diseases — it’d have been an A for sure. But as it was —” 

“You focused too much on the history,” Derek interrupts as he finishes reading the final comment. He shakes his head. “Every time I think I’ve found out all there is to know about you.” 

“Aw, babe,” Stiles croons. “That’s almost sweet.” 

Derek shakes his head, putting the paper down. “I’ll show you sweet.” 

“I wish you would.” Stiles grins, then scoots backward on the bed. It’s far from graceful.  

Derek stalks forward anyway. “That what you want?” He reaches the bed and gets on his knees, edging forward until he’s straddling Stiles’ waist. 

Stiles looks up at him, a half-crooked grin on his face. “Yeah. Or not sweet. I’ll take that too.” 

Derek trails his hand down Stiles’ arm, then tightens his grip around his wrist, cocking an eyebrow in question. 

Stiles nods, and Derek pulls his arm up, grabbing the other so that he’s holding both wrists. He pulls them over Stiles’ head, pressing them into the bed. The movement tips him forward to lean over Stiles, and he ghosts his breath down the side of Stiles’ temple. He brushes his lips against Stiles’ ear, and whispers, “I can do sweet. Or not.” He tightens his thighs around Stiles’ waist at the same time as he presses his wrists deeper into the mattress, effectively pinning Stiles down. 

Stiles shudders and Derek feels the flex of his hands, a half-second of resistance, just to verify that he’s well and truly trapped before he relaxes under Derek. His body goes pliant as the sharp, heady scent of arousal swells between them. He tilts his chin to the side so that their noses brush, and Derek pulls back just enough so that they don’t quite kiss. 

“Both,” he breathes, eyes fluttering closed. “I like both.” 

Derek smiles, moving over to press a soft kiss against Stiles’ bare throat, then another to his temple, and a final to his cheekbone, before darting down to nip at his bottom lip. Stiles lets out an involuntary gasp as Derek pulls away, eyes still closed, and Derek grins as a familiar flush spreads from his cheeks down his pale neck. 

“Both is good,” Derek says. He rolls his hips just once against Stiles, delighting in the way he strains to respond. 

“Derek,” Stiles says, “I—” 

A knock pounds on the door, and they both freeze. “Don’t desecrate your childhood bedroom, Stiles!” 

“Dad!” 

John cackles as he keeps moving down the hallway.

“Holy fuck,” Stiles says, scent gone sour with embarrassment. 

Derek collapses against him, shoulders heaving with laughter. 

“How did it go?” Lydia asks. 

Stiles slides into the chair next to her. It’s been years since he haunted the halls of the Cottage Grove Sheriff’s Department, but it feels just like coming home. There’s even a stain on the table in the conference room that he can remember putting there, then blaming on Deputy Parrish, a rookie at the time. “I feel like I should be grateful he wasn’t literally sitting on the porch in a rocking chair with a rifle in his hands.” 

“Probably would’ve if you guys had a rocking chair,” Derek says as he sits next to him. 

Stiles grimaces in concession. That’s true. “So, we’re on for the meeting with the Medina pack tomorrow?”

“Excellent deflection,” Peter says. He’s sitting next to Chris — Stiles squints, but can’t determine if they’re unnecessarily close — scrolling through something on his computer. 

To his left, Danny has his laptop open, while Lydia, satisfied with Stiles’ answer, turns bright eyes on Chris. “What time?” she asks.  

“We have a meeting at eight AM sharp,” Chris tells them. “For tonight, we can get some calls and brainstorming done. We need to check local hotels for recent guests.” 

“For Kate?” Stiles asks. 

“And for any other Hunters that she may have brought in,” Peter says with a frown. 

“That’s right, she doesn’t usually work alone,” Lydia reminds them. 

Stiles frowns. “But this is early in her game, isn’t it? Normally the other Hunters don’t show up until just before the fire.” They haven’t found any evidence of other Hunters in any of the other arson towns until the week before the fire happened. “Do you actually think they’re already here?” 

Chris shrugs a shoulder. “We can’t be too careful.” 

“I do so admire a person who covers all their bases,” Peter says. 

“Who covers all your bases,” Stiles mutters. “First, second, and third.” He yelps when Derek pinches his thigh. 

Derek glares at him before turning to Chris. “So what are you thinking, for us to call around tonight?” 

Chris nods. While they’ll need to wait to visit some places until standard business hours, hotels are staffed 24/7; they can get the preliminary questions out of the way. “After the meeting with the Medinas tomorrow, we’ll split for in-person checks.” 

Stiles, in light of his smarting thigh, resists the urge to comment on other types of in-person checks Peter might be interested in having Chris do to him. It’s a close one, though. 

Chris continues with his plan for the morning. “Hales, I’ll have you on hotels; Martin and Stilinski, I want you to check out any locations that seem to be her type.” 

“So schools and shit where she can be her sex-offender self?” Stiles asks. 

Danny snorts behind his computer. “God, it’s only been a week; how have I managed to forget your eloquence?” 

“We’re all very good at repressing our trauma,” Peter says, and Danny laughs. 

Stiles flips both of them off. 

Chris sighs. “Work with Danny for now to brainstorm and check for possibilities. And speaking of, Danny, you’ve still yet to find any of her financials?” 

Danny grimaces. “She’s good – the few times she’s used a credit card, it’s been to a burner account with a name that’s not connected to any of her other aliases. She’s paying with cash more often than not. I’ve yet to catch her using a card that we could use for tracking.” 

“Nothing tied at all to her family name?” Peter asks. 

“That’d be too convenient,” Stiles says as Danny shakes his head. 

“I don’t think you want my family to have stronger ties in the United States than they do,” Chris points out. 

“Valid,” Stiles says. “Very, very , very valid.” From what they’ve been able to track of the Argents’ movements back in France, Kate seems to be the only one who’s made significant movements stateside, though they’re plenty active in France and its surrounding countries. Stiles shudders to think about what it’d be like if there was as strong a Hunter presence here as there seems to be in Europe. 

Chris turns to Lydia. “Will you split calls with Peter and Derek?” 

Lydia nods, then crooks a finger at Peter. “Bring your computer over here.” 

“Why do I have to move?” 

“Switch with Stiles.” 

“Why do I—”

“Switch.” 

Grumbling, Stiles stands and moves around the table. He sits down next to Danny, then pauses. “Hey, before we dive in, and since we’re all in the habit of being open about our skills and everything — Lydia, you haven’t received any, uh, premonitions, have you?” 

“Good point,” Chris says, looking up expectantly. 

Lydia shakes her head. She’s been working on her own supernatural skills since Peter found a book that is helping her find out more about her heritage, and she has her visions mostly under control. It’s rare that she wakes up screaming without preparation lately. She’s able to identify when a premonition is coming on to ensure she’s somewhere safe. She’s also worked on restricting her visions to the cases she’s involved in; some unrelated visions of death still plague her dreams, but they’re less frequent now. 

“Nothing yet,” she says. “I can look into dream scrying later. I saw something in a book the other day, simply haven’t had time or cause to investigate.” 

“Dream scrying?” Chris asks. 

“Like the visions, but more directed?” Stiles guesses. 

“Premonitions with intent,” Lydia agrees. 

Chris hums, then nods. “If that’s something you’re able to work on.” At Lydia’s nod, he glances around the table. “Anything else? If not, I need to speak with the sheriff.” 

When the team doesn’t have anything else to add, he leaves. Stiles pulls out a tablet, clicking on the maps app. At his side, Danny does the same on his computer. “Okay, if I was a creepy cougar, where would I be…” 

The team is about to call it for the night, all the local hotels and nearby long-term rentals with night hours contacted, when Derek’s phone rings. He frowns at the unknown number before answering. “Hello?”

The voice on the other end of the call takes a moment to respond, and when it does, it’s soft, timid. “Is this — is this Agent Hale?” 

“Speaking,” Derek says. At his side, Peter makes a face that Derek knows means his uncle is annoyed at Derek’s lack of manners, so he stands. He points over his shoulder to the door in explanation when Chris and Stiles look his way. “One moment, let me just step outside.” 

“Okay.” The voice is still soft. He doesn’t recognize it. 

Derek quickly weaves through the main area of the sheriff’s station, waving at the one deputy still at his desk. Jordan Parrish is the only deputy that Stiles’ dad read into the situation, since they’re trying to keep the supernatural nature of this case as covert as possible. 

Not seeing the phone pressed to his ear, Parrish tilts his head in greeting, leaning back in his chair. “Anything Cottage Grove’s finest can help you with, Agent Hale?” 

“No, thanks, I gotta take a call real quick, that’s all,” Derek says, gesturing to the phone. 

Parrish grimaces. “My bad.” 

Derek dismisses his apology and pushes through the door to the outside. “Sorry,” he repeats once he’s outside. “How can I help you?” When there’s no response, he looks at his screen to make sure the call is still going. “Hello?” 

“Agent Hale, you, uh, you said I could call. ” The speaker is male, and now that Derek can hear him better, he can tell he’s not just timid; he’s scared.

Derek glances around the mostly empty parking lot, trying to recall who he’d recently given said permission. “I apologize, you’ll need to remind me. Did I leave a card with you? Is this regarding a case?” 

“I.. yeah. It’s Carlos Romero. From, uh — Washington?” 

Derek’s mind sharpens as he remembers. Carlos Romero. The younger Romero brother who he’d only seen for a moment back in Seattle before Casey, the older brother and new Alpha of their tiny pack, had slammed the door in their faces. The guilt that he and Peter had smelled then — that was his, in the same way that Nick Price smelled guilty when he lied about recognizing Kate. 

Because Carlos knew who had burned his family alive. 

“Carlos. Thank you for calling,” he says. He wishes someone else was out here that he could pass this call over to, someone with more people skills. “I know — I know it must be hard.” 

Carlos lets out the barest hint of a wry, painful laugh . “Yeah.” 

They sit in silence for a moment. Derek wracks his mind for how to start the conversation because clearly Carlos can’t. Derek knows so much more now than they did when they were in Seattle just five days ago. He decides to address it head-on. The kid probably spent days working up the nerve to call; Derek doesn’t need to make him confess. “We know who started the fire.” 

“You — you do? You figured it out? You, did she — you know?” 

Derek swallows. “Yes. You weren’t the only one she did…what she did, to you.” 

He can hear Carlos’ throat click over the line. “She — she said she wanted to meet me out in the woods, at our normal spot. But then I got there, and she wasn’t there — and then, then the bonds, they started breaking, and I — I knew —” His voice cracks, like he’s back to sixteen all over again. 

“I’m sorry,” Derek murmurs, for lack of anything else to say. It’s inadequate. 

“Casey was only safe ‘cause he was at school,” Carlos whispers . “He found me in the woods the next day, right where she left me. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t leave.” He sniffs, and Derek’s heart tightens in his chest.  “ He’s my Alpha now. He became an Alpha at eighteen. Wasn’t supposed to. Supposed to be our sister. He hates me, you know. Hates me for it.” 

Derek thinks of the way Casey had stood protectively in front of Carlos when he answered the door last week. “I’m sure he doesn’t —” 

“It’s all my fault — how can he not? I got them killed, I —” Carlos breaks off into a heaving sob. 

“It’s not your fault,” Derek says. But who is he to convince Carlos of that? No platitudes are going to make up for his loss, for the guilt he feels. He scans the parking lot again, then tilts his head back to look at the sky.  There are no answers there, either. “We’re gonna get her. We will. I know — I know nothing can get your pack back, but I can promise you that she’s never going to do this to anyone again.” 

“How? How can you be sure?” 

“We know who she is, where she is. We’re in the same town as her, closing in now,” Derek assures him. It’s the least he can do. “We’re going to get her, soon. We’ll hold her responsible for everything she’s done. I promise.”  

Carlos breathes heavily on the line for a moment . “Why?” he asks, voice small. 

“Because it’s what she deserves — she’s the one to blame, the one who —” 

“No, I mean why? Why did she do it?” His voice breaks. 

Derek sighs. “Because she’s cruel. Because she hates people like you, and like me. Because there’s a reason that your pack taught you to hide who you are, even though there’s nothing wrong with being a werewolf. And that reason is terrible people like her.”  

“I thought…I thought it was me. That there was something wrong, that I could be so easily tricked, that I —” 

Derek shakes his head, even though Carlos can’t see. “No. She’s a professional. It’s not your fault. It was never your fault.” He can practically hear how unconvinced Carlos is through the silence that echoes in his ear.  “Look — we really are getting close. We’re in town with her right now. We should have her in custody within the week. I’ll let you know when we do.” It’s not exactly procedure, but he’s not going to hold Carlos from any kind of closure. “Then, after, we can get you in contact with someone who can help, if you’re interested.” 

“Maybe,” Carlos says. Behind him, Derek hears a door open, and a greeting calls from whoever just arrived. Carlos rushes to add , “I, uh, I gotta go.”  

H swallows. “Okay. Thank you, again, for calling.” 

“Yeah.” The call ends with a click. 

Derek lets out a long breath before heading back inside to update the team. He keeps his phone out as he pushes back inside. He sends a message to his mom. If anyone can find a trauma therapist on the West Coast in the know about the supernatural, it’ll be her. 

Chapter Text

NOW 

“I just want you to know that this feels highly unfair,” Stiles complains. He shifts in place where he’s standing outside the Cottage Grove Sheriff’s Department, hair still mussed from sleep. Lydia will probably make him fix that before they meet with anyone. She’s been known to carry around hair gel for just that purpose. 

Derek huffs a laugh, then shakes his head. “We’ll be fine without you.” 

“Of course you will,” Stiles says. “But that’s not the problem. The problem is that I want to meet the Medina Alpha too, and I’m pretty sure Chris isn’t letting me come just because I mentioned at breakfast that I wanted to ask about my friend.” 

“So it has nothing to do with the fact that he’s got six places on your list to check for suspects this morning?” 

Stiles scoffs. “Nope.” 

“Of course not.” Derek glances over Stiles’ shoulder. Lydia is behind the wheel of one of the SUVs, and she taps at her wrist meaningfully. “Go on — the principal at the high school is putting aside her before-school meetings for you guys. Don’t want to make her late.” 

“Time was I relished ruining a principal’s day,” Stiles grumbles. But he leans in to press a kiss to Derek’s lips before turning to the car. 

Derek watches as they pull out from the parking lot before going inside. Alpha Medina and his second will be arriving shortly. Only Derek, Peter, and Chris are meeting with him; it doesn’t make sense to waste all six of the team on one meeting when they could be completing other important tasks. While they’re meeting with Medina, Stiles and Lydia are off to check for recent hires at the local schools, churches, a community center, and a few other youth-popular locations. Meanwhile, Danny is working with Deputy Parrish to comb through the town’s video surveillance files. 

When Alpha Medina and his second, a younger sister, arrive fifteen minutes later, Derek, Peter, and Chris are already in the conference room. The sheriff brings the Medinas in before taking a seat at the head of the table. Chris introduces himself, as does Peter, before Derek reaches across the table to shake Alpha Medina’s hand. 

“Derek Hale,” he introduces, then shakes the second’s hand. 

“Of the Hale pack,” Alpha Medina notes under his breath. Then, louder so that the humans can hear, “I’m Ivan Medina, and this is my sister, Adriana.” They take a seat across from the BAU team members. 

“Thank you for joining us,” John says. As the only one who both sides trust, he’s there to play mediator if necessary.  

“You said there was a threat?” Medina asks, blunt and to the point. His arms are crossed defensively over his chest. 

John nods, then defers to the team. “I’ll have them explain.” 

Having discussed this earlier, Derek and Peter sit back as Chris begins to speak. “We’re here in pursuit of an arsonist. She’s —” he glances to the side, then soldiers on, “a Hunter.” 

The reaction is immediate, both of the Medinas tensing in their seats. “A Hunter?” Medina’s eyes flash red. “So the government knows about werewolves? Since when is that —” 

“They don’t,” Peter interrupts. “It just so happens that our... own natures became relevant to the case at hand, and we decided to be honest with our team.” 

“As it happens, I was aware of the supernatural before joining the BAU,” Chris explains. “But only our team knows. We haven’t informed anyone else, and we don’t plan to.” 

Medina’s eyes flit from Chris’ chest, where he’s clearly listening for the heartbeat of a liar, to the sheriff. “And you already knew.” 

John opens his hands over the table. “I’ve mentioned that my son is supernaturally inclined.” 

“Back when the McCalls, hmm, yes.” Medina looks back to Chris. “Well, Sheriff Stilinski has proven himself to be nothing but trustworthy when it comes to law enforcement and the protection of my pack. I suppose if he vouches for you, I can be willing to listen.” 

“I appreciate your trust,” Chris says. 

“So this Hunter,” Adriana says, straight and to the point, “they’re an arsonist? And you think they’re coming after us?” 

“We’re positive,” Derek says. “She’s attacked four other packs.” 

Both of the wolves across the table frown. “How haven’t we heard of this?” Adriana asks. 

“Because she’s smart,” Peter says bluntly. “She attacked packs with few alliances, made sure to keep her kills spread out so that Council members wouldn’t make connections.” 

“And you think she’s after my pack?” Medina says.  

“Yes,” Chris confirms. 

“How do you know?” 

Peter and Chris exchange a look, and Derek does not envy them the task of tactfully breaking the news. After a moment of silent conversation, Peter nods, then turns back to Alpha Medina. 

“One of the ways that we identify serial killers is through their M.O. — their modus operandi, or particular method of doing things.” 

“So, arson,” Adriana says. 

Peter lifts a finger. “Yes, but it’s more specific than that. An unsub’s M.O. could entail the form of attack, the type of person they target, the methods used to interact with their targets before they complete the murder, or a variety of other components.” 

Medina frowns. “She interacted with the packs before she killed them?” 

Peter nods. “And we believe she has plans to interact with yours if she hasn’t already.” 

Both of the Medinas look concerned, and Adriana furrows her brow. “You said the ‘type of target,’ — do you just mean werewolves?” 

“Not exactly,” Peter says. Derek watches as he swallows, scent reeking of discomfort, before adding, “Based on the victimology — the type of people she’s targeted thus far — we were able to narrow down to your pack because of who, specifically, you have in it.” 

Alpha Media glances at Adriana. “What, because many of us are of Mexican descent? Is that —” 

Peter shakes his head. “Michael,” he says brusquely, and Medina stops short. 

“Michael. My son, Michael,” he says, nonplussed. “She’s after my son?” 

Peter nods. 

Derek tries not to flinch as Medina’s anger, fear, and disgust bloom, his eyes flashing as he makes the connection. “But she — a Hunter — he’s only sixteen.” 

“Yes, we know,” Chris says. “That’s why she does it.” 

“That’s despicable,” Medina seethes. He stands abruptly, pushing back from the table. His instincts are clearly telling him to leave, to secure his child, his pack, as quickly as possible. Both Derek and Peter stand as well. 

Peter reaches out a hand. “It is. That’s why we need to catch her.” 

“If she’s after us, after him — I have to —” 

“We don’t think she’s made contact with him yet,” Derek says, trying to get out any information that will soothe the Alpha as quickly as possible. “In all other cases, she’s taken her time to get involved in the community first.” 

“But what if she didn’t this time?” Adriana asks. “We’re not willing to risk our pup for that.” 

“We’re not asking you to,” Chris says. He’s still sitting, the picture of calm, though his scent betrays his own feelings of frustration. “We want him safe as soon as possible.” 

“We want all of you safe,” Derek adds. “And we want to catch her before she can do this to any other child or other pack, ever again.” 

“This team, the BAU, they’re not going to endanger your son,” John says. 

Medina looks between them all for a long moment before sitting back down. 

“Perhaps one of you could check in on him now, if that would make you feel better,” John suggests.

At Medina’s nod, Adriana pulls out her phone, presumably to send Michael a text. It’s just past 8:00 am on a week day; Derek assumes Michael will be at or on his way to the school right now. 

As Adriana types, Medina leans forward with a sigh. He crosses his arms on the table. “What can we do?” 

“We’d like to speak to him,” Chris says. “After school, perhaps? Or at lunch.”  

Medina frowns. “You’re asking to speak to a minor.” 

Derek understands his reticence. If it was a younger pack member of his, he’d be just as protective. “And we’ll treat him as the minor he is. It won’t be an interrogation.” 

“And you are more than welcome to be there with him,” Peter adds. “In fact, we encourage it.” 

“It’ll be done by the books,” John confirms. “Well, as by the books as possible when we’re keeping all of this completely off the books, in the interest of protecting your supernatural status.” 

Medina seems to find that acceptable. “I can bring him by after school. Normally on Wednesdays he takes his younger siblings to swim practice, but we’ll pick them up instead.” 

“Thank you,” Chris says. 

“He just pulled up to school,” Adriana says, looking up from her phone. “Got there a little early because Jake had tutoring. His best friend,” she adds for the benefit of the team. “Michael has driven him to school since getting his license.” 

Derek can see as calm washes over Alpha Medina at the news. He feels it as well. For all their doubt that Kate isn’t planning on taking action soon, it’s still a relief to confirm that her latest victim is currently safe. “Is there anything else we can do for you in the meantime?” Medina asks. 

Chris slides a picture of Kate across the table. “This is our subject. Do either of you recognize her?” 

They both shake their heads.

“We can ask the rest of the pack later,” Medina suggests. “If that’s acceptable?” 

Peter says, “That’s ideal. Perhaps a pack meeting this evening, and you’re welcome to circulate her image between the adults of your pack this morning, should that bring you comfort. We’ll keep you informed of any information that we discover. Your safety is our priority.” 

“Thank you,” Medina says. 

Derek lets out a long sigh as the tension diffuses in the room, the Medinas turning to talk to the sheriff. They’re close to getting her. He can feel it. 

Stiles and Lydia are back out that afternoon when they get the call. 

“It’s Chris,” Stiles tells her when he looks down at his phone. They hold each other’s gaze for a moment longer. They know what’s on the other end of the line. 

After talking to the Medina Alpha — and failing to get any information about Scott, Stiles might add — Derek and Peter left the station to visit the hotels still on their list from last night. They reconvened for a quick lunch with Lydia and Stiles before parting ways again around noon, and Lydia and Stiles have continued through the list of potential places where Kate Argent could be an employee, thus far to no avail. 

Right now they’re in the lobby of the local church that the Medina pack sometimes attends, waiting to speak to the youth pastor. It’s half past four in the afternoon, and Chris texted the group chat to let them know Michael Medina and his father had arrived twenty minutes ago. 

“Didn’t take long,” Lydia murmurs. 

Stiles shakes his head and then answers the phone. “Do we have her?” 

“We do.” 

“Good. One second.” Stiles nods at Lydia, then jerks his head toward the door. He starts walking, letting Lydia be the one to wave off the person coming from the back to greet them. 

He pushes out into the afternoon sun. “Okay, we’re outside now. Where is she?” 

Stiles clicks his phone onto speaker as Lydia joins him. Chris answers, “Kelly Anderson. She’s taken up a part-time job at the local aquatic center as a swim instructor.” 

“Does he take lessons there?” 

“No, but the high school team practices there a few times a week. And his twin siblings do take lessons — she teaches them three times a week.” 

There’s silence for a moment as Lydia and Stiles consider that information, before Stiles thinks to ask about the other part of their search. “Any hits on the hotel front?” 

“It’s between Grove Cottages and a Relax Inn. They’re the only ones we haven’t visited in person yet; Danny’s running the guest list for them both, rechecking financials.” 

“Good.” 

“Where do you want us now?” Lydia asks. “We can head back to the station.” 

“Please do,” Chris confirms . “The Hales are on their way to the aquatic center now. They’ll tail her from there to verify where she’s staying against whatever Danny can find.” 

“Got it,” Stiles says. “On our way.” 

He hangs up, and they make their way to the car. 

Three hours later, they know where Kate Argent is staying, and they’ve got a plan in place for the next two days. They review the plan over cartons of Chinese takeout. 

Stiles is not happy about it. 

He snatches the beef lo mein out of his dad's reach before he can get any. “So obviously we know that idea that any MSG is bad for you is just racist bullshit, but Jesus, Dad, you don’t need that on top of the beef and carbs, too.” 

“Was that obvious?” Peter murmurs. “I was not aware that was something we all knew.” 

“Look it up,” Stiles says, pointing his chopsticks at him. “And while you’re at it, don’t let me hear you say that American Chinese food isn’t real Chinese food; it’s a subclass of cuisine that was born on the backs of immigrants who made the most of what they had available to them in the early 1900s.” 

“Noted,” Peter says. “So am I allowed to eat this now, or would you like to continue to berate me for my apparent ignorance?” 

“While that would be fun— ” Stiles starts, then makes a garbled, inarticulate noise, whacking his dad's hand away from where it’d been sneaking toward the egg rolls. “Come on, Der Bear, help me out here.” 

“I’m not going to keep your father from eating what he wants. Especially if you keep calling me that,” Derek grumbles.  

“Good man,” his dad says. 

Stiles glares at Derek. “Suck up.” 

Next to him, Danny opens his mouth, clearly about to snap out an innuendo if the way he’s smirking is anything to go by, when Chris clears his throat. 

“So, are we all clear on the plan?” 

Danny wilts, but nods along with the rest of them as he takes a bite of the rice in front of him. 

“Observe her at the aquatic center tomorrow while the Medinas call Michael and the twins in sick,” Lydia says, daintily picking up a piece of stir-fried tofu. They’ll use the observation to determine her schedule and habits to make sure they know when best to strike.

“And ideally by the end of day tomorrow, we should be able to verify that she’s here alone,” Danny puts in. “I’m meeting with the Relax Inn manager in the morning to get a bug in her room —” 

“—and we’ll take care of car trackers while she’s at work,” Peter says, looking at Derek, who nods. 

“I’ll have the motel cleared out while she’s at work on Friday,” his dad says, “while Stiles —” 

“Makes sure she doesn’t have any wolfsbane on her, yada yada, then we ambush her after work, she won’t know what’s coming for her,” Stiles finishes. 

“Seems simple enough,” his dad says, which — 

“Dad, you realize you just jinxed us, right?” 

He looks at Stiles. “You’re the one that was complaining that you didn’t get to use your, and I quote, ‘necromantic life-sucking’ powers on her.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles says, “but that’s just because I thought it would be fun. Not that I thought the op was too easy. Everybody knows you can’t say something’s going to be easy. That’s just guaranteeing that it’s going to get fucked up.” 

“No need to be so superstitious,” Peter admonishes. 

“But I am a little ‘stitious,” Danny mutters, and Stiles high-fives him for the reference before rolling his eyes at Peter. 

“My necromantic forefathers are rolling over in their graves. Maybe literally. You’re a werewolf and I do magic. Of course I’m going to be superstitious. It comes with the territory.” 

“All of which is to say,” Lydia cuts in, “I believe we are clear on the plan.” 

Stiles narrows his eyes at her interruption, but she just returns to her food, totally unphased. Typical.  

“Good.” Chris nods decisively at the group. “Then, once you’re all done here, feel free to return to our hotel. We’ll start back up in the morning.” 

Derek slips his hand under the table to rest on Stiles’ thigh, just high enough that Stiles turns to look at him. Derek’s already waiting to catch his eyes, and Stiles quirks a grin. It’s not even eight yet. That much time to themselves toward the end of a case? Nearly unheard of. 

His phone buzzes on the table and he glances away from Derek. 

Danny: lol sucks your room is so close to Peters room 

Danny: it’s not just an early night for you and Derek 

Stiles whips his head up. Sure enough, Peter’s also got his hand under the table, and Chris, highly esteemed, unflappable, Director of the BAU, Unit Chief Argent, is blushing.

“Oh, gross.” 

Peter smirks at him. “Something wrong with your lo mein?” 

Stiles glares, then flips to a different text conversation on his phone. His dad is in the room, after all. 

To Peter: you better go to his room tonight not yours

To Peter: nobody needs to hear that

To Peter: I will literally vomit all over you

Reading over his shoulder, Derek just sighs. 

Stiles is waiting on the bed when Derek gets out of the shower that night. He’s reclined against the headboard, eyes dark, watching without words as Derek stills at the foot of the bed, towel wrapped around his waist. 

It’s been a while since they’ve had the time or the energy to do this. Quick handjobs in the shower or before bed are one thing — and Derek’s not complaining about those, about any opportunity to affirm the affection in their relationship — but it’s something else entirely to be able to take their time and enjoy each other. 

It’s something else entirely to get to watch Stiles settle back against the headboard, knees spread, lips bitten, amber eyes heavy-lidded with a gaze that pierces Derek to his core. His cock is hard and flushed between his legs, untouched but for the occasional teasing pass of his fingers. 

It’s a captivating picture. Derek’s cock, already warm and ready from the shower, starts to fill under his towel. 

They’ve been together for more than half a year and it still blows Derek’s mind to think that all this is his for the taking. He could probably trace the map between Stiles’ moles with his eyes closed at this point. Stiles seems to cotton on to his thinking, and maybe he’s a mind reader, or maybe Derek’s just terrible at keeping the want from his expression, because Stiles smirks, slow and sweet and just a little bit wicked. He traces one hand from the mole at the side of his mouth and down, down his neck to another that’s sitting nestled in the curve of his right collarbone. His other hand slips lower to grasp the base of his cock, pulling firmly once before his grip relaxes.  

Derek hardly knows where to look, and Stiles knows it. 

He wants to take his time, wants to savor the relaxation they both feel as they gain assurance in the end of their case drawing near. But he’s not entirely sure Stiles will let him. Not if the way he’s looking at Derek, fire in his gaze and competition in his scent, is anything to go by. 

There’s confidence in his movement as he stretches out one long, lean leg, toes curling toward the end of the bed. He runs a fingertip up his cock, tracing around the head, and he watches as Derek’s eyes follow the movement. He’s smug; he knows he’s got Derek right where he wants him.

Derek drops his towel, putting one knee up on the bed as he leans over just enough so that he can rest his hands on either side of Stiles’ knees. 

“Don’t tease,” Derek rasps, half a growl threading through his words. 

The heady scent of arousal pulses and Stiles’ heartbeat stutters in anticipation as he says, “What are you gonna do about it, big guy?” 

It’s a challenge and a request all at once, and who is Derek to deny him? 

He slips his hands under Stiles’ shins and yanks him flat on the bed, surging forward to straddle him at his waist. Stiles hiccups out a breath at the movement, hands flying toward the comforter at his sides in a natural response. But Derek grabs his wrists before they can land, his hands moving inhumanly fast. He jerks them up and over Stiles’ head before he can so much as stutter out a protest, and wraps both of his wrists in one hand. 

It’s a mirror image of their positioning earlier that day in Stiles’ old bedroom, only Stiles is panting now and there are no clothes to get in the way. 

Derek squeezes his hand around Stiles’ wrists and lifts an eyebrow. 

Stiles tests his grip, like always, and smirks when he finds himself immobile. “That all?”  he asks. His eyes glitter, and Derek wants to bite the smirk off his face. 

He presses down to kiss him, rough and demanding. He thrusts his tongue through the seam of Stiles’ lips, licking through for the taste of him. It’s all mixed up with arousal and joy and challenge and it’s unequivocally Stiles. Derek doesn’t think he could ever get enough. 

Stiles strains his neck up to push back just as hard and hungry because he doesn’t know how to back down. He sucks Derek’s tongue into his mouth, runs his own along Derek’s teeth like he’s searching for fangs. Derek wrestles back control, using his spare hand to grip the back of Stiles’ hair and pull him back down into the mattress. He bites down on Stiles’ lower lip, that tempting thing, tugs at it as rough as he dares, because it’s that or cede control to him for the rest of the night – and that’s not what Derek wants, not tonight.    

When he pulls back moments later, Stiles is breathing heavily, flush high on his face, sweat beginning to dot along his hairline. He meets Derek’s gaze and tugs at his grip. “I’ll let you have one hand,” Derek tells him. “If you think you really need it.” 

Stiles waits for a beat just to make sure Derek is watching as he slides one hand out of Derek’s grasp, trailing it down past his neck. “Maybe I do.” He trails his hand down his chest and his abdomen until he’s walking his fingers down the line of his own cock in a playful tease. Then he wraps his fist around his cock and pulls. His eyelids are heavy and his smirk goading when he says, “If it’s the only way I can get what I want.” 

A growl rumbles out of Derek’s chest at the taunt, at the suggestion that he’s not doing enough. He yanks Stiles’ hand away, pulling it to the back of Derek’s neck. Then he pushes his face back into Stiles’ throat where that perfect smell is strongest. He can feel Stiles’ long fingers grasping at the damp hair at the base of his neck in response. 

He rolls his body over Stiles as he huffs into his neck, pressing their hips together, letting their cocks slide against each other. There’s no lube yet, and just enough pre-come and leftover water droplets from the shower that the movement is tacky, a little rough, a little uncomfortable. Stiles bites his bottom lip between his teeth, holding back what Derek knows is a whine. He’s so stubborn; Derek loves it. He hides his grin in Stiles’ neck, rubbing his stubble on the soft, sensitive skin behind his ear as he inhales deeply. 

Then he bites down on the tendon that runs down the side of his neck to his throat. His teeth are human blunt and he’s careful to not bite hard enough to leave a mark. But it’s enough for Stiles’ pulse to spike, enough to push an involuntary moan out of Stiles’ mouth, for his cock to jump against Derek’s torso.   

Derek pushes up onto his forearm, pulling his head back so he can give Stiles his own smirk. “Oh yeah?” he asks. 

Stiles huffs out a breathy laugh, a fake frown fighting and losing against a grin as he says, “Don’t get any ideas.” 

Derek licks his lips. “Already have some.”

He flashes his eyes, flicking them down toward Stiles’ cock and back, breathing in the way Stiles’ arousal blooms deeper around them. And with that encouragement, it’s enough. He needs more. 

He moves down Stiles’ body, letting his wrist go, but keeping his own hands ready in case he gets any ideas. He licks Stiles’ chest, swirling his tongue around a nipple, then biting gently just to get that breathy response he always does. He traces down the line between his abs, pulled taught as Stiles strains to curve his neck so he can watch. 

When he reaches Stiles’ cock, he drags his tongue up the length of it in one wet, sloppy glide. The taste of Stiles explodes in his mouth and he chases it, groaning. He licks up the side of his cock, not bothering to use his hand to steady it. It’s messy work, constant movement slapping Stiles’ cock up against his abdomen, the head dragging from side to side with the force of Derek’s tongue. 

Stiles whines a little brokenly when Derek doesn’t wrap his lips around him, and one of his hands clenches on nothing in Derek’s peripheral. 

“Don’t like teasing?” he asks, pressing a kiss under the head. “And if those can’t stay out of the way, I can give them somewhere to be.” 

He brings one up to the back of his head, and Stiles obligingly follows with the other. Derek rewards his compliance by sucking Stiles’ cock into his mouth, grasping the base firmly with one hand while pressing the other into Stiles’ hip to keep him pinned to the mattress. He bobs his head up and tightens his lips at the top, running his tongue around the head. 

He sucks there, putting pressure on the bundle of nerves under the head, pulling the taste of precome into his mouth and pulling another whine from Stiles’ throat. Derek’s breath hitches in his throat at the sound, and he pushes back down, fast. 

Stiles’ hands tighten in Derek’s hair, shaking as they form into fists. The shakes aren’t enough to keep him from tightening his grip to the point of pain, but Derek’s not about to object. The pleasure-pain sends a shiver from his head down his neck and he lets the shiver push him forward so he can take Stiles’ cock deeper. Stiles groans when the head of his cock hits the back of Derek’s throat. The sound sends a pulse of want straight to Derek’s cock, and he ruts slowly against the mattress just to take off the edge.

“Oh fuck,” Stiles breathes. “Oh, fuck, Derek.” 

Hearing his name in that breathy voice is perfect. Derek swallows convulsively, throat moving around the head of Stiles’ dick until breathing starts to become difficult and tears prick at his eyes. He holds himself there, the feel of Stiles yanking on his hair and struggling against his grip giving him the boost to hold out a little longer. 

“Shit,” Stiles says, “I’m gonna — I need —  Derek —” 

Derek pulls off with a gasp, yanking air into his lungs and surging up to cover Stiles’ body with his own. He braces one forearm beside Stiles’ head and spits into his other palm. He wraps his hand around Stiles’ cock and there’s enough spit there now that it’s a slick slide. He presses one side of their bodies together, holding him in place and stroking his cock at a punishing pace. 

Stiles jerks under his grasp, free hand scrabbling at Derek’s back and shoulder, blunt nails digging in red lines that will be gone in minutes. “Come on,” Derek groans into his ear, panting hot. He nips at Stiles’ earlobe and twists his wrist at the top of a particularly tight stroke. 

Stiles’ voice is a warning and an affirmation all at once. “Derek —” 

“Come on,” he repeats. “Let go.”

And Stiles does, coming over Derek’s hand and onto his stomach. Derek strokes him through it until Stiles whines at the sensitivity, and then he’s kneeling over Stiles again and jerking himself off in quick, rough strokes. Stiles’ come on his hand slicks the way, wet and perfect and bringing him close in moments. 

“Won’t even —” Stiles mumbles out on an uneven breath, “won’t even give me a second to get a hand in there.”   

Derek shakes his head roughly. The combination of Stiles lying lax and breathless below him, all the fight gone from his body, and the heady scent of his come swirling with the satisfaction pouring from him, is plenty all on its own. Stiles moves a hand up to his stomach and drags it through his come, trailing sticky fingers up his torso. Derek can picture his own come mixing with it and he jerks at the thought. A growl rumbles from his throat. 

Stiles’ gaze goes sharp at the sound and a smirk twists his lips. He brings his hand to his mouth and sucks his pointer finger in, wrapping his lips around it, his eyes hot as he watches Derek work his cock. Derek can feel his fangs itching, pushing at his gums, knows his eyes are flashing. If anything, the sight makes Stiles’ scent twist deeper into arousal. 

“Fuck,” Derek groans out. 

“Maybe after this one,” Stiles says. He scoots back on his arms and sits up, bringing his hands to Derek’s hips as he leans forward. Derek’s hand stills as Stiles draws even with his cock, hot breath teasing at the head when he says, “But I think you’re a little too close now for that, huh?” 

Derek whines, high and animalistic, his fangs bursting out. 

“Yeah, next one,” Stiles murmurs. He nudges at Derek’s cocks with his lips, tongue darting out to lick at the precome welling at the slit. He swirls his tongue around it, just a ghosting flick, then glances up through his lashes in a dare. 

Derek’s breath pushes out of him and he brings one hand to the back of Stiles’ head, holding him firmly against his cock, pressing those lips against the head in a hint of a plea. Stiles smirks, then takes pity and lets Derek feed his cock into his mouth. 

The feel of his mouth all around him is fucking exquisite, just like always. His hips jerk into the sensation, but not so much that Stiles gags on the movement. He balls his hand into a fist in the back of Stiles’ hair and lets him take charge, lets him guide Derek’s hips forward, pushing his cock deeper. 

His lips kiss Derek’s hand where they hold the base, then he’s pulling back, tongue swirling as he moves. Derek releases a shaky breath and tilts his head up, closing his eyes, trying to push back the orgasm he can feel welling up inside, sparking up his spine. 

Stiles seems determined to test his control, his lips tightening,  bottom lip flexing, pulsing against the bundle of nerves under the head of his cock as he sucks hard before pushing back down. Derek’s grip tightens in his hair and he can smell the satisfaction pulsing from Stiles; he knows that Derek’s close, that he’s the one putting him there, and he loves it. 

Stiles’ fingers dig into Derek’s hips and he pulls back again. “Come on, big guy,” he murmurs. “Mark me up.” He tongues at Derek’s cock, then pulls sharply at his hips, nails digging into his ass. “Look at me, Derek, come on.” 

Derek gives in and opens his eyes to look down at him. The sight alone almost does him in. Stiles’ lips, always perfect, are red and swollen where they stretch around his cock, and he’s blinking his big brown eyes up at him through wet, tacky lashes. Derek’s on his knees, just barely higher than him, and it’s not an act of submission until it is, until Stiles pulls back again and bares his throat and Derek can’t hold it back any longer. 

He hunches forward, coming in thick stripes that paint across Stiles’ jaw and throat.  It slides down the side of his neck, pooling in the divot of his collarbone as Stiles holds him steady through each pulse. A lone drop slips further down and Derek leans in, pushing Stiles back onto the bed, nosing at his throat. The smell of him, of them — he’s mindless and lust drunk as he reaches up, drags his fingers through his come, swipes it down until he reaches what’s left of Stiles’ come on his stomach. 

He smears them together, reveling in their combined scents. He knows his mouth is open as he pants hotly into Stiles’ neck, but can’t bring himself to care, even if Stiles will laugh at him later. It’s better this way — it’s that taste and smell combination, the way he can taste Stiles’ joy and affection and attraction all mixed up in the primal scent of their release. 

It’s perfect. He could stay right here for hours. 

Stiles only allows it for a few moments before he’s twisting underneath Derek, shoving at his shoulder. Derek lets himself be rolled over, though he keeps himself close, keeps an arm and a leg wrapped around Stiles’ body, barely pulling back enough to put space between his face and Stiles’ neck. He knows the smile on his face is big and dumb as he looks Stiles, but he can’t help it. 

“You’re ridiculous, you know that?” Stiles asks, turning to look at him. 

Derek shrugs. “You don’t mind.” 

"Some might even say I like it.” Stiles smiles back at him, loose-limbed, calm, and happy, before he taps at Derek’s thigh. “Now get off, big guy. I see you conveniently managed to keep yourself mostly clean, but I am in need of a washcloth. Or maybe a shower.” 

Derek moves off of him, pulling his limbs back to himself with only a moment of hesitation so Stiles can get out of bed. He watches him walk into the bathroom. 

He listens as the water kicks on and nuzzles his head down into the pillow, breathing Stiles’ scent deep into his lungs. He feels a little floaty, relaxed, like he’s exactly where he needs to be. He allows himself to settle into the feeling, his eyes drifting closed. 

He’s just alert enough to crack his eyes open when Stiles slips back into bed a few minutes later, turning the lamp off as he gets in. He pulls Stiles close, slotting his body comfortably behind him, one hand over his chest. 

Which is why he feels it, rather than hears it, when Stiles starts to laugh. 

“What,” he grumbles. 

“Think I got it,” Stiles whispers back, all cheek and amusement. 

Derek waits him out. 

“Notice what you didn’t object to?” Stiles asks. “Or were you too chemosignal drunk to pick up on it?” 

Derek considers asking another follow-up, then decides it’s not worth it. “Go to sleep, Stiles.” 

“Fine,” Stiles says, and Derek can still hear the grin. “But just wait, I’ll try it outside of the bedroom, then you’ll see.” 

“Sleep, Stiles,” Derek repeats. He runs his hand down Stiles’ torso possessively before settling it back at the center of his chest, just over his heart. 

Stiles shifts in his seat, taking a sip from his water bottle as he stares out the windshield of the SUV. “Do you think she even has a license to teach kids how to swim?” 

Lydia doesn’t look up from where she has her nose buried in a book. “I thought we had agreed you wouldn’t interrupt me and I wouldn’t interrupt you.” 

“Yeah, but.” Stiles casts around for any excuse that isn’t that he just hates stakeouts and sometimes needs to talk to stay awake. Even though it’s eleven in the morning and he’s already downed his fourth cup of coffee. “It’s about the case?” 

Lydia sighs, slipping her finger into the book as she tilts the heavy, brocade cover closed. It’s one from Talia’s library. While it’s standard for there to be two agents on duty during a stakeout, should anything with the suspect happen, they both don’t need to spend all of their time staring at the single entrance to the Cottage Grove Aquatic Center. They’ve settled on mini fifteen-minute shifts, just short enough to ensure they (read: Stiles) can keep necessary focus. While one watches, they’ve decided to use the downtime to study more of the books from Talia’s library. 

Stiles didn’t pick up any on banshees while he was there, but Lydia’s never going to turn down the opportunity to learn. She’s currently picking through a first-hand account that they think details what may have been the result of someone with necromantic powers influencing the Bubonic plague in the 1400s. 

 Stiles is reading a grimoire from a necromancer who lived with her revived husband in New England in the early twentieth century. It’s pretty crazy — it’s way more palatable than the Book of the Dead he’s been working with that Peter got him a few months ago; some of the spells are even in English, instead of Latin. And they’re so cool. There’s one she called ‘Hands of the Dead’ which summons a corporeal ghost if spelled in the presence of their killer, and another she created herself called ‘Death’s Last Dance’ which straight up just makes skeletons bust a move. 

Stiles sort of wishes he could talk to her; she sounds like his kind of person. Huh. Maybe there’s a spell for that. 

Lydia snaps her fingers in front of Stiles to get his attention. Whoops, and after he distracted her. “Kate does have a license,” she says once he’s looking at her. “You know Danny found one on file for her.” 

“But do you think it’s real?” Stiles counters. “It’s just weird, you know, to think about a serial killer teaching tiny babies how to float.” 

That’s the class she’s teaching right now — well, it’s almost over, she’ll have a lunch break soon — an infant swim class. Baby’s First Float or something. 

Lydia shrugs. “I’m sure she’s perfectly fine handling infants and children as long as they’re human.” 

“Though just being related to werewolves is enough to die for,” Stiles points out, thinking of the human relatives who had died in the Miller, Hooper, and Romero fires. 

Lydia grimaces. “Valid point.” 

Stiles is about to respond when his phone vibrates with a text message where it’s sitting on the dashboard. He pulls it down and tilts it so he can read the screen, then frowns. “Why is Cora Hale asking me about my preferred wild game meat?” 

Lydia huffs a laugh, which is why Stiles finds it hard to believe when she says, “I’ve no idea.” 

He eyes her dubiously, then types out: I’ve never really had much beyond venison, why? 

“Since when do you text Cora Hale?” 

Stiles presses send and gives Lydia a narrowed look. “Since I woke up this morning and found a message from her. She must’ve snuck my phone away from me and added her number when we were there the other day. Don’t know when she could’ve managed that.” 

“Probably when you were off your ass drunk,” Lydia tells him. 

He blows a raspberry. “I was hardly —” 

“You tripped and managed to knock both Derek and his dad’s beer bottles off the table in one go, then claimed it was intentional.” 

“What, are you trying to say that’s abnormal for me? Besides—” He increases the skepticism in his expression, channeling his inner Der-glare, “— don’t think I didn’t see that message from one Laura Hale on your phone just a few minutes ago, you hypocrite.” 

Lydia sniffs imperiously. “She’s a useful contact to have, as the future Alpha of the Hale Pack. They’re very influential in the supernatural community, you know.” 

He scoffs. “Yeah, and I also know you and Miss Alpha-in-Training were the last to bed that night.” Before she can deny it, or come up with some other bullshit excuse, he adds, “Peter and Derek both told me. And don’t think you can pass that off as ‘research’ or ‘networking’.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Lydia denies, but she’s smiling as she looks away, back out the window. 

Stiles’ phone buzzes again, and he looks down. 

Lame, Cora’s next message reads, followed by : you’re going to make this whole courting process so boring. And here I thought Der had finally found someone to make him less of a stick in the mud.

“Courting?” he mumbles. “What? Hey, do you have any idea —” 

“Unsub exiting the building,” Lydia interrupts, and Stiles switches over to the team chat app to let them know that she’s leaving during her lunch break. 

They watch as Kate Argent makes her way to the car she’s driving, a nondescript, beaten-up little green hatchback. Ideal for subterfuge in the Pacific Northwest. She waves at one of her coworkers with a casual, easy smile, getting in her car and starting it immediately. She turns out onto the main road, heading south.

In the driver’s seat, Lydia starts the SUV, waiting to pull out of the parking lot across the street from the aquatic center until two cars have passed. 

They tail her from a safe distance to a fast-food restaurant a few streets away. When she pulls into the drive-thru lane, Lydia keeps driving, turning onto the next cross street. 

“Did you see the coffee shop?” Lydia asks, pulling to the side of the road as soon as they’ve turned. 

Stiles nods. There’s one just across the street from the restaurant — he can watch Kate from there instead of from in the SUV. There aren’t any cars parked along the street across from the restaurant: if they park the SUV there, it’s more likely that she’ll notice when it follows her. She’s probably just going to head straight back to the aquatic center after grabbing lunch, since she has another class in less than an hour, but they wanna keep eyes on her all the same. 

“Clocked it,” he says, taking off his seat belt. “What can I get you? It’s still before noon, so —” 

“—so get me my regular,” she tells him. 

He gives her a lazy salute before hopping out of the car and jogging back to the coffee shop. Once inside, he checks Kate’s position — there are still three cars in front of her before the order window: he’s good on time. 

He waits for his order, watching through the window. Derek and Peter put a tracker on her car this morning, and Danny’s got surveillance on the motel, a microphone bug in her room. They’ll keep watch to establish her patterns and pick up any extra evidence today, and then tomorrow it’ll be go time. 

They’ll get her. They will. 

Chapter Text

NOW 

Lydia wakes in a dream, sitting in the passenger seat of one of the team’s SUVs. She doesn’t stay there long as the car skids to a halt. An icy, visible darkness swirls around her, thick and viscous, through the car and out the door. Her body moves her out of the car, and then she’s running. 

Her feet pound on the asphalt in complete silence. She pushes through the tendrils of dream smoke-smog that curl up around her as she sprints. There’s a hook in her chest pulling her forward, the tell of her powers manifesting in premonition form.  

She has a gun in her hands, and anxiety pooling low in her gut. Her breath is heavy as it bursts from her mouth, and there’s the sound of thudding footfalls next to her, the shadowy form of someone running at her side. In the distance she can hear shouting — she strains to recognize the voices that echo in reverberating waves, sending pain, fear, and anger like a shockwave, all around and through her. 

As the voices grow closer, more distinct, an eerie light begins to emanate in the distance, illuminating the scene in fuzzy silhouettes. Five human forms move in violent strokes across her sight, a raging, vicious dance that’s sharp and pointed. They dodge between larger forms, maybe cars, fury and fear in every motion. She can’t tell who’s fighting who — until one person charges toward another and suddenly her perspective has flipped and she’s standing right next to Kate Argent, watching her raise a gun and fire. 

When Lydia looks left, it’s as though the bullet is moving in slow motion in front of her face, a blinding path through the air that flies true. 

The bullet hits its target. 

A gut-punched breath explodes from the mouth of a man Lydia doesn’t recognize. Dark hair and tan skin are all she has time to see before he’s collapsing to his knees on the pavement and another person is rushing him, a half-second too late to catch him as he falls. 

Cold, dark shadows twist around them, obscuring their faces even as the second person tilts their head back and screams. 

Lydia wakes with her own matching scream. 

“They should have everything ready before we get there, right?” 

“Right,” Derek confirms from beside him. The early morning sun breaks across his cheekbones, and Stiles wishes for a moment that they weren’t in a car, because he kind of wants to bite at them. Or rub his face all over them. “We’re just the extra chaperone on their way to the safe house.” 

They’re currently driving to the Medina’s pack house. The pack called all of their kids in sick to school today so that they can take them to a secured location that Chris helped arrange an hour away from Cottage Grove. Although the team’s plan is solid and they’re hoping the extra precautions they take this afternoon will prevent Lydia’s premonition from coming true, nobody wants to take any chances with the kids. 

“Good, ‘cause I don’t wanna be responsible for kids,” Stiles says. His hands fidget on the steering wheel. “Yuck.” He can practically hear Derek’s raised eyebrow, so he quickly adds, “I mean, god, children are terrifying. Evil. And also sometimes ridiculously gross. You can’t tell me you don’t know what I mean. You know? It’s like, okay, listen — I’m just glad the pack is responsible for them, and we don’t have to be the ones wrangling their little…cretins.” 

Derek snorts. “Tell me how you really feel.” 

Stiles huffs as he pauses at a stoplight. “Dude, once my brain developed enough to look critically back on the days when I had no impulse control? I called my dad that night and told him I’d spend my first BAU paycheck on his therapy.” 

“Not all kids are like you.” 

“No kid is like me,” Stiles pops back reflexively. Then he squints because that actually doesn’t support his point at all. “I just — how do you know how to talk to them?” 

“You talk to them like they’re people. Since that’s what they are.” 

Stiles scoffs. “False. Everyone under the age of 18 is an alien.” 

“I’m constantly learning new things about you,” Derek says drily. 

Stiles darts a look at him, suddenly concerned, but Derek’s looking down at his lap with that dumb fond grin he’s taken to sending Stiles’ way, so Stiles can’t have fucked up too badly. He turns back to the road. “I’m not offending your lupine sensibilities, am I? You don’t have any kind of wolf-driven instincts to, I don’t know, find a mate and breed, have a huge litter of, uh — I feel like if I say ‘pups’ you’re liable to punch me.” 

“Thinking about doing that anyway,” Derek says. He sounds strangled. 

“What, was it the breeding comment? Or the litter thing? That may have been pushing it too, I know you love my dog jokes. Yip yip, Boston terrier.” Stiles grins as he follows the GPS’s directions toward the Medina’s house. He’s pretty sure that if he had Derek’s nose, it would be flooded with mortification right now. “Hey, that reminds me, I was wondering— what does embarrassment smell like?” 

“As terrible as you’d imagine.” 

“Not really an answer, but I’ll take it.” The GPS tells them that their destination will be on their right, and Stiles decides to let Derek off the hook. “Did we get anything from Lydia?” 

Before they left the sheriff’s station a few minutes ago, Lydia had been working through photos, trying to find a match for the man she’d seen in her vision. She’s already gone through every person in the Medina’s pack and spent time on a call with a few of the Medina pack members to see if it was anyone they recognized. No luck. Now she’s moved on to working with Danny and Deputy Parrish on town residents. 

Derek glances down at his phone. “No, nothing yet.” 

“Damn.” 

A moment later, Stiles turns the SUV down onto a long gravel driveway. He follows it through the forest until they reach the front of the pack house. Several cars are parked out front, either on the pavement or parked off to the side on grass gone half-dead with frequent use. Two of the cars are loaded up with what looks like pillows and suitcases. The trunk on a crossover is still lifted. Stiles pulls in beside it and he and Derek get out, walking to the front door. 

Derek rings the doorbell while Stiles hangs back, hands in his pockets. He glances around the front yard. Children’s toys are scattered about, and there’s a basketball hoop attached to the garage. A crisp autumn breeze rolls through the air, bringing early morning bird song to his ears. Forest extends in all directions in what should be a safe, isolated environment.  Kate’s managed to turn it into a death trap. He shivers. 

While he’s still studying the property, the front door opens, and he hears Derek give a greeting. Stiles turns and takes a step forward right as the person at the door responds. 

“Hi, Agent Hale, we’re glad to — Stiles?” 

“Holy fucking shit,” Stiles exclaims. There is a small child poking their head around Scott fucking McCall’s knees, but Stiles can’t bring himself to stop the words flowing from his mouth because, again, Scott fucking McCall. In the Medina pack house. “ Since when are you in a freaking werewolf pack? Oh my god, how did I forget that my dad name-dropped you when we showed up?” He turns and slaps the back of his hand against Derek’s shoulder. “How could you let me forget that this morning?” 

Derek doesn’t even bother to respond. 

“Since when did you know what freaking werewolves are?” Scott shoots back. 

“Uncle Scott?” the kid says timidly. “I thought you weren’t supposed to say that.” 

He winces and pats her head. “Go see if your dad is ready, Carmen.” 

Stiles feels a little bit like he’s having a stroke. He’s seen Scott a few times since he left for college, and then settled into his job, but only on the rare occasion when he was in town and his dad had the McCalls over; they haven’t exactly kept in touch. They’d been growing apart since their sophomore year of high school if Stiles is being honest. Around the same time Stiles’ powers manifested, Scott got his first girlfriend, and suddenly brotime was neither of their priorities. “You have a niece?” 

“I have a pack,” Scott retorts. “Uncle is like, an honorary title or whatever, dude. I think that’s how packs work?” He squares his shoulders. “Or would you like to tell me more about what packs are supposed to be like, since you know about werewolves.” 

“I know about more than werewolves,” Stiles responds, then winces. Goddamn his instinctual need to respond to accusations with attitude.

“Yeah, your dad told me —” 

“My dad told you?” 

“Yeah, he’s actually told me a lot! You know, at the weekly dinner I have with him!” 

Stiles narrows his eyes and flails expansively. “It’s not my fault I don’t live here anymore.” He ignores the fact that he’s entirely responsible for his own decisions to move away from Cottage Grove, join the FBI, yada yada, now is not the time for logical arguments. “What did he tell you?” 

“Only that you’re like, magic, dude. And have been since high school? Which like, what the fuck?” Now Scott’s the one flailing an arm out in question. 

“Sorry that I didn’t know how to tell you that I found out I could talk to ghosts and sometimes accidentally murdered all the plants in the neighborhood! It was kind of a difficult time!” Stiles protests. It’s possible he’s yelling. 

“Well I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you I got bit by a rogue werewolf last year before Medina took me in!” Scott yells back. “It was also kind of a difficult time!” 

“Yeah, well —” Stiles struggles for a response to that, but finds none. “Shit. I’m sorry. I am.” 

“Yeah, I know,” Scott says, then he smirks. “I can hear when you lie now.” 

“Hell yeah you can,” Stiles says, grinning. “You supernatural badass, you.” He shakes his head. “It happened before last Christmas, right? I shoulda known there was something weird about how bulky you were when I saw you.” 

“Hey,” Scott protests, “I could’ve totally gained those muscles on my own.” 

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Right, and I totally didn’t carry around a spare inhaler for you all through high school.” 

“Childhood asthma can go away by itself,” Scott grumbles. 

“But yours didn’t.” 

“No, mine didn’t.” 

They stand there, staring at each other for a moment, just grinning. 

Derek clears his throat. 

“Right, sorry, my bad, man,” Scott says. He takes a step backward into the house. “Come on, Alpha Medina is in the kitchen. We’re about ready to head out.” 

“Thank you,” Derek says. As he follows Scott inside, he brushes past Stiles and gently squeezes his arm. 

Stiles closes the door behind him. He’s halfway down the hall when Scott pauses and shoots a look back at him. 

“Seriously though,” Scott says. “How the hell did you resist making a Sixth Sense reference when you figured out that you saw dead people?” 

“Dude, biggest challenge of my life.” 

When they get to the safe house two hours later, Derek and Stiles get out of the car first to check to make sure that everything is in place. Chris and Peter came by earlier to set everything up, but there’s no harm in double-checking. 

From the way that Alpha Medina’s mate, Lucia, smells of gratitude, over the low-grade burn of fear that’s been pervasive throughout their whole pack since they found out about the threat, she appreciates the precaution. 

Once they’ve done their sweeps, Derek steps out onto the porch to wave them in. The kids spill out of the cars. Michael and his cousin Amara are only a little more graceful than his younger siblings, who tumble over each other as they sprint to enter the house first. 

Stiles takes a quick step backward as they blur toward him. His eyes are wide. Once they’re through the door, he points at Derek. “Say nothing,” he hisses, then stalks toward the crossover. Derek smirks at the tiny hint of fear in his scent. Stiles faces down serial killers on a monthly basis, but two charging children are enough to give him pause. 

“Everything’s in order,” Stiles tells Alpha Medina. 

Medina looks at Derek, who nods to confirm. “Only fresh scents are from our team. All the security is in place.” 

From behind him, Derek can hear the twins squealing as they jump up onto the couch in the main living room, then promptly springboard off in another direction. One collides with…something. Okay, maybe Stiles isn’t entirely wrong about children being terrifying. 

“Thank you for accompanying us,” Lucia says as she gets out of the car. She goes to the back of the crossover to open it. 

“Can we help?” Stiles offers. He winks at her as he lifts one arm in a dramatized flex, saying, “I know these bad boys can’t hold a candle to your husband’s muscles, or like, yours, whoops sorry about the casual sexism, but hey — I could absolutely carry your pillows in for you.” 

Lucia and a few of the other adults chuckle, and Derek bites down a smile of his own. Stiles is just so… great at helping to dissipate tension. At least when he isn’t in an interrogation room. Then he’s an absolute interview-ending, offense-causing disaster. 

Scott gives Derek a wry smile as he passes a moment later, following the children in with their backpacks. He glances back at Stiles, who is now being loaded down with pillows. Though Scott’s greeting at the pack house earlier had been filled with genuine hurt, his scent had evened out into contentment quickly. Derek’s pretty sure he’ll be seeing a lot more of Scott in the future. “Got a good one there,” he comments softly. 

“I know,” Derek says. And he does. He really does. 

He goes to the cars to help them unload. It only takes one trip before the adults have everything inside, and Derek is soon back outside, getting ready to leave. 

“— I don’t know what he told you,” comes Stiles’ voice, and Derek turns to watch him come outside. “I think your Uncle Scott is a lying liar who lies.” 

He’s shadowed by two waist-height children and Scott. Derek smirks. 

“No, he’s not!” protests one of the kids. “He doesn’t lie to us!” 

“I’d never,” Scott confirms. He’s got a smirk of his own on his face, which widens when he sees Derek. 

“So you can’t really do magic?” the other kid asks. Carmen? She extends her lip in an exaggerated pout. 

“I can do magic!” Stiles defends. He pauses next to Derek as they step through the doorway onto the porch. 

“So Uncle Scott wasn’t lying!” she says. 

“Well, no, he —” 

“Can you show us?” the boy — Leo, Derek thinks — asks. 

“Can I — I don’t, my magic isn’t exactly —” 

“Please?” they both ask in unison, and yeah, no Derek agrees with Stiles’ statement earlier: all children are at least a little bit evil. There’s no way this isn’t intentional. 

“I —” Stiles glances around the porch until his eyes light on a wilted potted plant. It looks like it had been left there by the previous tenants, who vacated the premises several months ago. 

He steps over to the pot and gestures the kids over. “Watch,” he says, then offers his hand to Derek. 

His warm eyes are questioning, and they’ve done this enough by now that Derek trusts him completely. Derek takes his hand, and Stiles pulls. His eyes begin to glow white, and —

The plant comes to life. 

Brown, brittle foliage unfolds from where it’s wilted over the edge of the pot, the green of life flowing up through the stems as they straighten. Clusters of leaves unroll from their shriveled positions, bouncing in the air. The dead heads of the flowers slowly uncurl as each delicate petal straightens, blooming into rich pink and yellow hues. 

Stiles releases his hand as the kids gasp. 

“Wicked,” Scott breathes. 

Derek shakes his hand out, willing the tingling sensation away. 

Stiles’ scent is happy as he stands, shrugs his shoulder. “It’s about as kid-appropriate as my magic gets.” 

Leo pokes at one of the flowers and shrieks when he realizes it’s actually alive, just as his sister yells, “Don’t touch it! You’ll hurt it!” 

“Can you do it again?” Leo asks. His eyes are huge in his face. 

Stiles shakes his head. “I’d better not.” 

“But —” 

“Please?” 

“Why don’t you guys go and pick your room?” Scott suggests. “I think I hear Michael and Amara taking the corner one.” 

“I wanted that one!” Carmen yells, and in a flash, they’re both gone. 

“Did you really hear that?” Stiles asks. 

Scott shakes his head with a laugh. “No. But they’ll keep you here all day if you’re not careful.” 

“Manipulative masterminds,” Stiles mutters under his breath. “We do need to leave though. Derek’s gotta hustle; he’s got the next shift staking out the unsub with one of our other team members.”  

“It’s crazy to hear you go all special agent on me,” Scott says. “It’s like you’re a real James Bond.” 

“That man is offensive to all undercover spies everywhere, Scotty boy.” Stiles punches him lightly in the shoulder. “I’ll see you soon, okay? Once we’ve got this all taken care of, anyway. Dad, Derek, and I can have you guys over.” 

“Yeah, alright,” Scott says. He pulls Stiles into a brief hug. “Be safe.” 

“Always am,” Stiles says. 

“Lie,” Derek and Scott say in sync. 

Stiles whips his head back and forth between them, offended. “Nope, do not like this. Bad.” He shakes his head at them, backing towards the car. “I’m not okay with this. Derek, come on, get over here, let’s go before you can team up on me anymore.” 

“Of course he does dog jokes with you,” Scott says. 

Stiles pauses with his hand on the door handle. “‘Come on and get over here’ is hardly a dog joke! I would’ve said ‘heel’ or something, give me more credit than that.” 

“He would have,” Derek confirms. He holds out his hand. “It was good to meet you.” 

“You too, man. You’ll take care of him?” 

“Of course.” 

“I am a strong, independent necromancer who don’t need no man!” Stiles yells from the car.

Scott meets Derek’s eyes with a genuine smile. “Good,” he says. “I'm glad he has you.” 

Derek smiles back, then heads to the car. 

Stiles is already buckled up behind the steering wheel, and he leans across the console to kiss Derek's cheek as he slides in. "For the record," he says as he starts the car, "this strong, independent necromancer may need no man, but he definitely likes the one he's got." 

“Apparently both of the older whelps were called in sick. ” Derek tilts forward in his seat to turn the speaker down as he and Peter listen to the bug in Kate Argent’s room . “The full moon is tomorrow — I’m guessing they’re just untrained, can’t handle it.”  

They’re parked on the side of the Relax Inn, behind the short side of the L that makes up the cheap motel. Derek and Peter relieved Chris of his early morning watch at 10 am. It’s nearing noon now, and Kate is due to go into her afternoon shift at the pool soon. That’s assuming she goes as planned, even though the twins won’t be at their under-7s lesson this afternoon. 

“Yes, I checked when I didn’t see the kid at his swim practice this morning. Yes, I — of course. Yeah. I’m still using that bug you got for me for the Utah pack. Worked in the school’s system like a dream.” 

“We should have Danny —” 

“Already messaging him,” Peter says. He has his phone out. 

“I’ve got to go,” Kate says. “Don’t want to be late for my shift. Uh-huh. Yes, even if he won’t be there to pick them up, I’m sure I can make good use of the afternoon. I’ve been meaning to talk to — yes. Of course. Yes, Dad, you can trust that I’m handling things. I apologize, I know you don’t need to hear — yes. Okay. Bye.”  

Her phone call ends and Derek and Peter glance at each other as she mutters a derogatory, “Love you too, asshole. Excuse me for forgetting how queasy you get about doing what’s necessary.” 

“Because it’s abnormal for statutory rape to make someone uncomfortable,” Peter mutters. 

Derek grimaces. 

Chris was able to get in contact with people over at The Directorate-General for External Security, the French equivalent of the CIA. They don’t always like working with the FBI, but since Chris still has friends there that he used to work with, he was able to get enough information out of them that the team knows just enough to be sure that Gerard Argent won’t be an issue for this operation. Kate only has a few other Hunters stateside, none of whom she’s called into town yet. 

They listen as she moves through her hotel room, gathering what she needs for work before leaving. The door closes, and Peter starts up the car. They’ll follow her once she leaves the parking lot. 

“Everything’s a go, then?” Derek asks. 

Peter nods grimly, easing the car toward the end of the alleyway. “Call it in.” 

Kate Argent’s car passes them as Derek types out the message to the team. 

Target on her way to work.

In the car now, is Lydia’s immediate response. She’s going to swap with Derek at the aquatic center. She and Peter will tail Kate on her way back after work, while Derek and Stiles do a last sweep of Kate’s room before taking point for the confrontation. 

A few seconds later, Chris sends: Sheriff, Deputy, and I are on the way to clear out the motel. 

Cameras locked in, Danny confirms. He’ll be watching and supervising from a distance. If needed, he can redirect traffic via the lights, or alert them to any surprises.

Let’s get this party started!! comes Stiles’ contribution, complete with three party popper emojis. 

“Everything looks so normal,” Stiles says as he sweeps through room 113. “Well, except for the metric fuckton of guns and ammunition she has. Seriously, is she preparing for the apocalypse?” 

Derek snorts from his position in the doorway. He’s facing out to the parking lot, scanning the road in front of it. “No. She’s just preparing for mass murder.” 

“Wow, way to be a downer.” Stiles gets on his hands and knees as he checks under the bed, where he finds another gun. Shocker. He pulls it out and ejects the cartridge, emptying it into the bag he brought for this exact purpose. He puts the cartridge back in, and then slides it back in place. His goal is to remove as many dangerous materials as possible without alerting Kate to their infiltration. He’s already emptied a box of wolfsbane bullets into his bag, replacing it with empty shells, and a bag of mountain ash has been replaced with one filled with inert ash that’s the same dark gray color. 

They won’t be able to do anything about the gun that she has in her car with her — they found out on the first day of stakeouts that she checks it each and every time she gets in the car — but they can minimize the potential for injury as much as possible. The plan is to let her arrive, then roll in in force five minutes later, when she’s had just enough time to relax into her room. They’ll approach from both sides — through the door and through the window. Stiles may have spent a good three minutes earlier contemplating if it would be worth Chris yelling at him so he could pause to take a video of Derek smashing through the window, because hello, hot. 

He settled on not worth it, though he might revisit the idea at a future, non-werewolf Hunter takedown. 

Stiles stands and lets his eyes do one more sweep of the room. “I think we’re good.”

“Good,” Derek answers. “Because Peter said she’s just exited the building.” 

That means her ETA is between seven and ten minutes. Stiles’ heart rate starts to increase, and he has to tell himself to relax. He leaves the room and Derek closes the door behind him. 

They make their way to the SUV. It’s parked at the end of the lot, in front of the last motel room door, 120. The motel has been cleared of all guests and staff, but there are several cars remaining in the lot for appearance’s sake. 

Stiles climbs into the passenger seat of the SUV and blows out a breath. 

“You okay?” Derek asks. 

Stiles glances at him. “Yeah,” he says. “As okay as we ever can be.” Then he shakes his head, wincing. He’s sure Derek heard the tremor of a lie. “It’s almost like we’re too prepared. I keep feeling like something’s gonna go wrong. Stupid dad, jinxing us.” 

“I know what you mean,” Derek says lowly. His eyes are scanning the parking lot. Diagonal from them is the front office. The receptionist left half an hour ago, escorted by the sheriff. “Maybe it’s just because she’s a Hunter because otherwise, we’ve done this before.” 

It’s true. They don’t always have last-minute confrontations or tv-worthy, epic chase-downs of unsubs. Stiles has been through many well-planned, thought-out takedowns just like this one. He nods. “Yeah, it’s probably just because it’s —” 

Danny’s voice breaks in through the radio that’s perched on the dash. “Stiles, Derek, you have incoming.” 

“What?” 

“One car, coming down main. Ran through the red light. Blue sedan —” 

“I see it,” Derek says. 

Sure enough, there’s a blue car turning into the motel parking lot. 

“I got it,” Stiles says. “I’ll get them out of here.” 

“She’s five minutes out,” Lydia adds through the radio.

Shit. 

Stiles scrambles out of the car and rushes over to where the sedan is squealing into a spot several yards away, in front of 113. “Hey!” he yells, but before he can get there, two men with dark hair are stepping out, slamming their doors. 

Stiles shores up quickly in front of them, his hands out. “Hey, hey, I’m sorry, you must not have got the call. You’re currently interfering with a police investigation. I’m going to have to ask you to —” 

One of the men reaches out and shoves Stiles by the shoulder. His tan face contorts in anger, and he glares at Stiles through dark brows. “We know why you’re here, and you shouldn’t be.” 

Behind him, the door to the SUV slams, because of course Derek’s not going to sit back and watch. 

“Woah, man, let’s take it down a notch.” Stiles steps backward, trying to exude calm. “It’s not safe for you to be here.” 

“It’s not safe for you to be here,” the man snarls. His eyes flash red and his features twist into beta shift. From the other side of the car, the other man’s eyes are flashing gold. They both let out roars. 

“Shit,” Stiles whispers. Derek skids to a halt at his side, and even without looking, Stiles knows his eyes are flashing too.

Chapter Text

It’s the Romero brothers. 

Derek knows it as soon as he opens the door and gets a whiff of their scent, bleeding a terrible mix of fear and fury across the pavement. He rips off his seatbelt and gets out of the car as fast as he can. 

He sprints across the lot to Stiles’ side and gives into his instinct to flash his eyes back at the brothers. 

“Woah, woah, woah,” Stiles says. “I don’t know who you are, but—” 

“The Romeros,” Derek snaps, as the older brother in front, Casey, snarls, “the only people who have a right to be here.” 

“Shit,” Stiles says again. He doesn’t take his eyes off the brothers, but takes another unconscious step back, half-hiding his body behind Derek’s. Good. He keeps talking. “I know you’re upset, I understand, but it’s not safe —” 

“You don’t understand anything,” Casey spits, his claws flexing in unbridled rage. “She killed everyone!” 

“I know,” Stiles says. His hands are still raised as he slips into the procedures they use whenever victims interfere with operations. “She did terrible things to your pack, and we need to catch her and take care of her so she can’t ever do that again. That’s why we’re here, that’s why we’re —” 

“Terrible things? Terrible things? She killed everyone, and she raped my little brother!” At Casey’s side, Carlos flinches at his older brother’s words. “She doesn’t need to be taken in by the police. She deserves to die.” 

“Look, we can’t —” Stiles glances over his shoulder, his anxious scent increasing. Their time is running short. “We can’t let you do that.” 

Derek tenses. Stiles is trained in de-escalation techniques, and it’s every FBI agent’s duty to prevent civilians from interfering in an official investigation, let alone killing the suspect.

But dealing with a vengeance-seeking Alpha werewolf wasn’t exactly covered in any of the training manuals. 

“Can’t let us?” Casey takes a step forward. 

 Derek snaps at him, his fangs dropping into his mouth, pushing Stiles behind him. Carlos and Casey both snarl back at him. 

“You don’t want this on your conscience,” Stiles tries. 

“Oh, I do!” 

In the distance, Derek hears Peter speak through the radio . “Shit, someone just rear-ended us.” 

“Status?” Chris asks immediately. 

Derek hears the sound of a door opening behind Lydia’s answer. “Peter’s getting out to talk to them. No damage. Estimated five-minute delay. Derek, Stiles, get the civilians out of there and hold off until we get there.”    

Derek’s not sure that’s an option, but if Stiles can diffuse the situation…

The exchange only takes maybe eight seconds total, but it’s enough time for both of the Romero brothers to crouch into offensive positions, even as Stiles keeps talking, unaware of the conversation happening on the radio out of his hearing.

“Please,” he’s asking, “at least let us get you out of the way — you’re in the open. Come on, you know it’s not safe, not defensible,” he adds, in a clear appeal to Casey’s protective Alpha instincts. 

Casey isn’t having it. “You can’t tell me what to do,” he growls. “This is what we are owed.” 

“Please,” Derek adds, fighting over his desire to grab Stiles away from the immediate threat and pushing past his natural aversion to submission to an Alpha not his own. “At least get out of the parking lot.” 

“No,” Carlos finally speaks up. “We have to — I have to do this.” 

Derek focuses on him for the first time. He’s trembling through his angry facade, tan face made paler through fear. Though the scents of terror and anger are heaviest, Derek can still make out that ever-present burn of guilt. “How did you —” he starts to ask before he gets it. “The phone call. You must’ve heard —” 

“Cottage Grove’s finest,” Carlos whispers. 

Cold realization washes over Derek. 

“What?” Stiles asks. 

Carlos heard the name of the town when Deputy Parrish talked to Derek, and then Derek confirmed later in the call that Kate was here. His brother must’ve heard the end of their call, or known Carlos was contacting him. That was two and a half days ago; plenty of time to drive here from Seattle. And then, once they got here — 

“Found that bitch’s scent as soon as we arrived,” Casey says as he clocks the realization in Derek’s eyes. “Tracked her to the pool, overheard your team. Realized you were going to try to steal our chance. Couldn’t let that happen.” 

Stiles looks wildly between them, still not quite getting it. “Please,” he tries again, but he’s cut off when Casey and Carlos’ heads snap up, jerking toward the road.  

Kate has arrived. 

The Alpha — Casey, Stiles’ brain supplies — roars as Kate’s car turns into the parking lot. 

“Fuck,” Stiles mutters. Derek tenses at his side, ready to jump toward either the Romeros or Kate, Stiles doesn’t know. 

The car halts abruptly as Kate hears Casey’s roar, and she rips open the door only twenty feet away from them, in the middle of the parking lot. She steps out quickly and stands behind the door, her back to the road.  

“Well, hello, there,” she says, cocking an eyebrow. “Is that — oh, Carlos, sweetie, I didn’t expect to see you again.” 

Stiles doesn’t need to be a werewolf to know her words enrage Casey further. “Don’t,” Stiles says, as Derek whips an arm out in front of Casey. “That’s what she wants.” 

“What she wants is to die.” 

Kate laughs. It’s a soft, tinkling thing that fills Stiles with disgust. “Oh no, that’s not what I want.” She lifts her gun to rest on top of the door. “What I want is for all of you to die.” 

Both of the Romeros snarl at her. Stiles can see Derek glancing between them and him, clearly torn on who to stand in front of. Shit, shit, shit. Stiles can only do what he’s been trained to. 

“Ma’am,” he says, one hand slowly drifting down toward his belt. “You are being charged with four counts of arson and 42 first-degree murders —” 

“Oh no, little cop,” she says. “That’s not how this is going to work. You’re going to keep your hands right where I can see them, or I’m going to fill all three of these animals with wolfsbane.” 

Stiles swallows. She has them at a disadvantage with her gun already raised; neither of the Romeros have guns, so she’ll be able to hit them long before they can get across the parking lot. If he can keep her attention on him… He bites his lip and continues. “Forty-two counts of first-degree murder,” he repeats, “four charges of statutory rape, and intent to —”

“You’re not getting it,” she says. “I’m not joking. But if you really want to test it —” she raises her gun, fingers moving to the trigger, and that’s it. That’s enough for Casey. 

He howls as he pushes Derek’s arm out of his way, claws extended as he sprints across the parking lot. 

The bullet hits him square in the chest. 

Even Stiles can hear the impact, and the guttural groaning exhale that’s punched out of him. 

They all freeze for a moment. All Stiles can hear is a ringing in his ears. 

Then he springs into action. 

His hand flies to his holster, which he unlatches in a half-second, flicking the safety off as he raises his SIG. At the same time, Carlos is shocked out of his stupor and leaps forward toward Kate and his brother. Derek is a breath behind him. 

Kate ducks behind the door of her car just in time to avoid the shot Stiles sends at her shoulder. Carlos slides to his knees next to Casey, his arms catching his waist as he falls. 

“No!” Carlos yells — screams. 

“Get them out of here!” Stiles shouts, but Derek’s already tackling Carlos and Casey to the side, pulling them as far as his momentum will take them out of Kate’s eye line. They roll to a stop in front of a minivan parked next to the motel’s front office. 

Stiles crouches down next to the Romero’s car, takes a breath, then leans low to get a look at what he can see of Kate. He catches the flash of her feet getting back into the car. “Fuck,” he mutters, then leans out from behind the Romero’s car and takes aim at her tires. “She’s trying to leave!” he yells as he fires twice. 

“Got it!” Derek yells back. As one of Stiles’ shots makes contact with the left front tire, a blue post box comes sailing through the air, landing with a crash against the trunk of the car. Glass shatters and metal crunches. 

Kate curses, stumbling back out of the car. “Is this what you want?” she shouts. “Fine!” 

Stiles aims when her torso clears the car door, but he misses when she turns to run the other way, toward the front office. 

Stiles stands and runs in the same direction, sprinting along the parallel lines of motel doors and empty cars. He reaches the end of the row and makes a hard right, nearly slamming into the side wall. Ahead of him, Derek has the Romeros pressed against the side of the minivan, keeping one arm over their heads as he glances over the hood at Kate, who is ten yards away, using a truck as shelter. Derek ducks back down as a bullet goes flying past, smashing through the glass into the front office. 

“No, Casey, no,” Carlos cries. 

Stiles can’t get a good angle on her without exposing himself, and if he tries to get any closer to Derek and the Romeros, she’ll have a clean shot on him. He bites his lip. 

“Don’t do it.” Derek’s glaring at him like he can sense Stiles is about to throw himself into danger. 

“I’ve gotta,” he says, then adds at a werewolf-only level whisper, “Use my run as a cover, get your gun out.” 

“I don’t —” Derek starts, but Stiles is already dashing forward and misses the next part. 

Stiles glances to the side just in time to see Kate lean out and aim at him. Heart in his throat, he drops, hoping the momentum is enough to carry him behind the minivan. 

He can feel the whoosh of the bullet as it ruffles passed his head. Derek reaches out and yanks him by the foot. His pant leg rides up and rubs against the pavement. Stiles hurriedly sits up. “Why didn’t  you —” 

“I don’t have my gun, you idiot!” Derek seethes. 

“What?!” 

“It’s in the car.” 

“Are you kidding me?” 

Kate interrupts Derek's response as she calls out from behind the truck, “Got you all nice and conveniently together for me, hmm?”

“That’s funny,” Stiles shouts back, “because I’m pretty sure I counted seven shots, which means you’ve got what, three rounds left, and there’s four of us. Explain how that math works.” 

Kate laughs. “I don’t need four.” 

“You —” Stiles starts, then jerks his head back to Derek and the Romeros. “Fuck, is he?” 

Derek nods grimly. “Must’ve been a perfect shot to his heart.” 

Stiles’ mind races. “If the team gets here — wait, shouldn’t they already be—” 

“Car accident, there’s a delay,” Derek tells him. 

“What?” 

“Came through on the radio right before she got here, didn’t have time to tell you.” 

“Don’t tell me you’re scared of the big, bad Hunter,” Kate taunts them. 

“Seriously?” Stiles mutters. 

“The Alpha spark’s already transferred, so even if they get here—” Derek shakes his head. 

Next to him, Carlos is crouched low over his brother’s body. A low whining sound is coming from him, and Stiles can see his claws flexing in and out of his fingers. His body is shaking, overwhelmed with loss and a new influx of power, and nope, that’s it, Stiles is done with all of the hurt Kate’s caused. 

“I’m gonna around the back, draw her fire, you can go around the front and get to her —” 

“No, that should be me, I can take it.” 

“They’re wolfsbane bullets, idiot.” At Derek’s stubborn glare, Stiles sighs. “Shit, okay, new plan, new plan.” He wracks his brain for an idea, eyes scanning in front of him — the shattered glass, the remnants of where the mailbox had been, Carlos’s bent head, Carlos’ twitching fingers. His hands — his hands.  

“Okay I need time. There’s a spell I can use.” He cuts his chin toward the front of the minivan. “Talk to her, then pull her that way. I need thirty seconds.” 

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes. Well, thirty seconds and —” he reaches past Derek to yank out a few strands of Casey’s hair, narrowly dodging Carlos’ claws that swipe out protectively “—some of this.” 

“Okay.” 

“Okay.” Stiles lunges up and kisses Derek. “Now go.” 

Derek turns toward the end of the minivan, and Stiles closes his eyes. 

He pulls up his memory of the grimoire he read yesterday. Hands of the Dead. Hands of the Dead. 

He spins his mother’s ring on his pinky finger on his left hand and holds Casey’s hair in the other, then recites the first stanza of the spell, willing every ounce of belief into his words. 

“Those that curse and those that kill 

You’ll find above you on earth still 

Rejoin the living and walk the ground 

Your life and theirs; forever bound”

He can feel the burn of his magic taking root in the back of his eyes. He tunes out Kate’s words and Derek’s responses, keeps his eyes closed when he hears a shot go off. He has to trust in Derek’s abilities, and trust in his own. He recites the next stanza. 

“Those that curse and those that kill 

You’ll find above you on earth still 

None can flee your vengeful clutch

From death beyond they feel your touch” 

The magic flows within him, a silver-black spark snapping between his fingertips. He feels the strands of Casey’s hair disintegrate in his hand. He breathes in and finishes the spell. 

“Those that curse and those that kill 

You’ll find above you on earth still 

Rise and find who’d see you gone

To those who end you; now be drawn!”

He feels it as the spell takes hold and he snaps his eyes open. The world is framed by an effervescent white glow. 

He shivers.

Casey’s ghost rises from his body, ethereal grey-green smoke billowing out around him. Angry, coiling tendrils of smog flicker like static as they twist through the air away from his body, searching for purchase. Carlos flinches backward against the side of the minivan, mouth dropping wide open. Casey’s skin is more opaque than any ghost Stiles has ever seen occur naturally, and his eyes are furious. They flash with a spectral light as he looks briefly down at his brother before straightening and stepping away. 

An eerie darkness blankets the parking lot in the space of a single second. It’s like noon under a total eclipse, a thunderstorm concentrated on a single, moving point. 

“Oh hell yeah,” Stiles breathes. “Get her.” 

Casey’s ghost doesn’t even spare him a glance as he strides toward where Derek is leaning against the front tire of the minivan. Derek watches as he passes, grey-green fog rolling along with him, then pulls his foot back when Casey steps on him. He turns his head to look at Stiles, shocked.

Because that’s right, motherfuckers, Stiles just summoned a corporeal ghost.  

“No — what?” Kate asks, and Stiles snaps out of his moment of elation. 

“You’re dead, you can’t — what is —” 

Stiles stands, keeping low to the ground as he creeps around the back of the car. He peeks out the other side. 

Kate is backing up, her face a mask of confused anger. Her gun is lifted high, pointed directly at Casey’s ghost. 

Casey stalks toward her. The expression on his face is vengeance exemplified. Stiles spares a moment to wish he could record this to send to whatever chump they cast to play Batman next. 

“No,” Kate says again, and fires her gun. The bullet goes straight through Casey, a tiny hole opening and closing in his smoky body. He doesn’t slow in his predatory movement. Stiles only barely resists doing a fist pump. Thank you, awesome New England chick. 

“Yes,” Casey says and then lunges forward, claws outstretched.  

She tries to move backward but she’s nowhere near fast enough to avoid a werewolf’s murderous wrath. Sickly, gunmetal tendrils of fog race ahead of him, twisting around her limbs and jerking her toward him. They collide in the center of the parking lot in a burst of mist. He grabs her by the wrist, grip tightening around the delicate bones, and snaps the gun out of her fist. He yanks her forward into his chest, spinning her body around, her back to his front in a twisted parody of a partner dance. 

Then he rips out her throat. 

“Well, that’s one way to do it,” Stiles’ mouth says before he knows it’s going to. He steps out from behind the van toward them. He’s pretty sure that’s a one-and-done hit, but due diligence and all. 

“Casey?” 

Carlos comes out from behind the van, new Alpha eyes flashing through tears. He lifts one hand up as Casey’s ghost turns toward him. 

“Carlos —” Casey’s ghost whispers, flashing eyes going dull and grey as they soften . “I —” 

Before he can finish his thought, he crumbles, spectral body dissipating into the wind. The ominous darkness lifts as he vanishes, the sky returning to its late September clear blue. 

Carlos falls to his knees, a high-pitched keen rising into the air. 

It’s confirmation that Kate is truly dead. The spell had only promised corporealization for ghosts while in the presence of their murderer. Now that she’s gone, there is nothing to keep Casey’s ghost here any longer. 

Now, Carlos’ only ties to his brother are his Alpha eye color and his body. Speaking of bodies —

Stiles realizes that Derek hasn’t emerged yet. Which can only mean — “Did you get yourself shot?” he yells. 

“…maybe?” 

“You are so lucky she still had a round left, you stupid werewolf!” And that Peter had thought to cover ‘How to Protect Your Werewolf Boyfriend on the Rare Possibility of Wolfsbane Poisoning 101’ a few months ago. Stiles stomps over to where Kate’s gun had been thrown. He pops the last round out of the chamber and rushes to Derek’s side. 

His idiot boyfriend gives him a grimace of a smile, one hand pressed to his thigh. Stiles kneels down next to him.

“Did it go through, or is it stuck in there?” 

“In and out.” 

Stiles glares at him but reaches into his back pocket to pull out a lighter. “How convenient for me to have this on hand, huh? Wouldn’t it be nice if we all carried the tools we needed everywhere? Like, I don’t know,—” he uncaps the bullet, dumping the wolfsbane into Derek’s wound,—“your FBI-issued handgun?” He lights the wolfsbane on fire. “While on the scene of a crime, for shame.” 

Derek snarls through the burn, eyes clenching shut. “Had it in the car. Was just about to put it on, but then the Romeros —” 

“No excuses,” Stiles tsks. He leans forward and rests his forehead against Derek’s, breathing in. Derek exhales heavily. “Fuck, Derek.” 

Derek extends one of his arms, hand clasping his shoulder. “We’re okay. It’s over.” 

“It’s over,” Stiles repeats. 

Stiles lets out a shaky exhale, closing his eyes. They breathe together for long moments, one of his hands pressing tightly to Derek’s injury, the other moving restlessly across his body. They’re okay, they’re okay. 

Tires squeal into the parking lot, and Stiles opens his eyes and stands. Peter and Lydia are getting out of the car next to Kate’s body, and a familiar Cottage Grove patrol car is pulling up behind them. “Cavalary’s arrived.” He glances back down at Derek, smirks. “Typical of them, letting us do everything.” 

“And they weren’t even here to see you do your fun new trick.” 

“I know! How rude of them.” Stiles’ smirk turns into a smile and he reaches his hand down to take Derek’s. He pulls him up, careful of his leg, then turns them toward their team. “Nice of you to join us!” 

Peter leans against the side of the car, the corners of his mouth tilting down as he looks at Kate’s body. “Well, this is disappointing,” he says. 

“Rein in your jealousy there, Mr. Dahmer,” Stiles tells him. 

“Hale, I so sincerely wished you said that because it’s your prerogative as an agent of the FBI to apprehend criminals without violence or death if at all possible.” Lydia closes her door and rolls her eyes at Peter. She meets Derek and Stiles halfway and gives Derek a brief up and down. “You alright?” 

“He’s an idiot,” Stiles answers, “but besides that, he’ll live.” 

“Wonderful,” Peter interjects. “My nephew’s competence never ceases to –” 

Stiles can feel Derek’s glare next to him, but he beats him to the punch. “The only Dream Team members who get to talk shit are the ones who actually did anything, thank you very much.” 

“The what team?” Peter asks, snorting.

Lydia narrows her gaze, then flicks Stiles’ arm as she steps around him. “You’re lucky there’s a civilian that takes priority right now.” 

“Not a fan?” Stiles asks, helping Derek toward the car. “Does that mean Team Super is out, too? Because, y’know, we’re all kind of, one might say, supernat–” 

Derek’s slapping a hand over his mouth before he can even get the word out. 

Stiles licks his palm, then grimaces at the gritty pavement taste. 

Derek smirks at him.

God, Stiles is so gone on him.

Chapter Text

Sweat-slick skin slides together, hot and damp and just the right amount of sticky. The taste of Derek’s precome is heavy on Stiles’ tongue, heady and cloying. Tiny shivers shake down Derek’s thighs, his abs clenching reflexively as Stiles traces his tongue between them, looking up through his lashes to meet Derek’s molten gaze. 

Heat and sex swirl through the air around them, blanketing them in comfort and arousal. Stiles dips his head back down, bites into the skin of Derek’s thigh, relishes the jump of his cock next to his cheek. He slips another finger in. 

This isn’t fast, isn’t a rush — that was last night. Last night was Stiles on his knees in the shower because he physically couldn’t keep himself away any longer. Last night was the covers of the hotel bed thrown back as Derek chased Stiles down, lips and hands roving over each other in frenzied need. Prep was quick and cursory, Stiles eager for Derek inside him, Derek unable to deny him. 

Last night was excess energy burning off, the release of a closed case, the frantic relief of each other’s safety.

This is slow, because they have the time. This is long, drawn-out minutes of prep, one hand twisting in the sheets, their fingers tangled together while Stiles’ other works Derek open, gazes held strong as they sink into shared feelings. Stiles watches every hitch of Derek’s breath, each tiny tremble that shakes its way down his body, the way his teeth dig into his lower lip when Stiles crooks his finger just there. 

This is soft exhales released like relief when Stiles finally pushes in, the tightening of Derek’s thighs around his waist, the way Derek’s mouth curls up in a soft smile that only Stiles ever gets to see.

This is Derek making half-bitten-off noises, pretty and perfect, like they’re being coaxed out of him. This is Derek’s eyelashes fluttering as his body jerks up the bed with each of Stiles’ thrusts. This is Derek tipping his head back, exposing his throat, begging for Stiles’ teeth. Stiles is no wolf, but he’s been with Derek long enough to crave the ability to leave his own marks. He pulls one of Derek’s thighs up a little higher so that he can lean in. The movement forces his cock deeper, and Derek’s breath hiccups as Stiles nails his prostate at the same time as his teeth clamp down. Stiles worries at the spot as he rolls his hips, Derek making a whining noise that sends shivers down Stiles’ back. 

This is wishing they could stay in this moment, right here, forever. But — 

“I’m not gonna last,” Stiles pants into Derek’s neck. “Fuck, Der, you feel so good.” 

“Don’t — not yet,” Derek gets out. His thighs tighten reflexively in a protest of their own. “We have time — please.” 

They don’t have that much time actually, not really. Stiles pulls his head back, glancing at the clock on the bedside table. They are definitely already late, since they should've left half an hour ago, but then, they were solely responsible for the takedown yesterday, which surely means they deserve a little extra time to themselves, and besides — 

Stiles’ breath leaves him in a sharp exhale as Derek flips them over. His hands fly to Derek’s shoulders just as Derek settles over him, one hand going behind him to guide Stiles’ cock back inside him. 

“I didn’t mean,” Derek growls, “that you should distract yourself.” He starts to move in quick, short bursts, rising up a bare few inches before sliding back down. 

It takes a few seconds before Stiles has enough breath to get out, “I wasn’t.” 

Derek’s eyes narrow, flashing gold, and he leans in until he’s a hairsbreadth away from Stiles’ lips. “Lie.” He holds still then, clenching around Stiles’ cock. When Stiles moves his hands down to his hips to try and urge him to move, to get back into a rhythm, Derek smirks and leans back. “That’s alright, though. You know what happens to liars.” 

“Derek,” Stiles groans, fingers tightening on his hips. Derek sits there, looking down at him, in complete and utter control. “I — Derek.”

Derek rocks his hips up in a smooth, sinewy movement, then slides back down. He grinds down, fucking himself slowly, entirely for himself. Stiles is helpless to look away from the picture he makes. 

His hands are planted firmly on either side of Stiles, forearms flexing periodically, the tell of claws digging into the mattress. His eyes are half slits as he seeks his own pleasure, warm gold or beneath dark, heavy lashes. His hair is a mess, damp with sweat and still wild from going to sleep after a shower. His cock bobs in front of him, precome dripping down the shaft in wicked temptation. 

Unable to resist, Stiles lifts one hand off Derek’s hips to grip his cock. Derek’s eyes snap open and he pushes into it. He thrusts between Stiles’ hand and his cock in languid, slow movements, pausing when he’s fully seated and Stiles’ hand has reached the head of his cock where it’s most sensitive. Stiles obligingly tightens his grip, slips his thumb down through the slit, before Derek pushes forward again. 

Stiles’ dick hardens impossibly further as Derek catches its head on his rim before dropping back down. “If you want me to last, big guy, this isn’t the way to do it.” 

Derek grinds back down, then picks up the pace and grins at him. His eyebrows quirk as if to say ‘I guess you can come now,’ or maybe ‘this is what you get for thinking about anything else but me,’ or maybe, Jesus fuck, Stiles should stop trying to interpret Derek’s micro-expressions when he’s so fucking close. 

Stiles can feel his climax gathering somewhere at the base of his spine, accelerated by the dirty feel of Derek speeding up, tensing and squeezing as he goes. Derek leans forward, pressing his face into Stiles’ neck, hot breath coming quick against one side of his throat. He mouths at the spot, sucking hard. A hand slips up Stiles’ chest, the barest whisper of claws across his collarbone before blunt, human fingers wrap around the other side of his neck, pressing him even closer to Derek’s face. Stiles wraps an arm around him, thrusting his hips up. 

He brings one knee up, planting his foot on the bed so he has a better angle. He can feel more than hear Derek’s growl as they move together, Derek’s cock rutting against Stiles’ stomach. Derek’s close, Stiles knows it, and he sends up a fevered wish that he can outlast Derek just enough. He brings his other arm up to the back of Derek’s neck, pulling him as tight to him as he can.  He slips his fingers down, blindly feeling for the teeth marks he left on Derek’s neck. 

The groan he gets when he finds them is guttural, primal, and Derek’s hips stutter, his teeth pressing into Stiles’ throat as he comes between them. His ass tightens around Stiles as he does, and it’s enough to push Stiles over the edge. It’s overwhelming, head-spinning, and Stiles clutches at the back of Derek’s neck as each pulse rocks through him. 

After a few moments, Derek pulls off, slipping down to the mattress next to Stiles. He nuzzles into Stiles’ neck, and Stiles is a little too dazed to call him out on the satisfied noise he makes— any other time and he’d definitely call that a purr. He lets his knee drop down over Derek’s ass, legs gone jelly, and just breathes. 

He opens his eyes when Derek pulls back and moves up onto his forearms. He grins smugly down at him, before leaning in and kissing Stiles on the neck. Through the post-orgasm haze Stiles can feel a slight twinge of pain. He slaps a hand to his neck and pokes at the spot. “Goddamnit, did you mark me?”

Derek’s eyes dance in response. “You lied.” 

“All the way up here? There’s no way a shirt’s gonna hide this,” Stiles groans, scrunching his eyes closed as he runs his finger over the mark. He presses gently at it, unable to stop himself, even as he complains, “My dad is going to kill me.” 

Derek shrugs, then rolls off of him, moving toward the side of the bed. “We’re already late to debrief. Can it really get much worse?” 

“Absolutely it can.” He watches as Derek stands, his beautiful body stretching as he moves toward the bathroom. The morning light catches on his neck, and Stiles frowns. “It’s not fair. The hickey I left on you is already fading.” 

“Sucks to suck,” Derek retorts, and wow, Stiles is really rubbing off on him. In all ways possible.

It’s kinda awesome. 

Stiles smirks, then rolls up to follow Derek. “What’s gonna suck is the fact that you’re the one that put this on me.” He slips into the bathroom, and leans up against the door, watching Derek climb into the shower.  “So enjoy that stare down with my dad at the sheriff’s station, sucker.” 

“Nice of you to join us,” Peter drawls as they push into the room at the Cottage Grove Sherriff’s station where their team is seated around a table, mid-debrief. 

“Sorry,” Stiles says with zero remorse, pulling Derek in by the hand. He’s decided to go in with his metaphorical guns blazing, which is to say, hickey-covered neck displayed loud and proud. Derek wants, just a little, to regret everything. 

But only a little. He’s hard-pressed to regret anything he does with Stiles.  

“We got caught up,” Stiles continues.  

“So I smell,” Peter retorts. 

Derek keeps his eyes on the ground: Stiles may have no shame, but he can’t quite bring himself to look up to see his boss’s expression. 

Stiles drops down into the chair next to Peter, bumping his shoulder and pulling Derek down to the chair on his other side. “Aw, you jealous?” 

“Just because I manage to be on time doesn’t mean I didn’t partake in exactly what I wanted to this morning,” Peter says smugly. 

“I guess one round is probably enough for old guys like you.” 

“I’ll have you know —” 

“Unlike me and Der-Bear, what was it —” Stiles glances Derek’s way, “After last night’s, what was it, three— or no, four? This morning — ” 

The sheriff coughs. 

Stiles goes bright, fire-engine red. Derek sighs. 

“Aw, man, I was so ready for details,” Danny mutters. 

“You’re disgusting,” Lydia tells him. She looks around the table. “No, let me revise that. You’re all disgusting. Chris, remind me how old your daughter is? Is there any chance we can get her on the team anytime soon? There are some clear gender imbalances that need fixing.” 

Chris shakes his head quickly. “Absolutely not. She’s seventeen — and my ex-wife might murder me if she found out I wanted to drag my daughter into all of…” he gestures expansively around the room, “this.” 

“Darling, I almost want to take offense at that,” Peter says. 

“That was the point,” Chris says drily. 

“Speaking of the point,” John interjects. “If we could get back to it, perhaps? I’ve got an entire station to update and we can only keep the media away for so long.” 

“Sorry, pops,” Stiles says. Derek wants to apologize too, even though he’s yet to say anything. The sheriff is excellent at laying on the dad disappointment. Derek’s just grateful that Stiles is sitting so that the mark on his neck isn’t visible from where John is sitting at the head of the table. Small mercies. 

“Lydia will talk with you after about the media,” Chris tells John.

“I already have a statement drafted,” she confirms. “Once we’re done here you and I can sit down to make sure it’s what you want. I can deliver it directly to the news outlets, if you’d like.” 

“She’s good at that,” Stiles offers. 

“I’m sure she is, son,” John says. He nods at Lydia, then turns back to the group. “Now, as for the brand new Alpha werewolf that my favorite deputy is in charge of watching this morning?” 

“My sister,” Peter answers. “She’s agreed to take him in for the next few months, help him get settled in his new role.” 

“He won’t stay with the Medinas?” 

“Carlos needs to get away from here,” Derek answers, thinking of the shaky way the last of the Romeros had stumbled into the SUV last night. “He doesn’t have a territory — he’s unrooted, unstable—” 

“—and the only memories he has here are super shitty,” Stiles adds. 

John grimaces in concession. 

“Your deputy should be back to you by noon,” Chris says. Then, after a questioning look at Peter, he continues, “Some of us will take Carlos down to Beacon Hills this afternoon. Lydia, Peter, and I will stay here to help sort things out.” 

“Hey, I’ll have you know I am excellent at sorting things out,” Stiles objects. 

“You’re excellent at coming up with lies, I’ll give you that,” Lydia mutters, just as Danny snorts in flat-out amused denial, and Peter snarks, “Tell that to the last interviewee you made cry.” 

Stiles glares at everyone. 

“There, there,” Derek says, patting him on the thigh. “You’re good at other things.” 

Stiles turns his glare on him. 

John laughs and settles back in his chair. “Well, while I can’t say I ever wanted there to be a reason you brought your whole team here in a professional capacity, kid, it’s good to know they keep you in line.” At Stiles’ huff, he smirks, then shoots a look at Derek. Derek does not like the gleam in his eye. “Since you boys are planning on rolling out this afternoon, whaddaya say you make time for lunch with me?” 

He gives a pointed look towards Stiles’ neck — damn it —before leveling Derek with a raised brow that says, ‘just try to get out of this, debaucher of my one and only child.’

“Surely they can,” Peter says with a smirk. “Derek wouldn’t want to offend the father of his future mate after all, now would he?” 

“His future what?” Stiles and John say in sync. 

Derek sighs. 

“Now this,” Danny says, kicking his feet up onto the table, “is what I’m talking about.” 

Later that day, the 12 o’clock news in Southern Oregon begins with the story of a serial arsonist who, while in a face-off with local and federal officers, was killed in a freak accident. Cause of death? Animal attack. But don’t worry, the anchor assures the public — they caught the cougar who did it. 

She won’t ever be a problem again. 

THREE MONTHS LATER

The forest surrounding the Hale pack house is beautiful in December, especially if someone isn’t used to the lovely vision of snow-blanketed pines, or if they enjoy idyllic winter scenes and being cold. 

Stiles is not one of those people. In fact, he is the opposite of those people. “I hate the snow,” he grumbles as Derek pulls the car into the space that’s been shoveled out beside several other cars in the Hale’s driveway. Happy little holiday light strands are hanging from the eves, taunting Stiles with their cheery inability to feel the cold. 

“Yes, you mentioned that.” 

He hated snow while growing up in Oregon. He hates it when they’re back in DC during the winter. He hates it right now, in particular, because, “It made us late! We’d have been here yesterday if the stupid snow hadn’t made the stupid airport cancel our stupid flight.” 

Holiday season is the worst – like sure, he’s looking forward to going to Cottage Grove after this, seeing his dad and the McCalls. But fuck if he’s not dreading traveling there after this. 

Of the various pack members and guests invited to celebrate the Winter Solstice in Beacon Hills, they’re some of the last to arrive. Even without the weather delay, they were late to get here; Stiles drew the short straw when the team needed someone to stay behind and finish the paperwork for their most recent case. And Derek, perfect, sweet, Derek, volunteered to stay behind with him. 

“It almost sounds like you’re looking forward to spending time with my family.” 

Derek, perfect, sweet, sassy asshole, Derek. 

Stiles gives him a considerable amount of side-eye. “You say that like you don’t know I think your family is great.” He reaches over the console to jab a finger into Derek’s shoulder. “In fact, I think you’re the one in this relationship who was most concerned about this solstice shindig.” 

“I wasn’t concerned,” Derek denies, forcibly removing Stiles’ finger from him. 

“Oh yeah? Then tell me why I saw that text thread with your sister where you tried to bribe her to hide the photo albums.” 

“I didn’t —” 

“The texts don’t lie,” Stiles says with a smirk. “Besides, Cora already sent copies of what she proclaimed ‘Der-bear’s Middle School Scares and Glares’ into our group chat, so I’m pretty sure Laura was lying when she said she would hide everything embarrassing for you.” 

Derek sighs and closes his eyes, thumping his head back against the headrest. “One day I’ll find a way to permanently prevent you from joining any group chat with my sisters.” 

“You can try.”  

Derek opens one eye to glare at him. It’s half-hearted at best. It’s adorable. Stiles leans forward to peck Derek right between those amazing, glare-y eyebrows. 

Well, he tries to. The seatbelt locks up, and the momentum from his lunge forward bounces him off it by the neck, so he chokes and coughs instead. 

“Incredible,” Derek says drily. 

Stiles glowers at him as he wheezes, eyes watering. “Asshole,” he manages to get out after a solid fifteen seconds of attractive mouth and throat noises. 

“You like it,” Derek says. 

“I want you to acknowledge the fact that I’m being the bigger person and avoiding turning that into an innuendo,” Stiles says. He unbuckles his seatbelt with exaggerated motions, then leans across the console to put his face right in Derek’s space. “I do like it. I like you. A whole lot.” 

“I don’t think you get any credit for avoiding that innuendo,” Derek tells him, “since you still brought it up.” 

But he kisses Stiles all the same, soft and warm and so, so right. 

Stiles pulls back a moment later. “Alright, let’s do this shit. Onward!” He flings himself against the door, opening it as fast as he can. He ignores Derek’s muttered, “It’s snow, not warfare.” 

He also ignores Derek’s low chuckles as he high-knees it across the yard in an effort to keep his feet out of the snow as much as possible. He’s not sure how effective it is. 

When he reaches the covered porch, he crosses his arms over his chest, sticking his fingers under his armpits. “Let’s go, let’s go, let’s go,” he chants at Derek, who is leisurely strolling across the snow like he’s at a goddamn beach or something, the bastard. 

“I told you to pack your gloves,” Derek reminds him. He runs one of his hands through the powder lying on top of the bushes that line the walkway, because he’s a smug bastard. 

“Yes, well, I wouldn’t need them if my furnace of a boyfriend would just do his job,” Stiles retorts. When Derek gets into grabbing distance, he shoots his hands out and sticks them under Derek’s jacket and shirt, pressing his palms against Derek’s abdomen. If he runs his hands up and down a few times appreciatively, well, he can always blame Derek’s shiver on the icicles at the end of his arms. 

He nuzzles in and sticks his nose into the space between Derek’s scarf and neck for good measure, then smiles against the wool when the shiver that elicits is accompanied by a tiny, pleased-wolf rumble. 

The door opens and Stiles pulls back. 

It’s Cora, dressed in a festive red jumpsuit. “Good evening, potential beta mate Stilinski,” she says, perfectly straight-faced. “We of the Hale Pack are blessed to have your presence on this beautiful Solstice eve.” 

“She’s joking.” Stiles stares at her, then rears back slightly to look at Derek. “You told me it wasn’t gonna be a formal thing! This feels very formal! You even showed me that section in the book, with all the new, modern ways to do this whole courting thing! Dude!” 

“It doesn’t have to be formal,” Derek grumbles, but it’s his sister he’s glaring at. “We’re not doing that, Cora.” 

Her face twists in disappointment.  “Come on, it would be so much fun!”

“No.” 

“It would!” Cora slumps against the door frame. “Derek, why do you have to suck so bad? Doesn’t your mate —” 

“— still very much not used to that word,” Stiles mutters. 

Cora glares and increases her volume as she continues, “Doesn’t your mate deserve to be treated like the prince he is?” 

Peter emerges from within the Hale household, a glass of what Stiles thinks is mulled wine in his hand. He steps between them, his empty arm settling across Cora’s shoulders. “Oh, beloved niece of mine, if only you knew how incredibly antithetical Stiles’ very state of being is to the mere suggestion of his regality.” 

“I hate when he starts drinking,” Cora groans. “We get it, you have a shiny, fancy brain; no need to sound like a thesaurus.” 

“Shiny, fancy brain,” Stiles whispers in Derek’s ear. Clearly, Peter’s not the only one deep into the wolfsbane wine already. 

Unfazed,  Peter continues over him, “Alas, our young Derek has decided to court precocious, indecorous Mister Stilinski through more modern means. The art is gone, children, all appreciation for quality is lost.” 

“I’m thirty-two,” Derek grits out. 

“Indecorous? Feels like a compliment,” Stiles says. “Though maybe I’m only thinking that because my brain is freezing since none of you will let me inside.” 

“Peter?” a voice calls from inside. “Is that Stiles and Derek?” 

“Oh thank god,” Stiles mutters, even as his nose wrinkles at the sappy smile that spreads across Peter’s face before he looks over his shoulder. 

“Yes, darling, our boys have arrived.” 

“God, you’re all disgusting.” Cora shrugs off Peter’s arm and stomps back inside. 

Chris takes her place and Peter leans up against him, pressing his face into Chris’ neck. God, is it appropriate for Stiles to recommend to the Alpha to cut her brother off? The past three months have been filled with plenty of behavior that makes Stiles want to gouge his eyes out, but if this is what Peter’s like at 1 pm? He dreads the thought of what it’ll be like once he’s had a whole day’s worth of wolfsbane wine. 

“Welcome,” Chris says. He pats at Peter’s head obligingly. Peter nuzzles his face in further. It’s horrible.  “Did you guys get everything squared away before—” 

“Yes, yes, bossman, we sent in the reports before heading out,” Stiles huffs. “Now come on,  let us in, we’re not on the clock anymore. Also, do you really want your only necromancer to lose his toes to frostbite?” 

“I wonder if spelling deadened digits back to life would fall under your purview,” Peter ponders aloud as Chris steps back, opening the door wide. 

“I apologize,” Chris says, moving into the entryway. He pulls Peter, who’s doing his best velcro impersonation, with him. “It’s just that those Dread Doctors —” 

“— another perfect example of why we don’t let the media name the unsubs,” Stiles grumbles. He shrugs off his jacket and puts it over a hook in the entryway. 

“— and then with my father still on the lam, I wanted to make sure that — ” Chris is still talking.

Stiles turns and claps him on the shoulder. “Dude. Sir. My very favorite esteemed leader. Holiday. Case closed. Let it rest for like, a whole twenty-four hours at least, please.”  He turns beseeching eyes on Peter. “Creeperwolf, tell your boyfriend to simmer down and let some of us recharge our batteries.” 

“Yes, Christopher,” Peter hums. “We can’t all be Energizer Bunnies like you.” 

Chris turns pink, and that’s just — nope, Stiles has had enough. He grabs Derek’s hand and yanks him down the hallway. “Come on, big guy, save me, please.” 

“Big guy?” Cora asks when they step into the kitchen. She’s standing at the stove next to Talia and Laura.

“That nickname better not be about my little brother’s dick,” Laura says, licking a spoon. 

Talia, offended: “Laura!” 

Cora, disgusted: “I’ll punch you if it is, Stilinski.” 

Peter, from the hallway: “Well, based on what I’ve seen —ow” 

Chris, accompanied by an audible shoulder slap: “Peter.” 

Derek, mortified: “I hate coming home.” 

Stiles grins. “I don’t know, big guy —” He breaks off and laughs when Laura fake gags and Cora groans, then finishes, “— I’m pretty glad to be here.”