Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles runs through the dark and foggy night, following the lights of the dispatch ahead of him. They must have found something — the other half of the girl’s body, perhaps — and Scott can’t keep up, but Stiles will be damned if he misses such a big discovery.

“Stiles, wait up!” Scott wheezes behind him, falling behind.

Stiles doesn’t slow down, not when he’s getting to the top of the steep hill, folded in half to keep out of sight. Dead leaves and dirt slides beneath his shoes, threatening to make him slip, and he’s nearly there, when something big rams into him.

He goes tumbling back down the hill, further away from Scott and the dispatch. The lights swirl wildly in front of his eyes with the shock of the impact and the wind knocked out of him so hard he nearly loses consciousness. The last thing he notices is thunder and lightning flickering overhead as searing pain explodes in his shoulder, something warm and wet seeping through his jacket…

— or Stiles’ blood pouring out of the fragile skin between his neck and shoulder.

Something dark leans over him, breathing in deeply against the wet mess on Stiles’ chest. A big, monstrous mass of dark hair and too sharp fangs protruding from its snout, which comes way too close to Stiles’ face for his liking.

He bats it away, foolishly, nimble fingers almost as pale as the fangs flashing in the dim light of the waxing moon that peers at them through the canopy of the preserve. The beast doesn’t bite again, and in the too clear sky, thunder rumbles on.

A herd of deer stampedes across the preserve, and it’s not thunder, it’s them, running madly for cover. Stiles tries to reach for Scott through blurry eyes and white-hot pain and calls weakly for his friend’s name as Scott scrambles out of the way of the herd, falling on his ass.

“Scott!” Stiles warns desperately, before the beast leaps towards his friend.

Lightning flickers in front of him once again, the moon and the headlights of the dispatch swirling uncomfortably, and Stiles passes out for good.

By the time he gets back to his senses, the beast dragged Scott away. Stiles gets to his feet on shaky legs, stumbling up the hill, but the dispatch is long gone. He wanders helplessly through the preserve without finding Scott nor the beast, wondering if any of it was real.

Walking back home out of long ingrained memory, Stiles falls face first in bed, and sleeps it off like a bad dream.

Stiles wakes up as usual the next day, and if it weren’t for the torn flesh on his shoulder and the mud on his jeans, he would have put it all behind him as a nightmare. While he’s not bleeding anymore though, there is no denying the literal bite mark near his neck, and he hastily pulls his comforter up as his father walks down the hallway to get ready as well.

It’s not like Stiles can tell the Sheriff he got mauled by a mountain lion or something last night.

John wouldn’t approve of Stiles spying on an active investigation and putting himself in danger. He’s lucky he got away with all of his limbs still attached and stretches carefully to release some of the tension in his whole body, aching all over. Stiles waits until he can hear his father loud and clear in the kitchen downstairs and covers up with both a shirt and a flannel to be sure as he changes into clean clothes, before following the sizzling scent of bacon down the stairs.

“You know it’s not good for you,” he comments, stifling a yawn.

“I know I’m the adult and you’re the child Stiles, so I’ll be cooking and telling you what to do, not the other way around,” John replies, but he’s smiling, and Stiles hugs him on his way to the coffee machine even as his father adds teasingly, “make that a latte rather than an espresso, too much caffeine isn’t good for you.”

By the time Stiles gets to school, he bounces on the balls of his feet as Scott gets off his bike, nearly bumping into the other boy as he comes closer. Stiles asks Scott about last night, leaning in and keeping his voice low as a couple of kids get off the school bus and walk past them, a tall one ahead.

Stiles frowns as he gives Boyd a second look, but the guy looks the same as usual, his hair cut short, and his backpack thrown over his wide shoulders. He gives off a particularly sad vibe today, perhaps, but they’re not friends and Stiles has other things to worry about than Boyd’s feelings.

“Dude,” he exclaims, turning to Scott. “Where did you go last night? Did the mountain lion get you?”

“Where were you?” Scott asks him right back. “I couldn’t find you, but I found the girl and I dropped my inhaler, so I was looking for a while.”

Scott looks fine, but after casting a look around, he lifts his shirt to show the bandages around his torso. Stiles reluctantly glances down, more preoccupied with the body in the woods than their wounds. It’s kinda cool, actually, they can brag and show it off when they tell the police they found the body at the perils of their lives. Today, of course, not last night.

“And I don’t think it was a mountain lion. It was a giant wolf that bit me,” Scott adds in a whisper.

“There aren’t any wolves in California,” Stiles immediately denies. “We need to go back. Do you remember where the body is?”

“No!”

“Dude, we have to go, don’t you realize, it’s the best thing that happened in this town since…” he trails off as a familiar scent drifts up to them, fresh and floral, Lydia Martin’s Lancôme perfume.

Turning around to try and get her attention, Stiles’ words die in his throat as he realizes she’s on the other side of the parking lot, nowhere near him. He deflates, following Scott to their lockers as the first bell rings, intent on convincing his friend to go back to the preserve after school today.

They introduce a new student in English lit, Allison, not that Stiles pays her much attention. Scott does though, so Stiles gives him a thumbs up and a winning smile — it’s bro code — despite his growing sense of unease. He keeps sensing Lydia further away — filing her nails in homeroom, then scrambling notes fiercely at the library — and starts to freak out by the time they get to lacrosse practice.

He can smell her perfume on Jackson as they change in the locker rooms, red rose and peony.

Left on the bench without Scott to talk to, Stiles watches the other players, trying his damn best not to focus on the enticing scent of his childhood crush. Jackson and Danny nail it during practice, ensuring yet another year on the team, Greenberg somehow manages to secure his usual seat on the bench and Scott, although looking a bit pale, stands out a lot more than usual, faster and stronger than he’s ever been.

All his training must have paid off, Stiles muses as he cheers for his friend. Another player makes a good headway to be part of the team and Stiles tilts his head to the side as he considers Isaac. The blond has been fleeting from the bench to the field ever so often and Stiles gives him a thumbs up as things seem to be finally looking up for him.

“There you go, buddy!”

Isaac makes a face like Stiles booed instead. The thing is, Stiles likes lacrosse as a sport, but he doesn’t care much about making the team, he just likes to play. It would be nice to be on the field with the others more often outside of practice, but he doesn’t worry too much about winning or losing.

No, what Stiles would rather be doing is much more intellectual than that. He wants to solve the girl’s murder, and ropes Scott into searching for the other half of the body again after practice. It helps that Scott lost his inhaler and much like Stiles, can’t go around telling Melissa about their overnight stunt in the preserve.

“I had all the time in the world to catch the ball”, Scott says as they trudge through the woods looking for said inhaler. “And that’s not the only weird thing… I can hear stuff I shouldn’t be able to hear. Or smell things.”

“Smell things?” Stiles repeats, coming to a stop. “Like what?”

“Like the mint mojito gum in your pocket.”

“I don’t even have any mint mojito-” Stiles replies automatically, before he smells it too.

Checking his breast pocket, he finds a single gum. Scott shrugs, not saying I told you so but conveying the thought all the same. Stiles makes a face as he shoves it in his mouth to chew nervously, thinking back on Lydia’s haunting perfume, or the way he could hear her all throughout the day.

“You know, maybe you’re onto something, I kept sensing Lydia all around school today.”

“So?”

Scott arches an eyebrow like it’s completely normal, and it would be, if it weren’t for the fact that Stiles could locate his crush across the building today, and not just down the hallway or from knowing her schedule by heart. When he thinks of Scott’s performance at practice today, and then the wolf Scott swore he saw last night…

“It all started with the bite,” Stiles mumbles.

“What, is it like, an infection? I got all my shots when I started working for Deaton,” Scott says hurriedly.

Stiles shakes his head, “No, I don’t think so, it would look and feel a lot worse if that was the case. Yours isn’t red, swelling or really hot to the touch, no purulent discharge or strong odor?” he waits for Scott’s reply before going on. “A wolf bite… enhanced senses, getting stronger and faster… lycanthropy? Could it be?”

Smiling, Stiles lets himself hope his life could be so cool before Scott starts to panic.

“What’s that? Is that bad?”

“Oh yeah, it’s the big bad wolf, but only once a month.”

“Once a month?”

“On the night of the full moon,” Stiles nods, before throwing his head back, and howling.

Except instead of a fake howl, an actual, bone chilling noise reverberates through the preserve as Stiles howls in a low, threatening pitch, throbbing deep in his chest. Scott stumbles back in surprise, his mouth agape, and Stiles falls silent, as surprised as his friend.

“What the fuck man?” Scott asks, shaky.

“I was kidding, but this is awesome.”

“Something is seriously wrong!”

“Dude, we’re werewolves and Friday’s a full moon! Everything’s good, great even! By the way, where did you see the body?”

Scott stops arguing to look around, frowning as he doesn’t find his inhaler, nor the body. They’re standing in the middle of the preserve, dead leaves all around, and Scott swears he saw the body and dropped his inhaler around here. Perhaps the killer — the werewolf, even — moved the body, Stiles muses, but they keep searching for Scott’s inhaler as these things are expensive and Stiles knows what that’s like. Werewolves or not, they still can’t go around telling their parents about their extracurricular activities.

Someone steps on a twig and when Stiles looks up, an older teenager with pale skin, black hair and a leather jacket stares back at him.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles gapes back at the stranger, at loss for words and panicking somewhat because this isn’t just anyone. This is Derek Hale, whose family burned to death in a fire some years ago and who disappeared soon after. Derek loses patience, and his tone doesn’t get any friendlier.

“This is private property.”

“Sorry man, we didn’t know.”

Derek glances from Scott to Stiles, glaring then, and now that Stiles thinks about it they are pretty close to the old Hale house. Scott picks up where Stiles left off as neither he nor Derek speaks up again, starting to explain they were looking for something, but loses his nerve as Derek’s eyes weigh heavily on them.

Suddenly, Derek tosses Scott’s inhaler at him and disappears without another word, leaving Scott and Stiles to ponder on what, exactly, happened here.

That night, Stiles wakes up in a coyote’s den in the preserve. The moon shines overhead, more than half full, and the light draws him out of the den as he crawls on the forest floor on all four. Somewhere at the back of his mind, a sense of unease settles comfortably, like a lucid dream, and this must be a nightmare indeed, because the edges of his vision blur everywhere he looks.

A thick fog lingers all around and a dark outline takes the shape of a wolf in front of him…

To chase him, Stiles realizes as he scrambles through the preserve to get out of reach of the wolf shrouded in fog. He runs on all four, and he feels every twig and rock digging into the palm of his hands like it’s real, throwing himself in a body of water in a last-ditch attempt to throw off the wolf, with no scent left to lead it back to him.

He comes up for air, eyes blinking open, and by the time he wakes up, the sting of chlorine makes it abundantly clear that he’s not in bed. In fact, he’s nowhere near his house, but rather in Lydia’s backyard, gasping for air in her pool.

How does he know?

Lydia stares at him as a scream dies on her lips, hugging Prada — her dog — to her chest.

By the time Stiles gets out of here, stuttering explanations and excuses all along, it’s time to get ready for school. He goes through the motions with his mind reeling from the dream. Except, was it really a dream? There is dirt all over his hands and he found dead leaves inside his pajamas, like he did run through the preserve all night long.

In the back of his mind, he overhears his father on the phone.

“A wolf? They don’t usually come all the way to California. Are you sure? Couldn’t it have been a dog?”

The conversation trails off as Stiles’ father steps out of range.

Maybe this werewolf gig thing isn’t such a great development after all. Scott’s newfound abilities only make Jackson suspicious and therefore, more aggressive. As for Stiles, Lydia’s perfume haunts him still and coupled with his ADHD, all the sounds he picks up throughout the building make it harder to focus in class. He swallows more Adderall than recommended and climbs in the Jeep, hoping today will be better with the help of his medication.

“Allison invited me to Lydia’s party,” Scott announces over lunch.

“Maybe you shouldn’t go to practice this afternoon,” Stiles replies, disregarding the beginning of the conversation.

“Are you kidding? I finally get a real shot at first line. I’m not missing out.”

“Look, I know I said being werewolves was badass yesterday, but my dad got a phone call this morning confirming they found wolf hair on the first half of the body in the woods. That means that whoever did this to this poor girl might be the werewolf that bit us, and that beast is out of control. What if we end up like that on the full moon and slaughter the whole neighborhood?”

“No way,” Scott says stubbornly. “I’m going to practice, and I’m making first line this year.”

“Fine, have it your way, and don’t ask me for help when my dad locks you up for murder,” Stiles spits back, standing up abruptly.

He empties his tray on his way out of the cafeteria, intent on skipping lacrosse practice. Instead, he researches werewolves well into the evening, only looking up when Scott shuffles his feet sheepishly in the doorway of Stiles’ room.

“I’ll leave you guys to it,” John says as he disappears down the stairs.

“So… I made first line,” Scott says as he lingers by the desk.

“Congrats,” Stiles replies icily.

“Look, I just want to play lacrosse and take Allison to a party, a normal life. This werewolf thing doesn’t have to be all serious and stuff. Can’t it just be cool, like you said?”

“Like ripping people to shreds when you’re overcome with bloodlust during the full moon?”

“Seriously Stiles, can’t you just be happy for me? I’m going to the party on Friday, and perhaps you should too, instead of complaining that you’re always left out. You will be if you never try to make first line or hang out with the rest of the team.”

“Fine! Let’s go to the damn party, hang out with the jocks, be the butt of every joke as usual… It will give me a good reason to be a bloodthirsty werewolf,” Stiles relents, but he won’t meet Scott’s eyes.

Stiles always says it’s because of Scott if they don’t get to be part of the cool kids, but it’s a joke. They’re the cool kids, and the lacrosse teams are just a bunch of boring jocks with their hot, but mean girlfriends. They’re better off without Jackson and his clique, it’s not like they’d belong there.

Clearly, Scott doesn’t think so, and his words hurt more than Stiles is willing to admit — or let show.

Stiles runs into his father when he heads out on Friday night. John sips some coffee in the kitchen, leaning against the counter in his Sheriff’s uniform, no doubt gearing up for a late night at the station. Stiles glances at him from the doorway, reaching for the keys of the Jeep, when his father makes a tutting sound.

“Going anywhere?”

“To a party,” Stiles replies.

“Walking there, I hope?” John says more than he asks, not giving him a chance to reply. “I know how these things go. Make sure to be long gone when there is a noise complaint.”

He doesn’t ask Stiles to be safe, but he doesn’t need to. Stiles walks over to give his father a hug before he goes out, and hopes that he won’t get in trouble, even with the full moon staring him down through the kitchen window.

As far as the bloodlust goes, Stiles finds out soon enough that it’s nothing more than the usual urge to bash Jackson’s head in a wall. Lydia barely spared him a look, not that Stiles minds after waking up in her pool a couple days ago, and he stays clear of said pool all throughout the evening, nursing a beer in a corner. At least she didn’t tell everyone at school, not like she did when he walked with her in the ladies room back in middle grade. He just meant to be friendly! Girls always go to the bathroom in pairs.

There is a white noise buzzing in the back of his mind ever since he walked in, overwhelmed with the crowd and party lights of Lydia’s infamous parties. Scott waved at him from afar when he got there — in Melissa’s car, fucking unfair; immediately running to Allison’s side.

Left to his own devices, Stiles chats a bit with Harley and Heather as he grabs his second beer, even as he keeps an eye out for Scott on the other side of the pool. He can’t hear much with the music coming from the loudspeakers inside.

The two girls sway gently to the music, twirling in their cutesy satin and tulle dresses and he joins in reluctantly when he starts to look awkward, frozen still in the living room with his nicer flannel and jeans. He used to run around with Heather as a kid, hiding in the tree house in her garden. They aren’t as close anymore, living their own lives with their respective friends and their particular interests, but he likes to catch up with her whenever they can.

“You must come to my birthday party,” Heather insists, waving a red cup around.

“I will,” Stiles agrees easily, smiling through the onslaught of noise and smells all around.

Alcohol sloshes over the rim of Heather’s drink and Harley promptly takes the cup from her before she spills it on the floor. Heather protests meekly, then perks up as someone comes up behind Stiles to grab a beer. She starts giggling, elbowing Harley, who lights up as she catches sight of the newcomer too.

“Boyd! You made it,” she grins, brushing past Stiles to approach him.

“Yeah, my shift just ended,” Boyd agrees, somewhat stilted.

“So, you work at the ice rink?” Harley asks, smiling at him.

“Yeah, in the evening.”

“Must be creepy when it’s empty,” she comments, pushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“And I’m out of here,” Stiles sighs, turning around to give her and Boyd some privacy.

Heather already disappeared to chat with another girl and Boyd watches him go with a confused expression, like Harley’s attempt at getting to know each other better is completely lost on him. Stiles squeezes her shoulder encouragingly, wishing her good luck in a whisper.

He likes Harley, she’s sweet and not superficial like the girls that usually hang around the jocks. She probably invited Boyd to the party because he’s more interesting than them, not that Boyd seems to realize that.

Perhaps Stiles should take Harley with him next time he goes looking for a body in the woods, rather than Scott. She’d kick the werewolf’s ass alright, he muses, and then they’d have a long chat about wigs and Afro hair, because Stiles needs to know more about it all. Everything about it, really.

He walks around the pool with the light of the moon refracted in the water, pulling at him until he’s hovering on the edge, staring down at the surface. Moon drunk, it seems, Stiles muses, and perhaps his father was right to revoke the Jeep privilege for tonight, except it’s not because of the booze. As for Scott, Stiles notices him pulling abruptly away from the crowd, victim of the pull of the moon too. He hurries over to his friend as Scott stumbles towards Melissa’s car.

“Hey, are you alright?”

“I think you were right,” Scott says through gritted teeth and when he looks up, they have turned into fangs and his eyes shine yellow.

Stiles’ eyes flash right back, a tingle unlike anything he’s ever felt before.

“Let’s take you home,” he offers, but Scott shrugs him off.

“I’m fine, I can drive. I don’t want Allison to see me like that.”

Scott slides onto the driver’s seat and pulls off the curb a moment later to go home, leaving Stiles to stand helplessly on the sidewalk.

“Well, I could have used a ride,” he mumbles.

“I could drive you back home, if you’d like,” someone offers behind him, and Stiles startles.

Spinning around and stumbling off the curb, he finds Derek Hale watching him with a smirk, somehow looking the part at a high school party, more than Stiles ever could. Swallowing thickly, Stiles glances once more at the moon, before nodding and following Derek a little further down the street to a sleek black Camaro that he really shouldn’t climb in, and yet he does.

What’s the worst thing that can happen?

Stiles is a fucking werewolf, if Derek tries anything, Stiles can rip him to shreds.

“You’re Stiles, right?” Derek asks as Stiles gives directions to his neighborhood (not his house, he’s the son of a cop after all).

“Yeah,” he replies, clearing his throat. “Sorry again, for the other day, and thank you for giving back Scott’s inhaler. We had no idea we were trespassing.”

“No harm done,” Derek says, and Stiles frowns.

Something about it doesn’t sit right with him, actually. What was Derek doing in the middle of the woods? The Hale house burned down, and no one bothered to reconstruct it. The county couldn’t tear it down as it still belongs to the remaining Hales.

How did Derek find Scott’s inhaler anyway? He could have stumbled upon it by chance, but it’s a small thing, not easily noticeable, hence how Scott lost it in the first place. What’s more, Derek is bound to have heard Stiles’ impressive howl barely a minute before they ran into him.

What if… what if Derek is the werewolf that killed the girl in the woods and bit them?

“Stop the car,” Stiles asks hurriedly.

Derek frowns in the dim light of the lamp posts down the street but slows down to pull over on the side of the road. Stiles is out of the car before they come to a complete stop and he runs off, leaping over a fence with the light of the moon shining down his back as he ends up in the preserve in no time.

— and runs in the middle of a hunting party of some sorts.

Poachers, he realizes too late, clad in all black with crossbows and snipers raised at eye level, flashing silver in the light of the full moon. One of them shoots Stiles on sight, and an arrow pierces through his arm, tearing through the flesh and muscle there in a searing hot flash of pain like nothing Stiles ever experienced before.

Even when he broke his arm jumping from Heather’s tree house because his mother never joined him outside to watch him even though she said she would. The flashback of his mother’s dismissive tendencies when she first fell ill, when her medication really put her out of it for hours at a time does little to tamper the throbbing pain in his arm.

“Don’t let this mutt get away,” one of the Hunters yells, shooting again, but misses as Stiles drops to his knees.

A dark blur takes the Hunter out a moment later, then another, leaving only the third one, with the crossbow, hurrying to check their vitals. Derek appears by Stiles’ side then, taking advantage of the distraction to break the stem and push the arrow out of Stiles’ arm despite his furious roar of pain. Derek hauls him up, throwing Stiles’ good arm over his shoulder, and they run off while they can.

They come to a stop in a clearing, where the canopy is thick enough to conceal the light of the moon, yet Stiles can still see clearly. He pats his arm frantically, only to find it already healed, much faster than the bite mark that took a couple of days to fade from his shoulder. He tastes blood on his lips though, and brushes a thumb over his mouth, almost nicking his fingertip as he does so.

“Who were they?” he asks Derek in a burst of anger, which is better than freaking out about everything else.

“Hunters. They’ve been hunting us for centuries.”

“Us? You mean you! You did this to Scott and me.”

“Is it really so bad? You can see better, hear more clearly, move faster than any human could ever hope. You said so yourself, you’ve been given something that most people would kill for. The Bite is a gift.”

Stiles deflates, because he did, didn’t he? Back in the preserve, right before running into Derek. It confirms his suspicions though and he glares at Derek, keeping a safe distance between them as the sounds of the preserve echo all around, wild animals and ancient trees moving in harmony in the dead of night.

“That’s what I thought,” Derek says. “I wasn’t the one who bit you.”

“Is that so?” Stiles replies defiantly, not believing him.

“You’re going to need me if you want to learn how to control it,” Derek insists.

That, Stiles can believe.

“You, Scott and me? We’re Pack now,” Derek says earnestly, and Stiles sighs instead of bolting again.

Chapter Text

Stiles grabs the back of Scott’s shirt as soon as he gets to school, taking him aside in the school parking lot. Even with just the sun shining bright in the sky, he can still feel the pull of the moon, like he’s about to crawl out of his skin, and his encounter with Derek last night only makes the matter worse.

“Dude, Derek Hale is a werewolf!” he yells-whispers. “And there are werewolf Hunters!”

“Cool, you can go do werewolf things with him,” Scott replies distractedly, staring into the distance.

Stiles glances over to see what has Scott so enraptured and finds Allison climbing out of a SUV, kissing the driver on the cheek… The man looks awfully familiar in the dim interior of the car and Stiles’ heart misses a beat as he recognizes the Hunter who shot him last night.

“Who’s that?”

“Her father. Damn, I feel terrible, I had to leave early last night and I left her alone, she must be so mad…”

“Scott, Allison’s father is a werewolf Hunter, he shot me last night. I only made it out thanks to Derek!”

“Are you sure?” Scott asks skeptically.

To Stiles’ utter disbelief, Scott doesn’t seem to care one bit that his (future) girlfriend’s father is a Hunter (or that he hurt Stiles, for that matter). Stiles grits his teeth but tries to go about it another way if logic and common sense won’t cut it.

“Derek can help us control it, don’t you want to apologize to Allison and really do better next time you guys hang out?”

Scott nods mindlessly, barely listening, and Stiles can only assume all his senses are honed onto Allison.

Stiles’ remain hyper aware of Lydia at all times and he follows a trail of red roses and peony all the way to lacrosse practice in the afternoon.

Fidgety, Stiles watches Scott, mostly out of it on the field despite his newfound abilities. Isaac throws him annoyed glances all throughout while up on the bleachers, Allison and Lydia chat between themselves.

“Will you stop it?” Isaac mutters, elbowing Stiles.

He barely feels it and doesn’t stop tapping his foot or compulsively fidgeting with his helmet, until Isaac gives an explosive sigh and slides down the bench to sit further away from him. Stiles can’t tune out Lydia’s mean but true comments, and it takes him more than a few seconds to notice as Scott eventually loses it when Jackson tackles him one too many times. Jumping to his feet, Stiles runs over before Scott can rip the jock to shreds and pulls his friend back as Scott rams straight into Jackson with a low growl.

“Get over it, dude,” Stiles tells Scott, shaking him, all for naught.

Avoiding an elbow to the face, Stiles drags him back to the locker room under Coach’s confused calls to calm down and play fair. A pungent wave of pain seeps through Jackson’s angry yelling as Stiles slams the door of the locker room shut behind them.

“Scott, try to control it damnit!” he calls out as he turns to face his best friend.

Just on time, because Scott swivels around with glowing gold eyes, elongated fangs and sharp claws protruding from his fingertips. Stiles’ eyes blaze right back, and he doesn’t feel it so much as he senses his face shifting to reflect Scott’s more lupine traits before his best friend jumps him.

Stiles ducks out of sheer reflexes, evading a deadly swipe in the nick of time. A roar threatens to break out of his throat then and Stiles swallows it for fear of attracting the whole team inside, but that’s about as far as his rational mind goes before surrendering to the violent instinct of survival.

He catches Scott around the waist and tosses him across the locker room like a rag doll.

Scott recovers quickly though, prowling the length of a row of lockers as Stiles takes cover on the other side of the room, and they run into each other on the other side. Stiles backs down, only to find that there is nowhere to go, and little space to evade another of Scott’s attempts at ripping his face off.

Stiles crouches low even as the sting of a cut sparks to life on the side of his buzzcut and bares his teeth but doesn’t get a chance to retaliate.

Derek appears between them and grabs the fire extinguisher, promptly spraying it on them. The thick white gas shocks Stiles out of his daze as he scrambles away so he can breathe again, disoriented and tumbling onto a bench in his surprise. On the other side of the fading cloud of foam, Scott blinks owlishly at Derek, having broken out of his trance.

“You two were going to kill each other,” Derek points out matter of factly, like it’s the natural order of things.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks, since there is no use in denying it.

“I saw you on the field.”

“Were you watching us?” Stiles asks again, muttering stalker under his breath.

Derek must hear it, but elects not to comment on it, glancing at Scott instead.

“You can’t play on Saturday,” Derek says. “You’ll end up killing someone on the field.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott stammers, like he has no recollection of what just happened.

“You shifted in front of everyone! If they find out what you are, they find out about Stiles and me — about all of us! And then, it’s not just the Hunters after us, it’s everyone.”

“A good old witch hunt,” Stiles breathes out, growing pale.

“But I want to play!” Scott whines.

“Don’t you get it Scott? It’s the stress and anger acting as triggers, every time we get worked up, we lose control,” Stiles asks angrily.

“They didn’t see anything! I swear,” Scott argues.

“And they won’t,” Derek says firmly. “Because if you even try to play in that game on Saturday, I’m gonna kill you myself.”

The door of the locker room slams shut behind him a moment later.

Stiles’ father mentions the game over dinner that night. They share a pie — Claudia’s recipe — over an energy drink and cold coffee, each gearing up for a long evening, when John sets his knife down and gives Stiles a smile.

“I’m thinking of taking time off on Saturday to come and watch you play.”

“Oh,” Stiles trails off, both embarrassed about being on the bench and not willing to let his father witness a potential slaughter on the field. “Cool, I hope we make it worth your time.”

“You don’t seem all that excited about it, don’t you think your team can win? What is it now, third time you won the state championships and all that?”

“No, I’m sure we’ll roll over them,” Stiles perks up a bit, muttering under his breath afterwards. “I just hope it doesn’t get too bloody.”

John smiles tightly at that. He used to play football in college and there are some pictures around the house that attest to that but much like Stiles, he isn’t much of a victory or game-changing oriented person. He rinses off the pie with some of the leftover coffee as he studies Stiles carefully and furrows his eyebrows when he notices Stiles’ red-rimmed eyes, heavy with dark circles, in the harsh light over the dinner table.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days. Maybe you shouldn’t drink too much of that. Have you taken your Adderall recently?”

Now that his father mentions it, Stiles realizes that he kept taking it indeed. Perhaps that’s the reason he controls himself a bit better than Scott, staying more focused with his medication? He smiles at his dad, nodding, and tells him the truth.

“Just nightmares, must be the full moon.”

John nods and they clear the tables before the landline rings. Stiles glances at it but lets his father take the call, filling the dishwasher as he strains his ears to listen in. Melissa’s voice echoes through the crackling of the landline before John replies, and Stiles lingers by the counter as he waits for the rest of the conversation.

“Dislocated shoulder? Oh man, that’s rough. No, they can’t press charges if it happened during practice.”

“Was that Melissa?” Stiles asks when his father hangs up.

“Why do you ask?” his father replies as he turns around, watching Stiles warily.

“Because I was eavesdropping, duh,” Stiles admits, especially since it will distract his father from the fact that even if he was, he shouldn’t have been able to tell.

It works, and his dad shoos him upstairs to do his homework. Usually, John works on his cases when he does that, and Stiles is tempted to stick around and be nosy, but eventually decides against it, heading to his room to face-call Scott instead.

Stiles tells his best friend about Jackson’s dislocated shoulder when Scott’s face morphs into an expression of utter horror. Stiles squints at the camera as his friend points frantically at the screen before leaning in to type: there is someone behind you!

Spinning around on the desk chair, Stiles nearly topples over, slamming his laptop shut as he comes face to face with Derek. The werewolf stares at him from a dark corner of the bedroom, clad in his leather jacket still, and he takes a threatening step forward when John voices echoes from downstairs.

“Everything alright, son?”

“Yeah, just playing video games online with Scott,” Stiles calls back, lying through his teeth.

Derek smiles at the lie. Stiles recoils from his glinting teeth, perfectly human yet raising alarms in Stiles’ mind. The thing is, Derek’s control doesn’t slip. Ever since they ran into him, he keeps a cool head and if it weren’t for the inherent sense of eeriness that surrounds him, Stiles might even doubt Derek truly is a werewolf.

“What do you want?” he asks in a whisper.

“I want you to make sure Scott doesn’t play on Saturday and stays away from the Argent girl.”

“Easier said than done,” Stiles mutters.

“It will be a better use of your time than googling anything you can find online about werewolves. That’s just a bunch of crap,” Derek replies.

He leans so close Stiles can see the flecks of bold in his blue-gray eyes. Quite nice eyes actually, Stiles muses as Derek’s breath lands heavily on his lips, before the other werewolf presses their cheeks together like the French bise and rubs their faces together. Scratch that, it’s like a nose rub and Stiles panics as they end up tangled in each other, Derek’s strong chest pressing against his own as Stiles is trapped in his chair and very uncomfortable.

“What the fuck are you doing?” he forces out, and Derek finally steps back.

Stiles looks up, affronted but the other boy is long gone. Spinning around on his chair, Stiles opens his laptop again and gives Scott a tight smile as his best friend’s face appears on the screen. Scott leans in eagerly, his hair a mess and halfway through changing out of his pajamas to run to Stiles’ house.

“Are you alright, what was he doing in your room?” he asks.

“I’m not quite sure, actually,” Stiles replies, and it’s not exactly a lie.

Derek all but rubbed off on him, except not in the sexy way. Or, well, in a one-sided sexy way. Only the sight of Scott’s crooked face finally enabled Stiles to will his erection down.

Why would Derek focus on him, rather than Scott? Stiles is a freshly bitten werewolf too, with barely more control than Scott. It’s not like he’s in any position to stop Scott from playing on Saturday even if he wanted to. He shrugs, and glances outside as night falls.

“He may not be the werewolf that bit us, or so he says but I’m still not convinced he didn’t kill this girl.”

Stiles comes up with a plan and they hang up after figuring out their next steps.

He drags Scott through the preserve once again the next evening, except this time they head straight for the old Hale house. After all, Scott swears he saw the girl around here, and that’s where they met Derek as well. It’s their best guess, and they near the shell of a house at a jog, studying the bare bones of what used to be more of a mansion than a haunt in the woods.

Scott and Stiles never really hang out around here, but the jocks often send their newest team members inside at night with instructions to bring back some kind of trophee. To prove that they truly went in, Stiles thinks bitterly as they round the house, searching for clues.

“What’s this smell?” Scott asks as they come by the front porch.

Stiles slows down to breathe in through his nose and tries to smell what Scott is talking about. He only comes up with a metallic taste in his mouth and makes a face as he and Scott trade knowing looks.

“Smells like blood,” Scott says. “I think you’re right. He is a murderer.”

“We have to make sure,” Stiles replies. “We’ll go to the hospital, and you’ll sneak into the morgue to compare the smell around here with the first half of the body.”

“Why me?”

“Because clearly your nose is better than mine?”

Stiles arches an eyebrow as he says so, and Scott reluctantly agrees to his plan. At the hospital, Stiles keeps watch while his best friend is off breaking into the morgue, loitering in the hallway not unlike any other evening when they stopped by to drop something off for Melissa. He gives a tight smile to a nurse he recognizes at the desk around the corner, and nearly falls on his ass in his hast to get out of sight when none other than Jackson comes out of an examination room to meet Lydia outside.

“Shit!”

“That’s no way to enter a lady’s room, especially without an invitation,” comes a weak voice behind him.

He swivels around in the dim hospital room even as in the distance, Lydia whispers hotly about good lacrosse players to convince Jackson to take another shot of cortisone before the game on Saturday. The scent of red roses and peonies drifts into the hospital room, with a sultry layer of something else, dark and dangerous, that he can’t quite name. It’s nothing like he’s ever sensed before.

“Sorry,” he says after a beat, dragging the palm of his hand over his face to forget about redheads and their utter disinterest.

“It’s fine, it’s not like I get any visitors at all anyway.”

The girl’s dismissive voice wavers even as she flicks matted blond hair over her shoulder and Stiles takes a second to place her. It’s difficult, with the greasy hair and the hospital gown, but there is a black backpack beside her with cat ears and she’s reading comics. He’s seen her around the school library, Stiles recalls.

“You’re Erica,” he says at least, and she startles.

“You know my name?”

“We’re in the same grade,” he replies, shrugging, but a smile lights up her entire face, so he goes on, smiling back. “And you have great tastes in comics.”

“You too,” she grins. “Have you finished the new Batman series that came in the other day? I’ve been dying to get my hands on them, you need to bring them back.”

“Only if I can trade them for the Catwoman special,” he replies, pointing at the book on her lap.

“That’s a fair trade.”

Erica nods, smiling still, but looking at her closely, Stiles senses an inherent sadness to her whole demeanor. Right, she’s in the hospital, no doubt after an epileptic episode. They made a big deal of it at school when she was first diagnosed, with teachers distributing flyers about what to do if it ever happened in class. It must have been mortifying, Stiles muses, and it’s not like anyone bothered to read those or try to help her when it did happen.

No, some assholes filmed her instead.

“You know, I did some research about epilepsy, I’m no expert obviously, but I wanted to make sure the stuff on those flyers was legit,” he blurts out inconsiderately, before adding. “It was.”

It takes Erica aback, and the smile slips off her face. Stiles rubs the back of his head, embarrassed, but her voice softens somewhat as she eventually replies.

“That's all there is to know about it really. What would really help is a dog. I’ve been begging my parents to get one. Not a puppy, a grown ass dog trained to recognize the signs before it happens so that I can lay down somewhere safe and out of sight.”

“A fucking wolf,” Stiles agrees readily, and he doesn’t think too much about it when Erica smiles again.

He stays for a while before bidding her goodbye. That’s when he smells it again, under the thick layer of antiseptics and the artificial freshness of her deodorant, that same scent of musk, somewhat sultry… almost like arousal.

There is no other way to describe it.

Stiles shivers on his way out, because he might not feel that way right now, but it strokes his ego all the same. Lydia never exuded such a heady scent in his vicinity but someone else does so who cares about Lydia anyway? She doesn’t even look his way on her best days.

Scott comes back from the morgue swearing the blood at the Hale House is the girl’s, and with a gruesome picture on his phone. The body has been cut in half, and it’s not a pretty sight. It looks like a clean cut from a sword, severing the spine, and Stiles nearly throws up over the window of the Jeep.

“Dude, I don’t think a werewolf could have done that,” he points out as soon as he’s done heaving.

“How do you know?”

“Well, a werewolf would have left bite or claw marks,” Stiles replies, but Scott doesn’t look convinced. “Look, are you trying to get back at Derek or to solve a murder here?”

Scott’s silence is the only answer he needs. Still, Stiles starts the Jeep to drive back to the Hale house and dig up the other part of the girl’s corpse. For reasons Stiles is not willing to disclose, he carries a shovel around in the back of the Jeep, so they get started under the bright glow of the full moon, with its distant pull at the back of Stiles’ mind.

He picks up the end of a twine rope and follows it along a circle in a fresh heap of dirt, unraveling it in a spiral until they stumble upon a purple flower connected to a bundle of burlap cloth. Stiles scrunches up his nose as Scott goes to pluck the flowers out, and hisses as it seemingly burns the tip of his fingers.

“Are you alright?” Stiles asks, leaning over to glance at it.

“Yeah,” Scott replies, shaking his hand out. “It stings, that’s all.”

Stiles makes a face and doesn’t dare reach for the flower himself, taking a second look at it instead. It reminds him eerily of some pictures he saw online… He mulls over it as he grabs the edge of the burlap cloth instead, pulling it off to reveal its contents. A wolf head lays inside, and Stiles jumps back at the sight.

The flower marks the grave of a black wolf, and judging from the size of the bag, just one half of it. It dawns on him then. Wolfsbane. The girl who died in the woods was a werewolf too, he’s willing to bet, but she looks like a big dog, and therefore they can’t send the police to Derek’s front door.

Saturday comes way too fast.

At the game, the noise is deafening. Curled up on a bench in the corner of the locker room with his hands over his head, rubbing frantically at his buzzcut, Stiles perceives it through the cotton feeling in his ears and can barely stand the maelstrom of smells and sounds coming from the crowd settling on the bleachers outside. He overhears bits of conversation among the other team, and they don’t seem really confident going against Beacon Hills tonight, but the game is the least of Stiles’ worries.

He pulls Scott aside before they run out onto the field, tense and fidgeting with his lacrosse stick. Off to the side, Jackson reeks of pain medication, and somehow, Isaac does to. It clogs Stiles’ nose and the glow of the full moon, seeping in through the awning windows, threatens to blind him with silver light even as he finally manages to tune out the ruckus outside.

“Maybe you shouldn’t play tonight,” he whispers urgently to Scott.

“I can’t, I just made first line, if I don’t play tonight, I’ll never have another opportunity to shine.”

Stiles gives an explosive sigh, shaking Scott a little, but his best friend pushes him off ruthlessly, a hint of supernatural strength in his hands making Stiles stumble back against a locker. Stiles’ eyes tingle with the flash of a golden glow and Scott closes his own with a groan, somehow regaining control of himself even as Stiles leaves deep indentations of his claws in the metal door behind him, arguing some more.

“I can barely control myself and I’m not the one playing, are you sure it’s such a good idea? Derek said-”

“I don’t care about Derek! I don’t care about this werewolf crap! I just want a normal life,” Scott replies hotly.

“How can you not care that we’re freaking werewolves?!” Stiles asks louder than he means to, not that anyone pays them any mind.

He pulls off the locker holding most of his weight now, sparing a glance at the hand shaped mark in the metal, but doesn’t get a chance to try to fix it somewhat. Scott steps into his space, breathing hard and looming over Stiles to try and make him back down. It doesn’t work and they glare at each other with their lacrosse sticks crossed over their chests, glowering.

“I’m not like you! I don’t enjoy being a freak! Look at you, you’re so happy to be special, like you’re finally some kind of big deal, but you’re not Stiles! We’re both losers, and we’ll always be if I don’t play tonight. This is my chance.”

Scott pulls away from Stiles and runs out on the field with the rest of the lacrosse team, leaving Stiles stunned. He doesn’t… does he? Does Stiles enjoy his newfound status as a werewolf? It’s not usually his creature of choice on his online role-playing game, but the glowing eyes, the claws and the fangs are kinda cool, and with Derek to answer all his questions and teach him how to control his abilities, is it so bad?

So, what if nothing good ever happens in his life and he makes the most of another bad stroke of luck, for once? Gritting his teeth, Stiles sticks his chin up and refuses to let Scott’s words bring him down. He’d rather be a loser than suck it up to the likes of Jackson, or even Lydia, who will never appreciate him for who he really is. Stiles thought that Scott did, but clearly his so-called best friend never really wanted to stick around.

Fine. Stiles can be his own person, and he’ll be pretty damn good at it too.

He follows the rest of the team at a leisurely pace to find his usual seat on the bench, glancing at the bleachers to find his dad in the crowd and wave halfheartedly. It’s not like his father will see much of him on the field tonight.

Stiles clenches his fingers around his lacrosse stick as the game starts off without a hitch, struggling to keep his claws and fangs in as his stress levels reach new heights with each passing second, and every player colliding painfully against Scott. He can barely bear the sight of his best friend ramming into a smaller player, sending the poor guy sprawling on the ground.

The full moon pulls at every fiber of his being. Stiles’ skin itches to change and let the wolf out, and he ducks his head as his eyes glow gold, as though answering the call of the silver moon in the dark sky.

They win, at last, and Stiles releases the breath he’s been holding all along, lightheaded and his entire body aching with how tense he’s been all night… or perhaps the pull of the moon shining overhead. He gives a lackluster cheer for his team as half of the crowd jumps to their feet to celebrate Beacon Hill’s victory, spilling onto the field as friends and families embrace the players on the field.

With most of the crowd in front of him, Stiles picks up his father’s voice behind the bleachers more easily and half turns to look at John in full Sheriff mode, speaking quickly on the phone. Stiles strains his ears, listening in on the call, and catches the end of the conversation as John asks the coroner to confirm the identity of the lower body half in the morgue.

Laura Hale.

Chapter Text

Stiles dreams of his mother. It hasn’t happened in years, yet he yearns to wake up as soon as he finds himself back in the hospital room, staring at his blurry reflection in the fragments of the mirror she broke in a fit of madness fueled anger.

Claudia lost it some more with the disease gaining ground every day.

He was just a child back then, but now he changes shape in the deformed reflection of the broken mirror, a dark and twisted thing with glowing eyes and the flash of teeth. He hurts her right back when she backhands him, slashing at the meat of her neck with the curved end of sharp claws, and the splatter of blood on the white tiles isn’t Stiles’.

It’s hers.

He wakes up screaming and his father comes running into the bedroom, gathering Stiles’ shaking form in his arms in a long-awaited hug. The one he never got from his mother when all he needed was to curl up against her chest. Sobs rack through Stiles’ body as he bats off the remnants of his nightmare, holding onto his father’s forearm, and John whispers sweet nothings against his buzzcut, not letting go until Stiles slips back into a dreamless sleep.

Stiles doesn’t mention it to Scott at school, doesn’t even mean to talk to his best friend at all, but Scott sides up to him to recall a bad dream of his own and well… Stiles can’t help but investigate the violent dreams that plague them. More than his inquisitive nature though, something primal pools in his gut, a sense of belonging, except it feels like his friendship with Scott increased tenfold.

“It was just a dream,” he reiterates, jamming his locker open.

“It didn’t feel like one.”

And so, Stiles sticks around and tries to convey his reassuring stance on the matter. He might know for sure the events of his dream didn’t happen, but Scott doesn’t seem so confident and grows restless as they fail to find Allison before the first bell.

That’s when they see the bus from Scott’s dream, and the Sheriff’s deputies. Stiles gapes at them, because perhaps Scott’s dream really happened after all. Scott starts to text Allison frantically, until they finally run into her, safe and sound. Scott only relaxes marginally after that, and Stiles glances out the window as they reluctantly end up in chemistry class, watching the proceedings around the bus driver.

“The dream felt very real,” Stiles allows, fiddling with a loose thread in his jeans. “Like something I actually remembered rather than a nightmare.”

“Maybe we should talk to Derek again,” Scott suggests unexpectedly.

He somehow handles his lycanthropy both far better and far worse than Stiles, snapping at a moment’s notice yet displaying surprising self-control when it matters the most to him. Stiles wishes his best friend wasn’t so willing to tear him apart during the full moon, and really wants to find Derek, so he readily agrees.

Even more so when the Sheriff’s deputies find the driver in the bus, barely alive. Scott and Stiles trade a knowing look as they listen in on the deputies, and Stiles can read his best friend’s thoughts on his face. Scott is convinced he hurt the man, and no matter what Stiles says, he won’t rest until they figure out what happened last night.

Somehow, despite the barbs and the fights, Stiles knows he’ll stand by Scott’s side till the full moon tears them apart.

Still, they argue about it over lunch. The noise isn’t so bad in the cafeteria with the full moon behind them and Stiles leans over his tray to talk Scott out of any rash behavior, especially now that they know the girl in the woods was none other than Laura Hale, and another werewolf. Derek wouldn’t have killed his sister, or so Stiles hopes, and that means they need to be all the more careful because if the deputies solve this crime, they might find out about werewolves. About them.

“Dreams aren’t memories,” Stiles repeats once again, pulling a loose thread out of his jeans.

“It wasn’t a dream. I think it really happened.”

“How can you be so sure, if you can’t remember it?”

“Look, Derek is always in total control during the full moon, but we’re not.”

“Yeah, you tried to rip my throat out and you’ve been a dickhead all week,” Stiles mutters, but Scott doesn’t listen.

Lydia stops by their table and sits primly next to Scott, waving some people over as she does so. Allison finds a seat on Scott’s other side and Stiles stares, confused, until Jackson elbows him roughly out of his own chair. Jackson and Danny take the two remaining seats, moving Stiles’ tray aside.

“Seriously, Jackson?”

“Move, asswipe,” the captain of the lacrosse team snaps, sprawling on the chair.

“Aren’t you going to say anything?” Stiles asks Scott, dumbfounded, but his friend simply shrugs and ducks his head. “Really?” Stiles glances at Danny who seems like a good guy, usually.

“Don’t look at me, I’m not the one staring at his girlfriend’s coin slot all the time.”

Stiles grabs his tray then, not so much to leave but to hide the claws that threaten to pop out instead of his bitten fingernails and turns to go with a huff, setting down at the nearest table. Behind him, Lydia takes it upon herself to plan a double date with Scott and Allison, not really interested in discussing whether a mountain lion or a cougar attacked the bus driver, even though she knows they’re the same thing. She’s a genius, not that she’d want anyone to figure it out.

“That’s rough,” Boyd says as he takes a seat in front of Stiles. “It’s not like you couldn’t all fit around the table too, your friend sucks.”

“Don’t tell me,” Stiles sighs, playing with the leftover food on his plate. “Is that your usual table?”

“Yeah,” Boyd shrugs, but he doesn’t mind sharing — or so it seems, so Stiles stays put as Scott gets roped into going bowling.

He’s terrible at it.

“I don’t think Danny likes me very much,” Stiles comments, glancing up at Boyd. “I wonder if I’m attractive to gay guys?”

Stiles is definitely not thinking of a guy in particular.

Boyd stares back blankly and doesn’t grace him with a response, so they sit together in silence for the rest of the period.

Stiles stops by the Sheriff station as the sun sets. Already, a distant dented moon flickers in and out of sight in the pastel skies, yet Stiles doesn’t feel the preternatural pull that plagued him these last few days.

He walks in carrying food for his father since the Sheriff took the evening shift today, and waves at the deputies puttering around as he makes his way to his father’s office. Dropping the tupperware on the empty desk, Stiles capitalizes on his father’s absence to glance around in search of a murder board, or perhaps a stray file he could browse.

“Don’t even think about it,” a warning echoes behind him, and Stiles holds his hands up.

“I’m not thinking of anything,” he replies, turning to hug his dad.

The Sheriff gives him a look but doesn’t comment, going around the desk to straighten his files before glancing down at the steamed vegetables and rice in the tupperware. He makes a face in the dim light of his desk lamp, and Stiles grins at him.

“I could be convinced to make a good steak if-” he starts, eager to bargain.

“If you liked your old man,” John cuts in with a matching smile.

“That, and if you gave me one tiny little insight into the investigation,” Stiles amends.

“No.”

“Pretty please? I’ll even add cheddar?”

John hums, considering the offer, and Stiles plasters his best innocent face on, even though it doesn’t work on his father ever since he and Scott broke into the candy jar as toddlers and managed to hide the evidence for a whole two days. John sighs and grabs a fork to get started on the homemade meal, eventually glancing up as Stiles, still waiting eagerly by the desk.

“We thought it might have been wolves, although unlikely,” John says at last. “There are claw marks, but it’s highly unusual for a wolf to chase down a prey, even more so human prey. Mountain lion perhaps.”

Stiles bites his tongue to refrain from commenting. He understands his father’s doubts, especially knowing they found wolf hair on Laura Hale. There isn’t much to say after that, so he sits for a while with his father talking about school, before heading out as Scott gives him a ring.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks as he settles down in the Jeep.

“I went to see Derek and asked for his help. He told me to use my senses to feel and remember what happened that night, but it will come with a price, or so he says.”

“What kind of price?”

“I don’t know.”

“And you agreed?” Stiles exclaims, slamming his hand down on the wheel.

“I really need to figure out what happened,” Scott replies stubbornly, and offers to meet up at the school to put Derek’s advice into practice.

The one he bargained for without knowing what he was really getting into.

Stiles bumps his head on the steering wheel next, but drives off to pick up his best friend, wondering all along while he’s still putting up with Scott’s crap. They head to the school soon after, parking the Jeep out of sight to keep a low profile as they plan some dope ass breaking and entering… until Scott benches Stiles.

“You keep watch, I’ll go,” Scott says, a strand of hair falling over his eyes.

“No way.”

“We need someone to keep watch while I go there, and since I’m the one with those horrible memories, I should be the one going.”

Stiles grits his teeth, but he can’t really argue with Scott’s logic, so he drops it, leaning against the fence while Scott climbs over it and then into the bus. There isn’t much to keep an eye out for at this time of the night, especially with his newly acquired werewolf senses picking up the smallest noise in a one-kilometer radius or so, and Stiles mulls over Derek’s so-called advice to Scott.

Using his senses to feel and remember what really happened, really? What are they, psychic werewolves? Still, Stiles closes his eyes and lets himself feel the chill of the night, the birds nesting in a tree a couple feet over, the sound of Scott moving carefully through the bus…

It comes with a flash. One moment, he’s meditating, the next, Stiles gets faint echoes of the howl last night, calling for him. For them.

Stiles woke up from his nightmare then, but Scott must have sleep-walked all the way here. Shivering, Stiles wraps his arms around himself to rub some warmth back in his shoulders, still reeling from his own, very real memories. The one distorted by the monster in his nightmare, even though it wasn’t a great memory to start with, only got worse last night.

He picks up the rumbling of a car in the distance before he sees the headlights. Stiles swears, calling out for Scott to hurry as he runs to the Jeep, honking for good measure as Scott takes a while to catch up. Soon enough, they high tail out of there as Scott grins maniacally, catching Stiles up to speed.

“I remember seeing Derek and me trying to protect the bus driver from the other werewolf! I didn’t hurt him, I tried to save him,” he gloats, jubilating.

“So there really is a fourth werewolf? You’re positive?” Stiles asks, skeptical.

“Yeah!”

“And you came running when he called for you,” he adds, frowning. “This isn’t good. That means there is some kind of hierarchy among werewolves and he’s at the top of the food chain. Maybe it's a Pack thing, to try and initiate you to kill with him.”

For some reason, it didn’t work on Stiles, and he mulls over it while Scott completely dismisses the threat, all too relieved with his discovery. As far as Scott is concerned, it means that he can go out with Allison, and he all but skips into his house when Stiles drops him off, barely thanking him for the ride.

Stiles runs into Derek at the gas station that night. Mean looking SUVs box Derek’s car in, not that the werewolf pays them any mind, but when Allison’s father comes out of the SUV, Stiles definitely takes it as his cue to not go about his business as usual, stepping up to them instead.

The seemingly empty gas station — apart from the werewolves and the Hunters — hangs in the balance between artificial light and the darkness of the evening as Derek removes the pump from his gas tank. He shoots Stiles a warning look as he turns around to return it to the holder.

“Leave him alone, you’re too old to be a bully,” Stiles calls out all the same, squaring his shoulders.

“I’m very protective of the things I love,” Argent comments as he cleans Derek’s windshield, somehow threateningly.

Stiles would admire the incredible feat if he didn’t buzz with tension, siding up to Derek on the other side of the werewolf’s black car.

“That’s something I learned from my family,” Argent goes on. “And Derek you don’t have much of that these days… Do you?”

Stiles startles as the barely veiled jab, and they all stare at Derek’s clenched fist even as Derek remains stubbornly silent. To Stiles’ utter amazement, Derek releases his fist a moment later, his fingernails blunt and even keeping his eyes in check.

“Well, my dad is the Sheriff and I’ll be sure to let him know you’re preying on barely legal teens in empty places, at night,” Stiles speaks up again, glad to see Argent finally step back.

“You forgot to check the oil,” Derek calls after the Hunters as they finally retreat.

Argent stops walking, his back turned to them and stares them down for a moment longer before his lips stretch into a taut, fake smile.

“Drive safely.”

Derek grits his teeth and rounds up on Stiles as soon as the Hunters disappear down the road.

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Making sure they don’t leave a scratch on your car?”

“I can fix the car,” Derek replies angrily, leaning over the hood of the Camaro.

“Would be a shame,” Stiles says on the other side, shrugging. “Anyway, I’m not afraid of you.”

“You should be.”

“No. I know about your sister. Laura. She was a werewolf too.”

Derek deflates all at once and Stiles gives him a sad excuse for a smile. Without the posturing and the sass, Derek appears smaller, shoulders hunched under his leather jacket like he carries the loss of his family on his back. Stiles would tell him it’s gonna be alright if he could, but it never gets better.

Stiles’ own mother still haunts him to this day, and in Derek’s case, they don’t even know what truly happened to his sister. Considering the state the police found the bus driver in, it’s safe to assume that it’s different from whatever killed Laura, but it doesn’t give them enough clues to figure out what’s going on in Beacon Hills.

“Where is your other half?” Derek eventually asks, glancing at Stiles over the car.

“Getting his beauty sleep for his double date tomorrow,” he bemoans.

Derek grits his teeth at that but keeps his thoughts to himself, teasing Stiles instead.

“Did you want to go on a date with him?”

“What? No! It’s not Scott I have a crush on,” Stiles exclaims like he always does except this time he stops short from his usual rant.

How does he account for turning into a werewolf and barely bearing the smell of her perfume in his ten years plan to woo Lydia? Shaking his head, Stiles avoids Derek’s confused stare and paces along the Camaro as he focuses on the matter at hand instead. He bites his thumb as he thinks, slowly fitting all the pieces together.

“Scott remembers, he said he tried to save the bus driver from some kind of monster, the other werewolf in town. I have nightmares about it too,” he admits.

“The Alpha,” Derek agrees. “He’s the one who bit you, only an Alpha can turn humans into werewolves, and now he wants you both in his Pack. Scott needs to stop running to him every time he calls,” Derek explains.

Stiles gapes at him and leans excitedly over the hood of the car, “I’m sorry, the Alpha? Like a real wolf pack?”

“Not exactly,” Derek amends, going briefly over Pack structure. “My sister was my Alpha, without her I would have ended up as an Omega, a lone wolf. It’s not great with Hunters around so when we noticed something weird happening in Beacon Hills Laura decided to investigate in case an Omega had settled on our territory. That’s when she went missing, and I came looking for her.”

“It’s not the Alpha that killed her,” Stiles says quietly. “We snuck into the morgue…” he pauses, not willing to describe the state of the body to Derek.

“Hunters, they’re particularly fond of the old ways and werewolf healing can’t reattach the other half of the body,” Derek murmurs, his head hanging low.

“We found… I’m sorry Derek. We went looking for her too and we found her grave.”

“I noticed,” Derek replies drily.

“She could turn into a wolf?” Stiles asks, subdued.

“Yeah, most werewolves in my family could. They were going to teach me, before…” he trails off.

Stiles clenches his fists as the grief emanating from Derek makes him nauseous.

“We couldn’t touch the flowers there though.”

“Wolfsbane,” Derek chuckles humorlessly. “Keeps the supernatural at bay as well as the Hunters since werewolves wouldn’t be caught near a patch of wolfsbane, it’s poison to us.”

They stand together in silence for a moment as Stiles mulls over everything he learned.

“Do you think the Hunters came to Beacon Hills because they heard what happened too?”

“I thought they used my sister as bait to catch the Alpha, but considering what you said, they tricked her into coming back so they could kill her,” Derek replies, his tone harsh.

“So, the Hunters want to slay the Alpha,” he says at last. “What does the Alpha want though?”

“Us, in his Pack.”

Stiles sits with this uncomfortable truth in the Jeep, long after he and Derek parted ways.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes up to the sound of a shotgun being fired in the neighborhood. He jerks, stumbling out of bed and crawling on all four with his head thrown back to scent the air, but the bitterness of gunpowder fades to nothingness already, far gone, nowhere near the house. Stiles relaxes somewhat, leaving claw marks on the blue carpeting, and swears to himself, not too loud because he can hear his father sleeping peacefully across the hallway.

He drags the geometric carpet from the bookshelf across the room to cover all evidence, even though he knows his father will notice. The Sheriff will probably check under the carpet because that’s what good detectives do, but Stiles will figure out how to fix the carpet when it’s not the middle of the night, with his ears ringing from a gunshot on the other side of the town. He climbs back in bed, only now realizing he ripped the sheets with how fast he got up earlier, and stares at the mess in his hands, wondering when the claws retracted.

Stiles didn’t notice them.

Scott might have started to figure out how to control his new abilities, but Stiles barely got a taste of his own so far. If it weren’t for the overwhelming sense of smell and long range hearing, he would even doubt that he turned into a werewolf himself. He shakes his head, rolling over to cover his body with what’s left of his bedsheets — another evidence he’ll have to get rid of tomorrow — and tries to get some sleep while he still can.

That’s when the howl echoes outside.

Stiles sits up once again, staring out of the window like a deer caught in the headlights as goosebumps erupt over his arms. It reminds him eerily of that fateful night in the preserve and he forces himself to stand up and take a couple of steps towards the window, remaining out of sight…

Until he notices his reflection in the glass, golden eyes burning up like dying stars in the dark of the night. Stiles blinks furiously, but his eyes won’t stop shining. They glow like a beacon, and he runs to the window since there is no use in trying to conceal his approach now, searching the depths of the garden out back.

Two, glowing red eyes stare him down.

Nothing happens, and Stiles’ breath comes in short bursts as he freezes in the window frame. This must be the Alpha. He’s not exactly safe inside, but the Alpha doesn’t seem inclined to force his way in, crouching low in the bushes on the edge of the garden.

Perhaps he came here to find shelter after a run in with the Hunters, Stiles muses. His fingers itch to grab his phone and call Scott, tell him to send Allison’s father over here and be done with it. Except it would be suspicious, wouldn’t it, and the Alpha knows exactly who they are. It could give them away, if Stiles’ encounter with Chris Argent didn’t waste his cover already anyway and well…

The Alpha isn’t doing anything.

Actually, it disappeared already.

Stiles’ shoulders sag down and he trudges back to the mess on his bed, falling back with his heart hammering in his chest still. He listens intently for any sound of breaking somewhere around the house, but the noises of the night resumed as though nothing happened. It could have been a dream, but Stiles usually wakes up from those with a sense of unease that simply isn’t there this time. Almost as though the Alpha found comfort in his presence and moved on, knowing it was safe.

The mysterious encounter stays on his mind all the way to school the next morning.

“Dude,” Stiles calls after Scott as they walk up to their lockers. “Did you hear the gunshots last night?” he goes on, lowering his voice.

“Yeah, it was the Hunters.”

“I know, the Alpha ended up in my backyard!” Stiles flails, nearly knocking his hand in Scott’s face.

Scott pushes his arm down to rummage through the locker and find his books for the day and doesn’t reply. It leaves Stiles hanging, his mouth agape, as Scott zips his bag close and slams his locker shut, already heading to class. For some unfathomable reason, Stiles hurries to grab his stuff and run after his friend, and the worst part is that Stiles genuinely can’t tell whether he wants to hurl himself at Scott and throw the first punch, or just shake some sense into him so that they can finally address the elephant in the room.

“You’re such a jerk, man,” Stiles blurts out as he catches up and grabs Scott’s shoulder, his claws out and leaving pinpoint needle holes in the fabric of his friends’ shirt.

Scott swivels around and shoves him through the door to the nearest bathroom, baring his teeth. They bump into the wall and something breaks in Stiles’ backpack — not the calculator again, please, he already had to replace it twice this year.

Stiles catches his reflection in the mirror behind Scott, eyes flaring gold and his claws digging deeper into the meat of Scott’s shoulder as he pushes his friend back. The dim light and white tiles of the bathroom should wash everything out but Stiles’ glowing eyes paint everything in shades of gold and crimson as he snarls back at his best friend.

“Don’t touch me,” Scott growls.

“Don’t walk away from me,” Stiles shoots back viciously. “We’re in this together dude, you’re not the main character here and I’ve been nothing but supportive even since we ran into the Alpha. But no! It’s all about you, and Allison, and how you want to get laid! The least you could do is ask how I’m doing, and I don’t know, be worried that whoever bit us in the preserve knows where I live?”

Scott falters a bit at that, probably because if the Alpha found Stiles, he could find Scott just as easily and pulls away to pace the length of the bathroom. Stiles sags against the wall, blinking the golden glow out of his eyes as he pats his bag to check that nothing of value is broken inside. The calculator seems fine, and he startles when Scott rounds up on him, although much less aggressively than before.

“I don’t know what to do, okay? I just want to live my life, and you keep talking about the Alpha and Derek and I don’t know what to say.”

“Maybe that you will stop dating the daughter of the Hunter who wants to kill us?” Stiles suggests tentatively, but Scott’s snarl is all the answer he needs. “Fine, get yourself killed once you inevitably get caught, why do I care?”

“What do you think will happen to you when Derek or the Alpha turns on you?” Scott snaps.

“Well, I hoped that we could get Derek on our side so that he helps but clearly we’ve got different ideas about that…”

“Just… stop with the questions,” Scott sighs, stepping out of the bathroom.

“Done. No more questions. No more talk about the Alpha, or Derek…” Stiles nods, trailing off as he remembers his last encounter with the latter. “Especially Derek… who is the only one that seems to care about all of this…”

Like that’s gonna be easy. Stiles never knew how to hold his tongue and his only saving grace was always Scott’s natural tendency to tune him out. Oh well, maybe Stiles won’t have to keep himself in check for long then. Especially if he doesn’t ask questions and simply keeps Scott up to date, without asking for his input.

Stiles slings his arm around Scott’s shoulders, the gesture so familiar he barely notices he’s done it until Scott shrugs him off and steps away for him, remaining at arm’s length all throughout the rest of the day. Stiles can’t shake off the chill that lands over his back then, and shivers all day long like he’s coming down with a cold.

The last bell rings with the sun still high in the sky and only the ghost of the moon hanging among the clouds. Stiles heads straight for the Jeep after school, still reeling from his fight with Scott earlier that day. It’s like nothing he or anyone else says can get through his best friend’s mind. Well, that’s not exactly true, is it? If Allison were to tell Scott not to be so self-absorbed, perhaps that would change a thing.

As things are, Scott won’t listen to Stiles and if it weren’t for that pesky instinct to stick together, Stiles would have booked it long ago. He simply climbs into the Jeep instead, getting in line to drive out of the parking lot, when Derek appears right in front of the car, swaying on his feet.

“What the fuck dude!” Stiles exclaims, startling and turning the wipers on in his surprise.

Derek is still there after the second pass of the wipers.

“You can’t just stand there looking like you’re about to pass out!” Stiles yells at him, leaning out the window.

Derek doesn’t look so good, pale and sweating with bloodshot eyes, and the commotion is starting to attract attention — and some wrathful honking. Scott himself does deign to come over just as Derek collapses onto the hood of the Jeep and Stiles scrambles out of the car when Derek slides to the ground with a painful thud.

“That’s the junkie I kicked out of school,” Jackson yells from far behind.

Stiles glances worriedly at the lacrosse player to find him leaning over the door of his Porsche, rubbing the back of his neck. Harley turns around from where Heather’s car idles a bit further up the line, calling back.

“More like he kicked your ass, Whittemore!”

Stiles doesn’t spare them another glance.

“What happened?” Scott asks as they rush over to Derek, carefully rolling him onto his back.

Derek’s eyes roll under his eyelids before they flare open, flashing electric blue, and Stiles leans over him before it draws even more attention. They could blame it on some kind of drug, but Stiles doesn’t want word to get around that he hangs out with junkies, he’s the Sheriff’s kid damnit!

“I got shot,” Derek wheezes, and Stiles checks him over hastily to find blood on the damp sleeve of his leather jacket.

“Shit, are silver bullets a real thing?”

“Not the time, Stiles,” Scott scolds him, lifting Derek none too gently to drag him towards the Jeep.

He pushes Derek bodily on the passenger side and Stiles climbs back in front of the wheel. He listens distractedly as Derek tells Scott to find the kind of bullet he was shot with, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror as some students start stepping out of their cars to come and see what’s blocking the way out of the parking lot.

“But I have to study with Allison,” Scott protests.

“Even better, you can search her family’s stuff there,” Stiles cuts in.

A terrible stench of disease and decay permeates the inside of the Jeep ever since Derek climbed in and the older teen doesn't look so good. They need to get out of there so Stiles books it as soon as Scott steps back from the car, leaving Jackson leaning angrily out of his Porsche and Allison coming over with a worried look on her face, touching Scott’s shoulder to get his attention.

“He better try to find those bullets,” Stiles mutters, taking a sharp turn towards the preserve.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks, slumped against the passenger door with his jacket off.

“To your house.”

“We can’t go there,” he pauses, catching his breath as though speaking takes a lot out of him. “That’s the first place the Hunters will be looking for me.”

“Then what am I supposed to do? You’re bleeding out, it smells awful in there with you and wow that is disgusting. Is that black goo? Is it contagious? Am I going to end up like you?”

“You will if you don’t stop talking,” Derek grits out.

Stiles veers off to the side of the road, parking haphazardly there to swivel on his seat and stare at Derek in disbelief. He leaves the motor idling, since they do need to find somewhere to go and hide before they run into the Hunters or worse, the Sheriff’s deputies. Stiles doesn’t want to have to explain why he’s driving around with someone bleeding out all over his seats. It will be a pain to clean too, yet another weird supernatural occurrence to conceal, somehow.

“What are you gonna do, big guy, suffocate me to death with that wet dog smell?” he snaps.

“Start the car. Now.”

“I don't think you should be barking orders with the way you look, okay? In fact, I think, if I wanted to, I could probably drag your little werewolf ass out into the middle of the road and leave you for dead,” Stiles growls, eyes flashing, and Derek’s flare right back with a complimentary growl.

“Start the car... or I'm gonna rip your throat out with my teeth,” Derek threatens, with a hint of sharp fangs and it makes a pretty convincing argument.

Stiles huffs, but gets back on the road, calling Scott to tell him to hurry up.

They end up at the animal clinic as soon as Deaton closes up for the night. Stiles finds the spare key in the box behind the dumpster and can only applaud Scott’s quick thinking for this one.

“Does Northern Blue Monkshood mean anything to you?” Stiles asks, pushing the door open as he checks his texts.

“It’s a rare form of wolfsbane,” Derek replies weakly. “He has to bring me the bullet.”

They settle in one of the examination rooms as they wait to hear back from Scott. Derek lurks in a corner of the room and sheds his shirt off with Stiles gawking at him, revealing more of his too pale skin and a thin layer of sweat.

“Dude. What are you doing?” he asks with a tremor in his voice, but Derek doesn’t grace him with a reply.

Stiles gags at the horrible stench emanating from the werewolf, and it works wonders in keeping his mind on track instead of lingering too long on the sharp angles of Derek’s pecs and the smooth, muscular planes of his chest in the stark light of the examination room. Derek rummages through the drawers and it soon becomes clear he’s looking for something to put a tourniquet on his arm.

“Fuck,” Derek swears as it keeps slipping.

He looks up, wildly, and tries to pull at it with his teeth next. Stiles makes a noise of distress, hair rising at the back of his neck, and Derek searches the room, eyes sparkling blue as soon as his bloodshot eyes meet Stiles’ flashing gold ones.

Dark blood oozes from Derek’s arm still and Stiles scrunches up his nose, but it does little to fend off the bitter tang of death that permeates the room. He feels it on his tongue, and leaning over the examination table reveals his distorted features, fangs poking at his lips and his eyes glowing under the prominent ridge of his brow.

Stiles can’t fight the shift, eager to escape the stench, except it only makes everything worse. He focuses on each micro-expression on Derek’s face, the shivers running down the other werewolf’s chest and the sickening sweetness of the wolfsbane crawling through his veins.

“Come here,” Derek beckons him, and Stiles powers through the fog of panic in his mind to tie the tourniquet neatly around Derek’s arm.

“Now what?” he forces past the row of fangs in his mouth.

“If he doesn’t get there with the bullet in time…” Derek pants. “Last resort.”

“Which is?”

“You’re gonna cut off my arm.”

Stiles scrambles for his phone before the words are fully out of Derek’s mouth. He calls Scott, slurring with the shift affecting the way he speaks but it doesn’t matter because Scott needs to be there now. There will be no cutting arms off tonight, not on his watch.

“So, what, we cut off your arm and then you bleed to death?” Stiles asks frantically, waiting for Scott to get there.

“It’ll heal, if it works,” Derek wheezes and Stiles shakes his head.

He comes around the examination table to glance at the disgusting mess on Derek’s forearm, gagging a little through a row of fangs. It looks infected, with black veins crawling up towards the elbow, and the tourniquet seems to do very little to slow their progression.

Derek leans into him, shivering and seeking some of Stiles’ warmth. Stiles freezes but doesn’t pull back as Derek’s cheek comes to rest on his shoulder, filling his nose with the scent of peppermint shampoo. Stiles relaxes minutely, soaking in the comforting fragrance, and only then does he notice the sun-like warmth radiating through his chest, something broad like a halo reaching out to encompass Derek as well. For the first time today, he doesn’t feel so cold anymore.

“What is that?” he asks through receding fangs, brushing his chest with a normal looking hand.

“The Pack Bond,” Derek replies dozily in the crook of his neck, breathing deeply against his skin. “Helps with the pain…”

Stiles sags with the enormity of this reply. They stand like that in the empty clinic as they wait for Scott, basking in the Pack Bond and Stiles wonders if something like that keeps bringing him back in Scott’s vicinity despite the fights these past few days. It would explain a lot, and deep inside, he can relate to the Alpha who seeks something like that with them both.

The certainty that he’s not alone.

Now that Stiles knows that someone, somewhere, shares this bond with him, he doubts he could walk away from it all. Clearly, Derek can’t either, else they wouldn’t be here, waiting for Scott to come back with a magic bullet before they end up cutting Derek’s arm to stop the poison from spreading and reaching his heart.

At last, Scott comes running, calling for Stiles. He stumbles into the examination room holding up a silver bullet — of course — and freezes in the doorway to stare at them in surprise. He points helplessly at Derek, curled up against Stiles’ side.

“What the hell are you doing?”

“Did you get it?” Derek asks eagerly, straightening up, and Stiles elects not to dwell on whatever they were doing earlier.

“What are you gonna do with it?” he asks instead.

Scott hands Derek the bullet, and they watch, mesmerized, as Derek pops it open with one claw, spilling a nasty looking powder out of the bullet. The foul smell makes Stiles’ nose itch, and he startles when Derek produces a lighter to set the powder on fire, instantly clearing the herbal scent out of the room to leave a pile of ash on the examination table instead.

Derek gathers it swiftly in his hand and slams it directly onto the wound on his arm, collapsing a moment later. Stiles catches him out of sheer reflexes but goes down with Derek as he finds himself unable to carry the other werewolf’s dead weight.

They fall to the tiled floor of the clinic as Derek writhes in pain in Stiles’ arms, hissing and growling. Derek’s back arches up to a painful degree as the werewolf trashes wildly in pain and Stiles tightens his hold on Derek, grabbing at his slick shoulders and curling up protectively around him. Derek shakes in his arms one last time before falling back against Stiles with a deep sigh, nuzzling his face against the side of Stiles’ neck once again.

“Are you okay?” Scott asks tentatively once Derek stops struggling.

“Well, except for the agonizing pain…” Derek growls and Stiles squeezes his shoulder.

“I’m guessing the ability to use sarcasm is a good sign of health.”

Scott nods eagerly as Derek picks himself up from the floor, already turning back to his phone to text Allison, no doubt. Derek offers Stiles a hand to help him up though, and Stiles stares at him for a beat too long, before grabbing Derek’s hand. The warmth in his chest only burns brighter for it as they stand face to face, slightly too close for comfort yet exactly where they need to be as Derek recovers from wolfsbane poisoning.

“Thanks,” Derek grits out.

“That’s what Pack does, right?” Stiles replies, bashful, but the tentative smile playing on Derek’s lips makes it all worth it.

Stiles steps aside as Scott looks over, frowning once again at their close proximity. Stiles makes a face right back at him, and Derek glances between them as he gets dressed. Scott goes around the room to put everything back where it belongs and Stiles helps, cleaning the table and any splatter of blood and black goo he can spot.

“So, you still want to trust the Argents? You think they can help you?” Derek asks Scott, scoffing.

It frightens Stiles to admit it, but Scott’s relationship with Allison did come in handy this time and perhaps they can’t afford to break them up, not anymore. It’s not like Scott would cooperate anyway, and Allison would wonder why and considering his last encounter with Chris Argent, Stiles gets a feeling the Hunter wouldn’t let it slide so easily if Scott were to break her heart.

“Allison’s aunt is creepy,” Scott relents somewhat, but squares his shoulders a moment later. “They don’t suspect me though.”

Derek bares his teeth but doesn’t argue this time.

“I want to show you something,” he says instead, and heads out, expecting them to follow him.

They do, eventually, and Stiles drives them to the long-term residential home. The nurses let Derek in like he’s a regular, even though they make it there long after visiting hours ended. It’s quiet in the evening, some residents roaming the halls with walking chairs, staff fluttering around them with dedicated focus to get their chores done in time before dinner.

“What are we doing here?” Scott asks as they walk down the brightly lit corridors.

Derek comes to a stop at the next room, and they linger in the doorway, looking into the bedroom. A man lays still in a hospital bed, catatonic, and Stiles inches closer without meaning to, checking his vitals out of habit. He used to do it a lot with his mother as a child, and the nurses taught him the basis back then. Everything seems fine for this man, except for the fact that he’s comatose.

“Who is he?” he whispers, glancing over his shoulder.

“My uncle, Peter Hale,” Derek replies just as quietly.

“Is he like you?” Scott asks hesitantly, lowering his voice. “A werewolf?”

“He was, before the Argents burned my family alive. Now, he’s barely even human,” Derek trails off, recalling the day his house caught fire.

“But what makes you so sure the Argents did it?” Scott asks again, stubborn.

“Because they’re the only ones that knew about us!” Derek snaps.

Stiles fidgets between them, eager to soothe Derek but acutely aware that Scott’s questions aren’t entirely unreasonable. He still gravitates closer to Derek, sensing his distress, while in the bed, Peter Hale remains unresponsive, the steady beep of the machine putting Stiles even more on edge.

“Well, Allison had nothing to do with it back then!” Scott doesn’t back down.

“So what? You tell me what justifies this. They say they'll only kill an adult, and only with absolute proof, but there were people in my family that were perfectly ordinary in that fire. This is what they do. And that’s what Allison will do.”

Derek raises his chin in defiance, and Scott falls silent, shaking his head like he can’t accept the possibility that Allison will end up like the rest of her family. As for Stiles, he can’t tell what’s more likely to happen. He met Chris Argent at the gas station and the man didn’t look all that friendly back then, but he must admit Allison is just a teen, like them.

It’s unfair to expect her to turn out exactly like the rest of her family, especially considering how Scott and Stiles themselves are fighting off the murderous impulses of the Alpha. Perhaps Allison too, would refuse to follow in those bloody footsteps.

“Let’s just… be careful, for now, okay?” Stiles offers tentatively, and Scott nods eagerly.

Derek doesn’t reply immediately, staring at Peter lying still in bed. Stiles follows his gaze, reaching tentatively for the warmth in his chest. He feels a sense of kinship with Peter somehow, like Derek bridges the gap between them and the Pack Bond flows from him to Peter and Stiles.

It dimmed down to a discreet glow close to his heart now that his senses aren’t heightened by panic and Derek’s close call with death, but it radiates a comforting gold at the back of his mind. Stiles wonders if Peter can feel it too, with all of them gathered there.

Scott seems completely oblivious to it though, so Peter might be too far gone to sense the Pack.

A nurse stops by then, surprised to find them here, and they filter out of the room to let her get on with Peter’s evening routine. Stiles steals one last glance over his shoulder, wondering still, but Peter and the bond remain unresponsive.

Chapter Text

Stiles and his father sit in the cruiser outside the all night diner in town, debating the menu before going in. Outside, the moon wanes to a thin crescent, and the lamp posts down the street don’t do much to light up the streets of Beacon Hills. Stiles can see a lot further than the glow of the nearest street light if he focuses though, not that there is anything to find in the dark so early in the evening. The things that go bump in the night haven’t come out yet.

“Curly fries aren’t good for your health,” he debates with his father, waving the menu around.

“Then you’re not getting any either,” John replies, grinning with a glint in his eyes.

“I can eat as many curly fries as I want, I’m young and healthy!” Stiles argues.

“Yeah, but I’m the one paying, so…”

His father shrugs, and Stiles isn’t willing to concede the point, but the radio crackles up to life and their conversation is cut short as John slips back into Sheriff mode to answer the call. Stiles leans in eagerly to decipher the exchange, and freezes as the dispatcher announces a possible murder.

“Dad?” Stiles asks, turning around.

“You’ll stay in the car,” his father replies tersely, driving off in a hurry.

The menu lays forgotten on the dashboard as the siren echoes through the streets of Beacon Hills, swirling lights of red and blue flashing ahead of them. They make it to the video club in record time and the cruiser skids to a stop on the parking lot as the Sheriff leaps out of the car and, like an afterthought, leans back in to pin Stiles with a glare.

“Stay,” he reiterates.

Stiles nods emphatically, and slips out of the car as soon as the Sheriff disappears inside the store. He goes around the building to run up the fire escape and get a better vantage point from the roof. Climbing up the last steps, Stiles rams into a rock solid surface, flailing, only for two arms to embrace him bodily and pull him out of sight.

He stumbles onto the roof, looking up to find himself face to face with Derek and, lingering a little further behind, Scott. The latter shuffles his feet, rubbing the tip of his shoe against the concrete, and shrugs at Stiles’ arched eyebrow and silent inquiry. Scott shoves his hands in the backpocket of his run down jeans and looks out to the parking lot, leaving Derek to do the explaining.

“Scott came running again when the Alpha called,” Derek shrugs. “I caught up in time to stop him from going in but it was too late for the people inside.”

Stiles glances down to see the deputies and paramedics rolling a body back out, as well as a shaken couple. The sickening scent of Lydia’s Lancôme perfume drifts up to his nose, making him sneeze. He’s definitely not a flowers kind of guy anymore, Stiles muses distantly as his father comes over to ask Lydia and Jackson some questions.

“Why is he killing people?” Stiles wonders aloud as he watches on. “I mean, this isn't standard practice, right? We don't go out in the middle of the night murdering everyone, do we?”

“No,” Derek allows. “We're predators. We don't have to be killers.”

“Then why is he a killer?” Scott asks again.

“That’s what we’re gonna find out.”

Stiles glances back at Derek, standing tall and proud on the rooftop, the waning moon hanging from his shoulder. He needs to get back to the cruiser before his father notices he’s gone, but Derek is right. They need to figure out who the Alpha is, why he’s going on a rampage every week, and how to stop him.

“I can’t. I have homework to do, I have to go to the parent-teacher conference tomorrow because I’m failing chemistry,” Scott sighs.

“Do you want to do homework? Or do you want to end up in prison when my dad catches you completely disoriented on a crime scene because Derek wasn’t there to stop you from joining the Alpha this time?” Stiles snaps, rounding on him as the night breeze catches in his flannel.

Scott glares through his bangs for a moment longer before he drops his gaze to the floor, somewhat chastised by Stiles’ tone, but doesn’t quite back down.

“We need a plan,” Stiles insists. “I don’t have much time before my father notices I’m gone, let’s just regroup after. We could meet up at your place, Scott-”

“No!” Scott cuts in. “My mom got the night off, and she’s already suspicious, I don’t want to risk it.”

“Fine, we’ll go to my place then. Dad will be busy at the crime scene anyway.”

Stiles throws his arms up in annoyance, but Derek nods and with one last insistent look Scott’s way, they take off in different directions to meet up at the Stilinskis. Stiles sneaks around the parking lot and slips back in the cruiser with only a couple minutes to spare before his father strides up to him with a deputy in tow to drive Stiles back home.

“Sorry kiddo, we’ll have to get those curly fries another time,” John says, leaning against the window of his deputy’s car as Stiles settles in.

“How many times do I have to tell you, no curly fries for you, old man!” Stiles protests half-heartedly, flailing, and his father watches them drive off with a wistful smile.

“You’re right to watch your father’s diet, we want to keep him around,” the deputy comments as they near the house.

Stiles thanks him before climbing out of the car, all but running inside. He makes it to his bedroom just as Derek climbs up the window and Stiles lets him in, not impressed with the other werewolf’s tendency for breaking and entering.

“You could come in through the front door, like a civilized person,” he comments.

Derek only shrugs, pacing the bedroom as they wait for Scott. Stiles’ best friend takes a little while longer to get there, but he does come in through the front door, and they settle around Stiles’ bedroom a moment later, Scott and Stiles sitting on the bed while Derek leans back in the desk chair.

“Hey, what happened to your carpet?” Scott asks, pointing in front of them.

“Nightmares,” Stiles shrugs. “I had to steam tape it back together, but that wasn’t nearly half as bad as the Jeep, I was mopping blood for hours.”

“That sucks man.”

“You need to train so that you can control the shift and survive the next full moon,” Derek cuts in. “We can use Scott’s connection to the Alpha to find him and set up a trap,” Derek starts plotting without preamble, crossing his arms over his chest.

“How do we do that?” Stiles asks eagerly.

Derek doesn’t look so otherworldly for once, trapped in the confines of the desk chair, with his leather jacket looking worse for wear after his encounter with the Hunters. Dare Stiles say he looks unkempt, a five o’clock shadow clinging to the angles of his jaw in the late hour, rough edges that only make his sharp eyes look wilder as Derek leans forward to stare them down.

“First, you need to find your anchor, so that you can control yourself and the shift.”

“What’s an anchor?” Scott says, frowning. “And why can’t you just find him yourself? Can’t you just sniff him out when he’s human?”

“I would if I could,” Derek replies, impatient. “but his human scent is entirely different, I can’t pinpoint it.”

“So if we help you, can you stop him?” Scott asks again, skeptical.

“Not alone. We’re stronger in numbers, a Pack makes the individual more powerful. That’s why he’s trying to get you to join his Pack.”

Stiles hums. It makes sense, being with Derek at the clinic definitely made a difference the other day. It slowed the progression of the wolfsbane poisoning and kept some of the pain at bay, making Derek’s agony more manageable. It works out from a logical standpoint as well, since they were able to split up to both find somewhere safe to hide and retrieve the bullet to heal Derek.

“Do you remember how you changed back, every time you two lost control?” Derek goes on.

“Effect of surprise,” Stiles replies promptly, counting on his fingers. “Getting shot by Hunters,” he trails off.

“What’s the common denominator?”

“Pain,” Scott offers, hopeful.

“That’s what keeps you human, pain,” Derek agrees, smiling darkly.

“That can’t be right,” Stiles argues, shaking his head when Derek tries to speak up. “It must be the shock, it makes you snap out of it. You said Pack makes us stronger, what if it helps us stay in control too?”

A beat, before Derek nods reluctantly.

“Once you have a good grasp of your anchor, we’ll use Scott’s bond to the Alpha to locate him,” Derek adds before standing up.

“Okay,” Stiles hurries to say. “So, what’s up with your eyes by the way? Why do you have blue eyes and we don’t?”

“I just do.”

Derek doesn’t give him a chance to insist, disappearing out the window.

He’s gone before Stiles can chide him for avoiding the front door again.

It makes all the more sense now that he said it aloud. Scott keeps running to the Alpha, but Stiles never does and most of all, the Alpha came to him after a run-in with the Hunters. Perhaps the Alpha can’t get to Stiles and influence him the way he does Scott because Stiles bonded with Derek instead?

That, and his daily doses of Adderall to keep him focused and control behavior issues, Stiles muses. While Scott is all over the place, emotionally speaking, with hormones, lacrosse and Allison, Stiles already found his anchor in his medication. He sighs, flopping back on his bed to stare at the ceiling.

“So next time one of us loses control, we’ll just knock him out,” Stiles tells Scott, and they fist bump on it.

Scott doesn’t show up to school the next day. Stiles grits his teeth as he settles down in Harris’ class. Jackson is missing too, understandably considering what happened the night before, and Stiles leans over his desk to try and get Danny’s attention.

“Hey, did Lydia show up today?” he asks, kicking the other boy’s chair when Danny pretends he didn’t hear Stiles. “Come on man, it’s a yes or no question!”

“No,” the lacrosse player eventually relents.

“Okay thanks,” Stiles trails off, suddenly struck with another question. “Hey, do you find me attractive?”

Danny doesn’t answer. Someone snickers behind Stiles, who turns around.

“What the fuck, Stilinski?” Isaac asks, chuckling.

“No one will tell me if I’m attractive to gay guys,” Stiles tells him, crossing his arms over his chest.

“You’re fine,” Isaac shrugs, and straightens up as Harris wanders into the classroom.

Stiles faces forward once again, mulling over Isaac’s easy dismissal of the question. Danny might not be interested in answering, but this has been running through Stiles’ mind for a while and he likes to think that he is, indeed, fine.

He goes through his day trying not to think of Scott. Allison is noticeably missing too, so there is no need to worry about either of them, and Stiles realizes with a twinge of sorrow that he’s used to spending his days at school roaming the hallways without Scott by his side. In the past they would always be attached at the hip, and he doesn’t quite know what to make of himself if he isn’t looking after Scott.

It doesn’t help that the diffuse heat in his chest only grows fainter with each passing hour.

The walk to the cafeteria is a lonesome one. Stiles tries not to drag his feet too much, not willing to give ammunition to the likes of Jackson. The guy might not be around today, but the rest of the lacrosse team is and without Scott to back him up, Stiles makes for an easy target. There is a reason they’re usually attached to the hip. He fills his tray with some food, not really hungry despite the emptiness growing in his chest, and bumps into Boyd as he reaches for cutlery.

“Sorry man,” Stiles sighs.

Boyd levels him with a look and unexpectedly gestures for Stiles to follow. They sit down at Boyd’s usual table and silence stretches between them for a moment too long, uncomfortable, before Boyd comes out with what he has to say.

“You’re friends with Harley, right?”

“I guess we’re friendly?” Stiles replies hesitantly.

“I think she’s flirting with me.”

“You think?” Stiles scoffs, and catches himself when Boyd gives him a deadpan look. Stiles chuckles nervously as he tries again. “She definitely seems interested.”

“I’m not,” Boyd says plainly. “I can’t really tell her I like one of her friends more.”

Stiles sits with the blunt statement for a while. What is he supposed to answer? It’s not like he’s going to play messenger between Boyd and Harley. He mulls over what to say for a moment, pushing food around on his plate, and lets the buzz of conversations all around the cafeteria wash over him, eventually settling for a shrug.

“You’ll have to let her down gently.”

He doesn’t offer advice on how to about it — Stiles wouldn’t know — and Boyd doesn’t ask. They sit together in silence as they eat lunch and Stiles goes through the rest of his day feeling a little better about himself. He is on friendly terms with more people than just Scott, and he finds the confidence to walk up to Erica in the library during his free period, sitting down with her, Harley and Heather.

They’re working on a group project for English lit but welcome him with warm smiles and some of the gummy bears they share between them, hidden away from the librarian’s suspicious gaze.

“Hey Batman,” Erica greets him with a grin.

“Is this isn’t Catwoman,” he replies, matching her expression. “What’s your topic?”

“Thomas Hardy’s Tess of the D'Urbervilles,” sighs Heather.

Stiles doesn’t have much to offer except for a weirdly specific opinion.

“A Pure Woman Faithfully Presented, more like a victim of constant abuse throughout her life,” he mutters as he wraps up his essay on the topic with Heather taking extensive notes of his rant.

“Damn right,” Harley agrees, and he’s suddenly reminded of his conversation with Boyd over lunch.

Heather and Erica should be there for her when Boyd works up the nerve to turn her down, he muses. They fall quiet for a while as Heather straightens up the notes she took and Harley incorporates them in their presentation. Erica updates their slideshow accordingly and glances at Stiles through blond strands of greasy hair, clearing her throat.

“Are you done with the Batman series yet?”

“Shit! Yes, I completely forgot to bring them back, I’m sorry. I will. This weekend.”

“Thanks.”

“Been busy lately,” Stiles adds.

“I saw you picking up this hot guy in the parking lot the other day,” Erica nods, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

“Hot guy…” Stiles trails off as he realizes she means Derek. “I didn’t… wait, do you think I’m attractive to hot guys?”

“Stiles, you’re like, a bisexual’s wet dream,” she snaps her mouth shut as she says it, a blush creeping up on her cheeks, before going on valiantly. “You have long lashes, a pianist’s hands, nice lips and moles. You’re cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

Erica ducks her head and refuses to incriminate herself further by answering, and Stiles sits there, wondering if he is, indeed, in Derek’s league. Erica did call him hot, after all, and cute usually goes with hot, as proven by Jackson and Lydia. The librarian shushes them then, even though they’re not talking anymore, but the empty bag of gummy bear lies openly on the table now and it’s only fair that the librarian gets back at them after rightfully suspecting it for the better part of an hour.

That night, the parent-teacher conference goes as well as can be expected, at least for Stiles. For Scott, not so much as he doesn’t show up on time, too busy gallivanting with Allison, and he sits at the desk next to Stiles’ this time, with Allison right in front of him the next day. Harris takes sick pleasure by mocking him as they once again start the morning with chemistry class.

“McCall, glad you could make it and grace us with your presence today.”

The spicy heat of anger rolls off Scott and strikes Stiles square in the face as he breathes in the pheromones emanating from his friend. He resists the urge to grab the collar of his flannel and pull it to his nose in an attempt to fend off the smell. He isn’t a vampire stalker in a Twilight movie.

“Don’t lose it,” he mutters as Scott clenches his fist under the desk, forcing himself to relax and let his hands fall, lax, on either side of the chair.

“I wasn’t so sure you’d bother coming to class, since chemistry seems to be a lost cause as far as you’re concerned,” Harris goes on.

“I don’t think I can knock you out now, buddy,” Stiles says under his breath, hoping it will make Scott snap out of it.

The threat doesn’t do much, of course it doesn’t, but it’s not like Stiles can slam his desk on Scott’s thick head to calm him down. He grits his teeth as Scott tenses all over once again, a new wave of heat rolling off him. Scott ducks his head, not fast enough for Stiles not to notice the yellow sparks flashing in his eyes.

He’s going to lose it, Stiles thinks desperately, when he catches sight of Allison reaching out to tangle her fingers with Scott’s and squeeze his hand gently.

Scott deflates instantly, all the anger draining out of him with the calming touch of the girl he fell head over heels for. She might be his anchor, Stiles realizes, and it only strengthens his belief that Derek is wrong. Pain cannot be the answer, or at least not the only one.

What a fucked up life Derek must have lived, to believe so, he muses. Watching Scott and Allison from the corner of his eyes, Stiles is dying to prove Derek wrong and help him have faith in people once again. There is hope for Allison still, Stiles reckons, and if she can see that werewolves are capable of things nobody else can do, so they can do things right, perhaps other Hunters will see it too.

What else is there to do than choose to do the right thing when they have the means to do so?

Stiles is the Sheriff’s son, of course he won’t stand by and do nothing. He’ll prove to Derek and the Hunters that there is another way than the endless fighting and the fear they both live in. There is no need to put werewolves down like rabid dogs, or at least Stiles hopes so, because the Alpha might be feral, but perhaps they can bring him back from the brink of insanity and dare Stiles say it, tame the Alpha?

Harris finally moves on as Scott keeps his head down, and Stiles relaxes somewhat.

They make it through chemistry class without Scott going on a rampage. Stiles keeps his distance, because despite Scott’s presence in school the ache in his chest remains, but Scott seems eager to chat him up as soon as he and Allison go their separate ways to get to their respective classrooms.

“I came up with a plan,” Scott says, bold and earnest.

“A plan for…” Stiles trails off, waiting for Scott to be more specific.

“To find the Alpha. I can’t wait around for him to push me around, he’ll always have the advantage. I need to get him by surprise and I know just how to. Remember how we ran into Derek right after you howled in the preserve? I’m gonna use the loudspeakers of the school to do it tonight. It will attract the Alpha, and we’ll trap him.”

“Wolves howl to signal their location,” Stiles whispers, mulling it over. “It’s not a bad idea, especially since Derek isn’t so great at teaching us how to use our abilities.”

“You think so?” Scott asks, perking up.

“Yeah,” Stiles admits, reluctantly, and they make plans to meet up after practice to enact the plan.

Derek meets them after school, clad in his faithful leather jacket. He seems to rest at ease in Stiles’ vicinity, despite his poker face, much like the now imperceptible glow in Stiles’ chest grows warmer as he breathes in Derek’s peppermint scent. The school looms over them in the dark and Stiles sticks close to Derek as Scott wanders into the building to try and howl through the loudspeakers.

“Which one of you came up with this stupid idea?” Derek asks, more of a growl than a question.

“Scott,” Stiles replies warily. “What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s going to attract a lot of attention.”

“Dude, that's the point.”

“What I mean is that other wolves will hear it too, and that’s without mentioning a lot of humans in the area.”

Stiles doesn’t get a chance to react as the loudspeakers crackle to life and Scott takes a deep breath and starts howling. It’s a pitiful thing, nothing like the bone-chilling noise that Stiles produced back in the preserve. It trails off in a whine as Derek shakes his head, mortified.

Scott clears his throat again and tries again.

It reverberates through the loudspeakers and echoes in the neighborhood this time, a deep howl that resonates in Stiles’ chest too, the kind of call that cannot go ignored. Scott’s hoarse voice rings in the air long after the howl trailed off and Derek tenses as a thick pressure falls upon them, the presence of the Alpha that suddenly makes himself known.

Stiles tackles Derek out of pure instinct and they roll into the building, locking themselves in the school while outside, a monstrous, barely human shadow stands in the way, blocking their only exit.

“Great, just great,” Derek mutters, straightening up to peer at the Alpha through the window.

The creature rams his fist through the glass and goes for Derek’s jugular. Derek swipes at the clawed hand, fangs bared, and blood splashes over his cheek and lips as the Alpha scratches his Adam’s apple.

Stiles joins in with a flash of golden eyes and barely there claws, batting the Alpha away until Derek can scramble out of reach, dragging Stiles with him. They slide across the tiled floor of the school, and climb up a few steps to go further into the hallway, still watching the window with wary eyes.

“Okay, let’s regroup with Scott,” Stiles pants as the Alpha finally relents and starts prowling the length of the building.

Derek doesn’t move immediately, even with Stiles pulling the sleeve of his leather jacket. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and the cut on his throat heals up, leaving only a splatter of blood across his cheekbone. In the distance, they hear the crash against the window of one of the classrooms as the Alpha effectively breaks into the school.

“This was a terrible idea,” Derek reiterates, and finally allows himself to be dragged away.

Stiles follows the sweaty trail of Scott’s nervous way across the school, coated with the heavy, rabid scent of the Alpha. Derek was right, Stiles muses distantly as they creep up the hallway, there isn’t anything human left in the sick, metallic tang permeating the walls.

He bypasses the now forgotten loudspeakers to find Scott holed up in the boiler room. It makes sense, there aren’t any windows down there, nowhere from the Alpha to come from without Scott noticing. Scott curled up in a corner with his hands over his ears, and the bulky outline of the Alpha hovers near, red eyes glowing in the dark.

Stiles doesn’t waste a second, throwing himself at the release valve to open it wide and blast the Alpha with a boiling hot steam of water. The monstrous humanoid shake keels over, losing some of its bulk as his coarse fur falls flat on his back and Derek jumps him from the other side, trying to pin him down.

“Now, Scott!” Stiles calls, but his friend stays frozen in the corner.

The Alpha sends Derek crashing against the wall with a negligent flick of his shoulder and takes off before they can come at him again.

“What the fuck Scott?” Derek hollers, picking himself up from the ground.

Scott doesn’t answer, and when Stiles comes near he bares his teeth, eyes flickering between brown and golden.

“I can’t,” Scott slurs through his fangs. “He wants me to kill you.”

He pants through the effort to resist the Alpha’s influence and Derek growls behind Stiles, just as eager for a fight as the Alpha now that he missed his chance twice. Stiles elbows him before Derek takes his animosity out on Scott, and steps closer despite Scott’s pleas to stay away.

“Nobody is killing anyone, okay? You wanted to trap him, so we’re going to do just that.”

They went over the plan before Derek got there. Scott knows exactly what to do, so Stiles waits for his best friend to lock eyes with him before stepping away. Scott was bait, but now Derek and Stiles will have to make do with what’s left of the trap. They won’t manage to blind the Alpha with the steam to try and knock him out again.

“Come,” Stiles tells Scott, and they creep carefully out of the boiler room.

Derek follows closely behind as they roam the dark hallways of the school, tracking the Alpha down by the wet smell. There isn’t much like coming in through the windows, the sky a dark expense of velvet black without a moon to be seen. Scott reeks of bittersweet apprehension and Derek of spicy hot anger, clogging Stiles’ throat with the thick tension of their endeavor, trailing the Alpha all the way to the gymnasium.

Stiles swallows painfully around each slogging second as they wander between the bleachers, when Scott drops to his knees with a sharp cry of pain, claws dragging over the floor. Derek falls into a protective crouch by his side and Stiles lowers his center as he searches the bleachers for the overbearing shadow of the Alpha.

The onslaught of the bond nearly sweeps his feet from under him. Stiles pushes back with all his might, reaching for the incandescent echo of Derek in his chest, holding onto the other werewolf’s presence as he fights back the Alpha’s attempt to make him submit. Scott doesn’t fare so well, shifting wildly as though unable to control himself in the wake of the Alpha howling in the mental space between them, the bond that threatens to make them Pack whether they like it or not.

Red eyes burn down on them as twin golden gazes flare right back, and Derek’s cool blue eyes wash over Stiles’ mind, soothing some of the raging inferno going on there. The memory slams into him like the roof of a house crumbling down over his head, and Stiles chokes through the smoke and the cloud of ash as he flashes back to a house fire and the family screaming inside.

“Peter?” Derek wheezes, falling to his knees. “Is that you? How-”

Stiles straightens up despite the weight of the Alpha’s grief, eyes flashing molten gold, warmer than the flames that took down the Hale family because only the most cold-blooded arsonist could have done such a terrible thing. He wrestles his will out of the wreck of the Alpha’s mind and it somehow makes all the difference as Scott snaps out of it too.

The Alpha realizes he can’t turn them against each other, not forcefully at least, and Stiles pulls Scott and Derek up as he faces down the monstrous, yet humanoid shadow that Peter Hale has become.

He can’t make sense of the muddle of thoughts emanating from Peter. Murderous impulses and mourning the Pack he lost all blend together in a crippling sense of desperation. Peter is trapped in his own body and the prison of his mind, and Stiles reaches out despite his best instincts screaming at him to get the hell away.

“Do you really want us to kill each other, or do you want a Pack?” Stiles challenges him.

It connects, somewhat, and the thrumming bond between them calms down to a quiet trickle as Peter comes out of the shadows. Each step reveals more of his scarred face and body, burns receding from his flesh as he accepts more and more of the bond Stiles offers so willingly, until only his left side suffers the ravages of the fire still, his lower cheek and arm, as though even the Pack Bond can’t heal it all.

“There you are,” Stiles breathes out.

“You should be terrified,” Peter replies, and his eyes flash red under wild curling strands of hair.

“Yeah, you’re the big bad wolf, I get it.”

He waves Peter off as Derek recovers from what must have been a painful trip down the memory lane. Scott straightens up between them, still staring at Peter warily. Stiles can’t quite feel him in the Pack Bond, much less with the addition of Peter’s wild presence, but Derek and Stiles’ warm glow seems to balance everything out and calm the Alpha down enough to be coherent, so Stiles will take whatever he can get.

Chapter Text

Scott once again ditches Stiles at school. It doesn’t sit well with Stiles, especially after their teamwork enabled them to figure out who the Alpha is and get him somewhat under control. Derek gets the chance to reconnect with a family member after seemingly losing the only one he had left, and it’s not a quite a happy ending but it’s pretty close to one as far as Stiles’ concerned.

He cannot stand the sight of Scott making heart eyes at Allison and the ugly ass pendant she took to wearing recently. He sure hopes Allison can be their hope for a peace treaty with the Hunters, but right now she’s a wild card. Stiles’ blood boils with the risks Scott keeps taking immediately after Stiles drastically improved their odds by bonding with a near feral Alpha werewolf.

Stiles corners Scott in the locker room before practice, blocking the exit to the playing field. The sun filters in through the half open door and a shadow falls over Scott’s shoulder as a bird perches on a nearby tree, chirping aggressively at another bird a little further up.

“Don’t you think we should talk about what happened last night?”

“There is nothing to talk about, we can finally live a normal life,” Scott replies, glancing impatiently outside.

“Our lives are never going to be normal again, Scott,” Stiles snaps.

“Maybe not yours since you love it so much, but I just want to go to school, be with my girlfriend and become a vet. I don’t care about the Alpha and the Pack, they’re nutjobs anyway.”

“You seem so sure about what I want you never took a second to ask me how I was doing,” Stiles says quietly, staring at Scott in disbelief.

Stiles shakes his head when Scott tries to speak up and stands taller in the doorway, not letting him go off to practice and avoid yet another confrontation. Stiles is only doing better than his best friend thanks to the daily doses of Adderall. Holding off the shift and fearing for his life requires his full attention and he can only hope he’ll find an anchor before he runs out of the single-minded focus that keeps him sane for now and starts struggling with his attention disorder once again.

“I’ve done everything I could for Derek to accept your relationship with Allison, I put up with your mood swings and your aggressive behavior on the full moon even though I was struggling myself, but you don’t worry about me, do you?”

Stiles stares Scott down then, reminiscent of his first encounter with Peter. How Scott didn’t care that Stiles could have been in danger despite having witnessed firsthand the kind of rampage Peter could go on. He recalls the fight in this very room, with Scott out for blood while Stiles managed to hang onto his sanity most of the time, unable to truly hurt his best friend.

Scott would have ripped his head off without a second thought.

“I got shot by Allison’s father, threatened by him and his Hunter friends, I almost had to cut off Derek’s arm when he got shot too but you’re just off in la la land not caring that it is your forbidden romance that puts us all in danger because we’re trying to protect you. What the fuck are you going to do when Argent figures out you’re a werewolf? Tell him you’re just a normal boy?”

“I can control myself,” Scott protests.

“I’m sure Argent will love to hear all about how his daughter is your anchor. Maybe he’ll even want to try it out, just so he can kill you when you inevitably fail to control yourself because he went too far.”

Stiles glances down at his hands then, damp where he curls them up into fists as his claws dig into the palm of his hands. Blood streams down his fingers and he breathes in the metallic tang in the air, finding none of the comfort of Pack emanating from Scott. There is no anchor to be found in his best friend, if he can even call Scott that nowadays, and he turns on his heels with this painful realization.

“You’re on your own, Scott,” Stiles throws over his shoulder as he leaves.

It’s been a long time coming.

Stiles doesn’t see anyone for a couple of days. He doesn’t intend for it to change any time soon, but his window slides open one evening, and Derek climbs in like this is a perfectly normal social call, coming to stand by Stiles’ side at the desk.

“You need to get a grip before Peter loses it,” he says when Stiles doesn’t acknowledge him.

“I’m sorry, am I making him angsty?”

“He was doing well at first, checked himself out of the hospital, bought a whole building for himself and rehabilitated the penthouse, but you’re stressed and I can’t balance him out alone.”

Stiles turns to look at Derek then, impressed. Peter’s miraculous recovery ought to make the Argents suspicious, but at least they won’t find the Alpha going on a rampage again any time soon. The on-going police investigation keeps stalling too, despite the long hours Stiles’ father still pulls at the station.

“Was there any real pattern to Peter’s killing?” Stiles asks, struck with sudden inspiration.

Derek makes a face at that, suddenly ill at ease in his well-worn leather jacket.

“I think he was trying to solve the murder of our family, in his own twisted way.”

Stiles sits with that for a moment. There is something Derek isn’t telling him, but he can’t figure out what. Derek must sense that Stiles will ask about it, because he cuts in before Stiles can get any of his inquiries out.

“I’m going to interrogate his next target just to be sure Peter doesn’t snap again and I want you to watch him in the meantime.”

Stiles stares, flabbergasted, and gestures helplessly at himself when Derek fails to explain how he’s supposed to do that. There is a reason Stiles let Derek deal with his uncle. The man is more terrifying when he looks human than when he transforms into the kind of werewolf they make horror movies about!

“And I’m supposed to do that, how?” Stiles asks as Derek keeps watching him expectantly.

“Just stay in the car with him.”

Derek shrugs and starts to climb down the window, leaving Stiles to catch up as he grabs his wallet and runs down the stairs to come out of the front door like a sane person. Derek climbs in the passenger seat and Stiles frowns as he slides in the back seat of the Camaro and shudders as he finds Peter behind the wheel, grinning at him through the rearview mirror.

The Alpha also got a haircut, not that Derek mentioned it. The now shorter blond hair looks windswept, revealing more of the burn scars on the side of his temple and cheek, disappearing under the hem of his Henley.

“So, where are we going?” he asks before Peter can say anything weird.

“Your chemistry teacher’s flat,” Peter replies anyway, still smiling like a creep.

Stiles shudders at the sound of his sing-song voice. He catches sight of Derek rolling his eyes on the passenger seat and finds some comfort in the knowledge that Derek doesn’t appreciate his uncle’s antics either.

The Pack Bond sits warm and tight in the center of his chest though and driving through Beacon Hills with his Alpha and Pack Mate settles some of the restlessness he’s been feeling ever since he cut Scott off. Stiles crosses his arms as they make their way to Harris’ place, refusing to address the wrongness of the bond that somehow pulls him closer to the rest of the Pack despite his misgivings first with Scott and now with Peter.

It’s good to belong.

Peter parks a little further down the street from Harris’ flat and Derek levels them both with a look before he heads inside, leaving Stiles to lean between the front seats to watch and listen in. Beside him, Peter stares at his nails, still slightly too long for comfort.

“Your friend Scott has so much pent-up aggression that it feeds into the Pack Bond, all the more when he resists me and denies the very existence of the bond,” he says offhandedly, like he’s discussing the weather. “So yeah, it makes me angsty when you pull back from the bond as well and only give off those sad emo vibes.”

“Are you going to tell me Scott wanted to kill people, and it made you go berserk next?” Stiles asks, sarcasm dripping from every syllable.

“No, all I’m saying is that his anger issues color his perception of being a werewolf.”

“Forgive me if I choose to believe you were out of blood and it didn’t help him.”

Stiles’ sass draws a barking laugh out of Peter.

“It’s a shame he doesn’t turn into a werewolf puppy the rest of the time, when he’s with his girlfriend,” Stiles mutters next.

“Your anchor is supposed to ground you when you’re on your own, more wolf than man.”

“Still, maybe he should be wearing that ugly necklace she got for her birthday, it might keep him in check more often,” Stiles scoffs. “How come you can turn into a big ass wolf, but Derek’s sister looked like a big black dog? Is that an Alpha thing?”

“Oh, that’s because I like the theatrics. Most werewolves look like Laura did. Derek is nearly there, he just needs a little push. You could too, if you put your mind to it,” Peter replies evenly. “Going feral as an Alpha helps unlock the mental space to get there, but I’m sure I could teach you.”

The way Peter says it makes it sound like he believes Stiles, specifically, could pull it off and a shiver of pride runs down Stiles’ back as he acknowledges his Alpha’s faith in him.

“So, Mieczyslaw Stilinski huh? Is that Polish?” Peter asks suddenly.

“How did you… never mind that, you can pronounce it?!”

“I have a knack for languages.”

Stiles stares. He can’t help it, there is a reason he goes by Stiles and it’s not just because he couldn’t pronounce his real name as a child. Most people can’t and yet Peter not only went out of his way to know more about him, albeit in a creepy manner, but he almost sounds like Stiles’ mom when he says it.

Floored, Stiles sits back and tries to get over the warmth budding in his chest.

The windows fog up with the falling night as they wait for Derek to get Harris to talk to him. Stiles could act surprised that his chemistry teacher even has dark secrets to start with, but the guy was always a jerk in class. There are rumors that he takes barely legal students to illegal rave parties that Stiles is more than willing to believe so really, this seems on par with Harris’ usual self.

“Why did you go after these people?” Stiles asks when Derek and Harris grow silent, only the clink of shot glasses to be heard as Derek gets him drunk to coax Harris into confiding in him. “Derek said you tried to solve your family’s murder, but it doesn’t add up. Why kill them if you want justice?”

Peter hums, looking at the lonely moon crescent in the night sky and the fine mist crawling up the street. He reaches out to press a hand against the moist covered window and draws a spiral there.

“It’s about revenge. Someone killed my family. My Pack. There were children in that house, ones who were human. Those people killed them.”

Stiles swallows past the lump of his throat as he stares at the spiral on the window. What can he say to that? It’s wrong, of course, but nothing he could say will bring the Hales back or ease the grief Peter carried with him all these years. No wonder he didn’t deal well with Scott rejecting him, if he longed for connection, a semblance of the bond that went up in flames with the Hale house all those years ago. Stiles’ willingness to welcome the bond must have soothed some of that pain, and he vows to make Peter feel like he belongs too, once again.

He hears Derek questioning Harris about the Hale fire in the background. Peter’s eyes glaze over as he listens in as well. Harris’ voice wavers as he recounts his last encounter with Laura, but Stiles loses his focus as Peter grabs his wrist tight, claws digging into the thin skin and brittle bone there.

“What’s that ugly necklace you mentioned earlier like?” the Alpha asks, staring at Stiles with glowing red eyes.

Stiles gapes at him, a growl building in his chest from the prickling pain sparking to life on his wrist. Something deeper rumbles under the surface though, a phantom fire burning down his cheek and arm, and he realizes belatedly that it’s Peter’s pain he feels.

“You still suffer from your wounds?” Stiles blurts out instead of answering. “I thought the Pack Bond healed you.”

“As you can see, it wasn’t enough to undo years of abuse as my body fought to keep my vital organs in shape. There is only so much werewolf healing can do at once. What’s on the necklace, Stiles?”

“Some kind of mythical creature, a beast from French folklore.”

Stiles gasps, not from the pain but rather the dark spider web lines climbing up his arm and elbow, disappearing under the sleeve of his flannel. It hurts, like molten lava crawling through his veins. Peter sags against the seat then, as though Stiles pulled a weight off his shoulders, and his glowing red eyes flicker back to normal as the Alpha slurs through receding fangs.

“Ask him about the necklace Derek, if he’s ever seen it.”

Distantly, Derek does just that.

Harris pauses.

“I remember something like this, the woman who asked me about the chemical components for the fire, she wore a necklace just like that.”

Peter growls, but he can barely sit up as he holds Stiles’ arm loosely in his hand, drawing mindless circles over the jutting bone of Stiles’ wrist. Smooth fingers follow the line of the black veins weaving between the moles scattered over Stiles’ pale skin, and Peter nuzzles his face against the palm of Stiles’ hand, riding wave after wave of pain relief.

“What the fuck, dude?” Stiles stutters, frozen in place.

“Pain absorption,” Peter says like it explains anything, but he’s barely coherent at that point and his eyes roll in the back of his head.

By the time Derek comes out of Harris’ flat, Stiles has dragged Peter on the backseat. He goes around the car to take the wheel, but one stern look from Derek has him climbing in the passenger seat instead, grumbling about letting the Alpha drive and not him.

“What happened?” Derek asks, glancing back at Peter.

“He said something about pain absorption and passed out. What’s that about?”

“Werewolves have the ability to draw the pain into themselves and take the edge off a person’s pain level. It must have relieved him enough to finally get some rest, especially among his Pack.”

Derek says it through gritted teeth, like it pains him, and Stiles elects to change the subject.

“So, the Argents are really behind the fire, you have proof now?”

“I don’t need proof.”

“The police do, though.”

“You think I’m doing this so that I can go to the police?” Derek glances at him in disbelief.

“What, is it about revenge? Not you too,” Stiles trails off when Derek doesn’t deny it.

Peter mumbles something in the back seat and they fall silent as Derek drives Stiles home, refusing to address the spiral staring at them from the window, a background to Derek’s shadowed profile. By the time Stiles steps out of the car and glances back at him, the window fogged up enough to conceal the werewolf’s features, leaving only the reflection of the moon for Stiles to stare at.

The next day at lunch, Stiles trades half of his fries with half of Erica’s apple because the blonde didn’t “want” fries when they picked their food, yet she immediately started stealing his once they sat down at her usual table at the school cafeteria. She grins, doing a happy dance on her chair, and Stiles shakes his head as he eats what’s left of his fries.

“You should have ordered some for yourself,” he grumbles.

“I don’t want to eat a full plate of fries,” she argues.

“Just ask for a little on the side next time.”

Stiles shrugs when Erica doesn’t grace him with a reply, and she rolls her eyes like he’s missing one key component of being a girl in high school. Perhaps he is. The steak turned leathery from cooking too hot and too fast in the school kitchen, and he chews painfully around each piece as they chat about their respective classes.

“How did your presentation go in English lit?”

“Great, we got the highest score! Although Harley was feeling a bit down that day because the guy she liked turned her down. He was nice about it, but it still stings.”

Stiles glances at Boyd on the other side of the cafeteria, sitting alone as usual. He’s surprised Boyd went through with it despite his initial reluctance, but it’s good for Harley, she’ll be able to move on. Erica follows his gaze and hums as she steals another fry from his plate. Stiles tries, halfheartedly, to stab her with his fork but misses.

“Yeah, that’s him. He’s sweet, I can definitely see what Harley liked about him,” Erica comments, getting back to her salad.

They chat some more, moving on to Heather’s upcoming birthday party, when Stiles overhears Jackson’s snotty voice just outside the cafeteria. The jock whispers purposefully, intent on Scott overhearing him and Stiles turns around to search for the bastard, but he can’t see Jackson anywhere. He hears him clearly though and grabs his phone to text Derek as Jackson goes on.

“I know what you are, McCall. And here’s the thing, however you came to be what you are, you’re gonna get it for me, too. Whatever it is, a bite, a scratch, sniffing magic fairy dust under the moonlight…”

Stiles snorts at that as he explains the situation to Derek. Scott was never discreet about his abilities so it’s no surprise Jackson ended up finding out he’s a werewolf, although the jock doesn’t actually come out and say the word directly.

“I don’t care, you’re gonna get it for me or…” Jackson trails off threateningly. “Or she’s gonna find out about it too.”

Jackson implies it pretty clearly and even without proof, they can’t let him tell anything along these lines to Allison, it’s too risky. Derek shares the sentiment, so they agree to meet up after school to deal with it before Scott makes it worse.

“Stiles?” Erica calls hesitantly, waving a hand in front of his face.

He startles and looks up, sheepish, to find that she ate the rest of his fries, leaving only two a little off center of his plate.

“Seriously?” he groans, and she shrugs.

“You weren’t paying attention.”

Erica gathers her stuff and Stiles hurries to eat the leftover fries to follow her outside of the cafeteria and get back to class, somewhat hungry after relinquishing more than half of his meal to his friend. He goes through the motions for the rest of the day and hurries outside as soon as the bell rings, to find Derek waiting in the parking lot, the Camaro idling behind him. Stiles skids to a stop in front of him, short on breath even though it was barely an effort to get there, and Derek gives him the ghost of the smile, producing a flashy orange packet of snacks.

“Are those Reese’s?” Stiles asks, snatching the bag. “Great, I’m starving!”

“I could tell.”

Derek’s hand hovers over his chest, where the Pack Bond exudes a contented warmth within Stiles too. He leaves Stiles to tear through the contents of the packet and climbs back behind the wheel. As Stiles goes around the car to join him, he catches sight of Erica watching with a knowing smile, and she winks as he gets in, like this is some kind of afterschool date and his boyfriend stopped by to pick him up.

Stiles is still beet red when he slams the door of the Camaro shut behind him. Derek doesn’t pay him any mind, joining the flow of students driving home after school, and they wait in line to get out of the parking lot.

“That’s him, follow this car,” Stiles points when Jackson’s Porsche flashes past them.

Derek complies and they drive in silence as Jackson heads towards the industrial district, nowhere near his parents’ house. They lose track of him as he twists and turns like a madman through the warehouses in the area and Stiles holds on for dear life as Derek speeds up to catch up with Jackson, a feral grin flashing across his face.

“Does he know we’re following him?” Stiles asks through clenched teeth.

“No, he’s just fucking around with his car feeling like a big deal,” Derek replies with a knowing smile.

Stiles can picture it for a moment. A playful tug at their Pack Bond makes it all the more vivid, like Peter recalls such a time too and shares the fond memories with Stiles. Derek, young and cocky, getting tickets as he shows off around Beacon Hills. It’s the hair, styled up high above his brow, or perhaps the basic yet stylish outfits he rocks all week long.

Perhaps Derek could restore a fragment of this innocence that went up in flames in the fire with the rest of his family, Stiles muses, if he and Peter get some form of closure. It’s up to Stiles to make it happen in a law-abiding way rather than the bloodbath Peter has planned.

Derek slows down as they drive through a row of perfectly aligned warehouses and Stiles focuses on their current objective once again, leaning forward to look out the window and try to spot Jackson’s car. They look around for a while, checking each crossroad for the telltale silver gleam of the Porsche.

“I wonder how Jackson figured it out…” Stiles thinks aloud.

“Well, he did have a run in with Peter and Scott is far from discreet about it,” Derek comments, recalling the video club incident. “Also, I may have scratched him when I was looking for you and Scott to help me with the wolfsbane bullet.”

“You scratched him?” Stiles swivels around to stare at Derek in horror.

“I didn’t mean to,” the other werewolf defends himself. “He was being a little shit, and I was in agony, it kinda happened. It’s not like I could turn him anyway.”

Stiles sighs and sags back in his seat, crossing his arms over his chest as he mulls it over. Jackson is far from stupid, no matter how much Stiles likes to pretend he’s just a jock with a brain smaller than a lacrosse ball. He could put two and two together after seeing Peter’s monstrous full-shift and Scott’s newfound abilities, even before Derek scratched him.

Still, it sucks, and Stiles has yet to speak again when the car jerks to a stop as they catch up with Jackson between two warehouses. They find the jock standing protectively in front of his Porsche, and the Argents’ black SUV parked by his side. Stiles frowns as Chris and Jackson check the engine and finally breaks the silence.

“It seems awfully convenient that Chris would corner Jackson in the industrial area now of all times…”

“Maybe they suspect him of being a werewolf,” Derek whispers. “They have to know there are more than just Peter and me, and they saw you and Scott helping me, but they can’t prove that either of you turned into a werewolf.”

“Jackson was at the video club though, and a werewolf scratched him…” Stiles picks up Derek’s train of thought and he’s out of the car before he can finish his sentence.

He stumbles up to the Porsche where Jackson stands with his back ramrod straight, the tense lines of his face keeping his sentences short and to the point. The Hunter interrogates Jackson about the nasty scratch on his neck and Stiles catches the tail end of the conversation as he sides up to Jackson to face Chris Argent.

“What’s up?” Stiles asks. “Is everything okay?”

“Hey, Stiles. Your friend here was just having car trouble. We were taking a look.”

“There’s a shop right down the street, I’m sure they have a tow truck,” Stiles replies just as fakely as Chris. “You want a ride?” he adds, turning to Jackson. “You’re way too pretty to be out here all by yourself.”

Chris shrugs as Stiles steers Jackson towards the Camaro despite the flash of anger racing through the Pack Bond, like Derek won’t let Jackson come any closer, much less step into his space. Stiles doesn’t find out what’s going on with the other werewolf though, because Chris calls after them a moment later.

“Hey, boys? Told you I knew a few things about cars.”

He waves a small device in his hand and climbs back in his SUV, driving off without further ado, not giving Stiles a chance to inspect what he strongly suspects is some kind of jammer for the engine of the Porsche. Jackson steps away from Stiles as soon as the Argents’ SUV disappears around the corner, glaring at Stiles.

“What, are you following me now? Doing Scott’s bidding like a good little dog.”

“Yes, you freaking idiot, you almost gave everything away! Argent is a Hunter, and he thinks you’re Scott.”

“What?”

“He thinks you’re a werewolf and now we have to keep an eye on you, so he doesn’t kill you.”

“This is Scott’s problem, not mine, okay? I didn’t say anything, which means you and your little buddy Scott are the ones that’s gonna get me killed. It’s all your fault.”

Jackson trails off, staring at Stiles in disbelief, and Stiles frowns. “Why are you looking at me?”

“Your eyes, they’re glowing and… are those fangs?”

Stiles checks himself, seeking Derek’s calm presence not far away to ground himself and keep the shift at bay. He grins at Jackson through the receding fangs and takes a step forward, happy to instill some sense of wariness in the jock for once, instead of the other way around.

“That’s right, so now you listen to me. When they come after you, Scott won’t be able to protect you. We can’t protect everyone. So how about you forget your little blackmail with Scott and focus on not drawing any more attention than you already did.”

“You know, if you get me what I want, I’ll be fine protecting myself,” Jackson says, squaring his shoulders.

It gives Stiles pause and he glances over his shoulder to seek Derek’s gaze through the windshield of the Camaro. The other werewolf doesn’t let anything filter through the bond though, and Stiles is at a loss as to what to say. Jackson isn’t entirely wrong, and he senses Stiles’ hesitation, plowing on.

“You can hear anything you want and run faster than humanly possible. McCall makes it sound like a real hardship, like it ruined his life when he had all the power in the world and didn’t know what to do with it. You know what it’s actually like? It’s like you turn sixteen, and someone bought you a Porsche when they should have started you out with a nice little Honda. Me? I drive a Porsche.”

Jackson spreads his arms out smugly as he says it, like he’s hinting at Stiles that he’s the perfect Beta werewolf in the making and in a way, Stiles finds that he agrees with him. He did have to learn fast when he got the Jeep too, and he recalls the overwhelming first few days as a werewolf.

Perhaps Jackson would deal better than Scott indeed and accept the Bite as a gift rather than a curse.

“Think about it,” Jackson advises as he climbs back in his car and drives off.

Neither Stiles nor Derek mention it as he gets back to the Camaro, but they won’t need to. It’s Peter’s call now.

Stiles goes home with a lot of his mind, laying wide awake in his bed. He longs to support his Pack no matter what, but his upbringing as the Sheriff’s son keeps him from condoning aimless violence and bloodshed. Stiles is no saint, fully aware of the limitations of the law after his father had to release one too many criminals for lack of incriminating evidence, but Peter’s rampage lacks the shades of gray Stiles usually treads.

It only solidifies his need to make sure Peter, and by extension Derek, don’t take it so far that they regret it later on.

As for Jackson, his determination comforts Stiles somehow. He finds a sense of kinship in the way Jackson fully embraces the idea of becoming a werewolf, a choice he made for himself in contrast to Scott and Stiles. After so many weeks on the wrong end of Scott’s attitude and accusations, Stiles relishes in a kindred spirit, someone to see the Bite for the gift that it truly is. Jackson might seek this power for himself and his own gain, but who is Stiles to judge?

It’s not like Stiles doesn’t get a kick out of his newfound abilities.

He basks in the warmth emanating from his chest, where the Pack Bonds nestled so deeply that he barely remembers what life used to be like before. Stiles belongs on the Pack in ways he never did in high school, in something akin to his last Christmas with both his parents, before he lost his mother to the disease and the smell of antiseptics.

Downstairs, the clink of glasses alerts Stiles of his father’s return as the Sheriff pours himself a finger of whiskey. Stiles pushes off the bed to tiptoe down the stairs and peer at his father from the doorway, finding the Sheriff bent over his investigation files. Mugshots spread over transcripts from interviews and reports, but Stiles’ eyesight didn’t improve enough to enable him to read for that far.

He catches the smallest of movements though, and the way the Sheriff’s hand shakes as he brings the glass to his lips. The glaring denied stamp on a stack of warrants is all too obvious now that Stiles knows what to look for. Kate Argent’s name seems to taunt them both on top of the pile and he finally puts a face to the name. Allison’s aunt looks nothing like her.

“Hey Dad,” Stiles whispers as he steps into the room. “How are you doing?”

“Well, I figured it out,” John says, settling the glass back on the table, untouched. “All the murders and what the victims had in common, but it’s a cold case I haven’t been able to get my hands on ever since it was shelved. Someone in this town doesn’t want me to solve it.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have a witness to back up the victims and evidence to boot, but it all points to someone with connections.”

The Sheriff trails off, not willing to share too much, but Stiles gets the gist of it. Allison might be new in town, but clearly the Argents have been around for decades, and it shows. Stiles bites his tongue to refrain from asking if his father identified Kate as an arsonist and a murderer, and Peter’s victims as her accomplices when she burned the Hale house down. Instead, he grabs his father’s glass to pour the whiskey back in the bottle and whisk it away in the drinks cabinet.

“Was the witness able to identify your suspect?”

“Yeah, apparently he doesn’t see much action these days and remembers perfectly the last time a lady cozied up to him,” John barks a laugh, rubbing a hand over his hair.

“What prompted him to come forward now?”

“Couldn’t bear the guilt anymore.”

The Sheriff shrugs and Stiles relaxes minutely. It must be Harris then, after his encounter with Derek. It’s good, Stiles reckons, as long as Harris keeps his conversation with Derek to himself. This testimony could make all the difference if his father gets his way. He will, Stiles realizes darkly, because the Argents may have friends in high places, but Stiles has a Pack.

He hugs his father goodnight and heads back to his room to give Peter a call. The Alpha answers on the first ring, all but purring into Stiles' ear.

“Stiles, to what do I owe the pleasure?”

“My father solved his case, and I can help you get your revenge. All I need is your help to convince the judge.”

“I like the way you think,” Peter hums. “Your methods lack a bit of pizazz, but we can work on that later. Speaking of, can this bribing happen tomorrow? Derek and I are meeting with Jackson in the preserve, you are welcome to join.”

“So, you’re giving him the Bite?” Stiles asks, pacing the length of his bedroom.

“He made a good case for himself, and even I have to admit that consent is essential. I wasn’t in the right state of mind to offer it to you and Scott, but I would have asked you first in other circumstances.”

Something in Stiles warms up pleasantly, like he takes pride in the idea that more than asking for his consent, Peter would have chosen him over Scott. He bites back a smile and agrees to meet up with his Pack tonight, climbing out the window a moment later because that’s the appropriate time to do so, as he keeps telling Derek.

Stiles jumps down the side of the house and lands silently on his feet, taking off at a quick pace towards the preserve. The quiet of the night makes every sound and smell sharper and soon, he catches Derek’s peppermint shampoo and Jackson’s obnoxious deodorant downwind. Stiles follows his nose, or at least he thinks so, until he runs into an abandoned train depot with no trace of Derek nor Jackson. Derek’s scent lingers in one of the three coaches, a bit stale and fading all the more with Stiles’ presence.

Tracking truly isn’t his calling, Stiles muses as he retreats from the train depot and attempts to find the scent again. A moon quarter shines brighter with every passing second, taunting him with the reminder that his abilities may be amazing, they amount to nothing and are no use if he can’t capitalize on them.

Stiles throws his head back to scent the air again, and with the soft glow of the moon falling over his burning eyes, he finally catches the familiar scent of Derek. He follows it blindly through the preserve, until it’s so potent he tastes it on his tongue and opens his eyes to the Hale house.

It’s a wonder Stiles didn’t find it sooner, considering the utter ruckus inside. Derek and Scott trash through the rooms, locked in a fight, Scott fueled by his rightful fury and Derek moving about with preternatural grace. Jackson lays unmoving on the porch, no trace of blood on him when Stiles comes up to the front of the house to shake him awake.

“Hey Jackson, what happened?” Stiles whispers, crouching to stay out of sight for now.

“Scott butted in even though it’s none of his business,” Jackson mutters, rolling over.

He stays on his back for a moment, groggy from a vicious punch that leaves a blossoming black eye spreading over half of his face. Stiles can’t find it in him to sympathize, considering Jackson’s provocative attitude regarding Allison these last few days and overall pettiness ever since they joined high school. He had it coming. Still, Scott shouldn’t be here, fighting Derek over Jackson’s choice and decision, and Stiles stands up in the doorway to tell his old friend just that, when Derek’s head snaps to the side and his whole demeanor changes.

“Stiles, take Jackson and go,” he says urgently.

The distress, apparent through the Beta-shift, betrays the danger that must lurk within the preserve even though Stiles can’t hear or smell it yet, and he hauls Jackson over his back just as Scott seizes the opening and tackles Derek to the ground, uncaring of the other werewolf’s warning.

“Go!” Derek yells this time.

Stiles makes it out of the clearing and gears up to sprint across the preserve, but it takes everything within him to comply, leaving his Pack Mate behind.

A moment later, the Hale house explodes in a flash of white light.

Chapter Text

Stiles wakes up on the cold hard metal of an examination table. He jerks up, blinded by the lights in the animal clinic even though Deaton kept it dim and low, and looks around frantically. He takes in the bitterness of antiseptics and the underlying smell of wet dog, breathing so hard and fast he tastes it in his mouth, gagging a little.

“Easy there,” Deaton says somewhere on his left.

The vet brings a bottle of water and a new wave of fresh linen and pine, and Stiles notices dirt on Deaton’s shoes when he glances down. He pants, his stomach lurching with the remnants of the explosion in the preserve. Wait, Derek! Stiles leaps halfway across the room before he can fully process the thought, the bottle of water clenched in his fist.

“How did I end up here? Where is Jackson?” he asks, keeping a close eye on the door.

“I found Mr. Whittemore and yourself passed out in the preserve. He hasn’t woken up yet. There is a nasty scratch on his neck that needed tending, but you were perfectly fine.”

Stiles stares at Deaton with half squinted eyes, fighting the golden flare within, “And you didn’t call the cops?”

“No, but I feel like you’ll agree with me once your Alpha is here to pick you up.”

Rooted to the spot, Stiles clenches his fist to hide the claws that threaten to come out as Deaton oh so casually mentions werewolves. He studies the vet intently, all his muscles locked into place as he tries to pinpoint what, exactly, Deaton knows and how.

“Fear not, Stiles. I am no threat to you or your Pack,” Deaton says, raising placating hands on either side of himself.

“Where is Jackson?” Stiles reiterates, and Deaton points slowly towards another examination room down the corridor.

Stiles steps out carefully and pokes his head in to check on Jackson, finding him fast asleep with a foul-smelling balm covering the scratch on his neck. The herbal scent reminds Stiles of wolfsbane, and he scrunches up his nose, keeping at a safe distance. He remembers Derek’s agony from getting shot with a wolfsbane bullet all too well, especially within those walls.

The bell rings at the front desk, and Deaton perks up, strolling out of the examination room to welcome whoever just walked in. Stiles watches him warily when the vet walks past, following a step behind. The glow of the streetlight outside filters in through the blinds and the clock ticks a little further away from midnight with each passing second.

Peter awaits on the other side of the counter, with a smart sage green woolen jacket and his hair swept up in artful spikes. He grins at Deaton, motioning at the counter between them. It shouldn’t be much of a challenge for a man in his prime — and Peter definitely is now — much less a werewolf, so Stiles steps up to the wooden counter to join his Alpha, only to stop within a few inches of the counter, somehow repelled by an invisible barrier.

“Mountain ash, a neat little trick to keep werewolves in… or out,” Peter tells him before turning to Deaton. “Won’t you let me in?”

“It depends,” Deaton replies coolly. “You’ve been on quite the rampage these last few weeks, and I can’t let you go on like this.”

“I promise I’m a good guy now,” Peter replies, rolling his eyes.

“You were never a good guy, Peter.”

Deaton says it without inflexion, but Stiles’ eyes snap between the vet and his Alpha, sensing a lot of things left unsaid between them. Peter doesn’t reply for a long time, rubbing his arm distractedly where the scars draw terrible flames on his skin still. Stiles tries to push against the invisible barrier, eager to stand by his Alpha, but the mountain ash repels him effortlessly and he tires himself out just pressing against thin air.

“You’re right,” Peter eventually allows. “For now, though, the Argents took my nephew from me, and I won’t let them hurt my Pack again. There will be no keeping the balance for you if you keep my second Beta from me now. You’re standing in my way, but you don’t have to be. You could just… step aside and let the world right itself for once.”

Stiles blinks, at a complete loss as to whatever Peter means about keeping the balance. The comforting scent of his Alpha fills his lungs with sandalwood though, and he relaxes minutely on the other side of the mountain ash barrier. Deaton glances at him, almost as though the vet can feel the shimmering bond between Stiles and Peter, the one that keeps the Alpha from tipping over the edge, one could even say… tame.

After a long moment, Deaton opens the counter and lets Stiles slip through.

“I’ll wake Mr. Whittemore up,” he says, disappearing down the corridor.

“What’s up with him?” Stiles asks as soon as Deaton is out of ear shot, stepping so close their shoulders brush.

Peter leans into the touch instantly, “Deaton used to be the Hale Pack’s Emissary, specifically a druid in his case. A druid’s purpose in life is to keep the balance and never take sides. Other magical beings could be Emissaries and take their Pack’s side in every conflict, but Deaton never does.”

Stiles hums, saving these tidbits of knowledge for later as Jackson emerges from the examination room with Deaton. Stiles reaches out to help him across the room out of instinct rather than real desire to help and surprisingly, Jackson lets him, joining Peter and Stiles on the other side of the counter.

“Don’t play God, Peter,” Deaton warns the Alpha as they head out.

“I’m done playing,” Peter replies, and the door slides shut behind them.

Stiles helps Jackson into the backseat of the Camaro and Peter drives them to his brand-new loft in silence, occasionally glancing in his rear-view mirror. The bond in Stiles’ chest grows weaker with each passing second and he holds onto it with all his might, focused within as he attempts to feel Derek’s distant presence. He can’t sense Scott, but a budding warmth links him back to Jackson already, and Stiles once again marvels at the compulsion to stick with his Pack, even though he and Jackson could never stand each other before.

It’s a wonder Scott managed to push Stiles and the Pack away.

Stiles sighs as Peter parks in front of an old warehouse. The building stands out against the backdrop of the night sky, industrial stone basking in the light of the nearby streetlamps. The Alpha leads the way to the front door and into an elevator that looks more like a death trap than a safe way to go to the penthouse.

“You’re sure you’re done with the murderous impulses?” Stiles asks, glancing at Peter from the corner of his eye. “You’re giving off psychopath vibes still, just so you know.”

“I’m sure, but I know a good lawyer, if necessary,” Peter laughs good heartedly, elbowing Jackson as he does so.

Jackson rolls his eyes but doesn’t contradict him, “Whatever, let’s just get this over with.”

Peter nods and slides the heavy metal door open to reveal a bachelor pad, kitsch in all the right ways. Rustic chic, perhaps, with two cow armchairs in the lounge area to start with. A large leather couch and a timber coffee table sit on a reddish kilim rug while further into the loft, a Yamaha clavinova awaits under a line art portrait of Beethoven.

A winding staircase disappears upstairs and Stiles wonders what Peter’s bedroom is like if it looks anything like the living room. A modern kitchen hides behind a red brick wall off to the side and gigantic windows reveal hints of a balcony looking out onto the street.

“Alright boys. I’ll give the Bite to Jackson then order pizza, you two must be starving by now.”

As if on cue, Stiles’ stomach rumbles loudly and he looks away as Peter motions for Jackson to hold his hand up, his wrist bare. The Alpha leans in, fangs glinting under the spotlights hanging from the ceiling, and bites down quickly. Jackson jerks but doesn’t attempt to break free, bearing the sharp pain with a spark in his eyes.

By the time Peter pulls back, the droplets of blood on Jackson’s skin have already dried up. The Alpha gestures for Stiles and Jackson to sit on the couch as he places his order for meat lovers, already talking strategy by the time he hangs up with the pizza place.

“So, we know the Argents want to get to me. They suspect both of you to be my Betas, and by now they must have figured out Scott is a werewolf too. So, let’s give them a little show.”

Peter sits on the coffee table to face them and Stiles inches instinctively closer to let their knees brush as Peter comes up with a plan to distract the Argents, locate Derek and Scott and break them out while Peter keeps the Argents busy.

“My best friend should be able to locate their phones,” Jackson says unexpectedly.

“Perfect,” Peter all but purrs, standing up just before the buzzer goes off. “Pizza’s here.”

Jackson shifts in his seat as the Alpha ruffles both of their hair, although Stiles can’t figure out whether he’s uncomfortable with making himself useful so soon, or Peter’s easy affection as the Bite takes effect. The bond becomes more prominent by the minute, including Jackson in the Pack in ways Scott never allowed himself to.

“I see what you meant,” Jackson says suddenly. “About not being able to protect everyone. We’ll be too busy protecting ourselves.”

“Protecting the Pack,” Stiles answers with a nod, and all but melts in Peter’s touch as the Alpha walks up behind the couch with a stack of pizzas in one hand, squeezing the nape of his neck with the other.

“Eat up, pups.”

“No,” Jackson and Stiles groan in unison at the pet name, but Peter only gives a wolfish grin as he pours himself a glass of Bourbon.

By the time Peter settles in one of the cow armchairs, two of the pizzas are gone and a third well on its way. He grabs a slice for himself, sipping his whiskey in between bites, and goes over the plan one more time with them as they eat the rest of the pizzas. Stiles nods in all the right places, having memorized it already, and Jackson checks in with Danny as the goalie attempts to locate Derek or Scott’s phone.

“There are guest bedrooms upstairs, you can crash wherever you please. Tomorrow will be a long day,” the Alpha concludes.

Peter licks his fingers clean as he speaks, lounging languidly on his armchair and Stiles averts his eyes because for some reason he wants to cuddle right up to the man, gathering the card boxes to throw them out instead. Jackson already climbed the stairs to go pick a bedroom, and Stiles follows soon after, stopping by Peter’s side for a brief moment to breathe in the scent of sandalwood and Bourbon. The Alpha gives a soft smile then, reaching out to cup his cheek, and Stiles nuzzles his face into the touch, eyelids drooping already.

Stiles makes his way upstairs with half-lidded eyes and picks the room that smells the most familiar, peppermint and leather, crawling into bed with a sigh. He’s out like a light a moment later.

Stiles wakes to the scent of fresh cotton and the lingering tang of peppermint. Rays of sunshine filter in through the blinds and dapples the dark quilt in specks of gold. He rolls over, burying his face among the pillows, but this isn’t his bed and the noises coming from the kitchen downstairs are nothing like usual.

Someone is making a smoothie.

Eyes blinking open, Stiles takes in a bedroom in shades of gray, bare concrete walls bearing down on him. The furniture is few and far in between, a reclaimed bedside table and piles of books lined up under the window and while in the corner, a travel bag awaits with hastily folded clothes. This is Derek’s bedroom, Stiles realizes belatedly, and he sits up in surprise.

Of course, he would pick up someone else’s bedroom instead of one of the guest rooms, Stiles muses. He wrings the quilt between his hands as he attempts to think of a plausible explanation for when they bring Derek back to the loft. Nothing comes to mind except for how familiar and safe the bedroom feels, and he stares at the swirling shadows the sun draws on the quilt, wondering if Derek sometimes lies there, a canvas for the play of light on the bed.

Shaking his head, Stiles drags himself out of the bedroom and cleans up before joining Peter and Jackson downstairs, finding them with matching smoothies in a worrying shade of green. It makes him a little green in the face and he turns away from the island to rummage through the cupboards to make a proper breakfast.

“How are you feeling, Jackson?” Peter asks behind him.

“Great,” the jock replies gleefully and Stiles glances over his shoulder to match the golden flare in Jackson’s eyes with his own.

Peter grins at them both and tosses back what’s left of his smoothie, “Just what I wanted to hear.”

He rolls up the sleeves of his dress shirt and jiggles the car keys with a feral grin, his intention clear. They head out soon after to stake out the Argents’ house. The neighborhood is quiet, waking to a chorus of singing birds and the occasional bark of a dog running into a cat in the backyard of a suburban house.

Peter parks the Camaro in the shade of an old oak tree to stay inconspicuous and they lay low in their seats as a new SUV drives down the street, slowing down in front of the Argents’ house. An elderly man steps out and Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up in surprise as Chris meets him on the front porch with a firm handshake, looking none too pleased to welcome his guest.

“This is quite early for a social call,” Stiles mutters under his breath.

“I don’t think Gerard called in advance to let his son know he was coming,” Peter muses, rubbing his chin. “This isn’t good, we must get Scott and Derek out as soon as possible.”

“That guy met up with my father a couple days ago to request legal counsel,” Jackson says from the backseat, and Stiles glances at the rearview mirror to find him frowning. “Something about evidence not holding up in front of a judge.”

Stiles hums but doesn’t get a chance to discuss it further.

”I thought you had left town,” Chris says, confirming their suspicions.

“We have a situation,” Gerard replies, except it sounds like Chris’ problem more than his. “We need all hands on deck.”

“And whose fault is that,” Chris mutters, like he blames Gerard for it, even as he steps aside to let his father in.

A moment later, Allison comes out of the house with a sour look on her face and slams her car door shut to drive off towards the mall, the Camaro trailing after her. She parks near Lydia’s car and Stiles tenses because it will be much harder to track Allison through the shops if Lydia clocks him in. Jackson could get away with it, but Stiles…

“Come on, dipshit,” Jackson says, already stepping out of the car.

“You boys keep them busy for a while,” Peter reminds them, waving a hand rigged with claws already.

Jackson leads the way to Lydia’s favorite shop, and they catch up with the girls on the escalator, listening in on Allison as she rants about her creepy grandfather.

“I didn’t know this was going to be a family reunion! I knew he and Kate were around when we moved back to Beacon Hills, but they were supposed to leave at the start of the semester. I didn’t mind when Kate came back because she’s cool and a badass but my grandfather? He puts everyone on edge.”

“Even your aunt?” Lydia asks.

“Kate was always his favorite, so she does whatever she pleases but she does it even more when he’s around and…” Allison pauses and lowers her voice like she’s confessing to an awful crime. “She’s a bit annoying.”

Lydia plucks her lips like she’s trying not to laugh and tosses her hair over her shoulder as they come up to the right floor, stepping off the escalator. Jackson and Stiles follow at a good distance, listening in on their conversation still while in the back of his mind, Stiles overhears worrying sounds of metal screeching as Peter does something to Allison’s car.

“Well, she’s not here right now so let’s have fun and pick our dresses for prom!” Lydia exclaims at last. “I need to rub it in Jackson’s face that he shouldn’t have broken up with me over a text.”

She ignores whatever Allison says next, but Stiles doesn’t miss it, nor the underlying hurt in Lydia’s voice even though she will never admit that Jackson got under her skin.

“She hasn’t been around since yesterday, actually.”

Figures, Stiles muses. Kate was probably suspicious despite Scott’s reassurance of the contrary, following Scott around to catch him red handed, and she did, swooping in to capture both Scott and Derek while she had the chance. Especially with the Sheriff’s department closing in, just a warrant away from taking her in for questioning.

Speaking of the Sheriff… Stiles tenses all over and Jackon steps in front of him before the lacrosse player can make sense of the Pack Bond acting up between them, but there is no hiding from Stiles’ father as John stalks towards them with a frown and a downward twist to his mouth.

“Stiles!” he calls out as he comes up to them. “Where the hell have you been? I came home early last night, and you weren’t there, didn’t answer your phone…”

John trails off, but Stiles can almost picture steam blowing out of his ears as the Sheriff holds back from a long rant since they’re in public. He pulls at the sleeves of his flannel, trying to affect a cool and unbothered attitude like he did so many times before.

“I was at a friend’s, forgot my phone charger at home and got caught up in video games,” Stiles replies, subdued and ashamed of the lie.

His father notices the shame and relents, somewhat, as he takes the explanation at face value.

“Which friend?” the Sheriff still asks.

“Jackson!” Stiles brightens up, throwing an arm around the jock’s shoulder. “He broke up with Lydia and needed a little pick me up!”

He tightens his grip in anticipation, but Jackson doesn’t try to get away from him, simply nodding at Stiles’ father. Jackson is not even that tense under Stiles’ arm and they stand a bit straighter, bold faced, as the Sheriff levels them with a calculating gaze. He lets it last a bit too long, until Stiles is nearly squirming, and when Stiles’ fingers start itching — like his claws might pop out at any second — finally looks around as though looking for someone.

“Where is Scott?”

“At home, he slept through his alarm again. We’re meeting up with him this afternoon,” Stiles replies hurriedly.

Eventually, John nods and reaches out to hug Stiles, “Alright kiddo. Have a good day, I’ll see you tonight.”

Stiles hugs him back just as tight, knowing they’ll talk more about it then. The loudspeakers in the mall crackle to life as someone rattles off Allison’s number plate saying they’re getting her car towed out of the parking lot and that’s their signal to meet up with Peter. Stiles steps away from his father and Jackson nods stiffly at the Sheriff.

“Sir,” he salutes before following Stiles down the escalator to keep track of Allison and Lydia.

They cross paths with Erica, Heather and Harley going up on the other escalator, shopping for their prom dresses as well. Erica beams at Stiles, waving excitedly and Heather tucks a strand of hair behind her ear as she smiles at him, ducking her head without meeting his eyes.

“Hey,” Harley greets them, glancing from one to the other in surprise.

She would find it odd, of all people, to find Stiles and Jackson together when they can barely stand to be at the same table for lunch usually. Stiles gives a tense handwave at the girls in return, trying to not look like he and Jackson are up to no good. They’re not, not really, anyway, they just need the Argents out of the way in order to rescue Scott and Derek.

Erica leans over the railing to stare Stiles and Jackson down even as the escalator keeps going and she tilts her chin in askance. Stiles meets her eyes, and she mouths “Are you okay?” at him. He nods slowly, taken aback by her concern, like she’s about to rescue him or something.

“You sure?” Erica insists and this time, Stiles laughs a little as he gives her a thumb up.

He’s a werewolf, of course he’ll be fine.

Stiles and Jackson meet up with Peter in the underground parking lot as Allison’s car is towed away. The Alpha leans casually against the Camaro, studying his nails. Stiles checks anxiously for hidden cameras, but Peter finally retracted his claws and there doesn’t seem to be any recording going on in his general vicinity.

“Has your friend located the number yet, Jackson?” Peter asks.

Jackson checks his phone and nods, showing them the coordinates.

“The Hale house,” Stiles breathes out, his gut churning with the thought that Kate dared drag Derek back there. “She never left.”

“There are tunnels underneath,” Peter says, distantly, like he isn’t quite there with them anymore. “A bunker even. Didn’t do us much good last time.”

Stiles shifts uncomfortably, inching closer to him until their arms brush and he sags a little against the car. Stiles leans his head over Peter’s shoulder then and even Jackson lingers by their side, a comforting presence among the echoes of the parking lot and Peter’s memories of the fire, stifling heat and choking on smoke until he couldn’t feel anything anymore, a sweet relief in the wake of tragedy. Eventually, Peter recovers and straightens up.

“I’ll act as a distraction while Chris Argent is busy with his daughter’s car. The other Hunters will come after me and leave Kate without backup. You two scout the place out and we’ll go in to release Scott and Derek as soon as I catch up with you.”

Stiles nods but Jackson makes a face like he wants to argue.

Peter doesn’t give him the opportunity, “Be safe, boys.”

Jackson utterly refuses to climb into the Jeep, so they take the Porsche instead. They don’t get far though, as the preserve swallows the silver car whole soon enough and they keep going on foot so as to not ruin the paint job — according to Jackson.

“So, we should have taken the Jeep like I said,” Stiles tells him as they trek towards the Hale house.

“This piece of junk could kill us anytime.”

“Jackson. We’re werewolves, remember? A car crash wouldn’t kill us.”

“Doesn’t mean I want to get into one,” the jock replies.

Stiles shushes him and crouches low in the underbrush to watch a bunch of Hunters departing the house, no doubt to chase the Alpha. Jackson reluctantly goes down as well, mindful of his expensive jeans and Stiles longs to grab his cashmere shirt to wring out the collar and smear the precious fabric with dirt, but he contains himself.

“Peter’s plan worked,” he whispers, Jackson nodding next to him. “Let’s see what Kate has in store for us.”

They go around the house, careful not to trigger any trap, and Stiles gets to work removing the bear traps and wire they find under the dead leaves while Jackson keeps watch. The scent of fresh dirt and wilderness in the undergrowth soothes Stiles’ nerves and helps him focus as he keeps an ear out for Kate, but no sounds come from the house.

“The tunnels Peter mentioned must be soundproofed.”

Stiles straightens up, turning around when no answer comes from Jackson, and finds the other werewolf frozen in place with none other than Chris Argent in full Hunter gear, holding him at gunpoint. The Hunter levels him with a querying look, trying to determine whether Stiles is a werewolf or not, and Jackson tenses uncomfortably in his grasp, nostrils flaring as he takes in the bittersweet skunk of wolfsbane.

“So, what do we have here?” Chris drawls, tightening his hold on Jackson. “I thought your little friend Scott was the werewolf but perhaps it’s been you all along.”

“I mean if you ask me there is a psycho torturing perfectly innocent people in a house, she already burned down half a decade ago, killing more innocent people in the process but maybe you wanted to take a guess too?”

Chris pauses, but Stiles doesn’t forward any more information, still bluffing regarding his human status. He wonders though, because surely Chris is in it too? The Hunter couldn’t be oblivious to Derek and Scott’s captivity… or could he?

“How about you release me and go check for yourself, huh?” Jackson suggests, but the hold on him doesn’t loosen in the slightest.

“What if I kept you at gunpoint and Stiles here showed us what he thinks is happening here?” Chris eventually replies, jerking his chin towards the Hale house.

“Okay, we check the basement and when we find your sister there, you’ll stop her before she kills more innocent people.”

“I doubt we’ll find Kate here, she’s on a hunt for your Alpha as we speak.”

Chris shrugs but still indulges him, pushing Jackson forward. He keeps Stiles in his line of sight, forcing the teen to take point, and Stiles crosses the clearing to step on the decrepit porch of the shell of a house. The last fight blasted the front door off its hinges, and they slide in to search for the entrance to the secret tunnels.

Stiles stills at the bottom of the stairs, breathing in deeply through his nose, and he catches Chris watching carefully as the Hunter studies his behavior. There is no hiding his enhanced senses in this scenario though, so Stiles follows the metallic tang of blood under the stairs, finding the trap door that leads the way to the underground bunker.

“You go first,” Chris says behind Stiles, his voice unreadable.

The teen complies. Now that they made it into the tunnels proper, the distant buzz of some kind of machinery grates his ears. The bond with Derek becomes more potent too, taut with tension and pain if the stifled moan Stiles overhears is anything to go by. He hurries down the tunnel, Chris stalking behind him with Jackson at gunpoint and after what feels like forever in the dark, they come up to an armored door.

A whine seeps through and Stiles shudders in distress, eager to rescue his Pack member.

“Remember our deal,” he tells Chris, who doesn’t grace Stiles with an answer and instead, jerks his chin towards the door, expectant.

Stiles pries it open. The metallic tang of blood grabs him by the throat and he chokes on the awful scent as he stumbles in, Chris barging in behind him with Jackson in tow. They find Derek and Scott chained to a fence on the far wall inside, a battery purring ominously to the side to light up the room, among other things, and Kate Argent in camouflage gear, leaning against the table as she toys with a wide array of knives.

Scott stares at her in horror, white with fear and blood loss if the cuts in his shirt are anything to go by, and Derek displays the full range of his Beta-shift. He growls through a row of sharp fangs, clawed hands clenching intermittently above his head and his eyes glowing a striking electric blue in the darkened bunker.

“Stiles! You’re here!” Scott exclaims.

“Obviously,” Jackson snorts despite the Hunter holding him at gunpoint still.

“You shouldn’t be here,” Derek emphasizes, his breathing laborious.

Stiles doesn’t get a chance to answer either of them as Kate scoffs, “On the contrary, this is going exactly as I planned.”

“Kate,” Chris asks, cool and collected. “What are you doing?”

“What you’re too weak to do,” she replies, cleaning her nails with one of her knives.

Stiles tenses. She looks so completely unconcerned with her presence, he cannot help but fear the worst. It’s all the more heightened with the sense of unease clinging to him, as though the room closes in and traps them inside, stifling with the heat of wolfsbane induced smoke curling out of the flames dancing at the edge of his vision…

Stiles shakes his head, coming back to himself, and locks eyes with Derek, who looks just as shaken as Stiles feels, and that’s without mentioning the utter self-loathing uncoiling from deep in his gut, pooling out in waves of near hatred that Stiles nearly keels over with. He can’t tell whose feelings corrupt the room more, eyes shifting from Derek to Kate, then Scott, Jackson, and finally, Chris.

“You’re drawing their Alpha out,” the Hunter infers. “How did you catch them?”

“Easy. I followed this one,” she points at Scott. “He led me straight to the rest of his little Pack. It’s a shame these two got away but you caught them in the end.”

A voice echoes behind them, “Actually, we caught you.”

Peter steps out of the tunnel, jiggling a Hunter’s gun.

“You should know, Christopher, that she’s drawing it all out, hurting my kind for her sick pleasure. Just like she trapped me and my family in this very room to burn us alive.”

Chris frowns, at loss for words.

“So, tell me, what’s stopping me from killing her in cold blood?” Peter concludes with a sharp grin and flashing red eyes.

“Well first of all he’s holding your Beta at gunpoint,” Stiles interrupts. “And second, you’d only give him all the more reasons to pick up where she left off. How about we stop the bloodbath for good this time?”

The full weight of Chris’ gaze lands on his shoulders and Stiles straightens up as everybody else stays very still in the bunker. Except for Kate, who flicks her knife around and points it at them in a wide circular motion.

“It will never stop, especially not with me. You can end me, of course, but others will rise after me to eradicate your kind.”

“What others?” Chris and Peter ask in unison, but if Peter displays claws stained with blood, Chris is full of incomprehension.

“Come on, Allison isn’t half the Hunter she should be by now, especially if she gets tangled up with the likes of those mutts and doesn’t take advantage of it. As for your wife, she’s just a stand-in. It’s more than time for someone to step up as our leader, and we both know it’s not going to be you.”

Stiles’ mind races back to the elderly man they saw back at the Argents’ house, even as his eyes fall upon Derek, flinching with every word Kate uses. She might have been acting alone as a free agent so far, Stiles reckons, but her speech and Derek’s reaction hint at something worse, someone who sanctioned every horrible thing she did.

“Is that what you really think?” Chris asks, cold and detached now. “You broke the Code Kate. We hunt those who hunt us, not those who cannot protect themselves. There were human family members in the Hale Pack, children even!”

“See! That’s why I did it. You couldn’t make the hard decisions, much less carry them out. I had to do it!” Kate argues, pointing her knife at her brother now.

“No,” Chris answers and to Stiles’ utter surprise, he releases Jackson.

Both Betas immediately step closer to the nearest Pack member, Stiles standing in between Derek and Kate now, and Jackson settling by Peter’s side as the Hunters face off in the middle of the bunker. The incessant buzzing of the battery grates Stiles’ nerves in the tense silence.

Kate loses it with the changing tides.

She throws her knife at Peter, who barely moves as Jackson instantly throws himself in front of the threat, falling to his knees with a sharp cry of pain. As for Chris, he raises his gun just as fast and shoots her. He must have aimed for the shoulder, Stiles thinks in horror, but Kate’s momentum has her turning at the wrong angle, and the bullet goes straight through her chest instead.

Kate drops to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut.

Stiles instantly turns away from her to work at freeing Derek, burning his hands on wolfsbane covered cuffs and zapping his fingers with leftover static from the fence. He cannot imagine what Kate had in mind for the other Beta and embraces Derek wholeheartedly when the werewolf finally breaks free, falling willingly into Stiles’ arms. He’s burning up, as his healing kicks in where his shirt is in tatters.

“You’re fine,” Stiles breathes out, stroking his back as they hug tight.

Off to the side, he notices Jackson propped up against a wall with a bloody knife in one hand, riding the pain out as his healing powers work at repairing his shoulder. Peter freed Scott in the meantime and Chris desperately administers CPR to his sister, all in vain.

Crimson rivulets stream out freely where he tries to stop the bleeding, and the light fades from her eyes like the distant echo of the sluggish beat of her heart in Stiles’ ears, soon to be gone.

Chapter Text

Stiles makes a point of having dinner with his father every night for a while. It helps, anyway, as things settle down after Kate’s untimely death. He needs to stay grounded and not give the Hunters a reason to snap, and Peter is busy finding a lawyer to pin his crimes on Kate. It gives the Sheriff and his deputy a chance to catch their breaths as well, and so Stiles finds himself in the kitchen more often, tricking his father into eating more vegetables.

Surprisingly, recipes for picky toddlers seem to be working.

By the time he makes it back to his room that night, Stiles is ready to flop face first on his bed and sleep. The next couple of weeks promise to be busy with the Hunters regrouping after Kate’s funeral tomorrow and he still has classes to get to.

A noise coming from his window alerts Stiles of one of his Pack members’ arrival. He doubts Peter would bother climbing the side of the house to visit him in the evening, and Jackson would never even visit him in the first place, so he flicks the latch open to let Derek in with a raised eyebrow.

“What’s the emergency this time?” Stiles asks as the other werewolf hoists himself on the windowsill.

“No emergency,” Derek grunts, sliding in.

He slides the window shut for good measure and Stiles sits down on the side of his bed, blinking owlishly at him. This is unusual. Derek paces the floor of the bedroom, all dark broody hair and eyebrows, leather jacket clinging to his shoulders and too tight jeans making the sight unfair on top of it all. Stiles swallows audibly and tears his eyes away.

“What’s up then, big guy? Are you sure everything is alright?”

“It’s not alright,” Derek explodes in an angry whisper. “I still don’t know who killed my sister. Kate swears it wasn’t her and she looked so gleeful having me at her mercy, I’m pretty sure she was telling the truth. She would have loved to brag about it and tell me all the gruesome details if she had killed Laura.”

It shouldn’t make sense to Stiles, yet his mind flashes back to the bunker, the way Kate made jabs at Derek, like he was her plaything, and she knew exactly what to say to hurt him. How it became clearer this wasn’t the first time she plotted to eradicate werewolves the longer Chris tried to reason with her.

And yet, Peter never narrowed his long list of culprits down to her.

“Meanwhile Scott won’t stop seeing Allison even after everything, as for Peter, he seems all too happy to play the good Alpha with you and Jackson, it’s like he never went on a rampage in the first place. And he doesn’t even know…”

Derek trails off and Stiles reaches out to grab his sleeve, stopping his pacing.

“Doesn’t know what?”

“It’s all my fault. Everything…” Derek breathes out.

Stiles frowns as he puts everything together one way then the other, trying to figure out how it all fits. There is Scott too, his romance with Allison, how it bothered Derek from the get-go while Peter couldn’t care less. Like Derek went through a similar love story in the past and knows how it ends.

Could it be?

Kate tricked Derek in the past, and now he fears Allison will betray Scott like Kate did?

Stiles pulls on Derek’s sleeve, until the other werewolf is close enough for Stiles to wrap his arms around Derek’s waist and hug him tight. He doesn’t say anything, neither does Derek, but Stiles can hear Derek’s heart stuttering in his chest, feel Derek’s shoulders shaking, and he holds on like he can keep Derek from falling apart with his embrace alone now that the Hales’ quest for revenge can’t hold Derek together anymore.

Pressing his face into Derek’s middle, Stiles rubs his cheek against the fabric of the other werewolf’s shirt, breathing in their scents as they merge together and Derek melts into his arms. They stay like that for what feels like hours, until Derek finally lets go of the sob he’s been holding and slides down to his knees.

Derek doesn’t cry.

Stiles fears all the tears went up in smoke with the rest of Derek’s family, but he breathes heavily and allows himself a second to rest as Stiles bears the weight of his guilt with him for a brief moment. Derek buries his face in the crook of Stiles’ shoulder before he comes up for air at last, and they lock eyes in the darkness of the bedroom, a flicker of gold and a flash of electric blue dancing within the space between them.

The bond feels more real then, almost tangible as Derek leans in and brushes their lips together.

It’s a mess, not a good time and not for the right reasons, but Stiles kisses him back all the same, tastes all the colors of their bond and the subtlety of Derek’s scent as it warms with pleasure. It fills the room with a sugar-coated sense of comfort that Stiles basks in as he nips at Derek’s lower lip, and he falls backward when Derek bites back, nibbling at the curve of his neck and laying heavily on top of him.

And so, they kiss, desperately, and Stiles doesn’t let his mind wander off to what ifs and how or why and wondering if this is a mistake just yet.

They fall asleep tangled up together, but Stiles wakes up alone the next morning.

Stiles walks up to Jackson’s desk in chemistry class that day, intent on sitting with him rather than his usual seat, when Harris calls out behind him. Stiles stops in the alley between the desks, locking eyes with Jackson as their teacher looms behind him.

“Stilinski, your desk is over there. I don’t recall switching up the seat plan recently.”

Scott already sat down at the desk in question and Stiles would rather not be anywhere in his vicinity, but Harris called him out so snidely that Stiles doubts there is any use arguing with him. Jackson arches an eyebrow, daring him to defy the teacher.

“Are you sure you don’t want to switch things up a little?” he asks tentatively.

Stiles’ father might be the Sheriff, but it doesn’t win him any brownie points with someone like Harris, especially after the investigation surrounding the Hale fire and Kate’s death. Harris grits his teeth and taps his foot impatiently, not even gracing Stiles with an answer so he turns on his heels and heads back towards Scott with his head hanging low. He slumps down at his usual seat as the class starts and Scott lasts a couple of seconds at best before he speaks up.

“So, you’re friends with Jackson now?”

“We’re not friends, we’re Pack,” Stiles replies dejectedly. “Not that you’d know what it feels like.”

“Like you’re Pack with Derek?” Scott makes a face as he says it. “You reek of him.”

“I’m Pack with Derek,” Stiles agrees slowly, a smile spreading on his lips. “And something more, I hope.”

They’ll talk about it later, when Derek hasn’t recently been abducted by a woman he used to love. Speaking of…

“How are things with Allison?”

“Great!” Scott beams, sidetracked by the question. “Although her parents won’t leave us alone at all now…”

“McCall, Stilinski, how about you two stop gossiping and stay in detention with me tonight since my class inspires you so much today?” Harris interrupts them.

Jackson snickers off to the side and Stiles groans and ducks his head, pretending to take notes as Scott argues against detention, but to no avail. He’s glad for the interruption if he’s honest, unwilling to confront Scott yet again, even though being in detention is putting a dent in his plan.

He hoped to get out of school early this afternoon and go to the cemetery for Kate’s funeral. They need to know what the Hunters are up to, and Peter can’t really show up in any official capacity else the Argents might try to feed them false information, so Stiles will sneak up to the cemetery and observe from a distance. He sighs and waits till the end of the period to text Peter to let him know, in case the Alpha wants to send Jackson instead.

Jackson’s phone doesn’t chime with new instructions, and Peter doesn’t get back to Stiles with a new plan by the time school lets out. Stiles drags his feet to detention, wondering what the Alpha decided. He meets up with Scott in Harris’ classroom and the chemistry teacher levels them both with a smirk before revealing the state of the room behind him.

“We had a little mishap during last period, as you can see, and the room needs cleaning.”

Stiles bites his lower lip before he can ask why the students responsible, or the janitor haven't gotten to it yet. He knows why. Shrugging, he grabs a mop and a bucket, heading towards the sink to get started. It isn’t so bad, they can get it over within half an hour and get out of detention early, hopefully.

Harris stays for a good ten minutes, hovering as Stiles gets to work cleaning the floor and Scott the tables. Stiles deliberately keeps his back turned to their chemistry teacher as Scott keeps muttering under his breath, picking up their conversation from earlier.

“So…Pack. What is it like?”

“It’s like coming to the rescue to get your Pack Mate out when Hunters caught them,” Stiles replies in a whisper.

“Thank you. For coming with Jackson of all people.”

“He’s not so bad,” Stiles finds himself saying and grimaces. “You really don’t feel the bonds? I can’t ignore them.”

“I can push them to the back of my mind,” Scott admits. “I couldn’t ignore Peter though, only you can.”

“So, you just pretend they aren’t here?”

Stiles focuses inward as he mops the other side of the classroom, Harris none the wiser to their muttered conversation. He seeks deep inside the bundle of Pack Bonds nestled in his chest and finds it, a tenuous connection to another Beta werewolf, faint and ever distant, but still there. He tugs at it expertly, and Scott must nudge it a little as well, because a wave of warmth floods back to Stiles after a little while, and the knot that makes up his Pack Bonds grows stronger for it.

Harris takes off eventually and Scott turns to Stiles with both hands on his hips, threadbare jeans barely holding on even with his worn-out belt, speaking louder now.

“I still think it wasn’t right to turn Jackson, he’s a bully and his reasons are selfish.”

“I’m not sure,” Stiles replies carefully. “The Pack might bring out the best in him.”

Scott shakes his head but doesn’t fight him on this. What’s done is done anyway, Jackson is a werewolf now.

“I don’t know if I want to be part of Peter’s Pack,” he says instead.

Stiles sighs. What can he say? He’s not sure he wants Scott in the Pack either. It would be a shame to go back to the way it was, with Stiles at Scott’s beck and call, especially with the bonds at play. He longs for more connection though, and the tenuous link between them begs to thrive and grow in the midst of the other Pack Bonds.

“Just… keep thinking about it, alright?” he asks at last, and Scott nods.

Scott wipes the last desk, and Stiles wraps up cleaning the rest of the room, heading out as soon as humanly possible to head over to the cemetery. He doesn’t take the Jeep — too noticeable — rather sneaking in from the back of the cemetery, and he prowls across the rows of tombstones, soon coming up behind a wider headstone where Derek is already lying low with his leather jacket stretching over his back, waiting.

“Hey,” Stiles whispers, settling down next to him.

“Hi,” Derek replies, doing a double take, but they don’t get a chance to chat.

There is already a sizable crowd gathered for the ceremony, Allison and her parents sitting at the front, and a black SUV pulls up as the funeral is about to start. A familiar face in a sharp suit steps out and Stiles recognizes Chris’ father as the man bypasses a group of journalists with an escort of tough looking guys, only to stop by a teenager’s side. He rips the camera out of the boy’s hands.

“That looks expensive,” he comments, toying with the camera.

“Yeah, nine hundred bucks,” the kid replies.

“And how expensive is this?” Gerard asks, pulling the SD card out.

The teen pales as Gerard slides it in the pocket of his coat, moving along a moment later. His escort follows, black ties with dark sunglasses and earpieces. Stiles can’t get a read on them, they don’t exude anything, like the funeral doesn’t affect them in the slightest.

“Are those reinforcements?” Stiles asks, nudging Derek.

“Hunters,” Derek replies, tense.

Gerard joins Allison and her parents at the front, smiling at her.

“We’ll see more of each other from now on,” he says kindly, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes and Stiles wrinkles his nose at the sour scent the wind carries towards them.

“Is this really necessary?” Chris asks once Gerard has stepped away from Allison.

“Yes. I killed the previous Alpha to cover up Kate’s mess and I’ll kill the new one too. I am going to be the end of the Hale Pack.”

Derek falters beside Stiles upon hearing the confirmation that Gerard Argent killed Laura, and Stiles inches closer to his, brushing their shoulders together in an attempt at comforting him somewhat. Derek sags against him and Stiles reaches out to tangle their fingers together, squeezing Derek’s hand once in silent support as they listen in on the rest of the conversation.

Chris doesn’t react outwardly to Gerard’s declaration, and simply sits down as the ceremony starts. Stiles wonders what he told Gerard about Kate’s death, if he pinned it on the Pack perhaps. How else would he have explained it? Although the bullet hole is pretty straightforward as far as causes of death go… Unless Chris pretended the police caught up with her after she abducted a teenager, that would work…

He should ask Scott, Stiles muses as the ceremony comes to an end. He and Derek wait for everyone to leave before coming out of their hiding spot and Stiles shivers when Derek shakes off his thoughtful trance, turning to him with clear eyes and a slight smile. The other werewolf shrugs his leather jacket off and offers it to Stiles with a grin, like he knows about the heat pooling in his lower belly at the mere suggestion of wearing Derek’s clothes and Derek’s scent.

“Need a ride?” he asks, and Stiles nods eagerly, climbing into the Camaro a moment later, wrapped in the leather jacket.

Derek parks in front of Peter’s loft and they climb up to find Jackson already lounging on the couch. The Beta nods distractedly, flexing his hands as he works on his ability to shift parts of his body only, and Peter watches on from the window, smiling wildly as Derek and Stiles come in.

“Boys! I trust that Kate Argent is well below six feet of dirt by now?”

“She is,” Derek replies curtly. “Her father isn’t, however, and he is out for blood. Ours.”

“I organized with Chris and a Hunter on the force to make Kate’s death look like a deputy shot her, he even came up with a fake testimony to support the theory,” Peter points out with a frown.

“Well, it wasn’t enough,” Stiles chirps in.

“It doesn’t matter,” the Alpha dismisses them still. “I need to make more Betas. This is just all the more reasons to get a proper Pack and assert our dominance on the territory.”

“You already have us, isn’t that enough?” Jackson interrupts, looking up from his clawed hands.

“It’s a start, but the more there are, the stronger we get. Hunters won’t mess with us if there are several other werewolves in town to keep them in check.”

“He’s right,” Derek adds.

“You’ll need to explain exactly what they’re getting into and ask for their consent before you do anything,” Stiles sighs. “We can’t have Scott interfering every time like he did with Jackson.”

Peter considers it for a moment and eventually nods slowly, and Stiles wonders at the care and interest his Alpha gives to his suggestions. It warms his heart, as well as the bonds nestled in his chest and he basks in the utter comfort of Peter’s loft, in the presence of his Pack, as they consider the possibility of turning more teenagers into werewolves.

“Young people have better odds at surviving the Bite,” Derek explains when Stiles inquires about this criteria.

“You need people whose parents or legal guardians won’t notice anything being amiss,” Jackson comments, oddly subdued.

“You’re right,” Peter agrees, and the Beta preens at the open approval in his Alpha’s voice.

“Or people who need to make a miraculous recovery,” Stiles comments under his breath, and it doesn’t fall on deaf ears.

“Nothing better than a small miracle to draw attention away from another new development in someone’s life,” Peter muses.

“Isaac Lahey’s father beats him,” Jackson adds.

“Erica Reyes suffers a bad case of epilepsy,” Stiles forwards.

“Vernon Boyd is a loner, his family would be none the wiser,” Derek concludes and with that, they have the perfect line up for the rest of their Pack.

They start with Isaac, heading out at night to meet him at the cemetery. It’s an odd job, but Stiles assumes it gets him out of his father’s way, safe despite the grim setting Isaac finds himself in. Derek walks a step behind him as they approach the backhoe Isaac uses to dig a grave and the headlights fall upon Stiles a moment later.

Isaac startles inside the backhoe and turns the engine off, leaning out to stare at them in disbelief. Above him, the waxing gibbous moon weighs in from a stark black sky, bathing the cemetery in a silver glow.

“What the fuck are you doing here in the middle of the night?”

“Looking for you,” Stiles replies with a smile a tad too sharp.

“What do you want? Who is that guy?” Isaac asks, nodding at Derek from the backhoe.

“A mutual friend, if you want. We have a proposition. What if we could make all those bruises and aches go away? And what if all those things not only went away, but everything else got even better?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I can smell your pain from here,” Stiles replies, smiling even more when Isaac hugs himself instinctively. “That’s right, we know you’re in pain, and we can make it stop.”

“How?” Isaac asks, and he’s pale, but he still climbs down the steps of the backhoe, watching them warily.

“We’re werewolves, with enhanced senses, super strength and healing powers. You could become one too and join our Pack. You wouldn’t have to be alone anymore, and we could protect you, make sure no one hurts you ever again.”

Stiles steps closer, meeting Isaac halfway with glowing gold eyes and open arms.

Isaac doesn’t take his hand just yet, “What’s the catch, though?”

“There are people in this town who want to hurt us. Hunters. We’ll need your help,” Derek steps in.

“Can’t be any worse than my own father,” Isaac replies with a shrug, and so Stiles calls Peter to seal the deal.

Chapter Text

The full moon reveals a new wolf in town. An Omega, Peter explains as they see Isaac off, pale and feverish. The blond insisted on riding out the pain of turning into a werewolf in familiar territory and Stiles gets it, in a way. He wouldn’t want to associate Peter’s loft with bad memories, especially his first interactions with the Pack, so he dutifully follows Isaac home as per his Alpha’s instructions.

The pull of the moon is a steady anchor of its own as he remains wary of the lone werewolf drifting through Beacon Hills at this difficult time. Stiles can barely remember what it feels like to be without a Pack and he pities the poor soul. He settles up in a tree across Isaac’s house with a hoodie to keep warm and ignores Jackson’s drawling down the street, where the Whittermores live.

“You’re a werewolf not a cat Stilinski,” Jackson comments from up in his room.

“Peter wants you at the loft for your first full moon,” Stiles replies evenly.

Jackson huffs in the distance and soon, a shadow darts across the street as the other Beta heads to their Alpha’s loft. Isaac’s house remains dark, everything quiet inside, but the street echoes with footsteps a while later as someone else shows up at Isaac’s.

“Scott?” Stiles calls from his tree, leaning down. “You shouldn’t be out during a full moon.”

“It’s fine, I’ve got it all under control. Things are good with Allison, even if her parents disapprove of our relationship.”

“Are you crazy? You can’t keep dating Allison! They’re Hunters and her grandfather is the worst of them!”

“I can’t believe you let Peter turn someone else,” Scott ignores his warning as the angry whisper drifts up to him.

“I didn’t let it happen, we offered Isaac the Bite, and he accepted it. I told you. Some people want to belong with our Pack.”

Scott groans but doesn’t get a chance to argue as a dark blur flashes past him and heads straight towards Isaac’s open window, where faint whimpers can be heard. Stiles swings himself off the tree, following after the intruder, Scott hot on his heels, and they ram into the shadow of a man, pushing him off the ledge of the window.

“You’re the Omega Peter warned us about,” Stiles pants. “What are you doing here?”

“Pack,” the stranger grunts, eyes shining gold.

Long tangled hair falls over his face, and Stiles smells piss on his tattered clothes.

“Not your Pack, buddy,” Scott interrupts as he and Stiles shepherd the other wolf away from the house.

The ruckus wakes Isaac’s father up though, and he steps out on the lawn holding a rifle. Stiles dives to the side as Mr. Lahey aims it wildly around, tackling Scott to the damp grass below as the light of the fall moon refracts off the rifle. The Omega isn’t reactive enough to dodge the bullet Mr. Lahey fired at them, and he jumps the man with his fangs bared and crooked claws, ripping the man’s stomach open with three unsteady cuts.

“Shit,” Scott hurries over to Mr. Lahey, trying to stop the bleeding but already, the light fades from the man’s eyes.

“Call an ambulance and get away from here,” Stiles tells him as the Omega runs off, already dialing Peter for instructions.

Scott swears again behind him but does what he’s told, and they hide in the nearby bushes as the ambulance comes with the sirens blaring. Later, they hear that Mr. Lahey died upon arriving at the hospital, and Stiles stares at Isaac’s window, where the blond has gone quiet basking in the silver glow of the full moon, wondering if the new werewolf didn’t make the worst mistake of his life tonight.

Perhaps Scott was right.

Peter comes by with Jackson and they devise a plan to cover their tracks. Scott and Stiles were never there to start with, but Jackson woke up and called the ambulance after he heard a gunshot from his bedroom. He can tell the police how Isaac’s father beat him and was a drunk, and the police station won’t look too closely at the gashes across Mr. Lahey’s chest, shelving the case as a random act of violence between a drunk and a robber, hopefully.

With Isaac supposedly on shift at the cemetery late into the night, it should work out, Stiles muses.

The Sheriff takes Isaac — freshly turned — into custody the next morning.

It’s the talk of the school as Stiles walks up to his locker in between the first and the second bell, Scott sliding up next to him a moment later. Stiles ignores him, retrieving his books for his morning classes, but Scott won’t be deterred so easily.

“Well, your plan backfired.”

“It’s normal procedure.”

“You still got a young, untrained werewolf locked in a cell at your father’s station. Aren’t you worried?”

“Look who’s talking,” Stiles sighs, slamming his locker shut. “Derek is keeping an eye on him and Peter will get him out soon enough.”

“He’s got the best lawyer in town on his side to make sure of it,” Jackson adds, appearing on Scott’s other side.

“Maybe you should keep an eye on your girlfriend’s family though. I don’t trust them,” Stiles tells Scott, and doesn’t wait for his reply.

Erica, Harley and Heather corner Stiles at lunch. They drop their trays on either side of him and Erica’s apple topples over into his own tray as the girls take their seats around the table. Stiles straightens up from his slouch, breathing in the bold aroma of Erica’s perfume, and glances from one girl to the other, waiting for them to speak up.

“So,” Erica doesn’t disappoint, picking up her apple to bite into the glistening red fruit. “What’s up with your newfound friendship with Whittemore? It’s an unlikely pairing, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“Yeah, the guy is a jerk, only Lydia can stand him and that’s because she’s a bit of a bitch herself,” Harley says from Stiles’ left. “He still broke up with her for no reason though.”

“Allison likes her well enough,” Stiles points out, not willing to talk badly about his former crush.

“Allison is a sweetheart,” Heather adds, sitting opposite him.

“Anyhow, you ditched Scott for Jackson, why?”

“I didn’t ditch anyone,” Stiles protests. “If anything, Scott’s too cool for me since he started going out with Allison.”

He pauses, searching for a plausible explanation that doesn’t involve werewolves and Hunters. The thing is, Stiles and Jackson aren’t friends. They’re Pack, and something about that bond makes them tolerate each other, see less of the worst of each other and more of the core strength of the Pack, but Jackson is still a jerk. Most of them are, now that Stiles thinks about it.

“That’s not cool,” Harley says, bumping her shoulder with his and the gesture soothes him more than the words themselves.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Heather agrees, setting her fork down as she speaks.

“I mean, I kinda saw it coming, Scott was always butthurt about everything. His grades, sitting on the bench during games, not being invited to most parties…” Erica comments from his right. “You’re better off without him, but I don’t think Jackson is a good replacement.”

“Definitely not,” Stiles finds himself agreeing while on the other side of the cafeteria, both Jackson and Scott glare at him.

“He’s not invited to my birthday party,” Heather declares self-importantly. “You are, of course.”

“Couldn’t miss it,” Stiles replies.

He grins, polishing off his plate of spaghetti, but something in Scott’s face changes across the room and suddenly, his lips start moving. Stiles hones in on the other werewolf’s listening to the words Scott says under his breath, clearly intended for him.

“Shit! Allison just told Lydia her family is headed down at the station, but she doesn’t know what for since everyone was supposedly at home last night and not hunting the rogue Omega. This isn’t good, Isaac might be in danger!”

Stiles startles, the smile dropping from his lips, and he shovels the last of his food in his mouth, texting Peter under the table while the girls chat away around the table. He stands up abruptly, wishing them a good afternoon, and hurries out of the cafeteria, then out of the building altogether. He slides into the Jeep before lunch break is over, taking the opportunity to speed out of the parking lot while no one is watching, and heads towards the Sheriff station through the back roads to make it there faster.

Something lands heavily on the roof of the Jeep and Stiles lurches the wheel to the side, nearly driving off the side of the road. He only narrowly manages to stay on track while the passenger door makes a terrible screeching noise like chalk on a black board. Derek pops his head in through the window, sliding his whole body into the car a moment later and Stiles lets out a vicious snarl.

“I swear if you scratched Roscoe to do that stupid entrance, I’ll key the Camaro twice as bad.”

Derek throws his head back, laughing, and displays perfectly retracted claws on his strong hands. For a moment, Stiles allows himself to contemplate the other werewolf, carefree like Derek rarely allows himself to be, before shaking his head and affecting a mock glare if only to keep up appearances. The Jeep is barely holding up as it is, Stiles can’t go around fixing the paint job with nail polish in addition to the sticky tape repairs under the hood.

“I wouldn’t dare damage your precious Jeep,” Derek says with a flash of teeth and wrinkles around his eyes.

“You better not,” Stiles growls, somewhat playfully even though he won’t admit it. “So, what’s the plan?”

“We stake out the station until nightfall. The Argents won’t try anything in broad daylight, but they clearly are onto Isaac and will want to intervene when the moon rises, newly turned wolves are usually out of control during their first full moon.”

“So we stop them and get Isaac under control?”

Derek nods and Stiles slows down to a more reasonable pace as they near the busier streets around the station, parking out of sight but close enough to monitor the on-goings in the area. He rolls up the sleeves of his flannel and settles down for a long wait, glad that he at least got a chance to finish his lunch before Scott warned him about the Argents’ next move.

“Scott really owned up to it, this time,” Stiles sighs.

“Good, it’s about time he gave teamwork a shot,” Derek says, a bit harshly, but Stiles shares the sentiment.

They sit in silence for a little while, and Stiles shoots a thank you text to Scott, hoping that acknowledging his old friend’s attempt at doing better will encourage Scot to keep trying. Sharing a small space with Derek after everything that happened eases some of Stiles’ tension and he soaks into the quiet confidence exuding from the other werewolf. Derek might be faking some of it, but Stiles is a big fan of faking till you make it, and he truly hopes it will work out in the end, especially for Derek. Still, he needs to know where they stand.

“What about us? What are we? Just a team?”

“A bit more than that, I reckon,” Derek replies slowly, not meeting his eyes.

“Don’t say we’re Pack,” Stiles warns, his voice low. “It might work on Scott, but I can’t stand it.”

“What do you want us to be then?” Derek challenges him, finally turning to face Stiles.

“Together?”

Stiles trails off, because he can’t quite put it into words. He likes Derek, even more so every time he gets a chance to learn to know the other boy a bit better, but saying boyfriends seems presumptuous. Should he risk it anyway? Derek takes the words out of his mouth before he can formulate them in a way that doesn’t feel like trying to pressure Derek into agreeing with him.

“There is a word for werewolves. Mates.”

“Like soulmates?” Stiles asks warily, breathing in the concern in Derek’s scent.

“Could be, for what we call True Mates, when they feel some kind of draw they can’t ignore. It’s rare though, for most wolves, it’s more like traditional dating. You mate with another werewolf of your choosing.”

“Is that what we are then? Werewolf Mates?”

“If you want us to be,” Derek replies, averting his eyes once again, but there is something like longing in his scent and Stiles leans closer to take it in.

“What do you want us to be?” Stiles challenges him. “In my limited human vocabulary, I want us to be together. Dating, like boyfriends.”

“Then in my elaborate werewolf lore, I want us to be mates,” Derek replies drily, and Stiles barks a laugh.

“That’s what I wanted to hear,” he says, still chuckling, and spies a smile playing on Derek’s lips, basking in the hopeful tang of longing emanating from the other werewolf now.

He reaches out to tangle their hands together, fingers brushing lightly where they rest on Derek’s thigh, and the sun dips low in the sky as they wait for nightfall. The moon rises and with her, two men come out of the Argents’ black SUV, heading for the station. Stiles pushes off Derek, having rested his cheek on the other werewolf’s shoulder for so long the leather of his jacket warmed up, and glances at his boyfriend in askance.

“What now?”

“We warn Peter then we stall them.”

So they do, slipping into the station after the Hunters. Someone knocked out the young recruit manning the front desk and Stiles leads the way towards the holding cell at a brisk pace, capitalizing on the skeleton crew in the near empty station at this time of the evening. They catch up with the two Hunters just as they come up to Isaac’s cell, unlocking it.

“Here’s the mutt, let’s put him down,” one of the Hunters tells the other.

“Hey!” Stiles yells, ducking as the men turn around with their guns raised.

Derek comes at them from the side, disarming the first one, and Stiles follows instantly, knocking the gun off the hands of the second one. Inside his cell, Isaac snarls at them, eyes flickering gold in the glow of the full moon. He throws himself at the bars of his cell and the door gives, releasing him in the narrow space between the cells. It’s already too crowded and Stiles backs away from Isaac as Derek subdues the Hunters.

“What do we do now?” Stiles asks. “He’s going to rip them to shreds if we don’t stop him, and us too if we stand in his way.”

“Peter should be there any minute now.”

Stiles nods tightly and hits the panic button off to the side to get the Hunters taken care of as soon as possible. They can’t let the Argents regroup so easily after every encounter. Kate’s death should have been a killing blow, yet they find themselves with a new foe. Gerard won’t relent if he’s anything like Kate and considering she’s his daughter, Stiles gets the feeling they’re pretty alike indeed.

Isaac circles them, with the Hunters they laid against the wall behind them, and Stiles growls right back as the blond snarls. Derek sides up to him, eyes flashing blue, but Isaac only prowls closer, hunched over and leaning further and further into the Beta-shift with each passing second.

“Come on man, try to control yourself at least!” Stiles sighs, but it aggravates Isaac some more.

The blond pounces, and Peter sweeps in with a dreadful roar. It echoes all around, louder than the alarm blaring through the station, a deep, primal sound like dominance personified. Peter embodies it fully, his trench coat billowing around him and his eyes bleeding red like he gets off on it. He probably does, Stiles muses distantly.

Isaac recoils, cowering in the corner, and even Stiles’s shoulders drop with the power dripping from Peter’s every pore.

It’s nothing like the confrontation back at the high school. With four Betas, Peter towers over them all, unstoppable — or so it seems. Derek huddles against Stiles’ side and the warmth emanating from him gives Stiles the boost he needs to snap out of it, squaring his shoulders under Peter’s watchful gaze.

“Good job, pups,” the Alpha drawls, and Stiles can’t find it in him to argue over the pet name just yet.

Stiles nods, still numb from the display of Peter’s Alpha powers, and Derek tugs on his sleeve to lead the way out of the station. With Isaac still reeling from Peter’s intervention and the Alpha sticking around to make sure Isaac doesn’t lose it and exposes the supernatural under the influence of the moon, the Hunters will have a hard time explaining why they went after a kid.

“I called our lawyer. Isaac should be out soon enough, and hopefully released in my custody,” Peter concludes as they head out.

Stiles sneaks back home and attempts to have at least one normal day this week in hopes of at least looking like the most random teenager ever, heading to school as usual the next day. He goes to class in the morning and changes for gym in the afternoon, waiting for his turn climbing the wall while Scott and Allison flirt above him. It’s a relief to finally go up against Erica a moment later and they trade grins as they double-check their equipment.

“Ready?” Finstock asks and starts the stopwatch before they even get to the wall.

Stiles flings himself to the side, finds a good grip and pulls himself up ahead, leaving Erica behind as he races up the climbing wall. Finstock bellows for Erica to keep up, but when Stiles glances back he finds the blonde frozen flat against the wall, damp hair falling over her eyes and the stench of fear emanating from sweaty palms down to the rest of her trembling form.

“Shit, Erica, are you okay? Can you come down?” he calls out, but she barely shakes her head, unable to talk. “Coach, I think she’s having a panic attack.”

“A what now?” Finstock yells back.

Stiles groans and starts climbing back down, ignoring the rope growing looser — and Finstock yelling at him to finish the race — as he makes his way to Erica. She keeps a white knuckled grip on the wall and Stiles sides up to her with a tight smile.

“I’m going to help you get down. Can I hold you?”

Erica shakes her head wildly, and her hair sticks to her temples. The fear-induced sweat can’t quite cover the salty tang of her tears where they roll down her cheeks and Stiles takes a moment to center himself as something akin to his Pack Bond surges up in his chest.

“Erica? Dizzy? Is it vertigo?” Finstock calls out.

Helping Erica takes precedence over everything else for Stiles as down below, Lydia casually explains what vertigo is to Scott and Allison. Stiles tunes her out, as well as the murmurs of the students assembled around the climbing wall.

“No you don’t want to get down, or no I can’t hold you?” he tries again, keeping his voice even.

“I can’t move,” Erica says through clattering teeth. “Can you help me?”

“I will,” Stiles assures her, and gently reaches out to gather her in his arms.

With Erica held securely against his side, he finally looks at the belayers down below, nodding at the other students to get ready. Then, he pushes off the wall, pulling Erica along with him. The ropes lower them along the wall and all the way to the ground, where Stiles lays Erica down and waits for her to catch her breath.

“Is she okay?” Finstock asks loudly above them.

“I’m fine,” Erica replies harshly, wiping her tears away, and she pushes to her feet to get away from the crowd.

Stiles watches her go with a heavy heart, unable to make sense of the pull, urging him to follow after her. He locks eyes with Scott, but there is no recognition there. Scott likely doesn’t feel anything at all, and it leaves a bitter taste in Stiles’ mouth.

A moment later, he realizes that what he feels is urgency, because Erica is about to have a seizure.

Stiles rushes to the locker rooms, slamming the door open to get to her in time. He catches her around the waist as she collapses, lowering her to the floor and cushioning her head as he waits the seizure out. The convulsions rattle Erica’s whole body, nearly pushing her head off his lap and it takes everything in Stiles to refrain from holding her as it would do Erica no good.

Only when the convulsions stop does he dare turn Erica to the side, waiting for her to recover.

Back in the gym, Scott told Finstock about the seizure and outside, an ambulance skids to a stop. Erica doesn’t get a chance to shrug it off like it’s nothing, the paramedics wheel her out and straight to the hospital, and Stiles makes his decision right there and then.

It’s time.

Stiles waits till the end of the day and heads to the hospital as soon as the bell rings. He singles out Erica’s voice to find his way to her through a maze of pain relief medication and misery. The hospital reeks of antiseptic, a gigantic echo of beeping machines that put him on edge as he lingers by the entrance of Erica’s room — a nurse is checking on her.

“Hey,” he says once the nurse is done.

“Hey Batman,” Erica greets him with wet eyes and a hoarse voice. “They said you had good reflexes during my seizure. I’m gonna kick the ass of the bastard who called an ambulance though.”

“Easy there, Catwoman,” Stiles replies, testing the nickname out. “So, you didn’t need a check-up at all?”

“It was a random seizure,” she says, but her heart beats too fast.

“But?”

“I’m getting them more often.”

Erica hangs her head like she feels guilty of all things, and Stiles can’t have that. He inches closer, bumping against the edge of the mattress, and sits by Erica’s side when she scoots over to make space for him.

“Are you okay?”

“You mean, apart from the greasy hair, the acne and being a weirdo? I’ll be fine. It really wasn’t a big deal.”

“You get a warning before you have a seizure, right?” Stiles blurts out, still thinking of the sudden pull he felt back at the school. “It’s called an aura.”

“It’s like a metallic taste in my mouth,” Erica replies quietly.

“Like blood?”

Erica nods, a slow, heavy thing that has Stiles reaching out to hold her hand. She tangles their fingers with a sigh and he squeezes her hand in silent support, mulling things over. This is the right thing to do. He believes it wholeheartedly, because the Pack changed everything for him, not just physically but mentally too, and he wants Erica to have the same thing he does and finally feel like she belongs.

“What if I told you... that all of this could go away? The side effects, the symptoms... all of it. And what if all those things not only went away, but everything else got even better?”

“How?”

“Let me show you.”

Chapter Text

Stiles sides up to Boyd in the cafeteria the next day. It’s still better than hanging around Scott, who only has eyes for Allison, and Stiles has come to appreciate Boyd’s easy strength and silent confidence. The other boy welcomes him with a terse nod as they fill their trays and head towards their usual table. Jackson remains surrounded by the lacrosse team, Lydia despite their breakup and Allison, and Stiles is more than happy to get away from the tension between the jock and Scott. Still, he listens in as a familiar looking student approaches Allison.

“Hey, I’m Matt,” the guy introduces himself.

“Hi,” Allison replies while Scott sends daggers at the other student over her shoulder. “Can I help you?”

“Actually, you can. Your grandfather took my SD card and I was hoping you could get it back for me. It’s really expensive and I need those pictures for my portfolio.”

Allison’s face closes off instantly and behind her, Scott tenses, hands curling into fists. Stiles trades looks with Jackson as the other werewolf straightens up on his chair, ready to hold Scott back if he loses it. It’s the kid from the cemetery, Stiles realizes belatedly, and Allison must have made the connection as well because she loses all of her usual charm.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She doesn’t smile, and Matt must sense that he isn’t welcome at the table anymore, backing off with murmured thanks. Stiles trades a look with Jackson, not needing words to convey how wary they are, and even Scott seems to sense how uneasy the situation makes them.

“Stiles,” Boyd calls from his usual table.

Right, he should get moving. Stiles joins Boyd at the table, and they start eating in silence, as usual. It doesn’t last, of course, as Stiles sets his fork down and laces his fingers under his chin to stare Boyd down.

“Can you do me a favor?”

“Depends,” Boyd replies slowly, his own fork lifted halfway to his mouth.

“I need the keys to the ice rink for a private date in the evening.”

“That’s gonna cost you.”

“Seriously?!”

Boyd nods silently, and Stiles gets ready to bargain when a collective gasp from the entrance of the cafeteria diverts his attention. He turns around to watch as a girl walks in with high, leopard-print heels, a tight mini-skirt and a leather jacket, gasping at the sight of Erica with make-up and bouncing waves of blond hair. She stalks across the cafeteria and goes straight to Isaac, where he sits with other lacrosse players, stealing a bright red apple from his tray and biting into it with a flash of fangs.

Her lipstick barely smudges, and she wipes it away with her middle finger.

“Who’s that?” Boyd asks breathlessly, and Stiles swivels around with a knowing smile.

“That’s Erica,” he replies.

She looks up upon hearing her name and sashays over to their table, polishing off the apple as she does so. Boyd shifts on his chair, falling silent, and Stiles glances between them, tempted to get out of the way while he still can. He doesn’t get a chance to, however, as it’s Boyd who bolts away from the table, getting rid of his tray and disappearing out of the cafeteria just as Erica settles on the chair Boyd vacated, crossing her legs in a slow, calculated move.

“So, am I going to grow a tail or something?” she asks, propping her chin on her hand.

Stiles gets the sense that she’s making an innuendo, and bravely ignores it, “Actually, I want to ask Peter how to turn into a full wolf.”

On the other side of the cafeteria, Isaac, Jackson and Scott perk up at the mention of the full-shift. Erica grins, revealing too sharp teeth still, and she leans a little bit further on the table to show off her cleavage.

“So, what do you think? How is my transformation looking so far?”

“Pretty good, the word sensational comes to mind,” Stiles replies, locking eyes with her.

Erica straightens up with pride and flicks her blond hair over one shoulder, eyeing Stiles’ plate with interest. He pulls it away from her, and she sighs but doesn’t attempt to steal his food. Instead, she pulls out a pocket mirror to fix her makeup, still chatting even as she checks her reflection for any smudges.

“Harley and Heather helped me get ready this morning, after uncle bad touch let me go.”

“Did Peter do or say anything untoward?” Stiles asks, alarmed.

“No, he was a perfect gentleman, that’s why I find it suspicious.”

“Peter’s got a lot going on. Did he give you any instructions before you left?”

“Just to stop by the loft again this afternoon.”

He nods and makes a note to join the Pack after class as he gathers his tray to get going before the bell. Erica follows at a slower pace, winking to Isaac on the way out of the cafeteria.

Stiles pushes through the crowd outside the school in the afternoon and finds his classmates ogling the black Camaro idling on the curb. Erica elbows him with a knowing smile as she struts down the stairs and Stiles scrambles to catch up as she joins Isaac near the bus stop.

“What are you doing here?” Stiles asks as he gets closer to the Camaro.

“Picking you up from school. I thought it would be nice.”

Derek grins at him from behind the wheel, a wolfish thing only further accentuated by the way the Beta lowers his aviator sunglasses to lock eyes with Stiles. It sends butterflies fluttering all around his lower belly and Stiles hurries around the car, sliding into the passenger side a moment later.

“Thanks,” he says breathlessly.

Derek squeezes his thigh before changing gears and speeding out of the parking lot, overtaking Jackson’s Porsche as they make their way towards Peter’s loft. Stiles relaxes into his seat, breathing in Derek’s peppermint shampoo and underneath, the more distinct scent of him, musk not unlike leather.

The warmth of their Pack Bond — and something more — radiates throughout his chest and Stiles reluctantly extricates himself from the leather seat of the Camaro when they get to the loft. Derek falls one step behind him as they take the elevator on the way up and the sliding door opens with a screech a moment later, revealing Peter’s homey living room.

“Hey pups,” the Alpha greets them, chuckling when Stiles bares his teeth as the pet name.

“The others should be on their way,” Stiles tells Peter, flinging himself on the leather couch.

He won’t be caught dead in one of the cow armchairs, Jackson can take them.

“Good. Here, I have a job for you.”

Peter hands him a sleek computer with a screen full of old-looking manuscripts and Derek leans over the back of the couch to watch. Stiles wholeheartedly welcomes the weight of Derek’s chin on his shoulder as he scans the contents of the document loading on the computer.

“I transferred everything our family knows about the supernatural onto a cloud. I want you to learn as much as you can and create an index so that we can cross-reference it more easily. Derek will help and translate some of it as needed.”

“Sure,” Stiles replies, already engrossed in his reading. “Is there something about full-shift in there?”

“Something about ‘reaching for the moon while staying rooted in the earth as you become more than before’ which is a needlessly complicated way of saying you need to meditate and find the right state of mind to complete the full-shift.”

“Or lose your marbles,” Stiles scoffs, and Derek chuckles behind him.

“I can only assume it will be easier for you two, with an actual Pack to ground you.”

Stiles nods with a hum, flicking to the next page as he takes in everything the Hale Pack learned over several generations. It’s incredible, and particularly detailed. He soon stumbles upon a text in Latin and glances back at Derek, intrigued. The other members of the Pack made it to the loft in the meantime and sit around the kitchen island, working on their Beta-shift

“Can you really translate it?”

“Yeah, I was supposed to study the languages Peter didn’t already cover,” Derek trails off, and Stiles bumps his head against the other werewolf’s shoulder in silent support. “We all have our part to play in the Pack. For a long time, Peter was the Enforcer. It’s your role now.”

Stiles arches an eyebrow. The title is obvious enough to know what he’s supposed to do, but he never expected Packs to be so structured. It brings up another question too and he sets the computer aside, leaving Derek to work on the translation as he turns to Peter.

“So, what does the Pack do, when we’re not rescuing each other?”

“Well in an ideal world, we don’t need rescue. We patrol the territory to identify any threat before it becomes an issue, and we interfere when it’s necessary. Actually, I’ve come up with a roster so that we can show the Argents we’re well adjusted and functioning as a proper Pack by now, it should get them off our backs.”

Peter shows him the roster as well as a map, and Stiles saves the itinerary on his phone, sharing it with the rest of the Pack. Stiles and Derek are going out tonight, and Peter will go out with the other Betas during the week as he helps them get a hang of their new abilities.

Soon, it’s dark enough for Stiles and Derek to head out, leaving Peter to train his Betas.

They part ways outside of the loft, and Stiles watches Derek longingly, craving the scent of him and the taste of his lips. Something in his body must betray Stiles, because Derek smiles knowingly and abruptly bridges the distance between them, cupping Stiles’ face to press their lips together.

The brute strength of the kiss sends Stiles reeling backwards and he bends in the crook of Derek’s arms, grasping for the leather jacket stretching over Derek’s shoulder as he kisses back just as hard. Stiles’ eyes burn gold beneath his eyelids as Derek licks into his mouth and has Stiles gasping a little before they break apart, straightening their clothes.

“Meet me back home after patrol?” Stiles asks, hopeful, and Derek nods, taking off a moment later.

Stiles heads towards the other side of town, keeping to the shadows as he follows the itinerary Peter laid out to patrol the territory.

Stiles runs through the preserve in the dark of night, following the rotting scent of the Omega that killed Isaac’s father. He picked up the track early on, but the scent is cold, almost faded at times, and it leads him further and further away from the itinerary Peter mapped out for him. Still, he keeps going. Stiles can’t shake the feeling that the Omega might hurt someone else, should he run into someone.

That’s when he hears the howling. Hoarse and distant, like a cry at the waning moon above.

Stiles speeds up, because it sounds like the Omega needs help, and soon bursts out into a deserted clearing. The Omega is nowhere to be seen, but the rotting scent grows stronger and the howls fade into a faint echo, with a tell-tale crackling. The wind picks up and with it the metal tang of blood and the whistling sound of an arrow being released.

“Shit,” Stiles breathes out and ducks.

Not fast enough, as the arrow misses him by a small margin, but the net coming from the other side lands neatly over his head and shoulders, slick with wolfsbane. Stiles finally catches sight of the Omega as Gerard Argent and his minions haul them both onto the truck of a SUV, the other werewolf’s unseeing eyes staring straight into his face. Stiles trashes desperately, but his body grows weak with the wolfsbane dripping down his body like acid. He can’t break free from the net, and he goes under with a hiss as it burns into his face and arms just as bad as live wire.

They got rid of the lifeless body of the Omega when Stiles comes back to his senses, but someone else is in her with him, a girl with a spicy scent. Gerard circles them in the too bright basement they find themselves in, Stiles hanging from the ceiling with his wrists bound in a soaking wet rope and the girl at his back.

“Isn’t it incredible the number of mutts sniffing around my girls these days?” Gerad asks all too casually. “First that McCall boy, which Chris shouldn’t allow within a twenty feet radius of Allison in the first place, then the last surviving Hales who dare show their faces in Beacon Hills to turn mere high schoolers into abominations like them, and now you. The Sheriff’s son. This town is truly compromised.”

“Like your crazy daughter wasn’t compromised already, seducing a teenage werewolf and raping him before burning his family home!” Stiles spits, but it lands just shy of the Hunter’s shoes.

Behind him, the girl jerks awake, asking in a broken voice, “Derek?”

“I don’t know what lies the Hales have been filling your head with, boy, but I don’t want to hear it.”

“Perhaps you should, you old fuck! And who’s that girl? Why are you holding her captive?”

Gerard punches him with more strength than should be allowed in a man his age and Stiles’ head reels back so far, his head crashes against the girl’s and it gives him whiplash. He sways at the end of the rope, his entire body burning both from the strain and the wolfsbane he’s been drenched in. Gerard watches Stiles with a glint in his eyes until the rope stops swinging and Stiles and the girl come to a stop in the middle of the room once again.

“How did you figure out I was a werewolf anyway?”

“My daughter’s funeral. You were caught spying on camera.”

Stiles grits his teeth as he makes the connection with the pictures Matt took at the funeral. If only the other boy had attempted to retrieve his SD card earlier, then Gerard would not have browsed through the pictures. Chris protected Stiles’ identity for some reason, and he doesn’t seem involved in whatever sick plan Gerard has in store for Stiles now. And for this girl, whom he suspects to be a werewolf. She seems to know Derek too.

“Now, you better behave. I don’t actually want you two dead just yet. You see, I need to teach my granddaughter a lesson,” Gerard tuts. “And then, she’ll kill that McCall boy herself.”

Stiles and the girl are left alone for a while after that ominous announcement. Of course, he takes the opportunity to try to learn more about her, craning his neck in an attempt to see her face.

“Stop moving, you jerk, it hurts,” she snaps.

“Who are you?” he asks.

“Cora Hale. I’m Derek’s sister. And you are?”

“Stiles, his boyfriend,” he replies after a beat, rattled by the possibility of Derek reuniting with yet another family member. “How did you get caught? Where have you been all this time? How are you even alive?”

“Do you ever shut up?”

“Not when I meet a literal ghost, no.”

“I thought my entire family was dead,” Cora explains after a while. “I was hurting so bad with the Pack Bonds snapping one by one, it’s like someone was wringing my limbs off again and again until I was barely myself anymore. I ran. Ended up in South America with distant relatives, stayed with their Pack. I heard rumors about a new Hale Alpha and traveled to Beacon Hills to see for myself when that bastard ambushed me. He heard about me through the grapevine of the Hunters I had run into on my way here. What a bother…”

She trails off, her voice hoarse, and Stiles longs to hold her and share his Pack Bonds so that she can feel whole again. He can’t, spinning off the rope like they are, but it doesn’t stop him from reaching out with all his might, leaning his temple against hers.

They stay like that for hours, basking in each other’s presence.

Eventually, he hears Allison’s voice coming down the stairs, and it sends chills down his spine as he realizes he must be in the Argents’ basement, in the suburbs. It will make any rescue attempt all the more difficult, and suspicious too, especially after what happened to Isaac’s father.

“Who’s that?” Cora whispers.

“The bastard’s granddaughter,” Stiles replies just as low as they listen in.

“What’s in the basement?” Allison asks, and she sounds wary.

“Something I’d like you to see.”

Stiles starts straining against his bounds, Cora doing the same behind him, but to no avail as a ray of lights filters in from the door above the stairs, and Allison skips down the steps with a pout, clad in cute tights and a black dress. She flicks her hair out of her eyes and freezes as she reaches the basement as she comes face to face with Stiles.

She stares like a deer caught in the headlights as Stiles sways at the end of the wolfsbane laced rope, Cora bound against his back. His face stings with cuts and bruises from his capture, his healing powers can’t kick in since he’s soaked through with wolfsbane, and he struggles to breathe from the exertion of hanging in here for so long. He doubts Cora is faring much better behind him.

“Stiles?” Allison asks, her voice small and wavering.

“This creature you know as Stiles is nothing but an abomination’s spawn,” Gerard says, laying a wrinkled hand on her shoulder. “These, my dear, are werewolves.”

“You’re crazy. Let them go!”

“Damn right,” Cora spits in the back. “He’s a sadistic bastard!”

Allison swivels around, stepping away from her grandfather to stand between him and Stiles. She exudes fear and determination alike, but Gerard simply smiles condescendingly at her as he reaches for a cattle prod, closing in on Stiles and Cora in surprisingly steady steps.

“There are a lot of things your father neglected to tell you. About the world, and about your friends. See for yourself,” Gerard says and, quicker than a snake, he reaches around Allison to stab the cattle prod into Stiles’ side.

Stiles jerks, his back arching with the electric shock coursing through him, and his eyes shine gold as the current forces the Beta-shift on him. Cora growls, thrashing wildly behind him and Allison screams at the sight of his face, wolfish features and prominent brow staring back at her in the dim light of the basement.

“What the-” she starts, caught between Stiles and Gerard.

“That’s torture you fucking asshole,” Stiles pants. “Now you tell me who’s a freak, you or me?”

“Werewolves are like a plague.”

“We’re a thing of nature,” Stiles counters, still shaking from the aftershock and barely holding on with Cora’s steady presence against his back.

“The Bite is a curse!” Gerard yells, thrusting the cattle prod forward.

Behind him, Allison raises a garden chair above her head and slams it on her grandfather’s back. He stumbles, a look of surprise flashing across his face, before losing his balance and falling onto his knees. Stiles tugs wildly at his ropes, trying to fight off the wolfsbane weakening his body, and Cora does the same behind him.

Allison rushes over to their side, producing a saw to cut them free, “Oh my God. I’m so sorry. Let me just…”

Stiles recoils at the sight of the tool, even though Allison is nothing like her family, but he’s lost too much strength to do much more than swing uselessly from the ceiling. It only makes Allison’s work harder and she swears as she struggles to release them.

“I am so sorry about my grand-father, Stiles. I didn’t know…” she trails off as the Beta-shift recedes from his face, revealing his usual features. “You’re a werewolf.”

“I am.”

“And she’s one too. Is that why… My father never liked Scott much. Oh my god, is he a werewolf too?”

“Who’s Scott?” Cora asks, finding some snark with the rope slowly giving to Allison’s saw.

“My boyfriend,” the latter replies, her head hanging low.

Stiles makes a face as the rope finally gives in and he falls into a heap on the floor, his legs too weak to keep him up. Cora lands on top of him and they push off each other with a grimace as they finally come face to face. She looks just like Derek. Allison watches them anxiously with a tear-streaked face, biting her lips as she waits for Stiles’ confirmation.

“We got bitten by a werewolf together,” Stiles reluctantly admits. “Right before your first day of school.”

“Did my… does my family hunt werewolves? My aunt and my grandfather, they visited Beacon Hills right before we moved in…”

“I’m sorry, Allison. Kate and Gerard, they planned to destroy the Hales, a family of werewolves. Cora is one of the only survivors.”

Cora waves sarcastically from the ground as her healing kicks in, slow and delayed. Allison looks away as she muffles a sob into her fist and Stiles gathers his strength to stand up, keeping an eye on Gerard’s still form on the ground. Allison finally gets herself under control again and straightens up, glancing hesitantly from her grandfather to Stiles and Cora.

“Should I… should I call my parents?”

Stiles nods, even though he’s not sure Chris will do right by him again. He wishes he could text Derek as a precaution, and to tell him and Peter about Cora. Stiles’ heart wrenches painfully in his chest at the thought of his father. The Sheriff must be worried sick and already dispatching deputies to look for him.

He grabs the cattle prod and Cora, the biggest wrench she finds as they wait for Allison’s parents, watching Gerard still. Allison, too, retrieves the garden chair she used to knock him out and eventually, the door to the basement opens again, letting Chris and Victoria Argent through.

Stiles glances at them warily as they walk down the stairs to find the three teenagers in defensive stances as Gerard awakens slowly at their feet. Chris does a double take on Cora but doesn’t let anything show.

“What happened?” Chris asks Stiles in a cold, clinical voice that makes Allison flinch.

“What do you think?” Stiles replies snidely, waving at his face and Cora’s well, everything.

The cuts and bruises have barely started to heal and the cattle prod in his hand, as well as the smell of wolfsbane permeating the basement should be enough to clue Chris in about Gerard’s intention, if Cora’s mere presence wasn’t enough. The man in question finally comes back to his senses, sitting up and pushing to his feet with surprising velocity for someone his age.

Stiles thrusts the cattle prod forward out of reflexes, Cora following, and Allison raises the gardening chair again, prompting her parents into a defensive stance as well.

“What are you waiting for, son? Give your daughter her first lesson!” Gerard goads Chris on.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Chris challenges him back. “Allison isn’t ready to learn about hunting.”

“It’s the family business. She should have known already!”

“I don’t want anything to do with the family if this is the way you do business,” Chris replies, and Allison perks up with a proud glint in her eyes.

“Then you are no family of mine!”

Gerard swivels around swiftly and grabs Allison, pressing a gun to her temple. Stiles starts, reaching for her, but the safety goes off with an ominous click and he freezes, gripping the cattle prod tightly. Next to him, Cora lets out a threatening growl but makes no move to attack. It’s no use, Stiles realizes as his hand tightens on the cattle prod, the electric shock would only trigger Gerard’s muscle reflexes and risk blowing Allison’s head off even as Stiles took him out.

Chris also brandished a weapon as soon as Gerard started moving, and he holds his father at gunpoint, but he froze as soon as Allison’s life was on the line. As for Victoria, she presses a hand to her mouth in horror, her red hair falling over her eyes as the stress of the situation takes a strain on her.

“Put your weapons down,” Gerard commands, watching Stiles, Cora and Chris warily.

Stiles complies, dragging Cora with him and dropping the cattle prod and the wrench to kick it away at the old man’s prompting. Chris is slower, but he eventually relinquishes his gun as well while Allison squirms uneasily in Gerard’s hold.

“Let her go,” Chris requests quietly, but Gerard only tightens his grip around Allison’s shoulders.

Stiles glances at Victoria again and finds her left eye twitching like she can barely contain herself. She doesn’t wear her usual pencil skirt and blazer, and her stance reminds Stiles eerily of Chris, like she, too, is trained as a soldier. Something clicks in his mind then, and one glance at the waistband of her camouflage gear confirms it.

Victoria must be armed too, and she only needs a distraction.

Stiles gives it to her wholeheartedly, throwing his head back to release a deep howl, calling for his Pack with all his might. Behind him, Cora joins instinctively, and their combined voices make the walls around them shake. Gerard instantly swings the gun towards him, firing blindly, and Stiles ducks to the side, pushing Cora to the ground as behind the old man, Victoria draws her gun faster than the eye can see and shoots Gerard in the same breath.

Gerard collapses and his own bullet whizzes past Stiles’ head, missing by a wide margin.

Allison screams and stumbles into her father’s arms. Chris turns stone-faced as he nods once at Victoria, not quite in forgiveness, but something else Stiles might describe as the outcome being for the best.

“You should go,” he tells Stiles and Cora.

Stiles doesn’t need to be told twice, grabbing Cora’s hand and bolting out of the Argents’ house to find his Alpha and his Mate outside, ready to burst in and rescue him. He rushes into their waiting arms, rubbing his cheek against Derek’s, and Peter’s hand falls lightly at the nape of his neck, coating Stiles in the comforting scent of his Pack as the stench of wolfsbane and gunpowder fades away.

“Derek?” Cora asks tentatively behind him, then more confidently. “Uncle Peter?”

Slowly, Derek glances at her, recognition flashing in his face as he lets go of Stiles to reach for his sister. Peter too, licks his lips like he can barely believe it, stepping infinitely closer, and suddenly Stiles finds himself with an armful for Hales as Cora, Derek and Peter reunite at last.

It takes a long while for him to finally walk away from his Pack and leave the Hales to reacquaint themselves with each other, and he gets home late in the evening, exhausted.

Chapter Text

Stiles shows up at the police station for lunch the next day. He texted his father to say he was okay last night and left a handwritten note in the kitchen for good measure, but his father’s lack of reply is ominous. Stiles knows that the Sheriff will confront him sooner rather than later and he feels better facing his father head on rather than waiting it out at home.

It’s the weekend, so he’s not skipping school or anything, but Stiles still trudges through the bullpen with his head hung low, carrying a couple of tupperwares with him. He knocks on the door when he reaches his father’s office and the Sheriff glances at him through the window, heaving out a big sigh before gesturing at Stiles to come in.

Stiles shuts the door behind him without being asked.

“Hi. I brought lunch.”

“It better be double steak and bacon,” his father warns.

Stiles ducks his head as he presents the first tupperware with a veggie burger and salad inside. The second is identical, but Stiles’ father still eyes it suspiciously. Eventually, John takes a large bite of his burger, and lets Stiles wallow in his guilt a while longer before addressing the elephant in the room.

“So, where were you last night?”

Stiles’ father sounds disapproving, but not mad, and it might be worse than actual anger.

“I was at the Argents’ house,” Stiles replies truthfully, because he doesn’t know where to start.

“Don’t tell me you’re going out with Scott’s girlfriend? I can handle you sneaking around because you have a girlfriend, but someone else’s girl-” John trails off at the look of utter confusion on his son’s face.

“You think I have a girlfriend?”

“Why else would you be so secretive?”

“It’s a long story.”

Stiles sighs and closes his tupperware. He’s not hungry anyway. Sensing the seriousness of the conversation, John polishes off his own burger, not bothering with the salad, and wipes his mouth with a napkin before resting both his elbows on his desk.

“Go on. I’m listening.”

The background noise of the station puts Stiles somewhat at ease as he tells his father everything, starting from that fateful night in the woods. The look of growing disbelief on his father’s face eventually brings Stiles to a pause and he sits up on his chair, silence growing heavy in the air between them.

“I can prove it,” Stiles says at last.

John nods dumbly, like he expects Stiles to try indeed and fail, leading to the Sheriff having to relive some painful memories. Stiles bites his lip but doesn’t let his confidence waver as he slips into the Beta-shift, and the look of aloofness on the Sheriff’s face turns to abject horror. He reaches for his holster and Stiles tenses, features shifting back to normal.

“Dad,” he pleads. “It’s me, Stiles. I’m still me.”

“Who did this to you?” John asks through gritted teeth, and he’s still gripping his gun, but at least he doesn’t look ready to fire it at Stiles.

“Peter Hale.”

The Sheriff’s eyebrows arch, nearly rising off his face, and Stiles hurries to resume where he left off, recounting the last couple of months from the supernatural perspective. His father still looks like he wants to shoot someone, preferably Peter, so Stiles pauses again when the moment comes to explain last night’s disappearance.

“So, you weren’t with a girl last night?” his father eventually tries, still coming to terms with the existence of werewolves.

“Not exactly,” Stiles replies carefully.

With a deep breath, he tells his father everything else.

“So, let me get this clear: you went snooping in around an active investigation, got yourself turned into a werewolf and if it wasn’t for Peter Hale biting you, you’d never have been involved in several murders, a kidnapping and overall risking your life to rescue the Hales from a family of werewolf Hunters?”

“Well, to be perfectly honest, I probably still would have gotten involved if Scott had been the only one to turn into a werewolf,” Stiles admits, and his father silences him with a glare.

“I need to process all of this.”

The Sheriff sighs, pressing the palms of his hands against his eyes as he does just that. Stiles shifts in his seat, uncomfortable, as outside the background noise of the station goes on as usual.

“Is that why you’re not friends with Scott anymore and I saw you with Jackson Whittemore the other day?” Stiles’ father suddenly asks.

“It’s a bit more complicated than that but yeah. Jackson and I are part of Peter’s Pack. It’s a bit like a group project, we’re forced to interact.”

“Stiles,” John interrupts, suddenly serious. “Are you part of this Pack out of your own free will?”

It’s a loaded question, one Stiles fears his father, much like Scott, doesn’t understand the ramifications of. Sure, Stiles could choose to step away from the Pack and be a lone wolf — an Omega. Stiles likes to be part of the Pack though. He belongs there.

“It’s like being part of the precinct, you might not be best mates with everyone, but you tolerate them and you know you can count on them because you share a common goal,” Stiles eventually replies, and his father gives a slow nod of understanding.

Still, they go over everything once again as the Sheriff gets the story straight for all the unresolved cases in Beacon Hills. As they wrap up and share a lengthy hug, Stiles suddenly recalls his father’s first question, and stops in the doorway, turning around.

“By the way, I have a boyfriend,” he says, searching his father’s eyes.

“Bring him around for lunch on Sunday,” John replies, and after a second longer, he adds. “I love you, Stiles.”

“Love you too, Dad.”

He shuts the door behind him with a soft click and walks out of the station feeling much lighter than he did going in.

Stiles tracks his Pack down with light steps and his nose in the air later that week. The preserve is crisp with the upcoming winter, and he swerves between the trees at a quick pace to fend off the cold. He knows those trails better now and soon finds the abandoned train depot Derek favors for training. Peter must share his nephew’s liking for disused buildings, because today’s session takes place among the multiple coaches stocked there.

Erica swings in from the side as soon as he steps inside and Stiles ducks, running into Isaac almost immediately after. He shifts, baring his teeth, and takes a swipe at the blond, who barely gets out of reach in time.

Stiles presses his advantage, jumping the other Beta, and they go tumbling down the depot, rolling in the dirt. Jackson follows, coming out of nowhere, and Stiles extricates himself from the writhing mess on the floor to clang some broken tools together, the metallic echo a little too loud for comfort, but it works as intended.

Isaac and Jackson roll off each other, holding their heads in a desperate attempt to cover their ears. Stiles spies Peter and Cora watching from one of the coaches, and Derek crouching on the coupler, where Erica lays in a crumpled mess, trying to crawl under the train in a desperate attempt to escape the awful echo.

It breaks down the last slivers of Isaac and Erica’s control over themselves, and they turn as one on Stiles as the noise finally fades away. Stiles backs off, glancing worriedly at his Alpha. They look ready to tear Stiles apart, and Peter only lays back on his seat, but his eyes flash red and a single click of his tongue snaps the Betas out of it.

“Good job, Stiles,” Derek compliments, and his smile turns Stiles’ insides to goo.

“You two are adorable,” Erica comments, flicking her hair over her shoulder.

“Do you mean disgusting?” Jackson asks as he picks himself up from the floor.

“I agree with Pretty Boy over there,” Cora pipes in.

Stiles ignores the half-hearted jab and turns his attention to Isaac.

“How do you stay in control?” the blond asks.

“You need to find an anchor,” Stiles replies, glancing at Derek who simply nods for him to go on. “Mine is my father, for instance. Allison for Scott, as cheesy as it sounds.”

“It can be a memory, or something you hold dear, although it’s better if it can’t be taken from you or lost,” Derek adds.

Isaac nods slowly, no doubt trying to think of something. Erica falls silent as well, mulling over her options, and Stiles sneaks a glance at Jackson. Although the other werewolf looks sour, there is something in his eyes like he figured it out and can’t quite decide what to think of it. Stiles leaves him to it, and Peter watches them spar with Derek and Cora for a while after that, training to hone their abilities.

By the time they emerge from the train depot, the sun dipped below the tree line and the barely there third quarter of the moon blinks in and out of sight in between the clouds. With winter dulling some of the prevalent scents of the preserve — rotting forest floor and new sprout — something else emerges in the air and Stiles stops by Peter’s side, glancing at the Alpha for input.

“It smells… stale,” he comments, waiting for Peter’s insight.

“Like an animal’s den,” Peter comments and he, too, starts to follow his nose.

The Pack soon stumbles upon said den, and sharp blue eyes stare back at them from the dark depths of it, a low growl threatening to break out from the beast’s chest. Stiles’s been there before, he realizes as the werewolves fall back into a defensive stance as the animal prowls out of its den, revealing a slender coyote, except it can’t be the usual prairie wolf. If it weren’t for the electric blue eyes betraying it as a shapeshifter, the mangled doll in its maw definitely raises some questions.

“A werecoyote,” Peter breathes out in intrigue.

He undoes the top button of his Henley and cracks his neck before letting out one of his most powerful roars so far. Stiles shies away from the Alpha, and so does the coyote, but the sheer dominance exuding from Peter forces it to cower, sinking down to the floor as its fur ripples off his back, eventually revealing the naked silhouette of a girl.

“Well, I guess it’s time we paid Deaton a visit,” Peter sighs as Cora and Erica rush over to cover the girl’s body with their jackets.

They part ways on the edge of the preserve, Stiles and Derek carry the girl back to the clinic alongside Peter while the other Betas go on patrol. Scott already left for today, to Stiles’ relief as he does not look forward to explaining any of the ongoing supernatural affairs to Scott these days. Scott and Allison are still going steady, or so it seems, and the Argents have finally laid off the Pack’s back. Parricide does that to a family or so Stiles assumes as he holds the door of the clinic open for Derek and Peter.

“Hello, Deaton,” Peter singsongs as he comes in.

The vet appears behind his mountain ash counter, taking them in. Derek, with the girl in a bridal carry, and Stiles standing on Peter’s other side. Deaton hums but deems it safe enough to let them through. Derek lays the girl on the examination table and steps away, falling back to Stiles’ side. Peter, though, hovers around Deaton as the druid takes a moment to study the werecoyote.

“We found her in the preserve, a fully shifted coyote. I was able to force her back into human shape. Do you know anything about this?” Peter asks calmly.

“I wouldn’t,” Deaton replies evenly, but Peter lets out a growl as the words have barely left his mouth.

“You’re lying.”

“You’re losing your temper.”

Deaton’s tone leaves no room for doubt, and Peter steps back reluctantly. He hovers near Stiles now, and the Beta leans into his Alpha’s space, sharing some of his cool. Peter relaxes minutely, soaking in Stiles’ quiet demeanor even as Stiles buzzes with intrigue.

“Is it safe to bring her to the hospital?” Derek asks in the meantime.

“I will give her a mixture to make sure she won’t shift. It should keep her sedated while she undergoes the necessary procedures. I remain available should my assistance be needed again.”

Deaton does just that and when he steps back, the girl remains peacefully unconscious. Peter watches him closely but doesn’t attempt to pry answers out of him. The vet sees them out a moment later and Stiles gives his father a call so that the Sheriff and Jackson’s father can work in tandem to disguise yet another supernatural occurrence in Beacon Hills as a mundane thing.

Everyone is talking about it the next week at school. Stiles manages to avoid Scott all morning, but Lydia isn’t so easily deterred, and she grabs his elbow as they fill their trays at the cafeteria, dragging him towards her usual table. Stiles finds himself seated between Jackson and Danny and ignores Jackson’s knowing smirk, because Lydia doesn’t know her boyfriend — yeah, apparently, they’re back together — is just as informed as Stiles is.

Scott knows better, but he lets Lydia do the hard work for him as she and Allison start grilling Stiles for answers. He spies Erica stealing his seat across from Boyd on the other side of the cafeteria, and Isaac sitting with Cora and the rest of the lacrosse players as usual a couple of tables away from Stiles himself.

“So, who’s the new girl?” Lydia asks airily, but her gaze weighs a ton.

Cora is already old news.

“How would I know?” Stiles replies truthfully.

“She was brought to the hospital late at night with a deputy stationed in front of her room all weekend, you have to know something,” Scott points out.

“She’s been identified as Malia Tate, who went missing years ago after a car crash. She was taken in by her father as soon as she was cleared by the hospital,” Allison pipes up unexpectedly.

“How do you know?” Lydia turns on her instantly.

“Heard my parents talking about it.”

Allison says it carefully, watching Stiles for a reaction, but he gives her none. He can’t blame the Argents for keeping up with the supernatural on-goings in Beacon Hills, after all. As long as they don’t go around abducting and torturing his Pack. Scott should probably take a leaf from their book actually, but he still gets the gist of it through Allison, or so Stiles reckons. She never faltered, still going out with Scott even after everything, and Stiles must give it to her, Allison is one hell of a girl. Scott is lucky to have found her.

“So, her name is Malia?” he asks pointedly, locking eyes with Lydia.

She huffs, and he hides a smile. In truth, Stiles didn’t know. He may be the Sheriff’s son and a werewolf, but his father still keeps him in the dark as much as possible and well, Peter didn’t have to become her legal guardian, so they don’t know much about Malia just yet.

They’ll be in touch though; she’ll need the Pack to reconcile her life as a werecoyote and her reinsertion into society.

Stiles takes Lydia’s silence as his cue to leave and picks up his tray, pushing away from the table. He nods at Scott and Jackson on his way, and joins Erica and Boyd at his usual table, finding them unusually silent. Well, Boyd is pretty quiet on his best days, but still.

“You got the keys?” Stiles asks Boyd as he sits down.

“This isn’t a favor, it’s a transaction,” the other boy answers, arching an eyebrow at Stiles’ outstretched hand.

“Right. Absolutely”, he pulls out a twenty out of his pocket, but Boyd makes no move to take it.

“I said fifty.”

“Come on, man. Have you seen the piece of crap Jeep that I drive?”

“You’ve seen the piece of crap bus that I take?”

Erica glances at each of their faces in time with their jabs like she’s watching a ping pong match, and she cackles as Boyd gets the upper hand with that last one.

“Hm. Okay, tell you what, meet me at the ice rink tonight before my date. I’ll make you an offer you can’t refuse,” Stiles tells him boldly, and Boyd considers him for a long moment before leaving, dangling the keys to the ice rink just out of reach.

Stiles sighs and deflates as Erica studies him curiously. She must have guessed what kind of offer he’ll make, but she doesn’t comment on it. Peter doesn’t really include the Betas any more than necessary in his decision making, except for Stiles and Derek, or Cora who mostly butts in whether she’s asked to or not.

“I think I like him,” Erica says instead, pushing food around on her plate.

“You should go for it.”

“I feel bad. Because of Harley. She really liked him too.”

“He didn’t like her though,” Stiles points out gently.

“Still.”

“You could tell her how you feel before you ask Boyd out. You shouldn’t ask for her approval, but if you’re honest it will be easier for her to get over it. I’m sure she’ll understand.”

“You’re right,” Erica nods, straightening up as she makes her decision. “So, when’s your date with Derek?”

“Like I’d tell you and let you ruin it for me.”

She shoves him and he inadvertently eats a mouthful of her hair as he shoves her right back, but they laugh good-heartedly. From the other side of the cafeteria, Isaac’s bond warms up with fondness and Stiles soaks in the comfortable closeness of his Pack, digging into his lunch.

It almost looks like winter in the movies when Stiles unlocks the ice rink at an undisclosed time to keep his Pack at bay. Cold inside, ice thick enough to skate on, except they’re in California, mild, hardly ever freezing. There is no white Christmas in NorCal, nor are there wolves, and yet two werewolves find themselves skating the night away in the ice rink this evening.

Derek slinks in with his usual leather jacket and jeans tighter than Stiles expected.

He smiles, slipping his skates on, and drifts towards Derek as the other werewolf makes his way around the rink. Stiles isn’t usually so comfortable skating, but his werewolf abilities seem to finally do something right by him and he abuses it as he waits for Derek to gear up.

“They asked me about the girl at school. Her name is Malia, apparently,” Stiles says.

“Yeah, Peter and I stopped by to talk to her today. From what she recalls, she shifted in the car and her mother veered into a ravine because Malia was out of control. Her mother didn’t survive, neither did her sister,” Derek trails off as he laces his skates.

“That’s rough,” Stiles replies, missing a beat.

What is there to say? Derek will never leave the ashes of his old life behind, and neither will Malia. Tragedies befall shifters more often than not it seems, and Stiles counts himself lucky to not have gotten his father in any kind of trouble. He sure hopes it stays that way.

“She’s a born shifter then?” he asks after a while.

“So it seems, although her father is none the wiser. Still took her in though, the reunion was heart-warming.”

“Peter’s words?”

“Yeah.”

Derek chuckles, losing some of his solemn gloom as he joins Stiles on the ice. Boyd agreed to Stiles’ terms for tonight, and he can already feel the Pack Bonds evolving at the center of his chest, warming up to welcome the new Beta.

“What if only born wolves — and coyotes — can full-shift?” Stiles wonders aloud as they skid across the ice.

“Cora and I can’t,” Derek points out with a shrug.

They gain speed after a couple of warming laps and Stiles itches to race him, but the matter at hand remains. He longs to master the full-shift, but Peter’s instructions are full of shit. He doesn’t get it.

“Maybe it’s an Alpha thing.”

“Malia isn’t an Alpha.”

Stiles hums and takes off. Derek follows easily and they race across the rink for a little while, chasing each other with only their skates racking the ice for background noise. Stiles lets his thoughts drift along to the random patterns they draw on the ice, limbs loose and moving out of their own volition as he follows the whims of his most primal instincts.

It comes naturally, like shrugging on a warm coat in winter, and without meaning to, Stiles finds himself on all four, skipping across the ice with a wagging tail and golden eyes, fully shifted. He comes to a stop as he notices being on four paws instead of two feet and turns to Derek with a question on his tongue. He barks instead, and Derek laughs, eyes crinkling with wonder as he kneels down to be on Stiles’ level, burying his hands in the brown mane around Stiles’ neck.

Stiles presses closer, licking the side of Derek’s face, who only laughs harder, hugging him.

It takes a while for Stiles to worry about shifting back. He runs across the ice happily enough, chasing Derek still and messing around, but the third quarter moon dims outside as the night comes to an end. Stiles stares out the window as the realization hits him. He turns to Derek, intent to ask, but again, it comes out in the shape of a bark as the other werewolf slides up to him, concern flashing across his face.

Guess Stiles doesn’t need to put his question into words.

“You want to turn back?” Derek asks for confirmation.

Stiles nods, tongue lolling out. That’s… not as cool as he hoped. Still, he focuses on Derek, trying to change like he would with the Beta-shift, but to no avail. He whines, not meaning to, but it comes naturally as a wolf, and both his ears and his tail swoop down as he realizes he has no clue how to change back.

“It’s fine, take your time.”

Derek sits on the ice next to him with a comforting hum, even though it must give his ass frostbite and Stiles definitely doesn’t want anything bad to happen to his Mate’s behind. The thought startles Stiles out of his spiraling horror and he focuses once more on Derek as the other werewolf offers suggestions to try and reverse the full-shift.

“Focus on your anchor.”

He thinks of his father, sneaking in burgers and curly fries from the dinner in town, even though it doesn’t do Stiles much good. He’s not stressed. Yet. He tugs on his Pack Bond, seeking something to root himself in, from Peter’s volatile energy to Derek’s dark pool of indifference — or so he thinks, as Stiles often finds him in inner turmoil. The rest of the Pack tugs back, a discrete acknowledgement, and Stiles lets it swarm him with little reminders that he’s human too, with opposable thumbs and the ability to shift at will — or out of anguish.

“Come back,” Derek calls quietly, and Stiles does.

Stiles slumps down on the ice, shivering with the cold bite of it through his clothes, and glances up at Derek to find him smiling, the corners of his mouth suddenly lax like he was worried before and only now allows himself to loosen up. Stiles pushes up, sitting on his haunches as he reaches for Derek.

“It’s nothing like I expected,” he admits as Derek embraces him.

They kiss with clattering teeth.