Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles was jogging. 

A generally unpleasant endeavor, full of sweat, throbbing muscles, and aching lungs. Why some people did this for fun was a question Stiles never could answer satisfactorily. Which, of course, begged the question of why Stiles was subjecting himself to such a miserable activity in the first place. 

Turns out that running for your life on a semi-regular basis, knowing that your speed and endurance was the only thing keeping your throat out of some very pointy teeth was a rather good motivator to get better at running. 

Hence, jogging.

And since usually, when he was running for his life, he was doing so in the preserve, Stiles was jogging in the preserve. Know the terrain, homefield advantage, practice like you mean to play, and all that rot. 

At least, that’s what Stiles told himself when he tripped over a tree root for the hundredth time and ate dirt. 

And yes, he was hyper-aware that running alone in the preserve was setting the stage for the sort of cheesy horror film scenarios that so often plagued Beacon Hills, but he was carrying werewolf-grade pepper spray, a silver knife, and wolfsbane-and-mistletoe-laced makeshift coltrops specifically designed for hampering pursuing foes. There were still plenty of nasties out in the world that would consider him a tasty snack, but at least he wouldn’t make it easy for them. 

Be prepared. And when the monsters coming after you have every physical advantage in the book, throw the Geneva convention right out the window. War crimes and the banning of chemical warfare did not take into account the fact that Stiles could be, and has previously been, attacked by literal monsters of legend. You did what you had to do in order to survive. 

So yes, Stiles was jogging, as he did three to four evenings a week as part of the ongoing effort to become slightly less of a pathetically weak human. Sure, he would never reach the levels of fitness achieved by even geriatric werewolves, —Did elderly werewolves get arthritis or was it fixed by wolfy healing? Stiles digressed— but he could be better. And at least the next time he was chased down by the big bad of the week, he wouldn’t be cursing himself out for not even trying. 

Still, whatever gods of fate that looked down upon this miserable world and cursed mortals for their hubris apparently decided that Stiles had officially pushed his luck too far. 

He heard a rustling in the bushes to his left, saw a flicker of movement, and turned his head just in time to be tackled by a large furry body with glowing red eyes. Tearing pain erupted in his left arm as Stiles’s back hit the dirt, knocking the breath out of him. Still, the whatever-it-was had his left arm and the pepper spray was at his right. Plus, adrenaline was kicking in, that wonderful drug that blunted the pain and let him react without just screaming and fainting. 

His hand snapped to the pepper spray, pulling it out, disabling the safety, and spraying the attacker —red eyes, excessive fur, most likely a werewolf— in the face in one swift series of moves. He has drilled this, okay? He knew how much every second counted in a fight and he practiced until he could complete that series of moves without hesitation or fumbling using either hand from any variety of implausible positions. 

Thankfully, his dad was entirely on board with helping him drilling self-defense moves after Stiles finally convinced Scott to read his dad in on the supernatural side of Beacon Hills. He had been grounded for a month, but his relationship with his dad was steadily improving. Better yet, his dad had the resources to be able to properly defend himself against a supernatural threat and Stiles had a sparring partner for drilling self-defense tactics. Not to mention someone that actually knew what they were doing when it came to hand-to-hand combat and thus was able to offer advice and critiques. Stiles was immeasurably grateful.

Even if his dad had said that his pepper spray drills looked like a combination of yoga and mixed martial arts 

Fortunately, and unsurprisingly, the faceful of extra-strength pepper spray laced with aerosolized wolfsbane and mucuna-based itching powder —because there was no such thing as overkill when dealing with the supernatural— caused the attacking wolf to immediately let go and retreat into the woods, howling in pain. 

Stiles slowly sat up, feeling rather dazed. The entire encounter had only taken a handful of seconds, and his heart was pounding in his chest, only just now reacting to the threat. He stared after the disappearing form of his attacker for several seconds, his mind curiously blank as the smell of pepper spray lingered in the air.

Then he suddenly realized his arm was screaming in pain and blood was pouring from the wound. Stiles swore and quickly wrapped his arm with his shirt to stop the bleeding. 

Which, for the record, ow. 

The brief moments he spent assessing the damage before his makeshift bandaging job were sufficient to confirm that it was, in fact, a bite wound. He had seen enough of them patching up the pack after various wolfy encounters to recognize them pretty easily. And considering the fact that the wolf that attacked him had red eyes? 

Shit. 

Still, one thing at a time. Stiles needed to get home and give his injury better medical care than his sweaty, dirty shirt could provide. Supernatural identity crises could wait. 

When Stiles got back home, the house was empty. His dad was at work and wouldn’t be back for another couple hours. At this point, the adrenaline had faded away and Stiles was feeling slightly shaky. Not too bad at least. It was hardly the first time he had come home bleeding, even if this was a more consequential wound than normal. Still, Stiles was more than familiar with post-fight jitters and crashes. 

Moving mechanically, he cleaned the bite, and splashed some disinfectant on it because who knew when the last time that guy brushed his teeth was, and just ew . Then he wrapped it in gauze to keep blood from getting everywhere. Because while Stiles was getting far more practice getting bloodstains out of every fabric imaginable than he ever expected or imagined, that didn’t mean it was an easy task. Besides, an ounce of prevention was worth a pound of cure. Far easier to just bandage a wound to keep things neater even if it wasn’t entirely necessary from a healing point of view. 

See Derek! It was totally possible to be injured in the house without getting blood everywhere! So there! 

Anyways, Stiles really couldn’t be bothered with anything more in depth. By morning the bite mark would either be gone and he would be a werewolf with all the healing and perks therein…

Or he would have larger problems to deal with. 

Stiles sighed. He was too tired to deal with questions of imminent mortality. He collapsed face-first into bed. He should probably let his dad know that he had been bit, but he was exhausted and frankly, he didn’t want his dad around him for the first couple hours after he turned. He wanted to be alone so that he could confirm that he was going to go crazy and hurt him. Call him paranoid, but Stiles wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he hurt his dad. Sure, all of his research suggested that that wouldn’t happen, that his new instincts would recognize his dad as pack, but he didn’t feel like taking any chances with his dad’s life. 

So he would take a little time and tell his dad after he had a chance to integrate his new wild side a bit. Stiles would call him if he started puking up black goo, but everything else could wait until morning. Thank goodness tomorrow was Saturday. He had the weekend to figure this out. 

Fiddly details resolved, Stiles let himself relax completely, and promptly fell dead asleep.

When Stiles awoke, the first thing he noticed was how much he could hear. Before he even opened his eyes, he could hear the appliances running downstairs, the neighbors moving around their house next door, and his dad’s heart beating steadily. Stiles took a deep breath —ew, he needed to do his laundry. Two weeks of sweaty jogging clothes in his hamper did not smell nice to a supernatural nose— and allowed himself approximately thirty seconds to mourn his lost humanity. 

Alas, no more blissful ignorance of where people had been or what they had done. His nose would sniff it all out. No more option of escaping the supernatural world by moving to a different state and practicing willful ignorance. No more wolf/dog jokes from a position of species superiority. He was supernatural now. No turning back. 

Well. That was that. Goodbye human weakness, hello supernatural strength and power! 

Stiles grinned. While it wasn’t exactly how he expected to get the bite, —he wasn’t an idiot, he always knew it was an option— Stiles wasn’t about to ignore all the numerous benefits of werewolf-dom (Looking at you here, Scott the ever-bitter despite your asthma-free, front-liner existence). Still, the supernatural equivalent of a hit-and-run was a far less glamorous turning than a turning to save him from a mortal wound or a turning because he dramatically threw himself between someone (Usually Lydia because despite giving up on his crush due to Kanima-turning power of love for Jackson, she made a far more satisfying damsel in distress than, say, Boyd) and a rogue alpha in an act of heroic self-sacrifice like in his idle daydreams. 

Oh well, nothing to do about it now except be the best werewolf he could be. And that started with impeccable control. Stiles would not hurt his dad. 

So Stiles stood slowly and stretched from head to toe. He could feel the new strength of his body, feel the coiled power and restless energy. He knew, instinctively, that he could pick up his bed and throw it entirely through a wall should he try. 

Looky there! A whole new category of intrusive thoughts! Won’t that be fun!

Stiles flexed his hands absently, refocusing. He could feel the wired potential there too, that new something else that could become claws if his temper rose. A very similar potential rested in his jaws and eyes. Stiles closed his eyes and breathed through it, systematically finding and acknowledging each new sensation, each heightened sense, each way in which his body felt different, changed, more powerful. 

It felt right. 

Stiles walked to the bathroom, discovering that his stride had adopted the measured grace of a wild creature. Seemed like turning cured his innate clumsiness. Stiles certainly wouldn’t miss it. 

Stiles stopped in front of the mirror and stared into it for a moment before deliberately closing his eyes. He found the core of himself, that carefully hidden center that was Stiles boiled down to the absolute essentials. It was slightly different now, sharp-fanged and wild in a way it hadn’t quite been before, but it was still him. Who he was hadn’t changed, just gotten stronger and more honest about his intentions. He was still the person who would fight and die for those people he considered his. Now he simply had the strength and power to actually be able to stand against the world for his loved ones. 

As such, it was easy to pull that feeling forward, that sharpness inside himself that had always been there, but had now gained definition. And when Stiles opened his eyes again, they glowed a bright, burning gold. Gold like the sun, gold like the heart of cleansing flame, gold like the scales of justice. (Stiles had killed before in defense of the pack, but never an innocent, never someone who wasn’t already threatening them.) He smiled a fanged grin at the mirror and settled in to practice until he could let it out or pull it back at will. 

Sloppiness was deadly in a world where feigning humanity was often a matter of life or death. 

Besides, Stiles never did anything by halves and he certainly wasn’t going to now. 

By the time he heard his dad get up and start moving around, Stiles had the hang of flashing eyes, showing fangs, and popping claws. He wasn’t perfect, and was definitely planning to practice it pretty much nonstop all day, but he was confident he wasn’t going to suddenly go feral. 

Time to face the music. 

Stiles went downstairs and stopped at the edge of the kitchen. The Sheriff had his back to him, messing with the coffee machine. 

“Dad,” Stiles said simply. 

His dad’s shoulders stiffened and he turned immediately, scanning Stiles head to toe. “What’s wrong?” He knew from Stiles’s tone alone that something had happened. 

“I… Well, I mean… Last night…” Stiles huffed in frustration and gave up on trying to find the words to explain. Instead, he met his dad’s eyes steadily and deliberately flashed his eyes. 

The Sheriff’s eyes widened. “How? When?” 

“Last night while I was out jogging. Hit and run, werewolf style. The pepper spray worked marvelously though, and I will hear no more snide comments about it.” 

His dad ignored the last bit. “And why didn't you call me?! Stiles, I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to hide these things from me!” He looked genuinely hurt and slightly angry. 

Stiles’s eyes flashed again, accidentally. Damn, he was going to have to work on that. “Because there was nothing you could do and I wanted to be sure that I wasn’t going to snap and go crazy before I let myself be around you!” He snapped angrily before his voice trailed off and became nearly inaudible as his sudden fury drained away as quickly as it had risen. “I couldn’t let myself hurt you,” he all but whispered.

“Oh, Stiles.” The sheriff stepped up and opened his arms for a hug. Stiles hesitated for a second before his resolve crumpled like a wet tissue and he dove in for a hug. He practically basked in the feeling, carefully controlling his new strength so he didn’t accidentally crush his dad but letting himself relax into it otherwise. His cheek automatically rubbed against his dad’s shoulder, scenting him. 

Hello wolf instincts! Aren’t you going to show up in all sorts of interesting places. 

His dad rubbed his back gently. “I understand, I do. But Stiles?” Here he pulled back just enough to make eye contact without releasing him. “I know you, Stiles. From what you’ve told me, becoming a werewolf doesn’t change the heart of a person, and Stiles? You would never hurt me. Ever.” 

Stiles buried his head back in his dad’s shoulder and breathed in his scent. It was calming like nothing else ever could be. “I just had to be sure,” he muttered to his shirt. 

His dad hummed but otherwise didn’t respond. 

Several moments later, they released each other and Stiles started making omelets. They were one of the most surefire ways to get his dad to eat vegetables in a way he actually enjoyed, or at least didn’t complain too much about. 

The two didn’t speak while they moved around each other with easy familiarity to make breakfast and eat. The easy camaraderie lasted all the way through the meal until his dad set his fork down and gave Stiles a piercing look. 

“So what does this mean for you? You’ve had a lot of complaints about how Scott has been running the pack, and I can’t say they’re unjustified. Are you going to be able to let him be your Alpha?” 

Stiles made a face and took the excuse of finishing the bite in his mouth to think about it a second. He could feel the place where the pack bonds rested. His bond to his dad was reassuringly bright and strong. But that was pretty much it. He could only feel the barest wisps of bonds to the other resident supernaturals in Scott’s ramshackle pack of misfits. In his heart of hearts, bolstered by new wolfy instincts, he knew they weren’t his pack, not really. 

“I’m not sure.” Stiles looked down at his plate, fidgeting slightly with his fork. “I love Scott, but we both know I’ve always been the ringleader of our little duo. I’m honestly not sure I could bring myself to submit to him. Especially when I know that I disagree with his methods.” 

“Do you need to have a pack or can you go without?” his dad asked. 

Stiles sighed. “That’s a tough one. I have to have a pack or I risk becoming an omega and going feral, but my wolf recognizes you as pack. I honestly don’t know if that will be enough or if I have to have other wolves in my pack and/or an alpha. Generally alphas are necessary to stabilize a pack and we don’t have one.” He grimaced slightly. “I guess we’ll see. I don’t want to join Scott’s pack right now, but if I start to slip, then I suppose I'll do what I need to do.” 

His dad grimaced too. “Well, I’m with you for what it’s worth. We’ll make a go of it as the Stilinski pack of two and if it doesn’t work out, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it.” 

Stiles smiled, feeling the pack bond pulse with his dad’s honest determination and support. “Thanks dad. For now though, I’m going to drill the heck out of this! The better I can get my control right now, the easier it will be to tell if I’m struggling later and if we need to figure something else out. Werewolf bootcamp has officially begun!” 

His dad chuckled. 

His dad had laughed, but Stiles wasn’t kidding. Turning into a werewolf seemed to have removed his need for Adderall, settling him in his skin like never before, but Stiles still approached training his new strength and control with all the focused dedication of an ADHD hyper-fixation. He and his dad’s lives could very well depend on him being the best werewolf he possibly could be, and he refused to slack off. 

Fortunately, the Sheriff had the weekend off and was perfectly happy to spend it drilling his son on anything Stiles could think of. They practiced control while his dad tried to distract or startle him. They drilled his control of his new senses until he could take out the trash without grimacing while also being able to tell which tupperware his dad opened from the other side of the house, until he could track a sparrow by its heartbeat without jumping and shifting when his dad clapped in his ear. They even trained basic combat maneuvers to help Stiles feel settled in the beta shift and how it felt in a mimicry of combat. 

They used everything Stiles could think of to help train his control: jumpscare videos, loud noises, high-emotion memories, and flung lacrosse balls, as well as his new abilities through yoga stretches, deadlifting the couch —plus or minus his dad, even scent tracking through the neighborhood. 

The two of them trained from sun up to sun down and Stiles even stayed up late, spending hours of the night staring into the mirror, flashing eyes or fangs or popping a singular claw precisely when he meant to and never elsewise.  

By the time Monday morning came around, they were both exhausted, but Stiles was tentatively confident that he would be able to control himself throughout a school day. It would be great practice certainly, and Stiles could leave if he felt like he couldn’t handle it. As it was a matter of safety, he had his dad’s permission and instruction to feign illness and come home if he felt like he was at risk. 

He was as ready as he could be. 

It would be easier if he could rely on the pack to help ground himself and cover for any slips, but the two of them had decided that it would be best to hide Stiles’s werewolf status for now. Scott certainly wouldn’t understand why Stiles was refusing to join his pack, so best to just avoid the conflict. But it did mean that Stiles had to hide effectively enough to prevent a subpopulation of individuals with super senses from noticing his new status. Not that Stiles would say that any of them were particularly observant, but still. 

To Stiles’s complete and utter lack of surprise, school was hell. 

It was loud, bright, flashy, and smelled absolutely disgusting. Teenage lack of hygiene, underpaid janitors, and cheap cafeteria food made for a nasal bouquet of staggeringly foul proportions. And it was loud too. Slamming locker doors, chairs screeching as they were dragged across the floor, constant yelling, talking and laughing, and don’t even get him started on the bells. Those had been obnoxiously loud even before he gained supernatural senses. Now they made him want to claw his ears off and were responsible for most of his close calls with shifting. 

The pack didn’t notice anything at least. They normally didn’t pay Stiles much attention and today was no exception. Scott was too busy mooning after Allison —clearly they were in an off-phase of their on-again off-again relationship— to exchange more than a few words with Stiles. Lydia gave him a sniff and a head toss, Jackson gave him a slight sneer, and Erica and Boyd gave him distracted head nods. Isaac gave him a small smile and a tiny wave —he was his new favorite— but then everyone ignored him, too cool now to be seen interacting with the resident spaz. So that was business as usual. Sometimes Stiles tried harder to spend time with them, but he had larger priorities. Namely, making it through the day without exposing the supernatural. 

Somehow Stiles made it through the day without shifting at all, but he had a few more close calls than he was truly comfortable with. He would definitely be drilling control more that evening. 

Still, Stiles was calling the day a win and headed home feeling buoyantly triumphant. At least, he was until he felt something tug insistently against his wolf. Stiles eyes widened and he pulled over with an almost reckless alacrity. Throwing the jeep into park, he closed his eyes and tried to figure out what was going on. As he touched his pack bonds, however, he immediately recognized the problem. His dad’s bond was still solid and strong, but near it sat a coiling thread that felt like festering breath and red eyes. It was winding around his psyche like the roots of an invasive plant, insidious and malicious. 

Stiles eyes shot back open and he stared out the windshield, unseeing. 

The alpha who bit him was trying to claim him as a beta. 

Which, not just no, but hell no.

Chapter Text

“Shit, shit, shit, shit.” Stiles paced the living room in restless circles. This was bad. He had seen first-hand how much Scott had struggled with resisting the alpha who had bit him, and how he had failed several times, losing control to a feral alpha with ulterior motives. 

Stiled refused. 

“Stiles, calm down a minute,” his dad said. “I mean, kudos to you for not shifting right now, but talking this out will be more productive.” 

Stiles blew out an explosive breath and turned to face his dad, shoving his anxiety down and focusing on his determination to protect his dad. That powerful determination was his anchor. His primary motivation for perfecting control was so that he would never be a liability or threat to his dad. It tied in smoothly with his wolf’s desire to protect his pack, so it worked well. Scott had never listened to him, but Stiles knew that finding an anchor that coincided with his wolf’s instinctual motivations would make holding onto control in tough scenarios far easier. He wouldn’t be directly fighting his wolf in a head-to-head battle of wills. Instead, he would be redirecting it, focusing on something else, something more important. 

Much calmer now, Stiles looked up at his dad. “Did you have an idea in mind?” Because all of his were increasingly bloodthirsty, and he honestly wasn’t sure if that was the new influence of the wolf or how he would have reacted regardless. 

Like a flash, Stiles remembered molotov cocktails and Peter’s screams back when Stiles was entirely human and newly introduced to the supernatural. He winced minutely. Not just the wolf then. 

“How did you deal with the rogue alpha that bit Scott? Could you do that again?” his dad asked. 

Stiles grimaced slightly and looked away. “We killed him.” 

His dad frowned. “Wait, didn’t you say that Peter bit Scott? He’s still alive.” 

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, he briefly possessed Lydia and managed to do some sort of arcane ritual to resurrect himself. It was a whole mess. But yeah, he’s alive again and much less crazy now.” 

His dad made an eloquent face. “...okay. So that’s a thing. Um.”

Stiles snorted. He completely understood the feeling. 

Stiles turned and continued pacing. But this time it was in thought instead of restless agitation and his dad didn’t interrupt him. Eventually he stopped and faced his dad, face hard and determined. 

“Uh oh. Why do I get the feeling I’m not going to like what’s about to come out of your mouth?” his dad asked wryly. 

Stiles gave a brief humorless laugh. “Because you know me. You’re not going to like it but I need you to hear me out. Promise?” 

“I already don’t like where this is going, but I’ll hear you out.” 

“Okay.” Stiles nodded. “The thing is, once a wolf goes feral, there’s no saving them. There’s no humanity left in them. They’re nothing more than a vicious animal that needs to be put down, regardless of their ostensibly human body. I’ve done tons of research on the matter, and even the most benevolent and peaceful packs agree on this point. Feral wolves are a threat that have to be put down.” Stiles took a deep breath and looked his dad right in the eyes, willing him to see how serious he was right now. “As a resident, sane, supernatural creature in this territory, it is arguably my responsibility to put that feral wolf down if at all possible. He bit me, and I know about the supernatural and have appropriate defenses. He could very well kill the next person he attacks. And as a feral alpha, there will be a next person.” 

His dad gave him a look. “I’m law enforcement Stiles. I understand the concept of stopping a threat permanently when you can’t capture them and they are threatening the lives of innocents. I don’t like it, but no good officer does. Plus, from what I understand, the supernatural world doesn’t have a broad legal system so their justice is a little more bloody and unyielding.” 

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed. “Supernatural criminals are usually killed outright instead of being captured and detained because it’s impossible to jail supernatural creatures securely without using levels of poisons, chains, and human rights violations that would make a medieval torturer squeamish. And even that has the possibility of failure. At which point you have an already criminally-minded supernatural being likely driven entirely insane by their incarceration and now carrying a grudge. The supernatural world learned a long time ago that it’s better all around to just kill problems outright. Even if it does make for a rather brutally uncompromising system.” 

His dad snorted. “It probably doesn’t help that supernatural crazies are capable of far more extreme levels of violence than us puny humans.”

Stiles gave a brief laugh. “No it doesn’t. There’s another reason why killing the rogue alpha might be the best plan though.”

“Oh?”

“If I kill him, I’ll gain his alpha spark. Alphas tie the pack together. If I’m an alpha, I have a decent chance of maintaining sanity with just you as pack. Plus, I’m pretty sure that a few members of Scott’s pack would leave him in a heartbeat if there was another option. I could build a pack.” 

“That’s all but asking for a nasty fight with Scott,” his dad warned. 

Stiles frowned. “I know.”

“Can there even be two alphas with separate packs in a single territory?” 

“Supposedly, yes. If the alphas in question get along well and can work together. But dad, Scott is a bad alpha . He may be the so-called ‘True Alpha’ but that clearly doesn’t actually mean anything. It bothered me plenty when I was just a human, but now that I’m a wolf? Now it hurts . It physically pains me to think about. Scott has no respect for the supernatural, and no interest in learning about them. He doesn’t patrol or defend his territory, his pack is disjointed and dysfunctional, and his control is abysmal. Perhaps it's my new instincts talking, but I can’t help thinking that I could do better.” Stiles stopped talking and looked away, jaw flexing.

“You could.” 

Stiles’s head snapped around. “What?”

“You could do better. Stiles, you care about your people, you would do anything for them. You’ve been taking care of people since you were old enough to toddle and insisted on giving your good-behavior lollipop to a beggar because he looked sad. You’ve been taking care of me too for most of your life, regardless of our respective positions in this family. I’m not blind to how much you’ve done for me since Claudia died.” 

His dad stopped for a second and blinked at the ceiling. When he continued talking his voice was slightly hoarse in the way it always was when he talked about Stiles’s mom. 

“You could do a hell of a lot better than Scott. From what I understand about the position, being an alpha would suit you down to the ground. I can’t say that I’m exactly thrilled about the idea of you having to kill someone to gain the power —regardless of how human they are at this point, they still look like a person— but if you want to be an alpha, if you want to take over this territory and actually do right by the people here? Well, I’ll be with you the whole way and be proud as a peacock to boot.”

Stiles’s eyes burned. Stupid werewolf healing was defective. It was supposed to take care of whatever irritants could get in his eyes before he even noticed them. His heart felt way too big for his chest too. Could werewolves get heart attacks?

“Thanks dad,” he almost whispered. 

The two of them stood there for several moments while they got control of themselves again after that emotional speech. Stiles ignored the way his dad determinedly studied the ceiling and his dad ignored the way Stiles had to dash an arm across his eyes. 

Once they had better control of themselves again, Stiles’s dad cleared his throat. 

“So! Taking down a feral alpha! As the resident supernatural expert, do you have any ideas?” 

Stiles gave a watery chuckle. “Yeah, actually. The alpha is going to be tracking me. He wants me to join his pack. He’s past the point of no return but his instincts are still driving him to build a pack. I can use that to lure him out of town to reduce the chance of exposure or civilian casualties. After that, you can put a couple of wolfsbane bullets in non-lethal body parts since your aim is slightly better than mine and I want to keep you out of claw range considering you don't have supernatural healing. A few bullet holes should slow the alpha down and weaken him enough that I can get in there and finish the job with fang or claw.”

His dad nodded. “That should work as a bare-bones plan, but I want to flesh it out some more before I feel comfortable relying on it.”

Stiles hummed. “Of course. I’ll want to plan for as much as I can, as well as develop five or six backup plans. But if I’ve learned anything from dealing with the supernatural, it’s that it's completely true that no plan survives first contact with the enemy.”

His dad made an indeterminate noise of acknowledgement, clearly still thinking through it. “What sort of timeframe do you think we’re working with?”

Stiles pursed his lips. “I’m not sure. But the alpha could technically attack someone else at any point so the sooner the better. But we need to have a solid planning session, and I need to spend some serious time in beta shift practicing combat moves.” 

“Sounds like we have work to do then. Let’s get to it.” 

The two of them spent the rest of the evening planning. They started at the dinner table with maps of Beacon Hills, printed out references on the supernatural in general and alpha werewolves in particular, and plenty of paper for making copious notes. However, after a couple hours of that, they moved to the backyard, talking through backup plans while Stiles trained and his dad occasionally offered advice. 

It would be easier to train if Stiles had a sparring partner, but every bit of practice helped get him more in tune with his new abilities and limits and he expected that some martial arts forms would translate well, even if werewolf combat would happen at far faster speeds than any achieved by even the best of martial arts masters. Speed, flexibility, and using an opponent’s momentum against them were universal after all. 

And that’s how they spent the next couple days. Stiles went to school in the mornings, practicing iron control throughout the whole day. It got easier every day, his instincts categorizing each stimuli and slowly learning the difference between threats and non-threats. After school, Stiles trained, and trained, and trained. Until even werewolf endurance flagged and he gasped for breath. Then he took a drink, paused for five minutes to catch his breath, then threw himself back into it. 

He had to do better, be better. His dad was depending on him. 

Every day, the rogue alpha tugged at his wolf. Stiles ignored it as best as he could, but he couldn’t ignore the way that the bond to the alpha felt more and more poisoned, the alpha growing even crazier and more desperate. 

Their original plan had them wait until two weeks after his turning to confront the alpha. It was now Friday, a week to the day after Stiles had been bit, and the full moon was Wednesday night. Originally, both Stiles and his dad had wanted to wait to confront the alpha until after the full moon so that Stiles wouldn’t be facing that challenge to his control with the extra power of the Alpha spark making things that much harder. But feeling the increasing instability of the rogue alpha, Stiles was fairly certain he would attack again on the full moon, and he wasn’t about to let that happen. 

Neither of them were thrilled about that fact, but they were in agreement. They would take on the alpha tomorrow morning, a Saturday, which would give him most of the weekend to acclimate before facing school again with the extra boost. 

They would decide what to do with the full moon after Stiles had a chance to assess how he felt with the alpha spark, but he wasn’t exactly thrilled about having his first moon with alpha powers.

Stiles and his dad sat together on the couch that evening, silently thinking through what would happen the next day. Stiles was leaning against his dad’s side, head dropped back to rest against his shoulder as he stared unseeing at the ceiling. It soothed the wolf’s need for contact without being too strange to human conventions, and let him chew over his thoughts without worrying about his dad seeing the faces he was no doubt making. 

Eventually Stiles sighed and shifted slightly in place. “Hey dad?”

“Yeah Stiles?” 

“If I’m going to take the alpha spark, if I’m going to be the alpha. You have to let me be Alpha. At least where it matters.” 

Stiles could practically feel his dad’s frown. “What do you mean?”

Stiles sighed again, trying to find the proper words. “You’re my dad. You’ll always be my dad. But if I’m going to be Alpha of our little pack, my wolf won’t tolerate challenges. Are you going to be able to follow my lead?” 

“”I’m not sure I’m comfortable with never being able to tell you ‘no’ if you’re about to do something stupid. And this is still my house so —Turn around Stiles. I can’t have this conversation to the back of your head.”

Reluctantly, Stiles shifted position on the couch so that he was facing his dad. 

“As I was saying, this is still my house that I pay for, so I still expect my rules to be respected. And I’m not entirely comfortable giving you carte blanche to do whatever you want without being able to say anything on the matter.” 

Stiles nodded. “That’s not quite what I mean. You’ll always be able to argue with me, disagree with me, hell, even yell at me. And I’m definitely not planning to start lording over you and acting like a tyrant in the house, or anywhere really. In fact, feel free to remind me of this conversation if I ever start getting a big head. Like I said, you’ll always be my dad. Even the strongest and most well-established of alphas have elders in the pack to give advice and call them out if they’re being stupid —at least, the good alphas do. No, I mean, are you willing to follow my lead, and even obey when it comes down to it, in supernatural matters? I can’t be Alpha if you won’t submit in any way. It just won’t work. My wolf would tear itself apart.” 

Stiles chewed his lip anxiously. It all came down to this. If his dad couldn’t respect that fact, this would fall apart before it even began, and Stiles would be better off by far if he never touched an alpha spark. 

His dad at least gave him the courtesy of thinking it through. “Tentatively, yes. I think I can work with that. I’ve already been deferring to you in supernatural matters because you have far more experience and knowledge than me. This just takes it a step farther and makes it a permanent deferral. So yes, I’ll follow your lead, obey, submit, whatever you and your wolf need from me in matters of the supernatural so long as you promise to hear me out if I have concerns and you don’t start acting like a petty tyrant.” 

Stiles snorted and relaxed. “Deal.” He sighed and sank back into the couch. “I’m really going to do this, aren’t I?  I’m going to become the Alpha of Beacon Hills and build a pack worth having.” 

His dad nodded. “You are. And you’re going to be magnificent.” 

“Let’s do it then.” 

Stiles and his dad drove to their chosen site for the upcoming battle in his dad’s police cruiser. It felt rather surreal, but it served the purpose. They had chosen a clearing on the far side of the preserve. Far enough away from town that no one, most likely not even the supernatural residents, should be able to hear a gunshot. 

Once there, they took their positions. Stiles in front, in the middle of the clearing, with his dad a good ways behind him, and offset for a clear line of fire. Stiles stood between him and Beacon Hills —and the rogue alpha. He didn’t have any sort of fancy homing sense to tell which direction the alpha was in, more's the pity, but he could feel the increased strain distance put on the bond as they drove off and knew they were moving away from the alpha. He was able to use that confirmation to make sure he would be between his dad and the feral wolf. Finally, as an additional safety measure, his dad was standing near the dirt road where they stowed the car. 

If it all went to hell, Stiles’s dad would be able to reach the car while Stiles held off the alpha for a little while before retreating as well. It was a plan that his dad had hotly contested, —leaving Stiles alone with the alpha, that is— but Stiles insisted on having a getaway plan if it all went pear-shaped, and this was the best way to do it. His dad had eventually subsided, still unhappy, but accepting the necessity and fulfilling his word to let Stiles have the final word on the matter. 

Stiles took a deep breath, exchanged a nod with his dad to confirm that he was ready as well, then deepened his stance and focused. He had practiced this with his dad, using their pack bond as an experiment, but there wasn’t any practical way to test if he could do it with the far weaker bond to his erstwhile, wolfy sire. 

Stiles mentally reached for where his pack bonds sat in his chest and plucked the bond to the alpha. His dad said the feeling was rather obvious and definitely disconcerting, so it should certainly get the alpha’s attention. It wasn’t exactly a telepathic middle finger unfortunately, but it should be close enough to send the rogue alpha their way apace. 

Then they waited. 

Stiles always hated this part of any battle plan. Any time the fight was actually planned, —not that that happened frequently under Scott’s leadership— there was an element of waiting for things to align. It had always been hell on Stiles’s ADHD brain. The wolf settled most of that, but the high stakes of the upcoming battle brought its own set of anxieties. Despite his best efforts, Stiles felt his tension steadily increase. 

Then he heard it. 

Swiftly approaching footsteps. Then he could smell him, wet dog and unwashed bodies, because yes, Stiles was absolutely anal enough to look at weather patterns to ensure their chosen location would be downwind of the alpha’s estimated angle of approach. The best fight was one stacked in your favor as much as humanly possible. 

Stiles took a moment to confirm that the alpha was definitely on the way and approaching fast. Then he shot a glance at his dad over his shoulder and made the couple hand gestures they had prearranged for Stiles to use to confirm angle of approach and rough speed (basically just fast or slow). After he saw his dad’s nod of confirmation, Stiles faced forward again, watching where he expected to get his first glimpse of his attacker. 

This was it. 

And just like that, Stiles felt all of his jitters melt away, replaced by iron determination and a focused readiness. In this, he and his wolf were perfectly united. 

The rogue alpha was a threat and a trespasser on their territory. So he would die. 

Gotta love a wolf’s uncompromising morality. 

Stiles was tracking the alpha’s progress, so he knew exactly when the other werewolf would come into sight. In fact, he was confident enough in his assessment that he held a hand behind his back and gave his dad a three, two, one, countdown to the alpha’s appearance. 

He heard his dad’s near-inaudible snort and hid a grin himself. 

The alpha tore into the clearing and gave a roar of challenge that all but shook the surrounding trees. Stiles gritted his teeth and anchored himself even harder in his determination to protect his dad. 

The alpha’s roar was full of authority and demand. I am stronger than you, it said. Submit or die.  

But Stiles had always had problems with authority. He looked the alpha right in the glowing red eyes and deliberately planted his feet. He could hear the undercurrent of madness in the alpha’s roar, and even his wolf wanted nothing to do with that. It didn’t make resisting easy, per say, but it did allow Stiles to bare a sharp-fanged grin and flex his claws.

No. You can’t have me. Not now, not ever.

The alpha roared again, in fury this time instead of demand, and charged at Stiles. 

Stiles braced himself, seized his instincts in his teeth, and waited. 

Bang! The alpha staggered, left thigh suddenly sporting a bleeding wound, but he continued on.

Bang! Right arm this time. The alpha clutched it briefly, snarling in pain and mad fury. 

Bang! Right knee. A graze this time, instead of the joint-shattering shot Stiles’s dad no doubt intended. The alpha ignored the wound and closed the distance the rest of the way. Arriving at close enough quarters that Stiles’s dad likely wouldn’t be able to get a clear shot. 

But that’s alright. That just meant it was Stiles’s turn, and both he and his wolf were eager for the fight. 

Stiles dodged to the side, evading the clumsy charge and darted in to slash his claws along the alpha’s leg before darting out again. The alpha whirled after him, faster than Stiles anticipated, and he barely managed to avoid a nasty gash. Stiles dodged back more, and began to circle him, looking for an opening. The feral wolf didn’t circle him in turn though. He just lunged again, going for the throat just as he had in the initial charge. Stiles dodged again, and grinned nastily. If the alpha was too insane to plan, then this fight just turned that little bit more in his favor. 

Stiles began to exploit the tactical opening, focusing on speed and evasion. With each failed lunge or minor wound that Stiles dealt, the alpha became more enraged. His attacks grew sloppier and openings began to form in his defense. Not large enough yet for Stiles to go for the kill, but enough that he could dart in and deliver more claw wounds. 

Stiles honestly wasn’t sure how long the fight lasted. His heart was pounding in his ears and he had never felt so alive. He picked up a few minor injuries, mostly grazes from claws where he hadn’t quite been fast enough to evade the entirety of the blow. The alpha was far worse off though, even despite his superior healing. 

Eventually, Stiles saw his opening. 

The alpha lunged again, overextending himself in his fury and in doing so, trusting too much weight to his left leg, the one bearing a festering bullet-wound from a wolfsbane-laced bullet. The leg buckled slightly, sending the alpha just that little more off balance and Stiles saw his chance. 

He lunged, swift as a striking snake, and darted under the alpha’s outstretched arm to tackle the wolf to the ground. The alpha fell prone, only for a few seconds, but that was all Stiles needed. One clawed hand lashed out and tore through his enemy’s throat, severing the jugular and the windpipe in one blow. 

Then Stiles jumped clear to avoid the instinctual return strike, and landed in a crouch a short distance away, waiting, watching with glowing eyes as the alpha died. 

He could pin-point the exact second the feral wolf breathed his last, because at that moment, Stiles felt a rush of power unlike anything he had felt before. He actually staggered from the force of it. 

Stiles dropped his head, eyes screwed shut, and dug clawed hands and feet into the ground as he clung to his anchor through the maelstrom. As swiftly as it had fallen upon him though, it faded, settling down into a hum Stiles could feel at the back of his mind. 

Stiles slowly straightened and when he opened his eyes, he knew they glowed crimson. 

He glanced at his dad. He was standing back a ways, watching nervously. Stiles had insisted that his dad stay back after he killed the alpha until Stiles gave his assent, just in case the power rush right after the intensity of a fight compromised his control. Stiles knew now though that his paranoia was unwarranted. 

“Pack,” his wolf said, alpha spark only cementing that fact. “Mine. Protect.” 

And on that Stiles was in perfect agreement. He took another deep breath and calmed his wolf down the rest of the way, feeling the glow fade from his eyes. The alpha power was fully settled under his skin. 

It felt right. Like Stiles had been missing something his entire life and was only just now whole. Even without testing it, Stiles knew that his control had just improved by leaps and bounds. He and his wolf were one, united in the common goal to gather his people around himself, and protect and care for them. 

He was Alpha.

Grinning, Stiles jogged over to his dad. 

As he approached, Stiles could see his dad run assessing eyes over his body, searching for the healing wounds under the smeared blood. 

“Are you alright? I know the beast got some hits in,” he asked.

Stiles nodded easily. “He did. But nothing major and they’re all healed or healing. Nothing to be concerned about. I’ll be fully recovered in a couple hours.” 

Stiles pulled his dad in for a hug, his wolf needing the reassurance of physical contact to confirm his sole packmate was there and in good health after his first experience with supernatural combat. His dad leaned into the hug easily, and even put up with Stiles nosing against his neck, scenting and establishing dominance all at once, even if humans wouldn’t recognize it like a wolf would. 

“I take you’re an alpha now?” he chuckled. 

Stiles gave a rumbling hum, and brushed their cheeks together briefly before withdrawing. “Yup, one genuine, authentic alpha, as requested.” 

“How do you feel? How is your control?”

Stiles smiled. “I feel good, better than ever, even. My control feels solid too. Maybe it’s just the novelty, but I have never felt so settled in myself. I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s incredible though.”

His dad grinned. “Excellent. So now what, Alpha?” 

Stiles knew his dad was half-joking, but the title still made his wolf preen. He shot his dad a wildly triumphant grin. “Now, as my first decree as Alpha, I declare that we should go get milkshakes and curly fries!” 

His dad’s laughter followed them all the way to the car.

Chapter Text

Stiles spent the rest of the day all but pinning his dad to the couch as they watched movies together, and relaxed after their exceptionally busy week. It also allowed Stiles to completely relax for the first time since he was bit, practically basking in having his sole packmate so close, everything smelling like peace, relaxation, and contentment. Tomorrow would be another day. He would have to train and find his new limits again, see how the alpha spark impacted his control and abilities, and practice until he was confident going to school on Monday. 

But for now, everything could wait. Pack bonding was important. 

The next day, Stiles trained until the sun started to set and his limbs ached with a strange combination of exertion and pent-up energy. He looked up from drilling precision in his agility and strength to make sure every movement or strike went exactly where he meant it to go, and let out an explosive sigh. 

“All good?” his dad asked.

Stiles nodded distractedly. “Yeah, but I think I’m done for the day. Unless you’ve seen something of concern, I think I should be able to keep myself under control tomorrow.”

His dad shook his head. “I’m not worried. Even to my amateur eyes, your control looks really good. Probably better than last Sunday, even with the addition of the alpha powers. Besides, you know you can come home if you’re struggling for some reason.” 

Stiles shot him a wry grin. “Yeah, I know. Hopefully it won’t come to that.” He stretched and scanned the horizon. “I think I’m going to go for a run before bed. I feel a little twitchy not knowing what the border of my territory looks like.”

“Alright. Will that take long?”

Stiles shook his head. “Nope. Hour or two, max. I’ll be back in plenty of time to get to bed early like a good student.”

His dad snorted. “Okay, have fun patrolling, Alpha.” 

Stiles gave him a broad grin, bright and happy. “Will do.” Then he effortlessly hopped the fence and took off. 

It felt marvelous to run without holding back, just the pounding of his feet against the ground and the wind in his face. This was so much better than jogging as a human that it didn’t even feel like the same type of exercise. 

Letting out a laugh of pure joy, Stiles sprinted to the edge of the territory just because he could and relished in the way his muscles and lungs didn’t protest in the slightest. He felt like he could run forever. He slowed as reached the border, instinctively raising his head and sniffing the air, head tilted as he strained his ears for any abnormal sound. Nothing seemed wrong, so Stiles settled into an easy lope along the border, relaxing into the comforting monotony and feeling of rightness. This was part of his duty as Alpha, and it soothed something inside of him he hadn’t even realized was ill at ease.

The path of the border was easy to follow. The trail left by generations of patrolling Hales lingering despite the years of abandonment and lack of scent. Now Stiles ran it, leaving behind his own scent to say “Mine. My territory. Stay out.”  

To Stiles’s cynical lack of surprise, the border was almost entirely devoid of recent scents. Scott had no interest in arranging for a patrol schedule, much less running them himself. Despite that, Stiles occasionally noticed traces of a scent he suspected was Peter’s. He was fairly certain he recognized the subtle cologne the man often wore. The traces of scent were faded like Peter didn’t come often, but it certainly seemed like the born wolf wasn’t quite able to abandon the patrols. 

Stiles’s wolf approved. 

Stiles continued running the border until a new scent made him slide to a halt, head raised to try and get a better whiff. He couldn’t place the scent despite his best efforts. Turns out being able to smell just about everything doesn’t mean you automatically are able to identify all the new scents, more’s the pity. 

Stiles focused.

It smelled like… cow? And maybe dead bugs? There was also something else there that was reminding him vaguely of the reptile section of the zoo as well as the faint scent of old blood, something that made him instinctively think ‘meat-eater’. 

Stiles snorted softly. Next time he got a chance, he was going to go to the zoo and sniff every exhibit. Maybe then he would be able to identify scents in a way that actually gave him useful information. This was ridiculous. 

Still, even if he couldn’t actually identify what it was by scent, there was clearly something there. And the chances of it being a lost dairy cow with a bug collection and a pet lizard were slim to none. This was Beacon Hills. Stiles would bet the claws on his left hand that whatever it was would cause trouble in some way, shape, or form. 

Sighing, Stiles oriented himself to the scent and began to creep closer. He definitely didn’t want to confront whatever it was until he had a chance to do some research, but he wanted to know where it was and if it was moving towards town. 

Stiles slid the underbrush near silently. He was a wild thing, a deadly hunter of the forest. It felt perfectly natural to slide into beta shift as he circled around the source of the scent, moving slowly closer through ever-tightening circles. He could hear its heartbeat, a slow plodding sound. Stiles remembered a biology research project where he compared the heart rates of dozens of animals. The consistent trend? The larger the animal, the slower the heartbeat. This heartbeat was definitely quite slow, easily a third the speed of his. Stiles didn’t particularly like the implications of that. 

He couldn’t get a look at the creature without getting closer than he would really prefer, but from what he could tell, it wasn’t moving too fast. It certainly wasn’t charging towards town, so that was a small blessing. 

Stiles winced and reached out to rap his knuckles on a nearby tree. Knock on wood. Hopefully he didn’t just jinx it with that thought. He waited for a couple minutes to confirm that the creature —and yes, from what he could hear of it moving around slightly, it was massive — didn’t decide to fulfill his fears, and then carefully ghosted away. He would do some research and come back tomorrow night to monitor the creature’s progress. If he could have his preference, Stiles would rather know what he was fighting and if it had any particular strengths or weaknesses that would affect the battle. 

Once he returned to the border and continued his patrol, Stiles let out a small grin. He just successfully stalked a supernatural creature without it being any the wiser. Sure, there would almost definitely be things Stiles would miss about being human. His former clumsiness and complete lack of stealth was not among them. 

Stiles finished the rest of the patrol half lost in thought as he mentally combed over the supernatural creatures he knew about, wondering what would fit his admittedly limited amount of information. A minotaur would explain the cow smell, but pretty much nothing else. Some kind of chimera might explain the multiple types of animal smells, but they were traditionally goat, lion, and snake. It was closer, but still didn’t seem quite right. Were there chimeras with different animal compositions? 

More research was required. 

Stiles went to school the next day still blinking sleep out of his eyes. So much for going to bed early like a good student. He had stayed up far too late, trying to solve the mystery of the trespassing beast. Until he knew what it was, he wouldn’t know how much of a threat it would be, and he really didn’t like the thought that something dangerous could be waltzing through his territory right now. 

Worst of all, his research had been rather inconclusive. He simply didn’t know enough to be able to rule out much of anything. He had several possibilities, but no effective way to confirm anything. He would definitely be going back later that evening to see if his new-found stealth skills would be up to the task of a little more information gathering. In the meantime, running through theories for the hundredth time was still preferable to letting himself dwell on the truly foul odor coming from the locker halfway down the hall. Dirty underwear, rancid gym clothes, and moldy lunchmeat. No thank you. 

So yeah, theories were definitely better.

An Ammit was part crocodile, part lion, and part hippopotamus. Did hippos smell similar to a cow? That zoo trip was seeming less and less facetious. 

There was a griffin variant called an Opinicus that had camel hindquarters to go the standard lion-eagle cross, but Stiles hadn’t smelled anything that reminded him of birds.

A Glatisant Beast had parts from a snake, a deer, a lion, and a leopard so it wasn’t too far off. 

But Stiles’s current best guess was a Tarasque: lion head, bear legs, ox body, turtle shell, and scorpion tail. It seemed to fit pretty well with all that Stiles had been able to sniff out, but he wasn’t confident. He wished he had thought to try and find some tracks last night. That would have helped immensely. Oh well, he could look for those tonight. 

Stiles was so lost in thought and deliberately tuning out his surroundings, that he missed Scott trying repeatedly to get his attention. 

“Stiles! Hey Stiles! Wait up! STILES!” 

At that last shout, Stiles jerked and whipped around to see Scott jogging up to him. “Oh hey, what’s up?” he asked. 

Scott shot him a slightly aggrieved look. “I’ve been trying to get your attention for ages.”

“Sorry, I wasn’t paying attention.” It hadn’t been intentional, but Stiles couldn’t help thinking that it was excellent for maintaining the ruse that he was still human. Even if he was embarrassed at being so unaware of his surroundings, no matter how unpleasant they were. 

Scott rolled his eyes. “Yeah, I noticed. You almost ran into people three times. Anyways. Pack meeting tonight after school at the loft. Be there.” 

Stiles swallowed the desire to flash his eyes at Scott, to challenge him for the presumption to give him such a brusque command, with near herculean effort. Not trusting his voice to come out without a growl and mostly focused on keeping his wolf down, Stiles merely nodded. 

Apparently satisfied, Scott slapped him on the shoulder, nearly hard enough to topple Stiles if he’d been human, and ran off to catch up with Allison. Stiles allowed the blow to stagger him to maintain his cover, then shook himself off and left. 

Stiles sighed silently as he climbed into his jeep. Looks like threat reconnaissance was going to have to wait until after the meeting. Maybe he could leave early. 

He wasn’t optimistic. 

Stiles flicked his eyes towards the clock on the wall of the loft for what felt like the hundredth time. It felt like time moved slower every time he looked. The pack meeting had “started” over an hour ago. By which Stiled meant everyone had arrived and were sitting in separate corners of the loft. Nothing that would categorize the gathering as a “meeting” had occurred beyond a superficial assembly of people in a relatively small space. 

Erica and Boyd were leaning against each other bemoaning a monster of a project assigned by their history teacher. Or rather, Erica was bemoaning, and Boyd was humming agreement in the pauses in her rant. 

Isaac sat nearby Erica and Boyd, leaning back with eyes closed and apparently trying to take a nap. However, the way his lip frequently twitched at Erica’s annoyance betrayed him. 

On the other side of the room, Lydia was explaining to Jackson in vitriolic detail how horrible a classmate’s fashion choices had been today. Apparently the girl in question was a repeat offender, and Stiles was almost amused by the sheer breadth of vocabulary Lydia utilized in her rant. Jackson listened patiently with a slight smirk, interjecting an occasional pithy comment, seemingly designed solely to add fuel to the fire of Lydia’s tirade. 

Derek leaned against the wall, glaring at everyone, but Stiles could smell the longing and old pain on him from halfway across the room. Derek knew perfectly well that this wasn’t really a cohesive pack, just a shallow imitation. 

Mirroring him on an opposite wall, one that gave clear sightlines and escape routes to both the door and the windows, Peter lounged against a wall. His trademark smirk was firmly in place, but Stiles could see the way his eyes constantly darted around the room, tightening in amusement or disdain depending on who his attention was most focused on. By far the most frequent recipient of Peter’s disdain was Scott.

Their resident True Alpha, protector of Beacon Hills and all its inhabitants, erstwhile supreme leader of the pack, was sitting in a chair with Allison on his lap as they made out, with occasional pauses to exchange sappy looks or murmured compliments. 

It was no wonder that the rest of the pack found other, loud and distracting, diversions. 

Stiles wasn’t exactly pleased, himself. He could feel the strain of pent up energy, wanting to be running the border, checking on the latest potential threat. But needs must, and here he was. On the bright side, several subtly deep inhales allowed him to isolate and memorize everyone’s unique scents as well as confirm that Peter was the one he had scented at the border. So that was useful. Besides, as time dragged on, he began to entertain himself by wondering who would crack first: Scott, the ever-enthusiastic loverboy, or Peter, whose patience Stiles could see slowly draining away. 

“Well, Alpha, was there a purpose to this meeting besides indulging your exhibitionism? Some of us have better things to do,” Peter drawled.

Stiles snorted. Ladies and gentlemen, we have a winner. Peter’s patience is no match for Scott’s infatuation. Even as Stiles hid a grin, he noticed the way that Peter subtly shifted his weight as he spoke. It was minor, but Stiles knew from his experience training with his dad that that slight shift would make it easier for Peter to make a hasty retreat if needed. Was the ever-arrogant Peter actually concerned about an attack from Scott? That didn’t sit well with Stiles. 

For his part, Scott pulled away from Allison’s lips with a wet squelching noise that made Stiles wince and mentally curse his supernatural hearing. 

“It’s pack bonding time! We have to spend time together to keep the bonds strong!” Scott exclaimed, seemingly honestly surprised by the interjection. 

Stiles gave the ceiling a sad smile. The worst bit was that Scott was being perfectly honest. He honestly thought that this was helpful to the pack, sitting or standing in distinct, separate groups that hardly interacted with each other. To be fair, he had greeted every person that came in with the notable exception of Peter with high fives, shoulder slaps, or half hugs, but once Allison arrived, he got major tunnel vision. That was the thing with Scott. His heart was in the right place. He cared. He just fundamentally didn’t understand the supernatural world or its inhabitants, and he was completely uninterested in learning more. 

“Why? Did you have a concern or something to raise?” Scott asked.

Peter sneered slightly. “As a matter of fact, I did. The creature I mentioned that had entered Beacon Hills? Remember? I told you about it four days ago.” 

Stiles whipped his head around to stare at Peter. He wasn’t the only one. The conversations around the room had halted and everyone was watching with varying levels of concern. Stiles had larger worries. The creature had been in his territory for four days? And Scott knew about it? Why were they only just now meeting?

“Yeah, I remember,” Scott said, defensiveness rising in his tone. “I thought you said it wasn’t hurting anyone? Has that changed?” 

“Yet,” Peter snapped. “Hasn’t hurt anyone yet. There’s no telling how long that state of affairs will last.” 

“What is it?” Stiles interjected. If Peter knew, that would save him some time and risk. 

Peter’s eyes flicked to him. “I’m not sure.” He sounded almost pained at the admission. Stiles hid his amusement. “Some sort of composite creature. It’s big. Easily ten feet at the shoulder. It has a massive, spiked turtle shell on its back and what looks like a scorpion tail. I didn’t stick around much longer so I didn’t get a good look.” 

Stiles nodded thoughtfully. Seemed like he was right with his suspicion. 

Scott turned to face Stiles hopefully. “Do you know what that could be?” 

Stiles hummed, tapping his fingers against his legs. “Sounds like a Tarasque.” He glanced at Peter. “I know you didn’t get a good look, but could it have had six bear legs and a lion’s head?” 

Peter tilted his head and shrugged slightly. “I didn’t see the head at all, so I have no idea about a lion’s head. But the legs did look something like a bear’s, and I remember thinking that it seemed like there were too many of them.” 

Stiles snorted again. “Yeah, seems like it’s mostly likely a Tarasque. The good news is, if it’s like the legends, it’s most likely not going to search out people to hurt. Bad news is, it will definitely attack, and most likely kill, anyone it stumbles across.”  

Already he was twitching with the desire to get it out of his territory. A threat like that had no business being near his people. 

Scott beamed like Stiles had answered all of his problems. “Great! If it’s not going to hurt anyone unless we bother it, we can leave it alone. No problem!” 

Stiles stared at him. He was distantly aware of Peter and Derek doing the same. Even Erica, Lydia, and Boyd were looking at Scott dubiously. Isaac just looked nervous and Jackson rolled his eyes at the ceiling, bored with the whole conversation. 

Peter found his tongue before Stiles did. 

“Did you hear what Stiles said? If anyone accidentally runs into the beast or, moon forbid, it wanders into a populated area, it will kill indiscriminately.” His disbelief colored every syllable. 

Scott bristled. “It’s not hurting anyone right now! Maybe you’re okay with hurting things just for existing, but that’s not how this pack works. It's not causing any problems. It probably just wants to find a peaceful home or maybe it's just passing through. Either way, that’s no reason to attack it! We’re not monsters.” His emphasis on that last statement made it clear that Scott was not including Peter in that “we”. 

Peter growled low in his throat and his eyes flashed beta blue. 

Scott stared him down, righteous indignation in every line of his body, and growled back louder. His eyes flashed crimson. 

The standoff continued for several drawn out heartbeats. The rest of the betas shifted uncomfortably, eyes darting everywhere but the confrontation. 

Finally Peter relented, looking away with a bitter grimace twisting his features. “Fine. Their blood on your hands, Alpha.” 

Scott relaxed and the tension in the room popped like a soap bubble. “Good. Glad that’s settled.” He glanced around the room as if nothing ever happened. “Let’s order pizza.” 

Peter shook his head. “I have better things to do,” he muttered. With one last disdainful glance around the room that curiously did not include Stiles in its glare, Peter stalked out of the loft. Scott did not even look up to acknowledge his departure. 

Stiles watched until the door closed behind Peter, then sighed and made his own excuses. He also had better things to do than sit around, eat pizza, and try not to watch the Scott and Allison lovefest that was sure to resume shortly. 

He needed to research the Tarasque more closely and determine the best way to take one down. Then, he needed to do some reconnaissance to decide on the best place to fight it. 

And he needed to tell his dad that another supernatural battle was on the horizon. 

Joy. 

Despite a soda and pop-tart fueled research binge the night of the pack meeting, Stiles wasn’t able to find much information on the Tarasque. Still, it was a safe bet that the scorpion tail would be a danger to avoid, and the legends did agree on the Tarasque’s general strength and formidability. Not that Stiles was surprised given the beast’s apparent size. 

His efforts to find a suitable battleground were even more ineffective. There simply weren’t any nearby clearings that would provide an open area to fight it in, and Stiles didn’t want to risk goading the beast into chasing him to a better spot. 

Stiles sat back in his desk chair and glared at his computer screen. 

Fight a supernatural creature with not-fully-understood capabilities in an enclosed location in the middle of the forest or risk himself playing bait to try to draw it to a more suitable location. Neither option was ideal, but Stiles liked his chances better ambushing it where it was. 

Grumbling under his breath, Stiles shoved himself up and stretched, his muscles stiff after hunching over the computer so long. After the stretch though, everything settled back into place and he felt as good as ever. Stiles grinned. He loved werewolf healing. It came in handy in the strangest places too. With one last shake of his head, Stiles grabbed his notes and went downstairs to construct a final plan with his dad’s input. 

His dad had been surprisingly understanding about the prospect of another fight. Or perhaps unsurprisingly. After all, as a police officer, his dad perfectly understood that dangerous events usually didn't wait for you to decide that you were ready for another one. 

Stiles and his dad ended up staying late hashing out some semblance of a plan before finally turning in. 

After school the next day, Stiles ran steadily towards where he last saw the Tarasque. 

He was by himself. As much as he would really prefer to have some backup for the fight, pistol caliber bullets would do very little to the Tarasque, making his dad more of a liability than a help, much to his clear displeasure. Still, his dad respected the assessment and watched Stiles go after extracting a promise that Stiles would call him immediately if he ran into trouble and needed help. 

As Stiles approached, he began to hear signs of a commotion. Eyes widening, Stiles sped up, sprinting towards the sound. He slowed as he got closer, unwilling to charge into an unknown situation. The noise had gotten louder as he drew near. Something was clearly fighting the Tarasque. 

Stiles crept through the trees. He could see the Tarasque between the trees, twisting in lumbering circles as it fought off a much smaller form that was clearly getting the worst of the battle. A few seconds later, Stiles realized that the smaller form was a werewolf, and, as the wind shifted, blowing towards him, he recognized the wolf’s scent. 

It was Peter. 

Stiles sucked in a sharp breath and lunged forwards. Just as he did, the Tarasque twisted its massive head around and snapped at Peter. Peter dodged, jumping nimbly out of the way. But as he did, he jumped right into the path of the beast’s scorpion tail as it whipped around and pierced Peter’ stomach. Peter gave a strangled whimper of a howl and collapsed. 

The Tarasque attempted to take advantage of Peter’s fallen state, pivoting and lowering its head to take a bite out of the prone wolf. 

But Stiles intercepted it. He didn’t like the chance of his claws or teeth making it through the colossal shell that covered the whole of the beast’s back, but there were some potential weak spots at its edges. That was where Stiles struck, keeping low to slide under the lip of the shell’s edge and slicing his claws into the meat of one of the beast’s legs. The Tarasque roared in pain and anger and turned away from Peter to attack the new threat. 

Stiles had already retreated, crouching a short distance away and watching, fangs and claws bared. 

The Tarasque barreled towards him, shouldering trees aside with such force that they splintered and fell. Once the beast was far enough away from Peter that he would hopefully be mostly safe, Stiles began to attack again.

He dodged in and out, never staying close to the creature, and leaving a myriad of small injuries behind in his wake. The Tarasque was too well-defended by its shell and thick lion’s mane for Stiles to have an easy way to deal a deathblow, so that left dealing as many smaller wounds as he could to hopefully weaken the creature and potentially create an opening. 

Stiles never stopped moving. The Tarasque was massive and terrifyingly strong, but it was also slow. So long as Stiles kept moving, he could circle the beast and harass it from all sides. Still, it was exhausting work, and as the Tarasque grew more furious, its rage lent speed to its movements. Stiles couldn’t help thinking that this would be far easier with more wolves to harry his foe and divide its attention. 

While Stiles was slowly making progress, the Tarasque was far from helpless. Stiles ducked in to claw the beast’s shoulder, but he misjudged the opening, and the Tarasque’s other leg swung around faster than he could dodge, swatting him away like a bothersome pest. Stiles flew through the air, colliding with a tree with a sickening crack. 

Ow

Stiles forced himself to roll away and to his feet, ribs burning with every movement. He panted and slipped into a thicker grove of trees, weaving through them as he tried to buy time to heal. His ribs were definitely cracked if not broken from the collision, and a series of parallel cuts from his opponent’s claws decorated the landing site of the blow. 

The Tarasque charged after him, splintering the trees in its wake, but the force required to do so slowed the beast down significantly, and Stiles was able to stay out of reach until the cuts sealed and his ribs only throbbed in protest instead of screaming in agony. Then, he pivoted and launched another attack, careful to avoid targets where the Tarasque would be better able to retaliate. A painful lesson, but one well-learned. 

The battle dragged on, but Stiles persisted, and he could see the creature’s movements begin to slow as fatigue and blood loss took their toll. Finally, the moment Stiles had been hoping and waiting for arrived. The Tarasque’s head began to lower, dropping and swaying with exhaustion. When the beast’s head dropped enough that its panting breaths stirred the grass at its feet and its view of him was temporarily obscured, Stiles struck.

Swift as a bolt of lightning, Stiles lunged, leaping forwards and pushing off the side of the turtle shell to land on the creature’s neck. As he landed, he dug his claws in and wretched sideways, utilizing the whole weight of his body, the considerable momentum of his lunge, and all of his supernatural strength, bolstered by the alpha spark. 

With a dull crack, the Tarasque’s neck snapped, and the beast’s body fell limp. 

Stiles stepped away from the body and shook himself off, panting lightly. The fight had been hard and drawn-out and his ribs still ached slightly, but he couldn’t stifle the sense of wild triumph. 

He did it.

One newly turned wolf, alpha or not, against a beast as massive and formidable as a Tarasque, and he had won. He would be riding this high for a while. 

However, even though the fight was over, Stiles still had things he needed to take care of. So, after ensuring that Tarasque was well and truly dead, Stiles loped back to where Peter still lay in the grass. 

Peter had dragged himself into a fetal position, curled around the wound in his stomach which was turning a fetid green. 

Stiles hissed. He wasn’t a medical expert, but it didn’t take a genius to figure out that a wound turning green was almost certainly a bad sign. It also wasn’t healing. Fortunately, Peter’s heart was still beating strongly, and while his breathing was slightly labored with pain, it moved through his lungs without rasping or coughing. 

Grimacing slightly, Stiles crouched over Peter and placed a hand gently on his shoulder. He knew werewolves could draw out pain, but he hadn’t attempted it before. Oh well. No time like the present to learn. 

Stiles focused on what he was trying to do, and like flipping a switch, his instincts took over. Black lines began to creep up the veins of his arm along with a deep, persistent ache. It was thoroughly uncomfortable, but Peter let out a soft sigh and relaxed slightly. As he did, his eyes blinked open and he stared at Stiles, brow furrowed. 

“Stiles?” he asked, his tone utterly confused. 

It was then that Stiles realized that he was still in beta shift, alpha red eyes glowing brightly. 

“Shit.”

Stiles glanced back down, but Peter had fallen unconscious. He sighed, and then fished around with his other hand for his phone, keeping the hand drawing Peter’s pain in place. 

His dad answered the phone on the first ring and Stiles gave the trees a fond smile. He would bet an extra large order of curly fries that his dad had been sitting, staring at his phone and not getting anything done. 

“Stiles?” his dad asked, worry coating his tone. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine and the Tarasque is dead,” Stiles said. He heard his dad let out a sigh of relief. “Peter was fighting the Tarasque when I arrived and he’s injured. Can you come pick us up at the edge of the preserve in the cruiser? It will draw too much attention for me to carry him home.” 

Stiles heard a shuffle and the clink of metal over the phone as his dad stood and grabbed his keys. “I’m on my way. How badly injured is he?”  

Stiles looked down, casting an assessing eye over Peter’s unconscious body. “I don’t think too badly? He got hit by the scorpion tail and he’s unconscious. His vital signs are steady though, so I think the poison is just going to have to work its way out of his system.” 

“Understood. I’ll see you soon.”

After Stiles hung up the phone, he looked down at Peter and made a face. “I'm glad you’re unconscious for this, Peter. You would have all sorts of things to say about the indignity of it.”

With no further ado, Stiles scooped Peter up in his arms bridal style and started loping towards the edge of the preserve. He would come back later to dispose of the Tarasque’s carcass. Peter was his current priority. Fortunately, his supernatural strength allowed him to make the journey without jostling Peter too bad. 

When Stiles cleared the treeline, his dad was waiting by the cruiser. The back door was open and Stiles could see a towel laid out over the seats to protect them. Stiles’s dad was holding the supernatural first aid kit that Stiles had insisted he carry in his car as soon as he was made aware of the supernatural. He was definitely glad of that precaution now. 

Stiles’s dad helped him put Peter on the back seat and then pulled Stiles into a fierce hug, tight enough that Stiles would be concerned for his ribs if not for supernatural healing. Then his dad stepped back, holding Stiles at arm’s length to run quick eyes over his body looking for injuries. But the last of Stiles’s wounds had fully healed and he truly was fine. His dad let out another sigh of relief, like he hadn’t quite been able to believe that Stiles was okay until he saw him with his own eyes. 

“I’m glad you’re okay, son,” he said simply. 

Stiles shot him a smile, and grabbed the gauze out of the first aid kit to wrap Peter’s wound. It was seeping nastily and he didn’t trust the towels to keep it off the upholstery. 

His dad moved around him easily, helping him hold the gauze in place while he fastened it. Once they were finished and driving away, Stiles’s dad glanced at him with a mischievous grin and the air of a man who had been holding his tongue for as long as he could. 

“You know, I'm pretty sure I’ve told you that you weren’t allowed to bring home strays.” 

Stiles groaned.

Chapter Text

Stiles stretched a little and glanced over Peter’s unconscious body. After arriving back home, Stiles had carried Peter inside and put him on his bed. Then, with his Dad’s help, he wrestled Peter into some clean clothes. Peter’s were torn and covered with blood and dirt so his dad’s spares were a massive improvement. When that was finished, he settled next to him, leaning against the headboard with one hand resting on Peter’s shoulder to continue draining his pain. 

After approximately five minutes of that, Stiles had fished out his phone and started one-handed Google searches on werewolf poisoning, Tarasque venom, and flushing toxins. After countless diet mom articles on super foods for cleansing the body and soul, a couple of potentially accurate resources on wolfsbane that Stiles bookmarked for later, several video game tutorials for games that apparently contained Tarasques, and a research rabbithole on the use of charcoal for treating dogs who chewed on poinsettias, Stiles gave up and decided to just wait it out. 

Peter’s heartbeat and breathing were still steady and strong, and unless Stiles was fooling himself, the wound in his abdomen wasn’t as discolored as before. It was definitely starting to seal up at the edges. Peter was improving, slowly but surely, so Stiles would just be patient, little as sitting and waiting appealed to him. 

Finally, just as Stiles was about to give up sitting vigil and go to sleep, Peter shifted slightly and gave a near-inaudible groan. Stiles’s head shot around to him and he dropped his phone, nearly vibrating in watchful anticipation. 

Peter’s eyes slitted open and then darted around the room, fear and confusion creasing his brow. He tensed.

“Easy, Peter,” Stiles said softly, holding Peter’s gaze steadily as the injured man immediately looked at him. “You’re safe. You’re at my house, in my room. You fell unconscious after getting hit by Tarasque’s tail and I brought you here.”

Peter nodded awkwardly from his reclined position, and began to try to sit up, hissing quietly in pain. It showed how bad the wound still was that Peter revealed any sign of pain.

“Hey, take it slow. You’re wound’s not fully healed yet. Apparently Tarasque tail venom significantly slows werewolf super healing.”

 Peter snorted softly, eventually managing to make it to a sitting position against the headboard with Stiles’s help. He paused, breathing heavily for a moment, and then pinned Stiles with an intense stare. 

“You killed the Tarasque,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

Stiles hummed softly, meeting Peter’s stare without flinching. “I did.” 

“Before I fell unconscious, I saw…” Here Peter trailed off and glanced away, looking uncharacteristically uncertain. 

Stiles waited. He was pretty sure he knew exactly what Peter was talking about, but he wasn’t going to bring it up just in case. 

Peter set his jaw and returned his gaze to Stiles’s. “You’re a werewolf. An Alpha.”

Stiles nodded. “I am.”

“Since when?” 

Stiles let out a brief snort of laughter. “A wolf for about a week and a half, Alpha for four days.”

Peter blinked, eyes widening. “Scott doesn’t know.” Again, it wasn’t a question. 

Stiles sighed. “He wouldn’t understand. Either why I killed the feral alpha who bit me, or why I don’t want to join his pack. He’ll find out eventually, but forgive me for wanting to avoid that inevitable confrontation.” 

“If you’re not joining his pack, are you planning to build your own?” Peter was studying him, a pensive look on his face. 

Stiles shrugged slightly. “I’m not really planning to bite anyone, but we’ll see. So far, I’m pretty stable with just my dad as my pack. I expect I’ll feel the urge to grow my pack at some point, but I haven't yet.” 

“And if a wolf wished to join your pack…?” Peter wasn’t looking at Stiles anymore, studying the ceiling with an air of faux nonchalance. 

Stiles stared at him. Surely, the ever-independent Peter Hale was not implying what he thought he was. 

“Then they would simply need to ask and submit to me,” he said slowly. 

Peter nodded slowly, still not looking at Stiles, but after a moment, his eyes slid down and away until they were averted almost politely rather than avoiding. Then, jerkily, hesitantly, he tilted his chin up, baring his throat. His mouth opened and closed soundlessly, words clearly dying in his throat. 

Stiles felt his breath catch, wonder and awe filling his chest, quickly overcome by a fierce protectiveness. He reached out, hand stroking deliberately over Peter’s exposed throat before curling around his nape and squeezing firmly. Peter let out a strangled sort of whimper and went limp. Stiles used his grip to pull Peter forwards, and yielding to his instincts, closed his teeth on the side of Peter’s neck. He felt his beta shift push forward and let it roll over him so that fangs gently pricked Peter’s skin, holding firmly without leaving so much as a scratch. 

Stiles held that position for several moments, Peter panting in soft whines that Stiles answered with a comforting rumble deep in his chest. Between them a new pack bond flared, bright and strong. 

Eventually, Stiles released him, laving his tongue lightly over the tiny red marks left by the pressure of his hold. The skin wasn’t broken though, so they faded almost immediately. As Stiles pulled back, returning his features to normal, he made sure to rub their cheeks together gently, scenting Peter familiarly. If Peter was going to be pack, he was going to do this right. 

Stiles pulled back the rest of the way and settled beside Peter, arm over his shoulders and pressed together leg to leg. 

Peter sighed softly, a tone of distinct relief weaving through it, and leaned his head against Stiles’s shoulder. “Alpha,” he murmured quietly. 

Stiles rumbled in answer and nosed against Peter’s temple. 

Which is exactly when his dad burst into the room. 

“What’s going on? Is something wrong? I felt something change in the pack bonds,” he said, tense and frantic. 

Stiles laughed, bright and happy. “Nothing’s wrong dad. Meet our new packmate! Peter’s now my beta!” 

Peter made another slightly strangled sound that made Stiles glance at him in worry and confusion, and he sank back into Stiles’s side. 

Stiles’s dad blinked, then blinked again, and scrubbed his hand over his face. “I should have known this would happen when he brought him home. No keeping strays, my ass!” he muttered into his palm though both wolves heard him clearly. Then he dropped his hand. “Welcome to the Stilinski pack, Peter. Call me John.”

Stiles laughed.

Peter blinked and straightened up, though he didn’t pull away from Stiles at all. “Thank you… John.” 

Stiles’s dad hummed absently, and turned to Stiles. “So, full moon’s tomorrow. What’s the plan? Will having another packmate make it easier or harder?”

Stiles drummed his fingers against his leg and Peter’s shoulder, thinking. “Having another packmate will probably make it easier by adding more support through the bonds. I’ll go to school. It’ll be too suspicious if I miss and I’m confident in my control. We’ll spend the evening together and Peter and I will probably spend at least part of the night running in the preserve.” 

Stiles felt Peter perk up slightly at that last bit and grinned to himself. Sure, his first full moon would almost certainly test his control, but he was determined to make it an enjoyable event. He had read that old, established packs often have entire full moon celebrations. His pack wasn’t large enough to hold what basically amounted to a festival, but he refused to let the moon be some miserable, stressful affair. 

Stiles’s dad nodded. “Alright, you know how your control feels best. Just remember that you can always call out sick if you need to.” 

Stiles smiled softly at his dad’s protectiveness. “I know, dad.” 

Stiles’s dad turned to Peter. “What will you be doing tomorrow while Stiles is at school?”

Peter started slightly, clearly not expecting the question, and hesitated. 

“You’re more than welcome to stay here,” Stiles broke in. “In fact, if your wound’s not fully healed, I’d prefer it.” 

His dad nodded. “Agreed. I saw that wound when Stiles carried you to the car. You definitely shouldn’t be moving around too much if it isn’t fully healed. You can stay here.”

Peter hesitated again then nodded slowly. “Very well. If you insist, I’ll stay here until Stiles gets back.” His eyes flicked to Stiles at the end of the sentence and Stiles squeezed his shoulder gently. 

Stiles’s dad clapped his hands together once. “Well! With that settled, I’m off to bed.” He stepped up to the bed and leaned down to give Stiles a hug, and then after hesitating briefly, clasped Peter’s shoulder. “Welcome to the pack, it's good to have you.” 

Stiles smiled after his dad. His dad might not fully understand wolf instincts, but he was trying, and that meant everything. 

He turned to Peter. “You heard the man! Time for bed. We had a busy day today, and I, at least, have an early morning tomorrow.”  

Peter nodded and curled in on himself, pulling away slightly. “Of course. If you could point me in the direction of some spare linens, I’ll make a bed on the couch.”

Stiles blinked. “What?”

Peter glanced at him briefly, and immediately looked away. “You’ve been extremely accommodating. I won’t put you out any further.” Stiles stared in confusion and surprise as Peter shifted enough to swing his legs over the edge of the bed. The movement clearly pulled the wound on his stomach because he gave a pained gasp, and swayed in place. 

That did it for Stiles. 

“Stop,” he growled, letting his eyes flash crimson. 

Peter froze immediately, tilting his head to expose his throat and a soft whine slipping from his lips. 

Stiles leaned over and gripped the nape of Peter’s neck, using the contact to draw his pain. Peter sighed and relaxed into the hold, either from the relief from pain or the dominance of its position. 

Stiles shuffled over awkwardly. Apparently even supernatural grace couldn’t make knee-walking on a mattress any less clumsy. 

“Let’s try this again,” he said, maintaining his grip on Peter’s nape, but gentling it so that his thumb was brushing the side of his neck soothingly. Peter relaxed even further, leaning against Stiles’s side. “Yes, we’re going to bed now, but there is absolutely no need for you to be relegated to the couch. You’re injured and our bond is brand new. I want you close and I expect you want to be near as well. We can share my bed perfectly easily. Physical contact will help settle the bond and even help you heal.” Stiles finished decisively but then began to second-guess himself. “If you’re comfortable with sharing, that is. Are you?”

Peter sighed in what Stiles thought was abject relief. “Yes, Alpha. I am perfectly comfortable with that. Thank you.”

Stiles hummed and then, carefully, while constantly maintaining a pain drain on him, he helped Peter back into the bed and under the covers. Once Peter was comfortable, Stiles curled against him, and tucked Peter’s head under his chin. Immediately he felt sleep pull at him, and from the sound of Peter’s immediately slowed breathing, he had fallen asleep near-immediately. Stiles clung to awareness a little longer, relishing in the rightness of the moment. He had his newest packmate, his beta, held close, protected, and healing. He could hear his dad’s heartbeat, also slowed in sleep in his room, and the house was quiet and peaceful.

All was right in his world. 

Stiles gave a soft rumble of contentment, heard Peter mimic it in response, even in sleep, and let himself drift off. 

Stiles woke early the next morning, and attempted to untangle himself from Peter. The two of them had practically wrapped themselves around each other in the instinctual desire to be close to their packmate. When he finally pulled free, Peter shifted uncomfortably, face twisting in slight distress. Stiles immediately leaned back down, nosing at Peter’s neck and scratching the fingernails of one hand lightly through his hair. He used his other hand to nudge his pillow into Peter’s arms and the older wolf latched on to it with a dissatisfied grumble and relaxed back into a deep sleep. 

Stiles hummed in satisfaction, both unable and unwilling to remove the soft smile from his face. He also took the opportunity to lift the corner of Peter’s shirt to check on the wound. It was massively improved from yesterday, now a healthy pink and mostly healed. It seemed like most of the venom had worked its way out of Peter’s system, and Stiles was confident that the injury would be entirely gone by that evening. 

Still grinning, pleased with the world and everything in it, Stiles trotted downstairs. He had two very specific goals in mind. 

By the time he had to leave for school, Stiles had a couple of omelets keeping warm on the stove, a note on the table to reveal their presence, and a large beef roast in the oven. The roast would cook slowly all day and be perfect for a full moon pack dinner. Stiles’s mouth was already watering in anticipation when he left. 

School that day was an experience.

Heightened senses made the normal sensory torment of a public highschool even more unbearable than normal, and Stiles felt restless and jittery the whole day. He wanted to run, wanted to play with his pack as they stretched their legs together, wanted to curl up with them afterwards so that their scents could mingle until they were impossible to tell apart. All of it itched under his skin, until Stiles thought he would burst from the strain of controlling himself. 

But control himself, he did. 

Stiles was an alpha now and he was determined to be worthy of the title. So despite the restless crawling under his skin, Stiles grit his teeth, smiled at the people around him, and participated in class with as much normalcy as he could. Still, the day couldn’t end soon enough. 

Scott and his pack were much more obvious in their full moon edginess. No one lost control of their shift to Stiles’s awareness but every one of the wolves was grumpy, twitchy, and bad-tempered. Their unrest chafed at Stiles’s control, the alpha in him wanting to settle them, but it wasn’t his place. Scott shared tired, knowing grimaces with his betas but he wasn’t much better off than they were. 

Finally, the final bell rang its ear-piercing shriek, and Stiles was free! He left as quickly as he could without drawing attention and went home. The pack bonds to his dad and Peter still felt steady and strong, so everything was fine, but Stiles wouldn’t be satisfied until he could see them himself. 

Stiles could smell the roast beef like the best perfume in the world the second he opened the door of his jeep, and he jogged up to the door with a wide grin on his face. 

His dad met him in the hallway, face lighting up and mouth opening, likely to greet him or ask how his day went, but Stiles didn’t know and didn’t care, interrupting him by wrapping him a bear hug immediately. 

Stiles buried his nose in his dad’s neck and sighed, releasing the tension of the day. His dad smelled like home and comfort and pack. He had been wrong. This was the best smell in the world. 

His dad returned the hug easily, and after it became clear in a few moments that Stiles wasn’t planning on going anywhere, chuckled lightly. 

“Hard day?” 

Stiles grumbled wordlessly before forcing his head up enough to answer. “Yeah, but I could handle it. Did handle it. Whatever.” He shrugged. “I didn’t lose control once and now I’m home so everything is great. “

His dad chuckled again. “Good to hear. I’m proud of you.” 

Stiles beamed at him, and released him to go greet his other packmember. Peter was on the couch in the living room, watching him with stiff shoulders and heartbreakingly apprehensive eyes. It was like he expected Stiles to snub him or change his mind about accepting the older man as pack. 

Stiles suspected he was feeling uncertain about his place in the pack since Stiles had only accepted him right before going to bed and Peter hadn’t been awake when he left this morning. Peter hadn’t really interacted with Stiles as his alpha, and wouldn’t know what to expect. But Stiles was too glad to be home and around pack to let it get him down. Instead, he went straight to his beta, tugged him to his feet easily, —he loved supernatural strength— and wrapped him in a tight hug. 

If he thought about it, it felt weird to hug Peter like that. He didn’t know the man that well after all, and had fought him, even killed him if you got right down to it. But his instincts were riding high and Peter was pack now. Everything else just didn’t matter so much anymore. 

Peter immediately relaxed into the hug, nosing along Stiles’s jawline and the underside of his chin in what Stiles recognized as a traditional greeting to an alpha. He gave a pleased rumble and scented Peter back, feeling the wolf relax even more. When Stiles finally pulled back, Peter looked more relaxed and stable than Stiles had ever seen before. 

Peter gave him a slow smile, leaning against the wall casually. “So Alpha, what great plans do you have for today?”

Stiles shot him a grin and started walking towards the kitchen, the other man following him easily. “First, I’m going to check on the roast, then the three of us can play games or watch a movie until it’s ready. You and I will go run the preserve after dinner.” 

Peter nodded and leaned back against the edge of the counter with his arms folded, watching as Stiles pulled the roast out. The smell got even stronger if such a thing was even possible, and Stiles felt his mouth water. The roast wasn’t quite done, but it only needed about an hour or two more to be perfect. 

As he pulled it out, Stiles noticed that someone had apparently added chopped potatoes and carrots around the edges. He glanced up at Peter, raising an eyebrow. “Did you add these?” he asked, nodding at the additions. 

Peter gave a short nod, feigning nonchalance, but the slight tension at his shoulders gave his nervousness at potentially overstepping away. Stiles wondered absently when he became so good at reading Peter, or if the bond was to blame. 

Regardless, he smiled and stepped up to squeeze Peter’s shoulder gently. “Thanks! I couldn’t put them in this morning or they would have been horrendously overcooked. I was thinking we were going to have to settle for mashed potatoes and steamed carrots. I appreciate it.” 

Peter relaxed and gave him a look of overblown horror, adopting a scandalized tone. “Mashed potatoes and steamed carrots? With a roast that smells this good? Perish the thought!” 

Stiles snorted and patted his shoulder. He turned to his dad who was lingering in the doorway with a grin. “My beta’s the best.” he said in a mock stage whisper. 

His dad laughed and the tips of Peter’s ears pinked. 

“In fact,” Stiles continued. “I think he deserves to choose what we do before dinner.” He turned back to Peter, grinning. “So what will it be, oh most helpful beta of mine, game or movie?” 

Peter grinned back, apparently loosening up into the casual atmosphere, which had been Stiles’s goal. “I think a game sounds nice. Cards?” 

“Sounds perfect,” Stiles said, clapping his shoulder again. “Let’s go.” 

They played cards for an hour and a half, joking back and forth, laughing, and generally having a good time. Peter continued to unwind, more of his normal snarky self coming forward, and he was clearly both surprised and pleased to see that not only did Stiles snark back at him, but so did his dad. The three of them got along splendidly, and Stiles’s heart felt way too big for his chest as he watched his tiny pack bond. 

He still felt slightly restless, the desire to run still itching under his skin. But he was entirely content to wait for a while. The time to run with his beta would come, and he was definitely looking forward to it, but he wasn’t quite ready to leave this perfect moment. 

The roast came out and the three of them feasted, each eating their fill until only a tiny pile of leftovers remained. They sat in content silence over their empty plates for a long moment. Then Stiles looked up towards the window. The sun was setting, the moon rising, and he felt the urge to go run rise accordingly. 

His dad followed his gaze. “Looks like it's about time for you wolfy folk to go do wolfy things. Since I’m the only one who didn’t have a hand in prepping dinner, I’ll do the dishes.”

 Stiles snorted and nodded. He stood and gave his dad another hug. “Thanks dad. We’ll be out late, so don’t wait up. I’ll see you tomorrow. Love you!”

His dad returned the hug. “Love you too, son. Now shoo! Go howl at the moon, chase rabbits, or whatever it is that civilized werewolves do on a full moon! Be safe!” 

Stiles laughed and exchanged a glance with Peter. “Ready to run?” he asked.

Peter gave a sharp grin, eagerness and anticipation in every line of his body. “Oh Alpha, I thought you’d never ask,” he purred. 

Laughing, Stiles led him outside. He paused just under the sky, breathing in the cool air as night slowly fell over the town. He could feel the moon tugging at him, urging him to give in to his instincts and run wild. It wasn’t driving him to attack or go feral, but Stiles could easily see how the wild abandon it encouraged could make animals of men. 

Stiles took a deep breath and released it slowly. He centered himself around his anchor. He would never be a threat to his dad or any of the inhabitants of Beacon Hills. He would run, would enjoy the full moon with his pack, would celebrate this night and make it one to remember fondly, but he would not lose control. 

He looked over his shoulder where Peter was waiting, calm and steady at his side. Stiles flashed crimson eyes at him and Peter answered with bright beta blue. 

And they ran. 

Side by side, in beta shift, Peter and Stiles ran through the woods, glorying in the strength of their limbs and the grace and speed bestowed by their supernatural status. They danced around each other in the moonlight, playing chase and tumbling each other in gentle tackles that didn’t leave so much as a bruise. 

They chased a deer just because they could, acting out what could have been a successful hunt. However, at its conclusion, Stiles bumped his nose against the downed deer’s neck instead of taking the killing blow. Then he stepped back and watched it run off, Peter panting lightly at his side. They were both still full and content from the dinner they had gorged themselves on and had no need for the kill. They just wanted the primal joy of the successful hunt and were satisfied with that. 

They continued running, loping the circumference of the border, patrolling their territory and circling through it for anything out of place until late at night, or perhaps, early in the morning, depending on how you looked at it. 

When at last Stiles felt pleasantly worn out instead of restless and energized, he turned towards home, and they ran back, side by side, moonlight glinting on fangs and claws. They slipped inside quietly to avoid waking his dad whom Stiles could hear snoring in his room. 

They got ready for bed in companionable silence and collapsed onto Stiles’s bed, curling together and falling into an exhausted sleep. 

As he fell asleep, Stiles felt a tired smile curl at the corners of his mouth. As far as he was concerned, his first full moon was a resounding success.

Chapter Text

The day after the full moon passed in a hazy flash. Fortunately, Stiles was highly accustomed to functioning on little to no sleep thanks to his frequent research binges that often kept him up most, if not all, of the night. It wasn’t a pleasant day, but he made it through with minimal issues. 

When he got home, his dad was still at the station and Peter was nowhere to be seen. His scent was faded in the house and Stiles suspected that he had left shortly after he and his dad had. He hadn’t really expected Peter to wait around an empty house while he was at school, but it wasn’t sitting right with him for some reason. 

Stiles climbed back into his jeep with a faint frown and drove off. He knew which apartment complex Peter lived in even if he didn’t know exactly which unit. Sue him. When Peter came back to life, he hadn’t trusted the wolf as far as his measly human body could throw him. With one hand. So, in an abundance of caution, Stiles had followed him, carefully, and in sections over several days until he was able to narrow down which apartment complex Peter came and went from. Trying to track him closer would have had far too high a risk of getting caught, so Stiles had left it there, mostly satisfied. 

Now he used that knowledge, pulling up to the complex and wandering around on foot. Before long he was able to catch Peter’s scent and followed it to a door. 

For lack of anything better to do, Stiles knocked.

Peter opened the door after a few moments, looking at Stiles in slight surprise. “Stiles. Is something wrong?” 

Stiles smiled. “No, just wondered what you were up to. You weren’t at the house when I got home.” 

Peter shrugged and glanced away. “There didn’t seem to be any point.”

An awkward silence stretched for a couple moments, before Peter broke it.

“Would you like to come in?” he said, slightly uncomfortably.

“Please.”

Peter stepped aside to let Stiles in, and Stiles took the opportunity to pull Peter in for a brief hug, bumping their cheeks together gently in greeting. Peter wore a soft smile when he pulled back. 

Stiles stepped into the living room of Peter's apartment, and then stopped and blinked around the room, startled. The apartment was entirely impersonal. Stiles couldn’t spot anything that showed that Peter was making the place his. The walls were bare, the shelves empty, and the room practically show ready. In fact, from the smell of it, not even the furniture was his, reeking of dozens of strangers. If it wasn't for Peter’s scent, laced with heartache and permeating the room, or the lone book resting on the coffee table, the only possession of Peter’s that Stiles could see from his vantage point, he would think that the apartment was currently on the market. 

Peter tensed beside him. “I didn’t…” 

Stiles interrupted him, placing a hand on his shoulder. “I get it.” 

He did too. After his mom had died, he hadn’t cared about making anything look nice. Why should it? She hadn’t been there to appreciate it. The house had degraded swiftly before Stiles had been knocked out of his funk by the need to take care of his dad. His dad had taken a little longer. 

The Hale fire might have been years ago, but it was easy to forget that Peter had been in a coma for most of that time. It was still fresh for him.

Stiles cast another long glance around the room. Then nodded decisively. “Grab your things, Peter. I don’t want you to be alone here. There’s plenty of room at my house.” 

Peter crossed his arms over his chest, avoiding Stiles’s gaze. “I am perfectly capable of living by myself, Stiles. I do not require your charity.” 

Stiles huffed and stepped directly in front of Peter. “Look at me,” he said and waited for Peter to drag his eyes to him, glaring defensively. “I know you’re perfectly capable and it’s not charity. You’re pack. That means something to me. It means that I don’t want you to be by yourself in a place that makes you miserable. Unless you can honestly tell me you’re happy here by yourself?” 

Peter hesitated for several moments, until Stiles honestly thought he was actually going to try and lie to him. 

Finally Peter blew out a slow breath and dropped his eyes. “No, Alpha. It is not the most enjoyable of living situations.”

Stiles nodded and bumped their shoulders together lightly. “I know my house isn’t exactly fancy, but there’s plenty of room, and I can’t deny that I would prefer to have all of my pack together under the same roof. Tell yourself you’re doing it for me if you’d like.” Stiles shot him a quirked half-grin at the last bit, and Peter answered with a faint smirk.

“No, I’m doing it so I can finally get a decent night’s sleep,” he retorted. “I’m not sure what’s worse. The apartment to the left with the newborn baby that can’t sleep through nights or the house to the right with the chihuahua. That rat masquerading as a canine barks at everything .”

Stiles laughed and shooed him away. “Go get your things.”

Peter shot him another smirk over his shoulder and jogged into an adjoining room. 

By the time they got back to Stiles’s house, his dad’s cruiser was parked in the driveway. Stiles took a deep breath and nodded to himself. Peter shot him a curious look. 

Stiles smiled at him reassuringly. “Go for a run. I need to talk to my dad for a bit in private. I’ll call you when we’re done.”

Peter’s hand flexed and relaxed repeatedly on the strap of his bag. “I don’t want to impose…” he started slowly.

Stiles shook his head. “You’re not. But I have to talk to him first, and I don’t want him to feel pressured or cornered by you being present for that conversation.” 

Peter studied him for a second and then jerked one shoulder in a half-shrug. “Very well. At least tell him I’ll pay rent.”

Stiles snorted. “Will do.”

Stiles watched as Peter jogged off and took another deep breath before walking into the house. He had been telling the truth. He was pretty sure that his dad would be fine with this. It wasn’t the first time they had put someone up. His mom had brought home an acquaintance who needed help once, and the woman had lived with them for a couple months while she got her feet back under her. Still, it was bringing the supernatural a step closer, and, as his dad had pointed out when Stiles decided to become an alpha, it was still his house.

Stiles’s dad was in the kitchen washing a mug when he walked in.

“Hey dad, can I talk to you for a sec?” 

His tone clearly gave something away because his dad immediately set down the mug and turned around, scanning Stiles for injuries. 

“What’s wrong?” 

Stiles quirked a lip briefly before smoothing out his face. This was serious. “Nothing’s wrong. I just… well… I wanted to ask if it would be possible for Peter to move in here.” 

His dad blinked and turned back to the sink, quickly rinsing off the dish and setting aside, then drying off his hands. Stiles waited, trying not to fidget as his dad turned back to face him, leaning against the edge of the sink and folding his arms over his chest. 

“Why?” he asked. 

Stiles took a breath and composed his thoughts. “Because he’s living by himself in a mostly empty apartment that he apparently hasn’t had the motivation to actually move into. It could be a catalog model for all the personality he’s put into it. The Hale fire was years ago, but he was in a coma for most of that time and I’m pretty sure he’s still grieving. I wouldn’t want anyone living alone in that situation, much less a wolf, for whom bonds and community are so important.” 

His dad nodded slowly, clearly thinking through what Stiles had said. “And how much of the request is because of your alpha instincts?” 

Stiles grimaced slightly and glanced away before fixing his gaze firmly back on his dad. “Probably a decent amount to be honest. My instincts are telling me I should protect and provide for my pack and Peter’s situation falls right smack dab in the middle of that. I also want to keep him close so I have both of my packmates near. I can’t properly explain how right it feels when you’re both near or how wrong it feels when you’re not. But instincts aside, Peter really does need help right now.” 

Stiles’s dad nodded again. “Is his living situation really that bad?”

Stiles frowned. “It’s hard to explain to someone without wolf instincts. Put it this way: wolves are territorial animals, right? Marking and establishing a territory is incredibly important, a den even more so. And Peter hasn’t bothered to make that his territory or den in any significant way. That’s huge, and definitely indicative of an underlying problem. Even worse, the furniture is the base stuff that came with the apartment. We can smell everyone that used it and everything they used it for —which, yuck by the way. Keeping and using it is kind of like using a stranger’s dirty silverware every day because you can’t be bothered to wash it or get your own. Concerning, right?”

His dad snorted. “I see your point.” 

He remained silent for several moments in thought and Stiles waited, biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. Of course, the tiny injuries healed almost immediately. Another win for supernatural healing in weird places. 

Eventually his dad nodded with a soft sigh. “We can try it out. If it's not working out for some reason we’ll have to reevaluate and find a different solution to help Peter, but he can stay here for now.”

Stiles tried not to let the relieved breath he let out be too obvious and stepped forward to hug his dad. “Thanks. I really appreciate it.”

“You do realize that you’re never going to get away from the ‘bringing home strays’ jokes now right?” 

Stiles laughed. “I’d like to say I’m surprised,” he said.

“But you’re not.” his dad finished, grinning.

“But I’m not,” Stiles agreed. “Oh! By the way, Peter is willing to pay rent if you’d like.” 

His dad raised an eyebrow. “I’m not sure how necessary rent is, but I would definitely appreciate a hand with the grocery bill. You ate like a bottomless pit when you were just a human teenager, but now it's ridiculous! And now you’re telling me that I’ll have two wolves at the table? You’ll eat us out of house and home!” 

Stiles laughed again. “I’m sure Peter will be happy to pitch in. I’ll tell him.”

He wandered out of the kitchen and called Peter to let him know the good news and that he was good to come back from his run. 

That evening as they were eating dinner together, Stiles’s dad looked up at Peter. “I admit, I don’t know all that much about big wolf packs, but did you have jobs in the normal world or did you just do things with other supernatural creatures?” 

Peter snorted and set his fork down, a bittersweet half-smile on his face. “No, Almost all of us had jobs in town. It helps maintain ties with the community and prevents an isolationist, egotistical outlook. I was a lawyer.” His expression grew slightly longing and nostalgic. 

Stiles’s dad gave an impressed hum and Stiles tilted his head at Peter consideringly. “Did you enjoy it?” he asked. 

Peter nodded. “I did. And I was damn good at it too, if I say so myself.” 

Stiles grinned. “I bet you were.” 

Peter smirked. Stiles tapped his finger lightly against the table, thinking, and Peter gave him a curious look. 

“Why don’t you go back to it?” Stiles asked. “Become a lawyer again?” 

Peter hesitated. “There’s rather a lot of paperwork necessary to reestablish myself and I’ll probably have to retake some tests. It’s not the most encouraging of prospects, and I suppose I never quite got around to it. 

“I wouldn’t expect a lawyer to be intimidated by paperwork,” Stiles’s dad pointed out. 

Peter chuckled. “Point. Maybe I’ll look into it.” 

“You should,” Stiles said. “I have no doubt that you would be incredible.”

Peter smirked. “Of course I would.” But he had straightened in his chair, shoulders pulled back in new-found confidence and pride. 

Stiles grinned into his plate. 

After dinner, Stiles herded Peter out into the backyard. “Spar with me,” He ordered. He finally had a werewolf sparring partner and he was more than ready to work out the kinks in his fighting style. 

Peter blinked in surprise, then a wild grin stretched across his face and he lunged at Stiles. 

Stiles laughed, twisting away from the attack, and the fight was on. 

They circled each other, exchanging blows until the sun fully set and night spread darkness over everything. Werewolf night vision meant they didn’t have to stop then, but Stiles called it there anyways. He had homework to complete, as much as he would rather spend time out here, training with his beta. Peter had had the better of him at the start of the session, his superior experience giving him a massive edge with both of them holding back in severity in respect to the training aspect. But Stiles was getting the hang of how his superior strength and speed could be used in a fight, and was pleased with his progress. 

“That was excellent,” he said, wiping sweat from his brow and checking a couple light scratches to make sure they were healing properly. 

It was only training, so they had both been careful not to leave anything worse than that. Especially Stiles, since his alpha status meant that any injuries he gave Peter would take significantly longer to heal. He scanned Peter next. Peter also had a few scratches and shallow cuts where Stiles hadn’t been able to fully pull a blow, but nothing that wouldn’t heal up in an hour or two. 

They went inside, knocking shoulders together companionably and both grinning with leftover adrenaline and excitement. 

Stiles’s dad looked up from some paperwork at the table, and smiled at them. “Have fun?”

Stiles grinned. “Yep! We’ll definitely be doing that again. With how much a hellmouth Beacon Hills has been recently, training is definitely a priority of mine. We’ll have to switch out with running the border, but I’ll figure out some sort of schedule.”

His dad chuckled. “I have every confidence you will. Now, shoo! Go shower! I can smell you from here and I don’t have a supernatural nose.” 

Stiles shot him an over-dramatic offended look and clutched a hand to his chest as if wounded deeply, but turned to jog up the stairs. Peter followed easily, laughing at his theatrics. 

That night, Stiles and Peter shared his bed again, curled together like two peas in a pod —or rather, two wolves in a pack. It was one of the best nights of sleep Stiles had ever gotten. 

The next few weeks flew past in a blissful haze. Stiles went to school in the mornings while his dad went to work and Peter went about the massive undertaking of reestablishing himself in the mundane world. Peter was also reaching out to former contacts and building a paper trail to explain his coma and sudden recovery. It was a slow process, but he had high hopes that within a couple months, he would be able to take on clients again. 

They spent evenings together, playing games or watching movies if they had time, but more often working on paperwork or homework respectively, while together in the living room. Stiles had also made it a priority to eat dinner together if at all possible. Family dinners had been rare for Stiles and his dad recently between his dad working late so often and Stiles spending so much time researching the supernatural and trying to hide its presence. Now though, they had dinner together almost every night. Schedule permitting, Stiles alternated sparring with Peter in the backyard with running the borders. Most nights, he collapsed into bed exhausted and curled around his beta, sleeping like a rock.

Peter flopped down onto the couch with an overdramatic huffing sigh and flung an arm over his eyes. 

Stiles looked up from his homework assignment on the other end of the couch and raised an amused eyebrow. His dad also looked up from his paperwork he was working on from his chair, grinning. 

“Problem?” Stiles asked. 

Peter rolled his head over to look at him and gave him a pathetically aggrieved look. “I just got off the phone with the county judge. It took two hours to convince the man that it wasn’t a prank call or an elaborate lie. Two hours! I was this close to just telling him I was a werewolf that had an unexpected vacation in the afterlife for a while before I returned to the land of the living and that was why my records didn’t match up perfectly!”

Stiles bit his lip to contain his amusement. His dad had no such qualms and was snickering in the corner unrepentantly. Peter shot him a mostly playful glare and John just grinned back. 

Stiles shook his head. “Well, I’m proud of your restraint in not revealing the supernatural world despite how much harder that made your life,” he said with a perfectly straight face and formal tone. 

His dad broke out laughing again.

“ Thank you , Stiles,” Peter said, shooting John a pointed look that utterly failed to have any effect. “I’m glad that someone here appreciates the difficulties I face.” Peter stuck his nose up in the air snootily at the last bit, and Stiles lost his frail grasp on his composure, dissolving into laughter himself.

Peter maintained his affronted look for a few seconds, before he started chuckling as well, tilting his head to look at the ceiling and sighing softly in relaxed contentment. 

“All jokes aside, I have done all that I can on that front for a while. It’s all a waiting game now while bureaucracy grinds along at its typical snail’s pace. And for the better too. If I ever have to talk a confused clerk through out-dated forms and protocols that neither of us fully understand, it will be too soon. And right now I would rather eat my phone than make another call.” 

Stiles snorted and made a beckoning gesture, shifting his homework aside. “Come here.”

Peter glanced at him briefly and flopped sideways so that his head landed on Stiles’s thigh with a soft thud. Stiles carded a hand through his hair and scratched lightly at his scalp. Peter let out a rumbling purr of a hum and went boneless, eyes drifting shut. 

Stiles smiled down at him fondly. “You’ve done well,” he said. “I’m proud of you.”

Peter blinked open his eyes and they flashed supernatural blue. “Alpha,” he said simply. 

Stiles flashed his eyes crimson in response and watched as Peter relaxed even further if such a thing was possible. 

They sat in comfortable silence for a while, Stiles idly stroking Peter’s hair while the older wolf lay contentedly. Stiles’s dad watched them both with a fond look. 

Eventually, Stiles spoke up and broke the silence. “If you’re bored and looking for something to do now, I could use a hand with a project I’ve been meaning to get around to for a while now.” 

Peter hummed and stretched languidly, —but carefully without dislodging his head, Stiles noticed— and lazily opened his eyes to look up at him. 

“What’s that?” he asked.

“You’re probably aware that I’ve done a lot of research since I found out about the supernatural, including researching whatever random monster of the week wanders through here?” 

Peter nodded as best he could from his position.

“Well, I have several bookmarked web pages, loads of handwritten or typed notes, a bunch of photos, a couple of books with references and even a handful of photocopied pages from the Argent’s bestiary. I’ve been meaning to assemble that research into some easily referenced master copy, but I keep getting distracted and haven’t gotten around to it. If you’re interested, I would really appreciate a hand with that, but no obligations if you’re not interested.”

Peter hummed again, but this time it had a distinctly interested tone to it. “Sounds fascinating,” he said. “I would love to see what you’ve come up with.” 

Stiles beamed at him. “Thanks! And feel free to add your own knowledge in where relevant, just let me know. Thanks again, I really appreciate it.” 

“How much research do you have?” Stiles’s dad broke in. 

Stiles shot him a wry look. “Lots?” he offered. “I’m honestly not sure. I’ve researched a bunch. Both out of idle curiosity and true need. It definitely doesn’t help that when we weren’t sure what we were facing —which was most of the time— I researched the hell out of anything I thought it could possibly be just in case. And then there’s all the results of the various research rabbit holes chased by a tired, coffee-fueled, ADHD brain. Which will probably need some judicious editing to be honest. A good bit of it probably isn’t entirely accurate.” 

His dad snorted and nodded. Peter gave him an amused look. 

“Sounds like I have my work cut out for me. Should I run away now?” 

“Yes,” Stiles’s dad quipped immediately, grinning down at his paperwork. 

Stiles shot him an offended look that was wasted due to his dad’s refusal to look up. A deliberate action done just to spite him, Stiles was sure.

Rolling his eyes, Stiles turned back to Peter. “Nope. Too late now. You’ve already agreed.”

Peter chuckled and shut his eyes again. “Yes, Alpha.”

A few days later and after Stiles’s second full moon —another highly enjoyable bonding experience— Stiles parked the jeep outside the loft. Scott had called for a pack training session, and Stiles had decided that he and Peter would attend to keep up appearances. Not to mention, it would be helpful for Stiles to have the chance to compare other fighting styles to his own and for Peter to practice his skills against wolves other than Stiles. 

Despite that, neither of them were particularly looking forward to the experience, and after Stiles turned the jeep off, they both hesitated a moment, staring out the windshield. 

“Must we?” Peter murmured, glancing sideways at Stiles. 

Stiles gave him a commiserating look and nodded. “Yeah, come on, let’s go.” 

Scott greeted them at the door. “Hey Stiles! Good to see you, man!” He flicked a glance over Peter as the older man slipped past them to go inside, but didn’t say anything to him. Instead, he slung an arm over Stiles shoulders and drew him into a sideways hug. As he did, his nose curled up. “Why the hell do you smell like Peter, Stiles?”

Stiles blinked and then cursed himself for not thinking of this. He hadn’t seen Scott outside of school since he accepted Peter as his beta, and ignoring their supernatural sense of smell was practically essential to maintain sanity inside the school building. Still, the lack of reaction had clearly lulled him into a false sense of security. 

He shrugged as casually as he could. “I spend a lot of time with him, I guess.” 

Scott gave him a thoroughly befuddled look. “Why?” 

The confusion in that question, the implication that Peter had no redeeming qualities to justify spending time with him, raised Stiles’s hackles almost as much as the minute flinch he could see in Peter’s shoulders behind Scott’s back. 

Stiles glared at Scott, fighting for enough control to not give everything away. “Because he’s incredibly intelligent? Because he’s got a great sense of humor and a dry wit that really melds well with my snark? Maybe because now that he’s not crazy anymore, he’s loyal as the day is long with invaluable experience?” 

Scott reared back, clearly startled by the passionate defense.  

“Whoa!” he said. “The hell, Stiles?” 

Behind him, Peter stared at Stiles with a mixture of surprise and awe. Stiles blew out a breath and forced himself to relax. 

“Sorry. I know you don’t particularly like or trust Peter after what he did to you and whatever, that’s your prerogative. But you keep him at the edges of the pack and that’s not really enough to keep his wolf stable. I’ve gotten to know him a lot better recently and he’s a pretty decent guy under the sarcasm. And honestly, who am I to judge someone for some sarcasm?” 

Scott let out a little laugh at that and relaxed. “If you say so, Stiles. So you’ve been like what? Some sort of supplementary pack boost? And that’s why you smell like him?”

“Something like that,” Stiles snorted.

“Well, alright then,” Scott said “I guess if it keeps Peter sane then that’s okay. Thanks.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and bumped Scott’s shoulder with his own. “I wasn’t looking for permission or thanks Scotty, but okay.”

Stiles went inside and leaned against the wall beside Peter, brushing their shoulders together. Scott gave them another confused look, but shrugged and turned to chat with Erica where she, Boyd, and Isaac had staked out a corner. All three of them were shooting Stiles curious looks, but they seemed relatively satisfied with the explanation they overheard. 

Derek, standing in the opposite corner, looked far more suspicious. He was experienced enough with the supernatural that he wouldn’t be satisfied with Stiles’s apparent agreement with Scott’s assumptions. Still, Stiles was fairly confident he wouldn’t suspect the truth. Not yet at least. He was well aware that as a born wolf, Derek would have a higher likelihood of catching Stiles in some werewolf-ism than the other betas, relatively recently bitten and inexperienced as they were as a result. 

Stiles deliberately gave him a dramatic wave and watched with a grin as Derek predictably rolled his eyes and looked away, suspicions forgotten. Sometimes, being considered obnoxious had its advantages. 

Once everyone was distracted and wrapped up in their own things, Peter leaned a little more heavily against Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles immediately glanced at him. 

“Did you mean it?” Peter asked, his voice a mere breath of a whisper that would likely go unnoticed by the other wolves. 

Stiles faced forwards again. He didn’t need to ask what Peter was referring to.

 “Yes,” he said, equally softly.

Peter blew out a soft breath and raised his opposite hand to brush his hair back. He tilted his head briefly as he did, subtly flashing throat. 

Stiles’s lip twitched, and he bumped his hand against Peter’s between their sides, making sure his fingertips brushed the pulse point in Peter’s wrist. 

Unbeknownst to them both, Derek caught the exchange of gestures from the corner of his eye and a confused, impossible, suspicion bloomed in the back of his mind, lurking even as he mentally dismissed the interaction. 

The noise level increased noticeably when Lydia and Jackson arrived, but Allison was notably absent. Lydia apparently saw his confusion and the way he peered over her shoulder for the missing form.

“Allison is spending the evening with her father. They’ve had it planned for a while now,” she explained. 

Stiles nodded his thanks. Scott’s abrupt decision to have pack training time made a great deal of sense all of a sudden. He shook off the unkind thought off and refocused. 

With everyone having arrived, they made their way outside, and the wolves paired up for sparring. 

Stiles found a convenient tree to lean against, close enough that he could see clearly, but not so close that he ran the risk of being in the way. Lydia mimicked him with a different tree, a little farther away. But instead of watching the wolves, she immediately pulled out her phone and began scrolling, her bearing one of tolerant disdain. 

There were seven wolves, an odd number that could have seen someone being left out, but Stiles was pleased to see that the problem was solved by Erica and Isaac teaming up against Scott. Derek sparred Jackson, and to Stiles’s pleasant surprise, Boyd approached Peter to spar with him. Maybe his fervent defense would make the other wolves look at Peter a little differently. 

As the various skirmishes began, Stiles focused, eyes darting between the combatants, noticing things he had missed when he watched previously. Boyd was a solid force with an impressive defense, but he was too hesitant to attack. Erica was his opposite, so focused on attacking that she frequently left holes in her defense. Together they would probably be a formidable team, but separate, as they were now, they would be picked off easily by an experienced opponent. 

Jackson had a fairly decent mixture of defense and offense but his inexperience showed clearly in his unpracticed movements and he kept leaving his left side open. He also moved with a laziness that showed how trivial he considered the exercise. 

Scott had a fairly similar skill level to Jackson, but the enhanced strength and speed from the alpha spark let him make up for a lot of sloppiness in technique. Against betas, it worked well enough, but Stiles suspected that an experienced alpha or even a beta with experience against alphas would be able to take him without much difficulty. 

Isaac fluctuated strangely between overly aggressive attacks and excessively hesitant, defensive dodging. Stiles found his eyes drawn to the boy several times during the session, frowning as he tried to figure out why he fought like that.  

The two Hale wolves were clearly head and shoulders above the rest in terms of skill and experience, but Peter was definitely the most dangerous wolf to Stiles’s private satisfaction. He moved with lethal precision and without any wasted movement. However, despite the obvious mismatch in skill, he sparred well with Boyd, drawing him out and wordlessly encouraging him to take advantage of opportunities he deliberately left open. 

Stiles was so proud of him, and during the break between matches, caught Peter’s eye so he could see the pride and approval there. His beta’s shoulders straightened, and his trademark smirk broadened slightly. 

Peter sparred with Erica next, meeting her with a flurry of fast-paced attacks that forced her to practice her defense. He sat out a round while Scott faced Derek one-on-one. A close and relatively well-matched fight, Stiles noted. Then Peter sparred with Jackson, pointing out various weaknesses in his fighting style with ruthless efficiency until the younger wolf started to try harder. 

Finally, as the sun set, the wolves wrapped up their various fights and started to head in. 

Stiles deliberately lingered at the back of the group, letting everyone else go on ahead. Peter waited as well, sweeping over the area to make sure there were no obvious signs that a pack of supernatural teenagers had spent the evening training together. When he was satisfied, he trotted up to Stiles, head tilted in clear curiosity. 

Stiles smiled and slipped a hand around his head the grip the nape of his neck gently. He pulled Peter in and rested their foreheads together. Peter hummed and relaxed, leaning his weight onto Stiles, trusting him to hold him up. They stood there for a few moments, sharing the same air and enjoying the moment of peace. 

“You did well today,” Stiles finally said, keeping his voice low to avoid drawing the attention of the rest of the pack. “I’m proud of you.”

Stiles could practically feel Peter preen under the praise and snorted softly before releasing his beta. Peter shot him a grin, bright and happy, and flashed his eyes mischievously. Stiles rolled his eyes, but since he was facing away from the rest of the group, he flashed them back just to see Peter smirk and toss his head in a playful flash of throat. Stiles rolled his eyes again, but Peter’s cheerful mood was contagious, and he felt his own spirits rise in response. He and Peter would definitely have to go for a run together after this. 

“Come on,” he said and jogged after the group, Peter falling into step easily at his side. 

When they caught up, they fell in at the back as everyone filed into the loft. Scott was joking with Jackson, the beta snipping teasingly at Scott’s various short-comings during their spar while Scott made a show of being far more angry at the display than he actually was. Stiles caught Peter’s eye and shared a long-suffering, amused look with him. 

Scott made a bee-line for the kitchen as soon as he crossed the threshold and grabbed a hand towel to mop the sweat from his brow. Jackson followed, leaning against the counter and smirking. 

“And then of course, there was the time you over-extended at the end there and nearly lost your balance, windmilling your arms like an amateur tightrope walker,” he drawled. 

Stiles knew the instance Jackson was referring to, though of course, Jackson was highly exaggerating. Scott rolled his eyes at the banter and flashed red eyes with a playful growl. He also flicked the sweaty hand towel he was holding at Jackson, popping it so it cracked like a whip as it hit the beta’s thigh. Jackson yelped exaggeratedly, but Stiles abruptly lost interest in their display. 

The apartment had suddenly filled with the scent of fear, sharp and acrid, so heavy that Stiles could practically taste it against his tongue.

Chapter Text

Stiles whipped his head around, tracking the source of the fear-scent. 

Isaac.  

The teen stood, staring at Scott and Jackson, but his eyes were hazy and unfocused, clearly not seeing the room around him. His heart was racing far faster than could possibly be healthy, supernatural or not, and his chest fluttered with shallow pants. Even as Stiles watched, beta shift crawled over Isaac’s features and a high, reedy whine built in the back of his throat, desperate and pleading, clawing at Stiles instincts. 

He’s having a panic attack.  

The thought flashed through Stiles’s mind as he pushed forwards, stepping between Isaac and the rest of the room. 

“Stay back,” he called over his shoulder. “Give us space.” 

Bare minimum of instructions conveyed, Stiles blocked out the rest of the room, focusing entirely on the boy in distress in front of him. 

Stiles slowly walked forwards, keeping his hands at his sides, open and unthreatening. “Easy, Isaac. You’re not there anymore. You’re safe. You’re at the loft. Focus on me, Isaac. Can I come closer? I won’t hurt you, I promise. You’re safe.”

Isaac’s head snapped towards him, but Stiles could tell he still wasn’t tracking at all. 

Stiles slowly moved forwards, words spilling from his mouth autopilot as his thoughts raced.

What had been the trigger? Was there something or someone he needed to get out of the room? 

Isaac had been staring at Scott and Jackson. It was probably safe to assume it had something to do with their joking around. 

Think Stiles! What triggers you?

Certain objects, memories, some smells, sounds… 

Sounds!

Scott had cracked the towel against Jackson’s leg and the teen had given an exaggerated yelp of pain. The yelp, fake or not, had sounded real enough to trigger something and the towel had cracked rather loudly, like a whip or… —Stiles’s heart sank— …or a belt. He cursed himself for eight kinds of fool. Isaac’s dad had locked him up in a freezer for crying out loud. Why in the world had he assumed that the abuse had ended there?

Stiles shoved the thoughts aside. He could think about that later. Isaac needed him in the now. He kept talking and inching forwards. The horrible fear and desperation on Isaac’s face as he stared towards him unseeing tore at his heart. 

“That’s good, Isaac. That’s good. Just focus on me. Well done. I’m stepping closer. It’s alright. You’re safe. Just you and me. Keep focusing on me.”

Stiles kept walking forward, keeping his movements slow but steady. If he showed any uncertainty, it could cause Isaac to spiral farther, so calm confidence was key. Once close enough, he reached out. 

“Hey, Isaac. I’m right here. You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m going to touch you now. Just focus on me. You’re not there anymore.” 

Stiles rested a gentle hand on Isaac’s shoulder. Like flipping a switch, Isaac flinched, hard , and dropped to the ground, a keening whine falling from his lips. Stiles followed him down, cushioning the beta from the concrete floor with his own body and maintaining contact. Isaac curled into the fetal position, and Stiles pulled him against his own body so that Isaac’s head rested against his chest. The teen was impossibly tense, his muscles as unyielding as iron. 

“Easy, Isaac. You’re not there anymore. Focus on me. Can you hear my heartbeat? Listen to it, focus on it. Can you hear my breath?” Here, Stiles drew in an exaggeratedly deep breath. “Try and match my breathing. Breath with me. You’re safe.” 

Stiles wasn’t sure how long he sat there, holding Isaac close and murmuring endless reassurances, but finally, Isaac drew in a deeper breath, gasping slightly. 

“Good!” Stiles praised. “Again, with me.” 

He drew in a deep breath and Isaac mimicked him shakily. 

“Good!” Stiles praised again. “You’re doing great. Just keep breathing with me. Focus on me. You’re okay. You’re doing great.” 

As Isaac continued to drag in shaky breaths in time with Stiles’s example, Stiles rubbed his back soothingly. Isaac slowly relaxed against him, and his heart rate gradually returned to a more normal speed. 

“Is he…” Someone spoke up from the other side of the room. They cut off, or rather, were cut off by the sound of it, almost immediately, but the damage was already done. Isaac stiffed abruptly at the reminder that other people were in the room and Stiles could have happily eviscerated the idiot who spoke up. He wasn’t sure who it was, but he didn’t care. 

Instinctively, Stiles slid his hand up Isaac’s back and squeezed the back of his neck firmly. 

“Just focus on me, Isaac. Just you and me. You’re doing great.” 

Isaac went limp against Stiles again, burying his nose against the crook of Stiles’s neck. Stiles held him close, maintaining the gentle grip on his neck and brushing his thumb absently across the beta’s pulse. Humming soothingly, Stiles looked over Isaac’s shoulders, scanning the room with narrowed eyes. 

Peter stood between him and the pack, obviously having herded everyone away into the corner to give him and Isaac space. He stood directly in front of Jackson, one hand clamped over the boy’s mouth, the other holding shifted claws against his jugular. Jackson’s eyes were wide and white-rimmed as he stood stock still in the hold. He was likely the source of the ill-timed remark. 

Stiles hid a smile. He was so damn proud of his beta. He stopped his hum just long enough to blow a soft snort of air out his nose. The noise was quiet, but it broke the pattern he had been maintaining and immediately caught Peter’s attention. His beta’s head shot around to fix supernaturally blue eyes on him without shifting his hold on Jackson so much as a fraction of an inch. 

Stiles smiled at him and tilted his head towards the door fractionally. 

Peter’s eyes faded back to their normal color and he nodded sharply once. He glared at Jackson one more time and rumbled a nearly subsonic growl before releasing him. Then he chivvied everyone out of the loft. They protested in near silent whispers to avoid Peter’s wrath. Scott especially objected to being kicked out by who he considered his least favorite beta, but Peter was insistent, and no one particularly wanted to test him after his display with Jackson, so eventually they filed out. 

Finally truly alone, Stiles returned his attention to the beta in his arms. Isaac’s breathing was steady and deep, and his beta shift had receded, leaving purely human features behind. To all outward appearances, he seemed to have recovered from his panic attack. But Stiles was intimately familiar with how a panic attack could leave you feeling shaky and unstable for hours afterwards, and he didn’t want to leave Isaac alone. Especially since the teen had made exactly no movements to pull away from him.

But the concrete floor was hardly the best location for extended comfort, and werewolf healing or no, Stiles’s butt was going numb. Still, he waited another handful of minutes, listening as the rest of the pack drove off. Peter’s heartbeat lingered just outside, close enough to hear Stiles should he call, but far enough to give them a semblance of privacy.

“Alright, come on,” Stiles finally said. “Let’s go.” 

Isaac trembled in his grip briefly before clearly dragging himself together and pulling away. But Stiles didn’t let him pull away entirely, helping him up and pulling him into a tight hug as soon as they were standing. Isaac leaned into the contact immediately. 

“Okay Isaac, you have a choice,” Stiles said, ignoring the way Isaac stiffened at the words. “I’ve had panic attacks before, so I know exactly how sucky it feels afterwards. You’re more than welcome to come home with me. We can watch cheesy movies and eat way too much junk food. Hell, you can even stay the night if you’d like. But I won’t force you into anything if you’d rather be alone.”

Isaac was silent for a long moment. Long enough that Stiles started to wonder if he had actually heard him. Isaac finally shifted in place, nosing against Stiles neck, scenting hesitantly, the werewolf version of looking for comfort. Stiles gave a soothing rumble in his chest and twisted his head until he could nose along Isaac’s temple, scenting him back easily. Isaac sighed softly. 

“If it wouldn’t be a bother…” he started slowly, not looking up. “I don’t really want to be alone…”

Stiles hummed. “Then it’s a plan. We’ll go back to my house, —Peter will come too by the way— and binge on movies and snacks. We’ll have a blast and stay up way too late. I can’t wait!”

Isaac gave a watery chuckle and pulled back enough to give Stiles a hesitant smile. Stiles grinned back. 

Stiles shifted Isaac so he had an arm slung over the beta’s shoulders and used the contact to guide him out the door. Peter met them at the doorway, an amused expression on his face as he fell in step.

As Stiles walked past him, he raised a questioning eyebrow at Peter. Are you okay with this?

Peter gave him a strangely soft smile and nodded easily, tilting his chin back and away briefly. “ Alpha” the acknowledgement said, as clear as words. 

Something inside Stiles relaxed at that, and he flashed crimson eyes over his shoulder in answer. 

The drive home passed in a flash and before Stiles knew it, they were outside his house. Stiles’s dad looked up as they walked inside. 

“Hello, boys,” he said. “How was training?” 

Then he saw Isaac, practically hiding behind Stiles, though his tall, lanky build made that difficult. John blinked.

“Hello, Isaac.” 

He shot Stiles a questioning glance. 

However, Isaac flinched hard as soon he was addressed, colliding with the doorframe and causing Stiles to twist around to catch him. Stiles glanced at Peter in silent request, before focusing on Isaac again, tilting the beta’s chin up so he could meet his eyes. 

“Hey, Isaac, You’re not there. You’re at my house. That was my dad. He won’t hurt you, I promise. I won’t let anything happen to you. Can you trust me?”

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Peter slip around them and approach his dad. 

“A word outside, John?” Peter murmured. 

His dad hesitated, glancing at them in obvious concern, but he relented and nodded. 

“Lead the way,” he said. The two of them left, and Stiles heard the back door open and close behind them. 

Isaac came back to himself relatively quickly. When he did, he dropped his head against Stiles’s shoulder with a tired sigh. 

“Sorry,” he whispered. 

Stiles rubbed his back gently. “Nothing to be sorry for. I get it. Do you think you’ll be alright if my dad comes back in or do you want to go up to my room first?”

“He can come back in. It’s fine. I’m fine.” 

Stiles knew Isaac wasn’t as fine as he was making out to be, but he could tell the teen was determined to put on a brave face regardless. He smiled at Isaac, squeezed the back of neck proudly, and stepped back.

“Alright,” he said and then raised his voice a tad, enough that Peter would know he was talking to him. “You can come back in now, thank you.”

Peter walked back into the room first. Stiles’s dad followed a couple steps behind, obviously making an effort to appear unthreatening and make no sudden movements. 

Isaac tensed and pressed against Stiles’s side, but otherwise stayed in place. 

“Hey Isaac,” Stiles’s dad said casually after a brief silence. “Do you like hot chocolate?” 

It was enough of a non-sequitur to make Isaac blink and relax a bit. 

“Yes?” Isaac said slowly.

“Great! Then you can help me settle a household debate. Stiles likes his with enough sugar to choke a busload of kindergarteners and chili powder of all things!” 

“Oi!” Stiles protested, but laughter was clear in his voice and he couldn’t keep the grin off of his face.

“And Peter here,” John jerked a thumb at the wolf in question who stood to the side smirking. “He likes his to be dark chocolate, almost more bitter than black coffee.”

“Because I am not a child and actually have a refined palate,” Peter interrupted, an amused tilt to his lips. 

John stuck out his tongue at him. A gesture that made Isaac let out an involuntary snort of laughter and caused Peter to raise an eyebrow.  

“So what about you?” John asked. “How do you like yours?”

“Um…” Isaac glanced at Stiles for support, but Stiles only shrugged and made a ‘go ahead’ motion. “Normal? I guess? With marshmallows?” 

“Excellent!” John crowed. “I finally have someone sane to be on my side. Four perfectly normal, perfectly good mugs of hot chocolate coming up. With marshmallows of course, we’re not heathens” 

“Can I have the chili powder at least?” Stiles tried.

“Nope!” his dad said cheerfully. “You’re outnumbered now!” 

“Aww,” Stiles pouted playfully. 

His dad sent them one last grin before leaving for the kitchen. Once he was gone, Isaac gave Stiles a sort of bewilderedly amused look. Stiles shrugged again.

“You’ve met me. Where did you think I got it from?”

Isaac laughed, but he looked far more relaxed now, so Stiles was counting that as a win. It had also almost certainly been his dad’s goal. 

“Come on,” he said. “I want to watch a movie, but we should make someplace comfy to watch it in. We have loads of spare blankets and pillows. We can make a sort of nest on my bed. Who’s your favorite Avenger?”

Peter brought up three mugs of hot chocolate with the promised marshmallows and a couple bags of popped microwave popcorn a little while later. By which point Stiles and Isaac had absolutely tangled themselves up in the blankets. Both of them were lying on the bed, somehow having all but knotted the blankets around themselves in the pursuit of the perfect movie-watching nest. They blinked up at Peter sheepishly. 

“I didn’t realize mummification was a prerequisite for movie watching,” Peter drawled, setting the mugs down. “Shall I fetch some bandages and ropes to make a complete job of it?” 

Stiles snorted. “Shut up and help us out.”

Peter smirked but helped tug the blankets away and into place. 

After some shuffling around and rearranging, the three of them settled in, Stiles in the middle with Isaac on one side and Peter on the other. Isaac had been somewhat shifty around the older wolf at first, but Stiles’s deliberately casual and familiar behavior towards him had clearly reduced his concern and Isaac was fully relaxed again. 

And so, with mugs of hot chocolate in easy reach, they cuddled together in what Stiles was biting his tongue not to refer to as a puppy pile and watched Captain America —Isaac’s favorite Avenger apparently— on Stiles’s laptop. 

One movie turned into two as they just had to watch the next one in the series, and quite without intending to, they fell asleep in a pile together. 

Stiles slowly woke up, dragged into consciousness mentally kicking and screaming, by the shrill tones of his alarms. Stiles cracked his jaw in a massive yawn and leaned over Peter to turn off the noise. The older beta twisted under him to press his nose against Stiles’s collarbone and grumbled sleepily into his chest. Isaac whined softly, rolling over and curling into Stiles’s back, more disturbed by the absence of warmth that Stiles’s movement had caused than the alarm. 

Stiles brushed his nose against Peter’s temple on instinct and ran an absent hand over Isaac’s back to sooth him. As he did, he blinked slowly at the clock, willing the numbers displayed there to make some semblance of sense. 

Then they did. 

“Shit,” he muttered. 

Stiles twisted in place and shook Isaac’s shoulder gently. “Hey Isaac. Come on, man. We have school today. We have to get up. We gotta leave.” 

Isaac growled quietly and curled up tighter, shaking his head into Stiles’s back. Stiles snorted and shifted his grip to the back of Isaac’s neck. 

“Come on, Isaac. Get up. Now,” he said firmly.

The dominance of the tone and the grip worked where gentle urging hadn’t. Isaac stretched and sat up, blinking grumpily at the far wall. Stiles watched with idle amusement as Isaac’s brain visibly turned over, processing the situation. Eventually, he sighed and glanced around before giving Stiles a sheepish grin. 

“I don’t have any of my things,” he said. “Think I could borrow some of yours?” 

Stiles snorted. “Sure. We’ll see what we can scrounge up.” 

The two boys crawled out of the mound of blankets and pillows on the bed, inadvertently jostling Peter as they went, the limited space making it unavoidable. The older wolf cracked open one eye, glaring at them. 

Stiles quirked his lip and reached out to run his hand over Peter’s hair, smoothing his hair and scratching gently at his scalp. 

“You can go back to sleep. We’ll be out of the way soon.” 

Peter closed his eyes at the touch, leaning into it. He stretched languidly, hummed, and opened his eyes, smiling lightly. 

“No matter. I might as well get up now too. Otherwise you might start to think I’m lazy.”

Stiles rolled his eyes and stepped away. 

The next several minutes were an exercise in organized chaos. Stiles and Isaac rushed around each other, taking turns in the bathroom, finding clothes, and gathering belongings. Peter just slipped out of the room ahead of them, and by the time they made it downstairs, he had several toasted bagels with cream cheese ready and waiting for a quick, easy breakfast. 

Isaac grabbed three, stuffing one in his mouth as he made for the door, calling a muffled “Thank you!” over his shoulder as he went. 

Stiles accepted his share, but took the time to pull Peter in and brush their cheeks together. 

“Thanks, Peter. You’re the best.” 

Peter shrugged and smirked. “Of course I am. Have a good day, Al—” He cut the word off with a darted glance at the door and tilted his head to flash throat in combined apology and alternative acknowledgement. 

Stiles smiled and flashed his eyes in response. “You too!” 

The events of the previous night clearly served as some sort of ice-breaker because Isaac sat near Stiles in their shared classes and offered him a companionable nod when they passed in the hallways. Once school let out for the day, Isaac jogged up to Stiles.

“Hey, Stiles!” he called as he neared.

Stiles turned and watched with fond amusement as Isaac hesitated, seemingly losing his resolve. Still, the teen visibly swallowed and steeled himself. 

“I was just wondering if you wanted to hang out at some point…? We never did finish the second movie you know, with falling asleep and all whatnot. Would you want to…?” he trailed off, looking up at Stiles hopefully, his head ducked shyly. 

Stiles grinned easily. “Sure thing. And after we finish it, I can show you why Ironman is superior to Captain America in just about every way.” 

Isaac squawked in outrage, instantly losing all of his hesitance. “He is not! Stark is an asshole and he just…”

Stiles laughed and led the way to his jeep. 

And just like that, Isaac became a common presence at the Stilinski residence. 

With Isaac visiting regularly, it was perhaps inevitable that he would discover Stiles’s secret. Honestly, Stiles was impressed with himself that he made it as long as he did. However, about a month after Isaac’s panic attack and subsequent absorption into the Stilinski household, Stiles slipped. 

It was a peaceful, companionable sort of evening. Stiles and Issac were doing homework together on the couch. They were leaning against opposite arms of the couch. Stiles had his legs curled up underneath him as was his habit, and Isaac had his legs outstretched across the couch so that his sock-covered feet brushed Stiles’s leg. Peter sat in an armchair near Isaac’s side of the couch, facing Stiles. He had a laptop open and some of Stiles’s notes strewn around him as he attempted to create a coherent database out of his accumulated research. 

It was a process that was going extremely slowly to Stiles’s mingled amusement and embarrassment. 

Stiles’s dad sat at the kitchen table, entirely surrounded by paperwork. He muttered to himself as he worked through reports and forms. The werewolves politely ignored his rants, though they occasionally exchanged amused looks at particularly well-worded insults directed towards the writers of especially incomprehensible reports. 

Everyone went about their separate tasks in amicable silence —the Sheriff’s continual diatribe excepted— and the air was primarily filled with the click of keyboards and the scratch of pen on paper. 

Then Peter gave a frustrated huff. “Were you aware that you have four contradictory descriptions of something called a Qilin, Stiles? Four? How am I supposed to know which to keep?? Since they are apparently harbingers of the death of essential leaders, it seems somewhat important to have their description be accurate.” he demanded. 

“Qilin?” Isaac muttered, amused.

Stiles looked up, lips twitching.

“I don’t know which is accurate,” he said. “That’s probably why there’s several options. Just put them all down under that entry and note the uncertainty and potentiality for multiple variations.”

“That’s not the point,” Peter hissed.

“Oh?” Stiles asked, annoyance at Peter’s tone curdling at the back of his mind. 

“No,” Peter snapped. “The point is that there is so much information here —with a lot of it contradicting itself or needing to be pieced together with scraps from other things— that this is ridiculous! Some of it is outright insulting too! Like this so-called ‘source’ on werewolf mates!” 

Peter brandished a printed websheet from the looks of it, and Isaac snickered quietly. 

“Peter,” Stiles interrupted, but the wolf ignored him. 

“I’ll have you know that at no point do civilized wolves have public sex in front of their parents, extended family, and packmates in some sort of bastardized mating ceremony!” he continued, getting more riled up with every word. 

At this point, John was watching and grinning, paperwork abandoned in favor of this new entertainment. Similarly, Isaac watched with wide eyes and twitching lips, homework forgotten. 

“Peter, I know that’s not…” Stiles tried again, but Peter talked right over him. 

“And werewolf blood or liver bile of all the moon-cursed things does not cure heart disease in mermaids! Who even comes up with this crap?!”

“Peter…”

“And maybe wolfsbane has interesting reactions with ingested mugwort in the physiology of wererabbits, I’m certainly not an expert there, but how am I supposed to incorporate that?”

“I hear you, but…”

“Under wolfsbane? Where it could muddle results when we’re looking for medical information in a hurry? Or with wererabbits, where it unnecessarily clutters an entry primarily designed for a broad overview on the essential information needed to address potential threats?”

“Hey, now you’re being unreasonable…”

“Perhaps if you exercised a modicum of restraint or oversight when performing research, I wouldn’t have this problem.” 

“Now that’s personal…” Stiles began to glare, thoroughly annoyed as his beta continued to ignore him, his rant becoming increasingly insulting. 

“Would it kill you to move on when you find information so patently ridiculous? Or perhaps you can’t tell the difference. The wealth of absurdity surrounding me certainly supports that conclu…” 

But at that point, Stiles was well and truly fed up. 

“Peter. That is enough,” he snapped angrily, his eyes flaring Alpha-red and a growl suffusing the words. It was enough to cut Peter off mid-word, jaw snapping closed with an audible click. 

For a moment, the room was dead silent. Then Stiles began to speak, cold danger and venom dripping from every syllable. 

“If you had allowed me to finish even one sentence, I would have told you that I am perfectly aware that some of that information is ridiculous and false. When I started, I kept everything, just in case it came in handy or had a grain of truth somewhere in it. That’s part of what I need you to do: weed out the ridiculous and false so that I have something more reliable. I am also perfectly aware that there’s a lot of superfluous information that will likely never be needed. However, I refuse to get rid of information, so perhaps you can make a compendium of some sort with that sort of trivia minutia. 

“Are these things too hard for you to do respectfully? If so, hand over the project, and I will find the time to do it myself. I do not have the patience to be attacked in such a manner over something I worked so hard over —ridiculous, inaccurate, and unorganized as it may be.” 

By the end of Stiles’s reprimand, Peter had dropped his eyes and bared his throat in submissive beseechment. His hands had also fallen open, palm up by his legs. 

“No, Alpha,” he all but whispered. “I apologize. I was out of line.” 

Stiles relaxed somewhat and let the red bleed out of his eyes, his beta’s unequivocal submission and apology going a long way to calm him down. 

“Come here,” he said. 

Peter immediately set his computer aside and stood, ignoring the papers that scattered  at his movement. He crossed the room swiftly and after a moment’s hesitation, knelt by Stiles’s side, tilting his head to bare throat again. Stiles clasped one hand around the side of Peter’s throat, brushing his thumb against his pulse. 

“I know my research is confusing and disjointed and even comical at times,” he said softly. “Trust me, I’m aware. Why did you think I wanted help with this? I can barely stand the sight of it myself, sometimes,” Stiles gave a soft laugh at that and Peter snorted in amusement, relaxing slightly and glancing up at him.

“I understand your frustration,” Stiles continued. “But I won’t let you take it out on me or ignore me like that. Am I clear?” 

Peter smiled wryly. “Perfectly clear, Alpha. I apologize again. I… lost my head there a bit.” 

“I’ll say,” Stiles snorted. “But it’s alright. I forgive you. We’re good.”

Peter sighed and relaxed, leaning into Stiles and letting his eyes drift closed. Stiles hummed, stroking his thumb idly over his beta’s throat. The moment stretched on. Comfort and reassurance offered and given, resettling and allowing them to regain their equilibrium. 

Isaac cleared his throat awkwardly. “So… When were you going to tell me that you were a werewolf, and an Alpha to boot?” he asked.

Stiles’s head shot up, and he blinked at Isaac for a moment.  

“Oh. Shit.” he said eloquently. 

Peter started laughing. After a moment, John joined in, and Isaac started grinning at him.

Chapter Text

Stiles scrubbed a hand over his face, sighing. 

“Surprise?” he offered sheepishly.

Isaac laughed, and Peter let himself fall forward so that he could muffle his laughter in Stiles’s thigh. Stiles shifted his hand automatically to card through his beta’s hair, and gave him a pretend-annoyed huff.   

“Well, I suppose the cat’s out of the bag now,” he said. “Yeah, I’m an alpha werewolf.” He flashed his eyes briefly in evidence. 

Isaac settled down and grinned at him. “I guess that Peter’s your beta then?”

Stiles nodded. “Yeah, he’s mine.” He could hear the proud satisfaction in his voice, and felt Peter press a little closer. 

“Cough, cough, keeping strays cough, cough” John broke in, grinning into a closed fist pressed to his mouth. Isaac snickered, and Peter’s shoulders started shaking suspiciously. 

Stiles sighed and rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “Something caught in your throat, daddio?” he drawled.

“Must be,” his dad said innocently. 

Peter’s shoulders shook harder and odd sounds came from his lowered head as he did a very poor job of muffling his laughter. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. 

“Perhaps you could go get my dad a glass of water to help with that awful problem with his throat?” he said. 

Peter stood gracefully, smirking. 

“Of course. Your wish is my command, Oh Great Alpha mine.”

As Peter slipped into the kitchen and John all but wheezed with laughter, Stiles dropped his head back to rest against the couch and gave Isaac a long-suffering look. 

“I’m surrounded by comedians,” he deadpanned. 

Isaac lost the battle with his composure and collapsed against the couch, giggling helplessly. Stiles smiled fondly at him. 

After a moment, Isaac regained control of himself. Then a frown stole over his face and his shoulders tensed as he clearly thought through something. He dropped his eyes to stare into space somewhere beside and below Stiles, and one hand picked restlessly at the seam of his pants. 

“Is that why you’ve been so friendly and welcoming?” he asked quietly, still not looking at him. “Because you want me in your pack?”

Stiles’s eyes widened, and he shuffled over immediately to place a reassuring hand on Isaac’s shoulder. 

“Oh, Isaac, no, no, no. That’s not it at all. This isn’t some trick or manipulation at all. I promise. Listen to my heartbeat. Hear it’s truth. The thought of somehow manipulating you into joining my pack never crossed my mind.” 

Isaac peered at his chest intensely, as if he could see beneath clothes and flesh to watch Stiles’s heart beat truth. He relaxed slightly at what he heard. 

Stiles smiled gently. “I’ve spent so much time with you because I genuinely enjoy hanging out with you. You’re a pretty great guy even if your taste in superheroes is faulty at best.” 

Outrage finally drove Isaac to raise his eyes to meet Stiles’s. 

“Hey! You take that back!” he protested. 

Stiles smirked, but then shook his head to dismiss the levity. “All jokes aside, Isaac. I promise that I haven’t tried to manipulate you into anything and I won’t pressure you either. You’re part of Scott’s pack and I respect that.” Stiles hesitated, but continued after a short pause. “That said… If something ever went wrong or anything, I want you to know that you’ll always have a place here.”

Isaac shot him a surprisingly suspicious look. “Just like that? I’ll ‘always have a place here’?”

Stiles nodded. “Just like that.” 

“No tests, no promises, no catch? You just want me?”

“I promise. No catch. I just want you. That’s all I need. It’s how pack should work and how I’ll do it.” 

Isaac dropped his eyes again and blinked rapidly at the floor. 

“Please,” he whispered. 

“What?” Stiles blinked. 

Isaac fixed him with an unexpectedly direct look. 

“I want that. If you mean it, if you just want me, no conditions. I… please. I’ve never…” Isaac trailed off, hesitance coming back over him. 

Stiles pulled him into a tight hug and Isaac burrowed into the hold. 

“I promise I want you, just you. You’re enough for me. You don’t need to do anything else, be anything else,” Stiles whispered fiercely. 

Isaac twisted his head to bare his throat. “Alpha,” he begged softly. “ Alpha. ” 

Stiles didn’t hesitate. He shifted his hold enough that he had the room to fit his teeth around the side of Isaac’s neck, holding firmly but gently. Isaac went limp, whimpering continuously against Stiles’s shoulder and clinging as if he expected him to disappear. 

At that moment, a new pack bond flared into existence, twining around the existing ones between Stiles, Peter, and John. It felt like a missing puzzle piece snapping into place. After its inclusion, everything felt more stable and right . 

Stiles released Isaac and the teen leaned back, staring down at his chest in wonder. 

“What’s that ?” he murmured. 

“That’s a pack bond,” Peter answered, coming up beside them, a complicated look on his face. “A true pack bond. It’s the best feeling in the world, isn’t it?” 

Stiles smiled up at Peter and gently tugged him down to sit by him. Isaac still looked absolutely shellshocked. 

“That’s incredible,” he said. He glanced up at Peter hesitantly. “So we’re pack now?” 

Peter blew out an inaudible breath. “Yes, we’re pack now.” 

Suddenly, Isaac flung himself half-across Stiles, colliding with Peter and almost knocking him down as he slung his arms around Peter’s torso in a fierce hug. Then it was Peter’s turn to look absolutely astonished, his arms lying limply at his sides. 

Stiles gave him an encouraging smile and reached out to squeeze his shoulder. 

Slowly, as if he was expecting Isaac to jerk away at any second, Peter wrapped his arms around the younger beta and gathered him close. When Isaac did nothing but let out a contented sigh into Peter’s shoulder, Peter leaned down and rubbed his cheek against Isaac’s hair, scenting him. 

“Welcome to the pack, pup,” he whispered. 

Stiles beamed and leaned in, wrapping his arms around then both. He felt so proud and happy he could burst. After a few moments, his dad walked over to join them, clasping a hand over Peter and Stiles’s shoulders, and smiling down at them all. 

After a few minutes of contented closeness, John spoke up. 

“So, Isaac, I’ve been wondering for a while, but now it’s become relevant. Where have you been living?” 

Isaac gave a subvocal grumble and shifted in place, but didn’t look up. 

“The loft,” he muttered into Peter’s shoulder. 

John frowned thoughtfully. “Derek owns that, doesn’t he?”

Peter nodded. “He bought it a while ago.” 

“And how is that working out? Is it just the two of you?” John asked.

Isaac twitched and curled towards Stiles. Stiles automatically reached out to put a steadying hand on his nape, rubbing reassuringly. 

“It’s fine,” Isaac said, keeping his head ducked. 

“...fine.” John echoed slowly. “Define ‘fine’?” 

Isaac shrugged with one shoulder. “Derek makes sure that there’s food in the kitchen and I have a room with my own bed. It’s fine.” 

Now both Peter and Stiles were frowning in faint worry. While that was the bare essentials covered, Isaac smelt of remembered loneliness, an emotion echoed in his somewhat hollow tone.  

Stiles scratched lightly through the fine hairs at the back of Isaac’s head and smiled a little as Isaac leaned into the touch. 

“So… daddio,” he started. “Oh wonderful father of mine, sire whom I love and adore, mighty patriarch and master of the abode…” 

“Stiles.”

Stiles shut up, and there was silence for a few moments.

Finally John sighed, but there was no annoyance in his tone, only a sort of resigned amusement. 

“Would you be interested in living here instead, Isaac?” he asked gently. “There’s absolutely no pressure if you’re happy where you are, but the offer’s open.” 

Isaac finally twisted his head around to look up. There was a heartbreakingly vulnerable and hopeful expression on his face. 

“Do you mean it?” he whispered. 

John leaned down and gently squeezed Isaac’s shoulder. 

“Yeah, I mean it kiddo. We’re pack, and that means there’s always a place for you here.”

Isaac tilted his head and hesitantly rubbed his cheek against John’s hand. 

“Then, yeah, if it’s alright, I would much rather live here. I’ll have to tell Derek though and get my things.”

“Do you need a hand with that?” Stiles asked.

“Nah, I don’t have much. It’ll be fine.” 

Stiles nodded reluctantly, and hummed quietly in thought. 

“I’m going to need a bigger bed,” he mused. 

Peter snorted. “I’m sure I can arrange for that.” 

Stiles smiled. “Thanks, I appreciate it. Though I’m pretty sure you just want to make sure the new bed meets your ridiculously high standards.” 

Peter sniffed. “Your mattress is a travesty. I’m not sure how you weren’t walking like a hunchback before you got the Bite because of it. It’s not ridiculously high standards if the average peasant has standards higher than yours.”

Stiles laughed. “If you say so. I’ll leave it in your capable hands then.”

“I knew you were intelligent,” Peter hummed, clearly plotting.

Stiles rolled his eyes and pulled Peter back in when he shifted like he was going to get up and start shopping right then. 

“Nope!” he said. “There’s plenty of time for that later. Right now we’re having mandatory pack cuddles.” 

Peter gave a snort of laughter but obediently resettled, leaning heavily against Stiles. John snorted as well and patted Stiles’s shoulder before turning away. Stiles twisted his head to pin him with a playful glare. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” he demanded, grinning. “You’re pack too!”

“Ummm,” his dad hesitated, giving their tangled pile of limbs and bodies a highly dubious look. 

Stiles laughed. 

“At least bring your paperwork in here. You can sit nearby where we can’t inflict our werewolf-y lack of personal space upon you.” 

John snorted and rolled his eyes but acquiesced, and the Stilinski Pack, now with a new beta, settled back in to enjoy the rest of the evening. 

Stiles doodled idly in the margins of his notes, expertly tuning out the teacher as she droned on about the factors that led to the American Revolution. Sure, history was important and all, but she wasn’t saying anything that he didn’t already know from doing the reading. So much for being a good student and completing the assignments. It had just led to boredom in class when there wasn’t much he could do about it. 

Stiles was torn from his idle musing about the top ten places he would rather be than here by the faint buzzing of his phone. He had fiddled with the settings until the ringtone was as quiet as it could possibly be, supernatural hearing making the normal shrill tones absolutely intolerable. The resulting alert was too quiet for normal people to hear unless they had it close to their ear, but it was still perfectly obvious to him. 

Stiles glanced at the teacher to make sure she was looking at the board and thus away from him, and slipped his phone out of his bag to check the caller ID. He frowned when he saw his dad’s name there. If his dad was calling him directly, that meant something was wrong, and given their luck? It was something supernatural to boot. 

“Isaac,” he hissed under his breath.

His newest beta snapped his head around to look at him and raised his eyebrows.

“My dad’s calling. I’m going to leave to answer. Standby in case something’s wrong and I need a hand,” he whispered. 

Isaac nodded, worry furrowing his brow.

“What’s wrong?” Scott broke in, his whisper almost loud enough to draw the attention of nearby classmates, but fair enough, he didn’t know Stiles had supernatural hearing. 

Stiles twitched a shoulder in a minute shrug. “Don’t know. Maybe nothing, but I’ll keep you updated.”

Scott started to ask something else, but Stiles didn’t have any more time to waste and raised his hand, speaking over him. 

“Mrs. Baker? Can I be excused? You see, my dad packed me a homemade burrito for lunch, and just between you and me his cooking leaves a bit to be desired, so when I say that Mount Vesuvius is making a comeback in my gut… Let’s just say that I don’t want to mess up these lovely chairs and I’d really like to step out…?”

His teacher looked somewhat green. Isaac had his face turned to hide his snickers in his arm.

“Yes, yes, that’s fine.” Mrs. Baker said hurriedly. “I don’t need to hear about it. Just go!”

“Thanks!” Stiles said. “There’s a chance I might need to just go home though? My guts are absolutely tying themselves in knots right now, I could probably patent new bioweapons just from the upcoming expulsions of my…” 

“Mr. Stilinski!” his teacher interrupted, her face twisted in an expression of absolute revulsion. “That’s fine! Just go!”

“Thanks!” Stiles chirped and slipped out of the room, carefully palming his phone as he went and ignoring the snickering of his classmates. As he shut the door behind him and jogged away, Stiles tentatively felt at the pack bonds in his chest. They all felt steady and strong so he didn’t think anything was too horribly wrong, but the fact that his dad was calling him during a school day was causing his mind to run down all sorts of paranoid rabbit holes. 

Stiles ducked around a corner and headed for a nearby, little-used hallway, scanning the doors as he went. Then he saw it: an unassuming door with a brass plate bearing the word “Custodians” in dented and dirty lettering. The door was locked, but Stiles had borrowed and copied the janitor’s keys after the first time he was forced to run for his life inside the school building. The lock was stiff, but some wiggling and the judicial application of some supernatural strength served to get the door open. Behind the door and past a couple of mops that looked like they had last been used to clean up after dinosaurs, was a sketchy steel ladder that led to a hatch in the roof. 

Stiles had discovered the existence of the hatch through some ancient blueprints and floor plans of the school that had been stored in a forgotten corner of the school library. Turns out the school’s habit of never throwing anything away or updating any resources could actually come in handy. After he found it, Stiles marked the roof access as a place that could provide a potential quick exit or, as he was intending to use it now, a place for sensitive conversations without the risk of someone easily eavesdropping. 

By the time Stiles had heaved open the rusted shut hatch and climbed onto the roof, his dad’s call had long since gone to voicemail. However, when he called him back, his dad answered immediately. 

“Hey Stiles,” his dad said. “Sorry to interrupt your day, but I’ve responded to a call and I believe that the supernatural were involved in whatever happened here. If you can get away, I think you should come take a look. I sent you the address.”

Stiles frowned into the distance. For his dad to call him about it…

“How bad is it?” he asked suspiciously. 

There was a brief pause.

“Pretty bad,” his dad sighed. “Unless I’m very much mistaken, something’s been taking bites out of the poor guy.”

Stiles winced. “Yikes. Yeah, probably supernatural. I’ll head over. Do you have a story for my being there?”

“I made some excuses to get the other officers out of the area. We’ll probably have about an hour until they get back. Maybe a little less.”

Stiles cursed and started running along the roof towards the parking lot. 

“Do you mean to tell me you’re there alone?” he demanded. 

“The body’s clearly been dead for a while,” his dad defended. “The chances of whatever it was still being nearby…”

“Is actually reasonably high depending on what did it.” Stiles snapped, interrupting. “A lot of supernatural creatures stay near their kills to guard them, especially if they eat them. I’m on my way. I’ll be there as soon as I can. Do you have the bullets I gave you?” 

“Yes. I keep a gun loaded with them on my person whenever I’m at work.” 

His dad’s tone had firmed the way it did when he was being deadly serious. Good. It meant he understood the danger he could be in. 

“Good,” Stiles said. “Draw it, put your back against something solid and keep your head on a swivel. I’ll be there soon.” 

“Understood.” 

Stiles hung up the phone, cursing under his breath. As he dodged an air conditioning unit, a sudden thought occurred to him. He glanced at the parking lot to orient himself, and pivoted to run towards a different edge. When he reached it, Stiles dropped, slapped a hand down on the edge of the roof, and used it as leverage to swing himself over the lip. He landed on the grass in a neat crouch and grinned to himself. Despite the seriousness of the situation, he absolutely loved supernatural grace. 

His calculations had been spot on. Just a few feet from his landing spot was the window that looked into the history classroom he had recently escaped from. Careful to ensure he wouldn’t be visible, he stepped closer to the window. 

“My dad ran into something at work that’s probably supernatural in origin,” he said in a normal speaking tone, knowing that all the werewolves’ would still hear him clearly. “I’m going to go check it out. I’ll call you if I run into trouble, so keep your phone handy.” 

Message delivered, Stiles ran on. Both Isaac and Scott would have heard that so it gave his beta an advance warning if Stiles ended up needing him while also reassuring Scott that Stiles would call for backup.

Stiles could hear Scott’s spluttering and passel of questions, but he wouldn’t have if he was still human, so he had absolutely no qualms about ignoring the lot and continuing on. He didn’t have time for that. His dad could be in danger right now so every second counted. 

Stiles pulled out of the parking lot with somewhat reckless speed, navigating his phone one-handed as he went. Fortunately, Peter answered his phone almost immediately. 

“Stiles?” 

“My dad’s at a crime scene likely caused by the supernatural, and whatever did it could still be in the area,” Stiles rattled off immediately, still tapping away on his phone. Just a few more seconds and… done. “I just sent you the address. Meet me there as soon as you can.” 

Slight rustling came over the phone as Peter stood and moved papers aside. 

“On my way,” he replied. 

The phone clicked the end of the call and Stiles shoved his phone in his pocket, pressing the gas down harder. He was the son of a cop, and that meant he knew where all of the speed traps were. He abused that knowledge ruthlessly and shaved a couple minutes off the drive. 

When Stiles stepped out of his jeep, he noticed several things in quick succession. First, the air was filled with the scent of blood, heavy and thick until he could practically taste it. Under the scent of blood, however, Stiles could smell something sickly sweet and rancid, like meat left out to rot away. 

Second, he noticed that his dad’s heartbeat was the only one he could hear nearby. Stiles breathed a sigh of relief and felt something relax within him. That didn’t mean there was definitely no danger, vampires didn’t have a heartbeat and witches could use magic to hide from super senses, but he definitely felt a lot more comfortable with the situation. 

Finally, Stiles made his way to the last major thing he noticed: his dad, standing with his back to a rustic-looking cabin, the type rented out for vacation getaways, and with his pistol held low but ready. 

His dad’s head snapped around as Stiles approached, gun twitching up, but the fierce and determined look on his face immediately melted into one of pleased relief, and he lowered his weapon again. 

“Stiles,” he greeted.

Stiles smiled at him and jogged the rest of the distance to pull him into a half-hug that left his dad’s weapon hand free. 

“Hey dad. Good news, I don’t hear or smell anything nearby, but there’s a couple things that could still slip past me so stay on guard.”

His dad nodded. “Fair enough. The body is in the cabin, but watch out. It's definitely not a pretty sight.” 

Stiles nodded but made no move to go inside, still scanning his surroundings for anything out of the ordinary.

“I called Peter on my way here,” he said. “He should be here before long, and I want to wait for his expertise and second set of senses.” 

“Good idea,” his dad said. “I certainly won’t say no to another set of eyes and hands.”

A couple minutes later, Stiles’s head shot up and he listened fiercely. Someone was approaching as quickly as only the supernatural could. He suspected it was Peter approaching on foot, a suspicion confirmed shortly before the older wolf pivoted to loop around the area. Stiles frowned briefly in confusion before smiling. His beta was making sure the area was clear of any dangers. 

Soon, Peter loped up in beta shift and saw Stiles’s smile. 

“When I realized you got here first and it was just you two, I wanted to run a quick perimeter,” he explained. “I didn’t find anything. Or even a sign of any supernatural creature,” he said, brow furrowed.

Stiles frowned as well. “Odd for a supernatural creature to be able to get in and out without leaving any sign you could trace.”

Peter shrugged again, but he looked concerned. 

Stiles shook off his confusion and glanced at his dad. 

“Inside?”

“Yeah, be careful. It’s definitely not pretty. Or… neat.”

When Stiles opened the door, he immediately understood what his dad meant. There was blood and bits of flesh strewn around the room in a display worthy of the most graphic horror films. If Stiles had been an ordinary civilian, he likely would have thrown up. However, he wasn’t, and he didn’t. He had grown up sneaking looks at his dad’s crime scene photos and that didn’t even include the assorted blood and gore he had been exposed to since he started running with wolves. While bad, Stiles was rather desensitized and barely blinked. 

Honestly, the smell was the worst bit. The scent of blood was magnified a hundredfold inside along with the sickly scent of rot. However, there was another scent twining beneath those overpowering ones, one that made his metaphorical hackles rise. It smelt sickly as well, but in a literal, diseased way, and it set his wolf on edge in a way the blood hadn’t in the slightest. Stiles turned to Peter.

“Do you smell that?”

Peter raised an eyebrow. “The blood?”

Stiles shook his head, annoyed. “No. Not the rot either. There’s something else. It’s faint, and I can’t even describe it. Sickness? Disease? I’m not sure, but I really don’t like it.” 

Peter’s nostrils flared and he grimaced. 

“I smell it, but I can’t quite place it. It’s familiar though, like I’ve smelled something similar before, but it's hard to tell with all the blood-scent covering it up.” His nostrils flared again. “Blast it. Maybe it will come to me later.” 

Stiles nodded, memorizing the scent so he might be able to recognize it later if he came across it. Then he stepped closer to the body, avoiding the worst of the blood puddles, and studied it intensely. He definitely agreed with his dad’s initial assessment. Something had been taking bites out of the body. Still, it was strange. The worst injuries were positioned rather oddly. 

Most of the… chewing, for lack of a better word, was positioned around the hands, forearms, feet and lower legs. All bony places with very little meat worth the effort of consuming. Even where the damage stretched to the arms and legs, it was concentrated on the underside of the arm and the tops of the shins respectively. The bones, visible due to the severity of the attack, were also largely intact so they hadn’t even been the monster’s target. 

Stiles crouched to better examine a bite on the underside of the victim’s forearm. As he did, he scratched idly at a scar on the underside of his own forearm, gained when he threw his arm up instinctively to prevent an imp from biting out his throat. Stiles’s eyes widened. His scar was roughly in the same position as the bite he was studying. His eyes darted to the other injuries. 

“Defensive wounds…” he whispered.

Peter glanced up from where he was poking at a clear, deep bite wound on the victim’s shoulder. “What?”

“The wounds on the arms and legs are the result of him trying to defend himself,” Stiles said, standing and pointing them out. “Here on the forearms. Whatever attacked him went for his throat and he tried to block with his arms. The force probably knocked him over.” Stiles pointed to a bloody smear on the ground that looked like a body slid through it. “Once he was on the ground, he probably tried to kick at his attacker, leading to the injuries on the feet and lower legs, particularly the soles of his feet and his shins, places the attacker could easily reach if he was trying to kick it off of him.” 

“The hands?” Peter asked.

“Probably when he tried to hit it or pull it off his legs,” Stiles mused grimly. “None of the injuries are directly fatal, so it was probably blood loss or shock that finally killed him.”

“A theory I also hold.” John said from the doorway. “Find anything useful for identifying what did it? We don’t have that much time.” 

Stiles nodded. “Whatever it was just attacked whatever body part was closest to its mouth. It wasn’t even truly trying to kill him. That speaks towards a level of madness that should help narrow it down.” He shook his head. “Eaten alive by a crazy monster of myth or legend. Poor guy died in a nightmare.” Stiles glanced up at Peter. “Anything to add?” 

Peter stood and brushed imaginary dust from his pants. 

“The bite wounds are deep but not particularly wide. Whatever it was has a mouth only about an inch and a half wide, but enough of a muzzle to get pretty deep. The wounds are also more ripped than cut. Some of that is probably due to the likely frenzy of the attack, but I almost suspect that it has blunt teeth like those of a herbivore. 

“No fangs?” Stiles asked.

Peter tilted his head and waggled a hand back and forth in a so-so gesture, still peering down at the body. “Actually, there are marks that resemble those left by fangs, only on the top jaw though and not used to tear. More to hold the prey in place while the rest of the blunt teeth… chew their way through.”

Stiles winced. “That sounds unpleasant.” 

“Extremely. And slow.”

John cleared his throat pointedly. “As lovely as that was to hear and imagine, we’re pretty much out of time. Anything else you need here?”

Stiles cast one last look around the cabin and shook his head. 

“No, I think we’re good. Peter?”

“I can’t think of anything else.”

Stiles nodded and led the way out. 

“Well, I don’t know exactly what did that, but it was definitely supernatural,” Stiles said. “Humans don’t do, can’t do, that kind of damage and an animal wouldn’t even if one did match Peter’s bitemark assessment. Which I don’t think any do. Until we can figure out what it is and how to kill it, we’ll have to be careful. I’m going to head back to the house and start researching. Peter, will you stay here and keep an eye on things? At least as long as my dad is here, then you can ride home with him.” 

“Yes Alpha,” Peter said with a quirk of his lip. 

“I don’t need a babysitter,” John protested.

Stiles pinned him with a glare. “Whatever it is has proven itself capable of killing humans with relative ease, and I don’t even know if your bullets will do anything to it. I know you and your dedication to your job and men, so I won’t even ask you to vacate the area. But I want Peter here so you have backup if it comes back.”

“Fine,” John sighed. “I still say you’re being overprotective and paranoid.” 

“Better that than the alternative,” Stiles said darkly. 

He stepped up to Peter, brushing their cheeks together and allowing Peter to nose along his jaw. He reached up to press his palm against Peter’s nape, feeling his beta relax against him the way he always did at the touch.

“Be safe and let me know if anything happens,” he said softly. 

Peter pulled back enough to give him a faint smirk. 

“Don’t worry Stiles, I won’t let anything happen to your dad,” Peter quipped.

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Or you, Peter.”

Peter shrugged, eyes flicking away.

Stiles shifted the hand at the back of Peter’s neck until it was gripping his nape firmly and gave him a tiny shake. 

“Or you, Peter. Don’t let anything happen to you either.” 

Peter’s eyes softened and he blew out a light breath. “Yes Alpha.” 

Stiles cast one last, slightly anxious glance around and left. He had research to do. Something had trespassed in his territory and killed one of the people under his protection . 

He would find whatever had done it. And they would die.

Chapter Text

Stiles drove home. He knew himself well enough to know he wouldn’t be able to focus at school and that his current level of edginess meant his control would be more easily compromised. Instead, he would start researching. He would still have to go back to the building to pick up Isaac since they rode there together this morning, but that was later. 

Once he arrived home, he sent a quick text to Isaac to let him know that all was well and that while he wouldn’t be returning to class, he would still pick him up. Isaac immediately sent back an acknowledgement and Stiles settled down at his computer to research and cracked his knuckles. 

Time to get his google-fu on. He had a monster to catch. 

Two hours later, Stiles side-eyed his computer screen and wondered if having to pay to replace it would be worth the satisfaction of banging his head against it until something cracked. Supernatural healing meant he could heal any damage. His computer wouldn’t be so fortunate. Eventually he sighed and shoved himself away to leave. As he stomped to the door, he muttered to himself frustratedly. 

Nothing! He had found absolutely nothing! Or rather, he had found so much that it was about as useful as finding nothing. The sheer amount of supernatural creatures that could hunt humans was both mind boggling and sickening. Add in the ones that normally wouldn’t bother humans but could deal that kind of damage if they had gone mad for some psychological or pharmacological reason and Stiles didn’t even have a list of possible options. 

Even removing all the creatures that were statistically unlikely for size reasons barely narrowed it down. 

So Stiles was feeling somewhat grumpy as he pulled up in his jeep. He tried to hide it as best as he could when Isaac walked up though. His newest beta had a tendency to flinch into himself if authority figures were angry around him, regardless of where that anger was actually directed, and Stiles had felt like an utter piece of shit the one time it had happened before when he had gotten a little heated in a rant about an idiotic driver. 

However, despite his best efforts, Isaac’s eyes flicked over Stiles’s slightly tense posture, and he hesitated in the open door. 

“Hey Isaac,” Stiles said, deliberately casual. “Sorry, I’m just frustrated at the lack of results my research turned up.” 

Isaac nodded, relaxed, and held out Stiles’s backpack with a wry grin. 

“I think you forgot this.”

Stiles blinked at it and then shut his eyes with a self-deprecating sigh. 

“Yep. I definitely did. And then proceeded to not give it another thought. Thanks Isaac, I really appreciate it.”

Isaac settled into the passenger seat and leaned over happily when Stiles drew him into a hug, rubbing his cheek over the top of his head. 

Isaac practically melted into his seat afterwards, as content as he always was after such claiming and comforting gestures. 

“So?” he asked. “What did you find out? Your text was pretty limited in details.”

“Not much,” Stiles grumbled good-naturedly. “It’s definitely supernatural and something fairly dangerous, but I’m no closer to figuring out what it even is, much less how to stop it.” 

“You’ll figure it out,” Isaac said confidently. “You always do.”

Stiles glanced sideways at him, touched, even as he felt the weight of that faith and responsibility settle more firmly on his shoulders.

“Thanks.” 

Stiles’s dad and Peter got back fairly late that evening. Not that Stiles was surprised. He had expected it and hadn’t held dinner, eating something simple with Isaac while they worked on homework. His dad always ended up working late when a big case came up, and this one certainly met that criteria. 

Stiles’s nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed as they walked in. He could smell the distinctive scent of the grease from his dad’s favorite burger place. 

“Hank’s Burgers? Really dad?” he demanded, hands on his hips. 

His dad dodged him with a whistle that was clearly supposed to sound innocent but was actually anything but. 

“Hey there Isaac!” John greeted loudly. “How are you doing? How was school?” 

Isaac sent him a look, even as a grin tugged at the corner of his lips. 

“Oh no, you’re not dragging me into this,” he said. “I don’t see a to-go bag which means you don’t even have a bribe for me.”

“Dammit,” John muttered. “I knew I was forgetting something.”

“You know how unhealthy that place is, dad!” Stiles exclaimed finally. “I thought we agreed to only go once a month, together! Our next time isn’t until next week!” 

Peter started sniggering, and Stiles whirled on him, pointing an accusatory finger. 

“Don’t even start, Mr. Aiding-and-Abetting! Don’t think I can’t smell the hamburgers on you too! 

Peter held up his hands in mock surrender, and adopted an expression so excessively piteous and apologetic that Stiles wavered in his rant and had to try and hide the twitching at the corner of his lip. 

Isaac snorted into a cup of water, and Stiles sighed. 

“Fine, but just know that Isaac and I are getting hamburgers together next week, just the two of us and neither of you two back-stabbers are invited. We’ll get the triple stacked burgers with all the special toppings too, and large milkshakes.” 

Isaac perked up. “Hey, you guys should go there without us more often!” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and poked Isaac’s shoulder. “You’re not helping.”

Isaac just grinned up at him shamelessly. John stepped up to Stiles and gave him a hug, smiling apologetically. 

“Sorry to go without you, but I needed a pick me up after that case.” 

Stiles hugged him back tightly, that comment knocking the last bits of self-righteous wind out of his sails. He took a deep breath, reassured by his dad’s scent, healthy and hale as always.

“I get it,” Stiles said. “But that does remind me.”

 He pulled away from his dad slightly reluctantly and straightened up, meeting both Peter and Isaac’s eyes. His betas straightened as well, sensing the shift in mood. His dad also lost the traces of levity the previous conversation had inspired. 

“There’s a threat in our territory.” Stiles began without preamble. “It’s already proven itself extremely dangerous and difficult to track, given that we neither noticed it entering the territory, nor were able to track it away from the crime scene. Therefore, we’re going to do a few things. First, we will be patrolling every night to try and catch a trace of it. Those patrols will occur in pairs without exception.” 

Stiles pinned Peter with a firm look when the older beta shifted like he thought that order wouldn’t apply to him. 

“Without exception, Peter. I know you’ve patrolled alone while I’m at school and that’s going to stop until we know more. I’m also guilty of occasionally patrolling by myself when I want to go for a run, and I will be stopping as well. Until we have a better idea of what this thing is capable of, I want us to always have backup and support. We’ll try to have training sessions to hone our combat skills whenever we have time, but patrolling and potentially catching this thing has to take priority.”

Stiles turned to glance between his dad and Peter next. 

“Dad, I know you’ll be investigating this thing from the mundane side of things at work. Do what you can, but avoid unnecessary risks. And when you do have to take a risk, let Peter or I know. Preferably both of us. Peter, I want you to stay close to my dad while he’s at work so he has support if something comes up. You can bring your computer with you and work in your car in the parking lot outside the station if you like. Mooch off their Wi-Fi.”

Stiles’s dad muttered something about improper use of station resources under his breath, but Stiles ignored him and continued. 

“I want you to follow my dad if he has to leave on a call and keep an ear and eye out.”

Peter nodded solemnly, understanding the amount of faith Stiles was placing in him by trusting him to keep his dad safe when honestly, Stiles didn’t want to let him out of his sight. But his dad frowned at the instructions. 

“I don’t need a babysitter, Stiles.” he said, crossing his arms. “I’m not exactly helpless.”

“It’s not a babysitter,” Stiles replied, unwilling to budge on this matter. “Peter won’t be telling you what to do or even getting in your way. He’s just there in case the thing that has proven itself capable of killing humans —in horribly gruesome ways, I might add— shows up. I know you’re not helpless. Trust me, I of all people should know how much damage a determined human can do to an unsuspecting supernatural.” 

“Truth,” Peter muttered wryly. 

Stiles shot him an apologetic grimace. He honestly hadn’t been intending to reference his participation in killing Peter. Peter just shrugged easily.

“Water under the bridge, Stiles. Your ruthlessness and tenacity were as admirable then as they are now.”

Stiles smiled faintly and returned his attention to his dad who looked somewhat mollified. 

“Anyways,” he continued. “It’s mostly just a precaution. At least accept it for my peace of mind.”

His dad sighed and relaxed his arms. 

“Something tells me I don’t have much of a choice in this matter.”

Stiles shrugged apologetically, but didn’t refute that statement. 

“Very well,” his dad said. “I can’t say I like it, but I do understand.” 

Stiles nodded. “Does everyone understand our plan moving forward? Subject as it is to adaptation, should we discover new information?”

His dad nodded. Peter and Isaac briefly flashed their throats in obedience and submission. 

“Yes Alpha,” Peter said easily, quickly echoed by Isaac. 

Stiles relaxed. “Great. Oh, and Dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Will you keep an extra eye out for any strange reports?” Stiles asked. “Anything, no matter how small, could be a clue to figuring out what this is.”

His dad nodded slowly, thinking. “I can probably do that. I’m not sure what counts as strange though.”

“If you’re not sure, just let me know anyways. I rather have too many potential leads than miss something important.”

When his dad nodded again, Stiles clapped his hands together briefly and turned to his betas. 

“Well, as fun as that was, time to move on. Isaac, you still have some English work to complete right?”

Isaac scowled down at the book in front of him. “Unfortunately,” he confirmed. 

Stiles snorted. “Right. Well, I’m finished. Peter, take a minute to use the restroom, grab a drink, whatever you need to do, and then we’ll go patrol.”

Peter inclined his head gracefully and slipped out of the room. 

John sent Stiles a concerned look. “Promise me you’ll be careful out there, son.”

Stiles pulled him into another hug. 

“I promise.” 

The patrol turned up absolutely nothing. Stiles had combed every inch of the border with Peter, and neither of them had smelled or seen any trace of an intruder. As a result, Stiles was in a bad mood the next day. His wolf was on edge, extremely displeased with the presence of a murderous trespasser in his territory. On the very slightly bright side, the fact that the combined forces of Stiles and Peter turned up nothing meant that Stiles could rule out a few options that would not be able to cross the border undetected. However, those options had definitely not been anywhere near the top of his list of possibilities, so it was a shallow victory at best and Stiles was mostly frustrated. 

And scared, he admitted to himself in the privacy of his thoughts. His dad, his pack, his people were in danger, and he was responsible for protecting them. 

The mangled body in the medical examiner's freezer evidenced his first failure. While he recognized the futility of the goal, Stiles was determined not to let it happen again, and he could feel the weight of that responsibility like a physical burden.

Troubled by heavy thoughts and countless half-formed plans, Stiles forgot about Scott until the other alpha jogged up to him as soon as he entered the school building, Isaac’s watchful presence two steps behind.

“Stiles!” Scott said. “What happened with your dad?” 

Stiles flicked a glance around to make sure they were alone enough to speak relatively freely, and pulled Scott aside, out of the way of general school traffic. Scott followed his tugs with an expression that clearly said he was indulging Stiles rather than agreeing with the necessity. Stiles bit the inside of his cheek but kept the rant about the critical nature of secrecy and discretion contained. 

Isaac, at least, —bless the boy— adopted a stance in the hallway that would seem casual, but would further direct traffic away from Stiles and Scott. Stiles shot him a grateful smile and the back of his beta’s neck pinked as he turned away and made a show of being distracted by his phone. 

“A guy was killed by something that was definitely something supernatural,” Stiles hissed quietly in answer, grimacing at the memory. Desensitized or not, it still hadn’t been a pretty sight. 

“I don’t have any clue what it was though,” Stiles continued, knowing his annoyance was clear, but not bothering to hide it. 

Scott frowned. “Should I go and take a look then? Maybe there’s something that you missed since you don’t have supernatural senses.” he grinned at the thought. “I bet I could sneak into the crime scene. That might be fun actually.”

Stiles shook his head, hiding his scowl at the evidence that Scott wasn’t taking this seriously. “No need. Peter was free, so I asked him to meet me there. He couldn’t find anything either and he has a ton of experience with supernatural sleuthing.” 

“Oh.” Scott’s face fell. “Alright then. I guess we’ll just keep an eye out then. Let me know when you figure out what it was. I’ll tell the rest of the pack to be careful and stay on guard.” 

With that, Scott turned and ran off to join a group of new arrivals that contained Allison, Lydia, and Jackson. 

Stiles watched him go with a sigh. It wasn’t like his plans were really that more in depth than being careful and keeping an eye out, but it was somehow frustrating to watch Scott carry on without showing any of the stress Stiles felt at the situation. 

Isaac bumped his shoulder gently with a concerned look. Stiles mustered up a weak smile and bumped him back, just hard enough to jostle the other boy. Isaac gave him a mock offended look, and knocked their shoulders together hard enough that Stiles sidestepped. 

They play-fought, shoving each other back and forth all the way to their next class. By the time they reached the doorway, Stiles’s cheeks hurt from grinning so widely and his spirits were raised. New determination rose within him, and he caught Isaac’s eye. 

“Make sure you get your homework done early tonight. I want to patrol with you tonight. We’re going to catch this bastard.”

Isaac shot him a grin that was just slightly sharper than a human would achieve and dipped his head in a nod of acquiescence. 

Lofty ideals aside, Stiles and Isaac saw no sign of the intruder. Neither did Peter and Isaac when they patrolled the next night. Or Stiles and Peter the night after that. And while Stiles's dad passed along any reports that looked unusual, Stiles couldn't find any leads there either. A week passed in a frustrating combination of stress and monotony. It wore on them, being on edge for so long, and by the time the full moon rolled around, Isaac’s first since joining Stiles’s pack, they were all more than ready for a break. 

Stiles had warred with the decision, unsure if it was truly a good idea to have a carefree day with the threat that was still out there. However, the tension that had made its home in Peter’s shoulders and the twitchiness that Isaac was slowly developing convinced him that they needed it. 

As an added bonus, the full moon would fall on a Saturday this month, so they could quite literally take the day off and spend it relaxing together. After patrolling in pairs every night since the murder and squeezing in combat training whenever schedules allowed, the time off would be good for them. 

Peter greeted the news that they would spend the day in an informal full moon celebration with a small smile, fond and genuine. 

But Isaac frowned slightly and shifted in place. 

“We’re going for a run tonight? Under the full moon?” he asked skeptically. “Isn’t that kinda dangerous? What if we lose control?” 

Stiles hummed, organizing his thoughts. “First off, yes. You’re partially right. Running on the full moon by yourself with poor control or with people who all have poor control is dangerous. Or at least recklessly stupid. But Peter and I have strong control. We’ve done this the last two full moons with no problem. From what I’ve seen, your control is also sufficient, and even if it wasn’t, you’ll be with us. We won’t let you go crazy.”

Isaac nodded slowly, but didn’t look entirely convinced. 

Stiles pulled him into a hug and Isaac leaned into him heavily, but tension lingered in his stiff posture. Stiles ducked his head to nose along Isaac’s temple and reached up to scratch his fingernails through the short hairs at the back of Isaac’s neck. 

“Trust me,” Stiles said softly. “I won't let anything happen.”

Isaac hesitated, still tense, for a couple moments before sagging into him with a sigh. He curled into Stiles and pressed his nose into Stiles’s collarbone, tucking his head under Stiles’s chin. 

“Okay,” he whispered. 

Stiles held him for a little while longer, letting Isaac bask in the closeness and easy comfort. After a couple minutes though, he gently pulled away. He still had something he needed to do to get ready for tomorrow. Namely, go to the grocery store. 

His dad had definitely been correct when he predicted the amount of food that a pack of werewolves would go through. It really was a good thing that Peter was willing to help with the grocery bill. Stiles and his dad were comfortable financially-wise, but they weren’t rich by any means, and the amount of money that now had to be devoted to food was frankly ridiculous. 

Speaking of which, Stiles glanced around for Peter, but the older man had apparently left the room at some point during his interaction with Isaac. Stiles frowned, but shrugged and grabbed the grocery list off the fridge. He had a couple things to add and then he would see if his first beta would be interested in accompanying him on his errands. 

The day of the full moon was a resounding success. Stiles’s dad had made sure that he had the day off as well, and the four of them played all manner of games, ate way too much food, and watched a couple movies while piled together on the couch. 

Peter, of course, was as cool as a cucumber the whole day, relaxing into the casualness of the day and snarking playfully at anyone who dared banter with him. Isaac, however, fluctuated between relaxation and tension throughout the day. He would frequently forget the moon, distracted by the comfortable atmosphere, but occasionally he would tense up as he remembered. 

Stiles made sure to stay close to the younger wolf, clasping a firm hand around his nape each time he started to stress out. The dominance and implicit reassurance in the touch served to sooth his beta, but as the evening drew closer, Isaac’s nerves grew, and his stress started to become more common than relaxation. 

By the time they were eating dinner, —another large beef roast in what was quickly becoming a full moon tradition— Stiles was practically sitting on the same chair as Isaac, pressing their sides together from shoulder to ankles. Isaac was still tense, sitting slightly hunched and flicking nervous glances at the window. 

Peter and John frequently gave Isaac concerned looks and dinner was quieter and more tense than Stiles had hoped. Still, he was optimistic that after this moon, Isaac would be more comfortable with their burgeoning traditions. Stiles wasn’t really willing to give up full moon runs so he hoped that Isaac would relax after this one. He understood Isaac’s fears, truly he did, but they were misplaced this time. 

Stiles practically had to haul Isaac outside after dinner. His beta offered no verbal protest, but his body language screamed reluctance. Peter walked beside him, his normal excitement and eagerness dampened by Isaac's fear. They could both smell it, acidic and acrid, stinging their noses and setting them on edge. 

Once outside, Stiles took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the cool night air. He felt wired and filled with energy. His muscles ached to run, to stretch out in the fullness of his supernatural strength and speed. Beside him, Peter bounced slightly on the balls of his feet, betraying the fact that he felt that same urge. But both of them were focused on the newest member of their pack, unwilling to run without him. 

For Isaac’s part, he flinched back from the moonlight hard enough that he landed in the grass on his hands and knees, curling into himself as if the moon couldn’t affect him if he looked small enough. 

Stiles dropped to one knee beside him, back straight and head up even as he gripped the back of Isaac’s neck firmly. 

“Focus, Isaac,” Stiles said, strong and fierce, but carefully without a trace of scolding in his tone. If Isaac thought Stiles was angry at him while he was so off-balance, he would probably spiral beyond recovery. “Feel your pack bonds. Anchor yourself in them. Peter and I are here. If you feel weak, lean on our strength. Pack is about trust and reliance and being there for one another.” 

“The moon pulls stronger out here,” Isaac said shakily.

“It does,” Stiles answered, unflinching. 

“Why aren’t you and Peter affected?” Isaac asked as he started to unfold. 

Stiles shrugged. “It’s not that we’re unaffected so much as it is that we feel the pull, and only let it pull us to run. We’re confident in our control, our strength, and each other. If I feel like I’m faltering, I can lean on Peter and trust him to keep me steady.” 

Peter sent Stiles an oddly fond look and broke in. 

“In much the same way, I can lean on Stiles as my alpha if I feel unsteady,” Peter said. “He’s your alpha too, Isaac. Lean on that bond and trust that he will stop you if you start to lose control. That is the purpose of an alpha after all.”

Stiles looked up at Peter curiously. That sounded like a bit of alpha lore he hadn’t stumbled across yet. Isaac also looked intrigued, slowly standing with Stiles help as Stiles kept a firm grip on him just in case.

“The purpose of an alpha?” Isaac asked.

Peter looked away, staring across the moonlit yard. 

“Yes,” he said softly, an oddly wistful tone in his voice. “The original purpose of the alpha in a werewolf pack was to ensure that the pack stayed under control. If a wolf started to lose control, the alpha would control them, forcibly if necessary, to prevent them from being a danger to themselves or anyone else.” 

“That’s kinda cool,” Isaac said, giving Stiles a contemplative look and relaxing further. 

Stiles gazed back steadily, letting Isaac see his calm so that he could adopt it himself. He hadn’t heard that description of an alpha but he couldn’t deny how it resonated with him. Hadn’t he been instinctively doing that with Isaac all day? Controlling his beta when Isaac’s fear started to get the better of him? Peter was right. That was part of his job as their alpha, and he wouldn’t fail them. 

Isaac continued to lock eyes with Stiles, taking deep breaths that subconsciously matched Stiles’s breathing. Slowly, he calmed down and his heart rate slowed. 

“Okay,” Isaac said finally. “I’m good. I think I’m ready.” 

Stiles studied his beta briefly, assessing all the minute details of his body language, and then let a grin slowly stretch across his face. 

“I know you’re ready,” he said confidently, watching Isaac stand a little straighter at the words. Stiles glanced at Peter, grin growing as the older wolf matched his gleeful, anticipatory expression. 

“Let’s run.”

The three wolves ran through the night, Stiles in the middle with Peter and Isaac flanking him on either side. They tore through the woods, faster than any human could hope to follow, weaving through trees and leaping creeks and brooks in single bounds. As Peter and Stiles had done on Stiles’s first full moon, they hunted a deer, working in perfect unison to position the doe so that Stiles could bring her down in a gentle tackle that did not even scratch her hide. Then, as before, Stiles brushed his fangs across the doe’s jugular in a mimicry of a killing blow before stepping back and letting the deer go. 

Isaac whined slightly, pressing forward in an instinctive desire to bring the hunt to its natural conclusion, but Stiles stepped in front of him calmly, pressing their shoulders together and holding Isaac back until his beta regained his control. Isaac glanced up at him after a moment, panting lightly and a wild joy shining in his eyes. Peter slunk up to Stiles’s other side, brushing against his arm to settle beside him. Stiles hummed a deep rumbling note in his chest and ran a hand along Peter’s back in acknowledgement. 

They stood there until long after the deer had disappeared into the underbrush, watching the wind stir the branches of the trees and cataloging the many scents it carried with it. Insects chirped and whirred in the grass, and as the wolves stood together in peaceful stillness, small nocturnal animals began to venture forth again. 

A few bats flew overhead in search of their dinners and a coyote crept forwards until it was close enough to catch their scent before turning and retreating into the woods as quietly as it had come. An owl dove from a branch, its near-silent wing beats a struggle to detect even with supernatural hearing. The squeal of the mouse it caught in its talons was perfectly obvious however, and the wolves tilted their head in unison, silently tracking the owl’s flight by that sound until the mouse’s heart stilled and it fell silent. 

Stiles basked in it all, breathing in the life surrounding him and feeling his heart beat in unison with it all. His betas stood at his sides, patient and watchful. Stiles knew, with the certainty of instinct, that they would not move a muscle until he did, taking their cues from him during the charged night. 

Finally, Stiles turned to run off again, Peter and Isaac pivoting beside him without missing a beat. The pack bonds flared brightly and tonight they were perfectly attuned, words unnecessary as they moved through the woods as one. 

By the time they returned to Stiles’s house, they were relaxed and content, pleasantly worn out from the run but not exhausted. They curled together on Stiles’s bed and Stiles ran gentle hands over his betas’ backs, assessing them protectively through sight and smell and touch. They slept through his appraisal with nothing more than sleepy shifting. Stiles smiled fondly. His betas were relaxed, more so than they had been since the start of this latest crisis. For now, no more tension lingered in Peter’s shoulders and Isaac lay still, moving smoothly without a hint of twitchiness whenever he shifted in sleep. 

Tomorrow they would return to their alert watchfulness. Stiles refused to allow the murderous trespasser to exist in his territory with impunity. They would continue their effort to track it down and get rid of it, but for now, Stiles was content to rest. 

He had been right. They had needed this.

Chapter Text

Stiles sped up a little, twisting between the trees. Peter matched his acceleration, staying right at Stiles’s shoulder. They were running a patrol near the outskirts of the city two days after the last full moon. It was a more populated area, so they had to be careful, but the creature had killed a human before, and Stiles thought that they might have a better chance of catching it if they patrolled possible hunting grounds. 

Today, his theory was confirmed. 

As Stiles crested a small hill, a sudden breeze brought new scents to him, and his head snapped over. The wind carried with it a faint scent of blood and rot, as well as a trace of that strange sickly scent he had noticed at the crime scene. Peter’s head twisted around at the same moment as Stiles’s, clearly noticing the same thing he had. 

“It’s here,” Stiles said, already pivoting and sprinting in the direction of the scent, senses straining. 

Peter matched him, a feral snarl stretching across his face that Stiles knew matched the one he himself wore. 

Far too soon, Stiles and Peter reached populated areas, forcing them to revert to a fully human form and reduce their speed to a slow, —painfully, teeth-gratingly, humanly slow— speed so as to avoid drawing attention. 

At least to avoid drawing more attention than a man and a teenage boy running down the street naturally garnered. It was a good thing that Stiles gave up caring about public opinion a long time ago. Peter, of course, was far above such plebeian things as what others thought. 

Stiles focused as he ran, straining supernatural senses to catch any clue, but he couldn’t find anything except for that elusive scent, and even that was faint and difficult to follow. He couldn’t see anything out of the ordinary, and the only sounds present were the normal auditory assault of busy streets of people going about their day. 

As they continued, Stiles fell back slightly, allowing Peter to take point. His beta’s greater experience with supernatural senses lent him an advantage when trying to parse a single scent from the olfactory onslaught they were currently faced with. 

Peter shot him a faintly confused glance when Stiles waved for him to take the lead, but then understanding swept across his expression and he surged forwards with renewed determination. 

They wove through small side streets farther into town. Stiles suspected that their target likely knew they were following it because the scent trail led them into increasingly populated areas, forcing them to slow down to avoid losing the scent in their hurry. 

Then the scent led into the mall. 

Peter cursed, slowing down to a walk and swinging his head side to side as he cast about. His nostrils flared constantly with his long, deliberate breaths. 

Stiles bit back a situationally inappropriate dog joke. Not least because he knew that he was doing the same thing as Peter. 

However, the faint scent trail led them straight to the food court and the extra influx of powerful scents made tracking their target impossible. Stiles and Peter cast about in circles for a while, pacing around all of the exits and around most of the mall in futile hope of finding something, anything. But despite their best efforts, they turned up nothing. The creature had vanished without a trace. 

Stiles stopped first, sighing and leaning against a wall. His eyes still flicked around the area, searching futilely for anything suspicious, and finding nothing. Peter still paced the landing in circles, executing a tight circle in front of each exit or doorway as if the narrower passageways would betray some sign or clue. Stiles watched him tiredly for a while.

“Come on, Peter. Let’s go,” he said finally. “It’s gone. It got away.” 

Peter looked up, a furiously frustrated look twisting his face. “It was just here. We were so close.”

Stiles stepped up to him and leaned in to press their foreheads together.

“I know. But we’re not going to accomplish anything else here.”

Peter growled wordlessly. 

Stiles didn’t react, waiting patiently. After another couple tense moments, Peter gave a sigh and sagged against him, tension draining away even if the frustration remained. Stiles let him relax for a bit and then shifted away, knocking their shoulders together gently. 

“Look on the bright side. This wasn’t a waste.” 

Peter shot him a doubtful side-eye. 

“Wasn’t it?” he asked bitterly. 

“Nope,” Stiles said, leading the way out. 

Malls gave him a headache when he didn’t have supernatural senses to contend with. Now they were an exercise in misery. 

“We learned two important things,” Stiles continued. “First, whatever it is is humanoid or otherwise able to pass well enough to not draw attention. Second, it’s intelligent. Enough to figure out we were tracking it by scent and to use the mall food court as a scent screen to throw us off its trail.” 

Peter sighed and nodded. “You’re right. And that explains how it got into the territory without us noticing. There’s a couple forms of human transportation that could get it across the border without a scent trail.”

Stiles hummed a wordless acknowledgement. “I’ll call my dad. He should know to be wary of calls involving strangers to Beacon Hills. He might be able to keep an eye out for reports containing suspicious strangers too.” 

Peter nodded again and his shoulders straightened with new determination.

“We’ll get this thing,” he said. 

Stiles clasped his beta’s shoulder briefly. “We will.” 

Bolstered with new hope from the close call, Stiles increased the duration of the patrols, staying out later and covering more territory. It increased the strain on their schedules, particularly his and Isaac’s given they were still trying to stay on top of homework and studying, but it paid off a couple days later. 

Stiles was out patrolling with Isaac this time, making a loop near the hiking trails that wound through the more tame regions of the preserve. The trails were rather pretty and reasonably well-maintained, so they were a common destination for dog walkers, hikers, and various casual joggers, walkers, and nature enthusiasts. Evening times, such as when they were patrolling, were the most attractive, the hazy light of sunset casting long shadows and adding to the mystical woodsy aura. However, despite their popularity, the trails were extensive enough that one rarely ran into another person, lending an air of peaceful solitude. Or, for a murderously-inclined supernatural creature, an air of a witness-free buffet. 

Working off of the new information that the creature was relatively intelligent, Stiles had increased the amount of time their patrols spent around areas such as this, where a creature could more likely make a kill undisturbed. 

Peter had also hypothesized that he and Stiles had interrupted the creature’s hunt when they stumbled across it a couple days previously, and Stiles knew that meant another attempt was likely to occur soon. 

All of this swept through Stiles’s mind as he ran through the woods just in front of Isaac. He was approaching these patrols with a laser focus that honestly surprised him. It was as if when he ran, everything else fell away except for the wolf’s iron determination to catch the intruder in their territory. 

A scream tore through the air, shrill and piercing to supernaturally augmented ears. 

Stiles winced, even as he pivoted and tore after the origin of the scream. The trails were well-maintained and safe, so the screaming person —a woman by the high-pitched sound of it— was likely being attacked by their target. If so, Stiles totally understood the desire to scream, but was the sharp, shrieking volume of it strictly necessary? His ears hurt!

He didn’t hesitate, but still . And judging by the pained look on Isaac's face as he matched Stiles’s movement, he agreed. 

Werewolf speed proved itself yet again, and Stiles and Isaac found the woman within seconds of her first scream. 

She lay on her back in the dirt screaming and thrashing as a second humanoid form crouched over her legs, biting and chewing. She tore at the things head with her hands, short, shrill shrieks of pain and panic tearing themselves from her throat in time with each sharp movement of her attackers head. 

The thing shifted, catching one of her hands in its mouth and her scream rose to a crescendo. 

Stiles lunged forwards, the desire to identify the creature falling secondary to the need to save the woman. He barely processed a too-thin, lanky frame, a skull-like head, and the rancid scent of old blood and sickness as he dug his claws into the creature’s side. 

The thing let out an unearthly shriek and its face shone with the gleam of bone in the hazy twilight as it released the woman to turn on him. 

Instinctual panic flared in Stiles, and he automatically twisted, using his body weight and momentum to fling the creature over himself and away. The shadows of the evening hid its form from sight as soon as it landed in the bushes and saplings of the forest edge. It rolled, never rising enough to present an identifiable profile and fled, disappearing into the  woods. 

Stiles almost gave chase. His blood was up and his wolf was baying for blood, demanding that he destroy the intruder now that he finally had it in his sights. But the woman moaned weakly on the ground, and the smell of her blood was copper-rich in the air, too strong for her wounds to be anything besides grievous. 

If Stiles left, she would die. Wolf pragmatism and instincts were perfectly certain of that fact. 

When Stiles chose to become an alpha, he swore that he would protect the people of Beacon Hills, the innocents who lived in his territory, oblivious to the dangers that walked the night. He could not leave one of those people he swore to protect to die. 

All of that flashed through his mind in less than a second. Instincts, certainty, and resolution all in the space of a heartbeat.

And so, teeth bared in a snarl of furious frustration, Stiles finished the pivot that had thrown the creature by dropping into a crouch to assess the woman. Running with the wolves had done wonders for his knowledge of emergency first aid for both humans and supernaturals. As such, he assessed her state in a glance and whipped off his shirt. He then wrapped it around her lower left leg which bore the worst of the damage and applied firm pressure. 

Stiles’s removal of the creature and subsequent decision to render aid to its victim took place in a matter of seconds. Seconds he had gained through a sudden burst of speed, amplified by the alpha spark, which had carried him to the scene of the attack slightly ahead of Isaac. As such, Isaac drew level with him right as he dropped to the dirt beside the woman. However, Isaac did not hesitate in his pursuit, not even sparing a glance for the victim bleeding out beside his alpha. Instead, his supernaturally blue eyes were fixed unerringly on the shadows the creature had disappeared into and he flung himself after it. 

Stiles’s head snapped up. 

“Isaac! Wait!” he shouted, but his beta didn’t appear to hear him, wrapped up in the focus of the hunt. 

Desperate panic filled Stiles, and for a second he was torn. His beta was chasing after an unknown —but clearly powerful— threat by himself, but if Stiles released the pressure he was maintaining, the woman would bleed out before he could catch up with his wayward beta and bring him back. And so, consumed by the absolute need to be obeyed that very second, Stiles tried again.

“Isaac. Stop.” 

Stiles could feel the way his vision shifted as his eyes glowed red, and the second word rolled through the air with an almost electric feeling of power. It seemed to linger in the sudden silence of the night, and Stiles could feel the way it thrummed against Isaac’s pack bond in his chest. 

An Alpha Command. Stiles realized absently, even as his focus remained on the events unfolding around him. 

Isaac stopped in his tracks, almost bowling over at the edge of the treeline and halting so suddenly, it was as if he had run into a wall. 

“Come—” Stiles paused and cleared his throat, refocusing. Now that he had used an alpha command once, he could feel the difference, and knew he could choose to use it again. But it wasn’t, shouldn’t, be necessary anymore with Isaac so thoroughly knocked out of his hunting focus. 

“Come here, Isaac,” Stiles continued, his tone back to normal to his slight relief. “I need your help.”

Isaac loped back to his side, looking absolutely furious. 

“The hell, Stiles?” he demanded, enraged. “It’s right here! We can finally catch it! Why the hell did you stop me? Let’s go!” 

He twitched restlessly in place, still staring fixedly at the place where the creature had vanished. Stiles glanced up long enough to flash crimson eyes at him and give a warning rumble of a growl in his chest. 

“If we leave, she dies,” he said bluntly. 

Isaac jerked, glanced down, and stilled, seemingly only just now realizing her state. 

“Oh. Um… But I could still go…?” 

“No.” Stiles said in a tone that permitted no argument. “I won’t have you chasing an unknown threat down by yourself. That’s a good way to get yourself killed.”

Isaac scowled, likely offended at the backhanded slight to his skills, but Stiles didn’t have time for his wounded pride. It wasn’t about him. He would have done and said the same thing to Peter had it been him instead. Haring after strange threats, alone, and in the dark nonetheless, was a great way to get killed, and Stiles wasn’t going to let that happen. Not on his watch. 

So, without acknowledging Isaac’s clear displeasure with Stiles’s orders, Stiles directed him to start applying pressure to the bite wound on her hand. It was the next worst injury she had after the bites to her left leg that Stiles was managing, and hands always bleed more than it felt like they should. 

Isaac obeyed, and between the two of them, they managed to try off their shirts as makeshift bandages and tourniquets to stabilize the woman. 

As soon as he could safely take a hand off of her, Stiles dug out his phone and called 911 for an ambulance and then his dad and Peter to update them. 

After nearly an hour of fielding paramedics’ questions about what he had done and the woman’s state, reassuring the first responders that he and Isaac were perfectly fine, and a hastily contrived story about a rogue mountain lion, —one of these days, that excuse would stop working, but that day was not today, thank goodness— Stiles managed to get himself and Isaac out of there, shamelessly abusing the fact that his dad was the sheriff and the “need” to “give a report”. 

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief as soon as they got away, and Peter barely waited until they were out of human ear and eye shot before falling into line with them. Stiles had heard him lurking in the trees, hidden from human eyes by the darkness that had fully fallen by then. Fortunately, the older beta had obeyed the order Stiles had muttered under his breath to not go hunting the creature. 

Now that they had escaped curious witnesses, Peter gave Stiles an expectant look. 

“So what is it?” he asked. 

Stiles shifted his weight and glanced away. “I don’t know. I didn’t get a good look at it.”

It wasn’t like he regretted any of his choices or actions, and he had definitely had plenty of time to think them over while sitting with the paramedics as they asked the same questions over and over again. But still, Stiles regretted not being able to get a good enough look at the creature to give a definite identification. They needed that information in order to build more effective plans and despite not knowing how he could have handled the situations better, Stiles felt like he had failed somehow in not gaining that information. 

Peter somehow managed to sag into himself without missing a stride. He gave a frustrated sigh, though Stiles could tell it was directed more at the situation as a whole rather than Stiles himself. 

“Seems about our usual run of luck,” Peter said dryly. “Did you notice anything useful?” 

Stiles gave a humorless snort of laughter and nodded. “Yeah. It’s definitely humanoid. It seemed proportioned oddly though, taller and skinnier than people generally are. The head was also weird. Kinda bony? Like a skull without any skin? Or maybe skin stretched tight across a skull. I didn’t get a great look. But it kind of gleamed in the light, and it definitely had that muzzle you hypothesized from the depth of the bite wounds on the first victim.”

Peter hummed thoughtfully. “That should narrow it down at least. The only creatures I know of that match that description are demonic or incarnations of malicious spirits.”  

“That was my assessment as well,” Stiles said. “Fortunately, they have some common weaknesses we can exploit. Do you think the priest at the corner church will sanctify some holy water if I ask nicely? I might be able to use the school project excuse again. It’s a bit of a stretch, but I think I can swing it.” 

Stiles’s dad snorted and shook his head fondly. “I feel like I should be concerned by your methods of resource requisitioning. 

Stiles grinned mischievously. “Hey, if it works, it works. 

“Exactly,” Peter said, smirking to match. 

The local priest did sanctify some holy water for Stiles, though he gave Stiles slightly suspicious yet vaguely indulgent looks while he did. Stiles suspected that the priest knew that Stiles didn’t want it for a school project, but didn’t think Stiles could get up to any mischief with it regardless. 

Stiles didn’t really care what he thought. He got a small vial of holy water out of the deal, and that was all that really mattered. 

He also knew from previous research that adding holy water to non-holy water —pagan water? Sinful, depraved, mundane water? Stiles digressed— sanctified the whole batch. The potential exploits of that fact were endless, and Stiles had researched it for hours before he felt confident that holy water propagated in that fashion would still have the intended effects on demonic supernatural creatures. 

Accordingly, Stiles gleefully turned the tiny vial of priest-provided holy water into several gallons of mass-produced holy water stored in vaguely-sacrilegious, recycled milk jugs. While technically, according to his research, the purity of the water didn’t matter, Stiles hadn’t been able to prevent himself from boiling it first anyways. It just felt wrong otherwise. 

The whole operation had taken several hours out of his weekend once he accounted for the time it took to cool boiled water enough to safely store in plastic, and Stiles spent most of it cackling madly and wishing he had a lab coat and goggles. He also wished that the water would give a poof of smoke or some sparkles when he added the holy water after boiling. It all felt somewhat anticlimactic. 

Quite understandably, the other inhabitants of the household steered well clear of the kitchen until he was finished. 

He stored the resulting products in hip flasks, ostensibly for easy carrying and access. The irony of storing holy water in a vessel designed for alcohol was coincidental. Honest. 

Judging by the look his dad gave him when Stiles passed them out, he didn’t buy that reasoning at all. Humph. Nobody appreciated efficiency. 

“So this will, what? Burn the creature? Drive it off?” John asked, eyeing his flask skeptically. 

“Yep!” Stiles answered cheerfully. “A little bit of both honestly. It hurts them, and they avoid it as a result. You can flick it or splash it on them or sprinkle it on things you need them to avoid. Carry it with you everywhere from now on.” 

Isaac also looked somewhat less than convinced. 

“And you holy-ified all of this from that teensy vial?” he asked. “That works? The priest’s blessing just transfers endlessly?” 

“It does,” Stiles confirmed. “Though technically, it’s not blessed. The rites to make holy water are more like an exorcism. Essentially exorcizing all the ‘evil’ out of normal water so that the result is ‘holy’.” 

“Huh,” Isaac said, studying his flask with new fascination. “That’s kinda cool.”

Stiles beamed at him. “Isn’t it though? I had far too much fun with this project.” 

“I’ll say,” John muttered.

“Understatement,” Peter said at the same time. 

The two men shot each other amused looks and Stiles gave them a mock-offended look. 

“The point is, ” Stiles said with a raised eyebrow that dared them to comment further. “The holy water will give you another line of defense, and I expect you to keep it handy.”

Peter gave him an innocent look. 

“Of course, Alpha. Your generosity and far-sightedness are a credit to your position. We are lucky to share the same air.”

Stile rolled his eyes. 

“Of course you are,” he said dryly, ignoring Peter’s sarcasm. 

Isaac snickered as he clipped his flask to a belt loop and shook his hips experimentally to see how it moved. Peter attached his own with an almost suspicious sort of smooth grace and familiarity, barely glancing down to see how it connected and settling it into place with an idle gesture. John watched them both and shrugged. He was wearing his work pants, and the large pockets at the thigh allowed him to simply slide the flask into a pocket. He gave Peter an arch look as he did so. 

Peter raised an eyebrow and leaned against the wall, crossing his legs at the ankle in a casually graceful movement that emphasized the crisp lines of his tailored pants. Somehow, the hip flask worked with the look, lending it a rakish air. He then gave John’s slightly baggy and stained work pants a politely disdainful look. 

John scowled. 

Peter smirked. 

Stiles rolled his eyes again at their antics. 

“If you’re quite finished?” he drawled. 

Peter glanced over, smirk gentling to an amused smile. “Yes, Stiles?”

Stiles smiled back. His pack raised sarcastic and aggravating to an artform, and he wouldn’t have them any other way. 

“Do what you need to do to get ready and then I want us to go patrol,” Stiles said. 

Peter pushed away from the wall, eyes brightening at the prospect. Stiles’s older beta always jumped at the chance to go for a run with him. 

“Ready whenever you are,” he said. 

The majority of the patrol passed uneventfully. The sun began to set, casting long shadows behind everything it touched, birds chattered to each other as they found their roosts for the nights, and the two wolves ran side by side in contented unity. 

However, as the sun set and the temperature dropped, the colder air allowed faint scents to travel farther than they might otherwise. 

Stiles jerked to a halt as one scent drifted to his nose. Peter almost tripped over him in his attempt to match the sudden movement. 

Stiles drew in one long breath after another, searching for that faint scent he had barely caught a trace of. Peter glanced at him and immediately mimicked him, searching for whatever had caught his alpha’s attention. 

Then Stiles smelled it again: a faint trace of that sickly scent that underwove the mystery creature’s scent. However, unlike the previous times he and Peter had caught the creature’s scent, the stronger notes of blood and rot were entirely missing. 

Stiles glanced at Peter. He could tell from his beta’s faintly furrowed brow that he had also caught the scent and was confused by the missing aspects. 

“Come on,” Stiles said after a moment. “Let’s go check it out.” 

Peter hummed acknowledgement and they set off. 

They moved through the forest slowly, taking care to move as stealthily as possible as they tracked the scent. They drew closer, and the scent grew stronger, but the smell of blood and rot continued to be absent. 

There was no sign of the creature that Stiles had run into the other night. 

A sudden weak growl caused Stiles to halt in his tracks. 

A skeletally thin fox lay a couple of feet in front of him. It was the source of the weak growl, the skin of its muzzle drawn up in a ferocious snarl. 

Stiles blinked. 

It was also the source of the sickly scent. 

Stiles looked closer. The fox lay in a hollow in the ground. A log covered the back half of its body. Judging by the disturbed earth around it, the fox had been digging, perhaps in pursuit of some small burrowing prey, when its actions caused the log to shift, falling onto it. The hollow of the ground likely saved it from being entirely crushed and killed, but it was a deceptive mercy. Instead, the log had trapped the fox, pinning it in place in such a way that it could not even dig itself free. 

There it had clearly languished, saved by the quicker death of dehydration by the way that the hollow channeled a trickle of water from a nearby stream, but condemned to the slower death from starvation. Stiles couldn’t be sure how long it had been there, but it was deathly thin and weak, clearly dying. 

“It’s starving to death,” Peter said softly from his side. 

There was a slightly horrified tone to his voice that Stiles empathized with. It felt wrong for a fox, a hunter like them, to die such an ignoble death. 

Then something in Peter’s statement caused Stiles’s brain to click.

Starving.

Of course. The sickly scent was the scent of acute starvation. Stiles knew that during the final stages of starvation, after the body had literally cannibalized everything it could, the victim had a distinct sickly scent to them. 

He had researched it extensively years and years ago, well before the whole supernatural mess. He had been complaining to his dad on a roadtrip endlessly about starving to death because he was so hungry. His dad had finally snapped at him to “Stop complaining. You’re not going to die, so just be quiet for two minutes. Please.” 

Stiles being Stiles had promptly been as quiet as humanly possible for exactly two minutes to the second before starting to whine again. He had also dedicated far too much time on that trip to researching the entire gruesome progression of starvation so he could make his complaints more accurately graphic. 

For some reason, his dad hadn’t appreciated the effort. 

So yeah, Stiles hadn’t smelled it before, but it made sense. It also explained why his wolf instincts were so on edge around the scent. Animals that reached that level of starvation went mad. Their behavior couldn’t be predicted and that made them dangerous. 

“The weird scent is the scent of starvation,” Stiles finally said, echoing his racing thoughts. 

Peter nodded slowly, eyes still fixed on the fox. 

“That explains why I thought it almost smelled familiar at the crime scene,” he said.

Stiles gave him a curious glance. “Oh?” 

Peter hummed, a melancholy air surrounding him the way it always did when he reminisced about events before the fire. Stiles leaned in to brush their shoulders together in silent support. He didn’t look at his beta, waiting patiently for Peter to gather his thoughts. 

“I don’t know if you knew, but Laura was raised from a fairly young age to take the mantle of alpha,” Peter began slowly. “She had the potential, and Talia nurtured it. So it should also come as no surprise that she could be ridiculously stubborn when she wanted to be. It’s practically a requirement for alphas.”

Stiles snorted, and Peter gave him a fond look before continuing. 

“Well, one day Laura decided that she wasn’t going to eat her vegetables and nothing Talia said could convince her otherwise. Her mind was made up, and Talia refused, as a personal rule, to use an alpha command in parenting situations outside of absolute emergencies. That left it to a complete battle of wills, and Laura was too stubborn to give in. So Talia refused to give Laura anything else to eat until she finished the serving of vegetables, some green beans if I remember correctly, and it escalated from there. 

“For breakfast the next morning, Talia set that same serving of green beans in front of Laura while everyone else ate the normal meal. Talia said that Laura could have what the rest of us were eating, just as soon as she finished that single serving of green beans. We were having some sort of nice breakfast, waffles maybe, or pancakes, and there was Laura, sitting with her arms crossed in front of a small bowl of green beans and scowling at the world. 

“Breakfast, lunch, and dinner for a whole day after the first dinner that instigated it, Talia set that same serving of green beans in front of Laura and said that she could only have the meal that the rest of us were eating after she finished those stupid green beans.

“And each time Laura insisted that she wasn’t hungry. It was a lie of course. We could hear it in her heartbeat, obviously, but we could also smell the hunger on her. It smelled a little like this. Not as sickly or as extreme, of course, but similar.”

Peter trailed off with a wistful sigh. Stiles leaned into him with a reassuring rumble, and Peter exhaled shakily, leaning back heavily. 

“So what happened?” Stiles asked. 

“With the standoff?” Peter asked, letting out a watery chuckle. “Laura gave in eventually. I think it was during dinner the day after Laura first refused. We made homemade pizzas as a pack that night and were going to watch a movie together. And there was Laura, sitting in the corner of the dining room with that same stupid serving of green beans, unable to join us and share in the pizza until after she finished them. Eventually she gave in and just ate them.”

Peter laughed quietly. “She never did refuse to eat something again though. Neither did anyone else who witnessed it, come to think of it.” 

Stiles chuckled as well. “She sounds like a force of nature. Talia, that is. Though Laura as well.” 

“They were,” Peter whispered, grief clear in his voice. 

They stood in silence for several moments, quietly paying homage to the bright lives cut short. 

“You know what this means, right?” Stiles finally asked.

Peter hummed a nonverbal questioning sound. 

“If our mystery creature has starvation as a principal component of its scent, I know what it is. A demonic type creature that eats humans and smells of starvation? It has to be a wendigo.” 

Peter blinked and visibly shook off his melancholy and distraction. 

“You’re right. Though it's weird for a wendigo to be able to pass as a human for extended periods of time. Normally they’re too unstable for that.”

Stiles nodded. “True. But I’m not sure what else it could be given the evidence, and Beacon Hills is practically the poster child for weird supernatural occurrences.”

“Fair enough,” Peter snorted. 

He gave another mournful look to the fox. Stiles sighed silently. He was so going to regret this. But hey, supernatural healing should easily be able to take care of tiny teeth marks. 

“Alright,” Stiles said. “Let’s help this thing.” He nodded towards the fox. “You know we can’t just leave it here.” 

Peter smiled. “What do you want me to do?” 

Stiles glanced around briefly, before making a quick plan of action. 

“Can you catch a squirrel or something? It needs food badly, and I’d like to give it something to sink its teeth into other than us.”

“Sure.”

Peter scanned the trees and then focused on one that Stiles could hear a small heartbeat in. Then in a flash of movement, Peter lunged straight up the tree. He ducked around a branch and stabbed his claws into a bundle of leaves. When he dropped back to the ground beside Stiles, a fat squirrel dangled from his claws, neatly impaled and quite dead. 

Stiles shook his head slowly. “Man, the dog jokes just write themselves, don’t they?” 

Peter shot him a dirty look, sniffed, and turned away. 

Still grinning, Stiles crept closer to the trapped fox, ignoring its desperate growls. Then, with a lightning fast dart, he slipped his hand around its snapping jaws to catch it by the scruff of the neck, pinning its head, with those sharp teeth, to the dirt. Once the fox was secured, He twisted his head back to glance at Peter and nodded towards the log.

“Mind giving that a shove?” 

Peter stepped closer and flicked the log away with an effortless twist of his wrist. 

“Show off,” Stiles muttered under his breath. 

Peter smirked at him. 

Once the log was removed, the fox started flailing, twisting around in Stiles’s grip in an attempt to get away. Stiles held it still with some minor effort and reached back with his free hand to take the squirrel that Peter held out to him. 

The fox immediately set in on the offered prey with ravenous desperation, and Stiles took advantage of its distraction to give it a quick pat down to confirm that no major bones were broken. 

Satisfied that the fox was as well off as could be expected, given its clear starvation, Stiles released it and stepped back. 

The fox gave a weak snarl, but clearly prioritized eating over going after them. 

Stiles nodded with a satisfied smile and glanced at Peter. 

“Come on. We’ve got work to do.” 

Chapter Text

The revelation that the monster was a wendigo was helpful, certainly. Stiles was relieved to actually have a clear target in mind. But that knowledge didn’t make finding and killing the thing suddenly easy or straightforward.

That was what led them here: the whole Stilinski Pack gathered in the living room to plan and strategize for the necessary confrontation. Stiles’s dad sat in his habitual chair at the side of the room, and Isaac sat on the couch. Isaac was tense and twitching slightly with nerves, and normally Peter would sit beside him so that Isaac could lean on the older beta’s steadiness, but today Peter had chosen to sit in the armchair beside John’s. 

Stiles gave him a slightly confused glance as he sat. It wasn’t like it was unheard of for his beta to take that seat, but normally he only did so when he was planning to work on things. He preferred to use both of the armrests and the end table beside the chair to spread papers out on. But he had neither papers nor his computer with him today, so Stiles had expected him to sit with Isaac. 

Still, it was likely unimportant, probably a mere whim, and Stiles shook off the distracting thought. 

For his part, Stiles stood in front of them all. He felt wired up with restless energy and knew he would be pacing a bit during the meeting. Better to not sit in the first place. 

“The way I see it, we have two options,” Stiles began. “Either we continue as we have been, attempting to catch the wendigo during our patrols. Or we try to find a way to lure it out into an ambush or a trap.” 

John frowned. “I haven’t gone on the patrols with you guys, but it doesn’t seem like you’ve had much luck with that strategy.” 

“We haven’t,” Stiles confirmed. 

Peter drummed his fingertips on the armrest of his chair. “Patrols rely too much on luck and we haven’t been very lucky. Drawing it out lets us determine at least some of the factors of the battle.”

“Not to mention that not all of us are on every patrol,” Isaac broke in. “We patrol in pairs and we might need all the help we can get to kill this thing. Especially if someone gets injured.” 

His eyes flicked to Stiles, and Stiles knew he was remembering their brief encounter with the wendigo where Stiles had stopped him from pursuing it in favor of helping its victim.  

Stiles nodded. “I was thinking pretty much the same thing. But if we want to draw it out, we need to find a way to do so and make a solid plan.”

“I don’t suppose you can use a deer carcass or something as bait?” John asked but his tone clearly indicated he already knew the answer. 

“If only,” Peter snorted. “Unfortunately, wendigos eat humans without exception. They have no interest in any other form of meat.” 

“And to be clear, we are not using humans as bait.” Stiles said firmly. 

Peter pursed his lips in a jesting mien of displeasure. “Not even a little bit?” he asked. “I’m sure there’s a rapist somewhere who doesn’t really need all his fingers.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “No.” 

“Would a wendigo even be interested in just part of a human like that?” Isaac asked, his brow furrowed in thought.

“Not you too,” Stiles sighed. “We’re not going to use dismembered parts of a person as bait.” 

Isaac snorted but shook his head. “Not really what I was getting at. I meant, do wendigos track by scent like we do? Could we splash a bit of blood and trick them into thinking there was a person there?”

“Good idea,” Stiles said. “Maybe? It would probably have to be a good amount of blood to make it a believable ruse though.” 

“So more than you could get from giving a human a shallow cut,” Isaac said, and his eyes flicked tellingly towards John. 

Stiles caught the motion. 

“We are not cutting open my dad to use his blood as bait,” he said dryly but there was an undertone of danger in his voice that made it clear how little he appreciated the suggestion. 

“Seconded,” John said faintly. 

Isaac ducked his head, flashing throat in mute appeal. Stiles stepped over and briefly clasped the back of his neck in reassurance. 

“It was still a good thought, Isaac. And one we might be able to use with some adaptations.” 

Isaac straightened up again. 

“We probably don’t want to use anyone local anyways,” Peter said, redirecting attention back to the discussion. “If the wendigo latches onto the blood-scent as a potential target and for some reason doesn’t come to our ambush, or if it comes, but then escapes somehow, it will preferentially go for that person since it would already be latched onto them as a target. If they’re local, the wendigo would actually have a chance of coming across them and that would be disastrous.”

Stiles winced. “Yeah, that would be bad. So if we were to use this plan, we would have to have access to blood from outside the county.” 

There was a moment of silence as everyone thought over that problem. 

“Could one of us leave and get blood from outside Beacon Hills and bring it back?” Isaac asked hesitantly. 

John shook his head. “Unless you have a way to get that blood without cutting up some random stranger, I don’t think that will work.” 

Isaac frowned but nodded and continued thinking. Something about his suggestion tickled at the back of Stiles’s mind though. Suddenly, it clicked. Stiles whipped around, snapping his fingers. Everyone’s eyes shot to him. 

“The hospital!” he said. 

“What?” John asked. 

“The hospital,” Stiles said again. “It stocks bags of blood for blood transfusions. I bet that some of those are from outside the county, and one or two would be more than enough to complete the ruse.”

“That,” Peter paused. “Just might work actually.” 

“Melissa knows about the supernatural, right?” John asked. 

Stiles nodded confirmation. 

“Then she might be able to get the blood for us without raising too many questions,” John continued. 

“Perfect,” Stiles said. “We’ll talk to her after this to ask. In the meantime, we need to figure out where we want to do this.” 

He pulled out the map of Beacon Hills he had for this exact purpose and spread it out on the coffee table. Everyone leaned in. 

“If we’re too far away from populated areas, we’ll have a harder time catching the wendigo’s attention,” Peter warned. 

“But too close and we risk civilian casualties,” John said. 

“So we need to find a balance,” Stiles confirmed.

And the planning began in earnest. 

A while later, Stiles sat back and stretched. 

“I think that should about do it,” he said. “I’ll hash out the rest of the fine details later and sketch some more backup plans, but we’re good here. Well done everyone.” 

John and Isaac relaxed, satisfied, but Peter fixed Stiles with a serious look. 

“Not quite,” he said. “There’s one more thing we need to establish.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Oh?” 

“Are we involving Scott and his pack?” 

Stiles paused in the middle of gathering up the notes and maps, drumming his fingers against the papers. 

“Ah, that,” he said and paused, thinking for several moments. The rest of the pack watched and waited silently. 

“I won’t —can’t— hide the fact that I know it’s a wendigo from him,” Stiles began slowly. “That’s dangerous and irresponsible. However, when I tell him, he’ll want to make a plan to deal with it too. If he has a separate plan from us, we’ll be working at cross-purposes which is dangerous and increases the chances that the wendigo will escape or make another kill.” 

“So we’ll be working with him?” Isaac asked. He sounded none too pleased with the idea. 

Stiles let out a short sigh. “Yeah. Tentatively, yes.”

“Are you going to reveal your status?” Peter asked. “Because if not, you’ll have to limit yourself to human fighting abilities and that weakens us significantly.” 

Stiles frowned harder. “I’m not sure. I’ll play it by ear.” Then he looked up and pinned Peter with a firm look. “But I certainly won’t hold back if any of you are in danger. Your wellbeing is far more important than my secret.” 

Peter inclined his head with a faint smile, and Isaac beamed. 

“As you say, Alpha,” Peter said. 

Stiles leaned against the wall watching the students flow past on the way to lunch. He had texted Scott and the other alpha had agreed to meet up at lunch to talk and plan. They would talk outside to hopefully avoid unwanted ears, so Stiles was just waiting for Isaac to make his way over. The class his beta had right before lunch, biology, was farther away from the doors, so it took him an extra minute to catch up. 

Erica and Boyd lingered just within eyesight. Stiles assumed that they would be joining the makeshift meeting and were waiting on Isaac and himself. No one else from Scott’s pack, nor Scott himself, was in range of Stiles’s senses. 

Then Stiles caught sight of Isaac. 

His beta wove through the throngs of students with a pleased grin. Through a gap in the bodies, Stiles saw that Isaac was clutching a wad of papers in one hand. Stiles raised an eyebrow even as a matching grin stretched across his face. His beta’s joy was infectious. 

Isaac brandished the papers at him as soon as he broke free of the crowds. 

“Look!” he crowed. 

Stiles tilted his head to look at them. It was a biology test with a 92% written in bold at the top. 

“I did it!” Isaac said gleefully. “I finally got an ‘A’!”

Stiles beamed at him. “Well done!” 

He reached out and tousled his beta’s hair before slinging an arm over his shoulders to tug him into his side. Isaac burrowed in with a happy rumble, rubbing his cheek against Stiles’s shoulder. 

“Well done,” Stiles said again. “I’m proud of you. I know how hard you worked for this.” 

Isaac tilted his head up enough to shoot Stiles another pleased grin then dropped his head back down again with a content sigh. 

Stiles used the arm he still had around Isaac’s shoulders to steer him towards the doors where Erica and Boyd were still waiting. As he did, he caught the tail end of a speaking look the other two wolves were sharing. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes, gaze flicking over their forms, studying their body language. He had a feeling that whatever that had been was going to bite him in the butt. Probably sooner rather than later. However, nothing else appeared out of the ordinary, and the two other betas simply fell in step with them as they left the building and made their way to the bleachers by the lacrosse field. 

Scott was waiting over there for them with Allison by his side. No one else from his pack was there. Derek probably couldn’t show up on school grounds without raising suspicions, but Lydia and Jackson didn’t have that excuse. 

Scott caught Stiles’s faint frown at their absence. 

“Lydia had something she needed to do, so they’re making sure no one notices that we’re gone. Someone can catch them up afterwards.” Scott said by way of explanation. 

Stiles nodded. He didn’t like it, but it wasn’t like there was anything he could do about it.

With that settled, everyone climbed the bleachers to find seats. Stiles chose a seat towards the top so he could have a vantage point, and Isaac immediately claimed the spot directly below, leaning back against his legs. 

Scott gave them an amused look. 

Stiles ignored it. He was well aware that Scott thought that Isaac had imprinted on Stiles like a lost puppy after Stiles helped him through his panic attack. He was unintentionally a little condescending in his amusement in that belief, but Stiles found the misunderstanding too convenient to raise any objections. Especially since Isaac was mostly unbothered.

Erica and Boyd did not show that same amusement as they claimed seats below and a little to the side of Stiles and Isaac. Instead, Erica flicked a glance over them and then raised an eyebrow at Boyd who gave a minute shrug and tiny nod. 

Stiles narrowed his eyes at them. They were up to something and since it seemed that it likely involved either himself or Isaac —or both, his metaphorical hackles were raised. 

However, before he could think on it further, Scott sat with Allison so that their group formed a sort of lopsided triangle, and gave Stiles an expectant look. 

“Your text was a little lacking in details,” Scott said with a tiny note of accusation. “What exactly is this creature?” 

Stiles forcibly set the thing with Erica and Boyd aside and refocused. 

“A wendigo,” he answered. “Basically, the incarnation of a cannibalistic spirit. They only eat people and can be really vicious. Normally, they don’t hide in human areas well due to their insatiable hunger, poor impulse control, and general bloodthirstiness, but this one is apparently special. It’s either smarter or more controlled than wendigos typically are. Or both. Honestly. with our luck, probably both.”

“Lovely,” Allison sighed. 

Stiles shared a commiserating look with her. Beacon Hills really was a magnet for this kind of trouble. Scott frowned at the bleacher seat in front of him. 

“So how do we get rid of it?” he asked. 

Stiles leaned forward, grinned, and pulled a sheaf of papers from the backpack he had brought with him for this purpose. 

“Well, you’re in luck Scotty-boy, because I just happen to have a few ideas…”

“A few,” Erica echoed skeptically. 

Scott snorted, and Stiles sent her a dramatically wounded look. 

“A few main ideas!” he defended. “Plus more side suggestions, a double handful of backup plans, some extra objectives, and a small plethora of related thoughts… Hardly anything!”

Boyd gave his low rumbling chuckle at that, and Stiles beamed at him before spreading out the most important of the plans. 

“So what I was thinking…”

The planning session, or rather, the session to catch them up on the pre-developed plans, went smoothly. Scott made a couple tweaks, most likely so that it felt more like his, but otherwise accepted the plan as it was. Stiles had hoped that he would. Stiles had always been the planner between them and Scott rarely had true objections to Stiles’s plans, but this felt more serious. 

It was likely because Stiles was truly feeling the weight of responsibility for the lives in danger by the wendigo’s presence in Beacon Hills. He knew he would have struggled if Scott had hated the plan. He honestly thought it was their best chance of catching this thing. And then killing it, of course. Though he had skimmed over that detail of the plan, knowing Scott’s discomfort with any such permanent solutions. 

They finished up with a little time left in their lunch period. Scott immediately wandered off with Allison, likely to find some private spot to enjoy the rest of their free time. However, Erica and Boyd lingered, catching Stiles’s eye like they wanted to talk. 

Stiles took a hidden breath. Looks like he wouldn’t have to wonder what this was about for much longer. He still had a bad feeling about it. 

Isaac also saw the way the other two betas were lingering. He flicked a glance at Stiles, likely registering his tension the way only he could. He touched a hand to the pocket where he had his phone, shooting Stiles a question with his eyes. 

Stiles twitched the corner of his lip in a half smile and gave a tiny shake of his head in the negative. He didn’t need Isaac to contact Peter. He highly doubted whatever this was would go that badly, and even if it did, Peter wouldn’t be able to get here in enough time to do much of anything. He could handle it. 

Isaac studied him for a moment, then nodded again, squaring his shoulders and falling in at Stiles’s side. Stiles smiled slightly and walked up to Erica and Boyd, who were yet again sharing a speaking look, and raised a challenging eyebrow. Isaac followed, shadowing Stiles just behind his shoulder, subconsciously staying in a good position to support his alpha should things go south. 

When they walked up, Erica shot Boyd an uncharacteristically uncertain look. Boyd returned it with a steady one, and Erica visibly straightened. She then turned and set her feet in clear determination. 

“We want in.”

Stiles blinked and studied her, but Erica did not elaborate further. 

“In…?” he finally questioned. 

She gave a sharp nod and glanced at his beta. 

“Isaac looks to you now. The way he used to look to Scott. He looks to you for permission, for approval, for support. And you give it. In a way that Scott never did. He’s happier now and more confident. Just generally doing better than ever before. And we want that —Boyd and I, that is.”

Isaac tensed at the blunt assessment, pressing his shoulder against the back of Stiles’s. Stiles leaned back against him in silent support. Erica shot Isaac an apologetic grimace but also flicked a glance between him and Stiles with an “See what I mean?” air. She took a deep breath and redirected her attention to Stiles. 

“I didn’t know a human could be Alpha, but you’re clearly that to Isaac. I didn’t really have a problem with Scott, but I see you with Isaac and I want that—” Boyd nudged her with an elbow, and she blinked and corrected herself. “—We want that. We want in.” 

Stiles blew out a breath and rocked back on his heels. 

Hoo boy, this was going to be interesting.

He hesitated, not saying anything as he thought about it. He was suddenly very glad they had waited until Scott was out of earshot for this conversation. Erica stayed silent, watching and waiting, but Stiles could see her and Boyd’s tension out of the corner of his eye. He was impressed. It would have taken a lot of courage and conviction to confront him like this and ask for him to accept them. 

“Scott won’t like that,” Stiles finally said. It was an understatement, and technically, it wasn't up to Scott, but it still needed to be said. 

Predictably, Erica scoffed. “I don’t need his permission to decide who I follow.” Then her expression gentled. “But I hear what you’re saying. Scott will hit the roof if we leave to submit to you instead. Especially if Isaac is already yours. But we don’t care. Not really at least. It’s more important to us to have a pack worth the name than to preserve Scott’s pride.” She hesitated. “Isaas is yours right? You’re acting as his alpha?”

She raised a questioning eyebrow. 

Stiles snorted but nodded. 

“Yeah. You already guessed it, but yeah. Isaac is mine. I’m his alpha.” 

Erica grinned, pleased with herself, but Boyd’s brow furrowed. 

“Humans can be alphas?” he asked, speaking up for the first time in the conversation. 

Stiles hummed non-committedly. They had figured out a lot, but he wasn’t quite willing to reveal everything. He returned to the earlier topic instead. 

“I’ll tell you what. Let’s catch the wendigo and secure the territory first. After it’s safe, we can revisit this conversation and figure out what the best thing to do is.”

Erica nodded, clearly unsatisfied but willing to take what she could get. 

“Fine, but we’re going to hold you to that, Alpha.” 

Boyd gave a sharp nod of agreement. 

Stiles rolled his eyes, but smiled. “Not your alpha yet,” he said. 

“Yet,” Boyd rumbled with an almost invisible tilt at the corner of his lips. 

Stiles tilted his head in acknowledgement. They knew as well as he did that that “yet” was as good as a promise. 

When Stiles and Isaac got home after school, Isaac burst through the door ahead of Stiles, already rambling on about how Stiles was such a good alpha that Erica and Boyd had noticed and been jealous. 

“...and then they said that they didn’t know humans could be alphas —which is hysterical, all those observation skills and they miss the biggest thing— and, get this! They want to join our pack! They want Stiles to be their alpha too! Course, Stiles told them to wait until after this whole wendigo mess is cleaned up, but then they’ll probably join our pack!” 

Stiles walked in on his heels in time to catch Peter’s expression at the news. His first beta’s face went through a swift series of expressions: amusement, anticipation, joy, and then fear, harsh and curdling, that disappeared almost instantly, replaced with the indulgent amusement that was Peter’s default expression when he was hiding something or uncomfortable. It was very similar to his resting expression of amused indulgence when content, but Stiles knew him well enough to tell the difference.

Stiles frowned in concern. The fear was there and gone so quickly he could almost fool himself into believing he had imagined it. But he hadn’t. Something was up with Peter. 

He cast a quick glance around the room. Isaac hadn’t noticed Peter’s slip, now gushing to a visibly proud John about his grade on his biology test. So Stiles hummed softly and greeted his pack normally. 

However, after dinner, instead of sending Peter and Isaac out to patrol as was normal for their schedule, he caught Isaac and Peter’s eye to gain their attention and gave Isaac a faintly apologetic glance.

“We’re going to switch things up a little today. The schedule will continue as normal  tomorrow with you two patrolling, but today Peter and I are going for a run.”

Isaac looked confused, flicking a glance between them but nodded easily enough. Peter also looked curious, but inclined his head in graceful acquiescence. 

Stiles didn’t explain further, but he didn’t need to. He was their alpha, and they respected that. And so, after cleaning up, Isaac settled on the couch next to John to do some studying and Peter followed Stiles outside. 

They ran in peaceful silence for a while, until they were deep in the preserve, well away from prying ears. Then, Stiles slowed to a stop in a small grove by a creek. Peter stopped beside him, and they stood in silence for a few more moments. Then Peter broke it.

“Is this where we have that conversation you dragged me out here for?” he asked, shooting Stiles a sidelong look. 

Stiles’s lips twitched, and he turned to face his beta. 

“Yes,” he said easily. “How do you feel about Erica and Boyd joining the pack?” 

It was what he thought was the most likely reason for that strange flash of fear, even if he didn’t understand why. 

Peter hummed and a wistful, longing expression crept over his face. 

“It’s good. More wolves make a stronger pack. Both of them are decent wolves too. Boyd is steady and dependable —always a good thing for any pack, and Erica will be a force to be reckoned with once she settles down and gets some consistent training. I didn’t particularly love them in Scott’s pack, but I think they’ll blossom under you. You’re a good alpha.”

Stiles smiled softly at the easy endorsement, but he was still confused. Peter hadn’t lied, but this didn’t explain his fear earlier at all. So he tried again. 

“And personally? How do you feel about having them around?”

Peter gave him a wry grin. “There’s no need to be concerned over me. I grew up with a large pack. It will be… nice, to have that again.” 

Stiles nodded. Peter’s heartbeat had been steady this entire time, so he would let it go for now, but he would keep an eye on things just in case. There were more than enough threats out in the world. He had no desire to add tumultuous relationships and friction within the pack to it.

Chapter Text

The key to smooth success was proper, near-excessive, planning and preparation. At least, that was Stiles’s firm opinion on the matter. Fortunately, the rest of the Beacon Hills werewolves agreed with him. Or, more likely, they didn’t want to waste the time and energy on an argument that was doomed to failure. 

Regardless of the reason, everyone came together to organize the last few details necessary to set the trap for the wendigo. 

Stiles’s dad had carried out the most crucial part of the plan this morning on his way to work —picking up the blood bags at the hospital. Armed with a computer carrying case whose padded lining served admirably as insulation for the ice packs tucked inside, John had met up with Melissa so she could give him the blood. His excuse, should anyone ask, was to see if he could get any more information from the doctors who had treated the wendigo victim Stiles and Isaac had saved. 

No one else had a good reason to be at the hospital, with the possible exception of Scott who could have claimed to be visiting his mom, but he had a tendency to look incredibly shifty and suspicious whenever he tried to lie or spin a story and was accordingly banned from such missions. (Which was why when they were kids, it had always been Stiles’s job to try and talk them out of trouble and Scott’s job to lighten punishment if Stiles failed. Scott’s puppy eyes were lethal.) 

Stiles’s dad had texted him after he had left the hospital with the blood, so, now that they were almost ready to arm the trap, Stiles drove to the station, picked up the lure, and was almost back. 

The rest of the wolves waited at the chosen location. It was near the walking trails but just enough off the beaten path that hopefully they wouldn’t have anyone stumble across it. The wolves would wait in hidden perches in the treetops under the well-established theory that hardly anyone, including supernatural creatures, looked up. 

Since Peter and Stiles weren’t entirely sure how strong a wendigo’s sense of smell was, they planned on splashing most of the blood out at their chosen site but holding some back and then waiting for a couple hours. If the wendigo didn’t show up, a couple wolves —probably Peter and maybe Erica and/or Boyd— would take the remaining blood and create some blood trails to their ambush site. If that didn’t work, they would reevaluate and go from there. 

The plan was still a little hit-or-miss despite their best efforts, but it was the best they had and Stiles was sticking to it. 

So far things were going smoothly. The wolves had almost finished using strategic placement of fallen trees to block off nearby walking trails and reduce the chances of intruders, and were just waiting on Stiles to get back with the blood. 

Stiles stepped out of his car at the entrance to the trails and instinctively tilted his head up to scent the air. He could smell traces of the rest of the wolves from when they had passed this way, as well as the countless people that frequented the area, but no sign of the wendigo. Satisfied, Stiles nodded to himself and shut the car door, locking it with an absent motion. 

Then he staggered, nearly collapsing and catching himself on the side of his car as panic, rage, pain, and fear raced through him with the force of a tidal wave. Stiles stared at his jeep, unseeing. Those weren’t from him. He hadn’t actually felt that. He focused on his packbonds. 

Normally, they hovered in the back of his mind, ever-present and warm, but largely non-intrusive. Now they screamed at him with the desperation of the corresponding packmates. Panic and pain from Isaac, rage and fear from Peter. 

Barely had Stiles processed that information that he was whirling around and bolting into the woods. The blood packs landed in the dirt by his car, utterly forgotten. 

Something was going terribly wrong.

Stiles tore through the woods, the trees flashed past faster with every stride as he pushed with everything in him for every scrap of speed he could achieve. Seconds dragged by in the spaces around his frantic heartbeats. Each one that ticked by increased his desperate fear that he would be too late to stop whatever horrible thing that was threatening his pack. Desperate, Stiles grasped within himself for anything that could get him there faster. 

With a sort of mental pop, Stiles felt something flex within himself and the world shifted in place. He pulled more speed from somewhere mid-stride, his next step sending him sprinting on faster than he could truly process. Stiles didn’t question it, his mind fully focused on reaching his betas as soon as possible. 

Stiles’s paws skidded in the dirt as he leaped a series of ravines from dried creeks and burst into the chosen site, fangs bared and hackles raised. 

Underneath the largest tree, Isaac rolled in the dirt, sharp yelping cries bursting from him as he thrashed and fought with the wendigo that was snapping at anything of the beta he could reach. Peter hovered over him, trying to pull the wendigo off or Isaac out, but his efforts were consistently foiled by Isaac’s panicked motions. The rest of the betas hovered nearby shouting suggestions and commands in desperate fear. 

Stiles didn’t hesitate. 

He tore into the middle of the group, nose down, and plowed into the tangle that was his beta and the wendigo. The shove carried all of the momentum of Stiles’s desperate flight, and the force of it sent both combatants flying in separate directions. 

Isaac gave a sharp cry of pain as the wendigo’s teeth were forcibly torn from his body and Peter was on him in a flash, catching the younger beta as he was sent sprawling. Stiles rolled to his feet, the move having tumbled him in a pile of jumbled limbs and saw the wendigo roll away into the woods. 

Stiles bared his teeth. It wouldn’t get away this time. 

Still, first things first. 

Stiles trotted over to Isaac and pressed his nose against his beta’s neck, scenting him and assessing his injuries. While definitely bloodied, the injuries seemed to be healing well. His beta would be fine, and could even join the pack on the hunt to take down the source of those injuries. Stiles’s hackles rose at the thought but a hesitant voice interrupted him before he could direct his betas to follow him. 

“Stiles?” Isaac whispered and Stiles suddenly realized that the pain in his scent was swiftly giving way to disbelief and awe. 

Stiles blinked and glanced around. All of the wolves were staring at him in various levels of slack-jawed disbelief. Except for Peter, whose wondrous expression held notes of fierce joy and pride. 

Stiles took a suddenly hesitant step back, ears and tail flicking uncomfortably. 

Then the awareness of those motions suddenly clicked and realization hit him like a physical blow. Stiles glanced down. Furred paws rested in the dirt, claws flexing in response to his mental command. 

For a second, giddy amazement and incredulity threatened to overwhelm him —A full shift! He was an actual, literal, ears-paws-and-tail, honest-to-goodness wolf right now!— But Stiles forced it all aside to deal with later. He could have his freak-out when he didn’t need to catch a feral wendigo. 

Focusing on the need to protect his pack and the current necessity of a human form to best do that right now, Stiles pushed away the shift just like he would a persistent remnant of a beta shift. 

Fur melted away and bones cracked and reshifted until Stiles stood there, unharmed and fully human. 

And wearing only his boxers. 

A brisk, chilly wind made that fact immediately apparent, for all that werewolves naturally ran hot, and Stiles gave a deep sigh, raising a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. He didn’t even bother to try and cover up. It was too late. They had already seen everything, and besides, running with wolves and the way that their supernatural fights were invariably hard on clothes meant that modesty was a bit of an overrated concept anyways. He had seen far more of the resident wolves and they of him than anyone would have really rather preferred. 

Still, when Peter shrugged off his jacket and proffered it to him with a grin tugging at the corner of his lips in defiance of his deliberately straight face, Stiles accepted it and pulled it on with a heartfelt thanks. It didn’t do anything to hide his underwear or skinny pale legs, but at least he was warmer. And hey, at least he hadn’t worn his Batman underwear. Small blessings. 

“Stiles?!” Scott burst out. 

“The hell, Stilinski?” Jackson echoed.

The rest of the wolves stared at him in various levels of shock, clearly wordless for the moment. Though Stiles noted that Erica and Boyd’s shock was tempered by a “How the hell didn’t we realize that” sort of feeling, and Derek’s stunned expression was mixed with something that wavered between longing and envy. 

Stiles glanced around warily and then focused on Scott, wincing slightly at the expression of shock and betrayal stretching across the face of the person he had once called his brother in all but blood. 

“Yeah, it’s me. But I don’t have time to explain. The wendigo can’t have gone far. Now is our best chance to catch the blasted thing,” Stiles barreled on, well aware that if he didn’t head things off now, Scott would bog them down in a drawn-out argument. That conversation would come, but they honestly didn’t have time for it right then. 

“Peter, I want you to take point. You’re the best tracker and you and I are the most familiar with this thing’s scent. Isaac, stay close to me. The wendigo got a taste of your blood so he’s most likely to attack you out of any of us, and I don’t want him to have a clear shot.” 

Stiles glanced at the rest of the wolves. He was well aware that some of them wouldn’t take an order from him if they were on fire and he told them to jump in a lake, but if he could… 

Erica and Boyd were practically standing at attention, responding to his suddenly authoritative tone, so Stiles took a risk. 

“Erica, Boyd, I want you to flank Isaac and I. Stay slightly behind us, and keep your heads on a swivel. If the wendigo circles back, I want you in position to catch him.”

They both gave him sharp nods. 

“I’ll shift back into a wolf,” Stiles continued because werewolf lack of modesty or not, his current state of near-nudity was awkward. He gave a final glance over everyone, noting and ignoring continued states of bafflement, and nodded. “Let’s go.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” Scott interjected, finally finding his tongue. “Hold on a minute. Since when were you a werewolf? Much less an alpha!”

“Not now, Scott. I’ll have to explain later,” Stiles said tersely and proceeded to end the discussion by dint of shifting into a wolf. 

Peter’s jacket fell to the ground where it joined a strip of leather that Stiles recognized as the belt he had been wearing, sans buckle. He blinked at it, thoroughly confused, and forcibly set his numerous questions aside. 

Distractions aside, turning into a wolf proved to be a marvelous method of ending inconvenient conversations. Can’t argue with someone who doesn’t have vocal cords. Well, you could, as Stiles’s numerous passionate arguments with his coffeemaker would prove, may the blasted thing rot in the deepest parts of hell with the rest of the unreliable, treacherous, fair-weather friends where it could no longer refuse to work exactly and only when Stiles was most tired and running late. But such arguments didn’t produce helpful results and only ended in increased frustration in the party bearing vocal cords. 

As such, Stiles was able to ignore Scott’s, and amusingly enough, Jackson's continued spluttering, turning instead to Peter who had redonned his jacket. Peter nodded once when he met Stiles’s gaze and pivoted, loping into the forest where the wendigo disappeared. Stiles followed immediately, and Isaac, Erica, and Boyd fell in around him exactly as he requested. 

The rest of the wolves followed after another moment of confused pause. Scott ran up to run parallel to Stiles, expression tight. 

“You may have put me off for now, Stiles, but you owe me one hell of an explanation after this is over,” he muttered. 

Stiles glanced at him, but for once, he wasn’t entirely sure what the expression on Scott’s face meant. He nodded carefully, and Scott nodded back stiffly before dropping back to run with his packmates. 

Stiles felt trepidation and some tendrils of guilt twine through his heart. While he stood by the decisions he had made, he had known when he made them that they would hurt Scott. He ran on, but his thoughts raced on without his permission and distracted him despite his best efforts. After a bit, Peter glanced back with a concerned look. Stiles grimaced, idly wondering how the mental command for such an expression translated across a lupine face. 

Still, in the face of his beta’s clear worry and sympathetic distraction, Stiles shook his head forcibly and shoved all his concerns aside to address later. 

The time for conversations and verbal fights would come later. Now, he had a monster to catch, a threat to dispatch, and a pack to protect. That had to take precedence. 

And so, Stiles bared his teeth and met his beta’s eyes with a fierce, fanged grin.

Tonight, they would hunt. 

Peter gave a sharp grin back and faced forwards once more, surging forwards with increased speed and determination. 

The pack of wolves tore through the forest in a loose formation, silent aside from the unavoidable sounds of their passage. Then Peter abruptly slid to a halt, spinning in a tight circle and looking around wildly. 

His eyes shot to Stiles’s.

“The scent is gone!” he said, disbelief coating every word. 

Stiles’s eyes widened and he pushed forwards. Sure enough the scent trail that they had been following vanished just ahead of where Peter was standing. And it was notably vanished. Not faded into undetectability, not masked by some stronger scent. Vanished. It went from perfectly normal and trackable to entirely gone in the space of a single stride, as if the source of the scent had ceased to exist or been plucked up into the sky. 

At that last thought, Stiles immediately began scanning the treetops above them in the off chance that the wendigo tried to turn their ambush back against them in more ways than one. Peter immediately mimicked him, intuiting his alpha’s concern. But the treetops were empty so far as supernatural senses could tell. 

Scott trotted up, frowning. “What do you mean ‘the scent’s gone’? That’s impossible!” 

Peter sneered at him. “Then perhaps you can enlighten us as to where the wendigo has gone?”

Scott’s frown deepened, but notably, he did not raise any theories. 

“I also can’t hear anything,” Erica offered hesitantly.

Peter’s gaze flicked to her briefly before turning away to continue scanning the trees around them. “Neither can I,” he said, tone grim. He raised his voice. “Everyone! Circle up, face outwards. We can’t rule out the possibility that it’s still around here somehow.” 

Scott whirled on Peter with a snarl, eyes flaring alpha-red. “I don’t take orders from you.” 

Stiles twisted to defend his beta, hackles raised, but was beaten to the punch by Isaac who stepped up to Peter’s shoulder and met Scott’s eyes with shaky determination. 

“Maybe not, but it’s still a good idea,” he said.

Scott turned his glare on Isaac who quailed slightly but stood firm, shoulder brushing lightly against Peter who had crouched minutely as if in preparation for attack. Stiles also tensed, watching with bated breath. His instincts were running high in this form and if Scott attacked either of his betas, Stiles honestly wasn’t sure he would be able to prevent himself from killing him. 

The standoff was interrupted by Erica’s shrill cry.

“Look out!”

Stiles whirled around to face the new threat, just in time to see a form burst out of the trees to their side soundlessly, lunging at Jackson who happened to be standing nearest to it. Derek had apparently seen the movement out of the corner of his eye because he threw himself forwards, tackling Jackson out of the way of the wendigo. The two of them rolled across the ground in a jumbled heap and the wendigo let out a shriek of frustration and disappeared in the trees opposite from where it had emerged.

Except for the shriek, the operation had been entirely silent, absent even a foreign heartbeat and —Stiles sniffed the air— entirely without scent. 

Stiles traded a significant glance with Peter. Even without words, he knew they were thinking the same thing. 

Something was very wrong here. 

However, the attack served admirably to distract them from the previous standoff. Scott pivoted away and lunged after the swiftly disappearing form of the wendigo. 

“After it!” he yelled and most of the wolves tore after him in pursuit. 

“No!” Stiles cried, or at least, he tried to. What came from his throat was actually more of a strangled-sounding bark. 

Stiles snapped his teeth in annoyance and glanced up. Peter was still by his side, looking just as frustrated and concerned as Stiles felt. Isaac had also resisted the urge to pursue their quarry, though he looked more confused than anything else, glancing between Stiles and Peter, clearly able to tell something was wrong, but not knowing what. 

Stiles hesitated for another second before snarling in frustration and sprinting after Scott’s pack, Peter and Isaac flanking him. He didn’t like this at all. There was no good reason for the wendigo to be able to hide from their senses seemingly at will. And then, to make matters worse, it wasn’t attacking like a wendigo should. This sort of hit-and-run, guerilla-style of attack was completely different from the single-minded, crazed bloodlust that all of his research had predicted. Nothing about this encounter made sense, and that raised Stiles’s hackles. An unpredictable opponent with unexpected abilities was a tactician's worst nightmare. 

Still, he wasn’t about to abandon Scott’s pack to whatever was going on, and at this point, who knows? Maybe sheer numbers would be an advantage. 

Of course, that didn’t stop him from growling under his breath as he ran and mentally cursing Scott’s obliviousness for not recognizing that something was very wrong in this situation. 

They caught up with the pack easily after a brief run. The other wolves were milling around aimlessly on a section of trail not far away from the site of the previous attack.

The wendigo had vanished again. 

Scott was pacing in circles cursing while Erica, Boyd, and Jackson watched anxiously, and Derek crouched where the scent of the wendigo disappeared, scowling at the ground like he could reveal the secret if he just glared hard enough. 

It was a very impressive glare, Stiles acknowledged, but he still didn’t think that particular tactic would yield anything helpful. 

Stiles caught Peter’s eye as they loped up and jerked his head to the left. Peter nodded and pivoted to circle around to that side, scanning the trees as he went. Stiles went the opposite direction, Isaac following. He couldn’t be sure yet, but he could see a pattern starting to form, and he didn’t want to get ambushed again. 

Scott’s head jerked up when they arrived. 

“Stiles!” he snapped. “How the hell is this possible?” 

Stiles blinked at him and somewhat pointedly tilted his head towards his furred and notably vocal cords-absent body. Unless he shifted back and was largely naked in a high-threat situation, he was incapable of answering anything. 

A muscle in Scott’s jaw worked and his eyes narrowed briefly before he whirled on Peter. 

“Peter! Answer me! How the hell is it able to do this?” 

Peter’s eyes flicked to Stiles first who nodded briefly, and Scott’s teeth ground audibly at the exchange.

Peter turned to Scott. “Frankly, Scott, I have no idea. It shouldn’t be possible.”

“Really?” Scott demanded, suspicion in every line of his body. “All of your supposed occult knowledge and you have nothing? Why do I find that hard to believe?” 

Anger flashed through Peter’s eyes and his claws flexed minutely. Stiles’s eyes widened and he stepped forwards pushing the wolf shift back to return to a human form. This was escalating quickly and the vocal capabilities of a human body were worth the added vulnerability and awkwardness. Peter’s mouth opened, likely to make some scathing reply judging by the offended fury in the lines of his body, but Stiles interrupted. 

“Easy Scott,” he said. “Peter’s right. We don’t know how the wendigo is doing this. It’s definitely beyond the scope of abilities my research suggested.”

Scott turned his glare on Stiles. It was surprisingly furious, and Stiles actually took a small surprised step back at the intensity. 

“Is it?” Scott hissed. “Or are you lying to me to steal the glory? Lying and stealing seem to be your favorite way to treat me recently.” He gave a pointed nod to Peter and Isaac, both of whom bristled. 

“Scott!” Erica cried in startled dismay, but Scott ignored her. 

Stiles met his eyes calmly. “I’m not lying to you Scott. I have no idea how the wendigo is able to hide from our senses.” He left the rest of Scott’s accusation alone. If he addressed it, they would get bogged down in that whole mess and now was really not the time. 

Scott glared for a couple more moments. “Whatever,” he snapped and stalked off, growling slightly under his breath.

Peter sagged slightly once Scott left, tension draining from his form. Stiles sighed and clasped his beta’s shoulder in silent support, squeezing gently. Peter closed his eyes for a moment in a long blink before straightening up in determination. Stiles nodded and dropped his hand. 

“Suggestions?” he asked. 

Peter gave him a wry look. “Leave?” he offered in a tone that suggested he wasn’t entirely joking. “Regroup, research, and try to figure out what in the moon’s light is going on here?” 

Stiles snorted. “Somehow, I don’t think that idea will go over well.”

Peter shrugged. “Me neither, but it still might…

However, at that moment, Stiles saw movement approaching fast through the underbrush. 

“Incoming!” he yelled, interrupting his beta and lunged forwards, shifting as he went so that his paws landed in the dirt as he positioned himself between the approaching wendigo and the rest of the wolves. 

Due to his warning, the others were able to face the threat and ready themselves for attack. The wendigo burst out of the trees, charging down the trail towards them. 

Despite himself, Stiles bared his teeth in a feral grin. By charging straight at a full pack of werewolves in a blood-craze, the wendigo had practically signed his death warrant. He was also finally acting like Stiles’s research said a wendigo would. 

The wendigo charged at them, over-long arms allowing the mostly-humanoid monster to travel on all fours in a twisted parody of a natural predator’s graceful run. The awkwardness of its limbs caused its upper body to jerk with every stride, but his eyes —blood-red and ringed with jet-black— remained fixed on them with unwavering intensity. 

Stiles crouched slightly, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. Beside and behind him, the rest of the wolves mimicked his ready posture, bracing as their quarry came to them. 

However, just before the wendigo got close enough that Stiles could strike, the wendigo’s eyes flared a bright white that encompassed the whole eye, no pupil showing. Immediately afterwards, the wendigo slid to a halt, limbs locked tight with empty white eyes staring at them unblinking. Though Stiles had the strangest feeling that the wendigo wasn’t actually seeing them. 

The werewolves froze, no one moving a muscle as they held a silent standoff for several drawn-out seconds. Despite the tenseness of the situation, Stiles’s eyes were drawn to one detail that he had missed before. Nestled against the wendigos throat lay a small amulet decorated with tiny rubies and runes that Stiles did not recognize. The amulet was no bigger than a coin, and small enough to be easily overlooked in the chaos of combat. But the wendigo’s current supernatural stillness provided a stark contrast to the way that the amulet swayed gently from the momentum of the creature’s previous charge. That contrast drew the eye, and ultimately, Stiles’s attention. 

Then, in defiance of every known characteristic of wendigos, the wendigo abandoned the pursuit of its prey without so much as a snarl, pivoting and bolting away.

The silence dragged on until Jackson suddenly broke it. 

“Am I the only one who found that really creepy? ” he demanded. 

“No, you’re not.” Boyd said, posture clearly revealing how unsettling he found the encounter. 

Scott stepped forwards hesitantly. “I thought that wendigos were supposed to be really single minded? All bloodlust, crazy, and unthinking when chasing prey?”

“They are.” Peter said, expression and posture tense as he stared unwaveringly after the wendigo. 

“Um.” Erica raised her hand like she was making a point in class. “Not to state the obvious, but that wasn’t exactly a crazed, single-minded pursuit of blood at the end there.”

Peter hummed. “No, it decidedly wasn’t.”

Stiles shifted back to a human form and immediately pressed a hand to his hip. He would have sworn that he was wearing a pair of his good underwear, but for some reason the elastic at the waistband wasn’t working properly and they kept threatening to fall off. Still, clearly he had more important problems at hand. 

As soon as Stiles resumed a human form, Isaac sidled up to him, pressing their shoulders together in a silent request for reassurance. Stiles automatically brushed his palm against Isaac’s back to scent him and act as a calming gesture. Some of Isaac’s tension drained away, but he still stayed pressed close. 

“Did anyone else see his eyes?” Isaac asked quietly. 

Everyone made some uncomfortable gesture of acknowledgement and agreement. Erica actually shuddered slightly as she did. 

“Yeah, what was up with that?” she asked. 

“I have no idea,” Stiles answered, a subtle note of danger underlying the words that made Peter’s head snap over to him. “But I intend to find out. It was… unsettling. And unnatural.” 

Stiles turned to scan over the assembled wolves, mind racing as he thought up and discarded plans with lightning speed. There were so many unknowns at the moment. Still, one thing he was sure of. 

“It’s hunting us,” he mused aloud. 

Reactions to that ranged from grim agreement from Peter, through horrified shock from Jackson, to outrage from Scott. 

“It’s trying to hunt us? ” he growled. “I’ll show it a hunter!” 

And with that, Scott tore off down the path after it. The rest of his pack followed with varying levels of enthusiasm. Erica and Boyd hesitated, glancing at Stiles before reluctantly running after him. 

Stiles sighed deeply. Amusingly, Isaac mimicked him, both of them watching with tired resignation. 

“Well, Alpha…” Peter began slowly. 

Stiles tilted an eyebrow at him. His beta sounded downright shifty. Peter continued, looking straight ahead so determinedly that Stiles knew he was avoiding meeting his eyes. 

“If Scott and his little band of minions are so determined to act as bait, it would be downright churlish of us to refuse them such a clearly coveted role…” 

Peter trailed off and Stiles sighed again. Unfortunately, he had just performed a dramatically deep sigh and was unable to sigh deeper without it sounding comically forced. Truly, his life was a difficult one. 

“You have a point,” Stiles allowed, somewhat begrudgingly. 

“What?” Isaac blurted. Even Peter seemed shocked at Stiles’s agreement, causing Stiles’s lips to twitch. 

“Scott’s not going to give up,” Stiles explained. “His pride is at stake now, so he’ll keep chasing the wendigo until something gives. I don’t want it to get that far, so, as much as the morality of it grates—” Here, Stiles gave a significant look to Peter, who at least had the grace to look sheepish and tilt his head in the faintest flash of throat. “—I agree that we might be able to take advantage of the distraction— ” Stiles emphasized the word and pointedly did not use the term “bait”. “— they provide to catch the wendigo off guard.” 

Isaac nodded though he was clearly still slightly uncomfortable with that plan. Peter, of course, was restraining his eager anticipation only barely enough to pass for polite company. Stiles flicked his gaze between them, then nodded, gave a few final instructions, shifted, and set off. 

They slunk after Scott and his pack, spreading out and weaving through the trees. 

The next time the wendigo attacked, they were still approaching and it managed to knock Derek down, getting a few good bites in before Derek threw it off with Scott’s help. The wendigo promptly disappeared into the trees opposite from Stiles’s approach. 

The attack after that, Stiles thought he was going to have it. The wendigo charged Boyd when the beta was standing a little ways in front of Stiles. Stiles immediately bolted forwards. The wendigo had enough of a head start that Stiles knew he wouldn’t be able to intercept it before it got to Boyd, but he would be on top of it not long after. 

However, right before Stiles got within attacking range, the wendigo’s head snapped up and bone-white eyes locked with Stiles’s. Something flashed across the wendigo’s otherwise blank expression that sent chills down Stiles’s spine and raised his hackles. Then, releasing Boyd, the wendigo fled. 

Stiles snarled, but knew better than to give chase. Any trace of the wendigo would have vanished before it traveled more than a dozen paces. Instead, he shifted and helped Boyd up, ensuring that the bite on his shoulder —all that the wendigo had dealt before Stiles arrived— was healing properly. 

Stiles’s check was somewhat perfunctory though. He was distracted and found himself continually sweeping the area with his eyes even as he offered Boyd a hand and gave him a friendly slap on his good shoulder. Something about that brief interaction with the wendigo kept setting off alarm bells in his mind and he stayed in a beta shift, wanting the balance between human opposable thumbs to help Boyd and supernaturally enhanced abilities. 

A few seconds later, after a far shorter delay than ever before, the wendigo struck again. And, in serving with Stiles’s paranoia, lunged past Boyd to attack Stiles directly. 

Had Stiles not been so on edge, the wendigo likely would have caught him off guard. But he was, and thus caught the flicker of movement out of the corner of his eye, turning and bracing for impact just in time. 

As the wendigo sprang forwards, supernaturally-sharp fingernails curled into claw shapes and teeth bared, Stiles lashed out in return, catching a too-thin wrist in each hand and twisting, using his body weight and the wendigo’s own momentum to throw it to the ground. Stiles followed it down, unwilling to release his prey lest it escape again. However, the wendigo took advantage of Stiles’s continued grip, and managed to twist its head around to sink fangs into Stiles’s wrist. 

But two could play that game. 

Gritting his teeth against the pain and the instinctual horror of being chewed on, Stiles refused to relinquish his hold and instead sank his own fangs into the back of the wendigo’s shoulder. Unfortunately, his angle prevented him from reaching the creature’s neck. As Stiles bit down and ripped his head sideways for good measure, the wendigo screeched, releasing Stiles’s wrist and twisting violently. 

Stiles cursed as the sudden powerful movement tore his teeth free of the wendigo and also forced him to release his grip on its wrists to prevent the awkward angle from snapping his elbow. Still, he dug his claws into anything he could reach and refused to let the wendigo get away. 

The two of them rolled across the ground tearing at each other viciously. Each of them dealing vast amounts of damage, claws and teeth tearing into anything either of them could reach, ripping skin and flesh with terrifying ease. 

But while Stiles had supernatural healing closing his wounds, albeit at a slower rate than normal, the wendigo had no such advantage. And so, Stiles ignored the agonizing pain of his many, grievous wounds by focusing solely on his all-consuming need to keep the threat contained and his betas safe until he could finally end it. 

Every blow that Stiles landed weakened his opponent minutely and he capitalized on that, even gritting his teeth and letting some of the wendigo’s strikes through his defense so he could take advantage of the openings they provided to deal more serious injuries himself. 

Even with Stiles’s ability to heal, injuries were piling up on both sides. Both of them were covered in blood, and Stiles was starting to feel slightly weak from blood loss, the shear rate at which they tore into each other too fast for supernatural healing to fully keep up. Still, the wendigo was worse off. Over the course of their short battle and besides the numerous deep gashes and bites he had bestowed, Stiles had also managed to break several of the bones in the wendigo’s hands, shatter its left knee, and even mostly sever the muscles and tendons of its right shoulder, rendering that limb mostly useless. 

But the wendigo was proving remarkably capable of continuing to fight despite what should have been crippling wounds and blood loss. Indeed, the more badly injured the wendigo got, the harder and more recklessly it fought, defying a normal creature’s instinctive drive to escape and live, and replacing it with an uncharacteristic, almost vengeful, strategy that cared little for damage done to itself in the pursuit of Stiles’s death or maiming. 

Finally though, Stiles managed to flip the wendigo over, pinning its left arm down long enough to slash at the wendigo’s throat. The muscles on the wendigo’s right side spasmed helplessly, but no amount of furious determination could move a limb with severed muscles, and Stiles slashed his claws through the wendigo’s throat. 

The wendigo went limp and Stiles backed off a bit, watching as the wendigo gasped through its final moments. The rest of the wolves closed in from where they had ringed the pair, the constant rolling and flailing of the battle between Stiles and the wendigo having prevented them from being able to assist.

Shortly before the wendigo breathed its last, the rubies on the amulet around its neck pulsed with a short flash of light, and the wendigo’s scent and heartbeat abruptly returned. Then its eyes, which had remained pure white through the duration of its fight with Stiles, suddenly faded back to a wendigo’s normal black-ringed red. As they did, the wendigo relaxed abruptly, blinked rapidly and slid his eyes over to Stiles. 

“Thank you,” he whispered, his voice faint, but full of heartfelt relief and gratitude. 

Then the wendigo’s heartbeat slowed to a halt, and his chest fell still. 

“The hell? ” Jackson demanded. 

Which, Stiles thought, summed up his thoughts on the matter perfectly. 

In the treetops a short distance away, a small murder of crows gathered, drawn by the scent of blood and its promise of fresh carrion, but held at bay by the commotion of continued combat. In a pattern as old as time, the scavengers waited for the battle to be decided so that they might feast on whatever dead resulted from it. 

As the wendigo breathed his last, one of the crows jerked abruptly and its black, beady eyes suddenly turned a bright, bone-white. 

It promptly took flight and landed on a branch above the strange collection of werewolves. There it tilted its head to regard them in a manner most unlike most birds, and remained perfectly still, watching, until they left.  

Then, without so much as a glance towards where the other crows gathered to scratch at the blood-soaked ground, it turned and flew off, bone-white eyes staring unseeing into the horizon as it flew out of Beacon Hills. 

Chapter Text

Stiles took a step back from the dead wendigo with a tired sigh, mind spinning and body aching. Nothing about this made sense. 

Then he cursed and grabbed his underwear as he noticed the dangerously low position of the waistband. What was up with them? He knew they hadn’t been in that bad of a shape that morning. 

Regardless, now that the battle was over, Stiles just wanted to curl up with his pack and sleep for a week. He felt exhausted in a way he hadn’t since he was bitten. Unfortunately, everyone else apparently decided that his slight movement had broken the spell of silent confusion that had fallen over them all. 

His betas moved first. 

Peter scanned him for especially serious injuries, but when Stiles nodded reassuringly at him, nodded back and dropped to one knee beside the wendigo, studying the body, and particularly the amulet, with silent intensity. Though Stiles was relieved that his beta had the sense not to touch the amulet, merely inspecting it from a slight distance. Stiles didn’t know what the amulet did, but he would bet the claws of his left hand that it had something to do with all the screwiness they had experienced. 

As Peter performed his focused inspection, Isaac slunk up to Stiles, hesitating just shy of making skin contact like he was afraid of injuring Stiles further. He tilted his head to peek at Stiles uncertainly out of the corner of his eye with a near-silent whine that clearly displayed his distress at Stiles’s blood-coated state. 

Stiles blew out a soft breath and tugged Isaac into a firm hug, rubbing his cheek against the top of his head reassuringly. Isaac immediately clung to him tightly. The pressure made his not-quite-healed wounds ache fiercely, but it was worth it for the way it made his younger beta all but melt against him in relief. Clearly, Stiles’s fight with the wendigo had upset him. Stiles hated that he had made Isaac worry, but he didn’t, couldn’t, regret his choices. 

Scott marched up to them, his lip curling in a faint sneer at the way that Isaac was clinging. 

“Answers?’ he demanded. 

Stiles stiffened, but managed not to snarl protectively over Isaac’s shoulder. The conversation was going to be hard enough without rising to Scott’s bait. He would need every scrap of control he had for this to not end in bloodshed. So, he exhaled slowly, forcing the tension to drain from his body as he did. 

“Yeah, Scott,” he said. “You’ll get your answers now. Just give me a sec.”

Stiles loosened his grip on Isaac who accepted the cue and backed off slightly, though Stiles could tell he didn’t particularly want to. Stiles caught his eye. 

“Hey Isaac, will you run down to my jeep and get the black backpack out of the trunk? It’s locked, but I’m pretty sure I dropped my keys by the driver door.”

Isaac nodded sharply, looking relieved to have a clear task. “Absolutely, be right back.” 

He backed up a couple steps, shooting Scott an uncertain look before he turned and ran off. 

Stiles watched him until he rounded the corner then turned back to Scott, who was waiting impatiently. He raised an expectant eyebrow, and Scott wasted no time. 

“When did you get bit?” 

Stiles watched him carefully. “Almost four months ago.”

Surprise flashed across Scott’s face. Behind him, Derek choked, and the other three betas looked flabbergasted. 

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Scott asked, sounding genuinely hurt and confused. “You could have joined my pack!” 

Stiles sighed and looked away for a moment before turning back to Scott. He had once called the other teen his brother in all but blood. The least he could do was look him in the eye while he gave his explanation. 

“Because I knew you wouldn’t approve of me stopping the feral alpha who bit me.” He paused. “And because I didn’t think I could bring myself to submit to you.”

Hurt flashed across Scott’s face again, but it was almost immediately eclipsed by anger, fierce and growing. 

“So that’s how you became an alpha, huh? You went and murdered someone because you’re too high and mighty to follow me! Because you’ve always thought you were better than me! Well at least I didn’t murder someone in some sick power play to betray a friend!”

Stiles narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw with near-herculean effort against numerous furious rebuttals. Fortunately, his indecision in which of Scott’s outrageous statements to address first gave him the precious seconds necessary to hold onto his control by the skin of his teeth. 

However, Peter either did not have, or chose not to utilize, that same control. He twisted slightly, his crouched position by the wendigo shifting from one of relaxed inspection to poised threat in a few subtle movements. As he did, his eyes flared a bright beta-blue and a terrifyingly deep growl rumbled through his chest. 

Stiles pinned him with a sharp look and twisted his hand at his side so that his palm faced his beta in a subtle “wait” gesture. 

“No,” Stiles told him clearly, tone calm and firm. He kept his gaze unwavering on Peter’s as he flashed his eyes alpha-red for a brief moment. 

Peter subsided with an annoyed grumble, eyes returning to normal and growl silencing. But while he relaxed slightly, his posture remained ready to protect Stiles if need be. 

Stiles gave him a small nod of approval and a tight smile before returning his attention to Scott just in time to see the outrage on his face reach the boiling point as he watched their brief interaction. 

“And there’s another thing!” he snarled. “You stole my betas!” 

Stiles was proud of his control. He was able to let almost all insults directed at him slide off his back because he generally didn’t care what people thought of him. But attacks against his people? Those few he cared about and would move heaven and earth for? Attacking them lit his temper faster than a match lit dry grass in a drought. 

And so, at that accusation from Scott, Stiles felt his mind retreat into the cold, calculating state that cared little for anything other than the removal of the threat.  

“They’re people, Scott,” Stiles hissed furiously. “Not things. You can’t steal them. They chose me! I didn’t seek them out. Hell, I didn’t even ask them if they wanted to submit to me instead. They. Came. To. Me.”

Scott sneered. It was a rather impressive one, for all that the disdainful skepticism in it grated against Stiles. 

“You expect me to believe that?” Scott demanded. “When I of all people know that an Alpha needs betas, and you clearly wasted no time in taking mine?” 

Stiles threw his hands up in the air in frustration. “They’re not toys, Scott! They’re living, breathing people capable of making their own choices! I’m sorry that those choices hurt you, but it was still a choice they had every right to make.” 

“Whatever,” he snapped. “I don’t even want to look at you right now. The crisis is over, so I don’t have to spend my time around traitors.” 

He spat out the last word, whirled around, and stalked off. He marched between his betas without even looking at them. 

“Come on,” he snapped.

Jackson fell in step immediately, shooting Stiles a sneer that rather fell short of his usual efforts, clearly thrown off by the recent events. Derek gave them a hesitant, —longing?— look before turning to follow as well. 

Erica and Boyd didn’t move, glancing rapidly between Scott and Stiles. Scott realized they weren’t behind him after a couple steps, turning to glare at them. 

“Come on. Let’s go.” He said, annoyance under weaving his words. 

Erica looked up at Boyd who gave her a tiny nod. She twined her hand in his, and met Scott’s eyes firmly as they took a small step back in unison. 

“No,” she said, voice wavering slightly. 

Scott’s eyes flared bright red and he snarled at them. They flinched, but took another step backwards, towards Stiles. 

“No,” Erica said again, tone firming. 

Something wild and unhinged flashed in Scott’s eyes. 

“You’re choosing him over me? He’s a murderer!” 

They took another step back, almost to Stiles now who was watching silently, but holding himself ready to spring to their defense if necessary. This time Boyd spoke, his deep voice quiet but perfectly steady. 

“We are allowed to choose. This is our choice.”

Scott snarled again in impotent fury, gave Stiles an absolutely vicious glare, then turned and stalked away. 

The other wolves watched, silent and tense until he made it out of sight then relaxed abruptly, all of them letting out breaths they had been holding onto. 

“So… I feel like I missed something.” Isaac said slowly from where he stood behind them holding a backpack. 

Stiles snorted and dropped to sit on the ground with a tired exhale. He raised one arm in invitation and Isaac immediately approached, curling up against him. Stiles pressed his nose to Isaac’s neck, closing his eyes and just breathing in his beta’s scent, letting it drain the last of the anger, guilt, and stress from him. Isaac pressed back with a contented hum, but when Stiles raised his head again after a moment, he gave his alpha an expectant look. 

Stiles smiled. “Erica and Boyd here just told Scott to his face that they were leaving his pack.”

Isaac whistled softly, giving the other betas an impressed look. “Dang.”

Stiles hummed agreement, shifting his weight so that Peter could press in on his other side. Once he was settled, a beta on either side of him, he gave Erica and Boyd an appraising look. 

“You know, just because you don’t want to be in Scott’s pack anymore doesn’t mean you’re obligated to join mine. Beacon Hills is a chaos magnet, and I wouldn’t blame you one bit if you want to get out of here entirely.” 

Boyd shook his head immediately, and Erica mirrored him. 

“No,” she said. “Beacon Hills is crazy, but it’s home. We’d like to join your pack.”

“If you’ll have us,” Boyd added, and Erica glanced at him before nodding with a touch of anxiety. 

Stiles shifted enough to free his right arm and reached out, palm up in invitation. Both wolves hesitated for a moment before Erica moved forwards, taking his hand. Stiles pulled her in gently, sliding his hand up, brushing over her shoulder to squeeze the nape of her neck. Then he pressed their cheeks together and held still, waiting. Neither of them moved for several long seconds before Erica finally sagged, dropping her head to rest against Stiles’s shoulder and tilting her head to expose her throat. 

Stiles gave an approving rumble at her silent gesture of submission and slid his cheek down to nuzzle against her neck, scenting her familiarly in a claiming gesture. Erica sagged further, practically dropping to sit in Stiles’s lap as Stiles felt the development of a new pack bond flicker into place, twinning between the others. Curiously, as it did, it seemed to bully out more space between the bonds than it really took up, twining around itself as if waiting for something.

Stiles chuckled against her throat and shifted her over until she was half on him and half on Isaac who took to his new role of packmate seat cushion with an expression of unadulterated delight. 

Stiles nuzzled Erica one more time before lifting his head and looking up at Boyd who was watching with an expression of pure, naked, longing.

Stiles smiled and held out his hand to Boyd in the same manner as before. Boyd immediately took it and let Stiles pull him close. Again, Stiles slid his hand around to grip the nape of his neck and pressed their cheeks together before waiting. But where Erica had hesitated for several moments before giving in and submitting, Boyd relaxed immediately with a noise that was somewhere between a pleading whine and contented rumble. His pack bond immediately flared into place, bright, steady, and strong, twining around Erica’s bond in the extra space hers had bullied out like it was finding its missing piece. 

Stiles felt like he was drunk, or possibly high, drifting on the utter bliss of forming two new pack bonds and having all his lupine betas curled up around and on top of him. The only thing that could make this better was if his dad was here and his pack was complete. 

A sharp rock under his hip demanded his attention, and Stiles shifted his weight as best he could without disturbing anyone. 

Or a mattress. A mattress might also make this better if Stiles was being perfectly honest. Oh well.

After several moments of relaxed contentment, Stiles finally shifted his weight with some purpose. As nice as all this was, the stone under his hip was changing from a mild inconvenience to an active annoyance, and he was becoming more and more hyper-aware of his current state of undress. So, with a sigh of resigned annoyance, Stiles nudged Boyd off of himself and twisted his head to catch Isaac’s eye. Not particularly hard to do given that his purposeful movement had drawn the eyes and attention of all of his betas. 

“Hey Isaac, where did you put that backpack of mine?”

Isaac blinked twice and very obviously glanced around, searching for the bag in question himself. Following his line of sight, Stiles found it just barely out of reach of their little impromptu pack pile. 

Sighing again, Stiles wiggled his way out from under everyone and retrieved the bag. From inside he produced several critical items: a change of clean clothes, an in-depth first aid kit, a large water bottle, and an extra-large bag of beef jerky. Man, he loved it when his not-over-prepared-simply-properly-prepared self came through. 

Stiles tugged on some proper clothes with a hum of relief, but his fingers lingered at his waistband. He glanced up.

“Hey Peter?”

His oldest beta gave a hum of acknowledgement. 

“Any idea why my underwear were the only clothes to come with me when I shifted into a wolf? I haven’t researched a full shift beyond what I couldn’t resist on the research rabbit hole when I first discovered it was possible, but everything that I found suggested that I should either have all of my clothes or none of them, with more reliability on the sources that suggested none. Yet, I’m somewhere in the illogical middle by keeping some. And none of that explains why shifting, and having an article of clothing shift with me would damage just the waistband.” 

Peter hummed again, this time in clear thought.

Isaac snickered. “Maybe your wolf form is just fatter than you?” he offered with a shit-eating grin. Erica snorted and hid her face in Isaac’s chest, shoulders shaking. 

Stiles rolled his eyes at them and chuckled. Still, he didn’t let himself get distracted, keeping his focus on Peter. 

“I might have a theory…” Peter began slowly.

Stiles raised an eyebrow.

“Supposedly, at least according to a pack of isolationist wolves, clothes that were made out of all natural materials with no artificial or synthetic materials would shift with the werewolf in question as easily as their own skin.”

Stiles frowned thoughtfully. “So most of my clothes got left behind when I shifted because they were at least partially synthetic? Probably polyester, I’m pretty sure that’s a major component in most modern clothes. That explains why my belt came with me until I shifted back and the lack of a buckle made it fall. But why did my underwear stay? 

Erica perked up. “Most underwear is actually 100% cotton. Except for things like the elastic waistband,” she said with an unsubtle glance towards his hips. 

Stiles snorted. “Makes sense to me. So I’ll just have to look at all my clothing labels to figure out what they are made of, do some research on what to buy from now on, and maybe do some… experimentation, to confirm what actually stays with me during a shift.”

He turned to dig in the backpack for critical item number too when a sudden thought made his head pop back up. 

“Wait, would Derek have known about that theory?” 

Peter tilted his head at him. “Entirely possible. My nephew has always been fascinated with the possibility of a full shift. Why?”

Stiles grinned. “It just explains why he’s always wearing a leather jacket, is all. He always has a major article of clothing that would survive a full shift.”

Erica and Isaac started snickering again and Boyd grinned. Peter just rolled his eyes.

“I couldn’t be certain, but it would be far from the strangest thing my nephew has done,” he said. 

Stiles grinned again and returned his attention to the backpack, pulling out the water bottle and bag of beef jerky. While fighting invariably raised an appetite, there was an ulterior purpose to this particular snack. Through extensive research, Stiles had determined that werewolf supernatural healing still needed fuel to work. It was part of the reason werewolves had such a high metabolism. They had highly efficient systems that stripped everything of use from what they ate, but they still needed those base components crucial for all life. 

The blood loss that Stiles had experienced in his fight meant that his body needed the things required to make more blood, specifically water and red meat. Hence, a water bottle and beef jerky —shelf-stable red meat. 

Stiles was a genius who was simply unappreciated in his current time. 

Stiles chugged half the bottle and ate a couple handfuls of the jerky and almost immediately felt worlds better. Hurrah for a werewolf’s supernatural metabolism. It was good for more than keeping a perfect waistline while eating impossible amounts of junk food. 

Still chewing, Stiles held out a handful of jerky to Isaac who blinked at him in faint confusion. 

“I’m good,” he said. “You can have it.” 

Stiles frowned and swallowed. “You got torn up by the wendigo too Isaac, Don’t think that I forgot that. Beef jerky has what you need to recover quickly and well. Eat.” 

Isaac’s eyes widened slightly, and he tilted his head in a brief gesture of submission, accepting the beef jerky with a quiet word of thanks. 

Stiles nodded in approval as Isaac ate, lip twitching at the corner at the way that Isaac straightened subtly in pride at the gesture. 

He absently popped another piece in his mouth as he turned to regard the dead wendigo. He couldn’t leave it there. 

Quiet shuffling rose from behind him as Peter stood and walked up to him. Stiles tilted his body towards him in a silent gesture of acknowledgement and welcome, still thinking.

“Thrown in the river, buried, or burned?” Peter asked. 

Stiles wanted to snort in amusement at his beta’s morbid practicality, but there was the slightest hitch in Peter’s voice when he suggested burning. 

He turned to face Peter more properly. 

“I was thinking of burning because I want to destroy that amulet, whatever it is, and that’s the best method I can think of to do so,” Stiles said, studying Peter casually as he spoke.

Again, there was that tiny flinch when Stiles said “burning”. It was subtle enough that he didn’t think that anyone else would have noticed it, fooled by Peter’s general air of casual disinterest, but Stiles had spent hours with the man and he knew how to read him. 

Stiles nodded decisively. “Go home, Peter.”

Peter’s head shot up, an almost offended look on his face, but notably, no confusion. He knew exactly what Stiles was thinking, further confirming that Stiles was correct in his worry. 

“I assure you, Stiles, I am perfectly capable of controlling myself,” he said. 

Stiles nodded again and shifted enough to press his shoulder against Peter’s, rumbling in his chest with calming approval. “I am perfectly confident in your ability to control yourself and do what needs to be done,” he reassured and Peter relaxed slightly against him. “But just because you can, doesn’t mean you should have to,” he continued. “We can clean up here. Go home. Update my dad. I’m sure he’s half-frantic by now since he would have felt me accept Erica and Boyd into the pack, and I don’t exactly have my phone on me.” 

Peter snorted and Stiles grinned at him. 

“I mean it, Peter. We’ve got it here. Hell, if you’d like, you could figure out some food for us. I think we’d all sing your praises if you could find us a hot dinner.” 

Peter snorted again, but nodded. “Very well, Alpha. I’ll see you when you get home then.” 

He turned to leave but Stiles caught his arm before he could, pulling him into a hug and brushing their cheeks together. Peter blew out a long breath, sagging against him, and scenting him silently. After a few moments, he pulled away. 

“Thank you,” Peter whispered and left.

Stiles smiled. “Anytime,” he said, and meant it. 

Stiles waited to do anything further until Peter was truly gone, idly tracking his progress by ear while he shared the beef jerky with the rest of his betas. Erica and Boyd didn’t technically need it, but it would be downright cruel to deny them so delicious a snack on a semantic like that. Once Peter was out of earshot, Stiles nodded in satisfaction and clapped his hands together.

“Right-o, let’s get started.”

All in all, it really didn’t take that long to get things cleaned up. Stiles and Boyd dragged over enough wood for a decent pyre and supervised burning the wendigo’s body while Erica and Isaac ran around, tracking down the places of other attacks and kicking dirt over any spilled blood so nobody would accidentally run across it and call the police. 

Stiles had been worried that the pyre wouldn’t get hot enough to destroy the strange amulet, but when the amulet got charred enough that the runic writing was obscured, it gave a tiny pop and melted faster than any metal object should have, swiftly turning into a lump of unrecognizable molten metal, dirt, and ash. 

Stiles breathed a sigh of relief and heard Boyd echo it beside him. Whatever role the amulet had in the recent weirdness, it wouldn’t be able to affect them anymore. 

After that, it was just a matter of letting the fire burn itself out, burying any coals that remained, and washing off as best they could in the river before leaving. 

When Stiles walked into the house, three betas in tow, he nearly melted at the heavenly scent of chicken filling the air. 

“Peter, I would promise you my firstborn right now for some of that,” he groaned. “Whatever you want, it’s yours. I mean it, anything.”

Peter laughed from the kitchen. “It’s ready whenever you want to eat. I’m just warming some bread to go with it now that you’re here.”

“That sounds amazing,” Stiles said. “Give us a minute to clean up and we’ll be down.”

Stiles’s dad walked up with a concerned look as Stiles was chivvying his betas up the stairs. Stiles gave him a tired grin. 

“Hey dad. We’re all alright, just tired and dirty.”

John raised a sceptical eyebrow. “Those aren’t the clothes you left in,” he pointed out dryly. 

Stiles winced. Sometimes the detective skills of a cop parent were rather inconvenient. 

“Yeah, the wendigo fought dirty. It wasn’t the most pleasant of fights.” Then Stiles perked up. “Though that’s not the real reason I needed a change of clothes. I managed a full shift!”

John’s other eyebrow rose to join the first. “Tell me about it over dinner?” he suggested. 

“Absolutely.”

Stiles turned to jog up the stairs, joining his betas who were shamelessly lingering at the top of the landing to watch the interaction. Stiles rolled his eyes at them and claimed the first shower. 

Being the alpha occasionally had its perks. 

While the other three fought over who got to go next, Stiles made his way into the kitchen where Peter was stirring a massive pot of chicken stew, heavily laden with potatoes and carrots by the smell of it. 

Two loaves of french bread, already buttered, waited beside it and added to the heavenly aroma. 

Stiles wrapped himself around his eldest beta from the back, hooking his chin over Peter’s shoulder to watch what he was doing. And take the opportunity to scent him of course. He was maybe, probably, addicted to the way that Peter always relaxed so heavily when he did, like Stiles was taking away all the problems in the world for that brief moment. 

As always, Peter sagged against him, humming in relaxed contentment. Stiles gave a comforting rumble deep in his chest in response. 

“Chicken stew?” he asked, more out of idle conversation than any true curiosity.

Peter hummed again in acknowledgement. “It’s simple, easy to throw together, and holds well for as long as needed without getting weird.”

“Very clever,” he praised and grinned to himself at the way he could feel Peter preening at the compliment. 

They stood in silence for a few moments more before Peter spoke. 

“Everything cleaned up?” 

Stiles nodded against his shoulder. “Yup, and the amulet is destroyed. Just a lump of cooling metal buried under dirt and ash.”

He felt Peter relax at that. He knew his beta had been just as concerned about the amulet as he was, if not more so. 

“Good,” Peter said. 

They stood for a little while longer until Erica came downstairs and joined them. She hesitated at the entrance to the kitchen and gave them an unsure look. 

“Anything I can do to help?” she asked, glancing awkwardly at Stiles.

It was a far cry from her usual brash confidence, but Stiles was familiar with this stage from right after both Peter and Isaac submitted to him and joined his pack. Once she settled and figured out where she stood in the pack, she would relax and be just fine. 

Stiles nodded his head towards a cabinet. 

“Would you set the table please? Bowls are in there, silverware in the drawer by the sink.”

 Erica perked up slightly and nodded. “Sure.”

As she walked past, Stiles stuck out an arm and pulled her into a brief hug, brushing his cheek over the top of her head. Erica grinned up at him after he released her, and padded on with a more relaxed set to her shoulders. 

Isaac came down next. He glanced at them in the kitchen, saw that everything looked mostly taken care of, and flopped down in his normal chair at the table, laying his head on folded arms like he was planning to take a quick nap. John chuckled and stood behind him, one hand on Isaac’s shoulder. Isaac tilted his head enough to shoot him a tired grin before relaxing again. 

Boyd came down last. He scanned the dining room and kitchen, before catching Stiles’s eye. 

“Do you have more chairs?” he asked. 

Stiles blinked and did a quick headcount himself. While the table could expand, it currently only had room for the four chairs surrounding it. 

Oops.

He smiled at Boyd. “Good thinking. I forgot about that. We have another leaf for the table and a couple more chairs in the garage. Follow me.”

Together he and Boyd went out to the garage. Boyd nodded at a pair of chairs stacked against the wall. 

“These them?” 

Stiles nodded. “Yup” 

Boyd grabbed a chair in each hand while Stiles pulled out the rarely-used extra leaf to expand the table. He shifted it to his off hand as he passed Boyd to lead the way out, clasping his new beta’s shoulder in approval and praise. Boyd blinked, but some nearly invisible tension drained out of him, and he straightened his shoulders, walking out with renewed confidence. 

Once everyone was seated, they ate together, taking turns regaling Stiles’s dad with stories about their fight with the wendigo. After dinner, Stiles directed them to gather most of the household’s spare linens in the living room where they settled down to sleep in a large pile since his bed wouldn’t be big enough to fit them all comfortably. 

As they piled together, Stiles in the middle with Peter and Isaac on one side of him and Erica and Boyd on the other, Stiles looked over all of them. Erica and Boyd curled together in a way that might look intimate to an outsider, but honestly just reminded him of a couple of puppies. An impression that was not helped by the way that they kept subconsciously curling closer to him as well. Stiles smoothed a hand over both of their backs, settling them down into a more relaxed sleep and shuffled into a slightly more comfortable position himself. 

Peter grumbled sleepily at the movement and nestled closer, only furrowing his brow slightly in sleep as Isaac all but flopped on top of him in order to grab onto Stiles’s shirt.

Stiles nudged Isaac until the beta’s elbow was no longer digging into Peter’s stomach, and Peter’s face smoothed out. 

Stiles smiled. Time would surely bring them hurdles to overcome as a pack, but ultimately, they would be just fine.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Stiles woke first, blinking into awareness as he registered some new sound in their proximity. His mind turned over the sounds sleepily, not fully comprehending what they were even as he instinctively knew that there was no threat. It wasn’t until he processed the new heartbeat in the room that recognition hit him, and he lifted his head to watch his dad try and fail to sneak across the room. 

Though in all fairness, the rest of the wolves were still sleeping like the dead, so really his dad was having unprecedented success in his stealth efforts. 

Stiles smiled and let his eyes bleed red, the crimson glow shining in the room half-lit by the morning light that snuck through gaps in the curtains. His dad’s head immediately snapped over, grinning sheepishly as their eyes met. 

Stiles let his eyes go normal again and raised a silent eyebrow at his dad. It should be just bright enough in the room for him to see it. His dad shrugged and mimed drinking out of a cup, sending a significant and longing look towards the coffee machine. 

Stiles gave a tiny snort. Fair enough then. Never get between a Stilinski and their morning coffee. He nodded with complete understanding. 

His dad made to continue tiptoeing to the kitchen but hesitated, flicking his eyes over the rest of the pack and giving Stiles a questioning head tilt. 

Stiles shook his head in the negative. No, they were all still asleep. He was the only one who had noticed his dad’s approach. Something he knew would probably grate on Peter. He hid a smirk at the thought. Peter hated to be caught unaware of anything. 

His dad nodded and finished his trek into the kitchen where he began making the world’s slowest and quietest cup of coffee. Stiles could still hear every step with perfect clarity, but he appreciated the thought. 

Humming softly in contented thought, Stiles glanced over his betas, feeling warmth build in his chest. He knew he would fight, kill, or die for any one of them. They were his. Impulsively, he reached out, trailing gentle fingertips across whatever shoulders, backs and heads he could reach. Each of his betas shifted slightly, stretching into the touch, before settling back into a deep sleep. 

Stiles smiled again, and began to slowly extract himself. He could potentially go back to sleep, but he was well and truly awake now, and an idea was tickling at the back of his mind. 

Once free, Stiles padded into the kitchen, greeted his dad properly with a tight hug, and then began getting out ingredients. He had two new betas to properly welcome into the Stilinski Pack, and a big pack breakfast sounded like just the thing. 

To his complete lack of surprise, Peter got up not too long after he did, joining him in the kitchen and helping himself to a mug of coffee from the batch that Stiles’s dad had made. Then he leaned against the counter, sipping away and watching Stiles through half-lidded and still mostly asleep eyes. Once the mug was about half gone, he looked aware enough to tilt his head more curiously at what Stiles was doing. Stiles immediately took advantage of his beta’s increased awareness to put him to work chopping some veggies for the egg casserole he was preparing to put in the oven. 

Once that was baking, Stiles began throwing the ingredients together for some pancakes while directing Peter to start frying up some bacon, both turkey and regular. Because, while the normal stuff wasn’t good for his dad, both Peter and Isaac objected vociferously to the idea of “fake” bacon. Honestly, Stiles completely understood where they were coming from, so they compromised and generally had both in the household, and Stiles just paid close attention to make sure his dad didn’t yield to temptation too often. 

Erica wandered in shortly after he put the first batch of pancakes on the griddle. Her hair was incredibly sleep-mussed, almost to the point of resembling an afro. Peter glanced up at her, and, in an awe-inspiring demonstration of control, nodded a greeting and turned back to what he was doing without his expression so much as twitching. 

Stiles, on the other hand, glanced up, snorted despite himself, and bit his lip. 

Erica sent him a confused and annoyed look, like she suspected he was laughing at her, but wasn’t quite sure why. 

“Umm…” Stiles started, then trailed off and waved his hand vaguely above his head pointedly. 

Erica frowned deeper in confusion but obligingly reached up. Her eyes widened when her hand touched hair well above her head, and she began frantically finger-combing it into submission while scowling at him defensively. 

Hiding his smile, Stiles politely averted his eyes and pretended to be wholly occupied with managing the pancakes until the hurried motions in his peripheral stopped. Then he glanced up at Erica again, and gave an approving nod to her self-conscious expression. Erica gave a soft sigh of relief and relaxed. 

Stiles smiled and lifted one arm in invitation. Erica hesitated but eventually crossed the room to curl into his side. Stiles dropped his arm around her shoulders to pull her close, ignoring her initial stiffness. 

He continued flipping pancakes with one hand, waiting for Erica to finish wrestling with her instincts. He understood her struggle. This was one area in which instincts conflicted strongly with the habits of a normal life. Human conventions were entirely opposed to her accepting physical touch and comfort from a non-familial male, but Stiles was her alpha now, and that came with wolfy impulses. 

When she finally relaxed fully against him, Stiles gave a proud rumble in his chest. Erica pressed a little closer at the sound, and Stiles ducked his head to brush his nose against her temple. 

“How do you like your pancakes?” Stiles asked. “I have chocolate chips, blueberries, or plain.” 

Erica perked up against him. “Chocolate chip?” she asked hopefully. 

Stiles grinned. “Coming right up.” 

He set the spatula down so he could dig in the bag of chocolate chips without having to release Erica. He then sprinkled chocolate chips over half of the freshly poured pancakes. 

“Isaac also prefers chocolate chips in his,” Stiles explained. He reached over to a bowl of thawed blueberries from the freezer and sprinkled them over the other half of the pancakes. 

“Peter likes blueberries better,” he continued idly.

“Because I, for one, am not actually a child,” Peter sniffed with exaggerated disdain. 

Stiles rolled his eyes and dug his elbow into his beta’s side. Peter gave an exaggerated yelp, limping away sideways, clutching his side.

“Oh, oh! Alpha abuse! Alpha abuse!” he cried dramatically. 

Stiles rolled his eyes again, but Erica was giggling against him so hard that Stiles had to support most of her weight, so he couldn’t even keep a fake-annoyed look on his face. 

“Which do you like better?” Erica asked once she got control of herself, looking up at him. 

Stiles hummed. “Either? I like them fairly equally and generally switch between the two depending on my mood. 

Erica made an agreeable noise of acknowledgement. “Boyd really likes to have both blueberries and chocolate chips in his.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “That sounds really good actually. Why did I never think of that?” He reached for chocolate chips. “Some blueberry chocolate chip pancakes coming right up!” 

As if summoned by their consideration, Boyd padded into the kitchen as Stiles was flipping that batch of pancakes onto a waiting platter. He sniffed the air with a pleased hum and glanced around. 

“Coffee?” he asked. 

Stiles nodded towards the coffee pot without taking his eyes off what he was doing. Fortunately, Boyd didn’t seem to be offended by his lack of attention and went about fixing and draining a mug of coffee with an almost continuous contented rumble in his chest. He then promptly made another mug and wandered back out of the kitchen to find a seat at the table. 

Isaac had still not gotten up by the time that Stiles finished up the last of the food. As he carried heaped platters to the table, Stiles shook his head slightly in amusement and caught Erica’s eye. 

He nodded towards the living room. “Go and wake him up for me, would you?” 

An evil grin stretched across the girl’s face and she practically swaggered out of the room. Stiles watched her with some faint consternation. 

Should he…? 

Nah, Isaac would be fine. 

Probably. 

The air soon rang out with an ear-splitting shriek. Everyone jumped, and Stiles nearly shifted to run to his beta’s defense when Erica sprinted back into the room. 

“Tickling is cheating!” Isaac yelled after her in a tone of great offense.

Erica cackled and slid into the seat beside Boyd. 

“Shouldn’t have overslept then!” she hollered back.

Isaac stormed into the room scowling, but looked somewhat mollified at the abundance of food. He shot one last aggrieved glare at Erica, who smirked, and sat down. 

Stiles sighed heavily and pinched the bridge of his nose. Being this crew’s alpha was going to be a headache. He could already tell. Brilliant, amazing, and heart-warming, of course, but absolutely a headache. 

He glanced at his dad who had the most self-satisfied smirk on his face, and Stiles wanted to groan. He was abruptly reminded of an old blessing/curse. 

“May you have a dozen children exactly like you.”

Karma really was a bitch, wasn’t she?

After they ate, John set his silverware down with a decisive click. Stiles glanced up at him expectantly, and silence fell around the table as his betas also caught the change in mood. 

“So,” John started. “I’m not sure I got the full story of what happened yesterday, but it sounds to me like it wasn’t at all what you were expecting.” 

Stiles set his silverware down as well. “No, definitely not. There were several things that happened that should not have been possible.” 

Peter snorted. “Understatement.”

Stiles shared a commiserating look with him. John tapped the table to draw their attention back to him. 

“In the police force, when an assignment goes poorly, we go over the event in detail to try and figure out what went wrong and how we can reduce the chances of it going wrong in the future. I’m not particularly experienced with the supernatural so I’m running with the experience that I do have. What went wrong with your plan yesterday and how can we plan better in the future? I have a vested interest in keeping all of you as safe as possible.” John swept his eyes over the whole table to include everyone in that statement. 

Stiles sat back and hummed in thought. Peter caught his eye and tilted his head in question. Stiles made a go-ahead gesture. 

Peter cleared his throat. “My assessment is that there were two major unanticipated issues that prevented things from going smoothly. First, the wendigo was not behaving in a fashion consistent with others of its species. Our plans were made to take advantage of the vulnerabilities its instincts would provide, but it defied all expectations in a way that still confuses me. Second, the wendigo was somehow able to mask and unmask both scent and sound seemingly at will, preventing us from effectively tracking it.” 

Stiles nodded agreement. “Exactly. Both of those things were entirely unpredictable. Hell, if you asked me before that whole mess, I’m not sure if I would have said they were possible.”

“How likely are those things to crop up again to cause problems?” John asked. 

“It’s Beacon Hills,” Isaac said dryly, as if it were an explanation in and of itself. 

“Of course they will,” Erica finished in complete agreement. They shared a commiserating look.

John glanced between the two in mingled amusement and concern. He glanced at Stiles with a raised eyebrow.

Stiles shrugged. “They’re not wrong.” 

“Alright then…” John said slowly, still obviously confused and concerned. “So how do we prevent those things from sneaking up and surprising us again?” 

“White eyes and amulet,” Boyd put forth. 

Stiles nodded at John’s confused look. “He’s right. The wendigo’s eyes turned white several times throughout the fight, and it seemed to be correlated with its unusual behavior. It also wore an amulet —that’s destroyed now, by the way— which might have been the cause of either or both of those weird effects.” 

Stiles glanced at his dad who was nodding slowly and frowning into space. Stiles continued. 

“Without more information, I think the best plan is to simply watch out and be wary of those things. If you suspect something is going on, let me know immediately. Any questions or suggestions?” 

Stiles made sure to make eye contact with Peter after saying that. He had researched his heart out, but Peter had actually grown up in this world and his experience was invaluable. But Peter met his eyes calmly and gave a small shake of his head. He had nothing of help to add. Stiles gave a brief smile of thanks and scanned the table to make sure everyone was on board with that plan, such as it was.

Isaac opened and closed his mouth like he was chewing on a thought. 

“Isaac?” Stiles prompted.

Isaac looked up and grimaced slightly. 

“Do you think Deaton would know anything?” he asked slowly. “He deals with magic a lot, doesn’t he?”

Stiles hummed in thought. “He might. The question is if he would share what he knows or if he can even be trusted with what little we know. Peter?”

Peter blinked as if startled that Stiles asked him, but dutifully considered  it, drumming his fingertips on the table absent-mindedly. 

“I do not believe that Deacon is our enemy,” He began slowly. “But neither would I recommend fully trusting him as an ally. He is the kind of man that always has his own agenda and weighs any aid he provides first against whether such an action is beneficial to himself and his plans. At this point, I do not think I would recommend involving him.” 

Stiles nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you, Peter. We’ll leave him out of this for the time being. Though I’ll revisit that decision if things get worse and I feel we’re out of our depth. Anything else?”

Everyone shook their heads. Stiles grinned and clapped his hands together briefly.

“Alright then, let's clean up breakfast, and then what does everyone say to a Mario Kart tournament?”

Peter raised an eyebrow, but Isaac whooped, Boyd smiled, and Erica gave him a wicked grin.

“Oh you are so going down,” she promised. 

Stiles smirked. “That’s what you think.”

Stiles gave Boyd a sidelong, suspicious look as they met up outside the school the next morning. 

“I have been thinking about it all night. I even spent way too long trying to replicate the move. That shortcut you used during the tiebreaker round is actually impossible to access. How.” 

Boyd hummed, but it had a distinct aura of smugness. Erica glared at him from his other side.

“And how did you always manage to hit me with a shell at the absolute worst times? With green shells too!” She demanded.

“Or always get the best power ups!” Isaac added, aggrieved. 

Boyd just grinned mischievously. “Skill.” 

Stiles rolled his eyes and slung an arm around his shoulder. “Enjoy your victory buzz while it lasts. I demand a rematch. You’re going down next time!” he said cheerfully.

Boyd hummed again, this time sounding skeptical, but he couldn’t hide the way a proud and pleased smile hung around the edges of his mouth or the way he subtly leaned into Stiles’s side in relaxed contentment. 

Which is, or course, when Scott came across them.

Stiles’s betas tensed immediately, and Stiles felt a serious, deadly calm settle over him to replace the carefree, joking mood from earlier. He pulled away from Boyd, clasping his shoulder reassuringly as he did, and casually stepped between Scott and his betas, brushing a hand over Isaac and Erica’s arms as he slipped past them. 

“Scott,” he greeted calmly with a relaxed nod. 

Scott sneered at him, tilting his head to ensure the expression included the rest of the wolves in his disdain. Then he stormed past him into the school building, knocking his shoulder against Stiles’s roughly as he went. 

Stiles absorbed the blow, allowing it to sway him but not cause him to stagger. Then he rolled his eyes at Scott’s back and gave his beta’s a reassuring smile. 

“Come on,” he said. “We have class to get to.” 

They still looked a little anxious, but willingly followed him in. 

As the day went on, that sort of behavior characterized Scott’s interactions with them, a pattern that continued throughout the week. While he never attacked them outright, either physically or verbally, he was constantly sneering at them, giving them disdainful, disgusted, or betrayed looks. He also took every opportunity to shove past them bodily. 

Stiles didn’t like it, mostly because of how Scott’s actions made his betas tense or shrink in on themselves. He also made sure to keep track of Scott so that he could position himself defensively after the first and only time that Scott body-checked one of his betas —Boyd— left Stiles all but literally seeing red. Boyd was fine, a fact that the beta stressed to Stiles repeatedly, but it was the principle of the matter. Stiles refused to stand by and let anyone harm his betas. 

But while Scott’s pettiness was annoying and aggravating, Stiles had bigger problems on his mind. The full moon was coming up, landing on a Monday of all the inconvenient times, and he would have to guide a newly expanded pack through a full day of classes, his now-traditional full moon dinner and run, and then school the next day when they were exhausted and grumpy from the aftereffects of the moon. 

To make matters worse, something was up with Peter. 

It had started before Erica and Boyd joined the pack, but it was markedly worse now. The problem was, it was all little things: Peter bowing out of a pack game night to read, his restarting career as a lawyer suddenly forcing him to miss pack dinners, and a hundred, even tinier, and harder to pin down withdrawals, where Peter dodged bonding with the pack in such a way that it seemed perfectly natural and in character. 

He never tried to avoid Stiles though, which made it harder for Stiles to figure out what was going on. It wasn’t until Erica and Boyd provided two more pools of interactions for him to study that Stiles realized how neatly Peter was dodging interacting with the other betas in meaningful ways. 

Even then, Stiles didn’t want to believe that something was truly wrong. Peter was naturally reclusive, and part of Stiles wondered if Peter was simply having trouble connecting with betas that were so much younger and less experienced than him. But it had gotten to the point that Stiles could no longer ignore it. 

Still, the imminent full moon had to take priority. Stiles would see if the intensity of a full moon bonding session broke through whatever walls Peter was hiding behind.

If not, well, Peter had chosen Stiles as his alpha, had submitted to him and put his trust in him. Stiles would have to prove worthy of that trust, even if Peter didn’t like it in the moment.  

When the Monday of the full moon came around, Stiles was ready. Boyd and Erica had gotten permission from their parents to spend the night, his dad and Peter had the evening off, all the food had been bought and was ready to cook, a pile of pillow of blankets lay ready on a few air mattresses in the living room for them to sleep on when they got back, and Stiles had even scouted out the forest with Isaac to make sure that no surprises waited for them when they ran. 

He was as ready as he could be. 

Despite all his preparations, or perhaps because of them, Stiles found himself twitchy and anxious the morning of the full moon. It wasn’t that he thought something was going to go wrong, per say, just that he wanted everything to be perfect for his pack after all the recent hardship. 

However, Stiles had been dealing with nervous energy his whole life. He was well versed in dealing with it in productive ways. And so, when that faint, but ever-present, anxiety woke him early and kept him from falling back asleep, Stiles slipped out of bed and busied himself starting the traditional roast and preparing a massive batch of breakfast burrito filling. 

The act of cooking was calming, and Stiles had pretty much settled himself by the time that Isaac and Peter came down to join him. A little while later, Erica and Boyd arrived, meeting them there to ride to school together. Stiles greeted them at the door and felt the last of his worry disappear at their nervous but cautiously hopeful expressions. He beamed at them. 

“Come in, come in! Happy Full Moon!” he said cheerfully.

Boyd raised an eyebrow dubiously, but he was smiling and stepped forward to accept Stiles’s hug and subsequent scenting.

Erica stepped up on Boyd’s heels. 

“Happy Full Moon?” she returned hesitantly with a slightly questioningly lilt to her voice. 

Stiles grinned at her widely and gave her the same hug/scenting combo he had just given Boyd. 

Stiles ushered them into the dining room where they exchanged greetings with Peter, Isaac and John with growing confidence and relaxation. Stiles then set platters of food on the table and encouraged his betas to eat to the full extent of their lupine appetites. He knew from experience that anything less than complete satiation would only increase their twitchiness as the day went on and the moon pulled at their instincts. 

Once everyone was finished eating, Stiles sent the younger trio of betas out to wait in the car. After they left, he wrapped his dad in a tight hug, burying his face in his dad’s neck and just breathed in his scent for a moment. His dad hugged him back just as fiercely and had a soft, fond expression on his face when Stiles finally pulled back. 

“Be safe out there,” his dad said. 

Stiles smiled at him. “Of course.” 

His dad reached out and gripped his shoulder affectionately but with a faint air of anxiousness. 

“And take care of those kids. You brought home a bunch of strays, and now I’ve gone and gotten attached.”

Stiles chuckled but lifted a hand to cover his dad’s hand on his shoulder, squeezing gently. 

“You know we’ll be fine. I won’t let anything happen,” he said reassuringly. 

John snorted and clapped his shoulder with more confidence. “I know that, but I can’t help but worry some. It’s weird not really being able to fully understand what you’re going through, much less know how to help.”

At that, Stiles couldn’t resist leaning in to give his dad another hug. 

“You help plenty,” he said into his dad’s shoulder. “Just by being there, supporting us, and reminding us of our humanity.”

His dad tightened his grip. “Thanks son.”

“Anytime dad.

Stiles released his dad, gave him one last reassuring smile, and then turned to Peter who was standing a slight distance away to give them an illusion of privacy and watching the betas in Stiles’s jeep with the faintest hint of longing. 

Stiles walked up to him and slung a companionable arm around his shoulders.

What are your plans for the day while we’re at school?” he asked.

Peter shrugged slightly, though not enough to shake Stiles’s arm off, and leaned slightly into Stiles’s side. 

“I have some files I need to look over for a new client, research for an ongoing case, and the tedious task of completely reorganizing a file cabinet that an over-eager junior assistant knocked over while trying to be ‘helpful’ and rearrange things for easier access. The cabinet spilled all of its contents when it tipped, and of course the idiot began scooping everything together to try and either hide or clean up the mistake. Naturally, he only succeeded in mixing everything up and ruining any chance of salvaging some of the organization. To complete the laws of unfortunate irony, the files include enough confidential business records to prevent me from forcing the idiot to sort out his own mess. I’ll have to do it myself.”

Stiles snorted. “Have fun with that. Do I need to let my dad know to bury any suspicious reports that result from your revenge?” 

“Why, Stiles,” Peter said innocently. “What makes you think I’ll be enacting revenge? It was an innocent mistake in a formal work environment. Revenge for such a thing would be highly unprofessional.”

Stiles raised an eyebrow. 

“Because I know you,” he deadpanned. “Now, will I have to bury evidence of the supernatural when you take your inevitable revenge?” 

Peter rolled his eyes, but a smug smile curled at the edges of his lips. 

“No, I am perfectly capable of indulging in psychological warfare without leaving any evidence, supernatural or otherwise.”

Stiles laughed. “Poor guy. Well, I have to leave. Have fun and don’t get anyone committed to the psych ward while I’m gone!”

Peter smirked and pointedly made no promises. Stiles laughed again and was still chuckling when he got into his jeep. Isaac gave him a curious look, but Stiles waved him off with a smile.

“Peter,” he said with a shrug by way of explanation. 

Isaac’s eyebrows raised, but he grinned in acknowledgement and understanding. 

By the time they got to the school building, his betas were tense and looked like they wanted to be anywhere but there. Stiles glanced over them and gave a quiet huff. Three pairs of bright eyes snapped to him, alert and waiting. Stiles could see the way the moon pulled at them already just by the quiet watchfulness in their expressions and bearings. He gave a rumble in his chest, deep and comforting, and deliberately similar to the one he often used when they were settling down to sleep. Some of the tension dropped from their postures, and Isaac even gave a soft whine, flashing gold eyes briefly. 

Stiles flashed his eyes alpha-red back, twisting his head to include his newer betas in the glow. Erica and Boyd also let their eyes shine gold in instinctive answer. Stiles waited a few more seconds, letting them relax under his steady and intentionally calm gaze. 

It was slightly manipulative, but they were all running on instincts today. If their alpha was calm, they would also be calm, instinctively knowing that nothing could be wrong if he was relaxed. 

When he knew they were ready, Stiles gave a proud hum.

“It’s just one day,” he said with a soft smile. “I know you can do it. Just stay together, support each other, and let me know if you’re struggling. There’s no shame if you are. I’m guessing we’ll all struggle at some point or another during the day, but that’s what having a pack is for. We’ll support each other whenever someone is having trouble.”

They all nodded sharply, shoulders straightening in pride. Stiles cast one final look over them and then nodded back proudly. 

“Let’s go.”

Stiles honestly couldn’t have told you a single thing that he was supposed to have learned that day. At no point was he actually paying attention to his classes or teachers. His whole focus was on his betas, constantly monitoring them and making sure they were doing okay. He played buffer between them and Scott, who was in an even worse mood than normal, without consciously thinking about it. He found excuses to stay in physical contact with them as much as possible, slinging arms over their shoulders, high-fiving Isaac when he completed a handout, pulling Boyd into a half-hug in the hallways, and bumping his arm against Erica’s as they walked. 

He was constantly in motion, alert to every twitch in expression or shift in weight, and moving in to distract nosy teachers, tell over-loud classmates to shut up, or herd his betas away into a quieter corner when it looked like the sensory overload was starting to get to them. 

The day flew past, but while Stiles was oblivious to his actual schoolwork, he couldn’t help noticing the contrast between his pack and Scott’s. Where Scott and Jackson were twitchy and irritable, snapping at each other and everyone around them, Stiles’s betas were calm and laughing, joking with each other in easy companionship. 

That casual mood lasted throughout the rest of the school day and carried them through dinner, Peter and John joining in like missing pieces of the whole. Before Stiles knew it, he was leading his betas out for their run. 

They filed out the front door, Isaac and Peter on his right, Erica and Boyd on his left. Almost helplessly, Stiles tilted his face up into the light of the moon and breathed in the night air. He could smell the scents of the forest and town mingling together on the soft breeze, but nothing unusual or dangerous. His pack would be safe tonight. 

And so they ran. 

A pack of five this time, weaving between each other in an endless game of tag that switched who was “it” with a fluidity that should have been unpredictable, but on that night, they were perfectly in sync and nobody was left out. They chased a herd of deer, working seamlessly to cut a member of the herd out and then, under Stiles’s direction, corralled it in a ravine. However, as always, Stiles held his pack back at the final moment and didn’t complete the kill, letting the deer run out unharmed after its experience as a tool for pack bonding. 

They continued to run until the moon began to sink below the horizon and their instincts were satisfied. 

Finally, Stiles led them home and they collapsed in a heap on the waiting air mattresses, barely managing to change into more comfortable clothes and pull blankets over themselves before falling asleep. 

As was his habit, Stiles watched over his pack until they fell asleep, holding them close, and soothing any trace of restlessness or discomfort. As he did, he couldn’t help a faint frown. While Isaac, Erica, and Boyd were piled together, tangled up and flopped on top of each other, Peter curled only against Stiles himself. Any contact between him and the other betas was a result of their movement or repositioning, not Peter’s. 

Stiles sighed softly, brushed a gentle hand against Peter’s neck, and twisted enough to lean over and run his nose against Peter’s cheek in an impulsive scenting and claiming gesture. Peter huffed slightly in sleep and pressed closer but did not wake. 

Stiles pulled all of his betas closer, running crimson eyes over them with fierce protectiveness. He would protect them from anything in the world that might offer them harm. 

His gaze settled on Peter for a long moment. 

Even if the thing that would offer them harm was themselves. 

Chapter Text

Stiles tapped his pencil idly on a textbook, lost in thought. He had been puzzling over what to do about Peter all day. Fortunately, everyone else was distracted by full moon hangovers and hadn’t noticed how preoccupied he was, so the day had passed relatively smoothly. Now it was evening and he was trying to study, but his mind wouldn’t leave the problem alone, puzzling over it one way or the other to try and find a good solution. He had already ruined three pages of notes by scribbling half-formed plans in the margins. 

For a wonder, he was actually alone with his dad. Erica and Boyd had gone home to get to bed early, and Peter and Isaac were out on patrol. Even his dad was currently watching the game on tv, leaving Stiles mostly by himself. He had an upcoming history test that he had neglected to study for, prioritizing settling his pack, but now he had a lot of catch up work to do. 

After a few minutes of Stiles dragging his attention back to studying only for it to start to wander shortly after, and then repeating the cycle, his dad muted the tv and looked up. 

“Stiles?”

Stiles grimaced at his textbook but willingly abandoned it, turning to face his dad. 

“Yeah?”

His dad hesitated for a couple seconds, uncharacteristically uncertain. “To be completely honest, I’m not sure I should even say anything. It’s none of my business. But you’re the alpha of this ramshackle pack, so you should know.”

“Oh?” Stiles asked, trepidation coloring his voice and settling in his stomach. 

His dad’s face twisted in an uncomfortable grimace, but he continued. “Peter’s not doing well. He puts on a mask while you’re here like everything’s great, but when it's just us and he thinks I’m not paying attention, I can see the weight of the world on his shoulders and the fear and uncertainty he carries, I assume, all the time.” 

Stiles sighed. “That man is better at hiding his feelings than is really good for him. I thought something was up with him, but I’m still figuring out what to do about it. I’ll think of something though. I’ll take care of it —and him. Regardless, thanks for letting me know.” 

John’s shoulder’s straightened slightly, some of the discomfort washing away. 

“Just follow your instincts, son. You’ve got a good heart, better than most people I know. I have no doubt you’ll be able to take care of him.”

Stiles smiled softly, heart warm. “Thanks dad.”

Stiles gave another annoyed glance to his textbook. Then he gave a grumbling growl in the back of his throat, grabbed his textbook, and abandoned the table in favor of flopping on the couch beside his dad. His dad gave him a surprised and pleased smile and dropped an arm around Stiles’s shoulders when he leaned back against his dad’s side. Then his dad unmuted the tv, and Stiles continued to study, plans floating in the back of his mind. The evening continued on in peaceful silence, but Stiles could feel his dad relax further through the simple, comforting contact.

After a bit, Isaac and Peter got back from patrol. Isaac threw himself onto the couch directly on top of Stiles, driving his breath out in a loud whoosh.  

“Oof,” Stiles complained half-heartedly. 

Isaac ignored him, burrowing closer and tucking his nose into Stiles’s neck with a happy hum. Stiles huffed in mock annoyance, but wrapped his arms around his beta tightly and nuzzled against his temple, smiling into Isaac’s hair when the beta went completely limp. 

Stiles glanced up when Peter shifted his weight where he was standing at the entrance of the living room. Since Stiles only moved his eyes, Peter likely didn’t realize he was suddenly watching. As a result, Stiles saw the wistful and sorrowful look Peter wore while he watched their little pile. He also saw the mournful expression Peter wore as he turned and slipped out of the room. 

Stiles stayed put, making sure that Isaac and his dad didn’t notice the way it felt like his heart was breaking into a million pieces for the grief his oldest beta clearly felt. He couldn’t address it now. It was a school night and too late to start something. It would be the height of cruelty to lance what was clearly an old, festering wound and then go “Well, that was fun. Let’s go to bed. I’ll see you after school tomorrow!”  

But tomorrow was another story. Stiles would have the whole evening and he could even call in sick to school the next day if he needed to. Now that he knew about the problem, he was unwilling to let it fester any longer. 

The next day, Stiles neatly contrived for everyone except himself and Peter to be occupied with other matters. It was easy enough. His dad had work and a never-ending pile of reports to work through, and the younger three betas still needed to catch up on homework since they hadn’t done so the night before. Stiles had stayed up late last night, knocking out as many assignments as he could in preparation for tonight. It had been oddly pleasant, sitting up in bed with his computer on his lap, brightness turned down as much as possible, and with Peter and Isaac curled up on either side of him. He had been highly effective too, getting more than enough done to take a break from homework and studying for tonight. 

Since the other three really needed to get some post-full-moon catch up done, Stiles shuffled the patrol schedule around so that he and Peter would go out tonight. It was an elegant solution if Stiles did say so himself, and while Peter would obviously catch on to his ulterior motives pretty quickly, the other members of the pack should have no idea unless Peter told them. 

Which Stiles frankly doubted he would do. No matter. Everyone was owed some privacy, and that was a hard to come by commodity in a pack of werewolves. 

Peter accepted the shift in patrol schedules with a careless shrug and nod of understanding. So they set off without incident. 

For the first half of the patrol, Stiles and Peter ran side by side in companionable silence, working in comfortable teamwork to scan their surroundings and ensure that all was well. As they did so, Stiles noticed that Peter relaxed more and more, setting aside subtle traces of tension Stiles hadn’t even been able to tell were there before. 

Stiles was loath to destroy that relaxation, but this needed to happen and probably had needed to for a while. And so, after they had finished patrolling the higher risk areas, Stiles turned off of the normal patrol route, leading the way deeper into the woods. Peter raised an eyebrow at him but followed without comment. 

Once they reached an area sufficiently off the beaten path that Stiles knew there was essentially no risk of them being interrupted, he halted and turned to face his oldest and first beta. Peter stopped as well, watching him with some slight wariness. He clearly recognized that something was going on. 

“Stiles?” he asked. 

Stiles blew out a soft breath. He had thought up and discarded countless ways to start this conversation, had considered numerous ways to try and ease his way into it gently, to approach the conversation with kindness and tact. But now, in the moment, he threw those plans aside. Directness would work better than trying to talk around what he actually meant. 

“Why are you trying to pull away from the pack?” he asked bluntly and watched as Peter physically jerked in surprise, eyes widening. 

“I beg your pardon?”

Stiles pinned him with his gaze, ignoring the way that Peter’s body language clearly communicated his discomfort and sudden hesitance. 

“I know you heard me perfectly well.”

Peter avoided his eyes, scanning the trees around then in a faux show of watchfulness. 

“I am sure that I do not know what you are referring to,” Peter said, each word enunciated with precise care that further displayed his discomfort. “If you are quite finished with your baseless suspicions, we should continue the patrol.”

But Stiles was relentless. “You’re pulling back,” he said, ignoring Peter’s second remark and taking a step closer. “Avoiding us, avoiding any real connection.” Another step, eyes calm and tone deliberately empty of any accusation or anger. He didn’t want Peter any more defensive than he already was, but he couldn’t let him hide from this. “You’re holding back, Peter. And I want to know why.” 

Peter sneered, sharp and brittle, and nowhere near his usual standards. He also abandoned his nonverbal efforts to get Stiles to drop the line of questioning and squared up to him aggressively. 

“Did you consider that I merely have difficulty empathizing with the puerile concerns of schoolchildren?” he demanded.

Stiles set his feet in the ground like he was bracing himself for whatever would come, like a bulwark that Peter could rant and rave against but never break. He didn’t need supernatural senses to know that Peter’s explanation was a lie. Just like he didn’t need the smell of desperation and impotent fear and rage to know that this was going to get uglier before it got better. 

“I did,” Stiles allowed with deliberate calm, not rising to Peter’s anger. “And perhaps there is and will be some difficulty there. But that’s not the real problem is it?” 

Peter blinked but rallied immediately, attacking from a different angle. “So that’s your true goal, is it? Find the problem so you can fix it, fix me, and make everything magically better in your perfect little world?” Derision coated every syllable. 

“No,” Stiles said firmly.

Steady, steady. Stiles couldn’t let this get to him. Peter needed him to stay calm. 

“I want to know what’s going on so I can help you,” Stiles continued. “Because I care about you and can’t stand the thought that you’re going about your days hurting.” 

Peter swayed a little, as if dealt a physical blow, and looked down and away, shoulders twitching like they wanted to hunch slightly in defense. 

“You can’t help with this, Stiles,” he said tiredly. “Just leave it alone.” 

“How do you know?” Stiles pressed. “Just try. Let me in. What's the harm in trying?”

Peter’s temper flared up again like a spark on dry tinder. 

“Because I’ve failed before!” he roared. “Because I will fail again, and I refuse!”

Stiles blinked, somewhat taken aback, but finally feeling like he was getting somewhere. 

“How?” he demanded.

Peter snarled. “I was Left Hand,” he hissed furiously. “It was my job to keep watch for threats against the pack and to dispose of them when I found them. And you know what? I. Failed. And my entire pack is dead because of that failure. Because I didn’t see the threat until she waltzed in with nauseating perfume and slaughtered everyone I loved.” 

Stiles refused to retreat, meeting Peter’s furious grief steadily. 

“Maybe you didn’t see it, but neither did anyone else in the pack. You weren’t the alpha and you’re only one person. It wasn’t your job to protect the pack from everything, to be constantly on guard and alert to every possible threat.” 

Peter scoffed and turned partially away, arms folded across his chest and almost vibrating with tension. 

“And as for failing us in the same way?” Stiles continued. “That can’t happen.”

Peter practically radiated icy disbelief. 

“How can you guarantee that?” he sneered.

Stiles raised his chin firmly and waited until Peter’s eyes flicked to him before speaking.

“Because I will not have a Left Hand.”

Peter blinked, and his body language softened minutely in confusion.

“I am Alpha of this pack,” Stiles said firmly. “And I refuse to rest the weight of our pack’s defense on any one person’s shoulders. We will stand together against any threat that might raise its head. We will keep watch together, fight together, succeed or fail together. If there’s dirty work to be done, I will do it myself instead of shoving it off on a beta to keep my hands ‘clean’. That’s my promise to you, Peter. You can’t fail a task we hold as a pack. I put no more responsibility on your shoulders in that regard than I do on Isaac’s. Or on Boyd’s or Erica’s.” 

Peter’s head dropped, and Stiles could see the way his eyes were screwed tightly shut as if to hold back by sheer willpower the maelstrom of emotions swirling in his scent. 

Stiles held out a hand, palm up in gentle invitation. 

“Come back to the pack, Peter,” he said softly. “I want you there. My good, loyal beta. Come home to us.” 

Peter made a choked sound that was very nearly a sob, but he didn’t take Stiles hand, twisting away with a violent motion that left his back completely facing Stiles. 

“Why do you want me? ” he asked, his tone clearly aiming for mocking and angry, but missing it by quite a ways and landing squarely in confusion, disbelief, and pain. “I am old and bitter and sarcastic. You don’t even need me anymore. Three betas is plenty enough to keep you stable even if you didn’t have John. I was your enemy. I have hurt every single one of you. What guarantee do you have that I will not do so again? Why risk me? ”

Stiles felt like his heart was being torn in two, and it took a herculean amount of effort to not let that pain show. He could weep for his beta’s suffering later. Peter needed him focused. 

Stiles dropped his hand back down to his side when Peter continued to keep his back towards him, but he kept his posture open and steady, unmoved from his rooted position in a subtle declaration that he would not leave and would not be shaken. 

“In order,” he began calmly and watched Peter twitch slightly, head twisting around to peek at him disbelievingly over one shoulder. “You are not old, your bitterness is understandable, well-placed, and inoffensive, and your sarcasm, while highly entertaining, does not hold a candle to my own.”

Peter gave a choked snort of startled laughter, and Stiles grinned at him.

“Pack is not a question of checking off a list to stay stable,” Stiles continued. “You are my pack, my beta, and I no more wish to lose you than I do my dad. You are part of my family now. So, sorry, you’re stuck with me now. You may have been our enemy once, but you certainly aren’t now. And I know you well enough to know that you could never be a threat to our pack. You aren’t a risk, you’re mine.” 

Peter whirled away and began pacing in front of him. Stiles watched silently, standing firm and unmoving in his unspoken declaration that he would not leave or give ground on this matter. Finally Peter stopped in front of him, chest heaving in wild agitation. 

“How can you say I’m not a risk?” Peter demanded. “Even Talia thought I was a risk, and that was before I went feral and proved her right!”

Stiles hummed softly in thought and then nodded once decisively. Peter’s face fell in a combination of vindication and despair, but Stiles wasn’t finished. 

“Fight me,” he ordered. 

Peter’s jaw dropped slightly and he stared at Stiles. 

“What?” he all but croaked. 

Stiles nodded and dropped into a ready crouch. 

“Fight me. And I don’t mean like a training spar. Hold nothing back. Go after me with everything you have.” 

Peter took a step back, shaking his head, eyes wide in panic. “I can’t do that!” he protested. “I just told you that I don’t want to hurt you!”

Stiles flashed his eyes and Peter flinched minutely. It felt like a dagger in his heart, but Stiles pressed on, even more sure that this needed to happen. 

“And I say that won’t happen.” Stiles returned. “You can’t hurt me and intend to prove it. Now fight me, Peter. Or do I need to make it an Alpha Command?”

Peter let out a high pitched whine of distress but obligingly lunged forwards, clumsy and slow. It took no effort for Stiles to side-step it, twisting around the half-hearted blow and flashing his eyes again. 

“Like you mean it, Peter!” he barked. 

Peter snarled in wild desperation and fury, but pivoted on a foot, faster than any normal creature could hope to move and lashed out again. Stiles deflected it, sliding past Peter’s outstretched arm with supernatural agility to push him away. 

“Better,” he said. “But I know you’re capable of more than that. Come on!”

After that, Stiles had no more spare attention for words, wholly engrossed in the fight that ensued. Peter fought like a wild, crazed thing, fast and deadly. He escalated the fight until Stiles could tell he was bringing forth every scrap of his extensive skill and experience in this attempt to defeat Stiles and prove that he was the danger he claimed to be. 

But as fast as Peter was, Stiles was faster. And regardless of how much extra power his emotional upheaval lent to his blows, Stiles was stronger too. Peter had the edge of more experience, but Stiles had closed that gap greatly over the last couple months, training relentlessly with a mind that grasped combat tactics with an intuitiveness that would make generals green with envy. 

However, all of that was eclipsed by Stiles’s awareness of how important this fight was. This would make or break Peter’s place in his pack and whether or not the older beta would be able to trust himself or Stiles. It was a massive risk to wager that much on a fight where a stroke of bad luck could have disastrous consequences, but just as a failure here could break things forever, a success could bring Peter a peace that he might never achieve otherwise. 

There was very little Stiles was not willing to do to achieve that. 

The first half of the fight was far more touch-and-go than Stiles would truly care to admit. He had asked for it, but he had underestimated just how dangerous a foe Peter could be when the beta wasn’t holding back. Especially since Stiles couldn’t match the lethal intentions with which Peter was attacking. So while Peter did as asked and held nothing back, striking out with blows that could kill if Stiles failed to counter them properly, Stiles pulled his return blows, striking with intentions to incapacitate or pin. 

That mismatch left Stiles evading close calls tight enough to raise the tiny hairs on the back of his neck in instinctual fear. 

But as the fight dragged on, Stiles got a feel for the flow of the battle and began to gain an advantage. Peter also slowed slightly as he burned through the frenetic edge his desperation had lent him at the start of the fight. He still wasn’t slow by any means, and the decrease would be unnoticeable to anyone beside another supernatural skilled in combat. But it was enough to give Stiles a small amount of breathing room, enough for him to turn the tide of the battle. 

Stiles pivoted around one of Peter’s strikes, blocking a kick and deflecting the automatic snap of teeth as he feinted one way before smoothly redirecting his momentum to duck under Peter’s arm as it raised in an preemptive block. Peter was just a hair to slow to match the movement, leaving Stiles a brief moment at his unguarded back. A tiny moment really, less than a fraction of a heartbeat, but enough for Stiles to lash out and knock Peter to the ground, a foot hooked around an ankle to ensure that the beta landed prone instead of succeeding in his immediate attempt to twist the fall into a roll. 

But Stiles did not press that advantage into the pin and win it could have easily been, stepping back and snapping “Again!” 

And Peter sprang upwards like a striking snake. 

The next bout lasted a significantly shorter amount of time before Stiles pinned Peter’s arms long enough to tap his claws in a feather-light touch against Peter’s throat. Peter’s eyes widened in surprise, but like before, Stiles released him immediately, stepping back.

“Again!” he ordered. 

The next time, Stiles caught Peter when the beta lunged at him, using his superior strength to its fullest advantage to boldly pick the other wolf up and pivot his body to throw him. Peter flew a short distance away and landed with a heavy thud and a gasped exhalation as his breath was knocked out of him. 

“Again!”

Peter attempted to catch Stiles in a hold that would cost broken joints to escape, but Stiles had grown up practicing submission holds with his dad’s deputies and twisted out of the hold, reversing it until Peter was the one arching backwards with his arms pinned in such a way that struggling further would break his elbows in three places.

“Again!” 

A strike faster than the eye could follow allowed Stiles’s claws to skate across Peter abdomen in a move that could have gutted him.

“Again!” 

This time, when Peter lunged forward to continue the fight, Stiles could see hope warring with the desperate grief in his eyes. He fell into the battle, but kept a close eye out. They were almost there. 

Two more wins later, Stiles saw the moment that everything collapsed in on Peter and he reached his breaking point. Without hesitation, Stiles lunged forwards, knocking Peter to the ground and following him down. When the wind carried away the sudden flurry of dust, Stiles was on top of Peter, pinning both of his wrists down and bracing his weight in such a way that Peter couldn’t buck him off. 

Stiles stared down at his beta with crimson eyes that were as calm and steady as when this whole conversation had begun. 

“Do you understand now, Peter?” Stiles asked gently. “I can stop you. You can throw your worst at me, come at me with everything that you have, and I can stop you. You can’t hurt us. You aren’t a risk or a threat to this pack because I won’t let you be, and I can stop you. No matter what, Peter. Your worst doesn’t frighten me. Trust me to take care of this pack, to take care of you, and stop you if I need to. And not until then. 

“Can you do that, Peter? Can you trust me to stop you if I ever need to? You don’t have to hold back from the pack. You don’t have to be afraid, or worry that you will somehow hurt one of us. You just have to trust that I will stop you before you get that far. Can you trust me? ”

Peter gave a single choked sob, curling into Stiles in search of more contact and the shelter that Stiles’s body proved. Stiles immediately released him, curling around his beta and rolling them so he could hold him tightly. He tucked Peter’s head into his shoulder and let him press as close as possible, until you couldn’t even fit a paper’s edge between them. 

Then Peter just clung, silent and shaking, as if Stiles was the only thing keeping him afloat as emotions bottled up for years, if not decades, washed over him with the force of a tsunami. Stiles held him just as tightly, rocking slightly and alternating between a wordless rumble of comfort in his chest and a non-stop flow of murmured praise and reassurance. 

Finally Peter regained enough composure to speak in a hoarse whisper against Stiles’s throat. 

“Yes, Alpha. I can trust you. Just please. Don’t…” He swallowed, clearly losing his nerve for a moment before continuing so softly, even Stiles’s supernatural ears were hard-pressed to catch his words. “Don’t let me fail you. Don’t leave me.”

Stiles tightened his grip even further, ducking his head to run his nose against Peter’s neck, rumbling softly when his beta immediately bared his neck as much as their positions allowed. 

“Never leaving you,” Stiles whispered fiercely. “Never. You’re my beta, my pack, my family. Mine .”

Peter made a soft noise in answer and closed his eyes, going limp and trusting his full weight to Stiles’s hold. Trusting that Stiles would not let him down, not even in something as minor as that. 

They laid there for a long time, and Stiles did not begrudge Peter the comfort, only shifting slightly so that he was lying on his back with Peter sprawled across his chest. He then lay contentedly, running a soothing hand up and down Peter’s back and watching the sun set slowly over his beta’s shoulder. In this, Stiles would not pull away first. Peter could have this time, as long as he needed. 

In fact, when Peter started to push himself up while still looking and smelling shaky and unstable, Stiles gave a gentle growl of disapproval and slid a hand up to grip Peter’s nape firmly. Peter collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut with a soft sound of relief, and Stiles hummed.

“There’s no rush,” he murmured. “Take as long as you need. I’m not going anywhere.” 

Peter huffed against Stiles’s neck but made no move to pull away again. 

“I’m fine,” he protested, and Stiles chose not to point out the lie in his heartbeat or the way one of his hands was gripping Stiles’s shirt tightly as if to prevent him from escaping. 

“Sure,” he said agreeably instead. “But this is nice, isn’t it?”

There was a long pause, and then Peter’s grip on his shirt relaxed slowly. 

“Yes, it is.” 

When they finally stood up to leave, Peter moved with a relaxed confidence Stiles hadn’t seen in ages. Stiles stayed close to him the whole way home, constantly brushing shoulders and reaching out in reassuring or scenting gestures. Normally, Peter might snap at him for fussing, but tonight he merely leaned into every point of contact. 

By the time they made it home, most of the turmoil had faded from Peter’s scent and he looked back to normal —better than normal, truly, since the easy relaxation in his bearing made it clear how much he had been putting on a show before. Still, enough was different that Isaac kept giving Peter puzzled glances like he knew something was off, but he couldn’t figure out what. Boyd also noticed that something had happened, looking over Peter for a long, thoughtful moment before turning to raise a silent eyebrow at Stiles behind the older beta’s back. 

Stiles merely smiled and tilted a shoulder in a half-shrug of dismissal. 

Boyd nodded slowly and glanced at Peter once last time.

“Mind if we stay the night tonight?” he asked.

Stiles beamed. “Not at all! Call your parents and make sure they know and are okay with it. Erica, will you grab the extra blankets?”

Erica, bless her, didn’t seem to notice that anything had happened and simply seemed thrilled to have a pack sleepover, throwing herself into the preparations with joyful abandon. 

While the younger betas began the organized chaos that was setting up for a last minute sleepover, John pulled Peter aside silently. Stiles saw them out of the corner of his eye and immediately chivvied the other betas upstairs to give them a bit of privacy. In his last glance of them as he turned the final corner, his dad had wrapped Peter up in a good, old-fashioned Stilinski Bear Hug —deserving of the capital letters. 

Stiles smiled again and left them to it. There weren't many heartaches in the world that couldn’t be eased by one off his dad’s hugs. 

Everyone had made it into the bed when Peter made up to join them, but the older beta did not hesitate to burrow his way into the middle of the pile, claiming the prized spot of Stiles’s shoulder for his head when Boyd obligingly yielded it, and settling down to sleep tangled together with every lupine member of the pack. 

Stiles rumbled deep in his chest in pure happiness and pride, and watched over his pack until they fell asleep. 

All was well in his world. 

Chapter Text

Stiles jerked awake with an aborted thrash and an adrenaline rush as all of his instincts screamed at thim that something was majorly wrong. His eyes snapped open, scanning the room with a crimson glare as he strained all of his senses to their limit to find the threat. The room was empty. No intruders or anything out of the ordinary. He could hear the normal heartbeats and assorted noises of a typical night. Nothing seemed wrong. 

Stiles frowned, still scanning, when suddenly his sense of smell registered. It was a sense he never really relied on as a human, and thus the one he had the most trouble remembering to focus on now that he was a werewolf. As such, he had only barely noticed the sickly scent of fear and pain when Peter jerked against him minutely. 

Immediately, all of Stiles’s attention focused on him. Peter’s eyes were screwed tightly shut in restless sleep but his brow was furrowed and beaded with fear-sweat. Even as Stiles scanned him, the beta twitched again and his mouth moved silently as he pleaded with the unseen people in his dreams. 

Stiles rumbled fretfully, and curled as close as he could, wrapping Peter in his scent and warmth like he could beat back the nightmares by sheer force of presence. Peter slowly stilled and relaxed into a peaceful sleep, but right as Stiles breathed out in relief and settled down to go back to sleep himself. Peter went rigid again in renewed distress. 

On and on through the night it went, Peter swapping endlessly between nightmares and normal sleep. Stiles did as much as he could. His scent and close presence seemed to help knock the nightmares back for at least a little while, but clearly the confrontation the previous evening had awakened demons that Stiles couldn’t help Peter fight. 

It had been a long time since Stiles had felt so helpless. He didn’t appreciate the experience. 

By the time that morning dawned, Stiles was bleary eyed with a tight agitation rolling underneath his skin. Peter didn’t look much better, sliding out of the bed and stalking out of the room stiffly when Isaac, Erica, and Boyd began flailing about in their normal uncoordinated efforts to get ready for school. 

Stiles watched him go thoughtfully. 

Peter remained stiff and closed off through breakfast and Stiles finally nodded decisively, sitting back in his chair. He then hid a smile when the movement drew the immediate attention of everyone at the table. 

Stiles ignored it and looked up at his dad. 

“Will you let the school know that I’ve come down with a stomach bug and won’t make it to school today?” he asked.

His dad’s eyes widened briefly before flicking to Peter tellingly. Peter’s shoulders stiffened even more if possible, and he glared at the eggs on his plate like they had personally offended him. John nodded slowly. 

“Sure… Need help with anything?”

“Nope,” Stiles said, popping the “p” cheerily. “Just some things I need to do today.” 

A muscle in Peter’s jaw jumped but he said nothing, so Stiles moved on without addressing it. He caught Boyd’s eye. 

“Keep an eye on Scott. I don’t think he’ll try anything with me gone, but better safe than sorry. Call me if there are any issues at all.”

Boyd inclined his head solemnly, accepting the implicit appointment of responsibility, and Stiles shifted his gaze to include Erica and Isaac.

“Take plenty of good notes for me and have a good day. I’ll see you tonight.” They all nodded, and Stiles hummed satisfied. The notes instruction was more for Erica. Isaac’s handwriting was a travesty, and Boyd frequently didn’t bother writing anything down. Hopefully, between the three of them, Stiles would have everything he needed.

Breakfast was cleaned up and everyone except himself and Peter shuffled off to work or school in short order, leaving the two of them alone in a suddenly dead silent house. Peter set down the dish towel he was holding and turned to face Stiles challengingly, practically daring him to start another emotional conversation. 

Stiles ignored it, dropping into a chair at the table again with a blown out breath and pulling out a notebook. 

“So, Isaac is doing much better with a more personalized training regime, but I am despairing of ever getting him to stay consistent in his attack patterns. Unpredictability is all well and good for keeping the enemy off guard, but it is hell to keep track of when you fight alongside him. Thoughts?”

“What,” Peter said, totally nonplussed. Then he blinked. “Where did that notebook come from?”

Stiles grinned. “Magic.” 

To his absolute delight, Stiles had found out that he had used that sarcastic answer so much that it rang as truth in his heartbeat. Peter clearly realized that as well because his eyes flicked down to Stiles’s chest and the bafflement on his face increased. 

Stiles grinned wider but didn’t address it, merely pulling out a pencil he had tucked inside the notebook and tapping it on a page. 

“So,” he said. “What do you think? The best thing might be to drill group combat exercises, but we don’t have enough people to split up and have an accurate scenario.”

Stiles looked at Peter expectantly and waited. Peter slowly walked forwards and pulled out a chair, eyeing Stiles like he half-expected the younger wolf to ambush him with more emotions. When Stiles continued to wait silently, Peter relaxed enough to tilt his head in thought, clearly considering the matter.

“We could take advantage of your greater strength and durability,” he offered eventually. “You could use more practice fighting multiple opponents —you have a tendency to get distracted by one opponent and forget the others— and it would allow us to have the younger three fight together as a team against you.”

Stiles nodded. “Good idea.” He made a quick note before looking up again. “Any other things you’ve noticed that we should address?”

“Well…” Peter began, and they were off, trading ideas for training and patrol schedules. They even sketched out some rough contingency plans for various ways their world could devolve into chaos. 

Which absolutely contained a plan for the zombie apocalypse. Stiles had a plan for that before his introduction to the supernatural turned such a thing from a remote possibility to an almost certainty. It was Beacon Hills. With everything else they had faced, a zombie apocalypse was only a matter of time. 

By the time that afternoon rolled around, Peter had relaxed again, the tension and discomfort from the rough night fading away in contented companionship. At that point, Stiles put away the planning and dragged Peter to the couch to watch movies until the other betas got home. 

Which was how they walked in on Stiles all but laying on top of Peter, utterly enraptured with the second Iron Man movie while Peter drifted in and out of a light doze. 

Erica gasped. “Without us!?” she accused and barreled forwards to pile on, Isaac a half-step behind her. 

Stiles snorted but obligingly made room, sharing a mock-aggrieved look with Boyd where he stood in the doorway looking amused. 

“Any problems at school?” Stiles asked. 

Boyd shook his head and wandered forwards to sit on the ground in front of the couch, leaning back so his head rested against Stiles’s knee. 

“No,” he confirmed. “Scott made a snide comment or two but nothing more. It was a fairly basic day.”

Stiles hummed and reached out to card a gentle hand through Boyd’s hair, smiling when the beta let out a soft sigh and relaxed, eyes drifting shut. 

“Good,” Stiles said.

There was a brief moment of silence, only broken by explosions coming from the tv. Then Boyd made a formless noise in the back of his throat and Stiles’s eyes darted back to him. 

“Lydia wants to speak to you,” Boyd said idly. 

Stiles’s fingers stilled in Boyd’s hair for a moment before continuing their rhythmic motion. 

“Oh?”

“Mmhmm. Kept looking over when she realized you were gone. Looked conflicted too. Probably decided she absolutely had to talk to you when she realized she didn’t have the opportunity anymore.”

Stiles snorted. “Sounds about right. Well, I suppose I’ll hear her out when she decides it's worth the effort to approach me. Thanks for the heads up.”

Boyd hummed again, apparently having used up his allotment of words for the time being and silence fell again. 

Stiles tried to return his attention to the movie, but his thoughts kept drifting off to wonder about what Lydia wanted. Perhaps it was arrogance, but he couldn’t help suspecting that she might want to change packs, or at least shift part of her allegiance. Stiles’s fingers drummed restlessly against the couch. Thoughts to consider. 

Later that evening after dinner, Stiles’s dad caught Stiles’s eye. 

“I have to go back to the office to finish some things up tonight,” he said. “Do you want to come with me? I have some reports sorted out that have some degree of an abnormal feel. Most of them are probably people being people, but I’d prefer you to take a look. I don’t trust myself to identify supernatural causes accurately yet.”

“Sure,” Stiles said. “I didn’t have plans.” He flicked his gaze down the table. “I’ll probably still be gone, so Peter, Erica, remember that you have patrol tonight.”

Peter crooked an eyebrow and Erica rolled her eyes good-naturedly, but they both nodded in easy assent.  

With that settled, Stiles rode to the station with his dad and accepted the small stack of reports to look at with a faint smirk. After years of sneaking peeks at his dad’s case files, he had finally worn his dad down into just handing them over. Sure, it had taken the reveal of an entire supernatural world and the assumption of the supernatural equivalent of a lordship, but details, details. He was smug about it regardless. 

Shortly after they sat down, a woman poked her head into the office. Stiles glanced up and smiled. It was Officer Tara Mason-just-call-me-Tara. She had been a fixture at the station for as long as he could remember and a partner in well-meaning crime since the first time he figured out how to weaponize cuteness and intelligence. And bribery. Bribery worked wonders. 

Tara flicked Stiles a quick smile before focusing on his dad.  

“Hey Sheriff, Beckhard is making a nuisance of himself again. Mind if I stick him in an overnight holding cell to cool his heels and sober up?”

John sighed. “Go ahead, but if he vomits all over the bars again that is your problem to take care.”

Tara snorted. “Roger that, sir.” Then her eyes drifted over to Stiles and his stack of paperwork, and she raised an eyebrow. 

“My, my, Sheriff. Letting your son see classified files? What is the world coming to?”

John shrugged. “He was going to sneak in to see them anyway. Might as well save us all the trouble and take advantage of his brains to see the patterns that most don’t. At least this way I get to reap some benefit out of it.”

“Of course, sir.” 

John eyed her suspiciously. “You already knew that.” It wasn’t a question. 

“Of course, sir,” she said again, a grin in her voice. “We just weren’t sure you knew that.”

“We?” John echoed in a tone of deep weariness. He raised a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose like he was holding off a headache. “Stiles,” he said, not looking up. “How long have you been helping my deputies with their casework?” 

Stiles grinned shamelessly. “When was the first time I got caught looking at your papers?” 

“I believe you were ten at the time,” Tara put in helpfully. The glare John shot her suggested he considered her anything but.

Stiles nodded with mock thoughtfulness. “Then sometime a few months after that.” 

John sighed deeply and with exaggerated heaviness. 

Stiles’s grin widened. “Hey, if it’s any consolation, I’m pretty sure the case completion rate actually went up after I started helping.

“Trust me, Stiles,” John said, raising his gaze to give Stiles a look both annoyed and proud. “I am very aware of that.”

At that point, Tara’s efforts to muffle her laughter into a closed fist began to fail utterly. John shot her another exaggeratedly annoyed look and waved her away. 

“Get out of here, deputy. You have a drunkard to lock up.”

“Of course, sir.”

“And if he vomits anywhere, you are cleaning it up. Without help. Understood?” 

“Rude, sir.”

Tara gave a casual salute and wandered out. John turned a quelling glare on Stiles who ducked his head over the papers, still snickering. John shook his head and grumbled under his breath about stubborn kids and insubordinate deputies. Stiles’s shoulders shook from the effort of staying silent. 

Still, the reports quickly drew his attention away from the previous byplay. Most of them were almost certainly normal civilians getting up to various hijinks. Stiles even recognized the source of one of the noise complaints as being a result of a prank played by some classmates at school. He had overheard them bragging about it earlier in the week. 

Humming to himself, Stiles leaned over to snag a pen off of his dad’s desk, smiling when his dad fished a sticky note pad out of a desk drawer and handed it over without looking up from his own work. 

After leaving a quick, concise note about the likely perpetrators, Stiles continued his perusal. Most of the reports he shuffled aside as almost certainly benign, only leaving an occasional note with potential avenues to explore. A few others he considered longer. One likely indicated that he had a hag, druid, or witch in his territory, judging by the contents of the overgrown garden that was the source of numerous complaints. It had helpful pictures too, allowing Stiles to recognize valerian, wormwood, sage, mugwort, wolfsbane, yarrow, along with a whole host of other plants he couldn’t confidently identify. Still, that was more than enough to check off several items from the list of herbs he had seen in the more reliable guides on potion-making or herb-craft. 

He made a note on the file and set it aside. He would have to talk to Peter about that one later. He wasn’t strictly opposed to other supernaturals in his territory, but he wanted to make sure that they wouldn’t be a threat. 

The last file was more of a collection of filed requests for animal control to assist with various nuisance animals at a strip mall at the edge of town. Stiles drummed his fingers on the stack of papers, considering. Animals acting strangely had been a precursor to several supernatural events, so he would definitely be looking into this one more closely. It was just such a random location. There wasn’t much there, just a nail salon, thrift store, pharmacy, car wash, and a mediocre Mexican restaurant. It was also close enough to the edge of town that animals could easily wander in anyways. 

Still, Stiles didn't believe in coincidences. Not anymore.

He was still pondering methods of approach when his phone rang. Stiles fished it out of his pocket and answered it without looking away from his study of a report complaining about an annoyingly persistent raccoon hanging around the dumpsters behind the Mexican restaurant. 

“Hello?” he said absently, deep in thought. 

“Stiles,” Peter said, a tight note to his voice that made Stiles forget what he was doing and jerk upright, attention suddenly entirely focused on the phone in his hand. John’s head shot up at the sudden motion too, looking at him in concern and Stiles held up a hand in a wait gesture.

“What is it, Peter?” 

“We have a pixie here that I would have sworn had white eyes a second ago,” he said.

Stiles frowned in concern, rising from his seat. “Where is it now? Can you contain it?” 

Already his mind was whirring through plans. Pixies were notoriously fast and obnoxious to deal with. Maybe if they found some nets? The massive kind suspended on poles, that is, not butterfly nets, as amusing as the mental image of his betas cursing as they chased pixies through an open field, nets in hand. Pixies were significantly faster than even the supernatural speed of werewolves, and the fact that they could fly meant there was a whole other dimension to try and account for. Stiles bit back a sigh. This was going to be a massive headache no matter how they did it. 

Peter snorted in dismissive amusement, causing Stiles’s brow to furrow in confusion at his clear lack of concern. 

“Erica caught it,” Peter said, tone clearly communicating his baffled amusement.

Stiles blinked at the wall. “She… caught. A pixie.” he echoed tonelessly. “What?” 

Peter hummed assent over the phone. “It flew past us and for a second it looked like it had white eyes. Erica managed to snag it out of the air —out of reflex, I assume— and now we’re standing here with a pixie and not quite sure what to do next.”

“Of course,” Stiles said. “Because why the hell not? Alright, I’ll be there in a minute and we can figure this out. Just hold on to it for now, I guess.” 

“Understood. See you soon.” 

Stiles hung up, still feeling somewhat baffled. A pixie. Possibly with the white eyes they faced before. Breaks were overrated, weren’t they? He shook his head slightly. 

John quirked a lip in a half-smile. “Need a hand?”

Stiles shook himself off and packed up with swift efficiency. 

“No, I should be fine. I’ll head there on foot and make my way home with them.” He tapped the files he set aside as potentially having supernatural causes. “Put these somewhere special for me, please. I’ll be looking into them in greater depth. There could be something there.”

John nodded and tucked the indicated files into a folder that he set on a clear corner of his desk. 

“Will do. Be safe.” 

Stiles darted in for a quick hug before heading out. “I’ll do my best.”

Stiles arrived at their location in a few minutes, grateful he had convinced his betas to share phone locations so he could track them easily. It definitely came in handy in times like this. When he stepped into sight, Peter was leaning against a tree with his arms crossed, smirking in Stiles’s direction unrepentantly. Erica was standing in front of him and whipped around when Stiles approached, grinning at him and nearly vibrating with a combination of nervous excitement and anticipation. 

And sure enough, clutching a pixie firmly in her right fist. 

Stiles shook his head slowly in amazement, honestly impressed. 

“I’m not sure I actually believed it until I saw it,” Stiles said. “Very well done.”

Erica’s grin widened in clear pride at Stiles’s approval, and Peter somehow smirked harder. 

Erica brandished the pixie carefully. 

“Now what do I do with it?” she asked.

Stiles hummed. He had been thinking over this on the way over. If the pixie had had white eyes previously, that could mean that it was under the same mind control that they suspected the wendigo had been under. Which in turn meant they had a much larger problem on their hands. 

“What was it doing when you found it?” Stiles asked, still considering it thoughtfully.

Erica shrugged. “It was just flying around the border’s edge.” 

“Scouting,” Peter interjected. “If we wish to allow it an assumption of intelligence.” 

There was a light in his eyes that clearly indicated he knew where Stiles was going with that particular line of questioning. 

Stiles frowned at the pixie in question. ‘Scouting’ Peter had called its actions. If the older beta called it that, there was likely a pattern to the pixie’s flight that felt more deliberate or purposeful than the carefree flying that Erica’s answer had implied. Nothing against Erica, but he was more inclined to trust Peter’s instincts in this matter. He had far more experience than either of them. 

And if the pixie was under some sort of mind while acting in a scouting manner, that would suggest that whatever was controlling it both had a way to retrieve that information and a use for it. Stiles felt his metaphorical hackles rise at the thought. He really didn’t like that idea. Still, it meant their course of action was clear. 

The mind control made the pixie a threat, and enough of an unknown one that he had no good way to safely and confidently contain it. That left eliminating it. 

“You said its eyes were white before?” Stiles asked, just to be sure. His eyes never left the pixie, but he tilted a shoulder towards Peter expectantly.

Peter hesitated a moment before his shoulders squared. 

“Yes, they were,” he said decisively. “I didn’t see them for long given the angle of its flight, but they were definitely white and not a pixie’s normal green.”

Stiles nodded acknowledgement. “Alright. See if you can hand it here, Erica.” 

Erica blinked slightly in confusion but obligingly stepped over, and between the two of them, they managed to transfer it over without the pixie escaping. It struggled as they did, shrieking shrilly, and Stiles swore its eyes flashed white for a barest second. Any hesitation over his intended course of action vanished at the sight. 

Once the pixie was secure in his grasp, Stiles nodded once, stepped back, and then snapped the pixie’s neck with one swift movement. It immediately went limp, rapid heartbeat slowing to a stop. 

Erica jumped slightly, but Peter only nodded like he expected that to happen. Erica gave Stiles a baffled look. 

“If you were just going to kill it, I could have done that. I’m not squeamish, and that way we wouldn’t have had to risk it getting away when we transferred it.” she said, slightly aggrieved. 

Stiles reached out to squeeze the back of her neck and pulled her in to knock their foreheads together gently. 

“I know you’re not squeamish,” he reassured. “But I’m not going to ask you to do something like that. That was far closer to an execution than anything else, and as such, it was my responsibility as Alpha to take care of it.” 

Erica blew out a soft breath and relaxed against him with a hum. Over her shoulder, Peter gave him a pensive look. 

“Okay,” Erica said after a moment, but then her voice went somewhat mulish. “But I still could have done it.” 

Stiles snorted. “Fierce thing,” he said fondly and Erica pulled back to grin at him unrepentantly.

Peter shoved himself away from the tree he was leaning against. 

“This is the second time we’ve seen white eyes on a creature behaving abnormally,” he said, voice and shoulders tight. 

Stiles sighed and nodded. “Yes, but we still don’t have enough information to make any plans beyond increased vigilance. We’ll keep an eye out, especially on patrols or when dealing with unusual situations, but until we know more, that's pretty much all we can do. Unless you have any ideas for what we could be facing here and how to handle it?”

Peter sighed and deflated somewhat, shaking his head. “I have no idea what this is,” he said, annoyed.

Stiles nodded in commiseration. “Yeah. me neither. I’ve found loads of things on mind control, but nothing that affects eye color. It’s strange. So honestly, all I’ve got is staying watchful and vigilant.” 

He shrugged helplessly. 

“Constant vigilance!” Erica whisper-shouted, amusement clear in her voice and Stiles rolled his eyes at her. 

“Thanks Mad-eye.”

Peter snorted as well, but glared at the trees around them.

“I don’t like this,” he growled. 

Stiles stepped close enough to bump their shoulders together.

“Yeah, me neither. But we’ll figure it out and watch out for each other.”

Chapter Text

When Stiles walked into the school building the next day, he immediately noticed Lydia scanning the students as they walked in with an affected air of disinterest and boredom that didn’t quite manage to hide the fact that she was looking for someone. When she saw Stiles, she nodded slightly to herself, looking suspiciously resolute, then tossed her hair over her shoulder and flounced off to class. As she walked, the crowds of students automatically parted at her approach.

Stiles sighed to himself. That wasn’t going to end well. 

Boyd caught his eye as Lydia turned away and raised an eyebrow in a clear “See? That’s what I was talking about.” 

Stiles nodded, clapped him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and thanks, and then turned to chat with Erica about a particularly obnoxious homework assignment. There was nothing he could do about it now after all.

While he would have preferred to put off the inevitable confrontation with Lydia, fate would never be so kind to him. So, sure enough, Lydia stalked up to their table during lunch. 

Stiles looked up, feeling a headache coming on even if that was ridiculous. Werewolf healing took care of such annoyances before they could even be noticed. He could also practically feel Scott glaring a hole in the side of his head. He swallowed a tired sigh. There was absolutely no way this would end well. 

“Yes?” he asked warily. As he did, he subtly tapped Boyd on the leg and tilted a shoulder in Scott’s direction. Boyd immediately shifted, stretching like he was getting more comfortable and settled down again, leaning back at an angle that just so happened to put Scott squarely in his line of vision. 

Stiles was so proud.

Satisfied that Boyd would keep an eye out for any unpleasant developments in that direction, Stiles returned his full attention to the problem currently in front of him. Not that Lydia had noticed his lack of complete attention. She was completely ignoring Stiles, staring expectantly at Isaac who was sitting across from Stiles and steadily working his way through a massive sandwich. 

When the silence dragged on long enough to become slightly awkward, Isaac’s shoulders hunched slightly and he slowly looked up, expression tight like he knew that he was about to regret that decision. When their eyes met, Lydia arched a single perfect eyebrow imperiously and glanced significantly at the booth seat. Then she somehow waited more pointedly.

It was a move Stiles had seen Lydia employ many times before, making the target feel about two inches tall and as insignificant as a worm before her royal presence. It worked as well now as it ever had. Isaac flushed a dull, embarrassed red and hastily scooted sideways, pressing up against Erica in his attempt to yield his portion of the seat to Lydia. Lydia gave an unimpressed sniff, as if Isaac’s efforts were barely satisfactory, but as much as she could hope for from someone like him. In response, the red on Isaac’s face spread down his neck and he stared down at his food dully, no longer interested in it. 

Stiles frowned slightly. In the past he had admired the way Lydia could bring people down so effortlessly, with nothing more than the twitch of an eyebrow, a faint frown, or nearly inaudible scoff. Now? Wielded against one of his betas? And one he was particularly protective of nonetheless? It felt different, and Stiles found himself not quite approving. 

He reached out a foot under the table and knocked it gently against Isaac’s. His beta glanced up and Stiles held his eyes steadily for a moment. He didn’t say anything or even let his expression waver from its calm, but Isaac seemed to read something in his eyes anyways, and his back straightened, shoulders relaxing from their position hunched round his ears. Erica also leaned into him supportively, flicking a disapproving frown Lydia’s way

Stiles looked away and instead watched as Lydia settled into the seat with a slight flourish and disdainful glance flicked across the table that included both the table’s contents and everyone sitting around it. He found that his patience with her theatrics was swiftly wearing away. 

“What do you want?” he asked bluntly. 

Lydia’s eyes widened, somewhat startled at his borderline rude opening. But she recovered, sniffing slightly and adopting a businesslike posture. 

“I have given it a great deal of thought,” she began. “And while I could… consider joining your pack, I have some conditions that I need to ensure will be met. First…” 

“No,” Stiles interrupted, leaning back and folding his arms. He could stop that right there. He could already tell where it was going.

Lydia blinked, for the first time looking rattled and thrown off. 

“No?” she echoed in confusion. 

“No,” Stiles confirmed. “Pack is not something you come into with conditions. You either are pack or you’re not. No conditions, no ifs, no contracts. If you would like to make an arrangement as a formal ally, then we can talk about conditions and agreements and requirements. But pack is family, and there is no place for such things in it. If you would like to actually join my pack, you’re going to have to come back with a different approach and the understanding that you will be required to treat the pre-existing members of my pack with a basic respect.”

He nodded significantly to Isaac who was watching with something close to slack-jawed awe. A red flush had begun to creep up the back of Lydia’s neck though she kept her face impressively blank, speechless.

“Do I make myself clear?” Stiles asked softly. 

Lydia rose with stiff formality and grace. 

“Quite,” she said with a sharp nod. She then turned and marched off, red flush rising at the whispers and titters of the watching students. 

Stiles watched her go and then blew out a very slow breath, releasing tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying. 

“That was amazing,” Isaac said quietly. “I’ve never seen anyone talk to her like that before. Her face!”  

Stiles snorted and rolled his eyes. “Thanks Isaac. I meant it though. If she ever wants to be pack, she can’t treat joining like that, and she definitely can’t treat you guys like that. And that’s all there is to it.”

All three of his betas straightened up proudly at that, seeming somehow reassured. As if they had expected him to just let Lydia walk all over him, and them as a result. Stiles moved on without comment, but silently promised himself, yet again, that he would be an alpha worthy of their trust, worthy of them. 

He glanced at Boyd questioningly, tilting his head slightly towards Scott. Boyd shook his head in the negative. No trouble there. Not yet at least. Stiles nodded acknowledgement, and risked a glance in that direction. Scott was still glaring, but so was Jackson, which was a new development. Looked like rejecting his girlfriend had put Stiles on his bad side. Interesting.

Stiles looked away casually. He had enough drama to handle within his pack. No need to borrow more unnecessarily. Besides, he had every faith that their drama would eventually make itself his problem, and he had no desire to hasten that process. 

After dinner that evening, Stiles’s dad nodded to a case file sitting on the edge of the counter on top of the day’s mail. Stiles blinked for a moment before seeing the corner of a photo sticking out of the file and recognizing the folder as the one that he had tucked the case files he wanted to take a closer look into, the ones he thought might be related to the supernatural. He smiled and nodded thanks to his dad. He had left the file at the station to address the matter of the pixie with white eyes, but he was glad to have it at the house so he could go over it with Peter easier. 

And speaking of which…

Stiles grabbed the file and pivoted to find his oldest beta. 

“Hey Peter, got a minute? I want your advice on something.” Then Stiles flicked his eyes over Isaac’s curious look and hesitated, changing his mind. “Actually, pack meeting. Everyone come to the table. I want to go over something.”

Once everyone was seated and looking at Stiles with mixed levels of curiosity and anticipation, Stiles flipped through the pages of the file and pulled out the reports of animals behind the strip mall. 

“Easiest thing first,” he said and spun one report around so they could read it. “There’s been reports of odd animal behavior around this location.” 

Stiles tapped the address line with his finger and smiled slightly when Peter and Boyd leaned over, read it and nodded understanding. Erica and Isaac also leaned over. Erica blinked at the line once and immediately whipped out her phone, typing the address in. Isaac read it repeatedly, mouth moving silently as he clearly struggled to place the location. Once Erica found the address on her phone, she beamed triumphantly and tilted her phone obligingly so Isaac could see as well. Stiles smiled fondly and waited for them to be finished. 

“It could be a coincidence,” Stiles continued. Erica snorted dismissively and Stiles gave her a commiserating look. “It could be a coincidence,” he repeated, stressing the word. “But I want the patrols to swing through this area just in case to look for anything out of the ordinary. Peter, I know it’s not our turn, but I want us to patrol tonight so we can take some time to investigate a bit closer this first time. Boyd, you and I will patrol together tomorrow night instead of tonight, and we'll continue the schedule as normal from there.” 

Peter nodded absently, still scanning the report and Boyd tilted his head in a stoic incline of acknowledgement. 

“As always,” Stiles said. “If you come across anything strange during a patrol, call me and let me know. If you’re not sure, call anyway. I would rather deal with a hundred false alarms than miss something important.” 

All of his betas nodded, and Isaac tilted his head to flash throat momentarily. 

Stiles pulled the report back and tucked it into the folder. Peter gave a grumble that was very nearly a growl and glared at him, evidently not finished looking it over. Stiles huffed in amusement.

“You can pour over them to your heart’s content after we’re finished here, but for now I want to move on.”

Peter humphed but sat back. Stiles rolled his eyes at him fondly and pulled out the pictures next, spreading them out so everyone could see. His betas leaned in, heads nearly bumping as they peered at the photos. 

“Plants?” Isaac asked dubiously. 

Peter frowned. “Is that comfrey? And yarrow? That’s definitely wolfsbane in the corner by the willow. Actually, now that I think about it, all the plants that I can see here have medicinal uses. Comfrey, yarrow, wolfsbane, willow, sage, mugwort, jewelweed.”

Erica made a soft sound in the back of her throat. “I see lavender and mint in this one. Those have uses too.”

“And rosemary,” Boyd added, tugging a different photo closer. 

Isaac snorted. “I see plants. Lots and lots of them. In lots of different shades of green.”

Stiles snorted as well and ruffled Isaac’s hair. Isaac grinned up at him. Peter tilted his head and peered at a photo closely.

“I’m pretty sure that’s thyme. And that’s definitely wormwood beside it. Yeah, all of these have uses in medicine or herbcraft. What are we dealing with here?”

Stiles spun one of the photos around and tapped it thoughtfully. “That’s what I wanted to get your thoughts on. I was thinking either a supernatural like a druid, witch, hag, or potentially a normal person playing herbcraft.” 

Peter hummed. “I doubt it’s unrelated to the supernatural. While most of these plants do have medicinal uses, it’s unlikely that even a plant-obsessed person would have such a wide variety. I would guess witch or druid.” 

Stiles nodded. “I was thinking the same thing. Since we’re already patrolling tonight, you and I can swing by and do some reconnaissance.” 

“And if it is supernatural related?” Peter asked. 

“We’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I have no interest in making enemies unnecessarily but neither will I tolerate a threat within our territory. We’ll have to see what we think after a closer look.”

Before going to the garden house, as Isaac started calling it, Peter and Stiles swung by the strip mall that had filed so many animal reports. Peter curled his nose as soon as they arrived. 

“There has definitely been a raccoon spending a lot of time around here,” he said. “The same one from the smell of it.”

Stiles hummed agreement and paced around the dumpster, tracing the scent. The raccoon had been here enough that its scent was everywhere, crossing over itself and making it difficult to track. Still, Stiles noticed that the raccoon paced the whole alley instead of just going to and from the restaurant's dumpster like he would have expected. He wandered to the farthest reaches of the scent trail and looked back at Peter who was scanning the back of the buildings. 

“Thoughts?”

Peter shrugged slightly. “It could be just looking for other sources of food or exploring. Raccoons can be very curious and mischievous. With known mind control threatening the territory, I hesitate to rule anything out, but I honestly don’t know what the purpose of this location could be. If it was the hospital, police station, or even the school, that would be a different story. But I don’t see any tactical advantage in scouting out a nail salon of all places.”

Stiles tilted his head to study the signs again. Nail salon, thrift store, pharmacy, car wash, and a Mexican restaurant. Not exactly a hot spot of high value targets. However…

“The pharmacy?” he asked eventually. Medicine was a valuable resource. It was the best thing he could think of at least. 

Peter cocked his head thoughtfully. “Maybe? We could keep an eye on it for now at least. It’s certainly a better theory than our unknown enemy having a strange desire for manicures or tacos.” 

“Hey! You take that back. Even evil monsters can feel the need for tacos every now and then. Tacos are joy and life. Do not besmirch their amazingness.” 

Peter rolled his eyes. “Even if I don’t argue with that —which I absolutely could, for the record— There are far better places and ways to source tacos than this particular location with a mangy raccoon of all things.”

“True,” Stiles allowed, smiling despite himself. He glanced around one more time. “I’ll send the patrols through here to keep an eye on it, but I don’t think there’s anything else we can do here.”

Peter nodded and they moved on to the so-called “garden house”. A few minutes later, they stood outside a pretty gated front yard that was absolutely filled with plants. Some in neat garden beds, some in pots, and some pretty much growing wild in between. It was actually better organized than the photos they had looked at would imply. Clearly the photos had been taken selectively to make the yard seem like more of a problem than it was. For a moment, they both studied it in silence. Finally, Stiles snorted and shook his head in exasperation. 

“This is stupid,” he muttered, then raised his voice slightly. “Come on, let’s go say hi.” 

He stepped forwards, and Peter snorted as well, following a step behind. Stiles walked up to the white gate leading onto the property and raised a hand towards the latch when he saw Peter suddenly stiffen out of the corner of his eye.

“Wait,” his beta said abruptly, but Stiles had already frozen, his hand halting its movement towards the latch when Peter first tensed. 

Stiles slowly withdrew his hand. “What do you see?”

Peter pointed wordlessly at the base of the fence post nearest the gate. Stiles followed the gesture, and his eyes widened. Small runes were carved into the side of the post. He cast a second glance around and saw the same rune sequence on every other post in sight. He blew out a slow breath. 

“Good catch.”

Peter nodded tightly. “Definitely supernatural.”

Stiles hummed agreement, scanning the yard with new eyes. “Look at the patterns of the garden beds. Do they also look runic to you too?”

Another stiff nod. 

Stiles sighed and crouched to peer at the runes more closely. 

“Let’s see here, where’s a rune to English dictionary when you need it? I think I recognize some of these though. I binged runes for like, three weeks straight when I first found out about them. Hmmm… This one’s definitely ‘protection’. Here's ‘surround’? ‘Guard’? Probably ‘guard’ or ‘ward’. This one looks like ‘sun’ and it’s linked to a sequence I’m pretty sure is arranged like a powering sequence. So, probably solar-powered wards? That’s cool! Then there’s this section… Let’s see… ‘doghouse’?” 

Peter made a startled noise of confusion. Stiles processed what he said and then backtracked hurriedly. 

“No wait, that’s not right. I think it’s actually ‘enemies’ or maybe ‘threat’, something like danger at least, I can't remember exactly, and it’s tied to a rune that has something to do with a mind or thought. So probably intent based. Altogether, looks like a protection against anything intending to do harm. Very nice!”

Stiles stood up and brushed off his pants, smirking proudly. He loved it when random research binges came in handy. 

Peter gave him a faintly impressed look. “Very well done.” Stiles beamed. “Quick question, how in the world did you get ‘doghouse’ from a rune that actually meant ‘enemies’?” 

“They look similar!” Stiles protested. Peter raised an artfully dubious eyebrow. “They do! ‘Enemies’ just has more of a widdershins swirl to it while ‘doghouse’ swirls deosil, and the dot is just in a slightly different place with a tilt beside it…” 

Stiles trailed off when he realized that Peter had twisted slightly away to hide his face and his shoulders were shaking suspiciously. 

“Oh, shut up,” he muttered. “Anyway, it looks to me like an intent-based ward. We should be fine to enter unless you have some hidden genocidal bent towards plants —plantacide? Wait, the word is herbicide, isn’t it? Oops.” 

Stiles sighed tiredly and opened the gate without issue. Peter followed behind him, still snickering quietly. Stiles glared at him playfully over one shoulder.

“You know, if it didn’t risk bringing those wards down on us, I would shove you into a rose bush right about now.” 

“Mmhmm”

“Are you humming sarcastically now?” 

“Of course not,” Peter said innocently. Too innocently to be honest. “I would never do such a thing.”

Stiles sighed. 

He reached out to knock on the door, and Peter immediately sobered, falling into a ready position, watchful and alert at Stiles’s shoulder. Stiles smiled softly. For all of his beta’s playful teasing and sarcasm, he always knew when to cut it out and be serious. 

Stiles rapped on the door with his knuckles sharply, ignoring the brass door knocker. It was carved like a dragon’s head and since they already suspected whoever lived here could use magic, he didn’t want to find out the hard way if the knocker bit. 

There was a brief silence, Stiles frowned and saw Peter frowning as well. He couldn’t hear anything. They might have to come back again later. 

The sudden motion of the door starting to swing open about made Stiles jump out of his shoes. Peter jerked slightly as well, and his suddenly racing heart belied his neutral expression. Not that Stiles could tease him for it. His own heart was making a solid attempt at fighting its way out of his chest. There must be some sort of runes or magic on the house to prevent them from being able to hear inside. Still, despite their surprise, they both composed themselves before the door finished opening. 

The woman that opened the door somehow looked both elderly and ageless. She had long, pin-straight, grey hair, an elegantly wrinkled face, and while she had that wiry thinness that older people often had, she didn’t look even a bit frail. 

The woman looked them up and down slowly, eyebrow raising. “Interesting.” She tilted her head to study Peter more closely. Stiles watched carefully, but she didn’t seem like a threat, so he resisted the urge to step in front of his beta. No need to seem provocative or defensive. 

“Peter Hale,” She said softly. “Infamous Left Hand of the former Hale Pack. I heard you died.” 

Peter smiled charmingly, though Stiles had felt him flinch minutely at the word “former”. 

“Those rumors were… greatly exaggerated. As you can no doubt see,” he drawled. 

She hummed noncommittally and shifted to study Stiles. 

“And you, Hale clearly defers to you, and you are certainly a wolf as well. Interesting. I was under the impression that the new Alpha of the territory was a thoroughly unimpressive high school student. A puppy, pretending to be top dog. You are certainly of an age to be in high school, but unimpressive? Somehow I doubt it. And a puppy? I think not. Not with the way you hold yourself. Hmmm. You would kill me if I threatened Hale, would you not?”

Stiles tensed slightly, but nodded. “I would. Are you a threat?”

She tilted her head to the side a fraction and blinked once. “I am not. My name is Yselle. What business do you have here, boy who would be Alpha?”

Stiles blew out a soft breath. “My name is Stiles Stilinski, and I just wanted to talk. You were both wrong and right before. Scott is still an alpha, but I was bitten, and I killed the feral alpha that bit me. I’m an alpha now, and I intend to take that responsibility seriously. I saw your garden, and I suspected someone at least supernaturally aware was in my territory. I came to investigate and to talk.” 

Yselle hummed again. “Your territory?”

Stiles hesitated, but then straightened his shoulders, refusing to back down. “Yes, mine. I’m running patrols on it, defending it, and watching over it. If I am taking responsibility for it, I have the right to call it mine.”

Yselle smiled. “Well said, young Alpha. Come in.” 

She turned and disappeared into the house without another word. Stiles exchanged a baffled look with Peter and shrugged helplessly. As he stepped inside, Stiles caught Peter’s eye and tilted his head to the side with a slight twist to indicate their surroundings. Peter gave a sharp nod and paced after him into the house, head low and constantly sweeping side to side as he scanned their surroundings. Confident that Peter would keep an eye out for any unpleasant surprises from the house, Stiles followed the woman through a slightly claustrophobic maze of a house, filled with piles of books, antique furniture, and potted plants on every vaguely horizontal surface. 

Including at least three piles of books to Stiles’s private amusement. 

Fortunately, he could still hear just fine inside, whatever magic that blocked sounds only taking effect across the threshold. Yselle stopped at a small kitchen a little ways inside, where she bustled around for a minute before coming to a tiny dining room table holding three small cups of tea. 

“Have a seat,” she offered, settling into a clearly well-loved chair by a small window. “Tea?” 

Stiles sat, ushering Peter to another chair with a wave. He then glanced at the tea warily, sniffing subtly for anything harmful. It smelled normal as far as he could tell. He picked up the cup. 

“Stiles,” Peter rumbled warningly, glaring suspiciously at the cup. 

Stiles studied Yselle calmly, and gestured for Peter to stand down. Then he deliberately, while maintaining eye contact with her, took a sip of the tea. Trust and respect, given and expected. From the slight surprise and —dare he say it— approval in her eyes, Yselle got the message. 

Peter grumbled wordlessly and pointedly did not touch his tea. His loss, it tasted like perfectly normal tea —herbal and slightly sweet— but ultimately harmless and actually rather tasty. Still, probably best for Peter to err on the side of caution just in case. Yselle looked quietly amused at his reticence.

“So, young alpha, you wished to talk?” 

“I did,” Stiles said with a nod. “First, do you have any harmful intentions towards the residents of this town? Supernatural or otherwise?”

“I do not.” She sipped her tea in a manner that made Stiles suspect she was hiding an indulgent smile. Still, as far as he could tell by heartbeat and scent, she was telling the truth. He continued, tapping his finger against the table thoughtfully. 

“Honestly, my primary motivation in coming here was to ensure that I was not sheltering an enemy unaware. So long as you continue to not be a threat to me or mine, I have no quarrel with you. That said, Beacon Hills faces enough enemies that I would be a fool to not ask if you would consider an offer of alliance.”

Yselle arched an eyebrow. “My, my. And here I thought that wolves considered allies a sign of weakness. Besides which, what makes you think I would even be a valuable ally? I am, first and foremost, a gardener.”

Stiles gave her a dry look. “You have wards on your property, runes in the patterns of your garden beds, and I can practically smell the magic in here. Not to mention, I highly doubt that anyone with as many plants as you have would be unaware of how to use them. Altogether, I get the impression that underestimating you would be a mistake.”

Peter tensed a hair more at Stiles’s explanation, clearly not appreciating the summary of how they could be in danger. Stiles shifted slightly, enough to brush their shoulders together, but did not let his gaze waver from the woman across from them. Yselle leaned back in her seat, assessing him openly, eyes flicking between them as she watched the gesture.

“I stand by what I said earlier,” she said after a moment. “You are far from uninteresting. However, despite your flattering assessment of me, my abilities are largely defensive. I am no fighter, nor do I wish to become one.” 

Stiles inclined his head slightly. “I understand and respect that. Not everyone can or should be a fighter. That doesn’t mean you don’t have valuable skills or knowledge. Would you be willing to share those?”

She tilted her head thoughtfully. 

“A young wolf acknowledging the value in skills outside of fighting prowess? How pleasantly unusual. You impress me, young alpha. I did not anticipate that occurrence. Therefore, I would be willing to offer you the most basic and earliest of alliances. I hereby swear on the moon, earth, and rain that I will act in good faith to you, Alpha Stilinski of Beacon Hills, to never cause harm to you or to those under your protection, to consider reasonable requests of assistance, and to observe this alliance completely and without deceit.” 

Stiles blinked, startled despite himself. That was downright formal, and he felt suddenly wildly out of his depth. Still, he rallied and thought fast, giving his best shot at an answer and mimicking her phrasing. 

“I swear on the moon that I will act in good faith to you, to never cause harm to you or yours, to give assistance where reasonable and requested, and to observe this alliance completely and without deceit.” 

As soon as Stiles finished speaking, the room pulsed briefly with a brief burst of magic. It didn’t feel binding, as far as Stiles could tell, more observing, as if their exchange of vows had been…heard. It was somewhat unsettling, but not threatening. Yselle inclined her head deeply with a slight tilt, gracefully straddling the line between a deep nod and a flash of throat. 

“It has been a pleasure treating with you, Alpha Stilinski. Did you have any other business you wished to discuss?” 

Stiles blew out a soft breath and refocused, shoving thoughts on the alliance vows aside to consider later. Because now that she mentioned it, there was something he would value another’s thoughts on. 

“Yes actually. Do you know anything about a form of mind control that turns the victim’s eyes pure white while controlled?”

Of the major unknowns they had faced: the mind control, the amulet, and the strange ability to hide from their senses, Stiles was definitely the most concerned about the mind control. He no longer thought the amulet was related to the mind control. The white-eyed pixie hadn’t been wearing one after all, which supported the theory that the amulet had been responsible for hiding the wendigo from their senses. It made sense. Both Stiles’s research and Peter’s general knowledge had come up with countless examples of enchanted jewelry giving various properties to the wearer. 

But that left the mind control as a massive —and absolutely terrifying— unknown. 

Yselle’s eyes widened in shock and horror, fracturing her perfect poise for the first time since she opened the door. 

“Mind control?” she echoed.

Stiles nodded gravely. “I’ve seen it twice now recently. A wendigo and a pixie. Both were acting in a manner starkly different from how those creatures normally behave, and each time, the abnormal behavior was accompanied by their eyes turning pure white. We,” Here he tilted his head to include Peter. “Conclude mind control. Do you know anything?” 

Yselle shook her head softly and Stiles’s heart sank. But then she spoke.

“I do not know much. I cannot even speculate how such a thing is possible. Especially as I assume you did not see anyone or anything standing nearby and giving orders?”

Stiles shook his head in the negative.

“Then I do not know how such a thing is possible,” she continued. “Nonetheless, white eyes are indicative of a being both exceptionally old and exceptionally powerful. I would suspect that the white eyes are the natural appearance of your mystery controller, which the controlled one mirrors while under thrall. I will explore my own avenues to attempt to find something more substantive for you. I truly regret that I cannot help more at this time. Mind control is an abomination. To enslave another being and puppeteer their helpless body according to your whims is a heinous crime.”

Stiles nodded, mind rushing through sudden possibilities. He had come across the connection between white eyes and ancient, powerful creatures in his research, but he had discounted it because he hadn’t thought it matched their situation at all. He hadn’t considered that the wendigo and pixie could be reflecting the eyes of their controller. It was definitely an avenue to explore. 

“Thank you, Yselle. That’s definitely helpful, and I’ll give you my number so you can contact me if you come across anything else.” 

They exchanged numbers and then she ushered them out. 

Once they were off the property, Stiles and Peter stood in vaguely stunned silence for a few seconds. 

“Well, that just happened,” Stiles said.

Peter snorted.

“I think it went well?” Stiles said hesitantly as he started walking away, Peter at his shoulder. “If nothing else, we have an ally and a new lead to pursue.”

Peter hummed. “I believe it went rather well. She seemed honest in her words at least, though I wouldn’t be surprised if she was hiding something.” 

Stiles shrugged. “Well, yeah. I would honestly be more surprised if she wasn’t at this point. She raised sophisticated and mysterious to an artform. I don’t even know what she is. If she has supernatural blood.”

“I somehow doubt she would reveal it if she did,” Peter said. “At least, not yet.”

“You’re probably right.” Stiles shrugged. “At least it’s done. I felt like I had no idea what I was doing.”

“You did well,” Peter said with a sidelong glance at him. 

Stiles crooked a brief smile at him. “Thanks, but now I just want to run. That felt far too much like politics for my taste.” He gave an overdramatic shudder. “Think you could keep up with me in a full shift?”

Peter’s lips curled in a slow smirk. “Will your clothes survive?” 

Stiles shoved at him playfully. “Oh hush, you. You were the one that helped me find clothes with 100% natural materials.” 

“And yet…” Peter started to say, smirking wider.

“Nope! Not listening! La la la!” Stiles bolted, aiming for a nearby alley where he could shift out of sight. Peter followed, laughing. 

It had been a nightmare to source clothes that would shift with him. Stiles had confirmed the theory that natural materials, things that had once been alive, would shift with him, but he had run into more than one company falsely advertising natural materials. Of course, he only discovered as much when he shifted and left some critical wardrobe component behind. He eventually found an outfit or two worth of suitable clothes, enough to wear when patrolling in case he needed or wanted to do a full shift, but his betas had given him no end of grief and teasing during the process. 

Peter, of course, still took every opportunity to remind him of it. 

Stiles made it into the alley and shifted into a full wolf, shaking out his pelt with a pleased rumble in his chest. Nothing ever felt quite like a full shift, and he reveled in it every time. Peter strolled in after him and made a show of peering around for any items of clothing that hadn’t shifted with him. Stiles rolled his eyes and hip checked his eldest beta gently. 

Peter smirked at him and bowed slightly at the waist, waving his hand in an “after you” gesture. Still, an honest smile hovered at the corners of his lips, and when he followed Stiles in a playful run, simple joy shone in his bearing.

Chapter Text

The next few weeks passed relatively peacefully, to Stiles’s private relief. While he had every faith in his pack’s ability to handle whatever new randomness this crazy world threw at them, they had faced a lot in the last little while and deserved a break. Similarly, Stiles resisted the —admittedly strong— urge to plan anything large or in depth. Instead, he kept the pack bonding to pack dinners, game nights, homework sessions, and the occasional sleepover. Erica and Boyd still ended up coming over more often than not, and of course, Isaac and Peter lived with him, but Stiles didn’t push, letting everyone settle into their places in the pack naturally. 

And they had needed that time. Each of them had their own issues or personal struggles that really just needed some time and consistency. Over those weeks, Peter was able to settle into himself better, accepting that he was able to be a true member of the pack. Peter’s increased presence in turn helped Isaac adjust to being in a home with friends and authority figures who genuinely cared about him. He was also able to relax and let go of some of his puppyish excitement at having new pack members. 

As the newest pack members, Erica and Boyd had particularly needed the time to help them find their feet in a new, more stable pack. Over time, Erica settled down a bit, her defensiveness and excessive attitude gentling into a can-do personality and a healthy amount of snark. On the flip side, Boyd relaxed enough to come out of shell a bit, engaging with the rest of the pack without trying to retreat into himself as much. To Stiles’s surprise, even his dad seemed to benefit from the break, shedding an aura of depression that had been there so long, Stiles hadn’t realized there was another option. It seemed like having a house full of life and laughter brought out the snarky, fun-loving side of his dad. 

Stiles couldn’t remember the last time his house felt so much like a home, like Pack.

But now, a few weeks later, with the pack bonds steady and strong and all of his betas relaxed and happy, Stiles was ready to start pushing them a bit. Beacon Hills was an acknowledged chaos magnet, and they likely still had an unknown enemy with some form of mind control poking around doing who knows what. Stiles and his pack were the first line of defense, and while Stiles knew that he would eventually be forced to order his betas into dangerous situations for the safety of the town, he was determined that they would be as prepared as possible for that situation. 

Which led them to today’s training session. 

Stiles clapped his hands sharply, instantly gaining the attention of his pack. They were milling around the edge of the preserve. Stiles hadn’t explained today’s goal, merely rounded them all up on this Saturday with the bare minimum explanation of “training”. Even his dad was there, having been swept up and all but dragged along. 

“Alright everyone,” Stiles said. “Here’s the plan. Today we’re working on tracking, stealth, and evasion. You will need to either elude your pursuers through superior skill, or successfully hunt your target without them knowing until it’s too late. That’s right. Today, we’re playing a different version of Tag.”  

Isaac choked and Erica gave him a skeptical look so impressive it deserved to be framed. Stiles beamed at them. 

“As I said, it will be a different version that we’ll play today. First off, we will have one person attempting to evade everyone else. That person will have a ten minute head start to create some distance, hide their tracks, lay traps, whatever they want, before the rest of us give chase. If they manage to avoid being tagged for twenty minutes, they win a point and the round is over. If someone tags them before the time is up, everyone in the hunting pack wins a point and the round is over. Each round will have a different person practicing evasion until we’ve all had at least one chance to do it. Any questions?” 

Erica immediately raised her hand like she was in class. Stiles dramatically pointed at her with a full arm and body twist. “Yes, hot blond in the front?” 

Erica snorted. “Does the person doing the actual tagging get any bonus points?” 

“No, I want the hunting group to practice teamwork, not to compete against each other or sabotage each other.”

Erica nodded thoughtfully and Boyd raised his hand slowly. Stiles pivoted to point at him with an equal amount of drama. “Yes, tall, dark, and handsome?”

Boyd raised an eyebrow, but spoke anyway. “When you’re the one who’s ‘it’, what’s preventing you from using your alpha spark to simply outrun us?”

“Ooo, good point. Tell you what, when I’m ‘it’, I won’t run. I’ll evade however I can without actually reaching a running speed. Sound fair?” 

Boyd nodded and shifted his weight back in easy relaxation now that his concern had been addressed. Stiles scanned the rest of them. “Anything else before we begin?”

His dad raised a hand, looking thoroughly bemused. Stiles grinned and pointed at him with an equal amount of mischievous flair. “Yes, almighty paterfamilias?”

John shook head in resigned amusement. “What, exactly, is my role here? I may, in my completely humble and utterly self-deprecating opinion…” Peter coughed into his fist, the noise sounding suspiciously like “bullshit”. John sent him an arch look and continued as if uninterrupted. “...and without any boasting, be a complete badass. But I’m not actually a werewolf.” 

Stiles laughed and shook his head at his dad’s entirely unrepentant grin. 

“While I happen to agree, you don’t need to be a werewolf to participate in this. I could use a hand keeping track of scores and times, and to be an unbiased judge if there’s a dispute.” Stiles’s grin got a little toothier. “Plus, you will be taking a turn as the hunted. Human or not, it’s some extremely valuable experience for you. Speaking as someone who has some experience running from supernaturals as a human, there are some tricks you should learn and practice.”

His dad looked rather startled and somewhat apprehensive at that, but inclined his head in acquiescence. 

Stiles gave a satisfied nod at his compliance, he had honestly expected more resistance than that, but maybe it would come later when it was actually his dad’s turn. He scanned the rest of his betas, but no more questions seemed forthcoming. Each of them waiting and watching in eager anticipation. Stiles clapped his hands again.

“Alright! We’ll draw straws to see who goes first. Isaac, come pick a straw.” 

Boyd ended up drawing the short straw, and peered at it, his face a mask of silent contemplation. Stiles clapped him on the shoulder. “Okay, do you understand the rules and goals?”

Boyd inclined his head. 

“Excellent, then you have ten minutes to prepare before we go after you and—” 

Stiles broke off and fished around in his pocket, retrieving a bright orange safety whistle. Peter raised an eyebrow and Isaac started snickering. Stiles rolled his eyes at them and passed the whistle to his dad who was standing ready with a stopwatch. His dad took it with mild trepidation and Stiles continued. 

“—my dad will blow the whistle when the ten minutes are up and we start chasing you, and again when the twenty minute chase period is over. The round is over the second the whistle is blown. Doesn’t matter if someone tags you as the whistle blows. The round was over, it doesn’t count. Everyone clear?”

Nods all around. 

“Great, then Boyd? Your time starts… Now!” 

As he said “now” his dad suddenly blew the whistle, making everyone jump. Boyd hesitated a second, but then pivoted and sprinted into the trees. 

Stiles waited with bated breath, caught up in the rising excitement and anticipation of his packmates. Minutes dragged by like hours and no one moved, everyone staring into the trees where Boyd had disappeared with the exception of his dad whose gaze cycled between watching the trees and watching the stopwatch in his hands. Eventually, John raised the whistle to his lips, eyes fixed on the stopwatch and everyone’s eyes snapped to him, poised for action. 

John blew the whistle, sharp and shrill, and everyone bolted. 

They instinctively formed up into a pack as they began to hunt, falling in around Stiles and letting him lead. While that was normally what Stiles would want them to do on a pack run, it was counterproductive for the current goal. They wouldn’t learn anything or get any practice if they were just following him. So with a couple quick commands, Stiles organized the pack into a single file line following Boyd’s scent trail. By some quirk of coincidence, Isaac ended up being the one in the front after everyone folded in. 

He froze up when he realized he was in the lead and sent Stiles a panicked look. Stiles ignored his wordless plea and gave him an encouraging nod instead. Isaac’s eyes widened, but he took a breath and squared his shoulders, setting off. 

They wove through the trees for a while without incident or anything tricky at all. Then Isaac suddenly jagged to the left as Boyd’s scent trail took a sudden turn. Stiles cocked his head thoughtfully, wondering what Boyd’s plan was. There was nothing in this direction except… 

Stiles snorted with sudden realization. This would definitely be a learning experience.

Peter made a questioning noise behind him, but Stiles shook his head in dismissal. The older beta would soon realize what he had, and it wasn’t exactly that important. 

A minute later, they arrived exactly where Stiles had predicted: the banks of a large creek that ran through the preserve. Isaac ran right up to the edge of the water and then hesitated. 

“Isaac?” Stiles prompted.

Isaac glanced back. “His scent goes across.” 

“And that means?”

“We need to cross too?” Isaac’s tone clearly displayed his reluctance. 

Stiles smirked and nodded. Erica swore. 

“I’m going to kill him. These are brand new pants,” she said, and Peter gave her a commiserating look. 

“Here goes nothing,” Isaac muttered and then leaped into the water. Erica yelped as the splash hit her, but begrudgingly followed, inching her way in and muttering the entire way. 

“...going to remove his spleen. With a spoon —Oh that was really deep mud, that was gross— A rusty spoon. Slowly. Brrr, this is cold.” 

Stiles snickered as he followed, and Peter hissed like a feral cat when the water rose to his waist. 

“Erica?” Peter called, curling his lip at the rising water.

“Yes?” 

“I would recommend a trowel.”

“What?”

“To remove Boyd’s spleen,” he clarified. “I would recommend a gardening trowel. They’re usually rusty, have a sharper point for the initial incision, and come with bonus dirt contaminants.” 

Erica hesitated, glancing back as if not certain he was kidding, but then snagged a foot in the weeds as she climbed out the other side and nearly face-planted. Righting herself with a furious growl, she nodded to Peter. 

“Gardening trowel, huh? Works for me. Want to hold him down for me?” 

Peter scowled down at the green algae now staining his pants. Pants that Stiles suspected might be designer. “Yes,” he said darkly.

Stiles laughed and slung an arm over both of their shoulders. “Look at the two of you, bonding over planning to maim a packmate.” 

Erica and Peter locked eyes for a moment before simultaneously heaving backwards to throw Stiles off of them and back into the creek where he landed flat on his back with a massive splash, an offended squawk, and a great deal of flailing. 

Stiles hauled himself out of the creek, still snickering to himself, and they set out again. 

Boyd led them across the creek twice more and attempted to double back once, but the combined outrage of a water-logged Erica and Peter meant that he didn’t stand a chance. When they closed in, the two of them lunged forwards in a beautiful pincer movement and essentially tackled Boyd to the ground in a ‘tag’ with almost two minutes to spare. 

Boyd rolled over onto his back and raised his hands in surrender, but Erica glared from on top of him, growling under her breath while Peter loomed in silent, but highly effective, intimidation. 

“Sorry?” Boyd offered and Erica snapped her teeth in clear threat, utterly unappeased.  

Shaking his head in amusement, Stiles walked up and knocked Erica off of Boyd with a forceful hip check. She twisted around, teeth bared, and attempted to turn her glare on Stiles, but Stiles met her glare with a firm, quelling look and briefly flashed his eyes crimson. Her and Peter’s outrage had been funny and a great way for them to bond, but enough was enough. 

Erica immediately ducked her head to flash throat, backing off as she swallowed and shook herself off. Stiles briefly grasped the back of her neck in approval and forgiveness, and then turned to raise an eyebrow at Peter. 

Peter sighed as if much put-upon, but obligingly took a step back, expression relaxing from the exaggerated scowl he had affected. Stiles gave him a smile and short hum of approval and saw Peter give a slow blink of relaxed acknowledgement. Smile still curling at the edges of his lips, Stiles turned back to Boyd and offered him a hand to help him up. 

Boyd gave Erica a slightly baffled and wary look, but accepted the hand and used it to haul himself up. 

“They’re a little salty about the creek crossings,” Stiles explained, holding up two fingers close together as he said “little”. Erica growled in emphasis. 

Boyd’s eyes widened. “Ah,” he said in realization, giving them a swift once-over and wincing. He scratched the back of his head. “I thought it would break the scent trail?” he offered. 

“Yeah,” Isaac chimed in. “I read somewhere that swimming across a body of water would throw dogs off your trail. But Boyd’s scent was perfectly obvious even in the middle of the water. What’s with that?”

Stiles grinned and clapped Boyd on the shoulder. “Nope,” he said cheerfully and tilted his head to include Isaac in his answer. “That thing about water is one of the most popular myths about scent tracking, but it's exactly that: a myth. Dogs have no trouble tracking people across water and neither do we. But good try, and thanks for the excellent demonstration and learning experience!” 

Boyd side-eyed him and then sighed. “You’re welcome?” 

Stiles grinned again and then rounded up everyone to head back to where his dad was waiting. “Come on, this round goes to the hunters. Time to go again.” 

Isaac attempted to evade next and was caught with about three minutes left, then Erica went and was caught with less than a minute left since she used a strategy where she spent the whole time jumping from treetop to treetop. She confused the living daylights out of everyone with the way that her scent trail shifted, but Isaac heard her making an ill-timed jump and sounded the chase. 

Next went Peter, who successfully evaded everyone for the entire time with an elaborate array of backtracks, false trails, and loops. After that was Stiles’s turn. He almost managed to escape, but Peter’s experience was his downfall, seeing through his attempts at traps and misdirections and leading the other betas after him. Stiles did his best to evade, but he was outnumbered and, by his own rules, unable to actually run away. As a result, Peter tagged him with a few seconds left in the round, and then was unbearably smug about being the only one to successfully evade the hunters. 

With everyone else having gone, Stiles turned to his dad with a slightly mischievous grin. “Your turn.”

John gave the betas around him a deeply skeptical look then turned a vaguely pleading one on Stiles. When Stiles remained entirely unmoved, he sighed and nodded reluctant acquiescence. 

“Alright, but no eating the human.” He wagged a finger at Peter in admonishment and then jerked back with a yelp when Peter snapped his teeth inches from his hand. “Hey! What did I just say? You’re the one with the superhuman hearing!” 

Peter smirked widely, fangs glinting in the light. “Whoops. Must have… slipped there.”

John scowled at him.

“I promise I won’t eat you,” Isaac offered after a moment. 

John shot Peter another glare and pointed at Isaac. “This is why I like Isaac better.”

“I’m wounded,” Peter deadpanned, eyes laughing.

Stiles saw his dad open his mouth to continue the banter and stepped forward to redirect their attention. While he loved that his dad and Peter got along so well, once they got going, it could continue for a very long time, and he did actually have a plan here. 

“Ready?” he asked his dad, raising the whistle.

“No,” John said, grinning to himself as he turned to face the forest. Erica covered her mouth to hide her giggle, and John winked at her. 

Stiles rolled his eyes. “Do you understand the rules?”

“Probably not. Want to go back to the house so you can draw me a diagram?”

 His dad was smirking in earnest now, but Stiles ignored that too, shooting his dad an aggrieved look. 

His dad sighed again, but quit joking around and dropped into a ready crouch. “Ready,” he said. 

Stiles blew the whistle and his dad sprinted away. 

When they set off in pursuit, they found Stiles’s dad relatively quickly. He hadn’t attempted to try anything tricky with his trail. Instead, he had made a bee-line for a rocky section where he positioned himself partially wedged into a corner of some tall rocks, mostly protected on three sides. 

Erica was in the lead that round, so she was the first to see him and she staggered to an abrupt halt. 

“What’s wrong?” Stiles called. 

Erica’s answer came in an utterly shocked tone. “He’s got a knife.”

The wolves fanned out and sure enough. John crouched sidelong to them to present a smaller profile and had a hunting knife held in a ready position. The knife bobbed and weaved in a rhythmic pattern, light glinting off a razor edge. 

John smirked.

Boyd crept closer, head cocked as he considered angles of approach. He hurriedly leapt backwards when John suddenly lashed out with the knife. 

“Is that allowed?” Isaac asked. 

Stiles grinned proudly and leaned back against a tree, crossing his arms over his chest. “Yep.” He could see a couple ways to succeed here, but he wanted to see what his betas would come up with. 

“That feels like cheating,” Erica muttered, trying to approach as well, but she had nearly the same result as Boyd. 

Peter scanned the terrain and then leaned back beside Stiles against the tree. Stiles hummed and bumped their shoulders together. He knew Peter would have seen just as many, if not more, ways to tag his dad as he had, but was following his lead in giving the younger betas a chance to figure it out.

Erica lunged in again, faster this time, but nearly tripped over herself in a clumsy dodge when John struck out differently than she had anticipated. Though Stiles noticed he pulled the blow before it could connect. 

“Don’t overextend yourself,” Stiles called out. “If you’re not balanced, an enemy can knock you down easily, and then you’re in trouble.”

Erica nodded distractedly, attention still focused on John. 

“Send Isaac in,” Peter suggested. “He won’t stab him.”

John twitched, but amusingly enough, didn’t deny it. 

“I’m not so sure about that,” Isaac said. “He seems pretty willing to stab us.” 

“Good,” Stiles said and the three younger betas’ eyes snapped to him in shock. Even John looked somewhat startled. Peter only huffed near silently in amusement. 

“This is only training,” Stiles said gently. “No real harm will come to you. But I’m not going to coddle you either. We live in a dangerous world, and you have to be prepared to face very real threats. It doesn’t matter if it’s a knife or a claw. You have to be able to avoid it or deal with it. Better for you to figure that out here where there won’t be any long term consequences than in a fight for your life. So yes. He can cut you. What are you going to do about that?” 

As he finished, Stiles met his dad’s eyes steadily and nodded in perfect seriousness. John swallowed and adjusted his grip on his knife. The younger betas looked uncertain and off-balance. The training exercise had taken a more serious turn than Stiles had intended, but this was still a very important lesson. 

“I don’t want to hurt him,” Erica said, shifting her weight nervously. 

“Then don’t,” Stiles said simply. “Claws away. You’re faster and stronger and there’s three of you. How can you use that?” 

Boyd cocked his head. “There’s not enough room for us all to attack at the same time.”

“Good observation. My dad chose terrain that favors him. Is there still a way to take advantage of your superior numbers?”

“We can switch out so he’ll get tired before we do?” Isaac offered, but then his face fell. “Though I suppose we already have way more endurance.”

“That’s still a good point, Isaac,” Stiles reassured. “If you were facing another supernatural, you could absolutely use that to great effect.” 

“Our speed is our greatest advantage,” Erica pointed out. “We just have to get past the knife to tag him. If we can dodge the first attack, we’ll probably be fast enough to get in a tag.” 

“Way to keep the actual goal in mind,” Stiles praised. “But that seems pretty similar to what you were trying before, and you weren’t having much success. How can you adapt the tactic?” 

“Oh, I think I have an idea,” Erica purred. She jogged over to Boyd and whispered a quick plan into his ear. 

Stiles smiled, having heard it clearly, and settled back to watch. 

This time, Erica and Boyd approached at the same time. Boyd struck first, lashing out at John’s left side. Almost at the same time, he twisted back and to the side to give enough room for Erica to duck around him and immediately follow his attack with one of her own at John’s other side. Unfortunately for them, John had clearly expected something of the like, and he blocked Boyd’s blow with a clever twist of the knife that made him yank back. At the same time, John leaned towards Boyd, into the space his retreat had opened, and Erica’s strike only brushed the edge of his clothes. John reversed the knife immediately to strike at her, but both wolves had already retreated, Boyd nursing a shallow cut on the back of his hand.

Boyd hissed in pain, but Stiles could see that the cut was already almost entirely healed. The damage had been very minimal. A testament to his dad’s skill.

“What went wrong there?” Stiles asked.

Erica snarled in frustration, but Boyd answered with his usual calm. 

“We underestimated him. Both his speed and skill.”

“Good. That’s always something to be careful of. Your current opponent is human, but don’t forget that he has years of police experience under his belt. That counts for a lot.” 

Stiles flicked his gaze over to Isaac who was lingering off to the side. “What are you going to try, Isaac?”

He jumped slightly at the direct address, looking even more nervous. “I…” he broke off, words failing him. 

“Isaac,” Stiles called gently, and waited until the beta’s eyes snapped to him. “Try. It will be alright.” 

He knew he was asking Isaac to face some serious personal demons right now, but like he had said before. Better now than in a life or death situation. Isaac might never be perfectly comfortable facing men that reminded him of his father in a combat situation, but freezing like he was all but doing now could get him killed in the wrong situation. 

Isaac studied him for a moment, seemingly drawing strength from his relaxed and encouraging gaze, before squaring his shoulders and stalking forwards. Shortly before he reached John, he suddenly increased his speed and then dropped into a slide, attempting to tag him on the knee. He very nearly succeeded too. Peter was correct in his prediction. John didn’t risk cutting Isaac, wasting a heartbeat to shift the angle of the knife and deflect Isaac’s hand with the flat of the blade. Between that and the unexpected angle of attack, Isaac came within a hair’s breadth of tagging him and only an awkward shuffling dodge on John’s part prevented it. 

Even then, Isaac was inside the reach of the knife and John was off-balance. If he had pressed his advantage, he could have tagged him then, but he shoved himself backwards at the first touch of the knife and scrambled backwards out of range, allowing John to fix his position. 

“Very good attempt, Isaac!” Stiles called. “I liked the way you used an unorthodox angle of attack. It’s a risky maneuver, but under the circumstances, it had a good likelihood of success. You had him off balance for a moment there. Next time, don’t forget to press your advantage.” 

A brief smile flashed across Isaac’s face at the praise and he nodded, but he still backed the rest of the way off, frowning at Stiles’s dad. Stiles glanced around. Everyone was still willing and clearly trying to figure out how to go about this, but frustration was starting to become more prominent than eagerness. He nodded to himself. Time to end this. 

“Peter,” he said simply, nodding towards his dad. Nothing else needed to be said. 

Peter straightened from his position leaning against the tree with a sinuous, hands-free motion and stalked forwards. 

“With pleasure, Alpha,” he purred. 

The other three betas backed off to give him room with grins of eager anticipation, and for the first time, John looked genuinely nervous, fingers flexing on the hilt of his knife. 

The following exchange happened in a blur of motion. Peter darted forwards, faster than the eye could follow, and John lashed out in preemptive response, intercepting the blow. But Peter followed through, ignoring the bite of the blade into his forearm to tap John on the hip. 

“Tag,” Peter said, backing up a step. 

John nodded and sheathed his knife. He offered a hand. “Good game.”

Peter blinked, but took the hand with a faint smile and shook. “Good game,” he answered. 

Peter turned to the other betas and wiped the blood from the long gash decorating his forearm. “Sometimes there isn’t a good way to avoid the blow,” he said. “Sometimes, the best method is to take the hit and push through to the win.” 

They nodded, eyes wide. 

Stiles clapped his hands once to get everyone’s attention. “And with that, I think it’s time to call it a day. Peter, you got the most points, so you’re our winner. What do you want for an after training snack?” 

Peter’s eyes flashed with pride. “Do you know that one ice cream place that serves genuine gelato?” 

Stiles cocked his head for a moment before brightening. “The one with that awesome mixed fruit flavor? Fruity de something?” 

“Frutti di Bosco,” Peter corrected. “But yes, that's the one.”

“Sounds great, let’s go.” 

As they were walking out, Stiles’s dad sidled up to him. 

“I honestly thought Peter would be able to dodge the knife,” John said, voice low. “I’m not that fast.” 

Stiles hesitated, fingers tapping against his leg. The younger three betas were talking and laughing together. They probably weren’t paying attention. Well, Boyd might be. He was observant like that. Still, Peter was drifting idly nearby. He could and would hear every word, low voices or not. But his dad deserved to know. 

“He could have,” he confirmed eventually.

“So why didn’t he?” John asked, baffled. “I know it’s healed now, but I cut him pretty good. I know it hurt in the moment, at the very least.” 

Stiles hesitated again. Then sighed. “He wouldn’t have been able to pull it.”

John blinked, confused. “What?” 

“If he had been moving fast enough to dodge the knife, he wouldn’t have been able to pull the blow in time,” Stiles clarified softly. “He would have dodged the knife, but he would have hit you hard enough to leave a pretty good bruise. He took the pain of the knife wound because he wanted to spare you that. He heals, you would not.” 

“Oh,” John said softly, glancing towards Peter’s back which was tight with tension at their conversation. At being so seen, Stiles knew. 

“He cares,” Stiles said after a moment, and his dad nodded silently in thought. 

“My good and loyal beta,” Stiles added in a nearly inaudible whisper. But judging by the way that Peter’s back suddenly relaxed and he tilted his head down and forwards to bare more of his neck, he had heard him perfectly fine. 

Chapter Text

Happiness, Stiles mused, was a quiet house with a content pack. Peter and his dad were side by side on the couch watching the game on TV, and Erica was leaning against Stiles on the floor, both of them attempting to study. Isaac and Boyd were out running a patrol. Once they got back, Stiles was planning to corral everyone into a board game, or maybe a movie if they were feeling lazy. 

Stiles’s phone rang into the peace of the evening, and he immediately fished it out from where it had slid partially under the couch. A glance at the caller ID had him answering quickly. “Isaac. What’s up?”

Immediately all eyes shot to Stiles. It wasn’t particularly common for someone to call Stiles while on patrol, and it usually indicated some sort of potential problem. 

“Hey Stiles.” Isaac’s voice sounded relieved, which raised more red flags in the back of Stiles’s mind. “There’s a group of people waiting just outside the border. They, um, flagged us down and asked to speak to the alpha of the territory. And, well…” Isaac’s voice dropped to a low, urgent whisper. “I think they’re vampires.”  

Immediately, all the wolves in the room shot to their feet, John following a beat later with an expression of confused concern. Peter went for the door, halting abruptly when Stiles snapped his fingers and held up a finger for him to wait, already answering. “Have they made any threatening gestures? Where are you now?”

At the same time, Stiles jabbed a finger at his dad and then pointed to the hall closet where he kept a work go-bag. He glanced around the room, gauging readiness. Then he twirled a finger in the air and pointed at the door. Immediately, everyone fell in around him and they made for the door, John stopping briefly at the closet to grab his gear bag. 

Isaac answered as they filed out. “No, they’re acting really calm. None of them have crossed the border, and it looks like they’ve been here waiting for a while. Boyd and I are a little ways away, where we can still see them, but aren’t too close.” 

Stiles pointed at his dad’s police cruiser and they all piled in. “Perfect. Stay where you are. We’re on the way. Stay on the line just in case.” 

His dad hit the lights and sirens and they tore away, Peter leaning over to share Isaac’s location and help find the best route there. 

“ETA: 7 minutes,” John called and Stiles passed the information along. 

When they arrived, everyone got out almost before the car had stopped moving. Stiles pivoted and pressed a hand to his dad’s chest when he started to follow them. “No,” he said with a shake of his head. “Wait here for now. Someone will text you when I give the all clear.”

 His dad’s head shot up, angry arguments clear in his eyes, but he swallowed his protests and nodded once, sharply, and stepped back to wait by the cruiser. “Be safe,” he said.

Stiles nodded and led the way into the woods. They found Isaac and Boyd quickly, and Stiles went straight to them, hanging up the phone absently as he did. He brushed a hand across each of their shoulders in turn, feeling them relax and fall in behind him as he passed. With the exception of a quick once-over to confirm that his betas were unharmed, Stiles kept his eyes on the group of people waiting patiently a short distance away. 

A tall, dark-haired man stood at the front of the group, with his hands clasped behind his back. He wasn’t dressed to be out in the woods, wearing tailored dark slacks and a pure white collared shirt with rose vine embroidery twining around the hem and then between the buttons up to where the throat was closed with a large piece of onyx. He watched Stiles approach impassively with dark eyes that perfectly matched the stone at his throat. Stiles could smell blood on him, both old and fresh. Between that, the unsettling lack of a heartbeat, and the general aura of otherworldly perfection, he could see why Isaac thought they were vampires. An opinion that Stiles shared.

Stiles flicked his gaze behind the stranger, scanning over the group waiting several paces back. There were twenty people there by his quick count, sitting in small huddled groups of two or three, and watching the wolves’ approach silently. As Stiles watched, one woman raised a hand to push her hair behind her ear, and her sleeve fell back to reveal a fresh bite mark on her wrist. 

Stiles blinked and tilted his head to get a better look. Was she a newly turned vampire? Or a human? He could hear some heartbeats in the group, but not with enough accuracy to tell who had them or not. 

However, as he leaned over slightly, the lone, standing man sidestepped gracefully, neatly blocking Stiles’s view of the woman. Stiles took the hint and returned his attention to him since he was clearly their leader. 

“I am Alpha Stiles Stilinski,” Stiles said, coming to a stop in a position that mirrored the probable-vampire across the border. “You wanted to speak with me?”

“Are you he who holds possession of this territory?” The man asked. His voice was soft and melodic with an accent that brought to mind foreign lands and formal courts. “Only, word is whispered afar, and indeed was brought to my ears, of two wolves of the scarlet eye in residence.” 

Later, Stiles told himself. Later, he would have time to indulge his fascination with the stranger’s speech patterns and the implication that other supernaturals talked about his territory and its inhabitants. For now, he didn’t need Peter’s sudden tension and telling stillness to know that this conversation was very politically fraught. 

Stiles inclined his head carefully. “There are two alphas here. But I lead the larger pack and run the patrols. I am responsible for the defense of this territory, so I claim possession of it.” 

The stranger watched him silently for a few heartbeats, and Stiles got the impression that he found his answer interesting somehow. Then he inclined his head a fraction. “Then I greet you, Alpha Stilinski.” He pressed his right fist to his chest and gave an elegantly precise half-bow. “Know me to be Master Vikram, Master of the Nameless Coven, and Nightstalker of the line of Ninazu.” 

“Pleased to meet you, Master Vikram,” Stiles said carefully. “What brings you to my territory?” 

At the question, the tension in the small group behind Vikram abruptly increased. They were already unnaturally still, but that stillness deepened and somehow gained weight. Whatever was going on, it was clearly important. 

“I would entreat a moment of your time,” Vikram began slowly. “And I shall lay for your perusal, an offer of supplication and mutual alliance. For to see, by misfortune and assumption, my coven was placed under threat.” 

Stiles saw a young man flinch slightly at that statement, but he resisted the urge to lean over in an attempt to see better, refocusing on Vikram. 

“When I saw the situation only escalate in defiance of my efforts in the contrary, I chose to undertake a going away, by which careful happenings brought us here. In short, Alpha Stilinski, I seek of this place, a new shelter for my coven, that we may cease our perilous wanderings in favor of security and the aegis of strong allies worthy of our guarding in turn.” 

Stiles’s mind raced. If the offer was genuine, it would be an incredible boon. Powerful allies, already indebted to him? It was almost too good to be true, and that very fact made him wary. 

“Why come here?” Stiles asked, suspicious. “If you knew enough about us to know that there are two alphas in the territory, then you also know that my pack is small and new. Why would you choose here?”

A hint of a smile ghosted across Vikram’s impassive face. More of an impression of amusement and acknowledgment than any true expression. “Forgive my candor, for I shall be forthright. You name your size as a detractor. I disagree. Your pack is small, but you hold a territory of a size usually kept by a pack near two score by count. Space aplenty to diminish the conflict risked by divergent people groups.”

His gaze shifted to Peter, weighty and measuring. Stiles tensed and unconsciously mimicked Vikram’s previous protective gesture, shifting sideways to block Peter from view. Vikram blinked but inclined his head slightly, returning his focus to Stiles and continuing. “You name your pack new, but the infamous Hale Left Hand bends the knee. Therefore, I name you a rising power worthy of alliance, yet not so numerous that I ought fear my coven’s enslavement should you prove to act in treachery.” 

Stiles studied him. Vikram didn’t have a heartbeat to betray a lie, but Stiles practically grew up in a police station. Where other children watched cartoons, he watched petty thieves and carjackers. Well, that and cartoons. His childhood wasn’t totally deprived. Still, Stiles considered himself pretty good at telling when people were lying to him. Vikram was almost unnaturally motionless, but it reminded Stiles more of the cultured poise of courtiers rather than someone attempting to hide all tells through forced stillness. His instincts insisted Vikram was being honest. That wasn’t to say Stiles didn’t have some serious concerns though. 

“You said that there is enough space for both of us,” Stiles said. “However, I am not willing to carve up my territory and give pieces of it away. If you wanted to stay here, you would have to submit to me and obey my laws. Can you do that?”

It was blunt, yes, and definitely testing, but Stiles needed to know. Both the answer to the question and the response to its delivery. 

Vikram didn’t react visibly, but surprisingly enough, someone behind him did. A man with the flawless features of a vampire twitched, and his head shot up, expression twisting in distaste and offense. 

“Why!—” he started, only to be immediately cut off by a sharp gesture from Vikram. 

“Stefan,” Vikram said, a firm impassivity in his voice, though his eyes never left Stiles’s. “Be still.”

Stefan subsided, ducking his head back down, but Stiles made sure to memorize his features. If this Stefan was a hothead, better to know now and be prepared. 

After a brief pause with a slight head tilt to ensure that Stefan obeyed him, Vikram answered. “I would not expect you to cede territory to me. I do not request such.” 

Vikram paused and closed his eyes for a brief moment. Stiles could see the faint pain and resignation in his features and he understood it. A proud leader submitting to preserve those under his care? It wasn’t a choice he ever wanted to face. 

Vikram opened his eyes with renewed resolve and continued. “You say I must submit and obey. Very well. I shall do so. Provided we have an agreeable treaty with reasonable limitations on your power over my own. We will obey your laws, but I will not give of my people to you.” 

Some of Stiles’s amazement and doubt must have shown on his face because the suggestion of a wry smile softened Vikram’s features. 

“Believe you me, Alpha Stilinksi,” he said, tone faintly self-deprecating. “I understand our relative positions in this discussion. Do not doubt I know myself to be the supplicant here. Have you another concern?”

Stiles hesitated again, studying him before accepting his apparent honesty. “I do. How do you source your blood? I will say right now. I will not tolerate you hunting the people under my protection.” 

“Peace, Alpha Stilinski,” Vikram said. “Traditional hunting is a poor friend to secrecy. My coven does not indulge in it. While the flavor is rather lacking, we can subsist on animal blood. Beyond that…” Here Vikram hesitated, showing more uncertainty and discomfort than even the talk about him submitting had garnered. “Beyond that, my coven shelters humans, bonded to the coven, who grant to us their blood in return for care, protection, and some small measure of immortality.” 

Stiles was immediately suspicious. “And how are these humans chosen? Do they have a choice?”

“Indeed, they choose!” Vikram’s eyes sparked with something very similar to offense and his tone grew passionate. “Traditionally, bloodgivers are found when, by some flight or fancy of fate, a member of the coven saves the life of a human. To repay the debt, the human may choose to serve as a bloodgiver for some finite amount of time. A year and a day, by most traditions. At end, they may choose, of their own volition, to go upon their own way or extend their stay with the coven. To force or enslave a bloodgiver is the height of dishonor, and the mark of one unworthy of the Night.”

Stiles nodded slowly, processing that. “I want to speak to one of your… bloodgivers? I need to see for myself that they aren’t trapped or unwilling.”

Vikram frowned. “You must understand. What you ask is, at best, insulting. Most would call it profane and reprehensible.”

Stiles nodded again, apologetic but unyielding. “I understand. But I have to insist. I have to be sure.” 

Vikram let out a slow hiss of breath between his teeth, before eventually nodding sharply once, clearly unhappy. “Matthias, to me,” he called.

A tall, powerfully built man stood without argument and walked over. He stopped just short of Vikram and bowed. “Master.” 

Stiles bit his lip to hold back his knee-jerk reaction to the title. It had nasty connotations in human culture, but he had firsthand experience that human culture often clashed strongly with werewolf instincts. It would be foolish not to expect vampires to have similar conflicts. 

Vikram inclined his head towards Stiles. “Alpha Stilinski has questions. Speak freely in response.”

Matthias bowed towards Stiles, though notably more shallowly than his bow towards Vikram. “Alpha Stilinski.” 

Stiles studied the man for a moment. He was tall and broad, clearly healthy and with a vaguely timeless look to him. Stiles had no idea how old he might be, but he certainly didn’t look mistreated or even particularly unhappy. But he also had a heartbeat. Which meant that Stiles had something more reliable than merely his instinct to tell if they were being sincere. Even if a heartbeat wasn’t infallible. 

“When did you meet Master Vikram?” Stiles asked. 

Matthias tilted his head in thought. “It has been a century and a half past? Two centuries? I do not count the years anymore.”

Stiles blinked. ‘Some small measure of immortality’ indeed! But Matthias’s heart beat steadily the entire time. He wasn’t lying. He asked his next question. “Why did you join the coven?”

“Master Vikram saved my life.” A fond smile crossed his face. “From a… water she-demon?” He glanced at Vikram.

“A siren, one might call it,” Vikram clarified and Stiles made a silent “Ah,” of comprehension. 

“My thanks.” Matthias nodded. “Once he brought me to safety, I inquired how I might resolve the debt between us. He informed me of the bloodgiver’s tradition, and I agreed. I served Master Vikram’s coven as a bloodgiver for four years, renewing the commitment each year before swearing myself to Master Vikram specifically. I have served him and his mate since that day.” His eyes narrowed on Stiles. “I do not regret it. I have never regretted it.” 

Stiles raised his hands in a gesture of peace. “I had to be sure.” 

Matthias gave a stiff and vaguely offended hum of acknowledgement and looked up at Vikram.

“Are you satisfied?” Vikram asked, tone still mostly polite despite a tinge of frost. 

Stiles inclined his head. “I am. Thank you.”

And he honestly was satisfied with that. Matthias’s heart had beat truth through the entire conversation including when he said he did not regret it. The only time it had hesitated in a half truth was when Matthias claimed that he had never regretted it. Oddly enough, that made Stiles trust it more. Unless they were going to nearly absurd lengths to deceive him, —which he doubted— Stiles could trust that Matthias’s heart would betray a lie. And the half-lie didn’t bother him. Frankly, Stiles would find it hard to believe that someone wouldn’t ever regret such a major life change and commitment. He was satisfied that Matthias at least was there willingly. Of course, that didn’t mean others couldn’t be forced, but Vikram’s offense at the inadvertent insult looked genuine, and at some point, a measure of trust had to be extended. 

Vikram dismissed Matthias back to the group, and the man bowed and left. Vikram watched him go before returning his attention to Stiles. 

“Have you another concern?” he repeated. 

Stiles hesitated. He didn’t have any major ones, ones that he would want addressed before considering an alliance. Anything else could be addressed during negotiations. If he was actually going to go through with this, that is. Peter stood to his right, a silent, watchful presence. Stiles tilted that shoulder back slightly in silent inquiry. Did he have any concerns?  

Peter shifted, scanning over Vikram and the group behind him again, more deliberately. Then he rocked back to his previous position, arm brushing lightly against Stiles in a gesture of support. Nothing urgent then. Peter didn’t have any major protests. He would stand with him in this. Stiles’s chest warmed at his beta’s unwavering loyalty. 

“Not currently,” Stiles said. “I am willing to begin negotiation for a treaty between us.”

Vikram sighed nearly silently in what looked like relief. “Then—”

“What?” Erica protested, “You’re not seriously—”

“Erica,” Stiles snapped, head whipping around to glare at her. She was allowed to have her own concerns, but this was not the time, place, or manner to voice them. Erica’s mouth snapped shut and she dropped her head, but Stiles could see her glaring mulishly at the ground, uncowed. 

“Later, Erica,” Stiles said, more gently, and she nodded without looking up. 

Stiles turned back to Vikram who was studying Erica much like Stiles had studied Stefan, Vikram’s own hothead. Stiles sighed slightly. 

“I apologize,” Stiles said. “You were saying?” 

Vikram’s eyes flicked back to him. “Then if it pleases you, I would hear your terms.”

“Not now,” Stiles shook his head. “I’m going to discuss this with my pack, and write something out. I will meet with you in three days, and we can go over terms then.” 

Vikram inclined his head, a faint respect in his eyes. “Would you permit us to seek sun-shelter within your borders until our meeting?” 

“If I do,” Stiles said slowly, allowing threat to color his tone. “And one of you harms someone here. I will personally kill the perpetrator and you. Then I will throw out the rest and kill any who attempt to trespass. Do I make myself clear?” 

“Perfectly,” Vikram said, looking more respectful than bothered by the threat. “In turn, I swear, on the blood that sustains me and the Eternal Night, that we shall do no harm to any within the territory of Alpha Stilinski, save in our own defense. So I speak, so may I be bound.” 

Stiles felt something inside him relax at that promise. It wasn’t a perfect guarantee by any means, but Vikram seemed honorable, and Stiles thought he could trust his word. “Then you have my permission to seek shelter within my borders, and I will see you here, at this time, three nights from tonight.” Stiles stepped back, ready to leave and discuss this in depth with Peter, his dad, and the rest of the pack. 

“One more matter, Alpha Stilinski,” Vikram said, and Stiles stopped. “As a gesture of respect and good faith, I bring to you, two gifts and a word.” He made a small gesture Stiles couldn’t fully see behind his back, and an ethereally beautiful woman rose from the group and approached. She held out two small items wrapped in cloth on the palms of her hands. Vikram accepted the larger of the two. “First, that you may meet your enemies on level footing.” 

He unwrapped it to reveal a small amulet decorated with tiny rubies and indecipherable runes. Stiles felt himself rear back a step and heard Peter begin a deep, threatening growl in his chest. The other betas reacted with similar levels of shock and wariness. The amulet was a perfect match for the one worn by the wendigo before. 

Vikram looked honestly shocked by their response. “You have seen this before, to act so?” 

Stiles nodded tightly, eyes fixed on the amulet. “One was worn by a wendigo that trespassed and hunted in my territory. We defeated it, but the battle was drawn out due to many… anomalies during the fight.”

“I see. Then you may be familiar with its properties? To hide from physical senses at will?”  

“Definitely,” Stiles snorted. “But we didn’t trust it, and destroyed the one the wendigo wore.”

“A wise policy when dealing with an enemy’s unknown artifacts,” Vikram acknowledged. “But upon my honor, this brings no harm to the wearer. I acquired it through circumstances similar to the ones you describe, and now I gift it to you. Do with it as you will.” He took the second cloth package from the woman. “Second, that you may face a new threat prepared.” He unwrapped it to reveal a tiny glass vial containing a clear liquid. “The enemy who wore the amulet struck at my own with this. It induces a state of ferity when consumed. Logic or mercy hold no sway over the afflicted until the drug wears its course. I had a sample isolated for study that you may perform your own analysis, and with it, I bring you the word that unknown enemies have developed a new weapon. That which was wielded against mine, may yet be wielded against yours. With respect, I advise that you prepare yourself accordingly.” 

Vikram rewrapped the packages with a deft twist of fingers and held them out. Stiles accepted them carefully, making sure the cloth covered them entirely. He would definitely be checking them out carefully. And recruiting the help of Peter and maybe even Yselle to make sure he didn’t miss anything. Still, as far as he could tell, it was a well-intentioned gift, albeit one that highlighted the dangers his pack faced. He slid the bundles into a pocket.

“Thank you.”

“It is I who ought offer my thanks to you, Alpha Stilinski. May this alliance bloom as the Night Jasmine, which, while small, is powerful and worthy of respect.” 

Stiles nodded and stepped back. Vikram pressed his right fist to his chest and performed the same elegant half-bow he had greeted them with. 

“By your leave, Alpha Stilinski?” 

Stiles nodded again, and Vikram gestured to his group who rose silently and followed him. Stiles watched them cross over into his territory and hoped to everything that he wasn’t making a horrible mistake. 

As the coven faded out of sight, Peter slid up to stand shoulder to shoulder with Stiles, pressing against him lightly. Stiles leaned into his oldest beta, letting him take some of his weight. Doubt rushed up inside him, his mind playing through hundreds of ways this could go horribly wrong, what-if scenarios, each more terrible than the last, welling up one after another.

“Peter…” he said, his voice trailing off, but he knew Peter would hear the question in it.

“Alpha,” Peter replied, voice steady and confident, trusting and sure. There was no doubt in his voice, only calm confidence and unwavering loyalty. It was a reminder of what it meant to be Pack, the assurance that whatever happened next, Stiles wouldn’t be facing it alone. 

Stiles took a deep breath, let Peter’s solid support bolster him, then turned to face the rest of the pack, who were watching with a variety of reactions from Boyd’s calm trust to Erica’s panicked offense, to Isaac’s uncertain anxiety. Stiles bit back a sigh. He would have his work cut out for him when he got home. 

“Let’s go,” Stiles said, reaching out to clasp Isaac’s neck and holding on until some of the fear in his eyes faded. “We’ll talk about this at home.” He cupped the back of Erica’s head and drew her in to rest their foreheads together. She sighed and leaned in, relaxing into him. Boyd stepped closer and Stiles reeling him in with an arm around his shoulders, letting him nose against his throat and scenting Boyd’s temple in return. 

Erica’s outburst aside, they had done really well and he was proud of them. But he had a feeling that he would be asking even more from them soon. 

Chapter Text

“Do you mean to tell me,” John asked, pinching the bridge of his nose. “That there is a coven of vampires in Beacon Hills, and you’re going to make a treaty with them?” 

“Yes,” Stiles said, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the kitchen table, willing his dad to see how serious he was. They were sitting around the table discussing this most recent craziness. So far they were pretty evenly split. John and Erica seemed convinced he was crazy, Peter and Boyd were supportive, and Isaac changed his mind after almost every point. 

“Is that even safe?” John demanded, incredulous. “I know not that the stories and reality don’t always line up perfectly, but they have to have at least a grain of truth and —lurid teen romances aside— they all agree that vampires are bloodthirsty killers!”

Erica nodded along vigorously, clearly in agreement. 

Stiles sighed. “As far as I can tell, both through my research and by my experience with Vikram, vampires are people, individuals, capable of choosing to be good or evil just like us.” He tilted his head towards Peter. “Anything to add?”

“You are correct,” Peter said, tilting his head towards Stiles in acknowledgment. “Vampires are indeed individuals, able to choose their own actions. Beyond that…” Peter grabbed the salt shaker, twirling it idly between his hands as he thought. “Beyond that, vampires have clear connections with the fae folk. They are not fae precisely, but they share certain characteristics. For instance,” Peter shot Stiles a significant look. “They are said to be bound by their word and promise. Inescapably so.”

“So when he swore to do no harm…?” Stiles mused.

Peter nodded. “He is bound by it. As he will be by any formal treaty you make.” 

“Good to know,” Stiles nodded at Peter in approval. 

John glanced between them, then deflated with a sigh. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we?”

Stiles gave him a wry smile. “We are. That said, I’m not blind to the potential dangers here. While this could be a massive boon for the pack, we could be in some serious trouble if we get something wrong. I totally understand why you have reservations.” Stiles glanced at Erica who relaxed slightly at the acknowledgement of her worries. “I share them too. But I think we can do this. Together. And that’s what we’re going to do. We’ll be writing up a treaty and going over it with a fine-toothed comb. Several times. If you have any particular concerns you want to make sure are addressed, let me know.” 

Stiles could practically feel their spines straightening and resolve firming. They were Pack. They could do this. 

“Now, one more thing before we start on the treaty.” Stiles pulled out the vial of mystery serum Vikram had given him. “Vikram said that if someone drank this, they would go feral until it wore off. I have no reason to doubt that, but I want us to do some independent analysis too.” 

John tilted his head to peer closer at the vial. “I could see what the station’s forensic team can make of it?” he offered. “No promises they’ll come up with anything, but it shouldn’t hurt to try.”

Stiles beamed at him. “I was hoping you could.” He glanced at Peter. “I was thinking of giving Yselle a sample as well to study. She might be able to come up with something from a supernatural herbalist perspective.”

“A good suggestion,” Peter confirmed. 

Stiles nodded. “Then I’ll get my hands on a couple more vials and see if I can split this into thirds.”

“Thirds?” John echoed in confusion, but Peter inclined his head with a smirk. 

Stiles smiled at his dad. “Insurance. In case something happens to the samples we’re sending out. We’ll still have a sample here just in case. 

John nodded, face clearing. 

Stiles stowed the vial away again. “Alright. Any questions before we start writing a treaty?”

After a moment, Isaac hesitantly raised a hand.

“Yeah, Isaac?” Stiles’s smile turned gentle and fond. 

“Do we have to help write the treaty?” Isaac asked slowly, expression curling in distaste. “I have tons of homework to do, a paper to write, two chapters to read…”

Stiles cut him off with a chuckle. “No you don’t. The offer’s there if you want to, but there’s no requirement to.” His tone turned mischievous. “Anyone wanting to avoid legalese should leave now!” 

John shoved his chair back and made to stand up, grinning. “Well, in that case…”

Stiles stabbed a finger at him. “Except you. I need a police perspective here.” 

John pouted playfully. “Damn.”

Peter also pretended to slowly back away, unable to hide his smirk. Stiles rolled his eyes, but jabbed a finger at him too. “Don’t even think about it, Mister I’m-a-super-smart-lawyer. You know I need your input. 

Peter laughed and obligingly scooted closer. The younger three betas hesitated, and John leaned over. “Run while you still can!” he stage-whispered. 

Stiles pinched the bridge of his nose. “I didn’t even need supernatural hearing to hear that.”

John pivoted his torso slightly, a gesture that utterly failed to hide his subsequent exaggerated, shooing, “run for your lives” motions. 

“I can still see you!” 

John winked broadly. 

Giggling to themselves, Erica and Isaac trotted out of the room. Interestingly enough, Boyd stayed behind looking nervous but determined —in a stoic sort of way, it was still Boyd after all. Stiles raised an eyebrow at him. He didn’t mind, of course, but he hadn’t actually expected any of the younger betas to stay. 

Boyd shrugged. “For a little while at least,” he said by way of explanation. 

Stiles nodded and pulled out a sheet of paper, already scribbling notes. “So obviously a non-aggression pact is going to be a central part…” 

“And a promise of reasonable mutual aid,” Peter put in, grabbing a paper of his own.

“You better make sure the boundaries are clear,” John added. “Where are they going to live?”

“Ooo, good point,” Stiles replied. “Where did I put that map…? Dad, can you find out if there are any available properties that could reasonably house twenty people?”

“Sure, let me make a note. What resources will they need access to? Do they need special accommodations for the sun?”

“They should handle most of that themselves,” Peter answered. “But I know I have a book here somewhere that might help…” 

And they were off. 

In the end, signing the treaty was honestly rather anticlimactic, in Stiles opinion. He gave a copy of a “rough” draft to Vikram after three straight days of pouring over it and over-analyzing it to shreds. Stiles just knew he’d be editing non-aggression clauses in his sleep for weeks after this. Vikram had a few minor edits and concerns, mostly to ensure that they were still able to practice their non-violent traditions and customs and defend themselves if attacked unprevoked —which sparked a mostly-amicable argument between John and Peter on the exact definition of “unprevoked” that had lasted over an hour. Stiles still had a headache. 

But all of the work was worth it, because it brought them to this moment. Stiles stood in front of a wooden table that bore a copy of the treaty written out in Peter’s finest calligraphy on honest-to-god parchment. Apparently, normal paper wouldn’t do for something of this significance, and Peter had insisted on doing it the fancy way. It didn’t really matter to Stiles either way. 

The wooden table was also on Peter’s insistence. Stiles had planned to use the old plastic folding table they had in the garage, but Peter had been scandalized. So, despite the fact that they were standing in the middle of the preserve, over a mile from the closest access to a road, Stiles was standing in front of a solid oak hardwood table that Peter had acquired specifically for this purpose. 

Supernatural strength meant that the weight of a solid wood table had been relatively inconsequential, but getting the full-sized table through the dense forest had been an… interesting experience. 

Boyd and Isaac had been recruited by Peter to help get the table into place, and they had only stopped shooting the older beta dirty looks when vampire coven showed up. 

When Vikram arrived, he mirrored Stiles on the other side of the table while the rest of the coven —including the bloodgivers, Stiles couldn’t help but notice— fanned out behind him in an arc, mirroring the way that Stiles’s betas were arrayed behind him. Even Yselle was there, standing behind Stiles but slightly to the side, away from his betas, declaring allegiance without subordination in the precision with which she chose her observation spot. 

Vikram bent and read the treaty one more time. Stiles waited patiently. He knew exactly what it said, could probably recite the thing in his sleep at this point, but he didn’t blame the vampire for his caution in making sure he knew what he was about to sign. 

When he was finished, Vikram looked up and met Stiles’s eyes. The air suddenly became charged.

“Are we agreed?” Vikram asked, his voice solemn and formal. 

“We are,” Stiles confirmed. 

With no further ado, Vikram bent and signed the treaty with a quill —eagle feather if Stiles wasn’t mistaken. Once he was done, Stiles pivoted the treaty to face him and pulled out a ballpoint pen. Despite Peter’s haranguing, he refused to use a quill. His penmanship was already iffy without adding in the difficulty of a novel writing instrument. 

There on the bottom line of the treaty were the words:

Master Vikram of the line of Ninazu

In the space beside it, and careful to write as neatly as possible, Stiles wrote:

Alpha Stiles Stilinski of Beacon Hills 

Stiles blew out a soft breath as he straightened. There was something surreal about signing such an official-looking document with the alpha title. Looking down at his signature, it didn’t feel real. 

Vikram met his eyes again and Stiles was startled by the clearly visible joy and relief in his normally-impassive expression. Vikram bowed again, deeply and with obvious respect and gratitude. 

“My thanks to you, Alpha Stilinski. The Beacon Hills Coven lies within your debt. Ask, and we shall answer. Call, and we shall come. May this alliance prove a boon to us both.” 

Stiles bowed back, more shallowly. He noted with slight interest that Vikram called them the Beacon Hills Coven now. They had been the Nameless Coven before. From that, he suspected that covens took the name of their location. The coven had been homeless before, and nameless as a result. 

“I am pleased we were able to come to an agreement,” Stiles replied. “May we be a credit and a joy to each other.” 

Vikram actually smiled then, faint and small, but definitely there. He bowed again, a twisting elegant gesture that was combined with a beckoning gesture. “I believe introductions ought be made.” 

Stiles smiled in return. “I would be honored.” 

An ethereally beautiful, female vampire stepped forward, placing her hand in the crook of Vikram’s arm and curtsying gracefully. Unless Stiles was mistaken, this was the vampire woman who had carried the gifts Vikram had given them. He also noted with faint amazement that her curtsy had a smooth air of thoughtless habit to it, as if she used to live in a culture where curtsying was a common habit. Stiles quashed the distracting thought and inclined his head in response.

“Alpha Stilinski,” Vikram began. “Be known to my lifemate, Cassia.”

“I greet you,” Cassia murmured, her voice smooth and melodic. 

Stiles nodded, but before he could say anything, Vikram beckoned again and a pair of vampires stepped forward. 

“My second-in-command and bosom friend, Tomas, who speaks in my name and commands in my absence, and his lifemate, Lucia…”

Stiles nodded a hasty greeting, but yet again couldn’t get a word in as Vikram continued apace, beckoning forward and introducing the remaining seven vampires. Notably, he did not call forward any of the human bloodgivers, nor did Stiles expect him to. 

However, once Vikram dismissed the last of the vampires, a male that Stiles suspected was significantly younger than the rest, he paused and regarded Stiles thoughtfully. Stiles waited, sensing something was going on. Vikram turned his head to his lifemate, Cassia, meeting her eyes for a moment, and while Stiles couldn’t see any change in their expression, something was clearly communicated because Vikram then turned to the bloodgivers waiting silently behind them and held out a hand, palm up. 

Two of them stepped forwards. The first was the man that Stiles had questioned about bloodgivers —Matthias, if Stiles remembered correctly. The second was a woman. 

When they reached Vikram, they each placed a hand on his palm, Matthias’s on bottom, and the unknown woman’s on top. Vikram stepped sideways, guiding them forward like a partner in a formal dance. He gave Stiles another long look. 

“Alpha Stilinski, out of the respect I have grown for you and the trust I wish to foster, I present to you the bloodgivers sworn to myself and Cassia. Be known to Matthias and Tullia.” 

In perfect unison, Matthias bowed and Tullia curtsied. 

“I am honored,” Stiles said, bowing shallowly in reply. He turned his head just enough to meet Vikram’s serious gaze, letting his eyes show that he understood the magnitude of the gesture. Vikram’s gaze softened slightly, and he turned to the two bloodgivers, his expression gentling further. They both bowed deeply to him and returned to the rest of the coven. 

Stiles waited a moment, and then half-turned, stretching out one arm to present his betas who immediately straightened, pulling their shoulders back and preening slightly in anticipation. Stiles held back an eyeroll, smiling fondly. 

Vikram bowed formally after each name, his serious gaze studying each one in turn. 

“I greet you,” he murmured afterwards, and Erica and Isaac gave somewhat awkward headbobs in return. Peter and Boyd merely watched silently, though Boyd tilted his head minutely in acknowledgement. 

Once introductions were complete, Stiles and Vikram discussed a few minor things before the two supernatural groups went their separate ways.

Stiles felt like howling his joy and triumph to the sky. They had allies!

Stiles went to school the rest of the week still feeling like he was walking on top of the world. High on his success, he walked with his chin high, eyes alert and watchful, though not concerned. It wasn’t that he hadn’t felt like a “proper” alpha before, but successfully negotiating an alliance treaty gave him a boost of confidence that made him feel even more settled in his skin and position. 

His instincts were running strong. 

Fortunately, his betas didn’t mind, and from the looks of it, they were experiencing something similar, seeking physical contact even more than normal with body language that was simultaneously more excited and submissive than normal. 

His dad was the only one unaffected by the surge in their instincts. He just laughed at them and signed up for a couple extra shifts dealing with teenage vandals breaking into the water plant to avoid their “excessive touchy-feely-ness”. 

All of them were settling back down quickly, but the extra alertness let Stiles clock Lydia immediately when glanced at him and stepped to the side of the crowded hallway where she could easily intercept him. Stiles’s head immediately snapped to her position and he slowed slightly, pausing a short distance away from her. His betas caught the change of mood and fanned out automatically, heads low like they were anticipating an attack. 

Stiles clicked his tongue once, and his beta’s eyes snapped to him. He shook his head slightly in a silent order to stand down. While he loved how responsive they were to his wariness, this was not the place to go full guard dog mode. 

The three betas sighed, but relaxed, though Erica pouted like he had taken her favorite treat away. Stiles chuckled softly and turned back to Lydia who looked more than a little unnerved by the byplay. 

She rallied quickly though, focusing all her attention on Stiles and ignoring the others. “Can I speak with you?” she asked and her eyes flicked briefly to Isaac who had started to drop into a defensive position again. “Privately?”

Stiles tilted his head to one side, studying her thoughtfully. Lydia’s shoulders twitched back, betraying her discomfort with his scrutiny, but she didn’t say anything. That alone was enough of a change from her previous forceful approach that Stiles was willing to hear her out. 

“Alright,” he allowed. “Outside?”

“That would be fine,” Lydia said, not quite managing to hide her relief at his acquiescence. 

“Stiles,” Boyd rumbled, protest clear in the tightness of his voice and shoulders. 

Stiles shook his head shortly, and Boyd obligingly backed down, though the tension remained. “It’ll be fine,” Stiles soothed, letting one hand brush against Boyd’s arm. His beta gave him a long look, but sighed and nodded, relaxing. 

Stiles stepped away from his betas and gestured to the door outside. “Shall we?”

Lydia nodded, regaining some of her imperiousness. “We shall.” 

Stiles led the way outside, and they stopped near the bleachers. Once they arrived, Lydia pivoted to face him directly and opened her mouth. Stiles cut her off with a raised finger, head tilted, listening. 

He sighed and then spoke without bothering to raise his voice. “You know, I can hear you perfectly well. Go to class Erica.” 

There was the guilty shuffling of three betas. Then… 

“Why are you only telling me?” Erica complained. 

Stiles smiled at the trees over Lydia’s shoulder. “Because this was your idea. Wasn’t it?” 

There was a long pause. “Okay, fine. Yeah it was. How’d you know?” 

“The thought wouldn’t even occur to Isaac, and Boyd wouldn’t try unless you were pushing for it.” Stiles pointed out, not bothering to hide the fondness in his voice. 

Another long pause. “Dang it. Fine. You’re right,” Erica hesitated and her tone grew worried. “You’ll call us if anything happens?”

“Promise.” 

Stiles waited another moment, but all three betas had actually left this time. He looked back to Lydia. “Okay, we’re actually alone now. What is it?” 

Lydia was studying him, a complicated look on her face, somehow combining wondering, impressed, and slightly envious. She hesitated another moment before visibly bracing herself and diving in. “Scott is becoming increasingly unstable.” She didn’t say anything else, watching Stiles for his reaction to the statement. 

Stiles rocked back on his heels, thinking. “Okay?” he asked. “I can’t say that I’m horribly surprised, but why are you telling me?”

Lydia shifted, uncomfortable. “Scott is still Jackson’s alpha. As he gets unstable, so does Jackson. If it wasn’t for the fact that he needs an alpha to stay sane, I would yank him away from Scott’s pack. I don’t like what it’s doing to him. Before, there wasn’t another option.” She looked at him significantly. 

Stiles raised his eyebrows. “You’ve approached me about this before. It didn’t go well. What changed?”

Lydia winced slightly. “For what it’s worth, I regret my approach. It was heavy-handed and borderline arrogant. 

Stiles raised an eyebrow again. “Borderline?” 

Lydia winced again. “Okay, fine. It was arrogant.” A pause. “I apologize.” Her tone was pained and reluctant, but Stiles was frankly shocked she apologized at all. 

Stiles inclined his head slowly. “Does that mean you have a different approach this time?” 

Lydia’s spine straightened and most of her discomfort vanished. “Yes I do. Last time, you said that joining your pack wasn’t a matter of contracts and agreements, but of joining what amounted to… family.” She couldn’t quite hide her skepticism at that last word, but given her experience with wolf packs so far, Stiles couldn’t blame her. She continued. “That said, we have somewhat of a rocky past. Especially between you and Jackson. I wanted to ask you to tell me what you would need from us to join your pack, or if such a thing could even be on the table. If not, I will have to look at a much more extreme solution. The situation with Scott grows untenable.” 

Stiles nodded slowly. “I see.” 

He thought about it. Lydia waited silently, but he could see her tension, regardless of how well she was hiding it. She wasn’t wrong that there was a lot of history between them and especially between himself and Jackson. There would be strife to get over there, and quite a bit of it too. 

“Before I answer,” Stiles started slowly. “You should know that I run my pack quite a bit differently than Scott does. I won’t tolerate infighting or bullying between my betas. That includes shoving people around physically of course, but it also includes sharp comments meant to belittle or hurt.” 

He gave her a significant look. While Jackson was prone to a more physical form of bullying, she was honestly worse than him in some ways with the way that she would use expertly crafted words to shred people down. Jackson caused bruises. She could bleed a soul. And Stiles would not tolerate that within his pack. 

Lydia swayed slightly with a barely contained flinch, and paled a shade. “I understand," she whispered, tone somewhere between defensive and ashamed. 

Stiles nodded. He hated to be so blunt and forceful, but he couldn’t beat around the bush on this matter. Lydia was almost never called out on her behavior towards others, and that would have to change if she wanted to join his pack. “Second,” he continued, implacable and unwavering. “I require obedience and submission from my betas.” Stiles snorted at Lydia’s immediate expression of dubious disgust. 

“Not in a weird way,” he quickly reassured. “But I won’t tolerate disrespect or blatant challenges. If I speak, I expect to be listened to. If you have questions or concerns afterwards, I would be happy to hear them, but there is a hierarchy in my pack. In serious matters, I lead and they follow.” He gestured behind him to reference the recent interaction with betas. “You’ve probably seen it.”

Lydia’s expression smoothed. “I have. It’s very different from Scott’s pack,” she observed with a tone of forced neutrality. 

Stiles snorted. “Definitely. But that’s how it’s supposed to be, what our instincts are designed to look for and need. However, instead of a steady hierarchy, Scott waffles between extremes. Either he doesn’t care about things that are pretty significant breaches of acceptable behavior, or he’s blowing up with red eyes and fangs at a pretty minor offense. It’s unpredictable and stressful for betas under him.”

Lydia looked troubled. 

“I don’t lead like that,” Stiles said gently, tilting his head to meet her eyes. “I expect obedience to my commands and respect in my betas’ behavior, but I have never blown up at one of my betas, nor do I ever want to become the sort of alpha that does. And now I’m making my pack sound all stuffy and formal. We’re really not, I promise. We laugh, we play, we joke around, tease each other, and have a lot of fun together. And we support one another no matter what. I just bring it up because I won’t tolerate you two acting the way you normally do to my pack.” 

He pinned her with a suddenly serious look. “If you want to join my pack —really, honestly do, and not just because you think I might be better than Scott— then you need to have a long, hard conversation with each other and think about it even longer. Will you be able to accept me as your alpha? Both of you? In action and thought, and not just in empty words? Because if not, this won’t work, and I won’t accept you.” 

Lydia stared at him, stunned and off-balance at his sudden ultimatum, but she looked thoughtful too. “I understand,” she said softly, and for the first time that Stiles could ever recall, there was a tone of genuine respect in her voice. She bowed her head in farewell, deep and formal. “Thank you for your time… Alpha Stilinski.” 

It was the first time she had spoken his title. There was no personal deference in the words, but rather an acknowledgement. For perhaps the first time, she saw him, and saw what he had become. 

Stiles inclined his head in response, and without any further words, they went their separate ways. 

As he walked back inside, Stiles’s mind raced through the possibilities before him. He honestly wasn’t sure if Lydia and Jackson would be able to submit to him and mean it, but even if they decided against it, he suspected that they wouldn’t be staying in Scott’s pack much longer. Maybe they would join his, maybe Lydia would drag Jackson out of town and they would take their chances with a pack of complete strangers. 

But that left a pretty significant problem on his hands. 

If Jackson and Lydia left Scott’s pack, that would leave Scott with only Derek and Allison as betas and as a human, Allison might not count very well. All of Stiles’s research said that an alpha needed at least three betas to stay sane. Scott was already growing increasingly unstable in his fury over Stiles’s alphahood and the fact that Isaac, Erica, and Boyd had deserted him for Stiles. If Jackson and Lydia left, regardless of where they went, it could very well push Scott over the edge into complete insanity. He would go feral. 

Then Stiles would have to deal with him. Somehow. And his heart ached at the very thought. 

Chapter Text

“So… Scott.” Stiles began as he and Peter ran a patrol together. 

Stiles was increasingly using patrols or private runs with Peter as a way to seek the advice of the older and more experienced werewolf. It wasn’t like he was trying to hide anything from the younger betas, but their instincts towards an alpha hit them harder than it did Peter. They had a tendency to view Stiles with a slight bit of stubborn hero-worship. Generally, it wasn’t a bad thing, but it did mean that they had a tendency to get confused or concerned if Stiles asked them for advice. 

Peter told him once that it was just the newness of their instincts. Some deep part of them took Stiles asking their advice as a sign that their alpha was unsure what to do, and the wild, lupine side of them told them that horrible things happened when the alpha was unsure. As they settled both into being a werewolf and being a member of the pack, they wouldn’t have that reaction. As a born werewolf with years of experience, Peter didn’t have that problem. That same experience also made his advice invaluable. 

Peter glanced sideways at Stiles. “Scott?” he questioned.

Stiles nodded. “Yeah. Absorb, exile, or kill?” his voice broke slightly on the last word. 

Peter slid to a stop and Stiles mirrored him. “What are you talking about?” His concern was clear. And honestly, it was a fair concern. 

Stiles stared at the trees around them with empty eyes, willing himself not to break down as he forced himself to face the enormity of the problem before him. “Lydia and Jackson want to leave Scott’s pack. Potentially to join mine, but that will depend on if they can truly bring themselves to submit to me despite our history.” 

“Oh. Shit.” Peter said eloquently. There was no need to explain anything further. The older wolf immediately caught the implications of that statement. 

Stiles laughed bitterly. “Yeah, that was pretty much my thoughts on the matter too. If Scott is going to go feral, that gives me three options: I absorb him into the pack—” Peter immediately made a face at that suggestion and Stiles’s lip twitched in wry amusement. “—yeah, I don’t love that option either. I don’t think it would work well. Option two: I exile him from Beacon Hills, forcibly if necessary, and let him build or join a pack outside of my territory.”

“If he’s already feral, he won’t truly be building a pack,” Peter pointed out, tone quiet and apologetic. 

Stiles blew out a breath and looked away. “I know. Which led me to option three.” Stiles hesitated and took a deep breath. “If he’s truly feral, I won’t have much choice other than to put him down.” 

Stiles’s voice broke again at the last word. He spun to put his back to Peter, taking a couple steps away and forcing himself to breath, shoving aside the maelstrom of emotions. Scott was his brother, or at least, he used to be. What kind of person was Stiles that he could even consider killing him? 

Peter’s hand landed gently on Stiles’s shoulder and Stiles blindly pressed his cheek against it, absurdly grateful for the contact. 

“Alpha,” Peter murmured, his tone soft and nearly pleading. “Let me take this burden from you. Please.” 

Stiles turned around to face him, and Peter’s hand pivoted on his shoulder to maintain contact. “How?” Stiles asked, voice empty. 

Peter studied him, clearly choosing his words carefully. “Scott won’t want to join your pack, and even if he did, I doubt he would be able to truly accept you as his alpha. Not after having his own alpha power trip.”

Stiles frowned. “You did. So did Derek, come to think of it.” 

“True, but I spent most of my life as a beta, and was only an alpha during a period where I was genuinely insane. I have no desire to be an alpha again. It’s different for me. Derek also wasn’t meant to be an alpha. He hated the weight of it and was relieved when he could go back to being a beta. But Scott loves the alpha power.” 

Stiles tilted his head in acknowledgement. 

Peter waited, but when Stiles didn’t raise any other objections, he continued. “If Scott truly does go feral, you know you can’t just banish him from your territory and wash your hands of it.” Peter's head was ducked slightly and his tone was more careful than Stiles had ever heard before, but he still felt helpless rage bubble up inside of himself. 

“Well, what would you have me do then? Just kill him in cold blood?” Stiles snapped. As soon as the words left his mouth, Stiles regretted taking out his anger on his beta. “I’m sorry,” he sighed. 

Peter shrugged lightly, dismissing Stiles’s outburst with a gentle smile. But then he suddenly looked hesitant. “You once said that you would not have a Left Hand. In this one instance, I ask that you rethink that decision.” 

Stile’s brow furrowed. “You better not be suggesting what I think you are.”

Peter pressed on. “If it comes down to it, let me be the one to take care of it. Please.” Stiles opened his mouth to protest that suggestion hotly, but Peter interrupted him. “Wait. Hear me out. You considered Scott family for most of your life, yes?”

Stiles nodded mutely. 

There was a heartbreaking gentleness to his beta’s tone as he continued, “Then you should not be burdened by being forced to kill him if the worst happens. I, of all people, know the toll that takes on you.” The older wolf’s voice broke on the last word. 

Stiles felt the fight drain out of him. He looked at Peter, really looked at him, for the first time since the conversation started. His breath was taken away by the anguish in Peter’s eyes as the beta remembered a pain he should never have felt and sought desperately to prevent someone he cared about from feeling it as well. 

Stiles stepped forwards, wrapping a hand around the nape of Peter’s neck and drawing him in until their foreheads rested against each other. “My good and loyal beta,” he whispered. “How did I get so lucky?” 

Peter hummed softly, relaxing against him. The moment stretched on. 

“Only if there’s absolutely no other option,” Stiles finally said, barely breathing out his answer. 

“Yes, Alpha.” Soft understanding filled the words.

Stiles bolted to the left, darting towards the middle of the group of his betas. As he had intended, they split, Boyd and Peter darting one way and Erica and Isaac, the other. Stiles grinned and pivoted to chase Erica and Isaac, further separating them from the other two. Peter cursed and lunged after him. 

“Right!” Peter barked and Erica and Isaac looped to the right. Boyd also angled himself to intercept them. However, Stiles cut inside their turn, quickly gaining. Peter dodged around him, taunting him by darting in almost close enough to touch, but Stiles didn’t let himself be distracted, catching up enough to tap Isaac on the shoulder.

“Tag!” Stiles called and Isaac cursed, sliding to a stop and freezing in place. 

Erica jumped and whipped her head around to see where Stiles was, slowing her down just enough that Stiles was able to tag her as well. She cursed as well, freezing in place in an overdramatic lunging position. Stiles pivoted and lunged at Peter as the beta tried to slip past him to tag the younger betas and unfreeze them. Peter immediately aborted the action, contorting his body in an impressive way to avoid Stiles’s hand. Stiles pursued him as Peter danced away, off-balance and half-stumbling as he continued to barely evade him. 

A cheer erupted from behind him, and Stiles whipped his head around in time to see Boyd successfully tag both Isaac and Erica, freeing them from their “frozen” state. As soon as he did, Peter abruptly regained his normal grace and agility, darting away with a laugh. 

Stiles groaned. He really needed to stop underestimating the older beta. “Really?” he called. “Pretending to barely evade me to lure me away?”

Peter laughed. “It worked, didn’t it?”

Stiles shook his head, laughing as well. Then his eye caught on a figure approaching at a relatively fast clip. He shaded his eyes with one hand. Unless he was mistaken, that was one of the vampires in Vikram’s coven, Felix, maybe? The betas followed his gaze, watching the vampire curiously. 

“Water break, everyone,” Stiles tossed over his shoulder as he jogged over to meet the vampire. To his complete lack of surprise, his betas ignored the suggestion, following him instead. 

Felix stopped a polite distance away and bowed formally. “Master Vikram’s compliments, Alpha Stilinski. I greet you and bring a message from him.”

“Welcome, Felix. What does Master Vikram have to say?” Stiles asked.

Felix bowed again. “If it pleases you, Master Vikram requests a meeting. He received a word from a contact that concerns you.” 

Stiles nodded. “Of course. Did he say when he would be available?”

“Master Vikram indicated that he would make himself available to you anytime tonight after dusk, if that time would be pleasing to you. He further requested me to tell you that the nature of the matter he wishes to discuss with you is time sensitive.” 

Stiles exchanged a glance with Peter. That didn’t sound good. Stiles turned back to Felix. “Please let Master Vikram know that I would be happy to meet with him one hour after dusk in our usual spot.” 

Felix smiled. “I thank you, Alpha Stilinski.” With no further ado, he bowed one final time, turned, and ran off at the same steady lope. 

Stiles turned to Peter. “Well that was ominous.”

Peter snorted and nodded. 

The younger three pressed close, looking both curious and concerned. Stiles clapped Boyd on the shoulder as he passed them, leading the way back to where they had left their things. “Come on. That’s enough freeze tag pack bonding for now. I want to make sure we get dinner ready early. Looks like I have a meeting to go to.” 

That evening, Stiles left to meet with Vikram in the preserve, Peter at his side since none of his betas wanted him to go alone. Vikram arrived precisely one hour after sunset, and greeted Stiles with his habitual fist-to-heart bow. 

“Alpha Stilinski,” he greeted. “I thank you for your willingness to meet with me on such short notice.” 

“Master Vikram,” Stiles returned warmly. “Good to see you. Felix said you had something you wanted to discuss with me?” 

Vikram nodded. “One of my contacts brought a word to me that a flock of feral harpies moves this direction.”

Stiles nodded slowly, mind already racing through what he remembered off the top of his head about harpies. “Did your contact have any other information? How many? When and where will they arrive?”

“Indeed.” Vikram responded. “The flock approaches from the west. They shall intercept your border midday tomorrow. My contact was unable to ascertain a precise count, but estimates perhaps one score by count, mayhap a few less.” 

Nearly twenty harpies Stiles translated mentally. That was doable. Unpleasant and possibly difficult, but doable. “Midday tomorrow, you said?” he clarified.

Vikram inclined his head. “Correct. Feasibly, an hour, mayhap two, later. Harpies do dither, you understand. I would offer the combatants of my coven to fight alongside you, and indeed I do, but we will be unable to battle until the sun rests. I dare not expect you to dally so long.”

Stiles snorted softly. “No, I don’t think so. We’ll meet them at the border. I won’t allow them to wander my territory freely. But I’m sure we’ll have another opportunity to fight together.” 

Vikram’s lips curled in a slow smile that displayed the barest glint of fang. “I shall most eagerly anticipate such an occasion.” 

Stiles chuckled. “So do I. Is that all you wished to speak about? Seems like I have a battle to prepare for.” 

Vikram stepped back with a precise shake of his head in the negative. “That concludes my concern, Alpha Stilinski. I wish you good hunting.” 

Stiles let a slightly fanged grin cross his face in anticipation. “Thanks.” Then he hesitated. Whenever he had tried to discuss a supernatural threat in the past with Scott or Derek, the experience invariably ended in frustration as Derek was taciturn to a maddening degree and Scott constantly tried to blow it off. It was oddly refreshing to deal with someone who not only took the time to reach out first, but offered information and aid freely. 

Stiles dipped his head in a more respectful nod of acknowledgement. “Thank you for bringing this to my attention. I really appreciate the information.” He let his honest sincerity and appreciation bleed into the words. 

“You are, as ever, Alpha Stilinski, most welcome.” Vikram bowed elegantly and took his leave. 

“So feral harpies, huh?” Stiles said as he and Peter left. “That oughta be fun.”

Peter gave him a wolfish grin, his anticipation clear. 

The next day, —a Sunday, thank goodness— Stiles gathered his pack at the western edge of the border. He had taken Erica and Isaac scouting with him that morning and had been able to determine where the harpies were and where they were likely to attempt to cross the border. 

The pack stood there now in a loose arc facing the border with Stiles in the middle. Isaac, then Peter stood to his right, and Erica, then Boyd stood to his left. Even his dad was there, armed with two hand guns and a knife, and standing well to the back. Stiles couldn’t deny his dad’s valuable aim with a gun, but his lack of supernatural healing meant that Stiles didn’t want him in the front line. John would stay to the back, shooting if he had a clear shot and calling out if any harpies looked like they were going to slip past them. It gave him an important role and extremely valuable firsthand experience in supernatural combat while still minimizing his risk. 

Stiles glanced over everyone to make sure nothing looked out of place, and then settled back, relaxed, to wait for the harpies to arrive. Perhaps it was arrogance, but he honestly wasn’t too concerned about the coming battle. He was confident in his betas’ ability to handle this threat. They would work together, and they would win. 

His easy relaxation calmed the betas too. As the wait dragged on, tension naturally rose in the younger three. Peter, of course, was cool and confident as ever. However, when their tension racketed up high enough, they would shoot an anxious glance towards Stiles, see him unconcerned, and they would slowly relax as well. Until the wait started to get to them again, that is. 

Eventually, Stiles heard the harpies’ wingbeats. He straightened abruptly and Erica and Isaac jumped to attention so fast, a non-werewolf would have pulled something. 

“Here they come,” Stiles called, mostly for his dad’s benefit since the other wolves could hear them as well. “Remember to watch out for their claws and don’t go running off. Stay where we can support each other.” 

Harpies’ claws were lightly venomous. Not enough to significantly impact them, but enough to slow their healing a bit and make the wound sting something nasty. 

The harpies came into sight, and all of the wolves braced. The harpies broke the treeline and milled around for a moment, side-eyeing the gathered wolves while hissing like feral cats. Then one harpy screeched and dove towards Stiles. Like a dam was broken, the entire flock twisted in the air and also dove to attack. 

Stiles snarled and snatched the first harpy out of the air, dragging it down and snapping its neck with a swift twist. It went limp, and Stiles’s eyes darted around, checking on everyone. Erica was trading blows with a harpy as it dive-bombed her, and Boyd had just managed to get his claws in the wing of the nearest harpy, dragging it down and wrestling with it. Peter had a harpy corpse at his feet and was tracking another one in the air near him, and Isaac looked a bit overwhelmed with two harpies directly in his face. 

Stiles knocked a harpy aside, spending it screeching towards the trees, and stepped close enough that he could yank down one of the harpies harassing Isaac. With the pressure suddenly reduced, Isaac was able to focus on the other harpy, finally managing to clip it with a glancing blow to a wing. A bone snapped audibly and the harpy spiraled down towards Isaac’s waiting claws. 

Stiles absently dodged a harpy diving at him as movement caught his attention. A harpy flew over their line, aiming for his dad. Stiles opened his mouth to call a warning, but his dad was already on it, knocking the harpy out of the sky with a single shot. Stiles nodded to him and returned his attention to the fight in front of him, smacking down a particularly foolish harpy as it went for his face. The blow landed with an audible crunch, and the harpy didn’t get up again. 

Unfortunately, instead of scaring the other harpies away from his dad like Stiles had half-hoped, it drew their attention, and several of the circling flock peeled off to go after him.

Stiles pivoted. “Peter! Defense!” he called. 

Peter dropped the mauled harpy in his claws and loped back to take up position by John. While Stiles had hoped the harpies would stay focused on the wolves, he had prepared for this scenario. If he, John, or Peter called “Defense” Peter would fall back to protect John. It left Isaac more exposed. Stiles had deliberately placed the more hot-headed members of their pack —namely Isaac and Erica— between more level-headed betas to watch their back and help out if they got in over their heads. Stiles would just have to make sure to keep a closer eye on Isaac from now on. 

Boyd and Isaac had each managed to bring down a second harpy by then, and less than half of the flock remained in the air. They circled above, out of reach of the pack’s claws, screeching loudly in fury, and only occasionally diving down to try and attack.

John shot two more out of the air when they dive-bombed him, and Peter snagged the last with a vicious twist of his claws before it could slip through its falling brethren to tear into John. John swayed, bumping Peter appreciatively with his shoulder though he kept his eyes and gun fixed on the remainder of the flock.

Stiles tracked a bolder harpy with his eyes, measuring distances. When the creature finally dipped slightly, screeching defiance, Stiles leaped into the air, snatching the harpy out of the sky, and dragging it down. The harpy was dead before Stiles hit the ground again, and he dropped it with a satisfied smirk.

That left four, more cowardly, or perhaps more intelligent, harpies still circling. 

Stiles nodded to himself and fell back slightly to join Peter and John. He would let the younger betas take care of the rest. It would be good practice for them. 

“Hey Boyd?” Isaac called, eyes fixed on the harpies staying stubbornly out of reach. After Stiles’s maneuver, the survivors had put a little more distance between them and the earth. 

“Yeah?” Boyd flicked a glance at Isaac, but otherwise kept his eyes on the enemy. 

“Remeber that scene from Wonder Woman when they threw her at the sniper?” 

“Yeah. What about it?” Then Boyd’s eyes widened and glanced upwards speculatively. “Oh. Oh!”

Stiles beamed and pointedly ignored Peter’s glare. He had been educating his betas on the DC and Marvel movies (i.e. forcing them to watch them with him), and if that was actually going to come in handy, he was going to be so smug about it. As the most vocal objector to Stiles’s movie plan, Peter knew it too. Hence the glare. 

Isaac ran towards Boyd, who crouched and interlaced his fingers in front of him. When Isaac reached him, he jumped up, stepping in the offered cup of Boyd’s hand. Boyd heaved upwards with all of his significant, supernaturally- boosted strength, and Isaac practically flew.

The harpies shrieked in surprise, and tried to dodge, but Isaac tore through the middle of the group, sinking his claws into two of the harpies and dragging them down with him when he plummeted back down. They thrashed and fought the whole way down, scratching him up pretty good, and Isaac landed with a thud that made Stiles wince, but Boyd was immediately there, finishing off the harpies and helping Isaac up. 

Isaac swayed on his feet, clearly favoring a leg and with his arms pretty well torn up, but he was grinning ear to ear. “Did you see that, Stiles!” Excitement and pride laced every word. “Did you see that? That was so awesome!” 

“I saw it,” Stiles assured with a grin. “Well done!”

Isaac spun to face Boyd, nearly toppling over in the process. “Come on. We have got to do that again!” 

Boyd hesitated, his eyes flicking over Isaac’s injuries sceptically and Stiles broke in, shaking his head. “Absolutely not, Isaac. You did really well, but you’re looking a little rough now. Stay on the ground.” 

Isaac pouted. “I can do it! I’m fine!” As if to prove it, he let go of Boyd and took a large step onto the leg he had been favoring. His leg immediately buckled, and he would have fallen on his face if Boyd hadn’t caught him. 

“Uh huh,” Stiles snorted. “I think you’re done for the day.” 

Isaac sighed but didn’t protest again. Boyd chuckled as well and attempted to untangle Isaac enough that he could get clear. 

At that moment, one of the harpies, clearly enraged by Isaac’s aerial acrobatics, dove towards Erica. Erica lunged for it, but the harpy was able to twist away and all Erica got was a handful of feathers. She lunged again, chasing it. 

Stiles frowned. “Careful, Erica. Don’t over-extend yourself!” 

Erica ignored him and made an ill-advised leap, claws stretched forward to try and grab the fleeing harpy. It darted left. Erica landed awkwardly, wobbling as she tried to twist after it. In that moment when she was off-balance, the second harpy dropped like a stone and slammed into her shoulder, knocking her to the ground.

Erica fell prone, and the harpy tore at her chest, beak-like mouth reaching for her jugular as she flailed. 

“ERICA!” Stiles screamed and lunged forwards, covering the distance between them in what felt like a single leap. He tore the harpy away a second before it bit into Erica’s neck, flinging it behind him with barely a glance. He knew Peter would be following, and sure enough, through the roar of his heart pounding in his throat, he heard the sound of his oldest beta catching the thrown harpy and tearing it apart. Similarly, he vaguely processed the crack of a gunshot as his dad took care of the last harpy. 

Stiles didn’t care. He gathered Erica up, helping her to her feet, as he assessed her for injuries. Her chest and arms were torn up worse than Isaac’s but her throat was intact, only bearing a shallow scrape where teeth had snapped shut as Stiles had pulled it away only barely in time. 

Stiles pulled Erica close, one hand at her nape and the other across her back, wrapping her in a hug as she trembled against him. He just held her for a second, filling his lungs with her scent and his ears with the sound of her heartbeat. She was alive.

Then Stiles tightened the hand at Erica’s nape and gave her a tiny shake, careful not to dislodge her from his embrace. “This is why we don’t over-extend ourselves,” he said, a soft, worried growl underlying the words. He pressed his nose against her throat as she bared it, and nipped the skin there lightly in admonishment. 

Erica went limp, curling into his hold. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” she whispered. 

Stiles rocked her and tucked her head under his chin, letting her nose against his throat and press her cheek to his chest. “I know. I got you. You’re safe. You’re okay.” 

Erica’s trembling eased slightly and Stiles rumbled deep in his chest in approval. He glanced up and saw the rest of the pack hovering anxiously around them, clearly wanting in but not wanting to interrupt. Stiles jerked his head in a beckoning gesture, and they didn’t hesitate. The other betas piled in, knocking them to the ground and pressing close to Stiles and Erica with anxious whines. 

Stiles watched and took a deep breath, forcing his heart to slow down. For a second there, he thought they had lost her. He bent enough to press his cheek against Erica’s, humming when she automatically pressed back. 

Thank goodness she was alive. 

Then Stiles’s head shot up and around as he noticed the sound of someone trying to creep up on them. They were approaching from downwind so he hadn’t scented them, and the emotional turmoil had lowered his guard. 

A deep, threatening growl boiled up from Stiles’s stomach and echoed across the recent battlefield. His betas froze and Peter tensed as they also noticed the possible threat. Stiles slowly rose into a crouch, hovering over his prone betas. His chest still vibrated with the terrifying growl. 

Derek practically scrambled out of the trees and into sight. His eyes were wide and scared, and he raised his hands in a universal sign of surrender. 

Stiles swallowed his growl and straightened into a less threatening posture. “Derek? What are you doing here?” he questioned. Behind him, his betas also stood, stumbling over each other slightly as they untangled themselves. Stiles absently stroked a hand over their shoulders without looking as they found their feet and stood behind him. 

Derek’s eyes wandered to Stiles’s betas, staring at them with a twisted expression of pain and longing. 

“Derek?” Stiles prompted after a moment. 

Derek jumped slightly, a guilty look on his face. “I heard gunshots.” he said awkwardly, gaze flicking to John, who was still standing nearby with a hand on his gun, not having joined the impromptu puppy pile. Then he seemed to just notice the piles of dead harpies and his eyes widened again. “What happened?”

Stiles glanced around and shrugged. “Some feral harpies decided to try and invade my territory. I took issue with that.” 

“You killed them all.” Derek didn’t sound disapproving —not exactly— but there was still some sort of strange note in his voice. 

Stiles frowned and braced himself, crossing his arms over his chest. “I did. Do you have a problem with that?” 

Derek hurriedly shook his head. “No.” He hesitated, glancing around again, and again his gaze lingered on Stiles’s betas, who had formed up behind him in a clear display of support. Derek ducked his head, looking away. “Sorry. I thought something was wrong. I’ll leave.” He stepped back and turned to leave, head still lowered and eyes averted. His posture was oddly deferential. 

Stiles tilted his head. Something about that tugged at his instincts. Perhaps he hadn’t fully gotten over the scare with Erica, but Derek’s body language made him want to reach out and soothe. “Derek?” he called.

Derek paused, but didn’t turn around. 

“Is something wrong?”

Derek flinched and then immediately shook his head again. Hard. “No. It’s fine. Everything’s fine.” Then he ran off, still not looking back. 

Stiles looked back, meeting Peter’s worried gaze. That didn’t sound good.

Chapter Text

For the next several days, Stiles’s betas side-eyed Jackson and Lydia and were watched dubiously in return. Stiles had told his pack that the two were thinking of joining as well as what his conditions on their joining were. While Peter and Boyd had been largely uncaring, Erica and Isaac had been particularly relieved that Stiles wasn’t going to let Jackson and Lydia walk all over them. When Stiles told his pack, he hadn’t been expecting this level of tension, but he was sitting it out. This was between them. 

Still, it was amusing, and that made it difficult to keep a perfectly straight face and feign ignorance or disinterest when Isaac was scowling thoughtfully at Lydia and Jackson was shooting conflicted looks at Boyd. However, Stiles forced himself not to react and ignored it all. If this was going to work, the betas would have to work out their dynamics themselves. Sure, he could sit them all down and force them to play nice, but it wouldn’t be a true solution and everything would break down any time he wasn’t watching. Stiles was determined to have a cohesive pack, and that meant letting them figure out if they could do this. 

Finally, after about a week of increasing tension and constant watching, Erica got fed up. She stopped dead in the parking lot where Stiles had been chivvying his betas towards his jeep while Lydia and Jackson watched from beside Jackson’s car. Scott had already left. 

Erica glanced between the two groups a couple times and sighed. “This is ridiculous,” she muttered and marched right up to Lydia whose eyes had gone big at her approach. Erica thrust a hand out, offering a handshake. “Let’s start over. My name’s Erica, and I’m a beta wolf in Alpha Stiles’s pack. Nice to meet you.”

Lydia froze in shock and glanced at Jackson, who looked equally baffled. Slowly, she reached out and took Erica’s hand. “Nice to meet you, Erica. My name’s Lydia, and I’m a banshee.” She hesitated and glanced towards Stiles, who was watching this play out while keeping his body language as relaxed and calm as he could. Lydia squared her shoulders. “I’m currently looking for a pack.”

Erica grinned and pumped Lydia’s hand up and down a couple times. “Well, you’re in luck. I’ve got a great pack with an even better alpha, and I think there’s room for more. I could use another female around. There’s far too much testosterone here, if you know what I mean.”

A slow grin stretched across Lydia’s face. “I think I know exactly what you mean. Shall we get pastries and bemoan the obliviousness of males?”

“The cute little place on the corner, right?” Erica checked. 

Lydia sniffed, but it was more playful than arrogant. “But of course. Where else? I hear they have these new berry tea blends that I have been dying to try.”

“Girl, you are speaking my language. Let’s go.”

Lydia slipped her arm into Erica’s and turned to Jackson, who was watching slightly dumbfounded. “Jackson,” Lydia purred. “Will you be a dear and drive us?” 

Jackson huffed a soft laugh but nodded. Lydia tugged lightly on Erica’s arm, pulling her towards the car, but Erica hesitated, glancing towards Stiles. 

Stiles smiled and waved her off, making sure his pride and approval was fully visible. Erica relaxed, smiling back. 

“Erica?” Stiles called and she glanced back. “If you want a ride later, just give me a call and I’ll come pick you up. Otherwise, have fun.”

Erica nodded happily and followed Lydia into the car, already chattering away. 

Just like that, the ice between the two groups was broken. Jackson was still circling hesitantly, but the defensive tension was gone. Similarly, while Erica and Lydia had abruptly hit it off and were fast becoming close friends, there was still some awkwardness between Isaac and Lydia. However, that was fading slowly, and Stiles was optimistic. 

At the end of the week, Erica’s phone rang in the middle of a pack movie night. Erica grabbed it, and then her eyes shot to Stiles. “It’s Lydia. I bet she just finished the latest episode of that show we’re watching and wants to talk. It was crazy! Do you mind?”

Stiles shook his head fondly and waved her off. If it became a habit and Erica was constantly skiving off pack nights to hang out with Lydia, he might have something to say about it, but he certainly didn’t have a problem with it now. 

“Thanks!” Erica chirped and ran out the door. Stiles smiled. She was probably heading to the edge of the preserve. Werewolf hearing made it difficult to have private conversations, so Erica often left when she wanted private “girl talk” with Lydia. He was glad the two of them were getting along. It was good for them to have another female, one that was in the know, so to speak, that they could vent with. 

Less than a minute later —far, far sooner than Stiles expected her back— Erica burst back into the house, eyes wild. 

Stiles was on his feet instantly. “What’s wrong?”

“Lydia says Derek’s gone crazy!” Erica blurted, panic clear in her voice, and Stiles snapped into action. 

“Where is he?” Stiles demanded.

“Lydia said he ran to the old Hale house,” Erica said. “Jackson’s following him. Derek tore him up pretty bad when he tried to stop him.”

Stiles nodded. “Okay. Peter, grab the wolvesbane kit. You’ll be with me. Hopefully, we can treat this. Dad, grab your police scanner and make sure nobody heads in that direction. Follow us in the cruiser and block the access road. Stand by in case we need a sheriff’s authority for any reason. Erica, you’re with my dad. Keep your senses on a swivel and let me know if anything’s approaching from that angle. Boyd, Isaac, you’re on patrol. Run a perimeter of the Hale house. If the hunters, witches or whoever did this are still in the area, I want to know where they are before they know where we are. Be quiet, be careful, and stay together. If you find anything, don’t engage. Report back. Alright everyone, let’s see what we can do.” 

Stiles pivoted, glancing over everyone. The panic in the room had disappeared at the clear directions, and everyone looked ready. He gave a sharp nod and turned sharply on his heel to head for the door. 

“Stiles,” Peter called. Stiles looked over with a frown. “Could it be the serum Vikram warned us about?”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “Shit. It could.” He flicked a glance over the assembled betas, mind racing. “Okay, slight change of plans. We take the wolvesbane kit, but Isaac, you’re the fastest. Go to Yselle’s. Tell her the situation and ask if she’s had any luck finding an antidote. Bring it to us if she has anything. Peter, run the perimeter with Boyd. I’ll call you if I need your help with Derek, but securing the area needs to happen first.”

Isaac straightened up, a look of pride and determination on his face. He nodded sharply. 

Stiles threw open the door. “Let’s go, everyone.”

As soon as they were out of the door, they split up. Erica and John ran for the cruiser, Peter, Boyd, and Stiles aimed for his jeep, and Isaac circled the house on foot, heading for the treeline. It was an indirect route, but one that would allow him to take advantage of his supernatural speed without being seen. 

When they arrived at the wreckage of the old Hale house, Peter and Boyd immediately loped off at an angle, starting the patrol, and Stiles jogged over to where a wolfed-out Jackson stood beside Lydia. 

Jackson jerked his chin towards the burned shell of a house. “He’s inside.”

Stiles nodded absently. He could hear Derek crashing around just out of sight. He glanced at Jackson. The other teen was fully healed, but the evidence of his injuries was obvious in the tattered remnants of his clothes. 

Just then, Derek rounded the corner of the house, coming into sight, and Stiles sucked in a breath. He looked awful. He was fully in a beta shift, eyes wide and crazed, and arms covered in deep gashes from where he apparently turned his claws on himself. Even as Stiles watched, Derek gave a screeching sort of howl, and dug his claws viciously into his own thighs as he spun in an agitated circle. 

Stiles stepped forwards, brushing his hand absently over Jackson’s shoulder as he passed him. Jackson shot him a startled look at the touch, but Stiles ignored it, focused on the problem in front of him. He tilted his head and approached carefully as he tried to figure out the best way to handle this. However, as soon as he moved, Derek’s head snapped over to him, fixating on him without any recognition in his eyes. 

“Derek?” Stiles called out hesitantly. 

Derek jerked at the sound of his voice, but again, there was no recognition in his expression. Instead, his face twisted in crazed rage, and he threw himself towards Stiles in a reckless charge. 

Stiles gritted his teeth, but he had honestly been expecting that reaction. Derek’s clearly feral state meant that an attack was almost guaranteed. He braced himself, and when Derek collided with him, Stiles grabbed his wrists, keeping Derek’s claws from tearing into his face as the crazed beta clearly intended, and pivoted, using Derek’s own momentum to throw him to the ground. As Derek fell, Stiles followed him down, keeping a tight hold of Derek’s wrists and twisting one arm over Derek’s head as he stepped behind the beta’s back. As a result, when they landed, Derek was face down in the dirt with his arms crossed over his chest, and Stiles knelt over him, chest to Derek’s back and knees on either side of Derek’s hips. 

Derek bucked and struggled, but despite the fact that Derek was larger than him, Stiles was an alpha, with all the extra strength that entailed, and kept him contained without too much difficulty. Still, the crazed snarls were off-putting, and Stiles couldn’t help the instinctual rumble in his chest, trying to calm Derek down despite knowing it wouldn’t work. 

Now that Stiles had Derek pinned and was so close to him, he realized he could pretty much rule out wolvesbane. All of Derek’s injuries were healing cleanly without any scent of rot or infection, and notably, lacked the obvious black taint of wolvesbane. He couldn’t confidently rule out magic yet. While Peter said curses often carried a faint scent of ozone and hemlock, Stiles hadn’t smelled it before and didn’t trust his ability to identify it. He would have to wait until Peter finished running the perimeter and came to help. 

Stiles sighed and shifted into a slightly more comfortable position, bracing as Derek attempted —entirely ineffectively— to kick him. 

Thank goodness for supernatural endurance. He had a feeling he was going to be here a while. 

Jackson trotted up, body braced in uncharacteristic hesitance. “Is he going to be okay?” he asked. 

Stiles gave another comforting rumble in his chest, making sure that despite the awkward position, his shoulders were relaxed and he was projecting a calm confidence. The last thing they needed here was more stress and agitation. As he had hoped, Jackson instinctively responded to the cue, relaxing in turn. However, as Stiles had not expected, Derek hesitated in his thrashing, still as tense as stone. But perhaps listening? 

On a half-hope, Stiles stretched forwards to brush his nose against the back of Derek’s neck in a calming, scenting gesture. Then he sighed when all that achieved was making Derek start fighting anew. Oh well. It was worth a try. Stiles looked up at Jackson and gave him a faint smile. “He’ll be fine. I have a couple avenues to potentially cure whatever this is, but even in the worst case scenario, this type of affliction will wear off.”

Jackson gave him a skeptical look, and Stiles laughed.

“No, really. It’s basic cause and effect. Derek was fine before, so this was clearly caused by something right?”

“Right…” 

“So the effect will only last as long as the strength of whatever induced it. If it’s some sort of compound that he ingested or was injected with, like wolvesbane, it will last until his werewolf metabolism breaks it down. If it was some sort of curse or spell, it will only last as long as the strength of the magic used. It takes a lot of magic to do this, so even if a witch or something is actively maintaining the spell on their own power, they couldn’t do it forever.” 

Jackson frowned. “But what about some sort of cursed object, like that weird amulet the wendigo was wearing?” 

Stiles smiled. “Good thought. Most people wouldn’t consider that.” Jackson looked surprised and pleased at the praise. “You’re right that a cursed object could maintain this state for a lot longer,” Stiles continued. “But only if Derek was in constant contact with it. I’ve got a pretty good hold of him right now, and I can tell you he’s not wearing any strange jewelry, or in fact, anything that doesn’t smell like he’s owned it for a long time. From that, I can confidently say that whatever this is will wear off eventually.”

“That makes it sound like this isn’t a big deal,” Jackson said, frowning like he knew he was missing something. 

Stiles grimaced. “Yeah… that ‘wearing off eventually’ I meanted? I have no idea how long it will take. Could be 30 minutes, could be a day or more.” He shrugged as best he could without loosening his grip. 

“Oh.” Jackson looked a lot more intimidated by that prospect. 

Stiles sighed. “Yeah.” 

They stayed there in silence for several minutes. The only sounds were Derek’s snarls and grunts and Stiles’s answering soothing rumbles. Finally, Peter and Boyd ran up. 

“Nothing in the area,” Peter reported briskly. “Whatever did this is either hiding well enough to fool me, or didn’t stick around to see the results.”

Stiles nodded thoughtfully. “I’ve ruled out wolvesbane. He doesn't have any black-tinged wounds or veins and he’s healing at a normal speed. I don’t smell anything I would call a sign of magic, but I want your opinion on that.”

Peter stepped closer, raising an eyebrow when Derek tried to lunge at him, fangs snapping in empty air. “My, my, nephew. Such temper.” he murmured with a smirk.

Stiles rolled his eyes at him. Peter grinned but obediently bent, scanning the other beta, nostrils flaring. 

“I don’t sense any signs of magic either.” Peter’s brow furrowed in thought. “I also agree about there being no evidence of wolvesbane either. Curious.” 

Stiles hummed in resignation. “So likely Vikram’s mystery serum, huh?” 

“Mostly likely.” Peter grimaced, clearly thinking about the implications of that fact. If it was the serum, this was an attack from a new, powerful enemy.

“Lovely.” Stiles replied flatly, in complete agreement with Peter’s unspoken conclusions. 

“Who’s Vikram?” Lydia broke in, having approached after Peter and Boyd arrived. “And what’s this serum you’re talking about?” 

Peter stepped back and to the side, an unspoken declaration that it was Stiles’s decision on how to handle this. Stiles pinned Lydia with a serious look. She quailed for a moment before standing firm. She didn’t retract her question, but neither did she demand an answer the way she would have before. 

Stiles tilted his head thoughtfully. “Master Vikram is a vampire. He is also an ally of mine,” he said slowly, watching her carefully. 

Jackson muttered a soft “No way.”

Lydia’s eyes widened in surprise. Then she inclined her head slowly, maintaining eye contact and accepting the information without challenge. “And his serum?” she pressed carefully. 

“One that causes feral behavior,” Stiles confirmed, tilting his head towards Derek. “It was something he had apparently faced before and warned us about when we met. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get a cure.” 

Lydia’s eyes sharpened and she scanned their surroundings. “That’s where Isaac or Erica are, isn’t it? Getting a cure?” 

Stiles smiled fondly. Lydia had always been clever. “Exactly.”

She frowned. “This Master Vikram had a cure ready? That’s… convenient.” “And suspicious” went unsaid. 

Stiles shook his head. “No, that’s something we’re working on developing. Hopefully, she’ll have something, but there hasn’t been much time.” 

“She?” Lydia immediately narrowed in on the pronoun. 

Stiles hummed. 

“You have more allies.” 

It wasn’t a question, so Stiles didn’t bother with any sort of verbal confirmation. He just smirked slightly. Lydia regarded him with new respect and a faint sort of wonder, like she was just now realizing how much Stiles had changed. 

Just then, Stiles’s phone rang. Stiles shifted his weight slightly so that his pocket was more accessible. “Peter?” 

Peter nodded and stepped forwards, deftly slipping the phone out. “It’s Erica.” 

Stiles raised an eyebrow. “Answer it, and—” he glanced at Lydia consideringly. “—put it on speaker.” 

Lydia inclined her head in thanks and acknowledgement of the gesture. 

“Hey Stiles!” Erica chirped.

“Hey Erica, What’s up?” 

“Isaac is on his way up. He has Yselle with him.” Stiles’s eyebrows shot up. He hadn’t expected that. Lydia mouthed the name “Yselle” to herself. “Oh, and Stiles?” Erica asked, smirk clear in her voice.

“Yeah?”

“Have a camera ready.” Her amusement was obvious. 

Stiles frowned at the phone, wondering what in the world that meant. “Will do. Thanks for the head’s up. Also, the coast is clear here, so feel free to join us if you’d like,” he replied and Peter hung up. 

Stiles shared a confused glance with everyone there, but noticed with amusement that both Boyd and Lydia subtly readied their phone cameras. A couple moments later, Stiles heard him coming. Isaac’s footsteps were faster than Stiles would have expected given that Yselle was with him —roughly a fast jog and certainly faster than humans would find comfortable— and they were accompanied by a few odd sounds. Stiles identified them after a moment as creaking wood and wheels in the dirt. It didn’t help his confusion. 

A little bit later, Isaac came into sight, jogging towards them and pulling a two-wheeled wooden handcart like the ones Stiles had only ever seen in history books being used by peasants to haul goods to market. Yselle sat in the bed of the cart, wearing a hooded, emerald green cloak. Despite the bumping of the cart, her posture was as perfect as if she was riding a royal carriage. John’s cruiser followed them up like an anachronistic escort.  

“What the hell,” Jackson muttered, and both Lydia and Boyd’s phones clicked as the cameras went off. Stiles just watched in silent bemusement. 

Isaac came to a halt a couple paces away. There was a red tinge to his ears and cheeks that spread rapidly the longer everyone just stared at him. Behind him, Erica and John got out and walked up. Erica was grinning ear to ear, and John was failing to hide his smirk. 

Yselle stood up in the cart and stepped down with perfect grace. She slipped an embroidered leather satchel over her head and walked around to pat Isaac on the shoulder. “Thank you, lad. That was a ride both smooth and efficient.” 

Isaac looked shyly pleased and the red flush deepened. 

“Hello, Yselle,” Stiles greeted, not bothering to hide his amusement. 

“Alpha Stilinski,” Yselle greeted in turn, dropping into a swift and smooth, though fairly shallow, curtsy. “I hear you might have a victim of that intriguing serum?” Her eyes drifted to Derek, and she studied him intently. 

Stiles sighed. “Yes, I think that is most likely what’s going on at this point. Have you had any luck in finding a cure?” 

Yselle bent and tilted her head, trying to look at Derek’s face. “No,” she denied. “A cure still eludes me.”

Stiles couldn’t help the way he wilted slightly at the denial. That left plan B: holding Derek down so he didn’t hurt himself or anyone else and waiting for the serum to wear off. However long that would take. 

Stiles hated plan B. 

“But,” Yselle continued. “I should be able to confirm that he is actually under the effects of the serum and potentially give him something to expedite clearing it from his system. Will you hold his head still so I can see his eyes?” 

“That would be excellent. Peter?”

Peter stepped forwards and gently grabbed Derek’s head, tilting it towards Yselle and holding it still as he thrashed and snarled. 

Yselle clucked her tongue and began pulling things out of her satchel. She added herbs and tinctures to a mortar faster than Stiles could track, grinding them together. When she finished, she hovered the mortar near Derek’s mouth. The next time he tried to snap, she dumped the contents inside in one smooth motion. 

Derek thrashed, spluttering and spitting. 

“Give it a moment,” Yselle urged. 

“What are we looking for?” Stiles asked.

“Curiously enough, the serum you gave me turns a lovely shade of bright purple when it comes into contact with certain combinations of herbs steeped in a slightly acidic solution,” Yselle answered. 

Stiles blinked. “We’re looking for his mouth to turn purple.” His tone was utterly deadpan. 

“Indeed,” Yselle confirmed, and Erica started snickering. 

“It’s turning purple!” Isaac crowed suddenly. “Wow, that’s really purple…”

Yselle leaned in to check and then looked up at Stiles. “I can confirm the serum was used on him, Alpha Stilinski.” 

Stiles nodded, frowning as he absorbed the implications of that statement. A mystery enemy was on his territory. Again. Or perhaps still. He would have to figure out how to handle that. 

Yselle waited patiently while Stiles thought before speaking again. “Shall I administer the mixture to speed the flushing process?” 

Stiles nodded. “Yes, yes. Please do.”

Yselle inclined her head and began creating another mixture, this one with significantly more components. As she mixed it, Stiles would have sworn that it hissed and spat some sparks. 

“Is that safe?” Erica asked, tone doubtful, and clearly sharing Stiles’s concerns. 

Yselle looked up with a smile. “Peace, lass. I will not harm him.” 

Erica glanced at Stiles, and Stiles nodded reassurance. While he had no idea what was in Yselle’s concoction, she had no reason to harm them, and he trusted her. 

When she was finished, Yselle looked up at Peter. “I will need your help on this one. The more the lad ingests, the better. Hold his mouth shut after I administer it until he swallows. Do not let him spit it out.” 

Peter glanced at Stiles and waited for his nod of acquiescence before agreeing. Like before, Yselle waited for an opening and then dumped the mixture in Derek’s mouth. Peter then immediately shifted his grip, holding Derek’s mouth shut. After a couple tense moments of struggle, Derek finally swallowed. 

Stiles sighed in relief. “How long until he’s back to normal?”

Yselle tilted her head. “I am unsure, but I expect around an hour, perhaps two.”

“That’s sped up?” He raised an eyebrow. 

“My initial assessments of the serum indicate that it is potent enough that even trace amounts would normally last a full day or more.” 

“Yikes,” Stiles muttered. “Two hours suddenly doesn’t sound so bad.”

Yselle hummed. “Indeed.” She began repacking her satchel. 

“Thank you for your help, Yselle. I really appreciate it.” 

She smiled. “You are most welcome, Alpha Stilinski. In truth, I have enjoyed the challenge, and it is always a unique pleasure to use my knowledge to help another.” She paused. “A word of caution, however. The treatment I administered is unrefined. The components are more effective at targeting certain aspects of the serum. As a result, it is highly likely that the poor lad will regain awareness before control.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “Meaning that…” he trailed off in vague horror.

“That he will become aware of his surroundings and the fact that he is trying to attack, but remain unable to stop himself from doing so, yes.” Yselle confirmed gravely. She gave Derek a sorrowful look. “I pity the lad.” With one last glance, she stood and stepped away. Her eyes found Isaac’s. “Would you be so kind as to give me a ride home?” 

Isaac flushed in embarrassment but nodded and stepped up to the cart again. 

Erica grinned. “Ooo… Is somebody a—”

“Erica,” Stiles interrupted, tone firm and disapproving. Erica’s eyes flicked to him, and she sighed, but dropped it. 

Yselle said a final farewell, settled into the cart with all the dignity of royalty, and they set off. 

Once they were out of sight, Stiles turned to everyone else. “Alright, you heard her. I’m going to be here for a long haul. At least an hour, but likely up to two. It could even be longer. If you don’t want to hang out that long, you’re welcome to leave.” 

Peter immediately shook his head. “I’ll stay as long as you’re here,” he insisted. 

Boyd was nodding agreement before Peter even finished speaking and Erica hesitated before twining her fingers with Boyd and nodding her intention to stay as well. 

Stiles’s eyes drifted to his dad who also shook his head. “If everyone else is staying, I am too,” John declared. 

Stiles nodded and shifted his gaze to Jackson and Lydia who were having a silent conversation. 

After a moment, Lydia met his eyes. “We’re staying as well.” She didn’t give an explanation and neither did Jackson who was nodding his agreement with her words. 

Stiles snorted and nodded acceptance. “Alright, I guess we’re having a party. Get comfortable everyone. We’ll be here a while. Dad, will you order some pizza? Isaac can pick it up on his way back.” 

With that, everyone milled around awkwardly for a bit, unsure what to do, before Erica plopped down on the ground gracelessly and patted the dirt beside her. “Hey Lydia, did you have a chance to watch the next episode?”

Lydia perked up and daintily lowered herself down to sit beside Erica. “I did! I was absolutely horrified! Could you believe what he did?” 

Just like that the girls were off, chattering away. Slowly, the rest of the betas sat down as well in a loose group near where Stiles was containing Derek. Conversations began to spring up as Boyd asked Peter about a certain move the older beta had used in training and John joined in with suggestions from his background in pinning an unruly suspect. Jackson hovered nearby, listening at first, but he eventually asked a careful question and found himself easily folded into the discussion. 

Isaac arrived a little while later with a stack of pizza boxes and was welcomed eagerly. The conversation drifted naturally to favorite pizza toppings, prompting a rousing debate of the merits of pineapple on pizza that the girls joined in as well. To Stiles’s shock, Jackson was firmly in favor of pineapple and argued his side hotly despite being greatly outnumbered. 

Despite the controversy of the debate, it remained amicable and eventually shifted to questionable opinions held by other-people-I-have-known, to which Peter and John provided a wealth of stories thanks to their greater life experience and careers which brought them into contact with numerous strange people. 

For his part, Stiles mostly just listened with a proud smile. His primary focus remained on the feral beta in his arms. Yselle’s words about Derek regaining awareness lingered in his mind, and he wanted to try to reduce the trauma of this experience as much as possible. Accordingly, Stiles kept a near-constant soothing rumble in his chest interspaced with occasional comforting words of praise or reassurance. He also rubbed his thumbs against Derek’s wrists whenever he wasn’t struggling as much, and tightened his grip in a pseudo-hug whenever Derek thrashed. Stiles couldn’t tell if it helped, he tried anyway, resting his cheek against Derek’s back as he watched his pack, listening to them talk happily. 

Derek’s chest still heaved with frantic breaths and his heart continued to race far faster than should be healthy. However, Stiles didn’t think he was imagining the fact that Derek was fighting him less. He was definitely still struggling, but the pauses between attempts were lengthening and the intensity was decreasing. Stiles wasn’t sure if Derek was simply growing tired or if the serum was actually wearing off, but he was optimistic. 

It was a little over two hours before anything changed. Stiles hadn’t really been paying attention to the time in the moment, too wrapped up in the easy camaraderie in front of him. As a result of that distraction and the mindless pattern of reassurance he had fallen into, Stiles almost didn’t notice when something changed. To be fair, it was subtle. 

Derek had been absolutely rigid with tension this entire time, but suddenly that tension was accompanied by faint tremors that hadn’t been there before. Stiles blinked, coming out of the slight trance he had fallen into, trying to place what had changed. Then he registered the trembling now encompassing Derek’s body. 

Stiles gentled his grip on Derek’s wrists, but didn’t let go. Instead, he pressed more of his weight against Derek’s back, attempting to calm him with the pressure and physical comfort. “Hey Derek, back with me?” he murmured, voice low enough that it wouldn’t draw attention. 

Derek trembled harder and shook his head jerkily in denial —not of Stiles’s words, but the situation as a whole. 

Stiles hummed softly. “Easy. You’re okay. I’ve got you. You’re okay.”

Oddly enough, the comfort caused Derek to shake his head harder and curl into himself like he could hide from the world. Stiles could practically feel the shame and misery radiating off of him, and his heart broke a little for the beta. 

Stiles cast about desperately for something to say that would break through to him. After a couple seconds with no solid ideas, Stiles gave up and followed his instincts. He shifted his grip and curled his body forwards, pinning Derek in a fetal position underneath him. From there, Stiles pressed his nose behind Derek’s ear, nuzzling him in a deliberate scenting gesture. Stiles held that position for a moment, and then repositioned his arms under Derek’s chest so that instead of holding his wrists, Stiles had the beta wrapped in a firm hug, still pinning his arms to his chest. Again, Stiles held the position for a moment to let Derek process, and the beta’s breath hitched in confusion and perhaps wonder. Finally, Stiles twisted his right wrist so that his hand splayed against the base of Derek’s throat and at the same time tilted his head to press his fangs against the curve of his neck.

Derek froze. But his trembling stopped and Stiles counted that a win. He held still, waiting, and after several tense seconds, long enough that Stiles was starting to second-guess himself, Derek went limp with a desperate whine. 

Stiles started rumbling deep in his chest, and Derek almost strained his neck as he tried to bare his throat. 

“There you go,” Stiles murmured. “That’s good. I’ve got you. You’re safe. Let go.”

Derek was panting now, each exhale underlined by the whisper of a whine, but he was pressing back into Stiles, searching for more contact, more reassurance. 

Stiles kept whispering praise and reassurance, maintaining a dominant and sheltering position, and slowly, Derek’s breathing smoothed out and his heart steadied. 

Then Peter surged to his feet, breaking the calm tableau. “Stiles!” he called urgently. 

Stiles’s head shot up, and he suddenly heard footsteps approaching fast —supernaturally fast. 

“What the hell is going on here?!” Scott yelled. 

Stiles sighed and dropped his head down against Derek’s back, which was rigid with renewed tension.