Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The silver edged katana hovered centimetres from Stiles’ gut.

His hands clasped the handle, firm yet shaky, his breathing coming in ragged gasps.

“Do it, Stiles.”

Gaze snapping upwards, Stiles came face to face with the Nogitsune. Despite the bandages masking his face, Stiles could see the glee emanating off of him. His blackened lips twitched in excitement, fangs bared. His fingers flexed eagerly by his sides.

They both stood outside in a white wasteland. Snow fell lightly around them, dusting the ground like powdered sugar, but he didn’t feel at all cold.

“Do it.” the creature repeated in that low raspy voice of his, “Or would it be easier if it was someone else?”

Suddenly, it was no longer the nogitsune in front of him, but Scott. The katana was embedded deep into his abdomen, the blood slowly staining his friend's shirt. Red droplets bounced off the snow beneath them. Stiles looked down in panic only to see his hands still wrapped around the handle. He had done this. Scott’s face flashed in betrayal, eyes glistening with unshed tears.

“Stiles…?” his mouth opened and closed in shock, “Why… how could you…?”

Stiles felt his throat constrict.

“Scott, I-”

But then he blinked and it wasn’t Scott anymore. It was Allison. Like Scott, she had been impaled with the katana. Stiles stumbled backwards, a horrible weight building in his chest, suffocating him. A hand gripped his shoulder, and Stiles didn’t have to turn around to know that the Japanese demon was behind him. Allison collapsed to her knees, pulling the katana out of her stomach. This only made the blood flow faster. Scott appeared, crouching by her side, holding her. She was dying. She had to be. There was no way she could survive a wound like that. A solitary tear streamed down Stiles’ cheek.

“Why are you doing this?” Stiles’ voice came out barely louder than a whisper, but the Nogitsune heard him nevertheless.

“I’m not doing anything, Stiles,” the Nogitsune sneered, “You didn’t need me to do anything. This was you. You did this.”

“No…” Stiles shook his head, desperate for it to be a lie, but he knew deep down it wasn’t. This was him. This was his fault.

“How could you do this? Stiles?”

Scott was glaring up at him, tear tracks staining his face. Allison lay limp in his arms, pale as the snowflakes now dotting her skin.

Then, darkness enveloped Stiles, as if he had fallen into an echoing cavern. He tried to run, tried to escape, but he was stuck in this unending void. Scott’s voice rang out around him, following him, unrelenting and accusing.

“Stiles?”

A sob escaped past his cracked lips, but he kept running, though he knew it was futile. He could travel to the ends of the earth and not be able to escape what he’d done.

“Stiles!”

His chest felt close to imploding from exertion, but he kept going. Just a little further. Just a few more steps, and then he’d-

“Stiles!”

Stiles sat bolt upright, frantically taking in large gulps of air. He was in his bedroom. Slim rays of sunlight streaked into his room past the curtains, warding off the receding night. His duvet was tangled at the bottom of his bed. He felt his pyjama top sticking to him, slick with sweat.

It was a nightmare. Of course it was. He could’ve kicked himself. If there was one thing Stiles had become familiar with, it was nightmares. He should’ve been able to tell. Stupid brain.

His dad sat on his bed in front of him, eyebrows furrowed in concern. His palms were raised outwards towards Stiles, instinctively wanting to reach out and console him but also aware that that might not be a great idea right now. Stiles couldn’t blame him. Sometimes he’d wake up from a nightmare in such a frenzy he’d lash out against anyone that came close to him, the line between friend and foe no longer recognisable to him. Curling his legs into his chest, Stiles scooted backwards slightly.

“Sorry, dad. I’m fine, just a nightmare. You know how it is.”

He said that last part half-jokingly, but his dad didn’t appreciate his humour.

“You sure that’s all it was? I mean,” his dad sighed, seemingly unsure how to get the words out, “you’re… you’re feeling alright, aren’t you? You’re not hallucinating or-”

“Dad, seriously, I’m fine.” Stiles assured him, locking eyes with him to make sure the message got across.

‘Fine’ was maybe a bit of a strong word for it. It had been about two weeks since the Nogitsune had been exorcised from Stiles’ body. Two weeks since he watched his doppelganger crumble to dust in front of him. Two weeks since Allison…

Considering the fact that a fortnight ago he’d been basically dying himself, Stiles wasn’t holding up too badly. Sure, the nightmares sucked, and he’d been better, but at least he was here. Some people weren’t. People that were way more deserving of life had lost that chance, so… yeah, he couldn’t complain.

His dad nodded, exhaling tightly.

“Alright. Okay, well, I was about to come in and wake you up soon anyway. I know today is a big day, so you’d best be getting ready.”

Right. Today. Stiles had almost forgotten.

Perhaps catching the look on Stiles’ face, his dad placed a comforting hand on his knee.

“Hey,” he said softly. It was the same tone of voice he’d used whenever Stiles was upset as a kid. The voice that made his defences crumble, that made him feel like a little boy who just wanted a hug from his dad. Stiles swallowed thickly. “If you need to take today off and stay at home, we can do that, kid. I’m sure Scott and the others will-”

“It’s fine, dad.” Stiles shook his dad’s hand off his leg, his heart sinking involuntarily at the loss of warmth. “Really. It’s good. I’m good.”

His dad didn’t look convinced, but the weariness under his eyes told Stiles that he was also too tired to keep pushing. Instead, he just nodded, gave Stiles a strained smile and told him he’d give him some space to get ready.

As the door clicked shut, Stiles sunk further into the soft mattress of his bed, still trying to shake off the lingering fear from his nightmare.

He hated to put his dad through this. The whole possession thing was bad enough, but now even after it’s over he’s still waking up every other night screaming. If it was just Stiles that had to deal with it, it would be fine, but he could see the toll it was taking on his dad. Multiple times a night Stiles would pretend to be sleeping as his dad peeked around the door to check on him. He must be doing it every hour or so. Bags had formed under his dad’s eyes, and Stiles was pretty sure both their diets consisted of about 70% caffeine.

What Stiles did to deserve his dad’s unrelenting care and concern, he had no idea. If anything, Stiles should be the one looking out for him. He owed him that much. Or, at the very least, he wished he could pawn off his dad onto some members of the pack that actually deserved the help. Like Lydia. And Scott. You know, the ones who had suffered because of what Stiles had done.

Stiles sighed, rubbing his sleep weary eyes. He reached for his phone, tapping on his messages app and going onto his chat with Scott. They’d barely exchanged more than a few sentences in two weeks. The silence made Stiles uneasy. He knew Scott must be having a rough time right now - understatement - but he wasn’t sure if reaching out would help or exacerbate the issue. Fingers drumming nervously on the back of his phone, Stiles decided a simple text couldn’t hurt.

Hey Scotty. You feeling okay for today?

No more than a minute went by before Stiles’ phone buzzed with a response.

Okay as I can be. You?

Stiles quickly tapped a message back.

Same. I’ll be right there with you, man.

Scott read the message. Three dots came up, indicating that he was typing. Then they disappeared. No response.

Stiles tried to brush this off. His text didn’t really elicit a response, he supposed. And it’s not like replying to Stiles is going to be top of Scott’s agenda today, but… well, it was probably just paranoia but Stiles couldn’t help but feel like something had changed between him and Scott. Not just him and Scott, but him and the pack as a whole. Obviously, he didn’t expect them all to be entirely preoccupied with him - they all had their own shit to deal with - but they hadn’t spoken except for a few scattered texts here and there. It put Stiles on edge more than he’d like to admit.

Rising on unsteady legs, Stiles made his way over to the pile of neatly folded black clothes he’d arranged for today.

He stared at them, heart hammering, as it finally hit him.

Today was Allison’s funeral.

Chapter Text

Stiles

Stiles’ morning goes by in a haze, as if he were watching himself in third person through a pixelated TV screen. His body on autopilot, he mechanically drifts through his typical routine. Get dressed. Have coffee. Brush teeth. Before he knows it, he’s in his jeep on his way to the graveyard.

Every inch of his skin crawls uncomfortably. He’s not sure if it’s the itchy suit or just general anxiety, but it’s driving him insane. His mind drifts to the bottle of Jack in the back of his car. It had been an impulse to get it. Maybe a day or two after the Nogitsune, Stiles hadn’t been doing too well. He wanted to forget, to shake off the anxiety that clung to him like cheap perfume. An idea lit up in his head and before he could talk himself out of it, the whiskey was in his possession. Snatched out of his kitchen cupboard and into his car, without his dad being any the wiser. He’d been close to going to the preserve to drown his sorrows in private before he came to his senses and just drove home instead.

The one thing that had stopped him in his tracks that day was the recollection of what his dad had been like after his mom had died. Endlessly lost in a drunken haze. Gloomy and emotional, snappy and irritable. Then, in the morning, shattered and exhausted and all his efforts wasted because he still felt like shit. Stiles didn’t want to fall down that same rabbit hole.

The bottle remained a permanent fixture in his car since then. A part of him didn’t want to throw it away, just in case he ever really did need it. And, in a way, it served as a reminder. To not give in. Not be weak, no matter how much it tempted him.

His knuckles grew white on the steering wheel. The thought of facing everyone after not seeing them for two weeks - especially when the last time they properly saw him, he was trying to kill them all - was terrifying. His nightmare was still casting opaque shadows over his thoughts. He remembered the blame and anger in Scott’s eyes as Allison bled out in his arms. How could he face his best friend after what he’d done? It didn’t matter that it was the Nogitsune - the monster used his body, his mind. Stiles had been the one to let it in. If it weren’t for him, Allison would be alive, none of this would be happening.

The graveyard car park was nearly full, Stiles managing to nab one of the last spots. His jeep stuttered to a stop. He fumbled at his seatbelt, unclasping it hurriedly before leaning over the wheel for support. Tremors racked his body, his chest feeling like it was being squeezed by a vice. His eyes darted around, looking at the gathering crowd in the graveyard. It will be starting soon. He had to get up. Showing his face might be scary, but the shame of being too cowardly to even pay his respects would be ten times worse.

Fittingly, it was a dark, grey day, clouds tainting the sky. White folding chairs had been laid out in uniform rows, facing a large open grave. A silver casket hung over it. Allison is in there. Stiles swallowed back his tears, quickly averting his eyes. It was one thing to know that she was dead, but seeing her casket was the coup de grȃce. It pulled on his heart so roughly that he had to bring his hand to his mouth to stop from crying out.

People dressed in black milled around, engaging in quiet conversation. In the midst of the crowd of mourners, Stiles spied Scott. He was standing next to Melissa, her hand rubbing soothing circles on his back as she spoke to him. Scott nodded absently to whatever she was saying, face blank, clearly too zoned out to actually be taking anything in.

Okay, Stiles had to go in. He’d said he’d be there for Scott, so he would be. That was his brother and he wasn’t letting him down. Now, if he could just shake off what was no doubt an impending panic attack, that would be great.

Rat, tat, tat

Three gentle yet sharp knocks on his jeep window startled him out of his thoughts.

Standing outside his jeep, strawberry blonde hair tied back into a simple ponytail, wearing a knee length black dress and a cautiously friendly smile, was Lydia.

Stiles smiled hesitantly back, hoping she hadn’t noticed his minor meltdown. Hurriedly brushing some stray tears off his face, he opened the jeep door and climbed out.

“Hey Lydia,” he said, the two words coming out weirdly stilted. God, it really had been ages since he’d seen her.

“Hi Stiles,” she greeted him back. Her arms were wrapped protectively around herself, in lieu of a shield. It was so different from her usual air of self-assuredness. “How are you?”

The forced small talk took him aback slightly, but he went along with it, his hand rubbing the back of his neck.

“Me? Yeah, no, I’m good. Well, not good, but…” he shrugs, trailing off before he can make an idiot of himself. “How about you? How are things?”

“Been better,” she replied, her green eyes now glued on the graveyard ahead of them.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighed, his gaze following her own. His heart was beginning to race again, that fight or flight response kicking in. He caught sight of Chris Argent. The man was politely shaking hands with attendees of his daughter's funeral, ever stoic even in the face of death. Stiles licked his lips nervously. He couldn’t face Allison’s dad. No way. This was such a bad idea. How would her dad feel seeing the face of his daughter’s murderer at her funeral? For not the first time, Stiles felt that he hadn’t fully thought this through. He was about to come up with some excuse and dive back into the safety of his jeep, when he heard a small sniffle beside him.

He looked down at Lydia, all of his fear melting into sorrow once he sees that she’s crying. It’s restrained and terse, her face only quivering with emotion, but she’s definitely crying. He wraps his hand around hers slowly, giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Lydia?”

A couple more sniffles. Then, a whisper:

“I don’t think I can do this, Stiles.”

If Stiles’ heart wasn’t already broken, it certainly is now. He couldn’t imagine how hard this was for her. To lose her best friend. Hell, if it were him having to attend Scott’s funeral… he wouldn’t even be able to stand. But to see Lydia - confident, bright, determined Lydia - reduced to being so frightened and small… it spurs something awake in Stiles. That need he’s always had to protect her comes to life, squashing his own self-preservation instincts. He gives her a gentle nudge with his arm. She flinches ever so slightly, looking up at him with wide eyes.

“Yes, you can.” Stiles assures her. “You’re Lydia Martin. You can do anything.”

A ghost of a smile flickers onto Lydia’s face. She takes a shuddering breath in, before pulling her shoulders back and nodding.

“Okay. Let’s go.”

Scott

He couldn’t hear it.

Since the first day he met her, it had always been a sound he’d attuned into, the life raft that could save him from drowning in a sea of strangers. It always thrummed in the back of his head, a soothing melody that he thought would always be there. He didn’t even have to put effort into focussing on it, it just came so naturally to him. Like it was meant for him.

But now there was just silence. Silence where Allison’s heartbeat used to be.

Her casket sat raised above the grave, ready to be lowered. Soon, his first love’s heart would be far out of his reach. Buried underground, dead and decaying, dissolving away into nothing. Like she never existed.

The funeral procedures went off without a hitch. A few people got up to say a few words over the coffin. Despite his werewolf senses, Scott couldn’t hear what they were saying. His head was still stifled by the disconcerting quiet. Allison’s father stepped up and spoke. His eyes were dry. Scott guessed that a man like Argent would rather shed his tears in private than show his vulnerability in front of a crowd. It made sense, but it still baffled Scott that someone could be so… strong. God knows Scott isn’t that strong.

After what felt like seconds - or hours, or years, or an age - the funeral was over. The coffin laid neatly in the ground. Piles of dirt thrown over it in a last bid at goodbye. The gathered crowd began to disperse, people clinging to their loved ones and speaking in low consoling voices to each other. It was strange how loss could bring people together like that. Especially when for Scott it felt like he’d been ripped apart.

“Scott?”

Scott finally emerged from the tunnel he’d been hiding in, jolting back to the harsh present.

His mom looked at him, her face so gentle and patient.

“You coming, sweetie?”

Scott swallowed.

“Just a second,” he managed to croak out.

His mom nodded, giving his arm one last sympathetic rub before heading away. Leaving Scott to be alone. Or so he thought.

Turns out he wasn’t the only straggler still hanging back. The whole pack was here with him. Well, almost the whole pack. Lydia stood with her head high, bottom lip jutting out in a stubborn attempt not to cry, but the mascara tracks down her face gave the game away. Isaac was staring steadfast at the ground, looking for all the world like a scared little kid. And then there was Stiles. He stood next to Lydia, arm wrapped around her back comfortingly. She seemed to tense slightly at the contact, but Scott didn’t know if Stiles even realised. His eyes were unfocussed and glassy, glued onto the hole that Allison had just been laid to rest in. It was frightening to see Stiles of all people so still. Yet his heartbeat was going a million miles a minute.

Stiles had become somewhat unrecognisable to Scott recently. In more ways than one. If you’d have told him even a few months ago that soon his snarky, bright, hyperactive best friend would be dampened and dimmed into who he was now, it would’ve been unfathomable to Scott. Yet, there he stood. A different person. Changed from who Scott used to know so well.

But did he really know him that well before? It was something that had been nagging at Scott for a while now, but… how could he claim to be Stiles’ brother when he was unable to tell when he’d been possessed? A completely different entity took over his best friend and Scott was none the wiser. How lonely that must’ve felt. How terrifying for Stiles to be trapped in his own head, thinking that no one would even try to get him out. Because they didn’t even notice he was gone. It made Scott burn with shame. Some alpha he was.

A small, soft hand slipped into Scott’s own. He looked to his right. Kira stood close to him, big brown eyes gazing sadly into his own, offering some solace. Scott’s shoulders dropped slightly, the tension lessening.

It was a delicate thing he and Kira had going right now, but it was precious to him too. It almost seemed too simple, too undamaged. Just your typical story of a teenage boy liking a teenage girl. A high school crush. One that made Scott’s heart lift ever so slightly when she was around.

A fluttering heartbeat filled his ears, the timbre and rhythm so distinctly Kira. It drowned out the silence. Scott should’ve felt relief but it just felt… wrong. It was a different melody, not an unpleasant one, but just… different. How could he grow used to it when he’d never hear the old one ever again?

He slipped his hand out of her grasp and listened as her heart deflated.

“Hey.”

Stiles had appeared on his left. Scott couldn’t bring himself to look at him.

“Hi.”

A few seconds of silence.

“Did Derek decide not to come?”

“Yeah,” Scott nodded, “thought it might be too weird still. With everything that happened between their families,” Scott took a deep breath. “Have you heard from Malia?”

Scott saw Stiles shake his head out of the corner of his eye.

“Nah. I think her and Peter are still on their father/daughter trip. But they must be pretty cut off from everything, so…”

Their tentative conversation teetered into silence once again. A deep chasm might as well have been between them for how separated from Stiles Scott felt. And maybe that was for the best. At least for right now. Stiles didn’t need a friend like Scott, he needed someone who could actually lead and protect him. Scott didn’t know if he could be that person right now. He didn’t know if he’d ever been that person.

“Scott, I…” Stiles swallowed, “I’m so sorry, man.”

Sorry. Scott had been hearing that word all day. So much so that it only vaguely registered with him, ringing out like a muted bell.

“It was my responsibility to look after her,” Scott murmured, pressure building up behind his eyes, “That’s what I’m meant to do. It never should’ve been her that got hurt.”

It should’ve been me. Fuck, I wish it would’ve been me.

Stiles bridged the gap between them, placing a firm hand on Scott’s shoulder.

“It wasn’t your fault, Scott.”

It was only then that Scott finally built up the courage to look at Stiles. But for a split second, he didn’t see his friend standing across from him. Red darted across his vision and all he could see was the Nogitsune. Devilish eyes twinkling with malice, smirk etched across his face as he plunged a sword into Scott’s stomach. He’d held his shoulder as he did it, just as Stiles was doing now. And, yes, Scott knew that this was his friend, but he thought he’d known that before too. Now it was like all he could see was the Nogitsune. The one that killed Allison. The one that took his first love away from him.

He shrugged off Stiles’ hand, barely noting the way his friend’s face crumpled from the rejection.

“No,” he said, voice suddenly hot and firm with anger, “no, it wasn’t my fault.”

And he stormed off away from the open grave, away from his friends standing in shock at his exit, until that all-enveloping silence wrapped around him once again.

Chapter Text

Stiles

Stiles had never once been nervous to enter the McCall house.

How could he ever be? Those walls exuded such warmth and safety, like being wrapped in a warm blanket on a cold night. And for a brief period of time in his childhood, during that little black spot in his past right after his mom died, he sought that refuge almost every day. Back when his dad wanted to drown himself in bottles of whiskey after coming home from work. When the sickly stench of their grief seemed to materialise like a cloud over their house. When Stiles could hardly bear to be in a home where his mom’s absence was so painfully noticeable.

It was during that time that Stiles would spend a lot of time having sleepovers with his best friend, both of them nodding off together while Melissa read them to sleep. Those bedtime stories were the highlight of Stiles’ day, like the relief of cold medicine trickling down your throat and soothing your aching muscles.

Now, however, the house loomed menacingly over Stiles, no longer a safe haven, but more like an impending war zone. He felt his throat dry at the prospect of having to go inside and face Scott after the funeral.

It had been three days since Allison’s funeral, and Stiles hadn't heard from anyone. He wasn’t that surprised, especially if they all shared Scott’s sentiments. But it still stung like hell.

It never should’ve been her that got hurt.

That’s what Scott had said. Did he mean it should’ve been Stiles? Stiles always felt that Scott cared a lot more about Allison getting hurt than he did about Stiles, but he never expected to hear the other boy admit it.

No, it wasn’t my fault.

Stiles’ worst fears had come to fruition with those words. It was his fault. Stiles’ fault. Stiles had known it all along, but having to stand in the silence after Scott left, his words still echoing around the graveyard like malicious spirits, with none of the others attempting to deny the claim… It felt like a punch to the gut.

Lydia had also been acting off with him. She never said it as implicitly as Scott had, but Stiles wasn’t blind. He saw her flinch away from him, the tension in her frame when they came into contact. It made his heart feel like it had been seized by a metal fist, but again, he couldn’t exactly be angry at her. She had every right to be wary of him. His evil doppelganger literally kidnapped her and killed her best friend. That wasn’t something she could just… forget. Christ, if Stiles knew a way to forget all of this, he’d jump at the chance.

His dad had been keeping an even closer eye on Stiles after the funeral, clearly sensing that something was off. Stiles had to constantly reassure him that he was fine, which only made him feel worse. The Nogitsune had already proven that Stiles was the weak link of the group, the one that could be easily exploited and controlled. The coddling from his dad wasn’t exactly disproving that. He didn’t even deserve his dad’s worry, not after… everything.

Taking a sharp inhalation of breath, Stiles marched almost robotically up to the McCall's front door. He raised a shaky hand and knocked. Normally, he’d just open the door and bound
right in, so familiar with the family that waltzing into their home and invading their living space was permitted for him. But, considering the circumstances, he was trying to be a bit more respectful.

A couple of minutes passed with nothing stirring from within the house. Stiles raised his hand to knock again, when the door swung open. Melissa stood on the other side, peeking around the door at him, eyebrows raised in bewilderment.

“Hey Stiles,” she said in greeting, “what are you doing here, kiddo? I thought you’d be with Scott?”

Stiles’ chest deflates.

“Scott’s not here?” he asked, starting to wring his fingers anxiously.

“No, he said there was a pack meeting at Derek’s, I thought you’d be there too…” Melissa said carefully, eyes scanning up and down Stiles. She opens the door further invitingly, “Do you want to come in, Stiles? You don’t look so good.”

If he was being honest, Stiles didn’t feel so good. It felt like the aftermath of one of his nightmares. When the fear followed him into the morning and chased his lungs straight into a panic attack. He puffed out a forceful breath, demanding meekly that his breath return to normal. Has his body always been this disobedient? Or was this just another repercussion of the Nogitsune?

“I’m fine, just… been struggling to sleep recently,” he confessed.

“Still?” Melissa’s face tightened with worry. “I thought that was all over?”

“No, it’s not. Well, it is - the whole possession thing, I mean, that’s over. But, uh… nightmares, you know? What can you do?” Stiles shrugged with a half-hearted chuckle, desperate to dodge what was sure to be a barrage of mothering from Melissa. Not that he didn’t want that - actually, it would be quite nice. But he couldn’t right now. Not when so many things were wrong in his life. Not when the things that were wrong were his fault.

Shit, it was all his fault.

Scott, Lydia, the pack. They all hated him. They didn’t trust him anymore, he’d been kicked out without even so much as a breakup text.

“Stiles,” Melissa said in that firm but kind tone of hers that always managed to anchor him. She stepped fully outside and laid a hand on Stiles’ arm, “just breathe, alright? Breathe. Everything’s going to be fine.”

Stiles did as instructed, closing his eyes and putting all his concentration on taking deep breaths. At first, only a few shaky ones were doable. But he kept trying, kept focussing on Melissa’s voice and her hand on his arm.

Stiles felt like he was drowning. The water clogged his ears and blurred his vision, filling his lungs with droplets of salty water. He fought to make it to the surface. To break through into the air and take that vital gasp of oxygen.

The next couple of minutes - or however long it was, Stiles really couldn’t tell - passed by in a muffled haze. Eventually, he felt the feeling subside, the storm having seemingly passed. For now at least. He felt a hand caress his cheek. Wipe away a tear. He hadn’t realised he’d been crying.

“You look tired, sweetie,” Melissa said soothingly, “come inside, okay? We’ll get you some rest.”

It was a temptingly sweet offer. It burned to have to turn it down, but Stiles didn’t have a choice. If Scott was at Derek’s, then that’s where he had to be too. He had to somehow find a way to get the pack back on side. To get Scott to trust him again. To forgive him. And he couldn’t do that if he was resting.

“I… I’m gonna go,” Stiles backed away, catching the way Melissa sighed as he did so, “seriously, I’m fine. I just… I have to see Scott.”

Derek

“So, what exactly is the plan? And why do we even need a plan?”

The group of teenagers stood in scattered formation around Derek’s apartment. Scott had called an emergency meeting, and naturally, Derek was the designated host. How was this his life now?

“I told you,” Scott addressed Isaac, nearing the end of his tether with the other boy, “it’s not necessarily that we need a plan, but we should be prepared. All the times in the past where we’ve been caught off guard, it’s because we’d been unprepared. We’d just solve things as they were thrown at us. Well, maybe we should start being the ones to make the first move. Maybe we should be more vigilant.”

“And you think walking aimlessly around the woods at night is somehow going to help?” Lydia asked skeptically, twirling a piece of her long hair around her finger as if she was bored.

“It’s not aimless walking, it’s patrolling. And yes, I do think it’ll help. It’ll allow us to keep an eye out. Make sure nothing gets the jump on us.”

Derek spoke up:

“It’s not a bad idea. I already do my own night patrols every so often. So, you could take turns joining me in pairs.”

Scott nodded gratefully at Derek for the backup. Derek gave a small nod back in acknowledgement.

“So,” Scott said, energised by Derek’s support, “I was thinking tonight it could be me and Lydia. And then tomorrow, you guys,” he nodded at Kira and Isaac. “And we’ll just keep it on rotation like that for a while.”

Derek was slightly taken aback by Scott’s choice of partners. He’d felt sure that he’d choose to be paired up with Kira given their budding romance. Evidently, Kira had thought so too, because the corners of her mouth twitched downwards in disappointment before straightening out into a determined line.

“So, every other night we’ll be out in the woods?” Lydia asked, still uncertain, her tone passing on a certain amount of judgement for the meagre plan, “I know we’ve had our fair share of sleepless nights, but isn’t this pushing it a bit? We still need to… you know, function.”

Scott nodded in agreement, taking the criticism on.

“Yes, well, I guess when Malia gets back we can see if she could help… I don’t know when that will be though…”

Derek almost laughed. Scott looked so vexed trying to think up a solution to Lydia’s problem, when to Derek, the solution was simple. Were they seriously forgetting that they had an entire other member of their pack that they could utilise right at this moment?

“Stiles could always help.”

The silence that followed was definitely not what Derek expected. Scott’s shoulders rode up almost to his ears at the suggestion, his entire body tensing. Derek half expected his eyes to start glowing red. Lydia’s eyes widened, arms folding around her chest. Isaac sighed, scratching the back of his neck avoidantly. Kira stared at the floor, shooting occasional glances at the others. What was up with these guys?

“He can’t help,” Scott shot down the idea, his tone making it clear that he wasn’t budging on this.

Derek pushed him further. Whatever happened between Stiles and the others, surely they could put any petty disputes aside for their own benefits?

“Why not? Sure, he’s human, but there’s safety in numbers. At the very least it would give one of you guys an extra night off.”

“He can’t help,” Scott repeated stonily.

“You’ve taken him on your little misadventures before, what’s different about it now-”

“I don’t want him there, alright?” Scott practically jumped down Derek’s throat with his response. Derek hadn’t seen that kind of reactionary anger from Scott before. It wasn’t like him, and it made Derek pause in surprise. Scott sighed deeply. “Lydia, we’ll meet at the preserve tonight for our first patrol.”

He didn’t wait for a confirmation from the girl before leaving, not bothering to close the large door to the loft behind him. His exit seemed to signal the end of their pack meeting, as the others quickly trickled out after him. Kira and Isaac gave Derek somewhat awkward waves goodbye. Lydia just left, her head bent down in thought.

Derek waited until the echoes of their footsteps reached the ground floor of the building. He heard the engine of Scott’s motorcycle rev up and drive away, tires screeching against the road. The front door to the building clanged shut. They were gone.

Derek stood from the sofa, sighing as he did so. He couldn’t even begin to guess at whatever the hell that was about. He’d only fully realised it now, but he really hadn’t seen much of Stiles lately. Whenever the pack met up - though in the wake of their loss, there weren’t many gatherings - Stiles was noticeably absent. Derek had always brushed it off, thinking that the boy was probably still recovering from being possessed by the Nogitsune, certain that the others were checking up on him regularly and supporting him in his recovery. But after seeing the way Scott had just acted after Stiles was brought up… maybe Derek had misunderstood.

A small scuffle of a shoe brushing against the floor from just outside the large sliding apartment door caught Derek’s attention. Shaking his head, he leant on the table and called out:

“I know you’re there, Stiles.”

Sure enough, Derek heard a sigh, and Stiles reluctantly traipsed into the room. It struck Derek how tired the boy looked. Shadows were starting to form under his eyes, making him look eerily similar to when he had been possessed just over two weeks ago. But there was something different about it this time, something undeniably Stiles-like about him. He no longer emanated danger and aggression - quite the opposite, even. He held himself with an air of defeat, his shoulders sagged forward as if to shrink himself smaller. Inhaling his scent, Derek caught the distinct and sharp scent of anxiety.

“How long have you been standing out there?” Derek asked, keeping his tone level.

Stiles scoffed.

“Long enough,” he mumbled somewhat bitterly.

Ah. So he’d heard. Stiles began to fiddle with the rim of his shirt, as if looking for some kind of a distraction.

“Scott is just looking out for you. You know what he’s like,” Derek offered up the assurance, though he was unsure how much he himself even believed it. Scott’s motives were usually easy enough to guess - protect his friends, help those that need it, that kind of thing. But he’d changed recently. They all had. Maybe that just wasn’t the case anymore.

Stiles seemed to be thinking the same thing because he let out a mirthless laugh.

“Sure. I guess that’s why I wasn’t invited to this little meeting? Or any of the others I'm sure you guys have been holding without me?”

His eyes shot accusations at Derek, and Derek found himself unsure how to dispute them.

“Scott doesn’t trust me anymore,” Stiles muttered. His eyes grew shiny with tears. He sniffed them back determinedly, but he couldn’t hide them from Derek. “No one does. Hell, I don’t even trust myself anymore.”

Derek stood still as a statue, torn between maintaining his cool and providing comfort to the teary eyed teenager in front of him. But what comfort could he offer? Nothing he said or did would erase what Stiles had gone through. Nothing could magically fix the torn bonds between the group.

“We trust you, Stiles,” Derek took a couple of steps towards him, injecting all his sincerity into his words. “It’s just… rough right now. Give yourself time. Knowing you, you’ll figure out a way to win them back.”

The advice was meant to settle Stiles. To encourage him to take some steps back, let the pain run its course, allow the wounds to seal themselves. Maybe even to get him to get some sleep, because he looked like he needed it.

But rather than relax him, Stiles perked up at the words, an idea sparking behind those intelligent brown eyes of his. Uneasiness settled in Derek’s stomach. He approached Stiles slowly.

“Stiles, I think you should go home. Get some sleep.”

Stiles furrowed his eyebrows, chest puffing out defensively.

“I don’t need sleep.”

“You sure about that? You look exhausted.”

“I’m fine,” Stiles brushed off Derek’s assessments, his heart skipping a beat, giving away the lie.

“You don’t look fine,” Derek probed, “are you sure you-”

“I said I’m fine Derek!” Stiles shouted in a sudden burst of irritation. “God, why can’t anyone get that?”

Stiles started to retreat from the apartment, storm clouds swirling over his head.

“Stiles,” Derek called out after him, but he kept walking, “Stiles!”

No response. Like he hadn’t even heard him. But of course he had, he just didn’t care. Too wrapped up in whatever scheme he’d started to cook up.

Derek could easily run after him and force him back, but he didn’t want to make him feel trapped. It must’ve been hard enough being the prisoner of the Nogitsune. Stiles didn’t need that kind of treatment from his own pack as well. So, against his better judgement, Derek let him leave, an impending sense of dread building in his gut that he couldn’t shake for the rest of the day. Not even as the moon rose in the sky, silver edges carving a glistening hole in the sky, marking the first night of patrols for the gang.

Derek had a feeling that, as per usual, their plans would not go as smoothly as hoped.

Chapter Text

Stiles

Stiles cursed as he tripped over a tree root in the darkness, yet another reminder to start picking up his feet properly.

It was around midnight. The moon hung like a guardian overhead, not quite full yet though it surely would be in a few more nights. Stiles had always appreciated the quiet serenity of the preserve. Without as much light pollution from the town centre, the stars became more vivid, dotting the sky like paint splatters on canvas. It was always reassuring to have the reminder that no matter what happened, the stars would always be there. The world would keep spinning, nature would continue to reign, and at the end of the day all their troubles were quite small really in the grand scheme of the universe.

It was Derek who had given him the idea to come out here tonight. You’ll figure out a way to win them back. Those words flicked a switch in Stiles’ brain, and suddenly everything became so obvious. It was no use traipsing around after the others like a lost puppy begging for attention and love. He’d have to earn his place in the pack back. Show them all that he could be trusted. So, he’d decided to secretly join Derek, Scott and Lydia in the patrol tonight. If he could find something helpful, or discover some useful information, surely that would get him back in their good graces. It would be a start, anyway.

Wet grass squished beneath Stiles’ feet, the smell of the damp forest seeping into his nostrils. He couldn’t really see all that well, which is probably something he should’ve considered more, but he didn’t want to bring a flashlight and alert anything to his presence. He was going for a stealthy patrol - he didn’t have superhuman strength or super speed, so his best option was to avoid confrontation completely. This was sensible in a lot of ways but without any light, the preserve had an ominous atmosphere. The trees stood silently around him, their crooked branches grasping out into the looming darkness. Stiles felt a shiver trickle down his back, but he shook it off. It was either be creeped out in the darkness, or have a flashlight give away his location to any supernatural creature within a five mile radius. Stiles definitely preferred the former.

Part of it was also that he didn’t want the other pack members to see him. Of course, if he came up with something useful then he’d have to tell them what he was doing out here. But if they just stumbled across him before he’d had the chance to do anything, they’d try and put a stop to it. This had to be a solo mission, at least for now.

Crack!

A twig sharply snapped somewhere to Stiles’ left. He jumped slightly, squinting futilely in the direction of the noise. The shadows of the forest swirled and twisted, playing tricks on him. Sometimes it seemed like there was someone there. Then the next minute it was just a bush. Stiles wasn’t sure what to believe.

He drew back his shoulders, walking on. If something malicious made that noise, it would’ve attacked him by now. It was probably just an animal of some kind - a deer or even a rabbit. Nothing to be scared about.

Maybe it was the fact that he was already somewhat freaked out, or maybe it was just the environment ringing the bells in his head, but Stiles couldn’t help but think about the last time he was in these woods. That night he’d gone missing. When he’d thought he was stuck in the basement of Eichen House, a bear trap’s teeth impaled in his leg, the Nogitsune taunting him with vague words and riddles. He remembered the terror of being dragged across the cold floor, only for his surroundings to completely change as he discovered he’d been in the woods the whole time; the confusion as he found that the arms holding him in place belonged to Melissa, not the Nogitsune; her stroking his hair back and soothing him with soft whispers, as he came to grips with what had just happened; the horror of realising he was losing his mind.

Melissa and Scott’s dad had walked Stiles’ shaky frame back to their car. He doesn’t really remember that part too well. Part of him had still been in that basement. Had still been expecting it to all be fake, for him to blink and find himself trapped again at the mercy of the Nogitsune, but that didn’t happen.

Stiles couldn’t even pinpoint where exactly in these woods he’d been stranded. He could be standing in the exact spot right now and have no idea.

Crack!

Stiles whipped around. That had come from behind him. He peered yet again into the woodlands depths, coming up with nothing. He sighed, thinking that he definitely should’ve brought some kind of light source. He turned back around, ready to continue on his path.

A figure standing in front of him made him yell out in fear, leaping instinctively backwards.

“What are you doing here?”

Stiles panted, half-relieved, half-irritated at the familiar voice and man in front of him. He put his hands on his hips, still catching his breath from the fright.

“Jeez, Derek. You couldn’t have announced your presence before scaring me half to death?”

Derek’s face remained still, giving no indication that he felt bad for scaring Stiles.

“What are you doing here?” he repeated, his tone hardening.

“I’m… you know…” Stiles fumbled for an explanation, gesticulating silently, “just out for a walk.”

Not his best work, but it would have to do.

Derek raised a single questioning eyebrow.

“Out for a walk… in the middle of the night… in the woods?”

Stiles pressed his lips together firmly, nodding his head to double down on his excuse.

“Yep. Gotta get that fresh air.”

Derek continued staring at him, fully unimpressed. God, Stiles had almost forgotten how unnerving it could be to be under his scrutinising gaze.

“You’re out for patrol, aren’t you?”

“What?” Stiles’ voice must’ve jumped an octave in that one word. He cleared his throat, returning to his regular pitch, “no. No, why would you even think that?”

“Well, maybe because earlier today you overheard Scott’s plans to come out here tonight and due to your complete inability to keep yourself out of situations that don’t involve you, you decided to come along.”

“That’s just… not true,” Stiles said with an indignant scoff, but he knew the gig was up.

Derek sighed, some emotion finally making its way through that stoic mask of his.

“What was the plan, Stiles? To be the big hero and prove yourself to the others?”

Stiles' chest flared with annoyance at how narcissistic Derek’s deduction of his motives made him sound.

“That wasn’t it-”

“No? Because that’s what it looks like,” then, taking on a gentler tone, like a teacher telling off a misbehaving yet well-meaning student, “you couldn’t have achieved anything here, Stiles. What if you’d come across something dangerous? What if you’d gotten hurt?”

Stiles hated how much this was starting to sound like a lecture. From Derek of all people.

“Well, I’m not hurt am I?”

“No, but you could’ve been.”

“But I wasn’t. I’m fine!”

“Yeah, you keep saying that, but it’s not entirely convincing,” Derek snapped, his voice raised almost to a shout.

Just then, two more figures crashed into view. Stiles gritted his teeth against a groan. This was seriously just his luck.

Scott and Lydia looked between him and Derek, clearly surprised at Stiles’ presence. Lydia’s eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open, a rare instance of her being lost for words. Scott looked equally as bewildered, but only for a moment. He tensed up quickly, as if preparing for a fight.

“What’s going on?” Scott asked Derek.

“Stiles here decided to join us on patrol,” Derek explained.

What a snitch. Stiles resisted the urge to thump him on the arm.

“No, I’m just out for a walk,” Stiles corrected, emphasising every word to get his point across.

Lydia’s head tilted to the side skeptically.

“A walk?”

“Yes!” Stiles exclaimed, throwing his hands up in exasperation, “why is that so hard to believe?”

Scott’s eyes remained trained on Derek. The two seemed to be having some kind of silent exchange that Stiles and Lydia had been locked out of.

“Did you tell him we were coming out here tonight?” Scott finally spoke in a low voice, eyes glinting dangerously in the moonlight.

Anger bloomed in Stiles’ chest. It was bad enough being ignored, but for Scott to speak about him as if he wasn’t right here was just rubbing salt in the wound.

“No, Scott, he didn’t tell me,” Stiles interjected before Derek could respond, stepping in front of the other man to force Scott to see him. “I had to find out myself by eavesdropping on the pack meeting that I wasn’t invited to! So thanks for that!”

Scott at least had the grace to look guilty.

“Stiles… It wasn’t personal, it’s just-”

“You said you didn’t want me here,” Stiles pointed out, clenching his jaw to stop his lower lip from trembling, “what, you think I’m too weak, is that it? Or is it something else?”

Stiles looked at Scott, the challenge laid in front of him, daring him to say the real reason.

I don’t trust you, Stiles.

“I just thought…” Scott stuttered, squeezing his eyes shut in frustration, “you’ve not been looking so great recently, dude. I didn’t want to make things worse-”

“That’s such bullshit!” Stiles yelled, head foggy with anger, “Tell the truth!”

Whatever Scott was about to say, Stiles would never know. Because it was then that a low growl rumbled out from behind him, making the forest floor tremble. Stiles turned around and was met with a pair of glowing blue eyes that were undeniably trained on Scott. Target acquired, the figure broke out into a sprint - heading right for Scott.

Without hesitation or forethought, Stiles jumped in front of the figure’s path, blocking him from Scott. The wind was knocked out of him as whoever it was barrelled into him roughly, both of them tumbling to the ground. They rolled across the forest floor in a kind of wrestle, dry leaves clinging to Stiles’ hair as he grappled to gain the upper hand. After a few seconds of this, they both stopped, Stiles landing underneath the creature with a loud thud. His head slammed backwards and he heard a dull crack as it hit something hard, maybe a rock. He cried out instinctively at the sudden shot of pain ricocheting through his skull as shadows started to speckle in his vision. Vaguely, he registered a weight being lifted off of him, giving oxygen an easier trail to his lungs. He managed to get his blurry sight to focus on what - or rather, who - had just attacked them.

Standing over him, engaged in what sounded like a heated argument with Scott who stood protectively over Stiles, was Ethan Steiner.

Then Stiles’ eyes shut and all he saw was black.

Lydia

Lydia had been through a lot of weird shit in her life so far.

She’d been bitten by a werewolf, discovered multiple dead bodies and became a banshee. She’d watched her friends fight for their lives, sacrifice themselves and get possessed by an evil demon. For God’s sake, her boyfriend got turned into a lizard-man and went on a killing spree across town. Her past self would probably look at her now and brand her as being crazy. Which, she supposes, she is a little bit. They all are - how could they not be? But all in all, she thinks she’s coped relatively well all things considered.

However, there are times, such as right now, when Lydia has to take a step back and wonder - how the hell did I get here?

Stiles lay unconscious on the sofa next to her, head wrapped up in tight bandages. The patch of blood at the back of his head was no longer bleeding, but the contrast of the red blood and his pale skin made Lydia’s stomach twist uncomfortably. She had the urge to reach out and cup his face, but something held her back. It made her ashamed to admit it, but it was fear.

Stiles wasn’t a scary guy. The opposite, in fact. He was sweet and funny. He’d always made it clear how much he cared about her and that devoted attention made her feel… safe. Lydia hadn’t even felt that security with some guys she's dated in the past. She certainly hadn’t felt that way with Jackson. But… well, since the Nogitsune… she just can’t get his words out of her head. The ones whispered into her ear, in a horrible invasion of space that made her skin crawl:

I eat what you feel. And I’m insatiable.

It was strange hearing Stiles’ voice twisted into something so menacing, but it was undoubtedly his voice. Lydia knows it wasn’t him, but… well, it can be hard to separate the two sometimes.

What are the voices telling you? Are they saying that Stiles is dying? He is, you know.

She looked at Stiles now. In his unconscious state, he looked almost peaceful. Lydia hasn’t seen him look so calm in a long time. His head lolled to the side, his mouth open just slightly. The shadows under his eyes made Lydia wonder how long it’s been since he’s gotten a good night’s sleep.

“I didn’t know he was going to jump in my way like that!”

Ethan’s voice echoed in Derek’s drafty apartment.

After Stiles had been knocked out, Lydia, Scott and Derek decided to get him somewhere safe. Derek said he had medical supplies at his, and his place was the closest, so that’s where they went. Ethan, using every other sentence to apologise, had tagged along with them. At first, Scott had tried to shake him off, completely closed off to the idea of having Ethan anywhere near Stiles after what he just did.

“You nearly killed him!” He’d yelled, eyes glowing that bright alpha red, fangs bared in a snarl.

It had taken a lot of convincing on Ethan’s part, and a lot of Derek reasoning that it didn’t matter who did or didn’t come with them, what mattered was getting Stiles some first aid, before Scott had relented. He hadn’t looked at Ethan since. Or Stiles, for that matter.

Now, Scott was standing in front of the couch that Lydia and Stiles occupied, a vigilant bodyguard.

“He only jumped in your way because he thought you were attacking me.”

It was strange, Lydia thought, how fiercely protective Scott was of Stiles despite the fraying edges of their friendship. He could be angry all he wants, but at the core of him, he will always care about Stiles. They’re brothers, after all.

Ethan sighed, eyes closing as he barely held onto his patience.

“I wasn’t attacking you,” he emphasised every word, the sentence one that he had repeated a thousand times since leaving the preserve, “I recognised you and began to approach you.”

“That’s how you approach someone?” Derek chimed in skeptically, leaning on the table to Lydia’s right, the moonlight shining through the large window, casting his broad shadow across the floor.

“I told you,” Ethan said slowly, “since Aiden, it’s been harder to control the change… and to control myself. I didn’t mean to run at you like that, I lost control. I’m sorry Stiles got hurt. But I’m here for a reason.”

After his twin had died, Ethan had left town without so much as a goodbye. Lydia understood but it didn’t make the sudden departure hurt less. She’d thought that after losing two vital members of their pack, the best thing to do would be to stick together. Then again, Ethan had basically lost his other half. That was bound to make you want to escape. After Allison, part of her had wanted to run away too. Anywhere away from here where ghosts haunted every crook and crevice.

“What reason would that be?” Derek asked.

Ethan licked his lips nervously.

“Okay, while I was away, I bumped into Peter and Malia, and I-”

“Malia?” Lydia jumped as Stiles piped up from beside her. His voice was weary and hoarse, but his eyes were alight with interest. He sat up slowly, wincing slightly as he did so, “is she okay?”

Lydia pursed her lips. She didn’t know exactly what bond there was between Stiles and the were-coyote. They’d been together in Eichen House, she knew that - it was good that Stiles had at least one friendly face in that hell hole. So why did she feel so… weird about it?

“She’s fine, they both are,” Ethan confirmed, eagerly continuing with his tale, “but Peter told me something.”

“Oh, that’s always good,” Derek remarked sarcastically.

Ethan ignored him.

“He told me about how he came back to life. He told me how it could be done, how someone can be brought back from the dead.”

Lydia felt goosebumps go up her arm. Yes, she remembered that particular scheme of Peter’s all too well. He’d used her for it, manipulated her during some of the most painful and vulnerable days of her life. She shivered. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Stiles glancing at her, no doubt recalling exactly what she was. She stared ahead, knowing if she made eye contact he’d somehow be able to unravel all her emotions.

“What about it?” Scott asked.

Ethan looked between them all disbelievingly.

“Isn’t it obvious? He told me how to bring Aiden back. Which means we can also bring back-”

“Allison,” Scott finished the thought, the name coming out a reverent whisper.

The implications of that hit Lydia. Could that really happen? Could they bring back Allison? Of course she wants to bring her best friend back, but it all sounded too good to be true.

Derek also seemed to have objections, because he spoke up.

“I don’t know if Peter told you, but last time that ritual was done, Lydia here dragged me to where Peter was buried and used me as a blood sacrifice.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Ethan shrugged.

“Yes, it did work,” Derek said between gritted teeth, “but in this case, it wouldn’t. One of the reasons I was the blood sacrifice was because I killed him. Because I had a connection to his death. I don’t know if you noticed, but Allison and Aiden’s killer is no longer here.”

“Not exactly,” Ethan conceded, “but, there is someone that has some kind of connection to both of their deaths.”

The room went silent. Nobody needed to ask who. They all knew who Ethan meant.

Stiles cleared his throat.

“So what exactly do I have to do?”

Chapter Text

Stiles

The ritual was almost suspiciously simple.

Ethan said all they needed was the light of the full moon and a blood sacrifice. The former would be in a few days time, luckily for them. The latter was where Stiles came in.

“Hold on,” Derek had interjected, “Peter did choose me because I killed him, but it was also because I was an Alpha. I had the power to bring him back, to heal him. Stiles has no power.”

“Gee, thanks,” Stiles muttered, rubbing the back of his sore head and feeling the rough bandages under his fingertips. The pain had dulled down to a steady throb but it was still making him slightly dizzy.

“Then we can use Scott too,” Ethan said, “Two blood sacrifices instead of one.”

“We don’t have the right full moon either,” Lydia spoke up, eyes looking at something far far away, “Peter said the Worm Moon was symbolic. That it represents reawakening, that during the thaw of March worms start to make their way to the surface. It’s December. This month’s full moon is the Cold Moon.”

“I’m not sure we need the Worm Moon,” Ethan replied, “yes, it was symbolic and definitely a good time to bring someone back from the dead. But Peter told me that any full moon could work. It just so happened that his resurrection came around at a fitting time.”

Derek laughed darkly.

“This is ridiculous. Even if this were to work, which is a long shot, who’s to say that we could get either of them back? Peter died an alpha. He was already powerful, powerful enough to manipulate Lydia from beyond the grave into bringing him back. Aiden died a beta, and Allison wasn’t even a werewolf. The ritual might not even work on them, we hardly know anything about it.”

“We know what Peter has told me,” Ethan objected.

“Because he’s always been such a helpful source,” Derek retorted sarcastically.

“Guys,” Scott broke into the conversation just as Ethan opened his mouth to argue, “clearly we have some stuff to think about. We’ll look into it more and decide if it can be an option.”

“Scott, you can’t be serious,” Derek crossed his arms, “What good is this going to-”

“If it could bring back Allison and Aiden, isn’t it worth at least thinking about?” Scott snapped, making Stiles jump a little. Scott sighed, rubbing his temple, “I’ll look into it more tonight. You guys can all go home.”

It had been phrased like an offer, something that could be accepted or refused. But the way he said it told Stiles that Scott wanted them all out. Normally, Stiles would’ve fought him on it, would’ve endeavoured to remain by his side, but honestly? He was getting tired of fighting for a seat at a table he wasn't welcome at. He stood up, the world tilting as he did so.

“Stiles,” Derek rummaged in his pockets, pulling out Stiles’ car keys, “your jeep is outside.”

Stiles nodded in thanks, taking the keys before heading out the door, Lydia and Ethan following behind him. He supposed they must’ve driven his jeep from the preserve to Derek’s whilst he was knocked out. He wondered who had driven. He didn’t care enough to ask.

The cold air almost winded him as he stepped outside. It felt like little icicles were pricking his face, but it was weirdly refreshing. A nice respite from the awkward stuffiness of the apartment. He spotted his jeep, parked haphazardly as if whoever was driving was too panicked to take the time to do it properly.

Ethan brushed past Lydia and Stiles, hands in his pockets and head down as he walked away from them.

“Ethan,” Stiles called out, “aren’t you gonna stay with Derek?”

Ethan shook his head.

“Nah. I’m good by myself. I haven’t been sleeping too well recently and…” he cleared his throat, “being outside calms me.”

“I’m not sure how calm you’ll be when you’re freezing to death,” Lydia pointed out.

Ethan smirked at her, though there was a sombre shine in his eyes.

“I’ll be fine. Trust me.”

Lydia had gone to say something else, but Ethan was apparently done with the conversation. Off he went without another word. Stiles felt a twinge of sadness for the guy. Sure, they weren’t close and he had just knocked him unconscious, but… Stiles knew what it felt like. To not belong anywhere anymore. Obviously their situations were very different - Ethan had lost his brother, Stiles’ had just stopped talking to him - but he still felt he understood Ethan on that level.

“I can drive you home if you want?” Lydia suggested.

“Nah, it’s fine,” Stiles said with a shake of his head.

“Do you really think you should be driving right now?” Lydia said in that I-know-better-than-you tone of hers. Stiles’ mouth twitched upwards fondly, “You might have a concussion.”

“I feel fine,” he assured her. The pain had dulled down significantly and everything was spinning much slower than it was before, so. Progress!

But as he started heading to the drivers’ side, Lydia spoke up again:

“You don’t have to do it, you know.”

He didn’t ask for clarification on what she meant.

“Yes I do.”

“No, Stiles, you don’t.”

“Even if it might bring Allison back?” he challenged.

Lydia stepped backwards in surprise at the severity of his tone. He immediately felt guilty for becoming so harsh with her. He didn’t want to give her even more reasons to pull away from him.

“I was there when Peter came back,” she said, her voice as fragile as glass, “I saw first hand what it took from Derek, and he was an alpha. I just…” she trailed off, bottom lip quivering with emotion, “I don’t think it’s worth getting Allison back if I might lose you too.”

An arrow pierced Stiles’ heart at that confession. He tried to open his mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Eventually, by some miracle, he regained his powers of verbal communication.

“Scott wants me to try.”

Lydia sighed.

“Scott… Scott is just grieving. He doesn’t know what he’s asking of you. If he did, he wouldn’t want you to.”

Stiles swallowed, fiddling with the keys in his hands, the cold metal smooth against his skin. Lydia wasn’t often wrong. She was too smart for that. But… Stiles had seen the way Scott’s eyes had burned when Ethan had brought up Allison. She was his first love, of course he’d want her back. Stiles having to do a little blood sacrifice was a small price to pay.

“I’ve got to try,” Stiles said, opening the door to get into his jeep, “it’s the least I can do.”

He climbed into his jeep, slamming the door shut behind him. As he drove off he caught a glimpse of Lydia in his wing mirror and there was no mistaking the fear on her face.

Stiles felt his stomach twist. Lydia being scared was the last thing he wanted. But he really did owe it to Scott to try. This is what he’d been looking for, his opportunity to make Scott and the others trust him again. If he refused to do it, then Scott would surely hate him forever and… and that just couldn’t happen. Not to mention he’d probably hate himself forever too. The self-loathing he’d been feeling since the Nogitsune was like a parasite and it was slowly taking more and more from him with each day. How much worse would it get if he was too much of a coward to bring back his friend? He could barely look at himself in the mirror these days, how would he be able to live with himself each day knowing Allison could be alive if it weren’t for him?

These thoughts followed him down the road all the way to his house. They traipsed into his home after him, slipping in just before he could lock the door. The only thing that finally scared them off was when Stiles walked into the dining room, turned on the light, only to find his father sitting there waiting.

“Jesus, dad!” Stiles yelped, hand going over his pounding heart, “you scared me.”

“Where the hell have you been?” his dad asked. Uh oh. He was using his cop voice. The one he whipped out for convicted criminals and no-good troublemakers and, occasionally, Stiles. He was staring fixedly at the table, hands balled into fists in front of him.

“I was just out with Scott and Lydia,” Stiles explained quickly. Not a complete lie. “We were on patrol.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me that before sneaking out in the middle of the night?” his dad asked, his voice crescendoing to a yell at the end of his sentence. He rose from his chair, face red with anger. “I’ve been worried sick, Stiles! You can’t just up and leave like that! I didn’t know what had happened to you, I didn’t know if you’d been sleepwalking again or if you’d been hurt-”

“I’m not hurt, dad, please!” Stiles interjected, desperate to stop the impending lecture.

“You’ve literally got a bandage wrapped around your head!” his dad pointed out.

Shit. He’d forgotten about that. He hurried to take it off, though what exactly that would accomplish now he didn’t know.

“It’s just a scratch,” he said, pulling at the bandages uselessly. With an especially sharp tug, they finally unravelled into his hands, exposing the blood stain that had been at the back of his head. His eyes widened and he hurried to tuck the bandages behind his back out of sight, but it was too late.

“You’re bleeding,” his dad muttered. He grit his teeth, eyes glistening, “where are you bleeding?”

“Dad, please, it’s fine,” Stiles began, but it was no use. His dad took him by the shoulder and turned him around, exposing the wound on the back of his head. Stiles hoped it didn’t look that bad. Lydia and the others must’ve cleaned the blood off, so that was something. But when his dad pressed a cautious finger on his tender skin, he couldn’t help but wince. He pulled away, rubbing the back of his head.

“What happened? How’d you get that?” his dad was back in interrogation mode. Stiles could hardly look at him, he felt so guilty.

“I just… fell,” he said, shrugging.

He hated lying to his dad, he really did, but what good would the truth do? ‘Oh, yeah, I got attacked by a werewolf and I hit my head so hard I passed out. But don’t worry - he didn’t mean to do it. In fact, he came all this way to tell us that I need to make a blood sacrifice in order to bring Allison back from the dead!’ No matter what he said, his dad was going to be upset. This was the lesser of two evils.

His dad scrutinised him, chest rising and falling erratically.

“I know you’re lying to me, Stiles,” his dad said in a scarily level tone, “what I don’t get is why. After everything that happened two weeks ago, everything we went through, you’re just gonna start lying to me now?”

He could’ve punched Stiles in the gut and it would’ve hurt less than that. He clenched his jaw against the pain.

“I’m not lying.”

“Yes you are. I thought we were past that. Occasional little white lies, sure, every teenager does that, but you’re lying to me every day now. I know you’re lying when you say you’re fine, I know you’re lying about your nightmares and how much sleep you’re getting, I know there’s more going on with you than what you’re telling me!” the sheriff sighed, “Please, son, I just want to help-”

“You don’t need to help me, dad!” Stiles exclaimed, unable to prevent the flood of emotion from overtaking him, “you have to stop worrying about me all the time!”

“Stiles, I’m your dad, I’m never going to stop worrying about you.”

“Well, you should! You really should, alright, because I don’t…” oh, great, he was crying. This wasn’t exactly corroborating his point. He angrily wiped the tears away, “I don’t deserve it. And I’m sick of being a burden to you and dragging you into my shit.”

The older man stared at him, mouth open in shock.

“Stiles you’re not a burden to me-”

“Cut the crap dad! We both know it’s the truth. Even before the Nogitsune and the supernatural stuff. Back when mom got sick and after she died, you had to take all that on, and then on top of that you had to deal with this… hyperactive little kid,” Stiles’ thoughts were a trainwreck, swinging recklessly on the tracks, and he couldn’t stop them, couldn’t prevent them from tumbling out, “and when she was dying… dad, I was there, I was right there and I couldn’t… I couldn’t do anything…”

That summed up Stiles' whole life. Not being able to do anything. Bad things would happen and he'd have to watch. Because he wasn't strong enough. Because it was out of his control. Because he was helpless. It was like being dragged into a vortex and being completely defenceless as the water dragged you under.

The walls of his home felt like they were closing in on him. Stiles stumbled backwards, the claustrophobic panic clawing up his throat, pushing against his ribs. He had to get out of here. He had to escape.

He could see his dad’s mouth moving, probably trying to calm him down, but it felt like the whirlpool had already trapped him beneath the waves. Stiles couldn’t hear a thing. He started for the door. As he stepped outside he looked at the sky. It was starless, a black canvas, the light pollution snuffing out the jewels of the night. Even the sky felt suffocating. He had to get somewhere open, somewhere he could actually breathe, because shit, he couldn’t breathe.

He jumped into his jeep and started up the engine. His dad stood outside, pleading with him through the glass. Stiles ignored him. It was better this way. He had to start dealing with his issues by himself instead of leaning on his dad all the time.

Reversing out of the driveway and starting off jerkily down the road, Stiles’ shaken mind managed to pull its focus onto one object. He glanced into the backseat briefly. The bottle of Jack sat there, fallen on its side, amber liquid sloshing around the bottle.

With his destination in mind, Stiles pushed down on the accelerator. He was sick of trying to be strong. Of waking up and going to sleep with the same cloudy misery hanging over him. He just wanted a break.

And what better time than now?

Chapter Text

Scott

Scott had lost track of how long he’d been researching this stupid ritual.

Well, trying to research it anyway.

No matter what he typed in, what websites he landed on, what rabbit holes he went down, he just couldn’t get any solid information. Maybe it just wasn’t very well known. Maybe it wasn’t done much and had been lost to the sands of time. Or maybe it was just utter bullshit. Whatever it was, Scott couldn’t find a thing to help him figure it out. And whatever he ended up finding was pretty unhelpful and sometimes even contradictory.

The Worm Moon grants supernatural beings heightened powers and can allow them to come back from the dead.

A full moon is needed as it is the most powerful lunar phase - so, there will be twelve (sometimes thirteen) opportunities throughout the year to perform the ritual.

Anyone can be brought back from the dead, regardless of any previous or non-existent supernatural ability.

It is believed that only powerful creatures can return to life, as any human being is simply not powerful enough to wrest themselves from death’s clutches.

The blood sacrifice is crucial, and the criteria for whom it must come from is rather specific - it must be from only the most powerful of magical beings.

A blood sacrifice must be made, and it must be from someone of significance in relation to the death of the subject. If they were murdered, for example, their killer would be the ideal sacrifice.

A sigh escaped Scott’s lips.

“Find anything?” Derek asked from the couch. He was leaning back in it comfortably, flicking leisurely through the pages of a large tome. Apparently it was an old Hale family relic, one that Derek thought might have something that could be of use to them.

“No. You?”

“No,” Derek’s reply was monotonous and weary and it made Scott want to shake him. This could be the key to bringing back Allison. That should bring about some sense of urgency! What did Derek not get about that?

He was just about to ask him as much when a small figure appeared in the door.

“Hey,” Kira greeted him nervously. She approached the table he was sitting at, eyes flitting briefly over to Derek (who ignored the interruption) before returning back to Scott, “how are you?”

“Yeah, um… alright,” Scott said uncertainly, “what are you doing here? I mean… are you okay? Has something happened?”

“I’m fine. Lydia messaged me, she said you were here,” Kira explained, clasping her hands in front of her and smiling tightly at him.

Ah. Along with disclosing his location, Lydia must’ve also dropped the bomb about the ritual. Scott shifted in his seat, suddenly uncomfortable.

“Listen, Kira, I…” he licked his lips, only now noticing how dry they are, “this whole ritual thing, trying to bring back Allison… I know it’s weird and you’re really new to this whole world so it’s even weirder for you, but-”

Kira gently cut him off, which Scott was pretty glad about because he’s pretty sure his rambling explanation was going nowhere.

“Scott, I’m not bothered by the ritual,” she said. Then, a pause, before, “well… I’m not not bothered by it, but that’s not why I’m here.”

“Then… why are you here?” Scott asked, genuinely confused.

Kira tilted her head, looking at him like the answer was obvious. She walked closer to him until she stood next to him, then crouched down to get on a similar level to him.

“I’m here for you, Scott. I wanted to check if you were okay.”

Scott blinked in surprise at that, her sincerity making it hard to swallow all of a sudden.

“Yeah… yeah, I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“No one would blame you if you weren’t, you know. After everything that’s happened. Lydia said Stiles got attacked tonight. And after Allison…”

Scott felt his muscles tense at the mention of Allison, as if he were a puppet and the strings controlling his limbs had been pulled taut.

“Yeah, well, luckily, I might have found something that can make at least one of those things better,” Scott said, voice turning to stone as his anger dripped into his veins like a drug. He turned away from Kira, eyes laser focusing on his laptop once again. He’d already wasted some valuable research time in this conversation. Time to get back to work.

Kira, always one to remain amicable until the last possible second, continued prodding him.

“You should get some rest, Scott,” she implored him. He didn’t move, didn’t even acknowledge that she had spoken, hoping that if he did so she might just disappear. However, that didn’t happen. It had the opposite effect, even, because a hand reached out and settled on his arm. It felt like a hot brand being pressed into his skin. “Scott, come on-”

Scott jerked away from her touch.

“No! I don’t need rest, Kira! This might not matter to you because you barely knew her, but I loved Allison. And if there’s a chance I could get her back, then I’m not going to rest until I’ve figured it out!”

His outburst was fueled by flames and hot red anger. By the feeling that Kira couldn’t understand and should stop pretending to. Hell, she might even not want Allison to come back. That would just complicate things after all. Those thoughts heated up the irritation burning in him until the friction produced a lightning strike of outrage.

But as he looked at her in the aftermath, the tears in her eyes smoldered any lingering resentment. He shut his eyes, chest sinking with regret.

“Kira, I’m-”

“It’s fine,” she sniffled, eyes glued to the floor. It stung Scott that she couldn’t even look at him. “I’ll leave you to it.”

“No, don’t go, please just-”

But she was already retreating from the loft. Scott stood helplessly, watching her leave. After the door shut, he closed his eyes, zoning his hearing onto the heartbeat beyond the door. It was erratic and jumpy, a loud staccato that soundtracked her sadness. It pierced Scott right in the gut.

“Aren’t you going to go after her?”

Scott had almost forgotten that Derek was there. He felt his cheeks heat up knowing that there was an audience to his overreaction.

The older werewolf brought up a good point. There was still time to make things right. If he ran after her now, he could catch up before she left. Apologise to her, try to explain his actions, pledge to be better. Forgiveness wasn’t guaranteed but Kira was so sweet natured that she’d most likely be understanding.

He could try and make things right, but… his laptop still sat on the desk, glowing invitingly, search bar blank and blinking in anticipation. How could he leave now? He hadn’t gotten any useful information. Allison deserved more of an effort. He had to at least try.

So he stayed, returning slowly to his seat. Residues of guilt remained with him, like mud tracked across a previously unstained floor. Sadness wasn’t good if you wanted to be productive. He’d found that out right after Allison had died, when he could barely bring himself to leave his bed, let alone attempt any of the homework that had begun to accumulate in a mountainous pile on his desk. So, he summoned all the anger he could.

His anger had become his most reliable motivator. A red haloed saviour that dragged him out of the murky depths of his numb depression when no one else could. Anger could be useful. Even Derek used it as his anchor. So, Scott figured, if he was going to be angry, he might as well use it for something good.

“She’ll be fine,” he said in response to Derek’s query. He began typing into his laptop, resuming the search for answers.

The lid of his computer slammed down violently, nearly crushing his fingertips beneath it before he reflexively pulled them away in time.

“What the hell?” Scott glared up at Derek who was scowling at him from the other side of the table, “you could’ve broken my fingers!”

“You need to explain what exactly is going on with you.”

“What are you talking about?” Scott asked, perplexed at this sudden attack.

Derek sighed.

“You’re an alpha, Scott. You’re supposed to keep your pack together, to look out for them. But first you start pushing away Stiles, and now Kira too?”

“I’m not pushing anyone away.”

“Yeah? Cause you reacted really weirdly yesterday when I mentioned bringing Stiles along for patrol. You’ve never not wanted him to be around for something like that, so what’s changed?”

“That’s not…” Scott swallowed. He couldn’t lie to Derek - the man was a walking lie detector, it was impossible. But how could he begin to explain the strange complexities of his feelings towards Stiles at the moment? He couldn’t even understand them himself. They weren’t rational, he knew, but they were just springing up, like a horrible growth slowly infecting him.

Derek must’ve mistook Scott’s hesitance for avoidance because he closed in further, going for the jugular.

“Have you visited Stiles at all these last couple of weeks? Spoken to him? Asked how he was doing? No, you haven’t. You’re meant to be his best friend, his brother, and instead of helping him you’re pushing him away for no reason. How is that helping anyone?”

“I don’t need a lecture,” Scott mumbled. And he really didn’t. He’d already berated himself enough for those mistakes. He didn’t know why he’d become so averse to seeing Stiles, he just… it was so hard after everything. He had to place his grief and anger somewhere. And Stiles wore the face of Allison’s murderer. But it wasn’t Stiles’ fault, Scott knows that… Ugh, his head was starting to hurt. When did things get so complicated?

“It’s not a lecture, it’s a warning,” Derek’s voice was severe and hard, “if you keep doing this you’re not going to have anyone left. Kira is infatuated with you, that much is clear, but if you keep dismissing her like that she’s not going to hang around.”

“I know…” Scott said, defeated. Kira was great. Better than he deserved. And he liked her too! That’s the worst part of all of this. It felt like he’d flipped to the middle of a book when he hadn’t even finished reading the first chapter. His first love story wasn’t meant to be over yet. Him moving on so quickly after Allison’s death would feel like a betrayal of everything they were.

“Scott,” Derek said, his tone surprisingly soft considering his usual gruff demeanour, “I get that things have been hard for you. I know what it’s like to lose the person you love-”

“How could you know what this is like?” Scott snapped. There it is again. That oh so reliable anger, always just bubbling below the surface, ready to erupt at a moment’s notice. “This is such a fucked up, shitty, situation, you do not know shit about what this is like.”

Scott had seen Derek be put through numerous trials and tribulations, and he’d only ever had minor reactions to any of them, his stoicism undying even in fatal situations. But Scott had learned to read the small intricacies of Derek’s expressions, and he could see that his words had hit some nerve. Derek’s eyes widened a fraction, his nostrils flaring. His fists twitched by his sides and Scott could hear his heart jump wildly before it was quickly schooled back into submission. Derek being able to have such practiced control over his reactions only made Scott more irritated, but he held it in, trying to take a leaf out of Derek’s book. Scott could practically feel the steam pouring from his ears.

After a brief standoff between them, Derek walked back to the sofa.

“Go home, Scott,” he called over his shoulder.

Scott didn’t move.

“We have to keep researching.”

“No, we don’t. I’ve made up my mind and the ritual isn’t a good idea,” Derek sounded significantly more weary than he had a few seconds earlier. Perhaps restraining his emotions takes a bit of a toll on him.

“Come on, Derek-”

“Scott, think about it,” Derek said, sitting down on the sofa, “Peter has never been reliable or trustworthy. He only looks out for himself, we should not be blindly following what he’s told us. And if we did, would it even be worth it? Take it from someone who was the blood sacrifice the last time this ritual was done, it’s not a great experience. I felt drained for days afterwards, and I was an alpha at the time. Maybe you would survive it, but what about Stiles? Is it really worth bringing back Allison if you might lose your best friend at the same time?”

That gave Scott pause. It was stupid, but he hadn’t thought of that before. He’d been so determined to just try it at any cost that he hadn’t actually considered what that cost would be. If it was losing Stiles, he wasn’t willing to pay it.

But… Stiles might not die. There’s nothing to suggest that he would. And he probably wanted Allison back just as much as Scott. He’d offered himself up fairly quickly to help, so it must be something he’s eager to do too. Besides, maybe this could repair their friendship. It could wind back time, reset things to how they were before their lives became a mangled mess. It wasn’t just Allison on the line. It was his friendship with Stiles.

“Just…” Scott sighed, “one more hour. Please. I have to try…”

Scott didn’t think Derek would give in so easily. But to his surprise, the werewolf wordlessly picked up the tome and resumed reading it.

Scott’s heart twinged lightly with gratitude. He didn’t need to express it verbally - he knew Derek felt it.

He opened his laptop again and with renewed vigour, continued typing.

Argent

In order to strike true, an arrow must have aim.

That’s what Chris had been told when he was being taught how to handle a crossbow. He’d thought it redundant at the time - obviously in order to hit a target, you need to have precision to guide it where it ought to go. Surely that went without saying.

But as he’d grown older, the words had sprouted roots, taking on a different meaning. He’d realised that the saying was just as relevant for the person behind the arrow as it was for the arrow itself. A hunter must know where he is going, must be driven and controlled, must be led by his instincts and his heart. Only then can he do what is right.

Chris had one aim in his life - to protect his family. And that had steered him down a winding path that admittedly was dark and lonely at times, but ultimately he knew it was the right one. Now, though, that aim was null. He had no family left - none except his slowly dying father, but that old man had lost the right to being Chris’ family long ago. For the first time that he could remember, Chris was aimless.

So, when he got a message earlier in the night from the sheriff asking if Chris could possibly help look for a runaway Stiles, it had sparked something in Chris. Like an engine gradually stuttering and jolting to life after being asleep for a while.

He hadn’t been out hunting in what felt like ages. There hadn’t been much of a point - the threat was gone, the damage done, and nothing he could do would seal the gaping black hole it had left in his life. But walking through the preserve now, inhaling the sharp air tinged with damp, was a welcome change in his routine.

Night was beginning to surrender to the morning as the first golden edges of the sun peeked over the horizon. Chris whipped out his phone, shooting a text to the sheriff:

No sign of him yet. Any luck with you?

The other man responded immediately:

No, nothing on this end. Thanks for trying.

Chris sighed tightly. He didn’t know exactly what had happened to make Stiles take off in the night like that. He’d gotten a vague explanation from the sheriff about them having a fight, but no more than that, and considering what the boy had suffered through recently… It made Chris uneasy to think of him out in the woods alone at night. His chest sank for the sheriff. By no means was he great friends with the man, but he could empathise with that all consuming worry that eats you alive when your kid isn’t safe.

Eventually, Chris made it out of the woods into a clearing and onto a cliff edge that overlooked the entire town. The sun was still climbing slowly into the sky and Chris could spot a few cars down below, people heading off to start a new day. It was a serene sight. Or, it would’ve been if it weren’t for the figure sitting slouched against a rock in front of him.

Stiles was so still he might’ve been sleeping. But, no, his eyes were open, gazing out at the town with a certain lack of focus that made Chris question how much he was actually seeing. A bottle of jack was clutched in his hand, more than half of it gone, the remaining liquid close to spilling out of the tilted bottle.

“Stiles?” Chris called over to the boy. He didn’t respond. Chris walked over hurriedly, crouching down in front of him, “Stiles, are you okay?”

Stiles’ head lolled over as his glazed eyes landed on Chris.

“Mr Argent,” he mumbled, his words slurred together into one. He smiled with what seemed like great effort, holding up the bottle of alcohol, “want some?”

“No, Stiles, I’m alright,” Chris declined politely, trying to remain calm and patient, “can you stand?”

Stiles didn’t reply to that. He didn’t even seem to hear it. His face fell slowly as water began to line his eyes. His lips trembled.

“Mr Argent, I’m…” he inhaled shakily, “I’m so sorry. You must hate me.”

“I don’t hate you Stiles. You’ve had a bit too much to drink, it happens to everyone.”

“No, no,” Stiles shook his head, squeezing his eyes shut. A couple of tears ran down his cheeks, “I mean… because of Allison…”

Chris felt like he’d been winded, his lungs punctured like a burst tire, as all the oxygen in his body fled.

“What do you mean, Stiles?” he asked finally, “Why would I hate you because of that?”

Stiles looked at him. And for the first time during this conversation he actually seemed somewhat lucid.

“Because it’s my fault,” He murmured, saying the words as if they were a well known fact “because I… because I killed her… she’s gone-” he choked on a sob, “she’s gone because of me.”

Stiles started to cry, letting his head fall down onto Chris’ chest as the older man reflexively caught him, stunned as he wrapped an arm around the boy. It was messy and heart wrenching. The kind of cries that are usually reserved for privacy, but clearly in his intoxicated state Stiles didn’t think to mask any of his feelings. Chris wondered with a sombre pang how long Stiles had been holding all this in.

“That’s not true, Stiles. Not at all,” Chris assured him, but Stiles didn’t react. Just clutched Chris’ shirt with one hand as more tears soaked into the material. It was clear Stiles was far gone. Trapped by his own grief and guilt.

Chris wanted to stay here for a while. To let Stiles cry as much as he needed until he could convince him that what happened to Allison wasn’t his fault. Because although he didn’t have any children of his own anymore, those fatherly instincts never truly went away. As much as Chris is a hunter, he is a father too, and that’s a part of him that will be in his bones until he dies. And seeing a kid cry like this - not just any kid, but a friend of his daughter’s - will always activate that protective instinct in him.

However, he knew they couldn’t stay here. If Stiles had been out here all night, he could be freezing. And he’d clearly drunk a worrying amount of alcohol. They had to be practical here and getting Stiles somewhere safe and warm as fast as possible needed to be the priority. Getting a grip under his arms, Chris tried to haul Stiles to his feet.

“Stand up with me, Stiles,” he instructed, “come on, I’ve got you.”

It took a lot of coaching but eventually, Stiles was on his feet - well, to be honest, Chris was the one holding up most of his weight, and he was pretty sure if he were to let go Stiles would go careening to the ground, but at least he was up.

“I’m sorry,” Stiles kept mumbling over and over again, his voice growing more and more desperate, “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Chris keeps assuring him that it’s fine but he knows it's falling on deaf ears.

How did it get like this? Where was the rest of the pack? Why weren’t they here to help their friend? Chris burned for answers. And he was pretty sure where he could get them. Luckily for him, tracking down a pack of werewolves was his specialty. And he knew exactly where to aim in order to get there.

Chapter Text

Stiles

The world is a whole lot easier to deal with when you’re drunk.

All the jagged points and edges smooth out and soften. Things that would normally have you cursing from the pain suddenly become very funny, and are barely thought of again until you discover the bruise the next morning and wonder where it came from. It’s easier to bounce back, to recover, to get back on your feet. And, the most liberating thing about it, is that alcohol gives you the courage to say what’s on your mind. To feel every emotion without inhibition or shame. To face the things - the people, you couldn’t otherwise face.

That’s probably the only reason why Argent taking him to Derek’s apartment isn’t causing him to have a panic attack right now.

Getting up the stairs is a chore. Why the hell couldn’t Derek get somewhere closer to the ground? Stiles is very aware that Argent is doing most of the heavy lifting and the fact makes him want to start apologising all over again, but he knows it would be futile. He could apologise a million times and it still wouldn’t be enough.

“I can go the rest of the way myself,” Stiles mutters, his words slurring together into one long jumble. Somehow, Argent deciphers this, and doesn’t waste a second in replying:

“No, you can’t.”

Stiles’ pride takes a hit at that, but the older man isn’t entirely wrong. The world around Stiles is swaying and spinning, making him see double. It’s like he’s trapped in a glitchy video game. The sensation makes his stomach churn and he has to focus all his energy on not vomiting. It’s pretty likely that if Argent were to let Stiles walk by himself, he’d topple over immediately like a bowling pin. And he doesn’t think hitting his head twice within 24 hours would bode too well.

As they draw closer to Derek’s door, Stiles can make out voices coming from inside the room, and he suddenly feels sober as a judge. The pack must be here. He can’t tell who exactly, but Derek definitely has company. He pushes clumsily against Argent’s chest.

“I’m not going in.”

Argent doesn’t respond. Just keeps marching forwards, dragging Stiles along with him. Stiles tries to muster up some energy to fight him off, but the effort makes him feel horribly queasy and he has to shut his eyes and swallow the bile that crawls up his throat.

Spots dance in his vision. Great. Him fainting would just be the cherry on top of this. The whole night is filled with gaps, moments that his memory can’t supply anything for, but he’s pretty sure he was still conscious for most of it, if only barely. He’s just got to cling onto reality for a little longer and-

They’ve made it to the top of the stairs and Argent drags Derek’s door open. The voices inside stop immediately and Stiles can only imagine how ridiculous he looks - a frail teenage boy, half fallen over, clinging for dear life onto the usually smooth and unruffled Argent, who probably looks more than a little disgruntled at the moment.

The image makes Stiles laugh. The sound echoes around the uncomfortably quiet room, as everyone continues to stare at them. He must look crazy. He laughs more, his ribs shaking from it. He feels himself slip slightly from Argent’s grip.

“A little help, please?” Argent says to the room, agitated.

Stiles topples forwards, watching as if in third person as he approaches the concrete floor, but before he can hit it, a strong pair of arms catch him, hoisting him back up.

He looks into the face of his saviour - well, he tries to. But it’s hard to know which one to focus on. He reaches out a hand to gauge the real one. There it is!

“Thanks, Derek,” He mumbles, smiling appreciatively, patting the man affectionately on the cheek, “I knew you liked me, really.”

Derek, surprisingly, doesn’t immediately swat Stiles’ hand away. He examines the teenager keenly, before looking at Argent.

“What happened?”

“He’s drunk,” Argent replied, “do you have somewhere he can lie down? He’s been outside through the night, I’m worried he might be hypothermic.”

Derek clearly wants to ask more questions, but he swallows them for now. Stiles is glad because he doesn’t think he can explain anything properly at the moment, and he also doesn’t really want to. No, passing out sounds like a much better option.

“I’ll take him to my room,” Derek says, hooking Stiles’ arm around his neck in order to help him walk. It’s the exact same hold that Argent had him in, but it feels much more secure when it’s Derek. The werewolf practically carries Stiles as if he was nothing, with no strain or effort at all.

“You’re pretty strong, Derek, have I ever told you that?” Stiles asks, allowing his legs to go limp - no need to move them when Derek’s got it handled.

“No, you haven’t.”

“Well, it’s true. But don’t let it go to your head, okay?”

“Okay.”

Stiles blinks sleepily and when his eyes reopen, a bed is in front of him. He looks around blearily, frowning in confusion at his supposed teleportation. He’s in a small room, the only contents of which is a double bed with clean white sheets and a window looking out over the town. There’s nothing to make the grey walls more personalised or homey - Derek isn’t really one for decorating, Stiles supposes.

A door clicks shut from somewhere behind Stiles, and he turns to see someone else has entered the room too. It’s hard to make out her features with his darkening vision, but he’d know that strawberry blonde hair anywhere.

“Lydia,” he says in greeting, unable to stop the fondness seeping into his tone, “hi.”

“Hi, Stiles,” Lydia says politely back, smiling at him sympathetically, “let’s get you into bed, shall we?”

With Lydia and Derek’s help, Stiles climbs into bed. The duvet sheets are cold and crisp, as if he was the first person to ever occupy them. He shivers slightly, curling himself up into a ball. He’s aware of how child-like and pathetic he must look to the two watching him. If they didn’t think he was weak before, they sure do now.

“I’m sorry, guys,” he manages to mumble out, teeth chattering. Cold had started to properly seep into his bones now. Maybe staying out all night wasn’t the best idea, but the alcohol had kept him so warm. If only he could get his hands on some more…

“There’s no need to be sorry, Stiles,” Lydia assures him gently, sitting down on the bed next to him. Derek stays standing behind her, arms folded across his chest.

Stiles suddenly can’t bear to look at either of them. He shouldn’t be allowed to lay eyes on them, not after all he’s done. How can Lydia be sat next to him right now without her skin crawling? Smart, beautiful, thoughtful Lydia, who he kidnapped and tormented and whose best friend he killed. It must be torture for her to see him every day. He wonders if sometimes she sees him and for a moment all she can see is the Nogitsune. That happens to Stiles sometimes, when he catches his own reflection or glimpses himself in a mirror. It’s hard to escape your demons when they live in every reflective surface. Stiles shuts his eyes, a single tear slipping out as he does so. His lips tremble as he speaks, and he’s unsure if it’s from the cold or the ache in his chest, or maybe even both:

“Yes, there is. We all know there is, you’re both just too polite to say it. Everything that’s happened… It's my fault. It’s all my fault-”

“You were possessed,” Derek interrupts him, voice surprisingly neutral considering the situation, but hey, that’s Derek for you. Unshakeable.

“But I’m the one that let him in,” Stiles protests, “in Eichen House. I… I was meant to stay awake, but then that guy, Brunski, he drugged me and I passed out and…” Stiles rubs his hands over his face. His head hurts. In his intoxicated state, the memories of what happened to him at Eichen house became harsher and overwhelming, jumping out at him like night terrors. “I should’ve just let Morrell kill me. Or I could have done it myself. I mean, someone else killed themself right when I arrived so it wouldn’t have been impossible.”

Stiles’ head grew heavy. Like it was a weight being dragged down into the earth’s core. Memories, ghosts, shadows, they all smothered him, luring him into unconsciousness.

“I should’ve tried harder,” he managed to utter, his mind darkening, the lights going out one by one. He hoped the hangover wouldn’t be too bad tomorrow, “and now you all hate me. And I can’t blame you. I hate me too.”

And, finally, he fell into the numb bliss of oblivion.

Lydia

Lydia always used to have a strong sense of self-preservation.

Back when things were normal. When she was just a regular high school queen bee, striving to be the most popular, the most beautiful, the most envied. The majority of her peers would’ve called her selfish, and they wouldn’t have been wrong. She did whatever she could to get ahead, even if it meant she had to be cruel sometimes.

She still had that ambition, but she didn’t see herself as selfish anymore. She liked to think that she’d changed. That thanks to Allison and Stiles and Scott, and everything the whole pack have gone through together, she’s become a team player. Someone willing to put herself in danger for the greater good. Someone who wants to help others, even if it hurts herself sometimes.

But it’s hard to see yourself as selfless when the boy lying asleep in front of you just confessed that he should’ve killed himself in order to spare all his friends.

A stone had sunk to the pit of Lydia’s stomach at all of Stiles’ words. First his apology, then the revelation of what happened to him at Eichen House… as he’d said it, it had struck Lydia that she’d never actually asked him what he went through in there. None of them had. It had been forgotten in the wake of their grief. But she felt like kicking herself now for never approaching him about it, for not being more considerate. And then, the most heart wrenching admission of self hatred, said with such nonchalance right before he passed out. As if it had lost meaning to him - it wasn’t something to feel bad about, just something that was an innate truth of his life. He looked almost at peace now, his jaw hanging open a bit as he breathed deeply in and out, long eyelashes fanning over his pale cheeks. Ironic that right when Stiles finds a modicum of respite in unconsciousness, he leaves Lydia in turmoil, standing in the wreckage of the bombs he dropped.

“We should leave him to sleep,” Derek said from behind her.

She’d almost forgotten he was there. Quickly brushing the tears away from her face, she turned to face him, nodding.

“Okay.”

They both exited the room, silence hanging like a noose between them. Lydia opened her mouth a couple of times to talk about what they both just witnessed, but her words turned to sand on her tongue. By the stiffness in Derek’s shoulders, she could tell that he was thinking about it too.

Right before they got back in earshot of the others, Derek turned to her. His intensity would’ve been intimidating if she didn’t know that it stemmed from worry.

“Has he ever mentioned any of that to you?”

“No. Never. Not that there was much of a chance…”

“Not much of a chance?” Derek scoffed, “there were about two weeks between the Nogitsune and right now where any of you could’ve checked on him, but you didn’t.”

Lydia felt her cheeks turn red.

“Funny, because as far as I know, neither did you.”

“That’s different,” Derek scowled, “you’re all closer to Stiles. You go to school with him, you’ve known him for longer. Scott’s meant to be his best friend.”

“Well, a lot has changed.”

Derek sighed, a hint of exhaustion bowing his usually perfect posture.

“Yeah. I know,” he looked at her then. Lydia’s instinct was to look away from his piercing gaze, but she held firm, lifting her chin up stubbornly, “after… that… I hope you can at least find it in yourself to stop being so scared of him.”

That took Lydia aback. Shame bled into her veins.

“I’m not scared of him.”

“You are. I can hear it in your heartbeat. How you tense around him, always a little on edge,” Derek paused as if awaiting a response, but Lydia couldn’t summon one. Eventually, the man turned around, “He’d never do anything to hurt you, Lydia. You know that.”

Lydia pressed her lips together, eyes flicking down to the floor, feeling somewhat chagrined. She did know that, deep down she did. She’d been feeling guilty for her avoidance of Stiles since the Nogitsune, but after what just happened, and now what Derek had said, she felt like a horrible person. Like somehow, despite all her growing and developing, she’d wound up being the same selfish bitch that she used to be.

Before she could properly wallow in that, Derek walked away, and Lydia felt inclined to follow. Best to properly consider her feelings later - now is not the time to be making things about herself.

Lydia and Derek reentered, the pack standing expectantly, all of them looking up at them as they came in. It looked like they’d not moved since the three of them had left. Argent still stood in the door, hair ruffled and mouth tugged down in a thoughtful frown. Kira tapped her foot against the floor anxiously, while Isaac fiddled absent mindedly with the scarf wrapped around his neck. Scott looked the worst, his chest rising and falling rapidly like a rabbit staring down the barrel of a hunter’s rifle. He locked onto Derek and Lydia as soon as they entered.

“Is he okay?” he asked immediately.

“Not really,” Derek replied bluntly before Lydia could even open her mouth. Scott recoiled as if slapped, but Derek didn’t spare him a second glance, turning to Argent, “what happened?”

“I got a message from the sheriff tonight. Apparently they had some kind of argument and Stiles just up and left. I found him at the preserve with a half empty bottle of jack in his hands.”

Lydia felt her throat close up. She imagined Stiles, all alone, drunk and shivering out in the woods all night.

“Which leads me to my question,” Argent continues, his fiery gaze contrasting his cold demeanour, “where the hell were all of you?”

“We didn’t realise he’d run off like that,” Scott murmured in response. It’s strange how Scott can be so strong and imposing when he wants to be but at moments like these he’s reduced to the scared teenage boy he was before the bite, “we thought he’d gone home.”

“Haven’t any of you guys been talking to each other? How could you not know he was feeling like that?” Argent questioned.

“Feeling like what?” Kira piped up, intercepting the conversation before Scott could, which was probably for the best because Lydia could already see that his hackles were raised.

Argent paused, staring at them all incredulously, before shaking his head in disbelief.

“He was apologising to me. Over what happened to Allison. He thinks it’s his fault.”

Lydia already knew that from what Stiles had just said before he passed out, but hearing it again from Argent felt like the knife being twisted.

“He said that to us just now too,” she said. Everyone turned to look at her. She tried to avoid Scott’s gaze, knowing that all she would find in it would be hurt and questions that felt too private to answer, “he says he’s the one who let the Nogitsune in and that he should’ve tried harder to fight it off. And he also said…” She swallowed, eyes flicking up to Derek who gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head. “He just said that it’s his fault.”

While part of her thought it would be good for the others to know exactly what Stiles had said regarding how much he valued his own life, the other part of her knew it would be a horrible betrayal of trust for Stiles to wake up and find out that everyone knows he wanted to die. This was best kept between herself and Derek for now. Maybe they could figure out a way to broach the subject with Stiles once he woke up.

“And considering certain developments, it’s not entirely surprising why he feels that way,” Derek added icily, his head turning towards Scott, shooting him with an accusing glare.

“What developments?” Argent asked, looking between the two werewolves, “what are you talking about?”

Derek raised his eyebrows at Scott as if to say, go on. Scott’s jaw clenched, his chest rising with anger before deflating suddenly. He turned to Argent.

“Ethan came back. He told us… he told us there’s a way we can bring back Allison and Aiden.”

Scott launched into an explanation of the ritual - how he thinks it would work, the research he’s done into it, the blood sacrifice that Stiles would have to give. As he speaks, Lydia sees a glimmer in his eye that makes her skin crawl. It’s hope. He truly is still hopeful that this ritual will work. Lydia can’t really blame him for that, but she’s stunned that even after seeing what a mess Stiles is, Scott can still think this is a good idea. It’s clear to Lydia that Stiles isn’t in the right mental state to make a decision about being a blood sacrifice, because the boy doesn’t care about what happens to him. If he thought it would make up for what happened, he would hurl himself into danger without a second thought. They should be trying to stop him from doing that, they should be making sure that they don’t lose anyone else. But instead, here’s Scott pitching the ritual to Argent like it’s a business venture and he’s trying to get someone else to invest in it alongside him.

“So…” Argent says once Scott is done, “you think doing this will bring back Allison?”

“Yes,” Scott says confidently, “I’ve done research into it and I really think-”

“All of the ‘research’ you’ve done has led you nowhere,” Derek interrupts, “no two sources have said the same thing about the ritual, there’s no telling what will actually happen.”

“You were able to bring back Peter!” Scott retorted.

“Yes, but as I’ve said before, how can we know it’ll work in this instance when both the sacrifice and the one being brought back are human?” Derek replied, the veins in his neck jumping in annoyance.

“It’s worth a try, isn’t it?” Scott said, voice rising to a shout.

“Not if it means we’ll lose Stiles,” Lydia said, her voice quiet next to Scott’s but somehow carrying more weight.

It was something she had said to Stiles himself earlier in the night. I don’t think it’s worth getting Allison back if I might lose you too. The confession of how much she cared about him had surprised them both, but as she stated it again now, it just felt right.

Scott stared at her in surprise.

“Allison was your best friend.”

“And Stiles is yours,” she replied. She wanted to shake Scott into seeing reason, to yell at him until he regained his sanity, but she knew that would only make him defensive. It was best to be gentle with him. “I know what it’s like to lose a best friend. I’m trying to spare you the same pain.”

“The full moon is in two days. We’re not going to get another chance like this for a while, we need to take it while we can.”

“Allison wouldn’t want you to be acting like this, Scott,” It was a bold thing to throw at him, and she knew it would cut deep, but he needed to snap out of this, “she wouldn’t want others to risk their safety for her sake. She wouldn’t want you to be so wrapped up in your own pain that you lost your humanity.”

“I haven’t lost anything, you’re the ones acting crazy-”

“No, we’re not!” Lydia said, her voice jumping up in volume. She tried to drag it back down, but it was difficult. She’d been called crazy multiple times and it was always used to demean her, to invalidate her words and her experience, when more often than not she had been onto something. She would not allow anyone, especially not her friend, to try and determine the worth of her opinion by calling her crazy. “In case you’ve forgotten, Derek and I were actually involved in the last ritual and it was horrible. Peter forced us both to participate in it, which is something I’d expect from him, but now you’re doing the exact same thing! You can’t put people through something like that and still be a good guy, Scott. Don’t be like Peter, okay? Just put it to rest. Please.”

Her palms had become uncomfortably sweaty. Images flashed through her mind as she recalled the last ritual. The damp, dingy house where Peter’s body lay. Derek’s scream in anguish as Peter sunk his claws into his forearm. Peter’s charred, dirt covered body reanimating and rising from his resting place.

As a banshee, she’d become uncomfortably well acquainted with death. And though it was terrifying and disturbing to witness, there was also a peace in the finality of it. Once death had you cradled in its arms, there was nothing that could make it drop you. And that was okay. That was how things were. She couldn’t imagine how wrong it would feel to be awoken from that deep of a sleep. It would be a crime against nature to bring someone back from the dead like that.

“She’s right, Scott.”

Argent spoke up again, his voice contemplative yet resolved. Lydia didn’t know if it was just the way the light was hitting him but she was sure she could see tears lining the edges of his eyes.

“What?” Scott uttered. His bewilderment quickly turned into seething anger, “are you serious? You of all people I thought would get it. After all the hard choices you’ve made in your life to try and do the right thing. I mean, you’ve literally killed people fighting for what you thought mattered. What, is Allison just not worth fighting for?”

Lydia is pretty sure the entire room takes a collective intake of breath at that. The air turns thick and sludgy as time seems to stand still. Argent stands there, cold blue eyes never leaving Scott who looks ready to fight at the slightest provocation. It’s impressive, Lydia thinks, how controlled Argent always seems to be. There’s something to be said for his steadiness. It’s something they could all do with a bit more of right now.

“Everything I’ve done in my life has been to fight for a better future for my family, and that included Allison. But the only person this would be serving is you. You think you need Allison’s murderer for this ritual to work? Well, that’s not Stiles. He didn’t kill anyone, the Nogitsune did. You need to get that into your head because it seems to me like you’re punishing him for something he didn’t do.”

Argent turns to leave, but not before hammering the last nail into the coffin.

“You’re not doing the ritual. End of story.”