Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was July 15 2025 when Stiles Stilinsky was pronounced death to the world.
That’s how they labeled it, a tragedy filed under redacted paperwork and vague condolences.

Only one call was made that morning.
To a private number. Direct line. It rang twice before it was answered.

Noah Stilinski was at work at that time, like always he was seated at the desk chair in the sheriff office of the police station of Beacon Hills.

“You’ve reached the Sheriff,” he said flatly, eyes still skimming the chaos on his desk.

“Am I speaking with Noah Stilinski?” the voice on the line asked, calm, measured, professional.

Noah sighed, rolling his eyes. It was one of those calls. Cold, clinical, probably spam or federal bureaucracy at its finest.

“What do you think?” he muttered.

“I’m sorry, sir, but I’ll need verbal confirmation for our records.”

That got his attention. Noah sat up straighter, suddenly alert. He glanced at the number on the display, unfamiliar, untraceable. A flicker of unease passed through him, but he pushed it aside.

“Yes, I’m Noah Stilinski,” he confirmed, his voice sharper now.

There was a beat of silence, then the voice came again, slightly more cautious this time.
“This is Agent Harper with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. I’m calling in regard to your son, Mieczysław Stilinski.”

The pronunciation was rough, awkward on the tongue, and under any other circumstance, it might’ve made Noah smile. But not now. Something dropped in his chest like a stone.

“My son?” he said, the words stiff in his throat. “What about him? What happened?”

There was a pause. Not the kind that comes from hesitation. This was pure procedure. The agent on the other end was following a script. That made it worse.

“I regret to inform you,” Agent Halpern said, voice low but unwavering, “that your son, Mieczysław Stilinski, was killed early this morning during the execution of a classified operation.”

Noah didn’t respond right away. He didn’t breathe either.

The agent continued, as if he had to fill the silence before it swallowed the call whole.

“The mission was part of a high-clearance task force. Your son was serving in an intelligence capacity as a liaison and field analyst. Due to the nature of his work, many of the details surrounding the incident are restricted. He died in the line of duty.”

Noah still hadn’t said anything. He wasn’t even sure he was thinking either, but he sure regretted hearing in that moment.

“Sir,” the agent prompted gently, “are you still with me?”

“…he, no…,” Noah repeated, voice hoarse, almost inaudible.

“Yes, sir. I’m sorry, all of FBI offers their official condolences”

“And you're telling me this over the phone?”

“I understand how difficult this is. We would’ve preferred to inform you in person, but due to the compartmentalisation of the operation and your son’s clearance level, this was the most secure and immediate channel.”

Noah’s hand was clenched so tight around the phone that his knuckles had gone white.

“I want to see him,” he said.

There was another pause, this one longer.

“You’ll be contacted by an officer when that will be possible sir.”

That’s didn’t resonate with him.
“I want to know the truth,” Noah said, his voice breaking into a rare crack.

“I know,” the agent said softly. “And we’ll give you what we can. But some parts of this… may remain classified. I’m truly sorry.”

Noah hung up without saying goodbye.

He didn’t go home. Didn’t tell anyone. Didn’t move from his office except to lock the door.

The lights stayed off. The blinds shut. Anyone who knocked got silence. Anyone who called got voicemail. And those who tried harder? Ignored.

By 2:00 AM, his fingers were sore from dialling and typing.

He called every number that had ever been associated with the FBI. He left messages on all type of contacts he could find. He sent emails flagged urgent, confidential, flagged everything.
To keep his mind occupied, to not think about what he was told just hours before.

He even thought of calling Agent McCall but he didn’t know what he could’ve said, he had to explain why he needed information and he still haven’t managed to say what he just learned out loud. Plus they weren’t that close, or at least he wasn’t the first person he wanted to know that his son was… he didn’t needed pity he needed answers.

He dialed a number that hadn't worked the last two times. Some internal line from a contact sheet Stiles had once left behind. Half the names on the list were redacted.

It rang. Once. Twice. Click.

A woman’s voice answered, sharp and efficient.
“Federal Bureau of Investigation, internal desk. Identify yourself.”

Noah’s breath caught for a second. He swallowed it down.
“Yes. This is Sheriff Noah Stilinski. I’m calling about my son, Mieczysław Stilinski. I need to speak to someone with clearance. Now.”

There was a pause. A few keystrokes. The woman on the other end didn’t speak immediately.
“I see your name in the record, Sheriff Stilinski. You're listed as emergency kin. One moment.”

Noah waited, heart pounding, hand clenching the receiver tight.

Another voice came through. Male this time. Calm, low, and unmistakably trained for this kind of call.
“Sheriff Stilinski, this is Special Agent Daniel Kravitz, Department of Internal Operations. I understand you were contacted earlier today.”

“Yes. I was.” Noah didn’t waste time
“You told me my son…. You gave me nothing but half-sanitized phrases and a bunch of ‘restricted’ garbage. I’m not calling as a cop right now, Agent. I’m calling as a father. And I want the truth. All of it.”

The line was quiet for a beat.
Then “I understand. Let me first extend my condolences, Sheriff. Your son was highly respected. His loss is deeply felt among our ranks.”

“Don’t give me the speech,” Noah snapped.
“Just tell me what the hell happened to my son. Was it a mission gone wrong or a setup? Did you catch who was it? I want to know”

There was a slow exhale on the line. Kravitz was choosing his words carefully.

“Your son was part of an operation investigating a high-level infiltration within a joint intelligence task force. There was an ambush. He and two others were killed before extraction could be completed.”

Noah felt his throat tighten.
“And you’re telling me this now? You couldn’t lead with that earlier?”

“Earlier was protocol. This is me bending it.”

Noah leaned forward in his chair, voice low and cold.
“I want names. I want dates. I want to see the damn report, redactions or not.”

Kravitz was silent for a moment.
“I’ll see what I can do” that sounded a lot like a false promise to keep him calm but he would ignore that for now, he needed hope not anger.

“But off the record?” The voice lowered slightly.
“Your son knew the risk. He volunteered for this. And he saved lives. We’re only standing here now because of him.”

Noah stared blankly at the wall.
“Yeah. That sounds like him,” he whispered, more to himself than the man on the line. Noah hesitated for a beat before speaking again.

“He had plans,” he said quietly.
“He was supposed to come home.”

There was nothing but silence on the line.
Then “I’m sorry, sir. Truly.”

The call ended.

Noah sat back in his chair, eyes burning but dry.
And somewhere in the dark of the station, dawn began to creep in.

But he didn’t move. Not yet

July 16th

The worst part was telling the others.
What made it almost surreal was how they were all in town, like some strange coincidence. Except it wasn’t coincidence at all. Stiles was supposed to come home too.

This gathering had been in the cards for weeks. They just didn’t know the reason had changed.

So he called them one by one: Lydia, Scott, Kira, Malia, Derek and Melissa.
He invited them over for dinner. Said he wanted to catch up, that it had been too long. No one questioned it. They’d known him too long, loved Stiles too much.

He smiled when they arrived. Hugged each of them. Made small jokes. Pretended.

Scott was the first to ask the question Noah knew was coming.
“When is Stiles landing?” he said casually, setting a bottle of wine on the kitchen counter.

Noah's heart skipped, just like that. And if Scott noticed with his hearing then he didn’t say anything, probably thinking it was just his hearth problems.

The pause was too long. He covered it with a tight smile and a noncommittal shrug.
“He… got held up,” he said. Not a lie. Just not the truth.

He cooked. That was strange in itself. Everyone noticed. Stiles had always insisted on cooking when he was home, hovering over the stove like a man on a mission, monitoring what Noah ate with mock-serious lectures about sodium and cholesterol.

Now the house smelled like forced effort. A meal prepared by hands that were too distracted to care how it tasted.

The small talk over dinner was a performance. Every “How have you been?” and “What’s new with work?” felt rehearsed. Plastic. Hollow.
The words came out of Noah’s mouth, but they didn’t carry any meaning.
And if the people in the room could sense it, the awkward pacing, the weird silences, the fake laughs they didn’t say anything. Not yet. But the tension built like static in the air.

They had just started eating when Melissa finally snapped.
Fork halfway to her mouth, eyes narrowed across the table.
“Okay,” she said, voice sharp but not unkind.
“What’s going on?”

Everyone went still. The clink of silverware stopped. Eyes shifted.

Noah looked up slowly from his plate. He hadn’t even touched the food.

He opened his mouth. Closed it again. Took a breath.
And then, quietly:
“Stiles isn’t coming.”

There was a beat of confusion. Then Lydia straightened slightly in her chair, her hand tightening on her glass.

Scott frowned.
“What do you mean? Is he-”

“He’s gone.”

Noah said it before he could lose the strength to say it again. His voice didn’t shake. It was flat. Too flat.

“He was killed during an operation. Two days ago.”

No one moved.

Malia’s chair scraped back suddenly.

Lydia’s eyes were wide ready to release tears, lips slightly parted, a thousand unsaid words stuck behind them.

Kira gasped softly, covering her mouth.

Derek’s expression didn’t change much, but his jaw clenched like steel and his eyes lowered.

Scott looked like he hadn’t processed the words. He blinked at Noah. Shook his head slightly, like it didn’t compute.
“What?” he whispered.

“I’m sorry,” Noah said.
It was all he could offer.

The room was heavy with the kind of silence that breaks something in people.

“They didn’t told me much…” he added after a moment. “A mission gone wrong. But I don’t know anything for sure.”

Melissa leaned forward eyes glassy, hand trembling slightly as she reached for his.
“Why didn’t you tell us sooner?”

Noah looked around the table at all these people who loved his son, who had fought beside him, bled beside him, grown up with him.

In that moment he didn’t see them as they where right now he saw them as they where, young faces with innocent eyes and in their eyes, reflected was the ghost of his son.

“Because I didn’t want to believe it,” he said simply.
“And I didn’t want you to either. Not until I had to say it out loud.”

There were tears. Shock. Denial. And silence.
But the truth had been spoken.

And nothing in that house would ever feel the same again.

Chapter Text

Except Stiles wasn’t dead.

He’d come close, too close, but he wasn’t gone yet.
What really happened on July 15th wasn’t a classified mission, wasn’t an ambush, and definitely wasn’t just a “work accident.”

It was an attack. Unprovoked, violent, and meant to send a message.

And somewhere in a secure recovery facility outside Quantico, bruised, stitched up, and royally pissed off, Stiles Stilinski was very much alive and yelling at a very confused federal nurse.

“How many times do I have to change my emergency contact before your stupid system gets it?” he barked, wincing as he shifted in the hospital bed.

The nurse, clearly used to federal agents with Type-A personalities, just gave him a tired look.
“Come on, Stilinski, you know you can’t just update your emergency contact whenever you feel like it.”

“I put my dad down five years ago, when I first joined, because he basically guilt-tripped me into it! ‘I want to know the moment something happen’ well I don’t want him to know this happened!”

The nurse shrugged.
“There’s nothing I can do. The call was made, we can’t call back yet and say we where wrong, there is bureaucracy to follow”

Stiles groaned and dropped his head back against the pillow. His ribs ached. His side was still stitched, and he had a concussion that made the ceiling look like it was melting.

“Do you have any idea what that call did to him?” he muttered. “My dad has heart issues. What do you think he’s gonna do when he hears I was 'killed in action'?” He lifted his hand in a half-hearted air quote, grimacing. “I didn’t want to actually kill the man!”

The nurse looked a little guilty then. But she kept her professional tone.
“Look, we followed protocol. The report went out, the med team even confirmed your pulse. You coded, Stilinski. Twice. For twenty-six seconds, you were technically dead.”

Stiles let out a frustrated sigh, dragging a hand down his face.
“Great. So you all just ran with that. Jesus…” He muttered under his breath, “They probably already held a damn wake.”

There was a knock at the door, barely a courtesy, before it creaked open.

A man stepped in, early forties, clean-cut, wearing a dark gray suit with no visible ID badge. His presence immediately shifted the air in the room, too composed, too precise. The kind of guy who didn’t walk into hospital rooms unless something major was on the table.

The nurse looked up, then nodded once, as if expecting him.

“Agent Spencer,” she greeted before quietly slipping out and pulling the door shut behind her.
Stiles narrowed his eyes.

“Let me guess. You’re the one behind the ‘Oops, your son’s dead’ call?”

Spencer gave a tight smile, the kind that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Not exactly. But I was briefed the moment you stabilised. And I’m here because what happened, what nearly happened, has opened up... a rare opportunity.”

Stiles leaned back in the bed, squinting at him.
“An opportunity,” he repeated dryly.
“You mean besides the one where I got to traumatize my dad and wake up in a facility with more security than the Pentagon?”

Whitaker didn’t flinch. His tone remained calm, measured.
“We both know what happened wasn’t random. That attack was coordinated. Targeted. The people behind it were trying to wipe the slate clean.”

He stepped forward, placing a thin folder on the table beside the bed. It was sealed. Stamped red.

“And they believe you’re dead. As far as the outside world knows, including foreign intelligence channels and multiple domestic agencies, Mieczysław Stilinski died on July 15th.”

Stiles didn’t say anything. He just stared at the folder.

“We can correct that, if you want,” Spencer continued.
“But... if you're willing to let the record stand, you’d qualify for reassignment to a deep-cover task force. Off-book. Specialized in the kind of work we don’t write reports about. No red tape, no public record. Operatives are presumed dead by design. That’s the entry requirement.”

Stiles blinked at him, the weight of the words hitting harder than the pain meds.

“You're asking me to disappear.”

Spencer gave a slight nod.
“I’m offering you a choice. Go home, recover, and we’ll file the correction. Or… we make this official. You become the ghost they already believe you are. No one else gets pulled into it. Your father, your friends, they stay safe because you stay gone. And you will help more people then you could ever had simply being an FBI agent. Remember Stilinsky that attack wasn’t random, how can you be sure that they won’t try again if they know you made it out alive. You surely don’t want your family pulled into it.”

Stiles was quiet for a long moment. He was thinking carefully about the man had just said, the attack, his family… The monitor beeped softly beside him.

Then, quietly:
“How long do I have to decide?”

“Until the end of the week,” Spencer replied.
“After that, the correction will be automatic. Your name goes back into the system. Your file becomes public again.”

Stiles exhaled, staring at the folder.
“And if I say yes?”

Spencer’s tone didn’t change. Still calm. Still formal.
“You’ll be transferred to an undisclosed location. Trained. Briefed. The task force is high-level and autonomous. You’ll work under codenames. Your background, history, even your name will be erased from every accessible record. You’ll operate outside standard jurisdiction.”

He paused, letting the weight of it sink in.
“No coming back, Stilinski. If you say yes… you stay dead.”

Stiles closed his eyes for a second.

Images flickered behind his eyelids, Scott’s voice, Lydia’s laugh, his dad’s face. His father’s hands, trembling as he poured coffee in the morning.
The way he always left the porch light on when Stiles was out late, no matter how old he got.

“Let me think about it,” he said, voice low.

Spencer nodded once.
“That’s all I ask.”

He turned to leave, pausing only briefly at the door.
“Just make sure when you decide… you don’t leave anything unfinished.”

Then he was gone.

And Stiles was left with the silence, the sealed folder, and the sound of his own heart beating against a second chance that felt a lot like a choice between two lives, only one of which could ever be lived.

Chapter Text

Meanwhile a week later, in Beacon Hills, the police station had transformed into something sacred.

It was a place of duty, of cold facts and procedures, of law and order but, tonight, it was a shrine.

The lights had been dimmed, casting long shadows across the floor. The air held a stillness that felt too reverent for a government building. Every surface that could hold space had been claimed by flickering candles, quiet flames dancing in time with sorrow.

Between them sat photographs, dozens of them, placed carefully and lovingly by the officers, the people who had watched him grow up.

Stiles Stilinski.
In a hoodie too big for him, laughing with Scott in the school parking lot.
At graduation, with his cap crooked, grinning like he knew the future was bright with Melissa hands wrapped in his.
Younger still, sitting beside his mother in a hospital bed, his tiny hand on hers, that one stopped Noah’s breath every time he looked at it.

And now, the newest photo.
A headshot, sent over by the FBI, clean-cut in his issued uniform, official and sterile, almost unrecognisable beneath the duty.

Sheriff Noah Stilinski stood in front of the makeshift memorial, no badge on his chest.

He wasn’t in uniform, couldn’t be. He was supposed to be home. Supposed to be planning a funeral. Mourning.
But there was no manual for how to bury your only child.

So instead, he was here. In the place that had always grounded him.

The place where Stiles used to sit behind the front desk when he was just a teenager, tapping away at an old computer, annoying deputies, inserting himself into investigations, pretending he was already part of it all.

Tears hadn't come that day. Not yet. Noah wasn't sure if that was strength or just shock stretched too thin.

He stared back at the photograph of Claudia and Stiles, the last picture ever taken of the two of them together. Her hospital gown was visible beneath a thin blanket, but her smile was radiant, soft and tired. Stiles was barely seven, missing one of his front teeth, clinging to her side like she'd float away if he let go.

And now, they were both gone.

For a brief, aching moment, Noah envied them. Envied that they were together now, somewhere beyond the reach of war, intelligence clearances, or government apologies.

A soft knock broke the silence behind him.
He didn’t turn.

“The station's closed,” he said quietly, voice like gravel.

There was a pause. Then a voice he didn’t expect.
“I figured you’d be here.”
Scott.

Noah turned slightly, just enough to see him standing in the doorway, eyes rimmed red, hands jammed into his jacket pockets.

“I couldn’t sleep,” Scott added, stepping in slowly. “I just… I needed to be somewhere he’d been.”

Noah nodded once. The only reply he could manage.
Scott moved beside him, gaze falling onto the table of memories.

He let out a long breath, almost a sigh.
“He loved this place,” Scott murmured. “Said it was the only place that ever made him feel like he was doing something real.”

Noah smiled faintly. Not a happy smile. Just the ghost of one.
“Drove us all crazy,” he said. “Always touching everything. Making theories. Getting in the way.”

“He was always right, though,” Scott said, a soft chuckle undercutting the sorrow. “Even when he wasn’t.”

Noah’s smile faltered. His eyes lingered again on the uniformed photo.
“I didn’t even know,” he whispered. “What he was doing. How deep he was in.”

Scott didn’t answer right away. He didn’t have to. They both knew the kind of life Stiles had chosen, half in shadow, half in light. A life he couldn’t talk about. A life that had cost him everything.

“He told me once,” Scott finally said, “that he didn’t want to be a hero. That he just wanted to make sure the people he loved got to live long enough to become old and boring.”

Noah blinked hard. “And look what that got him.”
Silence settled again. Heavy.

After a long moment, Scott reached into his jacket and pulled out a small framed photo. One Noah hadn’t seen before.

“He gave this to me the last time I saw him,” Scott said, setting it gently on the table.

It was a picture of the pack, all of them. A rare one. Taken at the lake house, one summer when everyone had managed to get away, just for a few days.

Stiles was in the middle, arms thrown over Lydia and Scott’s shoulders, mid-laugh. Sunlight lit his face, and there was no trace of fear or pressure or secrets, just the boy they all remembered.

Noah didn’t say anything. He didn’t have to.
Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. Solid. Warm.

“You don’t have to go through this alone.”

“Scott… I had to bury my wife when my son was eight.” Noah’s voice cracked. His eyes didn’t.
“Now I buried my son. With an empty basket.”

Scott closed his eyes. He was trying not to cry. trying hard. He wanted to be strong. Someone had to be. Because the man standing next to him deserved to fall apart. To mourn without holding back. To be the father, not the sheriff. So Scott swallowed the grief that rose in his chest and said nothing.

Noah felt it, the silent support, and changed the subject. A small mercy.
“When was the last time you saw him?” he asked, gaze returning to the picture from the lake house.

“Last summer,” Scott answered quietly. “Basically a year ago.” Too long ago.
“He called when he could...” Scott added. Never enough.

“One month ago,” he said suddenly, eyes flicking up as the memory came back clearer. “He called me, one of those calls with video. Just ten minutes or so. He was… different.” He exhaled. Half a laugh, half pain.

“His hair was longer. Not too long, just messy, like he didn’t care anymore. And he had this scruffy little beard. Barely anything, but still… it was weird seeing him like that. And his eyebrow-”
He motioned vaguely to his own face.
“He had a scar, right here. Like a clean line through the brow, and the hair didn’t grow there anymore. Said he got it during a ‘field mishap.’”

Scott shook his head, smiling faintly through the ache. “He joked about it, of course. ‘Adds mystery,’ he said.”

He picked up the lake house photo again, tracing a thumb over the younger face.
“Look at him here. Short hair, clean face. No scar. He looks like a kid.”

Scott stared at the image, then slowly placed it back down on the table, careful not to disturb the candlelight reflecting off the frame.

“It’s sad,” he whispered. “We don’t even have any recent pictures. Not how he really looked. That version of him-”
He swallowed.
“We’ll never see him again. Not even in pictures.”

Scott couldn’t stand anymore. The weight of it all pushed down too hard. He sank into the chair in front of the sheriff’s desk, elbows on his knees, hands going straight to his eyes, trying to hold back the storm he felt building in his chest.

And while he fought his grief in that dark, candlelit room, his mind drifted back to the morning.

Lydia had called.

Her voice was trembling but urgent.
“Scott, go to the Stilinski house. Now.”

He didn’t ask questions. Just jumped into his car and drove like something was on fire. His first thought was Noah, had something happened to him? A heart attack? A breakdown?

But when he arrived, the house was dark, empty.
Except for Lydia.

She stood on the front porch, arms crossed tightly around herself. She wasn’t wearing makeup, which was rare. Her eyes were red. Her hair was pulled back into a messy ponytail, like she hadn’t even looked in the mirror. Her clothes didn’t match, blue polka dots shorts and a too-large Star Wars shirt, probably Stiles’s.

She looked like someone barely holding herself together.

Scott jogged up the steps, heart pounding.
“What happened? Is the sheriff okay?”

Lydia nodded faintly. “He’s fine. I think. I believe he’s at the station.”

“Then why are we here?”

Lydia hesitated. She didn’t meet his eyes.
“We need to get into Stiles’s room.”

Scott blinked. “What?”

“We need to go inside,” she said more firmly this time, voice thin but sharp. “Into his room.”

“Lydia, I’m sorry… we can’t just go in there. Not while the sheriff’s-”

“You have a key, right?”

Scott’s breath caught. Slowly, reluctantly, he reached into his pocket and pulled out his house keys. On the ring, still attached after all these years, was a copy of the Stilinski house key.
Stiles had given it to him when they were sixteen. "In case of emergencies," he’d said, which usually meant "in case my dad locks the Oreos up again."

Scott looked at the key, then at Lydia. She was trembling. He took her hand.
“Lydia…” he said gently. “There’s nothing in there. He hasn’t lived here in years.”

“Please,” she whispered, eyes pleading. “We need to go into his room.”

There was something in her voice, something more than grief. Something like… certainty. Scott stared at her for another second.
Then he unlocked the door.

The house was colder than Scott remembered.
Not physically, the thermostat was probably set like it always was, but something about stepping inside without Stiles there made it feel… hollow. The stillness of grief had seeped into the walls.

They didn’t say anything as they entered. Lydia moved like she had a purpose, walking directly up the stairs, her footsteps quiet on the hardwood floor.
Scott followed.

Stiles’s room was just as he had left it years ago, preserved more out of love than any conscious choice. Noah had cleaned it over time, dusted it, vacuumed maybe, but hadn’t dared to repurpose it. The books on the shelf were slightly tilted. A few posters stuck to the wall had curled at the edges. The baseball bat leaned against the wall like it had never seen combat against supernatural forces. And his clear board placed at the side of the room, as to not waste space, there was a writing with white sharpie “Off to George Washington!! Don’t come weep into my room dad” that almost made him smile, it was clear that the board hadn’t been touched all those years as to not wipe out his last written words in that room.

Scott stepped in behind Lydia, slower, more cautious.
“I told you,” he said softly, almost apologetically. “There’s nothing here.”

Lydia ignored him.
She stood in the center of the room, eyes slowly scanning the space. Her breathing was sharp, shallow, the way it always was when she was trying to listen for something that didn’t speak in words.

Her hands twitched.
She walked over to the desk, fingertips trailing over the cluttered surface, some old notebook, a cracked phone charger, a pair of sunglasses with one lens missing. All untouched for months, maybe years.

She picked up a worn hoodie draped over the back of the chair. Pressed it to her face. Inhaled.

Too much time had passed, the smell of him on the hoodie was like a faded memory and Scott could only sense it thanks to his Alpha status there was no way Lydia was actually smelling anything, but she still caressed the surface like it was precious.

Scott watched her carefully.
“Lydia,” he said gently, “what are we looking for?”

Lydia didn’t answer.
She moved to the closet, opened it. Nothing strange, old jackets, a shoebox, an opened birthday card from Melissa that had fallen behind a stack of notebooks. She crouched, ran her hand along the floorboard, knocked once.

No hollow sound. No hidden panel. No message left behind. She stood slowly. And finally, she spoke.

“I screamed,” she said, her voice almost inaudible. “When Alison died.”

Scott froze.

Lydia kept staring at the wall across from her, like she wasn’t really seeing it, like she was talking to a memory.

“I didn’t know what it was at first,” she continued, voice steady but distant. “I thought I was going insane. But I screamed so loud... My ears rang for days. I knew… I knew she was gone before anyone told me.”

Scott remembered. Alison’s blood. The scream that shook the air. The sound of their hearts breaking.

Lydia turned toward him now, eyes wide and wet, shining like polished glass.
“But I didn’t scream for Stiles.”

Scott blinked. “What?”

“I didn’t scream,” she repeated, firmer now. “Not even a whisper. Nothing.”

Scott’s mind reeled, trying to connect dots that didn’t want to be connected.
“You think-”

“I don’t know,” she cut in, shaking her head. “But if he died… if he really died like they said…”

She placed a hand over her chest, pressing it like she could pull the answer from inside herself.
“Something should have happened. I should have felt it. Heard it. Anything.”

“But maybe-” Scott began, trying to reason through it, though his voice lacked conviction. “Maybe the way he died… maybe he was too far-”

“No,” she said quietly. “It doesn’t matter where they are. If someone tied to me dies, I hear it. I feel it.”
Her hands were trembling now.

“I didn’t feel him go.”

The silence that followed was heavier than before. It settled over the room like fog, wrapping around their thoughts and dragging them down.

Scott sat on the edge of the bed, eyes wide with realization. He didn’t say it, but the thought was there, sitting between them like a living thing.
What if he isn’t dead?

“We can’t say nothing to the Sheriff.” Lydia interrupted Scott brain of thoughts.

“But if his son is alive he’s the first person we should-“

“No Scott I couldn’t do this to him… what if I’m wrong, I can’t risk giving him false hope, we have to be sure before anything.” She was right.

“We need the help of the pack.” He stood up.
Lydia sighed before nodding.

Chapter Text

Stiles took until the end of the week to decide.
Every hour, every minute felt like it stretched longer than it should.

The facility was quiet, sterile, and endlessly gray, too much time to think and not enough to distract him from what had been asked. He went over every possibility, every scenario. What it would mean to vanish. What it would do to his father. Who it might protect.

It was Sunday when the knock finally came.
Three precise taps against the hospital room door.

Stiles already knew who it was.

Agent whatever his name was, stepped inside like he belonged there, wearing the same immaculate suit and unreadable expression. Still formal. Still stiff. Still weird. There was something about him Stiles couldn’t quite place.

“Agent Stilinski,” Spencer said without preamble, “Good morning. Have you made your decision?”
Right. No small talk. Straight to business.

Stiles sat up slightly in the bed, rubbing his hands together as he met the agent’s gaze.

“I’ve been thinking about my dad,” he said simply. “About everyone back home. If I do this... disappear... I want to know they’re okay. I need to be able to keep an eye on them, especially my dad.”

Agent Doe didn’t respond immediately. His jaw tightened slightly, and Stiles could almost see the wheels turning behind his eyes, calculating risk. Weighing protocol against value.

Finally, the agent nodded once.
“I can authorize monthly updates,” he said. “On the individuals of your choosing. No direct contact, no backchannel communication. Just status reports. Health. Safety. General wellbeing.”

He hesitated before adding, “That’s the most I can offer. You’d still be officially dead, Stilinski. No letters. No visits. No shadows lurking on the Beacon Hills border. You vanish, and you stay vanished.”
Stiles lowered his eyes.

It wasn’t what he wanted. Not really.
But it was something. A thread. A tether, however thin.

He let the silence settle between them for a long beat before speaking.
“Will my dad know?”

He shook his head.
“Only what he's already been told. He'll grieve. Then, eventually, he’ll heal. You can’t be the reason he keeps hoping.”

Stiles winced. That one hit deeper than he expected.
He looked down at his hands again. At the faint line of scar tissue already forming on his side. The dull ache in his ribs. The band around his wrist where his old ID had been stripped away.

A ghost. That’s what they wanted from him.
And maybe… maybe that’s what the world needed him to be right now.

He nodded, slowly.
“Alright,” he said quietly. “I’ll do it.”

The agent gave a short, approving nod and pulled a sealed document folder from his briefcase, laying it carefully on the table beside the bed.

“Sign the forms. We’ll begin immediate transfer. Your new designation will be provided once the clearance cycle is complete.”

As the agent turned and walked out, Stiles reached for the pen beside the folder. He hesitated for only a second, then signed his name.

The signature on the form was the last time he’d write that name for a very long time.
And just like that, Mieczysław Stilinski ceased to exist.

Chapter Text

Derek’s loft hadn’t changed.
Same towering ceilings. Same cold concrete walls. Same echo of things unsaid.

But tonight, it felt suffocating. Not because of how many people were inside, but because of what was missing. Who was missing.

Malia paced like she was too restless to breathe. Her fingers twitched at her sides, claws threatening.

Kira sat curled into the couch, a quiet ache behind her eyes.

Lydia stood near the window, arms tight around herself, watching the night like it might give her an answer.

Scott leaned against the table, silent but fraying at the edges.

They had all come when Scott called. No explanation. Just the urgency in his voice.
Because when it came to Stiles, they always showed up.

Derek crossed the room with slow, steady step. His gaze swept over them, landing on Lydia.
“What’s going on?”

She turned, voice steady. Too steady.
“I don’t think Stiles is dead.”

The silence hit like a physical blow.

Malia stopped in her tracks, staring at Lydia like she’d lost her mind.

Kira blinked in confusion.

Derek’s jaw tensed.

Scott didn’t move.

Lydia took a breath. “I screamed when Allison died… but for him I didn’t scream. I would’ve if he’d died.”

“Are you seriously doing this right now?” Malia said, voice sharp. “We buried him, Lydia.”

“No, we didn’t, we buried an empty basket” Lydia snapped. “We got a phone call. A redacted report. No names. No body. Just a voice telling us Stiles died on an FBI mission and that’s it. And you all just accepted that?”

Derek folded his arms, unimpressed. “People die on missions, Lydia. Even Stiles.”

“I would’ve known,” she insisted. “I’m a banshee-”

“Yeah, and banshees can be wrong,” Derek cut in. “Could be shock. Could be your powers failing. It’s happened before.” His voice wasn’t as rough as his face, he didn’t really believed her but he couldn’t ignore how she was clearly in pain.

Lydia looked to Scott. “You felt it too. When we were in his room last week. There was nothing. No echo of death. No finality. It was like he just... left.”

Scott’s voice was low. “I... yeah. It didn’t feel right. But he left that house years ago Lydia. It’s not like I don’t believe you-”

“Oh my God,” Malia growled, stepping forward. “Are you serious right now? You, too?”

“I’m just saying-”

“No, you’re not just saying,” she snapped. “You’re doing exactly what she’s doing. Pretending. Because you can’t handle that he’s gone.”

“Malia-” Kira tried.

“No!” she shouted. Her eyes were glowing blue now, claws partially out. “You think I don’t want to believe this? That I haven’t wished every single day that he was still out there? That this is all some mistake?”.

The room was silent, except for the sound of her breathing, fast, angry, desperate.

Kira stood slowly, gently. “Malia calm down” she placed an hand on her shoulder.

She looked at her, then on the ground, the last bit of blue left her eyes “No more false hope. It’s cruel. And you...” she turned on Lydia again, “You didn’t scream. Maybe because there was nothing left of him to scream for.”

Lydia flinched, hard.

Derek’s voice was quiet but firm. “It's been more than a week Lydia, if he's alive, why hasn’t he called? Why hasn’t he come home?”

Lydia didn’t answer. She couldn’t.

Scott finally spoke again, but softer now, uncertain. “What if he didn’t have a choice?”

Malia shook her head like it would shake him out of it.
She stepped back from the group, arms crossed tightly over her chest like it was the only way to hold herself together. “He’s dead. And you're just using your guilt to twist it into something it’s not.”

Lydia’s voice cracked as she whispered, “I know it doesn’t make sense. But I just… I know.”

Derek’s eyes narrowed. “Then find proof. And we’ll believe you”

Lydia’s jaw tightened. “You think I’d lie about this?”

“I think grief does things to people,” Derek said carefully. “And we all want Stiles back. But Lydia… the FBI confirmed it. They called the sheriff. There was a report.”

Malia turned her back to them, fists clenched.

Kira looked at Scott helplessly, unsure where to stand. He walked to her and took her hand.
He stood frozen, the room tearing in two around him, between what he felt, and what he feared.

Lydia walked to the table and placed her hands flat against it, knuckles white.

“I don’t believe he’s gone,” she said. “And I won’t until I scream.”

No one answered her.
Not this time.

Chapter Text

Two days later, Stiles sat in a cold, windowless room.
The walls were gray. The lights on top of him too bright.

Across from him, a woman in a navy suit typed rapidly on a keyboard without once looking up.

“I’m Agent Tyler,” she said briskly. “I’m in charge of your intake processing. I’ll be informing you of your new designation and initial assignment parameters.”

Stiles simply nodded.
No quip. No sarcasm. Just tired eyes and a quiet acceptance.

Tyler continued without pause.
“We already have your full profile in the system, so I’ll just read it back to confirm accuracy. Understood?”

Another nod.

“Mieczysław Stilinski, alias ‘Stiles.’ Born October 8, 1994, California. Formally declared deceased as of July 25, 2025.”

Stiles flinched slightly. Swallowed. Hearing it out loud, the day he officially stopped existing, hit harder than expected.

Tyler kept reading, unaffected.
“Graduated Beacon Hills High School. Bachelor’s in Criminal Psychology from George Washington University. Employed by the FBI, Special Assignments Division. Next of kin: Noah Stilinski, alive. Claudia Gajos, deceased, 2004. Is this correct?”

“Yes,” Stiles said quietly.

Tyler paused her typing and looked up for the first time.
“Before I can brief you on your assignment, we’ll need to finalize your new identity. All field agents in this unit are issued codenames and legally scrubbed aliases. From this point forward, you are no longer to use or acknowledge your birth name, under any circumstances.”

Stiles gave a half-shrug, trying for something like levity but falling short.
“Well, Stiles wasn’t even my real name to begin with.”

Tyler raised an eyebrow.
“Regardless, it’s the name you’re known by. And that’s exactly the problem. Both your given name and nickname are too distinctive. We need something unremarkable. Forgettable. Bland.”
She clicked through a few screens, then glanced back.

“You want to choose your new first name?”

Stiles hesitated, then offered softly:
“Is… Mitch okay?”

It kinda sounded like the short for Mieczysław. He didn’t want to separate from the name his mother gave him, not completely.

Tyler didn’t comment. Just typed.
“Mitch. Fine. Let’s find an available last name.”

She scanned a list, then paused.
“Mitch Rapp. That’s available. Sound acceptable?”

Stiles nodded once.
“Yeah. Sure. Sounds… fine.”

“From now on, you answer only to Mitch or Agent Rapp. Your birth name no longer exists. Not legally. Not operationally. Erase it from your vocabulary.”

He looked at her, jaw tight, but said nothing.

Tyler resumed typing, her voice flat and efficient.
“You’ll be issued new credentials, a backstopped history, and a full behavioral brief before assignment. Your belongings have been sanitized. Your digital footprint erased. Your past, Mister Rapp, is gone.”

Stiles sat still for a moment, the weight of his new name settling into the sterile room like dust.
Before he could even think of breaking the silence, Agent Tyler spoke again, her fingers now idle on the keyboard.

“I’m going to proceed with your orientation. It’s time you understand what this unit is, and what it’s really for.”

Stiles glanced at her warily but said nothing.
She continued, calm and detached.
“First, I need to formally inform you that you are no longer an employee of the FBI.”

He blinked.
“Wait, what?”

“You’re no longer affiliated with the FBI, Agent Rapp. Your death was reported to them, just like everyone else’s. That includes your employment status. To the FBI, you died in the field. You are not coming back.”

Stiles frowned, the confusion tightening across his face. He looked around the room again, suddenly suspicious, uneasy.

“... is this a joke? What the hell is this?”

“Not a joke,” she said flatly. “We’ve been monitoring your work at the FBI for years. Your skill set, your adaptability, your psychological profile and your past… let’s say it flagged some interest. After the ambush, we identified an opportunity to extract and reassign you.”

His voice sharpened.
“There was an agent… Spencer. He pulled me out. He said he was FBI and that nurse told me about the call...”

Tyler tilted her head slightly.
“Did you see a badge?”

Stiles froze. No. He hadn’t. He was still under medication. He just assumed.

Tyler continued, a hint of something colder in her tone.
“Spencer was never FBI and neither was the nurse. To them, you and another one of your colleagues were confirmed casualties. But you weren’t quite dead yet. And we got to you first.”

Stiles sat back, pulse beginning to race.
“Then where the fuck am I?”

Tyler finally offered a faint smile. Not kind. Just... precise.

“CIA.”

She let the word hang in the air, heavy and deliberate.

“More specifically, a subdivision so classified that even most agency heads don’t know it exists. We don’t wear badges. We don’t file paperwork. We don’t exist in any system. Our job is to go where others can’t, and do what others won’t.”

Stiles swallowed hard, feeling the walls of the room suddenly closer than before.
“So you faked my death. Stole me from my own agency. And now what… you’re recruiting me?”

“You already said yes,” she reminded him. “We just hadn’t told you the full details yet. For what it's worth, you’re not a prisoner, Agent Rapp. You’re free to walk away right now. But if you do, you'll disappear. No name, no protection. No return. You already signed a contract”

Stiles stared at her, jaw tight. Everything inside him screamed for answers, for a foothold in the ground that was shifting beneath his feet.

But somewhere beneath the confusion… he felt it.
That dangerous part of him that liked the unknown. That craved the challenge.

“Why me?” Stiles asked
His voice wasn’t angry, it was tired. Hollow. “Out of everyone in that blast radius, why pull me?”

The woman leaned back slightly, as if expecting the question.
“Because you're special, Mr. Rapp.” Her voice was calm. Measured. “Not just because of your academic record, your psychological resilience, or your performance at the FBI. Though, to be clear, those were impressive.”

She turned the screen of her laptop toward Stiles.
“It's your... choice of friendships that makes you unique.”

Stiles leaned forward and froze.

Displayed on the screen were classified files, each stamped and watermarked with agency seals he didn’t recognise.

Photos appeared. Familiar faces.

Derek Hale. Scott McCall. Kira Yukimura. Malia Tate.
Each profile was cleanly labeled beneath the headshot, with a chilling lack of context:

Derek Hale — Werewolf (Beta)
Scott McCall — Werewolf (Alpha)
Kira Yukimura — Kitsune (Thunder)
Malia Tate — Werecoyote (Beta)

Stiles felt his mouth go dry.
“How do you-”

“We’ve been tracking Beacon Hills for a very long time,” the woman interrupted.

“Longer than you think. Long before you ever joined the FBI, we had eyes on your town. Your friends. You.”

She paused, giving Stiles a moment to absorb the weight of what he was seeing.

“What we do here, Mr. Rapp, is deal with the supernatural. Quietly. Permanently. We locate threats, anomalies, and we neutralize them before the public ever hears a whisper.”

Stiles tore his gaze away from the screen. His heart was thudding, loud and uneven.
“So what, you’re like the CIA’s own Monster Squad?”

The woman didn’t smile.
“We’re the firewall between your world and the things that don’t belong in it.”

Stiles’s eyes flicked back to the screen.

There was no Lydia.
“Why isn’t she on here?” he asked quietly.

“Lydia Martin?” The man tapped a few keys. “She’s on our radar. We just haven’t determined what kind of liability she is yet.”

Stiles flinched at the word.
Liability

“They’re not threats,” he said, voice hardening.
“None of them are.”

The woman raised an eyebrow.
“That’s why you're here. You know what they are and you didn’t run. You didn’t just survive Beacon Hills, Mr. Rapp. You navigated it. Worked alongside them. Earned their trust. That makes you an asset. One of very few who can bridge both worlds. We need someone with your knowledge and courage”

Stiles looked at the profiles again.
“And what happens when someone on your team decides they are threats?”

Then Taylor closed the laptop calmly.
“Then we rely on agents who understand the difference.”

She stood, lifting the laptop with him. She looked back at him and explained more calmly.
“We are not inhuman Mr Rapp, we don’t kill unless they become a threat.”

She pauses before reaching the door
“We will give you two weeks since you’re still under medications, there's training every morning at 6, make sure to be there. Welcome to Division Black.”

Then she was gone, leaving Stiles… correction Mitch alone with his thoughts, his new name, his new job, and the ghosts of his past now staring back at him through government files.

Chapter Text

The alarm was unnecessary.

Stiles had barely slept.
He barely slept at all this whole week. Yes, he was supposed to take two but he couldn’t resist. Not knowing that not too far away from him CIA special soldier where training. He was curious.

By the time the shrill buzz hit 05:00, he was already dressed in the standard-issue black combat fatigues they’d left for him, no insignia, no name patch. Just the heavy boots, fitted tactical gear, and a lingering question in his mind:
“What the hell have I gotten myself into?”

At exactly 05:54, he stepped through the reinforced steel doors marked COMBAT ZONE – CLASSIFIED ACCESS ONLY.

What he saw on the other side felt more like a war camp than any training ground he’d ever seen.
Concrete floors scarred with old blood. Weight racks, stacked ammo crates, mats laid out in wide squares for hand-to-hand. And everywhere he looked—agents. Already training. Already sweating. Already fighting.

This wasn’t a gym. This was a crucible.
A whistle blew, sharp and clipped.
An instructor, old, with a voice as sharp as his eyes, stepped forward.
“Fresh meat,” he said, eyeing Stiles. “You the FBI kid?”

“Guess that’s me.”

“We better get that military training out of you fast.”
Before Stiles could ask what that meant, the man gestured to the centre mat.

“You’re up. Sparring round. You bleed, you lose. You tap, you lose. You hesitate... you really lose.”
Stiles blinked. “No warm-up or-”
“This is your warm-up.”

His opponent was already stepping onto the mat.
Female. Compact, fast-looking. Cold eyes. She didn’t look like much, until she moved.

And then Stiles realized: she was trained to kill, not to win points.

The whistle blew.
She struck first.
A blur of motion, jab to the throat, sweep at his legs. He blocked the first instinctively, rolled with the second, landing on his shoulder.

Pain flared. He scrambled to his feet, only to catch an elbow to the ribs that left him gasping.

He circled, hands up, heart pounding.
His FBI training told him to defuse, restrain.
His instincts told him she wasn’t going to stop until he was broken.
So he adapted.

On her next swing, he ducked under, twisted her wrist, and slammed her into the mat. For a second, the room went quiet.

Then she smirked, wiped a trickle of blood from her nose, and swept his leg out again, flipping him hard.

He groaned, coughing, but refused to stay down.
They circled again. This time, he didn’t hesitate. A feint. A strike to the solar plexus. A shoulder-check that took them both down.

The whistle blew again.
“Break.”

Both fighters stepped back, panting.
The instructor looked over, unreadable.
“You didn’t win. But you didn’t die. That’s a start.”

He turned away.
“You’re not FBI anymore, Rapp. Get that through your head. Out there, no one's coming to save you. No badge. No backup. You’re the weapon now.”

Stiles wiped blood from his lip and nodded, chest heaving.

He was starting to get it.
This wasn’t about surviving the fight.
It was about becoming someone who couldn’t be killed.

“I will give you a break for this one Agent Rapp. You’re on observation for this round.”
He jogged over and stood by him, heart already pumping from the noise and atmosphere alone.

He said. “But let me show you what we’re really about in this unit.”
He turned to the mat.
“Tyler. Jasper. You’re on. Give me everything you’ve got.”

Stiles watched as the two men stepped into the ring. They didn’t bother with headgear. No gloves. Just bare fists and a lot of bad blood behind their eyes.

Then it started.
And holy shit, Stiles realized he was not watching two normal people fight.

Tyler moved fast, too fast for a guy that size. He lunged forward with a roar, veins bulging, bones cracking audibly as thick claws ripped through the skin of his fingers. His teeth elongated mid-step. His face was shifting.

“Werewolf,” Stiles muttered.

But Jasper didn’t flinch. His eyes glowed a molten gold and he dropped low, limbs bending too far, shoulders dislocating and re-aligning as his speed exploded.
His skin shimmered, almost scaled for a moment, like it was trying to decide whether to be man or something else.

When he struck, it was a blur. A slash across Tyler’ chest that sent blood arcing through the air and Tyler grinned through it, fangs gleaming.

The two collided in a storm of claws and fists. The ground cracked under their weight.
Bones healed mid-fight. Neither held back.

It was a blur of movement that would’ve torn through most of the FBI training teams Stiles had worked with in seconds.

The crowd around the ring didn’t even flinch.
Stiles stared, breath caught in his throat. Then slowly, he turned to scan the rest of the room.

The others. The recruits. The instructors. Watching. Calm. Focused.

One woman nearby had silver eyes and didn’t blink the entire time. Another guy had faint gill slits along his neck, just barely hidden under his collar.

It hit him all at once.
They didn’t just work against supernatural beings. But with them.

They trained them. Weaponised them.

Was he the only human here? Now that he thinks about it almost sounds obvious. Now he’s thinking if he where to fight Scott or Derek or even Malia he, with all his military training, would still probably lose against sharp teeth, claws and enchanted strength.

How could had he not think of this, only the supernatural could defeat the supernatural.

By the end of the day, Mitch was wrecked.
He had only been pulled into two training rotations, and the second one had ended with him getting thrown hard enough to split open his stitches.
Great.

Now he sat on the medical bed, shirt half off.
The nurse looked... normal. No glowing eyes. No fangs. No claws. No badge, and her expression was more amused than concerned.

“Mr. Rapp,” she said, snapping on gloves as she approached. “So soon? I had you lasting at least two more days.”

Mitch gave a weak smile. “I live to disappoint.”
“Or bleed, apparently,” she muttered, lifting the edge of the gauze. “Stitches are torn. I’ll need to re-suture.”

He let out a tired sigh, tilting his head back.
“You know,” she said lightly as she prepped the tools, “I should actually thank you.”

Mitch raised an eyebrow.
“Why’s that?”
“Because since I was hired here, I don’t think I’ve ever used my medical knowledge on a full human being.” She smiled, threading the suture needle. “Believe it or not, putting regular stitches back into regular skin is like... fresh air.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, but it faded quickly. After a beat: “So I am the only human here.”

She didn’t answer right away, just gave him a look that said, you already know that. “Only me, you and Stan.”
“Who’s Stan?”
“Oh Stan Hurley, he is in charge of the division. You probably saw him, white old man with icy blue eyes…” oh yes he had seen that guy, he was the one that first talked to him when he entered the combat zone.

“Yes I’ve seen him, so there are no human soldiers” Mitch continued, “Has there never been another?”

The doctor paused, then shook her head slowly.
“There were. In the beginning. Thirty, maybe forty years ago. Back when this division first formed. Back when the CIA treated anything supernatural like a universal threat.”

She began stitching carefully, her movements precise.
“The first version of this unit was all human. Operatives, analysts, medics. The whole squad. But it didn’t last. Too many variables they couldn’t control. Too many things they didn’t understand. Missions failed. Agents died. Eventually, the agency’s view had to evolve.”

“What changed?”
“An agent was bitten,” she said simply. “Werewolf. Mid-mission. He survived, turned, and they... used him. Turned him into a weapon.”

Mitch winced and not from the needle.
“Typical.”

“Maybe,” she said. “But it forced a reckoning. They started seeing the supernatural not as a single enemy, but as a population. One that included doctors. Teachers. Soldiers. Police officers. friends.”
He looked down. Her hands paused at his side.
“Most of them just want to live in peace,” she said softly. “And you know that better than anyone, don't you?”

Mitch didn’t answer. He didn’t need to.
She finished the last stitch and snipped the thread, pressing a fresh dressing into place.

“There,” she said. “All patched up again. Try not to get slammed into any concrete walls tomorrow.”

He stood, flexing his shoulder with a wince. “No promises.”

She smiled, stepping back to clean up.
“You're not just a human in this unit, Mitch,” she added as he reached the door.

“What do you mean?”
She only offered him a last smile. He hesitated in the doorway, that last sentence lingering with him longer than it should have.

Then he stepped out into the hallway, unsure whether he felt more important or more alone.

Chapter Text

The silence in the loft was thick, the kind that pressed against your skin. Lydia almost felt like gravity had increased as she stepped inside, pushing the heavy door open.
Derek stood near the table, sleeves rolled to his forearms, flipping through a book he clearly wasn’t reading. The lamplight didn’t reach him fully; half of his face was swallowed in shadow.

“I need your help.” Lydia said, her heels clicking as she stepped inside.
She seemed more put together than when she talked to Scott and the pack the first time after the funeral. She didn’t want to seem desperate; she wanted them to help her because they believed her, not for pity.

Derek didn’t look up. “Scott’s the Alpha now,” he said. “Not me.”

“I’m not asking Scott.” She crossed her arms. “I’m asking you.”

For a moment, he just stared at her, expression unreadable. Then he let out a dry, humorless laugh. “You don’t want me. You think I’m the one who will magically pull answers out of ashes because I’ve buried more pack than the rest of you combined?”
Derek had already understood what Lydia was going to ask him; she wasn’t surprised. She hadn't talked to anyone since last week, so it was like the conversation was still open.

Lydia’s voice was steady, but sharp. “You don’t even look like you’re grieving.”

That broke something. His jaw clenched, his body going taut like wire.
“You think I don’t feel this?” His voice was low, dangerous. “You think because I’m not falling apart in front of everyone, I don’t miss him?”

“You don’t act like it.”

“Don’t act-” He cut himself off with a bitter shake of his head. “Boyd died in my arms. I have to live with the guilt of not having found Erica before she was killed. Or my family. You don’t feel every single failure sit on your chest like it is trying to suffocate you. Don’t you dare stand in my home and tell me I don’t grieve.”
The silence after was sharp. Lydia’s throat burned, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.

Finally, Derek spoke again, this time quieter. “Stiles… yes, we weren’t that close but…” He faltered, looking past her, eyes lost somewhere distant.
“He never shut up,” Derek said at last. “Always pushing buttons, poking where he shouldn’t. But somehow… he saved my life more times than I can count. He dragged me out of my own head when I couldn’t see straight. He was human, and somehow, he was braver than half the wolves I’ve ever known.”
A faint smile ghosted across his face, gone almost before Lydia saw it. “He annoyed the hell out of me, and he was one of the best people I ever met. And he was pack.”

Lydia swallowed hard, her chest tight. “Then why won’t you help me find out the truth?”

“Because if you’re wrong,” Derek said, his eyes locking on hers again, “it’ll destroy all of us, especially your Sheriff. And if you’re right-” He broke off, jaw tight. “If you’re right, then we’re walking straight into something bigger than all of us. And I can’t watch another pack member die.”

Lydia’s voice softened. “That’s the point, Derek. We already lost him once. What if we don’t have to?”

For a long moment, he just stared at her. Torn. His grief and his instinct warring in the lines of his face. That was when another voice slithered in from the shadows.

“Well, isn’t this heartwarming?”

Both their heads snapped up as Peter descended the stairs, slow and deliberate, hands in his pockets like he owned the place. His smile was sharp, predatory.
“Family therapy in the loft. Very on brand.”

Derek’s eyes flashed. “You were eavesdropping.”

Peter shrugged. “That's such a harsh word. I prefer… paying attention.”

Lydia’s expression hardened. “Why are you even here?”
She turned on Derek, frustration boiling over. “Actually, better question: why the hell are you still letting him live with you after everything he’s done?”

Derek sighed, running a hand over his jaw. “Every time he dies, he comes back. At least this way, I know where he is.”

Lydia blinked. “…That’s disturbingly practical.”

Peter grinned. “You’re welcome.”

“Shut up,” Derek and Lydia snapped together.

Peter only spread his hands innocently. “I could shut up. Or… I could tell you something useful. Something about our missing Stilinski.”

Both pairs of eyes locked on him.
“What?” Lydia demanded.

Peter tilted his head, eyes glittering with amusement. “Maybe I know a way to find out if our boy is really dead, or if the FBI's little bedtime story was just that, a story.”

Derek and Lydia looked at each other for a moment. Then Peter smirked. “The price is small favor. Nothing tragic. You both owe me more than you’d care to admit anyway.”

“Of course,” Derek looked away.

Lydia’s lips thinned. “Why would you even care? Why would you want to help us?”

Peter’s smile sharpened, something almost genuine flickering behind it. “Because,” he said, “Stiles was my favorite. Always has been. Sharp tongue, sharper mind. He reminded me of… me. Only less murderous, of course.”

Lydia’s stomach turned at the words, but Derek’s glare could’ve cut stone. He had a plan, they knew it could very much be one of his games but for Stiles? They were willing to play it. “What do you even want?” Derek snapped.

Peter just chuckled. “Oh, don’t worry about it now. The question is… how far are you willing to go to prove he’s still out there?”
The silence that followed was suffocating.

Lydia’s hands clenched into fists. And Peter? Peter smiled like the devil he was, because he already knew he’d hooked them.
Derek didn’t move. His stance was rigid, like one wrong word would send him either lunging at Peter or storming out altogether. His eyes burned, not glowing, just full of a weight Lydia recognized.

Almost half an hour later they were all sitting on the couch, in silence.
They had asked Peter to start talking, but there it was.

Then Lydia understood, she broke the silence. Her voice was low, but cutting. “So… you don’t actually know anything.”

Peter tilted his head, that maddening half-smile tugging at his mouth. “I never claimed I did. I said I had a way.”

“You let us believe you had real information,” Lydia snapped, her throat tight.

“I do," Peter countered smoothly. "Just technically not on Stiles."

Derek’s fists curled at his sides. “You always do this. Twist words until they mean nothing.”

Peter’s smirk didn’t falter. “And yet here you both are, listening.”

Lydia’s nails dug into her own arms. She hated him for being right. Hated that a part of her still leaned forward when he spoke, as if some part of her trusted that beneath the venom there might actually be truth.

Peter stepped closer, lowering his voice. “If you want to know whether Stiles is really gone, you don’t need the FBI. You need a banshee. You need you.”

Her chest tightened. She didn’t speak at first, just stared back, unblinking.
“Explain,” Derek demanded.

“Death calls to banshees,” Peter said, slow and deliberate. “But you already know that, Lydia. You hear the echoes, the screams. If Stiles truly crossed over, you’ll find him. If he hasn’t…” He spread his hands like it was simple. “Then you’ll hear nothing. And that nothing will tell you more than any government report ever could.”

Derek finally looked at her. Really looked at her. And she could see it, the conflict. The anger at Peter, the protective instinct that made him want to end the conversation right there, and beneath all of it, the smallest flicker of hope.
Dangerous, fragile hope.

Peter broke the silence again. “Of course, you won’t manage it alone. You need a tether. Someone bound tightly enough to Stiles to hold you in place while you reach for him. Otherwise…” His eyes glinted with amusement. “Well, let’s just say you’d get lost.”

“And by tether, you mean Scott,” Derek said. His voice was steady, but his jaw was clenched.

“Obviously,” Peter replied. “The Alpha and his human counterpart. Two halves of a very irritating whole. I don't know if he's strong enough to ground you alone, though.”

Malia’s name sat on Derek’s tongue, but he didn’t say it aloud. Their relationship ended not too long after it started, and after the breakup, it was clear Malia wasn't over it. Maybe love was the strong enough connection that they needed.
But it has been ten years, she probably moved on, and he didn’t want to upset Lydia by bringing her up.
Everybody knew about the long crush the boy had on her, but when finally the girl started to feel it too, it was over. They had broken up before they both left for college, Stiles' decision, the girl had claimed.
And although the two had remained good friends, because of both of them being in the same pack, probably, they hadn't been alone in a room together since the end of their relationship.

Peter’s grin widened, like he’d read Derek’s thoughts. “Perhaps. My daughter is tied to him, too. But you will have to make sure she’s stable enough to do it. And Kira, fox magic tends to make interesting things happen around thresholds. And, of course, we’re missing the most important person in Stiles’ life-”

Lydia finally found her voice, thin but firm. “We can’t involve the Sheriff. Not until we’re sure.”

Peter chuckled darkly and raised his hands. “As you wish.”

The loft went still again. Derek’s eyes flicked between Lydia and Peter, measuring, weighing.
“You didn’t even tell us what we have to do, and how dangerous it is,” Derek asked at last.

Peter’s smirk shifted into something colder, more genuine. “Dangerous enough. But you already took a heavy risk for your dear friend, so I'm sure you're willing to again. The Nogitsune, remember? Scott clawing into Stiles’s body, Lydia bleeding, and everyone half-broken by the end of it. That wasn’t exactly safe, was it?”

The memory crashed between them. Lydia’s hands trembled before she forced them still. Derek’s eyes went straight to Lydia to check her reaction, even after all those years, all that happened with the nogitsune is not a light topic.
Peter let the silence linger, then said lightly, “But if Stiles is alive, it’s the only way you’ll know.”

Lydia lifted her chin, eyes hard. “Then we’ll do it.”

Derek turned sharply toward her. “We don’t even know if it will work.”

“And if it does?” she shot back. “If it proves he’s out there?”

For a moment, Derek just stared at her, silent. His mind replayed too many nights in that loft. Stiles pacing across the floor, throwing theories out like wildfire, refusing to shut up until Derek snapped at him… and then usually ended up realizing Stiles had been right. Always annoying, always infuriating, always somehow essential.

When he spoke, his voice was rough. “Fine. But if Scott disagrees, it’s over. No Alpha, no attempt. Understood?”

Lydia nodded once. Her heartbeat was hammering, but she didn’t waver.

Peter smiled, sharp and satisfied. “Good. Then we’ll need the others. The fox, the coyote, the Alpha. A little reunion, just like old times.”

His grin lingered as Derek shot him a glare sharp enough to cut.
And Lydia could only silently hope that this would be a good place to start.

Chapter Text

From the mezzanine, the training room looked like an arena. Harsh lights beating down on concrete, bodies colliding, claws flashing, fists breaking the air. It was loud, violent, but underneath it all there was rhythm. A pattern. The kind of thing he’d been trained to notice long before Division Black dragged him here.

He visited the nurse this morning again to check on his stitches and he was told to skip sparring for the day.
She also told him everyone names and he was now trying to put a face on them, this is how it was explained to him:
"It's very easy, the youngest boy is Tyler, I don’t really know how old is he but you will notice him right away just look in the direction of the most noises. Then Jasper is the black guy, you can’t miss. And if you see a man who’s not Jasper or Tyler then it’s Viktor. And for the ladies we have June, she’s the oldest one that rip out your stitches yesterday and Vira, the younger one.”

So Stiles leaned forward against the railing, eyes scanning, searching them. Cataloguing without meaning to. Old habits.

Tyler was the easiest to read. Big kid, tall, wiry muscle, built like he hadn’t quite grown into his own limbs. Reckless too, throwing his weight around like pain wasn’t even part of the equation. He fought with a grin that bordered on unhinged, like every punch was a dare. Grappler, definitely. He liked dragging people into close range and keeping them there. The burn scars on his forearm said he’d been through fire before and lived to enjoy it. Liability in a stealth op. Perfect for a fight you didn’t plan on walking away from.
Werewolf, obviously. The way he barreled forward, used his strength like a weapon he didn’t need to control. No sense of subtlety. Definitely not the kind of guy you’d put at the front of a an undercover op. Loud, reckless, effective. Classic wolf-boy energy.

Jasper was the opposite. Everything about him screamed control. Lean frame, deliberate movements, never wasting energy. He moved like water. When light hits certain points of his skin it almost seemed to shine and he didn’t miss how his eyes shined yellow too. Every strike landed where it would hurt most, every dodge was an inch away from arrogance. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink more than necessary. Watching him felt like waiting for a trap to spring. If Tyler was noise, Jasper was silence sharpened into a weapon.

June, the first person who’d taken him down in this place, was something else entirely. Compact, strong, precise. She fought with discipline, not instinct, and it was impossible to miss the kitsune aura sparking when the pressure rose, she really fought like someone who had been here for a long while. Every step, every pivot was thought out three moves in advance. No scars, her skin clear and white like porcelain surely gave away that something was keeping her from developing scars because who didn’t have scars from a job like this.

Vira was still figuring it out. Youngest face down there, still smooth, still unscarred. She moved with agility, all speed and improvisation, the kind of energy that said she hadn’t learned what a real loss looked like yet. Shoulders telegraphed her strikes, easy to read, her eyes darting too quickly to where she wanted to hit. She’d get herself killed in the field, unless someone taught her where the line was.

He leaned heavier on the railing, lips pressed tight. He couldn’t stop. Every time someone moved, every time a strike landed or missed, his brain catalogued it. Weak knee. Stronger left hook. Overconfidence. Psychological tells. It was automatic, exhausting, but safer than letting his mind wander to where it wanted to go. To faces that weren’t here.

“You’re profiling.”
The voice cut through like a blade.

Stiles froze, then turned.

Viktor.

The man beside him was built like a fortress. Thick shoulders hidden under a black shirt that didn’t quite hide the fact that he could crush someone in two moves. His face was sharp, scarred lightly at the brow, but his eyes gave him away immediately. Blue, glowing faintly in the dim light. Werewolf.

Stiles shrugged, casual on the outside, stiff on the inside. “I’m watching.”

Viktor stepped to the railing, gaze following the fights below. His presence was grounded, calm. “Watching. Cataloguing. Strengths, weaknesses... ”

Stiles swallowed but didn’t answer.

Viktor’s head tilted. “You’re guessing what we are.”

Silence. Stiles kept his face neutral.

“Tyler?” Viktor continued, as if reading him. “Werewolf. Turned. That’s why he still fights like a kid who thinks he’s invincible.”

Stiles’s eyes flicked back down. That tracked.

“Jasper?” Viktor went on. “Kanima. Doesn’t miss much, doesn’t forgive mistakes.”

Stiles stayed quiet, but his pulse kicked up.

“June,” Viktor said, his tone softer. “You already know. Kitsune. Fire.”

Stiles’s chest tightened. He thought of the sparks he’d seen, the heat in her movements. Fire kitsune. Stronger, rarer. Dangerous.

“And Vira,” Viktor added. “I will pronounce it wrong but she’s a jangsanbeom. she’s the youngest with Jasper, but the potential’s there. If she doesn’t get herself killed first.”

Stiles didn’t catch that name at all. “I never heard of that.”

Viktor turned his head, amber eyes cutting into Stiles. “Very rare, she was born like this apparently, look there” he pointed at the ring where her and Tyler were sparring.

He couldn't hear what was happening from up there but he could see Tyler constantly getting distracted and looking around moving his hand like to as if to chase away a fly before growling at Vira. That until Stan gave him a smack on the head scream at him something he couldn’t hear while Vira laughed.
Viktor could clearly hear them as he smirked at the interaction.

“that was her distracting him. She can imitate any kind of sound and voice. It’s a pain to fight with her, she’s not that stong but she’s always mimicking people calling your name or animal sounds, phone ringing, any kinda of thing to keep your attention away. But i have to say it’s very funny to see others fight her. And you should see her beast form.”
he looked at him again “anyway” Viktor said, straightening up against the railing again, arms folding across his chest.

Stiles didn’t reply right away. His brain was still stuck on the whole jangsanbeom thing. He’d never even heard of that creature before today and he knew the bestiary like the palm of his hand. He couldn't help but wonder what else she could do.
Great. Another thing to add to the ever-growing ‘shit no one told me existed’ list.

Viktor studied him a moment longer. “I don’t need to tell you what I am so that leaves you. What kind of creature are you?”

Stiles’s throat went dry. He forced the lie. “Nothing.”

Viktor didn’t blink. “They don’t put nothing in Division Black. Everyone here has a reason. A skill. A bloodline. Something.”

Stiles rolled his shoulders like it didn’t matter. “Maybe they needed someone who can think like a cop. Someone who can do the boring paperwork no one else wants to.” That was bullshit, he had been told since the beginning they didn’t file any type of paperwork, they also deny him to have a journal he could take notes on, but what could he have said? Maybe they need someone to clean the dry blood out of the wallpaper.

“Paperwork,” Viktor repeated, a hint of amusement cracking through his voice for the first time. “Right. That must be why Stan vouched for you.”

That name again. Stan. He’d heard it enough times now to know whoever the man was, he had weight. The nurse had told him he was the head of the division, but what does he know about him?

“Maybe,” Stiles said carefully, because he couldn’t afford to ask. Couldn’t afford to want to know.

Viktor’s gaze lingered on him, long enough that Stiles had to fight the urge to fidget.
Finally, the werewolf leaned back, looking down at the fighters again.
“You’ve got the eyes of someone who’s been cataloguing threats his whole life,” Viktor said. “Even when you’re not supposed to. That doesn’t come from nothing.”

Stiles kept his jaw locked, but inside his stomach was twisting. He couldn’t let this guy poke holes in him. Mitch Rapp was a blank slate. No dad who worked too many night shifts. No pack who’d fought and bled for him. No name that carried weight anywhere outside Beacon Hills.

“Like I said,” Stiles muttered, forcing his tone flat, “I’m nothing.”

Viktor let the silence stretch, then huffed out what might have been a laugh. “If you say so.”

He pushed away from the railing, turning toward the stairwell. But before he left, he glanced back once more, those faintly glowing eyes pinning Stiles in place.
“Just know this Mitch… Division Black doesn’t waste time with nothing. So if you don’t know what you are yet…” A sharp grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Maybe they do.”

And then he was gone, boots echoing down the metal stairs, leaving Stiles alone with the sound of fists hitting flesh and claws scraping mats.
Stiles dragged a hand over his face, heart pounding too fast. He told himself it didn’t matter. That Viktor was just another wolf trying to get under his skin.

But his brain wouldn’t stop looping those last words.
If you don’t know what you are yet… maybe they do.

Chapter Text

The next evening, Scott’s house carried the smell of sage and dust, faint trails of incense burned down to ash on the windowsill. The air was heavy in a way that didn’t belong to summer. Lydia noticed it the moment she walked in without waiting a response for her knock, Derek just behind her.

Kira was already at the table, a notebook open in front of her with scrawled diagrams that looked like fox-spirits mid-shift, tails curling across the page. She closed it quickly when Lydia’s heels echoed on the floor, but the motion wasn’t hurried, just private and she smiled at her.
Scott was in the kitchen, sleeves rolled to his elbows, as he noticed them he sat on the table next to his wife. The sound of his clinic keys clinked on the counter, tossed aside as he leaned back on the chair.
It was ordinary. And it was unbearable.
Because for years, ordinary was exactly what Stiles had tried to protect for them.

Scott brought over a tray of mismatched mugs. Tea, not coffee- Kira’s choice, judging by the steam and the faint trace of honey in the air. Lydia sat down first, folding her hands neatly in her lap, posture perfect because she needed control somewhere, anywhere. She took the mug in her hands mouthing a 'thanks' to both of them. Derek took the seat across from Scott, his silence heavier than his presence. Peter was already leaning against the far wall, uninvited but smug, his grin sharp enough to cut. Neither commented on his precence, acknowledging meant caring.

They sat there for a long moment before anyone spoke. The sound of cicadas outside filled the space, loud and endless, with the sound of the slow slurps of Lydia and Kira, noticeable only to those with advanced hearing.

Finally, Scott’s voice broke the stillness. “Ok we already know that Lydia dosen’t think he’s gone.” He looked at her, steady but cautious. “That didn’t surprise me. What surprises me-” his gaze shifted to Derek, “-is that you’re sitting here with her.”

Derek’s jaw flexed. He didn’t answer right away. His hands were clasped together on the table, knuckles white. “I don’t know what I believe anymore,” he admitted at last. “But if there’s a chance, we can’t ignore it.”

Scott leaned back slowly, eyes narrowing. His heartbeat was steady, Lydia noticed, she always did. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t dismissive. He was… conflicted. He was confused, after all the same person who’s in front of him telling him about having changed his mind called Lydia crazy the first time she talked about it.
“Then explain,” he said quietly. “What changed?”

That was Peter’s cue. He pushed away from the wall and strolled closer, the predator enjoying the moment.
“I offered my help to clarify the situation for everyone. I can help you reveal something the FBI wouldn’t tell you,” Peter said, his tone smooth, playful. “Well I can’t. Not directly. But I know how Lydia can.”

Kira shifted slightly in her chair, her dark eyes flicking between them. Lydia kept her chin high, but the air felt colder around her, like even acknowledging it pulled her closer to that space between life and death.

Scott frowned not totally sure of what they where even talking about. “You mean with her banshee powers?”

“Very good, True Alpha,” Peter purred. “She has a connection with death. If Stiles really crossed over, she’ll find him. And if she hears nothing…” His smile sharpened. “That is also an answear.”

Derek bristled, shoulders stiff, but he didn’t argue.
Scott exhaled slowly, rubbing his palms together as if grounding himself. “And i guess that’s dangerous.”

“But wouldn't be worth it for living the rest of your lives not knowing?” Peter countered smoothly.

Peter then explained what he already told Derek and Lydia. The need for a theater and the pack to be unite.
Though he was still being cryptic about how they would actually do it, and that bringed Lydia to prepare for the worst, maybe even having to repeat the whole human sacrifice thing Scott, Stiles and Allison went trough. And she shivered at the thoughts of what that costed them… of who had costed them.

Kira finally spoke, her voice soft but certain. “So what your saying is, we’ll need anchors. Balance.”

Scott nodded slowly. “Then we need the whole pack.”

As if summoned by the word, the front door opened. Malia’s steps were quick, impatient, her energy spilling into the room before her voice did. Lydia had called her as well. Derek had told her she wasn't in the right place of mind but she argued saying she was still pack. He told her about how Malia spended most of her time as a coyote since the funeral and that was starting to worry him. He had tried to talk to her about how this could have affected her humanity in the long run.
But she argued "So be it, being a coyote is much more simple. Animals are guided by instinct: hunt, feed, sleep. I can shut off my mind and be guided by my body." and she wasn't wrong. Of course she was dealing with grief the same way she did after her mother and her sister had died, she was dealing with all of this the only way she knew. They coulnd't let her get feral again, after all... Stiles wasn't here to save her again.

She froze.
Peter was sitting at the table now, lounging like it was his throne.
Malia’s eyes lit electric blue, claws sliding out before she even realized it. “If he stays, I go.”

Peter smirked. “How predictable.”

Her voice cracked with anger. “I’m not joking.”

“Malia,” Derek warned, low and firm, but she was already shaking with the effort it took to keep her body still.

“It’s already hard to stand here for what I know will be another useless talk about him, i don’t have the strength to not rip Peter's throat out”

Scott started to speak, ready to calm her even if that meant using his alpha powers on her, witch he didn’t look forward to do but Peter cut across smoothly, his eyes narrowing with sudden precision.
“He was your anchor,” Peter said softly. The humor slipped from his voice, replaced by something sharper. “You told me that once. Years ago. That Stiles was the only one who could hold you together when you lost control.” His gaze flicked to her hands, trembling, claws still half out. “And look at you now, out of control. You lost him so you lost yourself.”

Malia flinched as if struck. She looked ready to snap, her eyes glowing blue and her fangs threatening out of her gums while her breathing was going faster like she was ready to attack. Derek leaned in front of Lydia, as they where the closest to where Malia was standing, trying to protect her with his body if needed.
But she didn’t, her eyes stop glowing and her fangs disappeared and she stood there, looking tired like she didn’t had the strength to be mad right now. The silence that followed was unbearable. She dropped her eyes to the table, shoulders tight, every breath harsh.

“You don’t get to use that against her,” Derek growled, but his voice lacked the usual bite.

Peter only leaned back, satisfied.
Kira stand up reaching Malia gently, resting her hand over her shoulder. “He never stopped believing in you. Remember? You couldn’t shift back after the full moon, and Stiles sat with you. Hours. Reminding you who you were. He never let you go too far.”

Scott’s voice joined hers, steady and low. “He did the same for me. I didn’t know how to lead. I didn’t even want to be an Alpha. But Stiles… somehow, even human, he always knew what to do. He kept me from losing myself. From losing all of you.” His eyes found Malia’s. “He saved us, every time. Put himself in danger when he had nothing but words and stubbornness to fight with.”

Lydia’s throat tightened, memory after memory flickering in her mind. Stiles calling her caffeinated in the morning going on and on about his new plan, drawing connections no one else could see, throwing himself into the fire because he refused to stand back. He always been unpredictable and so goddamn heroic she would punch him if he was hhere right now.

Scott leaned forward, his voice breaking slightly. “If there’s even a chance he’s still out there, then we take this risk for him. Because he took it for us every single time.”
The words settled over the table like a verdict. Lydia looked at Derek who nodded like he was reading her mind and responding to a question she hadn't asked yet. He had told her, if Scott says no that's final, so she was glad they where both in.

Malia didn’t answer right away. she thought about it, Stiles saved her, if it wasn’t for him she could still be at Eichen House or, going even back, living like an animal in the woods hiding from the hunters. Stiles had been Malia's first in pretty much everything and she would never thank him enough for that. She owed him this, he wouldn't have given up on her or let his feelings blind him.
Her jaw clenched, her breathing rough, her eyes focused. She looked at each of them in turn skipping hid father because that would have only anger her again. And finally, she let out a sharp breath, dropping into the chair with crossed arms.

“Fine,” she muttered. “Just this once.”

Peter smiled, sharp and triumphant, though no one met his eyes.

The pack sat together in silence. The air was thick with grief, with fear, with the smallest glimmer of hope none of them dared to name.
And for the first time since the call that shattered everything, it felt like they might be closer to the truth.

Kira then spoke. “So… how do we do it”

Peter responded like it was obvious, “Now? We wait for the full moon." God he was such a pain in the ass.

Chapter Text

Noah Stilinski spotted his son before his son spotted him. The sheriff had his hands tucked into his jacket pockets, his stance as straight as it had always been, but when his eyes landed on the familiar figure weaving through the crowd, his eyes softened.

“You look different,” Noah said as soon as Stiles reached him.

“Different good?” Stiles adjusted the strap of his carry-on. “Or different like ‘you’ve been stress-eating and need to cut back on donuts,’ because if it’s the second one, you’re gonna have to live with it.”

Noah gave him a once-over, brow furrowed. “Different tired. But I have to say, you really have grown into yourself.” He joked, lightly punching his arm. His son really did look stronger; it was as if he had been growing since joining the FBI. During his last year, he made a promise with himself, he had to get into an ideal physical shape because of the unfortunate existence of the FBI physical exam that required him to have strength (that he didn’t had), stamina (that he didn’t had), and a certain weight (that he didn’t had). And it seemed like his workouts haven’t gone lighter since then.

“Thanks, Dad.” His arms went around his father. They hugged tight, longer than either would admit they needed.

“You need to come more often,” Noah said when they finally pulled apart. His voice had that quiet edge to it, the one Stiles had never been able to ignore. “The last time you were here was two Christmas ago, and only for a weekend! That’s not enough. Not for me. Not for them either. Scott, Kira, Malia, even Melissa. They all tell me to tell you to call more often. Not just on birthdays.”

Stiles shifted, eyes darting away. “Yeah. I know. I just-” He stopped, let out a breath. “I know.”

Noah picked up his bag before Stiles could, motioning toward the parking lot. “And Lydia, her mother says she won’t be back until the 4th. You should stay here until then. Maybe you two could talk, you know. Fix things.”

“There’s nothing to fix,” Stiles said quickly. “We’re just friends. That’s it. Always will be.” He tried over the years to convince his father that what they had was over for good but how could he expect him to believe his words? He stressed that man for over a decade with Lydia this, Lydia that. And of course, like every time that topic came up, Noah shot him a sideways look but didn’t push.

Beacon Hills looked the same and nothing like it at once. The drive in was quiet except for the low hum of the radio, the familiar roads blurring by in the heat.

When they pulled up at the McCall house, the smell of food hit them before the door even opened.
Melissa was at the stove, apron dusted with flour, a wooden spoon in one hand. Kira stood at the counter chopping vegetables, and Scott was crouched at the oven, pulling bread out with mismatched mitts that looked like they’d survived multiple fires.

“Look who decided to grace us with his presence,” Melissa said, sweeping Stiles into a hug the second he stepped inside. “I was about to put your face on a milk carton.”

“Hey, at least you’d get a free drink out of it,” Stiles muttered, his smile reaching his eyes.

He hugged Scott next, clapping him on the back, then Kira, who laughed softly and squeezed him tighter than expected.

“You look good,” she said, pulling back to study him. “Longer hair suits you.”

Scott grinned, putting a hand around Stiles’ shoulders reaching to touch his hair with the other. “Yeah look at this, we switched. He’s the one with the floppy hair now, and I’m stuck with the buzzcut.”

“I look distinguished,” Stiles said, pointing at Scott’s head. “You look like you lost a bet.”

The kitchen erupted with laughter.

Lunch was spread across the table: pasta, garlic bread, salad, and a roast, Melissa said, had taken all morning. The house felt alive in a way Stiles hadn’t realized he missed until he was sitting there.

Scott told them about a stray dog he’d stitched up at the clinic. His voice softened as he described the animal’s eyes, how scared it had been, how it had wagged its tail when he let it go.

Kira followed with a story about her students. “While I was teaching the other day the new dean came in and asked the class where the teacher went,” she said, laughing as she shook her head. Scott smiled and nodded like he had heard that story before. “And Coach still yells at me in the hallways. ‘Miss Yukimura, don’t you have class?’ Like, yes, I do. I teach it!” Everyone laughed.

“I can’t blame him. You look the same as when you were eighteen,” Stiles said. “It’s unfair. You’re like some kind of immortal fox goddess. Meanwhile, the rest of us are aging like milk.”

Melissa smiled. “Talk for yourself” She joked pointing the fork she was eating with at him threateningly “I’m just glad these two didn’t move away. But I miss you and Lydia. It’s sad only seeing you once a year.”

“Yeah,” Stiles said quietly, his fork pausing. “I hate it too. You know, the last couple of months I’ve been in San Francisco. Work stuff.”

“Can’t talk about it, huh?” Noah teased, eyebrow raised.

“Not really.”

Melissa smirked. “Sounds way more exciting than the way my ex described it. He made it sound boring.”

Scott groaned, rolling his eyes. “Mom-”

“What? It’s true.”

Stiles chuckled, shaking his head. “Let’s just say I’m not dealing with paper work here.”

Everyone looked at Stiles like they were waiting for him to continue to talk. But, of course that didn’t happened and they drifted into talk about Derek after Stiles asks how he’s doing.

“You mean you want to know how the Jeep’s doing?” Scott said, smirking.

The table erupted.
“He’s fixing it,” Noah added. “Though cursing your name every time he peels off another strip of duct tape.”

“Then he owes me,” Stiles said immediately. “For years of tape. My entire allowance went into holding that thing together.”

Kira laughed. “How expensive can tape even be?”
“Try driving the same Jeep for ten years. You’ll see,” Stiles shot back.

Melissa tilted her head. “Why didn’t you just take it with you?”

“I wanted to,” Stiles admitted. “But the FBI said I had to use their car. Mine wasn’t subtle enough. Apparently, a light-blue busted Jeep covered in tape isn’t great for undercover work.”

That got another round of laughter.
They drifted to Malia. Melissa and Noah said she’d stopped by the week before, dropped off a whole deer.

“Good meat,” Noah said. “Though I swear there was still fur on it.”

Stiles grinned. “Be glad it wasn’t still breathing.”

More laughter. Kira then explained that Malia was helping her cousin at the garage, trying to stay away from her dad.

“Failing,” Scott muttered. “Guys’ everywhere.”

After lunch, Melissa waved Stiles away when he reached for a dish. “Nope. You don’t visit enough to get stuck cleaning. Go relax. But you-“ she pointed at the sheriff “You do, get to work mister” at which Noah laughed and began to clear the table of dishes.
Stiles looked at the scene lovingly.
Those two were the slowest slow burn in history he thought.

He ended up on the porch with a cigarette, the July sun heavy on his shoulders. The first drag burned down his throat in a way that was both familiar and wrong.

Scott joined him a minute later, sinking onto the step. “I could smell that from inside.”

“Not good for your asthma,” Stiles muttered sarcastically.

“Don’t tell my mom,” Scott joked back.
They sat in silence, smoke curling in the air between them.

“When’d you pick that up?” Scott asked.

“A couple of months ago. Only when I’m stressed.”
Scott arched an eyebrow. “You’ve always been stressed.”

“Yeah, well, now I have props.”

Scott chuckled but grew quiet again. “Does this feels like a stressful time?”

“Definitely.” Stiles said, but there was a faint smile tugging at his mouth.

He dug in his pocket and handed Scott a folded photo. A picture of all of them at the lake house, sunlight bright, smiles wide, arms thrown around each other.

Scott looked at it for a long moment. His smile softened, then faded. “Feels like a lifetime ago. We’ve all changed. The pack used to be everything. Now it’s just memories.” He knew he was gonna to unpack feelings he didn’t want to worry his friend with but he couldn’t help himself so he went on anyway. “I mean me and Kira are definitely a pack but I’m not sure about everyone else, it’s like our connection is growing weaker and weaker, I don’t see Malia and Derek often, Lydia it’s working full time in another city. My only beta has moved for collage and left the pack to start one of his own and you-“ he turns to Stiles stopping his rambling for a moment “Dude you where like my second in command, and I have to beg your father for information about you now. I feel like you don’t even care about the pack and I’m here trying to fix us…”

Stiles’s jaw tightened, if there was one thing he didn’t like it was being lectured. “Do you really think I'm still pack? Because I left. I’m not in it like you are.” He didn’t mean it to come off as mean as it did.
Scott’s voice sharpened. “That’s funny coming from you. You were the one obsessed with keeping us together. And you were the first to walk away. Even left the Jeep behind.”

The words hit harder than either expected.
Stiles crushed the cigarette in the ashtray and stood abruptly. “Yeah. Thanks for lunch.”

He walked back inside, leaving Scott alone on the porch with the photograph still in his hand.

That was the last time Scott had seen or talked to him.