Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Stiles opened his eyes and several things demanded his attention all at once. 

First and most forceful was the pain. He hurt everywhere. Not just his head—which he was kind of used to by now, but which pounded in a way that made him nauseated—but also all of his muscles, as if he’d spent hours wrestling with werewolves or having his butt kicked at lacrosse training (which, he was relatively certain, was not the case). He tried to stretch, hissed, swallowed the wave of bile that threatened to come up, and flopped back limply against his bed.

 He was in his bed, that was another thing. In his room, which by itself was no surprise, except the light told him it was dusk, which couldn’t be right. Also, the room was unusually crowded.

His dad was sitting on the chair by his bedside, looking gray with exhaustion and worry. And if that gave Stiles a bad feeling, it was nothing to the sight of Melissa, arguing quietly in the corner with none other than Deaton. All three of them turned to him sharply at the sound of him stirring, and Stiles frantically tried to remember what he had done this time that warranted this amount of raw relief on their faces. He came up blank. 

“What—” he started, and then winced at the croaky sound that came out of his throat. 

Melissa hurried over to the bed and touched his forehead. Her hand was cool, soothing.

“Stiles,” she sighed. “How are you feeling?”

“Hurtsy,” he managed. “What happened?”

Deaton approached the bed at a much more steady pace. “What happened, Mr. Stilinski, is that you did magic, which you were explicitly warned against, and you came close to frying your brain with it. You were very lucky Mr. McCall happened to come over.”

Oh. Oh shit . The memory finally came through the barrier of his headache, and Stiles jerked with it. Derek. He had been so close to connecting with him last night—really connecting, not just getting a distant feel, and then— He wasn’t really sure, but he very much doubted Scott’s insight was coincidental.

Either way, Deaton using their last names was not a good sign. He never did that anymore unless they were in serious trouble.

Also, what did he mean, came close to frying his brain with magic?

With magic.

“Where’s Scott?” He half-sat on the bed in sudden panic, and Melissa pushed him back down with zero effort and shone a penlight into his eyes, which, rude .

“Ow,” Stiles protested weakly when she was done. “What was that for?”

“That was a low-tech, minimalist version of what should have been done in hospital if some people weren’t absolutely obstinate.” She glanced at Deaton with a scowl. “And Scott’s fine.”

“He is out running an errand for me,” Deaton added. “You were both incredibly lucky last night. A spell of that magnitude cast by an untrained Spark of your power, on the full moon no less? It could have easily blown up not just the both of you, but half the street.”

The nausea came back with a vengeance, only now it had nothing to do with the headache. Stiles couldn’t look in their eyes, neither his dad’s nor Melissa’s, so he focused on the print of his sheets instead. 

It wasn’t that bad. It couldn’t be. 

He blinked and the red mist of that rogue hunter’s vaporized body flashed before his eyes, the sword that had been about to slash through Kira’s belly dropping to the ground in slow motion. He gagged, but nothing came out.

“I still think he should be taken to the hospital, get an MRI at least.” Melissa was touching his forehead again and Stiles suddenly wanted to push her hand away. He didn’t deserve her kindness.  

“He’ll be fine.” Deaton said, cool and matter-of-factly. “But a magnetic field or any medication at this point could make an already volatile Spark destabilize further. And that would be a calamity, especially in a hospital full of people.”

She froze. “What if he destabilizes here?”

“I will make sure he doesn’t. And once Scott is back with the object I sent him for, it will be much safer.”

Melissa nodded, apparently satisfied with the assurance at last. 

“Fine. I’ll be off then, but you know where to find me. John, you should get some sleep,” she said to the sheriff, and then she pointed a stern finger at Stiles. “And you have a lecture coming on the utter idiocy of rubbing unknown substances into open wounds. I’ll save it for later, so that you can fully appreciate it. But believe me, it’s coming.” She glowered at him as she tugged at the bandage on his right forearm, but Stiles was surprised to see no disgust on her face. 

He tried to smile. “Thank you.”

And then she was gone, and in the silence that hung in the room, Stiles could no longer avoid looking at his father. It had been years since he last saw him so drawn and scared. And here Stiles had thought that the time when he was a danger to the health of his dad’s heart was long behind them.

His voice stuck in his throat when he said, “Dad, I’m sorry—”

The sheriff shook his head. He didn’t quite meet Stiles’ eyes. “We’ll talk tomorrow, when you feel better. And when I get over the urge to ground you for life.”

His voice was gravelly with exhaustion, but his hand on Stiles’ was warm and familiar, and a little bit of tension bled out of Stiles’ aching muscles.

“Okay.”

“I think I’ll go lie down for a few hours.” His father looked to Deaton. “You promise he’ll be alright?”

Deaton nodded, and there was a weight of a vow in his tone when he said, “I’ll make sure of it.”

Scott arrived mere minutes later, looking windswept and anxious. His shoulders dropped visibly when he saw Stiles, and he hurried to the bed with a choked up, “You’re awake!”. Before he could reach Stiles’ side, however, Deaton cleared his throat.

“Scott. Did you bring it?”

Judging by Scott’s reaction, he’d forgotten about Deaton’s presence entirely. He approached him now, pulling a cloth-wrapped package out of his pocket to pass to him.

“Here. She said she’d have appreciated being notified in advance, but she’ll be there tomorrow afternoon.”

Deaton nodded, evidently satisfied. 

“Stiles, your hand, please.”

There was a joke on the tip of Stiles’ tongue, something about marriage proposals and maybe taking him on a date first, but it died away when he saw the object Deaton was unwrapping from the dark green cloth. It looked like a single iron shackle, crude and darkened, minus the chain.

“What is that ?”

“It’s a magic dampener. It will keep your spark from flaring, accidentally or otherwise. Now, give me your hand.”

Reluctantly, Stiles raised his right arm off the bed. The whole limb was shaking, electrical impulses firing chaotically through his muscles. Deaton slipped the shackle over his wrist and closed it with a click that left the metal looking whole and seamless, no fastening visible. It felt ice-cold against Stiles’ skin, and something within him quietened and stilled, leaving a dull, empty sensation. His breathing picked up in anxiety.

“How long do I have to wear it?”

“As long as we deem you a danger to yourself and others,” Deaton said simply, and before Stiles could demand a more precise answer, he added, “I’ll see you at the clinic tomorrow at five. Don’t be late, and get some decent sleep before then. Scott will stay here with you tonight.”

And with that, he just walked out, leaving Stiles feeling sore and guilty and confused, locked away from his magic—and Derek. He looked at Scott, still standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

“Scott, buddy, you’ve got to fill me in. What the hell happened?”

Scott’s proximity was welcome and soothing as he crawled over Stiles to sit against the wall, but what was even better was that his hand immediately wrapped around Stiles’ wrist. Black lines ran up Scott’s arm and Stiles sighed happily as his muscles relaxed at last and his headache lessened to a mere annoyance.

“Oh, that’s so much better, thanks. Now, come on—please tell me Deaton is just being his usual dramatic self? So I passed out for a bit, that happens. Maybe I just overexerted myself, there’s no need to—” 

But Scott was already shaking his head, his eyes wide.

“No, Stiles, you had a seizure!”

Oh. That was new. Shit, it certainly explained why his muscles felt like jello. 

A seizure though. Huh. There was nothing about that side effect in the book. Then again, those old magic tomes were never particularly exhaustive about relevant details.

Scott was rubbing his face, a half-forgotten gesture from when they were kids that used to signal that he was trying hard not to cry.

“It was terrifying , Stiles! I found you in your room in the middle of the night, seizing, and it took me entirely too long to bust through the mountain ash—which, by the way, what the fuck?—and even longer till Deaton arrived. The damage that could’ve done…”

“Aw, you did your True Alpha thing for me?” Stiles grinned, feeling a little loose and loopy with the pain drain. Then he frowned. “Wait, your first thought was to call Deaton ?”

“Of course I called Deaton! It smelled like magic in the room, with all the—” Scott waved his hand to include the mess of the magic paraphernalia scattered haphazardly on Stiles’ desk now. “Plus, mom had her phone off. Your dad had to get her on the way here.” He let out a shaky breath and quirked his head, defiant. “What the hell were you doing, anyway? You’re not supposed to do magic, remember?”

Stiles sighed and rubbed his eyes with his still-shaky hands. “I know. I just had to.”

“Why? Why would you even touch that stuff? Don’t you remember—” He broke off when Stiles shot him a half-hearted glare, but it didn’t last long. “Deaton said you tried to cast some highly advanced connection spell. Soul insight, he called it. That’s why the power went inward instead of outward this time, and hurt you.”

That made sense. The last time, he was trying to deflect the hunter’s sword away from Kira with just his mind. The magic definitely did hit his intended target… a little too hard.

That left a terrifying possibility, though—one that stroke Stiles with a shot of fear so hard he saw dark spots in his vision again. He’d been pouring his magic into the connection when he lost consciousness…

“What is it?” Scott asked, sitting up, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

Stiles shook his head, unwilling to spell out the terrible possibility that had just come to his mind. “Nothing. Did Deaton say anything else about the spell?”

Scott shrugged, still wary. “No. But I saw the printouts on your desk. You were trying to find Derek, weren’t you?”

“Yeah.”

Scott’s expression got ugly. “Seriously? You risk everyone’s safety because you can’t accept he’s just gone?” His angry, defiant look brought back some of the hardest moments between them—moments they’d gotten over, but the memory still hurt. Stiles ground his teeth so as not to say anything he would regret later. Scott was only beginning to let out steam, though. “What if I hadn’t gotten a crazy impulse to randomly check on you? What if I hadn’t been able to get through the barrier, or if Deaton hadn’t been available? What—”

“What impulse?”

“I don’t know, an urge to go to you immediately, what does it matter? You can’t just—”

“Scott.” Stiles’ heart was pounding even harder now. “Did you hear me in your head?”

“Yes. How did you know? Wait, were you trying to connect to me ?”

“Not intentionally, but I might’ve reached out when things got messy. And you’re alright?”

Sott was looking at him as if he was questioning Stiles’ sanity. “Of course I’m alright. You, on the other hand—”

“No, I didn’t hurt you with my magic through the connection?”

“I don’t think so.”

The fist squeezing Stiles’ stomach loosened slightly. Maybe he hadn’t given Derek a seizure too, through the open link.

Scott’s phone vibrated, then again and again. He glanced at it and put it down on the bed, clearly not done with interrogating Stiles yet. When he spoke again, his voice carried a touch of the Alpha command.

“Stiles, you can’t do this. I know you have a crush on Derek or whatever, but you can’t endanger yourself and everyone else with it. What did you think would happen? Deaton warned you—”

“It was fine,” Stiles snapped, against his better judgment. “Nothing bad happened when I did it before.”

Scott’s eyes widened. He used the hand still lying by Stiles’ side to grab his left wrist and roughly pulled up the sleeve that had remained in place until now. The healing cuts of previous rituals sat between them, clear and accusatory. 

“What the fuck, Stiles!” Scott growled, his eyes flashing red. “How long has this been going on?”

Oh well. There was no use hiding it anymore. “Since you called me in Paris.”

“Since— You’ve been using magic , which you agreed yourself never to use again, for a week ? Endangering everyone? That’s so selfish.”

“What was I supposed to do, Scott? No one else was doing anything much. I had to—”

“Stop. Stiles, this… obsession with Derek has to end. It’s gone too far. Maybe he got away and didn’t tell you because he was tired of it. You need a new focus. You need to find a way to leave him be.”

Hurt washed cold over Stiles’ insides. The words were hitting straight into those secret sore spots where insecurity always made him believe he was too much to deal with for everyone else. Too intense; too hyper; too weird. Hearing this from Scott of all people… It didn’t matter that Stiles knew he had indeed screwed up. The words still cut deeply.

He turned his back on Scott, flopping ungainly to his side to hide his face.

“You’re right,” he said, words muffled by the pillow. “A new focus sounds like something I could use.” He sniffed, thinking of Chicago and of Garth’s invitation. What an excellent way to get out of everybody’s hair. Wouldn’t it be better to go away, to only visit on occasion, than to stay and become an afterthought, or worse yet, a threat? A shudder went through Stiles’ chest, a wave of emotions trying to crest and crash over him, but now was not the time. 

He closed his eyes and said, “Thanks for the rescue. I need to sleep some more now.”

He could feel Scott shifting behind him, and imagined his friend’s hand reaching out, hovering over his shoulder, then retreating. He carefully forced his breathing to stay long and even, even as his eyes stung from furious tears.

Yes, he fucked up. He put people in danger. He let himself act on impulse, eager to help. But he couldn’t help but feel that Scott of their high school years would have understood. He might not have agreed with Stiles, but he would’ve stood by him anyway.

The silence dragged on, disturbed only by regular buzzing of Scott’s phone. It was a long time later, when Stiles started slowly drifting into sleep, that he felt the bed move and Scott crawled off to sit in a corner of the room. His voice was hushed when he spoke.

“Hey… no. No, I’m sorry, I can’t tonight… I know I promised, but… No, I need to be here tonight, to deal with this. I’ll be there tomorrow, I swear… Yes. Yes, I know, I’m so sorry, babe. I’ll see you then.”

Stiles lay very still, pretending to be asleep.  

It was dark by the time Derek let himself stop, reasonably certain that getting himself exhausted further would in no way help him remember anything more.

Things had been coming back to him the whole day as the steady run through the woods shook his brain further into its human rhythm. He remembered exactly who he was, now—every little detail of his personal history, as much as he would like to go without some of those. He remembered his packs, old and new and everything in between; everyone who lived and died, and all the pain they left behind. He remembered his family and all the places he’d lived; his new house and all the challenges and chances of his life. 

But he didn’t remember how he’d found himself here, alone in an unknown forest, stuck in full shift. And the fact that until this morning his mind seemed to work like that of a wolf was worrying, to put it mildly. That had never happened before. Yes, his instincts and wolf nature were much stronger in this form, but they’d never drowned out the human part like they had in the last few… days? Weeks? For all he knew, it could’ve been months.

Shaking off the dread at the thought, he raised his head and looked around, taking in the foliage of the trees, the slowly yellowing grass, the scents of fall in the air. No, it hadn’t been months, at least. Weeks, maybe. The woods around him seemed to be further into fall than the last he remembered, but that was hardly a precise measurement. For all he knew, he could be in another state. These woods looked very different from those back home.

He needed to get back to Beacon Hills. He needed to regain his human form. Without the latter, the former might be a challenge. While finding some clothes to steal so he didn’t run around naked might be a mild inconvenience for a human, approaching a town in wolf form to find out his location was… risky. And even then, how would he learn anything? He couldn’t exactly ask. 

No, he definitely needed to return to his human skin. And remember what happened before he left.

There was something… something his mother used to say about staying in the wolf too long. He hadn’t really listened, stubbornly convinced in his teenage angst that it would never be something he’d have to worry about. Now he wished he’d paid more attention. Was it something about getting stuck? Was she warning them about something? But what? Not for the first time, Derek wished he’d spent more of his time as a teenager actually talking to his family rather than finding ways to escape their company and feeling oh so mature for it.

He shook off the grim thoughts. Maybe he just needed to try the shift until it clicked.

But by the time the moon was high in the sky, nothing had changed. His body was still stubbornly stuck in his wolf shape, and Derek was becoming increasingly panicked. His muscles vibrated with the urge to run. Very deliberately, he made himself lie down in the grass instead. This was not a problem he could outrun. As much as his instincts helped him survive, this was something he needed his human brain to untangle.

He needed to figure out a) where he was, b) why and/or how, and c) how to get back, to both his human body and his pack.

But first, sleep. It was night, and he’d been running all day. 

Time for some rest.

By the time Stiles got to the clinic the following afternoon, the guilt had grown into a roaring beast, pointing out all the ways things could’ve gone wrong in the past week. 

The clinic was closed, even though it wasn’t even five, and Deaton was waiting for him in the back, alone and looking strangely official. Stiles folded himself onto the lone chair and sighed heavily.

“All right. I know what you’re going to say. What I did was irresponsible and selfish, and I was really lucky that nothing more happened than a little seizure. I absolutely cannot do it again, no matter that I found Derek and was close to actually communicating with him, and— I don’t know, did I miss anything?”

Deaton inclined his head. “Actually, I don’t think what you did was selfish at all, and I am glad to hear that Derek is alive. But I didn’t ask you to come here to chastise you, Stiles.”

“You didn’t?”

“No. You know what you did wrong, my lecturing won’t change anything at this point.”

“Why am I here, then?”

“To meet the teacher you’ll be working with on your spark from now on. She should be here any minute now.”

Stiles straightened from his slumped position, certain he’d misheard.

“A magic teacher? No, I told you last year, I don’t want to go through the training. Devoting my whole life to magic is not on my to do list.”

“You did tell me, yes. And that was a choice you could make back then. At this point, however, it’s no longer an option. By using your magic again, and at such an extensive rate, you fed your spark enough that it can no longer be locked away. Now, you can only learn to control it or be devoured by it. Myra is the best teacher around, and she agreed to take on your training, for however long it will take.”

“How long will it take?”

“Years, to get you fully trained. The basic control over your spark? Hopefully no more than nine months, if you work hard.”

Something heavy sank into Stiles’ stomach and his breathing picked up.

“What about the cuff—the dampener? Can’t I just wear it and make the problem go away?” As much as he hated the cold, empty feeling that had clung to his bones ever since the bracelet went on, it would be much easier to accommodate an accessory than change his entire life.

Deaton shook his head. “The dampener is only a temporary measure. You have way too much power for it to be able to do more than slow it down in the long run. No, the only option you have is working with a master to accept and harness your magic and all that it brings with it.”

“But I’ve decided to move to Chicago next month! I got a great job offer. I have a video meeting with them tonight. I can’t just… stay and learn magic instead.” Stiles’ heartbeat was hammering in his ears, his voice high and pleading.

Deaton sighed and sat down at the desk opposite. “You don’t seem to understand. Moving away is no longer an option. Not now, not for years. Until your spark is properly managed and controlled, you are a constant danger to everyone around you. Myra and I are taking on the responsibility of helping you develop that control and grow into your full potential as a Spark, but until you do, you can’t leave the Beacon Hills area.”

Panic was swirling in Stiles’ chest now, making it hard to breathe. “You can’t just… order me to change my whole life to punish me. I have things to do, places to see. I have the world waiting to be discovered. I’ve never even gotten to Norway!”

Deaton sighed heavily. “I’m not ordering you to do anything. You’ve made your choice, and these are the consequences of your actions.”

“And if I refuse?”

“Then sooner or later—probably much sooner—your magic will burn you from the inside out until there’s nothing left. If you’re really lucky, you won’t take too many people with you when you flare and die.” Deaton’s face softened as he watched Stiles struggle to wrap his mind around the monumental change suddenly dropped onto him. “I’m sorry, Stiles. I did warn you. If it’s any consolation, I think you will be magnificent once you accept this path and master your magic.”

A crunch of wheels on gravel came from the parking lot behind the building, and Deaton rose to his feet.

“She’s here.”  

Three days later found Stiles curled up in the corner of the sofa, dead-tired and defeated.

Myra was inexhaustible. She was probably in her sixties, but she had so much energy that Stiles was the one who felt old in comparison. They met at an empty warehouse for seven or eight hours every day, with a half-hour lunch break (“For now,” Myra had said on the first day, and Stiles was so overwhelmed by the prospect that he hadn’t dared to ask whether she anticipated increasing the training time in the future). And even though it was just the basics right now, wrangling the overeager spark in his veins to respond with tiny, precise actions that Stiles was expected to perform felt like taking a fully grown dragon for a walk on a flimsy dog leash. He came home every afternoon absolutely wiped, mentally and physically

That was how Stiles’ dad found him now, on the living room sofa, clutching his phone to his chest as he tried his hardest not to cry. 

It wasn’t supposed to be like this.

“Stiles? Why are you sitting in the dark?” 

The overhead lamp turned on and Stiles startled, blinking slowly in the blinding light. His father was frowning at him, looking worried.

“What’s wrong?”

Stiles turned his phone so his dad could see: his calendar app was reminding him about his tomorrow’s flight from Bergen, Norway, to Los Angeles, via Copenhagen. Those flights had long been canceled, but he’d forgotten to delete the calendar entry, and it was mocking him now with thoughts of what should have been. 

He should be in Norway tonight, enjoying his last night in Europe, not in his hometown that had become a prison, tired and exhausted after a magic lesson. 

Stiles relaxed his grip on the phone and let it drop onto the couch. He felt heavy, empty.

Life had gone to shit so fucking fast. His bright prospects were gone, Scott hadn’t talked to him since their fight, and the rest of the wolves kept their careful distance, too. Derek— Stiles had no idea where Derek was or if he’d ever see him again.

“Do you regret it?,” his dad asked carefully, and Stiles shrugged.

Careful, that’s what his father had been with Stiles ever since his seizure and all this mess. They mostly just passed each other in the house when they met between his dad’s shifts and Stiles’ training sessions, and every time they did, a fresh wave of guilt flooded over. Everything was wrong.

Surprisingly, this time his dad came over and sat next to him, sighing wearily.

“You did what you needed to do, for Derek.”

“I would feel much better about that if it hadn’t been absolutely pointless. I messed up everything and found nothing, ultimately. I didn’t even help.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I know he’s not here.”

“But you know he’s alive.”

“Yeah.”

They sat in silence for a while, before Stiles' father asked, “How are the lessons going?”

“They’re tough,” he admitted. “It feels as if I’m trying to learn advanced ballet, all precise movements and minute shifts, only I have clown shoes on and muscles of an octogenarian.”

He rubbed his wrist under the cuff. As much as he still hated the numb, empty feeling it gave him, it was almost a relief when he was told to put it back on every afternoon. After hours of constantly wrangling his spark under control, it felt heavenly just to let go. And that thought brought on more guilt. With the shackle on, he had no way to keep searching for Derek.

“What does your teacher say?”

“That I have too much power for my own good and it will take a long time before I can be trusted to use it on my own.” He rubbed his temples. “So this is my life for the foreseeable future. Living at home, and learning to do magic so that one day I can… I don’t even know.”

His dad nodded. “I know this isn’t what you wanted to be doing now,” he said, and Stiles let out a raw, bitter laugh.

“Yeah, no. I don’t even know what I wanted to do, exactly, but I thought I had time to figure it out. Try things, you know? Isn’t that what early twenties are supposed to be for? Freedom to try things and fuck up, and learn from it?” Then he sighed heavily. “I guess I did go and fuck up, and now I’ll have to learn from it.”

His father stretched his legs out and leaned against the back of the couch, fingers interlaced behind his neck. He looked at Stiles thoughtfully.

“You know, I had a bit of a hard time wrapping my head around it at first. The magic, I mean. It’s like something from those fantasy books, or superhero movies.”

“Nah, the shifters get all the superhero bits. I just move things a little bit with my mind, or make stuff happen using herbs and sigils and focus. For now, at least.”

“But this is what I mean. I’ve always known you were quick and smart and compassionate; you’re a good friend and a brilliant researcher, and I was wondering whether you’d go into criminal justice or teaching or something completely out of left field… And this is just another bit to you that’s… not new, but new for me, maybe? My son, the… what’s the proper name? A witch in training?”

“Spark. Whether I want to ever go in the witchy direction or anywhere like that remains to be seen.”

“Whatever it is, I know you’ll figure it out. It may be frustrating now, and the need to adapt to new circumstances must suck, but you’ll find your place. And I won’t pretend I’m not glad to keep you around.”

“Thanks, dad. If only I could speed up my training to be able to try and find Derek, but Myra won’t even hear of that.”

“Well, don’t knock the non-magical tools yet.” The sheriff pushed himself up to his feet, and Stiles perked up. 

“What do you mean?”

“Well, if I had to rely on magic, I would’ve never solved any cases. Don’t get stuck in the magical mindset. You have other assets.”  

Stiles stood at the door, hesitating. Technically, he knew it was okay – Derek had given him the key himself, with a frown that was as close to an open invitation as he ever got. Stiles had even used it on occasion, usually to annoy Derek into watching movies with him in the middle of the night when Stiles couldn’t sleep. But this was different.

This was him coming over when Derek was not just out, but away, missing and quite possibly in danger. And Stiles was not visiting in search of company or to get something the pack needed, but to look around. On his own. In Derek’s house, in which Derek wasn’t, and without telling him he was going to do that. And that felt like an awful breach of privacy.

Of course, he’d already done worse than that, hadn’t he? Every single casting of the insight spell had been directly against Derek’s wishes—against his express ban, even; breaking the promise that Stiles had given him all those years ago. Letting himself into Derek’s house with a legally obtained key was nothing in comparison. 

Still, it didn’t feel right. What was he going to find anyway that Scott and Isaac hadn’t? 

But he didn’t know what else to do. With his magic blocked, he was just an ordinary human whose friend disappeared without a trace and who was absolutely helpless about it. He couldn’t even do what people often did when their family or friends disappeared: it wasn’t like posting appeals on social media or hanging up missing person posters could help. What would they say? “ Missing: grumpy werewolf, tall, dark, and gorgeous, flashy blue eyes, responds to the name Sourwolf”? “May be currently walking around as a wolf”?

Scott and the rest of the pack had their wolfy senses and the pack bond. Deaton had whatever druid voodoo he did when nobody was watching. Chris was checking through the hunter grapevine to see if anyone knew anything. Even Stiles’ dad could do something, be on the lookout, use his investigative skills and tools and connections. Stiles? He could sit and worry. And he had been doing enough of that already.

So today he had come here, instead, right after Myra told him they were done for the day. Last night’s conversation with his dad still echoed in his mind: he did have non-magic tools. Maybe the classes he had taken for his minor in criminology in college would not prove particularly useful here, but he was observant and had decent deductive reasoning skills. Plus, he was his father’s son. Who knows, maybe all of that would give him something the others missed.

With a determined nod, Stiles turned the key and opened the door.

He saw the first thing almost instantly, as soon as he set foot in Derek’s bright, spacious kitchen. Nothing looked disturbed, just like Scott had reported—the sink was empty, the chairs set evenly around the large table, the non-perishables placed on the counter… 

And that was the problem. Derek never left his groceries out. Stiles knew because he had mocked him about it more than a few times, that need to put everything away as soon as he brought it home—and every time, Derek had told him that it was just the right way to deal with things, and that maybe he should try that himself.

There was no way Derek would leave the groceries out like that if he was going away. Hell, why would he even do grocery shopping right before leaving if it was of his own volition?

Stiles looked around the kitchen some more, digging through the fridge to check the expiration dates, and then walked through every room in the house, looking for clues.

There were no signs of struggle or break-in anywhere, which he already expected. But he found other little things peppered here and there. Clothes dropped on the floor in the guest bathroom downstairs, the one that Derek never really used. A load of laundry left to mold in the washer. A cup of unfinished coffee on the windowsill by the back door, the dark liquid covered by a furry layer of mold now. 

The last stop was Derek’s bedroom. The urge to touch the pillows was overwhelming—they held the freshest and most intimate memory of Derek’s body. Stiles chastised himself for such thoughts and, seeing nothing out of the ordinary, retreated into the living room, where he sat on the couch, pondering. Coming here was a very good idea, after all.

Phone in hand, Stiles’ first impulse was to call Scott, but he paused, suddenly unsure. He hadn’t heard from Scott in four days; hadn’t seen him since he’d slipped out of Stiles’ bedroom at dawn, just as soon as his father had woken up. It looked very much like his best friend was not very eager to hear from him at all. 

His father didn’t pick up his phone, so Stiles sent him a text.

< Derek left on Tuesday 3.5 weeks ago, and he did his shopping at Ralphs that morning. Could you get the security footage from there, between 9 and noon? 

The reply didn’t come, so Stiles stretched out on the couch for a bit, his body tired and his mind puzzling over possibilities. It didn’t look like Derek had been abducted, but the way things had been left in the house suggested a rushed exit—perhaps some sort of emergency? But what kind of emergency would get him out of the house for a prolonged period of time without his wallet or phone? ( The werewolf kind , Stiles’ brain insisted. But they’d checked with Cora and all the packs they were in any sort of regular contact with, and nobody knew anything.)

The couch cushions were very comfortable. Stiles had barely slept last night, haunted with what was supposed to happen and now wouldn’t, and Myra pushed him hard in the training today. Before the weariness pulled him under, he had a fleeting thought that it was funny how he knew exactly where Derek did his shopping, and when. It was not hard to remember, though, when it was always the same shop, the same day of the week, even the same time of day. It meant nothing.

And then he was drifting off. On this very comfortable couch, in Derek’s house. Waiting for him to come home.

Derek was in trouble. Days had passed since his human brain snapped back online, and it was time to admit it. He was fucked.

In those five days, he’d attempted transformation countless times. The effect was always the same—that is to say, nothing happened. As if the wolf body was the only one he’d ever had. His knowing with absolute certainty that was not the case did not help in any way. He was stuck. 

What was worse, he was stuck in the middle of nowhere, with no idea where that was, and no way to learn. The forests he’d been traversing were vast and unknown—he’d spent a full day running before he found any sign of human settlement, and even then it was just a tiny town, a handful of houses scattered along a single road. Derek waited till the darkest hours of the night to sneak closer, hoping to find any clues as to where he was. But nothing felt familiar. He went as far as following the main road to the end of town, in search of road signs that could tell him anything about where he should go. He found one—and his heart sank.

Despite his mind definitely working with human clarity now, there was a glitch—between his wolf eyes and his brain, letters turned into nonsensical squiggles that told Derek nothing. Funny how he’d never tested that before; never had the reason to. He stood there in the middle of the road, squinting at the name of the town as if it would suddenly start making sense. Although, to be honest, what would a name of a random tiny town tell him? It’s not like there was a handy map he could consult.

Resigned, he trotted back into the wild before anyone could see him.

The thing was, it was a beautiful forest. Vast and dense, with streams, ponds, and hills, and an abundance of prey, and in any other circumstances, Derek would probably enjoy it immensely. As it was, however, he just didn’t have the heart for it. Not when he had no idea where he was and how he got there, and when something deep inside pushed him to get back home as fast as possible. 

Something had happened—something that brought him here, in wolf form, and erased his memory, so that the last things he remembered were mundane activities back home. He could almost trace the edges of the hole where that vital memory should reside—there was just nothing there. But there must have been something , right? Something that made his instincts scream at him to run back, to get home, to do something . But do what? And get back how?

Maybe he should find a road and then run along it to get to a bigger road, and then bigger still, hoping there was enough wilderness to keep him hidden from human eyes. He would get somewhere this way—hopefully somewhere he could recognise. If it was still the same season, he couldn’t have run that far. Unless… Was it even the same year? For his own sanity, Derek chose to believe it was, that he hadn’t been gone that long, even though his time as a wolf had been blurry, days and nights bleeding together into a string of vague impressions, with no clear recognition of the passage of time.

He was still pondering all that, running in a direction his instinct considered right, when he stepped right into the trap. Steel teeth closed on his back paw with a cruel clang and Derek howled with sudden pain and surprise as he felt the bones break like dry twigs. He thrashed, struggling to get free, but the trap held fast with no give whatsoever. Dark spots bloomed in his vision.

When Derek had been a young pup, not quite in control of his shifts or emotions yet, he’d gotten so upset and overtired one day that he got stuck switching rapidly between his human form and his baby Beta shift. Along with the physical changes, the sensory and emotional stimuli got so overwhelming that he felt lost in it, blind with panic. It wasn’t until his mother gathered and held him and spoke to him in her calm, sure alpha voice for a long while, that he managed to slowly settle and find the edges of his human form and mind again. It was one of his earliest memories, vivid despite the passing of time.

It was the same panic that descended upon him now—blinding, burning, suffocating. He was trapped, utterly trapped, with no control over his shift, no knowledge of his circumstances, and now literally, physically trapped, which was the last straw. He kept flailing wildly, howling for his pack—but nobody answered. He was alone, lost, trapped. 

Derek? 

The calm, steady voice in his head was clear and familiar, and Derek froze out of sheer surprise, dropping onto the mangled grass. Stiles? How could he hear Stiles?

And yet, somehow, it wasn’t a complete surprise. Somewhere in the background, his wolf brain acknowledged that voice with a mental equivalent of a contented huff and settled, calmer at once. He’d heard Stiles like that before, recently. If he could only—

Derek, is that you? Can you hear me? 

He could, loud and clear. He could also hear something else, though: human voices. Not in his head but out there in the forest. They were faint and far away, at the edge of his hearing range, but there were definitely multiple voices moving in his direction, talking in an excited register.

Hunters. His howling must have alerted them and they were now moving in to check their traps. His window of time to escape was drawing closed.

For a brief moment Derek considered staying where he was. It was unlikely those were werewolf hunters, so their weapons shouldn’t be able to harm him in any permanent way, and he may have a chance to get some information about his location in the process. Then again, what if whatever messed with his shift affected his healing as well? Better not risk it.

Grinding his teeth to avoid making any further sound, Derek got back up, taking stock of the position of the trap jaws and possible strategies. And then, with a single, mighty jerk, he ripped his leg free.

The pain was blinding—a good part of his skin and muscles remained between the steel teeth and his bones were further crushed by the sudden wrench. But he’d had worse. Stumbling on his three good legs, he trotted as best he could into the thicker part of the forest.

He was bleeding copiously, so his trail would be obvious, but he couldn’t help that. At least the hunters didn’t seem to have any dogs with them, so as long as he managed to lose them somehow, he whould be fine. He’d passed a stream earlier; if he got into the water and emerged at a passable hiding spot, preferably before the shock of the injury made him clumsy and slow…

The night found Derek curled up in a shallow little cave, covered by thick thorny bushes. He would be safe there for a bit, until his leg healed. If it healed. The night would tell. And in the meantime—what was that about Stiles?

The frantic howl tore Stiles out of his doze so rapidly he flailed awake and fell off the couch. His body was suddenly flooded with stress chemicals, his mind pulsing with panic and pain that—

Wasn’t his own. And that howl… He would recognise it anywhere. But—

“Derek?” It couldn’t be. He wasn’t using the spell, hadn’t used it in days. He was just here, in Derek’s space, taking a nap on his couch. And yet— “Derek, is that you? Can you hear me?”

The howling dissolved into silence, but an echo remained, a jumble of impressions: surprise—pain—recognition—concern… And then it was all gone. Stiles sat on the floor by the couch, not daring to move, focusing with all his might, but nothing more came—not then nor for the next three hours, until he finally gave up and went home, frantic with worry. 

What happened out there? Why the panic and pain, why the desperate howls? Stiles had no idea.

One thing was certain, though: he’d heard Derek. Despite not casting at all, despite wearing the dampener —he’d heard him. Or felt him. They connected somehow. That meant something, right? Right ?

“I told you the connection would become permanent if you weren’t careful,” Lydia said when he called her that night. “Looks like you were able to tap into his mind without magic. Or maybe he tapped into yours.”

“Oh, shit,” Stiles said, eloquently. And then, “How do I do it again?”

She hummed, thoughtful. “I don’t know if you can. It’s possible that certain conditions made the connection possible. It sounds like he might have been in a high adrenaline situation. Your mental walls were down while you were sleeping. Even the place you were in might have been a factor.”

“So what you’re saying is I should start taking regular naps at Derek’s house.”

“Or maybe you should try other ways to keep your mind open to your connection.”

“You’re not suggesting drugs, are you? Because I promised my dad I would never ever use those.”

She huffed. “Of course not. I meant things like meditation, or herbs that promote relaxation. You want your mind quiet and receptive if Derek reaches out, consciously or not.”

“Have you met my brain? Quiet and receptive are not adjectives that best describe it.”

“I never said it’s easy. Ask Myra, maybe she will have some suggestions.”

“Oh, she does. To stop playing with power I have no way of controlling yet.” He sighed heavily. His new teacher was helpful, if more than a little strict, but she did not hide her exasperation at the mere idea of an untrained Spark using a ritual designed for advanced magic users. “Lydia, what if he’s hurt though? He sounded hurt, what if—”

“Don’t, Stiles. You don’t know what happened out there, and it will do neither of you any good if you start obsessing about it.”

“But it sounded like something really bad happened to him.”

“Listen. Derek is very good at surviving. We know that. We have to trust that whatever it was, he got out of it fine. Now go, I have a gentleman caller in my bedroom and I intend to go back to him. Keep me updated, though.” 

Curled up safe in the dark, moist cave, with the pain of his slowly knitting leg in the background of his mind, Derek thought of Stiles. 

That wasn’t new. Thinking of Stiles was something he’d done often enough over the years that it was just part of a constant background soundtrack of his mind at this point. But he rarely allowed himself to bring those thoughts front and center like this. It was easier not to, lest he’d have to admit certain things to himself that were better off left alone.

Tonight, though, Derek recalled Stiles’ voice; his face; his bright mind and the confidence he’d come into over the years; his energy, and the way he made Derek feel, of all things, safe. It was ironic, wasn’t it? The human of the pack, easily breakable and not nearly as strong or fit as any of the shifters, was the only one Derek trusted absolutely. Not that he’d even told him that. No point letting that go to the kid’s head.

Only Stiles had long stopped being a kid. In many ways, that made matters more complicated.

And now he was hearing Stiles’ voice in his head, despite being far enough away that he was unable to feel the bond with his own Alpha. Derek would dismiss it as a hallucination, his brain’s strange reaction to the pain and stress of the moment, but this was not a time to lie to himself. He knew better. And he knew that was not the first time he’d heard Stiles like that in recent times. 

His memories of the time before his human mind snapped back online a few days ago were murky but when he came to think about it, Stiles was just there . No details, but certainly there, and not just for a moment. And it should make Derek angry, knowing how that must have happened, but instead it made him feel… warm, and cared for. He was not alone, after all.

He huffed—a very canine sound in his current body. He was so gone for this man it was ridiculous. 

Derek remembered very clearly that moment four years ago when he’d first felt Stiles’ mind. It was inexpert and clumsy and shockingly intimate, and Derek clamped down on it immediately, and then gave Stiles a thorough dressing down, making him promise never to use that spell again. And not because he knew how dangerous such a spell could be in the wrong hands. Even then trust in Stiles was not an issue.

Stiles had been as good as his word. He had never tried the connection again. Until now. And Derek had never been so grateful for anyone breaking their promise to him before.

He focused on it now, on the part of his mind that felt like it had traces of Stiles left on it somehow. It was hard to define and elusive, but it was there—like a barely noticeable scent, or the faintest echo of a rapid heartbeat. Stiles wasn’t trying to connect with him now, that was certain, but that didn’t mean Derek couldn’t try to remember.

And the longer he focused, the more echoes came to him—inflections if not words, Stiles’ voice accompanying him for hours at a time as Derek had run, always towards it. It was like following a scent, only inside his head instead of out, and when he finally untangled the strands, he had a clear map to where Stiles’ mind connected with his, and how to find it again.

And as he fell asleep, he dreamt of home—the strong new walls and the safety of its space filled with chatter and laughter and the scent that he would recognise anywhere.

It took the sheriff less than 24 hours to get the security footage from the grocery store, and by then Stiles was ready to climb the walls. He could barely focus all day, which resulted in a tiny storm in the bowl of water he was trying to move, and a decent-sized hole in the wall of the warehouse they were using as their training grounds. All he could think of was the evidence they were surely going to find on that video. Myra let him go early, grumbling about overexcited youths. 

As soon as his father walked in the door that evening, Stiles was on him, nearly crawling out of his skin with impatience.

“Did you watch the footage?”

“Hello to you too, son. I hope you’ve had a good day.”

“Daaad!”

“Fine, fine. I did watch it. And I found Derek on the parking lot camera, right in the middle of the time period you gave me. Not sure if there’s anything useful in there, though.”

Stiles made grabby hands and his father let out a put-upon sigh. 

“No chance for a quick bite first, then?” But when Stiles just whined pitifully, he went to turn on the computer in the home office. “I’m telling you, don’t get your hopes up. There’s nothing out of the ordinary there.”

“Show me anyway. Please.”

His dad shrugged and clicked the file, then moved to the relevant part of the video. The timestamp in the lower right corner of the window showed 10:26.

Stiles watched the familiar car stop close to the entrance in the relatively empty parking lot, and his breath hitched as Derek approached, looking handsome and relaxed. The video was grainy, but it was enough to have zero doubts.

“There’s nothing interesting for the next thirty minutes, so I’ll fast forward.”

When Derek left the store at eleven, he was loaded up with paper bags stuffed with groceries. That was normal. What caught Stiles by surprise was that he was accompanied by a woman. They were clearly talking, the woman gesticulating as Derek nodded and seemed to listen attentively, and Stiles’ heart did an unpleasant little somersault that made him a little nauseous.

“Well, that’s out of the ordinary.”

“What, Derek talking to someone? Come on, he’s a good looking guy. I bet plenty of women try to chat him up. It’s not like you know every little detail of what the man does and with whom.”

Except Stiles was pretty sure he did. Or he used to, before he’d gone to Europe. And none of it seemed to involve strange women.

That he knew of.

The woman walked with Derek toward his car, but due to the angle of the camera, she was only visible from behind. Even when she turned her head toward Derek, a wide-brimmed sun hat shielded her face from any glimpse. Just as Derek opened his trunk and started putting the bags inside, she reached into the colorful little shopping bag hanging from her wrist and pulled something out. Stiles tensed, but she only moved it over her wrist and then extended it to Derek, as if to smell. A perfume bottle? Was she trying to pick him up by having him check out her perfume?

Derek inclined his head to the woman’s wrist and then a few little things happened in quick succession, subtle enough that Stiles couldn’t be certain at all he saw what he did.

“Whoa, rewind!”

“What, this?” his father asked, even as he complied. “That’s nothing. He smells her wrist, they exchange a few words and then he gets back in the car and she leaves. That’s not helpful.”

Maybe—but it wasn’t all.

“Once again. Can you slow it down?”

The clip crawled slower this time. The dark-colored bottle came out of the bag, was weaved over the woman’s wrist as Derek put his bags in, then the arm extended close to his face. He leaned in, stilled, jerked minutely away, then shook his head and returned to his bags. The woman nodded and walked out of the field of vision, putting the bottle back into her own bag.

The bottle she held in front of Derek’s face a few seconds earlier.

It was a tiny gesture when watched at original speed, looking as if she was just showing him the label. But on the slowed down clip, and combined with the little jerk… 

“She sprayed something in his face. Look at his reaction, right here.”

His father looked doubtful. “Eh. Looks like he’s just recoiling from the smell. Werewolves don’t like strong scents, right?”

“No, but— No, I don’t think it’s just that. Look at her hand. His head is down over her wrist, she raises the bottle, holds it there, and then they separate without further talk?”

“Maybe he said he didn’t like it, she took offense and left?” his father suggested, but he sounded thoughtful now. 

Stiles took over the mouse, playing the video even slower, then frame by frame. The more he looked, the more certain he was that something had happened there. Something that made Derek drive home and then leave halfway through unpacking his groceries.

“It’s worth talking to her at least. I mean, she may be the last person who talked to him before he disappeared.”

“If we can find her. There’s nothing to go on here.”

“Maybe earlier in the video? Or she got caught on another camera, somewhere inside?”

“You can look at it if you want to. I’m beat.” The sheriff pushed up from the chair and squeezed Stiles’ shoulder on the way to the door. “Goodnight, kid.”

By the time morning came, Stiles had found absolutely nothing on the mysterious woman. He’d been through the security recordings time and again, watching and rewatching the footage from multiple cameras around the relevant period, and he couldn’t say with any certainty that there was even a glimpse of her in any of those. He couldn’t say there wasn’t, either.

The woman seemed to be perfectly average in height and built, and she was wearing blue jeans with a nondescript dark t-shirt, and a large black shoulder bag. The only thing that really set her apart was the large sun hat that she was wearing while talking to Derek in the parking lot, but she could’ve taken it off and put it in her bag at any point—hell, it could’ve even been a new purchase. Without it, locating her was an exercise in futility. It wasn’t like he could ask his father to go and pull credit card information on all seventeen women in jeans and dark t-shirts he’d seen walking through the store in the video—if that was even possible. 

Another fucking dead end.  

Even exhausted, he was vibrating with too much restless energy and caffeine to even attempt sleep, so he was still sitting at his desk at six, when his bedroom window slid up quietly, causing his heart to trip over itself with a wild rush of hope. 

The fact that it was Scott who crawled in through should not be such a disappointment.

“Hey. What brings you here so early?” he asked with an immediate pang of guilt, and Scott froze by the window.

“Oh, you’re already up.”

“Technically, I’m still up. Did something happen?”

“Um, no.” Scott did not flop on the bed, like he normally would, but stood there, looking tense and uncomfortable. “I just came to apologize. I can’t take it anymore; I hate not talking to you!”

“Yeah, the feeling’s mutual.”

“I’m sorry I was such an asshole and said all those things.”

Stiles sighed. “You were not wrong, though. It wasn’t responsible, what I did.”

“Yeah, but I get why you did it. And it’s not like we’ve never made mistakes before and yet we stuck by each other through it. It’s just…” Scott finally unstuck himself from the window and went over to sit on the bed, and the room immediately felt less tense. “I was on edge. Because of the full moon and finding you unconscious, and… it’s stupid, but I had a special night planned with Dawn, our first one, and it fell through when I ran off to check on you. So that kinda added to it, and I just… lost my cool.”

“Makes sense.” Stiles shrugged, then stopped and pushed himself to voice what had been on his mind a lot over these last few days. “You must have been pretty angry, though, to stay away for so long. Things have not been exactly easy for me, either.”

“I know. Deaton told me a couple of days ago. I should’ve come here then.”

“But you didn’t.”

Scott rubbed his jaw, looking chastised. “I just.” He bit his lip, as if trying to keep the words inside, until they burst out of his mouth anyway. “You chose Derek over me.”

Stiles flailed, surprised. “No, I didn’t!”

“You did. Remember last year, when Deaton told you that you could either give up magic or get into proper training?” Stiles nodded. “And you gave it up. Just like that.”

“Yeah, because I didn’t want my whole life to revolve around the supernatural forever. And it felt like I was more of a threat than a useful ally, anyway.”

“Deaton told you that you could become my emissary if you got trained!” Scott exclaimed, like he’d been holding it in all that time. Then his voice softened. “I just… We were brothers. I thought you’d like to be my emissary.”

Stiles rubbed his face with both hands. “I thought so, too. And then it felt like you didn’t need me anymore.”

“What?” Scott frowned. “Of course I needed you.”

“Nah. You were doing pretty awesome on your own. The pack was growing, there were fewer threats on a daily basis… And I thought, what if I put years into getting trained, bind my life to your pack and then… I’m just a sidekick? Just someone to do a little magic when needed, or negotiate peace treaties. What if there is nothing else for me here and I can’t leave anymore because I’m bound to the pack? It was not something I was ready to decide at nineteen.”

“And yet when Derek needed your help, you didn’t even hesitate, even though you knew the cost. Because you’re in love with him. You did choose him over me.”

Stiles frowned. “To be fair, I didn’t spare much thought to the consequences. I just did it.”

“See? That’s love.”

“I’d argue it’s dumbassery, but fine. Yes, I care about him. Doesn’t mean I don’t care about you, too.”

“That’s okay. I don’t really want you to care the same way about me. I have Dawn for it.”

“How is that going?”

Scott’s face turned dreamy in the exact same way it so often had in high school when Alison was mentioned. Stiles chuckled.

“Yeah, I see how it is. Will I ever get to meet her?”

“Of course you will, eventually. When she’s ready.”

“No pressure.”

“Thanks. So, is there anything new about Derek?”

Stiles told him—about the nap at Derek’s place, and the voice, and the security footage. Scott listened, properly focused for once.

“Alright,” he said eventually. “There’s no point in checking that parking lot, not after such a long time. But we’ll go see whether we can smell anything unusual by the trunk of his car, or on his clothes, if they’re still there.”

“Check the downstairs bathroom. There’s clothes there, I think from that day. If there’s anything left, it will be on his t-shirt.”

“Done. What about you?”

“I have some work to do on making my brain quiet and receptive. Or so Lydia claims.” 

Derek woke up before dawn. His leg was all healed, if still a little tender, and his mood was, for a change, excellent. He was going home.

No, he still couldn’t transform back into his human form. No, he had no idea where he was. But it didn’t matter. All he had to do was follow. Stiles was there like a tether, attached to that little part of his mind; it was the easiest thing in the world to just follow it like a scent to get to him. And where Stiles was, there was home. 

He kept his ear out for the hunters from the previous day, but the forest was quiet, peaceful, and so Derek drank some water from the stream, and then he ran. He kept a steady pace, enjoying the beautiful surroundings now that he no longer felt frantic, but most of his mind was far away—back in Beacon Hills. Back home.

There had been a moment—many moments over the years, if he was being honest—when Derek thought about abandoning that cursed town forever. There were so many dark memories there; so much tragedy seeped into that soil, that sometimes he could barely breathe through it, let alone see any kind of future for himself. He’d struggled with those thoughts every day while building the house on the ground that had belonged to the Hales for generations, a stone throw from where the shell of the old house had stood, all but a memory now.

He could’ve gone anywhere. Once Scott was back for good, Derek wasn’t really needed in Beacon Hills. Which was really why he’d stayed.

The freedom to just be, out of the spotlight, without expectations or fighting to strengthen the position he was never meant to have, felt like a breath of fresh air. Just living his life at his own pace. Finding his own rhythm, learning what it was that he wanted, practicing his own little habits. Nothing more. For now.

There had still been times when he wanted to leave, even after the house was finished—to run away, leave Beacon Hills in his past and start fresh somewhere new. Every time, he would tell himself, “Tomorrow. If I still want to go tomorrow, I will.” 

He never did.

And as he ran through unfamiliar woods, following a trail that was woven from thoughts and care and magic, he knew that he never would. It was time to admit it: Beacon Hills was the only real home he knew, and he was tired of resisting its pull, of keeping everyone at arm’s length, always ready to flee. One didn’t miss a place with such a deep ache unless it was home.

When he returned there, he would let himself grow roots again. No more fantasizing about starting a new life somewhere far away. He had a house and a pack, memories and dreams of the future. And he had the present to live in, there. 

He couldn’t wait.

Over the next week, Stiles took to going to Derek’s house every afternoon after Spark School. It was closer than his house from the warehouse, anyway. And since Myra vehemently refused to let him even attempt any sort of connection when the cuff was off, and any remaining non-supernatural leads fizzled out, one by one, all Stiles had was Lydia’s advice. Meditation and herbs. Well, more like naps on Derek’s couch and coffee. Close enough.

He thought he felt Derek sometimes; he woke up flushed, with his heart pounding, only to realize that his own overactive imagination had been feeding him scenarios where Derek cared for him the way Stiles desperately wanted. Or that he’d dreamed of a future with the pack strong and united, both Derek and Stiles firmly at its center, by Scott’s side. In those hazy moments between dreams and reality, he saw trees; trees and streams and… bunnies? Good job, brain.

He thought about Derek constantly, outside of the moments when his full attention was on controlling his magic—and even then he slipped sometimes, making Myra sigh and shake her head as she cleaned up the mess with a wave of her hand and made him try again. He apologized, and focused for another few moments, before his brain inevitably returned to seeking out any signs the connection was there somehow, while the cuff was off.

It beat thinking about everything else, anyway. About his future that he had so little control over now; about the fact he’d have to find a job soon while still studying magic full time; about what he was going to tell Derek when he was back—how he was going to explain the massive breach of trust Stiles’ spell had been.

No, it was easier to focus on trying to catch the wispy bits of connection out there.

And if Derek’s house felt almost more of a home than his father’s, suddenly, and his couch the best spot for a nap—well. It was a really comfortable couch.

Derek was nearly there. For the last couple of days, he’d been running through territories he remembered from camping trips with his family. Time hadn’t erased the vivid memories, and the rich sensory input kept bringing back moments from the past that took Derek’s breath away with how fresh they felt.

Perhaps that was the reason why he felt the need to stop now, to hunt and rest for the day. He hadn’t eaten much recently. 

Or perhaps the reason was something else altogether.

It was like being suspended in time, quivering on a brink between the past and the future. And while rationally it didn’t make much sense, emotionally he knew that once he came back, it would be the beginning of a new era. Hopefully a better one.

An era of growing roots and learning to allow himself to feel safe. Of properly bonding with his pack and his Alpha, and finding his own place in the pack. Of being honest with Stiles—and himself.

He wondered whether Stiles was back from Europe already—and then felt absolutely certain that he was.

The connection sitting at the back of his mind was a strange, semi-formed shape that didn’t give him much insight other than leading the way, but somehow Derek knew that Stiles would be right there when he got home. That he was there now, his heartbeat growing closer and stronger with every step Derek took.

Suddenly, resting felt like a waste of time. Another day of hunger wouldn’t kill him. Derek got back up on his paws and shook off the dry leaves, and then he looked in the direction where he knew home was, and focused on Stiles. He didn’t know whether Stiles could hear him at all, but just in case, he thought intently in his direction,

“I’ll be there tonight.”

I’ll be there tonight.

The voice in Stiles’ head, loud and clear and very recognizably Derek’s , startled him out of focus so suddenly that he lost his balance where he was crouching and fell flat on his ass. The marbles he was supposed to group together with his mind scattered all across the warehouse floor, and the nearest one imploded into nothing with a quiet pop . Myra raised her eyebrows in silent reproach.

Stiles put his hands flat on the ground, the way she taught him, to avoid any further damage. “Sorry, that was— I think my connection with Derek just activated.”

“What did you feel?”

“I heard his voice, saying he’d be home tonight.”

Myra nodded, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. “Then we have more than enough time to practice. Try and bring the farthest marbles closer individually before moving them all together.”

Stiles moved to sit cross-legged, still a little dazed.

“No, wait, please. How does this work? I wasn’t casting the spell; I haven’t touched it in almost two weeks, how do I hear him? How did I hear him last week, when I was actually wearing the cuff?”

Myra sighed and went over to the table in the corner to pick up her glass of water.

“That spell made permanent changes to your brain when you used it so many times in a row. It opened a channel that doesn’t depend on the casting anymore and is more a part of your brain than an effect of using your spark now. It means that sometimes you will feel things through that channel even when your magic is inert.”

“Then why can’t I just tune in to hear Derek whenever I want to?”

She frowned at him. “This is not a walkie-talkie, Mr Stilinski. The meeting spot between the spark magic and the shifter abilities is a curious, largely unexplored area. And even if you could do it on demand, we do not violate people’s privacy on a whim. There is a book on ethical use of magic that I will want you to read. I’ll bring it over next week.”

Stiles could feel himself flush. “I know, but—”

“That’s enough for now. Let us not waste any more time today. And for all that is sacred, do try to focus or we’ll be here till nightfall.”

Despite all her grumbling, Myra let him go a few hours before sundown, and Stiles drove straight to Derek’s house, his heart pounding with hope and anticipation. On the way, he called Scott, who promised to get there as soon as he could. He didn’t voice any doubts about Stiles’ claims this time.

Although Stiles did enough of that himself. The more time passed since that weird moment earlier, the more he questioned… well, everything, really. Was it really Derek’s voice he heard? Did it actually come from him or was it a result of wishful thinking Stiles had had going on for so long now? And even if it was Derek, was he really going to be back tonight? Just like that?

He thought he could feel Derek, if he squinted and sort of… looked inwards. Or at least, he could feel something that he didn’t notice there before. A connection. Not that it gave him any insight at all.

He spent a while inside, putting away the forgotten groceries, plus some perishable staples he’d gotten on the way just in case. He dusted some surfaces downstairs, and spent entirely too much time by the window, looking out at the darkening wall of the forest. Eventually, he just gave up, grabbed a blanket and went to sit on the deck steps. The air was cool and clear, smelling of fall. After a while the stars appeared, and the thin crescent of the waning moon hung over the treetops. 

He heard a car approaching the house ten minutes later and rose to look around the corner right in time to see Scott park and exit the vehicle. He wasn’t alone, though. Deaton emerged from the passenger’s side, and Stiles could see Isaac’s curly head in the back. He took two steps to approach them, and a dizzy, excited feeling crested over his brain. He turned—

And there, in the middle of the backyard, was a wolf. His electric blue eyes were trained on Stiles.

Stiles forgot all about Scott, about his restlessness, about the whole world. Before he knew it, he was kneeling in the moist grass in front of the wolf, fingers threading through the thick fur on the wolf’s neck, heart hammering in his chest.

Once, a very long time ago, he had tried to convince Derek he was not afraid of him, and failed miserably. But now—now, there was not a shadow of fear in his heart. There was joy, relief, excitement. There was curiosity and anticipation and… damn it, Lydia was right. There was no hiding what he felt.

“Hey, big guy. I’m so glad to see you back, safe and sound.”

The wolf huffed a warm breath against the side of Stiles’ face, and then did something that sent Stiles’ heart into overdrive. He put his massive, heavy head on Stiles’ shoulder. And Stiles could do nothing but enjoy it, the warm, furry closeness—after the weeks of worry and uncertainty, this was really, really nice. 

He moved his hand to the back of the wolf’s head, carding his fingers through the soft fur…

And then jerked, when the texture of it changed under his fingers, the whole shape of the skull and texture of the skin against his changing with it. He pulled away and there was Derek, kneeling before him, naked. Stiles scrambled to pull the blanket off his own shoulders and throw it over Derek’s.

Thank you , he heard in his head, and then Derek made a face and croaked, “Thank you. How did you do it?”

“Give you a blanket?”

“Make me shift. I was unable to do it this whole time.”

“So you were a wolf all along?”

“Yeah. How long was it?”

“Nearly six weeks.”

“Oh.” Derek looked lost in thought for a moment before unfolding into a standing position, wrapping the blanket around his hips. He seemed a little wobbly standing on two legs, which, really, was no wonder. Stiles resisted the urge to reach out and support him.

Behind him, footsteps announced that Scott was approaching. He got to Derek and grabbed his forearm in a manly greeting, but then his expression changed to something young and astonished.

“Oh. I can feel you again.” 

Stiles looked between them, two wolves whose bond had been broken and was now reestablished again, and there was something new there—something that gave him hope.

Derek nodded. “Me too. It was strange, losing that connection. It felt very lonely until I realized Stiles reached out.”

Stiles rubbed the back of his head.

“Um, right. I’m sorry. I have no excuse other than I was an ocean away, feeling helpless and desperate to find you. I know it’s no excuse but—”

“No, I’m glad you did.” Derek’s smile was soft and warm and freely given, and Stiles’ heart fluttered.

“You are?”

“Yes.” 

The intensity in Derek’s otherworldly eyes made Stiles’ breath stutter. He couldn’t look away. 

Then, all of a sudden, Derek turned his head, scenting the air. Beside him, Scott’s eyes widened in alarm.

A female form detached itself from the shadows at the side of the house and stepped into the circle of the porch light. She was young, around their age, and pretty in a sweet-faced way, all dark curls and curves. Scott turned toward her, looking pale, and Stiles could almost read his thoughts without any magic at all. How much had she seen and heard? How to explain it, if she’d seen too much?

And then Scott said, “Babe, what are you doing here? I told you I’d be back soon”, and the dots connected: Dawn, the new girlfriend, too shy to meet them all. Well, she was here now.

The girl smiled, looking sweetly bashful. “I’m sorry. I just wanted to see—”

Then there was a growl behind Stiles’ shoulder and he turned to see Derek, not quite shifted, but looking very pointy in all his bare-chested, blanketed glory.

“It’s you,” he growled. “You were talking to me in the parking lot, that’s the last thing I remember.”

Stiles’ attitude towards the girl, which had been politely indifferent at best, changed in a blink. Before he knew it, he was in front of her, hands outstretched, ready to protect. Even remembering that his magic was bound by the cuff didn’t make him step aside.

Scott looked between them like a confused puppy. “But… you’re not magic. What did you do? Why? I was sure I would have known… Stiles?”

Stiles shrugged helplessly, but then Deaton was there, moving his hands in front of the girl with a rare frown. “No magic.”

“How, then? And why ?”

“The how would be me.” Another voice came from the darkness of the trees, loud and strong, and a moment later another woman came out into the light. She was tiny, a blonde pixie tomboy, and could be called cute if not for the hard, cold expression on her face. Even with his spark bound, Stiles could feel the aura of magic radiating from her. It set his teeth on edge.

“And who are you ?” Scott asked before Stiles could.

“She’s Maya. My wife.” It was Dawn who answered. She walked up to the newcomer and took her hand while Scott stared, mouth open in shock.

Between Derek’s growling intensifying and Scott being rendered temporarily speechless, it fell on Stiles to try and untangle this insane situation. Suddenly, he wished for the silent backup of his spark, ready to protect his friend, his pack. But there was Derek at his back, and Deaton at his side, and in the shadows of the house Isaac stood, ready to spring.

Nobody hurt Scott in Isaac’s presence.

“Okay, let’s back up here a little,” Stiles demanded, looking between Derek, Scott, and the two girls. “First things first: is anyone going to attack anyone else in the next five minutes?”

“I might,” Derek growled, and Stiles could feel his anger like a live current. In the shadows, Isaac’s eyes flashed golden.

“I absolutely get the urge, but let’s try and pause it until after we’ve learned what’s going on.” Stiles sent Derek what he hoped was a reassuring smile, and then turned to the women. “You two?”

The pixie one, Maya, rolled her eyes. “Please. If we were here to attack you, we had countless opportunities over the last month.”

“The way I see it, you did attack Derek.” 

Dawn shifted, looking uncomfortable, and Stiles shot her a glare. 

“What the hell was that about? What did Derek ever do to you?”

“Nothing,” Dawn hurried to say. “We just needed him out of the way for a bit.”

“Why?”

“Because…”

“Because he’s too paranoid for our needs,” Maya said simply as if that explained everything.

Derek growled sharply, and Stiles reached his hand out to hush him.

“So what,” he asked, “you came here with some nefarious plans and were afraid Derek would sniff them out, so you cursed him?”

Maya laughed heartily. “Cursed? It was just a little mischief in a bottle. He got to play with his animal side for a bit.”

If not for Stiles’ hand on his chest, Derek might have lunged at her. “I was stuck in full shift,” he snarled. “By the time my human brain switched back on, I had no idea where I was or how to return.”

“Oh, unclench.” She rolled her eyes. “It was designed to wear off in two moons. How did you break out of it early, anyway?” She tapped her lip, frowning, and Stiles had a sudden image of Lydia trying to figure out a mistake in calculations. “The only way to bring you back and dissipate the spell would be for somebody who really, truly cared for you to literally lead you back home. And I made sure to neutralize the pack bond to prevent that. How, then?”

“Never mind about that,” Stiles said quickly. “What was your nefarious plan then? If your goal wasn’t Derek, then—”

“It was me,” Scott said and his voice was as deadly as it was quiet. His canines were lengthening and Stiles wanted to remind him not to shift in front of strangers, but then it was clear that those strangers already knew about that whole furry issue. “ I was the goal. What I don’t understand is why.”

Dawn detached herself from her wife’s side and crossed to him. He flinched away when she reached to stroke his cheek. “You’re a really nice guy, Scotty. I truly enjoyed getting to know you. We never wanted to hurt you.”

“Like hell you didn’t. What did you want?”

“Nothing you would miss,” Maya said. “Just a little bit of… genetic material.”

Stiles could see the moment Scott understood. He tensed with shock or anger, or both. “You wanted… to use me to get pregnant?”

“Yes,” Dawn said. She shifted uncomfortably.

“Did you?” It was all growl now.

Dawn shook her head. “No. During the full moon, when it would have definitely happened, you were busy with your friend.” She glanced at Stiles with reproach. “By the time I managed to get you to bed, it was too late. It would have taken next month, though. We’d make sure of that.”

Scott’s fingertips were sprouting claws now. He was seething with rage, Stiles knew. “And then what? What would you have done?”

“Oh, we would have disappeared quietly. You’d never have known.”

Behind Stiles, Derek said, “Until you returned in, say, 16 years with a young werewolf ready to take their heritage? Maybe to challenge their father, or force their way into the pack? Child of a True Alpha, that’s some powerful genes.”

Maya shrugged. “I mean, maybe? That was something to possibly consider one day. For now, we just wanted a child. And why settle for average genes when you can have a baby of an Alpha werewolf? Strong, resilient…”

“And very difficult to raise on your own, without a pack. Have you thought about what that child would go through without other werewolves in their life? How lonely they’d be?” Derek huffed.

Stiles nodded. “Not to mention, you don’t just make a baby with someone without telling them, and then leave. It’s unethical!”

Maya just snorted, but Dawn looked torn, wringing her hands. 

“I just, I wanted a baby so badly . And it’s not like he’d miss it. You can’t miss what you don’t know about!”

Stiles shook his head and looked at Scott, then Derek. “What do you want to do with them? Should I call the sheriff? Or Chris?” He’d help in any way they saw fit, but it was their decision; they were the injured parties.

The two werewolves looked at each other, some silent communication happening that Stiles was not privy to, which probably attested to their pack bond being alive and well again. After a few heartbeats Derek nodded curtly. Scott turned to Stiles. 

“Let me deal with this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go with Derek, you have a lot to talk about, I’m sure.”

“Well yeah, but–“

“I’ll be fine.”

Deaton stepped up to Scott’s side. “I will assist Scott. Unethical use of magic falls under my jurisdiction.”

Stiles nodded, feeling relieved—more relieved now that there was someone else to help; someone who was not likely to be softened by tears or puppy eyes. 

“Okay. One more thing, though.” He took out his phone and snapped a photo of the two women, then another just in case. “I’ll send those down the pack grapevine so that nobody else can get tricked.”

With a short wave, he turned toward Derek, who led him to the back door and into the house, locking up behind them for once.

Art by: Kitera-Matar

It was in that instant that it all crashed down on Stiles: Derek was back. He was safe and whole and here, in his house again—and in Stiles’ life. He was back in his human form and— He wasn’t saying anything.

Stiles rubbed his suddenly sweaty hands over his jeans. “Um, so. I understand if you’re mad at me.”

Derek tilted his head. “Does it feel like I’m mad at you?”

“I don’t… know? Are you?”

“Can’t you feel my emotions now? Am I angry?”

Stiles closed his eyes and fumbled for the elusive cloud of connection. It was still there, and with Derek standing right in front of him in his human form, the vague echoes of feelings washed over him, faraway and fleeting.

“No?” he decided eventually. “Not angry. Just…” He opened his eyes, “Amused? Dude, are you laughing at me?”

“I wouldn’t dare,” Derek said, but there was a smile at the corners of his mouth.

“Of course you would.” Oh, it was good to bicker with Derek again. “Listen. I’m sorry you are stuck with me in your head now because I didn’t listen to you. It must be annoying, I know. And I’m sorry I broke my promise to you, and not just once, either.”

Derek stepped up to him, putting his big hands on Stiles’ upper arms, and the proximity took Stiles’ breath away. “Stiles. I am not angry that you used the spell, or that you kept using it. You gave me direction when I was completely lost, and made me feel less lonely when I was alone. And I don’t mind having you in my head, the way it is now. It’s not unlike the pack bond and not as invasive as the actual spell was.”

“So you can’t read my mind?” Well, that was a relief.

“Mostly, I can’t. You?”

“Nah, not a chance. Occasionally I could get the meaning of something you were thinking in my direction but— Wait, what do you mean, mostly?”

“Sometimes you think really loud.” Derek grinned and took a step away. “I would kill for a shower.”

“I don’t think you need to, it’s there for the taking. Do you want me to go?”

“No. No, stay. I’ll just wash the weeks of forest living off of me and I’ll be back. I’m sure there are things to catch up on.”

The hot water was bliss, and Derek spent a ridiculously long time scrubbing off the dirt from his skin and hair. He thoroughly brushed his teeth and put on soft, clean clothes. Now he felt like a human being again.

Stiles was in the kitchen when Derek got back downstairs. There was a pot of freshly brewed coffee burbling its last drips in the machine, and two pans on the stove that filled the room with the smell of scrambled eggs and bacon. As Derek stood in the doorway, the toast—multigrain, his favorite—popped out of the toaster. Derek sighed happily, and Stiles turned away from the stove, a pan in his hand.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“You have no idea. I didn’t really want to waste time hunting in the last few days.” 

The food was amazing, and for a long while Derek could only focus on devouring the  copious quantities that Stiles put before him, until there was nothing left and his stomach was no longer screaming about its neglect. Only then, fed, clean and safe, did he sit back and let all the tension leak out of him. 

Stiles was sitting opposite him with a cup of coffee, smiling fondly. And it hit Derek like a ton of bricks, then—after a month and a half away from his regular life, from doubts and overthinking and all the walls he was so used to constructing around himself—how simple this really was, this lovely domesticity. How little all the years of his excuses meant, all boiling down to fear. 

He liked to think he was fearless, but it couldn’t be further from the truth. He feared plenty: having his trust broken again; opening up and being rejected; getting close to someone only to lose them, like he’d lost so many. But he’d trusted Stiles completely for years. He’d seen the shapes of his thoughts and emotions through their connection. And loss… That was something that would happen to everyone eventually, no matter what. Was that a reason to never let himself feel happy?

“Thank you for cooking,” he said. “And shopping. And… thanks for not giving up on finding me.”

“I’d never.”

“I know.” And the fact was, he did know. And that made him feel warm and safe and just… seen. He swallowed. “You know what that girl said, about breaking the curse?” he asked, heart pounding in his chest. 

“Yeah?”

“You shouldn’t have been able to do it. But you did.”

Stiles shrugged. “I mean, it was the spell. She blocked the pack bond but this was different. I guess my teenage experimentation did end up a little useful, after all.”

“Yes, but also, you heard what she said. Only being led by someone who really, truly cared would have worked.”

“I—”

“I don’t think anyone else would have been able to do that. Nobody else from the pack, I’m sure.”

“They do care,” Stiles said, but there was sadness and a little bit of anger tingeing his emotions. 

“Not the way you do.”

Stiles sighed. “Unfair, man. You can’t use the insight into my mind against me.”

“I’m not trying to use it against you.”

“What, then? What are you trying to do? Because if you’re trying to embarrass me, it’s working.”

“No.” Derek pushed aside the plate and reached across the table to grab Stiles’ hand. “I’m sorry. I don’t want you to be embarrassed. I’m just… not very good at this.” He took a steadying breath. If there  was ever a time to push through his innate aversion to expressing himself in words, it was now. In front of him, Stiles was frozen, looking at him with wide eyes. “I was gone for over a month and you never gave up on me. You kept reminding me who I was. I don’t remember much from the first weeks but I remember that; your voice and the melody of your words, and my name. You kept saying my name. You tried and pushed and prodded until my brain snapped online.”

“I remember the moment, I think. It was on the full moon, wasn’t it? I felt the difference before my body refused to cooperate.”

“What happened? I felt you panic before you disappeared.”

“I had an itsy bitsy seizure. Apparently my spark got too big to contain. After that, I was cuffed and sent to a magic school for the rest of my natural life. Or something like that.”

“You had a— Are you okay?” Derek could hear the frantic note in his own voice and didn't care.

“I’m fine, no worries. That’s why I didn’t connect after that, though. But I never got to look into your thoughts properly, which is exactly what you wanted, so hey, silver lining.”

Derek loosened his grip on Stiles’ hand, which had grown tight and desperate, and exhaled. “It is what I wanted back then, yes. I was terrified you’d see too much and know how much of a mess I was. But these days… you already know that. And you’re still here. You still care.”

“Of course I do.”

“Your voice, out there in those woods, was a lifeline. It was a light in the darkness. A beacon calling me home. To you.” Stiles opened his mouth, reconsidered, and closed it again. Derek squeezed his hand. “You. Home. They’re synonyms. Do you know what I mean?”

Stiles’ heart was racing, his emotions a jumbled mess. He turned his hand and intertwined their fingers, his face hesitant but hopeful. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to spell it out for me.”

“Can’t you just feel it?”

Stiles closed his eyes and took a shaky breath. When he opened them a moment later, there was a hint of pink in his cheeks. “I could, maybe, but not clearly. And I don’t want to risk any misunderstandings in case I’m reading it wrong.”

Derek stood up and crossed around the table to Stiles’ side, pulling him up by their still joined hands. They were chest to chest now, and Derek felt like he was falling, kept in place only by this man standing before him.

“I’ve trusted you for so many years now. I could recognise your heartbeat in a building full of people. Your scent has been a soothing constant in my life for so long… I even kept your hoodie in my closet when you were in college, though I never let myself think about why it was there. You are important to me, Stiles. I care about you. So much. I—”

He couldn’t. He hadn’t said those words since Kate, and his heart skipped a beat at the prospect of using them again, so he just thought desperately, with all the might he could put into it, I love you, Stiles. I’ve loved you for years. Please stay with me.

And he could see the moment it registered. Stiles gasped softly, his eyes going distant for just a second before focusing on Derek again, fierce and bright.

“Me too, Sourwolf. Of course I’ll stay.”

And if they kissed, and then crawled into Derek’s bed together, fully clothed, to just hold each other that first night, it was nobody’s business but their own. Derek had always been a rather private person, after all.

Later, they would talk about the scars on Stiles’ arms, and Derek would ask him about his Europe trip. Later, they would try to recreate Derek’s journey through the states and ask Scott about the two women who caused this whole mess. There would be dates, sleepovers and dinners, with the sheriff and the pack. There would be life, together.

But tonight, Derek was finally home, and so was his heart.

THE END

Art by: one-fandom-became-all-fandoms