Chapter Text
Stiles knows he should sleep, but he can’t. Instead, he watches the sun rise. Deaton has been working on the weather. He’s not a master like Sally, so it’s taken some time, but he’s getting it cleared up. The rain trailed off to a faint patter a few hours after Sally’s death, and the clouds are starting to disappear. Stiles can see the sun for the first time in a week, and he stands out on the lodge’s back porch with the pack clustered around him, taking deep breaths of the fresh air.
The surf is dying down. As soon as the sun is up and the hour isn’t as unreasonable, most of the hunters are on their phones, calling people to get some assistance and sweep things underneath rugs. The bodies will be handled. The hunters take the news of Sally’s true identity with quiet shock, but there are no protests. Stiles thinks that they just don’t have the energy. At this point, they just want to go home. Boats are coming over to pick up survivors, because it will take some time to build even a temporary bridge.
“What about our cars?” Stiles asks, staring forlornly at his Jeep, which is standing in about a foot of water.
“Someone will have to come back for them later,” Chris says. He glances at Stiles and adds, “Don’t forget, only a few people brought their own cars. Most of these are rentals. Whoever stays behind to handle the clean-up can return them. You can always have yours shipped back to you.”
“Can I do that?” Stiles looks forlornly at his dead phone. Cell service had come back up as soon as the clouds had cleared, but he’s been unable to resurrect his poor hexed phone.
“Yeah. It’s not cheap, but it can be done.”
The first boats take the staff and the wounded. Angela and Vanessa have had a long discussion with the staff about why keeping their mouths shut is the best idea. They’re still in shock, and none of them seem eager to go to the media. They know that people will just think they’re crazy. Stiles hands out Gwen’s number so they can at least call and get a referral to somewhere local. She’ll love him forever.
The kids are on the next boat out. Tom breaks the news to the two Stoddard children about their father. They take it stoically and don’t seem to have much of a reaction. That makes sense to Stiles. He can’t imagine that Jim was a model father. They’re probably better off without him. They’re loaded onto the boat, along with Ned. He has both of them clutched tightly, like he’s afraid to let them go. He hasn’t said much since Sally’s death. Stiles inquires about his wife, Sally’s adoptive mother, and is almost relieved to hear that she died in a car accident two years previous.
When asked, Ned says he has no interest in being a hunter anymore. Jim’s two kids don’t seem to have an opinion on it. Ned murmurs something about just wanting to get away. After some quiet discussion, Chris makes a few calls. There’s an Oblivion facility in Florida, which is about as unlike New England as possible. They agree to take Ned, not as a resident, but as an employee. Chris thinks that will help him, having something constructive to do, helping others.
“I hate to be the one to bring this up,” Vanessa says, “but someone is going to have to take over the Stoddard territory.”
Wednesday is the only one whose territory is contiguous, and she declines the offer, saying that she has more than enough to deal with on her own land. Most of the others feel the same way, and nobody seems eager to move except Sam Argent. “I really wouldn’t mind,” he says. “I’ve missed the ocean. And to be honest, I might prefer a smaller territory, especially while I’m still learning.”
“Okay, but you can’t just up and leave your territory behind,” Hannah says.
Julien looks over at Chris. “You should have it,” he says. “It was the original Argent territory. You deserve it. I mean, you would have had it years ago, if you and Gerard had gotten along.”
“But again, as much as we shuffle around, we’re still one hunter short,” Chris says.
“Well, what about Allison?” Vanessa asks. “I seem to recall you saying she’s the best hunter you’ve ever trained. Repeatedly.”
“Allison is still in school,” Chris protests.
Victoria, for her part, is frowning pensively. She looks over at Allison and says, “What do you think?”
Allison takes a deep breath. “I can do it. I’ll need help in the beginning, and I don’t really want to miss my last few years of college, but I can do it.”
“Help can be provided,” Carmen Gutierrez says. “Marcos and I can be your lieutenants for southern California. Francisco doesn’t want us around anyway. If the Nazarios are willing to help with Nevada . . .”
“And I can watch out for northern California,” Stella Jones says, with a nod. She looks at Chris and says with a smirk, “Hell, I was doing that anyway.”
Chris gives her a look, and a quiet chuckle goes through the room. Grudgingly, he admits, “I guess it might work out.”
“It’s not a bad idea, actually,” Jake pipes up. “I mean, California is actually one of the quietest territories. Your talent is wasted there, if we’re going to be honest. There’s about a two hundred mile radius of dead zone around Beacon Hills, because nobody wants to mess with Stiles and his pack, so . . .”
Allison smiles at him. “I won’t be able to go wrong with Jake to help me out, right?” she says, and Jake flushes pink.
With that settled, there’s some discussion about who’s going to stay behind to help with the clean up. Sam volunteers, since he’ll need to get to know the local lieutenants who weren’t at the Conclave, as well as the Stoddards’ backers. Since he’s staying, Julien says he will as well.
Tom grips Stiles’ shoulder as he watches the Argents cluster around to talk about what’s going to come next. “Come on, you,” he says. “We’re on the next boat out. We can get you some plane tickets home and have your Jeep shipped back once the bridge is back up.”
Stiles nods and goes looking for his pack to make sure they’ve gotten everything together. He runs into Justin doing the same thing. “Hey, want to go back to Beacon Hills with us? Cora could have a real visit with her brother, since this sure as hell didn’t count.”
“Can’t,” Justin says briskly. “That musclebound buddy of yours is gonna take me and mine up to the prison, now that Ned’s told us where to find it. Need to make sure that nobody’s still there, and that any bodies left get a proper burial and everything.”
“Oh. Okay, good plan.” Stiles shoves both hands through his hair. “Sorry we got you into this.”
Justin shrugs. “I’m glad I was here.” There’s a moment of silence, and then Justin says, “Hey, don’t look so glum. This week sucked like a hooker in a gravity well, but we got through it. Things will be better now.”
“I hope you’re right,” Stiles says. He says goodbye to the rest of the alpha pack and heads back downstairs.
They gather outside to wait for the next boat, and find Francisco Gutierrez getting into an argument with his younger brother. “I’m not staying here!” he’s shouting as they reach the docks.
“Well, you can’t come back with us,” Cesar Gutierrez says, his arms folded over his chest. “You’re a werewolf.”
“Still?” Stiles asks. “Jesus Christ, really?”
Francisco turns a huge scowl on him. “Stay out of this!”
Stiles loses his temper. He glances around to make sure nobody else besides his pack is around, then pulls out his .38 and points it right at Francisco’s face. “You hate being a werewolf so much? Don’t hunters normally commit suicide after they get turned? Okay, I’ll do you the favor. You’ve been a werewolf for three days now. You know what it’s like. So look me in the God damned eye and tell me that you’d rather me shoot you than go on as a werewolf.”
Francisco’s mouth sags open. He sputters incoherently for a moment, then his jaw sets in an expression of anger. “It isn’t – it’s not like – ”
As he talks, the fangs recede. The sideburns disappear, and his face returns to normal.
“Finally!” a feminine voice says, and they all twist around to see a coyote sunning herself on the dock. Stiles is excruciatingly sure that it hadn’t been there ten seconds previous. “I thought I was going to have to smuggle into his luggage and go home with him!”
“Uh,” Stiles says.
The coyote winks at him. She stands, stretches, and trots down the dock and into the woods. Moments later, she’s disappeared from view.
“Well, that was . . . different,” Derek says.
“Oh, thank God you saw it too,” Stiles blurts out. “I thought I was fucking hallucinating.”
They load onto the boat, leaving the bickering Gutierrez family behind. Janea and her pack, as well as Blaine Acklin, are riding with them. Janea is crying quietly, holding onto one of her other pack members. Tom sits down with her and talks to her about getting back to her own territory and the legalities of having been missing for several months. They’ll get her taken care of, he says. Stiles gives her Gwen’s number.
“I feel like Oprah,” he remarks to the pack. “You get a therapist! You get a therapist! Everybody gets a therapist!”
“I will throw you off this boat,” Jackson says.
Blaine, it’s been decided, will go back to Beacon Hills. Deaton says he’ll look after him. His magic is too strong to leave him without someone who will know how to handle him. But he’s not inclined towards doing dark magic – in fact, Deaton doesn’t think he’s ever done any – so there’s no harm in letting him keep his power. Jackson has already been on the phone with his parents to report to them that they have another son, and Blaine – who was an orphan long before he met his sorcery teacher – can’t stop smiling. Ian is back in his parrot form, perched on Blaine’s shoulder and preening. When Stiles asks where he plans to go next, Ian just says, “Wherever the wind takes me, I suppose.”
Everything seems to be taken care of for the moment. There’s a lot they’re going to have to do in the long-term, but the worst of it is over. Stiles nods off on the boat, then nods off in the airport, and then nods off on the plane. He jolts awake when the bad dreams start. Derek is frowning at him in obvious concern.
“I’m okay,” Stiles says, and wonders if he ever really will be.
~ ~ ~ ~
It’s sunny and eighty-five degrees in Fresno, which is a bit too hot for Stiles to sit outside, despite how much he’d like to. So he slumps onto the sofa in Gwen’s office while Derek settles at his feet. He’s glad to be there again. He wouldn’t have admitted it, but he’s missed his sessions with Gwen. She’s been at the Oblivion facility since early March.
“Good to be back?” Gwen asks, smiling at him.
“Yeah. I bet you appreciate it, too.”
“It was nice to get back home, yes.” Gwen accepts the latte he offers with a smile of thanks. “You look a little under the weather.”
“I’m tired,” he admits. “I haven’t been sleeping well since getting back.” He had e-mailed her to let her know everything that had happened during the Conclave. It would have taken far too long to explain everything.
“Okay. How do you feel?”
Stiles searches for the answer to that question for a long minute. “I don’t know,” he says. “I feel almost numb, a lot of the time. I feel . . . heavy. Like . . . it’s like being tired, but it’s more than tired.”
“Depressed?”
“A little, I guess.” Stiles picks at his cuticles. “I feel fucking frustrated.”
“Okay. Why?”
“Because – because it’s over. It’s finally fucking over. I should be happy. Hell, I should be ecstatic. And yeah, I’m relieved, that’s no lie, but I thought I’d feel better than this. I thought – I thought I’d feel better. But the nightmares are worse than ever. I keep dreaming about finding dead bodies. About that hunter who tried to kill me. I just – it’s finally over, so shouldn’t I be better?”
“You’re being too hard on yourself,” Gwen says. “Let me ask you a question which has a very obvious answer, but one that you clearly haven’t thought about. What does the ‘P’ in PTSD stand for?”
Stiles blinks at her, then huffs out a sigh. “Post.”
“Right. PTSD is what happens after. You’re in the after, now. It’s over, yes, and that’s great. Now you can focus, really focus, on healing. But Sally being gone doesn’t mean a switch gets flipped and your PTSD is suddenly cured, any more than a veteran suddenly ‘stops’ having PTSD when they get home from combat. Exactly the opposite. There’s every reason for it to be flaring up again. PTSD is a long-term condition, Stiles. And given the week you just had, there’s no shame in having a recurrence of symptoms.”
After a moment, Stiles shoves both hands through his hair. “Yeah. I guess you’re right.”
Gwen gives him a minute to let that settle, and redirects so it has more time. “How are the others doing?”
“They’re okay. I mean, most of the pack never got it right in the gut the way I did. Allison’s having some anxiety over the idea of taking over the territory, but she’ll be okay. Derek is . . . Derek.” He nudges the wolf with his toe. Derek opens one eye, shows fang, and then goes back to sleep. “Jackson’s a little shaken up, but I think he’ll be okay. It helps him to have Blaine to look after. Chris is good. He won’t admit it, but he’s really glad Sally’s dead. I think he still had bad dreams about what she did to him. Anyway, he’s psyched to have the original Argent territory back. That kind of shit is important to him.”
“How’s your father?”
“Okay. He’s handling it better than I am, that’s for sure. Yeah, he’s disturbed as fuck at some of what happened, but he just . . . puts it behind him in a way that I can’t.” Stiles’ voice is colored with frustrated again. “God, I don’t know why I can’t do that.”
Patiently, Gwen says, “PTSD is a medical condition, Stiles. It doesn’t make you weak, and it’s nothing to be ashamed of. Do we know exactly what neurotransmitters or genetics are responsible? No. But that doesn’t mean it’s your fault.”
Stiles lets out a shaky breath. “Yeah. Thanks.”
“Have you been having flashbacks or just nightmares?”
“Just nightmares. But I’ve been taking my Lunesta to help me sleep. I don’t want to risk getting sleep deprived and having hallucinations.”
“That sounds like a good idea,” Gwen says. “Hypervigilance?”
Stiles fidgets. “Yeah. Really bad, to be honest. Bad enough that I haven’t wanted to leave the house much, I just feel so . . . creepy-crawly when I’m out and about, even if I’m not alone.”
Gwen sets down her pen. “Have you given any more thought to getting an actual service dog? Last time we discussed it, you didn’t seem eager to . . . how did you put this? Introduce an innocent canine into the chaos that’s your life? But now that Sally is gone, things should settle down for you.”
“Maybe.” Stiles chews on his lower lip. “I have to admit that . . . I don’t think I’ll be able to start classes again without someone there with me. And even though Derek says he doesn’t mind, it’s not fair to drag him around with me everywhere I go.”
“Well, you have time over the summer to focus on managing your anxiety,” Gwen says. “There’s no need to make a decision right away.”
“I guess so.” Stiles’ gaze flits up. “I’m just – I’m really tired, Gwen.”
“That’s okay, Stiles.” Gwen’s voice is firm. “The fact that you’re tired, that you’re depressed and frustrated, that’s okay. You had a horrible week, to put it very mildly. You’ve been under enormous amounts of stress. Yes, now that the pressure off, it would make sense for you to be happy. But it also makes sense for you to not be. You’ve been suppressing all your emotions, not allowing yourself to feel anything, while you’ve been preparing for the Conclave. It’s catching up to you now. And that’s okay, Stiles. You can feel however you feel without it meaning that you’re weak or wrong.”
Stiles wipes his eyes. “So what – what do I do?”
“You take time for yourself. You do things that you enjoy. Nap whenever you want, bake as many cookies as you can handle, watch all the movies you’ve missed. Surround yourself with people you love. Talk about how you’re feeling. And most importantly, you give yourself time. Healing takes time, Stiles, and there’s no shame in that. We’ll keep working on how to manage your anxiety, but if you don’t want to leave the house for a few days, then don’t. I think a little self-indulgence is no bad thing at this juncture. You would indulge any of the other pack members, wouldn’t you? You need to be kind to yourself, Stiles. You deserve that.”
After a minute, Stiles lets out a breath and wipes his eyes again. “Thanks. I think – I needed to hear that.”
Gwen regards him for a minute before saying, “I know it’s not something we’ve talked about in the past, but you might want to think about an anti-anxiety medication. At least for the short-term, to help you manage the – perfectly understandable, I remind you – anxiety you feel about going out. Just think about that, okay? For now, we’re going to work on meditation and redirecting irrational thoughts. We’ll take it one step at a time. Just be patient with yourself.”
“Okay.” Stiles breathes out slowly and closes his eyes for a moment. “Okay.”
~ ~ ~ ~
The first order of self-care business, Stiles decides, is taking a nap. The trip to Fresno has exhausted him. He flops down on the sofa with a handful of wolves, but tells them firmly that once he’s asleep, they’re welcome to wander off if they get bored. He’ll probably sleep a couple of hours.
It turns out to be three, and he does feel better when he wakes up, which surprises him. He yawns and stretches and goes looking to find something to eat. The refrigerator and the pantry are both full. Derek has clearly told the others about how Stiles is supposed to be taking care of himself. They’ve gotten him enough baking supplies to feed an army. Sitting on top of the new bag of flour is a quick sketch of a wolf sitting up with its paws in a begging position. Little lines have been drawn by the tail to indicate that it’s wagging. Underneath that, Derek has written, ‘gingersnaps?’
Stiles laughs and starts organizing what the others have gotten him. As always, the recipe comes easily. He’s done it so many times that he barely needs to measure anymore, let alone look at the recipe. He adds in an extra teaspoon of ginger and cinnamon, the way Derek likes, and puts the dough in the fridge to set. He gives his father a quick call to let him know that he’s expected home for dinner the next day, and to invite Melissa, because he’s going to cook them an awesome dinner-date meal. Tom laughs and protests with meaning it. Once that’s done, Stiles goes looking for his pack.
Everyone is wrapped up in their own things, enjoying themselves. Allison and Jake are sitting with their heads together, going over some sort of arcane hunter statistics. Scott, Isaac, and Danny are tossing around a lacrosse ball in the back yard. Lydia and Erica are experimenting with makeup on each other. Boyd and Mac are playing Scrabble. He greets all of them, exchanges cheek rubs and hugs, a few words of suggestion on the makeup, a killer word in the game of Scrabble, a few minutes trying to intercept the lacrosse ball, a shoulder rub for Allison, who’s going to do great.
He finds Derek in his studio, with a little red smear of paint across his cheek, and immediately starts trying to climb him, wrapping his arms and legs around Derek and clinging like a limpet. “Get off me,” Derek growls amiably. “Why are you always on me?” he adds, as rhetorical as ever, as he burrows his face into the crook of Stiles’ neck, and smiles.
~fin~