Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

 

Chris stays behind to clean up. Deaton takes charge of Harris and promises to make sure he’s all right and see him home safe. Sheriff Stilinski has approximately a hundred and one things to attend to, because the city is in complete chaos. He doesn’t even feel like he can take the time to drop Stiles and the others off at home, so they cram into Danny and Allison’s cars.

By the time they get home, the hunger is starting to set in. There’s hardly anything to eat in the house, because he hasn’t really been home or cooked in days if not weeks. Under normal circumstances, they would order something or swing by the grocery store, but everyone agrees that it’s best to lay low until the chaos has subsided.

But Stiles isn’t feeling particularly picky. He just starts eating everything he can lay his hands on. There’s cheese and crackers, and peanut butter and jelly on wheat bread, canned stew, powdered miniature donuts, hard-boiled eggs. He eats everything that they put in front of him until he almost makes himself sick. Then Derek makes him stop, even though he’s still complaining of being hungry. He staggers upstairs, falls face-first onto his mattress, and passes out.

For the next two days, he sleeps like the dead. No nightmares, no dreams at all. He wakes up periodically to shamble to the bathroom and then fill his face with more food, or so he’s later told, but he has no memory of doing it. When he finally wakes, he’s no longer hungry. His room is dim; the lights are turned off but plenty of sunlight is coming in around the edges of his curtains. Someone is talking. A mellow, woman’s voice he doesn’t recognize. “Pinkie Pie, aren’t you a little old for this?”

“Too old for free candy?” another voice replies.

Stiles blinks his eyes open and focuses on the television in his room, which is displaying animated ponies. Derek is sitting in his desk chair with his feet propped up, staring at the screen in rapt attention. Nobody else is in the room. “Hah!” Stiles says. He’s a little hoarse, but gets the point across nonetheless. “I knew you actually liked this show!”

“What? Shut up!” Derek replies, flustered.

“Derek’s a brony!” Stiles sing-songs, and is completely unsurprised when he finds himself pinned to the mattress with Derek’s broad hand over his mouth. He grins up at the older man, who scowls back down at him.

Finally, Derek says, grudgingly, “Don’t tell Erica.”

Stiles nods, then sits up, as Derek releases him. He lets out a huge yawn and then stretches, one of those wonderful stretches that seems to take all morning and leaves him limp and boneless. He slumps forward against Derek’s shoulder, which is, not-so-incidentally, exactly where he wants to be. Derek wraps an arm around him, presses his face into Stiles’ hair, and just breathes. Finally, Stiles says, “Sorry about, you know, nearly dying and all.”

Derek lets him go, and glowers. Then he shakes his head a little and says, “Thanks. For . . . telling me that it would be okay to follow you.”

Now it’s Stiles who reaches out and wraps his arms around the other man, letting Derek rest his face in the crook of his neck. He debates what to say for a moment before he settles on the simplest response. “I know you.” He waits a moment, letting that sink in, and then says, “I would want you to take care of the pack. Make sure that they were going to be okay. Make any sort of, of arrangements that needed to be made. But I would never expect you to survive long after me. That’s okay. But, you know, I don’t plan to die any time soon. So it’s all good.”

Derek shakes his head a little, pulls away, and says, “Only you could come out of this mess and proclaim ‘it’s all good’.”

“Well, it is,” Stiles says. He stretches again. “Geez. What time is it? What day is it?”

Derek checks his watch. “It’s about ten thirty. On Tuesday.”

“Wow, so Deaton was really right on the money. I passed out for almost forty-eight hours. Good thing he warned you, or you’d probably be a nervous wreck right now.” Stiles vigorously rubs both hands through his hair. “Geez. I need a shower. I feel like something died in my mouth. Where are the others, at school?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. “School was cancelled yesterday on account of the, uh, disasters on Sunday. But back in session today. Scott managed to convince everyone that they should go.”

“Okey dokey.” Stiles looks on the nightstand where he usually puts his phone. It’s right where he normally leaves it, so he grabs it. “Gonna text everyone real quick and then go take a shower. Then . . . groceries, I’m thinking. And you can update me as to what I missed while I was sleeping.”

He taps out a quick group text to everyone in the pack, as well as his father. ‘Hey all, I am up and functional again. Gonna bake everything in sight and go buy all the groceries. Party’s at my place tonight! Someone please pick up my school work for me. See you around 3.’ Then, as a course of habit, he checks his mail. He sees he has an email from Gwen and opens it up.

‘Hello, Stiles, how are you doing? Your father called me yesterday to cancel your session today because ‘a lot happened over the weekend and you need the downtime’. I hope everything is okay. Please give me a call at your soonest convenience so we can reschedule. Gwen.’

Since she seems concerned, Stiles taps out a quick reply, keeping a keen eye out for auto-correct, which would be less hilarious when emailing his therapist. ‘Hi Gwen, all is well. The sorcerer has been dealt with and I’ve been catching up on some much needed sleep. Probably will be down for the count the next couple days, so I will call your office to set something up for next week.’ He hesitates, then adds, ‘I’m ok, better than would be expected. Have been doing my homework. Thanks for checking in.’

Derek is surreptitiously watching him type out these emails, but not interrupting. When Stiles puts his phone aside and crawls out of bed, he turns back to the television and starts the episode again. Stiles grins and ruffles his hair, which earns him a growl, before heading into the bathroom.

He takes a long, hot shower, which feels amazing after the week he’s had. Brushes his teeth, shaves away three days worth of stubble (which sadly isn’t very much; he has dreams of the day when he won’t be able to go a day without shaving and nobody will notice). He wipes the steam off the mirror and studies himself. Looks himself in the eye and just says it. “Peter’s death was not my fault.”

It feels weird, unnatural. He doesn’t really believe it. He could believe ‘Peter’s death was not entirely my fault’, but disclaiming it wholesale just doesn’t seem right. He gives a little shrug. He doesn’t need to believe it right now, just say it. He’ll talk to Gwen about maybe modifying it somewhat. He suspects that will go over like a lead balloon, but he’ll give it a try.

By the time he’s dressed and actually looking like a real boy again, he hears the front door open downstairs. Derek glances up as well, as he jogs down the stairs to find his father coming in. “Oh, hey, Dad,” Stiles says, or at least that’s what he means to say; what actually comes out is, “Oh, heffgghhh,” as his father catches him in one of those back-bruising hugs. Stiles wraps his arms around his father’s shoulders and hugs back just as hard.

“Never, ever, ever do that again,” Stilinski says, his voice a little rough.

“Got no plans to,” Stiles says. “Trust me. Ever. No plans.”

“Good.” After another squeeze, his father lets him go. “I’m serious, kid. We need to find a way to put an end to this ‘your life is on the line’ sort of situation.”

“I’ll get right on that,” Stiles says. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I’ve been at work for about the last two days straight,” Sheriff Stilinski says, but then admits, “but yeah, I just came home to check on you when I got your text. I have a lot of things I need to do. I’ll see you tonight, okay?”

“Yup. Bring your appetite.”

Stilinski laughs and tousles his son’s hair. “Will do. See you later.”

Stiles waves as his father leaves, then grabs his shoes. His phone chimes and he looks down to see he’s gotten a reply from Gwen. ‘I’m glad things are going well and will be looking forward to seeing you. I’m proud of you for doing your homework. I know that it isn’t easy.’ He makes a gagging face at his phone, pretends that absolutely no warm and fuzzy feelings were a result of this email, and tucks the phone away. “God, how sad is it that I’m actually looking forward to a trip to the grocery store. I don’t think I’ve been there in weeks.”

“Pretty sad,” Derek agrees, and gives him a close look. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Stiles says, and hesitates. “Actually, really good. Kind of . . . giddy. I mean . . . intellectually, I knew how much pressure I was under, but . . . Stone being out of the picture kind of makes me want to run around in the forest screaming my head off for joy, you know?”

Derek nods a little. “And . . . what happened to him . . . you’re okay with that?”

“Stone wasn’t like Peter,” Stiles says. “Maybe he had his reasons to be screwed up from way back when, but they had nothing to do with me. He came here, he picked a fight with me specifically for no reason other than to get his jollies, and he refused to back off when I told him what could happen.” He smiles a thin little smile. “Like Gerard said, people need to accept the consequences for their actions. He tried to kill us; I killed him first. I can’t really say that I have any regrets on that score.”

“Good,” Derek says. He wraps an arm around Stiles and says, “Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away,” Stiles says.

“Why didn’t you kill Harris?”

Stiles chews on his lower lip for a minute before he just shakes his head and says, “I couldn’t. It wasn’t because I like the guy, but . . . I couldn’t just kill an unarmed, helpless, uninvolved civilian. I just couldn’t.”

Derek considers this for a minute and then almost smiles. “That’s why you won.”

“How do you figure?” Stiles asks, frowning.

“Because that was Stone’s play. To use the spell to force you to kill Harris, and then you would have been arrested for murder and your father’s career would have been ruined. You were using your own gun, Stiles. In a warehouse that I own. On a guy that it was public knowledge you had a problem with.” Derek shakes his head a little. “I’m not sure how he would have kept us from disposing the body, but I’m sure he had something in place for it. That was his play and you didn’t even see it. You ruined his finale just by being good. And that’s why he never saw it coming. Because he never realized you were good. In here.” Derek presses his hand against Stiles’ chest. “He thought you were like him. But you aren’t. So you won.”

“Shit.” Stiles feels almost dizzy with this revelation. “You’re right. I didn’t think of that at all. I thought it was some . . . moral thing.”

“Well,” Derek says, “in a way, it was.”

They probably could have continued to talk about that for the rest of the day, but then Stiles’ stomach lets out a growl. He shakes his head, but he’s smiling. “Saving the world is hard work,” he says. “Groceries?”

“Groceries,” Derek agrees. “You want me to shift?”

“Nah. I’m gonna need your wallet more than I need your moral support,” Stiles says, and laughs. “And you can tell me what I’ve missed.”

They take Derek’s car, and on the way to the store, Derek gives him an update. Things have been rather chaotic in Beacon Hills for the last forty-eight hours, but they seem to be settling down now. Everyone seems to have settled on the theory that some extremely virulent virus that caused generalized pain, fatigue, and fever, was responsible for the events on Sunday. Stiles gives Derek a somewhat incredulous look at this, and Derek shrugs, as if to say ‘mundane humans, what can you do?’

It does make a certain amount of sense, however. Deaton has been going through the remnants of the spell and disposing of the photographs. It turns out that there was a variance in severity, because many people were in the photographs more than once. Since Stone’s method of obtaining them was merely to go to places where people routinely gather and snap random shots, it was inevitable that some would be duplicates. Deaton says that so far he’s found Sheriff Stilinski in six photographs, which would explain why he was so badly affected, and Chris Argent in four. But some people are only in one or two. He’s only found Melissa McCall once, which makes sense, given that she rarely goes anywhere besides home and the hospital, both of which would be difficult places to photograph her in. Lydia’s mother was also only in one, since she’s out of town so much, and Lydia says she only had a mild headache that day and didn’t even know something else was going on.

The major problem was traffic, followed up by the tied up 911 network and the emergency room, where fights had started to break out due to slow service. Sheriff Stilinski called in every officer available once the spell had been lifted and started getting the mess cleared up. As it turns out, he’s being lauded as a local hero, working tirelessly to clean up the aftermath. Harris’ lawsuit seems to have been completely forgotten. Speaking of Harris, Derek relates that Deaton says physically he seems fine, although mentally he “isn’t doing as well as he could be”. Deaton has been keeping an eye on his recovery.

There were only a few fatalities, most of them elderly people who probably weren’t going to live much longer in any case, although there were two suicides that day, which is more than Beacon Hills normally sees in six months. There’s no way to prove it was related, but it is extremely suspicious. Either way, there isn’t much they can do about it now.

Stiles knows that there’s going to be a lot to do in the next few days, but he’s content to let his father handle most of it. It’s adult stuff, out of his sphere of influence. Not his division.

“Did you know,” he says suddenly, as they enter the grocery store, “that the original phrase ‘not my problem’ comes from a Polish expression that actually translates literally to, ‘not my circus, not my monkey’?”

There’s a moment of silence while Derek gives him that ‘is this kid for real?’ expression that Stiles loves so much. “Uh huh,” he says.

“I should start saying that. Incorporate that phrase into my vocabulary. Because – oh hey, ham is on sale, let’s get a ham,” Stiles says, thinking that it’s early enough that he can smoke it on the grill, which would be awesome, and hams are good to feed a lot of people. He’s not sure how many people will be there for dinner. Derek says that after things had calmed down on Sunday, all of the pack had gone to their respective homes. Everyone was glad to actually have some time to spend with their families for once. They had slept on their own and spent Monday at home, beyond occasional visits to check in on Stiles. It’s definitely a relief to be able to put things back to normal. But he suspects that they may have guests outside of the actual pack that evening.

So he buys enough food to feed an army, real food like vegetables and hams and fresh-baked rolls that smell really good. He spends the day puttering around the house, baking cookies and playing video games and generally enjoying the lack of world-ending stress that’s been his life lately. The others arrive back at the Stilinski house in twos and threes. There are hugs and snuggles and several lectures on why he is stupid and should not ever do things that might get him killed again, all of which he accepts with a smile. Then Lydia gives him his make-up work. Missing a day of school is not a big deal; there are still dozens of kids out sick. Stiles sits down with the schoolwork while the wolves set upon the almond cookies he made.

He’s not wrong about dinner that night, either. Melissa McCall comes over, and so do Erica’s parents. But there’s plenty of food for everyone. Stiles sets it up buffet style, with the ham and the rolls and a ton of chopped vegetables, plus brownies for dessert. Everyone stuffs themselves silly. They stay up too late watching movies and fall asleep in a pile in the living room. Stiles has one nightmare, but calms down easily enough, and falls back to sleep afterwards, curled up with his arms around Derek.

The next day is a normal day. He gets up, he goes to school, he slogs through classes with Derek at his side in his little vest. Over lunch, he has a long conversation with his pack about something he feels he needs to do. Some of them are a little skeptical at first, but by the end he’s gotten them all to agree. So after school, Derek goes to his studio for a bit and Stiles goes down to the clinic to see Dr. Deaton.

Surprisingly, he’s greeted by Jackson. The teenager scowls as he waves him into the back, where he’s clearly been exercising the dogs in boarding. When Stiles asks, he says, “Your dad and my dad set it all up. It’s like some kind of ‘community service’. Volunteering at the animal shelter slash vet clinic. It’s so Deaton can work with me, you know, on . . .”

“Not sucking at life?” Stiles asks brightly. Jackson just gives him a withering look. Stiles feels no shame. “Good luck with that, buddy.”

“Hey,” Jackson says, as Stiles starts into Deaton’s office. He shifts uncomfortably, then says, “Look, uh . . . will you tell Lydia . . .”

“No,” Stiles says. His voice is firm, but not unkind. “If you want to apologize to Lydia, do it to her face, and accept whatever forgiveness she does or does not offer. I’m not going to carry a message for you. That’s one thing you’re going to have to balls up and do yourself.”

Jackson looks away, his jaw trembling. “Okay,” he says, then adds, somewhat sullenly, “Thanks.”

Stiles just nods and continues on his way. Dr. Deaton looks up and gives him a smile that he’s not entirely sure he deserves. “How can I help you, Stiles?”

“Sorry about, you know . . .” Stiles says.

“It’s fine,” Deaton says. “Like I told you. No matter what you chose to do with the bullet, I wouldn’t hold it against you. And I can’t argue the fact that he backed you into a corner. You were protecting your family and your pack. So there’s no hard feelings. Is that what you wanted to see me about?”

“Not exactly,” Stiles says. He lets out a breath. Despite having convinced the entire pack over lunch, he’s still not one hundred percent sure he wants to do this. “I want you to strip me of my magic.”

Deaton’s eyebrows go up. “Why?”

“Because . . .” Stiles searches for the words. “Because it was amazing,” he finally says. “Because I can see how I could get addicted to it so, so easily. I spend a lot of time scared, and the magic makes me feel powerful, even though I’ve got no real clue what I’m doing with it. It made me feel invincible. But Stone is proof that I wouldn’t be. And I’d tell myself I wouldn’t use it. Only in emergencies. For the best intentions. But . . . when you have that kind of power, the definition of ‘emergency’ can become pretty freakin’ fluid. I would mean the best. But . . . it would take me over. The way it did Stone, and Jackson. I think it’s better just to cut off that option now. And if someday I’m in some situation where magic could have saved me or my pack and I don’t have it, I’ll just have to deal with that. Because I don’t want to lose my pack. But I don’t want them to lose me, either.”

“We could just bind it,” Deaton suggests.

“I’d find some way to get it back, if I needed to, and I would tell myself I needed to,” Stiles says. “No. It’s better this way. Trust me, Dr. Deaton – I know myself. And it’s better to do this now and make a clean break with it.”

“If you’re sure,” Deaton says.

Stiles nodded. “I am.”

“Do you mind coming downstairs?” Deaton asks.

“I’ll handle it,” Stiles says. “Now that I’m not perpetually freaked out about everything, it won’t be as bad.”

It is still pretty bad, though, and he spends most of the time inside Deaton’s copper circle with his eyes shut, legs folded underneath himself, using the deep breathing techniques he learned long ago to keep himself calm. It takes about an hour. Deaton draws things with chalk and mutters under his breath and generally does magicky things that Stiles doesn’t recognize.

“I don’t feel any different,” he says, when Deaton says he’s finished.

“Magic wasn’t really an integral part of your life,” Deaton says. “You’ve only used it a few times. You might be a little tired, but you shouldn’t really feel any adverse effects.”

“Okey dokey.” Stiles gets to his feet and can’t get up the little ladder out of the cellar fast enough. “Thanks for all your help,” he says, as Deaton emerges behind him. He sees the veterinarian giving him a funny look and says, “What?”

“Nothing, really,” Deaton says. “I’m just thinking about how easily you just did something I would never have in a million years had the conviction to do.”

“Well, like you said,” Stiles says, “magic isn’t really an integral part of my life. I can live without it. But, you know . . . it’s because of you that I did it. Because I really admire you, having . . . been able to give it all up the way you did. The self-control not to use it. Now that I’ve really felt what it’s like . . . I know I’m not that strong.”

“Maybe you’re just strong in different ways,” Deaton replies.

“Maybe so,” Stiles says. “Anyway, I’ve got to go. Miles to go before I sleep and all that jazz.”

Deaton smiles. “Then I’ll see you later.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

When Harris still isn’t in school on the following Monday, Stiles decides to go see how he’s doing. He’s not sure what exactly leads to this impulse. It’s a combination of curiosity, concern, and possibly a desire to gloat. He also has to admit to a certain lurking feeling that if Harris is in a vulnerable state, he can be talked into dropping the lawsuit.

Derek has gone to his studio, since there’s no point in accompanying Stiles to lacrosse practice, and Stiles texts him to let him know he’s going to run a couple errands before heading over. Derek is still quite clingy, but when he’s content at his studio, Stiles can slip away without it bothering him too much. He doesn’t really think Derek’s presence will help the situation.

He gets Harris’ address from his father and tells Isaac and Scott that he’ll see them later. They head back to Scott’s house without questioning. The pack had stayed at Derek’s over the weekend, so they’re back to needing a break from each other. Stiles rings the bell, knocks, and when he still doesn’t get an answer, he tries the knob. It’s locked. Peeking in through the garage door windows, it looks like Harris’ car is there, so he should be at home. Stiles checks underneath a couple flower pots and ceramic figurines and finds a spare key tucked away in a false compartment in the bottom of one shaped like a frog, partially hidden behind a bush. Then he lets himself in.

The house is dim and musty and honestly a little bit rank. “Mr. Harris?” he calls out, cautiously heading inside. “It’s Stiles. Are you home?”

There’s no reply. Stiles can see a kitchen up ahead, which smells, and off to one side is a living room. It’s been completely wrecked. Most of the furniture has been knocked over and shoved into a pile. There are some blankets and sheets hanging up over it. It takes Stiles a minute to realize that he’s looking at a barricade, and where Harris must be. He lets out a breath. “Mr. Harris, I’m going to come towards you now, okay? So . . . don’t freak out.”

He carefully edges around the room to glance over the piles of furniture. Harris is crouched in a corner with his knees pulled up to his chest. He’s holding a pistol in his hand, resting on one knee, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles are white. There’s a thin, gaunt look to his face; he looks like he’s lost a lot of weight very quickly. There are dark circles under his eyes, and his hair is limp and lank. Sweat has beaded on his forehead. “D-Don’t,” he says, gesturing with the pistol. “Don’t come any closer.”

“Okay,” Stiles says, lifting his hands to show that he’s unarmed. “I’m gonna stay right here, okay? You should probably put the gun down, though. Just sayin’.”

Harris’ voice trembles as he stares at Stiles. “W-What are you doing here?”

“I came to see if you’re okay,” Stiles says, “which you obviously aren’t, so I guess it’s a good thing I did.” He points to a spot just inside the barricade and says, “I’m gonna sit down here, okay?”

Harris swallows visibly, the Adam’s apple in his throat moving up and down. “Do it slowly,” he says.

Stiles nods, keeps his hands where Harris can see them, and lowers himself to the floor. “What’s with the gun, Mr. Harris?”

“He – he might – come back,” Harris says, his voice a little jerky. “Deaton said he, he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, but – but what if he does?”

“Okay,” Stiles says. “That seems pretty sensible to me.”

Harris gives him a suspicious look. “You aren’t going to try to take it away?”

“Uh, no, dude,” Stiles says. “You’ve got a gun; I don’t. How would I take it away from you, anyway?” This is true. Their school has a very strict no-weapons policy, and he’s never wanted to carry his gun badly enough to risk expulsion over it. He does carry a Leatherman, which is pretty close to a weapon but not quite close enough to get him expelled (just suspended) if anyone ever caught him with it.

This seems to make Harris relax a little. He lets out a shuddering breath and tilts his head back, resting it against the wall.

“You don’t look so good,” Stiles finally says, and resists the urge to add ‘you don’t smell so good either’ a la Fezzik. When Harris doesn’t say anything in reply, he says, “Let me guess . . . trouble sleeping? Kinda jumpy? Anxious all the time? Yeah, it sucks, doesn’t it.”

“Did you come here to gloat?” Harris snaps.

“No, man,” Stiles says. “I just . . . thought you should know you’re not the only one who’s ever gone through this.” He gives that a minute to sink in. Harris won’t even look at him now. His entire body is shaking, fine little tremors. “And I know what the worst part is, too. The part where you can’t tell anybody. Can’t talk to anybody. Because they wouldn’t understand. Hell, it’s even worse for you because you don’t even know anybody who knows about the supernatural stuff, really, so what are you going to say?” He gives it another minute. “But if you want to talk about it . . . I’ll listen.”

Harris stares at him for a minute. Then his lip twists in that perpetual sneer he wears. “If I wanted to talk to somebody, it wouldn’t be to you.”

The old, familiar rage rises up in Stiles, because Harris is always such a dick, and he almost can’t hold it back. But he takes a deep breath before he rises to his feet. “Okay. Just figured I would offer. Because you can’t hide in here forever.”

He’s almost to the door when he hears Harris say, “I know that.” He stops, with his hand on the knob, and looks over his shoulder. In a voice that’s almost a whisper, only audible because of his enhanced senses, Harris says, “That’s why I bought the gun.”

Stiles lets go of the knob. He walks back over and sits down again, then holds out his hand. “Give it to me,” he says, the voice of authority he uses to give orders with the pack. Harris obeys without hesitation. Stiles unloads the gun, tucks the bullets away in his pocket, and then sets it down behind him, out of sight. “Now tell me what happened.”

As it turns out, Harris’ memories are somewhat fuzzy, which isn’t at all surprising given that magic was involved. He says he had gone to Home Depot, picking up some supplies for a chemistry experiment he was doing with the sophomores. Given that it was a Saturday afternoon, he had wound up in a somewhat lengthy line waiting to check out. The man in front of him had taken a look at what was in his cart, smiled, and said, “Chemistry with the kids, hm?” and then correctly identified what experiment Harris was actually planning. They chatted about it while standing in line, and the man offered to help him carry everything out to his car, which Harris had accepted. That’s the last thing he remembers for a little while. Stiles can’t help but think that, if nothing else, at least Harris is consistent. His love of chemistry will continuously be his downfall, it seems. There are worse things to be passionate about, but Harris has singularly bad luck. Stiles thinks about suggesting he get a new hobby.

After that, he has patchy memories of pain and fear, being tied down by thread that seems to be alive, that burrows into his skin, that feels like it’s eating him, and Stone, always with that malicious smile, telling him exactly what the spell is going to do to him. It certainly sounds like nightmare fodder to Stiles, and he doesn’t blame Harris at all for the meltdown he’s had.

By the time he’s choked all this out, though, his shaking has eased somewhat. Harris leans against the wall, limp and exhausted.

“Okay,” Stiles says, “you need three things at this point: a meal, a shower, and a good night’s sleep. First things first. Go clean yourself up.” He sees Harris open his mouth as if to protest and says, “While you do that, I will sit right in front of your bathroom door with your shiny new gun and make sure nobody comes anywhere near you. Okay?”

After a moment, Harris nods. Stiles stands and extends a hand to him. He grimaces, but takes it, letting Stiles pull him upright. A few minutes later, Stiles has dragged a chair over to sit in front of the bathroom door, and he can hear the water running inside. He can also hear Harris sobbing, but that’s okay, that’s good, that’s stress release. There are a few things he could be doing, but he’s promised to stay where he is, so he does.

Harris comes out of the bathroom about twenty minutes later, dressed in a T-shirt and loose flannel pants that Stiles found in his drawers. Stiles puts him in the kitchen and digs a couple cans of soup of the pantry. He makes one for Harris and one for himself, since he’s hungry, and it’ll give him something to do besides sit there and watch Harris eat. Harris looks a little green around the gills, but chicken soup is comfort food even for asshole chemistry teachers, it seems, and he eats the entire bowl. Stiles scarfs his down and then cleans up a little in the kitchen, which is threatening to form its own civilization. “That’s biology, not chemistry,” Stiles says, and Harris glowers at him. He seems to be loosening up, though. He’s not quite as twitchy.

Even so, he protests as Stiles shepherds him into the bedroom. “I’m not going to sleep.”

“Yes, you are,” Stiles says, pulling a pill bottle from his backpack. He’s too lazy to keep more than one bottle, and he always keeps his Adderall with him, so he’s got the sleeping pills, too. “Any medication allergies?” he asks.

“What? No,” Harris says.

“Good, good. Ambien or Lunesta? Any preference? I’ve got some of each.”

Harris gives him a narrow-eyed look, but apparently decides against commentary. “I don’t really . . .”

“Ambien it is, then,” Stiles says. “I’ll keep the good stuff for myself.” He gets Harris a glass of water and makes him take the pill. “You want me to stay here until you’re asleep?” he asks.

Harris scowls at him. “Why would you do that?”

“That’s not ‘no’,” Stiles points out. Harris says nothing, so Stiles takes it as a yes, and starts straightening up in the bedroom, which is really a Godawful hole, even when compared to the rest of the house.

After a long minute, Harris says, “Why are you being so nice to me?”

“A couple reasons,” Stiles says, because he’s pretty sure that saying something cheesy won’t help the situation. “I guess part of it’s an apology, because you shouldn’t have been involved in this, and I probably did give you one hell of a scare by nearly shooting you in the head. Part of it’s to ease my own conscience for nearly shooting you, because fuck, I came close, and I didn’t stop because I cared about you. I stopped because I was worried about myself, about what it would mean for the state of my own soul if I killed a helpless, unarmed man, because I didn’t know how much of that would have been to save other people and how much of it was because I don’t like you. Yeah, part of it’s because I’m hoping that if I’m nice and help you through this, you’ll drop your stupid, unwinnable lawsuit and stop being a dick to me during school and stop trying to make my dad lose his job. And part of it is because I really have been there and I really do know how awful it is to go through this, and nobody deserves that.”

Harris takes all this in, blinking at him slowly, somewhat dazedly. Finally, his voice somewhat slurred, he says, “It really is a stupid lawsuit.”

“Yeah. You’re probably wasting half of a fortune on lawyers.”

The teacher makes a little disgruntled noise. “It’s my money.”

“Never said it wasn’t, dude, but seriously, donate to a homeless shelter or something. Earn some karma points.” He finishes folding the stack of laundry at the foot of the bed. “And you want some advice about the PTSD? Get a service dog. They really work wonders.”

“Very funny,” Harris mutters.

“Not joking,” Stiles says, but Harris is already asleep.

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The drive from Beacon Hills to Fresno takes a little longer on this particular day, because it’s raining and visibility is poor. Stiles emails Gwen before he leaves to let her know that he’s fine with having the session inside, given the givens. It’s probably better anyway; claustrophobia aside, he doesn’t need to worry about people overhearing all the things he needs to tell her.

He stops at the nice Starbucks on the way and gets a mochaccino for himself and a caramel macchiato for Derek, and then, on impulse, asks the cashier if she knows Gwen. He has a suspicion that she goes there fairly often, given how quick she was to recommend it. The cashier does indeed recognize the picture of Gwen that Stiles pulls up on the practice’s website, and says she usually gets a soy latte, so Stiles orders one for her. He drops a couple dollars in the tip bucket and takes his drinks back to the car. The rain has let up some, but it’s still chilly as he jogs into the building and takes the stairs up to the third floor. He suspects years of therapy will be needed before he’ll ever voluntarily set foot in an elevator again.

A few minutes later, he’s in Gwen’s office, and offers her the latte as he walks in. “Today is a good day for coffee,” he remarks cheerfully, flopping onto the sofa. Derek settles on the floor today, mindful of his dirty paws, and waits for Stiles to set his coffee down.

“It is.” Gwen takes it with a genuine smile and then surreptitiously checks the boxes on the side of the cup where they label the drink to make sure it’s something she can drink, and that she won’t have to find some polite way to not drink it. Her smile grows. “How did you sort out what my order was?” she asks, taking a careful sip to test the temperature.

“Oh, I just asked the girl there, she knew what you usually get.” Stiles takes the lid off Derek’s drink and sets in the floor next to him. “You must go there a lot.”

Gwen nods, biting back a smile as Derek settles his paws to either side of his mug and uses them to carefully brace it while he laps some of it up. “It’s nice to get coffee on some days. And Starbucks is the only place nearby where I can reliably get it. Most places don’t do soy, and I’m allergic to dairy.” She takes another sip, clearly enjoying it. “Thank you. This was very thoughtful of you.”

Stiles beams, and then says, almost shyly, “I . . . like to do stuff like that. To take care of people. Derek says that’s part of what makes me a good alpha.”

“He’s right,” Gwen says, nodding. “Being the alpha of a werewolf pack is much like being the head of a family, as I’m sure you’ve gathered. So it’s much more than being the most dominant person. What good is being in charge of a family if you can’t take care of them?” She has more things she could say on this topic, but she keeps them to herself for now, curious to see where Stiles will take the conversation.

“I love it,” Stiles says. “Isn’t that silly? I love baking for everyone and pestering Erica to do her homework and reminding Scott that he promised his mother he would rake the front yard and making lunches for Isaac to bring to school since he doesn’t have parents, really. I love all that dumb shit. It’s my favorite part of having a pack.”

“I think that’s actually pretty healthy,” Gwen says. “That’s sustainable. Day to day life that makes you content. If your favorite part was, say, the adrenaline rush that came from the danger and disaster, then you’d start to seek those things out. Or if it was being in charge and giving orders, you’d try to do that all the time and eventually the others would start to resist and resent you and your pack would fall apart. But your favorite things are the things that will last. The things that are just day to day life.”

Stiles nods and laughs a little. “I just think it’s funny. I’ve got this reputation as some kind of mystical badass. And I guess maybe I can be? And I don’t even think that’s a bad thing! When people mess with me and my pack, I will smack them down so hard and be happy to do it. I just . . . think a lot of people have gotten the wrong idea about me.”

“Is it the wrong idea or just not the whole picture?” Gwen asks. “I’ll confess to knowing that you have something of a reputation. But as soon as someone becomes my client, I stop listening. I don’t want a gossip train coloring my opinions of someone.”

“It’s like . . . it’s very circular,” Stiles says, gesticulating wildly. “Like, yeah, I have a reputation as a badass, but only because people mess with me. So then I get the reputation, which makes more people mess with me, which only makes my reputation greater, wherein if people had just left me alone to begin with, the only reputation I would have would be for the meanest gingersnap in the west.”

“You don’t look for challenges. You just meet them when it’s necessary.” Gwen’s voice is a little tentative. Like she isn’t quite sure she has it right yet.

“Yeah. I mean, don’t get me wrong, I don’t fucking back down. And I do what I have to do, especially when it’s my pack on the line. I just . . . I guess maybe I wonder how things could be different? But then again, if Peter and Gerard hadn’t fucked with me, I wouldn’t be an alpha at all. So maybe I’m just overthinking it.” He rubs his hands vigorously over his hair. “I do that sometimes. A lot.”

“Is it just idle speculation or does it ever spiral out of control to an upsetting degree?” Gwen asks, trying to decide if this is a case of ADD and too much brainpower or depression and too much brainpower.

“Nah, I don’t get upset by it,” Stiles says. “I just sometimes feel like a hamster on a wheel.”

“Is it better if you talk about it out loud? Does that cut it off faster?”

“Hah, no, then I just go off on tangents. I can talk for hours.” Stiles rubs his hand over the back of his head and says, somewhat ruefully, “Maybe I do need my Adderall dose adjusted. Sorry I, uh, bit your head off over that when we met.”

“Forgiven,” Gwen says, waving her hand. “You were obviously stressed, and with your sleeping problems, having me poke at your Adderall usage most likely felt very close to me taking away one of your coping mechanisms.” With most patients, she would have left off after ‘apology accepted’, but she’s fairly sure that Stiles likes to know about the inner workings of his own mind, so she likes to present things to him when she thinks she has something worked out. Most of the time, anyway; there’s a degree of bluntness that she knows she needs to avoid. “You self-medicate and I nearly called you on it, and that likely scared the shit out of you.”

“Yeah . . . hey, speaking of scaring the shit out of people, I was doing some research on how this whole confidentiality thing works. Don’t worry, this isn’t about my dad, I’m over that now. So if you think that I’m going to commit a crime, you have to report me to the police, right?”

“Interesting segue.” Gwen toasts him with her coffee before taking a swallow. “That is the law, yes.”

“Hey, like I said, tangents,” Stiles says. “But you don’t have to report me to the police if I admit to having committed a crime in the past. Like, I mean, you know I killed Peter and you didn’t go calling the cops on me.”

“By law, I do have more leeway. Because of the sort of clients I see, I operate in a much more grey area than most therapists. The supernatural world is peppered with things, often violent things, that would seem very disturbing to someone in the mundane world, yet are basically necessary to survival. Such as what happened to Peter.”

Stiles nods a little. After a moment, he sets his coffee down carefully on the little end table. “I killed Stone.” He looks up, looks her in the eye when he says it. “I took one of his spells and slapped it back in his face. It’s . . . kind of a long story, but that’s the basics. And I don’t feel bad. But then I worry that not feeling bad is bad.” He shrugs. “It’s all kind of confusing.”

Gwen is quiet for a moment. She can’t say she’s surprised. People that come gunning for a werewolf pack are either sent running or, far more often, have their throats torn out. Either metaphorically or literally. “Do you feel good about it?” she asks, careful to keep her tone even.

“No,” Stiles says. “I mean, I feel good about my pack being safe. I feel good about not having to look over my shoulder all the time. But I don’t feel good about doing it. I just don’t feel bad about it either. I wish there had been another way, but there wasn’t, so, you know. What’s done is done.”

“Do you think you should feel bad?” Gwen waves a hand a little. “Discounting the basic common laws of society for a moment, because we’ve already established that they can only accommodate the world you live in so much.”

“I dunno,” Stiles says, fidgeting a little. “I guess I don’t feel like I should, just that a normal person would. But it’s not like he didn’t get what was coming to him. I mean, if a guy tried to mug me and threatened me with a gun, and we got in a fight and I shot him with that gun, I don’t think I would feel bad about that. And it’s not like I would get arrested for it, either.”

“I don’t think anyone would expect you to feel bad or guilty for it either,” Gwen says. She considers what he said, and the actual words that he used. “Are you worried that you aren’t behaving like a normal person anymore?”

Stiles lets out a snort of laughter. “Dude, I know I’m not behaving like a normal person anymore. If I ever did.”

“But does that bother you?”

There’s a long moment while Stiles considers. Then he shrugs and says, “Not really.”

“Okay.” Gwen nods in satisfaction. She clearly thinks that this is a good answer, a well-adjusted answer, and she’s not bothering to hide her opinion. “Then my advice is not to worry about whether or not a normal person would feel bad or not. Because that isn’t you. Nor is it, as far as I know and feel free to correct me if I’m wrong, any of the people in your life that you really care about. So you don’t need to play normal on that level.”

“Yeah, that’s true,” Stiles says, somewhat pensively. “Actually, if I acted anything like ‘normal’, it would worry the shit out of everyone I know. He shrugs a little and says, “But hey, I’m still coming here, so clearly I know what’s good for me.”

Gwen makes an amused noise, but then sobers. “So, what are you worried about?” she asks.

“Oh, well, the point I was going to make is that I don’t have to worry about the lawsuit anymore,” Stiles says. “Harris dropped it. Because I saved his stupid life. Or maybe because he’s decided he’s going to become a hermit. Uh, the jury’s still out on that one, really.”

“Can I ask what happened?” Gwen asks.

Stiles takes a big swallow of his coffee. “Uh, that would take most of the session, if we’re going to be honest, but to give you the bullet points, Stone abducted Harris and had him at the center of some weird spell that fucked up everyone in Beacon Hills – well, you watch the news, you probably heard about the ‘mysterious virus’ that hit over the weekend. Anyway, the spell was draining his life force and going to kill him, plus it looked like the only way to get it off him was to kill him, and it was this whole thing about how far I was willing to go to protect my pack, whatever, Stone is a douche – was a douche – and was probably also trying to frame me for murder. Well. Not frame me, I guess, because in theory I would have actually committed the murder. Anyway, I managed to get the spell to attach to me instead of Harris, thus saving his miserable ass, and then once I was inside it, I managed to direct it back at Stone because I am, when I need to be, a complete badass.”

“Somehow, that does not surprise me,” Gwen says, somewhat amused. “I didn’t know you knew that much about magic.”

“Hey, imagination is more powerful than knowledge,” Stiles says. “Magic is more about belief, about will, than anything else. I can’t do shit when it’s not all on the line.”

“So what you’re saying is that you do magic by the seat of your pants,” Gwen says.

Derek, meanwhile, is trying not to have a panic attack at the mere memory of Stiles saying goodbye. He seems physically torn between pressing to the floor, and trying to crawl into Stiles’ lap, and instead makes an involuntary, distressed noise. It’s unusual for him, because he does try to stay quiet during Stiles’ appointments. Stiles just takes this in stride, sliding off the sofa and onto the floor so Derek can lay across his lap, both his hands twining in Derek’s fur. “Basically. Actually, now I can’t do shit at all. I had Deaton strip my magic. It was just . . . it fucking scared the shit out of me, how good it felt. I didn’t want to go down the same road as Jackson, thinking magic could solve all my problems and I could have anything I wanted.” He clears his throat and adds, “As you can see, certain people did not appreciate the fact that I almost killed myself doing this.” Derek curls up around Stiles, pressing in as close as he can. Every now and then he shifts a little, only to jam his face back into Stiles’ side.

Gwen watches this blatant display of canine separation anxiety, and makes a mental note to email Stiles and ask if Derek has ever had any sort of therapy for the many traumas in his life. Obviously, the threat of losing an alpha and mate is upsetting, but she’s surprised it’s causing this sort of panic over a week later, especially one that’s so devoid of human behavior. But she’ll let Stiles handle his lupa. It’s her job to help Stiles. “Clearly. Did you have a plan at all? Or were you trading your life for Harris’?” She certainly hopes not. She met the man at the hearing. It was only briefly, but she’s sure that Stiles is worth ten of him.

“It wasn’t really like that,” Stiles says. “I didn’t have a plan, but . . . it wasn’t about my life for his. It was . . . it was about me killing him versus not killing him. I mean, he’s a dick, but lots of people are dicks, that doesn’t mean they deserve to die.” He gives a little shrug and says, “It was my life or my soul, I guess. Can I get away with being that melodramatic?”

“I’ll let it slide as long as you don’t start writing bad poetry,” Gwen says. “But I understand what you’re saying. Once you decided you couldn’t kill him, then you had to deal with the consequences of that. Which was ending the spell somehow.”

Stiles nods. “And we weren’t really long on options, or time. And . . . my dad was affected by it, he was hurting, so . . .”

“So you were against a clock,” Gwen says, nodding in understanding.

“Yeah. And maybe not thinking super clearly. I mean, shit, I hadn’t really slept in – oh hey, so, anyway, as I was saying, Harris dropped the lawsuit, so you don’t need to worry about proving I need a service dog.”

“Noted,” Gwen says, thinking that it seems like the ‘service dog’ now needs Stiles. “How is your sleeping now?”

“Well, it’s definitely been a lot better now that Stone is out of the picture,” Stiles says. “I mean, still not great, but back to the status quo, so I’m still usually having one or two nightmares, but I only sometimes have to get up and start baking afterwards. And I mostly go to bed somewhere around a reasonable hour.”

“I suppose it’s all about perspectives. Has the new medication helped? Or is this enough sleep for you to feel okay without?” She keeps her voice carefully even, not showing an opinion either way.

“I thought it was enough, but Dad and Derek thought I should at least try the new meds, so I did, over the weekend.” Stiles makes kind of a face. “I didn’t feel as groggy the next morning as I did with the Ambien, but I wasn’t exactly up and at ‘em, either.”

“Did you feel more rested once you woke up properly?”

“Well, sure, the next day, after I’d gotten non-drugged sleep.”

“Do you want to try a different kind?”

“Not really,” Stiles admits. “Not now that there’s no bullshit crisis going on. I’ll stick with melatonin and naps during Spanish class.”

“I’m sure your Spanish teacher is happy to be part of your sleep schedule,” Gwen says, with a snort of laughter.

“I make sure to snore en la Español,” Stiles says, with a completely straight face. “Seriously, though, I guess it’s too bad marijuana only makes me vaguely cuddly and compliant, rather than sleepy, or maybe it’s a good thing because I don’t want to be a stoner and oh Christ you haven’t heard that story yet, what’s wrong with me?” Stiles’ face is bright and animated now, his hands waving in the air as he talks, hauling himself back up so he’s sitting on the sofa again. “I mean, it’s not like I was smoking it for shits and giggles. Danny was having trouble shifting, so we got him stoned. I mean, a bunch of us did. Fuck, you’re not required to tell someone about drug use, are you?”

Gwen arches an eyebrow at him but then says, “No, I’m not.”

“Okay. Cool. I mean, it’s legal in two states, how bad can it be? And my dad knew about it, he said okay since it was to help Danny with the transition, but if he caught us doing it all the time he’d kick my ass, and that’s fair. Anyway, my version of being stoned was just to lie around and eat lots of Dorito’s and let Derek draw on me with markers. It was kinda like a party. But we did it together because, I don’t know, I didn’t want Danny to feel like I was saying ‘you suck at being a werewolf and require drugs to pull it off’, it was more like ‘hey, let’s do this fun thing together and see if it helps’. Which it did, by the way. Kinda funny. He was like ‘I don’t feel any different’ and we were like ‘we know, that’s what we were trying to tell you’. I guess it’s hard to shake out of that idea that you’re going to become some ravenous beast and lose yourself altogether.”

Gwen listens to all this, takes a sip of her latte, and then says, “It was a good idea, and I’m glad it helped. It sounds liked you did a really good job and handled that really well.”

As she expects, Stiles flushes bright pink, and that’s how she knows that he knows that she means it. “Well, it wasn’t my idea, anyway. I mean, I had to ask Justin, he’s from the alpha pack, we kinda text sometimes, how to handle it.”

“Yes, but you took the time to get advice from a reliable source instead of just pushing at him,” Gwen says. “And not only that, but you figured out how to do it without making Danny uncomfortable.”

There’s a moment of silence, and Stiles rubs his hands over the back of his hair and says, “Anyway, the person we really have to worry about getting addicted to marijuana is Derek. Check this out.” He pulls out his phone and starts thumbing through the pictures, holding it out so Gwen can see. What she sees is a group of teenagers in a variety of states of undress, with pictures drawn on their skin. Some of the pictures were taken while Derek was working, leaning over Lydia’s back or Stiles’ shoulder with a mellow, content expression on his face.

“These are amazing,” Gwen says, leafing through the gallery, taking notice of the bright colors. Derek takes this opportunity to try to wedge himself behind the sofa.

Stiles laughs at him. “Oh, come on, fuzz-butt. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Derek lowers his head and gives a chuff.

“What, no,” Stiles says. “I think it makes perfect sense. I mean, wolves, tactile creatures. You like being close to people. As long as they’re in the pack, anyway.”

The noise Derek makes at this is more of a whine than anything else.

“Shut up, nobody minded,” Stiles tells him. Derek peeks out from behind the sofa, his ears still mostly flat and the tail giving one slow, unsure wag. Gwen watches this in interest, noting the way they can have a complete conversation even though Derek is a wolf right now. Stiles can read him that well. “Yeah, yeah, get up here. At least you didn’t start making out with anybody.”

Gwen’s eyebrows go up again as Derek clambers up onto the sofa and flops down with his head and a paw in Stiles’ lap. Stiles is grinning, and she can see the smile lines around his eyes now, the ones that had undoubtedly been there long before Peter Hale came into his life. “Was making out with someone a danger?”

“Uh, well, more of a reality.” Stiles starts scrolling through pictures on his phone again. “See, I’m kinda . . . straight? Or at least mostly straight.” His fingers comb absently through Derek’s fur as he talks about this. “But Derek’s my lupa. And that’s, like, a thing. Which I’m sure you know. But, uh, I’m also seventeen. And this is Erica.” He holds up his phone again, displaying Erica leaning against a desk, wearing a short skirt and a wickedly sassy grin. “And she has offered to be my fuckbuddy. You know. So my needs are met. Without having to go outside the pack and explain the situation to some random girl who probably wouldn’t want to sleep with me anyway. Et cetera.”

“I see,” Gwen says. She considers all of this, and not just the words, but how quick Stiles was willing to show it off, the way his other hand curls in Derek’s fur, the way Derek has stayed, for the most part, relaxed as he dwarfs the sofa and takes up Stiles’ lap. His ears are moving, tracking the conversation, so there’s clearly interest and even some concern, but no fear. “You sound like you wouldn’t mind this at all.”

“Oh my God no, she’s like, hotter than the sun,” Stiles says, and tucks the phone away. “We were working through possibly jealousy and awkwardness issues. The weed actually helped a lot,” he adds brightly, “because Mr. Stoic over here managed to use his words for a while.”

Derek’s lip curls up, showing one fang, and he makes a noise that’s not quite a growl. Gwen bites her lip to avoid laughing.

“Anyway, so, we all had this talk and we all felt pretty good about it and I felt great about it, because I actually got to touch a girl for the first time like, ever, and second base is God damned amazing, but right about then Scott and Allison – who weren’t stoned because Scott has asthma and didn’t want to push his luck and Allison, my God can you imagine what Chris Argent would do to me if he caught me giving his precious baby princess drugs, seriously, he’d react better to me straight up murdering a guy and I know that because he’s seen me do it – decided that hey, maybe now wasn’t the best time to be making major life decisions, so they put us in separate rooms. Erica’s been sulking ever since.”

Gwen has an almost overwhelming urge to laugh. It’s nice to see Stiles bright and lively and full of energy. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to agree with Scott and Allison on this one.” She holds up a hand to stay whatever protests might fall out of Stiles’ mouth. “I’m not saying that you and Erica shouldn’t have a relationship. I’m just saying that the three of you shouldn’t be making important choices like that while intoxicated. If you’re all on the same page while sober, and agree to what the relationship would and would not include, then,” she makes a shooing motion with her hands, “go forth.”

“God, you’re awesome,” Stiles says. “Do you know how many therapists would probably freak out at the concept of an open relationship? Anyway, yeah, we sort of agreed that . . . uh, further shenanigans will be suspended until such time when, you know, we wouldn’t be doing it right in front of Derek, because, I dunno, that just seems rude.”

“Well, you’re in a unique and unusual position,” Gwen says. “This isn’t the common romantic lupa pairing. It takes a bit of creative thinking and open-mindedness. My only concern is that three of you have talked about it and are in agreement. If that’s the case, go be seventeen, be safe, and don’t give me any details.”

“Noted,” Stiles says, and then he’s grinning again. “For real, though, Danny was hilarious. I mean, his honest first reaction to the shift was ‘holy crap, I need to go get these sideburns waxed’ and we all laughed for about ten minutes . . . maybe it was funnier when I was stoned, but it’s still pretty funny.”

Gwen snorts. “No, that’s pretty funny even now.”

“Yeah, then he taught me the word ‘manscaped’, so hey, we learn something new every day, right?”

“If you guys do this again, you should videotape it,” Gwen says. “I’m thinking you would be a You Tube sensation.”

“Hey, that’s me,” Stiles says. “A comedian in every life. But, it’s just like, I feel like everything’s going to be okay, and that’s just fucking amazing. You know? It’s like, something as simple as ‘nobody is currently trying to kill you and your pack’ shouldn’t feel this good. But it totally does.”

“Think about what you just said, Stiles. ‘No one is trying to kill the people I care about’. It should absolutely feel this good, especially when you know what the alternative feels like.”

“Yeah, but, for most people that’s not anything special. That’s just life.”

“You aren’t most  people, and they aren’t living your life.”

“That’s true, isn’t it?” Stiles gives a somewhat rueful laugh. “I think I said it about eighteen hundred times during this misadventure. ‘No worries, this is just my life now’. And you know what? I think I can live with that.”

 

~ ~ ~ ~

 

The next week is Thanksgiving, and Stiles is privately amazed at how much of autumn has flown by while he’s been wrapped up in all this. He remembers, somewhat dimly, the Christmas he spent in his father’s hospital room the year before. Holidays have a tendency to sneak up on him, it seems.

He proposes a pack Thanksgiving, but a lot of the others have family coming into town. Boyd’s grandparents and his cousins are going to be there, and Danny’s uncles are coming, and Erica’s huge extended family on her father’s side is coming up from the Los Angeles area, and Lydia is actually going to be out of town, seeing her father. So he says that’s okay, everyone can do family stuff on Thanksgiving and then they’ll have a pack party on the Saturday following Thanksgiving.

Lydia gets nominated to host, because it’s going to be a huge gathering and her house is the only one with enough space. She clears it with her mother, who’s fine with it, and Stiles invites all the pack’s immediate families, and then breaks down and invites Jackson and his parents as well, because he can’t hate the dude forever. He even invites Dr. Deaton, although he declines, saying he’s going to be out of town.

So Thanksgiving itself is somewhat quiet: just Stiles and his father, Scott and his mother, Derek, and Isaac. Stiles makes a turkey, they feast and watch old black and white movies. Stiles starts cooking Friday morning for the party the next day, and basically doesn’t stop until Saturday afternoon. Everyone’s had turkey on Thursday, so he makes beef bourguignon and brioche, because it’s hard to go wrong with French cooking.

It’s a lively party, because Boyd’s siblings are there as well as Erica’s two younger sisters and Danny’s younger brother, so there are kids running around. Allison somehow convinced her parents to come, and their presence is less stiff and uncomfortable than usual. The parents drink beer and cocktails while the teenagers hang out in the rec room and relax and shoot the breeze. Danny’s parents seem vaguely bewildered by the gathering, but Stiles hears one of them mention to Melissa McCall that it’s nice to see Danny “expanding his circle of friends” which Stiles takes to mean “hanging out with people who aren’t Jackson”. He’s glad that Jackson doesn’t hear that comment. Jackson is being a little sullen and has a perpetual pout on his face, but at least he showed up and is being relatively civil to everyone. Lydia is giving him a fairly wide berth, and he cringes every time he sees her looking at him, but Stiles isn’t going to get involved in that. He’s also pretty sure that Danny’s parents are happy that Danny has made a friend who’s also gay, if the smiles they’re directing at him and Derek are any indication. Stiles is just anticipating the massive confusion that will follow if Mrs. Whittemore mentions Lydia and Stiles’ hypothetical relationship.

Jackson’s parents are also happy to be there, happy to see that Stiles and Jackson are attempting to “mend fences”, as Mrs. Whittemore puts it. It’s awkward, but what the hell, Stiles has dealt with awkwardness before. If the mood seems a little more celebratory than some of the parents would anticipate, they chalk it up to the fact that Harris has officially dropped his lawsuit and there was a big article in the paper about it, including a quote from Harris that says unequivocally that the charges were false and he personally plans on voting for Sheriff Stilinski in the upcoming election.

All told, there are nearly thirty people at the gathering, and they put away an impressive amount of food and liquor. After dinner, Sheriff Stilinski says, “Okay, Stiles, we’ve got a surprise for you.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles perks up. “Is it Angelina Jolie?”

His father lets out a snort of laughter. “Come and see,” he says, but insists on Stiles covering his eyes until they’re out in the driveway. When he uncovers them, his Jeep is sitting there, repaired and repainted and one of the most beautiful sights he’s ever seen.

“My Jeeeeeeep!” he cheers, throwing himself at it. It’s been repainted in green and brown camouflage colors, which he knows might come in quite handy in the future. The door has been replaced; all the damage to the front bumper is fixed. “It’s the best day ever!” he proclaimed, pressing his cheek against the windshield.

“Are you hugging your car?” Danny asks.

“Yes!” Stiles replies.

“Come see the best part,” Scott says, grinning. Stiles goes around to the back of the Jeep to see that someone has gotten him one of those tire covers that reads ‘problem/no problem’ depending on whether the Jeep is right side up or upside down. He lets out a choked burst of laughter.

“You guys are sick!” he says, and then they’re all laughing as well. “No, seriously, I love it.” He gives his father a huge hug. “Thanks.” His father hugs him back, then pulls the keys out of his pocket and holds them up. Stiles grabs them out of his hand. “Okay, guys, let’s go!”

“Where are we going?” Erica asks, rocking back and forth on her heels.

“I have no idea!” Stiles proclaims cheerfully. “The world is big and bright and begging to be explored!” To his father, he says, “See you later!”

“You guys have fun,” Sheriff Stilinski says, and yes, Stiles thinks, that’s a good word, a good wish. It’s time to have fun.

 

~ ~ ~ ~