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It's been four months since your conception, and I've finally felt your first stirrings. It's different than last time. Laura was insistent, demanding acknowledgement, but not you. You're polite, almost tepid. Just a gentle reminder, never at an inconvenient time, that you're still here.
+
You're a newborn, only minutes old. You came out of the womb silent, the gravitas in your cherubic face as heavy as a stone. You stare back at me, a carbon copy, my face looking at me with your father’s kaleidoscopic eyes perfectly imprinted in it. My son, my Derek. You're as solemn as a moonless night, more beautiful than the stars.
Laura looks at you like you're a mystery to solve, her eager hands reaching to touch something new. She's not even two, but she looks as serious as you when she wraps her uncertain arms in a clumsy hug around your fragile frame. Peter’s face is awash in wonder, his little nine year old being vibrating with energy, but he's still and silent as he awkwardly cradles you.
“His name is Derek.” I tell him, but he refuses to tear his eyes from yours. “I know you're an uncle already, but now there's another boy in the house. You've got to be there for him.”
Peter looks at me, utterly serious, and nods.
+
You're three months old, and it's much past your bedtime. The December air is cold on you, makes you fussy, but I need to know. Logically, there's no way you aren't, but I need to see it, especially after getting nothing the last two times. I can hear your tiny heart fluttering rapidly, almost like a bird’s, even over my footsteps through the snowy forest. The moon has leached away the color from the world, turned the trees into towering black shadows, and the hills into the same endless sheets of white.
We reach the outcropping that overlooks the town, and I peel back the swaddling that keeps you warm, and level your gaze on the massive full moon high in the sky. I stare intently into those eyes with their endless colors, and wait. Finally, I see it. Just the smallest flash, your little irises turning molten gold for a brief moment, before you blink and it's gone. You yawn, fussing in your blanket, and fall back asleep. I press you closer to my chest, swaddle you again, and march back to the house.
+
You're two when Cora arrives. And boy does she arrive, screaming like a banshee. Laura can't stop laughing, her three year old self delighted to have a little sister, but you're different. You're timid around the little girl, who is so clearly more wolf than human. You've only completed a full beta shift once, your tiny claws tapping along the kitchen floor as you tried your damnedest to howl at the moon, producing only a limp little whine.
“Mama?” You ask me.
I turn away from where Cora sleeps in my arms, and run fingers through your hair. “Yes, baby?”
“Is she always gonna be this loud?” Your eyes are wide and fearful, but I can only laugh softly and wrap an arm around you.
“No, sweetheart. She’ll quiet down.” I kiss the top of your head.
“Hope so.” You mutter into my side as you curl up with me in the hospital bed, already drifting off yourself.
+
You're six when you meet Tanner. You're also six when I begin to wonder whether you'll ever love girls. The boy who lives about a quarter mile up the road is two years older, but you're the only little boy anywhere near, so you two are bound at the hip. You look at him with a reverence that blurs into religion, and you glow for a solid week when he calls you the coolest six year old he's ever met.
Your father turns to me one night, as you two sleep in the fort hastily constructed in the living room. I can hear Laura singing quietly as she braids Cora’s hair, and Cora’s snapping remarks with every hair that's yanked from her head.
“Talia.” Evan says to me from a chair across the bedroom. “Have you ever considered that Derek might not…”
“Like girls?” I finish. He nods once.
I sigh, putting down the Bestiary. “Yes, I have. And I worry how many unnecessary heartbreaks he’ll have.”
“Nobody plans for a gay son, what do we do?”
“We love him, support him, however he needs.” I say, resolute. “He's still our son.”
Evan rolls his eyes at me. “I'd never do anything less, but how do we deal with boys and safe sex and- and all that?”
“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”
+
You're seven, not quite eight, when Tanner moves away. Peter teases you for moping about his departure, and I wait for the outburst I know is coming, even as I repeatedly attempt to reprimand him and remind you to be strong.
It comes, finally, when Peter demands you stop being so pathetic about your “boyfriend” leaving. You scream at him to shut up, and he only laughs harder. Overwhelmed with fury, I see your eyes flash honey and your claws are swiping through the air before I can even move to intercept. You slash and snarl, raking your claws over Peter’s chest, shredding his tee shirt and sending blood all over the marble floor of the kitchen.
He goes to respond, his own beta eyes showing, but I am there, roaring loudly, my own eyes crimson. It's enough to startle you both back to human form. The rest of the family watches from the doorway, Evan holding your sisters back behind him.
Peter snarls under his breath and storms out of the house, going into the beta shift and jumping into the treetops. You stare at the blood soaking your little right hand catatonically, aghast that you'd ever harm someone, let alone Peter. I am full of strange emotions as I drag you to the kitchen sink, forcing you to scrub your hands with bleach until the scent of blood is totally gone from you.
“Derek.” I sit you down one of the island stools, crouching to look you at eye level. “Baby, listen. I'm not mad.”
Your eyes are watering as you barely squeeze out the words. “Yes, you are.”
“No, I'm not.” I drag your hand to my chest. “Feel my heart. Hear it. I'm not mad.”
You relax in a way I can barely perceive, the tiniest sigh I've heard from you in years. “I didn't want to hurt him. He just-” You hiccup, and burst into tears.
“Oh, my baby boy.” I whisper, shushing you as I pull you close to my chest. “Let it out. It's okay.” You continue to cry, sobs wracking your wiry frame as you cling to me. I purr deep in my chest, the subvocal noise that soothed you so many times when you were a baby.
“It's so lonely here, and now even Tanner is gone.” You sniffle, hazel eyes red-rimmed as you pull away.
“I know, and it's not okay for Peter to harass you like that. Listen, I know we said we were going to wait, but… maybe we can discuss you joining the little league team.”
I hear Laura’s outraged gasp from behind, but your father growls softly at her, and she doesn't speak. Your eyes are as wide as dinner plates as I speak.
“If we let you, you need to swear you'll control yourself. You can't attract too much attention, understand? I'm serious, Derek Stephen. One incident and you're out. Am I understood?”
You nod your little head, almost like a bobble head, and, even through the remnants of your sobs, you smile that thousand-watt grin that melts my heart.
“Thanks, Mom.” You say as you wrap your arms around my neck in a tight embrace.
“You're welcome, baby. Now, go wash up, we’re going out for dinner while Peter cleans up this mess.”
+
You're twelve when he comes. Doe-eyed, his hair buzz-cut short, Star Wars shirt hanging like a feed sack on his thin body. He trails Cora like her shadow, uncertain, but wide-eyed with wonder at the enormous house.
His name is Genim, but he's always gone by Stiles, according to him. Cora had discussed bringing the Sheriff’s son around, and we agreed he could stay for dinner before returning home. The house is quiet, just the three of us. Evan is at work, Peter is at college, and you and Laura have your sports to play after school.
I sit the two of them at the kitchen island, guiding them through their homework as I leave them with cookies and apple juice. They work diligently, talking as they do, recapping me on their days. Stiles is hesitant, and Cora whispers the reason so silently only a werewolf could hear it.
“ADHD.” She says. “They make fun of him talking about stuff he likes.”
I nod once, and smile. “So, Stiles.” I say, pretend-serious as I level my gaze on him. “Tell me about yourself.”
“What do you want to know, Mrs. Hale?” He asks timidly.
“Whatever you wanna tell me. Free choice.”
He looks at me with all the hope in the universe in his eyes, and then clamps down on it. I ever so slightly nod, trying to subtly command this strange little boy into relaxing and feeling safe here, and he seems poised to, but then the kitchen door is slamming and you're stepping through the alcove into the room, smelling like leather and wood varnish and the dusty red sand of the dugout at Beacon Park.
Damn your timing.
+
You're thirteen, and Stiles is enamored with you. There's no other way to put it. He looks at you the very same way you once looked at Tanner. He looks at you like you hung the moon, the stars, and the sun in the sky. It's amazing, really.
You smile and ruffle his hair as you hand him old t-shirts you've outgrown that you think he'd like. It's about time I have the talk with you about what you're doing, how intensely personal the gifting of clothes is to a werewolf, but not now. Evan gives me the strangest look as I sit in the kitchen, waiting for you two to finish up with your little moment. He jerks his head towards the sound-proofed study, and walks towards it. I follow.
“Does he understand-” Your father begins.
“No. He doesn't, and we can explain later what exactly it is that he's doing.”
“Scent marking like that is a declaration of intention. He couldn't’ve gotten any more obvious if he got on one knee and pulled out a ring.” He runs a hand through his hair. “And what if he does know what he's doing?”
I turn from where I'm drawing a volume from a bookshelf. “What?”
“What if Derek is fully aware that he's basically just claimed Stiles?”
“I highly doubt a thirteen year old boy is aware of the complex courting rituals we practice.” I shoot back.
“He reads in the library. A lot. It can't be that hard to imagine him picking up some information on werewolf mating. And rubbing each other’s scents on each other until copulation under a full moon of choice hardly constitutes complex courting rituals.” He snorts.
I diplomatically ignore the little jab at the ancient ways of our people because I love my husband, even if he is an ass. “If he knows what he's doing, we’ll put a stop to it until Stiles is old enough to handle it, and see from there.”
Later, after Stiles has left, arms full of your old clothes, your father and I sit you down and explain what it is you just did. You didn't know what you were doing, I can hear it earnestly in your heartbeat. You're surprised, but not disgusted, and you shrug.
“There are worse people to be mated to.” You say.
It's a start.
+
You're fifteen when you break Stiles’ heart, and you don't even know it. You're fifteen when you surprise us all by getting a girlfriend. Paige is a sweet girl, pretty and kind, a little soft-spoken in a house crowded with loud werewolves. She's hardly the worst you could do, and she seems to compliment you well enough.
You introduce her to Stiles when the two of you come back from school together, Stiles and Cora already sprawled on the living room floor.
“Stiles, Cora!” You call from the kitchen. I round my way back from the study, curious as I catch a new scent and an unfamiliar heartbeat. “Mother.” You add as a bit of a rushed afterthought.
“Who's this?” I ask, fully into hostess mode, even as I smell the two of you all over each other.
“This is Paige. We've been going out for a few weeks now, and I figure she should meet my family.”
“Hi, it's so nice to meet you, Mrs. Hale.” Paige grins, earnest even as she's clearly nervous.
I swallow my surprise. “It's nice to meet you too.” I say, taking her hand in a brief handshake. From behind me, I hear Stiles’ heart stutter in the way that hearts do only when they've been caught off-guard, given the worst news out of the blue. It's a skip, one hard pump and a series of weaker, frenetic bursts before setting into a rocket pace. It's the sound of a heart breaking.
I deeply inhale as I turn away, and I catch the bitter stink of grief as I do. It sets my teeth on edge, sends me into full maternal mode. From her position next to Stiles, Cora is glowering, her own scent full of rage, even as she sets a hand against Stiles’ arm, putting him slightly behind her. I wait for you to notice, to sense the air in the room turning heavy and wrong, but you're so caught up in Paige you don't, you just excuse yourself with a promise to keep the bedroom door open.
Cora is fuming, her control slipping, and I thank God she's facing away from Stiles as her eyes burn gold for a moment.
“Go.” I whisper. “I'll handle this.”
She manages to politely excuse herself for a moment, and I look at the heartbroken being before me. I've only ever seen him this sad on the anniversary of his mother’s death, but this is a close second. His scent is sour and pathetic, and I can catch the glinting of moisture at the corners of his eyes.
“Stiles…” I bite my lip uncertainly, arm half-reached to embrace him, but unwilling to break the line. This is something his mother should do, would do, if she weren't in a grave. I've tried to be as much a maternal figure as I could, but this is a new area I’m a little terrified to breach.
Stiles makes the decision for me. He crosses the kitchen in a handful of long strides, and slams into me, burying his face in the crux of my neck. He takes a few shuddering breaths, and I can smell the salt of tears sliding down his face, can feel them against my skin, but he does not break.
“Why?” He asks me, voice cracked.
“He's an idiot.” I say, hugging him again. “But he needs you.”
“He can't see me, sitting here, waiting?”
I smile sadly, stroking through the tresses he's grown out. “Derek can't see anything not explicitly spelled out. He has the perceptive ability of a sea cucumber.”
“You've got that right.” He chuckles blearily.
“You're his best friend, his anchor.” I say. “If you truly love him, truly care about him, support him. Support him through every agonizing heartbeat, support him even when it hurts to breathe. Be happy he's happy. That's real love, Stiles.”
He nods, again choking up. “I know. I just need time.”
And support you he does. Neither Laura nor Cora forgive you for shattering his heart, and they never are more than civil with Paige, even as Stiles sits, talking with her, acting like she isn't the source of a continuous agony. It amazes me, how the boy’s heart still beats even as broken as it is. With every kiss you exchange in front of him, we all hear that tiny little skip, the sound of another piece of his heart falling to the ground and fracturing.
Stiles is still your best friend, even as you're slowly killing him. He still looks at you in that awestruck way, still grins that precious million watt smile at your terrible jokes. I sit, sometimes, watching the two of you play video games or spar. I wonder what you did to deserve such devotion, how you could be so blind to what I know, in my own heart of hearts, is a fragile little soul that's bound to yours. You once told me he was your anchor, the piece that keeps you human when the wolf is howling, and your heart was steadfast. When I see the way you focus on him, even when you're with Paige, I know it's his face you see when you're arguing with Laura and the claws are already out, or when the moon is nearly full, taunting you with the same steady stream of ‘Almost, almost, almost…’ we all feel. I know that the sweet little girl you've brought before us will never be able to be that. She's a wonderful person, but your heart was claimed years ago, even if you don't know it.
+
You've just turned sixteen when you approach me about telling Paige.
“No.” I say, flatly. I'm not even going to hear this one out.
“Well, why not?!” You demand, already defensive and angry.
“I'm not jeopardizing the safety of our family because you think you're in love. It's been three months, Derek, she doesn't need to know.”
You point an accusatory finger at me. “How come you've already made plans to tell Stiles, then? He's just a little kid!”
I glare at you. “Stiles has been as good as family for the last five years, and we aren't telling him until he's older and can handle it. If, in a few years, Paige is still around, we can revisit this discussion. Until then, I refuse to endanger us all by letting some teenage fling know our most important secret.”
“No! If Cora’s friend can be let in on the secret, so can my girlfriend!” You're toeing a line, pushing the alpha in me to the forefront.
“Derek Stephen, I said no.” I keep my voice level, even as the wolf wants me to growl at you.
“I don't care! I trust Paige, she can handle this!” You're pleading even as you're filled with anger.
Something within me snaps. I let my eyes flash red, and my voice drops several octaves as I speak. “I order you not to tell her without my express consent, Derek.”
Your own eyes are gold, and you bend down, the physical weight of your alpha’s orders weighing on you. I hear a snicker behind me, and whirl. Peter stands, a deer in headlights, his eyes reflexively going gold at the sight of his alpha’s own crimson orbs.
“That goes for you, as well.” I snarl. He nods a shaky head.
It's tense in the house for a few days, and Paige doesn't make an appearance, and is barely mentioned. One afternoon, I listen in on Cora and Stiles as they sit in the library, splayed across the leather couches.
“How come Derek’s all upset, he won't tell me.” Stiles asks, staring at the ceiling.
I hear the rustle of Cora’s hair as she shakes her head. “No clue.” I can hear the blip in her heart at the lie. “Just being emo, I guess.”
“He needs to stop. This whole thing is depressing enough, he doesn't need to be depressed, too.”
“It's only depressing because he's an idiot.”
Stiles snorts. “He's an idiot under no obligation to love me back.”
“Wrong. He's so obligated. It's his destiny, his ancient duty! This mating was conceived by the Gods themselves, fated for all time to be!” She begins to speak in a booming, almost pastoral voice.
“Easy, Reverend.”
I can hear her smack him on what I hope is the arm. “I'm a priestess, not a reverend.”
“Ow! That was my head!” Oops, not his arm.
There's a moment of silence, and I can hear the shifting leather as Cora adjusts herself. “Seriously, Stiles, give him time. He’ll sort himself out soon enough.”
“He took six months to figure out Laura was dating Corin McKinnon. He sees Laura every day.”
“Shit, you're right.”
+
You're sixteen when it ends with Paige. It's all over a dance. The spring formal is second only to prom in importance, bigger even than homecoming, and it comes on the April full moon. You try to explain this as gently as you can, but she's adamant you go. You make every excuse you can, but they're weak, transparent. I can hear it in the phone call.
“Paige, baby, come on. I would go if I could!”
‘I don't believe that. I know what you sound like when you're lying, Derek, and you sound like it right now! Be honest, what is so important you have to miss spring formal?’
“It's a family thing, okay? We're going downstate for the weekend, to see my uncle.”
‘Your uncle moved five months ago, you told me that! What's going on?!’
Shit. I feel for you, I can hear it in her voice, the end is nigh.
‘Tell me, and be honest, or it's done.’
Extremely nigh. Seconds away.
‘Derek.’
There's a resignation in her voice now, as she realizes what we all now know. It's done. You're silent, swallowing thickly.
‘Derek, I think… I think I know.’
“What?!” Every heartbeat in the house is rocketing, now. She didn't figure it out, did she?
‘I think you and I never were gonna work, because there's someone else. Always was.’
Oh, thank you, God.
“I… I…” You stutter.
She sighs heavily. ‘Stiles is always your first priority. Always. He's more than your best friend, more than a brother to you. You care about him in a way you just don't for me. I can't compete with that. It's pretty clear we both have our issues and they're not compatible. I think we need to end it.’
My heart breaks for you, even as some small part of me jumps for joy at the way being cleared for Stiles. Paige is clearly a smarter girl than anyone gives her credit for. I wait for the sound of heartbreak, the thumping, uneven hammering, but it never comes.
“Goodbye, Paige.” You sigh, voice unreadable.
‘Goodbye, Derek.’ The line cuts shortly after, and you listen to the dial tone for a moment before setting the cell phone down on a table.
You're down the stairs and looking at me in this strange way, a way I've never seen on your face before.
“Sweetheart?” I ask you, concerned.
“I-” You start, before sighing. “I don't know how to feel.”
I pull you close, wrapping my arms around you. “You feel how you see fit. No one can tell you how to feel.”
“What did she mean about someone else? Of course Stiles is a priority, he's my best friend.” You're so clearly confused.
I want to scream, to shake you until the fog leaves your eyes. I take a steadying breath, instead. “He's your anchor. You understand that, especially so young, finding an anchor outside of your family is exceptionally rare?”
“Yeah, I read the books on anchors and everything in the library.” You nod.
“Did you continue on? Nine times out of ten, when someone finds an anchor that's not family, they wind up mated.”
There's a flicker of clarity in your kaleidoscope eyes. “Oh.”
“You once said that there are worse fates than being mated to Stiles. Maybe it's your first, best fate.” I brace, having finally shot the elephant in the room.
“I always thought he was destined for Cora.” You say lamely.
I can't help it. I burst out laughing, absolutely losing it. You look at me like I've gone mad. It takes me a solid minute to gather myself.
“Oh, sweetheart, no. Just… just no.” I pull you into a hug, kissing your cheek. “Think about what I've said.”
+
You're still sixteen when it all goes so horribly wrong. After a rather high-profile exile some years back, the Argents are back in town. Gerard is old and stinks of foul chemicals, as well as the sickly, sour scent of the cancer that is eating him alive. They show up on our door one day, the ailing patriarch flanked by his two children, as well as his son’s wife, a spunky looking redhead who glares daggers at your Aunt Ritsa.
“We've decided to return.” Gerard rasps. “This place is a hotbed, even after all this time. Best we stay, stabilize.”
“We've done just fine with that, Argent.” Your aunt snarls.
“Even so. The Guild feels it best we keep closer tabs on Beacon Hills. The only Axis Mundi without an established family, and one of the most active. It's making others uneasy.” Gerard says.
“Let them be uneasy.” Your father says. “After your little stunt with Deucalion, you're far from welcome here.”
“Tut, tut. So long ago, such unfortunate business.” He sighs, before coughing into a kerchief. None of us miss the salt and iron scent of blood.
“You agreed to stay away.” I say, trying to remain calm.
“Not for how long. It's been nearly a decade, Alpha Hale. Let the past die.”
“We’ll keep to our side of things, you keep to yours, eh?” Christopher Argent suggests, sensing the rising tension.
“Mom, Dad?” You call, returning from the woods. I turn, whipping my head to watch you jog into the hallway from the kitchen.
“My, my, who is this?” Katherine Argent speaks up. “Don't tell me this is little Derek!” She grins, smelling of vile things.
“That's far enough, Derek.” Evan speaks. “Go to your room. We’ll be up to discuss shortly.”
“He's all grown up, he can stay to talk. Everyone should be aware we're back in town.”
I fight the urge to snarl. “They'll find out on our terms. And you'll stay far, far from us, unless we explicitly say otherwise.”
The dying patriarch acedes. “Fair enough. I assume the house number hasn't changed?”
“No, it hasn't. Thank you for your visit, all of you.”
“We’ll be in touch.” The redhead promises, a thinly veiled threat clear in her voice.
“Stay away from them, whatever you do, Derek. Do you understand me? They'll kill you without blinking.” I warn you.
“I'll stay away, I promise.” And I can hear the truth in your heart.
Weeks later, the worst happens. We've talked and debated, especially with the return of the Argents, about informing the now-Sheriff Stilinski about the truth. Sheriff Carter Mitchell’s retirement has created a problem for us, leaving us in the awkward situation of having law enforcement probing around, but also jeopardizing Stiles’ relationship with you and your sister should we inform him.
It's a full moon, partially cloudy, and a bit on the cold side. Not the best weather, but we deal, running through the trees. Stiles has been odd, the last few days, asking much more questions than usual, and inquiring about staying the night of the full moon. Cora finds a decent excuse about not feeling up to it, and promises to crash at his place in the next few days. I sweat it off, wondering just what has gotten into the boy, but otherwise unconcerned.
We run as a pack, your father directly to my right, Laura trailing in a close second. Peter and Ritsa follow up, and you, Cora, and Kita shore up the rear. Your cousin is eight now, and delights in finally joining the pack for our nights out instead of staying in with Peter’s wife and baby son. Kita laughs as she breaks rank, bouncing off of the trees and using a rock to propel herself forward, soaring over all of our heads, gracefully rolling into a perfect somersault. I bring us all to a stop, and she looks up at us, her glowing yellow eyes searching for approval. I grin, ruffling her hair as Ritsa steps forward, swamping her child in a tight hug.
That's when you catch a scent.
“Stiles.” You growl out, bolting to the east.
Laura and Cora follow you, concerned, and the rest of the pack follows shortly after. I bring up the back this time, feeling a gnawing uncertainty as we follow you. We reach Stiles, and he's staring with fear. He's on a rock outcropping, just a foot or so above the rest of the ground, and his heart is practically thumping out of his chest. His breathing, however, is as even as he can make it. I can smell the mixture of emotions as his wide-eyed gaze observes the back.
“I was right.” He whispers to himself.
There's a sound, like a muffled ripping, followed by the splintering of wood. Something just whizzed right by my head, close enough to pass through my hair, and half a second later, we all flinch as an incredible bang nearly bursts my eardrums.
“Scatter!” I shriek, realizing we've been fired upon.
You're rooted to the spot, staring at Stiles, who is clutching at his chest. The coppery salt-rust smell of blood fills my nostrils, and I process what's happened just as he speaks.
“I'm hit.” He whispers.
You have Stiles in your arms, sprinting somewhere. I hear more gunfire, screams and snarls, cries of an ambush. Cora and Kita are running back to the house, doubtlessly to warn Gwen to evacuate. Hunters fall from the treetops, their scents perfectly disguised, weapons blazing.
Peter stands, defiant, arms covered in blood up to the elbow, a horrific, almost euphoric grin on his twisted face as he embeds his fist in the chest of a hunter, snarling. Laura bounces off of a tree as she tackles another hunter, ripping his throat out with her teeth.
A red streak cuts you off as you carry Stiles.
“Not so fast, mongrel.” Victoria Argent, Chris’ wife, has a gun pointed in the center of your face. “Put the boy down and I won't make it hurt.”
She hasn't seen me yet. I let myself bound at her, the urge to protect overwhelming all other instincts. My pack, my baby, is in danger, and I will stop at nothing to end that danger. The redhead whips her head, eyes widening as she sees me leap through the air, realizing she's too late.
My claws embed themselves in her lungs, crushing her ribs like they were twigs in my hands, my bare feet snap her femurs like glow sticks. I hear the symphonic crunch of most of the bones in her body splintering as I draw back my fangs, rearing my head and biting with as much force as is in my body, her shoulder blade and collarbone snapping between my jaws. I leave her there, rushing to you.
“We have to leave!” I bellow. “Stiles needs to get to Deaton!”
The wounded boy in your arms coughs up a gout of blood, high enough for flecks of red to stain your face.
“Stiles…” You whisper, utterly mortified.
“Derek!” I sharply bellow at you. “We need to go, now!”
You're snapped out of your trance, and we sprint towards the town, the moon haunting over us, presiding over the macabre scene. We take the most direct route, staying in shadow as best we can, avoiding humans wherever. Stiles has gone silent, and all we can hear is the rasp of his laborious breathing, his collapsed right lung filling with blood, drowning him.
“Here!” I call, storming up to the office where I know Deaton still is.
“Alan!” I yell, slamming the door open. “Alan, we need you!”
He's out of his private office in seconds, eyes widening as he takes in the scene before him. “Get him on the table.” He orders, grabbing a set of gloves. “What happened?”
“Hunter ambush. Everyone’s alive.”
“God, I knew the Argents were going to be trouble, but so quickly… Hand me that morphine.” He demands, holding out a hand.
I give him the needle, and he gently injects it into Stiles’ chest, murmuring in Latin as he does.
“Sage, calendula, knitbone.” You rush over to the cabinet filled with plants, grabbing the vials with the required herbs.
It's an almost endless night. Finally, hours later, as the dawn is breaking, he eases the still-unconscious boy into a fresh tee shirt, and lays him onto a couch in the operating room. Evan came, sometime in the night, to let us know everyone was safe. The Argents were wiped out, as well as their associates. It had been that unhinged temptress Kate that had fired upon me, wounding Stiles. She was dead. Only Victoria, apparently having had the strength to survive my mauling and now a werewolf herself, as well as Christopher and their teenage daughter had survived. They'd fled sometime in the night, their exile overseen by Evan and Laura. The deceased hunters had been dismembered and were being burned deep in the Preserve.
“He was trying to find out the truth. He knew the truth.” You mutter morosely. “He just needed proof. Boy, did he get it.”
You sit there, holding his hand as he recuperates, Deaton’s combination of magic and modern medicine ensuring his survival and his humanity. Your heart is as broken as his once was, and I ache to pull you close to my chest, but I cannot. You need to be with Stiles, now.
A set of tires squeals outside, the sudden roar of a frantic engine. It cuts off, and I’m able to hear two voices over the din.
“... need to think rationally, Sheriff!” Ritsa pleads.
“To Hell with rationality, that is my son!” John Stilinski yells.
“You don't know what condition he's in!”
“Which is why I'm removing him from a goddamn veterinarian’s office and taking him to a hospital!”
“Do you really think Talia wouldn't take him to the best care possible?!”
Your face is even more pale as you listen to the growing argument, your hand clutching Stiles’ like a lifeline.
Deaton walks out the door, greeting the sheriff. “Sheriff Stilinski.”
“Look, Doctor Deaton, where is my son?!” John sounds more exasperated than anything now.
Deaton is calm as he answers. “He's still sedated. He's healing even better than expected.”
“What even happened?!”
“Your son was in the Preserve last night, and he was shot by a low-caliber sniper rifle at a distance of about a quarter mile. The bullet passed between the ribs, rupturing the third lobe of his right lung. It came out without any shrapnel and only greenstick fractures of the ribs around the entry point. I had to repair the lateral basal branch of the vascularity in his lung using minimally invasive tactics, as well as draining the blood from his lung and reinflating it.” Alan tries to stun him with medical jargon.
The sheriff’s voice is filled with disbelief. “You're a fucking vet! Give me one reason I shouldn't haul your ass in for medical malpractice!” He sounds close to hitting him, unaware of just how very unwise that would be.
“I have four doctorates and six years in the OR at Cedars-Sinai performing cardiovascular surgery in Los Angeles.” Deaton calmly reasons. “I'm happy to show you all of my degrees. I simply prefer to practice veterinary medicine because the patients are usually much more grateful.”
John stammers, trying to force out words, but he can't. “Let me see my son.” He finally grinds out.
The exterior door is slammed open, and I see your head snap up, hear the hostile rumbling deep in your chest.
“Derek, no.” I say to you, waiting for the sheriff to arrive.
The door is opened more gently, and his eyes widen at Stiles lying prostrate on the couch, his hand in yours.
“Get away from him, Derek, I’m taking him to the hospital.” His tone is barely restrained, and he whirls to me. “And as for you,” He snarls. “We will have words later.”
He reaches to grab Stiles, and you're in front of him, almost roaring, baring teeth and feral yellow eyes.
“Jesus fucking-!” John startles back, reaching for a gun in the empty holster of his hip.
I take a deep breath. “Well,” I clap my hands, putting on my best face. “The wolf is out of the bag, isn't it?”
+
You're seventeen when you finally kiss him. Two months of utter chastity. You've all but allowed us to supervise your dates. I can hear Stiles complain to your sister about how glacially you're moving the relationship, but how he wants for this to work so badly he'd wait forever to kiss you.
It comes to a head. I can hear you two from where I sit, talking with your father in the kitchen.
“Well, I guess Connor made it out to Utah okay, but Grace is still worried. The Mormon packs out there are a little… weird. Even for werewolves.” Evan says.
“I'm sure he’ll be fine,” I assure him. “Your nephew isn't an idiot. He can handle a few overzealous wolves.”
I walk down the hallway, headed for where I left my phone charging in the living room, and there I see it.
Stiles is on his tiptoes, still a few inches shorter than you, his lips pressed to yours in a chaste, yet passionate kiss. I gasp, but the both of you are far too consumed in your own world. I walk back to the kitchen, phone forgotten, with a grin a mile wide.
+
You're twenty four when you marry him.
He's grown, now almost exactly your height, and his suit is the same black as your own. Erica, Boyd, and Isaac, your three closest friends you met in college, stand behind you at the altar. Behind Stiles is Scott, Cora, and Lydia. John, as the Sheriff of Beacon County and a former Justice of the Peace, performs the ceremony.
You kiss him the same way he kissed you for the first time: tender, heated, and altogether beautiful.
The reception is held at none other than our own ancient manor, and I laugh as I see your grandmother twirling Stiles’ best man on the dance floor, trying to keep my footing with your father, who, for all his skill as a fighter and all his light-footedness, cannot dance to save himself.
I catch sight of you and your new husband, there, at the center of group. We orbit like planets around you, circling as we twirl in our binaries, the only motion of you and Stiles being the twist of your feet around each other, spinning but unmoving.
The years fly by as I see you, my beautiful baby boy, dancing with someone else’s son, a son I have long since taken as my own.
We dance on.