Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Five years.

Well, almost five years.

Still.

He was going back.

Stiles finished stuffing the last of his leather-bound notebooks into his footlocker and sat down carefully on the lid, fighting to get the latches closed. A muffled clink emanated from the inside, the sound of glass jars shifting in their cotton beds. He'd been surprised that he was able to fit everything inside. Five years was a long time to accumulate the kind of things he did. Books, tomes, crystals, stones and ashes and any number of plants that had all been carefully catalogued in Stiles messy handwriting, even more sloppy now because he made his notes in Gaelic.

If he was going back, he was going back prepared.

Because hey, this was Beacon Hills they were talking about. As a murderous psychopath once said right before he'd paralyzed him, it was like a freakin' Halloween party out there.

And this time Stiles was going in battle-ready.

Something prickled at the back of his neck, like snowflakes falling, and he turned slowly round to the open doorway knowing that Pheelan would be standing there, filling it up with his six-four frame, big, bulky, familiar. The scent of the werewolf was strong in Stiles' nose, like the sun on a wheat field or the rain and chill and fog of the moors that swept his curly hair into a mess and caught in the knit of his sweater. His dark eyes had flicked right past Stiles' face, gone to settle on the scuffed and stickered trunk that he'd helped to cart halfway round the world, and there was something a little somber around his mouth.

"You're leaving then?" he asked in Gaelic, the language that only passed between them when they were trying not to choke on their words.

Pain sounded prettier in Gaelic.

"My dad's been hurt," Stiles replied, and that would have been enough. They'd been together for three years, and that would have been enough.

But Stiles would ask.

They weren't in love, and they both knew it, but still, Stiles would ask.

Because he knew. He knew that there was no way he could do this without Phee. Couldn't face his past without knowing there was someone in his corner, someone he trusted so completely and thoroughly that he could have them at his back. Because even if they weren't in love, even if they both knew it, he trusted Pheelan.

"Phee…"

"Yes."

Stiles head jerked up sharply, and he looked at the werewolf with hot tears in the corners of his eyes. "You didn't even let me finish," he accused in English, and the other man stepped into the room and pulled Stiles into his massive chest, his thick arms banding around him like steel.

"If you want me there little buddy, I'm there."

A minute passed and Stiles just savored the feeling of being held, of being caught in a strong embrace by someone who cared just enough. Because that was what he and Phee had. They cared. They might even die for the other. But they weren't in love. And because they weren't in love, they couldn't hurt each other.

"I can't do this alone," Stiles choked as he fought down the barrage of memories that he had long since locked away, memories that suddenly threated to drown him.

"Breathe," Phee warned him, and Stiles did. The werewolf had learned a long time ago to sense a threatening panic attack. He'd once told Stiles that they made him smell like burning sugar, taste like caramel that had sat on the burner just a little too long, and Stiles had wondered why the others hadn't ever told him.

"Someone called you?" he asked quietly, and Stiles shook his head.

"No. No one knows where I am, how to get in touch with me. Just Dad. But I saw. I saw."

Phee didn't have to ask. Stiles nightmares had started a little over two years ago, when they had settled in with Pheelan's grandmother and the boy had begun to really learn about the things he was capable of doing. Sometimes he woke up screaming, but Phee knew that it was the nights he was quiet, the nights that he crawled silently into the werewolf's bed, threw an arm around his waist, and began to glow with a soft, amber light that the dreams had been real.

"I was trying to sleep," Stiles said, breaking from his hold and dropping down onto the trunk, rubbing a hand roughly over eyes that were too dark, too bruised for his liking. "Just trying to get a few minutes…"

"What happened?"

Phee almost flinched at the look that crossed Stiles face. It was hard, dark, like when they'd first met three and a half years ago in the mountains in Romania.

"Werewolves happened," he said in a cold, wooden voice. "What else?"

"Well since you didn't flash steam me when I walked in, I take it we're talking specific werewolves?"

"They should know better," Stiles muttered viciously, and Phee immediately stepped between his knees and grabbed onto his upper arms hard.

"Snap out of it Stiles!" he barked. "We don't have time for you to go all wicked witch of the west!"

Stiles blinked, looked down at Phee's hands on him and his eyes cleared. "Not a witch," he grumbled as he stood, skirting around the werewolf to the dresser where he began to stuff jeans into a duffel bag.

"So you've said," Phee murmured, almost to himself. "I'll go pack. Speak to móraí. She'll worry if I don't."

Stiles' hands stilled on the dresser. "Tell her I'm sorry," he murmured, back to Gaelic again.

"She'd make scarves out of both of us if I did," Phee chuckled.

Stiles turned and there was sadness in his eyes as he looked the big wolf up and down. "Thanks," he murmured, and Phee's smile fell.

"He'll be alright Stiles," he said quietly. He waited until Stiles met his gaze, until he nodded, then slipped from the room and went to find his grandmother.

Stiles fisted his hands tightly, felt the stinging buzz in his fingertips return, like he'd touched a hot stove. To distract himself, he did the calculations in his head; two hours to get to the airport, another eleven on the plane. Not accounting for weather or traffic, he would be back in Beacon Hills at four o'clock in the afternoon on a Friday.

He wondered if that mattered.

He suspected it didn't.

But it did mean that he would be going straight from the plane to the hospital, and so he would chose his wardrobe with care. He wasn't the same high school goofball that he used to be - he was a man, a man who had just celebrated his twenty-third birthday and who wore a square of rough stubble around his mouth that gave him a dark and deadly look. No more buzz cuts and graphic tees, his hair was long enough to actually run his fingers through and his boxers were tight and black, no cartoons anywhere in sight. He told himself he wasn't scared of going back, but as he paced nervously over to his tiny closet, riffled through his clothes, he knew he was picking out armor.

Close-fitting navy blue jeans.

Heavy black work boots.

A plain grey t-shirt under a black hoodie. Actually, Phee's hoodie. It was two sizes too big for him but it was warm, and it smelled like the other man, enough that Stiles' more-than-human-but-less-than-wolf senses could easily pick it up. It would mask his scent, at least for a while, and when it came down to the line, might put enough of a marker on him that he wouldn't be hassled too much.

Lastly Stiles slipped into his leather jacket. It was bright red and hit him at mid-thigh, with a wide, triangular collar and belted cuffs that he wore open, the black of his sweatshirt showing through at his wrists and neck. Phee had laughed and called him Little Red for months after he'd made the purchase, but even the werewolf had to admit it looked good on him, the hidden inner pockets perfect for stashing all the bits and pieces Stiles like to carry with him.

Speaking of bits and pieces…

Stiles moved to his dresser and slid open the top drawer, pulled out a sleek, black handgun that was cool and heavy in his hand. He had already slipped his wooden baseball bat into his duffel bag, but it was more of a sentimental thing these days than actual protection. He'd carried it for three years and it had served him fairly well, until the day came that he had needed more firepower than it could offer and he'd picked up the compact little Ruger. He was a damn near perfect shot, always had been, and with the 40. Caliber bullets he made himself out of silver, iron, and a few other choice elements, he could stop everything from a rampaging werewolf to a fairy.

And yeah.

Fairies existed.

Fuckers.

Checking the clip, Stiles holstered the gun along his ribs underneath his left arm in the sling he'd had custom built into the jacket. With the stiff, fitted cut of the leather you'd never know he was carrying, and that was just the way Stiles liked it.

"You packing?"

"All done," Stiles replied, turning to zip up his duffel and throw it over his shoulder.

"That's not what I meant," Phee smirked, stepping in close to Stiles and straightening the hang of his jacket over his shoulders. "You're wearing my shirt. Thinking of making someone jealous?"

"Thought hadn't even crossed my mind," Stiles replied truthfully. "But the longer it takes for them to get on to me, the happier I'll be. And if they think I'm yours when they finally do catch up with us… well."

Pheelan smiled, really smiled this time, a smile that might look hard and a little bit wild to anyone but Stiles, who knew him best. He'd had the same idea, Stiles could tell, by the way he'd dressed. The man was huge but really a teddy bear at heart. Still, he was cut, and the grey wife-beater he wore underneath his heavy black jacket did nothing for the imagination. He looked the picture of a god-damned Navy SEAL, combat boots and black cargo pants tight across impressive thighs. Stiles licked his lips and let his eyes touch on the man's right bicep where he knew the tattoo of a circle and a triangle locked together, burned into his skin with as much meaning as any of his own held. The army-style jacket did nothing to block the breadth of his chest, zippers and epaulets only mimicking the long sloping lines of his shoulders. Where he was usually all soft sweaters and thick cable-knit, he'd dressed to kick asses and take names, and he'd done it for Stiles.

Reaching up, he latched his fingers into Phee's hair, dragging him down for a hard, punishing kiss.

Minutes later, when they both had to resurface for air, Stiles attempted to fix the mess he'd made of the man's honey-colored locks, but the wolf knocked his hands away, smoothing the curls back out into the careful, sophisticated styled he'd tamed it down to.

"They'll hate you," Stiles murmured, mostly to himself as he brushed his thumb over Phee's jaw, savoring the harsh rasp of his perpetual stubble. "Especially if they think you're mine."

Phee's hands stilled in his hair, fell to his sides. "They won't if you don't want them to Stiles," he said, his voice low and rough. "If you want me to stay in the hotel, I will. If you want me to be the silent, mysterious bodyguard, I will. But if you want me to play the gorgeous, dangerous, devoted boyfriend you deserve… that's what I'll be."

Stiles stared up at the man he wished he could love and stroked his thumb over his soft, full lower lip.

"Just be Phee," he answered back. "That's all I need you to be. Just Phee."

"That I can do," he murmured. "But think about what I said." Reaching around Stiles, he grabbed the handles on either side of the footlocker and lifted it as though it didn't weigh almost as much as he did. "You haven't seen any of them in five years. You've put on thirty-two pounds of solid muscle, you know more about knocking a werewolf on their ass than I do, and you're fucking gorgeous. Waltzing in with a smokin' hot lover in tow would be the icing on the cake."

Tossing him a wink, Phee slipped out the door and headed towards the car.

Stiled swallowed and turned to look in the mirror above his dresser. His eyes were dark, much darker than they used to be, and there were deep bruises beneath them. Half the time he looked like he was on death's door, but the rest of the time, like now? He looked like a wraith. Like a shadow-God come to claim the allegiance of the Earth, and that looked hella-sexy doing it. Stiles cast his reflection a cold, sneering grin, grabbed his duffel off the floor from where he'd dropped it.

Maybe he would put on a little show when he got back to Beacon Hills.

He had a bone to pick with a certain wolf-pack after all.

What was the harm in enjoying the process?

Chapter Text

Stiles blinked himself awake twenty minutes from touchdown. He’d felt like he’d been asleep for days when it had really only been a handful of hours, drool all over the leather arm rest under his cheek. Sitting up, he swiped his sleeve over his face and the cushion, glad they were on a private plane and that the owner of said plane was still snoring lightly on the couch across the aisle. Pheelan came from old family and old money, and just this once Stiles had been happy to take advantage of it. The little jet had been waiting for them on the tarmac, and he hadn’t had to check his trunk or his hand gun at the gate. His papers and his passport were all in order, and Callaghan, Phee’s pilot, hadn’t blinked an eye before carefully stowing their luggage and getting them into the air.

Of course, Stiles’ mostly fake status as an air marshal didn’t hurt either.

Stepping into the little bathroom in the back, he splashed cold water over his face and stared at himself in the mirror. He was pale, more so than he’d ever been, but he supposed living in a place like Ireland would do that to most anyone. He’d known over the years that his eyes were darkening, that it gave him a wild and wicked look especially with his longer, windswept hair and the sharp edge of his beard, but sometimes he wondered if the devil hadn’t taken up residence somewhere in his chest. Because sometimes, when he looked in the mirror and his eyes glinted at him and his teeth showed sharp and white out of the corner of his smirk, he didn’t recognize himself.

He supposed that was all right if they didn’t recognize him either.

Back in the cabin, Phee was sitting up, stretching out and yawning wide enough to swallow the sun with teeth that had gone long and sharp. Stiles dropped down at his side and leaned back against the wolf’s shoulder, his fingers twisting in the strings of his hoodie until Phee loops an arm around him and pulls him in tight.

“Close your eyes,” he commands softly, and Stiles does, though they both know he won’t sleep. The two hours he caught weren’t nearly enough, but it was more than he got on any given night, and they would both take that as a victory. So no. Phee isn’t asking him to sleep.

Slowly, a low and steady glow begins to emanate from beneath Stiles’ skin, filling the dimmed cabin and surrounding them both in an amber light. The tension that has ratcheted tight inside of him leaches away and beneath him Pheelan hums and stretches, soaking up the warmth that came off Stiles’ skin.

Stiles had discovered he was a Touchstone just two months after meeting Phee. There’d been an instant spark between the two of them, and while he’d known the man was really a wolf, he hadn’t cared. They spent those first two months backpacking through a mountain range in Romania, happy, content, learning the ways that the other moved and spoke and thought. The first time they’d kissed it had been explosive, like a spark catching hold until the fire had all but consumed them, and the first time they’d fallen into bed together was like heaven coming for him. Stiles had fallen asleep draped across Phee’s chest with the sound of rain coming down all around them, wind buffeting the sides of their little tent, and when they’d woken up in the morning Stiles had been shining like a lantern, creating a tiny globe of warmth and comfort and light.

Needless to say he had panicked just a little bit.

Wasn’t every day that you lit up like a human glow stick.

Luckily for him, Pheelan O’Rourke was more than well-versed in werewolf lore, and more than happy to share what he knew. And so he’d explained, about Touchstones and how they were the human counterparts of a wolf pack, how they were like a lynchpin that served to keep it together, keep it stable and grounded. Even more, how they could impart physical, mental, and emotional healing through touch, how they could offer peace and comfort simply by being.

Stiles didn’t exactly think this the coolest super-power to have. Werewolf catnip. Didn’t seem to help him any.

Sure it explained a lot of the way things had been, what with him constantly being drawn into the shit-storm that was the supernatural, constantly kidnapped or thrown to the literal wolves, but that all pretty much sucked.

Luckily for him, there was more to it.

It seemed glowing was a two-way street.

Physical healing, emotional rest, these things he got too when he reached out for a wolf, when he reached out for Pheelan. It wasn’t enough, especially in the last few years when he’d really come into his own, learned all the things that he could do by channeling the energy that sparked light and life in him, but it was something.

It was something.

And when it came down to the wire and he’d needed that spark, he found it could be a weapon too.

Because by withholding what he was, keeping back the glow, he could cause pain.

And yeah, it sounded really bad when you heard it like that, but it had helped him in the past. It was sort of like a built-in sucker punch in a fight, healing just out of reach. And the more he thought about it and the more he learned, the more sense those last few months in Beacon Hills had made.

Because Phee had told him.

When a pack, when an alpha, rejected their Touchstone, when they pushed it away and refused the natural order, things would quickly spin apart.

And if that didn’t describe the chaos of his last few months at home, what with the alpha pack and the kidnappings and the desertion and the whole, great, awful mess, he didn’t know what did.

But he’d been right.

In the end, that was what being a Touchstone meant to him.

He had been rejected, pushed to the side, out of the way into some dark corner, and he’d known it.

Callaghan’s voice came over the intercom announcing their descent into California and Stiles’ light flickered out, leaving him feeling cold and unsettled. Shifting out of Pheelan’s embrace, he shrugged deeper into his hoodie and slipped back into his jacket, reloading and re-holstering his Ruger before buckling into a seat. He watched through the window as the United States came up to meet them, a country he hadn’t stepped foot in in a long time. Still, he was an American citizen, technically a deputy air marshall. And he was pretty sure Phee had been checked onto the flight log as some kind of big-shot international law enforcement, if not some kind of international rock star. So it shouldn’t be too hard to get out of the little private airport.

How wrong he was.

Stepping down out of the plane was hell. As soon as his boots touched the tarmac, a dozen dark shadows swept through his mind, grey energy swarming in his chest like the memories of drowning. And yeah. Stiles remembered drowning.

Wasn’t exactly the welcome wagon he’d been hoping for.

Hell, he’d have been happy as a clam if he’d been ignored completely.

A big warm hand fell onto his shoulder, squeezed, and suddenly Stiles could breathe again, just enough to get moving and cross the pavement to the car that waited for them. Two men in reflective vests were helping to roll Stiles’ footlocker over to the big black SUV, and he stepped forward to stop them, opening the trunk and extracting a hard-sided black leather satchel before waving them forward to lift it into the car. Phee had to help but it was accomplished well enough without his assistance, and so instead he stepped back, staring up at the sky as he slipped the strap of his bag over his head and tightened it across his chest.

It was early February, and he could feel a storm coming. The barometric pressure was rising, the sky pushing down on him as steel colored clouds swirled overhead.

Stiles shivered.

“Smells like snow.”

He could smell it too. Icy, biting, a little like apples. He wondered what it smelled like to Phee.

“Guess we brought the weather with us,” Stiles mumbled in reply. “Don’t get a lot of the white stuff here.”

Pheelan didn’t respond, only caught the keys from one of the luggage jockeys with a nod and slid into the driver’s seat. He had the engine started before Stiles even moved towards the passenger’s side, climbing in and clutching his bad tightly on his lap.

“How far are we from Beacon Hills?” he asked as he pulled out of the lot, and Stiles thrust his chin towards the east. “Twenty minutes if you take the highway. There’s a sign at one of the exits for the land preserve…” He frowned. “At least there was.”

“Your dad will be happy to see you Stiles.”

“I know that.”

“Is it enough?”

Stiles turned to look at the wolf who kept his dark gaze trained carefully out the window as he maneuvered onto the interstate. “Is what enough? Is his being happy to see me enough to make up for that fact that I have to be back here, have to face all of them?”

Phee didn’t answer, just flicked him a quick look and went back to watching the road.

Stiles sank down in his seat, stared bitterly out the window. “I don’t know,” he muttered. “I love him, more than anyone…”

“I know that Stiles. I never once thought you didn’t.”

Stiles shut his eyes and breathed through his nose. “It’s been five years,” he mumbled. “I haven’t seen him face to face in five years. I know we called and we Skyped, but it’s not the same, and I’m…”

“Scared.”

He opened his eyes again, looked up at the heavy thunderheads that were sweeping along ahead of them.

“Yeah.”

The rest of the drive was quiet, Stiles only opening his mouth to give short, concise directions. Memories came flooding back to him as they drove, deep-rooted familiarity with this place he’d grown up in setting him adrift, and it was solemn and painful, and he didn’t doubt that Phee could sense his distress. Still, he didn’t push for anything more, didn’t reach out, and it was one of the reasons Stiles wished he could love the big blonde Irish wolf. He supposed he should really just count his blessings and thank god they’d come in on the west side of town, so that he didn’t have to pass the high school or the lacrosse field or the police station. If he was really lucky his dad’s room would be empty, and he wouldn’t have to talk to anyone before he set to work.

As Phee pulled into the visitors’ lot and cut the engine, Stiles double checked his bag, making sure he had everything he would need to work his magic. He’d already done it half a dozen times back in Ireland, before he’d packed it into the top of his trunk and told himself firmly that he’d be there in time, but he couldn’t help one last look. Climbing down from the SUV, he rounded the bumper and met Pheelan on the sidewalk, stood toe-to-toe with the wolf who towered over him and made him look like a stick figure in comparison. Reaching out, he grabbed onto Phee’s lapels and pulled him even closer, staring at his collarbones while he smoothed his hands down over his chest.

“Do something for me while we’re here,” he murmured, and Phee’s hand wound into his hair, tipping his face until Stiles met his eyes. Reaching into one of his pockets, he fumbled for a minute before drawing out a silver pentagram on a chain. “Wear this?”

Phee frowned, but he took the charm and turned it back and forth, considering.

“Thought you weren’t a witch,” he said finally, reaching up to fix the chain around his neck and dropping the charm beneath the edge of his wife-beater.

“I’m not,” Stiles answered back by rote. Placing his hand over Phee’s heart, his fingers just touching the edge of the charm, he looked down at his feet. “It’s a ward,” he explained to their boots. “Protection. And I know you don’t think you need it, but trust me. This is Beacon Hills. You need it.”

“Hey,” Phee urged, pulling Stiles’s face back up with a finger and thumb beneath his chin. “It’s on, yeah? It’s gonna be all right.” Dropping a quick kiss onto Stiles lips, he stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Let’s go in and find your dad.”

Stiles nodded, turned to face the entrance of the hospital he’d be in and out of so many times, the hospital he’d lost his mother in, and swallowed hard. “Did you know,” he asked nervously, trying to distract himself as they drew closer and closer to the doors, “A pentagram used to mean that you were about to become a werewolf’s victim?”

Phee laughed.

Chapter Text

The hospital was just like he remembered it, but he supposed that most were the same. Always a little too cold, the cloying, sweet scent of sterility not quite hiding the sour stench of sickness and the dull copper of blood and bruises. His boots squeaked on freshly-mopped tile, and his hands might’ve started to shake if he hadn’t felt Pheelan’s looming presence at his back. Deciding the safest plan was to skip the ‘family or friend’ inquiry altogether, he waited at the end of the hallway until the nurses station cleared and then slipped behind the desk, punching in the five year old code that he still remembered and crossing his fingers.

The computer chimed and Stiles smirked.

Some things never changed.

A few taps on the keys and he had everything he needed, logging out and looking both ways before he headed back down the hallway and caught Phee’s elbow, pulling him away from the waiting area and down to an adjacent wing.

“Same old tricks,” Phee grinned, and there was a familiarity in the words that warmed Stiles’ heart.

“He’s down at the end,” he said quietly, eyes scanning back and forth as a nurse bustled past them, his shoulders up and his head low. “Your nose is better than mine. He got company?”

Phee lifted his head almost imperceptibly, his nostrils flaring as he scented the air. “Two or three,” he replied, “But it’s old. They’ve been gone since noon.”

“They brought him in early last night,” Stiles muttered to himself.

He would’ve been out of surgery fast; there wasn’t a lot the docs could do for wolf bites, even after so many years, but from what he’d gotten out of his dream no major organs had been hit. Blood loss and the threat of turning were the Sheriff’s biggest concerns. The hospital would have taken care of the first, he would take care of the other.

He wasn’t ready when he slipped into the darkened room, not for the sight of his father, pale and worn, collapsed back against the sheets while a dozen machines whirled and beeped around him. Not for the sight of the pain creasing his face, for the red haze that hung in the air over his bed. The magic that would twist his body into something else was already starting to take root, burrowing into his organs and contaminating his blood, and it was almost enough to make Stiles choke. Moving to his father’s side, he ghosted one hand over his hair, cupped the side of his face as his eyes traced the thick cotton bandaging that looped around his chest and up over one shoulder, hiding the mauling he’d seen his father receive in his nightmare, the bite, the clawing slashes.

“Dad,” Stiles whispered, and his voice broke, a single tear streaming down his face. “Oh god Dad, I am so sorry. This never should have happened.”

Picking up his father’s hand, Stiles held it to his chest as he closed his eyes tightly, desperate to hold back the waterworks as his heart broke. It had been five years, and for the first time he could have kicked himself for leaving. He should have come home.

“You need to go,” he choked in Phee’s general direction, and he felt the big wolf shift on his feet beside him.

“I know,” he said, and his voice was low and gravelly. “Just don’t wanna leave you like this.”

“You can tell then,” Stiles murmured, his eyes locked on his father’s face.

“Yes.” A beat of silence passed before Phee spoke again. “I can smell it on him, in his blood. But you can fix this Stiles. The moon’s two weeks away, and I’ve seen you work with less.”

Stiles swallowed again, nodded. “Don’t open the door until I call you, alright?”

Pheelan nodded, squeezed Stiles’ forearm, and then he was gone, slipping out of the room and closing the door silently behind him.

It took him a few minutes to get moving. He could have fallen apart right there, frozen at his father’s side and simply stared, soaked him in, if there wasn’t a time constraint on what he was going to try to do. Putting his bag down on the chair in the corner, he extracted chalk, four white candles, a jar each of mountain ash and of mistletoe. It was difficult, what he was going to attempt, and painful, both for him and the one he was trying to help, but it had worked in the past. With enough time, and far enough away from the moonlight, he’d been successful in pulling out the bite, pulling out the wolf from the one who’d only just been bitten and had yet to change.

Drawing himself a circle at the foot of his father’s bed, he stepped into the center and shook a pinch of ash into his hand, capped the jar and saw it surrounding him. The matching circles tattooed in heavy black ink on his wrists, at the back of his neck and the base of his spine all burned, and when he opened his eyes again the ash had roped around him twice over the chalk outline. Sitting down cross-legged in the circle, he placed the candles around the perimeter at equal points; north, south, east, and west. Head, heart, health, and hands. Sparking each wick with a small silver lighter from his pocket, he rested his hands on his knees, breathed out, and began to chant.

Twenty-five minutes later he knocked on the window of the door and Pheelan leapt from his position against the opposite wall, slipped back inside just in time to catch Stiles before he collapsed onto the floor. Guiding him into a chair, he was quick to scoop up the scattered jars and candles, to wave his hand through the air to disperse the wisping curls of sulfur and burning herbs. Kneeling at Stiles’ side to pack away the paraphernalia into his bag, he handed up the jar of mistletoe, familiar enough with the process to know it was still needed. Climbing shakily to his feet, Stiles moved to his father’s bedside and slipped a sprig beneath his pillow before tossing the jar back to Phee and kicking away the circle of ash and chalk with his boots. The werewolf cast a nervous glance at the man on the bed, his pulse elevated, his pillow soaked in sweat, and swallowed.

“Did it work?” he asked carefully, watching a pale, clammy Stiles scuff around the floor.

“Well enough,” Stiles replied, his voice hoarse. “Pretty sure I got it all, but I’ll need to come back tomorrow and make sure.”

Phee nodded, hefted the bag and swung it over his shoulder. “Do you want to stay?” he asked, and Stiles shook his head.

“I can’t,” he choked, leaning over to press his forehead to his father’s, to breathe in the scent of him, and the arm that held him up against the bar of the bed shook so hard beneath his weight that it rattled. “I gotta get outta here. I can’t… I can’t breathe…”

“It’s all right little buddy,” Pheelan murmured, catching Stiles by the upper arm as he clutched at his chest and staggered towards the door, setting him right on his feet and steering him with one big hand on his shoulder. “Know just what you need.”

And Stiles trusted that he did. Phee had been at his side long enough that he knew the symptoms, knew the signs that his friend had pushed it. He knew that afterwards his throat was raw, that he couldn’t stand to be closed in or underneath a roof, that he was painfully, painfully drained, and so he trusted Phee to deal with that until he had his faculties back again. He was stumbling down the hallway towards the door, only half aware of his surroundings when a voice from the past cut through his fugue.

“Oh shit,” he breathed.

It was Melissa McCall, exactly the same as he remembered her in her bright blue scrubs, if a little more harried, a little more grey, and he suddenly found himself both desperate for a hug and to disappear. It may have been five years, but he still remembered what it felt like to have someone care like a mom might. But if she knew he was back, so would Scott, and then everyone would know. Unfortunately for him, she was heading his way, and there weren’t exactly a lot of places to hide. Phee must have sensed his distress, guessed the cause of it as his gaze flickered between them, and luckily he wasn’t frozen in place like Stiles was. Grabbing the sides of Stiles’ jacket, Pheelan wrenched him around and shoved him up against the wall, caging him between his thighs and crushing their mouths together with a click of teeth.

He stepped back when Melissa had disappeared into the Sheriff’s room, and Stiles took the opportunity to suck in a massive gulp of air, his cheeks flushed.

“Thanks for that,” he gasped.

“Any time,” Phee winked. “Kissin’ you’s not exactly a chore.”

Stiles smiled wearily, huffed a sad sort of chuckle. Hadn’t always been the case, had it?

“Come on,” Phee encouraged, pulling him upright again and steering him towards the exit. “Let’s get you outta here.”

XXX

An hour later found them sitting in the little diner that Stiles used to stop at once a week to pick up lunch for his dad. Sending him to sit in a booth in the back with his hood up over his face, Pheelan had ordered a carafe of double-brewed tea and had watched patiently as Stiles consumed cup after cup, the lemon and honey soothing on his raw throat. They didn’t talk, but something must have been passing between them because no waitress ever encroached, leaving them to their little bubble of silence and calm. The sun was just beginning to set behind the trees, pouring hot colors through the wide glass windows and across the formica table when Stiles finally couldn’t hold any more, fishing a five and a couple of ones out of his wallet and slipping them under his mug.

Pheelan followed him silently out of the diner, stood on the sidewalk and watched as Stiles closed his eyes and tipped his head to the side, listening as day-time sounds slowly faded and night-time things began to move. The car was only yards away, gassed and ready to go, and a motel on the edge of town had reservations in their name, but he didn’t want to be inside, didn’t want to feel trapped even though he still felt that way now, storm clouds swirling overhead and blocking out the stars. He felt his energy coming back to him, slowly began to feel like he might live to see another day, and oddly enough it had nothing to do with the massive amounts of caffeine he’d just consumed. He’d learned a long time ago how to control his ADD without meds, how to shift his foci and balance his chi, and so all he wanted now was to walk, to the ends of the earth and back if he could, but since he was stuck in Beacon Hills once more, there was only one place he wanted to go.

“Take a walk with me?” he murmured, and Pheelan didn’t answer, just fell in easily at his side.

There was a low wooden fence surrounding this side of the preserve, rotting and broken down even before he’d left as it followed a long, winding ditch that ran the length of Main Street. The property was posted but that was a rule that Stiles had never followed, and he didn’t intend to start now. Ducking behind the diner, he got a short running start and swung easily over the fence, using it as a pommel horse to vault up and over, landing neatly on the other side. Behind him, Phee took it at an angle, leaping up to grab a tree branch and swing himself over with a pretty mid-air somersault.

“Show off,” Stiles smirked, and then he ran, just catching the flash of gold as Phee’s eyes sparked in the growing darkness.

It was their own brand of hide-and-seek, dark and just a little dangerous, and for once Stiles felt like he had the advantage because he knew these woods. Whenever they’d gotten playful back in Ireland, he always ‘lost’ the game, was always the one getting tackled to the earth and covered with wet, sweet, sloppy kisses because Pheelan knew every dip and swoop and cliff and cave of the moors that he’d grown up hunting. Not tonight. Tonight Stiles held his own, ducking and swerving, scrambling through the patch of fallen birches he could trace like the back of his hand, all the while constantly aware of the wolf who careened alongside of him, always just out of sight, practically silent as he fought his way through the briars that Stiles knew better than to challenge.

The scent of the woods filled his nose, all mulch and bark and cold night air, snowflakes just barely coming down now, and Stiles’ heart pounded in his chest as he ran. As much bitterness as ran through him with all the old memories of this place, it was still home, and he remembered this. He remembered the woods, remembered the paths and the little haunts and thickets, and despite everything, the life of this place swelled inside of him until a wide smile cracked his jaw, until laughter bubbled up out of him like champagne that couldn’t fit in its bottle anymore. He’d come to a slow, halting stop and Phee stepped out of the dark hesitantly, not sure if the game was done, but the melancholy grin on Stiles’ face answered him, and so they walked the rest of the way to the cemetery in a halfway-peaceful, halfway-somber silence.

He went to her headstone alone. Pheelan had dropped back respectfully at the edge of the graveyard, sensing that this was a private affair, better kept between the one gone and the one left. Stiles might have wept at the state of his mother’s plot if he didn’t know how hard it was for his father to come out here. The grass was too long, weeds growing up around the edges of the stone, dirt packed into the carved letters that spelled his mother’s name. It was through tears that he unstrapped a small knife from his ankle, cut back the sod and carefully cleaned away the grit before tracing trembling fingers over the dates.

“Hey mom,” he whispered, and as the snow came gently down around him he thought that maybe the wind might carry her his words.

“I missed you.”

Chapter Text

“We’ve got a serious problem!”

Derek looked up from the maps spread over the table in front of him and glared at Isaac and Violet with red eyes.

“Really?” he snapped, “I hadn’t noticed!”

Violet flinched back from the Alpha thrum in his voice, her twin sister Lily moving to her side from her position against the wall.

Derek swallowed, reeled in his anger. The girls were still fairly new to the pack, only two years, and they still quavered when he barked just a little too loud. When Isaac’s fiancée had requested the bite and her twin had followed suit he had consented, but at the time he’d hoped that the timid females would grow a little backbone. They had, mostly. Of the two Lily was braver, but they still shook in their boots when he snapped his teeth in their direction. Dropping his eyes back to the maps, flicking through them, he gave both betas a minute to collect themselves, to put on the masks they pulled when they wanted to put up a good front. They were both good at that. They could fake out any lesser wolf, but he knew better.

Around him he felt his pack shifting, felt Peter move from his side to Lily’s, felt both males take the girls into their arms. They were all there, all gathered in the restored Hale House after the fiasco of last night; Scott and Allison, Erica and Boyd, Lydia too, all of them. Except maybe the one who mattered most in this moment.

Derek felt his mouth twist in a sneer.

He didn’t have time to go there right now.

“Did you check on the Sheriff?” he growled in Isaac’s direction, and he felt the lanky blonde shift on his feet.

“He’s still alive.”

Derek’s relief was tempered by the fact that the man was turning.

He’d smelled it in the blood that had streaked his leather jacket as he’d rushed the man to the hospital the night before, his mind consumed with a crushing sense of failure.

“We need to find that alpha,” he snarled quietly, mostly to himself, his eyes scanning the maps once again. “If we can bring him to John…”

“It might be more than just an alpha.”

Derek’s head snapped up and he quickly circled the table, stalking halfway across the floor towards Isaac, his second in command even above Scott and Peter. The once troubled teenager had grown into a strong, intelligent adult, and had developed a mind that could unravel a psyche quicker than any shrink Derek have ever met.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, and something cold settled in the pit of his belly.

“We swung by the hospital, like you asked,” Isaac said, and Violet nodded in agreement, her knuckles white where she gripped her fiancée’s hand. “We caught Scott’s mom on her way down to check on him. She said he’d been all right, but then he got worse. Said his pulse was elevated, he was having trouble breathing…”

“He’s fighting the bite?” Derek asked, and the cold shot all the way down to his fingertips. If the Sheriff rejected the bite, he was going to die. He wasn’t like Lydia, or Jackson, wasn’t something else that could fight it off.

“I don’t…”

Derek snapped out of his thoughts, raised an eyebrow at the sight of Isaac’s nervousness and confusion.

“Derek there was another wolf there.”

“What?” Derek hissed. “How many?”

“I don’t, I don’t know, maybe two? I could really only smell the one, but there was something else, something like…”

“Like a witch,” Violet said.

Derek switched his attention to the quieter girl, waited, knowing he’d get it out of her faster if he didn’t try to drag it out.

“It was,” she began slowly, “It was like ashes. Like the smoke from candles. Or from…” She swallowed, looked up at her alpha with blatant fear in her wide blue eyes. “From a fire.”

Derek felt his mouth fall open, had to suck in a breath that he’d forgotten to take while he waited for the world to stop shifting underneath him.

“Could you tell who it was?” he finally choked out, turning his back on the pack and moving back to the table, leaning over it as he tried not to panic.

“No,” Isaac replied. “I don’t… I don’t know.”

“Well which is it?!” Derek snarled viciously, turning on him with flashing eyes and teeth gone long and sharp.

“I don’t know!” Isaac bit back. “It wasn’t the alpha that bit John. Definitely at least one wolf, but… I don’t know, something. There was something there that was like… like I knew it. Like I’d smelled it before but can’t remember…”

“Someone from the alpha pack?” Scott suggested, all innocence and helpfulness. He’d never lost that, even after it all, that simple, puppyish quality that had never quite endeared itself to Derek as much as it had to everyone else.

“None of them would risk being in my territory without my permission,” he replied off-handedly. “Not after the way that mess ended.”

“What would they want with the Sheriff?” Allison asked, and Scott grabbed her hand in his as if to reassure her that it wasn’t anything bad.

Derek shook his head. Of course it was. This was Beacon Hills. As soon as you thought everything was under control, some dark thing raised its head again.

“Allison! Lydia!” he commanded, and both girls leapt to their feet, stances strong and ready. “Get to the hospital. Guard that room. Anyone shows up you call us. Erica, Boyd?” Turning back to the maps, he circled off pieces of the town with one hand as his pack crowded around him. “Take the western quarter. Isaac, Scott, the north. Peter, you’re with me.” A token protest went up but he silenced it with a wave of his hand. “I want the twins going south,” he explained, taking the time to soothe ruffled feathers on the protective males that had grumbled his way. “Violet and Lily can search the preserve. I doubt anyone would be stupid enough to get this close, so they’ll be fine. But check!” he warned them firmly.

“You’re looking for any wolf that isn’t pack,” he reminded them. “Any wolves. Anybody finds anything, they call the rest of us. And if it’s the alpha, don’t engage.”

Derek glared at each of them, his face grim.

“Don’t forget, we want him alive.”

XXX

“So this is the famous Beacon Hills Preserve,” Pheelan murmured as he and Stiles walked back up through the woods, back towards the car as the snow started really coming down. “The place it all started.”

A smile quirked at one side of Stiles’ mouth, and he shrugged deeper into his sweatshirt, pulling his hood up tight around his ears. “About a mile south of it, but close enough.”

“Seems like a good place to run,” he said carefully.

“Sure,” Stiles agreed casually. “When there aren’t pissed-off alphas and kanimas and psychotic teens leaving bodies all over the trails.”

Phee chuckled under his breath, moved closer to Stiles’ side as they both hopped easily over a rotting log. They were weaving their way slowly between the trees, Stiles’ eyes just good enough in the dark that he could move without tripping over his feet. When he’d finally accepted that he wasn’t just an ordinary human, accepted that he was a counterpart to a werewolf pack, his senses had heightened, sharpened. They weren’t anywhere near a wolf’s, but they were far better than they had been, his sense of smell in particular better than he’d ever imagined it might be. He knew it was the Hale pack that he was scenting, striping paths through the woods even though he couldn’t tell who was who. He did, however, have a nasty suspicion that the strongest scent, the one that was like coffee and peppermint and clean, pale sawdust, the one that seemed to burrow its way into his chest and get stuck there, belonged to the pack’s alpha.

He could’ve asked Phee.

The werewolf would have answered.

But it would have felt cruel somehow, and so Stiles just tried to ignore it, focusing instead on the snowflakes that were drifting down around them, fat and wet and white. They weren’t sticking, and tomorrow there’d be no sign that they ever were, but while they lasted they were pretty enough. They were getting closer and closer to the Hale House as they walked back to the main road, and the closer they got the more tense Stiles became. He wasn’t even sure if the house was still standing, let alone if the wolves were actually staying there, but he didn’t see any reason to take the chance and so he tried to steer them on a parallel course. If Phee sensed the others, sensed Stiles’ discomfort he didn’t mention it, just followed along at his heels, trusting him to take the best path out of the woods.

Five minutes in from the road, Stiles stopped in his tracks.

“Ok, I can’t hold it anymore,” he groaned, stepping towards the base of a heavy oak. “I gotta take a leak.”

“You really think it’s a good idea to start marking in their territory?” Phee asked flatly.

“This isn’t about scent marking,” Stiles insisted, “It’s about the eight cups of tea I…”

Stiles’ hands froze on his belt buckle, his head snapping to the left, eyes searching in the dark.

“Incoming. Nine o’clock,” Phee murmured, slipping in close behind him, two steps back and to the left as Stiles turned in the direction he’d nodded.

“Wolves?”

“Two. Betas, females both.” Pheelan lifted his head, scented the air, and Stiles did the same, but he couldn’t pick up anything over the smell of the snow and the cold, dead trails already crisscrossing through the trees. “Twins?”

“Great,” Stiles muttered. “Think they can do that fucked-up body-blend thing?”

He didn’t look back to see if Phee responded. He didn’t really need an answer. He could handle whatever came at them, he knew that, except that in some ways he couldn’t handle any of it at all. It hurt somehow to know that the pack had grown in his absence, taken in new members when he hadn’t been allowed that privilege…

A short way off a twig snapped, and two thin, fragile-looking girls with dark, mahogany-colored hair stepped out of the trees, their eyes glowing gold in the dark.

“This is private property,” one of them snarled, showing her fangs. “You’re trespassing.”

Stiles smirked coldly, remembering a similar conversation years ago with a werewolf much scarier than these two.

“Last I knew,” he drawled easily, “Private property didn’t start for another two hundred yards.”

This time both girls snarled, crouching forward in fighting stances. Behind him Phee rocked back on his heels, the picture of insolent relaxation, and Stiles hoped that wearing the wolf’s sweatshirt might mask his scent enough to cover up the fact that he was human. At least these particular wolves wouldn’t recognize him, he had that going.

“Claimed territory then,” the first wolf hissed. “Alpha Hale is not pleased.”

Stiles snorted, making them flash their eyes and show their teeth. “Alpha Hale,” he snickered. Hilarious. Even if hearing his name again cut. “Still a pretentious son of a bitch then?”

“Hah!” Behind him, Phee barked a short laugh, grinned lopsidedly and pointed at Stiles with thumb and forefinger. “Son of a bitch.”

Stiles smirked over his shoulder.

He’d thought it was pretty funny too.

The girls didn’t. They whipped their heads back and forth, roared with bared teeth, danced anxiously on their feet, but they were eyeing Pheelan nervously and Stiles was fairly confident that the Omega’s massive size would at least have them thinking twice before they attacked.

“Not looking for a fight,” he warned flatly, but his tone held ice and flint. Looking for a fight, no. Ready for a fight? Always.

Hell, if it had been one of the others, he might’ve enjoyed it.

Not these two.

“Then what are you looking for?” the second wolf growled, speaking up for the first time. “A Sheriff perhaps?”

At the mention of his father Stiles felt his hands go cold, felt his tattoos burn and he knew that something dark glinted in his eyes. A chill wind picked up out of nothing and began to whistle through the trees around them, the earth rolling and quivering under their feet, and both girls yipped as they were thrown violently to the ground. Hunching low, they scrabbled backwards and away from Stiles, cowering from what they didn’t know.

“You and your pack stay away from the Sheriff,” he warned, his voice low and deadly, dark with a poisonous edge that threatened to strike. “He’s not your concern anymore.”

Slowly, the rumbling and shaking of the rock and soil under their feet settled and Stiles felt the energy that had grabbed hold of him let go, and it was all he could do to keep from slumping into a puddle. The two were-girls scrambled to their feet, clutching at each other and darting terrified glances into the darkness around then, their bodies shaking as they stared at Stiles with something akin to horror.

“Run along home now, little flowers,” he sneered, for the shadows had whispered names in his ears.

They didn’t need a second invitation.

Casting frightened glances back over their shoulders, they took off at a dead run towards the Hale House as though demons from hell were nipping at their heels.

“Oh and tell your Alpha,” Stiles called after them, cupping his hands around his mouth. “Tell your alpha not to be such a fucking sourwolf!”

Chapter Text

Derek and Peter exploded back into the Hale House with eyes flashing, hearts pounding in their chests. They had made it back from the far northern edge of the county in record time, a quavering, unintelligible phone call booting them both in the ass and sending them careening recklessly back through the woods towards home. Derek had immediately sent up a biting, vicious howl, calling the entire pack in and they were all assembled, bunched together in an anxious, nervous knot in the center of the wide, open living room, waiting.

"What happened?!" Derek asked, skidding across the floor to the twins and putting a hand gently to each of their cheeks. "You both ok?"

The girls managed a nod but shivered under his touch, and he was quick to hand Lily off to Peter, Violet back to Isaac, where they could be comforted by the scent and embrace of their mates. Peter began to murmur nonsense words, glaring at him over the top of Lily's head, the scent of her panic hanging heavy in the air alongside her sister's, who had collapsed against Isaac in a sweaty mess and was weeping into his chest.

Derek cursed under his breath.

He'd sent them together because he thought they'd both be safe in the preserve. Thought they'd just run out, do a quick check, and run back. They might not be his favorite betas, it might creep him out that Lily had fallen for his much older, rather sketchy uncle, and that Violet was a timid, wilting flower who could suddenly turn into a raving ball of crazy that only Isaac could tame, but they were still his. They were still pack.

He should have kept them safe.

Erica appeared at his side and cocked an eyebrow, a bottle of homemade apple brandy in her hands. It was cooked up carefully with just enough extract of wolfsbane to give it a werewolf-sized alcoholic punch, and Derek nodded, grateful that she'd thought of it. Popping the cork with a deft twist, she poured out a healthy slug into each of two glasses and handed them wordlessly to the twins, who looked to him for a nod of approval before knocking back the contents like pros. He waited to hear their heartbeats slow just a bit from their breakneck pace, waited to sense them still.

"The Sheriff?" he asked quietly, stepping in close to Scott's side.

"Allison and Lydia are still there," he answered, bouncing on the souls of his feet. "All's clear on the western front."

Derek nodded, his relief palpable to every wolf in the room, before he turned back to the twins.

"Are you both ok?" he asked again. "You're not hurt?"

"Just scared," Lily answered shakily from the protective circle of Peter's arms, her voice hoarse. Violet just shuddered, burrowed deeper into Isaac's sweater.

"Can you tell me what happened."

It wasn't a question. He had to know, even if he had to alpha them into telling him. Lily nodded, moved to sit nervously on the very edge of the couch, her knees tight beneath her as though she wanted to be ready to spring at any moment. Derek moved to kneel on the floor in front of her, sure that he'd get more if he focused on this sister instead of the one falling apart in his second's arms.

"We were checking the preserve like you wanted," she whispered, and Derek got the sudden, sinking feeling that this was going to take longer than they had the time for. Darting a look at his uncle, he watched as Peter nodded and moved to sit at Lily's side, one hand on her shoulder, an encouragement to keep going.

"It was fine. Everything was fine. We'd gone all the way down to the end of the property and there was nothing. We were coming back, and it was starting to snow, and we…"

"Take your time," Peter murmured, pressing a kiss to her temple when she trailed off, and Derek flashed red eyes in his direction, but Peter of course chose to ignore him.

"We were coming back to the house," Lily said after a hard swallow, and Derek could smell the brandy on her breath and see the fear in the backs of her eyes. "We caught something. Smelled like a wolf so we tracked it. There were two of them. A wolf, an omega, huge. God, Derek he was…"

"Easy," Derek murmured, putting a hand on Lily's knee, paying Peter back by ignoring the protective blue glow of his irises. "What about the other one?"

Fear and adrenaline spiked in Lily's blood and all the wolves in the room flinched at the painful terror the girl and her sister were experiencing.

"I don't know," she choked finally. "Derek, I don't, I don't…"

"Lily!" Derek barked, grabbing on to her upper arms and giving her a little shake. "Easy. You're safe ok? You're safe right here with us. Peter's right here, I'm right here…"

Slowly, slowly the girl could breathe again, and a glance in Isaac's direction showed Violet's knuckles clenched white around her fiancée's forearms, her face hidden as her shoulders shook. Derek ground his teeth, bit back a growl.

"Easy now," he murmured as gently as he could. "Who was with the wolf?"

"I don't know what it was."

What.

"He just smelled like the other, like the omega, and like…"

"Like ash."

Derek's head snapped in Violet's direction, found her staring at him with huge, blue, babydoll eyes.

Rising easily to his feet, he stepped to her side and smoothed a soothing hand down her spine. "Ash," he murmured, "Like the witch?"

"It was them," she mumbled, "The same ones from the hospital. The wolf and the… the…"

Derek sighed, ran a hand roughly over his face. "Not a witch then" he grumbled, moving to pour his own glass of brandy from the bottle Erica had placed on the bookshelf.

"Something. He's… I don't…"

"He makes you want him," Lily said in a flat, emotionless voice, and beside her Peter growled, his teeth showing just a little bit sharp. "He does something… pulls at you. At your wolf. Derek… he made the ground shake."

Derek cocked an eyebrow over the rim of his glass, tossed back the brandy and moved to pour another shot.

"The wind picked up, things… screamed. It was like… shadows, screaming. He made the ground shake. And he knew our names."

"Did he say anything?" Derek asked, swirling his brandy in an effort to focus, an effort not to shift. He could feel claws pricking at his fingers, fangs pricking at his gums, and his hackles were definitely up. Suddenly both the twins froze, rabbits in his sights. Lily's gaze flicked to her sister and Violet shook her head almost imperceptibly, darting glances at Derek with something like fear and Lily swallowed.

"He said to tell you," she said carefully, "He said to tell you not to be such a…" She whined in distress, turning her head to show her throat and gluing her eyes on the floor.

"Such a what?!" Derek barked.

Lily yelped and threw her arms up over her head. "He said to tell you not to be such a fucking sourwolf!"

Derek's glass slipped from dead fingers and shattered on the floor.

XXX

"Well little buddy," Pheelan murmured as he pulled the SUV into the lot of their hotel, "You've blown your cover good this time. Hope you weren't counting on that anonymity to last."

Stiles hummed in response but didn't open his eyes, physically and emotionally drained from the day's stress, the day's work. After he'd chased off the little betas he'd almost immediately regretted his parting words; if Alpha Hale didn't recognize them, Scott definitely would. And they would know. He'd expected them to find out, sooner than this if he was honest, but he wasn't looking forward to the inevitable confrontation. Still, as far as an unveiling went, that was a pretty big finger to the reigning pack leader.

Stiles just wished he could see Derek's face when he got the message.

Man, that'd be awesome.

Unfortunately he'd been a little too wrecked to fully appreciate how great that parting shot truly was.

He'd linked elbows with Phee for the rest of the walk, letting the big wolf take most of his weight as they slowly made their way out of the preserve, onto the road and back to the diner. Once he'd gotten himself loaded into the car he'd slouched low in the seat, closed his eyes, tried to drift off to the rhythmic swish of the wipers over the windshield but couldn't quite do it. Now he could hear doors opening and closing as Phee grabbed their duffels out of the back, grabbed Stiles leather case, and then there were big, gentle hands pulling him out of the car and guiding him up a set of stairs, unlocking a door and pushing him inside. He didn't know how Phee had gotten the key so fast, didn't care, and then those same hands were helping him out of his jacket and Stiles heard the sound of a gun being unloaded, placed into a desk drawer. Staggering across the room to the king-sized bed, he keeled over backwards and dropped onto the mattress with a huff, his feet dangling over the edge.

Phee chuckled, pulled at Stiles' laces and removed his boots, trailed fingers up his thighs to his belt buckle and then dragged his jeans back down his legs, unstrapping the knife from his ankle. A smile tipped at Stiles' mouth when he felt the wolf slip up onto the bed, straddle his hips and brace himself over his body with a hand on either side of his shoulders. Soft lips pressed delicate kisses over his cheekbones and along the cut of his jawline, snuffled beneath the hood of his sweatshirt at the juncture of his throat and his shoulder, nipping at pale skin. Stiles whined low in his throat, wriggled, sat up and struggled out of his hoodie, his wrinkled grey tee as a bolt of heat shot through him. Pheelan had rocked back on his heels, shucked his coat and his tank top, moved to pull the silver pentagram over his head but Stiles caught his hand, pressing it flat over his heart and pinning the charm to his chest.

"Leave it," Stiles whispered hoarsely, and then pulled the wolf in for a hard, hot kiss.

It was easy in the dark, to forget. Wandering hands and hungry mouths gripped and stroked, teased, heated panting damp on exposed throats. Phee pressed him back onto the quilt, his teeth scraping over the pounding pulse in Stiles neck, but as he began to trail lower, pressing suckling bites down over his collar bones and his chest, something like guilt settled over him.

"Wait," he whispered with tears burning at the corners of his eyes, pushing up on Phee's shoulders. "Wait."

Phee immediately pulled away, rolling off of Stiles to land heavily on his back at his side. For a minute they just lay there, chests heaving in the blackness, and then his fingers were stroking Stiles' wrist, brushing over the back of his knuckles.

"Don't wanna hurt you," he murmured into the stillness. "Don't want you to think you have to, just so that I…"

He was cut off when Phee rolled onto his side, turned to face him and dropped a hand lightly over Stiles' throat, his thumb stroking the smooth, soft skin beneath his jaw.

"You know me better than that," he rumbled gently, easily. "Not a lot I do that I don't want to. You included. Rolling you up in me, putting my scent on every inch of your skin…" Stiles' breath caught as Pheelan twisted their fingers together, lifted his hand and ran his nose up the sensitive inside of his wrist, pressed a kiss to his palm. "Just a bonus. Now roll over."

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the abrupt command, loud and authoritative where they'd spoken in hushed and level tones, but did as the wolf asked, turning onto his stomach and pulling a pillow down into his arms. He yipped when Phee smacked his ass smartly, laughed, then sank into the mattress as the big blonde straddled his hips and began to knead the muscles in his neck, put his weight behind long, smooth strokes from nape to tailbone. He melted as wide palms pulled the knots from his shoulders, moaned almost obscenely as talented fingers worked over his ticklish ribs and dipped beneath the elastic of his boxers, snapping it playfully.

Phee was diligent in his task, careful, and it didn't take long for Stiles' healing glow to start shining through, a gentle, ambient light that cast the room into soft, sweet shadow. He watched as the boy's bruised eyes flickered, eyelashes dark on pale cheeks as sleep dragged at him, the toll of coming back to Beacon Hills taken out on his body and his mind. Pressing a chaste kiss to the perfect black circles marking Stiles' spine, the big blonde wolf grabbed a pillow of his own and dragged the exhausted Touchstone in to his chest, looping one arm around his waist and letting the warmth of the light suffuse his body.

"Wish I could love you," Stiles mumbled as he finally drifted off.

Phee just hooked his chin over Stiles' shoulder and breathed.

"I know."

Chapter Text

“Steeaaakkkk.”

“What?” Stiles asked, his voice muffled beneath a starchy hotel towel as he dried his hair. He’d just emerged from the shower in a cloud of hot steam and Irish Spring, and Phee lay sprawled out on his back in a giant, crooked starfish across the bed, the sheets twisted around his waist and the coverlet on the floor. The wolf was a messy sleeper and it was only made worse by this new place, the strange scents that invaded his dreams.

Stiles tossed his towel back into the bathroom and crossed to the bed, carding his fingers into the curly, tousled chaos of Phee’s hair as he bent over to grab his duffle bag, sifting through for clean underwear and a toothbrush.

“Steak,” the wolf repeated firmly, his eyes still closed and a dreamy look on his face. “Steak and eggs and that God awful American coffee, and then we’ll go see your dad.”

“You want steak and eggs you need to get your ass outta bed,” Stiles smirked, dropping to the floor to buckle on his knife and lace up his boots. “It’s almost noon.” Slipping into a maroon-colored t-shirt, he pushed at Pheelan’s shoulder until he rolled, freeing Stiles’ black hoody from the mattress. Giving it a shake, he lifted it to his nose and breathed in deep, smelling the wind and rain and moors of home, the yeast and balsa and lake water that was Phee.

“We slept till noon?” Phee yawned, pushing upright and rubbing a hand over his face.

“You slept till noon,” Stiles chided. “I was up at ten.”

“Still, good night for you.”

“Yeah. Didn’t expect that.”

“Maybe it’s being home?”

Stiles’ shot him a glare. “Ireland’s home,” he countered. “The cliffs and the taverns and the hills. Móraí. You.”

“Home is with the people you love Stiles,” Pheelan declared softly, climbing to his feet and stepping towards the bathroom, turning in the doorway to smile at him sadly. “And you don’t love me.”

The door clicked shut silently behind him and Stiles wondered when everything had changed, when not being in love had started to hurt them both. Because it did hurt. He could feel it in his chest and he could see it in Phee’s eyes.

Shaking his head, he grabbed his leather jacket from the hook near the door, checked his pockets for his lighter and his wallet and his flask, the little bag of ash. Taking his Ruger from the desk drawer, he checked his sights and carefully reloaded, made sure the safety was set and holstered the pistol. He was just keeping himself busy, he knew it, but it was better than the other.

Because this wasn’t them.

This strange, aching hurt that neither had signed up for.

No.

They were just Stiles and Phee, happy but not in love, and fine with that.

From inside the shower Pheelan startled to warble the lyrics to ‘Galway Girl’ and Stiles grimaced, then smiled. The wolf couldn’t sing for shit, at least not when he was sober, but it was a happy tune, and that was enough.

“Sounds like you’re strangling a cat in here,” he joked as he pushed into the tiny bathroom, started scrubbing his teeth.

Phee laughed, cut the water with a shriek of metal and stepped out, looping a towel around his waist. “That does sound like something I would do,” he chuckled, shaking his head like the wolf he was and sending water flying everywhere.

“A werewolf, maybe,” Stiles garbled around his toothbrush. “Not you.” A quick rinse and spit and he turned to give the wolf a short, quick, peck of a kiss. “I know your secret, Pheelan O’Rourke. You’re just a big ole softy.”

Ducking out of the room, he just managed to avoid the snap of a wet towel aimed for his ass.

“Hurry up!” he whined over his shoulder. “I’m starving!”

While Phee dressed and used gel to tame his mass of curls, Stiles double-checked the supplies he would need to finish up on his dad, made sure everything was still secure in his bag. Amidst the candles and the jars, the pens and the little book he liked to keep on hand for notes, there was a small wooden box, a box that held a second ward like the one he’d given Pheelan, and as his hand closed around it he hoped that he could convince his father as easily as he had convinces the werewolf. Of course, Stiles’ wouldn’t exactly be giving him a choice. He’d burn a ward into the man’s skin if he had to, temporary pain far superior to death or serious maiming. Standing up, he latched the bag, slipped the strap over his head, and grabbed the keys. Phee had just grabbed his jacket from the floor, checked for his wallet, and so together they locked up and walked back down to the car.

Stiles drove this time. Across town to the same little diner where they snagged the same booth, ordered platters of steak and pancakes and hashbrowns, scrambled eggs and OJ. Settling in to wait, they grimaced back and forth over cups of bitter black coffee, unaccustomed to the brew despite the strength of the tea they were both used to. Phee made a few faces at him from behind his mug but Stiles was mostly lost in thought, quiet and a little withdrawn until the waitress reappeared with fragrant, steaming platefuls of breakfast. Commandeering the entire stack of pancakes, Stiles stole half of the potatoes, fried crisp with onions and peppers, doused the entire thing in syrup and dug in.

Leave the meat to the carnivores. He’d take his breakfast sweet and sticky.

“That’s disgusting,” Phee commented when they were halfway in, shuddering as Stiles dumped ketchup over half of the scrambled eggs.

“This coming from a guy who likes the full English breakfast?” Stiles countered, one eyebrow shooting skyward. “Black pudding and cold beans and boiled bacon?”

“Touché,” the wolf conceded, sneaking his fork over to grab a bite of Stiles’ pancakes.

“Hey, hey hey!” he scolded with mock sternness. “Mine! Eat your steak!”

It was far more than two men should have been capable of eating, but they weren’t two men. They were a werewolf and a… well a Stiles, who could pack it away just as efficiently, and pack it away they did. Phee actually had another dish of eggs brought to the table when Stiles’ ketchup encroached to far over the halfway mark, the Irish in him horrified at the thought of going anywhere near the gloppy red condiment. It was nice, almost happily domestic to Stiles mind as he sipped at his coffee and watched a massive slab of rare meat get demolished with a vigor he hugely appreciated. And he supposed that after last night, and this morning, that Phee deserved that.

When they both finally slowed down, bellies stretched and hunger sated, Pheelan signaled for the check, waved off Stiles’ offer to pay.

“You know they’re going to be waiting for you right?” he asked, signing his name to the receipt and leaving a hefty tip. “At the hospital?”

“Yeah,” Stiles replied, scooping up his last bite of syrup-soaked pancake. “I’ve thought about that.”

“Well?”

Darting a glance out the window to the east, a slow grin curled over his mouth, one that the devil himself would have been proud of.

“I’ve got an idea.”

XXX

Derek sat with his elbows on his knees in the chair next to John’s bed, staring down at his hands as if the answers to all the questions running through his head
were written in the lines of his palms. Across the room Scott shifted restlessly in his own seat, the fourth time in as many minutes, and he had to bite his tongue so that he didn’t snap at the young beta, his nerves raw. The steady, beat of the Sheriff’s heart, the gently, easy breathing should have been soothing but it was like the tap of a snare drum on sensitive skin. The shouting banged around inside his head, the phantom voice of memory making his throat tight.

“He said to tell you not to be such a fucking sourwolf!”

“What?!”

“Derek?”

“Derek!”

“No. No that’s not…”

“You’re sure? You’re sure that’s what he said?!”

“What the hell’s a sourwolf?”

“Derek…”

“There’s no way…”

“Derek?

“Derek.”

“DEREK!”

The alpha shook his head, batted the memories away, but they slipped back again.

It was like a sucker punch, those words, that familiar phrase, and all the air was gone from his lungs and for a minute he’d thought he was drowning. But then he clawed back to control, reigned in his wolf, and turned to Scott with something almost like fear, afraid to have the truth confirmed, even more to have it denied, but the beta’s eyes were shining and a huge, stupid grin cracked over his face like the sun rising.

“He’s back,” he said in an awed whisper, a painful, killing joy bubbling in his throat.

“No,” Derek choked in denial. “No, he’s not. It’s been five years, he wouldn’t…”

“Wait a minute,” Isaac said slowly, and from the look on Erica’s face, she realized it too. “It’s not…”

“Derek?”

“Derek…”

“Scott?”

“Stiles!”

Derek shook himself out of it hard, breathed deep, tried to find the scent of him in the little hospital room but couldn’t pull it out. All he could sense was the maddening scent of the other wolf, and the strange, mixed ash and berry coming off the sleeping Sheriff’s skin, snarled and confused and not as it had been the night before, dark and pulsing like an organ, wet, alive...

Something was different.

Sitting up, he dragged a hand over his face, felt the extra day’s stubble on his jaw.

At the mention of Stiles’ name the pack had practically imploded, everyone but Boyd and the twins bouncing off the walls, shrieking, smiling, the sweet sugary
scent of pure happiness hanging in the air. Even Peter’s eyes had glowed, though his grin had been rather wolfish, the points of his canines showing under his lip. Scott had called Lydia and Allison and in the ten minutes it took them to get back to the Hale House and add their voices to the cacophony, Derek had drifted dumbly over to an armchair, dropped down and stared out the window at the falling snow. As his pack yipped and caroused happily around him he felt lost, adrift. It wasn’t until Lydia had asked where Stiles was, wasn’t until Erica proposed going out into the preserve and tracking him down, that he’d found his voice.

To say they’d been immediately pissed when he’d put his foot down was an understatement, but it hadn’t taken long to convince them. Everything he’d said was true; Stiles had been gone without a word for almost five full years, he’d slipped into town just as silently, he’d scared the ever living hell out of the twins and warned all the pack away from his father.

If he’d wanted to see them, he knew where to find them.

That wasn’t exactly the message he was sending.

The pack had sobered quickly, a melancholy falling over them as they recalled the years past, the events that led to the loss of their friend. They blamed him, he knew that, even if they didn’t say it out loud.

He accepted it.

He blamed himself too.

Which was why now he felt ready to split out of his skin, to go mad from all the gentle, swishing sounds of life continuing to move around him when his own little world had stopped.

He would’ve stayed away.

He didn’t doubt that was what Stiles wanted.

But Lydia had quashed that, taken charge and proposed tearily that in an effort not to drive Stiles away again they approach cautiously. She’d named him and Scott as the two to do the ice-breaking and he’d immediately declined, calling her as the smarter bet. She and Stiles had become quite close in the end, so much so that she’d been more crushed by his leaving than she had been by Jackson’s. He could hear the heartache, smell the yearning when she’d said no, gone for his weak spot by pointing out that he was the alpha of the territory and the pack, that it was his responsibility by rite, and that it had been for him that Stiles sent his identifying message, a damn code word that none of the rest even knew.

He’d agreed then because he couldn’t refuse, not without drawing attention to… well, whatever was cutting at him. But he agreed too because she was right. The
red-headed banshee could be vicious, ruthless… but she was right.

She would have made a good wolf.

So that was how he’d won the lottery, wound up sitting in a hospital watching a man sleep with an excited, nervous beta across from him, waiting for Stiles, waiting for the axe to drop. They’d waited till visiting hours, waited till the sun had well and fully risen, and it was almost one now. At least, according to the clock over by the door. He didn’t trust it. Seemed he’d been sitting here forever with his mind spinning itself into a frenzy.

Still, he had to give it to Scott, he was keeping his mouth shut. There was no way he was missing the thunder of Derek’s heart, the sharp, citrus scent of his nerves. But he kept his mouth shut. Except for when his mom had come along and he’d practically interrogated her before telling her that Stiles had come back. The nurse had been as sweetly happy as Lydia, tears glinting as she’d hugged her son and promised to keep an eye out but denied seeing him or anyone else coming or going from the Sheriff’s room. He’d been in a sort of sedated sleep ever since they’d come in, since his minor distress code the evening before. She’d assured them though that he was doing better, and that he would be back to his old self in just a few days.

Neither Derek nor Scott had had the heart to contradict her, had the heart to tell her that it had been an alpha who’d caused the bite.

She’d left for the nurse’s station with a new spring in her step, touching her hand to Derek’s chest with a strange, soft smile on her face before leaving them both alone with the stillness and the steady snare of heartbeats and that god damned smell of wheat and rain and wet werewolf.

Derek pushed roughly to his feet with a snarl, ignoring Scott’s jump and wide-eyed look and beginning to pace sharply and rapidly back and forth over the tiled floor. His own wolf was battering around beneath his skin, throwing itself against the bars he used to cage it, desperate to run, to scent and track and hunt down…

Derek’s head snapped towards the door, his eyes flashing red.

“Shut up,” he growled and Scott yipped.

“I didn’t say anyth…”

“Shut up!” Derek tipped his head to the side, angling towards the door as his ears pricked. “Do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Listen!” Derek snarled.

“Wait a minute…” Scott murmured, cocking his head too. “Is that…”

Derek’s eyes flared and he felt his teeth sharpen. “Is that Stiles’ jeep?”

Chapter Text

Stiles’ listened with a smirk from the edge of the parking lot, crouched low with his back pressed flat against the tire of their rented black SUV. He’d recognize that heavy shift and grind of gears, that dull roar of an engine with a steady drip anywhere.
God he’d missed his jeep.

He hadn’t been able to go inside the house. He’d wanted to. Really wanted to. Standing in his driveway, gazing at the house where he’d grown up, where his mother had lived and where his dad had raised him filled him with a sweet sense of melancholy and nostalgia. But it wouldn’t have felt right, not without his dad there. Not to walk through those empty rooms, like a still-frame out of a movie, to see life that had gone on without him and then had stopped when his father had been jerked out of it by a werewolf allowed to run and rampage…

He was lucky Phee had been with him then, because the shadows had started to wrack and swirl up through the soles of his boots and send his vision off in a spin of black and gray, and even though the wolf didn’t know how bad the shadows were, didn’t know that they were starting to cut and bite and hammer away at his glow, he could smell his distress. He knew enough, recognized the shaking in Stiles’ hands and had grabbed on hard to his wrist, the bones shifting under his fingers until Stiles had blinked stupidly and come back to himself, the ringing in his ears fading away. He’d never told anyone about the shadows. He’d always just though it was something he had to deal with, a consequence just like his inability to sleep that resulted from the elements and forces he chose to tamper with. Never told Phee, never told his grandmother who had taught Stiles most of what he knew. It was his burden to bear, and the fact that he could feel it growing, feel it in his chest just underneath his breastbone, a constant presence ever since he’d stepped back into Beacon Hills, well it was just that. A presence. A consequence he dealt with.

So he hadn’t gone inside, afraid to face the metaphorical hearth of the home that he had left, afraid to bring the shadows inside with him.

The garage was another story.

He’d gotten in easily enough with the lock picks from his pocket, and he’d almost cried at the condition his jeep was in. He’d told his father that he could sell it, as much as it would hurt, but when he’d left he hadn’t thought he’d ever be coming back. Still, there it was, parked in the corner instead of outside or in storage, and it looked even better than he remembered it. His dad didn’t know a lot about cars, mostly just took the cruiser in for a tune-up at the little garage on the edge of town when it needed an oil change, but it was clear that he had spent time, care on the old blue rust-bucket. It had been washed, waxed, the floors and seats vacuumed out… there was even one of those little trees hanging from the rearview mirror, cracked and dried out. It was odd and unsuspected and sweetly touching.

The keys were stashed in the ashtray Stiles had always kept full of change, and his baby started up for Phee like a dream, turning over without a hiccup, a testament to the general maintenance it had gotten over the years. Stiles consoled himself with the promise of a nice long drive later on, trying not to think about when later on would be, how long he’d stay in Beacon Hills before going back to Ireland, how he would break it to his dad that he was going. Instead he pulled Phee through the driver’s window, kissed him hard and told him to wait ten minutes, then ran for the SUV and burned rubber for the hospital. His trap set, all that there had been left to do was wait.

Stiles shifted on his heels, adjusted his crouch as the low rumble of his jeep got closer and closer, trawled slowly in front of the hospital parking lot. In his mind’s eye he could see Pheelan sitting low and easy in the driver’s seat, hands strong and confident on the wheel and the gear shaft, and he had to blink and shake his head before he could refocus on the doors of the hospital. He wasn’t sure who’d be waiting to ambush him, might even be the entire pack, and if that was the case he was screwed, but he didn’t think Melissa or the hospital would let that fly. One or two then, and he was… hesitant to guess who it would be.

He didn’t have to wait long to find out.

With the jeep idling loudly on the street, the doors of the hospital came crashing open and Derek Hale came skidding out, Scott McCall behind him.

Stiles hissed in a breath between his teeth as the knife in his side twisted sharply. It had been driven in hard and deep some time ago, but it had been lodged between his ribs so long that he’d pretty much forgotten it was there, forgotten it could make him bleed.

The sight of his once upon a times reminded him.

His once upon a time best friend.

His once upon a time… well. Whatever the hell. He didn’t label what Derek was to him. No word was right, no word fit, and in reality, he was nothing. Nothing to
him.

Because Stiles was nothing to Derek.

Still, seeing them again, finally… he couldn’t even describe it. It was just like with Melissa, his desires tearing him in half as easily as any werewolf could’ve. At least back then.

Stiles sneered.

Wouldn’t be so easy now.

Hug him.

Hurt him.

Stiles wasn’t sure which wolf he met. Which option he preferred.

Probably all of the above, and then some.

Luckily he wasn’t about to find out, because as Derek’s head whipped back and forth, searching for the sound that had brought both of them running, Pheelan nailed the gas and peeled out, painting long black lines onto the asphalt with an admirably vicious screech. Stiles had all of three seconds to admire the burnout, run his tongue over the points of his canines in a display of arousal that he’d picked up living with the wolf before he had to duck, chuckling as Derek flew by in a streak of black and grey, Scott close on his heels.

“So long chumps,” he muttered darkly, rolling to his feet and bolting across the lot to the doors. Pulling up his hood and popping the collar of his jacket, he moved quickly down the hallway and slipped into his father’s room.

The Sheriff was still sleeping, an unnatural sleep, almost a coma as his body fought what had been done to him. Stiles knew, just from looking, listening, that he hadn’t gotten the job done yesterday but it didn’t scare him. It had never taken him just one try, never been that easy, and so he was prepared to finish what he’d started. He didn’t have a lot of time; the jeep was faster than the wolves but he’d told Pheelan just to run them around the edge of town and come back – he would need him when he was done.

Moving to the side of the bed, Stiles slipped his hand beneath his father’s pillow and pulled out the sprig of mistletoe he’d left there, found it black and shriveled, crushed easily to ash under his fingers and brushed away. Opening up his hard-sided satchel, he took out his chalk, his mountain ash and began to draw his circle.

XXX

Phee didn’t think it would work.

Why would a werewolf, especially an alpha, chase after Stiles’ jeep? It was a little too much like a dog chasing a car for dignity, so why wouldn’t they just wait, find him at the hospital or his house or his motel? Why would they chase someone who clearly didn’t want to be caught?

Well, ok, that last one he got.

The chase, the hunt, running your prey to ground.

Yeah.

That he got.

Of all the games he and Stiles played, that one was definitely his favorite.

Him? He’d chase.

But then again, that was him. They weren’t in love, but he’d chase Stiles to the ends of the earth, cherish him while he had him. These wolves, they hadn’t done that. This alpha hadn’t done that. And still, they seemed almost desperate, hauling ass after the beat-up blue box of bolts that Stiles had looked at with something close to familial love and that Phee had been nervous to climb into in the first place. The damn steering wheel was on the wrong side for Christ’s sakes, but he had to give it to the rust-bucket, it was hiding some power under the hood.

Phee grinned as he took a corner hard and fast, and it was feral and full of fang.

Just like its owner then.

Checking his side mirrors, he was pleased to see that he’d lost the two wolves on his tail and debated slowing down in order to give them something to sight on, but Stiles had told him to go and get back, run a wide circle that would keep the wolves hunting but would end back where it had started. And besides, Stiles was going to need him. He always did. So instead of slowing down he hit the gas, laying his trail as the jeep belched the acrid black exhaust of an oil leak into the air, impossible for any wolf to miss.

Halfway back to the hospital Phee had decided that he almost felt bad for them, the alpha and the pack. Stiles had told him enough when he was in his cups or the throes of a nightmare that he suspected the boy was missed, despite the way things had ended. He could feel dislike towards these wolves because of that, because of the things he knew, but he could still feel bad for them. He believed what Stiles had said was true because the first time he’d heard the tales three long years ago the words had been colored with pain, not bitterness or anger, but he’d also seen a pair of red eyes glowing in his rearview mirror, and so yes, he believed that Stiles was missed. And personally, though he himself wore the fur of a lone wolf quite contentedly, he believed down to his toes that Stiles would be better off if he just confronted the pack, confronted what he’d left behind.

He didn’t much care about the other wolves, not really, even though conceptually he could feel bad for them.

But Stiles would be better off.

It would hurt at first, viciously, but every wolf knew that you couldn’t leave your foot in the jaws of a steel trap. Couldn’t drag that injury around with you. Even if you had to bite through flesh and bone to free yourself.

Whipping the jeep into a parking space across from the SUV, he pocketed the keys and jogged inside, following the scent of clean soap and the woods and the mountains and his own heavy blonde pelt, the scent of Stiles, down the hallway to the little room where the Sheriff lay, fighting the poison that would change him but destroy his son. The door was closed and a quick look through the glass inset showed him Stiles sitting calmly on the floor inside his circle, his hands resting lightly on his knees as the candles flickered an inch off the ground. Around him chairs hovered, a pillow, the clipboard that held the Sheriff’s file, and Phee knew he was well into the flow of whatever forces he was bending. Huffing a gentle breath of relief, he moved to the other side of the hall and dropped into a chair to
wait.

Chapter Text

The hospital. The damned hospital. What the hell was the point?

Derek’s heart was pounding in his chest, his lungs and legs burning, and there was a metallic taste at the back of his mouth that told him he’d pushed too hard, held back the wolf when he should have let it run. He’d followed behind Stiles’ jeep at a punishing pace, losing Scott more than once but he still hadn’t been able to keep up as he leapt ditches and blew across intersections on a wide ring around the outskirts of Beacon Hills proper. If he’d been smart he would’ve waited, wouldn’t have gone tearing off after a vehicle he couldn’t catch, a man who didn’t want to be caught, but he hadn’t been. Hadn’t been smart, hadn’t been thinking, hadn’t been in control…

And all he could think was that he needed to run Stiles to ground, tackle him and press him into the earth beneath his own body, scent him and mark his neck with his teeth and then have his whole pack do the same.

Because Stiles was theirs. He belonged to them, to the Beacon Hills wolves, to the Hale pack. Not some strange omega, not whatever ashen power had ahold of him.

Stiles was theirs.

In that moment, seeing his old blue jeep standing in front of the hospital, it had been like nothing had ever changed. He’d forgotten that five years had passed. He’d forgotten that the boy had left without a word, disappearing from their lives like smoke and refusing any and all contact.

He’d forgotten why.

And now, hunched over at the edge of the parking lot with his hands on his knees, panting and choking for air, he was afraid. Afraid to go inside, afraid to see him, because now it all came flooding back and he remembered.

Stiles wasn’t theirs anymore.

So here he stood with his hand out to the door, unable to feel his fingers, unable to take that last inch that would have his hand on the glass and steel and have the way open to him…

He swallowed hard when Scott moved past him with a worried glance, pushed through the door and held it until he moved sheepishly through into the hospital lobby, abruptly flush with heat in his cheeks and on the back of his neck, ashamed that he couldn’t seem to grab hold of his own issues and walk. Snarling softly at himself, he mentally hiked up his manhood and strode strongly down the hallway, tracking that damned musty smell of wet dog through the air towards the Sheriff’s room. The sight of a blonde giant standing braced in front of the door with massive arms crossed had his upper lip curling back over long, sharp teeth, and behind him Scott whined anxiously in the back of his throat, a warning to keep control.

They were in a hospital after all.

“You’re on claimed territory,” Derek rumbled as he drew flush with the other wolf, his shoulders thrown back with a confidence he didn’t feel too deeply. The twins hadn’t lied; he was a big bastard. He had a strong jawline, thick, dark blonde hair and biceps as big around as Derek’s thighs. “Might have been courteous to report your presence.”

“We did,” the wolf replied. “Thought the message was pretty clear.”

Derek felt a growl rumble up through his chest, bubbling and expansive. Sourwolf, the message that had been sent, sent to him, the only part of it that had mattered, was their word, their name, their story, and knowing this stranger understood the significance of that made him feel like he’d swallowed antifreeze, chill and oily and poisonously sweet. But still the wolf had confirmed the truth to him – he was with Stiles, and Stiles was here, and that was all he really needed to know.

“Move.”

He said it off-handedly as he moved towards the door, as though it were only a token command, as though he were certain the omega would already be stepping aside for him as he spoke the word, but the wolf stood firm, didn’t even shift on his feet. Anger splashed inside of his chest, though in any other circumstance he wouldn’t have been surprised, and he sneered, showing his teeth.

“I said move,” he said, his voice dangerously low this time.

The omega dropped his arms to his sides with a loose roll of his shoulders, separating his feet, and Derek recognized it as a fighting stance.

“Can’t do that,” he rumbled lazily, as though they had all the time and patience in the world where Derek felt as if he’d completely run out of both. “Door stays shut.”

This time Derek roared, flashing red eyes and fully formed canines, an Alpha’s command thrumming in his voice, and still the wolf stood, didn’t even flinch away from his authority, though behind him he sensed a tremor run down the length of Scott’s spine as he fought not to drop in submission. The omega even dared to flash his eyes right back at him, a dark gold so deep it was almost ochre as he curled back his upper lip, showing off a set of teeth of his own. Derek might have taken a step back from him had he not been an omega, an omega standing in the way of his getting to Stiles.

“Might wanna watch your tone, friend,” the big blonde warned in a low growl. “I’m not your wolf, and Stiles isn’t your anything.”

And that was it. The one thing this stranger could have said to make Derek want to kill him even more.

With a vicious snarl he drew his claws and lunged, ripping the wolf away from the door, slicing long, bloody gashes down the right side of his rib cage and tossing him across the hall where he collided with a support pillar, smashing brick and drywall before falling to the floor. He didn’t think he heard the muffled shout behind him as he reached for the door, a warning as he depressed the latch and hurled it open, because suddenly he was on his knees and he was suffocating, his hands clawing at his throat as all the air was sucked from his lungs. Lifting his head in fear, trying desperately to drag oxygen into his dying chest, he found himself staring into the black void of Stiles’ eyes.

Empty.

Bottomless.

Glaring right at him unable to see.

He barely registered anything else; not the wind that was funneling in through the open doorway like a vacuum, whistling and shrieking like a hurricane, not the way the flames of the candles flickered violently or the way most everything in the room was hovering an inch above any surface.

Not Stiles.

Just those chill, black eyes, glaring at him like they were trying to pull his soul out through his mouth and end everything he ever was.

Because he did feel like he was dying. Like there was a hook somewhere deep in his belly trying to pull him inside-out.

He felt his body start to cave, and then something crackled and sparked and Stiles threw a hand out towards him, slamming the door closed in his face.

XXX

The shadows screamed in his ears when he finally let them go, let the darkness drain away, back into the circle, the ether he pulled them from. He felt ruined, as he had the few other times he’d done this, but there was a sense of finishing too, a sense of things done, and he knew that the spell had worked. He moved quickly despite the suspicion that he’d somehow broken himself, that his ankles would go to jello if he stood. Pulling himself up by using the frame of the bed for support, he staggered to his father’s head and pulled the new sprig of ashen mistletoe from beneath his pillow, crushed it in his fist, releasing the last of the power that burned at the tattoos on his wrists and spine. All his breath went out of him in a woosh as he gazed down at his father’s face, gone slack now with easy calm.

Healing.

Human.

It was all he asked, of himself and of the powers he tampered with.

Later he would burn heather in an ivory bowl, would kneel on crushed pink quartz until his knees bled. He would hurt, and he would… mourn. He supposed that was the word. It wasn’t praying. Wasn’t quite meditation, not with the sharp rock cutting into his skin. It was… suffering. Giving back in thanks. Penance.

Stiles rubbed his temples as he shuffled back to the end of the bed, his vision blurry around the edges. A dull pain was starting to hammer at the back of his skull and he knew he needed Phee, wondered with a vague sort of half-consciousness where he was as he kicked through the circle of ash on the floor, bent and licked his thumb to pinch out the flames of his candles. The sharp heat snapped him back to awareness, a memory crashing through the blackout that had laid claim on his senses as he’d begun his incantations – the door being thrown open, a shout and a pair of grey-green eyes burning into him as all around him he felt wolves fall.

Wolves…

Fear lanced through his chest like the blade of a knife and he lunged for the door, clumsy on his rubbery legs as he practically fell through. He felt them there, all of them, two collapsed in a coughing, choking mess at his feet but he could taste blood in the air and when his eyes locked on Phee, crumpled in a heap with his hands on his side, everything else was smoke. Lurching towards him, Stiles tripped and wound up in a pile at his side, his hands running over the wolf frantically as desperation poured from his skin, fingers shaking as he shoved Phee’s hair back from his face.

“Oh my god, oh my god!” he chanted, ducking to look into Phee’s eyes. “The spell, the door, you opened the door!”

“Wasn’t me,” Phee yipped in indignation, though it was breathy with pain, shifting to sit up against the wall, one hand still tight on his side. “I’m o…”

“Shit, shit! The ward, the ward should’ve… Phee…”

“Stiles!” He barked, snapping him out of a panic attack that was sure to have been a real roller coaster. “I’m ok.”

“But the ward…”

“Feckin’ burns!” Phee snarled. Jerking aside the collar of his tank top, he revealed a shiny spider web of delicate pink burns in the shape of the pentagram, branded into the tanned skin of his upper chest. “But it works fine Stiles. I’m fine.”

Stiles held his breath, looked Phee in the eye until he heaved a sigh and obligingly flashed golden irises.

“You’re… you’re fine,” Stiles parroted back with trembling relief as he collapsed in on himself, determined to drive that reality through the foggy mess of his brain.

“I’m fine.”

“Good,” he muttered. “Good, that’s… that’s good. Pheelan?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m gonna boot.”

Flailing for a trashcan, he practically dove inside of it as his stomach rolled violently, ejecting the thick, black bile he’d seen Derek puke up once, right before he’d asked Stiles to cut off his arm. Three more heaves and he’d purged it all, wrung himself inside out and dispelled the last bit of energy he’d been clinging to. He felt hands on his chest, slipping inside his leather jacket, and then a cool metal flask was pressed against his fingers. He took hold of the thing but hadn’t quite pulled himself together yet, so he just hung on the sides of the bin, waiting to catch his breath.

“It went well then?”

Stiles snorted a laugh, his head still inside the trashcan as he flashed a thumbs up in Phee’s general direction. The wolf was quiet again until he managed to sit up, dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and unscrewed the cap of the flask, taking a healthy swig of the thin red liquid inside.

“He’s good,” he rasped, his throat raw. “Sleeping. Actually sleeping. There was still some left but I got it all. He’s gonna be fine.” Another swallow and he visibly perked up, a bit of color back in his cheeks as he felt an artificial energy run through him. He didn’t like it, the brew Phee’s grandmother had shown him how to cook up; it left him feeling cold and all the worse for wear after it had worn off, like coffee used to do, but it served his purpose when he needed the kick to get him through some dark place and back into the sun where he could burn away the chill that clung to his bones.

“You’re bleeding,” he said flatly as his eyes landed on Phee’s side, where long lacerations curved around his rib cage and down onto his abdomen.

Another side effect.

You might know you were concerned, or scared, or righteously pissed off, but you couldn’t feel it.

“Why aren’t you…”

“You’re friend’s an alpha remember?” Phee jerked his head in the direction of the two wolves who were still hunched over on the floor, gasping and panting like dogs in summer, but Stiles kept his eyes locked on the red staining his shirt in a widening splash, not ready to look, not ready to see…

“It’s gonna take longer to…”

But then Stiles had his hands on Phee’s strong, flat stomach, thrust up beneath his shirt in a warm, skin-on-skin push and his words dropped away. It wasn’t the place, in the middle of a hospital with people already looking, lingering at the end of the hall but too frightened to approach, to question the roars and snarling sounds, the massive thud that had battered the wall. It could have waited. Sure it hurt, but he wasn’t bleeding out on the lemon-scented tiles. It could have waited. But Stiles was hurting too, and the wolf knew it, could sense his unease even over the physical distress his body was going through, and so he didn’t pull away, instead allowed Stiles to drag his fingers over his skin as the muscles in his abdomen fluttered and contracted under his touch, as the bright, amber glow began to emanate out from whatever place inside of him found healing in this, this touch of wolf and pack.

Stiles watched as the long, vicious cuts in Phee’s side began to knit themselves back together, the skin bubbling and smoothing out until there was no evidence of the damage left but a torn and bloodied tee.

“Thank you,” he murmured, and Phee gave him the courtesy of not tossing the words back at him.

The wolf knew him well.

One big hand came up and stroked his jaw and then Phee was gone from his side, stepping over the wolves still prostrate on the floor and into the Sheriff’s room, ostensibly to pack up Stiles’ paraphernalia but more likely to leave him alone with his past. Swallowing hard, he finally turned around and did just that, his gaze flat and cold as he stared down at two of his what-ifs.

Two of his how-could-you’s.

Two of his fuck-you-and-the-wolf-you-rode-in-ons.

Staring down, he couldn’t say that he was any more angry with one than the other. Bitterness, hurt, cynicism and doubt, it was all there, but he would have thought that when he was finally faced with them, with the Beacon Hills wolves, the Hale pack, that he would harbor a greater hatred for their alpha than his ex-best friend. Still, looking at them now, Scott curled in a ball over his knees, whimpering to himself, Derek flat on his back with eyes shut and chest heaving, he couldn’t say that he was more ready to talk with one than the other. Couldn’t say that he was experiencing much sympathy, even though he hadn’t meant for them to be exposed to the spell.

He shrugged.

Maybe he just wasn’t feeling all that forgiving.

“The effects should wear off in a few days,” he said without emotion, and he saw both of them flinch at the sound of his voice. “Till then I’d go easy on any heavy lifting.”

Phee came back into the hallway then, stepping carefully around the alpha who was struggling to push himself upright. Stiles accepted his bag from the omega, slipped the strap over his head and turned to leave the hospital, surprisingly unsure of what to say after so many sleepless nights spent planning angry, self-righteous speeches. He froze when a hoarse, broken voice called out his name.

“Stiles! Please, just… just tell me what…”

“We need to talk,” he interrupted, still keeping his back to the alpha but somehow knowing that Derek was on his knees, looking young and wrecked and scared. “But I’m about to drop, so it’ll have to keep for a few hours. Sunset’ll be soon enough. Bring the pack; know they don’t much care in any case but I’m not so sure I won’t kill you if we’re alone.”

It was a lie.

He wouldn’t kill him, couldn’t kill him, even though sometimes he thought he might want to.

No, he was afraid that instead he might fall to his knees and sob, shatter into a thousand pieces and never get up again. He’d changed in five years; learned and trained and worked to be stronger, better, so that no one would ever again call him a liability, a distraction, push him away because he was weak and vulnerable and human. He was steel now, a fucking force, death come to call when he had to fight, but inside he was still a broken seventeen year old who’d lost everything and believed he’d never get it back. It was true that he had buried that part of himself years ago and practically forgotten about it, but coming back to Beacon Hills had dug it all up again, and now he was left trying to climb back out of the hole left behind.

Always with the consequences.

“They want to see you.”

Stiles felt his eyebrows jump as Derek’s hesitant words broke through his musings, cocked his head as he considered, turned them over in his brain. “Do they now?” he murmured slowly, sarcastically. “Well isn’t that a refreshing change of pace?” Shrugging the strap of his bag higher onto his shoulder, he started moving again, his feet finally ungluing themselves from the floor. “Tonight,” he called over his shoulder. “After sunset.”

“Where?”

Stiles just smirked and kept walking.

Chapter Text

By the time Derek cut the engine of his Camaro in front of the Hale House he mostly felt like he could breathe again, even though there was still a tickling in the bottom of his lungs that he didn’t like. He felt weak, shaky, as if his blood sugar were low, and Stiles’ warning about side effects kept echoing in his ears. He and Scott barely made it through the front door when they were bombarded by the entire pack, grabbing on to them and hauling them into the front room, pushing them down into chairs before sitting cross-legged at their feet, waiting expectantly with eager, hopeful eyes. Only Peter seemed to realize that something was wrong, which both made total sense and made him feel like he’d fallen through Carroll’s looking glass.

Derek ran shaking fingers through his hair as he watched his uncle disappear into the hallway, come back seconds later with two empty glasses and a jug of orange juice dangling carelessly from his fingers. Peter gave one over without a word, and he held it up soundlessly while the older wolf poured, filled it to the top and then watched until Derek started to drink before moving on to Scott, who had his head between his knees and was huffing hard through his nose. The quiet that had fallen told him they’d figured it out; all eyes following Peter, shocked by his strange show of paternal behavior. Allison had perched on the arm of Scott’s chair and was stroking her hand through his hair comfortingly, accepted the second glass for him and attempted to coax him upright, but it was the care coming from the resurrected beta that was setting all their teeth on edge.

“I take it,” he said with a touch of unnecessary amusement as he sat the gallon of juice on the floor near Scott’s feet and moved to take up his position on the love seat next to Lily, “That our young Stiles wasn’t too happy to see you then.”

“Was my fault,” Derek choked in a hoarse voice, moving to defend Stiles without a thought, even though when Peter rolled his eyes, the alpha got the feeling he’d taken the admission as more than it was intended to
stand for.

Not that you couldn’t say he was right.

“It was my fault,” he repeated. “He didn’t mean to… he was doing something, when we got there. Some kind of spell, or…” Derek shook his head, still not one hundred percent sure what he’d seen. “I opened the door. The omega, the omega told me not to but I opened the door.” Peter raised an eyebrow sardonically at the idea of his nephew taking any kind of order from an omega, but Derek ignored him. He didn’t understand. “It was like,” he breathed, “It was like…”

“It was like he pulled the wolf out of you.”

All eyes flashed to Scott, who had finally gotten himself up in his chair but was looking pale and clammy with a cold sweat.

“Felt like…”

His voice was a shaking ghost of a whisper now, and Derek felt a mirroring chill roll down his own spine.

“That’s not possible,” Peter rumbled, easily and confidently from his seat. “You can’t pull out the wolf.”

“Yeah well you weren’t there, were you?!” Scott snapped.

The whole pack jumped save Derek and Peter, who only lifted an eyebrow lazily at the angry beta.

“You didn’t feel it,” he said, quieter now but with the points of his teeth showing beneath his lip. “It was like dying. Suffocating. Like a hook, here.” He touched his fingers to his belly, his eyes far away. “Pulling at you. And then you just feel…”

“Empty.”

Eyes turned slowly back to the pack alpha, who hadn’t meant to murmur the word, but somehow hadn’t been able to stop it. Still, it was true. Inside he felt shaken, as though his soul had been pulled away from the sides of his chest cavity, crushed, crumpled until it no longer filled him up the right way.

“Well did you at least talk to him?” Peter asked, clearly done with his brief spate of caring.

Derek grimaced.

“I don’t think he… felt much like talking,” Scott finished sadly.

A murmur ran round the group and Derek felt something flare in the pit of his stomach when he saw Erica’s face fall, saw Lydia purse her lips as tears flooded her eyes. Isaac let out a soft, high-pitched whine of distress and even Boyd shifted uncomfortably in place. He felt the abrupt, overwhelming urge to reassure them, a wolf’s need to comfort a pack member with the brush of bodies and smooth strokes of tongue and gentle rumblings.

He wished it were that simple.

“He said he did,” the alpha corrected, “Said he wanted to talk. After dark, to find him, all of us. We’ll find him, and we’ll…”

Derek sucked in a breath, suddenly shaking with the memory of being driven down hard onto the floor, the wind screaming in his ears as his wolf was dragging, snapping and snarling, from his throat, the scent of Stiles hard in his nose and still all but buried beneath the smoke and berry burn of some kind of magic, eyes black and cold and empty.

“Derek?”

He didn’t know who called his name. He thought it might have been Lydia, and wouldn’t that just be a weird kind of karmic kick in the ass. He’d heard how she’d brought Stiles out of a panic attack with a kiss once, how she’d acted as a sort of temporary anchor for the boy, and then again when Stiles had drowned for his father during the fiasco with the Darach and the Nemeton, right before everything had gone holy hell. Leave it to her to be the one to bring him out of what he suspected might have been his own form of panic attack, his heart pounding against his breastbone and his hand at the base of his throat as he struggled to climb out of the endless void that had been Stiles’ black, bottomless stare.

“Something’s wrong,” he choked. “Something’s… that… that wasn’t him. That wasn’t Stiles. Something’s…”

“How would you know?”

Derek’s eyes flashed to his uncle and he felt anger explode in his chest.

“Shut up,” he warned in a low and deadly tone.

Of course Peter ignored the warning.

“It’s been almost five years since you’ve heard from that kid,” he said flatly, slouching lower to put his feet up on the coffee table and throwing an arm out along the back of the love seat behind a nervous Lily. “Face it nephew. You don’t know him anymore.”

“I said shut up!”

Derek’s eyes practically bugged out of his head as he slapped a hand over his mouth in a comical display of shock that would have had his betas rolling on the floor laughing if what had just come out of his mouth hadn’t been even worse. What should have been an Alpha’s roar, full of power and command complete with glowing red eyes and fangs had come out no louder than an average human’s shout, and a weak one at that. Hell, coming from him it had practically been a pup’s yip. Peter looked practically dumbfounded, apparently too surprised to even make a crack, and all the rest of his pack were staring at him with dropped jaws and a scent like unease. He tried twice more, and failed, to push his fangs from his mouth, to make a sound even a little bit like an alpha should make, but he couldn’t do it.

“Do you believe me now?” Scott moaned miserably.

“Can you…” Derek asked distractedly in his direction, his fingers at his mouth as he tested the edges of his teeth with his thumb.

Scott sat still for a minute, apparently concentrating, but nothing happened.

“Nope.”

“You see?” Derek said pointedly, glaring at his uncle. “Stiles wouldn’t…”

“You don’t think so?”

Peter scoffed.

“You’re an idiot Derek.” Shaking Lily off of his chest, he rose smoothly to his feet and ran burning blue eyes around the circle of the pack. “You all are. Jesus, did you just forget that Stiles took off without a word? He left! Why do I feel like I’m the only one who knows why?”

XXX

Phee watched attentively from the wing-backed desk chair as Stiles worked silently through his penance. It was a grueling process, one that often left him achy and in a melancholy mood, and the werewolf had urged him to put it off, to wait until the next day at the very least, but he’d only shaken his head and laid out a bed of gravel on the floor, set fire to heather with a mumbled prayer, rubbed the ashes into his chakras at his wrists and throat before stripping down to his boxers and kneeling on the crushed stone. Phee’s nostrils had flared as the sharp tang of copper burst in the air, the blood from his knees further pinking the quartz beneath him.

He’d explained it once. How the pain of kneeling for hours, of remaining entirely still through the agony, was a type of mourning. A type of thanks. Phee had asked him why he didn’t just sacrifice a fattened calf if he was in the mood to be gratuitous, but Stiles had only laughed and replied that that was the sort of thanks you gave a wolf, not a power like the ones he offered up to. No, it had to be pain, and more importantly, it had to be his own. Something of himself, freely given.

So Phee let him give.

Kept careful watch, but let him give.

And in a way this was better, because there was strength in him again. He may kneel, he may bleed, but there was strength in him. In the lines of his back and shoulders, his spine ramrod straight, and in the way his palms rested lightly on his thighs, fingers refusing to grip and curl against the pain.

Small, quiet strength.

Pheelan ran his eyes over the slopes of Stiles’ shoulders, touched on the heavy black circles along the sweep of his spine. It was a beautiful sight.

Beautiful, because the boy had been shattered when they’d left the hospital.

Silent, the whole way back to the hotel, and that silence had scared him more than anything he could remember.

He’d stripped the second he was inside the room with frantic, jerky movements, shed his boots and his jeans, ripped his tank over his head, pentagram still warm against his bare chest. Once more he’d tugged Stiles out of his jacket, carefully unloaded his pistol and pulled him out of his socks and his shirt before dragging him down onto the bed, rolling onto him so that his massive frame pressed the smaller man heavily into the mattress, grounding him, skin to skin. Stiles had come slowly out of his shock, his frozen, trance-like state and started to shake beneath him, begun to sob, tears scalding hot against Phee’s collarbones as he buried his face in the wolf’s neck, gripped his hair tightly, heaving out hard, painful cries against his throat. His skin had been ice cold in contrast, clammy with a hard sweat, and shaking, shaking so hard…

Phee’s heart had tightened in his chest but all he could do was hold Stiles closer as his body was physically wracked with the emotional pain of years all coming to bear at once. He’d banded his arms tight around him until the screams he pressed into a pillow had finally been choked off, tears falling quietly then as he dragged air raggedly in and out of his lungs. It had taken an hour for him to calm down, an hour for a faint, weak glow to start warming him up, and it flickered and broke in a way that Phee had never seen it do. An hour to get there, and then another before Stiles had finally gone boneless beneath him, sagged limply as his eyes fell closed in exhaustion and the glow went out completely as he lost consciousness, dropped down and down and down into a dead-still sleep.

But Phee hadn’t let go.

Couldn’t let go.

Instead he’d wormed closer still, tried to pull so tight together that they stopped being two and just started being. He’d scent marked him as well, in the pale, watery sunlight that came in through the filmy curtains over the window and fell across the bedspread, dove into the hollow where his neck met his shoulder and breathed and snuffled and nuzzled gently, rubbing skin on skin. Always skin on skin with them, trying to find something that they weren’t even sure was there, but he’d just kept holding on, kept pressing close until Stiles had finally stopped stinking of fear and pain and anger and just smelled like him, like them.

He’d managed almost three hours’ worth of sleep, almost three, without tossing or turning or screaming awake with a nightmare, and Phee had breathed easy after a while, despite the fear still lurking in the shadows at the back of his mind. They had abated only a little when Stiles had finally blinked awake, ran his hand through his hair groggily and pushed up on his shoulder until he rolled away onto his back. No words passed between them but fingertips had followed, traced delicately over the fading pink burn left by the pentagram, sparked with heat and pulled the marks from him until there was nothing left and lips pressed a kiss to the newly healed skin above his collarbones. He’d climbed from the bed after that, moved into his rituals with only a sad sort of smile when Phee’d asked him to wait.

It seemed like ages before he came out of his prayers. And Pheelan believed that they were prayers, despite Stiles’ denial. Still, ages before his breathing finally picked up out of its low, shallow pace, before his heartbeat returned to its normal, steady pounding. He staggered as his rose to his feet but Phee didn’t offer support, knew better than to do so. He could only watch as Stiles brushed rock from his knees, blood running in ruby rivulets down his shins, silently packed his things away before disappearing into the bathroom where the shower came on with a shriek and a groan. By the time he re-emerged with his hair damp and his face shaven into hard, well-cut lines, darkness had fully fallen and Phee was dressed and ready to go, standing with his hands in his pockets after shaking out his shoulders.

“You ready?” he asks as he watches Stiles slip into his leather, check his pistol.

He only smirks, and racks a round into the chamber.

Chapter Text

Stiles drove his jeep up to the far northern edge of the woods and walked with Phee to the rocky outcropping that overlooked the city where Scott had used to meet with Allison, where they had taken Jackson before they’d solved his little Kanima problem, where he had come and gotten horribly, horribly drunk on a bottle of his father’s whiskey before making the decision to leave Beacon Hills for good. It was a beautiful view, had been and still was, all the lights of the city glowing far below them beneath a sky that was almost black under the lingering storm clouds of yesterday. A thin sliver of crescent moon showed through, casting only the barest silver light, but Stiles didn’t need it. His senses were always sharper after he’d tapped into his darker energies, and then again after he’d run his penances. Now his skin thrummed with every movement of the air, his ears hypersensitive to every small sound that echoed out of the darkness.

Turning his back on the vista view of the place he hadn’t called home in a long time, he kicked around in the dirt and dead leaves a bit, decided where he wanted to be when the pack showed. It was strategic, he supposed, to put his back to the cliff, have his flanks protected by the rough, jagged rock. They would have to come at him straight, fan out in front of him where he could see them all, and he wondered momentarily if he was expecting a fight. Pheelan was; he could tell from the way the wolf shed his jacket and tossed it over a tree branch, shook out his arms like a boxer, and although he appreciated the view of the moonlight kissing the heavy muscles in his bare shoulders, he reached out a hand to settle him.

“Not planning on any bloodshed are you?” he asked lightly, teasingly.

“Are you?” Phee countered.

Stiles chuffed a laugh, tossed him a half-smile. Didn’t matter if he was or not, Pheelan would be ready. He always was. For an honest-to-god omega, a cut-and-dyed lone wolf, he was ridiculously protective of his own – the grandmother that he lived with and adored, his younger sister, who was human and who he rarely saw, Stiles. Sweet and soft on the inside, he nevertheless had the body of a fierce warrior, and he could be that warrior when he had to. Tonight was a night that he felt he had to; Stiles could smell it on him, see it in the way that he leapt lightly up to the top of a boulder just behind him and off to his left, stood with his feet wide beneath him and his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He would stand guard there as long as he felt necessary; a steady yet forceful presence that would offer support to Stiles and a warning to anyone else.

Setting his own feet, Stiles rolled his neck and shoulders, threw back his head, and howled.

It was an easy trick, one he’d learned a long time ago. Easy, to pull a wolf’s howl out of his own chest. He was a Touchstone after all, a human meant to live and die with wolves, and it only made sense that he should be able to call his pack. Of course, he’d never really had a pack. Still didn’t, technically. But he had Phee, and he was enough to ground Stiles in his own skin, anchor him to his power, and so it was easy to open his mouth and call. They would know it was him. They’d never heard him call before, but every voice was unique, and his howl was his just as his words were, just as his scent was. It was a strong, powerful call that reflected only a bit of his rage, of his immense desire to not be calling to them, and it caused Phee to whine long and low in the back of his throat, but as the eerie, echoing sound finally faded, another struck up, somewhere near the center of the preserve only miles from where they waited. Wouldn’t be long now.

Stiles frowned and dug a single cigarette from the pocket of his jeans, a slim hand-rolled that contained something other than nicotine. Stiles didn’t smoke, not really, but every once in a while, perhaps two or three times a year, when he felt like the stress of his life was going to eat him alive, he would pick up a pack from the apothecary near Phee’s grandmother’s house, the one that sold things for people like him and just indulge. Times like that he usually ended up chain smoking his way through all of them in a few hours, spending days afterwards totally blissed out, lounging in a haze of stupid-silly grins, video games and junk food. Tonight, he just needed something to settle his nerves. Flicking his silver lighter to life, he inhaled deeply and held the smoke in his lungs before blowing it out slowly through his nose.

“That was no alpha,” Phee murmured above him, and Stiles smirked around his cig.

True. Apparently Uncle Bad-Touch was still a part of the pack. Wasn’t that just… interesting.

“Their alpha got hit pretty hard with my removal spell,” he said aloud. “He won’t have full control of his wolf back for a few days.”

“Serves the bastard right,” Phee snarled under his breath, no doubt intending that Stiles shouldn’t hear. “Told him not to open the damn door.”

“He never was big on communication,” Stiles muttered. “Always did prefer just slamming people into walls.”

He thought that Phee might’ve replied but he’d heard something, caught something on the wind and turned away, his back to the cliffs once more as he waited for the incoming wolf pack. He could hear them, heavy feet slamming against the earth, breath roaring hard in straining lungs. He could hear their hearts pounding in their chests, hear them crashing through the trees and the undergrowth as though he were running right beside them, and he felt a terrible yearning well inside his chest, hot and painful and wanting. Quickly enough they’d reached the creek bed and it was almost as though he could see them behind his eyes, knew who splashed messily through the water and slipped on the rocks, who leapt the small river and cleared it with grace and ease.

Slowly eyes began to appear in the dark, gold and blue glowing like the reflection off of a camera lens, and one by one they began to emerge out of the trees into the small clearing; Erica and Boyd, Peter and Isaac, the twins – all faces he knew but didn’t know at all. They all looked exactly the same and it constricted something in his chest, because they didn’t any of them look the same at all. Taller, broader, stronger, they’d all lived and grown and matured without him, and while he supposed that that was only the natural course of things, it still hurt.

Last of the pack to step into the barren place between the rock and the wood was Derek, the red gleam of his own eyes conspicuously absent, but there was a hesitance and vulnerability in his face that made him look young, younger than Stiles thought he ever could have been. It tugged at something inside of him, made him want to both ease that anxious fear with a gentle glow and crack him upside the head, ideally with his rowan wood baseball bat, and so, since he wasn’t sure which option he preferred and because he’d left said bat in the hotel room, he chose to do nothing, just stand silently and take another hard drag from his cigarette, blowing a stream of smoke in the alpha’s direction.

Derek took an uncertain step to his left and Stiles was sure he saw Peter smirk out of the corner of his eye, but he avoided looking at any of them directly, unable to bring himself to actually meet any of their gazes. He snarled low under his breath, angry with his own cheap cowardice, and the whole of the pack flinched back from the feral sound, surprised that a wolf’s noise had come from a human throat.

Maybe they hadn’t recognized his howl then.

Stiles felt his heart judder and he swallowed, focused hard on keep it beating flat and smooth and steady.

XXX

Derek stood nervously in the clearing with the rest of his pack feeling stripped, not only because of the way his senses were dulled but because of the way Stiles looked at him, at them, as though they were just casual strangers. The howl that had called them from the Preserve to the northern quarter up at the top of the bluff had sent a chill down his spine, made all the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stand up. He’d assumed it was the omega, calling them in for Stiles, announcing their position to the pack, but something about it… It had felt familiar and eager and made him want for home, the wolf’s den he’d managed to turn the Hale House into despite the blade of anger that had burned in the edges of the call. He begrudged Peter his responding call, angry that he couldn’t do it himself, but it seemed his wolf was cowering inside him somewhere, and that was as concerning as it was embarrassing.

With his own voice out of commission it would have been Isaac’s right to respond but his uncle had stepped in, earning him a furious glare and a rather unintimidating snarl, but Peter had merely rolled his eyes and taken off, leading the run into the trees towards the bluff, the pack hot on his heels. Derek had had to push to keep up, his heart in his throat as he hauled ass to keep up with his uncle, the anger burning in his veins not quite enough to give him the kick he needed to overtake the older wolf. It might have been nice, barreling hard through the woods with his entire pack, all of them intent on the same prey if that prey hadn’t been Stiles, if he hadn’t been afraid of what they would find at the end of the trail. He’d warned them as the sun had gone down, as he had led them into the trees half-changed that they needed to be careful, both with themselves and with the man who had once been their friend. Whether he believed it Stiles’ intention or just a side effect of whatever dark thing had hold of him didn’t matter; the boy was capable of hurting them, and they needed to know that.

Still, he didn’t think that anything he said had sunk in. The pack had yipped and cajoled and romped through the trees, totally overcome with the joy of what to them must feel like a hunt, with the promise of finally seeing their friend again, and dark thoughts thundered in the back of his mind as he ran with them, afraid of what they were all expecting, afraid of what might actually prove to be reality. They didn’t know, didn’t understand that blackness that he had seen, hadn’t felt the cold emptiness that he had in the hospital that afternoon, and there was no way he could make them understand. He hoped they wouldn’t have to.

If they could figure out what was wrong, if they could fix…

Derek’s heart slammed in his chest as he leapt the creek easily, gaining ground on the pack as they slipped and slid and splashed.

He knew what was wrong. At least, what had started out as wrong.

What he didn’t know was how to fix it.

But then the scent of the omega and some strange smoke was filling up his nose and his feet slowed, the pack swarming passed him in their eagerness, breaking from the trees into the clearing where Stiles waited, braced against the rocks with the big omega looming like a hulking bodyguard above him, both backlit by a thin slice of crescent moon. Derek watched as Stiles’ eyes lit briefly on each of his betas as they fanned out in front of him, but didn’t linger on anyone in particular, and for a second it seemed like he was searching, and his heart skipped. Forcing his feet to move again, he finally pushed himself forward into the open and stood, scared and strangely cold. For just a second Stiles’ gaze tripped over his body and it should have been like liquid electricity, but instead he felt like he was being sized up, measured and then disregarded.

Stiles lifted his hand to his mouth and suddenly Derek’s stare was caught on his pale, slim fingers, the way his cheeks hollowed around the cigarette in his hand as he took a hard drag. The cherry briefly lit his face with an orange glow, making him look wicked and dark with the thin, unfamiliar lines of his beard and moustache, and then he was pursing his lips and blowing a lungful of herbal smoke towards him with a kind of dismissal that reminded him of disdain. It wasn’t nicotine, but it wasn’t pot either, wasn’t anything he could identify, and he briefly wondered if perhaps that was what was affecting him so much before discarding the idea. He shifted anxiously, unsure if he should speak first or if it would be more… polite to let Stiles run the show. He was just about to open his mouth, just to break the tenuous silence, but a rumbling snarl had ripped out of Stiles throat and he knew – it was him that had called to the pack.

And that…

He swallowed, bit back a whine. Apparently that appealed to his wayward wolf.

He could feel the omega’s hard eyes on him, only darting away fleetingly to keep track of the shifty Peter, and though he understood the wariness, even approved of the blonde wolf’s obvious good judgment, it still made him feel like he was on trial, and he felt his hackles rise, tried to control his rolling emotions.

Hearing Stiles’ voice, throaty and rough with smoke, break the silence didn’t help with that.

“Might as well wait for the rest of your pack,” he said to the wolves as a whole, though the words were directed to him. “Wouldn’t want to give offense by slinging injury.”

Behind him the omega snarled, low and loud, and Derek swallowed at the heavily implied reminder of the vicious, bloody slashes he had left in the wolf’s side. He might have felt a little guilt if he wasn’t being practically driven to his knees by the other implication Stiles had made.

Your pack.

Not our pack. Not the pack.

Your pack.

It was too exclusionary not to hurt.

“Lydia and Allison are almost here,” he managed to respond around the lump in his throat. Stiles’ gaze flicked away towards the trees where Derek could hear the motor of an ATV humming close by, and he wondered if Stiles somehow already knew where they were, knew that they would be in the clearing within minutes. “They’re bringing lanterns, you’ll be able to see...”

“I can see just fine,” Stiles snapped, and Derek could have sworn that he saw silver flash in his dark eyes, like a lightning strike. It was gone before he was even sure it
was there, but he was reminded of the way the moonlight looked when it was reflected off of water. Or blood.

He was distracted from his thoughts as Stiles started to pace in short, hard lines, his movements sharp and harsh as he spun viciously on his heel at the end of each stride. He was staring at the ground and sucking hard on his cigarette, and Derek felt his betas shift nervously around him, their desire driving them forward but their sudden anxiety and uncertainty holding them back. He could feel them looking to him, feel their distress on top of his own, compounding it, filling up his head and weighing him down, his chest tightening…

An ATV came roaring into the clearing, its headlight cutting through the dark and throwing Stiles into sharp relief, illuminating his pale skin and the deep, rich red of his leather jacket. He squinted against the harsh glare before the driver cut the bike’s engine, climbed down along with their passenger and pulled off shiny black helmets, revealing a mussed Allison and a put-together-as-always Lydia. The red head stared at him with something almost like reverence while Allison lit the two lanterns she’d taken from the back of the four-wheeler, and even from the other side of the clearing Derek could see the tears welling up in her eyes, the trembling in her fingers as she lifted her hand to her mouth.

“Stiles?” she tremored, the only one brave enough, or maybe breaking enough, to breach the new silence.

Derek watched intently as Stiles stared at her a minute, sadness fleeting at the corners of his mouth.

“Hey Lyds,” he murmured.

And then he was flicking the ash off the end of his cigarette and stepping carefully out of the circle of light cast by the lanterns, back in to the shadows as though he hadn’t just cracked right in front of them, five years of pain gleaming in his eyes, in those two little words. Turning back to Derek he narrowed his eyes and just like that all the pain was gone, locked away where it might never see the light again, and the only thing that was left was the dark, endless void that he thought he might be able to drown in if he tried.

Stiles looked him up and down, a muscle ticked in his jaw.

“Let’s get this over with.”

Chapter Text

It was fascinating really, the way they reacted to the sound of his voice.

He could feel the longing in them when they’d first come into the clearing, could feel how much they wanted to just pounce on him, bury him in a pile of pack and rub their bodies against him in that way wolves did, and fucking hell, they weren’t the only ones who wanted. There were times when he might’ve done a lot of bad things for that, to be a part of a pack, their pack, but they had made it pretty clear that they weren’t interested in having him, and so what right did they have to whine at him like kicked puppies? What right did they have to blame him for his confusion, old bitterness still strong in his mouth. He didn’t understand the change, didn’t like it – it threw him off, and he wasn’t ready to feel those things. Wasn’t ready to want.

So he snarled, snarked about waiting for Allison and Lydia, snapped about Derek’s having slashed up Phee, and they all reacted, the scent of their nerves flaring in the dark as they shifted anxiously, looking to an alpha who couldn’t help them, couldn’t fix the wrongness that hung in the air. It sat on his skin like oil and made him want to roll around in the dirt, to slough the scent and sensation of it off himself with grit and gravel, but he wasn’t exactly ready to strip down for them yet, to show so much vulnerability, so instead he began to pace, hard, fast, sucking at his cigarette in a desperate attempt to settle the raging emotions pushing against his diaphragm.

He didn’t appreciate the harsh glare of the ATV’s headlamp as Lydia and Allison came riding into the clearing, but he tried not to show it, just watched as they climbed off the bike and shook out their hair, Allison offering him the smallest of smiles before touching Lydia’s wrist and moving to light the two electric lanterns, bathing half the pack in a blue, unnatural glow that was nothing like his. As for Lydia herself, she was just as beautiful and perfect as she’d always been, and it cut at him to see her fighting not to cry. Of all of them, all the pack, she was maybe the one whose loss he had felt the most, perhaps because she was least responsible for his leaving, and he had to stop himself from wrapping her up in his arms and falling, hugging her tight and sobbing into her neck. Instead he withdrew, built up his mental walls and hardened his heart so that they wouldn’t see him crack, but he still couldn’t stop himself from offering her the smallest reassurance, greeting her with softness in his voice and her old nickname.

But that was all he would give.

Stepping out of the uncomfortable electronic shine of the lights, he flicked the ash from his cigarette, took another hard drag before turning back to face the alpha of the pack, the one with the look on his face like he would fall to his knees for Stiles if he only asked, and that both tugged at him and made him want to scream. He could have sneered, could have snarled with it, but instead he’d just ground his teeth and started the parley.

Let’s get this over with.

He felt them flinch at those hard, business-like words and he thought his eyes must’ve flashed, thought something must’ve thrummed in his voice because most of them took a step back, clawed fingers curling into fists.

“Look at them,” he murmured to Phee in Gaelic before switching smoothly back into English, taking a perverse sort of pleasure at the way the pack frowned in confusion at the foreign words. “Scared like shadow. You can smell it on them, all cherries and ice. See it in the way they shift.” He tested the points of his teeth with his tongue, sharper than they should be, looked back over his shoulder. “What was it Machiavelli said?”

Phee’s voice rumbled in his ears from his position on the rocks above, hard and ready.

“Far better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both.”

Around him he felt the wolves swallow, felt them shrink in on themselves, but then Lydia spoke in a strong and confident voice, as steady and perfect as she ever was.

“Hateful is the power,” she said, “And pitiable is the life of those who wish to be feared rather than loved.”

Stiles saw surprise flit across Phee’s face, saw his stance soften as he cocked his head, looked Lydia up and down.

“Cornelius Nepos,” the wolf replied, admiration in his tone before he turned back to Stiles with a smirk. “You always said she was quick.”

“Always,” Stiles answered wistfully before his voice went dead and cold. “But who said anything about wishing?”

Lifting his cigarette he managed to pull one last hard draw out of it, hissing when he burned his fingertips and dropping the butt to the ground, crushing out the cherry under the toe of his boot.

“Not gonna waste your time so let’s get right down to it,” he said, and his voice was loud and firm again in the uncertain quiet that hung over the clearing. “Where’s the alpha?”

Silence followed and he thought it might be shock, which was the only reason he didn’t whip up a thunder strike to emphasize himself before repeating the question. He could do that. It took a lot of energy, and was really just a flashy, showy dick-ish move to pull, but it would have been funny. In fact, he might still...

Scott cleared his throat, ruining Stiles’ opportunity for a little light show as he looked carefully between Derek and Stiles, gripping on hard to Allison’s hand.

“Um, w,what alpha Stiles?” he asked carefully, and Stiles knew what he meant, because Derek’s eyes still weren’t able to burn red the way the rest of the pack’s were glowing blue and gold.

Still, it was a shit question for an ex-best friend to ask.

“The one that bit my father you jackass,” Stiles hissed, his words slow and clear, controlled only because he knew that his father was safe and resting in his hospital bed. “The one that almost severed his jugular, the one that almost…”

“We’re looking for him.”

He turned his head slowly to drop an icy cold gaze on the alpha who had cut him off, not swayed by the panicked, pleading look on Derek’s face.

“We’re looking Stiles. We’ll…

“Looking for him.” This time it was his turn to interrupt. “So let me see if I understand this. There’s a rogue alpha, no, wait, another rogue alpha, on your territory, and not only is he still
alive, he’s running around free.”

“Stiles…”

“Jesus!” he cursed under his breath, turning away to start pacing again, the wild gesticulating movements of his past-self making a reappearance, much to his dismay. “Five years and you still don’t have your shit together!”

“We’ll find him,” Derek ground out, and he could tell by the sound of his voice that he was stepping closer, steps he refused to acknowledge. “Stiles, I swear. We’ll make sure he’s safe until we can get him to your…”

“I don’t want him safe!” Stiles roared, whipping back around hard to find Derek close enough to touch, close enough to reach out and shove, and so that was exactly what he did, planting his palms flat on the alpha’s chest and hurling him backward, ignoring the betas who gasped and staggered away from him, horrified to see their leader go hurtling backwards and land hard on his ass several yards away. The spark too he ignored, the hot tingle in his palms that came from having touched, having finally fully broken the seal that had kept him separate from everything all these years.

Back then he wouldn’t have been able to move Derek even an inch if the wolf hadn’t wanted to go, and he never had.

So this was good.

This meant that they knew.

Things were different. He wasn’t a defenseless liability anymore.

“I don’t want him safe,” Stiles snarled, quietly now as he stalked forward until he was looming over the shocked alpha who staring up at him with a kind of confused fear. “When I find him I’m gonna turn that fucker inside-out. Trim myself a new pair of boots.”

This elicited several gasps but Stiles once again ignored them, turned from Derek and walked back to his place at the bottom of the rocky outcropping, his eyes meeting Phee’s for only the briefest of moments and finding approval there. They both knew that he wouldn’t go through with the threat. What he was was about protection at its core, about healing, and if a wolf was not presenting a direct threat to what was his then there was very little chance that Stiles would be able to bring himself to lash out.

“Well Stiles, I have to say, I like the new you.”

Ok, so maybe he would.

“Peter,” he replied, schooling his tone into emotionless calm, “Keep your fucking mouth shut or I’ll do me a coat too. When I want your opinion I’ll ask for it; until then I’ll take my answers from your alpha or his second, understand?”

To Stiles’ ever-lasting surprise, the blue-eyed beta only smirked with something like pride around the edges of his mouth, inclining his head and taking a step backwards with a graceful, sweeping motion to Isaac, ceding him the floor. The tall, skinny blonde looked panicked for a moment but quickly reigned it in, determination on his face, and Stiles didn’t have to wonder why he’d risen through the ranks to become first beta in the Hale pack. He could practically smell the title on him, and it was one that fit him well. He was almost eager to see how the once timid, messed up teenager would respond, but unfortunately Lydia wasn’t one to bow to pack hierarchy.

“But Stiles, what about your dad?” she asked carefully. “Derek said that if he can kill the alpha that bit him, he won’t turn into a werewolf.”

Stiles practically felt his eyes darken, his pupils dilating in the dark. He’d thought what had happened at the hospital earlier should’ve taken care of that nagging little concern, come too late
as it was, but apparently not. It burned like an acid in his stomach, eating at him, and it only served to fuel the anger that ran through his arms down into the tips of his fingers where heat sparked. His pulse began to pound as he let himself feel that anger, a sense of betrayal almost overwhelming him as he remembered the nasty bite wounds on his father’s chest and neck, remembered the nightmare that had brought him into consciousness with a silent scream only days ago back in Ireland and he began to pant with it, his chest heaving as he fought the shadows for air.

XXX

Pheelan knew that he should have expected the rage to take Stiles.

Should have seen it coming.

It was only one small part of what the young man experienced when he thought about what had happened to him five years ago in Beacon Hills. Only one small part of what Phee had seen and smelled and tasted when he’d kissed away Stiles’ tears that first time as they backpacked across Europe and half of Asia. A year later, when they had finally settled in Ireland with his grandmother, some of that rage had dulled, but the wolf knew it hadn’t really gone away. Might never go away

He himself had never known the rejection of a pack. He had chosen to go his own way from his parents when the closeness and hierarchy of their den had begun to rankle and fester, so he couldn’t lay claim to knowing what Stiles was going through. Still, if the physical manifestations of the emotions that the Touchstone suffered from were anything to go by, he could imagine
just how deep that pain must go. The only problem was that Stiles had recently purged himself of a lot of that pain, a lot of that hurt, and so for now the only thing left was rage.

As he leapt down from the rocks to land lightly at Stiles’ side, the brief thought flickered through his mind that he was going to have to amend his praise of the red-head. He’d thought her pretty quick, pretty and quick, just as Stiles had always lauded her to be, but then she’d gone and opened her mouth a second time and essentially said the absolute worst possible thing that could have been said.

Because what she said reminded him.

Yes, he’d been struggling with all the emotions of facing his past and the pack that had crushed him so badly, but that was pain.

That this pack had allowed his father to be hurt, that they hadn’t protected the Sheriff in his absence, for Stiles that was real betrayal.

And with betrayal came rage.

Crouching down so that they were face to face, he grabbed on hard to Stiles’ upper arms, hard enough to hurt, and gave him a rough shake, but he could already see the shadows swirling behind his eyes, that shadows that he thought he had so well under control, the shadows that he didn’t know Phee recognized.

“Shit,” he muttered, filled with a sudden cold dread as he realized just how bad this was, exactly where it was going.

“Stiles!” he barked. “Stiles! You’ve gotta let it go little buddy. Come on, let it go.”

A chill wind began to whip through the trees and above the scream and whistle of the branches he could hear the two twins whimper, saw the shrink out of the corner of his eye as the others shifted anxiously, eyes wide and fearful in the dark. He shook Stiles again, even harder this time and he heard the wolves around him rumble and growl under their breath but he ignored it. His hands were literally full; Stiles’ chest was heaving as he showed Phee his teeth in a silent snarl, his eyes almost black. He pushed one hand roughly through Stiles’ hair, combed it back from his forehead but it did nothing to calm him. He tried to tear away but Phee tightened his grip, jerked him in closer so that they were almost chest to chest, Stiles hands coming up to push and pry, but he held on.

“Stiles!” he snarled, shifting his grip to control the boy’s wrists, trying a different track. “Your dad’s ok right? He’s ok, he’s fine. Your dad’s fine. You did that Stiles, you did that. Now come
back. Come back!”

This time when Stiles showed his teeth, he roared, and every beta in the clearing cringed. Only the alpha and the omega able to stand tall and strong against the vicious expletive, but where Derek just went pale and open-mouthed, Phee smirked. That was his boy. Still in there underneath it all. Stiles hated being told what to do, hated being held still, and it was a relief to know he wasn’t totally gone yet.

Yet being the operative.

Above their heads thunder cracked violently, the sound so loud that the wolf could feel it in his chest, and a shiver rippled down his spine as he realized what he was going to have to do. He found himself abruptly and intensely grateful that Stiles had dropped the silver pentagram over his head. Pulling back from the struggling young man, he ground his teeth and balled his fist
tight.

“Don’t fry me for his ok?” he muttered.

And then he swung.

Chapter Text

Phee’s fist connected perfectly with his jaw, clipping the side of his mouth and splitting the corner of his bottom lip. The pain and the burst of copper on his tongue, vague, angry shouting in his ears brought him back from the edge of the cliff he was teetering on, sent him staggering away with limbs akimbo in an attempt to stop himself from face-planting. It was Scott who caught him by the elbow, pulled him gently back to his feet before Stiles jerked back, shook him off with a glare and turned away from the flash of hurt on his face to find Phee facing off with Derek, Isaac, and Erica, snarling nastily at each other while Peter watched on with arms crossed and a smirk on his face.

“Phee!” he coughed, and all the tension immediately bled out of him, his claws and fangs withdrawing as he turned his back on the three wolves threatening him and trotted the few paces over to Stiles’ side, put a hand under his jaw to tip his face up and look into his eyes.

“I’m ok,” he mumbled, and Phee took a step back, even though he could feel the want in the wolf, hear the low, anxious whine that came from the back of his throat. He didn’t doubt that the big blonde was feeling guilty; he always did when he had to literally knock Stiles out of his funk, and always insisted on healing the bruises he left behind, pulling out the pain through blackened veins so that he felt it too instead of just letting it dissipate through Stiles’ soothing glow.

“I split your lip,” he said flatly, and Stiles drew the back of his wrist over his mouth to get the trickle of blood off his chin.

“Yeah. Thanks for that,” he answered, and he knew that all the wolves in the clearing could hear the steady, even beat of his heart, no tick of irritation or lie echoing the words. Sliding past Phee so that he brushed against the big wolf’s chest, he threw a wink over his shoulder. “Maybe later I’ll let you kiss it better,” he grinned in Gaelic.

Phee’s eyes flickered and the wolves around him shifted, confused by the whole display, but they weren’t the only ones. They’d jumped in to protect him, defend him, and while in some ways he could understand it - they had been friends once after all - in others it just cut. The fact that it had been Derek, Erica, and Isaac to jump forward, ready to take on a strange wolf practically three times their size for him... he didn’t like it. It made him squirm. Made him feel… guilty. Rolling his shoulders in an attempt to shake it, he stepped onto a clear, level spot halfway between the wolves and the cliff, withdrawing a small glass vial from one of his pockets.

“Stiles.”

It was a warning not to do anything stupid, not to do anything that would drive him right back to the edge he’d just been saved from, but he wasn’t planning on doing either. Casting Phee a reassuring smile, he uncorked the bottle and tapped a minute amount of grey ash into his palm. Closing his eyes, he took a minute to center himself, took a minute to feel the gentle burn of the circles inked into his skin, and then he breathed. He’d always been good with the ash but now he was literal perfection, and it was almost effortless to dance it through the air around him until it fell in a thick, heavy circle at his feet, wide enough that his fingers would just brush the edges if he held his arms out straight. Folding his legs beneath him he sank slowly to the ground, settled Indian style with his hands on his knees, comforted by his close, protective walls.

“This really the time?”

Phee had moved to stand two paces from the edge of his circle, still back and to the left, still ready, his stance wide and solid and his hands thrust deep into his pockets. There was a frown at the edge of his mouth that Stiles couldn’t blame him for, even if the wolf was misconstruing his intentions. He had good reason to be mistaken; he knew that Stiles liked to be held down, tied tight after he came back from something like that, pressed beneath the omega’s body or within his circle, but sometimes too he did the dumb thing and would jump right back in head first.

“No,” he answered easily, calmly, his eyes closed as he centered himself. “It’s really not. Which is why we’re just gonna talk. Have a nice little chat and then tomorrow I’ll find the alpha myself. After we get my dad home.”

Opening his eyes again, he saw Lydia shift nervously, unhappily, and from the enclosed safety of his circle he could respond to it without losing his shit.

“Relax Lyds,” he murmured, glancing up at the sky where the clouds still swirled from his little loss of control. “He’ll be fine. Back on the job within a week, I promise."

“But Stiles,” she said softly, “He’s… he’s turning. Derek said he was turning.”

“Was,” Stiles replied off-handedly, and that was really all he wanted to stay, but he knew how Lydia’s mind worked, and so he was ready when she pressed.

“Was? What…”

“It’s easier than you’d think,” he murmured, and his voice had gone soft without his permission, all black silk and purring seduction, and he wasn’t sure why. “To pull out the wolf. The poison. At least before the first turn anyway.”

“That’s not possible.”

Peter’s voice hit his ears like a cymbal crash, and the nervousness he heard there was sweet enough that he didn’t reprimand the wolf for speaking out of turn when he’d already been warned not to. Stiles smirked, grabbed on to the toes of his boots and rocked a bit on his hips, a sudden, childish mischievousness rolling over him.

“Nooooo, and neither are werewolves,” he mocked with a laugh.

Peter’s eyes flashed at him and Stiles felt his own darken in response but he bit it back, settled himself lower to the earth in the center of his circle, pushing away the shadows and the power that came with them.

“You don’t believe me you can ask your alpha,” he continued in a cocky sort of sing-song, a smart-mouthed smirk on his face as he turned his gaze to the man in question. “Come on Derek. Let’s see that big bad wolf.”

XXX

It was… scary, how different he was.

Five years had changed him – he wasn’t a boy anymore. There was muscle evident in the breadth of his shoulders and the width of his chest, even under his hoodie and his leather. Red. He wasn’t oblivious to the metaphor. He was like some darker Grimm’s tale, all pale skin and dark eyes and thin, sharp lines around a mouth like sin. He was caught by the harsh words, all business where the pack whimpered and whined and wanted, the stillness in him where there was once flailing and staggering, and he found himself wishing that Stiles would laugh. Wishing to see a glint of mischief in whiskey-colored eyes.

Instead he saw anger.

He could smell it like liquid smoke on the back of his tongue and feel it when Stiles stepped carefully out of the light of Allison’s electronic lanterns and back into the shadows. He paced and snarled, pulled hard on whatever it was that he was smoking, and it was all harsh and dark and wrong somehow.

It wasn’t him.

It wasn’t Stiles.

And then he was talking in some strange tongue before jumping back to English as though he’d never slipped out of it, making some cutting comment about Machiavelli that the big blonde omega replied easily to, like it was some well-worn joke, and he almost showed his teeth at the bridges being burned between them, feeling like he was falling farther and farther away with each word bitten out. He thanked his gods for Lydia, rushed by relief when she was able to pull herself together enough to toss out a suitable comeback, to put surprise and admiration on the face of Stiles' friend when he was so tied by the scent and movement and nearness of him that he didn’t think he could have saved himself from drowning.

And then he’d asked after the alpha, the one that had bitten the Sheriff, and Derek’s tongue was heavy in his mouth and he couldn’t swallow around the overwhelming sense of guilt and pain trying to choke him. This time Scott stepped up and it was a shame he did, because he asked a stupid question and Derek was jolted into the fray in with a sense of panic like he’d had when he’d been paralyzed in the deep end of the school swimming pool, a pale, skinny Stiles the only thing standing between him and a watery death. He’d tried to explain, tried to apologize, but the more he talked the worse it seemed to get, and all he could think was that he wanted to get his hands on man in front of him and shake the boy back to the surface, to rattle his shell loose until all that was left in front of him was the smirking, sarcastic teen he missed so much.

But apparently touching was off limits.

No one was more surprised by Stiles’ ability to pitch him across the clearing like a ragdoll than Derek. It was like the world had tilted on its axis, a pure, white-hot rage pouring off of Stiles like a tidal wave as burning hot hands were laid flat against his chest and then he was lying, landing hard several feet away with a face like shock and horror. He flashed back to that first year he’d known the kid, when he’d been a wanted fugitive and had thrown him up against the wall of his bedroom in a bid to scare him into harboring him. Stiles had flinched back, cowered, his eyes flicking around nervously as he’d pushed uselessly at Derek’s chest, fighting a losing battle to get away. Whatever had its claws into Stiles, whatever was clinging to him, it had changed the power dynamic.

In his musings he’d missed some sort of cold speech, but came back to attention in time to see Stiles put Peter soundly in his place, and while he could be thoroughly impressed by the feat it also frightened him to see his uncle smirk, see him cede so quickly and easily. He didn’t think it boded well for him or his, and he was quickly proven right when Lydia made careful comment about Stiles father, and suddenly the boy was breaking before their eyes.

His irises had gone completely black, just like they had at the hospital, and his hands fisted hard at his sides as his chest began to heave. A dull, bitter scent flared in the air around him and he took a hesitant step forward – he recognized this. This at least looked the same. Because it was a panic attack right, like he’d had before? You just had to pull him out of it right?

Before he could move to Stiles’ side the big blonde wolf leapt down from the rocks and had gripped him tightly by the shoulders, giving him a good shake. It was a bit literal for Derek’s tastes, too rough, and he took a strong step forward to pull the two apart, but a sudden chill wind rose out of nothing and began to whistle through the trees, icy and unnatural and the twins began to whimper and shift. He couldn’t feel the earth moving under his feet, but he remembered their anxious whines and suddenly he didn’t doubt that the ground had shaken beneath them. The omega was snarling, barking sharply as Stiles fought in his grip, and Derek felt his teeth trying desperately to lengthen, sharpen, until Stiles opened his mouth and roared.

Fucking roared.

All around him his pack crumpled, instinctively bearing their necks as they tried to stay off their knees, he and the blonde the only ones not crushed by the authority in that sound. If anything convinced him that Stiles was possessed somehow, that was it. Skinny, defenseless Stiles with a roar like an alpha. Above them thunderheads clashed with a concussive rumble that he could feel all the way to his core, and he felt himself go cold with whatever hummed in the clearing around them, and he saw an answering shudder role down the spine of the omega holding Stiles wrists captive. And then, in a move like lightning, he was cocking back one huge fist and aiming for Stiles’ face.

He couldn’t get there in time.

He tried.

He… he tried.

But he wasn’t fast enough, and he was pretty sure the crack that resonated on connection was Stiles’ jaw cracking. Copper burst in the air and then he was bleeding, staggering away, and the only thing that kept Derek from catching him before he hit the ground was Scott getting there first. He experienced his own burst of rage in that moment, and he almost thought that his wolf was going to come surging back until it didn’t. With or without it he wanted to kill, to rip and tear and slash but the stranger could probably crush him like this, broken, weak. Still, Erica and Isaac came lunging up on either side of him, eyes gleaming and fangs bared as they snarled their fury, ready to tear the blonde apart for touching their pack mate, their Stiles. The omega rolled his massive shoulders, spread his feet and snarled right back at them, but a choking cough cut his tension like a taut string, and he turned away from them as though they were nothing, no threat at all.

Derek felt something roil in his stomach as the wolf stepped in close, put his hand out and tipped Stiles’ face up to examine the quickly forming bruise blooming along his jawline. His lip had split and there was blood dribbling down his chin, but Stiles only grinned at the omega and thanked him for the punch, brushed him off without a beat of a lie and slinked past him before tossing a wink and a foreign murmur over his shoulder and Derek thought he might be sick.

He watched with equal parts dread and fascination as Stiles took a jar from his pocket and filled the air with the scent and the power of mountain ash, created a circle as easy as breathing before settling slowly to the earth, his ease and relief inside its safety horribly evident, and then Derek knew he’d be sick. That Stiles needed that barrier to be comfortable, to feel calm around them… it was like a knife in his side. He was being crushed beneath the overwhelming need to be close, to be skin on skin and breathing the same air, taking the same space as the man he hadn’t seen in so long, stronger than five years’ absence should warrant, no matter how much he’d missed him, and the barrier between, the one that he could not cross, seemed to be physically hurting him. His joints throbbed with it, his teeth aching, and he found himself tongue-tied once again as Stiles watched the sky.

He barely heard the words being passed. Knew somehow that they were talking about Stiles’ father, human again even though Derek knew, knew that the man had been turning. Peter’s fear spiked hard and hot in his nose; apparently you could pull the bite out of the bitten… with enough power. His brain wasn’t firing on enough cylinders to be smug about being right, about recognizing something different, something wrong. All he could do was watch as Stiles smirked and rocked and teased, a dark shadow of who he used to be.

And then his voice turned to a low, seductive purr, cutting its way through the fog and Derek felt something clench low in his belly, felt a high-pitched, keening whine sticking in his throat as a sudden hard arousal bit at his ankles. Stiles’ gaze flicked in his direction, darted over his body before meeting his eyes, burning him, and then he was smirking, humming a little tease, and hearing his own name on Stiles’ tongue was frisson on his skin.

“Come on Derek. Let’s see that big bad wolf.”

Chapter Text

Saying his name out loud was like candy on Stiles’ tongue; sharp and bitingly sour, then mellow and familiar and sweet, until it melted away and left him with an artificial strawberry aftertaste that made him feel cold and empty despite his teasing tone. He knew that Derek wouldn’t be able to shift, that he’d caught the full brunt of the spell and gotten hit square in the chest with it. It would be days before he was back up to full howl, and Scott was probably only a little bit better off. Now the alpha just shifted awkwardly, his fingers twitching at his sides as he looked down at his feet. Stiles took the opportunity to look him over, really stare for the first time since he’d gotten back and he hated himself for liking what he saw.

Not that Derek looked all that different. A bit pale, maybe, and he’d gone back to the lighter five o’clock shadow he’d worn when he’d first reappeared in Beacon Hills, but he wore his hair the same way, his black leather jacket and his jeans. He looked just as fit, just as strong, and Stiles was… well, he was disappointed. He’d hoped, having been with Phee for years and having bulked up himself, that Derek would seem… smaller. Less significant. Less big bad wolfy.

Less… attractive.

Jerk.

He wasn’t really surprised that such was the case. Disappointed, sure, but not surprised. He couldn’t exactly expect Derek Hale to get less hot just because time passed. Heh. Stupid. What was he thinking?

“Well?” he prodded blankly, desperate for distraction to pull him away from the dark, destructive path his thoughts were taking.

Derek shifted again, made a small noise in the back of his throat that dragged at Stiles, made him want to reach out, to draw the wolf close and comfort him. He shook it off. It was only his glow talking, making him want. He knew that. He was still angry, still unhappy, and he wasn’t going to let go of that so easily.

“I can’t.”

“Can’t what?” he asked off-handedly, still preoccupied with reigning in his baser instincts.

“Can’t shift!” Derek shouted and Stiles jumped, startled back to attention, and he knew that if they could the wolf’s eyes would’ve glowed red. “You know I can’t! You did it!”

As soon as the words were out of Derek’s mouth the color drained from his face, his eyes widening as he took a step back.

“Stiles, I…” he began, horror in his voice, and Stiles narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t mean... I know it wasn’t you, I know you didn’t…”

Stiles arched one eyebrow. “Wait, didn’t what?” he demanded, anger and annoyance sparking in his chest. Climbing to his feet, he fisted his hands at his sides. “I knew exactly what I was doing, it wasn’t my fault! You’re the one who opened the door, you’re the one who…”

“Stiles.”

Phee’s calm, easy tone cut through his anger, redirected his attention long enough to let it bleed quickly away.

“Well he was,” Stiles pouted obstinately, rolling his eyes before crouching down on one knee and taking the ash vial from his pocket.

“He thinks you’re in too deep… possessed.”

Stiles paused in sweeping up the circle of ash back into the vial, stared back at Phee dumbfoundedly before looking rapidly back and forth between him and Derek, who was staring at him oddly, like Stiles might leap up and bite him at any moment. He actually thought…

Laughter bubbled up in Stiles’ throat until he couldn’t hold it in anymore, and then he was practically rolling in the dirt with it, holding his sides as he choked and guffawed so hard he couldn’t breathe. Done with the ash, he capped the jar on the third try and stashed it inside his pocket, knuckling tears from his eyes as he stood once more.

“Oh, god,” he gasped, fighting to catch his breath between chuckles. “That’s… that’s priceless.”

“Stiles…”

“No, no, it’s fine,” he giggled, waving Phee off. “It’s just…” He snickered again. “Nothing’s changed. God, I love it Phee! Five years and nothing’s changed. It’s beautiful. Makes sense though doesn’t it? Of course I’m possessed, how else could I do it? Weak, defenseless, useless, pathetic…”

Phee’s hand closed around his upper arm, grounding him, pulling him out of his little spell of mania. It was the cigarette he’d smoked, and the emotions, and the ridiculousness of it all getting to him, he knew, but the bite of the werewolf’s grip brought him back down to the earth one more time, and Stiles might have kissed him for that, for saving him another display of crushing anxiety and vulnerability in front of the pack. Pheelan moved to step away again, always letting Stiles prove that he could stand on his own feet, but he jerked the blonde back in, leaping up to catch him around the shoulders so that his feet dangled inches off the ground. Burying his face in the curve of Phee’s neck, he nuzzled in close, scenting him, breathing him in, and behind him he could hear the pack whimper and whine. He snickered in Phee’s ear, nipped at his jaw, and felt Derek’s eyes burning between his shoulder blades, heard a low growl rumble out of his chest that sounded more like a human faking werewolf than a real one.

“Stiles.”

“What?” he groaned, still hanging from Phee’s shoulders.

“Don’t instigate.”

“Ugh!! Why not?” he grumbled, dropping back to his feet and tossing a glare over his shoulder in Derek’s general direction. “He clawed you up first; you owe him a few stripes.”

Pheelan rolled his eyes. “I’d kill him like this and you know it.”

“And?”

“Stiles.”

“Fine,” he huffed, crossing his arms and pouting out his lower lip. “I’ll play nice with the puppies. Stupid softy werewolf.”

Phee just grinned wolfishly and mussed his hair roughly until Stiles slapped his hands away. The pack was staring at them uncomfortably now, some of them glaring at Phee through narrowed eyes, but they had both been ready for that, ready for that hatred, even if they hadn’t claimed each other. It still bothered him, for more than one reason, but standing here, now, with Pheelan at his back, he thought that he might be able to take it. Stepping back so that he and Phee were side-by-side, standing as equals, he passed over Derek and faced Isaac instead with his feet planted firmly and his shoulders back.

“Beta Lahey,” he said, stiffly and formally and ritualistically correct. “As second wolf of the Hale pack, overseers of the Beacon Hills territory, I, Touchstone Stilinksi recently of the O’Rourke pack, request the permission of your Alpha to hunt this region.”

Isaac’s eyes went wide and he whimpered, leaning back and away, and his confusion and discomfort were painfully obvious. Stiles wanted nothing so much as to hug him then, wrap his arms around the tall, lanky wolf and warm him up with a good glow, but then Derek choked out a disbelieving stutter of his name and Phee was cutting him off with his own part of the speech.

“Beta Lahey,” he rumbled, and Isaac jumped at being addressed by the larger wolf. “As second wolf of the Hale pack, overseers of the Beacon Hills territory, I, Omega O’Rourke recently of the O’Rourke pack, request the permission of your Alpha to hunt this region.”

“O’Rourke pack? What… Stiles?” Isaac whined, and Stiles rolled his eyes.

Why he’d expected Derek to have taught the pack the proper protocols for entering another’s territory was beyond him.

Beside him Phee growled quietly, his nose scrunched, and Stiles knew that he was picking up the harsh, bitter scent of Stiles’ unexpected guilt. It wasn’t Derek’s fault that he’d been a subpar Alpha five years ago, probably wasn’t his fault now. The guy’d gone through a lot of shit, Stiles shouldn’t…

“Touchstone.”

“Oh God,” Stiles groaned, his head dropping down hard until his chin hit his chest. At least in that position he couldn’t see Peter’s eyes glinting with sudden understanding, and what was no doubt wicked intention, even if he could still hear the gruff, amused chuckling.

“You are a Touchstone…”

“Jesus,” Stiles muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. “Isaac, please?”

The beta whimpered, shifted, looked back and forth between his alpha and his long-time gone sort-of friend, the first unable to look away from the latter to give him any indication of what the verdict might be. And so he did what felt right, and Stiles was strangely proud that his voice didn’t shake when he spoke, that his words were almost right.

“Touchstone Stilinski and Omega O’Rourke, as second beta to the Hale pack, overseers of Beacon Hills, and on behalf of our Alpha Derek Hale, we cede permission that you may hunt this territory.”

“All right then,” Stiles concluded, clapping his hands together. “Great. Stiles isn’t possessed. Stiles’ dad is not a werewolf and is going to be fine. Your alpha’s… performance issues should resolve themselves within the next few days as will Scott’s. I should have the other alpha taken care of by the end of the week, until then, if you see him, remember that he’s mine and back the fuck off. Am I forgetting anything?”

“Maybe the fact that you’re a frickin’ touchstone?” Peter muttered, his arms crossed.

“No?” Stiles asked, powering right through. “No. Perfect. Pheelan?” he smiled brightly, looking round to the big blonde who was watching Peter carefully over Stiles’ shoulder, “Let’s roll.”

“Stiles wait!”

There had been a single, solitary beat of silence as he turned and took two steps away from the blue light of the lanterns towards his jeep, a single moment when he felt anger and pain and wolves reaching out for him before the sharp crack of Lydia’s voice broke the silence, strong and determined and far closer than he expected it to be. He flinched when he felt her fingers circle around his wrist but he didn’t jerk away, just froze beneath her touch, not daring to move or even breathe for fear of what he might do, whether he would haul her into a tight hug and break down sobbing or push her away like he had Derek. She seemed to sense this because her grip loosened, her thumb stroking gently over the tender skin of his inner wrist.

“Stiles please?” she whispered. “Don’t… just please talk to me? We could get coffee, or lunch or… I don’t care just… Stiles I missed you. Please.”

And then his front was breaking, turning back to find her brilliant eyes shimmering, a single tear tracking down her cheek. Reaching up, he cupped her jaw in his palm, her skin warm and smooth and perfect under his fingers, brushed the tear away with his thumb before smiling softly.

“I’d like that, Lyds. Lunch, just you and me. I’ll call, ok, I promise. I just… I have to make sure my dad’s ok.”

“Stiles,” she began in a trembling voice, “I’m so…”

“Don’t,” he snapped, and she pulled away at the harshness in his tone, the care between them shattered as easily as glass. “Don’t Lydia.” He felt his glow reach out for Phee’s, for that looming comfort that was never far away, and took a step backwards towards the wolf. “I’ll call you,” he repeated.

And then he was turning away, back towards the trail and the one waiting for him, who was watching the reactions of the pack carefully, watching Lydia, always ready, always alert, where Stiles was suddenly bone-weary and ready to collapse. Taking a running start at the wolf, he leapt onto his back and wrapped his legs around Phee’s trim waist, easily supported when his hands came up automatically to grab beneath Stiles’ knees.

“Carry me,” he demanded, kicking his heels against Phee’s thighs. “I’ll let you pick the music.”

“Irish?” he asked, heading into the trees towards the jeep.

“Of course,” Stiles replied with a smirk as he was carted away from the pack who stared silently after them. “Flogging Molly or the Dropkick Murphys?”

“Dear God,” Pheelan groaned.

“You love my American Celtic punk,” Stiles grinned.

“Heathen.”

Chapter Text

The pack waited until the last strains of Blood and Whiskey had faded away before they exploded like a supernova. Derek didn’t even bother trying to call them back to order; they’d shout themselves hoarse soon enough, unless they realized first that they couldn’t understand a word anyone else was saying as they all fought to be heard. No, he just stood, staring off after the jeep’s taillights, shocked and scared and sad and guilty all rolled together in a hot, twisting ball that sat in his stomach like melting steel. A shiver rippled down his spine when his uncle stepped in close to his side, staring with him, his arms crossed firmly over his chest.

“An honest-to-god Touchstone,” Peter muttered in the dark, and his low, calm voice brought silence over the battling wolves and the dumbstruck hunter and banshee faster than any alpha roar might have. “Isn’t that a kick in the balls?”

After a minute Derek opened his mouth but nothing came out. Probably for the best; he honestly didn’t know what he’d meant to say in the first place.

“Let’s get back to the house,” the beta murmured, clapping Derek on the shoulder without meeting his gaze. “I’ll need the bestiary.”

He didn’t wait for a response, only took off into the trees without a backwards glance, and Derek just managed to nod to the other wolves, releasing them to follow. Isaac lingered, waiting with him until Lydia and Allison were safely on the ATV and headed out before disappearing from the clearing too. The alpha couldn’t break so easily. It took a few minutes, maybe more before he could drag himself away, away from the scent that lingered in the air, the scent that was only just barely Stiles beneath the ash and smoke and static, the heavier, maddening musk of the omega.

O’Rourke.

Derek snarled to himself, lifted his lip back from blunt human teeth before turning on the heel of his boot and taking off back towards the Hale House, following the wide trail blazed by his pack. His brain was reeling and he felt sick, nausea and dizziness that refused to disappear as he ran. All he could do was push himself harder, faster, his muscles burning and stretching to the limit and then he was home, to the shiny new house that he’d made into a home, that he’d somehow managed to fill with family that always felt one person shy.

He could hear the others inside and he knew he had to enter, knew he had to step through the door and face whatever Peter was about to tell him, but…

Derek felt his feet slow, felt the pressure in his chest build and then he was dropping down on the steps of the porch, his head swimming as he ducked it between his knees, fighting not to toss up what little he’d eaten since he’d learned that Stiles was back. He hadn’t felt this conflicted in years, this guilty – he’d worked, worked hard, hell even gone to a therapist to get rid of some of his ghosts, and yes, Stiles had been one of his ghosts. He still was. But now he was real again, not just a painful memory, solid, glaringly bright and loud and colorful and he… couldn’t… breathe…

Suddenly he felt his uncle reach out through the pack bond, made all the stronger from shared blood, family ties, and his throat loosened. It was like a rough hand on the back of his neck, stroking down his spine and it was warmth and calm and comfort, and he was finally able to climb back to his feet, push through the heavy oak door and make his way through the first floor. As he passed the main room he caught sight of the pack from the corner of his eye - Erica and Boyd, Scott and Allison, Lydia and the twins - all huddled together, pale and quiet, some of them shaking just a little, some of them obviously holding back tears, and it cut. He wanted to go to them, to slip into the middle of the group where he could touch them all, draw them together where the pain couldn’t reach them anymore. Instead he followed his instincts, everything that was telling him he needed his uncle now.

He found him in the small war room at the back of the house, the large weapons safe left open, a laptop and one of three external hard drives on the table beside two heavy leather-bound books. Peter was seated on a high bar stool, already tapping away at the keyboard, and he didn’t look up when Derek slipped into the room, only reached down and pulled out the second stool at his side, a silent offer. The younger man collapsed onto it as though his strings were cut, hanging his head so that his chin rested against his chest, his eyes closed against the world. The length of his arm was pressed against Peter’s as he typed away, the closeness and the heat of him a small comfort, but it wasn’t quite enough and Derek felt a high-pitched whine escape his throat.

He jerked when warm, calloused fingers curled around the nape of his neck before melting under the gentle pressure. There was a time when he would’ve snapped if Peter had touched him that way, had touched him at all, a time when any trust between them had been so shattered he hadn’t thought they’d ever get it back. He had been so sure that everything that made Peter himself had been burned away in the Hale House fire, so sure that the uncle he knew was really gone…

Having him back, even a little bit, was more than he deserved.

Sure, Peter still disappeared sometimes, was still creepy and annoying and holier-than-thou, and it wasn’t like Derek hadn’t noticed that the clicking of computer keys hadn’t slowed in the slightest, but the hand on his neck was a gesture he remembered; simple, off-handed comfort. There was still pain between them and probably always would be, Laura’s ghost a vicious wound in both of their hearts, but Peter was better, the madness that had burned in him like fire drowned into dull coals as he was surrounded by pack and family, his semi-romance with Lily and his strange but intense friendship with Lydia, and so Derek let his shoulders go lax.

Took the commiseration and the comfort as it was offered, and fought not to break.

XXX

Peter didn’t think twice about reaching out for his nephew. In the past it wouldn’t have even crossed his mind to attempt to comfort him, to do something for someone else, but the blue-eyed beta wasn’t quite the same as he had been. Not from before the fire or after. He felt things now somewhere deep in his chest where he suspected his heart was housed, aches and stirrings that he’d not felt for so long that he didn’t really know what they meant anymore. It was this house, and the little pack that Derek had drawn together, his own meager contribution the single beta that had started the landslide of bitten teenagers. It was like living in a real den again, living with real family, and it warmed him sometimes when he couldn’t sleep and ended up staring at the stars from the middle of some forest he didn’t know.

So he recognized now the piteous sort of feeling bubbling round in his stomach when he scented the bitter spirits ache coming off of his nephew and alpha.

Recognized, for the most part, how hard it was for him to see Stiles again because he felt some of it himself.

Giving Derek’s neck one last squeeze, he took his hand back and clicked open a new page on his laptop, prepared to start in on his history lesson when Isaac ghosted back into the war room with a heavy mug in his hands, the scent of cardamom, orange, and aster heavy in the air. The beta placed it carefully onto the table, the clunk of ceramic finally bringing Derek’s head up, pure misery on his face.

“Thank you Isaac,” Peter murmured before flipping open the first of the two tomes in front of him, checking a source and cross referencing the information he’d already guessed the truth of. “Drink up nephew.”

The proportions for the tea leaves were ones he’d gotten from a witch several years before, when he’d run off to Oregon to hunt in the mountains and spend a few days forgetting himself, forgetting everything. The additives were carefully measured to help relieve tension and stimulate muscle relaxation, and in a house full of young bitten wolves he found himself brewing pots of tea for more often than he felt was dignified for someone like him. Still, the steam from the mug was hot and fragrant, and both he and Isaac breathed in subtly as Derek lifted the mug and sipped. The young alpha was one of the few who had never tried the tea before, so Peter wasn’t surprised by his hesitance, rather what surprised him was how quickly and quietly the young man consented. It was a testament to how shaken he was, how unsettled.

“You should stay,” he said evenly as Isaac nodded to Derek and made to leave. “I’m sure the pups are listening but we’ll need to do an official pack meet after. Tomorrow.”

“I should…”

Both wolves turned to their alpha but he’d trailed off, eyes glazed over with his forearms on
the table, palms wrapped around a half empty mug.

“I can do it,” Isaac said, reaching over the table to squeeze Derek’s shoulder, and neither missed the way the man leaned into the touch. “I’ll tell them.”

Derek swallowed, opened his mouth again, but once more nothing came out, and he just
nodded. Isaac nodded back, his eyes flashing gold in respect, deference, commiseration before he turned back to Peter.

“What am I telling them?” he asked.

A sad sort of smirk touched the edge of Peter’s mouth at the complete loss expressed in the question. The lanky blonde was entirely clueless in this aspect and it showed. Sadder still that Derek, who had been born into a large and powerful pack that had held an established territory didn’t know either…

Peter shook his head, cleared away the warm, acidic rain of memory and turned the heavy book around for the other wolves to see.

The volume was cracked open two-thirds of the way from the back, an intricate sketch done in rich black ink, filigree thin lines detailing a young man curled in the center of a knot of wolves. The drawing was soft, delicate, and yet there was a palpable strength in the image, each wolf completing a corner of the seven-pointed symmetry that surrounded the man, his chest bare as he reached out to rest gentle hands on thick fur. It was a beautiful sketch, but its power came from the peace that shone through on the wolves’ faces, a pure calm and simple happiness that was far stronger than mere paper and ink should be able to project.
Isaac reached out a pale hand to trace slim, trembling fingers over the face of the young man, the spine of a smaller wolf near his feet who had a distinct, puppyish look.

“There are people in this world that were born to run with wolves,” Peter began, his voice low and smooth like whiskey. “They’re human, still human, but… more. They act as a sort of fulcrum, a lynchpin in center of a pack that stabilizes it the inside out.”

“Stiles,” Isaac stated, and Peter nodded.

“Yes. I didn’t realize before…”

He shook his head.

He had always known that there was something more to Stiles, some spark that burned in him, struggling to burn brighter. It was one of the reasons that he hadn’t bitten the teen when he had rejected his offer of the bite. His wolf had known, recognized even through a haze of madness that the boy would have lost something in the turning, something brighter and stronger than his humanity. Still, if he had understood, if he had realized…

God, the things they might have accomplished if they’d known.

“These touchstones,” he continued, “They come into themselves as they transition from child to adult. If they’ve yet to be claimed by a pack, claimed by…”

Peter cast a glance at his nephew who had gone pale and clammy, some small flare of recognition in his eyes as understanding finally swept through him. He swallowed.

“Claimed by an alpha... Something changes. They change. Maybe pheromones, maybe something else, hell, it really doesn’t matter, but they draw you in. They start to pull at the wolves around them, capture their attentions, drive them to distraction.”

“Senior year,” Isaac breathed, and Peter nodded. “Oh God. That’s what… that’s what was
happening.”

“The timing makes sense,” Peter answered. “Stiles is a Touchstone, he made that much clear. If it were those side effects the pack was experiencing those last months…”

“Then it’s ten times worse than we thought,” Derek whispered.

The mournful howl that ripped out of his chest shook the house.

Chapter Text

After Pheelan carted him to the jeep and cranked up some Dropkick Murphys, Stiles drove back to the hotel with the windows down, singing at the top of his lungs. It was a quick trip, only because he did some significant speeding that went by without comment from the passenger seat. When he killed the engine in the parking lot and dropped down to the pavement, he took a deep, bracing breath of cool night air and turned to face the big blonde wolf, who was giving off tension like the filament-thin wires of a bomb.

“I think that went well,” he smiled, and for a second Phee just stared at him like he was crazy. Stiles stared back, silent, one eyebrow arched until the werewolf cracked, laughing loud and rough and full as he shook his head.

“That went terribly,” he chuckled as they moved up the stairs to their room. “You almost went supernova, twice, and you tossed their alpha across the damned hill like he was a rag-doll.”

“Hey, no one died!” Stiles protested, ducking under Phee’s arm as he held the door and slipping out of his jacket and shoes.

“True,” Phee consented as he dropped down into the desk chair to unlace his boots. “I guess we should count that as a win.”

“Damn straight,” Stiles muttered. Tugging off both his shirts together, he paused halfway through, his arms still tangled in the sleeves, biting his lip in consideration.

“What?” Phee asked, following Stiles’ lead and shedding his clothes as both of them crossed the floor slowly but steadily towards the open bathroom.

“I don’t know,” he mumbled, kicking off his jeans while Phee reached into the shower to get the water going. “It just… it feels like nothing’s changed, you know?”

“You changed, Stiles,” Phee said firmly, squeezing the smaller man’s shoulders before turning him round to face the mirror over the sink. “Look.” He commanded. “Tell me what you see.”

Silent seconds past before he spoke.

“I see you.”

Pheelan smiled, a little sadly.

“And I see you,” he murmured in Stiles’ ear. “I see power. More importantly, I see strength.” One hand circled round to trace a delicate scar that arced over Stiles’ collarbone, left by the steel blade of a rogue hunter. “I see a man that life has demanded much of, and who more than rose to the occasion. You’ve made yourself Stiles, chosen your own path. When your heart was breaking you took control and did what you had to do to save yourself.”

Stiles’ eyes followed the hand that trailed over his chest in the mirror until it rested over his heart, fingers tracing the delicate script that stenciled two names there.

Stilinski.

O’Rourke.

“I see a man who loves,” Phee continued. “I see a man who protects the ones he loves, with everything he can give.”

Stiles swallowed, intensely aware of Phee’s other hand, which had come up to splay over the left side of his rib cage beneath his arm, where they both knew other names should have shown.

“So they may be the same,” Phee said quietly. “And this place may not have changed. But you? You are stronger and brighter and more beautiful than this world has ever seen you. There may be shadows here. But you fucking shine little buddy.”

Stiles could count on one hand the number of times that he had truly felt at a loss for words. He was a talker, a blusterer; sarcasm his main defense for so long that he’d never felt like he had the time to shut up. But here he was, in the nicest room in Beacon Hills’ one and only crappy motel, hot steam creeping over the glass of the mirror, and he couldn’t find the words. Could not find the words to express what that speech had meant to him, the strength he was afforded by the werewolf at his back. Twisting hard in Phee’s arms, he threaded his fingers into his curly blonde hair and dragged him down, pouring everything he felt into a mind-melting kiss that couldn’t last long enough, pushing every bit of sweetness and gratitude and fondness he had into the gesture, and he thought that in that moment he did love Pheelan O’Rourke.

“Damn,” the wolf breathed when they finally broke, broad chest heaving. “Not sure what you were goin’ for with that but… damn.”

“Well I was going for speechless,” Stiles teased, peppering more kisses everywhere he could reach in between words as he pushed Phee backward into the shower. “Guess I’ll have to try a little harder.”

The water had gone cool again before they climbed back out, loose and sated, dragging on sweatpants and curling together beneath the starchy motel coverlet as tangled together as they could be. Phee’s hot, heavy weight was pressing him down into the sheets, one arm slung across his torso as his fingers traced his own name on Stiles’ skin again and again, sleepily, reverently. He had been the one to encourage Stiles to get his father’s name over his heart, after he had accidently spilled the boy’s designs from the bottom of the shoe box one night. They were old drawings, ones he had drafted over and over again all those years before, a howling wolf that would wrap around his hip, sparks of filigree leading upward to his ribcage where the names of each of his pack members would be listed. It was a beautiful design, and Phee had said so, a simple compliment that had led to a panic attack and a lot of tears.

When he’d finally caught his breath Stiles had explained what the tattoo had meant to him; the claiming of the pack as his and he as theirs. He’d meant to gift himself with the tattoo on his eighteenth birthday, had saved for almost a year to pay for the large, intricate piece, had gone so far as to make the appointment even as the wolves whose names he was ready to have needled into his skin began to push him away. But then it had happened and they’d slowly left him, and by the time he’d halfway figured out what was going on it was pretty much too late. They’d had the fight and he’d gone home, packed his bags that very night, all thought of marking himself with the names of his pack shattered beyond imagining. Broken, betrayed, he’d still been unable to leave the designs behind.

Phee had acted as a lifeline for him that night, holding him down to the earth in more ways than one. He had looped an arm around Stiles, dragged him close, scented his neck and rumbled away like a damned cat might purr, done everything he could to assure Stiles that he belonged to someone, even if he wasn’t mated or claimed. He’d praised Stiles’ loyalty, his possessiveness and need for marking, all things important to a wolf, even a lone wolf. It had been his words that reassured Stiles, that made him understand, even more than he already knew, how important it was for him to stay true to himself, his own needs, and he had needed the pain and blood of the needle.

He’d gone to a shop two days later to have his last name marked in a curled, scripting cursive on his left pectoral, his father’s name, a mark that protected the one it represented, kept them close.

Pheelan had been shocked stupid when Stiles came back with the O’Rourke family name marked right below his own. His pack’s name. His name.

“What are you thinking about?” Phee murmured quietly, pulling Stiles out of the past.

“Remembering,” he whispered, staring into the dark.

“Bad things?”

A smile touched Stiles face. “Not all,” he answered back. Squirming lower into the mattress, he hummed softly and reached into the warm, soft place in his chest that lit him up like firelight.

“Go to sleep,” he commanded softly.

The only response he got was a gentle snore.

XXX

He woke the next morning wrapped around Pheelan like an octopus, late morning sunlight hot on his back. Eyes still stubbornly closed, he nuzzled into the curve of Phee’s neck, knowing that he was scent marking him and not caring. For his part, the sleeping werewolf arced his back and stretched, unconsciously baring his neck that Stiles might have better access, and it made the young man smile mischievously. Planting a kiss behind Phee’s ear, Stiles mouthed his way down the muscular cord of his neck before nipping playfully and sucking a dark mark onto the skin there. Pulling back to survey his work, his smug, prideful grin quickly turned to a frown as the perfect smudge of color failed to fade.

“Hey!” he yelped, jabbing Phee in the side with his thumb. “Faker!”

A chuckled rumbled up out of the wolf’s chest before he snugged his arms around Stiles’ waist and rolled, settling into the cradle of his hips as he braced his elbows against the bed on either side of Stiles’ shoulders, fingers tracing the lines of the smaller man’s face as he stared reverently down.

“If I’m a faker than you’re a sneak,” he murmured, thumbs smoothing over Stiles’ brows as he cupped his face in his hands. “Taking advantage of a helpless wolf, scenting him, marking him…”

Leaning in, he pressed a hard, hot kiss to Stiles’ lips, teeth clicking and tongues doing battle for control. When Stiles reached up to card his fingers through Phee’s hair, an anticipated move as the man had a certain obsessive fondness for doing so, he caught him easily by the wrists, pressing his hands to the mattress above his head before pulling back from the kiss.

“Who’s the helpless one now?” he gasped playfully, punctuating the question with a hot lick to Stiles’ earlobe.

The only answer he got was a chuckle, and then suddenly Stiles was humming raggedly, his eyes clenched shut.

Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf, the big bad wolf...

That wouldn’t do.

A growl rumbled through him and he rolled his hips suggestively, pleased when the tune was cut off by a breathy moan. He smirked, quite satisfied with himself, but they didn’t have time for much more than another steamy kiss, one he was happy to bestow.

“You know how much I love wearing your mark,” he accused against Stiles’ lips. “But if you want me to heal it…”

“Don’t!” Stiles yipped, his hand flashing up to Phee’s chest, wrapped halfway round the curve of his neck where it met his shoulder. Phee could feel his body tense beneath him, heard the pounding of his heartbeat, but when the mark didn’t disappear he relaxed, sank back against the bed and ghosted his fingertips around the edge of the mark. “Don’t,” he murmured.

Phee smiled, and damn if it wasn’t like sunlight shining down on him, hot and bright, the sweetly yellow grin that, in combination with his curly blonde locks and tawny fur, had prompted Stiles to nickname him Butterwolf. It was a look Stiles loved seeing on him, a look he loved putting on the wolf’s face.

“I like it there,” he admitted. “I like seeing you wear it.”

“But will you like them seeing me wear it?”

He was quiet a minute as he thought over the events of the night before, the things the pack had said, the things Phee had said.

“I don’t owe them anything,” he murmured, reaching up to brush his thumb over Phee’s jawline. “Somebody told me once that I was strong. That I made myself and chose my own path. It took me a lot to get there…

I don’t want to go back.”

Phee grinned, dropped one more kiss onto Stiles’ lips before rolling off of the bed, hunting up a pair of dark blue jeans and a black button down shirt. Stiles chuckled as he watched from the bed, subtly readjusting himself in his sweats before running his hands roughly through his hair and heaving himself up.

“Dressed to impress?” he asked as he tugged a pair of his own skinny jeans from his duffel bag, pulled on a black V-necked t-shirt.

“I’ve never met your dad in person,” Phee replied simply, fixing his collar. “He’s got guns.”

Stiles snorted, fished his left boot from beneath the edge of the bed. “He’s also laid up in the hospital. He’s not gonna be threatening you anytime soon.”

Phee rolled his eyes. “Twenty bucks says I get threatened before we even get him home.”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow. “You’re on,” he smirked. “All it’ll take is the suggestion of a burger on the way home and he’ll be putty in my hands.”

“You’re underestimating him.” Stepping into the bathroom, Phee gelled up his palms before sweeping them through his curls. He watched intently as Stiles pulled on his jacket, checked his pistol before transferring his charm box from his satchel to his pocket. “You want to take your stuff now? It’ll be a smoother ride for your dad in the SUV…”

Stiles’ mouth quirked to one side, then he shrugged.

“Let’s just check out,” he said, beginning to gather up his scattered dirty clothes and stuffing them back into his bag. “I’ll drive my dad and our stuff if you’ll take the jeep. I’m gonna need to keep an eye on him for a while, watch for a relapse…”

“He’ll be fine,” Phee promised. “And he’ll be happy to have you there, you know that.”

“I know,” Stiles sighed. Zipping his bag closed again, he turned to face Phee with his hands stuffed deep in his pockets. “Let’s go get him home.”

Chapter Text

They pulled into the hospital lot less than twenty minutes later, excellent time considering Stiles had double and triple checked the room to make sure he had all his stuff before Phee finally got them paid for and on the road. They parked side by side outside the bay doors, met at the tailgate of Stiles’ jeep when he suddenly found his feet stuck to the pavement. His dad would be awake this time, would be seeing him face to face for the first time in five years, and even though he had always assured Stiles by phone or video chat that he did understand, Stiles was still scared. Scared, that even though his dad still loved him, that there might be some sadness there, some disappointment.

A warm hand gripped the back of his neck, squeezed gently in a gesture he recognized. Wolves often gripped their pups by the neck, to carry them back to the safety of the den. It was warmth and reassurance and love, and Stiles’ nature reacted to the touch the same way a wolf pup would. The tension immediately drained from his shoulders and he breathed out, leaning back into Phee’s chest as his head lolled to the side, baring his neck. The werewolf automatically nuzzled in, rubbing the side of his face against Stiles until his pale skin pinked from Phee’s rough stubble.

“Come on,” he murmured against Stiles’ ear. “You’ve got this.”

Stiles swallowed, nodded. Pushing through the doorway, he headed towards the front desk, stalling. He almost changed his mind when he saw Melissa McCall sitting behind the computer, taking notes with a
ballpoint pen, but the hospital wouldn’t discharge his dad if there wasn’t someone there to drive him home, so he didn’t have much of a choice. He moved quietly to the desk, he placed his hands on the counter and lightly cleared his throat.

“Yes, can I…”

Her words tailed off as she finally looked up, eyes wide as though she didn’t believe who was standing in front of her. Her mouth fell open with a gasp and she lifted a trembling fingers to cover it.

“Stiles?” she tremored.

All it took was a sad little half smile on his part to have her up and around the counter, wrapping him in a crushing hug. He could feel her tears hot against his neck and it was enough to move him from tentative back patting until he’d melted against her, sniffing back his own tears.

“Oh sweetie,” she murmured, pulling back. “Let me…” She chuckled, took him by the shoulders as she ran tear filled eyes over his face. “Just let me look at you.” She rubbed a thumb down over the line of his moustache as though it were dirt she could rub away, smoothed her hands over the wide lapels of his jacket, patting over his heart. “It’s so good to see you sweetheart,” she said finally. “Things haven’t been nearly as exciting without you.”

Stiles smirked a little, remembering all the times he’d tumbled through Scott’s window only to be confronted with a bat-wielding Melissa.

“I’ve missed you too,” he murmured, pulling her back in again for another short hug. “I didn’t mean to… I just…”

“It’s all right sweetie,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “We don’t have to do this now. Scott never said why you left but… your dad told me it was something you needed to do.”

“Yeah,” he murmured, glancing back over his shoulder at Phee who was waiting a respectful three paces back. “I think it was.”

“Who’s this?” Melissa asked, straightening up as she followed Stiles’ gaze.

“Pheelan O’Rourke, miss,” the werewolf smiled, stepping forward as he put on his most suave and charming smile. “It’s nice to meet you. Stiles has said lovely things.”

“Hmm.”

Stiles smirked at Melissa’s suspicious look, her arms crossed and an eyebrow cocked. It was a look he remembered well.

“Well I can’t exactly say the same,” she sniffed, shooting Stiles a glare, “But if you’re the one who brought Stiles back home…”

“Well it was my family jet that flew us here,” he laughed.

“Family jet huh?” she remarked in surprise. “Wow. Good enough. I guess now we’ll just have to work on keeping you.”

Stiles wasn’t unaffected by the phrasing, but Phee just smiled, running a hand smoothly through his hair. “Well I can’t make any promises,” he grinned, “But we’ll be here as long as it takes to get Stiles’ father back on his feet.”

“Oh, God! Stiles, your dad!”

“Relax Melissa,” Stiles chuckled, touched by her sudden panic at the obvious oversight she’d made. “We dropped by yesterday but he was asleep. He seems to be doing well?”

“Oh. Um…” The nurse cast an anxious glance over at Phee, but he just smiled and flashed his eyes. “Oh. Oh. All right then.” Taking the sleeve of Stiles jacket, she pulled him over to a secluded corner and leaned in close. “Stiles, sweetie, your dad was…”

“It’s all right,” he reassured her. “He got bit, I know.”

“But how did you…”

Stiles shifted uncomfortably on his feet and Melissa quickly moved on, all professionalism. “Derek brought him in,” she began. “He wasn’t well. He’d lost a lot of blood, which we replaced, but he was still running a fever and he stayed unconscious. He was improving, but yesterday he had a setback…”

“That was me actually,” Stiles volunteered shamefacedly. “It was an alpha that bit him…”

Melissa’s eyes went wide and she hissed in a breath of surprise.

“It’s ok,” he soothed, touching her arm. “I… I fixed it. He won’t… he won’t change.”

“How did you…”

Again, Stiles looked away, uncomfortable, pained at the thought of sharing himself this way.

“Ok,” she sighed, “Another thing that can wait for another time.” Smiling up at him, she returned the arm squeeze. “He’s doing fine Stiles. I was going to drive him home after my shift, but this is… this is so much better.” Without warning, she launched in for another hug. “It’s so much better. He was awake early this morning. Go. Go see him.”

“Thanks, Melissa,” he murmured, and as he turned away he caught her wiping a tear from her cheek.

“See?” Pheelan murmured, joining him at his side. “You got this.”

When they got to the door of his father’s room Stiles paused, hand on the knob as he tried to catch his breath.

“Want me to go in with you?” Phee asked quietly.

“I think… I think maybe I should go alone.”

“Whatever you need little buddy,” the wolf replied. “Think I’ll go find the caf, hunt up some tea.”

Stiles could only nod silently. Pressing a kiss to his cheek, Phee clapped him on the shoulder and sauntered off, intentional in his casualty. Taking a bracing breath, Stiles straightened his spine and pushed through
the doorway.

His father was sitting up against the pillows, watching a baseball game on the tiny television mounted on the wall near the ceiling. He was awake, alert even if he looked a little weary, and it was intensely relieving to the young man who was still afraid.

“I told you Melissa, I’m fine,” his father huffed without turning towards the doorway. “I’d be better if you’d let me sign myself outta here.”

“Your sway as a Sheriff must be slipping,” Stiles smiled. “She let me sign you out.”

The Sheriff’s head turned so fast Stiles was surprised he didn’t wrench his neck, and the man went uncomfortably pale, his face full of the fear of hope.

“Stiles?” he breathed.

“Hey Dad,” he whispered.

For a second he shifted on his feet, staring down at his boots, the picture of a young son afraid and ashamed in the face of his father’s disappointment, but it didn’t last. The Sheriff opened his arms and that was all it took to have Stiles across the floor in a blink, collapsing against him, and then they were both sobbing and talking over each other and hugging as tightly as his dad’s bandaged arm would allow.

“I’m sorry Dad. I’m so sorry,” Stiles sobbed against his father’s neck, his body shaking with the years of longing and aching love. “I never wanted…”

“Easy, son, easy,” his dad murmured against him, holding him close and backing him down from the hyperventilating he was trying for. “This wasn’t your fault. I’m ok, Mel says I’m ok.”

“I know, I know, I just…”

Sucking in a hard breath, Stiles pulled back and dragged a chair up to the side of the bed, dropping into it without relinquishing his grip on his father’s hand as he swiped tears roughly from his face.

“I never wanted you to get hurt,” he heaved raggedly. “I thought… I mean, I… I trusted them. I thought they’d keep you safe.”

“It wasn’t their fault Stiles,” John murmured, stroking his son’s hair. “I chose to try and help, even though Derek told me he had it under control. I wanted to help.”

“Dad, you got bit,” Stiles choked. “By an alpha. If I’d gotten here any later than I did…”

“What…”

Stiles sighed, rubbed his hands over his face hard. “You know what I can do,” he said quietly. “What I am.” John nodded. It had taken a long time, years, but Stiles had finally told his dad what he was, the things that he was learning he could do. Stiles weekly phone call was the only reason the Sheriff had never put out an APB on his son. “I came in yesterday, worked my mojo.”

“So I won’t be…”

“Getting grey in the muzzle?” Stiles smirked, cocking an eyebrow. “No.”

He didn’t miss the way the Sheriff’s shoulders slumped, the way the tension bled out of him. Grabbing the back of Stiles’ neck, he dragged him in close, pressed their foreheads together.

“Thank you,” he murmured. “You know I didn’t want…”

“I know,” Stiles answered. A year after he’d left, when the wolves had finally realized he wasn’t coming back, they had offered his dad a place in the pack, and the only thing that had kept the pain of that from being completely overwhelming was the fact that the Sheriff had declined. Yes, they had been offering him protection, no doubt doing it for Stiles, but that his dad should be the one offered what he’d wanted so badly… it cut.

Nervously, awkwardly, Stiles cleared his throat and pulled back, reached into his jacket pocket for the small wooden box that held the charm he’d cut for his father. Turning it in his hand, he opened his mouth but closed it again without saying anything, just offered it in silence. His father took it the same way, with silence and a certain amount of reverence that Stiles wasn’t sure was warranted. Opening the box, he could almost feel the quickening of his father’s heart, could almost hear it as he reached out tentative fingertips and stroked the shining metal dog tags that rested on the crushed silk inside.

There were two, as was customary, thin, polished steel that he’d poured so much love and strength into that it had left him drained for days. He’d cut the name Stilinski into the first, a pentagram into the other, the same intricate knot he’d woven for Phee. He’d begun them months ago, when a strange foreboding had begun to build in the shadows at the back of his mind, and he had intended to mail them in time for his father’s birthday, but it was evident that the spark in him knew better, knew the wards would be needed sooner rather than later.

His father pulled them out of the box, let them hang from the fine chain where the light caught on the links, glinting like diamonds might.

“These are more than just shiny, aren’t they?” he asked quietly, but it was obvious that he already knew the answer.

Stiles could only nod, his throat tight as he watched his father slip the chain over his head, drop the tags onto his bare chest where his fingers traced them lightly, and then he was reaching out and gripping Stiles fingers tightly, his eyes wet.

“It’s good to see you son,” John said gruffly, his voice tight. “Good to have you home.”

“Not quite home,” Stiles countered with a gentle smile. “Ready to get out of here?”

“Oh thank God,” John groaned, and the mood in the small room lightened immensely. “I was afraid you were gonna have me stay another day. The food here is even worse than all that veggie stuff you’ve bribed this damned town into feeding me, and the coffee’s worse than that.”

“The man doesn’t lie,” Both Stilinskis jumped and turned to the door where Phee had slipped in, two paper cups of coffee in his hands. “Never had worse.” Stepping up to the bed, he handed one across to Stiles and placed the other on the swinging table at the Sheriff’s side. “It’s nice to finally meet you sir.”

John took Phee’s proffered hand and shook it firmly, eyeing him up and down.

“So this is the wolf that’s kept you away for so long,” he considered, shooting Stiles a glare before he let go of Phee’s hand. “I have to warn you son,” he said in his Sheriff’s voice, “I just got him back. If you’re planning on keeping him we may have a problem.”

“Daaaaaaad,” Stiles whined, walking over to the cupboard and pulling out the sweats and the Beacon Hills PD t-shirt one of the deputies must have brought in. “We’re moving in till you’re at least fully recovered. You’ll be sick of me forcing broccoli on you before you know it. Besides,” he smirked, shooting Pheelan a wink over his shoulder, “He may look like a teddy bear but my wolf’s got game.”

“And I’ve got wolfsbane bullets,” John replied flatly, his eyes narrowed.

“Aw, dammit,” Stiles grumbled.

Phee barked a laugh, made gimme motions with one hand until Stiles pulled out his wallet and forked over a twenty.

“Looks like dinner’s on you tonight, little buddy,” he grinned. “Sheriff? Steaks?”

“Oh I like you,” John smiled. “I think we’re gonna get along just fine.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, gave Phee a push. “Go, go!” he smirked. “Shameless, buying my father’s love with steaks. Pick me up some star anise all right, I’ll need it for the location spell. We’ll meet you back at the house, you can find it right?”

“Yes, Stiles, I can find it,” Phee smiled. “And I can find the grocery too, this town isn’t that big. I’ll see you back at the house.”

Stiles could see the hesitance on the wolf’s face, so he dragged him down by the neck and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips, felt them curve in a smile beneath his mouth.

“See you,” he murmured.

Phee pulled back, nodded to the Sheriff, and then he was gone out the door.

“Friends huh?” his father asked when Stiles finally turned around, and his something tickled at his stomach.

“Yeah,” he muttered, his eyes on the wall but his gaze far away. “Friends.” Picking up his dad’s t-shirt from the foot of the bed, he moved to help him pull it on over his bandaged arm. “Let’s go home huh?”

Chapter Text

Stiles stormed into Derek’s loft, slamming the rolling door back and striding straight up to the alpha before planting both hands on his chest and shoving as hard as he could. The wolf’s eyes flashed red as he rocked back on his heels, but he didn’t go any farther, the human’s strength not enough to move him.

“What the hell man?” Stiles shouted, shoving him again, pointless slapping at the alpha’s broad shoulders. “No major monster this month so you just shut me out?!”

“Woah, Stiles, back up!” Scott yelped, trying to grab him by the forearm and pull him back, but Stiles just shook him off. The rest of the pack, all of them except for Lydia who was away that weekend, had jumped to their feet when he’d come flying in, varying degrees of shock and shame and guilt written all over their faces.

“Get the hell off me Scott,” Stiles snarled, ripping away from his friend’s pawing hands. “You’ve been avoiding me for weeks, all of you, so just keep your frickin’ hands off me!”

Turning back to Derek, he stabbed a finger in his face, anger and hurt coming off of him in painful waves. “You’re gonna tell me what the hell’s going on right now, dammit!” he bit out.

“What do you think is going on Stiles?” Derek asked flatly, one eyebrow arching up sardonically as he slowly crossed his arms, the picture of defiant nonchalance.

“You tell me you son of a bitch! You’ve called three pack meetings behind my back, you haven’t even talked to me since I gave Peter the rest of the bestiary! Now the pack’s ignoring me and I find out you told them to!”

Derek didn’t even bother to respond, instead showing his teeth over Stiles’ shoulder at Scott, who shrank back beneath his glare.

“I can’t believe this,” Stiles breathed, backing away as fear and betrayal and incredulity crashed through him. Turning in a panicked circle as his heart began to thunder in his chest, he turned his eyes on each of the wolves in turn and none of them could hold his gaze. Even Allison had blushed and looked to the floor. Peter was staring at Derek and shaking his head with arms crossed but didn’t say anything, and Stiles turned back to the alpha with his heart in his throat and all of his pain and panic in his eyes.

“Nothing to say Sourwolf?” he snarled between gritted teeth, but his voice was tight. “What, am I only good enough to be your research bitch now? Huh?!”

Again Derek stayed silent, just staring back at him dully as though Stiles weren’t worth the air it would take to answer.

He could feel the world beginning to crumble beneath his feet, and even though it had been building for a while, it still felt like he was dying.

“I’ve saved you!” he screamed, his calm finally cracking as he threw his arms out to his sides, a gesture that couldn’t possibly encompass the explosion that was going on inside of him. “I’ve saved you! I’ve saved all of you! We’re family, we’re pack!”

Spinning harshly on his heel he faced the betas down again, Erica and Boyd, Peter and Isaac, Allison and Scott, and he could feel tears burning hot on his cheeks.

“We’re pack!” he snarled again. “We’re…” Swallowing hard, he turned to face Scott, his oldest friend, his brother, the one who’d been there since the beginning. “God we’re friends. And just because he says so you stop hanging out with me? You abandon me?”

“Stiles,” Scott whimpered, turning on his puppy eyes, and for the very first time he was too angry to be affected. “I get that you’re mad, ok. But I’m not abandoning you. We’re not abandoning you. But you’re… you’re human man. You’re not…”

“Not what?” Stiles hissed, showing his own teeth, and Scott paled.

“You’re safer at home,” he murmured finally, dropping his head.

Stiles laughed, harsh and ugly, and Scott flinched.

“You’re really gonna try to make this about me being safe?” he asked, his eyes burning and his heart breaking. “That’s really what you’re going with?”

Turning on Derek, he stared at the wolf with shaking hands.

“You doing this for me Derek?” he sneered quietly. “Keep me safe?”

For a second the alpha just stared back, dark and silent, then he dropped his arms and turned his back on the teen to walk away.

“Go home Stiles,” he said.

XXX

Derek woke up in a cold sweat, gasping for breath as he strained against the bondage of his twisted sheets. It took him a minute to shake off the nightmare memory, to realize that he was in his own bed in his own house and that he was alone in his room. Slumping back against the mattress, his body shook with the effort of reigning in his breathing, of bringing his heartbeat back down to its normal steady pace. Squeezing his eyes shut he tried to calm down but it was hard, all the vicious, slicing emotions of that day and the months that followed suddenly just as cutting and painful as they’d first been, wreaking havoc on his mind.

“Fuck,” he breathed, pressing the heels of his palms into his eyes until he saw sparks.

It had taken him months to pick up all the pieces he’d broken into after what had happened Stiles' senior year, after what he’d caused to happen. It made more sense now, after what Peter had told him the night before, the whole thing falling into place in a horrible, macabre sort of story that made him sick to his stomach. Seeing him again, being close enough to smell him, touch him… God, he could feel himself crumbling.

At the time he’d been afraid, he could admit that now. Afraid of how close he was getting to Stiles, how important the teen was in his life. And not just for research like he’d accused that terrible night in the loft, not just for his ability to wield the mountain ash. No, he’d been so much more than that, an integral part to their planning, a laugh when things got too heavy, a rock when they got too hard. And it had scared him. He could see his pack slowly gravitating towards the young man, could feel his own wolf doing the same, and he’d panicked, unsure what was happening and why, his past leaping forward with bared teeth to suggest the all the worst of the possible outcomes. Stiles had become a distraction to them, drawing on them in a way that put them all at risk, especially in a fight, and as alpha Derek felt the effects exponentially more than his pack, taking on their emotions and their fears with his own. Anxious, still unsettled in his own skin, he could feel something stirring and it all focused on Stiles, and so he had slowly withdrawn from him, instructing the pack to do the same.

He’d never intended it to go as far as it had. He’d only meant to wait for this next storm to pass, for Stiles to stop whatever it was he’d been doing and let them all go from whatever chains he’d somehow wrapped around them. At the time he had felt stifled, out of control of his own wolf, and he could admit now that there had been some resentment in him, that a part of him had blamed Stiles. He’d whipped himself for a long time for that. It was true that his uneasiness was reflected in the betas, that they too had sensed something strange when the spastic teen was around, but they’d all taken their cues from him, withdrawing from Stiles and leaving him alone and confused and hurt, and then it had all finally come to a crescendo and Stiles had confronted them in the loft and Derek had had his chance, his chance to open up with the pack about what was happening and how they could fix it, and instead he had frozen, too afraid of his own fears and feelings to do anything more than send Stiles home.

He’d run from them in tears and Derek had held the pack back, hoping to let Stiles cool down before any of them went after him, and that had perhaps been his biggest mistake. Scott had gone to the Stilinski house the next day only to find it empty, and it wasn’t until the night after that that they finally caught up with the Sheriff. The man had looked at them with such sadness and disappointment that Derek had almost been brought to his knees, and all he would say was that he had put Stiles on a plane that morning. He wouldn’t say where, or how long his son would be gone, wouldn’t say anything more than that, and the pack had run from the police station to Stiles’ house in panic and disarray. His room had been left open, no ash barring the windows, but his clothes had been gone, along with a picture of his mom and his pillow, and they knew he’d really left.

The howling had shaken the woods that night, the Preserve ringing with pain and sorrow.

They’d been relentless after that, hounding the Sheriff for weeks but the man had never broken, going so far as to threaten them with restraining orders and Argent munitions when he came home to find them waiting on his steps. It was months before they gave up, months before they realized that Stiles just wasn’t coming back, wasn’t going to call or write or contact them at all, and it was then that he realized he needed to fix what he’d broken. The pack was disintegrating in the face of losing the teen, Peter reverting to suspicious and volatile ways, Scott becoming droopy and sullen, Isaac flinching whenever someone reached out for him and waking up each night screaming, ice cold to the touch. It had been his fault, most entirely his fault, and more importantly than that they were his responsibility. Born to it or not, meant for it or not, he was the alpha of Beacon Hills, and his pack was suffering.

So he had done the best he could, leveling what was left of his family home and working side by side with his still half-crazy uncle to draft up new plans from memory, recreating the open, sun-drenched rooms and grand staircases he’d run through as a pup, filled with the warmth and scent and sounds of pack. He’d paid well to have the job done fast and to have it furnished with enough beds and couches and armchairs to satisfy a king. He and Isaac had moved in immediately and he had wasted no time in laying down the law; every member would be present twice a week for pack dinner and Saturdays would be spent on morning training and afternoon bonding time. He’d been determined to pull them back together by their battered heartstrings if it killed him, and slowly but surely he’d succeeded - Peter had moved in and begun to settle back into his own re-animated skin, Erica and Boyd following quickly after, and while Scott and Allison had found their own apartment, they followed the alpha’s law and were present at the house more often than not.

For her part Lydia had kicked both Derek and Scott where it counted when she’d gotten back to Beacon Hills and discovered what had happened, and she was the only one that the Sheriff would pass on a message for. She never got a response but he assured her that Stiles had received the memo, and she was the only one he would reassure of Stiles relative well-being. In the man’s defense, had he refused, she could have tracked Stiles down herself, but the second hand communication, few and far between as it was, was enough that she could respect the teens wishes. In the five years he had been gone the Banshee had never caved either, never passed on a message for the pack and never relayed anything that may have passed between herself and the Sheriff. It was weeks before she would speak to any of them again, months more before she stopped looking at them all with venom in her eyes, but eventually she too had fallen into the close-knit little world Derek had managed to create.

It was real after that.

Life without Stiles.

Erica and Boyd bought a mechanic’s shop they loved and turned a nice profit for the pack, and Isaac had gotten a degree in psychology. Lydia too had gotten a degree, and now worked out of an especially nice apartment on the edge of town doing something with chemical engineering. Scott and Allison had moved in together after Scott became Deaton’s vet tech, the huntress going into the new family business with her father teaching weapons awareness and safety classes. Isaac had found Violet and gotten engaged, Lily had followed and somehow managed to soothe the last of the fire that burned in Peter’s mind. Weekends became a pack affair, Saturday evening puppy piles spilling over into Sunday morning breakfasts and runs through the Preserve. Full moons too were a Godsend again, the Banshee and the huntress chasing the wolves through the forest on ATV’s as the betas romped and sang around them.

Stiles' leaving had been perhaps the single most destructive thing to happen to them as a pack, another deep scar on Derek’s psyche, and yet it had brought them closer together, brought him more peace than he had ever hoped to know again.

Nauseas with that knowledge Derek rolled out of bed, wobbled into the attached bath to splash cold water on his face. Gazing into the mirror above the sink, he flinched at the sight of his own muddy, burgundy-colored eyes, his true nature unable to break through. He felt light-headed, weak, unable to access his wolf, and that scared him. He couldn’t deal like this, not with Stiles coming back, not with his own emotions, and certainly not with any threat that might ride in. This wasn’t right, this wasn’t…

“Breathe nephew,” Peter’s voice sounded in his ear, his hand hard on the back of Derek’s neck. His breath was catching in his throat, the bathroom tile cutting into his knees through the thin cotton of his sweats.

“I can’t do this,” he gasped, clawing at his throat. “Peter, I can’t… I can’t do this! I can’t be this!”

“Be what Derek?” Peter demanded, claws pricking Derek’s skin as they grew from his fingertips.

“This,” he snarled, showing his teeth. “I can’t… I can’t not be a wolf! I can’t… I need...”

“You need to breathe!” Peter growled, shoving his head back down between his knees as Derek rolled and tried to rise to his feet. “Really Derek, this is just undignified. Stiles said the effects would wear off in a few days; surely you can handle that.”

Derek only snarled, keeping up a low, rumbling growl as he fought weekly against his uncle’s hold, an angry, recalcitrant pup who couldn’t understand why he wasn’t as strong or as fierce as his elders. Peter sighed, rolled his eyes in a manner that suggested he felt quite put out by the whole mess before hauling Derek to his feet. Dragging him back to the bed he’d only just vacated, he shoved him down onto the mattress before kneeling at his side and holding him down with one clawed hand to his chest.

“Do you trust me?” he asked with a smirk, his free hand moving to encircle Derek’s wrist.

The alpha sneered, baring his teeth. “Just do it!” he snarled, raising his head off the pillow.

Peter’s face twisted into a wicked smile, and with one deft twist, he snapped his nephew’s arm.

The scream that rang through the house was entirely human.

Chapter Text

“Ahh, now this is better,” John groaned, sinking down into the same old over-stuffed armchair that had held pride of place in the living room since Stiles was in middle school.

He couldn’t help a smile at the sight of his father’s socked feet kicked up on the footrest. It was a sight he’d seen a thousand times, a sight he’d missed. Simple. Homey. He’d managed to get across the threshold into the house without much of a freak out, but only because he had one hand on his dad’s elbow and was guiding him from the SUV to his chair despite manifold protests. It was the scent of the house more than anything that hit him in the face like a brick, his senses enhanced just enough to pick apart the smell that had always just been home; linen and wood smoke and Hoppes No. 9, and somehow, impossibly, the lingering scent of his mother’s perfume.

He was silent as he walked slowly around the edges of the room, his father’s eyes hot on the back of his neck as he trailed his fingers over the picture frames on the walls, the knickknacks on the shelves. Nothing had changed in the five years he’d been gone, not the carpet or the paint or the furniture, or the cracked pane of glass in the bottom of the front window where he’d overshot a lacrosse ball. It was still home, and it wasn’t, and he felt like a perfect stranger here even if he felt like he fit right in, a puzzle piece that slotted perfectly into place. Leaving his father comfortable and drowsy in his chair, he wandered the lower floor of the house, peering into the bathroom and the mudroom in the back where the dinosaur of a washer and dryer pair was still housed, poking his head into the dusty, unused guestroom. He couldn’t bring himself to go upstairs, not to explore his dad’s room or his office, his own room that he didn’t doubt was practically a shrine to his former self, at least not alone.

He was standing at the bottom of the stairs gazing up when he heard a tap on the door, rolled his eyes at the thought of Phee knocking, but he quickly forgave when he opened the door to find the werewolf laden down with a massive number of plastic grocery bags. Taking an armful for himself, he ushered him past the living room into the kitchen, the only room he felt entirely comfortable in now, before dumping the load onto the counter.

“Figured he’d be running low on the good stuff,” Phee huffed, placing his significantly larger number of bags onto the counter as well. “It’s been a few days, perishables might be…”

“Perished?” Stiles grinned, opening the fridge. Pulling out a half full carton of clumpy milk, he headed for the sink. “Eww.”

Phee wrinkled his nose before diving into the bags, pulling out a small bottle and tossing it in Stiles’ direction. “All they had was anise oil,” he said. “Got some of that.”

“Mmm, balsamic vinegar too,” Stiles smiled, pulling out the larger liter bottle from a bag.

“ ‘Course. Got a bunch of your chef-y stuff.”

“Trying to butter me up Butterwolf?” he asked, before pulling out a case of dark beer and a bag of pretzels. “Or my father?”

Phee just smirked. “Finish putting stuff away,” he ordered, nodding his chin at the rest of the bags before hunting through the kitchen drawers and coming up with a knife and a cutting board. “I’ll start dinner, yeah?”

After that it was just quiet, and it was nice working side by side with Pheelan in the kitchen, his father snoring lightly in the next room. It felt good, felt right, and Stiles wondered if he had been missing this feeling all along and just didn’t know it. He watched Phee’s hands as he prepped the steaks with cracked pepper and crushed garlic, deft fingers slicing zucchini and butternut squash into a tinfoil packet with lemon and red onion and potato. For all Stiles liked to be king of the kitchen, Pheelan did a damn fine job himself, and was far better on the grill than Stiles could ever hope to be. The cracking hiss of a beer tab being pulled woke his father as easily as alarm bells, and all three men moved out onto the small patio to sit while Pheelan started cooking, wielding barbecue tongs with a ridiculous degree of finesse.

Despite the recent snow the weather had warmed significantly, a pleasant breeze rushing through the trees around the back yard, and Stiles and his father lazed in deck chairs at the edge of the lawn, talking about anything and everything except the pack which was carefully avoided, soaking in each other’s company, just enjoying sitting close and quiet. Every once in a while Phee would chime in, adding to a story and making the Sheriff shake with laughter, usually at his Stiles’ expense, but mostly he just listened, a gentle smile on his face as he watched the father and son together.

Dinner was a pleasant affair, effusive compliments on the food made by Stiles’ dad once the threat of the veggies had been proved unfounded. They spent the meal telling stories about their travels around Europe and Western Asia, the two short vacations they’d taken in Thailand and the islands of the Cyclades. There were jokes and laughter, stories and reminiscing, and through it all neither the wolf nor the Sheriff could keep from touching the young man between them. It was almost funny to him now, after going unwanted all through high school, and then being rejected by pack, that he could exude such a dark charisma, that he could draw people in so easily without even trying.

This though, this was different.

This was love, affection, missing someone for so long and so hard that all you wanted was that skin on skin reassurance that they were there. On his left Phee’s knee pressed against his thigh beneath the deck table, on his right the Sheriff sat close, their shoulders and forearms constantly bumping. It was close and warm and home, and Stiles melted with it, becoming more and more relaxed as evening came on and the day drew to an end. He could feel his light flickering in his fingertips, rippling just beneath his skin, and although his dad had never seen it in person before, he decided not to hold back tonight.

“Sure is a hell of a thing,” John murmured as the low amber haze began to light Stiles up from the inside out. “Damned impressive son.”

Stiles smiled, climbed to his feet and stretched. “Want to see something even cooler?” he asked.

“Location spell?” Phee queried, collecting the empty beer bottles and stacking the dirty dishes onto the grilling platter to be carried inside.

“Might as well,” Stiles shrugged, accepting the salt and pepper shakers and a bottle of steak sauce. “Gonna need a map though.”

“County map good enough?” John asked as he held the back door with his good arm, waiting for Stiles and Phee to pass inside before throwing the deadbolt.

“Better make it a state map,” Stiles replied, starting to seal up the leftovers as Phee ran water for the dishes.

His dad nodded and disappeared into the living room, and by the time he came back Stiles had found a steel mixing bowl and retrieved his leather satchel from the front hall. He’d left his trunk in the back of the SUV, but he’d hauled in both his and Phee’s duffels, and had everything he needed at hand to locate the alpha who’d bitten his father.

“Spread that out on the table?” he asked, and his dad nodded, flicking on the dining room light and smoothing the map over the table.

Stiles placed his bag on one of the dining room chairs, shrugged out of his jacket and folded it neatly over the back. The Sheriff’s eyes lit on the pistol in his shoulder holster but made no comment, and Stiles thought he saw some amount of pride in the man’s eyes when he carefully drew the gun and unloaded it, placed the secured weapon back into its holster and set it gently on the table. There weren’t a lot of unspoken rules in the Stilinski household, most had to be laid down explicitly if Stiles were to be expected to follow them, but he’d grown up watching the Sheriff handle firearms, knew the respect with which they were to be treated, and he knew some small pride himself that his father had raised him to understand the power of taking a gun into his hands. Had raised him right.

Pheelan had appeared silently at his side, taken the thick white candles from his hands and placed them at the four corners of the table, lit them with Stiles’ silver Zippo before stepping back and leaning against the wall. He was the picture of relaxed calm, arms and ankles crossed easily, but his eyes were gold, always alert. Stiles’ dad seemed to take his cue from that, pulling a chair back from the table and sitting down, watching with intense interest. Taking a small, crushed-velvet bag from an inner pocket of the satchel, Stiles emptied out five small, misshapen pearls into the metal bowl, carefully counted in five drops of the oil of anise. Muttering a few words under his breath he rolled the bowl from side to side in his hands, coating the pearls with the oil before spilling them out onto the map.

“What’s wrong?” Phee asked when Stiles’ mouth twisted in a frown, setting the bowl aside on the floor near his feet.

“He’s not in Beacon Hills anymore,” Stiles sneered, waving his hand over the map. “Not even close.”

Both Phee and the Sheriff leaned in to look, eyes on the areas of the map that Stiles had indicated. Beacon Hills was printed near the lower left edge of the map in bold, a single pearl resting just above it, but the other four were scattered in a jagged line several inches higher, in a cluster near the inner north side of the state.

“So this shows where he was?” John asked, pointing at the pearl resting over their town. “What about the other four?”

“Some where he was, some where he will be,” Stiles murmured, stroking his lower lip with a thumb as he contemplated the map.

“How do you know which is which?”

Stiles chuckled lightly, tossed his dad a smirk. “You don’t,” he replied. “Not the greatest system. This is the cool part though.”

Reaching out with his right hand, Stiles held it palm down over the map, closed his eyes and breathed out. Around the tables the candles flickered, his own glow sparking in the cup of his hand, and he felt the pull of the charm that his father wore round his neck. The Sheriff must have felt it too, possibly felt the heat of it as Phee had, because his fingers went to the tags and twisted in the chain as he watched, his eyes trained on his son.

“Show me,” he murmured, drawing on all of the deep-seated protective feelings his heart held for his dad that were anchored powerfully in his chest.

The power in him jumped and his hand snapped down onto the map like it had been magnetized, fingers caging the pearl closest to the Oregon-Nevada border, his short nails biting into the paper of the map.

“That’s the one,” he muttered, opening his eyes. “Shit.”

“What?” John asked, staring at the pearl between Stiles fingers, “He’s there?”

“Yes.”

“Stiles, that’s… that’s incredible,” he breathed, dumbstruck. “You be a credit to the force kid, and that’s not something I thought I’d ever say.”

“Thanks dad,” Stiles smiled wearily. “But it doesn’t exactly work like that. I couldn’t find random criminals, or… kidnap-ees. Well I probably could…”

“But it would probably kill you,” Phee deadpanned.

Stiles laughed. “Probably. No, there’s gotta be a connection, gotta be something meaningful there. A reason that I need to find them, me specifically.”

“So now what?” his dad asked, and his eyes darted towards the gun at the edge of the table.

“Not sure,” Stiles admitted, sighing as he rubbed his temples and sank into a chair of his own.

Phee stepped behind him, grabbed an ink pen from the coffee mug on the counter and circled the pearl that Stiles had caught up before pinching out the candle flames and gathering everything up to be washed free of the anise.

“You should call the Argents,” he said and Stiles frowned, leaning away from the hand the werewolf dropped onto his shoulder.

Sensing the beginnings of an old argument, the Sheriff climbed to his feet, yawning in exaggeration. “I’m headed to bed boys,” he stated smoothly, scratching at the edge of the bandages on his neck and shoulder. “Pheelan, thanks for the steak. Stiles…” Reaching down, he pulled Stiles’ head against his ribs, stroked his hair. “I love you son. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Love you dad,” he murmured after him, watching as his father climbed the stairs and didn’t speak until he heard the bedroom door click closed above them.

“You know I wanted to deal with this myself,” he said quietly, refusing to look at the werewolf who stood behind him. “You know why it was important to me.”

“Yes,” Phee answered simply, and the short, succinct answer had annoyance flaring in his eyes.

“Then why the hell are you so ready to pass it off to the god damned werewolf hunters?” he hissed, whipping around on his chair to bare his teeth. He could feel his eyes flash and he bore down hard on the feeling, trying to control his frustration in an effort to stave off the shadows. It had been a good day, a fucking great day, and he wasn’t going to ruin just because he wasn’t going to get to…

“Stiles.”

He blinked, met the werewolf’s gaze.

“I know it was important to you,” Phee said firmly, and Stiles believed him. “I know why it was important to you. But today, with your dad… little buddy that might be the happiest I’ve ever seen you. That’s important. I don’t… I don’t want you leaving again before you’re ready just to get some cowboy justice.”

And damn if that hesitance in his wolf’s voice didn’t bleed all of the fire right out of him.

“Fuck,” he cursed, climbing to his feet and shoving Phee roughly back against the counter, following quickly to curl up against the wolf’s chest. “You’re too good for me, ya know?”

One warm hand stroked down his spine, another curled around his hip and held him close.

“I’m not…” he began, staggering over the words, the sentiment behind it. “I’m not ready. To go. I know I said I didn’t want to come back, I know I said… a few days, but…”

“But now you’re here,” Phee rumbled above him and Stiles nodded against his collarbone. Pulling back, he pressed a kiss the young man’s forehead, tipped his face up with a finger beneath his chin. “I told you at the start,” he murmured. “Whatever you want, I’m there. But your dad’s happy Stiles. God, the way he smells. I just wanna… roll around in it.”

“Gross,” Stiles said flatly, spreading his palm over Phee’s face and pushing him back playfully, yipping when the wolf swiped his tongue over his fingers. “Stay away from my dad, you.”

“You know what I mean. He smells like you. Like… pack. Family. And he’s just so damned happy, it’s…”

“It’s nice,” Stiles finished for him simply.

“Yeah,” Phee agreed. “It’s nice.”

“I’ll call Chris in the morning,” Stiles consented. “I’m sure he’s got somebody up there who’s competent enough to deal with one rogue alpha. Come on.” Grabbing Phee’s hand he pulled him towards the stairs. “Let’sgo to bed.”

Chapter Text

Derek didn’t come out of his pain-induced haze until darkness had fallen, his forearms aching in a way that assured him both of the major bones were still fractured, even if he had spent the whole day in bed healing up. Normally he would’ve been fine in an hour or two, but he didn’t begrudge himself the delayed healing. He could practically feel the suppression spell bleeding out through his pores, horribly, horribly slowly, but the chains that bound his wolf were snapping one link at a time nonetheless. Pushing himself gingerly out of bed, he went and climbed into the shower, biting back a snarl at the pain of using his hands. Scrubbing down quickly, he dried off and stepped into a pair of cotton sweats and a soft, worn t-shirt, listening as he dressed.

His hearing was better, at the very least. He could hear the pack down on the first floor, all the wolves, the Banshee and the Huntress, all of them.

His family.

Dropping down the staircase, he swung through the kitchen to grab a bottle of water and build a quick sandwich, stuffing it into his mouth before heading into the living room at the back of the house. Isaac, Peter, and Lydia were the only ones who looked up when he entered, the others training their eyes carefully on the movie that played on the massive flatscreen taking up one wall. They’d heard his broken howl the night before, heard him scream this morning, and he had no doubt that they were all unsettled. They were, in essence, a wolf pack whose alpha was wounded, out of commission. They were at the disadvantage, open, vulnerable, and their very natures knew it even if Beacon Hills hadn’t seen a major battle in years. He could see it in the way they curled close together in a tangled puppy pile, see it in the way they subtly bared their necks in his direction when they entered.

It was Lydia who took pity on him, much to his surprise, tucking her feet up beneath her so that he could wedge himself between her side and the arm of the couch. Stepping over arms and legs, he settled himself into the cushions, just managing not to flinch when Erica’s warm fingers wrapped silently around his ankle. Dropping his hand down to where she sat on the floor in front of him, he stroked her blonde curls once, just enough for the anxiety in her scent to ease, and that simple motion seemed to relax them all, let the quiet talking and small movements resume as they actually started watching the dvd that played again. Sandwich still held between his teeth, he attempted to crack the lid off his water bottle, but the pain flared sharply in his arms and the red-headed Banshee took it from him without a word, her tentativeness a testament to the strangeness hanging over them all.

For the rest of the film he sat quietly, finished his simple meal and soaked in the presence of his pack, took strength from their closeness, power coalescing like captured rainwater, clean and sweet and pure. Eventually though, like most things, it came to an end, as whatever superhero cavorting onscreen saved the day and the credits started to roll. Boyd was the one to finally put them out of their misery, clicking off the tv and tossing the remote onto the coffee table, every head in the room turning his way; nervous, expectant. Feeling much the same himself, he sighed and decided to go for the soft start.

“You two all right?” he asked quietly, looking at Violet, who was curled up in Isaac’s lap, before switching his gaze over to Lily, seated on the floor at Peter’s feet. His uncle sat alone in the armchair that cornered the couch, too dignified for the pile, but the young girl was pressed heavily against his jean-clad legs, and Lydia’s forearm hung over the couch’s so that her elbow brushed his, still connected, still a part of it all.

Violet only nodded in reply, but Lily risked a glance up at his uncle before darting her eyes back to the floor.

“Peter said…” she began haltingly, unsure. “Peter said that Stiles is a friend? Of the pack?”

“He was,” Derek answered, and it felt like a correction instead of a confirmation. “He’s… been gone for a long time. But he won’t hurt you. Or any of us.”

“With all due respect, nephew mine,” Peter scoffed, “You don’t know that.”

“Peter!” Derek snarled in exasperation, but Scott interrupted.

“Dude, it’s Stiles!” he whimpered, ignoring Allison’s silencing hand on his knee. “He’s saved us, he… he loves us. He’s my best friend…”

By the time the young man had trailed off his voice was shattered, and Derek could feel the pain behind them, they all could, but Peter just shook his head.

“Was,” he stated coldly, “He was your best friend. But every one of you needs to understand this. You shut him out in a time when he needed you most, caused him more pain than you ever knew. When you should have been claiming him as a pack you pushed him away, something his very nature will have been battered by.”

“But we didn’t know that!” Scott protested. “We didn’t know that he was a touch… whatever! I mean, what does that even…”

Peter rolled his eyes, exasperated with the boy, and Derek didn’t blame him. Isaac had relayed everything Peter had said to the pack the night before while Derek had been pushed roughly to his bed cold and shaky and detached by his reluctant uncle, but apparently Scott hadn’t really been listening.

“A Touchstone,” Peter corrected, getting up from his chair to pour himself a whiskey from the sideboard. “There isn’t much documented about them because they’re so protected, but we do know that they need a pack to ground them. Wolves are a bit like an anchor, a conduit, helping them to channel their energies and control their emotions. They draw the wolves around them like a magnet, demanding their attentions… wolves have been driven mad by the presence of an unclaimed Touchstone.”

At this the twins shifted fearfully, the rest of the pack hanging on to Peter’s words as though they were gospel. Derek too, listened carefully; he hadn’t heard this bit before. His uncle must have done some more research after Derek had eventually lost consciousness.

“So what is it they actually do?” Allison asked, and it was a fair question. “There must be a reason behind it. They wouldn’t be so…” Her face pinked and she darted a nervous glance in Derek’s direction before wetting her lips and continuing. “They wouldn’t be so... treasured if they weren’t valuable right?”

“Very good,” Peter praised sardonically, toasting the woman with his glass. “Unfortunately another question without a good answer. We know they settle a pack, make it stronger. A bit like the three beta rule. I’m just not sure how. There seems to be more than that, something… something else, but the translation…” He shook his head. “I do know that often emotion is taken on a physical pain, and rejection? Loss? Some of the worst out there. Stiles was attached to this pack for years before his nature began to emerge. With what happened, well…”

He looked up at Derek and his wolf’s eyes were ice cold.

Unforgiving.

“I’m only surprised he survived it at all.”

A deadly silence reigned as the reality of Peter’s words sunk in, the reality of what they had done.

“I don’t imagine much friendship would survive that, do you?” Peter asked. “Beyond that, we’ve certainly seen that he isn’t the same whipped puppy you used to think he was. He tossed you like a chew toy nephew, and it’s fairly clear that his command of dangerous magics is exceptional. Until we know more…”

“What more do we know?” Derek finally managed, and he was as shocked as he was pleased that his voice didn’t come out like the croak of a damned frog.

“We haven’t heard anything from him since last night,” Isaac reported, ever the alert second.

“My mom…”

Scott swallowed, blushed hard and looked at the floor.

“My mom said that he checked his dad out of the hospital around noon. The omega was with him, O’Rourke. She said he was… ok. He wouldn’t really talk about… I mean, I never…”

“She doesn’t know why he left,” Derek finished, and his surprise was a weary sort, as though he weren’t really surprised at all.

“Not really.”

“And he didn’t say anything.”

“No. Just took his dad home. She… she’s pretty mad.”

“Pissed,” Allison confirmed. “Not just about Stiles leaving, but…”

Derek sighed heavily, rubbing his eyes and ignoring the twinge in his arm. “The bite,” he stated.

“Yeah.”

“So now what?” Erica asked, and her voice was very small. Boyd pulled her in closer to his chest but her eyes remained troubled, wide and dark and fearful. “Derek I don’t think I can…”

“We should take it slow,” he said, bracing his feet unconsciously against the hardwood floor, preparing for the protests. “Let him come to us.”

A condescending giggle broke from his left and the whole pack turned to look at the red-headed Banshee who was laughing with one hand demurely over her mouth. When she’d pulled herself together she straightened her dress primly and directed a look at the alpha that could’ve melted through steel as easily as one of her chemical cocktails.

“Oh sweetheart,” she simpered calmly, patting his arm like he was a child. “There’s no way in hell.”

“Lydia…”

“No. Derek.” Climbing to her feet, she brushed out her clothes and grabbed her purse from beneath the end table, clearly intending to leave. “Didn’t you hear anything Peter just said? Didn’t you see last night?” Huffing, she rubbed one temple wearily. “Stiles is not going to come crawling back to you. You pulled back from him once and I wasn’t here to stop it. Dammit! I lost my… I lost my best friend. I won’t lose him again.”

And with that final word, she flicked her strawberry blonde locks over her shoulder and flounced out.

XXX

Stiles wasn’t wrong when he assumed his room would look like a shrine; it did. The paint had faded and the posters on the walls were curling, but all his stuff was right where he’d left it, the Queen sized bed he’d upgraded to that last year he was home still sheeted in grey jersey. After clicking on the light he stripped to his boxers and flopped down onto the mattress, crossing his ankles and folding his arms behind his head, watching in silence from where he was propped against his Star Wars pillows as Pheelan moved quietly around the room. The wolf was a tactile creature and it brought a smile to the edges of his mouth to see him trail his fingers over Stiles’ bookshelves, scent the room as dust motes swirled into the air. Eventually he sank down into the creaky, wheeled chair with the claw marks in the back, paged through the giant desk calendar that had yellowed at the edges but was still heavily marked with half a dozen different colors of ink, scrawled notes and doodles telling the story of those last months.

“Not exactly light reading,” he murmured from the bed as Phee’s face grew dark and solemn.

The werewolf frowned, dropping the calendar shut as he moved to the window, fingers tracing the darts in the frame where clawed fingers had splintered the wood.

“Doggie door?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow as he trailed claws around the glass.

It was his attempt at a joke, at lightening the mood that hung over them, dense and low to the floor like fog. Not the best one out there, but Stiles had to give him credit for trying.

“Once upon a time,” he replied with a tired smile, trying to block the flood of memories; all the times that wolves would come and go through that window, all the times that he would turn around and they would just be there, without a sound or a stirring of the air.

At least until they weren’t.

“You can explore in the morning,” Stiles chastised gently, rolling over to give Phee ‘his’ side of the bed. Like he wouldn’t wind up sprawled in the middle anyway. “Get the light.”

Slouching down into his pillows, not the pillow, but still his pillows, he listened while Phee moved around in the dark, shedding his clothes, and then the bed dipped and he rolled towards the wolf, curling up on his chest when he opened an arm to him. Pheelan was his pillow now, the one that traveled with him, allowed him to sleep.

That night Stiles dreamt of a fox.

Chapter Text

When Stiles woke up it was still dark, his skin chilled as the nightmare sweats cooled on his arms and chest. He’d come awake with a strangled gasp, unsure where he was, and the fucked up part was that he was glad of it. It was better, more familiar to him to be strangled into consciousness out of the black and blue grip of his dreams than to come slowly and gently awake with a murmur and the unbearable weight and warmth of his quilts.

Rolling out of bed, he found his jeans in the dark and dragged them on, tossing a glance at Pheelan over his shoulder, already star-fishing across the mattress as he sought the heat Stiles should have left behind on the sheets. Mornings like these he might have woken the wolf for a glow, kissing down his chest in apology, but he hated that feeling of neediness, dependency, even if Phee would just rumble at the scent of his guilt and drag him closer, bury his face in Stiles’ neck and breath like he was more content than dreaming. A glance at the clock told him in glowing digital reality that it was only just past four, and there was a quiet to the house that was almost peaceful, so instead he just wandered down the hallway, passed his father’s closed door and into the bathroom, where he stared at himself in the mirror above the sink, blinking against the hard glare of the light.

His eyes were black.

Stiles felt his breath catch in his throat and his heart start to pound, fear racing like static in his fingertips as he gripped the countertop. He knew the way that his world worked, knew the consequences he faced when he molded it to his will, but this was something different, something that was quite literally darker. The honeyed-whiskey tone of his irises always darkened after a nightmare, but this was an ebony void of nothing, no separation between his pupils and the rest of his eyes, stark against the white, and that was something that he did not know. Still, there was a wicked sort of playfulness in the way they sparkled, and the answering echo inside his chest forced his lips to curl into a grin that bordered on the maniacal.

He was looking into a fox’s eyes.

Shaking, Stiles tore himself away from what was reflected in the mirror, stripped off his clothes and got into the shower without waiting for the water to heat. Planting both hands against the wall, he leaned into the icy spray like it could save him, letting the water rush against his face until he felt like he was drowning and he couldn’t take the suffocation a second longer. Stepping back with a gasp, he slid down the wall until he crouched in the bottom of the tub, the water still beating down on him with a feeling like shards of glass, a quivering, shivering mess as he clutched at his own arms hard enough to leave finger-shaped bruises over his elbows.

The fucking fox.

He’d never dreamt of it before, he was sure, but still he felt like he knew it. Like it belonged in that dark corner of the maze his mind was trapped in every time he closed his eyes, and he only just hadn’t explored that particular corridor yet. It hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t made him feel, and yet somehow it had been like an old friend, one that he knew better then he knew himself. It had stared at him for what seemed like hours, all sharp and lustrous, pink tongue lolling between black lips and fine white teeth. Stiles had been entirely empty then, as if he simply weren’t, and all he could do was watch as the animal watched back, swiveling its ears, now and then switching its heavy red tail around delicate black paws.

Quiet, staring, empty.

Like winter.

Stiles broke out of the trap of his own thoughts with a start, lurching to his feet so fast he went light-headed. Grabbing on to a bar of soap, he began to scrub himself down, automatically, mechanically, suddenly desperate to get the sour sweat of dark dreams off of his skin. Rinsing off the suds he climbed out, toweled off roughly and pulled his jeans back up his hips, his gaze tight on the floor until he was out of the room and down the stairs where he rummaged through his duffel bag for Phee’s black hoodie, suddenly able to actually feel the cold. Freezing, he snuggled down into the cotton, hiked the hood up around his ears and headed into the kitchen to start a pot of coffee.

The bubbling sound of the percolator was just enough to noise to keep him from feeling entirely alone in the house, from looking back over his shoulder in a parody of sick paranoia. The clock on the stove told him he’d been crouching in the shower for almost two hours, told him that the sun was coming and he decided it was late enough to start breakfast, if only to give his hands something to do. He had no appetite himself, but he guessed his dad would appreciate a hot meal judging by all the open boxes of cereal in the cupboard, and Phee ate like a wolf. It was easy to find the waffle iron; it was in the same old cabinet in the back, dusty because Stiles was the only one that ever used it. By the time the coffee was done he had gotten it down and washed it up, stirred together a bowl full of batter with brown sugar and pecans. He was turning the first one out onto a plate, golden and perfect, when Phee came strolling into the kitchen, rumpled in day-old clothes and messy bedhead.

“Hey,” he tossed over his shoulder before the wolf could open his mouth. His gaze had gone sharp, flaring a deep, omega gold when he caught sight of the dark circles under Stiles eyes, the bitter scent of him beneath caramelizing sugar and sweetness of maple syrup. “Hungry Butterwolf?”

“Sure,” he answered, and Stiles slid a knife and a couple of bananas along the counter towards him wordlessly. “Morning sir.”

“John, son, please,” Stiles’ dad smiled as he wandered in as well, and Stiles turned his back to hide a grin, ladling another spoonful of batter into the sizzling iron. “Waffles?”

“Brown sugar pecan,” Phee answered, slicing the fruit onto a stack of two and handing the plate over to the Sheriff. “Coffee?”

The Sheriff hummed an affirmative and Stiles watched silently as Phee located a pair of mugs and poured, catered to his father not because he was attempting to make an impression, but because it was his nature. Lone wolf he may be, but he knew how to love, knew how to care. Stiles’ father was important to him, and so he was important to Phee as well. Finishing the batter, he turned out a high stack of crispy, fluffy deliciousness, making sure there was enough to keep the two men stuffed fat and happy before taking a small plate for himself and joining them at the table.

“Well Stiles,” the Sheriff garbled around a huge bite, “I knew I missed you for a reason.”

“Oh haha,” he deadpanned over Phee’s chuckling laughter, pulling the bottle of syrup out of his reach in retaliation. “You got funny while I was gone I see.”

“Hmm. Well if I’d known it would get you home and cooking sooner…”

“Oh God, don’t say it,” Stiles groaned. “You live in Beacon Hills, you should not be tempting fate.”

The Sheriff just laughed, shook his head and reached for another waffle. “So,” he asked, a pleasant distraction from Stiles’ sudden realization that he was apologizing for his absence with food, “What sort of plans do you boys have for the day? Could show you around a bit, see all the changes you’ve missed out on.”

This time it was Stiles’ turn to laugh.

“Come on Dad,” he grinned, “Nothing here changes. Besides, you’re gonna start hurting real soon, and all you’re gonna want is your chair and your pain pills.”

“Hmph,” John grumbled, picking at the edge of the sling he’d threaded his arm back into on waking. “Thought you took care of it.”

“I kept you from turning,” Stiles corrected, climbing to his feet and starting to clear the table. “I didn’t knit your muscle back together. As far as I go, I’ve got a couple of phone calls to make, but other than that…”

“Yeah, I should probably call the station,” his dad huffed. “New deputies wouldn’t know their ass from their elbow without me down there. Gonna have to call Der…”

Stiles froze, not because of the name but because his dad had stopped so abruptly, choked off the word and went wide-eyed and still, guilt written all over his face. Phee looked between the two of them, obviously aware of the tension that had suddenly flooded into the room.

“Think I’ll work on getting the rest of our stuff inside, yeah?” he murmured as he climbed to his feet. Stiles nodded, leading in to the wolf’s touch when he squeezed his shoulder in passing for the front door. He waited until he heard the click of the latch before he moved again, his throat tight.

“It’s ok dad,” he managed finally, leaning in to the chill of the fridge as he put away milk, butter, and syrup, his body flashing hot. “You can… talk about them. They’re a part of your life, I know that.”

“Have you…”

“Yeah. I saw them, few times. We’re not…” He swallowed, dumped the waffle iron into the sink and started scrubbing. “Can we not talk about this right now please?” he asked in a small voice. “They know you’re all right, but if you want to call just… don’t talk to them about me ok? I don’t want…”

“I wouldn’t do that Stiles,” his dad sighed. “I haven’t, not in the whole time you were gone. I only ever talked to Lydia, and only what you said I could say. You’re… you’re mine. You, above and before them. Always.”

For a minute Stiles just stared, all the parts of him screaming with love and contentment at this, this claiming, this acceptance he was so afraid he had damaged with his leaving, and then he was moving, launching himself into his dad’s embrace and throwing his arms around his neck. The Sheriff didn’t speak, only held him as close as one arm would allow, rocking him back and forth as he stroked his son’s hair, feeling tears hot on his neck.

“I love you dad.”

“I love you too Stiles.”

XXX

As soon as he was out onto the porch, Pheelan collapsed back against the door, breathing hard. He could hear the Stilinski men inside, feel the fear and anxiety, the guilt and the sorrow through the walls as heavily as he felt the wind that blew hard through his hair. It made him feel sick to his stomach, a wolf’s instinct that something was wrong, just a flicker in the periphery of his senses. It felt like a memory; the one and only time a group of rogues had broken across the border of his parents’ territory and the entire pack had charged out to make a stand, a challenge that ended in more blood than a fifteen year old was ready to see. To have that feeling again and have it be connected with Stiles made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.

He’d known something was wrong as soon as he’d woken up, alone in an empty room. A part of it was the room itself sure, the scent of it - years-old Stiles and dust and decay… hell, it smelled like a tomb in there. But there was more to it too. Stiles was gone, long gone, the sheets cold where he’d slept, and he could smell the sharp, acidic sweat of fear that still clung to his pillow. He was quick to drag on his clothes and follow the sound of the young man’s heartbeat to the head of the stairs, noting the water drops that still clung to the door of the shower as he passed the bathroom. Finding Stiles tucked up in his hoodie again in the middle of the kitchen hadn’t dampened his suspicions, but he’d made it clear he didn’t want to talk about whatever was bothering him, and all Phee knew that all he could do was wait him out.

He’d come to him eventually.

He always did.

So for now, he would wait.

Pushing off the door, Phee headed down the drive to where the SUV was parked, pausing to dig his cell phone from his jeans when it began to vibrate, groaning when he checked the caller ID.

“Mum,” he greeted in Gaelic, his shoulders tensing against the tongue lashing he knew was coming.

“Pheelan Aengus O’Rourke, explain to me exactly why my mother says that you’ve taken the jet to the United States!”

Sighing hard into the receiver, Pheelan dragged a hand through his hair and played his trump card.

“I… I had to bring Stiles home.”

A long silence met his admission before his mother replied, her voice soft and concerned this time, no longer trembling with an alpha’s authority. “Is he all right?”

“Mum, I…” he began, and his words were low and quiet and small, “I don’t know.”

“What made him change his mind?” she asked gently.

“His father was hurt. He was hurt and Stiles saw, so I brought him home. And now his father is fine but Stiles isn’t, and the pack here…”

“You’re there for him my darling,” she reassured him, “That’s what’s going to count. To him and to you. Stiles is strong, and certainly knows his own mind. Whatever he needs to do to deal with the pack there, to deal with his past, he’ll do. You know that. Just be there for him.”

“I’m scared for him mum,” Phee breathed.

“Oh sweet boy,” his mother murmured in the phone, her voice calming the rare swirl of emotion that was throwing him off his balance. “You’re ruined for anyone else, the both of you. You know that don’t you?”

“Mum, we’re not…”

Suddenly Pheelan felt eyes on his back, his head jerking up from where he was staring at the pavement to catch the reflection of two pairs of flashing gold eyes in the back window of the SUV.

“Mum. I’ve got to go,” he growled, disconnecting the line even as her voice protested through the phone.

Turning hard on his heel, he lifted his lip over sharp teeth and snarled viciously at the two wolves who stood nervously between the trees, a dozen or more yards back from the road. He recognized them as Hale wolves; the blonde with the huge, dark eyes and the calm, hard-muscled male with the coffee-colored skin who was holding her hand like he was the only thing keeping her from dashing across the street and breaking down the door. They shrank back from the growl that rumbled out of his chest, nervous, unsure, until the female dropped her eyes down and to the side, tilted her head in a show of submission that begged him to allow their approach. It hit him like a truck, that she was willing to do such a thing for him, an omega from a different pack, just so that she might talk, and he could only meet her halfway, crossing to the other side of the street and waiting until they came within a cautious ten feet.

“What do you want?” he asked, his anxiety forcing words out of his mouth that went against all hierarchy and protocol.

“Look, I know we’re not supposed to be here,” the female said, her voice tight with tears. “Derek told us to stay away...”

Pheelan’s mouth twisted into a sneer. “Your alpha likes a familiar tune then?”

The female flinched, the male behind her casting his eyes to the ground.

“Please, just…” she began, and now the tears were streaming down her cheeks. “Could you please just tell us if he’s ok?”

“You should be asking him,” he said harshly.

The wolf’s lower lip trembled as her gaze went over Phee’s shoulder, staring up at the window that led to Stiles’ bedroom. “I don’t know how,” she whispered. “Please! Please, just tell me how!”

“Why ask me?”

“You… you know him,” she murmured, her eyes dropping to the dark crescent of Stiles’ teeth on his collar bone that had been exposed by the pull of his chest as he crossed his arms. “Better than we do, maybe… maybe better than we ever did. Couldn’t you just…”

Phee sighed, scrubbed a hand over his face before hugging himself tight, chilled in just his tank top as the wind cut between the widely spaced houses. He could feel the pain in these wolves, hear it, see it, smell it, and it was nearly as sharp as that which clung to Stiles on his bad days. He wanted… hell, he knew exactly what he wanted, he just didn’t like the look of the path ahead. He knew which way healing would lie for Stiles, but he wasn’t sure the boy was ready for that road.

He wasn’t sure he was ready to watch him take.

But it had to be better, didn’t it?

Anything had to be better than living with such shadows at his back.

Frowning, Pheelan opened his mouth and spoke the words he feared might break him.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Chapter Text

For the next hour and a half, the phone lines out of the Stilinski house were locked. The Sheriff retreated upstairs to his office to call the station, reassuring his colleagues that he was indeed still alive and would be back to work by the end of the week, as well as to give his young deputies a thorough tongue lashing in advance of any slacking to be performed in his absence. After he hung up he was careful to close the door before dialing the local Alpha in Charge of Wolves, his sense of obligation warring with his desire to spare his son any more pain. He had worked with Derek in the past when he had to, civilly if coldly, and he vaguely remembered the dark young man half-dragging him into the hospital’s emergency bay in a haze of blood and pain, so he put that call through as well.

Phee too had disappeared upstairs, closing himself into Stiles bedroom to touch base with his own responsibilities. Stiles knew without asking that he would call and check in with his grandmother, his mom and dad too, and wouldn’t be surprised if his business partner in Wales made the list. The wolf certainly didn’t need to work, not with the family money, but he had gone halves on a series of investments funding the study of the rehoming of wolf packs that were now being used to repopulate and save endangered breeds. It had ended up turning a pretty penny for him but the big softy was far more interested in the success of the program and the well-being of the animals it moved, requesting frequent photos and updates of the involved packs and mated pairs.

For his part, Stiles called his overseas ‘office’ and got pushed through to his contractor Shawna, a fearsome blonde who reminded him of Lydia even though he had never met her in real time. Through a careful choreography she had set up a sort of black market review for Stiles’ services, getting him work that capitalized on his skills. If he had to label himself, something he put a lot of effort into avoiding, he might call himself a supernatural private investigator. At least, that was the nice way of putting it. He wasn’t a mercenary, but he cleaned up a lot of messes. Shawna ended up giving him hell for not calling sooner, but she also gave him a clear schedule for two weeks, assuring him that the only job he had lined up could wait that long without repercussion. After hanging up he debated calling Lydia like he’d promised, but something in him still wasn’t ready to put in the effort, though he wasn’t sure exactly why, didn’t understand what made the thought of him reaching out to her rankle. So instead he waited, moving into the kitchen to snag the last of the coffee from breakfast and sitting at the dining table until Phee came tromping down the stairs and joined him.

“Stiles if you don’t want to call them…” he began, but he waved his hand carelessly, dismissing the wolf’s hesitancy.

“No, you’re right,” he confessed, “I don’t want to leave my dad yet. And contrary to the popular opinion of some, I can’t be in two places at once. So.” Pulling out his phone, he turned it on speaker and set it dialing the number he’d had Shawna txt him. “I guess this is my next best option.”

It only rang twice.

The phone clicked and then a familiar voice spoke words that were clearly said by rote.

“Argent Firearms.”

Stiles huffed a laugh and smirked across the table at Phee. “Hello Chris. Thought you were out of the biz.”

“Stiles?”

“Yep. Surprised to hear from me?”

Chris chuckled, low and rough, as though he’d surprised himself by doing so. “Not as much as you might think,” he replied. “You’ve made quite a name for yourself in my world.”

“Hmm. And here I thought I was keeping a low profile.”

“I wish you the best with that. When you’re as good a hunter as you apparently are, people notice.”

A chill flooded Stiles’ stomach and he glared down at the phone. “I’m not a hunter,” he growled, and gold flickered in Phee’s eye as he glanced up at Stiles’ face. A cold silence followed and for a second Stiles wondered if something in his tone had scared the ex-hunter but he quickly shrugged the idea off. Chris Argent was hardened and experienced, both personally and professionally, and there was no way he could be scared of Stiles, not when he still knew him as the pale, lanky, sarcastic teenager of five years ago. Everything else was just rumors.

“I’m not a hunter,” he repeated into the silent phone, more… tactfully this time. “That’s… actually why I’m calling.”

“I… I can probably give you a recommendation and a phone number then, if you’d like. That is, if you’re… comfortable telling me where you are, what country at the very least.”

“Actually, I’m um,” Stiles muttered, rubbing the back of his neck, “I’m back in Beacon Hills.”

“What? You’re… Allison didn’t…”

“Well she wouldn’t would she?” he stated coldly, soldiering quickly on to prevent further discussion on the topic. “You heard my father was bitten by an alpha?”

“I did. And Stiles I am sorry. If I’d known there was a rogue in the territory…”

“It wasn’t you I was expecting to keep him safe,” Stiles replied. “Though I appreciate the… sentiment, I suppose. Anyway, I’ve taken care of things on this end; my dad’s going to be fine. But I was hoping you and yours might help me tie up my last loose end.”

“The Alpha. I have some trackers out already, but they lost him at the county line.”

“He’s up in Sanilac,” Stiles stated, hoping he wouldn’t have to get in to how he knew. “I was looking forward to dealing with him myself…”

“But you’re not a hunter.”

“No. And my father is still recuperating. I won’t leave him again so soon. So. Got family up that way?”

“I know a few I could point in that direction.”

“Excellent. You’ll keep me posted then?”

“Of course. Though a description might help. We’re not so much with the ‘shoot first, questions later’ as we once were.”

“Good to hear,” Stiles responded icily. “As for the rest, you’ll have to ask your daughter’s pack.”

Stiles reached out to tap the end button on his phone and disconnect the call, but

Chris’s voice stopped him.

“Stiles! Jesus. What happened five years ago, kid? None of them would talk about it, no one knew where you were. I… I had to wonder for a while if one of them had accidentally… Are you all right?”

Stiles just sneered.

“Thanks for the help Chris.”

And then he hung up.

XXX

Lydia Martin knew that Stiles Stilinski had been in love with her for a long time, ever since he’d knocked into her and caused her to spill her juice box all over her dress in the third grade and she had calmly told him exactly what she thought of his awkwardness before stealing his in retaliation. It was infatuation really; he was in love with the idea of her, not her. Still, as the years passed and they got older, she had to be impressed by his resolve if nothing else. At times his devotion had even been endearing. Then Allison had forced her to go to the prom with him and he had shown her that he knew her better than almost anyone else, and after that it was easy, easy to grow closer and closer to the boy she had never spent more than half a second’s thought on.

She didn’t love him, and by then she wasn’t sure that he thought he loved her anymore, but she had lost a lot, changed a lot, and Stiles and his loyalty were constant.

Unwavering.

And then he’d left, and it had broken something inside of her.

He had left, just like Jackson, gone without a word or a real goodbye, and it cut so deep that she, with all her knowledge, didn’t know if she would ever heal, didn’t know how to fix what had gone so wrong.

She did eventually, heal that is, and not completely, because there was a Stiles’ shaped hole in her heart alongside that of the pretentious, arrogant blonde she had loved for so long, but those years and that pain had molded her, burned away her edges until her true self was finally able to shine through – the strong, intelligent woman whose independence and fierceness went untainted by pride, conceit, and cruelty.

Most of the time anyway.

This afternoon would be the first time that she dressed specifically for Stiles.

As she went about her morning, shaving her legs smooth, conditioning her hair with peach scented creams, she realized that she wasn’t doing it because she thought that he deserved it, wasn’t doing it because she thought she could… bribe him into staying in Beacon Hills. No, she was doing it because she wanted to, because she was happy to have him back, to be able to spend time with him again, and because even though it was just a lunch date it was going to be special. Just because it was Stiles. Just because he was home.

Selecting a flirty white sundress from her closet that was edged in eyelet lace, she stepped into it and wrapped a wide, navy blue belt around her waist. She added a few bangles to each wrist, silver with bits of jade, slipped diamond drops into her ears and touched a bit of perfume behind her ears and on her pulse-points.

Wrapping golden, gladiator-style sandals around her ankles, she sat down at her vanity and began to apply her make-up, giving herself huge, dark eyes and a blood red smile. It was a little hard in contrast to the light, rather summery outfit, but it showed a bit of her inner Banshee, the power hidden behind the pretty smile. From their brief interaction in the Preserve, Stiles seemed to have found his inner badass as well, and she suspected that he would appreciate it.

Freeing her red tresses from their pins and tousling the heavy curls down around her face, Lydia smiled.

She was happy for him.

He had grown, changed, found himself, and she was happy for him.

She was.

Now if only she… they… might get to keep him.

Chapter Text

The blonde answered the door. The werewolf.

Lydia would later be ashamed to admit that she took a moment just to stare.

He was huge, towering above her with broad shoulders and a wide chest, hard, curving biceps stretching the thermal undershirt he was wearing. His hair was positively lovely, curly, golden locks that begged to be finger-combed, dark eyes deep and warm, and she found herself appraising him in a way she hadn’t looked at a man in quite some time.

She was impressed – Stilinski had done well for himself.

In truth she was more than a little surprised; it was a bit hard to picture the clumsy virgin who so worshipped her years ago as being with the gorgeous hunk in front of her now.

She was… proud.

“Hello,” she finally managed, rather embarrassed that she’d been caught with her mouth open, practically drooling, and immensely thankful that Stiles hadn’t been there to see. Not because she thought he’d be the jealous type, or because she would ever try to steal his… whatever… but because she was sure that he would tease her mercilessly for it. For forever. She could feel her cheeks pinking, and so she straightened her spine, stuck out her hand towards him. “I’m…”

“Lydia Martin,” he finished for her, eyeing her up and down once. “I know.”

She blinked, took her hand back. “I’m here to see Stiles.”

“Are you sure?” he asked, and his tone was so honest that she couldn’t even bristle at the question. “The others weren’t.”

“Others?” She narrowed her eyes. “Who…”

“Couple of your wolves,” he answered easily, still watching her with careful eyes. “Little blonde and her boy.”

“Erica and Boyd.”

The wolf shrugged, as though it didn’t matter.

“Brave enough to buck their alpha, but apparently not enough to knock on the door.”

“Well I am,” she replied, crossing her arms and resisting the sudden urge to stamp her foot.

“Clearly.” The wolf draped his arm over the top of the door, leaned against it as he stared. She attempted to lean around him, look into the house and he let her, but he made a show of not moving, using his own body as a barrier to keep her from entering the house. “They asked me to answer the door,” he murmured, and she drew back, met his gaze with a frown. “Begs the question if they’d like me to let you in or not.”

“Will you?” she asked, prepared to at least try to slip past him if he said no.

For a minute he seemed to contemplate his answer, a dim sort of sadness tipping at the corners of his mouth.

“You were the only one he could talk about without stinking like hate,” he answered softly. “Good enough for me.”

And then he moved, no longer a bold, looming presence but merely a gatekeeper, softer, gentler, and Lydia was hit with the hard, sudden understanding of how he and Stiles had found each other. She could see them together, each lending the other quiet strength, offering a warmth that she was ashamed to admit had been withheld from Stiles all through school, worse even, in those last months by his friends. This wolf wasn’t pack and that was enough to make Lydia bristle, but still…

“You’re good for him,” she said, and he cocked an eyebrow at her in confusion.

“Do you dream, Banshee?” he asked, and when she narrowed her eyes in confusion of her own he shook his head, brushed the comment off and gestured her inside.

She’d only been inside the Stilinski house a few times, few enough that she could count them on one hand. When she’d gotten back into town five years ago and discovered what had happened she’d been a mess, guilt and sorrow and betrayal all warring inside of her until she’d broken down and sobbed, found herself a small, silent place and screamed. After, when the tears had run dry and the pain had settled just enough that she could think, she’d come to find the Sheriff, had met him on the porch but could go no further. She couldn’t bring herself to step inside, not with Stiles gone, even though she’d guessed that if she had, if she’d sat quietly in his room, in his bed and listened, she could have found him. Speaking with his dad, who looked more shattered than she felt, had made it clear that Stiles wasn’t throwing a tantrum, wasn’t teaching a lesson or even running away. He’d gone, really gone, cut himself off as surely as if he did hate them all, and she understood that. Understood hatred, in those days before she’d come to her strange understanding with Peter and decided that the man had his uses.

So she’d respected that, as best as she could, and she’d stayed away.

So being there, now, being allowed back into the house in a tangible expression of being allowed back into his life, it was a bit like coming home.

Her eyes lingered on the walls, the worn paint and the clutter of old photos as she followed the werewolf deeper into the house, a smile touching her lips as she passed framed images of baby Stiles, elementary Stiles in all his superhero Halloween costumes, high-school Stiles, sweaty and muddy in his lacrosse gear with his arm slung around Scott’s shoulders. For the first time she wondered if maybe she should have given him a chance back then, if maybe she’d missed out on something, someone, bright and beautiful and amazing. But apparently, from the look of the… assets in front of her, he’d moved on to uh… bigger and better things.

She was still grinning when she stepped into the living room, lighted on the edge of the couch and smoothed her dress over her knees as she beamed in Stiles direction.

“You didn’t call me,” she said sweetly.

He was there. God, he was there, she could see him, touch him if she reached out. He was wearing dark blue jeans, a black Henley that looked an awful lot like the one the wolf was wearing, in point of fact a lot like the ones Derek used to wear, his sleeves pushed up below his elbows showing off some impressive muscles of his own. He certainly wasn’t a kid anymore, and wherever he’d been, whatever he’d been doing, it had been good for him.

He was glaring at her a bit, not vehemently but with the sort of friendly annoyance she remembered from their last years together, when they’d been friends living in each other’s pockets, getting in each other’s hair. He opened his mouth, no doubt ready to dish out some sass and sarcasm Stiles’ style, but she skirted that particular quagmire, turning away before he could respond ever though she never wanted him to fell ignored again.

“Sheriff, how are you feeling?”

“Much better, thanks Lydia,” the older man smiled, shifting deeper into his armchair as he lifted a remote to mute the baseball game playing on the television. “Stiles here pulled his mojo, fixed me right up. Well, mostly.” He frowned, shifted his bandaged shoulder in its sling. “Arm’s giving me a bit of guff, but other than that…”

“I’ll get your pills,” Stiles said, immediately getting to his feet.

The Sheriff tried to brush him off but he just shook his head, left for the kitchen without another word. Lydia watched silently as Phee rolled smoothly off the wall where he’d been leaning, crossed around behind the armchair and dropped his hand casually onto John’s good shoulder, black trickling upward along his veins. For his part, the Sheriff’s eyes fluttered closed and he seemed to collapse in a relief he didn’t know he needed, hummed as a smile lit on one side of his face.

“Thanks son,” he murmured, and Lydia’s heart lurched. Even after the Sheriff had been offered a place in the pack she had never seen such a thing. Never seen a wolf so casually offer him comfort, never seen the man so peacefully and warmly accept someone into his confidence. He’d never turned to the bottle in all the years Stiles was gone, but he had withdrawn after his son’s departure, held back from the people around him and gotten colder, stabilizing himself behind the façade of strict professionalism. That was not the man before her, and it brought a sweetness to the air that she feared. It would be so easy to drive him back to that, if things didn’t work out, if…

Stiles slipped back into the room and cracked a wide, sunny grin, handed two small white pills off to his father.

“What did I tell you about buttering up my dad?” he asked, loud and light and joking, an obvious attempt to lighten whatever had managed to dampen the mood while he was out of the room.

Lydia wasn’t fooled, and she wasn’t surprised when he looked over his dad’s head at the wolf who had retreated to the wall again and mouthed a silent, sincere thank you either.

“He’s got the right idea,” she smiled, doing her own bit to relieve the tension hovering around. “Mr. Stilinski, I’m afraid I’m here to steal your son away. Would you mind much, if I promised to bring you back something sweet?”

“Lydia, I don’t know if I should…” Stiles began, but his dad cut him off with a gruff laugh, waved a hand in their direction as he cranked his chair back into a reclining position.

“I’ll be fine Stiles,” he assured, settling in. “Just gonna kick back a while, watch of bit of this game with Pheelan here. Maybe see if I can get him to fix the sink. You know, take full advantage of being an invalid.”

Pheelan laughed, shook his head. “I knew I heard a leaky faucet,” he chuckled. “But if you’ve got a good wrench set, I can take a look.”

Stiles cast him a heavy glance, full of significant things and Lydia waited, ready to protest the verdict, though she wasn’t sure how now that she couldn’t flutter her eyelashes at him anymore. He looked to her, frowned, and she wondered if maybe she could guilt him into it…

“Ok,” he agreed, and the frown melted away, leaving behind a mask that was half anticipation and half anxiety. “Let’s go.

XXX

Pheelan trailed Stiles out onto the porch, only because the young man had gestured for him to follow. He knew Lydia, as well as if he’d actually known her, and he knew the relationship that she and Stiles shared. He had intended to give them the space that that relationship demanded, but he was a happily trained wolf, and a raised eyebrow and a tilt of the head was enough to have him stepping outside and easing the front door shut behind him. The pretty red-headed banshee fidgeted for half a second, hesitated, but then continued down the steps and down to her car, climbing into the driver’s seat and dropping the visor to re-apply her lipstick. Stiles had paused just in front of him, looking away across the street giving Phee his back but the wolf could smell the discomfort, the anxiety.

“Hey,” he murmured, dropping a hand to his shoulder and turning him around, “Stiles, what…”

“I don’t know,” he muttered, dragging his fingers roughly through his hair. “I did miss her. And lunch sounds… nice. It’s just… strange.”

“To have friends?” he asked with a smirk and a raised eyebrow, his tone light.

“Hey!” Stiles yelped indignantly, jabbing Phee in the ribs with his elbow. “I have friends!”

Phee smiled, pressed a kiss to his forehead. “Then go,” he urged. “Have lunch with your friend.”

Stiles sighed, looked towards the car and frowned. “I just don’t want to make any promises.”

“Then don’t.”

Stiles huffed a resigned sort of laugh, holding up his hands in defeat. “All right, all right. I’m going.” Phee opened his mouth again but Stiles shook his head, cut him off. “I know,” he said, his eyes flicking towards the front window with the small, cracked pane. “You’ll take good care of him. I wouldn’t leave if I didn’t believe that.”

A possessive kind of growl rumbled up out of Phee’s chest at those words, that implicit trust that didn’t have to be driven home because it was there, and then he was reaching out and dragging Stiles in to his chest, burying his face in the crook of his neck and scenting him hard, their bodies pulled flush together. Stiles practically purred at the attention, clutching tight at his hips, and he might’ve stayed right where he was if Phee didn’t finally release him and shove him towards the porch steps with a light slap on the ass.

“Go,” he ordered thickly. “Bring me back a doggie bag.”

Stiles smirked at him, walking backward down the drive towards the car. “Be good,” he called, “And my dad won’t be the only one getting something sweet.”

“Promises, promises,” Phee muttered.

He waited until Stiles had turned around and opened the car door before he went back inside, unwilling to be the creep who stood and watched until the taillights had disappeared. Locking the door behind him, he moved quietly into the living room where Stiles father rolled woozy eyes in his direction before returning his gaze towards the baseball game.

“Can I get you anything sir?” he asked before slouching down into the couch cushions when the man shook his head.

“No thanks son,” he said, stifling a yawn with his good hand. “And I told you, it’s John.”

“Sorry,” Phee replied with a half-smile, “Force of habit. My mum and da were always big on respect and titles, what with their being alphas and running a pack.”

“They don’t mind you being here?” the man asked, and Phee could hear the intensity of the question behind the grogginess brought on by pain pills. Stiles had changed his shirt in front of his father earlier, and the older man had gripped his shoulder tightly when he’d seen the two names inked over his son’s heart.

“No,” he replied. “I’m an omega, a lone wolf, so they’re not my alphas anymore. I still love them, of course, still love my pack; it’s just not my nature to live with them. To be a part of that hierarchy. I moved out when I turned seventeen, found my true form that same night.”

“True form?”

“The wolf,” Phee explained. “The real wolf. Most think it’s something only alphas can achieve, and even then only the really incredible ones. True in a way, I suppose. It takes…” Here he paused, his eyes far away as he lost himself in the past, in the memories. Then he chuckled, shrugged it away. “It takes courage.”

“How so?” the Sheriff asked, shifting a bit so that he was more upright in his chair. “None of the others…”

Phee ignored the reference to the Hale pack, scented the air instead for pain but only found a twinge of it, nothing unbearable, and it burned out beneath the chalky smell of pain killers before he could lean forward and wrap his fingers around the man’s wrist. Slouching lower into the couch cushions, he considered his answer.

“It’s about acceptance,” he said finally, frowning as he spoke. “Accepting yourself, all the parts of yourself, whether they’re good or bad or broken or anything else. Completely integrating the wolf and human sides of yourself until they’re not sides anymore, they just are.” He sighed, scrubbed his hands through his hair. “I’m not explaining this well,” he mumbled, almost apologetically.

“Sounds like Zen,” the Sheriff offered, tipping his head back against the back of his chair.

Phee chuckled. “That’s… actually fairly close to correct,” he admitted. “You have to be able to let things go, let them be a part of you but not… consume you. I was just a kid and I was scared and confused and rebelling but I finally accepted that I just wasn’t built to live in a den with a pack. I accepted that, and I accepted that it didn’t make me a total bastard and that I could still love my family and spend time with them and support and be supported by them, and still be me.”

The Sheriff was watching him quietly, so he sent him a grin and stretched his arms along the back of the couch.

“And now I can turn into a wolf,” he smiled, spreading his palms. “Besides, my parents are… fond of Stiles. He’s not officially pack, but he has a place with them, as long as he wants it. It keeps him grounded, keeps him healthy. He’s told you, what he is, how it works…”

John nodded, but he was eyeing Phee speculatively now, and Phee suddenly felt small and nervous for the first time since meeting him.

“They were worried,” he said, and it suddenly felt like the words were pouring from his chest like water. “When they heard about your accident. They offered whatever help they could give, sent their regards. They… they love him.”

“And you?”

Phee jolted in his seat, looked round at a father who looked back at him like he was being sized for either a wedding tux or a coffin.

“What about me?” he asked, swallowing hard and turning determinedly back to the television.

The room was silent, only for a moment, but he could feel every second pounding by to the rhythm of his heartbeat.

“The way he talks about you… the way you move around each other… I’ve seen that before son. I’ve felt it.”

Phee felt his fingertips go cold and he crossed his arms, hugging his ribcage. He knew without asking that the bitter sparkt of pain in the air had nothing to do with the Sheriff’s arm, knew how devoted the man had been to his wife just from the way Stiles himself smelled when he talked about his mom. He knew, knew what the man meant, and it made his chest feel oddly empty.

“Stiles doesn’t love me,” he murmured quietly, and even to his own ears his voice sounded hollow.

The only response he got was a rough grumble and a sudden burst of sound from the unmuted tv.

Chapter Text

She took him to the little café near the station that used to be his favorite, the one where he conned the waitresses into slicing up sides of carrot and celery sticks for his dad and where he stopped for curly fries after a particularly bad day at school. The bell that chimed over the door brought back half a dozen memories, most of them good, and it flooded him with a warmth that he was thankful for, that he hoped would carry him through this so that he wouldn’t withdraw and become cold and hard and miserable. All things he knew to be a very real possibility.

He stepped inside ahead of her, his own version of chivalry, scanning the interior purely out of habit, scenting the air, reaching out for any trace of something more than human, something dark. He didn’t find anything but he didn’t relax either, guiding Lydia to a corner booth with one hand on the small of her back before dropping onto the inside bench where he could face the doors and windows, keep an eye on everyone who came and went. Across from him Lydia slipped out of her cardigan, cocking an eyebrow when he kept his leather jacket on – he’d shrugged into his shoulder holster before leaving the house without her noticing and he didn’t want to cause a fuss by flashing a handgun. It was a small town; only the Sheriff and his deputies carried here.

Avoiding her gaze, Stiles picked up a sticky, laminated menu and flicked through it, more to have a place to put his eyes than to actually decide. The café’s offerings hadn’t changed at all since he’d left, not a single item, and he knew exactly what he was getting. When the waitress arrived he waited until Lydia had ordered lemonade and a salad before putting in for his favorite curly fries and strawberry milkshake, but his asked for his burger extra rare. Lydia’s perfect eyebrows jumped, and eased back into the booth, bracing himself for the interrogation.

She eased into it much more gently than he’d expected.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Stiles blinked, feeling like he’d been doused with ice water. A smile snuck up on him then and he chuckled.

“Hi,” he replied with smile.

For another minute it was silent, and then Lydia laughed, a sound like chimes that he’d missed in his years away.

“I have no idea what to say to you,” she finally admitted. “Oh there are a hundred things I want to say, but… I guess I don’t know where to start.”

Stiles felt something pinch in his chest and he frowned, toying with his silverware.

“Do…” he began, and he knew what he looked like then; uncomfortable, defensive, detached. “Do you want me to start?”

Lydia tilted her head, her curls bouncing around her face as she contemplated him. “You wouldn’t have asked before,” she responded. “You never could tolerate silence. You’re… different than you were.”

Stiles’ gaze flashed up to meet hers, his eyes wide and dark and she blushed, looked down at her lap.

“Sorry,” she muttered. “That was stupid. Of course you’re different.” She sighed sadly, bit her lip and made as if to slip out of the booth. “I didn’t mean anything… Maybe I should go.”

“Don’t!”

Stiles shocked himself as he leaned forward, grabbed Lydia’s wrist lightly and held her back. He swallowed hard, took his hand back as If he’d been burned, twisted his fingers tight around his own wrist. His words had been quiet and careful and hurting, and he hadn’t meant to reach for her, but he had and now he thought she might go still, her eyes darting between him and the exit as though she were scared, as though she were regretting this and only wished they weren’t so enclosed, so isolated in the back corner of the café.

And that cut.

“Lydia please?” he begged, and his voice almost cracked, but she licked her lips and nodded, easing back down into her seat. Relief swept through him but it was tempered with the old, dull ache of loss that he’d never really forgotten. He still didn’t know what to say to her, to say for himself, so he went with his old high school fallback; opened his mouth and hoped something would come out of it.

“I am… different,” he began, and she seemed to take it as an apology, her shoulders relaxing the more he talked. “I wasn’t… ready to come back here Lyds, and for the first time in a long time I don’t know what I’m doing. And that scares me. I know there are things I need to say, things I want to say, especially to you, but… I’m not… one hundred percent sure what they are yet. So maybe we can just… maybe we can just start this way?”

He spread his hands open to encompass the table, the two of them together and let the question hang in the air, full of painful hope and the sudden, vicious fear of rejection that hadn’t troubled him in years.

Lydia sniffed and Stiles suddenly realized that her eyes were damp.

“Stiles you’ve been gone for five years,” she whispered. “Like, really gone. I’m going to take any of you I can get. Fast, slow, whatever you need this to be. I just… I’m just so glad you’re back and I don’t want to say anything to make you think I’m not or to make you leave again…”

“Woah, hey, hey, hey, come on,” he murmured, reaching for her hand and lifting it to his
mouth so that he could press a kiss to her knuckles. “Don’t cry.”

Luckily for them both, their waitress appeared to place heavy plates of food down in front of them, giving Lydia a moment to collect herself. Stiles was quick to go after his shake, popping the cherry into his mouth before chasing after his straw.

“Well I guess you’re not so different,” she joked, still a little shakily, and Stiles had to stop himself from pulling a melancholy face.

“Tell me how,” he offered gently, not sure how else to get the real Lydia back, the one that wasn’t afraid of the consequences of her words.

“What?” she squeaked, and he could hear the fear in her voice, see the surprise and confusion in her eyes.

He smiled sadly.

“Tell me how I’m different,” he said again, softly, encouragingly. “Tell me what you see when you look at me. I’m not gonna bolt just because you say something I don’t like. I promise.”

Lydia watched him quietly for a moment, tentatively, twirling a fork between her fingers.
Then she squared her shoulders, sat up in her seat and took a breath, and Stiles could see her again, the brilliant, wickedly beautiful girl who’s confidence had been legendary in school. He could feel her eyes running over him, judging him, and his own confidence returned strongly enough that he could lean back cockily in his seat, throw one arm along the back of the booth with a gesture that invited her to hit him with her best shot. She smiled at the display, almost giggled, and then did what she did best by throwing him totally off his game.

“You’re quieter now,” she said. “More still. Calmer. If you were a wolf I’d think you found your anchor.”

Stiles frowned, stuffed a fry into his mouth.

“That’s not…” he mumbled, “It doesn’t work that way.”

Lydia appraised him, the light in her eyes telling him that he’d given her exactly the wrong answer, confirming whatever suspicion was floating around in her evil-genius brain. Apparently, however, she was choosing to be merciful, because she moved seamlessly
onward into another observation.

“You’re stronger,” she continued. “More sure of yourself. Confident.” She smiled and her cheeks pinked, something he didn’t think had ever happened before, or even could happen. “It’s a good look on you Stiles,” she murmured.

Stiles laughed loud and happy. “Yeah, about ten years too late,” he grinned, and the mood around them lightened significantly. “Just my luck.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” she grinned sneakily. “You seem to be doing all right for yourself.”

Stiles head whipped up, fries hanging out of his mouth in surprise. “What, Phee?” he garbled. “We’re not…”

“What?” she challenged. “Incredibly hot together? Please. I saw him scenting you on the porch Stiles; I could feel the pheromones from the car.”

“We’re not like that,” Stiles mumbled.

“Hmm.”

For a time it was silent, Lydia stabbing at her salad rather roughly until Stiles couldn’t take it anymore.

“Oh go ahead,” he finally groaned, waving a hand in her direction. “I know you’re playing resident spy. Get on with the inquisition.”

Lydia paused with her fork halfway to her mouth before putting it down carefully, looking him dead in the eye.

“Stiles I’m not spying,” she began, gentle but firm. “I never told them anything, not the whole time you were gone. Never considered passing on a message. I’m here because I want to be, not because they want me to be. If you don’t want me pass anything on then I won’t. They’re… they’re my pack, and we’ve made our peace after what they did, but… I feel like you should know.”

Here she paused, considered him carefully.

“They do miss you,” she finally murmured.

Stiles felt his body go cold, had to brace his feet against the floor as claustrophobia flooded through him. Clenching his jaw, he looked away, but not before he saw her frown.

“I don’t blame you for not believing that,” she said quietly. “And I’m not even saying… that you should believe it, I just…”

She shook her head, moved her hand through the air as though brushing away an insect.

“I want to know for me,” she said.

And he believed her.

So for the next two hours they laughed and talked, and he told her about all the parts of the last five years of his life that he could. How he’d taken a plane to Europe where they had distant family, used his third cousin’s brother’s wife’s step-niece’s great aunt’s house as a sort of home base from which he began to travel. How he’d hiked mountain trails and hitched rides to remote little villages, studying folklore and collecting stories, plotting a route across continents as he acquainted himself with the mythology of worlds, the living, breathing legends that stared out from the night with glowing eyes and ready claws. He explained how he had met Pheelan during one of his wild treks, how they’d formed a quick and easy friendship traveling together for almost a year before settling down with Phee’s grandmother. She listened with rapt attention as he told her a bit about his nature, a bit about what he was, and didn’t press for more when he left almost everything out about his more… hands-on studies.

He didn’t tell her about the magic or the jobs he took as a supernatural jack-of-all-trades.

Didn’t tell her about his glow.

It was one of the things he wasn’t ready for, one of the things that was far too intimate to give away like a cheap card trick.

They’d long ago pushed away their plates, Lydia accepting a dessert menu so that she could have a treat boxed up for Stiles’ dad, and as they waited for it to be brought with the check she shifted in her seat, anxious, a question obviously poised on the tip of her tongue.

“Spit it out Lydia,” he sighed when the waitress had come and gone again, leaving a little pink box on their table filled with blueberry coffee cake. Checking their tab, he pulled out his wallet and dropped two twenties onto the table, sliding out of the booth before she could reply. He had a suspicion as to what she wanted to say, and he really didn’t want to hear it.

“It’s just…”

She frowned, pulled on her sweater and grabbed the pastry box to follow him out of the café.

“I don’t know if I should ask. I don’t think you want to… know about them.”

“I don’t know if I do or not,” he answered tiredly and rather coldly, stepping out onto the sidewalk. It had been a late lunch and they’d been at it for hours, and the winter sun had already begun to set. Stiles zipped his jacket even though the air was warm and balmy, more seasonable for California than the snow of a few nights ago.

Lydia nodded as they came to the front of her car, sat the box on the roof to unlock the door, and he suddenly knew what he wanted to say to her, just her.

“Lydia, I’m sorry.”

The pretty banshee jerked around so hard she dropped her keys, the harsh, metallic jingle on the pavement sharp and painful in his ears.

“Stiles, what are you…”

“I’m sorry,” he said again, and his voice was strong and adamant and regretful. “Not that I…
left. I can’t be sorry for that. It was something I had to do, and something I’m glad I did. I… I deserved better. But so did you. I shouldn’t have left you. Not the way I did. You were my best friend and it wasn’t fair and I… God, I missed you Lydia.”

He wasn’t sure which of the two of them was more shocked when he launched himself into her arms, hugging her close and burying his face in her neck, and he wasn’t sure he cared. Didn’t care that this wasn’t something he normally did, didn’t care that for a moment she was stiff before she hugged him back, didn’t care that she could feel the cold, steel press of his handgun on her arm. It didn’t matter, none of it, not in that moment, because it was warm and right and perfect and his tears burned hot against her neck.

“Shh,” she murmured in his ear, and her hand stroked comfortingly over his shoulders. “I know. I never blamed you sweetie. I… I blamed them, and I blamed me, and yes, I was mad at you for a long time, but… I get it Stiles.” Pulling back, she gripped his upper arms and stared at him hard. “I understand. More so now, after seeing you. You… you grew up. And as much as I hate to say it, I think we were holding you back Stiles. You… you shine now, like I’ve never seen. ”

Stiles grinned, sniffed away the knot in his throat. “Like you wouldn’t believe,” he joked, and she smiled even though he knew she didn’t understand.

“I missed you,” she confessed gently, and he smiled in response, taking her chin in his hand and pressing a kiss to her forehead.

“I missed you too.”

He’d said it a few times already, but he didn’t think he could ever say it enough. Retrieving her keys from the pavement at their feet, he pressed them into her hand.

“Thank you,” he said softly, and they both knew he meant it for more than lunch, but Lydia frowned.

“You’re not…”

She trailed off, gesturing towards her car.

“No. Think I’ll walk.”

“Oh.” She bit her lip, troubled, juggling her keys. “Do you want…”

“Good home Lyds,” he grinned, and somehow there was no sting of rejection in the
words. “I’ve got a lot to think about and… I guess you probably do too. If you want to tell them go ahead, I don’t…” He sighed, looked off down the sidewalk, his shoulders
slumping. “It doesn’t matter,” he shrugged.

“Stiles…”

It was natural for him to step away, merely habit to swing himself easily out from under the reach of her hand.

“It’s fine,” he assured her, his throat tight, reminding himself for the hundredth time not to make her any promises. “Would you tell my dad I walked? Please.”

“Of course,” she answered quietly, and he smiled sadly.

“Thank you,” he replied, and then he was gone, walking away from her up the street, his hands shoved deep in his pockets.

Chapter Text

Lying halfway inside the cabinet beneath the kitchen sink, Pheelan wasn’t surprised when Lydia stepped into the Stilinski house alone. He didn’t know what Stiles and the pretty Banshee had talked about but he knew Stiles, and so it wasn’t that much of a stretch for him to guess at the outcome of their little lunch. The touchstone’s mind was a machine, intensely observant and constantly turning, and sometimes a small, quiet place was what he needed in order to turn down the volume, dial everything back to a pace he could actually process. It had been his habit to walk the moors when he could, or to sit in the bottom of the broom cupboard in Pheelan’s grandmother’s house. Once he’d even asked Phee to tie him down to a chair, so tightly that the ropes had cut into his flesh and left deep red welts on his wrists and ankles, but it was enough, all of it, just enough to calm him down and slow the world to a crawl and let him think.

Something nudged his ankle and Phee rocketed upright, cracking his forehead off the pipe coupling he’d just replaced. Cursing viciously in Gaelic, he glanced down the length of his body from his position inside the cupboard, locating a pair of golden sandals and trim legs standing near his feet. He’d been concentrating so hard on the silence, the absence of Stiles, that he hadn’t even noticed Lydia’s approach, her presence at his side.

“Alright down there son?”

John’s voice tumbled down from somewhere above him as a hand appeared inside the edge of the cabinet, holding out an adjustable wrench. The Sheriff had insisted on helping when Pheelan offered to mend the leak in the sink’s cracked U-trap, perching himself wobbly atop a barstool at his side, leaning back heavily against the counter and handing down tools as they were requested. Rubbing at the rapidly fading bruise above his left eye, Pheelan accepted the wrench and grunted an affirmative, tightened up the last seal and carefully extracting himself from the sink’s underbelly.

“Right as the mail, Sheriff,” he assured, drying his hands on a strip of old toweling and packing the wrenches he’d used back into the dented metal toolbox. “Banshee.”

The redhead arched one perfectly sculpted eyebrow in his direction. “Werewolf,” she replied.

Phee looked her up and down, took her measure once more before chuckling under his breath.

“Lydia then,” he acknowledged, latching the tool box and hefting it onto his shoulder. “John, if there’s nothing else I’ll toss this back on the shelf, yeah?”

Stiles father nodded, climbing to his feet and clapping him firmly on the arm. “I appreciate it son.

Good to know Stiles hasn’t attached himself to someone completely useless.”

Both men laughed and the Sheriff turned to Lydia, sending her a gentle, fatherly smile. “And Miss Martin,” he continued, reaching out to take the small pink pastry box from her hands, “You’re an angel of mercy. Just don’t spread it around that the Sheriff can be bought, ok?”

“No, I’ll keep that little trick to myself,” she smiled prettily, and Pheelan watched as the Sheriff saluted her with the fork he’d pulled from a drawer, disappearing into the living room without even once asking where his son had gone. Frowning, he shifted the heavy metal box on his shoulder and made for the door, slipping into the cool dim of the garage with the banshee close behind.

“So tell me, Lydia,” he murmured as he skirted around the hood of the police cruiser parked against the wall, “What exactly is it you think I can tell you right now that will make you feel better?”

“I…”

Dropping the toolbox onto a metal shelving unit with a bang, he turned around and crossed his arms, waiting patiently while the girl worried her lower lip between her teeth. She was looking down at her toes, twisting her fingers together so hard her knuckles had gone white, but when she finally did look up at him it was with strength and courage and confidence.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” she finished. “And I don’t like that feeling. He told me, you know, about you. You and Ireland and all the incredible places he’s gone and the things he’s done. And now he’s back here…” Looking him in the eye, he felt her gaze send a shiver down his spine and he knew the power that lingered inside of her. “Bad memories live in this place,” she murmured. “And I don’t know if the good ones are strong enough to ever make them fade. He is so different from the boy I knew that I’m not sure how to tell him that I missed him. That I don’t think I could bear it if he leaves again. I don’t know how to make him believe…”

The Banshee sighed, looked up at him with a calm sort of supplication. “So I’m asking you,” she said quietly, and he knew it wouldn’t be the same anxious, frightened question that the other wolves had asked of him. “Please. Tell me how to talk to him.”

“Christ,” Phee muttered, running a hand roughly over his face. “He’s not a puzzle Banshee. He wants the same thing you do, the same thing he’s always wanted. To belong? To know that he’s home, that he’s loved, appreciated. Accepted. Can you blame him for being defensive?”

She had the good grace to look a bit ashamed, blushing hotly and drifting towards the open bay door. “I guess not,” she murmured, and she sounded so heartbroken as she turned to leave that he couldn’t help but try to reassure her.

“He’s just protecting himself,” he called after her. “Don’t quit on him.”

“Never,” she replied, looking at him over her shoulder, and the fire was back in her voice. “Never.”

“Good deal,” Phee responded gruffly, and she nodded before walking over to the door of her car. “Oh and Lydia?”

The Banshee froze with keys in hand and he could have sworn that he saw fear flash in her eyes before he offered her a reassuring smile.

“You’re doing just fine luv.”

XXX

By the time Stiles had walked from the edge of town back to his father’s house darkness had fallen, and he felt as though the last hours had slipped through his fingers like water. It made him sick to think that he was losing time, wandering around in a haze as he withdrew into his own mind in a desperate attempt to understand, to deal with the emotions being unearthed in him again. In the end he hadn’t really been able to do it, hadn’t been able to figure out what he wanted or how he was going to survive this prickly trip down memory lane, and so he’d let himself blank out, let his feet carry him down familiar sidewalks until he was standing in front of his childhood home, breathing in the balmy night air and gazing at the warmly lit windows.

Beneath his skin he could feel a certain electricity humming, a suppressed sort of energy that was begging to be run off, begging to be nipped and buffeted and crowded forward as it crashed and careened through the woodland. It was his nature, he knew, that part of him that needed; he’d been born to this, the boy who ran with wolves, and it was burning in him like the sun this night. Lifting his head he scented the air, felt Pheelan and his father just inside, but he knew what he wanted and it wasn’t talk. It was the friskiness that raised the hair on the back of his neck and the sweet, heavy musk of wolf on his tongue, and so it was the easiest of things to scale the tree alongside the house and lift the window, slip inside and drop down into his desk chair where a rising chorus of heat made his knee bounce frantically against the carpet. He needed to move, needed to run and so he shucked quickly out of his jacket, unloaded his pistol and secured it in a bedside drawer before diving into the back of his closet.

It was hard to ignore the memories pushing in around him as he shoved aside hangers and boxes, clothes and books and papers all whispering high school words in his ears, but he shut them out, narrowing his focus down to the playful tickle in the pit of his stomach, the eagerness in his heart to drag his wolf out into the darkness and chase, be chased.

He was happy to find that there were still a few muddy pairs of Converse in the back of his closet, and he laced them up tight before trading his Henley for a faded Beacon Hills Lacrosse t-shirt that was soft and frayed with wear, tight across the new muscle in his chest and upper arms. There was a red hoodie too, lighter than his leather jacket and he wasn’t taking the Ruger, so he switched them out for the night. There was another bag inside the trunk that Phee had hauled up, this one a black backpack with a custom sling on the outside, and he dug it out from beneath a stack of notebooks with only the minimal self-scolding for having enough accessories to keep even Lydia happy.

Locating Phee’s running shoes, he threw them inside along with a pair of basketball shorts before adding a couple of water bottles and a pack of smores Pop Tarts he’d left on his desk that morning. Zipping the bag up, he dropped to his knees and fished his baseball bat out from beneath the edge of the bed where it had rolled, fed it into the sling of the bag so that it would ride tight across his back, easy to whip over his shoulder.

Seemed like a lot of work, a lot of prep just to take a walk.

But hey.

Hard work, hard play.

And never let it be said that Stiles Stilinski didn’t play hard.

Besides, they say walk, he said hunt.

He had just strapped the pack over his shoulders when Phee appeared in the doorway, slouching lazily against the frame with a quiet, contemplative look on his face.

“Your dad fell asleep in front of the game,” he said. “I locked up, turned the volume down. Think he’ll be out for a while; he popped a couple more pain pills before he crashed.”

A slow, feral smile curled over Stiles’ face. He could feel something wicked flaring in his chest, and he positively stalked over to the werewolf before grabbing him by his belt and hauling him into the room. Closing the door with a silent click, he shoved the big blonde roughly against the wall, holding him there with a forearm across his chest, a delightful re-imagination of past violence perpetrated on his own person.

“Let’s go for a walk,” he purred, leaning up to press short, quick smooches to Pheelan’s curving lips, watching as the werewolf’s pupils contracted into pinpoints.

“You really think we should be going out? Running?” Phee asked through a smile, his hands fisting in Stiles’ hoodie at his hips.

“Aw come on,” he encouraged, peppering him with more kisses. “Take a walk with me. You know you want to.”

“Stiles, I’m an omega in claimed territory.”

“So? You got permission. Besides, you’re with me.” Stepping between Phee’s thighs he pressed even closer, pushing him back against the wall, nipping at his earlobe. “I’ll protect you,” he murmured silkily.

“Permission under duress,” Phee muttered distractedly as Stiles nibbled at the edge of his jaw, his eyes fluttering shut as he dropped his head back against the wall with a thump. “You’re teasing them.”

“I’m teasing you,” he smirked, flicking his tongue out over the wolf’s pulse point. “Come on. We can play hide and seek.”

Pheelan hummed, swallowed hard. “Now you’re just being nasty.”

“You love it,” Stiles accused.

“I really do,” he confessed on a breath, and Stiles reached around to slip his hands into the back pockets of Phee’s jeans, giving his ass a rough squeeze. “R… rules?”

“No rules,” Stiles smiled against his collar bone before pushing away. “Bring it on, Butterwolf.”

Phee’s dark brown eyes flared gold and he reached down to grab the hem of his t-shirt as Stiles backed slowly towards his window.

“Five minutes head start then,” he growled, his voice like gravel as he tore the shirt up over his head, and arousal spiked in Stiles’ blood as he tightened the straps of his pack and adjusted the angle of his baseball bat between his shoulder blades. He waited just long enough to watch Pheelan shove his jeans over his hips, fall to all fours as his body twisted and grew into that of massive blonde wolf, a beautiful creature of myth come to life.

“Gorgeous,” Stiles breathed, and the wolf huffed and stamped his feet playfully, ducking his chest low to the floorboards and wiggling his rump in the air. Stiles smiled, laughed full and loud and happy, and then rolled easily over the window sill and dropped to the ground outside before sprinting away up the street. He only had five minutes, and he wasn’t going to waste a second of them.

It was time to play.

Chapter Text

As far as head starts went, five minutes was more than enough.

In five minutes, Stiles had crossed town, passed Scott’s old house where a light burned in Melissa’s bedroom window and disappeared deep into the preserve.

He debated slowing down once he was into the thick of the trees, his eyes searching in the dark as he listened for the tell-tale signs of a wolf crashing along behind him, but he was as fast on his feet as a wolf himself - light, nimble, strong…

Let’s see Finstock try to bench him now.

Grinning at the thought of the fun a lacrosse match might be since he’d come into his own, Stiles began to crisscross back and forth through the brush, laying his scent over and over and over in a tangled, snarled mess before sprinting away again, pushing himself faster and faster still. He knew the moment Phee entered the wood, felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up with the intuition of his nature, the instinct of prey. With a leap and a vault he grabbed on to a low hanging branch and hauled himself up into a tree, carefully wending his way out onto a limb and swinging like an acrobat to the next one. He couldn’t go far; the trees in the Preserve were too old, grew too high and too far apart, but it let him go a short ways without leaving his scent on the earth below, another break in his trail that would take a minute or two to unravel.

Dropping back to the ground, he landed in a tight crouch, cocking his head to listen for his pursuer. His heart pounded strongly in his chest, the only sound in the silence until he was suddenly startled by the low, long call of a wolf perhaps a half-mile away.

A wolf he recognized.

A wolf that wasn’t Pheelan.

Apparently they weren’t the only ones out for a run.

A short, sharp snarl bubbled up out of Stiles chest, his fingers curling into the loam like claws as he crouched, ready to break away and run. His mind flew, mapping out the whole of the wood in seconds, every path and landmark, every way in and out. Laughter fought with the more feral sounds desperately trying to work their way from his throat, a giddiness lighting a fire in the pit of his belly that sent tendrils of heat licking down his muscles, hot, crackling, aching for the chase. His feet moved before he’d made up his mind, pushing him forward into another sprint, his only objective now to evade the blonde wolf that was quickly closing in on him. The others were pushed to the side, separate, inconsequential.

They weren’t a part of the game.

The creek that ran along the ridge continued on all through the back of the Preserve, looping up and around, and he knew it like he knew the rest of this place, perfectly even after all these years. He knew the place where it ran slow and shallow, splashed lazily over the rocks, and it was that place that he headed for. For only a moment the shadows whispered, the fox, flashing behind his eyes, promising him a good trick. Water was the key, water was what would drown him, drown his scent, and so it was water that made his way to.

He could feel Pheelan pounding along behind him, rushing, running, hunting him, but he was almost there and he wasn’t worried. Sprinting up a steep ridge, he threw himself over the crest of the incline with abandon, leaping down into the shallow brook to land with a loud splash, the cold water immediately flooding his sneakers and creeping up the hem of his jeans, but it was the glowing blue and gold eyes along the opposite bank that made him freeze in his tracks.

Isaac, Peter, the little twins, Erica and Boyd. Scott too, all the wolves but the alpha staring at him in shock and surprise from the shore.

He hadn’t been paying enough attention then, that he’d come on them so unexpectedly. All of them, crouched there in their beta forms, some of them dripping from the river, others panting and loose from the run, the easy, comfortable looks on their faces slipping away as he stared them down with a heated gaze. His eyes darted between them, landed on Scott who had taken two steps forward into the water and was making a keening, high-pitched whine as he strained to hold himself back. Stiles had to bite back a reciprocating whine, his muscles urging him forward, telling him to surge into the heat of the pack, the center of what he could so easily pull into a tangled knot of bodies all rubbing and pressing together. His nature though, that part of him that knew a pack, knew wolves, knew these wolves, wanted something different.

Something more.

Bearing his teeth in a wicked grin, he laughed playfully, an invitation, a dare, and then he was howling, loud and long and rising, the call of a wolf summoning his pack to his side. A short distance behind he heard Pheelan respond, answer back with a hunting call that tickled at the hair on his neck, his glow burgeoning up in his chest like champagne bubbles. Casting a devil’s smile in the direction of the pack, he turned on his heel and ran, busting tail up the creek bed as the water splashed messily beneath his feet. Behind him was all silence and stillness and he felt something cold try to creep into his blood, but then he heard Erica yip happily and then they were pounding after him, all frantically beating hearts and joyous howls.

As he ran he could feel his own heart racing, swelling as he let himself accept some small part of the happiness that was growing in him, warming him, without all the guilt and anger that so often accompanied it, left those darker desires behind him.

As far behind as he could anyway.

Stiles could feel the wolf pack running through the dark on either side of him, chasing him, flanking him, and it made his pounding heart sing in his chest, but for now it was only play. Leaping, lunging, singing to the fattening crescent moon, yelping as they collided and challenged each other for position, dashing in and out through the trees - it was the sweetest of games to them.

Only Pheelan was hunting.

And he was closing in.

Sprinting into a clearing where the trees thinned, Stiles skidded to an abrupt halt, his sneakers digging furrows in the earth as he turned, felt the pack quickly circle round him as the huge blonde wolf came crashing into the clearing after him. Stamping his paws, Phee’s chest heaved, his body shaking with the effort of holding himself back. Stiles grinned, ran his tongue over his teeth as he squared his shoulders and rocked onto the balls of his feet, growled playfully. Phee slunk forward a few paces, chuffed and snapped his jaws as trickery glinted in his eyes, and then he began to circle, a slow, deadly ring.

Stiles gaze flicked to the trees as the other wolves whimpered in the dark, shifted at the edges of his vision, suddenly unsure as a playful chase became prey run to ground, a fox brought to bay. Stiles shook his head from side to side, an attempt to rid the haunting image from his mind, and Phee used the distraction to his advantage. Lunging hard and fast he came straight at him, but instead of running Stiles met him head on, leaping into the air at the last moment to turn a crooked somersault over the wolf’s back. Landing on his feet, he turned just in time to see Phee spin on him, snort and shake his massive head as he showed long, sharp canines.

Stiles laughed.

“That the best you got Butterwolf?” he taunted cheekily, and all around him he felt the betas ease.

Phee growled and began to circle him again at a quick lope, forcing Stiles to turn tightly on his heels to keep him in view. Coming closer and closer, he began to duck and feint, herding him the way he wanted him to go. He was only just hit with a wave of dizziness when Phee came in for the kill.

Crashing into Stiles’ midsection with his shoulders the wolf sent them both tumbling over and over through the bracken and the leaves, Stiles clouting and buffeting him with knees and elbows, Phee using his size and weight to toss and buck the man off when he tried to straddle him like a horse. They’d gone careening down an incline in a tumbling, barking ball of limbs and they could hear the other werewolves yelping and baying out happy hunting calls as they hurried to follow after. Toppled from Phee’s back with an easy roll of the great wolf’s powerful shoulders, Stiles found himself suddenly overwhelmed with an intense happiness so deep it sapped his strength. Spun onto his back in the soft earth, a grin split his face and he laughed, full and bright and happy, reaching up to grip Phee’s thick ruff in his hands as the wolf pounced on top of him and looked down with gleaming golden eyes.

Still caught in the game, delighted with the sugary scent of joy coming from Stiles’ skin, Phee yipped once before grabbing on to Stiles’ forearm with powerful jaws that closed down delicately over the thick red sleeve of his hoodie. Squirming against the sharp edges of his pack beneath him, Stiles tossed the wolf back and forth, snarling playfully as Phee continued to mouth at his arm, gnawing gently with a happy, puppy rumble. Letting go, the wolf dove in to press a cold, damp nose to the ticklish place behind Stiles’ ear, snuffling and panting hotly.

“No!” Stiles yelped, trying desperately not to giggle. “No, no, no!”

This was the part where he usually lost the game.

He was just about to cry uncle when a dark-haired, red-eyed blur came barreling up the ridge, colliding with Phee like a freight train and sending them both crashing away. Leaping to his feet, Stiles automatically went for his Ruger and cursed when his fingers couldn’t find it. Hauling ass towards the thrashing and snarling in the brush, he came on Derek and Phee, now shifted back, locked together in what looked like a battle to the death.

“Hey!” he screamed, and power thundered in his tone. “Get the hell off him! Derek!”

But the alpha couldn’t, or wouldn’t, hear him.

The betas had slunk after them, heads low, ringed up around them in a wide, loose circle, eyes bright in the dark as they looked for a way into the fight; Isaac, Peter, and Erica darting in and out, teeth gleaming, but they were either too scared or too uncertain to break the two apart.

Stiles had no such qualms.

Crashing down from his euphoria like a comet to the earth, his whole body flushed hot as his vision went perfectly, horribly red. His hands found purchase on the friction-taped handle of his baseball bat with the barest thought, slid it smoothly out of the loops over his shoulder and choked up. Striding strongly into the fray, he locked eyes on his target and swung.

The wood connected with Derek’s head with an immense crack that echoed off the trees and reverberated along the ridge, sending him tumbling away in a graceful arc of ruby blood. Somehow he managed to roll to his feet again, tripping, stumbling to a crouch as he clutched at his head and cursed a blue streak. Stiles started forward, ready to deliver another wallop but Phee’s fingers gripped his bicep hard and pulled him back. He could feel the dark pressing in around him, shadows filling up his chest like smoke and whispering words in his ears that he couldn’t understand, crackling in his fingertips as the betas circled in close, wolves drawn by blood and ready to tear their prey apart. Isaac and Boyd came forward to haul Derek carefully to his feet but he shook them off angrily, flinching when Boyd tugged off his shirt and pressed it to the large gash over the alpha’s ear. There was blood streaking down the side of his face and neck and they were all eyeing Stiles warily, whining when he lifted his lip to show his teeth.

“Stiles what the hell?” Derek barked, and Stiles sneered.

“Rowan wood bitch!” he growled. “You wanna fight so bad, let’s you and me have a go then! It’s been years coming!”

Striding forward, he was jerked back hard by the straps of his backpack when Phee stepped up behind him and grabbed hold. He could feel the Omega rumbling with annoyance as he jerked the bag open, zippers squealing as he pulled out his shorts and his shoes. The wolf feigned no modesty as he stood before the pack, naked as hell after his shift, so Stiles was sure it was more his intention to keep a controlling hand on his shoulder than to slip into something less revealing. Rolling his shoulders he took a step away, scowling at Phee with irritation, but the blonde only glared back, snapping the elastic at his waist with his thumbs.

“Stiles, what…”

Stiles turned his eyes back to the alpha who was staring at him with hurt and confusion, felt the crushing grip of shadows on his heart return.

“I don’t… I don’t want to fight you. I didn’t…”

“Didn’t what?” he bit out angrily. “Didn’t just jump my wolf? Didn’t try to kill him? Sure seem to be in a big yank to get your teeth into someone Alpha, why don’t you try kissing my…”

“Stiles.”

“Don’t!” he snarled viciously spinning on Phee, whose eyes flared as he showed his teeth in response and snarled right back, not cowed in the least by the darkness swirling in Stiles’ eyes, his fingers shifting on the grip of his ball bat. “This is the second time he’s come after you and I swear to God…”

“I can take care of myself,” Phee grit out, and Stiles suddenly realized how close they were, the wolf looming above him as the muscles in his shoulders and upper arms bunched and shifted with the effort of holding back his shift.

“So can I!” Stiles hissed. “You think that’s what this is about?!”

“I think you need to let it go. Now,” Phee warned, and some small part of him knew that the wolf was right, knew that the anger and the power was starting to swallow him, starting to take control, but he didn’t want to hold back, didn’t want to hang on. He could feel it ripping through him like blue electricity, all of him ready to implode if he were only jarred just sharply enough…

“He didn’t know,” Phee continued, and Stiles tried to grab on to his voice, the low, even rumble edged with fanged anger. “He was just trying to protect you.”

And that was all it took.

“Protect?” Stiles whispered. “I’m not his to protect!”

The declaration came like the roar of a storm, echoing, powerful, violent, and it drove every wolf in the clearing to their knees in submission but for the one who stood over the boy, showing his teeth and fisting his hands at his sides. Even the alpha was shoved to a crouch, his hands over his ears in pain as he tried valiantly to stay on his feet.

“He made that pretty fucking clear!” Stiles continued, and his voice went cold and flat and dead. “I wasn’t pack, wasn’t worth protecting. So I take care of myself, and I take care of what’s mine!”

“Calm. Down!” Pheelan snarled, and the tiny part of him that still held on recognized how hard it was for the wolf to growl and snap his teeth when he was being claimed, recognized the clenching of his fingers as the desperate desire to reach out and pull Stiles into his chest, to bite and mark and make those words real. The darkness saw it too, and drove in hard at the perceived weakness.

“Don’t take his side,” Stiles hissed, his voice dripping with venom.

“I’m not,” the wolf countered slowly, his voice jumping as he tried to control his tone.

“He fucking jumped you Phee!” Stiles shouted, the anger popping hotly in his chest. “Tried to kill you! Again! I should burn him where he fucking stands…”

“Stiles!”

Whipping around, he fixed the horrified alpha with a glare that should’ve immolated him on the spot, ignored the shocked gasping of his name that came from half of the pack that circled them.

“Come on then Derek,” he purred, coldly and disgustingly sweet as his mind flashed back to a darkened pool, the sting and burn of chlorine in his eyes and his mouth and his nose as he struggled desperately to keep afloat. “Pretend you’re about to die. That you’re about to drown. You can’t breathe, and you try to keep your mouth closed until that very last moment as you sink, deeper, deeper... Agony. And then hell. So what do you say? What last words will you leave this world with? Leave for the one trying to save you.”

Derek had gone pale as the blood dried dark and sticky down the side of his throat and he was staring at Stiles like he didn’t know him at all anymore, and perhaps that was best because it was as near to truth now as either of them could be. He swallowed, opened and closed his mouth, and the darkness in Stiles saw the exact moment when the anger flared in the wolf’s eyes, red with his heritage and with the pride and indignation he felt was his right.

“Stiles, he had your arm in his mouth,” Derek snarled, and around him his pack shifted nervously. “He had his teeth at your throat and all you could do was scream!”

The world stopped turning for Stiles then.

Beneath his feet the earth began to buckle and shake, carved with the anger that consumed him, and there was nothing left as his pupils dilated, swallowing the honeyed-whiskey tones of his eyes. Overhead thunder cracked as heavy clouds coalesced above the tree tops, wind whistling between the branches, and he missed the confused, frightened whimpers of the wolves as his world went silent and still, pressing in close on every side. All the rage and pain he’d buried came sweeping down on him like a flood and then he was the one who was drowning, his head splitting as his lungs refused to take a breath. His hands fisted at his temples and he began to shake, every instinct he had demanding that he run as he clamped his eyes shut against the invasive eyes of the pack. Strong fingers closed around his wrists, the pain biting through the haze but it wasn’t enough, doing no more than locking him inside his skin, the vice-like jaws of a fox trap.

There was only one thing he could do to save himself.

Ripping away from the heated stares pushing needles beneath his skin, he threw up his hands and disappeared in an explosive, concussive blast of white light.

Chapter Text

When the ringing in his ears finally subsided, Derek managed to blink away the static from behind his eyes, stagger to his feet in the aftermath of the explosion. All around him his pack was climbing to their feet, shaking their heads like dogs in an attempt to get their bearings back. The air around them hummed with electricity making his hackles rise, heavy with the smoky, acrid scent of a lightning strike and his wolf was slamming itself against the bars of his control, howling itself hoarse with Stiles’ disappearance.

Because he had disappeared.

Gone, with a crack and a sizzle, like a cheap magic trick.

“Shit!” the Omega cursed, and Derek’s eyes snapped to the back of his head with a cold fury that clawed at his insides. “Dammit Stiles! Little idiot!”

“You!” he snarled, taking two long strides forward. “What the hell did you…”

The betas must have seen killing in his eyes because Isaac, Peter, and Erica all leapt into his path, hands out as though they thought they could hold him back.

His lips curled back off his fangs in a cruel smile.

He’d like to see them try.

“Derek stop!” Erica demanded, but he didn’t meet her gaze, just stared over her head at the massive blonde who was glaring back at him an intent just as deadly as his own. “He wasn’t hurting Stiles, we were…”

“Get out of my way Erica,” he said in a cold, dead voice.

“Do as he says, little cat,” the Omega murmured, and his voice was oddly gentle around a mouthful of fangs.

Boyd must have sensed the bloodshed coming, taken heed of the Omega’s warning, because he stepped up from Derek’s left and took Erica carefully by the elbow, drawing her out of the range of fire though she was looking desperately between the two of them with a shaking sort of fear that was almost enough to make him want to back down. Isaac and Peter shifted forward to take her place, almost shoulder to shoulder as they faced him, standing between him and his quarry and he showed his teeth.

“Move,” he growled, and his eyes flashed red, but despite the broken arms he hadn’t quite been able to heal himself, and the Alpha’s command was lacking the punch it needed to force his betas away.

“Get yourself under control nephew!” Peter snarled quietly, splaying his left palm flat just over Derek’s heart. “Now!”

“I could hear him,” Derek hissed, his eyes still on the blonde stranger as he leaned heavily against Peter’s hand. “All the way from the damned house. I heard him call the hunt, heard Stiles call for help…”

“He wasn’t calling for help!” Erica insisted loudly from where Boyd had caged her against his chest. “He was calling us, calling a run! God, we were…”

“You were what?!” Derek roared, turning on her with flashing eyes, and Boyd snarled and showed his teeth. Much to the pack’s surprise, the Omega did too, the muscles in his chest and upper arms rippling as he growled, widening his stance. Derek didn’t stop to contemplate the action, the odd protectiveness towards Erica that didn’t make any sense. “Where the hell were you, all of you? Yards off, half the damned hill away and he had his teeth in Stiles’ throat, had him screaming!”

“It’s a game you moron!” the Omega barked, and Derek turned to face him once more, fury boiling in his blood even as his whole pack had started shifting and protesting his accusations. “It’s his game! One we’ve played a thousand times! Jesus, you…”

The wolf threw up his hands, cursing a wicked streak in some sharp, curling tongue as he shook his head and stalked a few yards away, his movements jerky and disjointed just like his speech as he began to pace, turning tight circles as he stared at the ground, searching for something.

“What the hell do you do around here for fun?” he muttered under his breath acidly. “He said you were a pretentious son of a bitch, but Christ…”

“It was a game, Derek,” Isaac urged, his tone calm and soothing. “That’s all. Just a game.”

“Just a misunderstanding,” Erica whimpered quietly.

Guilt probably should have hit him then. For coming in on the scene without knowing exactly what was happening, for jumping to conclusions fueled by his own angry assumptions, for panicking. He should have felt guilt. But he didn’t. There was too much other, too much more, predominantly an overwhelming jealousy and something suspiciously akin to hatred that threatened to overwhelm him whenever he looked at the wolf that moved so easily around the boy who was once his friend, the boy who was once his…

His nothing.

He’d pushed Stiles away and he’d lost him, and it had been his fault.

And now he was gone again.

“Where is he?” Derek demanded, his fists still tight at his sides, straining forward, sure that Peter’s hand was the only link to sanity that he had left.

“How the hell should I know?” the Omega muttered, still dancing over the earth, scenting, searching…

It was the dismissal that broke him. The distracted, careless response, as though he were the last thing that mattered in the world to this lone bastard who waltzed in with Stiles at his side like they were brothers, like they were mates, meant to be close as though Stiles were pack, his pack…

Derek threw Peter and Isaac off with a roar, vicious anger and a flood of old, bitter feelings sweeping through him as he lunged forward, teeth and claws ready to tear his rival to shreds, because in that moment that was exactly what the Omega was; his rival. He’d come into his territory with the young man who should have been theirs, with a member of their pack, had sided with Lydia, or so he’d guessed, was standing guard over Erica like she didn’t already have a mate of her own…

He was going to kill him.

The Omega turned to meet his challenge, his eyes blazing in the dark as he braced his feet, unsheathed his own claws but it was all made null when his pack piled on him like a ton of bricks, cutting him down as they clung to his arms and legs, bound him until all he could do was thrash and snarl under their weight, desperate to bite but unwilling to hurt those who were his.

“Where is he?!” Derek screamed madly, trying to wrench his arms away from his uncle who had pinned them to his sides. “You tell me where he fucking went!”

The Omega looked up from the ground he was trampling, the small, dark patch of earth that had turned to thick, chalky ash with Stiles’ disappearance, and beneath the anger and the defiance the Alpha could see a snake’s strike of fear.

XXX

Pheelan could almost tune out the snarling and snapping of the Alpha and his pack as he scoured the dirt beneath his sneakers for some trace of where Stiles had gone, searched the air for the faintest trace of a scent that would give him the barest clue. It warmed him a bit, seeing the betas stand up for him, if only by default, especially the curvy little blonde. Erica. He liked her spirit, the fire in her even if it didn’t burn as bright as the Banshee’s, and he knew that she was important to Stiles.

Or… had been…

Phee snarled to himself, shook his head to push away the tangled mess of memory, the minefields he sifted through as he tried to navigate this place. He’d done his best, tried to support Stiles as well as he could, tried to be a pillar of strength and reliability, but now Stiles was gone and shit. He didn’t know what to do now. He could feel an anger boiling in him, zinging through his blood and it made his wolf snap its teeth. Normally so calm, so even-keeled, this whole thing was like a scar that he couldn’t help but claw at, fury raging in his chest until he could feel the trembling of the shift in his biceps and his abdominals, his muscles clenching as sweat beaded on the back of his neck and ran down his spine like fingers, tapping at his vertebrae.

He’d been ready, ready to meet the Alpha’s challenge, ready to bite and rip and tear if that’s what it came down to, but once again the pack had leapt to the fore, piling onto the wolf like a bloody American football team, something he almost regretted. But Stiles was gone, had zapped out to God knows where, and that wasn’t even the worst of his problems. He’d seen him pull a Houdini before, seen him lose control a dozen times, but this was different, this was wrong.

Stiles had only just told him that he wasn’t ready to leave this place.

He could understand wanting to. Hell, he probably would’ve disappeared too after that fucking fiasco. They’d pushed all the right buttons, torn open all the right scars to completely destroy the young man, and that was what had happened. He’d seen it, in that half flash of a second before the damned shadows had consumed his eyes.

But Stiles’ father was hurt, still recovering, and the fact that they were here at all was a testament to the fact that Stiles would have never left his father in that condition. These last days had proved that. He would suffer, face all his demons to protect his dad, make sure that he was ok.

And he never would have threatened the Alpha with fire.

That wasn’t Stiles, even with all his hurt and pain and hatred.

And that was why this felt so wrong, why his wolf was whining piteously as it searched, aching for the man who’d said such things…

Phee swallowed, ignored the echo of those words, the ones he hadn’t realized he wanted so badly to be true.

Focused on other words instead. Harder words. Ones he didn’t think had really come from Stiles.

Yes, they had fought before. Gone fang to fang, for all that was worth, even come really, really close to beating the shit out of each other on one horrible occasion, and that wasn’t what was wrong either. They’d yelled at each other, run from each other, but they’d always come back together, and now they couldn’t do that.

Behind him the commotion of the pack slowly began to fade back into a reality, clamoring in his ears like the bells that called the hellhounds back to rest each night. He tried to tune back out again, tried to focus in on his task, but the Alpha’s voice, now mostly hoarse, broke through his concentration, drilling through his skull like hot nails.

“Where is he?” the wolf shouted, and Phee felt his lip curl back over his teeth, his jaws aching as his anger forced them from his gums, longer and sharper than he thought they might have ever been. “You tell me where he fucking went!”

In an icy flash of anger, Phee felt himself go calm and cold, turned on the Alpha and met his gaze with such frigid composition that the wolves went still and silent.

“I am not your beta,” the wolf said with a fearsome amount of control, his canines long and sharp and white. “Don’t talk to me like you’re my fucking Alpha.”

Turning his back on them once more, he went back to his search, seconds ticking by like hours until the spitfire of a blonde took a tentative step towards him, her voice soft but still grating over his skin like shards of glass.

“Pheelan?” she whispered, and her voice was thick with tears. “Is he ok? I mean… where did he…”

“I don’t know where he went,” Phee replied, finally admitting defeat with a great, heaving sigh. “He has circles all over the world, dozens. He could’ve popped out to any of them.”

“But…”

“But he doesn’t have any here!” he snarled. Dragging his hands through his hair roughly, he growled in frustration. “None! Not in the whole damned country. He can’t… he can’t come back.”

The lanky beta, the second, Isaac, if he remembered correctly, stepped away from Derek with a hand up, a plea to stay still if not calm. The Alpha’s eyes were blazing like garnets in the dark, his teeth bared, but he’d gone silent and static, and Phee wondered if he were just waiting for an opening. He still smelled like a challenge, one he would be only too happy to meet, but Stiles was his priority. The second cleared his throat, pulled his focus, all intent and determination.

“It’s Pheelan right?” he asked with obvious tentativeness. “I’m…”

“Isaac Lahey,” Phee muttered, peering out into the dark. “I know who you are. I know who all of you are.”

“Fair enough,” Isaac answered back calmly, clearly determined to keep the peace. “What do we need to do here?”

Phee’s head snapped up and he eyed the beta warily, abruptly on edge despite the clean, soap-smell of honesty.

“Please,” he said, and behind him he felt the pack shift in agreement. “How do we bring him home?”

Frowning, it took him all of five seconds to decide, five seconds to choose his sides even if he didn’t have much of a choice at all.

“Give me a phone,” he demanded, extending his hand, palm up.

“Are you gonna call him?” the floppy-haired brunette with the crooked jaw whimpered, Scott, the one who should have stood up and led five years ago but who chose to lie down instead.

“You really think he’d pick up?” Phee drawled with a cocked eyebrow, biting back the shock of hatred that jolted through him as he stared down the young man. When he got no more of a response than a miserable choking sound and a look like a kicked puppy he rolled his eyes and turned back to the phone in his hand. Scrolling through Isaac’s contact list, he found the name of the one person he thought could help him and hit the call button.

Chapter Text

Leaving Stiles to walk home alone from the diner had been horribly, horribly uncomfortable for Lydia.

She understood the need to be alone, to sit quietly and process the conversation they’d had, but after having been so close, sitting across from him as he talked and smiled and gestured just like he always had for hours, and then to have him break down and weep into her neck…

She didn’t want to ever let him go.

But she understood, felt mostly the same way herself, and so she had let him go, watched him stride down the sidewalk in a strong, confidant manner that wasn’t like him at all until he had disappeared around the corner.

The drive back to the Stilinski house had gone by in a blur and she was coldly reminded of those days when she’d first come into her Banshee powers, when she would step out of her car into some strange lot, unsure of how she got there or why. Swallowing back those old fears, she had collected her sweater off the passenger seat along with the little pastry box and went in through the front door without knocking. She hadn’t wanted to disturb the Sheriff should he be sleeping, and the werewolf would recognize her as soon as she stepped inside.

Much to her surprise she’d found both men in the kitchen, the Sheriff slouched on a stool against the cabinets nursing a glass of milk, the werewolf’s lower half hanging out of the cupboard beneath the sink. There had been a few tools scattered on the floor near his hip and Lydia had been struck by the domesticity of the scene, the sweetness of the gesture playing out in front of her. None of them had ever asked the Sheriff if he’d needed anything over the years, yet there was the wolf who had only just met him the day before cramped into a tiny cupboard, the lip digging into his lower back just to fix a drippy faucet.

He’d been spooked when she nudged his ankle, enough to crack his forehead off the pipes, and she’d been too surprised to apologize. Distracted too, from the light back and forth that took place between herself and the Sheriff, though she’d noted that he didn’t ask after his son. Instead she’d followed the wolf out into the garage in a bit of a daze, asked for… she wasn’t sure what she’d asked for. And all the things he’d told her were things she already knew.

The encouragement?

That she had needed.

One simple statement and a term of endearment.

You’re doing just fine luv.

That had been enough to carry her home, home to her luxury apartment on the far edge of town past the preserve, down the hall from the elevator and through the door, past the sunny kitchen and the front room with the big glass windows into the little study alongside her bedroom. There was a tiny window bench there, filled up with throw pillows and a Beacon Hills lacrosse blanket, her one concession to high school. Curling up in the little nook, she pressed her cheek against the cool glass, stared at the clear blue of the sky above the well-kept lawn six stories below.

She didn’t know how long she sat and stared out the window, didn’t remember sending the text to Isaac telling him that no, she wouldn’t be joining the pack that night, not to run and certainly not to talk. All she could do was turn her memories over and over again, memories of holding Stiles in her arms, feeling him shake against her and loving the contact despite the ache of it because he was there, real and whole and there. A smile touched her mouth as she replayed every moment of the afternoon they’d shared, the light in his eyes when he talked about the places he’d seen and the things he’d done, the happiness and the strength that shone through with every words and every gesture. He’d been almost radiant as he lost himself in the life he’d led without them, and her heart had felt hot and heavy in her chest.

Darkness fell outside her window and Lydia slowly began to pull back into herself, like coming fully awake after a catnap that was just a little too short to reach REM. She felt logy and bit too warm, and her stomach was rumbling enough to remind her that she had only picked at her salad over lunch, too wrapped up in listening to really eat. Uncurling her body from the bench she arched her back to stretch, touched her sternum with light fingertips when the heavy-heart feeling came back to her, clinging to her the way her dreams sometimes did.

Dreams.

Pheelan had asked her if she dreamed, and while she hadn’t understood the question, it was colored with a foreboding she didn’t care for. It turned up those memories that she sometimes wished she didn’t have, memories of coming home from visiting family to find her best friend gone, of screaming until she was hoarse with the pain of losing someone so dear to her.

Again.

Lydia felt her eyes begin to sting as she crossed the floor and she knuckled at them roughly, angry with the tears. Stiles wasn’t the only one who had toughened up over the years, and to be honest for a few years she’d thought that she’d cried herself dry. Sitting down at the burled cherry desk between the bookcases where she worked her chemicals and her formulas, she reached down to the bottom drawer, all the way to the back until her fingers touched the cool laminate of a small photo book. Withdrawing it from the drawer, she stroked the worn cover, the stamped letters of her name, unsure if she could bear opening it, opening herself to the memories inside.

In the end she couldn’t do it.

She didn’t really have to.

She knew every picture inside that book, every face, every moment.

Had memorized them, night after night after night.

With one more caress of the spine she slipped the album back into the drawer she’d taken it from and left the room, closing the door behind her.

Strangely anxious, she decided on a cool shower before changing into a pair of black sweatpants and a pink babydoll t-shirt, thin with wear despite the fact that she wouldn’t be caught dead in such an outfit outside of her own bedroom. Piling her wet hair onto the top of her head, she made her way to the kitchen, intent on a snack before forcibly putting herself to bed. She didn’t want to think anymore, didn’t want to acknowledge that she wasn’t out at the Pack House like she should be. Layering yogurt and granola into a cereal bowl distracted her just a bit, the juicy slice of strawberries too thin to really remind her of blood being spilled.

She was sitting at the high granite countertop with a spoon in her mouth when her phone chimed.

“What do you want Isaac?” she sighed, half annoyance, half melancholy. “I told you I wasn’t coming out tonight.”

“Not Isaac,” came the reply, and Lydia straightened in her chair, immediately on the alert.

“Pheelan?” she asked, and she felt her skin go cold. “Oh my god, what happened? Is Stiles…”

“Breathe Banshee,” he demanded softly, and only then did she recognize the electric zing of panic humming in her veins, the desperation that had immediately run into her voice. “I need your help.”

Already half way to the door, keys in hand, Lydia nodded.

“I’m on my way.”

XXX

Disconnecting the call, Pheelan slapped the cell phone back into Isaac’s hand without a word and turned back to the blackened circle that Stiles had left behind when he disappeared. The pack had drawn close together a few yards away, a close crush of bodies pressing together in an effort to comfort themselves, but the Alpha sat just a bit away, his knees drawn to his chest with his arms linked around them, one clawed hand gripping his opposite wrist hard enough to bruise. Phee could feel his eyes trying to bore their way through the back of his skull but he wasn’t bothered by it much; being an Omega occasionally had its upsides.

“Lydia can help then?” Erica asked him from the safety of her mate’s arms; Boyd, his mind supplied. “She can bring him back?”

Pheelan scoffed as he knelt at the side of the circle, scooping the chalky, ashy soil into a pile with his hands. “Nobody brings Stiles back. He’ll come back when he’s ready… if he can.”

“But you said he doesn’t have any circles here.”

“He doesn’t.”

Unsheathing the claws of his right hand, he drew one carefully over the inside of his left forearm below his elbow, effectively silencing any more questions as he fisted his hand several times, coaxing the blood to flow bright red onto the earth, mixing it into the ash until it formed a thick, muddy sort of clay. Relaxing his muscles he allowed the cut to seal itself, licked the blood from his thumb before he went back to kneading the soil together.

“How far are we from the Sheriff’s house?” he asked finally, sitting back on his heels and looking off into the dark.

“Eight miles running,” Isaac answered, and Pheelan frowned, cursing under his breath.

“Too far,” he muttered, scooping a great clot of wet earth into his hand and rising smoothly to his feet. With two fingers he used the mud to draw small crosses onto his wrists, reaching back to add two more to his neck and tailbone, a mockery of the power that Stiles’ tattoos carried.

“Too far for what?”

“I can put up a temporary circle,” he answered, “But just a temporary one. It’s not…” Pheelan huffed, rubbed his hands on his shorts before scrubbing them through his hair. “It won’t be as strong or as right as it should be - I’m just a wolf, I don’t have enough power to juice it by myself. It has to be within a mile, two at the most of the place he left out of.”

“Hale House,” Isaac said, and the Alpha’s eyes flashed in the corner of Phee’s vision. “It’s a quarter mile away if we go straight over the ridge.”

“Right,” Phee muttered. “Shit.”

“Problem?” the Alpha snapped, and a smirk tugged at Phee’s mouth. It was the first thing he’d said for a while, practically a normal conversation.

“Not for me,” he replied, and the older wolf, the uncle, barked a laugh.

“Oh I like you,” he grinned, and the Alpha snarled. “You’ve got balls, I’ll give you that.”

Phee lifted his head, held the wolf’s gaze steadily until he rumbled and flashed blue eyes.

“I’m gonna warn you once, all of you, out of the goodness of my heart,” he said, and his voice was flat and deadly serious. “He wasn’t kidding when he said he should burn you where you stand. He could do it, if he really wanted to, make you feel like you were burning up from the inside out. He’s got a hell of a lot more at his fingertips that a rowan wood baseball bat.”

The pack shifted nervously, climbing to their feet at a look from Isaac, the Alpha still staring him down, and Pheelan saw a few of them swallow hard, clearly taken aback by his words. One by one they began moving off through the trees, quickly pairing together as naturally as breathing, and he found himself marching along behind Erica and Boyd, Peter and the Alpha a few yards behind and to his right. Pheelan rolled his eyes, half amused, half irritated that he couldn’t seem to name the red-eyed wolf, even in his head. He could feel the mud drying on his wrists, his neck and tailbone, making him feel tingly and tight, and he knew that he needed to get the circle down as quickly as possible, before the remnants of the power Stiles had used faded.

It only took a handful of minutes to break out of the preserve into a wide grassy clearing, stuck in the middle of his silent pack escort. The Hale House loomed large and imposing in front of him, lights blazing from the windows, beautiful against the night sky considering all he’d ever heard of it had been a charred wreck of a skeleton, ghosts of memory caged within its crumbling walls. He didn’t try to talk to any of the pack, didn’t try to draw them out, and they seemed to sense that in him because they let him be as they herded him across the patio, around the sunken fire pit and through a pair of French doors into a massive front room.

He was surprised when the Banshee came barreling into him like a cannon, wrapping her arms around him in a brief but crushing hug. From what he’d heard of her she wasn’t the type to make friends quickly or easily, even less likely to show this type of physical affection, regardless of the motivation behind it. Still, here she was in a ratty pair of sweats with her hair all in a knot, her heart pounding in his ears as though she’d run out the door and sped all the way to the house, which she likely had. He didn’t reciprocate the hug, too shocked by the sudden embrace, but she had already pulled back from him, looking up with a deadly serious heat in her eyes.

“Where is he?” she demanded. “What happened?”

“I don’t know where he is,” he said, taking her by the shoulders to push her lightly out of his way, moving into the center of the room where he kicked a rug into the corner, exposing the pale hardwood. “He came back all riled up and wanted to run. Calls it Hide and Seek.”

As he paced a line across the middle of the room, measuring the length to fit his circle, the wolves spanned out around the edges of the room, the huntress who had been sitting with Lydia rising from the couch along the wall to move to her mate’s side.

“And?” the Banshee asked, the strength of anger and impatience turning her hard and intense, much more the Lydia Martin he’d heard so much about than the girl in the soft pink t-shirt and holey running shoes of a moment ago.

Pheelan sighed, suddenly terribly weary. “And nothing,” he muttered. “Your wolves showed up, shit was said, and he flashed out. End of.”

“Derek Hale, what the hell did you do?!”

Pheelan looked up just in time to see Lydia launch herself at the Alpha who had lost all his color and flinched away from her voice, just in time to catch her around the waist and haul her back.

“Let go!” she shrieked. “Dammit, let go! What the hell did you do Derek?! We just got him back, what the hell did you…”

“Lydia!” he snarled quietly in her ear, and she went slack in his arms, as though all her strings had been cut. Lowering her gently to the floor, he curled his fingers around the back of her neck in a gesture of comfort but she shook him off.

“God, you’re all so stupid,” she whispered, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “How… God, how could you think it was ok to say something that would send him away again? You should be kissing the ground he walks on if that’s what it takes to keep him here…”

“Not like he was trying for it Banshee,” Phee sighed. “He was trying to protect the kid, he just…”

“Do not take his side!” Lydia hissed from the floor, rounding on him with eyes blazing.

Anger flooded Phee’s chest and he felt his eyes bleed gold, snarling viciously around a mouthful of fangs. Lydia flinched away from him as her eyes went wide, surprised by the show of aggression. Half the pack took a step forward, and the curly-haired huntress came right across the room, grabbing Lydia by the arm and hauling her to her feet, but he didn’t care. Stress was poisoning his system and he could feel his wolf running restless just beneath his skin, the decrease in control an awful knife in his ribs. But Stiles was gone and he had a job, and he reined in the fury to a barely veiled undercurrent of anger.

“I am not taking their side,” he rumbled, each word slow and clipped and measured. “Jesus! I know, yeah? Everything that happened, everything every one of you said or didn’t say. I’ve breathed that pain and I’ll tell it to you straight; I will always take his side over yours. It’s not a question, or… negotiable. I’m done with this!”

Looking around the circle, he glared at all the pack in turn, lingering on Erica and Boyd, Scott, even Lydia.

“So just stop,” he sighed heavily. “Stop asking me to call him, or to talk him round, or to help you figure out how to get him back. It’s his fucking choice to make, and if you learned anything five years ago it’s that you shouldn’t cut him out.”

The pack whimpered, shifted, but it was the Alpha who dropped his eyes and hung his head, shoulders dropping in a defeated fashion that made Pheelan’s stomach twist. He hated this, this hierarchy that bit at his ankles whenever he found himself stuck in the middle of it, and this pack in particular seemed an odd, muddled up mess of that structure. He wanted out, wanted away, but he didn’t have that option and he felt his skin ripple over his muscles as though his wolf were trying to shed that tension, shake it off like water from his pelt. Scrubbing his hands through his hair in frustration, he turned away from them, willing his eyes back to their human color, willing his pulse to slow.

A hand touched his bare shoulder, peaches and lilac washing over him as Lydia stepped up behind him.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, and he could hear the sincerity in the words. “I shouldn’t have…”

The Banshee sighed sadly and dropped her hand.

“I meant it, you know,” she tried again. “You are good for him.”

“At this point I’ll settle for good enough,” he replied, turning to face her again. “I’ve only done this a few times, and never for a circle that he was going to use for… spatial displacement.”

“What do you need?” Isaac asked, stepping forward as he entered the proverbial ring for the first time since the woods.

“Chalk,” he answered. “Salt. And something that’s his, which I’ll have to go get from…”

“We have something here,” Scott interrupted, suddenly forward and eager, and Pheelan cocked an eyebrow skeptically. “No, we do! We have his…”

Pheelan didn’t hear what they had because the beta had gone loping off towards the front of the house, while the uncle, Peter, had already returned from the kitchen with a canister of Morton’s best and a single, slim piece of chalk in his fingers. He handed them over wordlessly before retreating to an armchair, all careless ease though the sharpness in his gaze belied his relaxed posture. Without waiting for the third item of his request, the wolf stepped into the center of the floor and exhaled.

Circles.

Always circles with them, round and round and round again.

Life and pack and memory, always coming back on themselves like a wolf after its tail.

Dropping to his knees, Pheelan reached out with one hand, laid down with chalk the most perfect circle he could. Setting the chalk aside, he poured out six small pillars of salt, evenly spaced around the outside of the circle. He could feel the ash at his wrists and along his spine hum as he tried to open himself to everything that Stiles was, everything that they were together. Opening his eyes, he found Scott standing mere inches away, as close to the circle as he could be without breaking the chalk line, clutching an aluminum baseball bat like a lifeline, and it was all he could do not to laugh.

A baseball bat.

God save him if that wasn’t almost enough to…

Phee shook his head silently, rose to his feet and took a careful step out of the circle.

“Lydia?” he murmured, holding out a hand, and then she was placing her own into it and he was guiding her into the circle, sitting her down and placing the bat into her lap. Her knuckles were white around the handle, her face pale, and Pheelan lowered himself into a crouch before her, separated only by inches and lines of chalk and salt, five years and an entire life between them.

“What do I do now?” she asked, and there was only the barest waver in her voice as she stared him in the eye.

“You do what you do best,” he answered, reaching out to brush his thumb over her cheek before withdrawing from the circle again.

“Scream.”

Chapter Text

The silence that followed the Banshee’s scream was more deafening than the shriek itself - heavy, powerful, demanding. Pheelan was the only one in the house who hadn’t covered his ears, his eyelids fluttering as he let the painful, high-pitched sound hammer spikes into his skull, reverberate around the inside of his ribcage like a pinball. Some part of him wondered if he was using the pain as penance, but because he didn’t know what he was punishing himself for he brushed the thought away. As the ringing in his ears slowly faded he opened his eyes again, reaching down to help Lydia to her feet and pull her carefully from the circle. Peeling the baseball bat from her iron grip, he ran his fingers down the handle, felt the minute vibrations still humming through the metal before he tossed it onto a nearby couch.

“Was that it?” Scott demanded, his voice harsh on Pheelan’s skin, like gravel. “But he’s not here!”

“I already told you,” Phee replied hoarsely, “Nobody’s bringing him back. He’ll come back when he’s damn good and ready, and I give it at least twelve hours before that comes round.”

Rolling his shoulders, he headed for the kitchen without asking any kind of permission, one hand braced against the walls to keep himself from listing. The house’s floor plan was bright and open, and so the pack was able to follow him easily, haunting his steps as he crossed to the sink. Turning the water on icy over his wrists, he rested his elbows on the rim of the basin and hung his head, exhausted and drawn beyond measure. He could feel their eyes on his back, their words and accusations brushing along his bare shoulders and it made his stomach twist and curl with nausea. It was all he could do to just rest there and breathe through his nose, trying desperately not to boot as the water poured, wet and cold over his hands.

He was about to fail miserably when the scent of peaches and lilacs filled up his head, clearing everything out long enough for him to grab on to his control. Neatly manicured fingers took his wrist, breaking the flow of the water as Lydia gasped, her touch light around the reddened blisters that had appeared beneath the bloody mud-drawn crosses. Pheelan rumbled in irritation and attempted to pull away but she just tightened her grip before reaching for a paper towel, breaking the flow of the water as she began dampening it.

“Hold still,” she said firmly, and then she was gently wiping away the marks at his nape and tailbone, thorough despite his continuous, growling protests. “You should put something on these,” she murmured, her hand trailing absently down his spine, and Phee chuffed with an annoyed discontent, squirming away from her touch as he side-stepped and moved a few yards away.

“I’m fine,” he muttered sullenly, levering himself up to sit on the countertop and crossing his arms.

It wasn’t that he wasn’t grateful. He was. He just didn’t like this. Didn’t like this pack mentality, didn’t like being stuck in the middle of it – especially since he didn’t know these wolves. He knew of them, sure, knew about them, but nothing that he knew was really good, and without Stiles at his side he felt like a trespasser in foreign territory.

“Would you tell Stiles that?” Lydia asked with one perfectly arched eyebrow as she tossed the mud-streaked paper towel into the trashcan beneath the sink and dried her hands on her sweats.

Pheelan lifted his lip and showed his teeth, tipped sharp, in a half-hearted snarl, but she just smirked smugly in return, as though he’d given her exactly the answer she was expecting.

And maybe he had.

Stiles didn’t put up with his shit, self-sacrificing or otherwise. It was one of the things he loved about the Touchstone.

Oh, bloody hell.

Loved.

“So what happens now?”

Pheelan blinked, turned his head to face the pack who were all watching him curiously. Peter looked particularly perturbed, scowling as his gaze flicked between the Omega and the Banshee, who was leaning back against the counter so that she was at right angles with both him and the pack, but he decided that he simply couldn’t care enough to puzzle that out at the moment.

“Nothing happens now,” he replied flatly, running a hand roughly through his hair. He wasn’t even sure who had asked the question, too tired and too distracted to properly attend to what was happening around him. He was still open to the hum of Stiles’ power and his wolf was subconsciously trying to chase it, trying to follow the filament-thin wire across continents in an attempt to learn where it ended, in an attempt to find him, despite knowing it to be a lost cause. But they were all staring, still staring, and all their unspoken questions were like weights on his chest, bands strapped around his ribs trying to suffocate him.

“The circle’s down,” he said gruffly, sliding off the counter. “It works on the power that hung around when Stiles flashed out, so it’s connected to whatever circle he popped back up in. Your Banshee’s scream will have… echoed. Like screaming down a subway tunnel.”

“So… what?” Erica asked with a confused frown. “Stiles will have… heard it?”

Phee frowned in return, contemplated his answer. “Felt it,” he finally replied. “I told you, I don’t know that much about it, and I’ve only ever put down a few circles for him, but from what he’s said, if he tries he can feel all the circles he’s put down over the years. He’ll know it’s here, but that’s all. I don’t know when he’ll choose to use it… if he uses it at all.”

He’d muttered the last bit rather unhappily, under his breath though it did nothing to impede werewolf hearing.

“What do you mean, at all?” Scott yelped, eyes wide. “You mean he’s not coming back?”

Phee shifted on his feet and crossed his arms again, claw-tipped fingers biting into his biceps.

“I don’t know!” he growled. “He wouldn’t have…”

He tapered off, clenching his teeth together as what he knew fought with what had actually happened, warring inside of him until his head and heart and stomach were all a snarled, tangled mess.

“Wouldn’t have what?”

Phee snapped to attention immediately, shocked that the Alpha had questioned him in a normal tone of voice, calm and collected and honestly concerned for the answer. Pheelan took a minute just to watch him, just to stare, and it probably wasn’t right because he was an Alpha and Phee was an Omega and he knew that. He’d lived in a pack for years, his parents were Alphas for God’s sake. He knew the protocol. But here he was, unable to drop his eyes or bare his throat for this wolf, and yet he couldn’t smell a challenge on the other wolf at all. It was like he had fallen in on himself, shed his Alpha role as though it were never meant for him.

Just one more thing that felt wrong.

“Wouldn’t have what?” the wolf asked again, urging.

Pheelan huffed a sigh, considering his words.

“Stiles is a fighter,” he decided finally. “It would’ve be more like him to have it out right there than to piss off the way he did. Especially with his dad laid up.”

“Then why did he?”

Phee snorted. There was no way he was deigning that with a response. Because really? He knew why. If he didn’t, he was one stupid son of a…

Phee snarled to himself, shook his head. He needed to get the hell out of here. Pushing off the counter, he skirted the pack and headed back through the house toward the French doors, abruptly ready to leave without any sort of goodbye. His sneakers had just hit the grass when Isaac called out to him, causing him to turn back to the house where the wolves and the hunter and the banshee crowded together, all waiting.

“What do we do now?” the curly-haired beta asked, shouldering the responsibility of his brooding Alpha.

“Whatever the hell you want,” Pheelan answered. “I have to go tell the Sheriff that the son he hasn’t held in all of five years is gone again.”

Turning away from a sea of guilty faces, he headed towards the trees, throwing one last command over his shoulder.

“Don’t fuck up my circle!” he snarled.

And then he was running, as hard and as fast as he could, pushing himself through the trees and the brush, deeper and deeper into the Preserve as he cut through the center of it towards the Stilinski’s house. His whole body was aching with the emotional fatigue of the night’s events, a heavy weariness that was utterly exhausting, and his muscles screamed with it as he ran, his wolf snapping along at his heels as though it were chasing him. He wanted to shift, to claw and bite and howl his anger at the moon until he could shake his irritation from him like water, but he knew himself better than that. If he shifted now, he might not come back in for days, rather spending hours and hours prowling around, hunting and just being a degenerate bastard in general.

He had his own pissy mood swings, just like Stiles did.

His were just slightly less… explosive.

The Stilinski house was dark and silent when he finally slipped inside, letting himself in with the key Stiles had pointed out beneath a cracked flower pot full of dying weeds. Reaching out with his senses, he found John’s heat beating slowly and steadily overhead, determining that the man must have taken himself off to bed when he’d woken up to an empty house and crappy late-night television. Drifting up the stairs and down the hallway, he slipped into Stiles’ bedroom and closed the door, toeing off his shoes before collapsing onto the mattress in a messy belly-flop and burying his face in Stiles’ pillow.

Chapter Text

Phee woke up the next morning with Stiles’ scent in his nose and for just a minute he thought he was back in Ireland, curled up warmly beneath his quilts with his Touchstone beside him. Squirming deeper into the blankets, he rubbed his face into the pillow, seeking to get closer to that smell, all woodsmoke and chocolate and river glades, but then the heavy knock on the front door that had woken him sounded a second time and dragged him back into reality. Cursing, he rolled out of the sheets and dragged on the black hoodie that Stiles had been wearing for the last few days, inhaling deeply as he pulled the hood up over his head and moved quickly for the stairs, hoping to get to the door before the Sheriff was woken up.

He hauled open the front door to a UPS delivery kid, covered in pimples and snapping a wad of gum way too loudly, and he had to bite down on the inside of his cheek to stop an angry rumble and a flash of gold in his eyes.

“O’Rourke?” the kid drawled, shoving a clipboard into his chest. “Gotta sign.”

Leaning around the kid, he caught sight of three large cardboard boxes stacked near the steps, things finally clicking inside his sleep-fogged head. Scribbling out his signature, he took the liberty of tearing off his carbon copy of the receipt himself before stuffing the clipboard back into the kid’s hands and practically shoving him of the porch. Dragging the boxes inside, he lined them up next to the hall closet before locking the door and heading in to the kitchen to start a pot of coffee. He could hear the Sheriff shifting around on the floor above, so he used the time it took to get the machine brewing to try and figure out what he was going to say to the man.

He’d gotten so swallowed up by the drip and bubble of the percolator that when Stiles’ father did eventually step into the kitchen, he jerked hard enough to clip his elbow off the counter with a sound like bone on concrete.

“All right there son?” the man asked, one eyebrow cocked as he watched Phee rub at his elbow.

Phee just shrugged, visibly withdrawing, folding in on himself as he tugged the edge of his hood more tightly around his face. John watched attentively as the wolf poured two mugs of coffee, leaving one on the counter and carrying the other to the table where he sat down quietly, running his fingers around the rim. Sighing, he picked up his own coffee and added a spoonful of sugar from the bowl on the counter before moving to sit down across from the young man whose broad shoulders were slanted in defeat, his face hidden by the shadow of his hoodie.

“So,” he murmured, sending the word out into the silence between them with no way to draw it back. “Where…”

“He’s gone!” Pheelan blurted, and John saw him wince as though he hadn’t meant to say it at all. “Sir, I am so sorry. I tried, I… I tried to ground him but… it keeps getting harder and harder and the stuff that used to work isn’t working anymore and…”

“Woah, woah, easy!” the Sheriff urged leaning back in his chair as though he could feel the words he was being pelted with. “Slow down kid. Let’s… start at the beginning ok?”

Phee ran his hands shakily through his hair, dropping his hood back around his ears as he tried to control his breathing. He’d been away from Stiles before, once for three weeks, but this felt different. He felt untethered, loose and at odds with his wolf and everything around him, and it made him want to run and claw and howl for his m…

Fuck.

“We went running last night in the Preserve,” Pheelan tried again, and his voice was hoarse. “We ran into the others… Hale’s pack. It was… fine, you know? They joined in and it was great and Stiles
was… God he was smiling like he hasn’t in a long time.”

Looking up, he found the Sheriff watching him with a sort of tender half-smile on his face and it made him squirm in his chair.

“He’s supposed to be a part of a pack you know?” he continued. “I could feel how happy he was with them chasing him. Playing.”

“So what happened?”

Phee’s face darkened and he wrapped his arms around his ribs, hugging himself.

“I don’t want…”

“Never mind,” the Sheriff sighed, scrubbing his good hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have put you on the spot; not when I can guess.”

“He didn’t want to go,” Phee said suddenly, his tone serious and insistent as he met John’s gaze. “He told me. He said he wasn’t ready to leave. And he wouldn’t have left you before you got better.”

“Nice of you to say son,” the older man said, and the werewolf could hear the sadness knotting his throat. “But he’s left before. And he is gone. Again. Did he say where…”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

“It wasn’t like that,” Phee assured him. “It wasn’t planned. He just… he got mad. He snapped.”

There was a beat of silence before the Sheriff found his voice.

“Are you telling me my son just disappeared?” John asked incredulously.

“Yes. That’s… a thing he can do.”

“Well… damn.”

“I don’t understand,” Phee muttered, more to himself than to the Sheriff now. “He has more control than that. I’ve always been able to…”

“This wasn’t your fault son.”

Pheelan’s gaze flashed up to meet the Sheriff’s and he couldn’t stop a piteous whine from escaping him. It felt like his fault. He’d failed Stiles, somehow, hadn’t been enough to keep him centered for the first time in a long time and he didn’t understand. It was painful in its own right, cutting at his insides, but with Stiles’ father letting him off the hook and steady flare of blistered skin on his wrists reminding him where he’d laid his circle down, he could hardly swallow under the weight of his shirked responsibility. Whether it was rightfully his to bear or not.

“Stiles is a grown man who makes his own decisions,” John continued. Getting to his feet, he moved around the table, jostling his empty mug into his sling so that he could squeeze Pheelan’s shoulder as he passed. “I can’t blame you for his decisions.”

“I don’t think he meant to go,” Pheelan said again, his instincts urging him to defend Stiles even if he wanted to strangle him at the same time.

“No idea where then?” John asked, pouring himself some more coffee.

“None,” Phee admitted. “But I… put down another circle, after he left. So he’ll be able to come back, once he’s cooled off.”

The Sheriff’s head snapped up, wary hope burning in his eyes as his hand froze on the handle of the coffee pot. Pheelan could see the question that the man didn’t want to ask written all over his face, so he let it stand on its own weight and answered it before it could be dragged from him.

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe,” he murmured, staring down into his mug. “He’ll be back. Probably today, unless I miss my guess.”

From the corner of his eye he saw John’s shoulders sag, the unspoken relief to great to be hidden as the fear he’d been trying to hide ran off him like water.

“Why so down then?” he asked, his tone several notches brighter than it had been all morning.

Phee frowned, tried for a minute to understand the turmoil that churned in his chest before giving up. “I don’t know,” he confessed. “It was never like this, we were never like this. I wasn’t his but I could always…”

“What’s in the boxes?”

Pheelan started, surprised by the sudden change in topic. “It’s just… clothes,” he answered, voice tinged with confusion and even something that might be identified as bitter irritation. “He said he wasn’t ready to go, and I didn’t want him to have a reason to…” He swallowed, shrugged, cut off the emotions that were swamping him hard as he got to his feet. “I had some of our things shipped so that he would be more comfortable staying. If that was what he wanted.”

The Sheriff humphed into his coffee mug, returning to his place at the table as he allowed the wolf his space, both physically and emotionally as the younger man struggled not to shut down entirely. Pheelan began to poke around in the cupboards, wishing he could just climb inside and close the door behind him, but he had chosen to step up for Stiles now, and that came with responsibilities. “Breakfast?” he tossed over his shoulder in an empty tone, the sudden cold in his chest too great to force any warmth into the words.

“There’s bacon in the freezer,” came the reply. “Inside the bag of broccoli.”

XXX

After eating a quick meal with Stiles’ father, Pheelan prepped a couple of sandwiches, wrapping them in waxed paper and stashing them in the refrigerator for the man’s lunch. The Sheriff had grumbled about feeling like an invalid, cursed the torn muscles in his neck and shoulder as he squirmed around in his sling, but the werewolf eventually got him settled into his easy chair, remote, pain pills, and a heavy quilt all within easy reach. He apologized for having to leave him alone all day but John just waved him off, muttering half-heartedly about his son passing on bad habits. Only partially satisfied that he’d set the man up for a comfortable afternoon, Phee had carried the three boxes from the hallway to the stairs, stacking them neatly near Stiles’ dresser. Dropping onto the edge of the bed, he stared fixedly at the boxes and let his mind drift.

He had to go.

He knew that.

Had to be there when Stiles got back, whenever that would be.

But here, alone in his Touchstone’s childhood bedroom, he could admit to himself that he really didn’t want to.

He’d known when he laid the circle down on the parlor floor of the Hale house that he was setting himself up to get bitten in the ass. With more than one set of teeth too, because this was going to be hell for him. He was injecting himself into a pack structure, something he’d committed to avoiding, something that made his skin crawl, and he was doing it without Stiles as his buffer. His own anchor was deeply entwined with the Touchstone’s and he felt rather shaken knowing that something might be wrong with the young man. If he weren’t so solid on his own, didn’t have a True Form’s hold on himself, he thought he might be going a bit to pieces.

Outside of his own mental well-being, he was also facing the attentions of the pack. He would be stupid to think that they would leave him alone while he watched the circle, while he waited. The very best case scenario had them all grouped around him, staring silently; the worst would have them talking. Asking questions.

A low, hard growl shocked Pheelan out of his musings, and it took a few seconds before his brain came back online and he realized that he was the one making the sound. Shaking his head, he shoved to his feet, cursing himself for a whiny bitch as he jerked on a pair of jeans roughly and tightened his belt. He should’ve changed out of the black hoodie, should’ve just taken the high road and pulled a clean shirt out of one of the boxes but decided that right then, in that moment, he didn’t give a damn if the other wolves could smell Stiles all over him. He just wished the teeth marks on his collar bone hadn’t faded.

Stuffing his feet into his boots, he didn’t question his actions when his hands dug Stiles’ Ruger out of the bedside drawer. He loaded the gun with fluid, automatic movements, chambered a round and made sure the safety was on before tucking it into the back of his waistband and pulling the hem of his sweatshirt down. He had no reason to think he’d need it, no conscious thought telling him that he was better off safe than sorry, he just took it, and maybe that was what it meant to have instincts. Burying his hands in his front pockets, he tripped back down the stairs towards the front door, waving to the Sheriff on his way out.

He took the jeep though he would’ve rather run. He could feel his wolf pressing against his breastbone, feel the gun pressing against the small of his back and all of it was biting at him, especially Stiles’ impending return. He would be too tired to walk back home, hence the drive now, but he was more worried about how he would respond to finding himself in the Hale House at all. He wasn’t going to be happy, that much he was sure of. In fact, Pheelan had a creeping suspicion that he was about to be on the receiving end of a cold shoulder, the silent treatment that Stiles was so efficient at given his nature. When a Touchstone pulled away from a wolf, willfully withdrew, it was a viciously painful experience.

Consequently, by the time he’d turned onto the road into the Preserve, Phee decided that he’d just as soon have Stiles get back and beat the holy hell out of him with his fists or his baseball bat than to suffer that long, drawn-out chill.

His hands shook at the thought of the Touchstone’s Iceman routine.

Pulling up in front of the Hale House, Pheelan killed the jeep’s engine and skimmed his eyes over the three cars parked in the open garage, the two others parked along one side of the drive beneath a spreading Willow. It was mechanical, the wolf’s need to know its surroundings. He was walking into another pack’s den, and he’d rather know what he was facing than go in blind, but the only vehicles he recognized were Lydia’s sporty little compact and the Alpha’s ostentatious Camaro. Still, if he had to guess, he would put his money on every one of them being present, and after last night, maybe even a little bloody.

He didn’t have to knock on the door.

As soon as his boots hit the steps it swung open, the dark Alpha attempting to fill the doorway and failing miserably. He was pale and drawn, bruises splashed darkly beneath his eyes, and it was evident by his appearance that he hadn’t slept. His hair was in tufted disarray as though he’d spent the night tugging on it, and his clothes were creased and rumpled in a way that suggested he’d been rolling around in them for a while. More than that though the wolf looked haunted, small like he was collapsing in on himself and in that moment Pheelan thought he might feel bad for the man.

The feeling didn’t last.

The Alpha refused to move from the doorway, one hand on the frame as he blocked the hallway, and as Phee stood unmoving on the porch locked in a silent stalemate, the wolf’s eyes flashed a deep, blood red. Pheelan cocked an eyebrow but refused to drop his own gaze or bare his throat, and the air between the two of them tightened like a ratchet strap.

“Oh for God’s sake Derek, let him in!”

The dark wolf flinched infinitesimally when Lydia’s voice sounded sharply behind him, claws gripping the wood of the frame until it squealed under his fingers, but he did as she said and turned away without a word, leaving Pheelan alone in the doorway staring down an empty hallway. Swallowing hard, he tossed a Gaelic prayer over his shoulder towards the moon and stepped back into the belly of the wolves’ den.

Chapter Text

Well, he had to give them credit for trying. All of them. They were trying to go about their lives, go about their day, even if they were failing miserably. All of them, hovering around in pairs or little groups, spanned throughout the house but clearly orbiting a singular point as they worked distractedly at small tasks or little hobbies. Steadfastly trying to ignore the circle drawn in chalk that marked the floor.

Pheelan frowned, stuffed his hands into the front pocket of his hoodie and found half a joint that Stiles had left there. Pulling it out, he rolled it between his fingers and considered before sticking it behind his ear. It might come in handy later. Because he wasn’t sure that he could handle this without lashing out.

Without biting.

Stepping deeper into the house he could feel the pack moving around him, circling like he was prey and it sent a sickening chill down the back of his spine. Just ahead of him the Alpha collapsed into a chair at the head of a long dining table, dropping his head into his hands, and the slouch of his shoulders told Pheelan everything he needed to know that he hadn’t learned from the look of total misery on the wolf’s face. Without asking any sort of permission he strode past, through the wide archway that opened the kitchen out to the small back parlor where the circle waited, sharp and stark against the honey-pale hardwood.

He couldn’t feel any of the static that would herald Stiles’ coming back, couldn’t feel the tension or smell the sour orange and dull charcoal smoke of it and the stillness made him curse under his breath. His wolf felt heavy and dark, anger a cold weight in his belly as it paced by and forth, and he knew his eyes were flaring a bright, predatory gold but he couldn’t pull it back. Didn’t want to pull it back. Sidling up to the edge of the chalk line, he held up his hands, palms flat in the air as though he could lay them against cool glass.

But there was nothing.

Choking down a high-pitched, keening whine that had bubbled up in his throat, he backed away from the circle and sank slowly to the floor, pulling his legs in to his chest and resting his knees inside the loop of his linked arms. Ducking his head, he huddled low in his hoodie, breathing in Stiles’ scent with an irritated rumble as he tried to grab on to his self-control. Hell, he’d only been here for about ten minutes, and he was already desperate to get back out. But there were more important things at work, so he tightened his screws and forced himself to be still. To breathe in and out as the wolves around him drew ever closer, but not daring to step across the threshold into the room his presence somehow filled.

Unfortunately the Banshee didn’t have that problem.

He did his best to ignore her presence hovering behind his shoulder, but when she came and sat beside him, close enough to touch, he couldn’t stop himself from shifting slightly away. From the corner of his eye he saw her arch one perfectly manicured brow, purse her lips, and he knew she wasn’t going to be his salvation this day.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, and all around him wolves perked up their ears.

“Nothing,” he bit out, and he felt the Banshee flinch minutely at the harshness of his tone, but he couldn’t care. He wasn’t about to go showing off his weaknesses or his insecurities here, not in this den where he was the odd one out, alone and unwelcome, and there was little that could convince him that he was welcome here. No. Better to keep silent, hold on to the anger and show that face than to let his fear burn through the ice of a strong, less-affected façade.

She only pushed back all the harder for his cold.

“Well that’s a lie Pheelan O’Rourke.”

His own name was a jolt on his nerves, painfully sharp like the crack of a whip on his ears. Lifting his lip in a snarl, Pheelan showed her his teeth, sharp in his mouth, but she only fired a flat, pointed look back, and so he shoved up hard off the floor and moved around to the other side of the room where he slid slowly down the wall and kicked his feet out in front of him so that he could glare angrily at her across the top of the circle that lay dormant on the floor. For a minute he thought she was going to follow after him and he prayed to the moon that she wouldn’t test his limits because he didn’t want to hurt her, or anyone. He somehow managed to control the massive sigh of relief that rushed through him when she settled back against the small couch behind her with no intent of moving, but the feeling rushed away when she narrowed her eyes in his direction.

“Is it the circle?” she asked, her voice raised just slightly, and he narrowed his own eyes in
response. “Is there something wrong with the circle?”

And then the room was full, every member of the pack crowding in one after the other, bumping shoulders and pressing close as all eyes fell on him.

“Lydia?” the brunette Huntress asked quietly, and Lydia frowned, her gaze still locked with
Pheelan’s as she answered.

“Apparently something’s wrong,” she replied coldly, and Pheelan could hear the dare in her voice. “I think it’s the circle.”

“There’s something wrong with the circle?” Scott yelped, and a low growl rumbled up in Phee’s chest at the unnecessary reiteration. “What’s wrong with it? Can Stiles still come back?”

“That’s not possible,” the Alpha rumbled, his mouth grim but his eyes wild, tracing the lines on the floor with a burning fervor that belied his sleep deprivation. “We didn’t touch it, I watched all night…”

The pack had all begun to babble at that point, a cacophony of low, anxious voices, and he couldn’t take the noise.

“There’s nothing wrong with the circle!” he barked, squeezing the bridge of his nose. “Christ! It’s crooked because it’s mine, so he might be a little dizzy coming through, but that’s it, all right?”

Well apparently it was enough to shut them up but not enough to get their eyes off him, and he could hear the questions hanging in air like rain did, more than he could handle in his state of agitation without moving. Pushing to his feet he began pacing back and forth across the floor, long hard strides that couldn’t cut the feeling of being caged, trapped between a wall and a wolf pack. His heart was racing, pounding double-time against the wall of his chest as he fisted his hands in his pockets, and to calm himself he began a steady stream of bitching in his mother-tongue, cursing under his breath and snarling complaints on ears that wouldn’t understand no matter what language he spoke.

“Yeah,” Lydia remarked from her position on the floor, “Definitely something wrong. So are you going to tell us, or just keep pacing around like an idiot?”

“Fuck you,” he muttered, not even sparing her a glance. He was getting pissed, something that didn’t often happen, and much to his surprise that anger was directing itself at the absent Touchstone, anger, for leaving him here alone to deal with this mess he didn’t deserve, and that realization stopped him dead in his tracks.

“Shit,” he hissed, scrubbing his hands through his hair and down over his face.

This wasn’t Stiles fault.

How the hell had they gotten here…

“Pheelan.”

He felt a sneering grin curl at the edges of his mouth when Lydia said his name, firm and urging. That probably worked with the rest of them. He could see that, her being some sort of ruling consort to the pack, with a sort of informal authority that matched even Isaac’s. I was in the way the Alpha listened when she talked, quiet and alert, in the way that the uncle seemed to stay a very precise distance away, never closer but never father either.

‘Not your pack,’ he thought smugly, the sudden urge to stick his tongue out at her in a very
Stiles-like manner sweeping through him.

Her tricks wouldn’t work on him.

“Whatever,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes.

They wouldn’t leave, he knew that, whether he asked or demanded or threatened or begged, so he turned himself and headed for the front door, desperate for a breath, for a minute away from the eyes and the press of silent questions. Slamming the door behind him, he dropped quickly down the porch steps and wandered over to the jeep, banging his head against the metal as he growled to himself with a biting, bitter annoyance. The air was clear here, birds and breezes flitting through the trees over his head, and he felt his chest loosen a bit, enough that if he closed his eyes, he could pretend for just a minute that he was somewhere else.

Pushing off the frame of the door, he walked around to the passenger side of the jeep, popping open the glove box and fishing around until he came up with a cheap plastic lighter. After a second’s consideration, he grabbed the silver flask and the small tub of balm that Stiles had stashed there too, shoving them into the back pocket of his jeans. It only took him a second to slip the joint behind his ear into his mouth, cup his hands around it and inhale to the click and rasp of the wheel against the stone. The first drag was painful, burning the roof of his mouth and needling at the tender breadth of his lungs but it always was – whatever Stiles put into his special blend wasn’t calibrated for werewolves. Still, if you could get past the pain a pleasant numbness often followed so that’s what he shot for, squeezing his eyes shut as he took another long pull and held the smoke in his chest, imagined flames licking around inside his ribcage before blowing it out in one long stream.

“Pheelan?”

Dropping his head back onto the roof of the jeep with a violent bang, he stared up at the blue of the sky above him and flicked the ash from the tip of the hand-rolled before bringing it back to his lips.

“What do you want little cat?” he asked through a mouthful of smoke, his voice thick and throaty.

“I just… I wanted to make sure you were ok.”

Phee scoffed, then chuckled as he finally let go and welcomed the change that the cigarette brought in him, anger dropping away to be replaced by an anesthetized contentment that threatened to turn to giddiness if he let it get away from him.

“Right as the frickin’ rain, luv,” he mumbled, lifting his hand to his mouth for another drag.

A momentary silence followed before the little blonde wolf spoke again, hesitant and anxious.

“Well if… if you need to talk, or if… something is wrong…”

A half-hysterical giggle bubbled out of his throat, shock that this woman professed any care for him at all outside of his ability to bring Stiles back to them. But part of it was the smoke; having done its job he was feeling much better, and he felt a stupid sort of grin tipping at his mouth.

“He’s going to hate me for this,” he snickered, taking on last hit before flicking his blunt to the ground and crushing the cherry under the toe of his boot.

“What?”

“Stiles,” he clarified, turning to look Erica in the eye, able to face her calmly and directly without flinching since he couldn’t feel anymore. “He’d going to hate me for this.”

“What… why?”

The look on her face was so horrified, so positively upset that it had him cracking up again, a grin stretching his mouth so wide it hurt.

“Why, always why,” he muttered. “Why do you think? He left because he didn’t want to be here, and here is exactly what I’m bringing him back to.”

Erica frowned sadly, wringing her hands together. “It’s not your fault he’s mad at us,” she murmured. “Maybe we should just clear out. It might be…”

She trailed off when Phee suddenly snapped to attention, eyes bright as he stared up at the windows of the big house, his body trembling as the logy stupor of the drugs drained quickly away like water from a bath. The air had turned thick and heavy around them, buzzing with a tense electricity that he knew well. Shouldering roughly past the smaller werewolf, he took the porch steps in a single leap, slamming through the front door and striding into the back room where the circle had come alive, the chalk glowing white against the floor and the empty space above it cracking and sparking with purple heat. The pack surrounding it had backed away, whining anxiously but he just shoved right through, pushing right up to the edge of the circle with his palms up flat even though the blazing warmth of it was singing him.

A violent blast of white light flashed, almost blinding him, a crack like a whip rending the air, and he should have been ready for it but he wasn’t. He flinched back with a yelp, one arm thrown up to block the light as the others falling behind him, hands leaping up to cover sensitive ears and then he was there, real and solid and there. Staggering, knees loose, falling into his arms.

Chapter Text

The first words out of his mouth were a garbled curse.

“Oh god,” he moaned, and then he was falling, tumbling into Pheelan’s arms, unable to stand on his own feet as his legs buckled beneath him.

“Shit Stiles,” Phee growled as he caught the smaller man, collecting him in against his chest. “What happened? How far did you go?”

“Too far,” Stiles gasped, slinging his backpack to the floor as he leaned over to put his hands on his knees, arms trembling even though Phee was holding most of his weight. “Fuck, I’m gonna be sick.”

“Come on,” Phee urged, dragging him back across the floor and pushing him down onto the couch, forcing his head between his knees. “You’ll be all right little buddy. Just breathe through it.”

“I’m ok, I’m ok,” Stiles panted, batting the wolf’s hands away as he sat up again, wobbling on the couch cushions and squinting away from the sunlight coming through the French doors as his hands flashed out to Phee’s shoulders to steady himself. “Aw hell.”

“Close your eyes,” Phee demanded, aware of how sensitive he got to the light when he was like this. Pulling the flask from his back pocket, he unscrewed the cap and shoved it into Stiles’ hand. “Here. Finish this.”

Toasting him blindly, Stiles managed a smirk.

“Bottoms up,” he grinned, and then he upended the thing and swallowed the contents down, exposing the long pale column of his throat and making Phee’s mouth go dry. When it was empty he handed it back but kept his eyes shut, collapsing against the couch and wheezing heavily through his nose until the beat of his heart finally evened out and he had his breathing under control again.

“You should have waited,” Phee said quietly, watching the way Stiles scrunched his nose, curling his upper lip in a sneer that showed pointed white teeth.

“Didn’t want to,” he muttered petulantly before his face smoothed out again, and Phee wished he could see his eyes. “Had to… say I was sorry.”

“Aye, well,” he replied softly, sudden, heavy emotion thickening the Irish burr in his voice, “You can say it again when you’re not such a feckin’ mess.” Taking Stiles’ elbows, he pulled him forward until they were resting on his knees, hands dangling in the air, palms up. “Keep your eyes closed,” he warned, settling himself onto his heels between the exhausted Touchstone’s feet.

“I just…” Stiles muttered, his mouth soft around the edges with something that smelled like sadness, “I just wanted to come home.”

“ ‘M sorry,” Phee replied quietly after a minute, unscrewing the lid of the little tub of balm he’d taken from the car. “Did what I could. Your house was too far away for me to drop the circle…” He paused, frowned. “It’s still crooked. Probably why you’re so dizzy.”

“It’s fine,” Stiles mumbled, and somehow the wolf didn’t think that he was talking about his chalk-drawing skills. “I’m fine. But… what you said, before…” Bringing his hand up, he searched around a second before placing it flat against Pheelan’s chest, pressing firmly against the beat of his heart. “You’re home Phee.”

He couldn’t breathe then. Couldn’t breathe, couldn’t talk… All he could do was feel, feel Stiles’ hand on him and feel the words he’d spoken filling up his chest with a wet, swelling heat that was like all the happiness he’d ever felt pouring through him at once…

And then the moment broke.

“Stiles,” Scott warbled, his voice thick with worry. “Stiles, you’re not home. We’re… we’re at the house, Derek’s house.”

Stiles huffed a sigh through his nose, shook his head minutely. “Idiot,” he muttered under his breath, but all the wolves could hear. “Home’s not a house. Why the hell…”

Pheelan frowned, grinding his teeth together to keep from saying anything he shouldn’t. Instead he took Stiles’ wrist in hand, flipping it so that his tattoo was exposed, raw and enflamed, and began rubbing balm into the reddened skin, using his thumbs to massage the lotion gently over the neat black circles. At the same time, he took the chance to surreptitiously suck out some of the Touchstone’s pain, considerably more than he’d expected to find. He only got away with it because Stiles’ eyes were still closed, unable to see the dark, heavy lines running up Phee’s forearms as he sat compliantly, silent, blindly trusting before him.

“Take your shirt off,” he commanded quietly when he’d finished both of Stiles’ wrists, watching as he crossed his arms and grabbed the hem of his worn lacrosse tee, pulling it up over his head without hesitation.

A high-pitched whine broke out of one of the wolves circled around them when the names on Stiles’ chest came into view but he ignored them, more interested in the heavy pink that splashed across Stiles’ collarbones, down his chest and abdomen and disappearing into the edge of his jeans. Getting to his feet, Phee waited until he had slumped forward again, elbows on his knees before kneeling next to him on the couch and rubbing more of the thick salve into the circles on his neck and tailbone. When he was finished he helped the boy back into his shirt, noticed the way he was moving stiffly around the shoulders, and apparently he wasn’t the only one.

“Stiles are you ok?” Lydia asked, and Stiles flinched away from the sound of her voice, eyes still closed.

“I’m fine,” he gritted out, but as Phee moved to get off the couch his hand flashed out and gripped the sleeve of his hoodie, holding him fast. “Get me out of here,” he whimpered unhappily in Gaelic, “Phee please!”

“I can’t,” Phee answered back in English as guilty despair flooded through him. “Stiles, you’re exhausted. If I take you now you’ll be sicker than a dog, for weeks. I can’t…”

The werewolf whined miserably, ducking his head and pushing it into Stiles’ chest forlornly until the young man brought his hands up and threaded them through his curls, both of them knotted awkwardly around each other as they tried to seek some sort of comfort for the pain they didn’t quite understand. It was strange, like being on a stage, the world coalescing down to just the two of them even though the whole pack watched on, sick and silent, and Phee couldn’t take the waiting. Toeing off his boots, he climbed sideways onto the sofa so that he was slouched low along the length of it with his back against the arm, dragging Stiles into his lap. There was some rough finagling until he got himself comfortable, lying on top of Phee’s chest, his arms wrapped around the wolf’s ribs and his cheek pillowed between his pecs. When he was finally settled he let out a long, relieved sigh, practically collapsing on top of him as the tensions in his muscles began to melt away, and Phee immediately began to card his fingers though Stiles’ thick hair, relishing the weight of the smaller man’s body on top of his own, anchored for the first time in far too long.

“Where did you go?” he murmured, his eyes flicking up to track the movement of the wolves who had begun to spread out around them room, sinking to the floor as they watched the exchange quietly, intently.

Stiles hummed, a smile touching the edges of his mouth before he answered. “Spain. Spent the day on a nice little nude beach. Had some great paella, a bottle of good red.” He shifted a bit, tightening his grip. “Wanted you there though.”

“Next time,” Phee muttered.

Spain. No wonder the kid was exhausted. Helluva long way to go, round trip within a handful of hours…

“ ‘M hungry,” Stiles mumbled distractedly, rubbing his cheek against Phee’s chest and nuzzling around in his hoodie. It was behavior reminiscent of a cub’s, of scent marking, and it made the wolves around them shift and murmur unhappy sounds. Phee narrowed his eyes and showed his teeth silently, waiting until they fell still to answer.

“No you’re not,” he countered, still glaring daggers as he dragged his fingers through Stiles’ hair until he too stilled. “You need to sleep.”

“Can’t,” he muttered, frowning as he shifted just a little more, and the werewolf could hear no lie in his words even though the Touchstone was already halfway to unconscious. “Not here.”

“I’m not leaving,” Phee assured him in Gaelic.

“Promise?” Stiles whispered sleepily.

Curling over on himself in a tight crunch, Phee pressed a kiss to the top of Stiles’ head before settling back against the arm of the couch.

“I’ve got you little buddy,” he assured him. “Now go to sleep.”

Without thought he brought one hand up to curl around the back of Stiles’ neck, the other gripping his hip possessively as the Touchstone exhaled long and hard, tried to settle what Phee knew were scattered, dislocated thoughts as he began to drift. Licking his lips, he searched his brain for the words that would make him understand, that would make him feel safe, but it was a song that finally left him, his voice low and smooth, thick with unspoken promise.

“I’m staring out into the night,
Trying to hide the pain.
I’m going to the place where love,
And feeling good don’t ever cost a thing.
And the pain you feel’s a different kind of pain.

Well I’m going home.
Back to the place where I belong,
And where your love has always been enough for me.
I’m not running from.
No I think you got me all wrong.
I don’t regret this life I chose for me.
But these faces and these places are getting old.

So I’m going home.”

It wasn’t long before Stiles began to glow brightly, a strong, steady, amber light flooding his body and shining from beneath every inch of skin that was exposed. Sleep had come quickly despite his protests, his breathing deep and steady, and Pheelan felt his own muscles melt into the couch beneath them in response, a tension he hadn’t realized he was carrying dropping away with the nearness, the calming physical contact. He could hear the pack gasping and swearing quietly in shock, half awed and half dumbstruck by the miracle taking place in front of them. Peter went so far as to take two steps forward from his position against the wall, one hand reaching out as if to touch, but a vicious snarl and long, sharp fangs sent him back again, the threat in Phee’s warning more real than the light enveloping the whole of the couch.

Pheelan understood the pull of the light. The way it drew wolves in. He could see it too in the way they all leaned forward, whining, whimpering, eyes glinting with wild lust in the reflection of the glow, but there was no way he was letting them near now, not with Stiles sick and weak, vulnerable as he slept. Not a chance in hell. For now it was his job to protect him, and his wolf had leapt eagerly to the task. Unfortunately he also had another, one he was looking forward to a little less, but he would do it anyways.

Shifting minutely, he managed to get his hand into his jeans pocket and pull out his cell phone, quickly dialing a number that he’d known by heart for a long time.

“Sheriff Stilinski.”

“Hello John,” he replied, managing not to sigh.

“Pheelan? Everything all right son?”

“Yes sir,” he reassured. “I just wanted to let you know that Stiles is back. He’s here with me, at the Hale house.”

“Is he all right?”

Pheelan glanced down at the young man sleeping on his chest and smiled fondly, stroking his thick, chestnut colored hair.

“Well, he’s got a full body sunburn and he’s pretty whipped, but that’s mostly normal. He’s always toasted, after. He’s not too happy with my choice of venue, but there’s only so much I can do - he gets really bad motion sickness. Sensitivity to light and sound... But I’ll have him back tomorrow afternoon, I promise.”

There was a moment of silence before the Sheriff replied.

“You’ll take care of him then.”

“I will,” Phee answered, his throat tight, even though it hadn’t been a question. “He just needs to sleep. And eat, eventually. Once he wakes up.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon then.” Again the Sheriff paused, and Phee wondered if there was something more he was supposed to say, but before he could figure out what that was Stiles’ father spoke.

“Keep him safe.”

Phee could only manage a single word.

“Always.”

The Sheriff made a satisfied sort of harrumphing noise and then the call was disconnected, signing off with a familiar click. Bringing the phone down from his ear, Phee tapped his fingers along the edge of it as he considered, staring at the top of Stiles’ head before making his decision.

It was time to call for back up.

Scrolling through his contacts, he opened a new text message and thumbed out a quick request.

Subj: CODE BLUE

Got a situation here. He needs a friend and I could use some help.

Less than twelve seconds later, his phone buzzed with a reply.

Where are you?

Frowning at the screen, Phee bit the bullet and punched in a response.

Hale House.

This time, the reply was almost twelve minutes in coming.

I’m on my way.

Chapter Text

He was cold.

Freezing cold.

Standing in the middle of a… Wait, where was he standing?

It was… some sort of garden, a Japanese garden with a high stone wall that circled round him and gnarled black trees reaching sharp, bare sticks upward toward an iron sky. There were small fountains and statuettes casting dull shadows all around that seemed to flicker in the waning moonlight, a little bridge that crossed no river though he could hear the trickle of water coming from somewhere. The grass under his feet crunched with frost, and as he stood in the center of the patio snow began to fall silently around him; thick, fat flakes that stuck and immediately began to blanket everything around him with a heavy layer of white. Shapes began to appear that he hadn’t noticed before - the wrap-around desk chairs that he still remembered from high school – and it was strange because he was sure somehow that they didn’t belong here.

His breath was fogging in the air and he ducked his head, shrugging his collar up around his neck in an attempt to ward against the sudden shiver that ran down his spine. The creak of leather was loud in his ears, and when he looked down he found that his red jacket had mysteriously appeared on his shoulders, but it did nothing to cut the bite of the wintery air. Rubbing his hands together to warm his fingers, he breathed into the cup of his palms before reaching beneath the edge of the jacket, searching for the comforting weight of his pistol hanging alongside his ribs.

It wasn’t there.

Stiles cursed quietly, his voice echoing eerily within the basin of the garden formed by the stone walls. Turning in a slow circle, he jerked sharply when he came back round and found the fox waiting silently a few yards away, sitting at the top of three stone steps. It didn’t move other than to flick its thick red tail around its paws, pointed ears twisting back and forth as it followed sounds that Stiles couldn’t hear. He could see sharp, needle-thin teeth in its mouth, its tongue lolling in a mocking sort of grin as it stared at him steadily with amber-colored eyes, eyes almost as dark as his own. Its small, pointed nose quivered as it scented the chill air and Stiles was certain that it was tasting him.

Fear furled out from the pit of his stomach, licking its way up his veins like a flame of ice, wrapping around his bones and sending goosebumps cascading down over his forearms. Anger too flickered along his skin, nipping and biting at him, anger, that he was afraid at all.

Stile felt his lips curl back to show sharp, white teeth of his own, a vicious snarl bubbling out of his chest but the fox only barked a laugh, rising gracefully to its feet and trotting lightly down the stone steps, leaving no mark on the snow. The cold seemed to invade him with each step the animal took, shoving itself farther and farther down his throat until it crackled in his lungs, the fear growing greater and greater, uncontrollable, until his breath began to come in gasps, his whole body tightening with the familiar pains of a panic attack…

Desperately, Stiles tried to summon up a flame in his palm, anything to stop the smooth, predatory stalk of the fox towards him, anything to halt the cold consuming him, but to his horror he couldn’t even find a spark inside himself, the heat of his power utterly drowned by the terrible aloneness that the cold had brought him. Here, in this terrible garden as the snow fell silently, his spark meant nothing because he was alone.

Panic grabbed him by the throat and sent him stumbling backward, away from the little beast that followed after, until his back collided solidly with the frigid stone of the wall. His nails scrabbled at the rough surface, as he tried desperately to force Pheelan’s name from his mouth but he couldn’t make a sound, his words meaningless like his magic until he heard Lydia’s voice ring in his ears.

How does a wolf call its pack?

They howl.

‘Weird,’ he thought as he swallowed back the call for pack that was still lodged in his throat, waited for his heartbeat to steady.

Phee was grimacing in his sleep, his hand tight on Stiles’ hip, no doubt attuned to the erratic rhythm, the citrus smell of fear. Still, it wasn’t like him to curl close like this – Stiles was the octopus. Levering himself up a bit from where he was wedged into the cushions, he braced himself and peered over the wolf’s shoulder.

Well, hell.

That explained it.

The entire Hale pack was sprawled out over the floor, a handful of throw pillows tossed here and there, but mostly asleep against each other’s bodies or the hardwood. Scott and Allison, Erica and Boyd, Isaac and the flower twins… even Peter was there, strangely enough curled protectively around Lydia’s sleeping form, her head pillowed on his stomach. It shocked him to see them all there but none more so than Derek, who was propped up against the near wall, his feet stretched out towards his pack from a position of observance. It was their house, sure, his house, but they were sleeping on the damned floor, all of them bunched around the couch as close as they could be…

And that explained Phee’s rolling on him, shielding him in his sleep.

He didn’t remember much from the afternoon before, only coming through the circle and then the violent nausea, the harsh light and sound pounding away at him. Knowing he was in the Hale House and still being angry, wanting, begging to be out. The smooth, warm calmness that blurred out the rest of his memories told him without a doubt that he’d fallen asleep in a mess of glow, Pheelan’s low voice lulling him into unconsciousness on a song and a promise…

Oh god.

They’d seen him glow.

Stiles felt his stomach turn, angry that they’d seen something so private, witnessed the intimacy that came with his light, much more so than he cared about them being there when he’d been so vulnerable. Phee’d promised he wouldn’t leave and he hadn’t, even though Stiles knew how much being in a den surrounded by pack grated on the Omega. No, he’d been well protected; it was only the false closeness that was making him ache, gnawing at his insides…

That and hunger.

Stiles’ stomach gurgled loudly, reminding him that he hadn’t eaten since that spectacular paella in Costa de la Luz. He wanted pancakes. Pancakes and bacon, with strawberries and syrup and OJ. Unfortunately he found himself viciously torn, because he could still feel the cold and the eyes of the fox on his skin, so much so that the tips of his fingers were bone white, and he was rather inclined to burrow back down into the small space between the couch and his wolf and soak up the warmth radiating from the big blonde’s body.

A compromise then, perhaps.

Without a second thought, Stiles looped his arms around Phee’s waist and shoved his icy cold hands down his jeans, giving his ass a good, hard squeeze.

Jerking awake with a shrill yelp, Phee flailed so wildly he went rolling over the edge of the couch and landed on top of the pack pile, immediately raising a cacophony of yips, shrieks, and snarls, loud enough to stifle the belly laugh that had taken hold of Stiles and refused to let him go. Slapping his hands over his mouth, he met Phee’s glare with innocent eyes, watching as he shoved and jostled arms and legs out from beneath his huge frame.

“That wasn’t funny,” he snapped, shoving Scott’s elbow away from his ribs with a flash of fang as the floppy brunette beta blinked and stared around stupidly, still half asleep.

“Dude, it was kind of funny,” Stiles snickered, curling himself upright to sit cross-legged on the couch and offering a hand down to him.

“Good to know you’re feeling better,” the omega grumbled, rolling his eyes, but Stiles could hear the sincerity beneath the sarcasm. Reaching up, he grasped Stiles’ hand and pulled himself to his knees, concern immediately washing over his face.

“Stiles, Jesus!” he hissed, pulling the Touchstone’s hands into his own and chafing them roughly. “You’re freezing.”

“I’m fine,” he replied, but his words were heavily muffled as Pheelan had already pulled his sweatshirt up over his head and was stuffing Stiles into it. Pushing the hood back from his face, he cupped his jaw in his hands, running his thumbs over his cheekbones as he peered into his eyes. “Phee! I’m fine.”

Pheelan frowned, huffed through his nose in a way that reminded him of Derek, reminded him that he was surrounded by a pack that wasn’t his and that that pack was now awake and alert and staring.

“Are you?” Phee asked him in Gaelic, his tone practically pleading for the truth. “Are you Stiles? Christ, I’ve never seen you come through so…”

“My fault,” he assured him in English. “I went too far, too fast. I was stupid, I should’ve…”

“Leave it,” Phee answered, his eyes flicking to the left where Peter and Lydia were watching with intent curiosity. “Just… next time aim for something closer, yeah?”

“Shit, right?” Stiles scoffed, settling back against the couch.

“But you do feel better?”

“Yeah,” he replied, pulling up the cuffs of the hoodie to trace the circles tattooed on his wrists, still a little red and raw. “Just…”

Another gurgle echoed out from Stiles’ midsection, loud in a roomful of ears, and he smirked in an effort to counter the blush that splashed across his cheeks.

“Starving,” Phee grinned. “Right. You wanna go get something to eat? I’ll call ahead, alert the chef of your arrival.”

“Shut up,” Stiles muttered, sticking out a foot to push at Phee’s shoulders and set him wobbling on his heels.

“Hey!” Scott piped up suddenly, jumping to his feet and pulling Allison up after him. His face was split with a smile so wide it looked painful and Stiles could practically feel the excitement coming off of him. “There’s tons of food here! We can make breakfast, you can stay and eat with us!”

Stiles felt himself shrink back a bit, pull in on himself, but Scott’s eagerness was infectious and the others had all begun to
climb to their feet, all smiles and agreement. Only Derek, Peter, and Lydia watched him carefully, more aware of his hesitance than the others as they bounced around him like puppies, yipping for a treat.

“Please Stiles!” Erica begged with huge, fluttering eyelashes and a pouty lip. “Boyd will make you his stuffed French toast!”

“Yeah, and Isaac makes perfect bacon!” Scott added. “Derek does the best scrambled eggs though.”

Stiles’ gaze flicked in the direction of the aforementioned alpha, but the man himself sat quietly, watching him with undisguised, cautious hope.

“Come on guys,” Lydia commanded suddenly, her quiet, lyrical tone brooking no argument as she got to her feet and brushed invisible lint from her sweats. “Let’s get everything started.”

Shooting him delighted grins the pack bounded from the room, all but Derek, who didn’t even move, and Peter, who lingered with an odd look on his face.

“You too!” Lydia ordered, grabbing the blue-eyed beta by the back of his collar and dragging him towards the kitchen. “There’s oranges need squeezing.”

Peter rumbled lazily, but to Stiles’ surprise, ducked his head slightly in a movement only he recognized before slipping past her and heading towards the clatter of pots and happy, busy voices. The Banshee followed without a backwards glance, leaving him alone with Pheelan and the silent, brooding alpha who hadn’t reacted any more than to get to his feet, preparing to follow. He was still watching Stiles with an intent gaze, on that was hot and dark and unfathomable, one he didn’t understand at all.

“We should go,” Stiles muttered to Pheelan, scrubbing his hand down over his face. Silence fell in the next room, all cheery chatter cutting off hard as his words were easily caught by wolves’ ears. Derek made a sound like a tea kettle, a high-pitched, keening whine that he broke off sharply with a look like he was choking.

“Stiles, you…”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow, unwilling to let him off the hook when his careless words still rang in his ears. “Look dude, you clearly don’t want us here…”

“I never said…” Derek cursed under his breath, looked at the floor as he crossed his arms over his chest. “You’re welcome here Stiles,” he murmured, apparently unable to raise his eyes. “You’re always welcome here.”

Stiles swallowed.

He had no answer for that, no way to respond without causing more pain to himself and the wolves around him.

“They…” Derek tried again, clearly still not one for communicating with words. Looking off towards the kitchen where the sounds of breakfast making had slowly picked up again, he frowned before facing Stiles head on. “They’re happy you’re back Stiles. I can’t… I can’t tell you what it means to them. But if you’d stay… you’ll see, I promise.”

They.

Not we.

The pronoun didn’t escape his notice, and it bit at him more than it should.

He’d loved Derek Hale for a long time - at least, he thought he’d loved him. But he’d been over him for a long time too. It just… it hurt, whether he’d ever loved him or not, whether he’d stopped or not. It didn’t matter. It felt like rejection, and it cut. Phee knew it, and had made an abortive move to reach for him before thinking better of it, and Derek too must had seen something in his face, because his eyebrows came down and he took a step back from the couch, re-folded his arms in an almost nervous manner.

“If you want,” he murmured, almost apologetically. “If you want, Stiles. It’s your call, but they’d… we’d like it, if you stayed.”

And with that last, confusing change of statement, he left, heading in the opposite direction of the pack and trotting quickly up the heavy staircase just out of sight through the arch of the doorway. Stiles stared unseeing at the place where he had been, the empty air that no longer held his form and listened as he moved around on the floor above, opening and closing drawers, pacing the length of the floor once before coming back down the stairs and skirting round to the kitchen without passing back through. Stiles let his eyes fall closed as he exhaled a great breath, tried to tune out the now half-hearted chatter and clatter emanating from the rest of the house but it wasn’t as easy as he hoped it would be.

Climbing off the couch, it was some consolation to find that his feet were steady beneath him, carried him easily across the floor to the stare out the French doors at the wide lawn ringed by the trees of the Preserve, the sun falling warmly down, dappling the grass.

Him?

He could still feel the cold.

“You're going to let them back in again.”

It wasn’t quite a question, softly spoken in Phee’s mother tongue, less for privacy than for pain. The words were like a fist around his heart, squeezing tight, and the letters that cut the wolf’s name into Stiles’ chest tingled as though drawn on with a sparkler – and that was rare. Rare, for the wards mixed in with the ink and blood almost never acted up. Phee was too calm for that, too even keeled, and he knew then just how important it was to reassure the man.

“I’m going to let them feed me,” he replied flatly.

Turning away from the windows, he moved back across the floor towards the blonde, carding his fingers roughly through his curls as he passed, heading for his backpack the lay discarded in a corner.

Pheelan snorted. “You forget how you an’ me first got on?”

“That’s so different,” Stiles scoffed. “We were in the middle of god knows where, you had a chocolate SnackPack… your last one. That’s like, elementary school pre-love right there dude.”

Shivering visibly, Stiles tugged his sleeves lower down around his wrists, pulled the hood of his sweater up around his ears, and he could feel Pheelan’s eyes on his back as he bent to pick up his bag.

“You had another nightmare,” he observed.

“You surprised?”

Unzipping his bag, Stiles pulled out his red hoodie and gave it a shake, stuffed himself into it before zipping it up and searching his pockets, frowning when he came up without a smoke. He didn’t want it; was a glow he really needed, but that was not happening here. Not again. Slipping his ball bat from its sling, he held it in his palms as though offering it to some God, his mind suddenly consumed with the memory of predator’s eyes, deep like darkened amber…

Twisting the bat so hard his knuckles turned white, Stiles felt his own eyes blacken.

“What’s the Irish word for fox?” he asked through clenched teeth, his voice cold and sharp like chips of ice.

“Sionnach.”

“Sionnach,” he repeated quietly.

He was going to kill that little bastard.

Chapter Text

Stiles stayed put while breakfast was being built, in sight of the kitchen through the wide, arched doorway but definitively separate from Derek and the rest of his pack as they clattered and banged around, talking between themselves and throwing constant, hopeful looks in his direction. He was doing his best to ignore them, sitting cross-legged on the couch and rambling quietly to Pheelan in Gaelic, a disjointed, uncontrolled stream of words about nothing important, evidence of his distraction and clinging fatigue. The wolf just sat at his feet and listened, let him go until he couldn’t anymore, and when silence finally fell, brought him gently back to his surroundings.

“Let me do your circles again,” he murmured quietly, uncapping the tub of salve that he’d dropped onto a small side table the night before and pulling the Touchstone gently forward by the elbow.

Stiles complied distractedly, tugging himself absently out of his hoodies. He didn’t notice the way the werewolf’s fingers trailed over the goosebumps on his inner forearms, tested the chill of his skin by wrapping a hand around his side, low on his waist. Pheelan frowned, rumbling to himself like a damned diesel engine when he found the young man to be cold and clammy, but Stiles ignored him, focused instead on twisting his fingers tight around the wooden baseball bat that he was keeping across his lap, forcing Phee to work around it to get at the tattoos on his wrists. After stepping round behind him to finish the last of the four circles at the nape of his neck, he curled his hand lightly around the front of Stiles’ throat, felt him swallow and relax just a bit beneath his touch even as an ominous, deadly stillness fell over the kitchen behind him.

‘Fuck ‘em,’ he snarled to himself.

If they wanted to pick a fight over this, he was damn near ready to go.

Because he could tell.

He could tell that the Touchstone was anxious, that he didn’t feel safe here.

Remnants of his nightmare seemed to be clinging to him but there was more to it than that, much more. It was this house, and this town, and this pack. The ghosts that hung in the air like frost, whispering murmured words of memory and breathing ice onto the back of your neck, making your hackles stand on end. It was Derek, and it was Scott, and it was Peter…

Pheelan blinked, shook his head.

One problem at a time.

With the eyes of the pack still on him, he took the Ruger from the small of his back where it had been tucked beneath the hem of his wife-beater, turning it in his hand and reaching round to offer it to Stiles butt first. The Touchstone blinked, apparently drawn back to attention, and to Phee’s complete non-surprise, his face went dark, his mouth grim as he grabbed the gun away.

“Please tell me we weren’t rolling around on that all night,” he growled.

“Chamber’s empty,” Phee replied calmly. Indignation he could handle, and it got his
mind off of whatever it was turning over. “Clip’s not even locked in.”

Stiles turned the gun in his hand, narrowing his eyes at Phee even as he slammed the heel of his palm into the butt of the gun, snapping the clip into place and racking a round into the chamber before climbing to his feet and tucking it into his own waistband. The wolf smirked, ready to deal with a little pissyness because some of the tension had gone out of Stiles’ shoulders and this was nothing compared to what he’d been bracing himself for. He still couldn’t believe Stiles hadn’t snapped, hadn’t snarled at him with hatred in his eyes or sunk his teeth deep into his muscle and shook him the way any other wolf would punish him…

“Hey.”

Now it was his turn to startle when he felt Stiles’ cold hand cupping his jaw…

“I know that look,” Stiles murmured, and Phee swallowed because he knew he did. “Guilty puppy…”

“I didn’t…”

“I’m not mad.” Stiles sighing heavily as he dragged his fingers through his chestnut-
colored hair. “None of this is your fault dude.”

“It’s not yours either,” Phee insisted, but Stiles just shook his head, pushed his palm flat against his chest over his heart.

Looking up at him with clear, amber eyes, a softness came over the corners of his mouth and Phee’s breath caught in his throat.

“You brought me home,” Stiles murmured, eyes large and gleaming. “That’s three times now. I’m lost, fucking drifting Phee, and you keep pulling me back in and I can’t…”

Stiles let out a high-pitched whine of distress and Phee did the only thing he knew to do, grabbed the younger man and jerked him roughly into the circle of his arms, crushing him against his chest so that Stiles’ face was pressed firmly into the hollow of his throat. Still, Stiles continued to keen, whimpering as his fingers clawed roughly at Phee’s hips. It was a sound half misery and half want, and he had to rein in his wolf hard to stop himself from biting down when he leaned into the curve of Stiles’ shoulder and scented his neck voraciously.

“Ahem.”

Freezing in place, Pheelan breathed and reminded himself that he didn’t really want to kill the Banshee in that moment, her perfect, delicate little cough making Stiles jerk back hard and flare red. Given that such an act might be frowned upon, he settled for flashing his eyes at her, projecting his displeasure in heavy waves, but all she did was smile back knowingly, ridiculously prim in holey sweats and a stretched out t-shirt.

“Breakfast is ready,” she said sweetly. “Sit with me Stiles?”

Stiles made some small noise of assent, gave a shallow jerk of his chin as he rubbed at the back of his neck, but he was still looking up at Phee from beneath dark lashes and the wolf understood the message.

Not here.

Not now.

He wasn’t quite whipped enough to bite back the low, irritated growl that rumbled up out of his chest. He could see Stiles’ eyes darken, feel his hackles rise as he responded to the challenge, but then the boy was smirking wickedly at him before sauntering away after Lydia, a little extra swing in his hips as he shook his ass in Phee’s direction. The wolf frowned, unnerved by the Touchstone’s leaping emotions, scattered all over the board and changing as quickly as Irish weather. It wasn’t like him to be so reactive, to not even ask after his father, and he was glad, not for the first time, that he had sent his 911 text the night before.

Following after Stiles, he took a seat on his left at the table while Lydia sat to his right, the rest of the pack circled round them except for Isaac and Boyd, who still manned the stove, and Peter, who was sitting at a bar stool at the counter with alert eyes, a pitcher of fresh orange juice near his elbow. Pheelan tamped down the shudder that threatened to roll up his spine as he glanced at the older wolf and away again, watched Stiles for any sign of the same reaction but there was none. Instead the young man was sitting very very still, too still, without bouncing his knee or pulling at the cuffs of his hoodie, speaking quietly to Lydia while Erica began passing a stack of plates around half the table. She and Allison heaped them full of bacon and French toast, eggs, sausage, and fruit, presenting Stiles with a massive dish before handing more off to everyone else. Interesting that, as Derek should have been served first and then Isaac, but from what he’d seen so far this pack held little stock in formal hierarchy. The brunette huntress offered him a plate as well, one eyebrow raised in question but he shook his head, held up one hand in refusal. Hunger was the last thing he was feeling right now, and he needed to keep an eye on Stiles, make sure he didn’t make himself sick.

“Don’t forget the fork this time, yeah?” he deadpanned, slouching in his chair and hooking one elbow over the back of it.

Stiles just flipped him the bird and dug in, his mouth crammed with… yup, blueberry stuffed French toast… before he could think of a fitting come-back.

Phee rolled his eyes, watched as the other wolves began to eat with an eagerness that spoke of shedding long-held tension and fear. He’d assumed it would be terribly awkward, that a heavy silence would hang over the table and hammer away at them until someone broke, but it was much easier than that, calm even, the clatter of silverware and satisfied hums just enough to break up the monotony. Of course it couldn’t last, but for the first few minutes it was almost pleasant.

“Isn’t this great?” Scott grinned around a mouthful of eggs as he waved a fork in Stiles direction. “It’s good having you back man!”

Stiles froze for the space of a single heartbeat before scoffing and turning his face down, staring resolutely at his plate, and Pheelan saw the muscles in his forearms and his biceps shift and contract as he fought not to curl his hands into fists, fought not to reach for a weapon.

“Right,” he muttered under his breath, stabbing viciously at his eggs and forking them into his mouth.

“No dude, seriously! I mean, we all tried so hard to find…”

“Want some more Stiles?” Boyd interrupted, eliciting more than a few surprised looks from the wolves around the table. As Phee understood it he was the quiet one, the one that watched, but his calm, quiet question had Stiles grinning, saw him relax as his mind skipped and moved on to the next thing the way he jumped around on those rare occasions when he needed to dip back in to his Adderall.

Humming, Stiles sucked maple syrup from his thumb and lifted his plate.

“Load me up!” he demanded, watching with rapt attention as the broad-shouldered, dark-skinned wolf with the shaved head, the one who should have been the most intimidating with his keen, silent presence but instead was steady and calming, forked another half loaf’s worth of French toast onto his plate. Phee felt his own stomach turn at the thought of how much food the human was putting away, but he hadn’t even neared his limit yet and so he let him alone.

“So Stiles,” Lydia began breezily, and Pheelan had to compliment her for recognizing that she was pretty much the only one who could draw the man into a half-way normal conversation without it backfiring spectacularly, “I’ve been working on something for a few months and I hoping that maybe you could help me.”

“Me help you?” Stiles asked with a laugh. “Uh huh. Lydia, love, you’re wicked genius; what am I gonna help you with?”

“Well, I’ve been trying to create a new type of Molotov cocktail,” she explained, crossing one knee over the other beneath the table so that she was turned in to him. “Just a side project of course.”

“Of course.”

“Don’t interrupt,” she snipped, and Stiles chuckled, no doubt able to feel the irritation that the Banshee was projecting. “You see, I’ve been trying to incorporate some mountain ash to form a barrier, but it’s just not working. I can’t figure it out.”

“Oh that’s easy,” Stiles said around a mouthful, unaware that the wolves in the room had all gone still and anxious. Phee didn’t blame them; the kind of weapon she’d just suggested, as though it were normal, easy breakfast conversation… It sent ice down his spine. “The ash is just gumming up right?”

“Exactly!” Lydia remarked with some surprise. “How did you…”

“The stuff doesn’t work wet,” Stiles answered. Twirling his fork deftly between his fingers, he used the handle to sketch lightly on the table top. “You need to use two ampules inside the container, see? One for wet and one for dry. You also have to make sure it burns hotter, so that when the glass inside breaks it vaporizes.”

As he continued to explain the types of chemicals that would allow Lydia’s cocktails to work, Pheelan listened with a feeling not unlike guilt growing in his chest. It was alarming that neither had recognized the significance of their words, the image they were creating, and perhaps that spoke to how much they were trying to make this normal, incorporate Stiles back into the flow of things, but it was hardly an excuse. One event stood out as significant over the others in the history of this pack, and they were dredging that up as though it were mere fiction now, a warning fable and not something that had been excruciatingly experienced. At the head of the table the Alpha was shifting uncomfortably in his seat, the rest of his pack listening on with something akin to horror on their faces, but none of it was anything compared to the pain and anxiety that flared from the corner where Peter stood leaning against the wall.

“You can use either of those, and tempered glass,” Stiles concluded before going back to his sausage, “And you’ll have a literal firewall. Not my schtick, but to each their own I suppose. Chemical warfare was always your thing.”

Suddenly Peter made a sound like choking on a whine, shoving hard off the wall and grabbing the jacket that hung on the back of Lily’s chair, slinging it on roughly while refusing to meet anyone’s eyes.

“That’s my cue,” he drolled with attempted nonchalance, pulling a set of keys from his pocket.

Slipping along the wall behind the row of chairs, he paused momentarily, thoughtfully, before clapping Stiles firmly on the shoulder, and Pheelan saw the Touchstone’s jaw tick as though he were holding back a wince.

“Stiles, always a pleasure when our paths cross,” the beta remarked, and Phee was surprised in that he didn’t hear any slip of a lie in the older man’s heartbeat. “I do hate to cut our time together short, but unfortunately I’ve got to run.”

“Where are you going?” Derek demanded, speaking up for the first time as his uncle passed.

“Out nephew!” Peter barked over his shoulder, and then the front door slammed behind him and only he and Lydia were looking concernedly after, the Banshee pale and wide-eyed in a manner that suggested she had only just realized what had happened.

Pheelan glanced around the table at the pack who had just let one of their own walk out with hardly a word, abandoned one of its members to their distress and felt a quiet rage begin to grow in him. It had suddenly become quite easy for him to imagine the way they’d treated Stiles all those years ago, pushing him to the fringes of the pack instead of drawing him into the fold, and Omega though he was it made him sick. Wolves went rogue that way, went mad, a fate few deserved.

“You should fix him some time you know,” he murmured, still staring at the door where Peter had disappeared.

The chatter around him immediately fell silent, but Stiles groaned loudly and hung his head.

“Why?” he whined, in a long, drawn-out way that told Pheelan he already knew why.

“Because it’s your nature?” he responded, the American ‘duh’ heavily implied in his tone. “Because he’s hurting and it’s hurting you? Because he smells like prey, weakness hanging on him like cheap sex… Christ, I don’t know how they can stand it!”

“They don’t. Or… didn’t. Or…” Stiles growled and scrubbed his hands through his hair, finally pushing his empty plate away. “Look, it didn’t matter then because he was a huge creep and trying to kill everyone, ok?” he tried again. “Or… turn them. You can’t blame us for not helping the guy; pity wasn’t high on our list of priorities. But he’s… better, or at least he looks it, ,and…”

“Still a fucking wreck,” Phee pointed out.

“Jesus, fine!” Stiles snapped, heat in his eyes and in his words. “Stop needling me! What the hell’s got your tail in such a knot over this?”

“You know what!” Phee snarled, showing his teeth.

Stiles face immediately fell, a blush pinking high on his cheekbones. He opened his mouth two or three times but couldn’t seem to find the words, and Phee raised his eyebrows in challenge even though he felt a little bad for guilt tripping Stiles like this. He’d offered to come here – he hardly had the right to bitch and moan about being stuck in the middle of a pack like this, regardless of how much it raised his hackles. Still, Stiles didn’t seem overly pissed, even if his mouth had settled into a hard, determined line. What he did next though was the last thing that Phee had expected him to do. Reaching out his free hand, he curled it around the back of Phee’s next and started to glow.

It was indescribable – the way it felt. All the tension and the turmoil immediately bled out of him, a sense of home and safety replacing it that had him going lax and boneless in his seat, eyes fluttering closed as he rolled his head back and rumbled contentedly. It was a dangerous thing, really, like that perfect scratching spot behind his ears that had his wolf rolling over and showing its belly, but this was apology not manipulation, and Phee found that he really couldn’t care either way. Stiles was exposing his greatest strength and his greatest weakness in comforting him, and that was…

Shit, everything.

“I’ll think about it, ok?” the Touchstone murmured, his thumb brushing back and forth against Phee’s pulse, and his only response was to whimper pleadingly, begging for more as his body arced up off his chair, pressed into Stiles’ touch…

“So, um, Stiles?”

Pheelan’d body trembled as Stiles drew his hand away, a full-length shudder, like shaking water out of his pelt before he straightened, just in time to see the man’s light go out. His only acknowledgement of Scott’s interruption as he crossed his arms over his chest was a quick flick of his gaze in the werewolf’s direction, stony silence had in the lines of his mouth.

“You, uh,” the boy began again, slightly nervous now at the chill that Stiles had started giving off with the withdrawal of his light. “You glow now. What’s up with that dude?”

Stiles scowled, slouched lower in his chair. “Can we not go there?” he groused, staring at the center of the table.

“Why?” Scott yelped. “It’s awesome! I mean, totally weird, but awesome too!”

Pheelan cocked an eyebrow and tilted his head, amazed that the young wolf was so utterly oblivious to the thin ice he was treading on, the shushing of his huntress mate, the glare of the Alpha and the Banshee. Stiles grip on his own elbows had gone white-knuckled and he was staring at his old friend with dark, glassy eyes; a look that could practically kill.

“And man,” the floppy-haired beta continued, “The way that feels…”

A vicious snarl ripped out of Stiles’ chest as he leapt to his feet, making the little twins yip and jerk back in their chairs, causing Scott to go pale and wide-eyed.

“I said drop it, Scotty,” Stiles sneered, his hands now fisted on the tabletop. “It’s mine and I don’t fucking…”

Pheelan suspected that it was sharing that Stiles didn’t do, but he never found out for sure because just then the distinctive snarl of a sports car’s engine came screaming up the drive, screeching to a rock-spitting halt out in front of the house. The wolves immediately leapt to their feet, teeth and claws making their appearance all around, and Stiles too had gone on the defensive, his hand flashing to the grip of his gun at the small of his back. Flicking a double-take back at Pheelan, who’d stayed loose and calm in his chair, he raised an eyebrow but Phee just shrugged, and the Touchstone relaxed a fraction.

The Alpha had seen the interaction and his eyes flare ruby-red, a grimace twisting his face. Unwilling to ease under Pheelan’s reassurance, the irritated wolf strode down the hallway to the front door, intent on ripping it open, but before he could even grasp the handle it slammed back on its hinges, a blonde male pushing inside burning with anger and concern.

“Stilinski!”

Chapter Text

“Hey Jackie-O!” Stiles grinned. “How’s it hangin’?”

“Piss off, dick-weed!” Jackson snarled through clenched teeth, charging across the room towards him.

Derek made an abortive move forward to grab the furious blonde but was brought up short when Jackson grabbed Stiles and jerked him in for a tight, fast hug, the muscles in his arms and shoulders locking beneath his t-shirt he was holding on so tight. The pack barely had time to be shocked at the gesture before the werewolf planted his hands on Stiles’ shoulders and shoved him back roughly, his eyes flashing a furious cobalt-blue.

“What the hell mate?” he snapped, glaring as Stiles staggered backward and caught his balance again with a smirk. “I get a 911 from O’Rourke that you’re back at freaking Hale House and I think it’s gotta be some kind of sick joke yeah? Imagine my surprise when I call móraí and she tells me the two of you have tripped back over to bloody Beacon Hills!”

“You’re in deep shit, by the way,” he added, jerking his chin at Pheelan over Stiles’ shoulder.

“Called in the cavalry?” Stiles accused without malice, more than a little amused, but Phee just shrugged, pulling his phone from his pocket and tapping at the screen.

“Leave him out of it!” Jackson rumbled. “Dammit Stilinski, we talked about this!”

“Dude, I didn’t plan this!” Stiles yelped indignantly, gesturing wildly in a way that reminded every single one of the pack of the young man he used to be. “You think I wanted to come back here?!”

That seemed to take all the fight out of Jackson, his body going lax as he rocked back on his heels and stuffed his hands down into his pockets, the blue bleeding out of his eyes.

“Nah, man,” he said gruffly, looking Stiles over. “Know better than that. But hell, Stiles… after everything you said… Why?”

“My dad got hurt,” Stiles answered, stuffing his own hands into his hoodie, unconsciously mimicking the other man’s pose.

Jackson froze, all the color draining from his face.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Stiles, I…”

“It’s cool dude,” Stiles shrugged, looking at the floor. “He’s fine. Took care of it.”

“Good deal,” Jackson replied seriously. For just a second an awkward silence reigned. “Why are you pink?”

Stiles broke into a loud, honest laugh, apparently unoffended by the familiar, derisive tone that had leaked back into the werewolf’s words. “Took a little time out in España,” he replied easily, “Hit the Costa del Sol.”

“Lucky bastard,” Jackson cursed. “It’s been raining in the East End for a bloody week.” Abruptly his eyes narrowed and he glanced suspiciously between Stiles and Phee. “Isn’t that a little far for you?” he asked, a sneer coloring his tone.

“Way too far,” Phee muttered, chiming in his two scents without looking up from the surface of his phone.

“Yes, thanks mom,” Stiles groaned, rolling his eyes. “I’m fine.”

“Bullshit,” Jackson countered, and Stiles glared at Phee when the blonde wolf looked up at him and smirked.

That was exactly the reason that Phee had contacted him in the first place, called him out to help, the same reason that Stiles had eventually found a kind of friend in the man for whom he used to hold such animosity. He didn’t hold with Stiles’ shit, and was quick to call him on it.

All in all London had been good to Jackson. He’d gotten a better handle on himself, tamed down his temper and learned some tolerance, escaped the locker-room antics that had made him such a tool in high-school. He’d also come to grips with the fact that he was adopted, halfway mending his relationship with the man and woman who’d raised him while still learning that he could define himself outside of their expectations and the phantom of the biological parents who’d abandoned him. He’d settled in to his own skin somehow, found an inner peace after making amends with his past and what had been done to him, what he’d done.

Stiles had realized the very first time his and Jackson’s paths had crossed that no one knew just how much pain and guilt the werewolf still carried with him. It was achingly clear that his time as the Kanima had left a dark mark in him, a wound he’d been unable to heal even after so much time away from Beacon Hills, even after finding a pack who welcomed and supported him without suspicion or blame. In full possession of his capabilities as a Touchstone by the time he’d come across the other man on a crowded street in the East End, Stiles had been able to feel acutely just how much that wound still cut at him.

Where their first meeting had been an accident, the rest were a tentative outreach to something neither understood, four or five stiff and stilted cups of coffee that heard even more bitter words pass over them as they bitched and scowled about each other and the lives they’d left behind between long and resentful bouts of silence. Eventually that old hatred had calmed, sloughed away like rainwater after a storm, and a new kind of relationship began to form based mostly off of shared past hurts that they miraculously found they had in common.

That relationship solidified the day that Stiles had finally summoned the courage to bring up the Kanima, and after a vicious, bloody screaming match Jackson had completely fallen apart, too wrecked to push Stiles away when the Touchstone had drawn the wolf into his embrace. Jackson had cried into his shoulder for over an hour while Stiles held on to a warm, steady glow, pumping as much of his healing power into the other man as he could until they’d both passed out on the floor of Jackson’s flat. They’d woken up the next morning still cuddled together, Jackson clinging tightly to Stiles torso until they’d both come to well enough to realize who it was they were hugging and shove quickly apart, both too freaked to acknowledge what had happened. Each vowed never to speak of the event again, and it was a secret they both intended to take to the grave.

Denial only carried them so far however, because the glow session seemed to be the proverbial straw to break the werewolf’s back. Whatever hold past pain and ghosts held over the beta had broken that night, and the next full moon found Jackson completing a full shift as he found the elusive True-Form that Pheelan boasted. Smaller, darker in color, his wolf was still impressive to behold, the peaceful self-assurance and self-acceptance it represented even more so.

Oh, he was still a jerk of course, cold and hard sometimes, especially to strangers and those who tried his fragile patience, but that seemed to be just the thing that made Stiles willing to keep him around. He provided a detached, objective dose of reality when Stiles needed it most, happy to toss a bucket of ice-water truth in Stiles’ face as often as was necessary, and that was why Phee had called him, why Stiles was pleased as punch to see him again, even if he sometimes wondered what exactly Jackson got out of their relationship. In their frequent talks the werewolf had been as adamant as Stiles about never setting foot in California again, leaving Beacon Hills in the past where it belonged, but here he was, standing in the middle of the pack that he’d left, less than five yards from the girl he’d…

Oh fuck.

“Jackson?”

Stiles saw Jackson freeze at the sound of Lydia’s voice, his gaze finally meeting hers as he allowed himself at last to look beyond Stiles’ shoulder.

“Hello Lydia,” he choked softly.

Sucking in a breath through his teeth, Stiles doubled over at the sudden vicious pain that lanced through his body, a dozen knives stabbing through his ribs into his chest and slicing at the smooth planes of his belly. Pheelan practically knocked over his chair as he leapt to Stiles’ side, grabbing his arm to hold him up as Stiles fought the ache that had him clutching at his chest and gasping for breath.

“Shit, Stiles!” Jackson yelped, grabbing at his other arm as he tried to bat both werewolves away.

“Oooo, you dirty, dirty liar,” Stiles hissed between clenched teeth, heaving in great gulps of air as he fought the nausea that came from the violent pain that had attacked him.

Closing his eyes, he jerked them open again almost immediately when the sensations began to quickly drain away, far faster than they should have naturally. Jackson’s fingers were tight around his elbow and black shadows were flowing quickly up the veins of his inner forearm as he siphoned off Stiles’ hurt. Smacking him sharply, he tried to pull away, but the werewolf held fast.

“That’s not how this works, you know that!” Stiles reprimanded, but Jackson just showed his teeth and pulled him closer.

“Shut up idiot,” he snarled. “Hold still.”

As much as he appreciated the relief, Stiles could see the tension around the werewolf’s mouth that said he was reaching the threshold of his tolerance, and it didn’t seem right that he was taking his own pain back. Stiles’ nature worked the way it did for a reason – he absorbed and transformed the pain of his wolves - whether it be physical or emotional - in order to protect them, from themselves if necessary. He hadn’t allowed for Jackson’s self-punishment crap in years and he wasn’t about to start now. Reaching out his free hand, he grabbed on to the arm that held his own and began to glow, a pure golden light shining beneath his skin, and both men sagged with the release.

A minute later they both let go, as though at a pre-arranged signal, breaking apart and taking a step back like nothing unusual had happened. It seemed horrifically quiet in the kitchen, the wolves circled round them staring on dumbfoundedly, not a single one of them able to summon up a word. Stiles risked a look back at his Banshee friend, Jackson staring determinedly at his feet, and what he saw made his throat close.

Lydia was standing with one hand slapped tightly over her mouth, her other arm wrapped around her ribs as though she were trying to stop herself and her entire world from falling apart. Her wide, beautiful eyes were brimming with tears and he felt a dull, echoing ache of the horrific pain he’d just experienced throb beneath his breastbone. He wanted nothing more in that moment to go to her and take her into his arms, to ease her with warmth and murmured reassurances, but she wasn’t a wolf and more than that, he didn’t think that in this moment she would appreciate the gesture. No, she only had eyes for one man in that moment, and it wasn’t him.

Turning back to Jackson, he opened his mouth to speak but realized that for once in his life he didn’t have the faintest idea of what to say. Jackson had been adamant that he’d moved on the few times Lydia had been mentioned over the years, but Stiles had just experienced the other man’s heartache first hand, and there was no way in Hell he’d ever believe those words again. The werewolf’s face was still tipped to the floor, apparently fascinated with the toes of his fancy leather shoes, and the only thing he could offer him in that moment was escape.

“Hey man, I’m ready to get out of here,” he said lightly, and from the corner of his eye he finally saw the pack stir, Scott and Erica both making to protest, but he was quick to cut them off. “I need to go check on my dad. Come with?”

“Sure,” Jackson replied, shrugging his shoulders before finally lifting his head. “Drop in for a minute. But I’m starving so lunch is on you.”

“Oh, I could definitely do lunch,” Stiles grinned, clapping him on the shoulder. “Mexican? Chinese?”

“Fuck that noise,” Jackson snorted. “American. Cheeseburgers and fries, none of this chips and crisps crap.”

“Burger King it is,” Stiles smiled, flicking one last look in Lydia’s direction. Grabbing his bat and his bag off the floor where he’d tossed them against the wall, he shrugged into the straps and took an awkward step towards the door, glancing back at Pheelan who had pulled Stiles’ keys from his jeans, his phone still in one hand.

“Be right behind you,” he assured, tapping at the screen and shoving it back into his pocket. “Meet you at the house?”

“Ten-four Butterwolf,” Stiles replied before giving Jackson a light shove towards the door.

The pack watched in screaming silence as the two young men walked out of the house as easily as they had come into it, as though nothing at all were wrong with the two of them being friends.

Even if they were still the very definition of antoagonistic.

“Dude, a Challenger? Really? Could you be any more pretentious?”

“Piss off - the rental place was out of Porsches.”

“Can I…”

“No.”

A pair of car doors slammed and cut off the rest of the chummy argument, leaving the house shrouded by a heavy, disbelieving silence as the roar of the engine faded away down the drive. The pack looked round at each other slowly, meeting each other’s gazes one by one until all of them fell on Lydia, who was staring at the door like she’d just seen a ghost walk through it. Swallowing hard, she blinked once, twice, visibly composing herself.

“What the fuck was that?!”

Chapter Text

Pheelan was surprised by the expletive that burst out of the demure, prim little Banshee. He hadn’t been expecting that. Oh, he knew that she and Jackson had a history, but he’d been under the impression that both had moved on. It had just become painfully clear that Jackson was still suffering under terrible heartache if Stiles’ reaction was anything to go by, and now he was almost certain that Lydia was too. Her heart was pounding erratically in her chest and she smelled like hurt and saltwater, her hands clenched at her sides so hard that her knuckles had turned white.

Sighing hard, Pheelan scrubbed a hand down over his face and contemplated whether or not opening his mouth was a good idea. He didn’t know how far to go here, what it was his place to say and what it wasn’t, and it plucked at the thread of tension inside him, sending a chorus of vibrations down over his nerves. Deciding to play it safe instead of sorry, he pushed his deserted chair in to the table and was just about to turn towards the door when his phone chirped in his pocket. From the corner of his eye he saw Lydia jerk, her shoulders going tight before she spun on her heel to stare at him with murder written in every line of her body, the single, hot tear that had escaped her iron control and was making its way slowly down her cheek. He took a careful step back, her conversation with Stiles about Molotov cocktails crashing around in his head as she stalked towards him with balled fists.

“You,” she hissed, stomping right into his space and shoving him in the chest, slapping at him ineffectively. “You brought him here! What the hell were you thinking, how could you…”

She trailed off there, clearly incapable of the words, of expressing the sentiment in her pain and confusion. She moved to let her hands fall but he’d already caught her wrists and she halfway sagged towards him, all the starch going out of her.

“It was you,” she insisted in a broken tone, and Pheelan wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement, but it seemed like she needed the answer so he would give it to her.

“I texted him last night,” he confirmed quietly.

“How do you even know him?” Lydia choked, tears thick in her throat as she pulled away. “Why do you…”

“He’s a friend,” Pheelan said, consumed with the sudden surety that he owed her an explanation. The sight of the other wolf seemed to have completely broken her, torn away all the artifices and barricades that comprised her iron spine and fierce, powerful strength. “One of Stiles’ closest. He’s…”

“Jackson?”

Phee dragged his gaze away from Lydia long enough to glare at Scott, his yelp of disbelief mirrored on the faces of the rest of the pack.

“Jackson Whittemore?” the beta scoffed again. “Are you nuts? Him and Stiles hate each other, they aren’t friends!”

“Weren’t,” Pheelan replied flatly.

He was exhausted with this young man, this boy who couldn’t understand that Stiles had grown up without him, that he wasn’t the same kid who’d loved and cared for him like a brother. Phee knew he probably still did, somewhere deep down, but he wasn’t sure that Stiles would ever be ready to admit or show that.

“They weren’t friends,” he continued, more to distract himself from the urge to snarl and shift than anything else. “They stopped hating each other years ago. Jackson’s a good friend – my parents even accepted him as envoy between our packs. He often stays with Stiles and me when he comes out on business.”

“No,” Scott frowned, shaking his head. “No, that’s not…”

“Oh grow up Scott!” Lydia snapped, and Phee couldn’t help but echo the sentiment. “He’s not in high school anymore neither are you!”

Silence fell as the pack stared at a crestfallen Scott, and then Pheelan heard his own voice low and quiet as his hand moved of its own volition to touch Lydia on the cheek.

“Neither is Jackson,” he murmured, and a wariness came into the Banshee’s wide, wet eyes, a dangerousness that said he should get out now and make good his escape, but apparently his instincts weren’t on board with protecting his own tail because he kept going. “It’s time to think about what you really want Lydia. It’s time for all of us to think about what we really want.”

Offering her one last glum little smile, he twirled Stiles’ keys in his hand and headed for the front door, too consumed by his own words to even look for their effect on the pack or its Alpha, who shuffled awkwardly to the side of the hallway to allow him to pass. He’d meant the advice for them, for those who thought that Stiles was still their friend, or wanted him to be, but he’d included himself without even meaning to and he wasn’t sure what that meant. Or didn’t want to admit that he knew what it meant.

Climbing into the jeep, he slammed the door shut, dropping his head to the steering wheel with a painful thunk. Closing his eyes, he took a second to just breathe, inhaling the deep, ingrained scent of the boy, the man, who loved the vehicle so much. It was both a balm and an irritant on his frazzled nerves, made him want to scratch like a dog with fleas, and when he opened his eyes he realized that he’d been gripping the keys so hard in his fist that they had cut into his hand, leaving deep, white welts in his palm. Chuffing at himself he shook his head like he was trying to get water out of his ears, pulling his phone out of his pocket to check his last text, willing to take the rest of the tongue lashing his mother had stored up for him if it just meant he could think about something else.

She was pissed too; she rarely texted, preferring voice to voice flagellation whenever possible. The fact that she hadn’t immediately rung him when he’d checked in after Jackson’s warning told him for a certainty that she’d worked herself up into one of her Alpha moods, the kind where she couldn’t control the pitch of her voice. He understood it, he supposed – he’d told her that Stiles was ok, that he was doing a little better having gotten his dad home safe, and Jackson’s call had contradicted that. Practically pack by association, near and dear to her son’s heart, she felt responsible for Stiles in the way that Alphas did, beyond the heartfelt care that she and the rest of his family felt for the Touchstone. He’d calmed her down a bit, assuring her that he was doing his best to make things better and that Jackson had arrived safely to do the same, but she was still hesitant, her guardedness mirroring his own uncertain feelings. Quickly typing out a final message, promising to call in a day or two when it would be safer for them to speak, he cranked the engine and sped off down the drive.

The drive back to the Sheriff’s house was anything but quiet, both Jackson and Stiles shouting above the roar of the engine and the steady beat of Dead Man’s Bones tapping out of the stereo; ironically enough tuned in to Werewolf Heart. A bit cliché for Jackson, but really, Stiles didn’t expect much better from an American werewolf living in London, and he told him so. This started up a pleasantly antagonistic argument that mostly consisted of well-worn insults, and by the time they pulled in to the drive of Stiles’ childhood home they had fallen back into their easy, comfortable way of interacting, shoving and cursing each other in the way that young males did.

Both sobered quickly once they stepped inside, Stiles calling out for his father and leading the way into the living room when the man hailed them back. Jackson got in a perfunctory greeting, much more warmly welcomed since he had dropped his restraining order, but then Stiles was collapsing onto his knees beside his father’s chair and dropping his head into the older man’s lap.

“I’m sorry,” he choked, his hands starting to shake as the Sheriff stroked his hair with his good hand. “I’m sorry, I didn’t meant to…”

“Easy kid,” John murmured, squeezing Stiles’ shoulder and guiding him upright again. “Know you didn’t mean it.” Watching Stiles closely, he dropped his voice low and quiet. “Pheelan told me what happened… You ok?”

Stiles swallowed, tried not to let himself remember what had happened, the things that had been said and the anger that had filled him up so full and hot that he’d lost all control and flashed himself away to one of his circles without considering the consequences.

“I’m all right,” he whispered, his voice still thick, and he could feel Jackson’s eyes on the back of his neck but thankfully he didn’t say anything. “Still a little tired, but that’s my fault. I went too far.”

“Right,” his dad said slowly, a frown on his face. “So you can… time travel too?”

Behind him Jackson chuckled from where he’d settled on the couch, and it got half a grin out of Stiles too.

“Not quite,” he explained, getting to his feet and shuffling backward to drop down beside the werewolf. “Place travel, I guess.” Raising his sleeves, he traced one of the thick black circles on his wrist, holding them out for his dad to see. “If I have a circle laid down I can use them to move. I’m still not a hundred percent sure how it works to be honest, but I can… feel them, all around me. Like… standing in the middle of a giant game of cat’s cradle. All the strings shooting out around you… Feels kind of like getting sucked through a straw.”

“Sounds unpleasant,” the Sheriff considered.

“You know it really is,” Stiles replied, and he sounded so surprised that all three of them started laughing.

Jolting a bit, John coughed and groaned, putting his hand over his mauled shoulder, still strung up in a sling. Stiles paled a bit, getting to his feet and crossing to his dad’s side again, ignoring his protests and pulling his shirt away from his neck to check his bandages. They needed changing, so he made a quick trip upstairs for the first aid kit, coming back down to find Jackson steadily sucking up his father’s pain. Touching the wolf lightly on the wrist, he pushed a wave of warmth down his arm in thanks but Jackson just shrugged him off, dropping back down onto the couch cushions and watching quietly while Stiles helped his dad off with his shirt.

“It’s looking good,” he said in a pleased tone, checking the edges of the wound and the neat black stitches before wrapping it all back up again. “I’ll take you back to Melissa tomorrow – she should be able to get you out of the stitches and into some physical therapy.” When the Sheriff grumbled unhappily Stiles just grinned, guiding his arm back into the sling and opening the bottle of pain pills that sat on the side table near the remote. “Oh, don’t be like that,” he chided, handing them over with the glass of water also resting on the table. “Get all the stiffness out of that shoulder and you’ll be back on the job before you know it.”

“Maybe I was enjoying the time off,” he muttered, but they could all hear the lie in his voice. He loved his job, and everyone in Beacon Hills knew it. “Not all of us can disappear on day trips to… wherever it was… literally disappear.”

“Spain,” Stiles answered, smiling down at his grump of a father. “The Costa del Sol. There’s a great beach, great food… you’d love it. We should definitely take a vacation.”

“Not exactly making vacation money sitting here Kid,” John replied easily, slouching down in his chair and tipping his head back as his eyes closed.

“Nah, this one’s on O’Rourke,” Jackson grinned from the couch. “The guy’s rolling in it, and besides, I paid for the last one.”

“Oh shut up,” Stiles laughed, slapping the werewolf on the back of the head as he passed behind the coudh. “We stayed at a frickin’ B and B for the weekend because our flight got grounded. A haunted B and B.”

Heading for the kitchen, Stiles listened quietly while Jackson compared early summer vacation time with his father, considered the merits of a potential destination or two. As nice as a vacation with his dad and his friends sounded, it brought into question where he would be in May or June, what country and what continent. He wasn’t ready to think about it yet, wasn’t ready to consider leaving for a second time, something that was becoming harder to contemplate with each passing day. He had missed his dad terribly over the years, his absence a painful thing to bear, and being home, in his old bedroom and his old life, was easier to slip back into than he ever thought it would be, even with the specter of the Hale pack looming around every corner. The thought of it all made his hands shake and he had to grip the counter hard for a few minutes before he could start throwing together a quick meal for his dad from the dinner leftovers that were sealed up tight in the fridge.

He’d just pulled the bowl from the microwave when he heard the front door open and close, and seconds later he felt Pheelan at his back, the broad, solid heat of him, and his breath left him in a heavy woof when large hands gripped his hips hard and pulled him back, the wolf’s face buried in the side of his neck. Tilting his head to give him better access, for just a second Stiles simply breathed into the attention, basked in the warmth of it before pulling away and grabbing a fork from the silverware drawer.

“Are you in trouble?” he asked, and Pheelan shook his head.

“Not really,” he replied, “But if you want to give my mother a call I wouldn’t say no.”

Stiles smirked, headed for the living room. “Don’t worry,” he grinned back over his shoulder, “I’ll protect you.”

Handing the bowl off to his dad he sank to the floor at his side, leaving Phee to the end of the couch not already occupied by Jackson. “Eat that before you fall asleep,” he encouraged, and the Sheriff took a cautious but obliging bite. “I’m going to take Jackson to lunch, if you don’t mind…”

“No, you go on,” John digging in with more relish when he realized the hash of leftover veggies and steak wasn’t going to kill him with its veggie-ness. “Those pills knock me right out; I’ll be asleep in twenty.”

“All right. We’ll probably be back in an hour or two, and we can… I don’t know, play cards of something. Ok?”

“Sounds good kid,” the Sheriff smiled, somewhat sadly as he reached out a hand and ruffled his sons hair. He could hear the hesitancy there, the guilt and the concern. “Go,” he ordered, not unkindly. “I’ll be fine.”

It only took three more reassurances to get the Touchstone out the door.

Chapter Text

The afternoon tripped by rather quickly for Stiles. He hardly noticed an hour and a half slipping away in the back of the local Burger King, watching Jackson stuff himself with an obscene amount of flame-broiled Whoppers as they laughed and joked, catching up on each other’s lives and the goings-on between them and those who filled their homes and hearts. Pheelan joined in too but spent much of the time glancing Stiles way with concern in all the lines of his body. He felt a bit off himself and it was more than just the dregs of being pulled back through the circle. He felt cold, damp, like he’d just come in from the snow, and he had the distinct feeling that he was being watched despite knowing, knowing that there was nothing there.

By the time the three had gotten back to the Sheriff’s house it seemed again that he had lost more time – he remembered little of what had been talked about though he could guess at it. More than anything he was left with the impression of growing unease, of some thing hovering just beyond his shoulder, small, dark eyes on the back of his neck, and it made him nervy and slightly irritable, something he tried to push down and away when his dad woke up and they all sat for a bit of an old baseball game, trading conversation back and forth about everything and nothing at all. Jackson regaled him with stories of his time in London, his work and travels, but for his part Stiles was mostly quiet, and all of them seemed painfully aware of that fact.

As evening began to fall Stiles sent Phee and Jackson to dig up the Stilinski’s folding table and battered, well-worn deck of cards while he commandeered the kitchen, filling bowls with popcorn and pretzels, stirring together a yogurt-based dill dip and a pitcher of blackberry-muddled lemonade. His mood lightened a bit as he rattled around in the cabinets, the strange weight lying across his shoulders and the back of his neck lessening until he was able to breathe again without a tightness in his chest, and by the time he joined the others around the beat-up little table he had a smile on his face again. Sitting between his father and his wolf, his good friend across from him, he abruptly found himself feeling better than he’d felt in a very long time.

He might hate to admit it, even to himself, but there was something about being home that made him feel safe, even though he never thought it would. He’d never meant to come back, but the longer he stayed the harder it was getting to think about leaving again. He knew this place, knew these people, even if he hated some of them…

Pushing those thoughts away, irritated that they were coming to him so frequently, coming to him at all, he let himself sink into the play of the cards, the easy back and forth between the four of them that was comfortable and normal, like they did it every day, slapping each other’s hands, kicking shins beneath the table, jostling, joking – just being together and enjoying each other’s company. After a game of poker, which the Pheelan won soundly, and about six hands of Euchre, the Sheriff decided to call it a night, popping one last pain pill and heading off to bed. The wolves started up a halfhearted game of Snap while Stiles cleaned up, loading the dishwasher and tossing the remnants of their decimated snack-age.

He could feel his energy quickly building up again, thick and hot and bubbly in his stomach like boiling oil, snapping in his fingers, and he felt lighter on his feet than he had all day. He felt… good, and part of him knew that he shouldn’t, that this mood swing wasn’t right and that the things he was seeing and hearing and feeling weren’t… hell maybe weren’t even real, but for the time being it was just so nice, so calming that he didn’t care. A pang of guilt hit him for that – he knew Jackson was dealing with a boatload of shit right now, could feel the hurt and heartache in him that he was trying so hard to bottle up and shove away…

It gave him an idea.

Ignoring the curious glances he got from both wolves, he headed quietly upstairs, careful not to wake his father whom he could already hear snoring through the door. It took him a minute of deep excavation through his trunk to find what he was looking for, but he eventually came up with a small, dented tin, the kind sold for storing loose tobacco but that teenagers used to stash their pot. Hiding it in his palm, he made his way down to the living room, his Cheshire grin giving him away almost immediately.

“What’ve you got?” Pheelan asked, his eyes narrowed suspiciously as he zeroed in on that hand that Stiles held behind his back.

With a wicked smirk, Stiles brought it out with a flourish, flicking the lid of the tin open and tilting it towards them so that they both could see. Pheelan glanced inside and skimmed a quick, questioning look up at Stiles but Jackson was more curious, reaching out and selecting one of the small blue candies inside, rolling it between his fingers.

“I don’t get it,” he said, looking to Stiles for an explanation. “Jolly Ranchers?”

“They’re poppers,” Phee offered from across the table, sweeping the cards towards his chest and shuffling them into a neat stack. “Werewolf roofies.”

Jackson cocked a judgmental eyebrow. “You’re drugging candy now?”

Stiles shrugged. “Easier than carrying around a bottle of aconite alcohol.”

“Wow,” he deadpanned. “You’ve become the reason parents preach stranger danger. Congratulations Stilinkski, you’re officially a walking cliché.”

Pheelan snorted cheekily, but when Stiles eyeballed him he immediately cleared his throat and straightened up. “So… what?” he asked, “You wanna go clubbing?”

“I’m down,” Jackson answered immediately, and Stiles wasn’t surprised. The wolf was practically vibrating with suppressed distress, everything about him begging for a distraction as he desperately tamped down on his heartache and tried not to think. “Could use a drink, aconite or no.”

“Jungle?” Stiles proposed, before reconsidering. “Or we could drive over to Chelsea.”

“Nah, the Jungle’s cool,” Jackson replied, getting to his feet and grinning salaciously as he slipped on his old bravado like a familiar coat. “I used to go with Danny. And I’m gonna get hit on either way, so…”

“Yeah yeah yeah,” Stiles grinned, shoving the wolf chummily on the shoulder. “You’re everyone’s type.”

Tossing a piece of the candy into his mouth, he offered one to Pheelan, who took it with the ease of having experienced them before. Cocking an eyebrow at Jackson, he grinned encouragingly while the wolf considered, laughed when he finally bit the proverbially bullet and popped his own piece, rolling it around on his tongue with a look of surprise at the sweet, fruity flavor.

“Don’t chew it,” Stiles warned, “That way it won’t kick in good till we get there.” Pushing the tin into his back pocket, he pulled his keys out of nowhere and spun them around his finger. “Let’s do this!”

“Why are we here?” Scott whispered in Allison’s ear as they waited in the quickly growing line outside of the Jungle. “I mean, it is a gay bar.”

Allison shushed him under her breath, giving him a subtle shove with her shoulder. “We’re here because it’s the only club in town and Lydia needs some cheering up,” she muttered quietly, hoping that the red-headed Banshee in front of her wouldn’t hear. “We all do. So just be nice all right? She got hurt today, even if she won’t admit it.”

Glancing back over her shoulder, she let her gaze light on each of the pack who waited behind her, all of them except Peter, and her eyes lingered on the last, the Alpha who slouched bitterly against the brick wall at the back, his own stare far away.

“And I don’t think she was the only one.”

“I just… I don’t know how to talk to him anymore,” the young man at her side mumbled, and she felt a twinge of sadness shoot through her. Reaching out, she wrapped her arm around Scott’s waist and drew him in close to her side, hooking her chin over his shoulder and sinking in to the heat of him pressed all along her side, comforting in the damp chill that had fallen as the sun set.

“I know,” she murmured, rubbing her cheek against his shoulder in the way she knew he liked. “I don’t either. But… maybe that’s a good thing.”

“How?” Scott choked, and his voice cracked so painfully in the middle of that short, simple word that it practically broke her heart. “How can any of this be good?”

“He’s back,” she whispered, some of her own pain coming through the words as she tried to explain. “That’s a good thing, isn’t it? He’s different now, but…” Allison sighed. She wasn’t sure how to make this better, wasn’t sure what to do or say. “Maybe…” she tried again, “Maybe we all need to learn something new. Maybe we need to give up on the past and try the future out. We’ll play it by his rules for a while and figure out how to move forward from there. Ok?”

Scott just nodded, looking forlorn, and she had just reached up to press a reassuring kiss to his cheek when Lydia huffed an irritated little ‘finally’ and stepped up to hand the bouncer her ID.

“And the rest of these,” she said with an impatient little wave, including the eight other pack members behind her.

When she’d announced that evening that she needed a drink and a distraction, none of them had been stupid enough to try and resist. Instead they’d just followed along behind her like sheep as she stuffed them into ‘acceptable’ club attire and ushered them into hers and Derek’s vehicles. Not even the Alpha seemed to have the wherewithal to deny her. Only Peter had escaped, touching her lightly on the elbow and prescribing a brand of Scotch into her ear before disappearing to wherever it was he still wandered off to sometimes… and likely where he’d been most of the morning. Whatever sway the Banshee held over the older man, whatever bond their strange relationship had forged over the years, it seemed that it only went so far.

The bouncer, however, apparently wasn’t as immune, because whatever Lydia had said, whatever VIP code word she’d spoken, had him waving the rest of the pack in through the doors, stamping their hands with a small UV triangle that would glow beneath the bar lights as they passed, foregoing any other ID checks. Good thing too, because the twins weren’t quite legal yet, still seven months away from their twenty-first birthdays. Allison grabbed Scott by the wrist, pulling him along through the dark and noise of the crowded club, following Lydia all the way to the back where she was ushered into an empty booth by a silent, smiling employee. The entirety of the pack followed suit, just enough room for all of them to squeeze into the wide, cushioned bench seat curved around an even wider table, and Isaac wasted no time in starting them off, ordering a beer for himself and a fruity pink cocktail for both Violet and Lily.

It was silly really but it was still tradition, and it was one that made Allison feel warm and content inside. The wolves didn’t really need to drink, weren’t affected by the alcohol, but whenever one of their human friends or pack members needed a night out at the bar they were as supportive as they could be, ordering something they liked the taste of just to keep up appearances. Erica and Boyd both went for a Blue Moon because they enjoyed eating the oranges that came wedged onto the side of the glass, and even Derek joined in, though he missed the spirit of the thing by asking for a harsh brand of cheap vodka just so he could punish himself with the burn. Still, it was a bonding sort of thing, and feeling the need to take it one step further, to reinforce the connection they all shared, Allison ordered a round of shots along with her own drink.

They could all use a clink and a toast, to see their own movements mirrored in the one across from them as they drank.

“Can I get you anything else?” their waiter asked politely, pen poised above the little notepad he’d taken from his back pocket.

“Two fingers of Lagavulin.”

Allison brought a hand to her mouth to hide a smile. Only Lydia could order top-shelf Scotch so sweetly and decorously. Apparently the Banshee had taken Peter’s recommendation to heart and intended to drown her sorrows this night. Allison reached out a hand to touch Lydia on the shoulder, ready start the girl talk grieving portion of the evening in the hopes that they could circumvent any serious intoxication – not that Lydia ever got sloppy – but before she could open her mouth to ask if the red head was all right (the standard opening question for these things), an achingly familiar laugh rang out from across the bar, painfully clear through a heartbeat’s pause in the music.

“Oh. My. God,” Erica bit out.

“Are you kidding me?” Scott whimpered.

“Of course,” Lydia muttered, and her words were desolately miserable. Glancing up at the waiter who had paused beside the table, following the pack’s gaze across the floor to where Stiles, Pheelan, and Jackson all sat in a booth of their own, Lydia passed up a crisp, one hundred dollar bill. “Do me a favor? Leave the bottle.”

Chapter Text

Well, show me the way to go home.
I’m tired and I wanna go to bed.
I had a little a drink about an hour ago,
And it went right to my head.
Wherever I may roam,
O’er land, o’er sea, o’er foam,
You can always hear me singing this song,
Show me the way to go home!

“Oh man!” Stiles gasped, wiping tears from his eyes with a chuckle. “That was so ‘Jaws’ it’s sick!”

Jackson snorted into his beer, slopping it messily across the table as he snickered, and Pheelan tossed his head back with a raucous, booming laugh. All three of them had sat to four rounds of beer, thick and dark served in wide-mouth pint glasses, and they’d crunched two more of Stiles’ blue candy poppers each since they’d gotten inside. Subsequently they were fairly well on their way to tanked, and while none of them was sure how the song had started up they’d harmonized incredibly well together, stamping their feet beneath the table and clinking their glasses together in toasts, all in time to the beat of the music.

As they finished up a few people at the tables around them cheered, saluting them with shots and wide grins but they ignored it all, entirely wrapped up together in their own little world, a bubble of three that knew each other almost as well as they knew themselves. For his part Stiles was feeling pretty damn good; fun, frisky, and smokin’ hot. He and Jackson had changed into tight black t-shirts with deep v-necks before they’d left the house and he knew his hair was a dark, wind-swept mess because Pheelan had been dragging his fingers through it all night, infinitely more tactile as he became more and more intoxicated. Pleased with the attention, he dug the tin out of his jeans pocket and popped two more pieces of candy into his mouth before pushing it across to Jackson.

“One more,” he mumbled around his mouthful.

Pheelan reached to take his own piece but Stiles slapped his hand away, crawling into his lap instead and pulling him down for a deep, fierce kiss. Somewhere behind him Jackson wolf-whistled and Stiles flipped him the bird over his shoulder, pressing in hard for more before he finally came up for air, leaning back to rest his ass on the edge of the table. Pheelan’s chest was heaving under his hands, the wolf’s pupils blown huge and dark as he crunched down on the candy Stiles had slipped onto his tongue with teeth gone sharp and feral.

“Feeling bad?” he grinned wickedly, gripping Stiles by the belt and rolling his hips upward beneath the cover of the table.

“Baby you aint seen bad,” he purred back silkily. Leaning over to the side, Stiles reached for his beer, overshooting it and toppling off Phee’s lap with a yelp, landing back on his own part of the bench with a drunken flail.

“You’re showing off,” Pheelan accused on a low, seductive murmur.

“So what if I am,” Stiles pouted sulkily, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Can we not just pretend they’re not here?” Jackson whined. Apparently he too had noticed the pack being led inside, not a one of the three of them really willing to admit that they had. Still, halfway through the sentence the intoxication took him and he was laughing huskily, his momentary distress forgotten. “Because Jesus…”

“Got my vote,” Pheelan rumbled, lifting his beer in a toast before swallowing down half of it in one go.

“Oh you guys are just no fun,” Stiles snickered.

“Fuck you Stilinski,” Jackson cursed good-naturedly. “I don’t see you inviting ‘em over here to join.”

“Nope,” Stiles smiled lopsidedly, closing his eyes tight and shaking his head. “Not me! Not this time!”

“Yeah yeah yeah, you grew a pair. Congratulations,” Jackson smirked. “Took you long enough.”

Stiles hissed a laugh between his teeth. It really had.

“We should probably send them all a drink though,” he mused, content with the thought of playing a rather punitive trick. “They’ve got a shot called the ‘Suck It.’ That sounds about right.”

“Pretty sure that’s not the kind of ‘Suck It’ you’re thinking of,” Jackson muttered into his glass, a pink flush spreading over his high cheekbones.

“How would you know?” Stiles countered, running his eyes slowly over Pheelan’s frame as he licked his chops wolfishly. The blonde was slouched low in the booth, lounging back against the cushions, and he practically melted under Stiles’ gaze.

“We’re not being very nice to your friends,” he murmured with a slow, curving smile, his tone making it clear that he didn’t care.

“Not my friends,” Stiles replied flippantly, “Told me so.” It was a statement spoken with conviction, and he could almost feel the pack flinch from across the bar.

The wolves were listening in.

“Who told you so?” Phee asked, because he was pretty sure no one had ever said exactly that.

“Guess!” Stiles demanded, his eyes bright as he caught the scent of a game. “You guess, and if you get it wrong, I drink!”

Phee and Jackson shared a smirk because it was becoming pretty clear that Stiles was letting himself fall into the drunkenness, embracing it with open arms. He really didn’t need any more than he’d already had, but Pheelan decided to humor him anyways.

“All right,” he agreed, surreptitiously edging Stiles beer away from him. “I’ll guess and you drink.”

“Hmm.” Not quite completely gone, Stiles’ eyes went cold and calculating. “Guess which one has a restraining order against me.”

Pheelan laughed. “Dirty pool,” he huffed, lifting his glass to clink it together with Jackson’s. “That one’s a trick question.”

“Besides, is had, had a restraining order,” the smaller blonde insisted, slurring his words on the upswing. “Dropped it, din’ I?”

“Yep! Cause you luuurrrvvv me!” Stiles grinned, throwing his arm around Jackson’s neck and dragging him in to press a sloppy, smacking kiss on his cheek.

Jackson laughed and shoved him roughly away, scrubbing harshly at his face. “Jus’ keepin’ my supplier close,” he mouthed off. “Gotta protect my glow stick fix.”

“You’re using me?” Stiles gasped with mock hurt, clutching his chest. “Heartless fiend.”

“God, send me insulin,” Phee deadpanned from across the table, “You two are giving me diabetes.”

Stiles leaned back in the booth and spread his arms wide, smirking as Jackson kicked his fellow werewolf beneath the table, making it jump and their beers slosh. “Play nice boys,” he demurred sweetly. “There’s plenty of me to go around.”

Eyes flaring bright gold in the dim of the club, Pheelan lifted his lip and growled low in his chest, unable to control the sound even as Jackson mimed gagging up his lunch. Caught off guard yet strangely pleased with his reaction, Stiles reached over and dragged his nails slowly up the big Irish wolf’s denim-clad inner thigh.

“Guess who hit me over the head with my own carburetor before telling me they had a crush on me,” he continued, like he wasn’t touching Phee at all.

“The blonde one,” Phee replied in a strangled voice, fighting the distracting fingers drawing patterns onto his knee. He’d heard this story before. “The cat, yeah? Erica?”

Stiles humphed, frowning as he took back his hand and stroked a finger along his pouting lower lip. “Guess which one let me sleep through a Calculus review, after he kept me up all night whining about how a Kelpie had ruined one of his favorite scarves. And then refused to share his notes!”

“Isaac.”

He knew that one too.

“Guess which one got a girlfriend and a new best bro and dropped me like I was hot?”

“You are hot,” Phee rumbled, quickly tiring of this game and cueing in on the fact that Stiles was starting to wallow. He was turning a night of fun into a bitchfest, and from the look on Jackson’s face Phee wasn’t the only one getting rapidly turned off by it. He knew Stiles was doing it for the benefit of the pack, for the wolves who flinched deeper and deeper into their misery and their drinks with each word the Touchstone uttered, but it wasn’t what he’d expected of their night out and it was starting to get on his feckin’ nerves.

“Christ Stilinski, don’t be such a sour son of a bitch,” Jackson muttered, draining the last half of his beer in one long go. “There’s enough of that goin’ round. Besides, you got what you want, don’t you?”

“Oh for God’s sake,” Stiles groaned exaggeratedly, dropping his head back and effectively not answering the question. “Just go ask her to dance, Whittemore, and put us all out of our misery!”

Shoving Phee on the shoulder, he pushed with hands and feet until he got the wolf out from behind the table and onto the floor, grabbing him by the wrist and hauling him into the center of the club. There was a wicked bit of music playing and he could feel it thrumming up through the souls of his feet and vibrating throughout his whole body, electric down his spine and crackling on the tips of his fingers. Pushing between the hot crush of bodies, he found a free bit of space and turned his back on the blonde, reaching behind himself to wrap an arm around his neck and drag him in close, baring his neck to the assault of the wolf’s mouth. Before he could even breathe a rough tongue swept out over his pulse, the points of sharp teeth scraping delicately over tender skin.

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
Screaming in the dark, I howl when we're apart
drag my teeth across your chest to taste your beating heart

Howl, howl
Howl, howl

Together the two of them swayed to the beat, consumed with each other’s bodies and the feel of skin on skin. Stiles’ fingers were locked in the curls at the nape of Phee’s neck, his hips gripped by large, warm hands that edged under the hem of his t-shirt as they pressed close, drunkenly desperate for contact. His heart was pounding in his chest, blood singing in his veins, but as Phee dragged the tips of his fangs down Stiles’ throat, biting down firmly against the curve of his shoulder, a chill swept through him like a winter wind, the sensation of eyes crawling all over his flesh making his stomach roll. It was eerie, disturbingly dark, and the sensation of being prey had him bucking and twisting away from Pheelan, the possessive hold of his hands and teeth too much for him to take.

“Get off, get off me!” He hissed, wrenching himself from the werewolf’s grip as the colored lights above the dance floor sent his vision off in a splash of red and blue. “Dammit, get the fuck off me!”

“Stiles, what the hell?” Pheelan snarled under his breath, shocked out of his druggy, lust-filled haze as Stiles jerked away, but the angry Touchstone was already stalking off across the floor, shoving people roughly out of his path as he scrabbled at his arms from elbows to wrists, like he was sloughing off water…

Or trying to claw his way out of his own skin.

If you could only see the beast you've made of me
I held it in but now it seems you've set it running free
The saints can't help me now, the ropes have been unbound
I hunt for you with bloodied feet across the hallow'd ground

Howl, howl
Howl, howl

Snowballing his way across the club, he rammed past protesting dancers and shouldered his way through a side exit, barreling out into the empty parking lot where another storm had blown up, rain falling fast and heavy, instantly soaking him down to the skin. Scraping his hair back viciously from his face, he paced three times across the pavement in short, hard strides, turning this way and that half in a frenzy as something boiled up inside of him, cold and cruel and ancient. Shivering under the chill of nightfall, furious without understanding why, he bared his teeth to the air, snarling to himself and scenting the thunderclouds that hung thick and black overhead.

If you could only see the beast you’ve made of me

Howl, howl

The club door slammed open behind him just as lightning flashed white across a cobalt sky and two werewolves came crashing out, his name harsh on their tongues.

Stiles felt his eyes go black just as his skin turned to ice, diamond sharp enough to cut glass, and it froze them in their tracks, long enough for his mouth to curve in a vicious grin before he turned his back on them both, jerking his keys from his pocket and striding quickly across the deserted lot to his jeep. Climbing inside with a bang and a roar of the engine, he met the larger wolf’s eyes, saluting him with a dangerous wink and slamming the vehicle into gear, peeling out with a harsh screech of tires and the smell of burnt ozone, leaving the both of them staring dumbly after.

“Oh what the fuck!” Jackson shouted a full minute later, when the reality of what had happened finally sank in. “What the hell was that?”

“Not Stiles,” Pheelan rumbled quietly, barely audible over the hiss of rain and roll of thunder overhead. “Something isn’t right.”

Chapter Text

By the time they’d run all the way back to the Stilinski house, both wolves were soaked to the bone, and though they normally temped much higher than humans, they were chilled and shivering under the brunt of the storm winds howling through the streets.

All together it had them sobered up in the space of a heartbeat.

Jackson had bitched and moaned the whole way back, righteously angry, yet he was steadfastly attentive to the fact that something was clearly wrong. He and Pheelan both knew Stiles, perhaps better than anyone else had in the last five years, and they saw the cold difference in their friend that seemed to come and go at the flip of a switch, even if they didn’t recognize it. It was frightening, unknown, and it made their hackles stand on end even as they came to the end of the drive to find the jeep sitting cool and placid in front of the garage.

Muttering about wet jeans and leather seats, Jackson grabbed a duffel bag out of the backseat of his rented Challenger before following Pheelan up the porch steps, letting them into the house using the spare key that Stiles had twisted onto his ring. Each of the two were on high alert as they stepped over the threshold, unsure of what they would find waiting for them, but the house was dark and silent, utterly still. Cocking his head, Phee listened for any sign that its inhabitants were moving about or pausing in the wait of an ambush, but the only sounds that came down from above were those of two steadily beating hearts and the deep, easy breathing of sleep.

“Dick,” Jackson muttered, dragging a pair of sweats out of his bag and shucking off his wet t-shirt, dropping it to puddle carelessly on the floor.

Phee cocked an eyebrow but the wolf just headed for the couch, snagging the blanket and pillow that the Sheriff had earlier abandoned in his Lazy Boy. Assured that he was settling in well for the night, Pheelan made his way up the stairs, pausing at the landing and listening for any signs of distress he may have missed. Finding none, he continued down the hallway to Stiles room, holding his breath as apprehension tightened like a vice around his chest until he managed to reach out and push the door slowly open with a quiet squeal of hinges.

All the air crashed violently out of his chest as he heaved a massive sigh of relief, his body going loose as the tension in his steeled muscles swirled away like dishwater down a drain. His knees buckled, almost sending him to the floor but he just managed to catch himself on the doorjamb despite his surprise at having his strings cut. Stiles was dead asleep in his bed, curled into a tight little ball on the middle of the quilt, and the paleness of his face, the dark circles heavy beneath his eyes gave him a childlike look of vulnerability that had his instincts lunging to the fore. The Touchstone’s body was just barely shaking and as he stood staring at his sleeping form, a chill breeze came in through the open window and sent Stiles into a slow, curling spasm, drawing in on himself for warmth as a brief shiver stretched over his body. Crossing the room Phee gently lowered the sash, and when he turned back to the bed Stiles had woken, blinking sleepily at him from beneath dark eyelashes, his gaze hushed and unfocused.

“Where were you?” he mumbled quietly, and Pheelan felt a chill of his own roll down his spine.

“Took us a while to get back,” he whispered in the dark, pausing before he began to peel out of his wet clothes. “Had to walk.”

“Walk?” Stiles slurred, pushing himself upright in the bed and running a hand through his hair. “What…”

Phee could practically hear the synapses starting to fire in his brain, see the smallest part of panic begin to shine in his eyes as he realized that something wasn’t right. Pulling back the quilt, he maneuvered Stiles quickly round until they were both beneath the covers, pulling him in close and tucking him against his chest as he wrapped an arm around the smaller man’s waist and held on for all he was worth.

“We went to the club,” he began quietly, murmuring the words in Stiles’ ear, and he could feel the Touchstone go rigid against the length of his body. “You, me, and Jackson. Had a couple drinks. The Banshee showed up, had her pack in tow… you wanted to show off. We were dancing, kissing… You don’t remember any of it?”

Stiles was silent, still in his arms, and Phee could smell dread rolling off of him as his mind raced for the answer, one the wolf feared he wouldn’t find.

“Pheelan what’s wrong with me,” he finally whimpered with a frightened, desperate whisper. “I can’t… I can’t remember anything. I’m forgetting, my glow is all over the place… I feel cold all the time and I can’t…”

Choking on the scent of fear and saltwater, Pheelan rumbled comfortingly, nuzzling into the hollow of Stiles’ neck beneath his jaw.

“Go to sleep little buddy,” he hummed quietly, stroking his palm along the length of Stiles’ arm, shoulder to wrist until he could link their fingers together. “We’ll figure this out, I promise. Till then I’ve got you.”

It was no hollow reassurance. He meant it, with everything he had and everything he was. He didn’t know how he’d gotten here, didn’t know how he’d let this man stake claim to his heart, but he feared that was what had happened, and as Stiles’ breathing slowly evened out again, as the trembling that had swept over his body leveled off, Pheelan let himself relax into the warmth that came from understanding that he’d let himself fall too far.

Of course, now that he knew, really knew, he ran the risk of losing his true form if he didn’t get his shit sorted.

He just wasn’t sure how to do that.

Gently relinquishing his hold on the sleeping Touchstone, Pheelan turned over onto his back and stared up at the ceiling in the dark, his mind finding patterns in the paint that weren’t actually there.

He and Stiles had always had an understanding with each other. They acknowledged that they weren’t in love and that that wasn’t what they expected from their relationship. Of course this meant that they had never rejected each other either, but they were always clear about the limits of their feelings and where they stood. Stiles had told him that he wished he could love him, but they both knew that that meant he didn’t, and Pheelan was afraid of what might come for both of them if this was the path he decided on taking.

For now though there were more pressing matters at hand.

Whatever darkness occasionally slipped in to Stiles’ mind seemed to be growing deeper, blacking out his memories and twisting his intentions, and the man was clearly frightened for his own wits. Pheelan himself knew little of magics or the spark that powered the Touchstone’s healing glow, his effervescent nature, but he knew that this new cold he could sense growing in the man’s core wasn’t right, wasn’t him, and he would do all in his power to help Stiles rid himself of it.

The night dragged on endlessly as he stared round the childhood room of the man sleeping at his side, thoughts running circles through his mind as he chased them hopelessly along, a wolf after its tail. Nothing would come to him that might suggest a solution, to either of the problems that he faced, and he thought that he may have never felt so miserable as he did in that moment. The sun had well risen in the sky outside of the window when he heard the Sheriff rise, heard the shower go on and off before John dressed and headed downstairs. Unable to face the father of the man his fevered brain had chased all night long, Pheelan held himself still until after he’d heard the coffee brew, until after he heard the garage door creak open and the sound of the cruiser fade off down the street.

Rolling quietly from the bed, he dressed in silence before descending the stairs.

Jackson was still snoring lightly in the living room, one arm and one leg flung over the back of the couch as he had turned practically sideways in sleep. As Pheelan passed on his way to the kitchen the smaller werewolf growled nervously, pressing his body back into the cushions as he fought with his dreams, and he felt some small sense of gladness that he wasn’t the only one cowering to a growing sense of unease. It wasn’t a malicious thought - he was merely appreciative of knowing that he wasn’t just being driven mad by his own confused emotions, wasn’t the only one to recognize that something dangerous was lurking on the peripheries of this place, edging closer with each storm that blew through.

Entering the kitchen, Pheelan found a note taped to the coffee maker letting the boys know that the Sheriff had gone in to the ER to have Melissa McCall remove his stitches and that he would then be heading over to the Station – just to make sure they hadn’t completely turned the place into a three-ring circus in his absence. As for himself Phee wasn’t worried about the man; he was in little pain and healing well, but he knew that Stiles wouldn’t be quite so easily placated. Finding a mug he poured himself a full cup of coffee though he really detested the stuff, the dregs of their night out still clinging to the rafters in his head and making him feel just a little bit muzzy on the morning-after. Sitting down to the dining table, he sipped the drink slowly, letting the bitter brew burn at the back of his throat that he might not think too much.

It wasn’t long before Jackson woke, with a sharp bark and a thud that suggested he’d rolled from his crooked and rather precarious perch onto the floor. A few short, muttered curses later he was stomping into the kitchen and pouring his own cup of coffee, looking disgruntled in rumpled sweats and a wrinkled t-shirt. He clearly hadn’t slept well. Flopping into a chair across from Phee, he heaved a sigh and rubbed at his eyes before lifting his mug to breath into the steam.

“What’d he say?” the man mumbled into his mug, his words tight with anxiety.

“He didn’t remember,” Pheelan replied after a minute, trying simply to recite and not let himself feel the words. “Not anything. Not leaving us at Jungle, hell, not even being there in the first place.”

“Jesus,” Jackson whispered, putting his coffee down to drag his fingers roughly through his hair and hang his head in his hands.

“He said he’s losing time,” Phee continued, “That he’s got the chills. Can’t remember things the way he should. Says he’s losing control of his spark, can’t find his glow... He’s panicking Jackson, and the hell of it is that I can’t blame him. I’ve seen it growing in him, just didn’t see it for what it was. I thought it was just being here, just coming back to this place, these memories, but it’s…”

“It’s more than that,” Jackson finished, and it wasn’t a question. He had felt it too, seen it in Stiles with his own eyes.

“When he lost control the other night, flashed out through his circle, that should’ve been a red flag,” Pheelan said solemnly. “He’s so much… angrier, so on edge all the time…”

“Should we take him home?” Jackson asked, lifting his head to look Pheelan full in the face. “To Ireland, I mean. Just get him the hell out of Beacon Hills before this thing gets worse?”

“You think it would stop there?” Pheelan asked, and the crestfallen look on Jackson’s face answered for him. “I don’t know what this thing is, but something tells me if we don’t figure it out…”

“That bodies might start piling up?”

Both wolves shut up after that, unable to deal with the very real possibility of Jackson’s supposition, and that was how Stiles found them twenty minutes later when he came stumbling in to the kitchen, groaning against the pounding in his head and the sloshing turn of his stomach.

“Hung over?” Jackson asked, forcing a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

Stiles just flipped him off, heading for the coffee pot and pouring himself a steaming cup before grabbing a bottle of Advil from the cupboard and shaking three out into his palm.

“Serves you right,” the werewolf continued, watching carefully as Stiles read his father’s note, holding the paper close to his face as though he were having trouble with the hastily scrawled letters. “Should’ve warned me your wolf candy packed so much punch – damn things knocked me for a bloody whirl.”

“What would’ve been the fun in that?” Stiles asked, his voice raspy as he lowered himself into a chair with a groan. “At least I’ve got someone to suffer alongside of.”

At this both of them aimed a nasty glare in Pheelan’s direction, who had gotten away more lightly given his significantly greater body mass. The blonde shrugged, getting up to place his empty mug in the sink before leaning back on the counter.

“Want to go for a run?” he asked casually, watching both Stiles and Jackson perk up a bit at his suggestion. “I could use a shift.”

“Oh god, yes please!” Jackson begged, getting to his feet. “It’s been a frickin’ week – I feel like I’m about to come out of my skin.”

“You’re fine,” Stiles muttered, rolling his eyes. “The full moon’s a week away, you’re not dying.”

“Please, Stiles,” Jackson whined pleadingly, bouncing closer to Stiles’ chair and giving him huge puppy-dog eyes. “Pretty pretty please?”

“You suck at that you know,” Stiles grumbled, climbing to his feet anyway. “You’ve got nothing on what Isaac used to have. But fine; I’ll go change and we’ll head for the Preserve.”

“Yes!” Jackson cheered, pumping his fist in the air as Stiles headed for the stairs.

Pheelan watched as the Touchstone climbed them with an easy laugh, encouraged by the way he had mentioned the pack and the Preserve without any sign of anger or distress. Still…

“Keep an eye on him,” Phee growled under his breath as he and Jackson dragged their shirts off and folded them neatly.

Working his belt buckle, Jackson nodded with a serious look and then both men were dropping down to the floor, shifting as they went so that by the time they hit their hands and knees they were really hitting all fours, stepping out of their jeans and socks which had fallen away from their bodies as they twisted to take on this new shape. Shaking out his fur, Pheelan gave a little lung toward the other wolf’s side, and they took a minute to sniff each other and press their bodies close, trading scents and mouthing at each other’s necks and muzzles in greeting. A light hearted laugh had them breaking apart, turning to find Stiles dressed in a pair of basketball shorts and a t-shirt he’d cut the sides out of, grinning and shaking his head at their antics.

Flicking his tail snootily, Jackson turned up his nose, but it took no special invitation to have him joining in when Pheelan skipped forward, pressing against Stiles’ legs and leaning heavily against him as his hands found their ears, rubbing and scratching and stroking them as he chuckled.

“You guys are awesome,” he praised with a smile, dusting off his hands before picking up the wolves’ clothes. “There’s no official leash laws here so I think you’ll be good, but I’ll bring these just in case you have to shift back, ok?” Packing the clothes down into the bottom of an athletic bag, he dropped in his keys and a bottle of water before heading towards the door, the wolves dancing impatiently around his ankles.

“All right, all right,” he laughed, locking the door behind him. “Race you to the stop sign!”

Chapter Text

All in all Stiles thought himself a good person.

He was generally a good friend, a good partner, a good son, though on the rare occasion he liked his tricks and on an even rarer occasion he could be petty and stubborn, making bad decisions to go right along with his bad attitude.

He didn’t consider his having left Beacon Hills a bad decision, but sometimes he did think that staying gone might not be something he could forgive himself for.

It wasn’t that he’d left Lydia, or Scott, or any of the others he had once called friend, but that he had left his father, left him when he had already lost the one closest to him once before. It was a thought that often plagued him, cut at his heart like a steel blade despite the weekly phone calls, the regular video chats that helped to keep them close but couldn’t substitute for a hug or a clap on the shoulder when either needed one. He still felt guilty for not being there to protect his father from the dangers of the supernatural world, and perhaps some small part of that came from the residual guilt of being responsible for pulling Scott in at the very start, but either way, he felt he owed his father more than what he’d paid.

And that was how he found himself turning in towards town instead of heading straight for the Preserve, ignoring the wolves’ questioning looks and jogging over to the diner on fifth, leaving them waiting on the curb while he slipped inside and placed an order. It was still early, a bit before noon, but Josie, the chef and owner who so far hadn’t been around when he’d dropped by, was so happy to see him again that she unbent her steadfast rule and set the grill to lunch before breakfast was done being served. Awarded a warm hug and a heavy paper sack stained with grease, Stiles smiled his thanks and finally slipped away, back onto the sidewalk where Jackson and Phee began to snuffle at him interestedly.

“Nu-uh,” Stiles scolded, pushing away curious noses and paws. “Bad dogs, no biscuit! This isn’t for you, it is a very important apology slash peace offering!”

Setting out at a leisurely stroll, Stiles found himself rambling easily to the two massive wolves who followed at his heel. Even Jackson’s shoulders came almost to his hips, though he was significantly smaller than Phee, their blonde pelts thick and soft and wild. He got a few looks from those he passed, others on the sidewalk moving carefully out of their way with wide, sometimes frightened eyes, but he ignored them. He wasn’t paying any attention to what he himself was saying, not even to where he was headed really, but by the time he’d blurted out all the things he felt and how he wasn’t sure around his dad anymore, how he wanted to start making things right again, his feet had found the familiar path they’d taken so many times before and landed him on the steps outside of the police station.

“Wait here ok?” he asked, and both Jackson and Phee settled back onto their haunches with a huff. “I’ll be quick, I promise, and then we’ll really run.”

Glancing back to make sure they weren’t following him, he pushed through the glass doors into the lobby. His father was standing there with his back to him, talking to one of his long-time employees Tara, who was sequestered behind the counter tapping away at the computer. She glanced over the Sheriff’s shoulder when he stepped inside, offering him the standard welcome smile, but it was obvious that she didn’t recognize him.

“I’ll be right with you Sir,” she said, and Stiles chuffed.

“Sir?” he laughed, stepping up to his dad’s side who halfway turned at the sound of his voice, bumping him gently on his good shoulder. “Hear that dad? She called me Sir. Never did think I’d graduate from Kid…”

“Stiles?!”

He didn’t have the time to respond before Tara was around the counter and hugging him tightly, kissing him on the cheek before pushing him back to arm’s length and looking him up and down.

“Sweetie, how are you?” she asked excitedly, taking his chin in her hand and turning him left and right. “You look great! Your father didn’t tell us you were back – it’s so good to see you!”

“Thanks Tara,” he smiled, letting her stretch and fold him until she was satisfied, then sinking in to another warm embrace. “It’s good to see you too.” And it really was – Tara had done her best to be a surrogate mom to him when he was little, helping him with his homework and making him little beds on the couch in the lounge when he’d stayed the night at the station with his father. She was a kind and caring soul, and Stiles was happy to see that she was still with the Beacon Hills PD. She certainly offered a sense of grace and welcome to anyone who came in needing help.

“I hope my dad’s been on his best behavior while I was gone?”

“Hey hey hey,” the Sheriff warned, shooing a smiling Tara back behind the desk. “None of that. I’m not…”

John’s eyes went wide as he trailed off, and his hand flashed automatically to his hip even though he wasn’t wearing his sidearm. Tara was though, and she’d caught sight of the same thing the Sheriff had as Stiles moved back, drawing it smoothly as she rounded in front of Stiles, both cops widening their stances as they turned to the doors, pale as they took in the two huge wolves sitting outside, watching intently with their heads cocked.

“Hey, no!” Stiles yelped, darting between them and holding up his hands. “They’re mine, I’m… pet sitting!”

“Pet sitting?” Tara choked, her voice tight. “Stiles those are…”

“Dogs!” he insisted, his hands still out, ready to stop a bullet if he had to. “Just dogs. Big dogs, well behaved dogs.”

“Dogs?”

“Sure,” Stiles said shakily, glaring at his father as Tara slowly holstered her gun. “What else?”

“We’ve still got reports of wolves in the county,” his father explained, still staring through the glass at the wolves. “No sightings, but… Jesus kid. Are they safe?”

“Yes,” Stiles insisted, finally letting go of the tingle in his fingers as Tara relaxed back on her heels. “Jack and Fifi are perfectly safe.”

The Sheriff blinked, finally catching on, but he was still staring like he’d seen some kind of miracle. And to be fair he pretty much had - he’d heard about the full shift but he’d never seen it, seen a man twist and turn, become a real wolf with tail and teeth and four huge paws. Hell, Stiles’ own breath still caught in his throat whenever he witnessed the flash of a True Form, and Jackson and Phee cut an impressive figure; huge, heavy, muscular bodies, thick blonde pelts - one buttery yellow and the other tawny and tipped a darker brown. Their eyes were dark and intelligent in their furry faces, noses black and quivering at the end of slender muzzles, ears sharp and alert as they listened from the other side of the door. Stiles caught himself grinning at them, his glow responding with a strong tug and pulling him to their sides.

“Come on,” he gestured to his dad, “Come meet them.”

The Sheriff, frowned, shared a glance with Tara who was still staring nervously, her hand hovering near the rip of her pistol, but Stiles touched his elbow and led him forward, pushing back outside into the sunshine where Phee jumped forward to greet him with a gentle buffet of his wide shoulders against his legs. Jackson sat back and waited, cocking his head at Stiles’ father and letting his mouth fall open in a doggy grin, offering him a little buffing woof, a sound Stiles recognized as one of reassurance. As he sat down on the sidewalk next to Phee and threw his arm over his shoulders, he saw his dad’s hand come out to pat Jackson on the head before he jerked it back, his face reddening.

“Sorry,” he muttered, “I shouldn’t…”

“It’s ok,” Stiles promised, and Jackson agreed by stepping forward and nudging his head beneath the Sheriff’s hand until he began to stroke him gently, scratching behind his ears. “We’re not really pack, but I’m important to them and you’re important to me, so we’re… sort of pack…”

“Still weird,” his dad grumbled, though his hand had grown heavier, not so tentative now as he scrubbed Jackson’s ruff. “Politics aside. Touching them like this when they’re really men…”

Stiles laughed.

“It was weird for me too at first,” he replied, scratching Phee’s ears. “But you can’t really think of it like that. They’re not man and wolf, separate that way. They’re just both, just themselves. Phee says he thinks like a werewolf no matter what form he’s in. They follow their instincts, so if they need to snuggle up with pack they do it no matter what shape they’re in.”

“So this is ok?” the Sheriff asked, directing the question more to the wolf he was petting than his son. “It isn’t… uncomfortable for them?”

“If it was they wouldn’t be letting you do it,” Stiles snorted, sticking out his foot to poke Jackson in the ribs. “Jack here is still a pissy douche when he gets in a mood. Trust me, when he doesn’t wanna be touched he lets you know.”

Jackson huffed, switching his tail as the Sheriff rose to his full height, dusting off his hands and reaching down to pull Stiles up.

“Any reason you’re waltzing them through town?”

“Told you,” Stiles grinned, “They’re big dogs; what kind of a pet sitter would I be if they didn’t get their exercise? We’re going for a run in the Preserve.”

“Still doesn’t tell me why you’ve got them sitting on the sidewalk giving all the locals heart attacks.”

“Oh yeah.”

Reaching down, Stiles grabbed the fat paper sack off the sidewalk, holding it out like a peace offering. The Sheriff cocked an eyebrow, looked at it warily before taking it with careful movements, opening the top to peer inside as though he expected something to jump out at him. He almost laughed when the man’s eyebrows came down hard and he looked up at Stiles with a frown.

“These are French fries,” he said, his tone serious and a little scared.

“And a real burger, medium-well,” Stiles agreed with a nod.

A second passed as they stared each other down.

“What did you do?” his dad asked.

Stiles opened his mouth the crack a joke, make a light-hearted comment, but that wasn’t what came out of his mouth.

“I left.”

Those two little words felt like they’d been torn from his chest, hot and sharp and bloody, and tears flooded Stiles’ eyes, stinging and painful as his breath got tight in his throat. He swallowed hard, trying to find the control that had left him in one fast, hard rush, but it wasn’t anywhere to be found. His hands began to shake and he fisted them at his sides, tearing his gaze from his shoes to meet his father’s, the older man’s face gone soft and tender and concerned.

“Stiles…” he began, but Stiles was launching himself at him and pulling him into a crushing hug, holding on like he was scared his dad would disappear into the ether if he didn’t.

“I left,” he sobbed against the shoulder of his uniform, stiff and pressed beneath his cheek, smelling of the familiar brand of cheap laundry soap the Stilinski’s had used all his life. “Oh god, I left but I didn’t come back. Dad, I didn’t…”

“Shh,” The Sheriff hushed him, finally breaking out of his shock enough to return his son’s embrace, strong and warm and safe, and Stiles was dazed by how hard he was hit with the realization that he had craved this, needed this, maybe for years. “You’re all right. We’re all right. You’re here Stiles, you did come back.”

Finally letting go and drawing back, Stiles nodded stiffly but it didn’t feel true, and the wolves sensed it because they pressed in close on either side, offering silent strength.

“I’m all right,” he rasped, scrubbing roughly at his cheeks. “I just…”

“Stiles, I want you happy,” his dad said suddenly, and the sincerity in his voice was almost painful. “That’s all I ever wanted for you. And you were happy, so how could I be mad that you stayed gone? But…”

Stiles flinched, ready for the worst.

“Look, I know I never said it,” the Sheriff said, and his voice had gone rough and gruff and he was rubbing at his neck awkwardly. “I didn’t want to… make you feel guilty, so I didn’t say it, but… maybe I should’ve. I missed you kid.”

Stiles’ head snapped up and he met his dad’s gaze, feeling a tremble run down his spine. His dad never had said it, in all the years he’d been away, and in his heart he knew it was because he was being careful, giving him the space he needed to find himself and learn what it was he really wanted. But if the swooping feeling in his stomach was anything to go by, somewhere deep in his subconscious he had been hurt.

“I missed you,” he said again, and Stiles’ heart clenched. “Every day, and it’d be… hell, it’d be like Christmas if you stayed, but I won’t ask for that. I want you happy, and you were happy in Ireland. Happy with Jackson and Phee.”

“I was,” he whispered brokenly, looking down at the wolves who stared back solemnly. “I was happy. But…”

“But?”

Stiles shook his head, his mouth grim.

“I can’t,” he choked, “I can’t promise…”

Reaching out, the Sheriff pulled him in for a gentle, easy, one-armed hug. “You don’t have to,” he assured, mumbling into Stiles’ hair. “I won’t lie, it sounds like you’re thinking about it and that… that means a hell of a lot, but if you decide not to… stay… well, maybe it’ll be safe to visit now and then huh?”

“Promise,” Stiles said insistently, returning his dad’s hug and breathing in the scent of him, Pert and Speedstick and Hoppe’s No. 9. “I won’t run again. I never should have.”

“The past is past,” his father said, and the words struck a chord somewhere in Stiles’ chest. “Forgiven, forgotten, ok? We can figure it out from here.”

“Deal.”

“All right then. Now get out of here, give these boys a run for their money.” Smiling, he gave the wolves one last scratch before hefting the sack in his hand. “Thanks for lunch.”

“No problem,” Stiles replied, watching as his father turned back to the station. “Hey dad?”

The Sheriff turned, arching one eyebrow.

“I missed you too.”

Chapter Text

It was unbelievable, how much better he felt after talking to his dad.

He hadn’t realized just how much he needed a hug, to have a mini breakdown and feel like a little kid again being pulled into the protection of his father’s embrace. He felt safe and warm and loved there, like he fit… it was the way he felt with Jackson and Phee, the way he felt when he sank into a good glow, just… more. He imagined it was the way he might feel if he had wolves to call his own, a pack to claim him in return. All that gentle heat and devotion cranked up to ten and drowning in family and belonging…

Fuck, he wanted that.

And that was the only reason he was even considering a future that included Beacon Hills. Maybe not staying here, living here, but… something.

Shaking his head, Stiles quickened his pace, aiming for the opposite side of town where a narrow running path began, heading down into the bowl of the Preserve before rounding back up the cliffs and across. The wolves were sticking tight to his heels, holding themselves back while his tension and distress still clung to him like wood smoke, but once he hit the trailhead and the trees loomed up high above him, the smell of leaves and loam whispering in on the breeze had all that smoke lifting away, lighting off of him like dark ravens into the ether.

Once they were safely inside the preserve Stiles really opened up, tapping into his nature and the more wolfish features it gave him, the steely strength in his muscles that pushed him forward hard and hot. Leaving the level dirt path in favor of the natural dips and dives of the more rugged Californian terrain, the wolves yipped with delight, darting back and forth, criss-crossing all around him as they ran and leapt and vaulted over fallen logs and rocky outcroppings, barreling fiercely through the low brush before darting back to his side, snarling and snapping playfully at his ankles. It didn’t take him long to follow, foregoing the easier trail for the joy of chasing his friends, charging after them through the trees.

Born to run with wolves, his spark supercharged him like a hellcat engine, and nothing was more glorious than to rocket after them with his heart thundering in his chest.

Working their way up and around the ridge, Stiles paused at the top in the place where he’d first met with the pack, climbing the rocks to look down at the city below. Lifting his face to the breeze, he scented the air for the bitterness that should have marked it, the anger and hurt and magic that should have lingered, but the recent storms had washed it all away, cleansing the earth so deeply that nothing was left behind. It was soothing on his rattled emotions, calming to know that not all things lasted forever.

Stiles’ gaze moved slowly across the vista in the valley below, lighting on all the little places that he knew and remembered – his home, Scott’s, the police station and the lacrosse field and the school – all the places that had meant something to him once, and maybe still did. Very little appeared to have changed in his absence, and while he wasn’t sure how that made him feel, a small part of him was glad of it.

A wet nose nudged his hand and Stiles reached out absently to rub Pheelan’s ears.

“I’m all right,” he mumbled, still staring out across the basin of the city.

And he was. For now. Whatever chill had caught hold of him, whatever darkness was haunting the space around his heart seemed to have burned away, so for a while at least he could breathe freely knowing that he wasn’t blacking out and fucking things up.

At least to the best of his abilities.

“Come on,” Stiles offered, leaping down from the rocks to Jackson’s side, who had been waiting patiently at the bottom of the cliff. “You guys haven’t worn me out yet.”

Chuffing a wolf’s laugh, Jackson and Phee took the challenge for what it was and turned tail on him, kicking it into high gear and tearing away along the ridge with Stiles close on their heels. It didn’t take long for all his anxieties to burn away, for him to lose himself in the pleasant burn of his muscles, the sweat on his brow and the pushpushpush of the run, the joy that welled up hot in his chest at the simple pleasure of running side by side with his wolves. He got into a certain headspace when he did it right, his own thought patterns falling away until he felt like a wolf himself, all instinct and senses, the heartbeats of his small, make-believe pack thrumming over his skin like raindrops, and it was the best he ever felt, whole and right and natural.

Taking a sharp turn, Stiles heard the wolves skid and crash through the underbrush as they dug in their claws and whipped around to follow, making short barking sounds as they began to chase. Happy to oblige, he zigzagged around a bit, a short, fast game of tag as he led them towards the creek. Slowing to a walk, he eased his way carefully down the bank, flopping onto a large rock while Phee and Jackson both splashed into the water with puppy-like abandon, kicking up geysers before dropping their heads to lap up a long, cool drink. Following their example, he shrugged out of the strings of his bag and pulled out his water bottle, draining half of it in a single, gulping pull. Dragging the back of his wrist over his mouth, he took a minute to catch his breath, watching as the wolves lay down in the shallow rush of the creek to cool themselves. With the sun beating down on the back of his neck he was just contemplating joining them when his phone began to ring, the shrill, artificial beep of it grating and wrong in the calm white noise of the woods around them.

Groaning loudly, he fished it out of his pocket and brought it to his ear, barking into the receiver.

“Stilinski!”

“Umm, Stiles? It’s, um… Scott, it’s Scott.”

Stiles felt a chill run down his spine and he straightened up sharply, his body tightening like a wire.

“How did you get this number?” he rasped into the phone, shocked beyond imagining to hear his ex-best friend’s voice coming through the speaker.

“I…”

“Never mind,” he interrupted. “I can guess. What do you want?”

A pained, high-pitched whine echoed down the line, making him jerk back and scowl at the phone in his hand.

“Can’t I just call a friend,” the voice on the other end whimpered, and Stiles felt his upper lip draw back off his teeth, a growl rumbling up out of his chest.

“No,” he snarled. “You haven’t called me for anything but answers to Chem homework or monster mash-ups in years; what do you need this time?”

“Hey that’s not fair!” Scott yelped, anger leaking into his tone, and maybe it wasn’t but it damn-well felt fair to Stiles. “I tried, we all tried, but you…”

Suddenly Scott made a garbled mmph-ing sound, static and scrabbling harsh against the phone, but no spike of fear leapt in Stiles’ chest. Instead he sighed and rolled his eyes, arching one eyebrow as he waited patiently to learn what had happened this time. He didn’t doubt that Scott wanted something, and if the pattern held then the beta was in some kind of trouble again. The only difference was that this time he was in no great yank to go running to the rescue.

“Stiles? It’s Allison.”

Right then.

“Listen, the pack is having a barbecue out at Derek’s. Would you like to come?”

Stiles made a choking sound, so startled he thought he might’ve swallowed his tongue. The wolves raised their heads sharply, ears high and alert as they watched him with wary eyes.

“Stiles?”

“Why?” he finally managed, his voice ragged around the rock in his throat.

This time it was Allison’s turn to be shocked silent. Three painful heartbeats passed, a knife in Stiles’ chest, and then she was talking again, her voice low and gentle and wounded.

“We’d like to see you,” she answered carefully. “We’d like to… try this over. All of us.”

Stiles dropped his elbows down onto his knees, dragging a shaking hand through his damp hair, blowing out a long, shivery breath. This wasn’t something he’d expected, wasn’t something he… well. In the end he supposed he wasn’t surprised that it was Allison who reached for him, apparently the only one brave enough to come right out and offer an olive branch. The huntress had balls of brass, almost as fierce as Lydia, and maybe it was because it was her that he finally responded.

“When?” he asked, and was shocked when he didn’t immediately regret it.

“Oh. Well we’re all here; any time really. We usually spend the afternoon, do a bonfire, so… You know, whenever’s good for you…”

Frowning at the wolves who had come to stand in front of him, Stiles, tapped his fingers anxiously against his knee and biting the bullet and making up his mind.

“I’ll be there in five.”

For a full minute Allison stood stock still, staring at the phone in her hand. When she’d suggested to the pack that they invite Stiles, insisted really, she hadn’t thought he’d accept. She’d even gone so far as to warn Scott not to expect it, telling him that as far as first steps went, a gently declined offer might be best.

She should have known better than to let the werewolf be the one to make the call. Really her first choice would have been Lydia, but the Banshee had been silent and withdrawn ever since leaving the Jungle the night before, sleeping off half a bottle of Scotch in one of the free rooms at the pack house before spending the entirety of the morning holed up in the library with Peter. Sensitive to the fact that she had been rattled by Jackson’s appearance, Allison had slipped in to mention that they were planning to ask Stiles over in order to allow the redhead the chance to make herself scarce, only to find her lying on the couch with her head in Peter’s lap, staring at the ceiling while the wolf placidly turned the pages of Sun Tzu’s Art of War. No one in the pack understood the strange friendship that had blossomed between the two - the odd care Lydia expressed for the man who had so hurt her and the easy familiarity of touch that Peter refused to suffer from any of the others - but no one questioned it. It worked for them, and as far as intelligence or deviousness went no one else could keep up, so they were often left to their own company.

Allison had been hesitant to intrude on the peace they had found in each other’s presence, the quiet moment they had commandeered by turning the library into a place the other pack members rarely ventured into, but she was even more wary of springing an unpleasant surprise on her friend, and so she had knocked and pushed in quickly, blurting out her intentions before her nerve could abandon her. Peter had raised a sardonic eyebrow in her direction but Lydia hadn’t responded beyond informing her that she had no intention of running from her old flame.

Not exactly in those words of course, but that was neither here nor there.

The Banshee had made no move to leave her place on the couch, alerting Allison to the fact that there was no way she was going to get Lydia to make the call, so she had quickly excused herself from their presence. She’d closed the library door firmly behind her as a manner of peace offering, but not before she’d seen Lydia turn her cheek into Peter’s thigh and the werewolf drop an easy hand to her hair. The strongest and perhaps the most dangerous in the eyes of all the pack, the young woman and the blue-eyed beta were intensely gentle with each other behind closed doors, and it was reassuring to know that they had come so far. Peter would kill for Lydia, of that Allison had no doubt, and perhaps knowing that he was standing alert and ready at her back would help her friend get through this difficult time.

Regardless, it had been unwise to subsequently go to Scott. Erica would have perhaps been the better choice, or Isaac as their second beta, but her partner had been so terribly miserable and mopey since Stiles’ return that she’d finally just snapped at him to call, to man up and accept his lumps if he had too. They all needed to own up to that, accept their parts in what had happened, what had driven the young man away so many years ago and then kept him gone, and unless she was very much mistaken it needed to start with Scott.

Standing in the middle of the wide lawn with the pack milling all around, listening intently while attempting to keep up the semblance of going about their respective tasks, she almost smacked herself when the conversation quickly turned sour. She might have known that Scott would be unable to respond defensively, his hurt coloring him desperate and forcing the words out of him hotly and harshly. Acting quickly, she’d grabbed him round the neck and slapped a hand over his mouth, scuffling briefly before wresting the phone from his grip and taking over.

As much as it had hurt to hear Stiles question the motive behind the invitation, the honest curiosity almost breaking her heart, the greater shock was still to come when he had shakily accepted and then promptly ended the call, leaving her staring at the phone with surprise, delight, and nervousness warring in her chest.

“Well?” Scott demanded, leaning forward anxiously with a pleading look on his face. “What did he say?”

“He’s coming,” she stated with no little awe in her tone. “He said he’ll be here in five.”

“Really?” Erica squealed from across the yard, where she and Boyd were stacking wood near the fire pit, well away from the house. “He’s coming?!”

“His house is at least ten minutes away,” Derek frowned, dropping a cooler full of home-brewed beer and ice onto the patio steps near its twin. “What…”

“Maybe he’s just excited,” Erica said hopefully. “Maybe…”

Her supposition was cut off when the man in question came bursting out of the trees that circled the back of the property, hauling ass as though the hounds of hell were on his heels. Instantly on alert, the pack half shifted as they rocked forward, snarling as they prepared to do battle on behalf of the friend they’d lost. Behind him two massive streaks of blonde fur came barreling after, the sun glinting off their pelts as they raced the Touchstone towards the house, quickly gaining on him. Allison felt fear spike sharply in her chest as adrenaline flooded her veins, but then Stiles was looking back over his shoulder and breaking into a wide grin, skidding to a stop a yard before crashing into her with triumphant laugh.

“I win!” he cheered with a gasp as the wolves stomped on the brakes, digging in to stop themselves from overtaking the group. “Bite me, failwolves!”

The wolves looked at each other before turning back to Stiles with wickedly devious eyes, far too human in lupine faces, and Allison instinctively took a step back as they advanced forward slowly and deliberately, one step at a time.

“Oh, don’t you dare,” Stiles warned, mimicking her retreat. “No, no, no!”

Reaching out, he grabbed Scott by the arm and dragged him forward just in time, using him as a shield as the wolves jumped towards him in unison, shaking out their heavy pelts hard and sending up a spray of water that flashed in the sun, showering them all with a fine, warm mist.

“Oh, you guys suck,” Stiles grimaced, lifting the hem of his shirt to wipe off his face. “Jerks.” Straightening up, he stuck his hands into the pockets of his shorts and offered them all a smart-assed grin, radiating cockiness and bravado, and Allison had to wonder if it was sincere or if he was just protecting himself.

“Hey guys!”

Chapter Text

He was going for confidant.

Cocky even.

Anything but how he really felt, cautious and uncertain and maybe even a little bit scared. He was hesitant to let himself consider the idea that this might be an apology, a chance to really start over like Allison had suggested, because he was terrified of the fallout if that wasn’t the case. Or even if it was. He knew himself well enough to know that if it all fell apart again something bad was going to happen.

Something worse than running away.

So it was cocky, bullet-proof, invincible – masks he could pull off with impeccable ease.

He’d like to see them hurt him that way.

Scott was still standing close, sniffing the air with what he probably thought was subtlety but what was horrifically obvious, and the moony, love struck look on his face was giving Stiles the creeps. It was far too near the look he’d worn back in high school when he’d first become so enamored with Allison. Suppressing a sarcastic comment – the natural defense of his species – he arched an eyebrow and took a measured step back, but decided to mitigate the distance with a greeting.

“Scotty,” he said, careful not to put too much of anything into the word, but from the light in the beta’s eyes it wasn’t as effective as he’d hoped.

Fine. Moving on.

“Allison,” he added, turning to the Huntress with a nod.

The pretty girl’s face lit up from the inside out, all dimples and glittering smile, and he was painfully reminded of why he’d liked the girl so much in the first place.

“I’m glad you came Stiles,” she said, softly but earnestly, and the weirdest thing was he believed her.

“I was in the neighborhood,” he shrugged, and that got a little bit of a laugh.

“Out for a run?” she asked, and Stiles watched her carefully as she ran an interested yet cautious eye over the two wolves sitting quietly behind him, their tongues lolling easily from their mouths.

“Sure.”

Things stalled out there, none of the three of them sure what to say next, and Stiles shifted uncomfortably on his feet, the eyes of the pack hot on his skin as they mimicked his squirming, desperate to come closer but to smart or too nervous to do so. Half of him was glad for it but the other half wished someone else would step up, that someone else would take the responsibility of the conversation off of his shoulders.

He got that wish, because just as he was opening his mouth to say something he’d probably regret, the big glass doors at the back of the house opened and Lydia stepped out onto the patio, looking unfairly put together for someone who had been drinking Scotch the night before, and oh yeah, he’d seen that. She showed no signs of a hangover however, nothing more suspect than a large, fashionable pair of sunglasses perched delicately on her nose. He wondered if Peter had anything to do with it, unable to miss the werewolf’s hand resting lightly at the small of her back as he followed her out, but he halfway understood the relationship they’d found together so he wouldn’t begrudge her the pain relief if that was the case. Though she didn’t venture beyond the edge of the patio, she did raise her hand in an elegant little wave, and Stiles felt some of his tension leave him.

“Excuse me,” he murmured with a smarmy grin, giving Allison a shallow little mock of a bow.

Turning away from the pair, and completely ignoring the whimper that snuck out of Scott’s throat, he left them standing near the edge of the trees and walked the gauntlet of the wide, grassy yard, flanked on either side by wolves who strained towards him but still held themselves back.

Story of his life right?

Stiles clenched his jaw, kept his eyes on Lydia as he slowly ran his own personal maze of hell.

He knew now what had happened back in his senior year – he was too smart to have not put the pieces together. The pull he’d felt, that the pack had felt, that horrible, undeniable draw had all been a part of coming into his own, of growing into the glow of his nature, his inheritance and his birth right. And some small part of him too understood what it had meant at the time, the fear of what was changing and what was yet unknown.

But that didn’t mean that he was ready to accept or forgive what had followed.

Brushing quickly past Derek and Isaac who were standing anxious and alert at the bottom of the patio steps, he ducked around the coolers, the grill, the table that groaned under the weight of a werewolf-sized spread, and went straight to her side. Taking her hands, he lifted each to his mouth and bestowed them with a kiss before she pulled him in to a warm, gentle hug.

“You all right beautiful?” he murmured quietly into her hair.

“Of course,” she replied flippantly, and even if he hadn’t felt the recoil of Peter’s wolf along his side, he could hear the lie in her voice.

“You’re sure?”

“I’m fine Stiles,” she insisted, pulling back and touching his cheek. “I’m glad you’re here.”

Unwilling to return the sentiment though not incapable – he’d learned how to lie successfully to wolves a long time ago – Stiles made a kind of humming sound in the back of his throat. This got a chuckle out of Peter, but he wore a softer expression than Stiles had expected when he tuned to face him so he let it slide, accepting the handshake he was offered instead.

“Stiles,” he said, somehow managing to be gravely serious and still inject his words with the smoky curl of danger and innuendo that he’d always had.

Still a bit of a creep then.

Well, it was a part of his charm, Stiles supposed.

If you could call it that…

At least he wasn’t as much of a power hungry psychopath anymore.

“Peter,” he replied. “How’ve you been?”

“Well enough, though things certainly weren’t as… stimulating without you around.”

Stiles snorted, half laughing at the salacious grin that curled over the older beta’s face, but the comment seemed to break a bit of the spell because the rest of the pack finally broke position, following at a careful distance as Peter led them down the steps to a large grouping of folding chairs and splintery old Adirondacks, several picnic blankets spread across the grass. The wolves came forward to, Phee bounding along to Stiles’ side while Jackson slunk along more slowly, his head close to the ground. He refused to look at Lydia, or come anywhere close, and Stiles took pity on the wolf, slinging his back pack down onto the ground.

“You guys wanna shift back?” he asked, dropping to one knee to pull the bag open and drag out their clothes in offering.

Pheelan switched his tail and looked expectantly over at Jackson, but the dark wolf just grumbled quietly and dropped down onto his belly, huffing and looking away. It was clearly blatant refusal and Stiles frowned grimly but nodded. He understood the man’s reluctance, made no comment when the wolf was quick to follow as he crossed to a bag chair, collapsing next to the only one of the pack that he thought he could tolerate – Peter if you could believe it. Lydia was either smart enough or hurt enough not to comment, just crossed one knee primly over the other from across the circle while the rest of the wolves sank down into seats of their own; Erica and Boyd and then the twins claiming a blanket each while Scott and Allison found overly-relaxed slouches in matching blue bag-chairs. Derek and Isaac stayed with the grill, flipping and turning and saucing enough meat to feed an army but still close enough to be a part of the group, all casual stances and light, quiet conversation.

Frickin’ fakers, all of them.

Still, they stayed quiet, just watching silently as Jackson pressed in close, leaning heavily against his legs before getting down on his belly and wiggling underneath Stiles’ seat. He practically tipped the thing before he got himself wedged between the grass and Stiles’ butt. Pheelan huffed and rolled his eyes but flopped down beside them anyway, staying close but not too close. In this way they both offered support to their friend but stayed well out of the way of his teeth, only too aware that Jackson still snapped when he was in a bad mood.

The others were staring, practically captivated by the True Forms, and that included Lydia, and while Stiles understood that he could still sympathize. The guy certainly hadn’t planned on coming here, ever, but had done it to help Stiles out. He figured he owed him, and Lydia too really, so maybe he could do something eventually to help them reconcile, if not get back together. For now though he would just let Jackson sulk, glare nastily from beneath his chair while he grumped. He deserved that, but not so much that Stiles didn’t give his rump a healthy shove with his sneaker to get him to scooch a little.

“They’re beautiful,” Lydia murmured, and Stiles felt Jackson’s ear flick against the bottom of his chair while Pheelan grinned a wide, doggy-grin. “Both of them.”

“That’s… Pheelan and Jackson, right?” Erica asked hesitantly, her gaze flicking up to meet Stiles’ when he hummed an affirmative. “It’s just… kind of hard to believe, you know? Even though they’re sitting right in front of us.”

“Really cool though,” Scott ventured hesitantly. “I’ve never seen anybody do a total shift.”

“Hmm, yes,” Peter murmured speculatively beside him, and Stiles arched an eyebrow while waiting for him to elaborate. “My sister could do it, of course. It was always thought to be an alpha’s trait. Well… a good alpha’s, obviously.”

This last bit was added with an indulgent but self-deprecating sort of smirk, and Stiles found himself laughing and reaching out to clap Peter easily on the shoulder. It seemed to surprise the beta as much as it surprised him, to say nothing of the rest of the fact, but he was quick to put it beyond him. In his own strange way he had always liked Peter, or at least a part of him, even when he was his murderous, insane self, and Phee’s words were still lurking about at the back of his head.

“Don’t’ worry about it dude,” he assured with a long, languorous stretch, kicking his feet out in front of him and throwing one arm over the back of his chair. “That’s not really how it works. All that Alpha-Beta-Omega bullshit’s got nothing to do with it.”

“So we could do it?” Erica asked, and there was a childlike hope and eagerness in his voice that had Stiles smiling despite himself.

“Maybe,” he replied, though personally he doubted it. But hell, if someone had told him Jackson could pull it off he would have called them a liar, so who could really say. “It’s not easy.”

Pheelan looked up from where he’d been nibbling at his toes, chuffed in agreement.

“Could they help?” she asked, nodding towards the two wolves who crowded his feet. “Teach us?”

“No,” he answered automatically, but the immediate disappointment that tainted the air like bitter pepper, the way her face fell, had his glow burgeoning up in his chest and forcing an explanation out of him.

“It just… it doesn’t work that way,” he tried again, and the wolves settled a little, calmed in knowing that his shortness hadn’t been born of anger or irritation. “It’s a… personal thing, each to their own. Self-acceptance, self-actualization…”

Near his feet Pheelan snorted, still licking one of his huge paws.

“What, like you told it better,” Stiles scoffed, but the wolf just lifted his head and aimed an arch look in his direction.

“Shut up,” Stiles groaned, and the wolf rolled his eyes before going back to chewing his nails. “Anyway… any fun creature features in the last few years?”

“Not so much,” Peter offered lightly. “The Nemeton ran out of power again about a year after you left, so things have been fairly quiet.”

The rest of the pack flinched at Peter’s cavalier mention of Stiles’ abandonment and subsequent disappearance, but for his part he was glad of it. He needed someone to stand up to that, and he’d never really blamed Peter anyway.

“Erm… how about you Stiles?” Allison tried awkwardly, and he had to give her credit for trying at all. “What have you been up to?”

Stiles shrugged. He knew exactly what he was and wasn’t willing to share here, so he wasn’t too distraught about sharing the things he would.

“Traveling,” he tossed out casually. “A little emissary work, free-lance of course. Studied a lot of local folklore through Europe – shit, you’d be amazed at some of the things out there.”

Cocking his thumb in Peter’s direction, he addressed the wolf personally. “Update the bestiary if you want; wouldn’t be surprised if it was out of date.”

Peter barked a laugh. “Of course it is,” he grinned smarmily, showing way too much teeth, and Stiles grinned back in response, his own teeth sharp in his mouth. “Who else but you could keep it up?”

Pheelan chuffed a laugh of his own and even Jackson made a snorting sound from beneath his chair at the obvious innuendo but Stiles just let his nature bristle playfully, a visceral reaction that he could project just like a wolf would, even if he didn’t have quite the right shape for it. Peter certainly felt it and a blue gleam flared briefly in his eyes before he smirked and let them fade again, and from the way the rest of the pack shifter round he was pretty sure they’d felt it too.

“There was this one time though,” he continued, brushing off their confused looks easily enough, “I got called in by a priest to clear a nest of pixies out of a church… man did that suck!”

“Pixies?” one of the twins asked, and Stiles grinned.

He’d figured that would be one of the things they weren’t sure of, had never come across. Beacon Hills was far too warm a climate for the tiny, winged creatures, who preferred snow and pine trees to anything else. Odd enough, because they had a nasty, stinging habit of burning whatever they touched, setting fires if they lit too long.

“Yeah, they do exist, unfortunately,” he said by way of answer. “You ever meet one crush it, because they’re nasty little cusses when they get pissed off, and they’re easily offended.”

“They sound awful,” Erica added unnecessarily, clearly in a bid to keep him talking. She was leaning back against Boyd’s chest with a warm, peaceful sort of look on her face, and had his glow flickering in his fingertips before he reigned it in.

“Yep,” he replied, curling his hands into fists to hide the light in his palms. “Pretty much exist just to screw with shit. Worthless little punks.”

Pushing himself up into a sitting position, Pheelan snorted hard, shaking out his ears before licking his chops with a wicked gleam in his eye.

“Mmm, true,” Stiles agreed, patting his stomach. “They are kind of delicious. Funnel cake.”

“Ew, you ate a pixie?” Erica giggled, wrinkling her nose, and Stiles laughed.

“That’s disgusting Stiles,” Lydia said archly, examining her fingernails from behind her dark glasses.

“But on that note,” Isaac said, piping up for the first time since they’d all sat down. Lifting a massive platter of barbecued ribs in his hands, he nodded his head towards the table, where Derek was making room for another tray of burgers and hot dogs. “Let’s eat!”

Chapter Text

Well… he supposed the afternoon wasn’t going too badly.

He hadn’t gotten pissed off yet.

Hadn’t felt the shadows wrap chill hands around his neck.

So that was an improvement…

He was keeping up his cocky, confidant façade successfully too, letting them think that he could ease back into this, this life, this pack, without too much distress. It was a lie of course, a total fake-out, but for now it was working so he’d stick with it. Wear the shell of a mostly relaxed, mostly ok guy, while inside he was fucking shaking.

Oh sure, there were a few minutes here and there where he felt ok, when he was talking to Lydia or Peter, but otherwise he felt like he might absolutely fall to pieces if he didn’t keep himself strapped. These people had hurt him, cut him deep, and while enough time had passed that those wounds had partially healed, they were still scarred and tender, and his entire body throbbed with awareness of them. Every word he spoke, every subtle movement he made were all carefully calibrated to protect those wounds, to shield them from further prodding that could open them again oh so easily. It was exhausting and, to be quite honest, depressing as hell, and he had no doubt that when he finally got away again he was going to completely break down, so yeah…

He was faking it well.

Still, a small, small part of him was… he didn’t know what that part was. Happy, content, satisfied – he didn’t like any of those words. He wasn’t sure he wanted to be those things, if that was what he really was. But his emotions were so tangled up with the old anger and sense of betrayal that he couldn’t really pull them apart. And of course he couldn’t really trust what he felt either, not here, not with the pack.

That was half the bitch of being a Touchstone.

You might want to be bitter or mad, you might want to hang on to that indignation and sulk in your own pain, but your emotions were… easily swayed. Too easily. Especially with wolves around. He could feel it, that influence, in the way Erica laughed and smiled, the way Boyd relaxed into his presence, the way Scott yearned forward eagerly. His glow responded to that, pressing against the walls of his chest and trying to light him up from the inside out the way he was meant to, but he held it back as best he could. It might be a natural reaction but he was throwing up huge signs of non-consent, unwilling to give in to it even though it hurt, physically hurt to hold it back, like a sharp cramp in his muscles and his stomach.

They were just so… horribly happy to have him there…

It made his skin crawl.

He didn’t understand it, didn’t… didn’t think he liked it. It was so incongruous with what he remembered, the parting shot that had haunted him for so long that it made him feel anxious, twitchy even, like he’d felt in high school when he’d forgotten his Adderall. It was the rare occasion that he déjà vu’ed back to that feeling, and normally he’d compensate for it by forcing himself to be still in any way he could, even though he hated being held down. Here he couldn’t do that, couldn’t withdraw that way.

Well he could, but he imagined it wouldn’t go well if he did.

And then of course what would be the point of being here at all? Subjecting himself to this if he didn’t at least try to be civil?

As Isaac rang Pavlov’s bell and the pack rose eagerly to hit the picnic tables, Stiles tried to shake off the uneasiness that was sitting in the pit of his stomach. He hung back from the crowd, stood near the coolers with Lydia while the wolves piled paper plates high with ribs and potato salad, pretzels and burgers and veggie sticks. The Banshee seemed to sense his nervousness despite his relative success in hiding it from the rest, and she pressed an icy bottle of beer into his hand before stepping in close to his side, making light conversation about nothing at all. He was glad of it too, because the pack seemed to be looking for an excuse to be near him, too near, brushing lightly past so that their bodies only just touched his. Not Peter or Derek or the new twins, thank God, but all the rest of them, and yet even that was almost more than he could tolerate.

He ignored them all, firmly ignored them, but in reality he felt like he was standing twelve yards out into the ocean, water surging up around him and buffeting him from every side, crashing against him and trying to drag him under.

“Come on, I’m hungry,” Lydia said abruptly, grabbing his wrist and dragging him towards the tables, away from the pack that had already cycled through and come to linger round the coolers as he did.

Only too happy for the life preserver, Stiles let himself be dragged out of the crush, setting his untouched beer down when Lydia pressed two paper plates into his hands. Following diligently along, he watched silently as she loaded both up, and it was a quiet reminder of how well she’d gotten to know him before he’d left. She didn’t have to ask to know that he could put away both a burger and a stack of ribs, or that he didn’t really like yellow mustard so the potato salad was out. Handing over her considerably lighter plate when they reached the end of the table, he followed her to the circle of chairs, dropping back down beside Peter who hadn’t deigned to join the herd. The rest of the pack were quick to join, finding their own seats with light, easy chatter that only sounded a little bit forced.

Stiles rolled his eyes, licked barbecue sauce from his thumb. Good lord, the posing that was going on. Apparently they were each of them going to fake it till they made it, even if they damn well choked on the lie in the process. With that in mind he lifted his burger for a bite, but was suddenly assaulted by two huge, tawny muzzles snuffling their way into his lap, dangerously close to snapping up everything edible there and quite possibly more that wasn’t.

“Hey!” he yelped, pushing both of them away with flailing arms and feet. “Bad wolf! Shift and get your own!”

Jackson huffed, sitting down to give him the puppy face complete with pathetic whimper.

“Nu-uh,” Stiles mocked around a huge, deliberate bite, humming with pleasure. “That shit doesn’t work on me and you know it. Gonna have to do better Jackie-boy.”

Jackson sniffed, flicked his nose up into the air snootily, but Phee just grinned a wide doggy-smile, bumped shoulders with the smaller wolf hard enough to rock him on his heels. Dropping into a sit, he shook his massive head and made a little buffing sound to make sure that Stiles was paying attention, then surged upright onto his haunches, tucking his forelegs in close to his chest in the classic begging position. Stiles struggled to bite back a grin as he wobbled precariously, his body too bulky and muscular to maintain the balance necessary for the maneuver, and then he was toppling over into the grass, eliciting a laugh out of almost everyone around the circle. Hell even Peter chuckled briefly, a calculating half-smirk on his face.

“All right, all right,” he groaned with a smile, tearing his burger in half and tossing it to the wolves, who snapped it out of the air effortlessly. “Don’t hurt yourselves.”

It was a show, he knew that. Phee had always been wicked good at knowing when he was distressed, when he needed a good laugh, and there was no part of the wolf that was too proud to put on an undignified display of puppyish behavior to cheer him up. Reaching out a hand, he ruffled both wolves’ ears affectionately, avoiding a wet swipe of tongue before going back to his own lunch. For a while he did little more than stuff his face and listen to the conversation that circled round the group, running the gamut from the work of the individual pack members to the plans for Isaac and Violet’s upcoming wedding. They tried to keep him involved, occasionally asking questions or tossing an explanation or a story his way, but he mostly kept himself out of it by keeping his mouth full and limiting himself to little humming noises, leaving it up to them to interpret. The only direct answers he ever gave went to Lydia and Peter, and once to Allison, but he didn’t miss the way they all hung on his every word and movement, even Derek, who didn’t participate at all. The Alpha mostly just mimicked Stiles’ own behavior, sipping at a beer and listening carefully, his gaze moving between the members of his pack with an unreadable expression, and lingering on Stiles whenever he thought the Touchstone wasn’t looking.

But he felt it, infuriatingly hyperaware of the man as he always had been, and it set his teeth on edge.

Pheelan seemed to recognize this, because he flicked a dark glare in the Alpha’s direction and rumbled quietly, earning him an interested look from the others before getting to his feet and shoving at Jackson’s shoulder until the smaller wolf rose too. Knocking him around a bit with his broad chest, Phee stamped his feet and whined, switching his tail before turning and trotting off towards the trees that edged the lawn. Heaving the sigh of the put-upon, Jackson shook out his fur and followed, ignoring the pretzel that Stiles flicked at his retreating form.

He’d turned back to Peter with a question about the bestiary then, resigning himself to the desertion of his support system, but before the beta was even halfway through his retelling of an encounter with a frickin’ vampire of all things, an explosion of vicious snarls had everyone jerking to attention, half-turning towards the woods where the wolves had reappeared again, snapping and growling as they tumbled and battered at each other, a stick locked between their jaws as they dug in their claws and tugged. Stiles laughed and pushed himself eagerly up from his chair, half amused by the wolves’ antics and half by the shock it had given the others. Their version of survival had never been calibrated to fun, and despite the pack barbecue – which had quite frankly shocked the hell out of Stiles – it seemed that they still struggled with the concept.

Tag, hide-and-seek, tug-of-war; these all seemed a bit beyond them.

With a violent wrench and a surge of his huge shoulders, Pheelan won the tug and came barreling towards him, his prize held firmly between his teeth and Jackson hot on his heels. Both came skidding to a stop at his feet, putting on the brakes and dancing in front of him with playful yips and rumbles, pleading in their eyes, and it earned them another laugh as Stiles took the slobbery stick and wiped his hands on his shirt.

“Gross,” he chuckled, before giving the stick a twirl. Summoning up an extra bit of power, just the slightest bolt of hot energy, he sent the stick flying, the wolves careening after as it sailed through the air and vanished back into the edge of the Preserve.

“Fetch?” Isaac asked, appearing silently at his side with his hands shoved deep in his pockets, watching the woods instead of Stiles’ face.

“Sure,” he shrugged. “Why not?”

Frankly he was a little bit wigged that Isaac was the one to have approached. Then again, he supposed it made sense in that Isaac had risen to become Derek’s second. Having kind of stolen his best friend aside, the lanky blonde wouldn’t have been his first choice. Were he ever the alpha – and Stiles suspected he would have been something of the sort eventually, for one reason or another – Lydia would have stood up at his right hand and, if he were entirely honest with himself, Peter at his left, both of them crazy and deadly dangerous in their own way, but all together the three of them able to manipulate or redirect the rest to their purpose and present an impermeable force to any outside threat.

Nemeton or no, with the three of them at the helm he imagined that Beacon Hills would’ve been a much safer place.

But all these thoughts soured his stomach, sent a chill rolling down his spine, and so he shoved them away, focusing instead on the wolves who’d come charging back out of the trees, the stick clamped in Jackson’s teeth this time. Wrestling it away, he flung it back again, standing quietly at Isaac’s side for another toss or two before Lydia cautiously approached, Scott and Allison with her.

“You do this a lot?” the redhead asked casually, examining her fingernails, but Stiles found himself encouraged by her interest.

“Definitely,” he replied, watching carefully as Pheelan came running back, but Jackson staggered a bit, slowing down and coming to a stop several yards off. Quick to toss the stick back so that the wolf wouldn’t have to approach, he wiped off his hands again and turned back to her, the pack that was milling about but mostly watching him. “Life is more fun if you play games.”

“Really Stiles?” Lydia asked archly, cocking one perfectly manicured eyebrow. “Roald Dahl?”

“Exactly,” he grinned, ducking his chin towards the pack members still slouched round the circle. “Peter said the Nemeton’s powered down; it’s not like you guys are fighting the good fight every week anymore. You should try lightening up a little.”

A stick cracked off to their left and they all turned to watch as the wolves at the edge of the yard froze, their play cutting off like the edge of a knife’s blade as their hackles rose and they dropped into a hunting crouch. Their muscles had gone wire tight, their bodies practically vibrating as they sank low to the earth, every sense on high alert until, as if at an agreed-upon moment, they charged off into the trees as fast as their feet could carry them, quickly disappearing from view.

“What…” Allison trailed off, her hand moving at her side in a way that suggested to Stiles that she wished for a weapon.

“Rabbit,” he dismissed, closing his eyes briefly to feel the thunder of the wolves’ hearts, their feet against the earth. “They’ll be back. But it makes my point – not everything’s a threat. You guys need to relax, take a frickin’ breath. Try having some fun every once in a while.”

Several of the pack flinched at this, Derek in particular, no doubt reminded of his attack on Pheelan when he and Stiles had been running in the Preserve. It was quite possibly a cruel thing to do, to bring it up when things were going somewhat smoothly, but he couldn’t bring himself to feel too horribly bad about it.

Still, at the same time he felt the need to temper the sting just a bit.

“The house looks good though,” he threw out casually, his hands in his pockets. “Cleaned up nice, cleared out a lot of that old black juju.”

Much of the pack seemed pleased to hear this, even if Derek and Peter both looked grim and contemplative, a little bit haunted. Scott in particular smiled widely, lighting up with happiness at what he probably thought was more than a simple compliment to the removal of a few old ghosts, and he had just opened his mouth to say something that Stiles was sure he wouldn’t know how to respond to when his phone began to vibrate in his pocket. Pulling it out, he glanced briefly at the screen before tapping through to accept the call.

“Gorgeous!” he hailed by way of greeting, half teasing but half deadly-serious. “Goddess! Light of my life!”

“Can it Stilinski,” came the reply, and Stiles could hear the eye-rolling from three continents away. “Where the hell have you been?”

“Aww don’t be mad beautiful,” he whimpered, sticking out his lower lip in a pout even though Shawna couldn’t see it. She would know. “You gave me two weeks off…”

“Of work,” she interjected sharply, “Not the grid. You start pulling this crap with me Stiles and I swear to God, I’ll cut you loose so fast your head will spin.”

“Would I do that to you?” he asked, putting one hand over his heart and ignoring the questioning looks of those around him.

“Not if you’ve got half a brain in your head. I could ruin your career and you know it.”

Stiles laughed, changed tactics. “Should I make it up to you?” he purred, and he was rewarded with speculative silence.

“Send me a Heart of Dreams and we’ll call it even.”

“I can do that,” he replied immediately, dropping the act and going back to his normal, more abrasive tone of voice. He was pretty sure he already had one of the dream-inducing geodes in his trunk back at the
house. “What’ve you got for me?”

“Well, since you asked…”

Here she paused and Stiles could hear the shuffling of papers down the line.

“I know you’re technically on vacation,” Shawna continued distractedly, her voice far away from the phone, “But it’s a nice, easy job and it’s actually in the area.”

“Really?” he asked, slightly surprised. He’d never done any work in the United States, never wanted to go back even for a hefty paycheck. “In California?”

“Colorado,” Shawna replied. “A mating ceremony between werewolves; the kids of two Alphas. Pack alliance type deal apparently. They’re looking for an unclaimed Touchstone, probably hoping to keep whoever does the deed.”

Stiles frowned, his stomach twisting. An unclaimed Touchstone was rare, and he wasn’t exactly proud of that status, but he wasn’t in the market to shop for a pack either.

“I’ll think about it,” he said finally. “Get back to you, yeah? Will three days be soon enough?”

“That’s fine. It’s still a few weeks off, so it shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Cool. Anything else?”

“As a matter of fact. I’ve got a Christopher Argent on the line; he claims it’s urgent.”

Stiles heart jumped into his throat, but he tamped it down. He hadn’t been expecting to hear from the man so soon, was surprised that he was the reason Shawna had rung him in the first place. He had an app on his phone that re-routed his calls through her office, and he didn’t necessarily regret using it with Chris. Not doing so when he’d called Danny a year ago had obviously been a mistake – he had no doubt that was where Scott had gotten his number.

Still.

He hadn’t been expecting the call.

“You kept him on hold this whole time?” he asked flatly, coming back to the matter at hand.

“They all say it’s urgent,” Shawna scoffed, and Stiles had to grin.

“Hey, I’m hot shit,” he exclaimed, “Of course it’s always urgent.”

“Yeah yeah, do you wanna talk to him or not?”

“Yeah, put him through.”

“Hang on… Mr. Argent, you’re on with Mr. Stilinski.”

Trilling his fingers anxiously against the edge of the phone, he waited until he heard the click that signaled Shawna terminating her line of the call before he jumped straight in.

“Got good news for me Mister Argent?” he asked, acutely aware of the way Allison jerked, the way the rest of the pack all seemed to twitch at the sound of the ex-hunter’s name.

“Stiles,” the man greeted him, all professionalism and grim seriousness. “I wanted to be the one to tell you - the rogue alpha who attacked your father was captured. I gave instructions that he was to be… humanely disposed of. None of the old tradition.”

Stiles felt relief sweep through him, some of which he hadn’t even known he needed. He may have wanted the rogue to be taken care of, may have known that he needed to be lethally dealt with, but that didn’t mean he had any patience for the Vivisection by Sword that was the hunter’s code.

He was still haunted by the memory of digging up half of Laura Hale’s body when he was a kid.

“That’s… good to hear,” he managed finally, his throat tight. “I appreciate the qualifiers.”

“I have… erm,” Chris began, suddenly hesitant, and his tone sent a zing down Stiles’ spine. “Photos,” he continued, “I have photos, if you’d like. It seems my contacts have… heard of you and wanted to ensure that they sent proof of their claims…”

“Jesus,” Stiles hissed, his stomach lurching. “What the hell’s Shawna been telling you guys?” Sighing, he lifted a hand to pinch the bridge of his nose. “Never mind. I’ll take you at your word, Chris,” he assured, “I’m not the only one with a name to uphold; I know you’re good for it.”

“Yes, well, as I said… I am sorry Stiles. What happened to your father…”

“Water under the bridge, man,” Stiles shrugged, brushing it off. “You’re like, the last person I’m putting that on. But I appreciate the help. Seriously, I owe you one.”

Chris chuckled and the sound was a rough approximation of self-deprecation. “A favor from you is worth a lot more than one from a washed up hunter like me,” he said.

“I’ll be the judge of that,” Stiles replied. His dad was worth the world to him, and he’d pay his dues accordingly. “You did me a good turn; if you ever need anything, you know where to reach me. Just tell Shawna you’re cashing one in and she’ll put you right through.”

There was a pause and Stiles thought he was going to refuse, but then he sighed quietly and he sensed acceptance in the sound.

“All right then,” he agreed. “Be well, Stiles. I hope… I hope you can find some closure while you’re here. God knows it’s hard enough to come by.”

“Aint that the truth?” Stiles sighed. “Thanks again Chris. Take care of yourself.”

Ending the call, Stiles shoved his phone back into his pocket and tapped his foot against the ground, abruptly ready to get gone. He needed to breathe, needed… dammit, needed his wolf, but he couldn’t be that vulnerable here. Brushing past curious looks and concerned faces, he retrieved his abandoned bag, slinging it onto his back before he jogged to Lydia’s side and gave his friend a fast, tight hug.

“I’ve gotta go,” he murmured before turning to face the pack. “Thanks for… this,” he gestured vaguely.

Hell, he still wasn’t sure what this had been.

Spinning on his heel, he faced the woods and raised his hands to his mouth, sending up a loud, echoing howl that carried through the trees, that searched and hunted and was quickly returned. Pheelan’s answering song rose up into the air like moon music, all silver and summoning, and Jackson’s followed it, broadcasting their position and beckoning Stiles to their sides. Without a backwards glance for the wolves who had once pushed him away, he ran instead for the ones that now called him closer.

Chapter Text

They took him home, the both of them, Phee and Jackson.

By the time he’d pinpointed the clearing where the wolves waited they’d finished off their kill, only a few bits of fluff remaining of the rabbit they’d chased from the Hale house. Blood flecked their muzzles and the killing joy was still hot in their eyes, but as soon as he came stumbling out of the trees it cooled, dying out completely as they shared an anxious look between them and leapt to their feet. Crowding in close, they pressed against his sides, buffeting him roughly with their large, warm bodies, grounding him as he buried his fingers in the thick fur of their ruffs and let them guide him out of the Preserve.

He didn’t question it, didn’t try to focus or find his own way back to the running trails, instead trusting their senses and their instincts to pick out the easiest walk back to the Sheriff’s house. It wasn’t the shortest but his mind had mostly blanked out, preoccupied by everything at once and nothing at all, like his brain had leaked out his ears, and it was only the wolves, herding him along like a sheep with nips and nudges, that saved him from skinned knees or a twisted ankle. He didn’t question it either when they refused to change back into their human forms, even after they finally made it back and he’d locked the door securely behind them.

They weren’t pack, but they were pack, and they knew it and he knew that they knew it.

They would take care of him.

He didn’t really understand the disconnect that he’d been feeling since hanging up on Chris Argent. It was flowing round inside his chest like cool, clean water, wicking away any coherent thought that tried to drag itself to the surface, and that probably should have worried him but he couldn’t seem to summon the energy for a freak out. Instead he just let himself be shepherded into the living room, pushed down into the couch cushions with a quiet oomph as the two wolves dog-piled on top of him like they didn’t weigh a ton, like they felt an instinctual need to anchor him to the earth as though he were a helium balloon that might float away without them.

And maybe he was, because their weight was a comfort he hadn’t known he wanted.

Sighing and closing his eyes, he kept his fingers tight in the short fur behind Jackson’s ears while the wolf rested his head across Stiles’ thigh, glaring and snarling softly when he tugged a little too hard. Phee had curled up against his other side and shoved his head beneath Stiles’ arm, wedging his muzzle into the space between the man’s back and the couch. Stiles didn’t know how he could breathe back there, but he let him be, resting his arm over the wolf’s shoulders. There was a strangeness clinging to him that all three could sense, and they needed this quiet closeness to reassure each other, to reaffirm that they were there and they were real.

Needed a warm glow and a good cuddle, even if Jackson and Stiles would both deny it till their dying day.

The Sheriff found them like that when he came home a little over two hours later, dusk just beginning to fall as the late winter evening came on. He cocked an eyebrow in their direction, watching Stiles’ light ripple around beneath his skin for a minute before rolling his eyes and waving them off, heading for the kitchen without a word tossed their way. A moment later the woosh and buzz of the freezer being opened had Stiles climbing reluctantly out from beneath the two-part puppy pile, rolling his shoulders to pop the kinks out of his spine and collar bones before trailing after his father.

“No,” he admonished as he came round the corner, catching his dad red-meat handed, pulling ground beef out of the freezer. “You’ve had steak twice this week. Chicken or fish, old man.”

The sheriff made a huffing sort of sound but put the burger back and pulled out a package of skinless chicken instead.

“This from the boy who got barbecue today,” he grumped, tossing the pack into the sink and grimacing when the motion tugged at his shoulder.

“And you got a burger and fries,” Stiles countered smartly, stepping up to put his hand on his father’s shoulder, to test the heat of the injury, the taste of it. He could feel the pain, just a faint flicker, but it was enough to make him frown and shake his head. “Go upstairs and shower,” he commanded gently but firmly. “Take a pill. I’ll make dinner.”

“You see,” the Sheriff replied, “I knew it would be good having you home again.”

Stiles felt something twinge low in his belly but he let it go, rolled with the punch of it instead of clinging to the pain in an effort to dissect it.

“Yeah yeah yeah,” he muttered with forced good-nature, giving his dad a push towards the stairs. “Go.”

“Jack and Fifi staying for dinner?” he asked as he paused in the hallway to hang his jacket. “That’s cruel Stiles. He’s a damned werewolf, not a poodle…”

“That’s what I tried to tell him John,” Phee chuckled as he sauntered out of the living room, cocking his thumb over his shoulder at Jackson, who wasn’t far behind. “But it’s better than what he calls this guy, so I deal.”

Both wolves had shifted back to two legs, dressing in the clothes from the bag Stiles had dropped next to the Lazy Boy before emerging, and their hair was sticking up in odd twists and tufts like they’d been asleep on it too long, and when he looked at them Stiles felt his light flair warmly in him, flickering in his hands and forearms, fully on display since he was still wearing his torn gym shirt. Unlike earlier, when he’d hidden the sparking glow from the pack, now he let it swell, surge inside of him like a wave, and it put a softness on Pheelan’s face that had him crossing the floor smoothly, moving to stand at Stiles’ side and curl one big, warm palm around the nape of his neck.

“You’re welcome to the guest room son,” the Sheriff said, turning to Jackson who was rolling his eyes at the couple near the sink. “It’s only a twin in there, but it’ll be a hell of a lot more comfortable than that couch.”

“Thanks Mr. Stilinski,” Jackson replied, and the Sheriff didn’t miss the concern in the gaze the young man flicked towards his son. “I might take you up on that tonight. Not sure how long I’ll be here, but I might take a trip on over to the old house while I’m in town.”

Stiles snapped to attention, unaware that Jackson had planned on going back to the house he’d been raised in. His adoptive parents wouldn’t be there - they’d moved a long time ago - but for some reason they’d kept the big house at the end of Beacon Hills own easy street. Stiles knew that Jackson didn’t have too many good memories there, but he also knew that the ex-jock still had a key, and it wouldn’t surprise him at all if Lydia still had one too. That key meant something between them, had been enough to kill the Kanima, and while he was nervous to let the wolf out of his sight after the way he’d reacted to Lydia’s presence, he wondered if maybe haunting the big, empty mansion, disturbing the dust that had lain dormant so long, might not be exactly what the werewolf needed.

“Well, join us for dinner at least,” his dad said, squeezing Jackson’s shoulder, and Stiles felt himself relax when the werewolf nodded. Just for that, the Sheriff would be getting chicken parm tonight instead of another grilled ratatouille.

His father had held a grudge against Jackson for a long time and had been shocked when Stiles first told him of his budding friendship with his old enemy, but it hadn’t taken much for him to accept the young man into the small family the Stilinski’s had wrung out of their friends. One or two stories about Jackson helping Stiles with a job or a glow, about the two protecting and looking out for each other and that was it. The Sheriff and his son were both simple men - care for one and you earned the respect and care of the other.

For the next half hour Stiles worked around the kitchen while Pheelan and Jackson drank iced tea and bickered good-naturedly, all three watching the other two surreptitiously for any signs of the creeping strangeness that had hung around before. Eventually dinner was finished and plated and they all gathered round, the Sheriff at the head of the table, freshly showered and feeling much better. Once again Stiles was struck by the comforting, unsettling feeling of home washing over him, the feeling of contentment and the anxiety that came along with it.

“So…” Stiles tried uncertainly, twisting his fork around in his spaghetti while the others tucked in heartily. “I got a call from Chris Argent earlier.”

Pheelan and Jackson shared a silent look across the table but the Sheriff paused, a garlic breadstick halfway to his mouth.

“Didn’t know the two of you were on speaking terms,” he replied.

“We’re not,” Stiles scoffed. “But he… did me a favor. It was a rogue that bit you, you know that.”

“Sure,” his father agreed carefully.

“He was hurting people.”

“Stiles, you don’t have to justify this to me,” the Sheriff sighed. “Rogue werewolf, hunter, I can put two and two together. I know how this world works - there aren’t many jails out there that can hold a homicidal werewolf.”

“Right,” Stiles muttered. Sometimes he forgot, forgot that he’d dragged his father into this world, this mess of teeth and claws and nightmares that his badge couldn’t protect him from. How he could forget that when the guilt was still so salient…

“So I take it Chris… solved the problem.”

“Friends of his,” Stiles corrected off-handedly, still caught in his introspection. “He put in a few rules; quick and painless. None of that old-world hunter bullshit.”

“He’s a good man,” John said gruffly, going back to his food. “Glad it’s done.”

“Me too.”

A minute of silence ticked by, and then his dad was clearing his throat again.

“Suppose your business here is done then.”

Pheelan and Jackson froze as Stiles’ eyes went round and shocked, then rose from the table as a unit, taking their plates into the kitchen and leaving the Stilinski men alone at the dining room table. The Sheriff was frowning, opening and closing his mouth as he pushed what was left of his dinner around on his plate like he was contemplating taking the words back, and Stiles was just gaping like a fish, finally confronted head-on with the decision that had been whispering around in the back of his mind for years.

“I’ve got a few weeks off,” he managed finally, his voice rough like sandpaper.

“I know, this morning…” his dad tried, but he couldn’t seem to finish the thought and Stiles couldn’t blame him. He wasn’t sure what he knew or what he wanted either. Well, he did, that was the problem. He wanted his dad, wanted pack, still after all the time. But he was still sure he wouldn’t have it. And then again on the other side of things, he had a life in Ireland, a job and friends and a place, all things he loved.

And he… well he had Phee.

At least the part of him that they’d agreed on, that they were willing to share.

But he was starting to think he wanted more, and that was just one more problem on his plate.

He didn’t know if he could give up one thing for the sake of the other.

“I know you said you couldn’t make any promises and I get that son,” the Sheriff said, and his voice was just a low and gravelly as Stiles’ had been. “And I know you have a life over there…”

“Tell me you want me to stay,” Stiles interrupted suddenly, and he was just as shocked by his words as his dad appeared to be. He hadn’t meant to say it, wasn’t even sure what the words meant, but he was powering forward even as his mind flinched and stumbled backwards over them.

“Tell me you want me to stay,” he demanded again, but his voice broke in the middle or the request. “Please just… just tell me you want me to stay, ‘cause if you don’t, I don’t know what I’m doing here. I don’t know if I can…”

“I want you to stay.”

And holy hell, if that wasn’t so massively reassuring, didn’t sink him into so deep into relief he almost sobbed, well, Stiles didn’t know what more he could ask for. Just a short, simple statement of something he already knew…

“I want you to stay,” his father said again. “Christ Stiles, I’ve wanted you back for years. You’ve got to know that. Dammit, I love you kid.”

Stiles felt his chin quiver as he smiled weakly across the table at his dad, his eyes hot.

“I know. God I know, I knew, I… I just…”

“Just needed to hear it,” his dad nodded.

Getting to his feet and picking up his plate, he ruffled Stiles’ hair on his way to the kitchen, the sounds of messy dishwashing emanating through the doorway. Stiles sighed, ran his hands shakily through his hair.

Well hell.

Did he even have a choice anymore?

Chapter Text

“Here little fox,” Stiles purred silkly in Gaelic, gesturing sweetly with one hand. “Come on. Here foxy, foxy, fucker!”

The fox opened its mouth, laughed silently in his face between sharp, white teeth and lolling pink tongue.

Stiles could feel the fear, hard and sharp in his stomach even as he faked it, the chill of the snow-filled courtyard seeping through the tight weave of Pheelan’s heavy black hoodie and soaking him. It was an ice water bath, flooding his chest and puddling up around his heart, drowning him with the intensity of it, but he pushed it down, packed it tight like a snowball so that he could stand tall and strong before the demon-creature that switched its tail at the base of the stone steps.

Inside he was still shaking.

Turning his body turned to hide the movement, he searched blindly behind himself for his baseball bat, desperate for the weapon where he couldn’t find his spark, couldn’t find the heat of it to melt the ice.

Shit, he had it, he’d had it, where the hell did it go…

Stiles sucked in his breath between bared teeth, a sharp hiss in the cold as the fox let out a short, unexpected bark, flicked its ears and turned suddenly away from him. The wrought-iron gates that it had guarded at the top of the stairs swung open with a metallic squeal and the little animal paused between them, looking back at Stiles with burning eyes before trotting slowly through, its delicate black paws leaving no mark on the snow.

He’d have though that he would feel calmer with the distance but its movement was anything but a retreat, and the fear that spiked inside his chest had him doubling over in pain, coughing hard in an effort to dislodge whatever knife had slipped its way between his ribs. Glancing up from his crouch, his arms wrapped tight around his torso, his eyes met the little demon’s gaze and it was like all the air had gone from his lungs. The knife tugged sharply and then his feet were dragging him forward, his ankles stinging with whatever supernatural ropes had lashed around them. Yelping in shock, Stiles jerked back in an attempt to get away, twisting and scrabbling at the air with clawed fingers and rapid, shallow panting.

He gave up fighting the pull of it pretty quick.

It wasn’t just the pain that killed his resistance, the sharp bite of metal wire cutting into his legs - in the end it really just felt too much like cowardice. And that was more than enough to piss him off.

He couldn’t run from this thing, couldn’t hide from it.

He’d said he was going to kill it, to end it, and he was going to make that truth.

The world seemed to shimmer and swirl around him as he manned up and stepped through the gates. It felt a lot like walking through one of his circles; thin, stretched, slurped through space until he landed hard on the other side in a totally different place. Trees grew up around him all wild and dark, thick and twisted as their gnarled branches reached towards the black sky above. Snow fell, softly and heavily, creaking beneath his heavy boots as he stalked quietly along behind the fox that led him deeper and deeper into wood. His enhanced senses were just strong enough to keep it in sight in the darkness, a flash of burnished copper keeping low, darting between the trees, but every step felt colder, danger warring with a nauseating sense of curiosity that he couldn’t tamp down.

He was following more than just the fox.

When Stiles fell into bed that night still wrapped in Pheelan’s hoody, his boots laced up tight and his baseball bat clutched in his arms like some kind of wicked twist on a child’s teddy bear, the werewolf could only assume that the young man was preparing for something. Unable to bring himself to ask, he’d lay down behind the Touchstone and curled his body close, burying his nose in the curve of Stiles’ neck beneath his sweatshirt. He hadn’t relaxed in Phee’s arms the way he usually did and it made the werewolf flinch inside. He immediately moved to pull back but Stiles had caught his arm, reeled him in again and pulled him in tight, and together they lay stiffly in the dark, wrapped up close even though the wolf had never felt so distant from the man in his arms.

Eventually they’d both drifted off, and at some point Pheelan must have turned over in the night, releasing his hold on Stiles, because the next thing he knew he was bolting upright in bed, half-shifted into his beta formed as his eyes flared and his teeth sharpened in his mouth. The Touchstone was standing crouched and ready in the middle of the floor, his eyes wide open and almost black, but entirely unseeing. His bat had been dropped to the floor from deadened fingers, minute flickers of light trying unsuccessfully to spark from them. The wolf could see the young man’s muscles coiled tight, clenched and steely in his shoulders, and while almost everything in him wanted to reach out, wanted to shake him back to wakefulness, something else whispered a warning.

Something small and dark and reptilian at the back of his brain, purely instinct, that whispered run.

For the first time in his life, Pheelan made the distinct, conscious decision to ignore that part of himself.

Stiles appeared to have come to some kind of decision too, because he had straightened up from his fighting stance and was now slinking forward on silent feet, his posture all seek and stalk and hunt. Tossing the twisted sheets aside Pheelan rolled from the bed and followed, a respectful five yards between them. The touchstone paused at the landing, unseeing eyes turning down the hallway towards the Sheriff’s closed door, and for a second fear clenched in Phee’s chest.

The implications of all this weren’t yet clear, but everything in him was screaming to take care, to protect, and if that meant protecting Stiles by protecting others from him, he felt in his gut that that was what he would do, without question or hesitation.

Luckily for him the young man was already moving on, descending the stairs like a ghost, a phantom that somehow placed no weight on the old runners, keeping them from their grating squeak and squeal. He crept slowly along the hallway, stepping carefully over Jackson’s sneakers even though Phee didn’t think he could actually see them, drifting to a stop to turn a blank face towards the living room. Once again, Jackson had foregone the offer of the guest room, choosing instead to crash on the couch in front of the low murmur of late night talk-television. He still hadn’t quite dialed his clock back to Californian time, and he was deeply asleep, snoring lightly despite the kinked angle he’d jammed himself into over the arm.

Cocking his head, Stiles seemed to measure the threat of the sleeping wolf before he frowned, and then he was dismissing him and turning away, making for the front door.

Bending down, Phee scooped up one of Jackson’s shoes off the floor and pitched it hard at the sleeping werewolf, who snorted and jerked on impact, lurching upright with groggy, glowing eyes.

“Don’t want any soddin’ tea!” he mumbled petulantly before sucking in a hard breath and dragging a hand over his face. “Wha…?”

Pheelan snapped his teeth quietly, thrusting his chin in Stiles’ direction, and Jackson’s eyes immediately cleared, his body flashing to sharp attention. Flicking a glance between them, he nodded before jumping quickly off the couch, collecting his scattered shoes and grabbing his jacket from the back of the Lazyboy. Satisfied that he was on sufficient alert, Phee shoved his sweats down over his hips and dropped forward onto silent paws, leaping forward through the door that had swung open without assistance in the wake of Stiles’ approach. He was standing on the sidewalk in front of the house, almost like he was waiting for them, and as Jackson came stumbling out onto the porch, shutting the front door behind them, the Touchstone turned his face up to the sky, dead eyes seeking out the stars.

The wolves too turned their faces skyward, shivered under the cold, silver light of the almost-full moon. It was close now, only nights away, close enough that they could feel the tug of it, sharp and painful in their chests. Behind him, Pheelan heard Jackson whine, a high-pitched keening sound, and he swore that he’d seen Stiles smirk at the sound. Stuffing his hands deep into the pockets of his jeans, the young man stepped forward with a rolling sort of shrug and began trotting off up the street, Phee hot on his heels.

“Has he ever done this before?” Jackson asked in his ear, jogging a bit to bring himself up flush with the wolf’s shoulder. “The sleep-walking? I mean he’s not awake…”

Pheelan snorted vehemently, showed his teeth.

He’d never seen it himself, the sleepwalking. It had always been nightmares since he’d known Stiles, the screaming and the thrashing, the weeks of terrible insomnia and the disconnected, tangential thought processes that came with it. So no, he’d never seen this before, but he remembered something, some thing that Stiles had said years ago…

He remembered what had happened, or at least as Stiles had told it. It was hard to forget a story like that one, told between hard gasps and sobbing in the clutches of a violent panic attack. Until that point he’d never known that Stiles had died, had sacrificed himself to save the father he loved so dearly. He’d recognized that there was darkness in him, warring with the hot light that grew and became stronger and stronger with every day that passed after he had finally understood what he was, accepted that part of himself, but he never would have imagined it something so achingly dark and lasting. It was the hurt that stood out in his memory of that night, but he was sure that there had been something, something about having woken up in the depths of the Preserve, alone and freezing cold, his feet bleeding into the earth…

The Preserve.

Everything seemed to start there.

They were at the edges of it now, the town dropping slowly away from them until they were faced with the cold encroachment of what was still dark and wild and untamed. It called to something in Pheelan, something small and primitive that lived in his heart and wanted to run, to hunt and howl and never come in from the wood to the fires of the civilized human world again. Off to his left Jackson whimpered as if in pain, and Pheelan felt a tremble run over the ground beneath his paws.

Suddenly, like the crack of a whip, Stiles jerked around, something wary and anxious flaring in his blank, black eyes, and Pheelan felt the hair along his spine stand on end, his eyes seeking whatever it was that Stiles saw in vain. Then, before they could stop him, the Touchstone broke into a flat-out run, hauling tail into the very center of the woods, dodging between the trees with an eerie sort of ease.

“Shit!” Jackson hissed, and then they were both running, feet and paws pounding over the earth as they did their best to catch up with the man they both suddenly feared for. “Where the hell is he going?!”

Pheelan snarled, shook his head as he ran, panic flooding his chest as ahead of them Stiles began to pull away, disappearing for seconds at a time between the trees. Putting on the steam, he careened forward, heedless of the brush and brambles, suddenly desperate to place himself at the man’s side, just back and to the left, the place that had always felt right, perfect. The place from which he could protect him.

“Shit, STILES!” Jackson shouted as the Touchstone disappeared, his own panic showing in the crack and shatter of his voice, and then they were both powering forward blindly into the dark, chasing after him with their hearts in their throats.

Pheelan could feel his wolf raging inside of him, tearing viciously a the walls of his chest as it tried to split from beneath his skin, snarling, storming, showing its teeth. Stiles’ scent was thick in the air, heavy and cloying like the smell of burning sugar, and it spurred them forward with a sense of urgency that neither had ever felt before. Lungs burning in desperation, they burst onto the edges of a small clearing, crashing to a skidding halt when they saw Stiles on his knees in the very center, crumbled in a painful twist as he clutched at his chest, staring off into the deep of the Preserve where a pair of eyes shone silver back at them.

“No,” he gasped, “No, no, no…”

Scrabbling backwards and away, he threw up his head and howled.

Chapter Text

Peter was uncomfortable around fire.

Candles he could handle, lighters, sparklers - they didn’t bother him.

Larger fires, any that were less controlled - those still sent a slick, cool shiver down his spine.

It was a point of pride that he attended the pack bonfires at all, and when he thought about it, it was a probably a point of pride for Derek that he allowed them. The kid hadn’t been trapped inside the Hale House all those years ago, not like Peter had, but the guilt he carried had to be at least half as violently painful. You could see it in the precautions he took; the carefully constructed stone pit for the fire, built well away from the house, the buckets of sand and the fire extinguishers stashed at strategic intervals…

Still, he was less skittish about it than Peter was.

From the stone patio at the back of the house, the beta wolf scoffed quietly to himself, his eyes glowing blue as he watched the pack talk and laugh and rub shoulders around the fire.

More likely that it was an exercise in self-flagellation, knowing his brooding nephew. Strange that it still pissed Peter off, even today, the way Derek clung to his guilt when it had been proven time and again, said over and over that it hadn’t been his fault. Hell, in the end if Peter were a better person, he’d have probably shouldered more blame himself than the younger man thought he deserved.

But Peter was what he was, and things were getting better without his help, so for now he was content just to observe. In fact, after the initial descent into the hell that was Stiles’ disappearance had passed, things had seen quite a lot of improvement. The boy’s departure seemed to have been the kick in the ass that his nephew had needed, and he’d finally picked up the mantle of his Alpha blood with earnest, rebuilding the house and dragging the members of his pack together by the scruff of their necks. They’d found a hierarchy, a comfort with each other, which, while not necessarily traditional, actually worked for them.

Nights like this proved that.

None of them were teenagers anymore, but Peter could still see it in them, the high school playfulness, the youthful interaction that years of trouble and running for their lives had somehow failed to destroy. In the warm glow of the bonfire they smiled and joked, knocked their shoulders together - Erica and Boyd, Scott and Allison, Isaac and the twins, even Derek.

Peter heaved a sigh, rolling his shoulders as he tried to smooth the thin wire of stress out of his muscles. Stretching his arms out along the back of the cushioned bench that curved round the edge of the patio, he tipped his head back to stare up at the sky, the silver light of the heavy, pregnant moon rough and grating like sand under his clothes. It was almost full, only nights away; they would run this weekend and he would shift, rid himself of the needles of impatience and anxious tension beneath his skin.

Next to him Lydia shifted closer, settling herself in at his side. Curling up against his ribs, she rested her cheek over his heart as his arm came down around her shoulders, wrapped her fingers tightly in his t-shirt above his hip as she leached some of his body heat in the cooling night air. When he’d first used the girl to bring himself back she had only been a tool - he’d never expected her to become so much more. She was a point of solidity in his life, not quite an anchor but something close, strength and power that he could rely on, still a tool but so much more dangerous, so much more honed…

She was the only one who got to touch him like this.

Tightening his grip on her, he leaned down and pressed a kiss to the top of her head.

He’d never seen her drunk before last night, never seen her hung over until this morning. He didn’t regret recommending the Scotch, but he did regret not going with her. He never should have trusted her with the pack, not when she was so fragile, about to shatter along all the fault lines she fought so hard to hide. He should have gone, kept her close in a dim, private booth, poured out the alcohol with a careful hand and taught her the value of sipping for a slow burn.

But he was what he was, and he’d had no desire to take any part in the pity party Stiles’ less-than-amicable attitude had induced in his nephew’s childish pack.

It was incredible really, that none of them seemed to remember what they’d done to the boy, the way they’d driven him off.

His emerging nature aside, they’d made a terrible miscalculation, a horrible mistake, one that Peter never would have been stupid enough to make. Objectively he understood the value that Derek had seen in reducing the kid’s ties with the pack at the time - they hadn’t know what was happening, couldn’t tell if something sinister was at work when Stiles’ presence started to become intoxicating, pulling at them like a physical addiction, but he never would have done what they did. Never would have just pushed him away, left him to figure it out for himself.

No.

Friends close, enemies closer.

It was a mantra that Peter had lived by at more than one point in his life, and that had been his first instinct with Stiles. Not only would it have allowed them to keep an eye on him, to figure out what was going on, but it would have also given them the opportunity to use him, exploit what he was and what he could do. Always ready to manipulate, open to taking up every weapon he had at his disposal, he could’ve named half a dozen better ways to deal with the situation at the time.

Which was why he’d kept his mouth shut that day in the loft. No one would have taken what he’d had to say at face value; his words would have only solidified their decision in their minds. Had Lydia been there to back him up, to add her voice to his they could have changed it, made a difference, but as it was he did the best he could for his position by staying out of it, shaking his head in disappointment and disgust, flinching minutely when Stiles had exploded in righteous anger, throwing his power and his value back in their faces, but even that hadn’t been enough.

They’d let him storm out and the door had barely closed behind him before Peter had broken the silence with a slow, derisive clap, disgusted by the scene he’d just witnesses. Fucking morons, each and every one of them, and he’d been sure to tell them before following Stiles’ example and walking out. Something like concern had sat cold and hard in his chest that evening, and if he hadn’t known better he would have said that he was worried about Stiles, worried he might do something stupid like try to kill himself. The only reason he hadn’t tracked the boy down by scent was that he knew Stiles to be far too intelligent and far too loyal to do such a thing - if not to the pack any longer than to his father. As it was he’d put in a call to Lydia and left a message on her phone suggesting that she cut her trip short and get back to Beacon Hills immediately in an effort to solve the problem, but given that they’d yet to develop the kind of relationship they had today, she hadn’t come back for another three nights and by then it had been too late - Stiles was long gone.

But now he was back.

Harder, faster, stronger, a hell of a lot prettier to look at, but Peter got the feeling that the big blonde he’d brought with him wasn’t one for sharing. Pity that. But there was something darker in him too, and that made Peter cautious. Stiles had always been devious, strategic - qualities that had made him all the more attractive to Peter’s mind - but he could see something in his eyes that his wolf didn’t like, something that it shied from just a bit, dancing just out of striking distance. His talk of burning that night on the bluff had thrown up a dozen red flags, and to have the stranger echo that wariness had raised his hackles more quickly than anything else might’ve.

Gaze caught by the flicker of the bonfire across the yard, Peter shifted, settling again when Lydia’s hand smoothed down his side. She’d never apologized for building the Molotov cocktails that had set him on fire the night he’d lost his Alpha spark, the night he’d been killed, not that he expected her to. To his mind she’d more than made up for it by falling under his persuasion so easily mere months later, for following his instructions to the letter in order to bring him back. She knew though, knew how much open flame made him twitch.

He hadn’t even realized it till that morning.

Her conversation with Stiles at breakfast the day before had had him actually running, him Peter Hale, where he had promised himself he’d never run from the messy, inexperienced pack of teens ever again. But the thought of what they were doing, what they were capable of creating together, it set his teeth on edge. He knew what they could do, had always suspected that together they could do great things. Terrible, yes, but great. And yet somehow, knowing that Lydia had been working on this, plotting this long before Stiles had come along, it had put a fear and feeling of betrayal in his belly that he never would have thought himself able to feel.

When she’d come to him that morning, found him in the library, he hadn’t known what to say to her; not to fix what was broken between them, or what was broken between her and the other boy.

In the end, she was the one to break the silence.

She still hadn’t apologized, not for the cocktails or this new thing her brilliant mind had come up with, but she’d given him something more. Not exactly a promise, just a quiet, murmured reassurance that had hit him harder than perhaps anything had hit him before.

I wouldn’t do it again you know.

She hadn’t had to explain what she meant, and he hadn’t had to ask.

“Are we going to be ok Peter?” she asked at his side, quietly in the moonlight that made her face smooth and pale, bled her hair of color. “Are we going to be all right?”

“You are sweetheart,” he answered in the darkness. “The rest of these idiots?”

That coaxed a genuine smile from her and that was all he’d wanted - it had been a tough day for all of them, but her especially. It should have been easiest for her really, with the exception of himself perhaps. Stiles had seemed comfortable interacting with the two of them, even happy when it came to the Banshee, talking with them easily, free with his touches. Peter’s jaw had almost dropped when the Touchstone had clapped him on the shoulder, made a joke about his Alpha days without so much as a twitch in his heartbeat. He appeared ready and willing to build a relationship with them both, take up where they’d left off while he was still stiff and avoidant with the others, but his choice of company had put him at a disadvantage.

The other two… wolves, true forms.

It was impressive to say the least.

His sister had been able to do it, and then later Laura, and he’d never understood the process, what made one Alpha’s body twist and break into that of a real wolf while others’ couldn’t. Where Stiles seemed convinced that it had nothing to do with pack status, Peter still wasn’t convinced, though his friends reeked of beta and omega, no electric jolt of Alpha power on either one of them.

But where Peter had been more interested in the wolves gamboling at his feet, the stories that only gave further evidence to the fact that Stiles was ten times the man he’d been when he’d taken off, Lydia had been fixated in the careful dance she’d choreographed around her ex-lover. Their conversation from earlier that morning had clung to him like the scent of smoke but there had been no advice he could give her, no suggestion to make it hurt less.

He wasn’t the man for it, and even now, with her curled in close to his side like his whole purpose there was to serve as her own personal, heated, body-pillow, there wasn’t anything more he could give her than what she was willing to take.

And maybe that was why, in this instance, he was willing to give.

Opening his mouth, he moved to comment on the sorry state of their pack, some smooth, derisive comment that wasn’t nearly as biting as it would have been six or seven years ago, when the air split open with the sound of a rising howl, the cold, quiet night shattered by the round, desperate wail of a wolf calling for its pack.

For help.

“Stiles,” he breathed grimly, and then he was on his feet, gripping Lydia tightly by her upper arms. “Stay here!” he demanded, and then he was running, the pack leaping up and falling in at his heels as he was the first one to hit the tree line, shifting as he went.

Chapter Text

Scott McCall had experienced real, mind-numbing fear many times in his life since becoming a werewolf. The kind of fear that froze you in place and made your heart pound so hard in your chest that you could taste copper at the back of your tongue, the kind of fear that felt like dreaming, when you could scream as loudly as you wanted to but you couldn’t make a sound.

When you ran as fast as you possibly could, your legs pumping like pistons and your lungs straining for air, but you couldn’t get any closer to what you were headed for.

It was that fear that sent a chill down his spine when a pleading, desperate howl exploded up out of the center of the Preserve, a flock of ravens bursting above the trees like bomb smoke with raucous screams and cawing, dozens of dark shapes against the deep blue of the night sky. He recognized that voice, even though it was different and new and unexpected, recognized it as a call for help, a cry for pack, and the terror that that cry caused in him eclipsed all but a single thought from his SAT trivia days.

A flock of ravens was called a murder

“Stiles.”

Peter’s voice cracked through the cool air like a bull whip, shattering the spell that kept Scott locked in place as the older werewolf suddenly went barreling past the pack, vaulting the small bonfire and shifting as he went. His momentum pulled Scott up and out of his chair like a vacuum funnel, sweeping him along behind as his blood heated and rushed in his veins, all his senses sharpening and narrowing in on that single wolf’s howl, that single, harsh, sobbing sound that echoed inside his head like church bells until he was all but sick with the dizziness of it.

All around him his pack pounded the earth, snarls and panting and the slamming of feat consuming him as Peter led the charge into the woods, Derek and Isaac hot on his heels. Boyd, Erica, and the twins followed, crashing through the underbrush on either side as the pack rose up, a single unit in the dark, raging and almost vengeful as they raced to the side of the one they’d lost.
And Scott couldn’t lose him again.

Not like this, not at all.

Not when they’d just gotten him back.

He’d failed Stiles once already by pushing him away and out of his life, by leaving him without support where he had always been one of the best and brightest things in Scott’s existence. He never would have made it without the other teen at his side.

And he had abandoned him when Stiles needed him most.

He had… oh god, he had…

Choking back a sob, Scott put on an extra burst of speed just as the pack went careening wildly into a small clearing, the air thick and cold and cloyingly sweet with some unseen fog. A massive, honey-colored wolf stood at the forward edge of the glen, baring long, sharp teeth as it snorted and snarled, stamping its feet and raking great furrows in the earth with sharp claws as it roared a challenge into the dark. Peter skidded to a halt at its side, Derek too, both shifted to beta form and leaning forward in a fighting stance with their own claws and teeth at the ready as they searched the shadows for whatever it was that Pheelan was guarding against.

“Watch the perimeter!” Derek snarled and the rest of the pack hastened to obey, spanning out with their backs to the center of the circle as they too sought the threat.

It was times like this when Scott hated what he was the most.

Hated the danger that seemed inherent with being a werewolf, the heavy sense of responsibility that came with the alpha spark he’d never wanted and that had still lingered whenever it came knocking.

He’d given up that power in the hopes that it would ease his conscience, make things easier, but times like this made him feel like he’d never truly gotten rid of it. Now safely a beta within a tight-knit pack, he still felt that tug sometimes when blood was spilt, that need to protect that he didn’t envy of Derek one bit. How he could live with that pressure, the desolate fear that Scott was practically choking on multiplied by each and every member of his pack, Scott didn’t know.

And perhaps it was just that fear, or maybe his imagination, but Scott thought he might’ve seen a pair of eyes flash an eerie electric green from between the trees.

Then a snarling whimper sounded out behind him, and all he could see was Stiles.

His friend was on his knees, upright only because Jackson crouched behind him, one forearm slung across Stiles’ chest, the other gripping tightly to his bicep. Stiles was rocking hard, gasping and clutching at his neck, his throat, raking his nails across Jackson’s arms even as the werewolf’s eyes flashed blue and he snarled over Stiles’ head. His eyes were almost black they were so dark, glazed in terror, his face so pale he looked like he’d been bled, and there was a charred scent to the air around him like something had been burnt, his teeth bared white and sharply tipped in his mouth.

He was going into a panic attack.

“Breathe you dick!” Jackson snarled, fighting to keep his grip on Stiles’ arm as the young man bucked and twisted in desperation, trying to throw the werewolf off. “Dammit Stiles!”

Anger welling up in his chest, Scott started forward, determined to throw Jackson off of Stiles as all of his bitter words, his vicious locker-room anger and unyielding persecution of Stiles came flooding back to him. “Hey that’s not…”

“Back off McCall!” Jackson snarled, turning on him like a viper and showing him a mouthful of white fangs and a pair of steel blue eyes. “What the hell do you know about it?”

Scott opened his mouth to issue the challenge right back but before he could summon the words a bolt of silver flashed over Stiles’ gaze and he flung up a hand that glowed white hot, arcing it in a direct line towards Scott’s chest, but then Jackson was snarling and flipping him hard to the side in a brutal wrestling move with a sound like a sonic boom, the earth shaking beneath their feet as they went tumbling away, only to come to rest with Jackson pinning Stiles to the earth, hands gripping both his wrists tight and pressing them down on either side of the Touchstone’s head.

“Stiles!” he barked, jerking from side to side as Stiles tried valiantly to throw him off. “Stiles stop! You don’t wanna do this, now snap the fuck out of it!”

“No!” Stiles shouted, his voice raw, and Scott felt his eyes sting as he started forward again, the pain and fear in his friend’s voice like a knife in his heart. “No, get off, get off of me!”

“For fuck’s sake, stop,” Jackson snarled between clenched teeth, but this time there was something broken and almost begging in the command, and if it didn’t stop Stiles in his tracks it sure as hell stopped Scott.

Astounded, he watched as Jackson leaned forward carefully, still fighting to hold control over Stiles as they writhed in the dirt, and then he was pressing his forehead firmly against Stiles’ collarbones, moving higher, pushing his face into the curve of the other man’s throat just beneath his jaw. His words were soft, murmured, but every wolf there could still hear them.

“Stiles stop. We’re here, me and Pheelan, we’re ok. You’re ok. Stop.

“J… Jackson?” Stiles gasped, his head twisting from side to side, but Jackson kept his face firmly tucked against Stiles’ neck. “Jack…”

“Breathe douchebag,” the werewolf commanded as Stiles’ chest heaved beneath him, his words now just a weary slur as he loosened his grip on the Touchstone’s wrists and instead slumped forward onto his chest, dropping down like dead weight as though he couldn’t hold himself up a minute longer, exhausted.

“Phee…”

“O’Rourke!” Jackson barked, his voice wrenching and loud in the quiet that had abruptly settled, and Scott watched as the huge wolf cast one more look into the trees around them, flicked his tail with an angry sort of snort and turned his back, trotting to Stiles’ side where Jackson’ was pulling him up into a sitting position once more.

Whining, high-pitched and anxious, he butted his massive head into Stiles’ chest until the Touchstone wrapped his arms around his thick neck, hid his face in the wolf’s heavy ruff. He mumbled something that made the animal push forward even harder, practically knocking the man onto his back again, but then he was showing his teeth and jerking his muzzle upwards, making gruff woofing sounds that Jackson was apparently capable of interpreting, even in his human form.

“You said it mate. Let’s get the soddin’ hell outta here.”

Offering Stiles a hand up, he caught him again as his knees wobbled and gave out, the whole pack moving forward this time as Scott’s hands went up to help. The collective movement seemed to startle the Touchstone, who flinched back and away, eyes going wide as he stared around the circle at all of the wolves who surrounded him, their shifts slowly melting away even as they continued to keep a careful eye on the woods.

“Woah, what…” he rasped, “What the hell are they all…”

“Long story,” Jackson grumbled, rolling his eyes. “One better told in a place that’s not here - let’s go.”

Slinging Stiles’ arm over his shoulders, Jackson shared a quick look with Phee, who glanced around at each of the pack before looking back to the woods and nodding, huffing through his nose in what was seemed to be ascension. Squaring his shoulders, Jackson turned to Derek as the alpha, the alpha who had been the one to turn him, and then turn him away, the alpha whom he hated - if Scott was any guess. But his voice was calm and steady when he spoke, no murmur of poor confidence in his heartbeat.

“The quickest way out of here,” he said flatly, not a command or a question or anything.

To Scott’s ears it just was.

For Derek’s part the alpha nodded gravely, before turning back to the trees and issuing his orders.

“Back to the house,” he growled, “Stick together. Watch the sides and don’t break if you see anything. Move.”

Falling to the back of the pack, Scott did as his alpha told him, following directly behind Jackson as he halfway hauled Stiles along through the woods, Pheelan’s huge form on his other side, the wolf’s body supporting the Touchstone’s other side as he limped along awkwardly, still moving fast. No one spoke, no one snarled, all of them listening on high alert as they pressed forward through the trees and the underbrush, and the worst part was that Scott didn’t even know what he was looking for, what they were protecting against.

When they finally reached the edge of the backyard, Allison and Lydia were both waiting for them, standing in front of the bonfire with feet planted wide. Allison was armed with bow and arrow and Lydia was wearing Peter’s grey flak jacket, the sleeves rolled up an inch above her wrists, two silver throwing knives in her hands. When they saw the Pack emerge from the darkness of the Preserve, uninjured and in the company of three more than they’d left with, their stances eased, Allison rushing to Scott’s side while Peter swung towards Lydia’s, touching her shoulder lightly before turning her towards the house, his attention still on the woods.

“Scott,” Allison breathed, all relief and terrible tension crushed together like sour hard-candies in his nose. Slinging one arm around his neck, she pulled him in tight, pressed her face to his neck before pulling back again.

“Everyone inside,” Derek commanded before Scott could speak, and then Peter was tugging Lydia through the French doors and the Pack was following, Jackson’s eyes narrowing and his scent flaring with cinnamon-spice for all of a second before his attention was back on Stiles and he and the wolf were helping him inside even as he began to snap and attempt to shove them off.

“I’m all right,” he growled, his teeth still sharper than Scott thought they should be as Jackson dumped him unceremoniously onto the couch while the Pack pressed in close, all brushing shoulders and scenting each other in reassurance.

Stiles cast a glare their way before clenching his jaw, scowling nastily as he examined the small pricks of blood Jackson’s claws had left on his wrists. Jackson rolled his eyes and turned away but he reached out and snagged the werewolf’s arm, turning it to check the red-marks he’d left in retaliation. Tightening his grip on the wolf he took two seconds to light up, send a burst of heat down through his arm to soothe the claws marks he’d caused before Jackson pulled away.

“Don’t’ change the bloody subject!” the wolf bit out, and Scott frowned, confused at the sudden turn in the conversation. “What the hell was that Stiles?”

“How the hell should I know?!” The Touchstone snarled back, attempting to shove up off the couch before Jackson planted a hand on his shoulder and shoved him back down again. “I was asleep remember?”

“We should call Deaton,” Scott blurted out, and then there was a whole pack of eyes turning towards him, staring at him like he was either stupid or a genius, and the worst part was that he wasn’t sure which he felt like himself. He hadn’t meant to say it, hadn’t meant to cut in like that, not with the tension between him and Stiles, not with how much he wanted to fix things and how much it seemed like Stiles didn’t.

“Fuck that, we’re calling Shawna!” Jackson snarled, jerking a cell phone out of the pocket of his jeans and tossing it to Stiles, who flinched away but caught it against his chest.

“No way!” Stiles yelped. “You call her! You know what time it is? I’ll take Deaton’s vague, cryptic bullshit over pissing Shawna off any day - she’ll skin me alive.”

“Alive being the bloody keyword, Stilinski!” the werewolf growled, his eyes flashing as he showed his teeth. “We haven’t got a damned clue what that thing was out there! I’ll take the devil I know, thanks very much!”

The two were practically chest to chest now, Jackson leaning over Stiles and the Touchstone pressing upwards, showing each other their teeth as their hands fisted at their sides, but a loud crack had them both jumping apart as Pheelan snapped his jaws together with the power of a steel trap, slavering as he shook his head viciously and rumbled with a dark, deep sort of anger that made his eyes gleam.

“Fine!” Stiles snapped, dropping back into the couch cushions and punching in the numbers maliciously, casting Pheelan a dark glare that rivalled any Derek could throw. “Dick.”

Snorting, Pheelan tossed his head, watching Stiles turn on the speaker feature and lean forward, elbows on his knees to place the phone on the coffee table. Scott shifted awkwardly on his feet, uncomfortable knowing that Deaton had been replaced by whoever this Shawna person was, but Allison moved in close to his side and ran a hand down his arm, giving him a look he couldn’t quite interpret. The pack waited in silence as the phone rang, loud and shrill in the room, and the only movement was Boyd coming back down the stairs, offering a pair of sweats and a t-shirt to the blonde wolf who looked him up and down before taking the clothes in his mouth and stepping behind the couch. Less than three rings later he was back on the proper side, the cotton stretched tightly across his chest and arms as he practically burst from even Boyd’s clothes, dropping down at Stiles’ side with a barely contained energy that suggested he was itching for a fight, a hunt, a kill.

On the eight ring Scott saw Stiles open his fists, trill his fingers as his knee jumped, the toe of his boot tapping incessantly against the wood floor. He’d just opened his mouth to demand they his mentor and local vet when a click sounded, a second’s icy silence falling before a voice sweet enough to destroy a man came over the speaker.

“Do you have any idea what time it is Stilinski?”

“That’s not even his phone,” Isaac whispered, his face pale and his eyes wide, but Jackson glared in his direction and he closed his mouth with a snap.

“Shawna, I am so…” Stiles began, his palms flat together as if in prayer.

“Zip it,” the woman on the other end hissed, and Stiles shut up faster than Isaac had. “Give me one good reason not to skin you Stiles.”

Sighing hard, Stiles scrubbed his hands down over his face and pressing his fists against his mouth, as if trying to stop the single word he muttered.

“… Bananarama.”

The silence that followed was thick and heavy, dangerous with its weight, and no one moved until the voice came back through the speaker again, softer, gentler this time, edged with something almost like concern.

“Got yourself in some real trouble this time, huh Stiles?” the woman asked quietly. “What do you need from me?”

Biting down on his knuckles, Stiles’ gaze went cold and blank and Scott felt a shiver roll down his spine.

“What can you tell me about a fox?”

Chapter Text

It wasn’t Shawna’s area, he knew that, so Stiles hadn’t expected an immediate solution to his problem.

Instead he patiently took the tongue-lashing he deserved for not being able to give her any more information, let her work out the last of her middle-of-the-night ire with short, snide comments. Still it was obvious that the woman on the other end of the line could feel the significance, the severity of the situation. He could feel it too, the fear still clawing at him from his encounter with the animal, the demon, from waking up to find that it had somehow been more than a dream, that the thing had been able to pick him up and walk him out of his own bed with ease.

Even more than that, he’d had one trump card to play against Shawna, one, and he’d just laid it down on the table. It felt like being dragged back two years in time, back to when he’d first spoken with the woman who terrified him more than Lydia ever had. He felt like he’d been tossed onto uneven ground, unsteady ground, and the pack that was pressing in around him wasn’t helping. Their watchful eyes, their combined concern made him ache, chilled him.

After ten minutes on the line and promising Shawna that he would take the job she’d mentioned during their previous phone call, a down payment of sorts in addition to the blackmail-cum-bribe he’d dropped, she’d promised in return to come back with a source within twenty-four hours and hung up, no doubt headed back to sleep without the least bit of difficulty. Stiles himself was much more unsettled, collapsed back against the couch with a sigh before dragging his hands down over his face.

“She’ll call back,” Jackson said quietly.

He was sitting on the edge of the coffee table, his elbows on his knees only inches from Stiles’ own. Pheelan was still at his side, close enough to press the length of their thighs together, and he was all heat and bulk against him, a comforting rock of silent strength.

“Whatever,” Stiles muttered, tucking his hands into the sleeves of Phee’s hoody and wrapping his arms tightly around his torso. He was still cold, utterly exhausted, and frankly feeling a little bit petulant about the whole situation. He wanted to sleep, knew that being at the bottom of a good old-fashioned puppy pile would put him out like a light for a long, rejuvenating rest, and hated himself a little bit for even thinking about it. Tipping his head back against the couch cushions, he let his eyes fall closed, breathed through his nose.

“Want to go home?” Pheelan asked quietly, and Stiles scowled.

He did, but…

“Only if you carry me,” he grumbled, picking his feet up and dropping them into Jackson’s lap, just for the distraction of having the wolf shove them roughly away. “I’m not walking all the damned way back.”

“You can stay here,” a voice said lowly, and Stiles’ eyes flashed open to see Derek watching him carefully, the way you watched a venomous snake. “Everybody stays. In the den.”

Stiles rolled his eyes, snorted at the play on words before being hit with a sharp pang of guilt when the wolves shifted, blushed, embarrassed by his reaction. That wasn’t right, even he had to acknowledge that. There was nothing wrong with them curling up together as a pack after spending the day together, gathering close in a safe place chosen for the purpose. Jackson’s pack did it, so did Phee’s, and it was actually kind of impressive that Derek had finally gotten his shit together enough to act like a real boy.

Wolf, rather.

It just… still hurt.

He was beginning to suspect that it always would.

“Your call little buddy,” Pheelan murmured in Gaelic, staring blankly ahead at something approximately level with Erica’s boobs, and Stiles almost barked a bitter laugh.

If there was one thing that held less interest for the werewolf…

But he must still be feeling off, irked by his and Jackson’s bickering, feeling unsafe and insecure in this pack’s lair. This wasn’t his place, wasn’t his element, and Stiles felt bad for having dragged him into the middle of it, even if there was nothing he could do about it now. Something was telling him that it would be wise to stay indoors, to stay out of the woods until the sun came up again and burned away the chill fog hanging low between the trees.

“Fuck it,” he muttered.

Why the hell not?

Rolling smoothly to his feet, he stretched his arms over his head, twisted left then right to pop the discs in his spine before settling with a huff, his hands deep in his pockets as he stared flatly at the Alpha, his eyebrows cocked haughtily. It was self-defense, all of it, and seeing Derek swallow before dipping his head made Stiles think that maybe he got it, understood it and accepted it for what it was. Following the Alpha as he left down the hallway, he could feel the rest of the pack shifting round excitedly, trying to keep it quiet, keep it contained, even more than he could sense Pheelan and Jackson both clinging tightly to his heels. It almost made him laugh, how shitty he was making things for the two wolves he was closest too. This couldn’t be any easier for them than it was for him.

Following Derek down a short flight of stairs, Stiles’ steps faltered on the landing as he took in the den, half a story below the rest of the house so that it was built low into the earth, the windowless walls pressing in close and comforting. There was a blank wall at one end opposite a small projector mounted from the ceiling, but the others were lined with massive couches and arm chairs, all plush and overstuffed and stacked with pillows and folded duvets. The floor appeared to be made of a massive, sunken mattress, essentially turning it into one giant bed, and the room smelled so strongly of the wolves’ combined scents, the smell of pack, that it startled a pained, high-pitched whine out of Stiles’ throat. From the corner of his eye he saw Derek stiffen, pausing as he kicked off his shoes, but then Phee’s hand was wrapping tightly around the nape of his neck, grip just bruising enough to ground him. Clenching his jaw, he shrugged the wolf off, removed his own shoes before dropping down onto the spongy floor and bouncing a few times to test it out.

Behind him he could hear the wolves filing in but he did his best to ignore them, looking round for a place to sleep. He mostly just wanted to wedge himself into a corner, walls tight at his back, but the closest he could get here was to tuck himself up against one of the couches where it met another. Lying down on his side, he looked up to find Pheelan watching him with dark, unreadable eyes, and it only took half a wiggle to invite him into the narrow space between Stiles’ body and the furniture. Turning away from him, the big blonde faced the couch, wrapping his arms tightly around a pillow so that the breadth of his shoulders and the length of his spine pressed in flush with Stiles’ back, searing him through his sweatshirt. He wanted to turn, cuddle the wolf close and make him Little Spoon, but he knew Phee better than that so he let him be.

The rest of the pack were milling around, clearly unsure of where they all stood, but then Lydia was frowning and stomping up to him with a determined twist to her lips, her arms crossed as she glared down at him almost angrily. Stiles sniffed a tired chuckle before opening his arms to her, and a moment later he had his little spoon, one arm stretched above him with his head pillowed on his bicep, the other draped over the Banshee’s ribs holding her tight. He was surprised when Peter followed a second later, without permission or apology, lying down at angle to them so that his head was pillowed on Lydia’s stomach. His muscles clenched when he felt the older werewolf turn into his forearm, nuzzling the material of his sleeve before breathing deep and settling, keeping his face pressed firmly against him, but he drifted off almost immediately after that and he made it look so easy that all Stiles could do was shrug it off and go with it.

He wasn’t watching, but he could feel the rest of the pack slowly settling too, orienting themselves around him; Isaac and the twins in a knotted pile near his feet, Allison tugging Scott down near Peter’s legs, though she was careful to keep herself and a few empty yards between Stiles and his once-best-friend. Erica had grabbed on to a cautious Derek and pulled him down into a tangle of limbs up against Boyd’s shins, who had flopped across one of the arm chairs with limbs hanging off in every direction, and everywhere you looked there were arms and legs stretched out, reaching, beckoning, connecting. No one was alone no matter where they lay, no one was entirely separate, and Stiles could already feel his light going crazy inside him, pinballing around inside his ribcage in desperation.

It would be so easy to give in, so easy to let it out as he collapsed into the comfort of what was filling the space above him, the love, the sense of belonging, of pack. It cut at his soft insides to tamp it down, to hold it back, but he still couldn’t do it, still couldn’t let go…

An almost silent whimper broke Stiles out of his painful musings, and when he leaned up to look over Lydia’s shoulder he found Jackson staring back at him, fully shifted onto all fours, his ears pressed back against his skull, lowered in what looked like dejection. Stiles could feel the hurt in him, unsure in his place, an echo of what was sounding inside his own chest. He supposed it was selfish of him to hang on to Lydia so tightly when it was Jackson who would come after him, left behind his pack and his new life to cross the ocean and come to Stiles’ side. The wolf’s gaze flicked down to the redhead sleeping in Stiles’ arms before he slunk around the outer edge of the room, leaping lightly onto the couch above Stiles’ head. With his free arm pressed against the side of the couch his fingers just cleared the seat and he offered Jackson his palm but the wolf turned away, facing the back of the couch instead.

Resigned to the fact that he was receiving the cold shoulder from both his wolves, his stomach heavy with guilt that he’d put them all in this position, he tucked his face into the curve of Lydia’s shoulder, breathed in the peaches and cream of her hair, and fell into a dead sleep.

Stiles woke up hours later feeling better than he could remember feeling in weeks, maybe even months. He was flat out on his back, bodies all pressed in close around him, and for a minute he thought he was back in Ireland, buried beneath Pheelan’s pack on one of the rare occasions that they stayed over in the den, but then things slowly began to filter back in to his brain, cool and watery and weak. It was Lydia plastered across his chest, Peter’s head pillowed on his thigh, clawed hand gripping his calf tight enough to feel the prickling through his jeans. Yawning widely, he stretched long and slowly and languorously, careful not to dislodge his hangers-on, but he felt a little more weighed down than he should, and when he finally got his eyes open he quickly figured out why.

In sleep the pack had gravitated to him, rolled in closer, turned towards him even while unconscious. All of them, even the twins whom he didn’t know were pulled in tight, planets to his sun though he wasn’t sure if he’d lit up in the night. Scott’s head was resting on his ankle, drooling over his sock, Allison’s arm draped across the beta’s neck to clasp Stiles’ shin. There wasn’t much more square footage left on Stiles’ body for grasping, but Erica, Boyd, Isaac, and even Derek were all piled up close. Falling back again, he closed his eyes and searched himself for discomfort, anger, bitterness, anything, but he couldn’t seem to find it. There was nothing in him but a calm, relaxed warmth and the feeling of Pheelan’s teeth set against his collarbones.

It had been a long time since he’d woken up to that.

It wasn’t often that the big Irish wolf was so unsettled, but this was always the telltale sign of it. He never bit down, even in his sleep, but would suck and gnaw and worry at the skin of Stiles’ neck and shoulders with sharp teeth, chew him up like a rawhide bone. At the moment he seemed calm, facedown against Stiles’ throat, content enough in his dreams to just mouth at the Touchstone’s skin, but Stiles knew that it was the bursts of anxiety that sent him into this tailspin. Bringing his arm around the back of the wolf’s neck, he pulled him down hard, pressing him into his throat until he felt the man stir awake, felt his massive chest expand as he let out a great huff and began to lap at his abused skin with a hot, wet tongue as Stiles threaded his fingers into the wolf’s heavy curls.

It was an apology between them, unspoken but understood.

It made guilt curl up low in his belly - he’d been neglectful in this, even though he knew.

“Stop,” Pheelan grumbled crossly, sensing the path his thoughts were taking and butting his head beneath Stiles’ jaw as punishment.

“Fine,” he hummed agreeably, the corners of his mouth ticking upward as he got his hands under Phee’s chest and pushed. “Get up - I need to take a piss.”

“Nice,” the man yawned in his face, doing a push up off the floor and knocking Scott’s head carelessly with his shin.

Stiles narrowed his eyes, aware that the beta wasn’t Pheelan’s favorite person after all the stories he’d heard over the years, but then he was easing Lydia off his chest and shaking his leg free from Peter’s claws, accepting the werewolf’s hand as he catapulted him up onto his feet. Climbing their way carefully over bodies that began to shift and come awake beneath them, Stiles grabbed his shoes and Jackson’s pile of clothes, carrying them up and out of the den and into the bathroom. A quick flush later he was splashing icy water on his face and leaving Jackson’s clothes in a pile on the floor, pulling the door shut behind the wolf as he ducked round his knees.

He was startled when he bumped into Derek in the narrow hallway. The Alpha was still groggy with sleep, his hair matted and sticking up in places, and he looked strangely warm and rumpled and it tugged at something inside of Stiles that he wasn’t ready to feel. It was like suddenly everything had fallen away between them, and it had him stumbling back against the wall, pressing himself away. The Alpha noticed and tilted his head to the side as he stepped back, baring his throat in a blatant display of submission that surprised the Touchstone and had his stance relaxing again.

“Sorry,” the man mumbled, and Stiles frowned, rubbing at the place on his collarbone that Pheelan had nibbled raw in the night.

“It’s fine,” he muttered. “Just…”

“Thank you.”

“What?” Stiles hissed, his head snapping up to face the wolf again. “Jesus, what the hell for?”

He wasn’t making this easy, not for any of them. He knew that, hell, half of it he was doing on purpose. What in the name of god was he being thanked for?

“Just,” Derek tried, “Just for staying. I can’t…. tell you, what it did to them. To us.” The man ducked his head, eyes falling, and shame flared sharply enough in his scent that even Stiles could sense it. “I probably don’t deserve to tell you.”

Stiles swallowed hard, unable to contradict him, to deny the truth that was so cold around his heart.

“But I can see it,” Derek continued, and now he was looking at Stiles with a gaze that burned with sincerity. “I can see the difference in them. I can feel it. Just staying last night… it mattered Stiles.”

“It wasn’t a promise,” Stiles said coldly, suddenly afraid, desperate to drive that point home because he needed Derek to know, needed all of them to know.

Luckily for him the bathroom door banged open, slamming hard into his shoulders and sending him stumbling forward.

“Dammit, what the hell?” Jackson snarled, squeezing through the crack in the door and scowling first at Stiles and then at Derek. “Really? Here. In front of the bloody door.”

Shaking his head and scoffing, the blonde shoved roughly between them, bounding up the hallway towards the kitchen.

“O’Rourke!” he bellowed, “Let’s go! Some of us actually work for a living!”

Chapter Text

After reassuring them that he was not in fact headed back to England but rather perfectly capable of conducting his terrible, number-filled job dealing with other people’s money by phone and internet, Jackson left Stiles and Pheelan in the Stilinski driveway, climbing into his ridiculous car and tossing them a smart-assed salute before disappearing in the direction of his old house on the other side of town. Stiles watched him go until the car had disappeared at the end of the street, worried about how the guy was dealing. He hid it well, was gruff and casual, but he knew that spending the night in the Hale pack’s den, so close to Lydia’s sleeping form, had to have wrought havoc on the wolf’s psyche.

Pheelan made a chuffing sort of sound deep in his chest before going inside, leaving Stiles alone on the walk as thin, hazy clouds left over from last night swirled around above him. Frustrated by the fact that he felt good-, that his body betrayed the effect of pack through the smooth, easy curl of strength in his muscles, he went inside to ask Phee about another run, anything to make his physical self as battered and achy as his brain. The sound of water running upstairs alerted him to the other man’s location, an avoidance as much as anything else, and it made a sneer flicker over his face. The house was mostly still, mostly quiet since his dad was at work making up for all the time he’d been out, but the steady hiss of the shower and his own dull heartbeat were grating on his nerves, making him feel hot and jittery. Kicking off his shoes, he wandered into the kitchen, took the milk from the fridge and leaned against the counter, gulping it straight from the carton. He was killing time, unsure of… well, everything, and it fed the beginnings of irrational anger stirring in the pit of his belly.

Anger that suddenly flared to fury as he placed the milk back into the fridge and closed the door.

Stalking up the stairs, Stiles slammed open the bathroom door to find Pheelan wrapping a towel tightly around his waist, short, angry red welts all over his chest and shoulders left behind by clawed scrubbing that hadn’t quite healed over yet. The wolf cast him a quick look as he scraped his damp hair back from his forehead, his typically warm eyes dark and unreadable, before shouldering roughly past him out into the hallway.

“Take a shower!” he bit out with a snarl as he went, disappearing into Stiles’ bedroom. “You reek.”

Stiles glared coldly after him, debated stewing in his pack-stink all day just to spite the wolf, but he could feel the rest clinging to his skin, his clothes, and while he hadn’t minded Lydia and Peter cuddling up so much, the others still made him uncomfortable. Stripping quickly, he stepped into the shower without testing the water first, just cranked it on and suffered the icy cold while he soaped up and rinsed off. His skin was pink by the time he got out, reddened not by heat but by some numbed-out, too-hard scrubbing of his own, and he was shivering even though the small room was still full of the warm steam Pheelan had left behind. Grabbing the only spare towel left in the cabinet, he slung it around his hips and stomped down the hallway to his room.

The werewolf wasn’t there.

Fear gripped him by the throat in that moment, all the anger in him draining away like a plug being pulled from the bottom of a sink. Knowing that he couldn’t blame the man made the fear that much more intense, certainty that he’d finally broken and hightailed it for home making his heart plummet down into the pit of his belly. His heart seemed to swell in his chest even as his throat began to close up, and he recognized the symptoms of an oncoming panic attack quickly enough to grab his knees and hold on, to coach himself through his breathing exercises and his recitations until he had it under control again, finding Pheelan’s heartbeat in the living room downstairs even as his mind raced through a dozen what-if-he’s-really-gone’s.

It couldn’t have lasted more than a minute, a few seconds even, but it felt like he’d lived a lifetime in the interim, and he knew just like he’d always known that he had a very real chance of breaking if Pheelan ever did cut his losses and run. It left him even more chilled and shaky then before, and he felt like he might rattle to pieces if it got any worse, so he toweled off as fast as he could and jammed himself into a pair of sweats and a t-shirt, nearly cracking his head off the desk when he stumbled. He took the stairs at a run but reality caught him by the neck at the bottom and he couldn’t bring himself to cross the line that was clearly drawn across the threshold of the living room where Pheelan sat.

He could see the back of the wolf’s head over the couch, the ball game on TV beyond him, but never once did he even shift in Stiles’ direction. It almost choked him, the need to clear that space and swear an apology with his words and his lips and his hands, but even the thought felt like an intrusion, so instead he went back to the kitchen where he could hear the ancient coffee pot spluttering away.

The chipped, blue mug sitting on the counter waiting for him was a lifeline he hadn’t known he needed.

Exhaling hard with relief and leaning heavily against the counter, Stiles took a minute to collect himself before pouring a cup from the partially empty pot, adding a touch of sugar and carrying it tentatively into the living room.

Pheelan didn’t comment on his presence when he came in, didn’t comment when he lowered himself into his dad’s arm chair instead of down onto the couch beside him. He was slouched low, his socked feet propped up on the coffee table and his mug balanced on his belly between his palms, eyes glued firmly to the TV, and Stiles took the opportunity offered to study the lines of his body, his face, the lines that he’d thought he’d known so well before they’d come here. Before he’d brought them back to Beacon Hills. He was wearing a pair of corduroys and a thick, cable-knit sweater the color of oatmeal, his hair drying in wild curls without any product weighting it down, and the picture it made…

It twisted his stomach.

So much like Ireland, so much like the old Phee, when a smile wasn’t as hard to come by…

And nothing like him at all.

Hard and sharp and withdrawn, the isolation clear in every angle, every corner.

It took him a moment to realize he’d been caught staring.

Lowering his eyes guiltily, he gulped at his coffee, too dark and bitter and hot enough to burn his throat.

An exasperated sigh hit his ears and then his mug was liberated from him and he was being pulled up and out of his seat, turned and tugged down again against the werewolf’s side as he hauled him in close in a stilted half-hug.

“You don’t have to…” he started, pushing back because he knew what Pheelan wanted.

He wanted Stiles to glow, to use him to take his own relief, but he wasn’t nearly the breed of cold-hearted bastard it would take to force his embrace on the man when it was clearly uncomfortable, unwelcome. He’d suffer in silence for a damned long time before he did that.

“Not a lot I do that I don’t want to,” Pheelan murmured, still not looking at him, but it took Stiles back to that night in the hotel when they’d first arrived, that quiet, gentle night when he’d wanted to say the three words he’d never wanted to say before.

“Including me?” he asked, his voice choked and his eyes stinging.

“Including you.”

Pheelan knew why Stiles had pushed back from him, and thank god for that because he thought that maybe it was the only thing he did know. Everything else was a mess, a jumbled up, muddy wreck, and it scared him.

It had hurt calling on his wolf last night. The shift to his True Form had set fire to his muscles and ground his joints together, almost made him scream and he’d barely been able to hold it. That was the only reason he’d caved to the offer for spare clothes, the only reason he hadn’t taken Jackson’s perfectly sound and silent advice and held on to the physical shape that would have kept him mute and separate from the rest. Losing his wolf, what that meant… it frightened him. This had never happened before - his shift had always been easy ever since he’d found it, smooth and sweet like creamery butter. This? This was wrong, this didn’t make sense…

No.

This bit, this bit with Stiles…

At least that made sense, the Touchstone’s reluctance to push himself into his space when he was pissed and irritated and just as touchy himself. The other man was ridiculously steadfast that way.

Pious.

It made him feel sick.

So he’d sighed and grumbled and showed his teeth, and then he pulled Stiles into him despite it all. It didn’t matter anyway - this he could handle, this he could take. It was the other, the coldness, the alien, oil-slick feel to that side of him that sent a chill rushing down his spine. He’d never been so wary around the younger man, never felt so tense at his side, not even in the very beginning when Stiles would’ve rather seen him and all other wolves disappear off the face of the earth than anything. It made him stiff and resentful even though Stiles had showered the scent of pack away, even as he did his best to soften his resolve, fighting to find a comfortable position beneath the arm Phee’d thrown along the back of the couch.

“I like you better like this, you know,” Stiles muttered, his words harsh and coarse as he knotted his fingers in the hem of Phee’s sweater, cutting a bruise into his hip, and he could scent the salt of tears that weren’t his own even as his throat grew tight.

Because what were you supposed to say to that?

He understood the meaning, perhaps even the purpose of the words, the half-intended pain. Stiles liked him better in his softer clothes, here alone away from the pack even if he was pissed, and that made as much sense as anything else. He liked that part of Stiles better too, the softer, more vulnerable side that showed itself when they were safe, close enough to share space and warmth and comfort.

But they were both fooling themselves if that was where they thought they were.

Still, it was a delicate balance he’d felt he’d struck, and he had no real desire to fall off either side of that particular tightrope, so he kept his mouth shut and his eyes on the game, let Stiles do whatever it was he was trying to do by flopping around on the couch beside him, as elegant as ever as he jabbed sharp knees and elbows into Phee’s ribs.

“Would you just sit, please?!” he finally huffed, snippy around a mouthful of teeth, but Stiles just frowned at him and turned away, slouching so that his head was tucked beneath Phee’s armpit and legs were thrown out over the arm of the couch. Crossing his arms petulantly, he stared resolutely out the living room window at the houses across the street, stewing in something that smelled a little like anger and a little like something else until Phee dropped his arm down across Stiles’ chest - the only peace offering he could kick himself into giving up.

A heartbeat of silence passed before the young man spoke.

“Do you want to go home?”

For a minute Pheelan thought his heart might have stopped in his chest but then it kicked back up again, thundering against his ribs and in his throat and the tips of his fingers, his own skin sensitized to his racing pulse. The question was low and hard and biting, the words clipped and serious, but the silence that came after hurt them both even more, because Pheelan didn’t know. Didn’t know what he wanted, didn’t know the answer or the right thing to do. For the first time in a long time he was at odds with himself, playing with what he wanted and what he believed could be. That was why it had been so hard to shift last night, why his wolf hadn’t come to him with the easy comfort of familiarity that it always had before.

He didn’t know, didn’t know if he wanted to go back to Ireland or stick it out for Stiles, didn’t know if he wanted to suffer the pack and watching his Touchstone circle the strange alpha with more than just pain and bitterness churning in his heart.

Didn’t know if he was strong enough to fight for what he wanted.

And yes.

He did want.

So that was what he said, the truth of the thing, the truth of what he knew and an echo of Stiles’ own words what felt like so long ago.

“I want to be able to love you.”

Chapter Text

The rest of the week was spent dancing around each other, leaving careful space between their bodies that was cold and stiff and empty. They weren’t exactly fighting, just… dealing, and Stiles wasn’t sure if it was going well or not. Of course that was probably asking too much - why label it good or bad when it just was? There was no talk of leaving on anyone’s part though Stiles knew that it was coming, but the pain that lanced across his heart whenever he considered bringing it up, to himself or anyone else, always stopped him. It felt far too much like choosing, between Ireland and America, between his father and Phee, and he found that he just couldn’t do it.

Mad or otherwise, he and the werewolf had crossed their not-in-love lines a long time ago.

That wasn’t to say he had any declarations to make. He didn’t know when or how it had happened, didn’t know exactly where they stood, just that they’d definitely burned their safety bridges a few miles back. If the past few days had proven anything, it was that now they cared enough to hurt each other.

For his part, Jackson helped to break up the strangeness as best he could without mentioning it outright, spending the daylight hours at the Stilinksi home and then leaving again for his old haunts in the evening and moonlit hours. Stiles was worried about him too, stranded here on his own, but he’d never said he wasn’t a selfish being and so he didn’t bring that up either, clinging to the strings of his shaky support as tightly as possible.

But there were some things he couldn’t stop.

The full moon was drawing near, and as much as it hurt his pride to go begging at his old pack’s doorstep, for this he would swallow his pride.

Stiles hadn’t seen or heard from any of Derek’s pack since their quick departure from the night spent in their den. A part of him was disappointed by it, old hurt twinging dully, but the rest was relieved, grateful for the respite. It was exhausting to deal with all the old emotion he’d pushed away for so long, to fight against what he wanted and hold back his glow. But as the most important night of the month got closer and closer, the Touchstone could sense the anxiety in his wolves, the tension and the uncertainty, and he knew that he had to do something.

So that was how he found himself pulling up the drive of the Hale House, jumping down out of the jeep to stare up at the structure with a lingering sense of awe that he couldn’t seem to get rid of. The structure had been broken and burnt out in his mind for so long that he could still smell the smoke, still expected to see dark smudges of ash and charcoal. He couldn’t dismiss the metaphor either - the pack too had been broken and dysfunctional when he’d left, but no longer. They’d been rebuilt as surely as the house had, now with a solid foundation and a strong infrastructure, a fact that he couldn’t hate as much as he would like too.

He might’ve stayed there a long time thinking philosophical thoughts if the front door hadn’t opened and Lydia hadn’t come waltzing down the steps like a princess on a runway. Stiles felt a smile touch his face as he pushed off the bumper of the jeep and met her halfway up the walk, accepting a light hug that had warmth flaring up in his chest like a lantern. He hadn’t known she’d be there but the Banshee had a way of breaking the ice between him and the pack, and it would be easier to follow her into the house than anyone else.

“I didn’t know you were coming,” she said, and he could hear the tentative caution in her tone.

“Probably should’ve called,” he admitted without sincerity. He’d had no more intention of calling ahead than he did for his lack of apologizing. “Need to see your Alpha.”

Lydia’s eyes narrowed as she studied his face and Stiles automatically focused on his heartbeat, keeping it smooth and steady. The girl in front of him wouldn’t hear any uptick in its rhythm but any nosy wolves might, and it was good to stay in practice anyways.

“Derek’s inside,” she responded finally, turning to go back inside. “Did you come to make him grovel?”

Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the back of her head as he stepped into the house, pulling the door closed behind him. He was sure it had been said for the benefit of the pack spread about the house - reaching out with his senses he found that only Boyd, Scott, and Allison seemed to be missing. But it was early afternoon on a Wednesday so he assumed some of them must be at work.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said flatly, his mouth grim as he passed the dining room where Erica and the twins were grouped together around the table painting their nails. Erica was watching him like a hawk, eyes huge and hurt, lower lip pouting as she strained towards him but she held back, a pained, high-pitched whine escaping when he passed her without a second glance.

“Oh please,” Lydia scoffed, winding down the hallway. “Like it isn’t coming. Every person in this house owes you an apology, and I doubt you’ve gotten a single one yet.”

Stiles felt his chest get tight but he pushed the burgeoning feelings away, clearing his throat.

“Not all of them,” he said quietly, and Lydia cast him a sweet smile over her shoulder. The comment was meant for more than just her - Stiles hadn’t ever blamed Peter, and the two new ones certainly didn’t deserve his ire.

The rest, well…

“So what are you doing here?” he asked, turning the subject rather bluntly as they took a short span of stairs up a half-story.

“Oh, I just finished delivering a new proposal so I’m free until I hear back on the panel’s decision,” Lydia said casually and Stiles smirked, certain that there was a lot more to it than that. It was sure to be something complicated and fantastic, something that could save the world one day.

“There’s always a few of us around,” she continued, picking up on Stiles’ real question with ease. “Boyd’s at the shop, Scott and Allison are at work…”

Stiles made a noncommittal sound, following Lydia through a door.

“And Derek’s in here,” she announced a bit smugly, flouncing into the room and ignoring the surprise on Derek and Isaac’s faces, the amusement on Peter’s.

Crossing the room towards the table that the three werewolves worked over, she stood examining her nails for a moment while Peter slid easily off his stool and relinquished it to her as though it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do. Stiles bit back half a smirk, strangely pleased with the way Peter’s hand lingered at the small of Lydia’s back until she was settled and then moved easily away, a small but comfortable distance between them as he stood close to her side, reaching across her to pull some paperwork closer.

His eyes snapped away from the two when Derek cleared his throat awkwardly, when Isaac shifted on his feet.

“Stiles?” Derek finally managed, his voice high and tight with surprise. “What are you…”

“Of course, sorry to intrude,” he said flatly, this time not bothering to block the jump in his heartbeat that said he didn’t really give a damn about showing up unexpectedly.

Lydia snorted delicately and Peter definitely rolled his eyes, making Derek turn to them and glare with a low snarl before turning back to Stiles.

“That’s not what I meant and you know it,” he snapped, and Stiles found the anger oddly refreshing, but he wasn’t going to cede the point so he merely shrugged in response. For a moment they didn’t do anything but stare at each other and Stiles couldn’t begin to say what all passed between them, but Isaac was breaking the heat and it didn’t matter.

“Stiles?” the beta ventured, and Stiles could see once again how he might’ve risen to Derek’s right hand.

“Right.”

Straightening up, Stiles squared his feet and leant forward at the waist, ducking his head as he bowed shallowly, a customary supplication to the alpha in front of him.

“Alpha Hale,” he began in the most professional tone he could manage, “As first wolf of the Hale pack, overseers of the Beacon Hills territory, I, Touchstone Stilinski recently of the O’Rourke pack, request your permission that I, Omega O’Rourke, recently of the O’Rourke pack, and Beta Whittemore of the Ainsworth pack, might join you and your wolves this full moon that we might run and hunt this region.”

“You…” Derek stuttered, even more surprised now than he had been before. “You want to run with us?”

Stiles remained silent, only watched the wolf with a carefully masked face. Want was a damned strong word. Need though, need he could concede to. Jackson needed a pack to run with on the moon, and even Pheelan, Omega that he was, spent that night each month running with his family, communing with his parents pack.

So yes. Need was something he would cop to.

Hell, he wouldn’t be here at all otherwise.

But he wasn’t so caught in his musings that he missed the silence, the way that Derek stared at him with his mouth just slightly open and the way the Isaac dug his elbow into his alpha’s ribs. Starting, the alpha seemed to remember himself and began to nod intently.

“Of course! Stiles, we’d…” he blurted before his brain caught up with him and he swallowed, reeled in whatever had leapt in his chest, whatever had called to Stiles own nature and had him fighting back a hot surge of light, the taste of it sour on the back of his tongue.

“Of course,” he said again, calmer this time with something almost tender in his voice, almost vulnerable. “We’d love to have you run with us.”

“Great,” Stiles replied, and his tone held none of the warmth or hope he could feel coming from the wolves around him. He was half of him glad for the invitation, the acceptance, yes, but the other half of him was a little bit bitter and a little bit melancholy still.

“We usually hang out,” Isaac jumped in, quite possibly to dispel the sudden tension. “We have dinner and do another bonfire, play some games. Then when the moon comes up we’ll run.”

“And will my werewolves be a problem?” he asked, as casually as possible, but he saw more than one flinch around the room. They weren’t his exactly, but the inquiry was a necessary one. They weren’t pack, not Derek’s anyway, and Stiles knew from experience that that could come with some serious bloodshed. Territory, be it earth or otherwise, was one of the fastest ways to a fight.

“No,” Derek replied earnestly, but Stiles could see his claws biting into the wood of the table in front of him. “You have my word on that Stiles. No harm will come to your friends from our pack. We don’t… have any rules. As long as they stay inside the Preserve… they’ll be safe here.”

“Spec-fucking-tacular,” Stiles muttered.

Rolling his shoulders inside his leather jacket, he stuffed his hands deep into his pockets, confused and unsettled by the way his emotions kept jumping around, his light pinballing around inside his chest. The others were watching him when he brought his gaze up again, concern in all eyes, and it sent a shudder down his spine.

“Join me for lunch Lydia?” he asked abruptly, pleading silently that the Banshee would give him an excuse to get out of the house as quickly as possible.

“I wouldn’t say no to Mama ChaCha’s,” she smiled, referencing a local, family-owned restaurant that boasted authentic Mexican food and a salsa bar. Slipping delicately to her feet, she crossed the floor and came to stand at his side, linking her elbow through his when he offered his arm. “Should make for a nice change from the wild free-for-all around here.”

“Still squabbling over the last slice of pizza are they?” Stiles asked.

“Of course.”

Chuckling lightly, Stiles pulled her in closer to his side and pressed a kiss to the crown of her head before looking back over his shoulder on a whim.

“Peter?”

The beta jerked his head up from the table with just a second’s surprise on his face before he hid it away again and grinned around a mouthful of teeth gone just a bit too sharp.

“Why I’d be happy to Mr. Stilinski,” he purred, fluttering his eyelashes ridiculously, and Stiles barked a laugh.

“Come on then asshole,” he scoffed, turning a smiling Lydia toward the door and away from the other two wolves who were watching on with pained want. “I’m starving.”

Chapter Text

Stiles found himself quite delighted with the fact that Mama ChaCha’s hadn’t changed in the years he’d been away. The brightly painted walls were a little duller, the vinyl booths a little more cracked and the wooden tabletops a little more scratched, but all-in-all it was exactly the same and it felt a bit like home when he stepped inside. He and Scott had spent a lot of afternoons here, stuffing themselves with bottomless tostada chips as they worked their way through innumerable teen-aged problems; algebraic and mythical alike. In later years the pack had joined them, a loud and rowdy group that, oddly enough, had always been welcomed by the family that owned the place despite their ability to be messy and obnoxious to the tenth degree.

Waiting for Peter to climb out from the back seat of the jeep, Lydia curled a hand around the older man’s elbow and led the way to a booth near the window while Stiles trailed behind, gazing around in reminiscence as he went. Dropping onto the bench seat across from them he let out a long breath of relief, let the leash on his light slip as it seeped out towards Peter’s presence, rolled around in it like a pup in the sun. He might not have recognize it as such but Stiles could tell that the werewolf could feel it too, his shoulders dropping just a little, his face softening around the eyes, and that felt nice as well, providing relief the way he was meant to.

Felt good.

Without meaning to he opened his mouth to do something that probably would’ve been stupid, like thank the guy for existing, for being what he was like he’d had a choice in the thing, but he was saved that embarrassment by a young girl in a bright green apron who placed a huge basket of house-made chips on the middle of the table and asked for their drink orders.

“You guys want a beer?” he asked, and Lydia nodded, though Peter only shrugged indifferently. Chuckling to himself, Stiles order three in fluent Spanish before requesting the sampler special, waiting until his companions had also placed their orders and the waitress had retreated to the kitchen before digging into his jacket pockets.

“Well your Spanish has definitely improved,” Lydia commented as he pushed a tiny vial of red powder across the table to Peter, who’s eyes lit up in obvious recognition of the substance, the base of the intoxicating candy he, Pheelan, and Jackson had enjoyed at the club earlier that week.

“Thanks,” he smiled, unable to hold it back as he was quite proud of the linguistics skills he’d worked so long and hard to effect.

“Are you fluent in anything else?” Peter asked, a familiar, calculating curiosity on his face.

“Polish,” he answered, ticking them off on his fingers, “But I always knew that one. Romanian. A little bit of German. Some French. Portuguese and Italian are close enough to Spanish that I can get by. And Gaelic of course.”

“Of course,” Peter hummed, a devilish sort of smirk on his face and Stiles rolled his eyes.

“Shut up,” he huffed amicably, pushing out of the booth. Lydia snickered but slid out of her seat as well, following Stiles over to the buffet where they loaded up on six different bowls of salsa, balancing them precariously back to the table. Their beers had been dropped off in their absence and Peter was surreptitiously swirling a measured amount of wolfsbane extract into his own before handing the vial back to him and lifting his glass in a toast.

“Cheers,” he grinned wickedly, and Stiles barked a laugh, clinking his glass first with Peter’s, then Lydia’s in turn.

“Sláinte,” he smiled back, amused and somewhat heartened by the fact that Peter didn’t appear to have changed at all in the last five years. They hadn’t been as close as Stiles and Lydia had been when he’d left, but he found himself enjoying the wolf’s company more and more now that he was back.

But perhaps that was due to the fact that Stiles had changed in the time he’d been gone. He’d found his self-confidence, knew exactly what he was capable of, it and was never as clear as it was during the hour he spent scarfing down chips and enchiladas, tacos and chiles rellenos with the only two pack members he’d never spent a minute hating. They laughed and talked, even reminisced a little, and the whole time Stiles felt on even footing, never bowing or backing off to knowledge or experience greater than his was. He appreciated what Peter and Lydia brought to the table without being threatened or belittled by it, and that was what drove the difference home.

And for their part they treated him just the same, for which he was surprisingly grateful. They treated him like they always had, not dancing around anything or going out of their way to avoid the tough stuff. Lydia was still a little holier-than-thou but she’d earned it, and Stiles was happy to concede the prize to her when it came to things like chemistry and mathematics. She’d always tempered her smarts with a strange sort of shyness, so even when haughty she was humble, something he still wasn’t sure was possible for anyone to pull off. Peter was a little calmer, a little smoother along the edges, but still the same sassy, snarky s.o.b. he always was. Every once in a while he gave Stiles a good jolt of predator and bad-touch that raised the hair on the back of his neck, but where before it was the kind that made him want to reach for a Molotov and ensure that Peter was never at his back, now it made him grin wickedly, told him with certainty that the wolf was a fighter, cunning, deadly - an asset to his pack.

Stiles chuckled to himself, shook his head when Peter and Lydia looked to him in question.

He had no intention of building a pack, no matter what Peter felt like.

Even if his light was lunging for the wolf, even if it wanted him.

Wanted to fix him.

Swallowing against the sudden guilt that bit at the edges of his stomach, Stiles grabbed another fistful of chips and used salsa to bury it - spicy red salsa, salsa verde, mango salsa... He was going to give himself a stomach ache, but better that than the nausea-inducing swirl of haunting emotions hidden deep at the back of Peter’s psyche.

Pheelan had been right when he’d said the wolf was still messed up. Only his mask was perfect after all these years. The pain was still there, quieted, hidden, but the warning that hummed along Stiles’ chakras, inside the tattoos at his wrists and along his spine, told him that if he dug any deeper it would be a worse pain than any he had ever come across.

Something to think about.

Finishing their lunch when Stiles couldn’t fit another bite of salsa down his throat, he and Peter squabbled briefly over the bill, the older man insisting on leaving a hefty cash tip when Stiles treated. Rolling himself out of the booth with a groan, he handed the keys over to the werewolf as they walked out to the parking lot alone, Lydia leaving them to detour towards the lady’s room. He was unable to even think about squeezing himself behind the steering wheel - instead already looking forward to unbuttoning his jeans and sprawling across the back seat on the way back to the Hale house, successfully ignoring the fact that he would only get a few minutes respite before having to drive himself home.

Slumping against the passenger door with a sigh, he squinted against the bright afternoon sunlight and grinned when Peter dropped back beside him, their shoulders brushing even as he shoved his hands deep into his pockets.

The contact wasn’t something he would’ve allowed himself before, Stiles was sure of that, remembered that, but he had to wonder if it was his light causing the wolf to seek it out now or if it was something that he wanted on his own, without Stiles’ influence.

“So,” he started, slouching lower and crossing his ankles when Peter tensed up beside him. “What’s with you and the flower girl?”

Beside him the wolf turned, looked at him with half a second’s surprise before he snorted, chuckling under his breath.

“Nothing,” he said lightly. “Two for one deal when Isaac decided to fall in love. She was interested, I’m… not.”

“Really?” Stiles asked with surprise, wondering if he’d read things wrong.

“Really.”

“Why not?”

Peter frowned, pushed off the edge of the jeep and scraped his boots against the pavement, sighing through his nose as he turned back to the doors of the restaurant where Lydia was emerging into the sunlight.

“We wanted different things,” he said in a low voice, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow, glancing back and forth between the two.

“And besides,” he said gruffly, turning on Stiles with a toothy grin and looking him up and down lasciviously, “You know me Stiles. Knew me anyway. But I haven’t changed. I’m a cold-hearted bastard, not interested in tying myself down. And besides,” he smiled, spreading his arms and taking a step back towards the red-headed Banshee closing in on them. “I love myself too much to love anyone else the way they deserve.”

Ten minutes later Stiles was lying sideways in the back of the jeep, his legs thrown over into the trunk, groaning exaggeratedly as Peter drove them toward the Hale house.

“Lydiaaaaa,” he whimpered, attempting to cajole the banshee into the backseat so that he could put his head in her lap and force her hands into his hair.

“No,” came the singsong reply from the front seat, and then Peter was laughing at him so he pulled his feet around to kick the back of the werewolf’s seat.

“You’re mean now,” he accused of her in a pouting tone. “You’re spending too much time with him. He’s rubbing off on you.”

This time they both laughed.

“Too bad Pheelan hasn’t rubbed off on you,” Lydia mused, ignoring Peter’s crass ‘bet he has.’ “He’s a sweetheart.”

“Nah,” Stiles scoffed, squirming with a strange discomfort at the mention of the big, Irish blonde. “Phee’s a good guy but I was always a sarcastic shit. Can’t change who we are.”

Lydia made a humming, considering sort of sound but Peter caught his eye in the rearview mirror, and Stiles could practically see words he didn’t want to hear sitting in the wolf’s mouth, but he was saved when his phone started to beep in his pocket. Wiggling around on the narrow bench seat until he got his hand into his pocket, his stomach dropped when he saw the name flashing at him from the screen.

“Shawna.”

“Hi sweetie,” she replied, and his heart plunged down to join his stomach. “Can you talk?”

“Shit,” Stiles muttered. That wasn’t good. “What did you find?”

As soon as he spoke both Lydia and Peter jerked around in their seats to stare, and Stiles flailed frantically until Peter turned back around and put his eyes back on the road.
“Honey are you sitting down?” Shawna asked, and the second endearment told Stiles everything he needed to know.

“Give me ten minutes,” he side, pinching the bridge of his nose between his fingers. “I’ve got a feeling the resident pack needs to hear this too.”

“That might be best.”

“Great. Thanks. Call you back.”

“We’re five minutes away,” Peter said quietly from the driver’s seat before the jeep lurched forward and the engine snarled. “Make that three.”

“Great,” Stiles replied distractedly, already sending out a text to Jackson and Phee. “Lydia, can you…”

“Already on it,” she replied, tapping furiously at her phone. “I’ve got Boyd, Scott, and Allison on their way.”

The rest of those three minutes were tense and silent until Peter pulled in with a skid and a crunch of gravel, jumping out and immediately dropping his seat so that Stiles could squeeze from behind it. Lydia was already marching up the walk but as he moved to follow, the werewolf caught his elbow and began dragging him off to the side of the house, hauling him into the trees.

“Dude, what…” Stiles squawked, but Peter just shook his head.

“Run,” he replied, thrusting his chin deeper into the Preserve, and then he was gone, the pale olive of his jacket disappearing into the brush.

Growling with frustration, pulling his belt back up over his salsa baby, Stiles took off after him, unwilling to be left behind and more than a little curious about what he wanted. He caught up quickly but the older man kept going, deeper into the woods until they were almost a mile off before he stopped.

“What… the hell,” Stiles panted, leaning over to lean his weight against his knees and catch his breath. He was fast, as fast as a wolf, faster than Peter, but the Mexican food in his stomach made him want to curl up in a ball and nap. Peter, or the other hand, appeared restless, stalking around the small clearing he’d paused in with a predatory air.

“I don’t love that girl,” he said suddenly, harshly, and Stiles stood up quickly to his full height, confused.

“Wha…”

“I don’t love her,” he repeated, hard, cold, flat. “She… reminds me of Cora, sometimes. That’s all.”

“Peter why are you telling me this?” Stiles asked.

“And I’m not in love with the Banshee either,” he said insistently, ignoring the question.

“Lydia,” Stiles said slowly, more to force him to admit to the name than to confirm what he meant. Peter’d moved past referring to them by labels and nicknames a long time ago, even before Stiles had left. If he wanted to do this, Stiles wasn’t letting him off the hook - he was damn well going to say it.

Casting him a nasty glare, Peter sneered, but answered.

“Lydia. But I wasn’t wrong, didn’t lie,” he declared, his eyes going a cold, dull blue with the intensity of the statement. “About that at least. You know me. Knew me. And you knew the rest of them too, didn’t you.”

Exhaling harshly, Peter dragged clawed hands through his perfectly styled hair.

“Far be it from me to speak well of my nephew,” he continued, and Stiles cocked an eyebrow at the change in subject before schooling his face blank when the werewolf whirled on him and stabbed a finger in his direction. “And I’ll kill you if you tell anyone I did,” he threatened. “But he’s not… malicious. Never was unfortunately. Just stupid. A disappointment really, but we are who we are.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Stiles demanded a second time, anger starting to build in his fingertips, but it wasn’t the same as it was, not as hot, not as sharp. Still, he was wary of the agitated werewolf before him.

Peter snarled, pushed violently away from him and began to pace.

“I don’t know,” he growled, not even casting a glance in the Touchstone’s direction. “But this thing, whatever it is that’s coming…”

Stiles felt the hair on the back of his neck stand up as Peter slowed, turned on him with deadly precision and glowing eyes before stalking towards him, one calculated step at a time.

“You feel it,” Peter said quietly, his voice low and rumbling. “You’re the clever one - you always were. You know this is going to be bad.”

Stiles swallowed, breathed his answer.

“Yes.”

“And you’re going to need us,” Peter said, though to Stiles’ ears it sounded a little more like a question than a statement. “The pack. Or we’ll need you. I would have that be as… painless as possible for you.”

“Don’t you mean as painless as possible for you?” Stiles asked, the tension going out of his shoulders when Peter pulled back abruptly, his eyes dimming and a grin spreading across his face.

“That too,” he chuckled, but there was something on his face, quickly hidden away that told Stiles this little rendezvous was more important than he was playing it off to be.

“Did you want to actually ask me something while we were out here?” he asked, gesturing around them at the silence of the woods.

“If I did it might be that you give the idiots in my nephew’s pack a chance,” he shrugged, turning to stroll casually back in the direction of the house.

“Did you drink any Kool Aid while I was gone?” Stiles asked, jostling Peter roughly with his shoulder as they walked. “Never thought you’d be one for pack pride. Werewolf solidarity - rah, rah, rah.”

Beside him Peter chuckled, grinned. “They’ve grown up a bit, surprisingly,” he offered, leaping lightly over a fallen log and waiting for Stiles to clamber awkwardly across. “And…”

“And what?” he cajoled casually, though he was pretty sure what he was going to say.

Peter shrugged, looked away.

“They’re pack.”

Yup.

There it was.

The reason for all the words, the blue eyes, the agitation and the big hush-hush.

Peter had found his place, found himself a pack again, even if he didn’t want to admit to it.

It was the reason he was so close to Lydia, the reason he was protective of Lily, and the reason he was pressuring Stiles to make peace with Derek. He didn’t believe that Peter would ask it of him otherwise. But he needed his pack safe, couldn’t lose it again, and he needed Stiles’ help to do that.

They were coming to the edge of the Preserve now, the house just visible through the trees, and Stiles had fallen behind as he put pieces together in his brain. Now he stopped, widened his stance to balance his weight.

“Peter!” he called, and the wolf stopped, turned to look back at him.

When Stiles stayed silent, looked over his shoulder at the house, Peter sighed heavily but came trudging back, stomping his irritation. Coming to a stop only inches in front of him, making a laughable attempt to intimidate by looming, he opened his arms in a gesture that clearly said Well?

Smirking, Stiles reached up and laid his hand across the base of Peter’s throat, reveling in the look of shock that flicked across his face before rubbing firmly around his neck and across his collarbones, up beneath his jaw. He didn’t think about the scent marking too much, just did it, because it felt natural and because Peter immediately relaxed beneath his touch, his shoulders sagging like he hadn’t been touched in years, and Stiles had to wonder if he hadn’t.

Finishing up with a light push to Peter’s shoulder, he stood perfectly still when the wolf’s hand came up in return, automatic, instinctual, and from the look on Peter’s face he was certain that the man hadn’t been prepared for the reaction. He forced his way through it though, in a way that almost seemed uncomfortable. His touch was rough and uncoordinated, clearly out of practice, but still he rubbed his scent thoroughly into Stiles’ neck and jaw. For a moment he was worried about how they would break, how they would walk away from this without ungodly awkwardness, but the Peter slapped him playfully on the side of the head and gave him a shove, one he wasn’t prepared for and which consequently sent him toppling backward into the dirt. By the time he’d landed with a yelp and looked up again, Peter was already halfway across the backyard and laughing raucously, watching Stiles over his shoulder.

“Asshole!”

Chapter Text

“You’ve got a Nogitsune on your hands.”

“A No-gi-what-now?” Stiles asked, frowning at the phone lying on the center of the coffee table.

The pack was grouped tightly around him; Lydia pressed close to his side on the couch with Peter behind them, leaning forward and braced against the back of the cushions. Isaac was on the floor to his left flanked by the twins, Scott and Allison clutched hands in one of the large arm chairs that they had dragged in close, mirrored almost exactly by Boyd and Erica in the other, and Derek hovered somewhere off to his right, just behind his line of vision. None of them had said much when he’d come in, only flared their nostrils and scented the air, glanced between him and Peter with looks of surprise, confusion, and quite possibly a little jealousy. Scott had growled under his breath but Peter had flatly ignored him, strutting through the house smugly as though he were wearing Stiles’ scent like a badge of honor, and it had him chuckling darkly to himself.

His mirth abruptly left him when Jackson and Phee came through the front door, the Irishman freezing in place when he caught sight of him, his eyes flaring bright gold as he bared his teeth. Stiles raised an eyebrow challengingly, took a step in his direction, but a low, threatening growl rumbled up out of Pheelan’s huge chest and he circled round the room carefully, sticking tight to the wall until he stood on the opposite side of the room. That was where he had stayed too, leaning back with arms and ankles crossed, glaring at him from as far away as possible, joined by Jackson who at least had the decency to look disinterested in the way that Peter smelled.

“She means a Kitsune,” Derek corrected and Stiles froze, while both Jackson and Pheelan’s heads snapped up at his interruption. “A fox spirit, from Japan.”

A full minute’s deadly silence followed and Stiles felt his blood run cold, until Shawna finally broke the awful quiet from the other end of the line.

“Stiles. Who’s your friend?”

Shit.

She was using that tone.

The one and only time Stiles had elicited that tone from her, he’d woken up to…

Well.

Let’s just say Shawna was a fan of Marlon Brando.

Shit had gone Godfather real quick.

“Umm…” he hedged, “If I tell you, is he gonna wake up with a horse's head in his bed?”

“Would you rather wake up with one in your bed Stiles?” Shawna asked with the utmost politeness.

Stiles swallowed hard as a shiver ran down his spine, and all around him the pack flinched away, looks of horror on their faces, though he could feel something a little bit like respect and appreciation coming from Peter and Lydia.

“I see,” Shawna said quietly when he didn’t respond, and oh crap, there it was again. “Mr. O’Rourke, Mr. Whittemore? Anything to add?”

“It was Derek Hale,” both wolves chorused in unison, earning glares from everyone but Peter, who just laughed.

“Ah. Well, Alpha Hale,” Shawna said sweetly, and Stiles wondered if maybe that tone wasn’t even worse than the one that had preceded it, “Had I meant a Kitsune, I would have said a Kitsune. Try not to interrupt.”

And that would be his only warning.

“Right,” Stiles said, clearing his throat and turning around from where he’d glanced back just in time to see Derek go just a little bit pale. “So what’s the difference?”

“In its simplest form, for those slow students in the room…”

Stiles smirked sharply at that, listening to the sounds of paper being shuffled on the other end of the line.

“In its simplest form, Kitsune good, Nogitsune bad.”

“Of course,” Stiles growled, scrubbing his hands over his face. “So definitely a Nogitsune then.”

“From what you’ve told me, yes,” Shawna answered. “I think it’s safe to say that you’re dealing with the latter. A Nogitsune is essentially a dark Kitsune, a form of void.”

Behind him, Stiles felt Peter go still, and across from him so did Pheelan. Clearly the wolves knew more than he did, more than the rest of the young pack - either that or their instincts were more honed, more alert to the danger suggested by the name.

“It can take on different forms,” Shawna continued, “A fox, a shadow… even a human. And Stiles…”

Around him the pack twitched, the concern and gentle wariness in Shawna’s tone such a change from the earlier cold threat that they didn’t need to know her as well as Stiles did to know that something serious was about to be said.

Unfortunately for them, Shawna switched quickly and smoothly into Polish, a language she knew that only Stiles would be able to understand.

“Stiles you told me that you died once.”

Stiles swallowed as his heart leapt into his throat.

“Yeah, once. Killed myself, me and two friends. A sacrifice to the…”

“The Nemeton.”

And yeah. There was that word, that name, god damned tree out in the middle of nowhere that only wanted blood and chaos and that sounded exactly the same in Polish as it did in English.

Noise burst out around him as the name set the pack to snarling, even Allison and Lydia adding to the cacophony. Snarling, feeling something pulse hot and cold beneath his skin, Stiles snatched the phone from the table and turned the speaker off, bringing it to his ear as he shoved his way out of the knot of pack and pushed his way into a small bathroom, slamming the door shut before he could be followed and leaning back against it hard.

“Sweetie are you all right?”

“Just,” he gasped, still in Polish as he fought hard to swallow down the raging thunder of his heartbeat, the fear and the flashback-feel of ice water pouring into his lungs. “Just give me a second.”

“Whatever you need Stiles,” Shawna murmured quietly, and that wasn’t helping, the sweetness and the calm, because that didn’t mean anything good either. It was at times like these when Stiles got a weird, grandmotherly feel from Shawna, and he preferred to think of her as a young, fit, blonde goddess ready to kick asses and take names than an older, maternal figure who could only gather him in close in an effort to protect him.

“Just…” he almost whimpered, suddenly sure of what she was about to say. “Just tell me.”

“I told you once,” she said slowly, “That I’d heard that name before. Nemeton.”

“I remember.”

“Her name was Noshiko Yukimura. She’s a Kitsune.”

“Right, ok. Kitsune, not Nogitsune.”

“Correct. But in 1943, in the middel of a World War II concentration camp, Ms. Yukimura summoned a Nogitsune.”

“Wait, what?!” Stiles yelped, and snarls sounded outside the door as it lurched beneath him at the sounds of his distress. “She summoned one of those things?!”

“Stiles, please.”

“Right, shit, sorry, sorry,” he panted, shoving his hair back from his forehead. “Ok, keep going.”

“It’s not my place to tell you why she did it,” Shawna continued, “But she had her reasons, all right? The important thing for you to know is that she killed it. Destroyed it.”

“Then why are you telling me this at all?”

“Because even in death, in its dormant form, the Nogitsune still exists. Noshiko captured this, its dormant form. She buried it.”

“Let me guess,” Stiles sighed, “She buried it in Beacon Hills.”

“Beneath the Nemeton.”

The world froze as Shawna’s words sunk in. The Nemeton, fuck, it all came back to that god damned Nemeton. It was that tree that had changed everything, that called shit to his sleepy little town, that turned the darkness into something to be feared. It was the Nemeton that had had its roots in Peter’s madness, Lydia’s turning, the Darach’s power and even his own…

His desperate gasp of breath seemed to tell Shawna that he’d figured it out, that she could now only confirm the horror that was slowly filling up his chest and drowning him.

“You sacrificed yourself.”

“Yes.”

“And the Druid warned you about the door.”

“Yes.”

“Stiles, when you and your friends died…”

His body going cold and still, Stiles raised his head to stare into the mirror across from him, his reflection staring back with black eyes.

“We let it out.”

Once he’d gotten over the horror, the guilt of the realization that his, Scott’s, and Allison’s sacrifice had released the Nogitsune from its prison, there were far more important things to be discussed.

What could the Nogitsune do? What did it want? How could they find the thing?

And most importantly to his mind, how did they kill it?

Unfortunately for him though, once again, this wasn’t Shawna’s area of expertise, and she had always been reticent to give any information whose accuracy she wasn’t entirely confidant in. Consequently there was only so much advice that she was willing to give him though she did her best, divulging everything she knew for certain. More importantly than that, she promised to find Noshiko Yukimura, who would certainly be of significant help, and get the two in touch at the very least, sending her in his direction if at all possible.

In the meantime there was very little that they could do but be on the watch for anything unusual, anyone they didn’t recognize sneaking around. That and of course keeping careful track of the fox that had been haunting Stiles’ dreams, and quite possibly slinking around out in the preserve. So all in all, par for the course in Beacon Hills - they didn’t know nearly enough about what they were going after, and for now all they could really do was wait. Shawna recommended that Stiles refrain from any offensive attacks in a scolding tone that warned of reprimand if he didn’t follow that particular advice and then quickly moved on, unloading a myriad of information on Stiles’ ears about the upcoming wedding he’d agreed to work for her, less than two weeks away.

He appreciated that, the normalcy of it, even if he was reluctant to actually attend and officiate the thing. It was a ply for more than just his services - the two packs involved would be vying for his attention and his loyalty, and that wasn’t something he was looking forward to, but doing a favor for Shawna, being given the information in that brusque, business-like tone she’d cultivated so beautifully in her free time, was right in a way that being unemployed in Beacon Hills was not. So Stiles was careful to reassure her, noted the time, place, and contact info in his phone before planting a loud, smacking kiss against the speaker and letting her go.

Opening the door, Stiles wasn’t the least surprised to find that the pack was waiting for him, all of them ranged about the living room and looking as casual as they possibly could, which wasn’t much. But the energy had gone completely out of him, and he hardly had the spark in him to deal with Derek Hale.

“Let’s go home,” he muttered in Irish, knuckling at his eyes, and Pheelan and Jackson both nodded, stepping across arms and legs in the direction of the door.

“Woah, wait, where are you going?” Scott demanded with a yelp, jumping to his feet.

“Home,” Stiles said dully, unable to find the heat to be irritated with the other boy.

“What about the Nemeton?” Derek asked in a flat, tight voice, and Stiles raised an eyebrow in his direction, noting the look that Peter and Lydia shared behind him.

“What about it?” he asked.

“Don’t bullshit me Stiles,” Derek snarled, and yup, there was the anger.

Hadn’t gone far had it?

“We all heard you,” he continued, and around him the pack shifted anxiously, as though in agreement but unwilling to provoke the Touchstone. “You can’t keep this from me!”

“I don’t owe you a god damned thing,” Stiles snarled under his breath, and then Derek was snarling back and his eyes were red and he was stomping forward, locking a tight grip around Stiles’ forearm and dragging him across the room, snarling his betas back as he thrust Stiles through a doorway and slammed it closed behind them, turning the lock with a reverberating chink.

“What the hell is your problem!” Stiles shouted, and the way the base of his voice echoed back at him told him that the room was sound-proofed. Good, because he was ready to let go with both barrels.

“You jackass son of a bitch,” he growled, stepping up into Derek’s space and shoving him hard, sending him backwards into the door with a jarring thud. “You still solving your problems by throwing people around? Well come on then. Throw a punch Sourwolf, I’d love a freaking reason to throw one back.”

“Stiles…”

“No, you shut the hell up!” he commanded. “Are you kidding me? You want something from me again so now all of a sudden you’re willing to have me around?”

“Stiles, I…”

“Well fuck you Derek! I’m not the little bitch I used to be, I’m not rolling over for you or anyone…”

“Stiles, I’m sorry!”

And hell if that didn’t bring him up short.

“Wh…” he mumbled, stuck in place as his brain went completely on the fritz.

“I’m sorry,” Derek repeated, and the light inside of Stiles was screaming the sincerity of the statement. “I never should have sent you home that night and I never meant for you to… for you to leave.”

“What are you doing?” Stiles warbled, the panic in his fingertips preventing him from being embarrassed when his voice cracked.

“I just…”

Sighing hard, Derek scrubbed a hand through his hair and moved over to the bench set into a large window, resting his elbows on his knees and dropping his head.

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I was… scared, and confused, and I didn’t know what was happening. What you were doing to us. To me.”

Raising his head, the clear grey-green of his eyes settled something low in Stiles belly, had him sinking down to his knees and wrapping his arms around his ribs. A bit of calm came over him, flushing out the fear if not the confusion or discomfort. Something told him that he’d been waiting for this, that there was no way things could have kept going the way they had been without breaking, even if his more logical brain told him that for the last five years he’d never once imagined that he would get an apology out of Derek Hale, who he was almost sure had never uttered one in his life.

“I didn’t know,” Derek said again, twisting his hands together between his knees. “It’s... not a good excuse, I know that. And I never thought… never thought you meant to…”

Stiles swallowed, clenched his fists so that his nails bit into his arms. This was the part he didn’t want to think about, the part that he knew to be true and had always whispered around in the back of his mind, that validated, at least in part, the young Alpha’s actions. The part that took a chunk of the blame away from him, not all of it of course, but enough to make Stiles shift uncomfortably, to take away just a little bit of the fairness of the grudge he held.

“I was just trying to protect them.”

“Fine,” a low, gravelly voice said, and he realized with some surprise that it was his own. “I get that. You should’ve fucking told me.”

Catching the Alpha’s flinch from the corner of his eye, Stiles shoved roughly to his feet, just a little of the old, familiar anger simmering in his blood.

“Jesus Derek, you think I knew any more than you did?” he asked loudly, throwing up and arm and beginning to pace. “You think I wasn’t just as freaked as you? I didn’t even realize I was doing it, didn’t even know it was happening, and you took away the only thing I had!”

“I know that,” the chastised wolf said quietly, unable to meet Stiles’ gaze when he whipped around to stare at him.

“Do you?” he hissed, and then something dark and cold leapt up inside his chest, forcing out the words he promised himself a long time ago that he would never speak. “You know exactly what it’s like to lose everyone Derek, your home, your place in the world, everyone you care about. Your whole damn family! You did that to me!”

For a moment a horrified silence fell and then Stiles was sinking back to his knees once more, bile rising in his throat.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pressing his hands to his face. “I didn’t mean that.”

Across from him, Derek didn’t move, silent, caved in on himself, and Stiles felt like a knife had been driven into his chest. He knew that Derek had only been protecting his pack when he’d sent Stiles packing, that he couldn’t bear the thought of losing everyone again. More than that, he knew how much the man blamed himself for what had happened to his own family, the guilt that he would probably always carry with him.

And he’d just reinforced that.

The viciousness he’d just spit out was on par with the dark manipulation that Kate Argent had used in the first place, and in that moment he’d never hated himself more.

“Derek,” he said, quietly but firmly, and when the werewolf still didn’t lift his head Stiles crawled forward, laying one hand flat against the front of Derek’s shoulder, the trembling in his body hard and shaking beneath his palm. “Derek look at me.”

Raising his head, the werewolf still averted his eyes, his mouth a thin, flat line.

Sighing, Stiles took the man’s hand and lifted it, pressing it to his own chest over his heart and after only a second’s hesitation, thrust his light out toward the other man. He might still be pissed, may not have yet forgiven, but this was shit far darker than what had happened in the past, and it was his fault.

“Listen to me,” he said firmly, tightening his grip on Derek’s shoulder. “I’m not lying. You can hear it right? Feel it?”

Swallowing hard, the werewolf nodded, barely, but it was there.

“I didn’t mean that,” Stiles said, and he didn’t have to block his heartbeat for it to stay smooth and steady with the truth. “I did not mean that. What happened to your pack was not your fault. And what happened with me…”

Stiles paused, and that pause finally forced Derek to raise his head, fear of what was about to be said shining out of his eyes.

“Well that was your fault,” Stiles admitted. “But it was everybody else’s too. Mine, and Scotts, and all the rest of them. You should have told me. Talked to me. We… Christ, we could’ve figured it out.”

Letting go of the wolf at last, he sat back on his heels and stared at the man, no longer sure about anything.

“I’m sorry I said that,” he murmured. “I didn’t mean to, and I don’t believe it. I know you were just… trying to protect them. And hell, you didn’t exactly have any more help than we did.”

Looking up sternly at the werewolf in front of him, who appeared slightly calmer than before, Stiles pointed a finger sharply.

“This doesn’t mean I’m not still pissed at you,” he stated harshly, and Derek shook a little bit with a hysterical sort of laugh.

“That’s ok,” he replied haltingly. “You were right when you said you don’t owe me anything.

“Damn right I was.”

“I just… I need to know what I’m up against here.”

“Fine,” Stiles said climbing to his feet, brushing sweaty palms against the thighs of his jeans. “But asking nicely is going to get you a lot farther than the demand-and-drag routine.”

Watching silently as Derek nodded and crossed to the door, he made a waiting gesture as he moved to unlock the door.

“We’re not friends Derek,” he warned quietly, and the werewolf paused.

“But we’re not enemies,” he said, hesitant yet not quite a question.

“No,” Stiles frowned, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I guess not.”

Chapter Text

Pheelan was silent the whole way back to the Stilinski house.

After he and Derek had emerged from the office into the middle of a tense and irritable knot of betas, Stiles had run through a quick debrief on everything Shawna had been able to give him on the Nogitsune, only leaving out the bits with regard to their surrogate sacrifices back in high school. He pointedly avoided making any direct comments or looks toward the alpha who did the same, instead letting Isaac propose the questions, and for that he was grateful, but he could see it in the anxious looks and nervous shifting that the pack was unsettled by their disappearance into the soundproofed room. But he wasn’t about to touch that with a ten-foot-pole, still a little shaken up himself, so instead he coughed up what information he was willing to part with, promised to call as soon as he’d heard from Noshiko Yukimura, and initiated goodbyes by turning for the door.

It was likely those goodbyes that had pissed Pheelan off the most.

He didn’t go to Erica, even though she whimpered at him and a small part of him wanted to. He didn’t go to Isaac, only shook his hand when it was thrust on him. He certainly didn’t go to Scott and Derek he evaded, circling away from him and keeping as much space between them as possible. Lydia and Peter though, that was the difference, more likely just Peter that rubbed the Irish wolf the wrong way. Hugging Lydia gently and pressing a kiss to her cheek, he wasn’t at all surprised when Peter stepped up too and pulled him into a tight embrace, arms awkward and jerky around his shoulders and more than a little rough, but incredibly significant all the same as he buried his face in the curve of Stiles’ neck and breathed deep.

The pack appeared shocked at the overture made by their most recalcitrant member, but Pheelan efficiently broke the spell by shouldering roughly between them when they stepped apart, jostling Peter sideways and stomping out of the house to the car with a low growl, followed quickly by Jackson who skirted by with a bright blue glare leveled in his direction. Chuckling under his breath, his own eyes glinting, Peter had clapped him on the shoulder and jerked his chin toward the door.

“Go get ‘em, tiger,” he smirked.

“Shut up,” Stiles grumbled, shoving him lightly, and then he was out the front door and down the porch steps, flipping the bird over his shoulder at the bark of laughter that followed him.

Jackson was standing near the front bumper of his rented, cherry-red Charger speaking quietly with Phee until Stiles’ boots hit the dirt of the walk. Lifting his head he flashed his eyes, showing just a hint of fang beneath a healthy sneer. Stiles paused, brought up short by the low, irritated rumble that came from the beta, and though he only froze for a second it was enough time for Jackson to make one last quiet comment, clap Pheelan on the shoulder, and climb into his car with a harsh slam of the door. Digging his keys from his pocket, Stiles watched in silence while he cranked the engine, reversed the car, and went roaring down the drive without another word.

“What the hell is his problem?” he muttered bitterly, mostly because he already knew.

Watching Stiles hug and kiss and hold hands with Lydia, watching her orbit around Peter’s protective presence while she resolutely ignored him had to be hell for the guy.

Pheelan’s lack of reply spoke volumes in support of that, and to make things worse the werewolf refused to look at him as he climbed into the passenger side of the jeep, buckling in and turning towards the window. Sighing heavily, Stiles rounded the front of the Jeep and climbed in, flinching when Phee immediately rolled the window down and half-way stuck his head out as soon as they were moving. He knew what the car smelled like, what he smelled like - of Banshee and the affections of another wolf and of alpha - and Phee had never had to share him before.

But at his core Stiles knew that between the Irishman and the pack there was no competition, even if the silence between them told an entirely different story.

Guilt fell heavy and cold onto Stiles’ shoulders as he drove, the last few weeks playing back in his mind, each and every incident and interaction since he’d come back to Beacon Hills. It took all of his concentration to mask it, to keep the Jeep on the road and hide the acrid scent of it, the rapid thump of his heartbeat from the man beside him. He’d been sure and certain of very few things in the years he’d been gone and the years before. Now was no different. But there was one thing he’d felt he could always be certain of and that was Pheelan O’Rourke. He’d been there, since that very first day in the mountains and every day since, giving him whatever he needed whether that was a cuddle or a kick in the ass.

Stiles had repaid him quite nicely, hadn’t he?

Pulling into the driveway, he cut the engine and hurried after the man, who had leapt out of the vehicle as soon as it had stopped, letting himself into the house with the hide-a-key. He was halfway across the floor to the stairs when Stiles caught up to him, grabbing his elbow in a bruising, unforgiving grip. Freezing beneath his touch, Stiles saw his shoulders lock tight, saw him hold his breath. It was only mid-afternoon which meant that the house was empty and the quiet felt heavy between them.

“Go upstairs,” he said at last, unable to give any explanation alongside the command. “Lose the shirt huh?”

“Piss off Stiles,” Pheelan breathed, his accent coming out thick even though he barely whispered the words. They hit his ears hurt and unhappy, pelting at him like needles, tiny bursts of hot pain like pinpricks and his hand tightened around the man’s bicep, nails biting through his thin shirt.

“Don’t jerk me around right now Phee,” he said, careful to keep his tone flat and calm. “I’m not in the god damn mood.”

Ripping his arm away Pheelan stalked up the stairs, his boots silent on the steps but anger in every line of his body, fear and no small amount of dejection in the way he carried himself. It hurt Stiles to watch him go, hurt him to known that he’d put that hesitancy in the man’s gait, taken away the sunny spirit that so marked him.

But he’d fix that, whatever it took, and so he too hiked up to the second floor, turning off into the bathroom and taking five minutes to scrub down under a scalding shower, careful that the only scents his skin carried were his own.

Wrapping a towel around his waist, he walked down to the end of the hall and opened his bedroom door slowly, unsure of what he would find behind it, but what he did nearly sent him to his knees.

Pheelan had stripped down to his boxers and was lying on his back in the middle of the bed, splayed out like a sacrifice with his eyes tightly shut and his face shuttered. There was a minute trembling over his whole body, and the muscles in his arms were bulging and straining beneath his skin as he locked his hands in a white-knuckled grip around the headboard above him. It seemed in that moment as if it were all that was keeping him there, his grip on the flimsy brass bars, and Stiles knew with sudden surety that he would need a lot more than that to hold the wolf until he got through this.

Crossing the room, he found some underwear of his own and pulled them on, tossing the towel away carelessly and kneeling to open his trunk. He knew that Phee was listening, sensed him circling the bed but he made no notice of his presence other than a tightening of his hands, his face turned resolutely toward the ceiling. Digging around, Stiles found the pair of handcuffs he’d had for the last two years, made of a charmed steel core beneath a silver alloy. Clenching them in his fist, he swallowed hard before dropping the lid of the trunk and crossing to the side of the bed, and in one smooth, lightning-fast movement, ratcheted them around the wolf’s wrists, tying him fast to the headboard.

Pheelan’s eyes snapped open and flared a brilliant gold as he jerked violently beneath the icy touch of the metal bracelets, coming halfway up off the mattress before the cuffs caught him and pulled him back, the squeal of the bedframe all but drowned out by the vicious snarl that clawed its way out of his chest from between long, bared fangs.

“What are you doing?” he snarled slowly, coldly, anger so close to hatred boiling up in his voice that Stiles almost flinched, but he bit it down. “Let. Me. Go.”

And that was enough to calm him, just a little. If Pheelan really wanted out he could have gotten out, said the word that opened the cuffs or broken off the headboard with one twist of his powerful upper body.

So at least he’d gotten that much of a reassurance.

“No,” he croaked, barely able to get the word out from around the knot in his throat. Climbing onto the bed, he swung a knee over Pheelan’s tensed, stock-still body, not once dropping the werewolf’s dark, angry, wary gaze as he straddled his hips and leaned forward, his arms braced on either side of Pheelan’s broad shoulders so that he hovered over the man, face to face.

“No,” he repeated, and this time his voice was low and rough like he’d spent a few too many late nights in the bottom of a bottle. “No, you’re gonna lay here, and you’re gonna be still, and you’re gonna listen to me.”

His heart in his throat, Stiles watched as Pheelan’s lip twitched in an aborted sneer, felt his chest expand as he pulled in a huge breath, and then slowly, slowly, he reached up and took hold of the bars again, clinging to the headboard like a lifeline as a tremendous shiver ran the length of his body. Stiles too felt a gust of air leave his lungs, felt a shiver trip down his spine. This was important, felt significant in a way that said it was much bigger than this moment.

He had to get it right.

Breathing slowly, Stiles sank lower, his forearms flat against the bed so that he lay pressed chest to chest with the werewolf beneath him, both of their hearts pounding under their ribcages. Huffing with irritation, Pheelan turned his face away and Stiles took the opportunity to tuck his face into the curve of the man’s neck and scent him, the rasp of stubble loud in the silence of the room. When he finally pulled back Phee’s eyes were closed, and Stiles felt an immense sadness settle over him.

“You listening Butterwolf?” he murmured, carding one hand into Phee’s thick curls, and he saw the werewolf’s jaw clench. “Because this is important.”

Focusing in on his heartbeat, on his light, his warmth, Stiles let the knot in his stomach unfold, rolling down his nerves all the way to his fingertips. Slowly, with each breath, the warm, golden light began to shine from beneath his skin, lighting up every inch of him as it grew brighter and brighter, channeled toward the wolf so near and dear.

“I am not leaving you, Pheelan O’Rourke,” he whispered.

“Stiles…”

“No, listen!” he demanded, tightening his fingers in Pheelan’s hair as the wolf turned back to glare at him. “I am not leaving you.”

Showing his teeth, Phee twisted beneath him as Stiles pushed a wave of light at him, trying to sink into the bed to put space between them even as he held on to the bars over his head.

“Stop,” he growled, wiggling away from the light and the feelings Stiles was broadcasting. “Stiles stop.”

“No! You’re gonna listen to me and you’re gonna believe me, Pheelan,” he choked, grabbing the wolf’s face between his hands even as he felt burning tears begin to sting his eyes. “Damn it!”

Biting down on his lip he slammed the lid on his light, blinking out like a candle in a windstorm he turned it off so fast. The only reason he’d turned it on in the first place was to give Phee a taste of what he was feeling, to reassure him of his sincerity, but it didn’t seem to be working. On the contrary it seemed to be making him even more upset, making him writhe on the sheets in an attempt to get away from it, to keep from being influenced by it. He was becoming agitated, a thin sheen of sweat breaking out over his skin, and Stiles could feel it too, the anger and the annoyance building up as their blood started to boil and their bodies started to rock together.

“Get off me,” Pheelan bit out, his arms bulging as he flexed his grip, but there was something in his voice and in his eyes, something simmering between them that made Stiles push.

“Make me,” he hissed, and the werewolf snarled, flashing his eyes. “You dick, I’m trying to apologize here!”

“Then apologize, jackass!” Pheelan bit back, giving a thrust with his shoulders that sent Stiles jostling.

For a second Stiles froze, the pain beneath Phee’s words cutting him deep, the trembling uncertainty in them shaking him to his core. He’d known all this time what the wolf must be thinking, what he must be feeling, known all the things he must be worrying about since they’d come to beacon Hills, and now…
Well now it was all hitting him at once and it was far darker and far more wounded than he’d ever realized it could be.

“That all you’ve got for me Stilinski?” Pheelan asked bitterly of his silence, challenging and provocative in an attempt to mask the hurt. Chuckling darkly he bucked his hips, trying to throw Stiles off and they both hissed, a little hard and little achy and a little desperate. It had been a long time, too long since they’d been this close, this intimate, and it had Stiles feeling on the edge of something, ready to fly or fall.

But Pheelan must be there too, or even higher, his muscles like iron with the tension, his skin positively quivering beneath Stiles’ hands as they began to trace over his body, sweeping across his biceps and his lightly-furred chest, his bunching abdominal muscles. Very slowly they began to rock together, unconsciously, instinctively, the fight and the anger no more than a whisper in the face of the pain and the anxiety and the need that was rising and swelling between them like the pull of the full moon.

“Stiles,” the wolf growled, but then he was squeezing his eyes shut tight and turning away, pressing his face into his bicep, unable to look at him. “Fuck, please,” he whimpered, and it was a begging plea in his mother tongue for far more than just a happy ending.

Or maybe that was all it was for.

“Look at me,” Stiles choked, a distressed plea of his own that tore up his throat like sandpaper. “Come on, Butterwolf, look at me!”

He looked.

Slow, stiff, but he complied, turning his head and opening his eyes, and the change that came across his face almost broke Stiles in half. Something a little bit hard, something a little bit cold as he steeled himself against the hurt, that hid the flash of complete despair underneath.

“I’m not leaving you,” he insisted around the knot in his throat. “I’m not leaving you. You were there, Phee, you were perfect, you were everything.”

Both of them were panting now, arcing against each other and moving in tandem as Stiles sobbed out his declarations to the rhythm.

“You still are,” he gasped, clutching at Pheelan’s hair and pressing their foreheads together. “I’m not leaving you. I won’t give you up for them.”

And there it was, spitting as much of his heart up onto a silver platter as he could. As his body tightened and he felt his muscles clench, the werewolf’s silence was like flame licking at his skin, rejection bruising him quick and deep.

“Dammit Phee!” he sobbed, “You want to go home? We’ll go, ok? You want me to never talk to any of them again? Just tell me what you want!”

“Little idiot!” Pheelan snarled around a mouthful of fangs, his eyes flaring, “I want you!”

Lunging forward, Stiles grabbed the wolf by the neck and smashed their lips together, the tension between them snapping as they broke, hitting the top of the pinnacle they’d been racing toward and colliding in in a shower of sparks. Falling together in a sticky, trembling tangle of limbs as the world burst into swirls of hot color, Stiles collapsed on top of Phee’s limp form with a ragged sigh, pressing desperate, delirious kisses to his neck and the underside of his jaw, the werewolf’s skin salty with sweat and his own tears. Phee shuddered beneath him as he heaved a massive sigh, settling into the mattress beneath him, and there was something close enough to tentative relief in the sound that had Stiles hiding a smile against the werewolf’s shoulder.

Curling up against his side, Stiles murmured the word that opened the handcuffs, the only Polish word that Pheelan had ever memorized. The metallic click was the only warning he had before two strong arms came down over him, pulling him in tight and locking around him. As his eyes grew heavy and began to fall closed he felt a kiss being pressed to the top of his head, a hand pushing his sweaty hair back from his forehead.

“Not leaving you Butterwolf,” he mumbled, already half asleep. “Promise. You’re mine.”

Chapter Text

Pheelan woke up an hour later with a tingling twinge in his wrists and a sleeping Touchstone plastered across his chest. He felt strained and tacky, the muscles in his shoulders and his biceps stretched and loose from the exertion he’s put on the handcuffs, his boxers sticking to his belly and his skin covered in dried sweat. He was completely wrung out, and yet in some ways he felt better than he had in a long time. There was still a knot of anxiety sitting heavy inside his ribcage, but it seemed a bit smaller than it once had, and he breathed a little easier because of it.

Careful not to wake Stiles up as he extricated himself from the young man’s grasping reach, surprised he was asleep at all, Pheelan scraped a hand through his hair and slipped out of bed, a little unsteady on his feet until he found his balance. Maybe it was a part of Stiles’ magic or maybe just a part of the seeming importance of what had happened between them, but his healing seemed to have slowed, red welts circling his wrists and a weakness in his muscles that he hadn’t been prepared for. Listening for the Sheriff and finding only the sounds of an empty house, he leaned heavily against the wall and made his way down to the bathroom where a hot shower soothed the dull ache between his shoulder blades.

Slipping back into the bedroom five minutes later for a pair of sweats and a ribbed tank top, Phee got stuck at the foot of the bed, staring down with his heart in his throat. Stiles had turned over onto his back and thrown one arm up over his head, his mouth hanging open as he snored quietly. There was still fear in him, anxiety and uncertainty, and watching the Touchstone sleep made his wolf stir and pace beneath his skin. Sparks of pain snapped along his nerve endings like the bite of fire ants, warning him not to reach for the true wolf’s form, that there would only be more of the same if he did, and worse.

And that scared him, more than anything.

Dressing quietly, he went downstairs into the kitchen, checking the clock on the microwave and deciding it was late enough to start dinner. It was the least he could do to repay the Sheriff for his hospitality, his letting them both stay on such short notice. It wasn’t such as stretch as far as his son was concerned, of course, but John Stilinski had never even met Pheelan in person before he’d showed up at the man’s bedside. And other than that first, half-hearted threat of wolfsbane bullets he’d made no effort to challenge or intimidate him, despite the fact that he was… well, sleeping with the man’s son. He’d like to believe it was more than that, that they were more than that, especially after…

Pheelan sighed, braced his forearms against the counter and hung his head.

Stiles’ words echoed in his ears like ghosts - not leaving you, promise, you’re mine - and he couldn’t decide if they reassured him or made him feel a little sick.

There had been something painful and honest in them, but they had also fallen short, hadn’t been what he’d practically begged for as he showed Stiles his belly, bound by far more than the wolf-proof cuffs that kept him from touching, reaching out. There was some small, cold part of him that was sure Stiles had been holding back, something in the Touchstone’s eyes that he hadn’t recognized.

Something that sent a shiver down his spine.

Pheelan’s eyes flared as his claws popped, cutting into the laminate of the countertop with a dull crunch. Jerking with surprise, he released his grip and stumbled backward, shocked by his own loss of control. The gouges in the counter glared at him accusatorily but even that wasn’t enough to dull the gold shining in his irises, to keep his palms from being cut as he clenched his fists. He could count on one hand the number of times that he’d gone to his mother and approached her as Alpha, bared his throat in deference and let her shake him roughly by the scruff of his neck, but every once in a while even an Omega needed to be checked, and he wasn’t too proud to ask for the correction when he needed it.

The inability to pull back his wolf told him that he needed it now.

But unfortunately his mother was oceans away, and there was no way in hell he was going to go groveling to the local Alpha to be put in his place.

Call him anything you liked but he’d chew off his own foot before he stepped into that trap.

Pheelan shuddered, ground his teeth together until his fangs receded and he got himself under control. Maybe he could just call his mom, have her snarl at him over the phone or even video chat.

Maybe that would be enough.

For now he just numbed himself out; unable to sort through his own complicated tangle of emotions he shut them off completely.

Seemed the best course of action anyway.

Instinctively gearing one ear to listen for Stiles coming awake upstairs, always surprised when he managed to sleep more than an hour or so at a time, Pheelan began poking through the cupboards and the fridge, looking for something he could put together that would keep in case the Sheriff got caught up down at the station. He eventually settled on a pasta dish that would make use of the pre-packaged chipotle penne he found in the pantry, kept light with a dash of cream and some grilled chicken. Stiles would be kept happy with the addition of some tomatoes, spinach, and mushrooms, and there was even a bit of cooking wine high on a shelf that might do to round the dish together.

Laying the ingredients out on the counter, he rifled through the drawers for a cutting board, selecting a chef’s knife from the butcher block and testing the edge of the blade with his thumb, promptly slicing it open as he turned around to find Stiles less than three feet away, looking at him with a blank stare that made Phee’s body go cold.

“Dammit,” he hissed, pulling his thumb into his mouth. “Stiles, what the hell?”

The young man didn’t reply, just cocked his head to one side and watched without apparent feeling as the cut slowly pulled together again, leaving nothing but a smear of red blood behind. Pheelan narrowed his eyes, took a pointed step back from the Touchstone that he hadn’t heard or smelled or sensed approach. He was fully dressed, his hair dry, suggesting that he hadn’t showered, and yet he was wearing boots and jacket both, and from the faint traces of oil and gun powder that tainted the air the wolf assumed that he’d slipped on his holster too.

“Where you going?” he asked carefully, thrusting his chin towards the bulge in Stiles’ jacket where his pistol hung.

“Out,” he replied flatly, and there was nothing discourteous or aggressive in his tone but it sounded dangerous all the same, detached and calm in a way that screamed affected innocence.

“Out where?” Pheelan countered.

“I need to run an errand,” Stiles answered simply without speaking to the question at all, and then he was stepping forward and patting him on the cheek, seemingly unaware that the gesture came across as a cold mockery of falsified affection.

“Don’t worry, Butterwolf,” he said with a dull, flat smile. “I’ll be back in time for dinner.”

Pulling his keys out of his pocket, Stiles’ smile turned to a condescending sort of smirk and he tossed Phee a smart-assed salute, disappearing down the hallway and out the front door. Frozen in place, shocked, confused, Pheelan let out a huge breath that he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, torn between running after him and letting him go. He’d seen Stiles have mood swings before but that was something else, so volatile a change from the sobbing, frightened young man that had clung to him so fiercely in the bedroom that it made the hair on the nape of his neck stand on end.

Breathing hard, his heart pounding in his chest, he turned to the sink and cleaned the knife in his hand, washing away the blood from his thumb mindlessly, automatically. The stream of water from the faucet juddered, the light from the window over the sink glinting of the knife as it jumped, and he realized with a sharp start that his hands were shaking. Placing the knife carefully on the counter, Pheelan pressed his hands against his ribs, walked slowly into the dining room and collapsed into a chair at the table. The fear overwhelmed him in that moment; the way his hands shivered against his belly, the way his heart echoed that jittery stutter, his breath catching in his throat.

He’d seen things from Stiles over the years that were strange to him, that didn’t make sense and that weren’t typical of a healthy young man - his inability to sleep, his frequent lack of appetite, the nightmares and the occasional states of paranoia. Other things too that were darker and that had been getting worse so gradually he almost hadn’t noticed until a few moments ago - impulsivity, irritability, dissociation.

It was a list that he remembered and that stopped him cold.

Stiles had told him about his mother of course. Lots of things, lovely things, beautiful moments of her life that her son clearly cherished. But he’d heard the other too. It had taken months, sixteen, eighteen for Stiles to trust him enough to open up that far, to share that most painful of memories, but he had, and Pheelan remembered the name of that terrible disease.

Frontotemporal Dementia.

Breathing out hard through his nose, Pheelan hauled himself to his feet, forced himself over to the counter and dried the knife that he’d left in the sink, preparing to continue on with the project he’d started. Prepared to push forward. He dreaded the task ahead of him now; not the dinner of course, but the other. Something in him knew that even if he weren’t the only one to see it, he would have to be the one to say it. To Stiles, to Jackson, to the Sheriff. Because he didn’t think Stiles would listen, didn’t think he would allow himself to hear.

And how could you seek treatment for something if you wouldn’t admit it was there?

Slowly, very slowly, Pheelan began to remove the stems from a handful of button mushrooms, slicing the stems lengthwise and quartering the caps. The movement was soothing on his frayed nerves, helped his thoughts to settle just a bit. There was little he could do with panic bubbling in his veins, and so it was a forced calm that he chased now.

The sound of a squad car in the drive almost sent him spiraling back into a panic attack.

And yeah, wolves could definitely have those.

Turning on the water once again so that the Sheriff wouldn’t be surprised by someone in his house, he set to rinsing a large handful of spinach leaves and dropped them into a colander to drain as the man entered, knocking off his boots on the threshold before coming inside, pausing briefly before shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it in the hall closet.

“Stiles?” he called, coming around into the kitchen and stopping when he found the werewolf instead of his son. “Oh. Sorry about that son; a handful of nights having the kid back in the kitchen and I guess I’ve gotten used to it already!”

Pheelan forced a smile that didn’t go anywhere near his eyes, started slicing cherry tomatoes.

“How deep are you into all of this?” John asked and Pheelan paused, raised an eyebrow in question and spread his palms over the counter, indicating the middle steps of his prep work. The sheriff nodded, then glanced around, his eyes moving briefly to the ceiling.

“Where’s Stiles?” he asked casually, and Phee swallowed hard.

“He left,” he forced out. “About half an hour ago. He didn’t day where but he said he’d be back in time to eat.”

“Good, good,” John said, and this time he sounded a little distracted, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, how hard would it be to up the ante here and feed two more people?”

“Easy enough,” he answered, taking more chicken from the refrigerator to be sliced for the skillet. “Who…”

Watching carefully, he was almost certain he saw the man flush as he turned half to the side, clearing his throat gruffly and beginning to remove his heavy utility belt; badge, mag-light, cuffs. His hip holster followed as he carefully cleared the chamber of his gun and removed the clip, placing it carefully on the dining room table.

“I invited Melissa McCall for dinner,” he answered finally, and Pheelan was careful to keep his hands moving, gathering more veggies to be cut and putting a pot of water on to boil. “She’s bringing Scott. I thought… That’s ok, right?”

“It’s your house sir,” Phee replied carefully, getting the chicken onto the stove.

He had no particular desire to see the other wolf, no desire to be involved with him at all.in fact, but he supposed there were… reasons.

“But you’re an Omega, right?” John ventured, and Phee could tell that he was treading carefully.

“Yeah, but I won’t turn into an Irish pumpkin if I’m forced to have dinner with another wolf,” he said, and it was a terrible joke and obvious enough since he’d spent time with Jackson, but it was meant to put the man a little more at ease and it seemed to work. “I’m not the guy’s number one fan, but I wouldn’t cause any bloodshed at your table sir.”

The Sheriff chuckled, came around to clap him on the shoulder.

“Good man,” he replied. “I don’t… want to force anything on the kid, but I think that he needs to try and do this. Make his peace.” Sighing as the scent of melancholia suddenly surrounded him, John leaned against the counter and folded his arms. “I’ve thought that for a long time,” he admitted. “That he’d be happier if… if he could settle this.”

As Pheelan watched, the man dragged a hand over his face, caved in on himself just a bit and look abruptly much older than his years.

“Maybe I was just trying to justify what I wanted,” he muttered, and Phee wasn’t sure that he was meant to hear that confession. “But you know him better than I do,” he said, louder now and with a clear, direct gaze that Pheelan had seen a hundred times before in another face. “Will he be ok with this?”

“I don’t know.”

Those words fell like a drum beat on his own ears, more significant than the Sheriff could know, but perhaps now was the time to explain.

“Sir, Melissa McCall, she’s the nurse right?”

“Yeah, why?” the man asked, scrubbing his hands at the sink and tearing open the packets of pasta to pour into the boiling water.

Say it.

Just say it.

“I think Stiles needs to see someone.”

Pheelan froze, felt his claws pop again as the father of the man he cared so much about, the father of the man he loved, turned to him slowly and leveled a gaze at the back of his neck that burned like acid. Clenching his eyes shut against the glow of gold, he too turned, faced what he’d started, the first step toward what he feared.

“You’re gonna have to elaborate for me son,” the Sheriff said slowly, and Pheelan carefully opened his eyes, crossed his arms over his chest so that he could dig his fingers into his own biceps.

“He’s been getting worse,” he bit out, and the words came as a hoarse whisper that was barely audible. “Insomnia. Mood swings. Night terrors and fugue states and… anger.”

As he spoke, painfully slowly, his wolf’s eyes saw the blood drain from the man’s face, caught the minute tremor on his hands. If that didn’t tip him off the citric smell of adrenaline-laced panic and the leap of his heartbeat that set it off and thundering made his reaction evident. The man wavered violently, his knees almost giving out before he grabbed for the countertop, waving Pheelan off as he moved forward to catch him.

“Jesus,” he panted, clutching at his chest, and Pheelan was suddenly afraid that he’d given the man the heart attack his son was so afraid of. “Oh, Jesus.”

“We don’t know anything,” he said, grabbing the man’s shoulder and pulling hard at the panic, taking as much of it as he could stand in one go, the black cascading up his arm. “I mean it might be nothing right, it might be…”

“You know what happened his mother!” the man accused, his voice harsh and tight as he tried to breath, tried to stave off the panic even as Pheelan dragged it out of him. “I’ve seen those symptoms before, heard that list… I’ve already lived that, I can’t…”

“You need to breathe, right now!” Pheelan insisted, dragging the man toward the dining table and pushing him down into a chair. “We don’t know anything yet - this could all just be stress, from coming back here, confronting everyone…”

“Ok,” John breathed, scrubbing his hands over his face and through his hair, almost visibly gluing bits of himself back together as Phee let go of him, confidant now that the emotion wouldn’t kill the man. “Ok, ok, ok. I can, I can deal with this, we can, we can figure this out.”

Pheelan was quiet, returned to the kitchen to stir pasta and take the chicken off the stove, but from the corner of his eye he kept watch on the man he felt he knew so well, saw him draw up with a kind of inner strength and perseverance that was rare in anyone. He’d heard the stories about the Sheriff too, of course, his bravery and determination, the way he would fight for his son, for his town. He saw that now, saw a man at risk of breaking stand tall on his fractures and do what needed to be done.

“I’ll talk to him tonight,” he said, more to himself than to the werewolf in his kitchen. “After Mel leaves. And then tomorrow…”

But Pheelan would have to wait to learn what tomorrow would bring, because before the Sheriff could get it out, the front door opened and the toasted sesame and rich earth scent of the man’s son came flooding down the hallway.

“Honey, I’m home!”

Chapter Text

Stiles was pretty sure he’d never stepped foot in Beacon Hills’ local hardware store before. Not in his whole life. Even when he’d pranked Finstock in high school, he’d found his box of nuts and bolts, his hammer and picture wire in the back of the Stilinski garage, underneath the seldom-used tool bench. He didn’t remember ever coming here, didn’t remember ever having parked in front of the little clapboard shop with the faded block letters: K.R. Green & Son.

And well.

That included today.

Fisting his hands around the steering wheel, Stiles closed his eyes, took a few deep, shuddering breaths.

Screw him if his heart was practically beating out of his chest. Blinking his way out of a daydream to find himself behind the wheel of his Jeep with no idea how he’d gotten to the north side of town was more than a little bit disconcerting, and not just because he’d been driving around in a fugue.

Fugue.

Fuck, he knew that word, that symptom.

Dissociative state, insomnia, mood swings…

He’d always had one or the other over the years - trouble sleeping, wandering attention - but he’d always had his excuses. ADHD, rejection by the pack, becoming a touchstone… there was always something he could write it off on. Coming back to Beacon Hills, re-assimilating into pack life, at least by proxy - that had just been the most recent.

But this?

This was more.

This was worse.

This was…

Christ, he couldn’t even say it.

Swallowing down the knot in his throat, Stiles turned over the ignition with shaking hands, fumbled with the gear stick and jerked out of his parking space. Behind him he heard the shift and rustle of plastic, a clink of glass, and the unexpected sound had him twisting around dangerously to find the backseat stuffed full of plastic bags, all printed with the hardware’s logo. A heavy, chill sort of calm seemed to settle into his core at the sight of them, a deadly kind of quiet, enough that he was able to turn back to the road and drive steadily across town to the house without pulling over to puke, even though his stomach had been clawing its way into his throat since he’d woken up.

Pulling into the driveway, he climbed out and collected the bags with cold, calculating movements, not bothering to check the contents. Shouldering his way into the garage, he rounded the broken-down riding mower that hadn’t worked since his childhood and stashed his loot carefully behind a stack of old tires that had never made it to the dump, made sure they weren’t visible beneath the bench. He’d need them soon, put them to good use…

Dusting off his hands, he exited the garage quietly and went back around to the front door, stepped inside and kicked off his shoes. The front hall smelled like chicken and spice, warm and inviting, and he could sense Pheelan and his father in the kitchen, the low pop and sizzle of cooking a comfortable sort of sound that warmed up his frosted insides and put a wide grin on his face.

“Honey, I’m home!” he called with a snicker, hanging up his coat and stepping into the kitchen. “Woah. Dad, are you ok?”

“Fine, fine,” his father answered, waving a hand in his direction dismissively, but he the way he collapsed onto a bar stool, dragged his hand through his hair screamed weariness, and he looked distinctively green around the gills, avoiding Stiles’ gaze.

Flicking a look at Pheelan, who was stirring something at the stove, he narrowed his eyes when the werewolf wouldn’t look at him either, felt something dark whisper across the back of his neck.

“Everything all righ?” he asked slowly, suspiciously, moving to the fridge to grab a half-full bottle of Powerade to settle his churning stomach.

“Just… had a little bit of a rough day,” his dad replied before forcing a smile. “It’s good to be home. It’s good to have you home.”

Stiles frowned a bit, unconvinced, but moved around the island anyway to sling his arm around his dad’s neck and pull him in, press his face against the older man’s temple. It was a wolf’s gesture - reassuring, affectionate - and perfectly natural to him, and to his dad too apparently since he didn’t seem surprised or uncomfortable with the scenting. Pheelan watched with careful eyes but didn’t comment, which only made Stiles even more certain that he’d walked in on something. The wolf got adorably jealous whenever he scented someone else, even family, whining and demanding his own cuddles like a neglected puppy.

“Awful lot of food there Butterwolf,” he commented, taking a swig of his drink as he watched the man toss pasta with spinach, mushrooms, and tomatoes, pour it into a massive serving bowl. “Hungry tonight?”

“Actually, um,” his dad coughed, clearing his throat awkwardly. “I uh, invited Melissa to dinner.”

“Oh really?” Stiles asked, cocking and eyebrow as a grin curved over his mouth.

“Not like that,” his dad protested gruffly, his cheeks reddening. “I just thought… maybe you and Scott…”

Stiles froze.

It had to come to this, he knew that. They couldn’t go on forever the way they were; it was too exhausting, too painful, and quite frankly impossible now that he’d started tripping around with the pack again. He wasn’t planning on joining up, sticking around for long, but as he got closer and closer with Lydia and Peter both, slowly came to terms with what had happened between him and Derek, he knew he couldn’t ignore his once-upon-a-time best friend forever.

Swishing his bottle contemplatively, Stiles took a drink just for the distraction, made no protest.

But he wasn’t happy either.

“Anything I can do to help, Butterwolf?” he asked instead, watching as Pheelan sliced grilled chicken directly into the pasta.

“Set the table if you like,” the werewolf replied, nodding his head toward the dining room.

Stiles tossed him a smile in return, easy, causal, but as he sidestepped the man to take down a stack of large, shallow bowls he reached out cautiously with his light, poked around a bit. Pheelan was tense, a little anxious, and it seemed like he was repressing, but he wrote it off as knowing that Scott was on the way, locking down his emotions to hide them from the other wolf.

Should be interesting though - give him a chance to see how Melissa and his dad interacted, and he was looking forward to seeing her again himself. She’d been a little bit like a mom to him for a while, and he cared about her, even after all this time.

Scott not so much.

His betrayal had hurt more, cut deeper than anyone else’s, and would be that much harder to forgive. Over the last five years Stiles had completely shut himself off from the relationship he’d shared with the other boy, broken bonds that had been started in their sandbox days. He’d had to, it would have killed him otherwise, literally killed him. Scott was his rock, his anchor, and losing him had been like losing half of himself. It was Scott that had driven him out to the cliffs that night with a bottle of whiskey clutched in his fist, Scott that had put the knife in his back.

So he’d shut it off, and practice made perfect.

He felt very little where Scott was concerned.

He was a chore, a task to be completed.

Nothing more.

So he would be civil and calm, and a little bit smug because he’d be wearing Phee’s scent like an honor badge, the scent of the two of them together that screamed his-not-yours.

Placing forks and knives around the table, Stiles smirked a bit as he sidestepped Phee, dragged his hand around the side of the wolf’s throat as he leaned over to place the massive bowl of pasta in the center of the table. He returned the gesture as he slipped back toward the kitchen, squeezing Stiles’ hip as he passed and pressing his face to Stiles’ nape, breathing against his hair. It was easy touch, easier than it had been in the last week or so, and it made his light hum and shimmer just beneath his skin, content, pleased.

The knock at the front door couldn’t quite kill it, so there was a smile on his face when he opened it to find Melissa standing on the porch, a bottle of red wine in her hand.

“Hey Mel,” he grinned, pulling her in for a light hug. “How you doing?”

“Just fine,” she replied with a bright smile of her own. Her eyes were sparkling and she held on to him tight while she had him, only letting go when he pulled away. “It’s so good to see you Stiles,” she insisted, brushing his hair back from his temple, laying her palm against his cheek. “Thank you for having us.”

“Of course,” he smiled genially, taking the wine and moving aside to gesture her in, helping her off with her coat as Scott followed behind, a pie-box balanced in his hands. “Though I find it hard to believe that my father hasn’t had you over here before.”

A blustering cough from the next room had them both sharing a grin and quiet chuckles.

“I’ve had your father over to mine once or twice,” she confessed, “But I mostly just wanted to make sure he was eating real food while you were gone.”

“I appreciate the effort,” he said with great sincerity, pressing a kiss to her cheek, and then she was laughing and stepping off into the kitchen, leaving him alone in the hallway with her son.

“Hey man,” he said slowly, shifting nervously on his feet, and Stiles could feel the pained uncertainty in him.

“Hey.”

The other boy perked up a little at the response though he’d said it flatly, with almost nothing in his voice. It was visible, a spark in his eyes, hope on his face, and Stiles felt himself attracted to the reaction, pulled toward it despite his best efforts. For a while it seemed like they were going to be stuck in a Mexican standoff, a safe, sane ten feet between them as they rocked uncomfortably on their heels, one unsure of what to say and the other not sure he cared.

“Food’s ready.”

Stiles didn’t jump when Phee’s words rumbled up behind him, summoned them to the table.

Scott, who had the advantage of seeing the werewolf poke his head around the wall, actually flinched.

Stiles could see him scent the air subtly as he followed close on his heels into the dining room, knew that he was smelling them together, knew what he’d infer from it and it put the smirk back on his face, at least until they both stepped up to the table and their parents looked at them expectantly, like three minutes alone had fixed them. Stiles watched his father pull out a chair for Melissa, crossed around the table to sit beside Pheelan, directly across from Scott as a small consolation to his dad’s finagling. The young beta looked isolated, unmoored on his side of the table, his mother and the Sheriff on either end, and he seemed to feel it too, darting glances between them all and gripping the edge of the table like it would keep him from floating away.

“Smells great Pheelan,” the Sheriff said, breaking the silence as he reached forward and picked up the giant pasta bowl, served himself before passing the bowl to Scott.

A family-style meal, each helping themselves, it still felt like a pack meal and by all rights the food should have gone to Melissa next, then to Stiles and Pheelan and lastly to Scott, but Stiles shrugged off the mild irritation. Pheelan made a sound of acknowledgement and thanks as he popped the cork on the wine bottle, walked around the table to pour glasses in the appropriate order. It probably looked like a slight, the way he stepped past Scott to serve his mother and then everyone else, but it was natural and instinctive, not malice, and Scott was so busy staring at Stiles anyway that he was pretty sure the man didn’t even notice.

“Well,” his father said, waiting until everyone was seated and served, picking up his glass. “Seems like we should have a toast.”

“I agree,” Melissa seconded, and then she was looking at him with the sweet, caring warmth that he remembered so well and he was swept through with a cold fear that she would toast to coming home.

“To being together again,” she said with a gentle smile, and he must have let out a shuddering breath of relief because Pheelan took up his free hand beneath the table and squeezed, tight enough that he felt his knuckles pop. Not the only one then.

“For however long it lasts,” his father added, and his smile was a melancholy one as he tipped his glass towards them, and then he and Scott and Pheelan were mumbling along, the whole of them sipping at the wine, earthy and just a bit sweet.

From there the dinner progressed quietly, the conversation polite and easy enough as forks clinked and compliments on the meal were passed. Pheelan ended up bearing the responsibility of the conversation, speaking of Ireland, his work, and a little bit about the travels he’d shared with Stiles in those early years. He seemed to take a bit of a shine to Melissa - she actually got the wolf to laugh more than once - but Stiles could still feel the tension in him as they ate. For his part Scott seemed determined to stare Stiles down with wide, hurt, puppy eyes but Stiles had met far worse in Pheelan’s baby cousins and so ignored him. Not that he was deterred; indeed his attention was so focused that his fork missed his face more than once and he had to pull some impressive juggling to keep his pasta from ending up in his lap.

But things had to hit the fan eventually.

As his father stood and began to clear the table with Pheelan’s help, Melissa sent her son a pointed look and headed into the kitchen, ostensibly to start a pot of coffee and slice the low-sugar apple pie they’d brought with them, leaving Stiles alone with the werewolf and the elephant in the corner. Frowning, drumming his fingers against the table, got to his feet and shoved his hands into his pockets.

“Stepping out for a smoke,” he said, and his tone was flat enough to be both warning and invitation, loud enough that those in the kitchen would hear yet still low and quiet, perfectly controlled.

Outwardly a picture of it; cool, collected, stone-faced.

Inside shaking.

Angry, sorrowful, afraid.

In the hallway he shrugged into his jacket, his gun still heavy at the small of his back where it had been all night. Stepping out onto the porch, he left the door open behind him, took a joint from his pocket as he listened to Scott’s hesitant footsteps following. The night air was cool and damp with coming rain, and as he sparked his lighter and inhaled he let himself reach out, felt for the emptiness with the futile hope that it would settle the frantic energy inside him. As Scott stepped up beside him, placed his hands on the porch railing and stared out across the street, Stiles sighed, muttered the words that would dull their voices to sensitive ears.

“Hey man.”

“Hey.”

Chapter Text

Things between them seemed to be resolved easily enough, at least for the time being. Perhaps a bit too easily for Stiles’ tastes, but it was what it was. Hard, to throw away such closeness after so many years, even when there had been such a bad blowout between them, so much pain.

And it wasn’t like they were the same as they’d been.

He’d warned Scott of that, made it very clear just as he had to Derek.

Not friends.

But not enemies either.

There was a calm sort of deadness in him that had kept him from snapping, from snarling out his hurt like he’d always imagined he would. Somehow they didn’t seem important anymore, all those old injuries, not with larger things in the works, and while Stiles could certainly a resentful, vindictive son of a bitch he couldn’t seem to summon the heat required to fuel long-time hatred.

For Scott’s part the guy hadn’t changed a bit, even after five years - still soft and floppy and naïve, so he’d taken what Stiles had given him and babbled and blubbered and even cried a little, and hugged Stiles until he thought his ribs would crack. For a bit he’d accepted the messy, undignified apologies as they flooded out wild and unchecked like water from a city main, but he’d quickly lost patience for them. He’d spent so long imagining it, dreaming about it, savoring the thought of coming back just to make them grovel, that somehow the real thing was just a disappointment. He was torn between enjoying the attentions, pleased that he was finally being recognized and hearing sins admitted to, while the rest of him was still just as furious with red-hot, righteous anger as he’d been the night he’d left Beacon Hills.

An even larger part of him didn’t care one way or the other.

As Scott squeaked his way through a litany meaningless contrition Stiles mused silently on the fact that he’d ever been anxious about coming back here. It seemed ridiculous now, that terrible fear that had held him for so long.

What had he to be afraid of? What hurts could he have suffered worse than that first, greatest betrayal?

Taking a long draw on his hand-rolled, Stiles stared out along the street, between the banks of houses toward the Preserve where the trees rose up thick and dark at the horizon line, only half-listening to Scott’s half-coherent, rapid-fire confessions.

His new-found apathy toward, well, everything, was all-in-all quite the pleasant experience.

He felt rather like a passenger in his own body, his own mind, tucked quietly away at the back of his own head where he could observe without exposing himself, listen without feeling.

But then Scott was grabbing him around the ribs again and clinging tightly, trapping his arms at his sides and sending a flare of furious panic through his system, angry with the unexpected touch, indignant of the unwelcomed scenting that Scott didn’t even seem aware of, his head tucked just beneath Stiles’ chin, ear pressed to his chest like he was listening for the truth in his heartbeat.

But Stiles had learned a long time ago how to bluff that particular hand, cover up that single most telling stutter.

Biting down the flare of emotion that would taint his otherwise smooth, steady scent, he patted the other man on the back awkwardly, stood stiffly until it was clear that he was uncomfortable and he was released.

“Wanna go in and get some pie dude?” Scott asked sniffily, scrubbing the sleeve of his jacket over his face, and it almost felt more like a peace offering than all the crying and apologies had, but Stiles wasn’t so greatly moved.

“Sure,” he answered, flicking the butt of his joint onto the sidewalk, stepping down from the porch to crush the cherry beneath his boot. “Let’s go have pie.”

“Awesome!”

Lifting his head, Stiles wasn’t surprised by the wide, cheerful grin on his old friend’s face, his friend who didn’t know an enemy when it was looking him right in the face, didn’t catch on to danger until it bit him in the ass.

Yet unbidden as it was, he couldn’t help the rise of mirrored happiness in his own chest, the thin film of a bubble pushing up beneath his ribcage until it popped and coated his insides in a warm, pleasant rush, the spark in him doing cartwheels for the re-establishment of wolf-connections. Grinning back, maybe with just a bit of an edge, he followed Scott inside the house, letting his wards drop so that those inside would hear the door and know that they were coming back in.

They were in the living room, all three of them, the low table crowded with plates of dessert and steaming cups of coffee waiting until they were all together again. As they stepped into the room three pairs of eyes snapped up in their direction and ahead of him Scott must still be grinning like an idiot because a wide, bright smile spread quickly across her features, and beside her the Sheriff’s shoulders sagged with relief, a smaller, more quietly contented smile touching on his face. Only Pheelan narrowed his eyes, looked Stiles up and down and knew that not everything was right.

But of course he did, why wouldn’t he?

Of all of them he probably knew Stiles best, knew the person he was now with all his fractures and faults.

And yet somehow, miraculously, there he was, steady and steadfast, a goddamned rock.

Strong.

Reliable.

Perfect.

Striding past Scott, ignoring the questioning looks from his father and Melissa, he planted himself directly in front of the werewolf, placed one hand on the back of the couch and leaned in over him. Lifting Phee’s chin with his free hand, he looked into warm brown eyes bright with worry and bewilderment, and quite possibly something more than that, something neither of them had ever admitted to though they’d come close. Dipping his head he pressed a hard, chaste kiss to the surprised werewolf’s lips, everything else falling away as his world spun and contracted down to that single, shared point of heated contact.

Releasing him only because he had to come up for air, Stiles didn’t meet his eyes this time, just flopped down onto the couch beside him with utter gracelessness, silently smug and immensely pleased when Pheelan lifted his arm without thought and draped it across Stiles’ shoulders, light but keeping him anchored to his side. Liberating the mug of coffee from the man’s free hand, he hid a smirk behind the rim as Melissa and his father cleared their throats and started up a conversation that was pointedly unrelated, something or other about an herb garden the nurse had been trying to start on the first floor in her bright, sunny house. Apparently the Sheriff had recently built some window boxes for her and had installed them in exchange for a pan of Melissa’s famous green chili enchiladas.

The conversation moved seamlessly from there, but he suspected it was because he didn’t participate much, only joining in when his dad or Melissa dragged an answer or an anecdote out of him with expectant faces. Pheelan fielded most of what came his way, spinning stories about Ireland and Romania and all the places he’d been, putting a wistful sort of look on the nurse’s face and one on the Sheriff’s that might have been discomfort, and Stiles knew what he was thinking.

How could he or this little backwoods town compete with that, the travel and the excitement and the constant change of pace?

The side of his mouth tipped, a wry, melancholy grin that he hid in the last dregs of Pheelan’s coffee, a way-too-big mouthful of pie.

What his father didn’t know, what he hadn’t said and couldn’t say, was that this place was a part of him, one that he couldn’t shake and wasn’t sure he’d wanted to. As rough as he’d had it things here still meant a great deal to him, and the Sheriff himself even more.

Once again the specter of the future raised its head, uncertain decisions looming dark and aching in his fingertips.

Scott looked up sharply at him, no doubt alerted by the sudden, bitter-citrus burst of his natural scent, but Pheelan hardly reacted more than to tighten his arm around Stiles’ shoulders casually, and that was enough to settle him back into his skin.

About half an hour later Melissa got to her feet, relayed her regret that she had to leave to prepare for a long night shift, and the men stood too, the Sheriff to lead her to the door and help her on with her jacket, Phee to start clearing the dishes from the coffee table. It left Stiles and Scott standing at the edge of the living room, the first at ease because he just didn’t care, the latter shifting awkwardly because he wasn’t sure.

“This was good,” he said finally, and Stiles looked at him from the corner of his eye, didn’t respond. “I mean, nice. We should… do it again, definitely.”

Unnerved by his silence, Scott twisted his hands together in a way that reminded Stiles of the Jane Austen movies he’d seen with Lydia and later with some of Pheelan’s cousins, that late English, female anxiety.

“But you’re coming out on the full moon right?” he asked, his face all eagerness and cautious hope. “I mean, Derek said you asked if Jackson and Pheelan could run with us…”

“I did,” he said at last, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket, which he’d never removed, happy for just a little bit of armor. “They need to run, and the Preserve’s the only place we can do that, unless we wanted to drive up to one of the state parks. Seemed like the most convenient option.”

“Right, no it’s cool. We have a lot of fun - there’s games and stuff, not like it used to be when everybody got chained up in the…”

Realizing his mistake from the quickly darkening expression on Stiles’ face, Scott cleared his throat and tried again.

“So yeah, we’ll see you there.”

“Sure.”

There was a pause, a second’s beat of hesitation, but it was enough that at least this time Stiles was ready when Scott crashed against him, grabbing him in another spine-cracking hug. He didn’t return it but he was just a bit more pliant, a little less stiff, and Scott let go a lot sooner to calp him on the shoulder.

“Awesome!” he grinned, grabbing his jacket from the coat hook and pulling it on. “So, see you Friday!”

Stiles nodded, once but apparently it was enough, because Scott wore his smile all the way out to the car, and Stiles shut the front door on him before he could turn back around to wave. There was something sitting dark and still at the back of his mind, some small suspicion on the back of his neck, and when he turned around he found his father waiting in the hallway, hands in the pockets of his old jeans and a thousand mile stare on his face, and the quiet realization came over him of exactly what was about to happen.

“Go to your office?” he asked quietly, and a flash of pain passed over his father’s face. Bad news had always happened in his office, all the serious punishments and talkings-to doled out across the wide oak desk there.

“Sure kiddo,” he said gruffly, gravel in his throat, but it was Stiles who had to lead the way up the stairs because the man’s feet seemed stuck to the floor.

They made it eventually though, and it felt like the most natural thing in the world to slide into the little chair in the corner, a straight-backed wooden thing where baby-Stiles had spent many a time-out. His father took his own place with much more difficulty, his hands on the desk to help ease himself down, and Stiles was struck by the thought of how old he looked, how weary.

“How you dealing kid?” he sighed, running a hand over his face, unable to meet his eye. “I know this hasn’t been easy for you, coming back.”

“I’m… it’s been ok,” he answered, unable to speak the lie they both wanted so desperately to hear.

I’m ok.

“I think… maybe I’ve made my peace. Started to, anyway. Talked to Derek, talked to Scott. Thanks, by the way. Don’t think I ever would’ve done it if you hadn’t brought him over tonight.”

“Didn’t mean to spring him on you,” his dad frowned, leaning one elbow on the desk. “I just thought…”

“It was a good idea. I mean it’s not like we’re bros again but… I think we’re at least back to the start, you know? Neutral ground.”

“Good, good.”

“But that’s not what you wanted to talk about is it?”

The Sheriff sighed, put his palm flat over his mouth like he was afraid of what he might say, and Stiles felt like shit at the thought of making him be the one to do it, so instead he leaned forward, folded his own arms across the table top.

“Dad I think maybe I need to talk to Dr. Stevens tomorrow,” he said quietly, and it was more than enough because Stevens was a specialist, dealing in only one disorder. Stiles had gone to him as a toddler and again when he was in his early teens, just precautionary checkups that had never amounted to anything.

He hoped this time would be the same.

“I’ll go with you son,” his dad answered gruffly, and he was almost certain he saw tears in the man’s eyes. “I’ll take the day off, drive you. If you want.”

“I’d like that,” he said quietly.

And then there was nothing more to day, because how did you say it? How did you talk about the fear that your son might be killed in the prime of his life by the same deadly dementia that destroyed your marriage, cut you down as easy as a bullet?

You didn’t.

So Stiles did what he’d spent five years wishing he could do - he rounded the desk and buried himself in his father’s embrace until they both wound up kneeling on the floor, clinging to each other and fighting not to cry, hands fisted in clothes and holding tight. Ten minutes later they both pulled back with guilty grins, sniffed and scrubbed at their cheeks awkwardly before getting back up and hugging properly.

“Don’t worry about this ok?” Stiles asked, choking back the plea. “Worst comes to worst, Pheelan’s mum already said she’d bite me if I asked.”

The Sheriff grinned, chuckled low in his chest, because they both knew that wasn’t a real option. Stiles had never really wanted the bite, not even a lifetime ago when Peter had offered it in a damp, chilly parking garage, and now that he’d fully come into his own, accepted his own nature and matured into it the way he should’ve in the first place, there wasn’t really any going back.

“I’m gonna shower,” he said, finally letting go of his dad’s shirt and stepping back. “Get some sleep. I’ll call in the morning, see what he’s got open, ok?”

“Sure thing kiddo. Get some rest.”

Stiles nodded, turned around and headed for the door, but at the last moment turned again to find his father already back in his seat, pulling a sheet of paper and a pen from a drawer.

“Dad?” he asked, waiting till the man looked up again. “I love you.”

“Love you too son.”

It took Stiles fifteen minutes under the hot water to swallow down the knot in his throat. Showers were terrible places - he did his best thinking in the shower, got smacked with some of his best research realizations shampooing his hair, but a place for thinking was last thing he needed tonight. It just led him to wondering, to worrying, not so much about himself but for his father and Phee. Phee. Hell, it was likely the wolf that had recognized all the things in him that were wrong, off, out of character. Perfect idiot, he’d remember those symptoms, even though Stiles had only choked out that part of his life’s tragedy once years before.

God he loved that beautiful, stupid jerk.

Or… would, if that was something they did.

Stiles frowned, his hands pausing as he scrubbed down.

That wasn’t them, wasn’t their game, when… when had that happened?

Aggravation nipped at his nerve endings as confusion, doubt bubbled up in the pit of his stomach. He didn’t even know what love felt like, how could he say he loved Pheelan? Sure, he couldn’t imagine life without the guy, was happiest when they were together, looked to him when he wanted calm, or contentment, or ecstasy…

And ok, yeah, that sounded a lot like love but he couldn’t go there now, not when he had… other things to deal with. Other plans, other games…

Other…

Briefly, Stiles considered starting something, teasing the werewolf downstairs with quiet gasps and moans that only he would hear, but ultimately the urge passed as quickly as it had come. Hopping out and toweling off, Stiles went quietly to his room, pulled on a pair of boxers and shoved the window open to let in a cool breeze before collapsing on his bed on top of the sheets. With as much trouble he’d recently had sleeping, it didn’t take him long to begin to drift, half in and half out as the wind tickled across his shoulder blades.

It might’ve been minutes or hours gone by when he felt the mattress dip beside him. It was natural, instinctive to roll toward the heat, the solid bulk of the werewolf at his side. He went to sleep with Pheelan clutching him tight, too tight, like he thought the Touchstone would disappear from his arms if he let go, his face pressed to the curve of Stiles throat as he breathed him in.

Chapter Text

Stiles hated hospitals. He hated the way they always seemed a little bit too cold, hated the way they smelled like antiseptic, and he hated those stupid, backless, hospital gowns.

Sitting on the edge of a pleather examining table, paper crinkling under his ass, he twisted and turned in an attempt to make sure that nothing was showing, that his skin wasn’t sparking or glowing without his consent.

It wouldn’t surprise him.

He was alone in the little examining room, having come back from the MRI cat scan thing that had him twitchy and claustrophobic and sick to his stomach, but he hadn’t wanted Pheelan there and had sent the wolf off to find Jackson with full confidence that the other man could distract him for one morning. His dad, well, he hadn’t had the heart to tell him to stay home, but hadn’t had the heart to let him in on the tests either. He remembered what it was like when his mother had been sick, all the shifts the then-deputy had skipped to be with his wife, and then later all the times he’d brought his teenaged son in for the same thing, looking pale and haunted all the while.

He was feeling a little green around the gills himself.

Unsettled.

Another, rather larger part of him was resigned.

He felt a bit like he’d been waiting for this, for years maybe, even since his mom had first gotten ill.

Bit morbid really.

A quiet knock on the door kept him from crawling too far down that rabbit hole for the moment, and terribly thin, balding man in a lab coat stepping into the room a second later. His arms were laden down with a stack of images, print outs, and file folders, his head bent as he read the folder splayed open over the top, making his glasses slide precariously toward the floor. That was the only thing he remembered about Dr. Timothy Stevens, Ph.D. x4. The fact that he was constantly pushing his wire-rims up his nose.

Everything else had probably been repressed.

“Mr. Stilinski,” he muttered distractedly, sliding his burden onto the counter top before scrambling a bit to catch the file he’d been examining so intently. “How are you?”

Stiles didn’t answer, waited until the man looked up before cocking an eyebrow. Pinking and blustering just a bit, the doctor coughed into his fist before slotting a series of images into the backlight hanging from the wall, flicking the switch to light up Stiles’ brain.

“It’s been a few years since you’ve been in to see us, is that correct?” he asked, shaking off the inappropriate greeting and thumbing through his papers.

“Yeah,” Stiles said, and the word sounded a little raw so he cleared his throat and tried again. “Yeah, it’s been a while. I was overseas, so…”

“Ah yes, the armed services,” the doctor said distractedly, and Stiles rolled his eyes, didn’t bother to correct him.

It wasn’t important.

“Well Mr. Stilinski, if you would direct your attention to the image on the left, you’ll see the last scan we took when you were fifteen.”

“Seventeen.”

“Yes, my apologies, seventeen. And the image on the right then will be the one we took today.” Stepping up to the box, Stevens pulled a pen from his pocket and began to sketch lightly over the transparencies, “Now looking between the two, you’ll notice a significant decrease in brain mass in both of these areas.”

Yeah thanks doc - that much was pretty fucking obvious…

Shocked by the sudden flare of hot fury, Stiles looked down quickly to make sure he wasn’t smoking or sparking, but wasn’t at all comforted when he found his hands merely balled into fists so tight his nails were cutting into his palms.

Ok, breathe…

“… and given your family history, I feel it appropriate at this time to say that you certainly meet the criteria for a diagnosis of frontotemporal dementia. I’m… very sorry young man.”

Blinking, swallowing his heart back down into his chest where it belonged, Stiles nodded, waved off the doctor’s hesitant and uncomfortable attempt to squeeze his shoulder in consolation.

“It… seems you were expecting this,” he said slowly.

“Yeah,” Stiles muttered, rubbing a hand over his face before pulling it back and watching his fingers tremble. “Yeah, I think…”

He couldn’t finish, he didn’t know what he’d thought.

He…

Another forty minutes passed in a haze as Stiles fought to hear the doctor over the dull rush in his ears, the roar of white water that reminded him of the falls in Ireland. Explanations that he didn’t need, descriptions he’d memorized long ago, all the things he could expect to experience but that he’d already lived through once. Cautions recommendations, a list of experimental treatments that neither he nor Stevens were putting any amount of faith in.

With one last awkward pat the doctor ducked out, leaving Stiles to pull his clothes back on stiffly, his strategic thought patterns kicking into gear and lining things up again. Without an intervention this would kill him, he had no doubt of that, no matter that the whole purpose of what he was, the light in him that came from him, was meant to heal.

He couldn’t heal himself.

But he had options, right? He knew people, knew things. He’d seen remarkable things, done remarkable things, watched horrific injuries knit together and poison be purged before his very eyes, this wasn’t the end of him.

Couldn’t be.

People needed him - he was the protector, the strategist, the one that kept them all alive, his father and Pheelan, Jackson and Lydia… the pack.

Wasn’t really his place anymore.

And hell, they’d done just fine without him, hadn’t they?

But it still felt unfinished, still felt like a few of his rough edges might fit with theirs.

He supposed that didn’t matter, not nearly as much as the panic attack he was currently working himself toward.

Hand fisting in his t-shirt overtop his heart, Stiles grit his teeth and swallowed at the knot in his throat, counted in his head to try to get his breathing slowed, his pulse steady. It took him a minute and he had to knuckle moisture away from the corners of his eyes, but by the time he’d pulled his boots back on and stepped out of the examining room he was ready to face his father, though the walk down the hall toward the waiting room seemed endless. The man’s face was pale and more lined than Stiles could ever remember seeing it, and he got to his feet with a quiet sort of demand on his face, but Stiles just shook his head, moved toward the doors.

Twenty minutes later they were back out on Main Street, in a booth in the back of the little diner with bacon cheeseburgers and chocolate-peanut butter-banana milkshakes in front of them, and for his father that was enough to know.

“So it’s conclusive?” he asked quietly, and his voice was all low gravel and pain.

It was why Stiles had driven them here, instead of just heading home - he thought it might be easier for the Sheriff to maintain his composure if he had to, if the very public setting wouldn’t act as storm wall.

For now it was all he could give him.

“Stevens seems to think so,” Stiles said, popping a fry into his mouth like he wasn’t discussing his own imminent mental degeneration and subsequent death. “He did the weird thing where he talks at you instead of to you and then basically ran out of the room. Seriously, all those doctorates, you’d think they would’ve made him take at least one course in bedside manner. Or spatial awareness.”

“Not really one to judge are you?” his father asked, but the disinterested way he was poking at his burger made the joke fall flat.

Sighing, Stiles twirled his straw around the edge of his glass, pushed it away to lean forward and touch his father’s wrist.

“Don’t worry about this ok?” he asked quietly, flinching inwardly when his dad looked up sharply, his eyes hard and flashing with an edge of sudden anger. “Please?”

“Don’t do that,” he choked harshly, jerking his hand away to stab a hard finger in his direction. “Don’t you do that. Don’t you go checking out, thinking this is going to end the same…”

Sucking in a breath, he closed his eyes hard, got himself under control again.

“It’s been years Stiles. The way medicine, science advances…”

“Dad,” he whispered, abruptly fighting back tears. “There’s no cure. No advancement. There are chemo options that will have me sicker than a dog in a hospital bed from the moment they start and I can’t… Fuck!” he cursed and then the tears were rolling. “I can’t do that. But I’m not…”

Here he reached out and grabbed his dad’s hand, clutched it so tight he felt the bones creak under his fingers.

“I’m not checking out,” he said insistently, holding his gaze, needing him to believe so that Stiles could believe himself. “I’m not just going to sit around and wait for this.”

“Derek,” the man breathed, his face suddenly brightening with hope, and this time Stiles did flinch like he’d been slapped across the face. “Stiles, Derek…”

Sitting back, Stiles chuckled roughly, swiped at his cheeks. “Not a chance in hell, Daddy-o,” he said with a forced grin. “It seemed a good enough place as any to dial back on the emotion, a good enough point to turn into an off-the-cuff refusal. “I wouldn’t subject myself to that, or him, for that matter.”

Stuffing some food in his mouth just to have something to do other than talk, he chewed, thought, swallowed.

“I don’t even know if it would work,” he admitted finally, watched as his dad continued to poke at his food. “It’s more than just the physical thing of it, you know, with the brain? I mean, none of us are sure if Peter ever really got all of his marbles back. And beyond that there’s the fact that I’m not exactly human, right? Phee’s mum… well, let’s just say I’ve got the last resort, ok? But not Derek. Not him.”

He was lying on his side, little spoon to Pheelan’s soup ladle, the wolf practically on top of him as he pressed him down into the mattress, his face buried in the curve of Stiles’ throat as he breathed him in. There was silver light streaming through the open window, cool night air whispering in across their bare skin, but the quiet was stifling between them. They’d hardly spoken at all that day, leaving Jackson to carry the conversation while they pissed away the afternoon at his adoptive parents’ old house, drinking the old Scotch they’d found stashed in the back of an entertainment cabinet. Once all three of them had been half-way to drunk they’d spent a few hours with cards and cartoons, jokes and old stories about all the trouble they’d gotten into the last few years, and it was quiet and calming in a way that Stiles had needed.

Then Pheelan had stuffed him into the car and brought him home, fed him and stripped him down, given him the rest of what he’d needed.

Touch, heat, skin on skin, an anchor to the earth that held him close and didn’t let go. Claws had gripped his arms tight enough to bruise, drew tiny pinpricks of blood to the surface that was licked away again, the light between them a bright, white glow that rivaled the moon’s, growing heavy in the night sky and in their blood.

Behind him Pheelan mumbled into his neck, a meaningless hum that tickled at his skin before sharp teeth tested his shoulder, gnawed distractedly the way Phee did when he was unsettled. Stiles hadn’t said anything about his test results, his diagnosis, but both Phee and Jackson had hated the scent of hospital on him, had pushed him onto the couch and piled on top of him until the stink had been sufficiently gone, and between the three of them that had been enough, enough to say all the things that couldn’t be said. As good a confirmation as any without the hurt, it still left a gaping void between Stiles and the wolf currently trying to press as close as he possibly could, trying to share space and skin.

“Phee?” he asked quietly in the dark, and behind him he felt the man go still, felt his mouth relax where it had been sucking a mark onto his throat. “Your mum. If she did… I’d still be yours, right?”

Because that was it.

His biggest fear.

Losing himself to someone else.

If his mother bit him, turned him into a werewolf, by all rights he would be hers; her beta, her Touchstone, her pack. As much as a part of him had always wanted that, to be so thoroughly accepted, to be so kept, it wasn’t the O’Rourke Alpha he’d wanted it from.

Not then, not now.

In becoming a part of her pack, a part of him would be taken away from Phee. Lying in his childhood bedroom with the big blonde holding him close, he suddenly realized that more than anything he didn’t think he could bear losing this.

Losing him.

“If that’s what you want,” he finally whispered, the words raw and choked. “I know how you feel about the bite, becoming a werewolf.” Ducking his head, he tightened his arms around Stiles even more, whined high in his throat. “I’d… I’d do a lot of bad things to keep you Stiles,” he said, and this time there was a low snarl in his voice that sent electricity humming through Stiles’ veins, the nearing moon kicking up instincts old and honored. “Human or wolf. If you choose to take the bite mum would respect your boundaries. I would too.”

“I know that,” he murmured, twisting round in Phee’s embrace so that he could press a kiss to his lips. “I just don’t…”

“We’ll figure this out,” he promised quietly when Stiles couldn’t finish, fitting a hand to his jaw, brushing his thumb over Stiles’ cheek. “I can’t… tell you that the bite will fix this. But I can tell you that I’ll be there either way. As long as you want me there Stiles, I’m yours.”

Chapter Text

He told them eventually, really told them.

He just… needed to say it out loud, directly, for lots of reasons.

Pheelan and Jackson both meant the world and more to him, were his strongest points of connection, even more than his father sometimes just because of their very nature. It had been one of the hardest things he’d ever done, to force himself to say it - I’ve got frontotemporal dementia - and even harder still to listen to the silence that followed, but then there was a hand on each of his shoulders, squeezing tight enough to bruise before they let go and nothing more needed to be said. They had his back, whatever he needed that to mean, and all three of them knew it.

For them it was enough.

But there was another reason he’d told them straight out - he didn’t want them spreading it around. They were on the way to the Hale House for the full moon, and he was half-panicked that one of them would accidently let something slip, or otherwise drop some kind of hint that one of the rest would catch. He’d had nightmares for the last two days that involved Scott or Derek or Erica pouncing on him, burying their faces in his neck and breathing in the smell of sickness, of dying. When he’d asked Pheelan had told him in choked whispers that it was there, small, whispering tendrils wrapped through his natural scent, but so faint he could only find it because he was looking for it, because he knew it was there.

It hadn’t been much comfort to either of them.

So he’d asked them both to keep it quiet that morning when they met at the Sheriff’s house and started packing up the Jeep. Stiles had been unable to stop himself from whipping up a few batches of snacks, the routine still so familiar after all this time that it had put a lump in his throat until Phee had pressed in close behind him and started helping. After loading the Tupperware into the back and wrestling his old lacrosse gear inside on a whim, they’d piled in and pulled out, the wolves twitchy and buzzing with more than just the bad news. The moon was affecting them as well, bolts of lightning in their blood, and Stiles could feel it humming in them as strongly as it bubbled in the pit of his own belly. There was anxiety there, caution, but there was joy and excitement too, eagerness for the ecstasy to come.

Stiles was willing to take whatever excuse was presented to him, lighting up a smoke for himself and his own spark for the wolves under the guise of settling them all on the drive over, but with the hidden benefits of potentially making them forget.

Forget that the last two days had been an emotional nightmare, forget that one of them was dying…

He might’ve overdone it.

Pheelan and Jackson practically fell out of the Jeep when they parked in front of the house, stumbling and leaning heavily on each other as they snickered and snorted at nothing, tripping up the drive toward the front door with arms slung around each other’s shoulders.

“What happened to you two?” Erica asked with wide eyes as they staggered up the steps, Pheelan dropping Jackson in a tangle of limbs onto the porch.

“Stilinski hot-boxed us,” Jackson sang with a huge, stupid grin, rolling over onto his back, head lolling against the hardwood. Beside him Pheelan giggled and he flung a hand out to smack him in the ribs, but the larger werewolf just rocked with the motion, laughing.

The pack raised their eyebrows, looked between themselves and then down to the Jeep where Stiles was watching with careful eyes and an affected smirk, pulling Tupperware out of the back seat. Erica shifted on her feet, staring around at the rest of them, and Stiles could feel the distress coming off her even with the distance, but then she was huffing and jumping over the porch railing, dancing down the drive towards him.

“Need some help?” she asked tentatively as she approached, eyes wide and already damp, like she was ready to cry on command if he said no.

Instead of answering her he leaned back into the Jeep, grabbed his dad’s crockpot and handed it off.

“Plug this in for me?” he asked, taking the plastic containers down off the roof where he’d stacked them. “It needs to stay…”

“Lydiaaaaaa!”

“Shit!” Stiles cursed.

He’d been afraid of this.

Jackson was lying flat on his back on the porch, still high on the effects of Stiles’ glow, and he’d sung Lydia’s name like a hallelujah, making grabby hands at the Banshee as she stepped out the front door and nearly stumbled over his prone form. He had no idea where the hell Jackson stood on the subject of his highschool sweetheart, but given the painful way he’d reacted that very first day back in the Hale kitchen, he suspected he wasn’t so casual about the thing as he liked to let on. Now Lydia was staring down at him with something almost like pale fright on her face and Pheelan had come bolt upright, ready to take on the challenge that Peter had snarled in Jackson’s face as he reacted to the surge of distress that shot through the redhead beside him. For his part the dumbass who’d started it just laughed, opened his mouth to say god knows what and ok, now was probably a good time to diffuse this mess…

“Hey!” he shouted, short and sharp and loud, so much so that Erica startled next to him, rattling the glass lid of the pot in her arms.

Every wolf present snapped to attention, hell Allison and Lydia too, but Stiles was only worried about Jackson and he knew that asshole’s weakness. Moving slowly, he let a wicked smirk spread across his face as he projected his movements, slipping his hand into the pocket of his jacket and coming up with a bright yellow tennis ball. Jackson rolled upright so fast Stiles’ almost missed it, the wolf’s eyes locked on the ball with all the focused intent of a predator, and Stiles bit down a laugh as he tossed it into the air, keeping his eyes on his friend even as it came back down and he caught it again.

A low rumble was coming from Jackson’s chest and he got to his feet slowly, movements all smooth silk and grace, controlled power. Stiles tossed the ball again, his heart picking up in his chest as the other man began to toe off his sneakers, tugged his hoodie over his head and dropped it to the ground. Sure, Jackson was his friend and he trusted him, with his life and more, but he was still a werewolf, giddy on a Touchstone’s light and halfway to moon drunk already, and now he was shoving down his shorts and shifting as he went, stalking toward him on silent paws with eyes gleaming gold and teeth showing white and sharp between parted jaws.

Shifting his feet, Stiles turned, cocked his arm to pitch the ball and Jackson snarled, leaping forward like he was going for the throat, but as soon as Stiles let the ball go the wolf turned so fast to go after the thing that he tripped over his own feet, somersaulting ass over teakettle before scrambling up again and lunging after it with a joyful yip. Rolling his eyes, Stiles turned back to the porch, intent on checking in with Lydia, but he was blown back a few steps as Pheelan went rocketing by, a massive blur of blonde fluff the size of a small pony. Jackson had already retrieved his tennis ball and was zipping around like a toddler on crack, Phee bounding along beside him like an antelope, putting most of his momentum into taking his body up and down instead of forward.

Yeah, he’d definitely over done it.

“Dorks,” he muttered, settling his Tupperware more securely against his chest. “Lydia I brought cookies! Oatmeal chocolate chip, peanut butter, and pistachio shortbread ok?”

As far as secret codes went it was pretty pathetic, but he didn’t want to bring any more attention to the situation that was absolutely necessary, and when she met him at the bottom of the porch steps that color hadn’t so much returned to her face as it had pooled high on her cheekbones, an ashamed blush that didn’t belong on queen Lydia Martin’s face.

“That’s fine Stiles,” she replied, squeezing his hand as she took the top container. “I’ll take them out to the picnic tables. Allison, help me carry these?”

Frowning, Stiles let the two women take most of the Tupperware from him, watched Erica trail after them with the crockpot while casting anxious looks back over her shoulder. He would’ve like a minute alone with Lydia - to apologize to her, to hug her, to ask if she would just…

But she had already disappeared around the side of the house and the rest of the pack on the porch was shifting uncomfortably and staring, at least until Peter stepped up behind him and curled a hand firmly around the nape of his neck.

“Peter,” he acknowledged, turning in the man’s grip and allowing him to lean in and rub his jaw along Stiles’ throat. “Come pour me a drink yeah?”

Ignoring the startled looks he led the way into the house, into the kitchen where Peter actually did take down a bottle of scotch from a cabinet. Dropping his container of reserve cookies onto the counter, he jumped up to sit beside them, letting his feet swing. He could feel the pack moving outside, circling around the house instead of coming through it, and he wondered what kind of vibes he’d been putting off that had made it so obvious he wanted a private moment with the older Hale.

Pouring them a finger of alcohol each into two short glasses, Peter handed one over and clinked his own against it before throwing it back, pouring himself a second even as Stiles cocked an eyebrow in his direction. There was an irritable little rumble tickling around in the back of his throat and his eyes were flickering blue around the pupils, but more than that Stiles could feel his distress, felt the need to reach out and soothe. Instead he sipped his drink, smooth and fiery, waiting for the wolf to speak.

He didn’t have to wait long.

“I won’t stop protecting her,” Peter warned, his claws clicking against the side of his glass as he hissed the promise under his breath. “Not even against lizard-boy out there.”

“I’m not asking you too,” Stiles answered back calmly. “I don’t know a hundred percent what’s between you guys but I’m happy she’s got you Peter. You’re good for each other, though I doubt either of you would admit it.”

“Then why are we here?” the werewolf snarled, gesturing harshly at the space between them.

Sighing, Stiles scrubbed one hand over his face, took another swig, faster this time.

“Look I get it okay?” he tried again, “I’m just asking you to remember that she’s not the only one hurting here. Trust me.”

Peter sneered, showed his teeth.

“Fine.”

“Goody. You take care of her, I’ll take care of him… maybe between the two of us we can convince them to get their shit straightened out.”

Considering a moment, Stiles made a face.

“Not that we’ve got a great track record with that…”

Peter snorted, picked up the scotch bottle and refilled both their glasses.

“You turned out just fine,” he pointed out, toasting Stiles as he hopped down off the counter. “And my nephew isn’t nearly the walking disaster he used to be. This, you coming around… it helps. I suppose I should thank you for that.”

Stiles scoffed, arched an eyebrow and waited pointedly.

“Thank you.”

“Ugh,” he shuddered, rolling his shoulders to shake off the shiver. “I think that was as painful for me as it was for you.”

“Definitely. Let’s never do it again.”

“Agreed,” he said, cracking the lid on the cookie container and shoving one into Peter’s mouth. “So here, cookie, and off we go to socialize.”

Darting away as Peter swiped playfully in his direction, Stiles chuckled and stepped out onto the back patio into the sunshine. The backyard was set up much as it had been for the last barbecue Stiles had dropped in on - tables and grills filled with food, a little armada of coolers filled with drinks and raw meat. There was no alcohol this time as the wolves certainly didn’t need it, and he was glad that he’d stopped off for a drink with Peter before braving the little party. Wasn’t a great coping method he knew, but he would take what he could get. Allison and Lydia were perched on the porch swing talking quietly, Erica and the twins were starting a game of horseshoes, and Scott was busy setting up lawn chairs while Derek and Isaac used spray paint to mark the lawn.

“What are they doing?” Stiles asked, turning back to Peter who was looking Lydia over with a critical eye.

“Marking a sparring ring,” he replied absently, rolling his eyes and sipping his drink. “Once Derek and I came to our… understanding, I was able to make some polite suggestions as to how completely useless his training methods were. Now they like to have little sparring matches - all in fun of course, and where’s the fun in that? But they’re all much improved; I think you’ll be impressed.”

“Interesting,” Stiles murmured, a grin spreading across his face. “Can anyone play?”

Finally turning to give Stiles his full attention, Peter mirrored his shark-like grin, a spark of excitement and interest flaring up against Stiles’ light, even a little bit of lust and Stiles laughed, shoved the wolf roughly.

“Cut that shit out,” he chuckled. “You gonna participate?”

“Not bloody enough for me,” Peter shrugged. “I prefer to critique.”

Humming, Stiles startled when Pheelan and Jackson joined them, both back in human form and clothed only in the shorts they’d left scattered on the front lawn. Their eyes were flickering gold, hair a little shaggier than usual, and Jackson had dirt on his face and caked underneath sharpened fingernails.

Oh that ass, he’d buried it hadn’t he?

“You guys wanna do some sparring?” he asked, already sure of the answer. Their wolves were too close to the surface to turn down that offer, and Stiles could feel sparklers crackling under his own skin.

“Oh bloody hell, yes!” Jackson agreed vehemently, already starting forward toward the ring. “Let’s do it.”

“You heard the man,” Pheelan rumbled behind him, ducking down low and scooping Stiles up onto his shoulder without warning. “Let’s rumble.”

Chapter Text

It doesn’t take an announcement to get all the pack gathered round to spar. Stiles doesn’t know how often they do this, doesn’t really know how formal it is for them, but the way they all gravitate to the edges of the wide circle painted in yellow on the grass says there’s at least a little familiarity here. It’s a good feeling – he doesn’t have to reach very hard to remember the skittish, heavy anxiety Derek’s old training sessions had elicited – but this is all fun and energy, anticipation not fear.

Like a god damn county fair.

He ends up standing next to Peter on one side of the circle, Pheelan and Jackson leaning forward on the balls of their feet on his other side. The others laugh and joke, push each other around, and then Isaac and his fiancé Violet are stepping into the ring and facing off against each other about ten yards apart.

“No lasting damage,” Derek warns from the sidelines, and yeah, that’s one thing that’s definitely changed. “Go.”

Isaac snarls, feints left, and his opponent squeaks before they fall together into a gentle tussle that looks more like choreographed wrestling than anything else. Stiles’ jaw drops, Pheelan and Jackson go dead still, and beside them, Peter snorts.

“Told you it wasn’t bloody enough,” he sighs, shaking his head, and Stiles fights the urge to drop his face in to his palms, to shield his eyes.

“Oh... my god.”

The two werewolves in the ring romp around a little bit, but it looks more like foreplay than anything. Stiles is pretty sure he actually sees Isaac nibbling on his opponent, and then as suddenly as it started he’s picking her up and carting her out of the ring to collapse on the lawn and cuddle her in his lap. Derek rolls his eyes, doesn’t bother to declare a winner, and waves his hand to the next contestants.

“That... was horrifying,” Stiles says flatly, stunned. “What... what did I just watch?”

“Those two are the worst,” Peter reassures him, jerking his chin toward the ring. “It gets better. Marginally.”

Stiles looks but it’s Scott and Allison facing off now, grinning at each other across the open space as they wait for the signal.

“I’m not sure I believe you.”

Except the next thing he knows, Allison is lashing out quick as a snake and Scott is on his ass looking up at her like an adoring puppy who doesn’t understand it’s in the way and underfoot.

“Oh.”

“She’s not bad,” Pheelan says, watching as Allison falls-to and repeatedly puts her longtime beau on his butt. “I mean, obviously there’s a... thing going on here, but...”

“Don’t try to qualify it,” Stiles counsels, rolling his eyes as Allison pulls Scott up one more time and puts him back down again. “Hunter’s daughter – she's good. End of.”

Peter makes a low sound in the back of his throat and Stiles can feel the discomfort coming off of him, low and slow, seeping like fog. He can see the way his eyes track Allison’s movement, can see the way he assesses each and every weakness, and he understands it. It sucks, yeah, of course it sucks that even after all this time he doesn’t completely trust his pack member, but Stiles doesn’t blame him.

That’s hard shit to let go of.

Dropping his elbow casually onto Peter’s shoulder, he leans against him hard like he’s using him to prop himself up. Peter rumbles at him and shows his teeth, but doesn’t swat him away, and eventually he relaxes into the contact, even if Stiles isn’t full-on glowing.

He doesn’t let off until Scott and Allison leave the sparring circle.

Erica steps up next, and while she eyes Stiles speculatively with a little quirk around the corner of her mouth, eventually she beckons to Derek with a curl of her finger and a seductive sway of her hips.

“Come on Alpha mine, let’s see what you’ve got,” she purrs.

Derek rolls his eyes – still communicating with his eyebrows apparently – and steps into the ring with her.

It's fast and sharp and brutal, a flurry of snarls and strikes, and Stiles actually breathes a sigh of relief as the two get down and dirty. He doesn’t feel an attraction to Derek Hale anymore – well, he does, who wouldn’t - but it’s a very detached sensation, one of acknowledgement. He can look at him and know that he’s attractive, that he used to be in love, but it’s distant and faded now. He worries, of course he worries that that will all come rushing back at him, but so far he’s had the anger and the betrayal to bank that heat.

Now, with Derek in the ring showing off two things that really push Stiles’ buttons – muscles and competency – well, it feels like a test.

He’s happy to realize he’s passing it with flying colors – Pheelan doesn’t so much as twitch beside him, and there’s not even a tickle of guilt lurking in the pit of Stiles’ belly.

Derek yips indignantly when Erica gets in a few good swipes – she's still a firecracker, as twisty as a cat – but it ends when he pulls a neat duck-and-slide that gets him underneath her and flips her easily onto her back. A few cheers go up, Jackson and Phee clap politely, then Boyd is stepping forward, pecking a kiss to his wife’s cheek, and offering Pheelan a questioning tilt of his head.

Pheelan grins, wide and sharp like a shark, and Stiles smacks his ass as he steps forward into the ring. Typically omegas don’t make very good fighters; they’re usually small and weak and untrained, disconnected from other wolves. They can’t work as a unit, aren’t a real part of the pack - a wolf’s greatest advantage - and so they usually avoid a fight whenever they possibly can. Pheelan though, there’s nothing typical about him, and as he takes his place in the ring in front of Boyd, Stiles lets out a high, sharp wolf whistle.

“Twenty on Irish,” Jackson says, to no one in particular, but Erica narrows her eyes.

“You’re on,” she grins, before cheering out to her husband. “Get ‘im Boyd!”

“Twenty says they just end up hugging each other,” Stiles chimes in, and everyone laughs, but he knows Phee, and he can still read Boyd.

Puppies the both of them, just big, fluffy marshmallows with sharp teeth, and Stiles ends up pocketing his money when it’s over.

Leaning against each other, panting, laughing, the two big males clap hands and shoulders, and Stiles grins. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen Pheelan so at ease with wolves he doesn’t know. It’s an illusion mostly, he’s aware of that, but it’s still nice, as is the heavy, heated look he sends his way before propelling Jackson into the ring.

He takes his turn with Derek.

It's a surprise, to everyone really, when he picks the Alpha. Stiles thinks it’s a good sign – Jackson has been working long and hard on his mental health, on coming to terms with who he is. Derek had been the one to turn him, and they’ve still got that connection, no matter how thinly stretched. Strengthening it, acknowledging it, hell even breaking it would probably only mean good things; Jackson had had to do the same with his adoptive parents some years ago, and that had worked out well for everyone.

Stiles tries not to think about the parallels there – it's too weird.

He does a good job too, holds his own a lot better than anyone expects, though that’s probably because the Alpha is holding back. Personally, Stiles counts that as exploiting a weakness, same as Allison had with Scott. If you know your opponent won’t really hurt you, there’s not really any way to lose. Probably why he’s the only one that’s not surprised when Jackson puts Derek on his back, hand around his throat. There’s a ripple of shock, then jeering and cheers as Jackson lets go and helps Derek to his feet with one hand, says a few quiet words. Stiles, he’s mostly looking at Lydia, gauging the steel in her spine and the distinct lack of expression on her face.

He doesn’t miss the way her eyes follow Jackson’s movements, linger on his bare chest.

He does miss Jackson stepping over to his side, sneaking around behind him.

“You’re up Stilinski,” he says, planting his hands flat between Stiles’ shoulder blades and shoving him into the ring.

Stiles catches himself, narrows his eyes before laughing and stripping out of his shirt. He doesn’t bother looking around the ring – they’d let Allison spar so if any one of them thinks he shouldn’t be there he’ll flash-fry them where they stand. No one pipes up, thank god, but he can still feel their eyes on him as he tugs his t-shirt over his head; judging muscle, cataloguing scars, tattoos. He looks slowly around the ring – Erica is dancing on her feet, eager and hopeful, Scott’s face is all soft as he offers Stiles the easy out, still not believing in him, and Derek just looks anxious as hell, but it’s not any of them that Stiles stops in front of.

“Come on then,” he says, baring in his teeth in a challenging grin as Peter looks him over speculatively. “Let’s see that big bad wolf.”

The hesitance and nervousness that races around the circle as Peter steps into it is palpable and it makes Stiles sick. The pack clearly doesn’t trust him completely either, and just like when it was the other way around, it’s hard to fault. Doesn’t make it easier when he catches the flash of pain in Peter’s eyes, replaced by glowing blue so quick he thinks he’s imagined it.

“Put him on his ass Hale,” Pheelan encourages, ever the peacemaker, and Stiles laughs, sticks his tongue out at him.

“I won’t go easy on you like the other puppies,” Peter warns, pulling his teeth and claws up from wherever he keeps them.

Stiles just winks.

“Counting on it.”

Peter strikes fast and strikes first, catching Stiles in the ribs with a heavy jab. He kick-boxes like he’s been doing it his whole life, and Stiles has to adapt on the fly to catch the fists and feet flying his way. Once his brain catalogues the style Peter’s using he slips easily into a defensive stance and holds his own until he spots an opening, launching a volley of strikes that land hard enough to at least set him back on his heels, force him to catch his breath.

Hopping back, Peter bares his teeth in a snarling grin that’s half aggressive, half delighted, and Stiles laughs.

They clash hard, and it’s a real fight like they’re actually trying to kill each other, and god damn does Stiles love it. It gets his blood pumping like nothing else, and he’s glad he chose Peter because he trusts him, trusts him not to actually kill but but also to actually push him, to actually hit. All the others – even Phee – pull their punches.

Peter never does.

Stiles ends up with bruised ribs and a claw marks scratched over his right pectoral muscle, bleeding sluggishly where they’ve cut through a protection sigil, and Peter’s wheezing and panting a little as they circle each other, surrounded by shocked silence from the rest of the pack. Jackson and Pheelan are snickering – none of them are surprised – but the wolf in front of him looks proud and aroused and curious with his eyes shining blue and sweat glittering at his temples, and Stiles is hit with the sudden... memory, the sudden realization that no, not everything had been bad here in Beacon Hills. There had been people here who cared about him, who wanted him, even if it hadn’t been the one person he had wanted to care...

Taking advantage of his distraction, Peter slings Stiles over his shoulder in an attempt to throw him onto the ground but his instincts save him. Without thought he twists his wrist in the man’s grip, rolls over him and lands on his own feet, sweeping Peter’s out from under him. He dives after and they roll across the grass, and he could escape to his feet, he could, but he’s struck by an opportunity, by the worry Pheelan has carried around for the older Hale these last few days.

He ends up tossed onto his back, the air all whumping out of him, but he folds his knees and wraps an arm around Peter’s neck, throwing them over. Straddling him, essentially sitting in his lap as Peter tries to buck up underneath him and throw him off, Stiles hugs him close and buries his face into the werewolf’s throat, pushing as much warmth and light and comfort into him as he can, all at once. It’s like a supernova, a burst of golden light and he can feel the other wolves flinch back, hears Peter gasp in his ear, but it’s all soft, soothing heat, like sinking into a warm bath.

“Breathe Peter-Wolf,” he murmurs, his own eyes squeezed tightly shut. “You’re safe.”

Peter shudders in his arms, makes a choking, sobbing sort of sound, and Stiles can feel his light digging deep, cutting away at the poison still twisted at the core of the man in front of him – the pain of the fire, the guilt of not protecting his pack, of killing Laura, the constant, dull ache of not being fully trusted or welcomed into the only pack he has left. It’s an open wound in his chest, one that’s never been closed and that he walks around with each and every day, and Stiles can’t fix it for him but he can start the healing, can ease the sharp, horrible sting of old hurts.

Planting his hand in the center of Peter’s chest, feeling his heart pound beneath his palm, Stiles shoves with everything he has, forces the warmth and the light and the trust – because he does trust him in a way, to be exactly who he is and to do what he needs to do – as deep into his soul as he possibly can.

Peter purrs, turning his face into the curve of Stiles’ throat and breathing him in with deep, whuffing gulps, his eyes rolling back in his head as the sheer relief and release of pain overwhelms him, sending endorphins racing through his system. Stiles tucks away a smirk – he's seen this reaction before, the werewolf is currently experiencing the best high he’s probably ever had – and slaps his hand over Peter’s mouth before kissing him hard. Dropping him like a hot potato – he falls back onto the grass and wriggles like a cat in the nip – Stiles rolls smoothly to his feet and lets his smug pride show on his face.

Wicked smirk, cocky as hell, he turns on Phee with a hunger burning in the pit of his belly.

The werewolf grins back at him, all fangs and golden eyes, daring him to do something, and feels a growl rumble up out of his chest.

He can feel Peter breathing deep behind him, can sense the goddamn astral projection journey he’s just been thrown on and is overcome by the burning, prideful joy that comes from doing what he’s meant to do, being who he’s meant to be.

Caring for wolves.

Narrowing his eyes, ignoring the pack behind him, he takes two stalking steps forward and Jackson bolts, but Phee holds his ground, holds, holds, until Stiles is right in front of him and smacks a kiss, a real kiss, to his lips before he turns around and runs.