Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

From Lydia at 10:34pm: Had to buy a new candle today. You can't blow them out when you're asleep. Going to bed at the hour.

From Scott at 10:46pm: Some complications with super hearing. I'll be asleep soon.

 

The door is wide open again.

Stiles gets out of bed and takes a few step towards it, but a hand circles his wrist.

"Don't go, Stiles," Lydia urgently begs. "You know what's on the other side. Don't do it. Don't go!"

"It'll be okay, Lydia," he reassures without looking at her. Stiles twists out of her grasp and goes on.

"You should listen to her," Derek advises as he places an open hand on his chest.

"I'm just going to see."

"You never just anything. You always stick your nose in bad business because even the nightmares interest to you."

Stiles shoves Derek's hand off. "I don't even know why you're here," he grumbles and continues toward the door.

"Stiles!"

"Stiles!"

Another hand lands on his shoulder right before Stiles stands beneath the threshold.

"Hey," Scott says. "Look at me." It doesn't sound like a request, but Stiles has a hard time looking away from the open door. He's one foot away from the other side and he can't tell what's there. He tilts his head towards Scott to show he's listening.

"You can't go through there again, Stiles. Look at me."

"Why can't I?" Stiles quickly glances at Scott before his eyes snap right back to the void in front of him.

"Not again. Listen to me. Look at me."

"I'm listening, but I have to go in there!" Stiles says. "I need to see..."

"What do you need to see, Stiles? There's nothing in there for you. It doesn't do any good for you to go in there."

"Why, man? It'd just be a second."

"Because, you don't come back alone," Scott replies with a hint of sadness. He tugs on Stiles's shoulder. "Come on, man. Close the door and turn away from it."

That scares Stiles for some reason, and he shouts, "No! Don't close it! I'll stay, but the door needs to be open!”

"Stiles," Lydia says, "if you'll stay, then why have it open?"

Stiles gnaws on his lip. "So they can leave."

"So who can leave?" Scott asks.

"I— I don't know."

"Stiles," Derek speaks up again, "come on back. If you don't want to close it, then back away from it. We can do it later after they leave, but we won't let you follow them out." There's a mild threat in that statement and Stiles snorts, blinking and looking at Scott. Scott's worried expression melts into relief and he smiles encouragingly.

"Let's go back to sleep."

Stiles lets them turn him around. Derek lays a hand on his other shoulder as they walk back into the room, and Lydia's arms wrap around him. Scott helps him to bed like a doting mother, tucking the blankets and everything.

"Hey," Stiles says suddenly, and they all look at him expectantly. "Can you guys, um. I mean, for a little while, can you guys stay with me? Until I fall asleep, at least?"

They smile at him. Lydia crawls in on the other side of his bed, holding on to his arm. Scott looks at Derek, but the older werewolf shakes his head at Scott.

"Go ahead. I'll keep watch."

"Thanks," Scott says gratefully and pushes Stiles over. Normally, his bed becomes uncomfortable with two occupants, but with the three of them it feels perfect. Stiles thinks it could even fit Derek if he wanted to join them.

"Rest when you want," Stiles offers. Derek nods his head in acknowledgement but sits ramrod straight on the floor, watching the open door warily.

Stiles falls asleep.

 

"Did it work?" Deaton greets them as Stiles and Scott enter the animal clinic first thing in the morning. They carry with them notes on their collective dream, which they hand over to Deaton.

"I got there almost too late," Scott says with a hint of embarrassment that heats his cheeks. "My parents were arguing and I had a hard time tuning them out until I got headphones. I learned music works better for me than the candle technique."

Deaton nods. "Everyone is different when attempting lucid dreaming. Lydia was here earlier and says the new candle she bought was more difficult to use because it was unscented. I still find it remarkable how natural you two have found dream walking to be," he says. "For most it takes weeks of practice. Good job, Scott." With Scott grinning under the praise, Deaton faces Stiles.

"How are you feeling today, Mr. Stilinski?" he asks.

Stiles takes a moment to assess himself. He only woke up a few short hours ago, but he definitely feels better.

"Brighter," Stiles replies. "Like there isn't a shadow hanging on my shoulder."

Deaton gives a small smile. "Glad to hear it, Stiles." He opens Scott's notebook first, and glances through it. After a moment his eyebrows rise, and he opens Stiles' notebook next.

"Derek was there?" he asks with some surprise, and then he turns and picks up Lydia's blue checkered notebook.

Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously. "You didn't tell him to dream-walk with them?"

"Not at all," Deaton confesses, still reading. "I haven't been in touch since he returned to Beacon Hills."

"Can you dream-walk without knowing?" Scott asks.

"People dream walk all the time. The difference is consciously knowing that you are sleeping and being able to control what you do while dreaming."

Scott and Stiles each nod. Deaton sets the notebooks on his desk and beckons them to follow him into the treatment room.

"I'll imagine you weren't able to close the door," he says, and both boys grunt, Stiles rubbing the back of his neck. It's not his fault, okay?

Deaton stops in front of a metal cabinet and uses a key from a full keyring to open one door. From what Stiles can see over the veterinarian's shoulder, the cabinet is stock full of jars of herbs, bones, rocks of all colors, and many, many books.

"As much as I hoped it could have been accomplished at the first attempt, we should realize Stiles' stubborn streak," Deaton remarks sardonically while pulling out a large, leather-bound book. Stiles coughs in his fist a joke about Charmed and Scott, grinning, knocks him with his elbow. Deaton raises an eyebrow, carefully setting the book on the table and opening the brass clasps.

Stiles notices three things about the book right off: 1.) Its old, like, super old. The leather cover is cracked, exposing the wood panel beneath. Stiles can't recall the exact date people stopped using wood for book covers, but it was way long ago, Medieval. 2.) The book smells. Not of the musky old-paper-left-out-in-the-sun smell, but bad... Stiles doesn't even know how to describe it. Its definitely bad musky-something. 3.) After a moment, he can tell its written in archaic Latin on—

"Dude, Doc. Is that legit parchment?" Stiles asks, which would really explain the smell.

Deaton nods. "It's vellum parchment from the 11th century." He flips the pages carefully as he says, "This is one of my prized possessions; information I've learned from this book is extraordinary."

Stiles edges closer, curious though he can't read Latin without a translator. "Like what?"

Deaton smiles knowingly. "I'll tell you in time, Mr. Stilinski."

"What can you tell us now?" Scott pipes up, and Stiles quietly laughs how Scott mutters through the wool of his sleeve because of the smell.

"I can tell you that dream-walking may not be the easy answer Stiles needs," he informs. "Whatever has crossed from the Nematon into Stiles could be more powerful than anything any of you can persuade in Stiles' dream. Not you, Lydia, nor Derek were able to close the door yourselves. You couldn't force Stiles to turn around. Convince him, yes, but you can't physically hold him back in his dream as you can't alter the area around him."

Stiles swallows, feeling cold dread sweep his insides. Was there anything they could do? The hallucinations felt as if they were coming more often, if he could recognize them at all.

"Give us something to work with, Doc. You're telling us things I've already figured out," Stiles urges.

Deaton finally settles on a particular page somewhere in the middle of the book. He's silent as he reads, and its several moments before he surfaces.

"Another idea to work with is a touchstone, something able to ground you when you feel you're losing reality. It could be a totem, or a phrase that you feel strongly connected to, or even a person."

Stiles blinks, realizing. "Lydia." When Deaton says nothing, his lips thinning instead, Stiles persists, "No, really! Isn't that why you had her push me underneath? You said someone we were emotionally tethered to, to draw us back. It’s why she was trying to guide me in my dreams to begin with, wasn't it? Why are you looking at me like I'm wrong?"

Deaton sighs. "Because I was wrong. If Lydia hasn't been able to singularly convince you in your dreams, she's either not strong enough to pull you back herself, or she's not your tether."

"But she was able to bring me back from death," Stiles says slowly.

"Because Miss Martin has a strong enough will to keep her friends from dying," Deaton explains. "Her want to keep you alive is what saved you then, but doesn't necessarily mean she is what's able to keep the darkness from overwhelming you."

Stiles frowns and shares a disappointed look with Scott. Finding a totem would be remarkably harder than knowing someone connected to him.

"Not to be discouraged, though, Stiles," Deaton draws their attention again. "Its uncommon for a touchstone not to make itself known to you in your time of peril if it hasn't already. A person who's lost all hope will find a piece of jewelry they consider lucky; a child has a blanket they need to hold after a bad dream; a widow will keep their spouse's ring to remember them by; a religious man recites Hail Mary or The Lord's Prayer; losing a loved one, someone is attached to the family dog for comfort."

Stiles narrows his eyes again, considering these, but it’s Scott who says, "Those are just things you see any day."

Deaton nods. "Right, but have you ever realized how much emotional, mental, and spiritual attachment they put in them? What does this sound like, Scott?"

Scott's lips twist and his eyes take a sad edge to them. "An anchor."

"Right."

"So a touchstone is basically an anchor, but instead of keeping control of a shift, Stiles needs to keep control of reality. How is it different?" Scott asks.

"For insistence, Isaac's anchor had been his father before you, Scott. The mental attachment in his anchor was not to become someone who is accustomed to violence. A werewolf's anchor reaches the predator inside and keeps it calm. Instead of something to ease Stiles, he needs something to affirm he's not subcumming to an alternate reality. What usually happens when this begins to start?" Deaton asks Stiles.

"I— I can't read. Letters melt off the page or- or I suddenly have dyslexia. Numbers turn into Greek letters and things like that."

Deaton hums in acknowledgement. "Probably writing a practiced sentence will help be your touchstone, something with a powerful meaning to you and short enough that you could know what you're writing by the feel of pen strokes and not what you're seeing."

Sounds legit, so Stiles takes the advice, already thinking of quotes from authors or simple things his mother would say when he had nightmares.

“What about hallucinations? I’ve walked around in hallucinations without knowing.”

"That’s going to be harder. Until we find a temporary solution, I wouldn't stop the dream walking yet," Deaton says. "Until Stiles finds a firm touchstone, it would be a good idea to watch over him as he sleeps."

They nod and, sensing an end to their lesson of the day, start to head out, but Deaton calls, "One more thing, Stiles."

"Yeah, Doc?"

The veterinarian turns back to his cabinet and shuffles a couple bottles around until he pulls one out, studies it, and puts it in Stiles' hand. Stiles looks at it. It’s a jar of white ash.

"Elder tree ash," Deaton explains without prompt. "Basically the same theory as Mountain Ash, but to help keep you in your bedroom at night while you sleep."

Stiles looks at him sharply. "I didn't say I was sleepwalking. How'd you know?"

Deaton's face turns even harder to read as he says, "Your symptoms are something I may have seen before. In any case, this will keep you in your room. Just make the circle."

Stiles gives his thanks. He leaves with Scott to give him a ride back home, mind turning over of everything they talked about. Scott gets Lydia on speaker phone and repeats what Deaton told them, but Stiles is only half-way listening.

Despite the risky move on Deaton’s end, Stiles is grateful that Lydia considers them friends, in more ways than one. Saving his life, obvious. If it were someone else to pull him out, Stiles doesn’t believe he’d been so lucky. Thinking of this close call makes his head hurt, and Stiles squints against the sun as he pulls into Scott’s street.Scott's dad is about to get into his own car, but pauses to watch Scott go inside the house.

"Call me later, dude," Stiles says, and Scott waves as he shuts the door behind him. Stiles puts his eyes back on the road, but Scott's dad is now focusing on him. Stiles raises his eyebrows and gives a half-wave, but Agent Douche McCall doesn't react. Stiles sort-of, maybe hightails it out of there as quick as he can without his dad's deputies on him.

After being attacked, Rafael had to be let in the werewolf bag. Between Scott’s phone being constantly tracked and Rafael hopping in on Argent patrols around the preserve, it seemed to be doing more harm than good. On the other hand, Agent McCall did save Stiles’ dad’s job last minute, with an added conviction that the Sheriff was the best in the position in over a decade.

In any case Stiles knows he’ll use Rafael as a resource, whether the Agent knows it, or would be willing at the time, or not. Its the consequence of being the best friend of Rafael’s son, Stiles figures.

Stiles pulls into the driveway next to his dad's police cruiser and turns off the engine. A knock on the window startles a scream out of him. Derek looks at him, eyebrows judging.

"Dude. You weren't there two seconds ago," Stiles says as he wills his heartbeat to steady again. "I'm allowed to overreact."

"I dreamt about you last night," Derek says without preamble as Stiles slides out of his jeep.

"If you were anyone else that'd be awesome," Stiles jokes.

"It felt too real for a dream. Scott and Lydia were there. You don't seem surprised," he remarks.

Stiles nods. "It was unexpected. How did you do it?"

"I don't know." He trails off uncertainly. "Your aura is strange. What's happened?"

Stiles shrugs to throw off his uneasiness. "Blackouts and sleep paralysis and possession by an evil tree stump." He looks at the front door. "Wanna come in? I need to talk to you."

Derek's uncertainty shows plainly on his face, so Stiles says, "Look, my dad's home. I'm probably 89% more likely not do any damage with him around. There's guns inside."

The smirk is much better, and Derek nods and Stiles leads the way inside, calling out, "Dad! I'm back!"

"Upstairs, son!" comes the reply. Stiles beckons Derek to follow him and points to his room.

"Make yourself comfortable. I'll be right back." He continues down the hall and knocks on his dad's door, pushing it open. Stiles is about to give him some news about the visit with Deaton, until he notices his dad on the floor with a box labeled Claudia's on the side, its contents (his mother's scarves, photos, her favorite books, the antique perfume bottle she couldn't throw away) ringing his father in a circle.

A photo album lies open in his lap.

Slowly, Stiles looks from his mother's possessions to his dad, who looks up sheepishly. There's too many thoughts going through Stiles’ head, what is his dad doing, why today, the last time he went through the box he threw out things that Stiles salvaged and are now in the bottom drawer of his dresser, is he going to get rid of more, is he moving on?

He swallows, heart thudding hard. "Dad?" From the corner of his eye, Stiles sees Derek peer cautiously from his room.

"I have something to give you," he says with a strained smile. "Sorry for the mess." Stiles comes closer and kneels, fingers reaching for a picture of all three of them at the park. He's five in that picture, some time before his birthday, and the photographer captured a great shot.

He sniffs and quickly uses the back of his sleeve to wipe his eyes, focused on his mom's beautiful smile.

"Stiles," his father says, and Stiles with his red-rimmed eyes looks up. He notices a journal held tightly in his hands, and his dad inhales deeply before holding it out to Stiles. "This was your mother's," he says heavily on his exhale.

Stiles gingerly takes it from his hand, fingers shaking across the cover.

"After I spoke with Deaton about your involvement with all the dangers around Beacon Hills, he said you have ‘your mother’s talent’. I didn’t know Deaton knew her.”

Eyes widening, Stiles opens the journal and his jaw drops.

Claudia Stilinski
Seventh Generation Emissary
Thompson Pack

“M-mom was...?”

His dad nods. “I had no clue, trust me.” He clears his throat while Stiles continues to slowly flip through pages, eyes flitting over the ink of his mother's handwriting. “Deaton said he can help you learn what she knew, if you want.”

That makes Stiles look at him. “I can?”

Not a few days after saving the parents from becoming sacrifices, he and his dad were screaming at each other about "Stiles' stubborn need to be in constant danger," (his dad's words, but okay, somewhat true).

Whatever his dad and Deaton talked about looks like it hardly made his dad feel better, Stiles thinks. He takes in the tired look in his father's eyes, the disappointed turn in his lips and age lines. It tugs at Stiles to see his dad upset with his decisions, but Stiles has it firmly in his head that he will risk limb and life for his friends and family.

There is nothing else worth protecting, anyway.

“I mean, if you want to,” his dad answers lightly to evade another fight.

Stiles quickly sets the journal aside and lunges over the scarves to give him a tight hug. His father inhales with surprise and releases it with a firm embrace of his own.

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles croaks into his shoulder. “This... This means a lot to me.”

“I know.” He pulls back some to look Stiles in the eye. “Just, promise me you’ll be careful. Please.” Stiles nods.

“I promise.”

“And it’s not to come before homework.”

That cracks a smile from him. “Of course,” he replies, and glances to the picture of them at the park. “May I—?”

His dad sighs and leans away, picking up the photo album. Stiles remembers when he took down those pictures eight years ago, all of them that had his mother in them. The walls and fireplace mantle were bare for a long time. It didn't help. Neither of them could bear the emptiness his father was trying to hide and only made strikingly visible

“I miss your mom,” he whispers. “I need to see her.”

Stiles is wiping his eyes again and nods. “I’ll see if I can get someone to make picture frames at school.”

“Good idea, son. Now help your old man up.” Upon standing, his dad says, "Scott here? I heard you talking to someone." Stiles bends over again to pick up the journal and photo he wants, and spots his mother's wedding ring in the box. His father is looking away.

"Ah, no. Derek," he replies as he scoops up the ring too and quickly pockets it. The example Deaton gave earlier echoes in his head too loudly.

"Derek Hale?"

"Do we know any other Derek?"

His dad makes a face and leads Stiles out of the room. "I don't know about you but I know a few. Tell Derek he's— well, he can hear me, can't he? You're welcome to stay for lunch, Derek."

Derek pops out of Stiles' room and looks at the both of them. "Thank you, but I shouldn't stay for so long."

"It wouldn't be a hardship, if you're worried about that sort of thing."

Stiles watches Derek's ears turn pink, and he smirks.

"I appreciate the offer, but I was going to see Scott and Isaac afterwards."

His dad accepts his answer with a nod. "No problem. I guess I'll be seeing you more often. That’s what packs do, right? Have awkward dinners together? We’ll just schedule for another time, then." The insinuated no excuses is pretty loud and clear.

"Thank you, sir," Derek agrees and darts back into Stiles' room before he can promise anything else. Stiles nudges his dad with his elbow.

"Good job, trooper," Stiles says with a roll of his eyes. His dad returns the expression and goes back into his room, leaning over to pick up a bright yellow scarf, dulled over the years.

Stiles watches him with sadness spreading through his insides until his father catches him. "Go on, Stiles. I got this."

Stiles finds Derek sitting patiently on his bed, jacket on his lap. He looks at Stiles as soon as he steps into the room.

"I can come back if it’s not a good time." Stiles waves at him to settle down, crossing the room and setting the photo and his inherited journal on the desk for the time being.

"All good, dude. You just came in at an unexpected Stilinski Family Moment, s'all."

Derek doesn't respond, seeming apprehensive about being there altogether. Stiles sighs and sits in the computer chair and twirls until he faces Derek's unamused eyebrows, which are his default eyebrows, Stiles decides.

"All business and no play makes a sourwolf," he says mostly to himself. "First, I have a favor to ask of you. You know there's something seriously wrong with me, despite my sickness. I'm not alone in my head. It could..." he swallows nervously, "I could be the Nogitsune. You said something about my aura earlier. If I do something terrible to anyone, don't hesitate to—"

"I'm not going to kill you," Derek starts, appalled.

"Derek, listen. If it was your life on the line and I was Doctor Doom, would you really just lay down while I go after Scott, or Lydia, or Isaac and Allison? If it meant protecting Scott wouldn't you do something?" He's an awful human being by using the Alpha Scott card, knowing Derek's sense of duty toward the True Alpha, but Stiles needs him to swear.

"I'd probably knock you out before figuring something out, but I won't— no one—" Derek stands, fists clenching and feet beginning to pace. Stiles looks at him sharply, a little worried how worked up he's getting. "No one is going to die. Scott and the pack are going to help you. Trust them. That's what they're for."

Stiles' gaze drifts to his hands. "I trust them with my life and that's the problem," he says quietly. It doesn't take long for the werewolf to understand his meaning, and his eyes widen slightly.

"You believe Scott would put your life over his."

"Exactly."

"And on the chance that you're fighting us because you're hallucinating?"

That makes him start. He's never thought he'd try to hurt his friends during an honest to god hallucination, given previous reality slips had him in danger.

"Same plan," he says, because who knows what damage he could inflict.

Derek doesn't say anything for a moment, but when he does it’s, "Okay."

Stiles looks up again. "Yeah?"

"If Scott can't be reasonable, then that's when I'll step in. Only then," he says adamantly. "I'll kick your ass first."

Stiles snorts with a short grin. "If you can," he jests. Stiles is pleased with the creases easing up in Derek's frown lines, but knows it probably won't last long. "Backtracking, you said my aura was strange. What can you tell me about it?"

Derek looks toward Stiles, but he's not really looking at him as he is around him, just barely.

"I can tell you for certain its not the Nogitsune, so you can get that out of your head."

"What."

"Whatever is with you, its not a type of kitsune or anything I've seen. It almost... it looks like you. Like another layer of you."

Stiles is momentarily stunned because, “What the hell does that mean?”

Derek rolls his eyes hard, seeming rather petulant from his mostly stoic attitude beforehand. “If I knew I would tell you; your guess is as good as mine.”

“I have split-personalities and with the right machine I can make myself become two people? A fight to the death between me and not me? Or, hey, we could be bros and having two Stiles around would be twice the fun.”

The werewolf stares at him for a moment, then shakes his head. “Almost as good as my guessing, then,” he corrects himself. “God help us if you’re able to clone yourself.”

“Hey.”

Derek stands and shrugs on his jacket. “I can ask Peter if he knows anything, otherwise I suggest you talk to Deaton.”

Stiles nods, and gives a side-glance to the journal on the desk. “I think I might. Thanks for coming in to talk. I just know Scott’s too kind to do anything about it.” He follows Derek down the stairs and holds the door open, but as the werewolf steps onto the sidewalk, Stiles quickly says, "Wait, Derek!"

Derek pauses, looking over his shoulder. His eyebrows rise in question. "I wanted to say thanks for last night. If you hadn't dream-walked—"

Derek turns around fully, confusion taking over. "What?"

"You know, your subconscious mind popping into my dreams," Stiles says impatiently. "Scott had a hard time getting to sleep to stop me from crossing over, so if you weren't there to delay me, he wouldn't have shown up in time. So... Thanks."

Derek's mouth does a funny thing where it thins and tilts in all sorts of directions, looking as if it wants to smile or say something. He gives a nod instead.

Stiles nods back, shuffling his feet. He's never been one for being genuinely grateful, so the play out here is new to him.

“So, uh… later?”

Derek nods again and leaves.

 

That night Stiles pours the Elder ash at the door and window before sitting on his bed. He picks up his phone right as it notifies a text message.

From Lydia at 9:32pm: Hurry and get to bed. I'm tired of looking at my AP homework waiting for you.

To Lydia at 9:33pm: Try a mirror. I'm going in about five minutes.

To Scott at 9:33pm: You okay tonight?

From Scott at 9:35pm: Trying to sleep now. Everything is quiet but my phone.

To Scott at 9:35pm: Touché.

 

His phone blips loudly, and Stiles must have been only half-asleep because he wakes so easily. He grabs his phone, squinting at the bright screen.

From Unknown Number at 12:21am: T)(3 2OC2ON3 N05 2 WUC)( 4LR3DY .!.!.//////

To Unknown Number at 12:22am: Who is this?

There isn't a reply for a couple minutes, but Stiles sighs as his bladder becomes a pressing issue and he gets out of bed.

 

The alarm clock always buzzes too soon at five, John Stilinski has long ago decided. He drops his hand heavily on the button and sighs. Another Sunday, another double shift.

He slowly climbs out of bed and pads toward the attached bathroom, glancing at Claudia's picture on the dresser as he goes by. He'd pulled it from the photo album yesterday, and even though it makes his heart thud dully he wasn't lying to his son when he said he needed to see her.

He misses her every second, and John would take all the tough days to have her there again.

By the time John is showered and dressed for work, its going on half-after five. He closes his door quietly and heads down the hall when he stops suddenly at the sound of someone talking. It’s coming from Stiles' room and John edges closer.

He calls out cautiously, "Hey, Stiles?"

"We are strong, but not strong enough."

Stiles is sitting on the floor, as close as he can get to the door without crossing it. His hand reaches out and John immediately notices the blood on his fingers.

He hits a barrier that flares to life, but instead of retreating, he's clawing at it, trying to break through. There's white ash on the floor.

"Stiles?" John gapes at his son.

The hand drops, and his son says, "We are strong, but not strong enough."

He reaches out with the opposite hand, meets the barrier, claws, and repeats, "We are strong, but not strong enough."

Stiles has a hard, blank expression on his face, and it shocks John at the reminder of Claudia; Stiles is either sleep walking or hallucinating.

John springs into action as his son is about to lift his arm again. "STILES!"

Stiles jerks back, squinting at the sudden realization he's in daylight. Slowly, he looks up to his dad in uniform with wide, frightened eyes and swallows thickly.

"What— what am I doing on the floor?" He catches sight of his hands and John can see the start of a panic attack, the helplessness that forms. "My hands..." A sob escapes him, and he's not stopping. Stiles' whole body shakes as he curls in on himself, one arm wrapping around his legs and the other holding down his head to his knees.

"Oh my son," John says in a breath, and then Stiles is being wrapped up in his arms, not even thinking of the barrier he'd seen. His son's sobs get louder and his trembling turns violent. "Its all right, Stiles. You're okay," he reassures and sways them in place.

It takes a lot hushed muttering to ease Stiles' shakes. John takes a look at his son's tear-streaked face.

"Want me to take today off?" he asks gently. He's also asking if Stiles wants to stay home from school, but Stiles wipes his face with the back of his hand and shakes his head.

"No," he says with a croak. "I'll be fine."

John's mouth twists because he knows his son is anything but fine. Whatever that display was earlier, it was fearsome for John to watch. He glances at the white line at the door; this episode must have been anticipated, and John knows the why. His boy is showing Claudia's exact symptoms straight down to a mirror copy of her MRI scan.

When Deaton and John last spoke, he had a hard time digesting that Claudia's dementia was caused by supernatural means rather than natural causes. Specifically, the problem lied with the fact Claudia was born in a long line of Emissaries. Deaton had said, in the easiest explainable method, her own magic killed her — from mind to body — because Claudia wasn't able to tame it completely.

“Emissaries are like werewolves in a particular way,” Deaton had explained. “They are either born or taught, and both come with different perks.”

John had stared in disbelief for a long moment. “You’re saying the sickness my wife obtained from being an Emissary, what Stiles has right now, is a plus side?”

“Of course not, Sheriff Stilinski,” he amended cautiously. “There are pros and cons to both ends. Someone born in an Emissary lineage will be doomed in health but its the price to pay being able to manipulate the world around them to their will. Jennifer Blake, born an Emissary, is a perfect example of this. Driven into madness by the betrayal of her Alpha, she gave up trying to control her magic.”

“When you say magic,” John started, then his mouth shut, not knowing how to continue. His hands waved. “Define what you mean by magic.” He had more doubts with that word: magic. Werewolves and creatures of folklore was one thing, but instantaneous magic (such as freakin’ Harry Potter or some load of bull like it) was another ballgame to him.

Yet he had seen first hand Jennifer’s unworldly power and it still baffled him.

Deaton leaned against the wall, arms crossed. “Try this mental image: I play with magic like a street magician doing card tricks. Stiles is magic personified.

"I’m an Emissary, taught by another. I am able to manipulate objects that have power within them: magical herbs, Celtic ash, blessed totems. Stiles has the will to manipulate laws of physics. He could create storms, command elements in the palm of his hand; there is no limit."

John had to find a chair quickly. "You're telling me my son is practically a god?"

"That's the downfall of a lot of Emissaries," Deaton said. "They become too ignorant with their magic and fall victim to it. He is only uniquely gifted and can be stopped like any human.

"Magic is a force that needs to be harnessed with care and respect, and the Emissary needs to grow with their magic to be able to reign it in. This is why I have a favor to ask of you."

Deaton had urged John to let Stiles begin some sort of Emissary training. John felt as if the decision was pulled right from his hands: to save his son, John had to push Stiles in the exact opposite direction of safety.

John sighs. He can't let Stiles know too soon what Deaton told him, the Emissary training has to be of his own choosing.

"Call me if you need anything, okay?"

Stiles barely nods, but begins moving. John helps him stand.

"Will you be alright if I leave?"

"Yeah," Stiles says. He's looking at his hands and John's heart goes out to him. "I need to clean up. Get ready for school."

John draws him into a tight hug. "I love you, Stiles."

"Love you, too."

 

Two Missed Calls from Lydia: 4:44am and 4:46am

From Lydia at 4:49am: Answer your phone, Stiles! I know you're awake!

From Scott at 6:33am: hey, how did you sleep? I didn't see you, i dreamt about you but not with you, know what i mean?

Group Message To Scott and Lydia at 6:45am: I'll see you at school.

From Scott at 6:45am: everything alright?

 

Stiles doesn't know how to hide his hands. The tips of his fingers are raw and the skin attached to the nails are split but coagulated currently. It’s an effort to put on his clothes without hissing in discomfort.

As he grabs his keys off his desk, Stiles' eyes linger on his mother's journal and wedding band. He picks up the ring, clenches his hand around it a couple times, then slips it on his middle finger with difficulty. It’s a tight fit over his first knuckle, but he slicks his finger with spit to slide it down. It’s on the uncomfortable side of snug, though Stiles imagines it to be a good grasp on what's reality.

He picks up the journal next, opening it slowly to read the cover page again, take in his mother's handwriting. Stiles flips the page and stops. In bold, block letters reads:

Imagine nothing.
Believe everything.
Trust in yourself.

It immediately reminds Stiles when Deaton first told him how to work Mountain Ash, the power of believing in himself to complete the circle. His lips mouth the words until he has it quickly memorised, then he closes the journal and puts it in his backpack; it wouldn't hurt to visit Deaton after school with Scott today and learn about what Emissary lessons entailed.

He steps over the ash line without problem.

 

Stiles knew he was going to be ambushed by a fiery strawberry blonde, but he doesn't expect it to be as soon as he steps out of the Jeep.

"What—"

He stares wide-eyed as Lydia presses a sharp manicured finger against his chest, her eyes narrowed dangerously. Scott stands behind her looking mildly concerned.

"What happened last night?" she demands. "Derek and I were in your bedroom right as you walked out the door. You didn't hear us?"

Stiles scrunches his face, confused. "What? I didn't dream at all last night, I woke—" He pauses and suddenly remembers the strange text he got. He carefully digs in his pocket for his phone.

Scott must have smelled the blood; he gasps and says, "Stiles, your hands. What—"

"Oh, my god. Stiles—"

"Getting there," Stiles mutters blithely. He goes through his text history and finds the Unknown Number, holding the screen toward Lydia to read.

"What am I looking at?" she asks.

Stiles shrugs. "I have no idea. It looks like gibberish to me."

Lydia becomes confused. "What looks like gibberish? Stiles, I'm looking at your messaging home."

He looks at the screen. It is the messaging home, but now Unknown Number is not in his history. Stiles stares, hands shaking minuscule.

"It- it was there," he whispers, scrolling deeper into his texting history. "I couldn't, I couldn't be—" Stiles fists his left hand, feeling the band tighten uncomfortably around his finger, and forces himself to take a deep breath and admit to fact.

He looks at the worried faces of his best friends and smiles grimly. "Hallucination," Stiles grumbles. "I must have dreamed about the text message. It was letters and numbers. Then I dreamt I had to pee. I didn't realise I was sleeping."

Lydia is gnawing on her lip and Scott jerks his head. "What happened with your hands?"

"Woke up at the ash barrier Deaton had me make," Stiles shrugs off-handedly, not too inclined to discuss it further but knowing sharing is beneficial. He gestures for them to start walking toward class, as its about ten minutes before the bell rings. "I'm guessing I tried to leave while not myself. I got hurt trying to break free. My dad woke me."

Lydia pulls out her own phone. "I'm texting Derek to let him know you're okay now."

Scott sighs heavily. "I'm sorry I didn't make it."

Stiles shrugs again. "Nothing you could've done, bro."

Scott reaches out and holds his hand. For the first second, Stiles thought it was for moral support, but then he feels the pain leaving his hands. He smiles gratefully at him though doesn't miss the way Scott's fingers trace the ring.

"Derek says stay in bed next time," Lydia shares. Stiles rolls his eyes.

"Even in my dreams I'm too old to wet the bed."

Isaac has the uncanny ability to join conversations at the worst of time. He comes up behind him and Scott, saying, "There's nothing to be ashamed of, Stiles. Accidents are accidents."

Stiles snorts. "I bet you hear that on a daily basis."

Isaac shrugs, aloof. "Not since my dad died." Stiles grimaces. The last time he knocked on Isaac about 'milking' his abuse Scott pulled him aside later that day to explain how much of a douche Stiles'd been.

Isaac thankfully changes topic. "Speaking of dads. Scott, yours told me to ask if you could come home for lunch."

Scott makes a face. "I'll think about it." Isaac shrugs again.

"Your call." He looks at Lydia, still texting on her phone. "So..."

"Allison isn't back yet, stop asking me," she says without looking up. Stiles smirks as Isaac deflates.

Allison was on a trip with her father in an effort to complete her hunter training so she could make her silver bullet by high school graduation. She had left her phone behind to not be distracted by friends, but Lydia was able to pinpoint her exact location on a map with her eyes closed. Banshee powers: better than GPS, go figure.

The bell rings and the group separates to their homeroom classes. Stiles nudges Scott as they enter History. Already in her seat, Kira waves at them with a bright smile.

"Can I follow you to work after school?" Stiles quickly asks. "I wanna ask Deaton some stuff."

"Anything to do with why you're wearing your mom's ring?" Scott returns quietly as they sit in their desks. Stiles unthinkingly tightens his hand, nodding.

“I’ll explain later,” he says while Mr. Yukimura asks the class to quiet down about their weekend adventures.

 

Its during lunch when 'later' comes. Scott sits down next to him at the table and is followed shortly by Lydia, Isaac, and Kira.

"So over the weekend I learn my mom is 900 years old," Kira starts off conversationally. Everyone stares at her, unsure if its a joke. "Apparently being a kitsune gives her longevity."

"Long, longevity," Isaac mutters, incredulous.

"Does every kitsune and werewolf age differently?" Stiles asks suspiciously. "Cora and Peter never let on how old they really are, which bummer, that would be gold in my research." He's also noticed he's growing inches over Scott slowly as if Scott has stopped growing. While Melissa McCall is about average height, Rafael is a tall man; Scott just barely towers over his mom.

"You all don't know?" Lydia says, however her expression says she isn't surprised she knows something they don't. "Aiden told me a long time ago. Its not like its a secret."

"Well?" Stiles and Scott prompt together impatiently. Lydia rolls her eyes at the pair of them, but Kira and Isaac are listening attentively, too.

"Shapeshifters age the same rate their animal counterpart does," she explains. "This apparently doesn't include fox spirits."

Stiles smirks. "Oh man, I got all the dog jokes now."

"Don't quit your day job anytime soon," Isaac snips.

Stiles flips him off, but Scott flicks corn at the both of them.

"Cut it out guys."

Lydia rolls her eyes at the three of them, muttering boys, but Kira looks like she was enjoying the snark.

"Oh, is that a promise ring?" Kira asks, teasing, and Stiles jolts at the question. Between classes and wishing for them to be done for the day, he's almost completely forgotten about the ring despite it being on his sore fingers.

"No, its uh, my mom's wedding band," he says, looking at it. "Its supposed to help my hallucinations. A touchstone." He decides to share, "I learned something interesting about my mom over the weekend, too: she was an Emissary."

Scott perks up immediately. "That's why you want to see Deaton."

"Yeah, because apparently I can be one."

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Lydia asks, and Stiles looks at her, her tone and expression hard. Maybe Lydia hasn’t exactly gotten over Jennifer’s displays and would like to stay away from magic tricks, or at least keep it in Deaton's division.

“Well, Lydia,” Stiles says slowly, not sure what to say to appease her.

“Stiles Stilinski,” and ah, crap, she’s gone high-pitched and Stiles winces, “if you’re not completely honest with me, I swear to God the next dead body I find will be yours.”

“That’s a little too close to home, Lydia...” But he sighs and says, “My mom—” Stiles clears his throat and tries again, voice soft and not making eye contact with anyone. “My mom was an Emissary, and apparently its a family inherited trait. I didn’t know until Dad gave me her book on Saturday. Deaton says I have the potential to show her talent, and yeah, I think I might want to be an Emissary.

“I don’t want you to freak out because of Ms. Blake.” He looks at Lydia, beautiful and angry Lydia. “I have a feeling what you’re afraid of and it won’t be like that.”

Lydia sniffs. “I hope not. We’ve had clear examples of people who go crazy with power.”

“Lydia,” but she ignores Scott. She stands and takes her tray. Kira’s eyes are wide with uncertainty as she glances between Scott and Stiles.

“I’m sorry I said something,” she offers to Stiles with sincerity, but he shrugs. Lydia will always have her own opinion and method, sometimes with the knowledge no one else understands.

There’s a loud crunch of an apple and Stiles looks at Isaac. He’s chewing dramatically, and Stiles rolls his eyes. “I think it’d be pretty neat. Kind of like an upgrade, if you know what I mean.”

“Isaac,” Scott chides, but Stiles narrows his eyes at him.

“I’m not sure if I follow. Maybe if you want to explain it more slowly in a Mountain Ash cage wrapped with mistletoe, I might understand.”

Isaac isn’t amused. “I’m just saying that the McCalls’ bat sure lasted long against the Alphas.”

“Would have lasted longer with wolfsbane-covered nails hammered through it,” Stiles bites, feeling heat rise in his chest.

“Guys!” Scott snaps with a snarl at Isaac and swacks Stiles’ over the head. “That’s enough!”

"He started it!" Stiles complains.

"Stop rising to it," Scott says like its the easiest thing in the world. He looks at Isaac. "Stop baiting."

Isaac has the decency to appear sheepish, at least. When Scott seems satisfied, he says to Stiles, "If its something you want to do, I'm behind you a hundred percent. And don't worry about Lydia; I'll talk to her."

Stiles sighs, arms bouncing in his lap. "No, I will. Later. After school. If I don't show up to Deaton's by five, sniff out my dead body scattered across the woods."

"I don't think she'll actually kill you," Kira offers, but she doesn't look convinced herself. Isaac snorts in his food.

"Thanks, Kira," Stiles deadpans.

She shrugs with a bright smile, and Stiles has to smack Scott over the head because he looks too obviously smitten with her.

Chapter Text

Stiles is waiting for Lydia by her locker after the dismissal bell, but there isn't any sign of her as the students thin out after ten minutes.

"She's outside waiting for you," Isaac says behind him. Stiles turns and gives him an acknowledging nod, still a little peeved from lunch. He's passes right by Isaac when the werewolf grabs his arm and Stiles looks at him in cautious surprise, wondering if they're about to break into a physical fight. Stiles can count the number of people he’s ever punched on one hand, the amount of punches ever thrown on two; he has a strong arm, but he’s not terribly experienced despite being a cop’s kid. His threats have more affect, given his ability to paint a vivid image.

"What I said earlier," Isaac says, hesitant, and his eyes flicker away before meeting Stiles’ again. "You're not exactly useless. Like, you never have been." Isaac lets go of Stiles' arm, his feet shuffling like he's shy, but he actually is, isn't he, Stiles reflects suddenly. Becoming a werewolf has helped set confidence in Isaac yet he's still shy around confrontations with people he knows.

"In a way I suppose I admire you," he continues. Stiles raises a dubious eyebrow.

"Laying it a little thick, aren't ya, buddy?"

Isaac laughs and raises his head to look at him. "Yeah, definitely, but you... Scott and you, you're both go-getters." He smirks, "I yelled at Derek about that, before."

Stiles blinks, a little awed and touched. "Really?"

"Tell anyone and I'll deny it of course," and they both chuckle. Isaac nudges him gently in the side as they head toward the front entrance, where Stiles can see Lydia waiting on the stairs.

"Hey," Stiles says suddenly and holds Isaac by his arm. Isaac looks at him questioningly. "Did Scott's dad say why he wanted him to come home?"

Isaac shakes his head. "No. But he smelled anxious," he adds.

Stiles makes a noncommittal sound. He's almost positive he knows what Rafael wants to talk to Scott about, the phone call pushing to the top of his mind every now and then. When Scott brushes Rafael off, Stiles will be there to let Scott vent.

"Nothing good, is it?" Isaac asks, watching him think.

Stiles scoffs. "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Then you're stalling."

"No idea what you're talking about," he says again nervously, eyes flicking toward Lydia. She's checking her phone.

"She won't really kill you. Painfully, at least,” he says with a concerning amount of glee before they part ways. “Good luck with Deaton. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Thanks. Later, Isaac."

Stiles opens the gates of Hell and bravely announces his entrance with a nervous, "Hey."

Lydia eyes him — completely judging — over her phone, hums, and goes back to texting.

"So, uh..." He bounces in place, shaking off his nerves. "That thing at lunch."

She hums again, higher pitched, either prompting him to continue or she's actually trying to clear her throat.

"That thing we don't agree on and...stuff. Look, are you listening to me? A conversation works both ways, else its just me. Talking. To static."

When Lydia still doesn’t answer after a moment, Stiles’ nervousness snaps. “Come on, Lydia, just say what it is. I feel like doing a barrel roll down these steps with you just standing there being angry at me.”

Lydia sighs and finally puts away her phone, looking at him. Her eyes are wide and unsure and — and she looks scared. “I’m not angry with you, Stiles. I don’t— I just don’t like being afraid, and a lot of scary things have been happening since you dragged me to save Jackson. Maybe I should be mad at you,” says Lydia, eying him with contemplation, “given that you kind of threw me in this.”

“I did not!” Stiles leaps into defense. “It was all Peter’s doing when he bit you!”

“I played it as a freak accident, though,” Lydia says, matter-of-fact. “I had no idea a crazy alpha werewolf bit me. You know why? Because everyone thought not to tell me anything!”

Stiles bites his lip. “Yeah, this past year has been Clive Barker's work, hasn’t it? We were trying to protect you, Lydia.”

“Does it looks like I need protecting?” Lydia asks, tone sharp and eyes narrowed.

“Not with that face, no.”

“And I’m so sick of not being let in,” she says, and Stiles really studies her because her voice has gone very soft. Her hands hang limp at her sides. “I'm mostly angry at myself because I don't know how to help you. I wouldn't be doing this if didn't want to."

"I know," Stiles sighs.

“Jennifer scared me. You wanting to be an Emissary scares me. My fear of one of us becoming power crazy is legitimate. When Jackson had changed, he got cocky and mean—”

“He was always an asshole—”

“Shut up. And if he had skipped being the kanima Jackson could have done some serious damage. He would have gone out of control, kill Scott, try to kill Derek, you, me—” Lydia pauses abruptly, her voice breaking. Stiles lets it hang, and her phone beeps with a new message in the silence.

“Its too easy,” she says eventually. “If I knew all that I was capable of, part of me would want to see all the potential I have, pack or no pack be damned. You all are my friends, and I love you guys, but I think if I liked what I could do on my own I could do it.”

“No you couldn’t,” Stiles says abruptly, definite and firm. Lydia looks at him with wide eyes, but he doesn’t meet her gaze. He stares at his clenched hands, the sting in his fingertips flaring fast and hot up his arms. The ring is too tight.

“What—”

“You really couldn’t, Lydia. You’re too kind to. You’re talking about killing us if you had the power?” He huffs a mirthless laugh. “You’d kill yourself before you tried. You’re so smart and you got a mean-streak, but you need the lack of heart to commit murder. You need to not love your friends and worry the way you do if think you could even purposely cause us harm.”

He inhales shakily. “You don’t have the darkness in you to do it.”

But he does. He can still feel it, better than ever these last few weeks when Stiles wakes from visiting the Nemeton at night. It tightens around his heart when he least expects it, and it frightens him. He knows Scott and Allison feel the same because sometimes they also look without seeing, daze off when someone is talking. When they come back to the moment, they look at Stiles or to each other, touching an arm or shoulder for support.

Yes, they care for their friends, but there are times when it they think they’re so much more than them: Scott turns commanding, sometimes vicious in the way he snaps about communication and reliability between each other; Allison’s kindness disappears and she ignores everyone for hours if they can’t keep up with her training; Stiles’ quick temper is extra short when people are being unbelievably slow, surely his friends’ aren’t this stupid, right? They forget that they should be kind to others, instead of thinking of the ways they could get rid of them and run this gig by themselves.

Damn that ice bath. If he'd known the full extent then of what he knows now... Or if it hadn't been for his dad...

Lydia lays her hand on his, and Stiles realizes his hands are cramping from gripping so tight. He lets go with a long exhale. His palms have blood on them.

"Maybe you're right," she amends. "Because I'm worrying about you a lot."

Stiles gives a thin smile. "I'm fine."

She doesn’t take him for his word. Instead of disbelief, her face turns sad. “No. You’re really not. Neither is Scott and Allison. Nobody’s fine.”

"Well," he tries, "it can only get worse from here, right?"

"Oh, don't even say that," she exaggerates an eye roll. Her phone beeps again and she glances at it, sighs. "Derek says good luck on your training."

Stiles blinks. "You told him?" Lydia lifts her chin in a challenge, but Stiles doesn't know what she's challenging. "Nothing wrong with it, just... What's going on between the two of you? First this morning, now this?"

Her mouth opens and closes in a rare case of absolute fluster. "Because..." She swallows, glancing away. "Because even though he knew it was a trap, Derek came back when I screamed."

That stuns him a minute until he's quickly grabbing her arm and pulling her into an embrace. "Oh, Lydia." Lydia grips his shirt by his shoulders.

"I don't want you to be an Emissary," she mumbles into his chest. "I don't want to worry more about you than I already do."

"It'll be okay," he says.

Lydia's clenches his shirt in her hands as hard as her heart clenches in her chest, biting her tongue and swallowing the words she really wants to say to him, to explain to him why she’s so anxious. There’s been a drum beat Lydia’s listening to for a week and she doesn’t know how to put it in words. She glances over Stiles’ shoulder, shuddering at the cold stare of the creature hovering behind Stiles. It looks like Stiles, but she knows it's not.

Not with those dead eyes.

"You can't stop him, banshee," she hears it whisper in her ear. "You can't stop us."

She has to look away.

After a moment she releases Stiles and looks up at him.

"Be careful," she says but it lilts into a question. "I... Please. At least keep me updated with what you're doing, okay?"

He smiles softly at her. "I will."

"You can't help him," it says with a mocking laugh. "You're not the touchstone. Can’t you hear the war drums?"

They’re at war.

Lydia swallows thickly. "I gotta go. Aiden is waiting," she says, and its the truth. He's been in the parking lot since school let out. She watches Stiles make a face; he hasn't said anything about the twins to Lydia directly, but his general dislike for them is clear.

Lydia's eyes become earnest and intense when she says, "I will never forget what they did to Boyd, Erica, and the damage they've done to us. I hold it over Aiden everyday; I won't let him forget it until he does something that could make amends."

"He can't bring back the dead, Lydia," Stiles says bitterly.

"I know," she agrees, glancing to her car where Aiden is.

Aiden's head hangs to his chest.

To Derek at 1:20pm: What do you know about emissaries?

From Derek at 1:36pm: Between Deaton and Jennifer, I'm not sure what I know.

From Derek at 1:38pm: Why?

To Derek at 1:45pm: Stiles wants to be the pack's emissary.

From Derek at 1:50pm: I thought as much. I overheard him and his father talking
about it.

To Derek at 1:51pm: And? Opinions? Hard criticism appreciated.

From Derek at 2:00pm (1/2): His mom was an Emissary. He will be drawn to at least
study the means to know her better. That shouldn't be
held against him. Stiles will also do what Stiles wants

From Derek at 2:00pm (2/2): if it will better himself, or, in his mind, help his friends.
May not always be the best decision, but we can't
change his mind.

To Derek at 2:06pm: And if he decides to be an emissary for personal gain?
What's your thought on that?

From Derek at 3:17pm: He always has his friends, Lydia. He won't
place power over you or Scott.

To Derek at 3:19pm: Why are you so sure?

From Derek at 3:20pm: Because I believe in it.

From Derek at 3:26pm: Give him my regards on the matter.

To Derek at 5:29pm: What's a touchstone?

From Derek at 5:36pm: An anchor.

"Hey," Stiles says as he enters the treatment room, dropping his backpack by the wall. There's a German Shepherd on the table, calm under Scott's hand. Scott glances at him and offers a smile.

"You're alive, so everything alright with Lydia?"

Deaton looks up from his instruments at that, and inquires, "Is Miss Martin okay?"

Stiles nods at the both of them. "She's okay. We had a disagreement about Emissary lessons," he explains to him. "She doesn't want me involved with it."

Deaton smiles lightly. "You're interested, then."

"Yeah," Stiles shrugs. "Apparently its the family business. Though you knew that already, didn't you." Its nothing of a question and Deaton concedes, inclining his head slightly.

"I did," he admits. "I knew Claudia as well as two Emissaries of different packs can."

"Was her pack allies with the Hales?" Stiles asks, searching for more information about his mother. Stiles has always been fascinated by anything he came across, even the little things his dad said at home.

"They were neutral parties," Deaton explains. He examines his instruments again, choosing one of three needles. "Neither pack had anything to offer the other in terms of alliance. At that time, most packs were able to pass through other territories to get to desired locations; Alpha Thompson's pack would occasionally stay for a couple days before moving on."

"Where are they from? Where do they go?"

"Its not anyone else's business but their own, Mr. Stilinski," Deaton says. "Pack etiquette. Now, if you wait a moment as Scott and I finish giving Rhode her shots, you and I can go over what you'll be learning."

Stiles nods. "Cool. I got a bit if homework, anyway." He makes a station across the room and pulls out his books, working on Ms. Martin's textbook review.

Its easy to lose himself in book work, highlighting in yellow important keywords or terms that could be quizzed, rewriting them in a notebook in shorthand. He uses blue to highlight quotes and citations from different authors; a couple of them he copies into the notebook, as well. Stiles starts the third subsection in chapter six before the words begin melting right off the page. He stares, wide eyed and pulse rabbiting, as the ink moves like quicksilver on the tabletop, spelling out:

C1L 7E)( 2OC)(50N3.......//

Then, S7R3NH T0 C1L...//

And, NE3D 2OU)(S7N3 G0N..//////////

You are going to kill them, all of them.

Someone is screaming, and when he's being shaken, Stiles realises its him.

"Stiles!" Scott yells in his ear with an alpha growl, and Stiles jerks in surprise, looking at him. Beads of sweat drip down his face and he looks back at the tabletop. Everything is covered with red highlighter: his textbook, his notes, the table itself. Very vaguely Stiles can make out sketchy written words beneath scribbles. He reads the word going.

He makes a distressed noise, hiding his face in his hands. Scott brings both hands on each side of his neck, sucking the pain from him, whispering, “You're okay. You're here.”

That makes him flinch, because how quickly was it that he wasn't? Stiles wipes his face with a shaky hand, not meeting his friend's or Deaton's eyes, whom appears over Scott's shoulder. He bites the ring as it passes his mouth.

How is a touchstone suppose to work? Stiles has been wearing his mother's ring all day long, yet this morning and now have still tumbled into hallucinations like an everyday occurrence. What is he supposed to do? Is this actually a sickness, the damned dementia, and not anything to do with the Nemeton?

"Its your natural abilities," Deaton says, and Stiles peeks at him, unaware he'd been talking aloud. "Or, more accurately, your natural demon."

"Demon," Stiles and Scott say at the same time, one tone deadpanned and the other incredulous.

Deaton nods. "Possibly where the phrase 'inner demons' comes from. I didn't want to say much before, in case you weren't going to head down this road, but each Emissary born, like you, will have an opposing force to fight and tame; its attached to your magic. It will always be there to tempt you."

"Basically its my Darth Vader," Stiles questions. Scott makes a noise of confusion. "Don't mind him, he's never seen Star Wars."

"Right," Deaton says, lips curled in a small smile. "Which is why you need the touchstone."

"Now when you say magic," Stiles starts, and that makes Deaton chuckle.

"You sound like your father," he says before answering, "Julia, or Jennifer, is the perfect example for you to relate to. Born an Emissary, the extent of your abilities will be unimaginable, limited to your creativeness. When Julia lost her touchstone, she caved into her demon and lost her mind. Yet, its only if you cannot reign in the demon shadowing your magic by using your touchstone."

"What about you," he asks. "Do you have a touchstone?"

"I'm not in need of one," Deaton replies. "I was taught, and therefore have nothing needing to keep me grounded. If I did, it would probably be my sister."

Deaton moves away and unlocks his cabinet, pulling out the medieval book from yesterday, Scott quietly groaning. Stiles smirks at his scrunched expression. Belatedly, he notices the dog is gone, and, curious, he looks up at the clock. Its already nearing six o’clock, and that shocks Stiles into pausing. How long was he out for?

"This was passed down to me from my teacher in her passing," Deaton says as he opens the pages to the beginning, drawing Stiles’ attention. "Your mother may have had a book or something that would belong to you now."

Stiles starts. "I— yeah, she did. I, uh, actually brought it with me." He takes the journal out of his backpack, stands across Deaton.

"The first thing you should learn is the power of believing," Deaton says.

"'Imagine nothing'," Stiles mutters, remembering, and Deaton stares hard at him for a long moment. Stiles shifts under the scrutiny, pointing at the journal. "Its in there. 'Imagine nothing, believe everything, trust in yourself.'"

"And that's today's lesson," Deaton says with a small huff of laughter. "Do you understand it?"

Stiles nods, fingers picking at the cover. "I think so? Like the ash, right?"

The vet smiles patiently, "You tell me."

"But with Mountain Ash, I had to imagine it was going to work. Imagination is more important than knowledge, but..." Stiles chews on his lip, "Its more of a belief system, ain't it? Its what actually helped, believing in the power of imagination, believing you didn't intentionally not give me enough fairy dust to test me."

Deaton smirks. "Is that what I did?"

Stiles narrows his eyes, scoffing. "On with it, Doc."

Scott lays a hand on Stiles' shoulder. "Hey man, I gotta get going. Mom wanted me to help make dinner tonight."

He quickly thinks to tell Scott what Rafael wants to tell him, but decides against it, giving a tight smile. "Okay, see you tonight?"

"I'll try focusing. Call me if you need anything, though."

"I'll see you tomorrow, Scott," Deaton says as the werewolf waves in parting. "You have the jest of it," he says to Stiles. "You need to apply it immediately and it will put you on par with your shadow until your next lesson.

"Believe that you can pull yourself out from the hallucinations, believe you won't need to place down Elder ash," he leads on. "And maybe, one day, you'll believe you're capable of shutting the door to keep the demon out."

Stiles nods in understanding, but didn't find any of it comforting. Basically it was a one-over tally game with himself, where the darkness would always be in the lead until Stiles evened the board. The danger will be lurking and drawing Stiles in, like every day he's battling with— He sharply looks up at Deaton.

"Is this from the Nemeton?" Stiles asks.

Deaton hums. "Not exactly. You have always had the talent of an Emissary; you've already been able to manipulate ash and herbs without any true knowledge of how to use them.

"However, what the Nemeton has done," Deaton continues, "is awaken your magic prematurely. Families of Emissaries don't necessarily unleash their magical influences until a rite of passage on their eighteenth birthday."

"Right," Stiles nods, not able to help wondering what it would have been like if his mom was alive during this time. It brings another question to mind: "I share the same symptoms as my mom, the same effect the demon cause. Why wasn't Mom able to keep up with it?"

"Life," Deaton answers simply. At Stiles change of expression, he leads on gently, "Being in the home life might have stalled her training, Stiles. Claudia may have thought to hide her abilities from your father. Some Emissaries need the pack's support, others need support regardless where it comes from. It all depends what was going through her head and how it corresponded with her needs."

He levels Stiles with an empathetic look. "Its not you or the Sheriff's fault for her sickness. From what I knew of Claudia, she was happy where she was."

Stiles finds it hard to swallow and wipes his eyes. Deaton smiles kindly.

"You can leave for today," he says. "Put belief into practice, and if you have any trouble or any questions at all, you know how to get in touch with me."

Stiles nods. "Thanks, Doc."

"Anytime, Stiles."

"Don't think I'm above smacking your butt," Melissa threatens when Scott flicks tomato paste in her hair. "I have a cheesy spatula in my hand and I know how to use it."

Isaac watches his alpha grin mischievously, ducking away from her false swing, and feels, not for the first time, warmth swell in his chest at being able to be apart of this family. He was lucky that the McCalls took him in so kindly; Rafael could think less of him, but Isaac feels the same. He doesn’t know the issue between Scott and his father like Stiles does, yet instinctively he chooses Scott’s side.

Isaac’s phone starts to ring, and he laughs at Scott’s cheese-slathered pants as he answers it. “Heh, this is Isaac.” He’s only half-way focusing to the open air on the other end, watching Scott duck under Melissa’s spatula again with a wide grin.

“Where in the hell have you been, Isaac?”

Breath catches in Isaac’s throat.

“D-dad?” he whispers and his hands begin to tremble.

“How many times do I have to tell you to come straight home after school?”

“I-I… D-dad...”

“Second time this year! You’d think I’d have a better son than this, someone who’s not so disobedient and useless, you fucking—” The phone is wrenched from Isaac’s hand right as his breathing starts to edge toward hyperventilation. Scott puts the phone to his ear.

“Who is this?” Scott demands.

Isaac can hear the disconnection from the other side. He makes a high noise in his throat; it was real, it was his father. He should go, Isaac should go home now else make his dad even angrier and maybe he can avoid going into the basement if he can somehow please his dad.

“Hey, Isaac,” Scott says gently, placing his hands on each shoulder. Isaac looks at him with wide eyes as he feels Scott steal his heart-stopping anxiety straight from him. It leaves him numb. “You wanna go outside with me? Get some fresh air?”

He thinks about it for a moment before nodding his head, and Scott guides him gently out the back door. Isaac forcefully reminds himself he sold the house, no one is there, that his father is dead, that Jackson, in the shape of the kanima, killed him, but…

“Did you hear him?” Isaac asks in a quiet voice, then clarifies, “He was on the phone, right?”

“I don’t want you to answer anymore restricted calls,” Scott says. There’s an underlying alpha command in it that Isaac has no choice but to obey. “Understand?” At Isaac’s nod, Scott smiles slightly.

“I did hear someone acting as your dad,” Scott admits, “but you need to remember he died almost a year ago. He’s not here anymore. He can’t reach you and he can’t hurt you.”

He can't hurt me. Isaac holds on to that thought like a lifeline. He takes a deep breath and relaxes just a little, nodding. He glances at the phone still in Scott's hand. "But, who was that?"

Scott's lips tighten. "I don't know, but I'd love to find out."

The phone beeps in his hand and Scott opens the text message.

“Its Lydia.”

 

Lydia crumples up the paper even though there’s nothing on it, before she can write down Scott’s name again because it's too obvious. She’s been trying to think of plausible anchors that the creature behind Stiles was hinting. Her hair’s a mess from pulling on it as she over-thinks the possibilities, her head throbbing in the six-drum beat rhythm. Lydia taps her eraser angrily.

Its too obvious for her to believe for a second it could be Scott. An anchor would give Stiles control, which he plainly has none of; it was very likely it could help his hallucinations and night terrors, the dreams within dreams and the dreams where she, Scott, and Derek try to close the door in Stiles’ mind. Yet, if Lydia believes that’s the case, then by reasoning she excludes herself and Derek.

His father? Or Allison, by chance?

An object? Lydia contemplates this a moment, remembering the new ring on Stiles’ hand earlier.

Scott chose himself after Allison, she reflects after a moment, her pencil still bouncing. Isaac had Scott. Ethan and Aiden chose each other. Lydia was Jackson’s — or more aptly, the acknowledgment of their feelings toward one another, and yeah. Not going there. Lydia sighs and rubs her head.

She freezes, pencil finally still.

Feelings. Emotions? Derek’s anchor used to be anger, Lydia knows.

Did Stiles need to grip on a new emotion? Something that would make him believe it’ll all turn out right? Lydia flips her pencil and writes on the header line: Emotional tether > object > person

Beneath it: Belief in peace > ring? > father

Or Scott

Because for some reason Lydia couldn’t get Scott off her mind. Satisfied for now, she pushes it aside. When her mom comes home not moments later, Lydia is finishing the homework she started before becoming distracted with brainstorming.

"Hey, honey," her mother says, giving her a kiss on the head. "How was your day?"

Lydia hums, twirling her pencil. "Filled with outrageous drama and life-threatening decisions no high school student signs up for. You know, the average."

Her mother laughs, sets her purse on the table and slips off her heels. "That's what every student thinks, Lydia."

"Oddly enough I don't feel as connected with their problems," she mutters mostly to herself, but her mom frowns slightly.

"Is this about college?"

"No, Mom," Lydia sighs, exasperated, writing down the last answer on her AP Calc workshop.

"Is it about Thanksgiving?" her mom asks hesitantly, and Lydia grips her pencil.

"Its not," Lydia says, rather scathingly, "but it can be."

"Court says—"

"I know what court says. Doesn't mean that I have to go there. Dad can just as easily come to Beacon Hills for Thanksgiving."

"He says his girlfriend hates traveling."

"I hate his girlfriend," Lydia snarks, "so the perfect solution is to keep her there."

"Its their first Thanksgiving together," her mom tries to reason, but Lydia knows she's tired of her ex-husband's bullshit as much as she is.

"Don't worry, Mom," she reassures, going over her work. "I'll make it as unpleasant as possible. But its just… All the family I want is here, and that’s what Thanksgiving is supposed to be about, you know."

Her mother smiles at her, standing up and wrapping her arms around her. "I know, sweetheart. I’d like it if you were here for Thanksgiving, but at least we get you for Christmas. Oh! Speaking of family, I invited Allison over for dinner tonight."

"She's out of town."

"Uh, no? You didn't see her at school, hun?"

Lydia’s attention narrows on her mom, heart beating steadily faster. "What,” she asks slowly, hoping she heard wrong.

"She attended my class today," her mom says slowly, looking at her strangely. "Are you okay, Lydia?"

Lydia takes a second to respond, but nods as she slowly stands from the table. "I just remembered I have homework upstairs to start, so... I'll be there. If you need me." She turns and mutters under her breath, "Don't worry if I start screaming."

Upstairs and in the safety of her room, Lydia pulls out her phone in case she's missed any text messages, but the last thread was from Derek almost thirty minutes ago. Allison hasn't left a message since the day she left, last Monday; she would have sent a text to tell Lydia she was back.

Lydia opens her Northern California travel map on her desk, closes her eyes, and jabs her finger somewhere. She's practiced this technique with Aiden quite often, using Google Maps on her phone while Aiden walks through the preserve or the outskirts of Beacon hills as her lab rat. When Lydia opens her eyes she finds her finger about fifteen miles off Beacon Hills, but closer than where the Argents were yesterday. They're returning, which Lydia's happy for, of course, but who's coming for dinner?

Her laptop's screensaver disappears, catching her attention, and it shows the ever-open bestiary on screen. Lydia takes her wireless mouse in hand, but it feels more like a Ouija Board’s planchette; Lydia lets it do what it wants, following the whispers and six-rhythm drum beat to roll through Japanese monsters.

 

wa soregananika shitte imasu

Scroll a little further—

You know what it is, too, Banshee.

Kamaitachi-dono! Watashi no mamahadokodesu ka?

what is a trickster spirit who can wear a veil

More—

Taiko boshu!

Kitsune no akuma wa reide wanai.

 

THE NOGITSUNE, The Demon Fox (Spirit)

Lydia drops the mouse and grips her phone.

Group Message to Scott, Stiles, Isaac, Derek, Aiden, and Kira at 6:19pm: Nogitsune looks like Allison. Allison is not in town yet.
My mom invited nogitsune for dinner. Would love some back up.

From Stiles at 6:19pm: Did we ever discuss if turning to a wolf will kill
the fox for sure or is it still hypothetical?

From Aiden at 6:22pm: On my way getting Ethan.

From Isaac at 6:23pm: This is scott i have an idea about the nogitsune, isaac isn’t coming

From Restricted Number at 6:23pm: All the Queen's horses, all the Queen's men, couldn't keep
all the pain and blood in.

From Derek at 6:25pm: Meeting with Scott, we'll be on our way soon.

From Derek at 6:25pm: Hold on.

From Derek at 6:26pm: Incoming, Peter.

Group Message From Kira, Shared with: Scott, Stiles, Derek at 6:28pm: Um. Mom's coming.

 

From all the front door entrances he's done, Lydia thinks, Peter seems a little overdue for a climb up to bedroom windows. She just didn't want it to be hers, and she gives the man an unimpressed stare as Peter closes the window behind himself and dusts his clothes.

He pauses, noticing her expression. "What?" he hisses. "Did you really expect me to go to the door with your mother here?" Peter waves his hand dismissively at Lydia and takes a seat at her desk, leaning back. "'Excuse me, Ms. Martin, may I speak with your daughter? I wish to discuss the name of my child with her.'"

Lydia rolls her eyes. "Or you could just not have come at all," she whispers back fervently.

"I heard the Nogitsune was going to be here," Peter says. "I thought to selflessly offer my services."

"You can selflessly sacrifice yourself to the Nogitsune," she bites, and Peter smiles, all teeth.

The doorbell rings and it makes Lydia jump. Peter sits up straight, head cocked to the side as if listening. A second later, the window opens again and Scott and Derek both barrel roll through.

"Does anyone use the door?" Lydia whisper-shouts, throwing her arms. She gives up on werewolves, really.

Scott shrugs. "Stiles is." His head mimics Peter's, tilting to listen, before shoving Derek. "Hide!" The two of them dash into her closet, and she swears she'll break bones if anything is out of place afterward. Peter casually walks behind the door. Lydia glares at him.

On queue, her mom knocks on the door. "Honey, Stiles is here to see you."

"Come in," she calls, and her mother opens the door, Stiles in tow. Lydia watches Peter squish himself as close as possible to the wall. Stiles glances around the room.

"Can Stiles stay for dinner?" Lydia asks quickly. Maybe a little too quickly.

Her mom opens her mouth, looking doubtful, but that’s when Aiden and Ethan hop through the window, and her mother gives a terrified screech. Lydia wants to scream herself, because aren’t her friends supposed to be more stealthy than this in times of danger?

“Aiden, Ethan!” Ms. Martin scolds, pointing at the pair of them. “Front door! If I ever find you two using the window again I’ll call the cops!”

They completely ignore her, looking at Lydia. “The Oni are here,” Aiden announces.

“And so am I.”

Everyone in the room spins around to the door where Allison — not Allison — stands, giving a half-smile and wave. Aiden and Ethan snarl in warning with flashing eyes before Lydia can stop them, her mother right there for fuck’s sake, but the Nogitsune grins wide at their display.

“My, what big teeth you have.”

“What—” is all Lydia’s mom can say before the lights flicker and she’s thrown against the wall by an unseen force. Lydia screams "MOM!", rushing forward, but the Nogitsune steps in front of her, shaking Allison’s head condescendingly at her. Scott and Derek suddenly bracket her and Stiles’ sides, Aiden and his brother behind them.

The lights still flicker. The Nogitsune sizes them up one by one, and everyone stands tense to know Void’s next move.

It pauses on Stiles with an interested sound.

“I want to play with your darkness,” the Nogitsune says, reaching out to touch him. Scott makes to grab its arm, but Void whips around and and immobilizes him instead with a materialized, dark tail, curling up the young alpha’s arm. Scott yells, and the smell of burning flesh fills the room. Derek steps forward and the Nogitsune glares at him.

“I’ll kill him.”

“Stop it!” Stiles demands urgently. “Stop hurting him!” Void looks at Stiles again, not seeming concerned with the way Scott roars in pain and attacks the tail with his free hand, and it smiles knowingly.

“This is worth the use of another tail,” it says, and abruptly the image of Allison that the Nogitsune wears ripples. It slowly grows taller, hair shortening to a buzzcut and turning lighter in color. Allison’s nose points upwards, and a pattering of freckles dons the woman’s skin. She wears a hospital gown. Lydia doesn’t know who she’s now looking at, but the way Stiles’ breath audibly hitches makes her suspicions rise.

“I wouldn’t hurt him, Stiles,” she says, kind laughter in her voice. The hold on Scott’s arm is released, and Scott brings his arm to his chest, mottled and damage skin knitting together; he growls, lowering himself in a defensive position.

“You know I wouldn’t hurt him,” she carries on, and Stiles looks ready to cry.

“Stop it,” he says again, but much weaker than before.

“We should be heading home, child of mine,” she says, hand outstretched for Stiles to take. The ring on her hand is identical to the one Stiles now wears.

“Stiles,” both Derek and Scott say at once.

"I know," Stiles stammers, yet he still sounds small. "I know its a trick."

The woman smiles wider, arms spreading. "Not at all, child of mine. The real trick is that you can't kill me."

Its over before it even starts: the end of a blade erupts from its chest, and the Nogitsune jerks forward the same time Stiles does, a bitten off cry on his lips. Void looks down at the blade, makes a considering noise and de-materializes in smoke. An Oni stands behind where it was, Mrs. Yukimura appearing beside it with Kira right behind her.

"Only an illusion," she says, disappointed. "We can't kill the Nogitsune through its tricks."

Peter eases out from behind the door, useless as ever. "That method seemed quite effective."

"It will keep coming back until we know how to kill it for sure."

Lydia rushes to her mom now the threat is gone. There's a nasty bump on the back of her head, but thankfully no blood. Lydia wonders what she should tell her when she wakes. Derek kneels next to Lydia, waiting.

"L-lets put her on the couch downstairs," Lydia supposes, feeling helpless when it comes to her mom. "I-I can say she tripped on the stairs? I might have Scott's mom say she's un-unfit to work tomorrow."

Derek puts a hand on her's and Lydia realises she's shaking, breathing fast and shallow.

"She's okay," Derek says to her calmly. "I'll take her downstairs."

Lydia nods and moves so he can do so. Derek lifts her easily enough, and takes her out of the room. Peter touches her shoulder and turns Lydia toward him. Anger builds quickly, and she shrugs off his hand, glaring.

"You helped with nothing," she seethes. "You coward, staying hidden like that with the Nogitsune right there. You probably even knew that it was an illusion."

Peter's lips are thin as he frowns, says, "It may have been a thought."

"I don't believe we've asked what you know about the Nogitsune," Lydia says thoughtfully.

"That information costs more than my child's name, sweetheart, don't you think?"

"You—" Peter grips her arm painfully and yanks her forward, much closer than Lydia ever wanted to be. She turns her head, cowed into looking away, as he leans over her to whisper in her ear.

"Be very careful in what you say, Lydia," Peter says, tone edging on dangerous. "I may not be feeling so generous after all."

"I never feel generous," Aiden says, coming next to her. His hand lays on Peter’s wrist, tight enough that Lydia can hear the bones grinding, and forces him to let go of her. Aiden’s other hand lies on the small of her back in a supportive gesture that Lydia appreciates.

"Lydia," Scott says, and she looks over Peter's shoulder and sees he's watching them carefully. Stiles, next to him, looks how she feels. He's trembling, eyes either shot wide open or scrunched closed, sweating and breathing heavy.

Lydia looks back at Peter, chin high. "I'll tell you what you want, only when you give us something worthwhile." With that, Lydia goes to Scott.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and she nods. “Lydia.”

“I hate this,” she says under her breath, knows Scott can hear her. “I hate that we’ve come to looking over our shoulders and running from fairy tales just so we can get to school. I don’t want to listen to war drums every damn day.”

“War drums?” Scott’s eyes narrow slightly at her word choice.

She bites her lip, but strengthens her resolve. “Something’s going to happen.”

*

*

*

Stiles doesn’t see the streets and houses as Scott drives the jeep and him back to Stiles’ home. He sees IV lines and nasal cannulas, ecg and eeg wires.

He sees a trail of his mother’s long chestnut hair being shaved away as he chews at his scabbed fingertips.

*

*

*

 

To Scott and Stiles at 9:46pm: I’m staying awake tonight until Mom wakes up.

 

 

To Stiles and Lydia at 10:03pm: parents. c u @ school

 

 

To Derek at 10:06pm: Watch over him tonight.

From Derek at 10:08pm: Take care of your mom.

 

Stiles wakes up and the door is still open, just a little bit. He’s never had OCD, but it bothers him. He needs to… go on the other side? Open it wider? He gets out of bed.

“Where are you going?” Derek asks from the desk. He sounds bored.

“I want to see something.”

“There’s nothing there for you,” Derek says. He walks in front of Stiles.

“Dude, can you not.”

“Walk around me, then.”

He tries and finds he's stuck. That's new. “I can’t.”

“Good.”

“No, not good.” Stiles’ arms flail as he’s stuck in place. “Look, can you just open the door wider? I mean, its already open, right?”

“Its already almost closed,” the werewolf returns. “Why don’t I just close it?”

Stiles stares at him. “You’re such a pessimist.”

Derek just shrugs.

“Where’s Scott?”

“Complications. Lydia, too. They may be here later. You should rest until then.”

Stiles narrows his eyes at him. “How are you doing this?”

“Happenstance.”

“Three times now?”

Derek shrugs again.

“One is an incident, two’s a coincidence, three’s a pattern, Derek.”

“I am going to be arrested if I show again?” he asks, eyebrows rising with in incredulity.

Stiles sighs, runs his hands through his hair. “No, but I’ve long since believed things aren’t as coincidental as they appear.”

Derek crosses his arms. “I don’t know how I’m dream-walking, would you rather I didn’t?”

Looking over Derek’s shoulder at the door, Stiles hesitates. “Maybe?”

“Go back to bed,” he says with an eye roll.

“No.”

“Go back to bed.”

“No.”

“Go back to bed.”

“I can do this all night, dude,” Stiles smirks, but is taken back when Derek returns the expression.

“It won’t get you any closer to the door.”

Stiles glares at him. “I need to open the door.”

“It is open,” Derek sighs, “but I told you once: I won’t let you go out there.” Stiles looks over his shoulder again, the darkness in the sliver seen beyond the door. He gnaws at his lips, and suddenly there’s a hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. Stiles looks down, realizing he somehow freed himself from the frozen hold. His eyes meet Derek’s narrowed eyes. “Don’t,” the werewolf says firmly. “You hurt yourself the last time.”

He holds Stiles’ hand up, reminding Stiles of his raw fingertips. And his mother’s ring.

Stiles pulls back his wrist gently to inspect the ring. “Why didn’t it work?” he asks, mostly to himself. “I know its supposed to be a temporary touchstone, but it still hasn’t worked for me.”

“Are you focusing on it during the hallucination, or are you too wrapped in the hallucination?” Derek questions. “Finding control takes a lot of practice for werewolves. You’ve just started becoming an Emissary; don’t hold high expectations for yourself, yet.”

Stiles nods at him. “Thanks. I’ll try to focus more.”

“That’ll be an achievement.”

Chapter Text

Malia likes Ms. Marin Morrell enough once she’s able to overlook the hint of electric-ashy smell and annoying vagueness. She knows Morrell knows about her abilities in the way she talks, pulling down mythology books and discussing about Loki, Puck, Coyote and kitsunes, but she never says it out right. Morrell plays her cards close, Malia notices, and not in the sense that the woman is cautious; she’s manipulative. Morrell is a guidance counselor, she puts ideas in people’s heads, makes them think they can go beyond what they’re capable of doing.

Tonight in the group circle she talks about guilt. The patients here have a lot of guilt. She has guilt, guilt she doesn’t want to share. Everyone has guilt, but it’s the matter of the person experiencing a guilty conscience. Malia wonders if Ms. Morrell has anything to be guilty about. For the most part Malia is quiet throughout the session. She doesn’t relate to these peoples’ problems, nor people in general, but always Ms. Morrell will bring her into the conversation.

“What about you, Malia,” she says after a couple people speak up. “What do you have to feel guilty about.” She makes her tone lilt in a question, but it still doesn’t sound like a question. It doesn’t smell like a curiosity or honesty; it’s needling, an interrogation, wanting to hear something Morrell already knows the answer to. Malia doesn’t like it; she wishes she could have one-on-one sessions with her.

“I don’t know,” Malia avoids. “Same as everyone, I guess.”

Morrell tilts her head to the side. “Your guilt is an inner battle?”

“Isn’t everyone’s?” Malia returns, feeling edgy. She’s being led. She knows she is. This is another reason why she hates humans.

Morrell’s lips lift slightly. “Not always. Inner battles can range from practically anything, but guilt can lie on the outside, too. School and friends. Family.”

Malia sneers. “I think I’ll pass.”

At least the woman has the sense to drop it for now, switching to an older girl named Meredith who stutters her way through sentences that make no sense. Malia sighs and leans back in her chair, crossing her arms. She’s bored. All of this communicating with others is boring to her and makes no sense; what’s the point of it?

A sudden, sharp, static sound comes from the hallway. It makes Meredith stumble and pause, looking nervously at the door, but no one else reacts. It buzzes in her ear, like a very annoying fly that she wants to snap her jaws at. Malia stares at the door over her shoulder, confused, and after a moment the buzzing stops.

“Go on, Meredith,” Morrell prompts.

“I— I…” Meredith fiddles with her hands for a long time before she glances around the circle. Her eyes directly on Malia before they look back down to the floor. “It’s… impossible to be without it. Guilt… i-it kind of, um. Shrouds us. And— especially in the future, i-it’s like, um. It’s l-like it builds, where you’re b-but a tool a-and yo-you’re so sorry f-for the things yo-you ha-have to do, b-but you do-don’t, um. Feel— no one feels s-sorry at the t-time that th-they should feel g-guilt.”

Malia stops listening again because Meredith makes no sense, at all. The buzzing comes back, louder, closer. It makes the hair stand on the back of her neck, the static like a heavy tension that makes Meredith’s voice dwindle away again. The coyote looks around the group, but everyone remains the way they are; a patient picks his nose, an orderly flips a page in her book. Malia looks over her shoulder for a second time as Morrell wraps up the circle. Why is no one concerned about this? She’s never heard or felt anything like it.

It feels like danger, and it makes her hackles rise. She can’t help the short growl that comes from her throat.

“Thank you for participating. We’ll meet again in two days at the same time.” Everyone leaves or has help in leaving, and when the patients and staff are out of the area, Morrell comes beside Malia and asks, “Do you still hear it?”

Malia looks up at her, edging to offensive. Her lips are pulled back when she asks, “What is it?”

“Come with me,” she says instead. “It’s going through the halls.”

“What is it?” she asks again.

“A malicious spirit,” Morrell answers, holding out her arm to stop Malia from continuing on ahead of her. “I can’t hear it like you and Meredith can. I feel it in the air, though. Is the sound nearby?”

Malia points down the right hall. “It stopped buzzing, but it was going that way.”

“We’re going to walk slow,” Morrell instructs. “It’s tired and severely weakened, but I don’t want it to target us when it feels better.”

Malia nods, following behind. “How come no one else noticed it? Why you?”

“It’s a gift,” she replies and leaves it at that.

The buzzing starts up again as it shifts directions, turning a corner. When the women follow around the corner, they freeze: a dark, opaque shape with seven wispy appendages staggers down the hall, flickering like static, moving in jagged steps. It doesn’t particularly take a human figure. The hair on Malia’s neck stands on end and she feels compelled to run rather than attack, but it doesn’t seem to have notice them.

Morrell doesn’t move further until it turns down another corridor, then they rush to the end. Malia realises where they’re being led, and she sees the door to the basement when they watch it continue. It doesn’t stop when it reaches the locked door.

It disappears beyond it.

Malia’s eyes widen. “It just walked through the door. How the hell did it do that?” She can’t look away from the basement door in case she sees something else she’s not prepared for, but Morrell seems calm beside her still. Impossible.

“We should go back. You need to go to bed,” she says quietly, tone distracted. She guides her by the arm, but Malia goes along willingly because she’s officially freaked out.

“What are we going to do about it?” she asks.

“Nothing,” Morrell replies easily. Malia gapes at her.

“Why not?”

“Because I have something called self-preservation,” and leaves it at that.

*

*

*

The basement is damp and dark, littered with old devices of various healing. Nothing here is new and nothing here holds interest to the buzzing. It reaches the wall where the body is hidden away, reaches out it’s hand to touch it, and suddenly it’s on the other side and kneeling in front of its weak caster.

It’s fingers touch the burnt remains of Void's lips under the bandage, and the pain and chaos it gathered from the Beacon Hills pack is sucked up immediately. It is feeding Void, slowly strengthening him.

The bandaged man doesn't speak, his body long dead, but the body is just a vessel and doesn’t communicate through human means.

The True Alpha. Void says as he collects the memories and strong emotions of fear and strife. Its voice is barely heard by its servant, but soon it will be loud. A possessed boy, a scared flower, and a living dead man. Those are the interesting ones; the double monster and reanimated corpse regret almost nothing, and I can't feed off that.

Noshiko was there.

So I can see, and she’s somehow fixed that damnable blade. Void huffs. Unless she proves to be more of a challenge in this century she’ll only waste my time. How many tails have you used?

Two.

Well enough. Stay on the four and feed me their suffering.

 

 

Allison returns the following Wednesday and they fill her in of what's happened. She's sorry she wasn't there and sticks closer to Lydia, asks how her mom is. Allison lies to Ms. Martin and says she was at school that Monday, had shown up for dinner, and called Melissa after her 'fall'. Scott had asked his mom to write a note and send it to the school, which started Rafael suggesting they tell Ms. Martin about Beacon Hills' werewolf and unnatural supernatural population.

"Does she even know about her daughter?" Rafael asked.

Melissa held out her hand, said, "Rafa, don't," but Scott had already gotten angry, "It’s not your decision to make!"

"It’s for her own safety to know what's going on."

"Yeah, no. Kids at school are safer not knowing anything."

"About four teens and faculty members have died, without closure I may add, at the school itself. Why the feds haven't shown up sooner is beyond my comprehension."

"It’s still not your decision!" Scott growled and slammed his hands on the table. Melissa put a hand on Scott's, a reminder to chill out and not all conversations with his father needed to end with raised voices and claw marks on her kitchen table. He either didn't notice her, or his rage finally rolled over, because he said, "And if you think, you'd remember your scorecard for decision making isn't the best!"

"Scott," his mother chided immediately, but Rafael already looked stricken, jaw tightening.

He stood, averting their eyes. "I know you're the leader of your little clique, Scott, but sometimes you still act like a child."

Scott stood, too, grabbing his coat from the back of his chair. "You mean my pack. I take that as a compliment, actually. Sometimes I think I grew up too quick, picking up where you left off. I'm going to Stiles'."

"It’s a school night!" Melissa reminded, but didn’t move to stop him, glaring at Rafael.

"I'll pack a bag."

A few days pass without anymore excitement, but the stillness is almost worse than the action because, as Lydia put it, they're still looking over their shoulders, looking for a double friend or family member creeping behind them. From Allison's suggestion, they create a phrase, a code to greet each other with to know they are in good company.

"It should be in Latin," Lydia says at lunch, twirling her pencil through her hair. Everyone at the table grimaces.

"I think you're the only one who knows Latin," Aiden comments, and Ethan adds, "If we can't pronounce it easily, that's probably saying we're the Nogitsune." She looks disappointed, but Lydia writes down English.

"It should be a handshake but that's just me," Stiles slides in, becoming on the receiving end of judging looks. "What? Seriously, though." He claps his hands together and rotates his end fingers.

"Moving along now," Lydia says with a roll of her eyes. "It can't be anything that's easily--"

"Wait," Isaac interrupts. "It can't be just a phrase said. What do we do, say it at the same time? What if we had a question and an answer?" Lydia writes that down.

Stiles swallows. "Let’s stay away from riddles, guys."

"Can't we have our own question and answer?" Scott asks, which gives him as many judging looks Stiles got.

"You want to memorize nine or more Q and A?" Allison deadpans.

"Good point."

"Who can we share this with," Kira pipes up. "Outside of the pack, I mean, like parents?"

Lydia bites her lip. "What's the likelihood of parents becoming doubled?"

"It’s already been my dad," says Isaac with a shrug, but his hand tightens around his fork. Stiles doesn’t miss Allison putting her hand beneath the table and the way Isaac seems to release tension.

“I more or less meant alive parents,” she corrects, eying Stiles. He gives her an idle shrug, knowing what her pointed look meant; he’s shaken by the memory of seeing his mother so suddenly, to hear her voice, watching her smile. There’s new nightmares added with his frequent visit to the Nemeton, nightmares of his mom being stuck through by a sword. Stiles is not okay for a couple hours after he wakes up.

"What about Danny?" Ethan adds.

"Well I'm going to share it with my dad, whatever we decide on," Allison says, as if making her final say. Stiles nods and says, “Same here.” He kind of wishes he didn’t have to.

“Tell anyone you want,” Scott tells them after a moment, clearing some unsure expressions. “Let everyone else know so we know how to approach them. I’m going to tell my mom, for sure.”

There's a chorus of a couple names and Lydia huffs, passing the paper around, starting with Stiles. "Write who will know outside this table."

Stiles takes her pencil and makes a heading with his name, then under it writes Dad and Derek. She leans over and nods approvingly. He passes the paper and pencil to Scott, who puts down his mother but pauses.

"I'm not jumping in to save his ass from the Nogitsune," Stiles remarks dryly, understanding his best friend's hesitation. It earns him a quick grin while he slowly writes his father's name. It’s his name, Rafael listed beneath Mom, and Stiles feels so grateful for the relationship he still has with his own dad.

A long time ago, the McCalls and the Stilinskis were tight knit. At that time the McCalls lived right next door where Scott and Stiles could play and get into trouble together. Their parents were great friends; weekend dinners usually seated six unless someone had an unexpected call in at work. Melissa would come over in the morning after work and have coffee with Stiles' mom. His dad and Rafael sat on the porch late at night drinking a couple beers. Scott and Stiles had two yards and houses to play hide and seek and tag.

Stiles misses those days.

Scott also puts in Deaton, which Stiles agrees on. Kira and Allison write their parents on the paper; Isaac looks at the list and passes it to Ethan, who hovers before deciding not to add Danny after all. Aiden passes it back to Lydia without glancing at it. Lydia doesn't put her mom down, in the end. They finish their lunches quickly and pack up when the bell rings.

"If anyone has a suggestion what the code should be," Lydia reminds, "text."

For the rest of the day, Stiles finds himself distracted about the Nogitsune. The scroll's directions were hard enough, getting close enough to the fox for Scott to bite and transform, but how were they to find the spirit itself and not it's illusions? When Kira revealed the rest of the story Mrs. Yukimura told her, Stiles wanted to say fuck everything; this was Mrs. Yukimura's problem. They were a handful of teenaged humans and out-of-the-norm creatures, and nothing about them qualified to be superheroes. Stiles thinks they've already cleared enough messes: first Kate and Peter, then solving Matt's case and stopping the kanima immediately afterward, dealing with the Alpha Pack and the Darach. Each of those events shouldn't have involved their pack of high schoolers, at all.

In math class, he finishes his test early and bounces his pencil against the desk until the teacher and a couple other students glare at him. Stiles can't help it; he wants the day to be over and he just feels restless altogether. There's a buzzing beneath his skin, something coiling and stretching all at once and makes him feel anxious, or overly medicated. Stiles groans with impatience, jiggling his legs and watching the clock tick slowly to three.

"Mr. Stilinski," Harris sharply says, and Stiles jerks in his seat, staring wide eyed at the man in front of the room. "Can you or can you not use your legs?"

"I—" what.

"Surely it won't be too hard for you to simply stand up and come to the board," Harris taunts. He holds the chalk out in front of him, waving it like he's goading an animal. Stiles slowly stands, glancing at Scott who shrugs and shakes his shaggy hair out of his eyes. Something feels...off but he doesn't know what it is, so Stiles sighs and goes to the board. He may or may not have jerked the chalk piece out of the asshole's hand on the way.

Stiles faces the problem on the board.

Which chemical reaction in the human brain will reveal how to destroy the touchstone?

"Uh, hey," Stiles starts, turning to Harris. "This ain't—"

Harris and the rest of the class is gone.

Stiles drops the chalk in his hand and counts his fingers.

One, two, one, three, two, four— He clenches his fist, bites his finger, and tastes metal as his teeth clack hard against the ring.

I am aware this is a hallucination. I am going to wake up now. I am in class. I am going to be sitting at my desk. I am—

The school bell rings and Stiles wakes in Ms. Martin's English class, time lost that has him shaking minutely. Scott, sitting behind him, has his hand on the back of Stiles' neck. Lydia is looking at him from across the room with a concerned expression, and he knows this is real. Stiles sags in his seat, releasing air and tension, and Scott squeezes his nape.

"Alright?"

Stiles nods and slowly begins to move with the rest of the class, gathering his belongings together. As he moves his English book and finds his mother's Emissary journal underneath, open, Stiles picks it up and reads the page. He doesn’t remember pulling it out.

July 1986: Mom took me home early from the meeting. I was so angry and my mother so disappointed in me. I fought with Trevor and Candice again today to the point where Alpha Simmons dismissed me; she has a word with Mom before she came to the car. The ride home was silent until we pulled into the drive. I told her Alpha Simmons’ plans weren’t ideal, that she or the whole pack should meet the pack coming in. Alpha Simmons wants to ignore them completely unless they cause trouble; the whole pack and my mother agree on this. I had stood and addressed to Alpha Simmons we should greet them before any mess occurs, so they are aware that we’re active and protecting our city. We should meet them so we can assess their intentions and character; that is when Trevor and Candice shot down my suggestion.

I understand, as the youngest member of this pack, their reluctance to find themselves in a fight against this new pack, but they should notice they’re leaving themselves open for attack.

My mom says as an Emissary-in-training I am not compatible with Alpha Simmons’ pack. I share none of the pack’s better attributes aside from Trevor and Candice’s stubbornness. She tells me that I’ll need to find my pack soon, those I’d be able to connect with in an emotional and ideal level. I don’t understand, am I to be defined by my pack? I’ve just begun my path, but my mother isn’t as helpful as I wish; she says it will come to me in time, but I still need guidance.

Tomorrow I’ll meet the pack by myself. There is no changing my mind. I, at least, want to be certain they are harmless.

Stiles wants to flip the page and read more about his mom, but he controls his urge; he’s been ignoring the journal in a rare showing of self-preservation. Stiles doesn’t know what he could stumble upon in it, spells or recipes for disaster. He’s pretty sure that Deaton would congratulate him on his restraint, but if his mother’s journal was also a diary of her training then it could be useful to read her experience. That Stiles will read later, definitely.

 

 

Group Message From Lydia, Shared with: Aiden, Allison, Ethan, Isaac, Kira, Scott at 4:36pm: Any ideas about the Q&A?

To Lydia at 4:38pm: Nada no nope :/

 

From Scott at 9:46pm: Going to bed.

To Scott at 9:49pm: I will soon. Reading my mom’s journal.

To Lydia at 9:50pm: Going to bed soon?

From Scott at 9:51pm: Anything interesting?

From Lydia at 9:52pm: Yes. See you there. Stay in your room.

To Scott at 9:53pm: Loads

 

 

Stiles looks at the door first, and it’s the same as it has always been.

A familiar weight lays on his arm and Stiles looks up to Scott’s warm smile. “Hey dude.” The greeting is nice, but there’s something off about his eyes, strained and worried.

“Yo,” Stiles replies, “what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” says Derek as he appears beside Scott. “You’re late. What time was it when you went to bed?”

Stiles grins sheepishly. “About midnight. I fell asleep reading, and I’m gonna cry for coffee in the morning.”

“I’ll bring you some, dude.”

“Thanks, bro.” Stiles glances to the door again now that the niceties are over with.

Derek steps in front of his line of sight, making him frown, but Derek only crosses his arms. “Scott tells me you broke out of a hallucination by yourself at school.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says distractedly, trying to peer around the werewolf without leaving the bed. “Thought I’d try your advice. Still scary shit, though. Hey,” he says quickly, “where’s Lydia?”

Scott and Derek share a look while Lydia’s voice carries from across the room with a sigh. “Over here.” The two werewolves part and Lydia stands in front of his desk, where on the wall beside it bares a dripping, red message in the same style of those in Stiles’ hallucinations. The only difference now is that everyone can apparently see it.

D3TR0 7OC)(570E…//////

K1l t3m 4LL 571L35……//////////////

Break the mind, break the body././././

Stiles purses his lips while his thumb spins the ring on his finger. “Welcome to my dark imagination,” he mutters.

Scott stares at him. “You see those when—”

“Not always,” he says quickly. “Just- sometimes. Like the other day at Deaton’s.”

“What did you see at school today?”

Stiles ducks his head. “Stupid shit that started while I was in Algebra.”

“That’s fifth block, though,” Scott thinks out loud. “You had the hallucination in English.”

“Yeah, I don’t remember PE,” he admits.

“You said something to Aiden that made him really angry. How often do you lose time like that?” When Stiles doesn’t answer, Scott shouts, “Stiles!”

Stiles stands and the door is in sight before Derek moves and blocks it from view again. “What did you see in the hallucination?”

“Some stupid shit with Harris and dumb questions on the board about my touchstone.”

Lydia suddenly gives a noise of surprise and cries, “That’s it!” They all look at her as she spins around, expression triumphant as she points at the garbled mess of characters on the wall. “The message here, it’s about the touchstone. The seven is a T. It’s super choppy, but it’s chat slang!”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Too bad you can’t take a picture to decode it later.”

She smiles in that scary way that makes Stiles glad they’re friends. “It’s all easy now that I know what I’m reading. There are dozens of forums online that I follow dedicated to this sort of thing. Give me a while,” she says as she turns back to the wall.

“It’d really suck if our alarm clocks rang now,” Stiles muses.

“Yes, it would, so shut up.”

Scott huffs out a laugh, which Stiles nudges him for but puts on an affronted face when Derek tries to stifle a snort.

“Sorry,” Derek says, not sorry at all.

“Seriously, dude, how are you doing this?”

Derek shrugs, unconcerned.

 

 

Stiles wakes up feeling more rested than he has in a long while. He glances at the clock, about thirty minutes before his alarm would ring, and lies there for a long moment, listening to his dad walk around downstairs. The front door must have woken him up, Stiles guesses as he stretches, thinking of getting up already and having breakfast with his dad. His mother’s journal falls into his lap when he sits up and he sets it on his nightstand as he slips out of bed.

*

*

*

August 1986: Alpha Simmons followed me. I’m thankful today didn’t end in bloodshed, yet while my mother is disappointed once again, I still stand by my decision in seeking out Alpha Thompson’s pack. They are docile and kind.

Alpha Thompson and his pack are traveling North, an annual vacation. He was hoping to speak to the territory’s Alpha, but when Alpha Simmons nor my mother didn’t greet with him he’d figured we were a private pack and wouldn’t mind their passing through. He mistook me for Alpha Simmons’ Emissary to begin with, but before Alpha Thompson could delegate business, Alpha Simmons and my mother appeared and made me look foolish. My mother even boldly asked him if his pack needed an Emissary.

We are meeting this weekend to discuss, after I formally meet with Alpha Thompson’s pack.

*

August 1986: Alpha Thompson’s pack is wonderful and strong knitted.

Gloria has shown me adaptability. I learned that even if something is final, I can be happy in the outcome, as well. Very useful in my case. I'm feeling comfortable with Alpha Thompson's pack's attention to know who I am while at the same time I'm collecting studies of who they are. Gloria's influence is helping me accept my mother's traditional ideals, and I find that I'm not so angry at her any longer. I can look pass her judgment and see logic behind it; every mother just wants what's best for their child, right? She wanted me to mold into the pack and belong, but was blaming herself that I couldn't, and in turn blaming me for having to blame herself for her 'mistakes'.

I still have my stubborn streak, I'll admit that, so adapting to Trevor and Candice will make me feel like I am still being pushed under. My opinions won't matter.

Zachary is, I believe, showing me infinite wisdom. He's quiet; listens to what is around him before adding input. I've taken to watching him as much as he watches the rest of us, and he has a prompt sense of timing; he knows when to act rather than jump into something. The phrase 'a wise man takes his time' suits Zachary to a T. I think I can learn well from this trait instead of not thinking things through.

I'm not entirely certain about Travis, though. Instincts tell me I'm being taught loyalty, but we've only just met a handful of days ago that I can't imagine why he would have my back so soon. Travis went as far as to kindly tell my mother to step back and to stop giving me advice about their pack that she has no say in. It’s a new feeling of being supported that I never received from Alpha Simmons pack and, in relation, my mother.

Travis is a confident when I need to vent about Trevor and Candice or my mother. He tells me nothing is my fault, says they have sticks up their asses. Travis is definitely pack brother material that I will much enjoy if all ends well.

I haven't seen much of Alpha Thompson to gage his strong suits. He's busy watching me from afar and learning what he can about me from my mother and Alpha Simmons.

...I hope he likes what he finds.

*

August 1986: Today I turned eighteen.

Just before three AM, Mother woke and told me to come downstairs skyclad. I didn’t understand the reason for a ritual, but did so anyway; she is my mother and I trust her. I trust and love her, even for what she has revealed to me last night. When I stepped from my room, I noticed the mistletoe on the threshold. It was apparently for my protection, as my mother explained later, to keep Alpha Thompson’s pack out and keep true their intentions of peace toward me.

In the living room, my mother had me recite the Vows of the Emissary before I stepped into a ring of rowan shavings where Gloria, Zachary, Travis, and Alpha Thompson all gathered. They were drugged, but there of their own choosing, my mother told me; there was a coal burning, wolfsbane incense hanging lightly in the air to slow their healing as my mother cut into their palms with her athame. As she did this, she explained to me finally what this ritual was for and what was to happen, and what I will be expecting to fight with for the rest of my life.

The true purpose of an Emissary is to keep the werewolves of a pack connected with humanity. There are cases of humans in a pack, but they do not have power to hold a werewolf; for their safety, it is the Emissary’s job to remind werewolves of mortality they do not grasp easily, the fragile connection to death that humans feel. This is the greatest reason of the importance of compatibility within the pack; to be taught life lessons, or to already have these qualities in one’s self. There needs to be the connection between each pack mate and the Emissary, to have a grounding sensibility of how the Emissary can reach the werewolf in times of danger. Emissaries to protect them as they protect us.

I am an Emissary, born from a straight line of mothers for six generations. In between of draining blood into obsidian bowls and drawing on my bare skin at chakra and pressure points, my mother tells me we are one of the few born families left in North America. At this point, however, I become distracted as to know why that is important; the blood burns my skin in different areas, and I pinpoint where when my mother asks. My magic is gathered and released easiest in those places, she says, at the tips of my fingers and my sternum, but they will need a mark to help me focus. Like a dot on a blank paper, to keep my eyes from wandering all over the page.

In a bowl of ivory, there is black ink, and I am tattooed.

She spelled each tattoo, and it left me breathless and crying. If I had any doubt for the love Mother has for me, or the want for my safe and rewarding future, they’ve all be erased after her magic reached in me and… how do I begin to describe? It was as if her magic held me, rocked me to and fro, whispering love and promises. I felt, for the first time in my entire life, treasured by my mother. I am my mother’s touchstone, I know it now.

The tattooing took hours and left me drained, from the pain and feeling emotionally overwhelmed. The coal had burned out and Alpha Thompson’s pack were becoming aware again; they began chanting Gaelic I had trouble translating. When Mother was finished, she warned me what would happen next, that she was going to open the channels for my magic and release it. In doing so, she said, it would release a darkness within me that had laid dormant all my life, waiting for this opportunity to pillage everything I hold dear; thus was the curse of born Emissaries, those naturally adept to the energies in the world.

I wish I told her I wasn’t ready. I feel her, now still, fighting for control. I’ve named her Shadow because I’ve seen her and she is me as I am her.

With a wooden athame I’ve never seen her use, made of a dark wood that felt ominous just by looking at it, my mother pressed it against my sternum and sliced open the tattoo. I remember, for a split second, seeing every possibility in the universe I had the power to manipulate to my will. Then I passed out; in my sleep, however, is where I met Shadow. Shadow talked to me in riddles, metaphors, and false promises. Instinctively I know Shadow is a liar, but because she is me she knows all the sweetest things to say, and I say no. No matter how long she threatens me or my mother or a future touchstone I’ve yet to find, Shadow will not have my magic.

I refuse.

*

August 1986: I haven’t slept in six days since the ritual. I wake kicking and screaming from terrors about that damned wooden athame piercing me through. Mother is mixing a brew to put me into a dreamless sleep; when I’m not having nightmares, Shadow has me under her thumb.

I am not strong. God help me.

*

August 1986: Mother approached me this morning and said I am to leave when Alpha Thompson’s pack is ready. An hour ago, Alpha Thompson greeted me and extended invitation into his pack, and I am so excited to be a part of it! Tonight Gloria, Travis, and Zachary are taking me out to run with them and I cannot wait!

Later entry: Alpha Thompson met up with us. He told us we are to be leaving by the weekend, continue North. Shadow took delight in that, for some reason.

*

September 1986: Alpha Simmons wrote to me that Mother has committed suicide. It’s my fault. I was her touchstone and I left her alone with her demon. It’s my fault.

*

*

*

John looks up at Stiles, grimacing, when he thunders down the stairs. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he apologises, taking off his holster and removing the service pistol. He checks the safety before storing it in the gun safe and hangs the holster over his coat.

Stiles shrugs and waves it off. “All good, Dad. How was work?”

“I’m still organising cold cases, so boring,” he replies, “but a nice relief. How are you feelin’? How have your hands been?” Stiles holds out his hands, almost completely healed; it looks worse than it seems to be because the damaged ends of his nails need to grow out for a few weeks. John still sighs as his shoulders relax, and he smiles thinly. He’s tired, but it’s rare for him and his son to cross in the mornings when John works nights.

“Breakfast?” he offers hopefully. “I think we still have eggs.” Stiles smiles at him, filled with so much affection that John gets the unneeded reminder why he loves being a parent.

“I think we have veggie bacon in the freezer, too.”

“Hey, now,” John warns, teasing, as he leads them toward the kitchen. “I wanted something edible for breakfast.”

“I could put it in the blender for you,” Stiles jokes, “if you’re having trouble chewing.” He startles out a laugh when John swipes him over the head and ducks under his arm to escape.

“No old man jokes until you’re forty, son! I can still put you in a headlock.”

 

 

Kira presents the book to Scott with two hands when she catches up with him. “Good morning! I think I may have a suggestion? For the phrase?” Scott looks at her first, smiling.

“Good morning,” he returns and takes the book from her and reads. “Where The Wild Things Are?” he asks.

“Mom had me go through all my stuff for a yard sale. I found some kid books I didn’t even remember I had,” she explains shyly, “and I saw that, and thought why not? Like, they don’t even name the place Max is at, not really. So, I thought it could be up to us to give an answer?” Kira bites her lip. “But it could also be completely stupid and I’m being silly, and if that’s the case then forget it, forget that I even suggested—”

Scott stops her with a kiss because she’s being cute, then he kisses her again because he wants to. When he pulls away, Kira opens her eyes, staring at him dazedly.

“It’s a good idea,” he says, voice low. He clears his throat. “You should present it to Lydia.”

Kira smiles soft, shy and blushing. “You think?”

“Yeah.”

At lunch, at their regular table, Lydia seems to at least mull it over. “In an oddly mixed pack as ours, I assume we are the wild things. So, where do we go?” she asks finally.

Kira shrugs, pride welling within her because Lydia seems to be taking it seriously. That’s big to her, okay? “I don’t know, I thought we could think it over together.” Together, today, is everyone but the twins; Ethan had gone to sit with Danny, and Aiden had followed, shooting an undecipherable look at Stiles.

“Where have we always went?” Lydia proposes to the group.

“Far, far away from danger,” Stiles says, throwing his arms out and nearly catching Allison in the face. She jabs him quick in the ribs and he collapses with mock agony. Or real agony, maybe, Kira can’t tell with Stiles.

“Or running into it,” Isaac adds unhelpfully. He, too, gets a jab in the ribs. “Hey!”

“We look for pack, obviously,” Allison says, a bit huffy. “For our friends and those we protect. Am I right?”

Kira plays with that in her head, liking the sound of it. “Scott?” she asks and looks at him, but he’s staring at Allison in a way that makes Kira feel very small and practically invisible. She catches Isaac’s eye and she can tell he feels the same.

“Yeah,” Scott says in a near whisper, then again, louder, “Yeah, what do you think, Kira? Stiles? Lydia?”

Everyone comes to an agreement. “Someone will ask it, anyone, then the other answers,” Lydia says. “’Where do the wild things go?’ and ‘We look for pack’. Got it? Capisce?”

“Aye, aye,” Stiles salutes.

“Tell those who you’ve agreed to tell,” Lydia reminds. “And if you let anyone else know, let everyone know. Crucial.” She eyes Stiles. “Speaking of crucial, I need to talk to you later.”

“Aye, aye,” he repeats.

 

 

To Derek at 12:43pm: Secret code time: greet or wait to be
greeted with “where do the wild things go”
and the answer is “we look for pack.”

From Derek at 12:56pm: Is this for the Nogitsune?

To Derek at 12:57pm: Yep.

From Derek at 12:58pm: Smart thinking.

To Derek at 1:00pm: Pack thinking.