Chapter Text
The soil is still slightly damp from the rain, and it furrows easily beneath his scrambling claws. He thrashes, leaves flying through the air as he searches for something to hold onto.
“Don’t. Move.” A weight sinks onto his arms, and he stills, throat pulsing and neck bared in a submissive pose. A warm breath pants over him, growling softly.
“Don’t,” he begs, pulling away from the shape, “Please, don’t…” he presses himself back to the ground, putting as much distance between them as possible.
“Don’t?” Scott laughs from where he pins Stiles to the ground. His hands curl into claws, burying into Stiles’ wrists like manacles. “Stiles.” Scott whispers, voice soothing, “We’re brothers. We bleed together, remember?”
Scott’s claws rip out of Stiles’ wrists, only to curl instead into Stiles’ stomach. Stiles knocks his head against the soft ground, a hoarse cry ripping its way out of his throat. His eyes flash down to where the fingers are buried, spotting the red that seeps through his shirt.
“Not like this.”
“But we’re pack.” Stiles looks up at Peter, at the eyes burning red as the man begins to transform, face twisting, “I burn, you burn too.” Teeth are elongating into canines and the one side of his face is melted, twisted and scarred.
His vision blurs and Stiles winces from the heat, struggling free but he’s pinned and trapped and he can’t breathe and…
That’s how Stiles wakes up, still struggling. He’s caught in his bed covers, and they’ve wrapped around him, keeping his arms pinned against him. He tugs them free, breath rushing back into him as he relaxes back because he’s safe.
It was just a dream. Just a dream.
His eyes close, but he can still feel the pinpricks of claws buried in his wrists and the heat of the flames as Peter burns.
“Is it still loud?”
His father leans in the doorway, arms crossed. His brows are furrowed with concern and confusion, as he tries to understand. The Sheriff’s gaze is fixed on where he is curled up, knees to his chest and staring at some lifeless point that only he can see.
The Sheriff sighs.
“It’s always loud,” Stiles’ voice is hoarse. He took the sigh as a prompt to answer, but when his dad doesn’t reply immediately his eyes dart up to look at the man. The worry in his eyes gives him the incentive he needs to uncoil, arms pushing himself up. “Are you okay?”
His dad steps backwards and Stiles freezes. One hand comes up placating, “It’s just a lot to take in. Werewolves, alphas, hunters…” he fixes his gaze on his son, “I’m concerned about you. Have you seen the others since…?” his sentence trails off. He’s either unsure on the details, or unwilling to stir up bad memories.
“Since I burnt to death again?” someone says. Stiles stiffens, and doesn’t turn his head to look at the shadow cast from the man sitting on his desk. He’s bowed over a book, flicking through the pages idly and looking bored.
The Sheriff doesn’t even glance at him.
“No.” Stiles answers the question, pushing himself into a sitting position. He angles his body towards his father, feet dangling off the bed. He turns his head so he doesn’t have to see the shadow by his desk. “They’ve been… calls and texts but I… I turned my phone off.”
His dad sighs, “Stop moping. Please. And go to school.”
“Aren’t you…?” Stiles tilts his head, “I killed people, dad.”
“For the love of god stop saying that,” his dad winces, “Do you want me to have to arrest you? Look,” he takes a deep breath, then steps into the room. It looks like it physically pains him, but he crosses over and sits down on Stiles’ bed. Stiles turns to face him, then ducks his eyes nervously. “Stiles.” His dad says quietly.
He looks up.
“We’ve pinned it all on Kate,” the Sheriff says quietly, “All of it. Including your kidnapping. It helps that they found traces of your blood beneath the Hale house.”
“But Peter and I…?”
“But Peter is dead,” the Sheriff says firmly, he grasps Stiles’ hand, and Stiles can feel the connection, the solid anchor and around him the world is fuzzy and pleasant. “Peter killed those people, Stiles. Not you. Peter.”
Stiles can’t talk. There’s a lump in his throat.
“Go to school, Stiles. Talk to Scott.” His dad looks earnest, “Talk to Lydia. Talk to Allison. Talk to them all.”
“I don’t know,” Stiles huffs quietly, “Allison may stab me again.”
His dad pats him on the shoulder. He doesn’t say anything, but his support is there. Stiles knows his dad isn’t happy about any of what occurs. Nobody would be. But his dad accepts what he did, and to some extent has forgiven him.
Stiles doesn’t think he deserves it. If he’s being honest he doesn’t want it, but at this point he’ll take anything he can get.
Because his dad stands, hand leaving Stiles’ skin and the world rushes back in, every sound and smell screaming in his ears.
“Go to school,” his dad whispers in the doorway before vanishing into the maelstrom of noise. With a sigh Stiles shoves the bed covers back, gaze skimming over the room for his school stuff.
“I guess you’ll be needing these again, then.” The figure perched on his desk drawls; fingers tapping on a pair of headphones where they sit perched on his computer. Stiles stares at them, but doesn’t look at the man.
He’s not even real. He can’t be real. It’s all in Stiles’ head and it’s just a testament to how messed up he is.
Because Peter Hale is dead.
That, at least, is one good thing that came out of everything.
The dress hangs straight and black in the darkness of her locker. It makes her stomach churn a little; because she knows that wearing it is going to be a lie. Black should suggest mourning.
And while Allison is just a little bit sad that she is never going to see her almost-sister again, the main emotion she is feeling should not be relief.
“Nice dress,” someone says, eyeing it up and down. He has the sort of look that might suggest that he’s imagining her in it.
“Nice camera,” she waves at the expensive looking thing hanging around his neck. He looks happy, and so she takes that as a win, turning back to her locker.
Voices drift over and she pauses, hand out. “Not her sister,” someone whispers, “Her aunt. The one who murdered all those people.”
Her outstretched hand clenches into a fist. Kate had murdered people, true, but stupidly enough not the ones those people are thinking of.
Another girl leans over, “You mean the crazy bitch who killed all those people?” she says in disbelief.
“Yeah, the fire, all those animal attacks… it was her aunt.”
It’s always going to be like this now, Allison thinks. Everyone is going to hear her name and think of her aunt. They’ll think she’s the same, because she has the same blood running through their veins.
But she’s not the same.
Allison protects people.
“Are you kidding? I sit next to her in English.”
“Find a new seat,” the first girl whispers, scoffing in disgust.
A locker slams closed and Allison flinches. Angry words ring out.
But they’re not directed to her.
“Are you really as stupid as you look? Do you really think that just because she knew Kate, that she’s anything like her? I met Kate. She’s like everyone else at first glance. Did you think Allison had anything to do with those murders? You think she even knew about them?”
Allison spins around, and then stares. Because it’s Stiles. It’s Stiles standing there, glaring at the two gossiping girls who are regarding him with open mouths.
She hasn’t seen Stiles since he limped off on Friday night, battered and still dripping black blood from where her blades had been stabbed into his arms.
Now he stands in front of her. It’s the middle of the week, and Scott had attempted to visit Stiles, only to be turned away from a sad eyed Sheriff.
“He knows.” Scott had told her, “Stiles told his dad. The Sheriff knows.”
“Didn’t you spend the weekend in the trunk of a car?” one of the girls narrows her eyes at Stiles. “Wasn’t it her aunt that kidnapped you?” the girl’s eyes glance between Stiles and Allison and back.
“Do you really have nothing better to do than gossip and spread rumours?” Stiles sneers, stepping forwards.
The girl laughs, “Did you know it was her aunt?” she asks, “Did you tell the police or did you keep quiet?”
“How about you shut up?!” Stiles takes another step forwards, and there is just enough of a snarl in his voice for Allison to move to intercept him. She grabs onto his upper arm without thinking, tugging him backwards.
“Stiles, don’t. Stiles - leave it alone…”
He yanks his arm out of her grip, other hand flying to hold onto the place she had grabbed him. He meets her gaze, eyes wide. He looks both terrified and assessing, “Don’t touch me,” he snaps, stumbling backwards slightly.
“Weird,” the second girl mutters, slinking away from them. “You guys are weird.”
Stiles’ shoulders hunch in on themselves, defensively. He ducks his head, beginning to turn away. He’s just stepped in and taken the brunt of the anger and gossip from the pupils and that…?
Allison is grateful for it.
“Stiles, wait.” She slams her locker closed and Stiles flinches slightly. He’s shaking his head, grabbing onto his bag’s strap for support and turning away. “Thank you.” she blurts out.
He freezes. “Why?” his voice is hoarse, “Why are you thanking me?”
Allison glances in the direction the girls had vanished. “For defending me. You of all people didn’t have to.”
His face grows cold, “What do you mean ‘me of all people’?” he frowns, stepping backwards again away from her, “You know what? Never mind. Just… just… drop it.”
He spins away, and Allison shoulders her bag, stepping after him, “Stiles, wait.” He doesn’t stop, so she just keeps up after him, “I’ve got to go to a funeral this afternoon with cameras and people watching me and judging me and it just helps to know that at least someone supports me.”
Stiles has his head ducked, still walking away.
“This afternoon I have to go and cry for a woman I don’t miss. I have to go and put on a farce for my parents.”
“And what do you want me to do?” Stiles snaps at her over his shoulder.
“I’m trying to say ‘thank you’.” Allison speeds up her pace, “Just accept it.”
Stiles stops so suddenly, whirling around until he is nose to nose with her. “Are you grateful?” he frowns, “Are you happy that our little deal worked out? That Peter got Kate killed, and then Scott and Derek arrived in time to get Peter killed? Are you going to go to a funeral of a woman you helped kill?”
“Are you happy Peter’s dead?” Allison gives up trying to thank Stiles for sticking up for her. She lashes out, “Are you happy now you no longer have to kill anybody or do you miss that?”
Stiles’ face twists between several expressions quickly. Emotions flash across his face: shock, hurt, want, pain, anger. His eyes flicker up and he opens his mouth to reply, but something stops him. His head tilts to one side as if he’s listening to someone or something, gaze flicking over her shoulder to something.
Allison glances over her shoulder, but the corridor is empty. She turns back, just as the door behind Stiles opens.
“Stiles?”
Stiles is still facing her, so Allison is able to watch the way the blood literally drains out of his face. His shoulders stiffen and his head ducks slightly. It looks unnatural on Stiles. Wrong.
Behind him Scott is standing in the door way to the locker room, eyes wide and fixed on Stiles. There is tension that crackles in the air as Stiles glances slowly and hesitantly over his shoulder to Scott.
“Move it,” Jackson shoves his way out of the locker room, breaking the silence. Jackson doesn’t even look at Stiles, resolutely marching past the trio. He storms off and startled suddenly into moving, Scott steps backwards into the locker room out of the way.
“Are you back at school?” Scott asks, eagerly, “Dude, why didn’t you tell me? Coach was missing you. Your lacrosse shadow - what’s his name - he got piled up with paperwork about game strategies and…”
“And I didn’t think you’d want me back,” Stiles’ voice is still rough. It still sounds like he’s had claws scrape his throat out. It sounds broken, and Scott swallows, because even though he’s been avoiding them, the issues still sit between them unsaid.
“I--“ Scott gets cut off again as Danny and another guy push out. Stiles looks like he’s going to let them shove him away, use it as an excuse to vanish but then Coach spots him.
“Stilinski! Where the hell have you been? I need you over here! You and Lahey - we’re talking winning strategies!”
Stiles is wide-eyed and looks like a startled deer for a second, then he springs back so quickly Allison is surprised he isn’t experiencing whiplash. A smile breaks out across his face and he positively bounds forwards towards Coach.
It’s fake. But Allison can’t tell. If it wasn’t for the fact she knows Stiles is a bruised-eyed shaking wreck, she’d actually believe the lie.
“Hey Coach! I’m sorry I was off sick - you know, one of those winter vomiting bugs that you catch from snotty freshmen and has you puking every minute of the day--“
Allison steps forwards, ducking her head to talk to Scott. It’s a mere illusion of privacy, especially from Stiles, but at least nobody else will overhear. “Are you okay?” she asks.
Scott is gazing at Stiles with something akin to concern on his face, “Yes,” he frowns down at her, “Why wouldn’t I be? I mean… I know what happened and all but I… I don’t blame him.” He shakes his head, “Is he expecting us to turn our backs and ignore him or something?”
She shakes her head, “Is he okay, Scott? Have you guys talked?”
“Not since that night.”
“You need to speak to him.”
“His dad wouldn’t let me see him. He wasn’t taking calls or texts and I… I didn’t want to push things by using his window.”
“You use my window.”
“Because your dad will shoot me if I walk through your door.”
He stares at her, and she bites her lip, hating the reminder that they shouldn’t be here. They can’t be together because of what he is and her family. She remembers her dad’s gun, pressed to Scott’s temple. She remembers her mother snapping open her closet doors, as if she expected to find Scott hiding amongst her shirts or Derek randomly stalking her again.
There are only so many times Allison can sneak a werewolf into her room without getting caught.
And now her parents know what to look for.
“Argent, this is the boys changing rooms.” Finstock has finished talking to Stiles and is now frowning at where Allison stands with Scott.
“I’m aware of that,” Allison nods at the Coach, and then ignores him and proceeds to turn to where Stiles is fidgeting, hand moving impatiently, “The three of us need to talk about the other night.”
Finstock just looks from Scott to Stiles to Allison, back to Stiles, back to Allison and then to Scott again. “I’m not even going to ask,” he says, turning his back and walking away to his office, leaving them alone in the locker room. Allison blushes slightly, but focusses her gaze on Stiles.
“No, enough of you guys talking,” Stiles steps forwards, “It’s my turn, okay? Because first of all what do you want me to do now? Apologise? Say I’m sorry? I’m sorry. I’m sorry you got hurt. But I’m not sorry that Kate is dead. I’m not sorry that Peter killed all those people. Hell I’m not even sure if I’m sorry I killed those people.”
He pauses for a moment, eyes darting between them, and then to a third location before flicking back.
“But Peter’s dead. Peter’s dead and I don’t have a pack, anymore. I’m not joining Derek. I’m not… I… I don’t want anything to do with any more alphas or packs or anything.” His hand slashes across the air violently, “I told my dad. I told him everything. He doesn’t believe half of it, and when he does he doesn’t know what to think. But I can’t…” Stiles shakes his head, “I just can’t, anymore, Scott. I can’t.” He doesn’t even specify what he can’t. He just stops it there, gaze fixed on Scott.
“For what it’s worth,” Scott says, quietly. “I forgive you. For joining Peter, for stopping me that night…”
“I ripped you apart.” Stiles narrows his eyes at Scott.
“And then Allison stabbed you and left you for dead,” Scott sighs, “I think we all did things we regret.”
“I’m sorry.” Stiles whispers again, but he steps backwards. He’s still isolating himself from them, defending himself from whatever they say or do. Allison remembers what it felt like to slide a blade across the beta werewolf’s flesh and how easy it was to pin him to the tree, swipes already weakening the moment the wolfsbane entered his system.
Scott shakes his head. “It’s not me you need to apologise to.” He says, finally, “It’s Lydia.”
“Some moral support this is,” Stiles frowns from where he is leaning behind a gravestone. He looks like he wants to make another sarcastic comment but refrains, glancing nervously instead at Scott.
It had been Scott’s idea after all, to drag Stiles to the funeral. Scott hasn’t seen Stiles since that night, and they haven’t really spoken yet about anything important. There’s not much to say, Scott thinks. What can he say apart from ‘I’m sorry Peter’s dead so your senses are out of whack again’ or ‘I forgive you for clawing up my intestines, especially considering I was trying to stab you with a tranquiliser at the time’?
Scott doesn’t say anything, crouched behind his own stone angel and peering around to where Allison is arriving. News crews hound the gates, and the police are there to keep them back, including Stiles’ dad.
Stiles’ dad. The Sheriff. Who knows about werewolves.
Scott’s surprised he didn’t answer the door with a gun when Scott showed up. Instead he just shook his head and relayed that Stiles didn’t want to see him. It was the same the second time. The third time the elder Stilinski finally stepped outside after Scott insisted the importance of the situation and told him that he knew.
Knew about werewolves. About Derek. About hunters. About Peter.
About the murders.
Scott glances over at where Stiles has his head tilted to one side, frowning slightly as he tries to focus his hearing on what the Argents are saying.
Because Peter’s dead now. Peter and Kate are dead and so they can move on and leave everything behind.
“God, that guy is creepy,” Stiles frowns at someone who is crouched down with a camera, “He was talking to Allison earlier but I don’t know his name. He’s one of Jackson’s clique.”
“You mean Matt?” Scott frowns at the photographer. He can hear the shutter and it’s almost continuous, picture after picture after…
Someone steps between them, dark clothing and a balding head. He looks down on Matt, standing straight but there is still something about him that looks crooked. “This looks expensive,” he snatches the camera from around Matt’s neck, tilting it this way and that.
“Yeah,” Matt says, “Nine hundred bucks.” He looks nervous, and the older man just appears to enjoy that as he slides out a memory card.
“And how expensive is that?” he asks, seconds before he cracks it in half and tosses it to the floor, before handing the camera back. Scott winces, and the man turns. For a moment Scott is convinced the old man is looking right at him and he falls back, eyes wide. Stiles shoots him a funny look.
“Who the hell is that?”
Stiles stiffens, and Scott decides to not even get involved in this right now. Instead he turns to the new arrival, shrugging from where he has half fallen to the ground. “I have no idea.” He tells Lydia, where she crouches low to the ground in hiding, but still is wearing a ridiculously short skirt and heels.
“Gerard,” Stiles frowns, not looking at Lydia. “Chris called him Gerard. He’s definitely an Argent.” Stiles peers around his gravestone at where the old man is talking to Allison. Allison looks nervous, she keeps pushing her hair behind her ear and nodding.
“They could just be here for the funeral.” Lydia ducks her head, looking at where the Argent family sit, “Maybe they’re the non-hunting side of the family.”
Stiles scoffs and Lydia shoots him a glare. Scott just shakes his head, “They’re reinforcements,” he says, “This can never just end with one person’s death, because there’s always someone else out for revenge,” he glances at Stiles who is pointedly looking away.
Someone clears their throat behind them and Scott and Lydia jump. Stiles startles too, but relaxes quicker when he sees his dad standing there.
“Should I even ask?” the Sheriff looks from Scott to Lydia and then to Stiles.
Stiles shrugs, “I went to school.” He says, slightly petulantly. “I even talked to Scott. See?” he points to where Scott is still crouched behind the stone angel with Lydia.
The Sheriff does not look impressed. “I would drag you out of here, but I’ve been informed two of you are supernaturally inclined. So instead I’m going to look disapprovingly at you and you’re going to follow me.” He gestures at them to stand up, and after glancing towards where the service is taking place, Scott does so. Stiles follows more reluctantly, shrinking in on himself slightly as the Sheriff begins to move away, the three of them trailing behind him.
“Are you here for the funeral?” Lydia asks, curiously. “Do you know who that guy is?”
“Gerard Agent,” The Sheriff follows her gaze, “Chris and Kate’s father. And in part: I’m here for the funeral. The other part is that there was a grave desecration last night. This kid saw it. Some kid called Isaac Lahey.”
Stiles wrinkles his nose, “Lahey?” he asks, “Number 14 lacrosse?”
“He said he played lacrosse. He had a black eye from it. A quiet kid though and doesn’t strike me as the type to get into a fight.”
“Isaac doesn’t play lacrosse.” Scott frowns, “He sits on the bench with Stiles.”
“What were you interviewing Isaac about?” Lydia frowns.
“A grave robbery.”
“What did they take? Jewellery?”
“No. A liver.”
“Why is there a liver missing?” Stiles frowns, his hands waving about in their usual dance as they come to a halt outside the Sheriff’s car.
“You think I know?” Lydia snaps, because she doesn’t have the answers. And there’s something about Stiles that just puts her on edge.
“Who the hell would take a liver?” Stiles just keeps talking. He hasn’t looked at Lydia once since she appeared to find Scott. She hadn’t been expecting Stiles to be there at all, but she remembers the last time she saw him, the way he had all but broken down as the alpha had burned.
“Dude, I don’t know.” Scott shrugs.
“Do you think it’s supernatural?” Stiles asks, “I mean… I didn’t get any cravings at all…”
“I just thought about Allison,” Scott reflects soppily. “A lot.”
“Maybe,” Lydia reasons, “Maybe there are some monsters that eat human flesh…”
The Sheriff frowns at them, but then his radio buzzes and he leans forwards to answer it. “I didn’t copy that.” He frowns.
“4-1-5-Adam.”
“Did you say 4-1-5 Adam?” The Sheriff is frowning.
“Disturbance in a car,” Stiles tells Scott and Lydia, focussed on his dad with a sudden single mindedness that makes Lydia feel sorry for how much Stiles cares for his one remaining parent.
The radio buzzes again. “They were taking a heart attack victim - D.O.A. But on the way to the hospital, something hit 'em.”
“What?” The Sheriff blinks, “Hit the ambulance?”
“Copy that. I'm standing in front of it right now. Something got in the back. There's blood everywhere. And I mean everywhere.”
“All right, unit 4, what's your 20?”
“Route 5 and post. I swear, I've never seen anything like this.”
“All right, take it easy. I'm on my way.”
Scott exchanges a look with Stiles that Lydia doesn’t miss. She shakes her head. “No.” she tells them both, “No, we are not checking this out. That is final.”
“I hate you guys.” Lydia slips out of the Sheriff’s cruiser, and Scott follows. Stiles clambers out of the passenger door, hanging onto it as he stares to where the ambulance sits.
“Okay, you three have to stay back,” Stiles’ dad tells them, “I shouldn’t have brought you here in the first place…”
“But you need the perspective.” Stiles argues, “Because what if this was a werewolf or something.”
Stiles’ dad closes his eyes, “Just because I’ve accepted you’re a werewolf, doesn’t mean I immediately assume each and every crime is supernatural in origin before looking at the most likely normal option. So you three stay back. Scram. When I’ll finish I’ll give you a lift back.”
“That’s disgusting,” Lydia catches a glimpse of the blood coated ambulance and turns away. Next to her Stiles twitches slightly, but steps backwards, watching as his dad heads forwards towards the scene of the crime. He doesn’t take his eyes off his father, watching attentively. “Nothing is going to get him,” Lydia says, quietly, “Your dad can look after himself.”
Stiles says nothing, which is rare for him. He just glances at her silently.
“Hey… guys… I think I see something.” Scott stumbles a few steps off into the woods. Lydia turns, and she catches a glimpse of something running quickly through the trees.
“Scott, don’t.” She gets out, but Scott’s already gone, feet pounding on the ground as he takes off.
Stiles turns, eyes wide, “Oh what now?” he asks in exasperation. He looks torn, glancing between his dad and Scott’s vanishing form before with a frustrated growl he takes off after Scott.
Lydia doesn’t even hesitate.
She takes off after him.
“Well this is great.” Lydia slows to a halt next to where Stiles has his eyes closed, trying to locate Scott but his face in scrunched up in a manner that suggests his senses are processing too much information to be able to pinpoint his friend. “You lost him.”
Stiles’ eyes flash open, flaring blue, “Scott’s the one who took off.” He snapped.
“And you’re a werewolf,” Lydia rolls her eyes, “You should be able to keep up with him.”
“Why don’t you track him then,” Stiles scoffs, “If you know what werewolves should be able to do.”
Lydia swallows and Stiles’ eyes widen. He steps backwards, and Lydia is grateful for the space as she tries not to think about the wound on her wrist.
“I’m sorry,” Stiles whispers, and she has no idea what he’s apologising for. Except she thinks she does.
“Don’t.” she shakes her head, “It’s over. Peter’s dead. I set him alight.”
Stiles laughs, weakly, “Peter may be dead, but I’m not. Are you going to burn me alive too?” he’s overdramatic, Lydia thinks, and then decides to just go for it. She tugs up the sleeve of her jacket, and shows Stiles the bandages.
“I didn’t heal,” she says, “I haven’t turned.” Stiles’ eyes are fixed on the bite uncomprehending. She spells it out for him. “I’m not a werewolf.”
“So what are you then?” Stiles trips his way after Lydia as they wander around the woods looking for Scott. “Peter told me the bite either turns you or kills you.”
Lydia just snorts, “Well in case you didn’t notice: Peter likes to lie.”
“He said it was a disease. Maybe you’re immune to it or something?” Stiles frowns, “Maybe your body is strong enough to fight off the virus and not die. Maybe your blood has special antibodies that actually hold the key to a cure.”
“Do you want a cure?” Lydia turns, and Stiles unconsciously grabs at her hand to tug her out of the way of a tree she almost walks into. She falls towards him and he catches her, supporting her and she freezes, breath catching in her throat.
Then she pulls away. He sighs, “No,” he shakes his head, “I don’t know, I mean… Scott does.”
“I wasn’t asking about Scott,” Lydia pauses to look at Stiles, really look at him for the first time since the formal. Since they spent a good portion of that lip-locked, right up until Peter sank his teeth into her wrist and stole her date for the night.
Stiles is pale. There are dark shadows under his eyes and he doesn’t look like he’s been sleeping. Lydia hasn’t sleep well, but at least she knows how to cover it up. As if aware of her gaze Stiles looks up at her, and for a moment she realises just how vulnerable Stiles is.
Then his gaze hardens and he straightens, stepping forwards, “I don’t want a cure,” he says. Lydia wishes she had turned if only so she would have the werewolf hearing to tell if he’s lying or not.
She steps past him, “Do you miss having a pack?” she asks him.
There’s a pause as Stiles picks his way over a tree branch after her, “It’s easier in a pack. You’re stronger.”
“Like strength in numbers.”
“No, literally faster and stronger.”
“Derek’s the alpha now. Are you going to join his pack?” Lydia asks, curiously. “Would that make him stronger?”
“I don’t want to be in Derek’s pack,” Stiles chokes out, “Not after he… No. Just no.”
Lydia hums, “What about us? Do we count as pack even though we’re human?”
“Would you count me as pack?” Stiles’ voice twists, “Do you even count me as a friend anymore?”
She sighs, and kicks at a stone sitting on the ground. It rolls away with a clink. “I’m not longer in the mood to make out with you,” she points out, because that’s true. She doesn’t think she could trust Stiles for that. Not to mention Stiles would bring in emotions that she hadn’t even known existed towards her. She doesn’t need those complications, “But friends? Yeah. We’re friends.”
“But what--“ Stiles pauses, then shouts out suddenly, alarmed, “Wait, Lydia!”
“What?” she asks impatiently, spinning around to him, eyes wide. Stiles isn’t staring at her, he’s staring past her.
“How the hell did we get here?” he whispers, as if he hasn’t even been aware of where he’s been walking, “Lydia… this is the Hale House.”
She turns around. He’s right. The house is as wrecked as ever and now there are extra holes from the fight with the alpha last week. There are also bullet holes everywhere. Lydia finds herself drawn to the place, and her fingers trace the door. It creaks gently open under her touch.
There are footsteps behind her and Stiles stumbles in after her, “Seriously?” he hisses, “This place gives me the creep.” He mumbles, “I don’t think Scott’s here.”
Lydia keeps moving. She feels like she’s in a trance, muscles moving without her really being aware of it. She steps forwards, turning to the room that is the most destroyed, furniture shattered and the window broken in. There is a mirror and over it trails a deep purple flower.
It creeps down and down to the floor, where the boards looks clawed up and as if they’ve been rearranged slightly, to accommodate something underneath. Lydia edges around the spot, staring down at it. The smell of earth is strong enough that even her human nose can smell it, but it’s mixed with the bitter scent of ash.
She glances up. Stiles still stands in the doorway but his gaze is fixed on the same patch of floor she had been examining. He looks up at her, and their gazes meet. The odd patch of floor sits in the middle of that, and Lydia thinks it’s ironic that it separates them, even in death.
Because Lydia knows that underneath the floorboards and wrapped in wolfsbane lies Peter Hale’s body.