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It’s all kinds of uncomfortable, weird, and scary, sitting in the loft as Derek takes in rattling breaths from where he’s lying on his bed, slowly dying. Mostly though, Stiles thinks as he stares down at Derek’s pale body, chest wrapped in gauze that’s seeping with the dark purple-black that the wound has been emitting, it’s sad. The tension in the room is mostly absolute misery.
It’s been two days since Derek was attacked, two days since the big throw down fight with one single omega that should have been more than easy to take down, especially for Derek, an alpha. Instead, when Lydia and Stiles get to Derek, she’s standing threateningly over his unmoving body, eyes bright blue and feral. Lydia’s quick thinking and reflexes gets the omega a knife to the throat, one through her heart, one capped off in her lung before she can finish off Derek or make her move toward them. The knives are made of silver and coated in wolfsbane, and the omega’s eyes go comically wide as she realizes it. She falls even as she pulls the one from her throat, and it’s too late, she’s dead.
She’s dead, but Derek’s not.
And two days later, the entire pack is still gathered around Derek’s bed. They have been for every moment since Deaton had sent them away from the clinic with a salve, a shake of his head, and the words “He might not make it, the omega must’ve been half-witch, these wounds aren’t healing and there’s some dark magic going on in his body right now.”
Stiles watches as Scott slowly unwraps the gauze, the wounds still not having healed at all. The purple-black isn’t the same as wolfsbane poisoning, somehow deeper and darker, but that’s about all they know or can tell. Kira spreads some more of the green salve on the claw marks, stretching from Derek’s right shoulder near to his left hip, and Scott comes behind her with some new gauze, covering near all of Derek’s chest and stomach. A deeper, more rattling breath comes from Derek as the salve glows slightly, reacting with the wounds. Kira and Scott take care of the stuff before sitting back down, and they’re all encompassed in silence again, watching Derek. There’s not a lot of hope in the room, but there’s some, because Derek’s been through worse, and he’s always pulled through. They’ve always pulled through.
It’s nearing nine o’clock when Stiles, who’s sitting in the chair closest to the left side of Derek’s head, feels something. It’s powerful, strong and bright and hot as it surges through him. He feels energized, feels brighter, a bit more alive, can feel his eyes flash, tinge red, and.
“Guys,” he gets out, voice hoarse from disuse and the bit of crying he’s done over the past forty-eight hours. Everyone looks over to him, but his eyes don’t leave Derek’s face as they fill with tears once again. It’s Scott who realizes first, and his face drops.
“No,” he whispers out, and recognition slowly dawns on the rest of the were’s faces – Isaac’s, then Erica’s, Boyd’s, Malia’s. Kira, with senses heightened but not quite as much as the were’s, comes next, and Allison and Lydia take in everyone else’s faces enough to guess.
“He’s dead,” it’s Lydia who eventually says it, voice rough even as she does, and there’s only a short nod from Scott to confirm before Kira starts sobbing. Allison, who’s closest, pulls her into a hug, tears on her own face. Erica and Isaac are clutching each other from their end of the bed, Scott crying silently, Malia’s expression hardened but heartbroken. Lydia looks somewhat resigned, like she expected this outcome all along, yet still sorrowful, tears sliding down her cheeks. Boyd isn’t crying, but looks terrified and lost. There’s a low growl from somewhere in the loft, and then a door slamming – Peter.
Stiles feels his eyes flash as he looks back at Derek’s face; restful, a bit pale. Terribly, depressingly blank. He feels more than actively recognizes the tears wetting his own face.
***
It’s only later, nearing two in the morning, after a long mourning period, whispers to each other, nobody ready to speak quite yet, that Scott eventually looks around, confusion in his expression.
“But, then, who…?” he doesn’t ask the question, doesn’t really need to because it was one that had been discussed before, before, before Scott or Derek had really ever been hurt – who gets the alpha if one of them dies. It had been asked more in jest than anything else, more wondering in a research capacity than thinking it would ever happen.
For Scott, they’d thought it would probably be Isaac, or Derek if that’s how it worked. For Derek, it was either his second, Boyd, or Scott if that’s how it worked.
But Stiles takes a deep breath, lets out a tear-roughened, “Me” as his eyes flash again, looking around at the pack. The were’s eyes flash back at the command, automatically, and a few jaws drop, because that doesn’t make a lot of sense. Stiles was smart and useful in his own right, but his spark was only just starting to turn into any real magic, and he was definitely still human, technically.
Everyone falls silent again as they take this in, and through the alpha bond Stiles can feel even what he’s thinking himself; confusion, curiosity, and mostly still pure sadness.
This, he thinks, they can figure out tomorrow. This is something that can wait. Derek – he can’t. They need to work through that – they need to call Cora, fuck. They need to –
“We’ll go to Deaton in the morning,” Scott says in his ‘this is final this is what we’re doing’ voice, still as ever trusting of the man as they’d ever been, though the rest of them had gotten more suspicious over the years. Stiles is about to open his mouth, argue that they can deal with it later, when Scott sighs and speaks again.
“He’s going on that trip to Japan with your mother tomorrow,” he explains, nodding to Kira, “And they’ll be gone for at least a week. Might as well know what we’re facing before that.”
So Stiles doesn’t argue.
***
“I’m not a wolf, or any type of were, or even anything supernatural, besides whatever tiny amount of magic my spark affords me,” Stiles argues, following Deaton back to the operation area, where some of the thousands of different stones, potions, and herbs he has reside. Scott and Lydia are right beside him, both looking worse for the wear and Stiles knows he is, too, but what else can be expected? They none of them have slept much if at all in three days, there’s still Derek, still dead and laying in his bed because none of them have had the strength to move him, yet.
Deaton, looking somewhat downtrodden at the news but mostly still his ever-calm self with the relatively blank face, joins them around the table, a small dark purple crystal in his hand.
“Hold this,” he tells Stiles, handing him the rock, “Fate, as we will call It, does not care that you aren’t supernatural or a were. It doesn’t work based on someone’s status, necessarily, though that is how things normally work out, yes.”
“It works based on worthiness,” Lydia speaks up, getting one of few rare smiles from the vet.
“Exactly,” he continues with a nod at Lydia, looking back down at where Stile is still holding the crystal, sitting calmly in the palm of his hand, “Apparently you, Mr. Stilinski, are – ”
“The worthiest candidate in the pack, yeah, I get that,” Stiles rolls his eyes, “I understand how it works. What I don’t understand is how I’m the worthiest. I’m not a supernatural being, or a wolf, or the most loyal, or the best leader, or – ”
“Except perhaps you are. Maybe not the most of any of those qualities you’re thinking of, but an alpha must be all those things, not just one or another. You may not think you’re the most loyal but you’re extremely so; you may not think of yourself as the best leader but you have excellent leadership qualities. You’re intelligent, knowledgeable, cunning, a good decision maker, and most of all, apparently ready. Fate knows what It’s doing, and It knows you are ready to be an alpha. An alpha, particularly, of this pack.”
It’s perhaps the most Deaton’s ever said to Stiles, and the nicest thing, even with all the training sessions Stiles has done with Deaton over the past six months since deciding to further train his spark, so Stiles just stares at him for a moment.
“Why didn’t Scott just get the powers, then? Since he’s already proven himself to be a good alpha?” Lydia asks, the question also the next one on Stiles’ tongue.
“Because Stiles is a better candidate,” Scott is the one who says it, making everyone look over to him.
“Stiles has always been a better candidate for the job than me, I think,” Scott continues with a nod to himself, “He would’ve been a better ‘wolf off the bat than I was, has since the beginning been what makes me a good leader, forces me to make decisions I don’t want to make and is better at, um, at reading people. I think the only reason I became a True Alpha instead of him was because I was a ‘wolf and he wasn’t. He could’ve since the beginning, and now that we’re a real pack with intertwining ties, he, uh, got the powers he could have used better than me all along.”
“Right,” Deaton agrees, and Stiles looks at both of them, overwhelmed by all of this, before his eyes land on Lydia, who’s looking back at him with a hint of a smile on her lips.
“You’re a True Alpha, very powerful and now doubt a good alpha, Scott, but Fate thought the powers belonged to you, Mr. Stilinski.
“And,” he continues, even as Stiles opens his mouth to interrupt, “It appears as if you are, definitively, the alpha.”
He gestures to the rock in Stiles’ palm, which is now glowing bright purple. Stiles drops it to the examination table quickly, eyes wide and flashing red again.
“I’m an alpha. A human alpha?” Stiles asks again, just for absolute clarification. He knows his voice comes out a bit strangled, but out of all the things that could possibly happen to him, being a somewhat magical human in a variety of very mythical creatures, becoming their leader was not one of them he’d ever thought of.
“A spark, but yes, a human alpha,” Deaton nods in agreement.
Stiles takes a deep breath, turning to find both Scott and Lydia staring at him with expressions he knew all too well.
This was going to be very interesting.