Chapter Text
It was a cloudy Friday afternoon and Scott and Stiles were cheerfully planning out a weekend full of gaming and junk food the likes of which they hadn’t indulged in since before the bite. Fresh out of the changing rooms after lacrosse practice the two friends meandered slowly out into the school parking lot bantering back and forth playfully, pretending for just a little bit longer that everything was ordinary – that they were as carefree as any other high school boys just two weeks into their senior year.
But then Scott’s nose wrinkled, and he turned suddenly serious, focusing all his enhanced werewolf senses towards the distant trees.
Stiles’ heart sank. In some way he knew this was inevitable – that the peace and quiet after the supernatural devastation of the previous year could only last so long.
“What is it?” Stiles asked after a brief pause.
Scott didn’t look like he wanted to answer, but he forced it out anyway. “Another wolf. Not Isaac.”
“Derek?”
Scott’s features soured at hearing the name. “No.”
It had been silly of him to ask – Scott would have recognized Derek. But it had been nine months since either of them had heard from or seen the other werewolf in the immediate aftermath of the Alpha Pack’s brutal slaughter. Nine months of an uneasy calm, almost as if in reverence to their staggering losses.
“Smells more like… well, more like Erica did.” Added Scott after another pause, hesitating on her name.
Stiles sighed. “So much for Black Ops then, I take it.”
“They could just be passing through.” But Scott sounded like he was trying to convince himself more than Stiles.
“Except…” Prompted Stiles.
“I smell blood. Pain.” Scott answered softly. And being the bleeding heart that Stiles knew he was, Scott wasn’t going to ignore whoever this strange werewolf turned out to be.
A light sprinkle of cold rain began falling rather ominously just moments later.
\§\§\§\
After finishing his own meal, Stiles wrapped cling film tightly over the plate of food he had prepared for his dad to eat when he finally made it home from work. Stiles left it out on the counter before turning his attention to cleaning up – mechanically filling up the dishwasher and scrubbing at the pots and pans while trying not to think about what Scott and Isaac might find out in the woods without him.
Stiles had volunteered to help with the search, but Scott just shook his head. The scent was faint, and Stiles was too slow on foot to be of much use. Besides, Scott knew firsthand from his job at the vet clinic how dangerous an injured animal could be, how easy it was for them to lash out in fear and desperation, how quick they were to feel threatened even by those trying to offer aid.
It wasn’t until after Stiles had brushed his teeth and settled into bed that his phone finally buzzed. However, given Stiles heightened state of anxiety, Scott’s text update was woefully inadequate:
Lost the trail in the rain. Will try again tomorrow.
Stiles tersely replied back:
Then I’m helping. No arguments.
There was a delay, probably because Scott very much wanted to argue before:
Sweep Preserve roads with the Jeep. If we find her, need to get to Deaton ASAP.
A low rumble of thunder from outside and the pelting of the rain on Stiles’ bedroom window answered the question as to why Scott would give up the hunt if the situation was so dire.
Despite the noise of the storm, Stiles heard his father heating up the plate of food back up in the microwave downstairs. In a few minutes the Sheriff would come up, gently knock on Stiles’ door, peak inside, and wish him a good night. It was a routine the two of them had maintained for a long time now. Their relationship was slowly mending from the fragile state it had been reduced to when Stiles had to continuously lie about why his father came home to an empty house more often than not.
Was this new werewolf a sign of things to come? Were they in danger once again?
Most likely.
Stiles didn’t want to inadvertently give anything away – didn’t want his traitorous mouth to run away into anxious babbling if his father asked about how his day had gone. So he quickly turned out the light, snuggled into the covers, and tried to even out his breathing to mimic sleep.
\§\§\§\
The pleasant scent of petrichor and pine permeated the air surrounding the damp remains of the Hale house the following morning.
Stiles was supposed to be helping with the search, but his divided attention had led him down this familiar path into the woods out of habit. He got out of his Jeep and walked towards the skeletal structure half hoping that something would look different than all the other times he had come there alone over the past few months. But after a quick inspection, nothing looked out of place.
Scott was more altruistic than Stiles could ever be. He was concerned about the nameless injured and potentially dying werewolf in only a vague way that one feels about victims of catastrophes half a world away on the nightly news. Stiles insisted on helping with the search because he wanted information. He spent a few moments feeling guilty about it as he wasted time double-checking that the Hale house was well and truly deserted.
Some of the back porch remained untouched by the fire and the encroaching elements. Not much, but it did offer a semi-dry square big enough for Stiles to sit down and plan his next move. But once seated he found his thoughts drifting further and further away from his appointed task.
Nearby in the same clearing that Stiles and Scott had so callously disturbed Laura Hale’s grave – which felt like ages ago now – he suspected more remains lay beneath the earth without markers. He wasn’t quite brave enough to ever check, of course, but there had never been any formal closure to the end of Derek’s second pack. No funerals.
Erica and Boyd were still considered missing persons. But Stiles knew better.
Peter was dead again – for good this time.
Jackson had been spirited away by his family to some private school on the East Coast.
The two remaining Argents had moved away as well. Stiles was secretly relieved, even though he knew that Scott missed Allison terribly.
Lydia was stubbornly pretending that none of it had ever happened.
And Isaac, feeling betrayed and lost, had clung to Scott for comfort in the bleak aftermath.
The longer Stiles thought about it, the less surprised he was that Derek had left Beacon Hills without so much as a goodbye. There simply wasn’t any reason for him to stay.
Without much thought, Stiles picked up a softball-sized rock near his foot and brushed away the mud. They weren’t ready to face another supernatural threat – they were too vulnerable. Too few.
He placed the rock beside him on the wooden porch, got up, and went searching for another… and then another.
Soon he had a small, carefully stacked pile of rocks with smaller ones the size of walnuts carefully balanced on top. He didn’t plan it – he just needed to keep his hands busy. But it looked an awful lot like a memorial.
Maybe he needed one.
Stiles left what remained of the Hale house and returned to the Jeep. He dutifully swept the roads he could access along the perimeter of the Preserve for any signs of the new werewolf for two and a half hours more before Scott called saying they had found her.
\§\§\§\
“Her name is Reina. That’s all I found out before she passed out.” Scott said. He, Isaac, and Stiles were waiting just outside Deaton’s in a rather intimate huddle after their mad dash back into town.
“She’s… so young.” Stiles couldn’t help but say.
“But Deaton can help her, right Scott? She’s going to be alright?” Isaac asked, ever hopeful.
Scott just shook his head and shrugged. There had been a lot of blood.
Stiles, easily seeing that that wasn’t what Isaac had wanted for an answer, quickly cut in with, “I’ve seen Deaton fix worse.” It wasn’t a lie either.
“Did she seem… feral?” Stiles needed to ask next – already guessing at the answer.
“No.” Scott said confidently.
That meant she wasn’t a lone wolf. And the fact that she wasn’t healing from her injuries meant that more powerful werewolves were likely not too far behind.
“What do you think happened?” Isaac asked.
This time Stiles shook his head. He could guess, or they could wait and try and find out from Reina herself.
Stiles used supplies from Deaton’s to clean the blood from the back of his Jeep – something he has had way too much experience doing for a seventeen-year-old. Scott bought them all chicken wraps and fries from a nearby fast-food restaurant for a much-needed lunch as they waited for Deaton to emerge from the back room.
When they were finally let back inside, Reina was awake and alert enough for them to ask their questions. She had dark eyes and hair with silver star stud earrings. It was amazing how much better she looked just with her face and arms washed clean and her hair combed. Deaton must have had a spare non-descript shirt hiding somewhere that fit her slight frame, but her jeans and shoes were still dirty and torn.
“Reina, these are my friends Stiles and Isaac. They helped me bring you here.” Started Scott.
Reina nodded – grateful but wary.
“Er… can you tell us what happened? Where is you pack?” Stiles asked quickly.
“My Alpha is dead.” Reina doesn’t elaborate, he voice flat with forced calm.
Isaac whimpers a little in sympathy – an automatic wolf response he quickly aborts. Her eyes are hard and dry. She doesn’t need their pity.
“Uh… and your pack?” Scott inquired.
Reina looked down at the floor from her perch still on top of Deaton’s shiny exam table. “Those who would not submit were killed. My… my older brother held them off so that I could get away.” Her composure began to slip, but only a little.
“Jesus… um… okay. Who or what are they?” Stiles asked, feeling like a huge jerk and a hypocrite knowing that they might not have time for her to mourn her loss.
“They came from further north. They called themselves a War Pack. There are two factions. Both are growing fast by forming alliances and conscripting the most capable Betas into being their soldiers – or killing Alphas that resist and taking the Betas by force. I… I don’t know any more than that.” Reina said in a rush.
“Are they following you?” Pressed Stiles.
Reina nodded. “The rain two nights ago and the rain last night should slow them down. Even if I lost them, I am not safe here. One or both of the factions will reach this place before long. Tell your Alpha that you need to flee before they arrive. They… they are too many.”
Scott’s posture changed slightly – looking stiff, obviously upset that he wasn’t being recognized as the leader, but unwilling to admit that all the werewolves in Beacon Hills were currently in one room.
“Where will you go?” Isaac asked, prudently avoiding the issue.
Reina gestures behind them where Deaton had retreated to make some phone calls. “Your healer has graciously offered to book me a ticket on a Greyhound to where my aunt lives. I will not tell you where unless you promise to come with me.”
“All on your own?” Isaac added, looking concerned. If Scott was a bleeding heart, then Isaac was a bleeding everything.
Reina’s face went hard once again. “I’m fifteen. I know how to take care of myself.”
Stiles remembers being fifteen. He felt the same way at the time – even if it wasn’t true.
“We can’t go.” Scott answered for them.
Reina just shook her head sadly and didn’t speak to them again. She didn’t even say ‘thank you,’ but they could forgive her the oversight.
She had obviously told her story to Deaton already – probably a lot less coherently – and was only giving them the information that they asked for. Behind her cold façade, they could tell she was terrified and only wanted to leave Beacon Hills to somewhere she could feel safe again.
They each pitched in a little so that she would have some spending money for food or clothes, since Deaton already paid for the bus ticket. She stuffed the money in her pocket wordlessly.
Only a few hours later they followed Deaton’s car to the bus station in the Jeep and watched Reina get onboard from a safe distance. Scott confirmed that her scent trail would be much harder to follow from there, if not impossible with all the ever-changing crowds.
Stiles gets home late, fakes a contented smile, and tells his dad he played video games at Scott’s house all day long.
\§\§\§\
This number is no longer in service.
This number is no longer in service.
This number is no longer in service.
Stiles tries texting or calling Derek on every number and in any way he can think of that night after retreating to his room. But nothing has changed since the last time he tried to contact him. No response.
“Come on, come on. Think.” Stiles mumbled to himself as he paced the length of his room nervously. He wanted to go over to Scott’s, fake a slumber party, and work on their defense strategy right away – but his best friend told him to go home and get some sleep. As if Stiles could go to sleep after what they had just learned.
The enormity of how alone they actually were now that the werewolf population of Beacon Hills had plummeted to two over the last year was just starting to sink in. Would the War Packs ignore them for being so insignificant? Could they remain undetected if they were extra careful not to stray out into the woods? Or would Beacon Hills get claimed by some other werewolves from the approaching hoard regardless of their presence – those who were hellbent on building soldiers to fight in some kind of weird and far-removed supernatural conflict?
It didn’t seem right. Wolves protect their territories and have minor disputes about their borders. Wolves don’t demand an excess beyond what they need to ensure the survival of the pack. Wolves don’t fight actual battles.
But maybe werewolves might?
Derek might know what to do.
Unless Derek was already involved – press-ganged into servitude or, more likely, on the run.
Or he could be…
“Nope. Nope. Not going to think about that.” Stiles said aloud, still pacing. Perhaps Derek was so far away that this wouldn’t affect him at all. But that thought didn’t make Stiles feel any better.
It wasn’t that he didn’t have faith in Scott to keep them safe. However, Scott was more of a ‘swoop in at the last minute’ kind of hero – as he had proved earlier that day, not a skilled negotiator or defense strategist. Stiles realized that they have been incredibly lucky up until then that nothing worse had happened in the nine months they have been on their own. Dumb luck.
Stiles stopped pacing and sat down heavily onto his bed because he was making himself dizzy. Or maybe it was just his nerves making him nauseous, triggering a spike in adrenaline and lightheadedness. He just needed to breathe and think. But he needed to breathe first.
Breathe in. And out.
In and out.
In and out.
Derek needed to be warned whether he was able and willing to help them or not. And if Stiles couldn’t reach him by phone, then we would write him a note like they were still in grade school or something. He would have to hide it where Derek could find it easily if he ever came back to Beacon Hills. Only it would need to be relatively ambiguous in case it fell into the wrong hands. Maybe on red paper to catch his attention but sealed inside plastic or something…
With the beginnings of a plan to work from, Stiles slowly began to calm down as he pulled out a notebook and started drafting what to write.
\§\§\§\
D-
Bad things are coming.
Stay alert.
Call me if you get this.
If I don’t answer, try S & I.
If they don’t answer, run south.
Be safe.
S-
Derek read the note again for what seemed like the hundredth time as he waited. He had traded in his far too easy to recognize Camaro for a generic, silver sedan in Nevada. Interior air circulation made the cab smell rather stale after a few hours, but it meant he could stay a little bit longer in one place.
A week earlier two werewolves had hunted him down, thinking he was feral, and tried to recruit him into joining them on some crusade with promises of belonging to the largest pack ever created.
They were exceptionally persistent. Rival forces caught up with all three of them, however, and Derek only managed to escape his pursuers because they were dead. Killed by what he soon learned was the opposing faction – a War Pack. It was all so absurd.
He had never meant to return to Beacon Hills.
A familiar blue Jeep finally turned the corner, drove up the street, and stopped in front of the Stilinski’s home. Stiles’ clumsy gait as he walked up to his front door, his mop of unruly hair, and his affinity for flannel were enough to confirm that the young man was still safe and whole even if Derek couldn’t catch his scent from so far away. But it meant that Scott would be unlikely to catch Derek’s scent either, which was the whole point.
Stiles looked around nervously as he unlocked his front door, and for a moment Derek thought he had been caught out, despite the tinted glass of his new car. But after a moment, Stiles looked away, ducked inside, and closed the door behind him without displaying any tells of recognition or alarm.
‘Creeper’ he could almost hear Stiles complain anyway.
Derek was pleased that the idiot was being somewhat careful for a split second before a wave of guilt took over. Stiles wouldn’t be looking over his shoulder for potentially murderous werewolves on a Wednesday after school if he had not gotten involved. If Derek had never…
But then Stiles was coming back outside, sans backpack, wearing a flamingo pink polo shirt and a white cap. Some kind of uniform.
Derek sighed and turned the ignition.