Archive of Our Own ^beta

Derek stares down at the water under the bridge. It seems a strange cross between beautiful and haunting this late at night—it’s blacker than the sky, and surely freezing, but there’s something calming about how the winter wind sends ripples across its otherwise still surface.

He wonders how long it will take the water to settle again once his body hits it.

Drowning, when it comes down to it, seems like a terrible way to go. It’s going to be an effort, after all. The bridge isn’t high enough that the fall will kill him, and his enhanced abilities will let him survive a little longer than most, but it’s probably one of the easier ways for a werewolf to die.

Better than in a fire, certainly.

He pushes the morbid thought away. No sense in thinking about things like that now.

He readjusts his grip on the rail, peering out farther across the water, and pulls the note from his pocket one last time.

Alpha Hale, it reads, and he can practically feel the sneer on Deucalion’s face. The clinical, rudimentary way it talks about his packs’ lives always puts a lump in his throat. The situation is very simple. We’ve had your betas for five days. You haven’t managed to track us, let alone stop us. As fun as they’ve been to play with, we’re getting a bit tired of the babysitting. Since you refuse to simply kill your makeshift little pack and join our ranks, we want you out of our way. Here’s what’s going to happen. You are going to kill yourself by midnight tonight. Your power will transfer to your sister down in South America, with whom we aren’t concerned, since she’s had the good sense to stay away from our new territory. Your betas, who our emissary has so helpfully injected with wolfsbane, will be cured and released. Kali has pointed out that you may not believe we’ll let them go. Aside from the fact that we have no use for your sniveling betas, the answer to that is simple. If you don’t believe us, they will die. If you do, they have a chance.

Merry Christmas,

Deucalion

The thing is, Deucalion’s not wrong. Derek is willing to do whatever it takes to save his betas, and he has no doubt that the alphas will let them die. He’s been trying to find them for days, ever since he woke up to an empty loft and another note, explaining that Derek had a few days to decide to kill his betas, or that he would face the consequences. He’s been trying to get in touch with Deaton all week, because even if he’s usually 90% cryptic and 10% helpful, it would be something, but the clinic is closed and he hasn’t answered his phone a single time. He’d considered asking Scott, too, but the last thing he wants to do is drag yet another teenager into this mess.

He spent the entire day out searching for his pack, trying to ignore the fact that even if he found them, it’d be almost impossible for him to fight off five alphas. He hadn’t found them, though, and now it’s an hour to midnight, and he’s starting to think maybe it’s just better if he gets this over with. He’s not going to find them in the next hour, certainly not going to be able to save them in the next hour, and even if he could, with Deaton not in town, there’d be no way for him to get the wolfsbane out of their systems.

The closest he’s gotten to finding them is breaking into a house right on the outskirts of town that smelled very faintly of Erica. Maybe it was the Christmas spirit getting to him, but for the first time in years, Derek prayed—for the safe return of his betas, for him to have finally found them, for everything to turn out okay. It turned out to be the home of the uncle she visited last weekend, and Derek nearly had his nose broken for his efforts.

So now he’s here, standing over the edge of a bridge, putting all his faith in the Alpha Pack. As he stares down into the water, he thinks that maybe it’s better this way. If he were a better alpha, better able to protect his pack, then this never would’ve happened in the first place. He’s always the one messing things up, isn’t he? First he got Paige killed, then his family, and now, when he finally built himself a pack, he’s about to get them killed, too. Maybe everyone would just be better off if he weren’t around to ruin things, anyway.

He leans a little farther over the edge, staring into the depths.

He’d heard, once, that drowning is terrible till the very last moment. When you resist, it aches, but if you just let the water in… that’s when it stops hurting. Maybe at the very end, everything will finally stop hurting.

Maybe he can get a final moment of peace.

Maybe it’ll all be okay.

He tightens his grip on the edge of the railing, ready force himself up and over. Just as he’s about to, a dark figure moves in the corner of his eye, followed by the sound of a huge splash.

Holy shit.

Someone just jumped off the bridge.

Derek only hesitates a moment before jumping in after them. He barely registers how freezing the water is as he swims over as fast as he can, hoping the impact of the fall hasn’t already killed the person.

As he nears he realizes it’s a man, maybe in his mid-twenties, and as soon as Derek’s close enough he latches onto him, using his superior strength to hold them both up. Surprisingly, considering the guy just tried to kill himself, he doesn’t fight Derek’s hold.

“Come on,” Derek says, getting a firm grip on the man before he starts paddling towards shore. This part of town is pretty barren, but he’s got to take them somewhere warm while they figure this out. “There’s a bar we can go to. It’s,” he pauses to spit out water, “it’s just a block over. You’re going to be fine. I promise.”

“How’d you fall in?” the bartender asks.

Aside from Derek and the man who’d jumped, he’s the only one there. There aren’t very many people out for drinks at a place like this on Christmas Eve, apparently.

“Oh, no,” the man says. He’s got a few hand towels draped around his shoulders, but he’s not shivering nearly as hard as Derek would think. “I didn’t fall. I jumped in to save Derek.”

“You what?” Derek asks, head snapping up to look at him. “You jumped in to save me?”

Considering he just dove off a bridge to drag the guy out of a freezing cold river, Derek’s pretty sure he’s the one who did the saving.

“Well I did, didn’t I?” the man asks, smiling. “You didn’t go through with it, right?”

Derek eyes him suspiciously.

“Go through with what?”

“Suicide.”

“Suicide’s against the law around here,” the bartender points out, like that’s the only problem with it.

“Oh, yeah,” the man says, waving a dismissive hand at him. “It’s against the law where I’m from, too, but that doesn’t necessarily stop anyone.”

“Oh?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow. “And where exactly are you from, uh…”

“Stiles,” he supplies. Then, as coolly as if the answer were New York City, he adds, “From Heaven.”

“What?”

“See, I had to do something fast,” Stiles continues, like Derek hadn’t spoken. “And you seem like a good guy, so I figured if I jumped in, you would save me, which is how I saved you.”

Derek looks at him flatly.

In truth, he’s a bit freaked out that the man knew he was contemplating killing himself. Then again, why else would he be standing on an icy bridge in the middle of the night on Christmas Eve? Maybe it’s not so strange.

“You got a bathroom?” Derek asks the worker, who points him toward the back.

He needs a few minutes to himself, just some time to breathe, before he can get back to helping his betas.

“For multiple people?” Stiles asks. “I’d like to go dry off a bit.”

Presumably the man points him in Derek’s direction, because footsteps pick up behind him, and Stiles enters the bathroom right after he does.

“You stalking me?” Derek asks nonchalantly, as he grabs a wad of paper towels and begins to pat himself down.

Next to him, Stiles does the same.

Stiles, apparently not a big fan of answering questions, says, “Did you know your shirt has blood on it, Derek?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I got punched in the face earlier in answer to a prayer.”

“What?” Stiles asks, looking bemused. “Dude, no. No, no, no. I’m the answer to your prayer. That’s what I’m here for.”

“You’re the answer to my prayer,” Derek deadpans. “Well, lucky me. How do you know my name, anyway?”

“I told you,” Stiles says, ripping off another sheet of paper towel. “I’m from Heaven. I’ve watched your entire life, Derek. I know all there is to know.”

Even though Derek knows that logically that can’t be true, it’s still a little disturbing. And a lot annoying.

“You have a thing for talking in code? Because I sure as hell don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Sure as Heaven,” Stiles corrects, almost automatically.  “As far as code goes? I’m Stiles, A-S-2. Can ya break that one?”

Derek glares at him.

“Stiles is the name,” he says, unaffected. “Angel, Second Class is the game. Or, well, the status.”

“You’re crazy,” Derek mutters.

“Ah, don’t be such a sour wolf,” Stiles says, and Derek’s eyes widen.

“What did you say?” he asks slowly.

“I said not to be such a sour wolf, Sourwolf,” Stiles repeats. He looks up from his damp jeans, and must see the look of horror on Derek’s face, because he smirks. “What? The wolf thing? I told you, Derek. I’ve seen your entire life. I know you’re a werewolf. It’s only fair, anyway. I told you I’m an angel.”

Derek glances at the door, but Stiles is positioned perfectly so that he can stop Derek before he ever reaches it. He wonders what the man has up his sleeve, whether it’s wolfsbane powder, or a knife, or an electric baton. And what the hell is an Angel? Is that a new hunting family? What does second class mean? It sounds like a pretty high ranking.

He should’ve let the fucker drown.

“Hey, you okay there?” Stiles asks, raising an eyebrow at him.

Suddenly, there’s a huge crash of thunder from outside, and for whatever reason, that brings a look of realization to Stiles’ face.

“Well how was I supposed to know?” he asks, but he’s looking at the ceiling, not Derek, who is so, so confused.

Derek starts edging carefully to the right. Maybe if he can just catch Stiles by surprise…

“You think I’m a hunter,” Stiles says, looking back to him again.

“No shit.”

Stiles laughs, and Derek flashes his eyes at him.

Sure, maybe he was thinking about jumping off the bridge, but if he’s going to go, it’s not going to be at the hands of a hunter.

“Whoa, hey, whoa,” Stiles says, raising his hands in a show of innocence. “Chill, dude. I told you, I’m an angel.”

“Yeah?” Derek asks, fangs dropping as he sneers. “Where’re your wings, angel?”

“I told you,” Stiles says, with a long-suffering sigh. Thunder cracks again, and Stiles stands up a little straighter, and drops the exasperated tone. “I’m only second class. That’s what I’m here for. I’m going to earn my wings by helping you out. See? It’s a win-win.”

“An angel?” Derek echoes, rolling his eyes. He hasn’t let the red fade out of them, just in case Stiles gets any bright ideas. “And what, exactly, are you here to help me with?”

“Well you were just about to jump off a bridge, for starters,” Stiles says. “I’d say that’s a pretty big problem.”

“I’d say that’s the solution,” Derek says bitterly.

Stiles scowls at him.

“Dude, don’t say things like that. First of all, it’s not true, and second of all, with that attitude, I’m definitely not gonna get my wings. Besides, if it weren’t for you-”

“Yeah,” Derek interrupts. “If it weren’t for me, my whole family would be alive, my pack would be alive, and everybody would be a whole fucking lot better off. How about you go harass someone who gives a shit?”

“You really believe that, don’t you?” Stiles murmurs, almost to himself. “But you can’t really think killing yourself would make everything better, right? That’s literally never the answer, man. Believe me, everyone regrets it.”

Derek huffs.

“Listen,” Stiles says, pointing a finger at him. “You can’t actually think everyone you know would be happier if you killed yourself, can you?”

Derek hates to admit the guy has a point. Killing himself wouldn’t really fix much, but still, it could save his betas, and would probably prevent plenty of future problems. Everyone he involves himself with gets hurt, so if he were just out of the picture…

“Yeah,” he says, rolling his eyes. “You’re right, Stiles. Maybe it’d just be better if I was never born at all.”

“Hmm,” Stiles says. “Huh.” He starts talking to the ceiling again, and Derek’s seriously beginning to wonder if this guy escaped from Eichen. “You think that would work? Hmm. Yeah, I getcha. Alright.” He looks back at Derek. “You’ve got your wish.”

“What?”

“You’ve never been born,” Stiles clarifies.

Well, maybe clarifies isn’t quite the right word, because Derek has no idea what the hell—or, excuse him, the Heaven—he’s talking about.

“You’re crazy,” Derek grumbles. “Absolutely out of your mind.”

“The jury’s still out on that one,” Stiles says, shrugging. “But I suggest you take a quick look in the mirror.”

Derek’s reluctant to look away from a potential hunter, but what he sees when he quickly glances over is enough to make him full-on turn his back to the man. He staggers forward and grabs at the sink, using it to hold himself up.

His eyes are glowing gold.

Not red. Not even blue.

Gold.

“What the fuck?” he demands, when Stiles appears over his shoulder in the reflection. “What the fuck did you do to my eyes?”

“Nothing,” Stiles says calmly. “Well, not directly, anyway. I made it so you were never born, so your eyes aren’t red anymore.”

“I’m still a werewolf,” Derek points out, taking a deep breath. “How am I still a werewolf if I was ‘never born’?”

He might as well humor the man; playing along seems to be the only way to get any information out of him.

“Well, duh,” Stiles says, rapping his knuckles lightly against the side of Derek’s head. Derek turns back to him, swatting his hand away. “That’s what you are. Inside, or whatever. I dunno man, I’m an angel, not a philosopher. If you were a bullfrog who wished he’d never been born, you’d still be a bullfrog. And so born werewolf; unborn werewolf. And you are unborn. Never born? Not born? You,” he says, poking Derek square in the chest, “do not exist. That’s the point.”

“You’re talking to someone who doesn’t exist?” Derek asks. “And that just makes perfect sense to you?”

“Hey,” Stiles says, shrugging. “Don’t act like I’m weird. You’re the guy who doesn’t exist.”

Derek growls in frustration, but Stiles only laughs.

“C’mon,” he says, heading out of the bathroom.

“Where are you going?” Derek demands, but follows him nonetheless.

If the guy were a hunter, he would’ve shot him already. Unless this is part of some traditional hunter family Christmas murder skit, he’s pretty sure he’s safe.

“We,” Stiles corrects. “We’re going for a walk.”

“A walk?”

“Yup.”

“It’s freezing out.”

It’s one of the coldest California winters on record, actually, and he wouldn’t be surprised if it started snowing soon.

Stiles shrugs.

“I’m not walking in this weather,” Derek mutters, following Stiles out of the bar. “I’ll drive us.”

The quicker he figures out what this man wants, the quicker he can rid himself of him.

“In what?” Stiles asks conversationally, as they step onto the sidewalk.

“In my…” Derek trails off, looking around in bewilderment. “Where’s my car?”

“Your car?”  

“My Camaro. It was right here. The only car parked on the whole block.”

“I hate to remind you, Derek, but you don’t exist.”

“I don’t exist, so my car doesn’t exist,” he repeats slowly.

“You two are kind of a package deal,” Stiles agrees.

Derek whips around to glare at him.

“Did you steal my car?”

“What?” Stiles splutters, looking insulted. “I’m an angel!” Here we go again. “We don’t steal. Well, there was that joyride in that Corvette a few years back, but c’mon, it was a Corvette, and we brought it back before the owner ever even knew. And besides, man, I’ve been with you since the bridge. How on Earth would I have stolen your car?”

“I don’t know,” Derek huffs. “Maybe it’s all some big scheme. One guy jumps off Beacon Bridge, and the other guy steals the car of the loser who rescues him.”

“On Christmas?” Stiles asks, sounding scandalized.

Derek rolls his eyes so hard it’s a wonder they don’t make a sound.

“You know what? Whatever. I’ll call the police later. I’m going home.”

He turns on his heel and stalks off in the direction of his apartment, jamming his hands in his pockets.

“Derek?”

Derek ignores him.

“Derek!”

“What!?” he yells, not bothering to turn around.

“Again, I hate to be a downer, but the whole problem with your car? Well, I think that not existing is going to cause similar problems for your loft.”

“Is that so?” Derek asks, continuing to walk away, pretending he can’t hear Stiles hurrying to catch up.

“Yup,” Stiles says, falling into step beside him.

“Fascinating.”

“Well then where do you think you’re going?” Stiles asks, as Derek quickens his pace.

“Home.”

“Do you want an itemized list of things that no longer exist, dude? You seem to be a little forgetful. I can even write it down, if you want. It’ll go a little something like this: 1) Derek Hale’s car, 2) Derek Hale’s loft, and 3) Derek Hale.”

Derek opts to ignore him, and just keeps walking in the direction of his apartment. Stiles follows in silence, though he starts to say something at least three times.

When they reach the block before his, Derek immediately realizes something is wrong. Normally the top floor of the building—that is, Derek’s floor—can be seen from here, but instead there’s just empty sky.

He all but runs the rest of the way there.

“Where the hell is my apartment?” he demands when Stiles catches up to him. “What’s going on?”

In place of Derek’s apartment building is a pile of rubble. It’s California, sure, but even if an earthquake had just missed where he and Stiles were, there would still be a million people here, along with fire trucks and cops and nosy passerby.

The look on Stiles’ face says it all.

“You-” Derek says, jabbing a finger in Stiles’ chest. “Whatever you did, you’re- you’re not an angel. Angels don’t exist!”

“Neither do werewolves,” Stiles says coolly.

That… is actually a good point, on some level. On another, angrier level, it’s absolutely ridiculous.

“And,” Stiles adds, “for the last time… neither do you. No Derek equals no car, equals no building owned by Derek, equals Stiles being correct. And an angel. Don’t forget that part.”

“Not like you’ll let me,” Derek mutters, lowering his hand dejectedly.

An angel. A fucking angel on Christmas Eve. Yeah. Sure. Why not?

He goes over and sits down on one of the giant chunks of cement, propping his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, and Stiles follows suit.

“What do you want?” Derek sighs. “Was I not having a bad enough day for you? You had to steal my car and my house and my life, too?”

“I didn’t steal them,” Stiles says simply. “You wished them away. You’ve been given a great gift, Derek. A chance to see what the world would be like without you.”

Derek raises an eyebrow.

“A gift, huh?”

Some gift.

He thinks back on telling all his betas that the bite would be a gift. Look how that had turned out. A pang fills him at the thought, and he’s grateful for the distraction when Stiles continues talking.

“Yup,” he says, popping the P. “Something tells me you still don’t believe me, though. You’re on the fence here. Right?”

“Yeah,” Derek says wearily. “One of us is out of his mind. I’m not sure which yet.”

Stiles laughs, but then his face goes solemn.

“I can prove it to ya,” he says. “Walk with me?”

“Can’t you just fly us there?”

He finds himself getting up to follow Stiles anyway. Not like he’s got much else to lose.

“You like to rub it in that I have no wings, don’t you?” Stiles asks, glaring accusatorially. “Not cool, dude. Not cool.”

“You like to rub it in that I have no life,” Derek counters.

Stiles grins.

“True that. Now c’mon.”

They end up outside Boyd’s house.

“What are we doing here?” Derek sighs. “He’s not- his parents aren’t-”

They don’t even know what happened to him yet. Apparently, all the betas’ parents have been texted that they’re going away with friends for the week. Are they here to tell them what really happened? If Boyd’s parents are anything like their son, there’s no way Derek’s going to be able to look them in the eyes and tell them that a second child of theirs is dying, and this time it’s his fault.

“We’re paying Boyd a visit,” Stiles says. “Now shhh.”

Derek’s about to ask what that’s supposed to mean, when Stiles starts to creep around the side of the house.

“What are we doing? Boyd’s not here, Stiles.”

“No?”

They reach Boyd’s bedroom window, and Stiles crouches down, dragging Derek with him.

They peer inside, and Derek’s eyes widen in shock. Boyd’s sitting inside, messing around on his computer like it’s a perfectly normal day.

“Boy-” Derek starts to yell, only to have Stiles clap a hand over his mouth.

“I said shush! We don’t want him to see us creeping around here.”

Derek yanks Stiles’ hand away, but he lowers his voice when he says, “He’s alive. He’s alive and home and- what happened?”

“Of course he’s alive. If you don’t exist, then he’s not a werewolf, and the alpha pack never takes him.”

Derek’s eyebrows shoot up.

“Are you serious? He’s okay? What about Isaac and Erica?”

“They’re good too,” Stiles says. “Well, maybe not good, but they’re safe from the alphas, so…”

And that’s- well, that’s exactly what Derek was trying to do. Maybe he’s not dead, maybe he’s in this weird in between state Stiles was talking about—which he’s still having trouble believing, but Boyd’s sitting right there in front of him, and he doesn’t have any other explanation—but Boyd is okay, his whole pack is okay, and whatever brought that about has to be a good thing.

“It’s pretty weird seeing him like that again, huh?” Stiles asks, once the silence begins to stretch on.

He sounds a little sad, considering Boyd is safe, and Derek turns to glare at him before bringing his attention back to his beta.

“See him like what? Alive?”

“To be fair, he wasn’t dead yet anyway,” Stiles points out. “But no, I meant more, uh… Well, I mean, look around you, Derek.”

Derek’s not sure exactly what the problem is, but he finally tears his eyes away from Boyd long enough to take in the rest of the room.

The walls, which are normally covered in pictures of the pack, are bare and white. The card that Erica wrote him for their second anniversary, which usually sits all by itself in the middle of his dresser, is missing, replaced by a thick layer of dust. Strangest of all, now that he’s paying attention to it, is that Boyd is sitting all alone at his desk, head slumped against his hand.

Derek can see from this angle that he’s on Facebook, scrolling past picture after picture of people at holiday parties. If he focuses his vision enough, he can tell that a few of them are from the party Boyd took Erica to last Saturday. Derek should know—Erica had been talking about being invited to Lydia Martin’s Christmas bash for weeks. Boyd doesn’t seem to actually be in any of them, though, and his profile picture, which used to be him and Erica kissing under the mistletoe she strung up all over Derek’s loft, is instead the blue, faceless default icon.

“What’s he doing?” Derek asks, frowning. “Did… did he and Erica break up?”

That would explain the absence of everything connected to her, and the miserable look he’s wearing.

“Nah,” Stiles says. “They never dated. Never even met, actually.”

“What? How could they not have met? And where’d all his stuff go?”

“The pictures? Well, he’s never met you and Isaac either. No pictures.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Derek snaps. “I’m his alpha.”

“Not anymore.”

“Even if that were true, he’s got to have made other friends,” Derek insists.

“He’s shy,” Stiles says, looking sympathetic. “You know how quiet he’s always been, even around you guys. When you didn’t take him in, no one did. I mean, he’s probably got a few school friends, people he can borrow pencils from, but…”

Derek’s offended on his behalf. Boyd is awesome. Fucking fantastic, actually, even if he’s a man of few words.

“That’s crazy,” he says, getting up and heading back towards the front door. “I don’t believe you.”

Or more like he doesn’t want to.

He rings the bell, and after a minute or so, Boyd’s mother answers. She doesn’t look pleased about being interrupted so late on Christmas Eve.

“Yes?”

She spares Stiles a brief glance, but focuses her attention on Derek, who’s standing in front of him.

“Uh,” Derek says. He tends to avoid the betas’ families, considering the whole werewolf thing. It’s better for everyone involved. “I’m a friend of Boyd’s. Vernon’s, that is.”

Mrs. Boyd’s face softens instantly, and she offers him a small smile.

“How nice to drop by tonight. Let me go get him, hon.” She turns and walks down a hall, and Derek hears her call, “Vernon? Sweetheart, there’s a friend for you at the door.”

It’s silent for a while, before footsteps finally start to come down the hall. When Boyd catches sight of Derek on the doorstep, his brow furrows, and he slows his approach.

“Who’re you?” he asks, setting a hand on the doorknob.

“Derek,” he says, mouth feeling a little dry as he introduces himself to his own beta. This has to be some kind of joke. How can Boyd not know him? It didn’t feel real, the fact that he actually might not exist, till just now. “Derek Hale.”

“Yeah, well, I don’t know a Derek,” Boyd says, expression closing off.

His heartbeat doesn’t skip, and something in the pit of Derek’s stomach turns cold.

“Do you-” Derek says, before Boyd can shut the door. “Are you, uh, friends with Erica Reyes? Or Isaac Lahey? Or maybe Scott McCall?”

Boyd scowls.

“Really funny, man.”

The door slams in Derek’s face.

Derek stares at Stiles. Stiles stares back, wincing.

“You’re not joking,” Derek says, mostly to himself. “You’re serious. You’re-”

“Hey, don’t freak out,” Stiles says, raising his hands in a placating gesture. “Just an angel. No biggie.”

Derek doesn’t even care. Boyd doesn’t remember him. His own beta doesn’t remember him.

Except it’s not that he doesn’t remember him. He’s never even met him.

“What are you doing here?” he asks finally. “I know, I know, getting your wings. But… why me? Who even cares enough to send an angel down here?”

Stiles waves a hand at the sky.

“Wings, sure, but also because I’m going to show you what a terrible place is without Derek Hale,” Stiles says. Somehow, he doesn’t sound sarcastic, and it makes Derek squirm. “And I dunno, man. The big guys don’t tell me that stuff. Guess you must be pretty important to somebody. I just know I’m gonna help you, and you’re gonna help me.”

“Well, it doesn’t matter. Other people’s lives have got to be better without me,” Derek says. His family, for one thing, but he doesn’t let himself say it. Doesn’t get his hopes up about seeing his family alive, because the second Stiles shows him that, he’s not going to hesitate to stay non-existent. Besides, with all the shit he’s put so many others through, even his own betas, everyone’s life has to be better without him in it. Sure, maybe Boyd doesn’t have a ton of friends, but he was never tortured in Gerard Argent’s basement. He never had to deal with almost losing Erica. His life isn’t hanging in the balance because Derek is such a giant fuck-up. That’s got to count for something. “My pack has been through plenty of shit, and they never would’ve had to deal with any of it if it weren’t for me. It’s not such a bad tradeoff.”

“No?” Stiles asks.

He snaps his fingers, and suddenly everything around them goes dark.

When the world comes into focus again, Derek’s sitting next to Stiles in what looks to be a hospital waiting room.

“What?” he says, snapping his head around. “Where are we?”

“Beacon Hills Memorial Hospital. Now shh.”

For someone who talks so much, Stiles seems awfully fond of shushing Derek.

He points at a couple sitting across from them.

The woman is crying, her head buried in the man’s shoulder, and he’s got his arm wrapped around her.

“Who are they?” Derek asks, frowning. “I don’t even know them.”

“Erica’s parents,” Stiles supplies. “Shhhhhhhhh!”

Derek reluctantly obeys, subtly tuning into their conversation.

“She’s going to be okay,” Mr. Reyes murmurs, tucking a strand of hair behind his wife’s ear, the very same way Boyd does when Erica’s upset. “I promise.”

“They’re g-getting worse,” Mrs. Reyes says, sniffling. “It’s- it’s only going to g-get worse.”

Derek is about to demand to know what they’re talking about, what they’re doing here, when it hits him.

Seizures. Erica used to have seizures.

Stiles notices the moment it registers with Derek.

“At the family Christmas party,” he says softly. “Right in front of all her baby cousins, too. They were hysterical.”

“Erica doesn’t have seizures anymore,” Derek says, throat tight, even though he already knows what Stiles is going to say.

“Because you bit her. But now? Well,” he runs a hand through his hair, looking sympathetic. “Now they’ve only been getting more frequent.”

“But she’s alive,” Derek says quietly. “She’s alive, at least, and-”

And what? Same thing as Boyd. She was never tortured, she’s not being threatened by the alpha pack.

But she has seizures, bad ones, ones that keep getting worse.

“But- people live with seizures all the time,” Derek says. “It’s better than dealing with the alphas.”

Anything is better than dealing with the alphas.

If Derek’s not alive, his family could be. If he’s not alive, his betas get to live. Maybe their lives aren’t perfect, but they’re alive.

Stiles just shrugs.

Erica’s mother lets out a particularly loud sob, and Stiles wraps gentle fingers around Derek’s wrist.

“Let’s go.”

He snaps his fingers.

This place, Derek does remember.

Isaac’s house.

His blood runs cold, knowing before they even set foot on the front lawn what they’re going to see here.

“C’mon,” Stiles says, tugging lightly at his wrist.

Derek doesn’t know why he doesn’t just shake him off.

Again they find themselves crouching beneath a window, though now it’s the one to Isaac’s kitchen, adjacent to the Whittemore house.

Mr. Lahey—and Derek is furious at seeing the bastard alive—is sitting at the kitchen table, while Isaac stocks the cabinets with items he’s pulling from grocery bags.

His shoulders are hunched, like he’s trying to take up as little space as possible, and every movement is careful. Derek’s so rarely seen him behave like that since their very first weeks together. Only when Derek raises his voice particularly loud or suddenly during training does Isaac sometimes take the all too familiar posture, and even though he always regains his composure in a matter of seconds, it still makes Derek’s stomach churn.

Derek has to focus his hearing to listen through the thick-plated glass, though he doubts he actually wants to hear what’s going on inside.

“-telling me, son, that you didn’t buy any beer?” Mr. Lahey is saying.

“I thought, maybe, um…” Isaac begins quietly.

“You thought? You thought? Go ahead, Isaac. Let’s here this genius thought process of yours, huh?”

Isaac freezes like a deer in headlights, before turning ever so slowly to look at his father, with one hand still latched onto the cabinet.

“I thought maybe we could… have Christmas without alcohol this year,” he says, hunching even further. “You always seem so much happier when-”

“Happier?” Mr. Lahey asks, barking out a vicious laugh. “Gee, Isaac, I sure do look happy now, don’t I? No fucking-” he suddenly stands from his chair and kicks it backwards, where it crashes against the wall, making Isaac cringe “-alcohol-” he kicks at the table, knocking over the glasses “-makes me so fucking happy!”

“I’m sorry,” Isaac practically whispers. His grip on the cabinet is turning his knuckles white, and Derek wants to throw up as he begins to tremble. “I’m sorry, Dad, I can- can go buy some, or-”

“Yeah, Isaac?” his father asks, leaning forward and bracketing his arms against the table. “Yeah? Tell me, kid. Where’re you gonna get a fucking six-pack at fucking ten o’clock on Christmas! Fucking! Eve!?”

He smacks a hand down against the table with each of the last words, making the dishes rattle.

“I’m sorry,” Isaac murmurs again. “I’ll drive around till I find a place. It was stupid, I-”

“Oh, you can bet your ass it was stupid!” Lahey yells. Then, his voice suddenly low and calm, he says, “How about we take a little trip downstairs?”

Isaac swallows hard, but makes no other move.

The kitchen is deathly silent.

“Are you hearing me, Isaac?” his father asks. “Do you think a trip downstairs would remind you not to be so stupid next time?”

Isaac looks horribly torn between not wanting to disagree and not wanting to go downstairs.

Derek still remembers Isaac stiltedly telling him about the freezer in the basement, how his father used to lock him in, how he used to claw till his fingertips bled and he felt like he’d never breathe again.

“Yeah,” Lahey says softly. “Yeah, I think that would do you some good.”

He’s across the kitchen before Isaac even gets a chance to react. Or maybe he just doesn’t react.

“Please, Dad,” he stammers, as his father grabs him by the back of the shirt, trying to pry him away from the counter. “Please, I’m- I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, I- I swear, I-”

“Damn right you won’t do it again.”

When Isaac doesn’t release the cabinet, Lahey smashes it shut instead, and Isaac yanks his crushed fingers away with a gasping breath.

His father doesn’t even give him a moment to collect himself before throwing him to the floor, kicking at his ribs.

Isaac, rather than fighting back—which Derek is certain he could do, given the inch or two he has on the man, and the fact that he plays lacrosse—curls in on himself, trying to protect his vital organs. It looks like a very practiced move.

Derek just stares in frozen horror.

“My whole fucking family dies-” Lahey shouts, planting a kick to Isaac’s ribs, “-leaving me with a little shit like you-” and another, “and all I ask for-” and another, “is a fucking little bit of beer-” another, “to help me forget!” Another. “But do I get that?” He yanks Isaac up by the shirt collar, and though he’s trying desperately to get his feet back under him, Lahey doesn’t give him a chance. “No!” He drags him towards a door that must lead to the basement. “No! Because the fucking! little! shit! they left me with can’t do a damn thing right!”

He wrenches the door open and quite literally throws Isaac down the stairs, storming after him.

That’s enough to make Derek snap into action, pounding on the window, but the glass doesn’t budge, and Lahey doesn’t seem to hear him.

“Stiles!” Derek barks. “Do something! Help me- help-”

Stiles just looks at him solemnly.

“Stiles!” Derek insists, pounding his fist against the window.

“I can’t,” Stiles says. He looks paler than usual, but Derek couldn’t care less right now. “What are you going to do? Storm in and rip his head off?”

“Yes.”

He wants to smash his fist through it—it should’ve broken by now anyway, no?—but he’s not sure it would heal. His hearing still works, and his eyes still glow, but he’s not even totally sure that any of this is real.

“This is his life without you,” Stiles says. “What are you going to do? Storm in, kill his father, and offer him the bite? Essentially be right back where you started?”

“I’m not- I don’t- I don’t know. I don’t care! I’m not just going to fucking leave him there!”

There’s a loud thud from downstairs, the definitive sound of a door slamming shut, and Derek suddenly staggers back.

“This- this is insane,” he says. “You’re completely out of your mind. Maybe I am too, but- this is not happening. Isaac came to me the night his dad died. Years ago. I don’t know what you’re doing to me, but I don’t have time for this. I need to figure out what’s going on with my real pack, not some crazy hallucinations you’ve got going.”

He stares at Stiles for a moment, who looks back at him with pity in his eyes, and it’s the last thing Derek needs right now.

He turns on a heel, stomping back towards the street.

“Derek, wait up,” Stiles calls, hurrying after him.

“Leave me alone,” Derek seethes.

“But Derek,” Stiles tries, grabbing at the back of his shirt.

“Get. Away.”

He whirls around with enough force to not only shake Stiles off, but to send him sprawling onto the pavement. He looks up at Derek with wide, hurt eyes, and Derek can’t take it.

He storms down the rest of the block, no particular path in mind, trying to push the image of Stiles, and more importantly, Isaac, from his thoughts. This isn’t real. And if it was real, it’d still be better than Isaac being dead, right? Anything is better than him dying. He’s nineteen, he can move out if he wants, and maybe he’s still friends with Scott, even. Scott would take him in if he knew. Maybe Derek can go to his house, ask him to help. But- but no. This isn’t actually happening. He needs to find a way out of here so he can-

He’s so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even realize he’s reached Main Street till he slams into a young woman walking with her child.

“I’m sorry,” he says gruffly, ready to hurry around her, but a quick glance at her face roots him to the spot. “Paige?”

“Yeah,” the woman says, eyeing him suspiciously. “Have we met?”

“Paige,” Derek repeats numbly, apparently unable to say anything else. “Paige?”

“Do we know each other?” she asks again, nudging her son, who can’t be older than three, to stand behind her.

“I’m Derek,” he says, even though tonight’s events should already tell him that’s not going to work. “Derek Hale.”

“I’m sorry, I don’t know any Dereks,” she says, sidestepping him. “Happy holidays, sir.”

“Wait,” Derek says urgently, belatedly realizing how creepy it must seem when he blocks her path. “Wait. Derek Hale. We went to highschool together. Beacon Hills High. We dated. I- I loved you. Paige, I-” And it’s so unlike him, pouring sappy, romantic confessions, but nothing about this is right. The love of his life doesn’t even remember him. Never even met him, if he believes what Stiles says. The reason for his blue eyes, the reason they’re gold now, is standing right in front of him, alive and well, and she doesn’t even know who he is. “Paige, it’s me.”

“You’ve got the wrong person,” Paige says firmly, scooping the child up in her arms. “Goodnight.”

She moves to brush past him, and on a desperate impulse Derek shoots out a hand, grabbing her arm. She screams, turning heads on the busy street, and Derek immediately lets go, his eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, I-”

Paige takes off, and suddenly there are people crowding around him.

“What do you think you’re doing, buddy?”

“You think it’s cool, bothering young ladies on Christmas?”

“What the fuck is your problem, bro?”

Deputy Parrish quickly approaches from his post on the corner, grabbing Derek by one shoulder and pinning his hands behind his back. The two of them are normally pretty good friends, considering how much Derek helped him out when they discovered he was supernatural, but now he’s being hostile.

“No,” he says, panicked. “No, I need to- I-”

“Fuck, we don’t have time for this,” Stiles groans, appearing out of nowhere. Before Derek can even begin to process what’s going on, Stiles punches Parrish in the face, sending him staggering. He shoves at Derek’s shoulder, yelling, “Run! Derek! Dude, freaking go!”

Derek does, stumbling at first then picking up the pace, easily outrunning any townspeople who give chase.

He goes at least a mile before he comes to a stop, panting, less from exertion than complete bewilderment.

He sits on the corner, hardly caring if the cops do show up to take him away at this point. It’s a few more minutes before Stiles shows up. He sits down next to Derek, and it’s a long time before either of them says a word.

“Sorry about that,” Stiles finally sighs. “You getting arrested or something really would’ve thrown us off.”

“Guess you couldn’t get your wings if the guy you’re babysitting got thrown in a jail cell, huh?” Derek says, feeling irrationally bitter.

He shouldn’t. His betas are alive. Paige is alive, even, and God, shouldn’t that feel amazing?

“Hey,” Stiles says, knocking his knee against Derek’s. “You know I’m not just in this for the wings, right? I care about you, man. I have ever since they showed you to me. You’ve had a hard life, but you deal with it, and you’re strong, and you put way too much blame on yourself. I want you to see that everything isn’t your fault. Some things just happen, no matter what. No preventing ‘em.”

Derek isn’t sure what to say to that. The idea that anyone, especially a complete stranger, can see the good at him after all the times he’s messed up, is… completely insane. Kind of like Stiles himself.

“Thanks,” he says, wishing he were better at expressing his feelings. He doesn’t necessarily agree, can’t bring himself to think that so many of the things that have happened aren’t a direct result of his mistakes, but it’s nice to hear that someone can be that naïve and hopeful. There’s a beat of silence before he says, “We’re on the McCalls’ block, aren’t we?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. He looks weary. “Guess you’re still not ready to admit the whole world isn’t better without you in it, huh?”

Derek doesn’t really have an answer for that besides a simple Yes, so he just stands and offers Stiles a hand up.

“I wanted to ask him about taking Isaac in,” he explains, heading for Scott’s house. “That would make things a lot better. Even in they’re not friends in this universe, or whatever it is. Scott’s a good guy. He would do it.”

Stiles bites his lip, but doesn’t say anything, and Derek tries not to feel nervous about that.

They reach the McCall house quickly, and Derek knocks, while Stiles waits outside the gate behind a tall bush. Derek’s learned not to question him at this point.

Melissa is the one to answer the door. She’s wearing a pink, fluffy bathrobe over her scrubs, and there are smudged tear tracks on her face, making Derek’s throat catch.

“Is… is Scott home?” he asks, feeling horribly insensitive.

“No,” Melissa says, apparently trying to look discreet as she wipes at her eyes. Her voice is sharper, suddenly, when she says, “Why? Have you seen him lately?”

“I, uh-”

In truth, Derek had last seen him earlier today, but quickly brushed him off when he seemed to sense that something was up with Derek. The last thing he needed was for Scott to go throwing his heroic self into this whole mess, too. In this world, however, he highly doubts that happened.

“Who are you?” Melissa asks, eyes narrowing. “Are you two friends? Has he contacted you?”

“Friends, yeah,” Derek says, latching onto the explanation. “But I haven’t seen him lately. Why? Is he okay?”

Melissa’s shoulders sag a little, and she shakes her head.

“I don’t know, honey. The police are still working on it. I’d really rather not have company now, if you don’t mind.”

She gives him a halfhearted, watery smile before shutting the door, and Derek hears her slump down into a chair, sniffling, before he backs off from the door, walking dazedly back over to Stiles.

“Yeah,” Stiles says softly. “I know you guys had your problems way back when, but I’m glad you’re friends now. I always liked those two. Really nice people.”

“So where’s Scott?” Derek asks, feeling worry begin to flare in his chest again. “Is he alright?”

Stiles lets out a long breath, and takes Derek’s hand in his.

He snaps his fingers.

“No,” Derek says, staring at the scene before them. “No.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, eyes flitting away. “I’m sorry.”

They’re standing on a catwalk in a warehouse, looking down.

“All you have to do is work with us,” Deucalion is saying. “Is that so much to ask, Scott? A little bit of cooperation?”

“Screw you,” Scott says, his shaky voice betraying him.

His bare chest is hooked up with wires, pumping electricity into him. It’s like some twisted version of Derek’s time with the Argents, even more messed up when played out by werewolves.

“I don’t think you see the value you add to us,” Kali sighs. “Come on, Scott. A leader like Deucalion? Alphas as strong as Ennis and I? Alpha twins? Wouldn’t it be nice to add a true alpha to the pack?”

“Over my dead body,” Scott says, his breathing labored.

“Oh, but your dead body’s no good to us, Scotty,” Kali says, stepping forward and raking her claws across his chest. Scott lurches forward but squeezes his mouth shut tightly, trying to give as little reaction as possible. “A little bruised and banged up though? Well, I think we can handle that.”

“The alphas went after your pack first,” Stiles explains. “But they’ve been thinking about gunning for Scott, too. And if you’re not around to stop them, then… Well, he doesn’t exactly have any other werewolf friends to help him out.”

“I can’t even help my own pack,” Derek says, unable to look away from Scott’s heaving chest, the terror in his eyes. “I wouldn’t be able to help him, either. I don’t- I have no idea what I’m doing. Laura was meant to be alpha, not me. I don’t know how to fix any of this.”

“Maybe not,” Stiles says. “But if you were around, at least everyone would have a fighting chance.”

“Whatever,” Scott pants from below. “If you think I’m helping you do anything, then you’re all out of your minds.”

“Well I don’t know about you,” Kali says lightly. “But the last person I’d want to be tortured by is someone who’s out of her mind.”

She plunges her clawed hand into Scott’s stomach, smirking as he writhes and bites out a scream.

“I’m n-not- I-I’m not gonna-” He takes a sharp breath in as Kali twists her hand. “P-please, just- I’m n-never going to-”

Scott interrupts himself with another scream as Kali drags her claws upwards, and Derek has to look away.

“Maybe we should go,” Stiles says, quietly. “C’mon.”

This time when Derek comes to, they’re standing in an overgrown, grassy area, and it’s much darker out.

It takes a moment for him to even think of anything to say. If his betas aren’t taken, Scott is instead? But even if his betas are taken, Scott eventually will be anyway?

“But Scott’s not even…” he tries, finally. “He shouldn’t even be a werewolf. Peter only bit him because he lost his mind after-”

He stops midsentence, panic clawing at his chest.

“No,” he says. “No. Stiles, no.”

Only when he stops a moment to take in their surroundings does he realize where they are. The preserve, across from Beacon Hills Cemetery.

“No.”

Derek stares at the sign, frozen in place for a moment, before he takes off running.

For the first time, Stiles doesn’t make an attempt to follow him.

He slows down as he nears the cemetery plots he knows all too well. It seems like an eternity before he reaches the row of headstones.

Twelve of them sit in a line, reflecting the moonlight, each showing the same date of death. Each reading HALE across the top.

Twelve. One for Cora. No, no, that’s not possible. She had it dug up when she came back to Beacon Hills. Why is it still here? What happened to her? How could she-

Suddenly everything feels numb.

Nothing matters.

None of it matters.

His betas are miserable, Scott is being tortured, and his family is still fucking dead. Cora’s dead, too, and that shouldn’t even-

No. No, this can’t be happening.

No.

Stiles’ voice rings in his ears.

Some things just happen no matter what. No preventing ‘em.

“No,” he murmurs, staggering backwards till the backs of his knees knock against another tombstone. “No, no, no, no, no. Stiles! Stiles, I- I need to go back! I don’t care what happens to me!” His voice is hoarse and weak, but it doesn’t matter. He’d rather die trying to actively save his pack than just bowing out and hoping for the best. “I have to live again! Stiles!” He chokes out a sob, feeling lost and alone and pathetic. He can’t remember the last time he cried like this. God, even when he’s not around, he still ends up ruining everything. “Please, God,” he begs, barely above a whisper. “Please, let me live again.”

The only response he gets is the wind rustling the leaves, and Derek lets out a desperate, baleful howl.

It echoes in the air till the night goes silent.

He lowers himself to the ground, arms wrapped around his knees, silent tears streaming down his face.

He has no idea how long he sits there, lost in his thoughts yet barely able to think at all, before a hand lands on his shoulder. He’s hoping desperately for Stiles, but it only turns out to be Deputy Parrish, who’s finally caught up with him.

Seems fitting, after everything else that’s happened tonight.

Instead of angrily ordering him to stand, though, Parrish crouches down in front of him, setting careful hands on Derek’s knees.

“Hey, Derek, you okay, man?”

His expression is soft, his eyes full of concern.

“You,” Derek starts, throat loosening a little. “You know my name?”

“Uh, yeah,” Parrish says, giving a tentative smile. “Of course, Der. Are you okay, man? I uh, I heard you howl. And your eyes are kind of glowing, so you might want to-”

“They are?” he demands. He hadn’t even felt himself start to shift. “What color?”

“Err…” Parrish says, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Red. They’re always red, aren’t they?”

“Yeah,” Derek says slowly, as it starts to sink in. “Yeah, they’re… they’re always red.”

“Right,” Parrish says, offering another smile despite his confusion. “Maybe we should get you home, Der-”

He cuts off again when Derek stands abruptly, counting the tombstones.

Eleven. Only eleven.

Only eleven.

“You know my name,” he says again. “And my eyes are red, and you know me, and there are only eleven graves, and- My pack. I’m- I have to go,” he says, brushing past Parrish, who’s stood back up as well by now.

“Whoa, hey,” Parrish says, grabbing his elbow before he can run off. “That’s why I came looking for you. They’re fine, man. They just got back to your loft, and the sheriff wouldn’t let them go out looking for you, so he sent me instead.”

“They’re at the loft,” Derek repeats, gaping. “Isaac, Erica, and Boyd are at my loft?”

“Yeah,” Parrish says. “We really need to let the Sheriff Stilinski in on werewolves one of these days, ‘cause he’s pretty confused, and I don’t think he believes the BS story they fed him, but-”

Derek doesn’t hear the rest, because he’s already taken off running towards home.

The smell of pack and home and happiness hit him before he even reaches his floor, and it’s even more overwhelming as he slams the front door open.

“Derek!” Erica shrieks, disentangling from Boyd and flinging herself at him, latching on in an incredibly tight hug. “You’re okay!”

Derek manages something halfway between a laugh and a sob as Isaac throws himself into the mix, and Boyd wraps strong arms around all of them.

“I’m okay? You guys- you’re-”

“We’re okay too,” Isaac says, a tired but bright smile on his face as he pulls back just enough to look Derek in the eye. “Everyone’s okay.”

They all look a little banged up, but they’re visibly healing, and he’s sure it was much worse before. He’s almost glad he wasn’t around to see it.

Derek notices for the first time that they’re not alone—Deaton is perched on the bottom stair, and the sheriff is sitting at the kitchen table, watching the spectacle. A moment later, Parrish appears in the doorway, smiling broadly through heaving breaths.

“Found him!”

Isaac, Erica, and Boyd laugh, and Derek edges their little huddle over to the couch, where they all flop down in a mess of limbs, making him feel better than he has in ages. He sets his hand on Erica’s ankle, which is in his lap, but she swats it away as soon as he tries to drain her pain.

“I can see that,” Stilinski says, standing. “Parrish, do you mind wrapping things up here? I’ve got a lot of information here to file.”

“Of course, sir.”

“Great,” Stilinski says, getting up and heading towards the door. He pauses when he reaches it, turning to nod at Derek. “Merry Christmas, Mr. Hale.”

Derek nods back, offering a tired smile.

“Merry Christmas.”

“So,” Parrish says, once he’s out of earshot. “You guys are good, right? I don’t want to intrude on,” he waves a hand at them, “all this. And Mr. Deaton can probably fill you in much better than I can.”

“We’ll be fine,” Deaton says. “Everything’s been taken care of.”

“Awesome,” Parrish says. “Call me if you need anything.”

As soon as he leaves, Derek looks over at Erica, the only one whose face he can see from this position.

“What happened? And where are the alphas? Do we need to-”

“Dead,” Erica says flatly. “All of ‘em. Deaton kicked ass.”

“Big time,” Isaac adds. “Remind me to never challenge a group of emissaries to a fight.”

Derek raises an eyebrow at Deaton, who gives one of his small, cryptic smiles.

“I called in a few favors,” he supplies. “Quite a few emissaries and hunters have come to owe me over the years. A couple of skilled trackers and werewolf experts go a long way.”

“But you didn’t answer your phone,” Derek says. “How did you even know?”

“Mr. McCall called me,” Deaton says. “He has my cell. Perhaps a number you should take down one of these days, hmm?”

That is a good idea.

“But I didn’t tell Scott,” Derek says, frowning. “I didn’t want to drag him into all of this.”

“As he told me,” Deaton says. “But he said you smelled incredibly anxious when he spoke to you yesterday, and with a pack of alphas in town, it wasn’t hard to put two and two together. I suppose it wasn’t the best time for me to leave town, anyway.”

Scott freakin’ McCall.

Derek should’ve known better than to think Scott wouldn’t be able to tell something was up. His plans aren’t always the best, but when it comes down to it, he’ll do whatever he has to to help someone. Even it it’s just a well-placed phone call.

“And they’re all dead?” Derek asks. “All five?”

“Indeed,” Deaton says. “No small feat, but while you couldn’t use mountain ash and wolfsbane to your advantage in a fight, it certainly helped us out.”

“Scott isn’t hurt, is he?” Derek asks, suddenly feeling worried again. “Why isn’t he here?”

“His curfew’s one,” Erica laughs. “He didn’t want to worry his mom on Christmas.”

“But he threatened to sneak out after she’s asleep if we didn’t find you soon,” Boyd puts in. “So someone should probably let him know.”

“Already did,” Isaac says, holding out his phone. “He said to wish you a merry Christmas. And to tell you you’re an idiot for not asking for his help.”

“Can’t argue with him there,” Derek mutters.

The pack laughs, and even tired and weary, it’s an amazing sound to hear again.

“You know, I think it’s time you all got to bed too,” he continues. “You still need to heal.”

“I could definitely use some sleep,” Isaac says. “Maybe, like, thirty years’ worth.”

“You feel like sharing your bed tonight, Der?” Erica asks. “Cause I could really go for some pack bonding.”

Derek would never admit aloud that the whole reason he has the king size is so the pack can all sleep together when they want, but it’s certainly not the first time they’ve used it. And tonight, of all nights, seems like a great time.

“Yeah, head up,” he says. “I’ll be there in a minute. I want to talk to Deaton first.”

Boyd takes Erica by the hand, pulling her off the couch, and together they head for the stairs, Isaac following closely behind. Deaton moves out of the way to let them pass, getting up and sitting down on the coffee table in front of Derek.

Derek listens till he hears his betas settle into bed, and remains silent for a few moments after.

Finally, knowing Deaton certainly won’t be the one to break the quiet, he says, “Thank you.”

Deaton shrugs.

“Just because Talia is no longer alpha doesn’t mean I’m done helping out the Hale Pack.” He pauses for a moment, letting that sink in, before he says, “There are people who care about you. Just as we were about to head out to attack tonight, Lydia Martin showed up outside my office. She said she had a bad feeling about you. I don’t take the thoughts of banshees lightly. I was expecting to perhaps find you with the alphas, too, but when you weren’t… I don’t know quite what kind of danger you were in, but you’d do well to remember that, Derek—that people care about you. Especially those kids.”

“Yeah,” Derek says, the lump he’s felt in his throat a thousand times tonight working its way back. “I know.”

“Good,” Deaton says, standing. “If that’s all? It’s past my bedtime, too.”

“Yeah, of course,” Derek says, standing with Deaton and walking him to the door. “Thank you, Alan.”

Deaton shakes his hand firmly, before stepping outside.

Derek leans against the open doorframe for a while after he’s gone, trying to collect his thoughts. He’s only broken out of his reverie by a voice behind him.

“Hey, Derek.”

“Stiles?”

“Hey,” Stiles says again. He’s halfway across the loft, and approaches slowly till he’s only a foot or so from Derek. “How’re you feeling?”

“Crazy,” Derek sighs. “And exhausted.”

“Sounds about right,” Stiles says. “The boss man told me about your pack. I’m glad they’re okay. And listen, dude. I just wanted to apologize for tonight. I know it was awful, but desperate times call for desperate measures, y’know?”

Derek shrugs.

“It worked, right? Can’t really complain. Sorry I kept snapping at you when you were, uh,” he says, gaze casting to the ground, “just trying to help.”

“Eh, I would’ve been pissed at me too,” Stiles says easily. His voice is softer when he goes on. “I hope you’re starting to get how much you mean to people, though. Crazy, huh? That each man's life touches so many other lives. When he isn't around he leaves an awful hole, doesn't he?”

“Yeah,” Derek says. His voice isn’t as gruff as he would like. “Thanks for showing me that.”

“Thank me?” Stiles asks, voice suddenly bright and excited. “Thank you, dude! Check these out.”

Seemingly out of nowhere, wings start to unfold from his back, somehow unobstructed by his clothing. They’re enormous when they finally stop growing, at least four feet long and across. Derek’s struck by how gorgeous they are, fluffy and white, especially in the low light of the loft. He wonders if it’s because Stiles is an angel, or just because he’s him.

“They’re beautiful,” he says softly, surprising himself.

Suddenly everything seems more precious, more delicate.

“Ya think?” Stiles asks, glancing at them over his shoulder. “That’s great, man. And they’re all thanks to you.”

Derek shrugs.

“You would’ve earned them eventually anyway.”

“Yeah,” Stiles agrees. “But I’m glad I got them with you.”

Derek doesn’t quite know what to say to that.

Stiles glances around the room for a few seconds, before his gaze suddenly stops on the ceiling above them.

“Mistletoe, huh?” he says. “There’s kind of a lot of it in here, isn’t there?”

“Oh. Yeah.” He shrugs. “Erica kind of hung it anywhere she could.”

“That’s cute,” Stiles says, and when his eyes go back to Derek’s, they look warm and… wanting?

No, that’s not right. Just wishful thinking, probably. And when had Derek started to wish for Stiles, anyway? Well, maybe sometime between his gentle touches, and comforting words, and repeated promises that Derek matters. But no, that’s wrong. He’s an angel. He’s not interested in a human. He’s-

He’s pressing his lips against Derek’s.

They’re warm, and soft, and gone much too quickly.

“Sorry,” Stiles says immediately. “Sorry, that was- I don’t know if that was okay, or-”

Derek cuts him off with another kiss.

Before Derek knows it, there are hands on his hips, and he winds his arms around Stiles’ neck. Almost absently, he runs his fingers through Stiles wings, feeling the small, impossibly soft feathers, and Stiles moans.

Derek pulls back, stifling a laugh.

“Like that, huh?”

“Shut up,” Stiles huffs, but his eyes are sparkling. “It’s new.”

“This is new,” Derek says. “And maybe a little blasphemous.”

“Nah,” Stiles laughs, drumming his fingers on Derek’s hip. “The guy upstairs is a lot more chill than people seem to think.”

“This is so weird,” Derek says, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t you have to go back to, uh…”

He nods towards the ceiling, or the sky, really.

“Yeah,” Stiles sighs. “Today, especially.” Right. Christmas. “I spend a lotta time down on Earth, though. I can come back. Y’know, if you want, I mean. I don’t have to. If it’s just like an it’s-two-in-the-morning-on-Christmas-and-I’m-alive-and-there’s-an-angel-in-my-house-so-I-might-as-well-kiss-him type thing, that’s cool, too. No pressure, or-”

“Stiles.”

“Yeah?”

“I want you to come back.”

“Yeah?” Stiles repeats quietly, smiling this time. “Awesome, man. Cause, like… at this point, you matter to me, too. A lot.”

Derek doesn’t know when hearing Stiles talk about how much he matters went from exasperating to incredible, but warmth blooms in his chest.

There’s a loud crack of thunder, and Stiles groans.

“I really need to get going, though. You should go be with your pack.”

“Yeah,” Derek agrees, brushing their lips together in one more quick kiss before he steps back. “I want to see them before they fall asleep. See you soon?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says. “Yeah, Definitely.”

He positions his hand like he’s about to snap, to poof himself away.

He offers one last smile as he says, “Merry Christmas, Derek.”

“Merry Christmas, Stiles.”

And, even at only two in the morning, this has somehow become the merriest Christmas Derek has had in a long time.