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The next week was unusually quiet. It seemed like Chris Argent had finally gotten the message: keep his grubby little paws—ha!—off Derek’s pack. No more wolfsbane bullets flying their way. No traps hidden in the preserve. No overly dramatic speeches about “balance” or “hunters’ codes.”
Derek remained skeptical. He said as much one night while leaning against the kitchen counter in his loft, arms crossed and brow furrowed as Stiles flitted around arranging yet another throw pillow on the couch.
“You’re making this place look like an ad for HomeGoods,” Derek muttered, though his lips twitched with the barest hint of a smile.
“You’re welcome,” Stiles shot back. “And, excuse you, Derek. I’m creating a vibe here. Something a little less ‘industrial bachelor pad’ and a little more ‘pack-friendly home.’ You know—welcoming. Cozy. Not, like, a place where people get tortured.”
“That only happened once,” Derek deadpanned.
“And that’s one time too many!” Stiles snapped, tossing another pillow at Derek’s head. Derek caught it easily, smirking.
Despite Derek’s doubtfulness, the rest of the pack eased into the newfound quiet. Boyd and Erica had taken to using the loft’s vast space for sparring sessions. Isaac and Jackson bickered endlessly about which Marvel movie was better (it’s not even a competition, it’s clearly ‘Winter Soldier’, Stiles had declared more than once). Peter lurked as usual, offering unhelpful commentary and generally being a menace.
Friday night rolled around, and with it came Pack Night: pizza, soda, candy, movies—the essentials. Stiles had even managed to talk Derek into letting them use the loft’s gigantic blank wall as a projection screen. Boyd was picking through the pile of Blu-rays, and Erica was poking Jackson in the ribs with the sharp end of a Twizzler when a knock came at the door.
The room froze.
Stiles dropped the popcorn he’d been shaking into a bowl. Derek straightened from where he’d been leaning against the back of the couch. Erica stopped mid-poke. Isaac edged closer to the door, but Derek shot him a warning glare.
“Everyone stay put,” Derek growled.
But of course, Stiles didn’t listen. He was already halfway to the door.
“Stiles,” Derek hissed.
“It’s fine,” Stiles said, waving him off. “I’ve got this.”
He cracked the door open just enough to peek out. And, of course, it wasn’t fine. Standing on the other side was Chris Argent, flanked by two hunters with grim expressions and serious weaponry.
“Stiles,” Derek barked.
“Uh, hey there, Argent,” Stiles said, trying for casual. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Didn’t think you were the type to do social calls.”
Chris’s face was as unreadable as ever. “I’m here to call a truce,” he said.
The pack collectively bristled behind Stiles.
“Excuse me?” Stiles said.
Chris glanced past him, eyes landing on Derek. “Can we come in?”
“No,” Derek said flatly, stepping up behind Stiles.
“Look, I didn’t come here to fight,” Chris said.
“And yet you brought backup,” Stiles snarked, gesturing to the hunters.
Derek put a hand on Stiles’ shoulder, grounding him. “We’ll think it over,” Derek said, his tone carefully neutral. “If we agree, we’ll meet somewhere neutral to talk.”
Chris hesitated, but eventually nodded. “Tomorrow night,” he said. “I’ll send the location.”
____________________
The warehouse Chris chose was abandoned but surprisingly clean. Stiles still insisted on sweeping it for traps beforehand.
“Stiles,” Derek grumbled as he watched him fiddle with a trip wire, “is this really necessary?”
“Absolutely,” Stiles said. “Do you trust him?”
Derek didn’t answer, which was answer enough.
By the time Chris and his hunters arrived, Stiles had rigged the place with enough glitter bombs to make a kindergarten art class jealous. He stood beside Derek, flamethrower strapped to his back, looking far too pleased with himself.
“This is what you consider neutral?” Chris asked dryly, gesturing to the various wires and suspiciously shiny puddles on the floor.
“Hey, man, you picked the place,” Stiles said. “I’m just making sure we all play nice.”
Chris’s jaw tightened. “And you’re really letting this teenage boy call the shots?”
“Careful,” Stiles warned, pointing a finger. “Or this teenage boy will kick your old—”
“Stiles,” Derek cut him off, his tone firm but fond. “Stiles is my second.”
Chris blinked, clearly baffled. “Your second?”
“Yes,” Derek said simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.
Peter snorted from where he leaned against a wall. “Don’t look so surprised, Argent. The kid’s terrifying when he wants to be.”
Stiles beamed. “Thank you, Peter. Finally, someone gets it.”
“Let’s just get this over with,” Argent grumbles.
***
The warehouse negotiations dragged longer than anyone anticipated. Stiles, perched on an old metal barrel near Derek, was halfway through mentally drafting his resignation letter as Pack Mom (Dear Alpha Sourwolf, it’s not me, it’s definitely you. Best wishes, Stiles Stilinski) when finally it conceded.
“Fine,” Chris said through gritted teeth. “We leave your pack alone, you stay out of hunter business. We work together when the supernatural threatens the town.”
“And?” Stiles prompted, gesturing for him to continue.
Chris glared at him, clearly not thrilled about the next part. “And… I apologize for… past actions.”
“That’s it?” Stiles scoffed. “No mention of almost stabbing me? Or poisoning Isaac? Or shooting arrows into Jackson ? Or—”
“Stiles,” Derek interrupted, tone sharp but laced with amusement.
Stiles huffed and crossed his arms. “Whatever. Baby steps, I guess.”
The tension in the room eased slightly as everyone prepared to leave. Chris and his hunters turned toward the exit, their boots crunching softly against the concrete.
“See?” Stiles said, grinning up at Derek. “No one got maimed, and I didn’t even have to use the flamethrower. I call that a win.”
Derek just shook his head, though his lips twitched.
But then it happened.
A faint click.
The sound was subtle, but to the heightened senses of a werewolf—or, apparently, a paranoid human like Stiles—it might as well have been a gunshot.
Chris froze mid-step, his eyes narrowing. “What was—”
BOOM.
The glitter bomb exploded in a dazzling cascade of sparkly carnage. Gold, silver, and neon pink glitter erupted like a firework, coating Chris from head to toe. His two hunters got caught in the blast, their dark jackets now glittering like disco balls.
For a moment, there was stunned silence.
Then Chris roared, “STILINSKI!”
The entire pack dissolved into laughter.
“Whaaat?” Stiles said innocently, wiping tears from his eyes. “That wasn’t even supposed to go off! It’s just, you know, glitter happens.”
Chris turned slowly, his face a mask of barely contained rage. He was dripping glitter, bits of it sticking to his lashes and eyebrows. “You rigged the exit.”
“For safety purposes,” Stiles said defensively. “You know, in case you guys tried something shady.”
“I am covered in glitter.”
“You’re fabulous,” Stiles corrected.
Derek pinched the bridge of his nose, though his shoulders were shaking slightly. Even Peter looked like he might laugh. Erica was openly wheezing, clinging to Boyd for support. Isaac and Jackson had collapsed into a heap on the floor, cackling.
Chris turned to Derek, his expression pure disbelief. “You’re seriously letting this teenager—this child—represent your pack?”
Derek didn’t hesitate. “As i said, Stiles is my second.”
Chris threw his hands in the air. “Your second is deranged!”
“That’s creative,” Stiles corrected, hands on his hips. “And you’re welcome for the glitter. I heard your wardrobe needed some pizzazz.”
Chris muttered something under his breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m going to kill him.”
As the hunters stormed out, trailing glitter in their wake, Chris’s aggravated voice echoed through the warehouse: “This isn’t over, Stilinski!”
Stiles smirked. “I think it is, though.”
Derek turned to him, raising an eyebrow. “Really?”
“What? He got off easy. I was this close to adding confetti cannons.”
“You’re ridiculous,” Derek said, his tone fond.
“Your ridiculous,” Stiles corrected, leaning up to press a quick kiss to Derek’s cheek.
From his corner, Peter snorted. “God help us all if you two ever reproduce.”
“Shut up, Peter,” Derek and Stiles said in unison.
And for the first time in weeks, the pack left laughing and carefree.