Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Hey,” Cam says as he walks over to stand next to Derek, bumping their shoulders together briefly, “what’s with the face?”

“I have made a grave mistake,” Derek says, watching with horror as the consequences of his hubris unfold before him.

Cam makes a small confused noise. “What do you—” he cuts off as he follows Derek’s line of sight. “Oh.” He hisses in sympathy and gives Derek a firm pat on the shoulder. “Yikes. Yeah. Sorry, buddy, but I think you’re doomed.”

Derek sighs heavily. “Yeah. Figured as much.” He’d hoped Cora would get along with everyone on the team, but he hadn’t expected them to get along this well. And now she and Vala are sitting close and snickering with each other as they plot out a prank campaign against him. He’ll never know another moment’s peace, he’s fairly certain.

Cam nods grimly. “My condolences. Hey, but, it could be worse, y’know. At least it’s just the two of them—” he stops abruptly again as Stiles walks over to join the scheming. “Ah crap.”

Derek throws his hands up in despair, then thwacks Cam’s arm with the back of his hand. “You jinxed it. Thanks a lot.”

Cam tries and fails to hide a laugh by faking a coughing fit. “Sorry! I’m sorry. This totally isn’t funny. I am definitely not laughing at you.”

Derek drops his head into his hands with a groan. “I have the worst friends ever,” he laments. “That’s it—I’m moving to the Pegasus Galaxy. Goodbye forever, my life here is over.”

“That is unfortunate to hear,” Teal’c says as he walks over to join them, standing at Derek’s other side. He raises an eyebrow and hums thoughtfully as he watches the schemers. “Though, given the circumstances, it may be the wisest course of action.”

Cam crosses his arms and tilts his head skeptically. “I dunno, man, are you sure Pegasus is far enough? Maybe you should try another universe.”

Derek scrubs both hands down his face and exhales slowly. “They torment me because they love me,” he reminds himself through gritted teeth.

Cam snorts and claps him on the back. “That’s the spirit, buddy.”

Derek casts his eyes beseechingly up at the sky as he huffs another breath, then decides to abandon his efforts to pretend he doesn’t actually love every second of this. Because, sure, the combined mischief of Cora, Stiles, and Vala will be a nigh-unstoppable force that may rip holes in the fabric of reality, but he knows it’s all in good fun. This won’t be like the prank wars Peter had inflicted on them when they were young, so often resulting in actual bodily harm or permanent psychological trauma. These three will torment him without mercy, but they’ll never hurt him just to please themselves. They’ll pull the types of pranks that will leave him laughing, not the ones that would make him cry. And besides, the very fact that Cora is here to pull these pranks on him makes it all worthwhile.

Derek takes another breath to brace himself, straightens up a little, and crosses his arms defiantly. “So, how much trouble am I in for leaving you all like that?”

Cam waves a hand in dismissal. “Don’t even worry about it. We get it, and we were all totally fine. And Landry’s cleared all our schedules for the next few days—we’re at your disposal. Anything you need, just let us know.”

Derek uncrosses his arms and briefly flicks his gaze over to Stiles. “Actually, we have the names of the rest of the people involved in this. If you could help us take down their network so we never have to go through all this again—”

“Absolutely,” Cam agrees enthusiastically. “We are on it.” He perks up as he looks across the yard, then gives Derek a friendly clap on the back. “Starting tomorrow, though, because I need in on that second round of burgers coming off the grill, and I’m sure I’ll have a hell of a food coma to recover from tonight.” He grins at Derek and heads off toward the grill, where the Sheriff is already swarmed with eager teens waiting to be fed.

Derek casts a curious glance over at Teal’c. “You aren’t going to join?”

“I shall wait for the crowd to subside,” Teal’c says, voice low, watching the rowdy group of teens with a wary eye. “I need not do battle with these young warriors for food when supplies are so plentiful.”

“Understandable,” Derek concedes with a nod—Derek had similar thoughts for himself, after all—and the conversation lulls into companionable silence for a few moments. But, eventually, he does feel like he has to say something. “Hey—thanks,” he says quietly, “for coming out here. I hope Rya’c wasn’t too upset about you cutting your visit short.” Unlike the rest of the team, Teal’c hadn’t been on their last mission—he’d been offworld visiting his son. But, still, he’d rushed back to Earth when he’d heard what happened and followed the team out to Beacon Hills, only half a day behind.

Teal’c inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Rya’c understands,” he says. “You are family, as well, Derek Hale, and I am honored to now officially be part of your pack.”

Derek looks back over at Cora, now trailing slightly behind Vala and Stiles as they make their way over to the grill. “You’ve already saved her life once,” he tells Teal’c softly, and the older man raises a curious eyebrow at him. “Indirectly, but still. She was shot with a wolfsbane bullet, and she entered a deep state of Kelno’reem to slow the poisoning until she could be healed. So, thank you, for giving us the tools we need to help keep her safe.”

Teal’c turns his gaze onto Cora, watching her with interest. “She is an impressive young woman. I am beginning to understand how she has managed to assemble such a devoted following, even despite all your differences.”

“She loves us all and asks for nothing in return,” Derek says. “Of course we’d do anything for her, if only she’d let us.”

Teal’c tilts his head thoughtfully. “I believe that may be one of the most defining differences between a leader and a ruler. Too often, those who seek power will attempt to rule through fear or force. But true leadership requires humility and a generosity of spirit that those who seek power will never understand, much less achieve. Your sister yearns for peace, not power, and in so doing, she has inspired exactly the type of devotion that most rulers would kill for.”

Derek watches Cora—his last living blood relative, but no longer the last of his family—and knows that everything Teal’c has said about her is true. “She’s so much like our father,” he says softly, “and if everyone in the Littlefield line of inheritance has been like this, then I think I understand why this conspiracy fought so hard to destroy us. They were afraid; they couldn’t believe that anyone in power would not eventually turn around and abuse it—the concept is just incomprehensible to them.”

“We are quite fortunate, then,” Teal’c says, “to still have her with us.”

Derek shakes his head. “It wasn’t fortune that brought her back to us. She fought to get back, because this is where she belongs.”

Teal’c raises an eyebrow in interest. “Indeed.”

The crowd around the grill has started to disperse, so Derek nudges Teal’c in the side with an elbow. “C’mon, before the kids all come back for thirds and leave us with nothing.” Teal’c inclines his head in agreement and follows Derek over, both to get more food and to rescue the poor beleaguered Sheriff from the gaggle of teens still lingering around waiting for more.

Derek knows he’s only speculating on the motives of the conspiracy—he never did get a straight answer out of Deaton, and after what Stiles had done to the man, he doubts he ever will—but maybe it doesn’t matter anymore. The rest of their organization will be dismantled in short order, and Cora will outlast them all.

Chapter Text

Stiles startles and almost drops his plate when a clawed hand grips his shoulder tightly from behind him as he makes his way back from the dessert table to join Derek. “Jesus f—”

“How sure are you,” Jackson growls low in his ear, “that the person who did this to her is dead?”

Stiles scowls over his shoulder at Jackson, clenches his jaw, then glances quickly around to see who’s nearby—too many werewolves within earshot, Cora included. He huffs a frustrated sigh, sets his plate down in the grass, and grabs Jackson’s arm in a too-tight grip. “Not where she can hear,” he growls back as he drags Jackson to the edge of the yard and into the woods.

He keeps going until Jackson finally yanks his arm free and comes to an abrupt halt. “Stop pussyfooting around, Stilinski. How do you know—”

“Because I killed her,” Stiles snaps, and Jackson flinches back a little, blinking in surprise.

Jackson pauses and narrows his eyes. “You—”

“—Left her body where it would be found so Cora could have proof that the woman who killed her could never do it again,” Stiles continues grimly. “Also got rid of a few others in town that we didn’t know about yet, but didn’t leave any of their bodies behind. As far as anyone will know, they simply vanished.”

Jackson stares at him for a moment, clenching his jaw. “And Deaton—”

“—Is technically still alive, but he’ll never be able to hurt her again,” Stiles reports with a satisfied smirk.

Jackson closes his hands into fists in an attempt to hide the way they’re trembling. “So she really is—”

“—Safe,” Stiles confirms, placing a hand on Jackson’s shoulder, letting the hard edge melt out of his voice into something almost gentle. “Yeah. It’s over.”

“She’s safe,” Jackson echoes, gasping in a shaky breath and bringing one hand up to clutch at Stiles’ elbow. “She–she’s—” he gasps again.

Stiles grabs Jackson’s other hand and uncurls the fist to place the other teen’s hand flat against his own chest, keeping his hand on top as he takes deliberate slow breaths in and out. “She’s alive, and she’s safe,” Stiles repeats softly on an exhale. “Breathe with me, Jackson. Like this.” He takes several more deliberate breaths, until Jackson finally starts to match his rhythm and tension slowly drains from his shoulders.

Jackson takes another breath to match Stiles, then pulls his hands away so he can scrub at his face. “She’s safe,” he repeats once more, still a little shaky, but calming down now.

“Yeah,” Stiles confirms, squeezing Jackson’s shoulder in emphasis, “she is. They can’t hurt her anymore.”

Jackson nods, takes another slow breath, and steps away so he can lean back against a nearby tree with one hand splayed over his chest and the other pinching the bridge of his nose. “I thought I’d lost her for good this time,” he says quietly.

Stiles nods grimly, watching Jackson with a wary eye. “I know. We all did.”

“She promised she wouldn’t leave again, and then she was dead, and I couldn’t—” Jackson cuts himself off, pausing for a harsh breath, then turning his gaze up to meet Stiles’ eyes. “I can’t go through that again, Stiles.”

Stiles sighs heavily and scrubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I know.”

“You could’ve acted sooner,” Jackson says, voice low and harsh, expression dark. “You could’ve taken Deaton apart and destroyed them all before any of this could happen, but you held back, and it killed her.”

“I know,” Stiles snaps again. He’s been beating himself up over this since it happened—he could have stopped it. And he knows Derek doesn’t blame him, and Cora would never even think it, but none of this had to happen. He won’t be making that mistake again.

Jackson lets his head fall back against the trunk of the tree, taking a few more steadying breaths, then eventually lifts his head to look at Stiles again. “If this happens again—”

“It won’t,” Stiles says sharply, closing his hands into tight fists and glaring at Jackson.

Jackson raises an eyebrow and glares back at Stiles, lifting one hand level with his chest in a silent request to not be interrupted again. “If we lose her again,” he continues grimly, “you’ll need to kill me, too. I won’t be safe to be around. None of you will be safe from me. Promise me, Stiles.”

Stiles squeezes his eyes shut for a moment. He has no doubt that Jackson means what he’s saying, and is probably accurately assessing the threat he would become if they lost Cora again. Stiles also knows that, if that did happen, he would have no trouble honoring such a request. There wouldn’t be enough good left in the world to hold him back. “I promise.”

Jackson nods sharply in thanks. “Now, I very much hope it never comes to that—”

“You know you aren’t alone in that hope,” Stiles says, holding his gaze steadily. He’d do as requested, but he wouldn’t enjoy it—there would be no satisfaction for him in ending Jackson’s life, even for the protection of all the others. Cora’s his best friend, but Jackson is his friend, too, and losing them both would be devastating. Unrecoverable.

“Then you’d damn well better make sure that never happens,” Jackson growls, glaring hard at him again. “You won’t be holding back anymore, when it matters, will you?”

“Never again,” Stiles promises darkly. He’s already made this promise to himself, after all.

Jackson holds his gaze a moment longer, then nods and relaxes, apparently satisfied. “Fine. Just so we’re clear.”

“Exceptionally clear,” Stiles confirms. They lull into silence for a moment, with Jackson continuing to focus on breathing steadily and Stiles continuing to watch Jackson warily. “We all good now?” Stiles eventually says, keeping his tone soft and even, allowing Jackson the space to lash out again if he needs it but providing a steady, non-judgemental presence if he feels safe coming back from the edge.

There’s a brief lag to Jackson’s response as he slowly blinks back to the present moment. “Yeah,” he answers eventually, voice rough as he pushes himself off of the tree, “we’re good.” He shakes himself a little, then straightens up and nods once in reassurance. “I’m good.”

Stiles takes a breath to release some of the tension from his own body, then steps forward to place a hand on Jackson’s shoulder again. “C’mon, let’s get back to her. Don’t want to make her worry.”

“Right, yeah,” Jackson agrees quietly, but he hesitates, resisting slightly as Stiles attempts to steer him back toward the yard. “Stiles—”

Stiles shakes his head sharply. “Don’t. I know.” He knows Jackson doesn’t actually blame him for what happened to Cora; he knows Jackson would never ask any of this of him if it wasn’t all so fresh, but that he nevertheless meant every word; he knows Jackson never wants him to mention any of this again, especially the almost-panic-attack.

Jackson studies his face for a moment, then nods once more. “Okay. Good.” He takes another breath and allows Stiles to lead him back to the yard, to rejoin the gathering.

Stiles pats his shoulder once at the edge of the yard and removes his hand so they can part ways; Jackson heads over toward where Parrish is chatting with Lydia and Allison, and Stiles rushes over to reclaim his plate of cookies before the ants can find it.

He’ll have to keep an eye on Jackson for a while—on all of them, honestly, but Jackson is particularly fragile right now. Stiles thinks for a moment as he collects his plate, then nods assuredly to himself and redirects to find Teal’c. The Jaffa’s serene presence and expertise in navigating a way through life during the dark times might be just what Jackson needs.

Chapter Text

Cora can feel herself pushing past her limit and knows she needs to get away. She’s spent time with each of her pack members, including Derek’s team; she has had more conversations in this one day than she had in the entire past month; she even let most of them hug her, for far longer than she was comfortable with. And she knows they all needed this, needed to be able to see for themselves that she’s alive, but being the center of attention like this is too much.

The sun is setting, but the party is showing no signs of stopping anytime soon. If she can just take a few minutes to recharge, maybe she’ll be able to jump back in.

She slips away while the rest of them are distracted so she can hide in the house for a bit. Going to her room is certainly an option, but that feels a lot more final than she wants to commit to right now—she has every intention of rejoining the party, once she gets her brain to settle. She finds a quiet corner of the kitchen instead and curls into a seat on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest and tucking her face into her arms, feeling the cool tile underneath her and a solid wall at her back, letting the familiar scents of home settle over her. She can still hear everyone outside, but being removed from the action like this is allowing it to fade into pleasant background noise instead of yet another assault on her senses.

She gets a few minutes of peace before someone comes in—the Sheriff, with an armload of dirty dishes for the sink—and she cringes, emitting a small involuntary sound as he turns on the lights.

The Sheriff startles at the sound, fumbling his armload of dishes, and Cora cringes again as they clatter into the sink. “Ah, crap—what—Cora?”

Cora huffs a frustrated sigh and tightens her grip on her knees, tucking her face into the crook of her elbow. She probably should’ve gone to her room after all. “Too bright,” she grumbles.

“Oh,” he says, hissing in sympathy. “Right, yeah. Let me just—” the lights flick off, and she relaxes again. “You okay, kid?” he asks gently.

Cora squeezes her knees tighter again. “Need a minute,” she says, her voice muffled into her arms.

There’s a brief pause before he speaks again. “Want me to leave you alone?”

She frowns but doesn’t lift her head. Does she want that? Is alone actually what she needs right now, or would isolation actually make this worse? She honestly doesn’t know. She shrugs—maybe he can figure it out.

He sighs, and she hears him take a few steps closer and crouch down in front of her. “Okay if I join you?”

Cora hesitates, then shrugs again. If it was anyone else asking—except, perhaps, O’Neill—the answer right now would be a definitive no. But the Sheriff is a steady, calming presence, and she can probably tolerate him sticking around for a bit.

“Okay,” he says quietly, and he settles in next to her with a soft grunt.

She takes a few more breaths to center herself, then tilts her head to look over at him. “Sorry,” she says softly, watching him carefully.

He lifts his head from where he’d been leaning back against the wall, blinks his eyes open to meet hers, and frowns slightly in confusion. “For what?”

“For—” she pauses, frowning back at him. She’s supposed to have a reason to apologize? Her mother had never wanted excuses, only apologies, and she’d let Cora know any time the apology wasn’t sincere enough, even if she didn’t know what the apology was for. “I don’t know.”

He hums thoughtfully, studying her for a moment, until she shifts uncomfortably under the scrutiny. “I think,” he starts quietly, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back again, “if anyone here should be apologizing, it should be me.”

Cora blinks and furrows her brow. “You?”

“Me,” he repeats with a grim expression and a firm nod. “I should’ve done a better job of protecting you.”

“Protecting all of you is my job as Alpha,” Cora says, shaking her head.

“Well, it’s my job as Sheriff,” he counters, leaning over to bump his shoulder against hers lightly. “I’m sorry I didn’t stop them before they could get to you.”

She sighs and hugs her knees tighter again. “They would’ve found a way, no matter what you did. At least this way, I was the only one who got hurt.”

“The only—” he starts incredulously, stopping himself when she flinches a bit. He pinches the bridge of his nose with a heavy sigh. “Jesus Christ. Okay,” he mutters, scrubbing at his eyes. “I guess it makes sense—you weren’t there to witness any of the aftermath.”

Cora frowns—had Sarah hurt someone else? But no, Derek had said Cora was alone when they found her. Had something else happened? No one is injured today, but that doesn’t mean they weren’t yesterday—most of them heal exceptionally fast, after all. “Did someone else get hurt?” she asks tentatively.

He looks at her with a strange expression on his face. “You died, Cora. We were all hurt.”

“Oh.” Right. Her death hadn’t only happened to her; the pack had felt it, too, and she’d left them without an Alpha. “Everyone is okay, though,” she says, her voice coming out soft and uncertain, “aren’t they?”

“We are now,” he says, voice rough, “because you’re back with us.”

Cora takes a slow, shaky breath and lets her head fall back to bang against the wall, wincing slightly from the jolt. “I’ve tried to prepare all of you for a time when I might not be around. If I haven’t done a good enough job at that, there’s no way I can go to school in just a few—”

“No, don’t you dare,” he says firmly with a stern frown. “Losing some time with you because you’re away for a few months is completely different from losing you forever. We can handle the first one.”

Cora unwraps one arm from around her knees so she can wrap her hand around her amulet instead. “But what if—”

“You’ll come back to us,” he says, his voice determined. “We can get through anything, as long as you come back.”

She runs her thumb across the carving on the amulet. “That’s always the plan,” she says softly. Coming back home to the people she loves, no matter what. It’s what Ernest had held on to, for over fifty years, stranded alone on another planet. It’s what brought her back to Beacon Hills, despite the danger, after all those years safely hidden away.

The Sheriff leans over to bump shoulders with her again. “Want me to send everyone home so you can get some rest?” he offers gently.

She takes another slow breath, closing her eyes for a moment, then shakes her head. “I’ll be fine. Just need a few more minutes.”

He hesitates, then asks, “Okay if I turn on a light now, so I can get started on some of the dishes?”

She nods and tucks her face into her arm again. “‘S’fine.”

But he doesn’t get up just yet; he leans over to bump shoulders with her again, this time not pulling away. “Hey,” he says softly, pausing until she looks over to meet his eyes. “Love you, kiddo.”

She blinks away a sudden blurriness that starts to cloud her vision and a prickliness behind her eyes. “Love you, too,” she whispers.

His expression softens into something unbearably fond, and she turns her head away again to hide from it, squeezing her arm around her knees, gripping her amulet tightly, and pressing her face into the crook of her elbow. Luckily, he takes the hint and pulls away, groaning a little as he pushes himself to his feet. “’M too old to be sitting on the floor like that,” he grumbles quietly to himself, and she hears a few of his joints pop as he gets his body moving again and shuffles over to the sink.

The light is still a bit too bright when he flicks it on, but it’s not as bad as before—she’ll adapt to it quickly enough. Really, the only sense she has that’s still overloaded is the one that apparently no one else has. Magic permeates the town, at least half of her pack contributes to the overwhelm, and she never did get to escape it yesterday, rudely interrupted as she was by getting murdered. She can probably get through the rest of tonight, now that her brain is starting to settle, but she’ll need to try again soon.

She peeks up at the Sheriff, watching him work for a moment. She’ll probably need to tell him, sometime soon, that he’s part of the problem. He has just as much potential as Stiles and O’Neill, after all; he has a level of perceptiveness far beyond the norm—it’s part of what makes him such a good sheriff, honestly—and he can nurture that, if he wants. All Cora has to do is tell him.

The problem with that, though, is that it’ll make existing near him so much more exhausting for Cora. Stiles is practically explosive and O’Neill is steadfast and passionate, and both of them glow brighter every day as they expand their capabilities—the Sheriff will almost certainly be the same, as soon as he starts to explore his own abilities. And Cora knows it’s selfish to keep this from him, knows she can’t do it forever, but surely it can’t hurt to just wait a while longer. She’ll tell him soon; just not tonight.

Chapter Text

Cora feels like she should have known that retreating to her room wouldn’t be effective tonight. She’d tried going back out, but apparently she needed more than just a few minutes to recharge—she’d barely gotten back out there when it all became too much again. She can usually handle this so much better, though; maybe spending time in another plane of existence has side effects she hadn’t known to expect. But, whatever the case, she gave up and ran off to hide in her room. She should’ve known she’d be followed.

She barely gets a minute to herself this time before she hears Jackson’s footsteps coming up the stairs after her. She groans and bangs her head against her desk, and she tries to remind herself that he’s extra clingy right now because he’s scared. He would never admit that, but he is, and she knows it. She knows why, too—he lost her once before at an exceptionally vulnerable time in his life and never properly recovered, and then she’d just gone and died again, right in front of him. His worst fear had manifested before his very eyes, and it’ll take time for him to get over that. So, fine. She wants to be alone, but he needs to know that he isn’t. She can give him that, for a little while. It’ll be easier to tolerate just him than it was to be around all of them.

Jackson lets himself in and walks over to lean his hip against the edge of her desk, craning his neck to see what she’s doing. “What are we looking for?”

Cora rolls her eyes and marks another spot on the map. “We aren’t looking for anything.”

Jackson hums skeptically. “Pretty sure we are, though. What are those?” he asks, pointing at the marked spots.

Cora sighs and pinches the bridge of her nose. “I am looking for the nearest magical dead zone in town that isn’t the burnt-out husk of my childhood home.”

“Ew, why the hell would we want that?” Jackson asks, wrinkling his nose in distaste.

Cora squeezes her eyes shut and rubs her forehead. “Okay, first of all—and I mean this with all the love in my heart—not everything is about you.”

Jackson snorts and claps her on the shoulder. “You’re hilarious. Seriously, though, why are we looking for the anti-Nemeton?”

“The—” Cora blinks a few times and looks at her map again. “Huh. Actually. I guess that kind of is what I’m looking for.”

“See?” he says with a smirk, lightly thwacking he shoulder with the back of his hand. “I’m helping already. You should check there, too,” he adds, pointing at another spot on the map.

Cora narrows her eyes at him, then looks back at the map. The location he pointed to fits her criteria perfectly, actually; she sighs heavily and circles it. “Alright, fine. I guess you can help. And anyway, this’ll go quicker if you drive. But, Jackson, if I do find what I’m looking for, you have to promise me one thing.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Just one? Easy. Name it.”

Cora sets down her pencil and swivels her chair so she can grab both of his hands. “Once I find the right spot, you have to leave me alone. I can’t do what I need to do with you around.”

He flinches back a little and blinks at her a few times, looking offended. “What the hell are you planning to do?”

“None of your business,” she says firmly, squeezing his hands. “That’s the whole point. This is for me and only me.” She can’t tell him that he’s part of the problem; he’ll take it personally, and he’ll think it’s his fault. It’s no one’s fault, though, it’s just her weird brain.

He stares at her suspiciously for a moment, then scowls. “I don’t like this,” he grumbles.

Cora swivels her chair around, tugging Jackson along with her until the backs of his knees hit the edge of her bed, and she pushes him lightly back so he’ll sit, still keeping her grip on both of his hands. “I know,” she says quietly, “but I’ll be okay. I think this will help me, actually.”

He narrows his eyes skeptically. “Whatever you’re planning to do will make you feel better?”

“That’s the plan, anyway,” she says with a shrug. “And I need to do the final bit alone, but you can help me with the search.”

“You aren’t going out to look at all these sites tonight, though, are you?” he asks, raising a judgemental eyebrow, then glancing over at the map. “That’s a pretty long list, and it’s getting late.”

She shakes her head. “Just planning tonight. Too tired for much else.”

He closes his eyes for a breath and grimaces. “Should I leave you alone so you can sleep?” he offers begrudgingly.

She feels her face soften into a fond smile, and she lets go of one of his hands so she can reach up to cradle his face instead. “You probably should,” she tells him gently, pulling him forward and leaning in herself so she can rest their foreheads together for a few breaths, “but you can stay a few more minutes.”

He reaches his free hand up to wrap around her wrist, resting his fingers on her pulse point. “You broke your promise,” he says quietly after a slow breath in and out. “You said you were here to stay.”

She sighs heavily and nods slightly without breaking contact. “I know; I’m sorry. But I came back as fast as I could.”

He tightens his grip on her wrist. “Just never do it again, okay?”

She gives him a wry half-smile. “I certainly don’t plan to.” Not that dying was ever part of the plan, but she definitely never wants to repeat the experience.

She pulls away to return to her map, and he lets her go with only mild annoyed grumbling. He pushes himself further onto her bed so he can lounge against her headboard, closing his eyes and looking for all the world as if he’s fast asleep. She knows he isn’t asleep, though—he’s listening to her heartbeat and matching the rhythm of his breath to hers. Clinging to the reminders that she’s alive again, just as Derek has been doing.

She won’t let him stay too long tonight; he’ll need to go home to get actual sleep, and she’ll need to make another attempt at that, herself. She hadn’t had much luck last night, even after her time with O’Neill, but surely exhaustion will win out eventually. And, she hopes, finding a dead zone where she can let her brain reset should make everything easier.

Chapter Text

Derek huffs in mild amusement as he hears O’Neill’s car roll slowly down the street for the second time this morning and decides enough is enough. He steps out onto the porch and crosses his arms, raising a judgemental eyebrow as O’Neill gets close enough to see him, and O’Neill makes a face and pulls into the driveway. “She’s not here,” Derek informs him as he steps out of his car.

O’Neill pauses, then grimaces and pushes his car door shut. “Am I that obvious?”

Derek huffs another amused breath and jerks his head toward the house. “Come on in.”

O’Neill sighs and follows Derek inside. “So, did she say where she was going?”

“She’s doing something with Jackson,” Derek says, leading the way to the kitchen and gesturing for O’Neill to take a seat at the table, then heading over to the counter to pour each of them a mug of coffee and start a fresh pot for when Stiles eventually wakes up. “She wouldn’t tell me what, though.”

“Oh,” O’Neill says, sounding disappointed, and when Derek glances over to look at him, he’s staring down at the tabletop with his brow furrowed.

“She’s safe,” Derek tells him gently, a reminder for both of them. He hadn’t liked letting Cora go off on some errand she wouldn’t talk about, but he knows she doesn’t appreciate his hovering. She’s always been independent—not that she was ever given much of a choice—and she’s still not used to having people actually care about her. It’s a delicate balance, letting her know she’s not alone but also giving her breathing space. Derek knows he still hasn’t figured it out, knows he leaves her feeling overwhelmed more often than not, but he’s working on it. It’s just extra hard to let her go after almost losing her again.

O’Neill nods distractedly, still frowning, absently tracing the grain of wood on the table. “I know.”

Derek brings the mugs over and sets one down in front of O’Neill, who accepts it with a grateful nod, then slides into the seat next to him. “You doing okay?” he asks, watching O’Neill carefully. He looks tired—healthier, actually, than before, but definitely tired. Derek wouldn’t be surprised if O’Neill hasn’t slept at all for the past two days.

O’Neill sighs heavily, wraps one hand around the mug, and scrubs the heel of his other hand against his eyes. He drums his fingers against the side of his mug for a minute, watching the steam rise, before he finally responds. “Can’t believe I’m just supposed to be able to go back to work like nothing happened.”

“I know the feeling,” Derek says softly, lifting his own mug, but not taking a sip yet. He’s lucky to have General Landry on his side through all this, approving his leave and not punishing him for abandoning his team offworld, but he knows he’ll have to go back to work eventually—Cora will get sick of him, soon enough.

O’Neill props both elbows on the table and scrubs his face. “I used to be better at this. Losing people—or, I guess, almost losing them—” he clasps his hands together, resting them against his chin. “But none of that was actually me, was it? It was all the other one. The original. I’m just—” he huffs an almost-amused breath and shakes his head. “None of the most defining moments of my life are actually mine. And now that I’m finally having moments of my own, I don’t know how to handle it.”

Derek studies him for a moment, furrowing his brow. “I never thought about it that way.” He’s a little ashamed to admit that he’s never put all that much thought into the strangeness that is O’Neill’s life.

“When Cora told me I was dying, I thought—” O’Neill shrugs, staring blankly into his coffee— “sure, fine. Sounds fair. I was never supposed to exist in the first place, so this is just the universe finally catching up to me, or whatever. She wanted to search for a cure, but I honestly didn’t think we’d ever find one. And I was okay with that. I was okay with just enjoying what little time I had left, as long as I could spend it with her. But then—” he pauses for a harsh breath, scrubbing a hand down his face— “then she died, and it was a relief that I was dying too.”

Derek nods grimly in understanding. “Lucky, to not have to figure out how to go on without her,” he recalls. If Cora hadn’t come back when she did, Derek would have felt envious of O’Neill’s situation.

“I would’ve refused any cure we found at that point,” O’Neill continues, “but then she came back, and she cured me all on her own, and now I have to deal with the fact that my entire life is ahead of me.” He wraps both hands around his mug again, pulling it close and closing his eyes as he inhales the steam. “I used to think it didn’t matter if I had a future, y’know? I’d already lived mine, and I wasn’t all that keen on starting over, but it was something to do. And I found a friend worth sticking around for—I didn’t really care what I was doing, so I just did whatever he wanted. But then I came here, and I met Cora.”

Derek feels his face soften, and the corners of his mouth almost turn up in a smile. “Cora’s got you thinking about the future?”

O’Neill’s face flushes, and he ducks his head. “Cora makes me feel like I should care about my future; she makes me want to build a life for myself, with all of you in it; and she makes me think I actually deserve to go after the things I want.” He pauses for a breath, tapping his fingers against his mug. “I almost lost my chance at all of that. And now that she’s back, I want to find out what that future could look like.”

“You two have more in common than I realized,” Derek says quietly, watching O’Neill. Both living on what they’d assumed was borrowed time; both living their lives for everyone but themselves; and both carrying more than their fair share of someone else’s pain. No wonder they’d found each other and bonded—O’Neill, knowing he’d been made expendable on purpose, and Cora being raised to believe the same about herself.

“She deserves her own future,” O’Neill says, staring into his mug with a contemplative frown. “I don’t want her to think she has to sacrifice any of her own hopes and dreams to accommodate mine.”

And there’s another thing Derek hadn’t realized—the true depths of O’Neill’s feelings. The attraction had been evident from fairly early on, at least on O’Neill’s part—Cora is much harder to read, in that regard—but this has grown far beyond mere attraction. And, intellectually, Derek had already known that—O’Neill would apparently rather die than live in a world without Cora—but now O’Neill wants to plan a future with her. “I’m glad you two found each other,” he says, smiling softly into his mug as he lifts it to take a sip.

O’Neill sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. “She deserves so much better than me.”

“She deserves someone who loves her,” Derek says, lifting a judgemental eyebrow.

O’Neill freezes for a second and raises his eyes to meet Derek’s. “Is this the part where you tell me you’ll kill me if I hurt your sister?”

Derek snorts and waves a hand in dismissal at the thought. “Please. If you ever did, I’d be the least of your worries. No, this is the part where I tell you that you’re a good man, and I know you’d never hurt her, and she deserves to be loved by someone who loves her as much as you do.”

O’Neill runs a hand through his hair and releases a slow breath. “I just want her to be happy. I’ll play any role in that happiness she wants.”

Derek nods in satisfaction. “You love her, and she needs that more than she’ll ever admit. Keep doing that—you two can figure it out together.”

“That’s certainly the plan,” O’Neill says with a small smile, lifting his mug to take a sip.

Derek must admit, after his horrifically checkered romantic past and losing almost his entire family, he’d never have expected himself to be such a staunch believer in love. But then Cora came back. He’s seen love heal things that seemed irreparable—he’s experienced it himself multiple times now, in multiple ways. Love broke the curse that almost destroyed his family; love helped him push past what Kate and Jennifer had done to him and brought him to Stiles instead; and love brought his sister back from the dead twice. Cora deserves to be loved in every way, and O’Neill can be a part of that, if he’s brave enough to keep trying.

Chapter Text

“So,” Stiles says as he barges into Cora’s room and flops down on her bed to lie on his side with his head propped up on one elbow, “what’s the secret project?”

Cora winces a bit and brings a hand up to rub her forehead, keeping her eyes fixed on the map laid out on her desk. “Not a secret, just hard to explain.” She crosses out a few circled spots on her map.

Stiles narrows his eyes at her. “Try me.”

Cora glares down at the map in silence for a moment, then huffs an annoyed sigh, sets down her pencil, and swivels her chair to face the bed. “Before I died,” she starts, then pauses for a breath and squeezes her eyes shut, “I told you I thought I was still cursed.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and pushes himself up to a seated position. “Actually, you told me you thought you were the curse,” he corrects her grimly. He remembers it vividly, what could have been his last ever conversation with her. He remembers watching in real-time as she lost hope and pushed him away; he remembers her using her full authority as Alpha to keep him from following her; and he remembers the panic he’d felt when he realized he could lose her forever.

“Right,” she says softly, bringing one knee up to wrap her arms around it. “And I thought, if I could find somewhere in town that wasn’t saturated with magic, I could see myself clearly enough to figure out what’s wrong with me.”

“Nothing is wrong with you—” he starts with a frown, only for her to cut him off with a glare.

“Something is wrong with me,” she says sharply. “It might not be a curse, but it’s something. And I can’t figure out what it is with all of this around.” She gestures vaguely at the room, and at him.

He twitches his eyebrows down further in confusion. “All of this—” he says, echoing her vague gesture— “being what, exactly?”

She growls in frustration and scrubs the heels of her hands against her eyes. “This would be so much easier to explain if you could just see it.”

“It’s a magic thing?” he asks, tilting his head to look at her curiously.

She nods, pressing her hands harder into her eyes. “It’s getting worse. Or maybe—” she pauses for a breath— “maybe worse is the wrong word. There’s more of it than there was before, and that’s not a bad thing, it’s just that I can’t process all of it. And I can’t see what’s going on with me while there’s just so much of everything else around.”

His eyes widen as he starts to comprehend what she’s getting at. “So you’re looking for—”

“There has to be somewhere in town that magic can’t reach,” she says, sliding her hands up into her hair and ducking her head down to tuck her face into her arm. “Somewhere other than my house, because I’d really rather not go back there again.”

“Your—” he blinks at her in surprise. “The Hale house? Really?” He’d have thought that place would be teeming with magical energies, what with being home to an ancient werewolf pack.

“I don’t know if the magic died or if something killed it, but yeah,” she says, then takes a slow breath, still not lifting her head. “That’s where I was when Sarah found me. And if I just need somewhere without any magic, I could—”

“No,” Stiles says firmly, and Cora tilts her head to peek up at him. “We’ll find somewhere else. Or I’ll make somewhere else for you, if I have to. You are not going back to that house.”

He can see tension drain out of her body in relief, and she nods slightly in acknowledgement before ducking her head again. “Okay.”

“Why are you keeping this a secret?” he asks gently, furrowing his brow as he studies her.

She sighs, wraps her arms around her knee again, and reluctantly lifts her head to look at him. “This is my problem. No one else can fix this for me; I need to do it myself.”

Stiles scoots to the very edge of the bed to get closer to her. “We could help, though, if you—”

Cora rolls her eyes. “Help how? No one else can even see what I’m looking for. Jackson’s driving me around to check possible locations so I don’t have to walk everywhere, but that’s pretty much the full extent of what anyone can do.”

“I have a scanner that reads ley lines,” Stiles reminds her, lifting a judgemental eyebrow, “and I can modify it however I want. I just need to figure out how to scan for magic, and we’ll be in business.”

That makes Cora pause for a second and stare at him. “Okay, that might actually help,” she concedes, then drops her gaze down to the floor between them.

“I’ll get started on the modifications tonight,” he promises, then narrows his eyes as he studies her curiously. “There’s something else going on with you. Why are you avoiding me?”

She sighs and looks back up at him. “It isn’t something else,” she says, furrowing her brow in consternation. “It’s all part of the same problem. I don’t know if it’s because there’s more magic everywhere now or if it’s a side effect of briefly visiting another plane of existence, but everything is too much, and I don’t know how to make it stop.”

“Oh, shit,” Stiles breathes, eyes widening. “Naquadah is an amplifier. I must be blinding you. Why didn’t you say something sooner?”

“It didn’t start getting bad until recently,” she says, with meaningful emphasis on the word, “and I’m hoping I just need a reset. Find a dead zone and let my brain relax a bit, and I’ll be fine again.”

Stiles shakes his head. “You’ll be fine until you’re not. We need a long-term solution. Werewolves can learn to mask their scents, right? Well, maybe I can do the same thing.”

Her brow furrows skeptically. “Maybe, but it isn’t just you. It’s O’Neill and your Dad; it’s Derek and Jackson; it’s two ghosts, a hellhound, and a banshee; it’s two artificially-crafted were-whatevers and three ordinary werewolves; it’s the Nogitsune and the cursed remnants of the old Nemeton lurking in Allison; and it’s all too much.”

“Wait, hold on—” Stiles blinks a few times as her words catch up to him, lifting a hand in a confused gesture— “my Dad—God, fuck, of course my Dad. He has the gene, too.” He releases a slow puff of air and scrubs his hand down his face. “Can’t believe I forgot about that. But what do you mean about Derek and Jackson?”

“How the hell should I know?” she asks, flailing a hand in exasperation. “It’s not like anyone’s ever taught me how to interpret whatever I’m sensing; all I know is that there’s something.”

“Right, good point,” Stiles concedes with a nod. “That can be a problem for later. Okay, so, hypothetically, there are a few different approaches we could try here. First—actually, quick question, Sarah used masking spells, right?” He pauses briefly, and she nods. “And did those just mask sounds and scent, or did they hide her magical ability, as well?”

“Just sound and scent,” Cora says. “I didn’t realize until it was too late, but her signature was what we’d felt messing with the old Nemeton the past few months.”

“Okay,” Stiles continues, drumming his fingers against his thigh thoughtfully, “but that doesn’t necessarily mean it can’t be masked—she probably had no idea you could sense that. So, I can look into masking spells; we can work with the pack on controlling all our own auras, or whatever you want to call the things you sense off of everyone; and we can look into ways of shielding you or filtering whatever reaches you.”

She frowns at that last option. “I don’t want my senses dulled to the point where I can’t see trouble coming—”

“No, of course not,” Stiles says, waving his hand in dismissal. “I was thinking more, like, we insulate your room here so you can rest in a safe zone, and maybe I can work up something you can turn on and off and apply it to your amulet for if you get overwhelmed when you’re out and about.”

She blinks at him a few times. “You really think you can do all that?” she asks, her voice soft and hesitant.

He shrugs. “Sure, why not? Maybe it’s never been done before, but since when has that ever stopped me?”

She huffs an amused breath, and her lips finally quirk up into a small smile. “True. You do like to do the impossible.”

“At every opportunity,” he agrees with a grin, then hesitates a moment. “Do you want me to stay away for a few days?”

She sighs and scrubs her hands down her face, then looks back up at him with a grimace. “I mean, no, I don’t want you to, but… could you? Just until my brain works again?”

“Anything you need,” he assures her with a nod. “I’ll text you with research updates, okay?”

She reaches over to squeeze both of his hands. “Thank you,” she says softly. “And I’m sorry.”

“You have nothing to be sorry for,” he says, squeezing her hands in return. It’ll be hard staying away from her, but at least he has Derek for the next few days, and a big research project to work on now. “Alright, I’ll leave you to it,” he says, pushing himself to his feet.

“Wait, Stiles—” she tightens her grip on his hands when he tries to pull away, and he looks down at her curiously. She pauses for a moment to study him before continuing. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

He hesitates, staring down at her in silence for probably too long. He could lie, but she’ll be able to tell if he does. “You don’t have to worry about me,” he says instead. “Just take care of yourself.”

She furrows her brow in concern, clearly having caught the evasion. “Stiles—”

“I’d better go get started on all that research,” he says, tugging his hands free and making a hasty escape to her door.

He hears her call after him one more time as he pulls her door shut behind him, but he doesn’t turn back, and she doesn’t follow him out. He knows he’s not off the hook entirely, but he can probably put off having to face the reality of his own mental state until after she’s functional again. However he’s feeling about the events of the past few days is a problem for future him to deal with; right now, he has a research project to start on for his recently resurrected Alpha.

If he hurries, he can probably get a good amount of research done up on the Odyssey, before word spreads that O’Neill’s already been cured. Maybe he won’t get in too much trouble for selectively interpreting his access guidelines—after all, Colonel Carter had said his access was unrestricted until he found something useful; it’s hardly his problem that someone else found a cure first, and technically he still hasn’t found anything that would have helped. It’s not like anyone up there will know what it is he’s actually supposed to be looking for, anyway; he can do whatever he wants, as long as no one catches on.

Chapter Text

Cora skids to a stop and howls triumphantly as she reaches Lookout Point and claims the seat on the rock, settling in to wait for Derek to catch up. The early morning air is still cool, but she finds herself panting anyway, warmed from the run, tongue lolling out of her mouth. She takes a moment to just enjoy the view, as golden rays of sunshine start to crest the hills and light the town. She does love this place, despite everything she’s endured here; she can’t imagine anywhere else feeling more like home than Beacon Hills.

Derek finally catches up to her, slowing to a jog and then a full stop as he reaches the peak. He bares his teeth in a playful growl, and she sits up straighter with a smug tilt of her head. He huffs in amusement and sits in the dry grass at the base of the rock, joining her in taking in the view.

They sit together in silence for a few more moments, catching their breath and watching the town wake up, until eventually Derek sighs heavily. Cora peeks over at him to see that he’s no longer a wolf—he’s sitting with his knees pulled up in front of him, arms wrapped loosely around them, as he looks out over the town. “I know what you’re going to say,” he says quietly, his eyes flicking over to her briefly before turning back to the view.

She turns her head to watch him curiously, huffing a breath to encourage him to continue.

He’s silent for another moment, closing his eyes as he takes a deep breath of the fresh morning air. “You want me to go back to work,” he says eventually, opening his eyes again and directing his gaze onto her.

She pauses briefly, then dips her chin in a nod. She’s fine now, and he knows that. Him sticking around isn’t going to change anything; he has more important things to do than just hang around here.

He watches her for another moment, clenching his jaw and furrowing his brow. “It wasn’t any easier the second time around,” he says, and she tilts her head curiously. “Losing you, I mean. And I know you were barely even gone for a full hour this time, but honestly, it was the worst hour of my life.”

She hesitates, then gets up and hops down from the rock, laying down in the grass beside him, leaning into his side. He relaxes with a soft sigh, bringing one arm down to rest along her back.

“I know you’re okay,” he says, burying his hand in the fur at the back of her neck, “but I’m not. That one hour without you almost destroyed me, and I’m still so scared that it could happen again.”

She huffs a soft breath and bumps her nose against his leg. It’s not something she’s been able to say out loud, but she’s scared, too. She knows Sarah’s gone, but that doesn’t mean the threat is over. And with her luck, even if this conspiracy is ended, it’s only a matter of time before something else tries its hand against her.

“I’m scared that something like this will happen again and I won’t be here,” he continues, his voice grim. “I wasn’t here when Laura died, and I wasn’t here with you. I should have been here.”

Cora leans harder against his side, dropping her head down onto her paws and letting her eyes fall shut. She’s pretty sure there’s nothing he could have done to stop what happened to her, and if he’d been there, he’d only have ended up putting himself in danger trying to save her. She could have woken to a world where he’d died, too, and she wouldn’t have been able to bring him back.

“Can you just—” he starts, then pauses, his breath hitching, as he closes his hand into a fist in her fur. She pushes herself up to sit and turns to rest her chin on his knee so she can watch his face. He takes another breath and scrubs his free hand across his eyes before he tries to speak again. “I know you think you can do everything yourself, but you don’t have to. Let people help you sometimes, okay?”

She makes a low grumbling noise and blinks at him. She is trying to get better at that, but it isn’t easy.

“And—” he uncurls his fist in her fur and slides his hand to the base of her skull, gently stroking his thumb behind her ear— “I know you don’t believe it yet, but we love you no matter what. You don’t have to prove yourself to us.”

She grumbles again and turns her face away, looking back out at the view. As unbelievable as that feels, it might actually be true for some of them. But she will anyway, just in case—she’s been given another chance at life, and she doesn’t want to spend it alone. She’ll do whatever it takes to keep her pack happy and safe, and maybe they’ll stick around. Maybe they’ll still care about her, as long as she can protect them all. She can make herself easier to love so none of them will turn on her like their mother did.

“You know,” Derek says, voice a little rough now, “you’re a lot easier to talk to when you can’t talk back.”

She whips her head around to glare at him, and he snorts, ruffling the fur on the top of her head to mess it up. She growls lightly and launches herself at him to lick a wet stripe up his face.

“Eugh, gross,” he groans with a poorly-suppressed laugh, shoving her away and trying to wipe the slime off his face. He gives up and leans over to bump his shoulder to hers. “Race you back home?”

She pushes herself to her feet and whuffs softly, wagging her tail, and he grins, repositioning himself in preparation to shift form again. She turns away to get one last glimpse at the view of the town, now awash in the golden morning sunlight. He steps up beside her, a wolf again, and together they spend one more moment there, just taking it all in—until he ruins it by whipping around and taking off at a sprint without warning, the cheater. She growls and sprints after him, pushing hard but confident she’ll overtake him by the end.

Chapter Text

Derek rests an elbow on the desk so he can prop his chin on his hand and stare across the room. He knows he needs to finish writing this report before he heads back to the SGC this afternoon, but he keeps getting distracted watching Stiles work—long, nimble fingers manipulating circuitry and handling delicate crystals with remarkable dexterity; the tip of his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration, or whatever tool he’d been using held between his teeth as he flips his project around; the sweep of his eyelashes shading his amber eyes as he casts his gaze down to whatever he’s working on.

Derek has experienced first-hand, now, what those hands can do. He’s seen those eyes dark with desire, seen the way the lashes flutter during moments of pleasure. He’s seen the flush rise on those cheeks, kissed each of the moles to feel heat beneath the tender skin. He’s experienced the growing set of skills that clever tongue has acquired and knows there’s more yet to come. He’s been driven to distraction by that perfect Cupid’s Bow mouth, in conversation and in bed. And, sure, writing this report is important, he supposes, but it’s not nearly interesting enough to pull his attention away from all of that. He clears his throat and adjusts his seat, suddenly noticing how uncomfortably tight his pants are.

Stiles’ eyes flick up at the sound, eyebrows twitching in amusement, and he takes his soldering iron out of his mouth, tongue briefly darting out to fill the empty space. “Got a problem over there, Hale?”

“Not a problem, exactly,” Derek says, deciding to just give up on trying to concentrate on work for now, setting his pen down so he can prop his chin up on both hands, openly staring at Stiles instead of pretending to get anything productive done.

“You are a menace,” Stiles grumbles, narrowing his eyes, but his lips are quirked up in a sly smile.

Derek hums in agreement, then flicks his eyes over to the corner of the room near the ceiling. “Interesting,” he observes thoughtfully, fixing his attention back onto Stiles.

Stiles’ eyebrows twitch down. “What?”

“They haven’t fixed the camera in here,” Derek says with a smirk.

Stiles swears under his breath, cheeks flushing, and Derek’s smirk widens into a wicked grin. “I’m trying to work here,” Stiles complains half-heartedly, gesturing a hand at the components in front of him.

Derek raises an eyebrow at him. “Do you want me to leave?”

“No,” Stiles answers quickly—perhaps a little too quickly—and clears his throat, scratching the back of his neck. “I mean, uh—it’s fine, you can stay.”

“How generous of you,” Derek says dryly, then tilts his head curiously. “What are you working on?”

“Oh, uh—” Stiles looks back down at the equipment strewn across his desk— “project for Cora, actually. Trying to figure out how to scan for all the stuff she can sense. Turns out, magic is kind of super hard to detect. I think there’s, like, multiple other dimensions involved, and unfortunately, this scanner just isn’t powerful enough to get the job done.”

Derek narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “Not powerful enough, as in you need a bigger battery, or not powerful enough, as in needs more precision?”

“Uh—bit of both, actually?” Stiles says, scratching his head, then poking at some of the components in front of him. “And I’m not sure I have access to materials I’d need to finish this on Earth.”

Derek pushes himself to his feet and walks over to the file cabinets at the edge of the room, pulling a drawer open. “Daniel and I have been working our way through translating more of Catherine’s collection,” he explains distractedly as he searches the drawer. “I might’ve found something that can help.” He hadn’t thought much of it at the time, and he only has a vague idea of how it might connect to what Stiles is trying to accomplish with no idea of how to apply it, but if anyone can figure it out, it’ll be Stiles. He finds the file and brings it over to Stiles, letting a hand settle at the base of Stiles’ neck as he braces his other hand against the edge of the desk, leaning over to look at the file as Stiles opens it.

Stiles skims the file for a few moments, flipping back and forth through the pages several times, muttering unintelligibly to himself. Or maybe it wouldn’t be unintelligible if Derek was paying more attention, but now he’s standing so tantalizingly close to Stiles, lazily sweeping his thumb across the skin just above the collar of Stiles’ shirt, and paying attention to anything other than that is beyond him. He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, letting himself enjoy the proximity and savor the small point of contact between them. Derek is startled out of his reverie by Stiles cursing and shoving his scanner components out of the way so he can set down the file, still open to a page near the middle. “Fucking hell, of course I need to use magic to scan for magic,” Stiles mutters, shaking his head in apparent bewilderment.

“I helped?” Derek asks, voice low, lips twitching up in a smirk.

“Dude, you’re a genius,” Stiles says, turning to grin up at Derek, then freezing at the realization of how close their faces are. “Uh—” he blinks, eyes going wide, cheeks flushing again— “thanks.”

Derek hums in acknowledgement, holding Stiles’ gaze, unwavering. “Think you have what you need to make it work?”

“Yeah, I—” Stiles pauses briefly to clear his throat, eyes darkening hungrily— “I can probably get it working today, actually.”

“Do you need to start on that right away, or can you take a break first?” Derek asks, eyes flicking down to Stiles’ mouth.

Stiles’ tongue darts out to moisten his lips and he grins slowly, swiveling in his chair until he can comfortably reach up to grab a fistful of Derek’s shirt and tug him close. “It can wait a few more minutes.”

“Good,” Derek growls, surging forward to claim Stiles’ mouth in a searing kiss.

Derek isn’t sure what he ever did to deserve something this good, but he certainly isn’t going to waste another second fighting it. He belongs to Stiles, and Stiles belongs to him, and he plans to spend the rest of his life showing Stiles exactly what that means.

Chapter Text

Cora knows, the moment she hears the SUV turn onto her street, that the news isn’t good. Actually, she knew even before then—she’s been feeling Chris’s unease growing all day. And with the Sheriff at work, this means the bad news is for her. She pushes away from her desk, jogs out of her room and down the stairs, and opens the door just as Chris steps up onto the porch. “What happened?” she asks, in lieu of any greeting.

Chris huffs a small amused breath, but his smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “How do you always know?”

She rolls her eyes and opens the door wider, stepping aside to let him in. Hypervigilance, obviously, though she doesn’t want to say that out loud; he’ll just give her that immensely sad, worried look he always gets when she talks about herself. “It’s one of my superpowers. What’s wrong?”

He sighs heavily, scrubbing a hand through his hair as he steps inside and heads to the kitchen. “I think this is the kind of conversation we should have over a cup of tea.”

She shuts the front door, pausing for a moment just to take a breath and brace herself for whatever the news is, then follows him to the kitchen. He’s already filling the kettle by the time she gets in there. “I can do that,” she says with a frown. “You’re the guest here.”

He waves a hand in dismissal and sets the kettle to heat, then goes to the cabinet for the Earl Grey. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got this. Just have a seat.”

She narrows her eyes suspiciously, but decides not to fight him on this. She takes a seat at the table, folding her hands in front of her and watching Chris warily. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on?”

He hesitates, setting the tin down on the counter, and takes a slow breath. “Before I do,” he starts, turning to look at her with one arm braced on the counter, his expression carefully neutral, “can I ask what happened between you and Allison?”

Cora freezes. “Has–hasn’t Allison told you already?” she asks, her voice sounding small even to her own ears. Since apparently Allison is just telling everyone.

“I’d like to hear your side of it,” he says, still watching her.

Cora closes her eyes and wraps a hand around her amulet, running her thumb across the carving as she pauses for a breath. “It was the night I stayed at your place, after giving you the Bite,” she explains. “She said she wanted to kiss me, just once, and that she’d never ask again. I didn’t want to, and I knew it was a bad idea, but I let her do it anyway. She kissed me, I stopped her when she tried to do more, and she hasn’t talked to me since.”

Chris is silent for a moment, and Cora eventually opens her eyes to find him studying her with a frown. “Apparently Stiles had some rather harsh words with her the next day,” he says eventually, and Cora blinks a few times in surprise. “Were you aware of that?”

“I was not,” she admits. She’d been asleep for the next two solid days. Stiles hadn’t mentioned speaking to Allison, but maybe she shouldn’t be so surprised—Stiles can be overprotective at times. “Is she okay?”

A small amount of tension drains from Chris’s shoulders, but his expression is still guarded. “She’s been afraid that you sent him.”

“I didn’t,” she states firmly. “I never would’ve asked him to do that.” She prefers to deal with her problems herself.

He sighs and turns back to the counter to finish getting everything laid out for when the kettle is ready. “I’ll have a word with her,” he says softly.

Cora frowns. “Shouldn’t I talk to her? If she’s—”

Chris shakes his head sharply. “Not yet. She’s still nursing some bruised feelings—she needs to figure some things out for herself.”

“I miss having her as my friend,” she admits quietly, tightening her grip on her amulet. “I never got to have a friend like her before. Do you think—do you think she’ll ever want to be my friend again? Even though I don’t want more than that?”

Chris’s expression starts to soften at last. “I do hope so. Give her time.” The kettle lets them know the water is ready, and Chris fills their mugs, then brings them over with a saucer for when their tea finishes steeping and claims the seat next to Cora.

Cora lets her free hand rest on the handle of her mug, watching Chris warily. “Why are you asking about that, anyway? Does it have something to do with whatever you need to tell me?”

Chris wraps both hands around his too-hot mug, wincing at the burn. “I wish I could say it didn’t,” he says grimly, “but I honestly don’t know.”

Cora furrows her brow in concern. “What do you mean?” she asks, but Chris doesn’t respond right away, just stares blankly into his mug for a moment. “Chris?” she tries again. “What happened?”

He takes a sudden sharp breath and scrubs a hand down his face, then reluctantly lifts his eyes to meet hers. “Negotiations with the other hunter families haven’t been going as well as we’d hoped.”

Cora feels a coil of dread settling into her gut. “How bad?”

He hesitates, then reaches into his jacket, pulls something out, and sets it on the table between them. It’s a bullet, engraved with a skull and the words ALPHA HALE. Cora can smell the wolfsbane mixed with the gunpowder, and her breath catches. “This one is a warning,” he says. “The next one will be delivered to you in person.”

In person, at high velocity, he doesn’t need to say. She reaches out to delicately pick up the bullet, making a valiant effort to stop her hand from trembling too visibly. “We knew this was a risk when I turned you,” she says, resigned, as she lets the bullet roll in her palm. She got almost four full days of feeling safe after her return from the dead, more than she’s ever had before. She’d known it wouldn’t last.

“There are still some things we can try, to get them to change their minds,” he attempts to reassure her, but she knows it’s only empty promises. “I haven’t given up yet.”

She nods absently, eyes still fixed on the bullet. She cheated death at the wrong end of the barrel of a gun once before; she knows she isn’t likely to be that lucky the next time. She forces herself to take a slow breath. “I don’t suppose it matters to them that I’m not actually the Hale Alpha.”

He huffs an almost-amused breath and shakes his head. “I don’t think they understand the distinction, and even if they understood, I don’t think they’d care. All they care about is that you turned an Argent.”

“And they don’t care that it was at your request?” she asks, setting down the bullet. He chose this; that was supposed to be the difference, between this and any other time a hunter had been turned. He’d asked for the Bite of his own free will, knowing all the consequences, and her entire pack had consented, werewolf and non-werewolf alike. This was supposed to change things for the better, for all of them, hunters included.

“They definitely don’t understand that,” Chris says, with a defeated tilt of his head. He pauses to take a breath, then takes the strainer out of his mug, setting it aside on the saucer. She does the same, trusting his sense of smell to judge the ideal brew time. She usually just sets a timer so she doesn’t have to think about it, but she knows this is one of the ways he’s been practicing adapting to his newly enhanced senses—apparently he’s become quite the tea aficionado.

“God, the timing of all of this—” she sighs heavily, rubbing her forehead, then freezes, eyes widening as she remembers how he’d opened this conversation. “You think—Allison was so upset that she sabotaged negotiations?”

He clenches his jaw and drops his gaze down to his mug. “I don’t know if sabotage is the right word, but it’s possible she didn’t argue our case as thoroughly as she could have.”

“I never should’ve let it get this far,” she mutters, lifting her mug to her lips for a sip. The tea is far too hot to drink comfortably, but it is, indeed, brewed to perfection, and Cora doesn’t mind scalding her throat a bit right now. She deserves the pain, even though it won’t last. “I should have talked to her about this properly after it happened. Or, before it happened, actually.”

“It’s not all on you,” Chris tells her gently. “She shouldn’t have asked you for that, especially that night. And Stiles shouldn’t have taken it on himself to speak for you.”

Cora adjusts her grip on her mug so both palms are pressed firmly against the too-hot ceramic. “Maybe she just didn’t understand me. I can’t like her the way she wants me to, but that isn’t because of her. I just—I don’t feel that way. I didn’t even know I could feel things like that until O’Neill, and even with him, I’m not always sure I’m doing it right.” She takes another burning sip that heals too quickly.

Chris blinks at her, his brow crinkling in concern. “Not doing it r—Cora, there’s no right or wrong way to have feelings.”

Cora huffs a small disbelieving breath and barely suppresses the urge to roll her eyes. “Sure, okay.” There must be, though; she knows she feels something for O’Neill, something she doesn’t feel with anyone else, but it’s nothing like what she’s observed from the relationships around her. It’s not like what the songs describe, or what the movies say love is supposed to look like. Kissing him is fun, and she’s certain she’ll enjoy sex with him whenever they get around to doing that, but she can’t say that’s something she thinks about much. Certainly not as much as everyone else seems to, anyway. But isn’t she supposed to want that? Physical intimacy, and not just proximity? But whatever, that’s hardly the priority right now. Someone wants to kill her again, and that’s a bit more urgent. “So, what are we planning to do about this?” she asks, reaching a hand out to tap her fingernail against the bullet.

Chris narrows his eyes at her blatant attempt to shift the topic of conversation away from her love life, but it’s not like he can argue that a threat to her life isn’t the more pressing subject. He heaves a resigned sigh instead and scrubs a hand through his hair. “I honestly don’t know. Normally, I’d speak to the family myself instead of relying on Allison as intermediary, but—”

“But,” Cora finishes for him, turning the bullet so the skull is facing him, “this is a pretty clear declaration of how they’d react to that.” She wouldn’t be surprised to find out they already have another bullet with his name on it, ready and waiting.

He nods grimly. “I’m sorry. I’d hoped it wouldn’t come to this—I thought they’d be more understanding. We’ve worked together before, on many occasions, and I thought–I thought they knew me better than this.”

“You may be ready to leave behind generations of prejudice,” she says, with an attempt at a smile that likely ends up looking more like a grimace, “but not everyone is interested in evolving with the times. This isn’t your fault. It’s just… the way things are. The way they’ve always been. And now you get to experience the other side of it.”

It must be quite the culture shock for Chris—Cora has lived her entire life knowing there were people out there who wanted her dead, just for being what she is, but Chris was raised to believe only true monsters would want to kill him, and that monsters deserved to die. Now, though, to be labeled as one of those monsters by people he once thought of as friends, simply for choosing a different life for himself? That’s a level of betrayal he never should have had to experience. Diplomacy should have worked; but now, since it hasn’t, all they can really do is try to contain the fallout.

Chapter Text

“Darling,” Stiles greets theatrically as he walks onto the pel’tak, spreading his arms wide and grinning. “It’s been too long.” He walks up to the control console and leans down to press his cheek to the top of it, caressing it with a contented sigh. “Did you miss me?”

“Should I give you two a moment alone?” Colonel Carter’s bemused voice says from behind him.

“Ignore her,” he utters in a stage-whisper to the console as he places his left hand on the control panel to bring up the latest status report. “She’s just jealous of our love.”

Carter huffs in amusement and steps closer to join him in looking at the display. “So, what exactly is this new upgrade supposed to accomplish?”

“Well, the thing about the cloak is that it’s a massive power hog,” he explains, pulling up the usage stats so she can see what he means. “And not really sustainable to use long-term if we plan on keeping the ship parked in ring range.”

“Oh, wow, I see what you mean,” she mutters as she squints at the data. “But that’s kind of unavoidable, isn’t it? Cloaking technology requires—”

“Ah,” Stiles interrupts with a grin, lifting his right hand for emphasis, “but we aren’t limited to using technology.” He makes a small gesture in the air to summon a burst of light to his palm, then lets it fizzle out.

She narrows her eyes at him skeptically. “What do you have in mind?”

“Okay, so—” he steps back from the console and lets the display go blank so he can gesticulate with both hands during his explanation— “the problem here is that people could see us, right?”

She nods slowly, still looking dubious. “I suppose that’s the primary issue.”

“So we don’t actually have to go to the effort of making the entire ship invisible all the time,” he continues, lifting his eyebrows meaningfully. “We just need to make people not notice us. We need a glamour.”

Carter furrows her brow in thought. “As in—”

“As in,” Stiles says, bouncing a little on the balls of his feet in his enthusiasm, “a spell that only needs to activate when the ship is being observed, which would make the observer unable to register our presence. Now, something like this wouldn’t be able to beat advanced sensor systems, but it should fool the naked eye and any standard Earth-based observational technology.”

“Something that complex…” she shakes her head skeptically. “How could it possibly use less power than the standard cloak? We’d be better off parking out of sight and only bringing the ship in when we need it.”

“That’s the thing about magic, though,” Stiles says, leading the way out of the pel’tak toward the engine room. “It doesn’t have to pull its power from the ship.”

“If not from the ship, then from where?” she asks as she follows him out. “Stiles, everything has a cost. If you aren’t careful, it could end up—”

“I am well aware,” he says grimly, “of how bad things can go.” After all, O’Neill had almost died burning out his own life force instead of sourcing his power from the world around him. “Glamours work best when they draw their power from the observer. Let someone see what they expect to see, and it barely takes any effort at all. And I guarantee you, no one is expecting to see this ship in orbit.”

“I suppose you have a point,” she concedes, but she still doesn’t look reassured. “But why is this so important to you? Leaving the ship parked in orbit isn’t practical, and you won’t have as much time up here anyway once school starts—”

“Which is exactly why I need it closer,” Stiles argues. “My time up here will be limited—I can’t be wasting it on transit. And what if something happens and Derek needs me out there? You remember last time; every second counts in situations like that—”

“That isn’t going to happen again, Stiles,” Carter says, and he knows she’s just trying to be reassuring, but he’s so not in the mood for it.

“You don’t know that,” he snaps, picking up the pace a bit.

She reaches out to stop him gently with a hand on his arm. “Look, Stiles, I know you’re spooked by what happened to your friend, but—”

“Best friend,” Stiles corrects sharply, yanking his arm away and starting off again. “And I’m not spooked.”

“Right,” she says, and he can almost hear her rolling her eyes. “Because having a friend almost die isn’t—”

“She didn’t—” Stiles stops abruptly and whirls around to glare at her— “almost die. There was nothing almost about it. She—” he forces himself to pause for a breath, squeezing his eyes shut. “How much of Derek’s situation are you read in on?”

Carter frowns at him curiously. “Apparently not enough of it. What’s really going on here, Stiles?”

Stiles clenches his jaw and turns to walk toward the engine room again. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“Stiles—” she tries again, hurrying after him.

“I can’t. You know I can’t.” The entire situation with Cora is kind of impossible to explain if he can’t talk about werewolves, and how absolutely essential Cora is to all of them.

Carter huffs a frustrated sigh. “I’ll talk to General Landry.”

“If you think it’ll help.” Stiles supposes it could be nice to speak openly with Carter about all of this, actually. But that’s really not for him to decide. It’s up to Derek and the General to determine who gets read in on this.

They walk in silence for a few moments before she speaks again. “So, I heard from Dr. McKay the other day.”

Stiles quirks an eyebrow and glances over at her. “Did you?”

She hums an affirmative. “Apparently your last visit awakened some dormant systems he hasn’t been able to figure out yet.”

Stiles almost cackles at the thought. It’s just way too much fun to confront McKay with puzzles he can’t solve. “I bet he’s furious about that.”

Carter grins in agreement. “How would you feel about going back there to lend him a hand?”

Stiles comes to an abrupt stop and blinks at her in surprise. “You… want me to go back to Atlantis?”

“You have a rather unique insight into certain aspects of the city’s operation,” she says, looking at him expectantly.

The truth is, he would love to get another chance to explore the city. The Ancients stumbled upon a fascinating way of blending technology with magic, and seeing it in action could give him ideas into how to adapt some of his systems here. But he’s not sure he can trust himself so far away from his pack right now. “I think you need to talk to General Landry. I don’t think I can go unless Derek can come, too.”

She studies him thoughtfully for a moment. She knows how close he came to losing control last time he was there, and he knows she’s noticed how unstable he is right now. “I’ll talk to the General,” she agrees with a nod.

Getting Derek approved and prepared for a trip to Atlantis won’t be a simple matter, though. He’ll need a mission, for starters—Derek won’t be happy going if he doesn’t have something to do. They’ll need to read in at least one medical professional and the base commander, if not others. And both he and Derek will need to decide if they can be comfortable being that far away from Cora right now. She’s fine, or so she says, but if something happens again, they’ll be too far away to help at all.

But, God, would it be fun to get to explore Atlantis with Derek.

Chapter Text

Under normal circumstances, Derek might have the good grace to feel embarrassed about this reversal of roles—Daniel is intensely focused on his current translation, and, for once, Derek is the one fidgeting and unable to concentrate. But Derek can’t stop thinking about the conversation he’d overheard between Daniel and Cora, and he needs to ask.

Derek sighs and sets his pen down, scrubbing a hand down his face. “Is it really so awful?”

“Is what awful?” Daniel asks distractedly, not looking up from his work.

“Being ascended,” Derek clarifies, voice soft.

Daniel freezes, blinks twice, then slowly sets down his pen and looks up at Derek. “What makes you think it was awful?”

Derek shrugs. “You came back.”

Daniel takes his glasses off so he can rub his eyes, pausing to take a slow breath in and out. “It wasn’t awful. It was amazing,” he says quietly.

Derek twitches his eyebrows. “Then why—”

“Ascension is like…” Daniel trails off, gazing unfocused into the distance, still holding his glasses loosely in one hand like he’s forgotten about them. “I don’t even know how to describe it. Overwhelming peace, indescribable connection to everything in the universe. There are so many wonders out there, Derek. Things that have to be seen to be believed. And if it wasn’t for the others—” he cuts off abruptly, his eyes shuttering, and he looks down with a small shake of his head.

Derek studies him cautiously for a moment. “The Ancients, right? And they set the rules for everyone?”

Daniel sighs and scrubs a hand across his eyes, then settles his glasses back on his face. “The rules made sense for them,” he says, with a bitter edge to his voice. “The plague was wiping them out, everyone they loved was either already dead or was ascending right along with them. And by the time humans came along, it made sense to have a non-interference policy. They were so much more advanced than us—and add to that everything they have access to as ascended beings? They needed those guidelines in place, or they could have led us to our own destruction. I’ve seen how it can happen, and it makes sense. Or, rather—” he pauses for a breath, his eyes hardening— “it made sense. Until we came along.”

“We still have people we love,” Derek realizes, eyes widening. “People who won’t ascend along with us. People we would have to abandon because of their rules.”

“They wiped my memories when they sent me back,” Daniel continues, eyes stormy. “Did you know that? Everything, not just what I’d experienced while I was ascended. And I got most of it back, or at least most of my pre-ascension memories, but there are still gaps. I’m still missing pieces of myself that I might never get back. They stole my life from me, and I don’t think I can ever forgive them for that.”

Derek feels his own fury rising on Daniel’s behalf, and he clenches his jaw, trying not to growl. “Any particular reason they still have to be in charge?”

Daniel grimaces. “Strength in numbers, I guess? There could be billions of them. And humans have only just started to reach the point where some of us can ascend.”

“No chance of a revolution, then,” Derek says grimly.

“Unlikely at this point,” Daniel agrees, picking up his pen again in an attempt to return to his work.

Derek lets him work for a few moments before he speaks again, tentatively. “What will they do to Skaara for what he did for Cora?”

Daniel’s grip on his pen tightens and he rubs his forehead with his other hand, sighing heavily. “I don’t know. Nothing good.”

Derek hesitates, watching Daniel carefully. “Would they banish him, like they did to you?”

Daniel’s eyes flick up to Derek briefly, then back to his work. “Unlikely. They got rid of me for asking uncomfortable questions. Skaara isn’t a threat to them like I was. They’ll want to keep him close, keep him monitored.”

“I wish I could thank him,” Derek says softly. “I doubt he knows how many of us he saved, just by bringing her back.”

A few pieces of paper on the desk rustle slightly, as if disturbed by a breeze from someone walking by. Daniel’s face softens, lips quirking up in a hint of a smile. “You never know, he might still be listening.”

Chapter Text

“You’re sure?” Jackson asks, looking around dubiously.

Cora shrugs. “This’ll be fine.”

Jackson lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Not exactly a ringing endorsement.”

She sighs and scrubs her hands down her face. Truth be told, this place really isn’t ideal. It’s not as saturated as the rest of the town, but wisps of power linger on the periphery and the clear spaces feel dead instead of just empty like she’d hoped for. But she’s running out of patience, and running out of places to check that meet her criteria. “I probably won’t find anywhere better.”

“I’m not leaving you here on your own if you won’t—” Jackson starts, frowning intensely at her.

“I’ll be fine,” she interrupts him firmly, rolling her eyes. “This place is close enough to what I need. Probably. I won’t know until you leave, though, so please go away.”

He hesitates, jaw twitching, shoulders tense, as he surveys their surroundings with a wary eye again. “Cora—”

“Jackson,” she says, more assuredly than she feels, grabbing his hands and giving them a squeeze to get his attention. “It’s fine. Now go away.”

He deflates a little with a frustrated breath and a scowl. “Fine. But I’m not going far. Keep your phone on, and if you need anything, I can be back here right away.”

“I know,” she says, squeezing his hands again in reassurance. And she does know; he’ll be lurking at the exact minimum distance she requires, patrolling the perimeter to keep her safe, even though she’s assured him she’s not in any danger. No more than usual, anyway—the Calaveras are unlikely to make their move against her today.

“And as soon as you’re done—”

“Jackson,” she snaps, letting go of his hands so she can grab him by the shoulders. “Go. Away.” She forcibly twirls him around and shoves him gently toward the exit.

He stumbles for the first few steps before regaining his balance, then throws his hands up in defeat. “Alright, I’m going,” he grumbles, and he leaves at long last, stomping off in a huff without a backward glance.

For all his blustering, though, Cora knows he isn’t actually angry, or even annoyed. He’s worried, still, and it doesn’t help that she hasn’t told him what she’s doing or why. But she doesn’t know how to explain it to him without him taking it the wrong way. Jackson is more sensitive than he likes to admit, and inclined to read into things in the worst possible way. If this works, and her mind clears, she’ll find a way to tell him what this was all about and why he couldn’t be part of it.

Cora looks around and lets out a disappointed breath. A dingy old abandoned warehouse isn’t exactly the ideal setting to put her in a relaxed mindset. She wishes she could have found somewhere in the preserve or any of the other wooded areas around town, but everywhere with any life in it is also heavily infused with magic. But, still, it’s better this than the old Hale house.

She grimaces and takes a seat in the center of the dirty floor, settling in as comfortably as she can manage. The air in here is musty and stale, the scant few windows don’t let in much light, and the grime on the floor will probably be nearly impossible to wash out of her pants. But whatever, it’s the best option she has right now.

Cora closes her eyes and takes slow, measured breaths, just the way Derek taught her to. She lets her thoughts settle, slowly relaxing her mind, focusing deeper inside herself until everything else fades away.

The air around her changes so gradually she almost doesn’t notice it. But when she does, her heart almost stops from the shock of it. Her eyes fly open in panic and she scrambles to her feet. “No,” she breathes, whirling around until her eyes land on a familiar face. “What the fuck. How did I get here?”

Skaara blinks at her in shock, speechless for a moment, apparently as bewildered by this situation as she is. “Cora Hale,” he manages to croak out eventually in greeting. “I was not expecting to see you again.”

“Am I dead?” She can feel herself hyperventilating, but she can’t do this again. She storms over to Skaara, grabbing a fistful of his shirt at his chest to keep him from escaping. “Am I dead again?”

He frowns at her, confused but unafraid. “You are not,” he says, “and I do not understand how you can be here.”

“I was just meditating,” she says faintly, loosening her grip on him a bit. “But you’re sure I’m not dead?”

He places his hand over her closed fist reassuringly. “You are not dead, Cora. I do not know how you are here, but I do not believe you are in danger.”

She pauses a moment to study him. He doesn’t seem to be lying, and, in fact, doesn’t even seem all that worried about her presence here. Confused, certainly, but not concerned. Her breathing evens out, and she nods slowly, taking a small step back as she releases her grip on his shirt. “Okay.” Another breath, another step back, and she closes her hands into fists at her sides to try to calm their trembling. “Fine. Can I go back?”

He cocks his head to the side and affixes her with a stare that makes her feel as though he can see into her soul, pausing for a moment before he answers. “You are well, Cora. You may leave here as soon as you are ready.”

“Good. I’d like to go now.” Her breathing is almost back to normal, heart no longer racing, but her hands won’t stop shaking.

His gaze softens apologetically. “I cannot help you this time. You brought yourself here, only you can get yourself back.” He pauses to study her for another moment, though not as intensely as before. “What were you doing, that brought you back to this place?”

“I was meditating,” she repeats, then hesitates—O’Neill and Daniel know this man, and trust him. He respected her refusal of ascension and helped her return home, even if it meant facing punishment for breaking the rules. The least she can do is trust him now. “I was trying to clear my head, get back to normal. My pack needs to know that I’m fine now. Everything is fine, and they don’t need to worry about me.”

His eyes briefly flick down to her tightly-clenched fists before he meets her gaze again. “And is that the truth?” he asks gently, with kindness rather than accusation.

Her eyes fall shut, and she forces herself to unclench her fists. “It has to be,” she whispers. “They need me to be okay. They’re scared right now, but if I can just show them that I’m back to normal, everything will be fine. I don’t want to scare them any more than I already have by letting what happened change me.”

There’s another brief silence, where Cora knows she’s being examined again. She focuses on steadying her breathing, flexing and relaxing her fingers to try to convince her hands to stop shaking. She can be fine. She’s oversensitive right now, but she can be normal again if she can just—

“Walk with me,” his gentle voice interrupts her thoughts, and her eyes snap open.

She hesitates, then shakes her head. “I should get back home.”

“If you were ready to return home, you would have done so already,” he says. “Walk with me. I have something I would like to show you.”

She pauses for another breath. She doesn’t know what brought her here, but maybe he’s right. Maybe there’s something she needs to see here before her mind can let go of this place. “Okay.”

He smiles softly and turns to walk toward the pyramid, and she falls into step beside him. “Has Daniel told you much about what happened in my life to bring me here?”

She raises a judgemental eyebrow at him. “Don’t you know? Haven’t you been watching?”

His smile widens, and he ducks his head sheepishly. “I did not think you would be so comfortable knowing what I have seen.”

She shrugs and drops her gaze to watch her feet sink into the sand with each step. “You miss your friends,” she says quietly. “I would’ve watched, too, if it meant I could know that the people I loved still missed me.” She wonders if Derek missed her, while she was supposedly dead for all those years after the fire. She doubts Laura thought much about her at all. But if she’d had the ability, she would have watched them both anyway.

He takes a slow, steadying breath before he continues. “When I was freed from the Goa’uld, I tried much the same thing as you are doing. I returned home, and I pretended nothing about me had changed. My sister had died, not long before, and I thought, if I could be my old self again, I could lessen the burden on our father and allow him to focus on his grief instead of worrying about me.”

Cora nods knowingly. It’s bad enough that she died, however briefly; she doesn’t want her pack to be burdened with any additional changes in her right now. She can be herself again, and they’ll hardly even need to remember that anything happened.

“It did not work,” Skaara says grimly, and Cora glances over at him to watch his face. His expression is uncharacteristically guarded, eyes fixed ahead of him on the entrance to the pyramid. “The harder I tried to pretend I had not changed, the clearer it became that I had. I was not easing the burden on my father by pretending to be a person who no longer existed. I was only preventing him from knowing the person I had become, pushing him away when all he really needed was to be with me. My true self, and not the person I thought he expected me to be.”

Cora lets that sink in for a moment as she follows him up the long walkway into the pyramid. He may have a point, and maybe she should let her pack know her as she is now. But that would mean acknowledging to herself that she’s no longer the same person. The Cora they all knew and chose to follow died in the forest a week ago, and she doesn’t know if any of them would still choose her. She sighs wearily and shakes her head. “I can’t risk it. As baffling as it was, they liked who I was before. I don’t want to lose them by becoming someone else. I don’t even know who I am now; how can I expect them to still care when no one even knows who I am?”

“They love you as you are, Cora,” he says. “Remember, I have been watching. All they want is the opportunity to know your truest self, whoever that may be.”

She wishes that could be true, but it can’t possibly be that simple. “They love who I was,” she says softly. “If I change, they might stop. My Mom did, after—” the words stick in her throat, and she forces herself to take a breath. “I don’t think I could bear it if that happened again.”

She can feel his eyes on her, studying her again as he leads her through a room that looks like the set of a Wormhole X-treme! episode and deeper into the pyramid, finally stopping in front of a wall with a rather ostentatious fresco centered around the Eye of Ra. There’s a brief pause, then a rumbling as the wall opens to reveal a chamber full of artifacts. He’s silent as he steps inside, face unusually somber, and he crouches down near an arbitrary-seeming spot on the floor, placing his palm down flat against the stone. “This is where I died,” he says softly. “It was not painless. You were lucky, that Sarah did not wish for you to suffer.”

“Right,” she takes a seat on the floor next to him. “Lucky.”

“My sister had died years before,” he continues, settling into a comfortable cross-legged seat. “But my father, my betrothed, and everyone in my village joined me here. We are together in this place, and they are happy.”

She blinks over at him at his choice of phrasing. “They are happy?” she asks hesitantly. “But you are not?”

He flashes her a wry smile, and looks back down at the stone floor. “I heard what you said to Daniel about why you could not accept my offer. I understand, and I am glad I was able to return you to your life instead.”

She watches him curiously, taking note of the way he’d dodged her question. “I hope you didn’t get in too much trouble for helping me.”

He leans back, resting his weight on his hands, as he releases a puff of air that could almost be a laugh. “They have confined me to this realm. I may watch, still, but unless someone comes to me, I can no longer help.”

She squeezes her eyes shut in sympathy. He’d only wanted to help her, and here he is, living her worst nightmare. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize,” he says, his voice soft. “The benefits of helping you have far outweighed the consequences.”

She shakes her head sharply, eyes still shut. “You’re trapped here in this place, all because I couldn’t let go of—”

“I am home,” he says, “with my family and almost everyone I love. And the people I love who cannot be with me are in the best of hands.” She opens her eyes and furrows her brow skeptically when he reaches over and places his hand on her wrist, to see him looking at her with an open, earnest expression. “Yours, Cora. I have never known anyone who loves more fiercely than you do, or who would fight harder to protect those you love.”

She takes a breath and flips her hand around so she can squeeze his wrist in return. “I’ll take care of them,” she promises.

His eyes crinkle in a genuine smile. “I know you will. And, please—” he reaches his other hand over to grab hers, holding on with a steady, strong grip— “let them know you. They will not stop loving you just because you have survived a trauma and come out of it changed. Have more faith in them than that. They love you anyway, and always will.”

Her eyes fall shut and she takes another shaky breath. “I’ll try,” she says quietly. It won’t be easy to let go of the fear that they’ll abandon her when they realize she isn’t the person they signed up for at the start. It would be safer to be the person she was before, the person she already knows had earned their love, but Skaara is right—that person died, and the one who came back deserves to be known for who she is.

Skaara squeezes her hands again, gently this time. “You are ready to go home now, yes?”

She nods slowly. “I think I am, yeah.”

“I know you did not mean to come here, but I am glad you did,” he tells her, smiling wider, eyes twinkling. “It was good to see you again.”

“Yeah, you too,” she says, and she finds herself smiling back at him. For as scared as she was when she first arrived, this actually turned out to be something really nice. She may not have gotten the brain detox she’d expected, but she may have found something she needed even more.

“Until next time, then,” Skaara says, squeezing her hands one more time before letting go.

She snorts. “Next time, sure.” Not that she doesn’t want to see him again, but this place feels more like a prison the more time she spends here.

She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath, and falls back into herself. She opens her eyes again to the dingy old warehouse, wrinkling her nose in distaste at the smell of stale air and the feel of the grimy floor beneath her. Why she ever thought this place would work for her… well. It did, as it turns out, just not at all in the way she expected. But she does feel better, strangely enough. Not any less overloaded by her surroundings, but ready to accept that this is her new reality, and maybe even ready to talk to her pack about how they’ll all need to adapt to it.

And with that out of the way, she might even be able to figure out the rest of it. Her brain has been too crowded to see herself clearly, but she knows she’s changed. She just needs to give herself the chance to figure out how.

Chapter Text

Cora hovers in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand resting on the door frame, the other wrapped around her amulet, as she watches the Sheriff, studiously focused on his paperwork at the kitchen table. She considers knocking, but that just makes her feel silly. It’s not like she’s intruding on his privacy—if he didn’t want to be disturbed, he would have stayed at the Station, in his office. Or maybe sequestered himself in his room here, if he wanted a change of scenery. But he’s here in the kitchen, paperwork spread across the table in seemingly-unorganized piles, and she knows he knows she’s home, so he must not mind interruptions right now.

She’s overthinking this. She knows she’s overthinking this. This is the Sheriff; he’s never been mad at her before, and he certainly won’t start over something as simple as being interrupted while working in the kitchen.

But, still, she hesitates.

It isn’t that she’s afraid of him. Really, she isn’t. She trusts him more than anyone else in the world. More than Chris, whose first and highest priority will always be Allison, even if it means turning against everyone else in his life. More than Jackson, who, while he would never hurt her, may not have the same restraint when it comes to others. More than O’Neill, who is still trying to figure out who he is, separate from the man he was created to replace. More than Stiles, who carries a darkness inside of him that he has not yet conquered and perhaps never will. More, even, than Derek, who places so little value on his own life that he doesn’t consider the consequences of his recklessness in regards to those who care for him.

The Sheriff offered her a home when she had none, when he barely even knew her. He was the first to join her pack, integrating himself so seamlessly that she hardly even noticed it happening. He’s been there for her through each of the attempts on her life, a constant and steady support through it all.

She just can’t shake the fear that she’ll do something wrong. And she knows he’d never treat her the way her mother would have—she’s not entirely sure what she’s afraid of. All she knows is that she never wants to find out what could happen if she disappoints him.

“You gonna stare at me all night, or are you gonna join me?” he asks, not looking up from his paperwork, one corner of his mouth quirked up in a small smile.

She rolls her eyes and walks over to take the seat next to him at the table, accepting the file he holds out to her as she sits. “What are we working on?”

“Looking for anything we might use to get the Calaveras off your back,” he says distractedly, quickly jotting down notes on a pad of paper as he references a file of his own.

She raises an eyebrow and opens the file he’d handed her. It’s a police report of a murder in Arizona, with the only mention of a Calavera being an offhand reference in one witness statement. “Should you even have these?”

He shrugs one shoulder carelessly, closing the file he’d been reading and reaching for another. “I definitely shouldn’t be letting you read them,” he admits, “but I won’t tell if you don’t.”

She frowns down at the file in her hands, then at the rest of the files scattered over the table. “Do you really think making them face the law is going to stop them?”

“I’m not going to let them kill innocent people and get away with it,” he says darkly, taking notes again.

Cora sets her file down with a sigh. “But I’m not a person,” she mutters, wrapping her hand around her amulet again.

The Sheriff’s eyes snap up to her, his expression stormy. “You—”

“According to them,” she continues, sitting back in her chair. “And I’m not innocent. I’ve killed before.”

“You killed one person,” he says grimly, setting his pen down, “in self-defense. You’re not a killer, Cora.”

“I could have let Stiles kill him,” she says quietly, and the Sheriff blinks at her in surprise. “He offered. Or I could’ve waited and let you or O’Neill take care of it. But Peter was my problem. I didn’t want to make anyone else take that on.”

“You’re not a killer,” he repeats firmly. “And in a couple weeks, you’re going to school to become a doctor. To save lives, as if you don’t do enough of that already.”

She picks up a mugshot of an imposing-looking man, memorizing his face. Severo Calavera, according to the nameplate. “None of that matters to them. I turned an Argent, and he’s still alive, and part of my pack now. I ripped my own uncle’s heart out with my bare hands. I ran a True Alpha out of town after turning almost his entire pack against him. I drained the Nemeton that had fed this town for generations of the last of its power when I—”

“Cora, none of that is—” he starts, indignant.

“It doesn’t matter,” she says, setting the photo down again. “That’s the way they see it, and no amount of good I do is going to change that.”

He scrubs his hands down his face with a heavy sigh. “Sorry. Just, it shouldn’t be like that. We were hoping things could be different, with this being Chris’s choice, but—”

“But the rest of the hunter community isn’t ready for a change like this,” she finishes for him, shrugging a shoulder. “It’s fine. It’s just the way things are.”

“Well, ‘the way things are’ is stupid,” he grumbles, picking up his pen again and glaring at the file in front of him.

“On that, we are in complete agreement,” she grumbles back at him, and the corner of his mouth twitches up in what might be the start of a smile. She lets him return to work in silence for a moment, gripping her amulet tightly, before she speaks again. “I wanted to talk to you about something,” she says, her voice quiet and hesitant.

He nods and hums thoughtfully, not looking up from his file. “Is this about how I can do magic?"

“Wh—” she blinks at him in surprise. “You knew?”

“I have the gene,” he says with a shrug, still taking notes. “Figured that meant I could. And figured you probably had a good reason for not wanting me to explore that just yet.”

“I was being selfish,” she admits quietly, staring blankly down at the files on the table. “I can see it, and the more you use it, the brighter you become. I’ve been overwhelmed by all of it, especially since—” she stumbles over the words, then clears her throat and pushes on. He knows what she means, anyway. “I just… I didn’t want to have to avoid you, too.”

“Oh, Cora,” he says with a sigh, and she squeezes her eyes shut, slumping in her seat.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers, pulling her other arm close to her body as she grips her amulet tightly enough for the carving to leave an impression on her palm. “I know it’s dangerous for you to use your power untrained, but I couldn’t—”

“Cora,” he says again gently, and she flinches when she feels his hand softly touch her arm. He pulls his hand away again immediately. She opens her eyes tentatively to watch him, blinking in surprise at the lack of ire on his face. “It’s okay. I’ve made it this long without any training; I never have to train, if my doing so would hurt you.”

“It won’t hurt—” she starts, then pauses to reconsider her phrasing, because that’s not entirely true. “It—Stiles is working on some stuff for me that might make it less bad.”

“I can wait until he’s figured that out, then,” he says with a soft smile. He scoots his chair closer to hers and holds his arm out in invitation; she hesitates a moment, then scoots her chair as well so she can lean against his side with his arm wrapped loosely around her shoulders. He squeezes her briefly and presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Your mom really did a number on you, didn’t she, kid?” he murmurs into her hair. And she doesn’t know what to say to that, but he doesn’t seem to require a response. “You thought I’d be mad at you?”

She shrugs slightly. It seemed like a reasonable thing to expect, given past experience.

He sighs and kisses the top of her head again. “You can talk to me about anything, at any time. Got that? And if you need time to process something before you can talk about it, that’s okay, too. It wasn’t selfish of you to delay talking to me about this; I wouldn’t have wanted you to have to avoid me either.”

She pulls away a bit so she can turn her head to see him, frowning at him cautiously. “Really?”

He gives her one firm nod, meeting her eyes steadily. “Really.” He pauses then, brow furrowing. “You said—using my power untrained? Have I really been doing that?”

“Probably all your life, without ever realizing it,” she confirms. “It’s part of what makes you such a good Sheriff.”

“Huh,” he grunts, his eyes going a little unfocused as he takes on a thoughtful expression. She can practically see his thought process right now, analyzing his own behavior and finding the ways his actions have been influenced by something beyond mere instinct. “Well,” he says eventually, his eyes clearing again, “guess that explains some things.”

“Sorry,” she says again, letting her gaze drop down to the table once more. “I should’ve talked to you about this sooner.”

“Stop apologizing, kiddo,” he says, giving her shoulders another gentle squeeze. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”

Cora’s not sure she believes that, but she won’t push the issue. By some miracle, he’s not mad at her, and she’s not about to start questioning that now. She sighs and picks up a file from the table, only half-paying-attention to it as she flips through the pages. “It won’t be easy to find something on these guys,” she observes. “They’ve been working under the radar for a long time, and they’re well-funded. And even if you do find something, it won’t be easy to get them before a judge they haven’t already bought.”

“Not easy, no,” he admits, unwrapping his arm from around her shoulders so he can join her in looking at the files again, but still sitting close enough that their shoulders occasionally bump together. “But also not impossible.” He pulls over his notepad and pen and focuses once more on the task at hand.

Cora watches him work for a moment before turning her focus back to the file in her hands. She doesn’t know what she’s done to deserve such loyalty and devotion from him, but whatever it is, she hopes she can keep doing it. And she hopes that his poking into the unsavory parts of the Calavera family’s dealings won’t end up putting him in danger. He’s human, and an officer of the law. That should garner him a level of protection someone like Cora could never hope for.

Chapter Text

Names. Addresses. Known associates. A map of their compound in Mexico where they apparently run a nightclub. Stiles leans over the table, studying it all, reading his father’s notes, memorizing the faces in each of the photos.

“Don’t even think about it, Stiles,” Noah’s voice warns from the doorway behind him.

“Don’t think about what?” Stiles mutters distractedly, knowing full well what his Dad means. That doesn’t stop him from silently starting to formulate a plan.

“They haven’t even done anything to her,” Noah says as he walks in to stand next to Stiles, propping his hip against the edge of the table and crossing his arms.

“Yet,” Stiles points out darkly. Because they both know it’s only a matter of time, and Stiles has no intention of waiting for them to strike first.

“We’re trying this my way first,” Noah says, in a voice that brokers no argument.

“And when your way ends up with a wolfsbane bullet in her heart, what then?” Stiles snaps, regretting it immediately at the look on his father’s face.

Noah clenches his jaw, his eyes dark with pain. “That was uncalled for, Stiles,” he says quietly.

Stiles straightens up and forces himself to take a breath, rubbing the back of his neck. “Sorry. I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just—”

“We’re all worried,” Noah says, and from the tone of his voice, Stiles can tell he’s still hurting. “We’re all scared. Doesn’t mean we can’t try to do this the right way.”

“Okay, I know, I’m sorry,” Stiles grumbles. He’ll keep his plans to himself for now, then.

Noah watches him warily for a moment, then scrubs a hand down his face with a weary sigh. “Look, I know this summer has been…” he trails off, his hand poised mid-gesture, his expression a mix of perplexed and pained.

“Both the absolute best and absolute worst summer ever?” Stiles supplies with a wry half-smile.

Noah huffs an almost-amused breath. “Sure, we’ll go with that. None of this has been easy, and you’ve been hit hard by it. Especially after what Scott did, and everything going on with Cora—”

“Fucking Scott,” Stiles mutters with a sneer. As much as he wishes he was over all that, he has to admit it still hurts. He hates Scott for what he did, he hates himself for not realizing what Scott was sooner, and he hates that, despite it all, he still misses his former best friend.

Noah reaches over to squeeze Stiles’ arm. “I know,” he says gently. “I loved him, too. And Cora—”

“Thanks for your concern, Dad, but I’m fine,” Stiles says, knocking Noah’s hand off his arm and heading over to the fridge. He’s not particularly hungry right now, but he figures sticking his head in the fridge is a perfectly reasonable form of escape at the moment.

“You’re not fine,” Noah says, trailing after Stiles to lean his hip against the counter next to the fridge. “Ever since Cora—”

“Dad,” Stiles says, slamming the fridge door shut, “I’m fine. Just drop it, okay?”

“Okay, now I know something’s wrong,” Noah says with a concerned frown. “What’s going on with you and Cora?”

Stiles clenches his jaw and glares at the fridge door. “Nothing,” he states decisively, and it isn’t a lie. He hasn’t seen her in days, after all, and he misses her like crazy. But he doesn’t particularly feel like talking about that with his Dad. Distract, distract, distract. “Colonel Carter wants me to go to Atlantis again.”

“Oh.” Noah blinks at him in surprise a few times. “Is that a good idea right now?”

“Derek would come, too,” Stiles says, and Noah’s eyebrows shoot up.

There’s a brief pause as Noah studies Stiles, making Stiles feel as though he’s being examined under a microscope. “I see,” Noah says slowly. “And is that a good idea right now?”

“If I don’t go now, it’ll be months before I get another chance,” Stiles points out. With school starting, his next opportunity would be during winter break.

“Yes, I understand that. I guess my main concern is—” Noah glances back over at the table and the piles of paperwork— “if this situation with the Calaveras isn’t resolved by the time you two go—”

“I could resolve it now,” Stiles suggests darkly. “You know I could.”

“Yes, I know,” Noah says quietly, his voice and expression grim.

Oh. He really does know, then. That’s not ideal. “I didn’t leave any evidence behind,” Stiles says, “and I wouldn’t this time, either. No one will ever be able to prove—”

“That’s not the point, Stiles,” Noah says, then sighs heavily and scrubs both hands down his face. “That can’t be our default response to a difficult situation. That isn’t the kind of reputation Cora wants for this pack. And that isn’t the kind of person you should be. You were making real progress before Cora—”

“What’s the point of progress if it ends up with her dead?” Stiles argues. “I could’ve stopped it all before they even—”

“What happened wasn’t your fault, Stiles,” Noah says, taking a step closer and reaching out to place his hand on Stiles’ arm.

“I could have stopped it,” Stiles repeats, meeting his father’s eyes with a defiant glare.

Noah shrugs one shoulder and holds his gaze steadily. “Maybe you could have. Or maybe you only could’ve delayed it. Or maybe you’d just have ended up getting yourself hurt, too. It doesn’t matter what could have happened, it only matters what did. And what matters now is that she’s alive, and—right now, especially—she needs us to conduct ourselves in a manner that reflects well on her leadership of this pack. If you handle this your way now, you won’t be making her any safer. You’d end the threat from the Calaveras—of that, I have no doubt—but the other hunters would rally against her in revenge. We have to be smart about this, Stiles. Let me try it my way, and if that doesn’t work, we’ll consider our other options.”

Stiles clenches his jaw and scowls. He has to admit, his father is making several good points. His way would be so much more efficient, but only in the short term. “Fine,” he agrees reluctantly. “But I’m going to have my plans ready for the moment yours fail.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Noah says, squeezing Stiles’ arm reassuringly. “Now, about this trip to Atlantis—”

“I don’t know for sure if it’s going to happen yet,” Stiles says. “Having Derek come along would make the whole thing a lot more complicated, and I don’t even know if the work they want me to do is particularly urgent. I could just tell them it has to wait until—”

“When Colonel Carter sets her mind to something, she’ll find a way to make it happen,” Noah says with a wry smile. “I recommend you focus your efforts on implementing whatever protections you deem appropriate for Cora while you’re away. And if you can help her with her sensory overload, O’Neill and I can train to take on any magical issues that might arise.”

“I am making progress on that, actually,” Stiles says, mood brightening a little. “I should have something ready to test within the next day or so. And I already have plans with Parrish to get him used to using the healing device, so that’ll be covered, too.”

Noah narrows his eyes suspiciously. “I probably shouldn’t ask how you plan to go about testing his use of the healing device.”

“Uh—” Stiles clears his throat and scratches the back of his neck— “no, you probably shouldn’t.” There’s really only one reliable way for Parrish to get the requisite practical experience, after all.

Noah heaves a weary sigh and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Fine. Just, nothing that can’t be healed by normal first-aid if something goes wrong, okay?”

“We’ll be fine, Dad,” Stiles says, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder.

Noah hums skeptically, but apparently decides not to press the issue. “So,” she says, raising a questioning eyebrow, “you and Derek.”

Stiles feels his face flushing, and he shifts uncomfortably under the weight of his father’s scrutiny. “Wh–what about me and Derek?”

“Things seem to be progressing rather quickly between the two of you,” Noah says, leveling Stiles with an entirely-too-knowing look.

Stiles turns even redder and he drops his face into his hands. “Oh my God, Dad—”

“I just want to make sure you aren’t pushing him into something he isn’t ready for—”

“Dad, no, of course not—”

“And the way you two have been behaving, I have some concerns about how you’ll conduct yourselves in Atlantis—”

Stiles brings a hand to his chest with a theatrical flourish and an indignant squawk. “We are capable of keeping our hands to ourselves, you know—”

“Could’ve fooled me,” Noah mutters, but his eyes are crinkled with good humor.

Stiles snorts, because, fair enough, then sobers, his grin turning bashful. “I, uh—” he huffs a small self-deprecating laugh and rubs the back of his neck. “I may have accidentally asked him to marry me.”

Both of Noah’s eyebrows shoot up, but his expression otherwise is unnervingly unreadable. “I see,” he says slowly. “And I suppose Derek was receptive to that idea.”

Stiles flushes impossibly redder at the memory of that night. “Yes, very.”

Noah shakes his head with a world-weary sigh, but the corners of his mouth are twitching, very clearly fighting off a smile. “I do hope you two are planning for a long engagement.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “I’m not even eighteen yet, Dad. We’re not rushing into anything, I promise. We just—” he shrugs, his grin softening into a fond smile— “we know this is it for us. This is forever.”

“I know it is, son,” Noah says, squeezing Stiles’ arm and smiling softly. “I’m glad you two found each other. That kid deserves to be loved, and I can’t imagine anyone loving him more than you do. And same goes for you, y’know.”

“I know,” Stiles says with a nod, remembering all the things he and Derek had said to each other that night. It still feels a little surreal at times, that someone like Derek could love him, but all those doubts fade away the moment they’re together.

“Hey, c’mere,” Noah says, pulling Stiles into a hug, and Stiles is all too happy to relax into his father’s embrace. “Happy for you, kid.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles mutters into his father’s shoulder, returning the hug with all the love he can possibly squeeze out of him.

Chapter Text

“Atlantis?” Derek asks with a frown, skimming through the proposed mission briefing.

“Colonel Carter has specifically requested your presence on this mission,” General Landry confirms.

“You mean Stiles has requested my presence,” Derek says, looking up at the General and raising an eyebrow.

Landry’s mouth twitches into a wry smile. “Stiles may have been the impetus for the request, but I assure you, your translation skills will be put to good use.”

“Oh, don’t get me wrong,” Derek says, holding a hand out reassuringly, “if Stiles needs me, I’ll be there even if I don’t have anything to contribute to the mission. It’s just…” he trails off, unsure of how to say what he needs to say.

Landry clasps his hands together and leans forward to rest his forearms against his desk, studying Derek with a concerned frown. “My understanding was that the threat to your family due to the Littlefield connection was over. Is that not the case?”

“It is,” Derek answers with a hesitant nod. “It should be.”

Landry studies him for another moment. “You’re still worried about her,” he says gently.

Derek’s eyes drop down to the file in his hands, and he stares at it blankly for a moment. “My sister died a week ago,” he says, his voice rough. “I felt her die. And she’s back now, and she says she’s fine, but I know she’s not. Or maybe—maybe I’m not. Atlantis is so far away, and if something were to happen to her while I was there, I don’t know if I could ever forgive myself.”

“You can’t protect her from everything, son,” Landry tells him, his voice kind. “And from what I understand, she’s got a hell of a good group of folks backing her. Is the problem that you don’t trust them?”

“No, of course not,” Derek says, furrowing his brow. He trusts his pack; really, he does. And he knows none of them were at fault for what happened to Cora—Deaton and Sarah would have found a way to get to Cora no matter what any of them had done. But the person he trusts most to watch over Cora while he’s away is Stiles, and Stiles would be in Atlantis with him.

Landry hums thoughtfully and sits back in his chair. “Would it help if I sent the rest of SG-1 to work out of the Beacon Hills Annex for that week? We can call it a training exercise, to help bring up the next generation of SGC personnel.”

Derek blinks at him in surprise, momentarily speechless. “You would do that?” he asks hesitantly once he recovers his voice.

“Dr. Jackson would be going on the mission with you, of course,” Landry continues, “but we don’t currently have anything on the docket for Teal’c, Colonel Mitchell, or Vala. I was going to let them take some R&R while you’re away, but there’s no reason they can’t do that in Beacon Hills, while also giving Cora a bit of advanced combat training.”

“That would be amazing, actually,” Derek says, trying to remind himself that it would be unprofessional for him to cry in gratitude.

Landry nods decisively. "Alright, then. So, with that problem solved, we now have the issue of who all needs to be read in on your situation for your presence on this mission to be viable.” He grabs a paper from the stack on his desk and holds it out to Derek. “I’ve split the list into two categories: essential and preferred. You’ve been granted temporary access to their personnel files. If you are uncomfortable with anyone on the preferred list, we can leave them out of it. If anyone on the essential list doesn’t make the cut, the mission is off. Take those to your quarters or your lab for perusal, but let me know by end of day tomorrow who all you’d like to approve. This mission’ll take a hell of a lot of prep-work to get ready, and we only have a week to get it all done.”

“Understood, sir,” Derek says with a nod. He slips the list into the mission briefing folder to study it all back in his lab.

“Now, about your young Mr. Stilinski,” the General says, leaning forward against his desk again with hands clasped in front of him and one eyebrow raised. “I understand that young love can be… exciting. But I need your assurances that the two of you can act professionally while you’re on this mission.”

Derek feels heat rising in his cheeks and the tips of his ears in mortification. “We can, sir,” he promises. “We will. We—” he can’t stop a bashful smile from forming— “we’re engaged now. But I promise you, we can behave professionally.”

“Many happy returns to you both,” Landry says dryly, though his eyes are twinkling with good humor. “But you will have separate sleeping arrangements for the duration of this mission.”

“Of course, sir,” Derek says with a nod. “I wouldn’t have expected otherwise.”

Landry twitches his eyebrows skeptically, but doesn’t press the matter further. He grabs a file from his stack and opens it up to read it in a clear indication that the conversation is ending. “Alright. Unless you have any additional questions, I think that’s all for today. I’ll see you tomorrow for your next mission briefing.”

Derek starts to nod and sit forward a bit in preparation to leave, then hesitates. “Actually, sir—” he stops, hesitating again. Maybe he should just leave it.

Landry raises his eyebrows expectantly when Derek doesn’t continue. “Something I can help you with, son?”

Derek frowns down at the file folder in his hands, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the back of it. “You know I appreciate how understanding you’ve been through all of this,” he starts eventually.

Landry narrows his eyes slightly. “Good to hear, but is there a question in there somewhere?”

“Why?” The question bursts out of Derek before he can stop it.

Landry blinks in surprise and sits back a bit. “I’m gonna need you to be more specific.”

Derek sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “All the extra work everyone in this program has to put in just to make my presence here possible… at what point do you realize I’m more trouble than I’m worth?”

“Never,” Landry states decisively, then gets back to his paperwork.

“What, simple as that?” Derek scoffs.

“Simple as that,” Landry says. “You’re part of this team, and we’ve got your back.”

“But—”

“But nothing, son,” Landry says, closing his file and setting it down on his desk. “Aside from what you contribute to this program as a linguist and a search-and-rescue specialist, you’ve made this place your own. And I’m not just referring to your family legacy here; your team is part of your pack now, and you’ve made friends all over this base. You belong here, just as much as you belong in Beacon Hills.”

And that’s certainly a hard point to argue. “I guess you’re right,” Derek admits with a small smile.

“Of course I’m right,” Landry says, slightly smug, picking up his file again and looking at Derek expectantly. “Now, if that’s all…?”

“That’s all,” Derek says, tension draining out of his shoulders. “And, thanks. For everything.”

“All part of the deal here, son,” Landry says, waving a hand in a clear dismissal. “We take care of our own.”

Chapter Text

“So,” O’Neill says, holding out one of the cups of ice cream as he falls into step beside Cora, “is it working?”

Cora accepts the ice cream with a thoughtful frown, taking a moment to study him before she answers. “It is,” she says slowly.

He raises an eyebrow at her. “But?”

She sighs and jabs at her ice cream with her spoon. “You look wrong.”

He hums thoughtfully. “Am I more distracting or less distracting than I was before?”

“More distracting, and not in a fun way,” she grumbles, taking a bite of ice cream.

"Gotta say, I’d much rather distract you in the fun way,” he mutters with a sly smile.

“I bet you would,” she mutters back with a small smirk, and his smile widens. She squints at him and huffs another irritated sigh. “Maybe I’ll get used to it,” she adds skeptically.

He narrows his eyes doubtfully. “You think so?”

“No,” she admits, wrinkling her nose and taking another bite of her ice cream.

He reaches into his pocket with his free hand and pulls out the talisman Stiles had made for him, then breaks it in half. The air around him shudders as the blocking spell disintegrates, and he’s back to his old self. “Better?”

“Much,” she says, tension draining out of her. He’s back to being a bit too much, but at least he’s himself.

“I’ll talk to Stiles. Maybe blocking spells aren’t the right approach.” He tucks the broken talisman back into his pocket and starts in on his own ice cream.

“Not for you, anyway,” she says quietly, watching him out of the corner of her eye.

“Hey,” he says gently, stepping around to get in front of her and grabbing her free hand. She comes to a stop and looks up to meet his eyes questioningly as he places her hand on his chest, over his heart. “I’m okay. You saved me, and I’m not going anywhere.”

She closes her eyes and takes a moment to feel the steadiness of his heartbeat. “I know. I’d just rather be able to see that for myself.”

His face softens, and he brings her hand up to his lips, pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “We’ll figure out something else, then,” he promises, and steps back to her side so they can resume their walk and eat their ice cream.

“It’s so frustrating,” she grumbles, stabbing her spoon violently into her ice cream again. “I miss everyone, especially you and Stiles, but I can’t—” she huffs an annoyed breath. “I used to be able to filter it all. But every time I visit that… whatever that place is, I come back seeing more.”

“Every time—” he echoes faintly, his eyes widening as his concerned gaze snaps over to fix on her face. “You… this has happened more than once?”

She nods with a distracted frown. “I visited Skaara again the other day while I was trying to clear my head. The others have confined him there as his punishment for helping me.”

“So you just—” he waves a hand in a somewhat distressed gesture— “casually visit a higher plane of existence, as if it’s no big deal.”

She shrugs a shoulder and takes another bite of ice cream. “I didn’t go on purpose, if that helps.”

“It doesn’t, actually,” he says, sounding exasperated. “For cryin’ out loud, Cora, no wonder your brain’s been overloaded. You may not have ascended, but you’re still evolving.”

“Well, I’d appreciate if I could stop evolving,” she says with a scowl. “I was fine as I was.”

“I don’t think it’s up to you,” he says gently. “You’re evolving, and we all just have to adapt. We’ll figure it out together, alright? All of us.”

“Together,” she echoes softly, staring into her ice cream cup, “sure.”

“Hey,” he says softly with a concerned frown, reaching over to gently touch her elbow, “what’s wrong?”

She glances over at him, the corners of her mouth twitching down. “How are we supposed to do anything together if I can barely stand to be around any of you? I can’t protect you if I can’t even be near you.”

“You don’t need to protect us from everything, Cora,” he says, smiling at her fondly.

She grimaces and pokes at her ice cream. “Actually—” she starts, then thinks better of it.

But he’s not one to drop a subject just because she wants to avoid it. “Actually what?” he asks, raising an eyebrow expectantly.

She rolls her eyes, then reluctantly continues. “The Calaveras are after me. Maybe the best way for me to protect you is to stay away.”

“No,” he says, frowning down at her, tugging her elbow to pull her to a stop. “Cora, you can’t keep—” he huffs a frustrated breath and scowls at the ice cream cup in his hand, then looks around until he spots a nearby bench. “C’mere,” he says, tugging her over to it; he doesn’t sit, though, just sets his ice cream down and takes hers from her hand to set it down next to his, then pivots her around to face him with his hands on her shoulders. He closes his eyes and takes a fortifying breath before gazing down into her eyes again. “You can’t keep isolating yourself in the name of protecting us. It never works, and we all just end up getting hurt in the process.”

She sighs and brings her hands up to rest on his chest. “I guess old habits are hard to break. But, what if…” she trails off, furrowing her brow, biting her lip as she drops her gaze down and to the side.

He brings one hand up to tuck her hair behind her ear, gently sweeping his thumb across her cheek before dropping his hand back to her shoulder. “What if…?”

She takes a breath to steady herself before looking up to meet his eyes again. “You said yourself that I’m evolving, and we don’t even know what all is going on with me. What if I’m the one you end up needing protection from?”

“Impossible,” he says, shaking his head decisively. “If there’s really something going on with you, we’ll figure it out together. And if you’re evolving, we’ll evolve with you.”

She stares up at him for a moment, then grabs him by the collar of his shirt to pull him in. She pauses with his lips millimeters away, bumping their noses together, her lips parting as she takes a breath, then pulls him the rest of the way in for a kiss. He makes a low noise in the back of his throat as he sinks into her, sliding one hand up and around to the back of her head to thread his fingers through her hair. She takes her time with him, trying to communicate as much tenderness to him through the kiss as he always does in his every interaction with her.

She leaves him thoroughly breathless by the time she pulls away, and he slowly blinks his eyes open, looking a little stunned. “You—” he starts roughly when he finds his voice again, then clears his throat. “You probably shouldn’t kiss me like that in public.”

She narrows her eyes at him suspiciously, but a smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “I didn’t do anything inappropriate,” she points out.

“No,” he says, his eyes twinkling mischievously, “but I’m about to.”

A surprised giggle bursts out of her and she leans her forehead against his chest. “Jack,” she scolds him lightly, sliding her hands down to land at his waist.

She hears his heart stutter and a small gasp escapes his lips. “Say that again,” he breathes, moving his hand from the back of her head to tilt her chin up so he can see her face.

She raises a questioning eyebrow at him, but she can’t seem to stop smiling. “It’s just your name,” she points out, looking up into his eyes.

“Not the way you say it,” he says, bringing both hands up to cradle her face. He holds her gaze steadily, his eyes bright with wonder. “Say it again.”

Her grin slowly widens, and she slides a hand back up to rest over his heart. “Jack,” she breathes, and she feels his heart stutter again under her palm.

He grins and leans in, kissing her slowly and thoroughly, tangling his fingers into her hair. “Cora,” he says breathlessly when he eventually surfaces for air, “I don’t know if this is the right time to say this, but—”

And truly, she would love to hear the rest of what he’s saying. She would love to give him her undivided attention and listen to what is almost certainly the most romantic thing someone has ever and maybe will ever say to her. But instead she hears a familiar and entirely unexpected voice somewhere in the near distance behind her, and her brain halts from the shock of it. She freezes, the blood drains from her face, and her heart stops.

O’Neill notices the change in her immediately and pauses his romantic speech. “It’s too soon, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I—”

Cora grabs onto his wrists with a too-tight grip to keep him from pulling away. “Please tell me I’m hallucinating,” she says, her voice faint, her hands starting to tremble.

He swears under his breath. “It is, it’s too soon. Just, forget I said anything—”

“Please,” she says again, with an air of desperation in her voice, looking up at him with wide, frightened eyes, “tell me Scott McCall didn’t just walk around the corner down this street.”

His eyes widen and his face pales, and he straightens up to look around, freezing when his eyes land on someone down the street. “What the fuck,” he breathes, his face dark with fury. “Who the hell does he think he is, showing his face here after—”

“Take me home,” she says, tugging him around to get away from Scott as quickly as possible, “and text Stiles.”

Chapter Text

Stiles paces, biting his thumbnail and glaring down the street as he waits on the porch for O’Neill’s car. He startles when his phone chimes in his pocket with an incoming text and fumbles getting it out to check. From his father, a confirmation of dreaded news. He swears heartily to himself, types out a quick reply, tucks his phone away again, then resumes his pacing and nail-biting and glaring.

It feels like forever but is probably less than a minute before O’Neill finally turns down the street and pulls up in front of the house. Stiles bounces impatiently on the balls of his feet as Cora and O’Neill say their goodbyes, watching from the top of the steps. He thinks he should probably feel bad for intruding on their private moment, but he’s too unsettled to care at the moment. Fortunately, Cora doesn’t seem bothered by that; when she finally exits the vehicle, she walks straight up the steps and into Stiles’ arms. He resists the urge to enfold her entirely in his embrace and never let go, remembering the way her whole body tenses when she’s restrained for longer than a few seconds. Instead, he holds himself steady as she leans into him with her face pressed into his chest, bringing one hand up to stroke her hair as he presses a kiss to the top of her head and letting his other hand land lightly on the back of her shoulder, resting there but not restricting her. “I’m so sorry,” he mutters into her hair. “I had no idea he was planning on coming back.”

“What the hell is he even doing here?” she growls, her hands closing into fists around handfuls of his shirt.

He sighs heavily and glances up at the driveway, to where O’Neill still hasn’t pulled away, watching them both with a concerned frown. He gives O’Neill a small nod of understanding before turning his attention back to Cora. “C’mon, let’s go inside,” he suggests softly, with a light squeeze to her shoulder.

She grumbles and steps out of his arms, taking a few steps toward the front door before pausing and glancing back at O’Neill. Her expression briefly lightens as she meets his eyes, and she blushes as his lips move, saying something only she can hear. She nods once sharply at him and turns away, tugging Stiles’ sleeve to pull him inside with her, and Stiles hears O’Neill’s car pulling out of the driveway at last as they step into the house.

He follows her to the living room and waits until they’re settled on the couch, her curled into the corner and him awkwardly folding his legs so he can sit facing her, before he speaks. “Apparently he’s back for school,” Stiles reports with a scowl. “I guess switching schools was too complicated for him and his dad to figure out.”

She nods distractedly, gaze distant and unfocused as she wraps a hand tightly around her amulet. “He’s planning to be here for a while, then,” she says, her voice disconcertingly flat and empty. “This isn’t just a visit.”

“I’m sorry,” is all Stiles can think to say in response, furrowing his brow as he watches her cautiously.

She shrugs a little, still looking detached. “Probably shouldn’t be surprised. We almost only had one big thing trying to kill me.”

“We don’t know for sure that’s why he’s here,” Stiles points out, his concern for her growing at her lackluster responsiveness. “Maybe the NID deprogramming really did work.”

She blinks once slowly. “I wonder if it’s a coincidence that he’s here almost immediately after the Calaveras sent their threat.” She huffs a quick, dry laugh, but no humor sparks in her eyes. “Hey, maybe if we’re lucky, they’re working together. Maybe it’s only one big problem, after all.”

“Cora…” Stiles says, tentatively reaching a hand toward her. He hesitates with his hand hovering an inch away, then slowly brings it to rest on her forearm.

She takes a sharp breath in and blinks her eyes into focus, looking over to meet his gaze at last. “Sorry,” she says quietly, swiveling toward him and flipping her hand around to grab his forearm in return. “I’m okay. I just wasn’t expecting this. I was having such a good day before he showed up.”

“Oh, yeah?” Stiles asks, perking up a little. “Did the blocking spell work, then?”

She crinkles her nose in distaste. “Oh, right, that. No.”

Stiles’ eyebrows rise in surprise. “No? But it fooled the scanner—”

“No, I mean, it worked,” she says with a frown, “but it doesn’t work for me. I don’t like it.”

“Oh.” Stiles wants to kick himself for not realizing—he remembers what Scott’s berserker factory had looked like through her eyes, with all its layers of blocking spells, and how wrong it had felt. It must be even more disconcerting to see that same effect on someone she cares about. “Okay. Plan B, then.”

“Sorry,” she says again, squeezing his arm.

He waves his free hand in dismissal. “Don’t worry about it. I have plenty of other ideas to test.” He pauses to study her with a hint of a sly smile. “Still a good day, though?”

Her cheeks flush and she almost smiles. “It was. Until Scott showed up.”

Stiles’ mood sours immediately and he bites out a string of curse words that would likely have earned him a pretty thorough scolding from his father.

“My sentiments exactly,” she grumbles, shifting around in her seat and shoving at his knees until she can curl up against his side. He lets himself be manhandled, slinging one arm across the back of the couch and leaving his other hand available for her to hold. And hold it she does, in both of her hands, absentmindedly tracing the lines on his palm and frowning disapprovingly at the irritated skin around his thumbnail.

“Maybe if we ignore him, he’ll leave us alone,” he suggests once she’s settled.

She turns her face up to look at him and raises a skeptical eyebrow. “You think so?”

“No,” he admits reluctantly. There’s no way they’d be that lucky. And Scott has a knack for making himself impossible to ignore.

“I suppose it’s possible he’s not here to do anything nefarious,” she says, but from the tone of her voice, he can tell she doesn’t believe it. Still, though, he knows her. He knows what’s coming next.

“You’re going to ask us to give him a chance,” he says, his voice grim.

She presses her lips together in a tight, angry line and looks down at their hands. “I’m not saying any of you have to be friends with him,” she says, wrapping one of her hands around his thumb. “But apparently he’s planning on being here for the long haul, and I’ll be out of town for most of it. If he truly is reformed, you’ll at least need to be able to tolerate him.”

“I’m not going to forgive him,” he reminds her, “and if he steps out of line even once—”

“I know,” she says, her jaw tense as her eyes stay fixed on his hand. He watches her cautiously as she sweeps her thumb in a circle around the center of his palm, and he wonders how much she knows about what he’d done to Deaton, Sarah, and their co-conspirators in town. He hadn’t told her, and he’d thought he’d been careful about sheltering her from the details, but she’s not stupid. She could easily have connected the dots, after seeing Sarah’s body and Deaton’s current condition. “I won’t ask any of you to trust him,” she continues. “I certainly don’t. But until we know his true motivation for returning to Beacon Hills, it’s probably best to just watch and wait.”

“Best case scenario,” Stiles says, still watching her face in profile, “he actually is reformed, and he actually is here just to finish school. We could coexist, maybe even peacefully, but mostly just stay out of each other’s way.”

She nods slowly in agreement, but unfortunately he can’t see her eyes well enough to get an accurate read on her feelings about that.

He continues anyway. “Worst case scenario, he’s here to pick up where Deaton left off, and he’s teamed up with the Calaveras along the way. He’s allied with the worst types of hunters before, so it wouldn’t surprise me in the least. And he can’t be happy that we’ve incapacitated his mentor and Emissary. He’ll do everything he can to undermine and eventually kill you, and to manipulate the rest of us into switching our allegiance to follow him. The more time you give him, the more damage he could do.”

“You loved him once,” she says quietly. “He was your brother in every way that mattered. And so many of the others believed in him, too. Shouldn’t we give him a chance to redeem himself and see if he can be that person again?”

“He was never that person,” Stiles says darkly. “You know that; you saw it, when none of the rest of us did. Stop trying to defend him when you know he doesn’t deserve it.”

“Maybe he doesn’t,” she says, raising her eyes to meet his. “But you do. I know you say you’ll never forgive him, and I won’t try to change your mind on that. But you need to forgive yourself, and if him redeeming himself can help you do that, then we need to give him a chance.”

“He tried to kill you, Cora—”

“I know, I was there every time—”

“—And I didn’t see what was happening until it was almost too late. If he’d been able to release that last set of berserkers like he’d intended—”

“I know,” she says again, fixing him with a harsh glare. “Trust me, I know. But Stiles, none of what he did was your fault. And we know what to watch for with him. I’m not saying we let him run rampant here; we watch him closely, and the second we find out his intentions are less than honorable, we do whatever’s necessary to stop him.”

Stiles slowly raises an eyebrow and tilts his chin down. “Whatever’s necessary?” he asks, a dark edge to his voice.

She clenches her jaw and gives a small, tight nod. “If we must. But, innocent until proven guilty, remember?”

“He’s already proven—” Stiles growls, stopping when she elbows him in the ribs.

“We find out why he’s here first,” she scolds. “If he really is just here to finish school, we can safely ignore him and move on with our lives.”

He scowls, but nods once sharply. “Fine.” He sincerely doubts that’s the case—Scott could have finished school anywhere, he did not need to come back to Beacon Hills for this—but if this is what Cora wants, this is what they’ll do.

Cora heaves a slow, frustrated sigh and squeezes her eyes shut as she brings a hand up to rub her forehead. “I think—” she pauses for another measured breath— “I think I need to go up to my room for a bit.”

“Right, yeah, of course,” Stiles says, shifting away from her a bit to allow her room to maneuver. Honestly, he’s surprised she’s held it together for this long; she must be exhausted after her time with O’Neill, and Scott’s sudden appearance certainly hasn’t helped matters.

She doesn’t leave immediately, though. Instead, she lets go of his hand so she can wrap her arms around him in a tight hug. He grunts a little in surprise and wraps his arms around her in return, pressing a dry kiss to the top of her head. “I missed you,” she mumbles into his chest.

“You, too,” he says, squeezing her tightly for a second. He doesn’t know how to say it, but with Derek back at work and Cora avoiding him, he’s been feeling rather unmoored. He’s been trying to throw himself into his research projects to distract himself, but distraction can only carry him so far. He hasn’t wanted to burden her with this, not with everything she’s going through right now, but he misses her, probably more than is healthy.

“I can’t do this anymore,” she says quietly, squeezing back. “I know I said staying away would help, but I was wrong. My brain isn’t getting any better, and instead I’m just lonely all the time.”

His heart breaks, and he presses his face into her hair. “Well, I certainly won’t object to being able to spend time with you again. But are you sure you’ll be able to handle it?”

He feels her shrug in his arms. “Whatever’s going on with me isn’t going away. O’Neill says I’m evolving; I think we just have to adapt.”

“Evolving, huh?” He loosens his arms around her and pulls back a bit so he can see her face, and she nods. “Alright. Well, I don’t know what that means, exactly, but if you’re evolving, we’ll evolve with you.”

She huffs a breath and gives him a small lopsided smile. “That’s what O’Neill said.”

“Smart man,” Stiles says with a grin. He pulls back further, unwrapping his arms from around her so he can place his hands on her shoulders. “Go get some rest. And if you’re feeling up to it later, stop by my room, I’ll have a few things ready to test.”

She nods and leans forward to rest her forehead against his chest for another breath. “Thank you,” she says softly, then pulls away and gets up, heading out into the hallway toward the stairs.

He swivels on the couch to watch her go, frowning in concern. She’s evolving, whatever that means. She’s been trying to tell him something like that since even before her almost-ascension, and he hadn’t taken her seriously. But now it’s undeniable—something about her is changing, and it isn’t just her extra senses. He glances down at his hand—the one he’d been chewing on, the one she’d been holding—and blinks in surprise. The thumbnail is still bitten, but all the tenderness around the nail has cleared up. Not a major thing, but definitely new, and definitely notable when combined with everything else. Evolving, indeed, and he’s pretty sure she didn’t even notice she was doing anything.

And now, on top of all that, Scott is back in town. Stiles doesn’t—not for one second—believe it’s a coincidence that Scott showed up just as the Calaveras started making their threats. And he doesn’t believe it’s a coincidence that all of this is happening right on the heels of Deaton’s network being dismantled. Scott isn’t a planner, and he’s not clever enough by half to take on an operation like this, but he is manipulative enough to align himself with people who can.

Stiles has a lot of work to do, if he’s planning to stop all of this from becoming an unmanageable disaster. He knows O’Neill has been layering protection spells on her amulet for a while now, and he figures it’s time to add a few of his own. Now might be the perfect opportunity to test some of the things he’d found in the Odyssey computer core.

Chapter Text

“Alright, you know I want to learn how to use this,” Parrish says, examining the healing device with trepidation.

Stiles sighs and nods. It won’t be easy to get Parrish to cooperate with his methods. “Yeah, I know, that’s why we’re here today.”

“...But how do you expect me to be able to get the practice I need?” Parrish continues, looking up at Stiles with his eyes narrowed suspiciously.

“That’s the part you aren’t going to like,” Stiles admits reluctantly, reaching into his pocket for his knife.

Parrish’s eyes widen at the sight of the blade. “Stiles, no, I’m not comfortable—”

“It’s fine,” Stiles says, waving a hand to dismiss his concerns. “It’s not for you.”

“I know,” Parrish says with a stern frown. “That doesn’t make it better. No, I’m not doing this. There has to be some other way—”

“There isn’t. Not if we want to know it’s working. Seriously, it’ll be fine. It’s not like I’m planning to—”

“I don’t care what you’re planning, I’m not gonna let you—”

Stiles rolls his eyes and slices a shallow gash into his forearm, ignoring Parrish’s spluttered objection. “Oops, too late, I’m already injured. Now you have to fix it.”

“You’re insane,” Parrish hisses, grabbing Stiles’ arm to inspect the wound. “Why would you—”

Stiles swats Parrish’s arm with the back of his free hand to get his attention. “Stop fussing and start healing,” he commands. “Now, c’mon, it’s pretty straightforward. Just visualize the arm healing, and pass the device over the wound.”

Parrish shakes his head in disbelief. “I can’t believe—no, actually, it’s you. I absolutely can believe you’d do this. You are seriously insane, you know that?”

“You don’t know the half of it, buddy,” Stiles says with a wry smile. “You gonna do this, or what? I’m bleeding here.”

Parrish mutters something unflattering under his breath, but he slips the healing device onto his hand and hovers it over Stiles’ arm. The device glows, but the wound doesn’t close.

“Uh—” Stiles furrows his brow and studies Parrish warily. “Are you… visualizing it?"

“I’m trying,” Parrish says through gritted teeth, frowning in concentration, but still nothing happens.

Stiles sighs and pulls his arm away. “Just stop. I was afraid this might happen.”

Parrish’s shoulders slump in defeat. “Afraid what might happen?”

“I’d have to tune it to get it to work for you,” Stiles explains, taking the device off of Parrish’s hand and scowling down at it. “But I only have one of these, and if I tune it for you, it won’t work for me anymore.”

“Oh.” Parrish frowns at the device, and the still-bleeding wound on Stiles’ arm. “So… what do we do, then?”

“I,” Stiles says, pushing away from the table and walking over to the desk where his laptop is sleeping, “email someone and see what we can do about getting another one. You just sit there and look pretty.”

“Uh, you might wanna—” Parrish gestures a hand at Stiles’ arm. “I mean, you’re kinda still bleeding everywhere…?”

Stiles looks down at his arm and blinks. Parrish is right—he’s kind of making a mess. “Oh. Right. Good point.” And now that he’s thinking about it, it actually kind of hurts. A lot. He changes course and heads for the first aid kit instead.

“Can’t you just use the healing device on yourself?” Parrish asks, watching Stiles curiously.

“For an injury like this, I probably could,” Stiles answers distractedly, opening the kit and grabbing a bandage to slap over the wound. “But using the healing device takes energy, and if you tried to heal anything major on yourself, it’s impossible to tell which would kill you faster—the injury or the healing.”

“But you still won’t heal this yourself because…?”

“Because if I can get another healing device today, I don’t particularly want to have to give myself any more of these than I absolutely have to.” He finishes bandaging his arm and heads over to the computer to send the email to Colonel Carter.

“Oh.” Parrish lets Stiles type in silence for a few moments before he speaks again, his voice hesitant but tinged with humor. “You think I’m pretty?”

Stiles rolls his eyes as he types. “Don’t read into it. You’re an objectively attractive person.”

“Oh, no, I didn’t mean—” Parrish huffs a quick laugh. “Um. Thanks. I guess.”

“I’m sure whoever it is you’re thinking about right now has also noticed how pretty you are,” Stiles says, raising an eyebrow at him.

“I’m not—” Parrish objects, but the flush rising on his cheeks would indicate otherwise. Stiles smirks triumphantly as Parrish groans. “Fine, I am. But don’t ask.”

“Wasn’t gonna,” Stiles says with a mischievous grin. And he won’t, for now. He sends the email and spins his chair around. “So, while we wait to hear back—”

“You said you weren’t going to—” Parrish starts, pointing a finger accusingly at Stiles.

Stiles holds a hand up to stop him. “I need to know if you’ve been able to access any more of the hellhound’s memories. Specifically, anything connected with Morrígan.”

All the levity abruptly vanishes from Parrish’s face and his eyes shutter. “Why?” he asks, tone clipped and angry.

“I need to know,” Stiles repeats without elaborating, meeting Parrish’s eyes firmly.

Parrish clenches his jaw and straightens up in his seat, and his eyes spark orange. “You seek something in particular,” he accuses, his voice now taking on that oddly robotic quality the possessing spirit gives it. Stiles feels a triumphant thrill run up his spine. He should feel bad, he thinks, for deliberately triggering Parrish like this. And maybe later, he will, but first there’s something he needs.

“Morrígan is gone,” Stiles says grimly, keeping his eyes fixed on Parrish. “You escaped her, but others may not have. They might not even know that they’re free.”

“They are not my responsibility,” the hellhound says, clearly unmoved. And unmoving, apart from his eyes.

“I’m not saying they are,” Stiles says as he spins his chair to grab a notepad and pen from the desk. “But they could be mine.” He pushes himself to his feet and walks across the room to Parrish, holding out the notepad and pen. “I just need to know where to find them.”

The hellhound studies him for an uncomfortably long moment. “You would seek to become their master.”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just holds the notepad out to Parrish and waits.

“He knows what you did,” the hellhound says, his eyes burning into Stiles, and Stiles freezes. “He does not want to believe it, but he knows. What, then, would make you a better master than her?”

“That was a special circumstance,” Stiles says, standing his ground, his voice low and angry. “I’m not like that.”

“That is a lie,” the hellhound observes dispassionately, and Stiles bristles defensively. Before he can reply, though, the hellhound takes the notepad and pen from his hands and stiffly writes out a list of ‘Gate addresses. He holds it out to Stiles when he’s done, expression unchanged through it all.

Stiles hesitates a moment, then takes back the notepad and pen. “You don’t trust me,” he says quietly, “but you’d give me this anyway?”

The hellhound is still watching him, cataloguing his every move. “If I wish to be reunited with my brethren in this lifetime, you may be the only one who can make that happen. But be warned, we shall not obey an unworthy master.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Stiles mutters as he steps away to head back over to his computer. Carter’s response has arrived; he sets down the notepad and pen so he can read the email and type out a reply. He only has to wait a few more seconds, then there’s a flash of light as a small box materializes next to him, beamed down from the Apollo.

“What, uh—” Parrish says, his voice back to normal and sounding bewildered. Stiles glances over at him just in time to see him blink away the last of the orange glow from his eyes. “What just happened? What was that light?”

“Don’t worry about it,” Stiles says, gathering his tools to start work on the new healing device. “This’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

“You got another one?” Parrish asks, still blinking his eyes clear, frowning in confusion. “When? How?”

“I’ll explain later,” Stiles lies as he settles in and gets to work. “Right now, I need to concentrate.”

“Right, okay,” Parrish says, settling back to watch Stiles work.

Stiles honestly hadn’t put much thought into what he might do with Morrígan’s other hellhounds beyond assuring them of their freedom; he’d actually been more interested in salvaging as much research as he can from her laboratories. But now that Parrish mentions it, he has to admit, the concept of rallying and commanding an entire pack of hellhounds is intriguing. That’s something he can think about later, though. For now, he needs to focus on getting Parrish comfortable using the healing device, so he has backup for the bigger injuries and the times when he can’t be there. With Scott back in town and the Calaveras poised to attack, Stiles wants to be prepared for anything.

Chapter Text

“Who the hell was this guy?” Cam asks, voice faint with wonder and eyes wide as he looks around.

And Derek is inclined to agree with that sentiment. The temple is over-the-top, to say the least, and apparently very well maintained and regularly attended by the locals, even after these many thousands of years. All to honor his long-dead ancestor, who had fashioned himself as some sort of god to the people of this planet. At least there are no depictions of his human face here—that could have made things awkward, given their strong resemblance—but there are many depictions of his full wolf form, in paintings and sculptures and carvings everywhere they look.

“It’s like his eyes are following me,” Vala says, and Derek sees her moving back and forth in front of one of the paintings on the wall.

Derek stands face-to-face with the black stone wolf statue in the center of the temple, staring into its jeweled blue eyes. It’s odd, but when the light hits it just right, the eyes almost seem to glow. And Derek is starting to get the strangest feeling, like the statue is watching him, and has been since he stepped into the temple.

“Are you quite well, Derek Hale?” Teal’c asks quietly, standing far closer than Derek had thought he was.

Derek hesitates a moment before answering. “I’m—” he starts, then pauses, clenching his jaw. He isn’t quite sure how to say this, but he has to try, and Teal’c is probably the only one who will understand. “His god was so cruel to him. Kidnapped him, tortured him, left him to rot. And then he goes and makes himself into this.” He gestures a hand around him, at the massive gilded temple and all the offerings left by worshippers.

“He seems to have been a hero to these people,” Teal’c says, though Derek can hear the doubt in his voice. “Perhaps he attempted to become the type of god worthy of worship.”

“That wasn’t why he did this,” Derek says. He’s not sure how he can be so certain about his ancestor’s motivations, but he knows none of this was done out of benevolence. “He wanted power over others. He didn’t care how he got it.”

“Nevertheless, it is clear he was well-loved.” Teal’c takes a step forward to get a closer look at the statue, but Derek can feel something in the air shift as he approaches.

“Don’t,” he snaps, shooting a hand out to grab Teal’c’s arm. “He’ll hurt you.”

“Derek?” Cam asks, voice tinged with concern, as he walks over to join them. “What’s going on?”

"He knows I’m here,” Derek says, eyes locked with those of the statue. And he’s sure of it now, its eyes are glowing; he feels his own eyes start to glow in response. “Stay back—I’m the one he wants.”

“Derek, I really don’t think you should—” Cam starts in warning.

“I’m the one he wants,” Derek repeats, taking a step forward. He hears Cam object again, making another attempt to stop him, but he doesn’t think he could even if he tried. He can feel the protective barriers Stiles had built in his mind crumbling bit by bit as the implanted memories fight to escape, crying out to be reunited with the other fractured pieces of his ancestor’s soul.

He takes another step forward. The rational part of his mind is screaming at him to stop, to let this all go and just leave. But something is compelling him to continue. Something is pushing him forward, telling him that he needs this.

He’s close enough, now, to reach out and touch the statue. He lifts his hand and holds it up in front of the wolf’s nose, as if to let it sniff him, then brings his palm to rest on its jaw—the air around him shivers as soon as he makes contact, and he feels a rush of power wash over him. It isn’t like the last time, where his mind had felt invaded by memories that weren’t his own; whatever piece of himself the ancestor has given him this time is different. He feels the power settling in, fusing itself to him, becoming part of him.

Sounds and smells slowly start to filter through to him again, and he hears the worried voices of his teammates calling to him. He blinks a few times to clear his eyes and takes a step back from the statue, letting his hand drop to his side. “I’m fine,” he says in response to all his teammates’ questions.

“Are you sure?” Cam asks, cautiously stepping forward to place a hand on Derek’s shoulder. “Derek, you were glowing.”

Derek blinks a few more times, then slowly turns to look at Cam. “I was?”

“You and that thing,” Cam says, bobbing his head toward the statue. Derek sees Vala nod in confirmation; Teal’c doesn’t say anything, just watches Derek warily with one eyebrow raised.

Derek looks at the statue again, tilting his head curiously as he studies it. It’s just a statue now, lifeless and cold. Empty. “We’re done here,” he says, suddenly knowing it’s the truth.

“Uh—” Cam glances at the statue with a concerned frown. “But isn’t there—I mean, I don’t see another ‘Gate address. Is this it?”

“No.” True, there is no ‘Gate address carved anywhere like there were the previous times, but still, Derek knows this is not the end of the trail. The address hasn’t been carved into anything physical—instead, it has been carved into his mind. “I know where he went next.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Cam asks, using the hand on Derek’s shoulder to tug him around to see his face, studying him carefully.

“I’m fine,” Derek repeats to Cam, but he glances over to meet Teal’c’s eyes for a moment. Teal’c inclines his head in silent understanding; something happened, and they all know it, but it isn’t something he can figure out here and now. He’ll need to examine his own mind, and Teal’c is the only one he trusts to supervise and guide him during that process—Teal’c is the only one strong enough to stop him if something goes wrong and he loses himself. He’s fine, and he will remain so for the journey home, but he may discover otherwise as soon as he starts to take a closer look at himself.

He suspects, however, that the problem won’t end up being this new gift from his ancestor. Not that it won’t be an all new challenge to figure out, one that could upend his entire life, because it may well be all of that and more. No, the problem is the parts of him that breached containment. He’d known he was only putting off the inevitable in asking Stiles to lock them away instead of facing them himself, and now, it seems, he has no choice. He’ll need to figure out who this man truly is, and figure out if he’s someone Derek can live with as a permanent fixture in his brain.

Chapter Text

Derek never would have expected the sparse military-grade quarters to feel like a place of comfort and safety, but that’s exactly what this room has become. Or, perhaps more accurately, it’s the view out the window that brings him that immediate sense of peace. Not that there’s anything wrong with the room, per se—it’s perfectly fine, after all—but it can hardly compete with what’s outside.

He stands at the window for a moment just to admire the view—the curve of Earth below them, with the east coast of the North American continent just starting to slip into shadow; the Moon casting its gentle glow through the upper corner of the window; and Stiles’ ship in a low geosynchronous orbit over a point near the Pacific coastline, only truly visible when he’s looking for it specifically and expecting to see it. He’s seen many wondrous things now, all over this galaxy, but this view is still just as breathtaking as it was the first time he saw it.

Teal’c’s voice interrupts his reverie, and he startles slightly but stays where he is. “Might I ask you a question before we proceed?”

Derek crosses his arms and slumps against the window frame, his body turned so he can still see out the window while mostly facing Teal’c. Teal’c has already folded himself into a comfortable seat on the floor and is watching Derek with one eyebrow expectantly raised. Derek raises an eyebrow in return. “You just did, but sure. Ask away.”

Teal’c studies him for a moment before continuing. “You had a great deal more empathy for your lost ancestor at the beginning of your quest. What did he do to lose your respect?”

Derek releases a slow breath and scrubs a hand down his face, looking out the window again, letting the knowledge that his entire pack is down there (or, in Teal’c’s case, here in the room with him), safe and sound, settle his mind. “It wasn’t so much what he did,” he admits quietly. “I probably could’ve forgiven him for all of it, even for the pieces of himself he’s forced upon me. He wanted to live, and he tore himself apart trying to find a way home, even if it couldn’t be in his lifetime. I understand him all too well, and that—” he pauses for a ragged breath, closing his eyes for a moment— “that’s the problem.”

“Please explain,” Teal’c says, his voice curious but gentle.

Derek fixes his eyes on the planet below, feeling his gaze drawn to one tiny spot of forest just a few miles in from the coast. “He allowed his grief and pain to turn him into a monster,” he continues quietly. “And I understood how that could happen, because my uncle Peter was the same. But then I discovered that it wasn’t just Peter who became a monster—it was my mother. And she hid it so well; she was beloved, respected, even revered, by everyone who met her. But she used that to drive everyone away from my uncle Ernest so he could never rebuild his pack; she used it to guide me into situations and relationships that made me sacrifice parts of myself to further her goals; and she used it to break Cora’s spirit in every way she could. We only survived it because she died before she could finish what she’d started.”

Teal’c blinks at him in stunned silence for a few seconds. “I did not realize—”

“Yeah,” Derek says bitterly, “neither did I. I didn’t see it while it was happening, and probably never would have if Cora hadn’t come back. But discovering the truth about my mother made me see all those same patterns in what this ancestor did. And seeing it in him made me realize how close I came to being that person myself, and how easy it would be to let those impulses take over. So, no, the problem isn’t that I no longer have empathy for him—it’s that I’m afraid I have too much empathy for him.”

“You fear that allowing the implanted pieces of him to integrate into your mind would corrupt your own kalach,” Teal’c says with a knowing tilt of his head.

“Something like that,” Derek mutters, looking blankly down at the floor.

Derek can feel Teal’c’s eyes on him, watching him for a moment in silence before he speaks. “You need not fear becoming like them, Derek Hale,” Teal’c says, his voice low and even.

“Yes, I do,” Derek growls softly, letting his eyes fall shut. “I was just like them when I was Alpha, and I could so easily—”

“You will not,” Teal’c says, with a certainty that startles Derek into looking up to meet his eyes. “You have already chosen a different path for yourself. Allow yourself to learn from your ancestor’s experiences, and use that wisdom to break those patterns. I have faith in you, Derek Hale, to become a better person than they were ever capable of being.”

Derek blinks at Teal’c a few times in stunned silence. “I’m—” he starts, his voice rough, then pauses to clear his throat. “I don’t know if I deserve that faith. I don’t exactly have the best track record for making good choices.”

“Neither did I, in my youth,” Teal’c says, a shadow of pain briefly darkening his eyes. “The sins of our past can never be erased, but we can learn from our mistakes and make the choice now not to repeat them. And you have the opportunity now to learn not only from your own life experience, but from another. Do not hide from that—use it to become someone you can be proud of.”

“What if I can’t?” Derek says, barely louder than a whisper. “What if I’m not strong enough? No, listen—” he holds up a hand when Teal’c opens his mouth to speak— “he’s a survivor. He survived horrors beyond anything even you can comprehend. Everything you did and witnessed as First Prime of Apophis was nothing compared to what he endured at the hands of Susanoo. And what if all these pieces of himself he’s left for me are his attempt at immortality? What if in welcoming him into my mind, I lose myself, because he’s stronger than I am?”

“Perhaps you are stronger than you realize,” Teal’c says, meeting his eyes steadily. “And perhaps his intention was never to conquer you, but merely to gift you with the only pieces of himself that he could leave behind.”

“It certainly hasn’t felt like much of a gift so far,” Derek grumbles.

"That may be,” Teal’c says, inclining his head in acknowledgement, “but you will not find the truth of his story by locking him away. You are brave, Derek Hale, and one of the strongest men of my acquaintance. You cannot allow your fear to prevent you from ruling your own mind.”

Derek takes a slow breath and steps away from the window to claim his seat on the floor across from Teal’c. “Fine, I can give it a try.”

“Remember that I am here if you need me,” Teal’c says, “but I suspect you have this under control.”

“I guess we’ll find out,” Derek mutters as he settles in and closes his eyes.

Chapter Text

Cora closes her eyes and takes a deep breath, letting the scents and sounds of the forest settle her nerves, and letting the tranquility of these redwoods wash over her and keep her centered. It’s amazing, really, how different this Nemeton feels compared to the original. There was something ancient and profoundly powerful in the old one, to be sure, but it wasn’t healthy. It was feeding off of whatever it could, no longer able to generate anything of its own, but at the same time unable to fade away entirely. And, unfortunately, most of what it had drawn in was corrupted, twisted, or straight-up poisonous. She and Stiles had done everything they could to burn away the corrupted influences, but nothing they did could change the fact that it was already dead.

This new Nemeton feels fresh and a little bit raw, still, but there’s something ageless about it. The trees are young, as far as redwoods go—only a couple hundred years old, at most—but the mother tree they’d sprung from had been from a much more ancient generation. Cora can’t be sure what finally felled her—whether it was a lightning strike, a wildfire, or if she was one of the victims of the loggers that had put this town on the map—and whatever had been left of her trunk is disintegrated and mostly buried under layers of redwood duff, but she lives on in the roots of her children, lending them her strength as they grow together, sheltering each other against storms and disease. It’s a fairly apt metaphor for what she wants for her pack, Cora thinks. Draw strength from their deep roots in the past, and support each other as they all grow, individually and together, into something entirely new and entirely beautiful.

She can feel Isaac approaching long before she hears him. She still isn’t used to these bonds with her pack; she’d expected it to be different as their Alpha, and she’s certain it helps that they all actually care about each other this time, but it’s so much more overwhelming than anything she remembers from her time in her mother’s pack, at least since the death of her father. Even her bond with Ernest hadn’t been like this—he’d been a mere shadow of himself after losing Catherine. And besides, it had only been the two of them, for all their years together. The pack she’s built now is bigger than even her mother’s was.

This is good, though—this is what having a pack is supposed to feel like. Isn’t it? Sure, it’s a bit much right now, but everything is these days. Her brush with death dialed everything up to eleven, and she just needs to allow herself to adapt to the new normal. She’s fine, really. She can handle this.

“Am I interrupting?” Isaac asks, his voice soft and hesitant as he steps into the redwood circle to join her.

She shakes her head—he is, a bit, but it doesn’t matter—and pats the ground next to her. “C’mon. Join me.”

“Yeah? Are you sure?” he asks with a small lopsided smile, taking another tentative step closer.

“If I really need to be left alone, I won’t be shy about letting you know.” She stretches a hand up to him, beckoning him over. Isaac wavers a little in uncertainty, and Cora is struck by a sharp pang of guilt—of all the Bitten wolves, Isaac’s always been the most in-tune with his wolf instincts, especially the tactile side of things. She’s seen it in him, the way he leans into every touch, the easy affection he gives to the Argents and all the younger members of the pack and even the Sheriff at times, the way he practically glows with happiness whenever Boyd or Erica are hovering around him. If he’s not comfortable seeking that same affection from her, she’s not doing her job right as Alpha. “C’mere,” she says, more gently this time, waggling her fingers to beckon him again.

He steps close enough for her to take his hand and gently tug him down, remaining pliant enough in his bewilderment to allow her to maneuver him around until he’s lying down beside her with his head in her lap, looking up at her with wide surprised eyes. “Oh, this is nice,” he breathes, closing his eyes and melting into her as she absentmindedly runs her fingers through his curls.

“Sorry I haven’t been available to spend much time with you,” she says quietly, watching him slowly relax under her touch.

“’S’fine,” he mumbles, flapping a hand to wave off her apology. “You’ve been kinda busy trying not to die.”

“Trying,” she grumbles, “and not always succeeding. That’s no excuse; I’m your Alpha, and you need to know I’m here for you. Whatever you need, anytime.”

“I don’t wanna bug you when you have so much going on already,” he says, sounding halfway asleep even as a concerned wrinkle pinches his brow.

She sighs and smooths her thumb across the wrinkle before dropping her hand back into his hair. “Whatever you need, anytime,” she says again. “What’s going on?”

The wrinkle in his brow reappears, and the corners of his mouth turn down in a tense frown. “I, uh. I saw Scott today.”

Cora forgets to breathe for a second, her hand momentarily freezing, then blinks and clears her throat. “Right. How–how did that go?”

“Awkward,” he says, crinkling his nose. “So incredibly awkward. He asked me if I’m happy in your pack.”

“I suppose that’s…” she hesitates for a moment, trying to find the most tactful phrasing. “...Thoughtful of him to ask.”

“It wasn’t. Trust me. He actually asked—ah, how did he put it—” he brings a hand up to pinch the bridge of his nose and huffs an incredulous breath— “he asked how I could possibly be happy in a pack with ‘such an unstable Alpha.’”

“Unstable,” she echoes faintly. “How am I unstable?”

He cringes and opens one eye to peek up at her. “Apparently he thinks that all these attempts on your life put us all at risk.”

“What, like that’s my fault?” She sighs and shakes her head in disbelief. “Did he forget the part where he tried to kill me a couple months ago?”

“I think he legitimately might have, yeah,” he says with a wry twist of his lips.

“Figures,” she grumbles, then pauses for a slow breath while she runs her fingers through his hair again, watching some of the tension release from his jaw. “He’s not entirely wrong, you know. You are in danger from all these threats against me.”

He stares up at her for several long moments in silence, his expression unreadable, before he finally speaks again. “The first time in my life that I’ve ever felt truly safe was when I joined this pack. That hasn’t changed, even with everything that’s happened.”

“Everything?” she asks quietly, studying his face.

He closes his eyes again in an attempt to hide a flash of pain. “With one notable exception,” he concedes.

“Sorry,” she whispers. “I won’t let it happen again.”

He brings one of his hands up to briefly lace their fingers together and squeeze her hand, then lets go so she can continue running her fingers through his curls. “Neither will we,” he promises. “No matter what Scott thinks.”

She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I guess this doesn’t bode well for a peaceful coexistence.”

“I won’t be getting my hopes up,” he agrees, his voice glum.

She studies him for another moment, then gives in to the urge to ask. “Do you miss him?”

He blinks a couple times, furrowing his brow as he considers his response. “I miss…” he starts hesitantly, then pauses and tries again. “I miss the person I thought he was, at the beginning. I miss the person he could have been. But I don’t miss him, if that makes sense.”

“It does,” she says softly, tracing her fingertips across his scalp.

“Did you know,” he starts, a bitter edge to his voice, “when he first found out I might have feelings for Allison, he threw me into a wall? And yes, he knew what my dad was like.”

She growls, continuing to gently run her fingers through his hair, being careful not to tug through any tangles.

“I was kind of living with him, at the time,” he continues. “It was, uh—not exactly ideal. To have nowhere to go.”

She nods knowingly. “I usually just ran out into the woods, when my Mom got like that. She’d usually forget about me when I wasn’t in sight, as long as no one else thought to worry about me. I got good at making sure no one cared enough to remind her I existed.”

He blinks up at her in surprise. “You—your Mom?”

“She wasn’t always like that,” Cora explains. “When my Dad was still around, she was the best Mom. She changed after he died. I think she hated me because he’d loved me so much.”

“My dad always wished that I was the one who’d died instead of my mother,” Isaac says, his gaze sharp as he looks up to study her face. “It got worse after my brother died, and he was still stuck with me. He would’ve rather had them.”

“My Mom would’ve traded away my life in a heartbeat if it meant she could get Dad back,” she says with a wry smile, then sobers and sighs. “I do miss her, though. I was young when we lost Dad, but I was still old enough to remember what it was like to have a Mom who loved me. I always hoped I could get her to love me again, if I could just stop doing whatever it was that made her so mad at me.”

“It never would’ve worked,” he says, shaking his head a bit, but not enough to dislodge her hand. “You never could’ve changed yourself enough to make her love you again. She’d have had to change herself.”

She scrunches her nose and combs her fingers through his hair again. “Doesn’t matter now anyway. She’s dead, and she won’t be coming back.”

“Guess you got her beat, there,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a small smile. “You came back.”

“I had help,” she says with a small smile of her own.

He shrugs a little, his smile growing slightly. “Well, however you did it, I’m glad it worked. I like having you around.”

“I like being around,” she says, her eyes crinkling in fondness.

He huffs a slow, contented sigh and relaxes under her touch again, his eyes fluttering shut. “Thanks,” he says softly, “for letting me stay. For doing this. For being here.”

“Whatever you need,” she reminds him quietly, “anytime.”

Chapter Text

“Ah, crap, is it that time already?” The Sheriff mutters, glancing down at his watch, then looking up at Cora apologetically. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s been a hell of a day.”

Cora waves off the apology. “Don’t worry about it. I can wait ‘til you’re done.”

“You sure?” he asks, with an extremely skeptical look on his face. “It might be a while.”

“I’m not in any rush,” she assures him, grabbing a blank notepad and a pen from his desk and claiming a seat on his couch. She curls her legs up, settles in, and starts doodling.

“Alright then,” he says, returning to his work with a soft smile. “If you really don’t mind—”

They’re interrupted by Deputy Clark knocking on the door and opening it to stick her head in without waiting for a response. “Sheriff, you wanted to know when—oh, hey, Cora—you wanted to know when we got a hit on that—”

“Of course, yes, thanks,” the Sheriff says, pushing himself to his feet. “I’ll be right out.”

“Out front, whenever you’re ready, sir,” she says, shooting one last friendly smile at Cora before heading back out.

The Sheriff braces one arm against his desk, pinching the bridge of his nose while he takes a slow breath. “Just one damn thing after another today…” he grumbles, then straightens up and walks around his desk and over to her, reaching down to squeeze her shoulder. “I’ll try to make this quick, but I can’t make any guarantees. If you’d rather just head out—”

“I’m good here,” she tells him, giving him a small smile and a pat on his hand. “Do what you have to do. I’ll wait.”

He stoops down to kiss the top of her head. “Be back in a bit,” he promises, squeezing her shoulder again, then heads over to the door. “No going through my files while I’m out,” he adds just before he exits, raising an eyebrow and pointing a finger at her in warning.

“I’m not Stiles,” she says, rolling her eyes and pointedly fixing her attention on her notepad.

“That’s my girl,” he mutters with a grin, patting the door frame before he leaves and shuts the door behind him.

She settles further into the cushions and starts sketching. She doesn’t have anything in particular in mind for this, just puts pen to paper and lets it flow, only halfway paying attention to what she’s doing as she allows her brain to relax. This is actually a nice way to clear her head, she decides—with the hustle and bustle of the Sheriff’s Station acting as white noise and her hands busy sketching whatever comes to mind. It doesn’t seem like it should be all that relaxing, but somehow, right now, it’s working for her.

She only gets a few minutes to herself, though, before she’s interrupted—the door opens again and Parrish bursts in, staring down at a file in his hands. “Hey, Sheriff, could I get you to—” he stops when he looks up and doesn’t see the Sheriff at his desk, then looks around and blinks in surprise when he sees Cora. “Oh. Not the Sheriff.”

“Yeah? How could you tell?” she asks dryly, raising one judgemental eyebrow at him.

“I think it’s the hair, actually,” he says, narrowing his eyes and tilting his head. “Otherwise, you’re virtually identical.”

She snorts and quirks a smile. “Sheriff is out. Said he’d be back soon.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t count on it,” he grumbles, lifting his wrist to look at his watch. “With the kind of day we’ve been having…” he trails off with a resigned sigh, shaking his head.

She shrugs. “Eventually, then.”

“I’ll just leave this here,” he says, walking over to set the file on the Sheriff’s desk. “If you see him before I do, tell him I need a signature on that.”

“Will do,” she says with a firm nod, then turns her attention back to her notepad.

“Actually, um—” he glances out the window into the bullpen, as if checking to see who might be watching, then steps over to gently close the door— “since you’re here, I have a bit of a favor to ask you.”

She raises an intrigued eyebrow and sits up straighter, setting down her pen. He’s never asked her for anything before. “Sure, what’s up?”

He takes a step closer to her, then hesitates, changes course, and grabs one of the chairs in front of the Sheriff’s desk, spinning it around and sitting down facing her. He opens his mouth to speak, stops, scoots his chair a few inches closer, and clears his throat. “So, I want to start out by saying I’m probably fine—”

Both her eyebrows shoot up. “Not a particularly auspicious start,” she observes, studying him now with a sharp gaze.

“—And please don’t say anything to Jack,” he continues with a bit of a grimace. “I really don’t want to worry him.”

She traces an X over her heart. “Cross my heart and hope to—” she cuts off at the stricken look on his face. Right, okay, promising to die probably isn’t the right strategy at the moment, in light of recent events. She clears her throat and rephrases. “I won’t tell him. Please continue.”

“I, um—” he fumbles a bit as he tries to get his train of thought back on track. “So—it started off with, just, these really weird dreams. Or, I thought they were dreams. But actually, they might be memories? And sometimes I’ll have these mini blackouts—”

“Which part of this is you being probably fine?” she asks, her eyes wide in alarm.

“It’s happened a couple times when I’ve been working with Stiles,” he explains, as if that’s supposed to make it better. “I’m sure he would have said something if I needed to be concerned about it.”

“Are you sure?” she asks quietly. She loves Stiles, really she does, but something’s going on in that guy’s brain lately that has her worried, and it’s her own fault that she hasn’t been able to figure out what it is yet.

Parrish’s jaw tightens, and he meets her eyes steadily. “I’m here talking to you about this instead of him.”

She nods knowingly and silently vows to spend some extra time with Stiles to try to sort him out. But that will have to come later; there’s a more pressing matter in front of her now. “What can I do for you, then?”

He sighs and scrubs a hand through his hair. “The hellhound makes me feel like a guest in my own body. He can take control any time, and when he does, it’s like I’m dead again. I know I can’t get rid of him, and I don’t think I’d want to, but there has to be a better way for both of us to live in this body together. Do you think you can help me figure out how to talk to him?”

Cora bites her lip and pauses for a moment to think. Stiles is her resident expert on sharing one’s body with another entity, but Parrish apparently isn’t comfortable consulting him on this, and Cora won’t betray that confidence. But Stiles isn’t the only one she knows with experience in this anymore—this might be tricky to pull off, but she can give it a try. “Meet me at the Nemeton after your shift tomorrow.”

His expression brightens and his shoulders relax. “Really? You’re sure you’re not busy?”

“Never too busy to help you,” she assures him, leaning forward and reaching over to squeeze his hand before sitting back again.

“You know,” he says, his smile softening, “I gotta admit, when Jack first told me—” But Cora won’t get to hear the rest of whatever that was about right now—they’re interrupted by a commotion outside, sounds of crashing and people shouting, and Parrish practically jumps out of his seat. “Ah, crap. I gotta—”

“Back to work, I know,” she says, picking up her pen and notepad again. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Right. Thanks, Cora,” he says distractedly as he rushes back out into the bullpen.

She settles back in, getting as comfortable as she can, letting her mind relax back into her drawing. Tomorrow will be tricky, for sure—she’s fairly certain she’ll have no trouble getting herself to Abydos again, but bringing Parrish along with her will be a challenge. And each visit seems to unlock something new within her—what will it be this time? But she can’t worry about that too much. Parrish needs help; her own concerns are secondary.

Chapter Text

“What. The. Fuck.” Stiles watches, simmering with fury, as Allison laughs at something Scott says, placing her hand on his arm. Scott grins back at her, bright and open and slightly lopsided, and says something else. They hug, Allison kisses him on the cheek, and they squeeze each other’s hands as Scott steps away. He turns, then, and his eyes land on Stiles—his expression immediately sours and his irises briefly flash red—but he doesn’t change course, just heads for his car and drives away.

“What the actual fuck, Allison?” Stiles snaps as he stalks over to her. “What the hell was he doing here?”

She crosses her arms and glares at him defensively. “Not that it’s any of your business, but he just came to say hi and to check that I’m doing okay. Why? What are you doing here?”

“I,” he growls, stalking slowly closer, “came to get the whole story from you on the Calaveras. You know, the ones who want to kill your dad and Cora? But then what do I see when I get here but you conspiring with the enemy—”

“Scott is not our enemy,” Allison says, indignant. “He used to be our friend, and he can be that again if we let him. Sure, he made some mistakes, but he—”

“Mistakes?” Stiles echoes incredulously. “Murdering sixteen people and sending their corpses to kill someone else was a mistake?”

“Deaton manipulated him,” she says, standing her ground defiantly. “He never told Scott the details of how the ritual changes someone—he thought he was helping them. And Deaton told him Cora was cursed, and if someone didn’t stop her—”

“We broke the curse months ago,” Stiles reminds her. “Long before Scott started—”

“But Scott didn’t know that. Deaton told him—”

“He could have asked us,” Stiles hisses. “He could have talked to us instead of blindly trusting everything Deaton fed to him. I was his best friend, and he didn’t even think to talk to me about what was going on.”

“He didn’t feel like he could talk to you,” she says, looking at him with something akin to pity in her eyes. “You shut him out after everything that went down with the Nogitsune. He didn’t understand what happened; he still doesn’t, and quite frankly, neither do I. And he knows there’s so much you aren’t telling him about all of it, things you won’t ever tell him. He saw you getting closer with Derek, who he’s never trusted, and Cora, who Deaton kept telling him was dangerous, and he knew you were keeping secrets from him. Did you really expect him to feel like he could confide in you, when you so clearly wouldn’t do the same?”

Stiles clenches his jaw and glares at her. “It’s not that simple. There are things I couldn’t talk about with him even if I wanted to—”

“But you don’t want to, do you?” she asks, raising an accusatory eyebrow. “Even if you could, you wouldn’t, and he knows that. Look, I’m not saying what he did was right—it wasn’t—but he’s not the only one who screwed up. He lost you, and he turned to Deaton, who he thought he could trust, and it was a mistake. One he won’t be repeating.”

“Damn right he won’t,” Stiles growls. “If he thinks he can get away with—”

“He’s not trying to get away with anything,” she says with a scowl. “Cora wants us to give him a chance—”

“Oh, now you care about what Cora wants?” he scoffs. “That’s rich.”

She flinches back a step and hugs her arms tighter around herself. “That’s not fair, Stiles. I’ve been giving her space, like you said I should—”

“The space was for you, not for her, if you’ll recall,” he says darkly. “And I believe I said something about coming back and being her friend. If you actually cared about what Cora wanted, that’s what you’d do. Not start fawning all over Scott, of all people.”

“I’m not fawning all over—” she stops, clenches her jaw, then lifts her chin and glares at him. “I don’t have to explain myself to you. I can be friends with both of them.”

“I’m not sure Scott would agree with you on that,” he warns her. “He’s not the type to share the people he cares about.”

“Well, he’s not the boss of me,” she says, flicking her hair away from her face. “And neither are you. So, if you’ll excuse me—” she whirls around and strides purposefully back toward her apartment building.

“I need to know what happened with the Calaveras,” he calls after her, starting to follow.

“Talk to my Dad, then,” she calls back, flapping a hand at him in dismissal. “I’m done with you.”

Stiles growls in frustration as she enters the building, slamming the door behind her. Fine, whatever, he can get the information he needs from Chris. But if she thinks this whole thing with Scott is no big deal, she’s sorely mistaken.

Chapter Text

“Do you trust me?” Cora asks, holding her hands out to Parrish as he settles into a comfortable seated position facing her.

“Of course,” he says with a smile, placing his hands in hers.

Cora doesn’t think she’ll ever get used to the ease with which he says that, nor the fact that he actually means it—she just has to hope that trust holds for what she’s going to ask him to do next. She takes a breath and squeezes his hands apologetically. “I need you to let the hellhound take control for a bit.”

He blinks once and sits back a bit, his expression turning guarded. “Why?”

“I need to take you somewhere, but I can’t do it on my own,” she explains. “We need his help.”

He frowns, but some of the suspicion clears out of his eyes. “Where are we going?”

She hesitates. “It’s difficult to explain. And it’s not exactly a place—physically, we won’t be going anywhere.”

He blinks at her, then furrows his brow. “I don’t understand.”

She takes one of her hands back so she can rub her forehead, sighing heavily. “So, if I’m correct about how hellhounds work, you’re currently being possessed by a non-corporeal entity. As in, it can’t interact with this plane of existence without inhabiting a body. Does that sound about right?”

“It does, actually, yeah,” he confirms, tilting his head in curiosity as he processes what she’s saying.

“He can’t be here without you,” she continues, “nor you without him. But neither of you have figured out how to coexist. I know someone with some experience in that, who can help you have a conversation with the hellhound, but we need to go to him, and we need to be somewhere where the two of you can exist separately for a bit.”

“I gotta say,” he says with a slow, tentative smile, “it’s really refreshing to work with someone who actually explains things and answers my questions. When Stiles wants to talk to the hellhound, he—” he cuts himself off, his jaw tight, and looks away.

Cora takes his other hand again and squeezes both. “What does Stiles do?” she prompts gently.

He shakes his head. “Nothing. Doesn’t matter.”

She frowns at him in concern. “It’s not nothing, and it does matter, actually—”

“It won’t matter,” he insists, meeting her eyes again, his expression determined, “if I can get the hellhound to treat me like a person and not just a vessel.”

Cora huffs a weary sigh. She won’t push Parrish on this right now, not when he so clearly doesn’t want to talk about it, but she isn’t just going to let this slide, either. She’s overdue to have a serious talk with Stiles, to find out what’s really going on with him—a lot of his recent behavior is seriously concerning, and she won’t be content until she gets some honest answers out of him. But, for now, she can focus on Parrish. “Okay. Then, if you’re ready, I need you to let me talk to him.”

He hesitates, his shoulders tense, muscles in his jaw twitching. “Every time he takes charge,” he says quietly, “I feel my death again. I feel the bomb exploding in my hands, my body burning, and then… emptiness. I’m adrift in an endless void until he lets me back in. And I’m afraid that someday—someday he’s gonna decide that he doesn’t want to give up control.”

Cora winces and forces herself to take a breath. She knows that void—she doesn’t quite know how or exactly when she was there, and she doesn’t think she was there long, but she was there. “I won’t let him keep you there for a second longer than he has to,” she promises, “and if this works, you shouldn’t have to go through that ever again. But he’s bound to both you and the plane of existence we need to visit—I can get myself there and show him where to go, but only he can bring you along.”

He studies her for a moment. “And once we’re there, I can talk to him?”

“That’s the plan,” she confirms, squeezing his hands again in reassurance. “Will you trust me?”

“I will,” he says, his voice quiet but assured, with a soft smile tugging at his lips. “I do.”

She gives him a gentle smile in return and an encouraging nod. “Whenever you’re ready.“

He takes a deep breath and closes his eyes, and his posture slowly changes, as does his scent—Cora tries not to flinch as the scent of fire overwhelms her, throwing her back to that night nearly eight years ago as she stood at the edge of the forest, watching her family burn. His hands feel like hot coals in hers, nearly scorching her palms, but she grips him tightly and refuses to let go. Parrish’s eyes snap open then, irises glowing orange, and she gets the sense that all he is now is one barely-contained explosion, just waiting to be unleashed on an unsuspecting world. “Alpha Hale,” he says in an echoey robotic voice, eyes fixed on her with unnerving stillness, “we meet at last.”

“Littlefield,” she corrects sharply, holding his gaze steadily. She can tell already, she’ll need to be firm with him. Authoritative. She can’t show fear or uncertainty if she wants him to listen.

His expression and posture don’t change, but something in his eyes tells her she has his full attention now. “Is there a difference?”

“There is to me,” she says, careful to keep the irritation out of her voice, watching him warily.

“Very well,” he concedes, though the inflection of his voice doesn’t change. “Alpha Littlefield. I am impressed—your friend has never before willingly yielded control to me. He has a great deal of faith in you.”

“He knows I can help him,” she says. “I can help both of you, if you’ll let me.”

“He is immaterial,” he says, his eyes briefly glowing brighter, “and I do not need your help.”

“You’re bound to him,” she says sternly. “You need him, as much as he needs you. But existing like this is hurting him, and I can’t imagine it’s comfortable for you, either.”

His jaw tightens, in a movement so small she would have missed it if she wasn’t paying such close attention. “Existence is not meant to be comfortable.”

She raises a judgemental eyebrow at him. “According to whom?”

Something minute in his expression shifts until he’s glaring at her condescendingly. “You are but a child. But do not worry, you will outgrow your optimism soon enough.”

“I don’t think I will, actually,” she says, tilting her head as she studies him. “Don’t mistake my optimism for naïvete—I know, better than most, how painful life can be, and I would never fool myself into thinking things can never get worse. It isn’t a belief that things can be good all the time, because I know they can’t. Rather, it’s hope—that things can get better, if we work for it; that beauty can be found in everything, if we’re brave enough to see it; and that there will be good times, no matter how insignificant they may seem.”

He stares at her in silence for a few moments before he responds. “You actually believe that,” he observes. “Fascinating. I suppose that is how you have inspired such devotion in your followers.”

She frowns at that particular choice of phrasing. “I don’t have followers; I have a pack.”

“Yet another meaningless distinction,” he says dismissively.

“It’s not meaningless,” she says, watching him with intense scrutiny now. “I lead them, but I do not control them.”

“You are not their master,” he says, though something in his voice makes it sound almost like a question, as if the very concept is foreign to him.

“Is a master what you want?” she asks gently. “Or is it just that that’s all you’ve ever known?”

“You have requested my presence here for a reason,” he says instead of answering her. “Shall we begin?”

She sighs—she would love to delve further into this discussion, to better understand this creature possessing her friend, but he’s right. She’d promised not to keep Parrish waiting. “If you’re ready,” she says, gripping his hands firmly and raising her eyebrows expectantly; he inclines his chin in a slight nod of acknowledgement. “Alright. Follow me.”

She closes her eyes and settles in, steadying her breathing, letting her mind relax until she can feel her surroundings slipping away—the cool shade of the forest slowly vanishes, replaced by the hot, dry air of the desert; the slanted evening sunlight fades into a nighttime lit only by the gentle glow of the moons; and the prickly layers of redwood duff beneath them shift to fine grains of sand.

“You have brought a friend,” a familiar, surprised voice says from behind her, and she smiles as she blinks her eyes open.

She pushes herself to her feet, still holding one of Parrish’s hands to pull him up with her, and turns to look at Skaara. “Technically, I brought two,” she tells him, glancing over at Parrish, who’s watching Skaara with a calculating gaze, his eyes still burning, posture rigid. “Do you think you could separate them for a bit so they can talk?”

Skaara tilts his head consideringly for a moment, then steps closer. “Keep hold of his hand,” he says, reaching out to place a hand on Parrish’s other arm. The air around all of them shivers, and in the next moment, the man holding her hand is back to being the good-natured deputy, and Skaara’s hand is resting on the shoulder of a massive hound made of shadows and flame.

“Holy shit,” Parrish breathes, staring at the hellhound with wide eyes. “That’s what I’ve been sharing my body with this entire time?”

“I will not be able to keep them like this for long,” Skaara tells Cora, ignoring Parrish’s question, his eyes fixed on the hellhound, and the hellhound stares back at him with equal intensity. “Not if they wish to return to their life.”

“I figured,” she says, looking at Parrish again and squeezing his hand reassuringly. “But there’s a conversation they need to have first.”

Parrish squeezes her hand in return and leans down to speak quietly into her ear. “Cora, who is this guy? Where are we?”

“He’s a friend,” she assures him. “You can trust him.”

Skaara briefly tears his eyes away from the hellhound to glance over at Parrish, giving him a sly smile. “O’Neill is fortunate to have found you—you have been a good friend to him.” He addresses Cora again, ignoring Parrish’s bewildered spluttering. "I require a word in private with this creature.” The hellhound bares his teeth in a silent snarl and raises his hackles at being referred to as a creature, but Skaara pays him no mind.

Cora twitches her eyebrows curiously, but decides not to push it; if she needs to know what that’s about, Skaara will tell her. “Alright. C’mon.” She tugs Parrish’s arm until he follows her a respectable distance away, and Skaara begins speaking to the hellhound in hushed tones, in a language Cora doesn’t recognize, so she won’t even be able to eavesdrop. Not that she meant to, but low-key eavesdropping is just a thing that happens when one has super-hearing.

Parrish glances over at Skaara, deep in conversation now with the hellhound, and frowns. “Okay, seriously, Cora, who is he? How does he know Jack?”

Cora hesitates. “It’s a long story, and not really mine to tell, but we can trust him, I promise. He—” she pauses and takes a breath to steady her voice— “he saved my life. He sent me home to all of you.”

“That was him?” Parrish asks gently, watching Skaara with a considering gaze now. Then his eyes widen and he snaps his full attention back onto Cora. “You were here, when you—”

“We can trust him,” she says again—she would rather not talk about her first visit to this place, at this particular moment. And besides, this visit is about Parrish. “How does it feel to be just yourself again?” she asks, watching his face carefully to gauge his reaction.

“Cold,” he says, sounding perplexed, his eyes drifting over to land on the hellhound. “I don’t know how to describe it. It’s weird, but… I think I don’t actually feel like myself anymore without him. I didn’t realize it would be like this.”

“You’ll be able to figure it out together now,” she says, stepping around to stand in front of him, placing her other hand on his arm. “Skaara knows what you’re going through, better than almost anyone. He’ll help you both.”

Parrish looks down at her hand on his arm, and at her other hand still holding his, with a contemplative crinkle in his brow. “You’re too good for him,” he says softly.

She frowns and takes her hand off of his arm, dropping his hand and taking a small step back. “Who? What do you mean?”

“Jack,” he clarifies, studying her face intently. “You may have noticed he’s not the most serious person. And most of the time, that’s fine; it’s part of what makes him so much fun to be around. But when he won’t take anything seriously…” He trails off, his jaw tight, eyes unfocused as he seemingly retreats into a memory.

“You don’t think he takes me seriously?” she prompts him tentatively.

Parrish shakes his head and blinks his eyes clear again. “Actually, he does, and that’s what’s so unusual about this whole thing with you. He’s never had a serious relationship, in all the time I’ve known him—never seemed to want one, until he met you. When he first started seeing you, I thought it’d be like all the other times, that he’d have his fun and eventually get bored, but that’s not what’s happening. This is all new for him, and I just can’t help but worry that you’re gonna end up getting hurt because of it.”

“It’s all new for me, too,” she says quietly. “I don’t want him getting hurt, just because I don’t know what I’m doing, or because I don’t know if I’m—” she gasps and stumbles as a burst of pain radiates across her back, barely catching herself by clutching onto Parrish’s arm.

“What—Cora?” He steadies her with his hands on her elbows, his voice full of concern. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

“Derek,” she breathes. “Something happened. He’s hurt.”

Chapter Text

The only thing Derek can feel, for the first several minutes after waking up, is pain.

At first, it’s everywhere. His entire body is one big ache, with unrelenting pressure at his back pressing him down. There’s ringing in his ears, and he doesn’t dare open his eyes for fear that whatever he might see will just end up compounding the agony.

The pain doesn’t subside, but Derek supposes he must be getting used to it, because now he’s starting to notice some of the specifics of his current predicament. Namely, the fact that there’s a body underneath him wriggling in an attempt to get free, and some of the pain at his back is actually the sharp and rough edges of fallen rocks still doing their best to crush him.

He still can’t hear—he doesn’t know if it’s tinnitus from the din of the cave-in or a side effect of being repeatedly bashed over the head with rocks for the past few minutes, or both—but he decides he needs to try opening his eyes to better assess his situation. He takes several agonizing breaths to prepare himself, then slowly pries his eyes open.

Pitch black. Great. So, either he’s also blind, or it’s just too dark in here to see anything. Or, knowing his luck, both.

The person underneath him is starting to move more insistently, so Derek groans (or maybe he screams; he honestly can’t tell), plants his hands firmly on the ground, and pushes hard until the rocks at his back start to shift and he creates enough of an opening below him that the person can wriggle out. He collapses as soon as the person is free, allowing the rocks to tumble over him and leave fresh bruises all along his back.

There’s a brief pause, then the beam of a flashlight illuminates the space, shaking precariously as the person holding it moves around, eventually coming to rest as it gets propped up somewhere to light the cavern as best it can. So, good news, then: Derek is not blind. Bad news: he is trapped in a cave with Grogan, and the only exit is currently blocked by what is likely several tons of rock, some of which is still attempting to crush him.

His ears are starting to work again, but only well enough for him to hear that Grogan is saying something. What that might be, he can’t seem to process at the moment, but he can make an educated guess. He takes a few more breaths, doing his best to ignore the sharp pain of several broken ribs, and tries to speak. He can’t seem to get his mouth to cooperate in forming words, though, so he settles for producing another pained groan and flapping a hand in a feeble attempt at a reassuring gesture. That’s enough to let Grogan know that he’s alive, at least, which is a decent start. Grogan makes more noises that are probably words, pats Derek’s head in what is almost certainly supposed to be a comforting gesture, and Derek feels some of the weight lifted off of his back as Grogan starts to unbury him.

With some of the pressure lifted, he’s able to start cataloguing his actual injuries. In addition to the broken ribs, he may well have fractured a few vertebrae; something is broken or dislocated in his left shoulder; he can’t feel his legs well enough to know what’s going on with them, but he knows whatever it is isn’t good; and the slowly-growing puddle of blood underneath him would seem to indicate that he’s bleeding from somewhere. He’s not too worried about all that, though—these are all things he should be able to heal from, eventually, under normal circumstances.

The ringing in his ears continues to fade, and some of what Grogan is saying starts filtering through. He only catches about a third of it, words like radio and Stargate and oxygen, but that’s more than enough for him to extrapolate the rest. The crux of the matter is, radio contact isn’t an option, and there’s a very good chance they’ll suffocate before help can arrive, especially if the earthquake that caused the cave-in also did damage to the village.

Derek cries out as Grogan lifts the next rock off of his back and the pain in his side shifts from dull and throbbing to sharp and radiating. The puddle of blood grows faster, and Grogan’s voice takes on a panicked edge as he pauses the unburying and starts shoving bandages into Derek’s side.

“…Coulda told me—” Grogan scolds Derek as he packs the wound, his hands shaking but moving quickly. Derek gasps and flinches away from the pain, briefly blacking out when the movement jostles his shoulder. “—Better not die on me now. Colonel Mitchell will never forgive me—”

Derek attempts to speak again, but can’t manage anything more than a weak—and disconcertingly wet—cough. He’ll be fine, though, he tells himself. He can heal from this; he’s healed from worse. All he has to do is breathe and wait—and hope that the air doesn’t run out before help arrives.

“—Swear to God, Derek, if you die on our first official mission together, I’ll never hear the end of it,” Grogan grumbles as he gets back to the task of unburying Derek. “Are you sure you’re not still cursed? Or, hell, maybe I’m the one who’s cursed. Sure would explain a lot—”

“You’re not—” Derek croaks, then coughs again.

“Oh thank God,” Grogan breathes in relief, kneeling beside Derek and clearing away some of the smaller rocks from around his head. “Thought I was losing you for a minute there."

“‘M fine,” he rasps, then pauses for a breath. “Just need to get out from under all this.”

“Right, gotcha,” Grogan says, reaching for the next stone. “Workin’ on it.” He returns to his task with renewed vigor—less frantic, but no less urgent—chattering all the while about nothing of any real consequence. Derek tunes most of it out, focusing inward instead, attempting to coax his body to prioritize healing the parts most vital to his ability to function.

This won’t be a comfortable recovery, assuming they do manage to get out of here. He’s been through worse, after his capture and torture at the hands of the Lucian Alliance earlier this summer, but he was able to get medical attention almost immediately, thanks to Stiles’ unauthorized rescue mission. He doubts he’ll be that lucky this time—even if Stiles was able to get here, his ship isn’t equipped for this type of rescue.

“—Third time you’ve saved my life in as many months,” Grogan continues as he starts to remove the stones trapping Derek’s legs. “Seriously, when we get out of this—”

“If,” Derek says quietly, because at least one of them has to be realistic about their current situation. “If we get out of this.”

“When we get out of this,” Grogan repeats, as if Derek hadn’t spoken at all, “I’m gonna owe you big time. Anything you ever need, just say the word. And I mean it this time—I’m not letting you brush this off as some just doing your job BS.”

Derek would roll his eyes if he had the energy to. “But I was just—”

“It’s not your job to get yourself crushed while I get out entirely unscathed,” Grogan argues. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I’ll heal,” Derek says. “If we get out, I’ll heal from this. You wouldn’t have.”

“I’m not so fragile that I can’t heal from a few broken bones,” Grogan says as he removes the last of the rocks from on top of Derek. “Alright, what should I, uh—”

“Just drag me to the far wall so I don’t get buried again,” Derek says, gritting his teeth to brace himself for what’s coming next.

“Right, okay—”

“Not that arm,” Derek gasps in pain as he yanks his left arm out of Grogan’s grip.

“Ah, shit, sorry.” Grogan readjusts so he’s dragging Derek by his right arm. It’s still agony on his ribs and back, but he can take it. “Is there anything I can do to—”

“We should conserve oxygen,” Derek says when he catches his breath again, “if we’re gonna survive long enough for help to arrive.”

“You telling me to shut up, Hale?” Grogan chuckles, sitting down near Derek, resting his back against the wall of the cave.

“Wasn’t gonna say it quite like that, but yeah,” Derek huffs with a weak smile.

“I suppose you have a point,” Grogan mutters as he settles in, propping his forearms on his knees and letting his head fall back against the wall. He’s silent for a moment, then speaks again, his voice soft. “Thanks. For trying to save my life.”

Derek is tempted to brush it off again as all part of the job, something he’d do for anyone, but there hardly seems to be a point in arguing that now. “Not that it matters much, if we die in here anyway,” he says instead.

“It matters,” Grogan says quietly, closing his eyes. “Even if no one else knows what happened—even if these are the last moments of my life—it matters to me.”

“Oh. Um—” he clears his throat, uncomfortable with the gratitude. “Same.”

Grogan rifles around in one of his vest pockets, eventually producing a protein bar, which he hands over to Derek. “Keep your strength up. You’ll need it if you’re gonna heal. I’m gonna take a nap.” He settles in with a sigh, looking for all intents and purposes as if he’s genuinely asleep. Derek knows he isn’t, can hear it in his breath and heartbeat, but he won’t call him on it.

Derek can’t eat just yet, though—he’ll use less oxygen if he can get himself into a deep state of Kelno’reem, and doing so will slow everything down, his healing included, and digestion would just end up putting extra demands on his body at a time when he needs to let it rest. He closes his eyes and steadies his breathing, letting his mind start to drift. Everything fades away—the cave, the dirt, the sound of Grogan’s steady heartbeat, and, most of all, the pain.

Derek doesn’t know how long he’s adrift like that. He’s vaguely aware that he’s getting less oxygen with each breath, but there’s not much he can do about that aside from retreating deeper into his own mind. And he would stay that way, slipping further from consciousness with each passing moment, if it weren’t for an unexpected voice, calling to him, coaxing him out of the darkness.

“They’re almost through, Derek. You just have to hold on a bit longer.”

“Cora?” he croaks, frowning as he slowly blinks his eyes open.

He doesn’t see her, but he feels something—more like a memory than an actual touch, but the pain starts to drain away, just as it would if Cora actually was here holding his hand. “This is all I can do from here, but don’t worry; Vala will take over as soon as you’re out.”

“Cora—” he gasps when he feels his bones starting to knit together, as his own body takes over the healing process. “How—”

He feels the ghostly sensation of a hand brushing through his hair. “I’ll check on your friend.”

“Cora—” he gasps again as the sensation of her touch fades away, and he starts to become aware of the sounds coming from the wall of rocks blocking the exit.

“Nngh–wh—” he hears Grogan groan as he starts to wake up. “Wha’s goin’ on? Who—”

Rocks tumble from the pile, creating a gap near the top. “Derek,” Cam shouts through the gap. “Grogan, you in there? You okay?”

“We’re here,” Derek croaks, then clears his throat and tries again, a little louder. “We’re here. We–we’re okay.”

“We are?” Grogan asks, sounding bewildered and groggy.

“We are,” Derek tells him quietly, reaching over to squeeze his hand. “We will be.”

Thanks to Cora, somehow, they’ll be okay. Derek will have so many questions for her when he gets home, but for now, he can just allow himself to be grateful that neither he nor Grogan are going to die today.

Chapter Text

“I’m not mad,” Cam says leaning his hip against the edge of the edge of the bed next to Derek and crossing his arms. “I’m just trying to understand what happened. Seems like there’s a few things about being part of a werewolf pack that you neglected to mention, and I’d appreciate an explanation.”

“Honestly?” Derek says, flinching in anticipation as Dr. Lam approaches his shoulder, then relaxing when he realizes it doesn’t actually hurt at all anymore. “So would I. I have no idea how Cora did any of that. If you’d asked me yesterday, I would’ve told you it’s impossible.”

Cam frowns and uncrosses his arms to brace his hands on the bed behind him. “You told us the pack bonds could make us all feel connected to each other—”

“Not like this,” Derek says, shaking his head. “I don’t know what it was like for all of you, but Cora was there with me. She drew out my pain and kick-started my healing, just like she would’ve done if she’d been physically there. I’ve never heard of such a thing being possible, even in the most closely-bonded packs.”

Dr. Lam looks at him sharply. “You do seem to be healing faster than usual, even for you,” she observes. “Are you telling me Cora boosted you remotely?”

“It would seem that way, yes,” Derek says distractedly as he tests his shoulder’s range of motion. Still a little stiffness, but not nearly as much as he would have expected this soon after the injury occurred, even with Vala’s assistance with her healing device. Cora must have done more than just drain away the pain, but how?

“Do you think she would be able to increase healing rates for her human pack members as well?” Dr. Lam asks as she watches Derek move, eyes narrowed in a disconcertingly analytical expression.

“If she can do this,” Derek says, gesturing to himself, “then I don’t see why not. Apparently everything I know about how werewolves work no longer applies to her. She’s something new.”

“Maybe the question we should be asking,” Cam says, with a thoughtful look on his face, “is if Sarah wanted to kill her because this is what she would become, or if she’s like this because of what happened to her?”

Derek’s eyes widen and he feels the blood drain from his face. “I hadn’t even considered that whatever’s going on with her could have started before she—” he stops, swallowing hard, and clears his throat. “I just assumed whatever’s happening to her was triggered by her near-ascension.”

“Or what if it’s both?” Cam asks, crossing his arms again and frowning. “Maybe the Littlefield line has always been headed for this, and Sarah’s group thought they could stop it, but instead Cora’s brush with a higher plane of existence accelerated the process.”

“Deaton said it was about balance,” Derek recalls, his voice faint in horror. “This absolutely could have been what he meant. She was destined for this, whatever this is.”

“So what does this mean for us, as part of the pack?” Cam asks, his brow crinkled in concern. “How much of what’s happening to Cora will end up changing us in ways we can’t predict?”

Derek’s lips tighten, the corners turning down. “If you want out—” he starts, his voice quiet.

Cam shakes his head emphatically. “Now, I didn’t say that. I’m in this, for better or worse. I’m just sayin’, I didn’t sign onto this expecting to get superpowers. I’d like to know what’s going on, that’s all.”

“So would I,” Derek mutters, moving his arm out of the way so Dr. Lam can inspect the healing progress of the gash on his side. “I’ll talk to Cora when I get home, see if she has any answers.”

“This is healing nicely,” Dr. Lam tells him, taking one last look before sitting back and taking off her gloves, disposing of them in a nearby bin. “There’s not really anything for me to do at this point. You’ll let me know if there are any complications?”

“There won’t be,” he assures her. Cora wouldn’t allow it—after everything she did to get him out, she won’t accept anything less than a full recovery from him.

“And you’re sure your spine and ribs are okay?” she asks, her brow crinkled slightly in concern. “Grogan was pretty insistent that something was seriously wrong there—”

“I’m fine,” he insists. “Do an x-ray if you want, but I’m telling you, I’m totally fine. I haven’t even felt any pain since Cora—” he hesitates to define it without further context— “did whatever it was she did.”

Her eyebrows shoot up. “Well, that’s either a very good sign or an exceptionally ominous one. No pain at all?”

He shrugs, not nearly as concerned as she seems to be. “None. I’m sure the effect is temporary.”

“I wish I shared your confidence,” she says, eyeing him suspiciously.

“Would it really be so bad if he couldn’t feel pain anymore?” Cam asks, studying Derek with a thoughtful frown. “I mean, hell, hasn’t he been through enough?”

“Pain is information,” Dr. Lam says, her voice sharp. “It tells us where and how badly we’re hurt; it shows us our limits; it stops us from damaging ourselves beyond repair. Pain is a tool for self preservation, and you can’t honestly tell me Derek doesn’t need a bit more of that, especially after today.”

“You can’t still be mad at me for protecting Grogan,” Derek says, rolling his eyes. “I knew I would heal—”

“You didn’t know that, actually,” she snaps, glaring at him. “How many times do I need to remind you that you aren’t invincible? You were lucky this time, that all your injuries were ones you could heal from; you can’t keep counting on luck to save you.”

“She’s got a point, Derek,” Cam says, raising an eyebrow at him. “You do have a habit of disregarding your own well-being for the sake of others, and downplaying the severity of your own injuries.”

Derek shoots him an annoyed glare. “I don’t needlessly put myself in danger, if that’s what you’re implying. Better that I get hurt than any of you—”

“How about none of you get hurt?” Dr. Lam suggests with a scowl. “Do you think maybe we could try that?”

“I dunno, Doc,” Cam says with a smirk, “if none of us ever got hurt, seems like you’d be out of a job.”

“Early retirement sounds perfectly lovely to me,” she retorts, glaring at both of them, then turns her focus back onto Derek. “Keep me updated over the next couple days. If you’re back to normal by the time you’re supposed to head out to Atlantis, I’ll clear you for duty.”

Derek sighs, but gives a begrudging nod. “I guess that’s reasonable.”

“Of course it is,” she says, wheeling over to her computer to add some notes to his file. “Now, both of you get out of here. Go eat something, and get some rest.”

“You’ll get no argument from me on that,” Cam says with a grin, then leans toward Derek to mutter conspiratorially in his ear. “They’ve set up an all-you-can-eat sundae bar today, and I plan to take full advantage.”

“You’re gonna make yourself sick,” Derek cautions him, returning his grin as he pulls on his shirt.

“Worth it,” Cam says, waggling his eyebrows, then elbows Derek in the ribs. “Race ya.”

“You know I’m gonna win,” Derek says as he chases Cam to the door.

“No running in my infirmary,” Dr. Lam shouts after them.

“Sorry, Doc,” Cam calls back to her as they squeeze out into the hall and start their race in earnest.

Chapter Text

Cora grins and pushes herself away from her desk as she hears Derek’s car turn down the street. Maybe he’ll be disappointed that she’s the only one home at the moment, but she doesn’t care—it’ll be nice to have him all to herself for a while. She bounds down the stairs and waits impatiently on the top step until he parks, then sprints down and pounces on him as soon as he steps out of his car.

“Oof,” he grunts on impact, his arms coming up to wrap around her in a tight hug. “Hello to you, too.”

She frowns and pushes him back, holding him at arm’s length for inspection. “What happened to you?”

His eyebrows do something complicated. “There was a cave-in—”

"Not that," she interrupts, rolling her eyes. “I know about that. There’s something else. You look different.”

“I do?” He leans over to look at himself in the side mirror of his car.

She huffs a frustrated breath and tugs him back to face her, placing her hands on either side of his head and inspecting him closely. “Not physically,” she clarifies, furrowing her brow in concentration. She can’t quite find the words to describe it—he has an extra layer of something going on now, but only when she looks at him from certain angles. Like labradorite or turkey feathers, dull and ordinary until the light hits it just so and reveals stunning iridescence.

His eyebrows do another complex dance. “Perhaps we should talk about this inside.”

Meaning, it’s classified, and he can’t talk about it in the open like this. She grabs his hand and drags him into the house, steering him toward the living room, pausing in the doorway to press her palm against the anti-eavesdropping sigil Stiles had carved in the door frame to activate it. She tugs him to the couch, and he allows her to manhandle him into a comfortable seat with her curled up between him and the arm of the couch, leaning heavily against his side. His arm wraps around her shoulders, squeezing her tightly, and she sighs contentedly and lets herself take a moment just to enjoy having him home.

He leans into her, pressing his face into her hair and breathing deeply. “You doing okay?” he mutters softly, his voice a little muffled.

She nods slightly. “Missed you.” And it’s more true than she’d like to admit. He hadn’t even been gone that long, and she was the one who’d insisted he return to work, but she still missed him, especially with the turmoil of the past couple of weeks.

“Missed you, too,” he admits, squeezing her tighter for a second. “Can we talk?”

She nods again. “No one can hear. Stiles did a thing.” She’s not sure how he managed it, but as a concession to her paranoia, he’d figured out how to make the spell unidirectional—she can still hear everything going on outside, but no one outside can hear them at all—and installed it here in the living room for occasions just like this, and in each of their bedrooms for privacy reasons. The Sheriff rarely activates his, and Cora hasn’t felt the need to use hers at all yet after the initial testing to make sure it worked, but Stiles uses his almost every time he's in his room.

“Good,” Derek says, releasing his arm from around her shoulders and shifting around in his seat until he can comfortably look at her, then raising an expectant eyebrow. “Anything you want to tell me?”

She grimaces and curls up against the arm of the couch. “Look, just because Scott’s return coincided with the threat from the Calaveras doesn’t necessarily mean they’re working together. He’s had one awkward conversation with Isaac, but other than that—” she stops at the look of growing horror on his face. “That... wasn’t what you were asking about, was it?”

“It was not,” he confirms, his expression turning stormy. “I was going to ask you about the way you astral-projected yourself halfway across the galaxy—”

“Oh, that,” she mutters, mentally kicking herself for mentioning the rest of it, because now he’s going to get all protective and annoying.

“‘Oh, that’?” he repeats incredulously. “You coordinate a rescue operation across three different planets and remotely kickstart healing not only for me, but for someone human who isn’t even in our pack, and all you have to say is ‘oh, that’??”

“Well, what was I supposed to do?” she asks, crossing her arms defensively. “You were hurt, Derek. I had to make sure you’d get the help you needed.”

“And I appreciate that,” he says, though it comes out more like a growl, “but do you have any idea how tricky it was to write that mission report? If we put on record what you’re apparently capable of—”

“It’s not like that’s something I can do all the time,” she argues, and she’s pretty sure that’s true. “This was a special circumstance.”

“Really,” he says doubtfully, narrowing his eyes. “Then what made this such a special circumstance?”

“I was at the Nemeton,” she explains, “and I was visiting Skaara on his plane of existence. It—” she hesitates, trying to find the words. “Things feel different there. It’s hard to explain. And the Nemeton enhances everything. I don’t think I could’ve reached so far if I hadn’t been where I was.”

He stares at her in silence for a moment. “You visited a higher plane of existence,” he echoes. “Is this something you do often?”

She shrugs. “Guess it depends on your definition of often. This was the first time I went on purpose, though—I needed Skaara’s help with Parrish.”

Derek sighs heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose. “All of this, and Scott’s back in town, and—who the hell are the Calaveras?”

“Oh, right, uh—” she’d forgotten that Derek wasn’t here for the start of all that. “Hunter family that used to work with the Argents. They’re mad that Chris is… ignoring certain parts of the Code.”

“Because he hasn’t killed himself, you mean,” Derek says, and Cora nods. “Conveniently disregarding the fact that getting the Bite was his choice.”

She smiles wryly. “What hunter in his right mind would choose to become a werewolf?”

Derek closes his eyes and takes a slow, frustrated breath. And Cora gets it; bringing Chris into the pack as a werewolf of his own free will, combined with Allison’s revised version of the Code, was supposed to fix things with the hunters. It was supposed to usher in a new era of peace and understanding between the supernatural community and those self-appointed ‘protectors of humans.’ But nothing in her life has ever been that easy. She thinks maybe she shouldn’t be so disappointed—she should be used to everything good in her life falling apart before it even gets a proper chance to succeed—but she is. She’s devastated on Chris’s behalf, that he has to experience the betrayal of people he once trusted turning against him; she’s sad that the hunter community isn’t more receptive to Allison’s vision for how their communities can coexist; and she’s trying very hard not to let herself fall apart over yet another group turning this into an excuse to try to kill her. She has to admit, it’s getting harder and harder not to take it personally that there seems to be a neverending parade of people who want her dead, as if once wasn’t enough.

She reaches over to squeeze Derek’s hand. “The Sheriff is working on the Calaveras situation,” she tells him gently, “and Scott might actually just be here to finish school, like he claims.”

Derek nods and flips his hand so he can lace their fingers together, but she can see the doubt and worry etched in his face. “I hate that this keeps happening to you,” he says quietly, looking down at their joined hands, hers looking so small compared to his.

“I hate it, too,” she admits. “But I’ll be okay. I’m always okay.”

“You’re not,” he whispers fiercely, pain darkening his face.

And she supposes he does have a point—there has, indeed, been one big exception to her always okay claim—but it hardly seems worth arguing that she’s okay now. Her not-okay-ness, while certainly traumatic, hadn’t lasted long, but she knows Derek won’t be particularly comforted if she mentions that. Instead she decides it’s time for a change of subject. “C’mon, your turn,” she says, elbowing him in the ribs—exactly on his most ticklish spot, and he yelps and glares at her. “What happened to you? Why do you look weird?”

He brings his free hand up to his side to shield himself against a possible repeat attack and huffs an annoyed sigh. “Our Hale ancestor left me another present,” he grumbles. “I don’t even know what it does yet, but if you can see it, I should probably start worrying.”

She tilts her head and hums thoughtfully as she studies him. “I know you’ll hate this suggestion,” she says with a smirk, “but maybe you should ask Stiles to help you figure it out. He’s our resident magic expert, after all.”

“Mm, yes, working with Stiles. That’ll be a real hardship,” he says in mock-complaint, poorly containing a grin.

“Ew,” she says, narrowing her eyes at him, and he snorts, his grin coming out full force.

“Speaking of which, where is he?” he asks, craning his neck to look at the doorway, as if that could somehow summon Stiles to appear. “He wasn’t at the Annex when I came in. I thought he’d be here.”

She rolls her eyes. “I was wondering how long it’d take you to ask. He’s at the Station, having dinner with his Dad.”

Derek frowns. “You weren’t invited?”

She shrugs and looks down at her knees. “I wouldn’t have wanted to intrude on their family time,” she mumbles.

“You’re family, too,” he says gently, and she can feel him watching her with a scrutinizing gaze.

“It’s fine,” she insists, wriggling in her seat until she’s leaning into Derek’s side again. “This is better; I get you all to myself.”

He switches out the hand she’s holding so he can wrap his arm around her shoulders again, holding her close and leaning in to press a kiss into her hair. “Hard to argue with that,” he says softly, and she can hear the smile in his voice.

Chapter Text

Stiles’ heartbeat quickens and his lips curl into a grin when he sees Derek’s car parked in the driveway. He hadn’t known if the SGC would put Derek on leave after whatever had happened on his latest mission, or if he’d have been assigned desk work until they leave for Atlantis, but Stiles must admit, he likes this option better. He pulls the Jeep into its usual spot, stumbles gracelessly out, and rushes inside.

“Honey, I’m ho-ome,” he calls out in a singsong voice as he kicks off his shoes in the entryway and tosses down his keys.

Silence.

He blinks, then frowns. Shouldn’t someone have heard him? Does anyone care that he’s home?

“Hello?” he calls, stepping down the hallway, peeking first into the kitchen, then into the living room, and oh—there they are. Leaning close to each other as if they’re speaking, but he can’t hear them at all. And the TV is on, with a Wormhole X-treme! episode playing, but either they have it muted, or—

Oh. The soundproofing. Right. They still should’ve heard him, though.

“Uh,” he starts, fidgeting just outside the doorway. “Can I—”

Neither of them turn to look at him, but Cora lifts an arm to casually beckon him inside.

His shoulders relax a bit and he steps into the room, but he lingers at the doorway. The TV is not, in fact, muted, but the volume is low. Derek is still speaking quietly to Cora, not loud enough for Stiles to hear. “Do we still need the soundproofing?” he asks hesitantly.

Cora finally peeks over the back of the sofa at him and shakes her head. “We stopped needing it a while ago. We just didn’t feel like getting up to turn it off.”

“Ah. Understandable.” Stiles presses his palm against the sigil to deactivate it, then walks over to join them on the couch.

He’d been intending to sit next to Derek, but apparently Cora has other plans—she climbs over Derek’s lap, shoves him until he makes enough room for her to sit in the middle of the couch, then pats the cushion on her other side, looking up at Stiles expectantly. “Here.”

Stiles shoots Derek a bemused look, getting nothing but a raised eyebrow in response. “Guess I’m sitting here, then,” he mutters with an amused huff, settling into the seat. He sits close enough that Cora is sandwiched firmly between them, pressed against Derek on one side and Stiles on the other, and she sighs contentedly as she snuggles in. Stiles slings an arm across the back of the sofa, and Derek does the same so their arms end up pressed together, hands landing on each other’s shoulders.

“How was dinner?” Derek asks, and there’s an odd tense quality to his voice and expression that makes Stiles frown. And even stranger, Cora elbows Derek in the ribs and glares at him.

“It was fine,” Stiles says, looking at the two of them suspiciously. “What have you two been up to?”

“Just getting caught up on everything,” Cora says, glaring at Derek for another second before turning her attention onto Stiles with a smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“Mm, yes,” Derek hums, raising a judgemental eyebrow at Stiles. “Care to tell me why there’s a family of hunters out there threatening my sister?”

“Because Cora won’t let me kill them?” Stiles grumbles with a scowl.

“Stiles,” Cora scolds sharply.

“I’m kidding,” he says, and he’s only mostly lying.

Cora narrows her eyes at him, but apparently decides not to call him on it at the moment. “Is the Sheriff making any progress building the case against them?”

“Some,” Stiles reports. “He has enough to take down several of their lackeys, but he wants to get some of the people at the top—he’s still working on gathering evidence against them. If he acts too soon, they’ll close ranks, and a legal takedown won’t be possible anymore.”

Derek hums thoughtfully again, still watching Stiles with a guarded expression. “And I’m sure you’d be so disappointed to have to find some other way to rid us of them.”

Stiles shrugs and smirks. “I do have a few ideas.” Cora growls, and Stiles adds, “Not that we’re going to need any of them, because I’m sure arresting everyone will totally work out.”

“Right,” Cora says with a stern nod. And with both Hale siblings here looking at him like this, Stiles figures he might as well actually give his father’s plans a shot. He’d hate to disappoint them, after all.

There’s still some awkwardness between them all that’s leaving Stiles feeling unsettled, though, so perhaps it’s time for a change of subject. He looks over at Derek, squeezing his shoulder. “You okay after your last mission? Cora wouldn’t let me go help.”

Derek nods. “All good. It wasn’t really the type of mission you could’ve helped on.”

“Still, I would’ve—”

“I’m fine,” Derek assures him, sliding his hand up to squeeze the back of Stiles’ neck. He leaves his hand there, his thumb absently stroking small circles at the base of Stiles’ skull. “Cora made sure I had everything I needed.”

“It wasn’t that big a deal,” Cora grumbles, curling a little further into her seat.

“It was a bit of a big deal,” Derek says, smiling fondly as he presses a kiss to the side of Cora’s head.

She rolls her eyes and bumps her shoulder against his chest. “Just a product of being in the right place at the right time. Any of you would’ve done the same.”

“I somehow don’t think any of us would’ve had the same opportunity,” Derek says, glancing briefly over her head at Stiles.

“I’m sure you could if you wanted to,” she says, with a stubborn set to her jaw.

“Why would I want to?” Derek asks, his voice quiet but assured, meeting her eyes steadily. “Everything I love is here.” He squeezes the back of Stiles’ neck again for emphasis as he says it.

Stiles gazes over at him in wonder, feels tension draining out of his body, feels his mind relaxing. This is very nearly perfect, here with two of his favorite people in the universe, their favorite show playing in the background. Something settles within him, something he’d been missing for the past couple of weeks. He hasn’t wanted to think about it, but he knows he hasn’t been at his best recently. With Derek out of town and Cora avoiding him, it’s been harder than expected to keep his darker impulses in check. It also hasn’t helped that he absorbed what remained of Osiris during his dissection of Sarah’s mind, and now has two Goa’uld consciousnesses fighting for control of his brain. But with Derek and Cora here, he thinks he might finally have a chance at getting the upper hand.

Chapter Text

“Sorry, just—” Derek blinks in bewilderment as he sinks down onto the couch— “wasn’t expecting you to be here. I didn’t even know you liked this show.”

“If you ever tell anyone outside the pack, I’ll murder you in your sleep,” Jackson says, not looking up from his phone, his voice far too casual for the threat to be anything other than genuine.

“Isn’t being into Wormhole X-treme! kind of a prerequisite for being in this pack?” Parrish says, handing Jackson a beer as he flops down next to him on the couch. Jackson doesn’t look up to acknowledge him, just accepts the bottle as if he was expecting it all along and goes right back to scrolling on his phone.

“I mean, sure, but still,” Derek says, eyeing Jackson dubiously. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d be into it.”

Jackson smirks and finally tucks his phone away. “Apparently I have hidden depths.” He takes a sip of his beer and makes a face. “This is gross. You people actually drink this stuff?”

“You don’t have to drink it if you don’t want—” Parrish offers, holding out his hand to take the bottle back.

“Fuck you,” Jackson says, holding his bottle protectively to his chest. “I never said I didn’t want it.”

“Should you even be drinking?” Derek asks, raising a judgemental eyebrow. “You aren’t old enough.”

“Why would that matter? It’s not like I can even get drunk.” Jackson very pointedly takes another sip while holding defiant eye contact with Derek. “And neither can you. Why are you drinking this crap? You can’t honestly tell me you don’t think it’s disgusting.”

Derek looks down at his own bottle, open but as-yet-untouched, and crinkles his nose. “It’s not about the beer; it’s about hanging out with my friends.”

“Succumbed to peer pressure, then?” Jackson mutters with a smirk, taking another sip and making another disgusted face.

Derek rolls his eyes. “They aren’t always this gross.”

“Alright, I get it, I have bad taste in beer,” Parrish says, throwing up a hand in defeat. “I’ll leave the shopping to Jack next time.”

“Toldja you should’ve,” O’Neill says as he walks in from the kitchen to join them, plopping a bowl of chips down on the coffee table as he claims the recliner for himself. “You’re good at a lot of things, Jordan, but unfortunately, this is not one of those things. From now on, just leave it to the professionals.”

“Right, because finding something not disgusting to drink requires such expertise,” Jackson scoffs into his bottle, then cringes as he takes another sip.

“Why are you still drinking that if you hate it so much?” Parrish asks, watching Jackson incredulously.

“It’s like a train wreck in my mouth,” Jackson says, glaring at the bottle. “I need to find out what happens next.”

“What happens next is it continues to be gross,” Derek says, setting his own bottle down on the coffee table.

“You guys are mean,” Parrish grumbles, then leans over to complain to O’Neill. “Why are we friends with these two?”

“Cora,” O’Neill says simply, taking a sip of his own beer and somehow managing not to grimace at the taste.

“Mm, right,” Parrish says, sitting back again with an irritated sigh. “Fine. I guess they can stay.”

“How magnanimous,” Jackson says dryly. “Truly, I feel so appreciated.”

“And Cora actually wants to live with this guy?” Parrish asks Derek, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Derek shrugs. “There’s no accounting for taste.”

“Clearly,” Jackson mutters, taking another sip of beer and shuddering as he makes another disgusted face.

“Seriously, dude, you don’t have to drink it,” Parrish says, reaching over to grab for the bottle in Jackson’s hand.

Jackson dodges him, then reaches over to pat Parrish on the knee, grinning wolfishly and winking. “You’re adorable.”

“Are we really supposed to be comfortable having this guy living with Cora?” Parrish asks, shifting in his seat and pretending he isn’t blushing at being called adorable.

“Why wouldn’t we be?” O’Neill counters, raising a questioning eyebrow.

“Well, he’s—” Parrish gestures vaguely at Jackson— “y’know. And she’s—” he makes another vague gesture that Derek wouldn’t even begin to know how to interpret.

Jackson turns slowly to face Parrish, narrowing his eyes. “You think two hot people can’t be just friends?”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Parrish says, cheeks flushing redder. “I’m just saying, you’re so—” he stops, gesturing vaguely again.

“So what?” Jackson asks, voice low and teasing, his eyes sparking with interest now as he leans toward Parrish. “Irresistible?”

Derek sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do we really have to be here for this?” he grumbles, glancing over at O’Neill.

O’Neill shrugs a shoulder and smiles crookedly as he lounges back in his seat. “I dunno, I’m kinda enjoying the show.”

“Guys, I’m serious,” Parrish says, turning to look at O’Neill. “D’you really trust this guy with her?”

“Dudes, you have nothing to worry about,” Jackson says. “I don’t think of her like that. And it’s not as if she’s attracted to me. She’s not attracted to anyone.”

Derek raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Except for O’Neill, though, right?”

Jackson raises an eyebrow right back at him. “I said what I said.”

O’Neill pauses with his beer partway to his lips, blinks at Jackson, and slowly lowers the bottle. “You... don’t think Cora’s attracted to me?”

Jackson tilts his head and regards O’Neill thoughtfully for a moment, then shakes his head. “No. She’s in love with you, but she’s not attracted to you. Don’t take it personally, though. I mean, hell, she doesn’t even think I’m attractive, and I’m everyone’s type.”

O’Neill blinks again, his lips slowly curling into a tentative smile. “She’s in love with me?”

Jackson shrugs. “I don’t think she knows that’s what it is yet, but yeah, sure. Closest she’s ever likely to get to it, anyway.”

Parrish, who has been watching the exchange with a strangely guarded expression, leans over to speak quietly to O’Neill with a concerned crinkle in his brow. “Do you really think you can be happy with someone who isn’t even attracted to you?”

“She’s in love with me,” O’Neill repeats, his voice soft and pleased, eyes gazing dreamily into the middle distance.

“Think you got your answer, dude,” Jackson mutters as he leans toward Parrish again with a sly smile. “He seems pretty happy.”

“How can she be in love with him but not even be attracted to him?” Parrish asks, still looking concerned, but now with extra confusion.

Jackson’s smile takes on a slightly pitying edge. “Is your definition of romantic love really so shallow that it always has to include aesthetic attraction and sexuality?”

“I—but—” Parrish splutters. “That’s—it does include all of that—”

“Can include all of that,” Jackson corrects, “but it’s different for everyone. And Cora’s nothing if not different.”

“Since when are you the expert on sexuality and queer identities?” Derek asks, eyeing Jackson dubiously.

“Since I came out to my parents,” Jackson grumbles, picking at the label on his beer bottle. When he glances up and catches the curious look on Derek’s face, he sighs and continues. “My father’s a lawyer. I thought, if I could figure things out and explain it all thoroughly enough, maybe he’d understand, so I put together this whole presentation, complete with definitions, evidence, and precedent.”

“And how did that go?” Derek asks gently, though he thinks he already knows the answer.

Jackson smiles wryly. “I moved out, and my parents have barely spoken to me since.”

“Sorry,” Derek says quietly, reaching over to squeeze Jackson’s arm.

Jackson shrugs him off. “‘S’fine. It’s not like they’re my real parents.” He turns his attention back to Parrish. “If Cora and O’Neill are happy with what they have, why do the details matter to you?”

Parrish’s shoulders deflate. “Jack’s my best friend and Cora’s… Cora. I don’t want either of them getting hurt because they want different things.”

“All due respect, Jordan,” O’Neill says, leaning forward to rest his forearms on his knees, his expression serious as he meets Parrish’s eyes, “but you have no idea what I want, and quite frankly, when it comes to Cora, it’s none of your business.”

“You’re so much more experienced than she is,” Parrish argues with a frown. “Are you really going to be satisfied—”

“Oh, I am plenty satisfied, I assure you—”

Derek groans and pinches the bridge of his nose as he sinks further into his seat, attempting to disappear. “Can we please stop talking about my sister’s sex life?”

“I’m with Derek on this,” Jackson says, kicking his feet up onto the coffee table. “I’m here to watch Wormhole X-treme!, not talk to people. And if we were going to talk about people’s sex lives, Cora’s wouldn’t be my top choice.”

O’Neill sits back and nods once firmly, glaring at the TV to avoid meeting Parrish’s eyes. “Fine by me,” he says, his tone clipped.

“Sure, fine,” Parrish grumbles, sitting back and sipping his beer with a sullen frown, crossing his free arm over his chest.

Derek sighs and picks up the remote to queue up the first episode. Looks like today won’t be the fun relaxing hangout time with his friends he’d been hoping for. But whatever, at least they’ll get to enjoy their favorite show. And besides, it’s been unexpectedly nice to get these little insights into Jackson. Hidden depths, indeed—Derek is starting to understand why Cora became friends with him.

And, actually, he thinks it might be nice to have someone to talk to about queer identities and sexuality. He’s never had to come out to anyone before—it was irrelevant, and then it was unnecessary, and now it just seems redundant—but he might have to at some point in the future, and having the language to back that up and define what he feels might help. He won’t try to talk about it today, but maybe next time he’s in town, he should find some time to have a real conversation with Jackson.

Chapter Text

“Alright, so we’ll be gone for a whole week,” Stiles says, furrowing his brow in concentration as he puts the finishing touches on the new cord for Cora’s amulet. “And it’s not that I don’t trust the others to have your back, it’s just—”

“It’s just, you think you could do it better,” Cora finishes for him, propping her chin on her hands as she watches him work. “I’ll be fine, Stiles. I’m more worried about you.”

Stiles pauses, blinks, and looks up at her. “Me?” he asks with a confused frown. “I’ll be fine. Why would you worry about me?”

“I always worry about you,” she admits quietly, meeting his eyes for a second before focusing her gaze back on his hands. “Especially now.”

He blinks at her a few more times. “Cora, I’m—”

“I’ve been a terrible friend lately,” she continues, ignoring his attempts at speech. “You’ve been going through something, and I haven’t been there for you. I’m sorry I wasn’t—”

“No—Cora,” Stiles says, reaching over to place a hand on her forearm, “you’ve had all your own stuff to deal with. You died, for cryin’ out loud. That’s more serious than whatever stupid thing my brain has been—”

“That’s no excuse,” she growls. “I pushed you away when you needed me most, and now you’re—” she gestures a hand at him vaguely, then huffs a frustrated breath. “I don’t know what you are. But you’re scaring people. And I should’ve been helping you through it instead of—”

“Not everything I do is your responsibility,” he says, squeezing her arm again, “and none of it is your fault. I—” he stops, clamping his mouth shut. He doesn’t want Cora to be burdened with this, on top of everything else she’s going through. And he really doesn’t want her knowing the details of what he’s been up to recently, not when she would blame herself for all of it. He shakes his head and turns his attention back to his project instead.

She watches him expectantly for a few moments, sighing and scrunching her nose in annoyance when he doesn’t continue. “I can’t help you if you won’t talk to me,” she grumbles, dropping her chin back onto her hands with a petulant frown.

He snorts at the irony of her complaining about him not talking, especially when she so rarely reciprocates. “You already are helping,” he tells her, because it’s true. Being able to spend time with both her and Derek last night, plus having her here now, is starting to make him feel like himself again. He pushes the last bit of programming into the crystal embedded in one of the beads on the cord and clears his throat, holding his empty hand out to her. “If you’re ready.”

She nods and takes off her amulet, hesitates briefly, then places it in his hand. “What all is this supposed to do?” she asks, tilting her head as she watches him work.

“Several things,” he says, straightening up in his seat. He loves that she lets him ramble his way through explanations, and even better, she seems to actually listen to him. It’s a depressingly new experience to have someone actually care so much about what he has to say. But now isn’t the time for feeling maudlin about his past social failures—he clears his throat and begins his explanation. “So, the amulet itself is the perfect vessel for storing and conducting magical energy, right?”

She nods again, watching as he takes the amulet off its old cord and threads it onto the new one.

“Well, we do need that,” he continues, “but magic can’t do everything. Stopping bullets, for example—for that, we need technology, and that’s what this is for.” He lifts the new cord, rolling a few of the beads between his fingers. “The core is a conductive naquadah mesh, and each crystal has a function that can be triggered either manually by you or automagically—”

“Automagically?” she repeats skeptically, raising a bemused eyebrow.

“Automatically, by magic,” Stiles says, waggling his eyebrows, and Cora huffs in amusement. "Automagically. Anywho, these ones—” he points out three along one side— “control the aforementioned bulletproofing. It’s not as powerful as mine—it’ll only protect you, only works against energy weapons and high-velocity projectiles, and can only activate in short bursts—but it should buy you enough time to get away or gain the upper hand—”

“The latter,” she says with a firm nod. “Someone shoots at me, they won’t get a chance to try again.”

Stiles grins mischievously in approval. “Fair enough. This one—” he points to another crystal— “monitors your vitals, and if anything big happens, it’ll activate a distress signal and send notifications to me, Derek, and my Dad. The signal can also be activated manually any time you might need it.”

Cora crinkles her brow thoughtfully. “Would the distress signal be able to reach Derek offworld? Would it reach you even in another galaxy?”

Stiles blinks—that’s a good question—and frowns. “I don’t know, actually, but I vote we don’t put that to the test.”

Cora rolls her eyes. “It’s not like I intend to, but I can’t make any promises.”

“You do have kind of the worst luck in the universe,” Stiles agrees with a wry smile, then clears his throat again and continues. “This one detects poisons—” he pokes the next crystal— “and will heat up to notify you if any are present. And if, for some reason, you are unable to avoid the exposure, it’ll also store the information on what kind of poison it is so we can get the antidote quickly. This one—” he points to another— “does a couple things. It makes you an unappealing host to a Goa’uld symbiote, and it makes people not even think about trying to take this away from you. It’s all part of the same glamour—”

“You can make me less sexy?” she asks, her eyes widening slightly.

“I can’t do the impossible,” he says with a smirk and a wink.

“But you can make me less appealing,” she says, leaning forward a little, something almost like desperation in her eyes. “You can make people not even think about me like–like that?”

“I—” he pauses, frowning, studying her face. “Is this… Is this about Allison? Or did something else—did someone else—” She sits back again, clenching her jaw, eyes shuttered, and he’s struck with a wave of incandescent rage on her behalf. “Who—”

“No, it’s—” she closes her eyes and takes a breath to compose herself. “No one’s ever gotten the chance to do much of anything—”

“Much?” he growls, his grip on her amulet tightening.

“—But they’ve wanted to, and I don’t. So many awkward situations could’ve been avoided if people just didn’t think of me like that. I don’t—” she squeezes her eyes shut and takes another breath— “I don’t want people to want me.”

He wants to question her further on this, get the names of the people who have been making her feel like this, but he doesn’t want to push her when she’s already so uncomfortable. So he forces himself to take a breath and set aside that line of questioning for later. “Not even O’Neill?” he asks gently instead.

She stares blankly at the amulet for a moment before she speaks, her voice barely louder than a whisper. “Sometimes I think it would be easier if he didn’t.”

“Cora—” he starts, reaching for her hand, but she pulls back, out of his reach, expression closed-off. He sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. Later, then. He’ll try again later. “I’ll have to do some thinking on how best to implement that. I can probably have something ready to test when I get back. But for now, it’s just—you won’t ever have to worry about a Goa’uld trying to make you its host, and you’ll never have to worry about anyone trying to take this thing away from you.”

“Okay,” she says quietly, with a sharp nod. “Thanks.”

He pauses for another moment to study her warily, then takes a breath and continues the tour. “A few of these are blank—” he runs a finger along the crystals in question— “reserved for future upgrades. But this one—” he points to one near the center of the cord, the one that will sit closest to the amulet while she’s wearing it— “is a tricky one. This is your mute button for the rest of the world. I might still need to make adjustments to make it comfortable for you, but—”

She scowls slightly, her shoulders tense. "If it’s anything like what you tried on O’Neill, I don’t think I’ll be using it—”

“Similar concept, different result,” he assures her. “It’ll muffle things; it won’t block them completely. You should still be able to see everything you normally see, but if I’ve done this right, it should tone down the intensity. You activate it like this—” he demonstrates the required motion— “and put some intention behind it. It’ll only respond to you, and it’ll only trigger when you do it on purpose. Same procedure for on and off, by the way. I wasn’t able to test this one myself at all, since, y’know, I can’t actually see what it does. So you’ll have to tell me if it works and if I need to adjust it. Sound doable?”

She nods slowly, her expression softening into something thoughtful instead of guarded. “I’ll test it and let you know,” she promises.

“Good,” he says, handing over the amulet with a crooked smile and watching as she loops it over her head and lets the amulet settle against her chest. “Now, if you hate all this and want to switch it back to your plain old boring cord, you still can, but keep in mind, I might go a little bit bonkers with worry if I don’t think you’re sufficiently protected while I’m away.”

One corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile. “Well, we certainly wouldn’t want that.”

“I’m glad we understand each other,” he says with a businesslike nod and a false-stern expression as he starts to pack up his supplies.

She watches him in silence for a few moments before she speaks again. “I am worried about you, though,” she admits quietly. “Something’s bothering you, or changing you, and if it’s about me—if it’s because I died, and that did something to you—”

“It’s not that,” he says sharply, then clenches his jaw and forces himself to take a breath. She just wants to help, he reminds himself, and he doesn’t want to hurt her by pushing her away. Especially not after she’s made such a fuss about pushing him away. He won’t tell her everything, doesn’t want to risk losing her over all the worst things he’s done recently, but he can talk to her about some of it. “Not just that,” he corrects, because it won’t actually help him to downplay the role her temporary death played in his current situation. It was traumatic—finding her like that, feeling the emptiness of her loss, watching his father try so hard to hold it together for everyone even as he was crumbling inside, watching Derek’s heart shatter—and he can’t honestly say he’s over it just because she came back. But she is back, and all of that will fade with time. No, the real problem is something else. “I did something. After.”

She closes her eyes, takes a slow breath, and nods. “I figured you had. I wish you hadn’t felt like you needed to—it shouldn’t have been your responsibility.”

“I’m not sorry,” he says sharply, because he didn’t say this to apologize. He doesn’t regret doing any of it, and he doubts he ever will. “But Sarah—I, uh. Took some stuff. From her head. That… I probably shouldn’t have.”

“Osiris,” she breathes, her face paling slightly, and he nods.

“He knows it was your family that killed his queen,” Stiles continues. “Intentional or not, he doesn’t care. He wants his vengeance. So—I was almost grateful, you know? When you asked me to stay away, I thought it’d be easier to protect you from him—me, now—but. Apparently not. You and Derek… it turns out I need you.”

She squeezes her eyes shut again. “Stiles, I’m—”

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he growls, reaching over to take both her hands in his, and this time she doesn’t pull away. “Don’t apologize. You couldn’t have known. I didn’t know. But I have you back, and I have Derek, and we can figure this out together.”

She has a concerned crinkle between her brows now. “But when I leave for school, and Derek’s back at work—”

“We’ll figure it out,” he repeats, squeezing her hands. “I’ll work with Derek when we have time this week, and I’ll have access to all sorts of fun new research materials.”

“You and your research,” she says with a soft smile, shaking her head fondly.

He heaves a theatrical sigh and flutters his eyelashes. “My truest love,” he says, letting go of one of her hands so he can place a hand over his heart, and she snorts. He sobers again and retakes her hand. “I won’t let Osiris hurt you,” he promises, meeting her eyes steadily.

“I know you won’t,” she assures him, squeezing his hands in return. “You would never hurt me.”

He pulls her in for a hug, quick but firm, pressing a soft kiss to her forehead as he pulls back. “You know I love you, yeah?” he asks gently, one hand landing on her upper arm and squeezing lightly, the other resting on the back of her head. “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”

She nods and leans forward to rest her forehead against his chest, holding her amulet in one hand, letting her other hand rest on his elbow. “Not that you have a whole lot of competition—” he can hear the smile in her voice, and he huffs an amused breath— “but, same.”

Chapter Text

“So,” the Sheriff says, and Derek cranes his neck over the back of the sofa to see him remove his hand from a symbol carved into the door frame, then cross his arms and lean casually against the wall. “My son tells me you two are getting married.”

Derek’s eyes widen, and he feels the tips of his ears heating. He hastily shoves a bookmark into the book he’d been reading and sets it on the coffee table so he can give this his full attention. “Uh—” he starts, then pauses as his throat works, searching for the right words to say in this moment. “Stiles... might have mentioned wanting to do that someday. And—” the flush spreads to his cheeks— “I might have indicated that I want the same thing.”

The Sheriff hums thoughtfully and strolls over to sit in the armchair, leaning back and steepling his fingers together as he studies Derek. For several long, increasingly-uncomfortable moments, he studies Derek, his face unreadable.

“Someday,” Derek adds again for emphasis, feeling his cheeks turning redder under the scrutiny.

The Sheriff presses his lips together in a tight line and taps his fingertips against his chin. “Y’know,” he says eventually, his tone as inscrutable as his expression, “you aren’t exactly what I used to picture for my son’s future life partner.”

“Um.” Derek has no idea how he’s supposed to respond to that, or if he’s supposed to respond.

The Sheriff doesn’t leave him to dwell on it for long, though. “As a parent,” he continues, “you try not to have too many expectations for what your child’s life might look like. Or, actually—” he huffs an wry breath and shakes his head— “guess that’s not really true. A lot of parents have very specific expectations for their children. Not me, though. And not Claudia. She—” he pauses, taking a shaky breath and squeezing his eyes shut tight for a second.

“Sheriff—” Derek says gently, leaning toward him and tentatively reaching a hand out.

The Sheriff stops him, holding up a hand and shaking his head. “She’d always talk about how excited she was,” he continues, his voice rough, “to get to meet him—to get to know him, and the person he’d become as he grew. And Stiles—” he huffs a small laugh, smiling fondly. “Well, Stiles damn-well lives to break expectations. God, but she’d be so damned proud of that kid and who he’s growing up to be.”

“I’m sorry she isn’t here to see it,” Derek says quietly. The Sheriff doesn’t talk about his wife often, but it’s clear he loved her deeply.

“Yeah,” the Sheriff agrees softly, then clears his throat and blinks his eyes clear. “But anyway. You aren’t what I would’ve expected for Stiles. Especially in the beginning—you gotta admit, you did not make the best first impression.”

“That was hardly my fault,” Derek complains with a small wry smile.

The Sheriff huffs an amused breath in agreement. “No, I suppose it mostly wasn’t. Still, didn’t look great for a while there. I’m pretty sure Stiles saw something in you from day one, but I didn’t see it until after Cora came back to town.”

Derek nods grimly—he thinks he knows what the Sheriff means. He’d been so devastated at losing Laura, then terrified by the return of Kate, then haunted by Peter and everything he’d done, desperately tried to fill the void that was his life by building a pack, grievously mishandled the power of being the Alpha... It wasn’t until Cora brought him to say goodbye to Ernest and had inherited the responsibility of Alpha herself that he’d finally started to feel like he could breathe again. He was never meant for leadership—it didn’t come naturally to him, and the power was too much for him to manage—but Cora is, and taking on a supporting role for her suits him far better.

“And—well, it wasn’t so much a surprise that he’d fall in love with a man, as it was—I’m a bit ashamed to admit—just something I hadn’t really considered,” the Sheriff continues, looking a little sheepish. “I grew up in a different world than all you kids, and—especially with my military service—people weren’t so open about that kind of thing.”

“But—” Derek hesitates, looking at the Sheriff curiously— “you’re…?”

The Sheriff smiles wryly. “Didn’t know it about myself, either. Never had a reason to think about it when I had Claudia, and never thought I’d want to think about anyone else once she was gone. But this isn’t about me; this is about my son.” He pauses for a moment and leans forward to brace his elbows on his knees, taking a slow breath and scrubbing his hands down his face, then clasping his hands loosely in front of him as he looks back up at Derek. “Knowing you as I do now, I’m not surprised Stiles fell in love with you. You’re a remarkable young man, Derek, and I may not have expected this, but I’m so damn glad the two of you found each other.”

Derek blinks, and his lips part in surprise. “You are?” he asks faintly as something soft and pleased starts fizzling in his chest.

“I am,” the Sheriff confirms. And it’s not like Derek ever really doubted that—the Sheriff has never been anything but supportive, both of Derek as an individual and of him and Stiles as a couple—but somehow, this feels different. It’s not just some nebulous hypothetical acceptance of the idea of him and Stiles; it’s wholesale approval of a definitive future together. “Now, I do hope you aren’t planning on getting married right away—”

“No,” Derek says quickly, probably with far more emphasis than is necessary. “No, we’re not in any rush. I’m thinking Stiles should probably finish a few years of college first before we start making any solid plans. And I’d like to be a bit more settled in my position at the SGC before I make any other big life changes.”

The Sheriff nods in approval. “And have you two talked about whether or not you’ll want kids?”

Derek feels his face flush. “No, it’s—we’re too young. It’s way too early to start thinking about having—”

“Too early to have them,” the Sheriff says, raising an authoritative eyebrow. “Not too early to think about if you’ll someday want them, if this is the person you’re planning to spend the rest of your life with.”

And that’s probably a good point, actually—it’d be good to know if they’re on the same page on that before they start settling into a life together. “We’ll talk about it,” Derek promises, then sits up as he hears the sound of a familiar Jeep turning down the street and into the driveway. “They’re back.”

“Right, should probably turn off the soundproofing before Cora starts to worry,” the Sheriff mutters as he pushes himself to his feet. He doesn’t walk over to the doorway yet, though; instead, he gestures for Derek to stand, as well. “C’mere.”

Derek stands hesitantly, uncertain about what to expect. “Uh—”

The Sheriff shakes his head with a bemused smile and steps forward to pull Derek into a firm hug. “Welcome to the family, son,” he says softly into the side of Derek’s head, squeezing him tightly.

Derek allows himself to sink into the hug for a moment, squeezing back and trying not to think too hard about the last time someone had given him such loving parental affection. “Thanks,” he manages to whisper around a lump in his throat.

The Sheriff clears his throat as he pulls back, clapping Derek on the shoulder once as he steps away, valiantly allowing both of them to pretend they aren’t blinking back tears. He steps over to the doorway to deactivate the soundproofing spell, then turns to address Derek one more time as Cora and Stiles walk through the front door into the house. “Y’know,” he says softly, quiet enough that Stiles won’t hear, but loud enough that Cora will, “now that you’re officially joining the family, you might consider calling me something other than Sheriff.”

“Oh,” Derek says hoarsely, blinking in surprise, “I don’t know if I could—”

The Sheriff holds a hand up to stop him. “No pressure. Just, think about it.”

Derek nods, his lips quirking up in a small smile. “I will,” he promises quietly, then meets Cora’s eyes as she steps through the doorway to join them, and adds, “we will.”

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you shouldn’t be restraining me?” Chris asks, his brow crinkled in concern as he picks his way along the path.

“We don’t do that in this pack,” Cora states brusquely, ignoring the ugly churning in her gut as she pushes the memories to the back of her mind. Her approach may be more risky, but she refuses to do to any of her pack what her mother had done to her.

“But it’s my first full moon,” Chris argues. “What if I lose control? What if I hurt someone?”

“Do you want to hurt someone?” she asks, raising a judgemental eyebrow at him.

“No, of course not,” he says with a frown, coming to a stop beside her.

“Good. Then don’t,” she says, tugging his sleeve to encourage him along.

“But what if—”

Cora sighs, stops, and turns to face him, looking up to meet his eyes steadily. “You’ve been doing really well in practice, with controlling your shifts; you’re level-headed and not prone to unprompted violent outbursts; and you have a strong support network. You won’t be alone tonight—the entire pack is here for you. You’ll be fine.”

He clenches his jaw and shakes his head. “I don’t know if I trust myself not to—”

“Do you trust me?” she asks, placing a hand on his arm.

He releases a soft breath, and his shoulders relax slightly. “I do.”

She studies him for a moment. “You already feel it, don’t you?” she asks gently. “The pull of the Moon. It’s like an itch, deep inside your chest. You want to run; you want to howl; you want to do anything, as long as it’ll feed the adrenaline rush building within you.”

“I feel it,” he confirms, his voice quiet.

“But most of all,” she continues, “you want to be with the people you love. You want to be with your pack. I’m told this first full moon is one you’ll feel the most intensely—I don’t know if that’s true; it could be just as intense every time, but the difference instead is in how skilled you are at handling it. But remember, in this pack, you’ll never have to do it alone. If you feel yourself losing control tonight, find Allison, or the Sheriff, or me. We’ll keep you in check. But don’t be afraid of letting go a little, either—tonight is supposed to be fun, and there will be plenty of supervision to make sure it’s also safe.”

Chris looks at her thoughtfully for a moment, valiantly trying to mask the complex series of emotions that flash through his eyes. He hesitates another second, then nods slowly. “Alright. I trust you.”

“Good,” she says with a soft smile, squeezing his arm briefly before turning away so she can start walking again.

He doesn’t let her get far, though—he reaches out to grab her arm this time. “Wait, Cora—” she turns back to him, and he loosens his grip but doesn’t let go. He sighs and scrubs his free hand down his face. “When I’m not dead by the end of the night, the Calaveras will take that as a declaration of war,” he warns her softly. “I’ve broken the Code, and they won’t rest until both of us are dead. Are we sure we’re ready to face that?”

She shrugs and smiles wryly. “The alternative is that you and I kill ourselves tonight, and I don’t think any of us wants that,” she reminds him, and he growls quietly, deep in his throat, in agreement. “We know they’re coming; we know their tactics and their weapons; and we know they aren’t as untouchable as they believe themselves to be. This won’t be easy, especially for you, but again, you aren’t alone. You aren’t like the other hunters who have been turned against their will—you chose this, and you have a pack to back you up. We’re as ready as we can ever be to face this. They, on the other hand, have no idea what they’ve gotten themselves into. They’ll be attempting to take on a pack of not just werewolves and humans, but multiple other types of supernatural creatures and magic users, aliens, high-ranking military personnel, law enforcement officers, and trained hunters, and we’re all united in supporting each other. They’ve never seen a pack like ours before, and if they’re expecting this to be like all the other times they’ve enforced the Code, they’re in for a big surprise.”

He relaxes a little at her words, but there’s still tension in his shoulders, and still a concerned crinkle etched into his brow. “They can still hurt us,” he says quietly, “even if they don’t succeed in killing us. They’ve been at this for generations; they know all the most effective ways to cause as much damage as possible.”

“They can certainly try,” she says darkly, letting her eyes spark with Alpha-red glow, “but they won’t like what happens if they do. Now, come on—” she tugs at his elbow and turns back down the path— “everyone’s waiting for us.”

She can still feel his hesitation—his fear—but he follows her deeper into the forest, to the circle of redwoods that has become the focal point of their supernatural world. The entire pack is here, just for tonight—Derek’s team arrived earlier this afternoon and will stay through the week; Derek, Stiles, and Daniel will leave first thing tomorrow for Atlantis; and by next week, she and Jackson will be all moved in to their apartment in the city and starting school—but for tonight, for Chris’s first full moon as a werewolf, they’re all together.

When they step into the redwood circle, she squeezes Chris’s elbow one last time and smiles encouragingly as she nudges him over to join the Sheriff and Allison where they’re chatting with Parrish and Colonel Mitchell, then pauses to take everything in. She’s encouraged to see everyone getting along, chatting and laughing together, and even breaking a bit out of their standard tight subgroups to integrate the newest members into the pack. Liam, Mason, and Corey are still sticking close to each other, but this time with Isaac and Boyd in the mix, and all of them are latched onto Teal’c like baby ducks, gazing up at him with bright, eager eyes; Hayden and Lydia have similarly taken a shining to Vala, all of them giggling together as they scheme over something; Erica, interestingly, is deep in conversation with Daniel at the far edge of the redwood circle; Derek has an arm casually looped around Stiles’ waist as they both chat with Jackson and O’Neill.

Cora smiles softly to herself, then starts making her rounds, checking in with everyone, making sure everyone gets not only verbal acknowledgement but some small bit of physical affection. It’s more difficult with some than others—both literally, in the case of her two noncorporeal packmates, and emotionally, when she gets to Allison—but everyone gets something. She squeezes hands or shoulders or arms for most of them; ruffles Daniel’s hair; bumps shoulders with Erica and Boyd until she can feel the air tingle around her arm; presses herself up onto her toes to kiss the Sheriff on the cheek; gives Chris a gentle, reassuring hug; wraps her arms around Jackson from behind, trapping his arms and squeezing hard enough to make him grunt; hooks a hand around the back of O’Neill’s neck and tugs him down for a swift kiss, then presses their foreheads together for a breath. Derek extracts himself from Stiles’ arms when she gets to him and stands at her shoulder as she turns to address the crowd.

It doesn’t take much to get everyone’s attention—most of them were already at least halfway attuned to her in addition to their other conversations—but she clears her throat, and suddenly all eyes are on her. “I’m not gonna make a speech,” she assures them all, and a few of them chuckle. “I’m going for a run. Anyone who wants to join is welcome. When you’ve had enough of hanging out here, we’re set up at the Sheriff’s house with food and Wormhole X-treme!, and there are sleeping bags for anyone who wants to stay over.” And with that, she turns away and steps to the edge of the redwood circle with Derek to get undressed.

There’s a bit of confused muttering at her actions, a soft “Wait, are we supposed to get naked, too?” from Liam, then an enthusiastic “Oh, hell yeah, y’all are in for a treat,” from Colonel Mitchell that makes her share a toothy grin with Derek.

She closes her eyes as she divests herself of the last of her clothes, leaving them in a neat pile to be collected later, with only her amulet still looped around her neck, and lets the tug of the rising full moon guide her body to change, landing on all fours moments later. There’s gasps and surprised exclamations from several in the crowd, a “No fair, when are you gonna teach us how to do that?” from Liam, a breathy “Holy shit” from Stiles, and a bewildered “Since when can both of you do that?” from Parrish.

She exchanges an amused look with Derek, now fully shifted himself as he stands beside her, then lifts her face to the sky and howls. Derek throws his head back and joins her immediately, the rest of the werewolves, now in their partial Beta shifts, joining shortly after, and eventually the rest of the pack lending their voices to the howl. It’s a beautiful sound, with all their voices in chorus—haunting and ethereal and joyful all at once, and she feels whole and at home in a way she’s never felt before.

The howl eventually fades, and she nips playfully at Derek, then takes off into the forest at a full sprint, Derek hot on her heels, the rest of the wolves only a second behind and several of the non-wolves keeping pace as best they can. She knows she’s fairly easy to spot like this, her pale grey fur luminous in the soft moonlight and her eyes glowing red; Derek’s stark black fur makes his body seem to disappear into the shadows of the forest, but his bright blue eyes give him away as he sprints alongside her. She glances behind her just long enough to confirm that one additional pair of glowing blue eyes, four sets of solidly-glowing gold eyes, two pairs of translucent gold, and one pair of fiery orange are in hot pursuit. A faint glint of reflected gold off to the side lets her know that Teal’c is doing an admirable job of keeping up with all of them, and the silhouettes of Corey and several of their human pack members trail along at varying speeds.

She’ll have to keep an eye on everyone throughout the night, especially with Chris as he adapts to this new aspect of his existence, but for now, she gives in to joy and lets herself think of nothing but how wonderful it is to be sprinting through the forest with her pack.

Chapter Text

“...And the entire city is one big artificial Nemeton,” Stiles continues, gesticulating enthusiastically in emphasis, stepping backwards up the ramp to the ‘Gate without stopping his speech, and Derek follows, listening with rapt attention, Daniel and Colonel Carter trailing a few steps behind. “Dude, seriously, we gotta bring Cora here someday—” he’s briefly interrupted by stepping through the event horizon and waiting the fraction of a second it takes for Derek to catch up with him on the other side. “I can only imagine what kinds of things she’d be able to see here—”

And, under normal circumstances, nothing would be interesting enough to tear Derek’s attention away from Stiles giving an animated lecture about a topic he’s interested in, especially when that topic involves Cora somehow, but these are hardly normal circumstances.

Derek has been to numerous different worlds now, seen wonders beyond any he ever could have imagined, but this city is something else entirely. It’s not just that it looks impressive—though it certainly does—but this place feels different in a way Derek isn’t sure he’ll be able to describe. He knows he can’t sense things the way Cora does, but there’s something here, so deeply saturated into the air and the walls and everything, that even he can feel it. It pulses through his body, and he can feel it thrumming through the circuitry in the walls—something ancient and timeless and powerful beyond comprehension. He wonders if this is what Cora feels like every day in Beacon Hills, if this overwhelming presence is just her base-level existence, and how she ever manages to function with all of this around her.

“—Derek?” A hand on his arm startles him out of his reverie, and he blinks a few times until Stiles’ concerned eyes finally come into focus before him. “You okay?”

He nods, still a little distracted, and tries to bring his focus back to the people around him. “I’m fine. It’s just… a lot.”

“I’ve never seen you this affected by another planet,” Daniel says, leaning close, voice low, frowning as he watches Derek warily. “What’s going on?”

Derek furrows his brow in concentration as he tries to find the words to describe what he’s experiencing. “I think—” he glances around again, at the walls of the tower and the lights illuminating the visible parts of the circuitry and all the various displays and the steady pulse of energy running through it all, and takes a breath as the answer settles into him— “the city’s alive.”

Stiles’ eyes widen. “You can feel that? From here?”

“Wait,” one of the men in their greeting party says to Stiles, holding up a hand with a confused frown, “what do you mean, from here?”

“Wh—” one of the other men in the greeting party flails both hands, looking irritated. “Wait, what do you mean—” he points an accusatory finger at Derek— “the city is alive?”

“Oh, did I forget to tell you that?” Stiles says with a smirk. “Oops.”

The second man narrows his eyes at Stiles. “You’re messing with me.” He turns to glare at Colonel Carter. “He’s messing with me. Why’d you have to bring him back—”

“Calm down, Rodney,” the first man says, placing a placating hand on his companion’s shoulder. “Did you forget that you asked for him to come back?”

“I’ve changed my mind. I forgot how annoying this kid is—”

“How about we make our introductions?” Colonel Carter interrupts diplomatically with a bemused smile. “Richard Woolsey, the base commander—” she indicates the exasperated-looking balding man on the left. “Dr. Carson Beckett, chief medical officer—” she nods at the man next to Woolsey, who has been watching Derek curiously since they stepped through the gate. “Colonel John Sheppard and Dr. Rodney McKay.” Sheppard gives him a lopsided smile and a small nod, and McKay continues to glare at Stiles. “This is Dr. Derek Hale, and I think we all know Stiles by now.”

McKay mutters something unflattering under his breath, and Derek raises an eyebrow, feeling his shoulders start to tense; Stiles notices and bumps his shoulder against Derek’s. “Easy there, big guy. He’s prickly, but he’s harmless.”

Derek presses his shoulder against Stiles’ and leans closer, lowering his voice. “You sure you don’t want me to maim him just a little bit?”

“As much fun as that might be—” Stiles’ grin widens as McKay splutters an objection— “it’d probably be more trouble than it’s worth.”

“Only probably, huh?” Derek eyes Dr. McKay as if he’s considering it anyway.

McKay bristles defensively. “If you think you can intimidate me just because you claim to be a ‘werewolf’—”

“You’ll accept that I can do magic, but you won't accept that he’s a werewolf?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows incredulously.

McKay rolls his eyes. “I accept that the things you’ve done with Ancient technology appear magical, only because I haven’t figured out how to explain it all yet. But werewolves don’t exist.”

“Oh, well, since apparently I don’t exist—” Derek starts with a sarcastic shrug.

“Sure felt like you existed last night,” Stiles mutters with a sly, satisfied smile, then leans conspiratorially toward Sheppard and winks. “It was the full moon.”

“Nice,” Sheppard grins back and offers him a fist bump.

“So where’s this database you wanted us to look at?” Daniel asks, his voice a bit louder than necessary and exceptionally unsubtle.

“Right this way, Dr. Jackson, Dr. Hale,” Woolsey says as he turns toward a hallway and indicates for Daniel and Derek to follow, looking rather relieved to have an excuse to escape the conversation.

“Don’t have too much fun without me,” Stiles calls after him with a wink and a grin.

“I never do,” Derek calls back with a slightly predatory grin of his own, letting his eyes glow and his face transform just enough to freak out Dr. McKay. He sees McKay startle and start to splutter something, and Sheppard’s eyes widen with interest and delight as he slings an arm across Stiles’ shoulders and leads him away in another direction, bombarding him with questions about werewolves.

Derek turns his focus back to Daniel and Woolsey and the real reason for his being here on this expedition. “We found it in one of the research labs,” Woolsey explains as they walk. “None of our linguists can make heads nor tails of it. And we can’t figure out if it’s a problem with the language or the subject matter—” he stops as he leads them into what looks like a closet, pausing to press a point on a screen that appears once they’re all inside. “Well. It’s probably best if I let you see for yourself.” He leads them out through the door they’d come in, but it’s a completely different corridor than the one they’d entered from.

“The report we were sent claimed it was written in Ancient,” Daniel says with a curious frown as they walk down another hallway.

“It did appear that way at first,” Woolsey says, “but then we found sections written in what we believe to be Furling, and the more we translated of the sections in Ancient, the less sense they made in context. Given what I now know about the kinds of things that can exist in the universe—” he glances meaningfully over at Derek— “I felt your expertise might be required.”

Derek raises an eyebrow. If this database does, indeed, contain research on the supernatural community, it may well be the first time they’ve encountered explicit references to it by the Ancients—and the addition of sections written in Furling make this all the more intriguing. Derek hasn’t had much of an opportunity to study the Furling language yet, but Ernest’s journals have at least provided him with a decent starting point. He follows Woolsey and Daniel with renewed enthusiasm, eager to get to work on what will certainly be a fascinating project.

Chapter Text

“Choose your weapon,” Teal’c says, gesturing her toward the rack as he selects a practice staff for himself.

Cora shakes her head and stays where she is. “I’m good. I don’t need one.” Why would she, when she is a weapon?

He raises an eyebrow at her. “Are you certain? A weapon will afford you greater range and protection—”

“If I need one,” she says with a shrug, “I’ll take yours.”

“Oh, I like this girl,” Cam says with a grin, watching from the edge of the clearing with his hands on his hips. “She’s got spunk.”

Teal’c hums thoughtfully. “Or perhaps she is merely overconfident.”

“Not overconfident,” she assures them both. “Just confident. I know what I can do.” And if the progression of Derek’s fighting skills are any indication, she also has a pretty good idea of what Teal’c can do. But he doesn’t need to know yet what she knows; he’ll find out for himself soon enough.

“If that is indeed the case,” Teal’c says as he steps into the center of the clearing, “then I would request that you hold nothing back during this first round, that I may accurately assess your skills.”

“You got this, Cora,” Cam says, clapping his hands encouragingly. “Kick his ass.”

"That’s the plan,” she says, winking at Cam as she joins Teal’c in the center of the clearing.

“Are you ready?” Teal’c asks, raising a questioning eyebrow, and she nods once firmly in confirmation. “Very well.” He twirls his staff with a flourish and launches an attack.

Cora has him disarmed and on his knees in a matter of seconds, trapping both of his arms behind his back with one of hers, one of her knees pressed against his spine, and a clawed hand wrapped around his throat. “If you’re going to insist that I don’t hold back,” she growls into his ear, “the least you could do is grant me the courtesy of doing the same. Where is your sense of honor?” She shoves him away, and he catches himself just shy of faceplanting in the dirt.

“My apologies,” Teal’c says as he waves off Cam and pushes himself to his feet. He raises an impressed eyebrow and inclines his head. “I shall not underestimate you again.”

“See that you don’t,” she says, eyes locked on him in an assessing glare.

“Are you prepared to go again?” he asks as he picks his staff up out of the dirt, his mouth twitching in what might be the start of a smile.

“Are you?” she counters, raising an eyebrow in challenge. He answers by launching his next attack, spinning his staff and aiming a powerful blow at her head. She ducks, dodges toward him, and grabs the end of the staff to redirect its momentum and throw him off balance. He stumbles, but regains his footing quickly, wrenching the staff out of her grasp. “That was better,” she observes coolly as they start to circle each other, “but there’s room for improvement still. Haven’t you been practicing with my brother? I’d think you’d be better at this by now.”

“I begin to suspect Derek Hale has been restraining himself significantly in our sparring matches,” Teal’c says, his voice low with a note of disapproval. “But I must admit, I am unaccustomed to fighting someone of your size and speed.”

She smirks as she watches him move, preparing herself for his next strike. “You’d usually only try to pick on someone your own size?” He inclines his head in acknowledgement. “Normally, I’d say that’s very noble. But it has made you complacent. Do yourself a favor and abandon your expectations for what you believe me capable of; I assure you, your imagination is inadequate.”

“I shall endeavor not to disappoint you again,” he says, his eyes bright with enthusiasm for this challenge, and he advances on her at last, attacking in earnest now.

It is, indeed, harder to hold him off this time; he’s finally putting some real effort into his attacks. But, still, he’s fighting as if he’s worried about hurting her. She’ll need to do something about that.

She allows him to land a blow on her ribcage, throwing a bit of her own weight into it until she hears a crack as her ribs break. She ignores the pain and wraps herself around the staff, twisting around so the combination of momentum and Teal’c’s own firm grip on the weapon result in him getting dumped on his back in the dirt.

“Cora,” Cam shouts in concern as he scurries toward her, “are you—”

She finishes yanking the staff out of Teal’c’s hands and holds a hand out to stop Cam. “I’m fine, it’s already healing.” She presses the tip of the staff against Teal’c’s windpipe. “The thing about fighting a werewolf,” she says, pressing just hard enough that he starts to choke, “especially an Alpha werewolf, is that unless you’re fighting to kill, our healing may well outpace our injuries. A couple broken ribs are barely going to slow me down if I’m fighting for my life.” She releases the pressure from his windpipe and extends a hand down to help him up.

He accepts her hand with gratitude, taking the staff back with a slight bow as she holds it out to him. “I thought I was here to teach you advanced combat techniques, but instead I am the one learning all the lessons.”

“Stop fighting like you’re afraid of hurting me, and maybe you’ll be able to find something to teach me,” she retorts with a judgmentally raised eyebrow.

“I’m a little concerned that you don’t seem to care if you get hurt,” Cam says from the sidelines as he watches Cora and Teal’c circle each other.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Cora says with a slightly feral smirk, her eyes fixed on Teal’c, waiting for him to make his next move. “I let him land that blow on purpose to prove a point. He won’t be able to do that again.”

“Y’know, I’d usually think that anyone making a claim like that was exaggeratin’ for effect,” Cam says with a wary edge to his voice, “but in this case, I think you’re tellin’ the absolute truth.”

“I always do,” she mutters, and Teal’c finally launches an attack—a mad flurry of blows that has her on the defensive for several seconds. “Oh, much better,” she says with a satisfied grin, barely dodging a blow to her still-somewhat-injured ribs. “Here’s the thing, though—” she steps into the next swing aimed at her head and matches the momentum of the staff, grabbing on and twisting around to wrench it out of Teal’c’s grip, then thrusts the end of the staff into the center of his chest to hold him in place— “most of the things that attack me don’t bother with melee weapons.”

Teal’c raises an eyebrow. “You believe these combat exercises will be of limited usefulness.”

“Not as much for me, as for you,” she says, poking the tip of the staff against his chest for emphasis. “Weapons can be taken—I’ve disarmed you easily several times already—but teeth and claws cannot. It may be time for you to attempt a different strategy.”

Teal’c raises his other eyebrow to meet the first and tilts his head, intrigued. “What would you suggest I try instead?”

“You’re the expert,” Cora challenges, “you tell me.”

She can see his mind working, assessing her, analyzing what he knows of her skills, until at last he tilts his chin down and his eyes light with something almost devious. “Very well. Colonel Mitchell, I will require your assistance.”

“Ah, hell,” Cam grumbles as he steps out to join them. “I’m gonna hate this, aren’t I?”

“You need not fear, Colonel Mitchell,” Teal’c says as he walks over to his gym bag at the edge of the clearing and emerges with a towel, from which he tears off a strip a few inches wide. “Cora Hale will not allow you to come to harm.” He grabs another staff off of the rack and walks back into the center of the clearing, handing the strip of cloth over to Cora. “Secure that over your eyes. Leave no gaps through which you might be able to see.”

“Two grown men against one blind girl?” Cora smirks as she ties the cloth around her head, then adjusts her grip on her staff. “Hardly seems fair.”

“You misunderstand,” Teal’c says, and she can hear the smile in his voice as he steps around her. “It is not yourself you must defend.” The air whistles as he swings his staff down toward Cam’s head; she hears Cam yelp in surprise and his clothing rustles as he cringes away from the blow, but she steps between the two men and blocks the strike with her own staff before it can even come close to landing on Cam.

“Oh, sneaky,” she grins appreciatively as she shoves Teal’c back. Defending herself is one thing; she’s fully aware of where her own body is in space, how to make herself move, and how much damage she can sustain while continuing to fight, even with one of her senses disabled. But now she must defend an unarmed, unpredictable, and all-too-breakable human against a foe who rivals her brother for strength and has more combat experience than everyone else in her pack combined, all without the advantage of sight.

Finally, she thinks, a real challenge.

Chapter Text

“…And what, exactly, is all of this—” McKay gestures at the chalk symbols Stiles is drawing on the floor around the chair— “supposed to accomplish?”

“Well—” Stiles frowns in concentration as he puts the finishing touches on one of the more complicated glyphs— “power generation is an ongoing problem for you all, right?”

“Well, yes, of course,” McKay says, “but how is scribbling on the floor going to help with—”

“The cool thing about magic,” Stiles explains as he pushes himself to his feet, tucking the chalk into his pocket, “is that it doesn’t have to draw its power from the person casting it. The most effective spells draw their power from the target.”

“But what does that have to do with—”

“I got the idea for this from the upgrades I did to the cloak on my ship,” Stiles continues, smirking a little at the affronted noise McKay makes at being interrupted once again. “Admittedly, it’s trickier to fool technology that way than it is people, but the computer systems here in Atlantis are advanced enough, and the magic sentient enough, that we can accomplish things that would’ve been impossible elsewhere.”

“See, it’s nonsense like that that makes me think you’re actually just full of sh—”

“McKay,” Sheppard scolds sharply, “Stiles is here as our guest—”

“Oh, right, our ‘guest’,” McKay says incredulously. “Because we always carry around wraith stunners just in case we need to shoot our guests—”

“I should hope you do,” Stiles says, glaring darkly at McKay, “when your guest is carrying around the minds of two Goa’uld System Lords in his subconscious, and is about to interface with your city on the most intimate level possible—”

“Two?” Sheppard asks, blinking in surprise. “Were you taken as a host again?”

Stiles grimaces; he hadn’t meant to mention that, and now anything he tries to say to either explain or evade is just going to make them all more curious. Still, now is not the time. Not when he needs to keep all his concentration on making sure neither consciousness gains access to this city’s control systems. “It’s complicated,” he says instead, “and not relevant to the task at hand. Just, if it looks like I’m doing anything that might endanger the city, go ahead and shoot me.”

“In that case, maybe I should shoot you right now—” McKay starts, reaching for Sheppard’s gun.

“Not you,” Stiles says with a scowl as Sheppard bats McKay’s hand away. “Sheppard will be able to tell when I cross the line into dangerous territory.”

“I will?” Sheppard asks, a concerned crinkle in his brow. “Honestly, Stiles, I have no idea what all of this even is. How’m I supposed to know when you’re doing something you’re not supposed to?”

“You know this city,” Stiles says as he sits at last in the control chair. “You know what feels right and what doesn’t. So just listen to Atlantis—she’ll tell you when something’s wrong.”

“She?” Sheppard echoes, raising his eyebrows and glancing around the room, as if the walls themselves might have something to say to him.

Stiles shrugs. “‘S as good a pronoun as any.” He settles back in the chair and sends his spark out through the city’s circuitry, activating the glyphs on the floor as he goes, opening up his mind to the intelligence inhabiting the city so it can understand what he’s trying to accomplish.

“All the same,” he hears Sheppard say, “maybe it’d help if you explained a bit about what it is you’re doing. Like, is the floor supposed to glow like that?”

“Yes, but don’t worry, it won’t be like that for long,” Stiles says distractedly. “If this works, all of that will be absorbed.”

“But that still doesn’t explain what you’re doing,” McKay complains.

Stiles sighs and summons a schematic of the city to the holographic display overhead. “Alright, so, the problem here is twofold,” he explains, lifting a hand to gesture at the image as he calls up the power consumption stats from the shield generators. “One, both the shield and the cloak require significant amounts of power to operate. You need at least one working ZPM to get either one functioning. And two, you can’t operate both simultaneously.”

“Right, because they both use the same emitters on different settings,” McKay says. “It’s physically impossible to have both functions active simultaneously.”

“Unless,” Stiles says with a grin, lifting a finger for emphasis, “we augment them with magic. I’ll be casting a glamour over the city that will compliment both systems. It’ll fool the naked eye, for sure, but it should also confuse sensors for anything trying to find or target the city. Enemy ships won’t be able to accurately pinpoint our location; weapons systems won’t be able to get a lock; and anything trying to beam in would run the risk of rematerializing in the middle of a wall or a few stories up in the air with nothing underneath. It won’t be infallible, and won’t be as effective as either the shields at full strength or the cloak when properly activated, but it’ll buy you time when you need it most. And best of all, it won’t draw any power from the ZPM.”

“How can it possibly—” McKay starts, scoffing disbelievingly.

“It draws its power from the sensors trying to detect us,” Sheppard says, his eyes locked on Stiles, an approving smile on his face.

“Precisely,” Stiles confirms, grinning back at him. “It does draw a bit from the ley lines to get going, but it only needs a nudge. Once it’s up and running, it’s self-sustaining.”

“We don’t leave it on all the time, though, do we?” Sheppard asks. “Might be kinda awkward if our own jumpers can’t find us.”

“It can be easily turned on and off by anyone who has the gene,” Stiles assures him. “All you have to do is ask the city.” He pauses, then looks over at McKay and smirks. “Might not work for you, though. Sorry.”

“What?” McKay asks, clearly taking offense. “Why me? Why wouldn’t it work for me?”

“You don’t believe in magic,” Stiles says with a shrug, then settles back in the chair again to get back to work on installing the upgrade. “And the city doesn’t like you all that much.”

McKay squawks indignantly. “What—what do you mean, the city doesn’t like me?”

“She’s in love with you, though,” Stiles tells Sheppard with a wink.

“Oh, uh—” Sheppard blinks a few times and glances awkwardly around the room again, the tips of his ears turning pink. “Don’t know whether I should be flattered, or, uh—” he clears his throat and shifts his weight uncomfortably from one foot to the other, then scratches the back of his neck and glances up toward the ceiling to address the city. “Thanks? I guess?”

“And after this, I have a few ideas for increasing shield efficiency I’d like to try,” Stiles says, closing his eyes as he settles back in the chair once more and merges with the city. This’ll be a complex project, and he’ll have to direct his attention carefully to make sure the city doesn’t read into his subconscious, but he’s pretty sure he can manage it. He’s not doing this alone this time—Derek is here with him, just on the other side of the city. “Now, just hang tight, fellas—this’ll take a few minutes.”

Chapter Text

The door to the lab slides open and someone knocks on the door frame in greeting, but Derek doesn’t bother to look up, engrossed as he is in the translation. If he really needs to pay attention to whoever that is, he will, but he’s just getting to the good part; this is upending everything they’d assumed about the origin of supernatural creatures, based on what they’d found in their Goa’uld research.

Apparently the intruder is Colonel Carter, checking in on them. Derek decides Daniel can handle that—this passage requires his full attention, and unless it’s an emergency, whatever she has to say can’t possibly be more interesting than the contents of the database. He tunes out the conversation and stays focused on his work.

He’d known ignoring them couldn’t last forever, though—he’s eventually jolted out of his reverie by Carter gently saying his name as she pulls out a chair and sits down next to him. He blinks a few times, mildly disoriented at the sudden derailing of his train of thought, and looks up at her. She takes a breath and meets his eyes steadily, her voice quiet. “I wanted to thank you.”

Derek frowns in confusion. “Thank me?”

She huffs a small breath and smiles softly. “Well. Your sister, actually. For what she did for O’Neill.”

“Oh.” Derek blinks and breathes through a sudden tightness in his chest. “Right.” Because that was why Cora had come back, wasn’t it? To save O’Neill. And Derek is glad for that. Really, he is. But sometimes he wonders—if O’Neill hadn’t needed saving, would Skaara have allowed her to come back? Would he have even helped at all? Would he have had a reason to care, if his friend hadn’t been in danger?

“I don’t know if the Asgard lied to us, or if they honestly just didn’t know something was still wrong with him,” Carter says, her tone apologetic, “but—”

“If I had to guess, I’d say they didn’t know,” Derek says, twirling his pen between his fingers as he gathers his thoughts. “Cora seems to think there was a blockage in the way he was channeling his spark, and that’s what was killing him. He was burning out his own life force every time he used it. And I don’t know much about the Asgard, but from what I’ve heard, I doubt they had any understanding of magic. They probably didn’t know this could ever be a problem.”

“You’re probably right,” she says with a wry smile. “Their inflexible reliance on technology and scientific discovery is what doomed them, after all, in more ways than one. Magic is too unquantifiable, too unpredictable; they never would’ve thought to worry about something like that.”

Derek nods and turns his gaze back down to his notebook, wondering if this can be the end of the conversation so he can get back to work.

“I’m glad he’s found a home with all of you, though,” Carter continues, and Derek suppresses a sigh—apparently it’ll be a while longer. “I’ll admit, I lost track of him, after he left. And sure, I worried a bit, but, I mean—” she shrugs— “he’s Jack. He can take care of himself.”

Derek feels his jaw clench and he tightens his grip on his pen as he thinks of the way O’Neill was when he’d first come to Beacon Hills. He’d hidden it well, but he was adrift, directionless—and so full of resentment and self-doubt it had almost swallowed him whole. “I think,” Derek says, unable to fully mask the irritated growl that wants to escape him, “he’s not as strong as he wants everyone to think he is. And he needed all of you, but he couldn’t have you. Not when you already had the original. You abandoned him, and it was only dumb luck that he got to us before he could destroy himself.”

Carter flinches back in surprise at his tone, eyes widening. “He—”

“I’m glad you feel you can absolve yourself of responsibility,” Derek says coldly, “now that he’s found happiness with us. Now that he’s found a family who won’t abandon him. He’s been able to outgrow his need for you and find people who love him for who he is, not just for who he was created to replace. So I suppose we should be thanking you, for failing him so spectacularly. Because he’s ours now, and we love him more than you ever could.”

“Derek, I—” Carter starts, blinking at him in shock.

Derek closes his notebook and looks over at Daniel, who’s also staring wide-eyed at him, having listened in on the entire conversation. “I need some air,” he says as he pushes himself to his feet, leaving his notebook and pen on the desk. “I’ll be back in ten.”

“Derek—” Daniel calls after him, but Derek isn’t in the mood; he ignores them both and walks out, following his nose to the scent of the ocean, stopping only once he’s out on a balcony overlooking the city.

He grips the railing of the balconly tightly and takes several slow breaths to calm himself. He’s not sure where all that came from, why he reacted so viscerally to such innocuous comments. Something about this place is throwing him off balance—he doesn’t know if it’s the distance from home, or if the pervasive presence of whatever intelligence is inhabiting this city is just too overstimulating, or if something else yet to be identified is affecting his ability to maintain his composure. But whatever the cause, he’s not sure he’s safe to be around at the moment.

He closes his eyes and breathes again, opening his mind until he can feel his bond with Stiles, letting the certainty of that connection wash over him and settle in his bones. Cora and the rest of the pack are a galaxy away, but Stiles is here, across the city, and that’s all Derek needs to start to feel like himself again.

He’ll take a few more breaths to make sure he’s composed again, then head back in to start once more on the translation. And, hopefully, Carter will be gone, and all he’ll have to worry about is the work.

Chapter Text

Derek takes another excruciatingly slow breath as he moves into the next stance in the sequence. According to Teal’c, this moving meditation is supposed to help with balance, patience, and control, all of which he apparently needs more of at the moment, but right now it’s just leaving him feeling even more frustrated. He doesn’t want a repeat of yesterday, though, so he’ll keep at it, at least until he needs to get back to the lab.

He’s interrupted, though, by two people approaching the gym. He hopes, for the briefest of moments, that they’re just passing by, but he knows he’s unlikely to be that lucky. And, indeed, it very quickly becomes clear that whoever they are, this particular room of the gym is their destination. Derek sighs and relaxes out of the sequence, spinning his staff around one hand as they enter.

They stop talking about whatever it was they were chatting about as soon as they step into the room and see Derek. “Oh,” the woman says, “we weren’t aware anyone else would be here so early. Are we interrupting?”

“It’s fine,” Derek says, absentmindedly spinning the staff again as he weighs his options. He could stay and try to get back to his exercises, and hope that the pair of them aren’t too disruptive, nor bothered by his presence; he could find somewhere else to do this, assuming he doesn’t get lost in this massive city; or he could give up and go do something else, and hope he can maintain his control all day.

“You are Derek Hale, are you not?” she asks, studying him with a curious but friendly look on her face. “You are here with Colonel Carter.”

Derek presses his lips together in a tight line and nods stiffly. Maybe he’d be better off finding Stiles, taking him somewhere private, and burning off his frustration some other way. He spins the staff again and starts to walk to the edge of the room to deposit it with the other practice weapons.

“Ronon and I were planning to start our day with a sparring session,” the woman says, before Derek can get very far. “Would you care to join us?”

Derek stops, furrows his brow, and slowly turns to look at the pair. The man—Ronon, apparently—is large and tough-looking, clearly very strong, and, from the way he moves, almost certainly a very skilled warrior, but is, in all other ways, an ordinary human. The woman, on the other hand, seems human at first glance, but there’s something more to her, something Derek has never encountered before. “Who are you?” he asks, studying her with narrowed eyes. And what are you? he wants to ask, but neither of these two are read in on what he is; revealing that he knows she’s more than human would reveal the same about himself.

“Teyla Emagan,” she answers, inclining her head slightly in acknowledgement. “Ronon and I are part of Colonel Sheppard’s team.”

Sheppard—Stiles’ friend. Derek takes another moment to study the pair and consider his options. They are likely both highly capable fighters, and clearly consider themselves evenly matched despite the disparity in their size and strength. A sparring match with two people of unfamiliar fighting styles sounds far more appealing than his original plan of solitary meditation, and the added challenge of concealing his true nature will be a much more effective exercise for his control. He rarely needs to bother with such concerns in a fight—when he’s training with his team or his pack, everyone already knows what he is; and when he’s fighting offworld, he doesn’t typically stick around long enough after to ever face consequences for the reveal—but this is a different situation entirely. He’s not among trusted friends, nor must he fight for survival. But, all the same, this could well end up being a fight for his life, if he reveals something he shouldn’t. He spins his staff again and nods, stepping back out toward the center of the room. “Alright.”

He waits patiently as they select weapons for themselves—Teyla chooses a pair of mid-length sticks, and Ronon picks out a katana-shaped wooden practice sword—analyzing their stance and the way they move. Teyla is similar in size to Cora, moving with a grace and fluidity that speaks of tremendous control and deceptive amounts of strength. Ronon spins his practice sword around his hand a few times, either testing its balance or showing off; Derek can tell his muscles aren’t just for show, though—every movement is brutal and efficient, and his eyes are sharp as he studies Derek in return.

He allows them both to circle him, watching and listening all the while, waiting for the first strike. It’s Ronon who finally breaks, striking at Derek’s side from behind. Derek blocks him easily and drives him back—it was a testing blow, not a full-strength assault, and Ronon resumes circling with a satisfied smirk.

Teyla strikes next, and Derek decides it’s a good thing he’s been practicing so much with Cora—Teyla doesn’t have the supernaturally-assisted speed and strength of an Alpha werewolf, but she’s as close as a human can get to it, and with more experience. It’ll be harder than expected to make his own strength appear merely human.

“Impressive,” Teyla says admiringly as Derek fends her off and breaks away. “You seem to have far more experience than I would expect for someone of your youth.”

Derek clenches his jaw and begins an assault of his own on Ronon, mostly to give himself time to figure out the best way to phrase his answer; Ronon blocks each strike and eventually shoves him back. “I’m a quick study.”

Teyla regards him curiously. “You do not fight as one who merely does so for recreation. You have an instinct for survival I don’t often see in the people of your world.”

Derek keeps his eyes fixed on Teyla even as Ronon circles behind him. “I suppose I’ve lived a harder life than many on my planet.” He hears Ronon’s next strike coming and spins to catch it on his staff, then has to quickly break away so he can block an attack from Teyla.

He ends up with his staff caught between Teyla’s sticks, almost looming over her, but somehow with a sense that she’s somehow looking down on him. “There’s more to you than you are allowing us to see,” she observes coolly, then twists around in a maneuver designed to dump Derek on his back; he directs the momentum into a somersault instead, regaining his footing at the end, but he’s not sure he managed to make the movement believably human. He should have known they’d realize he’s something more; both of them are too skilled, too canny, not to notice what they’re up against.

“If I’m holding back,” he says, voice low, meeting her eyes steadily, “trust that it is for my own protection. It’s not a judgement of your skills; I’ve been hunted, and I don’t know who in this galaxy I can trust.”

Teyla inclines her head in acknowledgement. “Very well. We shall not force you to endanger yourself to satisfy our own curiosity.”

“I don’t care what you are,” Ronon agrees, and Derek blinks in surprise at hearing the man speak at last. “Just make the fight a good one, yeah?”

“Now that,” Derek says with a predatory grin as he readies himself for the next attack, “I can do.”

Chapter Text

“Bwuh—huh?” Stiles jolts upright and flails as a hand lands on his shoulder, waking him. He blinks, disoriented, for a moment and rubs his eyes, and the hand pulls away from his shoulder.

It takes another moment for his eyes to focus, and his vision finally clears to reveal Colonel Carter’s face, looking down at him with a bemused smile. “Sorry. I was going to let you sleep longer, but Colonel Sheppard says there’s something you’ll want to see.”

Stiles glances over at the window and grimaces. “Is the sun even up yet?” he grumbles, scrubbing at his face with both hands.

Carter huffs an amused breath. “Yes, the sun is up. Technically.”

Stiles groans and throws off his blankets, swinging his feet off the side of the bed. “Wh’ time ‘s it, anyway?”

“Oh-six-thirty, local time,” she reports.

Stiles shoots an intense glare at her as he pushes himself to his feet. “I had another half hour before my alarm was gonna go off.”

“I know,” she says, her eyes dancing with mischief, “but Sheppard insisted.”

Stiles heaves a long-suffering sigh and shuffles over to his backpack. “Fine. Just lemme get dressed.” He waves a hand to shoo her out of the room.

She nods and walks to the door. “Make it quick, though,” she says over her shoulder as she exits, “you won’t want to miss it.”

“Miss what?” Stiles grumbles to himself as the door shuts behind her, but he gets changed as quickly as possible, relieves himself in the attached facilities, splashes some water on his face, and calls that good enough for now. He exits the room to find Carter leaning against the wall waiting for him. “Gonna at least give me a hint?”

Her eyes crinkle as she pushes herself off the wall and shakes her head. “You’re gonna want to see for yourself,” she says, starting off down the corridor at a brisk pace.

Stiles mutters a few rude words under his breath and hurries to catch up. Down one corridor; left, and straight through the atrium; left again; up two flights of stairs; right down a longer corridor; and, at last, following the sounds of an enthusiastic crowd into a large room. Stiles spots Sheppard and pushes his way past a few chattering people in the crowd to get to him, notices that his eyes are fixed on whatever’s happening in the center of the room, turns to look, and freezes.

“Oh. My. Fucking. God.”

“Worth getting up for?” Sheppard mutters, leaning close.

Stiles makes an embarrassing noise, and Sheppard chuckles.

Because, in the center of the room, is quite possibly one of the most beautiful things Stiles has ever seen. Derek, sparring with Teyla and Ronon, all three of them moving together in what looks like an intricate and exceptionally deadly dance, all rippling muscles and blurs of movement and visceral raw power.

“If I didn’t already know I’m bisexual,” Stiles says faintly, eyes wide in wonder, “this would be all the proof I’d ever need.”

“Figured you’d appreciate this,” Sheppard says smugly.

“Understatement of the century, my dude,” Stiles says, clapping him firmly on the shoulder.

They watch in silence for a while, just enjoying the show—or, rather, Stiles enjoys it in silence; most of the rest of the crowd are chattering away, placing bets on the outcome, and otherwise making appreciative comments. Stiles doesn’t care about any of that, though; in his eyes, all of that fades away, and all he sees is the man he loves, strong and powerful and glorious in action against two equally-beautiful opponents.

As he watches, though, a plan starts to formulate. It’ll be tricky to pull off, and he might finally get himself in enough trouble to end up fired for realsies, but he can’t help it. If he can make it happen, he needs to try. For Derek, because Derek will love it, and Derek deserves nice things. He leans over to speak low into Sheppard’s ear. “Hey, can I ask you a favor?”

Sheppard tears his eyes away from the fight to look over at Stiles, intrigued. “Sure, what’s up?”

“Sometime before we have to head home,” Stiles says, his eyes flicking back to Derek, “could I borrow a jumper?”

Sheppard shrugs. “Sure, I can take you out any time, as long as it doesn’t interfere with—”

“No, I mean—” his eyes flick over to Derek again, and his tongue darts out to moisten his lips— “just me. And Derek. Alone.”

Sheppard’s eyebrows shoot up. “You don’t plan to take it very far, do you? Because—”

Stiles shakes his head sharply. “You know the spot. He needs to see it. And there’s something I want to say to him that—” he leans closer and lowers his voice further— “that I’d like to say in private.”

Sheppard studies him for a moment, then looks over to study Derek, then back to Stiles. “Might take some time to make all the necessary arrangements,” he warns, “and I might have to call in a few favors of my own, if we don’t want Woolsey to throw a fit.”

“I’ll owe you one,” Stiles promises. “Hell, I’ll owe you several. Please, just—it’s important.”

Sheppard thinks about it for a moment longer, then blinks and shrugs one shoulder. “Well, I can’t make any guarantees, but I’ll see what I can do.”

Stiles reaches over to squeeze both of his shoulders in an awkward side-hug, then lets go and turns his attention back to the fight.

Stiles would be quite happy just to watch this go on forever, but apparently all good things must come to an end. Sheppard eventually breaks it up, citing everyone’s need for food or to get to work. There’s a fair amount of grumbling and complaints from the crowd, but everyone does slowly start to disperse. Stiles continues to watch from the sidelines as Derek and the others put their weapons away and say their goodbyes—Derek and Ronon clasp forearms in a warrior’s handshake, and Teyla places a hand on Derek’s shoulder as they press their foreheads together for a breath. Derek heads directly over to Stiles after, grabbing his hip in one hand and the back of his head in the other to pull him in for a heated kiss—Stiles only flails a little bit before his hands land on either side of Derek’s neck.

“And a good morning to you, too,” Stiles gasps when Derek finally lets him come up for air, and Derek grins.

“Your breath reeks,” Derek grumbles, but he doesn’t move away. In fact, he holds his grip on the back of Stiles’ head firmly so he can’t move away.

“Someone decided to have the universe’s sexiest sparring match at the ass-crack of dawn,” Stiles complains halfheartedly, “and I had to get dragged outta bed to watch. Didn’t even have time to brush my teeth.”

Derek hums thoughtfully. “I’ll try to be more considerate next time.”

“You do that,” Stiles orders in as stern a tone as he can muster, poking Derek in the chest with one finger.

Derek finally pulls back, but only so he can smack Stiles on the ass, causing Stiles to yelp in surprise and delight, and grab his hand to tug him along out of the room. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

Stiles follows blissfully along, not really caring about breakfast, not yet hungry this soon after waking up, but content to go wherever Derek wants to lead him.

Chapter Text

“You have to help me,” Cora says the second the door opens.

Lydia’s eyes widen, and her body tenses. “Why? What happened? What’s wrong?”

“O’Neill wants to take me out on a date,” Cora explains, furrowing her brow in consternation.

Lydia blinks a few times, opens and closes her mouth, then steps aside to let Cora in. “Haven’t you two already been on dates?” she asks, tilting her head in confusion.

Cora scrubs her hands down her face as she steps inside. “We’ve been on casual dates—coffee and hanging out, or whatever. Now he wants to take me on a real date. At a nice restaurant, with people and place settings and candles and stuff. I’ll have to—” she scrunches her nose in irritation— “dress up.”

“Okay…” Lydia draws the word out skeptically. “And, what, you don’t want to?”

“I do,” Cora says, softly but assuredly. “I do want to. But I don’t—” she cuts off, biting her lip and looking down at her feet.

Lydia lifts an expectant eyebrow. “You don’t what?” she prompts gently.

“I’ll have to dress up,” Cora repeats, “but I…” she sighs and scuffs a foot against the floor. “I don’t own a dress. Or. Anything fancy, actually. I’ve never needed anything like that. I’ve never needed to care about what I look like before.”

Lydia’s lips part in surprise, her eyes brightening with an amused twinkle. “You came to me for fashion advice?”

“Yes,” Cora admits through gritted teeth. She feels ridiculous asking this.

“Well,” Lydia says, looking delighted, “I can’t say I ever expected this, but I’m honored that you would come to me.”

Cora shrugs. “You’re always so put-together and confident. I trust your judgement.”

“So, did you want me to take you shopping?” Lydia asks, perhaps a little too enthusiastically.

Cora grimaces. She supposes she should, but honestly, shopping just sounds exhausting. “Maybe for now I just borrow something of yours? We can go shopping once I have a better idea of what I’m comfortable with.”

“Shopping could help give you a better idea of what you’re comfortable with,” Lydia suggests.

“I’d prefer to spend as little time as possible in crowded stores,” Cora states plainly.

“I suppose that’s valid,” Lydia concedes. “Alright, then, follow me.” She whirls around with a flick of her hair and leads the way to her bedroom. Cora sits on the edge of the bed, watching as Lydia starts picking things out of her closet. “Did you have anything in particular in mind?”

Cora has put a bit of thought into this already. “Nothing too restrictive. I still want to be able to move freely, or fight if I need to.”

Lydia looks over her shoulder at Cora, raising her eyebrows. “You’re expecting you’ll have to fight?”

“Not expecting to,” Cora says, picking at a hole recently worn into the knee of her jeans. “But experience tells me it would be foolish not to be prepared.”

Lydia pauses her search through the closet and turns to study Cora. “Do I want to know what kind of experiences you’ve had to make this a necessary precaution?”

Cora smiles wryly and leans back, resting her weight on her hands. “Just the usual. Most of our dates, or whatever you want to call them, end up getting interrupted by some sort of disaster. Berserkers or kidnappings or assassins or, y’know, Scott McCall’s mere existence.”

“So I shouldn’t lend you something unless I can live with the possibility that it might end up torn to pieces and covered in blood,” Lydia says, turning to her closet again, putting a few of the dresses she’d chosen back in, and picking out a few others instead.

“I certainly don’t intend to end up bloody,” Cora says, “but yes, it’s been known to happen. I cannot guarantee that I will be able to return your clothing intact.”

“What kind of accessorizing do you plan to do?” Lydia asks as she turns away from the closet and places her armload of dresses on the bed beside Cora.

Cora frowns. “Accessorizing?”

Lydia gives her a strange look. “Shoes, jewelry, handbags, hair adornments—”

“Nothing I have to carry,” Cora says, “and the only jewelry I’ll ever wear is this.” She brings a hand up to tap a fingernail against her amulet.

“And shoes?” Lydia prompts again.

Cora lifts one leg and points at the shoe currently on her foot. “I have a clean pair of these.”

Lydia presses her lips together in a pained expression. “What size do you wear? You can borrow—”

“I won’t wear high heels,” Cora says firmly. “Not when there’s a possibility I’ll have to fight. Or run.”

Lydia pinches the bridge of her nose and sighs. “Fine. Okay. Then, we’re looking for something simple but elegant that won’t clash with the bold and distinctive style of your amulet and doesn’t need any additional assistance to look complete. And something you can fight or run in, apparently. And, ideally, something with pockets, if you want to be able to carry your wallet and phone.” She sorts through the pile of dresses and picks out three that apparently fit all the criteria, holding them out to Cora. “Start with these.”

Cora nods and stands so she can start to disrobe. “Thanks.”

“Don’t thank me until we find one that works,” Lydia says, busying herself with swapping out a few of the dresses in the pile of options, putting away more than she’s taking out. “I can give you privacy while you’re changing, if you—”

“I don’t care,” Cora says as she strips off her shirt and unbuttons her jeans. “But you can leave if you’re uncomfortable.”

Lydia rolls her eyes and sits on the edge of the bed. “I’ve been in plenty of locker rooms in my time. This is no different.”

“Good,” Cora says, nodding once approvingly. She finishes getting changed, then turns to Lydia for inspection.

“Oh, no.” Lydia scrunches her nose and shakes her head. “Not the right cut for you. Take it off.”

“See, this is why I need you,” Cora says as she unzips the dress and steps out of it. “I would’ve thought it was fine.” She hands it back to Lydia for her to put away, then grabs the next one on the stack.

“It was fine,” Lydia says, setting the dress aside in a separate pile to deal with later, then settling back to watch Cora with an analytical gaze. “But we don’t want to settle for fine. We want wow.”

“I don’t know if I need wow,” Cora says, contorting a little to get the dress zipped. “I just need to look presentable.”

“This is a special occasion,” Lydia says, motioning for Cora to twirl around once the dress is on. “Your first real date. Trust me, you’re gonna want wow.” She tilts her head and narrows her eyes as she looks Cora over. “This one’s a maybe, but I’m not sure I’m satisfied with it for this particular occasion. Try the next one.”

Cora nods and twists to get to the zipper. “All these human social rituals are so needlessly complicated,” she grumbles, pulling the dress over her head and handing it off to Lydia.

“You’re human, too, y’know,” Lydia points out, her voice tinged with amusement, setting the dress down on a separate pile from the first.

“Am I?” Cora mutters as she pulls on the next dress.

“As human as I am,” Lydia says softly.

But not human enough, Cora thinks but doesn’t say, getting the dress situated on her shoulders. Not human enough to satisfy the Calaveras, even though she’s never done anything to any of them, nor to anyone they claim to protect. Not human enough for Scott to accept and embrace what he could be, if only he could expand his definition of humanity a little and give himself a chance to grow. Not human enough to live in peace, no matter how hard she works to make that happen.

She’s starting to wonder if maybe Ernest had the right idea all along—maybe he hadn’t been stuck as a wolf, after all, but rather chose it when it became too difficult to navigate all the complexities of human life without his support system. Life was simpler for him that way, with nothing to worry about but survival, free to go anywhere he wanted without a care for human laws or responsibilities. Well, no responsibilities other than her, anyway, but she’d always done her best to make herself as minimal a burden as possible.

It had been a lonely life, though. Free, but so unbearably lonely. As tempting as it might be sometimes to leave the worries of the human world behind, she would never be able to survive a life like that again. Not now that she’s finally experienced what life can be like among people who actually care about her.

Chapter Text

It feels strange—inefficient, and more frustrating than she would have ever imagined—to wait like this. The time it takes for the car to pull into the driveway, for the car to park, for him to step out of the car and walk up the steps and, finally, to knock on the door, feels like it stretches on forever. But this is a special occasion, or so she’s been told. This isn’t just coffee, or ice cream, or hanging out at his apartment. This is a date. A real one. And dates come with certain expectations and traditions and rituals. Ones that seem ridiculous to her on the surface, but, nonetheless, ones she will observe, at least for tonight.

Cora waits with her hand on the doorknob for two breaths after he knocks, then opens the door. O’Neill is waiting for her on the other side, a sunny bouquet of white, yellow, and a smattering of delicate blue flowers in his hands and a smile on his face. His eyes widen and his smile slowly fades as his lips part, and a small rush of air escapes him as he takes in her appearance. She shifts her weight from one foot to another, nervously smoothing a hand down the skirt of her dress, and his eyes track the movement. “Do I look okay?” she asks softly, biting her lip and gripping the doorknob tightly in her other hand.

“Do you—” he echoes faintly, then clears his throat and blinks a few times, dragging his eyes back up to meet hers. “Uh. Yeah. I—” he blinks again and shakes himself a little. “More than okay. Wow. Um—hi.”

She ducks her chin with a small smile, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Hi.” Lydia was right; it does feel nice to look wow enough to render him speechless. She glances back up—he’s staring at her again, looking a little dazed. “Are those for me?” she prompts, gesturing at the bouquet in his hands.

“Hm? Oh—” he startles a little, apparently only just now remembering that his hands are occupied. “Right. Yes. For you.” He holds it out to her, and his eyes drift down to her lips, his tongue darting out to moisten his own.

She lifts a bemused eyebrow as she takes the bouquet out of his hands. “Should I put this in water?”

“Water,” he echoes, nodding distractedly as his gaze wanders down her body again. “Yes, good idea.”

She huffs an amused breath and leads the way to the kitchen, with him trailing a few steps behind. The Sheriff is seated at the kitchen table, studying some case files, and he glances up with a soft smile as she steps into the room. “Do we have a vase?” she asks him, lifting the bouquet a few inches in emphasis.

“Middle cabinet, top shelf,” he says, pointing his pen at one of the upper cabinets. “Can you reach? Or—”

“I can get it,” O’Neill offers, stepping over to open the cabinet and grab the vase, handing it to her with a small bow and a crooked grin.

“Thanks,” she says dryly, taking the vase over to the sink so she can fill it with water and get the flowers settled. Maybe the dress is working a little too well, if it’s making him act this silly. He didn’t even get this flustered when he had her fully naked in his arms—though, admittedly, there were extenuating circumstances that may have colored his reaction on that particular occasion, and they’d been very rudely interrupted before anything fun could happen.

“I trust you’ll keep her safe out there tonight,” the Sheriff says to O’Neill, in his most officious and Sheriff-y sounding tone.

“Of course, sir,” O’Neill responds, and Cora blinks in surprise and whirls around to stare at them, still holding the vase. She’s never heard him call the Sheriff sir before. The Sheriff is looking unusually stern, and O’Neill actually seems nervous. This is weird. O’Neill catches her looking and takes a few steps closer. “Wait, here—” he plucks a palm-sized yellow sunflower out of the vase and tucks it behind her ear. “Perfect,” he whispers, a soft smile on his face as his hand lingers on her cheek for a moment. He startles and steps away again when the Sheriff clears his throat.

Cora suppresses an eye roll at all the silliness and walks over to place the vase on the table by the Sheriff, squeezing his shoulder and leaning down to press a soft kiss to his cheek. “Behave yourself tonight,” she advises him with a raised eyebrow.

“I will if you will,” he retorts with a sly smile, reaching up to squeeze her hand briefly, and she huffs an amused breath.

She straightens up and looks expectantly at O’Neill. “Are we ready?”

“Definitely,” he says with a grin, offering her his arm. She reaches for him, but before she can get settled, he catches her hand and lifts it to his lips to brush a soft kiss across her knuckles. She blushes, he grins again, and he tucks her hand into the crook of his elbow to lead her out.

“You kids have fun,” the Sheriff calls after them.

“Oh, we will,” she calls back, catching O’Neill’s eye and smirking up at him, noting with interest the way his cheeks appear a bit rosier than usual as his eyes drift down to her lips again.

He opens the door for her as they exit the house, then gets the car door for her as well, closing it gently once she’s settled inside. He slips into the driver’s seat, then pauses and turns to her, his gaze sweeping down her body again. “I’m sure you’ve already picked up on this, but—good God, Cora, you wear that well.”

“It’s Lydia’s,” she confesses, adjusting the way the hem sits across her thighs. “I’m only borrowing it.”

He nods approvingly. “She has good taste. But that’s not what I’m saying; the dress isn’t the point—it’s you. You—” he huffs a breath and reaches over to cradle her face in both of his hands, pulling her gently in to press their foreheads together. He closes his eyes and takes a breath before continuing, his voice low, sweeping his thumbs across her cheeks as he speaks. “You make it beautiful. You make everything beautiful. And I don’t just mean the way you look. I mean this—” he takes one hand away from her face to tap her chest, over her heart— “and this—” he taps the side of her head, then loops his hand around the back of her head and sinks his fingers into her hair. “Everything, Cora,” he breathes, brushing his nose against hers.

“Jack,” she whispers, placing her hand over his heart and feeling it leap when she says his name. She really doesn’t know what to say or how she’s supposed to respond when he says things like that, but he seems perfectly content with nothing but his name on her lips.

He presses in just a bit closer until she can feel his breath ghosting across her lips, and her mouth opens slightly in anticipation—but instead he pulls reluctantly back with a sigh that’s also a bit of a groan, pauses to adjust the flower he’d knocked askew in his enthusiasm, and plonks his head hard against the headrest of his seat. He closes his eyes and takes a slow, deliberate breath, then tilts his head to look at her with a wry half-smile. “If I kiss you now, I don’t know if I’ll ever want to stop.”

She shrugs, as casually as she can manage. “I don’t necessarily see a problem with that.”

He makes a slight strangled noise and tilts his head away again, shifting a little in his seat. “The problem is that we’re still sitting in your driveway,” he grumbles, “and the Sheriff is right inside.” He takes another breath to compose himself, then clears his throat, straightens up, and starts the car. “And besides, I’m hungry.”

She nods knowingly, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Gonna need to be properly fueled up for whatever else you have planned for us tonight?”

“You need to stop saying things like that if you ever want us to make it to the restaurant,” he complains halfheartedly as he backs out of the driveway and pulls onto the street.

She giggles. “Okay, sorry, I’ll stop.”

He reaches over to capture her hand, twining their fingers together, while his eyes remain fixed on the road ahead. “I don’t actually want you to stop,” he confesses quietly.

“I know,” she says, just as quietly, watching his profile with a bemused smile on her face. “And I’m not actually sorry for distracting you.”

“I know,” he echoes with a smug grin, then squeezes her hand. “I’m kind of regretting booking us at such a fancy restaurant tonight. They definitely won’t approve of how much I want to just spend the entire evening kissing you.”

“Not too late to change our minds and go somewhere else,” she offers. “I don’t care where we go, as long as we go together.”

“As tempting as that sounds,” he sighs as he navigates the car onto the main road toward town, “I’m gonna stick to the plan. You deserve fancy dinners and flowers and all of it. You deserve everything, after living so long without anything.”

“I don’t need everything,” she says softly, sweeping her thumb across his knuckles. “I have enough.”

“You deserve more,” he insists, his jaw set, his eyes determined.

And she’s hardly going to argue with him on that, not when he says it with such conviction. It feels overly-indulgent and selfish to accept luxuries like fancy dinners and gifts she’s done nothing to earn, things that don’t even have a useful purpose, but maybe that’s just her mother talking, and her years of making do with the bare minimum necessary for survival while she was on the run. O’Neill is happiest when she allows herself to enjoy things, even if she doesn’t need them, so who is she to deny him that?

The conversation lulls into silence for the rest of the drive, but it’s not at all awkward or uncomfortable. His eyes stay fixed on the road while his hand stays firmly wrapped around hers, a soft, pleased smile on his face. She watches his face in profile all the way there, cataloguing the minute changes in his expression as he navigates the car, always so alert and aware of his surroundings; she takes note of the way his expression softens and tension melts out of his body when she squeezes his hand or runs her thumb across his knuckles; and she listens to the steady beat of his heart, strong and constant and so very alive.

He has to pull his hand away to navigate into the restaurant parking lot, letting go with great reluctance. He leans over after he parks the car to murmur in her ear, “Wait there.” She nods in acknowledgement and waits as he climbs out of the car, walks around to open her door, and offers his hand to help her out.

She huffs a small amused breath, but accepts his hand and steps out of the car. “Is all this really necessary?”

“If it means I get to touch you more,” he says, leaning down a bit so his breath tickles the shell of her ear as he speaks, bringing his palm to rest at the small of her back, “then yes, it’s very necessary.”

She rolls her eyes to mask the flushing of her cheeks. “You can do that without all the fanfare.”

“I know I can,” he says as he leads her into the restaurant with gentle pressure at her back, “but this is more fun.” He straightens up to address the hostess once they get inside. “O’Neill, party of two?”

“Of course, sir, right this way.” She grabs two menus and leads them to a table by the window. O’Neill pulls out a chair for Cora and waits for her to get settled before he sits himself, and once they’re both seated, the hostess hands over their menus. “Your server will be with you shortly.”

“Great, thank you,” he says with a friendly smile, apparently unaware of the flirtatious once-over the hostess gives him as she steps away.

Cora opens her menu but doesn’t need to look at it—she already studied it before coming here tonight, already decided what she’s going to order. Instead, she watches O’Neill as he studies his own menu. She doesn’t know quite how to start this conversation, but she thinks she needs to be the one to do so, and the hostess’s attention provided the perfect opening. She takes a breath in, shifts a little in her seat, and slowly breathes out. “She liked you,” Cora says quietly.

His brow crinkles and he glances up at her. “Who?”

“The hostess,” she clarifies, watching carefully to gauge his reaction.

“Oh.” His brow crinkles further, his eyes searching her face. “And does that… bother you?”

“No,” she states simply, then hesitates for a second as she decides how to continue. “I’m moving in a few days,” she reminds him.

“Two and a half hours away,” he says, folding his menu closed and setting it down to give her his full attention.

“I’ll be busy with school, and you with work,” she says. “And even if I wasn’t moving, there are things you want that I—”

They’re interrupted by the arrival of their server; O’Neill looks very briefly annoyed by the disruption, but he quickly schools his features back to something neutral and friendly. They get their orders placed, and then they’re alone again. O’Neill studies her for another moment with a cautious frown on his face. “What are you trying to say, exactly?”

She sighs and fidgets with her napkin. “Just that—” she bites her lip in uncertainty as she tries to find the words— “it would be okay. If you wanted to be with other people.”

He blinks, opens and closes his mouth, then furrows his brow deeper, looking genuinely confused. “Why would I want anyone else?”

She shrugs and fidgets again, looking down at the table. “Sometimes… I worry that you want more out of this than I do. And I don’t want to hold you back, if there are things that could make you happy that I can’t give you. So I just want you to know it’s okay, if you want to find that with someone else.”

He stares at her in silence for a few moments, long enough that she starts to squirm a little in her seat, before he finally speaks. “What do you feel when you’re with me?”

She blinks twice, then frowns. “What do you mean?”

“What do you feel?” he repeats gently, clasping his hands together and leaning his forearms against the table, his eyes searching hers. “Do you feel afraid? Pressured?”

“Never,” she says decisively.

“Good, okay,” he says, and he relaxes visibly. Visibly, but not completely—he hesitates, then asks quietly, “Do you feel inadequate?”

And now it’s her turn to hesitate. She’s not sure inadequate is the exact right word, but it’s also not entirely the wrong word, either. She’s not enough for him—doesn’t know how she can be, when she’s only herself. He deserves more, and better. He deserves someone who can love him easily and give him everything he’s ever wanted, and as hard as she might try, she just doesn’t know if that person can be her. She doesn’t know how to say any of that, though, so she doesn’t say anything.

He exhales slowly and scrubs his hands down his face. “Okay,” he says, reaching across the table and offering his hands to her, palm-up. “Let me tell you what I feel, then.”

She doesn’t hesitate to reach out and place her hands in his—because even if she’s not sure what she’s feeling, even if she might not be enough for him, she can’t deny herself the comfort of his touch. Maybe it’s selfish to take this when she doesn’t know if she can give him what he needs in return, but he offered, and she’ll happily accept as much as she can get while it’s still available to her. She squeezes his hands and nods for him to continue.

“When I’m with you,” he says softly, looking down at their joined hands, stroking his thumbs across her knuckles, “I feel like I’m worth something. Like I’m worth something, not just as a copy of the original, but as myself.”

“You are,” she tells him, squeezing his hands again for emphasis.

His lips twitch up in a tiny smile, and he lifts his eyes to meet hers. “When I’m with you, I believe it.” He pauses for a breath, holding her gaze steadily, then continues. “I never used to care if I had a future of my own, but since I met you, all I can think about is what kind of life I want to build for myself, and all the ways I want that life to intertwine with yours. You make me feel things, want things, I never thought I’d find in this life. Things I never dared to hope for in my last life.”

“I feel safe with you,” she admits quietly, feeling like she needs to say something, after all these lovely things he’s saying to her. “Comfortable. Maybe that’s not very romantic—”

“Coming from you, it’s one of the most romantic things I’ve ever heard,” he says, his eyes wide in wonder. “To be someone you can trust, someone you can rely on, someone you can be yourself around—” he lifts both of her hands and leans forward to press a kiss to the back of each. “Cora, I—”

“What if that’s all I have to offer?” she interrupts, before he can get any further entrenched into the romanticism of the moment. “What if comfort is all we’ll ever have? Can that be enough for you?”

“Enough?” he echoes, his eyes wide and a little incredulous. “Cora, that’s everything.”

“We might be apart for months at a time as I advance through my studies,” she argues, because he still isn’t getting it. “I don’t want you to feel like you have to wait for me—”

“I don’t have to wait for you,” he says with a bemused smile. “I want to wait for you. I get to wait for you. You, Cora—the one person who has ever made me feel like my life is worth living, for my own sake. And I want that life to include you, in any capacity you desire. If you don’t want to be with me, that’s one thing. I’d be heartbroken, but I’d respect it. But if you’re doubting this because of what you think I want—”

“It isn’t about doubt. I just—” she sighs and flattens her palms against his, then slides her hands up his wrists so she can rest her fingertips against his pulse points. “I don’t want to be the thing that makes you unhappy, just because I can’t be with you all the time, or because you want more than I can give. I do want to be with you, but I don’t want you to end up feeling stuck, accepting less than you deserve. I can share you, if it means I won’t lose you. If it means you’ll be happy.”

He studies her face for a moment, his fingers slowly curling around her wrists. “Why you would ever think you’re less than I deserve…” he says with a sigh and a disbelieving shake of his head. He takes a breath, then meets her eyes, his gaze searching and insistent. “Cora, you are so much more than I deserve. You’re everything. You’re kind, and brave, and so damn clever. You’re unfailingly loving and generous, and you make everyone around you better by association.”

“Not everyone,” she corrects quietly, dropping her gaze to look at their hands. She certainly hadn’t made her mother better, or Peter or Scott, and it seems like everything she tries to do these days to fix things with Allison just ends up making things worse.

“Cora,” he sighs, letting go of one of her hands and leaning forward so he can reach across the table to lift her chin. He waits until she meets his eyes before he speaks again, his voice soft. “You’re amazing. And I don’t know what I have to say or do to make you believe it, but I swear I’ll keep trying until you do.”

She stares at him for a second, letting that sink in, then lifts her free hand to wrap it around his wrist again, holding him in place. “Do you think they’d kick us out if I kissed you right now?”

He blinks once in surprise, then slowly grins. “I think that depends. How much kissing did you have in mind?”

“Probably too much,” she whispers, holding his gaze steadily.

“No such thing,” he whispers back, eyes darkening as he slides his hand from under her chin along her jaw to wrap around the back of her neck.

“You said you’re hungry,” she reminds him. “It would be a shame if they kicked us out before we got to eat anything.”

“Maybe I’m hungry for something else,” he says, his voice rumbling deep in his chest.

“If I kiss you once right now,” she offers, “will you be able to wait until after we eat for the rest?”

“You know if you ask, I’ll wait for you forever,” he says softly, very slightly tensing the hand at the back of her neck. “But can you? Will one be enough?”

“Two, then,” she concedes as she starts to lean forward to meet him. It’s awkward with the table between them, but she doesn’t care.

“Only two?” he murmurs, close enough now that she can feel his breath on her lips.

“Maybe three,” she breathes, pressing forward to close the distance between them.

Chapter Text

“So,” Cora says, once O’Neill has pulled the car into the driveway and turned off the engine. “That was—”

“Nope, don’t say anything,” he interrupts with a sly smile. “It’s not over yet. Wait right there.”

She rolls her eyes and smiles fondly as he gets out of the car, then huffs an amused breath as he once again hurries around to open her door for her and offers his hand. “All part of the experience, I suppose,” she mutters as she places her hand in his and climbs out.

“That it is,” he agrees, bumping their shoulders together lightly as they walk up the steps together, hand-in-hand. He stops her when they reach the door, though, turning to face her, bringing his free hand up to land on her hip. “I had a great time tonight,” he says, voice soft, eyes drifting down to stare at her lips. “And if you did, too, you’ll say something like—”

“Would you like to come in?” she asks, a little surprised by her own boldness.

His eyes snap up to hers, wide and surprised, and his mouth falls open. “I—your da—the Sheriff,” he stammers, “is inside—”

“My room has soundproofing,” she tells him with a shrug and a crooked smile, pretending as though her heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of her ribcage.

He makes a strangled noise that might be a laugh and leans down to rest his forehead against hers, taking several slow breaths to compose himself. “This isn’t that kind of date,” he says eventually, his voice rough, though his grip on her hip is telling her he would very much like for it to be that kind of date.

She brings her free hand up to his chest to rest over his heart. “It could be,” she offers quietly, and she feels his heartbeat stutter.

He lets go of her hand so he can bring his up to cup the back of her head, burying his fingers in her hair; she lets her recently-freed hand drift up to land on his waist. “I don’t want tonight to be about that,” he says softly. “You should get to have the memories of tonight, just as it was, without clouding it with anything else.”

She can’t help but smile at that—the memories of tonight will indeed be ones she’ll treasure. It truly was the perfect First Real Date. Magical, even—both literally and figuratively. And, much to her surprise and delight, nothing had tried to kill either of them. It seems almost too good to be true—so maybe she shouldn’t tempt fate by turning this evening into something else. “Next time, then,” she murmurs, sliding the hand on his waist down a bit to hook her thumb in his belt and feeling his heartbeat skip again under her other palm.

“Next time,” he promises on a breath, using the hand at the back of her head to tilt her face up so he can brush the tips of their noses together. “If you want. If you’re ready.”

She pushes herself up onto her toes to close the distance between them for a kiss, giving as much as she can to show him that she does, indeed, want. He’s been so patient with her, letting her take the lead, letting her set the pace for this thing growing between them. Wanting someone like this is so very new to her—she’s never felt desire like this with anyone else, never even thought she could—but like she’d told him earlier that evening, she feels comfortable with him. With him, she feels comfortable exploring this new side of herself, without the fear she has with others that tells her she’ll end up doing things wrong enough that she’ll end up hurt or alone. She trusts him not to turn on her, even if it turns out she’s not very good at this, or even if she doesn’t like it and never wants to do it again. He’s not the kind of person who would hurt her for changing her mind, or abandon her for not being what he wants.

“Next time,” he gasps when she finally allows him to surface for air. “Definitely.”

She lingers there for a moment, dragging her fingertips up along his jawline, taking her time studying the planes of his face. “Think of me tonight,” she requests softly when she meets his eyes again.

He barks out a quick laugh. “As if I’ll be able to think of anything else.”

“I’ll be thinking of you,” she tells him with a smirk.

“Oh God,” he groans, dropping his head down to bonk his forehead against hers, and she grins. “I have to go. Before I—” he swallows hard and straightens up, then clears his throat. “I have to go.”

“Alright,” she says, sinking down onto her heels, eyes crinkling as she smiles up at him. “Good night, then.”

“Good night,” he echoes, but he doesn’t move away, and his eyes drift down to her lips again.

She waits a few moments, but still he doesn’t move, so she flattens her palm over his heart again and looks up at him questioningly. “Do you still have to go?”

“Yeah,” he says, his voice rough, nodding distractedly. “Just—” his tongue darts out to moisten his lips— “one more thing.” He leans in to capture her mouth in a deep, tender kiss, holding her close when he finally breaks away. “I love you,” he breathes against her lips.

She stares up at him in stunned silence for a moment. “Jack—” she starts, but she has no idea what she intends to say after that.

“I know,” he says, meeting her eyes and nodding slightly. “You don’t have to say anything. I just… needed you to know.” He presses a gentle kiss to her forehead as he pulls away and releases her from his arms, then steps back to the edge of the porch. “I’ll wait until you’re inside.”

“Jack…” she hesitates. He said she didn’t need to say anything, but she feels like she should. She just doesn’t know what.

But he doesn’t give her time to think about it. “Good night, Cora,” he says, gazing at her fondly with a soft smile on his face.

She hesitates a second longer, then turns to place her hand on the doorknob. “Good night, Jack,” she says quietly, then opens the door and steps inside. She falls back against the door as it closes again, listening as he walks back to his car, gets in, and drives away, taking slow, steady breaths to calm her heart as an absolute mess of thoughts and emotions crowd her mind. She waits until he’s fully out of earshot before she kicks off her shoes and heads to the kitchen, where she can hear the Sheriff, still hard at work on his case files.

He looks up as she enters the kitchen, his expression brightening. “Hey, kiddo. Wasn’t sure if you’d be back tonight. Did you have fun?”

She nods and pulls a chair over so she can sit close enough to lean against his side.

“Oh, hey,” he says, lifting his arm so he can wrap it around her shoulders as she turns her face into his chest. “You okay?”

She nods again and takes a few breaths as she continues to process everything. “He told me he loves me,” she says eventually, her voice soft.

“Oh,” he says, quiet and surprised. He pauses for a moment, then squeezes her shoulders gently. “Did you… say it back to him?”

“No,” she admits, turning her face further into his chest.

He hums thoughtfully and rubs his hand along her upper arm. “Did you want to?”

She pauses to think, then sighs and wraps a hand around her amulet. “I don’t know.” Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? She does love Jack, but is it the same way he loves her? Is the love she feels the right kind, the right amount, to satisfy him? If she says it back, will she be promising something she can’t deliver?

The Sheriff holds her in silence for a moment, then presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Do you want some ice cream?” he mutters into her hair, gently squeezing her shoulders again.

She blinks and sits up. “Yes, please,” she breathes, one corner of her mouth twitching up in the start of a smile. She’d had dessert at the restaurant, and she isn’t hungry at all, but that hardly matters—ice cream sounds like exactly what she needs right now.

“Alright,” he says, his eyes crinkling as he smiles at her, and he squeezes her shoulders one more time before letting go and getting up. “Come on.” She follows him over to the freezer; he grabs two spoons out of a drawer on the way and hands her one, picks out a full carton of chocolate chip cookie dough from the freezer, tosses the lid aside, then leans against the counter and digs in, straight from the carton, beckoning her over to join him. The corner of her mouth twitches up again, and she scoops a biteful of ice cream out of the carton, leaning against the counter next to the Sheriff with a satisfied sigh.

“So,” he says around another mouthful of ice cream, “aside from—” he pauses briefly to swallow and consider his words— “not knowing how to feel about… certain things, did you have a good time?”

“Very,” she says, feeling her cheeks flush and her smile grow. “It was perfect.” A delicious meal at the restaurant, followed by a walk under the stars, talking for hours about any little thing and occasionally letting themselves get distracted with making out—she couldn’t have imagined a more perfect First Real Date.

“Mm, good,” he nods approvingly, watching her with gentle curiosity even as he takes his next bite. “Did his declaration make you uncomfortable?”

She shakes her head and scoops out another bite. “Not uncomfortable.” It could never feel uncomfortable to be loved by him, even if she doesn’t know what to do about it.

He pauses to take another bite, chewing carefully before he speaks again. “I had a panic attack the first time Claudia told me she loved me,” he admits, his voice soft, eyes distant as he slips into the memory.

She blinks at him in surprise and furrows her brow. “You—what? No way.”

“‘S’true,” he nods, with a small sheepish smile. “We’d been friends for so long, and I—” he stops and huffs a breath. “I’d dated people before, a bit, but I’d never been in love. I didn’t think I could fall in love, actually, and when Claudia told me she loved me, I panicked, because I thought I was only gonna end up ruining her life.”

“You thought she’d never be happy enough with you, because you thought you could never love her back,” Cora says quietly, staring at him wide-eyed. This sounds remarkably like what she, herself, has been worrying about in regards her own feelings for O’Neill.

“Precisely,” he says, smiling fondly and leaning over to bump his shoulder against hers. “Turns out I was wrong, though—I couldn’t love just anyone, but I could love her. Already did, as a matter of fact. Just took me a while to figure that out.”

“What if I never figure it out?” she asks softly, stabbing her spoon into the carton of ice cream to dig out a big chunk of cookie dough. “What if he waits for me forever, and he ends up miserable because of it? What if he could be happier if he just found someone else and moved on?”

“You don’t have to have all the answers right now, kiddo,” he says, raising an eyebrow at her as he scoops out his next bite. “You’re both so young; you’ve got plenty of time. And if you go into this expecting it to fall apart, you’ll only be setting yourself up for heartache. Stop putting so much pressure on this—just enjoy yourselves. Let whatever’s gonna happen just… happen.”

“I suppose I could try that,” she says with a small smile. At least for now, until O’Neill realizes he can do better, she can enjoy what they have. And maybe she’ll be able to figure out what she’s feeling and tell him before it’s too late.

“I have every faith in you crazy kids to figure out something that works for both of you,” he says, winking as he takes his next bite.

They eat in silence for the next few bites, with him deeply focused on getting the perfect ratio of ice cream to cookie dough in each bite and her still pondering his words and trying to sort through all her feelings. It’s easier with him here; her mind is still in turmoil, but it’s settling faster with his steady presence at her side. She watches him for another moment before she feels she can speak again. “I’m gonna miss you,” she admits quietly, and he freezes mid-bite, looking up at her. “I know San Francisco isn’t that far, but I’ll miss being here with you.”

“Oh, kiddo,” he sighs, setting his spoon down in the carton so he can pull her into a hug, pressing a kiss to the top of her head. “I can visit as often as you want—”

“No,” she says, pulling back enough to look him in the eyes. “I need you here. I need someone to lead this pack when I can’t be here, and there’s no one I would trust with that more than you.”

He stares at her, speechless, for a moment. “Me?” he manages eventually.

“It’s a big responsibility,” she warns him, “but you’re more than capable. I’ll try to be available as much as possible in case anything happens, but—”

“But I’m not even a werewolf,” he says, furrowing his brow. “Do I really have the authority—”

“You’re the Sheriff,” she reminds him with a raised eyebrow. “You’re this town’s protector, as much as I am. They’ll listen to you.”

He sighs and pulls her into his arms again. “Alright. I’ll stay here, and you’ll visit when you can. I’ll keep ‘em safe for you, I promise. And I’ll miss you, too, kid. So much.”

She squeezes him back for a moment, then pulls away to dig into the ice cream again before it all melts. “So,” she starts, crinkling her brow as she scoops up a bite, “a funny thing happened, when O’Neill brought me home tonight.”

He raises a questioning eyebrow as he pokes at the ice cream with his spoon. “Funny amusing, or funny strange?”

She slowly chews and swallows her next bite before speaking again, watching him carefully. “He accidentally almost called you my dad.”

He freezes with his mouth open, his spoon loaded up and lifted halfway to his mouth, and briefly stops breathing. Then he blinks once, slowly lowers his spoon back to the carton, closes his mouth, and locks his eyes onto hers, his expression inscrutable. “And—was that… okay? With you?”

She makes herself hold eye contact with him, even though it would feel so much easier just to look away and hide, in case he isn’t going to react well to this. “You basically are,” she points out, her voice quiet and tentative and a little bit hopeful. “You’re the best parental figure I’ve had since—” she briefly closes her eyes, dropping her voice to a whisper— “since my Dad died.”

He reaches over to gently take the spoon out of her hand and set it on the counter so he can take both of her hands in his, holding them tightly. “If you were a year younger, I would’ve adopted you,” he tells her, his voice gentle but assured. “Nothing would’ve made me happier than to make it official, if that’s what you wanted. But I don’t ever want you to think I’m trying to replace your real Dad; I know you loved him, so very much.”

“You’re not a replacement,” she assures him softly, squeezing his hands. “You’re an addition. If I could choose any living person in this universe to be my parent, it would be you.”

He lets go of one of her hands so he can reach up and cup her cheek, sweeping his thumb under her eye to brush away a tear she hadn’t noticed was forming and blinking a few times himself in an attempt to clear the moisture from his own eyes, then leans forward to press a kiss to her forehead. “I do love you, kiddo,” he says, tugging her into his arms and tucking her head under his chin, “as if you were my own.”

“I think it’s okay that I’m not,” she mumbles into his chest. “I think… you didn’t have to care, but you chose to anyway. ‘S kinda nice.”

“I would choose you every time, Cora,” he murmurs into the top of her head as he holds her close, safe and secure in his arms. “You may not legally be my daughter, but you’re my girl.”

Chapter Text

“—And we thought for sure this console was dead,” McKay explains, gesturing with his tablet as he leads Stiles and Colonel Carter into a lab on the East Pier. “Like, seriously dead. I mean, it didn’t even wake up when the Ancients were here—”

“Actual Ancients were here in the city?” Stiles asks, raising his eyebrows in surprise. “Thought they were all dead.”

“Well, they are now,” McKay mutters distractedly. “Replicators took care of that. Anyway. So then one day you show up and do—” he waggles a hand at Stiles and grimaces— “whatever the hell it is you do, and suddenly this thing’s lighting up like a Christmas tree and sending mystery signals all over the city.”

“And you just can’t stand it when there’s a mystery you can’t solve,” Stiles concludes with a grin as he steps to the console in question. McKay stands at the corner of the console near him, and Carter sets herself up at a nearby desk with her laptop.

McKay grumbles something unintelligible under his breath. “Well. Doesn’t seem to be doing anything harmful at the moment. But we can’t even tell what the hell language the display is in—”

“Because this isn’t a language,” Stiles says with a contemplative frown as he brings up the display.

“What do you mean, it’s not a—”

“These are sigils,” Stiles explains distractedly as he scrolls down the screen.

“Oh, great, more of your ‘magic’ crap—” McKay rolls his eyes and does sarcastic finger quotes.

“It’s an inventory,” Stiles says, eyes widening at the realization. “Every spell, active and inactive, in place across the city. Dude, it even includes the glamour I just cast. This thing auto-updates.”

“Woah, hey, wait a second—” McKay steps closer, crowding over Stiles’ shoulder to look at the screen— “there are unidentified spells active across the city?”

“Must’ve reactivated when we realigned with the ley lines,” Stiles says as he scrolls through the list. “Probably not anything dangerous, but—”

“But we don’t even know what they do,” McKay says, reaching for the controls.

Stiles swats him out of the way. “The controls won’t respond to you. Just chill, gimme a sec to figure this out. I actually recognize a few of these, and they’re all things I was thinking you might need anyway.”

McKay huffs in irritation and crosses his arms as he leans against the corner of the console, almost pouting. “We’re gonna need to know what all of them do.”

“Yes, thank you, Captain Obvious, I am aware of that,” Stiles says, rolling his eyes as he turns his attention back to the display. “Step one, identify all the spells that are currently active, and deactivate any that might cause problems. Step two, identify the inactive ones in place around critical systems, and determine whether or not they should be activated. And step three, catalogue the rest of them to see which ones might be useful.”

“Hm. Yes, well,” McKay grumbles, poking petulantly at his tablet as if he doesn’t care. “I suppose you do have some common sense, after all.”

Stiles smirks as he directs the console to sort the list into the necessary categories. “High praise, coming from you.”

“Don’t let it go to your head,” McKay warns, pointing an accusatory finger and narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “I still don’t trust you not to try to blow up this city when no one’s looking.”

“Oh, I wouldn’t blow it up,” Stiles says absently as he continues to study the display. “The technology here is too valuable. I’d just kill you all and take it for myself.”

“You would—” McKay starts, clearly not expecting to hear such a blatant admission.

“Mm, easily,” Stiles continues, frowning as he sees another spell he recognizes on the list. “Take a jumper out to a safe distance, release a neurotoxin of my own design into the ventilation system, then just sit back and wait for it to run its course.”

McKay splutters a little before he finds his voice again. “Are you seriously threatening to—”

“Not threatening,” Stiles says, stilling his hands and turning to meet McKay’s eyes steadily. “Explaining. So you can start working up a plan to make sure a scenario like that never happens.”

McKay huffs a disbelieving breath and shakes his head. “You couldn’t actually—”

“I could,” Stiles states darkly, keeping his eyes fixed on McKay. “Actually. I can think of at least a dozen different ways to capture this city off the top of my head right now, and I haven’t even given it any serious thought. Your encryption algorithms are admirable, but they’re not unbreakable, especially if I use some of my less conventional methods. And the city can override any of your Earth-based computer systems—all I’d have to do is ask, and the city will do whatever I want.”

McKay’s expression turns pained, and he rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, you may have a point about that—it’s how the Ancients were able to take the city back and lock us out without any effort. But they aren’t around anymore to try something like that again, so—”

“So you assume no one else ever would?” Stiles raises a judgemental eyebrow.

“No one else knows the city well enough to—” McKay starts with a scowl.

“But that’s not true anymore, is it?” Stiles interrupts with a smirk. “I mean, sure, I don’t know what everything here is, or what it all does, but I know the city, and the city knows me. She likes me more than she likes you, and if I ask her to do something for me, she’ll figure out a way to do it.”

McKay eyes him suspiciously. “Why are you telling me all of this instead of doing something about it? If taking over the city really would be so easy for you, why not just do it?”

Stiles sighs heavily and scrubs a hand across the scar on his neck. “Because if I listened to the part of me that wanted to, if I gave it what it wanted here, I wouldn’t be able to stop it from heading back to the Milky Way and ensuring that the Goa’uld rise again, and the System Lords once again become the most powerful ruling faction in the galaxy. And—for now, at least—the part of me that doesn’t want that is stronger than the part that does. So after I’m done sorting through all of this—” he gestures at the console to remind McKay of why they’re here today— “and before my motivations have a chance to shift, I’ll walk you through every scenario I might try, and help you come up with ways to stop me.”

McKay hums skeptically. “Except, in helping us plan out the defense strategies, you’d know how we expect to be able to stop you, and you could then adjust your tactics accordingly.”

Stiles shrugs and turns his attention back to the display over the console. “Guess you’ll just have to trust that I’m working in your best interests.”

“Trust you, right,” McKay scoffs. “Sam, are you hearing this? He thinks we should—”

“Just let him work, Rodney,” Carter says brusquely, and McKay grumbles discontentedly but starts poking at his tablet again.

But there’s something in her voice that makes Stiles pause and glance over at her. She appears, to the average observer, to be intently focused on whatever’s on her computer screen, but Stiles can tell her heart isn’t in it. She’s been off since the afternoon of their first day here—quieter than usual; occasionally looking at Stiles like she has something she wants to ask, but never following through; and he might be wrong, but she seems to be avoiding Derek. Odd behavior from her, to say the least.

He’ll have to interrogate her about it later, though. For now, he needs to puzzle out what’s going on with this console.

Chapter Text

Derek squeezes his eyes shut and huffs a frustrated sigh as he pinches the bridge of his nose. The lights in this room are too bright; there’s a noise coming from somewhere that’s making him consider murder as an increasingly viable problem-solving method; he hasn’t had a satisfactory moment alone with Stiles or a good night’s sleep since they arrived here; and he hasn’t been able to shake the feeling that the intelligence inhabiting the city is watching him. All he wants to do right now is focus on this translation, because it truly is the most fascinating project he’s been allowed to work on to date, but his head is throbbing. He can’t tell if it feels more like his brain is trying to escape the confines of his skull or if it’s more like something is trying to drill its way inside, but either way, it’s relentless, it’s infuriating, and he’s trying very hard not to take his frustrations out on Daniel for having the gall to exist near him right now.

Daniel must not have a very strong sense of self-preservation, though, because he glances over at Derek, clears his throat (Derek clenches his fist and does his best not to gut Daniel on the spot), and speaks. “You okay over there?” His voice is soft and concerned, and Derek knows he just wants to help, but the noise and the attention are grating.

“Headache,” Derek answers, his voice clipped. He doesn’t trust himself not to explode if he tries to explain further.

“Werewolves get headaches?” Daniel asks, and Derek flinches slightly at the sound of Daniel closing his notebook and setting down his pen.

“Apparently,” Derek grinds out, gritting his teeth and scrubbing at his eyes.

There’s a rustle of cloth as Daniel shifts in his seat. “Bad one?”

Derek opens his eyes long enough to shoot an incredulous and judgemental glare at Daniel.

“Stupid question,” Daniel concedes with a nod and a wry smile, and Derek closes his eyes again. “Okay. D’you think you should see Dr. Beckett?”

Derek shrugs; he doesn’t know what the Doctor might expect to be able to do to help a werewolf. Human medications are often ineffective, and occasionally toxic.

“Derek, c’mon,” Daniel prompts gently. “Suffering like this is a choice, one you don’t have to accept; ask for help.”

Derek takes a slow breath in and out—Daniel probably has a point, and if the Doctor can find a way to make the headache go away, it’s probably worth seeing him—and starts to push himself to his feet. “Fine.”

Daniel nods and pushes his chair out to join Derek. “I’ll show you—”

Derek shakes his head sharply—regretting the motion immediately when the throbbing in his brain worsens. “I know where it is. Stay here, keep working. I’ll be back in a bit.”

Daniel hesitates. “Are you sure? I can—”

“I’m sure,” Derek snaps. “Stay. I’ll be fine.” He doesn’t want to say that it’s more for Daniel’s own safety; Derek might well hurt someone if he doesn’t get to be alone for at least a minute or two.

Daniel sighs and settles down in his chair again. “Alright. But call when you—”

Derek doesn’t wait to hear the end of that sentence, just exits the room as quickly as possible. And he has every intention of heading directly to the infirmary, but as he steps into the corridor, the noise that has been bothering him all morning gets worse. Going to the infirmary will surely result in temporary relief, but it won’t stop the stimuli from making this a problem again—he’d be better off finding the source and shutting it off so it can’t bother him anymore.

He closes his eyes, takes a breath, and follows the sound. It’s further away than he originally thought—in a completely different building, as it turns out—and he has to press his palms over his ears to muffle the sound as he approaches, but at last he finds what appears to be a blank section of wall at the base of a tower, and an overwhelming certainty that the noise is emanating from somewhere behind it.

He pulls his hands reluctantly away from his ears—wincing at the increase in volume, but steeling himself with the conviction that he’ll make it end soon—and presses his palms to the wall panel, seeking an opening. It only takes a few moments of searching before a spot on the wall briefly glows as his hand passes over it and a door appears where there wasn’t one before. He briefly considers calling this in to get backup for his investigation, or at least to tell someone where he is, but he decides against it. He can do this alone. And if he needs someone, Stiles will know, and Stiles will find him. Like he always does. He slides his hand across the door, it opens, he steps inside, and the door slides shut behind him.

It’s pitch-black in the room at first, until he takes one small step further in, and lights slowly start to come on automatically. Derek cringes a bit as the room gets brighter, but it stops before it becomes unbearable; he breathes a small sigh of relief and looks around. It appears, for all intents and purposes, to be a fairly standard laboratory space—no extraneous decorations, and fairly sparse but very purposeful and functional-looking equipment. The noise, whatever it is, seems to be emanating from a device sitting on an elevated console in the center of the room.

Derek scowls at the device and steps up onto the platform to inspect it, looking for a way to turn it off. There must be a button, or a switch, or something—

The console lights up, and the noise stops. Derek heaves an immense sigh of relief, resting his hands on the console as the tension starts to drain out of him. The console responds to the contact by shifting the frequency of light it’s emitting, and the device on top starts making an entirely different noise—not painful this time, but harmonious, almost soothing. Derek tilts his head and stares at the device, transfixed, as it starts to glow. It’s not quite a light, or at least not one in the standard visible spectrum, but nevertheless he gets the sense that the device is processing something and displaying it for him. He shifts his eyes, and sure enough, it’s putting on a show of some sort, as calming as the tones it’s now emitting.

He stays like that for a moment, watching and listening with fascination as the device builds up to a crescendo—

And then his vision blurs, and the world melts away.

Chapter Text

“And—I swear, this guy has impeccable dramatic timing—because the second the lights go out, he collapses,” Sheppard says, leaning forward over his lunch tray and gesturing with his fork as he tells the story with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Oh, come on,” McKay complains, crossing one arm over his chest and attempting to hide his face with his other hand, “do you really have to tell him—”

“So, of course, we thought something was seriously wrong, right? Like maybe the energy vampire had gotten to him somehow, or the shield had started pulling its power from him,” Sheppard continues with a smirk, ignoring McKay, and Stiles nods his encouragement. “But, turns out, no. He just fainted. It’d been all of, what, two and a half hours since you’d eaten?”

“It was longer than that,” McKay objects, “and I’m hypoglycemic—”

“But then the best part,” Sheppard powers on, “was when we suggested that because he was protected by the shield, he’d be the perfect person to set the trap to recapture the vampire. But, of course—”

“Ancient technology is thought-controlled,” Stiles concludes with a grin. “It deactivated.”

Sheppard nods. “The second it became clear he was no longer any safer wearing it, it shut down. And he tried to convince us it was just out of battery—”

“Have any of you seen Derek?” Daniel interrupts as he walks up to the table, a concerned frown on his face.

Sheppard shakes his head. “Haven’t seen him. Anyway—”

Stiles lifts a hand to stop him and looks up at Daniel, furrowing his brow. “Not since breakfast. What happened?”

Daniel presses his lips together, his shoulders tense. “We were in the lab; Derek said he had a headache; he left to go to the infirmary two hours ago, and no one’s seen him since.”

“He never made it to the infirmary?” Stiles asks for clarification, straightening up in his seat.

Daniel shakes his head. “Not responding on the radio, either.”

Sheppard presses the button on the radio in his ear. “Sheppard to control room, can you locate Dr. Hale’s transponder?” There’s a brief pause as he receives his reply, and then he, too, is frowning deeply in concern. “No, that’s alright, we’ll check it out. Thanks, Chuck.” He presses the button on his radio again to end the conversation and looks up at Daniel. “No trace of him. Do we think he could’ve—”

“He’s still in the city,” Stiles says, pushing himself to his feet. “And he’s not hurt or in danger, or I would’ve felt it.”

Sheppard’s eyebrows shoot up as he stands as well. “You would’ve felt it?”

“We’re pack,” Stiles explains distractedly as he leads the way out of the cafeteria.

Daniel makes a confused and vaguely-offended noise. “I’m pack, too. Why can’t I—”

“You’re new,” Stiles says, glancing over at him, “and human. The bonds will take longer to form.”

“Aren’t you human, too? Supposedly.” McKay mutters, trailing along at the back of the group.

Stiles smirks. “I am. I used a shortcut. Did a few mind melds through my kara kesh back when the pack bonds were still forming, with both him and Cora. Also he’s my… I guess you could call it soulmate, and she’s my best friend. Intimacy of any sort in a relationship strengthens the bond.”

“Who’s Cora?” McKay asks, jogging a little to catch up.

“Derek’s sister,” Daniel explains, “and our Alpha—uh, leader of the pack.”

“Oh God, please tell me that’s his older sister,” McKay groans. “I’ve had just about enough of all these kids.”

Stiles snorts as he leads them into the transporter. “Younger, actually, closer to my age. You’d like her, though. Everyone with half a brain likes her.” He presses the screen to bring them to the West Pier, then leads them out into the corridor.

“There, you hear that, Rodney?” Sheppard says, bumping his elbow against McKay’s arm. “He thinks you have at least half a brain after all.”

“Mm, yes, so glad I have his approval,” McKay mutters sarcastically, then turns to Daniel with judgementally narrowed eyes. “You seriously answer to a teenager now?”

“She’s no ordinary teenager,” Daniel says with a soft, fond smile. “She’s wise beyond her years and one of the most caring, thoughtful people I’ve ever met. I trust her with my life. And she’s family. They both are.”

“Also there’s the matter of the shared trauma,” Stiles says quietly, reaching over to squeeze Daniel’s arm.

“There’s also the shared trauma,” Daniel agrees with a wry half-smile. “She understands me better than anyone her age ever should.”

“How much trauma could a teenage girl possibly have in common with you?” McKay scoffs incredulously.

Daniel’s expression shutters, and Stiles clenches his jaw, giving a tiny shake of his head as they share a look. It’s not their place to list off all the horrors Cora’s had to endure in her life to people who have never even met her, nor to list the ways those traumas overlap with others.

Sheppard, at least, seems to have a modicum of tact. “That’s really none of our business, McKay,” he says, elbowing the other man sharply in the ribs.

“Ow,” McKay complains, rubbing his side. “Wh—they brought it up, I was just—”

“There should be a door here,” Stiles says as they approach a blank section of wall. He frowns and places a hand on the wall, searching for an opening. “Do you know if there’s an entrance from another room?”

“I didn’t even know there was a room here,” Sheppard says, joining Stiles in inspecting the wall. “Derek’s inside?”

Stiles pounds on the wall. “Derek, if you can hear me, either come out or let us in.” He pauses briefly, but, of course, there’s no answer. He starts running his hands across the wall panel to see if there’s a hidden trigger.

“Another Janus’s Secret Lab situation?” Daniel mutters to McKay.

“Check for special sconces, I guess?” McKay says, looking around at the surrounding walls.

The wall glows under Stiles’ palm, and a door appears.

“…Or we just do that,” Sheppard says, stepping back to look at the door. “Some sort of cloak?”

Stiles shakes his head as he runs his palm over the door to search for the opening mechanism. “A glamour. It hasn’t been drawing power from the city, if that’s what you’re worried about. And this answers one of my questions about some of the active spells I found in the inventory.” The door finally slides open, and Stiles’ eyes widen at what he sees inside. “Derek,” he calls, rushing in, only to bounce off of some sort of magical force-field at the edge of the raised platform Derek is standing on. It looks—and feels, he imagines—like what happens to supernatural creatures trying to cross a Mountain Ash barrier, though this is the first time Stiles has encountered one that works against humans. And Derek is on the other side of it, standing frozen, hands on the console, staring at a device sitting on top, as threads of blue light swirl around him. Stiles huffs a frustrated breath and shakes his head in disbelief. “Dammit, Derek…”

“Hey, what—” Sheppard starts, and Stiles turns around just in time to see him and McKay bounce off a barrier just like the one around Derek, with Daniel inside looking perplexed as the door slides shut behind him.

“Uh,” Daniel says as he looks from Derek, to Stiles, to the door, and back at Stiles again, then points at the door. “What just happened?”

Stiles furrows his brow as he looks at Daniel, then at the door. “You don’t have the gene, do you?”

“No, I don’t,” Daniel says, approaching the barrier around Derek and tentatively reaching out a hand to touch it. The barrier stops him, just as it had Stiles, and Daniel presses his palm flat against it to test its solidity. He pushes the button on the radio in his ear with his free hand. “Colonel Sheppard, Dr. McKay, this is Dr. Jackson, can you hear me?” A brief pause, and Daniel shakes his head, switches channels, and tries again. “This is Dr. Daniel Jackson. If anyone can hear me, please respond.” Another brief pause, and he looks around the room with a frown. “Must be shielded.”

“Should probably let ‘em know we’re okay,” Stiles mutters distractedly as he, too, presses his palm against the barrier.

“Let Rodney stew a little,” Daniel suggests, drumming his fingers against the barrier and frowning as the tendrils of light around Derek shift and swirl. “More fun that way.”

“Did it let us in because we’re part of a werewolf pack,” Stiles wonders, glancing curiously at the door again, “or because we’re part of his pack? Or…”

Daniel glances over at him and raises an eyebrow. “Or…?”

Stiles studies Derek, suspended motionless within the glowing field, considers how many ‘coincidences’ there are in this vast and tiny universe of theirs, and glances over at Daniel. “What do we know about the Littlefield pack lineage?”

Daniel’s lips part and his eyes widen, and he snaps his gaze back onto Derek. “It’s old. Older than our records could trace back. And we couldn’t find an instance of the power passing on via anything other than inheritance. Do you think—”

“The lineage could go back this far?” Stiles huffs a breath. “Dude, literally nothing would surprise me at this point.”

“You’re sure he’s not hurt in there?” Daniel asks, watching Derek with a concerned frown.

“Not hurt, and not in mortal danger,” Stiles confirms, circling around the platform with his palm still pressed to the barrier to test the shape and consistency of the boundary, stopping on the far side so he can see Derek’s face. “Beyond that, I have no idea what it’s doing to him.” This barrier is a truly fascinating bit of spellwork, one he’ll want to examine more closely once Derek is free of it. Selective barriers like this could be supremely useful back home. Imagine if he could set up pack-only spaces around the Nemeton and their homes, or maybe filter out certain species, or even refine it down to specific individuals…

Daniel bangs a fist lightly against the barrier and watches the ripples of power spread across the field, then opens his hand to press his fingertips against it again. “Should we try to get him out?”

“I don’t know how we would,” Stiles says. “We might just have to wait for it to finish whatever it’s doing. Look around, see if you can find anything that might tell us what’s going on.”

Daniel sighs and shakes his head. “Probably anything worth knowing is on that console,” he grumbles, but he starts a search of the room anyway.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a slow breath, opening his mind until he can feel the ties that bind him to Derek, the threads that weave the tapestry of their lives together. Derek is there, as steady a presence as he always is, but currently shrouded in a thin veil of something. “Derek,” Stiles says quietly, opening his eyes again and pressing his palm flat against the barrier, “I don’t know if you can hear me, but you are in big trouble, Mister. You oughta know better than to mess with shit like this. I swear to God, Der, if you somehow manage to come out of this unscathed, you’re due for a serious scolding.”

Unless Daniel finds something—which, at this point, seems highly unlikely—they probably won’t know what this is about until it releases Derek. Stiles is hesitant to force him out of whatever this is in case stopping the process before it can finish will do more harm than good. But if this thing hurts Derek—in any way—someone or something is going to pay, and Stiles isn’t going to have even an iota of mercy or remorse for anyone who gets in his way.

Chapter Text

“—Think he’s coming around,” Derek hears someone say—Daniel, he thinks, but the voice is distant, muffled.

“He’d damn well better be,” another voice growls. Stiles. Derek tries to shake himself free of the cloud he seems to be floating in and concentrate on Stiles’ presence. “I’m gonna kill him, I swear to God—”

“Not in my infirmary, you won’t,” a new voice says calmly, in a distinct Scottish accent. That must be Dr. Beckett. “Well-deserved though it may be. I can’t imagine what he was thinking, going in there alone like that.”

“He was thinking what he always does,” Stiles says with an aggravated huff. “That he’s a big, strong, invincible werewolf who doesn’t need to care about his own well-being or silly inconveniences like common sense.”

“I swear, he’s usually a lot smarter than this—” Daniel starts, sounding weary.

“Is he, though?” Stiles says, and Derek can picture the way he’s likely flailing his arms in exasperation, glaring at Daniel incredulously. An indignant Stiles is a sight to behold, one Derek doesn’t want to miss, so he redoubles his efforts to push through to the waking world. “This is the exact same thing he’s done with his Hale Ancestor Quest back home, getting all sorts of crazy magical shit downloaded into his brain without even thinking about how bad it could be—”

“Alright, lads, let’s just try to stay calm here,” Dr. Beckett says. “I doubt he’d appreciate waking up only to get yelled at—”

Stiles snorts. “You kidding me? He lives for this shit. Hey, asshole, you hear me? Wake the fuck up so I can yell at you properly, or you’re not getting laid again this century—”

“Y’d on’y end up punishing y’rself,” Derek mumbles with a smirk as he slowly blinks his eyes open and fixes his gaze on Stiles. “I don’t get laid, you don’t get laid.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says on a relieved bark of laughter, clearly trying very hard to continue to appear furious. “I’m dumping your ass and finding someone who isn’t an absolute idiot, I swear to God.”

“As if you ever would,” Derek mutters, smiling fondly as he reaches over to capture Stiles’ hand and lace their fingers together.

“I’d like to repeat my earlier sentiment of fuck you,” Stiles grumbles, but the tension and fury are draining out of him now that Derek is awake and holding his hand.

“Later,” Derek promises with a wink, voice low, and Stiles blushes, clamping his jaw shut.

“Good to see you awake, lad,” Dr. Beckett says, valiantly ignoring the innuendo, a friendly but analytical look on his face. “Do you know where you are?”

“Infirmary on Atlantis,” Derek recites dutifully, and Dr. Beckett nods in satisfaction.

“Good, well done. And do you remember what happened?”

Derek glances briefly at Stiles and Daniel, both of whom are glaring at him, and quickly looks back at the doctor to put off dealing with that until later. “I was trying to track down the source of a noise that was giving me a headache. I found some sort of secret lab, I guess, and there was this device sitting on top of a console. I went in to check it out, to see if I could turn it off, and then the console woke up and it changed.”

“The noise changed?” Daniel asks for clarification from his seat on the edge of the neighboring bed, leaning forward and bracing his hands on his knees. “Or the device changed?”

“The noise changed, and my head didn’t hurt anymore,” Derek continues, “and then the device started some sort of light show that I couldn’t see with human eyes. It was...” he trails off, trying to find the words to adequately describe what the device was doing. “It was so beautiful,” he says softly. “I didn’t want to look away.”

“Do you know how long you were in there?” Dr. Beckett prompts, watching him carefully.

“Felt like a few minutes,” Derek starts with a shrug, then notices the look Stiles and Daniel exchange. “But judging by the faces you’re making right now, I’m guessing it was longer than that.”

“Three hours, Derek,” Stiles says with a frown.

“Hours?” Derek repeats, raising his eyebrows in disbelief. “No, that can’t be right.”

“How do you feel, Dr. Hale?” Dr. Beckett asks, brow furrowed as he looks at something on one of the monitors next to the bed.

“Just Derek is fine,” Derek says, craning his neck to see the monitor—some sort of brain scan, apparently, but he doesn’t know what any of it means. Cora might, though. Cora would probably love all of this.

“Derek, then,” Dr. Beckett says, glancing back at him with a warm smile, then focusing again on the monitor. “How are you feeling?”

“Certainly not like I was standing still staring at a glowing box for three hours,” Derek says, then takes a moment to actually think about it. “Actually, this is the best I’ve felt since I got here.”

“Still not sleeping well?” Stiles asks softly, running his thumb across Derek’s knuckles.

Derek shakes his head and squeezes Stiles’ hand. “But right now I feel like I just woke up from a full, restful night’s sleep. I feel great, honestly.”

“What do you see on there, Doc?” Daniel asks, eyeing the monitor warily.

“I’m not sure,” Dr. Beckett says distractedly, picking up Derek’s chart and flipping through the pages, occasionally glancing back at the monitor. “Wish I had a more thorough baseline for these—I don’t know what’s normal for a werewolf, or, more importantly, what’s normal for you.”

“But these would be abnormal for an average human?” Daniel prompts, scooting forward until he’s mostly standing, hips still resting against the bed, crossing his arms.

Dr. Beckett puts the chart down with a sigh. “Aye, perhaps, but I don’t know how useful a comparison that may be.”

Stiles’ grip on Derek’s hand tightens and he straightens up a bit. “Is this something we should be concerned about?”

Dr. Beckett shakes his head, but there’s still a worried crinkle between his eyebrows. “Not necessarily. As I said, I don’t have much of a basis for comparison. For all I know, this may be perfectly normal for you.”

“But if he was an average human,” Daniel says, pointing at the monitor, “what would these readings mean?”

Dr. Beckett hesitates. “I would prefer not to speculate—”

“Doc, just tell us,” Stiles says, scrubbing at his face with his free hand. Derek frowns, watching him—the fury from earlier hasn’t completely faded, and Derek can see the worry eating away at him, wearing him out. Derek adjusts his grip on Stiles’ hand to slide his fingers around Stiles’ wrist, gently brushing his thumb over the pulse point. Stiles clenches his jaw and grips Derek’s wrist tightly in response. Derek will have a lot of apologizing to do later, he’s certain; he’ll have to plan something extra special to make up for this.

Dr. Beckett clears his throat and meets Derek’s eyes steadily. “I am seeing some potentially unusual brain activity. But, again, without knowing your baseline, I can’t say whether any of this is cause for concern. I’d like you to stay here for the rest of today for observation, and check in daily for the rest of your stay with us.”

“Is all of this really necessary?” Derek asks. So what if his brain is weird? After everything his Hale ancestor forced onto him, it’s hardly surprising. Whatever has been done to him this time is no different, really, and he just wants to get back to work. “I told you, I feel fine. Great, even. And I don’t think that thing meant to hurt me—”

“It did hurt you, Derek,” Stiles snaps. “It hurt you to lure you in, then it held you in magical stasis for hours while it did God-knows-what to you. Stop acting like this is no big deal and take this seriously.”

“I feel fine—” Derek tries again.

“For now,” Dr. Beckett says, his expression stern. “But I’ve seen situations like this change quite rapidly. Stay for observation, and if all looks well, you can resume business as usual.”

“We’re only here for four more days,” Derek argues. “There’s too much to do. Daniel can’t translate it all on his own—”

“I’ll send your notes up,” Daniel says, uncrossing his arms to brace his hands against the edge of the bed. “Mine, too, actually—I won’t be working on the database again today, anyway. Apparently the three of us are the only ones who can enter that lab you found, and we need to see if we can figure out what it did to you.”

Derek blinks twice and furrows his brow. “Only us? Why?”

Daniel and Stiles share a look. “I have a theory,” Stiles says hesitantly, “but I want to learn more about what that lab is first.”

“Should I be worried?” Derek asks, raising an eyebrow.

Stiles flinches back a bit and glares at him incredulously. “Worry—about this? Derek—” he scrubs his free hand down his face with an aggravated sigh. “Fuck. I can’t—Doc, can you talk some sense into him? I can’t do this right now.” He takes a step away and starts to tug his hand free of Derek.

Derek tightens his grip and tugs Stiles back. “Stiles, wait, are we—”

Stiles cuts him off by grabbing the back of his head and pulling him in for a fierce kiss—all pent-up fury and fear and a fair amount of desperation—then breaking it off far too soon for Derek’s liking and pressing their foreheads together as they catch their breath again. “We’ll be okay,” Stiles assures him quietly. “But I’m mad as hell at you right now, and I need a minute. Don’t fucking scare me like that again.”

“Stiles—” Derek starts, resting his free hand over the scar on Stiles’ neck.

“Shut the fuck up,” Stiles growls, sliding his hand around to rest his fingertips at the base of Derek’s throat. “Don’t you dare say it.”

Derek shakes his head, just enough for Stiles to recognize the gesture. “I won’t. I promise.” And he hopes Stiles understands what he means, hears all the many things he’s promising with just those words.

“You’d better fucking mean that,” Stiles grumbles as he pulls away and steps back. He spins on his heels and grabs Daniel by the elbow, dragging him toward the door. “C’mon, let’s go find out what this idiot’s done to himself now.”

“I’ll send up the notes—” Daniel calls back over his shoulder, only to be cut off when the door slides shut behind them.

There’s a slightly awkward pause, then Dr. Beckett sighs. “Well, I suppose if I had to cancel my annual fishing trip to accommodate your stay here, at least you’ve given me something interesting to work on, I’ll give you that.”

Derek snaps his head around to look at the Doctor. “You like fishing?”

“Oh, aye,” Dr. Beckett says with a bright smile. “The sport of kings. There’s a fish here that’s remarkably like a trout—why? Do you?”

Derek makes a face and shakes his head. “No, definitely not. But my sister does, and Stiles’ Dad. You should come to Beacon Hills sometime, apparently the lake there has some great fishing spots.”

“Oh, lovely,” Dr. Beckett says, his expression bright with genuine enthusiasm. “Perhaps during my next leave on Earth. Thank you, Derek.”

“Cora would love you,” Derek says, smiling at the thought of his sister, as if by reflex. “She’s just about to start medical school.”

Dr. Beckett’s eyes flick over to the monitor, and his brow crinkles slightly before he looks back at Derek. “You’re quite fond of your sister, then?”

“She’s the only family I have left,” Derek says quietly, looking down at his hands. “By blood, anyway. We weren’t always as close as we are now. Our mother—” Derek stops, swallowing hard and clenching his jaw. He’s still too furious with himself for not realizing what his mother had been doing to her, for all those years after their father died. He clears his throat and looks back up at Dr. Beckett. “And then I thought she’d died, in the fire that killed the rest of our family. But she hadn’t, and she’s back, and I love her more than anything.”

“She sounds like a very special young lady,” Dr. Beckett says, smiling indulgently.

“I would do anything for her,” Derek says softly, but with conviction.

Dr. Beckett hums thoughtfully and nods. “And what do you think your sister would say about the stunt you pulled today?”

Derek feels his face flush. “Probably a lot of the same things Stiles and Daniel said.”

“Aye, I imagine so,” Dr. Beckett says with a wry smile. “You gave us quite the scare, lad. Your young man, most of all.”

Derek looks down sheepishly. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m not the one you need to apologize to,” Dr. Beckett says, leveling him with a judgemental look.

Derek nods. “I know.” He’ll be making this up to Stiles for weeks, probably—not that he’s likely to complain about putting in extra effort to make things good for Stiles. But it’s not just Stiles he has to answer to for this.

The device did something to him—there’s no use trying to deny that. He could feel it, after all. But it didn’t feel like it wanted to hurt him. It felt peaceful. It felt, strangely enough, like coming home.

Chapter Text

Daniel grabs Stiles’ arm as he takes a step toward the platform. “It should be me.”

“I’ve got this,” Stiles says, pushing Daniel’s hand away. “I’ll be fine.”

“It should be me,” Daniel repeats, stepping in front of Stiles. “Can you even read Ancient?”

“Well, no, but—”

“But nothing,” Daniel says, holding his gaze steadily. “If this thing wants to hurt us, which one of us do you think he could stand to lose?”

Stiles clenches his jaw. “Daniel, that’s not—”

“I’m just his mentor,” Daniel says. “You’re his entire world. He needs you more than he’s ever needed me. I’ll do this.”

Stiles sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “You know you’re more than that. Aside from Cora, you’re the closest connection he has left to Ernest and Catherine. You’re family—”

“Regardless,” Daniel says, expression grim. “He’d survive losing me; he wouldn’t survive losing you. I’m going up there—I’m the only logical choice. And besides, it might not even do anything. That device hasn’t made a peep since it let go of Derek.”

Stiles grimaces, but he nods and takes a step back. “Fine. But don’t come crying to me when it’s your turn in magical stasis.”

Daniel gives him a quick pat on the arm and a wry half-smile. “Trust me, whatever this thing does, I’m sure I’ve had worse.” He turns, takes a breath to brace himself, then steps onto the platform to stand at the console. “Alright, here goes nothing.” He hesitates a moment with his hands hovering over the controls, takes another breath, then places his hands on the console. It lights up, a display appears, and they both breathe a small sigh of relief when the device does nothing.

“I guess it only traps werewolves,” Stiles mutters, tentatively reaching a hand out toward the perimeter of the platform, just to check, and finding no boundary.

“Or supernatural creatures in general,” Daniel says as he studies the display. “Or maybe even just Derek. We don’t have a way to test for anything else right now. All we know is that it grabbed him and not us.”

Stiles huffs a frustrated sigh and walks over to take a seat at one of the nearby workstations, spinning the chair around belligerently as he sits. “Idiot,” he grumbles once the chair stops, picking lint off of his shirt.

Daniel glances briefly over at him with a raised eyebrow. “Me?”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “Derek.”

“Ah.” Daniel nods and turns his attention back to the display with a wry twist to his lips. “Amazing how someone so smart can be so incredibly stupid.”

“He doesn’t think,” Stiles laments, using one leg to make the chair swivel back and forth a few inches. “He knows how werewolves work, he knows we can feel it when he gets hurt, but he does this anyway.”

“He knows how werewolves are supposed to work,” Daniel says with a distracted frown. “But given what I’ve learned about what his family was like, it’s possible he never actually had that type of bond before with any of them. Sounds like he didn’t have it until Cora came back to Beacon Hills. So, really, this is all new to him. Intellectually, he knows that when he hurts, we hurt—but his perception is so skewed that he doesn’t know what that means physically.”

“Oh God fucking dammit,” Stiles groans, scrubbing hard at his face with both hands. “You’re right. He doesn’t even know when he’s hurting. Fuck.”

“He’s been conditioned not to recognize when he’s in pain,” Daniel continues, “so of course he doesn’t think about how it could affect us.”

“I’m gonna kill his mother,” Stiles mutters, chewing on the edge of his thumb. “I’m gonna resurrect her just so I can kill her again, or I’m gonna travel back in time and kill her myself with my bare hands. Dying in that fire was her getting off easy; she needs to pay.”

Daniel huffs an almost-amused breath and shakes his head. “He just needs you to explain it to him. You’ve already helped him figure out that he wants to live; now he needs help figuring out that he doesn’t need to sacrifice parts of himself in order to make that happen. Remind him, every chance you get, that he isn’t expendable, and pain doesn’t have to be his default, and eventually he’ll start to believe you.”

“I will,” Stiles promises quietly. “God, but I hope I already do. Guess it just still hasn’t sunk in yet.”

“It’ll take time,” Daniel says, scrolling to the next page on the display. “He’s got a lot of bad habits he has to unlearn, and the lessons his mother drilled into him are embedded deep.”

Stiles nods distractedly and chews on his thumb some more, watching in thoughtful silence for a few moments as Daniel concentrates on the display. “You underestimate your importance to him,” he says eventually, his voice soft. “You aren’t just his mentor.”

Daniel’s eyes briefly flick over to him before fixing again on the display. “I know. I’m pack.”

Stiles shakes his head. “More than that. Even before it was official. I’ve seen inside his head, remember? Working with you brings him back to his fondest memories of his father and Catherine. He misses them both so much, but missing them is easier when he has you there.”

Daniel stops for a ragged breath, bracing one hand on the console, taking off his glasses with his other hand so he can scrub at his eyes for a second. “I never even got to meet his father,” he admits with a sad smile as he resettles his glasses on his face. “Wish I had, though. I reference his work often enough, sometimes I forget I never actually knew him.”

“It’s enough for Derek,” Stiles says gently, “that you help keep his memory alive through his work. And that we help Cora build a pack he’d be proud of.”

“I’d do that anyway,” Daniel says, his smile softening into something more fond. “It’s the easiest thing in the world to love those two. I only wish they could see that as clearly as we do.”

“We’ll show them,” Stiles reminds him. “As often as we can, until they believe us.”

Chapter Text

“What did it feel like when you died?” Erica asks, only halfway paying attention as she levitates a lightbulb over her head and occasionally makes it pulse with light.

Cora freezes, blinks, takes a breath, and focuses once more on her sketch. “I’ve been told I was lucky,” she says quietly. “Dying didn’t feel like much of anything.” It still surprises her, a bit, that Sarah decided to make her death so painless and peaceful. It almost felt kind, after all the horrors she’d arranged for Cora to experience throughout her life.

Erica hums thoughtfully and makes the light pulse again. “It hurt a lot when I died. Still hurts. I don’t even have pain receptors anymore, but it hurts.”

“Phantom limb pain,” Cora says, barely louder than a whisper.

Erica snorts. “Fitting. A ghost, having phantom pains.” The lightbulb stays lit and slowly starts to rotate.

Cora sighs and puts her pencil down so she can scrub both hands down her face. “I’m sorry. I’d take it from you if I could.”

Erica’s mouth quirks into a wry smile. “Whatever. Not like it’s even real.”

“If you’re feeling it, it’s real enough,” Cora insists, setting aside her sketchpad so she can focus on Erica. She watches for a minute as the lightbulb starts to pulsate like a heartbeat, huffing a small breath when she recognizes it as her own. She tilts her head and regards Erica curiously. “I’ve never actually tried to take pain from a ghost.”

Erica rolls her eyes. “How could you? You can’t even touch me.”

“Touch is an illusion that quantum physics created to give our universe the appearance of structure,” Cora says, pushing herself to her feet and walking over to pluck the lightbulb out of the air. She sets it gently down on top of her dresser and meets Erica’s eyes steadily. “Let me try, at least.”

Erica shrugs and looks over at the lightbulb, her expression blank. “Fine, whatever, if it’ll make you happy.”

Cora studies her for another moment. “Is the pain the only problem?”

Erica huffs a breath, and the lightbulb starts to glow again. “Does it matter? I’m dead. Not like it’ll change anything.”

“It matters to me,” Cora says, furrowing her brow. “You’re part of my pack, Erica; if you’re hurting, I’m hurting. And if we’ve learned anything this summer, it’s that death doesn’t have to be the end.”

“But that’s just the thing, isn’t it?” Erica snaps, her eyes flashing, and the lightbulb goes dark. “You got to come back. You had a body to come back to. Whereas I’m stuck in this... this limbo. Not entirely dead, but definitely not alive. I’ll never grow up, never learn to drive, never have a family—not that I ever expected to have any of that, back when I had epilepsy, but all of that was supposed to change when I took the Bite. But no, instead I died, and now I’m—” she gestures vaguely at herself and grimaces.

Cora closes her eyes for a breath. She knows this existence isn’t ideal, but it had either been this or death—true, permanent, irreversible death. But maybe that’s not the case anymore. Maybe there’s something else they can try. “Death doesn’t have to be the end," she repeats when she opens her eyes again, watching Erica carefully. “There might be another option.”

Erica studies her in return. “The one you turned down,” she guesses, her voice hesitant.

Cora nods. “It wasn’t right for me,” she says, “but it could be for you. You might find a freedom in that life that you could never find here.”

“But I’d have to leave this world behind,” Erica says softly. “I’d lose all of you.”

“You’re part of this pack,” Cora says, holding Erica’s gaze steadily. “That won’t change, regardless of distance or plane of existence. And you won’t lose all of us—I can visit, and so can Parrish. And maybe some of the others can learn how to visit there, too, or join you someday if they want.”

“I talked to Daniel,” Erica admits, “about what it felt like to be ascended. I think, if I could have that without losing everyone I care about, I’d like to give it a try.”

Cora nods slowly and sits on the bed, folding her legs in front of her as she positions herself to face Erica. “Does Boyd know you’ve been thinking about this?”

Erica hovers over and mirrors Cora’s posture, huffing a sigh as her shoulders droop. “He’s happy here, as he is now. And he doesn’t still feel his death. He wouldn’t understand.”

“He might understand better than you think,” Cora prods gently. “It may not be something he’d want for himself right now, but he might understand why you do.”

Erica makes a face. “I’m worried if I tell him, he’ll insist on coming with me. He doesn’t want it, and it’d make him miserable, but he’d follow me anyway. I don’t want to do that to him.”

Cora raises a judgemental eyebrow. “So you’d rather just leave without saying goodbye?”

Erica clenches her jaw and flashes her eyes again. “I would rather both of us just got to live.”

“That might be an option, too, at some point,” Cora suggests carefully. “Daniel resumed human form after his ascension. Twice.”

Erica blinks. “Would that—do... you think I’d actually be allowed to do that?”

Cora sighs and rakes a hand through her hair. “Honestly, I don’t know. I don’t even know for sure if ascension is possible for you, or if Skaara will be able to help, or, if you ascended and came back, if you’d be allowed to keep your memories or werewolf abilities. I don’t really know how any of this works. And there are rules you’d need to follow, rules set and enforced by entities older than either of us can imagine and powerful beyond our comprehension. So, I don’t know. This is all uncharted territory. But if your existence here is really that miserable, it’s probably worth a shot anyway.”

Erica ducks her head and grimaces slightly. “It’s not… all miserable. There are things about being a ghost that are actually pretty fun, and I get to still be with all the people I care about most in the world.”

“But it’s not enough,” Cora concludes softly, “and you’re in pain.”

Erica shrugs, expression blank, eyes unfocused. “It’s whatever. It’s better now than it was before you found me in the vault.”

“You shouldn’t have to settle for bad just because it could be worse,” Cora says, then briefly forgets how to breathe as the irony of being the person to make that statement hits her. It’s true, though—for Erica. But Cora, herself... She clears her throat and shakes herself a little—save the existential crisis for later; right now, she needs to focus on helping her friend. “You need to talk to Boyd. And if this is going to happen, you should say your goodbyes to the rest of the pack, too. Or, your see you laters, at least. I need to talk to Skaara first anyway to find out if it’ll even be possible.”

Erica sighs and makes a face. “Fine, I’ll talk to Boyd.”

“And in the meantime,” Cora says softly, offering her hands to Erica palms-up, “let me try to help you with your pain.”

“Oh, no, you don’t actually have to—” Erica starts, shaking her head.

“Let me try,” Cora insists gently, still holding her hands out. “Please.”

Erica rolls her eyes and reaches over to swing her hands through Cora’s. “There, see? It’s not gonna work. Let’s just—”

“Erica,” Cora says firmly, letting her eyes spark a bit with authority, ignoring the tingling in her palms.

Erica scowls, but settles down and holds out her hands. “Fine, whatever. You can try.”

Cora slowly brings her palms up to meet Erica’s, stopping when the static of ghostly presence starts radiating up her arms. She closes her eyes, takes a breath, and concentrates, summoning to mind the memory of what it feels like to draw someone’s pain away. Erica’s pain may not physically exist, not in the standard sense, but this isn’t Cora’s first time drawing pain from someone who isn’t physically present with her. She takes another slow breath, and the tingling in her arms shifts tone to something far more familiar.

Erica gasps, then makes a noise that might almost be a whimper. “Cora—”

Cora blinks her eyes open to see the familiar black veins running up her arms, then looks up to meet Erica’s eyes. “Better?”

Erica bites her lip and nods, eyes glassy as if she’s holding back tears.

“Keep going?” Cora offers quietly.

Erica nods again. “Please.”

Cora nods once in return and redoubles her efforts. “Tell me when to stop.”

“Thank you,” Erica whispers, closing her eyes.

“Your pain is real, Erica,” Cora tells her gently, “and it’s okay to ask for help.” Erica’s lip wobbles, and she nods again, sniffling a little.

Cora takes a breath and settles in. She’s gonna need a hell of a nap after this.

Chapter Text

“It’d go a lot faster if you’d let me help—” Derek suggests again.

“You are not going in that room again,” Daniel says sternly, glaring at Derek across the table. “Not until we’re sure it won’t do anything else to you.”

“I’ve been cleared,” Derek argues, “and you said you didn’t think it did anything dangerous—”

“My initial findings seem to support that conclusion,” Daniel admits grudgingly, “but there’s still a lot to translate. There could be any number of side effects from what it did to you that we haven’t discovered yet.”

“Which is why you should let me help,” Derek says, raising an eyebrow. “The faster we get it translated—”

“You’re not going,” Daniel repeats firmly, then turns his focus back to his notebook.

“Daniel—” Derek starts, then huffs a frustrated breath when he sees the stubborn set to Daniel’s jaw. He won’t make any headway like this; better to try a different tactic. He takes a slow breath and scrubs both hands down his face. “I’m sorry,” he says softly, folding his arms on the table in front of him.

Daniel heaves a long sigh and takes off his glasses so he can rub his eyes and pinch the bridge of his nose. “You didn’t even call.”

“I thought—” Derek starts, but he snaps his jaw shut when Daniel looks up just to glare at him furiously.

“You disappeared, Derek,” Daniel says, his voice sharp, settling his glasses back on his face. “Without a trace. You never showed up in the infirmary; we couldn’t raise you on the radio; your transponder just vanished. We didn’t know if you’d somehow been transported offworld or to another universe, or if you were even still alive—”

“Stiles would’ve been able to feel it if something had happened to me—”

“But would he have been able to get to you in time?” Daniel asks angrily. “If any of those things had happened, would Stiles have known and been able to find you before it was too late?”

Derek clenches his jaw and looks down. The answer, honestly, is probably not. Despite his best efforts, Stiles hadn’t gotten to Cora in time to save her, after all. But that kind of extreme danger hadn’t seemed likely here—Derek had considered the possibility that he might get injured, but nothing so serious that Stiles couldn’t help. And no matter where he was, he knew Stiles could find him. None of that will be a comfort to Daniel, though.

“Look, Derek—” Daniel sighs again and rubs his temples— “I know you didn’t go in there intending to get hurt. You didn’t mean to disappear; you didn’t mean to scare us. But this is a pattern with you. You barrel in without thinking—without caring—about what might happen to you. And if you keep this up, one of these days, you’ll end up doing something you can’t recover from.”

“I’m sorry,” Derek says again, and he really does mean it this time.

Daniel takes a slow breath and picks up his pen, staring down at his notebook. “I know you are,” he acknowledges quietly, “but all your apologies are worth nothing if they aren’t accompanied by meaningful change.”

Derek nods grimly, then props his elbows on the table so he can rest his face in his hands for a moment. He knows he’s often reckless, and he knows he often overestimates his odds of meeting with a favorable outcome—these are both habits he needs to work harder to break, for Stiles’ and Daniel’s sakes, if nothing else. And for Cora—anything for Cora, everything for Cora—because she deserves a better brother, and he’s the only one she’s got.

“We just want you to take better care of yourself,” Daniel says gently. “If you could care about yourself even half as much as we care about you, we'd all be better off for it.”

“I don’t think I know how to do that,” Derek admits quietly, folding his forearms on the table again, “but I’ll try.”

“You care so much about other people,” Daniel says. “You just need to remember that caring about yourself is an important part of that equation. Especially as part of this pack. You hurt, we hurt. And I know better than anyone, sometimes getting hurt is unavoidable—it’s the nature of the work we do, and all part of being alive—but that doesn’t mean you have to go seeking it out, and it doesn’t mean you have to try to shoulder it all yourself. You don’t have to be Atlas, carrying the weight of the world. You don’t have to be Prometheus, accepting eternal punishment for the sin of caring about others. Just be Derek, and think a bit before taking on something that might hurt you.”

“I’ll try,” Derek promises again. He doesn’t feel like he can promise more than that yet, but he can promise to make an effort. He just hopes it’ll be enough.

Daniel clears his throat and shifts a little in his seat, then grabs a notepad off of the stack beside him and hands it over to Derek. “So, uh… it looks like that lab might be an extension of the work found in this database—” he gestures at the console they’ve been translating from since their first day here— “but focused on a single pack. We haven’t figured out the purpose yet—”

“Us?” Derek stares at Daniel, eyes wide.

Daniel flips back a few pages in his own notebook and runs a finger down the page as he reviews his notes with a frown. “If we’re correct in our interpretation of this database, that certain types of supernatural creatures were the result of joint experimentation between the Ancients and the Furlings, then it’s not unreasonable to conclude that there could still be some packs that can trace our roots back this far.”

Our roots… the words bounce around Derek’s brain for a moment, seeking connection. He takes a sharp breath in and sits up straighter when the thought finally hits on something. “What would we think of the possibility that the Druid conspiracy against us was a twisted version of attempting to control the experiment?”

Daniel freezes for a moment, eyes slowly widening, then swears under his breath. “God, they probably don’t even know why anymore,” he mutters, taking his glasses off so he can pinch the bridge of his nose. “All they remember is the objective, to end this particular pack.”

Derek finally looks down at the notepad Daniel had handed to him to start reading through it. He might need to make some adjustments to the translation now, with this additional context. And really, he feels like he shouldn’t be surprised anymore by finding connections like this, nor by discovering that the Ancients likely tried to destroy all trace of what they considered to be a failed experiment. What made the Littlefield line such a failure in their eyes, however, may be lost to time.

Chapter Text

“Are you going to help at all?” Jackson complains, glaring at Cora and Vala where they lounge on Cora’s bed.

“Nope,” Vala says with a grin, tossing an M&M in the air and catching it in her mouth.

“I’m supervising,” Cora says, shrugging one shoulder as she flips to the next page of her textbook. School doesn’t start until next week, but there’s no harm in getting a head start on the reading. And maybe it’s a product of Ernest supplying her with (often pilfered) academic texts for all those years, but she finds the cadence and clinical analysis of technical writing to be very soothing.

“Supervising,” Jackson scoffs. “Right. Because that’s what we really need—"

“Don’t worry, Jackson,” Cam says with a jovial grin, patting Jackson hard on the shoulder. “We can handle this. ‘S just a dresser; how hard can it be?”

“Famous last words,” Jackson grumbles, but he sits down on the floor and opens up the instruction booklet. Teal’c gets to work on organizing the components with surprisingly delicate precision, and Cam starts testing the provided hex key in a few of the screws, apparently just for fun.

Cora tunes them all out and focuses on her reading, absorbing the layout of muscles and tendons and blood vessels in the human hand. It makes her wonder if her werewolf anatomy would be visibly different, if dissected while in human form. Do her claws retract when not in use, but still physically exist underneath? Or does the shift temporarily reformulate her cells each time, converting the existing materials into something different? And on a darker note, would the Sheriff have ordered an autopsy on her, if she hadn’t come back to life?

She hopes she never has to learn the answer to that question.

“You’re missing the show,” Vala mutters, and Cora blinks a few times to clear her head, finally looking up to see Vala watching her with an amused smirk.

“Show?” Cora asks, quirking an eyebrow.

Vala gestures with her head at the guys, who have apparently devolved into arguing with each other about how to interpret the next step in the instructions. “Three strapping young men, assembling furniture at your command?”

“Young?” Cora repeats doubtfully.

Vala’s smirk spreads into a grin. “Relatively.”

“Relative to what?” She’ll concede the point on Jackson, certainly, but Cam is only a few years younger than the Sheriff, and she’s pretty sure Derek had said something about Teal’c being over a century old. In fact, aside from the hellhound, she’s pretty sure Teal’c is the oldest person in their pack.

“Regardless,” Vala says, waving off the question carelessly. “Shouldn’t you be enjoying the view?”

Cora frowns. Should she be? These three are no more or less aesthetically appealing than anyone else, really, though she supposes they do all fit or exceed the standard definition of conventional attractiveness in their own ways. But apparently people are supposed to notice things like that, and care. “Right, uh—” she glances over at the men and does her best to appear appreciative— “yeah. Sure. Very nice.”

“You’re a bit of an odd one, aren’t you?” Vala says, studying her curiously.

Cora turns her face down to stare blankly at her textbook. Apparently her acting skills need work, if her weirdness is so obvious that even Vala would notice and comment.

“Hey,” Vala says, gently bumping Cora’s shoulder with her fist. “Nothing wrong with seeing the world a little differently.”

“Isn’t there?” Cora grumbles, fidgeting with the corner of her book. Her family had certainly thought so, and had never let her forget it.

“Maybe you’re asking the wrong person,” Vala says with a shrug and a wry smile. “After all, I can hardly speak for the people of this world. But the way I see it, this planet could use more people like you. Helps keep things interesting.” She winks and pops a handful of M&Ms into her mouth.

Cora makes a face at that. “Interesting isn’t always a good thing.”

“Says who?” Vala says, looking indignant.

Cora sighs, shakes her head, and tries to return her focus to her textbook. It’s safe there, in the world of scientific analysis, where logic rules and the world is predictable and comprehensible.

“No, seriously,” Vala insists, scooting over to sit closer to Cora. “Who do I have to beat up?”

Cora huffs an amused breath. “You’re gonna beat up my dead family?”

“If I have to,” Vala confirms with a brisk nod and a mischievous glint in her eye.

Cora’s mouth twitches unbidden into a small smile, and she reaches over to squeeze Vala’s arm. “Not necessary, but thanks.”

Vala heaves a theatrically disappointed sigh. “Alright, fine.” She lets Cora read in silence for a few moments before she interrupts again, leaning close and speaking low. “Would you prefer they were women?”

Cora furrows her brow, then flicks her eyes over to the guys in silent question, and Vala nods. "Wouldn’t make a difference,” she answers honestly.

“Huh.” Vala regards her curiously for a moment, then shrugs and grabs another handful of M&Ms. “Alright, then.”

Alright, then. Easy as that, apparently. Just... a few simple words, casual acceptance, and they get to move on like it’s no big deal. And maybe it isn’t a big deal, or at least doesn’t have to be. Maybe Cora can be her own weird self around all of these people, and none of them will judge her for it. Jackson gets it, anyway; he understood even before she knew there were words to describe what she feels—or, rather, doesn’t feel. The Sheriff’s own thoughts and experiences aren’t exactly like what Cora feels, but they’re close enough that he seems to understand well enough anyway. And Jack doesn’t seem to mind either way; whatever it is she feels or doesn’t, he’s still in love with her, despite her best efforts to convince him he shouldn’t be. Now Vala, even if she doesn’t exactly understand Cora, accepts her for who she is. None of this is what she would have expected, given what her family had subjected her to. At the very least, she’d have expected teasing, if not outright shunning.

This is a whole new world for her—a kinder world—and she finds herself once again glad to have been allowed to return to her life here so she can experience it fully.

Chapter Text

“Alright, out with it,” Stiles says, whirling around so he can lean his hip against the console while he’s glaring at Colonel Carter, crossing his arms obstinately. “You’ve been acting weird all week. What’s your deal?”

Carter glances up at him briefly, them shakes her head and returns her focus to her computer. “It’s nothing. I’m fine.”

“It’s not nothing, and you’re not fine,” Stiles says with a frown. “You’ve been avoiding Derek. Why?”

Carter doesn’t look up from her computer this time. “I’m respecting his space. He’s uncomfortable around me.”

Stiles’ eyebrows shoot up. “Wh—did he tell you that?”

“He didn’t have to,” she says. Her shoulders are tense, her hands frozen over the keyboard even as she pretends to still be hard at work. “He made himself quite clear.”

Stiles stares at her, perplexed. “What did you do?” he asks, then pauses and frowns more intensely. “What did he do?”

She sighs and shakes her head again. “He didn’t do anything. The fault was mine. He merely pointed out the ways in which I was a terrible friend to your O’Neill.”

“Wait—” he uncrosses his arms so he can rub at the tense spot between his eyebrows with one hand and hold his other hand out to gesture vaguely at nothing in particular— “this is about O’Neill?”

“Derek was right to criticize me,” she says, finally looking up to meet his eyes. “I shouldn’t have just expected O’Neill to be fine, going off on his own like that—I know him better than to think he should just be able to move on with his life, without anyone there to back him up. Our O’Neill still had our support; yours lost everything.”

“Seems to me he’s doing just fine,” Stiles says with a shrug.

“He almost died, Stiles,” she points out, her voice bleak, “and I never even would’ve known.”

And, okay, she may have a point. She hadn’t even known O’Neill was in Beacon Hills until Stiles had told her, after several weeks of working together. But she had offered her help, the instant she learned O’Neill was in trouble, and trusted Stiles with access to a database he could have easily misused. “He’s fine now,” Stiles says, because there’s really no use belaboring the past.

“He is,” she agrees quietly, looking down at her computer again. “No thanks to me.”

“At least you tried,” Stiles says, watching her cautiously.

“Not until it was almost too late,” she says, “and nothing I did helped anyway.”

Stiles sighs and scrubs at the back of his neck. “Cora just happened to be able to help sooner. I would’ve found the solution myself, if I’d had more time. And—” he closes his eyes and takes a sharp breath— “and she could only help because she’d died, and Skaara temporarily allowed her access to a more evolved state of being when he brought her back. I think we all would’ve preferred to use the help you’d offered, and that Cora’s method hadn’t been necessary or available.” Simply put, they all would have preferred that Cora hadn’t died.

“It seems I have a lot to be grateful to Cora for,” Carter says quietly. “I hope I get the opportunity to thank her in person someday—though given Derek’s reaction, I probably shouldn’t expect her to be very receptive to meeting me.”

“She’s not like that,” Stiles says with a soft, fond smile. “She doesn’t hold grudges. Forgives a little too easily, if you ask me, but at least it works to your advantage. She appreciates that you tried to help O’Neill, and she appreciates all the opportunities you’ve given me to turn my experience with the Goa’uld into something good.”

“She sounds like a remarkable young woman,” Carter says, glancing up to look at him thoughtfully.

“You’d like her,” Stiles agrees, turning back to the console so he can get back to work. He really wants to figure out those barrier spells in the Littlefield lab—he could use something like it back home, to be sure. He just needs to figure out how all the conditions are applied, and if there are any special materials required to make the spell work—won’t exactly do him any good if the spell components no longer exist.

“So—” Carter starts, with that analytical tone to her voice that tells him she’s rotating some new information in her mind— “being part of a werewolf pack... What, psychically links you to the others somehow?”

“Uh—” Stiles frowns and blinks a few times, but keeps studying the display— “not exactly? But, I dunno. Sort of, I guess. Not like we can read each other’s thoughts or anything, but there is some sort of intensified empathy that forms as the pack bonds strengthen. And if the bonds are strong enough, we can find each other anywhere.”

She’s silent for a moment, then takes a sharp breath. “That’s how you found Derek, in the lab he discovered here. And how you knew where to find him during that rescue mission, when you borrowed your ship.”

Stiles nods. “I’m only that strongly bonded with Derek, Cora, and my Dad, so far. I’m pretty sure Cora has it with all of us, though—she’s the Alpha, it’s different for her.”

“Wait, then—” he hears her sit back in her chair— “how big is your pack?”

“Uh—” Stiles blinks a few times and starts tallying them all in his head. “Not counting Cora, there’s... five werewolves, two chimeras, a hellhound, a banshee, three humans capable of using magic, two ghosts, a Jaffa, and five ordinary-ish humans.”

“And is that… big?”

Stiles shrugs. “Biggest in Beacon County. And the most diverse we’ve ever heard of. Most packs are just werewolves and humans.”

Carter is silent for a few more moments. “Must be exhausting,” she says eventually, her voice soft. “For Cora, to know the feelings and locations of that many people all at once.”

“It is,” Stiles confirms quietly, then clears his throat and picks up a notepad to start writing. “If I write up an ingredient list, do you think Teyla and Ronon could tell me if they can be found in this galaxy? I don’t think all these components are indigenous to the Milky Way.”

“You can certainly ask,” she says, not the least bit thrown by the abrupt change of subject. “No guarantees they’ll be able to get them for you.”

“No, I know. But, the first step is finding out if they even still exist.” He finishes the list and tears off the page. Time to talk to the locals, to see what kinds of magic are still possible in this galaxy.

Chapter Text

“Two hours, Stiles, and not a second more,” Sheppard says, his voice stern as he leads the way to the jumper bay.

“Gotcha,” Stiles says, nodding his understanding. He keeps his grip on Derek’s hand loose, to appear casual in case anyone else happens to walk past, but steady enough to ensure Derek will keep pace.

“And if anyone asks, I was with you the entire time,” Sheppard continues, raising his eyebrows expectantly, and Stiles nods his agreement. “Now, I’m gonna take a nap in that jumper over there—” he points to one in a far corner of the bay— “and if you aren’t back by the time my alarm goes off, I’m coming to get you, and then we’re all gonna be in trouble. Get it?”

“Got it,” Stiles confirms with a grin. The Court Jester was one of his mom’s favorite movies, and he very much hopes that Sheppard realizes what reference he’s set up.

“Good,” Sheppard says with a matching grin, and Stiles cheers internally at the completion of the bit. “This one’s yours—” he brings them to a stop at the back of the nearest jumper— “and I expect you to bring it back in the same condition it’s in now.”

“On it, boss,” Stiles says with a mock salute.

Sheppard rolls his eyes and waves them toward the jumper. “Go on, get outta here before I have a chance to remember what a bad idea this is.”

Stiles tugs Derek onto the jumper, calling back over his shoulder to Sheppard, “Have a nice nap!”

“Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do,” Sheppard calls after him as the jumper’s airlock slides shut.

“From what I understand,” Stiles mutters to Derek with a wink, bumping their shoulders together as he leads the way to the front of the jumper, “that doesn’t narrow our options very much.”

Derek huffs an amused breath and lets go of Stiles’ hand so they can sit at the controls. “You don’t actually have anything too crazy planned, though, do you?”

“I assure you, my motives are perfectly innocent—” Stiles stops and snorts at Derek’s skeptically-raised eyebrow. “Okay, maybe not perfectly innocent. But there’s something I want to show you.” He places his hands on the controls to pilot the jumper out of the bay.

Stiles can feel Derek’s eyes on him, watching as he pilots the ship. “And we have to get there by jumper?”

“It isn’t visible from this hemisphere,” Stiles says, keeping his focus on the controls as he sets the destination coordinates and gets a head-start on the shield modifications they’ll need.

Derek hums thoughtfully, but he doesn’t interrupt again, letting Stiles work in silence for a few minutes. Eventually, though, he seems to lose patience. He clears his throat, sighs, and swivels his chair toward Stiles. “So,” he says quietly, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his knees, “what’ll I have to do to make it so you aren’t mad at me anymore?”

Stiles rolls his eyes, but keeps his attention mostly focused on the modifications to the jumper—he’s at a particularly fiddly bit right now. “You don’t have to do anything. I was never actually mad.”

“Sure seemed mad,” Derek grumbles, and Stiles glances over at him briefly. He’s adorable when he’s all pouty like this, eyes downcast, picking at his fingernails.

“I was scared,” Stiles corrects gently. “You could’ve gotten yourself seriously hurt. And it turned out okay this time—as far as we know—but next time we might not be so lucky.”

Derek clenches his jaw and nods dejectedly. “I know. I already got the lecture from Daniel. I’m going to try to do better.”

“Good,” Stiles says, nodding approvingly, returning his focus to the shields. “Then that’s all I need.”

Derek watches him for another moment in silence. “If there’s anything you want me to do to make it up to you...” he offers, his voice uncertain.

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a slow breath. The modifications are nearly ready—he can do the final touches once they’re parked—and the autopilot is engaged. He can step away from the controls for a bit. He swivels his chair to face Derek and meets his eyes steadily. “You never have to earn my love, Derek. You have it, always, no matter how big of an idiot you’re being.”

Derek blinks at him a few times, looking adorably befuddled. “Stiles,” he breathes, “I—”

Stiles pushes himself to his feet so he can lean across the DHD console and cut Derek off with a kiss. Derek makes a noise that might almost be a moan deep in his throat and reaches up to grab a fistful of Stiles’ shirt in one hand, wrapping his other hand around the back of Stiles’ neck to hold him in place as he sighs into the kiss. Stiles brings his hand up to cradle Derek’s jaw, sinking into him for a moment. He pulls back after a bit so he can rest their foreheads together while they catch their breath. “Hold that thought,” he murmurs. “We’re almost there.”

“Hm?” Derek blinks up at him owlishly. “Where?”

“You’ll see,” Stiles promises with a grin as he pulls out of Derek’s grasp and sits back down at the controls. They’re on the approach now—Stiles shuts off the autopilot and retakes control so he can maneuver the jumper into the ideal alignment and finalize the modifications to the shield. When he’s done, he pushes himself to his feet again and holds a hand out to Derek. “C’mon.”

“What are we doing now?” Derek asks, but he doesn’t hesitate to take Stiles’ hand and push himself up.

Stiles doesn’t answer, just leads him to the airlock, then pauses with his hand on the controls. “Do you trust me?” he asks, looking into Derek’s eyes with a soft smile.

“Always,” Derek answers on a breath, his eyes dark as he stares back at Stiles.

Stiles presses the button to open the airlock, waiting until it’s open fully before he looks away from Derek. He tugs on Derek’s hand to guide him out to the end of the ramp, then sits down, and Derek sinks down beside him. “Look,” Stiles says, pointing out at the stars with his free hand. “In the center of that circular constellation, that fuzzy blob. Do you see it?”

“I see it,” Derek says, his voice soft, and then there’s a sharp inhale as he squeezes Stiles’ hand. “Is that—”

“Home,” Stiles confirms, looking away from the stars so he can watch Derek’s face in profile. He’s beautiful like this, with the light of the Milky Way reflected in his eyes, his expression full of wonder.

“Stiles,” Derek breathes, his eyes still fixed on the view, but adjusting his grip on Stiles’ hand so he can lace their fingers together.

“They’re all out there, Derek,” Stiles says quietly. “Cora, your team, our pack. All right there, in that little fuzzy blob.”

Derek’s breath hitches on his next breath in, and he leans his shoulder against Stiles’ as he continues to watch the stars.

Stiles joins him in enjoying the view for a while, resting his head on Derek’s shoulder. This is exactly as perfect as he imagined it would be, and Derek clearly loves it, just like Stiles knew he would. This was an excellent idea, and he’s only hoping the rest of his plan will be just as well received.

He takes a breath and straightens up a bit so he can dig into the pocket of his jeans. “So, I know you’ve said you’re not really into jewelry—”

Derek reluctantly tears his eyes away from the view to look over at Stiles, furrowing his brow. “Hm? I did?”

Stiles nods and pulls his hand out of his pocket, keeping his fist closed tightly for the moment. “But you did also mention something about us needing engagement rings, so, uh—” he clears his throat and opens his fist, holding his hand out, with the ring resting in the center of his palm, to Derek. “Anyway. Here.”

Derek stares at the ring for a moment, unmoving. “Am I to assume this one is functional, as well?”

Stiles smirks. “You know me too well.” To the untrained eye, the ring appears to be a simple gold band with a tiny crystal embedded in it. But, like the pendant he’d made for Derek months ago, and like the new cord for Cora’s amulet, there’s much more to it than meets the eye. “Do you want me to explain all the features?”

Derek shakes his head, his eyes still fixed on the ring. “Later.”

“Want to try it on?” Stiles asks, quieter this time, watching Derek carefully.

There’s a brief pause, then Derek nods wordlessly and offers his left hand.

Stiles releases a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding, then hooks the ring onto the tip of one finger so he can grab it properly. He brings the ring close to Derek’s hand, but pauses just at the tip of his finger and looks up to meet Derek’s eyes. “I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this,” he says, his voice soft but certain, “but this’ll make it official. So, Derek—” he pauses for one more breath in— “will you marry me? For realsies?”

Derek stares into his eyes for another second, then nods.

Stiles huffs an amused breath and shakes his head. “No, dude, you have to actually say it.”

Derek raises a sardonic eyebrow at being called dude at this particular moment, then heaves a theatrical sigh of faux-annoyance. “Yes, Stiles,” he growls lightly.

“You sure?” Stiles asks, just in case. “No take-backs. If you say yes to this now, you’re stuck with me. Forever.”

Derek rolls his eyes. “Yes, Stiles, that would be the point.”

Stiles grins and slips the ring onto Derek’s finger—a perfect fit, as expected. Stiles keeps hold of Derek’s hand so he can rub his thumb across the ring, admiring the way it looks on Derek’s finger. “How does it feel?”

“Like I need to get one for you, now,” Derek answers, tightening his grip on both of Stiles’ hands.

“There’s no rush,” Stiles assures him. He frees one of his hands from Derek’s grasp and cups the back of his head to pull him in for a kiss. “Apparently we have forever.”

Chapter Text

“Feels good to be home, doesn’t it?” Stiles asks, grinning at Derek from the passenger seat of Derek’s car as they drive to the Stilinskis’ house.

“You have no idea,” Derek agrees. Exploring Atlantis was fun, but being so far away from everyone was harder than he’d expected. Having Stiles and Daniel with him was the only thing that had kept him sane. His sparring sessions with Teyla and Ronon helped, and last night’s stargazing trip with Stiles to see the Milky Way had settled him immensely, but still, he hadn’t felt truly himself again until he’d stepped through the second ‘Gate at Midway and arrived back at the SGC. He’ll have to be back there again tomorrow for his debriefing and to prepare for his next regularly-scheduled mission, but at least for tonight, he gets to be home in Beacon Hills with his family.

Stiles reaches across the center console to offer his hand for Derek to hold, which he gladly accepts. “I do have a bit of an idea,” Stiles reminds him.

“I suppose you do,” Derek concedes with a soft smile. In fact, he suspects Stiles knows exactly how it feels, and that was why he’d insisted that Derek go with him on this trip in the first place. Derek squeezes Stiles’ hand, then lets go so he can navigate the car onto the Stilinskis’ street and into the driveway. Cora, as he’d expected, is waiting for them on the porch as he pulls up and parks, and he grins in anticipation of her inevitably launching herself at him as soon as he’s out.

She doesn’t, however. She rushes down the steps as he climbs out of the car, but freezes several feet away and narrows her eyes as she stares at him suspiciously. “Stiles,” she starts, her voice wary, “what the hell did my brother do to himself this time?”

“Ah, crap,” he hears Stiles mutter. “See, dude, I told you there was more to what that device did to you. Cora can see it.”

Derek frowns and takes a step closer to Cora, but she steps back as he approaches, maintaining the distance between them, and holds up a hand to signal for him to stay away. “I’m guessing we shouldn’t talk about this outside?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at Stiles.

“Got it in one,” Stiles confirms as he walks over to her, then hesitates a few steps away. “Am I also forbidden from giving you a hug?”

A corner of her mouth twitches up into a bit of a smile. “No. C’mere.” She gestures for him to approach, and he grins as he sets down the case he’d been carrying and sweeps her into his arms, holding her tightly for a moment. Derek tries not to feel too jealous at being left out—this is his true punishment, he supposes, for his reckless behavior.

Stiles releases her from his arms when she pats his back, and he gestures to the house with a small bow. “After you.” Cora rolls her eyes, but she does lead the way up onto the porch and inside. Stiles picks up his case and holds his free hand out for Derek, who accepts it with a sigh and follows along. Stiles pauses as they pass through the doorway into the living room and lets go of Derek so he can activate the anti-eavesdropping sigil, then claims a seat on the couch, setting his case by his feet. Derek sinks into the seat beside Stiles; Cora has already claimed a seat in the armchair on Stiles’ other side, apparently still feeling the need for separation from Derek.

Derek puffs out a slow breath as he scrubs both hands down his face. “Alright,” he grumbles, “before you start with round four of my scolding, can I at least ask how things went here in town while we were away?”

Cora ducks her head and smiles softly. “Actually, kind of great. No near-death experiences, no new bad guys.”

Derek releases a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. “Good. Okay. Glad to hear it.”

“Your team are good people,” she tells him quietly. “I’m glad we have them in our pack. It was fun having them around this week.”

Derek’s eyes crinkle with his smile; he’s immensely pleased to hear that Cora is getting along well with his team. He’d certainly hoped that would be the case, and he’d known they’d at least be able to be friendly, but apparently she’s accepted them fully into the pack now. The pack bonds will strengthen faster now, for all of them, and Derek will feel safer offworld knowing he has that connection with them.

“Actually, while we talk,” Stiles says, leaning down to grab his case, “could I get started on some upgrades to your amulet? That thing we talked about before I left, and a few more tricks I learned while I was over there.” He opens his case to take out his kara kesh and gets it settled on his hand.

Cora nods and moves to take off the amulet, hesitates briefly before the cord clears her head, then hesitates again before handing it over to Stiles. It must feel strange for her not to have it on—Derek hasn’t seen her take it off even once since Ernest died.

Derek furrows his brow as he watches all this, and as Stiles’ words catch up with him. “That thing you talked about? What thing?”

“Uh—” Stiles glances over at Cora, who shakes her head minutely, and Derek’s frown deepens. “Just, some extra protections. Nothing you need to worry about.” Stiles clears his throat and hovers his left palm over a section of the amulet’s cord, furrowing his brow in concentration as the crystal on his kara kesh glows.

“But—”

“So,” Cora interrupts him, fixing him with a stern glare, “what did you do, and why do you look weird?”

Derek snaps his mouth shut and shrinks into his seat a bit. “I... might have touched something that trapped me in magical stasis for a few hours and did some, uh—” he cringes and scratches his eyebrow in a nervous gesture— “unknown... stuff. To me. But we don’t think it was anything harmful, so...” he trails off with a sheepish shrug.

Cora heaves a weary sigh and pinches the bridge of her nose. “Dammit, Derek…”

Stiles snorts and smiles wryly, but doesn’t look up from his work. “Dude, that’s exactly what I said when I found him.”

“I’ve already gotten the lecture from Stiles, Daniel, and the Doc in Atlantis,” Derek grumbles, sinking even further into his seat and picking some lint off of the couch cushion beside him. “So whatever you think you need to say to scold me, chances are I’ve already heard it.”

“I won’t pile it on, then,” she says, much to his surprise, though she’s still glaring at him. “As long as the message has gotten through to you properly this time.”

“It has,” he promises quietly, meeting her eyes and hoping she hears the truth of it in his heart.

She studies him for a moment, then nods once. “Fine. And you think it wasn’t meant to harm you?”

“I think it was meant to help me, actually,” he says, straightening up a bit. “Help us, specifically, as a matter of fact.”

She furrows her brow at that. “Us? What do you mean?”

“The lab I found him in would only let the two of us and Daniel inside,” Stiles explains distractedly, still primarily focused on his task. “We found evidence that the locking spells used were pack-specific.”

“Our pack, Cora,” Derek says, leaning forward to brace his forearms on his knees as he watches for her reaction. “Your pack.”

She stares at him, wide-eyed, for several long moments, then her expression shifts to something guarded. “You think whatever was done to you was meant to help us,” she repeats coolly, “and yet it held you prisoner without your consent, and it changed you in ways you haven’t been able to identify or explain. And you thought it was a good idea to bring these changes home to me, before knowing what they are.”

“Cora—” Derek starts, sitting upright in surprise at her tone.

“It wants to spread,” she tells him, and his eyes widen in shock. “I can see it reaching for me. Maybe it means no harm, but are you willing to risk that on anyone other than yourself before you know for sure?”

“No,” he says, his voice faint. He hadn’t considered that the effects could be contagious—but if this is indeed the case, there’s no way he’s willing to endanger Cora until he knows its intention.

“Since Stiles seems unaffected, and I assume Daniel was as well, you’re likely safe to interact as normal with the humans in our pack,” she says, her voice stern. “But, please, until we know more, and until we know it’s safe, I would ask that you keep your distance from the rest of us. We don’t know which types of creatures it wants to alter, let alone what it wants to do.”

“I’m heading back to work tomorrow anyway,” he says, furrowing his brow as he considers this new information. “I’ll keep researching until I find the answers. And maybe it’ll fade with time, all on its own.”

She looks doubtful at that, but she inclines her head in approval—the gesture done in such a way that makes it obvious she’s been spending quite a bit of time with Teal’c recently. He would smile to see it, if he weren’t still so disturbed by her warning.

Stiles clears his throat, then, and the glow of his kara kesh fades. “I need to let these changes settle in overnight,” he explains, holding the amulet out to Cora. “I’ll do a tune-up tomorrow to finalize them and make sure they’re working right.”

She nods and accepts the amulet back, looping the cord over her head and letting the Eye of Ra settle against her chest once more. Then her eyes flick over to Derek, and she smirks. “And speaking of Stiles’ new jewelry-making hobby...” she trails off meaningfully as her eyes fix on Derek’s left hand.

Derek feels a flush spreading from his cheeks up to the tips of his ears, and Stiles grins bashfully and rubs the back of his neck. “Yep,” Stiles says, his eyes twinkling, “it’s official, there’s no getting rid of me now.”

“My condolences,” Cora says to Derek, her expression and tone grim, though her eyes dance in amusement. “Was it at least romantic?”

Derek heaves a theatrical sigh and hangs his head, as if in disappointment. “I believe his exact words were, will you marry me for realsies.”

“And you still said yes?” she asks with a disbelieving huff, even as a delighted smile tugs at the corners of her eyes. “Good god, you two deserve each other.”

“Heck yeah, we do,” Stiles mutters in agreement, reaching over to take Derek’s hand with a sly smile.

Derek is pretty sure the smile he gives in return is embarrassingly smitten, because Cora makes a disgusted noise and moves as if she’s intending to leave. “Gross. If you two are gonna be like this all night—”

Stiles laughs and lets go of Derek so he can reach a hand out to Cora. “No, stay. I promise we’ll behave.”

She rolls her eyes and settles back with a faux-aggrieved sigh, then reaches out to squeeze Stiles’ hand. “Congrats,” she says softly. “For realsies.”

An amalgamation of conflicting emotions clumps together in his chest—the warmth of her approval and the dismay of not being able to hold her; the joy of being near her and the dread that what he brought with him could end up hurting her; the peace of knowing she is well and the terror of knowing it can’t last forever. He’d thought being home would settle him enough that he’d be able to sleep again, but he doubts that will be the case tonight. Perhaps a few hours in a deep state of kelno’reem will suffice, if he can manage to achieve it. For now, though, he can at least enjoy spending time with his top two favorite people in the universe.

But he has, indeed, learned his lesson about treating his body so recklessly. He promises himself, this will never happen again.

Chapter Text

“Where did you even learn all of this?” Jackson asks, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall as he watches Stiles with suspiciously-narrowed eyes.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Stiles says with a careless wave of his hand as he finishes sketching the sigil in the threshold of Cora’s bedroom. “Analyze enough deep space radar telemetry, and you can learn all sorts of crazy tricks.”

Jackson heaves an irritated sigh and gives Stiles an exaggerated eye roll. “Right, sure, deep space radar telemetry. Isn’t that line getting a little old? You don’t honestly expect me to believe it, do you?”

“Honestly, no,” Stiles admits, smirking up at Jackson. “But you don’t get to know the whole truth yet. It’s a national security thing.”

“National security,” Jackson scoffs. “Yeah, right.”

Stiles meets Jackson’s eyes steadily and raises an eyebrow. “Listen to my heartbeat and tell me if I’m lying to you,” he challenges Jackson. “I cannot tell you where I learned this for reasons of national security. The work I’ve been doing all summer is connected to one of the most highly-classified projects in this nation’s history. Even telling you this much is a potential violation of my security clearance. But the people I work with have a career in mind for you, so if you stay on track and do well in school, you’ll find out what all of this is about eventually.”

Jackson stares at him for a moment, his expression unreadable, before he blinks once and speaks. “Who in their right mind would give you a security clearance?”

“Who, indeed,” Stiles mutters with a wry smile as he sets his chalk down and picks up his jar and paintbrush to begin applying the ingredients for the barrier spell to the baseboards of Cora’s bedroom. “They didn’t exactly have a choice with me. Some of the stuff that happened last fall kind of made it unavoidable.”

“That thing that possessed you,” Jackson guesses, and Stiles nods, his jaw twitching as he keeps his focus mostly on his task. “The government knows about that, but not werewolves?”

“They know about werewolves now,” Stiles clarifies. “They had to know about Derek so he could join the project. But only a select few who work with him know what he is.”

“And we’re really okay with the government knowing about us?” Jackson asks, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “About Cora?”

Stiles sighs and sits back on his heels for a bit. He understands Jackson’s reticence; the government may not be the most trustworthy institution, depending on what administration is in charge at any given time. But Stiles does trust the current head of the SGC, and the current head of the Department of Homeworld Security. He trusts them to keep Derek and Cora safe from anyone who might not have the same honorable intentions in the current administration, and he trusts them to help Derek and Cora vanish from all records without a trace if they decide it’s no longer safe to stay. So, he supposes the relevant question Jackson must answer for himself is— “Do you trust that Derek would never do anything to endanger Cora?”

Jackson clenches his jaw and drops his gaze. “I guess,” he admits reluctantly.

“Derek would do anything for Cora,” Stiles says as he gets back to work on painting the baseboards. “Even at the expense of his own life. And he would never trust anyone with her unless he was absolutely certain it was safe.”

“I suppose you’re right,” Jackson grumbles.

Stiles pauses his work again so he can look Jackson in the eye. “He’s trusting you with her,” he points out, keeping his tone even so Jackson knows this is serious. “This is a big city, with God-only-knows what kinds of new threats we might encounter, and the rest of us will be hours away. You’re her only backup here, and Derek is trusting you with that. He knows you love her as much as I do, and he knows you’ll fight just as hard to protect her.”

Jackson takes a slow breath and nods. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to keep her safe,” he promises, his voice low but assured. Stiles doesn’t need super werewolf hearing to know the depth of Jackson’s conviction—if there is but one truth in this universe, it is that the three of them love Cora more than anything, and will stop at nothing to ensure her continued safety and happiness. Not just the three of them, he’s fairly certain, but at least them.

Stiles returns to the task at hand, making a face as he’s forced to contort himself to squeeze between the headboard of Cora's bed and the wall. “You could’ve scooted this just a little farther out, you know,” he complains, glaring at Jackson as he comes out on the other side.

Jackson shrugs remorselessly. “Oops.”

Stiles rolls his eyes and mutters a few choice insults under his breath, knowing full well that Jackson can hear every word. He finishes his loop, connecting the line of paint with the sigil in the doorway, then sets the jar and brush aside and extends his palm over the center of the sigil. He closes his eyes, summoning his power and pushing all of his intention behind the spell. When he opens his eyes again, the sigil is gone, and the paint has melded with the baseboards. “Sweet,” he breathes with a triumphant grin.

“How do we know if it worked?” Jackson asks, tilting his head curiously as he examines the baseboards.

“Right, testing,” Stiles mumbles, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh—do you think you could invite Danny over? We need someone who isn’t in the pack, but who won’t freak out about magic. If he can’t, I have someone I could call, but I don’t know if she’s available today.”

Jackson pulls out his phone and starts typing. “He should be around today. It’ll take him a bit to get here from the South Bay, but I don’t think he has plans.”

“Have him pick up some food on the way,” Stiles says, pushing himself to his feet and pulling out his knife so he can start carving the soundproofing sigil into Cora’s door frame. “I’m starving.”

Jackson nods distractedly. “Any preferences?”

“I don’t care, as long as it’s food.” He finishes his carving, tucks his knife back into his pocket, and brushes away the dust, then tilts his head and looks at Jackson curiously. “Hey, speaking of which, why aren’t you going to Stanford? What, did you not get in?”

Jackson snorts, not looking up from his phone. “‘Course I got in. Turning them down was so satisfying.”

“But they have a world-class medical school—”

“And it’s my father’s alma mater,” Jackson says, tucking his phone away with a scowl. “Stanford also has a world-class law school, and if I’d gone there, my father never would’ve given up on his dream of having me follow in his footsteps. I was never going to give him the satisfaction.”

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “You hate him that much?”

Jackson shrugs and crosses his arms again. “Whatever. Feeling’s mutual, by now.”

“Dude,” Stiles says, frowning in concern.

Jackson briefly uncrosses one arm so he can wave off Stiles’ concern. “It’s fine, I don’t need him. Apparently my real parents left me a trust fund big enough that I’ll never have to rely on him for anything ever again. And I have all of you guys now.”

Stiles kind of wants to interrogate him about this further, but Jackson doesn’t seem particularly receptive to that at the moment. Instead, Stiles sighs and goes to pick up his jar, peering inside to see how much is left. “I didn’t use as much of this as I thought,” he observes, then looks over at Jackson. “Would you like me to do your room, too?”

Jackson narrows his eyes at Stiles for a moment. “It’d block anyone but pack from coming in?”

“If I’ve done it right, yeah,” Stiles confirms. He’s pretty sure he got all the ingredients right, anyway, but even if he missed a few—or made some unintentional substitutions—he’s almost certain it’ll work anyway. Magic works on intention and belief, after all; spell ingredients are just tools to make the job easier.

“I might want guests someday, if you know what I mean,” Jackson says with a wink.

Stiles raises an eyebrow. “Thought you had your eye on someone a little closer to home.”

Jackson grimaces. “I don’t think he’s ready to face that side of himself yet; he’s got some stuff he needs to work through first. And besides, nothing says I have to live like a monk while I wait.”

Stiles shrugs and grabs the lid for the jar so he can seal it up again, then starts tidying up the rest of his supplies. “Alright. Just let me know if you change your mind.”

Jackson is silent for a moment, crossing his arms and staring blankly towards the floor. “I’ll think about it,” he says eventually, his voice soft.

“We need to make sure it works first anyway,” Stiles says as he packs up the rest of his supplies, then steps out into the hall and bumps Jackson’s arm with his fist. “Your turn.”

Jackson rolls his eyes and pushes himself off of the wall, walking into Cora’s room to start moving her furniture back to where it belongs. “You know, you can help with this.”

“Can’t, sorry,” Stiles says with a smirk as he watches Jackson’s muscles bulge with the effort of moving the heavier pieces. “I’m just so exhausted from all that magic I had to do.”

“Liar,” Jackson grumbles, shooting an annoyed look at Stiles.

Stiles grins cheekily back at him and leans against the wall, sticking his hands in his pockets and casually crossing his legs at the ankle. He may not have a thing for Jackson anymore, and he’s very happily devoted to Derek, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still enjoy the view.

Chapter Text

“Are you sure you don’t want something else?” Noah asks as he ties on his apron. “I can cook other things, you know.”

“Why would I ever want anything else?” Cora leans against the counter next to him, apparently doing her best to get in the way as much as possible. “Grilled cheese is the perfect food.”

Stiles sighs and scrubs at his face with both hands. “Can we at least have a vegetable as well, this time?” he suggests, though he doesn’t have high hopes that either of them will listen.

“Tomato soup is a vegetable,” Cora says, scooting reluctantly to the side so Noah can put down the ingredients as he pulls them out of the fridge.

“Something with some fiber,” Stiles insists. “We can’t all be werewolves living constantly in perfect health. Some of us—” he looks pointedly at his father— “have to worry about our cholesterol.”

Noah glares back at him. “The occasional less-than-ideally-healthy meal isn’t gonna kill me.” He turns back to the fridge with a sigh and makes a face. “But we do have some cauliflower; I’ll make your Mom’s recipe.”

“Good. Thank you.” Stiles nods his approval and turns his attention back to his Dad’s case files. If he’s reading this right, Noah is closing in on something huge that could cripple the Calaveras’ entire operation permanently—murder’s only the beginning of their illegal dealings.

“Speaking of which, are you kids gonna be able to feed yourselves properly there in the city, or will you be living exclusively on takeout?” Noah asks, quirking an eyebrow as he gently nudges Cora a little further out of the way.

“I know how to cook,” Cora says, rolling her eyes. “I’m not used to having all this fancy equipment—” she gestures vaguely at the stove and all the pots and pans and spatulas— “but I know how to improvise something nutritious that tastes decent.”

“I wouldn’t exactly call all of this—” Noah gestures around the kitchen with a skeptical look in his eyes— “fancy.” No one in the Stilinski household could ever claim to be a particularly gourmet chef; the gear they have is basic and functional, and most of it is well-used, having been purchased by or for Claudia.

“When almost all your cooking is done over an open fire with nothing but sticks and rocks as cooking utensils, trust me, this is fancy.” She sighs and looks over at the spice rack. “I do miss all the fresh herbs, though. The dried stuff just isn’t the same, and there are a few I used to love that grew everywhere down there that I haven’t been able to find here.”

Stiles glances up to meet his Dad’s eyes and knows immediately they’re thinking the same thing—build Cora an herb garden. Neither of them have the best track record when it comes to keeping plants alive, and it might be tricky to track down some of the more uncommon herbs Cora would want, but it’d be so worth the effort to be able to give her that. Stiles pulls out his phone and queues up a few Google searches to remind himself of what he’ll need to research later to implement this properly. He’s pretty sure he can get a decent start to one set up by the time her birthday rolls around.

Noah leans close to Cora to speak conspiratorially in her ear, not quite speaking low enough to prevent Stiles from hearing. “Hey, what d’you say we add some bacon to this batch?”

“You’re a genius,” she mutters back to him with a grin. He winks and sets the bacon on the counter with a smug smile, then closes the fridge and shoulders Cora out of the way a little more forcefully so he can get started on the prep work. She grumbles a little, but relocates to a different section of countertop that’s mostly not in the way anymore. She looks over at Stiles, then, and gestures at the files with her chin. “How does it look? Think it’ll work?”

“Dude, even I have to admit, it looks like this’ll work,” Stiles says, with a devious smile. “They’ve gotten complacent over the years; they figured, as long as they kept bribing the right people and cloaking their shadier dealings in favors to various government officials, they could keep getting away with whatever they want forever, but once all of this comes out, even their most corrupt friends won’t be willing to back them. If we time this right, we’ll take ‘em all down before they even know what’s hit ‘em.”

Cora glances over at Noah, who nods in cautious agreement. “It won’t be a simple thing,” he says, “and there’s a ton of ways it can all go wrong, but they’re going down. No question about it, after what I’ve found.”

“Okay,” she says with a relieved sigh, some of the tension draining out of her shoulders. “Let me know if I can do anything to help speed things along.”

Noah shakes his head, his expression grim. “Best if you stay as far away from this as possible. We won’t be able to hide that we’re the ones orchestrating their downfall, but if we keep it all on the up-and-up, and especially if us humans are the ones to bring this to light, the other hunter families will have no grounds to stand on if they try to retaliate.”

“Alright.” There’s worry in her eyes, still, but she nods her approval. She sighs heavily, then, and scrubs her hands down her face. “I hate that I’m leaving you guys to deal with all of this. Scott, too—I get why I have to let you deal with the Calaveras, but if Scott’s here to retake his territory or pick up where Deaton left off, he’s going to try to take advantage of my absence to turn people to his cause.”

“We can handle Scott,” Stiles growls. “None of us are going to be taken in by his holier-than-thou attitude—”

“He’s an Alpha,” Cora reminds him with a frown. “Even if he can’t win any of you back, he can start fresh with a whole new batch of freshly-turned wolves. You’ll have to keep a very close eye on him, and on anyone he hangs out with. If he does turn anyone, I need to know immediately.”

Stiles sucks in a sharp breath through his teeth. He’d known Scott could turn people, consensually or not—Liam was proof of that, after all—but he hadn’t actually considered that it might happen. Scott could be out there now, Biting any number of unsuspecting teenagers. “We’ll watch him,” Stiles promises, his voice grim.

“If he does turn anyone—or worse, if he already has—they’ll be easy enough to identify,” Cora continues. “Scott won’t have taught them how to mask their scents. Probably won’t have taught them much of anything, really, so make sure they know training is available, and they don’t have to go through anything alone. And make sure they know that pack affiliation doesn’t matter—training is open to all who need it. If they really are happy with Scott as their Alpha, we’ll respect their choice.”

Noah walks over to grab something out of the cabinet behind Cora, but pauses a moment to press a kiss to the side of her head. “You’re too kind for your own good sometimes, kiddo,” he mutters with a fond smile as he smooths down her hair. “I’m so damn proud of you for that.”

Cora blushes and ducks her head. “It’s what any decent Alpha would do,” she mumbles.

“Guess I’ve never met one before you, then,” Noah says over his shoulder on his way back to his prep counter.

“Derek would’ve done the same,” Cora says, frowning at Noah’s back.

“He would have,” Stiles confirms with a nod. “Did, actually—or tried to, anyway, with Scott.”

Noah sighs and shakes his head. “That damn kid… do you think, if he’d been more receptive to Derek’s help, all this mess could’ve been avoided?”

“Never would’ve happened,” Stiles says. “That would have required that Scott be capable of self-reflection and humility.”

Cora makes a face at that as if she agrees but doesn’t like it, but apparently chooses not to comment further on the subject. “Now, on the off-chance that Scott truly is here just to finish school, I don’t want you making his life any more difficult than it already is—”

Stiles snorts. “Right, because Scott’s life is so difficult.”

Cora glares him back into silence. “This is his home. I won’t cede the territory to him, and he’ll never be welcome in my pack, but I am open to the possibility of peaceful coexistence. If he’s capable of diplomacy, I’m willing to negotiate.”

“Right, sure, good luck with that,” Stiles mutters. He doesn’t have any faith in Scott’s diplomatic capabilities, especially given how things had gone the last time Cora had tried to talk to Scott.

“I’ll come back here as often as my schedule allows,” she continues, ignoring Stiles’ comment. “But if anything big happens while I’m away, Noah is in charge.”

Stiles blinks in surprise. Not the Sheriff, but Noah. “Uh—” he glances over at his Dad, then back to Cora. “As in…”

“As in, he’s my Second,” Cora says, her voice steady and assured as she meets Stiles’ eyes. “When I’m not available, his voice is my voice; my authority is his authority. He can speak for me in all things, and I trust him to represent my interests faithfully.”

Stiles furrows his brow. “But isn’t Derek—”

“Derek isn’t even on the planet all the time,” she interrupts, raising an eyebrow, and he supposes he has to concede that point to her. “If I were to die again—” she falters slightly, then takes a breath to compose herself— “without the Druids’ interference in the line of succession, Derek would inherit. But he can’t be my Second when he isn’t even around. And, though I love him dearly, I have to admit he doesn’t always have the most sound judgement. I trust Noah to act in the best interests of this pack, always.”

Stiles nods thoughtfully. This, at least, he understands—he, too, would trust his father with this responsibility. “Actually, Scott might be more receptive to listening to him than to you,” he points out. “He was practically family, after all, before he went full Dark Side on you.”

Cora nods and glances over at Noah. “I’d had that thought as well.”

“So, no pressure, then,” Noah grumbles, still focused on his food prep.

“Sorry, Dad,” Stiles says with a wry smile. “I’d help, but, uh—”

Noah huffs a breath. “Yeah, I get the feeling he’d be just as receptive to you as he would be to Cora.”

“Most likely,” Stiles agrees. “Lydia might still be able to get through to him, though, so you don’t have to face him alone.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” Noah says, nodding distractedly as he works. “But, hey, it’s still possible we could get lucky, and Scott won’t be a problem at all.”

“Since when are we ever lucky?” Stiles scoffs.

“We live in hope,” Cora says quietly, looking down at the floor as she wraps a hand around her amulet. “Even when it’s all we have.”

Stiles shares another look with his Dad, and, again, he’s pretty sure they’re thinking the same thing—they’ll give her more than just hope, no matter what it takes. They’ll have her favorite dinner together tonight as a family; they’ll see her off tomorrow, to her new adventures in San Francisco; and they’ll do everything in their power to keep Beacon Hills safe in her absence, so she always has a home to return to.

Chapter Text

“Do you think they noticed us?” Jackson asks as he kicks off his shoes in the entryway. He hefts his bag on his shoulder and follows Cora to the living room to set up their study zone.

“Doubtful. Even if we hadn’t been masking our scents, the extra protections Stiles put on us would’ve confused them.” Cora claims her seat on the couch and pulls her textbooks and notebook out of her own bag. Jackson sits beside her and pulls out his laptop so they can cross-reference their notes and make sure neither of them missed anything. They’re in all the same classes this semester, a packed schedule designed to get them through to the more advanced classes and out for practical application as quickly as possible, as long as they can keep up with the coursework.

“But you’re sure there was more than just the one werewolf,” Jackson says with a dubious frown.

She nods absentmindedly and opens her notebook. “There were several. He was just the only one who wasn’t masking his scent.”

“You can see through ‘em all, though,” he notes, and she shrugs. A side effect of her extra senses, she supposes—each of the werewolves had a distinctive aura around them, as did a kitsune she’d spotted, and a couple other were-somethings she hadn’t known the names of. “So why wouldn’t this guy be masking? Or, why would all the others?”

Cora sighs and sits back, raking a hand through her hair; as annoying as it will be to explain all of this, werewolf pack politics are a thing Jackson should know. All of them should, actually, especially as the other teens in their pack graduate and head off to college, but that can wait until some other time. For now, she can figure out how best to explain it all by practicing on Jackson. “So, generally, best practice for a werewolf moving to a new territory is to contact the local Alpha, if there is one, either to request to join the pack or to negotiate a peaceful coexistence.”

Jackson scowls. “Like you’ve been trying to do with Scott.”

Cora grimaces, but nods. “He should have contacted me before his return to negotiate the terms of his stay. But whatever, I guess I can’t blame him for not knowing werewolf customs. Anyway, the rules are a little different around colleges and universities. Residence is often temporary, and most wolves stable enough to go away for school intend to return to their home packs. Staying masked is their way of keeping a low profile, and signaling their intentions to keep to themselves and leave town when their studies are complete.”

Jackson narrows his eyes thoughtfully. “So for this guy to be walking around unmasked—”

“He’s signaling his desire to make contact with other packs,” she confirms. “Perhaps because he intends to move to the area permanently, or perhaps he’s been sent as an envoy by his pack to establish diplomatic relationships.”

Jackson makes a face. “Does this mean we have to talk to him?”

She huffs a breath. “No, or at least not yet. We let the local Alpha handle it. If he’s still unmasked after a week or two, then his intentions are geared more toward general networking, and then we can approach, if we want.”

“Mm. Well. Hate to say it,” Jackson says with an apologetic grimace, “but networking with other packs is actually probably a good idea.”

Cora sighs and scrubs her hands down her face. “I know,” she grumbles. Socializing isn’t her strong suit, but she supposes it’s unavoidable, especially as Alpha—forming alliances with neighboring packs is an important part of her job leading the pack. And besides, she probably needs to warn the local packs about the threat from the Calaveras, and to assure them that the responsibility for taking care of it is hers alone; she isn’t expecting any other packs to fight her battles for her. “But we don’t have to do it right away. We can stay low-profile while we settle in, and reach out to local packs on our own terms.”

Jackson raises an eyebrow at her. “They won’t be pissed that we’re starting out hiding from them?”

“They shouldn’t be,” she says with a frown. “They should know that a later unmasking is a request for diplomatic relations from a pack that otherwise intends to keep to ourselves, not a threat against their territory.”

“You aren’t just any ol’ werewolf, though,” Jackson points out, his eyebrows twitching skeptically. “You’re an Alpha.”

“Alpha of an ancient lineage and a well-established territory,” Cora counters. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve heard of us already, and if they have, they should know we aren’t seeking expansion. We have Beacon Hills, and that’s quite enough for us.”

He narrows his eyes. “Beacon Hills is a pretty small town—”

“Square mileage isn’t the most important factor,” she tells him. “Nor is population. We have thousands of acres of parkland to run in, an active Nemeton under our stewardship, and a complicated and diverse group to govern that could continue to grow as the Nemeton draws in more of us. We’ve got our hands full enough already.”

“I had no idea this was all so complicated,” Jackson says, eyeing her curiously. “And I didn’t know you were so politically savvy.”

“Worst part of the job, honestly,” she mutters, wrapping her hand around her amulet. She and Ernest had mostly been able to keep to themselves during their years on the run together, but they had occasionally encountered packs that demanded tribute even to pass through their territory. And, since Ernest had obviously been incapable of negotiating in his condition, the onus had fallen to Cora to handle all diplomatic responsibilities. She’d hated it—hated having the attentions of power-drunk Alphas forced on her, hated pandering to the whims of entitled jerks who’d never had anyone say no to them before—but she’d muddled through somehow and either fought off or negotiated her way out of most of the worst things they’d demanded of her. She doesn’t think it’ll be that bad again, now that she’s an Alpha and better able to defend herself, and with the assistance of Stiles’ glamour removing certain temptations from the equation, but she still isn’t looking forward to taking on those duties.

“Hey,” he says, reaching over to gently place his hand on her wrist. She flinches back, startled out of her memories, and he starts to pull his hand away, but then changes his mind and tentatively offers it to her palm-up instead. “You aren’t doing this alone anymore.”

She stares at his hand for a moment as she takes slow breaths to calm her heart and to remind herself that she’s with Jackson and she’s safe here, then reaches out to place her hand in his. “I know,” she says quietly. “I’m still getting used to what that feels like, but I know.”

He leans his shoulder against hers and presses his face into her hair. “You doing okay?” he murmurs, squeezing her hand.

She nods and squeezes back. “Tired. Long day.” She doesn’t feel like getting into the details of the more unsavory memories from her life on the run at the moment. Certainly not when she’s already exhausted from being around people all day.

“Nap first, study after?” he suggests, hooking his chin over the top of her head and tugging her closer in to his side.

She shakes her head and pulls away so she can grab her notebook, then settles against him again. “Need to distract my brain right now. Biochem will help.”

“You’re a little bit nuts, you know that?” he tells her, his voice soft and fond as she starts reviewing her notes. “Most people don’t find studying relaxing.”

“Good thing I’m not most people, then,” she says distractedly. She may not always feel her weirdness is an advantage, but in this case, it means she’ll make it through her studies that much quicker, and then she can really start helping people.

Chapter Text

Stiles stumbles groggily into the kitchen, yawning as he scrubs his hands down his face, and makes his way over to the coffee pot, grabbing his mug out of the dish rack on his way.

“That’s a fresh pot, by the way,” a voice informs him as he glares dubiously at the coffee machine for a moment, suspiciously full for this time of day.

“Mm, th’nks,” he mumbles, and decides to take their word for it. He picks up the pot, starts pouring, then freezes when his brain finally registers the voice that had spoken to him. “Uh—” he blinks, remembers to stop pouring just before his mug overflows, and turns. “Chris Argent is in my kitchen,” he observes flatly, staring at the man seated at the kitchen table. And it’s not like this is a particularly unusual occurrence, but Chris Argent is alone in his kitchen, wearing one of his Dad’s old Air Force t-shirts and a well-worn pair of sweatpants, in the morning.

Chris hesitates with his own coffee mug partially lifted toward his mouth. “Is that… a problem?”

“No, of course not, it’s—” Stiles shakes himself a little. “Sorry. It’s fine; I just wasn’t expecting to see you. Here. Like—” he gestures at Chris— “that.”

Chris slowly sets his mug down, his expression guarded. “Noah asked me to stay,” he says, something tentative in his voice. “But if it makes you uncomfortable—”

Stiles shakes his head and puts down the coffee pot so he can pick up his mug. “No, honestly, it’s fine. I’m just… not quite awake yet. Clearly.” He lifts his mug in a silent cheers and takes a sip.

Chris nods, but there’s still something hesitant in his expression. He clears his throat and shifts slightly in his seat. “I’m sure it must feel strange, to see your father with someone other than your mother—and with someone so different from her—”

“No, hey,” Stiles says, flailing a little as he makes himself stumble over to the table and take a seat. “Dude. I mean, yeah, it was a bit of a surprise, but honestly I haven’t seen him this happy in years.”

Some of the tension drains out of Chris’s shoulders, and he ducks his head with a bashful smile. “You think so?”

“Yeah,” Stiles says with a nod, spinning his mug between his palms. “My Mom was…” he pauses and gathers his thoughts for a breath before continuing. “She was a very special person, and if it’s sometimes weird to see my Dad with someone else, it’s not because of you. It’s just—because she should be here, too.”

Chris takes a slow breath and watches the way it makes the steam rising from his own mug waver. “I can understand that,” he says softly. “I didn’t have many years with my mother before she was killed, but I felt much the same way about her as you do your mother.”

Stiles blinks in surprise, then furrows his brow and looks at Chris curiously. “I’ve never heard you mention your mother before,” he says, unable to keep the bewilderment out of his voice. “Like, I knew you must’ve had one, obviously, but, I dunno. Guess I just couldn’t imagine what kind of person would marry Gerard and end up producing you and Kate.”

Chris huffs a humorless laugh and smiles wryly. “Kate was all Gerard’s doing. Our mother died shortly after she was born.”

“Ah,” Stiles nods knowingly. “That explains rather a lot, I think.”

“She was the heir he’d always wanted,” Chris continues, something dark passing behind his eyes. “I was the disappointment. Too much like my mother, I suppose.”

“Why would anyone agree to marry Gerard?” Stiles shudders a bit at the thought. “And have children with him?”

Chris presses his lips together in a tight line, his eyes darkening further. “She wasn’t exactly given a choice. She was very beautiful, and her family was quite traditional. Gerard wanted her, and he always got what he wanted.”

Stiles fights back the bile rising in his throat at that revelation. Not that it’s particularly surprising, but still.

“I remember her laugh, best of all,” Chris continues, his expression softening slightly. “She was so sad most of the time, but somehow, I could always make her laugh. And she was so incredibly kind, even to those Gerard trained us to hate. I try to be the son she taught me to be, instead of the soldier Gerard tried to mold me into.”

“How did she die?” Stiles asks gently. He knows it could be an insensitive question, but he’s already this far into it; might as well go all the way.

Chris is silent for a moment, his expression unreadable. “I was so young,” he says eventually, his voice hollow. “I’d heard them arguing, the night before—I couldn’t hear what about. But the next day…” he closes his eyes and takes a shaky breath. “Gerard claimed it was an accident. And I could never find proof that it was anything else.”

“Sorry,” Stiles mutters, lifting his mug of coffee for a sip, though he isn’t quite sure what he’s apologizing for. Sorry your dad is the worst person in existence? Sorry your mom was abused and probably murdered by him? Sorry the one good person in your young life was taken from you, leaving you to be raised by monsters?

“It’s nice to be able to talk about her with someone who understands,” Chris says quietly.

“Yeah,” Stiles says, staring blankly into his mug. He wishes he didn’t understand as well as he does. But then a thought occurs to him, and he frowns and looks up at Chris. “Hey, speaking of your monstrous asshole of a father, what ever happened to his body? We looked for it after the whole kanima incident and the failed Bite, but he’d apparently just vanished.”

Chris freezes, suddenly looking equal parts embarrassed and panicked. “Um.”

Stiles narrows his eyes suspiciously. “He is dead, isn’t he?”

“Um,” Chris says again, shrinking into his seat a bit.

“Chris, what the fuck?” Stiles hisses furiously, leaning forward and glaring hard. “He’s not even dead?”

“He can’t hurt anyone in his current condition,” Chris mumbles, wrapping his hands around his mug and scowling at the table.

“And what, exactly, is his current condition?” Stiles growls.

Chris sighs and scrubs a hand down his face. “Whatever Scott and Deaton did to him made sure the Bite didn’t take properly. But they didn’t stop it from working entirely, either; he won’t die, but he’s in unimaginable amounts of pain.”

“Well, at least there’s that,” Stiles grumbles. “Why isn’t he dead yet?”

Chris frowns. “I just told you, the Bite—”

“No, I know that,” Stiles says, waving a hand dismissively. “Why haven’t you killed him?”

Chris clenches his jaw and looks down again. “I don’t think I can,” he admits quietly. “Much as I hate the man, he’s still my father.”

Stiles studies him for a moment. “Want me to?” he offers coldly.

Chris’s eyes snap up to his, and he opens and closes his mouth in shock a few times. “You would—”

“In a heartbeat,” Stiles says with a single grim nod.

Chris stares at him for another minute. “Would—” he starts, his voice rough, then clears his throat and tries again. “Would it hurt?”

Stiles holds his gaze steadily. “Would you want it to?” Because he could make it hurt, if that’s what Chris wants. He would love nothing more than to make Gerard’s death as painful as possible.

Something complicated shadows Chris’s expression before he manages to school himself back to something more neutral. “I don’t think it matters how, as long as it ends,” he says, keeping his voice carefully measured. “He’s in pain now; medication doesn’t help, and his condition is showing no signs of improvement. He could be stuck like this forever, in constant agony, unable to die, with no hope for a cure. Ending his suffering would be the merciful thing to do.”

A mercy he doesn’t deserve, perhaps, but nor should he be allowed to continue living, when he could continue to poison minds and manipulate people into doing his bidding. In fact, Stiles wouldn’t be surprised if he’s involved in the current threat from the Calaveras, or even the return of Scott. “Give me the address,” Stiles says. “I’ll take care of it.”

Chapter Text

It’s almost too easy to break in. Stiles is disappointed in Chris, really, for putting Gerard in such a low-security facility. The man deserved to be locked away somewhere no one could find him or talk to him ever again, but the strictest security this facility has is cameras monitoring the halls and a sign-in system for guests with no restrictions on who can enter and no ID verification. And, sure, Gerard might not seem like much of a threat, disabled as he is by his condition, but he’s still the same manipulative, power-hungry asshole he’s ever been; he can do plenty of damage by proxy.

Stiles disables the cameras in the facility anyway, stopping by the control panel on his way in and sending a surge of interference through the system via his kara kesh. He doubts anyone is monitoring the system in real-time, and for his father’s sake, he doesn’t want anyone to be able to trace this back to him after the fact.

It feels almost too bold to be entering through the front door like this, but it’s not like there’s anyone manning the front desk at this late hour. Visiting hours ended quite some time ago, the phones apparently don’t need to be answered 24/7 in a facility like this, and the night nurses can manage the residents all on their own. Stiles makes quick work of picking the lock and letting himself in, then stops at the front desk long enough to check the visitors’ log, to see who has signed in to visit Gerard. Chris, of course, appears on the list regularly, as do a few names Stiles doesn’t recognize but takes note of to ask Chris about later. And there, starting shortly before the first berserker attack and continuing sporadically up to earlier today, is Scott McCall. Stiles sneers down at the name, flexing his left hand and promising himself he’ll be dealing with that issue later; for now, he needs to focus on Gerard.

He’s not in any particular rush, so he lurks in the hallways until the night nurses finish their rounds and his path to Gerard’s room is clear, ensuring as best he can that there won’t be any interruptions while he works. He gives the man a few moments of peace after the nurse leaves his room to allow him to believe this night is just like any other, then lets himself in and fuses the doorknob shut so they won’t have any unexpected intruders. Gerard is sitting up in bed, looking pathetic, with the TV on at a low volume in the background, staring blankly at the screen like he just doesn’t have the energy to turn it off or process anything he’s supposedly watching. If Stiles didn’t know how diabolical the man can be, he would almost buy this feeble old man act.

Gerard sighs, then coughs, as he hears the door to his room open and shut. “Seriously, Jerry, I don’t need any—” he cuts off as he turns his head and sees Stiles standing in front of the door. “Oh. You.”

Stiles pushes his hood down and raises an eyebrow at Gerard. “You don’t sound particularly surprised to see me.”

Gerard shrugs as he coughs again several times, holding a handkerchief up to his mouth to absorb the black ooze his body is apparently still producing. “I figured one of you lot would come for me eventually,” he rasps. “And, no, I don’t find it all that surprising that it’s you.”

Stiles takes one step further into the room, eyes fixed on Gerard, absentmindedly clenching his left fist at his side. “I’m not that same powerless child you beat up. I’ve experienced worse than you since, and I’ve learned how to fight back.”

“Come to return the favor, then?” Gerard taunts with a cruel grin. “Will you find it gratifying, beating an old man?”

“I’m sure I would,” Stiles says, lifting his hands and looking down at them contemplatively, as if he’s considering it. “But, no, I have something else in mind for you. Something I learned from a creature even more evil than you, if you can believe it.”

“I would be fascinated to learn what your definition of evil is, then,” Gerard says, assessing Stiles with a clinical gaze, “and why you seem to think it doesn’t apply to you.”

“I never claimed it didn’t,” Stiles says, tilting his head curiously as he wonders what Gerard thinks he knows about what happened to Stiles. He doesn’t think Chris would have told his father much of anything, so likely most of his information is coming from Scott. “You don’t look particularly afraid of me,” he observes coolly. This is mildly disappointing; apparently whatever Scott has said is nowhere near accurate or thorough enough.

“What’s left for me to be afraid of?” Gerard says with a dry chuckle. “Nothing you do to me could possibly be worse than what I have to experience every day.”

Stiles smirks. “You’re wrong about that. But before I decide whether or not I need to show you just how wrong you are, I have a few questions I’d like to have answered.”

Gerard coughs again and settles back against his headboard with a grimace. “I have nothing to say to you. You might as well just get it over with, and put me out of my misery.”

Stiles nods grimly. “Figured you might say something like that. I can get the information out of you no matter what, but I thought it’d only be polite to offer you the comfortable way out first. You can answer my questions, and if I’m satisfied with what I learn, I can give you a relatively peaceful and painless death. Or, I can do this the hard way, and ensure that your final moments are pure agony that seems to go on forever. Up to you, though,” he says with a shrug, stepping forward and raising his left arm. “The hard way’s more fun for me, anyway.”

“Wait,” Gerard rasps, sitting up a bit, a touch of fear finally showing in his eyes, and Stiles pauses, raising an expectant eyebrow. “Alright. What do you want to know?”

Stiles tilts his chin down with a smug smile and lowers his arm. He certainly isn’t expecting any of Gerard’s answers to be truthful, but that’s hardly the point of this exercise; he’ll extract what he needs when the time comes. For now, the fun is in finding out what kind of spin Gerard puts on his story, and seeing just how committed he is to his agenda at the expense of his own comfort.

But, regardless, Stiles has no intention of making this a painless or peaceful experience for Gerard. The only part of this he hasn’t quite decided yet is how long he wants to draw it out—if the nurses’ schedule he’d found is accurate, he could have several hours to play with before he has to worry about being discovered.

Chapter Text

“...So unless anyone has any questions...?” General Landry pauses, looking at each of them expectantly, then nods when none of them says anything, shuts his file, and pushes back from the conference table. “Gear up, people. You ship out in five.”

Derek is the last to get up, and trails a few steps behind as they head to the armory, still deep in thought over the details of the briefing. He’s not sure what it is, but something about this mission has him feeling unsettled. The address came from the Abydos cartouche, so it was once a Goa’uld-occupied world, but neither Teal’c nor Vala recognized the address. And the MALP hadn’t shown any signs of recent activity around the ‘Gate; judging by how overgrown the forest around the ‘Gate looked, the planet appears to have been abandoned for centuries. By all accounts, this should be a simple exploratory mission. He has no reason to think anything unusual will happen.

And yet, something is making him feel uneasy.

Cam keeps giving him odd looks as they gear up, and frowns disapprovingly when Derek refuses any weapon other than a knife and a Zat. “C’mon, it’s protocol,” he says, holding a handgun out to Derek one more time.

Derek shakes his head and pushes the gun away. “I think I should travel light this time.”

Cam’s eyebrows shoot up, Vala’s eyes widen and she starts loading up her pockets with extra ammo, and Daniel fumbles as he clips something to his vest. Travel light is their code for when Derek’s full shift might be necessary on a mission.

Cam sets the gun back on the rack and puts a hand on Derek’s shoulder, studying his face. “What’s going on? What do you know that we don’t?”

Derek shakes his head again. “I don’t know anything. It’s just a weird feeling. It’s probably nothing.”

“Why didn’t you say anything in the briefing?” Daniel asks, stepping closer and watching Derek with a concerned frown.

“Because it’s probably nothing,” Derek repeats, pushing Cam’s hand off his shoulder and finishing up with his gear, doing an extra check of his med kit to make sure it’s fully stocked.

“Think we should scrap the mission?” Cam offers, even as he continues to grab his gear and check his weapons. Derek sees Vala sneakily tuck a few grenades into a pocket of her vest.

Derek rolls his eyes and tucks the med kit away in its usual pocket. “Don’t be ridiculous. We shouldn’t scrap an entire mission just because I’m paranoid.”

“Has this ever happened to you before?” Daniel asks, eyeing him warily. “Getting weird feelings before you head into a situation?”

“No,” Derek answers, then hesitates as he actually thinks about whether or not that statement is accurate. “I don’t think so. Not like this.”

“I’ll talk to Landry about pushing up our check-in time, and having a team or two on standby in case we need backup,” Cam says as he exits the armory, patting his vest and checking various straps to make sure all his gear is settled in place as he goes. The rest of them follow—but not before Vala grabs a block of C4 and a detonator and tucks them into another pocket.

“Cam, no, you don’t have to—” Derek tries again, only for Daniel to place a hand on his arm to hold him back a step.

“We’ll meet you all in the ‘Gate room,” Daniel says to the group, and they nod in acknowledgement and hurry along, with Cam branching off toward the control room as they turn down the corridor.

“You’re all overreacting,” Derek tells Daniel as the others walk out of earshot. “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean all of you have to be, too.”

“It’s not paranoia, it’s trust,” Daniel says, meeting his eyes steadily. “We trust you, Derek, and if you say something about this mission feels off, we’re here to support you.”

Derek’s eyebrows twitch skeptically. “Didn’t you all just finish lecturing me about my reckless behavior?”

“Okay, so we may not always trust your judgement,” Daniel concedes with a wry smile, “at least in regards to your own well-being, but we do trust your instincts. You’ve never steered us wrong before. You feel weird about this mission, so we’ll make sure we have backup, just in case.”

“It’s a waste of time and resources,” Derek grumbles. “I shouldn’t have said anything.”

“We’re glad you did,” Daniel says, moving his hand to Derek’s shoulder to steer him toward the ‘Gate room. “We don’t often get advance warning for when our missions are going to go wrong.”

Derek scowls, but lets himself be led. “Even though it probably won’t go wrong, and I’m just being paranoid?”

“It won’t hurt to be prepared,” Daniel says, releasing Derek as they step into the ‘Gate room to join Vala. The ‘Gate is already dialing, with the tech announcing the chevrons as they lock in.

Cam jogs in to join them as Chevron 5 is announced, clapping Derek on the shoulder as he arrives. “Four hours to check-in, and SGs 3 and 9 are on standby. And if something major happens, can we count on Teal’c to know we need him?”

“I think so,” Derek says, furrowing his brow. “He seems to be particularly sensitive to the pack bonds. Maybe it’s a Jaffa thing.”

Daniel nods and makes a weird face. “So sensitive he apparently felt your pain when Cora died, even though we weren’t officially part of the pack yet.” Derek blinks in surprise at that—Teal’c had never mentioned that before.

“Aw, you jealous, Daniel?” Vala teases, nudging Daniel in the ribs with an elbow.

Daniel scowls and elbows her in retaliation. “I’m not—”

“Chevron seven locked,” the ‘Gate tech announces, and the Stargate whooshes open.

“Watch your backs out there, SG-1,” Landry says over the PA, and they all turn to see him watching over them in the control room, and each give him nods or salutes in acknowledgement before they head up the ramp and step through to the next world.

The wormhole disengages just after Derek steps through, and he takes a moment, still standing at the top of the platform, to scent the air, listen to the sounds of the forest, and scan their surroundings with shifted eyes.

“…Guess we just pick a direction and walk,” Cam is saying as Derek tunes back into what his team are doing.

“This planet isn’t abandoned,” Derek tells them as he steps off the platform at last, and they all turn to look at him. “But someone has put a lot of effort into making it appear so. If we want to find out what they’re hiding, we should go that way.” He points out what appears to be a game trail heading off from the backside of the ‘Gate.

“Good enough for me.” Vala shrugs and starts walking in the direction Derek had indicated, but Cam stops her with a hand on her arm.

“Wait, now, just hold on a second,” Cam says. “I think we need to ask ourselves why these people—” he glances questioningly at Derek, who nods to indicate that there are, indeed, scents of multiple individuals— “are so intent on concealing their presence.”

“They’re probably just shy,” Vala suggests, peeling Cam’s hand off of her arm.

“Or this could all be a trap,” Cam argues. “Make us think no one is here to lure us into a false sense of security, then take us when we least expect it.”

“I can scout ahead,” Derek offers.

Cam presses his lips together disapprovingly. “I don’t like sending you out there alone.”

“If this is a trap, I can sniff it out and warn you before they have a chance to spring it,” Derek says. “They won’t be expecting a wolf.”

Cam sighs, absentmindedly drumming his fingers against the side of his gun. “Alright. But the second you know something, you tell us.”

“I thought I’d just keep it to myself, actually,” Derek says dryly as he starts off toward the path.

“You know, you’re not as funny as you think you are,” Cam calls after him.

“Liar,” Derek calls back. “You think I’m hilarious.”

“Derek,” Daniel calls out, just before Derek disappears into the forest, and Derek stops and turns to look back. “How did you know you’d be doing this?”

Derek tries to summon an answer for a moment, but nothing comes to mind; quite honestly, he has no idea. “If I tell you to leave, don’t wait for me,” he says instead, “just go. I’ll follow when it’s safe.”

Cam straightens up indignantly. “We’re not gonna leave you behind—”

Derek locks eyes with Daniel. “You said you trust my instincts, so trust me with this.”

Daniel studies him for a moment, then nods once sharply. “Alright. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

“Never again,” Derek promises.

“But we can’t just—” Cam starts to object, gesturing a hand at Derek as he glares at Daniel.

“Yes, we can,” Daniel says, turning his focus off of Derek and onto Cam. “Derek will be fine.”

Daniel and Cam continue bickering, and Vala joins in, never content with sitting on the sidelines while an argument is happening. Derek takes the opportunity while they’re all distracted to slip into the forest and find a dense thicket in the underbrush where he can hide his clothes and gear. He strips down until the only thing he’s still wearing is the pendant Stiles gave him with his ring threaded onto the chain next to it, then closes his eyes, takes a breath, and relaxes into his wolf form. He notes with vague interest that no part of the transformation hurts anymore and wonders if it’s just because he’s been practicing, or if that device in Atlantis altered the process somehow—but he doesn’t have time to think about that right now. He has a job to do.

He follows the scent trail into the forest, sticking to the path despite the risk of being seen; it’s unlikely that anyone on this planet would recognize him for what he is, and even if they would, he should be able to hear them coming long before they spot him and slip into the shadows then.

The path through the woods meanders, branching off in multiple directions. And even though some of the offshoots look clearer and more defined than the path he’s on, the scents on those trails are stale—days or even weeks old. Only one path carries the scent of recent and repeated use.

The faint mist that had been hanging in the canopy of the trees gets more dense as he runs, and starts to sink down to the forest floor. There’s a strange cloying quality to it, almost a viscosity that seems like it wants to soak into his mind. The ambient sounds of the forest seem dampened as well, though whether that is an effect of the fog absorbing the sounds differently, or if something about the fog is lulling the wildlife into silence, Derek can’t say.

The fog continues to thicken until Derek can hardly see more than two feet in front of him—which, if he were relying on his sight to guide him, would be a problem; if his senses were merely human, he would almost certainly get hopelessly lost in these woods. But the scent trail stays clear and well-defined, and, in fact, the fog seems to be helping the scent cling to the forest floor.

He starts to hear noises ahead at last, and he slows his approach, slipping into the underbrush parallel to the trail. He doesn’t hear many voices, oddly enough, but he can hear the bustle of multiple people moving about and the clang of metal hitting metal from more than one source.

The forest opens up into a large clearing, and Derek skirts the edge of it as he observes. The mist within the clearing lingers, but it’s much the same as it has been near the ‘Gate—a delicate mist, hovering near the canopy of the trees—instead of the dense fog that had filled the forest along the path. Derek knows fog can do that, can naturally be selectively dense and patchy in odd places, but it’s just after midday on this planet, the sun is bright and warm overhead, and the air is not cool enough for fog to stick around like this in such an open area. Someone created this atmosphere on purpose.

Humans make up the majority of the crowd within the clearing, all working together to build some sort of contraption, though they all look half-asleep as they shuffle about, moving as if in a daze or a trance with blank-eyed stares and perfunctory movements. The crowd is being managed and monitored by a contingent of fully-armored Jaffa, their helmets shaped like bulls’ heads. And, in the center of it all, a feeble-looking old man stands at a computer console on a raised dais, frowning at a display that Derek can’t see from this angle.

“What is taking them so long?” the old man mutters, and Derek freezes. His voice has the same echoing, distorted quality Stiles’ voice had when he was possessed.

“Was that question directed at me, my lord?” the nearest Jaffa asks, not moving from his post at the corner of the dais.

The old man scowls. “Of course not,” he snaps. “Insolent fool.”

“As you say, my lord,” the Jaffa says with a slight bow.

The old man narrows his eyes and glares at the Jaffa for a second, then turns his attention back to his console. “Very well, then,” he grumbles, pressing out a sequence of commands on the console. “If they will not get lost on their own, I will simply have to speed the process along. You—” he turns to address the Jaffa— “go fetch our newest guests. Their minds will be ready by the time you reach them. And check the sensors on your way out; I keep picking up some sort of echo.”

“At once, my lord,” the Jaffa says with a bow, and he steps off the dais, with two additional Jaffa joining him as he steps down onto the ground.

Derek decides he’s seen enough and needs to get back to his team as quickly as possible, hopefully before whatever mind-altering process this Goa’uld employs has a chance to sink in. Something in the fog, he’s guessing—and, apparently, something he’s immune to, since he made it through unaffected. He remembers the Sheriff and O’Neill discussing such a brainwashing substance while they were trying to figure out how Scott could have been so easily manipulated into turning against Cora. He also remembers them concluding that werewolves are immune to the substance, and that an electric shock can break its hold. So even if he doesn’t get back in time to stop the substance from infecting his team’s minds, perhaps he can Zat them free.

He also has one more thing potentially working in his favor: the Goa’uld clearly has sensors set up that detected their arrival through the ‘Gate, but apparently they can’t properly process Derek’s presence. He suspects the glamours Stiles put on his pendant have something to do with it, though he hadn’t thought it capable of affecting technology like that. Still, it’s an advantage he will gladly exploit.

He sprints along the path, through the fog that seems to have taken on a life of its own with the way it’s swirling about. He won’t let that distract him, though—time is of the essence if he’s going to get back to his team before their minds are lost.

He makes it back to the Stargate in record time—only to find his team already gone, and the air so dense with fog that he can’t see more than two feet in front of him. He sniffs around and finds a scent trail leading out into the forest, and he’s sure he could follow it and find them, but perhaps that isn’t the best course of action at the moment. He could find them, attempt to herd them home, and hope that Zatting them can break them free from whatever mind control has its hold on them, but that won’t solve the problem of the Goa’uld working in secret on this planet; it won’t solve the problem of the mind-controlled human slave population doing his bidding; and it won’t solve the problem of the contingent of Jaffa serving this Goa’uld, potentially not of their own free will.

The Goa’uld wants to use his team, not kill them, so he doesn’t think he needs to worry too much for their safety just yet. But, as a precaution, he takes a moment to close his eyes and test the ties that bind him to each of them as members of his pack. Their minds are clouded to him, but the connections are strong, and none of them have been physically harmed. He has time to figure out the real problem before he has to worry about them in earnest.

So, he’ll stay here, and he’ll fix what he can, but it won’t be as simple as that. His first order of business must be to contact General Landry and make sure he doesn’t send in the other SG teams as backup. He’s immune to whatever mind control substance lurks in the fog here, and Jaffa might be as well, but humans most definitely are not. Maybe they can check if Teal’c is available and able to assemble a Jaffa contingent. But Derek can accomplish quite a bit on his own while he waits for any hypothetical backup to arrive.

He slips back into the forest to where he’d hidden his clothes and his gear so he can transform and get to work, formulating his plan as he goes. He has a bit of time before the Jaffa this Goa’uld had sent arrive to collect his team from wherever they’ve wandered off to, but not a lot. He’ll have to work quickly if he wants this all to come together.

Chapter Text

Derek’s first order of business, once he’s updated General Landry and made his way back to the clearing where the Goa’uld has set up his base of operations, is to test his hypothesis that the mind control substance in the fog is of the same type that the Sheriff had mentioned, and that a Zat blast can break its hold. The Jaffa contingent aren’t back with his team yet, so he’ll have to make do with whatever human worker is most convenient to grab from the group already present.

Picking his first test subject proves to be easier than expected—one of the workers wanders just a little too close to the edge of the clearing, just as all the Jaffa are looking the other way. Derek reaches out and yanks the man into the trees, carries him out of earshot as quickly and quietly as he can manage, sets him down, and fires a single Zat blast at him. The man crumples to the ground, unconscious, and Derek settles in to wait for him to wake up.

It takes a few minutes, but the man finally starts to stir, then groans as he blinks himself awake. He yelps and scrambles back as he notices Derek. “What—who—”

Derek raises his hands in a placating gesture. “It’s alright, I’m here to help,” he says, keeping his voice soft and even. He pauses and tilts his head curiously when the man winces. “Are you in pain?” he asks gently. “Your head?”

The man nods, rubbing his temples. “Yes, I—ow. Yes.”

Derek reaches over and places a hand on the man’s arm, drawing out just enough pain to take the edge off and allow the man to think clearly, but not so much that he starts to cloud his own mind.

The man gasps. “What—how are you doing that?”

“Do you remember where you are?” he asks instead of attempting to explain himself.

The man frowns as he thinks. “This planet was supposed to be abandoned,” he says, his voice distant as he summons the memories. “We were sent to assess its viability for an expansion of our farmland. But when we got here, we got lost in the fog, and the next thing I knew, we were working for him.”

“The Goa’uld?” Derek asks, and the man nods. “Do you know who he is?”

The man shakes his head. “He never said. It’s the strangest thing—he didn’t seem to care if we worshiped him. He only wanted us to work.”

Strange, indeed—being worshiped as gods is, like, the Goa’uld’s whole thing. “Do you know what you were working on?”

“He never explained,” the man says. “He only gave us instructions for our own specific tasks.”

Derek isn’t particularly surprised by that, though it is a bit disappointing to not know all of what he’s up against. He sighs and slowly eases off the pain drain, then takes his hand away. “Do you know how long you’ve been here?”

The man is silent for a moment, staring at Derek’s hand, before finally shaking himself a bit and answering. “Uh—I never thought to keep track. I think it might have been a long time, though.”

“Alright.” Derek drums his fingers against his thigh for a moment while he processes all of that and updates his plan, then nods decisively and meets the man’s eyes steadily. “I’m going to get you home, but I’m gonna need your help to make this happen.”

“Of course,” the man says, nodding eagerly and straightening up to mirror Derek’s posture. “Anything.”

“I’m going to start bringing others here,” Derek explains, “and breaking them free of whatever’s been controlling all of you. I’ll need your help getting them up to speed with what’s going on, and I’ll need you to keep them safe, together, and out of the way while I work.”

“But I could help get them—” the man starts to object, but Derek cuts him off.

“We need to increase our numbers first,” he says firmly. “I want as many of us as possible to come out of this alive, and I can’t guarantee that if I have to worry about what you’re doing. I need you to trust me, and let me do this my way. Do you think you can do that?”

“I can,” the man promises, and Derek can tell he means it—at least for now.

“Wait here,” Derek orders as he pushes himself to his feet and turns to head back into the forest. “I’ll be right back.”

“Wait—” the man calls after him, and he pauses. “Who are you?”

Derek presses his lips together. This man came to this planet on a quest for farmland to colonize, and the only group he knows with the resources and incentive to do so on this scale are the Lucian Alliance. He would probably not be pleased to learn that Derek is one of the Tau’ri, and even less pleased to learn he’s with SG-1. Best to avoid the subject for as long as possible to keep this man on his side. “Don’t wander off,” he says instead of answering. “The woods are designed to make you get lost, and the Goa’uld has sensors along all the paths. You’ll be safe as long as you stay here.” He hopes he’s not lying when he says that—but he doesn’t have time to worry about it right now. He slips into the forest before the man can say anything else and heads back to the clearing.

For the next hour, Derek becomes the gremlin in their machine. The fly in their ointment. He chips away at the human population, dragging them into the forest one at a time whenever the opportunity presents itself, Zatting each one and leaving them with the first man he’d freed. It’s not an efficient system, but it works, and the Goa’uld doesn’t seem to have noticed his shrinking workforce yet.

His original Man On The Outside seems to be doing a decent job of fulfilling his task, as well. Even as the freed group grows, each time Derek goes back to deliver another, they are all calm, collected, and focused on achieving the goal of freedom for all. Derek occasionally lingers to help someone with their pain, if any seem restless, but he’s careful never to stay long enough for any of them to start formulating and asking questions he doesn’t have time to answer.

The Jaffa arrive with the rest of his team eventually, but he makes no attempt to free them just yet. The Goa’uld doesn’t even question them about their identity or their presence on this planet, just sets them straight to work. Derek watches for a moment to make sure they all seem well, and are unharmed apart from the forced labor and temporary lack of free will. He’ll break them out of this, but not yet. Not until the time is right.

This whole situation is quite strange, though—this Goa’uld isn’t behaving like any he’s heard of before. Based on its choice of host, it doesn’t seem to possess the vanity that is usually so characteristic of its species. And it doesn’t seem to care if any of its human slaves or Jaffa servants regard it as a god. It requires only obedience, and it doesn’t seem to care if that obedience is freely given.

Derek’s rescued group eventually reaches a critical mass where he won’t be able to take any more without the Goa’uld noticing, so he starts phase two of his plan. He transitions into his Beta shift as he approaches the edge of the clearing and howls, loud and long until he’s certain every Jaffa must have heard him, then positions himself in the shadows at the treeline so that several of the Jaffa can see the glow of his eyes. They start shifting uncomfortably and muttering to each other, but none of them abandon their posts. Derek closes his eyes, vanishes into the woods again, growls as he repositions to another spot at the clearing’s edge, and deliberately rustles a branch as he once again lets the Jaffa see the glow of his eyes. He has them spooked now, but not quite spooked enough. He vanishes into the shadows again and repeats the process to further ramp up the tension.

He spots the Jaffa who had spoken to the Goa’uld conveniently close to the edge of the clearing. As swiftly and silently as possible, he grabs the Jaffa’s arm, presses the hidden button on his wrist to lower his helmet, grabs him by the throat before he can make a noise, and drags him into the forest, out of earshot of the clearing. “I would prefer not to kill you,” he tells the Jaffa, slowly lessening the pressure on his throat so he can speak, but leaving his clawed fingertips resting over the carotid artery.

“You may not have a choice,” the Jaffa says, his face impassive. “If I allow myself to be captured, He will kill me, and it will not be a swift death.”

“You don’t need to serve him,” Derek says, studying the Jaffa’s face. “Your Jaffa brethren no longer serve false gods. You can join them. You can be free.”

The Jaffa’s expression darkens. “We cannot leave this place. He cannot control our minds like He can with the humans, but the mist becomes a poison in our blood if we can no longer breathe it in from the air.”

Ah. Well, that’s not ideal—Derek will have to hurry, to complete this rescue before Teal’c and his backup arrive and meet with the same fate. “My people can help you,” he says, releasing his hand from around the Jaffa’s throat and taking a small step back. “Our scientists can find a way to counteract the poison.”

“In exchange for what?” the Jaffa asks, narrowing his eyes suspiciously.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “Not trying to kill me, for starters. And either help me save everyone, or stay out of my way while I do it myself.”

The Jaffa stares at him for a moment before he speaks again. “And if I do not agree?”

Derek clenches his jaw. “I would prefer not to kill you,” he says again, his hand twitching where it hangs by his Zat, “but I will if I must.”

The Jaffa’s eyes briefly flick back in the direction of the clearing. “What fate do you intend for My Lord?”

“I have no such qualms about killing him, if that’s what you’re asking,” Derek says darkly.

“And you truly believe your people can help us escape this place?” the Jaffa asks cautiously.

“I do,” Derek assures him. He’s certain that once he explains their plight, Dr. Lam will do everything in her power to help them.

The Jaffa studies him for another moment, then releases a slow breath. “Very well,” he says, voice soft, inclining his head slightly. “How can I assist?”

Derek thinks for a moment, drumming his fingers absentmindedly against the handle of his Zat, then blinks and straightens up a bit. “How many Zat’nik’tel can you get?”

“None. My Lord has forbidden them.”

Disappointing, but it makes sense—the Goa’uld wouldn’t want its warriors to carry weapons that can free the workforce. Plan B, then. “Could all your men be persuaded to turn against their god in exchange for their freedom?”

“Not all,” the Jaffa admits. “Many will, but a few remain loyal above all else.”

Derek nods thoughtfully; this might just work, then, if he can get the Jaffa to agree to go along with his plan. “If I provide you with something to pursue, can you convince your men to leave their posts?”

The Jaffa lifts a skeptical eyebrow. “Would you not prefer that I stay and fight alongside you?”

“The only one I intend to fight is the Goa’uld,” Derek says. “I’m hoping to get the rest of us out of this alive and, if possible, unharmed. I will need your help with that, but not yet.” He explains the rest of his plan and, with minor adjustments made based on the suggestions of the Jaffa, he leads the way back to the clearing to get the process started.

The Jaffa rejoins his men, and Derek once again begins his campaign of taunting—and, to a small extent, terrorizing—them all, alternately howling and growling and snarling, rustling leaves, making sure they see his eyes at every opportunity. True to his word, the Jaffa musters his forces, pointedly ignoring the objections of the Goa’uld when it demands they stay at their posts, and leads them in pursuit of the monster haunting the forest. Derek leads them on a chase for a while, in the opposite direction from where he’d stashed his freed humans, then abandons them to continue their fruitless quest as he slips back into the shadows.

With the number of Jaffa present so severely diminished, it’s time to start the next phase of his plan. He rallies his group of rescued humans and heads back to the clearing. No need for stealth anymore; his goal is simply to reduce their numbers as quickly and safely as possible. He selects a small group working close to the edge of the clearing, Zats each of them where they stand, and leads his freed men out to drag them away, keeping himself at the front of the group in case any of the remaining Jaffa open fire—but, luckily, it seems they’re too surprised to react at all until Derek has already gotten his group to safety again.

He’s able to repeat that trick only one more time before the remaining forces finally condense into the center of the clearing—just as he’d expected them to do, and, in fact, just as he’d hoped they would. He tells his group to hang back and wait for their next cue, then sits on the ground and gets to work on disassembling and tinkering with his Zat. He’ll need to work fast to get the timing right for all of this.

He finishes rigging the Zat just in time, as the Jaffa he’d sent on the hunt sends up his signal. He pushes himself to his feet and clears his throat to get everyone’s attention. “Alright. Final push, everyone. Hang back at the edge of the clearing until this—” he lifts the Zat for emphasis— “goes off. A contingent of Jaffa will show up at that point, but don’t freak out—they’re with us. Let them take care of their own, and all of you focus on orienting your fellow humans as they wake. Got it?”

There are murmurs of assent from the crowd, and Derek decides that’ll have to be good enough, despite the dubious looks a few of them are giving him at the prospect of trusting the Jaffa. He doesn’t have time to explain everything, he’ll just have to trust that they can hold it together and help each other anyway. They’re all working toward a common goal, after all—human and Jaffa alike are all fighting for their freedom today.

He leads the way back to the edge of the clearing, then pauses until he’s sure everyone is in place. The overload he’s rigged will expand the Zat’s field of efficacy to the entire crowd—it should be a slightly less powerful shock than usual, but it will hit them all at once. He’ll just have to hope it’s enough, since the overload will completely burn out the weapon and he won’t be able to salvage it to try again. He steps out into the open, presses the button on the Zat, and tosses it into the air above the condensed crowd in the center of the clearing. The Zat whines as the overload builds, then bursts, and the crowd collapses as the wave of energy hits them.

The only one who doesn’t fall is the Goa’uld—not that Derek really expected it to. It does stumble a bit, though, and then glares furiously at Derek as it rights itself. “What are you?” it growls as Derek strides toward it calmly.

“Does it matter?” Derek asks with a careless shrug. “You’ve lost; you might as well just surrender.”

“I have not lost until I am dead,” it says with an arrogant smirk, “and gods cannot die.”

Derek nods thoughtfully. “You’re right. Gods can’t die.” He steps up onto the edge of the dais and pauses, raising an eyebrow. “But you are not a god.”

It flashes its eyes, its face twisted with rage. “You—”

Derek holds up a dismissive hand. “I’m not actually interested in listening to your supervillain monologue. If I’m going to have to kill you, I’d rather just get it over with.” He starts advancing again, his steps slow and deliberate—he just needs to keep provoking until it breaks, get close enough that it won’t feel it has a choice…

“Impudent fool,” it snarls, raising its left hand and pointing a familiar jewel at Derek’s forehead. Pain explodes in his head as the crystal starts to glow and his steps falter slightly, but he takes a breath to brace himself and focuses his mind on what he came here for.

The pain is certainly not what he’s used to, but he can ignore that easily enough; what’s important is that the neural link is the same as ever. It’s just as easy to slip into this Goa’uld’s mind as it is with Stiles. He digs through its mind for a while, then grins as he finds the information he needs—his teeth a little too sharp, his eyes sparking triumphantly—and steps forward again. “Perfect,” he tells the Goa’uld. “Thank you for your cooperation.”

Its eyes widen in shock, flashing again in its fury. “How are you doing this? What are you?”

Derek knocks its hand away as he steps closer, breaking the connection, and grabs it by the throat. He lets his face transform, his eyes glow, and his claws extend until blood starts welling out from where the tips are pressed against the Goa’uld’s neck. “For you, I am death,” he says, his voice only loud enough for the Goa’uld to hear, staring unblinking into its eyes. “And long overdue.” He squeezes and twists until he hears the double-snap of both the host’s and symbiote’s spines breaking, and he drops the body as the light fades from its eyes.

“Uh—Derek?” a voice behind him asks tentatively, and he turns to find his entire team staring at him wide-eyed at the front of the crowd, as if they had been planning to run to his aid but froze in shock on the way. Cam clears his throat and tries again. “What, um—what just happened?”

Derek sighs as he walks over to the Goa’uld’s control console and starts navigating through the system to the commands that manipulate the fog. “Kind of a long story; I’ll explain later. But first, we’re helping all these people get back home.” He directs the fog to empty out of the area around the Stargate, and to maintain a minimum safe density throughout the clearing and the rest of the forest. Then, he steps back from the console and off the dais to speak to his Jaffa friend. “I’ll have my people send a team through to help you, and I won’t leave until you’re all free, but first I need to help get them—” he gestures toward the crowd of humans— “out of here and back to their homes. You’ll need to stay away from the Chappa’ai until you're cured. Will you be alright until I get back?”

“We will be fine,” the Jaffa assures him, inclining his head.

“I’ll have my people send representatives from the Free Jaffa Nation to help you decide your next steps,” Derek continues. “As soon as the air is safe for them to breathe.”

“Thank you,” the Jaffa says, offering his arm. Derek briefly clasps forearms with him and gives a brusque nod of acknowledgement before stepping away to join his team.

“Care to tell us what that was all about?” Daniel asks, his voice low, once Derek gets close enough.

“That’s all part of the longer story,” Derek says, reaching out to gently tug Daniel along by the elbow as he starts to lead the way toward the path back to the ‘Gate. “Come on, let’s get everyone home.” He raises his voice to be heard by the crowd. “Follow us, stay close, and don’t wander off.”

And with that, he leads the way back to the Stargate, and to freedom.

Chapter Text

Cora rolls her eyes at the knock on the door and walks over to open it. “I gave you all keys for a reason,” she grumbles as she steps out of the way. “Use it.”

“It feels rude to just barge in uninvited,” Parrish says with a tentative smile as he steps inside and kicks off his shoes.

“It isn’t barging in when you have a key,” she points out, shutting the door and heading back to the living room to curl into her corner of the couch. “The key is the invitation.”

“Still,” Parrish says as he sinks into the seat at the opposite end of the couch and sits leaning back against the arm so he can face her. “Feels weird to enter someone else’s home without even asking.”

“This isn’t someone else’s home, though,” she says, lifting a judgemental eyebrow at him. “This is a pack den. All members of the pack are welcome, any time, no matter what. This is your home as much as it is mine, so stop treating yourself like a guest.”

Parrish blinks a few times, then crinkles his forehead in confusion. “But this is technically Jackson’s apartment, isn’t it? Does he—”

“Jackson owns the building,” Cora confirms, “but the second I officially moved in, this became a pack den. The Alpha’s home is the pack’s home.”

“He owns—” Parrish chokes a little and looks around the room, wide-eyed, then clears his throat and tries again. “The entire building? I thought he was just renting.”

Cora shrugs. “He bought it when his move back to California became permanent. He also owns a place in the South Bay where Danny’s living while he’s at Stanford, and he’s looking at properties in the East Bay and up in Davis for when the rest of the pack starts college. He might’ve already bought something near MIT, too, for Lydia.”

“What, is he planning on buying a property in any town where one of them might go to college?” Parrish asks incredulously.

“Of course,” she answers simply.

Parrish stares at her for a second, then sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose, and shakes his head. “Of course, she says, as if that’s just a thing people do all the time,” he grumbles to himself. “Rich people are ridiculous. Wait—” he blinks, then looks up at her with narrowed eyes. “Aren’t you rich, too? Why aren’t you in on this whole real estate empire?”

She sighs and rubs her forehead. “Because I’m the Alpha. My funds are invested in the pack and in Beacon Hills.”

“Invested how? What are you—”

“Did you really come all this way to talk about finances?” she interrupts, raising an eyebrow at him.

“Oh, right, um—” he clears his throat and straightens up. “No, I didn’t. I have news.”

“I figured,” she mutters, and adjusts her seat to face him more directly. It’s not that she isn’t glad to see him, but he wouldn’t have come all this way alone on a weekday just for a visit. It can’t all be good news, though, either, or someone would’ve just texted her about it; Parrish wouldn’t have needed to bother coming all the way here for good news.

“So—” he makes a face and scratches the back of his head in a nervous gesture— “it’s not all bad. It’s mostly good, actually, but there’s just this one—um. Tiny? But also maybe a little bit massive—detail. That might kind of...” he shifts in his seat and clears his throat again as he winces. “Come back to bite us in the ass.”

Cora closes her eyes and heaves a resigned sigh. Apparently it was too much to ask that they just get a few days of calm while they all adapt to the end of summer and the beginning of school. “What happened?”

“So, you know we’ve been building a case against the Calaveras, right?” He pauses, and she nods for him to continue. “Well, it worked. We teamed up with the FBI, US Marshals, ATF, and Mexican law enforcement. We’ve frozen their accounts, seized their assets, made dozens of arrests; several judges and customs officials have already resigned over bribes they took from the family; we’ve found their body dumps and the compounds where they’ve been holding the ones they haven’t killed yet, and we’re working on getting everyone home to their families.”

This all sounds like excellent news. “What’s the catch?”

Parrish makes a face and looks down at his hands. “In the chaos of the raid on their Beacon County compound…” he sighs and looks up at her, an apology etched in the lines of his frown. “One of them got away.”

“Ah.” It doesn’t seem like it should be that big a deal, that only one of them got away. But Parrish wouldn’t have mentioned it if that was the case. She takes a slow breath and rubs her temples, as if the pressure could ward off the impending tension headache.

“Severo Calavera, the son of the head of the family—” Parrish continues.

“I remember,” she interrupts sharply. “I read his file.”

Parrish grimaces. “Right, well, apparently he and Chris Argent have some sort of history as well, so he’s taking this whole thing rather personally. And it’s all my fault that he got away; I was supposed to be watching that exit, and I don’t know how he managed to slip past me, but—”

“It’s fine,” she says, her voice clipped.

“It’s not fine,” he says with a frown. “He’s still out there, and he’s going to—”

“It’s not your fault,” she corrects him firmly. “He was always going to find a way out. But now he’s out there without any friends, without any money, and with every law enforcement agency on the continent looking for him.”

Parrish sighs and scrubs his hands down his face; he’s still tense, still clinging to his desire for self-flagellation over his alleged failure, but his shoulders have relaxed slightly at the knowledge that Cora doesn’t fault him for it. “Still, I’m—”

“I haven’t had dinner yet,” she says instead of allowing him to continue down his blame spiral. “How about we order in, and have a Wormhole X-treme! marathon?”

His expression brightens considerably. “You really want me to stay?”

“Of course. I’ve missed you.” She pushes herself to her feet and heads to the kitchen, to the drawer where they keep the takeout menus.

Parrish trails along behind her. “Will Jackson be joining us?”

She shakes her head. “He’s out on a date. Might not be back until morning, depending on how much he likes this one.” She hands him the stack of menus as she pushes drawer closed with her hip. “Pick whatever looks good to you. My favorites are circled in red in each.”

He stares down at the menus for a moment with a frown. “I don’t like the thought of you here alone, with Severo still out there.”

She shrugs a shoulder and leans against the counter. “Then stay the night. We have a room made up for you. Get a good night’s sleep, and you can leave early in the morning to make it back to Beacon Hills in time for your shift tomorrow.”

The corners of his mouth twitch up into a small fond smile. “You still have all our work schedules memorized?”

“Of course.” It’s not like that much has changed, in the brief time she’s been away so far. She reaches over to squeeze his arm. “Order whatever; I’ll check that you’ll have everything you need for the night.”

She starts to move away, but he stops her, putting his hand over hers on his arm. “Cora, wait, I—” he hesitates, clears his throat, takes his hand off of hers to clutch the menus a little too tightly. “I really am sorry about all this. I feel like I just keep making things worse for you.”

“This wasn’t your fault,” she tells him again, squeezing his arm reassuringly. “So someone out there wants to kill me; this isn’t anything new.” He huffs a small, almost-amused breath at that. “At least this time we know who it is and why.”

“That’s not actually all that much of a comfort,” he points out grimly.

“No, it’s not,” she admits. “But it’s something.”

He stares at her for a second, then huffs a breath and shakes his head in disbelief. “You’re amazing, you know that? I don’t know how you do it.”

Her eyebrows twitch in confusion, and she lets her hand slide off of his arm. “Do what?”

He takes a slow breath and scrubs a hand down his face. “Through all of this—all the people trying to kill you and your family, and so many of them succeeding—you still manage to be an optimist.”

She clenches her jaw and drops her gaze. “It isn’t optimism,” she says quietly. “Optimism would imply that I believe things will get better. I know they might not, might never. But it doesn’t matter, really. I can’t control what happens, only how I react to it. And if Ernest taught me anything, it’s that the secret to surviving a life like ours is to just live anyway. I won’t let anyone else decide when my life is over, or tell me I have nothing left to live for. There’s always something, even if it doesn’t seem important to anyone else.”

He blinks a few times as he processes that, then smiles tentatively. “You know phrasing it like that doesn’t make you any less amazing, right?”

“Call it stubbornness, if that helps,” she says, patting his arm. “I’m not special just because I refuse to give up without a fight.” She taps the menus still in his hand. “Order our food. I’ll be back in a minute.”

“On it, boss,” he says with a crooked grin and a mocking salute, then spreads out the menus on the counter to consider the options.

She rolls her eyes fondly and walks down the hall to the closet where they store their supplies for when a member of the pack is staying over. They’ve made up personalized baskets for each of them—each person’s preferred toiletries, clean clothes in their size, a pillow in whatever firmness and materials they typically have on their own beds, anything else they might need to feel at home here. She never wants her pack to feel like guests here, never wants them to feel unwelcome like her mother had made Ernest feel every time he’d come to visit. She’d meant it when she’d told Parrish that this place is as much his home as it is hers, no matter whose name is on the deed.

And, while she goes about setting up Parrish’s room, she allows herself a few brief moments of worrying about the implications of Severo Calavera’s escape from the raid. If this situation could be resolved simply, they would soon find that he’s a man with nothing, easily caught when he realizes the hopelessness of his situation. But situations like these so rarely resolve simply. More likely, he will soon realize he is a man with nothing to lose, and he may well make himself the greatest threat Cora has ever faced.