Archive of Our Own

Stiles didn't know exactly when it all started to change, when the weight of everything pressed down harder on his small shoulders. But if he had to guess, it was sometime shortly after his mother died. Maybe it was even that very day — the day of the funeral.

He remembered clutching his father’s hand tightly, the roughness of Noah’s palm grounding him as they stood together inside the cold, echoing church. The faint scent of old wood and fading lilies hung in the air, mixing with the low murmur of whispered prayers and muffled sobs around them. At the front, resting on a raised platform draped with white cloth, lay the wooden box — his mother’s coffin. It was still, silent, and impossibly final.

Stiles’ gaze stayed fixed on it, even though tears blurred the edges of his vision. His small fingers gripped his dad’s hand so hard he feared he might hurt him, desperate not to let go. The fear wasn’t just about the funeral or the quiet church — it was the deep, gnawing terror that one day his father might disappear too, just like Mom had. That thought tightened inside him like a vise, squeezing until he could hardly breathe.

Then, in the midst of that heavy silence, footsteps approached. Stiles looked up, blinking through his tears, and saw the Whittemores walking toward them. They had their own son with them — Jackson — who looked anything but comforted by the somber occasion. His brows were furrowed, his mouth set in a line of irritation, like being here was the last thing he wanted.

Mr. and Mrs. Whittemore exchanged polite words with Noah, their voices soft but steady. Meanwhile, Jackson’s eyes darted everywhere except at Stiles and his father, avoiding them as if they were strangers, or worse — reminders of something unpleasant.

“We are so sorry for your loss, Deputy,” Mr. Whittemore said, his tone sincere. He reached out and shook Noah’s hand firmly, giving it a reassuring squeeze. Then, almost gently, he ruffled Stiles’ short brown hair, a rare gesture of kindness that caught Stiles by surprise.

“Please, if there’s anything we can do — for you or your son — just let us know,” Mrs. Whittemore added quietly. “We’ll help in any way we can.”

Noah nodded gratefully, managing a small, tired smile. After exchanging goodbyes, the Whittemores stepped away, leaving Stiles and his father alone again in the quiet church.

Normally, Stiles wouldn’t have given Jackson a second glance. He might have thought the boy was just another kid — angry or bored or annoyed by the day. But something was different this time. The longer he looked, the more Stiles noticed a flicker of something else in Jackson’s eyes. It wasn’t mockery or judgment. It wasn’t cruel or dismissive.

It was pity.

A real, raw kind of pity that felt strange but not unwelcome.

And just as quickly as it had appeared, it was gone. But Stiles saw it. He knew it was there — a quiet understanding between two kids caught in the shadow of loss, even if neither of them could quite say it aloud.

A few weeks after the funeral, the weight of grief began to sink its claws deep into his father’s heart—and mind. Noah found refuge in the bottom of a bottle, drowning his sorrows in whiskey and forgetting, if only for a moment, the sharp ache left by the absence of his wife. But the alcohol changed him. Sometimes, in his drunkenness and frustration, he lashed out at Stiles, harsh words and sudden anger spilling out like jagged shards.

When he was sober—when the haze lifted—Noah’s regret was overwhelming. He would kneel by Stiles’ side, voice cracking as he apologized, promising it would never happen again. Yet he could not forgive himself for those moments of bitterness, for the cracks appearing in the fragile world they were trying to hold together.

Nearly two weeks passed in this pattern. Noah showed up to work smelling of alcohol, swaying on his feet. Nights were spent passed out on the worn-out couch, the living room littered with empty bottles and fast-food containers. The house smelled stale and unkempt, a reflection of his father’s unraveling.

Then, one evening, with a tired breath and trembling fingers, Noah picked up the phone and dialed the Whittemores.

“Hello,” his voice was quiet, hesitant. “Sorry to burden you.”

Silence on the other end.

Stiles, hiding behind the doorway to the living room, peered cautiously around the wall. He watched his father speak, though he couldn’t hear the other side. The sound was muffled, like a distant echo.

“I wanted to know if you could take Stiles for a few days.” Noah’s voice cracked with defeat, barely more than a whisper.

More silence.

“I would cover whatever expenses may arise, while he—”

Still nothing but quiet.

“Really? Thank you so much.” Noah let out a long breath, relief flooding his tone.

There was more quiet.

“If you could, already this evening. Thank you both so much.”

The line was still.

“Yes. See you later.”

Then the call ended.

Stiles waited, the seconds stretching like hours. Finally, he stepped fully into the room. His father stood with his back turned, unaware of Stiles’ presence.

“Dad?” Stiles’ voice was soft as he raised a trembling hand to touch Noah’s.

Noah spun around, startled by the sudden contact.

“Is everything okay?” he asked, eyes searching his son’s.

Kneeling down, Noah pulled Stiles into a tight embrace. “Everything will be alright,” he murmured.

Stiles swallowed hard. “Are you giving me away?”

Noah’s eyes softened as he gazed at his son’s slowly watering eyes. “No. You will always stay with me.”

“But you asked if they could take me.” Stiles’ whisper cracked with fear.

“Yes,” Noah admitted. “The Whittemores will come and take you in for a few days.”

Stiles’ eyes hardened with anger. He struggled against his father’s hold. “You can’t do that!”

Noah sighed heavily. “We both know this isn’t healthy—for either of us. I need a few days to clean up. While I do that, I want you to worry about nothing but yourself.”

“But I care about you!” Stiles’ voice rose in frustration. He slammed a small fist against Noah’s chest. “I don’t want to go to Jackson! He’s always so mean! I want to stay with you!”

“Look around, Stiles.” Noah gently placed him at arm’s length and met his gaze. “This isn’t the place for a child right now. You shouldn’t have to clean up after me.”

Noah’s eyes pleaded with his son’s. “It’s just for a few days. We’ll pack some of your things, and soon after, we’ll be together again.”

Noah brushed away tears from Stiles’ cheeks. “Come on. It’s only for a few days.”

He stood and headed toward the stairs, motioning Stiles to follow to his room.

“I’ll find the big bag. You can start putting your favorite things together, okay?”

Stiles nodded, dabbing his eyes with the sleeve of his sweatshirt.

Once inside his room, Stiles looked around carefully, as if choosing what to take meant deciding which memories to keep. He pulled out his favorite book—the tenth in a series he’d read a hundred times. He gathered some school supplies, packing them neatly into his bag.

From beneath his pillow, he retrieved a shawl—soft powder blue, decorated with pink and green flowers—his mother’s shawl. It still smelled faintly of her favorite perfume, and holding it was like holding onto a sliver of her warmth. Alongside it, he placed a small bunny plush, a gift from her on an Easter long ago.

Noah returned from the attic just as Stiles carefully placed the shawl and bunny on top of his books. He then selected clothes from Stiles’ wardrobe, enough to last for at least two weeks.

Stiles handled the shawl and plush with delicate care, as if they could shield him from the uncertain days ahead. Still simmering with anger, he sat down in the living room on the couch, waiting for the Whittemores’ arrival.

Noah moved quietly around, tidying the mess as best he could. The fast-food containers were stacked and put away, the bottles gathered into a bag to make the house appear cleaner, if only superficially.

Despite the effort, the faint scent of moldy food and spilled whiskey lingered in the air. Stiles remembered the night his father woke with a scream when a bottle fell from the counter. That night, Stiles had run to his room and stayed hidden until the next morning’s alarm.

Now, he sat on the slightly musty couch, eyes fixed on his father moving around the kitchen and living room. Stiles couldn’t tell what he was doing—whether trying to clean or simply walking away from his thoughts, trying to forget.

Stiles turned his gaze toward the large bag near the front door. It seemed to grow larger the longer he stared. To Stiles, it was a symbol: a sign that he was about to leave. To leave the home where his mother had sung him to sleep, where she had told him stories about sparks and wolves. And though Noah didn’t know how long the separation would last, the bag said it all.

After what felt like an eternity, the doorbell rang.

Noah rose immediately, heading toward the door, while Stiles shrank back into the couch cushions.

“Good evening, Noah,” Veronica Whittemore greeted warmly as she stepped inside, her smile calm and friendly. Stiles’ father mumbled a response Stiles couldn’t quite hear—likely telling her where Noah had been.

Veronica approached the living room, her smile unwavering. Stiles glared at her, anger shining clearly in his eyes. But Veronica only smiled brighter, the kind of smile that tried to coax trust from a child—soft and reassuring.

At school or the police station, Stiles had seen that same expression on teachers and officers before they delivered bad news. Filled with pity but carefully hidden behind kindness.

Defiantly, Stiles turned his face away and lifted his chin. He vowed silently that he would not leave the couch.

Noah entered the room behind Veronica, followed by David Whittemore.

“We’ve already put your bag in the car,” David said, stepping around the couch into Stiles’ view. The boy’s gaze dropped immediately to his hands.

“We know this is hard for both of you,” Veronica tried again. “But your father wants to get better — to be a better father for you. Sometimes that means being alone for a while. You can call your father anytime. I’m sure he’ll make time for you.”

Veronica sat next to Stiles on the couch. He tried to scoot away, shrinking from her gentle touch.

“Stiles,” Noah said softly, stepping close. “I’m not giving you away. This isn’t goodbye. You’re my son, and that will never change.”

Stiles leaned forward and buried his face in his father’s shirt, tears streaming down onto the fabric.

“It’s only for a week, for now,” Noah whispered. “If it takes longer, I’ll let you know first, okay?”

“You promise?”

“Mischief’s honour,” Noah said, smiling through his own tears. It was their secret promise—no secrets, no lies. Even if Stiles was ever in danger, those words meant he could speak freely.

Stiles hugged his father tightly for a little longer, then slowly pulled away. But he still held his dad’s hand as they walked to the hallway. Picking up his bag, he followed the Whittemores out of the only home he had ever known.

Even knowing it wasn’t forever, it felt like it was.

Stiles chose the backseat of the sleek black car. His father buckled his seatbelt, pressing a gentle kiss to his forehead before closing the door.

Noah spoke briefly with David Whittemore, shaking hands before the car started.

As they pulled away, Stiles looked back at his father and waved, holding on until the house was swallowed by the darkness of the setting sun. Even then, Stiles kept waving, long after the familiar shape had disappeared.

When they finally pulled up and parked in front of the Whittemore house, Stiles felt utterly exhausted. The weariness weighed down every inch of his small body, as if the journey—and everything before it—had drained him completely. The house loomed large and unfamiliar, a new chapter he wasn’t ready for.

Veronica reached over and gently helped him out of the car, her hands steady and warm. She took his backpack from his tired shoulders without a word, carrying it inside with practiced ease. Meanwhile, her husband, David, took charge of Stiles’ suitcase, lifting it with a quiet strength and heading inside on his own path.

“We do not expect you to share a room with Jackson,” Veronica said softly, as she guided Stiles toward the front door and into the house. Her voice was gentle but firm. “You will have your own room.”

Stiles nodded silently, eyes fixed on the floor as he followed her.

“We’ll just show you where Jackson’s room is, and where ours are, so you’ll know in case of emergencies,” she explained as they ascended the staircase. The stairs creaked under their feet as they climbed from the first floor to the second. But then, instead of stopping, Veronica skipped that floor and led Stiles up another flight, to the third floor.

“We’re at the very end of the hallway on the second floor,” she continued, pointing back down the stairs as if the words might somehow anchor Stiles in this strange new place. “If you need us, just go down one flight and then take a left. Our room is the last door on the right.”

Stiles’ eyes traced the hallway as they walked. “Jackson’s room is the first door here,” Veronica said, stopping before a closed door on the right. “You’ll sleep on the other side of the hallway, first door.”

Stiles noticed that all the doors were only on the right side of the hall. The left side was bare except for a few large framed pictures hanging against the sage green walls. The hallway felt oddly empty, the silence almost too loud. Counting the doors, he realized there were only four rooms in total on this floor, separated only by the staircase landing.

When Veronica opened the door to his room, Stiles stopped for a moment, taking in the space. It was bigger than any room he’d ever had at home. A queen-sized bed dominated the room, covered with a soft quilt that looked thick and inviting. Against the walls stood a tall wardrobe and a sturdy desk cluttered with papers and a reading lamp. Bookshelves lined one wall, packed tight with novels and textbooks. An open door revealed a small ensuite bathroom, the gleam of the tile catching the light.

“Someone will come get you when dinner’s ready,” Veronica said with a small smile, setting his rucksack carefully on a chair by the desk. “Just make yourself at home.” Without waiting for a response, she turned and left.

Moments later, David appeared, carrying Stiles’ suitcase. He placed it beside the chair, gave Stiles a quick, affectionate ruffle on the head, then exited the room quietly.

Alone in the spacious room, Stiles felt suddenly very small and utterly alone. The brief flicker of hope he’d felt earlier—that this might not be so bad—vanished, replaced by a hollow ache in his chest. The walls, the big bed, the books—all of it felt foreign and cold.

He didn’t unpack. The bag stayed zipped shut beside the chair, a reminder of the life and home he’d left behind. When called to dinner, he followed Jackson down the stairs silently, sitting at the long dining table without a word. He ate only a few bites of food, barely tasting it, and kept his answers to questions short and clipped. Even Jackson, usually so indifferent, looked over at him once or twice with a flicker of concern—but after a moment, shrugged and returned his attention elsewhere.

After the meal, Stiles retreated to his room. He brushed his teeth with robotic motions and slipped into a soft pair of pajamas. Then, climbing onto the bed, he laid himself down in the center of the mattress, stretching out beneath the thick blanket. Clutched tightly in his hands were two precious items—his mother’s scarf, soft and worn, and a wool hat his father had knitted, still faintly smelling of home.

It took hours for sleep to find him. His body tossed and turned beneath the covers, restless and uneasy. The scarf and hat never left his grasp, their familiar textures the only comfort in this strange new place.

His dreams were fractured, never calm. Shadows chased him through unfamiliar woods. His mother’s voice whispered in echoes, the stories she once told tangled in his mind. Every time he closed his eyes, the ache of loss returned sharper than before.

He wished, more than anything, that it was all just a nightmare—that he would wake up in his own bed, wrapped in the safety of home, with his mother’s lullabies still lingering in the air.

As the week drew to a close, Stiles found himself slowly warming up to the Whittemores. Even Jackson, the boy who had seemed so indifferent—or even hostile—at first, was beginning to soften. The sharp edges between them dulled, replaced by moments of quiet understanding.

On Friday evening, the four of them gathered in the living room to watch a movie. The flickering light of the TV painted gentle shadows across the walls. Jackson, surprisingly, chose to sit beside Stiles. Though he hoarded the blanket with a possessive grip, he didn’t hesitate to push the snack bowl closer to Stiles, silently inviting him to share.

It was a small gesture, but to Stiles, it meant the world.

Later, in his quiet thoughts, Stiles would mark that night as the official start of their relationship—not the kind that teenagers shouted about in school halls, but a fragile bond built from understanding and subtle kindness.

The week had shown Stiles a side of Jackson he hadn’t known existed. Beneath the tough exterior and occasional sharp words, Jackson was learning to see Stiles not just as the loud, clumsy, spastic klutz he’d known from school. He saw the brokenness beneath—the boy still shaken and vulnerable after the loss of his mother. Without making a show of it, Jackson began to help in his own way.

He became someone Stiles could lean on—quietly, when they were alone—offering small comforts that no one else seemed to notice. And at school, Jackson stopped targeting him. The bullying and taunts faded into silence, replaced by a tentative truce.

For all of it, Stiles was thankful—though, deep down, he still found it hard to believe the feeling was real. Hard to believe when he first allowed himself to think it, let alone say it aloud.

They were curled up on Jackson’s bed one night—not really cuddling, but sitting close enough that their shoulders brushed beneath the soft blanket they shared. They watched a superhero movie Stiles had memorized long ago, the lines so familiar they could almost repeat them by heart. Between them lay a few half-eaten snacks, the quiet crunch of chips mixing with the muted sounds of explosions and heroics on the screen.

Then, almost without meaning to, Stiles whispered, “Thank you.”

His voice was barely audible, almost swallowed by the hum of the movie. But in that small, fragile moment, it felt as if the world had paused around them.

Jackson glanced at him briefly—just a flicker of acknowledgment—but then shrugged and turned back to the screen, saying nothing.

Still, that simple whisper stayed with both of them.

After that, they continued growing closer in secret. So it was kind of natural, that their first kiss happened in secret, but at a place and time, where they could have easily been discovered.

Their first kiss happened more as an accident. When they were both fifteen years old. After a Lacrosse game. Jackson was waiting for him in the changing room, because Stiles got called to coach for what ever stupid reason he could come up with at that moment.

When Stiles came barrelling into the changing room, he threw his heavy gear on the ground and jumped into Jacksons arms, kissing him square on the mouth, before he even realised, what he had done. Jackson was shocked for a moment, but when Stiles tried to pull back, Jackson set him on his own feet and deepen the kiss, one hand sneaking into his hair, the other holding his hip.

For a second, nothing but the two of them existed. 

When they broke the kiss needing air, Stiles directly started apologizing. "I'm sorry, I should hav-" 

Jackson just kissed him again to shut him up.

"If I hadn't wanted it, I would not have kissed back. I would have pushed you back."

"But-"

"No buts. Did I push you away?"

"No." Stiles whispered.

"Exactly. now go and clean up. Your father is waiting. And we have dinner together today." Jackson reminded him. 

Mumbling under his breath he took his shower things and went to wash himself of the sweat that was clinging to his back. Jackson looked at the lacrosse gear and sighed. He put it away for Stiles, knowing full well, that he would forget it when he came out of the shower.

While Stiles put on his things, Jackson threw a quick: "I'm going ahead." over his shoulder, before leaving the locker room.

Stiles fumbled getting ready and nearly left his bag behind and had to walk back to get it, but he managed it.

Outside he had to endure Scott talking him full about the game and how he shot the wining shot, only getting rescued by his father.

"I'm really sorry Scott, son, but we have to go. We still have something planed for tonight, so you have to excuse us." 

"No worries Sheriff." Scott flashed a smile, that felt a little too practised, before leaving with his mother.

Stiles and his father walked to the cruiser and they drove right to the Whittemore's house. They already arrived, having left a little earlier than Stiles and his father.

While they ate, Stiles held onto Jacksons hand, and Jackson stroked his thumb over the back of Stiles hand.

"So, how long has this been going on?" Noah asked halfway through dinner. Stiles didn't know what he meant at first, but then he saw the knowing look in his fathers eyes and he went red, looking down at his plate of food and pulling his hand back to himself.

"It is something pretty new for both of us." Jackson answered smoothly.

David and Veronica looked a little surprised, but Veronica quickly had a knowing smile on her face, while her husband relaxed again.

"I knew they would find together sooner or later." She said smoothly.

The parents laughed a little, Jackson just looked smug and Stiles tried to hide behind his fork for the rest of the dinner.

When Scott got bitten, it got harder to hide their relationship. Scott realised, that Stiles sometimes smelled like Jackson, but could never really make out if they had been together or if it was just from the fighting in the halls or lacrosse practice.

Stiles hated the idea, that Jackson also wanted to become a werewolf, and like always he was right.

"I told you, that it would not end well." Stiles said, sitting on Jacksons bed, trying to clean up both of their wounds and bandage them. 

"Yeah, yeah." Jackson said, hissing at the alcohol hitting his open flesh. 

Stiles had hit him pretty badly in the warehouse, but after Lydia had run up to him, trying to kiss him, Jackson transformed from the kanima into a werewolf. On the ride home, Jackson said, that his wolf was feeling threatened by Lydia so close to himself and their mate.

Stiles laughed a little, but after a thoroughly scenting and cuddling session, Stiles was slowly adapting to everything that had happened.

Jackson pushed Stiles down onto the bed and kissed him with a growl.

When he broke the kiss again, Stiles looked a little dazed and asked: "What was that for?" his voice airy.

"You were too deep in your thoughts. And besides, I can heal, you can't, so let me help you."

Stiles wanted to protest, but jerked away from the pad with the alcohol. Jackson just scowled down at him, shooting him a look, that said I told you so, that was pure Jackson.

Stiles snickered a little, but let Jackson help him to clean up.

They cuddled on his bed a while longer, till Stiles father came to collect him, after he cleaned up with his team.

Both knew, that they couldn't remain silent for longer, so they sat Noah down and told him everything. From Stiles hunting for the dead body with Scott and Scott getting bitten, over Derek and his family, the Argents, the Lacrosse game where Stiles disappeared and the kidnapping of him and Erica and Boyd, both of wich had thankfully returned home. They ended with Jackson turning into a werewolf and waited.

Noah was silent for a long while. Stiles was getting more nervous with each passing second. Then Siles father pulled him into a hug, being careful of his wounds.

"I feel like I failed you. That you thought, you would shield me, by trying to withhold that all." Stiles pressed closer to his father, crying a little. His father just gently rocked him from side to side, till they both calmed down a little.

"Next time, you come talk to me first alright?"

Stiles nodded. "Mischief's honour." 

Noah left the room first, wanting to talk to Jacksons parents before going, leaving the two teens alone for a while.

"Better?" Jackson asked, stepping closer and kissing his temples.

Stiles nodded and leaned into his side. The taller one wrapped his arms around the smaller one, leaning in to him and nuzzling his hair. 

"I feel lighter now. But not really better."

Jackson made a questioning sound at that. "It's just, my body is still sore from everything the last few days, and now my father knows about the supernatural, how safe is he really now?"

Neither of them knew the answer to that. So they just stayed in silence, till they could hear Noah call for him.

Hand in hand they walked down the stairs till they reached the entrance hall. With a last kiss they departed, Stiles leaving with his father and Jackson standing with his own parents, knowing that a long night would be ahead of them both.

1 Year later

Stiles had been sleeping at Jackson’s place most nights lately. With Jackson there, he felt safer — like some small part of the chaos could be held at bay. Jackson knew exactly how to help when the nightmares came: quiet reassurances, steady hands, and never letting Stiles feel alone in the dark.

So when Stiles didn’t show up one night and didn’t answer his phone, a cold knot of worry tightened in Jackson’s chest. The minutes dragged by, thick with silence and unanswered calls, until finally he couldn’t wait any longer. He dialed the Sheriff’s number, his fingers trembling slightly.

“Good evening, Jackson,” came the calm voice on the other end.

“Evening, Sheriff. Is Stiles with you?”

“No, no sign of him here. He drove over to your place earlier. Has he answered your calls?”

Jackson shook his head. “No. I’ve tried. Thought maybe he got distracted… or maybe still with you, eating dinner?”

There was a pause. Then, a somber tone.

“Sheriff?”

“We just got a report. Car accident, not far from your place.” The Sheriff’s voice was steady but heavy. “Could be Stiles. I’ll call Scott about him missing. You try and track him down, okay?”

Jackson didn’t hesitate. “Will do, sir.”

He ended the call and moved fast — slipping on his trainers, tucking his phone into his back pocket, and grabbing his keys. The cold night air hit him as he jumped into his Mustang, his mind racing. The image of Stiles, alone and vulnerable, haunted him.

Minutes later, he arrived at the crash site. The blue Jeep — Stiles’ beloved Jeep — lay on its side, twisted and battered on the deserted road. The metal gleamed harshly under the streetlights.

But Stiles was nowhere in sight.

Jackson’s breath caught when he saw the shattered phone on the ground, screen cracked and dark. The sharp scent of blood lingered faintly in the air, and it ignited a feral rage deep inside him, the primal bond between mates flaring hot and raw.

But Jackson forced himself to hold back, pressing down the wolf within, grounding himself until the rest of the pack arrived.

They pulled up quietly, hiding their cars a mile away — not wanting to attract attention or be blamed for the accident. Soon, they gathered in hushed urgency to plan their search.

“We have to be fast,” Derek growled, eyes dark with concern.

Erica and Boyd stood close together, their faces tight with worry. Jackson could feel the pull of Stiles’ bond — a trembling fear that only a few of them could sense.

“He’s scared,” Erica whispered, voice low but clear enough for the others to hear.

Scott’s reply was sharp and defensive. “That’s bullshit. Stiles is one of the bravest people I know!”

Jackson growled under his breath, frustrated. Of course Stiles could be scared — who wouldn’t be after everything? When had Scott stopped truly understanding his own brother?

“Everyone can be scared, you arrogant prick,” Boyd snarled back.

Allison stepped forward, voice calm but firm. “Maybe we should stop arguing and focus on finding Stiles.”

Derek nodded, voice low and commanding. “Boyd, Erica — east part of the preserve. Jackson, Isaac, Lydia — west. Liam, Allison, Peter — north. Scott and I will take south. If anyone finds him — or whatever’s holding him — you howl.”

They dispersed quickly.

Jackson exhaled a shaky breath, the familiar scent of Stiles leading them west. Lydia took point, her flashlight cutting through the darkness, while Jackson and Isaac tracked silently beside her. The wolves relied on their noses, sharper and more precise than any light.

After about thirty minutes, Isaac growled sharply, and Jackson took off running, heart hammering in his chest. The scent of Stiles’ blood was growing stronger — guiding them, pulling them toward the Nemeton.

When Jackson didn’t howl, Isaac did, a desperate call to the pack. Lydia’s phone buzzed almost immediately.

“The Nemeton,” she said, breathless, ending the call as she quickened her pace.

The clearing came into view, bathed in moonlight. There, Stiles lay across the ancient stump, a faint red glow pulsing from the wood beneath him. A cloaked figure stood nearby, chanting softly, each word wracking Stiles’ body with visible pain.

Without hesitation, the pack charged into the clearing, surrounding the chanting figure — all but Jackson.

He sprinted forward, leaping onto the glowing stump and pulling Stiles close, arms wrapping tightly around his trembling, bloodied mate. Jackson could feel the raw agony coursing through Stiles like fire, and his own wolf whimpered in sympathy.

His skin darkened, veins blackening as he silently drew the pain away, bearing it in his own body to shield Stiles. His voice lowered to a desperate whisper, words meant only for Stiles’ ears — a lifeline, a promise of safety in the storm of agony.

He didn’t notice when the shaman fell, defeated by the pack’s attack. His focus was solely on Stiles — on soothing the wounds, on holding his mate steady through the nightmare.

The red glow surrounding the Nemeton flickered violently once the chanting stopped — the death of the cloaked figure breaking the ritual’s momentum. The energy dissipated like smoke in the wind, leaving behind the scent of blood, burning herbs, and fear.

Jackson cradled Stiles, his arms now marked black all the way to his elbows from pulling pain into himself. Stiles was cold and barely responsive, his lips murmuring incoherent syllables, caught between reality and whatever place the ritual had trapped him in. Jackson didn't care. He just kept whispering his name like a lifeline.

“Stiles. Hey, come on. Mischief, I’ve got you. You’re okay. It’s me. You’re not alone.”

The rest of the pack slowed as they reached the Nemeton. Isaac and Boyd hovered at the tree line, their expressions a mix of concern and wariness. Scott looked from the fallen shaman to Stiles and then at Jackson, his brows furrowing. Lydia held back, her hands trembling ever so slightly.

“He’s… Jackson, you’re—” Scott started, then stopped, eyes narrowing. “Are you pulling pain?”

Jackson didn't answer. He rocked Stiles against him, holding him tight, protectively. When he did speak, his voice was raw.

“I can’t let him hurt anymore.”

Erica was the first to walk closer. Her eyes swept over Stiles' battered form, then down to Jackson’s arms.

“You’re bonded,” she whispered. “You didn’t tell us.”

Jackson didn’t even flinch. “No one needed to know. Not until now.”

“Wait—” Scott looked between them, slowly putting the pieces together. “You two? You’ve been together this whole time?”

“Over a year,” Jackson said without looking up. “And if you'd actually paid attention to Stiles the last year, you would’ve known. He stopped waiting for you to see him.”

That struck harder than he expected. Scott opened his mouth to argue — but nothing came out. He shut it again.

Peter, of course, was the one to smirk. “Well, this certainly makes things more interesting.”

Allison stepped forward. “Is he going to be okay?”

Jackson finally looked up. “I don’t know. They took something from him. He’s not healing. His heartbeat is wrong. Too fast, too shallow.”

Lydia swallowed hard, stepping up beside Jackson and laying her hand gently on Stiles' arm. “His pain is echoing… I can feel it.” Her voice trembled. “But I also feel him reaching for something. Someone. He’s trying to anchor himself.”

“He’s trying to find me,” Jackson whispered, pulling Stiles closer.

Derek, silent until now, took a step forward. “You’re his anchor.”

A painful breath escaped Jackson. “Yeah.”

Derek nodded once, seriously. “Then make sure he remembers.”

Jackson closed his eyes and leaned down, pressing his forehead against Stiles’.

“I’m here. You’re safe. Remember that night we watched Iron Man three times in a row because you couldn’t sleep? Or when you threw a pillow at me for calling Batman overrated?” His voice cracked. “Remember the first time I kissed you? Right in the locker room, when you looked at me like I’d just given you the moon?”

Stiles’ lips parted, a broken sound escaping him.

Jackson cupped his cheek. “Come back to me.”

A long, strained moment passed — then Stiles’ fingers twitched, catching lightly in Jackson’s shirt. His eyes fluttered open, unfocused at first, then settling, slowly, on Jackson’s face.

“‘M not dreaming?” His voice was barely audible, dry and cracked.

“No, Mischief,” Jackson said, brushing tears from his cheeks. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

Stiles blinked, then winced. “Hurts.”

“I know. I’ve got you.”

The pack stood silently. None of them could look away from the sight of Jackson Whittemore, arrogant, controlled, self-important Jackson — cradling Stiles like he was made of glass and gold. Like he was precious. Like he meant everything.

Even Scott couldn’t argue with that kind of devotion.

“You… really love him,” Lydia said softly, her voice breaking through the silence like a balm.

Jackson nodded, not even ashamed of the tears staining his cheeks. “I’d burn the world down for him.”

No one laughed.

After a moment, Derek moved forward. “Let’s get him home.”

Later, at the Stilinski house…

The living room was dimly lit, the soft amber glow from the standing lamp casting long shadows across the floor. Stiles lay asleep on the couch, curled tightly into Jackson, head tucked beneath his jaw, fingers fisted in his shirt like it was the only thing grounding him.

Jackson hadn’t moved in hours. He barely blinked.

Around them, the pack lingered — unsure, quiet, awkward in the way only teenagers faced with real trauma could be. Lydia was perched on the armrest of the chair beside the couch, one hand pressed to her mouth as she watched Stiles. Scott hovered near the kitchen archway, arms crossed, eyes troubled. Derek leaned against the far wall, silently observing. Erica and Isaac sat cross-legged on the floor, both tense and pale.

The Sheriff stood just behind the couch, arms folded. He wasn’t watching Stiles — he was watching the room. Watching them all like he was measuring each one’s reaction, weighing their intentions. The lines around his mouth were hard, sharp with the kind of protective rage that had only grown stronger since he'd brought his half-broken son home from the Nemeton.

“You’ve all got something to say,” he said finally, voice quiet but firm. “So say it.”

There was a beat of stunned silence.

Scott spoke first. “I didn’t know it was… like that. Between them.”

The Sheriff gave a slow nod. “You didn’t notice much about him at all, lately.”

Scott flinched. “I… I thought he was just pulling away. That he was angry with me for taking charge. For making decisions.”

“No,” Jackson said, not looking up. “He was tired. Tired of being overlooked. Of being your backup plan instead of your friend.”

“That’s not fair,” Scott protested, but his voice was small.

“It’s not untrue,” Lydia said sharply, gaze flicking toward Stiles’ pale face. “He’s been slipping away for months. And no one noticed. Except Jackson.”

Erica spoke next, voice hesitant. “Is that why you two kept it secret?”

Jackson finally looked up, eyes shadowed. “We didn’t keep it secret. We protected it. You all had your opinions about me. And about him. We didn’t want to be torn apart just to fit back into a version of this pack that didn’t even see him.”

“I saw him,” Scott said defensively.

Jackson’s voice cracked. “Not like I did.”

There was silence again. Heavy. Uncomfortable.

The Sheriff exhaled slowly, and walked around the couch, settling into the armchair closest to his son. He reached out and gently brushed a hand through Stiles’ hair.

“When he told me,” he said, voice low, “he was scared I’d react like the rest of you are right now. That I’d think Jackson wasn’t good enough for him. That I’d ask questions like ‘how’ or ‘why.’ But I didn’t. Because I saw what he looked like with him.”

He looked up, locking eyes with each of them.

“I saw my son sleep through the night for the first time in weeks. I saw him breathe. I saw someone protect him like I couldn’t. Like none of you could.”

Erica’s eyes were wet now. Boyd put a hand on her knee, silent support.

Scott cleared his throat, but it cracked. “I didn’t mean to fail him.”

“Intentions don’t undo the damage,” Derek said gruffly. “They don’t heal broken skin. Or nightmares. Or make up for a kid screaming on a stone altar while the only person he called for was the one we all said wasn’t trustworthy.”

That landed.

Hard.

Stiles shifted in his sleep, curling in tighter. Jackson immediately adjusted, murmuring something into his hair, brushing a hand down his back in smooth, practiced motions.

Lydia was the one who spoke next, quiet but sure.

“You don’t have to like it. But you do have to respect it. Because this—” she gestured at the two of them on the couch, “—this bond, whatever it is, saved him. And if you try to tear it down out of guilt or jealousy or whatever you’re feeling, you’ll lose him. For good.”

“I don’t want to lose him,” Scott whispered.

“Then stop trying to be the hero,” the Sheriff said, cold and tired. “And start trying to be his friend.”

Scott looked like he’d been slapped.

The room fell quiet again.

Then Jackson looked up, his voice rough but steady. “When he wakes up, he’s going to feel overwhelmed. Guilty. Small. You don’t get to tell him what he should’ve done differently. You don’t get to ask why he didn’t tell you. You get to show up now. That’s it. That’s your only job.”

The Sheriff looked at him, something proud in his tired eyes.

“Exactly.”

Slowly, the tension in the room began to ease — not fixed, not healed, but shifting.

Scott nodded. Erica wiped her face. Derek gave a grunt of reluctant approval. Lydia folded her legs beneath her and stayed close. One by one, the pack started to settle.

Not to understand, not fully — but to accept.

To try.

And as Stiles shifted again, face twitching like he was starting to wake, Jackson leaned down and whispered, “They’re here, Mischief. They’re staying. I think they’re finally ready to listen.”

And maybe this time, they would.