Archive of Our Own

the first thing you smell is wolfsbane.

it reaches you beneath the sharper scents of antiseptic and animal fear, bitter enough to coat the back of your throat before the bell above the clinic door finishes ringing. the boy who stumbles inside can’t be much older than liam. rainwater runs from his hair and darkens the shoulders of a torn sweatshirt, but the wet footprints he leaves across the tile are threaded with blood.

scott catches him before his knees hit the floor. deaton is already moving from behind the counter, one hand clearing a stack of patient files while the other reaches for the boy’s wrist. liam shuts and locks the door, and malia crosses to the front window without needing to be told. the ordinary motions of the clinic continue around all of you—the hum of fluorescent lights, a dog shifting restlessly in one of the back kennels, rain beginning to tick against the glass—but the room changes anyway.

“he’s been dosed,” deaton says. his fingers press beneath the boy’s jaw before he looks toward scott. “yellow wolfsbane, probably more than once.”

scott lifts the boy onto the examination table. his eyes flash red for half a second as he takes in the cuts around the boy’s wrists and the bruises disappearing beneath his sleeves. “who did this to you?”

the boy’s breathing catches. “there are two more.”

lydia sets her bag on the counter and moves closer, but she leaves enough distance that he doesn’t feel surrounded. “two more people?” she asks.

“werewolves.” his gaze darts toward scott’s eyes, then toward you. “they’re still down there.”

you step closer before the smell stops you.

it has been buried beneath the wolfsbane, rain, and several hours of panic, but you know it. the scent belongs to the only alpha who escaped when scott’s pack drove a small coalition of rogues out of beacon hills months ago. he had called scott’s human friends weaknesses before lunging for stiles, and you had changed the direction of the attack by stepping between them. for one disorienting second, deaton’s clinic disappears, and you are back on broken concrete with cold metal through your side, stiles’s hands pressed around a wound he can’t close, and scott’s eyes burning red while he asks whether you understand that the bite might not work.

your claws press into your palms.

“hey.” stiles’s voice comes from your right, close but not crowding. “do you want me to keep talking?”

you look toward him. he holds one hand out between you, his palm open, and waits. his heartbeat is faster than it was a moment ago, but the rhythm is familiar enough to find beneath everyone else’s—the boy’s frantic pulse, liam’s anger, scott’s controlled fear, the steady beat beneath deaton’s calm.

you place your hand in his.

“great,” stiles says, his fingers closing carefully around yours. “because, historically, getting me to stop talking is significantly more difficult. scott has attempted it. my dad has attempted it. coach once made me run laps until i threw up, which only stopped me temporarily and probably violated several district policies.”

the claws recede because you make them. the fear remains, sharp and unpleasant, but it becomes something you are holding instead of something holding you.

stiles watches your eyes return to normal. his thumb moves once across the side of your hand before he lets go.

“same alpha,” you say.

scott looks toward you. “you’re sure?”

you turn back to the examination table. the boy watches all of you with the wary focus of someone trying to identify the safest person in a room full of strangers. “i’m sure.”

deaton begins cutting through one sleeve of the boy’s sweatshirt. “then we should assume his escape wasn’t an accident.”

“he let him go,” malia says from the window.

“or expected the wolfsbane to kill him before he reached anyone,” liam mutters. he has moved beside the table again, close enough that the boy can see the yellow answering flash in his eyes. “where were you being held?”

“he said we needed an alpha,” the boy whispers. “he said lone wolves don’t live long.”

“forcing people to follow you isn’t a pack,” liam says.

scott looks toward the injuries around the boy’s wrists. “he’s trying to rebuild.”

the boy swallows. “underground. concrete, i think. there was water, and sometimes i could hear cars. he kept moving us whenever it rained.”

stiles is already pulling his laptop from his bag. “running water and traffic narrows it down to only most of beacon hills, which is unhelpful but not technically nothing.”

“there were ladders,” the boy adds. “metal ones. and these doors with wheels on them.”

stiles stops opening the laptop. his attention shifts toward lydia.

“storm tunnels,” they say together.

—

the map covers most of deaton’s desk twenty minutes later.

stiles has three different municipal records open on his laptop, none of which appear to have been obtained through entirely legal methods. lydia marks the locations of the disappearances while sheriff stilinski reads road names to her over speakerphone. malia leans against a cabinet, arms crossed, and liam remains close to the recovering beta with an unopened bottle of water held between his hands.

you stand beside scott. he has been quiet since you identified the scent.

“you can tell me not to go,” you say.

scott’s eyes remain on the map. “would it work?”

“no,” you answer.

“then i’m not going to pretend it would.” his mouth tightens before he finally looks at you. “i need to know you’re going because you think you can do this, not because you think you have something to prove.”

the question doesn’t offend you. scott has never asked you to be fearless, only honest. that was true before his bite changed you and remains true now.

“i’m scared,” you admit. “but i can still do it.”

scott nods. one of his hands briefly closes around the back of your neck, the same wordless affection he gives liam after difficult fights. “okay.”

“found it,” stiles says from the desk. he rotates the laptop and points toward a faded blueprint. “old flood-control system beneath the western preserve. three maintenance entrances, one main spillway, and a whole series of lower channels that were supposedly decommissioned fifteen years ago.”

“supposedly?” lydia asks.

“government recordkeeping is a fragile social construct.” stiles enlarges part of the map. “also, the reservoir still uses two of the overflow gates. if the water reaches this level—”

thunder rolls outside, low enough to vibrate through the clinic windows.

everyone looks toward the rain.

“how long?” scott asks.

lydia checks the weather alert on her phone. “the worst of the storm reaches us in less than two hours.”

the boy on the table makes a small, frightened sound. liam puts the water bottle down and grips the edge of the table beside him.

“we’re getting them out,” he says.

scott’s gaze moves across the room, touching each person in turn. he doesn’t need to ask whether everyone is coming. the pack has never worked that way.

stiles gathers the maps. “the western maintenance route comes closest to where the last two disappearances overlap. the main spillway connects here, which gives us two approaches.”

“i’m going west,” you say. “i can follow the scent.”

“i’m going with you,” liam says immediately.

“you’re going with scott.” you reach for the spare flashlight lydia slides across the desk. “he needs another werewolf at the spillway.”

liam’s jaw tightens. “you need one too.”

“she has one,” stiles says, already stuffing a coil of rope into his backpack. when everyone looks at him, he pauses. “not a werewolf, obviously. she has a person with maps, opposable thumbs, and a proven willingness to crawl into structures condemned by the county.”

“that last one isn’t a qualification,” his father says through the phone.

“it has been before,” stiles says.

“and every time, i’ve told you to stop,” his father replies.

stiles lowers his voice as though the phone might become less capable of hearing him. “we’re experiencing some disagreement over how transferable my skill set is.”

despite yourself, you smile. stiles catches it and looks pleased for less than a second before concern returns to his face.

lydia begins assigning radios. “scott and liam take the spillway. malia watches the northern exits from aboveground. the sheriff and i will coordinate from the service road.” she passes a radio to stiles, then looks at you. “you two check in every five minutes.”

“ten,” stiles says.

“five,” lydia repeats.

“five is excessive,” stiles argues.

“four,” lydia counters.

stiles takes the radio. “five is reasonable.”

liam points at you. “and you answer.”

“okay, dad,” you say.

his expression goes flat. “not funny.”

you touch his shoulder on the way past. liam catches your wrist long enough to squeeze it, his anger thinning into worry beneath your fingers. you know what he remembers. he wasn’t there when scott bit you, but he knows what it is to wake with an entirely different life inside your body because scott had seconds to choose between changing you and watching you die.

“i’ll answer,” you promise.

you turn from him, but liam calls your name. “and i am not your dad.”

you laugh at his jab. “well, yeah. i’m older than you. you’re just bossy.”

near the door, stiles holds your jacket while you slide your arms into it. he tugs the collar straight, then checks the strap of your bag as though it has personally given him cause for suspicion.

“you packed the trauma kit?” you ask.

“left side pocket.” he pats it. “bandages, antiseptic, gauze, splint, tourniquet, and enough painkillers to mildly inconvenience a werewolf.”

“that seems optimistic,” you tell him.

“i believe in being prepared and also in pharmaceutical miracles,” stiles says.

his fingers catch briefly against yours when he releases the strap. the beat of his heart changes, one quick stumble before it settles again. you have spent months trying not to make meaning from the sounds his body makes without permission. stiles is anxious about everything, and you refuse to turn that anxiety into something you only want it to be.

lydia meets your eyes over his shoulder. her expression says she knows exactly what you are doing.

you look away first.

—

the western entrance is hidden behind a rusted gate and enough wet brush to suggest the county has forgotten it exists. stiles hasn’t.

“this is good,” he says, crouching beside the padlock while rain runs from his hood. “old infrastructure, standing water, probable structural instability. all the best components of a sound plan.”

you hold the flashlight over his hands. “you made the plan.”

“which is why criticism feels unnecessarily personal.” he works a tension wrench into the lock. “also, for legal reasons, we should be clear that my father gave me this lock-picking set.”

“did he?” you ask.

“no, but he did fail to confiscate it effectively,” stiles admits.

the lock opens. stiles looks up with a quick, triumphant smile that does something inconvenient beneath your ribs. he pulls the gate aside, and you follow him down a narrow set of concrete steps. the sounds aboveground begin disappearing almost immediately. rain becomes a distant rush against layers of soil and stone. the air cools, carrying rust, damp concrete, stagnant water, and the faint lingering trace of the alpha.

stiles switches on his radio. “western team entering the tunnels. if you don’t hear from us in five minutes, assume she finally got sick of me and left me underground.”

“we’ll assume something happened to her,” lydia answers through the static. “you never stop talking willingly.”

“hurtful but statistically supported,” stiles says into the radio.

scott’s voice follows. “be careful.”

“you too,” you answer.

the tunnel slopes downward. stiles marks each turn with chalk while you keep one hand against the wall and separate the scents around you. the alpha’s trail appears and disappears wherever the water deepens. beneath it, however, two frightened heartbeats remain steady in the distance.

“still there?” stiles asks.

“two of them.” you stop where the tunnel branches. “left.”

he checks the blueprint beneath the clear cover he has wrapped around it. “left isn’t on the map.”

“the heartbeats are,” you say.

“i guess heartbeats outrank municipal planning.” stiles draws another mark and follows.

the passage narrows enough that his shoulder brushes yours. his heartbeat remains slightly elevated, quickening whenever the alpha’s scent strengthens. it’s not fear for himself. you know the difference now, although he still seems to believe otherwise.

“you can ask,” you tell him.

stiles glances sideways. “ask what?”

“whether i’m okay,” you say.

“i wasn’t going to ask that,” stiles says.

you wait.

“i was going to make an observation about how you appear extremely okay,” he continues. “very normal number of claws. eyes a completely nonconcerning color. breathing only marginally terrifying.”

“stiles,” you say.

he stops walking. water runs around both pairs of boots while the flashlight catches the strain around his mouth.

“are you okay?” he asks.

the alpha’s scent presses old memories against the inside of your skin. you remember cold metal, scott’s red eyes, and stiles saying your name so many times it stopped sounding like language. fear doesn’t disappear because you recognize it. it simply becomes easier to carry.

“i’m still here,” you say.

stiles studies you, then nods. “okay.”

you start walking again. “you can keep talking.”

“excellent. i have several thoughts about why tunnels are objectively worse than basements,” stiles says.

his voice follows you deeper underground.

—

the mountain ash stops you before the doorway does.

it forms a thin line across the dry lip of a raised concrete threshold, pale against the wet floor. runoff disappears through a grated channel before it reaches the ash, preserving the barrier despite the storm. the barrier catches against your skin with a pressure you can’t see, and blue light briefly flickers when your hand nearly crosses.

stiles steps past you. “show-off,” you mutter.

“human privilege.” he crouches without touching the line and angles his flashlight into the chamber beyond. “two people. both conscious.”

the captives shrink back until they see you behind him. one is a girl with dark hair plastered to her face. the other is a boy who can’t be much older than sixteen, one arm curled around his ribs.

“scott sent us,” you say.

the girl looks toward stiles. “he’s human.”

“rude,” stiles says. he pulls an empty evidence bag from his backpack and begins sweeping the mountain ash into it without disturbing the rest of the tunnel. “accurate, but rude.”

“he’s the reason we can reach you,” you tell her.

the invisible pressure gives way as stiles breaks the line. you cross immediately and kneel beside the injured boy, checking the scent of his blood for wolfsbane.

“are you scott’s beta?” he asks.

“technically.” you ease his arm away from his ribs and find bruising but no obvious puncture. “i’m his friend first.”

his brow furrows. “that isn’t what i asked.”

“it’s the answer that matters,” you say. “i was part of scott’s pack before he bit me.”

“why did he bite you?” the girl asks.

stiles goes still near the doorway.

“because i was dying,” you say. “he saved my life. he never asked me to belong to him afterward.”

the boy looks unconvinced. “alphas don’t do that.”

“ours does,” you tell him.

stiles’s attention rests on you for another second before he turns back toward the passage. he raises the radio. “captives located. both alive, one possible rib fracture, no immediate life-threatening bleeding.”

“we’re less than three minutes from the junction,” scott answers. “send them toward us.”

you help the boy stand while stiles gives the girl his spare flashlight. he draws a quick version of the chalk mark on the back of her hand.

“follow these,” he tells her. “right at the first split, left at the second. if you reach a ladder, you’ve gone too far, but there should be a loud teenager yelling for you before that happens.”

“i can hear you,” liam says over the radio.

“see? loud teenager,” stiles says.

the captives disappear into the passage. you listen until their heartbeats begin moving steadily toward scott and liam. a third heartbeat sounds behind you, slower and stronger than the two fading down the passage. the alpha’s scent follows it a second later, familiar enough to turn your stomach. stiles reads the change in your face and turns, but the alpha reaches him first.

you catch the alpha around the middle before its claws reach stiles’s throat. the impact carries both of you through the chamber and into the opposite wall. concrete cracks beneath its shoulder. red eyes flare inches from yours.

“scott’s little stray,” the alpha says.

you drive your forearm beneath its jaw. “i’m not anyone’s stray.”

the alpha throws you hard enough that the room turns sideways. your back hits the floor, but you roll before its claws come down. stiles moves along the edge of the chamber, one hand already inside the bag of mountain ash.

“behind you,” he warns.

you duck. the alpha’s claws pass above your head, and you drive it toward the narrower passage. stiles scatters a line of ash across the concrete the moment you clear it. blue light erupts when the alpha attempts to follow.

“still feeling superior about the human thing?” he asks, breathing hard.

the alpha snarls. instead of striking the barrier again, it catches the red wheel mounted beside an old floodgate. rust screams as supernatural strength forces the mechanism to turn.

“stiles,” you say.

“yeah, i see it,” stiles says.

water explodes through the adjoining channel. the mountain ash vanishes beneath the first surge, and the alpha retreats through a service passage before either of you can reach it. scott shouts something through the radio, but the transmission fractures beneath the roar.

the support above you groans. you look up as a crack races across the concrete ceiling, following the damage left by the fight. stiles shoves you from the side.

you land inside the reinforced doorway as the tunnel comes down behind him. dust and water fill your mouth. the radio strikes the wall and disappears beneath falling concrete, and the sound that follows doesn’t belong to the collapse.

it belongs to stiles.

you turn. a steel brace lies across his lower leg. for a second, nothing moves except the water coursing around him. then blood reaches you, hot metal beneath the dust and rain, so immediate that your stomach turns before you see the dark stain spreading through his jeans.

“stiles,” you breathe.

he braces both hands against the floor and tries to pull himself backward. his face loses color before he moves an inch.

“don’t,” you say, dropping beside him. “don’t move.”

“wasn’t successful enough to count as moving.” his voice shakes. “so, good news there.”

you put both hands beneath the brace and lift. metal shifts. the ceiling answers with a deep, splintering crack, showering both of you with debris.

“stop.” stiles catches your wrist. “put it down.”

“i can move it,” you insist.

“and then the ceiling moves with it.” his fingers tighten despite the tremor running through them. “put it down. slowly.”

you lower the brace. the weight settles again, and stiles bites down on a sound that still escapes through his teeth.

the smell of his blood strengthens. you tear open the left pocket of his backpack, spilling gauze, tape, antiseptic, a splint, and a tourniquet into the shallow water around your knees.

“tell me what to do,” you say.

stiles looks toward his leg. a torn edge of steel has gone through his jeans along the outer calf, and the weight above it blocks most of the wound. blood pulses steadily around the metal.

“tourniquet,” he says. “above the knee.”

you grab it. your fingers slip against the buckle once, then again. the claws come without permission, catching in the strap.

“hey.” stiles reaches toward you but can’t bridge the distance between you. “look at me.”

“i’m trying,” you say.

“i know. i need your hands, okay?” stiles says. “not the claws. your hands.”

you close your eyes. the blood, the water, the damaged concrete, and the distant heartbeats beyond the collapse all remain. you find yourself beneath them. when you open your eyes again, your fingers are human.

you slide the tourniquet high around his thigh.

“through the buckle,” stiles instructs. his words come too quickly, forced out around the pain. “pull it tight before you turn the rod. tight means tight, not emotionally considerate.”

you pull. his head strikes the wall behind him, and a broken cry tears out of his throat. his heartbeat jumps so violently that everything inside you lurches with it.

“sorry.” your vision blurs. “i’m sorry.”

“don’t be.” his eyes remain closed. “keep going.”

you twist the rod until the bleeding slows, then secure it the way he tells you. when you look up, his eyes are still closed. “stiles,” you say again, but he doesn’t answer.

you catch his face between your hands. “stiles, open your eyes.”

his heartbeat continues, fast and uneven. you say his name again, louder, and his eyelids finally lift.

“i’m here,” he murmurs.

“stay here,” you plead.

his mouth moves faintly. “that’s generally the problem.”

the laugh that escapes you breaks in the middle and becomes something else. stiles sees it. the little trace of humor disappears from his expression.

water rises to cover your hands braced on the ground.

—

the radio is useless. yours hisses with static, and stiles’s lies somewhere beneath the collapse. you try the brace again from another angle, using a length of pipe as a lever, but the concrete beneath stiles’s leg fractures before the beam rises far enough to matter. rope slips along the wet steel, and the bolt cutters leave a shallow silver mark and nothing more.

stiles helps until pain and blood loss make his directions slower. he studies the ceiling, the water, and the narrow recess behind you, calculating even while his body begins failing him. you hear the change first: his pulse remains quick, but it no longer strikes with the same force. each beat seems to recede farther inside him. his skin has gone grey beneath the grime, and the shivering he tries to hide has spread into his shoulders.

“scott’s still looking for us,” you say.

stiles glances toward the wall as though he might see through it. “he can’t get through that collapse before the lower channel fills.”

“he’ll find another way,” you insist.

“yeah.” stiles looks past you. “and so will you.”

you follow his attention toward a rectangular opening above the reinforced recess. an old iron ladder disappears into darkness.

“maintenance shaft,” he says. “it should connect to the upper western branch.”

relief hits so hard that your hands begin moving before thought catches up. “okay. i can get scott and come back.”

“you won’t have time to come back,” stiles says, and your hands stop.

stiles looks down at the water. it has reached his thighs now, pulling diluted red around the support in thin, vanishing ribbons.

“you climb until the first landing,” he continues. his voice has changed, every word too careful. “there should be two access routes. take the higher one, even if the lower one looks clearer. the lower one connects back to the spillway.”

“stop,” you say.

“the higher route comes out near the service road. lydia and my dad will be—” stiles continues.

“stiles, stop.” your voice breaks across his name.

he reaches into his jacket. the movement costs him; his breath catches, and his hand comes out with the jeep keys clenched between his fingers.

you stare at them. “absolutely not,” you say.

“you’ll need a way home,” stiles replies.

“you’re driving me,” you tell him.

“probably not for a while.” he tries to make the words lighter and fails. “even in the optimistic version, i think my clutch leg is currently experiencing some setbacks.”

you close his hand around his keys. “don’t do that,” you say.

stiles looks at you.

“don’t hand me your keys. don’t tell me which way to go. don’t start talking about your dad.” your breath catches hard enough to hurt. “you’re not already gone.”

“i know,” stiles says.

“then stop acting like it,” you snap.

his heartbeat betrays the calmness in his face. it races beneath his ribs, frightened and weakening, while he watches you as though memorizing something.

“the water is still rising,” he says. “the tourniquet slowed it down, but i can feel—”

“i don’t care what you can feel,” you interrupt.

“you should,” stiles says.

“i can smell how much blood you’re losing.” your voice rises as your control thins. “i can hear your pulse getting weaker every time you stop to explain how i’m supposed to leave you.”

your eyes burn. the tunnel sharpens into unnatural detail, cracks appearing in the concrete while your claws slide free again.

stiles’s expression changes. “find my heartbeat.”

“i can hear it,” you tell him.

“good. focus on it,” stiles says.

“it’s getting quieter,” you answer.

his mouth closes.

“it’s getting quieter, stiles.” you kneel in the water beside him, hands curling uselessly against your chest so you don’t cut him. “how am i supposed to use that when all it tells me is that you’re dying?”

fear finally breaks through his composure. his eyes shine, and he looks away before you can see more.

“you know what i mean,” he says. “think about my voice. think about the jeep, or my dad’s kitchen, or anything that gets you steady enough to climb out of here.”

“i am steady enough,” you insist.

“your eyes are yellow,” stiles says.

“because i am watching you bleed to death,” you tell him.

another tremor passes through the ceiling. stiles looks upward, then back toward the shaft.

“scott will find you,” he says. “lydia will already have every exit mapped. liam won’t let you out of his sight for six months, and malia will pretend she isn’t doing the same thing while following you everywhere.”

“stop handing me to them like you aren’t part of this pack,” you say.

“they’ll take care of you,” stiles insists.

“they need you,” you answer.

“they need you more,” he says.

“you don’t get to decide that.” you press the heels of your hands against your eyes, trying to clear the tears before they fall. “scott trusts your plans more than anyone’s. lydia calls you when something doesn’t make sense. liam copies everything you do even when he swears he doesn’t, and malia threatened three separate people for insulting you last week.”

“four,” stiles says faintly.

“not helping,” you tell him.

“sorry,” stiles murmurs.

“your dad needs you.” the words split open on the way out. “i need you.”

stiles’s face crumples for only a second before he forces it still. “that’s why you have to go.”

“no,” you say.

“you can survive this,” stiles insists.

“so can you,” you answer.

“we don’t know that,” he says.

“we don’t know that you can’t.” you reach beneath the support again, and the ceiling groans before you apply any strength. “i am not staying so we can die together. i am staying because you are alive and i can still help you.”

“there isn’t enough time,” stiles says.

“then stop wasting it trying to make me leave,” you reply.

stiles closes his eyes. a tear slips from beneath one and disappears into the rainwater on his face.

“when it was me,” you say, quieter now, “you held me.”

his jaw tightens.

“you had my blood all over you, and you kept begging me to stay awake. you didn’t walk away because you thought scott might not save me,” you remind him.

“scott was there,” stiles says.

“and i’m here,” you answer.

“you don’t know how to move the beam,” he says.

“neither do you yet,” you tell him.

stiles lets out a shaking breath. “i can’t feel my leg. i can barely think, and the water is going to reach the lower shaft in minutes.” his voice begins breaking apart despite his effort to keep it level. “i don’t know how to get out. i only know that you still can.”

“i’m not going,” you repeat.

stiles’s fingers curl against the wet concrete. “please.”

you shake your head. “no.”

“please don’t make me watch you die too,” he begs.

“then help me,” you plead.

“i can’t.” his voice nearly disappears.

“why are you giving up?” you demand.

“because i love you.”

the words are almost lost beneath the water.

stiles looks at you, and every fragile wall he has kept upright disappears from his face. his heartbeat stumbles before speeding again, too weak for how hard it tries.

“i love you,” he repeats. “i have for so long that i don’t know when it became more than friendship, or if that’s even the right way to say it, because you’re still my best friend. you’re just—you’re everything else too.” his breath catches, and he presses one shaking hand against his eyes. “i didn’t tell you because being your anchor didn’t mean you felt the same way. it meant you trusted me. i couldn’t risk making that weird or changing the one thing that helped you when you needed it.”

you can’t seem to breathe. “and now you’re telling me?” you ask.

“because i need you to understand.” his hand falls. “if you stay, the last thing i do is watch the person i love die because of me. i can’t do that. i can’t.”

the sob rises before you can stop it. you move closer, catching his face between hands still stained with his blood.

“you don’t get to tell me that like it’s a goodbye,” you say.

“i’m sorry,” stiles whispers.

“no.” your forehead presses against his. stiles’s breath warms your mouth, uneven and shallow. “you don’t get to be sorry now. you don’t get to give me everything i’ve wanted because you think neither of us will have to live with it.”

his eyes search yours. “what?”

“i love you too.” your voice collapses completely. “i loved you before scott bit me. i loved you when i was human, and i loved you when i stepped between you and that alpha because the idea of him hurting you was worse than anything he could do to me.”

a broken sob tears out of stiles.

“you didn’t become my anchor and make me love you,” you continue. “you’re my anchor because i already knew who you were to me. i come back to myself when i think about you because you’re part of every version of myself i want to keep.”

his fingers close around your wrist. “then you understand why i need you to live.”

“i am trying to,” you say.

“you can climb out,” he reminds you.

“and you are still breathing.” you guide his hand over your chest, pressing his palm against the frantic beat beneath your ribs. “this is me choosing. not the wolf. not the pack. me. i am not leaving while there is something i can still do.”

stiles shakes his head, tears tracking silently across his face. “i’m sorry i waited.”

“tell me tomorrow.”

he goes still.

“tell me when we’re out of here and it isn’t the last thing you think you’ll ever say to me,” you plead. “tell me every day after that if you want, but don’t say it like a goodbye.”

“there might not be a tomorrow,” stiles whispers.

“then help me make one,” you answer.

for several seconds, stiles only looks at you. water moves around both of you. the tunnel creaks. his pulse remains faint beneath it all, but it is there.

you wipe your face with the back of one wrist. “look again.”

stiles turns toward the damaged recess. his gaze moves across the support, the ceiling, and the pipes running above the shaft. it passes over an iron wheel partly submerged against the far wall, then returns.

“wait,” stiles says.

you follow his attention.

stiles leans as far as the trapped leg allows. “the debris screen. the old plans showed a manual lift, but i thought it was in the next channel.”

“can it move the beam?” you ask.

“not straight up.” thought returns to his face in fragments. “straight up brings the ceiling with it, but if we pull from the bottom end, we don’t need to lift the whole thing. we pivot it.”

you are already reaching for the cable.

“slowly,” stiles warns. “there should be a release beside the wheel.”

your hand finds a rusted lever beneath the water. it refuses to move until you wrap both hands around it and apply enough strength to bend the metal. the cable loosens with a shriek. stiles talks you through dragging it around the lower end of the brace. his instructions begin clearly, then falter as you fasten the hook.

“through the second opening,” he mutters. “not the first… the angle… it needs to—”

his voice disappears. you look back and find his eyes closed.

“stiles,” you say. he doesn’t answer.

you cross the water and touch his face. “stiles, open your eyes.”

his pulse flutters beneath the skin of his throat. you say his name again, louder, and his lashes finally move.

“still here,” he whispers.

“keep talking,” you demand.

“about what?” he breathes.

“anything,” you say.

his mouth shifts weakly. “dangerous request.”

“i mean it,” you repeat when his eyes begin closing again.

“second opening,” he says after a breath. “then pull the cable across the right side, or the brace twists toward you.”

you return to the winch. the mechanism barely moves when you turn it. rust flakes into the water, and the handle cuts into your palm before your skin heals around the injury.

“again,” stiles says.

you force it another quarter turn, and the cable tightens. the lower end of the brace rises less than an inch, but the ceiling remains in place.

“it’s working,” you say.

“don’t sound surprised.” stiles’s words slur faintly. “damaging to my reputation.”

you turn the winch again, muscles burning through your shoulders. the cable strains, individual wires beginning to snap, but the gap beneath the brace widens.

“now,” stiles says.

you leave the handle locked and reach for him. the moment you pull his leg free, fresh blood wells through the torn fabric before the tourniquet checks it.

stiles screams once, then goes frighteningly limp.

the cable snaps. you drag him against your chest as the support crashes down. concrete folds into the space where both of you were sitting, and water surges through the new opening.

there is no time to check anything except the heartbeat still trembling inside him. you lift him.

—

the ladder is slick beneath your hands.

you wind the remaining rope around stiles’s torso and yours, bracing his injured leg carefully along your hip so it doesn’t hang. with both hands free, you use your claws to find purchase in the concrete. his head rests against your shoulder, and his blood runs warm along your side before the cold water washes it away.

“stiles.” you pull both of you onto the first landing. “talk to me.”

he inhales, but no answer follows.

“tell me why the parking lot outside the sheriff’s station is an architectural hate crime,” you say.

his head shifts weakly. “poorly designed traffic flow.”

“what else?” you prompt.

“insufficient spaces,” stiles murmurs.

“keep going,” you tell him.

“hostile landscaping,” he whispers.

you climb. his answers become quieter until only his breath remains against your neck.

the upper passage ends beneath a rusted grate. you brace stiles against the wall and strike it with one shoulder. it moves less than an inch.

“scott!” you shout, but the tunnel throws your voice back at you. 

you draw enough breath to howl. the sound tears through the shaft and disappears into the storm. for one unbearable second, nothing answers.

then scott howls back.

the grate jerks above you. malia’s claws appear between its bars, followed by scott’s hands. metal bends upward while liam drops to his knees beside the opening.

“i see them,” he shouts. “they’re here.”

the pack reaches down, and you pass stiles up first.

liam supports the injured leg while scott takes stiles beneath the shoulders. black veins spread through scott’s hand the moment he touches him, drawing away enough pain that stiles’s face briefly loosens. lydia is already speaking to the dispatcher, giving the paramedics exact directions along the service road.

malia catches your forearm and pulls you into the rain.

“he’s bleeding,” you say.

“i know.” scott lowers stiles onto a blanket lydia spreads across the ground. “keep pressure here, liam.”

“his pulse is weak,” you say, your voice breaking.

“i know.” scott’s voice stays calm, but his eyes meet yours. “they’re almost here.”

you kneel beside stiles. his face looks bloodless beneath the rain. you press two fingers against his throat even though you don’t need touch to find the faint rhythm.

“stay with me,” you whisper.

sirens cut through the storm.

the sheriff reaches you before the ambulance does. he slips in the mud, catches himself against lydia’s shoulder, and stops when he sees the blood covering your clothes.

“he’s alive,” you say immediately despite your voice barely working. “he’s alive, but his leg—”

the sheriff drops beside his son. one shaking hand touches stiles’s hair before the paramedics arrive and force everyone backward.

you move with the stretcher until a paramedic puts an arm across your path.

“we need room,” the paramedic says.

“i can hear his heart,” you whisper.

“and they need to reach it,” lydia says beside you.

her hand closes around yours. liam stands on your other side wearing stiles’s blood across both palms. malia remains behind you, close enough that her shoulder presses into your back. scott follows the stretcher to the ambulance and gives the paramedics everything he knows about the tourniquet and the time of injury.

the pack surrounds you while the doors close. letting trained hands take stiles isn’t leaving him. you repeat that until the ambulance disappears through the rain.

—

the surgeon uses the words open fracture, vascular damage, and significant blood loss. you understand each one separately. together, they become a language your mind refuses to hold.

“we’ve restored circulation,” she tells the sheriff. “the fracture is stabilized, and we expect him to keep the leg. the next several hours are important, but he’s stable.”

stable. the word moves through the waiting room like someone opening a window. scott’s shoulders drop. liam sits heavily in the nearest chair and covers his face. malia stops pacing for the first time in nearly three hours, and lydia’s fingers tighten around yours.

the sheriff nods several times before his voice works. “can i see him?”

“as soon as he’s settled.” the surgeon looks toward the rest of you. “one person at a time for now.”

no one argues when the sheriff goes first.

the waiting room grows quiet after he leaves. the television mounted near the ceiling plays a weather report with captions but no sound. your clean clothes feel wrong against your skin, borrowed hospital scrubs lydia found after she stood beside you in a bathroom and washed stiles’s blood from between your fingers.

liam has refused to change. a dark smear remains near his cuff.

“you should eat,” scott says.

you look at the vending-machine crackers he places beside you. “you sound like deaton.”

“i’m choosing to take that as a compliment.” he sits on your other side, leaving enough space that your shoulders barely touch. “i’m sorry.”

“for what?” you ask.

“i sent you into the western tunnel,” scott says.

“you trusted us with the western tunnel.” you turn toward him. “don’t turn that into a mistake because somebody hurt stiles.”

scott looks down at the hand he used to take stiles’s pain. his fingers flex once before curling into his palm. “he pushed you out of the way,” he says.

“i did the same thing before you bit me,” you reply.

“that doesn’t make either of you less stupid,” scott says.

“no.” your mouth moves despite everything. “it probably makes us equally stupid.”

“finally,” lydia murmurs.

you look toward her.

she doesn’t smile, but something gentler settles into her face. “you said it?”

heat rises beneath the exhaustion. “he was bleeding out.”

“that isn’t an answer,” lydia replies.

“yes.” you twist your hands together. “he said it first.”

liam lowers his hands, and malia stops beside his chair.

“about time,” she says.

“he thought he was dying,” you reply.

“he wasn’t wrong,” liam mutters. scott gives him a look. “he’s stable,” liam adds quickly.

the sheriff returns before anyone can ask more. his eyes are red, but his expression has steadied.

“he’s still asleep,” he tells you. “but you can sit with him.”

you stand. the sheriff catches your hand as you pass.

“he tried to give me a message for you,” you say.

pain moves across his face.

“i didn’t take it.” your fingers tighten around his. “he can tell you himself.”

the sheriff looks at you for a long moment before pulling you into his arms. he holds you hard enough that your feet nearly leave the floor.

“good,” he whispers.

—

stiles’s heartbeat sounds different through the machines.

the monitor translates every beat into a soft electronic note. his injured leg is elevated beneath blankets, surrounded by dressings and a rigid brace. an iv disappears beneath the tape across his hand, and the color hasn’t fully returned to his face.

you sit beside him and wrap your fingers carefully around the hand without the iv.

“stay with me,” you murmur.

the words are the same ones he used after scott bit you. stiles had sat beside deaton’s table with your blood drying across his shirt and repeated them until you opened your eyes. you don’t know whether he can hear you now, but that never stopped him.

you talk.

you tell him malia intercepted the alpha at the northern exit exactly where lydia predicted he would run. scott and liam held him long enough for lydia to close a circle of mountain ash, and deaton now has him contained at the animal clinic. you tell him both captives are safe, the boy has two cracked ribs, and liam has checked on them four times. you tell him lydia confiscated his laptop because rainwater got inside it, malia wants credit for opening the grate, and scott has already begun blaming himself for everything.

“so, normal night,” you say.

his heartbeat continues beneath the monitor. you lower your head beside his hand and close your eyes.

—

morning reaches the hospital in narrow bands of light across the floor.

you wake when stiles’s heartbeat changes. the monitor quickens before his fingers move inside yours. you sit upright, every trace of sleep disappearing as his eyelids open.

stiles stares at the ceiling. his brow furrows, then his gaze finds you.

“hey,” you whisper.

his mouth is dry enough that the first attempt at speaking fails. you reach for the cup beside his bed and guide the straw toward him. stiles drinks, eyes never leaving your face.

“did you get out in time?” he asks.

the question hurts in a place nothing else reaches. “we both did.”

his eyes close briefly. “okay.”

you set the cup down. “your leg required surgery. the doctor says you’ll keep it, but you’re going to be here for a while. then apparently you and physical therapy are going to become very close.”

“already hate them,” stiles murmurs.

“you haven’t met them,” you point out.

“i know enough,” he says.

his voice remains weak, but it sounds like him. you press your lips together while your eyes begin burning again.

stiles watches you. memory gradually returns to his expression, followed by embarrassment and something more fragile.

“about what i said—” stiles begins.

“it’s tomorrow,” you interrupt, keeping your fingers around his. “you told me because you thought you were dying. i told you to tell me tomorrow instead.”

stiles glances toward the light reaching through the blinds. when he looks back, his eyes are wet.

“i love you,” he says.

there is no rushing water beneath the words. no collapsing tunnel, no blood spreading through the water, and no route he is trying to make you take without him. his pulse speeds beneath the monitor, but it remains steady.

you lift his hand and press your mouth against his knuckles. “i love you too.”

stiles exhales as though he has been holding the breath since the tunnel. “okay.”

“okay?” you repeat.

“i had more prepared, but most of it was apparently lost with several units of my blood,” he admits.

you laugh, and the sound breaks into tears before it fully leaves you. stiles lifts his hand toward your face. the movement is clumsy, so you meet him halfway and press his palm against your cheek.

“you meant it?” he asks.

“all of it,” you say.

“before the bite?” he asks.

you nod. “do you remember when the jeep broke down outside my house and we sat there for an hour waiting for your dad?”

“which time?” stiles asks.

“the time you brought cold fries,” you say.

“that doesn’t narrow it down as much as it should,” he admits.

“you kept apologizing because it was raining and i was stuck in the jeep with you.” your thumb moves over the back of his hand. “i remember hoping your dad would take longer.”

stiles looks at you quietly.

“that was before the alpha,” you continue. “before scott bit me, before i could hear your heartbeat from across a room. you were already the person i wanted beside me when nothing was happening.”

his throat moves. “mine was research night.”

“which one?” you ask.

“fair.” his mouth curves faintly. “the one where you fell asleep on my shoulder while we were trying to identify the thing eating pets near the preserve.”

“the wendigo?” you guess.

“turned out to be a mountain lion,” stiles reminds you.

“right,” you murmur.

“you slept for almost two hours. my arm went completely numb, and i had to pee for most of it, but i didn’t move because you looked comfortable,” he says.

you stare at him. “that’s when you realized you loved me?”

“maybe not the most glamorous origin story,” stiles admits.

“no, it’s very you,” you tell him.

his thumb brushes beneath your eye. “being your anchor never made me think you loved me.”

“i know,” you say.

“i just thought it meant you trusted me,” stiles continues.

“i do.” you turn your face into his palm. “you remind me who i am when everything gets too loud. that doesn’t give you control over me, and it doesn’t make you responsible for keeping me human.”

“i know that too,” he says.

“do you?” you ask.

stiles hesitates. “intellectually.”

“we’ll work on the rest,” you promise.

“tomorrow?” he asks.

“every day after that, if you want,” you say.

his expression softens. you rise carefully and lean over the bed, giving him enough time to turn away.

stiles closes the distance instead.

the kiss is gentle, his mouth dry and his hand still trembling slightly against your face. nothing about it resembles the frantic way you imagined kissing him inside the tunnel. there is no desperation now, only the quiet certainty of having time.

when you pull back, stiles keeps his forehead against yours. “does this mean we’re dating?” he murmurs.

“you almost died, and that’s your question?” you ask.

“my first question was whether you got out. this is at least the fourth,” stiles says.

“then yes,” you tell him. his heartbeat skips, and you smile. “i heard that.”

“that’s an invasion of privacy,” stiles murmurs.

“you’ll adjust,” you promise.

the door opens before he can answer. liam enters carrying a bag of vending-machine food, followed by scott, lydia, malia, and the sheriff. they stop when they see how close you are.

lydia looks unsurprised, and malia looks relieved. liam’s face breaks into an enormous grin before scott elbows him.

the sheriff closes his eyes. “i’m going to need coffee.”

stiles settles back against the pillow. “morning to you too.”

scott approaches the bed, and whatever he planned to say disappears. he bends carefully over the rails and hugs stiles without touching the injured leg.

stiles’s eyes close, and one hand grips the back of scott’s jacket. the rest of the pack gathers around them.

—

six weeks later, the stilinski living room contains too many people and nowhere near enough seating.

stiles occupies most of the couch because his braced leg has to remain elevated. you sit tucked against his uninjured side while liam takes the floor, malia claims the armchair, and scott brings another bowl of popcorn from the kitchen. lydia rearranges the medication bottles on the coffee table into a system stiles insists he already understands.

“you took the evening dose twice on tuesday,” she says.

“allegedly,” stiles says.

“i counted them,” lydia replies.

“you’re paranoid,” stiles mutters.

“take them wrong again and i’ll break the other leg,” malia says.

stiles looks toward you. “do you hear this? open threats in my own home.”

“she’s part of the pack,” you remind him. “you’re supposed to appreciate her concern.”

“her concern has a body count,” stiles says.

malia takes a handful of popcorn. “not recently.”

the sheriff turns up the television from the kitchen rather than becoming involved. scott drops onto the floor beside liam, and lydia finally sits near malia, though she keeps the medication within reach. the room fills with overlapping conversation before the movie reaches its opening credits.

stiles’s arm settles around you. his heartbeat moves steadily beneath your ear, no longer obscured by water or thinning with every second.

“i love you,” he murmurs against your hair.

you tilt your head. “you already told me this morning.”

“and at lunch,” stiles adds.

“and when i picked you up from physical therapy,” you remind him.

“i’m thorough.” his fingers move slowly along your arm. “also, you said every day after that. there were no stated limits on frequency.”

you smile and press a kiss against his chest, directly over the familiar rhythm beneath it.

“i love you too,” you tell him.

around you, the pack argues about the movie, the popcorn, and whether stiles is allowed to control the remote while on pain medication. scott laughs when liam tries to steal it. lydia wins the argument without raising her voice, and malia takes the last handful of popcorn while everyone is distracted.

tomorrow keeps arriving like this—not quietly, never predictably, but with stiles beside you and the rest of your family close enough to hear. and every time it does, he tells you again.