Chapter Text
Ten years later.
"You are a smooth-talking, duplicitous butt-kisser.” Scott's voice is wrapped in a laugh as it comes through the tiny Bluetooth attached to Stiles's ear. “How did you get us that contract?”
“Because I'm good, and I have awesome ideas,” Stiles says with playful smugness. He pushes up out of the office chair and paces around his tiny home office. “And I'm a smooth-talking, duplicitous butt-kisser.” They share a laugh. “Oh! Speaking of awesome, I've been thinking of some names for the Bat King.”
He comes to a stop in front of their work wall, which looks a lot like his detective murder wall used to look back in the day. Except this is all video game ideas and absolutely no murder or real monsters. All fake monsters. He hopes.
“I figured we could call it something really hardcore, like Blood Wing or Death From Above or, like... Fuck Your Face, Motherfucker,” he makes this pathetic growling sound and grabs the back of his chair, shaking it and baring his teeth like he's assaulting prey.
“You know, man, I have a feeling they're not going to let us get away with naming a huge animated video game bat Fuck Your Face, Motherfucker,” Scott laughs into his ear.
“They will if it's rated M for Mature,” Stiles huffs, pulling a face at his empty office like Scott's right there with him, but no. Stiles and Lydia live in San Francisco and Scott still lives in Beacon Hills, and he typically only makes it out on the weekends that Allison and Isaac take the kids. Stiles is currently hunkered down in the small office just off of his living room, with the door shut tight and the blinds closed. He claims he works better when he can forget that he's still living in suburbia.
Manic Slick Entertainment is the name of the indie video game company Stiles and Scott started their junior year of college. It's a sort of anagram of their last names, and they always meant to change it if anything ever came of it, but it's too late now. Not that they're big developers or anything, but their first release already did well enough with the PC-only crowd that changing their brand now would only set them back.
Their first game was called Alpha Moon. Predictably, it's a dark, urban werewolf RPG. In a world with so many fantasy games, it actually sold like crazy with the people looking for something new and gritty. They're currently developing a sequel with a lot of sewer crawls and vampires added to the mix. Stiles tells everyone that it's like Grand Theft Auto meets Underworld. Except you don't actually steal cars.
“You coming out this weekend?” Stiles asks, bringing his thumbnail up to give it a good chew as his eyes dart around their work board. They do a lot of work over the phone and Skype, but most of their ideas solidify during long weekends filled with coffee, junk food, and 'other'-supplemented thirty-six-hour testing benders. Scott's stamina is just as amazing and werewolfy as it's ever been, and Stiles just uses magic to keep himself awake.
Lydia hates it. She's certain both of them are just going to drop dead one day. She also lectures them on being bad influences on Dee. Stiles often has to gently remind her that Dee is only four and has no idea what daddy and uncle Scott are doing in daddy's grown-up office that she's not allowed to go in.
“I'm packing right now,” Scott says, and Stiles can hear him shuffling around. Probably just shoving random clothes into a bag, which is their equivalent of packing. “Ally and Isaac have the kids this week, and Kira's going to visit with her parents, so it's no problem to get away.”
“Cool, man.” Stiles grabs his jacket and messenger bag, because while he's twenty-seven years old, no one will ever be able to accuse Stiles Stilinski of being a boring, briefcase-owning grown-up. “Okay, I'm taking off. I need to go pick Dee up from school. They have a half day today.”
Scott groans. “Those are the worst.”
“Right?” Stiles agrees, walking out the door. “So, I'll bring her home, make her lunch, and then call the sitter. Give me a ring when you're on your way. I'll meet you at the train station.”
“You got it, man.”
For the first few years after Derek and Cora left, Stiles has nightmares. They bring his insomnia back in full force. They try holistic treatments, pharmaceuticals, sleep studies, meditation, and eventually magic. Lydia knows it's just stress and guilt. The loss of love. That pit in his chest where darkness lies.
It's not until Dee is born that Stiles is really, truly happy again. They name her Claudia Heather, in honor of two of Stiles's favorite women. They call her Dee because she knows it's hard for Stiles to say his mom's name.
Lydia's life is nothing like she expected it would be. But suffice to say, it's absolutely everything she could have asked for.
They don't talk about Derek anymore. They lost communication with him several years ago, but Scott says he's pretty sure the Hales are doing alright. The Northern California packs get together every other year to discuss territories and boundary lines, and sometimes news of the Hales floats through.
Lydia's recently started teaching theoretical physics to advanced high schoolers, and once she finishes her doctorate, she plans on securing a professorship at a university. She won't accept anything less. Her daughter is four years old and beautiful. Smart as hell, too, just like she knew any child she and Stiles had would be. She wants their family to be exceptional, because they're all exceptional people.
Stiles and Lydia aren't married yet. They're not in any rush. He doesn't want to tie them up together financially until his career is more stable, and she respects and appreciates that. They're both independent people and this is 2021. They're happy, and Dee is perfectly well taken care of, and that's all that matters.
This life was hard for Stiles at first, but Lydia knows he's happy now. She made sure they would be. Lydia Martin refuses to be anyone's consolation prize. So it's really an understatement to say that she's shocked at the phone call she receives one chilly October afternoon.
“Physics department,” she chirps into the receiver of her desk phone. She doesn't bother checking the line because it's a work phone. She rarely recognizes the numbers. “This is–”
“Lydia,” comes a voice she swears she recognizes, but she just can't place it.
“Yes?” she says, frowning softly. “Who is this?”
“It's Derek.”
Lydia's stomach lurches. Her heart starts pounding so hard she's sure Derek can hear it over the phone.
“Lydia, where's Stiles?” he asks quickly. No greetings, nothing. Nothing after ten years but a frantic edge to his voice. It immediately has Lydia nervous and scared, because that's what Derek Hale always brings to the table; nervous and scared.
“What do you mean, 'where's Stiles's?” she asks, turning in her desk chair just enough to glance outside her window, to see the traffic moving outside. Her eyes dart to the clock on the wall, to her desk calendar, to the silly plastic plant Stiles had gotten her when she'd gotten the job. “He's at home with our daughter. Derek, what are you–”
“He's not here,” he cuts her off. Lydia's head is spinning. “I got your address from Scott. I stopped by,” he sighs heavily. She can picture him closing his eyes and shaking his head, the way he does when he feels he's make a mistake. “Your open-door policy. I was going to see...” she hears him stop, sigh, and imagines he's either rubbing the bridge of his nose or rolling his eyes at the ceiling. “But he's not here. The air felt weird and something smelled off. I tried the door and it wasn't locked. I found your daughter alone in her room, asleep.”
“If this is a joke, it is not funny, Derek Hale,” Lydia hisses into the phone. She hates the quaver in her voice and the way the cheap plastic receiver creaks in protest at her grip. She hates that the first time she hears from Derek in decade, it's this. She hates that she has no idea what's going on, and that her head is pounding and she feels like she's going to throw up.
“I would never joke about something like this, Lydia,” Derek says, his voice low. Eerily calm.
She presses a hand to her mouth to muffle the panicked sound. Her heart is clogging her throat and making her breathing shallow, stilted. She starts to pace. She doesn't know what to do.
“I don't smell anyone else,” Derek says. “There's no stress, no fear, nothing. I know he wasn't taken. He must of left of his own volition.” She nods, eyes squeezed shut, treating his voice like an anchor.
The sudden chime on her cell phone surprises her so much it has her nearly crawling out of her own skin. Her home screen lights up to reveal a text from Scott. ‹At train station. Stiles no show. Texted him for 10mins but nothing. Taking cab to your place. Everything okay? See u soon.›
“He didn't pick up Scott,” she whispers. “He's not answering Scott's texts.”
“Lydia...” Derek says. Her attention is immediately his again, because the trepidation in his voice hits her right in the maternal instincts. “Your daughter won't wake up.”
“What?”
“I can't get her to wake up. She's breathing steady, pulse is fine, and nothing smells off, but she's just not waking up.”
“Is she–” Lydia starts, quickly turning off her work station and grabbing her purse. “Damnit. Check her manipura. Tell me if there's anything there.”
“Her what?”
“Her bellybutton,” she says in a rush as she shoulders on her coat. “Is there anything drawn there?”
“Yeah. Just one straight line.”
“Vertical or horizontal?”
“Vertical.”
“Isa,” Lydia sighs heavily. “The rune for cessation. He blocked her manipura. He put a fucking sleep spell on her.”
“Why would he–”
“Just stay there,” Lydia says in a rush of breath. “I'm on my way. So is Scott. If he gets there first, fill him in.”
She hangs up without waiting for a reply, red hair flying out behind her as she runs for the main office to clock out.
Derek, Cora, and Peter settled in Los Angeles permanently several years ago. Peter bolsters their ranks to a good dozen strong, but he never makes a new wolf without getting the approval of his family. It's rocky at first, because trust is always an issue between the three of them, but after a good three years, Derek finally relaxes.
Derek lets people in again, Cora laughs with her whole being, and Peter smiles sincerely and it shows in his eyes. They're a family again. They seem to heal.
No one ever talks about the demon stuff or about the nature of Peter's alpha. It's a bad, dark topic, just like the fire. Like Kate. Like all of the terrible things that had happened to them in Beacon Hills. For a long time none of them even talk about Beacon Hills at all. Derek forces all thoughts of the kids who'd saved him out of his head. He wants to be able to live again, and clinging to all of the things he's lost isn't the way that's was going to happen. That was one thing they taught him that he can hold on to.
It's not until about six weeks ago that Peter starts talking about them again. He encourages Derek to go back. To seek them out. Reestablish ties. He encourages Cora to visit J.J. and Kimana more often. To finish college.
If it hadn't been for Peter physically shoving Derek into his car, and then calling him every half an hour to make sure he's still driving, Derek would never have come back. He never would have made such a huge gesture. He never would have put himself out so far on the block, pretty much expecting to get his head chopped off.
Ten years is a long time. It's a lot of life to live in-between. He knows his chances are slim, but he still has to try. He doesn't have anything to lose, now.
Finding himself in the middle of a supernatural drama isn't exactly what he'd anticipated coming up here, but Derek can't help shaking his head at the irony. When all of them are together, it's like it sets off some ridiculous cosmic chain reaction and shit just starts happening.
He hears Lydia running up the walk, heels clacking and keys jangling. He saves her the trouble and opens the front door for her, and is rewarded with an armful of soft woman. A wave of nostalgia hits him like a truck. The way she feels, looks, but especially the way she smells. He's suddenly back in Beacon Hills ten years ago, and she's smiling her secret smile while moving her pieces into play.
The smell of her hair, the way her arms loop tight around his neck, and the feel of her heart pounding against his chest; it's like no time has passed at all. Only this time it's out of fear and not pleasure, which is the only reason he lets her go.
“Derek...” she gasps, her eyes red and watery as she blinks up at him. Her hands grab hold of his forearms and keep him close. He can see all of the questions behind her eyes, and her struggle with priorities. “Derek, the calendar...”
“What?”
“In Stiles's office,” she pushes past him and rushes through the house toward a small room off of the living room. He hadn't noticed it before, but now that he does, he can smell Stiles saturated in it. By the time Derek ghosts the doorway, Lydia's already bent over a desk calendar, her index finger pressed over today's date. It's circled in red.
“I was right,” she whispers, lifting wide eyes to Derek. “It's today.”
“Shit,” he breathes, taking a step back like he's been shoved. “How the hell could I forget?”
“Oh god, do you think it's too late?”
“I don't–”
“Knock, knock!” Scott's cheery voice cuts through the tension in the air as he walks inside. “Lyds, your door was wide open.” Derek's whips around and finds himself face to face with Scott. No, actually face to face. They both blink at each other, and Derek notes that Scott's gotten taller, broader. Probably a late growth spurt. His father is really tall, so it all makes sense.
“Derek,” Scott says, shock on his face. “Holy shit, man.” He grins and holds out his hand, grasping Derek's in a firm handshake. “It's been forever. How are you?”
“I've had better days,” Derek sighs, giving Scott's hand a squeeze before releasing it. The look in his eyes is apologetic, and Scott catches on quickly.
“Okay, what am I missing?” Scott asks, tensing a bit, going on alert. He glances inside Stiles's office at Lydia. She says nothing, just tears the large calender page off and holds it up, letting Scott see the red circle around today's date.
Scott inhales sharply and stiffens. Derek can feel the sudden protective anxiety rolling off of the alpha. Out of pure instinct he lifts a hand to Scott's shoulder, squeezing it.
“Alright,” Scott says, turning to look at Derek. “Where's Peter?”
“Cora,” Derek says into his phone as he steps outside. “Put Peter on.”
“I'm not home,” she replies, her phone connection staticy. “Why don't just call him?”
“He's not picking up,” Derek says tersely. “Where are you?”
“I'm in Vegas,” she laughs. As soon as she says that Derek swears he can hear the sounds of slot machines in the distance. “Peter shoved me on a flight like an hour after you left. Said J.J. called and wanted to do a long weekend thing. Personally, I just think he wanted us out of the house so he could have some skeevy old guy sex party, but whatever. Why? What's wrong?”
“Cora, it's today,” Derek says bluntly. He sits down on the top-most porch step, bringing a hand up to rub at his face.
“Huh? What's today?”
“Cora,” he snaps, balling his free hand into a fist and pounding it against his thigh. The brief surge of dull, aching pain is enough to distract him from destroying all of Lydia's nicely potted plants and flowers. For now.
“Jesus, Derek, what–” he hears her sudden sharp inhalation and lets his eyes fall shut, his lips pressing in a thin line. There are a few strange sounds on Cora's end, and Derek has to assume it's her checking the calendar on her phone. “Oh my god,” she whispers as she comes back on the line. Derek's heart aches. “That fucking bastard.”
“Stiles is already missing,” he says wearily.
“You think it got back into him?”
“Poetry," Derek growls. "Revenge”
“That's fucking – Fuck. I can't get back!” she practically yells. “My return flight isn't until Monday and I can't afford a new ticket!”
The click-clack of Lydia's shoes move past him. He glances up to see her standing out on the walk, having changed her clothes and packed a small bag. The sitter showed up about fifteen minutes ago, and is being paid generously for overnight.
“We're already on our way down,” Derek says as he pushes to his feet. “It's going to take hours.” He glances over his shoulder as Scott joins them on the porch.
“Fuck, fuck...” Her voice is weak and thin on the phone. “Derek, why would he send us away?” Derek turns away from Lydia and Scott, hating the thought of them seeing the pain on his face.
Derek is silent for a few beats as Scott's hand lands on his shoulder, silently guiding him down the steps and toward the car. He can feel a bit of a cold shiver around his heart, in his gut. He knows exactly why Peter did it. For the same reason Derek would have.
“He didn't want us to have to see it,” Derek says quietly, standing next to Lydia's car as she puts her things in the back. “He didn't want us to have to suffer with him. Because when fucking wolves know they're going to die, they separate from their packs,” he finishes through clenched teeth. “He did it so we weren't at risk.”
“What should I do?” she whispers.
“Try to change your flight if you can,” he says, frowning and spitefully stepping on a tiny yellow flower growing out from one of the cracks in the sidewalk. “If you can't, just cash in the ticket and get a bus to Beacon Hills as soon as possible.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you, too.”
Less than a minute later the three of them are on their way toward the freeway, breaking as many traffic laws as they dare.
There's traffic getting out of San Francisco, but once they get on the I-5 it's clear all the way to Los Angeles. It's 3:00am by the time they get to the Hale's home, but it's too late. Derek felt Peter die five hours ago.
The only thing they can do now is try and save Stiles.
Scott takes over driving shortly after Peter dies so Lydia can climb into the back with Derek. Funny how tragedy can erase all the years and all the wrongs. She curls up next to him and holds his hand tightly, her arm wrapped around his. She uses his shoulder as a pillow, but Derek hasn't looked away from the window once yet. He doesn't want anyone to see him cry for the loss of yet one more Hale. You'd think he'd be used to this by now.
The house is a modest three-bedroom split-level in Silverlake. They got it for a good price at an estate sale. There's gravel in the yard and a few palm trees. It's quintessential Southern California, even down to the little swimming pool in the back yard. The picture of ironic normalcy. It's not a pack house, it's just the Hale's house, but all pack is welcome any time they want.
When they pull up in the driveway and get out of the car, Derek is genuinely surprised that the house isn't swarming with confused, distraught betas. But one whiff of the air fills him with that kind of low, base dread one only gets when stepping into a graveyard late at night.
He shoots a look at Scott just as Lydia bursts into tears.
“Oh my god,” she gasps, a hand grasping at her stomach as she leans against Derek's shoulder. “This place feels like so much death. Like a slaughterhouse.”
The door is ajar as they walk inside. Scott leads the way, and Derek keeps an arm around Lydia's shoulders, supporting her. Giving her what little comfort he can provide as they walk into the massacre. Bodies of werewolves litter the floor, the furniture; every surface. Some have their throats torn out, some are missing their hearts, and some have just had their necks cleanly snapped. Derek chokes on his own bile, his eyes watering both at the stench and with rage as he counts the corpses. Twelve. A dozen. Their entire pack minus himself, Peter, and Cora.
It feels like a slaughterhouse because it is.
Lydia breaks down into choking, racking sobs and shoves at Derek. Shoves away from him, shaking her head, crying that she has to get out. She spins to run back toward the front door and runs right into Stiles.
“Took you long enough,” he drawls.
Lydia gasps and stumbles back into Derek's arms. He immediately shuffles her behind him and growls low as he watches Stiles's eyes fill and gloss over black.
“In case my subtle entendre was lost on you,” the demon continues, smiling as he gestures to the three assembled. “I meant that in both ways. It's nice to see you again, Derek.”
“Can't say the same,” Derek says lowly.
“We know why you're here,” Scott says, taking a step forward and putting himself slightly ahead of the other two, between the demon and Derek and Lydia. “Peter knew you were coming. You could have taken him and left before any of these betas showed up.”
“Well, yeah.” The demon lifts a hand and waves it noncommittally. “But reaping a demon wolf is thirsty business. I decided to treat myself.” He smiles and gestures to the empty beer bottle sitting on the table next to Peter's favorite armchair.
“Why did you kill them all?” Scott asks through his teeth, hands clenching into fists at his side.
“You know how stubborn werewolves can be,” the demon scoffs. “I tried explaining myself. It doesn't matter if you're justified, they just don't want to hear it. I had the right to defend myself. It's all perfectly valid, contract-wise.” He grins.
“You baited them,” Derek snarls, held back from attacking only by Lydia's hands clutching at his arm. “You got them to attack you so you'd have an excuse. You killed them because you wanted to.”
The demon's smile is sharp and slick. “Let's call it a little retroactive retribution,” he says dangerously. “You hurt my feelings. I was feeling a little vindictive.”
“You got what you came for,” Lydia says shakily, moving to stand beside Derek. “Why are you still here?”
“I got mostly everything I came for. There's just one more thing I really wanted.” He pulls a switchblade out of his back pocket. Derek recognizes it as belonging one of their youngest beta's. “My biggest gift to myself is going to be watching all of your faces when I do this.”
With a grin that's more a baring of teeth, the demon flicks open the blade and plunges it straight into Stiles's stomach. He wriggles it around for good measure before letting it fall to the floor, bloody. “Toodles,” he grunts, still grinning even as blood pushes out through Stiles's teeth and drips down over his chin.
“No!” Lydia screams, shoving off of Derek and stumbling toward Stiles. He drops to his knees and clutches his stomach, eyes widening with realization as he chokes on his own blood.
Time seems to slow for Derek. The sounds around him muffle, like he's under water. He sees the space next to Stiles shimmer as the demon pulls out of him, and he watches helplessly as the thing just disappears. The air in the room seems to thin and takes on a burnt smell, and Derek shakes his head as his ears pop.
Seconds pass before he's back, and both Lydia and Scott are yelling at Stiles to hold on.
Derek drops to his knees next to them and bats the phone out of Lydia's shaking hand. “No cops,” he snarls. “It's too late. He's going to die.”
The sound Lydia makes is heart-breaking. He has to forcibly tear his eyes away as she takes Stiles's pale face in her hands and leans over him, pressing her lips to his forehead and pleading with him not to die.
Derek grabs Scott by the shoulder and shakes him. “Give him the bite,” he growls, his eyes flashing a desperate, burning blue.
“I can't,” Scott gasps, his own eyes wide with shock. “I promised. Not unless he asks.”
“Lydia, move,” Derek barks, shoving her aside. Apologies can come later. They're running out of time. “Stiles!” Derek shouts, moving one hand to press over Stiles's hands, ignoring the hot, wet squelch of blood that pools up between his fingers. “I need you to focus on my voice.”
“D-Derek?” Stiles gasps, his body seizing up as another gurgle of blood surges out of his mouth. “Wow, hey...”
“Stiles,” Derek says through his teeth, gritting them as he blinks away the threatening tears. “Listen to me. You've been stabbed. You're going to bleed out. If you want to live, you have to take the bite from Scott.”
Stiles shakes his head weakly, his eyes unfocused and staring wildly. “No,” he chokes. “No, I can't. I'll lose my magic–” There's fear there, confusion, doubt. There's love. But most of all, there's still Stiles.
“You have to, do you hear me?” Derek says through his teeth. “You will die.”
“Stiles, think of Dee,” Lydia cries, reaching with trembling hands to smooth his hair back. “Think of your dad. Me and Scott. Please listen to Derek.”
“Stiles,” Scott whispers. “Man, come on. Don't give up, okay? Trust me.”
Stiles's eyes refocus and land on Scott's face. They linger as he labors to breath, before slowly sliding to Derek's. “You came back,” he gasps. “You're back.”
“Yeah,” Derek says shakily. “I came back for you. So you can't leave yet. I haven't even had the chance to tell you–”
“Yeah,” Stiles says with a weak, rough chuckle. “Damn straight you love me, shithead.”
Derek laughs in a heaved out breath. He reaches out to grab Lydia's hand, and she squeezes his in return.
Stiles swallows thickly before letting out a harsh cough. He blinks several times, and Derek knows they're at the point of no return. “Okay,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck all of you, but okay. Do it, Scotty. I trust you.”
It's strange, sometimes, Stiles thinks, the way that things work out.
He gasps and heaves a few labored breaths as he feels Scott's fangs dig into the soft flesh of his side, right above his hip. As the transformation takes hold of his body and begins to rip his humanity and magic away. He can feel Scott's hand on his stomach, pressing over the wound even as it begins to slowly knit itself back together. The pain is bright and keen and astounding, and Stiles is pretty shocked that he hasn't passed out yet.
He doesn't see Derek, but he can smell Lydia's perfume next to him. He can feel her hands in his hair, trying to soothe him. Comfort him. He's grateful because he loves her, but he can't help the little seed of resent that he knows he's going to be nursing for a long, long time.
They'll never understand what this means to him. His humanity is the most important thing in the world to him. It fuels his passion, his drive, and his love. It fuels his magic. It gave him a perfect little girl and it keeps his father close. His humanity is the only thing that keeps Stiles from collapsing in on himself. From giving into the twisting black hole in his soul; the one that powers his magic and never lets him forget how the demon felt inside of him.
Coyotes are tricksters and deceivers. Coyotes are jealous and mean and want to rule the world. Stiles should have known; he should have stopped Scott. He should have blasted them all away from him and let himself die. He can feel the demon wolf crawling into his skin and sinking fangs and claws into his soul. He can hear the demon's chuckle echoing around in his head as it gets the last laugh. As it shoves that nasty predator spirit into his body.
Stiles doesn't know how long he'll have as a wolf before he has to go omega and run. Run long and run far. He hopes he gets enough time to make his little girl understand why daddy just won't be around anymore one day.
Because coyotes can't ever be wolves, and Stiles will never be anything close to resembling human again.
Derek finds Peter in his bedroom, laying face-down on the floor. There's no blood and no mortal wounds. There's no sign of a fight or even a struggle. It's completely unceremonious, and just about the most undignified and disrespectful way an alpha of Peter's caliber could die. His heart just stopped. Dead, just like that.
Derek huffs out a hard, steadying breath and picks his uncle up off the floor. On the desk is a letter, half-written. It's only hours old, Derek can smell the ink. His stomach twists and his chest clenches, because he knows it's for him and Cora. He knows it's going to be filled with apologies for deeds long since buried, and with praise for them and the way they turned out. Knowing Peter, there will be a little self-back-patting in it, too. He'll say that he loves them. He'll say that he's sorry. He'll say that he's proud.
Derek leaves the room without reading it. He chooses to remember the Peter he knew, not the Peter his uncle wanted him to know, because the man Peter eventually became was the best man he could be.
They comb over the house and pick it clean, removing any and all evidence that werewolves exist. Lydia draws a rune of preservation on Peter's head in eyeliner, and everyone respectfully ignores the way Stiles walks away when the buzz of magic fills the air. Derek wraps his uncle in a tarp and stores his body in the trunk of Lydia's car. As they leave Southern California in the rear-view mirror, she jokes darkly that Derek's paying to have her car cleaned.
Stiles, Lydia, and Dee leave their life in San Francisco behind and move back to Beacon Hills. Stiles struggles with the demon wolf every day, keeping things as quiet as he can. He uses the little cantrips he can still cast to keep his eyes from glowing red when he shifts. No one can know about his wolf. No one can know how it eats at him, how hard it is for him to resist the pull. The urges, the instincts; to take and claim and consume.
Stiles makes it an impressive two years.
A few weeks after Dee's sixth birthday, Scott stops by the house. It's Sunday morning, and he and Stiles usually go out for breakfast. They claim it's work-related, but everyone knows it's just an excuse for them to get some time to screw off by themselves. To play mini-golf or see a movie or just hide out at their shared office and play video games.
The house is dark when Scott approaches, and Stiles's car is nowhere to be seen. He sniffs the air and doesn't smell gasoline or exhaust. He doesn't smell his friend's scent fresh on the driveway. It's obviously been quite awhile since he left. He gives a soft knock, and when he steps inside, the air is as still as a tomb. He can smell the others upstairs, but still no Stiles.
As he moves toward the stairs he sees Stiles's phone on the small table in the foyer. A spike of panic shoots through him, but before he can run up the stairs he hears Derek come down. Scott hasn't seen Derek cry since Peter, and when Derek hands him the half-folded note, Scott can already feel grief welling up in his own eyes.
I love you all more than life itself. You're the only reason I was able to hold on as long as I did. I can't tell you how sorry I am for deceiving you, but I didn't know what else to do. I was too scared to do anything else. Please try and forgive me when you can, for lying and for this.
My wolf is the demon wolf and the black dog is winning. I'd never be able to forgive myself if I hurt any of you. I hope you never stop loving each other, and I hope you might be able to save a little of that in your hearts for me. I need you all to know that I don't blame any of you for this. Not even Peter. This is all me, and I'm going to fix it if I can. I know where to go and I think I know a few coyotes that can help me. If I beat it, I'll be back.
If I can't, please don't try to find me.
The desert's memory is long and vast. The desert is unforgiving. It's open and wide and free, and under the blanket of stars, a man can feel tiny and insignificant. A man's problems can seem so small in comparison to the ages of the earth. To the stories she knows and the spirits she holds.
Large, gnarled claws dig into the hard-baked dirt, ripping up furrows as the huge black beast makes its way across the sea of wasteland. He lets out a howl so loud it echoes off the jagged rocks around him. The coyotes are fearless as they follow him, nipping at his heels and yipping and snarling. Running him down to exhaustion. Running him into the ground.
They can smell their own, trapped inside that demon meat, and they'll get him out soon enough. Back to himself. Back to where he belongs. Back to his pack.