Archive of Our Own

Dawns like these are the kind Thomas loves, the ones where the wonders of nature’s paintbrush have given way to a smattering of pink-tinged clouds, blocking out the full blinding power of the morning sunshine and casting a cool shade over the rich earth of the orange groves. He can, during this hour, walk through the rows of ripening fruit, plucking one or two at random to savor the sweetness of that fleshy pulp and swallow back the bitterness of the limonin.

The ocean breeze is especially strong today, and it kicks up a flurry of dirt from the powdery top soil, blowing particles about through the stalks and leaves and leaving a soft layer of dust upon the dewy shells of dangling mandarin fruit.

Up the slope at the edge of the fields, he can see the old house looming over the rim of the plateau, shadow splaying out over the highway below. So many memories in this place.

Days this beautiful are increasingly numbered as of late. The chill of winter does not brutalize the California coast as harshly as most other places, but still the wildflowers in blossom on rocky hillside will come to wilt into naught over the next few weeks. Time reduces all to dust.

Walking back through the dirt path of the first row of plants, Thomas can see a boy trudging down the slope from the house in his direction, moving slowly and purposefully. He’s young, no older than sixteen, seventeen at the most, but there’s something about him that gives Thomas pause, something that sets off alarm bells in his subconscious even as his waking mind insists he’s just being paranoid.

“Tours of the estate are on Mondays through Fridays, son,” he calls out, voice raspy from the dust. “Come back after the weekend.”

The kid just looks at him, expression a blank slate, and shakes his head, still moving forward. “I’m not here for that, Mr. Wakefield.”

Thomas raises an eyebrow, leaning on his walking stick. “Ah? Well then, what are you here for?”

They meet somewhere in the middle, just as Thomas crosses the last line of orange trees, and they stand face to face, just feet apart in a silent showdown.

“I knew your daughter,” the kid says, and his brown eyes flash ultraviolet. Thomas’ hand clenches on his cane. “And I figured I should come see you.”

Thomas looks to the ground, sucking on his crusty lower lip. He huffs a silent laugh. Of course this day would come; he’s known that for ages. But still, the fact that it’s now, that it’s just some boy...

Well. Life’s strange, is all.

He looks up. “She’s dead, I take it.” It’s not really a question. There’s no way this kid would be standing here alive if Meredith were on his trail. Unless he’d gotten her first.

The boy nods. “Yes.”

“And you killed her?”

The boy hesitates. Swallows. “Yes.”

Thomas chuckles mirthlessly. “Beaten by a pup,” he sneers, spitting out a wad of saliva and tobacco on the grass. “What an end.”

“Do you want to get this over with? Or would you rather talk about it first?” the boy asks, and Thomas hears the quaver in his voice. Noticing something in the corner of his vision, he looks up towards the house and sees they’re not alone. There’s another man, another werewolf probably. He’s leaning against the wall of the porch, watching intently, arms folded. He’s a little older than this kid, probably by four or five years, and he’s got a hard look to him. A meanness.

Looking back to the kid, he smiles nastily. “Sure, we can talk. Why not?” He gestures with his cane towards the path at the rim of the plateau that leads down to the highway and the beach. “Let’s take a walk, shall we? I need to stretch my legs.”

Without waiting for an answer, he starts to hobble off through the grass, kicking up dandelions in his way. After a second’s pause, the kid moves with him, keeping in step at a leisurely pace. Thomas doesn’t have to look over his shoulder to know that the other werewolf is following behind, holding back at a safe distance.

The wind really is a howler today, but the clouds are begging to part and the sun is shining through, warming the nape of Thomas’ neck and casting a shimmering gleam on the gentle lolling waters below. By the time they reach the cliffside edge and begin their descent, the fullness of daylight is beaming down upon them.

“She was weak,” Thomas says suddenly, voicing his internal contemplation. The boy jumps slightly at his outburst, but says nothing, just tilts his head curiously, listening. “Meredith. She always was. I gave her my all, taught her everything she needed to know about this world...” - he shakes his head, disgusted - “She still fell short. Every time.”

The kid’s staring at him, an incredulous expression etched across his face. “I didn’t know her for very long, and in the time that I did, I hated her guts,” he says. “But of all the shitty things I could say about her, ‘weak’ isn’t one of them.”

Thomas snorts, amused. “What’s your name, son?”

The boy’s jaw clenches, eyes flashing briefly. “Stiles.”

“Stiles,” Thomas murmurs, trying the word out on his tongue. “Interesting name.”

“It’s a nickname, if that matters.”

“Calm down,” Thomas says, shifting a rock aside with his cane as they move further down the slope. “It’s a fine name. Unique, individualistic. I like that.” He flashes the kid a white-toothed smile. It’s not returned. He clears his throat, turning his focus back to the water as they near the bottom oft the path. “Weak of mind is what I meant,” he says, jumping backward in conversation. “She was never bright. So eager to please, but totally incapable of critical thinking. She was so dedicated to principles, she never bothered much with common sense.” He raises a questioning eyebrow. “That’s what got her in the end, isn’t it? She fucked up. Something stupid that could have been avoided. Right?”

Stiles doesn’t answer, just stares. Just looks at him like he’s never seen anything quite like him before.

Thomas ignores that look. “Don’t get me wrong, she wasn’t all bad.” He shrugs. “Better than my good-for-nothing son.” He sees a flash of confusion across Stiles’ face, and he snorts gruffly. “Come,” he says, limping around the bend as the grass and dirt give way to sand. Stiles follows, and the older werewolf follows too, still holding back by about twenty feet or so.

On the other side of the cliff-face, they come upon the yawning maw of the grotto. Even in the brightness, they cannot see too far inside; the cool top of the water is still and nary a sound can be heard from the depths. Thomas bends over to pick up a pebble, skipping it with ease across the murky liquid, spreading ripples over its silky, dark surface.

“I had a son, too,” he explains, squinting up at Stiles from his crouched position, fingers rubbing idly at the handle of his cane. “His name was Sean.” There’s a flicker of recognition in Stiles’ eyes, but the boy says nothing, listening patiently. “He had...well...let’s just say he had a mind of his own.” Thomas’ lip curls ruefully. “Or perhaps a better way to put it would be to say he had an obsessive need to undermine my every decision. He could never accept anything at face value, that boy. There was always a ‘hidden agenda’ or a ‘desire to control.’ He couldn’t believe, even once, that anything I did for him was in his best interests.”

Stiles blinks. “Like what?” he asks softly.

“Come again?” Thomas huffs out, cupping a hand around his ear.

“Like what? What did you do for him that was...in his best interests?”

“I taught him how to be a man!” Thomas barks, suddenly feeling irritable. Stiles doesn’t flinch, still staring at him with that blank, semi-bemused look. “I showed him how the world is. I showed him what it’s like. And what he did he do? What did he take away from all of my lessons? Not a God damn thing. He threw it all back in my face.” He scoffs, a bitter, grating sound. “Ungrateful little wretch. Rejected the moral code of his people, and look where it landed him.”

“What happened?” Stiles asks. He sounds tired. And far older than he looks.

Thomas waves a hand vaguely at the entrance to the cave. “He brought animals here,” he says mockingly. “As a boy. He’d go out looking for wounded...things to bring back, and he’d nurse them to health. Set them free.” He shakes his head. “He thought I didn’t know, the arrogant little prick. But I knew from the beginning. A father knows.” He studies Stiles thoughtfully, contemplatively. “I assumed, like most parents would in my place, that it was a stage. That it was something he’d grow out of. But he didn’t.” He chews on his lip, sucking at the dry skin. “Had it been anyone else, I’d have sent him packing. Would have told him to get the hell out of here and never come back.” He shrugs. “But he was my son. You make allowances for family.”

There’s a long pause. Thomas can see the older werewolf pacing back and forth in the sand several yards away, his eyes gleaming with malice and anxiety. 

“You’re his, aren’t you?” Thomas asks, distaste clear in his tone. “His lover. His mate, whatever you things call it.”

The corner of Stiles’ mouth twitches. He nods. “Yeah. I’m his. And he’s mine. We’re together.”

Thomas snorts. “Don’t be so sure about that. I’ve been alive a hell of a lot longer than you, boy, and believe you me, if there’s one thing I know about pack dynamics, it’s that...uh, ‘arrangements’ such as this do not work as partnerships. Not with werewolves. There is always going to be a dominant one. It’s in your nature.”

Stiles barks out a short little laugh, and his werewolf partner looks up sharply, suddenly on edge. Stiles’ expression softens, and he shakes his head. “It’s okay, Derek,” he calls out. Derek growls, but acquiesces and returns to pacing. Stiles turns back to Thomas. “Sorry about that. I’m still getting used to the creepy fascination you hunters seem to have with my sex life.”

“You are the Alpha, it seems,” Thomas says, ignoring Stiles’ comments. “I wouldn’t have expected that.”

Stiles shakes his head. “He’s the Alpha. I’m his mate.”

Thomas hums lowly, eyes narrowing. “No,” he mutters after a brief hesitation. “I can sense it. You are an Alpha. Whether in spirit or in actuality, you are the dominant one. Trust me, I can pick up on these things. I’ve been working at it for years, and I can spot a pack leader from a mile away.” His mouth quirks up at the sides, twisting into a smirk. “There can’t be two Alphas, kid. Either you’re his bitch, or he’s yours. You can’t have it both ways.”

Stiles’ gaze sharpens, and he reaches into the back of his pants, pulling out a small handgun. “You know,” he grits out, knuckles whitening as he grips the handle tight in his fingers, “you’re not exactly helping your case here.”

“Oh, please,” Thomas snarks scornfully. “There was never a chance of you letting me go. Even if you’re too yellow to pull the trigger, your pet Neanderthal over there will do the job for you.”

The kid looks a little sick. Not meeting Thomas’ eyes, he waves the gun at the grotto mouth. “What happened?” he asks. “To your son? What happened?”

Thomas expression hardens. “He brought back a werewolf. Brought her here to hide. I confronted him about it, and he told me...” - he grimaces - “he told me that he loved her. I told him to get rid of the bitch, explained to him that he couldn’t trust a beast like that. He disobeyed me, and...she bit him.” 

He looks at Stiles, stone-faced and rigid. Stiles takes a deep breath. “And what did you do?”

Thomas cocks an eyebrow. “What else? I had him put down. Her, too.”

Stiles nods wearily, like that’s the answer he was expecting all along but was still hoping for something else. He looks really sick now. “He was your son,” he whispers.

“He picked a side,” Thomas replies icily, and his voice is loud enough to carry over to where Derek is pacing, and the werewolf growls angrily, hackles raising. Thomas spares him a brief look of contempt, then turns back to Stiles. “He chose the wrong one. He chose to give up his family, his way of life, his humanity. And for what? For a girl? For some foolish adolescent rebellion?

Stiles brow furrows, like he’s thinking about something, then he looks at Thomas suspiciously. “What do you mean you ‘had him put down?’ Are you saying you didn’t even have the balls to do it yourself?”

Thomas’ face contorts into a truly nasty expression. “It was my final lesson,” he murmurs. “My most important.”

The blood drains out of Stiles’ face. “Jesus,” he mutters, looking nauseated. “Meredith? You made your daughter kill her own brother?”

“She was weak,” Thomas says, more to himself than to Stiles at this point. He’s looking off at the ocean now, eyes vacant and far away. “Weak and stupid. But she was always loyal. She did what her Daddy told her was right. I’ll give her that much.”

Derek’s stopped pacing now. He’s watching the conversation intently, torn between horror and disgust.

“She killed her friends,” Stiles says abruptly, voice wavering but eyes hard as steel. “In the end. She turned, after the bite, and she could have killed us first. She could have gone after our pack. But her instincts drove her to go for the hunters. I wondered about that. I wondered why.” His hand tightens on the gun. “Now I know.”

Thomas turns to face him, dropping his cane in the sand. “I don’t think I want to talk anymore,” he says. “Do what you came for. If you can.”

Stiles’ hand quavers. He swallows back bile. “Why does it have to be like this?” he says through gritted teeth. “This...” - he motions at himself, at Derek - “this is hard enough already. Life is hard enough already, werewolf bullshit aside. Why do you have to make it worse? Why can’t you give people a chance to be good before you decide they don’t deserve to live?”

Thomas sneers, spitting out a chunk of tobacco. “I don’t have to explain myself to you.”

Stiles raises the gun, pointing it at Thomas’ forehead. Pointing it at the man he hates. “You do,” he says, ultraviolet hue blazing in his eyes. “Your family killed my father, and the least you can do is tell me why.”

“Why?” Thomas rolls his eyes, his tone disbelieving. “This is a war, you child. I’m fighting for the future of humanity. I’ve spent my entire life fighting to preserve everything that is good and pure and natural about human beings. And you’re going to stand there and ask me why? Ask me why I’m willing to do anything, anything to protect this beautiful place from the filth?” He raises his chin defiantly, a mad gleam in his eye. “I’m not going to waste my time explaining myself to a thing like you. A thing that would lie with the beasts, that would give up his free will for baser instinct. Give up real family, true family for the mockery you call ‘pack.’ You’re nothing but a dumb animal.”

Stiles chokes out a quiet little laugh, eyes welling with tears. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “Well, I hate to break it to you, but we’re all animals, Mr. Wakefield.”

And then he pulls the trigger.

***

“Are you okay?” Derek asks later, holding Stiles close against him as they stand together in the shade of a redwood tree.

“I don’t even remember what okay feels like,” Stiles mumbles into his chest.

Derek squeezes him comfortingly. “I would have done it,” he says softly, hating how helpless he feels to make things right again. “It didn’t have to be you.”

Stiles shakes his head, breathing shallowly, calming himself down. “It did. It was my idea. I was the one who wanted him dead, so I had to be the one to do it. Those are the rules. I can’t hide behind you and make you do the dirty work. That’s cowardice.”

And Derek doesn’t know whether to laugh at Stiles’ unshakeable morality or cry at the loss of whatever innocence the boy had left.

Instead, he just hugs him tight, carding his fingers through that soft brown hair. “It’s over now,” he breathes, planting a kiss against Stiles’ forehead. “No more.”

Stiles nods, his shoulders sagging in exhaustion and relief. “No more,” he agrees.

***

It takes the police a full week after the Hale house massacre to find the hunters’ rotting corpses lying strewn across the yard, frozen stiff in their grisly array. It’s rained twice since then, so the smell isn’t quite so profuse, but the flies swarm still, gathering about the bloody stumps and crawling in and out of sunken eye-sockets.

The whole affair is kept out of the papers, and all of the evidence points to some sort of insane animal attack (of the likes the baffled police department has never seen before), but nevertheless, posters of Derek’s mugshot with the caption “Wanted for Questioning” start popping up in the local stores.

It’s not the same as being “Wanted for Murder,” and it’s unlikely there’s anywhere near enough proof to warrant an arrest, much less a conviction, but the damage is done. The harder the cops try to keep the mess under wraps, the quicker the gossip spreads around town, and that in conjunction with the unflattering photos of Derek snarling at the camera have made it necessary for the Alpha to go on the lam once again.

Stiles returns to living with the McCalls, and Derek never asks what excuse he used to explain his disappearance to Scott’s mother. (“Trust me,” Stiles tells him with a grimace, “It’s long and convoluted and embarrassingly stupid, and I seriously can’t believe she bought it.”)

Derek spends most of his time hiding out in the Stilinski house during the day, resting up and brooding and sulking. (“I’m sorry,” Stiles tells him sincerely, kissing him on the cheek. “But you can’t be seen walking around right now.”) There’s still yellow caution tape splayed over the front door, and it remains unbroken seeing as Derek uses the window. As far as anyone’s aware, it’s an abandoned shell. Officially, it’s still the scene of an unsolved crime, but no one bothers to come around anymore. The community seems to have come to an unspoken agreement to leave the place untouched. Like it’s a memorial or something.

Derek hates being there. It feels intrusive, disrespectful somehow to the sheriff’s memory. And moreover, it’s creepy, even for him. Living in his own house, he was subjected the torment of his own past. These walls, however, are crawling with the memories of another family’s tragedy, of other people’s pain. It’s not his own, and it doesn’t feel right. 

He occupies himself in various ways, wandering through the house, reading the books Stiles brings to help pass the time. He finds a couple of boxes up in the attic filled with old items the department forgot to pack up. There’s an old scrapbook in one of them. It contains pictures from years ago, of the sheriff and his wife, and of Stiles as a baby. Derek smiles at a photo of a two-year-old Stiles giggling as his mother pushes him on a swing-set. And then his momentary happiness flutters away when his gaze falls upon a snapshot of Mr. Stilinski and his wife on their wedding day, cutting their cake together with a serrated knife. Derek wonders absently if the two of them are together now, in heaven or wherever, and he wonders if they’re happy. He wonders if there’s even a heaven for them to be.

He thinks of his own family and wonders if heaven sounds like such a good idea at all. Eternity sounds good on this side of the threshold, but once the fear of death fades into naught, the notion of life everlasting begins to sound more like hell. He wonders if maybe everyone would be better off embracing the end as...the end.

And then he thinks of never getting the chance to see his family again. Never seeing Laura. And he gets angry. And then confused.

And then he doesn’t want to think about these things anymore. He closes the scrapbook, puts it away. The past is the past, and the future is unknowable, impossible to predict. The present is all he has.

Which makes it all the more frustrating that the present consists mostly of pacing relentlessly and working out during the day, with the vague hope of maybe getting to sneak off and see the pack one or two nights a week, if Stiles deems it safe.

He lives for those nights; the ones when Stiles comes to his window, greeting him with the kiss he’s craved since he opened his eyes in the morning. The ones when the two of them can run together with claws unsheathed against the rich, vibrant earth, and flee to the forest to play with their fellows.

And that’s what it is: play. The word pops into Derek’s head on the third night when Jackson sidles up to next to him, nipping playfully at his shoulder and dashing away as his Alpha gave chase. It’s play, and it’s something Derek hasn’t really experienced since  the fire all those years ago. He’s floored by how much he’s missed it, by how easily and eagerly he falls back into the games, by how right it feels to share in affectionate bonding with these boys. 

It’s foreign and childish, but it’s necessary. It’s what pack should be. Sure, there are times when the wolves inside them take hold, and Derek enlists Stiles in assisting him marshall them into submission, running through the woods in hunt of rabbits and deer to quench the animal rage. But more important than that are the nights of play and fun, of sharing in each other’s company.

Lydia comes as well, although she tends to hang back and watch, a soft smile twisting at her lips as her friends scamper in the leaves and dirt. Feeling emboldened in a way that he never has, Derek begins to take the time to talk to her, to spend time with her. She’s human, and they know now that they can never let her be bitten, but she’s pack nonetheless. And he wants her to know that, wants her to feel included. He takes to touching her, soft and unnoticeable at first, and increasing the pressure incrementally over time. It’s chaste, brotherly at best, and although she seems surprised by the display of affection at first, especially from him, she starts to return it after a while.

One evening, the pack surprises Derek by showing up early at his hideaway in Stiles’ old house, and they spend the evening indoors watching bad movies and eating junk food, and although he’d never admit it aloud (even to Stiles), Derek’s overwhelmed by the deep sense of family the night brings forth inside him.

“This is the worst piece of shit I have ever seen, Stilinski,” Jackson drawls lazily, dunking a chip into the guacamole bowl.

Stiles flicks a crumb at him. “Bite me. This movie’s awesome.”

“It isn’t,” Scott mumbles sleepily from the couch, and Stiles whirls around to give him an indignant glare.

“Some best friend you are,” he grumbles, but his mouth is twitching and Jackson is leaning over to ruffle his hair, and then the two of them are on the floor wrestling with Danny laughing behind in the background, and the playful argument is over as quickly as it began.

Later, when most everyone’s fallen asleep in the living room, Derek and Lydia are left sitting together at the kitchen table at four in the morning, sharing a bottle of rum Lydia snagged from her parents’ cabinet.

“I’m a terrible role model for letting you drink this,” Derek says, confirming the words by motioning for her to pour more into his glass.

“Oh, Derek,” she sighs dramatically. “You’re a terrible role model for a lot of other reasons.”

He snorts, draining the glass in one gulp. “Is that so?”

She grins at him cheekily, taking a sip. “Uh, let’s see. You did spend a month training a bunch of teenagers to kill a pack of werewolves.”

“We avoided that,” he retorts with a smirk, to which she shrugs dismissively.

“Still, don’t think that didn’t leave an emotional toll on us.” She pauses, then smiles ruefully, jerking her head towards the sleeping boys in the other room. “Well, them I mean.”

Derek’s smirk fades away, replaced by a serious stare. “You are them,” he says quietly. “You’re us. You know that, right?” She shrugs, and he reaches out to grip her arm, the wolf inside of him growling possessively. “You are,” he insists. “Don’t doubt that just because you aren’t a werewolf. I like having a human in the pack. It keeps us grounded.”

Lydia shrugs again, not quite meeting his eyes. “You had Stiles.”

“Yes, and now he’s one of us.” He cringes at the unfortunate word choice. “A werewolf,” he clarifies, voice firm and confident. He pats her arm. “I like you. I like that you’re smart, even if you don’t let everyone know it, and I like that you’ve got a mind of your own. We need that. I need that. I need someone apart from Stiles who has the guts and the willingness to stand up to me when I’m wrong about something. And I know you’ll do that, if need be.” She raises her eyes to meet his, uncertainty evident in her expression. He smiles reassuringly. “Besides, it’s good to have a female presence in the pack.”

Lydia nods absently, then cocks an eyebrow curiously. “What about Allison?”

Derek sighs, rubbing his face sleepily. “She’s Scott’s mate, so she’s in by default, but I’m not so sure she’s as thrilled to be a part of this as the rest of us.” He blinks away the growing tiredness. “Look, forget about Allison for now. I want you in on this thing, okay? Unless you don’t want to be.”

Lydia strokes the side of her glass with her fingernails, sucking on the inside of her cheek. “It’s not that,” she says slowly, looking anxious. “I just...”

“What is it?” Derek prompts, nodding for her to continue.

“I’m a walking time bomb,” she replies, voice heavy. “Don’t try and deny it, because we both know it’s true.” She sets her glass down with a soft clink. “Sooner or later, someone’s going to bite me. It might not be one of you, and if it is, it will probably be an accident, but regardless of how it’s going to happen...it is going to happen. The odds aren’t in our favor.” She swallows. “And then what? What are we supposed to do then?”

Derek’s not sure what to say to that.

Lydia continues, voice strained but adamant, “I will not turn into what she did. I can’t. I can’t run the risk of becoming something that could kill my friends.”

There’s a long pause after that, and the only sound in the silence is the ticking of the clock on the wall. By the time Derek speaks again, Lydia actually looks as though she’s about to drift off.

“We all run that risk.”

Lydia starts out of her doze, blinking. “What now?”

Derek looks at her stoically. “We all run that risk. Or hurting our friends. Not just us; not just werewolves. Everybody. Under the right circumstances, everybody has the capacity to do something they might regret later.”

“Don’t do that,” Lydia warns, although she looks grateful for his support. “Don’t twist this. You know my situation is different. The legend says that-”

“Fuck the legend,” Derek interrupts. “And fuck Meredith Wakefield. You’re not her. She was a sociopath long before she turned, and when she did turn, she had years - no, decades worth of anger stewing inside her. That was bound to blow one way or the other.” He grabs Lydia’s hand, squeezes it. “You’re not her,” he repeats. “And none of us are going to let the same thing happen to you. I promise.”

Lydia swallows, wetness stinging her eyes. She wipes it away, turning her head to look at the wall. “Thank you,” she mumbles, squeezing his hand back.

***

Stiles has dreams.

When he closes his eyes at the end of the day, the shadows of the past come out of the woodwork to stretch their long, black talons out across the floorboards and creep into the inner folds of his restless mind, whispering darkling things in his ear as the night drags on.

Sometimes it’s Meredith, neck dribbling with blood from the ghastly puncture wounds in her throat, mocking words gurgling up in a discordant rasp as she looms at his bedside. “Are you proud?” she hisses, beads of crimson falling from her mouth and wetting Stiles’ face. He’s too petrified to move. “Are you proud of what you’ve done to me? Has it made everything better? Did it bring your father back? Was it worth the cost?”

Other times, though not as often, it’s Thomas. Curiously, there’s no blood; just a deep, dark bullet wound like a diamond chasm in the center of his forehead. “I was harsh with you, boy,” he croons, voice dripping with malice. “If you hadn’t betrayed your race, you probably would have made for a splendid hunter.”

“That’s not true,” Stiles whispers, the words dragged forth from his mouth, unbidden by his mind. It’s useless to defend himself to a specter, but he finds he can’t help himself.

“It is,” Thomas insists. “You’re not one of those creatures. Not really. You’re cut from better cloth than they. You’re like me. You’ve got that cunning, predatory mind. It’s how you knew the way to take down David, how you were able to best my daughter.” He smiles, and the blood does come now, trailing in streams down the front of his face. “It’s how you bested me. You’re a natural born killer, and with a moral code to boot. Just like us hunters. And in time you’ll find that your hopes and dreams are not so very different from mine.”

Stiles shakes his head, pulling the covers over his head and clamping his hands against his hears. “Liar,” he croaks out. “You’re wrong.”

Other times still, it’s David who comes, and he appears not as the ghoulish pale thing that died in the catacombs, but as the towering, proud ruler of werewolves that once sat on the wicker throne.

“You abandoned my pack, Stiles,” he murmurs, disappointment obvious in his low hum. “You abandoned your pack.”

“They weren’t my pack,” Stiles insists.

“They were. Derek’s pack belongs to him, and yours to you. And you left them to flounder alone. To wither away.”

“I left them to heal,” Stiles says, starting to get angry. “You broke them. You and all the other sick fucks who came before you. I’m not strong enough to undo all of that damage by myself.”

David tilts his head, expression sympathetic and chiding at the same time. “You didn’t follow the rules,” he reprimands. “You took out their Alpha, and by consequence you became the new Alpha. And subsequently fled.”

“Those rules are stupid,” Stiles spits. “They’re arbitrary. I’m sixteen! I’m not responsible for that!”

David leans in close, and Stiles shudders away. “You’re such a curious thing,” the werewolf hisses, tongue flickering out to lick the corner of his mouth, his breath hot on Stiles’ face. “You demand that others take responsibility for their actions but exempt yourself from the very same. How interesting.”

Stiles swallows. “Not like that. Not like you make it sound.”

“Oh, it is. More or less.” David pulls away, receding into the darkness of the room. “You know. Deep down, you know. I’m right.”

And then he’s gone. They’re all gone.

And daylight breaks as Stiles lights wide awake in a cold sweat.

He has doubts about himself, and about his decisions. And he wonders about the things his enemies have whispered in his ear, both in life and death. But one thing, for whatever reason, nags at the back of his mind like nothing else, and he knows he won’t be at peace until he sets it to rest.

“David told me something,” he says, standing next to Derek in the woods under the night sky as they watch Jackson dunk Lydia under the water in the river.

Derek stiffens at his side, bristling at the mention of David’s name. “Yeah?” he huffs out.

Stiles takes a shaky breath. “He said that if I hadn’t returned your feelings for me...” - and he can feel Derek’s blood run cold - “...he said that you would have taken me...anyway.” He swallows, looking determinedly at his hands. “Is that true?”

And it’s a shitty thing to do, springing this on him out of the fucking blue without warning. Especially since it doesn’t matter. Not really. 

But he has to know.

Derek’s shaking a little bit, hands clasped together in his lap. He’s very pointedly looking anywhere but at Stiles. The silence drags.

“Derek...” Stiles murmurs.

“I don’t know,” Derek whispers, voice barely audible.

Stiles sighs. “Look, I-”

“That’s my answer,” Derek says, voice slightly louder. “I don’t know. I wish I could say no, but I can’t. It’s not the truth.” He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat. “The truth is...I honestly don’t know.”

Stiles sits rigid, and he feels like he’s drowning. He can’t look at Derek. And Derek won’t look at him.

They don’t talk for about a week.

Stiles has another dream, a new one. And this one shakes him to the core in ways that the others could not.

The shadow looms at his bedside, and he steels himself in preparation for whatever he’s about to see. But when the face slides into view, his blood turns to ice in his veins and his breath catches fast in his chest. He can’t breathe.

“Hello, Stiles,” Peter says, a soft smile curling at his thin lips. “It’s been a long time.”

“You’re not real,” Stiles whispers, his voice barely more than a gasp. “You’re dead. This isn’t happening.”

Peter shrugs, sitting on the mattress, his body frightening warm against Stiles’ leg, and Stiles absently wishes that the bedsheets were thicker. “This is a dream, of course,” Peter says, voice silken and calming. “But that doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”

Stiles giggles hysterically. “You guys are all the same, aren’t you? You and your fake intellectual crazy talk. This is a dream, which means that you’re just a figment of my imagination.”

Peter’s still smiling. His hand reaches up to cup Stiles’ cheek, and Stiles wants to cringe away, but he finds that he can’t will his body to move. “Your imagination is real,” Peter says. “It’s a part of you. And I’m a part of you, too. I always will be.”

“No,” Stiles says quickly, instinctively. Peter shakes his head, clucks his tongue.

“Yes.” His thumb strokes a line over Stiles’ flesh, and the boy can’t help the quiet, frightened whimper that escapes from his mouth. “We’re the sum of everything that happens to us, Stiles. The sum of everything we do. And I’m a part of that equation.” He leans down, and Stiles wants to cry as the werewolf’s lips ghost over his in a not-quite kiss. Peter’s tongue flicks out for a taste, then retreats as soon as it appeared. He pulls away, smile wider and smugger than ever. “He can touch you as much as he want,” he whispers, eyes glowing with malice, “but you should always remember that, if only in spirit, you belonged to me first.”

Stiles wakes up with a harsh gasp, naked chest heaving in the darkness of the room.

He decides then and there that life’s too short.

He pulls on a t-shirt and jeans, and he gets over to his old house as quickly as possible. Derek wakes up with a start when he slides the window open, slipping through the crack.

Derek frowns, and he barely has time to murmur a groggy “Stiles?” before he finds himself straddled and pressed down into the bed, a searing hot mouth sealed over his own, wrists pinned up against the headboard.

Pulling away from the kiss, Stiles nuzzles against Derek’s cheek, a warm spark blossoming in his chest when he hears the older werewolf moan.

“I don’t want to fight about it,” Stiles says breathlessly, pressing kisses against the line of Derek’s jaw. “I don’t want to talk about it. It doesn’t matter.”

Derek whimpers, eyes wide and confused. He looks lost and broken in a way Stiles has never seen him before. Because this does matter to him. Which Stiles should have realized right away. This is the thing that’s haunted Derek from the very beginning. The thing that he’d been beating himself up for since this whole mess started.

“You would never hurt me,” Stiles whispers, rolling his hips down against Derek’s. “I know that. I trust you. I was stupid for thinking otherwise.” He leans down to kiss Derek again, and this time it’s soft, gentle. Apologetic. 

And Derek melts into it, and Stiles can feel the tension draining away, as Derek flips him over, pushing him into the mattress and biting into his lip.

They’re okay. 

***

Apart from his conversation with Lydia, Derek hasn’t really spoken to any of the pack about all the shit that’s happened in their lives. He feels as though he’s been forced into a silent agreement the rest of them have reached on their own terms to never speak about any of it again.

It frustrates him, and that is surprising, because he’s never really been the type to crave the touchy-feely talky stuff. But he does now. He cares about these kids.

God, how things change.

It’s not like they aren’t dealing with it. They are, in their own way.

The scent-marking has caught on, much faster than Derek would have ever anticipated. Even in the limited amount of time he’s able to hang around with the pack as a group these days, he’s surprised by the amount of physical contact going on.

Stiles and Scott are as thick as thieves, stronger than they ever were, and there’s no surprise there. Weirder is the affection between Scott and Lydia, or between Scott and Danny. Or Stiles and Danny. 

They’ve all got their own little rhythms, each one specific to their individual relationships. Scott and Lydia come by the Stilinski house sometimes after school to keep Derek company, sitting together in the living room and working on homework. Scott sits on the floor with his face propped up in his palm, frowning at the math problems he doesn’t understand while Lydia explains them to him patiently and runs her finger through his messy hair. If anyone else were watching, it might appear less than innocent, but Derek’s eye is keen and attuned to the nature of pack dynamics, and he can see there’s no sexual tension going on there. Nothing to worry about.

Scott and Danny have become surprisingly close, brotherly even, though in a very different way than Scott’s relationship with Stiles. Derek’s surprised by it at first, then figures he shouldn’t be. Going through life-threatening circumstances together tends to draw people closer. The two boys like to play lacrosse together, or so Stiles tells him one night when he’s snuck over from the McCalls’ place.

“I’ve listened in on them a few times,” the teenager admits, rubbing circles into Derek’s back as they lie together on the dusty mattress. He scowls. “Apparently Danny likes to bitch to Scott about Jackson, and Scott likes to bitch about me. It’s a friendship built on evil, untrue gossip, Derek. We must crush it.”

The weirdest is probably Stiles and Jackson. 

Derek’s never really saw the two of them being anything more than loyal pack-mates, but somewhere in the middle of all the chaos of the past several months, the boys’ rivalry has blossomed into genuine affection. (A “full-on bromance,” as Scott cheekily calls it.) They’re always touching each other: playful slapping on the back, ruffling of each other’s hair, wrestling in idle competitiveness, back rubbing, whatever. It’s only the knowledge that Stiles would never cheat on him that keeps Derek’s wolf from ripping Jackson’s throat out.

That, and his human side begrudgingly acknowledges that the friendship is a good thing for everyone. Besides, Jackson would never betray Danny either.

Ah, yes. And then there’s that.

It seems that Derek’s suspicions were completely groundless. Admittedly, for a while there, he kept an eye on the two boys, wary of their newfound romance, ready for it to fall apart at any moment. He’d been so sure that their feelings were misplaced, or misread, or mis-something. That it wasn’t real.

But then he’d realized how incredibly condescending that was. Because what constitutes “real” love anyway? His relationship with Stiles started out as nothing more than rabid animal lust. The trust, the attraction to each other’s personalities, the love; that had all come later. And Jackson and Danny have been best friends for years. So who’s he to say that what they have is any less real or valid or worthwhile as what he has with Stiles?

So he pushes past his arrogance and gives the boys their space. And he’s not disappointed.

They bring out the best in each other. Having a constant boyfriend who loves and understands him has rooted out all of Danny’s insecurities and doubts about himself, and upped his self-confidence by tenfold. And Danny does the same for Jackson. The difference in attitude is remarkable.

“You two can never, ever break up,” Scott says absentmindedly one day as he pages through his Chemistry textbook, glancing over to the couch where Jackson is bruising a hickey into the side of Danny’s neck. “I mean it, guys. Danny, I swear, you’ve saved Jackson from turning into the world’s biggest tool. Don’t you dare let him go back.”

Jackson just flips him off, and Danny laughs.

It occurs to Derek that Scott, too, has become a better person as a result of his relationship. Once the starstruck, doe-eyed phase wore off, Allison actually became a grounding force in Scott’s life. She’s made him wiser, more selfless. He’s turned into a real best friend to Stiles, a better son to Melissa. He’s still a teenager, and he’s still Scott, but he’s a better Scott. A Scott that Derek has somehow managed to become friends with.

“I forgive you, you know,” Scott tells him one morning after a particularly rough full moon of chasing deer in the forest.

Derek raises an eyebrow. “For what?”

“For Peter. The thing with the cure.”

Derek frowns. Tilts his head. “Sorry, but...didn’t we already do this?”

Scott smiles. Punches Derek in the arm gently, playfully. “I mean it this time,” he says softly. “We’re good. Really.”

Derek’s expression softens. He reaches out, pats Scott’s shoulder. “Okay,” he says. “I’m glad.”

And they’re good.

He doesn’t ask if Scott’s given up on trying to find a cure, and Scott doesn’t tell him. But somehow, deep down, Derek know that phase of the boy’s life is over. There’s only so long you can go hating who they are before they have to accept that you’re not going to change. And when that happens, you have to embrace who you are, or resist it and go insane.

Scott’s chosen acceptance.

Allison is the wild card for a while. She’s the one factor Derek’s unsure about. He’s not sure where she fits into the future.

But she ends up solving that dilemma for him. About two months after Derek and Stiles’ visit to the Wakefield orange groves, Allison shows up with Scott for their latest movie night. Derek’s sure his surprise is evident to everyone, but he doesn’t object, lets them both in through the window, checking around as usual to make sure no one’s spotted them.

The night goes about as normally as it usually does, without incident. And Derek’s starting to think that he might be able to avoid a conversation entirely when Allison comes over and leads him by the arm into the empty hallway.

“I just wanted to say,” she starts, interrupting before he can begin, “you were right.”

Derek’s jaw snaps shut. “Oh,” he says.

She nods, sighs. Bites her lip. “Yeah.” She shuffles back and forth on her feet uncomfortably. “I guess I wanted to apologize. And say thanks.” The corner of her mouth quirks up in a small smile. “I would have regretted it. If you’d given me the bite, I mean. So thank you. For saying no. You were right.”

Derek swallows, uncertain of what to say. “Umm...alright. You’re welcome.”

She smiles. “Yeah.”

And then she goes back into the main room.

So she’s pack. By more than default. Derek’s not as close to her as he is to the others, and he’s not sure he ever will be. But looking at Jackson and Stiles, he can admit to himself that anything is possible.

The next day, Chris Argent stops by.

“Don’t worry,” he says in greeting, wincing as he clambers awkwardly through the window. “No one saw me.”

“Okay,” Derek says, unsure if he should start running or get into attack mode.

Mr. Argent nods, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Look, I’ll just get right to it. My daughter told me everything. About you and her. About her asking you to give her the bite, and about you saying no.”

“Okay,” Derek repeats, feeling like a broken record.

Mr. Argent nods again, and wow, this conversation feels stilted and uncomfortable. “I was wrong about you, Hale,” he says. Gruffly, but sincere.

Derek’s surprised, to say the least. “I see...”

Mr. Argent nods again. Like a fucking bobble-head. “Yeah,” he says, and his tone actually seems...kind? He holds out a hand for Derek to shake. “I just came by to let you know that...uh, Victoria and I have decided not to move from Beacon Hills. We’re going to stay.” He clears his throat. “Also, you’re welcome in our home. If you ever need a favor.” 

Somewhat stunned, Derek takes his hand numbly, giving it a single, firm shake. “Fair enough, sir.”

Mr. Argent turns, stepping out through the window, and Derek has to hold back a laugh when he sees the man actually brought a ladder. “You’re okay in my book,” Mr. Argent says, and then he’s descending out of sight, and a moment later, the ladder’s disappearing as well.

And Derek figures that’s as close as he’s going to get to a solid alliance with a hunter.

***

The sun is warm and bright, and it shines down on the glistening waves of the babbling river. 

It’s spring now. The winter thaw has broken through, giving birth to fresh life in the forest. Derek’s forgotten how beautiful it can get out here. He and Stiles are alone, sitting shoulder to shoulder on the log by the riverbank, enjoying the glory of nature around them in the cool midday atmosphere.

“What’s going to happen?” Stiles asks, skipping a rock across the water, not looking at Derek. “When we all graduate. What are we going to do then?”

Derek shrugs nonchalantly, and he chuckles at Stiles’ withering gaze. “I’ve talked to the pack,” he says, ignoring Stiles’ indignant squawk. “And we’ve decided to cross that bridge when we get there.”

Stiles makes a frustrated little noise. “But what does that mean?” he says, almost whining, sounding as close to his old self as Derek’s heard him in a long time. “There’s college, dude. And then careers. And all sorts of other ‘life’ shit that can fuck up everything we’ve...” He trails off, and Derek’s surprised to pick up the bitter scent of tears stinging at his mate’s eyes.

He wraps an arm around Stiles’ shoulders, drawing him in closer. “We’re family,” he says softly. “That’s not going away. No one’s going to abandon you. No one wants out.” He kisses Stiles’ cheek. “Jackson and Danny don’t care where they go to school as long as they’re together, and Jackson says he’s been working to keep his grades up so he can get into whatever school you apply to. They want to keep close. Lydia too. And surely you don’t need me to tell you that Scott’s not going to lose touch.” Then, as an afterthought, “And obviously I will be following you wherever you end up going. I don’t plan on living forever as a fugitive in the very town that wants me brought in.” 

“I know,” Stiles chokes, laying his head against Derek’s shoulder. “I know that. I’m just scared.” He lets out a watery chuckle. “I fucking hate change, you know?”

Derek hums in agreement. “No argument there.”

Stiles wipes his eyes, rubs at his nose. “You guys are the best thing in my life,” he says, open and honest and so heartbreakingly sincere that the sentiment doesn’t sound cliched or cheap. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

Derek nods. “I know,” he murmurs. “But you never have to worry about that. Not from me. Not from any of us.”

There’s a silence for a while. A void filled only by the chirps and caws and whistles of the wildlife. And the warmth of each other’s touch.

Stiles takes a deep breath, and the sigh he lets out is that kind Derek hates; the one that makes the kid sound about fifty years too old.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, knowing Stiles will never say anything without prompting.

Stiles hesitates. Then, “Have I done okay?” It’s barely more than a whisper. A small, insecure sound. “Have I done the right things? I’ve tried really hard to be good, but I can’t stop feeling like I’ve fucked things up.”

Derek frowns, turning his head to look into Stiles’ eyes. “Why? What do you mean?”

Stiles mouth twists in a smile, bitter and sad. “I’m happy,” he says. “I’m really, really happy. After everything. After Peter. After my father. After I killed three people. I still feel happy, and it makes me sick that I don’t care more.”

Derek shakes his head, gripping Stiles’ shoulder tight. “You’re human,” he says. Seeing Stiles’ raised eyebrow, he adds, “You’re human where it counts. And you’re young. I know you don’t like hearing that because you think it’s just another way adults let themselves write off your behavior with cheap excuses, but I’m saying it anyway because it’s true. You’re young and you’re human, and you’re going to make mistakes. And you’re going to get over those mistakes, just like you have been these past few months. Because you have to. We’re not built to stay fixated on the past. If we do, we can get lost.” He swallows, hand coming up to wipe the trail of tears off Stiles’ face. 

“You saved me,” he whispers, hating the ragged sound of his own voice. He needs to be the strong one right now. “I was trapped in my own past, and you pulled me out of it. You woke me up, made me learn how to live again. You made me learn how to be human.” He closes his eyes, breathing in deep. “I think about Peter,” he admits. “I think about him a lot. I didn’t used to. Back when I first did it, it didn’t bother me at all. I figured he deserved it, and that was all there was to it. But you showed me differently. You helped me see why life matters...and why taking it away isn’t something to be treated lightly.”

“It didn’t do much good in the end though, did it?” Stiles says, tired and empty. “I turned into a murderer. I’m no better than they were.”

“You’re wrong,” Derek tells him. And he means it, believes it with all of his heart. “I know you can’t see that right now, but you will.” He pulls Stiles’ head against his chest in a crushing hug. “The fact that you care so much about this is proof of your goodness.” He pets the boy’s hair, listening to the sound of his breathing and wondering how in the hell this became his life. “It still hurts when I think about my uncle. It hurts to remember. And I hope it always hurts. Because that pain keeps me connected to the things that matter. It helps me remember what it means to be human.”

He lifts Stiles’ face in his two hands, callused thumbs rubbing against his skin. “It will get easier,” he says. “I promise. Everything gets better with time.”

Stiles’ Adam’s apple bobs in his throat. “I love you,” he whispers.

The clouds pass underneath the sun, casting a shadow across the rippling waves. The bullfrogs on the riverbank hop from the mud and the reeds to the lily pads in the shallow  water and dive into the murky blackness. The clap of thunder resounds in the distant sky, and Derek and Stiles turn to squint as a streak of lightning screams across the sky.

There’s a storm approaching. It’ll be here soon. But it’s no matter. They can weather it out.

The scars on Stiles’ wrist are permanent, unchangeable. But they hold no sway over his thoughts. They’re just cuts.

The thunder sounds again, closer now, and Derek stands to his feet, stretching his hand out to pull Stiles up with him. The wind begins to kick up, and together they hold hands as the tree-line begins to rattle in the full force of nature. 

But the kids are alright. Let the rain come.

This thing they have: it can’t be washed away.

***

Come gather 'round people

Wherever you roam

And admit that the waters

Around you have grown

And accept it that soon

You'll be drenched to the bone

If your time to you

Is worth savin'

Then you better start swimmin'

Or you'll sink like a stone

For the times they are a-changin'.

-Bob Dylan

***

THE END.